“Yeah,” said Joe.
“Good.” Gantz turned and pointed at Nico. “And you, you little junkie. Lay off the synth and take care of my boy here. If I find out where you’re getting that shit from, I’m hauling you and your source in on charges.” He gave Nico a half-hearted shove as he passed him. “He needs you.”
Nico stopped scratching his neck long enough to look at Joe, who had drifted back to the window.
“Is there anything I can do for you, boss?” he asked.
“Yeah. Get Ms. Kessler’s people on an obituary for Dad. Tell them it’s a just in case thing.”
Nico pulled out his palette and made a note. “But I thought your dad was going to cover up his death?”
“Get this straight, Nico. That thing out there is not my father, no matter how much you or I want to believe it. My father is dying right here in front of us. So please, do as I ask. Get an obituary drafted. People should know how James Perion lived and died.”
Something caught in Joe’s throat.
“The world should mourn the passing of the real James Perion, not the synthetic.”
34
Joe’s sliver began to flash fifteen minutes before eight o’clock on Monday morning, but instead of heading to the seventieth floor to hear about synergy and market verticals, he took the elevator down to the lobby and exited the north doors of the Spire into the Victoria Perion Memorial Plaza. It had a circular arrangement, with two large half-moons of black, wrought-iron fencing closing in from both sides, leaving openings at the south and north ends to connect the Spire to First Street. Set along the low fences were small tables, each with its own white umbrella. At the east and west points, mobile carts sold coffee, smoothies, and various breakfast snacks.
Joe had been at his table for ten minutes, staring at an uneaten blueberry muffin, when Sava Kessler showed up.
She was wearing a black blazer over a blood-red shirt; silver sunglasses obscured her eyes, but she took them off as she approached the table.
“Good morning, Mr. Perion,” she said. “Mind if I sit?”
“Ms. Kessler, please,” he replied, giving her as much of a nod as he could afford. “What brings you to the Spire so early?”
Sava placed a tall cup of coffee on the table and sat down. “I have a meeting with your father at eight-thirty. Won’t tell me what it’s about, but what can you do?” She scoffed. “He can be very secretive when he wants to be.”
“Dad’s got a lot on his plate right now. Arranging to have an aggregator come into the city probably takes a lot of work, especially if you’re trying to keep it quiet.”
Sava stopped mid-sip.
“Ah, so that’s what your meeting is about,” said Joe.
“Why would he want to do that?”
Joe shrugged. “He won’t tell me. But hopefully he’s rethought the plan and just wants you to talk to the aggregator over vidconference or something.”
Sava sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “It might make sense as a PR move, but we’ve got no products heading to market yet. The only other reason would be to answer some accusation laid by another company, and I haven’t heard a peep out of Vinestead’s people in weeks. So what is your dad trying to head off?”
How about the fact that a synthetic is running the show now?
“I don’t know,” replied Joe. “I don’t know where his head is at these days.”
Except he did know. It was lying in a hospital bed with oxygen tubes sticking out of its nose.
“If Mr. Perion is looking for some PR love, my department can deliver that without involving a media house. I’ll see if I can talk him out of bringing someone in.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up. When Dad gets an idea in his head, he doesn’t back down.”
“Neither do I,” said Sava.
A light breeze ruffled the umbrella above them. The plume of steam from Sava’s coffee bent under the pressure.
Joe tried not to think of his father, but the image of a shriveled hand on blue hospital sheets was stuck in his mind. He had stared at it since waking up in the chair next to the bed, convinced it might move, that James Perion would make a miraculous recovery. But the only thing Dad could move was his chest, and even then a machine was doing most of the work. He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t alive. He was just a wilting flower waiting for winter in a morphine haze.
“Are you alright?” asked Sava.
Joe fought back the tears and tried to compose himself. “I’m fine,” he said. “I was just thinking about…”
About facing life without Dad. About having a synthetic control the destiny of the most innovative company on the planet. Synth J was supposed to carry on Dad’s dreams, but over time, its focus had shifted from bettering the world to the preservation of its own existence. How an aggregator fit into that, Joe wasn’t sure.
“…about Nico.”
Sava raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Shaw? Why?”
“He’s got a rush problem. Not enough to keep him from doing his job, but enough to raise eyebrows.”
The words spilled out of Joe without much thought; his mind was busy elsewhere, going over memories that would become his only keepsakes after his father finally succumbed.
“Huh,” said Sava. “I wouldn’t have thought his job was that stressful. Maybe you’re riding him too hard?” Sava’s blue eyes sparkled over her smile.
“He’d have to show up for work first. And even then, he’s so jacked I don’t even know if he understands where he is.”
“Have you told Mrs. Shaw?”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t think he and Katherine are getting along these days.”
“Well, there’s your synth addiction,” said Sava, tapping her fingers on her coffee. She paused, and then patted her breast pocket. From inside, she pulled a code card and tossed it onto the table.
“What’s this?” asked Joe.
“It’s for Mr. Shaw.”
“More rushing isn’t going to help him.”
