These
Mean Streets Darkly
Liquid
Cool Prequel
by
Austin Dragon
Genre:
Cyberpunk Detective Thriller
THESE MEAN STREETS, DARKLY the prequel to the cyberpunk detective series, Liquid Cool.
It’s
a world of colossal skyscrapers. Hovercars fly above in the dark,
rainy skies and gray people walk below on the grimy, hard streets in
the “Neon Jungle.” Uber-governments and megacorporations fight
for control of the supercity, but so does crime.
An
average woman, Carol—hardworking and decent in every way— loses
her daughter to the psycho Red Rabbit. Can Police Central find the
girl in time—alive? And is it really a random, senseless kidnapping
in the fifty-million-plus city?
There
are a million victims and perpetrators in this High-Tech, Low-Life
World. This is one of those stories…before we meet our private eye
(and unlikely hero), Cruz, in the debut novel, Liquid
Cool!
**Free
on Amazon!**
Liquid
Cool
Liquid
Cool Series Book 1
Cyberpunk
Thriller To Keep You on the Edge of Your Seat!
Liquid Cool is the action-packed (and funny), cyberpunk detective series.
How
Much is One Life Worth?
In
the sci-fi/cyberpunk detective series, author Austin Dragon shows why
you never want to meet a cyborg in a dark alley. Liquid Cool is a
cross between Blade Runner and the Maltese Falcon. There is plenty of
gritty action, suspense, thrills, and even a few laughs.
It’s
cyberpunk reimagined—an ever-rainy world of colossal skyscrapers,
hovercars, flashy neon streets, and futuristic mechanization.
Metropolis isn’t a bad place, but it isn’t a good one either.
Uber-governments and megacorporations fight for control of the
fifty-million-plus super-city, but so does crime.
We
meet Cruz, our private eye (and unlikely hero), in this super-city
with a million victims and perpetrators. Watch out for
tech-tricksters, analog hustlers, and digital gangsters—psychos,
samurais, and cyborgs aplenty. Visitors have a way of becoming
permanent attractions.
Welcome
to the high-tech, low-life world of Liquid Cool.
Get
Your Copy of Liquid Cool Right Now.
**Free
on Amazon!**
PART I: SHOOTOUT ON SWEET STREET
Metropolis.
Everything that was seen or heard, every
smell, and almost every feeling belonged
to it. Skyscraper monoliths with their
side lights rose into the near-perpetual overcast
sky one way, blink-blink, and the
lukewarm downpour fell onto the neon urban jungle
the other, drip-drip. From the ground,
looking up, on those days that were as clear as
it could ever get, buildings seemed to
have their own halos, courtesy of the rooftop
lights. On “normal” rainy days, that same
illumination gave the sky a faint glow. Also
from the vantage of the streets, the
city’s lighted buildings pulsated in all the many
psychologically-tested and
focus-group-researched colors to mitigate the street’s base
griminess, despite the ever-rain. The
flashing neon signs screamed every second of
every day; their soft-sell,
quasi-hypnotic consumerist cons of Big Bad Business and
government public service “aggravations”
(PSAs) of Big Bad Government. But people
were numb to it all, no matter how
outrageous or provocative.
The crowds on the streets moving about
were like a collective lifeform.
Everyone clad in their gray-toned or
black slickers, and for those carrying them,
umbrellas with glowing colored handles.
Most had their ears covered with
headphones, their heads covered with
hoods, and everyone had their eyes
covered with glowing colored glasses. The
masses were in the world, but
mentally someplace else—away from it,
never a part of it, unless there was a
digital gangsters, at least, had purpose.
