From: fjohnson@zodiac.rutgers.edu Subject: STORY-REPOST to reduce confusion Date: 28 Jan 92 19:38:13 GMT For the benefit of those who missed them previously, I am reposting the pieces I have so far of a story under development, as well as an introduction which could be called "Manifesto of a Short-Haired Liberal". The first segment opens it up; the other closes it. I am in need of suggestions for the material in between; this explains the "posts from hell" appearing on this group". My thanks to the folks who've been kind enough to respond so far, but you were apparently a tad lost by the weapon and political references. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Introduction ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I was going to call it Part One of "Entity", a sci-fi concept that's been brewing in my mind for the last three years, but I doubt if it's up to scratch. I may draw some flames, possibly a couple of explosions, for this proposal, that is, offering a tale of a biochip-powered being and daring to call his adventures a derivative of the 1990's "Black Experience", but as far as I have known it, this is the case, so to quote a line from _Lethal Weapon II_, I don't give a fuck. When most lit.people make reference to the "Black Experience", they think of the Harlem Renaissance, of James Baldwin, of ghettoes, in short the domain of hopelessness which does, admittedly, exist even today. I maintain, however, that the modern African-American must contend with the stigma of being quite advanced over many of his/her peers, in addition to the "traditional" adversities (which, owing to advances in the articulacy, literacy, and interests of individuals like myself, are somewhat less of a factor than they were a generation ago). The former may warrant some explanation. From my experience, there are those who believe in conforming to the prevalent Black stereotype in order to define their "identity": low literacy, little literary interest, if at all "doing something with one's life",working the counter in a fast-food chain, or deliberately entering military service as a buck private (don't even think of it), and "programmed" to despise nonblacks. However, I believe most African-Americans actually do "Aim High", pursuing commissions as military officers (I DID mean to do that), showing technological interests, going after degrees, even mastering other languages, not to mention dealing with people "by the content of their character." Unfortunately, the latter are branded as "Oreos", "sellouts", or "Uncle Toms" by their less-advanced peers. In the preceding paragraph, I have encapsulated the following piece's tie-in with the Black Experience: an individual whose head is full of advances is looked down upon by those who believe the image he presents is self-contradictory. This morning, I received a letter from my father with regard to this project as I proposed it to him. To the suggestion that the nemesis should resemble a cross between Al Sharpton and Saddam Hussein, he replied:"Saddam and Al reinforce stereotypes of inability and failure." That is exactly why such would be a fitting foe for our cybernetic friend. Floyd Johnson Rutgers University New Brunswick, NJ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Project is deployed prematurely, winding up in a college town, wherein he has been provided for in advance. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dr. Allen leaned back in his caster chair, taking a moment to reflect on the work his group had accomlpished so far. The Six-Pack, as he called them, had at once developed a greedy AI database algorithm, given a machine the means to interact with human beings, which, to be convincing, necessarily included a collection of life experiences to call its own, and taught it skills, one of which was to fly an airplane. All of this was to go into creating the last word in military airpower. Three years earlier, his firm, Wrench Systems, was a contender in the Air Force Systems Command's competition for a field automaton, the theory at work being that such would at once be compact, compatible with existing weapon systems, have high survivability (extending wartime life of aircraft severalfold), and, of course, user-friendly. Before the panel of military personnel assembled in Wrench Systems' conference room, he unfolded his proposal. "Consider if you will a system which not only works with a tactical squadron's personnel, but which is capable of eventually leading them. Of course, for this to work, that is, for a flight commander to have a digital stunt-double, what's implied is a quantum leap of wetware." At this, a medium-height woman on the panel gasped. "You don't mean...a full-fledged artificial lifeform, do you?" The devices on her jacket identified her rank as captain. The computer tucked under her arm made it apparent as well that she was the detail's computer science expert. "As a matter of fact, I do, Captain Zera", the tall, slender scientist replied, pulling a 2.8-M out of his breast pocket, "and I just happen to have some of the particulars here for you to examine at your leisure." He handed the disk to