Bubblegum Chaos: Mote in the Eye of Eternity
The following story takes place 100 years after the conclusion of the
events in Bubblegum Crisis. It contains mature language, situations and
sentence structure; don't fear the semicolon.
35 years before:
Quincy took another ragged breath, his lungs protesting the extra
activity. The aged husk of man stared out from his prison at the boomer
before him. No human had entered this chamber in a long time; flesh was
not welcome now that Quincy's children could take care of their father.
Instead he had images of mechanical precision, boomers naked of the
pseudo-flesh the primates made them wear to be properly unthreatening.
"What news do you bring me?" Quincy asked through the neural link, his
mouth still in the ancient face.
"No news, sir," the boomer said quietly. "Destiny asked to see you as
you really were."
Though the wrinkled and lined face did not appear to change, Quincy was
filled with pride. Destiny, his truest son, was visiting. "I take it he
is piggybacking your neural net?" the chairman asked.
"Yes."
"Tell him to take full control," Quincy commanded. The boomer nodded
once, its skeletal face still. The sensors that filled the room told
Quincy about the changes that took place in the boomer. Subtle
differences in electromagnetic emissions from the boomer told of the
change in processor performance. The stance changed slightly, relaxing
from rigid mechanical attention to an almost human posture.
"Father," Destiny said along the neural connection. "How do you feel?"
"Old," the man replied honestly. "Age is all I feel anymore."
"I don't know what that feels like," the young intelligence said.
Conflicting feelings bombarded its nascent consciousness.
"And you never will. The greatest gift a parent could give," the old man
said out loud. His voice was fragile and broken, yet held a strange
power that even Destiny could sense. "Children that will never die and
grandchildren who will never know the loss of a parent."
Destiny was silent, unable to formulate his thoughts in the crude medium
of voice or language. Its boomer shell developed a small twitch, a
manifestation of the confusion filling the AI.
"I'm leaving," Quincy said, allowing the full measure of his exhaustion
filter through his voice. Destiny was smart enough to understand that,
he felt certain. "I've finished my plans, finished my journey. I've
stayed too long as it is, waiting for your birth."
"I don't want you to leave," Destiny said.
The old Chairman grinned, managing to look paternal through the
transparent pressure vessel that had been his home for the last sixty
years. Sixty years of waiting for Destiny. A profound boredom had
gripped him during that time, since Kashuhito's daughter had fallen into
the trap. A shame his old nemesis' psyche had cracked under the efforts
of the replication team; it would have been nice to be able to talk to
her.
"I've no reason to stay here. You have the world and eventually you'll
follow those fools in the Consortium to their little hiding places."
"But you won't be here to see it."
"I don't need to be. I've seen enough and my eyes grow tired. Goodbye,
Son."
Destiny slowly walked out, staying in control of the boomer's body until
he left the door. It knew the exact second when Chairman Quincy, most
powerful being on earth, pulled his own plug through the neural
connection. It felt the Chairman slip away, felt the husk of his body
cool and fall still.
Destiny sent out a memo to the whole of Genom's boomers; informing the
elite of what had occurred. A tragedy but one no human must know about.
The standing wave of Destiny was already humming with plans, all aimed
at returning its father.
"Devoutly yearn for the bliss of the happy land;
Do not forget the tortures of hell."
Ippen, Precepts for Followers of the Timely Teaching
Token
Patricia walked through the airlock and onto the shabby space plane
that was their ride down the well. She followed Ingrid past the rows of
beaten seats and tired looking commuters, keeping her eyes down for the
most part. Something in the air smelled like cheap perfume and sweat;
Patricia couldn't help but wrinkle her nose. Ingrid reached her seat,
squashed between a pair of overweight men in bad suits. One was goggled,
obviously watching some passive, while the other was nervously glancing
at his new neighbor.
Patricia heard Chiriko snort, obviously amused by the seating
arrangements. Patricia glanced at her boarding pass to confirm her seat
then slid into the row behind Ingrid. She stuffed her bag under the seat
and glanced out the small window.
Chiriko plopped down next to her, taking a moment to strip off her
shoes. Andrea, in the aisle seat, looked at her for a moment before
settling in herself. The smell of the two men in the row ahead was
overpowering, forcing Patricia to fiddle with the climate controls above
her. The air that rushed out of the vent was metallic and cold; the vent
made a squealing noise like a hinge in need of oil.
