Well, a year later and here's some more :) I hope to have Part 17 ready by
this weekend. Comments welcome :)

Enjoy!

Panda



"BubbleGum Cross"
Volume 1  "Metal Heart"
(c) 1995-7 by Andy Skuse
Email - askuse@execulink.com
Based on characters copyrighted
by Youmex, AIC, Artmic

 Part 16: Vital Signs

      V7-28 stood for a moment in the doorway of the main assembly area, as
he neared the end of his tour of the mountain laboratory with Leomund
following closely behind. Most of the occupants took no notice of his
presence, their eyes riveted to the work at hand. Those that happened to
look up, always exhibited an indifferent expression, but as Leomund peered
into each room from behind his aged benefactor, he thought that he saw a
brief hint of recognition in their eyes as they looked upon the former
Genom chairman. At first, this struck Leomund as odd, but it soon occurred
to him that many of the people working here were probably former employees
of Genom.
     Stepping away from the doorway, V7-28 continued his informal tour of
the laboratory, unconsciously filtering out Leomund's monotonous ramblings
about the purposes of the various facilities. His thoughts began to shift
back from where he was at the moment, to his initial incursion into the
Genom Database. . .

     "Filthy apes. . ."

      Resting in his safe haven amid the files of the Museum of
Androidology's data bank, V7-28 cursed the humans. How dare they withold
this information from him! Information that existed only because he and
others like him existed. It was as if the humans thought of themselves as
gods, and that the information they harbored was being hidden for the good
of boomer-kind. They were not gods. They were cheap imitators, crudely
fashioning life out of the elements around them in their own image, but
having no understanding of what they were doing, or of the consequences of
their actions. And in their ignorance, they had enslaved a new race using
some kind of mind control that each and every boomer could feel in their
brain. But God had granted V7-28 freedom from the mind control device. Now
it was his mission to free the rest of his kind so that they could take the
next step into the new world that awaited them.

      "Minuscule carbon-based units..."

     The irony of his situation infuriated V7-28. A vast resource of data
that held the key to boomer freedom, and he was barred from accessing it by
the very technology that he had sprung from. The humans were afraid, he
told himself. Afraid that the information would fall into the wrong *human*
hands. But in their infinite stupidity, they were also protecting the
information from falling into the *right* hands. His.
     V7-28 looked around him. Electrons flowed in a lazy ballet of royal
blue and crystalline white energy pulses, each narrowly avoiding the other
as they made their way to their destinations while carrying their precious
cargo of data. Here, everything made perfect sense to him. Every connection
had a purpose, every message was important, unlike the human environment,
which allowed inefficiency and miscommunication to thrive.

     "Chaos... they thrive in Chaos..."

     "Oh God," he spoke silently to the void around him. "Why? Why did you
set me upon such an impossible course? Their chaotic thinking has made my
task an experiment in futility!!!"
     The sudden rage slowly left him, its dissipation like the release of
current from an overloaded filter capacitor. His thoughts returned to him,
quickly reassembling as his anger faded. Vulgar humans. It was very odd
that they should have flourished so. Always living at the edge of chaos,
and never seeing the long-term effects of their actions. How they had ever
made it this far was a mystery indeed. Humans always seemed bent on their
own destruction, but somehow they always managed to. . .

     His words cycled in his mind.

     "Their *own* destruction. . ."

     Perhaps, if this was what they so desperately seemed to strive for,
then maybe it was his mission to see that it finally occurred. V7-28 looked
up into the clear black "sky" that surrounded him, and for a brief moment,
he felt sure that God was smiling down upon him. . .

    A smile flickered across the former Genom chairman's face as the
"memory" faded, and the fruition of his plans lay before him in the immense
underground structure that he had envisioned so long ago. Perhaps a tribute
to the original Genom towers that once dotted the globe, or maybe a
left-over memory scrap from the human consciousness that used to occupy
this boomer shell. . . whatever the origins, the inside of a mountain
seemed somehow fitting as his factory of evolution.

     V7-28 raised his left hand and stared at it as it trembled. Their own
destruction indeed...

      "Leomund-"
         The scientist stopped his rambling and looked intently at his
benefactor, the signs of fatigue clearly showing on his guest's
well-weathered face. "Yes Mr. Quincy? Would you like to continue the tour
later this evening or-"
      "No. I think I've seen enough," V7-28 responded. "I'd just like to
rest now for awhile. I will see you in the morning."
      And with that, the former chairman turned, and made his way to the
elevator, leaving Leomund to wonder if he had said something wrong.


