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Well, here we go with my very first attempt at any sort of BGC fanfic.
C+C is desperately craved, even if it's only to tell me I've botched it
completely. This is part one of a three part one-shot, but since it's fairly
weighty so far, I thought it would be nice to get the opinions of the list
as a whole before it gets polished off.
Special thanks to Arthur Hansen, who gave this a once-over for me.
Cheers!
******
"Hayashi-san, I'm disappointed we could not reach an
understanding."
Hayashi Hideki, chairman of Hayashi Communications
Incorporated, growled into the phone. The sheer _temerity_ of
the man... "I don't give a damn about your disappointment. _I_
own Hayashi, and it is most emphatically _not_ for sale!"
"If you examine our latest offer, Hayashi-san, you'll
find that you and your family retain control. We merely-"
"Forty-nine percent of the shares is _not_ control, sir.
I have no interest in becoming the figurehead of the company I
built with my own two hands!"
"Very well, Hayashi-san. We shall see what tomorrow
brings."
"Tomorrow will change nothing! Good _day_, sir!"
"Good day, Hayashi-san. Tell me, do you know where your
son is right now?"
"W-what? Are you threatening me?"
"Such an ugly word. We do not threaten, Hayashi-san. We
warn." The line went dead.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Space Pirate Productions Present:
A Dave Menard Fanfiction
"DIVINE WIND"
An Adventure of the Original Knight Sabe
Based on characters and situations created by AIC and Youmex,
and brought over to NA by ADV films. This is a not-for-profit
work, and should not be deemed a challenge to the rights of
the copyright holders above.
WARNING: Contains strong language and mature content that may
be unsuitable for some readers.
SPOILER WARNING: If you haven't seen episodes 14 or upwards of
2040, (Tape 6 and up) this fic will contain spoilers.
E-mail the author at deibu_kun@sympatico.ca
--------------------------------------------------------------
"I know that Priss has suspected this for some time, but
I think you should know... You're not the first Knight Sabers.
I formed a team before you.
"At the time I was young, and almost as hot-headed as
Priss; I led them into battle personally.
"I had recruited that team in much the same was as I did
you; there was a martial artist... Another recruit was an
American, a former Special Forces operative who'd been
attached to the Pentagon's Delta Force..."
-Sylia Stingray in conversation with the Knight Sabers
(Bubblegum Crisis Tokyo 2040 Episode 16 "I Surrender")
***
TOKYO, June, 2037
ADP Firebee choppers buzzed angrily around the top of the
evacuated Hayashi Communications building. At the base of the
structure, patrol cars and heavy SWAT units awaited the
outcome of the battle raging on the roof.
Leon MacNicol, recently promoted to detective, was in a
mood his partner would have aptly described as 'bitchy', and
was taking it out on a 'Trooper. "Why haven't you boys moved
in?! That boomer's tearing the place to shreds!"
The grunt scowled underneath his facemask. "It's those
damned sentai-wannabes, the Saber-whatevers. The L.T. won't
give the order to engage until they're clear.
"Aw, no." Leon groaned. "Goddamned vigilantes. Why the
hell does Fanward give a shit? Does he _like_ it when
civilians do our jobs for us? Jesus!"
"Simmer down, Leon," Daley Wong cautioned from Leon's
elbow. "Yelling at this poor fellow won't change Fanward's
mind."
"Yeah, I know, I know... Damnit, Wong, those fucking
thrill-seekers are doing our _jobs_, guy! Doesn't that piss
you off in the slightest?"
Daley shrugged, smiling wryly. "So long as the job gets
done, what does it matter? I'll admit that their success rate
is a little galling, compared to our own recent...
shortcomings,"
"Total fuckups, you mean."
"Your words, not mine," Daley shrugged again. "Until the
brass gets around to approving an upgrade in departmental
equipment, though, I don't see what we can do."
"God damned politicians!" Leon fumed, almost biting
through his cigarette. "If they want the job done, they've
gotta give us the tools to do it!"
Daley plastered a sympathetic smile on his face and tuned
out as Leon slid into version twenty-two of his "what's wrong
with the ADP these days" rant, remembering to nod and make
affirmative-sounding noises every once in a while.
***
The boomer roared in pain as it shrugged off the barrage
of railgun flechettes Saber Red fired into its dorsal ridge.
The particular rogue bore a faint resemblance to some kind of
lizard-crab hybrid, with several power cables waving snakelike
from its abdomen. A cable lashed out, connecting solidly with
one of the rooftop photovoltaic generators and immediately
began to fuse with it, adding the generator's mass to its own.
Saber Green lashed out with a monoblade-assisted blow
from her gauntlet, shearing off a pair of the boomer's
segmented legs, only to gasp in horror as they almost
instantly regenerated.
"Fuck!" Saber Red swore, unloading another salvo of
flechettes into the mutated cyberdroid. "Where the hell ARE
you, Stingray?" she barked into her comm-link, "We can't hold
this sonovabitch much longer!"
Much longer became 'not anymore' as the rogue spun,
bellowing, and slapped her away with a clawed foot, sending
the scarlet-armoured Knight Saber flying off the side of the
office tower.
"Maria!" Saber Green screamed in horror as she lunged for
her teammate, missing her by mere inches as she tumbled off
into the hundred-story drop to the pavement.
Maria Ibanez, good Catholic that she was, was beginning
to say her prayers when Saber White's ivory-armoured form
caught her neatly about the waist, jet pack straining briefly
to arrest her momentum without losing altitude.
"Ask and you shall receive, Maria dear," Sylia's
playfully haughty tones were warm in her ears.
Relief warred with irritation in the former
servicewoman's heart; as usual, irritation won out. "Where the
hell WERE you, Stingray?"
"I was unfortunately detained parking the Mobile Pit.
Still, I trust there's still plenty of boomer to go around?"
"That's a roger, Syl," Jill Davidson, a.k.a. Saber Green
sent over the comm-links, her playful Aussie accent tinged
with equal parts concern and relief. "He's got me pinned down
up here behind the broadcast tower. Any idea what this thing
is doing on top of an old FM band radio station?"
"Who can figure out mad boomers, Jill? They don't need
any kind of objective, far as I know," Maria sent back. Sylia
remained silent. Pondering the question, Maria wondered, or
just more of the typical Stingray secretiveness? No time for
recriminations now, though. Boomer-smashing time.
Sabers White and Red landed on the roof with a final
burst of White's jets, the boomer ignoring them for the time
being in favour of their teammate it was holding at bay.
"All right, listen up, ladies," Sylia sent across the
comm-link, "Jill, you sit tight, try to keep its attention
somehow. Maria, you and I will come in from both sides; my
scanners tell me that this one appears to have two cores. One
is in the head behind the eyes, the other in the abdomen
between the third set of legs; we'll need to strike both
within seconds of each other, or one will simply regenerate
the other."
"The head's mine," Red growled. Sylia nodded.
"Copy that," Green sent. "Give 'im hell."
"Roger that, Davidson." Maria nodded and began to sweep
in from the left, noting with satisfaction that Sylia was
mirroring her on the boomer's opposite flank. Jill fired a
small barrage of flechettes through the tower gridwork at the
boomer, tuning the creature's nominal 'face' into a pin
cushion.