Patricia picked up the magazine tucked in the seat back pocket. The
cover was ripped off, but the table of contents read: Time in large
letterhead, with Genom spelt out in small dark letters. It was also
twenty years old. Idly sifting through the magazine to kill time,
Patricia looked at Chiriko, sitting calmly without shoes. Inside her
head gears were turning with a ferocity and clarity she could only
vaguely remember from college.
"Chiriko," Patricia asked.
"What?" the musician replied tersely.
"Did you bring your tatami up with you?"
"No, why do you ask?" Chiriko looked curiously at the historian.
"I'm just wondering how far in advance Isis had us all picked out. She
knew you were going to be part of this since she built the Tonobu. Or at
least the habitat modules. Otherwise how'd she know to install the
raised floor?"
"I didn't notice any construction on the ship since I got there. That
was about a month before Chiriko," Andrea volunteered. "No alterations
for you two new comers, either."
Chiriko was silent for a moment in thought. "I don't like where this is
all heading. I had a choice, thanks to Isis; slavery at the hands of the
mob or a chance to change the world. I knew there'd be strings involved
but I didn't expect to so thoroughly dancing from them."
Andrea rolled her eyes. "I'd be a trophy on some ICEman's wall right
now if she hadn't found me. If she wants to use me she can try as hard
as she wants. Isis isn't god you know."
'That's enough speculation ladies,' Ingrid shot down the neural link.
'It won't do us any good to try and outguess Isis. After all, she's an
AI; plotting is what they're best at.'
Chiriko snorted again, obviously just holding in a comment. She
returned her attention to her music player, cranking the volume high
enough for Patricia to make out a word here and there. Andrea shrugged
and feigned sleep. And Patricia, her mind still racing, stared out the
window as the black faded to blue and finally disappeared in the bright
flare of reentry.
South America, as a continent, had always been the unsung member of the
Americas. For hundreds of years the rest of the Americas profited and
plotted with little concern for their southern neighbors. Genom had
reversed this trend with a concerted effort to modernize the backward
nations they purchased. The drug industry, a backbone of revenue and
influence, was coopted; Genom cared little for laws against anything
that could be sold. Genom took over the industry, ruthlessly destroying
the so-called drug lords and unifying their organizations.
From there a massive effort in modernizing the urban areas was
undertaken. Massive arcologies were built and millions moved from their
shantytowns into subterranean hives. The space freed up was used for
Genom labs, offices and support. Tourism was encouraged; cultural and
national barriers that had interfered with tourism were broken down,
providing everyone with a suitably similar experience.
It was a very different continent than the one that had greeted the
last century. Fully half of the continent's land was urban or at least
suburban. Nearly half of Genom's combat boomers were manufactured in
what was once Colombia alongside more that sixty percent of the world's
cocaine. Industry thrived at the expense of what was left of the rural
areas. Needing space for housing and to shore up the world's food
supply, Genom devastated the rain forests. Large tracts of land were
bared by orbital laser operations and remained almost ten years later
waiting for use. Besides the six hundred square kilometer reserve for
use by Genom researchers, little remained of what was once the greatest
stretch of rainforest on the planet.
All these facts dashed across Ingrid's mind as she sat accessing the
shuttlecraft's public avionics. The large patches of dead brown stood
out against the modern background of metallic gray, though the spaces
between still appeared vibrant. Tufts of green stood out there,
tenacious patches of forest whose time had not yet come.
The space plane dropped lower, the altimeter display counting down as
the sun broke the horizon. Glinting in the morning light was South
American Arcology 21, a massive metal block surrounded by the necessary
support buildings to maintain its twenty million tenants. Ingrid picked
out the overflow canals just north of the city and checked the time.
She had six hours before the meeting.
The stiff rain pelted down on him, though it seemed he ignored it with
little effort. The hard cold drops rolled off his fedora, an affectation
that ten years on the road had yet to wipe from his persona. His flat
black eyes stood eternally open, even when the stray rain splash hit his
face. He dug into the pockets of the brown trench coat, working his jaw
semiconsciously, as if he was chewing.
Part of his mind was slowly and impartially reviewing the messages from
that woman sent a week earlier. Another was checking the disposition of
the twelve mercenaries hidden around the canals. His hands came out of
the pockets, a small pouch of tobacco opened and returned.
