“Because they have nothing to lose. And people with nothing to lose are the most dangerous type of people. You could simply kill the soldiers and be done with it, but that won’t mean a thing to their commander. We have to send a message. We’re going to give this woman something to lose, something so precious she will betray Vinestead to the bitter end just to protect it.”
“You always taught me to fight fair.”
“It’s time to grow up, son.”
“What’s the Paulson imprint, Dad?”
“She wants to sneak around my garden? She wants a story? Well we’ll give her a fucking story.”
Chuck Huber cleared his throat. “It involves the new synthetic infants we’ve been developing for the pan-Asian market.”
“I’m out,” said Gantz, standing up. “I’m not getting involved with anything… unnatural.” He started for the door.
“I’m not done with you, Robert,” said Synth J.
“The threat has been dealt with. She’s not going to cause us any more trouble.”
“That’s not the—”
“You call me when there’s a mob at the front gates. Call me when someone is pointing a gun at your head or Joe’s head. I will gladly step in front of that bullet. But I will not be part of any sick experimentation.” He kicked the conference room door open and stormed out.
Joe stood and was met with a cold, synthetic stare.
“You too?” asked Synth J.
“James Perion wouldn’t do this.”
Synth J crossed his arms. “Don’t you read the feeds, Joseph? James Perion is dead.”
39
Pure was one of the few buildings, and the only bar, to sit beyond the Point of No Return. It was staffed by and catered to humans only. The idea had come from Dr. Bhenderu, who thought people might need refuge from the synthetic storm constantly raging around them, a place to go to feel human again.
Joe had found Gantz outside the Spire after the meeting with Synth J, still grumbling to himself about ethics and nature as he fingered a code card in one hand. Joe suggested they grab a drink, and the chief of police accepted with a grunt.
They pulled into the empty parking lot at Pure just as the neon OPEN sign crackled to life. Inside, they found a table toward the back and adjusted the slats in the windows to let a little cool air in. The scraping of their chairs over the wood floor as they pulled them back echoed in the bar.
Holmes, owner and proprietor of Pure for as far back as Joe could remember, waited patiently behind the bar, arranging shot glasses in neat lines of ten on a black dish towel. It had been his decision to eschew the clean lines and thigh-to-ceiling windows so prevalent in downtown Perion City for a more hole-in-the-wall motif to remind people that not everything in the world was as shiny as the company made it out to be. The throwback style reminded Joe of the dirty college bars he had spent so many unremembered nights in during his time at Cal.
“I think I’m in,” said Gantz. He took off his security badge and turned it over in his hands. This was typical; he didn’t like to drink with the laminated ID around his neck, thought it sent the wrong message.
“I think I’m glad,” replied Joe. “I’ll need you for what I have planned.”
“And what exactly do you have planned?” Gantz pocketed the badge and motioned for Holmes.
Joe ran his finger over a rut someone had carved into the table. “A coup d’état.”
“How about a drink first?” asked Holmes. He placed a small bowl of pretzels in the middle of the table and dropped cocktail napkins on opposite sides.
“Dos Equis,” said Gantz. “And keep them coming.”
“And for Joe-boy?”
“Filthy martini,” replied Joe. “And a glass of water, Mr. Holmes.”
“No need for formalities, JP Featherbottom. We’re past your father’s reach out here.”
Gantz smiled. “You’re damn straight.”
“Right back with those drinks, gentlemen. Maybe one of you would be kind enough to find something on the jukebox before it starts with the Garth Brooks again.”
“Still?” asked Gantz.
Holmes shook his head. “Ashley’s the only one who knows how to work the damn thing and she thinks it’s funny as shit.” He broke into song as he walked away.
“So, how are we going to overthrow your father? And how are you going to make it legal?”
Joe shrugged. “The first part’s easy, I guess. You and your team can just take him into custody. I’m sure your Scorpios are stronger than he is.”
