Perion Synthetics

by Verastiqui, Daniel

  Maddox cleared his throat. “Brunette is the new blonde. They’re outselling everything else three to one this quarter.”

  “Shame. He’d buy one on the spot if you had a cute little golden-haired minx to sell him.”

  “I’ll check our inventory. If we don’t have one here, I’m sure I can get it for you, maybe order it direct from the factory. In the meantime, please have a look around. Ms. Kessler, all of the private screening rooms are open if you’d like to take Mr. Graystone back.”

  “We’ll wait for you there, Mr. Maddox.”

  The salesman nodded and walked briskly to the desk on the other side of the showroom.

  “He plays the part well,” said Sava, as Cam joined her at the display models. “What’s he going to do, make a trade with another dealership?”

  “So I’m into blondes, huh?”

  “According to your last three romantic interests, I’d say yes.”

  “Well, your intel is wrong. Felicia wasn’t a real blonde, so ha.”

  Cam touched a synthetic on the arm; its skin felt warm under his fingers. For all the time he had spent in Perion City, he hadn’t yet held the product in his hands.

  “Body heat is a nice touch,” he said.

  “Chuck’s contribution to the design process after a synthetic nurse tried to take his blood pressure with what he called icy cold hands of death.” Her voice pitched lower. “Absolute zero exists! And it’s in this woman’s fingers!”

  “Would you say your boyfriend is a comedian first, engineer second?”

  Sava groaned. “Dr. Bhenderu pointed out that having a completely cold synthetic would break the suspension of disbelief. He and Chuck argued for days about just how much body heat the nurse should have.”

  Cam caught himself running his fingernails over the synthetic’s skin. He pulled his hand away as his cheeks warmed.

  “Come on,” said Sava. “Let’s go check out the screening rooms.” Then, raising her voice, “We’re heading back now, Mr. Maddox.”

  “Sure,” said the salesman, covering the phone in his hand. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

  “Take your time.”

  Sava led Cam through a winding hallway with glass walls showcasing well-appointed but empty offices. Each had a thick, L-shaped desk that pushed into the center of the room, a comfy leather chair for the salesman, and two smaller chairs for prospective buyers. VoIP phones sat beside computer monitors on the desks, their screens blank. They passed six such offices, culminating in a larger seventh at the end of the hallway.

  “The screening rooms are just through here,” said Sava.

  “Kind of a walk, don’t you think?”

  “All part of the sales process. They want you to pass by the offices on your way in so you can see other buyers happily signing their fortunes away. Then, when you’re done getting to know your synny, you have to pass by them again.” She imitated Maddox’ insincere voice. “Now, I know you said you wanted to think about it, but before you go, I’d like to show you some finance options that might make this purchase easier. No pressure; you can still walk out if you want to.”

  They passed through a set of double doors with rectangular windows and into the screening area, which also had a meandering hallway that broke off at seemingly random intervals into vastly different rooms. There were no windows, but Cam could see into the staged settings through the open doors. They passed a bedroom, a kitchen, and a dental office before Sava led him into what looked like the living room of an expensive condo.

  “This about right for you?” asked Sava. “Someone with your salary probably lives in one of those downtown high-rises, right?”

  Cam thought about the living room of his three bedroom house in Burbank. His microfiber couches looked nothing like the ultra-modern appointments filling the fake condo. Staring at the dull, gray stripes of a rug sitting atop the hardwood floor, he wondered why Sava would assume he lived in such a style, especially if his file contained his home address.

  He shook his head, trying to sort the important questions from the meaningless.

  “Dr. Bhenderu thought you might like to interact with a freshly imprinted synthetic, ask it some questions.”

  “Are they different on first boot?”

