“...An update on the startling attack on Lady Son Pan, Daughter of Son Gohan the Divine Firstborn. Primary reports indicate that Lady Pan has been moved to an undisclosed location off Chikyuu, and that her condition remains critical...”
“...Earlier today, prayer vigils were held all over Farole and parts of Arbatzu, with the latter's parliament declaring an official 'day of mournful observance' in the wake of 'a horrible and unprovoked attack'. Chikyuu-sei State Television will neither confirm nor deny the possible involvement of the newly-reformed Arjunian Empire, which according to various intelligence reports, continues to strengthen in the Outer Quadrant...”
“...finally appearing before media outlets after ten long days of silence, Secretary of Informational Exchange Lord Yamucha of Chikyuu had this to say: 'I cannot speak for The Divine nor The Throne, but I believe I can speak for my planet. And the words 'sleeping giant' come to mind.'”
“...have kept the Chikyuu-jin participants of many work abroad programs, such as the Capsule Educational Exchange Program, on high alert, as many experts say businesses and trade hubs with many Chikyuu-jin workers may be considered 'soft targets'...”
“...And it has been confirmed by Serulian news networks that Lady Bra, Daughter of the Throne, has taken the helm of Capsule in her Lord Brother's prolonged absence from public life. One can only help but wonder what reactions have come from within the two Holy Families of Chikyuu-sei—especially from Lady Pan's father, Son Gohan the Divine Firstborn, who has refused any and all audiences with the public since the night of his daughter's attempted assassination...”
The barkeep set another barrel of ale near the edge of the shoddy wooden table. “So they're finally calling it 'assassination', huh?”
One local patron, a surly-looking Farolian, didn't take his eyes off the holographic transmission as he made a noise of affirmation. The barkeep growled in frustration.
“As if we don't know who did it. Dirty, beady-eyed Arjun scum.”
“Bunch of cowards, they are,” Another customer seated on the far side of the bar piped up. “They can't beat Lord Gohan, so they go after his daughter...May the Divine keep her soul.”
The rest of the patrons raised their glasses, echoing the prayer.
“She's more than half Chikyuu-jin, so of course she's not as strong as the others.”
“Even so,” the barkeep said. “They were able to hurt His Lord Second-born easy enough.”
“Where'd you hear that?” the Farolian customer finally tore his eyes from the news feed.
Another voice, also in the back of the bar, spoke. “Yeah, they didn't say anything about Lord Goten being hurt. Who said that??”
“A friend of a friend of one of my regulars was at the festival that night. Saw the whole thing. He says whatever shot Lady Pan...shot Lord Goten too...then went on all fours like a big cat and sprung out the window. People closer to the front said it was some kind of robot.”
“Sending robots to kill Gods. The whole business is sacrilege.” the second customer said.
“Since when does an Arjunian care about what's sacred and true?!” the barkeep's voice cracked with anger. “The Arjunian doesn't care about that. He wants to kill and enslave everyone.”
“I hope they hunt them down to the last sorry foot soldier,” the Farolian said. “And the Firstborn hangs them up by their balls.”
She moved the probe bot to the left, clanging the metal tubing against the shell of her object of study.
“Marron,” Yamucha made brisk steps into the room, flanked on each side by intelligence consorts with transmitters in hand. “This conversation is being recorded, and sent straight to the South Quadrant. My Lady, you are with us?”
“I am here, Yamucha. Marron,” Bra's voice crackled over the commlink.
“This is what we have so far,” Marron moved the probing device and leaned over the nearby console, the 3D image cast blue over her features. “It looks like we've found the central command unit here, and what little we can scrap together from it is encrypted with non-binary interspersed characters. This isn't a programming language that Capsule has seen, nor is it one that I have any experience with.”
Yamucha touched the scored openings around the drone's arms and legs. They sung of Trunks' rage. He was the one who took the drone down—it was a miracle they were able to recover anything at all.
“Were you able to salvage any radio signatures? Maybe we can start a preliminary trace using its internal transmitter,” he asked.
“That's just it: There wasn't any transmitter,” Marron answered, seeing Yamucha's eyes widen in surprise. “This thing wasn't being operated by remote.”
Yamucha looked back at his consorts, whom also wore expressions of shock.
“Artificial Intelligence,” Bra's cool voice broke the silence. “How close is the design to what we have on record?”
“Not at all like Baby, very primitive. We'll need to make a more extensive search, including off-planet archives...but if I may make a guess...”
“You may,” Yamucha encouraged.
“This design is structured around a quadrupedal animal...it was made simple on purpose. Which means the maker has access to schematics dating back more than 80 years. Thanks to Secretary Yamucha, only a few interplanetary organizations have that kind of access. We can at least narrow down the list of possibilities that way.”
“So our evil mastermind wants us to think that anyone could have done it, but in reality the droid could have only come from a handful of places,” Bra mused.
Yamucha nodded no one in particular. “And he or she also knows that AI research and development was outlawed fifteen years ago...but they used an unknown programming language to make tracing that much more difficult.”
“It's too early to call this one,” Bra's voice was rigid. “Yamucha, secure the archives both here on Chikyuu and in the colonies. I want you to personally check in with our people on Arbatsu, see who has been accessing AI data in the Capsule Exchange Program.”
