Chapter 8:
Rescue
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The city of Tokyo shone in the night. The lights of apartments, office buildings, streetlamps and cars outshone even the high, cold beauty of the stars.
Zima smiled, taking in the sight and inhaling a deep, refreshing breath of air. Though he had seen his home city like this before, it felt as though he were really looking at it for the first time. Now that he could actually appreciate it as more than just a mess of macadam, concrete, steel and glass, he realized that the sight was ... beautiful.
Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from the skyline. Through his netdiving glasses, he looked down from the roof of the office building on which he had set up a temporary lookout point. Below lay the Research and Development headquarters building for the Iridium Syndicate, the corporation that had originally invented persocom technology - with a considerable amount of help from Ichiro and Chitose Mihara. Inside that glass and steel structure was the lab where Zima had been created as a combat persocom. For years, it had been the closest thing he had had to a permanent home.
Now, though, someone he cared about was trapped inside, and Zima found himself preparing to wage war on the very institution that had created him.
It really is funny how things turn out, he thought to himself.
While he stood on the edge of the roof, letting the wind ruffle his long black coat, Zima double-checked the layout. The laboratory where Dita was being held was located on the tenth floor. He needed to jump from the roof of the building he was currently on, smash through a tenth-story window, then get to the lab before security was alerted to his presence.
He could, of course, have simply hopped down to the roof, opened one of the ventilation ducts, then crawled down to the laboratory without even making a sound.
Zima grinned. But where would be the fun in that?
Satisfied with his calculations, Zima walked back to the motorcycle he had brought up using the building's freight elevator and climbed on. He moved the bike forward a couple of inches, then back one just to give himself a slight margin for error. Once that was done, he checked to make sure that the submachine guns, automatic pistols, and the miniature rail rifles he had brought were securely fastened in the harness he was wearing. He checked his internal clock function: 6:58:27.
Almost showtime...
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Director Mamoru Murakami strode in, flanked by two Iridium security drones, and looked around the laboratory. Technicians scurried about, making last-minute preparations for the scanning procedure. They had alreadyset up the SMT device, a large white hoop attached to an articulated metal arm. When the procedure began, electrical current would be channeled through the CPU of the target persocom, momentarily lighting up the pathways of its synthetic neural net like strings of Christmas tree lights. The scanning ring would pick up the energy and build a three-dimensional model of the processor, right down to the nanometer scale, just before the power surge collapsed every pathway. While the process would destroy the persocom involved, it would allow the Syndicate to find out exactly what had caused it to start behaving so ... emotionally.
Murakami scowled. Ever since the incident the previous night, rumors had been trickling in that persocoms all over the world were beginning to act strangely - almost as though the Chobits incident had given them wills of their own, along with complex emotions. While Murakami doubted that such a thing was even possible, the fact that other people seemed to think it was worried him. If this kept up, persocoms might start deciding to leave their masters, and then the Syndicate would have to start explaining to distraught owners and frustrated law-enforcement officials why their products had suddenly begun malfunctioning. Worse, what if some "liberated" persocom caused an injury? The Iridium Syndicate would be taken to court for all it was worth, and Murakami would never hear the end of it, since the entire incident had happened right under his nose.
All this over a stupid little plastic girl, Murakami thought. Damn Mihara, damn his blasted persocoms, and damn the program he wrote to give them feelings!
He walked over to the man in charge of the procedure. "Are you ready yet, Kato? What's taking so long?"
"I'm just finishing up some equipment checks, sir. These are some very delicate electronics we're dealing with. If we're not careful, the scan won't have the necessary resolution, and we'll have destroyed Dita's CPU for nothing."
Murakami felt his frustration boiling over into anger. While he needed Kato's expertise as a scientist, Murakami didn't trust the man as far as he could throw him. He had created the combat persocom that they were about to deactivate, and had made it very clear that he was performing the scan under protest. Just the fact that he addressed it by name showed that Kato had become too emotionally attached to Dita. He believed that Mihara's program had somehow turned Dita - along with every other persocom on the planet - into sentient individuals who deserved to be treated as people, rather than as machines.
The thought made him want to throw up. The reason people bought persocoms was because they were things; a human could do anything he or she wanted with a persocom, use them until they eventually wore out, then just buy another. If some do-gooder in the legislature decided that persocoms needed legal protection, then selling them would be akin to slavery; the Iridium Syndicate would no longer be able to sell its products to the masses. At the very least, background checks would need to be instituted to keep persocoms from being sold to "abusive" owners, and heaven only knew what other limits would be placed on the Syndicate's business dealings. Persocoms would become accessible only to owners who proved to be "humane" enough to keep them, forcing down sales. The Syndicate, in turn, would have to raise its prices to keep from going belly-up, and persocoms would become even more inaccessible. If the Syndicate survived at all, it would have to completely reorganize its marketing technique and internal structure - more than likely, starting with Murakami's forced resignation.
