>From: fjohnson@remus.rutgers.edu (Floyd Johnson)
Subject: STORY (Sort Of) which I'm not sure what to call
Date: 6 Dec 91 16:21:12 GMT


	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."

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Send any ideas, comments, or exploding shurikens to me at
"fjohnson@remus".
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