Synthetics

by B. Wulf

  Reality is a douche.

  The little old man grasped my arm as I made to leave. He drew me close, pulled my head down and whispered something unintelligible into the vicinity where my ear would have been. He seemed so contrite. Must be as blind as a bat. Bidding the man goodbye, I strode down the deserted hall, through the sandstone-bricked entrance and out into the street. A crowd of motorists and pedestrians had already gathered. The police would arrive soon.

  I better make it quick.

  Samara lay on her back. Her arms reached up to the sky. She looked like a toddler waiting for a hug.

  “Fletcher?”

  “Yes it's me.”

  Stuart had pulled up beside us. He was screaming something at me, but at this moment he was irrelevant.

  “You're going to kill me now?” she asked.

  “Yes. I think I am.”

  “Okay.”

  I stood over her, stealing her sunlight. She didn't need it anyway. I raised the gun.

  “Wait...”

  I waited.

  “Do you want to know a secret?”

  I nodded.

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  I nodded again.

  “I used to have green eyes.

  I nodded once more, paused… inclined my head to the side and pulled the trigger. Once... Twice... The third time was a charm. Each shot brought a spasm of writhing limbs and garbled noise, until she no longer moved. I noticed a dark substance pooling on the tarmac. Whether she was bleeding or had sprung a leak was debatable.

  I heard screams and saw people running. I stood amidst the chaos feeling eerily at peace. I noticed the old man calmly hobbling down the sidewalk, oblivious to the scene behind him. The police had started to arrive. Sirens and lights and nervous men with guns, started to appear.

  I was about to hop into the car when I saw the old man knocked to the ground by a fleeing bystander. I imagined his innocent distress as he crawled to his knees searching in vain for his broken zimmer frame. I contemplated rushing to his aid, swatting aside the policemen to help him. I was still contemplating it as I was dragged back into the escape car.

  I didn’t struggle.

  Inside Stuart sat silently at the wheel for a second before accelerating away down the crowded suburban street.

  “Aren’t we glorious,” I said taking one last look at the hunk of metal lying on the tarmac.

  Stuart glanced at me and then fixed his attention back at the road. “Aren’t we?”

  ***

  CANA must have some friends in high places because the police gave up pursuing us after a few minutes. The ride back to the airstrip was awkward and silent.

  Stuart stopped the car on the tarmac, at least a hundred meters away from the plane. I started walking towards the jet but Stuart put his hand on my shoulder to stop me.

  “Did that feel good?” he said.

  “What are you on about?” I shrugged his arm off.

  “You didn’t have to kill her Staggers. She was screwed up. We could have taken her.”

  “I had to kill her,” I replied, “You weren’t in there. You don’t know what she was Stuart.”

  Stuart started pacing and shaking his head.

  “Well I’m starting to see what we are, Staggers.”

  He took my hand and shook it, “I like you Staggers. You’re a good guy. Now can you promise me one thing?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t chase me.”

  He turned and ran. That was the last time I ever saw Stuart, just a little fading speck on a bronze horizon.

  ***

  The jet ride home was uneventful; I spent most of it playing tetris, staring at the clouds and wondering if I should of chased Stuart. No, I should not have chased Stuart; I should have gone with him.

  “So who were you?” I asked Frederick at one stage of the flight.

  I was sick of suffocating in the tedium. At first I thought he wasn't going to reply. After about thirty seconds, words started to spill out.

  “An accountant.”

  Well perhaps spill is an overstatement, dribble might be a more suitable word.

  “Really? And?”

  “That’s it.”

  I was beginning to realize that sarcasm and flippancy were one of the primary tools used to cope with unfortunate circumstances.

  “Family?” I asked.

  This was the sucker punch to the face. I could tell by how he answered so quickly.

  “No.”

  Guinea Pigs sing more than Frederick talked.

  “Love?”

  “No.”

  “Pets?”

  “A dog.”

  “Cool.”

  My theory was that Frederick's dog had left him for another master while Frederick was off auditing some multinational corporate empire. So heart broken was poor old Frederick that he took to the bottle and spent all of his time playing cards. One smoky night Sasha waltzed into Frederick's favorite hangout and won his undying devotion in a game of Texas Holdem poker.

  “What happened to your dog?” I asked.

  “It's at my sisters.”

  The plot thickens.

  “So you do have a family?”

  “No.”

  For some odd reason I kept picturing a choir of Guinea Pigs singing opera in Italian. A little fat brown one was singing like Pavarotti in baritone. The thought that I might be going a tad insane hadn’t occurred to me. Why point out the obvious?

  “Do you ever want to go back?” I asked.

  “To where?”

  “To what we used to be.”

  “Human?”

  “Yeah.”

  Frederick was smiling. Well in my mind he was. I also pictured him as a butler wearing a suit and carrying a white cloth over his forearm. Frederick was a good name for a butler.

  “Why would I ever want to go back? Look at us.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed.

  We both wanted to go back.

  ***

  Remembering the past is always gilded in golden nostalgia. Anticipating the future is always softened with hope. Dealing with the present is just straight up unpleasant.

