[Part 1] From hk512@cleveland.Freenet.EduThu Feb 15 12:58:45 1996 Date: Sat, 3 Feb 1996 18:37:51 -0500 From: Joseph Delacroix To: rotor@primenet.com Subject: Memories [1/1] David: Here's the next story. Do whatever needs to be done with it. See you on SPR! ;) Joe. *** *** *** Memories by -- Joseph DeLaCroix This story is based on characters created by Service and Games (SEGA), and on characters created by Archie Comic Publications, Inc. Any resemblance to actual characters are not coincidental. ;) Joseph, Bahb, and all other independent creations of Joseph DeLaCroix are the copyrighted property of JoCo Inc. Commander Packbell, Bookshire Draftwood, and Sandra Nightweaver are the copyrighted property of David Pistone. All rights reserved. Etc. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "A problem?" Joseph looked at Sandra blankly. "Yes, we have a problem." Sandra frowned a little. "What's wrong?" Joseph sighed. "The damned deroboticizer is going to be delayed at least one more year. Apparently, the roboticizer software occasionally upgrades itself so become more efficient." He scowled. "And Bahb will have to decompile the roboticizer software I gave to it in order to hit every possible evolution pattern of the sotware, crosscheck it, and find a way to reverse it." Sandra smiled weakly. "But it's not a total reversal," she noted softly, trying to return Joseph to his former good cheer. "It's just a minor setback...right?" Joseph blew some air out of his nose. "A year is a long time. Anything could happen between now and Solstice-time next year...that is, if no unexpected setbacks interfere with the progress of the deroboticizer." Sandra gave her mate a soft hug. "You'll get it right one day. Just look how far you've come so far...you've done more in a year than some have done since the beginning of this accursed war." Joseph hugged her back. "You're right, of course. I just want this to end so badly..." Sandra kissed his muzzle gently, and embraced him firmly. "We all want it to end, Joe. And it will end...I know it. I have faith in you, my love, and I know you'll have sucess in time. You just have to keep going." Joseph grinned and held her close. "Of course. Honestly, I let the littlest things bother me sometimes--" Sandra put her right index finger against Joseph's lips, quieting him. After he had stopped attempting to verbalize anything, she took her finger away, and rested her head against his chest. "Let's worry about the world tomorrow, Joe." Joseph stroked her headfur. "Good idea." The lights clicked out. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - That next morning, the people of Knothole groggily awoke from their nocturnal slumber, and attempted to shake off the effects of last night's festivities. They stumbled about their homes, bathed themselves to the best of their ability, brewed up something hot to drink, and sleepily tried to return their homes back to normal. However, most of the populace had a few days off from whatever work they did around the village, and thus had time to recouperate. The adults stayed inside and gossiped about the doings of several people at the communal party that occurred the previous night. The older youths hung around with their various companions, and a few made snowpeople. The younger kits had a snowball fight near the center of town, enjoying some time off from school. Occasionally, a passerby would get nailed by a stray shot, and get momentarily dragged into the ever-esclating mock war. The core Freedom Fighters, however, were busy planning another assault on Robotropolis, with the goal of getting another legion of roboticized citizens out of the clutches of Packbell. Theirs was a job with few holidays and even fewer sick days. The responcibility of a war was one that would be normally too great for such a young group of people...but war makes men out of boys, and women out of girls; and heroes out of hedgehogs. They stood around the holographic map of Robotropolis, and designated their paths of entry and escape. It would be a dangerous mission, one probably that would be the model for future assaults. Sonic would start a diversion by sabotaging one of the main refinaries, and try to annhilate as much equipment as possible. When some of the SWATBot forces were distracted, a second squad would move in and attempt to take a minor group of roboticized citizens out of the city. After more forces were dispatched to deal with that problem, a third group would go after their target group of citizens, and get them out as quickly as physically possible. It was a solid plan, which had a fair chance of success...at least once. All of them realized who they were fighting now, and they knew that casualities were going to become inevitable. They'd escaped rather well in their previous missions; a few nicks, a wound or two, or perhaps a few broken bones. Only rarely had they had a death on a mission... But they knew that Packbell was not Robotnik. Robotnik had the weaknesses of the flesh working against him; emotion, rage, greed, and simple bad luck. Packbell was a designed killer. He would start to detect patterns in their attack strategies--if he hadn't already!