CHAPTER 10
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Oscar found his seat in the late-night talk show audience early and was thus forced to sit through twenty minutes of nothing. Meanwhile, his heart was almost exploding through his chest. He was about to be in the same room as DeAndre Greyson. Within striking distance. Before his little dinner with Brooks, Oscar probably would have just taken the kamikaze route; stand from his seat, rush the stage with guns blazing, turn Greyson into Swiss cheese before the cops rushed in and did the same to him.
But now there was a sliver of hope that Catalea was alive. It was enough to make Oscar cautious. If he wanted to see her again, he would need to keep himself alive.
Finally, the host came out and did his self-righteous Californian diatribe. Oscar agreed with all his opinions, but not with the sniveling way in which he expressed them. Then, after some introductions, the guests filtered out. There were a half dozen of them, moving to their seats at the round table, but it was obvious that there were two heavy hitters who would be getting most of the air time. The first was a former senator named Marie Ellison. The second was DeAndre Greyson. He came out in a charcoal-black suit. He was a handsome thirty-two-year-old, tall and broad-shouldered. His head was shiny and hairless. He wore a full beard, dense as the bristles on a brush, and very neat.
For a long time, Oscar was so focused on Greyson, seething with such rage, that he failed to pay attention to the discussion. By the time he tuned back in, the pro-synth former senator Ellison and DeAndre Greyson were already in the middle of their highly anticipated sparring match.
"…and these trends that we are seeing are simply horrifying to me. These are people, not machines. And despite that, it seems that an alarmingly growing number of organic humans would rather focus on what separates us from them rather than all that we have in common," Ellison was saying, which brought cheers from the audience.
"How do you mean, senator?" the host asked.
"Former senator," Greyson corrected.
"That’s uncalled for, DeAndre,” a salt and pepper haired man sitting at the far edge of the set cut in. “And to be frank it’s disrespectful.”
“The truth is somehow disrespectful now? Is that how they do things on your side of the aisle these days?” DeAndre Greyson scoffed, still looking at Ellison instead of the man that had come to her defense.
“No, what’s disrespectful is you using your blood money to torpedo senator Ellison’s campaign to replace her with that anti-synth puppet Halford, and then having the nerve to brag about it to her face.”
“Look, I played my part,” Greyson started, his eyes now sternly focused on the salt and pepper haired man across the table. “but in the end, the people elected Senator Halford not me alone.”
"Because they understand what synths are," Greyson continued as he turned his attention back to Ellison. "They are not humans, Ms. Ellison. They’re machines."
Ellison sighed and shook her head as she disappointingly glared at Greyson. "You know, I find it sad that someone with your background would find himself on the wrong side of history with this issue.”
“Someone with my background… Just what is that supposed to mean,” DeAndre Greyson scoffed. “You know what… Don’t answer that. Because I think we all know what you’re referring to. But you want to know what I find sad, Ms. Ellison? I find it sad that you think it’s okay to try to white-splain civil rights to me on national TV,” Greyson shot back, much to the amusement of the studio audience. Overall, Greyson would still likely be regarded as the villain of this highly political debate, but those remarks scored him points with the audience in a big way.
“I’m simply pointing out the truth,” Ellison objected. “There is no difference between the plights of blacks in the—”
“Blacks?!” Greyson cut in. “What are we talking about here senator? Crayons… or people? And to think that your little cheerleader here had the nerve to blame me for your political downfall. You’re out of touch, Ms. Ellison, and that is the true reason you were voted out of office!”
The crowd went wild. As much as Oscar hated to see it, Greyson was crushing her. Even the overly liberal audience that filled the room couldn’t deny it.
“Please, DeAndre,” Ellison remarked as the crowd’s clamoring finally died down. “enlighten us all as to how synths are not human.”
"Consider this," Greyson said calmly. "If my dog suddenly gains the ability to speak, does that give you the right to step in and tell me what I can and can't do with my own animal? Does putting him in a kennel suddenly become immoral? Or leaving him at home alone while I go to work?"
"Well, DeAndre," Ellison said, "in a perfect world we wouldn't have to step in. In a perfect world you would understand that your talking dog has reached a level of awareness that makes it morally wrong to keep it boxed in that 'pet' category. You should want to liberate that animal yourself. And if you don't, that's when we step in."
There you go, Oscar thought, admiring the former senator’s verbal counterpunch as the audience broke into applause.
"You were voted out," Greyson responded after the applause died. "The people have spoken, and they seem to share my opinions."
Someone booed. A few others caught on and booed as well, but a condescending smirk from the host made them stop.
"And what about your opinion on FBC conversion, DeAndre? Do you think your followers also share those same views," Ellison asked, obviously setting another verbal trap for the outspoken billionaire.
Greyson cracked a nervous smile for a fraction of a second, but overall, he did well to hide the fact that the former senator had just caught him off guard.
The host sat forward. "For the viewers, senator... what is FBC?"
"Full body cyborg. The acronym usually refers to a service in which a human could theoretically convert their mind and memories to a digital form which could be transplanted into a cybernetic body.”
“You mean like Tucker Berg,” the host suggested.
