Sinthetica

by Scott Medbury

  A blush? Is that all? What’s wrong with me?

  He finished more roughly than he had intended and pulled back as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

  “You can pull your bra back up now.”

  “No Myfriend, Dimi told me I must pull my bra down.”

  “It’s Ivan…” he said absently. “Yes, he told you that, but it’s alright now.”

  “It was his last order,” she said, reasonably.

  Ivan’s eyes narrowed. How to get around a robot’s logic? Then it came to him.

  “No, his last order was that I find you a dress to wear. To wear a dress, you need your bra on properly or Dimi will be displeased.”

  “You are right, Myfriend.”

  She pulled it up and smiled. He couldn’t help but feel a pang at her puppy-like response.

  “Thank you, Myfriend.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He didn’t bother to correct her again. The truth was, he liked the way she called him that. It felt like their little secret.

  “Now, let’s find you something nice to wear,” he said, turning back to the clothes.

  “Nice. Giving pleasure or satisfaction; pleasant or attractive.”

  “Yes. Nice, like you.”

  He began to rifle through the multitude of hangers in the left ‘wing’ of the walk-in. Now and then he would pull a dress out at an angle to look at it and then back at Inga.

  “Is that one nice, Myfriend?” She would ask every time he did this.

  “Nyet, not nice enough for you.”

  She followed him patiently as he looked and rejected at least five dresses before finally pulling out a light summer dress. It was white with black polka dots, and he looked at her as he held it out.

  “Is that one nice, Myfriend?”

  “Dah, I think so,” he said, pulling it off the hanger and displayed it to her. “Do you like it?”

  “I am not programmed to have taste in items of clothing, Myfriend.”

  “Well, I am. It will suit you – here, put it on.”

  Inga took it from him and pulled it over her head. She pulled it down over her shoulders before shrugging it into place.

  “Do I look nice?”

  He reached out and brushed away the strand of hair that had fallen onto her face.

  “More than nice. Beautiful,” he said.

  Right then, even with the nasty bruise on her chin, he thought she was about the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  “Beautiful. Having beauty; possessing qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about.”

  “Yes, all of those things,” he said, dreamily. “You are...”

  “What the hell are you doing in there, Ivan? You better not be fucking my Inga!”

  Molenski’s harsh voice shattered the moment and Ivan’s smile faded.

  “Come.”

  “Yes, Myfriend.”

  “Oh yeah, nice choice,” said Molenski appreciatively, when they emerged from the closet. “Jesus, I could fuck her right now! But we have to leave for the airport soon. Tatiana is a real cunt when I keep her waiting.”

  “Do I look beautiful, Dimi?”

  “What?” asked the Russian with raised eyebrows.

  “Do I look beautiful?”

  “Yes, you look fuckable.”

  “Fuckable. Highly desirable as a sexual partner – able to be or worthy of being fucked; sexually attractive.”

  Molenski looked at Ivan, the question on his face, one that he didn’t need to verbalize.

  His bodyguard shrugged.

  “Go! Take her to the Red Room and come straight back.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Ivan led the barefoot Inga to the door and began to open it.

  “Make sure my toolbox is on the bench,” the Russian said from behind him. “I don’t want to waste any time tonight.”

  Ivan paused, then nodded once before continuing through the door, a knot of dread in his gut. Inga followed dutifully.

  Isabella was cleaning up after the boss’s lunch when Ivan led the beautiful girl, now dressed, through the kitchen. She swallowed a sarcastic comment when she saw his storm cloud of a face. The girl turned and smiled at her again. Isabella noted the bruise on her chin. She didn’t smile back.

  What the hell went on in that bedroom? Suddenly she was not so sure she wanted to be around when Mrs. Molenski found the girl in her home.

  8

  Ivan led Inga down the stairs into the basement level, and they headed for the red door. A different group of Molenski’s men sat around laughing and smoking now. The afternoon shift. They became silent when they spied the two approaching. When they were close enough, the silence turned to wolf whistles and catcalls.

