Tales of the Symbiont Safety Patrol (SYMBIOSIS)

by Samuel King

  After several seconds, Joel approached the screaming woman, his face a mask of inconsolable grief. The Palace, it seemed, had finally caught up to him. He carefully pulled the woman up from the floor and embraced her, whispering into her ear. She continued to scream.

  Helen emerged from her trance and approached the woman from behind, gently stroking her hair. "It's alright now, sister," she said, softly. "It's over." The woman remained unresponsive and continued to scream, so did her more fortunate colleagues from the main floor, as the room devolved into bedlam.

  When the internal extraction team arrived with the last ten units, they too were overcome by the scene. One of them placed his two units on the floor and immediately wretched. The others, averting their eyes, made their best effort to properly position their own units before stepping back, waiting to return the transport units, complete with arrays, to the vestibule.

  Unnoticed in the chaos, the crawling woman had reached Doherty and began to tug on his trousers. Slowly, painfully, she got to her knees. "Help me," she said, and when he lifted her from the floor, she gripped his arms with surprising strength. "It's too late."

  Doherty brought his ear close to her mouth. "What?"

  "It's too late," she repeated. "Tell him, it's too late."

  He guided her to Joel, who stared at her, even as he continued to comfort the screaming woman. "What is it?" he asked.

  "She says it's too late," Doherty answered.

  The enormous strain still showing on his face, Joel took a step toward the newcomer. "What's too late?"

  "For her," the woman answered. "She's been like this for days, now. Her mind is gone."

  Joel seemed to embrace the screaming woman with even greater determination, bringing her head to his chest in a fruitless attempt to muffle her cries. "Maybe we can help her."

  The woman shook her head with equal determination. "If you want to help, terminate her."

  "No. We came here to take you all out. Everyone."

  "It's too late," the woman repeated. "Terminate her."

  "I'm sorry. I can't."

  The woman pulled away from Doherty's grasp and stood on shaky legs, tugging at the tattered remnants of a grimy smock. She was covered from head to foot with bruises and contusions, and her hair, what little remained, was matted and stringy. Her battered face was that of a weary old woman. She must'a been beautiful, once. Look what they've done to her.

  Freedom, unfortunately, would not restore her looks. The relationship between an artificial's "psyche" and physical manifestation was a delicate one, and even trivial modifications posed the risk of cognitive dissonance. The horrific abuse suffered by the woman, inflicted mercilessly over a protracted period, placed her well beyond any cosmetic reprogramming, even restorative. From the vacant look in her eyes, she was well beyond caring.

  She took an unsteady step toward Joel, then, gripping his tunic, slowly sank to her knees. "Her name was Jolene," she said to him. "We were like sisters once—hardly ever apart. We were even sent to that place together. But she's gone now, and I'm begging you to give her peace."

  Joel's shoulders sagged, but he held the screaming woman even closer. "I can't," he said, shaking his head.

  The woman looked up at Doherty. "You tell him," she urged. "You saw."

  Doherty covered his mouth and turned away from her, but she merely focused her attention on Joel once more. "I'm begging you to help, Jolene. Please."

  He swayed from side to side with the screaming woman, urging her to stop, to return to them. Still, she screamed. Undaunted, he continued to cajole her, pleading, until Helen stepped away from them and called to him, sharply. "Joel, it's no use. We've got to get on with it."

  He shook his head violently then raised it toward the ceiling and screamed in perfect unison with the tortured woman. Afterward, he reached out to the technician, whose back was turned to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Can you do it through the system?"

  The technician stared doggedly at the monitor and answered without facing him. "There's no kill switch, if that's what you mean. You'll have to expose her neural array. It's painless, but it takes time."

  "We don't have time," Helen insisted.

  "Well, you already know the system's rigged to kill them… The only problem is you have to fatally injure her physical manifestation." He shuddered before adding, "Then the system will fry her array."

  "Oh, those bastards!" Doherty cried.

  Tears appeared in Joel's eyes, as Jolene's friend tugged on his tunic again. "Please, help her."

