Disclaimer and credits will be found after the end of the
chapter.
DRUNKARD'S WALK II: ROBOT'S RULES OF ORDER
by Robert M. Schroeck
Chapter 2: All This, And Robot Stew
Draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice and I'll
tell you a story. -- F. Scott Fitzgerald, Notebooks
The truth is a snare: you cannot have it, without being caught.
You cannot have the truth in such a way that you catch it, but
only in such a way that it catches you. -- Soren Kierkegaard
IDEC, a wholly-owned subsidiary of GENOM. Saturday, June 28,
2036. 8:51 PM.
Ring.
Ring.
Pickup.
"Good evening, ma'am. Sorry to disturb you, ma'am."
Pause.
"Half an hour ago we had a possible interpenetration incident."
Pause.
"No, ma'am. Not in the lab... We're nowhere near that stage, as
you'll recall from our status reports. It was... it was
somewhere out-outside the lab."
Pause.
"Somewhere in the city, ma'am. No, ma'am. An incursion."
Pause.
"No, ma'am. We didn't cause it. We were more than thirteen
hours from the phase one test when we detected it."
Pause.
"But the project... we're almost..."
Pause.
"It will take no less than six months. None of our equipment is
portable, let alone designed for field use."
Pause.
"Six weeks? We can't..."
Pause.
"My apologies, ma'am. I understand. Yes. We will attempt to
locate the incursion site and perform some kind of survey right
away. Yes, m'am. Good-bye, ma'am."
Click.
"Fucking lavender-haired bitch."
* * *
An alley near the Tokyo Tower. Sunday, June 29, 2036. 12:11 AM.
AD Police Officer Daley Wong was wearing his business face as he
climbed out of his car. "I heard the bare bones version on the
ride over. What have you got?"
Inspector Leon McNichol pulled off his shades and wiped his
forehead with the back of his hand. "Well, for one, I very
highly doubt that this gathering of upright young citizens was
attacked without provocation." He replaced his dark glasses and
stared into the alley. "Ever since the Griffin, the Outriders
have had a chip on their collective shoulder. This sounds more
like they tried to shake down someone -- or something -- that
they shouldn't've."
Daley nodded, his eyes slightly unfocussed in concentration. "Do
you buy the boomer story?"
Leon motioned towards the alley, and the two officers slowly made
their way around the ambulances and the police vehicles.
Emergency personnel were treating a variety of leather-clad gang-
bangers. He shook his head. "Not quite. If it was a boomer, it
was the closest thing to a nonviolent boomer that I've ever seen.
Out of a dozen victims, not one death. No one even critically
wounded. Broken bones, concussions, abrasions, bruises, but no
actual wounds. Some internal hemorrhaging, according to the
paramedics, but that's to be expected given the beating they
took." He ducked under the yellow boundary tape.
Daley snorted as he followed suit. "Point taken. That's like no
boomer attack I've ever heard of. No matter what they're
claiming."
"Also no traces of pseudoflesh, no shredded clothing or shoes,
no Abotex nanomarkers, none of the usual leftovers."
The two stepped into the shadowed alleyway. Around them, ADP
officers bustled, taking scans and measurements, and collecting
evidence. "There's another thing. Look," Leon said, kneeling
next to a pair of officers bent over something on the ground.
The cracked and worn pavement was almost completely buried under
a layer of dirt and garbage. Traces of the fight remained in the
soft surface. Leon indicated a particular footprint. "Check
this out." Inches away, one of the officers poured alginate into
a form held steady by another.
Daley knelt next to Leon and peered at the mark. "Bootprint.
And...?"
"Well, first off, there's only one set of these prints. They're
pretty distinctive, especially compared to the Outriders'. You
ask me, it's our perp." Leon waved vaguely down the alley.
"Look."
Daley rose and traced the prints back through the alley. He
whistled. "This boy's a real dancer, isn't he?"
Leon nodded. "Some kind of martial artist, I think. More
evidence that it wasn't a boomer." He shot a grin at his
partner. "Unless they're making kung-fu cyberdroids these days."
Daley looked less amused. "Genom does sell bodyguard boomers,"
he pointed out. "Don't they...?"
"Yes," Leon nodded. "But they go for brute strength over
finesse. Not to mention overkill. Whoever or whatever this was,
it's much slicker -- and didn't use deadly force."
"Why do you keep saying 'whatever'?" Daley continued to track
the attacker's steps.
"Because no human, no matter how good, should be able to do what
these prints indicate." Leon rose and paced off one section.
"As far as I can figure, our perp made a 20-foot running broad
jump here."
"And he still managed to fight off a dozen Outriders while he was
getting up from that?" Daley whistled again. "Not bad."
"Wrong," Leon said, staring at the ground. "He didn't land on
his butt, like you'd think. He made the jump, and pivoted on one
foot as he landed -- looks like he kicked one of the Outriders --
then kept on moving. Like a 20-foot jump was just another kind
of step for him. Oh, and it gets better. If you follow his
prints back far enough, you'll find that they end. Looks like he
jumped down from the top of one of the buildings. But he landed
flat on his ass that time."
Daley made a choking sound. "And he walked away from that?"
Leon nodded. "Whatever this guy is, he's not human, at least not
any more," he pronounced. "It looks like we're dealing with a
boomeroid. But I haven't seen or heard of a boomeroid with this
kind of augmentation in at least 10 years."
"A heavily-boosted boomeroid martial artist." Daley shook his
head. "It's going to be hell trying to find him and take him
down." The two men began to make their way back to the mouth of
the alley.
"That's why I'm having our forensics boys go to town here. We're
going to need every shred of evidence we can get to I.D. this
boy. That bootprint is going to be a good start, but I've also
got MacNamara interviewing the conscious Outriders so she can try
to put together a composite sketch of the guy." He stopped short
at the sound of a commotion at the alley's end. "What the hell?"
Leon broke into a half-run, and after a moment of surprise, Daley
followed. They found one of the officers engaged in a quiet but
energetic argument with a tall, athletic-looking fellow with
glasses.
As they skidded to a halt, Leon barked, "What's going on here,
Lieutenant?"
Lieutenant Vong saluted, and turned the downward stroke into a
gesture that encompassed not only the bespectacled man, but also
several other persons, who stood tensely several feet away.
Their faces betrayed a mixture of annoyance and fear, which
interested Leon. At their feet were at least a half dozen silver
and black cases of the kind used for transporting scientific
equipment. "These civilians say they want to see the crime
scene, sir."
Leon raised an eyebrow and looked at the tall man in glasses.
"Daniel Ohara, IDEC," he said, bowing slightly towards Leon. He
held out a sheaf of papers. "We have authorization to survey the
site after your people are finished." With his other hand, he
swept a shock of his light brown hair out of his eyes. "They
*will* be finished soon?" he added, his emphasis making it clear
that, as far as he was concerned, they had better.
Leon forebore to answer. Instead, he slowly and carefully
removed his glasses, closed them, and put them away inside his
leather jacket before carefully unfolding and reading the papers.
Ohara and his people were from a subsidiary of GENOM, no big
surprise, and had a special dispensation to examine the scene.
He made a note of the signature on the orders -- yet another name
to add to his list of public servants slopping at the GENOM
trough. He grunted, and flicked his eyes up to see Nakamura and
O'Shaughnessey giving the alley the final once-over.
He handed the papers back to Ohara. "So, what brings a bunch of
GENOM tech geeks out to a dirty alley after midnight on a
Saturday night?" he asked.
Ohara compressed his lips into a flat, unconvincing simulation of
a smile. "When may we survey the alley, Inspector?" he insisted.
Leon looked over to see O'Shaughnessey giving him the high sign.
He turned his attention back to the civilian. "What *is* your
interest in this crime scene, Ohara-san? You do realize that
your permissions and letters there don't exempt you from my
questioning if you're somehow involved in the commission of a
crime?"
Ohara's right eye twitched, and he half-turned to look back at
his team for a long moment. He seemed to be weighing the
question in his mind. Finally, he turned back to Leon. "One of
IDEC's businesses is maintaining GENOM's network of celphone
repeater stations. We have one such station in this alleyway,
suitably camouflaged, of course, to prevent vandalism. It
reported systems failure to our central monitoring station a few
hours ago. Since GENOM demands that its comm grid be functioning
perfectly at all times, we were dispatched to handle the repairs.
Evidently whatever... altercation... occurred in the alley must
have damaged it."
Leon nodded. "Of course. Well, our forensics team is finished
with the site now. Please, make yourselves at home."
"Thank you, Inspector." Ohara turned to the waiting team.
"Okay, let's go," he barked. Shouldering their cases, they
trotted into the alleyway.
"As cover stories go, that was pretty lame," Daley commented once
Ohara and his team were out of earshot.
Leon nodded. He turned to the lieutenant. "Vong, have someone
keep an eye on them until they finish. I want a report on what
they do."
"Yes, sir," Vong snapped, and ran off.
Leon watched him go. "Now I'm sure it was a boomeroid. Must be
something that got away from them." He scanned the area around
the mouth of the alley. Already most of the emergency vehicles
had departed. Just one ambulance and a half dozen ADP cars.
"C'mon, Daley, let's go see what Fuko has for us."
* * *
Sgt. Fuko MacNamara sat poised on the edge of her canvas-seated
chair, studying the image before her. Something was eluding her.
She checked her notes once again, then the image, then the notes.
*Ah! There it is!* she thought. Reaching into the tray which
held her favored tools, she pulled out a light blue pastel stick,
and with a few deft strokes added the missing detail to her
sketch. She straightened and surveyed the drawing as a whole,
then nodded. *Done.*
She slid her seat back, and took a quick glance around herself.
Most police artists had to make do with a pencil and a sketch
pad, but Inspector McNichol had arranged a few square feet in
one of the vans in which she had cobbled together a miniature
studio. Not that her services were frequently called upon -- one
Bu-55C looked pretty much like every other Bu-55C -- but the
Inspector had decided that when she was needed, it was best if
she had as many tools of her trade to hand as possible. And
while she sometimes made more money selling sketches and studies
of the Knight Sabers on the fan market than she did from her
regular paycheck, it was hard to beat working for someone who
understood what she needed not only to perform her job well, but
to enjoy it, too.
