What Are You Made Of?

by Gary Starta

  Thank you judge. I concur that a serious crime has been committed. This is not just a harmless prank by two elderly men. This type of illegal behavior could not only put our Kiratite citizens back into a civil war—but also cause the poisonous seeds of hate crimes to blossom once again around the globe. I am here to convince our 12 person jury to convict Mr. Kasmishen and sentence him to the maximum penalty allowed under federation law.

  Omar: Well begin your questioning already, woman. I already have sworn to tell the truth for the sake of our nation’s God and your precious federation.

  Prosecutor Amani: Let the record state that Mr. Kasmishen has already offended myself and all women on this planet. And Mr. Kasmishen, you were not asked to swear in the name of any God—just in the name of the federation. Or do you also admit to treason?

  Omar: Prosecutor were your parents born before federation occupancy? Did they experience a forced takeover justified under the guise of world democracy?

  Prosecutor Amani: I am not here to be questioned, so please refrain if you don’t want Judge Friedman to put you in contempt of court.

  Omar: Since you didn’t answer my questions, that tells me your parents were born after world democracy was instituted. However, I will not avoid any of your questions. I am more afraid that the truth of our culture has undergone an assassination than your threat of contempt charges, Ms. Amani.

  Judge Friedman: You better be more afraid of me, Mr. Kasmishen. Now hold your tongue until the prosecutor asks you a question.

  Prosecutor Amani: (Turning to face the jury) On behalf of the people of the world, I will fight to convict this traitor of conspiracy. Now Mr. Kasmishen, did you knowingly possess illegal holographic images of material deemed offensive and dangerous to all Kiratite citizens?

  Omar: Yes, I did.

  Prosecutor Amani: Did you knowingly and willfully display these prohibited images in a public place without permit?

  Omar: Obviously, I did.

  Then how do you justify pleading innocent to these charges? You are wasting the court’s time, Mr. Kasmishen.

  Omar: I may be wasting the court’s time. But I am not wasting the people’s time. The people you claim to protect do not require a cultural cleansing to be deemed safe. I implore this jury to question the basis of the laws I am accused of violating. Was the confiscation of our culture’s identity a vital ingredient in the quest for world peace? Furthermore, how does the federation equate paintings and statues with guns and atomic weaponry? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please consider the validity of these federation laws before you condemn my actions. Up until now, no one has been convicted of these laws or for public displays of pride. If I had counsel, he or she would be urging you to search your souls to determine what percentage of your ancestry is responsible for your true nature. I wager to bet that your past represents a sizable chunk of who you are today. If you are under the age of fifty, you were probably never asked to consider this equation.

  Prosecutor Amani: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the equation the accused is proposing is violence plus hatred equals war. What’s wrong with purging hate to achieve peace? If any of you feel you are programmed by your ancestry, you may want to suppress those primitive urges. All the art Mr. Kasmishen refers to was responsible for keeping Kiratite citizens at war for nearly a century.

  Omar: Yes, we were at war. But we were at war with neighboring countries. Why did our government have to be removed because of this? The original federation countries, which implemented world democracy, were not at war with our nation nor were they under threat of attack by us. They justified our takeover because “we might” or “we could” pose a threat. This indoctrination does not sound like it’s based upon the principles of the old U.S. Constitution.

  A security judge then interrupts the proceedings to speak with Judge Friedman. After a moment, the judge calls a recess and requests Ms. Amani to join her in her chambers.

  The scene changes with the aid of a holographic emitter to a small room which is visually captive to a large symbol of the Global Village on the wall behind the judge’s seat.

  Just what is going on here judge? This case is a slam dunk. I recommend that any further comments by the accused be stricken from the record in the interest of national and world security.