The masses had only one concern—to
exist, get to the end of the day
unscathed, and then do it all over again the next
day. Maybe smile a real smile a time or
two in life. Escape was only possible if
you could buy or trick your way Up-Top
or, of course, when the Grim Reaper
came a-knocking. ‘Til then, for most,
there was plugging the ears into the
music, and the eyes (and brain) into the
virtual television. For too many others,
it was also about jacking the body into
the drugs or the mind into the cyber-
games. Everything in an attempt to stave
off the dark emotions and
conventional madness that accompanied the
daily grind of life in the 50
million-plus, supercity of Metropolis,
and the many, many other metropolises
exactly like it, though smaller, on
Earth.
“Yo, yo, yo. Easy Chair Charlie! What’s
the street talk, E.C.?” a voice called out.
If it were not for their glowing colored
glasses, the three street kids would have
been invisible through the drizzle of the
night. Easy Chair Charlie stopped his
musically-influenced stroll through the
streets, pulling his headphones down around
his neck. He wore his favorite
embroidered, black slicker that flowed behind his tall,
lanky frame. He also had the attached
clear hood pulled over his bleached-white spiky
hair and wore glowing, dark blue-black
shades, but looked out from the top as if they
were bifocals.
A neon sign flashed, and he could see the
kids clearly—flapper hats and chia-pet
bubble-coats—squatting on the corner.
“What you playin’?” he asked.
The boys looked like gorillas with the
heads of old World War I fighter pilots. The
water-resistant, faux-fur of their coats
kept them toasty warm in the rain.
“Just a game of street jacks to pass the
time, Easy,” answered the same boy. “Easy,
what’s the street talk? You always know
the low-down. If we get something, we’ll give
you a cut like always.”
Easy Chair Charlie was a hustler of some
distinction. His racket was the numbers,
and he had the inside scoop on every
professional and amateur, major league and
minor league sports game, hovercar race,
horse race, dog race, boxing match, or
martial arts match there was and every
illegal and back-alley one, too. But he was
branching out from his old racket, though
he still had the touch and threw a tip here
and there to the street kids he liked.
“No action now. But I may have something
for you later,” he said.
“You always come through for me. The
street looks out for self.”
“You know it, Easy.”
“Catch me later.”
“You got it, Easy,” they said in unison.
Easy Chair Charlie returned his
headphones to his ears and strutted away to his
tunes. He gave them the thumbs-up as he
disappeared into the rain.
Downtown loved to tout the ethnic
diversity that was the melting pot of
Metropolis. It was true; everyone felt
equally miserable, and that they were being
melted into a pot—a big wet one. With so
many millions in the supercity, there were
more ethnicities, nationalities, and
languages spoken here than any other place in the
world.
In the old days, groups fervently
protected their neighborhoods, but legacy
housing changed all that, some say,
ending the traditional ethnic communities
forever. There were still the ethnic
enclaves of old, but often, they were not run by the
nationalities that originally created
them, back when Metropolis was just a city, let
alone a mega-city or the supercity center
it was today. The suave, hipster Old Harlem,
with more historical landmarks than any
other part of the city, was run not by Blacks
anymore, but Italians. Most of its
buildings were not as tall nor as massive, but many
argued it had the best clubs and
restaurants in the city. It was also the center of the
cigar aficionado world, one place in
particular.
Joe Blows was where Easy Chair Charlie
was going—the world famous Joe Blows
Smoking Emporium on Sweet Street. He was
out of smokes and needed to replenish
his stash. It was a lucrative storefront,
but also an official historic landmark of the
city. In the old days, movie celebrities
and megacorporate playboys made up its
famous clientele, but though it no longer
featured in the papers and trades like back
then, everyone knew it as the establishment
for all cancer-stick connoisseurs, and
people came far and wide for a stash.
There wasn’t an exotic, classic, or premium
cigarette or cigar in the world that they
didn’t carry. But no narcotics. If you wanted
that, any corner dope daddy or drugstore
cowboy on speed-dial could get you that.
Joe Blows was for those who loved
smoke—the taste and feel through the lungs, nose,
and mouth. For the true connoisseur, that
was the high. It had its main store, but the
real action was the adjoining smoking rooms,
where old-time smokers sat around
dinner, poker, or a game of pool with
beautiful waitresses around. Joe’s was strictly a
straight joint—male chauvinists and babes
only, though nowadays, a quarter of its
clientele were female smokers.
