Bubblegum Chaos: Mote in the Eye of Eternity
This fic is set in 100 years after the slightly altered ending of
Bubblegum crisis. It contains mature themes, language and situations.
100 Years Before-
Sylia Stingray staggered away from the fire and noise behind her. Her
ruined hardsuit lay in pieces at her feet, split down the middle after
its master's escape. Behind her something exploded, wrenching a flinch
from her as another fiery blossom added itself to the garden of flames.
Genom plaza lay in ruins, broken corpses and boomers scattered across
its tortured pavement.
Pain filled her, flowing from her broken leg and overwhelming her
neural circuitry. Her ribs, certainly broken, added another voice in the
symphony of pain that she had become. Her heart and mind winced at the
immensity of her failure. They're all dead, she thought evenly, and I
might as well have pulled the trigger.
Unbidden and unstoppable the images assaulted her again. Priss died
first, gutted by one of Genom's Dobermans as they stormed Genom's front
gates. The sound of the metal claw rending metal drove Sylia to her
knees in the dark alley she'd stumbled into. Then Nene, crushed by the
dropping K series powersuits from waiting copters. The ADP had finally
picked a side, Genom's, and Sylia could only guess that Nene's identity
had been compromised. The girl had died screaming before her.
Then Linna, poor Linna, stabbed through the chest by the Hyperboomer's
sword. The tactical channel was a mess of static, isolating her from
Mackie and Raven. Alone she was bleeding to death in a private little
alley.
She was tired, barely able to stagger away from the hell she had
unwittingly created. And now crawling through the muck that coated the
ground she berated herself. I never could learn, she thought, when to
quit. She slumped to the ground, too weak to hold her head up.
The rain began again, washing some of the blood from her face. She
looked up into the sky, the soft glow of the city's lights meeting the
clouds. Blood ran from the cuts the boomer had inflicted through her
helmet, marring the once beautiful face. She was half dead already and
what little remained of her was escaping to mix with the dirty water of
the alley's floor.
She slowly closed her eyes.
Chapter One: Living the Past or 'just history'
The Present-
Patricia started getting letters shortly after her thesis was published
during her final year of Doctoral studies. The first pasty white paper
enclosure was hand delivered by a nameless man, an oddity in a world of
electronic communication. From her vantage point ten years and one Red
Planet away, every detail of the letter was still vivid; the simple
static typeset, the faint rose odor of the glue that held the letter
shut.
The content was just as easy to remember, a fact Patricia could
understand given how many letters she'd received like this. She torn it
open, excited at the content and medium of the message. 'Post Second
Kanto Quake Social Dynamics is a good work,' the letter began, 'but
there is a serious weakness both in this essay and the annals of
history. Who or what were the Knight Sabers?'
Since that day, Patricia had received only six other letters from her
mysterious patron. Each was securely held in a sealed binder in her room
behind the exhibits dotting the museum. The museum those letters asked
her to start. The only museum to the long dead vigilantes that still
haunted urban legend a hundred years after their deaths.
"We know less about Mega Tokyo during the 2030's that about Egypt
during the 10th Century BC," Patricia had quipped when her fellow
historians mocked her mythic choice of subject material. It was the
constant harassment(and a humiliating April Fool's Day prank) that seald
her decision to travel to the Red Planet and build the museum with money
from her secret Patron. Isis, the name at the end of each letter,
written out in beautiful cursive.
The money that anonymously entered Patricia's accounts each month was
her patron's as well; it paid for the air, water and food that Patricia
needed, along with acquisitions and research that were necessary to
maintain and expand the museum.
And despite what her colleagues said the humiliation she felt when
faced with 'serious' historians, the museum drew people. Tourists from
Earth, the colonies and even Luna. The Martians, involved in their own
affairs, were rare visitors.
Now the Market Wars were spreading from isolated 'incidents' to full
scale war between the Consortium and Genom. Tourism dropped off quite
rapidly and Patricia found herself isolated again. Comfortably so,
surrounded by her work and apart from others. Happy to be alone. Or so
she told herself when she stared out across the plains at the endless
sea of red.
Patricia had just turned in for an afternoon nap when she received a
pair of visitors who were interested in more than just history.