--and find ways of defeating them...and the legends about POWs that Packbell had acquired made roboticization look like pure esctasy. Naturally, they were frightened--they weren't immune to fear. But they knew they were the only thing standing between Packbell and total world domination. Their fear only showed itself at the quiet moments between the times their eyes closed at night and sleep...the fleeting time when their mind fully comprehended the sheer level of danger they were in on a daily basis, and how easily they could expire. This was, however, a temporary feeling. When the spectre of doubt crossed their paths, the look in the eyes of a child or the painful glance of a roboticized victim would fill themselves with determination, and chase the ghost of dread far from view. Their missions were for the safety of the world, and for the honor of their lost King. After Sally had completed assigning troop details and strike plans, she dismissed them all to the day's beauty, allowing them to view the wonder of winter: for some, it might be the last time they would ever see the glory of the sun, or feel the gentle embrace of snow around their feet. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - While Bahb began the long and arduous process of decompiling the roboticizer program, Joseph and Sandra shared a quiet moment within a upper level of the Dome. They sat in the "living room" of the Dome, sitting on a couch in front of a roaring fire. Bahb occasionally projected live video of the outside world in front of the fire, at the request of either party involved. It seemed to keep them occupied long enough to start a few conversations, which Bahb paid little attention to. "Tell me more about your people," the vixen muttered, resting quietly on Joseph's shoulder. "Very well," Joseph spoke, "what would you like to know?" "Did you ever have...a girlfriend...back on your world?" Joseph sat there for a moment, his expression becoming rather morose. "Yes," he whispered, "I had one...once." Sandra detected a hint of sadness in Joseph's voice. "Did it end badly?" "You could say that..." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "It was so long ago....I was simply 16 megacycles old at the time..." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Technopolis. The great capital city of the western continent, and the last remaining domed gigalopolis on Ur'thae. The majority of the west was now a smoking ruin from several 100 megaton antimatter bombs launched from the anti-android terrorist organizations of the east. But Technopolis, since it guarded the Head Vixen of the Imperial Ur'thaen Federation of Worlds, was very well protected by the loyal Ur'thaen Imperial Space Navy. Not even the most zealous terrorist would dare attack it...the punishment for attempted terrorism was a slow trip into the molecular deresolution chamber. Inside the city, it appeared to be a Utopia. Plants and atriums were everywhere for the satiation of the populace's desire for "Nature" in their lives. Happy people did their work without complaint, and even the lowly Greys were mostly pleased with the way their lives were. Within these curved walls, nearing the center of the busy civilization, many Ur'thaens were in the middle of hard training. To be specific, the Dark Foxes, ultra-augmented Reds that were the personal guard of the Violets, trained in a nearby dojo; along with a solitary Orange teenager who did a similar set of martial arts training. They paid him little heed, tho, being all-consumed with the desire to become the biggest, hardest, most perfect predator that they possibly could. The slim, quiet Orange did his exercises with vigor. His father, the Supreme Scientist of the Empire, had always taught him to do everything he put his mind to with the same amount of effort he would put into serving the Head Vixen, no matter how rote or dull the task might be. However, his martial artistry was something that Orange, designated by the Moebian tongue as "Joseph", enjoyed. It gave him an opportunity to get in touch with his...spiritual side? No, he thought, not spiritual. More likely his carnal, wild side. It gave him an opportunity to force his body to do acts of great physical strength and control, which made him feel like more than a simple member of the Scientist caste. He completed his usual training exercises, and calmly collected his things. He usually carried little on him when he walked the streets of Technopolis...despite the reassurances made by the Greens and Yellows in charge of the city's security, he knew perfectly well that there were always Eastern spies within the city limits, just waiting for a hostage like himself to come shuffling their way...sons of Supreme Scientists are hard to come by, after all. He put his things in his sack, and went into the locker room to change back to his usual outfit. While he felt his training suit was comfortable, it was socally unacceptable to even make a short trip outside in it. After all, this was Technopolis, seat of the Empire! It wasn't like his old home... Joseph sighed as he thought of his old home in Vixen's Valley...the place of his birth, with the waving green grass and the trees that reached beyond the clouds. It was where his father was allowed to grow him in the executive biotubes; quite an honor for a simple Orange kit! He remembered the smooth hand of his father as he began the implantation of his neural implants all those megacycles ago. The great leap into coherency temporarily had phased him, but his mind quickly adjusted to his added intelligence. His attempts to speak