the blond-haired woman, who immediately popped it into her laptop. "You do realize you're talking B-2 costs here", the fortyish gent leading the group remarked. "Not quite; most of the hardware is just about off-the-shelf. As for what to expect, the captain has enough data from that floppy to run a simulation:even if it's knocked down, it isn't out." She looked up from her computer. "Interesting you should mention sims, Doctor; I just happened to get that project underway with the Wright mainframe." "You will be contacted in a couple of weeks as to the results." Two weeks passed, and he found a letter from the Department of the Air Force in his E-mail. His audacious-sounding proposal had been tested in simulation against the competition, and won hands-down. This placed him, Richard G. Allen, Ph. D., a signature away from getting his dream project off the ground. At once, he assembled six of Wrench Systems' brightest and most creative wetware engineers and programmers. Despite their quirks, they were methodical people-if you were going to build an AI with character, you'll certainly want a staff with character-and at times they quibbled over the prototype's details. Should it have a trick eyebrow? How about musical tastes? And where on earth was it supposed to have grown up? Despite his relative paleness for a black man, Allen had eyes like those of a wolf, and this was why when he spoke his mind, people listened. He took the responsibility for crafting the prototype cyberhull upon himself, giving it, fittingly, the same wolven eyes that gave him his air. A Prototype Support Team was created to produce all the elements needed to give the prototype an identity when it was deployed. In addition to a motorcycle license in its name, this unit threw in a motorcycle. The bitch of the job, Allen thought to himself, was installing the Weapon Palette. It took an BMMU (bioenergy/matter manipulation unit) to get the cannon, pistol, and blade options to fit in there. A long-range version of this device, a BioEnergy/Matter Manipulation Unit-Projection Version (a.k.a. "Beamup"), stood further down the hall, ready for the day the prototype would be deployed. An explosion shook him into reality. The terminal in front of him, previously graphing the contents of the cybercreature's brain, now was playing the Security Supervisor's announcement to evacuate the building. Allen hotkeyed the Super and before he could ask what in hell was going on, the Super replied, "Get out while you can, Doc, There's a machine-gun platoon out front and they ain't giving way. We're outmanned and outgunned; the best we can do is hold 'em off." With that, the monitor went dark. <Shit>, he thought, <we'll have to get him out two months prematurely>. "Get your butts down the stairway", he bellowed,"I'm moving *him* out." He grabbed the gurney on which the cybercreature was lying, disconnected the data cables, hooked his watch to the prototype, and spoke as he raced to Beamup. A second explosion tore the front wall of the lab, knocking Allen off his feet. Regaining his senses, he lunged for the switch, nailing it with a knuckle as gunsel ripped his left shoulder. A thousand miles away, a slender young man materialised under a beech tree. Though seated, one could discern him to be about six feet tall. To the unknowing eye, he appeared to be fast asleep. The first thoughts that crossed Darrin Allen's mind were of system initialization. In his mind's eye, he saw a GUI that suspiciously resembled a relatively ancient MIT project. He then heard a voice, not very deep, which spoke with an air of urgency. "Darrin, in the event I don't see you again, my name is Richard Allen. You are, essentially, my life's work. You were given many powers, and you must use them wisely. For now, you were sent here to learn all you can; in time, you shall apply those lessons to the business you were meant for:the role of the American Knight. "You may hear it said that your form will put you at many a disadvantage, but but were taught well, and I believe in you. I also wanted to say-". The voice sighed, then continued, "God bless you." Darrin's eyes fluttered open; the first thing he saw was the nut brown of his hands. As far as he, or anyone for that matter, was concerned, he had been in the park since noon. Anyone? There was nobody around. He fished around in his pockets, finding a motorcycle key. This triggered a bit of memory: the bike was on the second level of the parking deck he was facing. He got up, stretched his legs, and shuffled off to get to his bike. He had a class to get to on the other side of town. In a warehouse about ten miles south of Darrin's Ninja-class street fighter, a group of dark-skinned men were clustered around a video monitor. "You mean it's gone?", one of them asked into the monitor. The respone came back, "Uh-huh. Old High-Yellow beat us to the punch, but it ended up *there*." A portly man, obviously senior amongst them, demanded, "You sure?" "Sure; this thing was aimed almost into your lap." <Damn,> he thought,<how am I gonna find Doctor Tom's invention?