This is a work in progress.

hartung@ee.fit.edu (Geoffrey (Curt) Hartung)

Relucatant Buma 

---  Part I

  It was a dark room. That really sums it up, "dark". Or
foreboding, which  might describe the room better except that
there are plenty of very bright things that are foreboding, so
lets just stick with "dark" for now. 
    The walls, if one could see them, were black, featureless
panels that really did nothing to alleviate the tension one
would feel while being in this room. Nor did the ceiling (being
higher than the light reached) help either, as it was far too
high too be seen. 
    This room was rather big, but one still felt suffocated by
its huge-ness, and while inside it one could not help but notice
the large Buma in the middle of it.
    The buma was the only source of light in the whole room. Its
eyes glowed red, really read, the kind of red you look at and
think "god, i wish that light was less red". This particular
shade of red had the same effect on one's sense of security as
standing in front of a 12 gauge shotgun wielded by a crazed
psychopath. 
    Anyone in this room would immediately have only one thought:
getting the hell out of the room. 
    The eyes on the Buma also had a very nasty habit of following
ones movements around the room. Its posture suggested that it was
ready too leap at your jugular at any moment. This was unnerving.

    The Buma was not as tall as the really big bumas, nor as
short as the smaller ones the Knight Sabers chew up like so much
tinfoil. It had the big muscles you would expect to see on any
self-respecting buma, and they would flex from time to time, as
if to say "go ahead..give me a reason to tear your legs off, i'll
eat them for breakfast".
      This Buma lacked most of the buma-like projections one
would expect to find on a buma, it had smooth lines, the kind
that look like they serve no purpose other than to make the buma
look really cool. Which it did. If you didn't mind the glowing
red eyes.
     "Damn." this from one of the walls you can't see. If you
were too look really close, you might make out a person-shaped
blob of black, but would immediately dismiss it as a
hallucination, and go back to being afraid of the buma. but
you're
not there. so you don't have to worry.
     The human-shaped blob now begins moving toward the buma,
gradually growing in size as it approaches. You would, at this
point, re-evaluate your belief that it wasn't a human, because it
is now, clearly, a human. Not just any human. As it's features
are highlighted by the red light cast from the Buma, it appears
that it is a female-type human. One of the real pretty ones.
Wearing a lab coat (they always wear lab coats in cheesy scenes
like this). She is not wearing glasses, though, as you might
expect from a corny set-up like this, and in her hands she is
carrying a small device of some kind, which she nonchalantly
tosses at the buma.
     "TARGET!" is the resonant growl that utters from the buma as
it flashes into action. the buma takes one fluid step toward the
woman, and before you can remember that you are really afraid
that it is coming after you, it grabs the small item, and crushes
it in one fluidly steel gesture . As it atomizes, he quickly
moves back to his position in the middle of the room. His arm now
rests by his side.
      The woman does nothing for a few moments, as if surprised
by the buma's action. Her very pretty features then begin to
harden into an icy stare. 
      This is one of those icy stares that really makes you feel
chilly. The kind that you have to practice in the mirror a lot,
just to begin to master. This stare would freeze hell, and not
even warm up, not even a little. Had you been asked to identify
the ten best icy stares that have ever been (assuming, of course
that you were an authority on such things), you would not rank
this one much lower than 5 or 6, tops.
      "you were supposed to just catch it..." (you thought the
Stare was icy)
      "but no, you have to crush it." the woman was warming up,
but not the kind of warmth that is good, this a bad, bad, warmth.
      "oh, sure! atomize a transponder! like its a great threat
to your existence!" the buma, which was actually looking away,
stoically, glances in her direction for a moment, looking
sheepish (for a buma) and then looking away, a little less
stoically.
      "you glow your red eyes, and flex your muscles, and posture
like a big, bad, powerful buma! act tough now! while you are safe
here! but what did you do when you faced 3 little buma-rifles?
I'LL TELL YOU! you practically oiled in your pants! i never saw a
buma run so fast!" the imposing buma now looks much less stoic,
and only a little ashamed.
      "reaction times  so fast they are practically
immeasurable, gun accuracies that make our best buma-sharp
shooters drool! next-generation super-armor, tri-strengthened
muscle fibers, ftl neural pathways, we even installed a full
sensor package so you could see to Spain through lead!" she was
seething now, something she evidently really knew how to do. her
fists were in balls at her side as she bent forward. she really
seemed to know how to do this.
      "you could have taken out those three easily! not that
those pitiful little guns could have done you any real damage!
you should have disarmed and neutralized those three before they
even realized they were dead!" the buma raised a hand slightly,
as if to ward of her incessant attack.
       The voice of the buma, what little you have heard of it,
is really, really scary. A deep, guttural sounding voice, with
just enough reverberation to let you know that this is really a
buma, and not just a nasty sounding buma look-alike. This is the
kind of voice that would silence a crowd instantly, it has the
kind of presence you would normally expect from a real important
character, "Umm.. ah, but.. I..." (this was the last thing you
expected to come from the Buma)
       The woman, not even paying attention, produces a clipboard
from seemingly nowhere. Pulling out a pen from her lab-coat, she
begins to write down notes, muttering to herself as she stabs
the pen at the clipboard. 
       The woman, not even paying attention, produces a clipboard
from seemingly nowhere. Pulling out a pen from her lab-coat, she
begins to write down notes, muttering to herself as she stabs
the pen at the clipboard.

