Post by rvm45 on Jun 24, 2008 14:48:55 GMT -5
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..... Chapter Sixteen
The dojo was underground. The Yakuza had built the vast room in the shape of an extra-large Quonset hut—a “D” shaped cross section with the flat of the “D” corresponding to the floor, and the highest part of the ceiling thirty-five feet overhead.
The Sensei was an old man—who was nonetheless thickly muscled. He had thick white hair that reached below his waist and he wore several bead necklaces around his neck—including one with big round Mammoth Ivory beads and Kodiak bear claws. He sometimes paused to remove the beads before he skirmished.
Unlike most of the students, who wore white gis, the old man’s gi was red. Some of the students called him “Inuyasha”—but never to the old man’s face. But it had been the same advanced students who’d gifted him the red gi. With the hair and the beads, it seemed a shame for Sensei not to have a flowing red gi.
The Green belted judoka had no idea who “Inuyasha” was. He dimly gathered that he was an ancient cartoon character. It didn’t occur to him to wonder about it. Nor did he wonder what Sensei’s actual name was.
He was far too busy worrying about his studies. Three hours of Judo every morning. At night—depending on the season of the year, they studied Wrestling, Boxing, Kung Fu and Karate. Judo would serve them well if their client was well clothed. In Summer, when a client might very well be half-naked, or wearing only a T-shirt, the Wrestling practice would prepare them to deal with grappling against bare sweaty arms.
There were classes in Kendo, Western Style Fencing; Knife Fighting; The Modern Technique of The Pistol—as taught by the great Sensei Jeff Cooper, almost two centuries ago. There were also classes in lock picking, gunsmithing, computer hacking, and electronics. They learned anatomy and drawing and the psychology of clients and client wanna-bees. They even took time out to teach tracking, woodcraft, horsemanship and motorcycle riding.
The Senseis often said,” Don’t tell me that you understand how this joint, or coupling or linkage works, and then tell me that you can’t draw it from memory. That is obviously a contradiction.”
The red-clad Sensei had told them that in Japan they didn’t have colored belts. One was a black belt or he was a white belt—although they did recognize the different grades. However, Red felt the colored belts were a useful innovation.
It had taken the judoka well over a year to earn a yellow belt and almost another year to move up to green. He’d been a green belt for about three months now and he was in for the long haul. Traditionally—at least in the Yakuza school of Judo—the step from green belt to the first level of brown was the biggest, most demanding and took the longest.
Lately it seemed Sensei was picking on him. He tried to persevere, but his resentment was building up. Sensei wasn’t being even remotely fair. He was also overly free with slaps to the face. A slap across the face always sent the judoka into a berserker that he had to control. He’d almost lost his temper several times.
Sensei didn’t slap most of his students. Only a few were singled out for this special treatment. The judoka did not appreciate being in the special group at all. He’d often thought about discussing his feelings with Sensei, but some vague misgiving always held him back.
SLAP!
“You call that a breakfall? Go stand in the corner and practice your falls,” Sensei scolded him.
“I have had just about enough of you—you old SOB. If you strike me again, you and me are going to go at it for real,” The green belt raged.
“I’ll be happy to quit slapping you—if you can answer a couple simple questions. Who is this red clad old man who torments you?” Sensei taunted.
The judoka was about to solve that surprisingly complex Koan—or riddle—when Sensei threw his mind into total vapor lock.
“And who are YOU?”
His mind tumbled through a jumble of psychedelic and kaleidoscopic images.
“You are Bill Perry. No you can’t be Bill Perry. I’m Bill Perry—no wait—you’re Bill Perry, and I’m Bill Elder—no but you’re Bill Elder…”
He was down on his knees without realizing he’d fallen. It wasn’t a gesture of either worship or supplication. His balance had simply failed. He fell back to a seated position.
“I am Harold—Master Chief Stableman, and the son of Boss David. You told me that allowing foreign memories to be implanted in my brain was part of the treatment to prevent senility. You also told me that my own personality would be submerged for a while, but that the chances for its eventual reemergence were excellent. Good Lord, I’ve been in a fugue for over two years…”
“Take the rest of the day off Harold. Take a week or two. When you come back, tell the supply sergeant to fix you up with a brown belt. With Bill Perry and my Martial arts training memories available to your conscious mind, you’ll be a black belt in no time,” Bill told him.