“No,” said Sava. “It’s not that kind of program. This will cut through the withdrawal symptoms and heighten lucidity—kind of like an anti-rush. It might help Mr. Shaw find a baseline when he starts to come down.”
“Thanks,” said Joe, picking up the card. It sported the typical Perion silver with a band of blue adorning one corner. He slipped it into his pocket.
“Also, it’s not exactly legal,” said Sava. “Whoever smuggled it in took the time to load it on a one-use card. I’d keep it away from any members of law enforcement if I were you.”
Her phone beeped; she glanced at it and sighed. “What’s the point of scheduling a meeting if he’s just gonna want me there early?”
“Synth—?” Joe caught himself just in time.
“Synth what?” asked Sava.
“Nothing.”
“Alright, well, I hope everything works out with your assistant. I’d hate for you to have to go through the trouble of finding a new one.” Sava stood and adjusted her blazer. “If I see Mrs. Shaw around, I’ll try to feel her out, woman to woman. Maybe she and Mr. Shaw could use some counseling.”
Joe nodded, but he couldn’t throw his empathy behind something as minor as a marital dispute. There were bigger things going on in the world.
“Don’t worry,” said Sava, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Things will work themselves out.”
Looking into her mirrored lenses, Joe replied, “Yeah. I’m sure he’ll be fine. You be careful with that aggregator. Don’t let them walk all over you.”
“Ha,” said Sava. “If I can handle weekly interviews with Lauren Simmons, I can handle one measly aggregator. Whatever your father’s intentions, I’ll keep the company’s best interests in mind. After all, it’s the company I was hired to protect, remember?”
“I was wrong to doubt you,” said Joe. “Won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t,” said Sava. “Have a good day, Mr. Perion.” She turned in her glossy heels and headed for the
Spire, walking with her shoulders pulled back and her legs reaching out in purposeful strides, reminding Joe of his mother.
The image of Victoria Perion as an early generation synthetic flashed in Joe’s head, but it didn’t last. There was no way to see his mother as anything except human, no way to see her face restored to the smooth, unblemished skin of her youth. A real memory fluttered out of the mist, one of Joe tucked in beneath the sheets of his childhood bed and his mother sitting on the edge, telling him he could do anything, overcome anything.
The scene broke down and he found himself staring at the table.
Joe pushed the untouched muffin away and got up to leave. In the atrium, dutiful Perion employees scurried about, each of them a spinning gear in the great machine, each knowingly or unknowingly carrying out the master plan set in motion by Dad so many decades ago. Would the workers be so eager to perform their assigned tasks if they knew their orders now came from a synthetic mind, from ones and zeros vibrating along the synaptic strings inside a Katsumi chip?
Joe rode the elevator up to the sixty-eighth floor. The walls came alive during his ascent, displaying a rotating selection of propaganda and public service announcements. A short video showed three Aries-class synthetics assisting a group of elderly engineers in their day-to-day tasks, as if they cared who helped them out of their chairs. Hopefully they were too senile to realize their twilight care had been pawned off on machines.
Nico was waiting for Joe in the hallway on sixty-eight, sitting on one of the leather benches with his legs crossed and one foot bouncing involuntarily. His head shot up at the sound of the elevator doors opening.
“Someone t-talked,” he said. “It’s all over the feeds.”
“What is?” asked Joe.
Nico touched a dormant vidscreen on the wall to bring up a three-split of the Banks Media, Lincoln Continental, and White Line feeds. Hashtags jumped off the screen in bright white bursts.
Cancer? Dying? Future?
Shares of Perion Synthetics were falling through the floor.
“Who fed it first?” asked Joe. “Was it Banks?”
Nico started pacing the hallway. “No, not Banks. A smaller feed on the East Coast, but it got picked up by The White Line.”
Joe watched the future of the company grow murkier with each refresh of the stock price.
“What does Synth J have to say about this?”
“You think I’m gonna bring it up to him?” asked Nico. “Fucking hell, Joe. He’s going to think it was me!”
“Well, maybe it was. God knows what you’d do to score your next rush.”
“You’re gonna bring that up now?” He approached the vidscreen and pointed at the dropping number. “This is a fucking disaster, and you want to preach to me about addiction? This is our livelihood going down the toilet. Me, Katherine… hell, even you. Your father’s company is about to be written off by every investor on the planet, and there’s nothing he can do about it because he’s already got one foot in the grave.”
Nico was panting; sweat beaded on his forehead.
Joe looked down the hall to the double doors at the far end. Through them and off to the left was his father’s bedroom. But Dad wasn’t in there. His mind was gone, or clouded enough to be just as well—saturated in synth and morphine.
“Shit,” said Joe, taking off down the hallway.
“Where are you going?” asked Nico.
“To ask Dad a question.”
“But Joe…”
“He’s not dead yet!”
“We don’t have time for this. We need to do something.” Nico’s shouting echoed in the hall.
“I know,” Joe called back. He stopped at the doors and pulled the code card from his pocket. He said a little prayer as he thumbed its shiny surface.
Dad would know what to do.
35
Ten minutes passed before the code started working.
Joe rose from the chair by the window and approached the bed, watching his father’s eyelids flutter.
