“Right. So, anyway, you’re saying the earthly population is disinterested in longevity, and, what? The species at-large is dangerously ill-equipped to handle the responsibly of fusion power?”
"Exactly. We are saving them from themselves. And, meanwhile, my systems will be monitoring the Thoughtwires of all the top scientists for progress in those fields. If anyone starts to make a breakthrough, I'll alert the established interests to have those threats eliminated. Big oil execs have a penchant for ‘unfortunate traffic incidents’ with fusion energy scientists. Of course, that sort of thing has been going on for centuries, or we'd be half way done with a Dyson Sphere by now. Norris, I'm a reasonable man, just conforming to the way the system works—it’s been done like this since the dawn of time."
"So, correct me if I’m wrong, but you propose that we sit here, in The Bunker, for 20 million years, suppressing technological and medical advancement through the manipulation of corporate interests, and watch as generation after generation stagnates, burning fossil fuel while continuously dying off after pathetically short lifespans?"
“Spoken like a true patriot. It’s the American way. Blowing up the moon doesn’t sound so radical anymore, does it? I wasn’t entirely bluffing. We do have that capability. It’s designed to be employed when relations with our benefactors get unmanageable, which is inevitable. In fact, right now there’s a 74% chance it will be necessary before we’re even done strip mining Mercury. It probably won’t mean total extinction—just a thousand-year setback in human history—a minor dark age in our quest to Kapteyn-b. After that there will be plenty of time to time to re-introduce technology as the population expands...first fire, then the wheel, moving on to literature, mathematics, and so forth. We’ll have to take care to do this gradually, or we may need to, you know, adopt another moon....”
"Why is there still a red light on this thing?"
"You're still recording audio. Pulling it off only stops cerebral transmission. You have to..."
[End Audio Transmission]
[Transmission Complete]
12/19/2048 07:46:18
THE TRANSGRESSORS
BY
GENESIS MICKEL
Dimas awoke from his uneasy slumber to the sound of rustle and footsteps proceeding down the prison corridor. The view from within his chilly cell was illuminated by a small oil lamp hanging in the hall, throwing long blocky shadows wherever stone and iron intercepted light. He rose stiffly to his elbow when the silhouetted troupe stopped at his cell door. With the clank of keys and creak of hinges, the figure of a man was shoved into the small room. The guards slammed and locked the heavily barred door and left. The light and the shadows clashed upon their passage.
The man composed himself in the middle of the small cell, and Dimas could feel when his eyes locked on him. Dimas stiffened in his semi-prone posture, ready to fend off another attack, but offered a grunt in greeting to the stranger.
“Peace, friend,” said the man as he raised a hand in a calming gesture, as though to soothe him of his distrust. He turned and settled himself on the stone slab bed across from Dimas. The light from the hall fell on him in broken splinters and sinuous lines, scarcely revealing the man’s features. He appeared younger than his own hard-earned years.
Dimas cleared his throat. “I am Dimas of Capernaum, son of Abraham. What are you called?”
The younger man opposite him inclined his head in return greeting. “I am Jesus of Nazareth, son of God,” he answered in a smooth, calming timbre, but with a slight emphasis on the last word.
Dimas pulled himself up. “I know you!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “It is said that you keep company with poor. You sup with society’s rejects, and…” he paused, “…you protest against Caesar and against the Pharisees and the Sadducees.” Dimas’ old heart raced, for he was with someone of importance to the Rebellion: a leader in a growing movement, dispassionate towards the sanctimonious, politico-religious establishment and despotic Roman occupation of Judea.
“What have you done to be brought here?” Dimas asked.
“Just as you have said,” Jesus chuckled softly.
Dimas didn’t press. Lonely from his days of isolation, and not wishing to sound interrogational, he quickly related his own account. “I am here for thievery. I’m to be executed this morning on the Roman cross.” He shook his head and shrugged exaggeratedly in surrender. “I was accused of stealing a gold cup from a visiting Roman Senator. No evidence was ever found against me. It doesn’t matter,” he reflected. “Pilate is to make a public example of me of what happens when you cross Rome.”
