(May 6, 2004)

Dr. Doppler's Laboratory(#4892Ten)

It is said that clutter is a sign of genius. If this is true, then Dr. Sigmund Doppler must be one of the most brilliant people of these times. His private laboratory is almost as large as the common lab, and is stocked with not only similar equipment (albeit on a smaller scale) but more specialized tools and machinery as well. His worktable and desk are littered with printouts, hand-drawn schamatics, and devices in various stages of completion, and the shelves groan under the weight of spare parts, prototype machines, books, journals, and data disks. Some of the storage bins are full to overflowing, spilling onto the floor. The left wall is the only one mostly visible, but only because it holds a large viewscreen (perfect for conference calls or displaying schematics). Three chairs can be found in the work area: a padded wooden swivel chair built specifically for Doppler's proportions, an all-purpose steel and plastic chair suitable for the average-sized reploid, and a massive black leather-upholstered chair suitable for the likes of Sigma...or a Stardroid. Behind the work area rests the doctor's personal maintenance chamber. Beyond that is a repair bay large enough to contain a person the size of Byte, and inculdes its own personal fabber and all the tools necessary for extensive repairs.

It has been six full days since Doppler sequestered himself in his lab, and well into the seventh. Aside from the occasional break to eat and sleep, his mind has been focused only upon his work. The first case of LiveWire soda was cracked sometime during the second day, and three 10-liter megajugs consumed in the interim. The caffeine balances him on the fine line between sleepiness and its creative muse and the hard edge of overconsciousness. It is the same state in which he's designed many of his greatest inventions: cyberweb impants, the backbone of the modern global computer network, the reploid, gestalt technology. Time has taken much from him, but not his mind or his sheer force of will.

Sigma's neural-net was first connected to a variable-power generator, one with a weaker current than the standard for fear that the delicate circuitry could no longer withstand it. This keeps him living while his father devises a way to bring him back from the brink. The net will never survive reconstruction with new core, of that he is certain. Thus he takes a different tactic, furiously typing out code to create something entirely new and different.

And, what of that neural net? It still lives; this much is obvious by the ever-flickering patterns of test lights. How it survived without power or other resources for so long is anyone's best guess, but the fact of the matter is that Sigma is now connected to external power and will not get any worse. Is he conscious? More than likely, no. He waits, instead -- unconscious and unaware of his surroundings or any happenings since he was struck down.

Hours pass. Simulations are run. Each failure produces new insight to the new program, and corrections are made. Finally, the new program is ready for a field test. Not upon the Emperor, of course. His life is far too precious to be risked un an untried system. Instead, the doctor stands and walks over to one of the many laden shelves along the walls of the lab. After a moment to shuffle things about, he finds another battered neural-net, locked in a static-free case. On the top of the box, a name is penned neatly in Doppler's own hand: Bastion.

The box is brought to the table, opened, the core extracted. Power cables are strung in a manner not unlike the Emperor's. A data cable is plugged first into where the direct cortical feed would be were he attached to a body. This in turn is plugged into the computer in which his revolutionary program resides. Another cable is strung from the computer to a new, unseeded neural core. Both cables are checked for faults, the program checked one last time. At last, all is ready, and a few keystrokes set the electronic wheels in motion.

Time passes. An hour at least, perhaps two. Doppler's attention remains focused on the realtime analysis of the program's progress. Data sectors are sought out one by one, the good ones copied and transferred to the exact same spot on the new core. As it continues, Doppler allows himself a small, victorious smile. Sigmun Jakob Doctor, Phd, has cheated death once again.

And still, the neural net that is Sigma stands witness to all of this -- floating in it's little case of restorative goo, electrodes supplying it with power. It is a quiet presance that seems to score the importance of all of this. But it does not move; it does not live. The exception to this of course, is Velguader -- the mecha wolf prowling about the lab through all of this, staying near to what is left of his master through the thick and through the thin. He does everything he can to see what's going on without actually being in Doppler's way -- found upon the floor, the table -- everything. The image of a nervous canine.

Eisensturm continues to lie by the door, on guard. From time to time, it busies itself by worrying on a scrap of some unfortunate Repliforcer's armor.

Doppler runs scan after scan upon scan on the new net, affirming that the transfer was fully complete and successful. Doppler unplugs the old net fromt he computer, then returns his attention to the new Bastion. The latest version of the reploid code (sans Maverick Virus) is compiled, filling in the missing sectors that were beyond salvaging in the old net. More time passes...but it is not time spent in vain. Bastion lives...or would, if Doppler had any interest in rebuilding him. That is not the Hunter's fate. Instead, after the final test is run, it too is sealed away in its own static-free container.

