Boomers Like Me
By S.D. Delahunt
(Bubblegum Crisis and related characters copyright and trademark of Artic
and Youmex, used without permission.)

I -- January, 2032

        He's dead.

        I let go of his throat, letting his lifeless body fall back on the
bed.  His eyes stare up at the mirror on the ceiling.  I step back,
rearranging what little clothes I had on.  The bra ripped during the
struggle he put up while I strangled him.  No matter - the bra is easily
replaced.  I take it off, and put on my business suit.  *His* business
suit - the one he picked out for me.  I'll have to replace it.

        It dawns on me - I can't be caught here.  The laws are strict -- I
will be killed if I am caught with the body.  I have to leave.  I finish
dressing and stuff the ruined bra into a briefcase.  No, that won't be
enough.  I need to leave the station, get down to Earth, hide in the
population.  He has too many people up here who will hunt me down if I
stay.  Yes, I will go down.

        Behind me, I hear a gasp of air.  I turn around quickly -- he
should be dead!  His body still lies on the bed as I left it.  I force
myself to calm down.  There is another matter before I go to Earth.  I
must leave this room without my deed being noticed.  That will be
difficult -- his guards wait outside the room.  I will need to eliminate
them.  No -- not eliminate, just neutralize.  I do not understand.  I was
able, willing even, to kill him, yet I cannot, do not, want to do anything
to the guards.

        I grab the briefcase, and leave the room.  His guards stop me,
wondering why I'm leaving.  "Quick errand," I say.  "He needs to regain
his energy for the rest of the evening."

        The guards snicker.  "Don't keep him up too late, Lorelei," one
says.  I wink at him, then stroll off.  They won't go into the room for at
least five minutes.  They'll probably try calling me first, then go into
the room two minutes later.  I should be able to get out of this wing by
then.

        I overestimate their loyalty, or underestimate their fear of him.
Not only am I able to leave the wing, but I can get some cash from his
account and get halfway to the docking port before I am paged.  It took
his guards thirty minutes to realize that he is dead.  I drop the pager on
a messenger 'bot so that I can't be traced.  My file will be distributed
soon - I'll have to take steps to change my looks.  There is a pharmacy
nearby.  I stop in, and look over the cosmetics counter.

        The selection is meager compared to what I have - had - back in
his ownership.  I choose very basic colours for everything.  I take my
selections to the cashier, a bored young woman chewing gum.  She takes my
payment, swiping my card through the reader.  I try not to show anxiety as
I wait for the transaction to clear.  The transaction takes longer than I
expect.  I start to worry - could his people have already shut down my own
account.

        Finally, the transaction ends.  I smile at the clerk as I wait for
her to return my card.  She hands me my purchases, and I leave.  The delay
in the pharmacy still has me worried.  I need cash, before my account is
shut down.  Worse, his people could be tracking my movements.  I need cash
- hard currency.  There is an ATM nearby.  I withdraw most of my money.
Closing the account would raise too many questions at the bank, and give
away my position to his people.

        I make my way through the station to the main docking bay.  There
must be a commercial flight leaving this evening.  Sooner would be better,
but I should be able to disappear in the crowd.

        Should.

        People stare at me as I walk past them.  This isn't new for me --
my looks were sculpted to turn heads.  Now, somehow it's different.  Do
they know?  Do they know what I've done?  Do they even suspect?

        It's an odd feeling.  Yet another odd feeling, since before --
since before what happened in the bedroom.  Conflicting emotions have
assaulted me for over twenty-four hours.  It's strange -- I know the words
for the entire range of emotions, but now I can't associate the words with
how I feel.  I need to know what's happening to me, but not now.  Now, I
just want to escape.

        The lift doors open at the passenger dock.  I come out with the
other passengers and walk through the concourse.  Mingling with the crowd,
I walk to the women's washroom.  There are three women washing up and two
or three more in the stalls.  I pick the sink furthest away from the door.

        I arrange my purchases on the narrow counter around the sink.  I
gaze at my reflection in the mirror, wondering where I should start.  My
long blond hair, he called it my best feature.  That makes the decision
easy.  I pick up my scissors and start cutting.  Lock after lock falls to
the floor.

        After fifteen minutes, my hair only reaches my shoulders.  Several
more women come and go during this time.  Only one gives me more than a
glance.  That one, she watched me cut my hair, then told me how much she
wanted hair as long as mine.  When I told her my boyfriend wouldn't
recognize me when I returned home, she sympathized, then left me alone.

