Living in Syn

by Bobby Draughon

  Mission laid out the four raw stats reports, and compared them line by line, looking for big variances. He found one. This guy established three times the number of synaptic connections as the other three. Now what area is this? It's the ... language center. Okay, so does anything in the history support that kind of difference? Looking ... looking ... yes! Of course, this syn belonged to a Japanese exec who had brought his family with him, and the house was bilingual.

  This strategy would pay dividends. He had no idea how. But at least he hadn't looked at this data six or seven times already. And, good news. Only 4800 more regions to look at.

  Mission opened his eyes with difficulty. His computer said, "Waiting." He had fallen asleep on the coffee table and stayed that way for a while. The computer said, "Waiting." He went to raise his head and couldn't. What the hell? Obviously he spilled coffee and he fell asleep in it. Now that it dried, his face was glued to the table. His computer said, "Waiting." Well, there was no sense in dragging this out. He gradually applied pressure and his wounds reminded him that both sides of his face were torn, throbbing bundles of raw nerves. But he had no choice and he applied more pressure. He sensed his cheekbone wasn't as firmly attached as his jaw, so he focused the pressure there. After what seemed like an hour, he was free.

  Mission smiled at his predicament. "Help. I've glued myself to my coffee table and can't get up.", he mimicked.

  His computer said, "Waiting."

  Mission said, "Computer, how many fields have we compared in this raw data?"

  "3418."

  "And how long have you been waiting for the next field?"

  "19 hours 12 minutes."

  "Well, I guess I needed the sleep, huh? I'm going to get something to eat, I'm starved. Save what we've done so far, and we'll start again in a couple of hours. Okay?"

  "I'm sorry, your syntax was in ... "

  "Okay, okay, okay. Save all. Wait. How's that?"

  "Data is saved. Waiting for resumption."

  Twelve hours later, Mission still combed the raw data. Considerably past 4300 fields, he no longer expected to find anything, but it would drive him crazy if he didn't finish looking. He looked around for another cigarette and the computer said, "Another significant deviation, field 4341, code Dxt01077."

  Mission looked in his legend. "So, that's manual dexterity/hand eye skills. Which one has the deviation?"

  "Synthetic John Jones established 88% more synaptic connections than the other three."

  Mission flipped through the history, looking at the family, the location, the profession, the ... wait. The owner, Sam Sheffield is president of Sheffield Enterprises. That doesn't really say what he does. He considered.

  "Computer, do you have a phone listing in this city for Sheffield Enterprises?"

  "Yes. Would you like ... ?"

  "Cross reference to yellow pages. What is it listed under?"

  "Construction. Custom built homes."

  Mission smiled. "You're mine."

  7

  Mission sat in a waiting area, taking in the surroundings. Only a truly prosperous company furnishes the waiting areas with antiques. He sipped his coffee with appreciation. A blend of Colombian and Cuban roasts of the highest quality. Even if one was not a coffee lover, one must appreciate being served from an intricate and beautiful silver service. Not to mention the fact that they trusted him with a fine china cup and saucer with a sterling silver spoon.

  The kid that Mission yelled at over the com motioned nervously to him. Mission smiled and walked over. The kid gulped.

  "Dr. St. Jean will see you now."

  "Thanks. And relax. I'm not going to yell today."

  "It's not you that scares me."

  "Can't help you there kid. I'm scared of Susan too."

  Mission rapped lightly on the door and walked in. Damn her. She could be beautiful if she wanted. Today she made that more obvious. Although the red jacket and skirt definitely fell into the category of business suit, it was a departure, and a good combination for her. Especially the way her dark hair looked falling on her shoulders. And ... yes, she applied lipstick that reinforced the color scheme. He wondered if this look was a ploy to make him more talkative, more cooperative.

  "Mission. I do appreciate you coming. I hope this isn't inconvenient. Do you have a date this evening?"

