Editing Tales from the Wal (section)

===''Everyday Barter''===

400 feet in the air, the white girders of the ceiling gleam above. A flicker of movement catches your eye - one of the top-dwellers. You've never understood what they see in living up there - oh, sure, there's less stockers, but it makes it hell to make supply runs. You've got your Rascal out, hot-wired, of course, with the half-back cart and the locator chip fried, and you're on the way to the electronics department. You just hope that none of the other departments have declared Sport on them this week - you don't think you could handle that. Oh, sure, you've got your own Sporting good at your side - a nice little sawed-off model. But you're low on ammo, and you just don't have the barter for more right now - not since the latest Nevergrow incursion. 

That's when you hear the telltale beeping behind you. Gunning the engine, you tear off into the distance, as the monolith with the smiley face roars after you. 

>SHOPLIFTER. ACQUIRE. RESTRAIN. ACQUIRE. RESTRAIN.

You run off a string of curses that would make Saint Sam keel over with rage, and dart down one of the aisles for housewares - rugs. Rugs everywhere. Figures that they'd restock THIS section today - winter is nowhere nearby, no one needs rugs! And worse, there's nothing you can use to get the stocker off your derrière. You're not going to end up a greeter... not today. Pulling a bootlegger turn, you skid back into the aisle, hoping that the move will shake the stocker off of your ass. It doesn't, but it might have slowed it a little bit. 

With no other recourse, you load your Sporting good, aiming for a tire. It blows out - the thing has five more, but the front corner's dragging. You've got a chance. Snapping the overboost, you manage to get across the department line - the stocker comes to a shuddering halt. This isn't its section. It radios off for another one to find you - that'll take a good long while. They're not too organized around here, and the Elecs have taken apart most of them for spare bits. You manage a brief victory cheer... before your Rascal crawls to a halt. Shit... out of juice. One more thing to barter for...

It's cold here. Not frigid, but the AC is always too high. The Elecs like it that way. They say the colds good for the rigs. You have no idea if that's true or not, but you figure it's more pleasant to lug stuff around in the cool, rather than the unconditioned heat of the auto center. 

As you draw closer to the Elec zone, you can't help but notice that there are entire swaths of shelf that are missing. It's only when you round the corner to the Elec Shrine of Commerce that you see why. 

They've harvested the -shelves-. There's an enormous structure, stretching into the air, boxy and dense. Crackling and hissing noises escape it, and you can see a few Elecs running around, carrying bits. You can't believe the stockers are letting them get away with this - then again, they've probably harvested the stockers, too. No wonder the other departments have been declaring Sport on them... they're intimidated. As you stare, you feel a thump on your back.

"Auto?"

"Ya."

"Got the barter?" You unsling your pack, and dump the contents on the ground.

"Fuses, plugs, and 10W40."

"Good man!" The old timer crackles with laughter, his long blue vest-coat bending in entirely unnatural ways as he bends over to scoop up the gear. Must be the way it's stitched. "Come on in. We've got your stuff ready for you. Gonna need a jump for your ride?"

"Ya. How'd you know?"

"Security feed." You nod. A few of your guys have tried plugging into the camera feeds before - it works, just not too well, and always goes dead after a few days. As he ushers you into the building, your jaw drops. You're staring at something made from three stocker hulls, the Smiling faces ripped off, and extra junk Stik-Walded onto the side. The front is what really strikes you, though - it looks like it's carrying the biggest Sporting good you've ever seen. You've seen nevergrow arms that were smaller - and those just shoot big balls-

"You're not one of those guys from the Path of the Smiling One, are ya?"

"Huh? No." You return your attention to the old fellow. 

"Good. I know they'd throw a fit. Here you go. Six stock guns - with the chargers. Just point at the shelf, click, and hit your number. You've got about two months before the system realizes that it's not a stocker command. More if you use `em sparingly."

"Awesome."

"And... a jump cell. Good luck." You nod, about to head out, and then turn back to him.

"Hey. Why did you let me see that thing? Isn't this-"

"Kid, Auto's the one department we haven't had any problems with. I figure this will keep it that way. Now shoo." You do so, silently glad for the logic by which these guys operate. If you'd been in produce... you shudder.

----