The story of Ryn - Part 2. My thanks for the encouragement offered by those who liked the first part of this story. Ryn is all I have now, and Part 3 will keep me company for Christmas.
A - E F - J K - O P - V W - Z Newest Files
Part Two: Way of the Machine
Dream of the Machine
The machine has its own room in Ryn's Barrington
Hills mansion. Conceived, designed, built, operated
solely by her. No acolytes are admitted to her
priesthood. The room is all white - floor, walls, ceiling,
except for a single mirrored wall, as suited her exotic
but austere taste. But for cues offered by the reflection
of the glass, one would be lost in this room, lost in
whiteness. The room had no memory.
Take two pennant shaped panes of metal and join the
shortest sides to a ring at the center. Sheathed in each
pane is a rectangular surgical steel carbon blade, with
the sharpest edge possible subject to the molecular
structure of steel. Dust mites cleave themselves on the
blades. Or would if Ryn permitted dust in her house.
She doesn't. The blades gleam silently inside their
black metal sheaths. They are cleaned and sharpened
regularly.
The entire machine is maintained in perfect operating
condition at all times. Another room holds spare parts
for every component, in triplicate. The house
computer, a lesser cousin of Hal her office computer,
holds the names of all vendors for these parts, and the
price and item number of each part, and the address
and phone and fax number of every vendor. Names,
and numbers are available whenever needed.
The central ring is adjustable, and its diameter may
range from half an inch to five inches. All sizes are thus
served. It is made of stainless steel, and its cold edge
gleams brightly. The inside of the ring is corrugated
and designed to tightly seize and hold whatever is
inserted into it.
OhioTM springs propel each blade along twin upper
and lower grooves. Electric motors draw back and
cock the springs that can then be mechanically
released with one pull on the red lever attached to the
swivel base. Each fully cocked spring wields 1,000
foot-pounds of releasable force. Precisely one ton of
slicing power is focused at the central ring, where the
blades overlap and help one another in achieving their
objective.
This assembly may pivot and swivel in any direction,
but is normally adjusted to a 45 degree angle relative
to the floor. This is the most common angle of
erection.
A conical pole founded on a circular base supports the
arm which holds the assembly. The arm may swivel
around the pole freely, and slides up and down to
accommodate the height of the user. The cutting lever
swivels with the arm for easy use at any time. The pole
and arm are made of a palladium and titanium alloy:
light, strong, corrosion free.
The machine sleeps now. And it dreams.
A Rapist In Our Midst
From the Chicago Tribune:
Police this morning
have confirmed that
another "slasher" rape
has occurred in the
city. This is the fifth
such attack in three
months by a
perpetrator who refers
to himself only as
"slasher." This latest
attack occurred late
last evening between
11pm and 2am
according to police
sources.
The victim was raped,
beaten, and mutilated
in various areas of her
body. She is a
Caucasian female, 23
years old and her
name is being withheld
for privacy. She was
discovered by an off-
duty police officer at
approximately 3 am
this morning at an
undisclosed Lincoln
Park location and was
taken to Cook County
Hospital. She is
currently in intensive
care and her condition
has been listed as
critical. Family
members were notified
and were present at
the hospital this
morning.
Police are continuing
their investigation and
have no further
statements to make at
this time. There are
rumors that Mayor
Daley is pressuring the
police department to
assign more personnel
to catch the alleged
perpetrator.
Three of the previous
known victims have
died as a result of their
injuries, which
included severe
mutilation and
repeated beatings by
their assailant.
Ryn finished her paper and drank the last of her
Starbucks latte. As usual she had a window seat in the
middle of the train car, in front of the doors. Her black
eyes were lost amid the bleakness of the winter
landscape racing by. This was the 6:30 am express to
the city, and the train was accordingly few in
passengers. Those few men who were present
continued their game of watching her as much as
possible. Some ingenious men cut holes in their
morning papers so they could surreptitiously peer at
her striking face and body. Women too were affected,
and were naturally drawn to look whether from
resentment or admiration. All such looking had as its
primary impulse a desire to categorize, to typify, to
stereotype. Their sharp glances were deflected,
defeated, by the diamond-like hardness of her inner
being. Ryn resisted classification.