Dimas leaned in and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I did it to help feed my family. My grandchildren.” He sighed in his confession before continuing in an escalating gravel. “Caesar’s taxes have crushed many of us and driven us into poverty and slavery! I broke the law, but at least my family will eat for a time. Therefore, may God strike them to Hell! I don’t care!” Dimas pounded his fist on his knee. Jesus remained silent, listening.
“But even so, I did not think crucifixion would be my sentence. At the least with stoning, a blow to the head and your suffering is over.” Dimas stopped himself when he sensed that fear was showing in the slight quiver to his voice.
The first hint of dawn colored the small, barred window high on the cell wall and cast a dusky gray into the room.
Jesus considered Dimas for a moment with the slightest twinkle in his eye. “Be mindful of your thoughts, Dimas, for thought is the first step in action.”
Dimas grimaced. “A lot of good that advice does me here!” he retorted.
Jesus continued. “True enough, Dimas. By the laws according to man, you did commit a crime. But I say to you, your crime to Rome is but a speck. Nevertheless, though Rome and the Church steal food out of your own babes’ mouths to feed their own gluttony, what do you gain by stealing in return?” Jesus leaned forward, as though to physically convey his words to his cell mate. “Dimas, the son of God is within you, and the son of God does not trespass, regardless of any man’s law.” The man projected an inspired energy that seemed to illuminate him from within.
Dimas shuffled his dusty, sandled feet into the grit of the cell floor. “What would you have me do? My son cannot find work and my grandchildren go to bed hungry,” he inquired brusquely.
“Your action was born of the idea that you were robbed first, and thus your deed was justified,” Jesus replied. “You saw that it was worth the risk. In the higher order, Dimas, if man were truly free, you would not be forced to the point of thievery for survival.”
His words stripped Dimas down to his core and humbled him, not for his thievery, but for his failure to have seen a deeper truth. Did he exhaust all other opportunities to provide for his family? Maybe? Or did he turn to retributive justice, the same as Rome has done to him? Maybe, he pondered. He quickly turned the topic back to Jesus. “But as leader of the Rebellion, you would have fought for our liberty, would you not? You would have freed us from bondage to Rome. But now, we are doomed, because you’ve been caught…”
Jesus shook his head. “I am not the leader of the Rebellion, nor would I have been able to save the people. Only the people can save themselves. We are each to be our own sovereign…our own leader, accountable only to the living God. He is the ‘I am’.
I was arrested because I do not give to a system where man has rule over man, especially a system that cloaks itself in the name of God for its own end. When such a system of power has taken root, it can only lead to sorrow and poverty, as you have seen. For as surely as an acorn grows into the ancient oak tree, power will grow as such, and the weight of its own creaking branches will threaten all who sit under its shade.
Thereby, I have undermined Mosaic Law. I have committed blasphemy against Rome by failing to bow the knee before them, and against the Sanhedrin by failing to recognize them as the very voice of God. Power does not give up control. Power will seek to destroy those who resist it, even u
nto death. And thus, I will be made to forfeit my life.”
Dimas scratched his grizzled beard before throwing up a hand emotively. “How can you sit there and be so calm in the face of death when you have done nothing wrong?”
“When death is inevitable, look beyond your fear,” Jesus consoled. “Though they may take your body, they cannot take your soul. I am a King unto myself, and when I am hanging from the cross and my last breath leaves my body, I will enter my Kingdom. And it would be for you as well…”
At that, the Roman guards reappeared at the cell door, interrupting them. “Your presence is requested, King of the Jews,” one them sneered. Jesus stood solemnly and offered out his hands without resistance. They unlocked the door and entered, surrounding him with spears. He and Dimas regarded each other while his wrists were shackled. As he was led out, they nodded to each other in brotherhood and solidarity. “There is only one law, Dimas. It is love,” Jesus said to him in parting. And then he was gone.