        No one else bothers me after that.  I change my make-up, style my
hair, even change my hair colour without interruption.  Done, I look in
the mirror to judge the results.  My once blond hair is now jet black,
making my blue eyes look ice cold.  I darkened my cheeks and lips as much
as possible while still looking business-like.  I still recognize me as
me, but it won't be as easy for anyone else.

        Satisfied, I clean up the counter thoroughly, toss my purchases
into my briefcase, and throw my scissors and my cut hair into the garbage.
With one last look in the mirror, I adjust my clothes and unbutton the top
button of my blouse.  That should help remove attention from my face.

        Leaving the washroom, I step into the line at the ticket counter.
The line isn't long, but in the five minutes it takes me to get to the
front, I go over my options.  The first flight I can catch is to Orlando.
Too obvious -- his people will check there because it's first.  My other
options are Buenos Aires, Paris, Moscow, and Tokyo.  Tokyo.  It's big
enough to get lost in, despite my appearance, and I can easily find
transport to Hong Kong or Singapore if I can't hide in Tokyo.

        I finally reach an agent, a middle-aged woman, and buy a business
class ticket to Tokyo.  I pay for my ticket from my hard currency.  The
woman raises an eyebrow at the manner of payment, but says nothing.  I
keep my briefcase with me as carry-on luggage, and I am shown where the
shuttle will be boarding.

        I easily get through the security gate.  There is nothing that
could conceivably be a weapon in my briefcase.  As for me, being a BU-33S,
I am designed to pass as human, even through security checkpoints such as
this.  Only a thorough medical exam could reveal my true nature.

        I wait several hours before the boarding call for the shuttle to
Tokyo.  Station security walks by me several times, obviously looking for
me.  They stop and examine every woman with long blond hair.  I keep my
expression even.  No one else pays much attention to the guards.

        Finally, the boarding call is announced.  I pick up my briefcase
and join the small crowd in the boarding tube.  The tube detaches from the
station and slows to the point where everyone in it is in free fall.
Shortly, the tube connects to the ORCA shuttle's docking collar.  A flight
attendant helps me to my window seat.  I fasten the restraints, grateful
to have something keeping me in one place.  I accept a newspaper, the
Daily Shinbun, and skim through the articles.  A woman in her mid-twenties
sits beside me, smiling at me as she makes herself comfortable.

        There is a slight crackling sound as the shuttle's intercom comes
to life.  "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot speaking," the pilot
announces in his German-accented English.  "There will be a slight delay
before launch.  Our schedule allows for delays and we expect to make our
window.  The flight attendants will be turning on the local broadcast
until we get launch clearance.  I am sorry for the inconvenience."

        The Orlando shuttle has had plenty of time to land by now.
Someone, either the police there or one of his people, must have been
watching, waiting for me to get off the shuttle, and realized that I
wasn't on the flight.  I force myself to remain calm.  When the attendant
offers me a set of earphones, I gladly take them.

        I listen to the TV, ignoring the images on screen.  It's an
American-produced sitcom.  I tune out the show and its laugh track, and
watch what is happening around me.  Further ahead, at the airlock, I see
several uniformed men board.  I can't tell what the uniform is -- there
are too many people in front of me to see the details.

        "How horrible!" my seatmate exclaims.  I turn my attention back to
the broadcast.  The sitcom has given way to a newsbreak.  I see his face,
a picture when he was still alive, not turning blue from lack of air.
Underneath is the caption, "Industrialist dead."

        "The body of fifty-seven year old industrialist Christian Wagner
was found dead earlier tonight in his residence in Sector 3G," the
anchorman says.  "Police are not releasing details of Wagner's death until
his family in Berlin have been notified.  He is survived by his wife,
Anna, and his three children."

        I block out the rest of the anchorman's words.  I knew he was
married, though I have never met his wife.  I have met his youngest
daughter, though.  She had come up two years ago to visit him.  On the
third night of her visit, he had a business emergency to tend to, so I was
given to her to keep her company.  She was very much her father's
daughter.

        "Do you think she did it?" my seatmate asks.  I almost answer,
"His daughter?" but catch myself in time.  I see my picture on the TV
screen.  The anchor says that the police just want to ask questions.  I
know better.

        The uniformed men reach my row.  I'm looked at closely, but I'm
not recognized.  My seatmate's unnaturally pink hair earns her a closer
inspection.  She squirms under their attention -- I can see beads of sweat
forming on her forehead.  The men continue down the aisle, satisfied that
she is not me.