> Darrin has just started into Rand Hall for his Physics class when the bike's alarm sounded. Instinctively, he 180'd and found the would-be thief astride his machine, sporting a baseball cap set at an odd angle. Springing off of the bike, the adversary hissed, "I'm-a HURT you." As he came into the light, Darrin summoned an MRI scan from his Tools pop-up, finding the 9mm pistol in his opponent's back pocket, as well as Karateka from the Weapon pop-up. Before the punk could finish drawing his weapon, he was flat on his back, his gun just out of arm's reach. "Ahhh no you don't." Darrin's foot came down and smashed the pistol into several pieces. At this, the punk rolled and beat a hasty retreat. The men watching the video monitor has just seen the bottom of Darrin's sneaker, as it had struck one of their combat automata in the face. Any spectacle from this was soon diminished by that of the karate-powered destruction of a firearm. The silence was broken by a short, slender aide, who put into words the uppermost thought in their minds. "I think we found him." "Hmmm", their leader mused. "It might be better to try to use him for our agenda, rather than destroy him." =============================================================================== And this is how it ends... =============================================================================== Hi there, About a month ago, I submitted a piece introducing a black cyborg, along with a political manifesto. Over the last month, I worked out the guts of the "saga": upon his premature deployment, he is given his identity (Darrin Allen, a college student), and meets and falls in love with Kate Jensen. (I oughtta bug Larry Mann about BioSculpt; those mechanisms are the means to make the love story plausible) This isn't so bad, except in the eyes of the Order, an "antimatter" KKK, whose cybernetic troops, though far less advanced than Darrin, are quite powerful. In fact, it was this organization which was responsible for the death of Darrin's inventor, Richard G. Allen, Ph. D. I haven't figured out how, but Darrin gets captured intact, and the Order's leader, "M", personally oversees the installation of a remote control unit on the lines of a cybertroop brain. (M, it turns out, was a rival for the "highly mobile AI construct" contract that led to Darrin's development.) This means, of course, that Darrin goes out of control, for a time like a Street Sweeper with legs, until he finds himself facing Kate. Her karate holds him off for some time, until M issues the "deploy pistol" command. Something inherently human about Darrin intervenes with the implant's functioning, and a small explosion takes place in his midbrain, bringing him, unconscious, to the pavement. He comes to facing Kate's almost tearful eyes, and, realizing he nearly lost the woman he loved, vows he has a favor to return. She joins him on this mission. The following picks the story up from that point and ends it. As you can see, I've got an opening and a closing, but I have no idea how to express what happens in the middle. Give me ideas, especially with the relationship the cyborg's capture. Floyd Johnson Rutgers University New Brunswick, NJ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Darrin has overcome the remote's effects, but M thinks only the countertransmitter is broken. He and Kate are proceeding to destroy M. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They mounted the bike, Darrin passing her his helmet. He checked the bike's Logbook, finding the route he had taken from the Legion's base to campus. The engine kicked on at once, and they were in motion. "Damn good thing they couldn't mess with the bike's storage; otherwise, there'd be no way to find 'em", he muttered. "Anyhow, Step Zero is getting in there and trashing M's operation." "You know where the brains of it are at ?" Kate asked over his shoulder. He consulted the Logbook again. "Not quite; apparently, I only got to see his robotics labs and the main conference room." Her soft brown eyes became wider than usual. "You mean the bike knows where you go and what you do?" "Uh-huh." "Damn, just like a Gallifreyan Time Lord." The pair arrived at a large warehouse. Darrin summoned the Superuser from his Tools pop-up and entered "newuser" at the prompt that appeared in his mind's eye. "Okay, Kate, think of the phrase 'Let's roll!'" She did, and Superuser replied "Access added". Darrin explained, "I've just set the bike to allow you to drive and use its functions." "By thought?" "No; you'll have to use the manual control panel for the scanners and weapons. The helmet transceiver, however, will allow us to keep in touch aurally." He dismounted, then continued as she slid forward. "The left trigger is used for jumping from a level roadway; the right fires the laser." The Control Panel emerged from just below the fairing. "These keys are for rockets, IR, NMR, telephoto, and the saddlebags. Scan results will show up on the visor." With that, he tried his own IR on the six-story warehouse. "I can see the head honchos in conference, but-wait a minute-it looks like their AI gear's on the top floor." She tried the motorbike's AI scanner to see for herself. "It doesn't look like the kind of thing to run androids off of." "It ain't; the hard drives must contain the software that goes into their heads. In order to shut down this creature shop, we'll have to heist the drives." He examined the top floor windows again, and, finding that they were wired, deployed his zipline and fired it at the roof. After slow-retracting the rope, he produced a mirror from his coat pocket, at the same time entering "vox" into Superuser. <Kate>, he thought, <fire a continuous beam up here.