The Director refused to let that happen. Even in the event that Dita's scan yielded no clues, as Kato kept telling him it might not, Murakami would gladly destroy a thousand persocoms in order to unlock the secret of Mihara's "emotions" and find a way to erase them. He would save the Syndicate - and, more importantly, his own job.
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Dita watched all the preparations with mounting dread. Though Kato had promised her that he wouldn't actually perform the scanning procedure, and Zima had promised that he would arrive and help her escape, it was only two minutes until the time they had agreed on. Dita was shackled to the metal exam table, and the SMT scanner's hoop was positioned around her head. Even if Kato refused to perform the scan, there were seven other lab workers in the room; what if one of them knew how to operate the equipment? If things didn't work out as planned, Dita was only about two or three minutes away from having her mind erased in a cascade of fried neural pathways. Even if she managed to break free before they deactivated her, Dita would have to contend with the small army of security drones that were currently stationed in the laboratory.
While humanoid in shape, the drones were considerably simpler and less intelligent than the persocoms that the Syndicate sold on the mass market, let alone a combat persocom like Dita or Zima. Designed to be controlled remotely by the building's mainframe computer, the drones were little more than heavy machine guns, a pair of arms to hold them, a pair of legs to move them, and a pair of optic sensors to aim them. Their designers had made no effort to make the drones look human, lacking even the synthetic plastic flesh one might find on a persocom. They simply stood near the exits, weapons at the ready, shining metal sentries with all the mercy and sympathy of a meat grinder. Unfortunately, despite the fact that Dita could have dispatched five of the drones in a second, there were enough of them in the room that she would quickly be overwhelmed.
She needed help, and she needed it fast.
Zima, please hurry...
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One thousand cc's of pure internal-combustion power roared above the city streets. With a squeal of burning rubber, Zima opened the throttle up, and his black superbike launched itself off the roof. For several seconds, he was flying, carried across the gulf between two buildings by sheer momentum. It was the most incredible thing he had ever felt, and if he could have stopped time, Zima thought he might have taken a whole day just to fully enjoy the experience.
Unfortunately, time, tides and gravity wait for no one, not even top-of-the-line combat persocoms, and five seconds later, Zima crashed through the plexiglass window of a tenth-floor office. The landing went just as he had hoped; the shock of losing so much speed so quickly would surely have killed a human, but Zima simply brought the bike to a stop inside the office, brushing off a few glass shards. Since the motorcycle didn't seem to have suffered any major damage, so Zima sat back down. He was about tio gun the engine again when he heard a frightened, pathetic-sounding whimper behind him. Zima turned around, and there, standing wide-eyed behind a desk, was a short, balding man in a button-down shirt and a tie, clutching a stack of papers to his chest.
"Oh," said Zima. "Ah ... excuse me."
Then Zima twisted the throttle and sped off down the hallway, leaving a trail of very confused office workers in his wake.
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"Get on with it already!" Murakami snapped, finally losing his patience. "You've been hunched over that damn keypad for nearly five minutes!"
Kato tried to keep the tension out of his voice. He had told Zima that he would try to stall the Director for a bit, but obviously, Murakami would have none of that. "Sir, as I said earlier, this is very delicate work. Now, if you would just let me do my job..." Suddenly, he heard a faint buzzing noise. "What's that?" he asked - though, truth be told, he already had a pretty good idea.
"Huh?" Murakami spun around to face the door, his anger at Kato temporarily forgotten. The noise was getting louder, and seemed to be coming from outside the lab.
"What the he--?" Murakami began, just as the sliding metal doors bent inward, knocked into the laboratory, and Zima caromed into the room, the engine of his massive black streetbike roaring like an angry lion. Before anybody could react, Zima had ridden into the middle of the room, slid to a stop right next to the scanning table, and put a large pistol to the Director's head.
"Hi, Chief," he said casually. "Did you miss me?"
"I ... I ... Zima! What the hell are you doing in here?" Murakami exclaimed as his face tried to decide whether it was scared, angry, or just plain surprised.
Zima shrugged. "I came to check on my partner. Though, from the look of things, I doubt she's going to describe the last twenty-four hours as 'fun'."
"ZIMA!" Dita cried from the table. "You came!"
Risking a moment's distraction, Zima turned to flash his counterpart a grin. "Of course. Nice outfit, by the way."
Dita blushed, realizing that she was still clad only in the set of skimpy white garments the lab technicians made her wear during maintenance procedures. "Hey! Keep your eyes on them, you pervert!"
