Disclaimer: DB/Z/GT do not belong to me. I wouldn't be bothering with scholarship applications and OSAP (student loans) if they did . . . _
A/N: I know, I know. Wa-a-ay late . . . but I'm not going to reel off a list of excuses. Simply: I, unfortunately, have a life. While I would love to devote my time solely to writing fanfiction, I cannot do so. I'm sure most people understand how it is -- as for those of you who don't, well, I'm sorry, but there's no way out of it.
Again, no action in this
chapter . . . Vegeta visits Dende to discern Bulma and Trunks' whereabouts --
will the "pocket-sized Piccolo" be able to shed any light on the
situation? Meanwhile, Bulma begins her programming (ie. hacking into the NRR
computer system) and discovers something rather surprising . . .
Damsel in Distress? Not Likely!
Chapter Five: New Developments
Trunks yawned widely, flailing his little arms about as he tried not to wake up, but soon he relinquished the battle and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He glanced beside him and saw that his mother wasn't there, that in her place were only rumpled bedclothes, and he looked around in alarm.
"I'm over here, Trunks," Mama called from across the room, and Trunks breathed a sigh of relief and scooted off the bed, padding over to her in his pajamas. "I was just working early."
"Oh, great," Trunks snickered. "Even when you're not in your lab you work alla' time. Papa would hate that."
"Mm-hmm," Mama nodded absently. She was still in her pajamas with a housecoat quickly pulled on over top, seated cross-legged on the floor with a notebook and pen in front of her. Trunks edged beside her and peered over her shoulder, but all he could discern were a bunch of inarticulate scribbles and some sketchy drawings, messy since she was writing with her wrong hand. He looked at her sharply.
"You're actually gonna' build the bad stuff?" his eyes bugged incredulously. "Isn't that . . . um . . . isn't that what the bad people want you to do?"
Mama winced and flicked her eyes away, but Trunks recognized the expression on her face — the one that she got whenever presented with a challenge. "It's actually quite fascinating, Trunks . . . and if I don't make them, they'll take you away from me. I can't let them do that."
Trunks scowled and crossed his arms sullenly, hating to be a burden. That was the way it was to be a kid — he always got in the way or caused trouble. "Maybe you should let them. I don't wanna' be a . . . a liabili-something . . ."
"Liability," Mama chuckled lightly, reaching down to tousle Trunks' hair. "You're not a liability, kiddo'. Stop being silly. You can help me program."
Trunks made a face at that, and went over to the closet, where he raised his eyebrows at the selection of clothing. "How did these guys know what kind of clothes and stuff I wear?"
"Beats me. But try to find something that matches, okay?"
Trunks snorted, but agreed.
Bulma watched him out the corner of her eye for a few seconds, to make sure Trunks was indeed picking something suitable, and afterward she turned her attention back to the notebook in front of her. I certainly hope they decide to give me a computer, Bulma thought, rather grumpy. Truth be told, the chance to design something new — no matter what it was — gave Bulma a thrill. It had been so long since Bulma had been able to sit down with no previous blueprints, no preconceptions; just an idea, a few requirements . . . and, of course, a few hundred guns pointed her way.
Even if what she was creating could kill her friends, Bulma knew she never had to finish the project. She was confident she could discover a leak in the NRR security before it came time for the production of the weapons. Bulma's narcissism when it came to her programming was definitely a character flaw, but as Bulma never tired of pointing out, her self-assurance was justified.
"Are you gonna' have to do the program on paper, Mama?" Trunks said in his "I-think-that's-so-stupid" voice. "Are they dumb?"
"Hah," Bulma laughed in acquiescence, giving Trunks a once-over and nodding approvingly. The boy had chosen a navy blue shirt and dark grey sweat pants, similar to the ensemble Vegeta often favoured when he was training. Bulma blinked rapidly as a wash of homesickness enveloped her, and she covered it by smiling at her son. "It's still early in the morning, Trunks. When somebody comes to take us to breakfast, I'll ask about it."
"I guess."
Bulma scribbled more notes for around ten minutes when the door chime sounded. "What?" she called absentmindedly, not really caring. She knew it was nothing bad if whoever it was had bothered to give notice of his presence.
