Perion Synthetics

by Verastiqui, Daniel

  Not her first time, thought Cam.

  Sava held the card to the back of her neck, all the while staring coldly at Cam. Within seconds, her gaze softened and the anger began to drain out of her. Her shoulders relaxed and her stance changed from aggressive to casual.

  Cam had done numerous stories on code cards for the general health hashes of the Banks Media feed; he even had his own stash of green and black cards back at the house for special occasions. It was the same synth haze anywhere he went, but what differed with Sava’s was the speed at which the code overtook her body.

  This wasn’t some dime-card South Central junk she was loading. This was prime, maybe even local.

  Drug abuse in the heart of Perion City; the headline wrote itself.

  With an even voice, Sava said, “Since you no longer require my assistance, I’ll leave you to your job, Mr. Gray. We do have a dinner reservation at Chez Cosimo at seven. If you and Roberta are not in attendance, I will send a hundred AGs to find you. If you try to leave the city, I will have you shot on sight and then dismembered.”

  “So, formal wear?” asked Cam.

  “Roberta, directive.”

  Roberta’s body stiffened.

  “Imprint protocol Bravo.”

  “Subject?” asked Roberta.

  “Cameron Gray,” said Sava. Then, with none of Cam’s flourish, “With Banks Media out of Los Angeles.”

  The synthetic nodded as a shiver went up her body. She looked around as if she hadn’t been paying attention. When her eyes fell on Cam, she smiled.

  “Chez Cosimo at seven,” repeated Sava. “Don’t piss me off any more than you already have.”

  “Yeah, or you’ll dismember me. Got it.”

  Sava dropped the used code card into her purse and secured it on her shoulder. She turned and headed for the back of Southpoint Synthetics where Tank Maddox stood with one foot propping the door open.

  “She’s not pleasant,” said Roberta. Her hair fluttered in the slight breeze; she turned to face the wind.

  Cam watched her glistening eyes as they observed the world.

  Perceptive, he thought.

  9

  “Tell me about Los Angeles.”

  Roberta hadn’t spoken in a while, had instead spent the last ten minutes approximating the act of eating an ice cream cone Cam had procured from a passing street vendor. Though she likely couldn’t enjoy the dessert, she attacked it with the same fervor of a girl much younger, and much more human.

  “Cameron?”

  “Oh, yes,” he stammered. His mind had wandered due to the gyrations of a synthetic tongue as it lapped at the melting ice cream. “Los Angeles, the Windy City.”

  Roberta laughed, having settled on a distinctive trill over the last few hours, likely the result of some algorithm to gauge Cam’s reactions to her various chuckles and giggles.

  “I don’t think that’s right,” she said.

  Cam sipped at his Screwdriver. “My mistake.” He cleared his throat, causing a nearby waiter to perk up. “Los Angeles, the City of Brotherly Love.”

  “Another drink, sir?” said the undoubtedly human waiter—no logical creature would have embedded those ridiculous bicycle tires in its ears.

  “He might have had too many already,” said Roberta.

  “Los Angeles, the City of Angels; the Entertainment Capital of the World; the House that Banks Built; La-La Land; the Big Easy…” Cam handed his empty glass to the waiter. “Chi-town.”

  “I’ll bring you another as long the madam is driving you home.”

  “I’m not sure she knows how,” said Cam, sitting back in his chair. He put his hand to his chin and scratched at the fresh stubble. “What about it, Roberta? Are you licensed to operate a motor vehicle?”

  Her eyes drifted to the street where the bikes outnumbered the cars four to one.

  “I can ride a bike,” she said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, I haven’t in a while, but you never really forget.”

  Cam’s laugh was amplified by the alcohol, but it evoked such a proud smile from Roberta that he didn’t care how foolish he looked or sounded. Besides, it was still early and the patio was mostly deserted except for a few gray-haired engineers sitting down for their early bird specials.

  “Anything for the madam?” asked the waiter as he returned with a glistening Screwdriver. “A glass of wine perhaps?”

