The room resembled Joe’s apartment, just condensed.
With his headache still pounding, he crawled onto the bed and sank into the welcoming mattress. He grabbed the remote and tuned the vidscreen to the media feeds. While they loaded, he stared at the faces of each house: Donato Banks, Lincoln Tate, and Benny Coker.
Joe selected Lincoln’s brooding face and waited for the audio.
“…a Friday marred by protests in southern cities at the perceived aggression by the MX government. At issue are recent allegations into the MX’ funding of drug cartels along the border, who over the last decade, have significantly devalued U.S. property.”
Joe had been to Mexico once as a child. He recalled it being very dark, without the light pollution so prevalent in Perion City or Los Angeles. There, the unobscured stars twinkled in the sky above the vacation home his father jokingly referred to as a cabin. The boundlessness of the universe captured Joe’s interest, and he spent many nights staring into the black dome.
Later, those twinkling stars were replaced by the flashing neons of Perion City at night, as seen from high in the Spire. Joe recalled Dad sitting in his office long after sunset, a stack of papers on his desk but his attention turned to the bustling city around him.
“We never stop,” he would often tell the little boy in his pajamas standing just inside the door. “At any given moment, there are a hundred or a million people out there working for the same dreams you’re working for, trying to accomplish the same goals. And the difference between us and them, Joey, is that we never stop. Each one of those lights out there represents a member of the competition. They’re working while others sleep. And so must you.”
And then the titan would turn to his son and say, “There will come a time when you have to make a choice, have to take a step. If you find yourself unprepared, there are only two things you have to remember. The first is that I will always love you and always be proud of you. The second is what your mother tells you every night before bed. Do you remember, Joey?”
Joe’s daydream turned to images of his mother, blurred by the many years, but full of warmth and familiarity. He saw her moving about his childhood room, picking up the remaining toys he had left scattered on the floor. And when the last of the Legos and G.I. Joes had been put in their bins, she came and sat on the edge of his bed. The Smurfs lamp on the nightstand cast a blue glow on her smile and Joe felt her presence provided more safety than any bunker in the world.
Her lips moved, but the words were all wrong, not quite soft enough and tinged with an English accent.
“Vinestead stock rose again today on speculation its PMC division could be called upon by President Hadden to secure our southern border. Many democrats are calling this back alley favors, citing the President’s push ten years ago for the controversial GA bill, which was introduced by the then-governor of Massachusetts. Speaking from the Rose Garden today, the President challenged his critics to suggest a better plan for keeping immigrants from becoming burdens on the backs of hard-working Americans. A statement released by Calle Cinco today calls the President’s remarks irresponsible and racist. No threat of terrorism was made with the statement.”
Joe turned the vidscreen off and rolled onto his back.
In the darkness behind his closed eyes, he thought of his mother and what words of salvation she might have said to him so many years ago.
PART FIVE
ROBERT GANTZ
42
The small studio apartment over the W.G. Walter Spiritual Center wasn’t much, but it was a home to Dr. David Yates, who had run the WG for the better part of a decade. Unlike other professions, the role of spiritual advisor was a twenty-four hour job, with services running from daybreak to sunset and walk-in meetings available day or night. Not that many ever took advantage. The ones and twos of the weekly congregations swelled to half a dozen on the weekends, but never more than that. It took a national tragedy to swell the ranks of the congregation, or perhaps just the rumor of an old man fading before dawn.
Yates thought about the strange week following the Synthetic Collapse as he lay awake in his twin bed, staring at the accumulation of light rain on his window, the drops of water warping the blue Southpoint Synthetics sign next door. Every once in a while, the blue flared to white as lightning reached out from the clouds. There was no thunder though, no distant rumbling to make Yates wonder what terrible pestilence might be lingering just beyond the horizon, inching and oozing its way towards Perion City. All week, the air had been full of potential, charged with some hint of a calamity ready to spill into this world. The clouds could burst or the earth might open up, but something was going to happen.
The people of Perion City sensed it; they came in droves to the weekday services. At Sunday’s evening mass, two dozen of the city’s newly faithful had to stand near the open doors, some even gathering outside to peer over the heads of others. James Perion likely never imagined so many people would need the Lord’s words, not in a city of the scientific and pragmatic.
On the desk by the opalescent window, the day’s log lay open to Sunday, November 15.
Evening Mass: 112 attendees.
That was one hundred and twelve worried faces trying to smile as they offered each other a sign of peace, two hundred and twenty-four doubting eyes looking to Yates for reassurance.
And though he had recited the passages and delivered the soothing words of the Gospel, he was not completely convinced of their impact. These convenient Catholics may have knelt before the Lord, but did His word truly mean anything to them? These were men and women of science and math—mere platitudes would not sway them. How could Yates convince them of a greater plan if they had always approached sky-gods as myths, and had never once seen any proof, any sign to suggest otherwise? If they were not ready to accept His word, why did they so eagerly fill His house?
Yates had just rolled over for the hundredth time when a soft knock came at the door of his apartment. Through the fabric partition between the living room and the bedroom, he could see green light seeping in beneath the door.
