Perion Synthetics

by Verastiqui, Daniel

  Cam nodded his head and smiled.

  “Something I said amuse you, Mr. Gray?”

  “No, no, I like it, this whole flack persona you’ve got going on. Underneath it all, you’re just a big ol’ dork, aren’t you?”

  “We all are, but if you want to get anywhere with these people, you probably shouldn’t refer to them as such. No dork, geek, dweeb, or otherwise.”

  “Are we talking about Chuck specifically?”

  “Chuck is a good man; he doesn’t deserve to be called names. Brilliant in a lot of ways, and dedicated, like Mr. Perion. They’re good friends, you know.”

  Of course he knew. The dossier on Charles Huber was ten pages long, detailing every acquaintance he had ever made, both professionally and personally. None of the names meant anything to Cam yet, but it was interesting that the timeline and Chuck’s professional accomplishments seemed to end simultaneously when he joined up with Perion Synthetics. How could a man so prolific in his twenties and early thirties resign himself to R&D at a corporate giant?

  “So, Perion put the team together himself?”

  “We’ve always cultivated the best minds, real time travelers,” said Sava.

  The term made instant sense to Cam, who upon seeing the synthetic guard crumble at his feet had wondered if the whole trip were some kind of dream, an interactive movie being pumped into his brain in the back room of some sim parlor. No amount of promotional footage could have prepared him for seeing the tech in person, seeing that perfect blend of machinery imitating life. Even with his years of experience, Cam had found it hard to disguise his astonishment.

  “We need people who can keep up, who won’t succumb to complacency just because they met their Q3 quotas.”

  “The best of the best, right?”

  “Is that envy, Mr. Gray?”

  “It just raises questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, the big one,” said Cam, sitting up in his seat, “is that as far as I can tell, Perion City is one big beta test for your synthetics program, right?”

  “In a way. Mr. Perion’s first tenet of business is that we’re customer zero. If we don’t use the product, how can we ever hope to make it better?”

  “Ah yes, the Perion Tenets of Business. Number thirty-eight: make sure each product has functioning genitalia.”

  Sava folded her arms. “I never said they were completely functional.”

  “Okay,” continued Cam, “so ballpark, how many synthetics with partially functional junk do you have running around this place?”

  “The PC is home to four hundred and sixty thousand residents, give or take. Almost a third of those are synthetics.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “It varies,” said Sava. “You’ll see.”

  The Perion Expressway began to veer easterly, away from the colossal Spire rising up from the center of the city. The car exited and turned onto a side street, giving Cam a proper look at the monument to Perion success. Someone had turned the sharpness filter all the way up, adding details he had never noticed before in marketing collateral.

  “It really came out of nowhere, didn’t it?” he asked.

  “It looks better at night. By day, the mirrors make it practically invisible.”

  The car pulled over as the Spire loomed, now visible through the tinted glass of the moon roof. They had stopped in front of an open-air cafeteria set behind an expansive patio. Only two of the outdoor tables were occupied; they had umbrellas to shield them from the glare of the Spire.

  Sava made no effort to move.

  “Do we go?” asked Cam.

  “In a minute,” she replied, consulting her phone again. “There’s something I want to show you first.”

  “Another demonstration?”

  Sava ignored the question. “Across the way there is a child development center.”

  Cam followed Sava’s gaze and took in the squat, two-story building. A large mural adorned the left side of the school, mirroring the orange monkey bars and green swing sets of the attached playground.

  “At eleven-thirty, classes will break for lunch, and the instructors will take the children across the street to the cafeteria. You see the policeman waiting by the sidewalk? He’ll stop traffic in both directions until everyone has crossed.”

  “You have your own police force as well? Paid for by the state?”

  Sava scoffed. “State money means state involvement, and we can’t have that here. Our police force is a blend of Scorpios and humans, mostly prior service military. They were put in place to acclimate synthetics to the idea of civil authority.”