  Mission scowled at her. "So ... it's going to be one of those kind of interviews." He gestured at the old clothes, the tattered work boots, and the 25 year old navy yarn cap on his head. "It just so happens that I'm working today. I've conducted my surveillance at one site this morning and I'll cover another area this evening."

  Susan nodded. "Nothing, I hope that will lead to a med tech station?"

  Mission shook his head. "No. I do homework first. And then, only if I am satisfied that the situation is favorable, do I move. None of that tonight."

  He looked around the office appreciatively. The mahogany furniture, her desk the size of Rhode Island, and the circular table in the corner for conferences spoke volumes on Susan's success. Four different vases with fresh flowers brightened the room. Behind her stood an impressive collection of printed books. Mission could see the psychology section and he noted the presence of every landmark book from Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams, to Jung's Psyche and Symbol, to Skinner's Beyond Freedom and Dignity, through the more modern works. Except ...

  "Susan, I see all the great works of psychology here, except The Convergence of Human and Synthetic Psychology by ... hmmm ... who is it? St. Francis? St. James? St. Jean?"

  She blushed and Mission counted it as a small victory. She recovered and said, "Well, you flatter me. It is for time and the academia to determine if my book should stand alongside these." She gestured behind her.

  "But how do you know about my book?"

  Mission shook his head. "Would you be surprised to hear that I read your book the first week it came out?"

  Susan backpedaled. "But the math, the formulas for estimation of synaptic junction capabilities versus neuronal synapse connection is integral to the idea that ... "

  "That constant elasticity balances the organism's superior capabilities in redirecting processing responsibility. But I think a deeper examination will show it is the relatively primitive state of specialized processors like visual, that limit syn flexibility. There is no argument that there must be specialized processors, but they must also be backwardly compatible so that they are also capable of handling redirected functionality. Thus, the syn brain would have the ability to use 20% of visual processor capability to say, salvage vital language functions."

  Susan didn't know how to react. "That's ... that's a very interesting ... and ... and promising hypothesis. How did ... how did?"

  Mission smiled. "Do you think that I get wasted every night and watch football or bass fishing or the all-sex channel? Hell, there are 800 channels. I get drunk and watch the University Channel. I've watched a math course every semester for six years. And computer architecture. And literature. I think you judge me on your opinion of my occupation."

  "Okay. Guilty. I'm guilty. It is inspiring to know you haven't stopped learning. Have we traded enough barbs now? Can I start my questions?"

  "Sure. Let's start."

  "Okay. How did you discover the synthetic Tom Brown?"

  "I count on the tendency of runaways to live in the Free Zone, but to work outside it. Then I patrol the Free Zone borders and look for visual matches. I spotted him on October 1 coming home from what I believed to be construction work."

  "Why construction?"

  "The clothes were a good match, but the water jug clinched it, indicating he's out away from plumbing."

  "If you spotted him on October 1, why did you wait six days before attempting recovery?"

  "I like to watch them for a while. I try to eliminate surprises. I tailed him to the hotel, made sure I knew where his room was, followed him when he left the hotel, that sort of thing."

  "Anything unusual in his af
ter-hours activities?"

  "No, he took long walks, he went to a bar, sat on a bench and fed pigeons."

  "Why do you think he would go to a bar?"

  "I don't know. Why does anybody go to a bar? No it wouldn't be that. Second most popular reason? No, it wouldn't be that. I don't know. Companionship?"

  Susan looked interested in this line of inquiry. "I honestly don't know. Did you see who he was talking to in the bar?"

  Mission shook his head. "No, it's an unacceptable risk with only one person tracking. Now when Miller and I ... "

  He stopped. And then very deliberately said, "With two, you can afford to follow your target inside a public place."

  This question and answer went on for three hours. Mission took note when the clock struck four. He had to get going. "Susan, I'm sorry but I need to start moving soon. You haven't even asked me about the female yet."