"You're up already?" Entare sounded surprised as he and a small contingent of lower-ranked officers entered the room.
"Mama never sleeps in," Trunks replied pompously, sneering at Entare with disdain. Having been unconscious during Entare's last visit, Trunks had no knowledge of the soldier's kindness to him — whatever the motivation had been. "Well . . ." the boy's eyes glittered with sarcastic amusement, and he raised his eyebrows. "Sometimes she sleeps in almost until lunch."
Bulma rolled her eyes, feeling her face redden at her son's not-so-veiled lewdness. Hopefully no one else noticed. "Trunks, get back," she called, feeling her stomach twist nervously. She didn't trust the officers not to take a crack at Trunks if the demi-Saiyajin got too mouthy. "Don't be rude."
"You're just mad 'cause I gots more witty lines than you," Trunks crossed his arms, grinning smugly, and one of the lieutenants stifled a laugh.
"Anyway," Entare coughed pointedly. "If you want breakfast, you'd better come now. If not, we'll just escort you to the laboratory."
"Oh, so I do get a computer?" Bulma scoffed, standing up with her notebook in hand. "That's good. I thought I was going to have to do this all by hand, and then I wouldn't be able to give you anything more technologically advanced than a biological slingshot."
"Whatever works," Entare quipped, and the guards flanked Bulma and Trunks. Before they moved out, however, Entare looked at Bulma with his eyebrows raised. "Uh, Briefs-san, you might want to change your clothes first. Unless you want to walk around in your nightgown all day, but I wouldn't advise it."
Bulma glanced down at herself and blushed furiously, feeling her face flaming with embarrassment as she noticed more than one of the younger officers with their gazes fixed on her chest. "You hooligans!" she screeched, pulling her robe decently over herself and shooting dagger-tipped glares at the offending men.
Entare scowled disapprovingly at his men and Trunks kicked one discreetly as Bulma snatched an outfit out of the closet, still screaming expletives. Entare looked at Trunks in surprise, wondering if the child was affected by the foul language, but Trunks just laughed and shook his head. "You made Mama mad," Trunks grinned, "That's not good. You don't wanna' make her mad."
"I see that."
Bulma emerged a few minutes later, still muttering imprecations against the "disgusting little perverts," as she put it, and she stuck close to Entare as they walked to the mess hall. She wasn't sure when the Captain crossed the line from a nameless enemy to a potential ally, but Bulma shrugged it off. She was still curious as to Entare's position in the NRR Army, for he seemed much less sadistic and cruel than his fellow officers.
"Hey, what is that?" Entare asked a few minutes later, he and his men hovering over Bulma and Trunks' shoulders as they ate. The man pointed to Bulma's notebook, which she grabbed protectively and stuck in her pocket.
"Preliminary ideas," Bulma replied primly. "Top secret. You know how it is."
Several officers snorted, but Entare just nodded. "That's fine. I'm not the one who will be checking your progress anyway — I'm not sure who will be, but you'll find out in a few minutes."
"I'm not going to have someone hanging over me while I'm trying to work, am I?" Bulma accused, stopping with a her chopsticks halfway to her mouth, one eyebrow lifted. "Because I hate that. It's hard enough with Trunks in the room, and at least he knows to leave me alone."
Entare shook his head, taking the hint and stepping back a pace. Trunks seized the opportunity to reach across and help himself to another serving of everything. "No, no. Someone will come in every hour or so, but no more. I warn you, though, don't try to hack into the system. You will have blueprints at your disposal, but our security system is unmatched. Our firewalls would catch any interference you tried."
"Mama sucks at slicing anyway," Trunks spoke up, glaring at Bulma when she drew herself up in indignation. "I bet I'm better than her. And I can't even type."
"Hey!" Bulma interjected, though she silently thanked Trunks for his insight. "I can slice . . . um . . . all right," she shrugged, feigning embarrassment, allowing her anger at the snickering officers to flush her face, hoping they took it to be from humiliation.