The two visitors began their trek in the shadows of Olympus Mons and
the massive construction base that was home to half of the Consortium's
planet based production. Genom deployed its new J-series combat boomers
in an attempt to cripple its final competitor. One of the defenders, a
T-100 series combat boomer, had gotten tangled in a fight with a Jubei
series and the two robots had dueled across a hundred kilometers of
desert.
In a battle too fast for unaided humans to see, the pair bounded up the
plateau on the far side of the museum's lonely view. Once cresting the
view they paused for a half beat, spending a tenth of a second in what
seemed quiet contemplation of each other.
The gaunt Jubei looked as if its designers had spent too many sleepless
nights obsessing over barbed wire, its frame twisted and stretched with
an articulation scheme just slightly too radical to be humanoid. As it
gazed at its stocky chrome opponent the two computer systems matched
processing power and code attacks for the thousandth time that day,
their rest just another front in the ongoing war for Mars' consumers.
Then the two machines resorted to the physical once again, particle
beams sailing across the distance between the two. The T-100 was showing
signs of weakness; a misstep here a poorly aimed shot here. Dents
dotted its metal skin, along with long furrows that were the trademark
of particle beam weapons. For its part the J-series machine never
missteped or faltered. It slowly pushed the other back, its nightmare
body absorbing whatever attacks the T-100 could muster without marring
the dull gray of its carapace.
A stray shot from the T-100 lanced into the distance, impacting the
side of the museum and crumbling the structure as the 2 gram dart of
depleted uranium tore through the length of the habitat. The two
combatants continued their dance off into the darkening twilight,
uncaring.
Left to herself, Patricia would've slowly died in the cooling pocket of
atmosphere still held beneath the wreckage.
After her last fading minuets of consciousness, Patricia almost
expected the tunnel of light which filled the darkened spread that was
the sum of her perceptions. She couldn't decide if she wanted to pass
through the tunnel or stay with the living. Before her lay the ultimate
mystery of mankind, the single unifier among the scattered primate
tribes. Behind was a broken body, shattered dreams and the bitter
loneliness that had been hers since the Orphanage.
It turned out she didn't have much in the way of choice.
"Mason," a voice said in quiet disbelief.
"Quiet, she's coming to," another, calmer voice replied.
"I didn't think there was that much left," someone said cynically.
"There wasn't," the second voice said, "Isis apparently takes care of
her own, and the 20 million yen worth of nanotech running through her
bloodstream proves it."
Isis, Patricia thought, stunned. The mysterious benefactor struck
again, in a most unanticipated manner.
Patricia made a concentrated effort to open her eyes and was rewarded
with a stabbing pain radiating from eyes. It was enough to make her
scream out, which her battered body ended up translating into a thick
gargle.
"Careful," the first voice warned. A soft hand was reassuringly applied
to her sweaty forehead. "Turn down the lights," to someone else. Then
"Your eyes haven't been open for more than a month, and their mostly new
anyway. Same with your mouth and throat."
Patricia managed to get her eyes opened and found herself surrounded by
women. Three to be exact, none of whom appeared to be doctors. This fact
was at odds with the rest of the room she had woken in.
As her eyes adjusted to the lighting she took the room in, from its
sterile hospital fixtures to the numerous banks of screens that dotted
esoteric looking equipment. She sat up, voice box still useless, as her
body gradually ceded her control. One of the women, apparently lost
interest in the whole situation. She brushed her pony tail behind her
and strummed lightly on a guitar. Patricia couldn't remember the last
time she'd seen someone actually play an instrument.
The other two hovered around her, the young girl checking monitors and
readouts, longish blonde hair falling into her face every once in a
while. The other woman held her hand as Patricia struggled to her feet,
drawing a frustrated smile out of her.
"I'm not sure how much you know about what's going on, but I guess
introductions are in order," the older woman told her. Her voice was
rich and refined, reminding Patricia of the corporate tourists at the
museum. "I'm Ingrid," she offered, sticking out a hand, "formerly of
MilTech Division, Genom."
"And I'm Andrea Templar," the young blonde offered, apparently
satisfied with the results of her tests. She and Ingrid shared a glance
as Patricia finished shaking hands. "I've heard a lot about you from
Isis."
Patricia was about to inquire into the topic of Isis, but the last
woman spoke first. "Subon Chiriko," she said simply, her guitar silent
for a moment. "Who gets to say it to her?" she asked, a wry smile on her
lips.