All schemes for typecasting her failed from
incompleteness. In public she feigned a bemused
indifference, and the force of her character bore her
through all unscathed. Inside she secretly adored the
attention and savored every glance cast her way. She
was the center of the world and she knew it. This is
why she took the train every day when she could have
driven or even flown to her office. Or built her own
private railroad.
The slasher story in particular troubled her thoughts
today. She hated competition, and especially hated
someone who cut with no regard for the rules of the
craft. Victims must first ask for it. The cutting must be
done with the best skill and a respect for the act of
cutting. Cutting must not be done primarily to cause
pain, but to ease and smooth away unwanted and
troublesome pleasures. This pig violated every rule
with abandon. She felt violated. He had committed a
wrong against her, but she was still at the stage of
considering what to do about it. She had been
considering it for almost a month now, and this latest
attack brought the issue back into focus in her mind.
She left the train station and drew her black silk
Versace scarf close against her face. Three men were
ahead of her at the street corner trying to hail a cab.
She walked in front of them, stepped out into the
street, and stopped. Her trim green leather coat and
mane of black hair made her quite visible even in
winter attire. Her hair was pinned today at top with a
small diamond tiara. The coat was knee-length and her
stunning legs were exposed both to the frigid air and
the hot glances of men. She towered above them like a
pine tree crowned with stars.
Shortly, one cab locked its brakes in an effort to stop
and pivot towards her. But a more aggressive cabbie
made a u-turn in the street and slided in along the curb
directly in front of her. As she stepped into the warmth
of the cab she turned towards the gaping, freezing
men. "Thank you gentlemen....Cabbie, take me to 34
Wabash Avenue, please." The men disappeared from
view behind the cab. One of them was smiling. She
enjoyed these daily devotions.
As she entered the office building she saw the kid
again. As usual he slouched in a corner of the
entrance, by the heaters. A book was in his hand.
Soon the doorman would chase him away. She felt his
eyes on her.
"Beat it kid."
"Sorry, Dr. Nyr" the boy said, and left.
He knew her, and watched her every day. Once, he
was bold enough to come to her floor and sneak up to
the door of her suite. The security cameras showed
her that, Hal had alerted her. She turned back towards
the door and saw a small, unhappy face pressed
against the glass from the outside, peering in at her,
watching. She began to believe he came there just to
see her.
She threw herself into her leather office chair, resting
her booted feet on the desk. At the press of a button
that responded only to her fingerprints an ebony panel
opened in her credenza/hutch, revealing a computer
console and monitor. The keyboard was secured in
the drawer below - it was never used. Here was a
Cray 1500 supercomputer, a toy from one of her
former clients. Of course all of her clients were former
clients, all of them quite satisfied.
The Cray 1500 was the latest state of the art thinking
machine. The National Security Agency could boast of
one no better. Precisely five such machines currently
existed in the world. A sixth was under construction
for NASA. Above her office one entire floor of the
skyscraper accommodated it, at a staggering monthly
cost. Humble PC's, however advanced, were not
good enough for her. Only the latest supercomputer
would suffice for her needs, and the style in which she
required those needs to be satisfied.
"Good morning Hal, system status please..." she
greeted the computer.
"Good morning Ryn...one moment..." It was a slightly
mechanical male voice, unaccented, but clear and
easily understood.
"All systems are optimal Ryn. How may I serve you
this morning?"
"Display schedule please."
"Here it is - you have a cutting with a Mr. Rogers this
Wednesday, two more leads from former clients, and
a pending with a Mr. Warren." A colored calendar
appeared on the screen before her.
"Hal, give me a full background report on Warren. I
want his FBI dossier, any psych tests and personal
and credit history, full relationship matrix...you
know...the usual." Her voice was silky and sweet. She
loved Hal and depended on him for everything. What
Mark Twain had once said about dogs was even more
true for computers. "Bring a stray dog into your home,
feed him, and care for him, and he will not bite you.
That is the chief difference between man and dog."
"I also want all newspaper reports on this rapist who
calls himself 'slasher.' And the complete police file
with forensics."
"Yes Ryn. You mean the alleged rapist who is using
'slasher' as his nom de guerre. I can get you a full file
on Warren in, say, twelve hours. The slasher
download will take less time...two hours." Hal was the
ultimate hacker and could obtain information from
virtually any source, even without the help of Ryn's
highly placed former clientele. Minsky's team from
M.I.T. had programmed Hal well.