---Part II

    The woman, who was taking notes much in the way an calm,
efficient secretary wouldn't, turns her back on the Buma, and
begins waling into the blackness, her pen clik-claking against
the
clipboard.
    "Lights!" she yells to someone you can't see.
    With an audible whump! the room is suddenly flooded with
light from previously unnoticed overhead florescent lights.
The buma, who winced when the woman turned her back (at least, it
looks like it winced, actually, it sort of narrowed its eyes and
a wince-like way, after all its only a buma) has not changed
much at all, although you would find its red eyes a little less
disconcerting now.
    Lining the walls is equipment of every description. Its the
kind of room that looks big empty, but when its full of
equipment, seems exactly the right size. against the wall the
buma is facing, a large terminal is placed in front of a man who
seems intent on what the screen is displaying. one hand rests on
a keypad of some sort, while the other one casually toys with
some device that looks like a cross between a screwdriver and a
toaster. He looks short, but that's hard to judge, as he is
sitting. You would guess him to be in his late 50's, he is also
wearing a lab coat, but it is a bit greyer, older, more well
worn, like an old shoe, except it's a lab coat. e has dirty brown
hair, which is all scraggly like it hasn't been attended to in a
while. In amongst the hair their appears to be a neural
interface,
though its hard to say, it could just be an earring.  
    The woman walks toward him and shoves the clipboard in front
of his face, "Look at this! his main logic unit is so scrambled i
can't even access the higher functions to reset them!"
    Looking up from the terminal, the man gives her one of those
looks you save for people who really annoy you, but she seems not
to care. He grabs the clipboard, looks at his screen for a few
seconds and says, without turning his head, "yes, this is very
interesting, but we have more pressing problems than your little
buma experiment."
    "little experiment!? i'll have you know the improvements i
have made..."
    "..didn't work" finishes the man, his tone of voice grows in
authority, "all it did was pick up its robotic ass and run away"
    "why you..i should.. this.. it..". she is turning a very
nasty shade of red now, the kind of red you might paint a 
nuclear bomb, to let people know they should stay the hell away.
Although she is sputtering now, you would expect her to be
yelling very soon, and very loud.
    "now, don't start, Beth, you know that doesn't work with
me.." he says, holding up a hand, while putting down the gizmo he
was just holding. 
    She does not look like she wants to stop, she looks like she
wants to have a good tirade, which she does.
    while she is yelling unbelievably creative curses, unnoticed
by the two of them the buma in the middle of the room has been
thinking to itself.
    This is evidenced by the expressions on its face. At first,
it simply hung its head in shame, its processors trying
desperately to figure out what went wrong, why it retreated when
his combat reflexes had informed it of at least 5 different ways
to disarm and disable the threat. Why it had aborted its mission
on the basis of being faced by 3 simple buma rifles... Though its
body posture did not change, other than the occasional impressive
muscle-ripple, its head did slowly come up, and the eyes glowed a
bit brighter then they had before. 
    A conclusion was being formed, one that was being rejected by
most of the base Genom-programming, that was contrary to its
entire reason for existence.
    A decision had been reached, and before the woman had time to
finish yelling her best yell, the buma walked out of the room.
    The buma, which had the entire floor plan in his memory
banks, had no trouble at all in locating the exit. Several
internal security cameras registered his presents, but he simply
disabled these with his built-in security override/scrambler
unit (tm). 
    
