Hello again Fanficians!
Here's Part 11 of BG Cross. I'm pretty jazzed about this one and would be
eternally grateful for any comments or criticisms :) Seems there will be a
good dose of Cross over the next few weeks as I continue to chop up what
should have been one chapter, but has now stretched into four. Chapter 12
"Fight or Flight" should be ready by next weekend, and if the trend
continues Part 13 (tentatively entitled "Grand Designs" ) should be ready by
the weekend after. Of course 13 being a superstitious number perhaps I
shouldn't be so certain<g> Anyway Enjoy!
"BubbleGum Cross"
Volume 1- "Metal Heart"
(c) 1995-6 by Andy Skuse
Email - askuse@execulink.com
Based on characters copyrighted by Youmex, AIC, Artmic
Lyrics to "The Waking Dream" (c)1995 Magic Number Songs
Lyrics by A.Skuse
11. Afterimages
PASSWORD: Blackie
Access Denied
PASSWORD: Mackie
Access Denied
PASSWORD: Sylia
Access Denied
PASSWORD:
"Hmmm."
While Blackie continued to wait in the lounge, Sylia stared blankly at
her computer's monitor screen, and drummed her fingers on the edge of the
desk. After five minutes of scanning through Blackie's data unit visually,
she had located a nested file, something she had not encountered in her own
data unit. Feeling as if she had located something of importance, she
continued to probe further, the uncomfortable feeling that she was prying
crossing her mind more than once. In the instant that Blackie had revealed
his "proof" Sylia promised herself not to break her father's wishes that the
two data units remain separate. But that promise had been broken by a gut
instinct that ate at her now, telling her there was something important
about this hidden file; something specifically for her. Now, as she sat
quietly in the training facility's data-bank room, staring at the puzzle
before her, she was convinced that she was right.
The initial menu had led her through a maze of layered protection
scripts, all easily traversable, until now. The methods she had used so far
for cracking the password-oriented protection program had suddenly hit a
brick wall at this level. The blinking word "PASSWORD:" stared back at her
passively, unaware and uncaring as to the frustration it was causing.
Sylia sat back in her chair, wondering how long she could keep her
guest waiting before he came looking for her. Glancing up at a small bank of
video-security monitor screens, she watched the handsome black-haired man
stand up in the rest-area and wander over to the large window that looked
out into the basement training facilities. He stood there for a long moment,
studying the room and the various testing stations. Sylia watched his face
carefully, as the cyborg's blue eyes scanned the room, almost as if
receiving input.
That wasn't fair, Sylia thought. So far he had done little to make her
believe that he was simply some unfeeling machine. Except for a somewhat
naive manner he seemed human enough to her. But why the strange looks before
she had left the lounge? It was unsettling to say the least. He had looked
at her as if he were about to respond to something she said, but she hadn't
said anything. Truth was he hadn't looked sick or tired at all. He had
looked a little stunned. But by what? As much as she respected Dr. Raven's
opinion, trusting this new relative would not come easily.
The black hard-suited figure on the security monitor screen continued
its survey of the training center as Sylia turned back to the task at hand.
She had to find out what this protected file contained. Her instincts were
telling her that it was important to find out *now*. It didn't look like a
particularly complex password system, but even entering passwords with a
"hunter app" would take far more time than she could afford right now. Her
guest was waiting and she had more questions for him, not to mention the
toll that the encounter with the cyborg-boomers had taken on her and the
others. Sleep would come easily tonight if she could push all of the day's
strange events out of her mind.
Leaning forward in her chair, Sylia stared again at the computer's
screen, as if she were hoping it might bow under the pressure of her steady
gaze and divulge its secret. The blinking word on the screen defied her,
becoming a blurry patch of white. Sylia sat back from the screen and rubbed
her bleary eyes. As her vision cleared, her gaze fell upon the data unit
sticking out of the slot on the computer's console. The labelling was
partially visible, exposing the section that read "707 HIGH". The word and
numbers bounced around meaninglessly in her mind for a moment, the digits
being instinctually manipulated this way and that. Soon it became a game for
her, a challenge she could not ignore.
Sylia suddenly smiled as the memory of her father playing cards entered
her head, reminding her of his skill with games of chance. Poker,
Backgammon, Chess; he loved all kinds of games that involved . . .
