Noviko’s facial recognition software alerted her to the presence of a tri-centennial Syndicate elder. The metadata surrounding this shaggy-haired enby was thick as Samfrisco fog; scrolls from centuries Noviko had only read about in history wikis passed her by. But she didn’t need any of it to know who she was looking at, because this was a figure from her nightmares.
“Your biomon,” said Chief Technology Officer Jace Windmill of GYOTA corporation, “is a 2354 model GYOTA StatRammer, wetware version six-point-nine-tag-seven, seeded at birth and grown over the course of your life. Do you know why Anons or belligerents haven’t hacked into it yet? Why no one has kicked on the wrong hormone triggers and forced you to grow a beard for laughs? Held your fertility hostage? Drip-fed cortisol into your blood to make your life a cage of generalized anxiety?”
Noviko may have been paralyzed by fear and fresh PTSD, but she was savvy enough in conversation to get ahead of where the elder was going. “I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s because of the Grid Yield Operations Task Assembly.”
CTO Windmill smiled controversially – broader SynCon was at a near 50/50 split on whether or not Windmill’s smile was creepy or charming. “I’m impressed,” said Windmill. “Most people hanging off of PRISMA’s tits don’t even know GYOTA’s acronym.”
“Well, I was born in Ryukyu, senpai,” Noviko spoke to the short king like she was speaking to a spider on her arm. “GYOTA liberated us from the Naichi colonizers.”
“Is that how PR is selling it?” CTO laughed. “You know, speaking of departments I never personally visit, inter-corporate diplomacy tells me that I have you and PRISMA to thank for breaking one of my favorite toys.”
Favorite toys… what?
“I’m sorry, senpai,” Noviko was sure to face the CTO fully and bow just enough to show deference.
“Please, call me Jace.”
“Um. Jace. I am not in the habit of breaking the toys of people who intimidate me.”
Jace smiled. For her part, Noviko did not like it when Jace smiled.
“Not enough people in Syndicate respect hierarchy anymore,” said Jace. “It’s nice to see someone with the courage to be afraid.”
“That is an interesting way of putting it.”
“Simple as.”
My child and husband are in the care and employ of this reptile’s patron corporation.
Normally, being from a small rig and a tight-knit community, Noviko never really worried about her son and husband. But now, looking into Jace’s lightless eyes, she was concerned.
“I must ask… where is my family?”
“Under our protection, given what PRISMA put you through.”
“May I please talk to them?”
“You don’t need my permission to talk to your husband and son – once your man, what’s-his-name, Banh? Like the sandwich?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Like the sandwich.”
“Once Banh found out PRISMA scrambled your brain, he requested custody of Trip until this whole thing gets sorted out. I guess you gave them quite the scare earlier.”
“I wasn’t…” and then she remembered what she’d seen in the sim. She remembered her own husband, distorted and inhuman. She watched Jace’s gold-tipped fingers.
Jace bent down and glanced up to Noviko’s face with a lazy smile. “Feeling alright? I hope you didn’t catch some kind of freaky mind virus.”
Mind virus. Mind virus? Is that a thing?
“Oh, it’s very much a thing, Noviko,” said Windmill, in response to her surface thoughts. When the CTO saw her look of surprise, the enby grinned and tapped their skull. “You’re open transmission by default, Noviko. We all are. But for a psychopunk, you sure are sloppy with your mental hygiene; elders in your union know how to disguise their motivations and surface thoughts. It’s what makes me loathe the whole lot of you – Union of Sneaks, more like.”
“Excuse me but I’d like to… I need some air.” She felt a tightness in her chest that didn’t improve no matter how much she clutched at her skin. Her breathing hitched and whined.
“We’re on the top deck,” Windmill beamed and held out arms to catch the wind off the twilight sea. “This is all the air in the world.”
Passersby were everything from ZON dockworkers to enlisted families enjoying the gardens. Everyone gave Noviko and the CTO the widest possible berth. But there was one, a familiar woman with a shaved head and hard eyes, that diverted straight towards them with several other, equally pissed-off looking individuals at her side.
“CTO Jace Windmill,” said Wenyue, as she came up beside Noviko and put a supporting hand on her arm. “You are hereby summoned under charter to be judged by the Union of Psychopunks, with the blessing of Syndicate Consensus, for your involvement in the case of the Jellyfish Exorcism.”
Noviko felt the panic subside somewhat with the supportive touch of Wenyue. “I want to go back home, please. I want to go home right now.”
“You’re almost there, Noviko,” Wenyue looked upon poor Noviko with soft eyes. “Hang on a little longer. We need to get through what’s coming.”
“What’s… what’s coming?”
