"Are you now?"
"Yes. We are the Lords of Babylon."
"We thought that's what we are."
"You're not, because we can do anything here." Tapeworm's skin starts to bubble.
"But we know how to maneuver around all the venal badness," Goli says.
"And we wear clean clothes to keep all the fleas off of us," NIS adds.
"Those must be very clean clothes to keep fleas off of you."
"How did you know it was me, the great Tapeworm? My way with the ladies, was it?"
"It's written on your belt."
Tapeworm looks down to see the words on his black belt.
"You write so much code trying to be clever that you forgot what you already wrote in earlier scenarios."
"I don't see any words on your bodies, so I don't believe you are who you say you are."
"We thought our gadgets would give us away. We do have a notorious reputation."
Tapeworm's eyes narrow. "NIS and Goli. Goli and NIS. Who's the third?"
"Why should we tell you? You're figuring it all out."
"Zen. It must be Zen."
"You've tried to kill or capture us all these years. Now we're right here in front of you," Goli says. "I'm going to beat the wall with your body."
"Ha ha. Do you think you know where I am? Government tek-hunters are housed in deep underground bunkers when on assignment. You think we'd be stupid to work anywhere else. No Jew-Christian, we are as secure as the president. Try another Jedi mind-trick because that one goes nowhere. Do you think you're the first to think of that?
"Wall. Body." Goli points at him. "Smash!"
"We're speaking in baby syllables now. So it's Jew-Christians who evolved from monkeys. You made a big mistake, Jew-Christians. You won't escape me and your comrade won't escape us. Yes, I've been hunting you a long time, but it comes to an end now. Thanks to you. We'd decompile all of Babylon to get you two."
Tapeworm acts as if he's going to say more, but lunges at them—his arms become giant worm-like tentacles with teethed sucker ends as he violently penetrates their chests. NIS and Goli's holo-identities go out of phase as their bodies shake.
NIS's glasses come back into phase and blasts him with laser beams, ripping Tapeworm's arms off as the rest of his body is propelled backwards. Tapeworm lands on the street as he watches Goli's body begin to grow to nine feet in height in seconds; his hands become cupped slings as he continues to grow and expand to grab a nearby pod-car.
Tapeworm's legs become worm-like, entwine and burrow into the ground, pulling himself underground just as the pod-car crashes where he was.
Surge has Zen wrapped in his tentacle arms and his entire body gyrates with glowing, vibrating electric pulses burning Zen's holo-identity. The other tek-lord assassin, Malaria, stands nearby laughing at her screams and then de-materializes his body into a million pieces of floating black dust.
NIS and Goli stand on the street as they watch Zen fly to them on giant, translucent butterfly wings.
"We don't have time for this," she says. "I don't want to play vid-games. We can't kill them. We can only disrupt them. This is never-ending."
NIS and Goli both notice it. A holo-identity of one of the many trapped people in Babylon is of a different resolution than anyone else's. Outwardly he is a plain man, dressed in a stringy purple suit with a fashionably ripped up white shirt and a black hat tilted down to conceal his face. He realizes they are watching him and he vanishes.
"Be patient," Goli says to Zen. "Learn from your elders."
"My elders? What's the plan, 'my elders'? They're government, so all they have to do is reset Babylon. They have that ability too. We can't do that. Look."
They turn to see the sky darkening with storm clouds.
NIS leans forward as a pen appears in his hand. He scribbles something on the palm of her hand and then turns to look back at the storm. Goli's holo-identity is growing in size again as NIS's blue-tinted glasses explode with discharges of red electricity.
Zen looks at her hand: THE GOAL IS NOT TO WIN. IT IS TO PLAY FOREVER!
Residential Quarter, Washington, DC
11:25 a.m., 19 October 2096
The director steps from his chauffeured car with a suitcase in each hand, and closes the door. As the car drives off, he takes in the sight. There is nothing like the City. Technology and urban construction so intertwined that it is so far beyond the definition of "city." And this tek-city metropolis is even more.