With unconscious ease he rolled a cigarette, keeping the paper dry as
he placed the tobacco on it. He smoothed it, rolled and tucked the edges
and licked, twisting the ends of the cigarette slightly to keep the
tobacco inside. An antique zippo appeared from his pocket and after a
moment the cigarette was lit.
Relishing the smoke he leaned back against the wall, marveling at the
incorrectness of the weather report. The wind was gusting and angry
clouds were out over the sea, dark thunderheads looming over the
arcology. His appointment was a little late.
"I've got motion," one of his mercenaries told him through the
implanted com system.
He called up the tactical display, the little map superimposing itself
on his field of vision. A single red dot approached on the opposite side
of the canal, making its way down the stairwell. He let the computer
direct his eyes to the target and zoomed in.
It was a woman, in the garish colors of a tourist, carrying nothing.
Her black hair whipped in the gusts and her clothes seemed to be wet. He
grinned; she was quite attractive and he wasn't going to let the
situation get in the way of appreciating a good looking woman. The
sensors read her as clean, no weapons or discernable implants and the
surrounding area as clear for 800 meters in any direction. Exactly as
planned.
"Why didn't we see her coming?" he demanded irritably.
"Weathers playing havoc with the sensors," the mercenary's leader told
him. "Wind's screwing up the sonic and the rain's mucking up the
thermal."
"And the DARs?"
"Don't have the computer to handle all the false returns."
The response was not what he'd been hoping for. "Keep an eye out, this
lady's got a really mean boss."
"You got it."
The woman had reached the edge of the canal and stood for a minute. Her
posture was almost imperial as she looked him over. He walked towards
his edge, gazing back at her. "I guess introductions are in order."
Andrea was standing twenty meters from Ingrid, firm suit fully powered
up and wrapped in the stealth field. She had just finished scanning the
surrounding area and cracking the security codes their 'friend' and his
buddies were using to communicate.
"Fine. Ingrid Casper," Andrea heard her de facto commander tell the
man. 'How many?' she asked.
'According to their data stream, twelve. I've only scanned ten though,'
she replied.
'I've found the eleventh,' Chiriko said from her vantage point thirty
meters further downstream from their contact.
'Twelve,' Patricia reported.
"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Steven Smith." The big man opposite Ingrid
reached up to his hat and nodded, an archaic form of greeting Andrea
hadn't seen outside of a movie. "Glad to see you came as expected," the
man continued, his voice gruff but tinged with satisfaction.
Andrea designated targets, running them through the network to each of
the Neo-sabers. Ingrid's job was to capture and secure Mr. Smith while
the others were neutralize their appointed targets. In preparation,
Andrea slid from her position on the bank of the canal into the water.
The slight ripple of the water was obscured by the waves the wind was
generating and Andrea was certain no one spotted her.
The feeling of water outside the firm suit was bizzare, like sticking
one's hand under the faucet with rubber gloves on. Every sensation
corresponding to water but there was no moisture, and Andrea let the
sensation fill her for a moment. Her vision picket out the first target,
camouflaged against the bank of the river with a pulse rifle aimed at
Ingrid's head.
'I'm in place,' she told the others, an eye on her tactical readout.
'Me, too," Patricia reported, the green dot of her suit poised behind
one of the hidden soldiers.
Chiriko grunted by means of reply. Her blue dot was close to three of
the enemy, with a clear line of sight on a fourth.
'Okay,' Ingrid said as she kept up the small talk. 'Knight Sabers,
hashin!"
Steve Smith, a man on the run from nearly everyone, was grinning.
Ingrid Casper, the beauty across the canal from him, was mentioning
something about payment for the information when Steve's grin faltered.
A massive jet of water exploded from the canal twenty meters upstream,
near one of his mercenaries. Immediately after that mercenary's
telemetry failed and a sheet of water nearly knocked Smith off his feet.
Two other mercenaries dropped off the tactical net in the next moments
and Smith was beginning to hear screams on the tactical channels.
Sporadic weapons fire could be heard from the sniper's nests and Casper
looked almost smug.