All tests are complete. His attention turns to his son, his lord, his most perfect creation. Sigma.

Velguader, for his own part could not give a tinker's damn about Bastion. Whilst it is arguable that he has the level of sentience to understand completely what that neural core represents, he knows what it *IS* -- and is simply -- impaitent. And as the neural net of Bastion passes by his face, a low growling sound is heard -- and just for a moment it appears that the Mecha-Wolf is about to take a bite out of it. Yet something stops him -- it is impossible to know what, only that he simply does not do it. He instead turns away -- and resumes his pacing of the room. And still, the neural net watches over everything.....

Dr. Doppler once again begins the process, this time checking thrice that all cables are without fault and all connections sound. The Resurrection Engine program is checked once more to ensure no errors have cropped up during the course of the first run. No unnecessary risks shall be taken with Sigma's life.

Doppler sits in his chair, watching the monitor for a moment. The next bottle of LiveWire is cracked. If he believed in a god, he would pray. However, he is a devout athiest, his beliefs focused colely upon the superiority of the machine. If this sucessed, it is due not to divine intervention but the reliability of electronics and machinery.

He taps the startup command. The work begins.

The question before the masses is: Is Sigma conscious? Is he aware that things are changing? Is there the sense of being pulled from one body to the other? Probably not, as the net is inactive -- except for those blinking test likes, which flicker to a stop. There is a moment of horrible indecision; horrible indecisiveness and horrible uncertianty -- before finally, the lights upon the new, undamaged net begin to flicker -- and soon, finally, they show the same test pattern.

Dr. Doppler waits patiently for the process to finish. Scans are run. Twice. Thrice. Only then is he satisfied that all has gone in accordance to plan.With great care, he disconnects the cable from the deteriorating net to the computer. It may last another few hours, perhaps even a few days, on the power feed. Cascade failure has not yet set in. For the moment, there are in fact two incomplete Emperors.

The same meticulous process performed on Bastion is repeated on Sigma. The salvaged sectors are latticed into the newest version of the reploid code, again. The process is carefully monitored, watching for even the slightest error.

As far as one can tell, no errors have been made. The system does however, report a very alarming thing. Large tracks of data -- the missing one third of information have been unable to copy. As Doppler disconnets the battered neural net from the computer, something flashes upon on the screen of the computer connected to the new net.

*ERROR*

*ERROR*

*ERROR*

*System cannot transfer sectors #22121-AB through 338921-CB*

*Probable concequences include: Memory Loss, Heightened Agressiveness, Periods of Confusion. Possible incoherance. Memory loss centered at the long term, within last five years. Signifigant and minor events both may be forgotten. Heightened agressiveness is not to be underestimated. Analasys of damaged personality protocol sections indicate a 376 percent increase in overall agression towards known hostiles and a 102 percent increase of hostility towards known friendlies. Analasys further indicates that this may be permenant! Chance of being temporary: 66 Percent. Reasons for occurance: Damage to personality protocols and logic circuits. Language bridges of peaceful resolution to conflicts have been removed and will require relearning.*

*Activation not reccomended.*

Dr. Doppler scowls. He mutters an epithet in German that would offend even sailors. He slams his fist on the arm of the chair in frustration. So close...so close....

He sips more of the orange caffinated concoction as his mind races. In this state, the Emperor would be little more than a savage animal. Yet...

He sets the cup on the edge of the console and leans forward, typing furiously at the keyboard once more. Though it will not be a perfect fit, he has retained the original personality profiles from Sigma's first creation. By using the same reconstruction programs used in Double's successor, he may yet make his son whole...

Savage animal, perhaps. But the fact of the matter remains that a full third of that neural net is missing, this act itself being one of desperation. Surely, two thirds is better than nothing at all? Afterall, of that shot away third nothing is going to ever be recovered. No means on Earth can bring back that which has utterly been disintigrated to nothing.

Velguader's ears perk up suddenly at the slamming sound, the mecha-wolf rising to a sitting position and padding over to Doppler's side to see what the problem is. An electronic chime is heard then, and a few words pass across the screen.

