City of Slow Dreams: Chapter 2 (by Elliot Bowers)

Van “woke up” this morning. In her mind, she put that in deliberate quotes. That was not the correct phrasing, since she never really slept. Never. Spending nights in the walk in closet—used for cleaning supplies—was not ever a way for anyone to sleep.

There was no soreness, though. She was never sore. As for possible stains on her clothes, Van kept this little place clean, even the floor. Clean enough as so she would not be punished for sloppy work. She would be fine, at least physically.

She stood—stood very slowly, still dressed in her short-skirted waitress uniform. She was five feet tall; average height for the people of Brunswick—be they synthetic-bodied or real-bodied. As for her beauty, her synthetic body was made to suit general tastes of today: slim, with smooth pale skin. Her jet-dark hair normally hung straight down her back after the day was over—a dark banner of beauty to augment her round and high-cheekboned face. Finalizing her looks were her dark eyes. Her dark eyes, they tended to give her an open and constantly startled look. Perhaps centuries ago, she would have been considered beautifully Eurasian.

Now she was just considered something else—at least to Steve. Steve called her many things. And Steve used to do many things to her when he first bought her. Then perhaps, the startled look of her eyes was not just physical.

Her morning hygiene ideally consisted of scrubbing her skin, then spraying her synth-cotton clothes and polymer hair with quick cleaning catalyst. There was no need to change clothes now; she washed them last night. No other clothes to change into anyway, regardless of how badly she wanted to change from this too short pleated skirt and form-fitting long-sleeved blouse, a hint of an apron over the blouse.

Her synth-skin, somewhat more fine than the skin that went onto average synthetic bodies, was more prettier to look at but tended to accumulate dust—the reason for scrubbing her skin. She tried to scrub daily.

Hopefully, Steve would let her finish washing her skin today before he came out angry. Steve thought that ownership of the café and ownership of Van meant that he had license to treat them both as he saw fit. Legally, that was actually correct. Though, Steve cared more about his café than he did about the one worker—the waitress—he had for it.

Moving to the bathroom, she settled for just scrubbing her arms, hands and neck. As soon as she did, she rushed back to the cleaning supplies walk-in to get the mop and a spray bottle of general sanitization catalyst. Just fine spritzes of the bottle was all that it took to convert dirt and dust into part of the ceramic-and-polymer checkered floor.

Van went to the main dining area: just four tables before a long curving counter for serving. She dexterously put her dark hair in a tied bun. If the sun were up, the large square windows against the front—the ones facing the street—would bring in much sunlight to add to the florescent light inside. It was gloomy now as the sun was not quite up yet. But her enhanced eyesight was enough to see by. She set to alternately spraying the floor and brushing with the broom.

It became a rhythm of spraying and swiping with the mop. As her own myogel muscles never tired, she would not at all tire from this. Then, Van allotted a portion of her though processing capabilities to cleaning while setting aside free memory for contemplation of other things.

She thought of other things, her “brain” working. The sun was just barely touching the edge of the horizon. Likely, Steve would be here soon. He was not being too bad a person nowadays; he did not punish her as much as he did last week. There was plenty of yelling, and his words were darker, but he was still generally kinder. Van wondered why.

Maybe, Steve managed to buy better stock in Administrations? Administrations was the general name for the basic corporate body that ran this city, owned the largest production and utility facilities. Administrations even owned the e-cops, which was not saying much. But it took Administrations to supply Brunswick with basic production and facilities enough to operate.

If Steve bought the right amount of stock, he would instantly become an executive. Then, he would get more money and hire someone to take over running of the café. Becoming an executive was a one-in-fifty thousand chance, but the chance was still there.

Van slowed her cleaning as she neared the other end of the main dining area. And much of her thought processes still went to considering possibilities of Steve’s nicer behavior—and possibilities to grow out of that behavior. If Steve left to become an executive somehow and someone did take over, then maybe she would be better-treated?

Van thought of better treatment. She would be allowed to do full maintenance every morning as needed in working here. Maybe a new uniform or two? Maybe, even some other outfits beside this one. Something with a lower skirt. Or what about tights? Something to cover her more. But those were wishes; she had to finish cleaning this floor.