Judging from the looks on their faces, Bulma guessed the ploy had worked, and that no one would worry about her attempting to hack into the system. "Well, never mind, then," Entare chuckled, though he was obviously trying not to. He looked at Trunks suddenly, who was in the process of topping up his plate again, and annoyance crossed his face for the first time that day. "Listen, do you want to stop?" he grabbed Trunks' wrist. "This isn't a restaurant, you know."
Trunks looked at Entare calmly, then removed his hand from the man's grasp and continued eating. Bulma recognized the steely glint that came up in the eyes of several soldiers, and she reached over and pulled Trunks' plate away. "Okay, Trunks, I think that's enough. You don't want to run out their food supply on the second day."
"Guess not," Trunks stuffed another roll in his mouth then sat back, Bulma's subtle rebuke more effective than the gun pointed at his head had been. Bulma smiled, recognizing that same trait in Vegeta. She could usually get him to stop misbehaving with a few words or even a gesture or shake of the head.
Vegeta . . .
Bulma shook her head and stood up abruptly, knocking one of the soldiers back a few steps. "Let's get going," she said sharply. Anything to get her mind off Vegeta . . .
"Right," Entare looked at her oddly like he didn't know what facilitated her sudden desire to get to work, but he wasn't going to ask. "Follow me."
******
"What do you mean, you don't know where they are??!"
The Lookout rang with the strident voice of an enraged Saiyajin Prince, who was shouting at the top of his lungs. The target of his ire was a three-foot-tall Namekusejin wearing healer's robes and carrying a knobby walking stick that was too tall for him, behind which he was currently hiding.
"I'm sorry, Vegeta-san!" Dende, the Guardian of the Earth, peeked around his fists at the irate Vegeta. "I tried, but I can't sense their life energies anywhere. Something must be blocking them," this didn't placate Vegeta any, so Dende tried again. "I'm sorry, Vegeta-sama!" perhaps the greater honorific would help.
"Don't 'Vegeta-sama' me, you little green freak!" Vegeta roared, and Dende winced. Guess not, he thought, reminding himself silently never to try that again. "What could be blocking their life forces?"
"I already told you, I don't know!"
Vegeta growled, and before Dende knew what was happening, the Saiyajin's fist lashed out, catching the pint-sized guardian in the side of the head and knocking him to the ground. Dende skidded across the smooth tiled floor of the Lookout, barely coming to a stop before sliding over the edge. "I don't care what your excuses are, Namekusejin," Vegeta growled, advancing upon him, "I want to know where they are, now!"
"Vegeta . . ." this was Yamucha, calling nervously from the other side of the Lookout. "Go easy on him! He's just a kid. If he doesn't know, then he doesn't know. Hurting him isn't going to do anyth —"
"SHUT UP, HUMAN!" Dende winced at the loud tone, and he clutched his sensitive ears in pain. "When I want your opinion, I'll beat it out of you, never fear! Just leave me alone and let me do the questioning!"
Dende got to his feet slowly, using his walking stick as a prop. "Vegeta-sama, please . . . don't hit me. It's not going to help me figure out what's going on. I - I haven't been able to sense Bulma or Trunks' life energies since . . . since two days ago, I think. Do you want me to contact Goku-san, to see if he's met them in Other World?"
"They are not dead!" Vegeta snarled viciously, and once again Dende felt himself flying through the air, this time smashing into a support pillar and crumbling to the ground. Vegeta was really in a mood this time, and Dende didn't know how far he would go if Dende couldn't give him the answers he wanted. Yamucha might try to stop him, but the Namekusejin knew humans were no match against Saiyajin.
"If you say anything stupid like that again, so help me . . ." Dende couldn't see Vegeta, since his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. "Guardian or no Guardian, I will beat you until you can't even feel it anymore! My woman and my son are not dead!"
Dende nodded, wishing someone would help him. He could hear Yamucha trying to speak, then a sound like a punch and a body hitting the floor, and he knew Yamucha's efforts were in vain. "Okay, they're not dead . . ." Dende gasped, "I was just trying to come up with an explana —"
"I don't care what you were doing, you were being stupid!" the air whistled, and Dende knew a blow was coming.
"Vegeta! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
Dende cracked open his eyes in time to see Piccolo materialize to catch Vegeta's punch in his own fist, then he quickly grabbed the Saiyajin by the throat and lifted him in the air. Vegeta was too startled to react in time to stop Piccolo, and Dende sagged in relief.