Alone once again in his cell, with one beam of brilliant morning sunlight suddenly piercing the dim, dusty cell, Dimas wept.
THE PEACEKEEPERS
BY
CHRISTOPHER BURG
“The massacre at Port Arthur has shown us what these people are capable of. They cannot be allowed to mingle with society unchecked. I have called together a committee to research methods that will allow these people to integrate into society safely. But it will take time. Until then I have ordered the establishment of refuges where these people will be kept under the watchful eye of Central.”
— Michael Bradford,
Central Prime Minister
The short man across from me had a firm grip on the lapel and sleeve of my jacket. Most men would have been intimidated by a six foot tall woman with bright pink hair, but not him. I had been struggling with him in this dimly lit warehouse for a minute or so. He advanced forward in an attempt to take me down, and I turned my hip to block. Then I turned to face him. In a smooth series of movements, I pressed my right foot against his stomach, dropped onto my back, and gave him a slight kick that sent him flying. His body hit the mat with a loud thud just as I returned to my feet. He rolled over, got back to his feet, and we bowed to each other.
Turning to the five people watching us, I explained, "That is tomoe nage or circle throw. As with all throws keep in mind that this throw can be lethal to standard humans. Unlike us cyborgs, standard human brains aren't contained in a reinforced casing. If their head hits the ground with force it can kill them."
The newest student raised his hand. After acknowledging him, he asked, "Sensei, would this be considered deadly force?"
I nodded, "Against a standard human, yes. Against a cyborg, no."
He continued, "So we should only use this if they have a weapon?"
I looked at the six students. Like me, they were all cyborgs. "Who here doesn't have subdermal nanomesh reinforcing?" None of them raised their hands. "Then most small arms fire isn't going to penetrate past your skin, and no standard human has the strength necessary to cause any lethal damage to you with a handheld weapon." It wasn't unusual for cyborgs new to the Refuge to not know the self-defense laws imposed by Central, and it was always good to remind the old students so I added, "If you kill a standard human in self-defense, there's virtually no chance that you'll be acquitted. The law sees you as dangerous weapons, so you must exercise restraint."
The student bowed slightly, "Thank you, sensei."
"You're welcome. Now pair up and try the throw."
Since beginning of class, there was something annoying me. A male cyborg was leaning against the wall of our little sanctuary of violence. He was muscular, which was rare for the Refuge due to the shortage of food. Either one of his eyes was missing or he liked to dress like a pirate because his left eye had a patch over it. And he was dressed in a suit and tie, meaning he probably had money. If he had money he probably had ties to the very government that threw us cyborgs into this Refuge.
I walked over half expecting him to produce a warrant or other such nonsense. "Can I help you?"
He removed his back from the wall and stood up straight, "Are you Akane Himura?"
Yup, definitely a warrant. "I am."
That's when he shocked me. Instead of reaching into his suit coat, he extended his hand. Caught off guard, I grasped it and shook. He smiled and said, "I'm Odin, founder of the Æsir Security Group."
"And?"
"And I'd like to offer you a job."
This man was full of surprises. Few in the Refuge had enough money to hire people. Those who did usually had ties to Central, and it would be a cold day in Hell before I'd work for a fucking traitor. I half considered pulling his arm forward and tossing him over my shoulder. But if he had ties to Central, that would be a one-way ticket to an execution. Instead I politely refused, "No thanks, I don't work for fucking quislings."
Odin raised his hands palm out. "I'm not a quisling. Æsir works exclusively within the Refuge. We aren't sanctioned by Central and we're not going to be."
"Then how can you afford to hire anybody?"
He folded his arms in front of him. I guess he didn't want to give me the opportunity to throw him. "Fair question. Several cyborg-owned businesses pay us a small fee to keep crime in their area down and to protect shipments of their goods."
"So you're a goddamn gang?"
"No. We're legit. If they don't pay us we don't throw a grenade through their front window. We just make sure their stores don't get robbed, customers can travel to and from their businesses, and their goods arrive safely."