In the typical tek-city, none of the uncomfortable qualities of a season can ever fully impact the population—harsh cold, burning heat, and high winds are all kept at bay. Massive air-regulator machines are constructed right into almost every building and are centrally coordinated to either heat or cool the entire tek-city using advanced air-flow dynamics. Only heavy rains are allowed to invade, but that is more for urban management reasons. Let's give the city a quick shower. Solar and wind power still account for only the tiniest fraction of urban power consumption, as the Grid sucks such unimaginable amounts of energy by the nano-second. Primary energy is all fission, since nothing else can match the insatiable public demand.
The ever-flashing, ever-changing digital billboards on top of every commercial building lining either side of the street catch his attention next. Music, movies, clothes, the latest devices, latest cars, restaurants, vacation trips, virtual reality dens, drug parlors, massage services—the advertisements are everywhere. These advids are either rapid stop-motion live-def static photos or full-fledged vids. The colors are as bold and vibrant as the sounds are loud and frenetic. Both rapidly pulsate to create an atmosphere that completely engulfs the sight and hearing of anyone within range.
Above the buildings, a drone flies by. The sky is dotted with them, even more so than other cities. It's a globe surveillance model, a twenty-inch-diameter flying sphere in a muted silver color. Law enforcement use the drones to keep an ever-watchful vigil on the tek-city. In the past, these sophisticated flying vid-cams were twice their current size and more plane-shaped with short wings, but hover-tek has advanced so much, they can zip around more than a hundred feet in the air. People see them flying or hovering about so often that they forget about them, making the drones invisible in plain sight. With drones and Eyes—the common term for the government's ever-watching, ever-recording stationary vid-surveillance camera network—literally everywhere, the government monitors the tek-cities to instantly alert ground police of any disturbance, crime, or act of terrorism.
Additionally, Eyes are everywhere—the tek-city's stationary vid-cam surveillance system. But both drones and Eyes are far more than simple vid-surveillance. Mind-reading tek to read your emotional state, facial expressions, body language, perspiration rate. The audio not only analyzes voice intonations for signs of aggression or violence, but also reads your heart rate for elevated rates, indicating extreme nervousness—hello suicide bomber.
The streets are packed and brimming with life, energy, and excitement. There is nothing like the hustle and bustle of a tek-city, both the automation and the people. For tek-city dwellers, the styles of dress are endless. On one end of the scale, there are the traditional business types in their office suits, shirts, maybe vests, maybe ties, maybe not, in a variety of colors from simple blacks and whites to earth tones to natural rainbow colors to synthetic, techno colors, or even the so-called futuristic shiny silver everything, then the traditional faux-leather, plastic, cloth, or hemp dress shoes or the trendy glow boots or shoes.
Devices are carried by everyone—e-pads, each around the size of a large playing card; or the larger tablets, usually eight-by-eleven inches, with a handle or case. There are collapsible e-pads and tablets, and even wearable tek, the merging of device and clothing. Most of the people wear clear glasses, glowing with some type of light. No one has bad eyesight in this time; those who need corrective eye surgery receive it during the neonatal or natal stage. People wear clear glasses to attach their ear-sets, to avoid the in-ear
versions or to use visual optical interface—text floating at the sides of your field of view—the current time, the name of a caller, the number of voice messages or emails, a dot indicating breaking news stories, etcetera—it can be programmed to display anything.
Despite the loud advids from the digital billboards, almost everyone in the streets are actively engaged in conversations on their devices of choice through ear-sets, a combination of phone, headset and ear bud, worn in one ear or both ears or attached to a pair of glasses so one can answer an incoming call, make a call, or voice interface—all these people talking aloud just adds to the daily urban craziness.
He can see the Capitol Dome and the Washington Monument looming in the distance. This is the nation's capitol and Pagans truly worship this town. And so does he.
