“Please remove your shoes,” said Ferko.
Cam stepped out of his stiff Mark Davids and shook his head at Sava. “Don’t lump Banks Media in with Coker and crew. We’re nothing like those Shore Dogs.”
“Ah, yes,” said Sava, still not looking up from her phone. “Banks Media, the big BM, just the feed that comes to mind when I think of honesty and integrity.”
Ferko guided Cam to the scanning chamber and helped him inside.
“Someone hurt you, didn’t they?” asked Cam, over Ferko’s shoulder.
Sava looked up, pursed her lips together, and returned to her phone.
“Are you sure she’s not a synthetic?”
Ferko shrugged. “She’s been beyond the PNR, so she can’t be.”
There was something in the tech’s voice. He wasn’t exactly lying, but it was almost as if he didn’t believe what he was saying.
“Now,” said Ferko, “all this machine does is scan your endotech and query for any Vinestead technology. It should be able to read the serial numbers and manufacturing codes from your endo without any kind of discomfort. If you do start feeling woozy, there are handles on either side of the chamber.”
Ferko took a step back as the glass partition slid down from the ceiling.
“Are you a synthetic?” asked Cam.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” replied Ferko, tapping on the monitor next to the chamber. “I like being able to take a walk without worrying about my guts turning to goo.”
“I don’t follow,” said Cam, looking to Sava.
She stowed her phone in her pocket. “Secondary proximity protocol. I was waiting for you to ask the question, but I guess it didn’t occur to you that someone could transport a synthetic out of here in some kind of vehicle.”
Cam imagined an armored car crashing through the gates of the outpost, a synthetic’s lifeless arm hanging out of the back.
“Twenty yards beyond the PNR, a synthetic will self-destruct.”
Laughter filled the scanning chamber as Cam grabbed a nearby handle for support.
“There’s nothing really funny about it,” said Ferko. He was nodding at the data scrolling on the vidscreen. “I’ve seen it happen once. You’d think because it’s a synthetic it wouldn’t hit you so hard, but it does. It’s like watching a small animal die, except it’s sort of human. Imagine if Ms. Kessler’s insides liquefied into an acidic green sludge in under thirty seconds.”
“So the line of beacons out there is more like a pre-PNR?” asked Cam.
“The beacons are the company line,” said Sava. “It’s what goes into the handbook for new employees. It’s what we teach the synnies when they come off the assembly line. The existence and specifics of the secondary protocol is knowledge limited to a subset of Perion employees who should know better than to run their mouths about it in front of members of the media.”
Ferko’s head shrunk into his shoulders.
“It’s alright,” Cam told the tech. “I won’t use your name.”
“It’s Kris, if you do.”
“I’ve noticed you guys don’t use your first names much.”
“Part of our corporate culture,” said Sava. “Mr. Perion addresses everyone by honorific and last name and expects us to do the same.”
“So the old man is a stickler for formality?”
“The old man is a stickler for respect, which you demonstrate a complete lack of by referring to him like that.”
The glass partition rose abruptly; Cam took a step back.
“All done,” said Ferko.
“Does he check out?” asked Sava, stepping out of her shoes. She pushed them under the couch with her foot.
“He’s clean. Mr. Gray was telling the truth for the most part.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Cam.
Ferko pulled a palette from its dock and handed it to Sava. “Nothing serious, just that he’s got a first generation Katsumi sliver, not a second as our file denotes.”
Cam felt himself blush; he’d been telling people he had a second gen Katsumi for years.
“Where’d you pull that data from?” he asked.
“You have your sources,” replied Sava, “we have ours. Or so I thought.”
Cam nodded and took a seat on the couch. He petted the imitation leather with his hand as he wiggled into a comfortable position.
Something felt off about the room.
“Narration,” he announced. “The welcome ceremony at The Perion City is an understated affair, with no luxuries to speak of save air-conditioned transport, culminating in an unsettling invasion of privacy. The entire process takes place in a small room in the dank bowels of an outpost, far from sunlight or any amenity that would make one feel at ease. One wonders why anyone would want to visit Perion City if this is the reception they are afforded.”