“Yes?” he asked.
“There is a man downstairs,” said Truman, the Center’s resident synthetic altar boy and custodian.
“Someone broke in?” asked Yates, grabbing an undershirt he had left draped over the footboard. “Did you notify the police?”
“No, Father. He is the police.”
Yates touched the light switch in the foyer and retracted the deadbolts in the door. He pulled on a night robe decorated with Catholic imagery before turning the handle. In the hallway, the glow from the running lights lit Truman’s face from below.
“Thank you, Truman. That will be all.”
“Be careful, Father. He appears inebriated.”
Of course he was, thought Yates, as he descended the circular staircase into the back hallway. In the main hall, an immense wooden cross hung in the shadows at the front facing the doors. Before it, an oversized Bible sat open atop a marble altar. Running lights illuminated the center aisle between the pews, spilling the green and amber hues halfway down each of the six rows.
In the final pew closest to the door, a hunched-over figure sat with his head down. His black trench glistened from the persistent drizzle outside.
Yates stopped at the end of the pew and clasped his hands together. The man did not look up.
“Welcome, my son,” said Yates. “Have you come seeking comfort?”
Robert Gantz burped in response.
Yates sighed and took a seat next to the chief of police.
“How are you, Robert?”
“Wet.”
“It’s a blessing,” said Yates. “Lord knows we need it.”
Robert shook his head. “It won’t last.”
“No, I suppose it won’t. But that’s desert life, isn’t it? Scarcity of water makes us appreciate His gifts even more.”
Robert huffed.
Yates crossed one leg over the other. “I didn’t see
you at Mass today. I assume you were busy with that terrible business in The Fringe?”
“It was just a warehouse fire. Someone probably left some popcorn in the microwave too long.” A hiccup. “There are bigger things happening.”
“We are listening, my son.”
Robert looked up and even in the dim light, Yates could see the red streaks obscuring the whites of his eyes. His cheeks were also damp, but that could have been from the rain.
“He’s dead, Padre. Gil is dead.”
Robert often spoke of Gilbert Reyes, a low-level employee who did tech repair in the Spire.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Robert. Death is… never easy. How did it happen? Was it the fire?”
“No,” said Robert, shaking his head. He picked at a scar on the back of his thumb. “This was later, at Gil’s apartment. A synthetic sna—” The chief’s voice broke. “She snapped his neck. Right in front of me.”
“And you feel responsible?” After a noncommittal shrug, Yates said, “I’m sure you did everything you could to prevent it.”
“No, I didn’t. Kessler had me. I thought I did the right thing by leading her away from Gil, but then his conversation with Roberta started showing up on the feed. I couldn’t risk…” He squeezed his hands into fists. “And that’s the other thing. It wasn’t like someone was listening in and broadcasting his words; he was a fucking aggregator. He’s been working undercover for The White Line this whole time. Under my nose. Everything he and I have been through… I thought he was my friend.”
“You couldn’t have known, Robert.”
“I should have.” The chief turned his face to the ceiling. “He lied to me. I trusted him and he engineered me. He passed along privileged information to the worst possible people. All week, I’ve been trying to figure out who was leaking information, and it turns out it was me. I told Gil secrets about Perion in confidence. I…”
His words trailed off as he closed his eyes.
Yates waited for Robert to get a few deep breaths.
“There are few hurts in this world as great as betrayal. We open ourselves to other people, but they don’t always open to us. You can’t blame yourself, my son. All men are fallible, but that shouldn’t stop us from striving to be the very best we can.”
A flask appeared from Robert’s inner pocket. He took a quick pull before offering it to Yates.
“No, thank you. I’m on duty.”
Robert shrugged and took another drink. “So am I.”
Seconds passed in silence.
“You don’t know how to feel, do you?” asked Yates.
“I asked Him for guidance, but He hasn’t answered.”
Yates put a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “The Lord cannot tell you how to feel. That is one of our gifts as His children, to be capable of so many emotions, even those which are conflicting or paradoxical. You should not feel ashamed to mourn your friend’s death and simultaneously feel anger at his betrayal. This is all part of the human condition, and no one should feel inadequate for simply being human.
“Each of us has the capacity to be many things to many people. You are the chief of police, yet you bow your head to a higher power every Sunday. I preach the Gospel to you, and yet I sit here in the dead of night with you not just as your pastor, but as your friend. Cherish the good you had with Gil and forgive the bad. That is the way to salvation, my son.”
“Kessler knows I protected Gil,” said Robert. “I’m almost certain she’s told Perion. We’re supposed to meet in the morning, the three of us, and I won’t be surprised if they boot me out of the city. Or hell, maybe they’ll just get Roberta to end me.”
“I pray that doesn’t happen,” said Yates.
“You and me both.” He looked up again, this time past the ceiling. “I don’t know what to do.”
Yates leaned back into the rigid pew. “In our times of need, we ask the Lord for guidance. While we wait for His answer, we must ask ourselves what it is we want to do. Often our tribulations are couched as if life is just something happening to us, when in reality, we are the captains of our own destiny. Sometimes that means we adjust our sails instead of screaming into the wind. Your friend is dead, Robert, but because you cared for him greatly, his death is not the end of all things. What you must ask yourself now is how you will honor his life, if you so choose.”