“This is a public service announcement to
remind you that the Metropolis Surgeon
General says you can double your life
expectancy by ceasing the use of all tobacco
products,” said one of the baby-faced
agents in a suit, but without a lick of style.
The government’s “cigarette police” would
stop by every month or two to pass out
anti-smoking flyers, but were met with
howling laughter and men stuffing the flyers—
in front of the agents—into their butt
cracks or in the front of their jock straps.
However, today was one of those bad days,
and Easy Chair Charlie entered the
smoking room as the two meek college kid
agents—paid government volunteers—
were practically running out as smoking
room customers threatened them with
obscene gestures, jeers, and curses. The
entire establishment was yelling at them to
leave.
Easy Chair Charlie chuckled, carrying his
two just-purchased boxes—his stash of
exotic cigars for the month—from the main
store to the sitting rooms.
“Easy Chair Charlie!” a booming voice
called out.
Fat Nat, a large pot-bellied man, waved
to him as he stood up from a card table of
other men. Easy waved back with a smile
and then gave him a salute. He walked to the
table and set both boxes in the center,
on top of the men’s cards.
The men grinned at the words on the
boxes.
“Havanas, Easy?” a seated man asked. “How
the hell can you afford a box of those?
One of those is worth a king’s ransom,
and you got two boxes.”
“This is Easy Chair Charlie. He knows how
to get things, so he can sit back easy-
like in his chair,” Fat Nat said.
They listened keenly to the sounds. Easy
carefully cut the outer plastic wrapping
from one cigar box with his switchblade
and asked, “May I perchance offer my good
comrades a genuine Havana?”
The men stood from their chairs as Easy
lifted the lid and then slit the inner
plastic covering to allow the aroma of
the cigars to rise from the box. Each man
pulled a glove from a pants pocket and
put it on their right hand. One by one, the
four men grabbed a cigar and inhaled
deeply as they were passed under their nostrils.
Easy took one himself. One of the men
pulled another chair from a nearby table
for him. “Easy, set yourself down in an
easy chair.” Easy smiled as he and the five
men sat. Fat Nat pulled a box of old
slow-matches from his chest pocket and struck
one. He lit Easy’s first and then each
friend’s cigar with its steady, slow-burning, tiny
flame. He left his for last.
“The first puff of the cigar.” Easy
leaned back in his chair to savor it.
“Easy is like no other.” Fat Nat lifted
his Japanese whiskey glass. “Here’s to Easy
and easy living in this wet, rainy,
modern, miserable world.”
The men drank.
Easy Chair Charlie stifled a slight burp.
“Gentlemen, I may have something for
you.”
The street knew Easy for his
take-it-to-the-bank betting tips, but few knew of his
new, more lucrative, racket of the
acquisition. Not a finder. They only told you where
an item you desired was, but Easy found
it and delivered it right to you. Acquisition
experts, like him, were in high demand
and insanely compensated. He could make
more with the successful acquisition of
an item in one year than his old gambling
racket. His specialty was acquisition of
items from Up-Top—where the wealthy and
powerful of the planet lived. That’s
where the astronomic cash was to be had.
“Something good?” Fat Nat asked.
Easy did a slow exhale. “If I play my
cards right, I’ll be able to make it all the way
to Up-Top myself. Not just get things.
And you know how generous I am to my
friends.”
The men smiled.
“How Easy?” Fat Nat asked.
Easy Chair Charlie leaned back. “How
indeed.” He took another draw from his cigar
like a king. They all heard a low hum.
Easy clenched his cigar gently between his teeth
and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, my pants
are vibrating.”
A couple of the men grinned as Easy
stared down at the display of the mobile
phone in his hand. He answered it as he
got up from the table and walked outside.