Footsteps outside alerted her to an impending arrival. It didn't
take a genius to guess who it would be. She reached over to her
right and gathered together the other sketches she had made,
based on the descriptions given to her by the conscious
Outriders. She hadn't quite believed her ears, but it wasn't her
job to judge -- all she needed to do was turn their words into
images. And Inspector McNichol would be *very* interested in
these images, Fuko was sure.
A moment later, the van doors clanked open and Leon stepped into
the brightly-lit vehicle. He doffed his shades. "What've you
got, Fuko?" he asked as he slid them into a pocket.
As Daley climbed into the van behind him, Fuko silently handed
him the three sketches and waited for his response. As he slowly
rotated through the drawings, Leon let out a puff of breath that
was almost, but not quite, a snort. "This is our alleged
boomer?" He held out the sketches so that Daley could see them
as well.
"This is what they agreed on," Fuko confirmed.
"Hmmmm."
The top sketch was the one on which she had just put the
finishing touches. It and the following drawing gave two views of
the head of a man in what appeared to be a customized motorcycle
helmet and goggles. Fuko's pastel work brought it out in full
color -- the goggles were dark with odd multihued highlights, in
sharp contrast to the mottled, almost pearl-grey color of the
helmet itself. Most of his face was hidden, but he seemed to have
sharp cheekbones, and there was the suggestion of a clearly-
delineated jawline.
The helmet was one of those full-head "pot" designs, with a
square opening for the face that would normally be covered by a
sheet of plexy. In the drawing, it appeared to be open to the
air, though, with the goggles taking the place of the protective
shield. It had a few other odd touches, too. On either side, a
hemisphere about the size of a grapefruit half bulged over the
ears; the one on the left bore a short whip antenna. There was a
square panel of some sort under the bulge with the antenna. And
centered above the square opening was a oval-shaped smudge of
light blue.
"Kind of reminds me of a boomercop, with the helmet and goggles,"
Daley finally said.
"Yeah," Leon replied. "A little, but not enough. What's this?"
He indicated the blue smudge with a fingertip.
Fuko shrugged. "Haven't a clue. Two of the Outriders mentioned
it though -- a round, light blue mark right above the opening.
What's really interesting, though, are these." She stood and
pointed out the strange lines and dots of color she'd added to
the bulbous dark goggles.
"Why?" Daley gave her a sharp look.
Fuko didn't look up from the sketch. "Everyone who got up close
to this guy mentioned them. I think they're some kind of head-up
display."
Leon gave a low whistle. "Damn. That sounds suspiciously
military."
"Yeah." Fuko nodded soberly.
Leon shuffled the pages and brought up the one full-figure
drawing. It was far cruder than the color head sketches -- a
simple pencil sketch, quickly done and yet dotted with telling
detail. Together, he and Daley studied their quarry: a lithe
but sturdy figure in what looked like light-colored biker
leathers -- a Harley-Davidson logo on his right breast encouraged
that identifcation -- topped off with heavy boots, a broad belt
and gloves that looked like welder's gauntlets.
"That's a distinctive outfit," Daley noted.
"The interviews put his height at about 170 cm or so, if we allow
for the helmet. His weight's probably about 75 kilos, then,
based on his build," Fuko said. "The outfit is leather or a good
synthetic, several shades darker than the helmet. The Harley
logo is a cloth patch, not paint or a plastic applique, and
flapped a little, like it wasn't securely sewn on."
Leon raised an eyebrow. "Very thorough, Fuko."
"'You know my methods'," she deadpanned. "I try to please."
"Speaking of which..."
"I'm having dinner with my fiance tonight, Inspector."
Daley began to chuckle, but had the good graces to quickly
disguise it as a cough. Not before his partner had stepped on
his foot, though. "My apologies, Sergeant," Leon recovered
quickly. "No offense taken, I hope."
She flicked a smile at him across her drawing board. "None,
Inspector." She nodded at the sketches. "I hope you have good
luck finding this guy."
Leon's own smile faded slowly from his face. "So do I, Fuko, so
do I."
* * *
Sunday, June 29, 2036. 3:27 AM.
The thin wedge of waxing moon shining through the great window
was barely enough to limn the room's furnishings, bringing them
just to the edge of visibility but no further. Sylia was
enveloped in shadow, her legs curled up under her as she huddled
on the armchair farthest from the window. A low hiss emanated
from the speakers of the multimedia center which covered the wall
next to her.
What to do about Lisa Vanette?
Sylia found herself plagued by the dilemma Nene had raised. When
she had established the Knight Sabers five years ago, she had
intended to enforce all the rules she'd set down. At the time,
she'd been certain that each and every one of them had been of
vital necessity to the long-term security of the Sabers. But
bare months after she brought them together, they stopped being
her private mercenary army. They became first her friends, and
then her family; and one by one, the rules were dropped by the
wayside, regulations replaced by the ties of loyalty, blood and
yes, love.
Now Lisa Vanette threatened to shatter those ties.
Sylia sighed in the darkness, and watched the quiescent red and
green telltales of her sound system. It had been at least an
hour since the Billie Holiday ROM had ended, and she could not
bring herself to restart or replace it. It was at times like
this that she found herself, to her own surprise, missing Mackie
intensely. Of the few whom she was close to, it was only to her
brother that she could unburden herself at times like these.
With him in Germany, she had to struggle through these dark hours
alone.
What to do about Lisa Vanette?
For what seemed like the hundredth time since Nene's visit, Sylia
found herself contemplating the Eleventh Rule of the Knight
Sabers. Could she bring herself to kill Lisa if the girl were a
threat? Or had the Last Rule always been unenforceable bluster
on her part? She had killed in the past -- it was not a matter
of squeamishness. Mason had died at her hand, and others. But
they had deserved it -- no, all but begged for it. Could she
murder a young girl whose only sin was curiosity, a girl who had
proven for three years that she could be trusted?
Ever since Lisa had come to her attention during the ADP
headquarters incident, Sylia had had contingency plans in place
to handle her. While it had been one of those plans, it still
had been a great leap of faith for her to simply try to talk Lisa
out of seeking to publish her photos. Was another such leap
possible now? Was there some way to turn Lisa from a potential
liability to a potential asset? Was there a way to spare her?
Should she be spared? Lives hung in the balance either way; if
Sylia were wrong...
And for what must have been the hundredth time since Nene's
visit, she found no easy answer waiting for her in the darkness.
As the speakers hissed softly, Sylia leaned her head back against
the top of her chair and fought back tears of frustration.
* * *
Sunday, June 29, 2036. 2:15 PM.
*For once,* Leon thought, *luck seems to be going my way.*
Despite it being Sunday afternoon, he had gone into the office to
follow up on the boomeroid case. When he'd arrived, there was
good news waiting for him in his v-mail. According to the
summary screen, Vong had completed his report on that suspicious
tech crew, and Daley had a new break on the case. An attachment
icon punctuated the latter. A fresh cup of coffee in his hand,
Leon settled into his chair and brought up the first message.
"Inspector McNichol," Vong's image barked, "I personally kept
watch on the technicians from IDEC, as per your orders. Upon
entering the alleyway, they unpacked a wide variety of equipment,
some of which looked pretty crude, as if it were half-built or
experimental. About half of them got involved in locating and
opening some sort of junction box which, as they claimed, was
camouflaged quite well. I also noted that it was apparently
untouched by the fighting in the alley." Vong's image jittered
suddenly, the result of the v-mail system's storage routines
automatically cutting out a too-long pause. "The rest of them
paid no attention to the first group, and were the only ones
using the oddball equipment. Ohara-san was one of these, sir. I
don't know what they were doing, but after wandering around the
alley for a while, they all ended up standing around in one spot.
As far as I could tell from where I stood, it was about the place
where you'd determined that the perp initially landed in the
alley." Another jitter. "I'm pretty sure the ones at the box
weren't really repairing anything. Endless part swapping and
meter readings, and one of the techs kept giving this really
envious look over at the ones roaming the alley. Also, as soon
as the others were obviously finished, they immediately closed up
the junction box and packed up. All told, they took about an
hour." The image jittered again. "I've submitted a written
report to your email, sir." Vong nodded curtly, then the screen
flickered and returned to the message menu.
As Leon saved the v-mail in a folder he labeled "Boomeroid
28/6/36", he almost allowed himself a smirk. "Gotcha," he
whispered to himself.
A moment later, he clicked on Daley's message. "Hey there, Leon-
chan." Daley leaned in to the camera, flashed a charming smile
and winked. "I'll bet you're watching this on Sunday afternoon,
aren't you? You should be at home relaxing."
"Yeah, like you believe that," Leon muttered.
"Not that I think it'd happen, mind you," Daley's recorded image
continued as he leaned back and put on his professional face.
"Anyway, we got an interesting piece of evidence handed to us. N-
Police gave us the vid of the 110 call that set them on the
Outriders to begin with. Get this, the caller was our perp, or
at least someone who matches Fuko's sketch pretty well, given the
usual awful resolution the vid has. I've attached a copy to this
mail. Check it out and get back to me with your thoughts."
Daley leaned in to the camera again. "On *Monday*, Leon-chan. I
want at least *one* day of rest. Ja!" As he gave a jaunty wave,
Daley flickered and was replaced by a dialog reading "Launch
attachment?".
Leon's finger hovered over the "confirm" icon for a moment, then
stabbed at the screen. The mail window closed and a vid playback
window opened. A tinny "Hello, yes," issued from the speakers as
Leon squinted at the image. It was black-and-white, just
slightly out of focus, and pixelated from the 110 system's own
compression routines. It was far from photographic quality. But
the image was clear enough to see the speaker was a close-on
match for Fuko's sketches, just as Daley had said. Even the
mysterious mark over the helmet opening was there, although at
this resolution it was little more than a grey blob.
The short vid ended when the caller abruptly hung up, and Leon
played it again. "I think there's been some kind of gang fight.
Yes, Shiba Koen near the Tokyo Tower." His voice sounded... odd.
And his Nihongo was oddly accented and intoned. Not like the
fluent speaker with a tenor voice that the Outriders had
described, more like a recent student of the language. Not only
that, but the voice sounded familiar; for the life of him,
though, he couldn't put his finger on it.