  “A little,” said Sava. “They have to ramp into their imprint, as well as learn what their owners like and dislike. It’s like a training period.” She touched a palette on the wall by the door and brought up the Southpoint Synthetics inventory system. She sighed.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, it’s just that they’re overstocked with Leo models. Chuck worked on those for a while, said they weren’t exactly a step forward in the revision process. If I recall, we sent most of them to The Fringe for warehouse duty.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “Nothing we could really put our finger on. Chuck thinks it was a tweak they made to the imprinting process, where the synnies get their personalities and technical knowledge. But who knows. Those are the breaks with assumed intelligence. You give them a new way of thinking and they either sink or swim.”

  “Is it common to have a synthetic come out of the oven half-baked? Also, can synthetics swim?”

  “Yes to the second question,” said Sava, pausing on the image of a blonde Leo in green scrubs. “The first question is a little tougher. Each model has its own strengths and weaknesses, so it’s not a total loss if we can fill a need in the city. But, if they’re really bad, or dangerous, they won’t even make it out of the Spire.”

  Cam watched the models scroll by. Each profile was stamped with an astrological symbol, a crouched Lion being the most prevalent.

  “Anything blowing your skirt up?” asked Sava.

  “That one’s missing its symbol,” said Cam, pointing to the palette.

  On the screen, a three dimensional model of a woman rotated slowly. The label underneath contained her vitals: five feet three inches tall, one hundred and fifteen pounds. She had eyes the same color as her hair, a deep russet brown that sparkled at the edges of her irises. Cam found himself lost in the shape of her eyebrows, which rose and fell as they extended away from the center of her face, tapering to a fine point. The detail was far superior to anything else in the catalogue.

  “Weird,” said Sava, swiping the palette to bring up the model’s technical data. “I guess they forgot to log her tag when they put her in the system.”

  “Can I meet her?”

  Sava grinned. “You’re a salesman’s dream, aren’t you? Her file says she’s imprinted for clerical work. Not exactly exciting stuff.”

  “I’ll make it exciting,” said Cam, pulling out his phone. He opened the camera app. “For the story.”

  “Fine, I’ll bring her in. We can check her tag in person.”

  Sava tapped the button marked Select in the bottom right corner of the screen. The palette dimmed and presented a message assuring them their selection would be with them shortly.

  Cam took a seat on the couch. The rough base and oddly curved backing made finding a comfortable position nearly impossible. From the door, Sava gave him a quizzical look.

  “It’s the couch,” he explained. “I’m not nervous.”

  “Sure,” said Sava, trying to hide her amusement. She wandered into the hallway for a moment. “Ah,” she said, stepping back into the room. “Mr. Gray, meet your new domestic partner.”

  Cam stood but was unable to take a step forward.

  Someone was playing a joke on him. There was no way the woman standing in the doorway could have been a synthetic. They had hired the most attractive woman in the city just to see if Cam would fall for it.

  So that was their game.

  He put out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  She smiled in return and held out a dainty hand. “Likewise, mister…?”

  “Gray,” he replied. “Cameron Gray. Friends call me Cam.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gray. I’m Roberta.” She dipped her head in defere
nce.

  “Roberta?” asked Sava. Something made her nose twitch. “Let me see your tag.” When the synthetic stared back blankly, she added, “Your wrist, let me see it.”

  “Of course,” said Roberta, lifting her hand.

  “Other wrist,” said Sava. She reached out before Roberta could lift her right arm.

  Sava scratched a small square of skin on Roberta’s wrist; it glowed white briefly.

  “Well?” asked Cam.

  “Not a logging error.” Sava checked Roberta’s other wrist just to be sure. “She’s not tagged, which means they’ve started a new line or she’s a prototype.” There was a hint of worry in her voice.

  “Is that a problem?”

  Sava took a step back and considered Roberta. “I can’t believe they’d pull a stunt like this. Excuse me, I need to make a phone call.”

  Roberta watched with detachment as Sava left the room. When she was gone, the synthetic turned her brown eyes to Cam and blinked.

  “Your girlfriend?” she asked.