  When did I become such a depressing individual? It could have around the time that I killed a seventy year-old Ukrainian lady who happened to be wearing a titanium alloy body… I only found out she was seventy on the flight home. She was probably a grandmother.

  “Fletcher?”

  “Yo.”

  I snapped out of my little reverie. I was in a board meeting with Sasha, Cole, Frederick and ten of the investors.

  “Why didn't you take the remains with you?”

  Sasha was addressing me. Everyone looked like futuristic toy soldiers except for Cole.

  I shrugged. (I'm a god not a saint.)

  “Didn’t really think about it,” I said.

  I was mulling over the thought that the only organic part of me left was my central nervous system. Bundle of nerves; I liked that joke. I used it a lot.

  “Hopefully Secretary Cosworth does not find out about this. Luckily I was able to make some calls. It was supposed to be clean.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  I thought Sasha was going to get his rocks off at me but he just dismissed the topic.

  “We are all under substantial amounts of stress. Mistakes are inevitable.”

  I found I still quite liked Sasha.

  “Now on to the next order of business.”

  This was the investors cue to start a general hubbub.

  “He's dead Sasha.”

  “You said we would be immortal.”

  “Free from sickness.”

  I only just noticed that there were only ten investors. Twelve minus Samara should equal eleven. Therefore one was missing. Man I got this math business down.

  “What happened?” I whispered to Cole at my side.

  “Kenneth Baxter died this morning. He was already eighty-five when he was integrated. It didn’t exactly work. Well it worked�
� It just didn’t keep working.”

  “Why should age matter? Aren't we immortal?”

  Cole grimaced. I envied that frown.

  “Not exactly. Brain cells still die, axioms decay, nerve endings wither away; we were experimenting with stem cells but we still haven't made enough progress yet. They are too unpredictable.”

  I should have been shocked. First I was told I was immortal now I just got told I was going to die. It wasn't that much of a biggie to me though.

  “What now?” I asked.

  Cole nodded at Sasha who was standing now.

  “Watch and see.”

  Sasha spread his hands wide.

  “I am sorry for your loss but this has always been a possibility.”

  “You knew this could happen?”

  I didn't catch which shiny individual said it but he, or she, didn't sound particularly happy.

  “It is a set back, yes. But this is a process and we can still move forward to phase two.”

  No one spoke. They seemed desperate.

  “Full integration,” continued Sasha, “Our Neural Transmutation Division has perfected a method for transferring a consciousness from the organic brain to an artificial brain.”

  One of the investors started laughing. “You expect us to believe this? Has it been tested successfully?”

  “No,” Sasha said, “Not on humans anyhow, but I will be the first to undergo full integration.”

  Everyone was silent.

  “I believe that concludes our meeting,” said Sasha, “Next time we meet, you shall see firsthand if Full Integration is a viable option.”

  I would have felt nauseous.

  Chapter 16

  I may not be able to breath but I can suffocate.

  I thought about finding some quaint little church to sit in. You know, like the conflicted protagonist does in the movies. I could seek solace by trying to focus spiritually. It seems to work, extreme close ups on their furrowed brow, perhaps a single bead of sweat trickling down their forehead. Their eyes would close and a thin sigh would escape their lips. Their hands would be folded with perhaps a crucifix necklace hanging from them. You could substitute another doohickey, depending on your personal religious orientation.

  If I could, I would sit in front of the mirror and pull faces at myself all day long.

  However, I then realized that I would be a tad out of place. Some heinous metal abomination in the holy sanctuary. I wouldn't quite fit. Religion is a human thing. I don’t know what I am. Undefined, perhaps.

  Instead of going to church I sat in Sasha's office overlooking Washington. This was the life. I am the pinnacle of human achievement and I didn't even have the guts to go for a casual stroll outside. I didn't want to scare the children. I told myself to think of the children. I wasn’t really in the mood for all the paparazzi that tailed me everywhere. The bright flashy lights played havoc with my optics.

  I was still staring out the window, wallowing in silky melancholy when Sasha walked in.

  “I'm surprised you're not out enjoying yourself and causing trouble Fletcher,” he said, sitting down on the black leather couch beside me, “Isn't that what young men do in their downtime?” We sat out of habit.

  “I've turned a new leaf. I’m trying to be mature.” Recently I had been thinking of drowning my sorrows with alcohol but I wasn't even sure if getting drunk was even possible. I bet if I tried hard I could find a way. I had all the time in the world to find a way. Well, if this full integration thing worked out.

  “What are you doing about Stuart?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” said Sasha, staring out the window. He managed to look tired. “We will give him space and perhaps he will come back. He needs time.”

  “What if he snaps and goes mental like Samara?”

  “Then we will find him… He has a tracker installed.”

  “And kill him?”

  Sasha turned to face me.

  “If we must.”

  “But it’s Stuart?”

  “He has a good heart. It won’t come to that.”

  I decided not to point out that Stuart didn’t actually have a heart at the moment.

  “What about the rest of the investors?” I asked.