He replayed the message several times, studying the crude image
intently. Around him, the squad room bustled with its own
special assortment of distractions, somewhat reduced because it
was Sunday; he ignored it all, narrowing his focus down until his
world consisted of himself and the monitor. It was hard to tell
with the blur and the low resolution, but he thought that the
face in the vid looked cheery, almost smug. He was certain the
voice was a put-on, a fake. It sounded too phony.
One other thing caught his attention. "My name? Quincy Black.
I'm a tourist, just in from the States," spilled out of the
speaker. He ran it back and replayed it. "My name? Quincy
Black." And again. "My name? Quincy Black."
Leon leaned back in his chair. It was a sure bet that there
would be no record of any recent American tourist with that name.
If he knew his partner, there'd already be a report from
Immigration in Daley's inbox confirming it. No skullsweat needed
there. No, it was the name itself. Leon shook his head and
chuckled. *How obvious can you get?* he thought. *A poke at
both Quincy and whatever "black" project produced him.* He
chuckled again. *I think I could get to like this guy.*
Retrieving the location of the call from the vid's header data,
Leon closed it out and stashed it in the folder he'd created
earlier. Then he brought up the map system. Marking the sites
of the fight and the telephone booth, he made several calls of
his own. *That should do it,* he thought when he was done.
*With a tentative direction of travel and Fuko's sketches, the
boys on the street should be able to find someone who's seen this
guy in a couple of days or less.* He reopened the vid and stared
once again at the blurred face of his quarry.
* * *
Virtual Space. Monday, June 30, 2036. 1225 GMT.
The spider was small and heavily camouflaged. It bore a number
of genuine (if misappropriated) tags and passes to present should
it be challenged, but its primary mode of movement and defense
was simply to not be seen.
Every night it made its rounds, seeking tidbits of interest and
squirreling away copies even as it noted their locations for
future investigation. Sites of proven value received priority in
its search algorithm, after which it was permitted to make random
walks through connected systems. At this moment, it was browsing
a system which had been downgraded from its former high priority
for lack of interesting traffic in recent weeks.
The spider encountered and indexed the usual ebb and flow of an
actively-used system, browsing for keywords and discarding the
dross. One of the new folders included a keyword in its name;
the spider opened it and scanned. Quietly, unhurriedly,
dispassionately, it copied the files it found within and
reflagged this system as high priority.
* * *
Sunday, July 6, 2036. 6:42 PM Local Time.
I was prioritizing again, this time in the middle of cooking
dinner. Carefully managed, I could live off the gems for at
least a year, but I might need them in the next universe. Best
to look for a job of some kind, and best to stick with what I
knew well. That meant any or all of: computer engineering and
cybernetics, mercenary, or thaumatology.
In an idle moment late last week, I'd shifted to magesight and
discovered that MegaTokyo sat on top of a simply *monstrous*
node of mana. However, as far as I could tell from the mass
media and my almanacs, there were no operant mages here. Just
like my earth, there was lots of folklore, but unlike my earth,
nothing recent and real. Curious.
So that ruled out thaumatology as a job category. Mercenary
work would have me moving around too much, and I didn't want to
get too far away from my point of arrival. I didn't know enough
about my means of transit, but I was fairly certain that I needed
a "weak point" in local space-time in order to form a gate, and
the only one I knew of was here. So, no travel.
That left computers. I'd have to bone up on the local tech. But
then again, I'd planned to, anyway. In most areas, this world
was about equal to homeline despite the 40-year difference, but
they were nicely ahead of us when it came to commercial-grade
computers and nanotechnology. I was looking forward to bringing
home some potentially useful samples.
Second priority behind that was transportation. In Velgarth, I
got around on horseback or by foot because everyone else did.
Now that I was back in a mechanized society, I needed wheels. A
motorcycle, preferably. It would help my money situation if I
were to get a used or near-junked one and rebuild it myself. Not
to mention be a distraction during the long weeks ahead.
All this was assuming I didn't hit the right song immediately. I
didn't think I'd be so lucky.
I didn't get much farther than that thought when there was a
knock at the door. I turned from the rangetop to answer it.
* * *
"Thank you ever so much for inviting me to dinner," Lisa said as
she removed her shoes, taking care not to knock her camera
against the doorframe.
She looked back up and blinked in surprise. In the moment it had
taken her to bend over, Doug had already returned to the tiny
stove of his kitchenette, and stood with his back toward her.
"No problem! It was the least I could do to thank you for your
help."
"Oooh, it smells great! What is it?"
"Souvlaki," he called back over the sizzling food and the rattle
of the vent fan.
"What's that?" Lisa asked. Leaning against one of the two rickety
chairs that along with an equally uncertain table made up Doug's
"dining room", she folded her arms behind her head and studied
Doug. She'd known him for almost a week now, and looking at him
was still a novel experience for her. At about 170 cm, he was
not that much taller than most of the men she knew, and shorter
than some, but he had a trim, athletic build that reminded her of
a runner or a gymnast -- strong and firm without being overly
muscular. A few decades ago, his close-cropped blond hair and
blue-grey eyes might have made him look exotic here in Japan, but
her own appearance made it clear that there was nothing unusual
there any more. His face, which she couldn't see at the moment
because he was bent over the range top, was smooth without being
boyish, and well-chiseled without any cragginess. Attractive,
but not pretty-boy. What struck her most, though, was his grace
and dexterity. *And he cooks, too.* She sighed softly to
herself.
"It's Greek," he said, looking over his shoulder. "A friend of
mine from Athens taught me how to make it."
"Neat! Do you do a lot of cooking?" Lisa glanced around the
small apartment. She'd ended up helping Doug move in -- not that
there was very much to do. It was more for the company -- both
for herself and for him. Doug was obviously very new to
MegaTokyo, and he definitely appreciated her friendliness and
companionship. Not to mention her help in finding him some
better furnishings.
*I mean, really!* she thought. *It's like he has a homing
instinct for the absolute worst thrift shops. At least he's got
some usable furniture now.* She glanced around the tiny one-
room apartment. Besides the dinette set, Doug had a small single
bed (*A futon would have been more efficient, but he's so...
American,* Lisa mentally sniffed), a dresser and a large
wardrobe. *You know, he didn't have all that much stuff when he
moved in. Why does he need such a large wardrobe?*
"Hello, Lisa? Earth to Lisa?"
"What? Huh?" She felt a blush of embarrassment heat her face.
"I'm sorry, I was, um, thinking about work. Please forgive my
inattention."
Doug sighed good-naturedly. "Lisa, you don't have to be so
formal with me. It's okay -- everyone gets caught up in their
job at some time or another." He patted her on the shoulder in a
manner she was sure was supposed to be reassuring; she almost
shrank away before she caught herself. For all his expert
Nihongo, he still acted like an American, but she'd rather not
insult or offend him despite what her mother would have called
his "unwarranted liberties". He meant well, and that was what
really mattered, as far as Lisa was concerned. "Anyway," he
continued, withdrawing his hand, "I was saying that I'd forgotten
to get the ouzo. I'm going to dash downstairs to the liquor
store and get some, okay? I'll be right back."
"Uh-huh," Lisa replied, nodding. Then, "Will the food be okay?
Do I need to do anything?"
Doug glanced over to the stovetop, where a large covered pan now
stood, poised over a low flame. "Nope, it'll be fine. I'll be
right back. Sorry to make you wait."
Lisa gave a vague wave as her eyes drifted back towards the
wardrobe. "It's all right, Doug, go do what you need to do," she
said with mock seriousness.
"Okay, great, be right back!" A slam trod on the last word.
Surprised, Lisa spun around to stare at the apartment door.
Faintly, she could hear running feet receding *very* quickly.
She blinked twice. Then a grin crawled onto her lips as her
curiosity got the better of her again.
Without quite realizing how she got there, she found herself in
front of Doug's wardrobe. It was large, built out of heavy, dark
wood. Real wood, not chipboard, which had surprised both of them
when they'd discovered it. It had a simple, geometric pattern of
grooves and moldings decorating its surfaces. The doors did not
stretch its full length; they hung flush to the top, but ended
about a foot from the ground, leaving a lower section that might
serve as shoe and boot storage. Years of waxing and polishing in
its early life had left a slightly sticky buildup on it -- light
on the flat surfaces, thicker in the deeper grooves -- a brown
patina you could easily scrape up with a fingernail, revealing
lighter wood beneath it. Just as dark were the pulls on the
door, an aged brass that was almost black with tarnish.
Without hesitation, she yanked open the wardrobe doors.
To her surprise, it was full of clothes. She wasn't sure what
she had been expecting, but since she hadn't seen Doug unpacking
any clothing, nor had he shopped for any with her, it seemed
strange that he had so much. Idly, she paged through the various
items on their hangers, going through a couple of suits and
shirts and jeans and tunics and...
Tunics?
She stopped and removed an item from the wardrobe. It was indeed
a tunic, of a vaguely medieval design. It was cut from a fine,
light-grey cloth that looked hand-woven, and it was trimmed with
a flat braid of metallic silver and gold. A pair of matching
breeches hung inside it, folded over the wire hanger. They both
looked hand-stitched, too.
Her curiosity piqued, Lisa replaced the outfit and shuffled
through the rest of clothing. Maybe a third of it was similar
medieval outfits, in a variety of styles and cuts. They all
had obviously been used quite a bit -- a few showed mends, and
all bore signs of frequent wear.
On a whim, Lisa took out a particularly ornate tunic made of some
type of supple, soft leather, bleached perfectly white. She hung
it on the wardrobe door, and took a photo of it. She replaced
it, and continued to search. "Hmmmm," she murmured. *I wonder
if he's one of those whaddayacallits -- medievalists. Maybe he's
a member of some historical re-creation group?*
At the far right end of the rod, she came across another leather
outfit, this one more familiar. Pants and jacket, it was made
from a thicker leather than the tunic, but no less flexible, and
dark grey in color. A belt of a lighter shade hung from the hook
of the hanger. It resembled a motorcyclist's leathers. These,
too, bore the signs of long use.
