Perion Synthetics

by Verastiqui, Daniel

  “How can you know that?” asked Bhenderu.

  “It’s human nature,” said Cam.

  “Obviously we have different definitions of human nature,” said Sava.

  “Obviously.”

  “Yes,” said Sava.

  “Yes,” repeated Cam.

  Finally, she looked him in the eye. “Real mature.”

  “Real mature,” said Roberta from across the table. She giggled and mouthed the word fun at Cam.

  “Roberta, directive—”

  “No,” barked Cam, slapping the table with his hand. “No more directives. No more orders.” Then to Roberta, “You don’t have to listen to her.”

  “In fact, she does. It’s part of her programmed psychology, a hardcoded directive to obey. Isn’t that right, Dr. Bhenderu?” Chuck’s arm moved to the side, perhaps slipping a discreet hand onto Sava’s leg.

  “It should be, but then I’m not overly familiar with the Virgo line,” said the doctor. “Completely different department.”

  Cam felt his eyebrows smack together. “I thought you were the psych lead for all synthetics.”

  “I don’t have a hand in every single one,” he admitted. “Mr. Perion has multiple departments running concurrently, each with their own teams of engineers. I oversee the standard build and mission critical synthetics like the Scorpio-class guards you’ve met. I do not remember being involved with the Virgo prototyping; I’m assuming it uses a significantly different—and likely inferior— psychological model.”

  “She’s sitting right there, you know.”

  Bhenderu turned to Chuck. “This is what I’m talking about. See how he has imprinted on her? We have gone past the valley of the uncanny. It is too soon.”

  Chuck nodded, but said nothing.

  “Am I missing something?” asked Cam.

  “Just your AA meeting,” said Sava.

  “How is everyone this evening?”

  “Cosimo!” yelled Cam.

  The chef had entered the room at some point and was now standing with his hands folded behind his back. A young waiter at his side stood in a similar stance.

  At Cam’s outburst, Cosimo bowed his head minutely.

  “I’ve prepared a special meal tonight in honor of our guest, Mr. Cameron Gray. I trust everyone brought their appetites?”

  “Am I drunk or is he talking funny?” asked Cam of no one in particular.

  Cosimo locked eyes and shared a terse wink. Evidently, the chef with rough but genuine edges Cam had met at the cafeteria was not good enough to work at Chez Cosimo.

  “Let’s start with two bottles of Iron Cactus for the table and our guest,” said Cosimo to the waiter. “On the house, of course.”

  A clinking of silverware against glasses filled the small dining room.

  “Please enjoy a drink and I’ll have the servers bring in the first course shortly.” He made another awkward bow and left the room.

  “Curious,” said Bhenderu. “He didn’t even tell us what we’ll be having.”

  “Something Italian, I’d wager,” said Cam, reaching for his empty glass. “Or French.” He sucked at the straw without effect and set it back down on the table. “Anyone seen a waiter?”

  “Couldn’t even stay sober for one night,” said Sava.

  “I could,” said Cam. “I choose not to.”

  “Then by all means, keep drinking.”

  “I will, thank you.” Cam turned to the doctor. “So what’s wrong with me imprinting on Roberta? Don’t you want people forming bonds with their synthetics?”

  “Where appropriate,” said Bhenderu.

  Chuck coughed into his napkin. “And where practical.” He took inventory of Roberta and then caught Sava’s glare.

  “Yes,” said the doctor, “where practical. Mr. Gray, there is a limit to all human bonding, a point at which it interferes with logical thought. This happens mostly between two emotional beings, but occasionally, and sometimes quite famously, this is extended to inanimate objects. Your altercation with Mr. Galvan is a prime example of that. You admit you knew the man on the bike was a synthetic. You knew he could not be harmed. And yet you got involved anyway. You could have been seriously injured.”

  “I think Cameron’s actions speak to his bravery and compassion,” said Roberta. “If he is willing to sacrifice himself for a stranger, what does that imply for those he loves?”