“Precisely,” Ellison confirmed. “The reason I brought this up is because I think it’s important to point out the hypocrisy of DeAndre Greyson because I’ve heard that he too is considering an FBC conversion. Yet he wants synths to be labeled as tools, slaves to be used at our will. As a full body cyborg, with the mind of a human, Greyson would have all the benefits of being a synth. Functional immortality, superior strength, et cetera. But he would have none of the drawbacks. He would be considered human, and thus would have all the same rights that we enjoy."
The host and everyone else looked toward Greyson for a response. Annoyingly, the man still seemed perfectly composed. He almost looked relaxed, even.
"I’m not here to remark on unfounded speculation, but I will say this… My company is constantly seeking new ways to improve human life," Greyson replied. "Human life, Ms. Ellison."
CHAPTER 11
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It was ten o'clock. The show had finished taping, but most of the guests were sticking around to talk to the crowd, to sign autographs, to take photos and shake hands. But not Greyson. The last time he'd hung around the California crowd he had a bottle of water poured on his head. So he was ducking out early, making a quick getaway.
He had parked his entourage, quite purposely, at the far end of the vast parking area, out at the silent edge of night.
DeAndre strode across the asphalt in the middle of his security team. Four large and wary men. Organic. Two in back and two in front. They set their sights on a large black SUV and bee-lined toward it.
Soon, they made it past the sea of park cars and onto a wide, open expanse of empty spots. DeAndre was always thinking, always considering, always watching. This was the ideal place for an ambush, he thought. Obviously it wouldn't happen, but the remote possibility was there. He started looking around, checking angles, playing out scenarios in his head.
Suddenly, four soft pops sounded and his security guys hit the deck one after the other, like big, dumb dominoes.
; DeAndre stopped, looking around. The SUV was only twelve feet away. He could run for it, but there seemed to be no reason. He hadn't been shot yet, so he didn't think there was much cause for concern.
Someone came striding out of the shadows beyond the parking lot, dressed in black, wearing a mask and goggles with the backwards ghost of a heads up display visible in the lenses. The figure aimed its gun at Greyson's heart.
"Whoever you are," Greyson said, "you've just made a huge mistake."
"I don't see it that way," the figure grunted. He seemed like a surly sort of guy. He seemed like a guy whose anger was too strong for him to think clearly.
The doors on the SUV clicked and slid open. A female figure emerged, normal in all aspects other than her arms. They were slightly over-sized, and quite noticeably mechanical.
Right on her tail, four other bodyguards came flying out of the SUV.
Greyson smiled. "Like I said... huge mistake, buddy."
CHAPTER 12
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Oscar looked at the security guards briefly, but most of his attention was on the woman and her vacant, amoral face. He knew this had to be The Unit, the android bodyguard that Sergeant Brooks had warned him about. She stared toward him with cold eyes, seemingly waiting for something. None of the guards shot or made a move, other than to stand in formation behind the Unit.
This was a hairy situation to be sure, but Oscar knew he had the upper hand. He was still in control, for now, because he had Greyson at gunpoint. Moving fast, he stepped to the side so that the big boss was positioned between him and the others.
His smart goggles pinged, highlighting a source of motion off to his right. The infrared picked out the heat signature of another guard, sneaking through the shadows and bushes at the edge of the parking lot. In a moment, he suddenly stood and took aim.
Oscar looked left, bending his knees and launching himself with a grunt of effort. He hit the ground harder than he planned and rolled clumsily behind the concrete base of a lamp. The yellow glow surrounded him, making him feel vulnerable.
Bullets ricocheted off the asphalt where Oscar had been rolling, pinging off into the night. One of them chipped off an edge of the concrete pillar, throwing shards against Oscar's face.
As soon as the shooting stopped, Oscar poked out and returned fire. The guard was hiding again, but the goggles made him stand out. Oscar watched the heat signature flop back as three bullets tore through it.
There was the sound of marching feet as the rest of Greyson's guards closed in on the pillar. A quick glance told Oscar that the Unit was preoccupied, escorting her boss to the SUV. Greyson jumped in through the door and shut it behind him.
The Unit turned, calling across the night.
"Go with Greyson," she said. "Keep him safe. I'll deal with this."
The guard scrambled to follow her orders, climbing into the SUV and gunning it across the parking lot. They didn't even bother to find the road; they just went trundling through the brush.
The Unit removed some sort of device from its pocket and pressed a button. The lamp above Oscar died, fading to nothing. As did the rest of the lights across the parking lot. He cursed when he saw that he was unable to get a reliable heat signature off the unit. All he saw as her eyes, their soft red glow hanging in the darkness. With a tap of his finger, he switched his goggles to the night vision.
Moving to a squatting position behind the pillar, he realized he would need something more powerful than the silenced ten millimeter he'd dropped the guards with. So he reached for his holster and pulled out his revolver. It was heavy, loaded with huge slugs.
Taking a deep breath, he whipped his head and shoulders around the corner and took aim. The Unit moved with unnatural speed, zigzagging across the parking lot as she stormed towards him.
Oscar held his breath, steadied his hand, and let two shots fly. Both of them hit the Unit with a satisfying thud and a fountain of sparks. Each shot made the Unit jerk back slightly, but other than that there was no reaction. She kept coming, unfazed.