Suddenly Sylia's fingers flew over the computer keyboard, as a feeble
and improbable solution to the password puzzle formed in her mind. She
multiplied the number "707" by 2, representing the number of data units,
and entered the result. 1414. Sylia frowned. The number seemed
insignificant. Could there be a third unit? Sylia didn't wait for the answer
to her own question, her fingers typing swiftly again;
707 x 3= 2121 . . . 21 . . . Blackjack . . . Blackie . . .
PASSWORD: b l a c k j a c k
(Enter)
Access Granted
Loading ...
MENU
1. Cyberoid Development Contract
2. "Mind Bank" Project & Research Diary
Type Selection=
1
Cyberoid Development Contract
Uizu Labs.
Information copyright protected under the Information Act of 2005.
Last Entry: 05.21.2022
File: KD/508472261-1
Project: Cyberoid Prototype
Contractor: Genom Corporation.
Project Director: Brian J. Mason
Project Coordinator: Katsuhito Stingray
Subject/Models: 1) "Largo"/33-T
2) "Blackie"/33-T
Sylia stared at the names of the "Subject/Models:", her tired eyes
suddenly wide with shock. For a moment she could not look away, her eyes
riveted to the word "Largo". Then she looked up at the security monitor at
the black-haired man who was still looking out the window at the training
equipment, a curious and innocent look still on his face. Suddenly Sylia
found it difficult to think of Blackie as "human enough" any more.
*****
The light from an approaching motorcycle headlight flashed briefly over
a tiny, rusted-out trailer, permanently immobilized amid a vast, tangled
pile of rusting and decaying junk. A frightened rat scurried beneath the
trailer, attempting to get away from the sudden roaring noise. The
motorcycle's engine noise levelled off for a moment, rose quickly to a
fevered pitch, then fell silent, as Priss dismounted from her bike and began
pushing it towards the trailer through the fresh mud.
After dropping Linna off at her apartment's front entrance, Priss's
passenger had offered to make some tea, but Priss had declined, her mood
turning sour as she mulled over the night's string of events. Linna just
smiled the way she always did, and ascended the steps to her apartment with
a spring in her step that had always secretly annoyed Priss. Pulling away
from Linna's apartment complex, she found herself wondering about the lack
of spring in her own sluggish steps as a steady rain began to fall.
The ride back to her trailer was a little too long for her liking, her
thoughts clouded with many new feelings that unsettled her. Feelings that
seemed to get clouded even further when she saw her beat-up trailer for the
millionth time.
After unlocking an array of deadbolts, the door to her trailer swung
open under a gentle kick, allowing the moody singer to push her bike up a
worn wooden plank and into its "parking space" along one wall. She gave the
door another kick, and then locked it carefully, the tedious procedure
taking more than a moment. An anxious look out the window overlooking the
dimly lit lot satisfied a five-year old habit, followed by the removal of
her muddy boots, and their deposit in a heap by the door. With the knowledge
of one who has lived somewhere for a long time she reached out to the wall
switch without looking and flicked on the overhead light. To her disgust the
lightbulb flashed brilliantly for a brief moment, and then winked out.
Too tired to even curse, Priss picked her way through the darkened
trailer and sat down on a scruffy grey couch, removing her jacket, gloves,
and helmet, and shaking the moisture out of the length of her hair. Soon she
had shed the wet outer layer of her clothes onto the floor, and flopped down
on the couch to relax her aching back and head. The rain pattered gently on
the trailer's thin metal roof, while the rhythmic dripping of leaking rain
into a bucket could be heard from somewhere inside the depths of the
cluttered trailer. She lay awhile without moving as she listened to the
pacifying sounds, trying to clear the fog in her head, but soon the events
of the night before began to wander through her mind again.
Rising restlessly from the couch, Priss got up to search the brightly
lit interior of her refrigerator for something to drink, the cramped, dim
surroundings of her trailer becoming illuminated momentarily. On the wall
behind her, a tattered poster advertising The Replicant's final show had
captured Priss in mid-song, her eyes closed tightly, and a satisfied smile
on her lips.
Spying a can of diet-soda left behind from one of Linna's visits, Priss
fished it out and held the cold metal against her cheek to wake her up.
'Diet. Hmm. Better than nothing.' She let the fridge door close on its own,
and the image on the tattered poster receded back into the shadows.
Priss turned back towards the couch, where her beat-up guitar leaned
diligently against the arm, illuminated by the weak light from the city
coming in through a tiny window. She strolled over to the couch, and settled
onto it again, after setting her drink down on a worn, plastic, milk crate.
