[Black Noise | Part Four - Helical] by Pundit [clostridia@bigfoot.com]

Legal : The characters in this story are copyright Archie Comics and SEGA, and are used without permission. This story itself may be freely distributed without the consent of the author, provided it remains unmodified. The author asserts his right to be identified as the creator of this work, and therefore its owner.

Note : Hi, this is Pundit, for those of you who are unfamiliar with me. This is the second part in another series (Shades of Grey was the first). Oh, and it's advisable to read Shades Of Grey before this series, although that's not exactly essential. Comments/flames/criticism, and other delightful things are encouraged; feel free to send them to <clostridia@bigfoot.com>. And if you haven't noticed, there are no, and there will never be, any fan-characters / self-inserts / liberties-with-the-continuity / delightful-ripoffs-of-the-chaos-emeralds in my writing.

Admittedly, I did take quite a lot of advantage of Kragok's character last series, and wrote a few whopping bloopers before I finally discovered a shop selling Knuckles comics (err... about six months after they cancelled it).

Anywayyyy.... with that I'll leave you to the story. Do enjoy it.
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'It's got it's own perfect little beauty, don't you think?'

He glances at those miniscule, heavily magnified strands, and marvels at their precise, cold nature, the absolute mathematical completeness they represent - elegant biomechanical threads wrought of much research, hard work, and more than a little pinch of devilish inspiration.

'Absolutely.'

The respondant's examining something on his screen, an incredibly colorful model of red, green and yellow, carefully scrutinising each little colored dot as the entire model rotates unhurriedly. Occassionally, he jots down a little note, and taps a key or two, nudging bunches of dots in the right direction.

'And it would appear that we are about to go gold. Well, at least as soon as I get the final tweaks worked out.'

'Do hurry up, then. He's not exactly a forgiving taskmaster.'

'Don't you think I know that?'

And he holds up a robotic hand.

'Without anaesthetic. And I got off lucky. The project leader's still in the box.'

'What, really?'

'Yes.'

It's a third voice, which seems to have come from a foot or so behind him. He feels the hairs on his back prick up in shock. Some horror's starting to filter through too. His companion sits stock still, not daring to turn around, transfixed into inaction. The bantering, lighthearted mood has drained out of the room; it is replaced with the oppressive lid of tension.

Slowly, agonisingly, he feels a cold trickle of sweat slide down his face.

'Well...'

The voice seems to imply that the owner is thinking through several possible courses of action. None of them very savoury.

And then he's quite roughly pushed aside, as the figure begins scrutinising his work on the screen, rapidly rotating the model in virtual space, scanning his notes with a practiced eye.

'Very good. How ingenious. I like this work.'

He breathes just a little easier, and relaxes perceptibly.

'It's clear you've devoted much time to the study of nano-engineering...'

The figure begins to speed read his notes, just as he realises that there's something in the last section he was careless enough to write in plain text. Too late.

'Wait. Why isn't this change incorporated? From these conclusions, it would appear that the changes in concern drastically increase effectiveness.'

He forgets himself enough to stammer.

'But sir - it's already potent enough. I thought you wanted something to shake the populace up, not kill scores of them - I mean... I mean... it's practically inhumane!'

The figure straightens up as though he's been stung. And he realises his mistake.

'Quite all right, really, I welcome opinions from everyone. Even contrary opinions.'

He releases his white-knuckle death grip on the chair.

There's a metallic noise, like nails on a blackboard, only more sinister.

And he stops breathing, toppling forward on the keyboard, forehead cracking against the metallic hand with a lifeless thud. Blood seeps from the torn hole in his chest, and lifeless eyes bulge, wide and staring, faintly pleading, faintly reproachful. Almost as if his last thought was anger at himself.

'But don't you dare tell me what I want.'

He turns to the other one, who's gone whitish puce with shock, mouth hanging slightly open in horror, stuck in temporary stasis.

'Make the changes. Now.'

'At once, Lord Dimitri. It's just that... this drastically increases the electromagnetic sensitiv...'

An icy glare; he gradually trails off, and snaps to alertness, pecking away at the keyboard as if his life depends on it.

It does.

***

Vodka today; it has not been a very enjoyable twenty four hours. With a glassy-eyed stare at the liquid, he tilts his head back, draining the shot glass in a gulp, wincing just a little as the alcohol flambés his throat.