“I could have stopped it and I did nothing,” said Robert, sitting up straighter. “It was a sin of omission, and I’ll never let it happen again.”
“A virtuous pursuit if there ever was one.”
Robert replaced the flask in his jacket. “I’m tired of this, Father. I have to put a stop to it, even if that means finding Sava Kessler and putting a bullet in her head.”
“Violence begets violence, Robert. You know that. The Church cannot condone murder.”
“I’m not asking for permission.”
“And yet you would ask for forgiveness?”
Robert nodded. “I can’t predict the future, but I know if I stand up for what I believe in, people are going to die.”
The first crack of thunder rumbled beyond the front doors of the hall. Yates shot a glance at the ceiling.
“Killing in Gil’s name will not honor his memory,” said Yates.
“What about killing in the name of Joe Perion to protect him from the evil brewing in the Spire?”
“I was not aware Joseph Perion needed protecting.”
Robert sat back in the pew and folded the flaps of his trench over his legs.
“Of course you’re weren’t,” he said. “No one sees it but me. Everyone is walking around like the Great Synthetic Collapse of 2015 never happened. They think a chorus of synthetics chanting the Creator is dead means nothing.” He cleared his throat. “They believe the Creator is still alive, that the abomination in the Spire calling itself James Kirkland Perion is flesh and blood just like they are, but they’re being lied to. The synthetic James Perion is devolving and he’s taking Sava Kessler and anyone else in his orbit with him. The world can’t lose Joe to that. I can’t lose Joe to that.”
Perhaps it was the lingering drowsiness that caused Yates to mishear Robert. For a moment, it had sounded like he was suggesting James Perion was a synthetic. There must have been some powerful stuff in that flask.
“I won’t let that happen,” said Robert, standing up. He walked past Yates into the aisle. As he put his hands on his hips, the flaps of his trench fell back to reveal the holster on his side. He looked aimlessly around the hall before his eyes fell on the exit.
Yates rose and followed the chief to the doors.
“Will you absolve me of my sins?” asked Robert.
Yates thought about the gun hidden under Robert’s coat, the tears welling at the corners of his eyes, and the vengeance burning in his heart.
“Come see me tomorrow, my son, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Robert nodded and opened the door. Outside, the rain had begun to let up. He walked down the steps to the sidewalk and the curb where his cruiser was parked. After a short pause, he looked over his shoulder at Yates, as if asking permission.
“Better not to risk it,” said Yates. “I expect to see you alive and well tomorrow.”
“Thanks for the words, Padre,” said Robert. He lifted the collar of his trench and set off towards the Spire on foot.
Yates closed the door and engaged the deadbolts at the top and bottom of the frame. He stood for a minute with one palm on the veneered wood.
“Is everything alright, Dr. Yates?”
Truman stepped out of the shadows.
“Yes,” said Yates, “everything is fine. It was just something the chief said about James Perion being dead.”
“The Creator was dead, but He is risen again.”
The synthetic turned and walked towards the back room where it spent its nights.
Yates stared at the shadowy cross at the front of the hall. Truman was supposed to have retracted it into the ceiling where the other
religious symbols hung on wires, ready to be lowered to suit the needs of the congregation.
Humans had so many gods.
Synthetics were supposed to have none, and yet Truman’s words echoed in the stillness.
James Kirkland Perion.
Synthetic. Creator.
God?
43
No one was talking.
Though Gantz had plenty to say to the other people waiting outside the conference room, he was thankful for the quiet. The hangover he had acquired pounded in the back of his head, reaching out with prickly tendrils with every footfall or throat-clearing.
He sat by himself on a low couch at the end of the hallway, his head resting on the silver wainscoting. A large Areca palm next to him provided the only shade from the rough sunlight pouring in through the window.
A tremor went through his wrist. It took every ounce of concentration to narrow his eyes enough to read the miniscule text on his sliver.
Breaking: Benny Coker of White Line Media files lawsuit in California court against Perion Synthetics. Suit names Joseph Perion and others as instrumental in detention and possible death of Gilbert Reyes. If suit goes forward, it will be the first challenge to the Perion City Sovereignty Act of 2001.
Gantz looked around the room at the others who would be named in the suit. Sava Kessler, looking bored with her nose buried in her phone, would definitely do time for her role as triggerman. Beside her, Chuck Huber spoke in hushed tones to Dr. Langley Bhenderu. They both had a hand in creating Roberta, and thus were responsible for their creation’s actions. It wouldn’t be long before they were trading their white lab coats for orange jumpsuits.
Absent was one Joseph Perion and his personal assistant Nico. Gantz hadn’t seen either since Friday morning. Calls to Joe’s cell phone went unanswered.
Further down the hallway, the synthetic James Perion adjusted his tie in front of a mirror, flanked on three sides by equally synthetic security personnel.
Perion Synthetics Page 28