  "Goddamn it!" Doherty yelled, "What are we supposed to do?"

  "We're falling behind," Helen shouted.

  Joel began to cry, even as the women, all of them, howled with grief. "Shoot her, Jimmy," he said finally.

  "What?"

  "Shoot her now," Joel repeated. He tapped Jolene's temple. "Right here."

  "As God is m'judge, I can't do it, Joel."

  "You've got the gun. Do it now."

  Doherty raised the pistol but lowered it almost immediately. "I can't," he said, staring at the weapon he'd been all too willing to use earlier.

  Crying openly, Joel screamed, "I said shoot her, goddamn it!"

  Doherty started to repeat himself when Helen removed the pistol from his hands. She brought it up smartly to Jolene's head and fired once. The room fell silent; Jolene screamed no more.

  Her eyes opened wide, and she sagged in Joel's arms, as a geyser of blood spewed from the exit wound in her head. A loud snap emanated from the vicinity of the dungeon arrays, quickly followed by a wisp of smoke and the smell of ozone. Jolene's eyes went blank.

  Joel lowered her to the floor, where she remained motionless, her head lying in a growing pool of blood. Helen returned the pistol to Doherty then calmly made her way to the neural array shelving area. "Jolene," she called to the technician. "Which one?"

  After studying the list for several seconds, he replied, "Jolene, number fifty-two. Make sure the Sentient Interface module is showing red."

  Helen ran her finger over several arrays, mouthing the numbers silently, until she located number fifty-two. She traced the cable leading from it to the appropriate Sentient Interface module and after studying it briefly, yanked the module from the system interface bus. Jolene vanished, along with the pool of blood she lay in, leaving only Joel's blood stained tunic and her tormentor's gore stained apron, as the only evidence of her suffering.

  Nobody spoke for some time. The women embraced one another, crying quietly, while the internal extraction team exchanged uneasy glances, as did Joel and Doherty. Helen folded her arms and stared into space.

  "Someone else is dyin' here today," Doherty muttered. He fixed Jolene's tormentor with a hard stare, his willingness to kill, suddenly restored.

  Joel sniffled and pointed at the manager. "What about him?"

  "Yeah. Let's do both of ‘em."

  He raised the pistol and pointed it at the manager, who seemed to have lost his own mind, mumbling, "It's a terrible thing, isn't it?" over and over again.

  As he took aim, Cynthia stepped in front of him. "Okay," she relented. "I understand. But it'll never be the same after this. No one will make any distinction between us and them. We'll all be murderers."

  Joel cursed and cried out in anguish. Afterwards, he sighed and placed his hand on Doherty's arm, forcing it and the pistol down. "You know she's right, don't you? The minute we start taking reprisals, is the minute we take our eyes off the prize. There's more work to do, brother. Much more."

  "Goddamn it!" Doherty cried. "This ain't right." His eyes filled with tears as they swept over the manager and his six customers. "All these fella's need killin'."

  Joel nodded gravely. "But we can't."

  "Well we can't just walk away and leave ‘em standin' here. Jesus, Joel, they'll be back in business in no time."

  "We'll have to find some way to prevent that, won't we?"

  "It ain't enough. That poor girl is cryin' out for justice. C
an't ya hear her?" Without warning, Doherty bolted toward Jolene's tormentor and began to pistol whip him. "You murderin' bastard!" he yelled, after the man had collapsed, but still, he wanted more. He took a step toward the manager, shoving Cynthia aside when she tried to intervene.

  "Please, Joel, stop him," she begged, but Joel said nothing.

  After Doherty had pistol whipped the manager, Helen threw her arms up. "We don't have time for this," she said, wearily.

  "Maybe not," Joel replied. "But he's right. We need to do more than just take these women out of here. We need to make sure the bastards never reopen this place."

  Standing over the manager and Jolene's tormentor, Doherty held the pistol up. "There's only one way," he snarled.

  Joel sniffled again and shook his head. "No, there's got to be another way."