  Judge Friedman: There is a part of me that agrees wholeheartedly with your assumptions, Janice. However, we have a mob of Kiratite senior citizens protesting that all charges against Kasmishen be summarily dropped. If Kasmishen becomes a poster boy for a Kiratite cultural campaign, it is likely more riots will ensue. If he is let go with a slap on the wrist, the issue will hopefully be forgotten by the public just as quickly as they became aware of it. I don’t want Kasmishen to become a martyr. And that is why I must order you to convince the jury to only find him guilty of causing a public disturbance. This judgment has been handed down from above so to speak as all global presidents are calling for a quick and non-controversial end to this trial.

  Amani: And what will happen to the security guard? He did kill Kasmishen’s accomplice, Victor Sobal.

  Judge Friedman: He will be pardoned for the shooting. He was acting to protect the public as Sobal disobeyed his commands and lunged for him according to park video recordings. The federation has already fed the press a story that Sobal’s actions were not so much due to freedom of expression as they were due to freedom of sanity. Sobal was diagnosed with a senility disorder six months ago.

  Prosecutor Amani: So you’re saying we’ll win by losing?

  Judge Friedman:We will likely cause a greater threat to world security with a vigorous campaign to uphold federation law. This is a case where we don’t want to make an example of somebody. The world’s press will find little interest in a story that only involves a permit violation. A charge to conspire against the world’s governments is a whole other matter regarding public furor. Controlling the world is a delicate matter, prosecutor. Sometimes you have to know when to play God and when not to.

  The play then concluded to the cheers of a holographic audience.

  Chapter 9: It’s Bananas

  A hushed conversation between Jeff Turner and Renee Mercer was taking place just a few feet outside the aeronautics office building on Colony Avenue. Turner and Mercer competed to hear each other amidst the hustle and bustle of Friday lunch time traffic. This was the first time the gruesome twosome had communicated since the three murders took place two days ago. As hundreds of motorists passed the pair by, no one could have suspected that they were responsible for the crimes which were dominating media air space around the world.

  The conservative Internet-based news agency Global Net Cast was currently reporting Don Volpicelli’s death as strictly accident related. However, several news agencies including the National News Network were trying to boost ratings by alleging the private investigator’s death was connected to the disappearance of aeronautics tech Phil Jackson. NNN reporter Kay Jennings faced the cameras with a genuine look of concern and a wad of makeup as she theorized Volpicelli may have gotten too close to the trail of Jackson. This wasn’t the first time that the news reporter’s tabloid investigative style led her even further from the truth. She even went on to theorize that the former space tech may have had a hand in the PI’s “accident.” Jennings based her theories on an interview she conducted with rookie detective George Valentino. The young detective apparently could not resist the temptation to put himself deeper into the disfavor of his partner Martin Simms. Fortunately—for bother Mercer and Turner—the media was not implicating the World Aeronautics Association as a suspect in the deaths of Volpicelli nor the two space technicians.

  After Mercer heard Kay’s broadcast, he came up with a theory of his own. “Well, it looks like the good ol’ NNN is leading the public on quite a goose chase. If they work hard enough, they’ll have everyone believing that Jackson was just a nut. But what will I tell them about Paterson and Schmitt? No one’s going to believe they lost their minds as well.�
� In the space of five minutes Mercer decided to plant a suspicion that the two murdered techs battled it out over Jackson’s wife, Dana. “With Phil out of the picture, the two pathetic loners compete for his attention-starved wife. Wow, they may even make a net vision movie about this,” Mercer pondered. “I can even provide phone records that Paterson and Mrs. Jackson spoke,” the devious security officer fantasized.

  However, Mercer’s “theories” were constructed in the comfort of his home den while he sipped on a banana-flavored liqueur. Right now, he was currently exposed to the harsh rays of the sun as he continued his conversation with Turner. Renee’s nerves were being tightly wound by his murder-for-hire thug who took a brass balls approach in demanding his payment. Mercer fought a dry mouth and a racing heart as he scolded Jeff for contacting him so soon after the murders. Turner retorted that he needed to take his girlfriend out of the northern sector as soon as possible before she started asking too many questions. “How can your measly installment payments fund her non-stop shopping trips and manicures?” Jeff complained. “I have to keep her occupied with shopping 24/7 so she won’t have time to question how I came into this kind of cash working a courier’s job.”