  Cam’s laughter brought a smile to Roberta’s face.

  “Absolutely not,” he replied. “She’s more into your creator.”

  “My creator?”

  “Yeah, you know, the one who designed you.”

  Roberta cocked her head to the side.

  “Interesting,” she said.

  8

  Cam discovered a manicured garden neatly tucked behind the W. G. Walter Spiritual Center next door to Southpoint. He spotted it as he was escorting Roberta out of a back door while Sava was busy in the showroom arguing in hushed tones with Maddox and whoever was unlucky enough to be on the other end of her phone.

  Outside, the air smelled fresher than the artificially scented environment of the screening room. Cam took a deep breath as he sat down on a bench next to a rose bush. Roberta took the seat beside him.

  She was no less stunning in natural light, prompting Cam to take another picture to send over to Banks.

  His response read keep it in your pants.

  Easier said than done. This thing sitting in front of him was more than an amalgamation of circuitry and code. And yet, he was having a hard time trying to define just exactly what she was.

  “I’ve got the situation in hand,” wrote Cam.

  Banks didn’t acknowledge his humor.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” said Roberta, looking to the sky. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

  “Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Roberta?”

  “About me?”

  “Yes, about you.” Cam pulled his press badge and showed it to her. “I’m with Banks Media out of Los Angeles. I’m here to find out what life is like in Perion City.”

  “Okay,” said Roberta. She fidgeted under her black sweater and white blouse; her fingers held the edges of her sleeves against her palms.

  “Alright, first question,” said Cam, swiping his sliver. “What’s four plus four?”

  “Eight,” answered Roberta.

  “And the capital of California?”

  “Sacramento.”

  “And the diameter of the earth?”

  Roberta paused. “I thought you wanted to know about me.”

  “I do. These are just some baseline questions I ask everyone.”

  “Really?”

  “I promise. Now, diameter of the earth?”

  Roberta smiled and shook her head. “I don’t know, Mr. Gray. I bet we could look it up though.”

  “Would you?” asked Cam.

  “Alright.” Roberta tapped her empty pockets. “I seem to have forgotten my phone. Can I use yours?”

  “Can’t you just retrieve the answer wirelessly?”

  Some art school prodigy had done a damn good job of programming Roberta to simultaneously lift and push her eyebrows together. “Yes,” she said, drawing out the word. “I can do it wirelessly, but I’ll need a phone or a palette or some kind of wireless device.” She put air quotes around her last two words.

  Cam made a note regarding her sarcasm.

  “When performing CPR, what is the ratio of chest compressions to breaths?”

  “I heard you weren’t supposed to do the breaths anymore, just the compressions. But you’d want to do about a hundred compressions a minute.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I was born in 1990, so I’m twenty-five.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “In the Clerical department on the eleventh floor of the Spire. I’m currently on vacation though.”

  “Who holds the record for the most rushing yards in a rookie season, before they allowed augmentations?”

  “I have no clue.”

  “What’s your favorite color, Roberta?”

  She leaned in and smiled. “What’s yours?”

  Cam took the moment to catch his breath. His sliver was flashing happily, but it was only recording words, not the expressions on Roberta’s face or the intent of the rapid-fire questioning.

  “It’s gray,” he replied.

  Roberta nodded. “I should have guessed. That’s my favorite too.”

  In the back of his mind, Cam heard Banks clucking his tongue.

  “It’s funny you say that,” said Cam. “It makes me wonder if you’ve been telling the truth or not.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “Because you can. I know for certain you have the ability to calculate the fourteenth digit of pi, but if I asked you to, you’d probably say you can’t. So either your programming is crippled or you’ve been instructed not to act like a machine and spout off statistics without consideration for whether the average person would know the answer. It’s like you’ve been purposefully dumbed down from the super-intelligent synthetic you are to a slightly above-average human.”

  “You’re being quite rude,” said Roberta, her eyes narrowing.