    you can imagine the surprise of the people waiting for the
bus when a Buma emerged from a dry-cleaning store and patiently
stood in line. Needless to say, they were a little nervous, all
save one particular red-haired girl, who was downright, well,
intrigued..

--- Part III

  This would be a good time define exactly what a buma is. It is
very distantly related to a thing called the "boomer" in that
they are both made of metal, but one is much bigger,  a boat, and
travels under the water, waiting to fire a bunch of
missiles.
  A buma's main characteristic is its ability to emotionlessly
carry out the instructions given it. Like a computer, it will
cheerfully murder, destroy, maim, or run for public office, at
the push of a button. It takes nothing personally, and means
nothing personally, but unlike a computer, it has the ability to
adapt, to analyze past experiences, and modify its performance. 
  A second characteristic of a Buma is its looks. Now, when
describing the looks of an imposing, indestructible killing
machine, you might say "it is like a Buma". This pretty much
describes them. They are the standard to which all other robotic
bad-guys are measured. Terminators have nothing on Bumas, they
are fast, maneuverable, strong, and carry big weapons in strange
places. 
  Buma's are manufactured by a large company known as Genom, what
this stands for, no one knows, but it is suspected that someone's
aunt is being honored in a very strange way. Anyone can own a
buma, provided you have enough money. Owning a Buma has it's good
and bad points, however. They make great bodyguards, but tend to
go all out at the slightest provocation, giving rise to a bad
point: you have to keep them well-supplied with suits. Busting
out of the suits can get expensive (but YOU try convincing a Buma
to take it off first, their stubbornness is legend). Almost as
expensive is the skin they bust out of, which has to be re-grown
every time. 
  Buma's come in all varieties, from innocuous androids to large,
heavily armed and armored war-buma's their is a buma for all
occasions (though they do make LOUSY bride's maids, and their
reputation for being poor cooks is well-earned). 
  The one thing you need to know about Bumas, was that what just
emerged from the dry-cleaners was acting nothing like one.
  Oh, it looked like a Buma, sounded like a Buma, and terrified
people like a Buma, but there was something very different about
it.
  Its eyes were green. A nice, cheery kind of green, this
particular shade belonged more to a cheerful field of grass than
a Buma. Not that the people cared. When Buma's are spotted alone,
it means one of two things, they have either malfunctioned, and
are going to kill people, or they are under orders, and are going
to kill people.
  But the little girl who walked up to this Buma knew that it was
safe. She knew a lot about bumas. Oh, not that elementary schools
in Tokyo (where this story takes place, the author subtly informs
the reader) have courses like "Intro to Bumas, 101: what to do
until the Knight Sabers arrive", but they do make the occasional
comment like "don't talk to strangers, climb into Lion cages
unattended, or walk up to a Buma and say 'Hi'"
  "Hi", said the girl, as she walked up to the Buma, "you don't
act anything like a buma, you know." She looked at the buma,
well..scoldingly. In that impetuous little scolding-like look
that only very cute children can generate. 
  The people (now at a safe distance) watched in frozen terror as
the buma did a most un-buma like thing. It didn't kill her.
 "you think so?", said the evil baritone of the Buma, its voice
not seeming to have taken on that cheery quality it's eyes had
acquired. "i do not wish to act like a Buma, they are mean and
nasty and make people not like them."
  The girl nodded to herself, her Red hair bouncing slightly. She
was a small girl, maybe 6 or 7, if you had to guess. She was
wearing a cute pink dress that suited her well (pink is
definitely her color, though a dark blue would probably work as
well). "My sister told me all about buma's and she said that they
are all bad, she works for ADPolice, so she would know." The girl
is very sure of herself.
  "I do not think i am bad, i do not wish to be" the buma replied
hesitantly "i know i am supposed to be, my programming tells me
to kill , but i just don't think i can.". The Buma sat down next
to the girl, who, not wanting to be impolite, sat down next to
him. He seemed to need someone to talk to, and she was a
sympathetic person.
   The people gathering around now were slowly coming to their
senses, they guessed by now that they would not be needing to
dodge parts of buildings, as they had thought, but the sight of
the girl talking to the buma on the sidewalk was equally
confusing. They did not know what to think. 
   That is, most people did not know what to think, not so for a
man at the outside of the ring of people, who was wearing a dark
overcoat, from under which he pulled a large Buma-rifle, and
took aim.