“The Creator is awake?” asked the synthetic nurse. She had been sitting quietly in the library, listening through the closed doors, likely plugged into the various monitors keeping watch over Dad.
She was an Aries variant endowed with the medical knowledge of a gray-haired physician, though her smarts did come at an aesthetic price. Her face had a silicone tint to it, an artificiality that kept Joe from treating her like a real person.
“Leave us,” he said, without looking up from the bed. He waited for the sound of retreating footsteps.
Dad’s eyes swung back and forth like a lazy metronome before finally settling on his son. Parched lips opened and closed.
Although it had sat untouched for days, there was still a pitcher of water on the nightstand, along with a glass and a straw. Joe filled the glass halfway and brought the straw to his father’s mouth. Dad drank slowly, his throat convulsing as he took down the liquid. When his lips pushed the straw away, Joe set the glass back down on the nightstand.
“Joey.” His throat rattled when he spoke.
“Dad.”
“You look tired, son. Something on your mind?”
Joe reached for his father’s hand. For the first time in weeks, it squeezed back. “Yeah, I’ve got a little problem,” he replied.
Dad managed a weak smile, closed his eyes for a few seconds, and reopened them.
“How can I help?” he asked. A sudden coughing fit belied his offer.
“That depends,” said Joe. “How are you feeling?”
“Been having bad dreams. About your mother. And you.” His eyes drifted to the window. “What day is it?”
“The ninth of November,” said Joe. “It’s a Monday.”
Just hearing Dad speak caused a knot to tighten in Joe’s stomach. After slipping into a haze a week ago, Joe thought he would never hear his father’s voice again, that he would have to content himself with the digitized reproduction coming from the synthetic. He wanted so much to share his pain with someone, but there wasn’t another human on the planet who had simultaneously lost their father and yet retained a crude copy. Now, maybe he could share his struggle with someone who would listen.
“I missed the morning staff meeting, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir. Synth J ran it. He’s meeting with Ms. Kessler right now. He’s bringing in an aggregator.”
Dad shook his head. “Sava Kessler. There’s a woman I would have liked to see you end up with.”
“You don’t have a problem with an aggregator being in the city?”
“No, Joey. If I know myself, I’ll have contacted Donato Banks and asked him to send his best man. Your godfather would never do anything to disparage the company. He’s all too aware of what is at stake.”
“But we’ve done things. Things the world isn’t ready to hear about.”
“The world is more ready than you give it credit for. Everything we’ve accomplished up to this point will be considered a miracle by most people. My plan has always been to perfect the product and then release it to the public without warning. People will be shocked; Vinestead will be shocked. But if I’m bringing in an aggregator, maybe I’ve decided to go another way.”
He coughed, producing a fine spray that coated his chin. Joe wiped it away with the edge of the blanket.
“Do you know why I trust Mr. Banks? Because he runs his company like we run ours. Everything goes through him, from the biggest decisions to the tiniest details. Whatever his aggregator feeds will cross his desk before it goes out to the public. Even if he feeds some detail about how advanced our synthetics are, I’m sure it won’t be without my counterpart’s approval.”
Joe let go of his father’s hand and looked at the floor. He had never known James Perion to accept the will of others, even if the other person was himself.
“You get that from your mother. I tried to teach you not to look away when you disagree, but you have too much of her in you.”
“And that’s a bad th
ing?”
“On the contrary. I was lucky to have you to remind me of her after she passed.”
“And what will I have?” asked Joe. He tried to keep his voice from rising. “A synthetic imprint? A machine that looks and talks like you but is nothing like you?”
Dad narrowed his eyes. “You don’t agree with what he’s doing?”
“I don’t agree with any of this!” Joe backed away and put his hand on the window. “All those people out there have no idea what is happening right now. They need to know their time with you is coming to an end. You’re not even giving people who love you the opportunity to say goodbye. What gives you the right to deny them that?”
Behind him, Joe heard his father take a deep breath and release it.
“Sava Kessler thinks she’s talking to you right now,” continued Joe. “She thinks she’s doing what’s best for the company because she thinks you are still running it. Of all the wonderful things you’ve done in your life, this deception will be what you’re remembered for. Because when the news comes out, and you know it will, people will question whether anything has ever been real with you. Did you ever really want to help people? Or has all of this been about living forever?”
“You know I want to help.” The usual bass returned to his voice for a moment and then was gone. “I still see a world where human lives are spared from the dangerous and the mundane.”
“I know the propaganda. I know the story we’ve fed to the media in every interview for the last twenty years. But what’s the truth? Why do any of this if at the end of your life, you’ll just use what you’ve learned for your own selfish pursuits?”
Dad closed his eyes again, retreated to whatever dark place he had inhabited for the last week.
“Water,” he said, lifting a weary index finger.
Joe obliged once more and waited as his father sipped. Part of him knew it was just a stalling tactic, but his heart kept him humble. As he put the glass down, James Perion cleared his throat.
“You were only seven when your mother died, but I was already an old man. I had spent forty-two wonderful years with her. Can you imagine that, son? Four decades with the same woman? Do you know how hard it is to let someone go after that much time?”
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