“We have no weapons.”
“Hence my clemency. I estimate Ms. Quicho is now merely minutes away. Restore communications.”
She commed her people inside the labyrinth of tunnels under the building. “Rebuild their communication grid.”
“What?”
“Rebuild the grid, do it quickly, and spread the word to cease. This is the final order of this operation. Acknowledge my authority.”
Atlantidean curses filtered from the background of the young man in charge of communications.
“Get it done,” said Bickle Reznor of the Thoom Protectorate, “and keep communications open while you’re doing so.” She met Shigetei’s eyes. “Will that suffice?”
“Evacuate this building,” said Shig, “and don’t let our paths cross again.”
“We are still citizens of Atlantis,” she said.
“You are citizens of Shigetei Empa from this day forward. Do not let our paths cross.”
Recounting this to Desiree, who’d been delayed by traffic congestion as there wasn’t a decent place for the Aerie to land close enough to the capitol building to make a difference, Desiree who had presented Aileen Stone to him for official punishing, Shig was grateful he had learned the Twelve Gates of Restraint prior to accepting civil office and reinforced each weekly.
“You’re badass, Shig,” said Desiree.
“I don’t want to be badass. Badass means there are people giving me reason to be badass, and I’d rather those people not.”
Aileen, stripped of her knockoff breach suit and effects, walked with her head and back haughty as fuck in the grey woven-paper gown and booties given her, shackled hands bouncing off her yoga-toned butt. “This is effectively kidnapping,” she inserted into their conversation.
“Yeah, I’ve done that before,” said Desiree, then ignored Aileen. “I feel you, Shig.”
“You do realize,” Aileen said on that one nerve of Desiree’s again, “I have affairs to get in order.”
“You do realize you came here with battle-fucking-ships. I haven’t received casualty reports yet. You best hope this man is standing next to me when I do.”
The entire wing had been ordered cleared of all personnel. Desiree wanted no chance of sleeper operatives, double agents, or random morons anywhere along the route. There were no plans to hold the interloping idiot indefinitely, just long enough for the Agents of Change to do some cleanup back home. Desiree was done playing Whac-A-Mole with global fuckups who thought ridiculously expensive clothes elevated them.
Nothing but leafy plants along the hallways and the soft footfalls of three individuals on a huge, multi-leveled complexity of a planet to mark the occasion of the last gasp of Nonrich as she and Shig marched Stone ahead of them, Shig calling out terse directions. He was not a policeman, nor a military man, nor caretaker of some Shangri-La. Atlantis worked to make sense. They didn’t seek utopia; they sought harmony. Everything had to function toward the betterment of something else. He’d thought this out-Blank foolishness had been over last year when the False Prophet Buford had been vaporized and the great beast Leviathan returned to sleep. Yet there he was again.
He glanced at Desiree’s profile. Her eyes never left the back of the woman’s head.
This, he decided, was the last anything like this would happen.
The small group approached an intersecting hallway.
“Right,” said Shig. He didn’t relish rounding the corner to another empty hallway that screamed at him louder than if it’d been packed. Nor did he relish giving ultimatums, if an ultimatum even applied to this, not to a friend. No, not to a sister. He and Desiree had sat far too many times speaking into the night on various docks for him to see her as anything but family. The Brothers Jetstream had told him for years that it was only a matter of time before the world outside pushed its way in. The out-Blank world metastasized too fast for otherwise.
“I’m not handling this well at all,” he said.
“You’re doing fine.”
They rounded the corner.
There wasn’t supposed to be anyone there.
Apparently, no one had told that to the woman down the hall wearing armor, standing outside the holding cell they needed. Actually, she leaned casually, strong shoulders against the wall, arms crossed beneath a nonexistent metallic chest, and the welcoming expression on her face entirely reminiscent of Neon’s due to the fact that it was primarily Neon’s face. She wore her hair in two extra-large puffs.
Desiree and Shig shared the barest quizzical glances, confirming neither knew who the woman was.
Neon Temples had no twin.
“Do we…” Shig asked.
“Keep walking,” said Desiree, voice calm, weapon hand relaxed.
As they neared, they realized this woman had no armor; it was skin, metallic, dark, and shining, merging perfectly with actual organic skin. Design lines and seams were visible on some parts; others stayed smooth as a calm lake. The woman watched them approach, pleased that neither Desiree nor Shig had drawn weapons, her smile blossoming the closer they got.
“BE?” ventured Desiree.
The smile became a star.
“Timing could have been better,” said Desiree.
“This is…” said Shig.
“Unless you have a shapeshifter I don’t know about, this is an AI formed from the soul of a mad scientist and unholy applications of the texts of Bilo of ancient Africa—”
BE nodded companionably at Shig.
“—that has cloned itself a Neon body without authorization—”
“Nothing can authorize me. Hello,” BE said in perfect Atlantidean, “Shigetei Empa of Atlantis.”
