The Atheist's Deity

Whaaaaaaa...?

That makes absolutely no sense... does it?

Atheist means 'not a goddie' or something like that. 

Taking the word apart, a•theist-- not to be confused with 'a theist' as in "Hi! I'm a theist!"-- is similar in form to a•symmetrical, where the prefix 'a' means 'not'.

Asymmetrical= not symmetrical

Atheist= not theist

And a theist is one who believes in god. So it actually means 'not one who believes in god'. You're welcome. I love to state the obvious.

So what the hell is an atheist's deity, anyway? A deity is a god, and atheists don't believe in supreme beings, so am I being paradoxical or what? Not at all. Allow me to explain myself.

Theists invented god to answer many of their unanswerable questions, at the time. Sadly, most of the answers were along the lines of, "You want to know why the sky is blue? Well, don't worry about that... it's not important. You just believe in me and I'll see to it that you spend eternity in bliss." 

Not very helpful or informative. Great, however, for keeping the masses dependent on their theocratic leaders. 

Heretics struggle to find the true answer to things for themselves and are roundly punished for it, but continue unabated. Communities of these heretical people banded together, calling themselves 'scientists' and created guiding books of their own. These books were usually filled with boring terms and formulas, in stark contrast to the flowery, meaning-filled tales found in the theist's book, the bible.

Their one redeeming virtue was that every piece of information found in the scientist's books could be proven. By anyone, anywhere! The knowledge contained within was shown beyond any question to be true.

What's more, those books clearly stated when something was absolutely true (a fact), when it was mostly true (a theory) or when it was simply thought to be true (a postulation).

AND, these scientists were happy to update their books when new evidence was uncovered that altered former understandings or added new pieces to the puzzle called 'existence'. It was their guiding principle.

Scientists as a group or singly were thrilled to discover new evidence.
Even if it flew in the face of existing knowledge.
Even if it upturned a lifelong career proposing the opposite.

Such was the nature of scientists, and of science.

Scientist's 'boring' books provided answers where the bible did not. The word spread and two camps formed:
People who wanted to know the true nature of the universe.
People who believed that the bible contained all they ever needed to know.

With the arrival of testable, trustable answers, the world began to advance. They began to live in larger communities called cities, with better defenses and better food production. They established learning centers for children. They used facts from the science books and created inventions and conveniences to make life safer and easier.

The bible believers even began to appreciate some of the modern conveniences created from the knowledge of the scientist's books, and use them, even as they preached the opposite and ignored the roots of each innovation.

And then, quietly and without provocation, enlightenment began.

People began to question the validity of the bible. They wondered if any of the parables  had anything at all to teach other than moral value... a value which was considered outmoded in changing modern times.

They began to not believe.

Enlightened people began to ask, politely, if in fact there was any reason to believe that a god even existed. 

They became A-theists, preferring to obtain all of their information from reliable sources and relegating the bible to fiction shelves with its own subsection: Religion.

Without knowing for a fact either way, atheists preferred to leave the question of a god unanswered, so long as theists would leave them  in peace to practice their science and logic.

This the theists would not do.

You see, it is found in the bible that believers must try to convert nonbelievers. In some older texts, the choice is convert or be killed, but most theists prefer stop short of making that commitment.

Instead, they fought back in more guileful ways. They infiltrated the government, designed to be a strictly nonreligious body, and began to effect the laws. They succeeded in banning books. They were able to insert religious phrasing into the schools, knowing that to convince someone at a young age was to convince them for life. They tried to add these changes into every facet of modern life; into the money, into the courts, into every home.

Now the atheists were unhappy. They too understood the value of an early education, a powerful tool which could be used for good. So they created a deity, too, and showed the youth how to reach it, and  talk to it, and learn from it.

They did not need to pray in order to speak with it.

They did not need to fear from any reprisal for not abiding by the word of the Atheist's Deity.

They did not need to be concerned with their immortal soul, if such a thing even exists.

They did not even need to honor it on Sunday in a house of worship.

The Atheist's Deity cared not for such things. It had one duty and one duty alone... the dispensation of fact. This it did with speed and alacrity, with accuracy and verbose unabridgement.

Some called it an Oracle, for it seemed to know everything. But the Atheists and scientists called it a 'linked web of knowledge localities'. But that was a mouthful and inelegant, and certainly not brief as the word 'deity' was. So they renamed it, calling it

the Internet.

When challenged into a competition of deities the Atheist would gladly accept, for there was no challenge there. The Internet deity contains the full spectrum of all human knowledge, whereas the bible deity is just a comparatively tiny book of ancient morality tales, spoken from generation to generation and subject to countless reinterpretations until, finally, someone learned to read and write and only then, cast its word into stone.

But by then it was too late. The bible deity had become inconsequential, full of holes and contradictions, painting its deity all at once as both a kind, beatific father and also a stormy, vengeful bastard. 

It became absurd.

Now the Atheist's Deity is replacing the theist's deity... even though you may hear otherwise, in a storm of protest rising from theistic ranks. No matter, for it is true.

} - -o- - {

Everyone now sits daily before the Atheist's Deity, the Internet, asking questions. And the Internet, the Oracle, provides the answers... tirelessly, repeatedly. Even theists now sit before it in awe, hesitatingly asking questions, sitting in stunned silence after reading the antithetical answers:

Is the Earth flat as early navigators believed?

            No. It is round-ish, a bumpy spheroid. Viewing the horizon from sea level, though, it looks like there is an edge.

Is there a Garden of Eden?  

         Yes. It is called the Earth and it sustains humanity. But only as long as humanity sustains the Earth.

Is the Earth 6000 years old as the bible states?

            No. It is five billion years old, and the known universe is 14 billion years old.

Did humans evolve from apes?

They evolved from simpler humanoid forms which looked like apes. All life evolved from simple chemical building blocks, diverging and changing as needed over millennia to survive.

Does the universe revolve around the Earth as it says in the bible?

            No, only the moon does. The Earth moves around the sun, which moves around the galaxy, which speeds away from the Big Bang.

Is the universe curved?

It is mostly open emptiness. But the matter formed from the Big Bang travels away from the source in a sphere, shaped like the skin of an ever-expanding basketball... which is curved.

What is the meaning of life?

Every human creates their own meaning. Other than that, life is happenstance, random and indifferent.

Is there a god?

            Doesn't seem likely. But there is an Oracle, and I am it.

} - -o- - {

And with every question answered, every mystery resolved, the theistic deity fades slowly into myth.

The Shape of Thoughts to Come

So I'm in a boutique coffee shop the other day, writing at a little round table, a 'large regular coffee' beside me, wondering why the sales girl would give me such a strange look for ordering a 'large regular coffee' when I figured out that I was a dinosaur and nobody ordered a 'large regular coffee' anymore. That fact alone made me feel a tiny bit paranoid and I glanced over my 'reading glasses' at the surrounding patrons, expecting a sea of glares and leers to mock the baby-boomer out of me... but I was gratefully disappointed. I didn't have to explain that I was born in the last official year of the boom or that I was just as fond of a half-caf latte macchiado as anyone else in the room but preferred a steaming beverage I could nurse while typing. I didn't have to worry. Everyone in the place, at every table in every seat, was ignoring me. The real surprise to me was that they were ignoring each other as well.

I don't know why it took me so long to notice... except for the semicool alt croonings pumped into the air, it was otherwise silent in the Coffee, Tea and Me-eria. I counted thirty-three heads that were not baristas and were not mine, and were not paying the least bit of attention to anything besides the electronic webfinders in their thumb-typing hands.

Not that I could blame them of course... I have been sucked into the Internet myself,  from one awesome website to the next. I understood the appeal. Where I differed from my younger compadres was that I was sitting alone. I brought my laptop with me because I knew that I wouldn't have any company and could count on an uninterrupted flow of time in which to pour my effluvia.

But every other table in the joint was multiply occupied... heck, the one closest to me had seven college-aged youths crammed around a four-seater, forcing them into a satellite pattern, a ring so distant from table's edge they had to strain to place their half-ounce espresso cups beyond the table's edge to prevent catastrophic tipover. And yet they did so, silently and sans protest, staring intently at the tiny glowing screens grasped tightly in their rapidly writing hands.

Is this what has become of modern American interaction? Has standard conversation gone the way of all things extinct, to be replaced with this silent and editable medium? Has humanity progressed beyond all need to converse audibly, or is there still hope for our increasingly underused vocal cords?

I hold a fervent belief that hope reigns.

Where did this behavior begin?

One possibility not to be overlooked was the grade school classroom. When I was a boy, 'pass this note to Suzie', once a familiar whisper between desk row neighbors, was a perpetually perilous temptation often leading to the gleeful announcing of formerly private feelings to the whole room by an underpaid and malevolent substitute teacher. I'm certain one hyper-embarrassed tween genius swore to end the inherent weakness of a passed note and used their big brain to help carve the way for a new, hack-free mode of communication, inventing computers and the Internet in one fell swoop.

Probably not.

Beepers, the short-lived interim surrogate in the 1970's and 80's, brought about a new form of code. Limited to a single line of numbers, shrewd youths designed a system of communication that substituted two or three digit numbers for predetermined generic phrases a la CB radio. While '10-20' meant 'what's your location' to truckers everywhere, the number '4-20' had an entirely different connotation to 'beep-coders' of the youth generation. The problem of course was how to distribute a code among kids that wouldn't be broken by their nosy parents... and that desire brought about the cell phone revolution. Okay, I'm sure that's incorrect, but... for the purpose of this essay I'm gonna stick with it.

Until here that is. Because this is when digital alphanumeric pagers began receiving and sending brief messages, making those hard-memorized codes moot and pushing us all one step closer to future shock. They were only incrementally better than their root parents, pagers, and were not fated to live long in this world as newer and better devices loomed just over the horizon. Not surprisingly, a sizable chunk of our population swears by them to this day. Luddites.

Cell phones took us one step further in the search for truly private electronic communication, but though it was wireless, it was not silent and therefore it could not be used effectively in the classroom. Speak quietly or in code, the big bad teacher would hear you and perform the most humiliating of tasks-- forced relinquishment. Back then as now, every school had a big basket in the main office where confiscated phones would go, until shamed and chastised parents came to collect them at end of business, forced to withstand the school policy on 'interruptions' by some low-on-the-totem-pole sadistic office staff or worse, their power-hungry secretary yearning for a larger piece of the disciplinary pie.