  A bell rang out across the street and moments later the front doors of the school opened by themselves. A group of children appeared—Cam counted twenty before giving up—chaperoned by four adult women.

  “How many synthetics do you see?” asked Sava.

  Cam studied the women carefully as they herded the children to the edge of the sidewalk.

  “I’m going to guess three.”

  “Why just the three?”

  “Well,” said Cam, “to put it indelicately, the fourth one is… rotund.”

  Sava chuckled. “There you go, proving Dr. Bhenderu correct. The rotund woman you pointed out is one of his experiments, a synthetic by the name of Mrs. Albright. Dr. Bhenderu believes a line of synnies with perfect bodies would have a detrimental effect on the body image of their human owners. And while there are some applications that call for a slim chassis, others do allow some leeway.”

  “Fat robots,” said Cam. “Who would have thought?”

  “She’s not fat,” said Sava, peppering her monotone with a hint of anger. “She’s slightly above the average weight of an American woman her age.”

  “Not that I can blame her, right? She’s exactly how you designed her. I just wonder what Mr. Albright thinks of his wife’s weight problem.”

  “Don’t be simple,” said Sava.

  “Well, you said Mrs. Albright.”

  “It doesn’t mean she’s married; it’s just part of her imprinted identity. She didn’t really get her master’s in child development from Vassar either.”

  “Do the children know their teachers are synthetics?”

  “Not at this age. We don’t broach the subject until they’re much older.”

  “They don’t figure it out themselves?”

  “You can barely pick out the synnies, Mr. Gray.”

  “Sure,” said Cam. “I’m just a city boy with no reckoning of your new-fangled walking machines. But these are the children of the best of the best of the best. If they aren’t smart enough to sniff out the robots, surely the synthetic children can recognize one of their own.”

  “How did you know?” asked Sava.

  Cam smirked. “Yeah, that was the whole point of your little guessing game, right? Look, making that guard eat pavement was pretty incredible, no doubt, and I’m blown away by the attention to detail in those teachers.” He sat forward on the seat and looked out the window again. “But look at those synthetic children, look at their faces and those of the human kids next to them, look at how they observe the world. Not even your engineers can reproduce the look of wonder on a child’s face. Given how smart you claim your people to be, I’m surprised you even tried.”

  Sava crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at Cam.

  “This whole aggregator thing you’ve got going on,” said Sava, moving her hand in a circle, “it’s just an act, isn’t it?”

  Cam shrugged and watched the children disappear into the cafeteria. “You people are pushing the limits of human decency here.”

  Sava pursed her lips, but said nothing.

  5

  “The kitchen is a marvel of efficiency,” said Cam.

  His sliver glowed red at the sound of his voice.

  “There are five stations, each with its own cutting area and sink. Utensils hang above on steel racks, a knife block in each corner. Five synthetics man the stations—if man is
even the right word—and each one has its own program. They mash their ingredients into a component, drop it on the conveyor, and repeat. At the serving counter, three synthetics dish out the main course, a small selection of sides, and desserts, mostly cookies or Jell-O.

  “Two things of interest here. The fundamental difference between synthetics and humans is that the robots don’t tire. None of them are stopping to stretch their backs or crack their knuckles. Repetitive movements do not faze them.”

  Cam swiped his sliver while he considered the phrasing of his second thought. Beyond the serving line, he caught sight of an agitated Sava standing outside with one hand pressed to her ear and the other gesticulating wildly. Chuck Huber, renowned for his contributions to advanced robotics, was evidently a bit of a dawdler—a dilatory scatterbrain when it came to social interaction, as Sava had so eloquently put it. When she excused herself to make a phone call, Cam used the opportunity to slip into the cafeteria kitchen to see if synthetics were being used in the food service industry. With the exception of the mustachioed man in a chef’s hat watching a vidscreen at the back of the kitchen, it appeared they were being used exclusively.