“Something good must be callin’,” Fat Nat
said to the men.
From the roof of a skyscraper, a
silver-and-black body-armored policeman stood
with a high-powered binocular attachment
over his visored half-helmet, watching. To
him, two miles away was turned into five
feet away. Easy, Fat Nat, and the boys were
back at the card table, laughing and
joking.
From the darkened sky, a policeman slowly
descended via rocketpack, the yellow
flames glowing from the double exhaust
nozzles. The word “PEACE” was visible on
his black chest body armor. Two more
policemen descended from the sky and then
another half dozen.
Foot police arrived on the ground, and
people crossed the street or double-
backed to walk away from them—something
bad was about to happen. In mere
moments, the busy street was empty,
except for the police and an arriving
police cruiser that appeared, hovering
six feet from the ground in stealth mode.
Joe Blows also had its main bar—a big
bar. Members always got their first drink
free, and all members, besides their love
of smoking products, loved to drink. And Joe
Blows only served alcoholic drinks. If
you wanted coffee, green tea, or another girly-
man non-alcoholic, then you needed to get
in your hovercar and go someplace else.
“Hyper, waiting on my drink order!” the
waitress yelled out.
The bartender behind the counter seemed
to float on air as he moved to her with a
tray of clear and colored drinks. She
smiled, and he smiled back.
“Your slowing down, Hyper. Normally,
you’d have my order before I started my
sentence.”
“If you say.” He continued to get bottles
and glasses, pour alcohol into glasses, get
trays, and then set drinks on the bar and
on trays for pick-up. He moved like a
machine.
“I thought you were off tonight—” she
began.
A pulse-round of white light exploded her
tray of drinks, sending glass and alcohol
everywhere. Another blast hit Hyper in
the shoulder, knocking him back, and ripped
through the wall behind him. The waitress
screamed as more rounds whizzed past,
hitting the bar counter and the wall. She
stood in place, yelling hysterically.
Everyone in the bar dived to the ground
for cover.
Big G was about to throw his card on the
table, when a pulse-round blasted
through his hand and the cards. Fat Nat
kicked the table away and pushed his friend
to the ground from the chair. All the men
were flat on the ground as the pulse-rounds
ripped through the establishment. They
could hear screams from patrons and things
being blasted apart. One of the
old-timers got to his feet and ran to the side entrance.
“Stay on the ground!” Fat Nat yelled.
Another customer jumped up and ran to the
main entrance, also in panic; others
jumped up, following. A pulse-round
ripped through the wall, knocking the left leg
off one man’s body and grazing the head
of another, sending both patrons to the
ground in shock.
“’Nuff of this!” Fat Nat bolted away on
all fours.
“Nat, where you goin’?”
Tab, the waitress, kept screaming,
frozen, as multiple pulse-rounds whizzed closer
and closer to her head on their way to
blast the front bar area to pieces. Fat Nat
appeared from around a corner, crawling
fast. He stopped and pulled his piece from
his back waistband. The rifle
auto-unfolded; he aimed and then fired at her. The
waitress fell, crashing to the ground on
her back and her screaming never ceasing.
“You want to get killed!” A round hit the
wall above his head. “Hyper, you alive?”
“I’m good, boss. Now, I can get that
bionic arm I always wanted—for free!”
“Who’s shooting my place to hell!” Fat
Nat was red with anger and stood to his
feet.
“Nat, get your ass to the ground before
you get yourself shot in the head!” one of
his card buddies hollered as he was
crawling into the bar area on all fours.
Fat Nat yelled at the top of his lungs,
“Nuke attack!”
“Emergency Nuclear Blast Doors
activated,” answered the overhead computer
voice.
The sound of several-feet
thick alloy walls rose from the ground in a slow rumble as they sealed Joe
Blows up like a tomb. The barrage of pulse-fire continued, but were
just a melody of taps from outside,
rather than projectiles of death and destruction.