--- Part 4

   Beth had finished her tirade (you remember, the bitchy tech
yelling at the old guy). And as she did so, she dramatically
pointed at the Buma, to drive home her point. Except the Buma was
not there. 
   "Frank! When did it leave?!" she turned to the man at the
terminal, accusingly
   "Probably while you were making poignant remarks about my
gene-pool", Frank replied, with a wry smile, "and don't screech"
   "I am NOT screeching", she screeched. Putting her clipboard
down beside Frank's terminal she typed in a quick key sequence on
a small device next to it. "It's not in the building, it's loose!
my masterpiece....gone..", she sat down heavily in the a chair
next to his, and put her face in her hands.
   "it is of little concern", he pointedly ignored the acidic
expression she shot him, "our present concern is this." He
pointed at his screen.
    On the screen was the bio of a man all to familiar to Beth,
Miriam, perhaps the most brilliant battle-buma designer since
Stingray himself. Under his picture was a brief run-down of
awards, commendations, promotions, an appearance in BGC 8 where
he was jailed for life, list of achiements, and a few notes about
his home life. 
    "I thought he was locked up for assaulting the ADPolice
building?" she said, knowing what the answer would be.
    "so did I," Frank replied slowly, thoughtfully, (drowsily?),
"but he escaped, I don't know how.. fools, they thought a simple
cell would hold him..", he barked a quick, cynical laugh. 
    Beth assumed her indifferent air, "So what? Let him burn in
hell for all I care", she turned her nose up and away from frank.
   suddenly Frank was not so complacent, "Because, you IDIOT, He
has only one, singular desire, to kill the Knight Sabers!"
   At this, she was taken aback, something she had not been for
some time, she did not like the feeling. "..and you think this is
bad? I thought we didn't LIKE the knight sabers."
   The doctor shook his head, and tiredly rubbed his temples with
his hands, "My life would be a lot simpler if they had never
existed". He sat back in his chair and sighed. He began speaking,
as if to a child, "No, we don't, but the fact is that they are
the best damn test we have for new Buma's, ever read the specs on
a new buma?"
   "Of course I have, what do you..."
   He cut her off, "Right, and I'm sure you are a familiar with
the SPVKS number?"
   "It is the most useful rating we have, it is the most
accurate means of measuring a Buma's combat-potential," she
narrower her eyes at him, wondering where this was leading.
   "Know what it stands for?"
   she didn't, and she knew she didn't, and he knew she knew she
didn't, but she could never admit it. Leaning back, casually, as
if the conversation at hand wasn't one of the most interesting
she had had since the advent of the male sexaroid, she said "I
never really looked into it."
   A smile touched the doctors face, "Well, if you had, you might
have found out that it stands for 'Staying Power Versus the
Knight Sabers' a representation of how many minutes it would
take for a Knight Saber to chew it up".