  “They don’t tire,” Cam continued. “They don’t seem to lose focus at all. Even when I came in, they barely noticed me. Strangely enough, I feel they all know I’m here.”

  The synthetics were all wearing the same uniform: black slacks, white, button-tab tunics, and aprons as pristine as the floor on which their polished shoes walked. The one closest to Cam had black hair cut close to his head and a light beard on square features. The nametag on his tunic read Gerard.

  “Excuse me,” said Cam, approaching the prep station. He held out his press badge, but the cook didn’t look up from his cutting board. “I’m Cameron Gray with Banks Media out of Los Angeles. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about your work here?”

  Gerard remained mute, focused.

  Pull a head of lettuce from the pile. Run it under the faucet for fifteen seconds. Make four cuts equidistant from each other. Chop into four piles. Combine in bowl.

  “Everything is scripted and precise,” said Cam, dictating again. “Dishes are set just far enough away so they don’t interfere with the process. The same goes for utensils. Some are balanced—carelessly, I might add—on the edge of the counter, with their blades pointing outward. Where is OSHA when you need them?” He tapped his chin. “An experiment is needed.”

  When Gerard reached for a new head of lettuce, Cam pushed one of the knives off of the counter. It fell halfway to the floor before the synthetic caught it by the blade and replaced it. His hands moved faster for several seconds to make up for the lost time and then settled into his normal tempo.

  “Please don’t do that.”

  Cam narrowed his eyes; Gerard’s lips hadn’t moved at all. It wasn’t until the voice spoke again that Cam realized it was coming from the man in the chef’s hat. He had come off his perch to deal with the intruder, and it appeared he was none too happy with the interruption.

  “You the aggregator?” he asked.

  “I is. Cameron Gray, Banks Media, Los Angeles. And you are?”

  “Customers aren’t supposed to be back here. Health code and whatnot.”

  “I’m not here as a customer. Tell me, are all of your employees synthetic?”

  “Last time I checked,” said the chef. His nametag was conspicuously absent.

  “And how long have you exclusively employed non-humans?”

  “What is that? Non-human?”

  “Sorry,” said Cam, consulting his notes. “What do you call them here?”

  “This one here I call Gerard. See? That’s his name right there on his nametag. That one over there is Wolfgang. And Pikel, Miller, and Cooke.”

  “The cook’s name is Cooke?”

  The chef grunted. “Am I going to have to say everything twice?”

  Cordial, thought Cam. He looked around to see if any of the synthetics were interested in the conversation, but they seemed unaffected by their boss’ hostility.

  “You knew I was an aggregator,” said Cam. “So you were expecting me?”

  A curt nod.

  “Which I’m guessing means a memo of some sort was passed around. And it would be a waste of said memo if its only purpose was to inform you of my impending arrival. Therefore, I can only conclude that not only were you told to expect me, you were also instructed to be receptive to my questioning, under the directive of Perion the Almighty.” A beat went by. “You get me? Or do I have to say it twice?”

  The chef considered Cam for a moment. “Cosimo Castelluccio,” he said, forcing a smile. “How can I help you?”

  “How long have you worked here, Mr. Castelluccio?”

  “Four years.”

  “And before that?”

  “Sous-chef at Mandola’s San Francisco.”

  Cam looked around the modern but unimpressive kitchen. “You gave that up to come here?”

  “My little girl goes to the school across the street. I work lunches here to make sure she gets a good meal,” Cosimo explained. “In the evenings, I’m executive chef at Chez Cosimo.”

  “French restaurant, Italian cook. Makes sense.”

  Cosimo shrugged and nodded to the men and women mixed in with the children at the serving counter. “Like any of these eggheads can tell the difference. The only man in this city with a palate is Mr. Perion, and I’ll give you two shakes of my monkey tree as to who brought me in.”

  “Ah,” said Cam. “Tell me about that.”