Cam swiped a finger over his sliver and paused the recording.
“What you said earlier about all people having to come through here, that’s not entirely true, is it?”
Sava stepped into the scanning chamber and slipped her fingers around one of the handles.
“Only those who have high-level clearance can bypass the scanning,” explained Ferko. “There’s no telling what Vinestead would be able to do with a man or woman roaming our streets. If that person got behind locked doors… well, you can understand why we have to be careful.”
“Is that the company line, Ms. Kessler?” Cam swiped his wrist again. “Is it James Perion’s position that Vinestead is actively engaged in corporate espionage and/or sabotage?”
“Perion Synthetics acknowledges that our proprietary technology is the most sought-after advancement of this millennium. Any inference of misbehavior by Vinestead International is solely the observer’s prerogative.”
“And off the record?”
“Off the record, Vinestead can burn in hell for all eternity.”
Cam nodded. He had heard the vitriol before, scrawled across the virtual walls of VNet and on the very real walls of the techno-paradise of Umbra, CA. He made a mental note to find out which side Sava fell on: fading hipster searching for a cause or die-hard freedom fighter itching for a scuffle.
“Has a synthetic ever been smuggled out of the city, by Vinestead or a Chinese syndicate?”
Sava hesitated as the glass partition slid into place. “Once,” she said, her voice muffled. “Before my time, a van was discovered on the Perion Expressway six miles from I-10. By the time they reached it, the thermite in the synny had dissolved most of the floor and the drivetrain. There wasn’t enough physical evidence to tie her abduction to a person or persons.”
“That’s just begging for a dramatic reenactment,” said Cam, pulling out his phone. He opened a notepad application to capture some private thoughts. “Now, does everyone refer to synthetics by gender? Not by it?”
“How would you feel if someone called you an it?” asked Sava.
“That’s different. I’m human.”
“According to this report,” said Ferko, “you’re only mostly human.”
“Besides, gender isn’t exclusive to us.” Sava blinked away a sudden dizzy spell. “Animals, vehicles, weapons…”
“Yeah, but animals have the equipment that makes them a boy or a girl.”
“So do our latest generations of synthetics,” said Sava, smiling. The glass partition retracted and she stepped out, her bare feet silent on the carpeted floor.
Cam made a note to check out some of this equipment. He laughed at the idea of sending Banks a photo of a synthetic wang.
“I assume I check out?” asked Sava.
Ferko nodded. “You’re mostly human too, but no Vinestead tech in either of you, so I’ll sign off.”
One of the AGs stepped forward with a palette and had Ferko press his thumb to it.
Sava slipped her shoes on. “If you don’t have any more questions for Mr. Ferko, we can proceed.” She gestured to the door.
They didn’t go back the way they had come. Inst
ead, the guards led them out of the room and left down a hallway until it ended at an elevator. As they rode up, Cam tried to discern the sound of synthetic breathing above the hum of the cables.
The doors opened on an expansive hangar that led out to the Perion Expressway. A fleet of company vehicles lined the perimeter of the space. In the middle, twenty or so camo-clad AGs engaged in light sparring, their weapons and helmets set on benches to the right and left. They paused only briefly to acknowledge the new arrivals.
An older man with stripes on his shoulder stepped forward and nodded at Sava.
“Mr. Gray, this is Captain Javier Espinoza. He leads the security team here at Outpost Alpha.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” said Cam, shaking the captain’s hand. He nodded to the AGs. “Fine group you have here. Are they all synthetic?”
Espinoza smirked and glanced over his shoulder at his men.
“What do you think, Mr. Gray?” he asked.
They were all so uniform, yet purposefully unique in their own ways. Some stood tall, breathing heavy. Others were slumped over, sweat beading on their foreheads.
“I can’t tell one from the other,” Cam admitted.