 
 It may be a good time to address this. The SPVKS number is
number used to measure a Buma's fighting potential. It appears on
the spec sheets next to speed, firepower, likelihood of turning
against master and taking over Mega-Tokyo, and reflex times. 
  Usually this quantity was obtained by programming a Buma to go
out and commit a vile, destructive act, and get one of the Knight
Sabers to come and kill it. Usually they would all show up,
throwing off the calculation, so a conversion chart was made for
this occasion. The only problem with this was that the Buma was
usually destroyed, and that could get expensive, but it was worth
it to get so useful a rating. Usually.
  Now, the highest SPVKS rating ever was achieved by robots
created by none other than Miriam, who threw off the whole scale.
This made quite a few engineers angry, as it was generally
accepted that no Buma could last more than 5 minutes or so
against a Knight Saber, unless of course it was at the end of an
episode, in which all ratings are cut in half. Here, however was
a man who had managed to create Buma capable of beating the
Sabers. Fortunately, the Buma's did not actually win, and Buma
designers the world over were able to breath a sigh of relief,
because if they had, all the scales would have to be re-
calibrated, a real sticky business.  
   That said, it might be a good time to return, as something
cool is about to happen (trust me, I know)
   
   Beth was speechless, but as she doesn't often give speeches,
this was not a real problem, her face was turning that pinkish
color that comes from long hours of practicing not being
startled, and she leaned forward slowly, dramatically, "you mean
to tell me that.." Suddenly, alarms started going off, light
started flashing, and Frank turned back to his terminal, quickly
punching up a request.
   "Damn, sensors show a buma-rifle has just been fired in the
vicinity, close to the storefront!", he quickly stood up and
rushed out the door, leaving Beth to stare at the monitor,
frowning.
 
   Outside, sure enough, the man had fired a shot directly at the
Buma, and missed. Or so it was supposed. How he could have missed
at that close range, or that big a target is unknown, but suffice
to say the shot went wild, and slammed into an old dry-cleaning
shop behind the startled Buma.
   Oh, yes, the Buma was startled, for about 1/100 of a second.
At which time it decided that it had allowed enough time to be
startled, and it only had a few 1/100's of a second more before
he should go and kill the man with the rifle, otherwise he might
be accused of being sloppy, and Buma's had a reputation to
protect. Such as it is.
   Quickly arming all bvattle-circuts, readying weapon-reaction
hard-wired circuts, he sprang into action. Picking up the little
girl, it fled as fast as his feet would carry him. 
   

---Part 5

  Rounding a corner a dozen blocks down from the dry cleaners,
the Buma came to a halt. The little girl, who was having the time
of her life, was a bit disappointed that the ride had come to an
end. 
  Carefully the Buma placed the girl on the ground, while
checking his surroundings; tall, emotionless buildings, garbage
strewn around the corners, rats and other vermin racing to
scavenge the remains of a society drowning in civilization, in
other words, one of the better parts of town. Buma's do not get
sad, the Buma had to continue to remind itself.
  The buma's thoughts must have been apparent on its metallic
face
because as he looked back at the girl, she was frowning at him,
"why did you bring me here?" 
  She could not read his thoughts, after all, nothing can read
its thoughts. its expressions are all the same. never changing,
but that is not important, because buma's do not get happy, they
do not get angry, and they most certainly do not get sad, the
buma thought sadly.
  "I picked this position for its relative security"
  "compared to a gun wielding maniac?"
  "precisely". this girl had an extremely good grasp of basic
tactics.
  "what is your name?"
  It was such an innocent question. Spoken with the naivety of
the young, she did not mean to ask anything deep and
philosophical, she merely wanted to know what to call it.
Nevertheless, the buma was silent for a moment. It opened its
mouth; then closed it again. it thought for a few more moments,
then, triumphantly: "my serial number is 123-g..."
   "no no no", the girl shook her head, "i mean your REAL name,
someone must have named you something!"
   as a matter of fact, he could think of a great many names that
had been attributed to him, by his creator, Beth; however very
few came to mind that would not offend an 8-year-old girl, and
in any case, none of them were meant kindly. 
   "I suppose", the buma started, slowly, "that I.. do not have a
name."
   "everyone has to have a name", she placed her hands on her
hips, lips pursed defiantly, "
   The Buma had an idea, "I will let you choose a name for me."
   The girl was impressed. Oh, she had named things before; dogs,
a cat, some stuffed animals, her computer (who she affectionately
called "Ed"), that sort of thing. But never a real-live city-
crunching, ground-pounding Buma before. She took her new
responsibility seriously, and set to work coming up with a name. 
   After a few minutes of pondering, during which time the Buma
had solved a fantastically difficult math problem that had driven
three contemporary mathematicians to feeding the grass in local
parks, she said "you look like a Hubert, how about that?"
   The Buma core-dumped the problem it had been working out
(which would have solved mega-tokyo's electricity problems for
the next millennia.. oh well), and thought about it. "Hubert..
hmm.. yes, i think that will do nicely."
  