"I do," came a voice from the computer bank behind them. The others
jumped slightly while Patricia looked confused. The voice seemed so
familiar somehow, but unidentifiable.
"Isis," Andrea said, exasperation in her voice, "we've been trying to
get in touch with you all day. We've been in orbit for almost two weeks
now."
"I've been busy," the voice said simply. "I commend you on the job you
did on Ms. Sansaki here."
"I didn't do anything more than monitor your nanites, and Ingrid helped
me with that."
Patricia emitted a confused grunt, words still outside of her power.
"I'm sorry Patricia, I should tell you what happened to you." Isis
paused, "but perhaps it would be better if you got a bite to eat and a
shower first." Patricia nodded, the mere mention of food causing her
stomach to grumble. "Chiriko, would you show her to her room?"
The guitarist looked irritated then gingerly set her instrument down.
"Come with me," she told the confused historian out of the room and into
the hallway. Patricia's legs ached. A sharply curving hallway arched in
either direction, making it obvious to Patricia that she was in a
centrifuge used to generate artificial gravity. It was definitely not
like any ship she'd ever been in before, or seen. Her trips on the stars
had been on the big fusion powered liners, where three thousand
passengers were lined up in rows under constant gee.
"This is your room," Chiriko said, sounding almost bored. "There's a
shower and a bed, both of which are recommended. Food's in those drawers
there. Its not as good."
"What's going on here?" Patricia asked, her voice raspy and old
sounding.
"Isis said she'd tell you. I wouldn't want to spoil the queen's
surprise." Then she was gone behind the closing door, leaving the
historian alone. She checked her room, hungrily wolfing down the
prepackaged rations in the drawers and stepping into the shower. Warm
water rushed over her body, comforting her. She stepped out, drew on a
fresh ship shit and caught her reflection in the small mirror in the
cubby that served as a bathroom.
The image that stared out at her was obviously shocked and it took
Patricia a moment to realize that it was her. Her skin, formerly tanned
from exposure to Mar's UV, was pale as the day she left California. Her
face was smooth, without the worry lines that Museum had created.
"What the hell happened to me?" she said, her voice clearing. It even
seemed younger.
"I'm sorry to spring this all on you," Isis said, a disembodied voice
from behind her. "May I come in and explain myself?"
"I'd hope so," Patricia replied, anger building in her voice.
The door opened and Isis strolled in, a picture of elegance. Tall and
stately, she looked exactly how Patricia always pictured her, except
twenty years younger. The woman radiated control and wisdom and her
presence extinguished Patricia's anger.
"I'm going to be honest with you, I'm not actually standing here in
front of you. This is a projection, and image I've adopted as my own to
better interact with others. You want to know the truth about the Knight
Sabers?"
The question stunned Patricia. "Of course. That's what you wanted me to
look into for all these years, isn't it?"
"I already know more about the Knight Sabers than you could find in a
lifetime. I know their secrets and their fate, and I think its time I
shared it with you.
"The Knight Sabers died a little more than a hundred years ago, in what
Genom calls D-Day. They were butchered by a combination of Genom
security forces and the ADP after being lured into a trap." Isis'
features remained still, her voice even. "Everything they stood for, all
their goals were crushed that day."
"How do you know all this? And why did I waste the last ten years�
slow realization filled her. "You're going to bring them back?"
"I already have. And I want you to join up"
"I'm no vigilante. I couldn't last a second against a real boomer. I
even suck at video games," she moaned.
"I've got an introduction to make first," Isis said. Behind her in the
hallway a figure stood. Inhuman and incredibly guant, the shape stepped
into the room, light playing on its skin as if it were some archaic
computer graphic. It radiated a sense of unreality and its styling and
green coloration struck a cord in Patricia.
"Saber Green."
"Genom's ruled too long," Isis told her, though Patricia couldn't tear
her eyes off of figure before her, "and they've made a royal mess of
things. Since the first Sabers failed, its up to the Neo Sabers to stop
them."
"Who are you?" Patricia asked, turning to face the image of a woman.
"That's not particularly important. I'm giving you a choice none of the
other girls had. Would you like to join the Neo Sabers?"
"Yes," Patricia answered without hesitation. The green shape before her
wouldn't let her answer differently.
"Good," Isis said, a beatific smile crossing her face. "I didn't even
have to go through all the my arguments. Welcome to the team. We'll
begin training tomorrow." With that she and Saber Green left the room.