The jacket was an almost antique-looking style -- instead of a
closure down the center, it had a flap that stretched from the
right side of the chest to the left, and which sealed with a
series of large chrome clasps. The only highlight on the entire
outfit was a strange patch on the right breast of the jacket. It
was about 5 inches tall and shaped like a shield, except that the
top edge was scalloped by two shallow bites that left the upper
corners and the center slightly pointed. All but filling the
shield were a pair of stylized Romanji letters in black: "LT".
Without any hesitation, Lisa hung the outfit on the wardrobe door
and took another photo.
As she replaced it in the wardrobe, her hand struck the last item
on the rod, what looked to be a zippered body stocking made of an
opalescent white fabric. To her surprise, there was a dull,
faint "tok" sound; it felt as though she had struck a sheet of
plastic. Carefully, she took it out of the wardrobe and examined
it.
It felt slick, like plastic, and it seemed far too stiff compared
to how thin it was. From the outside, at least, it seemed to
resist flexing and folding. But she discovered during her
investigation that when manipulated from inside, the garment gave
no resistance whatsoever. Experimentally, she cupped her hand
within it, stretching a part of the fabric taut over her fingers,
and prodded its outer surface with the forefinger of her other
hand. It was as though she had poked a sheet of metal -- the
cloth refused to flex or stretch, and she ended up with a stubbed
finger. And strangely, the fabric seemed be ever so faintly warm
now.
The tip of her abused finger in her mouth, Lisa frowned. She'd
never heard of any fabric that acted like that. It was a
definite mystery, and she didn't like mysteries. Only the fact
that Doug would be returning soon kept her from assaulting the
leotard with knives and forks and other implements from the
kitchen in an attempt to test its limits. She took another photo
and reluctantly returned it to its place in on the rod.
Painfully conscious of the probable time left her, Lisa dropped
to her knees and peered into the lower section of the wardrobe.
A leather backpack, again looking hand-made and obviously empty,
lay flat against the bottom. A pair of boots, their tops stuffed
with heavy leather gloves also sat there; they were all the same
color as the belt with the biker leathers. But what caught her
eye was the helmet. She reached in and withdrew it.
She didn't know what to make of it. It resembled a normal
motorcyclist's helmet the way that a motorcycle resembled a
bicycle. Turning it over and around in her hands, she studied
its bumps and protrusions, the domes over the ears, the short
whip antenna, the goggles that seemed to be an integral part of
it. It looked smooth, but running her hands across it revealed
the traces of much hard usage -- nicks and scores and scrapes
that weren't immediately visible to the eye because of the
mottled and marbled light grey plastic from which it was made.
In the center of the "forehead", right above the helmet's square
opening, was the light blue world-map symbol of the United
Nations, curiously enough.
Looking inside, she was startled to find a half dozen rubber-
covered switches and controls in the front, and something that
could be a microphone. Where the wearer's ears would go were
rings of thick foam padding surrounding what looked like small
speakers. From either side of the goggles, flat cables ran under
the padded lining that covered the rest of the helmet's interior.
The lining was soft and seemed absorbent; Lisa cautiously lifted
the helmet to her face and sniffed at it tentatively. There was
only the faintest trace of a perspiration odor.
Glancing at her watch, she resisted the temptation to try the
helmet on. Doug could be back any minute now, and it would be
embarrassing enough to be caught going through his wardrobe; no
need to compound her faux pas. She resigned herself to simply
examining it.
Lisa's fingers found the panel before her eyes noticed it -- a
small, clear plastic square under the right ear. A ridge of
plastic along one edge caught on her fingernail, and slid back
when she turned the helmet to investigate. Underneath was a set
of unlabeled buttons, like a calculator keypad. Impelled by
curiosity, she pressed one, then more. At first there was no
noticeable result. But after a few seconds' button-pushing there
was a mechanical "click", and two small headlamps appeared,
popping up from cleverly-disguised recesses above and to either
side of the front opening. They blazed brightly into her eyes,
and she flinched, almost dropping the helmet. At the last
moment, she grabbed it again by the ear-domes; to her surprise,
the helmet kept rotating in her hands for a quarter turn. There
was another "click", and suddenly music blasted from the helmet --
heavy, dark music with a pounding beat and a gravel-voiced man
growling in English:
"<Something's wrong, shut the light,
Heavy thoughts tonight,
And they aren't of Snow White.
Dreams of war, dreams of liars,
Dreams of dragon's fire,
And of things that will bite...>"
"Ahhh!" Half-deafened, Lisa frantically stabbed at the buttons
until the music cut off in mid-roar. She dropped the helmet
unceremoniously and gave it a venomous glare. *Oh, jeeze, is he
coming, could he have heard that?* she suddenly thought,
panicked. Almost without thinking, she snapped a shot of the
helmet.
She cautiously pushed down on the lamps to force them back into
their recessed housings, and twisted the hemispheres over the
ears back to their original position before she gingerly picked
the helmet up and returned it to the wardrobe. Then, with a
nervous glance around her, she scampered back to her seat at the
dinette to await Doug's return. She was sorely tempted to
explore further, but the store was on the ground level of their
building, and if he wasn't already walking back down the hall, he
would be shortly.
Five long minutes later, the knob rattled, and Doug popped
through the door, a brown paper bag cradled in the crook of one
arm. "Sorry I took so long," he said sheepishly. "There was a
hell of a line at the checkout."
Lisa flashed a smile at him. "That's okay. As long as we get to
eat now!"
* * *
Dinner was delicious, if I say so myself. I'm a competent cook
at best, but I lucked out that night -- it was perhaps the best
souvlaki I've ever made. I put in a bit of extra effort to find
a Greek grocery and a real butcher (with real meat, not soy) for
the ingredients, and I guess that did the trick.
I'm glad, too, because it was a new experience for Lisa -- her
first taste of Greek cuisine. She hardly said anything at all
through dinner; she was too busy sniffing and tasting and making
"mmmm" noises over little morsels she would chew for almost
forever.
"I can't believe I've never had Greek food before," she said once
between bites. "This is so cool... I love it! I'm going to
definitely find a Greek restaurant or two now." I chuckled at
that. It was also the most she managed to say at once during the
whole dinner.
We didn't really get to a real conversation until we hit dessert.
Not that I minded. Just watching her face as she hit and then
savored each new flavor was a big kick for me. But eventually
she ran out of lamb and veggies and then we were nibbling on the
baklava over mugs of thick Turkish coffee (which, I admit, came
from a rather good instant mix I'd discovered a couple days
earlier). "You know," she said, sipping on her coffee, "You know
all about me and what I do..."
"Well, yeah, you were so excited that you couldn't stop talking
about it," I interrupted.
She stuck her tongue out at me, then continued. "But you never
did tell me what you do for a living." She gazed at me intently
over the rim of her cup.
I shrugged. "Well, I'm unemployed right now..."
"You know what I mean. Silly."
"Well..." I slurped from my mug. I could tell her about being a
Warrior, but, well, why make things complicated for myself? I'd
have to explain more than I think she'd be prepared to believe.
I couldn't just say, "I'm a metahuman operative working for a
specialized United Nations peacekeeping force in a parallel
universe," and leave it at that, could I? So, an edited version
of the truth. "Well, I've worked for the government in England
for the last 12 years or so. I studied cybernetics and computer
engineering, I've got BSE's in them from Princeton," (I
intentionally neglected to tell her I was class of 1984 and had
just missed my 52nd reunion) "but I've got a couple other skill
sets under my belt, thanks to my job. Some are fairly esoteric,
others aren't."
"What kind of computer engineering?" she asked. "Hardware? Or
software?"
"Both, actually. I hack code and gear equally well."
Her eyes brightened. "Really? I have a friend who's a bit of a
hacker herself. Maybe I should introduce you two..."
I shrugged. "Maybe."
Lisa took another bite of her baklava. "England, huh? How'd you
end up here?"
I sighed in spite of myself. "Now *that's* a long story." I
weighed carefully what I wanted to tell her. "I'm sort of
stranded here at the moment, and I need to work until I can
manage to go home."
"Stranded?" She leaned forward slightly, her gaze boring into
me. "Stranded how?" Her eyes widened suddenly. "You're not in
the country illegally, are you?"
To cover my nervousness, I puffed myself up in a semblance of
offense, trusting to the traditional Japanese politeness to save
me from further questioning along these lines. "I think you'll
find my papers are in order, Vanette-san," I said, maybe a little
more sharply than I'd intended.
Bullseye. She deflated a little and murmured, "Gomen, Doug-san.
I did not mean to pry," as she turned her eyes toward her lap.
I relaxed and smiled at her, trying to take the sting out of the
exchange. "No problem, Lisa. My status as a resident here is as
legal as it could possibly be." Which was a wonderfully truthful
but misleading description. With any luck it would dissuade her
from pursuing the topic further.
Fortunately, she brightened right up -- a bit mercurial in our
moods, aren't we, Lisa? -- and returned to rapidly firing
questions off at me. I held up my hands and laughed. "Hey, hold
on a moment. What is this, '60 Minutes'?"
Lisa paused. "Huh? What do you mean, '60 Minutes'?"
I shook my head. "Never mind. Why are you grilling me like
this? I feel like I'm the subject of an 'in-depth investigative
report'." I grinned to show her I wasn't really offended.
She smiled back at me. "Well, I *am* a reporter. And you're an
interesting person! I want to learn as much as I can about you."
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Everybody has his deep,
dark, *dangerous* secrets."
Lisa's smile broadened into a grin. "Not from me, they don't!
Come on, spill it."
I draped a mock-innocent look on my face. "Spill what?'
She leaned in towards me. "For one thing, tell me about this
friend of yours who taught you Greek cooking."
"Oh! Well, I think you'd really like Diana..." I was off and
running, having diverted her away from the uncomfortable
questions I didn't want her to ask.
* * *
Monday, July 7, 2036. 11:50 AM.
Daley Wong tossed a manila folder onto Leon's desk. It landed
precisely in front of the inspector, who looked up in surprise.
"That's the transcript of the interview with the jeweler,
Ishikawa. Our mystery boomeroid walked into his shop less than
an hour after the attack on the Outriders and sold him several
gemstones." He pulled out the chair next to the desk and swung
it around to sit backwards on it, folding his arms across the
back and resting his chin upon them.