  There was silence at the table until Cam said, “Perceptive, isn’t she?”

  “It sounds to me as if the young lady is smitten with you.” Bhenderu’s wife smiled as she spoke.

  A collective groan filled the room as Roberta blushed.

  Before anyone could put words to their skepticism, the waiter reappeared with the promised bottles of wine. He presented Sava with a fresh glass and poured for her, then Bhenderu’s wife. When he turned to Chuck, Cam cleared his throat.

  “Aren’t you forgetting someone?”

  The waiter stopped and looked around the table. After following Cam’s gaze to Roberta, he approached her uncertainly.

  “Please,” said Roberta, handing him her wine glass. “I usually don’t, but this is a special occasion.”

  Cam waited for someone to object, but no one spoke.

  “So where have they put you up, Mr. Gray?” asked Bhenderu. “Or will you be staying with Ms. Kessler for the duration?”

  Sava spit wine back into her glass. “Holzgraf,” she sputtered. “He’s staying at the Holzgraf.”

  “Question,” said Cam. “Does anyone know where that is?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cam saw Gantz crack a smile.

  “We’ll have someone drive you,” said Sava. “Only the best for Banks Media.” She lifted her glass in an empty salute, realized she had spit in it, and set it back down.

  Cam raised his glass anyway and took a long pull of the wine.

  “Follow-up question, Doc. How did you come to meet the charming Mrs. Bhenderu?

  “An interesting story, that,” said the doctor. He sat up straight in his chair and began rambling about a medical conference in Calcutta.

  The red glow of his sliver told Cam it was safe to let his mind wander. And with Roberta sitting across the table, staring at him through the distortion of her wine glass, he found himself lost in a sudden synthetic fantasy.

  11

  The automatic blinds rose at seven, drowning the Holzgraf suite in a headache-inducing glare. Cam was already up, sitting on the edge of the bed with his arms on his knees, trying to decide if he really needed to throw up or if he could hold it in with some mental toughness. He really wanted to avoid rushing to the bathroom if possible, but every movement made the contents of his stomach slosh around. Now with the room illuminated, Cam could see himself in the mirror on the low dresser.

  His hair was standing straight up, set that way by a night spent with his head buried in a pillow. Combined with the stubble on his face and the harsh sun, he looked less like a smooth-talking aggregator at Banks Media and more like the synth junkies who sat outside the tower begging for money or a code fix. Staring into his own bloodshot eyes, Cam realized his appearance was the least of his problems.

  The most pressing issue was lying in the bed behind him, half covered in a jumble of sheets and pillows, her perfect synthetic breasts bathed in a golden hue. Cam had barely glanced at her when he awoke, yet he could close his eyes and recall every inch of her body. Roberta had pulled back her hair before putting her head on the pillow, revealing a high and smooth forehead. Her eyes were closed, but there was movement beneath her skin, as well as a flaring of her nostrils with each simulated breath. A tiny pulse beat from the artery—if that was the right word—in her neck.

  Cam wondered first why Roberta even needed a pulse, then how it was being generated, and finally, whether she had actual blood circulating through her body, or some kind of artificial equivalent, or worse, a black sludge mixture of oil and grease, something to lubricate what must have been a million or more moving parts.
He saw her stripped of her outer layer to reveal tiny gears and wiry tendons, all dripping in the same oily goop.

  Cam tightened up as another swell built in his stomach.

  He needed some air, and the voice-actuated room was more than happy to open the balcony doors for him. The resulting breeze made goose bumps stand out on his skin.

  “Narrative,” he said to his sliver. “Private entry.”

  The sliver blinked red twice and settled into a steady green.

  “Someone folded my clothes and put them in a neat pile on the dresser. My socks are balled up in my shoes, which have been pushed under the dresser. The question remains: how did my clothes come off in the first place?”

  Behind him, Roberta stirred, moaned quietly.

  “There is a possibility I shed my clothes on my own and they were collected and sorted by a prototype synthetic who is now sleeping in my bed. Then again, for all I know, she undressed me and tucked me in with a good night kiss. It doesn’t explain why she’s naked though, or why my boxers are on backwards.”