The mechanoid bellowed, shaking the thin projectiles out
of its muzzle and snapped at Green, who sprung back out of
reach with a hip-thruster-assisted leap.
Hidden behind her faceplate, an unpleasant grin grew on
Maria's face as the HUD of her scanner suite pinpointed the
core processor in the boomer's head. She tongued on the comm-
switch to let Sylia know. "Core is locked, Stingray. How's
your end?"
"I have my target in sight. Strike in 3... 2... 1...
Now!"
Acting almost simultaneously, Sabers White and Red
pierced the armoured hide of the rogue, Red with a knuckle-
bomber explosive punch and White with a monofilament blade
that snapped out of her right forearm. With an organic
squelch, the twin cores burst like overripe fruit, splattering
red-tinged lubricant across the gleaming armour of the two
Knight Sabers. With a groan that sounded almost human, the
boomer collapsed, dead, the angry red glow in its eyes
flickering out.
Maria felt the brief adrenaline rush that boomer slaying
always brought peter out, and she placed her gauntleted hands
on her knees, suddenly wishing she could join the defeated
boomer in collapse. "Whew, okay, I'm all in. What say we call
this a night, chief?"
Sylia didn't answer, instead she plunged her hand back
into the boomer's torso, wrenching a piece of machinery loose
with a meaty sound.
"Syl?" Green asked hesitantly, approaching White from
behind. "Everything all right?"
"This-" Sylia held up a fleshy-looking chunk of boomer
that resembled nothing so much as a gobbet of meat, "-was the
boomer's 'black box'. Maria?"
The red-armoured Saber nodded and turned to her green
'suited teammate. "Yeah, ADP usually digs 'em out of rogue
boomers once they're finished, on the off-chance of finding
some indication of why the damn thing went crazy in the first
place. Nothing ever turns up, but it makes for a nice,
thorough-looking report, so..."
"Gotcha," Jill nodded, "So what good's this to us?"
Sylia placed the circuit into a carry pack and
magnetically clamped it to the hip of her hardsuit. "If it
hasn't been too badly corrupted, I should be able to determine
what programming the boomer received before it went rogue;
maybe that might explain how this thing just popped up in the
top floors of a radio station."
Jill frowned under her helmet. "That _is_ pretty
strange... But Syl, just don't stay up all night workin' on
this. I've got plans for you tonight, missy."
Sylia blushed beneath her faceplate, and Maria made
groaning sounds. "Gaah. Perverts."
"Get over it," Jill warned. Maria was a good person to
have watching your back in a firefight, but Jill had little
tolerance for some of her more archaic attitudes. Maria
scowled, then scowled harder as she realized the gesture was
lost beneath her faceplate.
"Whatever. Soon as we get out of these jumped-up K-suits,
I'll go buttonhole the ADP officer-in-charge, see if they've
got any clues." With a brief nod, she sprung off into the
night, her teammates following.
***
Daley Wong slid his glasses down his nose and blinked. He
was a recent transfer out of Police Sciences, but he'd made a
point of learning the names of all the officers in the
detachment. He'd never seen the tall, crew-cutted woman with
the cane talking to the L.T. before. He tapped his new partner
gently on the shoulder. "Hmm, who's that, Leon?"
The big man turned and followed Daley's gaze. "Her?
That's Ibanez. Haven't you met her yet?"
Daley shook his head.
"Lucky you," Leon snorted. "H-2-H specialist, used to
train 'Troopers. Guess you missed her classes, bein' in
Sciences, huh?" Daley nodded and slid his glasses back up his
nose, a signal Leon had already learned meant he was
interested and wanted to hear more. "Ex-US Army, decorated vet
of the Mozambique 'police action'. Lost her right leg on the
job in '35, back when she still did field work with us ground-
pounders. She wouldn't get a full replacement, just a
prosthesis; think she's got a problem with full chrome.
'Course, that made her ineligible for field work, so the
department cashiered her, full pension, the works. Most'a the
guys know her; she's always showing up at these rogue boomer
attacks."
"Interesting," Daley took a moment to polish his glasses
before replacing them and continuing. "A little... obsessed,
maybe?"
Leon nodded, grinning ruefully. "The joke in the
squadroom is that we figure she sits at home listening to the
police band. I figure she just can't let go of the job. I can
respect that, but that doesn't help when she's yakking your
ear off at a crime scene. Lot'a rookies take her for a
reporter and try to shoo her off. Then they learn the hard way
why we vets never try."
"Oh?"
"Even with that prosthetic leg, she can still drop a
full-armoured 'Trooper in his tracks. I even saw her punch a
K-suit once. Dented the sonovabitch, too. Trying to get her to
stay behind the barricades is more trouble than it's worth,
trust me."
"I do so love all the fascinating little minutae of this
job."
"Yeah, it's a laugh riot, ain't it?"
***
"C'mon Billy, what's the sitch?" Maria prodded, poking
the detective in charge with her cane for emphasis.
Detective Lieutenant William Fanward ignored the jab and
shook his head. Ibanez had been something of a mentor to him
back in his days as a 'Trooper, and sure, he felt sorry for
her; Hell, she'd lost that leg taking a hit from a mad boomer
that he'd been sure had his name all over it, but loyalty and
gratitude only took you so far. "C'mon, Ibanez. Don't bust my
hump on this one. I ain't supposed to talk to you anymore.
Word's come down from the brass, no civilians allowed on crime
scenes. Hell, you're lucky I ain't tossed you back over the
barricades."
"Billy, don't make me knock you on your ass. Don't forget
who trained you up for that gold-plated tin cup on your
mantlepiece, boy."
"Yeah, whatever, 'coach'," He grinned with real
affection, but stood firm. "I could lose my shield over this,
an' I can't go without the extra cash, what with Jeena on
leave and the kid on the way." He sighed, pinching the bridge
of his nose. "I can't say nothin'. They're watchin' me,
y'know..." He glanced meaningfully over at the slight man
sitting in a nearby squadcar, a disapproving frown plain on
his pinched features. "I.A. got wind of your little visits, I
guess."
"Aw, Christ. Fuckin' snitches." Maria groaned. "Look, how
'bout I buy you a beer when you get off shift, we can talk
then. Unless they got a problem with who you associate with
during your off-hours?"
"Make it a late dinner. I'll bring Jeena, we can all
shoot the shit; s'been a while, y'know?"
"Fair enough. Wouldn't want her worrying about strange
women keeping you out 'till all hours of the morning. The
usual place?"
"Sure. I get off shift at eleven. Give me an hour to
clean up and pick up Jeena, and we'll see ya there."
She turned to leave, and Billy noticed her wince as she
put pressure on her cyberlimb.
"Still buggin' you, huh?"
"Yeah. Don't worry about it. Couple'a beers in me, and
it'll stop hurting." He still looked concerned , so she
deflected his next question with a forced laugh. "I'll be
fine, guy, don't worry about it. Later."