"Gemstones?" Leon asked.
Daley nodded. "Good quality stones, unusual cuts. A ruby and
two emeralds, a couple carats each. He still had the gems, so we
took them as evidence. I'm having them compared against theft
and insurance reports."
Leon nodded. "For how far back?"
"I told them to stop at a year." Daley reached into his shirt
pocket to withdraw a digicam print and handed it to Leon, who
whistled. "These are the rocks. Apparently our boy made out
pretty well; he haggled for a while and came away with about
103,000 yen. On an anonymized credit chit," he added in a
disgusted tone as faint sounds of yelling drifted from the
Chief's closed door.
"Great," sighed Leon. "So we can't trace his movements with it.
What else?"
"Well, we've got the jeweler's security camera records from that
night, and they tally up with the Outriders' descriptions and the
110 call record."
"Well that's good, but it doesn't help us find him. No other
witnesses?" Leon leaned back in his chair and stared at a
discolored spot on the ceiling above him. There were several
quarter-inch holes in the brownish blotch. Leon wished he had a
sharp pencil handy.
"No one who will admit anything. We..." Daley began, but he was
interrupted by a cheery greeting from across the squad room.
"Hi, Leon! Hi, Daley!" Lisa called from the door. She skipped
lightly around the intervening desks and officers to end up
standing before them, hands clasped behind her back and rocking
heel-to-toe on her feet with barely-suppressed energy. She looks
almost entirely too precious for words, Daley thought. Her
camera swung on its wrist strap, peeking out from behind her and
then retreating like a shy three-year-old, over and over. She
was dressed in shades of green today, from her knee-length skirt
to her beret. "So! What's new with you guys?"
"Lisa!" Leon leapt up and spun his wheeled chair around to offer
a seat to her as Daley stood and offered his own greeting.
Lisa dimpled. "Domo," she smiled, and arranged herself daintily
in the chair.
"So," Leon said, "Nene tells me you're back in town permanently,
working for the '16 Times'."
"Uh-huh!" Lisa nodded enthusiastically. "Right now I'm getting
'human interest' stories," she briefly made a face, "but I'm
hoping to get a crime beat soon."
"Why aren't you doing that kind of story already," Daley asked,
"what with Chief Todo being your uncle, and all?"
"Because I haven't told them he's my uncle."
"No?" Leon leaned back on his desk as he raised an eyebrow.
"Of course not!" Lisa was indignant. "I want to earn it on my
own merits, not because of who I'm related to!"
The faint sounds of outraged police chief escalated, to be
suddenly brought to a stop with the rattle of an opening door.
"Speaking of which..." Daley muttered, hooking a thumb over his
shoulder. Behind him, a pair of officers fled Chief Todo's
office for the elevators, sheepish looks on their faces. Behind
them, the Chief himself barreled out of his office in a rage.
His mouth worked wildly as he took great gasping breaths,
apparently at a loss for further words.
"Hato and Ramirez?" Daley asked softly without looking.
Leon nodded. "Hato and Ramirez."
Daley sighed eloquently.
"What'd they do?" Lisa whispered, leaning in to the two officers.
"Don't ask," Daley muttered.
"But..."
"Don't," Leon repeated softly but firmly, "ask."
Lisa's eyebrows shot up under her bangs, but she didn't pursue
the matter. Instead, she stood and said, "Well, it's been nice
talking with you two, but I have to go. I'm taking Uncle to
lunch." She grinned happily. "I'm introducing him to Greek food
today!"
"Well, have a good time, Lisa-san," Daley offered.
She turned a blazing smile upon him. "We will!"
Leon stood and loomed over her. "Maybe later this week you and I
can do dinner?" he said, wearing what he thought was his most
charming smile.
Lisa giggled and reached up to pinch his cheek. "You're so
*cute*! Of course not! I know you're serious about Nene's
friend Priss! Ja!" she said as she turned. "Uncle!" She waved
as she trotted over to Chief Todo.
"Face it, Leon-chan," Daley mischievously said, sotto voce, "I'm
the only one for you."
Leon dragged his chair back to his desk and plopped down into it.
"Not tonight, dear, I have a headache," he growled.
* * *
Tuesday, July 15, 2036. 5:22 PM.
Most customers never saw Hot Legs this way. The location of its
front door -- down a set of stairs in a narrow alley -- gave the
impression of a cavernous underground space, dark even at the
height of noon. It would be a surprise to those customers to
discover that the club actually possessed a few windows in one of
its exterior walls -- grimy and long since painted shut, but
windows none the less.
They faced west.
Once every day, late afternoon sunlight would slide between the
buildings of MegaTokyo *just so*, darting around the many
structures that sought to intercept it, and impact almost
physically on the windows of Hot Legs. After muscling its way
through the pollution-painted glass, golden light would then
saunter into the club like a celebrity with a pass for a private
party, heading for a favorite table.
The light's preferred place in Hot Legs at this time of year, for
the few minutes that it graced the establishment, was the front
edge of the club's one stage. A long, narrow strip of molten
yellow would daily paint itself right along the lip of the stage,
after shimmering through and around the holoprojectors and fog
machines that sat behind the performers' area. Some of the late
afternoon light would dribble off the stage to bathe the front
edge of the dance floor, only to be immediately sucked up by
scuffed and stained yellow wood there.
On this particular afternoon, the light entered Hot Legs to
witness the aftermath of a rehearsal. The members of "Priss and
the Replicants", a small-time band with good connections and high
aspirations, were in mid-conversation.
"Face it, Priss," said L Kowalski, the drummer. His first name
was Leon, but he preferred to be called just "L". This, he felt,
was cooler, and it also minimized confusion with Priss' cop-he's-
not-my-boyfriend-call-him-that-again-and-I'll-rip-your-lungs-out-
friend. (Anything that minimized potential trouble on that front
was the course of action to take, in his opinion.) He was
finishing the breakdown of his set, snapping the latches on the
next-to-last case as he and the others tried again to convince
Priss. The visiting sunlight danced across the chrome fixtures
and sparkled annoyingly in Priss' eyes.
"Why are you being so stubborn about this, Priss?" asked the bass
guitarist, Estelle "Zhora" Hiyobara-Leibowitz. For many reasons
(most of them personal), the Replicants were rife with stage
names.
"I've got my reasons," Priss growled from where she sat, cross-
legged, on the edge of the stage. She scowled as she shielded
her eyes from the too-bright sunbeam that insisted on getting in
her face like a persistent groupie.
"Yeah, but what *are* dey?" Roy, the lead guitarist demanded.
"We been playin' with you for what, near five years now, Priss.
An' it's allus 'we ain't ready to tour'. Dammit, Priss, we gots
lotta gigs in town, we gots lotta fans in the clubs, we gots
lotta our soundroms in the online stores, we even gots our own
specialist bootleggers. If we ain't ready to tour *yet*, we's
shit, an' no one knows it!"
Priss looked around from under her hand. The others were nodding
and making noises of agreement, and she gritted her teeth.
"Roy's right, Priss," Estelle said, kneeling next to her. "We
know the Reps are your band -- you put us together, you made the
sound -- but we don't want to see the Reps just sitting in
MegaTokyo with our thumbs up our asses for the next ten years.
We can make it big, but to do that we need a contract, and we
ain't going to get a contract without touring and getting us
wider known."
"I can't leave," she whispered, more to herself than anything
else. "I can't leave MegaTokyo." *What the hell am I supposed
to say? "I can't go touring because I'm one of the Knight Sabers
and have to hang around in case of a boomer attack"? Shit. Like
I could.* Priss turned out of the sunlight, rubbing her eyes as
she unlimbered her legs and swung them over the edge of the
stage. "We can push the online stuff," she offered without
opening her eyes. "Get more netstations to pointcast our songs.
Maybe find a DJ who'll ride our new ROM hard for a few extra yen.
We've already picked up some international fans that way. If we
can build that audience up enough, we won't need to tour."
Rick, the keyboardist, sighed explosively. "Been there, done
that, got the 20-yen royalty check, Priss." She could hear his
fist thumping on his keyboard case. That was a bad sign -- the
Casio was his obsessively-protected baby. "It's not enough. The
problem with netdist is that we only get the listeners who are
likely to find us on their own anyway. We need to do the clubs --
*more* clubs, Priss, out of town -- to get a broader audience
than the netstations serve, and to get the word of mouth going.
We need the word of mouth, Priss."
Priss felt a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, baby," Estelle said
gently, "is there a problem you wanna talk about? Something
that's keeping you from touring? Don't want to leave that cop
friend of yours behind, maybe?" She gave a throaty chuckle that
managed to sound almost lewd. "We can make some kind of
arrangement, I'm sure."
Priss shook her head without saying anything.
"Dis is shit," Roy spat. "I'm in da band because we's *good*,
dammit, we's good. We's good enough ta get *rich* doin' dis
shit, and we'd be goin' sum'ere and *gettin'* rich if she would
*let* us! Why? She coulda gone solo t'ree years ago! Dat agent
dumped us and almost made her an idol singer! But she came back
to da Reps! Why?" He narrowed his eyes. "Maybe yez afraid o'
da big time? Maybe ya wanna play it safe, be da big fish in da
little pond? Dat why you won' let us tour, little Miz Priscilla
Perfect?"
In an eyeblink, it seemed to the Replicants, Priss had gone from
her seat on the stage to Roy's throat. "Don't call me that! You
don't know what I..." She spluttered to a halt, partly too
enraged to speak, partly from shock at what she'd been about to
say and do. As she stood there, one hand twisted in the material
of Roy's t-shirt, the other inches away from her knife, her mouth
worked soundlessly. The others from the band rushed over to
separate them.
Priss let Rick and Estelle lead her to L's stool, which he had
yet to pack. She sat down heavily. "Fuck," she swore under her
breath. "Damn, Roy, I'm sorry, I really am."
"'Sawright," Roy finally, reluctantly grunted as L hovered around
him.