*************** **************************** *****************
“Here,” the old man said, handing Harold a necklace made of Mammoth Ivory beads and Kodiak bear claws.
“Try to take care of these. We issue a set—and a couple of extras—to each new Bill Elder copy. They’re a badge of office—of sorts. Those Mammoth beads are d**n hard to come by—or the tusks to make them out of are. We’ve considered going to Elephant or Walrus Ivory, but we’re traditionalists.”
“You are Kogi. For some reason, my Bill Elder memories are much harder to access than the Bill Perry memories—but I recognize you,” Harold said.
“Bill Perry was dead—so his memories had a sort of completeness to them. We took Bill Elders memories seventy-five years ago—including the Bill Perry sub-routine. Thing is, Bill wasn’t dead yet. He’s teaching Judo right now. He also censored a comparatively few of his memories.
“Think about it. If we were recording your memories in seventy years—would you want someone to remember having sex with your beloved? Anyway, the censored spots, and the fact that Bill’s memories don’t have a clear-cut terminus—well, they take a bit more practice to use.”
“Why do I have to have Bill’s memories anyway?”
“We gave you several different kind of drugs. We drilled a small hole in your head—and introduced a mixture of mutated human embryonic brain cells, and millions fascinating little microprocessors that start out mobile, and shop for the best place to plug themselves into the biological matrix. It puts a stop to the Noveau Alzheimer’s but with out a big blast of loose data…
“Well we don’t know why, but having to try to cope with a whole personality engram stimulates the embryonic cells and the nanoprocessors to settle down and tighten up their formation.”
“So what role does you Boondockers play in the overall scheme of things?” Harold asked.
“There are many issues of temporary expediency; but in short, we try to survive and keep our numbers and technology high enough, that when the Leaders finally fade away completely, that the human race doesn’t go the way of the dinosaurs and the dodo bird.”
“I hate to break it to you and all—but the bosses ain’t aimin’ to pass away anytime soon,” Harold opined.
“The Leaders and the Laborers are both headed for inevitable extinction. Between the rapidly mutating Noveau Alzheimer’s; the sterility virus; and a few other bonehead moves…Well, we couldn’t help them if we tried.
“Thing is: they can’t help but know we exist; but we can’t afford to antagonize them too much. If they decided to, they could wreck the world’s ecosystem with their d**ned genetically engineered viruses and bacteria. They could rather easily do the same favor for plant and animal life that they’ve already done for themselves—if we antagonize them—which is to say, doom them to eventual extinction.”
“How do you know all this?”
“We have much better computers and mathematicians and programmers than they do. We run airtight simulations.”
“What are the odds?” Harold asked.
“At the moment, fairly hopeful. The Leaders won’t recognize the impossible nature of their problems for some time. Their numbers should slowly decline over the next couple millennia. We have room in the Boondocks to increase our numbers drastically.
“So far, as the Leaders population has declined, they’ve looked at it as a good thing—and they’ve done a good job of putting deserted areas back into a natural, sustainable state.
“And we learn more all the time. It is hard to increase knowledge with so few resources and personnel to devote to it. Human’s probably couldn’t…”
Kogi saw the look on Harold’s face.
“That’s right Harold. Even though we may have been born human, we’re no longer completely human here,” Kogi touched his forehead, “Or here.” He grabbed his crotch for emphasis.
“We couldn’t side-step all the viruses without altering a few gene sequences. It’s dangerous to fiddle with things that you don’t fully understand. That’s what got the Bosses tails in a wringer. We had no choice though.
“You’ve had the change too. None of your children—should you have any—will be subject to NA, Viral Sterility—or any human disease for that matter.”
“So what can I contribute to this cyberpunk dog and pony show?” Harold asked.
“Finish training. There’s long list of ill-considered projects we manage to steer the Leaders away from—by making the cost too high. Sometimes we fail. People get killed. And the work is important—if you want to sign on.