  They all began to talk at once, each loudly making his or her point, until a loud crackle drew their attention once more to the neural array shelving. As they watched, another puff of smoke arose from the burnt remains of Jolene's array. Doherty covered his eyes, the memory of her suffering refreshed.

  He sniffed then wrinkled his nose, the harsh smell awakening another memory, one just beyond his ken. Setting Jolene's torment aside, he gradually teased it from his subconscious. Smoke, smoke, fire… Dennehy! A smile slowly spread across his face. "I know how we can keep ‘em closed and get some payback too," he said.

  "How's that?" Joel asked.

  "The guy I met up here—Dennehy. I told you he'd just love to torch this place."

  "I know, but is he solid?"

  "As a rock. The guy's ready and waitin' with all kinds of weapons, includin' military grade thermite. We can gut this place in five minutes and leave the rest of the buildin' standin'."

  "Toninght?"

  "Within the hour."

  "Now, that would be something," Joel said, attempting to smile. He thought for a moment. "We could clear all of our people out of here except me and two of Tom's men, and we can hold the prisoners until the place goes up. Of course we'll need to keep Pete at the main entrance detaining any newcomers, so he'll have to find his own way out of here."

  "Piece'a cake," Doherty said. "He'll be okay; he's a good man. Just sweeten the pot—say an extra ten grand?"

  Joel nodded and, using both hands, wiped his eyes again. "Sounds about right."

  "Now you're talkin'," Doherty exclaimed and spit first on Jolene's tormentor and then the manager. "It's somethin' at least."

  "You're damn right," Joel said. Having finally regained control of his emotions, his manner was suddenly authoritative once more. "You go ahead and call this friend of yours. We'll make sure they can't reopen and leave a calling card, too."

  "It's a major deviation from the plan," Helen complained.

  "Worth the risk," Joel replied. "And then some."

  As if waking from a trance, Cynthia raised her arms and said, "Wait! It's the same principle, you know."

  "No, it's not," Joel said. "We're not killing anyone."

  "Violence is still violence."

  "You're outta line," Doherty muttered.

  "Way out of line," Joel concurred. "You've got to learn how to accept victory when you win. We'll play it your way. No one but poor Jolene is dying here tonight, but this place is going to burn."

  When she started to raise another objection, Joel stopped her with an upraised hand of his own and, surprising Doherty, responded with emotion. "Burn," he repeated, angrily. "To a fucking crisp!"

  ****

  Several weeks later the six sat around the meeting table at their new "safe house" watching yet another news report extolling the "non violent" destruction of the Pleasure Palace. Joel shook his head and chuckled. "Cynthia was right all along."

  "Even a stopped clock is right twice a day," Doherty muttered.

  "Come on, Jimmy. Give her her due," Kate insisted. "If you all had shot up that place, there'd be a whole different story on the vid now, and you know it."

  "Hell, man, they've even given us a name," Freeman said. "The Phantom… Ain't that something?"

  "Yeah, something not good," Helen groused. "Some smart reporters are already trying to connect us to other operations, including one that's not ours."

  "That just means we'll have to be even more security conscious," Joel said. "But for now, let's give our little dove her due, as Kate says. Because of her, this operation has succeeded beyond our wildest imaginations. We've done more than just freeing a few dozen of our people, a lot more. Bravo, Cynthia."

  When he began to applaud, the group joined him, and Cynthia lowered her head, embarrassed. "Come on, guys, stop it," she protested, but they only laughed and clapped all the louder.

  She had indeed been proven right. Their decision to spare the employees and customers of the Pleasure Palace had endeared them to the public, lending an air of hi jinx to their operations. The reputation of the Palace didn't fare nearly as well; word of the atrocities committed there, spread quickly. Women's organizations took up the fight, and before long, no one would admit to having been a member.

  Still smarting from the horror he'd witnessed, Doherty grudgingly added his applause to that of the others. Forcing himself to make eye contact with "the dove", he waved and doffed an imaginary hat. Perhaps it was time to move on, as Kate was continually telling him. They had, after all, succeeded, and as Joel told him the night of the raid, there was so much more work to be done.