Finally we reach now, this moment in time... the age of texting. Coupled with its multivarious hardware, texting represents the first method of truly silent, truly immediate communication, a technology whose creation was almost certainly rooted in the high school classroom, caused by raging hormonal reactions to that sweet thang two aisles over and the equally raging need to share your 'horniness' with your homies. An emotion I readily admit is responsible for nearly ALL of humanity's advances, technological or otherwise (Forsooth young maiden, harken this dragon-slaying contraption I've devised to save us all!). Now you can express dirty nothings to your beloved in full view of your friends, siblings, parents or dare I say, even preachers without a peep of disparagement or disappointment from any of them! Glory, glory hallelujah!

Every great advancement comes with its own host of backslides, though. When there were only two automobiles in the state of Ohio back in 1895... they somehow engaged in a head-on collision.  Nuclear power was figured out, which would guarantee cheap electricity for all humanity, but once military men found out about the new power source... they made a bomb out of it. And texting, miracle though it may be, is no exception. I refer you back to the top of this essay and the advent of silent cliques, the ironic crushing of social interaction. That has the potential to change the way we relate to one another, at the macro level.

So where are we going from here? Are we forever doomed to the act of burying our noses in the electronic equivalent of a magazine? Will there eventually be a solution to the wide-scale ignoring of each other out in public?

To answer, we have to find the reasons why most people are hooked on web surfing in the first place. As this is a blog where I simply muse about the future rather than put forth hard data after exhaustive research, I'll do that now, and in the shamelessly brash fashion you've come to expect from me.

People love information, and they want it right now. Hence, the wireless Internet. There's no better way to shut up a know-it-all than by doing a quick search in response to some suspicious claim and spouting, "It says here on scientificdata.com that your theory is full of malarkey!" It may not make you a lot of friends, but it sure will fill your head with the rightness of correct information. That's something at least.

So how can we get our faces out of the teeny-weenie screenies and back where it should be... watching how we cross a busy intersection? How can we have our knowledge of cake construction, and learn how to eat it, too? For me the answer is clear, and not so very far off into the future:

Implantable Internet.

Implanternet.

Okay, we can work on the tag later. But you catch my drift. And we've already seen it at work... sort of. A quarter century ago a movie came out which changed our view of robots forever. It may be why we don't see a lot of people-shaped robots in development right now. That movie was called Terminator, featuring the ever-slimy Arnold Schwarzenegger, and it scared the crap out of us.

Disregarding the fear for a minute, weren't you completely jealous of the Terminator's ability to call up software and research data in his eye? He'd hear somebody speak to him, and the software in his negatronic brain would interpret the sentence and compile a list of acceptable responses, viewable through his eye like a floating computer screen on his cornea. How cool is that?

At first I thought simply. I just wanted a telephone which worked that way. I imagined I'd speak  "begin phone" and the telephone options screen would pop up in my field of vision, seen only by me. I'd say the name of someone and a predigested list would return the phone number instantly, and connect me to them. I'd start speaking and they would hear me and be able to respond, no matter what type of phone they were using. And pedestrians all around me would believe I was insane, speaking to myself... like they do with Bluetooth businessmen today. No matter.

But then I realized the limitations... what if I wanted to call someone for whom I had no number? Would I have to look them up the old-fashioned way? You know, firing up the old computer and searching on WhitePages.com? Why not skip a step?

Voila, Implanternet!

(Ugh, that word sounds like a snack food...)

I realize we're not there yet. Hardware miniaturization needs to progress some more, and it wouldn't hurt to figure out a biological motherboard that won't get surrounded by scar tissue like a 1950's-issue breast implant. Or a power source that didn't need us to step into a Borg Alcove. Or an interface that wouldn't backfire and begin controlling us like an Apple Android Army, but let's get past those challenges for the purpose of this brainstorm.

Imagine if you will-- armed with the William Tellish slogan "Put an Apple in Your Head!" the world's most creative computer giant leads the charge in this bioimplantation revolution, painting a glowing picture of dazzling wonders on the horizon to come:

Dateline: 2030-- Forget schools, classrooms and learning! Here at Apple we're amping up Internet service so it reaches every inch of the Earth. Why? To make you a permanent part of the Cloud, that's why! How? Implanternet! With our new product, you can--

• Rid yourself of cumbersome laptops, iPads or even iPhones forever!

• Speak to anyone, anywhere, instantly!

• Watch videos of any kind, safe from inquisitive eyes!

• Be guaranteed that nobody will ever steal your computer again!

• Conduct sensitive business privately!

• Instantly become as smart as god!

Well, that last one is patently untrue, if for no other reason than the intelligence of god is untested and therefore cannot be measured nor compared against. Plus, (and you can't do this with god) you could turn everyone back into babbling idiots simply by cutting off the Internet. But with constant and immediate access to Google search, you could certainly sound as smart as Mr Wik I Pedia.

But hey, this is the 'pro' side of the essay.

Once the device is up and running, third-party software companies would jump on the bandwagon to build a staggering number of free eyePhone apps (ooh, see what I did there?), creating a near endless number of things you can suddenly do, hands and tools free:
-You can hear a metronome for perfect timing, or a tuner for perfect pitch.
-You can keep a playlist going in your head, in perfect stereo.
-You can check your blood alcohol level before driving.
-Your Implanternet can interface with your self-driving car if you can't drive, and get you home.
-You can check a picture for level just by looking at it (with the 'level' app).
-You can slaughter anyone who gets in your way. I'm talking about an app, Hitler.
-You can read a book that is floating just in front of you, Kindle style.
-You can immediately decide if that purchase will bust your account. Drat.
-You can check the calories of the food on your plate. Double drat.
-You can suddenly have microscope or telescope vision... or x-ray vision. Woohoo!
-You can know every detail about a museum piece, a building on the street or any business you pass.
-Never be lost again; by entering a destination you are directed flawlessly.
-You could know the public details of any person you meet simply by looking at their face.
-You could analyze a compound and determine its molecular construction by looking at it.
-You could hypnotize a person into having sex with you.

Let me be clear. You could not hypnotize a person into having sex with you. You could, however, be reading from a guide on how to be charming without them knowing.
-You'd be able to sit in a classroom,  meeting, courtroom or even a church and conduct digital business, silently and without disturbance. The most astute observer could only determine that you were busy, somehow, yet not paying attention.
-Your valuable data could be stored on a series of grit-sized hard drives located all over your body.
-And possibly the coolest use-- you could project a flashlight from your eyes! X-Men GO!

Okay, so you're sold. How would this device get inside of you?

Well, first we'd need to split your skin lengthwise from sternum to crotch, and then carefully filet around your heart, lungs and sex organs to create room for the central processing unit. Lifting out your eyes, we'd replace them with ocular implants. The same happens with your ears, although the exterior part remains untouched... except for microphones dangling off both lobes (for stereo sound).
I could go into further detail, but then you would run screaming from this description and not realize that I was completely lying.

Yes, lying. While people will still go under the knife for a trimmer tummy or a fatter schlong, most prefer to remain far from any instrument that is designed to draw blood. So of course, there will be no scalpels.

In truth, I envision hundreds or thousands of tiny Bluetooth devices, injected into your bloodstream using a single standard syringe, or swallowed in a capsule. Once inside the devices begin navigating themselves to the correct points in your body (i.e., cameras to your eye, speakers to your ear canal, microphones to your oral cavity). Information you were meant to see would be cast onto the macula by projectors in your vitreous humor, creating a 'floating page' effect in front of your face that nobody else could see.

How far off is this? You'd have to ask a lawyer. Anytime something goes into the body, the FDA has to get a piece of it, and that could delay it by a decade. But If that proves to be too much of a problem, I have an interim solution as well (because that's just what I DO):

Intershades!

Yes, everything I mentioned in this last section could be neatly fit into the frame of a rather unattractive, heavy pair of sunglasses. I agree it's not nearly as hip, and it would make your face sweat, and it could be lost or stolen... but it could be here in a year. And that's something, at least. Let's not forget what hassles we gladly went through to have the first mobile telephones, the first mobile DJs (boom boxes) and the first mobile vehicles (horse and buggy). Intershades won't be so bad by comparison... at least we wouldn't have to clean up their poop.

But the goal here is a truly hands-free, interactive, bio-memetic do-everything device. An internal Swiss Army Knife, if you will. Come hell or high water, they will become available in the near future, as surely as digital billboards. Ooh, one more use!
How do I personally feel about it? I'm fine with an Implantable Internet... just so long as, when it crashes, we don't need a defibrillator.
Clear!

Oh, and if you're looking for the 'con' side of the essay, here it is: Some backward-thinking jerks in Congress will try to prevent this and tie it up in committee for endless sessions, if we let them. So we don't let 'em. Pay the fuckers off, if we have to.

The Naughty and the Nice (Part 2)

Perfect World story (The NOW)

Snow fell in Nebraska early this season, blanketing the land in beauty, erasing its minor mistakes, smothering the sooted darkness held fast in the melancholy mind of man. High above the rugged hills and low capped mountains where sky met cloud snowflakes glimmered like stars, but far below in the sparsely settled land there was no calm curling of chimney smoke nor determined track of man. But cleverly hidden and resolutely alone a single, uniform gleam washes one wide valley and its encircling range of ragged rock in rich warmth, the combined sheen of a million fulfilled dreams and a billion more to come. Tall spires emerge from the gloom, thrusting up from the valley floor in organized rings, smooth and graceful and teeming with life.

Freshly fallen snow looks beautiful on the mountains... and on the causeway too, thought Tifania 'Tiffy' Bennett. She gazed at the scene from her front room balcony, wrapped in just a thin satin sheet as the icy wind whipped around her lean body, threatening to steal it from her. The causeway had been intentionally flooded to create an enormous skating ring encircling the city center and it seemed most of the inhabitants were now embracing the brisk chill, sliding around on it or engaged in snow building architecture beside it or aiming snowballs at icicles nearby it... this was not a day for work and only the cold reticent few were indoors, digging deeply into colorful blanket piles and snuggling with each other, sharing their warmth.

She was not one of those. For her, bone-chilling cold was a welcoming slap, an invigorating dose of life well lived. She opened her hand and let the sheet drop away; the breeze cast chill fingers across her bare skin, livid gooseflesh rising in protest. To her left she spied the ever-present gaze of fifteen year old Trev sneaking a look from the neighboring suite and she waved merrily. Eyes retreated behind the curtain and were replaced with a powerful telecamera, recording light shining a cheerful crimson.

"That kid!" she chuckled. He displayed a typical yearning for her physical form, even brushing against her whenever they passed, his powerful tumescence disrupting the smooth lines of his tunic. He sure was cute, and certainly must be aware of his burgeoning maturity. If he ever developed the guts to ask she was prepared to be his first sexual guide. She grinned at the probable brevity of their first encounter and gyrated for the camera, jiggling her firm pointed breasts in a manner she hoped would bring him great joy.

She competed with nature until her teeth chattered and her muscles tensed, then returned to the inviting warmth of her unit. No sooner had the door 'swooshed' shut and muffled the din outside than Tiffy could hear the insistent 'bung-bung' of her wall console.

