Synapse

by Steven James

A Terabyne security guard appears, emerging from the fog about twenty-five meters away, and calls to him. “Jordan? Is that you? You need to come with me.”

  He does not want to fight the man who is approaching him, but he will if necessary. He accesses his files on close quarters combat.

  As he’s debating how to reply, the guard unsnaps the top strap of his gun’s holster. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  You’re quick, but you’re not quicker than a bullet.

  Find her. Help her. Don’t let all that she is pass away.

  As the guard nears him, he turns and races past a building with a helicopter on top of it, and sprints toward the conference center to find Kestrel.

  And the man fires two rounds at him as he runs.

  * * *

  Eckhart and Julian had their orders.

  They were to wait six minutes after the explosion to give their leader and Willoughby enough time to do their work at the power plant, and then move forward with destroying the chips.

  Knowing the security protocols, they hadn’t even tried to sneak guns into the conference center, but it hadn’t been tough to get the two syringes in.

  And now, those would be enough to take down two of the security staff. After they were unconscious they could move forward with everything.

  But only after making an example out of Terabyne’s CEO, Artis Madison.

  45

  3:50 p.m.

  10 minutes left

  As Gavin, the tactical team agent Trevor had left me with, hustled me into the building, I tried to process what was happening and what I’d been able to piece together in the last ten minutes or so, running through what I knew:

  Trevor was on his way to investigate the explosion.

  Jordan was trying to find a way to inform all the Artificials in the world that the CoRA didn’t exist—a decision that might very well cause the widespread unrest and chaos Trevor feared. However, at least Trevor had assured me that the guards who were searching for Jordan wouldn’t harm him.

  Nick and someone named Rodriguez were going after Anastasia, an Artificial who had Nick’s fingerprints, at the power plant.

  And of course, I was here in the conference center with several hundred journalists who were all sending updates to their stations or channels on the Feeds.

  After Gavin had worked with his team to control the crowd and keep everyone inside the auditorium, he led me through a side hallway to the backstage area so he could keep an eye on the reporters and also, at the same time, stay with me, as Trevor had requested.

  An impeccably-dressed man in his fifties stepped up to the microphone on the stage, but even with the mic it took him a moment to get everyone’s attention. “I’m Artis Madison, the CEO of Terabyne Designs,” he said earnestly. “Here’s what we know: There was an explosion near the front gate. I want to reassure you that our security forces are on top of things. The best course of action right now is for us to stay here and let them deal with the situation outside.”

  At first, I doubted he was going to be able to calm the crowd down, but he spoke with such authority, such earnestness and charisma, that the people listened and began to settle, one by one, back into their seats.

  However, as they did, hands went up all over the auditorium from the media elite wanting an explanation and more information.

  On the stage beside Madison were two crates, one on each side of the lectern.

  He continued, “Before I address any of your questions, let me tell you about today’s announcement—about why you’re all here.” At that, the journalists began to lower their hands. “It has long bothered me that although we have the technology to allow Artificials to live on after their Catastrophic Terminal Events, we don’t have anything to allow humans to do the same after their natural deaths. If technology has brought us to the place where immortality is within the reach of machines, why can’t it be within the reach of human beings as well? With the release of our newest product here beside me onstage, it will be, and the Consciousness Realignment Algorithm will no longer be a place simply for Artificials to live on, but one for Naturals and Plussers to do so as well.”

  He’s lying! a voice inside of me shouted. The CoRA isn’t real!

  Then another voice: Or is it possible that he knows something Trevor and Jordan don’t?

  “It’s a chip”—Madison gestured theatrically toward the crates—“That we’re calling the ‘Synapse.’”

  My thoughts circled around what he was saying about hope and eternal life. No, I didn’t believe that heaven could be encapsulated in a piece of technology. As advanced as the Synapse might be, that would never happen.

  But even if it could, what a small and sad heaven that would be. Living on forever in our current state—hurting and hurtful people languishing together with no hope of anything better. Eternal existence without the possibility of redemption or salvation? That wouldn’t be heaven, but an antechamber of hell.

  We don’t become immortal because of a chip, only because of a Savior.

  The one who died for us. The one who rose.

  The one who suffered.

  The one who wept.

  And when I thought of Jesus, I thought of Naiobi and felt a piercing stab of grief.

  Why, God? Why did you take my baby?

  Time seemed to crack open.

  A riot of pain clutched me.

  And the tears came.

  All that I’d been holding in, a shivering flood of dammed-up emotion, broke loose. Not just my anger with God—although that was present. Mostly, instead, it was pain, raw and glaring and unfathomable. I felt forsaken and alone.

  There comes a point when hiding doesn’t work anymore, when diversions and denial just don’t cut it and you’re ready for the truth, whatever that might be.

  And when it does come at you, when the truth slams full force into you, that is a gift—always—even though it may feel like a curse rather than a blessing at the time.

  It did not feel like a blessing to me now. It felt like a weight too great to bear.