  She sighed. "I don't know that it would do any good. I don't have a history on her to correlate with your information. Is there anything you can tell me that would help?"

  "No. I've already told you about her combat skills. She never said a word. I only saw her clearly as she walked with Brown to the hotel. Then I saw her as she smashed through a window to kill me. I'm afraid I didn't focus on details."

  Susan sighed. "Alright. Thanks for your help."

  Mission had a thought. "Vans."

  Susan said, "What?"

  "Vans. In the 1980s, car manufacturers built vans to carry ten to twelve people. Then these companies sprang up that took factory built models and installed all sorts of exotic options. Waterbeds, hot tubs, kitchens, all kinds of things. What would it take for someone to go into the business of syn customization? You know, take your basic DM model and add programming and maybe even processors to produce a combat model?"

  Susan shook her head. "Virtually impossible. There are only a handful of people that could integrate into the brain programming, and the process would require an advanced facility and deep, deep pockets."

  "You mean the kind of resources that only a government or large multi-national corporation could marshal?"

  She nodded.

  "I don't know Susan. There are two alternatives for producing combat models. Paradox or someplace else. If it's someplace else, maybe the key is a single contract for a large number of syns."

  Susan smiled demurely. "Well, I suppose we must both search for this in our own way. Thank you again for your time."

  Mission stood up. "I'm glad I could help." As usual, Susan insisted on shaking hands. He walked to the door and turned around. "Susan?"

  "Yes?"

  "You look lovely today."

  Mission closed the door and bolted outside to catch an aircar to take him within a couple of blocks of his stakeout location.

  8

  The construction business hadn't changed for a long time. Oh, the techniques changed. A new tool or a new way to do the work in a factory as opposed to the construction site emerged every day. But the game never changed. The one factor that remained constant was that the amount of land constituted a zero sum game. So you could build new structures, but you had to tear down an old one to get the land you needed. This made the trick in turning a profit to house or provide office space in far greater quantities than the structure being torn down.

  For many, this appeared a straightforward proposition. You built a much taller building to get more from the same space. Others tunneled down to take advantage of thermal differentiation for a power source. But the true artists attacked the whole prejudice of the superiority of single family dwellings. They ran adverts showing the vulnerabilities of houses versus their secured buildings. They offered magnetic card, voice recognition, palm print, or retina scan keyed entry into the domicile. They pointed out how children could choose from 1000 other children as playmates, as opposed to the 15 or 20 kids within walking distance of a house. They even shot a Civil War cannon inside one of their units to demonstrate the complete sound insulation now featured.

  Then they focused the design on the nature lovers. Solar panels covered most of the rooftops, but now made some space for batteries of fiber optics that ran to the apartments where a diffusing mechanism provided 100% natural sunlight for gardens, solariums, or whatever the resident desired. Mission had to admit that the adverts did look inviting.

  He looked up at the building he would monitor this evening and estimated 40 stories. The math didn't work out as well as some might anticipate. For every 100 residents added, you had to deal with a pro rata share of elevators, plumbing, power, and yes, fiber optics. Each of these decreased the amount of usable space on each floor. But they must realize some marginal return, because they kept building them higher and higher.

  This building like most, featured a smoked glass panel exterior. Decorative inserts of masonry formed a pattern across the exterior. The side Mission looked at lay dormant. He sighed and started his trek through the construction debris to look at the adjacent side. This was site number eight on his surveillance list. He caught sight of the next side with workmen on scaffolding attaching the exterior windows with help from a crane.

  Mission looked at the junk, the weeds, and the briars and sighed even deeper. Thorns covered his pants legs already. He melted back into the shadows and worked over to the next side. The satisfaction registered on his face. Stacks and stacks of brick and tiny dots of what were masons, up on maybe the 30th floor.

