SINthetic

by J. T. Nicholas

  There wasn’t much left to do at the scene. The synthetic’s ID could be pulled easily enough—that’s what the tags were for, after all. It would be the first thing Fitzpatrick’s assistant—whichever one won the prize of performing the autopsy—would do, so I’d have that information soon enough. The uniforms were checking the area, and a few were conducting knock-and-talks along the rows of liquor stores, synth-brothels, and worse, but I knew that no one would have seen anything. In this type of neighborhood, no one ever did.

  I turned the scene over to the uniforms and climbed into my car. I reclined the seat as far as it would go, lying nearly flat. “Home,” I said, throwing one arm over my eyes.

  “Voice recognition confirmed,” the car replied in a toneless, androgynous voice. “Destination: home. Is this correct?”

  “Yeah,” I growled.

  The engine—electric—started with a faint hum, joined in a moment by the thrum-thrum-thrum of the windshield wipers. Why the self-driving vehicle even bothered with wipers was beyond me. Unless I took manual control, there was no need for windows at all, but sometimes necessities from the past clung desperately to the present.

  As the car accelerated, I pulled out my screen and tapped my news app. The video started at once, and with a flick, I sent it to the interior of the windshield. The transparent glass immediately changed, going momentarily black and then filling with the image of a newsroom. The anchors, one male, one female, sat behind a curved desk. Both were attractive, but lacking in the perfect bilateral symmetry common to synthetics…and made normal humans seem almost bland in comparison. The broadcast wasn’t live—only truly monumental events ever were, anymore. Instead, the feed that I was watching was an amalgam of previously recorded segments, automatically selected by the filters I had set in place and edited into a seamless video that was almost indistinguishable from a continuous feed.

  “SynthFirst,” the female newscaster was saying, her broad smile dripping with condescension, “the fringe group that insists synthetics are human, attempted to file yet another lawsuit with the Fifth Circuit Court today, claiming infringement of the constitutional rights of synthetics. The filing was dismissed out of hand, citing lack of grounds due to the legal classification of synthetics. The court also ruled SynthFirst in contempt for their constant, and I quote, ‘spurious and frivolous lawsuits wasting the court’s time over a matter that had been settled decades ago.’ SynthFirst insists that they will continue to bring suits, despite the fines levied against them. Tom?”

  The camera shifted to the other anchor. “Thanks, June. In other news…”

  Whatever the reason, the constant patter of raindrops on the car, the whir of the road beneath the tires, and the droning of the news broadcast…all of it instilled in me a deep, irresistible lethargy.

  I let my eyes drift close, the gentle lullaby of the wipers guiding me down into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter 3

  A soft chime from the car, indicating that I was nearing my destination, startled me to wakefulness. I rubbed at my eyes with the heels of my palms, trying to scrub the image of a dead girl from the corners of my mind. With the push of a button, I returned the seat to the upright position and peered out the window. The soft rain still fell, streaking the driver’s-side window like endless tears. The car was passing over the Madison Bridge, leaving behind the dry land portion of New Lyons and heading into Floattown. The waters of Chandeleur Sound, ever unsettled, ebbed and flowed far beneath the bridge, the surge of the waves causing miniature whirlpools to form around the massive concrete pilings.

  I watched as bridge and waters alike slid beneath the car, letting the hiss of wet pavement fill my mind. Anything to keep it from returning to the image of the murdered, eviscerated synthetic. Anything to keep it from reaching even deeper into memory to pull forth the image of another dead girl.

  The car bounced gently as it transitioned from the bridge to Floattown proper. Or rather, to the bridgehead from which the rest of Floattown blossomed. Technically, the bridgehead was Ile Beton, the Concrete Island, a massive feat of engineering that had created a slug of steel and concrete several hundred yards across and dozens of feet above sea level and sunk it into the ocean floor. But that man-made island held only a small percentage of the population of Floattown. Dozens of broad, gentle stairways led from the edge of the bridgehead and down to the actual district.

  The car parked itself in my reserved space—one of the few perks of being a detective. I climbed wearily from the vehicle and walked to the nearest stairway. I stood for a moment, admiring the view. It wasn’t pretty. There’s not a lot that can make a hundred or so pontoon-supported platforms—cleverly dubbed VLFSs for “very large floating structures”—sprouting cheap prefabricated buildings, pretty. But the fact that an area of ocean the size of several city blocks had been reclaimed and now supported thousands was a testament to the human spirit. Sure, rising waters and storm surge might have put paid to the city that had stood here decades ago, but Mother Nature herself couldn’t stop mankind from rebuilding. Floattown rested over the bones of what had been New Orleans, and every day more VLFSs came that much closer to completion. Something about that refusal to surrender no matter the odds gave me just a little bit of hope that, despite everything, our species wasn’t doomed.

  Which was why, despite being able to afford better, I chose to live in a neighborhood that was considered one of the worst in the city. Besides, it kept certain skills honed to a nice edge; that edge could still mean the difference between life and death. I had no intention of letting it grow dull.