  “What if I had said my favorite color was red, would you have changed your answer?”

  “No, I told you. It’s gray.”

  “But how do I know yours was gray before I told you mine?”

  Roberta crossed her arms and looked away. “Believe what you want, Mr. Gray. My feelings aren’t dependent on your trust.”

  “That’s… a good point,” said Cam.

  “I know it is,” said Roberta. She brushed a section of her hair away from her cheek, reminding Cam of her wrist.

  “What’s your sign?” asked Cam.

  Roberta faked a calming breath.

  “Virgo,” she said softly. “It means Virgin.”

  A flash of gleaming metal caught Cam’s eye through the rose bush and within seconds, the garden was filled with half a dozen Scorpios, though they looked more specialized than the synthetics at Outpost Alpha. Where those had been dressed in desert camo, these AGs were clad in black suits—their uniforms were more formal than functional. If it hadn’t been for the silver machine guns in their hands—all of which were pointed in Cam’s direction—someone could have mistaken them for businessmen.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Gray?”

  It was Sava’s voice, but with a biting edge Cam hadn’t heard before. He turned to face her.

  “Are you out of your mind?” she screamed. “I don’t give a shit how well-connected you think you are, you don’t walk off with a million dollar prototype. You’re lucky I don’t let these guys blow your head off. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Finally, a glimpse of the real Savannah Kessler.

  Cam stood up slowly, stowing his phone in his pocket.

  Roberta followed suit beside him. Her eyes jumped from one machine gun to the next, and for some pre-programmed reason, she stepped closer to Cam.

  “First of all,” said Cam, “I meant no disrespect. This wasn’t an elaborate heist or an attempt to hide anything. Why you thought it was necessary to bring guns into this is beyond me. Hell, you can see the car we came in from here.” He pointed to the Nissan parked at the curb. “You wouldn’t have been able to l
eave without spotting us. Second of all, the lady looked like she could use some fresh air. She came of her own free will.”

  Sava’s eyes flashed red. “Fucking outlander,” she mumbled. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the well-dressed AGs. “You’re really testing my hospitality, Gray.”

  How quickly formality broke down, thought Cam.

  “I don’t want or need your hospitality, Kessler. This isn’t a vacation for me. I’m here because my boss has an arrangement with your boss—that’s it. I’ve got directives you aren’t even privy to and at no point in the description of those directives was I told to take direction from a power-tripping flack with trust issues.”

  Sava started to respond, but turned her attention to Roberta instead. “Get inside. Mr. Maddox is waiting for you.”

  “You’re not her master,” said Cam. “If she wants to stay out here with me, then that’s her choice.”

  “Stay with you? You’re not even authorized to know she exists.”

  “Do I really have to pull rank on this one? You don’t think I could get Banks to make this happen?”

  Cam held out his phone to sell the threat. Before Sava could answer, the display lit up with a curt message from Banks that read on it.

  Sava looked like she wanted to hit him. “Try it, just fucking try—”

  A screeching ringtone interrupted her. With one eye on Cam, she stepped away to answer the phone.

  “You could cut the tension with a knife,” whispered Roberta.

  Cam turned his head slowly.

  “You’re very perceptive,” he said. “Does this kind of thing bother you?”

  “It’s difficult to say. I feel empathy for both of you.”

  “What if she had hit me?”

  Roberta smiled and took another step closer. She touched Cam lightly on the arm. “It would have been the last punch she ever threw.”

  Cam stared at the delicate fingers on his arm until she removed them.

  “Gray, huh?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Gray.”

  “Son of a cock,” yelled Sava.

  She tried for several seconds to squeeze the life out of her phone. When it wouldn’t crumble in her hand, she shoved it into her purse. Her fingers came out holding a code card, the kind popular among Hollywood synth enthusiasts and Los Angeles synth addicts. She used her thumb to break the seal and slid out the electrode in one smooth movement.