"Sorry," Zima said, turning to face Kato while still holding a gun between Murakami's eyes. "Doctor Kato," he said, "please let Dita out of those cuffs."
"Y-y-yes," Kato replied, working hard to keep from smiling. Zima had to admit, the good doctor was also a passable actor; if he hadn't known better, he would have thought the man seemed frightened. The shackles holding Dita to the exam table clicked open, and the athletic-looking female persocom sat up, disconnecting her I/O cables and reeling them back into the sides of her head. "Damn," she said, "I feel like I've been stuck to a cold metal slab for the last couple of hours." Then she shot the Director an icy glare. "Oh, that's right, I have been stuck to a cold metal slab for the last couple of hours."
"W-w-what are you going to do?" Murakami asked, looking cross-eyed at the gun barrel pressing into his forehead.
"Now," Zima replied, "you're coming with us as a hostage. If the drones open fire, or if if anyone tries to stop us, your fate will be the same as ours."
"All right! Just don't shoot!"
As they walked slowly toward the motorcycle, Zima caught a covert thumbs-up gesture from Kato. Their original plan had been to simply destroy all the building's security drones as soon as Zima arrived. By taking the Director hostage, though, Zima had eliminated the need for fighting altogether.
Then Zima felt the gun jerk out of his hand, and Murakami leaped away, rolling behind an equipment cart. One of the drones had apparently managed to shoot Zima's weapon without discharging it, giving the Director time to escape ... and giving every security drone in the room a clear shot at Zima and Dita.
Oh, great, Zima thought. Looks like we're doing this the hard way...
From behind his cart, Murakami cried, "Shoot them! Take them down! Just leave the CPUs intact!"
"Dita!" Zima called, tossing her one of his submachine guns. Dita caught it, then let loose with a five-round burst that disabled five different drones. For his own part, Zima had already taken out seven of the mindless automata, shooting them through the optic clusters and smashing the simple command processor located in their head modules. Bullets ricochetted around the lab, and monitor screens exploded in violent bursts of sparks and broken glass. The few humans remaining in the laboratory realized that their workplace had become a war zone and bolted for the smashed-open door.
For Dita, destroying the security drones was like shooting fish in a barrel: tedious, time-consuming, and boring. Unfortunately, those drones that remained were also closing in around them, which meant that she and Zima would have to start fighting at close range soon. Sure enough, just as Dita deactivated her twenty-second drone, another made a swipe with its heavy metal hand, knocking the gun out of her grip. Rather than wasting time chasing her weapon, Dita lashed out with her foot, crushing the offending drone's head like a beer can. In moments, the fight had degenerated into a brawl, with Zima and Dita fighting off the thirty or so drones that were still operational with their feet and fists.
Murakami, meanwhile, took the opportunity to get to his feet and pull out his cell phone. Dialing a certain number, he waited for a beep, then said, "Activate! Targets are located in the main lab, level ten! Terminate both combat persocoms, but leave their CPUs intact!"
"Sir?" Kato called out, "What are you doing?"
"Calling in backup! We're going to need that new tank drone prototype in here once they finish off our security robots."
"The tank drone? Sir, isn't that a bit extr--"
"Dammit, Kato, whose side are you on? They're going to finish off all of our other drones in a minute, and then we'll have two rogue persocoms on the loose!"
Kato was about to try talking the Director out of it, but realized that it would be a waste of energy. The drone was already on its way, and knowing Murakami, he wasn't about to let his reputation be tarnished any further by letting Zima and Dita escape.
Not that it mattered. As only their creator could, Kato knew that Zima and Dita had been designed and built to take on anything the world could throw at them.
As an ominous rumbling sound approached, Zima punched one of the last remaining drones in the chest, smashing its fuel cell. Then he heard a loud crunching sound behind him, and turned to see the very last security drone collapse, its head torn completely off, its arms still outstretched and ready to strangle Zima had Dita not taken it out for him.
Zima smiled at his partner. "Thanks," he said. "That was one heck of a punch."
"You're welcome," said Dita.
Then a large black shape filled the door, and Dita and Zima turned to face this new threat. What rolled into the lab looked like a crossbreed between a Hummvee, a tank and a tarantula, with four enormous tires on independently-articulated legs and a short-barrelled gun turret on top. Once clear of the doorway, the tank drone reared up, its turret knocking down ceiling panels as it targeted the two combat persocoms.
"Get down!" Zima shouted, pulling Dita to the ground as the tank drone fired an explosive shell, reducing one of the lab's walls to rubble.
"Don't fire the main cannon in here, you moronic tin can!" shouted Murakami. "Use the antipersonnel guns!" The drone's turret swiveled around to regard its tiny master, then turned back toward its targets and unleashed a hail of bullets from two fire-linked machine guns.
