Living in Syn (2 page)

Mission was pinned against the railing, and he felt his
breath squeezed out, felt the pressure on his sternum, felt his whole rib cage
trying to bend.  He squirmed furiously, trying anything to wriggle free.  He
dimly perceived his shots peppering her upper body, exploding on impact into
tiny flares that burned right through the alloy chassis.  Her eyes lost their
intensity and she stopped moving.  Mission used his Glock to smack her arm at
the inside of the elbow joint.  The syn was now brain dead, the joint folded
neatly and he gulped for air.

Suddenly he remembered where he was and he jumped up to
grab the bottoms of the next flight of the fire escape stairs.  As he grabbed
hold and pulled his legs up, Brown charged through the remains of the window. 
Perhaps he hoped to ram Mission off the fire escape, perhaps he didn't care if
they both went over.  He rushed through the empty space where Mission had been
and crashed through the railing, grabbing on to a still connected section as he
started to fall.  Mission looked down to see Brown clinging precariously to the
railing.  At the same time he noticed his Glock on the fire escape floor,
dropped when he grabbed hold of the steps.

Mission was in real trouble here.  He didn't want to go
back down on the floor.  His first law of survival said to stay out of arm's
reach of an angry syn.  On the other hand, Brown would pull himself back up
onto the fire escape in no more than two seconds.  Mission swung back toward
the building to gain momentum and when he swung out towards the fire escape, he
let go.  He fully extended his left leg and made sure it pushed Brown's right
arm away.  Then and only then did his right foot catch him at the junction of
the neck and the shoulder, throwing him off the staircase.

Mission landed awkwardly, as all his concentration was focused
on placing his feet properly on the syn.  His feet hit at an angle and skidded
off the floor.  He grabbed frantically at the railing, and it came off in his
hand.  In one last act of desperation, he swung the other hand around and
latched onto the railing remnant, just as the full weight of his body pulled
him down.  Groaning at the sheer effort, he pulled himself up to the point
where he could swing a leg up onto the floor.  Then the other leg, and he
collapsed in a heap at the floor's edge, gasping for air and clinging tightly
to the railing.  Mission noticed that his vision blurred.  It might be a while
before he could stand up.

"Bastard!", screamed Brown.  "You killed
her!"

He startled Mission so much that he almost fell off the
landing. He got as high up on his knees as he could and sneaked a peak down
below.  Brown was climbing up the dangling railing.  That didn't make sense. 
He was coming after him when he could drop to the ground and certain freedom. 
Brown locked eyes with him, and tears streamed down his face.  Genuine
emotional pain controlled his expression and he choked out, "I loved her."

The words stunned Mission.  Then he realized the next hand
up would grab the floor.  He looked for the Glock.  No time!  Brown's hand
touched the landing and Mission slapped it, palm down.  The switch tripped and
20,000 volts pulsed through the syn.  The hate in the teary eyes, the clenched
teeth, everything went blank and his whole body went limp.  Except for the hand
that took the charge.  It was locked in place and would stay that way.

Mission recovered his gun, and picked up a piece of the
railing to break out the rest of the glass in the window.  He tried to step
through the window without hurting his back and failed.  He saw spots swirling
in front of him and he worried about the amount of blood he lost.  He fell down
close to the bed and fished through his pockets for a cigarette.  He found a
broken and wet one.  He would smoke it anyway.  Once he had it going, he
grabbed his com and punched the speed dial.

The nicotine flooded though his lungs and he felt better
already.

"Yes, this is Mission.  I need Recovery for two ...
and Medical Assistance for me.  Yes, I'm human!"

He slammed the com against the wall.  "Jesus!  Fucking
syns answer the phone to send syns to pick up the syns that I just
wasted."

Med tech stations definitely irritated Mission.  You see,
no matter how convincing a synthetic appeared, you couldn’t believe they
sympathized with your pain when they splashed alcohol on an open wound, or
threw in three more stitches after the pain killer wore off.  The tech
attending him angered him even more when he tried 15 stitches before deciding
that too much skin was lost to close the wound on his back.  Now they were
cleaning and packing it instead.     