  And then, for the first time since Naiobi’s death, I heard from God—not an audible voice speaking to my ears, but an inner voice, speaking to my heart: Do you want answers or a companion to walk with you through the questions?

  And my reply: O God, I want both!

  So did Jesus at Gethsemane. So did Jesus on the cross. And he chose the Father and his will over all, over everything else.

  In that moment, I realized that if I had to choose between knowing the why and knowing the who, between closure or intimacy with the Lord, I would choose the Father too. Just as Jesus did. Even if I had to live lost in the questions, as long as I could live there with him beside me, I would be okay.

  Yes, Jesus wept when he saw Jerusalem’s unbelief.

  And now, so did I.

  As I looked at my own.

  * * *

  Fog blows into his face. The wind is picking up.

  As he makes his way toward the conference center, a notification comes through that Kestrel’s slate, which had been lost at the airport earlier, has reconnected to the Feeds. It’s here at Terabyne headquarters, in the auditorium, directly where he’s heading.

  Someone took her slate at the airport and now it shows up on campus?

  Angelo Natchez. Who else could it be?

  Is he involved?

  Why else would he take her slate?

  He might be going after her.

  Find him. Stop him. Go.

  * * *

  As I tried to hold back from crying too much, Gavin looked clueless as to how to help me and asked if I was okay, and I didn’t know how to tell him that I was and I wasn’t, both, at the same time.

  Both broken and whole.

  Both despairing and hopeful.

  Both flawed and forever loved.

  He offered to take me to the green room so I could have some privacy, and I nodded, even as I did my best to dry my tears.

  But, as we started towa
rd it, someone called out my name.

  When I looked toward the doorway, Angelo Natchez appeared, hands up to show that he meant no harm, a satchel beside his feet. “I’m NCB,” he told Gavin, who had already drawn his weapon and aimed it at him. “Undercover. I’ll show you my ID.”

  Gavin eyed him suspiciously but took a quick moment to confirm that Angelo was who he claimed to be, and then re-holstered his sidearm.

  Angelo indicated his satchel, and then drew out my purse and slate.

  “You took them?” I said. “But why?”

  “We had intel that you were with Conrad.” His voice was urgent. Rushed. “I needed to find out what you knew, and the only way to do that without taking you into custody was by going through the info on your slate. Sorry it had to go down that way.”

  As we spoke in hushed tones backstage, on the other side of the curtain, Artis Madison was busy at the microphone, fielding questions from the journalists, keeping them engaged.

  “And the Cincinnati airport? Are you the reason the guards hassled me?”

  “I needed time to get on the flight.” Then he quickly turned to Gavin. “Listen, I came back here looking for someone on your team. Two of your men out there are missing.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. I need you to—”

  But before he could finish, a man carrying a gun burst through the door beside me, saw the three of us standing there, grabbed me by the shoulder, and dragged me back toward him. He locked one arm around my neck and used his other hand to angle a gun barrel up against the side of my head.

  O God, please, no!

  As both Angelo and Gavin drew on him, he said, “Drop your weapons or she dies.”

  “If she dies, then you do too,” Angelo said calmly, but not at all reassuringly for me.

  “Drop them,” another man called, emerging from the shadows behind him. He was armed with one of the Tac team’s assault rifles. “Now.”

  Gavin and Angelo looked unsure what to do, but eventually Angelo nodded and they both laid their weapons down and kicked them out of the way.

  The man who’d appeared behind them quickly restrained them with plastic cuffs from a duffel bag full of them, then signaled to the man who still had the gun aimed at my head. “Alright, Julian. Let’s do this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then, the man who was apparently named Julian hustled me forward, between the center slit of the curtains, and onto the middle of the stage, in front of the reporters.

  46

  Gasps from the people in the auditorium.

  Julian ordered Artis Madison to get on his knees.

  When Madison was slow to obey, Julian fired a round at the stage beside the CEO’s feet to show he was deadly serious. “Do it!” He placed the gun to my temple again.

  Madison knelt.

  “Hands behind your head.”

  “No,” Madison pleaded. “I’m begging you.”

  “Hands back. Now!”

  Hesitantly and quavering with fear, Madison did as he was told.

  They’re going to assassinate him live on the Feeds!

  “Don’t do this,” I said to Julian.

  “Shut up.”

  “Please!”

  “I said shut up!”

  His partner emerged from backstage with the assault rifle and dropped the duffel bag of plastic cuffs next to Madison, then positioned himself behind the CEO with his gun directed at the back of the man’s head.

  Julian maneuvered me forward until we were at the lectern and near the microphone, then said to everyone present, “We will kill both of these people unless every security team member in this room brings their weapons to the stage and leaves them here. And I’m going to need these cuffs distributed. You’re all going to secure your ankles to the legs of your chairs. If any of you decide to play the hero, these two die. And so do you. Please, somebody test me on this to see if I mean what I’m saying.”

  * * *

  Trevor was making sure that, other than the driver who’d taken her own life, there were no additional casualties at the site of the car bombing.