Reaching for the lonely looking instrument, she set it on her lap and picked
a few experimental chord strums through a particularly sad sounding minor
chord, listening to each string as it sounded, and then noting the beautiful
melody that the combined notes created.
Her hands became still as she made the mental observation that the
Knight Sabers were like the chord she had just played. The strings
themselves each made strong impressions on the ear, but when combined
together, made for an infinitely more stirring force. Take away one string,
and the chord might not be as potent . . .
Priss cradled the guitar limply in her arms as she scanned the scruffy
interior of her little trailer. A sinking feeling that she'd experienced
many times over the years began to wrap itself around her once more. A feeling
that there had to be something more, and that she was wasting time.
Many observations seemed to contribute to this feeling. The strongest
of which was that she had always thought that she was destined for something
better, something big. While the Knight Sabers were an outlet for her "extra
energy", it wasn't the way she wanted to spend the rest of her life. Her
"secret" life was beginning to feel more like a burden. While these new
boomers had certainly provided a new challenge to her fighting skills,
secretly she wished that they had never shown up. The last few years had
been peaceful, something she thought that she would never enjoy. But that
peace and quiet had once made her successful on the rock music scene, and now
she longed for that success again.
She had felt the need to make some changes in her life ever since
Nezumi Records had dropped The Replicant's record contract with no interest
in re-negotiating. Two albums and that was it. Both discs had done well, the
second one selling ten million copies in Japan alone, but it wasn't enough
to keep them on top in the highly competitive world of the record industry.
If you hadn't sold twenty-five million by your second disc, you didn't have
a prayer. Part of the band's lack of success she could easily blame on the
record company. With a name like "Nezumi Records", you were already held up
at the starting line.
But her new band had stuck it out through all the difficulties.
Patience sometimes wore thin, but the spats always seemed to blow over soon
enough. Until they were let go by the record company. Mr. Andrue, Nezumi's
new A&R exec, had suddenly demanded changes to the contract. Changes that
signalled a lack of confidence in the band's future. That was when some
words were spoken that could never be taken back. And surprisingly, not one
of those words had been hers. After two years of a gruelling recording and
touring schedule she was just plain fed up, and tired of all the bickering.
Forced to submit to demeaning contract changes or pack it in, she chose the
latter, her heart telling her not to, but her pride swelling up making it
impossible to swallow.
Now, she had begun to think more and more about what lay beyond
MegaTokyo for her. Was there a band out there somewhere looking for a singer
like her? Could she still sing and perform as well as she used to? It was
only a few years ago that the band had broken up. She might be a little
rusty now, but she could fix that with practice. What if there was a band
out there looking for someone like her and she was invisible to them, hidden
away in this cozy but run-down trailer?
Priss looked up at the dead light bulb, and then at the tattered poster
depicting her final show. Was she just kidding herself? Priss set the guitar
down and settled back onto the couch. The light from the city cast
snake-like shadows on the trailer's walls as it streamed past the trickles
of rain that made their way down the window's dusty pane.
And what about Blackie? Or "Blackie Stingray" Priss thought to herself
amusingly. She was not one to make too many plans for the future, but she
couldn't help wondering what road their awkward beginning might take them
down. She smiled as she thought back to the night before, of her
uncharacteristic 'pursuit' of the black-maned guitar player. Smirking at her
childishness, she suddenly thought that she hadn't felt this way about
anyone since. . . since Jesse. . .
Priss's smirk suddenly vanished, her face becoming like stone as the
distant memories of the 'accident' came rushing back to her, shrouding the
warm thoughts of the present in a dark haze. The years had taken the edge
off of the gruesome images that flashed through her mind, but the result was
still the same. She could see herself standing numbly in the middle of the
road, a police officer at her side. Several police cruiser's flashing red
lights swept the surreal setting. Fifty feet from her, twisted metal and a
dried blood stain drew her eyes mercilessly toward the truth. Jesse's burned
and broken body lay under a smoking motorcycle frame, while bullet holes
pocked the asphalt around and behind the mangled vehicle. No-one moved. They
all just stood and stared, the officers telling her there was nothing more
they could do. It was a gang-related incident and as far as they were
concerned the gangs were best left to deal with their own problems.
Priss didn't hear what the officer said to her after that. His voice
faded into the background. She looked past the horror on the road before her
and stared at the glow of the city in the distance with her fists clenched,
and began to cry against her will. Her parents had both died in the
earthquake, and now the only man she had ever given her heart to was gone.