“Yes, My Lady.”
“Marron, conclude your examination of the drone and send your finished report to me directly. Both of you keep me informed of your progress.”
“Of course, Holy Lady.”
His back was turned to the arched doorway when he heard the peg-like steps approach him. The sound of someone walking with assistance.
“Trunks,” Goten stopped to adjust his crutch gingerly around his midsection, then continued to venture forward into the chamber as he spoke.
Trunks' lavender hair was made pale blue by the glow of the regen tank, the only light source in the room. In front of them both, Pan floated in silence. Trunks put his hands behind his back, still not turning to address his friend.
“I just got a call from South City. Bra wants to raise the threat levels to Omega-Six. The Council's about to pee their pants.”
If Trunks heard him, he did not show it. He stood as still as an ancient tree. Goten, now a few feet away, pressed his lips together in resolution.
“Trunks, you have to come back. It's not that Bra isn't doing a good job...But everyone's running around, going crazy. It's like you almost died instead of Pan.”
The Throne-son finally tilted his head back towards his childhood confidant, a slight break in his impassiveness. Encouraged, Goten hobbled forward until he was by his side.
“You know how much the Council depends on you. Even Yamucha is having a rough time with all of their late-night emergency sessions...” Goten broke off. He had just seen Trunks' face, for the first time in days.
His hair was lightly mussed, uncombed. His skin was pale and roughened with unchecked hair around his gaunt jaw. And his eyes...ringed with circles, and dull pupils were dilated in the dark room.
“...Trunks...” Goten recovered from his shock, concern spreading wide over his face. He spoke slowly. “When's the last time you've eaten?”
“I don't know,” Trunks finally spoke. His voice was flat, limp. And he never broke gaze with his wife's long tresses floating about her in the tank.
“They shouldn't have just left you in here like this,” Goten started to turn, lifting his crutch to walk back towards the entrance. “I'll go to the console, tell them to send you food, water--”
“I told them to leave me.”
That empty voice came again, breathed out through almost unmoving lips. It stopped Goten in his tracks.
“Trunks...please. This is no reason to punish yourself.”
“When I was a child,” Trunks began, ignoring Goten's words. “I asked Momma why Poppa treated her so badly in front of people. At home, he was fine. Tolerant. Kind, even. But outside, he never looked at her. He acted like she was invisible. Momma just smiled and said, 'Because he's scared.'”
Goten looked his friend from head to toe, eyebrows drawn together. Trunks raised his head, still staring at the woman bathed in the unearthly synthetic light.
“I never understood what she meant. But now,” Trunks' hollow throat filled with air, making a sound that Goten knew was meant to mask one's sobbing. “Now I know what my father feared.”
“What happened wasn't your fault. I know that is the last thing you want to hear right now, but you had no way of knowing--”
“It is my job...to know everything, Goten.”
“That's impossible. Even for you.” Goten spoke with patience.
“Maybe...all of this...everything we've done,” Trunks lowered his hands, letting them fall at his sides. “Maybe it was wrong.”
Goten's face froze in disbelief. Then his eyes steeled, and his jaw set.
“Thirty years ago, we were flying around West Capital...and we had to stop a family from eating each other. Remember that?” Goten didn't wait for a reply. “A few days ago I was talking to one of my squad captains. His son is in school studying science. He wants to be a doctor. My captain came home one day, and saw his boy reading about 'super-viruses'. He asked his father what AIDS was, and what it was like before the cure.”
Trunks had turned away, but he felt Goten's eyes piercing his back.
“Thirty years. From people eating each other on the street...to a whole generation of children who don't know what AIDS is. And never will.” Goten moved to where he could see Trunks' lowered gaze. “Thirty years. Because of you.”
“Because of us,” Trunks corrected. “Because of what we did.”
“No. Because of you,” Goten repeated. “My father was a good man. A great hero. But he couldn't cure a disease. He couldn't influence governments to change things like education and public health. He was a warrior. We all are warriors, from a warrior race. But you...you changed the way people think. About everything.”
Goten stopped, seeing Trunks look at him with wonder.
“Now,” said Goten, with a renewed confidence. “Let's go and get you some food...and a decent bed.”
Trunks resisted, but finally lowered his eyes and gave a simple nod. The closest thing he would ever give to assent.
Goten broke into a satisfied smile, and once again moved to exit from the room.
“Goten,” started Trunks.
Goten shook his head, still smiling. “Don't say it.”
Trunks cracked a tiny smile. “...All right.” He looked back to his wife's body floating in brilliant blue.
“But still...”
Goten was almost halfway across the chamber when he heard Trunks speak, and he turned again.
“What is it?”
“...I don't think it's who we all believe it is.”
“What...What are you--” Goten cut short his question. “We know it wasn't the Arjunsei-jin.”
“No. Of course not,” Trunks murmured, deep in thought. “But...I think we are being betrayed.”
“'Betrayed'? By who?” asked Goten, puzzled.
Trunks didn't answer. He put a hand up to the bubbled glass in front of him, outlining the contour of Pan's cheek.
