Chapter 140: 0 and 1
Deep within Joric's manufactorum, the study of the legendary netrunner Rache Bartmoss's remains proceeded methodically.
Mechanical tentacles operated with precision under cold lights—scanning, sampling, analyzing. The entire process was efficient, calm, and devoid of emotion, like dismantling a complex antique device.
Servo-skulls hovered silently, recording every data set, gradually decoding the physiological secrets of a titan of the age.
Meanwhile, in the austere corner allocated to David outside the main workshop, a very different kind of "decoding" was taking place.
Here, there were no cold machines, but the rules were equally strict, and the test of will was unquestionable.
David Martinez sat on a worn sofa, his body held in a posture that was relaxed yet taut with concentration.
A servo-skull designated specifically for his tutelage hovered before him. Its bone jaw clicked rhythmically, continuously outputting a long, tedious stream of binary language composed of two basic tones: "Di" and "Da."
Simultaneously, the data deluge transmitted by the skull flooded into David's brain via the cable jacked directly into the port at the back of his neck.
David felt like his consciousness had been forcibly shoved into a raging river of pure information.
Countless "0s" and "1s" were no longer abstract symbols but substantial pulse-signals with definite presence, washing over his mind wave after wave.
He felt a throbbing pressure at his temples, as if the physical space of his brain was being forcibly filled and expanded by this alien, rigorously structured data.
It was a peculiar sensation of load—like an empty vessel suddenly being stuffed full, and then force-fed more, trying to stretch the skull itself.
Crucially, per Joric's protocol, all of David's auxiliary implants, translation cyberware, and even basic neural processing enhancements were forcibly disabled.
No pre-processors filtered or translated for him. No memory banks shared the storage load.
He had to rely on his unaugmented, purely organic biological brain to directly comprehend, memorize, and attempt to recite this cold language designed for machine logic.
Every "Di" and "Da" required his most fundamental attention to capture, parse, and assign meaning to.
The process stripped away all technological crutches, reducing learning to the most primitive, and most arduous, mental combat.
"Syllabic interval error. Sequence '010011', second '1', incorrect syntax," the servo-skull announced in a flat, synthesized voice.
Before the words faded, a sharp electric shock blasted through his cerebral cortex!
It wasn't a piercing pain, but an intense, overwhelming sensation of being forcibly "scrubbed" by high-voltage current. Every nerve ending screamed, his mind went blank, his body convulsed violently, and a short gasp escaped his throat.
"Repeat current sequence." The servo-skull resumed playing the code without a ripple of emotion.
David blinked hard, shaking his head, trying to dispel the residual numbness and buzzing noise in his brain.
He took a deep breath, focusing again.
The shock was indeed intense, the discomfort extreme. Each time, he felt like he was losing control of his body.
But it came fast and left fast. As the servo-skull had initially informed him: It causes no substantive neural damage, only leaves an incredibly clear memory: You were wrong.
He knew this wasn't torture; it was discipline, a teaching tool prioritizing efficiency above all else.
Joric's—or the Mechanicus's—method was simple and direct: errors must be pointed out immediately and remembered via impactful means.
At first, the "Di-Da" sounds were meaningless noise to him, more obscure than any language or code he'd encountered at Arasaka Academy.
He had to use pure biological brainpower to distinguish logical units from the chaotic rhythm, mapping them to specific concepts and commands.
Error after error, lesson after lesson accompanied by intense shocks, made the process physiologically repulsive.
The thought of giving up wasn't absent.
When his brain was exhausted from sustained high-intensity operation and intermittent shocks, when frustration piled up, the temptation to jack out was immense.
David's gaze would involuntarily drift toward the temporary partition nearby.
Inside, his mother, Gloria, lay on a simple medical cot.
Drugs kept her sedated most of the time.
Her face was pale, her breathing so faint he could barely see her chest rise.
The woman who used to power-walk through the streets carrying crates of cyberware now struggled to lift a hand.
Sometimes she would wake, staring blankly at the ceiling.
But when her gaze caught David's figure outside, those dull eyes would suddenly find focus.
She would look at his face, tight with concentration, at his sweat-soaked hair.
Her fingers would twitch on the sheets, as if trying to grasp something.
Her lips would part slightly, wanting to speak, but no sound came.
Finally, it would just become a single tear, sliding slowly from the corner of her eye.
The sight tightened David's stomach, like a fist around his heart.
Every time he saw his mother like this, he felt the weight on his shoulders with crystal clarity.
It hurt more than any electric shock, but it gave him more strength than any encouragement.
He couldn't give up.
He even felt the pain was necessary.
Maine and the others said this was a rare opportunity, but David didn't care about opportunities.
He had only one simple thought: Learn this knowledge. Cure Mom.
Joric's terms were clear: One year. Learn everything. Then treat his mother himself.
The price: work for Joric for two hundred years.
Failure... he dared not think about the consequences.
Whenever learning hit a wall, whenever the discomfort of the shocks made him want to retreat, one look at that partition gave him the reason to continue.
His mother's silent tears were more effective than any whip.
He knew he had to succeed. There was no other choice.
Every shock from the servo-skull reminded him of the cost and urgency of this goal.
He could tolerate no slack, no carelessness.
One day in the future, when he stood beside his mother ready to perform the decisive treatment, any tiny error stemming from today could cause irreversible regret.
He had to ensure every syllable, every logical sequence he learned was accurate, flawless, and etched into his bones.
(End of Chapter)