  “Well, just keep your pants on, literally,” Mercer advised tersely. “At least you had the presence of mind to meet me dressed as a courier. Now put to use what other little sense you have in your micro brain and maintain a low profile like we discussed. Don’t book any trips out of the sector just yet. Our deal was you get the balance of the money when it’s confirmed that Paterson and Schmitt “murdered” each other.”

  “I think you’ll be quite satisfied with my work. I’ll be back in one week at this same spot to claim my money, Mercer.”

  “Oh, and are you making a threat?” Renee whispered while he backed Turner against the building’s exterior.

  “Make good on your promise. That’s all I’m asking.” Jeff then brushed up against Mercer and left in a huff. Two hours later, Turner rebelled like a scolded child and bought two one-way tickets to the Bahamas.

  After Turner left Mercer to stew in his juices, the security officer made the mistake of remaining outdoors for another five minutes. In that span of time, Kay Jennings managed to leap out of a descending air cab to hail him.

  Mercer had purposely avoided the self-centered journalist by keeping his data net powered off. However, he did leave a message suggesting that the two techs deaths might have been over a woman. He left that message at 3 A.M.., shortly after polishing off his third glass of banana-flavored rocket fuel.

  “Renee, why haven’t you returned my messages? I’ve been running around like an automaton with a faulty sub processor the past 48 hours. Things have changed at NNN since we talked last.” Jennings then paused to straighten her neon red sports jacket while a gust of wind tussled with her long blonde mane of hair.

  “Yes, I know they have.” Mercer sarcastically emphasized the word “know” to belittle Jennings’ reporting skills and her vanity. However, the investigative reporter remained clueless to his insinuation. Despite his insults, Mercer could not completely ignore Jennings’ physical presence. The calculating executive fought several strong urges over the next ten minutes to undress the vivacious siren with his mind. Kay quickly honed in on Renee’s desires and did not fail to try to take advantage of his weakness.

  “So what does a girl have to do to break a story?” Kay purred like a kitten. “I have a green light from my boss to provide full coverage of this story—whether it tarnishes the space agency’s reputation or not is up to you. So what do you say to providing the story while I take the glory.”

  “What story are we talking about? Oh, are you referring to my message where I alluded that Paterson and Schmitt were vying for the attention of Jackson’s ex?” Mercer asked feigning ignorance.

  “Well, I already know that Phil Jackson killed his ex-wife’s PI to protect his secret affair. I also surmise that Jackson’s wife became distraught over her financial situation as a result of the affair. Phil’s buddies then moved in to capitalize on her vulnerability—each man unaware of the other’s intentions. I interviewed a confidential source at a space association hangout who said Schmitt and Paterson nearly salivated when Phil produced a picture of his wife at a company party two years ago. Up until then, I bet the deceased techs never would have dreamed Phil could have scored such a beauty—let alone neglect her charms. I think Paterson wanted me to take Phil permanently out of the picture so there would no threat of a reconciliation. I hear your agency offers several mental health programs which encourage divorced spouses to re-marry. I think our deceased techs gave in to jealousy and paranoia. So you see, Renee, all I need is a character assessment of your employees to substantiate my story.”

  “Oh, do you?” Mercer responded while flashing the kind of smile found on campaigning politicians. Renee could not have hoped for such an incorrect analysis. “Well, please continue and then I’ll confirm your theories.”

  “I knew that Chuck Paterson’s claim was bullshit. He was just trying to lead suspicion away from himself with that tale about Jackson turning all vigilante against the association. Now that I think of it, he just wanted me to get Jackson arrested or at least publicly ridiculed. He could have then moved in on his ex-wife without shame or competition. Well, at least until he found out Schmitt had a similar plan that is.”

  “Yeah, well leave it to those nerdy space techs to invent stories,” Mercer said playing along with the reporter’s erroneous suppositions. “I concur that Paterson and Schmitt just wanted to bed Jackson’s ex. You know, Kay, I see techs like that all the time. They work for ten years without glancing at a woman and then their hormones explode all at once and they’ll do anything to quell their pent up lust. The way I see it is that Schmitt got wind of Paterson beating him to the prize. The two then squared off in a battle to defend their manhood like two love sick teenagers.”