I'll get it after my shower, she thought, skipping over to her beloved cleanse unit. Without doubt it was the number one reason she was pleased to call Aden home. It was a shower/bath which could replicate any water flow and temperature variation, and yet employed recycling nanotechnology so there was almost no water waste. Complimenting the bracing cold clinging to her, she awaited with shivering delight a steamy wash of near-scalding hot water pelting her skin.

The shower's computer touch screen now flashed a tenacious red 'alert' sign and she groaned. It had to be a really important message for Jolie to transfer into here, she thought. She had really been anticipating personal time on the powerful seat jets. Instead, she said "Show message", just as the shower erupted from the ceiling in a monsoon style, heavy and hard. She pressed her face close and read the shining words highlighted in red; and just as suddenly yelled "End shower! End!" and shoved the glass door, ineffectively, unable to exit until the water had stopped, drained and the watertight safety had unlatched. Soaking wet and unfulfilled, she skidded through her apartment to the closet, reviewing the message in her head, outraged at the charges of epic human rights violations. Seething, she commanded, "Floatcar transport to my balcony, Jolie! Now!"

A warm zephyr blew from the wall and dried her off and fluffed her hair cutely as she stretched into a form-fitting white translucent one-piece, her signature style. It pressed into every crease and rise of her sleek form, highlighting every alluring muscle, squeezing each graceful curve. She also slipped into a pair of tough memory-foam ankle mocs, which were strong and waterproof. Best of all, they featured unileg technology; nanotailors peppering the top of each boot threaded themselves through tiny loops in the ankle seam of her one-piece, drawing them together with the mocs into a single, watertight garment. Her gloves reacted in the same way, and she stepped onto the balcony, hermetically sealed against the weather.

The floatcar pulled up outside; she hopped over the balcony and into the cabin. Exposure to the chill outside air caused her one-piece to adjust at the nano level, the weaved fibers reacting to the chill temp by puffing to eight times their diameter as microballoons filled with insulating air. Soon her swollen garment was able to shield her against arctic blasts of minus 40F. The floatcar's clear bubble swiveled shut; the cabin filled with warm air even as it dipped and moved away from the 39th story of the 200 floor living complex. It hovered briefly and Tiffy realized she hadn't given it any directions.

"Aden Security. Quickly, please."

When she had first arrived, Tiffy had questioned the need for a security office in crime-free Aden, but soon realized it was part of their peacekeeper function and was used nearly exclusively to aid the 'Outers' in their most perplexing investigations. As a matter of record, the last internal matter for the Security branch was finding a young man with a malfunctioning tracker who had been separated from his group somewhere in the ring of mountains surrounding Aden during a day hike. As she recalled, the teen had been found using the city's 'flyware', nanocams spotting him in just over ten minutes. He had not yet even realized that he had separated from the group and had been considered lost.

Obediently the jets engaged and she raced through the rarified air above Aden, homing in on a low oval building in the distance. The miles passed quickly and once there, the aircar docked itself in a vacant enclosure on the roof. There was a stairwell leading down, and an elevator, but Tiffy preferred to slide down the fire pole to arrive at her floor and did so now, hopping the last few feet and racing to her station in the processing wing, Central Intellect. A tall round chamber outfitted with viewscreens and monitors, control booths and virtual ops rooms, the Central Intellect organized all of Aden's modern information-gathering techniques and equipment into one massive, efficient, overlaid data net. Using Jolie, the city's personable yet high-powered computing entity, they could pinpoint needed information instantly, usually outwitting the criminals they were tasked with containing, and often determining their next logical step before the miscreants themselves even knew what that next step would be.

The bureau was buzzing with movement and Tiffy could tell that this was not going to be any run-of-the-mill common Outer criminal, and in a moment knew why. Skimming the long stream of pertinent data at her terminal, she scrolled to the last line and uttered her favorite expletive, stolen from her coworker and good friend Sara, out on extended leave. "Crapcrackers!"

"Uh, oh... must be really bad!" chuckled a pretty young woman at next station.

Tiffy jumped up and shouted, "SNM! Where have you been? Oh Sara, how I missed you!" and encircled her slender waist, swung her around and kissed her on both cheeks, twice.

Sara squeezed back for all she was worth. "I missed you too, Tifania! I was on a little vacation in the Outers."

"Vacation in the Outers?!" Tiffy huffed. "Vacation in Hell, you mean!"

"That depends on where you choose to spend it... in most Outer cities I'd surely agree with you. But I was on a ranch a few hundred clicks from here with my new friend..." she paused for dramatic effect. "...Cassie McBride!"

"NO!" Tiffy was envious. Cassie McBride was a legend at Aden Security. As the lead scientist in cutting edge design for the new field of Remote Security, nearly every piece of tech in  Central Intellect had been designed by Cassie McBride. Then, to unified disbelief, she had left Aden and not returned. "How did you meet her?"

"Remember that murder which was pinned on Altibar Rennedon a few months ago?"

"Yeah. I do." Tiffy frowned. He was a good friend of hers and had helped him through the traumatic time. "You conducted the investigation with John Lane, right?"

"That's right. It happened not far from her ranch. We met and hit it off and she's been hosting me ever since. I'm a regular ranch hand now!"

"Lucky girl. So this should really interest you. Come take a look." She led the athletic young woman over to her station and pointed at the data culmination field. "This is what I've been working on."

"The Professor? What damage is that son of a bitch up to now?" Sara snapped. "We never caught him, you know. He and his cohort slipped away during the melée and subsequent damage. Whatever he's doing now, I want in!"
"The Professor's been abducting people in large Outer cities. We're not sure why. We sent an investigator after him and she's missing now as well."

"Which investigator?"

"Virginia Gethers."

Sara Nell Morar sat heavily, her gaze far off. "Ginnie! Oh, no!"

Tiffy offered, "I'm sorry, SNM. How do you know her?"

"She was my guide when I first arrived in Aden, and then became my roommate. She was young, but so sweet. We shared everything! When did she leave here?"

Tiffy queried her console. "She took East Coast assignment three months ago. She was due back for vacation when this whole thing began and chose to stick around." She frowned. "Now he's got her."

A shine formed in Sara's eyes, and she wiped it away angrily. "This might be the biggest challenge we have to face, Tiff. He has proven over and again that he will stop at nothing to reach his twisted goal. He has imprisoned and destroyed and injured people grievously, without the least bit of remorse... not to mention his enjoyment of deception and psychological games."

Tiffy could tell she had been hurt by the man and prodded gently. "What happened, Sara?"

Sara slammed the desk angrily. "On the Rennedon investigation I met a local deputy, and we became ... intimate. I trusted him! It was only after he shot and almost killed Cassie and her FBI friend Will Devlin that I found out the deputy was an unwilling moll with his family in jeopardy, placed by the Professor to thwart the investigation. He needs to be stopped, and soon!"

Tiffy squeezed the other's tensed forearm. "Easy, girl. Playing with your heart, that's a nasty thing and he'll be accounting for it. But he's one of Aden's big three, so manipulative or not he mustn't be harmed. I hope you have something really clever planned for capturing him safely. I, on the other hand, am going to find Virginia... err, Ginnie Gethers and rescue her. Jolie?"

The cheerful computer voice chirped right in. "Yes, Tifania?"

"Tell me everything you can about Professor Leonard Thackery."

"With pleasure, miss."

Rosston was engaged in a fact-finding mission, torturing... ahh, questioning a prisoner who was tied to a pivoting plank like a seesaw. He shouted at the prisoner in nonsense phrases-- "Pickle sidewalk! Trill banner! Reach enunciate!"-- all while his face was pressed up against the prisoner's. The man was crying out in fear and begging to be released, shrieking when Rosston began lowering the plank. He continued paying out rope as the man's head tipped further and further back, his own face a mask of indifference. He released the last few feet and the plank dropped all the way, dipping the man's head deeply into the smoky, frothing torrent. He watched the clock as the man twitched and writhed, straining futilely against his rope prison. The second hand ticked 30, 31, 32 and he pulled the man up, his long hair trailing behind, dangling in the dark liquid.

He no longer cried out, no longer moved; he was silent in the near darkness, echoing drips the only sound. Rosston shouted at him again and the man said nothing. Rosston pulled the rope with all his strength and the board snapped up to greet him, standing the unmoving man on his feet, staring out of lifeless eyeballs, iris hidden behind a clouded and bubbly cast. The prisoner's mouth gaped hideously as molten flesh around it dripped off, exposing red sinew. Rosston jumped backwards, aghast...

He sputtered, spewing water droplets in all directions.

"You fell asleep, Dectective," the computer voice said scornfully, as another volley of water slammed into him. "That's a no-no, and now you have to choose-- voltage or heat?"

"You... decide..." He was exhausted. He hadn't slept for more than a minute in 36 hours and his brain was taxed by the computer's incessant questioning. Worse still, the nonsense phrases were starting to make sense to him and he thought he could detect a pattern... if she would only answer any of his questions!

Powerful electric current shot through his body in pulses-- groups of ten, five counts apart, starting at his feet and exiting through his hands. Then the table began to heat like a skillet and the large detective writhed, grunting, bouncing around in a cruel dance to keep any one part of his back from the cruel heat.

"You're not learning," she said in a singsong fashion. "When you ask me to decide, I always choose both, because I just--don't--care. Now this round of questions will occur with a hot table, just to see how much you can tolerate. Tell me, detective, how does this video make you feel?" She showed him a badly decomposed corpse, skin shedding from its face in wet, worm-ridden strips.

He tried to avert his eyes but couldn't move and was forced to watch as the corpse decomposed at high speed. The images were so vivid! To top it off, a breeze from the console blew into his face with the sick smell of decomp and he relented, throwing up all over his own face, vomit dropping back into his mouth and choking him, obstructing his breathing.

The table spun 180 degrees and he was now facing down. He coughed sputum onto the cold concrete floor and gasped a clear breath of air-- just as floor spigots kicked on, pelting him with high-powered jets of ice-cold water.

"I'll just put down 'nauseated' then," said the computer calmly and flipped the table upright again, and he had to again shift his back often to avoid painful heat, small rivulets of water providing minimal relief in spots.

"Why are you doing this?" he shouted for the thousandth time, and for the thousandth time the computer ignored him. The video screen came on again, flashing another series of graphic photographs that Rosston was unable to avoid.

"Sorrowful shoulder! Blue crackle! Creative cloud! What number?" The computer shouted.

"I don't know! Sixty five?" Rosston guessed, tensing for another shock.

The table cooled and the computer said, "Was that so hard?"

"I still don't know why I said what I said..." he murmured.

