“What do you want?”
“I want to know where Cam is. We’re all very concerned.”
“Like I said, I never met him. I knew someone who did though. He said your man was detained by Perion personnel.”
“They invited him,” said Gattis. “Why would they detain him?”
“There was an incident, a fire at a warehouse. I assume he was involved.”
Yates glanced at the shelf.
“And who is that?” asked Gattis, pointing to the cylinder.
“I’ve had a long trip. If I tell you about him, will you leave me alone?”
Gattis nodded. “Give me something I can feed, and I’ll get out of your hair for a while.”
“That is Robert Gantz,” said Yates, taking a deep breath. “He was a dear friend and a decent man. He died defending his ideals and those he loved. I knew no other man in Perion City who held closer to the righteous path.”
Yates closed his eyes and began recounting the life of Robert Gantz as he knew it to be: a dedicated public servant; a man open to the words of a higher power; full of love; bound by a sense of duty; a servant of justice. He left out small details such as Robert’s love of the drink, his casual swearing, and other vices only mentioned in the confines of the confessional.
Over the next half-hour, Yates took Gattis through the years, from their first meeting after a Sunday service to their final night together in Perion City, where a war-torn Robert had walked through his doors frightened by the possibility of losing yet another person for whom he cared deeply. There had been a finality to the way Robert spoke, an understanding about what the night held for him. Despite knowing the danger, he had plunged in headfirst, his thoughts only of Joseph Perion.
“They cremated his body,” said Yates, “and there was a funeral. Robert had no next of kin; all of his accounts were payable on death to me for some reason. I stayed only as long as necessary to transition someone else into my role and then Robert and I moved on. Now I’m here telling you this story instead of getting some much-needed rest.”
“It pains you to speak about him,” said Gattis.
“Only to you.” Yates stepped away from the wall. “Perion City was doing fine until aggregators started raining from the sky like a plague. Your relentless pursuit of a story led to nothing but trouble. What you do, the business you’re in, is a blight on humanity. The last thing this new generation needs is someone like you whispering in their ear twenty-four hours a day.” His voice echoed off the high ceilings of the church. “We have become too addicted to information. The saturation has blinded us all. Someone has to step in and remind the people there is only one true reality and it isn’t virtual and it isn’t augmented. It’s time we step back from the precipice.”
“And if they don’t want to?”
“Then I will drag them.”
Gattis nodded and stood up. He pulled back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal his sliver. A quick tap dimmed the red LED.
“It’s a nice story, Doc, but it’ll never feed. We do half a dozen segments on information dependency every week and no one gives a shit. Local and national governments have been hands-off for years. No one cares except for the few crackpots who think they can save the world from itself. You’ve lived in Perion’s utopia for too long, my friend. Any chance we might have had for our own perfect world died with the free Net at the end of the last century. We are living in a hell-bound world and the only thing you can do is try to make the ride more comfortable.”
“There is salvation for those willing to listen.”
“Whatever you say,” he replied, walking to the exit. “Thanks for your time, Dr. Yates. I’ll be back in a few days once this Gantz story makes the rounds. If you remember anything or hear anything about Cameron Gray, I’d appreciate a message.”
Gattis pulled a twenty from his wallet and dropped it along with a business card in the donation box next to the door. “See you around,” he said.
The room filled momentarily with a mash of techno music as the door opened and closed. When it was quiet again, Yates returned to the shelf to examine the urn.
Robert’s name was etched vertically along the cylinder, punctuated by a PCPD badge. Yates stared at the intricate designs and wondered if Robert’s God had welcome him into His arms or turned him away at the last moment. Were there any sky-gods hiding in the clouds who would accept a drunken cop into their afterlife?
“I didn’t tell him everything,” said Yates to the urn. He thought back to the funeral, to the stark white room where Robert’s ashes sat atop a marble pedestal. The faces of those few who stood around it flashed by one by one until settling on Joseph Perion.
“He was there.” Yates cleared his throat. “There were few words, but I saw it in his eyes. He loved you. Maybe not as you loved him, but loved you nonetheless.”
Yates picked up a pack of matches from the shelf. They were old and brittle, but he managed to get one lit. He selected a large candle and set it next to the urn.
He said a silent prayer to any sky-gods who might be listening.
The flame danced in the valley of Robert’s name, turning silver to gold.
CODA THREE
JOSEPH PERION
February 2016
“And in that way, we will honor my father and make his dreams a reality.”
Joe put the phone down on the thick arm of his chair. Sitting across from him, Nico Shaw hit the pause button on the stopwatch.
“I’m not sure about that last line,” said Joe, rubbing his face. He had rehearsed the speech several times a day for the last two weeks and every time he got to the end, he felt the importance of his message taper off with a whimper. “I want to close with something stronger. Maybe a resolution or a promise like Dad used to do.”
Nico nodded and took out his palette. He scrolled to the end of the speech. “If you’re going to ad-lib, I’d at least jot down some notes so you don’t get lost. The last thing you want is to look uncomfortable out there.”