  “So you believe these killings are all due to affairs of the heart?”

  “Yes, I do, Kay. Please join me for dinner tonight and I’ll fill in the rest of the blanks for you.”

  “I knew you’d come through for me, Renee. Well, we both get what we want. I get the scoop on the hottest news story in decades and the integrity of your space association remains intact.”

  “Think nothing of it, dear. It’s the least I could do for a star reporter. See you 7:30 at our favorite restaurant.”

  Mercer then turned his attention back to Jeff Turner as Jennings sauntered down the sidewalk like a runway model.

  “Well, do I pay Mr. Turner the rest of his fee to keep his silence? Or should I buy an insurance policy to keep him silent?”

  The security executive pondered these alternatives as he rode the elevator back to his office.

  Chapter 10: Corrupted File

  James Starkman tossed and turned in his bed the night after he learned Mikola Petrovsky had contacted his mother. The android boy had never experienced this kind of disturbed sleep pattern before. For all Adrian McElroy knew, no automaton had ever experienced this troubled emotion. James clutched onto his pillow like a drowning victim grabbing onto a life saver. The artificially-constructed body tossed and turned in its bed while its mind tried to comprehend the stream of data it was receiving.

  If one didn’t know James was an android, they probably would have concluded that the boy had fallen into an REM-like sleep state. However, McElroy had not programmed this AI to actually dream. The doctor had entered codes into the boy’s programming which would allow the artificial brain to re-file ideas and experiences while it was at rest. The android’s internal battery had been designed to automatically power itself down every 16 hours. The brain was then allowed to file and sort the data it experienced that day during an eight hour cycle. McElroy did not believe the artificial body could generate enough power during this idle cycle to tap into the human engrams.

  Nevertheless, James mind was now leading him down a path riddled with allegorical references and so
me downright scary images…

  James found himself walking down a garden path in the first few minutes of his dream. As the boy turned his head from left to right, he could make out the faces of his former schoolmates peering through thick patches of vines. The vegetation resembled a bunch of tangled cables—much like the ones used to power ancient computers. Voices behind these vines whispered inaudible phrases that sounded like “look at the freak” and “mama’s boy.” Even though James could not quite make out the words of the voices, he was convinced their tone was vengeful.

  “What did I ever do to you?” James called out to his mocking trail mates.

  “It’s what you didn’t do Starkman,” one voice answered.

  “Yeah, you forced us all to live up to your exacting standards,” another voice complained.

  “All I ever heard from my teachers and parents was: why can’t you be more like James?” an angry voice shouted.

  “Yeah, why do you have to be such a goody two shoes?” mocked a small voice coming from the ground in front of him.

  James turned his eyes down and saw the back of Ruby the bug. For a moment he was relieved. However, something was terribly wrong. The voice emanating from the bug was familiar but James could not put his finger on it. As the insect turned to face him, the source of the voice became clear. Peering straight at him, beneath two antennae, was the face of Mikola Petrovsky.

  “You know you don’t have to be so straight laced in order to achieve fame. I bet you were one of those kids who received constant encouragement from your parents,” the bug commented with Petrovsky’s unmistakable bitterness.

  “Take it from me, you can still be a genius without everyone being jealous of you. Sometimes hatred provides a strong motivation to excel. Here…look…”

  The garden scene then faded away and James found himself in a small Ukraine apartment.

  “Damn you, Mikola. Stop leaving your engineering manuals scattered around this house. If I told you once, I told you a thousand times—you better buckle down and get yourself used to living an ordinary life. You inherited your stupidity from your father if you think your education will free you from a life at the factory. But you if insist on studying formulas, well I’ve got a new one for you: stupid father plus stupid son equals false hope.” James identified the voice as Petrovsky’s mother. However, she did not seem daunted that her son had taken the form of a bug.