  Cam pushed his boxers down his legs, turned them around, and pulled them back on. When his stomach didn’t lurch in response, he stood on wobbly feet and leaned towards the balcony. The closer he got to the open door, the colder the breeze felt, as if a front had moved in overnight.

  “Good morning, Perion City,” he said, placing both hands on the balcony railing.

  At street level, PC residents were making their way to work, pedaling their bicycles or walking briskly on the sidewalk. Occasionally, one of the humans looked up to gawk at the disheveled man standing on the balcony in his boxers. Cam assumed the synthetics knew of his presence, but seeing how he had no impact on their operating radius, they ignored him. Perhaps the humans thought he was going to jump. Or maybe he was inadvertently exposing himself through his thin boxers.

  As if sensing the general distress of the citizenry, Roberta appeared behind him.

  “I brought you a robe,” she said, holding open the white terry cloth emblazoned with the Holzgraf’s double eagle emblem. “It’s cold this morning.”

  Only after stepping into the robe and away from Roberta did Cam realize she was completely nude. Where her clothes had ended up was only one of the many questions that popped into his head, following right behind the mystery of why Roberta didn’t have tan lines or if her synthetic chassis even supported them. Her skin held the same even tone from her neck to her chest to her stomach, varying only when it was obscured by a thin patch of pubic hair.

  Cam tried to focus on the job, on the questions he was sent to Perion City to ask.

  Dr. Bhenderu, he thought, why would a synthetic need to get undressed to sleep?

  And to Chuck, why would a synthetic need to sleep at all?

  “Thanks,” said Cam, as he pulled the robe tighter. The warmth made him feel better and the thick cloth helped conceal his excitement when Roberta stepped forward and slipped her arms around his waist.

  So it’s like that, he thought.

  “What happened last night?” he asking, swiping his wrist behind Roberta’s back. The green light flickered to red.

  “A lot,” said Roberta, giggling.

  “How good is your memory?”

  “I remember everything,” she said. Her eyes drifted away, as if surveying the street below. “You were…” Her eye twitched. “I mean, it was so…” She stepped out of the embrace and approached the railing. “Something’s different.”

  No kidding.

  Waking up next to a naked synthetic with his boxers on backwards didn’t exactly scream normality. There were so many questions needing answers, not just in the why but in the how. Had he made drunken love to a million dollar sex toy?

  “What do you mean?”

  Roberta nodded at the people below. “They don’t look right.”

  Now that she mentioned it, Cam noticed something off about the synthetics—they were easier to spot now that most of the humans were staring at the naked woman standing on a balcony. Not only were the synthetics disinterested in Roberta and Cam, they were stuttering in their movements, infrequently but noticeable when it happened. In the middle of the block, a younger-looking synthetic was trying to sweep the pristine sidewalk in front of a small grocery store. From a distance, Cam hadn’t even noticed there was nothing to sweep, that the synthetic appeared to be caught in a loop, more like a machine with a set program instead of a cutting-edge, assumed intelligence.

  “Probably just the cold affecting them. You know how it is.”

  “No,” said Roberta, “I don’t.”

  “Do you remember how we got here last night, Roberta?”

  “A car brought us.” She smiled, remembering. “It was a limo with sideways seats and vidscreens. We were all able to fit inside.”

  “All?”

  “You, me, your friend Cosimo, and Chief Gantz.”

  The name wasn’t familiar, but then the dossiers were all fuzzy in Cam’s memory. “I don’t remember any Gantz.”

  “He was at the dinner—the man in the suit.”

  The law man, thought Cam.

  “I’m surprised you don’t remember him. You two were fast friends last night. Things were a little tense at first, but once he started drinking—”

  Roberta shuddered.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Maybe it is the cold,” she replied, pulling Cam’s robe open. She pressed her warm, synthetic flesh against his cold skin. “We should get back in bed. Maybe we could finish what we started last night?”

