BATTER 70

I told myself over and over that I couldn’t afford to let my guard down or get worked up. Some killers use the horrific hallucinations provided by virtual reality to induce death by shock. Baron had absolutely no intention of becoming a victim for some leisurely murderer. His only role was to slap handcuffs on a killer’s wrists.

Baron closed his eyes. A massive tapestry, woven from separate incidents linked together, unfurled before him. The touch of his reason traced the threads, sometimes dense, sometimes loose.

The first tier. What benefit could a broken android provide to a Governor? Based on the facts the Governor had let slip, the tin can and the Governor already knew each other from the past.

The Governor had once bestowed a favor upon the tin can that couldn’t be ignored. Every android in the undersea gallery resembled Bijou. The Governor used formal speech with Bijou and followed his lead, at least superficially. Whether it was love, respect, or longing, he harbored a more-than-average affection for Bijou.

So, was that love worth a hundred million dollars? To narrow the question more accurately: what part of Bijou did he love? What “irreplaceable” quality was he finding in an android that could be replaced by a better version at any time—and a broken one at that?

Perhaps the Governor loved the shepherd who led fleeing criminals and the powerless weak. Or perhaps there was a possibility he loved the imperfect nanites that made up the tin can’s pseudo-blood.

Or maybe he wanted the bizarre drug that manipulated human minds and cognition…

The second tier. If the Governor is the head of a group that plants moles inside the Police Department to manipulate criminals’ minds, attacks detectives trying to investigate this, and stops at nothing to get his hands on a broken android—why did he do all those things?

The attack itself was understandable. It would be quite troublesome if a few insignificant detectives accidentally figured out the mastermind behind everything. If so, what was the reason for taking the risk to administer the drug to Neon Leon’s gang? Did they have some connection to the Governor? If so, Paul, who was the boss’s right hand, should have known some clue. It was highly likely the personal connection itself was low.

There were others who had involuntarily consumed the drug. The big-shot VIPs he met in the Central Gallery. What they had in common was that they held great power and influence in their respective fields, and Neon Leon, too, was a being close to a king, at least in the criminal world.

Bijou’s pills made the consumer forget anger, sadness, pain, and desire. What if everyone who drank the medicine today became docile and innocent?

If all the kings of the world turned into lambs.

The end of the Governor’s speech came to mind.

Our people and our lands have been divided, and even at this very moment, we are being fractured without end. The divided individual fails to understand others, and we must… become one again…

“Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s just some grand, obsessive romance.”

Baron grimaced and laughed. Whether it was an expensive love game or a political conspiracy threatening democracy, it was equally nauseating.

Virtual reality operating principles are largely divided into two types. The first uses old-generation technology to provide specific sensory information and allows for real-time interaction. The second involves sending stimuli to the brain to induce information or sensations stored in the individual’s mind, though specific details cannot be designated.

Since the content of the virtual reality he was currently seeing was linked to his detailed personal past, it was closer to a program employing the latter.

Baron knew the ambiguity of the word “induce.” As long as the virtual reality was reading Baron’s brain, he also had the authority to select what to show the machine. Baron took a calm breath.

And when he slowly exhaled, Baron opened his eyes again in the body of a child. His young body was sitting on top of a half-collapsed wall. When he swung his feet, which were barely hovering above the ground, back and forth, they bumped against a sniper rifle. As he hopped down from the wall, a monotonous voice suddenly spoke from behind. It was Mother.

“Was the rest sufficient? We will resume marksmanship training.”

“Whoa, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Take the position as you were trained, Soldier.”

“Haha, talk about a trip down memory lane. Roger that.”

Baron shrugged and lay prone with his belly to the ground. Bringing his eye close to the scope, he saw a mottled target painted on a wall in the distance. Having been used for training several times, it was already a tattered honeycomb.

Baron aligned the crosshairs in the center of the scope with the target and pulled the trigger. A strong vibration that shook his shoulder blades struck him over and over. A body with bones that hadn’t fully set and little muscle shook completely with every impact. Still, back then, he’d gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger no matter what, just to get a bit of praise.

The only child he knew in this world was himself, and the only mother he knew was Mother. Mother taught him how to protect himself and his unit members from a cruel world. He thought everyone learned how to hide in the right spots, how to assemble firearms, how to adjust the scope magnification, and how to endure the recoil. Young Baron—call sign Billrado—wanted to be good at everything Mother taught him.

Because every youngling follows and loves its mother.

Click, click. The firearm, out of ammunition, made a thin sound. Right around then, Mother issued the cease-fire command.

“Stop.”

“Well? How was I?”

He chuckled and looked back at the truck stationed behind him. Mother, having finished calculating the shooting results, replied.

“A new record, Soldier. It appears to be the result of repeated training.”

He remembered how happy Billrado had been when he first heard those words. Baron simply shrugged and laughed. After repeating the training—which by now was nothing more than a way to kill time—a few more times, Mother suggested they go look for supplies before the sun went down.

Baron walked around the nearly crumbled wall toward Mother. Mother, built as a military truck, was incomparably massive and sturdy compared to a passenger car. He climbed up Mother and took a seat on the roof of the driver’s cabin.

He could have sat inside the cabin or the cargo bed, but Billrado had always preferred that spot. Even if it was a bit dangerous, it was because he could see the same things Mother saw. Mother didn’t particularly mind her only private sitting on top of her head, either.

A lukewarm wind slapped Baron’s cheeks, resisting their path. His hair, which had grown long before he knew it, fluttered in the breeze and pricked his eyes. Baron shook his head and watched the scenery as it rushed by. Above the dunes of a desert parched beyond any hope of reconstruction, the tops of buildings poked out here and there.

A flourishing culture had been entirely swallowed by the sandstorms, and now only non-decaying concrete, plastic, and alloy bones remained. A desolate landscape like an elephant graveyard flashed past. Immersed in the memory, Baron pulled the scarf tied around his neck up to the bridge of his nose and hummed a song.

They parked the car behind the bridge, He laid her down and he began to smudge…

The sound of Mother’s engine and the sound of sandy soil scattering under the tires blended like an ensemble. Whenever Billrado sang occasionally, Mother used to play music for him, but it seemed now wasn’t that time. Baron’s shoulders jolted every time they passed a rock or a hill as he murmured the next lyrics.

Oh, my life is so funny. Am I still too young?

Days when the ground beneath his feet was always vibrating, fine grains of sand rubbed off on his palms, and a metallic scent was carried on the dry, hot wind. On the other side of the world, America was sinking underwater, while this place was drying up entirely. However, since this place where only weathering and erosion existed was Billrado’s home and cradle, he didn’t even have a reason to feel sorry for himself.

Mother, running along a nearly erased road, came to a sudden halt. It was in front of the remains of a small village. A large sign had fallen at the entrance to the village, making it look difficult for a large truck to enter. Baron hopped lightly down to the ground.