“Go rest now, and take care of your beads. Wear them proudly—Sensei…”
.....RVM45
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..... Chapter Sixteen
The dojo was underground. The Yakuza had built the vast room in the shape of an extra-large Quonset hut—a “D” shaped cross section with the flat of the “D” corresponding to the floor, and the highest part of the ceiling thirty-five feet overhead.
The Sensei was an old man—who was nonetheless thickly muscled. He had thick white hair that reached below his waist and he wore several bead necklaces around his neck—including one with big round Mammoth Ivory beads and Kodiak bear claws. He sometimes paused to remove the beads before he skirmished.
Unlike most of the students, who wore white gis, the old man’s gi was red. Some of the students called him “Inuyasha”—but never to the old man’s face. But it had been the same advanced students who’d gifted him the red gi. With the hair and the beads, it seemed a shame for Sensei not to have a flowing red gi.
The Green belted judoka had no idea who “Inuyasha” was. He dimly gathered that he was an ancient cartoon character. It didn’t occur to him to wonder about it. Nor did he wonder what Sensei’s actual name was.
He was far too busy worrying about his studies. Three hours of Judo every morning. At night—depending on the season of the year, they studied Wrestling, Boxing, Kung Fu and Karate. Judo would serve them well if their client was well clothed. In Summer, when a client might very well be half-naked, or wearing only a T-shirt, the Wrestling practice would prepare them to deal with grappling against bare sweaty arms.
There were classes in Kendo, Western Style Fencing; Knife Fighting; The Modern Technique of The Pistol—as taught by the great Sensei Jeff Cooper, almost two centuries ago. There were also classes in lock picking, gunsmithing, computer hacking, and electronics. They learned anatomy and drawing and the psychology of clients and client wanna-bees. They even took time out to teach tracking, woodcraft, horsemanship and motorcycle riding.
The Senseis often said,” Don’t tell me that you understand how this joint, or coupling or linkage works, and then tell me that you can’t draw it from memory. That is obviously a contradiction.”
The red-clad Sensei had told them that in Japan they didn’t have colored belts. One was a black belt or he was a white belt—although they did recognize the different grades. However, Red felt the colored belts were a useful innovation.
It had taken the judoka well over a year to earn a yellow belt and almost another year to move up to green. He’d been a green belt for about three months now and he was in for the long haul. Traditionally—at least in the Yakuza school of Judo—the step from green belt to the first level of brown was the biggest, most demanding and took the longest.
Lately it seemed Sensei was picking on him. He tried to persevere, but his resentment was building up. Sensei wasn’t being even remotely fair. He was also overly free with slaps to the face. A slap across the face always sent the judoka into a berserker that he had to control. He’d almost lost his temper several times.
Sensei didn’t slap most of his students. Only a few were singled out for this special treatment. The judoka did not appreciate being in the special group at all. He’d often thought about discussing his feelings with Sensei, but some vague misgiving always held him back.
SLAP!
“You call that a breakfall? Go stand in the corner and practice your falls,” Sensei scolded him.
“I have had just about enough of you—you old SOB. If you strike me again, you and me are going to go at it for real,” The green belt raged.
“I’ll be happy to quit slapping you—if you can answer a couple simple questions. Who is this red clad old man who torments you?” Sensei taunted.
The judoka was about to solve that surprisingly complex Koan—or riddle—when Sensei threw his mind into total vapor lock.
“And who are YOU?”
His mind tumbled through a jumble of psychedelic and kaleidoscopic images.
“You are Bill Perry. No you can’t be Bill Perry. I’m Bill Perry—no wait—you’re Bill Perry, and I’m Bill Elder—no but you’re Bill Elder…”
He was down on his knees without realizing he’d fallen. It wasn’t a gesture of either worship or supplication. His balance had simply failed. He fell back to a seated position.
“I am Harold—Master Chief Stableman, and the son of Boss David. You told me that allowing foreign memories to be implanted in my brain was part of the treatment to prevent senility. You also told me that my own personality would be submerged for a while, but that the chances for its eventual reemergence were excellent. Good Lord, I’ve been in a fugue for over two years…”
“Take the rest of the day off Harold. Take a week or two. When you come back, tell the supply sergeant to fix you up with a brown belt. With Bill Perry and my Martial arts training memories available to your conscious mind, you’ll be a black belt in no time,” Bill told him.