*Damn. Damn damn damndamndamn.* She sat there silently, kicking
the heels of her boots against the stool's centerpost. *They're
right. I *am* keeping us from hitting it really big. How the
hell did it come to this? I'm sabotaging the thing I always
wanted! But what else can I do? How do I make a choice? *Can*
I make the choice? The Replicants or the Knight Sabers?* As she
swore softly to herself, the sun finally fell too low and the
last traces of the visiting light evaporated, leaving her
momentarily nightblind in the suddenly-darkened club. "What did
you have in mind?" she finally asked, without looking up.
Around her she heard soft noises of elation. She didn't have to
see to know what was going on. L and Roy were probably quietly
high-fiving. Rick was most likely wearing that shit-eating grin
of his that he put on when he got his way. And even as she kept
a hand on Priss' shoulder, Estelle moved in such a way that Priss
knew she was pumping a punch into the air. *Yay. You all won,*
she thought unenthusiastically. *Hooray for our side.*
Rick's feet appeared in her line of sight. "I've been doing some
calling around," he said as she raised her eyes to see an
unfamiliar three-ring binder in his hands.
"You've been planning this behind my back," she accused.
Rick had the grace to look embarrassed for a moment. "Well,
yeah," he admitted. "Look -- we can start small to begin with,
since we've never been on the road before. I was thinking maybe
we could do just twelve or fifteen weeks on the road at first,
instead of, like six months or more." He began rattling off
potential bookings up and down the islands, Kagoshima and Sapporo
and everywhere in between. "Earliest we can get a spot most
places is three-four months from now. That gives us some time to
prep and rehearse a new act..."
*How the hell can I manage this? What the hell am I going to
tell the others?* Priss thought, ignoring Rick's spiel. *What
the fuck am I going to tell Sylia?*
* * *
Wednesday, July 16, 2036. 6:00 PM.
The phone rang, startling Nene, who was again concentrating
intensely on a recalcitrant code fragment. Rather than break her
focus, she ignored it after the first ring, trusting to her
video mail system instead. She raised a half-eaten donut to her
lips.
"Hi, this is Nene!" spewed her recorded voice brightly from the
bedroom. "You know the drill!" A familiar beep followed.
"Nene." It was Sylia. Nene snapped to full attention, her
donut and her programming problem both forgotten. "Bring Lisa
Vanette to my office tomorrow night. 8 PM. Tell her the dress
code is... casual."
Nene lunged for the phone by her computer. "Sylia!" she yelped
as she punched the "video accept" button, crushing her donut in
the process. Powered sugar and crumbs sifted down over the
machine's various buttons.
"Good evening, Nene." Sylia's image and voice were cool and
calm.
"Sylia, what did you decide?"
Her expression did not change. "You'll find out tomorrow night,
Nene."
"But Sylia..."
"Tomorrow, Nene." Sylia glanced down as she reached for
something just off the bottom edge of the screen. Then she
looked back up at Nene. "Oh, and Nene? Don't wear anything you
wouldn't want damaged or dirtied." The screen flickered off.
Nene stood stock still for an entire minute, wondering just
*exactly* what Sylia had in store for Lisa.
* * *
Wednesday, July 16, 2036. 6:35 PM.
As soon as the door to her apartment had latched shut, Lisa
slumped against it and slid to the floor, cradling her camera in
one hand. Her shoulderbag lay where she'd dropped it, and she
listlessly reached into it to pull out a large, sweat-soaked
handkerchief. She mopped her forehead. *God, what a day for the
air conditioning on the train to go out.*
Her apartment's own feeble AC was groaning away in the corner,
but the temperature was barely lower than that outside. She sat
there for a few minutes, legs splayed out and head back against
the door, before sighing and standing up. *Maybe a cold
shower...* As she unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it on the
floor, she reconsidered. *More likely it'll be tepid. But
that'd still be better than nothing.*
She made her way to her minimal bathroom, leaving a trail of
increasingly intimate apparel behind her. As she peeled off her
panties, she turned the cold on full. Without bothering to test
it she threw herself into the stall.
Half an hour later, Lisa padded out of the bathroom naked except
for the towel wrapped around her hair. She retrieved a can of
Coca-Cola from her dorm-sized refrigerator and popped it open.
Sipping from the can, she stepped around her folded futon and
began rummaging through her bureau, oblivious to the blinking
light on the v-mail display atop it. It wasn't until she had
selected a t-shirt and a pair of shorts that she noticed that she
had messages waiting. She hit the "play" button and began to
pull on her shirt. The effort of maneuvering it around the towel
without stretching the neck took most of her attention and left
her eyes covered, but she heard the audio portion of the first
call.
"Hello, darling, it's momma." Under her t-shirt, Lisa rolled her
eyes. *Oh joy.* She reached out blindly for the "skip" button.
"Just my weekly call to see how my little girl is doing in the
big..." The piercing soprano voice cut off abruptly, to be
followed by a beep.
"Hey, Leese, it's Doug." Lisa's head finally popped through the
neck of the T-shirt, leaving her face-to-face with the recording
of her neighbor. "I was thinking I'd like to maybe go out and do
some clubs, hear some live music. But I don't know which places
are good and which ones I should avoid. You've talked about some
of the clubhopping you do, so I was wondering if you'd have any
recommendations for me? Better yet, would you mind showing me
around this weekend? That is, if you want to be my tourguide."
He laughed. Lisa got a dreamy smile at the thought of squiring
her hunky neighbor around in public.
"Anyway, if that wouldn't be too much of an imposition, let me
know, all right? Thanks! Bye!" The screen went bright blue,
and the beep sounded again. Lisa continued to visualize showing
Doug off to Nene and her friends, and was imagining the jealous
looks she'd get when the third call startled her completely out
of her reverie.
It was Nene. "Lisa?" she said, a tentative tone in her voice.
"Hi, it's me. I've just been told, um, well, you know what you
asked me? My boss wants to see you about it. Tomorrow night, at
eight o'clock. I'll pick you up at 7:30, all right?" Nene
reached for the switchhook, then stopped. "Oh, and, um, dress
casual, okay? See you then." She flashed a smile, and then the
screen went blue again.
Lisa blinked. This was a development she hadn't been expecting
at all. And Nene looked a little nervous -- but that was to be
expected, given the delicacy of the situation, wasn't it?
*Still...* she thought, *I wonder if I should be worried?*
* * *
Wednesday, July 16, 2036. 9:12 PM.
It took me a little more than a week, but I got myself a job,
dilberting for a small hardware company not yet owned by GENOM.
Whoopee, I wouldn't starve before I worldjumped out of here.
One benefit of my new job was that I could afford to splurge on a
cycle. For sufficiently low values of "splurge", that is... I
found this junkyard, in the part of MegaTokyo they call Timex
City -- I never did find out why -- which is actually inside a
massive chasm opened up by that big quake they had. Anyway, I
discovered this place while exploring the city in between job
interviews. It was a little hard to get to, but it had a good
selection and was close to a fair-sized garage that I saw some
local bikers frequenting.
Anyway, I browsed their stock, and put down cash on the
barrelhead for a dead cycle. I got a good price, because it was
a 20-year-old model (god forbid, the wheels were still mounted on
forks!) and the engine had already been cannibalized for parts.
No prob for me; I had a plan or two for a custom powerplant.
Anyway, I'd already arranged a place to work on it. The building
I was in, for all that it epitomized the concept of "low-rent
housing project", actually had storeroom/garages on its lowest
levels that the tenants could rent. The rates were exorbitant
compared to the apartment rents, but easily within my new means.
I managed to stumble into some kind of special deal, though --
there was some kind of bad karma on the only available garage in
the place. The rental agent was reluctant to explain the matter,
but as far as I could gather from his circumlocutions, some kind
of crime or tragedy was connected to that room, and no one in the
last few years but yours truly, the stupid gaijin, even wanted to
be near it. So I got a good break on the rent from the desperate
management.
Anyway, I went over to the junkyard after my first day of work,
retrieved my purchase, and rolled it on bare, dented rims the
couple of kilometers to my building. Once there, I ensconced it
in my new workshop.
And I do mean workshop. Whoever the poor soul was who'd last had
the place, he'd tricked it out rather well. Big workbench, lots
of cabinet space, lots of electrical outlets, well-lit. One
other bonus -- one of the cabinets was locked, and when I pried
it open, I found a good supply of tools suitable for use on
cycles and their engines, still in fair shape.
I have to admit that out of morbid curiosity, I'd examined the
shop pretty thoroughly once I'd gotten the key, looking for some
clue to its bad rep. Whatever its history, I was pretty sure
that violence wasn't a part of it. Neither the floor nor the
bench bore any traces of bloodstains, even well-cleaned blood.
No bullet holes or patches of same. It looked pretty innocent.
In fact, the only indication (besides the tools) that there had
even *been* a previous renter at all was something rather sweet
and romantic -- a heart with "NA + JBG" inside it, carved into
one corner of the workbench.
So I gave up on trying to find out and focused my attention on
the task at hand. Which was to say, my new hobby: turning an
engineless, twenty-year-old frame into a working machine. I'd
set myself the goal of assembling a motorcycle as close to the
one I had at home as I could possibly get. Of course, I was
going to have to skip a few features. I wasn't going to be able
to make it flight-capable, not without a 'drillium powercell and
an Anson GravMaster2 I wasn't, but I was confident I could make
it one of the fastest things on the road. After all, I'd done it
to a 1936 Harley. I should be able to do it with a 2015
Mitsubishi.
* * *
Thursday, July 17, 2036. 7:53 PM.
Lisa was surprised at first that she wasn't required to wear a
blindfold or ride in Nene's trunk. But a moment's thought
cleared up her confusion. *Why bother when I'm going to come out
of this meeting okay, right?* She tried not to think of the only
other likely outcome in which her knowledge of the Knight Sabers'
headquarters was no danger to them, but she couldn't help growing
a little nervous. Lisa began to wonder if maybe she should have
left some kind of failsafe message for her family or the police
in case she... in case she didn't come back from tonight's
meeting.
*No, don't be silly,* she told herself. *They're not going to do
anything to you.* She tried to generate her usual sense of
confidence, but the effort faltered and she found herself
drifting toward vague fear and worry anyway.