"You do not attack the Guardian of Earth, Vegeta. Especially if he's my protégé! I don't care who you think you are," Piccolo growled, and Dende thought that he had never heard Piccolo's anger as more welcome. "Now what's going on?"
Vegeta pried Piccolo's hand from his throat, dropping the three feet to the ground and giving Piccolo a sour eye. "I was just trying to jar his memory, Namekujsejin. Nothing evil," the last word dripped with sarcasm. "My mate and our son have disappeared, and I want to find them."
Piccolo crossed his arms, and his frown deepened. "Come to think of it, I can't sense them. Do you know what happened? That brat of yours is too young to be of any use if he was kidnapped, and Bulma is a weakling. It would be best to find them as quickly as possible."
For some reason, Vegeta was glad for Piccolo's gruff insults — they mirrored his own way of dealing with the unfamiliar, and somehow he felt a little more relaxed. Though he'd never admit it, Vegeta knew he and the Namekusejin warrior had more in common than just their tempers. Likewise folding his arms across his chest, Vegeta told Piccolo what he knew, his skirmish with Dende forgotten.
As Vegeta spoke, he could see the scowl lines between Piccolo's eyes furrow even deeper, and Vegeta knew without speaking that the Namekusejin wouldn't be able to shed any light on the situation. "I'm sorry, Vegeta," the fighter said slowly, "I can't help you. I can't think of anything that would block a person's life energy, unless they were dead. And you're sure they're alive?" Vegeta started to snarl, but Piccolo fixed him with a dark glare. "Seriously. Don't give me any of that 'I would know' garbage, either. Have you thought about it?"
Something in the Namekusejin's eyes wouldn't let Vegeta scoff over the possibility, and for once he couldn't meet another person's gaze. "I don't want to think about it," he mumbled, embarrassed. "It would be like someone telling you that Kakarotto's brat might be dead. You wouldn't like that, would you!"
"Of course not," Piccolo replied in the same self-conscious tone of voice, one that was only evident when Gohan was mentioned. "But you still have to consider the possibility. Do you want Dende to contact Son or Enma-dao for you?"
Vegeta scowled blackly, though not out of anger — he didn't want the Namekusejin to see the fear that was knotting his stomach, threatening to paralyze him. As soon as he thought this, however, one corner of Piccolo's mouth tilted upward in an understanding smirk. Blasted telepathy, Vegeta grunted inwardly, and Piccolo snorted.
"Yeah, whatever," Vegeta tried to cross his arms defensively, but they were already in that position, and he shook his head instead. "They won't be there, but if it would make you shut up, then I'm all for it."
"Sure."
Piccolo turned to Dende and conferred with him quietly, while Vegeta left and leaned against a pillar, trying to act unconcerned. He could see Yamucha staggering to his feet slowly, and a grin crossed Vegeta's face when he saw the bruise forming on the human's jaw. He deserved it . . . and without Bulma there to yell at him, Vegeta could do whatever he wanted.
Without Bulma.
Vegeta grimaced, and his insides twisted again. He didn't like this feeling! He didn't want to feel incomplete without the woman around. It made him feel vulnerable, and vulnerability was something Vegeta had spent his entire life trying to avoid. It was a handicap, blunting his reasoning and clouding his judgement whenever he tried to do or think something that his family would disapprove of, or that could harm them.
It hadn't been that bad up until now, though — Vegeta hadn't had any cause to be truly worried about his family before. They had been safely under his protection, and anyone whom he caught even looking at them wrong was severely punished. But the one time he had left them alone . . . they were gone. He should have been stubborn, he never should have agreed to go buy groceries! If only the woman didn't have so much power over him!
Without thinking about what he was doing, Vegeta reached into his pocket and pulled out Bulma's necklace, holding it in his open palm and staring at it. The thin chain hung over his hand like a river of gold, and he clenched his fingers around it tightly. Holding it brought the shock of losing Bulma fresh to his mind, and he ground his teeth together in rage — both at whoever was at fault for this, and at his own ineffectiveness.