  Ivan glowered.

  Led by the cocky Danny Garcia, the five men stood and came across to meet them. Garcia circled to get a better view of the pretty girl, who smiled at them one by one, drawing sniggers from some of them.

  “Hey big man,” said Garcia. He was only 28 but since Andre’s shift had finished at midday, he was the most senior of the guards on duty. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your pretty friend?”

  “She’s not my friend,” growled Ivan, looking down at him like he was a piece of dog shit on the end of his shoe. “She’s Mr. Molenski’s friend, so fuck off.”

  “Hey, chill man. Just being friendly. Hey chica, what’s your name?”

  “My name is Inga. I am fuckable.”

  This brought gales of laughter from the men. Ivan’s jaw clenched.

  “Damn! You sure are, ain’t she boys? Oh, but you must have been naughty if you’re heading to the Red Room. What did you do, Chica?” He asked, looking her up and down and then grabbed his crotch.

  Suddenly Ivan’s hand snatched him by the throat and pulled him close. Garcia sputtered, his eyes bulging as he tried to pry the big man’s fingers off his neck.

  “I said fuck off…” Ivan said, through gritted teeth.

  None of the others moved to help Garcia; they were too frightened of Molenski to mess with Ivan.

  Instead, aid came from a surprising source.

  Inga’s hand fell on Ivan’s shoulder and pinch his trapezius muscle between her fingers. While gentle, they held the promise of pain.

  “Myfriend, please release this person, or I will be forced to disable you and alert local law enforcement.”

  He looked at her, dumbfounded, then remembered.

  …or by inaction allow a human to come to harm.

  He pushed and released Garcia at the same time, and the smaller man fell to the concrete floor, spluttering for air as two of his friends helped him to his feet.

  “You’ll pay for that you dumb Russian fuck!”

  Ivan ignored him and stalked to the red door, opening it and waving Inga by. He slammed the door so hard it shook the door frame. He was angry. Angry at himself and, even though he wouldn’t have admitted it, hurt at Inga’s intervention.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? She’s just a fucking machine.

  Her intervention had driven that fact home hard. He was nothing to her.

  “You will stand in that corner,” he snapped and pointed to the far corner of the room.

  As angry as he was at himself and her, he couldn’t bring himself to make her sit in the chair. The same chair that Molenski had pasted that poor bastard’s cock and balls over earlier.

  “Yes, Myfriend.”

  “You will wait there until Mr. Molenski comes.”

  “Are you upset with me, Myfriend?”

  His eyes widened.

  “What? Nyet. Go! Stand in the corner.”

  She looked at him a few seconds longer as if trying to solve a puzzle.

  “Yes, Myfriend.”

  She turned and walked past the bloodstains on the concrete floor to the corner and then turned to face the room, her eyes falling on him again. He ignored her and went to the bench and retrieved Molenski’s toolbox before carrying i
t to the table in the center of the room.

  Ivan’s eyes found the hammer. Its iron head was clean now, but a bloody fingerprint, stark against the yellow of the handle, was telling.

  He looked up at the pretty girl in the corner. Machine or not, she didn’t deserve what was coming. Didn’t deserve to be Molenski’s victim of torture. He remembered the way she had touched the bruise on her chin. She had felt pain and to her it was real. He felt his anger melt away.

  He walked to her, drinking in her beauty and wondered if he would be able to recognize her the next day when Molenski had finished with her… or if she would even be alive –operational; he corrected himself.

  She smiled radiantly as he approached.

  “Myfriend.”

  “Yes,” he said gently. “I…”

  He didn’t know what to say. After all the damage and death he had seen done to real humans in this room, why was he so affected by a damn machine?

  “Yes, Myfriend? Do you wish to communicate?”

  He shook his head helplessly.

  “No. I am going now. That’s all.”