Nene's little car bounced as she turned off the street and into a
parking garage, and Lisa's awareness turned back to the outside
world. She spotted a sign that read "Parking for tenants,
employees and Silky Doll customers only -- Others will be towed",
bathed in a blotch of golden light from the setting sun, and felt
a surge of exhiliration.
*I was right!* she exulted to herself. *She *is* the white
Saber!* She'd long suspected that the mysterious Sylia Stingray
with whom she had spoken three years ago was in fact the leader
of the Knight Sabers. This was the first solid confirmation
she'd had of her guess.
Nene parked, then turned and gave Lisa a confident smile.
"C'mon. Let's go see the boss."
Nene led her into the building, rapidly punching an access code
to unlock the door from the garage. Lisa looked around. They
were in a room that was probably the employee lounge for the
Silky Doll.
It had taken her six months to find any biographical details on
the mystery woman whom she'd met that night in Timex City, a
woman who was far too elegant in manner and dress to be simply
strolling around that neighborhood at that hour. Sylia Stingray
was elusive, even reclusive; and there had been next to nothing
on her in the usual search engines. Lisa had had to dig deeply,
using some not-entirely-licit accounts on the University research
machines to come up with the one photo and the fragmentary bio
she'd assembled. The sparseness of the available information
told her gut that she'd been on the right track. That, and one
or two telling details -- such as the name of Sylia's father.
The next time she'd visited MegaTokyo, she arrived four days
earlier than she'd told either Nene or her uncle that she would.
She spent that time watching the Ladys633 building from the hotel
across the street. When she spotted Nene and her friends Linna
and Priss all making near-daily visits to the Silky Doll, visits
that often lasted several hours, she was certain.
And now she had the final confirmation. She was *here*, to learn
about the Sabers directly. Maybe the first person outside of the
four-woman group so entitled. She shivered. Nene took firm hold
her hand and led her through a door into a dimly-lit hallway. At
its far end, there was a door through which Lisa spied
streetlights and dark, blocky shapes -- the store proper, she
thought.
They stopped at the last door before the end of the hallway. A
faint, narrow line of light seeped out at its edges. Nene gave
Lisa a look that was probably meant to be reassuring, but seemed
fearful, instead. Turning back to the door, Nene knocked once,
then opened it. "Here she is," she said confidently.
Sylia Stingray sat cloaked in shadows. The lamps in the room
were lit, but they were positioned such that their glare hid the
woman; she herself was a silhouette, faintly outlined by the
streetlamps that shone through the window behind her. Lisa
thought she could recognize the hairstyle, but almost nothing
else about the woman was visible.
"Thank you, Nene, you can go now." The voice was the one Lisa
remembered from that night -- calm, controlled, elegant.
Nene hesitated. "But..."
"That will be all, Nene." There was a whipcrack of ice in the
second dismissal. Nene flinched, then nodded. She squeezed
Lisa's hand reassuringly, then dropped it to retreat back into
the hall.
"Please, sit," Stingray said after the door shut. The sharp
click of the latch engaging echoed ominously through the room.
There was a single chair, positioned precisely in front of the
darkness-enshrouded desk. Lisa sat.
She hazarded a quick glance around the room. It looked like an
ordinary store manager's office. Shelves held what appeared to
be bound financial records and distributors' catalogs. A door in
the left wall presumably led to one of the rooms she'd passed in
the hallway.
A rustle of paper drifted out of the shadows, and the silhouette
bent its head. "Vanette, Elisabeth Michelle, aka 'Lisa'. Born
21 April 2015 in MegaTokyo. BA in Journalism, 2036, University
of Kobe. Currently dwelling at apartment 2533, Building 4,
Morita Federal Housing Complex, Ota ward. Current employment
status: journalist/photographer, 16 Tokyo Day Times. Parents:
Mayumi Sato, housewife, and Claude Foucharde Vanette,
photojournalist. Father deceased, March 23, 2034, cardiac
arrest. Your only other living relative is Beauregarde Todo, the
Chief of the AD Police, uncle by marriage to the late Hitomi
Sato, who died in the second Kanto earthquake." There was a
pause. "I can go on for quite a while, but I won't. Suffice it
to say, we have a complete dossier on you, Lisa. We know
everything -- except: why?"
Lisa found herself unable to answer. Her heart was pounding and
she was sweating. Her mouth had gone completely dry. She had
just wanted to hear a few war stories from Nene; she never
expected to end up in this position. For the first time since
receiving Nene's message, her vague worry about the wisdom of her
request crystallized into dread and panic. *Oh my god,* she
thought. *I'm going to die, she's going to kill me, my body'll
be found in the harbor and she'll smash my camera!* Finally, she
managed to croak, "Why what?"
"Why have you kept our secrets?"
"What...?" Lisa gasped. That was *not* the question she'd been
expecting.
"You've known who we all were -- if not right away, then
certainly you knew within a year of our first meeting." Sylia's
voice was level and ice-cold. "You could have gotten yourself a
dream job with any major news service in Japan with the photos
and information you had. Certainly any GENOM-owned newspaper
would have rewarded you handsomely. Instead, for three years you
keep such a career-making scoop a secret, and go to work for a
second-string news bureau after graduation." There was a pause.
"No sooner than you get the job, though, you come begging for
tidbits of information on us, Lisa. Can you imagine how this
might look to me? Do you need to wonder why I might ask you
'why'?"
Lisa shook her head frantically, her eyes wide in fear. "No,
it's not like that! Nene's my friend! They're all my friends!
I've gone dancing with Linna, I've been to Priss's concerts! I
couldn't betray them! I wouldn't!"
The shadowed figure said nothing.
Lisa took a deep gasping breath. "It's more than just
friendship, too! It was something you made me understand that
night. I'd made a mistake, and I never realized it. I wasn't
acting like a journalist -- I was just a little girl with a
grudge. I wanted to get even with Priss for breaking the camera
my father gave me. It was the last gift he gave me before he
died," she sobbed.
Sylia seemed to bow her head in the darkness, but still did not
respond.
"That hurt, and I wanted to hurt you back. The papers said you
were evil mercenaries, and I *so* wanted to believe that. I'd
forgotten that I had a duty."
"A duty?" Her interrogator seemed intrigued. "To what?"
Lisa sighed, and wiped the tears that had begun to flow over her
cheeks. "To the truth. I forgot what my father had taught me --
what being a journalist is about. I realized that I'd trusted
sources that could easily be biased. I realized that *I* was
biased. And that I'd allowed my bias to warp how I saw you."
She drew a deep breath. "Knowing Nene before I found out she was
a Saber helped me realize that. I was already changing my mind
when you talked to me. What I saw during Dr. Yoshida's takeover
of the ADP building just confirmed that I'd made the right
decision.
"I went back to school and relearned everything I knew about the
Sabers -- from honest, balanced sources, or at least sources
whose bias I knew and could filter out. You're mercenaries, yes.
But you do so much good for this city! You have nothing to fear
from me, Ms. Stingray. I wouldn't endanger that -- or my
friends! -- for anything."
"A pretty sentiment." The woman opened a drawer to her side and
withdrew something that Lisa couldn't make out. "With your
curiosity and knowledge, though, I fear it is far too dangerous
to my people and to me to allow you to run around free and
unsupervised any more." Closing the drawer, she stood and
stepped around the desk, her hands working with the object. Lisa
heard an ominious ratcheting sound, like the mechanism of a gun,
and a stab of fear shot through her stomach.
Sylia Stingray stepped into the light and stood before Lisa. She
wore high heels that pushed her already-impressive height to
nearly two meters; she towered over Lisa, who shrank back into
her chair. In her hands Sylia held an oddly-shaped pistol.
There was no expression on her face at all, and Lisa realized
that she was going to die.
"I'm afraid, Lisa Vanette," Sylia said, gazing down at the pistol
in her hand, "that you leave me no choice..."
She paused, almost imperceptibly.
"...but to recruit you into the organization."
Lisa clamped her eyes shut and shrieked in terror.
A moment later, she realized what Sylia had said. "What?" she
squeaked, daring to open one eye.
A ghost of a smile played across Sylia's lips. "I'm recruiting
you for the Knight Sabers."
Lisa opened her other eye, and stared incredulously at Sylia. "I
don't have any kind of fighting skills."
Sylia waved dismissively. "Oh, I'm not recruiting you for the
front line."
Lisa straightened up in her seat, re-arranged her clothing, and
tried to reclaim some measure of lost dignity. "Then what do you
want of me?"
Sylia leaned back and rested against the edge of her desk,
stretching her legs out and still playing with the pistol.
"There has always been more to the Knight Sabers than just four
women in armor, Lisa. There is also a small support team,
specialists all. I'm adding a new specialty to that team." She
smiled, a true full smile this time, and Lisa felt herself
relaxing despite the gun in her hostess' hands. "After six years
of operation, we have acquired a rather... mixed... reputation,
mostly due to the media efforts of our enemy. I want to change
that. I want you to be our 'mouthpiece', as it were."
Lisa frowned. "You want me to slant stories in your favor?"
"No." Sylia shook her head. "Merely make sure that accurate,
unbiased material is as available to the public as the official
GENOM position."
Lisa nodded slowly as she thought it over. "I could live with
that."
"I'd also like for you to act as a... I think 'chronicler' would
be the best word. Or perhaps 'historian'. Someone to write up
accounts of our activities, with an eye towards future
generations who might need an explanation -- or a warning."
A grin spread across Lisa's face. "I *like* it." Then she got a
shrewd look. "And what do I get in return for my contribution to
the team?"
Sylia tipped the gun so that its barrel pointed at the ceiling,
and stared at the sight on its end. "Well, you get to live."
She chuckled as Lisa flinched. "Seriously, you'll receive a
share from the fee for every paid job we take. Your share will
be somewhat smaller than what the other members of the support
team get, as your position will not be as mission-critical as
theirs, but I don't think you'll be disappointed. You can be
paid in cash directly, or have it laundered through means we've
employed since we began; I'd recommend the latter. As part of a
special public service organization, your salary will of course
be tax-exempt. We have a very good medical plan, and a liberal
vacation policy." Sylia raised her eyebrows and quirked one
corner of her mouth in apparent amusement. "Is there anything
else you'd like to know?"
