Even in defeat, Cervantes was impeccably dressed. He'd been incarcerated two nights previous, after nearly two regiments of extremely unhappy EA soldiers had showed up to the temporary quarters he'd secured in Panama while the BCPU project area was being rebuilt. At first he'd had no idea what was going wrong and he'd blustered and threatened probably more than he should have. In retrospect, he might have been shot right then and there, if the troops had been a little more touchy. Then he'd seen the taped video of the broadcast from his Hawaiin mansion. That had cleared things up remarkably. He suddenly understood why there were four guards sharing the room with him at all times and why there looked to be an entire mobile suit regiment guarding the brig he was in. There were people... very powerful people... very numerous people... who would very much like to see him dead. He wouldn't give them the pleasure. For that reason he had completely abstained from food of all sorts during his incarceration, and had a random guard sip test his water each time he was thirsty. No sense dying of poison before he could spill the beans and drag the entire world leadership down into hell with him. If they thought they could make him a scapegoat, they were dreaming. He had no doubt a massive scramble to destroy and/or change all evidence of involvement with Blue Cosmos was underway at this very moment, but there was no way they could get to it all. If nothing else, there was the backup mainframe at the ruins of JIHAD, which had a copy of everything. As soon as he entered the courtroom and saw the first camera, he was going to start singing like a canary. And he was going to keep singing until every last person who'd had even miniscule involvement in his Puritan Blue Cosmos was burning on the cross with him.
But that was later. Today was the pre-trial. It was not a public affair. It wasn't even going to be a publicly known fact that there WAS a pre-trial. And for once, the secret would actually be kept, because of the VERY important people that were going to be present. As in, almost every senior person in every major EA government around the world, all his industry peers and all of the JCoS (Joint Chiefs of Staff, who controlled the military). He didn't know why they were even bothering with the whole ordeal, except maybe they wanted to gloat in their false hope. He was sure they were going to haul him over the coals for his history of failure... Carpentaria... Washington DC... Orb... Hawaii... JIHAD... the whole BCPU project, which the human rights people were going to have an absolute feeding frenzy over... it was a long list. His only comfort wasn't even a comfort. Asmodeus and Zacharis would also be at the pre-trial, having been identified as accomplices to the whole deal somehow. Well, they were, but how they could possibly think to lump them into the same category as Cervantes baffled him. They were pawns and he was the king... an entirely different class of being. He dressed to show it too... he wore his best suit, the one made from cerulean blue silk, with the blue diamond tie pin, striped blue and white tie, snow white dress shirt and dress shoes and his cane. All in all, the outfit cost more than a hundred soldiers made in year. He walked with pride, looking neither left nor right, up or down. People turned to look and point and whisper at him as he was escorted by a dozen MP's and a dozen members of the AF secret service through the underground tunnel system of Panama base to the secluded briefing theatre where the pre-trial was being held. He ignored them as insects and inferiors deserved to be ignored.
Asmodeus was already standing inside the theatre when Cervantes arrived. His associate of longest standing... Cervantes could no longer call him friend, as that was something that was long gone between them... was dressed in his EFSOU Hellhounds full dress uniform, resplendent with various medals, citations and awards, but naturally lacking any form of weapon, even the ceremonial dress sword. Asmodeus was waiting in the middle of the floor of the theatre, looking up at the tiers of seats where the dignitaries would be seated in a matter of minutes. His own entourage of guards and gaolers watched him warily from the walls, hands on their weapons at all times, as if Asmodeus was any sort of threat to them. Cervantes could see how stiffly the man was standing, due to the deep stab wound in his left side that Ashino, blasted traitorous Ashino, had inflicted. Denied strong painkillers for fear of a suicide attempt, Asomdeus was forced to rely on local anasthetics to dull the pain of the wound, which he was tolerating with stoic near fatalism. He barely even looked over at Cervantes as his boss was escorted into the room and allowed to walk over to him, though several men from each security detail made sure to drift over to overhear any communication between the two fallen men. Cervantes noted the dull, flat look in his associate's eyes. No longer were they the piercing blue laser eyes that Asmodeus practically had trademarked... that life had fled from them... when precisely Cervantes was still working out. Neither said anything for almost a full minute.
Asmodeus breathed a deep sigh. "I suppose you're rather angry with me, aren't you, sir?"
Cervantes sighed himself and glanced idly at his six hundred thousand dollar watch. "'Deus, my feelings toward you are so far beyond anger that I find I have no descriptive terms powerful enough for them."
"Well, 'Vantes, you have my apology. I don't know what came over me... I must really be getting old and tired, to mess up so badly. Of course they had a secret land line connection. Naturally. Its what anyone would do."
"Sarcasm does not become you now any more than it did in the past, 'Deus. Stick to irony, its much safer." Cervantes recommended. There was another long silence. What was there to say to one another, really?
"You're going to try and drag them all down with you, aren't you, 'Vantes?" Asmodeus asked as the silence approached a minute in length.
"Of course I am. And I'm going to succeed, 'Deus. There is simply too much evidence for them to successfully hide it all. What about you?"
"Well, I was thinking of trying to fight the system for a while, 'Vantes. Spring the good old entrapment defence on them, since they recorded my conversation without my knowledge or consent. Did some thinking though and figured they'd probably toss that idea right out, given that I was on an illegal assassination mission at the time. Funny phrase that... is there any place where assassination is legal?" Asmodeus continued on without waiting for a reply. "No, 'Vantes, I'm going to just sit there and stare them down the whole time. The silent treatment. They cannot force me to talk. I've learned my lesson... when I start talking, thats when I get into trouble."
"For what it's worth, 'Deus, I'd like to thank you for your long years of faithful and dependable service and companionship." Cervantes said pleasantly. "I hope you burn in hell, you fucking insane nihilistic son of a bitch."
"Well, 'Vantes, I'd like to thank you for the friendship we had, truly, I spent the best years of my life in your service." Asmodeus replied with equal pleasantness. "I'll be there right in the bonfire next to yours, you goddamn meglomanical sociopathic bastard."
Both men turned to look at each other and shared a smile of mutual loathing, then shook hands for the final time. Silence reigned again, with the escort details exchanging looks and tense mutters about just how fucked up their charges were. Finally, the third member of the accused party was escorted into the room, all grins. Frost wore a simple set of orange prison coveralls, without any sort of identifying marks besides a patch on each shoulder with the designation "13Z" on it. He was shackled at wrist and ankle, with a chain running between the two sets of cuffs. He walked in an exaggerated shamble, as the cuffs were just ordinary steel, designed for restraining humans. Because the existence of BCPU's was, until very recently a super secret, there were very few people who knew what exactly was needed to do to secure him. Happily, in Frost's view, all of those people were currently under arrest and weren't being listened to. His instincts were buzzing, telling him that big things were afoot at this time, so he'd played the docile psycho killer for the last few days, though it had been hard. He'd been so tempted to slaughter everyone he could reach... and he could reach a lot from the small cell they thought he would be confined in. But something had made him stay his hands. They itched with the need to be painted in blood again.
Frost noted the askance glances that both Cervantes and Asmodeus shot his minimal restraints, but neither man said anything to anyone. What did they care if Frost broke loose and massacred a bunch of people? He wasn't their problem anymore. He was... someone elses. No one was yet sure just who was in charge of the EA now. He nodded to them both. "Lovely day for an interrogation. Birds are singing, weathers fine and sunny... or so I hear."
"Shut up, Frost." Asmodeus said, moody to a fault. Cervantes just ignored him as a being unworthy to speak to. One did not converse with ones tools.