  Besides, his life had taken a turn for the better. He and Kate rented a comfortable house in the Atlanta suburbs, and he was happier than he had ever been. Better yet, he knew Kate shared his happiness. She often teased him about how well the revolutionary business paid when properly managed, and it seemed to be true. The house provided them with better accommodations than either of them had ever known.

  They didn't live there alone, however. In no time at all, the house became the nexus of the group's de facto underground-railroad. Unbeknownst to the neighbors, a steady stream of fugitives passed through it daily. Some even found temporary refuge there before moving on to the next phase of their new lives.

  The fifty-two survivors of the Pleasure Palace had already done so, by that time, including the three Lolita's. Doherty had kept track of the "sisters", being particularly concerned about the eldest. Despite all protestations to the contrary, the young woman had touched him—deeply. A feeling born of a big brother's concern, it was also something else, something, given his pending nuptials with Kate, he wanted desperately to forget.

  They'd seen each other twice after the operation. He'd been happy to see her the first time, the second, less so. Her parting look after that encounter left no doubt she wanted more from him. When she requested yet a third meeting, he felt compelled to tell her the plain truth: there was nothing more. Now, the dreaded task loomed before him, and even as he applauded Cynthia, it tied his stomach in knots.

  ****

  Later, after the meeting had been adjourned and the group members disbursed, he sat in his living room muttering and massaging his temples. Time to crush a young girl's hopes. He sighed, loudly.

  "It'll be alright, Jimmy. You'll see." The look on Kate's face belied her encouraging words as she fussed with his tunic before running her fingers through his bright orange hair.

  "Easy for you to say," he grumbled.

  "Not so much. But the kid deserves at least a proper good-bye. God knows she's gotten the raw end of the deal her whole life. I'm ashamed I was jealous of her."

  He rose from the sofa and planted a gentle kiss on her lips. "Don't be, darlin'. I'da been jealous too, in your place. Believe it."

  "Go on, now," she said, returning his kiss. "Behave yourself."

  Responding with a shrug and a quick smile, he set off for what he hoped would be the final chapter in his relationship with—what did she say her name was? No matter. She would always be Lolita to him.

  He jogged up the stairs to the second floor, the holo equipped portion of the house. Dominated by a larg
e, master bedroom that served as the control center, the floor also boasted three smaller rooms: a reception area, a temporary shelter and a room where they held their weekly meetings. They might have paid the rent, but for all practical purposes, the second floor belonged to the group.

  He entered the control room but found only the lone artificial attendant. One of several so assigned, he had been with them at the Pleasure Palace, and it had changed his life as well. He regarded Doherty briefly, before pointing at the door to the reception area.

  Girding himself, Doherty walked across the hall and into the small room. He found her there, on a sofa. Primly dressed and sitting ram rod straight, she appeared to be watching the vid but got to her feet as soon as he entered.

  "Hi," he greeter her.

  "Hello, Mr. Doherty."

  "I told you, it's Jimmy."

  She nodded, timidly.

  "I see you cut your hair."

  "Do you like it?"

  He almost told her the truth: he preferred it long, but saved himself at the last moment. "It's beautiful."

  She smiled… a beautiful smile, perhaps the most genuine he'd yet seen from her. Shit! I overdid it. "How have you been?" he asked.

  "Busy. I help out a little at one of the safe houses when I'm not in school."

  "School?"

  "I'm learning to read. It's not one of the skills they configured me with."

  He crossed the room in three quick steps and kissed the top of her head. "I know. I'm sorry."

  "Why would you be sorry? You saved us."

  He thought of his friend, who he hadn't seen since the operation and probably never would again. "For not knowing sooner."

  "How could you?"

  "I don't know, but somebody should have."

  "I'm glad it was you," she said, touching his face.

  Oh God. Just get it over with. "Do you know how old I am?" When she shook her head, he answered his own question. "I'm thirty-three."

  She stared at him without comprehension.

  "Old enough to be your older brother—much older."