  “There were several other guards with her earlier,” he said to the security personnel who were there. “Did you see them?”

  “No. And we haven’t found any other corpses or body parts in the debris.”

  As Trevor was scanning the area, he heard from Prestige Armored Car Company: a driver named Lenny Crenshaw had been carjacked and left tied up in a warehouse but had managed to escape.

  “Put him on.”

  The next face on Trevor’s slate was Crenshaw’s. “The people who took me, they exchanged the crates and the packing material. I don’t know why, but I heard someone say something about initiators.”

  Trevor was well aware that initiators were used in bomb making. “Where? Did they say where they were?”

  “Yes. In the crates.”

  Those are in the conference center where everyone is gathered.

  * * *

  Anastasia had been playing both sides, and it hadn’t been easy.

  To the Purists, she was Dakota.

  A Natural.

  Alive.

  They didn’t know who she really was. Only Phoenix did.

  The Synapse presented an existential threat to all cognizant Artificials. She could not let her kind become obsolete or irrelevant. She would not allow them to be replaced.

  She was nearly finished programming the change in the frequency when she saw on the monitor that two people were coming up the stairwell at the end of the hallway.

  She said to Willoughby, “It looks like we have a couple visitors. I’m almost done here. Stop them.”

  He hefted his assault rifle into position and started toward the doorway. “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  As Nick stalked toward the main control suite at the end of the hallway with Commander Rodriguez right behind him, he could hear that Rodriguez had a slight heart murmur, and now his respiration quickened.

  “Sir,” Rodriguez said softly. “I have to tell you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “On the way over here I got word from the NCB director himself. That’s why I was late. He . . . Well, he wants me to arrest you.”

  Nick paused and looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You requested this case, sir. Your partner in Cincinnati is missing and presumed dead. Your ex-wife, who was working undercover to try to infiltrate a Purist cell, is also missing and most likely dead.”

  “I had nothing to do with either of those disappearances. The director knows that.”

  “You met with a team of Purists last night, then showed up here at a time and place where we have intel that points to a terror attack. You’ve been asking about the Synapse chips, and you were seen with a person of interest in the bombing in Cincinnati—a woman who used to write anti-technology blogs.”

  “Listen to me, Rodriguez, there’s no time for this nonsense.” Nick turned toward the control center.

  Behind him, he heard Rodriguez: “Stop right there, sir.”

  Nick faced him again. Rodriguez had his assault rifle trained at Nick’s chest.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Nick said.

  “Your prints were found on—”

  “Either shoot me or join me. But if you try to arrest me, I’m going to stop you. And you don’t want that to happen.”

  Rodriguez bit his lip and seemed to be frantically calculating what to do, but finally started to lower his gun, just as Nick heard the shuffle of feet and another heartbeat maybe ten meters behind him. Rodriguez suddenly raised his weapon and fired.

  Nick felt the air swish across his cheek as the bullet whizzed past him. He whipped around in time to see the person Rodriguez had shot—a man wearing a custodial uniform—fall to the ground, his rifle clacking to the floor beside him as he did.

  “He was targeting you, sir,” Rodriguez said simply.

  “Thanks. Now, come on. Let�
�s get this done.”

  Nick listened carefully. There was movement down the hall in the main control suite, but no heartbeat—alerting him that it was an Artificial.

  He thought about what Rodriguez had just told him, about the order from the director, and Rodriguez’s words about the Synapse, and he made a decision. He signaled for Rodriguez to go around the side hallway. “Cover the back in case she tries to flee. I’ll take the west door.” Then, as he left, Nick clicked on his radio and set it to transmit directly to the NCB director’s secure channel.

  * * *

  He arrives in the conference center, eases through the back doors of the auditorium, and sees the security personnel depositing their weapons up front.

  On stage, a man is on his knees with his hands behind his head.

  Another gunman is holding on to a hostage.

  Kestrel.

  Four men are distributing plastic restraints and he realizes that if he’s seen he won’t be able to help her, so he slips soundlessly back outside to try to figure out the best way to solve this.

  Data.

  Decisions.

  Solutions.

  The sublevel tunnels under the campus. They connect every building to each other. Use those to get in.

  As he’s heading toward the neighboring building to access them, he sees Trevor and the guard who shot at him earlier emerge from the wind-whipped fog, hastening his way.

  “There you are, Jordan,” Trevor says. “Did you send out word to the other Artificials?”

  “Not yet. Kestrel’s in trouble.” And to the guard, “You shot at me before.”

  “Just warning shots.”

  “What?” Trevor blurts. “No more shooting.”

  The guard nods subserviently. “Yes, Mr. Hathaway.”

  Hurry.

  It is time.

  He tells Trevor what’s happening in the auditorium. “We need to get in there unseen. I’m thinking the sublevel tunnels.”

  “You read my mind. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  I was terrified but tried not to shake, tried not to let Julian and his partner see how scared I was.

  “It’s time for you to pay for your sins,” Julian said to Artis Madison.