She was old enough to know that life wasn't fair, but it still seemed so . .
. unfair.
Turning suddenly to face the dozen or so police officers that stood
milling about discussing the contents of the victim's wallet, Priss wiped
the tears from her cheek angrily, and stammered for the right words to
convey her pain and frustration upon them. But they wouldn't come. Never one
to hold back her thoughts before, Priss endured the puzzled looks of the
officers as she shook with impotent rage. One of the officers stepped
towards her, but quickly stepped back, as the sobbing brunette drew a long
knife from her black and yellow striped biker's suit. The officers watched
silently as the angry woman backed away from them slowly, her anger-filled
eyes never leaving their
faces.
Reaching her bike where it waited in the shadows at the edge of the
accident scene, Priss sat down on the padded seat and looked at the knife.
The tears came again as she ran her fingers along the blade, the word
"Jesse" etched into the blackened metal in graceful script. It was the only
item besides Jesse's wallet and helmet that had not been destroyed in the
crash . . .
Priss shook herself and looked around the shabby trailer, suddenly
realizing that she had drifted into a daydream. Using the side of her index
finger she wiped away some moisture that had gathered at the corner of her
left eye. She stared at the finger, and watched the moisture evaporate as
her thoughts wandered to the knife hidden in her jacket's left pocket, and
then returned to the present.
She thought of Sylia and the rest of the Knight Sabers. They had become
like sisters over the years, Sylia more so than the others. The four boomers
they'd faced last night meant fresh trouble for the Knight Sabers to deal
with. She couldn't leave now. She had quit once before and regretted the
decision afterwards. Even now the pangs of guilt at letting Sylia down five
years ago could be felt. Now she just wasn't sure. Maybe after all this was
over she could talk to Sylia about quitting, but not right now, not when
Sylia needed her the most.
It had been a different battle that last night, that was for sure.
There had been only four boomers at the military base. Could there be more?
Genom was little more than a memory now, so who was making them? And why?
Sylia had said just before they crashed through the skylight that the
boomers had been waiting for them. Was it some kind of test? Did another
whacko like Miriam think that he'd found some way to defeat them? Whoever it
was, they had come pretty damn close to pulling it off.
Priss sighed and stared out the tiny window that looked out over the
empty lot outside as the rain trickled down the glass in rapidly deviating
courses. So much to deal with in such a short time. Life had been pretty
quiet a few days ago. And pretty boring. Nights like last night suited Priss
just fine, but what about tomorrow? Would the boomers return? And if they
did, what could the Knight Sabers do to stop them this time?
Priss sighed and reached over to the table beside the couch and grabbed
her portable laser-disc player. Setting the device in her lap, she placed
the headphones over her ears and pressed "play". A tiny window on the laser
disc player displayed the name "Nexus" on the disc's surface just before it
began to spin. Priss closed her eyes as Blackie's opening guitar chords
played a quiet melody, and the words she had memorized echoed softly from
her lips. . .
When I was young I would dream at night
Of the stars and the moon and their magic light
No-one could take my dreams from me
'Til I woke up
I woke up
When I became a man I would dream at night
I was standing on the stage in the golden light
No-one could take my dream from me
'Til I woke up
I woke up . . .
Priss's eyes opened slowly as a passing car's headlights streamed in
the window of her trailer, briefly illuminating the poster on the wall by
the fridge. A faint afterimage of her smiling face had been burned into her
retinas, and refused to fade. Even as she closed her eyes again to melt
into her aural escape, the image of herself on stage during that final show
remained visible to her mind's eye.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, pooling into deep potholes until
the silty water finally rose and spilled over the edges, trickling through
and around the scattered refuse until it found another pothole to fill.
Every so often a car would drive by, its occupants oblivious to the tiny
trailer and its tenant. A tenant who stubbornly refused to lie down and go
to sleep.
****
Sylia quickly scanned her father's journal-like notes on the cyberoid
development project. Scattered throughout the notes were detailed schematics
showing the 33-T's innermost workings. Filename KD/508472261-1, or what
became known among the Uizu lab workers as the "Killer Doll" project, was a
direct contract with Brian J. Mason for the research and development of a
cyborg based life-form that could look and act as
human as possible. The contract called for half a dozen units to be made
ranging from several adult males to a very young girl; Cynthia.