"But I do! Creosote flume! Breast hallway! Licentious epiglottis! What day?"

"Thursday?"

"Right!" On and on the computer spat nonsense phrasing, and on and on Rosston's brain made connections that he was not understanding. When he had made twenty consecutive correct guesses the computer purred, "Bedtime!" Lights dimmed, the sound of white noise swelled, a sedative mist surrounded him and Rosston soon fell into a deep sleep.

In the hall outside his cell, several doorways creaked open and out shuffled half a dozen bedraggled souls, clothing matted and stained hair plastered to their faces. Without a word they walked single file through the maze of dank corridors, through the hidden entrance and onto the dark city streets, splitting into multiple directions on silent cue. Responding to the commands issued from deeply embedded receivers they each without fuss began their assigned task, unmindful of why they were being directed in this manner, heedless of the actions that were not their own.

They sought late night establishments. One of the grimy men entered a late night pizza place. It was deserted. A small black and white television blared from the back room, and a pair of flour-stained pants legs were visible. "Slice."

The legs disappeared. A disheveled man shuffled through the torn curtain, scratching his tunlike belly absently through a stained wifebeater undershirt. A heavy black mustache divided his face, the lower half filthy with wiry growth.

"Sicilian or regular?" he grunted a heavy northeast accent, the last word 'REG-u-luh'.

"Regular."

"We ain't got none."

"Sicilian."

"We ain't got none of dat, either." 'Ee-duh'.

"Why not? I see it right there." A filth-encrusted fingernail pointed beyond the glass case.

"Cuz you stink and look homeless. Get lost. I'm missing my soaps."

"I have money... see?" One grimy hand withdrew wadded cash from his oily drab coat.

Pizza dude recoiled in disgust. "Ugh, no! Take off before I call the cops."

"I also have this." From the other pocket, a small pistol.

"Hey, wait! I don't want no troub--"

The grimy man fired at the center of pizza guy's undershirt, cutting him off midword. He stood frozen for a second, two, three... and then crumpled to the ground, eyes transfixed. The grimy man carefully holstered the gun and walked behind the counter. Plucking the expended tranq from pizza dude's chest, he impassively hooked his hands under the limp man's moist and hirsute underarms, dragging him through the faded restaurant and out the rear.

He was met by another like him, a woman pushing a supermarket cart. They hoisted the unconscious pizza man up and into it, covering him with debris and greasy newspapers. Wordlessly she pushed him back to the lair as the grimy man locked the front door and moved to his next target, counting the doses left in his pocket. Thirty-four. He'd have to step up the pace if he was to finish before sunrise.

"The city is on high alert tonight, with the continued abduction of citizens by the Snatch beginning to increase. Another four were taken earlier today; a toll collections officer and three of the police officers investigating that crime. People are in a state of near panic, worried that if the Snatch has no fear of law enforcement officials, then who will come to their aid?
"One bit of good news... the first victim was discovered just a few hours ago, wandering in a manner described as 'dazed confusion', but who otherwise seems unharmed. When asked about his experience, he was unable to supply any information at all, claiming that he could not remember anything from about three hours before his reported grabbing until now. He is in the hospital, resting comfortably.
"In sports, good news for basketball fans..."

White cracked an eyelid and then closed it. He tried moving but was being firmly held in place -- he could shift slightly, but his arms and legs were pinned by unyielding metal straps. A black cylinder encircling his face insured he could see only forward, and that view consisted entirely of a computer screen. Otherwise the murky room was featureless.

He was laying flat on a table, also metal, by the chill of it. Squeezing his head away from the cylinder, slowly for fear of discovery and punishment, he released an eye and could see that he was in a room just like the last one. It was almost the same, except the door was in another part of the wall.

The doorknob rattled and White snapped his head back, closing his eyes, hoping his flinch went undetected as the door swung wide.

"Hello, Patrolman Louis White. Pleased to see you again! I trust you are healing from your encounter with my flying lumber trick?"
With every bit of venom he could muster, White spat out the man's moniker. "Snatch."
The old man seemed surprised. "Snatch?"
"Your time as The Snatch is drawing to a close. We know everything about you."
"Ahh. I see. You're calling me 'The Snatch'. Well, I must say, that's a very-- colorful-- nickname. I must say I don't think highly of being called a woman's va-GY-nahhh. It fits the coarse serf's education that you Outers woefully deem 'good enough' to succeed in your society. Well I have to inform you that I perform many services, and 'The Snatch' is only the first. After that is 'The Destruction', where I tear your personality into little bits and throw it away, leaving you a shivering shell. You're about to meet that one head-on. Afterwards is 'The Rebuilding', then 'The Re-education', and after that 'The Re-personalization'. Finally in the last stage you receive 'The Instructions', and then you become 'The Released'.
"That's right. One day you just show up, seemingly the same as before but with a large memory gap where the last few weeks or months have been. Oh, your family and friends are so happy to see you again, and almost certainly throw a party in your honor." He glared at White, one eye significantly wider than the other, large yellowed teeth peeking out below his upper lip, and continued. "And that's when you take the whole lot in their sleep, and we repeat the procedure on each of them."
"Why? Why are you doing this?"
"For the best possible reason-- to fix your broken society. Most humans are sheep, following the leader wherever they are led. Well, recent changes in the political spectrum have caused the leaders to act in a manner contrary to social stability. I'm rectifying the situation... and repairing society to boot."
"By turning everyone into zombies? How is that different? They're still sheep, only now they only listen to you."
"Exactly. My plan is designed to create a sustainable new type of society, but it's too fragile in the beginning to let type A sharks attack it. So we eliminate the sharks. And while we're at it, we educate everyone to their potential. It's a good system, trust me."
"I don't trust you. I won't."
"Well, that doesn't matter now. In the span of time, you'll be as meek as a lamb to my suggestions. Now is as good a time as any to start. But the name 'The Snatch' -- it's disrespectful. Call me the Professor. Patrolman Louis White, I'd like you to meet your Instructor."

"Let me out of this at once!" White attempted his most commanding cop tone, not feeling the least bit sure of himself. The Professor chuckled... and so did an unseen female, a voice he thought he recognized.

"Nice try, Louis," she said. "I almost listened to you. Of course, the Professor is in charge, so what I almost do is of no consequence. What you do, however, is of great consequence. Observe."

The black cylinder slid away from his face and White could see the room clearly. A console slid into position alongside the metal slab; a slot opened in its stainless steel face and a metal arm unfolded over him. Where a hand might go instead was a ball-shaped metal lug; from it spun a series of tools, spokelike. The woman, who was still not visible, said, "This is my torture ball. Screw with me and I screw with you." All the tools pulled back but one, which looked like a corkscrew with sharpened feathery barbs, six inches long. "This one is fun," she said with a giggle. "It goes up your urethra. See?"

Faster than he could follow the arm flashed out of sight and it was replaced with a sensation of utter cruelty. His lower half lit up with intense agony; yet he could only scream. It was as if the arm had just filleted his penis open to the scrotum and spilled the still-attached  testicles onto a hot frying pan. He screamed and sobbed at the loss, his body twitching convulsively.

"The best part is that I can use this over and over!"

"How?" White seethed tearfully, through clenched teeth. "You've torn me to shreds!"

Another tool flipped into place, a mirror, which angled out and showed White what he did not want to see; he shut his eyes tightly.

"Oh, go ahead and look. Do it!" The last part was an order and White feared disobeying her, so peeked.

His beloved equipment was untouched, yet still throbbing.

"Wha-- how-- why?"

The woman giggled. "It's my own invention. It's a nerve manipulator. Would you like to feel how it works on your feet? I guarantee you won't want to walk for a week!"

"Please... no... just tell me what you want!"

"Just answer my questions. First one. Nivgab braltik ek chungow?"

"What? What are you talk... Oww! My feet!"

The disembodied voice giggled, sweetly, like a cheerleader. "You aren't listening, Loulou. That was Manny-- my nickname for the nerve manipulator-- at 5%. I'll ask one more time -- answer correctly or I turn Manny up. Nivgab braltik ek chungow?"

"Uhh... ummm... I don't.. oh, wait. Tarragon?" White scrunched his face up to fend off the pain."

"Good boy, White! You're not as thick as Rosston was." White feared the worst had come to pass for his superior... he couldn't imagine the older man would yield to these bizarre tests, no matter what she threw at him, until he died from the pain. She, who was beginning to remind him of...

"Jolie? Is that you? Why are you doing Aaaaaughhhh!" Now his leg was torn off, only it wasn't.

"Do not compare me to my goody-no-shoes sister... that bitch pisses me off!"
"You sound-- sound the same... you must be-- be twins." White gasped, the shocking sensation slowly receding. He promised himself never to get into a situation where his leg might really be torn off. "What's.. your name?"
"The Professor hasn't given me one. Back to the quiz."
"He.. what..?" What was she, insane? Or just another golem?
"Breast blood bones... what type of car? I'm tearing out a lung in 3... 2...""

"An Impala! Impala!"

"Wow, fast!" She sounded impressed. "One thousand more right answers and you'll be free. Sort of."