Patricia stood in darkness, dreadfully afraid of what she'd just done.
"All right Patricia, we're going to get you used to the firm suit,"
Isis' voice told her as Patricia stood naked in the testing room. She
absolutely refused to cover herself, despite the constant stream of
embarrassment her situation created.
In front of her stood Saber Green, just as surreal as it had been the
night before. Patricia studied its surface, barely hearing Isis'
lecture. "Realize that the firm suit isn't like a conventional power
suit," the mysterious woman told her, voice reminding her of one of her
old college professors. "In three seconds your suit is going to touch
you and flow over your body. It'll start cold, shockingly so, but after
a moment it should begin interfacing with your nervous system."
As Patricia's silent count reached three the vaguely humanoid blob
extended its 'arm' and touched her shoulder. She flinched as the
material spread across her body, staying below her neck. It was cold,
but the sensation ceased before Patricia could really react. She
couldn't even tell the suit was covering her without looking down.
The suit's makeup expanded, covering her body with varying thicknesses
of armor and concealing her body. Relief spread through Patricia, who
had images of her near naked body being displayed in battle.
"Now I'm going to cue full immersion mode," Isis' calm voice told her.
"Don't bother holding your breath, the suits scrubber nanites will
supply you with air and given enough time food as well." The suit's
neckline advanced upward, metallic green marching up her face. Patricia
couldn't help but close her eyes as it covered her face.
"You can open your eyes now," Isis said, the words bouncing into her
mind.
She did, and was immediately overwhelmed by the amount of stimuli
bombarding her. The seemingly calm room was awash in clors, though only
a small portion of them could be found on a rainbow. The walls reflected
these myriad colors and splashes of them fell from the light fixtures
and what appeared to be a window in the wall, previously unnoticed.
"You're seeing a full spectrum view of the room, without benefit of the
discrimination routines built into your normal range of vision."
Patricia's vision cleared, the new colors disappearing and the old view
of the room returning, except clearer and more distinct. "As you get
used to the suit the program will weaken and your own optic nerves will
take over this task, but it's a bit overwhelming at first, isn't it? You
were a gymnast in college weren't you?"
"Yes," Patricia answered, puzzled by the question. "I haven't practiced
since before grad school though."
"Don't worry. Try a floor routine."
"I doubt it'll work, I'm out of shape� she drifted off, remembering
her appearance in the mirror.
"In a day," Isis said matter of factly, "you'll be able to use that
suit to throw cars and leap six stories. Between the superconducting
neural processors and the expert system built into the suit, it moves
before your neural impulses leave your brain and boost your coordination
by a factor of 12. Try a hard floor routine."
Six handsprings, a cartwheel, a front flip and a double back flip
later, Patricia stood with her hands on her hips, barely winded. "Are
you sure this is earth gravity?"
Two Weeks Later-
The massive data structure that served as Destiny's sensory organ
seethed in data space, as did the standing wave that housed the
equivalent of the AI's brain. Anger, or something similar, colored the
AI's presence. Before it, almost invisible in the bulk of its master, a
small program reported loss of the research vessel Boundless and its
entire crew of boomers. The vessel was being salvaged as they
communicated, but the preliminary data suggested that all the research
data was gone or destroyed.
Anger and a little fear filled Destiny as it reabsorbed the messenger
program. Not even a Consortium battle cruiser could take the Boundless,
never mind board and devastate her to the extent the data indicated.
Destiny could feel the data streams curl around the event; like a fish
before a storm it could tell something was going to happen, but it had
no real idea of what.
Perhaps that's not true, the AI mused. I have a pretty good idea of
who's behind this. No Genom executive had seen the carving that was
front and center above the Boundless' main airlock in more than a
hundred years.
"So," it 'heard' as a data stream perceptible as a soft feminine voice
filtered into his data fort, "having some Saber problems?"
Author's Notes-
Chapter one is finished, but somehow the prologues were longer. I'm
still blushing about that. Assuming that someone's reading this, you'll
be happy (or perhaps angry) to know the slightly revised versions of the
first three parts have been posted to the RAAC. The next part is
partially written and should be out in a week or so, depending on
classes. Thanks for reading.
Jmele@brandeis.edu
www.brandeis.edu/~jmele
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