Perion Synthetics

by Verastiqui, Daniel

  When the pain got through, the fear followed close behind it.

  Roberta was on his back in an instant, digging a knee into his spine and grabbing at his arm. She yanked his mangled wrist and twisted it behind him, as if it could be broken further. She answered Gil’s cries with laughter.

  “Let go of this reality.” Meltdown’s voice faded into nothing.

  Gil raised his head and looked to the windows again, then to the gate where a dozen men in black riot gear were streaming into the courtyard. As they fanned out, a woman emerged from behind them.

  Sava Kessler. And Gantz?

  The chief trailed after the head of public relations, whatever emotions he was feeling hidden behind his sunglasses. They walked with urgency, but not fast enough for Gil.

  “Get this fucking thing off me!”

  “If you think they’re here to save you,” said Roberta.

  “Roberta, directive!” Kessler’s sharp voice cut through the ringing in Gil’s ears.

  He tried to turn his head to see the synthetic’s reaction and noticed more security filing in from the other gates. They joined together around Roberta and Gil, forming a circle.

  Or a screen.

  Kessler stopped a few feet away.

  “Imprint protocol Alpha,” she said. “Gilbert Reyes.”

  The pressure on his arm lessened, fell away. Sweet relief swept through his body as Roberta’s knee slid from his back.

  “Thank—”

  “Confirm imprint,” said Roberta, her voice flat.

  Kessler nodded at her. “Confirmed by Sava Kessler. End this piece of shit.”

  Gil felt hands grip his head: one on the back and the other under his chin.

  “Gantz, what the fuck?” screamed Gil, but the chief only turned further away.

  There are two types of people in the world: those who rush and those who are dead.

  Hyperventilating, Gil found it difficult to yell, but he managed to curse Sava Kessler, Robert Gantz, and the whole of Perion Synthetics before Roberta’s hands pulled with all of their synthetic might.

  Gil heard the wrenching sound, could almost visualize the tendons and muscles snapping.

  There was a brief flash of Jackie’s face before the world went dark.

  31

  The servers at The White Line pegged at one hundred percent utilization as the clock hit 8:34 on the morning of November 14th. A tapeworm planted by one of its employees, an aggregator by the name of Gilbert Alejandro Reyes, had just counted the last of its forty-eight intervals necessary for determining whether its programmer still walked the earth. Having received no feedback for two full days, the tapeworm set about liberating Gil’s personal information from the databanks, both local and abroad. LEDs flashed, routers and switches glowed, and fiber connections full of viral code reached out to the world.

  Backups hidden in the furthest reaches of VNet spontaneously combusted. Medical records safely stored in the firewalled servers of various New Jersey hospitals overwrote file handles with gibberish. At Affinity Credit Union, money jumped from a forgotten account into one owned by Maribel Reyes, raising her net worth by two hundred thousand dollars in the blink of an activity LED. The empty account then vanished into the ether, along with its backups on the archaic tape machine in the basement.

  Within twelve minutes of starting, the whole of Gilbert Reyes’ existence had been wiped from the grid and reduced to nothing more than an echo in the feeble memories of the people who had known him.

  And if Gil had known this was happening as he lay panting on the floor of a dark room, he would have been pissed.

  As it was, he had bigger things to worry about than being unemployed, penniless, and according to the United States government, nonexistent. There was a languid quality to his body, as if he were stuck half in and out of a dream, staring at a reproduction of his bedroom, trying to get out from under the comfortable sheets but not realizing he was still asleep. The commands that would normally turn his head or raise his hands were muddled or ignored, resulting in an ineffectual flopping around like that of a drunk person.

  After a few minutes of grunting, Gil found himself on his back, staring at the ceiling. His head fell to the side, allowing him to see a shaft of light coming in around the frame of a door. It was thickest at the bottom; shadowed footsteps crossed the amber glow, though none of them stopped or even slowed when he called out.

  His mind raced, faltered.

  There should have been pain, and lots of it, but he had been able to turn his head without any signals shooting through his nervous system. The realization spawned relief; perhaps Roberta hadn’t broken his neck after all. Maybe she just maimed him, enough for Kessler to take pity on him and bring him back… where?

  Gil felt around in the dark for his arm, felt the solid wrist that should have been in a million pieces.

  “Fuck,” said Gil, his heart picking up the pace.

  He continued exploring, clamping his fingers around his wrist. He repeated the action on the other hand, just in case, but it too came up empty.

  His sliver was gone.

  An uncoordinated hand sought out the back of his neck, tried to find the small scar from the jackport. Instead, his fingers traced over unbroken skin.

  The sons of bitches had taken his jackport too.

  Gil wanted to laugh, but there was soreness in his throat; it flared every time he took a breath. He felt neutered, disconnected from the glittering world. Benny Coker had probably shit himself when the feed went dark. Whatever heights The White Line had reached during Gil’s livecast were probably a distant memory now.

  “The stars turned, didn’t they, Coker?”

  His listened for a response from his whisperer, but heard nothing, not even the signature white noise to let him know it was there.

  “An aggregator without a whisperer. What the fuck is the world coming to?”