From their hiding place behind the exam table, Dita called out over the din. "Zima, in case I've screwed things up so badly that we don't make it out of here, I want you to know something. I--"
"Don't bother," Zima said, cutting her off. "Anticipating failure just makes it more likely. Whatever it is, it can wait until we're free and clear."
Dita chewed her lip for a moment. Zima was right, of course. Still ... "Zima, what are we going to do? We can't even get near that thing!"
"Maybe we don't have to," Zima said. "Dita, I need to borrow one of your I/O cables for a second..."
After exactly five seconds of sustained fire, the tank drone rolled forward to inspect its kill - and, if necessary, to eliminate any remaining targets.
Suddenly, the unmanned vehicle gave a shudder. Its four independent wheels tried to roll in four different directions, and the tank spun around like a drunken man, knocking over a tray of tools. As if trying to shake off its stupor, the drone tried approaching the exam table again, stopping and starting fitfully as it went. From across the room, Murakami watched, spellbound, as the tank drone made one last jerk toward the table - then froze in place, its turret still pointing toward where Zima and Dita were crouched, seemingly helpless.
What on earth is going on here? thought the Director, as Zima and Dita stepped out of the rubble. A long, thin cable ran between the two persocoms, and the streaks of light flashing across their eyes showed that they were exchanging information back and forth. Suddenly, Murakami realized what had happened: somehow, with their combined processing power, they had hacked the drone!
His eyes still streaking, Zima smiled at Murakami. "You know," he said, "this is a very nice tank. You don't mind if we borrow it for a few minutes, do you?"
While Murakami stammered helplessly, the drone turned around, now facing toward him. The enormous machine rolled forward, its guns trained on the dumbfounded human.
"N-n-n-no! Wait! Please don't hurt me!" cried the Director. "I'll give you anything you want! Money! Weapons! Anything! Just don't shoot, for God's sake!"
"Including our freedom?" Zima asked skeptically.
"Yes! Anything! Please!"
Zima turned to his partner. "I don't know, Dita. What do you think?"
Even though her eyes were still streaking from their interface, Zima could read the amusement in his companion's deep brown eyes. "Considering that he was about to fry my CPU five minutes ago for no good reason, I think he'd look pretty good as roadkill." At her mental command, the drone rumbled forward another foot, then stopped. "Fortunately for you, Director," Dita went on, "I'm not just a combat persocom. Zima and I are people now. We can make our own choices - and that also means that we can show mercy."
"All right, Fido, you heard her," Zima said to the drone. "Now ... sit!" Like a well-heeled pet, the giant armor-plated tank drone sank down on its haunches. "Okay, now roll over," said Zima, clearly enjoying himself. Obediently, the machine stuck out two of its legs, rolling over onto its turret.
"Good! Now, self-destruct in thirty minutes. Close down all input sources and treat any abort commands as external attacks."
The drone gave a long beep as Dita retracted her input/output cable from Zima. The two persocoms looked at one another and smiled, then turned to face Kato and Murakami. "If I were you," Zima said, heading for his bike, "I'd start evacuating the building. You're not going to defuse that drone's reactor in half an hour, and you can't override the self-destruct order."
"No! You can't!" howled Murakami. All his work, billions of dollars worth of equipment and military contracts, his entire career ...
"I promised not to shoot you if you let us go," Dita called back. "I never said anything about not shutting this place down so that you could come hunting us later." Taking a seat behind Zima, Dita wrapped her arms around her partner's waist as he gunned the engine.
Casting one last look backward, Zima gave Murakami a wide grin from behind his netdiving glasses. "Sorry, Chief," he told his former master. "It's nothing personal!" So saying, he opened the throttle, let go of the brakes, and then he and Dita rode off through the laboratory door, leaving Murakami to coordinate the evacuation of a fifteen-story office building.
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Very soon thereafter, an elevator on the ground floor opened. As the bell sounded announcing the car's arrival, another, louder sound came out of the elevator, and a huge black motorcycle came roaring into the front lobby, honking at any office workers in its path. Seated on the bike were a man in a long black coat and netdiving glasses, along with a red-haired woman clad only in a set of white undergarments. Dita noticed the stares they drew - particularly from the men - and found herself blushing. So much for stealth, she thought. We might as well have tied a bunch of tin cans to the back fender and posted a big white sign on the bike.
Not that she really minded. Somehow, just being this close to Zima, holding onto him as they bumped down the front steps and tore off down the street, made her feel happy. Closing her eyes, she snuggled into Zima's back, feeling the wind on her face and the warmth of the one she cared about most in all the world.
For the first time in her life, Dita felt ... complete.
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