"Don't get pissed at me. It's far too late to be angry now." Frost pointed out. "The only real question is: how are they going to kill us? I wanna have my head chopped off. Oo, oo or be drawn and quartered. Close tie between those two."
"Shut up, Frost!" Asmodeus growled. "Bad enough that everything I've ever worked for in my life has been brought crashing down around my ankles due to ten minutes of misplaced confidence, I don't need your insane babbling making it hard to look back at my life's memories."
"So, do you think Pink will show up to the trial?" Frost asked slyly. "I should be so lucky, eh?" Asmodeus turned and stared at him, some of the ice back in his stare.
"Zacharis... nobody cares. It's over. We're all dead men here. The only question is when. They'll use a lethal injection, by the way."
Frost sidled over so that he was right next to Asmodeus. "Asmodeus... you just don't get it. It's barely begun. All we've ever been is dead men, the question is not when... the question remains: How?" Before Asmodeus could respond to the surprisingly frank comment from Zacharis, their guard details hustled over and seperated them all. The reason for this soon became obvious, as various military officers and government dignitaries began filing into the in small groups. The spectators had arrived to gawk at the beasts in their cage. Each of the condemned reacted differently. Cervantes met the stare of each and every person that walked into the room... met their stare and forced them to look away, as it was the only victory he would win against that person this day. He savored this pointless but satisfying exercise of will. Asmodeus stared blankly around the room, looking past the people, rather than at them, his mind in a very faraway place. Zacharis studied the room. It was one of a couple extremely secure rooms reserved for briefing the most sensitive of missions or strategies. There was only a single entrance, the solid steel double doors that the fodder were even now walking through. The entire room was shielded against emissions of all sorts, meaning no signals in and no signals out. There wasn't even a land line this time. The seating looked like it would accomodate about two hundred people, and Frost expected the room to be filled to capacity, if not a little more. A lot of people wanted to be in on this moment, a moment when an arch-tyrant fell from power once and for all, as one of his guards had commented.
He also took note of each important person that came in. The president of the AF... the presidents of the other world nations, their assorted assistants, VP's, chiefs of staff and other functionaries. Then there were the super rich lords of industry and commerce, all grouped in a bunch. Last there were the military officers, the generals and the admirals who had implemented Cervantes's plans and who had privately railed against the inclusion of a civilian, no matter how poerful, into the sacred concerns of the professional military. After about twenty minutes of arrivals, the doors shut at last, with a heavy and reassuring "thump-click" of an engaging security mechanism. There was no time wasted, almost as soon as the doors shut the AF president stepped up to a microphone. "We're all extremely busy people, so we're going to keep this as short as we can. First I'd like to thank everyone for coming in support for this examination. Everyone currently in this room already knows why we are here and we can dispense with the usual bluster and facades. There are no cameras here, no communications in or out. What is said and done in this room will always stay in this room, for all of history. With that said, I'd like to make one comment. To whit... GODDAMN YOUR COLOSSAL ARROGANCE AND MEGLOMANIA, CERVANTES ZUNNICHI!" the president roared the last line as loud as he could. The echoes bounced around the room for nearly ten seconds afterwards.
"Thank you." the AF president said, wiping his brow with a cloth to calm himself down. "With that aside, I'll turn the floor over to the JSoC."
"Ahem..." An eldery man, wearing the uniform of a five star general, tapped his microphone. "I'd just like to say that I heartily agree with the AF president. Mr. Zunnichi, the crime you have done to us all is beyond the remit of forgiveness. I would hope you're sorry, but given the look we traded on my way in, I frankly doubt it. The purpose of this examination is not to determine guilt. That has already been predetermined." there were chuckles from all around, though not from any of the condemned. "This examination's purpose is to determine the full extent of your guilt. Just how much are you going to admit to? We all know you have a vindictive streak ten miles wide, and we aren't stupid. You won't become a scapegoat willingly."
"You actually think I'm going to just talk to you morons?" Cervantes asked, incredulous. "You wish to know what I'm going to do? Fine... I'm going to bring the world to its knees. All of you will be impeached, fired or court martialed, assuming they can find anyone of sufficient authority to oversee, assuming thats anyone except the local police, because I'm going to bring down the full system from presidents to messenger boys. If I cannot have my Blue and Pure world, then nobody will."
"That's about what I expected." the president of the EF commented. "All right, Cervantes, let me go over what's already happened to you. You have no property. You have no businesses. You have no money. You have nothing, not even those clothes on your back, which will be confiscated when you leave. You no longer have a social security number, fingerprints, retina scans, genetic identification or any sort of picture ID. All of your medical, dental and financial records have been erased. You are nothing and no one. You will not go to trial. You will be taking the next shuttle up to orbit, and then you'll be taking a one way trip through an airlock without a spacesuit. We already have a double prepared, who will stand trial in your place. Similar procedures will be enacted for Mr. Sark. Mr. Frost will consigned to a EA sponsered asylum for the criminally insane, where he will live out the rest of his days in maximum security lockdown, most likely sedated and strapped blindfolded to a table."
"You can't do that!" Cervantes sputtered, aghast. "It's against every last law in the book!"
"Didn't stop you, did it? Why should it stop us?" a unidentified voice called from the commercial sector of the room. "Besides, it's already been done and its rather hard to undo."
"I told you, we've been dead men all along. The only question is: how?" Frost called to Asmodeus.
"THE CONDEMNED WILL REMAIN SILENT!" the five star general cried.
"Fuck you." Frost retorted. "What are you going to do, kill me if I don't shut up? Throw me out an airlock? Don't make me laugh."
"You're insane. But we can make your stay in the asylum pleasant or unpleasant... its very hard to tell when an insane man is in agony because the wrong drugs are being pumped into him or because hes in the middle of a fit the drugs are trying to calm." another industry icon pointed out.
"Ooh, I'm almost scared. Not really though." Frost countered. He looked around. No one looked at all alarmed to see him. They just thought he was a normal guy, helpless to change their verdict. His instinct was sending a warm, happy feeling through him. This was the time he'd been waiting for, the moment in history when he could finally start down the path that would lead him to his destiny. He wouldn't have to pretend anymore... he could be himself, gloriously himself, with no one to judge him. No... he'd be doing the judging, in an aptly named avatar. "You people are all fools, by the way."
"Humor us. What makes you say that?" the president of the AF said, looking smug.
Zacharis Frost jerked his head at Cervantes. "Because you all think he's the greatest threat to the security of the world in this room. And that's... just... not... true." he emphasized each word carefully.
"What do you mean? Be clear." the president of the EF demanded. Cervantes turned and sent a demonic glare at Frost, wondering what the little freak was getting at.
"Remember, Asmodeus... it's all about HOW!" Zacharis Frost shouted the last word, snapping out of his cuffs with a single convulsive jerk. There was a hiss of surprise and worry from the audience, and the security details started forward, reaching for their weapons. None of them were anywhere near fast enough. Zacharis reached the first man just as the agent was beginning to reach into his jacket and he tore the man's head right off his shoulders with one hand. He threw himself headlong into a group of the agent's compatriots after tossing the head in a long ballistic arc to land directly in front of the AF president. Of the thirty six secret service agents in the room, precisely twelve managed to clear their weapons before being overwhelmed by the streaking dervish. Of those twelve, only four were able to fire them. And of those four, only one got anywhere close. And he still missed by a good half a foot. It was truly a wolf among sheep, a raging dragon in a cattle pen, bull in a china shop, whatever euphanism you wanted to use for a slaughterhouse. Once the guards were down, it became a game of ghost in the graveyard, battlefield rules. Groups of dignitaries, officers and civilians would try and rush for the doors out while Frost was busy tearing their companions into gobbets of meat with his bare hands, only to be intercepted and rent horribly themselves as soon as anyone got within twenty feet of the door. The reasoning many had was that there was no way a single unarmed man could kill fast enough to prevent some people from slipping out the door and getting help. Problem was, Frost wasn't a man and he could kill fast enough.