  Mission rested for a moment. He didn't have binoculars with him, so he would wait for them to come down. He thought back to the raw data search. Once he saw the increase in motor skills, one phone call to Mrs. Sheffield answered his questions. He told her that he worked for Paradox (which in a way, was true) and that he wanted to follow up on their synthetic's disappearance. He asked several general questions and finally, asked if anyone in the home had taught the syn any skills. She answered no, and Mission prompted her. Not gardening, or typing, or home repair? Oh yes, her husband did teach him to lay bricks and they built a patio and barbecue last summer.

  Thus, Mission visited construction sites from the closest to the alley where Miller died, to further and further out. He wanted a cigarette, but couldn't risk being detected. He assumed that a syn's eyes worked better than his. Mission gauged where the scaffolding would set down and he worked his way over to that spot. Jackpot! Jones handled the ground duties by loading bricks to be carried to the men on the scaffold.

  Mission estimated it was 4:55. Hopefully the masons would quit at 5:00 and he could start moving. Yes, the men started their slow descent down the scaffold, toward quitting time. John Jones, you are history. Maybe they'll recycle you into a sigmoidoscope or something equally appropriate.

  The masons went their separate ways and Jones headed toward the Free Zone. While Mission trailed him, he thought hard about what happened to Miller and, more recently, to him. He decided to take a chance and cut over several streets, to try and intercept him three or four blocks deep into the zone. That would definitely make it harder for a syn to spot him. It minimized the risk. And if he lost Jones, he could pick him up at the high rise again tomorrow evening.

  Mission grinned as he took his detour. He always found a way to have a cigarette when he needed one. He moved comfortably down the streets, knowing he at least doubled the syn's predictable pace. He came to a liquor store and darted in. He heard a buzzer but thought nothing of it until a guy about 6' 8" stepped into his path and brought a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun to bear on him. Mission threw his hands up.

  "Whoa, what's the problem, big guy?"

  He responded with a series of decipherable snarls. "You're my problem! Why you bring a weapon in here?"

  Mission didn't get it for a second. "Oh, you mean the Glock. Hey, I'm just here to buy booze. You want me to check my gun? Or the clip? I mean, you've got the shotgun. It's your choice."

  "Lace your fingers behind your head. Now drop to your knees."

  Mission sighed, and complied. A slight, older
man stepped out to frisk Mission and to take his Glock. Mission looked at the big man. "You happy? Can I get my booze now?"

  He nodded and Mission grabbed the cheapest whiskey offered. Then he looked at the juices in the refrigerated display. Apple juice looked just right. Great. He took his purchase to the counter, paid and then asked for his Glock.

  The older man experienced a serious lapse in judgment and said, "Gun? What gun?"

  Mission's temper erupted. He roared, "Hey Tiny! Get over here!"

  The big man strolled up nonchalantly, shotgun in hand and said, "What you want?"

  "My gun. Now!"

  The big man grinned. "I don't know nothin bout no gun." He looked around to the other store employees and they all laughed with him.

  Mission said in an even tone, "Don't do this. Just give me my gun back and I'm outta here."

  The big man pointed the shotgun at him and said, "You outta here anyway. Move."

  Mission stood there for a few seconds. "Okay. I'm going."

  The big guy put the barrel against his back and pushed him toward the door. Mission opened the door and the big guy said. "And don't come ... "

  As the big guy started his sentence, Mission could sense him pulling his foot back to kick him in the rear and send him sprawling into the street. Mission whirled around and snapped off a right cross that broke the big guy's nose. Before the blood started to spurt, quick footwork took Mission alongside him, and he kicked his feet out from under him. He crashed to the ground and Mission stomped on his wrist, harder than necessary, and scooped up the shotgun.

  He leveled it at the older guy behind the counter. "You've got five seconds to bring me my gun. Then I kill you and ask someone else."

  Mission put the Glock back in its holster, still holding the shotgun and went behind the counter to eject the CD from the computer system. He held it up and said, "In case you're thinking about calling the cops, I have your store recordings, including you stealing the Glock from me."