“That’s the point,” said Sava. “The ultimate goal is for synthetics to be indistinguishable from humans in every way. Adding routines to make them sweat or appear fatigued serves no real purpose other than to make them more real.”
“Seems a little reckless.”
“How so?” asked Espinoza.
Cam stepped forward and locked eyes with an AG who was staring a little too intently. “That one there, giving me the stink eye. What if I went over there to kick his ass only to find out he’s a synthetic and can’t feel pain?”
“Who says they can’t feel pain?” asked the captain. “There’s a reason we call them Automated Guards and not Killing Machines, Mr. Gray. A certain amount of illusion is required for protection of the city; we learned that early on. Humans respond to aggression and danger, not passive authority. So he’ll keep acting tough, staring you down until you move on, but unless you pose a real threat to the PC or its inhabitants, he doesn’t have authorization to engage you. He’s harmless.”
“Right,” said Cam, staring at the blank faces, “but how do I know that before picking the fight?”
“You don’t, Mr. Gray, so maybe you shouldn’t. Thank you for your time, Captain Espinoza, but we need to get going. We’ve got a lunch meeting in the city that I don’t want to be late for.”
Espinoza bowed slightly to Cam. “Enjoy the city,” he said, turning to rejoin his team. Over his shoulder, he muttered, “Try to stay out of trouble.”
Trouble? Cam was investigating the state of synthetics in the city of Perion; trouble was inevitable.
He walked closer to the Automated Guards and put up a friendly hand.
“Gentlemen,” he said, flashing his press badge, “Could I have a moment of your time?”
There was no response.
“Captain?” asked Cam.
“Alpha Company, attention!”
The AGs assembled in front of Cam and stared straight ahead.
“Alright, if you would, please raise your hand if you’re a synthetic.”
Twenty-four hands rose into the air.
“Okay,” he said. “Any humans in here?”
No one moved; all twenty-four hands remained raised.
Espinoza chuckled. “They don’t see a difference, Mr. Gray.”
“That’s some hard-hitting reporting,” said Sava. “Why don’t you ask them what their favorite color is?”
4
The PC grew up gradually around the Perion Expressway.
It started with warehouses, giant manufacturing buildings dotting the horizon like teeth, their metal roofs creating blinding glares that brought Cam’s hand to his eyes. Sava referred to this part of the city as The Fringe, so called because it employed the healthy minority of Perion City residents who didn’t hold multiple degrees and whose only contribution was manual labor. They lived in barracks-like apartments set far back from the road, creating a second city of rough edges and rougher people. Here, Perion turned a blind eye to the lack of polish, allowing businesses to cater to the immediate clientele, provided they kept it close to home.
Cam squinted through the window, spied a giant pink gorilla sitting atop a gentlemen’s club.
“Bleeding edge of the technological frontier, the brightest and best of their generation, and there’s still a market for depravity,” said Sava. “They like to pretend it’s just for the laborers, but every once in a while you see someone from the city sneaking out here, looking for some decadence. Human nature, I suppose.”
“Well, it’s not just that,” said Cam. “Evidently you have women in the city who are willing to take off their clothes for money. Unless you’ve got synthetics showing off their jackports.”
Sava rolled her eyes.
“That’s not a no, Ms. Kessler.”
“We don’t have any synthetics in the sex industry, not as strippers or prostitutes or otherwise. Mr. Perion wouldn’t allow it.”
“And yet you make them anatomically correct?”
“You should ask Chuck about that. We’re meeting him for lunch downtown.” Sava checked the time on her phone and sighed. “We may be late.”
“Chuck?” asked Cam, skimming through the dossiers in his mind.
“Chuck Huber is one of the chief architects of the synthetics program. I’ve arranged a meeting so he can prepare you for the things you’ll be seeing.”
“You make it sound like I’m going to lose my mind or something.”
“As I said, we’re years ahead of where everyone thinks we are. You’ve already dropped your jaw once today, and that was just a Scorpio, one of the simplest classes we have.”