  At least he was alive. Just thinking about the injuries to his wrist, shoulder, and neck sent a shudder up his newly repaired body.

  Look for the angle.

  No doubt they had been listening to the feed. They must have known how it looked to the world that a synthetic was threatening the life of a human. Regardless of what they or Sava Kessler thought of Gil, it was just bad PR to have someone die at the hands of one of Perion Synthetics’ newest products. This was no Vinestead NORM with its silicone skin and wonky speech interface. This was Perion Goddamn Synthetics—only the best and the brightest minds fueled its development.

  Fixing Gil’s injuries and accelerating his healing would go a long way towards smoothing over the differences between Coker and Joe Perion. Though Vinestead would always be Perion’s number one enemy, it wasn’t a good idea to have a media house on your ass. As Meltdown always said, the feeds were just selling perspective. And if that perspective didn’t look kindly on Perion and company, then millions of subbers wouldn’t either.

  Joseph Perion wasn’t stupid; he knew the score.

  Gil rolled onto his stomach and found his body willing. His arms felt stiff, but he was able to push himself up enough to get his knees under him. He paused for a couple of minutes, amazed that such a simple act could take so much energy. Yet he could feel the strength returning, more and more as he tried to whip the muscles into shape. Only after repeating himself, telling his leg over and over to get a foot on the ground, did it finally move. He climbed to his feet, stumbled, but caught himself on the wall.

  Slowly, he made his way around the perimeter of the room to the door. He gave it a shove, but when it didn’t open, he banged his fists against it, harder and harder until he could feel the numbness in his hands.

  “Hey,” he screamed. “Let me out of here you sons of bitches! You can’t just—”

  Locks clicked at the top of the door and it slid soundlessly into the wall. Gil held his hands to his eyes against the sudden light, stumbling backwards as it poured into the room. Two silhouettes stepped into view, their hulking frames filling the ent
ire doorway.

  “Come with us,” said a deep voice from the right.

  As Gil’s eyes adjusted, he noticed they were both carrying SMGs against their chests.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Gil. “Not until I get some fucking answers.”

  “Ms. Kessler is waiting for you.” It was the same voice, but it came from the left this time. “She will explain everything.”

  “Oh, she will, will she? Well then what the fuck are we waiting for? Take me to her.”

  The AG on the right stepped aside and held out a hand. “This way.”

  They walked single file down the hallway. Gil found the more steps he took, the easier each one got. He thought perhaps they had drugged him, as the lack of coordination reminded him of nights spent at Pritchard Sansbury’s after transcending the borders of some new synth paradise. Except now he appeared to be coming back online at a faster rate, getting stronger as time wore on.

  At the end of the corridor, they turned right and stepped into an elevator which had opened just as they were coming around the corner. As they rode up, Gil inventoried the synthetic standing next to him, checking out the various weaponry and immobilization equipment. There was a service pistol on its hip, but it was strapped down. There was no way he could make a grab without the guard behind him reacting first.

  The elevator doors opened onto a new hallway with a softer décor. Instead of sterile white floors, Gil’s footsteps fell on beige carpet. Tan wallpaper coated the hallway; faded images of autumn leaves dotted the wall every few feet.

  “In here,” said the guard, opening a door for Gil.

  The room inside was dominated by a large, oak conference table in the center. Around it were a dozen chairs and seated in two of them were Cam and Cyn. They looked up when Gil entered, gave each other a glance, and returned their eyes to the table.

  Gil followed the guards and sat in the seat next to Cyn. He tried to catch her eyes, but she seemed distracted, almost tired. At least she hadn’t been too roughed up in the raid at the warehouse.

  “I see you made…” he started to say, but then the doors on the opposite side of the room opened.

  They entered one at a time.

  First came the guards. There were four of them, obviously synthetic, with faces that eschewed any resemblance to humans. Reflective lenses covered their eyes while antenna-like wiring ran down from their hairline. Each was built like a slightly bigger version of the Automated Guards who had brought Gil upstairs. Although they had nothing in their hands, their belts were replete with imposing weaponry, including needlers that had been banned in the U.S. for decades.

  Behind them came two men in lab coats. They glanced uncertainly at the three aggregators and shook their heads. The second one looked back over his shoulder at Sava Kessler.

  She stared at Gil for several seconds, a smirk on her face.

  The next man through the door made his heart race.

  “Fucking Gantz,” said Gil.

  The chief of police wore a trembling grimace, and his bloodshot eyes held to the floor. He hurried to stand behind a chair next to Kessler.

  Ten feet at the most, thought Gil. Ten feet of varnished wood was all that separated him from Robert Gantz, chief of police and backstabbing asshole. With his strength returning, Gil thought he might have it in him to rush the table and get in a few good punches on Gantz before they’d be able to pull him off. Though, the synthetic guards would have much faster response times. Maybe if he created a diversion…

  The doorway darkened again, and Gil’s mouth fell open. At first, he almost didn’t recognize the middle-aged man with slightly graying hair. It wasn’t until he took his place between Kessler and one of the lab coats that Gil figured out who he was.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you for coming. I’m James Perion.”