Joe thought about the many things he wished he could say, but most of them were directed at specific people, not the world at large. He wanted to reassure Dad about the fate of the company. He wanted to tell Gantz what Cyn had done to the synthetic babies. Nico needed to know how proud Joe was that he had remained clean for the last few months.
Then there were the department heads, the VPs, and the individual contributors who had defected, who needed to know how much their absence pained the company. What could Joe say to bring them back? How could he convince them everything was going to be alright?
So maybe the speech wasn’t about justifying himself to the world. This was an opportunity to speak directly to those who had jumped ship and those who were still inching towards the railing.
“We’re moving forward,” said Joe. “The company is pushing through. Things are back on course.”
Nico tapped out the fragments on his palette and then looked at his sliver.
“Why don’t we take a little break, boss? We’ll be starting soon.”
Joe nodded and looked to the windows. Outside, the crowd had been growing steadily since dawn, packing the parking lot of Perion Terminus a half-mile back to I-10. Aggregators from every feed in the country stood shoulder to shoulder in the crisp February morning waiting to hear what the son of Perion had to say. Joe understood their curiosity; the last news to come out of the PC had been the announcement of Dad’s death back in December. The short statement had caused a panic on the feeds and in the market. Though Joe had wanted to reassure the world, Nico had suggested silence. The tactic paid off in the end; the frenzy subsided, the stock price recovered, and the world went back to caring about celebrities and consumer electronics before the year was out.
One side of the terminus faced the back of a temporary stage, the first structure ever built by synthetic hands outside of Perion City. Joe thought it was an ill-conceived experiment put forth by a self-destructive Chuck Huber, but when the synnies made it past the PNR
without any issue, he abandoned any thoughts that his lead engineer might just want to watch the synthetics burn.
Synthetics beyond the walls of the city…
James Perion’s dream had intruded into reality.
Joe turned at the sound of a door opening and watched as his new police chief walked in rubbing his hands.
“How is it out there?” asked Nico.
“Cold, but secure, Mr. Shaw,” said Chief Parker. “Got all the aggregators and reporters and looky-loos penned up six feet from the stage. My men are in the moat every three feet. Got some sharpies up top brandishing to discourage any quick movements.”
“That’s a little much, don’t you think?” asked Joe.
“Unlike your father,” said Nico, “you don’t have a son to pass the company onto. We’ll stop over-planning when you produce an heir.”
He joined Joe at the window.
“Dad didn’t have me until he was fifty.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to follow his example,” said Nico. “Those people out there are waiting to hear you speak, Joe—not your father. They want to know what you think and how you view the world and what you’re going to do to leave it a better place. Stick to the speech, speak plainly to them, and keep your ad-libbing to a minimum. We’re going to clean up the company’s image and get back some of the prestige we lost with the Gil and Roberta incidents and all of that starts today, right now.”
Joe looked his assistant in the eyes. And to think it only took his father dying for Nico to shape up.
Chief Parker put his finger to his ear. “They’re ready for you, Mr. Perion.”
Joe waited for Nico to straighten his tie and then headed for the door.
The cold air bit at Joe’s cheeks, but the mid-morning sun melted away the chill as he snaked through the security detail to the short staircase behind the stage. He lingered on the first step to look back. Nico gave him a thumbs-up sign. With a deep breath, he walked out onto the stage.
A smattering of applause greeted Joe, but it was drowned out by a swell of voices. Hundreds of them spoke at once, asking questions Joe couldn’t decipher. He put his hands out, asking for quiet as he approached the podium. There, Nico had left him a palette with his speech already loaded. When he cleared his throat, the desert finally became silent again.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice echoing from the many speakers set up around the terminus. “Thank you all for coming today. I’m happy to have you here as we begin a new chapter at Perion Synthetics. For years, we have promised a synthetic utopia, a world where humans are spared from the dangerous and the mundane. While our greatest minds worked towards that goal, you gave us your time, your patience, and your encouragement. I want to assure you we will repay that kindness.”
“When?” yelled a voice from the crowd. A murmur of agreement followed.
Joe looked down at the palette. The highlight around the next word in his speech blinked off and on.
“When we’re ready,” he replied. “When the synthetics are ready.”
“When will that be?” called another voice.
“I don’t have—”
From the right, someone asked, “What about Vinestead?”
“What about them?” asked Joe.
“Will you beat them to market?”
Joe laughed as he swiped a finger across his palette. “Fisher Price is going to beat them to market,” he said, stepping out from behind the podium. He approached the edge of the stage.
“Is that really all you people care about? Perion Synthetics versus Vinestead International? Do you think I wake up every morning worrying about other companies dumping inferior products on the market? We are in the business of synthetics here. Intelligent. Automated. Safe.”
Joe smacked his hand with each word.
“Safe?” asked a voice. “Since when have the Perions ever been concerned with safety?”
A hush fell over the crowd as Arthur Sedivy and his bodyguards pushed through the barricades to the left of the stage. One of his men put a nearby box in front of the stage so Arthur could climb up.
Joe looked around for Parker, but the chief had disappeared.
What would James Kirkland Perion do if Arthur Sedivy crashed his press conference?