Fat Nat stood to his feet with a deep
frown on his face to survey the damage. He
walked to the bar and peeked over the
counter. There was the kid, Hyper, lying on the
floor, missing an arm, in a puddle of
blood, but smiling.
“I’m good, boss.” He gave a casual salute
with his good arm. “The blast cauterized
the wound, so there’s almost no blood.”
“Tab?” Fat Nat yelled.
“Yes, boss.”
“What’s your disposition?”
“I’m shot and lying on the ground.”
“Any major damage?”
“How would I know? You were the one who
shot me!”
“Would you have preferred to be shot by
me and alive or shot and dead by
unknown bastard gunmen because you were
too dumb to put face to floor?”
“Is that supposed to be a trick question,
boss?”
Fat Nat continued his inspection of his
place. His card-mates appeared and joined
him.
“What’s Big G’s disposition?” Fat Nat
asked.
“Big G will be needing a new hand.”
“Fat Nat, what are you going to do?”
The other men looked at him, and they
could see Fat Nat seething as he walked
through the establishment—damage, debris,
and bodies everywhere.
“Make sure no one’s dead,” Fat Nat said
to his friends.
“What will you be doing, Nat?”
“Nobody shoots up Joe Blows, my place of
business, and gets away duty-free. I’ll be
back.”
“Nobody shoots up Joe Blows!”
“Nat,” said another man. “You can’t be
running around Old Harlem shooting up
bad guys. This is our neighborhood. If it
were somebody else’s, I’d say give me a piece
too, and let’s go. But you don’t be
shooting up your own neighborhood. What’s wrong
with you?”
There was one loud, muffled metallic
knock, then several more pounds from
outside. Someone was knocking.
The men looked at each other.
“This is the Police!”
Sweet Street was totally shut down.
Thick, neon yellow police tape—POLICE LINE.
DO NOT CROSS—cordoned off the entire area
and it was a light show of red and blue
flashing sirens. People crowded the slick
sidewalks and streets outside the tape, while
media arrived in force. One
hoverambulance after another landed on the scene.
Fat Nat argued with the policeman, but
was gently restrained by his smoking
buddies.
“I demand to see the body,” he yelled
again at the policeman.
“Sir, this is now an official crime
scene—”
“Yeah, I should know,” Fat Nat
interrupted. “I was one of the ones inside getting
shot at, watching my employees and
customers get shot up and my place of business
get blasted to hell.”
“Sir, I understand you’re upset, but we
have to maintain the integrity of the crime
scene.”
“Showing me the body of the supposed
one-man, crazy gunman is not going to
mess up any crime scene. Let me make it
simple. Do you want to show me the body,
so I can see who this mook was, or should
I shuffle my fat self on over to the media
cameras and talk about the deep
psychological trauma I’m experiencing—yeah, I can
feel it coming on. I might need to call
my lawyer or a doctor, or my lawyer and doctor
at the same time. Lawsuit settlements
come right out of the police budget nowadays,
never city hall—”
“Wait here, sir.”
The policeman walked over
to a superior talking with three other policemen. After a few moments of
speaking, one of the policemen gestured to Fat Nat with his index
finger: Come here.
The white blanket was lifted from the
lone gunman, lying dead on the sidewalk.
“Do you know this man?” the policeman
asked.
Fat Nat stared at the body for a while.
He looked up and said, “Never saw him
before.”
Fat Nat’s smoking buddies also stared at
the body.
“What about any of you gentlemen?” the
policeman asked.
They all shook their heads.
“We’re sorry we were so jerky about this.
Sorry we can’t identify him for you,
either,” Fat Nat continued. “So this mook
shot up the place with pulse machine guns?”
“High-powered,” the policeman added. “He
gave us quite the gun battle.”
Fat Nat shook his head. “And this is
supposed to be a safe neighborhood. Well, I
have lots of calls to make—hospital,
insurance, and so on. I got to get my place of
business made whole. Joe Blows has never
been closed in sixty years, and we’re not
about to start now. I should have the
ambulance guys check me out, too.”