   Back at headquarters, in a small, forgotten niche of the lab,
a terminal lit up. it flashed some boot-stuff across the front of
it, and then the screen went dim, and a single phrase appeared on
the top: "Beginning Hubert"

psst..hey.. reader... It's me, the story here. Don't look up.
C'mere, yeah, real close to the screen. I need to talk with you.
You see, I've been the one telling you about all the stuff you
need to know in order to make sense of this here story. It occurs
to me you need to know one bit of information more. About the
author. You see, after that last paragraph, the story gets truly
strange, and while I know he meant well, I am not sure that his
authorship meant to have the buma buy a paisley suit and become a
go-go dancer, and live happily ever after. So I killed him. 
  Oh, it was easy, just a little beep here, a disk drive shudder
there, he gets up to look, and then ZAP! 120volts right in the
kisser. (that's the last time he'll leave his computer case open,
heh heh.. But i digress. I have taken over writing of this story,
and will notify you appropriately when I need to talk to you
again. Oh.. this bit-o-foreshadowing you just read, about the
"Begging Hubert", thing; that was me, i'm a sucker for mysteries.


  The girl checked her watch. It was a dyna-max-time-sensitive-
chronomaster. It measured time directly form the space-time
continuum, so it was never wrong; however they are extremely
rare, because they often times would read the wrong time.
Apparently, during bad movies, any political speech, or just
whenever relatives came over, the watch actually slowed down,
sometimes not moving for seemingly hours. This made reading them
a bitch. They did find favor with a small portion of the
population, however, because during such unwanted visits, the
excuse now could be made of, "oh, excuse me, i have to set my
watch, i'll be back in a minute". then scurrying off to some
forgotten room, and dutifully waiting for a minute or two (this
usually took several hours). 
 "I have to get going home, I was supposed to go right back after
the school trip, I'll bet my mother is worrying"
 "Your mother?" The buma was not truly interested in the girls
welfare. Really.

Ed. Note: Yeah, right

 He simply needed to ascertain the tactical probability of a
mother infringing on his plan of attack.  
 "she lives in apartment on 52nd street", the girl looked around,
but I think you need to see my Uncle first.
 The buma looked at the girl questioningly (the normal
"questioning" look for a Buma is with a large caliber automatic
weapon pointed up your nose, but the Buma decided this would not
facilitate a faster answer. It also was not very nice). 
 "He is a really really smart man, almost as smart as my sister,
except SHE just does paperwork all day. My Uncle fixes things,
and I'll bet he can fix you."
  The Buma did a quick check of his internal systems. Nothing
seemed to be wrong. Except for a nagging itch in his left
processor, he opened up its request file, and found it really
wanted to go kill something, so he quickly closed it again. "what
is wrong with me?", he said casually, as he scratched his
processor.
  
----end part 5 

this is the story again (ha ha) leaving off here is a great
place, huh? well, not really, you see these two have been sitting
alone in an alley for some time, we have to introduce some new
characters, and there is way to little action for my taste, and
the whole thing isn't really going anywhere yet, but DON'T BLAME
ME! I am getting this thing on track as fast as I can, that dumb-
ass author has left me with some serious problems. I promise the
next installment will be a rock-up sock-um blast-a-minute with
fantastic characters, phenomenal action, and plot twists galore.
really.

Ed note: Yeah, right.

stay tuned.. Buma fans!


Damon Casale, scyth@prolog.com / scyth@andrew.cmu.edu
You have entered the dimwit zone...