The Goose Truce cargo bay was lit in metal and warm LEDs, giving the cabin its red chrome filter across the small maze of freights. The KoKei was safely hooked on one of many side latches. None of it mattered more than knowing where the parachutes were and how to use them. The pilot's instructions came with a sense of foreboding, but, "One in a million chance you'll need them," he said. "Safety first." And he climbed up the ladder to join his co-pilot.
Launching off the runway was breezy, compared to those intents moments in a multiplayer lobby. Minor vibrations from the landing gear, a minor sway from the wind, lift-off. No windows but a quiet cruise and plenty of time for mind management. Cyberspace was too sophisticated in the 22nd century, offering neural feedback thanks to advanced gaming engines. Players loved it, though, arguing that high immersion levels delivered the best experience. That was in games. Whenever netrunners experienced pain outside of an engine, however, it typically meant that they were being targeted by advanced malware. Bytes, however, did not directly affect biology. Detrimental neural feedback worked via hardware. Deck or implant, a Trojan software, or something physically connected, could overstimulate the brain into invalidity; the other method was simple and crude: overheat a CPU, fry the user in the process.
As the girls wobbled on the bench, situated in a straight line of boredom, Jess decided not to beat them over the head with another plan review. Theirs were the more straightforward tasks, anyway. The next best option was to take their minds off conspiracy and gloom.
"Hey, Sun," she started.
The woman's ceramic face tilted in her direction.
"Where are you from, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Tempur," she said.
"Where's that?" enjoined Valerie.
"Tempur, eh..." She started playing charades while sputtering in Chinese.
"Temple," Shannon clarified. "She's literally from a temple."
"In China," Sun added. "Sonshan."
"No way..."
Neither Valerie nor Jessica understood what Shannon said in reply, or what Sun said immediately after. But at long last, they understood how Shannon felt whenever they spoke Spanish in front of her. Throughout their conversation, whatever it was about, Shannon appeared genuinely enthralled. Fortunately, she took the time to give the cliff notes.
"Sun is from Mount Song, China."
Jessica and Valerie shrugged.
"Really?"
They shrugged again. "Babel, where's Mt. Song?" said Jessica.
"Mount Song is a mountain in the Chinese Federation's Henan province. The mountain rises 4,291 feet, or 1499.921 meters, above sea level, and rests along the banks of the Yellow River. In historical context, it is home to the legendary Shaolin monastery which teaches the Shaolin school of Buddhism. Are you done? Do you need me to explain more, Jess?"
"I think I get it," she said, facing Sun. "Does that mean you're a monk?"
"Shi."
"Yes," said Shannon.
"Awww Shieeet," Valerie lauded. "Is Liu Kang, like, your mentor or something?" Nobody understood the reference.
More Chinese between Shannon and Sun. Indeed, Sun Huang was a Shaolin Monk. To Jessica, it was a title. To Shannon, it was an entire lifestyle, something very unique in the post-alien world. As far as Jessica was concerned, the present was always moving at the rate of lightning, but the monks of Mt. Song lived a thousand years elsewhere. That isolation came with a training regimen unlike anything across national, cultural, or even temporal boundaries. She knicked a video on her watch, observed old footage of Shaolin Monks in mock fights against so-called 'masters' in martial arts tournaments. A monk who stepped into a ring for the first time usually left its reigning champion in pieces. So, how good was Sun?
Before long, Jessica realized that she couldn't kill time with a test run of the Karitori Tokei, or KoKei. The maze of cargo left every outlet in a compromising crevice; coupled with the turbulence, even with friends vigilant over her transitive state, anything could go wrong. All in all, it was just impractical.
After concentrated suspense and suspension, the pilots straddled the sky while in deliberation with flight control, until they received the clearance to land. The interior light blinked red, and the Goose Truce soon rolled into a new runway.
When the ramp finally lowered, a wave of silence flooded the cargo bay, interrupted when the pilot disclaimed "Welcome to Phoenic." All of a sudden, the sheen of a white sky bounced off the ramp and greeted them with turbine noise. Sun was the first to strut outside, rolling her eyes so as to evaluate the perimeter. Trapezoid hangars blocked the horizon. Then the monk turned her glossy silhouette and gave the girls a nod.
Off the ramp, Jessica started, "How do we move the deck?"
"That's somebody else's job," said the pilot as his co-pilot untethered the deck in the background. "You are on your own from here." He gestured over their heads, indicating an empty smart car on approach. "It will park itself outside Baggage Claim..."
***
The old world city of Catalyst was better heard than seen. A directionless loudspeaker boomed over the hysteria; it was flight jargon and mundane speech in a terminal filled to bursting with new arrivals and nomads. The soundproof glass had a way of crystallizing the conversations, while accelerated walkways had people spurting across the lobby at an alarmingly hilarious pace. Fashionable figurines crossed intersections of letters orbiting information poles and kiosks; large panes tinted the light on prosthetic faces. Big burgers, mermaids, and stars were neon ink on a stream of sketches with one focal point. Their escape route, the exit, was mired by delayed flights.
Unlike Jessica and her friends, Sun slithered through the crowd like a weightless pair of shoulders. Every heel strut molded to passersby, within millimeters of contact. Jessica, Shannon, and Valerie tripped after her, out of the terminal proper and near the street exit, where an entire line of jeers awaited.
Just outside the airport, protester signs blazed over the windows. The juxtaposition of the wording failed to give any proper context. A combination of labor union unrest, religious pronouncements, and gang signs established one thing in common: Anger. Not rage. This wasn't the Illiad, but Jessica caught a glimpse of the real culprit on one cardboard piece. "Liberty without crunch."
"So, society has desynched here as well," she observed.
"You know what's going on here?" said Valerie.
"Just another ripple..."
Azareans were in charge of the airlines, so this wouldn't be the first or last demonstration of its kind. Except, this one had watchdogs. Streetside, by the shuttle platforms and crowded asphalt, a lineup of gangers were overlooking the crowd. The wall of jackets distinguished the deviants, Chrome Cult tagged in bespoke leather and over the graphic of a pickaxe. Arms of polished chrome glistened under their sleeves, which was their defining characteristic at a glance. Closer, they were a combination of clean-shaven, scruffy, artificial, dyed, wired, and skinless as they smiled through fake teeth. Who knew how many more waited in the city?
A random scowl popped in Jessica's path. It belonged to a skinhead with a lozenge on the side of his forehead.
"I recognize you," he exclaimed.
"Yea, you've gotta be mistaken," she rebuffed,
"No, I know who you're not supposed to be."
As Sun walked past the stranger, he suddenly started to wobble and lose balance. His eyes rapidly blinked. Shannon used that opportunity to pull Jessica out of the way. Jessica peered over her shoulder, at a man suddenly confused about his surroundings.