"Very good Hal - display it all on my reader." Ryn
hated paper and substituted electronic media
whenever possible.
It went on like this for a while, a gentle flashing of
query and response between two powerful, brilliant
minds who understood each other perfectly. Two
perfect communicators, with messages passing
between them untainted by emotion or bias. She
became fatigued from the purity of it, so unlike merely
human communication. Hal was not her slave
however. She detested mere slaves, and sought minds
and spirits equal to her own. She seldom found them.
Six hours later she had completed her review of the
slasher file, reviewed an updated report of her net
worth, now $400 million and rising, and ordered a
profile report on Bill Gates. She had inside information
that Gates's wife was very unhappy with her husband,
and might welcome Ryn's services on behalf of him. It
was almost time for lunch.
Her eyes were caught by the lilac blossom preserved
in crystal on her desk. It didn't belong there, didn't
match her elegant but utilitarian desk accessories. The
petals seemed as fresh as the day they were cut, and a
red ribbon framed the delicate flower. She was swept
back in time gazing at it, and the words of the poet
came back to her again:
When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western
sky in the night,
I mourn'd...and yet shall mourn with ever-
returning spring.
She realized that the eighth anniversary was coming
soon, next April. Her eyebrows knotted.
"Hal, this slasher is bothering me. I need to act." Her
words were bitter.
"Yes Ryn, I understand. That is consistent with your
personality profile."
"Thank you." Hal's insights into her were deeper and
more true than that of any human being. Not that any
human being knew her. No one on earth understood
Ryn better than Hal, and she loved him for it.
"Give me a telephone please."
The image of a telephone keypad formed on her
blackened monitor. A voice stress analyzer graph was
displayed below it. Hal would monitor all
conversations and provide minute by minute graphical
analysis, using the latest voice stress analytical
techniques, revealing whether someone was lying. All
calls made from this phone were untracible, and
encrypted when desired. The President's
communication system was no better.
"Ok Hal, I want you to call Joe - Joe Miller - at the
Chicago office."
"One moment Ryn. You mean your former client
Joseph L. Miller." She did not contradict him. In an
instant of time Hal located the client record in his
database, accessed it, placed the call. There was a
pause, followed by the sound of a phone ringing, then
a click as the phone was answered. Her entire office
was a speaker phone, and Hal controlled the acoustics
with matchless skill.
"FBI, Agent Miller speaking."
"Hi Joe, this is Ryn."
There was a violent cough on the other end of the line,
followed by the sound of a phone being dropped, then
hastily picked up from the floor. Ryn smiled.
"Uhhh, Ryn...yes...hi...this is Joe." The modulated
quality of the voice indicated that his hand was
shaking.
"What can I do for you Ryn?"
"That's very kind of you Joe...actually there is just a
tiny little favor I'd like to ask of you."
"Anything Ryn...anything you want...please tell me."
The man's voice was cutting in and out like an old
radio, his hand was trembling badly.
"This slasher business here in the city bothers me. It
bothers me a great deal. I need more information."
"Certainly Ryn" the man stammered, "You mean, that
guy, he calls himself 'slasher'...yes.. it was in the paper.
Tell me what you need. Wait...yes...I've got paper!"
Miller was gleeful now. "I've got paper and a pen...just
tell me, ok?"
"Yes. The Bureau's psych division has long held that
most mutilators like our slasher also have juvenile
records. These priors may offer more insight into his
identity."
"Yes...yes Ryn that's true..but...but those juvenile
records are sealed by the courts...can't touch 'em. Its
too bad."
"That's precisely why I'm calling you. I need all of
those juvenile records Joe, Cook County and all
adjacent counties- to start with anyway. Everything on
men who are now age twenty to age fifty. I want you
to bring them to me on CD's. This Friday at noon. I
intend to find slasher. He and I will have a talk, and
perhaps a bit more." She smiled as she said this.
"Wait! Ok..yes!" the man was desperately disoriented,
"Anything for you Ryn. It will be hard..but yes...I'll do
it. I'll do whatever it takes. I promise."
Ryn accepted this, knowing the magnitude of the task
now facing Agent Miller. "Call on my other clients
Joe..whatever you have to do. Hal will liaison with you
as needed."