“Nothing bad is going to happen to you, and you’ll be with your family soon.”
“Okay… okay. Okay.”
Jace smirked. “The ‘Jellyfish Exorcism’ is what they’re calling it? Well, I came here to watch one of PRISMA’s agents get her arm sliced off for overstepping and showing favoritism, and to check on my old friend, Dr. Humboldt. I did not come here to be interrogated or ‘summoned’ by anyone, and I’m willing to use clout to protect my time from being wasted.”
“Your clout isn’t what it used to be.”
Jace wasn’t smiling anymore. “You’re joking.”
Wenyue raised her hand in the eminent and august CTO’s direction, then raised her middle-finger. “Check the ratio, motherfucker.”
The CTO did check the ratio. Between the Union of Psychopunks, the Brotherhood of Steelworkers, the PRISMA Corporate Clout Repository, GYOTA Internal Affairs, and the abstaining position of ZON, the SynCon was overwhelmingly in favor of taking Windmill to task alongside Agent Vox.
Jace’s face was a mask of bland fear. “… I see.”
Noviko’s head swam. “I think I need a cup of tea and a sit.”
“We’ll have refreshments at the ceremony,” said Wenyue. “It won’t take long.”
It did not take long. The ceremony took place in a large clearing at the edge of the agri-carrier’s top deck gardens, on a series of light platforms stretched out over the sea. This deck area was part relaxation garden, part forum. Several VTOL aircraft from a neighboring fleet formation brought spectators in for the rare treat of witnessing a high-profile justice ceremony. In fact, the whole of the carrier’s top deck was packed to capacity, with crowd control drones working double-time to zap people away from the yellow safety lines and railing of the carrier.
Present between two fruiting peach trees was Agent Vox, sitting in her civvies with her legs crossed and her chin held high. She wore a yinyang pendant, a tank top that revealed yi jing tattoos much like Wenyue’s, and a pair of loose cargo pants; these were tucked into knee-high combat boots laced to perfection and polished to a sheen. Like a sacrificial virgin, she was center-stage, though all eyes turned to the clacking of a cane as CTO Jace Windmill walked up to sit beside her.
“Well,” said the CTO, leaning in to rest chin on hands and cane handle. “Let’s be done with this farce.”
Vox rolled her eyes and said nothing. She was addressed first by SynCon.
SynCon spoke to all viewing and assembled as a voice of many; of men, women, children, the disembodied digital voices of the dead, and even intelligent animals capable of consenting to cybernetic augmentation. This overlapping chorus of disparate voices and whale song was intended to impose gravitas, fear, and awe. It largely succeeded in this, as it occurred everywhere inside of the skull and also far, far away, much like an auditory hallucination.
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SynCon: “Neon Vox, rise.”
Noviko’s eyes widened in recognition of the full name.
Neon Vox rose and stood at ease; arms folded behind her hips.
As promised, Noviko had been given a cup of hot green tea with plenty of honey and lemon. She choked on her latest sip when she heard Vox’s full name.
Neon Vox? Syndicate’s oldest woman is a PRISMA loyalist? I’m saving that one for trivia night… if I ever get back home.
SynCon: “The preponderance of evidence demonstrates the following: showing favoritism to PRISMA while acting as an impartial agent of the Trine Accord. Sedating a child without prior parental consent or sufficient cause. In response: you will be stripped of your position within the Empathy Enforcement Directive. You will be required to remove your left arm and present it as a gesture of contrition.”
Murmurings of surprise drifted all around the top deck among those assembled. Noviko felt a sinking pity for Vox, and she could not help but notice the small smile on CTO Windmill’s face; it was the smile of a common sadist, which really only made Noviko feel disappointed (if unsurprised). But to Vox’ credit, the ruling did not seem to faze her whatsoever. She stood tall and proud, thoroughly at ease.
SynCon: “You will be required to make a formal statement demonstrating your contrition. You will not be provided with a script. Your sincerity will be gauged via biomon readings and cross-referenced data in your archived psych profile. If you do not consent to these rulings, which were made collectively in the interest of justice, then you have the option of forfeiting citizenship. If you forfeit citizenship, you will have three days to consolidate your liquidity into assets that may assist you in exile. Do you consent to this ruling, which has been collectively made in the interest of justice?”
Vox did not hesitate: “I consent.”
“Please repeat.”
“I consent.”
“Please make a final confirmation of your consent.”
“I consent.”
“Consent confirmed. As a special courtesy, the Union of Psychopunks has given you the option of removing your left arm yourself, with an implement of your choosing. Do you wish to demonstrate your contrition in this way?”
“I do.”