“Maybe,” said Gantz. “But I haven’t seen the specs on the Virgo synnies yet. Cam is running around with one and it seems to have strength and reaction speed beyond my Scorpios. I wouldn’t be surprised if Synth J has some prototype enhancements we don’t even know about. We should probably check with Mr. Huber before planning that part of the operation.”
“If we can’t shut him down cleanly, then we’ll just have to put him out of commission.” Joe put his hand on his knee to keep his leg from bouncing.
“I can do that, or I can have one of my AGs do it. You don’t even have to be there.”
“Thanks,” said Joe, tearing a corner from his napkin.
“One bottle of the gross Dos,” said Holmes, placing the beer in front of Gantz, “and one martini drug through the mud.” He paused, surveyed the table. “Ah, forgot your water. BRB LOL.”
Joe’s sliver beeped and displayed an incoming email. He pulled out his phone to read it.
“Is it important?”
“Maybe,” replied Joe. “I asked Legal to look into something for…”
He trailed off as he read Rita’s message. It contained the information he had asked for: a top ten list of companies and individuals who had made the most buys and who were poised to snatch up more shares if the price of Perion stock dropped any lower. The number one entry was Doyle & Associates, LLC; an asterisk next to the name made Joe scroll down to Rita’s notes.
“Doyle fronts for several political groups,” Rita had written. “Most notable is the campaign fund for Governor Howard.”
“What kind of something?” asked Gantz.
“I had an idea,” said Joe, scanning the list again. “That someone might be profiting from our stock crash. Legal gave me ten names of people who have been snatching up shares and you’ll never guess who’s at the top of the list.”
Gantz took a long pull of his drink. “Dear Lord, let it be me.”
“Governor Howard,” said Joe. He waited for the recognition to hit Gantz. “Well, not the governor personally, but his campaign fund. If shares go back up to last week’s prices, he’ll make millions.”
“Shit,” said Gantz, reaching into his jacket for his phone. He scrolled through his calendar. “And guess who’s coming to dinner tomorrow.” He slid the phone across the table.
Joe scanned the calendar for Friday. “There’s a press conference tomorrow? What for?”
“I don’t know, but Synth J requested extra security. Howard is coming in via helicopter and I’m supposed to have my best men waiting to meet him.”
“He’s going to do it,” said Joe. “He’s going to show the world he’s still alive. What more reliable witness than the Governor of California?”
“Pretty slick move. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of those companies is owned by your dad. You know, like a front betting against itself?”
“I don’t recognize anyone else except Banks Media,” said Joe.
“Are they number two?”
“No, but they’ve been buying pretty regularly since the beginning of the year. Number two is Diaz Investments, based out of Sacramento. I’ve never heard of them, and yet they’re buying every share they can get their hands on.”
“Maybe they’re just big fans,” suggested Gantz.
“Know what I’m a big fan of?” asked Holmes. He threw down another cocktail napkin and placed a glass of water next to Joe’s martini. “Greasy Chinese food.” He set a glass of dark,
amber liquid in the middle of the table. “This one’s on the house, just in case one of you realizes he’s drinking piss. It’s my own brew.”
As he walked away, the jukebox flipped over a shiny disc and began playing American Honky-Tonk Bar Association. Holmes’ curses were drowned out by the cheers of the concert audience.
Joe put his phone down on the table and folded his arms. As Garth’s voice filled the room, he muttered, “This changes things.”
“Yeah,” said Gantz. “I feel like I should put on a cowboy hat or something.”
“No, I mean with Governor Howard. No one would make such huge buys without having insider information. Doyle and Associates, Diaz Investments, Winston and Price: they have to know something. The question is how.”
Gantz groaned. “You’re suggesting more leaks.”
“Maybe not. Howard thinks he’s coming to meet my father, which means he knows he isn’t dead and that the stock price will recover.” Joe narrowed his eyes, tried to see all of the pieces at once.
“Collusion,” said Gantz. “They’re working together.”
