Pit's Cyberpunk
Project Quietus. A rumour about a state-run attack that spread silently through the network. Thirteen weeks ago, Sarah first heard of it. Two more seconds and the operation will get launched. Two more seconds and she will know what it is about. Thirteen weeks ago, her husband died. She didn't leave her computer more than thrice a day since then. Only shortly for necessities. She doesn't drink much, she doesn't like to flush the toilet. She has to hear it all the day, water, falling down the pipe. In a skyscraper you're never alone. Cheap insulation. Shabby. The room looks shabby. Wired. Dark. She turns her head, her long blond hair strokes her face. A longing look on the picture of her husband. One more second.
An obliging and honest man. Found a grave security gap in the servers of the National Cyberspace Forces. Went to the police department to report from it. Blundered into an assault of rebels. Was shot by a police officer. The report said, his head was in the way. Sarah knew, it were his ears. She doesn't know what corruption scandal it was about. There are simply too many. Probably censorship, probably the network barrier, probably a failed delivery, probably the so-called elections. Doesn't matter. The rebels got killed. The certain police officer got two of them. The certain police officer got a promotion. A look on the screen, longing for vengeance, no more seconds, sabotage.
Operation deciduation. Target: The Ginkgo shrine. Time remaining: Four minutes. "A damned tree". These are all her thoughts. "A damned tree". With anger she strikes on the table. A thud. Somewhere a book must have fallen from the desk. She stands up, looks behind it and there it is, an old photo album. She didn't even know it existed. The page shows a picture with a familiar person, her grandmother, Anna Crusis. In the background, her orchard. Suddenly she remembers her childhood. Nature. Hastily she leafs through the book and remembers more and awakes and realizes and sees another familiar person. It's him. Beneath a cherry tree. Blossoming. The place where they first met. Time remaining: Three minutes.
In the next second the echoes of hundred pressed keys resound in the room. Using the security gap her husband found, she enters the network. Time to act. Her blue eyes are gliding faster than electrons over the screen. The ginkgo shrine. Home of the last remaining tree. The only one that survived the evolution. Pilgrimage site for those who didn't let the state thieve their remembrances of a brighter world. Sarah wasn't part of them. Till now. Floppies are flying through the room. Time remaining: Two and a half minutes.
With her shaking hands she inserts the disks, with her insubordinate fingers she types the commands, with her tear-filled eyes she follows the chaos on the network. The ginkgo shrine, illuminated by four floodlights. The only source of light the tree has in his dungeon, probably the most secure in the world. The system controlling the light switch, probably the most secure in the world. Set up by the best hackers the network has ever seen. Anarchists, who didn't abandon themselves to the state. Fought the authority during their whole life. During their short life. A gunshot! She looks out the window. Breaking glass in the opposite building. Most probably a hacker's apartment. Never let them backtrack you. Sarah startles up. She forgot to take the precautions. Time remaining: Two minutes. Never mind. Too late. Lights remaining: Two. Already two cracked…
The data rate, decreasing. Never before did the wires reach such temperatures. A deluge-like flow of bytes shattering each other. Two fronts clashing after years of accumulating hate. Sarah, not in the middle of it. One of the few who managed to enter the servers of the National Cyberspace Forces, managed to approach the enemy's heart, managed to be hope. Cattech. This name showed up multiple times. Where does she know it from? Cattech. An idle glance over her desk. The newspaper from thirteen weeks ago. The advertisings. Cattech. A corporation arising by the fusion of the three largest technology giants on December 22. That's today. Their product: Wooldress. "The first gynoid that can't be distinguished from true women. The fabricators are under strict surveillance from the state." The beauty in Sarah's eyes has gone, what stays is nothing but fear. No, the state doesn't supervise the fabricators. The fabricators are the state. This whole operation's nothing more than a marketing strategy. Wiping out the last remnant of naturism. Another gunshot. Time remaining: One minute. Her pistol lays on the desk, pointing to the window, loaded, safety catch off. Lights remaining: One.
In a world where electrons are the only bridge of communication, where alienation's as abundant as skyscrapers, where everything's connected but still isolated, where freshly bred children can be delivered home, where cybernetic upgrades make the man, an old tree's the last link to everyone's root. If he's gone, the gynoids will take his place, will form a network supposed to hold together a fragile society and strengthen the power of their creator. The market, money, might. It's all about the wet dreams of a few power-hungry maniacs. Our DNA makes us individual, unprogrammable. They can't expect everybody to accept their rules, they can't strive a global network. Because everything became far too large. It's simply a too large scale. Another gunshot. Very close. Sarah grins at the thought what they might look at in her bedroom. A kick against the door. It partly breaks. A blast of air goes through the room. A memo flies against her face. "Look up cradle". She remembers, she wanted a child. Hectically she fights her way through the desk and finds an unopened pregnancy test. Ten steps to the frontdoor. To her dream. Another kick. Ten seconds remaining. Still one light. There's hope. Not for her, not for her dream, but nonetheless worth typing.