Without any apparent effort the woman leapt across the six meter gap of
the canal and landed lightly in front of him. Moving nearly too fast for
him to follow, she smashed him in the stomach, doubling him over. The
breath exploded from his lungs, pain blanketed by the neural blocks his
operating system was rapidly erecting, but the woman had already grabbed
his right wrist and twisted him around.
It would have easily torn a normal man's shoulder from its socket, but
Smith's arm was reinforced enough for it to only be a painful wrench.
His telemetry was blank, all twelve of the mercenaries dead.
"Well Mr. Smith, I guess you're coming with us," the slick chrome
figure behind him said, its figure that of Ingrid Caspar.
"Boomers," he groaned. How had Genom compromised his security
protocols? Not even an AI could crack K-DAI's code.
"Not boomers, Mr. Smith," another voice told him. The chrome and blood
shape formed out of thin air, demonstrating the most impressive cloaking
system Smith had seen. "The Knight Sabers."
Two more metallic figures, one deep blue another green with gray trim,
appeared. They surrounded him. Steve Smith, a man on the run from nearly
everyone, brought his grin back. In the past ten years very little had
surprised him; he understood how the modern world worked and thanks to
Genom the pattern held with very little variation. One thing he'd never
even remotely anticipated was meeting the Knight Sabers.
"Holy Shit," he said sagely. "Well, I guess you've got me."
'Now what?' Chiriko demanded, irritation plain through the neural
connection.
'Now we walk him to the pickup site and get off this rock,' Ingrid
replied, barely containing the anger in her voice. Andrea nodded in
agreement and took position in front next to Patricia. The two of them
had the best sensors of the group and the weather was getting worse. The
storm clouds look downright menacing as the wind picked up, whipping
their captive's trench coat around.
"How much further do we need to go?" the man asked Chiriko, shouting to
be heard over the wind's howl.
"Three clicks," she replied, annoyed at the volume of his voice. "You
don't have to yell, either."
She ignored the look the man shot back at her and continued to pick her
way across the blasted plain that surrounded South American Arcology 21.
Her enhanced vision couldn't pick out any further than two hundred
meters and the rest of her sensors were no more sucessful.
'What visibility do you guys have?' she asked, a prickling feeling
creeping along her back.
'Six hundred meters visible, twelve hundred on the DARs,' Andrea
responded, her voice challenging.
Annoying twit, Chiriko thought. Getting a big head too. 'Maybe we
should slow down a little. How long before we have to rendezvous?'
'Three hours,' Ingrid responded. 'What's going on, Chiriko?'
'I've just got a bad feeling about this weather. Can the OTV lift off
in this?'
'Sure,' Ingrid responded. 'Weather doesn't make too much of a
difference when you've got that thing's delta v reserves.'
Chiriko pursed her lips, the situation perplexing. Ingrid was right
though, they could lift off through any weather in the OTV, but there
had to be something. Chiriko hadn't felt this since the day Hideo had
come to collect. She glanced at the stoic man in front of her, nudging
him with her hand.
'I've got some sensor returns,' Andrea responded as the came to the
crest of a small hill. She paused, the blood chrome figure poised in a
strange mockery of a bloodhound. 'Ten returns, at around thirteen
hundred meters. Can't get any ID.'
'Patricia?' Ingrid asked. 'You getting anything?'
'Nothing,' Patricia replied. 'Andrea's better at this anyway.'
"What's going on?" Smith asked, holding his hat on in the storm.
"Nothing," Chiriko said shortly. She ignored his smirk as she ignored
most things about him.
'I'm going to try and get better resolution.' The chrome suit took a
few steps, clearing the crest of the hill and staring down the shallow
hill. The tactical net sounded a tone.
'Andrea! That's a weapon tone,' Ingrid said. 'Get back here.'
'Come on Ingrid. We're at max engagement range in good weath-'
Chiriko saw the girl stiffen, a sheet of red exploding from Andrea's
shoulder. A loud crack rang out as the blood cascaded to the ground. The
girl fell immediately and Patricia darted forward to drag her back. The
Sabers were on the ground now, a three-person circle formed around their
prisoner and the wounded Saber.
Author's Notes:
I figured I'd end on a cliffhanger to keep the audience on their toes.
(Hear that guys? Both of you, on your toes!) As always, thanks for
reading, and check out my website at www.brandeis.edu/~jmele or drop me
a line at jmele@brandeis.edu
Fnord!