  “You fucking—”

  Gil felt his body move on its own and in an instant, he was up on the table and running for the founder and CEO of Perion Synthetics, intent on choking the life from his body, intent on making the rumors of his death into fact.

  And then Gantz, that fucking liar. Gantz would be next.

  “Gilbert, directive,” said Kessler, barely raising her voice. “Stop.”

  Something wet and cold reached into the small of Gil’s back, spreading into his stomach and hips. He froze in the middle of the table as his abs contracted involuntarily. Shivers ran down his legs, icing every muscle, gluing his feet to the wood.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gantz mouthing the words I’m sorry.

  Gil tried in vain to give him the finger.

  PART FOUR

  JOSEPH PERION

  32

  Construction on the north end of the Perion Expressway was supposed to have been completed in the spring of 2014, and yet by the summer of the following year, the road was still full of traffic cones and evercrete debris. While someday the four lanes would be more than enough to handle the traffic coming out of the executive villas, the current reduction to one lane had cars crawling along the blacktop.

  Nico Shaw’s driver had been unsympathetic about the delay, content to tap out the beat of whatever music he was listening to on the steering wheel while avoiding Nico’s pleading glances through the glass partition. If they didn’t find some alternate route and make it to the Spire by nine, then Nico would be late. And being late for a meeting called by James Kirkland Perion was not an option. If anything, Nico should have been an hour early.

  It was all Katherine’s fault, of course. She had set her alarm for six-thirty and was up and about when Nico’s alarm went off an hour later. In her infinite kindness, she had silenced his alarm before it could properly do its job. Later, when he awoke to find the house empty and sun pouring in through the windows, it was already a quarter past eight. A quick shower and the suit closest to the door was all he could afford before the company car pulled up. He had climbed into the back seat still struggling with his tie and urging the driver to floor it—a directive he seemed to have forgotten.

  The car pulled up in front of the Spire at ten minutes to nine. Even on the best of days, it would take at least fifteen minutes to clear security and ride the express elevator up seventy floors to Perion’s personal meeting room.

  Nico’s sliver beeped.

  “Where are you?” asked Joseph Perion, James Perion’s son and heir to the throne.

  Nico didn’t even waste time responding. He made for the front doors, forgetting to take it slow in the July heat. By the time he arrived at the security checkpoint, the sweat was visible on his pressed shirt. He waved his badge over the scanner and waited for the usual hassle from the Automated Guards.

  “Mr. Perion is waiting for you,” said the AG standing next to the metal detector. He waved Nico through without scanning or patting him down.

  In the elevator, Nico took out a code card and pressed it hard against the back of his neck. The rush came on in seconds, flowing through his extremities as if a swarm of bees were dancing beneath his skin. According to the elevator’s display, there was plenty of time to complete the load before he made seventy.

  Goddamn Katherine.

  Making him oversleep had put the whole day out of whack. There was supposed to be plenty of time to wake up, have a quick workout, surf the feed for a little while, and then slip out onto the back porch with a code card and a glass of orange juice. The morning rush helped prepare him for the day, a synthetic psych-up he needed like most people needed coffee. And he had almost missed his daily fix thanks to his wife.

  When the elevator doors opened, visions of serene beaches and gorgeous women undulated in his periphery. It took a moment to bring the true reality of the hallway into focus.

  An AG let him into the meeting room, but with the synth drowning his synapses, Nico barely registered the somber mood.

  “I’m not asking for the morality of it, Chuck. Just tell me whether the architecture can support it or not.”

  James
Perion sat in the leather throne on the far side of the cozy room, alone against a mural of the Perion Spire at sunset. Around him on a small arrangement of couches were Chuck Huber, Langley Bhenderu, a woman Nico didn’t recognize, and finally, Nico’s boss, Joseph Perion.

  Joe looked up as Nico entered the room and motioned for him to sit down. He didn’t mention the time.

  “We’ve made great progress,” replied Chuck, “but at this stage, it is much too early to tell.” He motioned to the woman. “As you can see, this is the most advanced chassis we’ve produced to date. The internals came direct from R&D and haven’t even been through a full QA cycle yet. From our tests, we believe the chassis is solid. However, the brain is a different matter. Roberta only retained fifty-eight percent of her imprint’s memories and personality. And that was after several reloads. We may be able to get as high as seventy percent imprint saturation, but we are up against immovable physical limitations. Katsumi has never produced the kind of synaptic density we would need to pull this off.”

  Nico took out his palette and began making notes. Engineers had a habit of rambling and without some sort of documentation, the details of the meeting were sure to be lost or misremembered.

  “What do you say, Dr. Bhenderu?” asked Perion. “Can she pass for her imprint?”

  Dr. Bhenderu’s head wobbled from side to side. “This is not something I have tried, but I don’t believe her friends will be able to tell the difference. The true question, Mr. Perion, is whether her imprint accepts her new life in a synthetic body.”

  Perion lifted a questioning hand. “Well, has anyone asked her?”

  “It is not that simple,” said Dr. Bhenderu. “We have to put her out in the world, back in her old life, to see if she will be accepted.”

  “Then do it,” said Perion. He had a way with imperatives, handing out difficult tasks with ease where most people struggled to ask politely.