From: fjohnson@gandalf.rutgers.edu (Ronin)
Subject: Allen's Wrench--continued
Date: 24 Nov 92 17:04:40 GMT
Lines: 68

Awright A.C.Cers, here's one that I spawned in just the last few
hours. I admit to having posted a turkey, but hey, Thanksgiving is two
days from now.

(This could be attached to the last two pieces I submitted for a
single chapter.)
	A pair of khaki-uniformed men entered the ruined communication
wing, expecting to retrieve the artificial intelligence that had been
shot down by a couple of their machines.
	The room was filled with debris. Shells littered the floor. A
large pile of parts to the right indicated where twenty Nemesis
machines had been reduced to scrap. Two metallic hulks dangled from
the railing two levels up, limbs missing from both, and one decapitated.
	Amid the mess, neither man could locate the trenchcoated
figure they were looking for.
	"Damn", the senior of the two muttered, "she took him with her."
	"Maybe she knows how to reactivate him."
	"Are you shitting me?"

	Darrin was still at a loss about who this Order was, led by
some fat bigot who apparently had some technical prowess. If they were
so pro-black, why was this Mustafa guy so against getting a degree?
Better yet, why did they suck at the AI game?
	While tending to the dishes, it dawned on him that this group
might have gotten into the papers before now, so he'd do well to hit
the library.
	He summoned the cellular communication utility in his bike,
then dialed up the library's computer. In his mind's eye, so formed by
constructing a visual representation of the session, he was at a
reference desk, staffed by a medium-height blonde. "Good morning. How
may I help you?"
	Darrin looked himself over. He was wearing a white shirt, a
yellow overcoat, and a vest that brought it all together, looking
somewhat like a British character he'd seen on late-night television.
<How about question marks on the collar?> he asked himself.
 	After a pair of half-inch high question marks appeared on his
shirt collar, he replied to her, "I'm looking for material on the
Order of the Black Briar."
	The blonde looked downward for a moment, looking at something
that he couldn't quite make out. In reality, the library's computer
was searching through the periodicals database for the items he'd
requested. Looking at the neat little abstraction he'd created, Darrin
thought, <Damn, I'm good.>
	She faced him again, telling him, "There are thirty-two items,
all periodicals. Would you like to check out some hard copy?"
	"No; I think I'll read them here."
	A table materialized before him, as did a stack of magazine
and newspaper clippings. Darrin's likeness began leafing though each
one, putting together a profile of the Order.
	The Order of the Black Briar first made headlines in 2029. Its
leader was a Yacub Mustafa, and its tenets were that the white man was
inherently evil. The first articles compared the Order to the black
separatists of the previous century, especially in having embraced the
notion that the only decent humans were black. One made reference to
the idea that all other races were the result of a bungled experiment,
which Muslim scholars denounced as apocrypha.
	<Damn, what a bunch of fuckups.>
	The _Time_ installment of July 10, 2034 contained an interview
with Mustafa, titled "By Any Means Necessary". The remarks therein
sounded much like the "lecture" Darrin had happened into, but it was
the photo that held the cyborg's eye. This was the same hefty figure
with whom he had debated and dueled that day. It also occurred to him
that this was the same man he saw standing on the body of Richard
Allen eighteen months ago.
	Darrin came back to reality with a start. His hand fell to his
side as the last of the plates dropped into the dish rack.
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So tell me, did that say everything, or what?