That done, she left the dining area and went to the back to exchange her current items: this time getting a different bottle of cleaning catalyst and a wash cloth. This one was for surfaces other than floors.

Now to clean everything else. First came the four tables and the counter. With arms stronger than they looked, Van quickly and efficiently took the chairs down from the tables. That done, she sprayed the lighter cleaning catalyst onto tabletops and gave a once-over wipe to each. That took under a minute.

The counter was next, one fronted by high stools for customers that wanted to eat quicker. With the same procedure, Van cleaned and sanitized the counter, spraying and wiping to absolutely remove dirt. This cleaning catalyst could also be used for the food-preparation surfaces of the kitchenette behind the counter. Van went behind the counter, set to cleaning those surfaces. Since there were such finer and more articulate things to clean than out in the dining area, she had to allot more of her thought processes to…

Slam! That was the heavy back door. Steve, thought Van. She then diverted most all of her thought processes to cleaning more of the food preparation area. This, though Steve’s footsteps came down the narrow hall from the back area to this larger place.

Steve came in, a hairy-armed and brown-haired man with a pasty face—a very large gut in a brown jacket and white pants. His jacket unzipped, it revealed a large and paunch-restraining white shirt beneath. His soft face had a hard look on it.

“You know, Van, you were once the best money could buy,” he began with his baritone voice. “Is that in your long-term memory? When I bought you used, I was getting my money’s worth then. That was about twenty-two or so years ago.” A second of silence. “Yeah, I’m free to talk that generally, saying about and or so, because my brain is alive. I’m human, so I can get away with being general. Your brain? Ha! It’s a bunch of computer-works! No wonder you aren’t done with morning cleaning. I think that’s because computer brains are not as good a real human brains. Dumb robot-bitch…”

Van suspected something very terrible, knew something terrible would come. She slowed her scrubbing, then turned to look at Steve. He had pulled a long rectangular gray kind of case from his right jacket pocket. He pointed that remote at Van and pressed one control stud on it.

The effects were instant. Van became rigid, her hands suddenly going straight and dropping the cleaning items. Her dark eyes spasmed wider and became even larger, and her lips parted. Small hissing sounds came from the voice synthesizers in her plastic-ringed throat. She remained standing somehow, statue stiff.

“Damned gynoid, that’s what you earn for disrespecting a human. Working so damned slow. Don’t forget that real people are better than fake people. And, especially, never forget that I hate disappointment. I hate it.”

She could barely process the words through her pain. Her body felt heated, as if the filament-thin signal mobility circuitry of her body were melting. It culminated in the “pain” signals that filled her mind circuitry. It was a prolonged and personal Hell, every nanosecond. And as Van’s processors sped up in response to the pain, the pain seemed longer.

“Yeah, I think you’ll remember now. That’s enough punishment,” said Steve. He removed his thumb from the control stud, and… Thud. Van finally went slack, collapsing to the hard floor with her pale arms and legs splayed. Deeper programming within her “mind” went through preliminary systems diagnostics as she lie there. Or lay there; Van was a gynoid, not human. A synth-flesh being with a body that looked human, but with a mind of crystals and computers. All that physically separated her from being classified as a person was her computer-brain.

Because of that fact, that her brain and body both were synthetic, Steve could own her. He did own her. He could treat her however he saw fit. Even mis-treat her.

He stared at Van as she finally recovered from the stupor brought about by overload. Recovered as if nothing at all happened. Her mobility systems had recalibrated. But in terms of software, the damage was done. Van wished that she could cry. Not now, though; Steve would just punish her yet more.

It was noon, and warm out on the downtown streets. But Alia looked snugly dressed. She was clothed in a turtleneck, long slacks and warm gloves—was now being led by the hand. Dressed so in children’s clothing, none of her body’s metal was exposed: just her synth-fleshed head of pretty face and blonde hair. That made her look human. As for being led by the hand, this time it was by choice rather than by intimidation. It was part of the plan, going to the café—for taking the gynoid.

The Cloaked Man told Alia that he once in the past, coincidentally, tried buying the gynoid from Steve, the owner of the café. But Steve refused to part with the gynoid, told him to get another. The Cloaked Man wanted that gynoid, though. And if The Cloaked Man’s assessment of Steve’s character was accurate, then Steve will have forgotten about The Cloaked Man. All the same, disguise never hurt. With The Cloaked Man’s cape folded up and into the back of his tee shirt, he looked like most any other customer with a cute little “daughter”—even if she did look a touch albino, hair and skin.