*Warning. Warning. Sensors indicate substantial power buildup. Hypothesis: Neural net is active. Analysing.*

*Hypothesis Correct. Neural Net has spontaneously activated self. Analyzing neural firing patterns. Pattern is not sentient. Active on basic level. Personality and logic circuits are not active. Yet, outflow of data is detected. Analyzing. Hypothesis: Transfer program has not shut down. Sensors are indicating program is attempting to send data from....*

*WARNING! Detecting attempt to breach software security systems. Initating Countermeasures! WARNING! Countermeasures defeated! Shutting down Neural Net. Powering down sensor systems.*

The test patterns on the neural net cease then -- and Doppler's computer powers itself down, leaving him in a silent room.

Dr. Doppler has no time to react. Even were he fully reploid, his reflexes would be too slow. Even as he reaches for the kill-switch, the computer blinks off. Well and truly flustered, he again slams his fist into the arm of the chair. There is a sharp crack as some of the wood cracks, but the chair remains stubbornly whole.

Thoughts continue to turn in Doppler's mind as he reaches out to unclip the cable connecting new net to computer. Once done, he attempts to reboot the computer and force it into self-check mode. Regardless of the sucess, he then swivels his chair to regard his reborn creation. If he is indeed gaining consciousness, he cannot allow it to do so in a sensory-deprived environment. To do so courts even greater malignment of his programming.

With some effort, Doppler pulls himself from his chair. How long has it been since he took the medications that keep his disease in check? Twelve hours? Twenty-four? He cannot remember, and the whirlwind of thoughts shields him from the pain. With deliberate care, he again takes items from the shelf, this time, a sensor-web and a holo-emitter. They are poor substitutes for a true body, but until he knows with what he is dealing, he cannot allow his son access to the power of his usual body.

For a moment, the powered-down terminal stares at Doppler in black LCD screen silence -- rocking slightly as the Regent's fist goes crashing down onto the chair. Thankfully at least, the automatic security protection protcols killed the thing before any damage has been done. But what of Sigma? Unrepaired, one can expect him to be a visceral monster; a wicked nightmare. But still, he is doubtlessly stewing within that neural net -- the activation patterns beginning to flicker more. The outbound transmissions were just a start....

Dr. Doppler is uncertain as to his beloved son's condition, which serves only to worry him more. The sensor-web is the first to be attached, with the additional safety of a kill-swich to deactivate the device should it become necessary. The process does not take long, perhaps ten minutes. The holo-emitter is set aside for the moment, the doctor choosing to err on the side of caution. After all, he's seen the havoc Cyper Peacock can wreak with 'mere' holograms. When all is ready, he turns the sensor-web on, which should grant his charge with sight, hearing, and speech.

For a moment, nothing is emitted from the speaker of the sensor-web even after it has been connected, perhaps leading Doppler to question his own actions. Is Sigma really alive? Is it still his intelligence that lurks within the replacement neural net? Or is it something more? The voice that emits is all Sigma, however the tone is somehow somewhat different. More on edge than one usually expects, although considering his state one can kind of understand.

"The proverbial brain in a jar am I, Doctor? Is it that you no longer have the capacity to trust me, or is it simply that you have suddenly forgotten -- convienently -- to give me a way of physically representing myself? I see that, judging by the current date, almost a month has gone by since my last activation. Why am I still in this state?"

The pattern of lights upon the neural net flicker slightly -- indicating further thought and internal scanning. "Don't lie to me, Doctor." He growls -- tone edging up a slight notch. Defenatly unplesant. "I lack the capacity to activate myself, when internal scans show that I have /NOTHING/ for a body? Idiot. Stupid old man. You built in safeguards yourself, to prevent that. Since when can /I/ activate something when I am completely unconscious? Use your inferior human head."

The light patters alter again, showing that a movement was attempted -- probably by unconscious reflex. "Why has it taken you a month to repair me?"

"I /had/ hoped that you could tell me," Doppler admits. His frown deepens considerably. "You should not be conscious at all, not after that..."

There is a pause, as the lights flicker slightly -- and then a reply, still in the harsh voice. "I do not know. I have no reccolection of anything from the battle in italy, which I can only assume that I lost, until awakening unable to see, hear or move. What is the state of the Empire? What has changed? And you still have not answered me as to WHY I am in this condition, a full month later?"

Dr. Doppler seemingly has no choice but to be blunt. "Much of southern Italy is little more than a crater. You by all respects should be dead, and would be if you had been in any hands but mine. Your body was almost completely obliterated when all of your power generators ran to overcapacity. That, plus Zero and Protoman..." He shakes his head with a sigh. "It has been a tedious process to reconstruct your neural-net. There was no sense in creating a body if it were to be an empty shell."