Suddenly, Vegeta's eyes widened, as he realized that in his haste to find Bulma he had left all the dead bodies on the floor in the living room. All those soldiers, plus Bulma's parents . . . though he was used to planet-wide carnage, Vegeta still shuddered involuntarily. He didn't really care about the soldiers . . . he could blast their bodies to ashes once he got back. Bulma's parents, on the other hand — they deserved a proper burial, not just instant cremation. And after being out in the open for so long, all those bodies had probably started to smell horribly . . .
That was definitely a mark of Bulma's influence over him. A few years ago, Vegeta wouldn't have cared about the decency of giving her parents a funeral service, no matter how much they did for him. Now, it seemed almost unthinkable to leave them there to rot in their own livingroom.
Funny thing was, Vegeta didn't really mind "getting soft" — at least, not in that respect. Having more sympathy for the dead wasn't all that horrible. Come to think of it, most of the changes Bulma had wrought in him weren't terrible, they were just blows to his pride that he didn't want to be made fun over. Though he had never admitted it to Bulma or anyone else, Vegeta was finding his new tolerance to be somewhat of a relief. It was easier to live without having to keep his defenses up twenty-four hours a day . . .
Which was all the more reason to get Bulma and Trunks back. Like it or not, he missed them.
"Vegeta?"
He looked up, and was surprised to see something that almost resembled a smile on Piccolo's face. "Dende talked to Enma-dao, and it seems that Bulma and Trunks never reached the Checkout Station. So that means they're still on Chikyuu somewhere."
"I knew it," Vegeta tried to sound smug, but his voice came out raspy with relief, and he looked away, embarrassed. He needn't have, however, since Piccolo didn't make any comment. "So that leaves me back at square one, then."
"Yeah, I suppose so," Piccolo looked at him askance, head tilted sideways. "Do you want me to come with you and help you look for them?"
Vegeta blinked in surprise, wondering at the Namekusejin's offer, and at the reasoning behind it. If Gohan had been the one missing, Vegeta would have understood, but Piccolo had never shown anyone else compassion as far as Vegeta knew. "If it's all the same to you, Namekusejin, I'd rather keep it personal. The only reason that idiot is coming" — he jerked a thumb in Yamucha's direction. The human was conversing with Popo — "is because of his past connections to the woman and he insisted."
"I understand," Piccolo nodded, then he frowned again. "But what is the point of flying around looking for them, Vegeta? You know as well as I do that you are never going to find them that way."
"Well what do you suggest then?" Vegeta asked, positively dripping with sarcasm. "Since you seem to be so full of ideas today."
One green brow ridge lifted, whether in challenge or in amusement, Vegeta couldn't tell. Perhaps both. "Did you think of using the Dragonballs?"
For the first time in his life, Vegeta felt completely and utterly stupid, and he avoided Piccolo's gaze — which was definitely amused by now. "Of course I thought of using them, you fool!" Vegeta snarled, curling his lip in what he hoped came across as disdain. "I just thought it would be easier if your pint-sized protege knew where they were."
Piccolo nodded sagely, though he didn't make any further gibes. He didn't need to. "All right. Just checking. But since Dende doesn't know where Bulma is, are you going to try the Dragonballs now?"
"I have to find the radar first, Namekusejin. Don't you know anything?"
Piccolo just snorted.
******
"GET OUT OF MY ROOM!!!"
Trunks, hiding under the computer desk, watched silently as his mother went on one of her infamous rampages. They occurred most often at home, when she was working on one of her programs and Papa wouldn't leave her alone. Trunks, who liked to play in Mama's lab (but out of the way, in case she went ballistic), watched the exchanges with a sort of twisted amusement. Papa would barge in, demanding food, new training equipment, or (if he didn't see Trunks) "private" time . . . Mama didn't usually take too kindly to it.
Papa thought it was funny when Mama chased him around, throwing things, because she couldn't possibly hurt him. Trunks did, too. But now, as Trunks watched Mama ranting at one of the soldiers, he didn't think it was as amusing as when it happened at home . . .
Papa, while he shouted and carried on, secretly liked it when Mama yelled at him. The man in front of Mama, on the other hand, didn't look the least bit pleased.