  “Yes. I shall wait for Dimi. Goodbye, Myfriend.”

  Ivan suddenly found it difficult to think and escaped the room in a hurry. He rested against the closed door after he had exited and took a few seconds to calm himself.

  “Looks like someone’s got the hots for the boss’s next victim,” said Garcia, before taking a deep drag on a cigarette.

  Ivan took a step towards him and was rewarded when the loudmouth tensed and reached for his pocket.

  “Stay out of there if you know what’s good for you, Garcia,” said Ivan, unaware of how prophetic his words would come to be.

  He spat on the floor before stalking off.

  Danny didn’t risk voicing a comeback, but the look in his eyes was defiant.

  Molenski was silent on the back seat of the Limo. That suited Ivan fine. He couldn’t get Inga out of his mind and the silence on the twenty-minute ride to the airport gave him a chance to think about her without any distractions.

  He knew what he was feeling. A schoolboy crush. But on a robot. Why else had he been so hurt and angry when she had intervened on behalf of Garcia, earlier. But, even knowing how ridiculous it was to have a crush, to be feeling the first blush of love for a machine didn’t make the feeling any less real.

  He began to fantasize about taking her from the Red Room and escaping when they got back. He imagined shooting Danny in the face when he tried to stop them and Inga resting her head on his shoulder as they drove off into the night.

  A stupid fantasy. There was no way Inga would allow him to take her. She belonged to Molenski and he would have his bloody way with her tonight. Worse, Ivan would have to stand by and watch it.

  9

  Danny Garcia was angry and humiliated. He wanted to kill the big Croatian, but for now, that was a fight better left for another day. The girl, though, that was another story. The boys had calmed him down, and then one of them had produced a bottle of tequila.

  “Something to make you feel better, Danny!”

  With the courage of two shots warming his blood, Ivan’s warning only made the idea of messing with the sexy bitch in the Red Room more appealing. The big bastard obviously had a thing for her, but he wasn’t the one to be concerned about, Molenski was where the buck stopped.

  After the third shot of the Mexican liquor, he managed to convince himself Molenski wouldn’t mind – after all, no one that entered the Red room left in one piece. Surely the boss wouldn’t begrudge him a few minutes of fun.

  He decided he would pay the pretty little chica a visit. One she wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

  When the bottle was finished, the others stood up to head back into the air-conditioned guard's room to watch TV and loaf around until the next shift started.

  “I’ll just have another smoke,” Garcia said, lighting up and waiting until they had closed the door.

  He took a last deep drag and stubbed it out. Time for some fun.

  Garcia went to the red door and opened it slowly. She was standing in the corner looking at him as if she had been waiting. Creepy, but whatever. He closed the door and turned the latch. Best not to have anyone stumble in while he was busy.

  “Hey, Chica! I thought you might be getting lonely in here.”

  The girl didn’t respond. Didn’t move in fact, just stared ahead, her eyes not even following him as he approached and leaned over her, propping himself against the wall with one arm.

  “Aww, don’t be shy chica, Danny’s gonna make it all right,” he whispered, into her ear.

  She started straight through him.

  “The fuck? Are you meditating or are you a fucking retard?”

  Nothing.

  Hell, maybe she was drugged. Garcia reached out and touched her bruised jaw.

  “I guess you like it rough chica…” he whispered, before allowing his eyes to crawl over her body. He felt himself stir. This bitch was hot. Like, supermodel hot. He wondered briefly what she had done to get in the boss’s bad books, then shrugged it off.

  Her misfortune was his good fortune.

  He dropped his hand to the hem of her dress, his fingertips brushing the soft, warm skin of her thigh as he grasped the material and slowly pulled it up, watching greedily as it slipped up over her smooth skin to reveal her white panties. Still, she stared straight ahead like she was in a trance.