  “This episode has taught me that we need to be more diligent in the future. I’m sorry Fletcher.”

  I started tapping my fingers on the coffee table. The glass veneer cracked.

  “Sorry for what?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t seen me break the glass.

  “For forcing this upon you. This is my fault, all of this. I should never have let the investors…”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’ll figure something out,” said Sasha standing up. “I had best be on my way. The procedure starts tomorrow.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “Thank you Fletcher. I truly am sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I watched the little old man stomp out of the room in his big slender body. He deserved more than this.

  ***

  Frederick and Cole had left on some errand for Sasha, so I was left alone at CANA. Perhaps they were off to cripple a nations economy or assassinate some dictators. It wouldn't have surprised me.

  A secretary girl came to inform me that I was to attend a party tomorrow. She called it a function. Lots of pretty people and powerful businessmen would be there. I guess Sasha had shifted his focus from keeping secretary Cosworth's support to securing more money.

  I didn't sleep much now days. I could sleep (theoretically) and I probably should have slept, but I just didn't feel like it. I just kind of wandered the halls of CANA. They were very nice halls. They got me pondering if aesthetics were relative or if there was an objective formula to beauty. I'm joking. At about two in the morning I found myself before the bust of some balding Greek philosopher, possibly Plato. The plaque directly below his dismembered head read, “Death is not the worst that can happen to men.”

  Perhaps an inscription a little less macabre would be better for company morale? Maybe something like, “A smile says a thousand words.” Short, sweet and infinitely less depressing. Apparently Sasha chose all of the artwork and furnishings for the CANA head office. I didn't quite agree with his taste.

  As I stared at the balding head I realized I had come to the point of tedium. Life was dull and tasteless. I wasn't depressed. That involves a degree of emotion.

  “I used to have green eyes.”

  What the hell Samara. Couldn't you have thought of something more dramatic? The Jungle Book has more emotive one-liners than your crap.

  I killed.

  For some reason when killing is for a cause it is no longer called murder but justice. I killed Samara. Did I mention I killed Samara? It was all good though because I pretty much saved humanity’s future in the process.

  I used to be a lot more sincere.

  A purpose: that is what I needed. Something to keep my mind occupied. Well, I had a purpose. My mere existence paved the way for mankind's golden age; free from suffering and death. You don't need a purpose anyway. Pleasure is good enough. Sadly my capacity for enjoying pleasure was severely retarded. I could still get pleasure in just as many ways as before, perhaps even more ways now, but I just didn't feel like it anymore.

  Guilt.

  That was the emotion I was missing. I killed Samara. Even if it was the right thing to do, which was a completely different argument in itself, I should feel bad for the life I had extinguished. In reality I wasn't overly worried. I felt a tad shocked perhaps. It had left a bad taste in my proverbial mouth.

  I want options. I want a crossroad instead of a one-way street.

  I would settle for action. Action doesn't usually require too many thought processes. It's largely instinctive. Time consuming is good.

  At least I had a party to look forward to.

  Leaving the statue, I trudged back to my room to watch TV.

  ***

  “Oh h
ow wonderful. It must have been an interesting line of work.”

  I had just told a ditzy crimson-lipped brunette that I used to own half of the oil refineries in Libya. She apparently believed me.

  One of the investors probably did own half the oil refineries in Libya.

  “Not half as interesting as you,” I responded.

  I was sucking whatever amusement I could get from this situation. She had her head cocked to the side, clutching a glass of red stuff in a wine glass (which was quite possibly wine) and a cigarette in one hand. We were both working each other. She just didn't know it.

  “Stop it,” she giggled like a prissy twelve year-old, “You look like a knight in shining armor, you know.”

  No, I’d never heard that before.

  If only I could take my armor off.

  “And you look like my princess,” I replied.

  I leant in closer. We were on a balcony overlooking the CBD while the party raged indoors. I liked the breeze. I liked to imagine its touch on my skin.

  “Such a charmer.”

  She wouldn't stop giggling and preening. She was like a canary with ADD.

  “Perhaps I can be your Prince Charming?” I wasn't letting up.

  The romantic drivel was flowing freely. It felt good. I may not have found a way to get wasted but this was the next best thing.

  “Really Fletch?”

  Her free hand was covering her heart. She appeared sincere. It frightened me. No one called me Fletch anymore. Before I could stop myself I had sworn at her and stormed inside. I kept swearing softly to myself.

  I found a seat beside Cole at a near-empty table below the stage.

  “What's wrong?” he asked.

  “Headache,” I replied.

  “That's not good.” He gave me his full attention. “Perhaps we should run some tests when we get back.”

  “I meant figuratively,” I grunted.

  “Oh, well we can resume your sessions with...”

  “Can you shut up?”

  “Certainly Fletcher.”

  Awkward much. Cole recoiled slightly. Perhaps I overreacted. Good thing I didn't care.

  The lights suddenly dimmed and a spotlight centered on the stage. The crowd fell silent. The hall seemed empty without the steady murmur of animated conversation. I wondered what all the hush was about. A movement at the edge of the stage drew my attention. It was Sasha.