Joe considered the idea, tried to work out who would benefit the most from such an arrangement. Governor Howard’s campaign fund would certainly welcome the additional support, but in exchange for what? Why did Synth J need him so badly?
“There’s something I haven’t thought of,” said Joe. “All of my father’s relationships, with politicians, with companies—what happens to them when I take over? I haven’t even heard of a tenth of all the people Dad knows.”
“Coups are never easy,” said Gantz, emptying his bottle. He reached for the glass of home brew. “There’s more to it than sitting in the big chair at the end of the table. I’m behind you, Joe, but you need to make sure you’re ready for this. If your father made deals or had arrangements with people, they’re going to expect you to honor them.” He took a sip and nodded approvingly. “At least then we’ll find out what kind of deal he made with Howard.”
“Or I could just ask the governor himself tomorrow.”
“There’s always the direct route. What would we do in the meantime?”
“Go on as normal, I guess,” said Joe.
Gantz snorted. “It’s not exactly business as usual for Perion engineers to be experimenting on people.”
The Paulson imprint—why did it upset Gantz so much?
“Leak it then,” said Joe.
“What?”
He smiled and chomped on a pretzel. “That’s pretty much the norm here now, isn’t it? Something that’s supposed to be a secret somehow ends up on the feeds?”
“But why would you think I would or could…”
“Use a proxy,” said Joe. “Drop some hints to Banks’ aggregator. Make sure he’s in the right place at the right time so he sees what’s happening.”
“I don’t know. I think if I get involved at all, I’d have to go full tilt.” Gantz raised an eyebrow. “You realize once we set this in motion, there’s no stopping, right?”
“Yeah, but at least we have a plan now. You help the Vinestead spy, I’ll question Howard, and at the end of the day, we take out James Kirkland Perion the Second.”
“We don’t know she works for Vinestead. Hell, she could just be some Kaili Zabora copycat looking to make a name for herself.” Gantz pulled his badge from his pocket and slipped the lanyard over his head. “Let’s start with the first two,” he said, pushing his chair back. “Depending on what we find out, we can go from there.”
“Fine, but it will be my decision,” said Joe.
“Yes, but you’re going to need my help, so do me the courtesy of talking it over before you fire the first shot of the human-synthetic war of 2015.”
“You don’t think I’m ready for this, do you?” asked Joe, standing up.
“Joe, I love you, man, but taking out your own father? That’s gotta be difficult for anyone.” Gantz turned and headed for the exit. “Put it on my tab,” he called out to Holmes.
“How about I put it on your face, Bob?” asked Holmes.
Joe followed the chief into the parking lot.
“Robert, I can do this!”
Gantz stopped in an empty parking space. He looked at Joe’s GT-R and then at the long road back to town.
“What is it?” asked Joe.
“You see that car over there? Wasn’t there when we arrived.”
Joe followed the road to a sedan that appeared to have drifted onto the shoulder. Through the windshield, he could make out an arm draped over the steering wheel.
Gantz began walking and Joe followed close behind. As they neared the car, Gantz covered his face with his sleeve.
“Christ, do you smell that?”
The stench hit Joe a second later, a mix of burning rubber and hydrochloric acid.
“It’s a synny,” said Gantz, opening the door with his free hand.
Joe got a good look at the melting hulk of a synthetic man, now nothing more than a fragile shell hovering over a pool of green sludge. On the floorboards were the charred remains of shoes, already eaten through by the corrosive cocktail. Next to one shoe was a pistol; its surface bubbled and popped under the emerald liquid.
“That looks like one of your—”
Joe’s sentence was lost under the sound of exploding gunpowder. Gantz pushed backwards into Joe, sending both men to the ground as shards of metal flew above their heads. More bullets followed; they pinged off the frame of the car for several seconds.
When the fireworks finally stopped, both men rolled onto their backs and panted at the sky.
“What is a synny doing on this side of the PNR?” asked Joe.