They came to the big-windowed front of the café. “Oh, shoot! How god-awful! How evil, terrible and downright darkened!” He took some steps closer to the café, staring up at the sign. “What did I tell you? The name is evil! This has to be the worst name for a café.”

Alia stared up at the risk of exposing the machinery of her neck. On that, she brought up her free left hand to keep the turtleneck’s sleevelike collar up and concealing. “The sign is what it is. In function, it advertises by way of simplicity. By form, it serves its purpose,” she said.

“But it’s just so dang cliché!” answered The Cloaked Man. “There’s so damned little originality in that sign that we’d have to hunt with tweezers to find said originality. Does the naming get any less creative than that? I mean, dang it to heck!” He sighed. “Ah well. Let’s go pretend to be human and eat, ‘daughter.’”

“With certainty, my ‘father,’” said Alia in return. They then went in.

Because of lunch break, there were plenty of humans around. There were still people with real bodies in Brunswick, and people with real bodies needed food. Middle-aged and young people all sat about eating donuts and sandwiches, drinking coffee. The long counter was fully occupied. But there were two of four tables free—both round formica tables away from the window. The ‘father’ and ‘daughter’ sat down.

Steve, working behind the counter, shouted. “Van! New customers! Do you need an A.I. module replacement or what?” Not that Steve would put up the two hundred dollars needed to replace Van’s brain, but the passing threat was death—equivalent to saying, I’ll cut open your head and replace your mind.

Van, still in her close-fitting blouse and apron, with too-brief pleated skirt, then went from porting trays of food to getting menus. She then went over to the table with the new customers. “Welcome to Steve’s Café.” She hesitated when the curly-haired man winced at Steve’s. But she continued and handed the two menus. “May I take your order?”

Alia pursed her lips and tilted her head to the right as she carefully opened the laminated menu. The Cloaked Man mirrored her, even tilting his head to the side and opening the menu with the same care Alia did. But his voice was certainly un-Alia-like.

“Yep, I’ll have myself a pitcher of damned good coffee. Damned good coffee. And bring lots and lots of donuts. I mean, about a dozen or so.” He looked up from the menu. “I really like donuts—and damned good coffee.”

Van recorded the order in her memory. She then bent slightly over and smiled. The little girl at the table looked very precious, if different. Whereas most everyone in Brunswick had dark or brown hair, that little one had snow-pale straight hair that went nearly to her back.

The little one even sounded precious. “I will take a glass of warm cow’s milk, please. It adds to my well-being,” she finished. Van was impressed with the girl’s articulation. And she left to synthesize the orders from the area behind the counter: donuts synthesized in something that resembled a boxy microwave; coffee and milk from a low faucet connected to a specialized liquid foodstuffs synthesizer.

In four minutes, Van returned with all the goods on a platter—a platter held with robotic precision. She brought the items to the table, then put them down before the two. “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” said The Cloaked Man. He then reached into his left pocket. Then, out of that pocket, he pulled a fistful of various dollar bills. Some of those bills were fifty-spots.

He handed that to the waitress. “That ought to cover just this meal, and a tip along with it,” he said. He then considered the waitress’ facial expression again. “Hey, what’s wrong with my money? Everyone loves it. And it can’t be dirty with any possible grime of my own; my skin is rubberoid.”

“Sir, this is an unusually large tip! I… I’m sure Steve will appreciate it… Sir?” As Van said that, The Cloaked Man was already opening his square jaw to stuff an entire donut into it. Then, she saw how much “difficulty” he had in eating the donut.

He took the pitcher of coffee up from the table, to drink straight from it. In fact, plenty of seconds passed as The Cloaked Man downed the entire liter-sized pitcher of coffee. When he put it down, the pitcher clunked hollowly.

“Father, what passes?” asked Alia. “You wear a pained expression, and you truly consumed a pitcher of coffee—in entirety. Very unusual.”