I rolled my eyes so far back that I should have been able to see my brain casing. "Sure. Because all these Refuge businesses have extra money to throw around."
He laughed, but I wasn't sure if he found my remark funny or if he was mocking me. "They do when they're not being robbed and receive the goods they've ordered. I'm sure they also get a little extra business because their customers don't have to worry about getting stabbed outside of their stores."
The words coming out of his mouth made sense, yet I doubted anybody could pull something like that together here. But the prospect of not having to wonder if I would have enough money to eat tomorrow sounded promising. "Why do you want to hire me?"
"You've achieved high ranks in several martial arts. More importantly, you emphasize resolving situations with minimal force. These are skills and values I want members of Æsir to have. I want you to be our lead fighting instructor."
"You can sign your employees up for classes here."
Odin looked around the dirty warehouse then back at me. "Our facility has better lighting."
"Cyborgs don't need lighting. We have built-in night vision."
"How about heat? My toes are already numb from standing here."
Heat would be nice. "What about my current students?"
"You can keep instructing them and they can keep not paying you. If they're good, I might even be interested in giving them a job."
Now he had my attention. My students, like everybody else in the Refuge, didn't have much in the way of money or job prospects. Accepting a job like this could give me the opportunity to change that for them. If, of course, this man wasn't blowing smoke up my ass.
Odin reached into his pocket and pulled out an old fashioned business card. Handing it to me he said, "Stop by our office when you get a chance. I'll show you the facilities, introduce you to some of the members, and discuss payment."
I pressed my thumb against the card's touch sensor and the address of the office loaded into my onboard navigation software. It was located in the northern sector, which required traveling by the Refuge's commuter train. "I'm embarrassed to admit this, Odin, but I can't accord a train ticket."
"Ah. What's your Bytecoin address?" This was when I was truly grateful to be a cyborg. Transmitting random strings via close range wireless was a damn sight easier than trying to verbally express them. Within a second of transmitting my address, I re
ceived confirmation that enough Bytecoin was transferred to my wallet to cover the trip to and from the office with a little extra to spare.
"Thanks. Tomorrow morning work for you?"
He nodded, then proceeded to leave the warehouse. If nothing came of the meeting, at least I'd have enough money left over to buy some food.
###
“God made man in His image. To believe His design can be improved is to deny His perfection. The very existence of these creatures is blasphemy. I ask you, will you stand idly by? Will you allow this blasphemy to go unchallenged? I will not! I will venture into these refuges and rid the world of those who defy God’s will! Will you follow me? Will you heed God’s call?”
— Bishop William Ravenhurst
I was too nervous about the prospects of a job to get much sleep that night. The logical part of my brain kept telling me that Odin was probably full of shit but the emotional part kept threatening to shank the logical part if it didn't shut up. Part of the reason I was so nervous is because I didn't have any appropriate clothing to wear. Teaching self-defense to people who didn't have any money wasn't making me a rich woman. When I went out in public I usually wore the black keikogi and hakama I used for practice. It looked goofy, but it was better than the rags most cyborgs in the Refuge wore. It also let me carry weapons, which usually convinced the numerous muggers to pester somebody else.
After a quick, icy shower I threw on the training uniform. They were hiring me as a martial arts instructor, and I figured looking the part wouldn't be a deal breaker. I also slid my katana and wakizashi into the left side of my obi and stuffed a pair of sais in the other side. A standard human might not be able to damage a cyborg with these weapons, but I sure as the hell could.
Within an hour of waking up, I was at the train station. As usual, it was infested with panhandlers, whores, and pickpockets. I think the pickpockets had it the worst since almost nobody had anything to steal. The train arrived half an hour late as usual. A charge was made against my Bytecoin wallet as soon as I stepped onto the train, and I accepted it to avoid the severe beating Central's train security team would issue if I didn't.
Anarchy Rising: The Clarion Call, Vol 1 (Volume 1) Page 6