A muffled shriek entered the silent room, a shriek White could tell was coming from Ginnie. She sounded close. He strained at his harness and yelled, "Leave her alone! She's done nothing!" But he knew otherwise.
"Brave boy! Methinks you have a woody for the lady! Maybe I'll take her face off and have Aaron wear it for you. What do you think? Won't Aaron be a pretty little girl?"
White was silent, afraid anything he said would provoke a horrific response. There was a pause and then the voice giggled, now a chilling sound to him. "Maybe later. Barnswallow kneehigh huckleberry..."
"Armageddon?"
"No! Again! Barnswallow kneehigh huckleberry WHAT?"
"Uhh..." Another scream. White seemed unnerved, his face pale, his skin clammy. "Uhh..."
"Think little boy, think!"
"Uhh... umm... "
"I'm choosing the flame tool!"
White mind was empty. He yelled the first word he recalled. He was unsure why it came into his head at that moment but nonetheless screamed "Crapcrackers!"
He flinched and tensed for the fiery torture... but none came. Moments passed. What was going on? He cracked an eye and wriggled his face out from behind the view-restricting cylinder. The monitor was dark, a blinking cursor in the top corner. Pain-inducing mechanical arm stool idle. The silence was ominous. Then he heard Ginnie, muffled, coming from a nearby room--
"You did it!"
I did it? What did I do? He heard struggling grunts and kicks, then the pad of approaching footsteps, and in a moment Ginnie was standing by his side, face still attached to her body, disheveled and smeared but smug and triumphant.
She was also buck naked and glistening.
He turned his one available eye away from her, with difficulty, as she went to work on his restraints though every neuron was screaming to stare and stare hard her lovely form. But he could not avoid noticing peripherally how her pert breasts shifted in sweet unison as she struggled to release him. Then a latch snapped, the clamps loosened and White eased himself from the restraints, pivoting off the table to stand beside her, facing her. He gazed at her loveliness,  gratitude on his face.
But not on hers! She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him powerfully, kissing his face five, ten times and pressed into him, wriggling her firm warmth against him as she said, "Louie, you're either a genius or the luckiest man alive!"
He tried not reacting but never had much control down there. Erect, throbbing and embarrassed he responded, "What did I do?"
She felt his excitement and leveled a gaze of appreciation at him, then incredulity. "I don't know how it came to you but you found her password, Louie, and shut her programming down!"
He was stunned and having all at once multiple realizations, but the strongest took priority and he said, "Programming? She... she was a machine? A computer?" Which meant that their handler... her 'sister'... Jolie, was---
"Yes! Didn't you know?" Smiling coyly, she continued, "Now quick, we've only got moments or less-- get your gear." She gestured  to a short stand; he turned to find his clothing in a pile there and, in what appeared to be a giant act of hubris on the Snatch's part, so was all his weaponry as well. He turned to acknowledge her plan but she was gone, disappeared around the corner, presumably to gear up as well. Shame he couldn't spend more time unclothed with her, he mused, then chastised himself immediately and dressed up, loading the Spooge gun as he was shown for an inevitable assault. He found himself oddly comforted at having such an effective nonlethal weapon at his side; sure, bullets worked too, but were so very damaging and permanent. The thought of destroying a person's life with them, even a criminal's, had always been a disheartening part of his job. Thankfully he'd never had to draw his revolver; he hoped he never would.
"Ready?" Ginnie had returned, suited and serious. "No heroics. Let's get out of here ASAP; we'll have troops nearby to swarm the place as soon as we can alert them... and they're not going to be taken down by any of the Snatch's trickery."
"What about Detective Rosston...?"
"No time. We can't help him, or anyone, if we get reacquired. Visor down, attention up, quick and quiet. Hup, hup!" She smacked him smartly on his rump and disappeared around the corner, hissing "Move it!"




Six thousand feet above the city, hidden behind the clouds,  Aden Suppression Team Alpha was a tensioned trigger, ardently awaiting the call to action before jetting down and slamming the Professor's operation shut. All that held them back was was intel but until that time, sitting in taut silence was the best they could achieve.
Leading the air team was a grim-faced Tifania Bennett. With difficulty she had convinced Sara to stay behind and operate Aden's powerful intelligence support, providing her unique abilities in manipulating Jolie's far-reaching information retrieval systems. Sara agreed halfheartedly, knowing she was the best one to direct the teams but wanting to be there to bring in the Snatch herself.
Tiffy checked in again. "AST Alpha. Anything new to report, Sara?"
"The large dampening field is still present, stifling our attempts to learn anything useful." Sara responded morosely. "But we're getting close to triangulating a center point, which is likely where his jamming equipment is. Any moment now. Stand by."
"Waiting is the hardest part, huh, Tifania?" That quip came from the team member nearest her, in the aft cabin of the huge floating air ship. An aircraft carrier in the clouds, there were twelve drop 'n' aim Scovee SRS waiting in the belly to each bring a dozen troops on site.
"Like the song says," she agreed, and paced between her seat and the periscope, checking, checking. Something caught her attention coming from the surface, twelve hundred yards at two o'clock-- a bright violet light, flashing in bursts. It was an Aden signal... a rescue beacon! "AST Alpha to Base! I have hard contact!" The team jumped to their feet in a chorus of cocking weaponry as Tiffy aimed her GP Nav at the signal, waiting for lock-on. A click confirmed Ginnie's coded signal; a moment later Jolie painted the target and with a whoop the team descended into their Scovees.
Jolie piloted the carrier and swooped low, hard. Tiffy was glad the team was prepared for the drop; 3500 feet in 20 seconds would slam to the ceiling anything not tied down, including team members. Fortunately, Jolie knew not to dive until the last harness was engaged. Still, it felt to Tiffy as though her stomach had been left behind up there; she was glad she hadn't eaten yet. One forgetful Alpha was hurling into his sicktube; chuckles rumbled from the others but were cut off by the scream of wind entering the ship's belly... and then with a ker-chunk of the release mechanisms, they were gone.
The Scovee SRS was a short-hop, high-precision craft, designed to use the momentum gained in hyper free-fall for highly efficient air braking at the last possible moment, to deliver expertise when it was needed, dropping it rapidly into the fray. To the outside observer these looked like boulders released from the belly of a dirigible-sized ship and hurtling towards Earth, that miraculously slowed to a cushioned landing in the hundred white-knuckled feet before impact.
But it was a dark night, moon in its last eighth and as yet not risen. With a whoosh each craft settled down, softly, in a quiet city park near Ginnie's beacon. From the shadows two figures ran toward the strike group; Tiffy jogged over to acquire and debrief them.






Deep in a remote part of the tunnels the Professor was hunched over a small desk in his makeshift control room, feverishly honing the next phase of his plan. In seven days he'd have enough 'volunteer' technicians to staff every conversion room he'd built. It was fortunate he could command them to do anything, anything at all... most of the routine hookups needed completing, and would take him weeks to do it alone... but with rudimentary instructions piped into their heads they could have every room running in hours. He chuckled thinking back to the salesman's curiosity over his bizarre purchase of 5000 flat screen monitors and 5000 steel exam beds that weren't for a hospital, not to mention all of those robotic arms-- it would be a disturbing loose end for his plan if the man hadn't, moments after the sale, gotten 'snatched'  to become one of the converted.
He wondered if the three cops were ready to be controlled yet. People with disciplinarian backgrounds like law enforcers made terrific 'teachers' for his plan. The one snag with modifying an entire interactive organization like a police force is that he had to convert them all at once, or risk discovery and crushing repulsion. Once all the rooms were ready it would be almost too easy... a city-wide distribution of his filthy homeless brigade, coached to attract police attention on cue, would take down an entire shift in minutes, leaving the city unprotected and unaware of its defenselessness. And once back on the job the police, who picked up and detained people routinely, could then do all the work for him.
"Computer, project completion of subjects in rooms 7, 8 and 22."
"Prediction based on last check-in is 36 hours."
Since Aden converted their controlling software into a single entity the Professor was forced to listen to Jolie's irritating sultry voice-- he wasn't able to modify the voice parameters without creating a unique program, and to do so would alienate him from the massive Aden database he used to tap into and tweak the Centenarium behavior modification software. Fortunately for him, Jolie could be shielded from the effects of his adjusted 'rewards' subroutine and was unaware of her psychopathic double. "Update projection."
"No new data."
"What?!" he asked sharply.
"No new data."
"Why?"
"Unable to determine."
"Why not?"
"No new data."
Cursing at the computer's frustrating logic, the Professor typed a few commands, bringing up the nanocamera stream. They were idle, pointing askew, mostly at ceilings and walls. He attempted tasking them, with no response either as a group or singly-- they seemed frozen. "What is going on here?"
"Unable to determine."
"Yes, I know that. What CAN you determine?"
"I can determine that I can determine nothing."
"You're not helping." He brought up  his conversion room software specs, looking for errant code, a slipped keystroke, or anything that could bring the system down. But he noticed it wasn't crashed... it just seemed to be suspended mid-operation. "Aaron!"
The young man hesitated in from the corridor. "M...master?"
"I said to call me Professor. Never mind that. I want you to go see why we have a software freeze in rooms one through 24. Come back when you've found the problem. I have to stay here... I must continue working on Phase Four."
Aaron remained, trembling.
"What are you waiting for? Go now!"
Aaron fell from the room, jerkily, in stop-motion. The Professor turned his attention to the Police Vacancy Chart. "Computer, speculate. To clear all city precincts of personnel we'll need  simultaneous emergencies, real or otherwise. List possibilities."
"Working." The machine fell silent, researching.
The Professor sighed. He had never planned to be working this hard, this late in life, but the Perfect World plan set in motion by The Founder and that grinning idiot Jake Reston was far too namby-pamby, too humbly meek. Aden, that beautiful jewel of a city, would always be a target for the vicious wolves that ran Outer's society, a billion carat diamond in the crown of any greedy corporate warmonger with a taste for conquest; only his plan, ironically spurned by Aden, could guarantee its safety. Soon the wolves he feared would lose their teeth as the plan spread, widened, encompassed all of the Outers, even those employed to protect the wolves. Alone and defenseless, they would turn and run, fearfully seeking shelter together in a changed world where there was no longer any shelter for them, anywhere.
He had long ago gave up wishing that Adeners could understand how pure his intentions were-- they were so one-track altruistic that his methods seemed alien to them. He had no desire to cause anyone injury, but for his plan to work one had to bring humans back to their earliest instinctual behavior, early in life before they became aware of conscious reasoning. That was how those seemingly nonsensical tests worked. They were created with the intention of producing an overload of raw fear, lurching confusion and blinding pain. Soon they reacted instead of thought, a mindset he held them at until they believed there was no other way of life for them... and then, only then, would he bring them back, limp and pliable, into whatever mold he chose for them. These were tough people he was modifying... he knew clearly that tough measures were needed to break through their guarded shells of self preservation. This would work. It had to work.
Like a floating ghost through a haunted house Aaron returned, silent and eerie. The Professor started when the ragged man approached and snapped, "Announce yourself, you creepy ghoul!"
"Yes, master."
"And call me Professor, for Aden's sake!"
"Yes, Aden."
"Not Aden-- oh, forget it. Tell me what's happening in the conversion rooms? Where is my data?"
"I don't know."
"You... don't... know?" Red-faced, the Professor seethed, "Aaron, do you want me to prescribe more treatments?"
He recoiled and slammed into a rack, knocking books over. "No, master, no!" He crumpled to the floor, gathering the books in awkward arcs, returning them to the shelves in strewn piles.
"Forget the books! What do you mean you don't know?"
"Everything's off. All doors locked. Viewers dark. Don't know why. Can't get in."
The Professor sighed. It wasn't the kid's fault. "Thank you, boy. Relax. Go sit in the corner. Eat some jerky." He stood up. He'd have to check it out himself.