  I shook my head to clear the sleep from it, and felt the familiar tingle along my spine as I set foot on the first of the wide stairs. My right hand hung loose and ready, close to the service pistol riding in a paddle holster at my hip. The streets of Floattown were safe enough during the day—kids played in the streets and people went about their daily lives—but it was almost two in the morning, and after midnight, the seedier elements came out.

  I moved briskly down the stairs and onto the first of the floating platforms, eyes sweeping left and right. Floattown was built to be self-contained, with the residential areas nestled above and between shops, convenience stores, bodegas, and restaurants. It had the potential to be as great as any thriving urban neighborhood...but the aesthetically boring and repetitive architecture of the prefab structures and the subtle but omnipresent shifting of the platforms had kept all but the impoverished away. Most were good people, some working hard to get ahead, others content scratching by on just the government-issued stipend—but in both cases, honest people trying to live their lives. A few, though, dabbled in crime, some petty street crime like vandalism, with others organizing into gangs that dealt in what few black and gray market items remained. Guns, for the most part, and stolen property, and the very few drugs that were cheaper and easier to get from the local dealer than the local corner store.

  The streets were largely empty, but here and there small groups gathered, at a street corner or within the shrouded gloom of a building’s front stoop. I made sure to meet the eyes of each person I passed. Part of that was to get a read on the potential danger—you could tell a lot about a person from their eyes—but it was also a declaration, “I’m not prey.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stirred, and I turned, hand automatically seeking the butt of my pistol. My eyes scanned the street around me, but there was nothing. Just apartment buildings, most with at least a single light burning on their front stoops, and the steady, rhythmic lap of the waves. I didn’t turn back around, not immediately. Instead, I stood there, waiting. In the distance, a dog started barking. I eased my hand away from my gun, and turned around again, once more putting one foot in front of the other.

  The feeling, like someone running their fingers along the nape of my neck, stuck with me as I made my way to my apartment building. I kept my eyes open, seeking, scanning, paying close attention
to any reflective surface, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever had my guard up.

  I saw nothing.

  By the time I reached the low, squat apartment building that I called home, my heart was thudding in my chest and my fingers kept twitching toward my sidearm. Sure, Floattown wasn’t the best neighborhood, but it was my neighborhood. I’d walked the streets later than this and never felt the kind of near panic that was clawing at me now. I was armed, and trained by both the military and the police. The local thugs were tough, but none of them had seen any action more significant than a drive-by.

  I pressed my palm against the security pad at the main door to the apartment building. There was a momentary hesitation, followed by a faint beep and the click of the magnetic lock disengaging. I pulled the door open and slipped inside, waiting to ensure the door latched firmly behind me. It wasn’t a huge structure—nothing was on the floating platforms. Just a squat, squarish three-story building with four apartments per floor. The hallway lights burned bright and steady as I made my way up the stairs. Mine was apartment six, second on the right on the second floor. I palmed the lock here as well. The sound of bolts disengaging was no mere click, but a heavy, meaty thunk.

  I pushed the door open and stepped into my living room. Long habit had me tossing my wallet and badge onto the table next to the door and saying, “Lights,” before anything else really registered. As the overheads flicked on, I spotted the pale, hulking form sitting in my armchair.

  Reflex took over, and I had my pistol out and trained on the man before I even really saw him. “Right there!” I barked, slipping into my cop voice. “Don’t move. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “That is hardly necessary.”

  The words were a low, deep baritone, hovering right on the edge of bass. The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted at all to the barrel of the forty-five pointed at his chest. He sat there, hands on the armrests of the chair, face composed, as if this was his home and I was the entertainment.

  The adrenaline was still pumping, but the sense of immediate danger waned. I had the guy dead to rights, and we both knew it. There was no way he could get out of that seat and reach me—or draw a weapon for that matter—before I could Mozambique him. That gave me my first chance to really look at him.

  He had skin so pale it was almost white—like a fresh sheet of paper. He kept his eyes narrowed against even the faint light of my apartment, but I saw that the irises were a pale, pinkish red. He was clean shaven—no, not clean shaven. Hairless. No hair on his head, no eyebrows, no stubble, and no sign that there ever had been any hair there. I couldn’t be certain in the poor light and with his coloration, but it didn’t even look like he had eyelashes. He did, however, have massive shoulders, wide and rounded like boulders, filling a chair that could have comfortably held two of me. They framed a barrel chest, and sprouted heavily muscled arms ending in broad, blunt hands. He was dressed casually, a simple black T-shirt that stretched tight over his frame and faded blue jeans, with a pair of heavy leather work boots on his feet. A khaki raincoat and matching fedora were folded neatly on the table before him.

  He wasn’t human.

  “How did you get in here?” I demanded, keeping the gun leveled. He might be calm, but he was also big. Synthetics weren’t supposed to be able to hurt us, but then, they weren’t supposed to be able to commit petty crimes, like breaking and entering, or trespassing, either. I wasn’t in the mood to take chances.

  Those massive shoulders lifted, fell. “I have a way with electronics. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, of course.” He smiled self-deprecatingly, revealing uneven, yellowed teeth. Strange, for a synthetic. They always seemed to have perfect teeth. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he added, acknowledging the gun at last.

  “You shouldn’t be able to hurt me,” I growled, keeping my weapon trained on center mass. “Any more than you should be able to be here in the first place.”