SynCon: “Proceed in this order: 1) Remove your left arm at any point above the elbow. 2) Throw the arm into the sea. 3) Give your statement of contrition. 4) Report to the sick bay for aftercare. 5) Enjoy your absolution and complimentary ‘no hard feels’ gift bag.”
Vox paused. “Point of inquiry?”
SynCon: “Proceed.”
“Are there Churtles in the gift bag?”
SynCon: “Yes. The gift bag is personalized to your tastes.”
“Nice.”
The assembled crowd enjoyed a little eased tension and some laughter. Even Noviko felt a bit charmed, even awed by Vox’s lack of concern in the face of being asked to chop her arm off.
Wenyue approached Vox. The two of them shared a long, meaningful look into one another’s eyes that Noviko, for all of her experience with human body language and facial expression, found completely inscrutable; if she had to guess, she would have read it as a deep and abiding mutual love spanning lifetimes. It was the kind of look only psychopunks could share with one another. It was the kind of look Noviko remembered her mother giving some of her colleagues during group communions with an oracle node.
It is better to appreciate the labors of others, thought Noviko, in her mother’s voice.
After lingering in silence in the ocean wind for a little while, Envy turned to address the crowd and SynCon. “I choose silk filament as the implement,” Envy then raised her right index finger to the joint where her arm met the shoulder and collarbone. “I will cut here.”
Noviko squirmed in her front row seat and covered her eyes with her hand. But even still, she couldn’t help but peek through split fingers. Wenyue’s wrist clicked open a hidden compartment, which elevated to reveal a tiny spool and attached mechanical pedipalps. Like a cobra rising from a basket, a prehensile, charged silk filament shimmered upwards in the twilight. The thread was microscopically thin, seen only by its reflection.
“I always admired you,” said Wenyue, to Vox. “You ancient cunt.”
Vox grinned. “You’re a sweet one, jiaozi.”
Noviko did not speak fluent Mandonese, but her ambient subtitles translated the word jiaozi just above Vox’s head as ‘dumpling/gyoza/potsticker.’
Vox was given a metal wand. She held it towards Wenyue. The shimmering filament coiled around the wand and anchored into place. Vox then stuck out her left arm and slid the wand underneath her armpit. She took a few slow, steadying breaths. Everything hushed. With a snap of her right arm, she jerked the wand upward and sliced through her flesh as easily as a lathe through wet clay. Noviko yelped and covered her eyes again but was peeking again within moments. She had no thoughts or words for what she was seeing, but the gleeful little smirk on Windmill’s face made her angry.
Vox’s scream came out as a long, clenched groan. Blood spurted in jets from the stump, but the medic drones on standby were there in a flash with numbing hemostatic foam. It sprayed onto the wound, stuck, expanded, and dried out in seconds, leaving what looked like a giant, fluffy glob of bloodstained popcorn where her arm used to be. Vox knelt down, picked up her severed arm, and walked to the edge of the ceremonial platform. She stared down at it and said something quiet, but picked up by auditory scanners and transcribed for all to hear and read:
“You came from my mother and my father, three-hundred-and-seventy-eight years ago,” said Vox, as she dripped tears onto her arm. “What replaces you will be of Syndicate. I hope it will be artful and kind. I reserve the right to be heartbroken, but accept who I am, where I find myself, and what we have become. I accept it. I helped create it.”
With that, Vox dropped her arm into the sea.
“Wow,” said CTO Windmill, toward Vox. “I knew you were a sentimental edgelord, but this is on a level I never thought possible. You know what else I know about you? Your deadname.”
Vox turned and pointed at Jace with her remaining hand. “Don’t.”
“How can you be clever enough to finally corner me here, but so flinching and emotional you can’t handle someone calling you—"
Wenyue, who had just retracted the filament back into her arm, snapped it back into its hidden compartment, bunched fingers up into a hard fist, and slugged the CTO of GYOTA corporation across the face. There was a wet crunch, and when Jace touched at their face, the jaw was visibly lopsided; it had been shattered by a piston-like punch from a bionic limb.
“You won’t be required to speak further,” said Wenyue. “Your sentence has been determined. Do not interrupt these proceedings again or you’ll be beaten again – plus punitive interest.”
Vox approached center stage once more. Wenyue stepped aside and gave her space to make her statement of contrition. It was as follows:
“I’m Neon Vox,” she said.
A few women from the thick crowd yipped, hollered, and catcalled. Even through the agony visible on Vox’s face, she smiled a little. “I love all of you and you know it. We’ve been down this road before. Our society’s ability to hold people accountable for their actions is what sets us apart from all others. Our goal is symbiosis. It will always be symbiosis. What’s an arm in the face of true understanding, in the face of earnest forgiveness?”
A few scattered yips and hoots of approval came from the crowd.