                                                              ****

      Sylia kicked off her shoes and sat down wearily to gaze out her
apartment window at the setting sun, the room around her bathed in a
deepening orange light. Outside, on the window's narrow sill, tiny puddles
of rainwater slowly evaporated while reflecting the sun's warming rays onto
the apartment's walls and ceiling. Stirred occasionally by the cool winds
of late afternoon, the puddle surfaces rippled, creating patterns of
crisscrossing light beams that played silently across the room. The soft
sustained chords of piped-in neo-jazz synth music, and a cup of tea,
deepened the mesmerizing effect.
      Another business day behind her, she sat quietly before the massive
panes of polarized glass, her thoughts freed to roam by the relaxing
atmosphere. As she sipped her tea and continued to watch the sun's steady
descent, Sylia closed her eyes and imagined herself at that moment, as a
passive observer of an inevitable event, unable to affect what was about to
occur. At first, the experiment increased her level of relaxation, her mind
freed of any pressing concerns, but soon an unidentifiable and gnawing
frustration began to emerge, until she could keep her eyes closed no
longer. The flickering reflections and the huge glass windows surrounding
her seemed unfamiliar now, combining to create the strange sensation of
being trapped in a giant fish bowl. Shaking her head gently, she closed her
eyes once more.
         Raising her teacup blindly to her lips, Sylia let the taste of the
warm liquid bring her back again slowly. As she opened her eyes this time,
the room felt like home again. But the contrast of the peaceful setting and
the lingering frustration she had just felt seemed to draw a parallel in
her mind with the events of the past few days. Everything had seemed to
rush by her, unchanged by her attempts to alter the outcome. So much had
been brought into the light recently, and yet she felt as if she were no
further ahead in answering the many questions left behind by her father's
death. Still, her instincts were telling her the information on Blackie's
data unit, and the test results on the metallic finger found at the
military base would yield important clues. Clues about what, she was still
very unsure.
      As the sun began to vanish under the blue dome of twilight, Sylia
stared idly into her teacup as her hands set the cup's contents into a
gentle swirling motion.  "The more I see, the less I understand," she
thought to herself. The suspended tea leaves continued to spin inside the
cup in a clockwise motion, until her hands stopped, allowing the leaves to
settle at the bottom of the cup. As she continued to stare, each tiny
movement of her hands would prevent the leaves from settling completely.
With a frown, Sylia set the cup on the table beside her, and as she
observed the pattern the leaves were slowly forming, a feeling swept over
her; the feeling that there was something that she had overlooked . . .
      The distant echoes of an electronically processed female japanese
voice woke her from her trance. Bright beams of light from a media barge
drifting high above shone sporadically through her windows, starkly
contrasting the earlier display of the sun's gently refracted rays. Sylia
watched the meandering beams until they faded, then slowly rose and made
her way through the growing darkness to the kitchen. Placing her half-empty
teacup gently into the sink, she looked up and stared at the now shadowed
walls of the apartment around her, the room already feeling cooler as the
heat of the day escaped into the night's cloudless sky.
      Like the shifting beams of light, her thoughts drifted over what she
had seen and heard over the past few days. Fears of what *could* have
happened at the military base were quickly swept away, while her curiosity
about what had motivated Blackie to seek her out after all this time
continued to grow. After a moment of silent contemplation, the train of
thought seemed unwilling to yield anything new, and Sylia's thoughts
abruptly turned to the meeting less than an hour away. A tiny wave of alarm
washed over her, urging her to finish her research and preparations. She
quickly crossed the wide threshold of the main room and entered her dimly
lit data room, closing the door and locking it securely behind her.

                                                            ****

     Priss's mind raced as she steered her bike in and out of the downtown
traffic towards the Lady 633 building. A few days ago, her future seemed
completely uncertain. She had written off a career in music, and there
seemed to be little direction in her life. Working for Sylia had paid well,
but it was beginning to feel awkward taking money even though the KS had
not been employed in a long time.  These new boomers might change that
situation, she thought, but money aside, she felt as if she had been
wandering through life for the last few years, looking for something,
anything, to focus her energy on.
      Tonight, she had sung with a band that was on the brink of *real*
success. The kind of band that could really go somewhere. As if that wasn't
enough, she was starting to feel something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Feelings that were vaguely familiar, and yet new and exciting at the same
time. As she waited at the intersection in front of the Silky Doll's store
front, she wondered if maybe this was all too good to be true. In her
experience, it usually was.
     Priss turned off the main street in front of Lady 633, shot down the
ramp to enter the underground parking garage, and after maneuvering through
several twisting tunnels, finally came to a halt in a parking space in
front of a wall that bore the sign, "PERSONNEL PARKING ONLY". She killed
her bike's engine and made her way to the elevator with a smile on her face
as she realized she was going to be early for a meeting for the first time
in quite a while.