In a heartbeat, she was on him. Her outsized left arm came arcing toward him. Oscar tucked and rolled, hearing the crack and tumble of pulverized concrete as the Unit's punch shattered the pillar. With a groan of stressed metal, the street lamp toppled and crashed to the ground.
Oscar set his eyes on the rest of the parked cars, standing far across the parking lot. He began crawling toward them, building his strength to stand and run. He made it about five feet before the Unit's hand closed on the back of his shirt and pulled him upright. With a chopping motion from her other hand she sent the revolver flying from his grip and nearly took off a couple of his fingers.
She spun, slamming him in the face with the back of her hand. Oscar's feet left the ground. The night sky and the parking lot became a homogenous blur for a moment, and then he crashed hard against the standing remnants of the concrete pillar. His night vision was gone; the goggles were shattered.
Dizzy and dazed, he fought with the strap for several seconds and finally managed to tear the goggles away.
The Unit's red eyes bobbed through the night as she marched forward to finish him off.
Then the red eyes made a smear through the darkness as something suddenly slammed into the Unit from the side. The android stumbled and regained its balance. She turned, finally pulling out a firearm and lighting up the night with it.
In the intermittent flashes of gunfire, Oscar saw the flash of a steel blade. The Unit switched back to close quarters combat as her blazingly fast assailant lunged forward. A final gunshot, aimed wildly upward, illuminated the face of Oscar's rescuer.
It was Carolynn Steele, the mysterious dame that Oscar had encountered shortly after he killed Esbert Hoffman. The dame was wearing what could only be described as a tactical evening gown. A sophisticated all-black hooded dress comprised of military grade smart fabric that had exceedingly high splits on each side.
Lynn grunted in frustration, gritting her teeth and using every bit of her strength to try and push the Unit over. But the android planted her feet and became immovable, striking with her hands faster than Lynn could parry.
The flowing skirt of Lynn’s state of the art gown whipped gracefully in the wind as the dame leaped backward in a blur, now clutching the Unit's firearm in her hands. She chucked it away, then pulled something else off her tactical belt. A stun grenade.
Oscar turned his head. The shockwave from the grenade blew the skin of his face back and made his ears ring. He vaguely felt a hand on his shoulder and suddenly he was up and running across the parking lot, tugged along by Lynn.
Glancing back, he saw the Unit stumbling in circles like a drunkard. Some of the synthetic flesh on her body was blasted and burned away, revealing the metal framework beneath. She was neutralized, but only for a moment. Only long enough for Oscar and Lynn to make their escape.
CHAPTER 13
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Oscar's head was still spinning by the time they pulled up in front of a swanky downtown building. With narrowed eyes and a pounding headache, he followed Lynn through the building's lobby. He was vaguely aware of the well-appointed surroundings, the plush rug, the artwork, the gleaming metal fixtures, the presence of a little cafe that emitted the smells of coffee and sugar. Then they were riding an elevator. Lynn stopped off at a middle floor and led him down the hall. The doors were spaced far apart; Oscar learned later that there were huge hollows between each apartment to ensure you would never hear your neighbor.
At first Oscar assumed they were here to see someone. He wasn't in any state to care, so he was trusting himself to Lynn. That show back there in the parking lot, her saving his ass from the Unit, was good enough proof for him that he could do so.
Lynn pulled out a keycard and tapped it to the lock. The door had three locks and they all snapped into their housings. She pushed the door open, hauled Oscar inside, shut and locked it behind them. Automatically, lights and soft classical music came on.
; Oscar scanned the place, whistling.
"What do you think?" Lynn asked.
"I think whoever owns this place has money falling out of their ass."
Lynn grinned at him, shaking her legs as though to dislodge something that was stuck in her pants.
"You?" Oscar asked. "How the hell does an underground synth liberator afford this place? Truth be told I didn’t even know synths could own property."
"It's a story," she said, letting her hair down as she wandered through the rooms. Oscar followed.
"I'm all ears," he said.
She nodded, stepping into a bathroom that was almost the same size as Oscar's entire apartment.
"First, we need to fix you up," she suggested, pulling a pill bottle from the medicine cabinet. "Prescription painkillers. I don't recommend getting hooked on them, but if you pop two right now you'll be feeling a lot better."
He allowed her to tap out to oval pills into his hands and knocked them back dry. Lynn's eyes went wide.
"Nice trick," she said. "But you're gonna want some water. Those pills will dehydrate you."
"How about some coffee?"
"This late?"
Oscar shrugged. "It's never bothered me."
Lynn led the way to the kitchen and dug out a bag of coffee that seemed very rarely used. As the pot started to gurgle, they sat on barstools and Lynn started to talk.
"I have a confession to make," she started.
"Don't we all," Oscar replied.
"I don't really work for a secret pro-synth organization. Unless you can call the pipe dream of one synth girl an 'organization’."
"You lied," Oscar said. And before she could defend herself, he added, "That was back before you knew you could trust me. I get it. Just tell me who the hell you really are."
Darkside Dreams - The Complete First Series Page 28