"I cannot work with some idiot standing there with a stupid rifle pointed at my head!" Mama screeched, flinging an assortment of pens and pencils at the stoic guard. None actually reached their target, as Mama was left-handed and it was that arm which was broken. "Do you have any idea how annoying it is to have you reading over my shoulder?!"
She continued in this same way until her supply of ammunition was exhausted, and once that happened, the guard lifted an eyebrow. "Are you finished?"
Mama stopped and glared fiercely, and Trunks shook his head. That was what Papa always said. "I won't be finished until you leave," she crossed her arms as best she could and straightened imperiously, a gesture Trunks recognized from the times he'd accompanied her to board meetings at Capsule Corporation. The soldier didn't seem impressed. "You might as well just stand outside the door and guard from there, because I'm just not going to work unless you do."
The man snorted derisively. "This is fine coming from someone who has no position to bargain from," he pointed out, hefting his rifle ostentatiously. "Scream all you want, Briefs-san, but it will make no difference."
Trunks was quickly becoming alarmed — it was the same position as it had been with Bouryoku; this man wasn't Papa, and would have no problem hurting Mama if she got too annoying. "Mama," he piped up, but no one heard him.
"You can't kill me," Mama sneered, "Because then you'll have no one to work for you. And you can't kill my son, either, because if you do that, then I won't work at all and you'll have to kill me. So that's no good."
"You aren't as indispensable as you think. Don't make the mistake of thinking that."
The verbal battle could have gone on much longer had Trunks not gotten irritated and climbed out from beneath the desk. "Mister, just go outside," he commanded, hands on his hips in a parody of his mother.
The man didn't even quirk a smile, and he looked at Trunks disdainfully. "No," he said simply, not bothering to waste any more words than he had to on a little brat.
Trunks shook his head. "Mama won't work if she's mad. Go away and she'll be happy."
"Orders are orders."
Borrowing from his father's vocabulary, Trunks told the man exactly where he could stick those orders, and Mama snickered, though she pretended to be shocked. The soldier didn't flinch, and he pointed the barrel of his weapon at Trunks. "Shut up. Both of you."
"Listen," Mama planted her hands on her own hips. "We could stand here arguing all day, or you could just step outside and let me work in peace. I'm not asking to have free run of the place — all I want is a little privacy. That's not too much to ask, is it?"
"This is not a hotel —"
"I know it isn't. If it was, I would take over the company and have you all fired," Mama smirked, "But since it isn't, you could at least show me a little courtesy. Prisoner or no, I'm practically an employee. Leave me alone in this room and I won't ask for anything else."
The man's lip twitched, then he scowled. "Fine. But if you try anything, you will be sorry."
"I know," Mama shrugged, and Trunks could tell she was trying not to gloat. Doing so would make the man angry, and then he'd never leave. "My productivity will improve if I'm left to work on my own."
Without replying, the soldier turned on his heel and left the room, the door sliding open and shut behind him. The electronic lock clicked.
"Finally," Bulma breathed, flicking the universal gesture of contempt at the door. "I thought he'd never leave. Maybe now I can get some work done."
"Papa would kill all these bad people," Trunks declared vehemently, plopping down onto the floor. Entare-san had left a pile of paper and some crayons for him to colour with, and he eyed them with obvious disinterest. Bulma winced, knowing that form of entertainment would have been more effective for Goten. After a few seconds, Trunks picked up a crayon dubiously and began to draw.
"Don't talk so much about killing," Bulma reproached him absently, staring at the computer screen, trying to think of a way to hack into the security system. It wouldn't be easy, she knew, but no computer system on the planet was more heavily-encoded than that of Capsule Corporation, and Bulma knew how it worked. She could get through eventually . . . The smartest thing the NRR technicians could have done was give her a computer not connected to the network, but they probably hadn't thought of that. "It's not nice."
"Well, he would."
Bulma just laughed and set to work, typing one-handedly. "Don't worry, Trunks. Daddy will find us soon, I'm sure of it," she called over her shoulder. "And if he doesn't, Mommy will find a way out of here herself."