'Go easy, and try to stay on topic, Simon.'

He rubs his tired eyes, and scratches an itch on his back, leaning forward against the table, facing the intricate bronze whorls in the wood, warmly lit by unseen globules of luminescence. He sees an age-old coffee mug stain.

'Fine. The facts are clear enough - ENN's going to run a major exposé in less than eighteen hours, and we're going to have one heck of a scandal. So, any ideas, gentlemen, at all?'

Around the table, six other fat-cats lounge in their chairs. Sub-fat-cats, he reminds himself - he's the leader of this joyful little political gathering. And this relaxed appeance belies the fact that their nerves are collectively stretched tighter than piano wire.

'Are we going to stick with them, abandon them, or what? Condemn or defend?'

'Remember they've been one of the unseen, essential cornerstones of this anti-technology society since that bloody little referendum. They're one of the reasons we're here.'

'Fine. I see Kirk hasn't lost any of his idealism, but I don't think anyone of us here really believes that technology should be banned - I mean, come on, do I need to spell it out? This technology issue's just a little facade for our political struggle. I say we take the popular way, whatever's needed for our survival as a viable political force.'

'But that's where the problem is. We're so closely identified with them that once we abandon them, we lose a large chunk of credibility, not to mention mandate. In the end, by abandoning them, we may kill ourselves politically.'

'I don't think it's a defensible position if we support their actions - the issue's just too damn volatile - we're better off staying out as far as possible, then coming back to pick up the pieces.'

And his political lieutenants bicker among each other, making a sound like a coop full of cackling chickens, while he shakes his head and wonders why, just why he wanted this responsibility.

***

'You know, I mean, I really like her and all that, but it's all new to me. My first time.'

'Yes. It was my first time with Lara too. I was a lot more idealistic back then, you know. But the soultouch can only do so much. The relationship is like a plant that must be cared for, and sacrificed for, to grow. And it took me so long to learn that.'

He sighs.

Behind him, he can almost feel the musty collection of tomes, writings, lexicons settling with the weight of years. The huge arched corridors seem to trap the whisperings and sounds of long ago, filling the place with an aural symphony, like ghostly murmurs. He made friends with this place quite some time ago - it occupies his spare moments, in which he enjoys poring over ancient bits of paper, trying to piece together the... the... the gestalt of the moment in concern.

'Physical attraction aside, can you look at me squarely in the eye and tell me ten years from now you'll still be together?'

'Why not? We like each other; I can see a future with her.'

The whole place is full of guttering candles, which cast theatrical, moving shadows over everything. Deceptively spooky place, as are the winged armchairs, which give you a mufflingly restricted view of the surroundings, and the assorted artifacts scattered on shelves, in corners, all over the place.

At the moment, he cradles a pearl white mold of an echidna skull in his lap, completely at ease with it.

'Sometimes, it's just not enough to like someone.'

***

He works with the lights off; the room is lit only by the little trickle of light filtering through the blinds, and the combined ghostly glow of the two monitors on his desk. Periodically, he takes a moment to bite his lip and squeeze the gel-filled stress reliever in his left hand.

Why? Because the results he's holding can't be right and yet... the Computer Says It Must Be.

There's a beep, and a flashing yellow light on his phone. Grunting, he leans over and picks it up, speaking in a voice roughened by far too many long hours, and the odd cigar or so. He nods twice, and doesn't say very much either - in point of fact, nothing at all. The phone is replaced, with a very gentle click.

'Wretched, thankless job!'

He thumps the table with a resounding slap, reaching for the white folder sitting next to the keyboard. It feels unpleasantly cool to the touch. He leans into the chair and stews for a moment, sucking his teeth.

It would at this moment, he thinks, be nice if the ground would just open up and swallow him whole. Reason? He's got a lot riding on his shoulders - those pricks in the conference room downstairs want his report and they want it five minutes ago. And it's insanely likely they're going to act on it - more likely than he likes, because the right decision might help this party ride out the storm, and the wrong one will kill it.

He turns the monitors off, and walks out of the room with the air of someone going to his execution.

***

'It's something i've been meaning to ask you...'

He knows it's not quite his usual conversational style, but when he's in front of his father, or his mother for that matter, he can't seem to muster the forthrightness to talk like he usually does. Instead, he settles raising his eyebrows.

'Yes?'

There's a momentary hesitation, and then it all comes tumbling out.