They said their goodbyes and Maria hobbled off towards
the barricades. The cyberleg was top-notch work, best
Stingray's supposed 'silent partner' could come up with, but
the interface always ached like a sonovabitch after an outing
in the Hardsuit. She paused to knock on the window of the
squadcar, startling the Internal Affairs man out of his note
taking. He rolled down the window with a scowl.
"Yes?" he snarked, in that supercilious tone all
bureaucrats seemed to adopt whenever they dealt with front-
line folks who did all the _real_ work.
She leaned in towards him and spoke in a no-nonsense
tone. "Fanward didn't tell me anything. Lay off him, he's a
good cop."
"Ms. Ibanez, I suggest you leave the policework to those
officers who continue to be employees of the Department. I'm
sure you appreciate how busy we are."
"You suggest? And who the fuck are you, pal?"
"I _suggest_ you cease addressing me in that manner, Ms.
Ibanez. I'd hate to see you lose that pension of yours."
"Fucker." Ibanez swore, but walked away.
***
Fifteen minutes later, Maria made her way through the
doors of The Wake, a new bar that had just opened up in the
basement and ground floor of her building.
She could remember the exact date, hour and minute the
club had opened, since she had been awakened from a pleasant
dream involving Leonardo DiCaprio (her favorite leading man,
never mind that he's pushing the high side of sixty. Some men,
like fine wine, just get better with age...) a bottle of
Chateau Lafite '99 and a hot-tub, by the ear-shattering
screech of electric guitars and bass. Some horrible Synthmetal
band one step out of the garage was playing in her living
room. No wait, my mistake, she'd thought ruefully. They're in
the closet next to the bed... Still, The Wake was conveniently
located, and she'd wheedled a discount out of the owner as a
trade-off for not complaining about the noise to the regular
police. She'd found out, after some checking, that all twenty
of her fellow tenants had similar deals with him, except for
Old Lady Yamane in 306, who was stone deaf and thus never even
noticed the disruption.
She scowled at the two hulking, green-grey boomers who
acted as security, looking vaguely silly in their T-shirts
marked 'Staff'. Their oddly frog-like heads seemed to smile
fatuously as the stopped patrons at the door, checking I.D.
and intimidating troublemakers by virtue of their very
presence. Stupid, barely Turing-capable A.I.s in control of
bodies strong enough to juggle motorcycles, security boomers
always made her nervous. In order to do their jobs properly,
they'd had their Asimov protocols, the directives that
theoretically prevented them from ever doing harm to humans
through action or inaction, removed or seriously compromised.
Used to be only the military wanted or needed toys this
dangerous, but what with the cybered Yaks and Tong syndicates
moving back into the club scene after a decade-long absence,
more and more civilian establishments were relying on
cyberdroids as safety measures.
Of course, the more boomers in circulation, the more
boomers there are who could potentially go mad and wipe out a
city block or two, Asimov protocol or no Asimov protocol,
before the ADP showed up to put the fuckers down. It was a
vicious, ever-escalating cycle with no end in sight, and there
was little anyone could do to stop it. The boomer technology
genie was out of the bottle, and there was no putting it back.
She ordered a scotch with a beer chaser, grimacing
slightly as the cheap booze burned its way down her throat. As
she sat down she took a long pull on her beer to get rid of
the taste. She hated the vile, bathtub-quality liquor they
served here, but it _was_ strong, and two or three shots
usually killed the ache caused by her leg's feedback.
A couple of tables over, a biker and his girl were
arguing in tones loud enough to be heard over the din of the
music. The girl, (jailbait, really, she noted; couldn't have
been older than sixteen. Wonder how she got past the
bouncers?) wanted a hit of Nitro-9, and her boyfriend
(pusher?) was out.
"Fuckin' junkies," Maria grumbled a little too loudly,
attempting to ignore them and concentrate on the serious
business of sucking back enough booze to keep from scaring off
Jeena and Billy with pain-induced bitchiness.
"You got a problem, lady?" the biker growled, ignoring
the girl's pleading for a moment to muscle his way over to
Maria's table and loom menacingly over her, all black leather,
piercings and bad breath. "Me an' my girl're havin' a private
conversation here."
"Yeah, real private, slick," Maria snarled, slamming her
beer down on the table. "I think there's a couple of people in
the band who didn't hear you. Get the fuck out of my face,
asshole."
The biker snarled and drove his fist through the table
for emphasis, splitting the tabletop in two. Fuck, Maria
thought with a note of alarm. He's cybered, or cranked on
Nitro.
"Johnny, stop it!" the girl cried, latching on to the
biker's arm. "She ain't worth it, let's just go! Maybe
Morrie's got somethin' left in his stash, huh? C'mon Johnny-"
"Fuck that, Priss! This bitch here called me an asshole!
No piece-a'-shit crip calls me that an' gets away with it!"
"Johnny, the bouncers're comin', leave her alone, c'mon!"
"Johnny, I'd listen to your girl if I were you," Maria
warned. She was standing now, cane on the floor. "You might,
_might_ be able to pick on an ol' crip like me," If this 'old
crip' didn't know at least five ways to kill you from this
position, Nitro'd, cybered or otherwise, she thought to her
self, "But I don't like your chances against those two
boomers."
The biker was about to retort with a punch, when a
metallic hand caught his fist on the backswing and held it.
"Sir, you are causing a disturbance. The management
requests that you cease this belligerent behaviour and return
to your seat," the boomer's synthesized, monotone voice said,
twisting Johnny's arm behind his back in a painful submission
hold. "Will you comply, or shall I escort you to the exit?"
"Fuck you, boomer!" the biker cursed, twisting around and
spitting in the bulky mechanoid's glassy blue eye.
"Johnny, don't-" Priss called, but it was too late. With
a painful-sounding RUNCH! the boomer wrenched Johnny's arm
further back, bringing the muscular biker screaming to his
knees. Heads turned, and the band stumbled to a halt as all
eyes were drawn to the scene.
"'Fuck you boomer' is not a acceptable answer according
to my database. Shall I escort you to the exit?"
"Let him go, you fucking monster!" Priss yelled, flinging
herself at the robotic bouncer. Maria moved to intercept her,
restraining the flailing girl with difficulty.
"Don't," she warned, hissing in Priss' ear. "You don't
want that thing to mark you as 'belligerent', do you?"
"Leggo a' me, you fuckin' bitch! This is all your fault!"
The boomer, receiving no response from Johnny save
inarticulate screams of pain, hefted the biker painfully and
walked him to the exit. Once they'd reached the door, Maria
released Priss and watched her take off, crying after her
boyfriend.
"Jesus..." somebody whispered, as the little drama came
to a close. Nervous laughter started and was quickly hushed as
folks nervously went back to their drinking, the band
hesitantly starting up again, their rhythm shot.
Maria glanced down at her spilled drinks and made her way
over to the door, the pain in her leg forgotten for the
moment. A boomer made a sort-of grumbling noise that
apparently was the mechanoid equivalent of clearing its throat
as she passed, drawing her attention.
"Madam, the management apologises for the inconvenience.
A chit for two drinks has been filed for your next visit."
She mumbled thanks and trudged wearily up the stairs to
the street. As she punched in the code to open the apartment
building's doors, she glanced over her shoulder, spotting the
biker couple. Johnny was storming off, or attempting to, his
right arm hanging limply. He was wincing with every step.