“I’ll tell you what, sweet-face: The donuts really suck! Sucky suck! Not that you’re supposed to know what that really means, but the donuts suck all the same.” The Cloaked Man then looked up at the waitress. Then said, “These donuts suck harder than my wife! And my wife just got an upgraded body!” He spoke louder as so he was sure everyone could hear. “These donuts suck so hard that they ought to be given out to the prostitutes! The donuts suck, so they really fuck customers by the mouth.”

“Hey, watch your language!” shouted Steve, now looking over the counter and at the table of The Cloaked Man. “If not for you yourself, quiet down for your daughter’s sake! Nobody wants to get hurt, right?”

“Oh ho, what in tarnation is that supposed to mean? Or do you mean what you say? Do you mean to be mean in what you say, which means being a meanie…?” voiced The Cloaked Man. “Because if you mean to be mean, then the meaning of what I have to do becomes known. Know what I mean?”

Steve shook his head. “That’s it! I’ve never been a bouncer before, but this ought to give me some experience with it.” Steve then went out from behind the counter. His paunch and hands swaying, he came to the table and shoved Van out of the way. “All right, buddy,” said Steve. “Let’s go! You and me.”

Alia spoke next from the other side of the table, her round face serene. “Go? Do we go, father? I began to appreciate the otherwise ill quality of this establishment’s ambiance… Being here must surely ameliorate character.” To wit, Alia looked around and she gently rubbed her squinted eyes with the back of her hand. “Ah, my strength of discipline improves already.”

“ ‘Discipline?’ Little smarmy bitch! I’ll show you discipline,” growled the already angry Steve. With that growl, he made a rush at Alia, his hammy hand up in a fist, but she just blurred away from the table. The big man was then stunned at the rapidity of the “girl’s” movement. He then turned to The Cloaked Man.

Who was now standing, his fists balled. “Discipline,” said The Cloaked Man. Then he wheeled his left elbow across Steve’s surprisingly solid cheek—an elbow-strike. The blow removed Steve’s head from his neck, sending a jet of fluids straight up from the neck stump.

Not blood. The fluid was a translucent liquid—coolant and lubricant. The body fell over, but the head was dead; no more electrical power to the processors in the head. Apparently, “Steve” was a fully synthetic being—an android. He was done up to just look like a flesh-bodied human, with physical faults in evidence: portly gut, chubby face and blemishes. And legally, he must have been declared human as citizenship records are probably faulted. Whatever: Steve was not at all real.

With the “owner” of Steve’s Café “dead,” The Cloaked Man and Alia now had themselves free claim to the gynoid waitress. Someone to add to their party. They did so now. Alia gently held Van’s right hand, and The Cloaked Man gently took the other. The synthetic girl looked left and right, seeing both of her sudden new friends smiling. She smiled in turn. Hand in metal hand and in synth-flesh hand, the three walked out of Steve’s Café.

Not seconds later, the customers simply had a day with the place. People leapt over counters and began snatching food. Several anxiously went to brutalize the cash-credit register. And people just generally went all about: pillaging the place as the headless robot lay (not lie!) broken on the floor. It was free-balling and chaotic customer behavior now.

As that happened, the three walked along the pedestrian-sprinkled sidewalk and straight away from the chaotic café. The seven foot giants in dapper clothes and trench coats would come soon. They would be by soon to squelch the insanity that now consumed the café, and it was prudent to be a decent distance away when that squelching happened. These three didn’t quite want to feel blows cracks of repulsor-field batons.

They continued their walk a bit more. Somewhere along the way, Van let down her night-dark hair. All the while, they looked about for signs of the e-cops. None came to them. Not yet, at least.

“Myself, I believe this becomes distance enough,” said Alia. Then, wordlessly, they stopped their walking and moved to the side of the sidewalk to talk. Alia’s new pert face had a faint smile as she looked up and spoke to her two companions. “That qualifies as the best amusement I have experienced in memory.” The Cloaked Man crossed his arms and grinned at the statement. “The statement is understatement, I admit. My long-term memory failed once,” she added.

With everyone standing in a sort of close-standing huddle, Van looked down at the little “girl” in turtleneck and neat pants, then back at the tall “father” in tee shirt and matching slacks. The behavior these two put on back there was abnormal for father and daughter. Van knew this as she stored plenty of behavioral data on those demographics.