From first man killed to last dignitary dismembered, the entire procedure took almost fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of hell for the people trapped in the room. Fifteen minutes of heaven for Zacharis Frost. There were at least fifty soldiers right outside the room, but with no way of communicating or hearing what was going on inside, they stayed safely on their side of the doors, as they had been ordered to do until the door was opened from the inside. After the fifteen minutes were up, there were only three people left alive in the room. Zacharis. Asmodeus. Cervantes. Zacharis was standing by the doors, exultant, smeared in more blood and guts than he had been for months. Asmodeus was looking around idly, bored and accepting of the whole thing. He expected to be ripped apart any minute now and was frankly wishing Frost would go ahead and get it over with. Cervantes surveryed the wreckage of the room with a satisfied grin on his face. He'd moved only once or twice, to avoid thrown body parts and the huge slick of crimson that was spreading across the floor. Seeing that the last of his so called peers was nothing more than a loose collection of meat parts, he cracked his cane down twice in triumph and spun on his heels to head for the door. But now Frost was standing right in front of him, with the most unnerving of looks on his face.
"Get out of my way, Frost. You've done well, but there is much for me to do... reconstructing my life for one and killing Sai for another. I don't know how you failed to do it last time, but given what you've just done for me, I'll forgive it."
"Oh, and what have I done for you?" Frost asked, puzzled.
"I wouldn't expect you to fully understand the implications of all this." Cervantes waved his hand at the abattoir the room had become. "But suffice it to say you've created one hell of a power vacuum. One that will need filling if humanity is to have any chance of fending off the space monsters."
"Oh, I see. So you're going to take over again eh? Rule from behind the scenes, pin all the blame on the dead people here?" Frost asked. Cervantes shrugged and nodded.
"Oversimple, but good enough for a soldier."
"And how do Asmodeus and I fit into this plan?"
"Well, naturally I'll be rewarding you for your efforts today. Err, I'm not entirely sure what you want, but I'll find some way to get it to you. As for Asmodeus... well, one slip up too many, if you catch my drift. I'd take it very kindly if you could make a "special" end for him."
"That's going to be difficult." Frost said casually. Cervantes frowned, not understanding.
"But you killed all those people with ease..."
"I like Asmodeus more than I like you. He and I are beginning to have a lot in common, once he breaks himself out of his fugue." Frost said cheerily. "As for what I want, well, don't worry about it too much. I'll get it myself. Right now."
"What do you me..." Cervantes never got to finish his sentence. There was a feeling of immense pressure on his chest and a feeling like his ribcage was being yanked out of his body. There were several splintering cracks and then a tide of agonizing numbness that flooded his entire being. He coughed, and saw himself spitting huge gobbets of red. He looked down... at the ruin of his prized blue suit. There was a massive hole in his chest, with reddish-purple bits sticking out of it along with long straight white things he belatedly realized were bones... ribs to be precise. His body seemed so heavy suddenly and he fell to his knees, leaning hard on his cane. Zacharis Frost held up a hand to him and he found his slowly dimming gaze drawn almost inexorably to what it contained. It was another reddish-purple glob of matter, more regular in shape, with lots of little tubes sticking out of the top. It pulsed very slightly once or twice. It was his heart. He tried to scream, but it was far, far too late. The last sight the lord and master of Blue Cosmos ever saw was the explosion of flesh as Zacharis Frost, his own prize creation, his frankenstein monster, his sharpest sword, crushed his still beating heart in his open fist.
"That's what I mean." Frost told the fresh corpse. "You have no idea how good it felt to finally do that. I've literally been waiting all my life to do it. You made it a very special moment, you unbelievable asshole." he spat on the corpse and turned away. He looked over at Asmodeus, who was still regarding the walls with disinterest. "I'm not going to do it, Asmodeus. If you want to take your own life, that's your choice, but your blood will never stain my hands, soul brother. What I said to you won't make any sense for now, but I'm confident that lunacy will soon make everything exceedingly, painfully clear. When it does, you be sure to get into contact with me... assuming theres anything left to contact me about." Frost paused, as if waiting for a response. There was none. "Good luck, soul brother. We'll meet again, I'm sure. But right now, I've got some business with Fury and Judgement." Frost walked over to the door, grabbing two pistols from the floor as he did so. He stared at the door, that, once opened, would begin him on the path to his destiny and breathed a sigh of anticipation. Then his blood spattered palm slapped the door controls and the completely free, completely unrestrained Zacharis Frost, BCPU 6 and fledgling Scourge of Humanity exploded out into the hallways underneath Panama Spaceport.
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"The Military Council is right. Now is the time to strike." Jeremiah Borander said confidently to his older brother. George Borander snorted and nodded his head in agreement, all the while shaking his head at the cost of the campaign that was being proposed even then at the Supreme Council meeting.
"It's still too soon after Carpentaria. We don't have the forces to spare for a campaign of this magnitude." George protested. Both men were seated in his office in the main BoranderCorp factory, looking down at the top secret production floor where the final adjustments were being made to the Pulsar. "It's the right time, you're right. But is it the right thing to do? I don't think so."
"You're too cautious, Bro." Jeremiah chided. "The ground forces got their asses kicked, all right. But we're not planning a terrestrial invasion again. We're just going to the Moon. If we can wipe out their space fleet bases then we've as good as won the war, because they'll never be able to attack us. We have the hypothetical high ground in our backyard. We just have to secure it."
"It's too soon." George maintained. "We're still only about sixty percent complete with the overhaul of our forces from the GuAize models to the Elementals, and Efreet and Grendels are not nearly plentiful enough for a sustained ground assault, on the Earth or on the Moon." He took a sip of coffee and made a sour face... he hated the stuff but he was working almost around the clock and he needed the pick me up. "If we made an attack now and it was repulsed or even worse, lost, we'd be done for. As it is, we're committing a unhealthy portion of the home guard units... we'll be terribly vulnerable during this entire campaign. A single small fleet that slips past the outer pickets and I shudder to think what might happen."
"Too soon or not, it's most likely going to happen." Jeremiah said flatly. "Their entire upper echelon of leadership, from political to economic to military has just dropped off the map. No one knows where anyone else is. There are nations that currently DON'T HAVE GOVERNMENTS because they can't find any of their elected officials above the senatorial level. There are entire fleets and armies with no command staff over the rank of brigadier general or rear admiral. They don't have any senior command to make decisions on strategy for them. They will never be weaker than they are now." he pointed to one of the wall viewscreens. "Especially with whatever the heck happened in Panama this morning. The mass driver is wrecked, AGAIN! And NOBODY knows how or why. All we know is that it launched one HELL of a big package into space this morning and then about thirty minutes later half the base was destroyed by someone and a smaller load was launched, then the mass driver went up in smoke. Currently, they still have Victoria, but that's it."
"Something is terribly wrong with this whole situation. Something is very badly awry down on Earth. Just this week we've had an attempted political and interfamilial assassination attempt within Blue Cosmos broadcast live on TV, all of our counterparts on Earth have disappeared and some unknown person or more likely group has taken out a major Alliance military installation, for purposes unknown. We need to understand the situation MUCH better before we go making any hasty moves." George retorted. "But nobody listens to me. I'm just a weapons developer with a lot of money and a vested interest in our side being properly prepared to win the war."
