Living in Syn

by Bobby Draughon

  "I'm so sorry Susan. He died protecting you. Can you do a pattern analysis, transfer his mind into another body?"

  Susan came to attention. "How ... How did ... How did you ... ?"

  "Know he was synthetic?” He shrugged his shoulders. The question was mostly rhetorical, and explaining how he spotted syns would not be helpful.

  He took Susan gently by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "With this building's miracle insulation, I doubt anyone heard this happen. Still, we don't have much time to decide what to do next."

  Her eyes grew wide. "What do you mean?"

  "Look, this isn't some innocent I accidentally landed my speeder on your mother kind of thing. This was a combat model syn, dispatched to kill you."

  She shook her head "No. That couldn't be. Why would anyone want ... ?"

  "Hey Susan! Wake up! She", he pointed in the direction of the female syn, "told your companion to let her have you and he could live. And someone arranged to unlock the service entrance of this building."

  She shook her head again, as if to clear it. "It just doesn't make sense. How could I pose a threat to anyone?"

  Mission rested his chin in his hand. "Well, let's see. You ran those searches for me, but that was several days ago. Did you make run any research after our interview today?"

  "Yes, I searched for large purchases as you suggested."

  "And ten hours later, a killer syn storms your apartment. That's what I mean. Somebody in Paradox or with access to the Paradox database signed your death warrant. You've got to get out of here."

  She started to protest and Mission pulled her up to a standing position. "Look, I'm beat all to hell, I'm bleeding over everything, and I've got a case of the shakes that won't quit. Get your stuff, you can stay at my place tonight, and we'll try to figure this out sometime tomorrow."

  Susan looked at him suspiciously and said, "Is this what all your nonsense is about? Me staying at your place?"

  Mission stared in disbelief "Oh, you are losing it. Look at me. I'm not thinking about sex, I'm thinking about how to dress for my autopsy."

  He stopped for a minute and then said, "So you have your choice, my sofa or my bedroom. I’ll take the other."

  She shook her head. "No, I'll go to a hotel instead."

  "Going to use a data transaction to check in or to pay? A combat syn will deliver your room service in less than two hours."

  She put her hands to her head and slowly pulled her hair from her face. Then she looked at Mission "Okay, I'll get my stuff."

  Mission insisted on walking six blocks before hailing an aircar. Five minutes later, they arrived at his apartment and ten minutes after that, Susan was asleep in the bedroom. At 7:00 in the morning, she woke up and went in search of juice. She found Mission, smoking a cigarette and resting his head on the top of the sofa. An empty bottle of Jose Cuervo peeked out from underneath the couch. Susan poured her juice and sat down beside him.

  "Mission, have you been up all night?"

  "Huh? Yeah ... you know, I had about two hundred cuts to wash, disinfect, that kind of stuff."

  "Aren't you tired?"

  "Exhausted."

  "Well then how can you stay up?"

  Mission managed a tired smile. "No choice. The adrenaline just flows. You can't just turn it off because the fight’s over, and go to bed. Sometimes not for days."

  "I had no idea your work was like ... this."

  Mission looked at her closely. "I've never seen you like this, dressed like this.” He motioned toward her slacks and knit blouse. “ I think your looks must really bother you."

  "Now what do you mean by that?"

  "I just mean it seems very important to you that you are judged on the basis of your mind. You are repulsed by the idea that you might catch some slack because you're beautiful. That's what I meant."

  "And where is your basis for this theory?"

  "The way you dress at work, the hairstyle and the makeup. The image says that, at best, your looks are a distraction, and should be minimized."

  Susan donned her emotionless smile. "The flaw in your theory is this: I must believe I am beautiful to feel the need to hide this ... distraction. I hold no such belief."

  Mission smiled. "Of course, you're right. I don't know what I was thinking, giving you an objective point of view. Let's change subjects." He looked at her with childlike anticipation.

  Susan cautiously said, "All right."

  "I want to play a game, where we discuss scenarios for producing combat model syns."

  She winced and turned her head slowly to face him. “Please don’t call them that.”

  “Syns? Wasn’t that Paradox’s master stroke? Embracing the indictment?”

  About ten years ago, when the synthetic numbers were really increasing, the Fundamentalists waged an all-out campaign in opposition. Synthetics were stealing jobs from humans, our children were being raised by Godless, soulless creations, synthetics were abominations, they were sins…Syns. The nickname stuck, and the message gained traction with the public. Until a particularly clever marketing executive at Paradox tackled the problem. Mission remembered the first time he saw the billboard.

  A very attractive and affluent couple, relaxing in the family room, having a cocktail while a smiling toddler played at their feet. A very fetching synthetic in a maid’s uniform was in attendance, mindful of their every need. And the caption at the bottom read, “Living in Syn.”

  The war was over. It caught the public’s imagination and simply wouldn’t let go. Synthetics became what every family aspired toward. It became THE symbol of success. “Oh you don’t have a syn? Well, maybe someday soon.”

  Susan gritted her teeth. “They are not sins. They are…they are far more decent than humans, They are synthetic homo sapiens. Or synthetic humans. But…not…sins."