"Papa will find us," Trunks agreed vociferously, waving a crayon for emphasis. He was currently wearing down a black crayon by colouring a flame-haired warrior with an overly-large widow's peak, blasting a group of uniform-wearing stick figures to ashes. The boy added splashes of red blood with enough enthusiasm to be significantly worrisome. "He knows what our ki feels like."
"It's just a question of when," Bulma murmured, already immersed in her work. She didn't hear her son's loud cackles as he started on another picture of what would happen when Papa found them.
SOME HOURS LATER
"Okay, Trunks, time to tell Mommy she's a genius," Bulma muttered under her breath, unaware that Trunks had fallen asleep some time before. "I think I've got it now."
Bulma had to admit that the system was a pretty good one, as security programs went, but they hadn't anticipated on her expertise. Several times, to see how good the security around Capsule Corporation's programming was, Bulma attempted to hack into it herself — and each time, had succeeded. The NRR's computer was good, but not as good as she was.
There was still a long way to go, of course, but Bulma had managed to pull up the basics of the security system. No details were available at this level, but Bulma was confident she could get to them at some point, maybe in a week or so. Until then, she studied the schematics that she had on hand.
The entire compound was underground, which was no surprise, except for a small factory complex that was most likely a dummy company, run by officials who — in all probability — had no idea of what went on beneath them. Clever, of course, but not an original idea. It had been done before.
Ground security was definitely tighter than that of the Neo Red Ribbon Army's predecessor company. Guards were stationed at fixed points throughout the compound, with others on random patrol. It would take some time to figure out a pattern. Walls, ceilings and floors had weapons emplacements, security screens, and other such devices to be employed if a general alarm was sounded.
Most interesting, however, was a type of precaution that Bulma had never encountered before. A strange, force-field-like shield was in place over the entire compound, with similar generators in place in each vehicle the NRR owned, and no matter how much Bulma unearthed, she couldn't figure out its purpose.
The shield wouldn't block bullets, bombs, or missiles . . . the building material was strong enough to deflect those on its own anyway — even a nuclear explosion, Bulma discovered, but that wasn't unusual. Airplanes had been made from metals strong enough to withstand the fallout of a nuclear explosion.
Bulma leaned forward and squinted at the screen, thinking (not for the first time) that she was going to need glasses, at this rate. A certain line of code relating to the shield caught her eye, and the programmer's fingers flew over the keys as she attempted to isolate it. It took time, as Bulma carefully avoided firewalls and other traps, but she was finally rewarded by a beep and a schematic that filled the screen.
The internal power core of the generator was made of a powerful metal . . . it contained an alloy of lead and other minerals, and Bulma's eyes widened. Each mineral chosen for the alloy had a similar property; each blocked out a certain type of radiation. One metal, however, was completely manufactured, and Bulma had no clue as to its purpose.
"What the heck . . ." Bulma muttered, running through the codes until her eyes ached. "It couldn't just be protection from radar — that's not it. The ground material protects this part from any type of radar or satellite probe. No, it's something else."
She frowned. Reading through what specifics she could find, it didn't seem like the shield was meant to keep anything out. From what she could tell, it was completely superfluous . . . but that didn't seem right. No organization as efficient as the NRR would waste zenni on something useless.
"Okay," Bulma shook her head, pressing her fingers to her temples in a poor attempt to massage away a headache. "There has to be a reason for this. If it's not keeping anything out, it must be keeping something in . . ."
The connection was made instantly, and Bulma scrolled back up to the list of materials in the core of the generator. Yes . . . that metal . . . "Vilegenentium", as it was called . . . it was striking a bell in Bulma's memory, now — something she had read in a scientific magazine of her father's.
After recognizing Android #20 as Dr. Gero from one of her father's magazines, Bulma read each new issue from cover to cover — just in case she found something of importance. Now, Bulma racked her brains and came up with an article she had read a few years ago, though only with passing interest.
It was on the creation of a new mineral, one which promised to revolutionize manned espionage missions, for it absorbed the traceable element a person's individual life energy. The scientists were only now recognizing the truth that certain individuals could sense others using their ki as a guide, and that these people were frequently employed in military operations.
This element, developed by the Spectronium Institute (most likely the dummy company on top of the NRR compound), was an innovation in stealth. Vilegenentium, Bulma realized, eyes widening, powered the force field . . . which, in turn, effectively masked the life energies of everyone within its circle.