But one of the reasons he was angry was completely beyond
their control, and their understanding.  The struggle had ruined most of his
clothes, and anything not already ruined was cut off him by the techs.  He had searched
through almost 100 trench coats at the Salvation Army store before he found one
he would wear.  And after that, the careful instructions to the seamstress to
sew the wire in the left arm, under the lining and then out at the waist.  All
gone, along with his sweatshirt, his jeans, and his tennis shoes.  And on top
of all that, Paradox wanted him on the com.

"Am I okay? Oh hell yes!  I'm okay!  These med techs
are reaming and packing my back as part of a cosmetic surgery package.  Next
they’ll do liposuction. What the hell kind of question is that to ask?"

The kid on the other end of the com screen may have been
twenty.  He tugged at his collar and got no relief.  Reluctantly, he asked,
"Well, do you feel like talking now?"

It was doubtful that the kid could have said anything
right, but in Mission's estimation, the kid had picked the absolute stupidest.

"Do you hear the way I’m talking? Do you see this
clamp on my jaw?  It's holding it in place until they can wire it back
together."

The kid gulped.  "Dr. St. Jean would like a conference
as soon as possible and I .."

Now Mission was roaring.  "Susan St. Jean is a
sadistic, slave driving recluse from the human race.  In fact ... "

"Hello Mission.  I'm sorry to hear about your injuries." 
Susan even managed a smile.  As always, she had not a hair out of place.  Her
clothes were as perfect as her icy reserve.

"You're sorry I was injured?  You're slipping out of
character."

"I didn't say I was sorry you were hurt.  I said I was
sorry to hear about it."  There, that smile that carried all the warmth of
absolute zero.

Mission nodded. "Well, I walked into that one.  But I
won’t dance our little dance tonight.“  He motioned with his chin toward the
tech and adjusted the IV drip. “I'm sailing on Dilaudid." He smiled
dreamily.

"I am happy for you.  You know I need to do my
interview as close as possible to the recovery.  When can you come in?"

She left Mission speechless for several seconds.  "You
and the whole goddamned company are unbelievable.  Tell me, is the name Paradox
derived from the phenomena that everyone in the company talks, but no one
listens?  I am going home to stay wasted for the next couple of weeks.  Then
when I can move without reinjuring my back, I’ll come in.  Until then, we can
do this on the com or you can come to my place."

Susan's eyes flashed.  "You know I won't do an
interview over a com.  This is too important to risk losing ... "

"A single gesture, a facial expression, the slightest
nuance.  Yes, I know your feelings on the subject.  So ... "

"So what?"

"So what time should I expect you?"

She hesitated.  "You …  I don't want to know anything
personal about you .... you assassins."

Mission looked her in the eye with some humor still
remaining.  "And Susan, you know I don't like to be ripped open by a
renegade syn but ... "  He gestured over his shoulder at the techs who
were still packing his wound.  "Life is just a series of
compromises."

"Oh wait a minute, Mission.  I want to write that one
down.  Let's see ... Life .. is ... just a series ... "

Her sarcasm complete for the moment, she looked back up at
the screen.  "How is 7:00 tomorrow evening?"

"That's fine.  You have my address?"

"Paradox does.  I'll see you tomorrow at seven."

"Good-bye, Susan."

Mission found himself staring at a blank screen.  At 7:00
tomorrow night, Dr. St. Jean would experience an about face.  Because
he
would ask the questions.  Questions about emotions and pair bonding ...  He
smiled grimly to himself.  Yes, and questions about Miller.

The intercom beeped at Mission and raised him from a deep,
turbulent sleep. He felt for his remote control with no success. 
"Yes?"

“Dr. Susan St. Jean, ID Number 407dash ..."

"Fine, fine.  I don't care what her ID number is. 
Entry privilege is granted."

Mission looked around and was far less than satisfied.  He
started the day with the best of intentions.  He would clean up some for Susan,
lest he confirm her prejudices about his being a Neanderthal.  But even he had
underestimated how badly he been hurt. Oh well, he could do nothing now.  The
chimes sounded and he deactivated the electronic sentry with his password. 

Susan stood in the doorway.  As Mission had expected, she
still wore her work clothes.  If she  made a statement with her clothes, it was
that she was strictly business.  No sexual content.  No allowances for comfort,
even during the summer.  No statements of color preference or identification
with any of the current styles.  She rotated between variations of three basic
outfits.  The black, the navy blue, and the charcoal women's power suit.