Dislocated if he's lucky, she thought. Muscles might be torn
through. Stupid bastard, picking a fight with a boomer.
As she watched, he slapped his girl hard, sending her to
the pavement clutching at her jaw.
"Yeah, well, fuck you, Johnny, you... you dick!" Priss
screamed, picking herself up off the sidewalk. "ASSHOLE!" she
cried to his retreating back, tears running down her face.
Maria shook her head and sighed, fighting her way across
the street to her side. God damn it, I'm an idiot, really I
am, she thought to herself. Girl doesn't want my help, won't
take it, probably try to start a scrap... "Hey." she said
softly, keeping a respectful distance from the girl. "You
okay, girl?"
"...fuggoff..."
"Look, I'm sorry. I mean, it was none of my business-"
"Still isn't."
"Fair enough." Maria turned to go, pausing one last time
to glance over her shoulder at the wounded teen. Sixteen,
maybe younger. Those clothes look like they've been slept in.
Repeatedly. Older bruises on her face and wrists to match the
new one Johnny had given her on the chin. Junkie, or well on
her way to becoming one. "Fuck, I'm an idiot..." she whispered
under her breath. "Priss, wasn't it?" No reply. "You got a
place to go?"
Monotone. "I crash at Johnny's."
"Ah." Not tonight, that means. Maybe not ever again, if
she's smart. "Where're your folks?"
"Ain't got none."
"Ah." Quake victims, probably. Girl looks local. "Shitty.
Listen, I've got a spare room-"
Priss stood, glaring hatefully at her through her spiky
bangs. "You think I need your fucking charity? Fuck you," she
spat out from swollen lips, taking off into the neon-painted
night and disappearing into the crowd.
Maria exhaled loudly. "Goddamn. Stupid kid, she's gonna
get herself killed." Serves me right for making the effort.
Cursing softly, she let herself in to her building. Time
for a shower and a few more drinks before she had to meet
Billy.
***
Elsewhere...
"You bastards! My SON was in that building!"
"Ah, so. My condolences on your unfortunate loss,
Hayashi-san."
"You sent that thing, didn't you?"
"Nonsense, Hayashi-san. Rogue boomers are merely an
unfortunate fact of life for those of us who make our homes in
Tokyo. It was... how do the insurance companies phrase it? An
act of God."
"Bastards..."
"It is indeed a sad thing for a father to outlive his
heir. Tell me, Hayashi-san. Have you given any thought to our
offer? In light of these events, it seems your legacy may be
in doubt..."
"Y-yes, fine. I'll make the sale."
"Excellent, Hayashi-san. We are glad you have seen reason
at last. We look forward to working with you in future days."
"Bastards..."
***
"...standard OS software appropriate for a multitasking
Turing-class AI, standard programming for class Es, nothing
out of the ordinary whatsoever, except for the expected
changes in the organics caused by the Sotai effect... Last
maintenance checkup was a week ago, performed by 'Boomers 'R
Us', a competent-enough company, no unauthorized upgrades to
systems... The thing was operating at factory specs!"
"Damn," Sylia hissed, slumping down in her chair in front
of the terminal in the workbay, glaring suspiciously at the
black box, dissected with surgical precision and on display in
the scan tray before her.
"Mistress Sylia?" a soft, British-tinged voice spoke from
the intercom on the desk. She smiled to herself. Old, reliable
Henderson, her butler. A gentleman's gentleman, her mother had
always called him. Discreet, loyal and accommodating to a
fault, she could scarcely imagine what life would be like
without him. Last of a dying breed, he was, as most servile
jobs had been taken over by boomers in the past ten years.
"Yes, Henderson?"
"Miss Jillian awaits your presence at the dinner table,
Mistress Sylia. If I might be so bold as to add, Mistress, she
has spent quite a lot of time preparing the meal."
"Really?" Sylia cocked an eyebrow in amusement.
"Truly, Mistress. She has asked me to relay a message to
you."
"Ah, I see. The message?"
Henderson cleared his throat. "Ahem. Shall I paraphrase
it, or would you like to hear it verbatim?"
A hint of laughter entered Sylia's voice. "Verbatim,
please, Henderson."
He cleared his throat once more. "Very well. Ahem. 'Dear
Syl; quit mucking about in boomer guts and get your scrawny
butt up here or I'll turn it pink. Love, Jillian' Ahem."
Sylia restrained a giggle. "I suppose I mustn't keep her
waiting, then. Tell her I'll be along momentarily."
"Very good, Mistress. If I might add a personal request,
Mistress?"
Another eyebrow rose. "Go ahead."
"If it isn't too much trouble, could you ask her to stop
calling me 'Alfred'?"
But it's so appropriate, Sylia thought to herself,
grateful that Henderson couldn't see her grin. "I'll see what
I can do, Henderson, but she's got a mind of her own..."
"Of that, Mistress, I am quite aware."
Sylia laughed and closed her files, almost as an
afterthought sending a worm program into the ADP police files
through one of her backdoors. The search would flag any
commonalities between her analysis of the 'black box' and
those of any other rogue boomers the ADP had in custody. Her
work as complete as she could make it, she turned off the
lights and got into the elevator.
***
The dinner was delicious; poached salmon with a green
salad and a pleasant white wine, exactly the type of meal
Sylia enjoyed after a hard day's work. "Ah, the spoils of
victory," she smiled happily, sipping from her wine.
"Delicious as usual, Jill dear."
"Yeah, well," Jill waved dismissively from her seat
opposite Sylia at the far end of the black italian marble
table. "Alfred there always overdoes the fish, so..."
Henderson flushed from his position at Sylia's left
elbow. "I most certainly do not, I..." He blanched as he
realized his gaffe. "Forgive me, Mistress Sylia, but I really
must protest this, this... denigration of my skills! Why, I
studied under the finest chefs in Europe, and-"
"Aw, Alfred..." Jill drawled teasingly, "I'm just
teasin'. You know I love ya."
Henderson harumphed, slightly mollified.
"'Sides, I'd be happy to share my recipe with you," she
added with a wink, her blonde ponytail bobbing.
"That will not be necessary," he finished frostily.
"Miss."
Sylia hid her smile behind a perfectly-manicured hand,
but was less successful at concealing the slight trembling of
her shoulders from Henderson's eagle eye.
"I see. Mistress Sylia, if my services are no longer
required for the evening, might I be allowed to retire?"
"Of course, Henderson. Don't worry about the dishes,
we'll take care of them." Sylia added with real warmth.
"Madam!" Henderson blurted, horrified. "Certainly not!
Please, leave the dishes, I insist!"
"Oh, very well, if you insist. Have a good night,
Henderson."
"And you as well, Mistress Sylia." He bowed formally and
swept out.
"Hey now," Jill drawled, smirking at Henderson's
retreating form, "He didn't say goodnight to me. Should I call
him back, d'you think?"
"Jill," Sylia warned playfully. "You mustn't tease him so
much. He's like a member of the family."