At least, the behavior would be abnormal if these two were human. But they were not. Their skin was too smooth and perfect, which made those two cyborgs. The crystals and circuitry of Van’s mind continued analysis, trying to understand the “man” and the “little girl.”

She had to take in more information. But first, she had to be kind. A pair of cyborgs took her from her life of abuse, if being a humanoid robot could be life. Looking down at the sidewalk, Van spoke with sincerity—some of her long dark hair falling to the sides of her pale face. “I have to thank you two for what you did for me. I never expected people with living brains to help me. Thank you, whoever you two are.”

The Cloaked Man sported an immense grin before speaking. “I’m The Cloaked Man. And my sidekick is called Alia!” Alia gave a start, being called a sidekick. “As for thanks,” continued The Cloaked Man, “our deed was nothing, Van! We are heroes of truth, good and justice! We act to undo wrongs and help the downtrodden! There is much evil in this city, and it is our quest to stomp out evil wherever it lurks!” The Cloaked Man then reached to his back and unfurled his cape from where it was pulled into his shirt. Unfurled, it rippled grandly at his back, like a banner. He put his hands on his hips, standing proud and said, “We are the Good Guys League!”

Alia large eyes looked up at The Cloaked Man. Just looked. The Cloaked Man looked down at her, and his grin faded. Then he removed his hands from his hips and just let them hang at his sides. There was no need for the small metal-type cyborg to berate him away from this behavior.

“Okay, okay…” he said in looking at the blonde metal-type cyborg. “So I made up the part about the ‘Good Guys League.’ But we’re still out to make justice—for ourselves, at least. Reason enough for saving Van, right Alia?”

Alia looked up at the gynoid. “For truth’s sake, we now aim to travel—significant travel. And we both believe we need you—to come along with us. You being ‘rescued’ was a matter of course. Fate and such.” She then looked back up at The Cloaked Man.

The Cloaked Man nodded. “We saw you in a dream, Van. Rather, you were parts of both our dreams. You were in my freaky night-vision. I just—like—had this vision of a deck of cards, and you were one of them. That’s chance, right? Or is that fate? Maybe it’s that old-fashioned word serendipity. Heh, I like saying that; let me say it again. Serendipity. Se-ren-dipity. Dipity-dipity-dipity. Se-ren… Dipity!” Then Alia gave him that look again, and he stopped. “I’m stopping! I’m stopping! Just cool it a bit…” Se-ren-dipity!

“But you still took me away from that place,” said the synthetic Eurasian girl. With all the mannerisms of a human being, she played with the edges of her too-short skirt, looking down. “It’s just that I’ve always been owned by Steve. And all this time, I thought that he was a human, given how fat he was. Who would dare manufacture a synthetic body like that? Someone intending to make an android that passed for human—real fleshed, not a cyborg.

“Because of Steve, I always believed that humans and cyborgs, at least those with living brains, were with bad behavior and ill nature. I never thought that anyone would come to me…” Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to say more. My thought processes are less than efficient because of my augmented emotional emulation. I must pay you back somehow, but it is hard to say how.”

The Cloaked Man smiled and leaned forward, toward Van. He then tilted his head forward, conspiriationally. “You see,” he began in a low voice. “It’s not a good idea to give us that sort of open offer, robo-girl. Alia and I are quite a demanding twosome, and we need a lot done. We’ve got a big plan, and we need big help in doing it. When the little metal-type cyborg mentioned ‘traveling,’ she meant out-of-town travel.” He looked toward the street and pointed—which was pointing north. “We shall travel, and we shall go adventuring! We’ll get plenty of drama! There will be glory! And wonder! And mystery! Ooh yes, we’re going to leave Brunswick and cross the plains. We’re heading north, to the City of Slow Dreams.”

“What?” exclaimed Van, and The Cloaked Man looked back at her. “Are you crazy? Isn’t the City of Slow Dreams just another traveler’s legend? According to what I know, at least what was downloaded into my memory, the City of Slow Dreams could not exist out there. It’s anarchy out on the plains—just wide spaces with plenty of grass and rubble-remains of cities destroyed by the War. Oh sure, there are some settlements. But those settlements are scattered and primitive.”