“Yes, I’m loyal to PRISMA. I have my biases and I own them. And if that makes me unfit to serve in the EED, so be it, that’s not my call to make. Looking forward to putting up polls and seeing what kind of cyberware is going on my left side. I’m thinking a GYOTA ferro limb – what about you, honored CTO?”
She glanced at Jace, whose shattered jaw had already swollen and turned a sickly shade of blackish-yellow. Blood oozed from puffy lips, and eyes burned with hate.
“I wonder, when you’re gone,” said Vox. “Who is going to take credit for the work of thousands of talented engineers and R&D fairies? You were always a brilliant engineer, but a petty fraud in every other way. Your mind is no longer needed.”
Now the crowd was applauding and whistling.
“I’m done,” said Vox, already hopping offstage. “Give me absolution and my gift bag.”
SynCon: “Absolution granted.”
A drone dropped a gift bag into Vox’s remaining hand. She held it under the crook of her arm and marched downstage. The crowd exploded with cheers. It also parted for Vox as she walked across the top deck and toward the main lift. Some offered to help her along, but she declined. Once she went off to sick bay under escort of ZON medic marines, all eyes went to the battered CTO.
SynCon: “CTO Jace Windmill of GYOTA. The preponderance of evidence reveals you to have purposefully tortured the late Dr. Aaron Humboldt, now deceased by way of peer-affirmed and non-problematic suicide…”
Noviko’s heart sank. It had all been for nothing.
Oh. Oh, that poor man…
SynCon: “… and kept Dr. Humboldt in a state of acute psychosis and psychological distress as his resident sponsor in a flagrant abuse of cloutwalling privileges. For subjecting another human being to two centuries of torment solely for your own sadistic pleasure and petty vengeance, you are hereby stripped of your title and sentenced to sympathetic suffering. Per Dr. Humboldt’s final wishes, you will be asked to view and listen to the following message.”
A swarm of drones formed a grid in the air and projected a screen between themselves. Dr. Humboldt, with his fading whiskers and tired eyes, spoke through a recorded message:
“In the past few days of being awake from my nightmares, I learned just how much of a stupid tyrant you’d become. I learned you survived that disaster you created in the Aleutian Trench – to think I considered going back to help you. And then you went on to fail upwards into becoming CTO. When I quit Syndicate and gave up my citizen protection, you tracked me down and sabotaged my neural implants. You’re a petty, sadistic fool. Maybe there’s hope for humanity, but there is no hope for you. Goodbye.”
The weight of it all settled over the crowd like 3 AM snowfall. There was no sound but the crashing surf, the wind, and the hum of the carrier’s engines as the fleet glided through the sea. Tears streaked down Jace’s face and Noviko recognized in those eyes a very real fear. The former CTO turned small and pitiful, bowed their head, and begged through muffled words: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I’m sorry. Please, please no… please no, please no, please… mercy, mercy. Mercy.”
Wenyue looked to the crowd and addressed SynCon. “Mercy?” She asked.
A taste of Humboldt’s suffering lanced through every single brain viewing the stream, from the habstacks of Jakarta, to the foundries of Okinawa, to the labs of Hong Kong, the towers of Wolfport, the citadel of Auckland, and beyond. A few seconds of terror and confusion, of brain-scrambling PTSD, of distorted faces, of betrayal, and of despair. The whole crowd atop the carrier waved and undulated, some shrieking, some frozen, some hugging each other for comfort.
Wenyue stuck her finger against Windmill’s forehead, just over where mystics say the third eye ought to be. “You are among the last of your kind. Those with power serve the rest. And the rest can take that power back, should it be abused.”
A pair of psychopunks had Jace restrained. The damned ex-CTO screamed and thrashed like an animal being dragged toward a bloodstained chopping block. They lifted a SyncBox for all to see, then pulled out the cable jacks. Jace saw this and screamed, spit, wept in terror. The psychopunks slid the cable jack into Jace’s neural implants. Jace’s eyes went glassy, and then the mouth chuffed mangled gibberish words. Now, Humboldt’s Hell had become someone else’s, for a time to-be-determined-by-what-is-just.
Overwhelmed, Noviko rose from her seat before anyone else and fled the scene. She did not know where to go. She only knew that she wanted no part of anything, anywhere, anymore. As she hurried through the crowd, she saw a priority DM from Vox:
“Hope you’re okay. Scary stuff. For the record, I’m really sorry you got dragged into all of this. I’ll help you get back home and back to normal ASAP.”
Noviko’s response was an auto-reply sent by her biomon: “Noviko Tanaka-LaCroix is in distress (PANIC ATTACK). Please try again in fifteen minutes.”