"Sure Ryn. Hal? oh yes...I remember...and thank you.
Friday...yes...Friday at noon. I will ...Ryn?"
The line was dead.
"Get rid of this thing Hal." The image of the telephone
keypad disappeared from her monitor.
"Follow up with him later today."
"Of course Ryn." Hal did not require Dick and Jane
talk. Specificity was redundant since he could judge
meaning accurately from context, and from Ryn's facial
expressions and gestures available to 'him' through the
office cameras. Hal would interpret "later" in a manner
most logical and consistent with his detailed awareness
of Ryn's objectives. Once true machine communication
becomes generally available, 200 page computer
operating manuals will become obsolete. So it was
with Hal. He adjusted his workings to Ryn's needs, it
was he who learned Ryn, not the other way around.
"I'm off to lunch and the gym - when I get back I want
to go through the Rogers setup with you."
"Of course Ryn. Have a nice lunch and workout."
Full Cardiac Arrest
She was notorious among the afternoon ambulance
crews of the Lake Street Station. The staff at the elite,
private gym of course were cautious. They restrained
themselves in her presence and were models of
politeness. The harassed owner, after heated
consultation with his attorneys and insurance company,
had warned them all. They unconsciously fell into a
cycle of preparation each morning. Cars illegally
parked in front of the gym were always towed by
noon. The gyms' temperature was lowered and extra
fans turned on. This seemed to help with the worst
cases. Panic occurred if Cathy, trained in CPR, called
in sick that day, or was otherwise absent during the
fateful hour. Desperate efforts were made to prevent
her absence. Behind the scene other gyms were
contacted, payoffs were made, Ryn's name was
placed on mailing lists - all to entice her to try a
different gym. Each week her mailbox was stuffed with
free membership offers from the finest gyms in the city.
All to no avail.
Ryn visited the gym each day at noon and worked out
for an hour.
Today she arrived ten minutes early. The locker room
was empty when she changed into her tight spandex
shorts and sports bra. Her usual sweater and pants
were tossed carelessly in an unlocked locker, along
with the Tiffany diamond tiara. No one had ever
touched her stuff and she looked forward to the day
when someone did.
Twelve men were present in the gym when she
entered. Five were age forty and up and posed the
greatest risk. The women generally were safe, unless a
panic occurred in which case fainting or hysteria could
be expected. Seven times this year men had collapsed
or left with chest pains, an anomaly in the otherwise
dull routine of the gym. These incidents invariably
occurred not long after Ryn began her workout,
usually among the older men in closest proximity to
her.
She strode blithely into the gym, her black spandex
shorts hugging her hips firmly. After warming up she
decided to do some reverse sit-ups. She draped her
flat abdomen over the support bar and faced down,
locking her legs under the second support bar. The
exercise strengthens the back. She raised her head
from the floor until it was even with her back, then
lowered herself again, folding her arms over her chest.
Her 35-23-36 figure and succulent behind were amply
displayed for the men around her. The tight spandex
shorts she wore made it quite clear there was no
underwear under there.
After fifty reverse sit-ups she looked for an open
treadmill. Ten were available, another was in use by an
elderly gentleman with white hair and a grin. She
picked the machine next to him and flashed him an
intoxicating smile. His grin widened. He was plodding
along at two miles an hour.
"How fast can you go old man?" she asked him
innocently.
"Ohhh. I ..I can go a lot faaaster" he said, wheezing.
His eyes crawled all over the front of her bra, enticed
by pink nipples made erect from friction.
"Keep up with me and I'll let you buy me lunch" she
teased him.
"..that's a fine offer young lady. Suuure!" He was a
spry, crafty old man and he intended to get her to buy
him lunch. He increased his speed to three miles an
hour.
Ryn was pacing him, and her long muscled legs easily
kept up.
"Come on ..lets go to four" she said, increasing her
incline to five degrees.
His grin was holding as his short legs pumped away.
He was managing four mph, but wiped sweat from his
brow with a blue towel as his breathing came in deep
gasps. Ryn watched him closely for a while, then
increased her speed to five mph. "I want to go faster!"