'I've never fully understood why you and the Brotherhood refused to support Knothole.'

'Ah. I don't suppose I've quite explained our position to you.'

***

'Preliminary projections point to a loss of support adjusted at 12.14% initial, deepening to 35.27% over the next few days. Not much uncertainty involved - negligible, really - this is more or less a forgone conclusion.'

The report hangs heavy over the heads of the people in the room; it's almost as if he walked in with a cold wet large trout and slapped everyone else over the head with it. No one moves or fidgets, and there is no welcome random noise to break the suddenly loud silence.

There is a whoosh of exhalation, coming from the head of the table, which breaks the spell. Kind of.

'Are we all in favor?'

He glances around, looking for some acknowledgement, or anyone who looks convinced. Nothing much.

'Fine, fine. Richard's the spin head for this one. Get the boys in here to work on a suitable response ASAP. Everyone else start feeling out your contacts - we've got an explosion to contain.'

He pauses, and points a thoughtful finger.

'And you, your projection had better be accurate.'

***

'First and foremost, our loyalties as Guardians lie not to ourselves, not to Mobius, not to the Floating Island, even, but to our people.'

Serve and return. Serve and return. Back and forth.

'We exist to protect them from others who would choose to harm them - it is our primary function - perhaps even the reason we exist. Therefore, nothing should be allowed to come above this goal.'

Drop-shot - raise hand, incline, slice. His father's voice is dry, and arid - his teaching, instructive voice. It brings them both back approximately six years; it's almost as if he's in that room once more, poring over thick texts, listening to regular lectures about almost anything under the sun. It's not one of his more commonly used voices, certainly, although it responds like a marvelously tuned instrument.

'But I don't understand... the war the Kingdom of Acorn fights is a noble war, something that will benefit the entire planet if they win it. Isn't it part of our responsibility to support them?'

Run, shoot, back to the center.

It reminds him of the philosophical discussions he used to have with his father, and he recalls how he always asked the questions, how his father always responded so surely, so quickly. Always ready with an answer.

'True, but will they win it? Their de facto leader, the Princess, believes that victory is something to be achieved within the limits of whatever subset of ethics she may have. That, in turn, limits their capabilities - they will not go all the way.'

Smash, whirring over the net.

'We have been determinedly neutral since the beginning of this bloody conflict. To throw away that stability, and be drawn into some endless struggle just doesn't make sense.'

'I don't think so. How can you just stand by and watch countless innocent people live their lives in conflict? How does this sit with your conscience? What about the heroes who fight this war - will they needlessly fall because the Brotherhood refuses to help?'

Adroitly returned, curving beautifully towards the edge of the court, sending him scrambling.

'Look. It's about loyalties - specifically, where your loyalties lie. You might tell me that we share common enemies, but what happens after that? What if there is a disagreement between our two societies? You cannot divide your allegiance between to sides, nor can you serve another while fulfilling your obligations to the first.'

He finds himself scrutinising Locke's face, observing every little bit of detail. The prominent eye ridges, the curve of the head, the white goatee that would look a lot more like a waterfall if it was cared for more often. All the characteristic gestures, from the little chopping motions synchronized with points in the argument, to the slight tilt of the head when assimilating a new detail.

'We were both born Guardians, and I hope, sincerely hope, that you realize that.'

***

The hustle and bustle fills the room with random white noise. In the middle of the hubbub, a patch of calm amid the sea of chaos, she sits in that familiar, populist yellow chintz chair. She can feel the makeup specialist fooling around with her neck, powdering it to a uniform, unnaturally smooth surface. Someone else is trying to apply rouge to her cheeks, and yet another's doing heaven knows what to her forehead.

At the sides, the technicians check audio levels, check the cameras for the tenth time, and in general busy themselves with making a hurried, thrown together presentation look polished, rehearsed, and very well brought together. There is a beep from the digital clock high above their heads, which tells everyone that they have less than two minutes to get the heck out of the way.

***

'Duty has to be soverign - you must learn that everything else takes second priority to this job you, and I have.'

A gentle, deceptively curved arc to the other side.

'And because of that?'

'And because of that my personal life is wrecked, some might say irretrievably. Don't you think I know that? And yet - the Guardianship is bigger, far bigger than any one of us. It's an... existence.'

Miss, but he swats it over anyway.

***

Voice of the director, a deep, resonant sound from on high.