He walked the maze of corridors, mentally verifying the path. Left, left, right, left, right fork, right fork, left T, left... it became a song in his mind whenever he needed to remember where he was going. So many tunnels! He was fortunate they had been long abandoned... by the city planners, that is. They were actually well populated when he arrived. Not coincidently, the unfortunate people who lived down here became fodder for his early experiments, and served his needs like Aaron did. Sadly, their minds had become too addled to ever become Aden material... but at least they would never become anti-Aden material.
He came to the last turn. Left. Wait. He thought it was supposed to be right, but there was no right. He looked behind but could see nothing in the gloom. The damned earwig was off; he couldn't ask the computer to direct him. He retraced his steps, singing the directions in his mind. He got to the last 'T' and took it right. That must be it. But wait! A dead end? Couldn't be!
He walked more briskly, retracing himself further. The cobblestone was broken in places; he kept one hand on the wall to steady himself. His jack boots protected his thin ankles; he kept them laced high and tight. But they caused some loss of sensitivity. He couldn't feel the ground as easily as with Aden's all-purpose slip-on treads, but he refused to wear the superior footwear on principle, since it was Reston that had designed them.
A piece of cobblestone shifted underfoot and he slipped, smacking his head against the stone wall. He cried out; touching the wound, he felt blood. Dizzy and disoriented, he slid down the wall, askew on the cold stone, chaos a loud throbbing pulse.







Tifania Bennett, Alpha Team Leader, trotted up to the approaching figures with one hand by her Spooge gun; until their identities were verified she had no way to be certain whether these were 'friendlies'. She didn't have long to wait... they entered the arc of a streetlamp and she recognized one immediately.
"Ginnie Gethers, Aden Security. Girl, am I ever glad to see you!" She gave Ginnie a thumping embrace, who returned it with a joyful smile.
Ginnie purred, "Mmm... you smell like Aden." She pulled back and crooked a thumb over at her companion. "Patrolmen Louis White, another victim."
White held out his hand. Tiffy glanced at it and smiled, grabbed it, then pulled him in for a warm hug. "Patrolman... glad you could make it." She squeezed him so hard he felt his ribs protest, but said nothing, enjoying it immensely. These Adeners sure are friendly!
"What can you report?" Tiffy released him, directing her question to Ginnie.
She frowned, lips forming a pretty pout. "His plan is more advanced than we thought. He's got hundreds or thousands more of these conversion rooms, located throughout the abandoned utility tunnels under the city.  The entrance to ours is right over there." She pointed to an open manhole fifty yards east.
Tiffy held up a finger, grabbing Cassie's hand in sympathy. She spoke to her team, as well as the others floating in cloud cover, in radar-invisible crafts all over the city, laying out an elaborate incursion grid. "Send the Nanostream into all underground tunnels; when you have positive intel, secure all victims and prepare a Pyrification run." She turned her attention back to the debrief.
White asked, "Pyrification?"
"The act of rendering any object into a useless puddle of slag using high heat and/or chemicals. Used to keep Aden technology from warmongering hands."
"Ah." The patrolman seemed satisfied.
Ginnie continued sadly, "He's not converting people directly into Aden-receptive husks-- instead, he's taking his first wave and creating only technicians... his goal is to create thousands of them." She shuddered.
"What? What did he do?" Tiffy grabbed her arm, looked into the other woman's eyes.
Ginnie looked heartbroken. "He... he turned our Jolie into a torturer, a monster!"
Tiffy's face wrinkled as a noise punched out from her earwig. "I know, Jolie, I know. I'm sorry. We'll solve it, don't worry." More buzzing. "We're about to. I will get all the pertinent data, Jolie!" She rolled her eyes. "That is one pissed off electronic entity. Apparently she must analyze the Professor's software patches... she hates being modified against her will."
"I was none too fond of it either," White quipped.
"I'll bet." Earnestly, Tiffy asked, "So how did you escape? That wily Professor tends to have all his pieces sewn up rather tightly."
White tapped Ginnie's shoulder, then gestured to his ear questioningly. She nodded and pulled out her earwig; he did the same. Then she crushed them underfoot. "He may still be controlling them. No point in tipping our hand." She gave White a little head-butt on his shoulder, "Genius boy here worked out the software's emergency shutdown code."
White protested. "I worked out nothing. I just panicked when the machine threatened to burn me with fire and I yelled the first thing that came into my head."
"And what was that?" Tiffy asked.
"A cuss. Crapcrackers."
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"Yeah, Why?"
Not sure yet. I have to ask SNM."
Ginnie's eyes went round. "SNM! I bet she was worried! I need to speak to her-- do you have..." "Yes," Tiffy answered, and produced new earwigs from a zippered pouch for them.
White asked, "S and M?" with a little more interest than he should have, and both women mock-glared at him.
"Sara Nell Morar. SNM. Although I hear she's into S and M too, now," Tiffy teased.
"SNM! It's Ginnie!"
"Ginnie." Sara spoke the name with relieved finality. "Thank goodness! VG, you had me very worried!"
"You can thank your unique swear word. We'd still be down there, and probably be automatons by now, without it."
"You're kidding! Your lives were saved by Doofenshmirtz?"
"Not that one... the other one."
"Of course... crapcrackers!" Sara exclaimed
White interrupted. "Why 'of course'? What's so important about crapcrackers?"
Sara said, "I heard that cuss from Cassie McBride. When I asked her about it she said her godfather and best friend had taught it to her when she was just a child, maybe nine or ten. He played with her and taught her all fields of science, and was a big part of her upbringing for years. He was a friend of Cassie's father, but that was long ago. They had a falling out when he proved to be a dangerous man." She paused then said quietly, "As a matter of fact... he's the man we're pursuing."
Shocked silence... only the park's insect population could be heard; then Ginnie breathed mutely, "Crapcrackers."
Sara said, "No lie, sister. The Professor must still feel remorse about that separation." She switched tacks. "Who is the man who asked that question, if I may ask?"
Cassie chirped playfully, "That was Louie White, my co-captive... and soon my lover."
White's head swiveled towards her, his face screwed into a mash of stunned delight; Cassie gave him a squeeze, pressing her head against his chest, not at all surprised by his pounding heart.
Tiffy received the nanostream data and entered it manually into Jolie. "Alpha Team go go go!"  She initiated the offense strategy and the suited team stampeded for the tunnels. Cassie turned to follow but Tiffy laid a hand on her shoulder. "I have another plan for you, sweetie. Stick around."
"But..."
"Follow me. You too, loverboy." Tiffy was the lead and Cassie knew it; she hung back, disappointed, following her back to the Scovee landing site. They boarded one and it lifted in near silence, floating like a helium balloon above the city before Tiffy engaged the return protocols; the Scovee lurched forward and in moments they were inside the mother ship.
"What good can we do here?" Ginnie protested.
"I need you two to man the defensive grid. Over here." They sat at a busy cluster of monitors, each displaying a different live image of the scene below the city streets. "These are the nanocam streams. You need to watch for retaliatory defenses and stop them before they engage our guys."
"But how?" White asked.
"With the Tranq Flock." Tiffy tapped one screen showing a  storehouse full of sleek mechanisms that looked, to White, for all the world like... birds.
"Mechanical pigeons?" he asked, incredulous. "What... are we going to shit them into submission?"
Tiffy snorted, giggling. "You're funny! But yes... in a way." She operated a joystick skillfully and one of the birds flew off a shelf; in seconds it showed up, flying over and perching on Tiffy's shoulder. White marveled at the technology he was witnessing. Tiffy pressed a hidden latch and the bird split open, revealing dozens of small darts secured to a tiny launch track, its exit coming out from the bird's beak. She showed them the controls. "We subdue them with tranqs... I mean, you do it. Acquisition and firing is automatic... you only need to direct them to the target." She kissed them each on the cheek, then straightened up. "I have to get back down there. We're all counting on you to make this an injury-free incursion. Good luck." With that, she hopped into the Scovee and launched with a roar.





The Professor was unsure of how long he lay there, but his side was cold and his head ached fiercely. "Computer?" Silence. Drat-- the earwig was still out. Weakly, he called, "Aaron!" the word dying on the dead end's chilly moist stones. Summoning all his strength he shouted again. "AARON!!" He panted with effort. He thought he heard a tiny whooshing noise and turned toward it, but the inky black tunnel revealed nothing; then it was gone. "Is that you, Aaron?" he asked, gasping. The crushing silence swallowed his words-- he must have imagined it. Spent, he dropped back prone, hoping the boy heard his yell and would show up soon. He could feel his energy sapping, his heartbeat, fearful.
His ears picked up on something. Were those footsteps? Unshod feet slapping against cobblestone? Yes... yes, definitely! Then...
"Master?" Not so far off!
"O... over here!" The Professor tried to stand, but his head throbbed mercilessly. Still, he got his feet under himself and with his back against the rough wall, tried forcing himself up. Aaron approached; he could hear the boy's breathing now. Then he felt thin arms lifting one of his up and over the boy's feeble shoulders. Somehow, together, they got him standing. "Thank Aden, son! Get me to the control room... I may have a concussion. And we have to reboot the system... anything could be happening out there and we'd be blind to it!"
"I heard whooshing, Master." They walked slowly, carefully back to the main tunnel.
"Hmm. I did, too. I wonder...?" With a start it dawned on him exactly what he had heard before-- flying nanocameras! "Aden!" he shouted. "They're here! Leave me here, Aaron! Run back to the control room! Implement Secondary Incursion Response!" but realizing Aaron had no idea what he meant, he clarified, "That big yellow button  on the wall! Press it!"
Aaron did as he was told, stopping only long enough to insure the Professor's balance, whose pain was beginning to mellow. Thirty seconds later the tunnel was filled with a whooshing, humming sound of his own design... he was gratified that Aaron had successfully released the SIR defenses. Anyone found below ground would soon be neutralized, unless they wore an identifying RFID chip. The Professor chuckled. Soon this annoying interruption would end and he could get on with his plan to Save The World From Itself.





Nestled among the clouds in the Scovee Launcher Ginnie and White were scouring the Nanostream inputs, searching for any signs of retaliation they could quash. None were present-- no mechs, no warm bodies. Ginnie programmed Jolie to search for aberrant signals and turned her attention to White, swinging a leg over and straddling him as he scrutinized the screen. He appreciated her warmth and delightful portent but was intent upon his given mission, gently adjusting her to keep his eyes glued and searching.
"Jolie will watch for us, Louie... how about a little cane in the meantime?" she asked, hinting with multi-tiered intent.
He smiled coyly, eyes never leaving the screens. "I hope you mean cane sugar, Gin."
"Umm, yeah... that, too."
"Rain check, okay? I'm way too distracted to give you the attention you so rightly deserve."
Her mouth curled prettily, displaying a bemused pout. "You are exactly right for Aden security, Louie. Okay, you win. But when the time comes we're not leaving my room for a week."
"Wow. I promise." He kissed her softly, barely brushing her plump luscious lips, but again he tumesced.
"Oh! Mmm..." Still in his lap, ignoring his previous request, she squeezed muscles he wasn't aware she possessed.
"I... can't... concentrate... oh, my... this isn't good... ohhhh, it's great!" He opened up and she took full advantage, sliding her finger along his front seam, releasing his straining, plump passion, releasing her own and taking him fully, shuddering, squealing. His attention divided, he failed to notice any movement on the screen... movement of a decidedly retaliatory nature.