"Just one. Why risk offering this to me?"
Sylia's expression changed to utter seriousness, as if a switch
had been thrown. "Because you've shown yourself worthy of our
trust in the past, I choose to trust you now." Lisa nodded, and
Sylia added, "So, do you accept the position?"
The door to the adjacent room burst open and Nene flew in. "Say
yes, Lisa! Say yes!" Lisa started giggling and before she
realized it, she was on the floor laughing, as much for the
release of tension as for the absurdity of the situation. Nene
stood and stared. "What did I say?"
>From the open door, Priss and Linna looked into the office.
"Nene!" Priss growled and rolled her eyes.
"Do you think we can deal with two of them?" Linna asked
completely straightfaced.
It took a few minutes, but Lisa eventually calmed down. Sylia
waited patiently, as though she were used to, but above, this
kind of activity. When she finally got her laughter under
control, Lisa stood and saluted Sylia. "I accept the position!"
She held the salute for a few seconds, then relaxed and added,
"And Ms. Stingray, if you could please put down the gun, it would
make me feel a whole lot safer."
Before Sylia could reply, Priss grabbed the gun from her hand.
"This?" she asked. "You don't have to be afraid of this -- it's
part of tonight's celebration. Paintball at the Survival Shoot,
then we treat you to dinner!" Priss waved the gun, which went
off with a sharp popping noise. There was a loud *splat* and a
large, wet red mark appeared on the ceiling tile above her.
Surprised, Priss looked up just in time for a dollop of red paint
to drop onto her face. "Aw, shit."
* * *
Friday, July 18, 2036. 11:31 PM.
The view from the top of my building was quite beautiful, even
given that I was living in a low-rent housing project. The
Morita buildings were located in south-central MegaTokyo. Most
of the northern horizon was dominated by GENOM's Cone and the
upscale neighborhoods, and at night was simply gorgeous. It
reminded me a little of looking at L.A. from the Hills -- this
intricate, almost ethereal, webwork of lights that pulsed and
flowed like a living thing.
Unfortunately, the lights of the city, as beautiful as they were,
also drowned out most of the stars on the clearest of nights.
That particular night, though, the sky above the city was cloudy,
and the reflected light from the city below turned it a near-
uniform glowing pink-grey which looked almost like the inside of
some great beast's stomach. I thought of GENOM again and
shuddered. The moon was down to a narrow sliver, all but hidden
by the clouds.
But sightseeing wasn't why I was up here at this hour.
I walked back to the concrete hut which housed the access
stairway. I'd left my helmet on the roof in the shadows that
wrapped themselves against the side wall of the hut. I picked it
up and thought about how long it'd been since I'd seen her. More
than two years for me since I'd been catapulted out of my
universe. More than two years. I held my helmet under one arm
and after rotating the external speakers to their "on" position,
I flipped open the keypad. Without looking, I entered the
sequence I wanted, all but the execute key.
I gently put the helmet down, and hit the last button. A moment
later, that famous piano intro began, the brief keyboard riff
that's kept Eddie Wilson and the Cruisers a household name
despite the thirty-six years since his death. It wasn't the
single version, though, but a rare bootleg from their 1961
performance at Fairleigh Dickinson. I've always felt it was far
superior to the better-known album cut.
"<The dark side's calling, now nothing is real
She'll never know just how I feel
From out of the shadows she walks like a dream...>"
"<Hello, love>," she said from behind me. I smiled and turned to
watch her step out of the slash of black cast behind and to the
side of the hut by the bright spotlight over its door. She
wasn't in her duty uniform, but in her "out partying" garb:
miniskirt, jacket, thigh-high boots with four-inch heels, all of
black leather, a silver chain belt, and that little velvet
bustier she favored. Instead of the duty-wear French braid, her
auburn hair was flowing loose except for two slender plaits at
each temple, and she was wearing her favorite black Ray-Bans.
"<Hiya, Gorgeous.>" I spread my arms and she flowed into my
embrace.
"<I see you didn't call me up for a combat, for once,>" she
murmured into my ear after we broke the kiss.
"<No, not this time.>" I soaked up the feeling of her in my
arms, knowing how brief a time I would have her.
She held me at arms' length, and cocked her head at me, her left
ear just a little forward, in that way she has when she's taking
a good long "look" at me. "<You're lonely and homesick,>" she
said finally.
"<No, how can you tell?>" I rolled my eyes at her.
She tweaked my nose. "<Silly. How could I *not* know?>"
I grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles. "<Damn it, I miss
you. It's been over two years since I talked to you...>"
"<The *real* me,>" she gently reminded.
I nodded. "<It'd be so much easier if you were here with me. I
don't know how I managed alone for all those years before I met
you.>"
"<Think of it as just another challenge for you, Doug.>"
I made a sour face. "<To be absolutely honest, Mags, I could
really do with far fewer challenges in my life.>"
She laughed, a musical chime that echoed off the surrounding
buildings. "<Doug, you'd be bored silly in less than a week.>"
"<You're probably right.>" I smiled at her. "<But either way,
I'd rather be living my life at home, not here.>"
Maggie's expression grew pensive as she seemed to look off to my
right. "<We'll find you. Don't worry. You know we won't have
taken your disappearance lightly. I'm certain we're doing all we
can to figure out where you are. You did vanish right in the
middle of a battle, after all, and we all know you wouldn't just
up and run away. We're looking for you, Doug. *I'm* looking for
you.>"
I shook my head, not in disagreement but in disbelief at how
lucky I was. "<Jeeze, Maggie. I love you. I can't wait to
see you again.>" I took her hand and led her to the low wall
ringing the edge of the building, and we sat down.
"<So, what have you been doing with yourself?>" she asked.
"<Well, I've been settling in here, planning for a long stay,
even though I'm hoping to leave soon. I'm trying to keep a lower
profile this time, too. I'm building a cycle. Oh, and I've made
a friend.>"
She favored me with that cute lopsided grin of hers. "<Only
one?>"
I snorted. "<Only one. I've been busy.>"
"<I'm sure you have. Anything else?>"
"<I've been trying to get home, of course. But it's hard. I
need a different song for each worldjump. And each failure burns
me out for a couple days, even when they don't just turn around
and bite me on the butt. I hate it!>" I pounded my thigh with
my fist even as she wrapped an arm around my shoulders and drew
me closer. "<I hate how helpless it makes me feel. Damn, but I
wish there was someone I could ask about all this, but experts in
worldjumping are a bit rare.>"
"<Maybe you should just sit tight and wait for us to show up.>"
I shook my head. "<Staying put would be the logical thing to do,
but you know what Hexe says -- 'logical' and me don't always go
together.>"
"<Correction.>" Maggie held up one finger. "<'Rational' is the
word she uses. *Rational* and you don't always go together.>"
"<Thank you ever so much,>" I said, dripping loving sarcasm over
every word. Then I kissed her, a brief peck. "<Anyway, I tried
already that in Velgarth, the first world I was in. I was there
for two years, Maggie, *two years*. Either you guys are having a
lot of trouble, or we've got a nasty time differential; either
way, I really think it's up to me to find my way home. It may
get me lost worse, but at least I'm doing *something* to get
back.>"
Maggie nodded. "<That does make a certain twisted kind of
sense,>" she admitted with a frown.
My eye was caught by a flash of red. The inside of my helmet
pulsed with a ruddy glow from the HUD, and that could only mean
one thing... the song was almost over. I'd been so caught up in
her that I hadn't even noticed. "<We're just about out of
time,>" I said as I stood and pulled Maggie to her feet. In
those boots, she was three inches taller than me, but I raised
myself up on my toes. She giggled at my effort, and kissed me
again. "<Maggie, I love you. I need you. And, oh god, I miss
you *so* badly. I'll find my way back to you, I promise.>"
"<Come back to the *real* me,>" she reminded me once again. "<I
love you, too. Please keep...>" But the song ended with a
flourish and the thunder of recorded applause. She evaporated in
my arms before she could finish the sentence, and I was left with
nothing but the shadows that drifted out of my embrace and into
the night.
And I knelt at the retaining wall and pounded my fists against
the cinderblocks as I cried wordlessly in front the panorama of
MegaTokyo. It hadn't helped. It had only made it worse. And I
swore to myself I would never again summon the simulacrum of my
love for anything other than combat.
* * *
Lisa scampered down the stairwell as quickly as she dared,
cradling her camera against herself with one arm wrapped
protectively around it. She skidded to a halt on the landing
for the 22nd floor, and slumped against the green-painted
cinderblock. Holding up her camera, she stared at it and
pondered the new images stored within.
Still giddy from the excitement of the previous night, she had
spotted Doug heading up to the roof with his mysterious helmet
and had followed him. Her intention had been to ask him a few
probing questions. Instead, she had witnessed something that had
completely driven her recruitment into the Sabers from her mind
and had only deepened the mystery surrounding her neighbor.
*What did he mean?* Lisa thought. *What did I just see?*
END OF CHAPTER TWO
------------------------------------
This work of fiction is copyright (C) 1998, Robert M. Schroeck.
Bubblegum Crisis and the characters thereof are copyright and
a trademark of Artmic Inc. and Youmex Inc., and are used
without permission.
Douglas "Looney Toons" Sangnoir is a trademark of Robert M.
Schroeck.
"The Warriors" is a jointly-held trademark of The Warriors Group.
Margaret "Shadowwalker" Viel is a trademark of Peggy U.V.
Schroeck and is used with permission.
Lyrics from "Enter Sandman" by Metallica copyright (C) 1991,
James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, and Kirk Hammett.
Lyrics from "On The Dark Side" by John Cafferty and the Beaver
Brown Band copyright (C) 1983, John Cafferty.
My thanks to Jurai-Knight for a useful suggestion.
Many thanks to my prereaders: Kathleen Avins, Joseph Avins,
Barry Cadwgan, Helen Imre and Peggy Schroeck. Additional
prereaders for future chapters welcome.
C&C gratefully accepted.
--
===============================================================================
Robert M. Schroeck || "When in trouble or in doubt,
rms@cnj.digex.net || Run in circles, scream and shout."
http://www.cnj.digex.net/~rms || I have no mouse and I must scream.