"Aw, you know I love the old fella, Syl. He just needs to
lighten up a bit, is all." She slid from her seat and sidled
up behind Sylia, embracing the seated woman from behind. "A
little less Jeeves and a little more Geoffrey."
"I have no idea what you're talking about, dear." Sylia
laughed, leaning back into the hug.
"Old twencen TV characters, hon, don't worry about it."
"Well, not all of us did our Masters dissertation on
'Popular Culture of the Twentieth Century', you know..." Sylia
laughed. "On that note, he _did_ ask me to ask you not to call
him Alfred anymore."
"Oh, you got the joke? Ladies and gentlemen, she _can_ be
taught!"
"Yes, and it's very clever, dear. However, Henderson
doesn't appreciate it." She turned slightly to look Jill in
the eyes. "Please?"
"Oh, all right. Pooh, he's _no_ fun." She stood,
releasing Sylia, who stood and stretched. "Let's make it up to
him by doing the dishes, 'kay?"
"I suppose you know that will cause him no end of
distress?" Sylia laughed. "'Mistress Sylia! Your manicure!'"
she cried in mock horror.
"Yeah, ain't I a stinker?"
***
Thirty soapy minutes later...
Jill put away the last of the dishes while Sylia
towelled of her hands and hung up the apron.
"So, Syl, any luck with what you were working on down in
the 'Batcave'?"
A frown marred porcelain features. "No, nothing. It's a
pretty puzzle..."
"I'm ashamed to admit I hadn't thought of doing an
analysis of a 'black box' before, though. Terribly
unscientific of me," Sylia continued, tapping a elegantly
tapered finger against her jaw.
"Shame it came to nothing, though." Jill smiled, taking
the sting from her words. "Maybe Maria will come up with
something you can use from her ADP contacts."
"Maybe..." Sylia nodded, then shook her head. "Oh, well,
it's all academic anyway. We performed well out there tonight,
even if we got off to a shaky start. That's Knight Sabers
five, boomers zero."
"Mmm-Hmm." Jill nodded. "Problem is, the next at-bat
belongs to the boomers, like always."
The was a moment of silence. Then: "Are you still
experiencing that performance lag with your suit? You seemed
to be having a little difficulty there."
Jill nodded, frowning. "Yeah, a bit. It's like the suit's
a heartbeat behind me all the time. It's not at all like the
simulators that way."
"Well, the interface is identical..."
"Yeah, but it's just not the same. I'm used to moving
without thinking, like when I'm doing my katas, or sparring.
The suit's just not..." she waved her hand about vaguely,
"It's just not _with_ me a hundred percent. I really don't
know any other way to phrase it."
"Hmm. Maria's been having her own problems with her suit,
but they're not the same thing. Maybe it's because you're so
highly in touch with your own body, you're reacting overmuch
to the suit's enhancement of your movements."
"Maybe..." Jill sounded unconvinced. Still, if she pushed
the point, Syl'd just insist on more hours in the suit as
training, probably right away, and she had more interesting
things she'd rather be doing. "Maria's been having trouble? I
thought she'd worked with powered armour before?"
"Yes, the Lockheed F-64 assault mecha. The controls are
very similar, that's not what's giving her trouble. It's the
neural interface. She claims it plays merry hell with the
connectors for her artificial leg. Nothing shows up on the
diagnostics, so it may be psychosomatic, related somehow to
phantom limb syndrome. She claims it doesn't affect her
performance while in the suit, but I wonder if she's being
completely honest with me, or with herself." Sylia chuckled.
"_My_ suit, on the other hand, seems to be performing
perfectly. I've no complaints, at least."
"Well, _that's_ good," Jill smiled, embracing her from
behind. "Enough about the job. Let's go to bed, I'm
exhausted."
"Mmm, not _too_ exhausted, I hope."
"Mmmaybe..." Jill drawled teasingly. "We'll see."
***
Morning broke over Tokyo, ruddy light reflecting off
glass towers.
Sylia woke with the dawn, untangling herself from the
limbs of her bedmate and dressing herself in a fine white silk
robe and slippers. Making her way to the kitchen, she helped
herself to the strong tea Henderson had set out for her and
opened the paper, nibbling absently on one of his excellent
scones.
She skimmed over the headlines, noting the complete lack
of any mention of last night's rogue boomer attack. Typical,
she sniffed. The headline of the business section caught her
eye.
"Hayashi Sold To FudoCorp"
"Hayashi Communications, one of Tokyo's largest
employers, was sold early this morning to FudoCorp, a Kyoto-
based policorp."
"Experts predict that Hayashi stock, currently trading at
1,000 yen a share as of the close of the market yesterday,
will likely rise by a large margin as investor confidence is
buoyed by FudoCorp's excellent and long-standing track record
in the communications industry."
"This acquisition makes FudoCorp a serious challenger to
the industry dominance of InfoNet, the current reigning media
giant. InfoNet CEO Miyazaki Hitomi had the following remarks:"
"'InfoNet looks forward to the challenge. Competition is
what capitalism is all about, and it can only make us all
stronger.'"
"Whether InfoNet investors share Miyazaki's enthusiasm
remains to be seen, but both stocks will be ones to watch
today."
The article went on for some length, but Sylia didn't
bother to finish it. InfoNet was a GENOM-owned company, and
they owned all but one of Tokyo's news outlets. The lone
exception had been Hayashi Broadcast Network, now in
FudoCorp's hands.
Regardless of what the CEO was saying on the record, this
couldn't be sitting well with her corporate masters.
InfoNet/GENOM had long been frustrated at Hayashi's
intransigent refusal to sell to them. Most of the stock had
been in the hands of the Hayashi family itself, and they'd
always presented a united front against takeover attempts. So
what made them change their minds?
Part of the answer, she found, was on the obituaries
page. Hayashi Shingo, VP of Marketing and heir-apparent to the
Hayashi Communications throne, had been killed last night in
an "industrial accident" at the Hayashi Building. The rogue
boomer rampage, obviously.
Ah. Shingo's death must have been the crack in the
family's defenses that allowed FudoCorp to swoop in and buy up
a majority share. A shame for the Hayashis, but at least it
wasn't GENOM who'd bought them out.
She'd have to look into FudoCorp. A company that
challenged any of GENOM's various monopolies was worth
investing in. Her personal fortune, while certainly not among
the top ten, or even top fifty in Tokyo, had grown beyond the
point where she'd ever have to worry about money for the rest
of her life. More than enough to fund her personal crusade,
and still have plenty of funds left to invest in worthwhile
enterprises.
She picked up the paper and tucked it under an arm,
grabbed the breakfast tray and made her way back to the
bedroom. Jill was up and about, doing her morning stretches
and katas.
"Good morning, dear," Sylia said, setting the tray down
on the sideboard and leaning back into bed as she watched her
partner go through her morning ritual of poetry in motion. Her
style was an acrobatic form of kempo, very aerial, from what
Sylia knew of such things. Of the three Knight Sabers, Jill
was easily the best all-around hand to hand fighter, and it
showed through at times like these.
"'Mornin' Syl," Jill favoured her with a dazzling smile
as she whipped through a series of spinning kicks that would
have made a dervish dizzy before tumbling into a roll-and-
sweep combination. "Sleep well?"