“Sir, we’ll have the shift detectives
contact you tomorrow for a full statement,” the
officer said.
“Thanks, officer. Tell us when you need
us at the station.” Fat Nat gathered his
buddies and led them away towards the
crowd.
The policemen watched them.
“Looks like they know more than they’re
sayin’,” said one officer.
“People always know more than they’re
saying, especially when they’re the
victims.”
Fat Nat and the boys stopped in front of
the police-tape line.
“Nat, that was Easy Chair Charlie,” one
of the men whispered. “Easy Chair Charlie
never touched a gun in his life! Those—”
“Shhh!” Fat Nat turned his head briefly.
The policemen were still watching them.
Fat Nat smiled at them. They ducked
under the neon yellow police tape and
disappeared into the crowds as a light
rain began again.
Blade
Gunner
Liquid
Cool Book 2
The Cyberpunk Detective Thriller Blade Gunner Keeps You on the Edge of Your Seat!
Liquid Cool is the action-packed (and funny), debut cyberpunk detective series.
Who
is Blade Gunner?
In
the next installment of the sci-fi/cyberpunk detective series, author
Austin Dragon shows you when two forces of evil want to kill each
other—get the hell out of the way! The Liquid Cool Series is the
sci-fi classic, Blade Runner meets the Old Hollywood classic, Maltese
Falcon. There is plenty of gritty action, suspense, thrills, and even
a few laughs.
It’s
the cyberpunk novel reimagined—an ever-rainy world of colossal
skyscrapers, hover-cars, flashy neon streets, and futuristic
mechanization. Metropolis isn’t a bad place, but it isn’t a good
one either. Uber-governments and mega-corporations fight for control
of the fifty-million-plus super-city, but so does crime.
Sinister
secret megacorporations. Savage Cyborg cults. And the Blade Gunner.
How does Cruz, our private eye (and unlikely hero), solve this
case—let alone survive? Off-worlders will do anything to stop the
unknown man called Blade Gunner—even to blow up a supercity from
space! The seedy spousal surveillance case doesn’t look so bad
after all, but it’s too late to go back. You haven’t read a
cyberpunk novel like this.
Welcome
to the high-tech, low-life world of Liquid Cool.
PART I: SPACE GIRL
Earth.
The universally recognized image of the
planet—big, blue, and pristine—took up
the entire digital screen of the space
station’s interior wall. An orange number “10”
appeared in the center and silently
counted down—finally 3, 2, 1. The screen
disappeared and revealed the true view of
the planet below through the massive view
port—an Earth covered with colossal storm
clouds, and encircled by millions of
satellites in every shape and size. It
was an orbiting, man-made, metallic sea of space
junk.
The proceedings began again as the
parties re-entered the cavernous courtroom.
The Five Judges, each in flowing white
robes with red, upturned, pointed collars, and
red cuffs from the wrist to the forearm,
looked on from their hoverbenches, hanging
several feet from the floor. The
twenty-something female defendant, Sarah C, was
floated in effortlessly, in the
weightless environment. She wore a simple white outfit,
her wrists handcuffed in front of her,
each arm held by one of two white-uniformed
women with white police hats, all three
of them standing on a hoverplatform. Three
attorneys in dark suits flew in on
another hoverplatform, a few feet off the ground,
facing the Judges.
The bailiff’s computer voice sounded over
the system. “Case Number 102684 is
back in session.”
The Lead Judge in the center, the only
one wearing a red judicial cap, stared at the
defendant for a moment. Sarah C was smart
enough to remove the smirk from her
face, but a smirk briefly flashed on the
female Lead Judge’s face before she spoke.
“The Chamber has completed its
deliberation, and you, Defendant 102684, have
been found guilty of all charges.