“Arthur,” said Joe, presenting his biggest smile. “What a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Surely VFeed could have spared an aggregator?”
Joe cringed at his father’s voice coming from his mouth.
“No,” said Sedivy, joining Joe at the front of the stage. “I had to come myself.” He turned to the crowd. “I had to hear the lies for myself! I knew you would stand up here and tell these fine people your synthetics are safe, when in fact, we know them to be anything but.”
The screen behind the stage stuttered on a frame from the Perion reel and then went to black. When the image returned, it took Joe a moment to recognize an aerial shot of Perion City. The image zoomed in.
“November 14, 2015,” said Sedivy. “An aggregator named Gilbert Reyes livecasts as he struggles with a Perion synthetic. We lock into his signal just before it goes dead.”
A few gasps went up from the crowd.
“We believe this is Gilbert Reyes trying to escape the synthetic. He is then surrounded by Perion agents. And…”
The image was blurry, but there was just enough detail to see Gil shake and go limp. The crowd around him dispersed, leaving his body lying there on the grass in the courtyard.
Sedivy leveled an accusing finger.
“This boy will have you believe Perion synthetics are perfectly safe, that by giving them free will, by giving them the choice to disobey the three laws, they will somehow be superior to all other synthetics on the planet. Unlike these mad scientists, we built Vinestead Synthetics with the three laws as a foundation. We are firmly committed to the idea that the protection of humanity comes first and foremost. It should not be optional and certainly should not be an add-on feature.”
Joe put his hands up.
“And here it comes,” said Sedivy. “Like father like son, trying to explain away the loss of a human life. What lie do you have for a murdered United States citizen? Or should we wait for you to hire a new head of public relations? Who will do the lying now that your father is gone?”
It was true; Joe had spent the last few months trying to step into his father’s shoes, into the stuffy world of meetings and negotiations and glad-handing. Joe couldn’t shake the feeling he was simply pantomiming, going through the motions as a second-rate James Perion, his performance feeble compared to the machine who still roamed the basement of the Spire. At what point would he stop being the son of James Perion and just be Joseph Michael Perion, CEO of Perion Synthetics?
Sedivy took a step closer, his voice shifting to a whisper. “I outlasted your father, Mr. Perion, and you’re not half the man he was. I will see your company burned to the ground.”
What would James Kirkland Perion do if Arthur Sedivy threatened him in front of the world?
“There will come a time when you have to make a choice,” said the memory of James Perion.
Beside him, Victoria Perion smiled at Joe. “All must walk their own path to the dust.”
The question popped into his head before he could stop it.
What would Joseph Michael Perion do if Arthur Sedivy threatened him in front of the world?
Off to the left, Joe saw Nico climb onto the stage in slow motion. He ran towards Joe, his arms outstretched. To the right, the crowd undulated like the sea, spraying him with vitriolic questions directed at both Perion Synthetics and Vinestead International. The chaos swirled, the memories of James and Victoria Perion faded into the noise.
“Go hide in your spire, Mr. Perion. While it’s still standing.”
All must walk their own path to the dust.
And James Perion has taken his last steps.
Joe felt his lead knuckle catch the right side of Arthur Sedivy’s nose. Blood e
rupted in a thick spray; it ran freely over the Vinestead CEO’s mouth and splattered onto both men’s shirts. Joe kept expecting Sedivy to put a hand out as he fell, but the man simply keeled over in one smooth arc. His head smacked the stage, silencing the crowd.
Nico got his hands on Joe’s chest and pushed him backwards. His lips moved, but the words were muted.
“Joe. Joe!”
The red hue of the world fizzled out and Joe caught eyes with Nico.
“How was that for an ad-lib?” he asked.
CODA FOUR
GILBERT REYES
February 2016
Gil spent Valentine’s Day and most of the night staring at Roberta’s faintly beating heart through the open wound in her chest. He had spent two months at the workbench trying to repair the damage, rarely leaving the back room at the safe house in El Cajon to do anything but check the security monitors or answer a call from Kaili. When those calls stopped coming, Gil planted himself next to the synthetic approximation of Jacqueline Dulac and used his newfound focus and limitless energy to repair the connections that so many bullets had torn apart.
He worked on her through the evening, soldering broken pathways to link her heart back to the idle power sources throughout her chassis.
Her lips had just begun to move beneath the veil Gil had draped over her face when the lights in the safe house went out.
Gil listened as the generators wound down, as the whirring of the fans in the equipment around him began to diminish.
The room fell silent.
He stood next to the workbench with his hand on Roberta’s and closed his eyes.
The TSR Ayudante code had died along with Gilbert Alejandro Reyes some three months ago, but the memories of Patrick “Meltdown” Kumanov had crystalized during the transition to a synthetic existence. Thinking back to the Margate days was easier than ever now. No longer were those nights spent beneath the synth haze a foggy playback in Gil’s rush-addled mind. Those memories had transcended the biological and found a permanent home in the non-degrading ones and zeros of his Katsumi-brand synapses. He would never forget Meltdown’s face now, would never forget how the rusher’s eyes had dimmed when he spoke of the world above the world, the nirvanic plane reserved for the enlightened.
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