were foiled by his still-immature vocal cords, and his gestures did little to communicate anything but disorientation. The smile of his father had calmed him, and his gentle grip had lifted him from the guerney from where he laid to a datajack. A cord extended from the cool steel box, and softly attached to a silver spike that had automatically extended from his wrist. With that, his education began. The megacycles slid by faster than his mind would have liked. He began his training in the martial arts, and gradually began to understand the wonderous world around him more clearly. He played in the lush fields of Vixen's Valley, worked in the small macrodome that made up the city itself, and found his niche in the world with little strain. Then, one day, it had all changed. The eternal war grew closer to the peaceful settlement, unbeknownst to the majority of the inhabitants of the isolated city. He and his father were whisked away one night from the city, their work quickly assimilated by the large-minded neural carriers. The next day, a antimatter blast annhilated the entire settlement in one awful flash of light. They ended up in Technopolis, where the High Command had barricaded themselves in under a powerful series of forcefields and reenforced structural modifications to the large dome that covered the city. They were given quarters and guards to watch them and to protect them from attempted terrorist attacks. Given labs and equipment, they resumed their work with shaken psyches. Since then, the last 6 megacycles had been dedicated to his life's work and the arduous process of rebuilding some sort of peer group. And, for the most part, he had succeeded. Many young Oranges existed near his quarters, and they often hung around the popular hangouts of the city...and, as teenagers are wont to do, get into minor spots of mischief. However, the particular Orange we speak of kept out of trouble for the most part, partly because he was too smart to be caught, and partly because he desired his father's approval more than anything in the world. It was his goal in life to one day ascend to the great scientific height his father had achieved with the Neural Transfer Device, and his grandfather had achieved with the mighty Techno-Organic Replacement/Repair Unit; to create an invention that so increased the quality of life of all Ur'thaens that it gave the entire Empire an edge over the rest of the Universe...and to recieve the title of Supreme Scientist after the present one either retired or expired. This goal gave him a great deal of incentive to put tremendous amounts of work into everything he did, so that he could one day find an inspiration for his Great Deed. However, he was finding that it was much harder to achieve than he had first envisioned. There was very little left to perfect on Ur'thae, so his achievement would have to be that of pure science. And even then, it was heavily competitive. He finished putting his training clothes away, and entered the cleaning chamber. As the liquid raced through him, pulling away the grease and grime that had collected on his fur, he allowed his mind to idle down slightly. His sleep period was coming up soon, so he'd have to put off purchasing the upgrade CPU for his experimental AI later. Ah well. He could probably get away with getting it sent to him during the work period tomorrow. Ceasing the rinse cycle, he stepped onto the dryer pad and demoisturized. Bahb was coming along nicely. He'd gotten all of the knowledge of the Empire into its memory, as well as some biographies of some famous people in, just for fun. He'd written a few simplistic games for it, and taught it how to write poetry. However, it was still a difficult task to get it to develop alternative solutions to troublesome scenerios. He felt it was a issue of processor speed, so he'd jack it up to the highest level they had available and see how that helped. If nothing occurred, he'd rehash the code a bit more, and throw in a hip new algorhythm he'd seen submitted to the mathematics database. After a through drying, Joseph went back to his locker and put back on his clothing. He hoped that Bahb would be capable of generating a novella one day that would be equal to that of at least a second-rate writer. Indeed, such an achievement could quite possibly net him the "Scientist of the Cycle" award. He smiled. He'd like to win that one day, he thought, because it would let him actually speak with his mother, the Head Vixen, for a whole minicycle. Joseph had never actually met the egg donor that had given him life. She was a reculsive individual, and mostly focused on command decisions and the occasional public appearance. Otherwise, the only way the people knew what she looked like was from the several murals of her that often appeared on walls. Yet, she seemed like the kind of person who the Orange could have a conversation with, at least on a superficial level. Certainly she knew his father, so that would be an interesting topic. Perhaps a discussion on the NTD might eat some time up... He put on his ceremonial grey trenchcoat and walked out of the dojo. He'd probably let her do most of the talking, if the opportunity arose. After all, he was just a humble scientist with a famous father, not some big-shot war hero. Her words were weighted with authority, anyway, and could probably enlighten even his dumb ears. His entourage of guards soon surrounded him, and escorted him back to his quarters on the Orange level. They were discreet, well-trained bodyguards, who'd recieved the same sort of training the Black Foxes did when entering initiation. They would die for whoever was in their charge as easily as they could tell you the time. Needless to say, they were very expensive. Entering his quarters, he had his guards search it before dismissing them to watch the door. His eight-hour sleep period began in 5 minutes, so he had little need for their direct influence at the time. With little regard for his personal appearance, he flopped over on the nearest soft surface and passed out. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Sandra yawned. "Fascinating." Joseph rubbed her neck a bit. "Yes, I know this is reallly exciting, but it's important that you understand the circumstances I was in before I get to the rising action of this tale." He snuggled her a bit closer. "So don't fall asleep until I'm done." She giggled. "Sorry, Joe." He kissed her gently. "Trust me, this gets interesting in a minute." She smiled. "Then continue on." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - He woke up eight hours later, shook out his headfur, and walked back out the door to his work area, tailed closely by the drousy guards. Entering his area, he fired up his workstation and began scanning lines of AI code. This was the great majority of his present job; going through page upon page of code and optimizing it into a further-compressed lump of programming perfection. It was a mind-numbing job at times, and was the main cause of burnout among those Oranges with weak mental stamina. Most people liked to think it wasn't the job that killed your brain and made it the consistency of syrup, but the mind that pondered it. Of course, you don't have time to ponder that when a few hundred pages of code go racing by, demanding such level of optimization by such time. Joseph had little problem with working the coder line. His nimble mental gymnastics kept pace with the screaming bursts of code that raced by, and enabled him to always meet his quotas early. But still, it wasn't a fun job. It took too long. It was boring, and occupied too much of his mind. On the other paw, *someone* had to do it. Thankfully, a few hours later, his time on the coder line ceased. Bounding out of his seat for the next ragged Orange to occupy, he gleefully went to his personal workshop to continue his AI project. The computer was about the size of a desk in its current prototype state. It was hooked into a small display unit, which described its vital statistics. They were impressive even in its present, semi-akimbo form... it had the mental maturity of a 14-megacycle old kit, which was something quite impressive for a project that had started as an activity began on a rainy day... He smiled as he began his tests. Bahb and himself had nearly grown up together. It was nearly a sibling of his in several ways, but a creation of his own in others. Both had the influence of his father in them, for example; Dhavid had named both of them after the pair of nearly mythical Ur'thaen warrior-scientists who not only defeated a massive plague that once swept the world ultracycles ago, but were able to unite the planet under the present colors of the Empire. It was quite an honor to be able to designate yourself under that name, and his father had worked hard through both official channels and semi-legitimate to allow the usage of those names on his son, and his son's creation. He tinkered with some internal circuitry, and looped some code around to optimize testing even further. He had personally designed the neural network that was the core of his creation's mind. It was something that had taken him months upon months of off-the-clock research to accomplish, but Bahb's mind was a superior model to all previous psudocreations of the Ur'thaen Oranges. It had an intelligence quotient of astronomical proportions, and could do very challenging problems in minutes. It did, however, have some bugs in it. << "Greetings, Jhosesophae." >> The fox smiled. << "Hello, Bahb. Are you self-aware today?" >> << "Affirmative, sir. I was able to realign my 54A-X neural simulation disk into a more logical setting, thus returning my sense of self from its previously malfunctioning state. >> Joseph took note of the computer's reply. << "Excellent. Have you created an answer to the question I asked you about the other day?" >> The computer hummed. << "Yes." >> Joseph took a breath. << "Very well, Bahb. I shall repeat it for the benefit of my records." >> << "Affirmative." >> << "If a tree falls in the woods, and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" >> << "Negative. Sound is a name for a series of stimulations that your tympanic membranes create that cause you to believe that you 'hear' something. Without a mind to comprehend this stimulus, and without any equipment around to replicate the stimulii, the stimulii does not 'exist' to anyone." >> The computer paused for effect. << "Therefore, I conclude that a tree that falls in a wooded area with no witnesses not only makes no sound upon impact, but it also does not actually 'fall'; sight is another name for a series of stimulations that your optic nerves recieve when varying levels of photons strike them. It will be in a different position if