"Very, thank you. And yourself?"
"Pretty well," she answered, springing up into a stance
Sylia recognized as being from an animal school of Kung-Fu,
raking out as though her fingers were claws. "Give me a
moment, I'm a little stiff this morning, and I'm trying to
work it out."
Sylia shook her head with a soft laugh. Nothing in her
lover's posture suggested that she even knew the meaning of
the word 'stiff', as each movement flowed smoothly into the
next, a deadly and graceful ballet that ended with a series of
forward flips that deposited her next to the bed.
"Whew! That's better," Jill laughed, wiping a bead of
sweat off her brow. "Are those scones I see?"
"They are indeed, help yourself."
Jill took a scone and poured herself some tea, joining
Sylia on the bed a moment later. "Mmm, delicious." She glanced
over at the paper Sylia was once again perusing. "Ooh, how are
our notices?"
"There aren't any, I'm afraid."
"Hmmph. No surprises there. Pass me the horoscopes,
willya?"
"Here," Sylia passed over the section before continuing.
"Our friend the boomer was mentioned, albeit obliquely."
"Really? Don't tell me someone outside the ADP is willing
to go on record and admit that rogue boomers exist?"
"No such luck, I'm afraid. The paper called it an
industrial accident." She scowled. "There was, however, a
fatality."
"Aw, jeez, really?" Jill groaned sadly. "And here I
thought they'd managed to evacuate everyone in time."
Sylia shook her head, then pointed out the obituary. Jill
tsked.
"Damn. If there was only a way to determine _when_ the
things are going to go nuts, we could save a lot of lives."
"On that note," Sylia stood, stretching, "I'm off to the
Pit. I left a search program running last night, perhaps it
may have some answers for me. Can you open the Doll by
yourself this morning?"
"Yeah, okay, but spell me by eleven; I don't relish
working the lunch rush alone."
***
Tom Finnegan was a music lover, first and foremost. It
was his primary motive for opening The Wake in the first
place. Real estate in Tokyo had never been cheap, and nowhere
was it more expensive than in the areas rebuilt after the
'quake. But Soto ward was where the hot new acts were, and
that's where he wanted to be.
He'd been a musician himself, back in the twenty-
twenties, worked as a session man for some of the greats.
Svenson, The Paris Carlton Project, The Juice, Karla Estevez,
he'd worked with them all, either in the producing booth or in
session on his antique Fender Stratocaster. Music was his one
true love, a fact his three ex-wives had never understood, and
he'd poured his entire remaining fortune -not to mention all
his love and devotion- into building what to him was the
perfect club to showcase hot young acts in Tokyo's burgeoning
Synthmetal scene.
The style was quickly becoming identified with Tokyo,
just as previous genres of popular music had been indelibly
linked in the public mind with cities like San Francisco, New
York or Seattle, and there was so much sheer talent in these
kids, so much raw energy, that he'd found himself getting more
excited about the new music scene than he'd been in years.
The Wake was Rock n' Roll heaven. Dim lighting, cheap
liquor, unrestricted tobacco smoking, with ambiance and
acoustics perfect for pumping out raw, angry music. It was
fast on its way to becoming _the_ place to be, for fans and
musicians alike, and he couldn't be happier about his
prospects.
That's why he wasn't surprised to get the call that
morning, shortly before eleven.
"Finnegan-san, my name is Sakamoto. I represent a group
of investors who wish to purchase an interest in your
nightclub."
Finnegan grinned. It had been only a matter of time
before someone came sniffing around. "Well, now, Mr. Sakamoto,
I'm sorry to inform you that my establishment isn't for sale
at any price." He laughed amiably. "I'm having way too much
fun to bow out now."
"I see." There was a pause on the other end. "Perhaps I
am not making myself clear enough. I represent a _syndicate_
of investors, traditional investors. Do you understand my
meaning?"
Finnegan did. Fuck. "I, ah, catch your drift, Mr.
Sakamoto. I was under the impression that you folks weren't
into the nightclub trade anymore."
"Things have changed, for is not change the only constant
in life? We are most eager to expand into these areas,
Finnegan-san. We respect your efforts in building such a fine
establishment, it is a credit to your good business sense. We
hope that same good sense will allow you to realize the
tremendous opportunity our group is presenting."
"Yeah, yeah, I understand."
"Price is, of course, no object," Sakamoto continued,
"And should you agree to our terms, you will of course kept on
as manager. It would be unfortunate to lose a businessman of
your skill."
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. "Ah, can I have a day or two to
think about it?"
"But of course, Finnegan-san. One should not make such a
decision lightly. A courier will deliver a copy of our offer
to you this afternoon, so that you might peruse it at your
leisure. Please do not take too long though, Finnegan-san. Our
offer will not stand forever."
"I understand."
"Excellent. I look forward to doing business with you,
Finnegan-san. Good day."
"Yeah, uh, same here." Finnegan hung up and leaned back
in his chair with a groan. He'd have to make a few calls, see
if there was anyone else in the neighbourhood they'd
approached. Maybe by presenting a united front, they might be
able to head this off before it went any farther...
***
Maria groaned, pulled herself out of bed and into the
chair at her bedside. Reaching down, she picked her artificial
leg out of the charger. With businesslike precision, she
performed the daily checkup to the contacts on the leg and,
with the aid of a hand mirror, those on her stump. A quick
spray from an aerosol sterilizing agent cleaned off the
interface. With a hiss of pain, she locked the limb in place
and winced as the nerve endings lit up again, a sensation that
felt to her like 'pins and needles' magnified to the nth
degree.
Still hobbling slightly, she made her way over to the
kitchenette and spooned a scoopful of instant coffee crystals
into her mouth, chewing and swallowing a minute later with the
aid of a glass of icewater.
"Caffeine fix, administered. Now for the hangover..."
She popped a styro cup of instant Korean spicy noodles
open, half filling it with water and adding a dash of tabasco
sauce before placing it in the microwave for two minutes.
Once it was done, she grabbed a pair of chopsticks out of
the drying rack next to the sink and schlepped her way over to
the couch, turning on the TV and losing herself in morning-
show trash while she ate her meal.
After fifteen minutes of sweating alcohol poisons from
every pore in her body, she made her way to the shower and sat
under the steaming spray until her skin was bright pink with
white traceries and whorls of scar tissue standing out in
stark relief.
Hangover vanquished, she returned to the couch and picked
up the phone, punching in Sylia's number from memory. The
phone rang twice before picking up.
"Silky Doll Clothiers, may I help you?" Jill's cheery
tones made her wince again. Perhaps the hangover hadn't been
bludgeoned quite to death.
"Yeah, Jill, it's me. Pass me through to Stingray,
willya?" With her free hand, she stuck a cigarette between her
lips, sparking it to life with a recalcitrant disposable
lighter.
"'And how are you today Jillian, my comrade-in-arms and
friend?' Why, I'm fine, thanks ever so much for asking..."
"Yeah, yeah, save it, Davidson. I'm tired and hungover
and my leg aches like a bitch, so forgive me if I'm not
little-miss-sunshine, okay? Just pass me to Stingray, please?"
She punctuated the plea with an exhalation of blue smoke.