"Don't get bitter. There's nothing either of us can do to influence the decisions of high command. Now, on to other business. What's the progress on the Pulsar?" Jeremiah changed the subject without warning. George sighed... his brother was becoming more and more abrupt these days. He'd tried to find out if something was bothering his younger brother, but all his inquiries were met with rebuffs, initially polite but growing ever more surly as his concerns deepened. Sometimes it felt like he hardly knew his own brother anymore. And all he ever wanted to know about these days was the Pulsar. It was like he was becoming addicted to the machine, which was ridiculous of course, but... suddenly George blinked, his train of thought completely derailed. Jeremiah blinked a few times as well, similarly tongue tied for a moment or two. "What was I saying again? Oh yeah, the Pulsar..."
Noah Borander wore a satisfied smirk on his face as the door shut behind him on the conversation. It was becoming oh so easy to influence his family members now that he was actually actively practicing his powers. Ever since he'd heard that alluring voice on Purgatory Day he'd been almost obsessed with improving that aspect of his abilities, in preparation for the day, sometime in the future, when he would encounter her in person and make her his own, one way or another. He commonly sat in on the meetings between his father and his uncle these days, though he learned little of true interest that he did not already know in more detail than anyone else in the PLANTS. All it took was a bit of concentration and both men rapidly forgot he was even in the room, even though he was sitting right next to them. A little more effort and he blanked out their minds any time they got too close to what he deemed a sensitive topic, such as his own odd behavior, Jeremiah's odd behavior or anything too detailed about the NIC system. He snagged his computer from where it sat in a cubbyhole outside the office and headed for one of his own labs, one of many he'd appropriated for his own use under his father's nose. This particular lab was devoted mainly to the construction of nanotechnologies customized for warfare purposes.
His current main experiment was held suspended in midair by an electromagnetic field, one of a very few all purpose methods of containment that could actually safely contain the nanocolony. It was currently deactivated, but there was no sense taking risks. When activated, it would remain activated indefinitely and there was no off button. And if the activated substance were to escape the containment field... well, hopefully that wouldn't happen, because so far the only surefire method of destroying the colony he'd discovered was the application of anti-matter particles. And anti-matter was never a precise weapon. The nanocolony, a blue, powder like substance to the naked eye, was actually an outgrowth of some of the research he was helping his mother with, nanocolonies that would correct genetic defects in a living adult, not least of which were short telemeres. That substance was called Eden, which was actually E.D.E.N. (Energized Distributed Eugenic/Elemental Nanite). Green Eden, because of its color. He called the weaponized stuff Blue Eden. It was an ironic name in more than one way. There was also another strain of the colony, Red Eden, which he was developing as a manufacturing tool. His gaze was momentarily drawn to an object in the far corner of the room. A black sphere hovered inside its own containment fields. It was currently about the size of a softball. It was a macromolecule, a meta-nanomachine of unknown composition and structure. He'd created the damn thing, but he had no way of getting rid of it, like his father had ordered. It was one of the very few mysteries he still was making no progress in solving. In his grimmer moments, he called it the Black Eden.
Other experiments included heat absorbing colonies that drifted like mist through the air, pre-programmed repair colonies that would rebuild a damaged structure using elements manufactured from the environment around it and information warfare colonies that sought out electronics and corroded them into uselessness with minutes. He checked the progress of the computer programs he'd designed to monitor and conduct his experiments and then moved on to another lab, this one dealing with more conventional armaments, though they were anything but conventional. Some examples included a sonic amplification system and an anti-matter pulse weapon still in the theory stage, as well as inroads into quantum crystalline weaponry and armor. Other labs contained work in holographic projection, data warfare, new versions of the NIC (Neural Interface Control) and GRS (Gravity Reducing System) and most importantly a method for long range nearly impossible to interrupt telepresence control of a mobile suit. No one but him and a very few scientists who had no idea they worked for him were allowed in these labs, which contained the future of BoranderCorp, even if no one but Noah currently knew this fact. His last stop, as always, was to a lab no one but him could enter. It didn't even register as occupied on the building registry, indeed, wasn't even a lab but was listed as anonymous storage space. But it was a lab... a very advanced one too, constructed in secret by people who had no remaining memories of doing the work.
This lab, his true sanctuary for the moment, contained the only full schematics for his projects in the other labs, and the greater schematics that they fit into. The other labs designed the components... it was here that he put them together to make the ultimate expression of the modern war... Mobile Suits. Gundams, to be precise. His father thought the Pulsar was the end of the road as far as MS's went. He was wrong. The Pulsar was only the beginning. Already he had complete schematics for five new Gundams, and already the pilots for them too. The Haunted, for the burned commander. The Tormented, for the tragic girl. The Revenant, for the corpse. The Traitor, for the man of that ilk. And the Vengeance, though its pilot had no need of revenge... or at least no memory of any need. Other, less complete designs, included the Zealot, the Martyr, and his own baby, the Brotherhood. And then of course the was his crowning glory, the chariot of the heavens that would eventually be known by some name suitable for something of its magnificence. But all of these were years and years from actually being put into production. Right now they were only the fantasies of a young genius. Speaking of which, he turned his attention to his workbench, where he was busy putting together fantasies of another sort.
The girl with the voice... Lacus Clyne... was known to collect robotic pets. She had a fondness for them that was quite becoming in Noah's eyes, he also had a love for machines. Her house in the Aprilus cities was filled with the things, gifted to her by her old paramour, the enviable Athrun Zala. Personally, Noah didn't have too much respect for the robotic constructing skills of the elder Coordinator. The robots, called Haro's, were little more than hollow metal softballs with a limited use gravity compensator, a basic voice/ear box with limited vocabularly and recognition patterns, a few standard LED's, a gyroscopic balance mechanism, small interior storage and a monochromatic paint scheme. The original, the one colored pink, was also supposed to have a electronic lock opening device, which was more a gewgaw than a real component. He could put together a more advanced and functional robot companion in his sleep. Of slightly more artistic interest was a previously made device, named Birdie, constructed by a younger Athrun for his then schoolmate Kira Yamato. Birdie had a full gravity compensation device which let it fly for long periods of time, even in space, but it had almost nothing in the way of communications or data storage circuits. It could say it's name and it mimicked the habits of a real bird with passing ability, but no more than that.
Initially he'd just started tinkering with making his own Haro just for the fun of it. But after listening to a recording of that incredible voice a couple more times, even without the brain stirring impact of her Newtype power and he was hooked. From then on, he was constructing the Haro for a specific mission. It was to enter the Clyne estate and insinuate itself into her belongings, if and when she ever returned for them. It would replace the original Haro when it was expeditious and take on the roll of that familiar device. But it would be far more than just a empty Haro... it would be his spy and her protector, courtesy of her most powerful secret admirer. The tricky part was putting in all the extras without changing the overall physical characteristics of the device... his Pink Haro couldn't be any bigger or heavier than the original, nor could it look different to a cursory inspection of its interior. Naturally, a detailed inspection by any Coordinator with half a brain would of course reveal that it was not the same Haro, but the likelyhood of such an inspection was extremely low, lower with the program protocols he was building into it.
His Haro was almost done, awaiting only the final programming chips. The only problem was creating a suitable motivation circuit to use as the "brain" of the robot. Artificial Intelligence, the true form, in which the machine in question would learn, think, adapt and grow in intelligence on its own was still beyond the remit of science. Noah was working hard on the problem himself, when the mood struck him, but he had to admit, it was a true conundrum. Extremely powerful quantum computers with terabytes of programming functions could mimic the human brain quite well... but they still didn't have the true ability to innovate or more importantly create something new and better out of themselves. They could refine and streamline their processes, but eventually they would be confronted by some situation their programmers hadn't accounted for and they would be at a loss. Given the long term and subtle nature of the infiltration/protection mission he was designing this Haro for, he couldn't risk anything less capable at improvisation than a human. However, perhaps one of Noah's greatest talents wasn't just his methodical, logical intellect, the part of him that was good at the sciences and maths, but his ability to intuit a solution to a problem that was entirely new and as yet untried. Screw creating Artificial Intelligence... why not just use a copy of a biological intelligence?