However, mere moments ago, a plea agreement was
agreed upon, and entered into the
official record, avoiding the prescribed sentence of
execution by summary spacing. You will,
instead, as part of the plea agreement, be
sentenced to permanent exile. You will be
taken from our paradise here up above, and
sent to live your full and final days on
the rock below, known as planet Earth.
“Additionally, the Chamber was informed
that as part of your plea agreement,
your sentence would be carried out a year
from the final adjournment of today’s
proceedings, which this court sees for
the ruse that it is. Undoubtedly, time to allow
your cunning attorneys to find a way to
circumvent your exile, as deftly as they
circumvented your scheduled death
sentence.
laws and consequences are mere annoyances
to be defied after the fact—even high
crimes against Utopia itself. This court,
however, rejects that notion with all the
contempt we can summon from the pits of
our souls. The Chamber has no authority
to change the commuted sentence, but it
does retain the authority to decide when a
sentence begins. Your family is not the
only ones with power here above. The
Chamber, hereby, unilaterally revokes the
one-year stay, and your sentence will be
carried out this very second—now!”
“No!” Sarah C yelled. Her three lawyers,
a few feet away, looked at each other,
not knowing what to do. They protested as
the two police agents flew the
struggling defendant out of the Z-gravity
room.
The rain was heavy as the spaceship
descended from the overcast sky. It didn’t
land, but hovered a few feet from the
ground as an exit door opened.
A woman clad in a hooded, fitted, white
coat was pushed out. She picked
herself off the ground, and stood with
her head down as the spaceship rose, the
vapor smoke, and turbulence engulfing
her. The ship was soon gone; the vapor
cloud quickly dissipated. She finally
looked up at the spaceship, craning her
neck as far back as it could go. After
moments of watching, she looked back
down to the ground, then fainted.
Thirty years later.
She was clad in a black slicker, the hood
fastened tight around her head. She sat
on the monorail with a weary face pressed
against the glass, watching, buildings and
neon signs flashing by.
There were only two other people in the
car—an elderly man sleeping with his
head tilted back, snoring loudly, and a
sidewalk johnny who seemed to have a
permanent smile on his face and, every so
often, burst out laughing for no apparent
reason.
The monorail stopped, and Sarah C got up
from her seat, with a long
rectangular box marked “Roses” tucked
under one arm. She exited onto the
platform. It was sheltered, but the rain
was so heavy that she still needed her
umbrella, which popped open as she walked
to the elevator capsules.
A yellow hovertaxi appeared above the
entrance and descended. It touched down
on the ground, and a passenger exited.
Out stepped a finely-dressed woman—faux-fur
coat, black mesh veil hat, pleated dress
with black nylons, and neon-tipped heeled
boots. High class. The woman slowly
walked up the stairs, and into the building as
Sarah C watched.
Sarah C held her box of ‘roses’ tightly,
waiting. She had it planned out in her
head: Give the woman time to get to the
elevator capsules, and off on her way.
Then, she would make it to the Liquid Cool offices. There, she—Sarah C—would
be this Cruz, the detective’s final
client of the day.
NeuroDancer
Liquid
Cool Book 3
The Cyberpunk Detective Series Continues to Thrill in NeuroDancer!
Liquid Cool is the action-packed (and funny), debut cyberpunk detective series.
Has
Cruz met his supervillain match in NeuroDancer?
Liquid
Cool is a Blade Runner meets the Maltese Falcon. In the next
installment of the sci-fi/cyberpunk detective series, author Austin
Dragon goes from less frenetic cyberpunk to a smoother, cyber-noir
with our hero, Cruz, matching wits with the sultry NeuroDancer. There
is always plenty of gritty action, suspense, thrills, and even a few
laughs.
It’s
the cyberpunk novel reimagined—an ever-rainy world of colossal
skyscrapers, hover-cars, flashy neon streets, and futuristic
mechanization. Metropolis isn’t a bad place, but it isn’t a good
one either. Uber-governments and mega-corporations fight for control
of the fifty-million-plus super-city, but so does crime.