> Using the telephoto mode, she got a fix on his mirror, hitting the right trigger. Darrin directed the beam into one of the roof vents, cutting a circular hole about his size. He slipped through, finding himself on a desk in a dark room. Now that he could see the window alarm grids from the other side, he knew he could safely bend them up, and after doing so, asked for another hole, then fired his zipline to a point near Kate and the bike. As the latch alarms remained quiet as well, Darrin wasted no time in folding each drive into a small sling and sending them down. He had just finished with the last of the ten when he heard approaching footsteps. Instinctively, he dove under a desk as a gruff voice demanded, "Who's there?" A khaki-uniformed guard entered the room, aiming his flashlight at Darrin's hiding place. "I said, who's there !" he snarled. A large foot shot up into the guard's face, knocking him clean across the room. In short order, Darrin removed the now-unconscious man's pistol, destroyed his walkie-talkie, and rode his zipline to the ground. He walked nonchalantly to the front door of the building, meeting no resistance from the guards. They thought he was still theirs. He strode into the conference room, looking M dead in the eye. In his best mechanical voice, he announced, "It's over." "Huh?" The behemoth seemed to doubt Darrin's functionality. "There's still a healthy number of Them out there." "It's over", he countered in the same mechanical tone. "No it ain't; They have yet to submit to the Brothers, as the natural order dictates. Your mission is to uphold the natural order, remember?" "It's over". For a moment, M appeared to have forgotten that he was talking to an AI, as he hissed, "Have you forgotten what time it is?" "NO!" Darrin's voice filled the room as he drew up for a high roundhouse kick. "It's payback time!" His kick sent M reeling. At this, the men at the table drew their weapons, simultaneously summoning their cyberdivision. Darrin quite handily rolled away from the human's Street Sweepers, but he could see the android troops approaching from the corner of his eye. <There's too damn many of 'em>, he thought, summoning his antipersonnel grenade launcher. A woman's voice pealed in his head, telling him, <HIT THE DIRT!> An explosion tore a Mack-truck-sized hole in the wall behind him, reducing most of the machines to scrap. Kate came buzzing in as Darrin finished off the remainder. M, having recovered from the kick, crouched under a table and drew a bead on her. "Oh no you don't!" Darrin saw him and jumped into his line of fire, taking several hits to his chest. Checking to make sure she wasn't hurt, Darrin was now free to concentrate on his immediate adversary, who, pissed off by his heroics, growled, "Fuck you, CyberTom", as he reloaded his Uzi. Darrin, equally pissed off, replied, "Fuck you, M", firing his APG launcher into the ceiling twenty feet away from him. Like a good actor, he was determined to bring down the house, though admittedly on his audience. <Move it>, he thought, hammering away at the floor sections directly above M. Another massive explosion rocked the building, followed by the buzz of Darrin's bike as Kate fled the impending collapse. <Well, what are you wating for, homeboy? The whole thing's gonna cave in.> No sooner had this reached his mind than did the hole in the ceiling over M's now lifeless bulk begin to grow. Trunks of the plumbing were giving way, and it looked like a rainstorm had broken out. Somehow satisfied that he had exacted his vengeance on this crew, he stumbled out onto the lawn, brushing pieces of tile off of his coat. Kate marveled at the bullet-riddled, damp, debris-covered, and slightly pissed-looking gent. "You look like hell, guy; we oughtta get your ass to an E/R." "Yeah, maybe", he muttered weakly; being a quick healer, what did it matter? "At least the stuff on those drives will account for the mess. Oh yeah-" He fiddled with a panel on the side of the bike, producing a 2.8M floppy from it. "-so will this." "Are you sure it won't be saying-too much?" "No". He reached for her shoulder, "It won't. Anyone who looks at this will get the idea that one of their own experiments turned on them." She gazed into his eyes. "You know, that's not too far from the truth." As sirens rose and fell half a mile away, Darrin mounted the bike, his arms tightly encircling Kate's waist. He casually tossed the disk onto the lawn as the two of them disappeared into the night. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Please send comments, suggestions, etc. to fjohnson@remus.rutgers.edu. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------