His legs pumped faster and sweat was darkening his
shirt. They were both jogging now, not walking. He
was forced to let go of the support bar in the front of
the treadmill, and his back arched low in pain. His grin
was fading as he began panting, but he drew
inspiration from frequent sidelong glances at the hard,
luscious, youthful body pumping the treadmill next to
him.
She waited for the stitch to develop in his side, but
when minutes went by with no complaint she called for
six.
"ohhh..ohhh" froth was congealing over his lips. It had
been many years since his body had moved at anything
like this speed. He drove his car slowly and stopped at
yellow lights. He took a very dim view of speeders.
Ryn was loping along casually in long easy strides. As
the mans' grin had faded her own smile had grown in
intensity. "Haul ass old man!" she shouted over the
whir of the two treadmills. Other people in the gym
were transfixed by the spectacle as Cathy, trained in
CPR, watched impassively.
After five minutes of hard running at six and a half mph
Ryn decided to cut him some slack, and she slowed
down. Struggling to avoid tripping over his own feet,
he took the cue and slowed down as well. But he was
far too out of breath to speak. She gave him his due
with a half-salute and a nod and used his incapacity as
an excuse to leave and look for fresh sport. She
spotted a hardass jock in the weight lifting corner
loading up his dumbbell while eying her. He had a full
two fifty in dead weight on it now, and was casting
glances her way to see if she was watching him.
She sauntered up near him, cat like, and picked a
dumbbell for herself and began loading it with weight.
She could bench press 200.
"How's it going" the jock said, eyeing her some more.
"I hate wimps" she said firmly.
The young man agreed, nodding his head gravely, and
loaded more weight onto his dumbbell.
Ryn began benching 150, and added more rings
slowly. Cords of graceful muscle knotted in her upper
arms as she concentrated on moving metal. Watching
her work out, one was impressed not so much by the
considerable brute physical power she possessed, as
the marvelous dexterity and grace of her motion. She
balanced the weight perfectly, and kept it under total
control with smooth, clean motion. An iron maiden in a
velvet dress.
The jock coughed importantly and gripped 350 of
dead iron. He had never tried this much weight before.
She put her dumbbell down and watched.
"Uggghhhhh" the young man grunted, straining to free-
lift the weight.
"Need a spotter?" she asked coyly. He had raised it
above his forehead and both ends wobbled perilously.
"Sure" the man replied in a clipped voice. Ryn stood
behind his head and placed both hands lightly on each
end of the dumbbell. He lowered it to his chest and
rested.
"How about some more weight? You can pump
another fifty at least, I'm sure." She gazed down into
his eyes and the man jerked convulsively, but did not
disagree. She placed two more 25 pound rings on
each end of his dumbbell, and before she resumed her
spotting position she rubbed her upper thigh against his
bristled crew cut.
"Sorry."
"Uh, that's OK." It was more than OK as far as he
was concerned. Something was beginning to distract
him as he breathed in her lilac perfume.
"Go for it!" she prodded him, resting her hands on
each end of the dumbbell.
His upper arm muscles knotted in a profound spasm
as the dumbbell wobbled upward in a lurch.
"MMMHHHHHHHHHHHH" he cried, straining to
shove dead iron skyward.
A muscle spasm suddenly rippled through his left arm
as he pushed with all his might. Ryn saw the spasm
instantly and immediately gripped the dumbbell bar
under her hands. This alone saved the jock from a
crushed face and broken arm, and he knew it. His face
was stained bright red in humiliation at having a girl
rescue him. Ryn felt a secret thrill in the pit of her
abdomen.
"Better luck next time" and she stepped away from the
bench. The jock was silent.
A tall dark haired man in livery approached her.
"Pardon me maam, but Judge Parker asked me to
extend a lunch invitation to you to dine with him at the
City Club."
She knew the place, which accepted patrons only on
an invitation basis. The City Club was closed to mere
wealth, however great. Only those who knew the right
people and had the right connections were granted
admittance.
"He was the elderly gentleman who was using the
treadmill earlier" she affirmed.
"Yes, madam, he works out here whenever he is in
Chicago, and requests the pleasure of your company."
"Tell him I accept. I'm going to change now. I'll be out
in a few minutes." Her eyes sparkled with mirth.
"Certainly. His limousine is just outside the door."