  “Ah, yes. The vaunted programming of the synthetics. Well,” he continued, “like any conditioning, it can be broken, given enough time, effort, and desire.”

  “Fascinating. Really. But what the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. The adrenaline was wearing off, and I felt a slight tremor in my hands. The fully loaded forty-five weighed a little over three pounds. Not very much, until you had to hold it at arm’s length for a while. Shit. I drew a deep breath and steadied my hands by force of will, keeping the gun leveled.

  He tilted his head to one side. “Do you know what I am?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’re a synthetic.”

  “But do you know what kind?”

  It was a strange question, but an easy enough one. The short stature, broad shoulders, albinism, all of them pointed to a synthetic designed to spend a lot of time underground, in areas with low overhead. In other parts of the country, he might be a miner, but not here. “You’re a tunnel worker,” I guessed. “Sanitation, probably. Which doesn’t explain what the fuck you’re doing in my house.”

  He smiled again. “You are a strange one, Detective Campbell. You are correct in your assessment, but you answer in a way different from almost every human I have ever encountered.” He paused, as if in thought. Then he cocked his head and said, “Tell me, Detective, if one of your friends with the NLPD walked into their house and found that I, a synthetic, had broken into their home, what would they do?”

  The answer came unbidden to my lips, and I said the single word before I really thought about it. “Shoot.”

  “Yes,” the synthetic agreed. “Without question. Without hesitation. And yet, here we are, having an almost civilized conversation. You haven’t even ordered me from your home. Why is that, Detective?”

  I said nothing, and for a long moment, the synthetic seemed content with the silence.

  “Sewer rat,” he said at last.

  The non sequitur threw me, and the gun wavered again. “What?”

  “Sewer rat. That is what most of your kind would call me. Mules, toys…how many names do you have for us?”

  Dozens, but there was fuck all I could do about it. I was tired, angry, and had a persistent twisting in my stomach that felt too much like guilt to ignore. It pissed me off. “What do you want?” I demanded.

  “To help you.”

  The words surprised me enough that I almost lowered the gun. Almost. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You are different, Detective. I’ve been looking for someone like you for a long time. A very long time.” A faint shudder coursed through me at the way he said the words. There was something almost…religious about his tone. I eyed him again and realized that I had no real way of knowing his age. All of the normal markers were masked by his odd physical characteristics.

  “Great. Help me with what?”

  “The girl you found tonight, she wasn’t the first.”

  Another jolt of adrenaline surged through my system at the words; the pistol steadied in my hands and I raised it a bit, bringing the sights back in line with the top of the synthetic’s sternum. “What do you know about that? How do you know about that?” There wouldn’t have been a news report, not for a dead synthetic.

  “Those are not the right questions, Detective. The questions you should be asking are ‘Why was she mutilated?’ and ‘Why leave her there in the street?’” He moved one hand slowly, carefully toward his jeans pocket. I took up the slack on the trigger, pulling it almost to the breaking point. But the strange synthetic didn’t pull out a weapon. Instead, he removed a piece of paper, folded several times. He placed it on my coffee table, next to his coat and hat. Then he stood, picking up his outerwear, moving with that same careful, casual grace.

  “That piece of paper has the names of seven other victims, Detective.” A frown of distaste twisted his features. “And their serial numbers. Now, I will take my leave of you.”

  He didn’t move toward
me, just looked at me, or maybe past me, at the door. He was relaxed, patient, waiting for me to move or pull the trigger. Seven more victims? Shit. I should detain him, or arrest him, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring a synthetic into the station, couldn’t convince anyone that he was a material witness. I couldn’t risk calling any attention to the fact that I was working the case at all. And no matter what the big pale fucker said about overcoming conditioning, I seriously doubted he could have killed seven people. Or synthetics. Or whatever.

  He was still waiting, eyeing me with those strange red eyes. I edged away from the door, moving along the couch, keeping the pistol trained on him.

  He smiled at me again, and strode to the door, pulling it open. As he stepped through, he looked over his shoulder and said, “Remember the questions, Detective. I’ll be in touch.” The door slipped shut behind him.

  I dropped to the couch, putting the pistol on the coffee table next to the folded piece of paper. For a long moment, I just sat there, waiting for the shakes. The adrenaline crash, the spinning, whirling chaos of my mind. It started in my hands, a little tremble that crept up my arms and then spread, until my whole body was shaking uncontrollably, like wave after wave of shivers. It lasted maybe a minute, maybe two. When it passed, I walked over to my kitchen and grabbed a tumbler from the cabinet with still-trembling hands. Three fingers of whiskey splashed into the glass, and I swallowed it in a single gulp. It burned all the way down, but it helped calm my nerves. I poured another three fingers, this time dropping a couple of cubes of ice into the glass for good measure.

  I sat in the armchair the synthetic had vacated, and grabbed the piece of paper. I unfolded it, and stared at the seven lines. Seven names, all female. Next to them an alphanumeric series of seemingly random letters and numbers. The serial numbers embedded in the bar codes. Seven women dead and mutilated. Eight, assuming tonight’s wasn’t on the list.