  Mission nodded. “Okay, noted. I will try to do better. But as far as turning out combat models…”

  Susan protested, "I've already told you, it just isn't possible."

  Mission held up his hands. "Hello, this is Mission with your 7:00 wakeup call. You will admit that the syn, the synthetic in your apartment was ... modified?"

  She slumped back in the sofa. "Yes, I see what you mean. They have to come from somewhere."

  "Okay. Now. Does Paradox make any models with a reinforced chassis?"

  "No. Wait, yes! We offered a redesigned mining model last year. Prototype status. The constant stress of mining caused an unusually high failure rate starting at about three years."

  Mission frowned. "But would they make reinforced female models?"

  "Oh definitely. The mining camps on Jupiter's moons and the like, it's more than 90% men. It would be crazy to send synthetics for mining and a separate set for entertainment."

  "Really?" Mission entered this on the vue screen. "Are there any other models with a heavy duty chassis?"

  "No, that's why the redesign took a while. It was the company's first try."

  "Now, the agility of these combat models. Are they at least as agile as a the normal synthetic? Say an eight or a nine?"

  She nodded. "Yes, a nine recently performed gymnastics routines far beyond the capability of the world's best humans."

  "And surveillance, tracking, reconnaissance. These are skills that Paradox doesn't offer, but don't constitute a major hurdle. That is to say, they wouldn't contradict or interrupt hard coded logic?"

  Susan said guardedly, "I guess not. What are you getting at, Mission?"

  "I'm trying to establish the requirements for developing a combat model. Once we define those parameters, we can look for people or organizations with the qualifications, or with the access to needed components, or with facilities and other resources needed to make this happen. See? Then we see several different angles from which to approach the problem. And that significantly increases our chances of success."

  Susan looked impressed. "Mission, I had no idea you approached work in such a ... cerebral fashion."

&
nbsp; "Ah yes, I'm a true renaissance man. Now, for the big one Susan. How would you alter the base programming so that a syn could attack a human and even commit murder?"

  Susan clasped her hands together. “And that’s where your theory falls apart. It can’t be done. The cases you handle represent the most extreme synthetic pathologies. And even in those instances, they only retaliate, when their survival is directly and immediately threatened. Before that much core programming could break down, the synthetic would cease to function. We don’t have a single documented case of unprovoked violence."

  “Then what do you call last night’s little encounter?”

  Susan sighed and nodded her head in agreement. There were minutes of silence and then Mission said, "Did you not serve on the team that worked out the mathematics, the transaction processors, and the very design of the brain that drives all current Paradox syns?"

  "Well yes but ... "

  "Well then, you evaluate the odds for me. Which would be easier, to throw the Paradox design out the window and build a new brain, or to modify the existing brain with an encapsulation system?"

  Susan stuck out her lower lip. "You already know the answer. A new brain costs more than $10 billion and requires three to five years for development."

  "So, back to my question. How would you modify base programming?"

  "Mission, I don't know."

  Mission refused to surrender. "Let's talk about specialized processors. Could substitution or addition of processors make an impact?"

  She shook her head. "I don't think so. Specialized processors generally handle sensory input. The speech processor converts language accepted in visual or audio form. The speech output processor converts machine format back to human language and then to verbalization. No, I don't think so."

  "Does Paradox use a special processor for physical movement?"

  "Yes, on the eights and nines. But it coordinates muscle groups. The decision to move in the first place occurs in command central."

  "What about intercepting all sensory information and altering it to create situations in which the syn believes it is behaving defensively?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "I don’t know. I’m throwing out anything that pops into my little brain."

  Susan shrugged, “I just don’t see how you could do it, it’s so incredibly complex.”

  Again they sat in silence for minutes, and then Mission said, “For now, let’s accept your position that core programming is simply too complex and secure to alter, easily. So let’s focus on the peripheral chips. Highly specialized, sometimes contracted to third party suppliers, it feels like the most obvious point of attack on cognitive integrity."

  Several hours later, Susan decided she could not go on. "Mission. Mission! Let's take a break from this. Okay? You give me the feeling that if we finish this early, we'll start work on that pesky little perpetual motion problem. Can you spell obsessive?"

  "Oh, excuse me. I thought with your life and mine in jeopardy, there might be some sense of urgency. No hurry though, once we're dead, we'll have nothing but time on our hands."

  Susan gave him a pained look. "I think there exists some middle ground between painting bulls eyes on our chests, and driving ourselves into nervous exhaustion."

  "Point taken. So, you need to buy some clothes since you can't go back to your place. We both need a decent meal. And we are in walking distance of two excellent choices for entertainment. The Van Cliburn Competition first round at the Fine Arts Auditorium, and the Modern Art Exhibition at Redgrave Hall."

  Susan's look soured. "My God, Mission. No wonder you drink to excess. You need to lighten up. How about a movie with gratuitous sex and violence masking the lack of a discernible plot?"

  Mission smiled at her. "Cool."

  11

  Mission and Susan entered his apartment laughing. Susan's eyes were alive for the first time in his memory. She looked at him mischievously and said, "I thought you might die from embarrassment when you screamed."