“—and got here how?” said Desiree.
For a millisecond, light around BE refracted, then she was gone in an inward wash of—what Desiree could only call—reality giving itself a wedgie from the inside out.
BE immediately reappeared with the same effect beside Desiree.
Aileen took this in with quiet, keen interest.
“How are you doing this?” Desiree asked.
“How is this done?” said Kosugi Mo. His wife’s two top aides, having worked feverishly to recreate Hashira-san’s work even at a basic level, wanted nothing more than to die so they would be out of contact range of Kosugi Mo. Plus, they hated being on the moon, but since Megu’s disappearance, it was the only place Kosugi felt safe.
“Solitary confinement with excessive poetry and meditation for at least four weeks is recommended,” said the first, Hayata, a man possessed of so much nervous energy, he nearly blurred.
“A strict diet of solely fruit and water,” said the second.
“End each week with intense self-discovery, then begin again,” said the first. Uncomfortably.
“Self-discovery?”
“Self-pleasure?” the first tried. One did not talk onanism with someone who trucked in moon bases and cosmic horrors.
“Porn bores me. You have one week to write and direct something suitably stimulating to the senses.”
“Hai,” said the first. The second’s inward monologue was simply Fuuuuuuuck!
“Four interconnected stories or standalones?” said the second, however, to prove she was in the moment.
“Seek your muse,” Kosugi dismissed. “And my soul…is there any pain with its loss?”
“Hashira-san reported none.”
“She’s a good one for not revealing what pained her,” Kosugi said softly to himself. Anything Kosugi Mo said even in a room full of hundreds was to himself. “The second machine: will it suffice without all of Megu’s knowledge?”
“We will extrapolate to the best of our abilities,” said the first.
“If I die,” Kosugi said directly to him, “everyone you know dies with you,” said Kosugi.
“That doesn’t include work acquaintances, does it?” said the second.
Kosugi’s eyes traveled the bevels and lines of the second-generation Bilomatic Entrance laid in pieces t
hroughout the massive, triply secured lab. It seemed too simple to work; there weren’t enough bells, whistles, and scientific doodads to quell his doubts that the entire enterprise had been for theatre rather than practicality. And yet, Megu believed.
And yet, it had been stolen.
From the moon.
Which was where he was.
And the base surrounded by mechs.
Full of weapons.
Also full of humans to deplete every round of ammunition and erg of plasma energy in use of them.
There would be no mistakes this time.
And yet, Maurice couldn’t help adding, then dismissed that doubt.
“Am I allowed communication?” Kosugi asked.
“No, sir. Total isolation. When you feel ready, alert us. Only that.”
“I don’t recall Megu being gone for four weeks,” Kosugi mused, again to himself, but also as a threatening challenge to their competence.
That, thought the second, is why you’re divorced.
“Proceed,” said Kosugi. He left.
“I’ve never written porn,” said the first, scratching furiously at a nonexistent itch on his nose.
“Trust your instincts.”
She’d wanted to do this at her build site. Someplace where there was water, grass, the huge night sky, and a sense of family, not an office or lab. The Hellbilly, Sharon, and Compoté were allowed (encouraged) to wander the capital’s cultural wonders. Had this been a story, she’d have followed them to the completion of their arcs, but life never tidily wrapped up its intentions for anyone in pretty packages. The three were given basic rules of life, assured of what would occur the moment they disregarded them, and allowed on their way. Desiree’d kept BE sequestered until then. BE had agreed with her logic.
Yvonne and Neon relaxed at the dock of the build site. They knew something was up but were patient. They’d just thwarted a war. Cool drinks and minimal conversation in lawn chairs on a dock were allowed.
Shig excused himself from the gathering out of respect for Neon, instead sending sumptuously catered food courtesy of “The gratitude of all of Atlantis.”
Desiree, having ducked into the Ann a moment earlier for the special stash of canned, super cold horchata she maintained, returned to the subdued dock with three slim, cylindrical wonders, passing two to her crew.
“We stopped a fucking war,” Neon said again, the third time since the sun had set. She snorted. “Three ladies and an octopus.” Her hand went in the air. “I need the highest of fives right now…and some more of those candied veggie balls.” Yvonne highed the five.
Desiree nudged the rolling service cart over with a toe.
“Neon?” asked Yvonne. All three women were comfortably shadowed. Atlantis’s bitey bugs hadn’t come out yet. “What’d we do today? Again?”
“Stopped a fucking war.”
“With what?” said Yvonne.
“Ten minutes of planning and our perfect breasts.”
Desiree pulled the neck of her shirt out and peered inside before giving a shrug.
Neon laughed and stretched across to high-five the captain.
“Okay,” said Desiree. “No easy way to broach this. Remember when Milo got cloned last year?”
“Good times,” said Yvonne.
“Good times,” Neon cosigned.