  “Oh, I don’t drink,” said Roberta.

  Cam wanted to ask whether she meant alcohol or all liquids, but the words wouldn’t come out. Roberta was being a good sport about the whole not being human thing. There were times, however, when his questions pulled them out of the fantasy and back to the world where she was just a collection of gizmos and whatsits, a synthetic being manufactured and programmed in a lab somewhere in the Spire. She was aware, at some level, when his questions went too deep, but was it programmed indignation? Was it code that made her eyes flutter, that gave her pause—all to let Cam know he had touched a nerve, and more importantly, had hurt her feelings?

  The answer was elusive, and the booze certainly wasn’t helping.

  “You’d like LA,” he said at last. “Lots of stuff for a girl like you to get into. We’ve got traffic, pockets of high-density crime, and a professional football team that hasn’t been to the playoffs since before I was born. It’s a smorgasbord of excitement.”

  Roberta reached out and put her hand on his. “And it’s got you.”

  Cam laughed as he shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. Turned on by a robot, he thought. If Banks found out, he’d never let him live it down. With a quick swipe of his sliver, he severed the uplink feed. When his phone beeped a few seconds later, he ignored it.

  “I’m sorry,” said Roberta, withdrawing her hand. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Not your fault.” Cam chugged the rest of his drink and then rattled the ice in the glass. “Just sometimes I forget you’re…” Again, the words faltered under the weight of some undefined sense of civility.

  “I’m what?”

  Her ice cream cone sat melting on a bread plate as she waited for an answer.

  Cam reached out for her hand and tapped it lightly. “You’re delightful,” he said. “And amazing.” The haze crept in. “And beautiful. Witty. Erot—”

  The blaring of a car horn cut his list of adjectives short. Cam turned in time to see a bicyclist go tumbling over the hood of a silver sedan, his ten-speed bouncing back the other way. All traffic around the accident came to a standstill, but nobody rushed to the biker’s aid. When he popped up and started looking around for his bike, Cam realized he must have been a synthetic.

  “What in the holy fuck-all is wrong with you?”

  The driver slammed his door as he got out of the car. He was a shorter man dressed in business casual, with a loosened tie and white sleeves unbuttoned at the wrist. Not a scientist or engineer, and therefore not part of the PC elite. Like Cosimo, this guy was just a worker, a skilly in a city of techies.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the synthetic. A section of pink skin hung from its cheek; manufactured muscles of light blue undulated below a black, fibrous inner wall.

  “What’s your tag number, asshole? Who the hell taught you how to ride a bike?”

  Cam glanced at Roberta, wanting to make a joke about never really forgetting, but the way she was sitting at attention stopped him. Her eyes were wide and the vein running the length of her neck throbbed in a rapid tempo. Cam wondered if she had ever been exposed to violence before today.

  The driver, fearing no retaliation, got right in the face of the synthetic, poking him in the chest with every curse word he threw out. Then came a genuine shove, sending the synthetic stumbling backwards. Evidently, it was not endowed with the same kind of lightning reflexes as the cooks in Cosimo’s cafeteria. Once the synthetic was on the ground, the driver kicked him in the face.

  Roberta gasped,
which was all the encouragement Cam needed to spring from his seat and vault the low wrought-iron fence at the edge of the patio. He had no idea what he was going to do until he was pushing the driver away and stepping in front of the fallen synthetic.

  “What the hell’s your problem?” asked Cam. The question activated his sliver and restored the uplink.

  The driver blanked for a moment, as if he hadn’t considered the idea of someone coming to the synthetic’s rescue. His anger refocused on Cam.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

  “Cameron Gray, with Banks Media out of Los Angeles. I’m investigating no-class Perion employees who beat innocent synthetics in the street. Perhaps you’d like to take a swing at me so we can explore the differences between synthetic and human responses to violence?”

  “Please don’t,” said the synthetic. He climbed to his feet slowly, as if he had sustained actual injuries.