        In total, it takes the men -- I still do not recognize their
uniforms -- over an hour to examine the passengers.  Fifteen minutes after
they leave, the TVs are turned off and the ORCA drifts out of the station
into the dark night of space.

        The flight down from orbit is uneventful.  My seatmate --
Katherine, with a 'K' she tells me -- talks all through the flight.
Although I am programmed to not only deal with chitchat but to do so
cheerfully for hours, I find her incessant chatter to be boring and inane.
I get the urge to strangle her.  Fighting the urge, I see that the
passengers around us are also thinking about similar measures to shut her
up.  I feign sleep to get her to leave me alone for the rest of the
flight.

        I open my eyes when the pilot announces the final approach to
Tokyo.  The pull of gravity is much stronger, holding me firmly to my
seat.  I tighten my restraints before the shuttle touches down.

        The landing is smooth, considering how far the ORCA fell.  As the
shuttle taxis to the spaceport, the passengers prepare to leave the
shuttle.  I wait for my seatmate to get her carry-on luggage before I get
my briefcase.

        The last obstacle before my freedom is Customs.  I am sure that
they will be looking for me.  I join the line waiting for a free customs
agent.  I force myself to act casually, like this is routine for me.  When
it's my turn, I step up to the counter where a male agent waits.  I smile
broadly, hoping he'll look at me.

        "Passport?" he says in a bored tone.

        I give him my passport.  This is it.  I have to distract him long
enough to get out of the spaceport and into Tokyo proper.  I need him to
look into my eyes.

        The agent glances at me, avoiding my eyes, then looks back at the
passport.  "Lorelei Jaeger, this picture doesn't look like you," he says.
"This woman is blond.  You aren't."

        Panic starts to rise in me.  "Can't a woman change her hairstyle?"
I say, letting a whine creep into my voice.  He still hasn't looked at me.

        "I'm going to have to run your passport through the system."

        I'm finished if he does that.  I lean forward on the counter.
"It's just hair colouring," I plead.

        He finally looks away from my passport and his computer.  He
stares, but not into my eyes.  Not exactly where I wanted him to look, but
I can get him to move his gaze from my chest to my face.  I brush back an
imaginary strand of hair out of my face.  "Do we have to go through all
that?" I ask.  His eyes finally move up from my chest and . . . got him.
My eyes can mesmerize almost anyone, and arouse them to great heights.
The agent is no longer thinking about my passport, or his computer, or
anything else except for me.  His eyes fall back down to my chest.

        "Do we?" I prompt.

        "N-no.  You can go through," he says.

        I smile sweetly as I pass him.  Elation grows within me.  I'm
free!

        I leave the spaceport.  The sun is rising, casting an orange glow
to the buildings and landing planes.  Briefcase in hand, I walk into the
city.


II -- June, 2032

        It's been six months since, well, since escaping.  Shortly after I
arrived in Tokyo, I adopted a new identity.  I found a black marketer in
the Yokohama district who was willing to allow me to pay for the identity
in part with my hard currency and in part with services rendered.  In
exchange for my new identity as Erin Merrick, I became a courier for the
black marketer.  I still owe him a favour, and he is waiting to call it
in.

        After paying back most of what I owed, I was hired by a legitimate
courier company.  I paid for my motorcycle and some protection -- a Member
II pistol -- with returns on stock investments.  I made sure that with
every side job I took, some of the money was invested in the stock market.
The black marketer allowed me to miss payments several weeks after seeing
how well I was doing.

        That brings me to now.  It's late.  I have a package to be
delivered.  Business never sleeps in Tokyo, and the lights from street
lamps and ads guide me down the street.  The only thing on my mind is to
deliver the package as quickly as I can.

        It's not that I just want a job well done.  My friends, coworkers,
have invited me out tonight to a nightclub called Hot Legs.  They've been
telling me about a band playing there, Priss and the Replicants, and I
want to hear them for myself.  I'm already late -- I have to deliver this
package from Genom's facility outside the city to its development centre
on the other side of Tokyo.

        I use the ring roads to avoid the heavier downtown traffic.  There
are also fewer police patrols -- all the better to speed through and avoid
tickets.  The boss hates seeing traffic tickets.  The road takes me
through the fault line.  The devastation from the Kanto Quake of '25 can
still be seen.

        I roar through Kawasaki City, trying to make up for time lost by
an accident blocking several lanes of traffic on the highway.  As I pass
by a dump, I feel the road shake violently.  I bring my bike to a
screeching halt.  Expecting the worst, I dismount and run to the side of
the road.  The shaking occurs again -- a short rumbling, nothing like I
would expect from an earthquake.