Alia listened, then began to tug at the long collar of her turtleneck shirt. The Cloaked Man noticed the movement. “Yeah, you can just dump that outfit if you want, Alia. The e-cops could see you and could become a problem. Could be, if they had competence enough to come look for us, including you with that particular outfit.” Alia slightly bowed her head in acknowledgement, then removed her clothes: turtle neck, slacks, and shoes. She went to the alley to put the clothes in a neat pile, thinking about how she could alleviate The Cloaked Man’s wordiness.

She returned to the other two—and was then openly stared at by Van. The gynoid’s eyes were wide at seeing Alia’s bare body, which just resembled form-fitting armor on a petite female. “What? You’re a metal-type cyborg! How can you still be alive?” The software of Van’s thought processes was really being flexed now. First, this “Cloaked Man” made a claim about the City of Slow Dreams being real, in addition to believing in a dream about needing a gynoid. Now, the little blonde girl-woman revealed herself as a metal-type cyborg. This all stretched probability.

“Gynoid, you’re not taking all of this too well, are you?” asked The Cloaked Man, regarding Van. “Anyway, we are heading for the City of Slow Dreams. You know, that wonderful place where the decency and stability of the Old Times still live on, where people can get decent lives and purpose, and all that. We’re not going to travel on foot to get there, though. We’re going to buy some nuke bikes and head out to there… If I only knew where to buy them…”

Alia gently shook her head. “You never told me that part of the plan, Cloaked Man.” Likely, you have been in this city longer than I have. Yet, you fail to know some of the most basic facts about Brunswick’s more colorful segment of the populace. Namely, I refer to the Ganglanders.”

The Cloaked Man looked at Alia, then at Van. Both looked on at him now as if he suddenly sprouted an arm from his mouth, and that arm was now flying away. “Well, so what if I didn’t know? Not that I’m stupid or anything; I read several articles in the Bub City News on nuke bikes. So we go to wherever the Ganglanders buy their nuke bikes. We then get three of our own. Then we mount up and head for the city limits. What’s so staringly hard about that?”

Van spoke. “Nobody can buy nuke bikes. Nobody. That is why almost no one other than Ganglanders own nuke bikes, in fact. And the few people that obtained nuke bikes and lived almost never ride them out in public. Because they paid high prices to get them, but not with money.”

The Cloaked Man put on a sarcastic show of fright by slapping his hands to his face and widening his eyes, mouth wide as well. “O-o-oh. Sounds scary! I’m so-o-o scared. It sounds so-o-o frightening that I’d piss in my pants—if I ever needed to piss, being synthetic bodied and all. Though I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m still not scared.”

Van shook her head. “Cloaked Man, I’m going to say this straight: You have to beat Ganglanders in fighting—in dueling—to get nuke bikes. Nuke bikes are never sold in shops. Nobody but the Ganglanders even know where to get them. And then…”

“I know about the origins theories,” interjected The Cloaked man. “I read the journals. Trouble is, those damned journals can’t find the source of the darned things. Why not? Administrations has its hands in everyone’s commercial business ”

Van counter-argued. “Not in everyone’s business. City Administrations almost doesn’t do anything outside running utilities, primary source materials synthesis, and all that. Administrations just subsidizes roughly twenty or so e-cops for this entire town, just for appearance’s sake. Then, the Ganglanders just do their own thing. The Ganglanders, they’re their own sort of tribe, you know?”

The Cloaked Man smiled, then gave a chuckle. “Heh heh… Oh, this is all turning out to be so much darned fun! Bad enough some Ganglanders just like to pick fights. Now, we have to pick a fight with them? That’ll be a first.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, let’s go raise a little Hell with Ganglanders. It shouldn’t be hard at all. In fact, it should be downright easy!”

“Do you merely rant now,” voiced Alia, “or is that an authentic statement? You seem to be in another one of your moods. Be more succinct.”

The Cloaked Man looked up and over Alia’s pale-blonde head. Not too hard to do, since he was two feet taller than her small self. Behind her, on the street, was a group of four synth leather-clad ladies and gentlemen willing to take into the very sort of proposition The Cloaked Man had in mind.

It was very silly of the three not to have noticed that pedestrian traffic had now switched over to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. And, it was foolish not to have noticed the bike-mounted Ganglanders right there—two males and two females, all thin and young-looking. They were listening all of this time. Now, they wanted to talk.