“Don’t
hate me because I’m beautiful,” she said to him. He should have
listened to his instincts when she strolled into his office to hire
him. “I knew I wasn’t gonna touch this case with a 10-foot pole.
It had danger written all over it, back and front.” But he did take
the Case of the NeuroDancer. Is this the private eye story where the
bad “guy” rides off into the sunset and the hero lies flat on his
back waiting for the meat wagon to fly down in their hoverambulance.
Which
is crazier, indeed: the criminal—or the client? Welcome to the
high-tech, low-life world of Liquid Cool.
CHAPTER I: CLIENT ZERO
The only sound was that of the rain
hitting the window behind me. As I sat behind
my desk, I knew I was in trouble from the
moment she walked into my office. The
high-fashion, two-piece black slicker
outfit she wore was tight enough to be a second
skin, and wrapped around her eyes was a
clear red visor. Those piercing eyes locked
on me and never let go.
The Dame sat in the chair directly facing
me and crossed her legs.
“Mr. Cruz, I’d like to hire you,” she
said in her sensual voice.
“Miss, I gotta ask. Is it dangerous?”
“Dangerous, Mr. Cruz?”
“Yeah. What do you want to hire me to do?
Does it involve…gangsters? Cyborgs?
Killer robots? I don’t do dangerous.
Dangerous means I get shot. I don’t like to get
shot.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Cruz. I’m just an innocent
damsel in distress, who needs a little help
from the local private detective.”
I said to myself, Yeah,
sure. I knew I wasn’t gonna touch this case with a 10-foot pole. It had
danger written all over it, back and front.
“Miss, I’m sorry, but I actually won’t be
able to take your case. I—”
“Oh, I forgot one thing, Mr. Cruz,” the
NeuroDancer added.
“What’s that?” I asked.
The only thing my eyes focused on was the
slim briefcase she opened and laid on
top of my desk. It was filled with stacks
of beautiful currency.
“When do you want me to start?” I asked.
The
Electric Sheep Massacre
Liquid
Cool Book 4
The
Cyberpunk Detective Series Goes to London!
But in The
Electric Sheep Massacre does our detective come back?
And, is that before or after someone tries to kill him in the world
of virtual reality?!
The
Cyberpunk Detective Series Goes to London!
But in The
Electric Sheep Massacre does our detective come back?
And, is that before or after someone tries to kill him in the world
of virtual reality?!
Liquid Cool is the action-packed (and funny), debut cyberpunk detective series.
Liquid
Cool is Blade Runner meets the Maltese Falcon. In the next
installment of the sci-fi/cyberpunk detective series, author Austin
Dragon takes our private detective from the wild, concrete wastelands
outside the supercity Metropolis across the Great Ocean to London
Prime (that’s what they call it in the future) to the most
dangerous place in the world—virtual reality, where all of a sudden
people are killing and dying.
It’s
the cyberpunk novel reimagined—an ever-rainy world of colossal
skyscrapers, hovercars, flashy neon streets, and futuristic
mechanization. Metropolis isn’t a bad place, but it isn’t a good
one either. Uber-governments and megacorporations fight for control
of the fifty-million-plus supercity, but so does crime.
Welcome
to the high-tech, low-life world of Liquid Cool.
**.99
on Amazon!!**
Austin
Dragon is author of the After Eden Series, including the After Eden:
Tek-Fall mini-series, the classic Sleepy Hollow Horrors, and the
cyberpunk detective series, Liquid Cool. He is a native New Yorker,
but has called Los Angeles, California home for the last twenty
years. Words to describe him, in no particular order: U.S. Army,
English teacher, one-time resident of Paris, political junkie, movie
buff, campaign manager and staffer of presidential and gubernatorial
campaigns, Fortune 500 corporate recruiter, renaissance man, and
dreamer.
He
is currently working on new books and series in science fiction,
fantasy, and classic horror!
Follow
the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!
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