'Everyone. Thirty seconds before we go on air. Please clear the set.'

And then everyone begins to scuttle away back to their assigned places, and the room gradually clears, people leaving like water draining out of a tub. She turns to the guest - the veritable consumate politician, distinguished slicked, swept-back hair, and expensive three piece. He exudes congeniality, hiding the venom in the statement he is going to deliver.

***

He paces, talking to the ten or so gathered in the room.

The holographic projector throws a model of the city into the air in front of all of them, and he carries a red laser pointer, jabbing at particular spots of concern.

In his other hand, he holds what looks vaguely like a short, fat spray can very prosaicly labeled "Lysol Air Freshener". Not that it would do anyone much good to spray the stuff into a smelly room.

On the table, ten shiny metallic devices sit, looking for all the world like little spheres with two holes drilled in the sides. Actually, that's what they are, except that they're a little more important than you think.

***

The camera pans slowly across the audience, seated quietly in the galleries above the floor. And then six lights activate with an audible click, bathing the two in the flattering yellow glow. She flashes her smile, that winning, sincere, gorgeous smile, for the benefit of all those who have bothered to turn on their televisions - quite a considerable number, and for the benefit of the advertisers who've paid millions for thirty second slots.

***

'You don't believe that for an instant, do you?'

Backhand, faked.

He hesitates, and pauses to let his gaze linger on his son's eyes.

'No, I don't. I don't.'

***

'We have a special guest tonight - he needs no introduction. Senator Rumsfeld!'

The clapping intensifies, as the audience displays their worshipful regard of this statesman, and he holds their attention like a pro, waving and smiling.

Everyone's smiling, in fact - rows and rows of grinning puppets. Empty, vapid smiles.

***

'We aim for maximum dispersal, so typical targets will include public transport, the odd convention centre or three, and a few malls, among others. You don't have to worry very much about getting infected - placing these spheres in your standard interfaces will give you full immunity.'

***

'Good evening, everyone. As our host, Miss O'Donnell', at which she simperingly smiled again, 'has mentioned, I have got something for all of you tonight.'

Easy, conversational tone. Establishing trust, rapport, and many listening ears.

***

'Maybe you're right. Maybe I should just sod it all, throw the customs, the protocols away. Stop trying to live by a set of rules, and just live.'

***

'It is something which is relevant to us all, and has been a very relevant issue for the past four hundred years. What is it?'

Dramatic effect. They all know of this trick. But for some reason, they still lap it up stupidly.

'Technology.'

***

'Maybe you're right.'

***

'Do your best to look inconspicuous - just place the canister out ot sight, preferably around an air vent, and make haste.'

***

'So, Thomas, can I count on you?'

Pause.

'Yes. I know. Exclusive access to the chancellor, tax free status for another twelve months, free office space... we'll give you all that.'

Pause.

'Just separate us from this story, okay? We don't appreciate unwanted fallout.

***

'It's about hypocrisy, hypocrisy we've all tolerated since the beginning.'

***

'...factors of dispersal rate, and overall effect. You have a window of 12 hours to deposit canisters at 30 locations, for maximum effect.'

***

'Let the dead bury the dead.'

***

'Hypocrisy, in the political rulers, in their lackeys, the Guardians. They all champion the anti-technology cause, but for what? Not so they will stop using the wonderful toys that fill their life, but to destroy their opposition, by demonizing them - us! We who have always advocated the betterment of the species as a whole!''

***

Sigh.

'Let me show you the bio lab.'

***

'And the Guardians? The lackeys of the rulers? The Guardians are far more outrageous. I have hard evidence here that they have engaged in genetic engineering, and have applied their results to their latest offspring! '

Whisperwhisperwhisper rhubarbrhubarbrhubarb.

***

'Yes. This is the place.'

***

'Such flagrant disregard for the conventions they uphold! And yet, what have they been telling us? Lies? For the past 400 years?'

He has them hooked like a fish on a line. At this point, they'll believe almost anything he says.

***

'And this is the file.'

***

The knowledge spreads outwards in concentric ripples across the surface of society, bigger and bigger, bigger and bigger.

It doesn't fail to affect whoever hears it. It propagates virally, spreading from one person to all his contacts, suffusing gently into social networks. Cast into the void.

No one can take the knowledge back.

And "knowledge" obeys the inverse square rule, as far as truth is concerned.