“What would you say is your most impressive application?”
“That depends. Our synthetics are capable of great things, thanks to Chuck’s work. He was the one who solved the four fundamental problems of synthetics. If you remember…”
“Oh I do,” said Cam, putting up a hand. A buzzing grew in his ear; something was coming down the line.
“Is that so?” Sava raised her eyebrows. “Do tell.”
Cam repeated the information streaming from his whisperer.
“Charles Adam Huber, born September 6, 1971. Graduated from Christa McAuliffe High School in Sarasota, Florida at the age of fifteen. Holds multiple degrees from MIT and Cal Tech, and served on the advisory committee of the National Science Foundation prior to coming to Perion City. He is known in scientific circles as the man who wrote the vade mecum on synthetic construction, including progressive modeling of muscle and tendon mimicry.”
“You have a thorough research team,” said Sava, “but Chuck didn’t really hit his stride until he came to work for Mr. Perion. His best work has been here, which is why we’ve progressed while Vinestead Synthetics is stuck in the mud.”
Cam glanced at his sliver. “You know I’ll be recording whatever Chuck tells me, right?”
“Whatever ends up on the feed will benefit Perion Synthetics. I can assure you of that. No, we’re more concerned with a Vinestead extraction team cutting off your head and reconstituting our corporate secrets from your gray matter.”
“Okay,” said Cam, rubbing his neck, “now I’m going to have that image in my head all day.”
“Be thankful you still have one,” said Sava. She pulled a pack of gum from her purse and popped a piece into her mouth. “Gum, Mr. Gray?”
“Do synthetics chew gum?” he asked, accepting the offer.
“They can, though I doubt one has ever had the impulse to do so on their own.”
Cam tapped his chin with his finger as he chewed. “That means something, but I don’t know what it is.”
Sava grinned.
Turning to the window again, Cam watched the warehouses give way to cookie cutter neighborhoods that stretched away from the Perion Expressway in logarithmic sp
irals. Even the city planners were eccentric brainiacs.
“How many Perion scientists does it take to change a flat tire?”
“Seriously?” asked Sava.
“Trick question,” said Cam. “They never get past trying to reinvent the wheel.”
Sava smacked her gum.
“Speaking of which, doesn’t anyone drive around here?”
Since turning off I-10, they hadn’t passed a single car, coming or going, and the supply trucks lining up at Perion Terminus were nowhere to be found.
“As I said, there’s no unemployment. Most people are at work right now, though we should be hitting the lunch rush when we make downtown. The PC was designed from the Spire out, and mass transit was a large component of that design, which keeps traffic at a minimum. That and bikes.”
Cam huffed. “Really? The world’s greatest engineers and scientists ride bikes?”
Sava fell into her flack voice again. “Physical fitness is strongly encouraged. Perion Synthetics is one of the few companies that rewards staying healthy.”
“Sounds like a great place to live and work. I take it you’re happy here.”
Something flashed across her eyes, drawing them away. Cam had seen people do that before—feeders distracted by the constant whispers in their ears.
Sava touched the line of jewelry ascending her earlobe, drawing Cam’s eyes to the intricate designs and diamond insets.
“Looks like it pays the bills,” said Cam.
“Same as your job does,” said Sava. “Even a first gen Katsumi isn’t easy to come by. And a branded whisperer must be worth more than most Angelinos make in a year.”
“Perk of the job,” admitted Cam. “If it were mine to sell, I’d replace it with a KLH Tweeter and live off the proceeds.”
“And the iMerse?”
Cam shrugged. “What can I say? Virtual reality is where it’s at these days.”
“VNet is a plague on the scene. No self-respecting technophile goes anywhere near it.”
“So you’re a darknet kind of woman then?”
“No,” she replied, looking up through the roof of the car. “VNet and all the other immersion nets are blocked here. They’ve been talking about getting some kind of local network going for residents, but nothing’s ever come of it. Anyway, you try jacking into VNet from here and you’ll find yourself in some cozy null space.”
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