His watch beeped at him to remind him that it was time to go already. He picked up the motivation circuit chip carefully and slid it into a protective case in the cover of his laptop. The chip was only about one hundred and thirty percent the weight of the processing chip in the original Haro, but this chip cost nearly as much to produce as did an Elemental class Mobile Suit. Noah had no doubt that both his uncle and his father would be most wroth with him if their minds ever recovered the ability to let them glance at the full daily costs report. Jeremiah's public grandstanding also helped generate a lot of additional funds from charities, donations and gifts, much of were funneled into Noah's own projects without even touching BoranderCorp coffers. As things were, he was spending nearly thirty million dollars a day on his own, secret research projects. A drop in the bucket compared to what the greater company spent, but not bad for a ten year old. He chided himself for letting his thoughts go off on a tangent as he packed up his computer and set the lab equipment back into standby/processing mode. The gist of his original thought was that for only a little more weight, this chip he had contained within it the memory storage capabilities to store a human intelligence. Well, so he hoped. He'd be finding out in less than an hours time. He pressed one of several buttons on his watch, which served as a discreet communications device amongst many other features, to have his car prepped for him.
A series of express elevators and moving walkways brought him to the parking garage senior service levels in a matter of minutes. In truth he didn't really have to take his own car, given that he was only going a little farther than the outskirts of the BordanderCorp Center for Medical Research, which was only about a mile away, still well within the massive perimeter of the BoranderCorp Industrial Center and thus served by regular automated shuttle service, but what was the point of being the eldest son of the owning family if you didn't flaunt some style every ocne and a while, even if you publicy eschewed ostentation? For god's sake, he was still a ten year old boy, if far, far removed from most Coordinators his age. There was no one else in the parking garage, due to it still being in the middle of yet another extremely busy work day. His car was already waiting for him, the omnichromatic paint having decided to be dark green today... one of more than twelve colors it could assume either at his whim or via a randomization process it underwent every twelve hours. It was a thoroughly useless invention in the great scheme of things, but he could never decide on any one color, so he'd decided to take them all. He climbed into the vehicle and stretched out in the spacious interior compartment... being devoid of steering column and most other archaic but still common control devices, including a windshield, pedals and transmission, his car had a great deal of room in it, though only two seats.
Without even the slightest indication of movement, the car started up and glided away along a course he'd programmed into it during his walk down from the labs... he didn't want to go directly there as he still had some time to kill before the appointed meeting time. He could also control the car via voice commands, but he disabled that function for the moment while he set up his laptop again and hooked into into the net transceiver in the car. In seconds he had full video comms with his entire organization... as usual he smiled a bit at that, because only a very few in his organization even knew that it was an organization. A few keystrokes more and his voice modification program was up and running, making him sound like he was at least twenty five to thirty to anyone he commed with. The video links were one way to ensure his privacy... some people were squeamish about taking orders from a ten year old for some reason. His first call went out before he'd even left the parking garage. "So, Mr. Dylan, what have you found out?" Noah enquired of one of his longest standing agents, Jean Dylan.
"Well, boss, it wasn't exactly easy, but I called in some old favors..." Jean Dylan, a nondescript Natural, perhaps one of the more redundant phrases in nature to Noah's thinking, replied, hurriedly hiding his startled expression at being called out of the blue. Noah wasn't supposed to be calling for another few hours yet, but he felt there was some value in keeping his associates guessing just a little. Complacency bred failure, after all. Noah idly wondered just what he'd interrupted Dylan doing, but then decided it didn't matter. Noah smiled slightly... "old favors" was Dylan slang for blackmail and bribery, but the hows of his methods did not concern Noah, only the fruits of the labors. "The people in question are D... E... A... D, dead. Not missing." Again, as always, Dylan spoke around the real issue over the vid, never quite coming out and saying anything that could be incriminating, as if he was worried about being eavesdropped on. Patently ridiculous... Noah owned the electronic survelliance systems in the PLANTS, no matter what ZAFT or the council believed. They could no more tap or trace his calls than they could those of the Earth Alliance Command Land Lines.
"All of them? That's a very large number of extremely well protected men and women to turn up dead all at once. Admittedly, Panama is a ruin right at the moment, but I wasn't aware of any sort of summit taking place there, or anything of real note besides the incarceration of Cervantes Zunnichi, pending trial." Noah mused.
"That's another thing..." Dylan gulped and looked a mite sick. "Zunnichi is one of the dead. I wasn't able to get the full story mind, boss, but from what I hear it was really messy. Horror flick messy. Blood and organs everywhere, piles of mutilated bodies and severed limbs... Zunnichi had his heart torn out of his chest by something or someone using what looked to be their bare hands. Most likely the same bare hands that killed the rest of the... people in question."
"Interesting." Noah said, filing away the facts for the future. He knew full well who'd killed Cervantes Zunnichi and the Blue Cosmos members of the EA governments, now. He was perhaps the only Coordinator in the PLANTS who'd recognized Zacharis Frost when he'd been displayed over the world wide news, being escorted from Sai Argyle's house in Hawaii. He'd debated mentioning something through official channels about the BCPU, but had decided against it. Let the Naturals reap the crops of their own sowing, with that maniac. And now it looks like they had... Zunnichi was dead, which was a relief and more than ninety percent of the EA nations were now without leadership, which was thought provoking. Who would step into the power vacuum and become the new leader? Noah had calculated a statistical likelyhood that agreed with his own personal opinion and he would have bet a large sum of money that he was right. The other thought was that the EA would never be weaker than they were now... so what would ZAFT do? Well, obviously they'd attack, but Noah found himself unable to recalculate the odds to remain in their favor... there were too many unknowns still in operation. "What about what happened to Panama?"
"Boss... nobody was talking about that. I mean nobody. Not for anything." Dylan said.
"Has the man who acquired and sold the Cyclops System plans for the JOSH-A base finally run into an intelligence screen he cannot penetrate? Maybe I'll have to go spend my intelligence budget elsewhere." Noah replied calmly. He waited for a few seconds, knowing full well the kinds of games this man played, out of habit if for no other understandable reason in Noah's eyes.
"Don't be hasty now, boss." Dylan sounded massively irritated. Which was good. "Now, nobody and nobody was talking. But I did manage to sneak a peek at a couple of the AAR (after-action reports) of the clean up crews that first responded to the disaster. I even managed to do a little cross referencing with the base logistics files. I don't know what to make of things, but you're a hell of a lot smarter than me, maybe you will. A whole shit-ton of munitions and other Mobile Suit type supplies were being moved into one hangar in particular for weeks before Panama was destroyed. Again. This was the biggest hanger on base and nobody and nobody else got into that hanger without a pass from base command and a serious escort. The clean up crews didn't find any war material in the remains of that hanger, not even wreckage or residue. They did find a bunch of scuff marks and scars on the floor, the kind that temporary scaffolding and weigh support harnesses tend to make. Enough of 'em for an entire platoon of Mobile Suits, all lined up nice and neat and far too close together for a bunch of Mobile Suits to have been using them. Any of that make sense to you?"