One of the two Ganglanders, a red-haired leggy one with a sharp and dangerous face, put down her bike’s kickstand—a six-foot dangerous-looking female in the Ganglander outfit of jeans, tee shirt and black jacket. She then slowly dismounted—her green eyes on The Cloaked Man. She then stood immediately before her nuke bike. Pointing with a gleaming silvery hand, she addressed The Cloaked Man.

“You, chap, desire nuke bikes for your party, eh?” she said, her round kind of English accent immediately clear. “Well-well-well, we’ve nuke bikes. Plenty! You’ll not be able to nick them, mind you. No, my caped friend, you’ll have to do the opposite of that; you must make an attempt at earning them. Am I clear on that point?”

The Cloaked Man nodded. That, and the other two members of his party moved to flank him. The Ganglander leader then spoke on. “Then, my good man, I am clear. To everyone. Good. Now, after a roundabout means of introduction, let me tell of how your party may try to earn three rugged, authentic, and downright rollicking nuke bikes.

“You will rumble for them—to tell you what one of your colleagues already told you. In townie translation, ‘rumbling’ means fighting—to the point where one’s body can no longer move—or one’s brain is dead. That is, damage to the point of immobility or death. Agree?” She saw The Cloaked Man nod.

“You agree. So we begin the match. And, I choose to fight that metal-type cyborg.” Alia’s large dark eyes narrowed. The Ganglander leader smiled. “Don’t eye me that way, little one. This is merely business.”

“Then, let us commence transactions,” said Alia in turn. That led to some chattering and knowing nods among the Ganglanders behind their leader. For someone so small, that one was pretty sassy.

The Ganglander leader raised her right hand to the sky, the fine titanium bonework glinting against the sky. “Make a duel ring!” she said. Her three cohorts complied.

With hearty thundering of engines, they motored their bikes back to the street, circling. Then, they parked them ten yards apart—forming an equilateral triangle in which the bikes were the three equidistant points. The three Ganglanders then stood to the rights of their bikes. This alternating combination of Ganglanders and nuke bikes formed a circular fighting space—what they called a “duel ring.”

The Ganglander leader knelt. Too quickly, she next leapt upward and backward—airborne. She came down in a reverse dive, landing on her solid armored palms. This put her in the center of the duel ring. She then righted herself, bringing her legs and feet to the ground. That was a show of intense control and agility for someone with a replacement body.

“Come along, metal-type. If you’re really an antique, then your War skills should prove an interesting match for my own fighting style.”

Alia heard, then leapt high and away from her own friends, a small figure against the blue sky. She simply landed on her armored boot-feet, standing five yards in front of the leader. Dr. Gallager was to thank for this upgrade from simple metal feet to these advanced peds.

Alia in the duel ring, the Ganglander leader said, “Let’s rock.” The Ganglander raised her metal fists, eyeing the small metal-type cyborg. She took some sideward steps left, then right. Repeated the movement. Her black booted feet were quite nimble. Then, in mid-step, she did a low-flying leap at Alia, alloy fist raised...

Alia tried to sway, to evade… Clink! Metal struck metal; the Ganglander’s fist put a scrape in Alia’s upper right arm. Knocked by the blow, Alia spun to the right, in the direction of the Ganglander. And in using the spinning momentum from the blow, she put force into a left punch—her metal fist moved…

That blow struck the Ganglander in the back, putting her on the ground immediately before Alia. The Ganglander then curled herself into a ball—before she kicked out with both feet.

Alia took the blow in the shoulders, and she was flung up and away, to crash-land near one of the Ganglander cohorts that formed the rumble ring.

He then spread his booted feat, ready to move and prevent Alia from escaping this duel. But Alia would not run from this fight. She stood, shaky but ready. There was no real damage in that blow; the Ganglanders wore rubberoid-soled boots.

Real damage could be done with metal hitting surfaces, not with rubberoid-booted feet! Alia made two such surfaces again by curling her fists. She then carefully advanced to the taller and synth-fleshed cyborg. Engaging her opponent again, Alia went on the offensive.