  “It’s nothing much,” said the chef, patting his large stomach. “One night, five years ago, I’m working the line at Mandola’s and it’s a busy Friday. I have to call in an extra roundsman because my saucier got a little third degree up and down his arm. Everything’s going to hell and it’s getting late, and like some kind of goddamn celebrity, in walks Mr. Perion. He’s got an entire entourage in tow, and Governor Howard, and some MX nationals I ain’t never heard of before. Mr. Perion sits down, doesn’t even look at the menu, and orders pasta fazool for the entire table. I’m thinking, is this guy crazy or what? Of all the dishes I can prepare, this guy wants the meal my mother throws together when she’s on her period.”

  Cam shuddered.

  “Anyway, I go to town on this fazool, cut all the ingredients myself, and serve it to the suits in our best bowls. Mr. Perion takes one bite and shits his pants—pardon my language. Best fucking meal he’s ever tasted, he says to me. Offers me a job on the spot, says he’ll give me my own restaurant. Only catch is I have to move from San Fran to this place.”

  “Most people I talk to can’t wait to get out of there.”

  “You’re not from an Italian family, Mr. Gray. You don’t just up and leave ‘em because some moneybag wants to make you his personal cook.”

  “And yet you’re here.”

  “You noticed that, huh? Just because I stay here doesn’t mean the money does. At least I know Ma is taken care of.”

  “Does she know about them?”

  “No,” said Cosimo. “I’m not supposed to talk about that kind of stuff with outsiders.” He stepped in closer, perhaps afraid of who might hear him. “I’ve tried to drop hints, ya know, but Ma don’t understand so well anymore.”

  “And you? What do you think about Gerard here?”

  Cosimo slapped the synthetic on the shoulder; it barely moved.

  “They creep me the fuck out sometimes, but they take orders well. No creativity though. They make the same thing over and over again; it’s never different. It doesn’t matter much here, but at my restaurant, I’ll only trust ‘em to prepare the bread.”

  “You ever get nervous with them handling knives?”

  “Ha! I’ve heard stories about the first synnies, about how they were uncoordinated, not blessed with the fine touch it takes to prepare food. Now the eggheads come and swap out my staff every four or five months, so they keep getting better. Gerard here has been working for me for two and
hasn’t cut himself once. Neither have the others. It’s like they’re learning.”

  He let the word hang in the air.

  Cam made a few notes in his phone and extended his hand.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Castelluccio. And you too, Gerard.”

  “Gerard, directive. Say goodbye to our aggregator friend.”

  The synthetic came to a sudden stop and cocked his head. “Goodbye, Mr. Gray.”

  Cam raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh yeah,” said Cosimo. “Sneaky bastards, huh? You think they’re not listening to every word you’re saying? Bullshit. And if they’re listening, then someone back in the Spire is listening too, bet on it.”

  “Someone always is,” said Cam, reading a message on his phone.

  “Ask him if he knows Vinnie the Mouth,” Banks had texted. Evidently, the big boss was tuned into Cam’s raw feed. It wasn’t unheard of for engineers or QA to listen in when aggregators were out on the job, but usually they had the decency to give prior notice.

  Cam nodded politely and exited the kitchen through the swinging doors. The crowd in the cafeteria had swelled since he arrived; the tables to his left were full of children, but on the right, a mix of humans and synthetics sat eating lunch. At least, the humans were eating. It was the only tell Cam could identify, seeing how synthetics behaved more or less like humans, nodding their heads to the conversation, smiling when appropriate, and even responding with what, their opinions?

  Before he could join one of the tables to listen in, Cam felt a hand on his arm.

  “Where were you?” asked Sava.

  “In the kitchen, interviewing the automated cooking robots. I’m going to call them AutoCookBots, ACBs for short.”

  Sava glanced over the serving line. “Well, I hope you got something of value. Chuck’s not going to be able to make it to lunch. He’s working on some project he can’t tear himself away from, so we’ll have to meet him at the office later. You hungry?”

  Cam nodded and followed Sava to the plastic trays.

  “So how long have you two been dating?” asked Cam.