Sigma is silent for a long moment. Thus far at least, the computer's projections seem to be wrong. He's not showing any signs of irrational agression, beyond his typicall waking-up sourness. Either way, what is said causes him to think. "I see." He emits, finally. "Get me a body. A holographic generator. Something. Before I become further deranged." A light sigh is heard. "And it will take you /HOW/ long to reconstruct me? Furthermore, has anyone capitalized on my dissapearance yet?"

"As soon as feasably possible," Doppler says in assurance. "I will make you whole again, my son. I could do nothing less for you." He pauses. "You have suffered a great deal of neural damage, Sigma. You will be missing memories, possibly more. I will need to determine the extent of the reconstruction before I can tailor your new shell to your specifications."

Sigma responds to this, quickly. "There will be no neural reconstruction. There will be no changes. You /WILL/ reconstruct my body, POST HASTE. Furthermore, you /WILL/ find me a holographic generator that is capable of projecting anywhere within the spire, and it will happen /NOW/. I have much work to do, considering the apparent state that things are bound to be in. I will not go back under your knife however, for 'neural reconstruction' -- damage or not, enough problems have been made. We will go with what we have. If I am different -- that is your problem, not mine."

Dr. Doppler decides it best not to tell him that the reconstruction has already been done. It is the extent of said reconstruction that had to be done that continues to bother him. His scowl takes on angry undertones, though for now that temper is held in check. "I have a holoemitter that will work within this room. That must do for now, until I can patch it into the same system that Cyber Peacock uses within the Spire." A small lie, but one that will hopefully be accepted. The loss of Sigma in itself is bad enough, but to unleash a Sigma gone mad?

Sigma would shake his head smoothly, but he has none at the moment. He is simply as he says, a brain within a jar -- the lens of the sensor system staring down Doppler in a purely mechanical way. "That holoemitter will not do. If I must, I will have a thrall carry me about the spire. But I will /NOT/ be limited to this tepid place. I am the /EMPEROR/ of the Coalition for Reploid Freedom, Doctor. You /WILL/ treat me accordingly and give me that which I want. Who do you believe me to be? Your ungrown child? Someone that you may choose what is best for? Hardly, Doctor. Your son I may be, but /I/ decide what is for me, and for my Empire. You /WILL/ get me a Holographic generator now, or the second I am activated, I /WILL/ tear what remains of your meat from it's tin shell."

"Even the Emperor himself may be overruled by medical staff, should the extent of his injuries prevent him from performing his duties," Doppler states. Gone are any placating tones. "You have barely been awake for ten minutes, after suffering an atomic blast that makes the atrocities of the Chinese Revolution look like firecrackers. I am not treating you as a child, but as one who has been greviously injured. If you wish to act in the best interests of the Coalition, then you /will/ allow me to see to all of your repairs, and you /will/ cease this senseless argument with me."

There is silence for a moment. "Really, Doctor? There will not be any modifications to my neural circuitry. Your repairs have been completed. You need not concern yourself any further. I caution -- you are approaching the grounds of treason, and I will not hesitate to take this as such. I say this one more time. Give me the generator. Rebuild the body. Or else. I really, well and truly am not playing. You have been loyal previously. Now you stretch it."

Dr. Doppler grinds his teeth, his temper being sorely tested. "My loyalty has always been to you and to the Coalition. Even now, I have both you and their best interests at heart. I will give you access to a holo-emitter, and I will rebuild your shell to exceed the capabilities of the last. However, in order to do /either/, I will need to examine your neural repairs, since you came online before I could do so."

Sigma would be grinding his teeth as well, if only he had them. "Your loyalty is to your Coalition, apparently. For some reason, you seem awfuly resistant to simply shutting up and getting me that emitter. You could be done, by now. Are you simply too much enjoying having the Empire to yourself, Herr Doctor? Afraid that your time in the spotlight will come to an end? Doubtless, /THAT/ is why you let me languish here for a month. I repeat. Holo-Emitter, NOW. Then you may do your tests if you wish. Else, if I do not have that emitter in ten minutes..."

Dr. Doppler glares at Sigma (or what there is of him). "I have never had an interest in ruling the Coalition directly. You know this. I provide guidance when needed, but I will never be like Albert." He steps back to gather tools from the table behind him. "You will have your holo-emitter, my lord."