"Perhaps. I'll be in touch, Mr. Dylan." Noah cut the comm. No doubt the man would fume and sputter at being cut off, but he'd get over it. For all the favors he owed Noah, he'd have no other choice. Noah squared his shoulders and adjusted his mental posture... this next call was closer to a conversation of equals than the employer-employee exchange he'd just had with Dylan. He turned off the voice disguiser and cleared the computer for two way video. "Mr. Durandal, I hope I'm not calling at a bad time?" he asked the man in the blue coat of a senior level member of the PLANT civilian administration, who looked up from eating some form of prepackaged lunch without a slight hint of startlement in his leonine golden eyes, framed as always by his midnight black hair. Gilbert Durandal, Vice-Minister of the Interior and one of the most up and coming Coordinators in PLANT politics, touched a control on his desk, his hand just out of sight of Noah's viewpoint.
"Mr. Borander." Durandal bowed his head slightly in greeting. Very few knew of the collusion between the two Coordinators, not even members of either's immediate family and friends. Gilbert Durandal was politician with a vision and the acumen and talent to get there. Noah wasn't quite sure what this vision of Durandels was, but he could live with it, since Durandal had no idea what Noah's real goals were either. They both satisfied themselves with recognizing the desire for power, be it political or economic. Noah was Durandal's primary campaign funder and a source of very valuable intelligence on Durandal's political and military competition for the next spot on the PLANT supreme council, due to open up in a few months time. Durandal was Noah's conduit into influencing the halls of those people who made the decisions that affected the course of the PLANT's as a whole. It was a very mutually benefitial relationship, but to say that either trusted or even especially liked the other would be an exaggeration, as was too often the case in such partnerships. Still, they maintained a veneer of politness with each other even in the most private of circumstances, for the sake of professionalism if nothing else. "No, I was just having a brief talk with Rey, I'll be with you in just a moment."
"Don't let me interrupt." Noah's fingers flew across his keyboard, moving back and forth across the keys, both hands flashing as he utilized the dual layer processing of his custom designed keyboard that let him type in two different programs at once with one keyboard... very handy for many computer programming related tasks and an absolute bitch to learn how to do... no on else he knew was even capable of fully comprehending how to do it. Before Durandal could even protest politely that it was no interruption, Noah had hacked into the man's desk computer... a new one, since the man had the amusing tendency to replace them after each conversation with Noah, as if it really made that much of a difference... and diverted his other call onto his own computer, initiating a three way conference. "Rey, it's good to see you." And it was, too. After all, Rey was the only other clone still living that he could relate to. Re Le Burrel, one of two clones of the fantastically wealthy Natural businessman Albert La Flaga, who owned most of the sub-orbital air transportation companies on Earth. Mr. La Flaga was long dead, burned to death with his wife and much of their household when their mansion mysteriously caught fire several years before Noah had been born. But his legacy lived on... his first clone, Rau Le Creuset was gone, dead and destroyed by Kira Yamata at the second battle of Jachin Due, but there had been a second, younger clone as well. This was Rey. Noah liked to regard the other two clones as prototypes for himself, perfecting the process enough for it to be used during his own incubation. Rey was four years older than him, and only had about ten more years left in him unless someone came up with a way to cure the artificial genetic disorder of shortened telemeres.
"Noah..." Rey trailed off. A taciturn and focused youth, Rey wasn't much of a talker, though he could be suprisingly insightful when he did choose to speak. He spent most of his time on flight simulators or tactical training scenarios, much like those taught at ZAFT Basic and Elite training academys, and spent the rest of the time training his body or mind into becoming an exemplarly soldier. His skills were impressive, Noah had to admit, easily the match of every one of his own selected cadre of secret pilots, and that was with their advantage of NIC controls. Well, maybe not the equal of the pilot of the Vengeance, which was an irony. More so because Noah had considered Rey as one of the possible pilots for the Vengeance, but the elder clone's loyalties were far too secure with Durandal for Noah to be comfortable employing him on such an intimate basis. Rey and Durandal were like father and son, if a very distant father and son. No, Rey was a good pawn, but he'd never move into Noah's inner circles. "You look well. Off doing something important and mind boggling, I'd imagine?"
"One of these days, I will manage to find some form of net security that will prevent you from pulling stunts like this." Durandal commented, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "It's beginning to become tricky finding reasons to replace my computers."
"Maybe I'll write you a program that might be able to make a good go of it, but getting you to trust it might be difficult, eh?" Noah replied dryly. If you want it safe, don't put it on the net at all. Better yet, put it down on Earth, off the net. That's closer to safe. But given time, I can get anywhere, as far as computers can go. "I'm just doing what I do every day, Rey. Trying to take over the world." Noah continued, paraphrasing a quote from an age old cartoon show featuring the unlikely adventures of two lab mice. He quite identified with one of them, the Brain, being forced to make do with legions of idiotic "Pinky" henchmen, much like Noah was forced to work with Naturals and lesser Coordinators. He smiled to show he didn't mean it. And he didn't... rule the world? Not a chance... no fun at all. He just wanted to make it a better place for everyone, with a higher standard of living and prosperity for all. "Jokes aside, I was calling for a specific reason. Have you heard anything about the Supreme Council decision?"
"That depends... do you have anything to offer me, Mr. Borander?" Durandal replied, cagey as ever. There was no free lunch in their dealings... they traded information much like any other brokers would.
"The EA heads are currently listed as missing in action, You can safely upgrade that to killed in action. Cervantes Zunnichi is dead as well. Blue Cosmos has constructed another superweapon of some sort and they were storing it at Panama. Whatever force it was that killed the government heads and Cervantes stole this superweapon and used it to destroy Panama, after which it was launched into orbit, on the far side of Earth from us, in the planet's sensor shadow. It'll be approximately five days before it becomes visible to us again." Noah noted a sour look flicker across Durandals features. Five days was an important time then. Likely when the next war action would commence. "The area in which it could appear is large, but thankfully the closest reappearance point is still a half day from our outer defence lines. We should have plenty of time to determine what exactly this new threat is and who's side it is on, if any."
Durandal didn't ask Noah if he was sure. The demonic little child was always sure, and always right too, to date. Some might consider it odd, bandying state secrets and matters of national defense about with a ten year old, but Durandal refused to let himself consider Noah on the basis of physical age. The man in a boy's body on the other end of the line was a frightening intelligence with monstrous capabilities in almost all academic areas. His head for politics was still a little weak, but there were many people Durandal encountered on a daily basis during his work that had less acumen than Noah, so his only advantage was slim. Still, it was enough to provide him a measure of safety in dealing with the little bastard, and he was glad for his poker face. As yet they had never met in person, and Durandal was dreading that day, quietly, hopefully far off into the future. It was enough now that they agreed to work together and neither pry too deeply into the affairs of the other. "In five days time, ZAFT will launch a full scale invasion of the Moon. The scope of the campaign will include more than 50 percent of our reserve home guard units as well as all our active duty space forces. We'll be deploying that special mobile suit of your uncle's as well. The goal is to capture or destroy the Alliance fleet bases on the moon, permanently removing their ability to stage large numbers of naval vessels in orbit and near space."
"Ambitious." Noah commented.
"They're some of the best soldiers the Naturals have, but they won't be able to stand up to us. They don't have the technology. Thanks, by the way." Rey added.
"Not my work. But you are welcome." Noah replied. I guess I can throw him a little bit of a bone. Be nice to see him again anyway. A good opportunity to pick his brain too, though I imagine he doesn't know much more about Durandal's plans now than he did before... he doesn't really care what Durandal does, he'll play along regardless. Almost makes me wish I had a fawning henchperson too. Well, one I didn't have to make for myself anyway. "Say, when you have some free time, let me know. You didn't hear this, but we're going to be doing some more nextgen testing soon, and I'd really like it if I had someone who's capabilities I trusted to put the designs through their paces."