Her lunch with Judge Parker, Chief Justice of the
Illinois Supreme Court, was long and stimulating. He
was up from Springfield to attend a convention, and
they both fell into a long, intense conversation on legal
theory. The judge had a keen mind and had seen much
in his long and distinguished career. She defended
Hobbes while he demurred and championed John
Stuart Mill. Her presence in the stodgy club was a
sensation talked about for many days, and grew into
legend. In Dr. Ryn Nyr the three beauties burned with
an hypnotic radiance: a brilliant mind, a divine body, a
fierce and powerful spirit.
Ryn and the Boy
Deep night had fallen when she left the office. The
streets were deserted. She didn't feel like taking the
train home so she headed towards the public garage
where one of her cars was parked. As she passed an
alleyway she heard the sound of a struggle.
She stopped and peered into the narrow brick slit of
the alley. Two large shadows were bending over a
much smaller shadow, holding it. She heard the cry of
a human voice, and a leg kicked out at the smaller
shadow. It winced. Her eyes by now had grown
accustomed to the light and she recognized the boy.
He would only be here, near her office, in hopes of
getting another look at her. She knew this instinctively.
Ryn knew no fear. She advanced into alley.
"Get outta here..." the tramp hissed.
"Yeah, go on n'git!" ordered the second tramp.
She walked towards the boy and extended her arm.
It was then that the first tramp struck.
She felt the blow coming, sensed it with hearing and
sight almost preternatural in acuity. Reflexively, she
ducked her shoulder and head, rolled under the
tramp's arm, and fisted him in his neck, breaking his
wind. As he fell she pivoted on her left ankle and
brought her right steel-lined boot up against his jaw. It
shattered and the tramp gurgled a bloody scream. He
was down. His friend hobbled away down the alley,
looking back at her with enraged eyes. She chased
him down and smashed her steeled boot against the
back of his upper leg. It fractured instantly. The
second tramp was down. She turned and faced the
boy.
"T..thanks Dr. Nyr." He was shivering from the cold.
They had taken his coat, and it lay on the ground
ripped and torn. His face was bloody. Her medically
trained eyes realized he was entering the outer edges
of shock.
"What's your name?" She broke her own rule asking
this.
"George." His voice was soft.
"Where are your parents? Family?" she asked.
"I..I..I don't have any.. gone..I have no one. I'll be ok.
You can go. Thanks." His lips quivered.
"Give me your hand and come with me."
She placed her long, graceful arm around his shoulder,
supporting him. His red-brown hair was matted against
his head. He looked up at her briefly and saw a
goddess crowned with stars. His sad, brown eyes
were eclipsed in fear, now turning to wonder and awe.
There was a battered nylon book bag on the ground.
She grabbed it, sensing it contained all of his
possessions.
She brought him, half carried him, to her car. She got
him in the Mercedes and blasted the heaters.
There was a Pendleton wool blanket in the trunk and
she placed it around him. His eyes were slitted. Using
her medical bag she cleaned his facial wounds with
antiseptic. He felt his soul drown in her black eyes as
she scanned his facial injuries.
Where to take him she wondered. Most ER's would
throw him back on the street after 24 hours. Unless
DHS got involved. She shuddered and an old memory
flashed before her, then faded. She drove home,
stopping at a Rite-Aid to get him a sucrose solution
and some Valium. She wrote the prescription out
before the pharmacist and had it filled immediately.
Half way home, she sensed him relaxing. The Valium
was kicking in. A crescendo of piano music played
from the CD. Rachmaninov. Her favorite.
The car passed the stone gateposts of her perimeter
fence and entered a secret wood. Metal gates swung
shut silently behind the car. Birch and tall pine, old
growth trees, stood tall in the moonlight. Silver-barked
trees guarded the land all around her stone mansion on
the lake. Under the silver-white light of the full moon
they seemed an image of mallorn trees from another
wood, another world, lost now in memory. Here, a
last ghost of lost Lothlorien stood guard for a fairy
queen. The lake was hers, the land all around ceded to
her through a series of forgotten transactions. The ice-
moon floated over the black stillness of the lake.
Silence brooded among the still trees.
They arrived. "Let's get inside George, where its
warm." Her deep voice was tender now, caressing
him. He swayed in her arms.
The garage door closed as she led him into the
kitchen.
Part Three: Lady of the Blade