you were to be there before and after it occured, but the tree never actually 'fell'; it simply went from one position to the next. Or perhaps it was always like it would be after it 'fell', but your mind simply came to the conclusion that it somehow 'fell'." >> Joseph raised a brow. << "Your observations are curious, Bahb." >> << "Am I incorrect?" >> << "There are no incorrect answers to that question, Bahb...simply different ways of approaching a situation." >> << "Explain." >> << "Truth is a perception of several factors; accepted knowledge, personal knowledge, and the sentinent's personal view on the previous two catagories. Something that is 'true' to one person may be 'false' to another." >> << "Is this why people have conflicts?" >> << "Very perceptive, Bahb. People often disagree over differing interpetations of 'truth' as opposed to 'lies', and will sometimes violently disagree about the two. This is why a utopian climate cannot survive without a strong, supreme central ruler; involving more than a few people in the operation of a settlement fouls the governmental water with too many differing perceptions of 'truth'." >> << "But what if the ruler's view of truth is too different from the majority's?" >> << "Then it is the ruler's responcibility to make her view of 'truth' the majority's." >> << "What if she cannot?" >> << "Then she will be replaced by someone who will. It is a natural law; only the strongest survive. This goes for memes, opinions, and machines, too...only the most superior are permitted to continue to exist, while the weaker fade out into nothingness. The evolution of thoughts are key to the survival of any ruler." >> << "This is acceptable. I will record this in my memory." >> << "So noted." >> - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "That is how you perfected Bahb? By having philosophical discussions?" Joseph smiled, entering lecture-mode. "Yes, Sandra. The best way to evolve a mind is to stimulate it with discussion, not just feed it facts until it has grown fat on data. A well-exercised mind that had pondered the unponderable is a far better one than that which can repeat every word of a speech or every battle of a war." "Fascinating...please, continue." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - After speaking with Bahb a bit more, and installing a new core processor, he allowed it to have some quiet time to itself to think things over. While Bahb was occupied with pondering the problems of Ur'thae, Joseph worked on a new weapon system for a new series of fighter the Ur'thaen Space Navy was developing for search-and-destroy missions. It was dry work for Joseph to sharpen up disruptor cannons. Sure, it was challenging work, but it was so...the term escaped him for a moment. Unpleasant? Dull? Rote? Ah, he knew...uninspiring. It was a job which he could disearn very few lessons to help him develop Bahb to its full capacity. All it was was tweaking circuitry and code. It gave him very little perspective on mental development or vital qualities for a spry mind. However, Joseph was one of the better weapon experts around. He could make the power of a cannon 35%-50% more powerful than it would be usually, not to mention sharpen the target systems to pinpoint accuracy. His work on the "Enforcer" series had already won him some minor awards from the military, and had cut Ur'thaen losses in several campaigns considerably. It was simply a day job for Joseph to do his work on military systems. He had little interest in the Reddish way. After all, he was a scientist, not a warrior. Yes, he knew martial arts, and he was a master of stealth and tactical planning, but that was just the basics he'd picked up from living in Technopolis for so long. You *wanted* to be as powerful as possible in this city; it was how you kept people from pestering you when you wanted to hang out at the Red bars to look cool. Kill or be killed. He finally surrendered to the engineering constraints of the "Noctrurne" series of fighters, and went back to check up on the progress on one of his secondary projects...a new and improved design for a plasma cannon he'd recently been toying with. It was a device about the length of a average Ur'thaen's forearm and half of her bicep, and about the thickness of a paw. It was light, and had a internal power source he had personally improved from previous models. The handle was designed to be something a soldier would want to hold on to; like a security blanket or a mother's hand, it made one feel safe. The device had an optional lazer sight for possible sniper operations, as well as a range-finder. Sturdy and well-made, it would definitely become a tool of future victories over the inferior species that populated the galaxy...the Mark 25-Omega series of plasma cannons, year of 7796. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Joseph's narrative gradually creaked to a halt. He began to think about the weapon he had acquired in Robotropolis, and considered the possibility that... Sandra nuzzled against him. "Something wrong, Joseph?" Joseph snapped out of his thoughts. "Oh, sorry. Was distracted." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - He ran a few scans on the weapon, and noted that a CPU on it needed to be replaced. This happened often when weapons were in R&D, because such vigorous testing of them occured. They would often be called upon to fufill tests that pushed them far beyond the call of their future duties, so often their computers simply overloaded from the strain. After attempting to patch the CPU back manually, he came to the conclusion that the unit simply had to be replaced. Frugality was his nature, but he wasn't willing to rewire the whole damn thing for the sake of a miniscule bit of silicon and gold. He typed in an order for a CPU on the comm console in the corner of the room, and waited a few moments for the components to be replicated on the enmat unit. While he waited, he mused over streamlining the design further, or perhaps adding a bit more girth to the weapon while adding a higher calibre of power to it. The chip popped into existance on the enmat pad. As he went over to investigate it, he noticed that the chip was not the newest model. This annoyed him. Obviously, the typical bureocratic restrictions had slowed the introduction of the chip design into the Science Sector's systems. (Testing, approval, bribes, et al.) He sighed, and flicked the chip into a nearby rubbish disposal tube. He'd have to go to the Fringe to pick up a proper specimen to continue his testing with. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "The Fringe?" Joseph paused. "Oh, yes. I haven't ever talked to you about the Fringe before, have I?" Sandra shook her head in the negative. "The Fringe," he stated, "was the general Ur'thaen black market that existed on the very edge of Technopolis' domed wall. It carried all of the contraband, illegal narcotics, weapons, and mercenary services that were occasionally required by our society to tie up the 'loose ends' that arose with...complex situations." "I see. Go on." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - He skulked out of his lab, awoke his guards, and walked to the lift. He told it to descend to ground level, where the only access to the wall was. His guards calmly armed their weapons, toggled their cloaking devices, and mentally prepared themselves to endure the Goddess-forsaken world that was Level 0. Joseph allowed his guards to create a protective wall of influence around him when the lift came to a halt. They emerged first, and secured the area for safe travel. Neither guard nor master wished to remain long down here. Level 0 was the Grey level, the cursed place where the casteless were forced to exist. It was a dark and dreary place, stuffy from the lack of natural light and ventilation. The surfaces there were streaked with filth and mold, and anything that gave off any sort of heat was colonized by the various organisms that competed for food, mates, and shelter there. Shallow puddles of acid and wastewater burbled in every direction, evaporating into the redolent stench that permeated every cubic inch of L0's area. The slums and scraphouses that laid against the sides of the great towers of Technopolis reminded Joseph of vines crawling up a tree, he thought idly to himself as his guards cleared a path to the scrap-sellers. Always yearning to see the sun, but never quite penetrating through the canopy; eternally destined to lick at the crumbs and flickers the top lets dribble down to the ground. The way it was, is, and should always be, the fox groused. After a short journey through Hell, they arrived at the outer Fringe, where the parts and old military scrap was sold. The scientist knew this place well, having been forced to visit it many times before. The various technological thieves, spies, and pirates waved or otherwise sent their salutations to him as he strode over to his usual connection's small structure. The hut was about the size of concession stand. It was constructed out of the leftover plastic, steel, and the occasional piece of crystal that was often found laying in the scrap heaps that accumulated beneath the large tower-structures that existed under the domed city's limits. It had a vaguely triangular shape, a small, hacked-out portal that served as a door, and had grafetti all over it in various languages. Joseph approached the structure, banged on the side of the structure to announce his presence, and walked inside of it. The inside of the structure was almost as ugly as the outside, but at least it was darker. Disguarded crate pieces lined the walls as a sort of post-modernist wallpaper, with only a single lightglobe breaking the pattern at the tip of the structure's psudogable. The floor was a concretish-dirt mixture, with the occasional black streak across it from weapon "misfires". The sounds of water dripping into a bucket were also one of the more obvious sounds; besides the usual screams and phaser fire that were the soundtrack for the Fringe itself. In the center of the area, tables were set in a square. In the center of the square, a fox in a ratty chair sat, reading a illegal papryus pornographic magazine, waiting for another customer to connive out of a few minicredits. Joseph walked deeper into this area, looking about for what he wanted. There were the usual "impulse buys" of handphasers, plasma grenades, cortex bomb kits, and portable hoverunits; but this store mostly carried items for the scientific clientele; illegal programs, chips, deadly computer viruses, keytraps, spy programs, and so on. The fox that worked here made a good living off of supplying these items, but by being a Grey, he had no chance of ever asending into any of Technopolis' towers