  Cam caught his reflection in the glass of the balcony doors.

  “I need a shower,” he said.

  “I’ll join you,” replied Roberta.

  Cam was about to agree before his boss spoke up.

  “Have you ever considered why you met Roberta?” asked Banks, except his voice didn’t come through the whisperer. It was in Cam’s head, an imitation of the clear-headed thinking and suspicious questioning his boss was always preaching.

  Mental Banks made a good point. Meeting someone, or something, like Roberta was a one in a million shot. Maybe it was part of some ploy by Sava to get Cam to bed a synthetic and then later, if he wrote anything unflattering, she could claim impropriety with one of their products, expose him and his sexual proclivities. Whatever he had done with or to Roberta the night before, there was no doubt it had all been recorded in some databank—five streams for five senses, just waiting to be played back in high definition should he color outside of the company lines.

  Cam’s throat tightened. What if Sava had been watching live?

  “Who are you?” he asked, taking a step back.

  “Cameron…”

  “I just met you yesterday. I don’t know anything about you.”

  “That’s not what you said last night when you were inside me. You said we had a connection, a—”

  “Stop,” he barked. “Cut the bullshit.”

  Roberta opened her mouth as if to speak, shuddered again, and then collapsed on the balcony. The slapping sound of a grown woman hitting the evercrete twisted Cam’s stomach, but it was nothing compared to the echo that came from below.

  Cam peered over the railing to see a dozen or more people—synthetics—dropping in the street and on the sidewalk. Their human counterparts were standing around dazed or indifferent. Further down the road, the scene repeated, with bicycles crashed into news kiosks and lifeless bodies lying where they had fallen. Only when the first human moved towards a prone synthetic did Cam’s shock start to recede.

  He knelt at Roberta’s side and shook her shoulder, but she was unresponsive. Her chest rose and fell, but her open eyes were devoid of any life. He stared into them as shouts from the street began to increase in frequency and alarm. Synthetic names echoed between the buildings, but there was no changing the fact that a good portion of Perion City’s population had just fallen down dead.

  Cam’s sliver glowed.

  “It’s like they all lost power at the sam
e time,” he began to narrate. “It appears to be widespread, affecting every synthetic in sight. It could be city-wide or localized to the surrounding streets, I can’t tell for sure. Nobody seems to know what is going on. I—”

  A soft whimper came from Roberta’s lips, though they did not move.

  “Roberta?” he asked.

  “The…” What followed was barely a whisper, sounding more like a melody than an actual string of words. She repeated it, as if on a loop.

  After several repetitions, Cam realized the sound wasn’t just coming from her, but from the street too. It sounded like the collective groan of brains from a horde of zombies. The loop went on and on.

  “The Creator…”

  Roberta blinked, came out of the stupor that had held her hostage. She looked at Cam with glistening eyes and spoke the message clearly.

  “The Creator is dead.”

  PART TWO

  CYNTHIA MESQUINA

  12

  A pall had fallen over Umbra.

  Lincoln Tate stood at the window on the fifth floor of the Decker Plaza building and watched the people moving listlessly in the streets below. Usually filled to the brim with synth-fueled wonder, tonight’s crowd was subdued, as it had been for the past two nights. Rumors of James Perion’s death had shaken the foundation of the city and left its residents scrambling for something solid to hold onto. Tate had tried to provide a baseline by lacing the Lincoln Continental feed with mood-leveling code, a subsonic insertion meant to calm and sedate his subscribers. It had kept the city from erupting into a riot, but a pensive population meant less excitement, meant less content to feed.

  The Umbra Tower pulsed against a moonless sky, rising out of the Canopy like a steel nail from a board. A blue haze climbed its length every thirty seconds, symbolizing the city’s cultural contribution to the world. This night, however, the pulse stopped halfway up, held for two seconds, and then faded out.

  “So the old man is really dead,” said Tate. He had his arm pressed against the window and his forehead resting on his fist. The eyes staring back at him from the other side of the glass blinked rapidly.