Executive Branch, Non-Public Off-Site Offices, Washington, DC
11:35 a.m., 19 October 2096
There are forty thousand cities in America, but there is only one Washington, DC—the District, the tek-city above all others. The new director's first day on the job—so new that his office is not even ready.
The director waits at the entrance as an older man, in a similar dark office suit, meets him.
"Director," he greets.
"Good afternoon. I've only been in the job five minutes."
"How are you settling in?"
"I was a staffer here about two decades ago. The District hasn't changed at all. Wanted to see what life was like outside the Capitol. I did, so I'm back."
"It will be as if you never left. You'll be a good director for us."
He laughs. "Wait until you find out what kind of boss I am before the brown-nosing starts. I haven't even had my honeymoon period."
"Didn't they tell you?"
"Tell me?"
Secure Conference Room
Noon, 19 October 2096
Black-suited staffers are huddled around the vid-screens, grinning. "We have three tek-lord fugitives versus three tek-lord bounty hunters. Tell everyone! Start placing your bets!" one of the deputies says. "Let's get the pot as big as possible."
"How long have they been fighting?"
"Twenty-seven hours straight. I don't know how that's even possible."
"Oh, you're not a vid-game player are you? Your pod chair is the toilet and you have all your food in the chair for robot arms to feed you, and the real hardcore gamers feed intravenously. I've seen people plug in for months straight."
They hear a knock on the door and an agent pops his head in to signal them. He disappears back out and the men check their suits. The director enters and the men are almost at attention.
"Men."
"Director," they say.
"What do we have?"
He walks to their clustered vid-screens, looks at the displays, and then back up at them.
"What is going on with the Grid? What's causing the fluctuations?"
"It's Babylon, sir. There's some kind of event happening in there. It's leeching integrity strength from everywhere."
"How is a VR world doing that?" the director asks. "The Grid has primacy so how are they superseding that?"
"Sir, it's a world of hackers, so there's your answer."
"We may need to shut the entire thing down," one of the agents thinks aloud.
"That might not be advisable, sir."
"Why not?" the director asks.
"We have a few theories as to what could happen."
"Such as?"
"Trigger a forced reboot of the Grid and the Net, damage the Data Stream."
"How could that happen?"
"It's automatic, sir. If integrity dips below a certain level, if the power is drained to a certain level, any number of Grid protocols will trigger."
"Those protocols are for a catastrophic event during the time of war. Has a forced reboot ever happened?"
The men look at each other for a moment, thinking.
"We've had simulations, but never an actual event."
"Then shut down this Babylon now."
"Sir, we can't do that."
"What? Why?"
"Babylon is a world on the Net. It exists everywhere and nowhere. That's what we're telling you, sir. To shut down Babylon means shutting down the nation's Grid, the Net. It's illegal to do so, per the Rule of Law, Supreme Senate, and executive edict. Not even the President of the United States can order it. The power and the Net must always be on."
Babylon, the Net
Time: Unclear
"I can't take it anymore," Malaria's holo-identity freezes in place. "I have to unplug." The plague cloud that he had transformed into begins to coalesce back into a human form.
"You can't do it," Tapeworm pleads.
"I can't do it. Forty-five hours. I need to sleep. I know what happens. You sleep-wake. You have hallucinations. You lose the ability to know what's real and what's a dream. Your damn brain could shut down and force your body into a coma."
"Take more drugs," Surge's voice says. "That's what they are probably doing."
"No. I can't risk it. I have two important jobs coming up. I'm unplugging. The Jew-Christians beat me." His holo-identity vanishes.
"I'm never leaving," Surge says. "Never!"
Tapeworm stands on the top of a skyscraper, looking for them. The entire city is burning with a black sky firing lightning bolts at the ground. Rivers of lava are flowing through the streets and the sky is also filled with giant mosquitoes courtesy of Malaria, but they are disappearing now that he has unplugged.
"Tapeworm," a voice says.