She first jabbed twice at the Ganglander’s gut, moving with machine speed. And the blows were blocked—at cost. Blocking Alia’s metal-fisted punches meant that the Ganglander lost some myogel muscle tissue from the forearms. Then, the little titanium-bodied girl did a low kick, hitting her opponent just above the knee—scraping away some bloodless synth-flesh from the opponent.

In a grunt of shock and weakness from the leg damage, the Ganglander fell forward and toward Alia. Alia tried to leap backward, but her legs were caught by the falling Ganglander. The small metal-type was lifted into the air.

Then, in a frightful rush, she was being brought head-first to the asphalt… Clunk! At least, Alia’s head would have hit the asphalt if she hadn’t curled herself smaller in mid-swing. Instead, her back struck the street. There were radiating cracks where she landed.

Though feeling weakened yet more, Alia managed to get her legs beneath her. Her shoulder-length pale hair in disarray, she had to brushed it back away from her face. She then prepared for the next oncoming attack.

The Ganglander leader stepped forward, fist up. And then she stood was over her opponent. That was when Alia struck up and out, going for the Ganglander’s abdomen. Alia then put her hands together, forming a double fist. She struck upward, a gray blur of speed and strength.

There was an explosion of sparks as the Ganglander’s abdomen was deeply split. Her entire body went rigid from the damage. Another spray of sparks from the new bodily opening, and the Ganglander collapsed. Her mobility systems were almost totally destroyed; she could not control her body. And the short circuiting shocked her life support, sweeping her brain into unconsciousness as autostasis took over.

Alia stood, her fists still up and ready in case the Ganglander only feigned defeat. Alia herself was not quite feeling in perfect condition. Shaky, with scrapes in her body’s armor, and with shocks to her own internal systems, she just managed to weather the battle. Her opponent had not quite done so.

“You win the match, little cyborg,” said one of the two male Ganglanders, one with a crewcut. He alone then moved to Alia. Alia turned to face him, then she fell. Too weak from the fighting. He lifted her from the asphalt—and moved her to his own nuke bike.

She struggled, never before having mounted such a motorcycle. “Don’t fall off! Hold onto the handlebars, kid!” he said. With Alia’s hands holding on the handlebars, that Ganglander put his thumbs at the edges to change the auto-locks to her own energy signature. Now, only Alia could use this nuke bike; it would “recognize” her when she mounted it for use.

Then he adjusted the seat, lowering its middle. “Just a minute more…” he said. After a few button presses on the vehicle’s hydraulics, the vehicle was low enough that Alia could ride it.

The other two still-standing Ganglanders stood away from their bikes, smiling Alia’s friends. The Cloaked Man and Van then took to the two offered vehicles—given with a metal handshake each.

After giving the three their nuke bikes and resetting the frequency auto-locks to the new owners, the Ganglanders lifted their damaged leader. One put her over a shoulder and moved to her nuke bike. With her over his left shoulder, he used his right to gently twist the accelerator in the handle. Then he slowly rode away, his cohorts jogging behind.

Before they were totally out of sight, one turned in mid-jog and waved at the mounted people. Then, there was a thrumming of repulsor engine from among the three bikes here. That was Alia, her now having activated her nuke bike.

“It is learning by observation!” she shouted above the rumble. In turn, Van and The Cloaked Man twisted the accelerators of their respective nuke bikes. In squeals of rubberoid tires, they turned around and motored up the street—vanishing from sight in under a moment.

--?After they ride away, The Cloaked Man tells Alia that he could have just duplicated apporter parts once they had one nuke bike. But he just wanted to see more action?

àMove directly to the talking between the Ganglanders and the protagonists.

(1 pg) Ganglander talk… and dealing in a huddle. Then they decide on how to do this: Win one fight and get a nuke bike. Win two fights, double the stakes, and win two more. (1-on-1 battles for three nuke bikes)

(1.5 pgs) For the first battle, Alia decides to goes against a female Ganglander Pentana.

(1.5 pgs) TCM fights Pauly (bald guy), gets knocked down eventually, but his cape is charged by then and he switches to a lightning strikes sort of style to win.

(0.5-1 pg) They try out the nuke bikes, zipping through town…

àOkay, now The Cloaked Man (Alia by his side like a doll), says that food here sucks.

àNote that I typed this straight from the paper outline.

_c_(NAO-Crit) Be sure to tell the RUPD that I found the bike before they did…