*************** **************************** *****************
“Here,” the old man said, handing Harold a necklace made of Mammoth Ivory beads and Kodiak bear claws.
“Try to take care of these. We issue a set—and a couple of extras—to each new Bill Elder copy. They’re a badge of office—of sorts. Those Mammoth beads are d**n hard to come by—or the tusks to make them out of are. We’ve considered going to Elephant or Walrus Ivory, but we’re traditionalists.”
“You are Kogi. For some reason, my Bill Elder memories are much harder to access than the Bill Perry memories—but I recognize you,” Harold said.
“Bill Perry was dead—so his memories had a sort of completeness to them. We took Bill Elders memories seventy-five years ago—including the Bill Perry sub-routine. Thing is, Bill wasn’t dead yet. He’s teaching Judo right now. He also censored a comparatively few of his memories.
“Think about it. If we were recording your memories in seventy years—would you want someone to remember having sex with your beloved? Anyway, the censored spots, and the fact that Bill’s memories don’t have a clear-cut terminus—well, they take a bit more practice to use.”
“Why do I have to have Bill’s memories anyway?”
“We gave you several different kind of drugs. We drilled a small hole in your head—and introduced a mixture of mutated human embryonic brain cells, and millions fascinating little microprocessors that start out mobile, and shop for the best place to plug themselves into the biological matrix. It puts a stop to the Noveau Alzheimer’s but with out a big blast of loose data…
“Well we don’t know why, but having to try to cope with a whole personality engram stimulates the embryonic cells and the nanoprocessors to settle down and tighten up their formation.”
“So what role does you Boondockers play in the overall scheme of things?” Harold asked.
“There are many issues of temporary expediency; but in short, we try to survive and keep our numbers and technology high enough, that when the Leaders finally fade away completely, that the human race doesn’t go the way of the dinosaurs and the dodo bird.”
“I hate to break it to you and all—but the bosses ain’t aimin’ to pass away anytime soon,” Harold opined.
“The Leaders and the Laborers are both headed for inevitable extinction. Between the rapidly mutating Noveau Alzheimer’s; the sterility virus; and a few other bonehead moves…Well, we couldn’t help them if we tried.
“Thing is: they can’t help but know we exist; but we can’t afford to antagonize them too much. If they decided to, they could wreck the world’s ecosystem with their d**ned genetically engineered viruses and bacteria. They could rather easily do the same favor for plant and animal life that they’ve already done for themselves—if we antagonize them—which is to say, doom them to eventual extinction.”
“How do you know all this?”
“We have much better computers and mathematicians and programmers than they do. We run airtight simulations.”
“What are the odds?” Harold asked.
“At the moment, fairly hopeful. The Leaders won’t recognize the impossible nature of their problems for some time. Their numbers should slowly decline over the next couple millennia. We have room in the Boondocks to increase our numbers drastically.
“So far, as the Leaders population has declined, they’ve looked at it as a good thing—and they’ve done a good job of putting deserted areas back into a natural, sustainable state.
“And we learn more all the time. It is hard to increase knowledge with so few resources and personnel to devote to it. Human’s probably couldn’t…”
Kogi saw the look on Harold’s face.
“That’s right Harold. Even though we may have been born human, we’re no longer completely human here,” Kogi touched his forehead, “Or here.” He grabbed his crotch for emphasis.
“We couldn’t side-step all the viruses without altering a few gene sequences. It’s dangerous to fiddle with things that you don’t fully understand. That’s what got the Bosses tails in a wringer. We had no choice though.
“You’ve had the change too. None of your children—should you have any—will be subject to NA, Viral Sterility—or any human disease for that matter.”
“So what can I contribute to this cyberpunk dog and pony show?” Harold asked.
“Finish training. There’s long list of ill-considered projects we manage to steer the Leaders away from—by making the cost too high. Sometimes we fail. People get killed. And the work is important—if you want to sign on.
“Go rest now, and take care of your beads. Wear them proudly—Sensei…”
.....RVM45