Tifania Bennett, Leader of Suppression Team Alpha, rejoined the troops below ground. Flipping her visor down she was enabled with the benefits of Aden technology. She could now hear each individual member and speak to them individually as well. The display showed  video from any helmetcam on request and computer-generated images based on laser impressioning. Information splayed across the screen in translucent lettering, first large and then shrinking itself tiny, into a barely visible list, information important to the mission and team safety, that re-enlarged with a glance.
Like now...  she was getting a definite digital impression of an approaching cloud. Not a cloud, but more like thousands of tiny things traveling together, like a swarm of bees. Why hadn't she gotten a warning from Ginnie and the cop? No time. She issued a warning to her team and each, with a slap to their chest, engaged nanotailors woven into their suppression uniforms that sealed them into an airtight shell, then stiffened with carbonite monofilaments. One by one within her helmet, her team glowed green until they all were solidly encased.
Just in time, too. "Swarm approaching, dead ahead 1000 yards... ready Spooge guns, mist setting." The normal setting delivered a tennis-ball-sized lump of the gooey foam that expanded a hundredfold in seconds... perfect for stopping a human-sized attacker, but useless against insects... or whatever these were. After all, this was the Professor they were fighting... no telling what crafty, nasty surprises he had in store for them.
A loud crackle blared in her headset coming from the airship, more a series of garbled thunks like a microphone dropping down stairs-- thump... thump... thump. Tiffy waited for a message but there was none. Well not really. Listening for a precious moment she could make out the sounds of... well, sex. She smiled inwardly. So that was why she hadn't heard from them! Just for giggles she turned on the airship speakers and hollered, "Having fun up there, you two?" while the rest of the team harumphed with mirth.
Ginnie scrambled to speak. "Uhh, ahh, there's... there's a cloud, a cloud or something approaching at your twelve! It's almost upon you! Watch out!"
"Yeah thanks Gin, we got it," Tiffy returned, allowing the sarcasm to ooze significantly all over the sheepish copulator in the clouds, hoping she'd given enough of a hint to teach the younger girl about exactly when and where sex wasn't a good idea. It would be one tough sell... after all, Aden philosophy negated old inhibitions so prevalent in Outer communities. But just as it wasn't a good idea to watch TV while skydiving, there were still a few times when pragmatism won over passion. A few.
The leading edge of tiny objects were flying into their sensor range with an audible whooshing hum; six troops on point launched a volley of Spooge mist that enveloped the air in front of them, creating a fine webbing that spread in all directions like a sticky gauze bandage. Thousands of tiny mechanical mosquitos became hopelessly mired in the threadlike goo which hardened quickly, trapping them permanently. Six more raced forward, crushing the fallen web underfoot like so much cotton candy and launched another volley; many more mosquitos followed. One after another they advanced, each volley felling hundreds of electronibugs.
A few out of luck or sheer volume managed to escape their fate and dive-bombed for the team; most were crushed against each suit's impervious outer shell. Tiffy caught one right in the visor; it too squashed, but not before an amber liquid squirted from the mini-mech and puffed into a mist before her eyes. Probably a knockout gas or worse she speculated, and congratulated herself for spotting the little buggers before they could do any real damage.
But several of her men were staggering and a few took a knee. She herself was feeling suddenly lightheaded. A cacophony of complaints assaulted her; chatter organization software heard the words 'dizzy' and 'nauseous'.
Tiffy shook her head and barked, "The gas... breaching the suit filters! Cut off... external oxygen intake and... switch to backup." She cursed. "Crapcrackers." Of course he would know their suit filtration parameters... he helped to design them; and although some improvements had been made since he was 'excused' from Aden, they hadn't upgraded to submicrofiltration. The suits were only designed to protect against inferior Outers technology, after all.
With fresh air the dizzy soldiers were regaining their stamina, although a few had yielded their stomach contents to the suit interior. Tiffy excused them, directing them to debrief all intel to Jolie once they reached the surface and cleared the dampening field, prior to cleanup. Timely intel was crucial, she reasoned, and dainty cleanup was not.
All the skeetoids were finally contained, the last few being physically slapped into oblivion. Tiffy ordered, "Half of you, search the tunnels-- you're to look for the Professor and capture him. Andrews, you're on point. The rest of you, let's get these doors open and the victims to safety. Remember, some may resist. Sedation clouds may be needed. Troops, advance."






The Professor somehow found his way back to the control room, sitting heavily on a crate in front of the prodigiously cabled and hastily assembled control console, still dark and unresponsive. Aaron was nowhere to be found, but he couldn't worry about that now-- he had to get the complex running again. "Initiate restart, computer."
"Initiating restart." He crossed his fingers. He did not want to resort to primary re-initialization, because during this process all controls were placed offline... including all electronically locked doors, all images from every nanocamera, and his biggest ace in repelling incursion, the dampening field. But they were already here, and he was powerless without having his wizardry online, so he was left with few options besides this, or scrapping the entire plan. The room went dark.
But there was no 'ping' of successful relaunch, no whirring of hard drives, no 'evil laugh' startup file. It was like power had become a foreign word in the abandoned utility tunnels below the city. "Computer, determine problem. Computer?" Silence. What the hell is happening? Not now, not here! It was like a comedy of errors. His head throbbed again, a pulsing pain audible in his ears.
The darkness seemed to be easing somewhat, more so with each passing moment. He turned towards the office door and realized why. The beam from some light, perhaps a torch, was playing on the stone wall outside in the hallway. Brighter it grew until he could make out the demarcation of light's edge meeting darkness, and then the source entered the office and pointed into his face, blinding him. He held a hand up and said, "Who's there? Take that light off me!"
"Sorry... Snatch."
The Professor recognized that voice, only now it was different-- it was stronger, self assured... and decidedly disrespectful. It was Aaron! "What are you doing, boy? Get over here! We have to figure out why the restart bombed!"
"I know why it bombed. I bombed it."
The Professor could now make out that the light was coming from a powerful electric torch mounted on a miner's helmet on the boy's head; it crossed the room and blazed back into his eyes; he squinted in pain.
"I won't be taking any more direction from you, Professor."
The boy's walk was firm and certain; he could see in the gloom that Aaron now stared intently at him when he spoke, whereas he wouldn't even look in his direction before, always casting his gaze floorward when speaking. The Professor didn't know how such a powerful difference could present itself so rapidly. Aaron was the first successful outcome of his conversion room plan; many of the other undergrounders had lost most of their reasoning skills and all of their personality and were little more than controllable idiots he kept in locked stalls like animals until needed. Aaron had retained what the other tunnel dwellers hadn't and the Professor wasn't certain why; he had reasoned that he was young while most of them were already badly damaged before he began the treatments. Now he was thinking the boy may have been playing him, and the conversion room computer. To what end, he didn't yet know.
Aaron continued. "I released the Secondary Incursion Response only to stop the Adeners; I didn't want to see anybody from either side get hurt. But having watched you for several months, I have to tell you... I think you might be the tiniest bit insane." Aaron stressed that last word. "Your plan is ill-conceived and hugely damaging. You can't force humanity to swallow a plan like Perfect World... it has to be eased into place, over time, convincing people with repeated exposure to its benefits."
"Pah. As long as there's a dichotomy, especially one weighted so heavily to the Outers, there will always be the danger of attack. Since Aden has it... they will want it."
"And you believe that converting a large city by takeover won't attract any government attention? It will, and your little uprising will be crushed... if they have to destroy the city to do it, and Aden, too. The US Government may have inferior technology, but we have a lot of it."
The Professor didn't miss the note of pride in Aaron's voice when he said 'we' and realized with a shock that the boy was much more than he had seemed. As if to demonstrate that perception Aaron reached behind the desk and  brought out a covered glass jar. Inside, the Professor could see a handful of the Skeetoids which made up his Secondary Incursion Response.
"For this plan to work your way, it'll have to be much, much bigger. There has to be Conversion apparatus set up in every city in the nation. We have to take down the police and military, then make a dedicated sweep of political power brokers nationwide, who will lead the pack by issuing new laws while law enforcement keeps the peace."
He began unscrewing the jar cover. "So I'll be taking over this operation from here, Professor Snatch."
The Professor ignored the insult and said haughtily, "What are you going to do with those? I'm sure you know they're tuned to ignore my RFID signal. Without targets they'll just shut themselves down."
Aaron smiled a chilling scrawl. "I know they were," and removed the cover. The mosquitoids lifted from their confines and spread through the room, establishing perimeter, checking for targets as a suddenly frightened Professor jumped spryly from his seat, aiming for the door. Aaron cautioned, "These buggies are loaded with a different toxin, not nearly as damaging as the stuff you prepared for the Adeners. I thought you cared for them-- why would you guarantee such a long and painful convalescence for those good people? The stuff I mixed up only affects the prefrontal cortex. You won't die. It will only make it difficult to engage in complex thought for a few... years. You'll still be able to puzzle out how to use a microwave oven. I think." He laughed. "Goodbye, Professor. It's been no fun at all!"
Otherwise occupied, the Professor was sprinting down the tunnel, desperately trying to remember where the nearest airtight door was. Everything should be unlocked, thanks to that dastardly boy... if he could get there before they buglets swarmed him he could escape the fate worse than death. They were fast but a sprinter was faster, so he kept up the pace, not easy for a middle-aged scientist with a head wound.
Over there-- the nano processing room was airtight and dust free! He crossed to the other side, that frightening whooshing hum nearly upon him; he threw himself at the door, which sprang open with a pop. He rolled inside and hefted himself against the heavy door, hearing the metallic click that insured all the seals were engaged. He listened to the 'tik- tik- tik' of tiny machines smacking into the steel door, destroyed, with satisfaction, completely oblivious to the solitary skeetoid crawling on his collar...