"I'll do that. Thanks, Noah. Gilbert, I should be going. Thank you for the phone call." Rey signed off.
"I thought the Pulsar was the only nextgen mobile suit currently in operation or production." Durandal said after a few moments, not quite a question.
"It is the only one currently." Noah confirmed. They stared at each for a few more moments and then both signed off, smiling enigmatically at each other. Noah looked at his watch and waited one more minute precisely, then opened the door on his car just as it coasted to a stop inside a warhouse adjacent to the Medical Research Center. There was no one to greet him, which was as it should be. A gate hummed back down behind him, sealing the car into the warehouse, returning it to cave like darkness. Walking along a pre-memorized path, Noah ascended two flights of stairs and then took a left into another dark room. He closed his eyes and looked with other senses, easily picking out the minds of the five soldiers crowding the small antechamber, heavily armed and equipped with various methods for seeing in total darkness. To Noah's minds-eye, the intelligences of the other Coordinators looked like strings of numbers hanging in the air like hyperlinks, just waiting to be clicked on and accessed. There was a few brief fractions of a second where his mind struggled through the so called "Stump barrier" that shielded non-evolved minds from the elucidations of the blessed, but then he was inside, as privy to their thoughts and feelings as they themselves were. These men were regular guards of his, often stationed to secure various locations at his behest and so their minds already had well trod pathways for his intellect to follow as they noticed him and came to attention. "Password is: Frankenstein."
"Countersign is: Wolfman." One guard replied, indicating that everything was in readiness without any complications. "Vampire" would have indicated a problem with the subject and "Psycho" would have been a problem with the equipment. Noah traced his mind throughout their memories to make sure there was no deciet, causing them all to suffer simultaneous shivers that had them looking around uneasily, unsure of the sudden chill that prickled their skin. There was nothing, everything was prepared as it should be. Without any further words he stepped by the guards and entered a twelve digit passcode entirely different from the six digit code he'd told them would allow access into a door console. Their code let them in and out once, his was the real code. After being entered, his code randomized the exit code according to a sufficiently complex calculus algorithim to keep the likelihood of anyone but him opening the door again to be remote in the extreme. Unless the intruders had thought to bring a few graphing calculators and about four hours of extra time with them. The next room was brightly lit, at least in comparison to the pitch darkness outside. In reality it dimmer than most normal rooms would be, about half the illumination of a school classroom, with no exterior windows. The room was small, only about thirty feet square, and it was mostly filled up with processing equipment of some form or other, supporting devices for the main construction.
Said construction dominated the middle of the room straight out of the scenes of a science fiction movie. To whit, a hardy plastic cylinder, about six feet in diameter and extending from floor to ceiling, with metallic reinforcements and abutments where it met the floor and the ceiling. Around the bottom of the tube were banks of complicated looking machines with large numbers of input and output ports, as well as a special slot on top exactly the same size as his laptop. He placed his laptop in the slot and booted it back up again as the door sealed shut behind him, ensuring that there would be only his eyes to witness this experiment, through success or failure. He removed the Haro circuit from its protective casing and inserted it into a block of compters just to the right of the laptop station. He then set about the task of powering up the room and making all the required connections between the processing equipment and the subject tube. He found it hard to keep his eyes on his work, they kept on straying back to the tube, filled with pale bluish suspension gel. Floating in the gel was a girl, about fourteen or fifteen. Her eyes were closed and she appeared to be asleep, though actually she was in a coma, victim of a rather nasty boating accident, proof positive that Coordinators were no more infallible than any other mortal creature. The distinctive neural wiring of a NIC interface snaked down from the top of the tube and interface with her skull and skin, the wires mixing with the IV lines that fed her nutrients and medicines to keep her alive, while other tubes removed waste and kept her clean. She'd been shaved bald before immersion in the tank and was as naked as a babe.
It was this last part that was causing Noah problems. He'd always had a great deal of appreciation for the human body, especially females. He recognized that this would shortly be causing him a great deal of problems, when he hit puberty in the next few years. So far he was able to quash dispassionately the odd signals his hormones sent to him, since he wasn't interested in girls and never had been. Yet. The only girl he was interested was Lacus Clyne, and it wasn't sexually. Yet. It was one of the curses of being superintelligent... there was no way he could lie to himself and convince himself that he wouldn't be controlled in some way by his hormones eventually. But at the same time, right now he wasn't even slightly attracted to this girl, yet he found himself gawking at her, for no discernable reason. It was annoying. He snorted and mentally brushed himself off... he could not afford distractions, now of all times. He connected the last few wires and then returned to his laptop. "Good afternoon, Melanie." he said to the room. There was no response other than the hum of machinery and electronics. Much as expected, but it never hurt to be sure. He raced through the pre-initialization routines and actived the NIC interface that would draw what remained of her personality and for lack of a better term... soul... into the motivation circuit. Much of what he was going to try to do was theoretical at best, but his calculations and hypotheses were sound, so things should work. Should.
He sat down at his laptop station and closed his eyes, reaching out with his Newtype senses again. The numbers representing Melanie were dim and small, but in such proximity he had no trouble locking on to her and bringing the full force of his considerable attention to her. She was a terminal patient, one of a very few select "volunteers" for the BoranderCorp Medical Charity for the Terminally Disabled, a very selective dummy organization that Noah had recently created, funded out of pocket, to gather research subjects like her for his experiments into the recording of intelligence. His uncle was another such subject, though of course he didn't know that the Pulsar was a data gathering machine as well as a war machine. But Melanie, along with four or five others he was still cultivating, was special. Victims of incurable genetic defects or terrible accidents, they were comatose to the last, between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, female and beyond the reach of modern medicine to do anything more but keep them alive but not recovering. Melanie had gone boating with friends and fallen overboard while they were waterskiing. The boat ran into her and cracked her skull, then ran her over and broke her spine and knocked her unconscious. She spent more than seven minutes underwater before one of her friends found her and brought her back to the surface, where CPR and professional medical help managed to resuscitate her after ten minutes of frantic work. However, she had never regained consciousness since then and testing indicated severe brain damage both from the intial impact as well as from oxygen starvation, not to mention lower body paralysis from the broken spine.
Melanie's parents had spoken with a voice disguised Noah to discuss the fate of their daughter. He proposed to them a "new treatment" that was untried but had powerful ramifications. Desperate for any ray of hope to bring their beloved daughter back and frustrated at the lack of help from other doctors, Melanie's parents had quickly enrolled her into the program. He'd warned them that there was a chance of death from the new treatment, but that there were better than even odds of an improvement in her condition, even a full recovery. Her parent's had dithered for a few moments, but with a little creative emotive-surgery... no mean feat across a telephone line, even for him... playing on their fears they agreed wholeheartedly. He'd feared he might feel guilty, lying to two people like that, but he found it didn't bother him in the slightest. Perhaps that made him a bad person, but he preferred to think about it as scientific dispassion... it was regrettable, what would happen to Melanie, but her sacrifice would serve a much greater good. He needed test subjects like her and he could not afford to waste time. He slipped into her mind with a sensation like sticking his hands into a vat of lukewarm oatmeal... filmy and mushy, her mind had little of the vibrancy and structure of an uninjured person. Still, there was quite a bit of person under the pall of the injury... plenty of material for him to work with. He'd already done a great deal of pre-work with her, along with his other "volunteers"... bonding with them as only he could, by visiting with them in their own subconsciousness using his powers to draw them into a what some Newtypes called a "Trance".