"Fine, be that way," Jill sniffed. "Just a moment."
Sylia came on a heartbeat later. "Maria? How are you?"
"Lousy. I've got some info for you."
"Excellent. Give me a moment, I'll get this down."
"Ready yet?"
"Yes, go ahead."
"Okay, here's the deal. According to Billy, ADP's lab
boys did the full run-down on our playmate from last night.
Seems it was a stenographer boomer, y'know, those ones they
doll up like perfect little office ladies?"
"I see. Well, that's one mystery solved, I suppose."
"Right. According to eyewitness reports, the casualty,
Shingo Hayashi, was dictating a memo to the boomer when it
all-of-a-sudden went completely batshit, tore his head clean
off before trashing the office and clawing its way to the
roof. The boys in forensics think the reason it had two cores
was that it fused with a straightforward janitorial unit,
which immediately went rogue itself upon absorption. As usual,
no idea why it wigged out in the first place."
Sylia sighed. "Well, thank you, even if this brings us no
closer to an answer. Was there anything else?"
"Yeah," she paused, "Stingray, it's the leg. It's still
bugging me this morning. I think the feedback's getting worse,
it usually doesn't last this long."
Sylia frowned. "I see. I'll call Nigel, tell him to
expect you today. Have him take a look at it and see if
there's anything he can do."
"God, I hope so. I don't want to have to go back to that
spring-loaded nightmare the doctor issued me. Anyway, I'll be
reachable all day at the usual number. Call me if anything
comes up."
"Will do. Shall I forward the payment to the usual
account?"
"Yeah, thanks. Ciao."
"Goodbye."
***
Sylia was stumped. Her worm program had come up with very
little, and Maria's information shed no more light on things.
One item that particularly bothered her was the report that
Hayashi had simply been dictating a letter when the boomer
went berserk.
She knew, thanks to extrapolations from her father's
notes and some deductions of her own, that the more complex a
boomer's thought processes, the more variables and situations
it was programmed to deal with, the more likely it was to go
rogue. That was why combat models and other multitasked
boomers went rogue more often than, say, streetsweepers or
construction units, whose programming was relatively simple.
A boomer whose programming was more varied than 'tote
that barge, lift that bale' needed a more complex neural net,
and thus a greater level of intelligence. The smarter the
boomer, the easier it was for it to succumb to the Sotai
Effect. This tendency was exacerbated when the boomer was
given instructions that went beyond its standard operating
parameters, causing the simulated brain to grow new neural
pathways to accommodate the new behavioral subroutines, thus
'bootstrapping' itself to a greater level of operative
intelligence.
Office boomers had fairly complex programming to allow
them to interact with a wide range of humanity, but still much
less complex than the types of units that usually went rogue.
If Hayashi was asking the boomer to do things that it wasn't
programmed for, like, say, repaint his office, move furniture
or service him sexually, it might have been somewhat more
likely to go rogue. However, he'd merely been using the unit
well within factory specs, as her own dissection of the black
box bore out.
There was nothing, however, that prevented a boomer from
spontaneously succumbing to the Sotai Effect, which was one of
the many reasons Sylia felt that boomers were simply unsafe
for use under any but the most dire circumstances, or under
the most stringent safeguards, and then _only_ for the
shortest possible time. No matter how you sliced it, boomer
technology was just plain dangerous.
It was simply more likely that boomers acting outside
their original programming would go rogue than those that
weren't, and in this case it appeared that the boomer hadn't
been doing anything unusual.
Which of course brought Sylia back to square one. Why?
The information harvested by the worm program had been
even less useful, if that were possible, Sylia mused. Of the
boomers that had gone rogue over the past month, 10% had a
non-standard OS installed, 60% had been operating beyond
factory specs, and... She paused, re-examining a piece of
data.
With a frown, she brought it up in a separate window. Of
the boomers that had gone rogue for no discernable reason,
fully 75% had been serviced by a Boomers 'R Us franchise in
the past six months!
How is it no one at ADP noticed this? It could, of
course, merely be a statistical blip; there were a _lot_ of
Boomers 'R Us shops in town, but...
Perhaps the chain's reputation for reliability is
misplaced? Or, a more worrisome thought: Is it possible that
someone at Boomers 'R Us is _deliberately_ sabotaging boomers,
making them more prone to going rogue?
Quickly, she brought up a profile of the business. As a
publicly traded company, the information was available through
her sources at several brokerage houses. Founded two years ago
by Tombo Yakage, a retired employee of GENOM's service
department. Is it possible that they still retain some ties to
GENOM?
She frowned. Much as she liked to lay all the evils of
the world at GENOM's feet, this simply didn't seem like their
style. Besides, GENOM has little to gain from _increasing_
rogue boomer incidents. Even with their virtual stranglehold
on the media, rogue boomer attacks were fast becoming the
stuff of urban legend; everyone knew someone, or knew someone
who knew someone, who'd been attacked by a boomer. GENOM's
P.R. department was already swamped, so why would they borrow
trouble?
She dug further into the ownership of the company. Hidden
under several layers of legalese and flimflammery, it became
clear that Yakage was no longer the owner of the company,
merely the 'operations manager'. The company had been bought
out almost a year ago by something called 'TechnoVenture,
Inc.'
TechnoVenture was in turn a holding company, belonging to
another company called Capital Enterprises, which was itself
owned by a shell company with a headquarters in the Cayman
Islands. The trail got murky from there on, and Sylia slumped
back into her chair, exhausted. Glancing at her watch, she
realized in was almost eleven already, time to spell Jill at
the counter.
There was more to this than immediately met the eye, she
knew, but it was a mystery that would take some time to
unravel. For now, she'd let the computer work on it.
***
Maria fought her way past the commuters as she hobbled
across the train platform. Those who got a little too pushy
quickly found their feet nearly broken by a jab of her cane.
Once she was clear, she leaned back against a support
pillar and sighed, massaging the juncture, high on her upper
thigh, where flesh joined machine. Christ. If anything, the
ache was getting worse, not better. Of course, the long
standing train ride from Downtown out here to the fringes of
the Reclamation Zones hadn't helped matters.
One of these days, she mused, she was going to have to
break down and buy some kind of vehicle. Cars, unfortunately,
were out of the picture, since her building had no parking
garage and the neighbourhood wasn't the safest. A collapsible
scooter would probably be the best bet, but she hated the way
those things made her feel, like some twelve-year-old
schoolgirl.
She took a seat on one of the concrete benches and lit up
a smoke. She figured she owed her leg a rest, if only for a
few minutes, before making the twelve-block hike to K's
Garage.
Nigel Kirkland was one of the few people outside the ADP
that she actually felt comfortable around. He was one of those
people who were just content to work or sit quietly, without
feeling the need to fill the air up with useless chatter. He
was a competent mech', and she respected that. She'd known
more than a few guys like him in the service and on the force,
mostly in the motor pool and tech support jobs; quietly
professional, stand-up guys, who took pride in doing a job
right.
As she understood it, while Stingray was the one who came
up with the designs for the gear the Sabers used, Nigel was
the hand-on tech whiz who made 'em happen. Like her leg. Sylia
had drawn up the plans, and Nigel'd built the damn thing.