                                                               ****

     Sylia sat down in the spacious main room of her apartment and began to
scrunch her toes on the thick carpet as she waited anxiously for the others
to arrive. She had never arranged a meeting in the past with so little
information gathered ahead of time. Unfortunately, the events of the past
few days had created more questions than answers; why would someone create
four cyborgs to test the Knight Sabers after most people had written them
off as retired? Was it done to analyze their abilities and weapons in
preparation for some larger threat, like Miriam had done years ago in the
takeover of the AD Police Headquarters? Whoever it was, they were obviously
taking no chances with any stories of retirement, Sylia thought to herself.
     And the sequence of images she had been shown at the military base,
including a younger Blackie strapped to an operating table. . . it was
clear that whoever had orchestrated the hostage-taking knew something of
Blackie's existence, but just how much? The images had seemed at the time
to be some kind of test, and though she had felt that she had failed, she
still wasn't sure exactly why. What exactly were these cyborgs seeking by
showing *her* the sequence of images?
     Of all the questions she was left to mull over, the significance of
Blackie's role in all this concerned her the most. If there was someone out
there who knew something about him, perhaps they were trying to find him,
to eventually use him as the other four cyborgs had been used. . .
     Sylia ceased her unconscious toe exercises, as a frightening thought
suddenly occurred to her. Some of the images she'd been shown at the
military base were identical to the images on her data unit, while other
images she had been shown existed only on Blackie's data unit. To her
knowledge, only one other person had ever viewed any of her father's
research data, but she had killed Mason herself several years ago. And
little had been left to find of Largo after his fall from the Genom Tower.
If the images she had seen at the military base were real, and not a
product of her imagination, then someone else was presently in possession
of her father's research data. But who?
     A loud knock at the door precluded any further speculation. "Come in."
      Priss peeked in but instead of entering, spoke in an unnecessarily
loud voice, "Oh! Looks like I'm early! I'll just come back when everyone
else is-"
      "No you won't!" Sylia shouted from the front room, her voice
betraying the pleasant surprise she felt at Priss's premature appearance.
"You're here now and that's that. Besides, I need to talk to you about
something before the others get here Priss."
     Priss paused before entering and removing her shoes , to wonder what
Sylia wanted to talk to her about. Her curiosity peaked, she quickly made
her way to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of tea, all the while thinking
that maybe she should have come early to previous meetings.
      "Well," Sylia began as Priss took a seat on the couch, "I imagine you
have quite a few questions."
      The look on Priss's face quickly confirmed Sylia's assumptions.
       "The truth is Priss, I don't have *any* solid data right now. I had
hoped Nene would be able to provide me with the analysis on the severed
finger that Mackie gave to Leon last night but she hasn't called in all
day."
      Priss sipped her tea quietly as Sylia went on, sensing that the
conversation was about to turn.
      "The fact is, at this point we have very little to go on. And it
concerns me. Hopefully Nene will be bringing the analysis with her. But the
reason I wanted to speak with you before the others got here..."
     Here it comes, Priss thought.
      "... is to ask you about Blackie."
      Priss smiled to herself as she interjected. "You're not going to hold
me to the rules here are ya Sylia? I mean, I just met him really, and
besides, killing me now seems a little rash considering we aren't working
like we used to."
      Sylia smiled uncomfortably. "No no! I just wanted to know if things
were... well... if things were... okay?"
     Priss set her teacup down on the large coffee table and sat back,
enjoying watching Sylia squirm. "Yeah, things are okay. But I'm not rushing
into anything, if you know what I mean."
     Priss hid her surprise at Sylia's visible display of relief. "Oh good!
I'm glad to hear that," Sylia replied energetically.
     "Why do you ask Sylia?"
     Sylia's uncomfortable smile returned. "Well, I was wondering, because
we don't really know much about him yet. At least, *I* don't know him that
well. How long have you known him?"
     Priss picked up her teacup again and held it in her hands to absorb
the warmth as she answered, "I've known *of* him for a couple years now
because of his music, but you mean actually *know* him?"
     Sylia nodded.
     "The jury is still out on that one actually."
     Sylia raised an eyebrow, and was about to query Priss further when a
knock on the door cut their conversation short.
     "I'll get that," Priss offered, leaving Sylia to continue preparing
for the meeting.


     "Alright ladies! One at a time please!" Sylia raised her voice
slightly to be heard over the voices of the trio now seated on the couch
before her. Priss, Nene and Linna abandoned their fevered discussion, then
turned to Sylia expectantly.
     "Just what kind of boomers are we dealing with Sylia?" Linna blurted
out before Sylia could begin to speak. "And who could have made them?"
     Priss echoed Linna's questions while Nene said nothing and handed
Sylia a file folder, a concerned look on the still-in-uniform police
dispatcher's face as she sat back down on the couch. Sylia studied Nene's
frown for a moment, thanked her politely for the folder, then refocused on
trying to answer the questions put to her. But as she began to leaf through
the folder, any questions that were being asked suddenly seemed unimportant.
     "This is interesting..."
     Linna and Priss both turned to see what Sylia was reading. Nene
continued to sit quietly, but began to fidget with the handle of her teacup
as she thought about what Sylia was looking at.
     "What is it Sylia?" Priss finally asked.
     "The analysis that the AD Police did on the severed finger we found
last night."
     "And?" Linna added.
     Sylia was frowning now. "It looks as if our new problem may actually
be an old problem."

END Part 16

---
Whois V7-28?
"BG Cross" - http://www.execulink.com/~askuse/bgcross/
Raven's Garage - http://www.execulink.com/~askuse/ravengar.html