  He began to breathe a bit harder as he placed his second hand on her other side, running it down the warm curve of her hip and down to her thigh. He pulled the dress even higher and his right hand made its way between her legs, where his finger touched the white triangle of her panties and the promise beneath. It was then he glanced up and found her blue eyes wide open and looking at him curiously.

  His hand froze in place.

  “Chica! You’re awake.”

  Garcia felt his face redden. It made him angry. Why the fuck should he be embarrassed?

  “Who are you?”

  “Aww, that don’t matter, bitch.”

  He pulled his hands away and straightened before reaching into his belt and pulling out a small knife. He tapped it against his cheek thoughtfully.

  “What matters is you keeping your mouth shut and enjoying what I’m going to do for you, okay?”

  “Is Dimi coming soon?”

  “What?” he asked, annoyed. “What are you, slow? Don’t worry about Dimi; it’s me you need to worry about.”

  “Where is Myfriend?”

  “What the fuck, bitch!?”

  Garcia swung an open hand at her face. It never landed. Never even got close. Impossibly fast, the girl’s hand snatched his wrist mid-flight and held it in a vice like grip.

  “No one is to touch me without the express permission of my owner, Dimitri Molenski.”

  Garcia tried to shake her off, but her grip was vicelike. Enraged, he swung a punch with his other hand, and Inga also caught that hand

  Not the sharpest tool in the shed, it was then, caught like Brer Rabbit in the tar baby, Danny Garcia finally realized that the girl was a robot.

  He struggled a little longer, angry not only at the fact she had bested him but also that he had not recognized her – it – for what it was.

  “Okay – okay,” he said, eventually realizing that resistance was futile. “Let me go; I’ll keep my hands off.”

  Inga released him, and Garcia rubbed his wrists, looking warily at her as he began to slowly back away.

  Unlike Ivan and his boss, Garcia, now aware of what she was, had no problem seeing Inga as only a machine, and she terrified him. As a child, he’d been terrified of a doll that his sister owned. It was one of those big dolls that had eyes that opened when you stood it up. Add in a couple of science fiction and horror movies at a too impressionable age, and his phobia of mechanical humans had been deeply entrenched.

  Now he knew the truth about Inga; he couldn’t wait to get out. When he thought he had put a safe distance betw
een them, he turned and hurried to the door.

  If not for bad timing, he might have left the room alive.

  10

  In an apartment four blocks away from Dimitri Molenski’s enclave, three men were assembled around a bank of monitors and computer equipment. Two of the men stood, while the other, pale and sweaty, sat on a chair. The ID card on his pocket stated he was Tim Redfern, Genitix Robotics Technician.

  Just a few hours before, he and his driver had been forced off the road on their way to deliver a custom made Sinthetica model to a customer in an exclusive part of Chicago. The driver had been killed with a double tap, two shots to the head from a silenced pistol, and Tim had been taken captive and forced to drive the van, with the body of the driver and the robot to an abandoned warehouse.

  “You will install this in the machine,” the bigger of the two men had ordered, handing him a clear plastic sleeve containing a tiny interface card.

  “What is it?”

  “It is a computer card,” said the big man, simply.

  “Yeah, I can see that, but what’s its function?”

  “Never mind, you’ll find out soon enough.”

  He had indeed.

  Initially, he thought that the card had only allowed the men to track the robot’s movements via the handheld GPS unit they had. But since then, he had discovered it also let them see what the robot was seeing – to tap directly into its visual feed which was displayed in glorious HD color on the monitors in front of him.

  But all of that paled into insignificance, compared to the primary and far more sinister function of the card. A function that allowed a user to remotely override all of the robot’s hard coding and give it orders.

  With the muzzle of a gun against his temple, he had been informed that he would be entering new codes when they received a call to give them the all clear.

  “What do you want it to do?”

  “Simple, you’re to program it to kill everybody in the building.”

  Tom had glanced at the three screens showing what appeared to be three levels of a very large building and surrounding grounds. He was in shock and didn’t take the time to count, but there appeared to be more than thirty heat signatures.