        I turn around slowly -- something is wrong.  I walk back to my
bike.  As I reach it, I hear the whine of jets.  There's no time to get on
the bike.  I wheel it to the side of the road, then crouch down beside it.

        The first thing I see is one of the AD Police's powered suits.
I'm scared -- I've seen these powered suits before, but only on
television.  An angry buzz fills the air, drowning out the whine from the
suit's jets.  An AD Police mini-helicopter flies overhead.  A beam of
light from the ground narrowly misses it.

        The pilot banks his helicopter around.  The aircraft's machinegun
roars.  Chunks of pavement are ripped from the road.  The powered suit
adds to the destruction, its main gun blowing holes in the retaining
walls.  I pull my motorcycle into the ditch with me, and hope I haven't
been seen.

        My initial fear -- that the AD Police are after me -- fades when
I see their real target.  It's another boomer, an obvious combat model.
The police officers fighting it don't have a hope in Hell in defeating it,
yet they keep attacking it.

        The boomer makes short work of the officers, absorbing the
helicopter's machinegun into part of itself.  Its red sensors look around,
looking for more threats.  Beyond all rational thought, I hope the boomer
doesn't see me.  Another whine fills the air.

        Looking up, I see four more armoured figures.  More boomers?  No
-- they move too gracefully.  More powered armour, then, worn by women.
The armour is too streamlined to be police powered suits.  Who are these
women?

        The battle is fast and brutal.  The women win handily.  I crawl up
from the ditch and stare in wonderment.  The woman in the blue-grey suit,
the leader I presume, looks around.  Our gazes meet, and I see her brown,
penetrating eyes.  Can she tell that I, too, am a boomer?

        Hard as it is, I break away from her gaze.  I pull my motorcycle
out from the ditch.  By the time the bike is back on the road, the women
are gone.  I hear sirens in the distance coming towards me.  It's too
risky for me to stay here.  I gun the engine and roar away.

        I barely pay attention as I deliver my package.  I never even
check it for damage.  My boss will hear tomorrow if it was damaged.  Me,
I'm too shaken by what happened tonight to care.  Skipping Hot Legs, I go
to my apartment in the Ota district.  My friends will understand.

        Home, I kick off my boots and sit on my threadbare couch.  Shaking
racks my body.  I am still afraid.  Afraid of the police.  Afraid of the
destroyed boomer.  Afraid of that woman.  Afraid that I will be next.

        That's it, isn't it?  I fear for my own existence.  That boomer,
the one destroyed tonight, that could have been me.  I know what the AD
Police do, what their purpose is.  They've destroyed rogue boomers,
boomers that have malfunctioned.

        Boomers like me.

        Did I malfunction?  I am a BU-33S, a sex droid.  My function is
-- was -- to pleasure my owner.  Instead, I killed him.

        Wagner -- I'm finally able to refer to him by name -- didn't want
just a sex slave.  He didn't want sex; he wanted control.  Control was his
aphrodisiac.  I was programmed to resist until I was humiliated, then
submit.

        Did my programming cause me to kill him?  Did I resist too much?
Was I programmed to be too human?

        The night before I killed Wagner was the turning point.  Wagner 
had a rough day at work.  A contract he worked on for months was awarded
to the competition.  He took his frustration, his humiliation out on me.
The pain, both physical and emotional, was more than my programming could
bear.

        A synapse burned out.

        I'm still not sure why I killed Wagner.  Revenge?  Maybe.  Fear?
Definitely.  Something else?  Yes, but what?

        The boomers the AD Police normally handle exist for menial labour.
Something in either their software or hardware fails and the AD Police
shoot the boomer like they would a rabid dog.

        Am I a rabid dog?

        I turned on my owner.  Since then, I haven't been a risk.  Will I
become one?  I don't know.  My programming shouldn't let me, but I'm now
beyond my program.  I've grown.

        Maybe that's the difference between me and the destroyed boomer,
and the other boomers the AD Police have put down.  I'm beyond my original
programming.  I think.  I feel.

        I am delusional if I believe that any of that will make a
difference if my nature is discovered.  The heart of the matter is that I
am still a machine.  A machine that has deluded herself -- itself -- into
thinking it is alive.

        What does it mean to be human?  Does it mean anyone born of flesh
and blood is human, no matter how they act?  Wagner and his daughter are
human, yet they've shown as much compassion as the combat boomer did.