  “Oh,” said the driver, “so you’re the big shit aggregator everyone’s been talking about? Well, I’ve got a feed for you, Mr. Banks Media Los Angeles: this is a Perion-only matter. Why don’t you get the fuck out of my face and out of my city?”

  “But don’t you see? Perion-only matters are what I’m interested in. I want your face under my headline. Synthetic Punching Bags: The True Story of Humanity in Perion City. Your name, your story, followed by James Perion’s reaction to his employee’s conduct. How does that grab you, asshole?”

  “Please, sir, there is no need for an altercation.” The synthetic put a hand on Cam’s shoulder.

  With his head turned, Cam barely saw the sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. The driver lunged forward, swinging a hefty fist at Cam’s face. He felt the wind from the impact as it stopped an inch from his nose. He stumbled backwards from the shock, and was caught by the biker.

  “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” asked Roberta. She had plucked the driver’s fist out of the air and was now squeezing. His knuckles popped, audible even as he screamed in pain.

  “Roberta, directive! Release him.”

  Sava’s commanding voice took the air out of the confrontation. Even the murmuring of the crowd died down as people began to notice the half dozen men with guns who had circled the area.

  Roberta let go of the driver’s hand, allowing him to fall to his knees. An ambulance honked its way through the crowd carrying EMTs. They rushed to determine the extent of the driver’s injuries. Seconds later, another team arrived to examine the synthetic.

  “Did you forget what I told you about pissing me off?” asked Sava.

  Cam took a step back, not liking the smell of the flack’s breath. “Maybe. Was it after the part where you told me you’d be following me around waiting for me to fuck up?”

  As the adrenaline tapered off, Cam felt himself start to sway from the weight of four Screwdrivers.

  “You’re not here to fight with the locals.”

  “Technically, I wasn’t fighting with him. He took a swing at me. Plus, you should be thanking me. I was protecting your investment.”

  Cam looked down as a hand slid around his waist to steady him.

  Sava saw it too.

  “You’re not here to fuck the locals either.”

  “Rude,” said Roberta. “Cameron, can we go now?”

  Cam brandished his teeth at Sava.

  “You’re lucky I don’t bounce you,” said Sava. “I could do it, you know.”

  His phone beeped and Cam noticed his sliver was glowing red.

  “So is this kind of behavior common in Perion City? Do the humans regularly take their anger out on synthetics who can’t fight back?”

  “Sometimes, yeah,” said Sava. “That’s how we do things. It’s not assault because they’re not human. It’s property damage, our property.”

  “And the synnies always have to take it?”

  Sava scowled at Roberta. “I guess not anymore.”

  Roberta said nothing, but stepped behind Cam as if he could protect her.

  10

  “You turned off your uplink,” said Banks, his voice echoing.

  Cam grimaced.

  It wasn’t exactly protocol to hijack the feed and speak directly through the whisperer, but with Banks, it was downright unsettling. Having that man’s voice in his head was like having a second ego, and Cam already struggled enough with the one.

  At the moment, he had a bigger problem—trying to stay upright while making use of the facilities at Chez Cosimo. Luckily, the bathroom’s designers had been bright enough to put thick walls between each of the urinals, giving Cam something to lean against as he relieved himself.

  “Not now, boss,” he replied. “I’m trying to piss.”

  “I don’t care if you’re up to your elbow in synthetic cooch—you don’t kill your uplink.”

  “Nice image,” said Cam, testing his ability to stand. Finding the task too difficult, he leaned once more on the wall. “Speaking of cooch, how’d you swing the deal with Roberta? Sava was pee-issed.”

  “I don’t know. I was surprised myself.” There was a pall, broken by the flush of a urinal. “I really thought Perion was going to fight me on it.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did whatever you did. Roberta is awesome. If she’s what’s coming down the pipe, Perion is going to make a metric fuck-ton of money.”

  “Now you see why I didn’t dump my stock like the rest of those idiots?”

  Cam zipped up and went to the sink to wash his hands. He noticed the bathroom attendant regarding him with a narrow eye. Cam tapped the side of his head in explanation.