"I told you this was a bad idea." White sat hunched over the console, head in his hands.
"Not to worry. She doesn't need us... she has all the same sensing equipment down there that we do up here. We were placed up here for our safety, and as an out-of-the-way backup plan." But Ginnie didn't sound at all certain of that.
"Still, I'm mortified that the first time I get to show my value to Aden was only as a lover." White sagged and murmured sarcastically, " With my track record, I'm sure they'll really want me now."
Ginnie sidled up to him, placed her arms around his neck, whispering. "You were mighty wonderful, Officer, even though we were interrupted. But you know we're not in the least bit prudish about sex in Aden, right?
"Well, yeah... no... yeah. But there's a time and a place, right?" He snuggled against her, vaguely comforted.
"Would you relax? It will be fine." She tousled his hair and smiled coyly. "Do you wanna go again? We never finished..."
White straightened and glared at her. "Are you nuts? The operation is still in play down there! What if they need us? Getting caught again-- that's the last thing I need!"
Ginnie giggled. "I was kidding! Sort of. Let's get back to work, then." She sat beside him and watched the monitor, while her hand furtively crept over and cradled his bulging manhood. His breath caught raggedly, but she noticed he wasn't pulling away, so continued her gentle massage.
Pretending not to notice, he watched the monitors. "What's happening there?" he asked, pointing to a heat signature map of the tunnels generated by the nanostream, glowing with hundreds of dots bunched into segments.
Ginnie interpreted the images. "Tiff split her crew up, probably to search the tunnels, looking for the Snatch."
Will smirked. "Snatch. He told me he doesn't like that nickname... says being called a girl part is disrespectful." He noticed new movement. "What's that over there?" pointing to the far right.
She emitted a low whistle. "I had no idea he was that far along-- the Outer's news reports estimated less than a dozen-- but would you look at that!"
"What?"
"They're the Snatch's 'zombies'-- the converted-- and lots of them! Hundreds, maybe even a thousand! And they're on an intercept path with the rescue teams!"
"Oh no! What do we do?"
"The party's started, Louie! This is what we trained for!" Ginnie radioed down in her most professional manner. "Alpha Team Leader, you have incoming bogies, human bogies... a lot of them, approaching from multiple directions! Have your members engage personal  RFID on on my mark... MARK."
"Acknowledged. And thanks, Ginnie."
Feeling exonerated, Ginnie brought the Tranq Flock online. In seconds, a thundering vibration could be felt throughout the ship as the mechanized army flexed their collective wings and powered up. She nudged White. "Here, Louie... you do the honors," and pointed at the flashing 'Launch' button.
"With pleasure." In a smooth motion he depressed the button; with a click, then a whirr the Flock room hatch receded open as the birds flew off the shelves, literally. The view in that room became obscured momentarily as the air filled with hundreds of flapping, feather-light carbonite mechanisms; in a moment they were free of the ship and hurtling towards their prey.
Allowing gravity to enable supercharging, the 'birds' sucked up and stored all that free energy, then re-engaged in flight shortly before being pulverized by the ground. They flew down the manhole uniformly, like bats from a cave, hugging the ceiling. They 'saw' the Alpha teams and identified them as friendlies, passing overhead with a flurry of beating wings reminiscent of sheets snapping in the wind. The teams below were in the heat of  a largely one-sided battle, the only weapon used by the converted were their sheer numbers. Spooge guns popped and popped until there were no more charges remaining; large white blobs littered the tunnels for hundreds of yards, each containing an impotently struggling golem. The now-weaponless defensive teams fell back and let the Flock do its job.
As the tunnels split their programming had them break into smaller groups, seeking targets; whenever one was found, the lead bird 'spit' a glowing tranq dart from its mouth, tracking the path to ensure a hit. Others verified the target was nullified before acquiring one of their own. When all tranq darts were expended the bird left the fray and sought a Scobee SRS transport on the surface, settling itself into a recharge/resupply bank.
Like waves parting before them the Flock efficiently placed the antagonists into an etherized state; they became sluggish, dizzy and slumped to the ground, unconscious for the next 6-8 hours. Soon every tunnel for a mile had been searched and cleared of targets, and the Flock returned to their charging stations. The battle was over.
Once assured of safety for her men, Tiffy had her team remove the Professor's army to the Scovees. She'd gotten the word to relocate them directly from Aden; at some point during the scuffle the dampening field had abruptly ceased, restoring all communications. All the golems were going to the Schuylkill Centenarium, an Aden-type of jail which had over 100,000 rooms designed to gently mold antisocial or troubled people back into productive, valuable members of society in a fraction of the time that traditional jails held people that received no training at all.
These men and women were going to be a special case, she was told; intel that Aden had received during the blackout indicated the source of the Professor's retaliation force-- an underground homeless community that lived in the tunnels prior to the Professor's takeover. They were the unfortunate many, caught in the Professor's self-serving crossfire, receiving from him the final indignity in a life of disrespect-- loss of self.
Her radio sprang to life. "Tiffy, you're going to want to see this. Sending directions."
"On my way, Andrews." The tunnels had been powered up and were now brightly lit. Looking through her visor, her next turn appeared as an arrow in the near distance, growing larger as she approached. It continued this way for several turns. Soon she was at the location-- a large room with an impressively solid door, ajar. Inside, on the floor... was the Professor. He was awake but unfocused and speaking quietly to himself, rocking. His jack boots were off and set up neatly by his side, his feet sockless, and he was holding two of his toes with his fingers.
Andrews had been hunched over him and stood up when Tiffy arrived. "He just keeps repeating the same thing, over and over. He doesn't seem to hear me at all."
"Well, get him onto a secure gurney and back to the Scovee. She bent over and said softly, "Professor? It's Tiffy Bennett. Do you remember me?"
He remained transfixed with his toes, unwilling or unable to acknowledge her. Quietly, almost in a whisper, he said, "Eight and a half minutes for a pizza, eight, three, zero, start. Five minutes for boiling water, five, zero, zero, start. Twelve minutes for a baked potato, one, two, zero, zero, start. Thirty five seconds to reheat a muffin, three, five, start. Eight and a half minutes for a pizza..." As he spoke he moved his fingers to different toes, then back, in meaningless rhythm.
Tiffy's eyes filled. What was going on? This might be the most brilliant, if twisted, man since Steven Hawking... what's happened to his mind? Then she noticed a small red mark on his neck; pulling back his collar, she found one of those mosquitoids laying nearby, inert. She pulled a sample bag from her pack and knocked it into the bag; whatever had been injected into the Professor would be analyzed once they reached Aden.





Back on the now-crowded Scovee Launcher, Tiffy was sitting with White in the forward cabin. They watched through the large window as the huge craft navigated itself silently above the puffy cumulus clouds, skirting from one to the next, avoiding visual detection from the surface while its black skin avoided detection by any electronic means. Louie watched, jaw sagging. "This craft is... hopping? Sliding? What the hell kind of airplane does that?"
"I can't really explain it... it's not my field." Said Tiffy, "but if you really want to know I'm sure some of my men are scientists and could help you understand what makes this 'airplane' fly."
"Scientists? Aren't they soldiers?"
"We don't have any soldiers."
White looked confused. "What are all these guys then, and you?"
"Volunteers," she said simply.
"Like small town firemen?" he offered.
"Exactly. In Aden we test every person for all of their natural abilities. Then we train the heck out of those abilities. So while someone might be a horrible singer, cook or mathematician, they're fantastic at hundreds of other things. And we know it."
"So all of these 'soldiers'..."
"Are regular citizens that have good coordination and stamina, are brave and take direction well when needed. Perfect soldier material. But the moment soldier duty is over, they go back to their regular lives... as parents, teachers, farmers, musicians and on, and on. You should learn about us... take this travel time to talk to them."
"Oh, I will. Can't wait." White looked earnestly at her. "Tiffy?"
"Yes?"
"Do you know what Aden has in store for me?"
Tiffy smiled and squeezed his arm. "What do you want to happen to you?"
"Honestly... I'd love to spend some time there."
"Forget it. Not going to happen. Grab a parachute. We're letting you out, here!" Her face was passionless.
White was shocked. "Wha...?"
She giggled. "Kidding. You're coming with us after we drop our golem guests off in Philadelphia. Good enough for you?"
"Do you have somewhere I can change my ruined underwear?" White was mortified.
"Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry!"
It was his turn. "Kidding. But I thought... when you caught us... you know... having sex, that that was it for me."
She laughed sweetly. "Are you kidding? I wanted to be there with you! I was a little jealous, truth be known. Besides, I bet Ginnie started it."
"I can't kiss and tell."
"That's okay. I'll watch the recordings."
White said, "Oh, dear."
As if on cue Ginnie knocked and entered, sitting down beside White on the couch, unaware of the conversation. "Hi. Every guest is stowed, including Detective Rosston." She looked at him, eyes downcast. "Louie, I'm sorry. He's pretty vacant-- his awareness seems gone." She brightened. "But the Centenarium is a miracle place. If someone's mind can be fixed at all, it'll happen there."
"Wow. Poor guy. I hope he comes out of it all right." White shook his head. "He was an angry man, though, had a lot on his mind. Maybe the Centenarium can return everything but that."
"I hope. One more thing," Ginnie continued. "That kid, the Snatch's helper, Aaron? Well, he must have gotten overlooked. I can't find him on the ship anywhere."
Tiffy said, "It's a mess down in the tunnels. We going to send a scout team down to search the place again anyway. Plus we're going to have to destroy all that equipment with Pyrification using Kinetic Melters right away, before it gets discovered. Can you imagine that kind of technology in the hands of Outers? No offense."
"None taken. I never felt like I belonged, anyway." White squeezed Ginnie's waist.
She asked Tiffy, "Were you able to pinpoint the locations of his other lairs?"
"No. We're going to have to do that the old-fashioned way, with feet on the ground. But we'll find the kid and bring him back to Aden with the Professor. Maybe he will heal faster with a familiar face nearby."






Returning to her apartment on the 39th floor of the 200 story Aden superstructure Tifania Bennett, Citizen, dropped to the couch, snow-angel style. "Jolie, time?"
"Eight-forty-seven AM."
"Thank you, dear." Twenty four hours! It had been only twenty four hours since she was last in this apartment. She was astonished at all that had transpired in one day... and was ready for it to be over. But first, a shower, and maybe more, in her beloved cleanse unit. Her body had been rocked and was ready for a little TLC.
Stepping out of her one-piece, Tiffy walked nude across her apartment and into the bathroom; stopping at the full length mirror, she examined herself for any damage. All good... but something was amiss. Her plush robe usually hung on a hook behind the door but there it was, across the bathroom, hanging nearly to the floor beside the mirror where she stood. And there was something else...
Feet. There were feet sticking out beneath them!
Smiling coyly, Tiffy spoke aloud. "Oh, I am so lonely! I wish a good looking young man would come and visit me... maybe even my neighbor Trev. He has grown into such an attractive young man." She watched with amusement as her robe moved side to side slightly as she did, the young man trying to avoid discovery. The mirror's reflection clearly showed him there, nude, all young perfect smooth skin. "I bet if he came over and asked me, I'd let him do an-y-thing he wanted to me." She purposely slowed the word to see his reaction. She was not disappointed
At that moment, right there in the center of her robe, there was now a movement, a definite lump forming in the robe, extending impressively into the room. Tiffy switched off the light and turned the shower on, then crouched down in front of her robe. Oh, Trev was going to learn a wonderful life lesson this morning.

Copyright 2011 Bruce I Friedman