While it was easy for Sylia to see to look at these schematics now and
know what the "Black Box" was for, Mason's instruction requirements at the
time made the deadly satellite targeting system look like a convenient
mobile device. Convenient and useful in the confines of a controlled
environment perhaps, but catastrophically lethal when interfaced with the
mind of a deranged super-boomer.
Sylia continued to scan through the notes quickly, made aware by her
guest's more frequent movements in the lounge that time was running out.
Returning to the main menu she jabbed at the "2" key.
MENU
1. Cyberoid Development Contract
2. "Mind Bank" Project & Research Diary
Type Selection =
2
Mind Bank Diary
Loading . . .
Instead of a scrolling text on her screen, the speakers connected to
Sylia's computer console crackled, and abruptly came to life.
"Hello Sylia."
Sylia jerked her head around at the sound of her father's voice, wondering
if for a moment the cyborg down the hall was playing tricks with her mind.
Seeing the black hard-suited figure still walking about the lounge on the
security monitors, she turned back to the blank monitor screen; or what once
was a blank screen. The plasma eye now displayed a moving image of Katsuhito
Stingray, seated at his desk in the Uizu laboratory as Sylia remembered
seeing him whenever she called him at work.
"I'm very proud of you for remembering our favorite game," the ghostly
voice continued, "And for getting past the password protection. If you are
viewing this then I suppose you've met Blackie, or have at least found his
data unit. I hope all is well with you both, and with Mackie. I wasn't sure
how you would handle growing up knowing you had another brother who wasn't
completely human, and the risk was too great to you and your brother if
Mason ever found Blackie. So I decided to put the information you are
viewing now on Blackie's data unit with the hope that maybe someday when you
were older that you would run into each other and be better able to handle
the shock.
"If you are viewing this now it must also mean that my effort to expose
Mason as the ambitious crook that he is has ended in my death." Sylia
stiffened, the ghosts of her emotional youth surging against the "wall" she
fought to keep in place.
"While it is difficult for me to talk about this, I ask that you not be
too sad. Think about the many wonderful things we did together and the
wonderful times we had. And above all don't let whatever happens after my
death change your view of me." Sylia's hand was resting on her neck now, the
"wall" inside her weakening upon every word.
"It was always my intention to use this technology to help the world,
But people like Mason have other ideas. If you must, use the information in
the two data units to expose Mason, and keep this technology from falling
into the wrong hands. The results could be dangerous to the entire world."
The words continued to roll over the Knight Saber's leader, her
father's intensity and firmness making an impression even after seventeen years.
"I'm sorry Sylia, but I haven't much more time. Mason is on his way
here now. I have already downloaded the data on some experiments I've been
doing in the field of telepathy. I know, that sounds crazy, but as a side-
effect of viewing some data using a neural headset, I was endowed with what
I believe to be very weak telepathy. I have since tried to discover how this
happened, but have not been very successful in reproducing the results. If
you ever obtain the means to view your data unit using a neural headset,
please don't before you understand the risk. I have no idea how long this
side-effect will last, but for now I am using this opportunity to learn all
I can about it. So far I can perceive general feelings and moods if I
concentrate very hard on someone near me. It doesn't seem to work over any
great distance, and the clarity of the 'transmission' if you will, is very
erratic." Sylia lifted her entranced gaze to the bank of monitors that
showed Blackie sitting on the couch staring at his right thumb. Could this
have something to do with the "voices" she thought she was hearing?
Sylia turned back to the screen as her father continued, his voice
becoming more and more anxious. "I have been wondering how this weak
telepathy might work within the neural network of semi and completely
artificial lifeforms. If the indications from my research so far are
correct, the brain of someone like Blackie could be capable of developing
this ability to a much greater degree than a completely human brain could.
As of this moment I am considering an experiment that could reproduce this
side- effect into a cybernetic lifeform, but that will have to wait until
after my confrontation
with Mason. I hope that my first statements are wrong, and that the reason
you are viewing this is not because I am dead but because we are all alive
and well and watching it together." Katsuhito smiled, a smile made sad by
his thick drooping moustache. "I'll be home soon honey. Don't worry,
everything will be fine. I love you."
With that, the audio portion cut out, and all that remained on the
screen were the final notes written by Katsuhito Stingray, and in the room
the sound of a woman gently crying as her childhood "wall" came crashing down.
End Chapter 11
-----------------------------------
"Bubblegum Cross"
"The Dark Traveler"
"The Dragon's Tower"
askuse@execulink.com
BG Crush & Raven's Garage web sites:
http://www.netzone.com/~ozymand/