He spins around and a miniature version of Zen stands behind him.
"If you give me the data I need, we'll spare you."
"Spare me." He laughs. "What does that mean? We control the Babylon mains."
"But we control the Grid."
"That's a lie."
"Ghost in the machine," a voice says.
Tapeworm's legs begin to melt into the ground. "Stop! How are you doing that?" His arms melt away and his entire body is dissolving.
"Just give me the data and I'll stop them. Goli and NIS are savages, you know. They know what your true fear is."
"I have no fears."
"Tapeworm, there is no human without a true fear. Most have many. Help me save you."
"I have no fears at all. I am the greatest tek-hunter ever. There is no one I can't find and no one I can't eventually capture or destroy. I have the stats to prove it."
"I need to download all government black ops files on code name Red Hat Man. We have them already, but we think your bosses are trying to be clever by storing the data in files we've already hacked, thinking we would have crossed them off our list."
"I'm a tek-hunter, not a hacker, unless the hack is to hunt." Half of Tapeworm's body has dissolved. "How are you doing this? If I can't figure it out, I'll just reset Babylon—again and again. You'll never be able to do this trick again and I'll figure out how you're doing it too."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry?"
"We have the data already."
"What?"
"It was just meant to distract you. It's done."
"What?"
Outlands, State of Puerto Rico
5:12 p.m., 19 October 2096
An obese man sitting sandwiched in a pod-chair rips his VR helmet from his face, yanking the ocular connectors off too.
"Owww!" he yells. He looks around his studio dwelling, squinting and disorientated. The apartment is filled with garbage everywhere. "No!" He strains to grab his VR helmet. "I got to get back in. Computer, reconnect! Reconnect!"
"Access denied." The voice comes from the apartment's ceiling speakers.
"Reconnect!"
"Access denied."
"No!" The man's eyes become teary and he starts to panic, looking all around. "Where is it? Where is it?!" He begins to pry himself out of the pod-chair.
"You're Tapeworm."
The man looks up in shock. Every monitor in the apartment has a different face
looking back at him.
"You're the great Tapeworm? The great tek-assassin. You're disgusting looking," one of the kids say.
"No! Computer disconnect all vid-feeds!"
"Access denied."
"No!" The man tries to shield his face with his hands. "Don't look at me!"
The faces on the vid-screens start to laugh.
"You need to eat some tapeworms, you fat pig. To eat all that blubber you're carrying."
"Don't look at me!" he pulls his dirty top over his head.
"I always thought you were some skinny kid tekkie or a hot babe. But look at you."
"Don't trust the feed, man. Until you meet 'em, you could be talking to Pellet's momma."
The teks start to laugh again.
"No, your momma."
"Tapeworm is so ugly that you couldn't pay the ugliest sex worker who'll work for free to get with him."
They all laugh again.
He manages to get out of his pod-chair. "Don't look at me!" He sloshes through the garbage of the apartment, and he throws the front door open.
"Tapeworm is a hoarder pig, too."
"I'm so disappointed right now. It's like the original Darth Vader taking off his head mask and seeing the face of Pellet's momma."
"No, it's like seeing the real Tapeworm crying like an asexual, saying 'don't look at me!'"
Tapeworm runs out of the apartment, almost tripping. The teks can't stop laughing and making fun of him
Moments later, they hear a loud crash outside from the street.
"What was that noise? Was that a crash?"
Wildlands, Alaska
5:13 p.m., 19 October 2096
An eyeball is watching him—a tiny domestic drone from the other side of a side window.
A boy of no more than a hundred pounds is sitting in a pod-chair with all kinds of wires attached to the top of his VR helmet. He taps his helmet, with its brain-reading tek now disconnecting, and he picks it off his head.
"Tapeworm, you fool!" he says to himself. "That was their play all along. Auto-set Babylon."
Pure Conspiracy (The After Eden Series): The Genesis of World War III Page 12