  He grinned and said, "They should give you some warning before a man with an ax jumps into the scene."

  "I think the whole point is to surprise you."

  "I suppose. But what about you, yelling for the maniac to kill that teenager? I never pegged you as the bloodthirsty type."

  She smiled. "I'm not, this is about escaping reality. Besides, what woman doesn't want to see the perky blond, brainless cheerleader chopped up?"

  Mission grinned and said, "Another perky blond, brainless cheerleader."

  They had never gotten around to dinner. Mission said, "I mostly stir fry. Chicken or fish with fresh vegetables and brown rice. Is that okay?"

  Susan nodded and Mission continued. "Alright, how about you and me planning the kidnapping while I fix dinner?"

  Her hand flew to her mouth and she said, "Oh no, Mission. I can't do anything illegal."

  He smiled and said, "Sorry, figure of speech. I'm talking about capturing the synthetic John Jones. It will take a lot more planning and skill than usual, because we have to preserve the brain to meet our objective."

  "Which is?"

  "We're going to climb inside that skull casing and get some answers."

  "Mission, I don't know. I've never done anything like this. I'm not sure you can count on me under pressure."

  Mission looked at her for a moment and then nodded. "That's fair. So this is all I'll ask. Help me develop the plan, and then you don’t have to do anything you're unsure of. Is that fair?"

  She nodded. "What do we do first?"

  "Well, I use the battery pack because it's simple and because it's never failed. Unfortunately, it destroys the brain. What we need is a device to incapacitate a syn without harming memory. Now, the way I understand the synthetic brain, the impulses are generated at a specific, ultra-high frequency. True?"

  "Yes, but if I understand where you're going, it won't work. The brain automatically shuttles between ten standard frequencies upon detecting interference. We had some models shutting down in industrial or tech environments so we made the adjustment for all future versions."

  Mission looked crestfallen. "Do you have any ideas for incapacitating a synthetic?"

  Susan smiled. "As a matter of fact, I do."

  She told Mission her idea and left him awestruck. "That is brilliant. Let's see what we can put together around here to make it happen."

  After dinner, Mission moved to his spare bedroom that actually served as an extended electronics workbench. He pulled up a software package to build an electronics schematic. In less than 15 minutes, he completed his drawing and exported it to a simulation program. The simulator quickly identified the three errors in his diagram, and in another 15 minutes he completed his testing. He translated the diagram to a full scale physical connection graphic. Now he could construct the wiring complex on his printer. He looked around. No, he had switched printers last week and the one he needed now sat in the living area. He found the cartridge he wanted and headed to the printer.

  Susan laughed uncontrollably, pointing weakly at the vue screen.

  She said, "Mission, this old movie station is wonderful. I don't know what the name of this movie is, or who this guy is playing the President, but it's the funniest thing I've ever seen!"

  Mission turned and looked. "That's Peter Sellars in Dr. Strangelove. George C. Scott plays the general."

  "This is hilarious. Now who is this guy?"

  "That's Peter Sellars, too."

  "No, I mean the scientist in the wheelchair."

  "That's Peter Sellars, too. He plays several different roles in this movie. Stanley Kubrick made this movie as the cold war/nuclear war obsession peaked. To make this film twenty years afterward would have been a triumph, but the cynicism and black humor right in the middle of it all, well it’s a masterpiece."

  "Did he make many more movies?"

  "Sure, but not like this. Clockwork Orange attacked violence and our reaction to it, but it was too far off center for
the public in general to regard it as much more than a cult classic. Many critics see 2001- A Space Odyssey as the definition of the science fiction film. Full Metal Jacket explored the Vietnam War as an exercise in molding teenagers into killing machines that were then unfit to rejoin society. And The Shining seemed to be a standard horror film, but I find it disturbing on several different levels. The trademark of a Kubrick film is that I am always certain that I only understand about half of what is there."

  Susan looked at him and said, "I take it old movies are a hobby of yours?"

  He shrugged. "I guess. I don't much care for made for television programming. They have to crank it out so fast that it's tough to do any quality work. So I watch old movies."

  He wandered over to the printer and opened the top. He popped the standard cartridge out and replaced it with the one from his workshop. He closed the top and instructed the computer to load his file and print it.

  He saw that Susan was curious and finally she asked, "Mission. What in the world are you doing?"

  He turned around and grinned. "This is one of my toys. You realize that many printer applications still use ink jet technology? The printer magnetizes the paper in the shape of the letters to be printed and then the ink is attracted to those spots. Well, I found a way to build a printed circuit in a graphics program. I take this silver oxide ink cartridge, only $300 a piece, and print it on this special fibrous paper. I soak the print in a chemical wash and the paper melts away leaving me with a perfect printed circuit."

  "I glue it on the circuit board, solder the components in place, and test. Eight hour turnaround."

  She could see the pleasure he took in the accomplishment. He dropped onto the sofa a few feet away from her and watched the movie.

  Susan said, "Mission, where did you learn all these electronics skills?"

  "On the street. We were so poor, we couldn't afford troublemakers to tell us about sex and drugs. So they told us about electronics and particle physics instead."

  Susan turned her head away from him and said, "Fine."