  “Bullshit,” he told Banks. “No way you knew about this beforehand. Even Kessler was completely blindsided, and she seems like the kind of woman who does her homework.”

  “Jesus, Cam. How much have you been drinking? Of course I didn’t know about Roberta. All I knew was Perion had something up his sleeve. He’s a thinker, a problem solver, and all of that before a businessman. He’s got more ideas than you’ve got brain cells. He’s a…”

  The whisperer went silent.

  Cam let the water run in the sink and then dried his hands.

  The tinkling of ice in a glass preceded Banks’ next words. “He’s a titan. And people should respect him for that.”

  “Is that what this is about? Honoring him?” Cam leaned against a table near the door. “You want me to paint a pretty picture? Perion’s perfect PC isn’t presenting a promising potential. All menial jobs will be taken by synthetics, leaving the uneducated unemployable. We’re talking about a new age of slavery signed, sealed, and supplied by the old man himself.”

  “That’s not his goal,” said Banks, his voice even again.

  “Then what is?” asked Cam. He caught his reflection in the mirror and smoothed out his hair.

  “That’s what you’re there to find out. Why Perion City? Why the mystery? Based on what we’ve seen today, these things look ready for real-world testing, and yet Perion’s keeping them close to his chest. I want to know why.”

  “I’ll go find out,” said Cam, jumping in place a few times. He stumbled on the last hop and fell into the wall. “Or throw up trying.”

  The whisperer ramped up again, feeding the usual white noise of world news and sports roundups. A trailer for the latest Bollywood invader played as Cam exited the bathroom.

  Chez Cosimo’s Monday crowd was a mix of stiff-shirted executives and lab-coated engineers. Every table in the main dining area was full, as were the booths lining the outer walls. Towards the back, silhouettes of raucous dinner parties danced on the privacy screens. The door to the largest of the private rooms was slightly open in anticipation of Cam’s return. Inside, he could see Sava sipping from a glass of wine and playing with her phone. She spied him through the open door and looked away.

  Cam stepped into the room and smiled when Roberta’s eyes lit up. She was sitting next to Chuck Huber, who was doing his best to appear aloof to her presence. To her right was Dr. Langley Bhende
ru, who had brought his wife, a stout woman in her late forties or early fifties with muddled Indian features like her husband. Also at the table was a square-jawed suit with a signature bulge under his jacket and a very official security laminate around his neck that read GANTZ.

  No doubt the law man had been called to dinner at Sava’s insistence.

  “What’d I miss?” asked Cam, taking his seat between Gantz and the empty chair reserved for the absent Joseph Perion. On the table, a refreshed 7&7 beckoned him.

  “Ms. Kessler was just telling us about your feat of heroism this evening,” said Bhenderu. He had a habit of speaking into his glass of water, making his voice reverberate. “Tell me, Mr. Gray. What possessed you to come to the aid of a machine?”

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Sava scoffed; Roberta smiled.

  “And yet you were aware the synthetic was not in danger? Mr. Galvan could not have hurt it.”

  “That’s not really the point,” said Cam, feeling his words beginning to slide into each other as they rolled off his tongue. “Pardon my language, but that guy was an asshole. Synthetic or not, you don’t let people act like that. There’s this subtle elitist vibe oozing from every pore of this city, but I haven’t really seen any action to back that up. You’ve given your synthetics a sense of humanity, yeah, but if Mr. Galvan is an example of the source material… I mean, you don’t want people returning their synthetics because they’re total dicks, right?”

  Bhenderu dismissed the idea with a shake of his head.

  Chuck gestured to his colleague. “Dr. Bhenderu is a leader in the field of synthetic psychology. There is no one on the planet more qualified to select the source material than he.”

  “Is that so?” Cam’s straw made a slurping noise as he emptied his drink. “What happens when your synthetics recognize the class war already building here? Not just between humans and synnies, but amongst themselves. You keep last year’s models in circulation and pretty soon they’ll start feeling better than each other.”