Bulma sank back in her chair, staring dully at the screen. That was why Vegeta was unable to find her . . . he couldn't sense her, or Trunks. Even if he'd had a workable scouter, it would still not register them.
What if . . . what if, since he couldn't sense them, Vegeta thought they were dead? What if he didn't look for them because he thought they'd been murdered? Bulma felt a chill run through her, and she glanced down at her slumbering son, whose head lay on his papers. The top drawing displayed a stick-figure Vegeta ripping the head off of another person with a long braid — Blade, probably. The faith the child had in his father was incredible . . .
Shuddering, Bulma turned back to the computer screen and exited the security schematic, careful to leave no trace that she had visited. That finished, she quickly opened the program she was supposed to use to use, and entered in the basic codes for her sketches. Once she was finished, an hour or two later, she knew it could have passed for a day's work by any other programmer.
Bulma pushed her chair back from the desk and shakily wiped sweat from her forehead. No life energy . . . for all Vegeta knew, his "woman" and his son could be dead. He would go insane, if he thought that —
No! Vegeta would never give up on them, Bulma thought stubbornly, kneeling down beside Trunks and cleaning up his mess — anything to give herself a task, to keep her mind from wandering. Vegeta would look for them, whether he could sense them or not.
Of course he would . . . right?
She shook her head violently, not realizing she was crumpling up Trunks' drawings as she unconsciously clenched her fists. "Well," she murmured, "Whether or not he'll give up, Vegeta won't be able to find us. Not on his own, anyway."
The turquoise-haired woman clenched her fists tightly, and her brow knitted with determination. "I'll have to get that force field down," Bulma gritted her teeth. "Or something. I won't let them control me like this — it's stupid! I'll do this myself, even if I have to shut down all the security devices from here."
Trunks stirred in his sleep and his crystal-blue eyes cracked open. "Hi, Mama," he yawned widely, showing off his small, pearly teeth. "Are you done for today?"
"Yes," Bulma tousled his hair, noticing he had become much more tolerant of affectionate displays since their abduction. "It's suppertime. The guards should be coming to take us to the mess hall soon, I bet."
The boy frowned. "What's taking Papa so long, anyway? It's been days already. He shoulda' found us by now!"
The skin around Bulma's eyes tightened, and she lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug. "I don't know, Trunks. Have faith in him, okay?"
Trunks nodded, then his round face brightened and he held up his drawings. "You wanna' see? They're all what'll happen to these stupidheads when Papa gets here!"
Forcing a smile, Bulma lifted Trunks into her lap and oohed and aahed at his pictures. Anything to keep her occupied, even for a few minutes . . .
******
"HYAAA!!"
The air rang with the cries of a young woman as Blade fought viciously against a military-grade punching bag. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and ran into her eyes, strands of brown hair sticking to her face, but she ignored all such minor annoyances.
Kick, punch, kick . . . Blade delivered blow after blow to the bag, imagining it to be the Briefs woman and her brat of a son. She imagined the snobbish woman crumpling up in agony, blood pouring from her mouth and nose, bones cracking . . . the lavender-haired boy running to help, only to be struck down himself . . .
Her blows became more and more frantic, until finally, the bottom of the bag burst and sand cascaded from the canvas, raising a huge cloud. Through it all, Blade stood with her fists clenched, jade-green eyes narrowed.
"Someday, Briefs," she bit through gritted teeth. "Someday they won't need you anymore. And then . . ."
But the sound of sand falling to the concrete obscured the rest of her sentence.
******
A/N: Hopefully, the next one won't take so long -- but, unfortunately, I can't make promises. You're lucky I don't say "Give me X number of reviews or I won't update" or anything like that! Don't worry, I'm not about to resort to anything that childish. However, feedback is always appreciated, as it is with any author willing to improve.
Next time: Vegeta begins his Dragonball hunt -- but where's the radar? Bulma continues to hack into the system, and has another conversation with Entare. Trunks drives his mother crazy in the lab and is put in the care of one of the officers . . . not telling who, but let's say she's not too thrilled about having to look after a six-year-old . . . ^_^