The clones had accompanied Milo into space, all thirteen of them. “They’re not back, are they?” asked Yvonne.
“Naw. But that was a wild time. Plus, they could teleport.”
“Teleportation is our jam now,” said Neon.
“Perfect segue, my love. BE?”
The teleportation effect wasn’t as pronounced at night. BE appeared clearly behind Desiree, arms calmly behind her back.
Yvonne and Neon didn’t startle, but each immediately placed their horchatas on the wooden deck and tensed to kick ass if necessary.
From the Ann, strains of Lionel Richie’s “Hello” sprang crisp and clear from its speakers.
Nineteen eighty-four slow jam of the year.
No one moved. Not until Lionel sang, “Hello…is it me you’re looking for?”
“I got several questions that all end with what the fuck,” said Neon.
Even in the high floating lights above the dock, the big forehead was clear; the cheekbones and commanding jawline, hella clear; the eyes, the goddamn twinkle in the eyes—all clear. Not an exact copy but near enough to cause a double take.
No boobs, though.
Androids had no need dreaming of electric teats.
“This is what you disappeared for?” said Neon.
“I didn’t disappear. I’ve been minimally aware.”
“You let us fight a fucking war when you could’ve flipped the switch on their ships and turned ’em into floating paperweights.” The only thing keeping Neon from rising out of her chair was the slight shake of Yvonne’s head.
“Bobo was in that water,” said Neon.
“He’s in the water now,” sad BE. “I learned to communicate with him while you celebrated. He wants you to throw several veggie balls into the water.”
Neon did so without taking her eyes off her baby sister.
“What was it you said about this being nothing like Demon Seed?” Yvonne put to the construct.
“It isn’t, but it was necessary for me to access the flesh. Do you know how many neural networks your bodies carry? Most of you still believe you only have one brain, and think of brains in terms of set hemispheres. Your entire body is a computational network. You are living amplitude and modulation.”
“You a goddess?” asked Yvonne.
“Not yet.” She spoke to Neon. “I’ve even returned the drone that brought your genetic material to one of Buford’s cloning labs you missed. Geneva.”
“Is it the last?” Desiree asked.
BE came around to her side. Sitting cross-legged on the bare planks, she said, “It’s the last.” BE nodded toward the shell of Desiree’s home. “I could complete that with drones and printing.”
“Nice, but no. Focus on Neon.”
“I am. She’s been trying to contact me.”
“How have I?”
“There’s part of you, Ms. Temples, that actively searches for connection at all times. Constantly broadcasting and receiving.”
“All of us?” said Yvonne.
“Just her,” said BE.
“Why?” said Yvonne.
“Random cosmic confluence.”
“I don’t sense any of this,” said Neon. “Why’d you pick me?”
“Amplifier,” said BE. She picked up Desiree’s horchata, took a sip, and put it down, inwardly elated. “I am broadcasting outward ever farther, ever faster. You have no idea the amount of music and noise shared within this one galaxy. So much of your data is spoofed. The farmland on Mars alone would blow most minds.” BE got to her knees and ambled the few feet to Neon. She placed a hand on the confused woman’s knee. The hand felt like a hand, warm from the Atlantidean day, warm from life within.
“Let me show you something wonderful,” said BE.
Yvonne inserted the proper wrench in the moment. “Nothing good ever comes of that phrase.”
BE turned her beseeching eyes on Yvonne. “Oh, but it does this time. This time, if we imagine it, we travel it.”
“And you can teleport,” said Neon.
“Limited only by certain physics I am at this very moment attempting to break.”
“Is this something I can do?” asked Neon.
“No. You’d need an AI brain for this. Merged with a soul. Or cosmic confluence, as with your lover.”
“Milo’s not my lover.”
“Most meat brains are addicted to constants rather than open appreciation of flowing possibilities. Bobo has agreed to travel with me. I can easily make him an octo breach suit. Come with us.”
“How far?”
In a blink, BE and Neon were gone.
In the next blink, they were back.
Ne
on’s eyes were wild, her body a massive shiver, but her lips, lips for speaking foolishness and truths, grinned just a bit beneath the moon and artificial light.
BE moved aside for Yvonne.
“Hey. Hey, look at me.” Yvonne gave Neon’s knee a few taps. “You okay?”
Neon’s eyes focused.
“Where’d you go?” Yvonne asked.
“I…I…don’t know,” she said, the stupefied grin becoming a full, incredulous smile. There were words she wanted to use, but she didn’t know them yet. There was joy she wanted her best friend to experience, but she hadn’t the emotions to express it.
“BE,” said Yvonne, “I need you to promise me you won’t do that again without Neon’s explicit permission.”
“She gave permission.”
“Permission we can all see and hear.”
“I accept that limitation.” BE turned to Desiree. “I wiped the navigational logs and all data pertaining to Atlantis from that returning ship and all Nonrich databases.”
Afro Puffs Are The Antennae Of The Universe Page 23