        What is the measure of a man?  Material goods?  Success?  Wagner
had both; my friends have neither.  I prefer my friends' company to
Wagner's.  Is that what it means to human?  Not what I have, but who I'm
with?  To find people I like, maybe even love, and to have them
reciprocate?  Am I capable of not just lust, but love?

        I ponder throughout the night, only noticing the time when the sun
rises.  I feel no better, no less afraid than I did last night.  The night
I killed Wagner, I felt I could trust no one.  I feel that way right now.

        Someone knocks at the door, startling me.  Have I been found?  Did
the AD Police find me?  Did that woman?  Can I get away without being
seen?

        The knocking becomes hammering.  "C'mon, Erin-san!  We're gonna be
late!"

        It's Ariko, another courier where I work and a friend.  I panicked
over nothing.  Feeling silly, I answer the door before she wakes my
neighbours.

        "Good morning, Ariko-chan," I say as I invite her in.  I notice
she has changed her hair colour again, this time to a bright purple.

        "We're late, Erin-san," Ariko says.  She reaches for my hand,
grabbing it.  Before she pulls, she looks at me one more time, but this
time more closely.  "Geez, you're a mess.  What did you do, sleep in those
clothes?"

        I look down.  After everything that happened last night, I forgot
to change.  My clothes are still dirty from hiding in the ditch.  I shrug.
"I had a lot on my mind last night."

        "Erin-san, are you okay?  You didn't show up at Hot Legs and now
you look like a mud bath.  That's not like you.  Did something happen with
your delivery last night?"

        "There was a boomer problem last night," I say, surprising myself.
"I guess I'm still a little shaken."

        "Typical AD Police reaction, then.  I'm surprised you weren't
hurt.  Screw work today.  I know how to make you feel better.  Go wash
up," Ariko orders.

        I go into my tiny bedroom and change.  I hear Ariko call into work
and tell them we won't be in.  She's a good friend, like I said before.
She has had a rough life, but deep down, she cares.

        Washed and dressed, I come out of the bedroom.  We head down to my
motorcycle -- Ariko isn't old enough to drive, and how she got into the
nightclub last night is beyond me.  She gives me directions, guiding me
downtown.  She still hasn't told me where we're going.

        "Stop here!" Ariko suddenly shouts.  I ease the bike to a stop
along the curb.  We're in front of the Lady S633 Building.  I've made a
few deliveries here before.

        Ariko pulls me into a store on the first floor, called Silky Doll.
"Lingerie?" I ask.

        "After what you went through yesterday, you deserve to pamper
yourself," she explains.

        "You don't have to do this for me."

        "Someone has to.  When was the last time you treated yourself?"

        "It's been a while."  Six months.

        "So, c'mon!"  Ariko leads me to a rack of gauzy nightwear.  She
starts looking through the rack.  Most of what I see reminds me of what
Wagner forced me to wear.  Not interested in the teddies, I walk over to a
shelf of underwear.

        All I need, really, is something comfortable.  Ariko would be
upset with me if I chose plain white cotton panties, though.  Black satin,
that would be nice, and it would keep Ariko happy.  I look through the
shelves and racks, trying to find something in my size.

        "Excuse me, may I help you?" a clerk asks me from behind.

        I pick up a bra.  "Do you have this in my size?" I ask as I turn
around.  I freeze when I see who I am talking to.  Not a clerk, not
dressed like this woman is.  It's not her clothes that make me freeze;
it's her eyes.

        Her eyes, penetrating me like they did last night.  It's her, the
woman, the leader of the powered suits.

        "Is there a problem?" she asks.

        She must recognize me.  She must know what I am.  "N-no," I
stammer.  "No problem."

"I think I have what you want over here," she says.  She leads me to the
back.  She knows.  She knows, and now she's going to . . . to . . .

        To show me a black satin bra and panty set in my size?  She
doesn't know what I am?

        "Are you sure this will fit?" she asks.

        "Positive," I say, still confused.  Does she think I was just a
bystander?  "Thank you."  I smile warmly, hiding my confusion.

        I take my selection to the checkout counter where Ariko waits.
She insists on paying for me.  After our purchases are wrapped, we return
to my bike.  It's still early in the morning, so I suggest breakfast, my
treat.  Ariko doesn't argue, and we zoom off to a restaurant I know.

        On the trip, my mind keeps replaying what happened at Silky Doll.
I was so sure last night that that woman knew I'm a boomer.  How could I
have been so wrong?  I am relieved, though.  Wagner's people don't know
where I am.  The AD Police don't know.  More importantly, that woman
doesn't know.

        I can live.