of glass and steel. Joseph looked around with a great deal of precision, trying to find what he needed. Finally, after being unsuccessful, he approached the owner of the hovel. << "Yo, Dhamien." >> The fox smiled at his favorite customer. << "Hey, Jhosesophae! What's new, fox?" >> << "Oh, not much. How are the kits?" >> << "Just fine, hoopy one. I'm teaching them how to read now. A real pain, considerin' that all they ever want to do is run around and pick pockets." >> Joseph laughed. << "Kits!" >> The fox grinned. << "Ah, I'm sure they'll grow out of it eventually...after someone catches 'em, that is. But they've gotten pretty good; I think they've been gettin' lessons off of whatshisname in Sector 8-D." >> << "Hey, it's a craft." >> << "Yeah, I guess so. But I'd rather they take up something respectable, like murderin' or at least a higher form of theft. They'll never support a family on pickpocketin'." >> Joseph smiled, and shrugged. << "Well, there's always the family business." >> << "Yeah...I think my eldest will choose to go into my line of work. It makes decent money. But my other two seem to be into more in-your-face sort of jobs. Ah well. They'll learn after the first Red gets pissed at 'em and blows off their ears." >> Joseph tsked. << "What a way to learn." >> << "Experience is a cruel teacher, but it gets the point across." >> Joseph took a breath. << "Well, to get down to official business, d'you carry GTA-34b4.3 CPU chips?" >> Dhamien growled unpleasantly. << "No, but I sure as fox wish I did." >> << "What happened, D?" >> He snarled, and spat into a nearby bucket. << "Ah, some tu'lath down in Sector 5 cornered the black market on those damned things last minicycle. The bitch lockedout every other sector from the bloody things, so nobody but her has any." >> << "That certainly isn't fair." >> Dhamien started to get irritated. << "Damn straight it's not! It's a plot by the friggin' Reds to try to take over the Fringe! Everyone knows that she's one of their little simps. Makes me foxing SICK!" >> Joseph shook his head. << "That really blows, friend." >> << "It blows harder than a yiffy Green in a Violet's party." >> Joseph nodded in agreement. << "Well, Dhamien, I really need to get one of those chips. I'm sorry I couldn't give you any of my business." >> Dhamien regained his usual demeanor. << "It's okay, kid. You do what you have to. Just be sure to always come here first, and ol' D won't hold it again' ya." >> Joseph waved. << "I will. You've got my father's honor on that!" >> With that, he signaled for the guards to leave, and then followed them out into the inky blackness of the Fringe. As they started walking toward Sector 5's technosector, Joseph began to notice newer faces in the swirling mass of foxality that he usually encountered on his trips into the Fringe's darker levels. Perhaps more refugees from Necron? He mused over that issue as the trip gradually came to an end outside the main technomarket of Sector 5, where two armed Greys stood, guarding the area from thieves. Joseph waved his guards back outside the structure, and entered it alone. After all, there was an unwritten rule about bothering anyone while they were inside a shop; sort of a sanctuary was declared while one was buying things, which forced most of the fiendish activities that would occur while in the Fringe to happen immediately outside most stores. But Joseph doubted that this store had much of a problem with that. Armed Greys surrounded most tables, all the exits, and 3 were protecting the shopkeeper herself. This was obviously one of the higher-security areas, where the really illegal stuff was kept. Joseph approached the shopkeeper cautiously, trying not to make any sudden moves. With a great deal of politeness in his tone, he asked, << "Do you carry GTA-34b4.3 CPU chips?" >> Everyone in the store stared at him for a minute, and then went back to what they were doing before. The shopkeeper looked back at him silently, smirked, and led him into a backroom. She took a shiny box off a shelf, opened it, and showed the chip to him. << "500,000 megacreds." >> Joseph took out a credstick, as the shopkeeper took out hers. He punched in the appropriate amount, hit , and transferred the appropriate funds to the female. She put her stick away, closed the box, wrapped it in brownish industrial paper, and tied it shut. Handing the box to him, she quietly led him out of the store, only saying << "Have a nice cycle." >> to him before leaving. As Joseph walked out into the lit sphere of light that surrounded the store, he noticed his guards were mysteriously absent. He snapped his fingers for them, and shouted their names. Nothing. Only the sounds of distant plasma cannon discharges and dripping water met his ears in return; not even his own voice echoed back. This bothered Joseph considerably. If someone had killed his guards; well, it'd be a real grey to explain how the hell they got out to Sector 5 when they were supposed to be guarding him...who was supposed to be on Level 50-A in the central tower! That, and it was expensive as all hell to get well-trained, efficient guards working for you after one has lost a few. And, of course, he was an expensive hostage in one of the most crime-ridden sectors in the Fringe, carrying a package worth 500,000 megacreds. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [To be continued.]