That's not to say that he wasn't a creative type, it's just
that he was the more practical of the pair, making sure that
her lofty plans weren't screwed up in the execution.
He also had one hell of a nice ass, but she figured she'd
keep that little observation to herself. She smirked, flicking
her cigarette butt over the edge of the platform and hauled
herself to her feet.
The walk felt longer than it was, but eventually she
rounded the corner to "K's". By now she was limping more than
a little, and it took all her self discipline to keep tears of
pain from leaking out of her eyes. Nigel met her at the door,
dressed in faded green coveralls and wiping his hands with a
rag.
"Hear the leg's giving you trouble."
She nodded, stumbling her way over to the pseudo-couch
(the back seat of a '22 Griffon, to be exact) against the wall
of the shop and almost falling into it with a grunt. He slid
the garage door closed and locked it, hanging up a closed sign
as he passed the entrance, face impassive as ever.
"Take off your pants," he said, hunkering down in front
of her. Against her will, she blushed. Of course she had to
take off her pants, how else was he going to examine her leg?
Still blushing, she complied, wriggling out of the jeans while
Nigel rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
She was relieved to remember that she'd chosen a fairly
utilitarian pair of underpants this morning, instead of
something risque or, even worse, old-granny panties. If Nigel
took any notice one way or the other, he didn't show it, his
eyes trained instead on the junction of her thigh and the
cyberleg.
With a deft touch, he unlocked the clasps and
disconnected the leg, picking it up and moving over to the
workbench.
"These contacts are scored," he announced, examining the
leg with a trained eye, "and the relays are shot. I can fix
it, it'll take a few hours. I'm going to need to take a look
at the stump, too."
He hunkered back down in front of her and ran a finger
along the anodized metal contact plates at the base of her
stump. She shuddered briefly, causing him to glance up.
"Sorry. It, uh, tickles a little," she hastily explained,
suddenly very conscious of where his warm hands were. The
cyberleg joined her body _very_ high up on the thigh, and he
was perilously close to the crux of her thighs. He grunted,
but used a more cautious touch as he finished the examination.
"There's more of the scoring on these plates, too. Have
you been using the right battery voltage?"
"Uh-huh," she nodded. "I haven't been doing anything
differently, but..."
He grunted again, straightening and moving back to the
workbench. "I can't do anything about those, you'll have to
see a cyberdoc to get them replaced. I can put some more
insulation on the contact points in the leg, that'll cut down
on the buzz until you can get looked at... you can put your
pants back on, now."
"Huh? OH! Right, right." She struggled back into her
pants and collected herself.
He was still focused on the cyberlimb on his workbench
when next he spoke. "There's a pot of coffee and more
comfortable seating in the other room, help yourself."
"Kinda hard to do that right now, Nigel."
"Mmm? Oh, right." His gruff facade cracked for an instant
as he looked faintly ashamed of himself. She almost grinned at
his minor loss of composure. "Here, I'll help you-"
He walked over and stooped, hefting her easily in his
strong arms. Once again, she blushed faintly as he carried her
into the next room, her arms looped around his neck.
He set her gingerly down on a couch that faced a small TV
set against the wall. He straightened, cleared his throat, and
looked vaguely uncomfortable for a moment. "What do you take
in your coffee?"
"Cream, no sugar, and a shot or two of that bourbon in
your hip flask, if it's not too much trouble."
"Little early to be drinking, isn't it?"
"Hell, the sun's up..." She winced as she saw the look of
faint disapproval that slid across his face. "Look, I'm in a
fair bit of pain here, so it'd really help if you can spare a
few drops, okay?!" she finished a little louder than she'd
intended, and groaned. "Sorry, didn't mean to snap, honestly.
Pain makes me bitchy."
"Fair enough." He nodded and fetched the coffee, setting
hers down in front of her. She took a sip, smiling gratefully
as the burn of the alcohol slid down her throat.
"That's good, thanks."
He shrugged. "It's your body." He made to return to the
shop, when she cleared her throat and he stopped.
"Nigel?"
"Hmm?" he answered, his back to her.
"D'you mind if I ask you a question?"
"I hate that."
"Beg pardon..?"
"I hate it when people ask you if they can ask a
question. Just ask."
"The leg... It acts up every time I use the hardsuit.
D'you think there's a connection? Some kind of problem?"
"Probably." He nodded, back still turned.
"Probably? What kind of an answer is that?"
"The obvious one. Symptoms make sense."
"So what can I do?"
He turned to face her, eyes serious. "Stop wearing the
suit."
"Aside from that."
He shrugged. "Not that I can think of. Your leg is top of
the line mechatronics. The suits are... different technology.
They don't mix well. My advice to you is give up the hardsuit.
That'll stop the leg from acting up."
"Can't you use this high-faluting 'mystery-tech' to build
me a leg, then?"
"I could, but I won't. Bad enough you wear the suit as
often as you do."
"What's that supposed to mean? Are the suits dangerous?"
Nigel simply stared her in the eyes, long and hard. She
looked away, shivering. "I-I've worked with experimental
equipment before, Nigel, I-"
"I won't do it. You want it done, you talk to Sylia, but
leave me out of it." He turned, and walked out of the room.
***
Finnegan slammed the phone down into the receiver with a
curse. Fat lot of help Onaki had turned out to be- He ran a
soapland up the street that used rec-boomers as bath
attendants- the little turd had sold out to them last week.
Everyone else in 'D' block were either wholly-owned
subsidiaries of our friends and neighbours at GENOM, or had
quietly slid under the thumb of the boys from Kyoto.
Shit. If he'd wanted to deal with this kind of garbage,
he'd have stayed in New Jersey, he swore to himself as he
slammed down his drink. Oh, he was willing to tolerate a
little graft- getting the zoning change permit had required
some monetary finessing to the city planning department- but
out-and-out appropriation of his business wasn't something he
was willing to put up with.
Onaki had told him he was nuts to refuse their offer, and
they _were_ offering a ridiculous sum...
Nope, he decided. I won't sell. The Wake is _my_ baby, I
built her, I run her, I own her, and I'm gonna keep on owning
her.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number on the
business card.
"Yeah, this is Finnegan." He took another long draught of
liquid courage. "Sorry, I ain't selling."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Finnegan-san," the voice on the
other end of the line purred. "Are you certain that you wish
to refuse our generous offer?"
Finnegan took a deep breath. "Yeah. Look, you and your
crew are always welcome in my place, but I can't sell you the
business."
"I see." The voice paused. "I shall have to discuss this
with my superiors, you understand, Finnegan-san."
"Yeah, yeah, I gotcha. Listen, you tell 'em that I'm
willing to play ball here, okay? I don't want trouble."
"We shall see, Finnegan-san. Have a pleasant evening."
***
To be continued (natch!)
Dave Menard
-------------------------------------
Fanfiction pages: http://spghome.tripod.com/
"Just as there are laws of Conservation of Matter and Energy, so there are
in fact Laws of Conservation of Pain and Joy. Neither can ever be created or
destroyed.
But one can be converted into the other."
-Spider Robinson, 1977