“With a gun,” said Gantz.
“With a gun.”
“I don’t know.” Gantz turned his head in the direction of the Spire. “But it wouldn’t have crossed the Deadline without being ordered.”
“You think it was meant for us?”
“Or one of us,” said Gantz.
Joe stared at the sludge dripping down from the new holes in the bottom of the car and wondered if Synth J had the audacity to send a synthetic to kill a human.
To kill his own chief of police.
To kill his own son.
40
Joe wanted nothing more than to confront Synth J about the attempt on his life, but even walking back to the car had proven difficult. There was pain in his face as if someone had attached a vise to the bridge of his nose, and everything smelled like blood. He had the back of Gantz’ head to thank for that one, though if the chief hadn’t forced Joe to the ground somehow, they might both be riddled with bullets instead of dealing with the headache to end all headaches. Joe recalled the moment of impact, how the sensation had crackled around his skull like a halo of lightning, touching each part of his brain with its prickly fingers before fizzling out into a dull ache.
He threw up before he got to the car, prompting Gantz to escort him around to the passenger side.
Gantz drove them back to the Spire and acted as a crutch for Joe as they rode the elevator down to Medical on B5. A synthetic nurse checked them both out and gave them a prescription for painkillers. Gantz refused his, waved them away as he spoke harshly into his phone. He was ordering his men—his real men—out to Pure to examine the melted synthetic. They wouldn’t find anything, of course; the self-destruction protocols would see to that.
The chief’s voice faded out under the haze brought on by the pills; Joe had been in too much pain to refuse his. The haze turned to fog turned to darkness, erasing all memory of how he made it back to his room.
It was the sound of a helicopter making a low pass around the Spire that woke Joe the next morning. The pills were still in his system, but waking up to the blinding sun made the pain bubble up through the grogginess. Outside, a sleek, blue helicopter made a wide circle around his apartment, its tail fin masked with the likeness of Governor Howard.
On the nightstand, Joe’s phone buzzed. He snatched it up and found he had five miss
ed calls, all from Gantz.
Joe pressed the answer button and said hello, setting off another series of pinpricks in the back of his brain.
“They fucking did it,” whispered Gantz. “They brainwashed that girl. Kessler just stopped me in the hall and told me they are waking her up this morning. And get this, Joe… it was almost like Kessler was amused by it.”
The headache pounded.
“So it’s too late,” said Joe. “There’s nothing we can do for her now.”
“The hell there isn’t. I just got word from one of my contacts on the outside that she’s with Lincoln Continental out of Umbra. We found nothing on the grid to back that up though, but Jesus, do you know what kind of shit storm it would create if it’s true?”
“You saying we need to get to her first?”
“Yes, but even that depends on how scrambled she is. If the script Kessler gave me is any indication, they did one hell of a mindfuck on her.”
“All of our minds are fucked,” said Joe, pinching his nose. “I can be down there in ten minutes.”
“What? No. You stay out of this. If people see you poking around, they’ll go straight to Synth J. I’ve got to keep this low profile. And besides, there’s something else you should be worrying about. Turn your vidscreen to channel twenty-sixteen.”
Joe pointed the remote at the vidscreen and turned it on. He typed out the number with his thumb.
“It’s asking for an access code.”
“Zero eight, one eight, eight two,” said Gantz.
The feed flickered as Joe entered the password, dissolving from one corrupted image into another. Finally, it settled on the conference room on seventy. Only one of the nine chairs was occupied; a brooding Sava Kessler sat with her phone in her hand, her face blank and cold.
“Sava’s not sticking around to see the aggregator wake up?”
Gantz coughed. “I guess she doesn’t like to get her hands dirty. Send in the chief to deliver some bullshit story about a car crash.” His sigh sounded distorted through the phone. “Maybe I could get Cam into Medical, show this Cynthia woman a friendly face. They all know each other in the media houses, right?”
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