While Trancing with them he would create whole worlds of life and love for them, giving them everything they had lost back again, even if only for short times as an illusion. Slowly and surely he earned their trust and then their friendship and then their love. He was their savior, the one who would deliver them from their personal hells... several of them being aware while unconscious, the others being stuck in near awake dream states, since full on REM sleepers were beyond the reach of the NIC interface. Even while he Tranced with them, other parts of his attention would massage their emotions, strengthing their feelings of love and gratitude and trust while muting their inhibitions, worry and fear. By the time he'd judged Melanie ready for the final encoding procedure, he felt confident that if she was awake and physically fit, he could ask her to do anything for him and she would, without hesitation. Why? Because she loved him more than she loved anything else. He was everything to her, more than her parents, more than her boyfriend who'd saved her life, more than anything. He was her beloved god. And he had to admit, even though he was the one who'd fostered the feeling and nutured it into a full on obsession, it felt good to be loved like that. Certainly better than the lukewarm relationship he had with what remained of his parents. He caressed her subconscious mind one more time, as a master pets a favorite animal and felt her emotions surge wildly in happy greeting.
It was time to begin. He set up the assessment programs and watched their outputs. Several minutes went by as the programs mapped her neural activity and calculated transfer ratios and available memory storage. When the programs finished, they all flashed green lights of agreement... the chip had more than enough room, assuming he proceeded with the planned editing. After all, he didn't need everything from her... just enough to motivate a Haro unit to feel both protective and inquisitive. And loyal... always loyal. He'd never done what he was about to do before, but he wasn't much afraid... he'd destroyed minds before by accident, he should be fine tinkering with one on purpose. He grimaced as he braced his mind, sunk his concentration deeply into the folds of her psyche that he had designated as of primary interest and then he stimulated them. Overstimulated them. Flooded them with sensation and information. Forced them to react and react again. And again, and again, more powerfully each time, and for longer times, while the NIC interface recorded them and the signals bounced around in her brain and translated them into elctronic signals, which the computers translated into code and then compiled into a basic "motivation block" which would be inputted into the circuit at the end. He grabbed Love... and Admiration. Curiosity. Jealousy. Friendship... Self Preservation... Deceit and Happiness. His eyes were shut the entire time, and sweat beaded his face and neck from the mental exertion. He could hear her twitching and spasming in her tube as he ripped wholesale emotions directly out of her subconscious and transplanted them into the artificial neuro-maps of the computers. No doubt she probably would have been screaming too, if a breathing tube wasn't strapped to her face and extending down her throat. He forced himself to ignore the damage he was causing to her, the pain and trauma, mental and even physical. It was for a greater cause. His cause.
Finally, almost two hours later, he was done with the first stage of the experiment. The basic motivation blocks were recorded and in place. Now he needed the motivating force itself, the spark of creativity and life that would let a mind use its emotions to innovate and adapt in order to stimulate those same emotions. This was the hard part... grabbing and moving a portion of her psyche itself, not just an emotion. It was hard to explain to a non-Newtype... Stumps just didn't have the instinctive understanding of the mind needed to comprehend the differences between emotions and thoughts, the mind, the soul and the psyche. Suffice it to say, his first extractions had been taking her muscles and nerves and organs... now he was taking her mind itself. It wasn't easy... the psyche was intangible to begin with, parts of him had to force it to exist in a coherent form while other parts grabbed it and stimulated it. Stimulating the psyche is not lightly done... its a stimulation of every possible emotion all at once, while at the same time your mind is thinking faster than it ever has before about things you don't even understand, also while you look back through every memory you have, even the ones you don't remember. It was an overload, in the simplest terms. He ruthlessly burned out any emotion or thought or memory that tried to enter his computers that didn't have to do with motivating the Haro and serving his purposes. Stage two ended four hours after it started, in a final, transcendental burst of mental activity, like a star exploding.
Noah jerked his mind back out of Melanie's psyche like taking his hand off a red hot burner. He felt dizzy and sick to his stomach, but that was normal for him whenever he pushed the limits of his Newtype powers. He eased his eyes open and winced at the brightness of the relatively dim room. He blinked a few times to adjust his eyes and then glanced down at his status boards before looking anywhere else. They all glowed a steady green. Everything had made it... he'd actually done it, as far as his instruments could determine anyway. He had successfully copied an abbreviated version of a real, living human intelligence out of a biological body into a technological one. And the only cost had been... Noah raised his eyes to look at the subject tube and froze. The suspension gel was now purplish in color throughout much of the tank... a natural result of the blue pigment in the gel mixing with blood, mixing action supplied by the apparently frantic full body thrashing of Melanie, which had ceased but was evident from the way her limbs were sprawled out of the positions they had been in before he started. He swallowed a river of bile as he looked away hurriedly. He was glad the room was soundproofed, and could suddenly account for why his ears were ringing a little. Apparently the process of extraction was hard on the patient. He'd suspected it might be, but this was worse than expected.
Melanie had regained bodily control of her upper body at some point during the second stage, as evidenced by the panicky claw marks on the interior of the tube, where she'd rubbed her fingertips to the bone and then marked the plastic with the exposed bone in her frantic but futile struggle to escape. Then her hands had turned on herself, either by accident or even worse, by design. She'd torn her own face and upper body to shreds with her own fingertips. Gouged out her eyes, broke out her teeth, pulled apart her lips, ripped off her ears and carved huge fleshy valley's in her face flesh. Her nose was hanging on by a shred of gristle and he could see her skull through several parts of her face. She'd chewed off the breathing tube and had her face pressed up against the tube walls, mouth open in what must have been a wail of terror, pain and hatred. She was dead now, thankfully, choked on the breathing tube in her throat, from blood loss and from the fact that her mind had lost the ability to regulate even unconscious bodily functions. Complete flatline, across the board, according to the life support readouts. He jumped when a computer buzzed, indicating that the final stages of the imprinting, where the motivation blocks and motivating force were combined and downloaded into the chip, were complete and that it was ready for a final test. Noah swallowed and gathered his scattered thoughts back into a coherent form. So it was hard on the patient... next time he would be to secure them more fully... it would be a monstrous pain to get rid of a damaged corpse like this... much easier if they didn't claw themselves to shreds in the process.
Noah pressed a button on his laptop. "Good afternoon, Melanie." he said to the room. There was a brief pause.
"Good afternoon, Noah." a synthesized voice replied. There was another pause. "Omigod! I spoke! I spoke out loud! And you heard me!?"
"Yes. The treatment was a success." Noah said, smiling.
"But I can't see anything. Or feel anything!" Melanie was starting to get a bit frantic.
"Don't worry, you'll get your senses back in a while. These things take time, you know. It was hard enough bringing you back to consciousness."
"Oh yes, of course! Pardon me for being so rude, Noah, I can't believe what silly and selfish girl I was being!" Noah hadn't realized the synthesizer could sound mortified. "Please say you'll forgive me. Please, please! I couldn't live with upsetting you!" Noah could almost see a puppy dog tail wagging in contrition.
"Don't worry about it Melanie, I'm just glad to see you happy."
"Omigod, I'm alive again! I can't ever thank you enough! If there's anything I can do... anything at all..."
"Well... actually... I was kind of looking for a personal assistant to do a very special and very important job for me. Do you think you might be able to do that for me?"
"Anything. Anything for you, Noah. I'd do anything for you." Melanie sighed happily as he shut her off for the moment and took the chip in his hand.
"Well... that wasn't that hard. Though I hope Lacus Clyne appreciates all the effort that went into her new Haro..." Noah trailed off as he contemplated the future. The suddenly even more promising than usual future.