Her dark hair fell perfectly on her shoulders with not a
strand out of place.  She carried two basic facial expressions, reserve and
disapproval.  She wore the reserve right now, but Mission was sure that would
change very soon.

She nodded and said, "Mission.  I suppose I expected
too much in assuming you would wear clothes?"

Mission nodded solemnly.  "I do apologize Susan.  But
you see, I don't own a syn, and I can't seem to get a shirt on without
assistance.  If you’d like to help me, I'd be happy to get dressed."

"No, no.  I don't want you to make changes for me. 
After all, this is your home."

"Well, that's most gracious of you.  Look, I need some
caffeine to wake me up.  Would you like coffee, or another beverage?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

She selected the most uncomfortable chair available, a
wooden chair without a pad from the eating area, and placed it opposite the
sofa where Mission reclined.  She watched him closely as he pulled himself off
the sofa and hobbled into the kitchen.  She nodded to herself for an instant
and then pursed her lips. She couldn’t decide whether he was one of those men
who survived off their looks, or one of those Free Zone street hustlers who
forged their trade on snappy patter and fast hands.

She supposed him to be a combination of the two.  Certainly
women found him attractive.  His unkempt brown hair and his mouth with its knowing,
cynical grin were obvious strong points.  For some women. But those smoke blue/gray
eyes really set him apart.  To Susan they were an enigma.  Out of place on a
superficial rogue, they had unusual depth and a penetrating quality.  The three
inch scar running down his left jawbone completed an impression of danger and
excitement. 

Even Susan winced when she saw the wound on his back.  It
ran from the trapezius almost two feet down his back with ugly black bruises
extending three inches in either direction.  The bruise spread out in area and
in color as it reached his neck, wrapping around his shoulders in a rainbow of black,
blue, green and even yellow.  As he turned around to pour the coffee, she
studied his face.  His left cheek looked like he had a large penny candy in his
mouth.  The other side lost most of its skin, and was covered in salve.  As a
finale, the center of his chest carried an odd looking formation of bruises.

Susan looked around the apartment.  She could only label it
a study in conflicts.  The empty liquor bottles on top of stacks of books
spilling all over the floor.  Mathematics, logic and symbolism, literature, and
philosophy. Gödel, Camus, and Dashiell Hammett? Dirty dinner plates now finding
utility as ashtrays. Herbs growing in the kitchen window.  A computer system
turned sideways for easy access to the internals with a tool kit scattered all
about the floor.  And vintage jazz, perhaps Miles Davis and John Coltrane,
playing softly somewhere in the background.

He hobbled back to the sofa, spilling a good measure of his
coffee, and sat down.  He looked at her and she said, "Mission, you are a
mess.  Have you ever thought about a line of work that doesn't involve risking
your life?"

He smiled a humorless smile.  "Well, let's just say
that I find this the most palatable of several less than attractive
options."

She asked, "What are those bruises on your
chest?"

"Palm print.  With tiny bruises for each of the
fingers above it.  Female syn tried to push me through a fire escape."

"I see."  Susan reached for her briefcase to
retrieve the interview questions.  As she opened her notebook and turned on the
recorder, she said, "We may as well get started then."

Mission shook his head.  "Not this time Susan.  This
time I want information too, and I want to go first.  Then we'll complete your
form."

She didn't even consider it.  "Ridiculous.  I'll do
nothing of the sort, and if you don't cooperate, the company will be happy to
... "

"Happy to go on paying me.  Top management doesn't
really care about your psychological programs.  If they did, they'd reward me
to take out the syns with a blaster to the chest.  But instead, I'm paid a
bonus when I fry them.  It's quick and clean and doesn't attract any
attention.  But it does leave you without a brain to study, doesn't it?"

"They do not pay you a bonus for electrocution."

Mission grinned.  "Sure they do.  Don’t you know how
the company compensates us for recoveries?" 

He measured her disbelief for a moment and said,
"Don't take my word for it, check out my pay record for popping Brown. 
Computer, you have incoming mail from Paradox?"

The soft female voice responded, "Two items ...
financial transfer records."

"Display."

The upper two thirds of one entire wall sprang to life and
showed the calculations for Mission's payment for each of the synthetic
recoveries.

"Highlight bonuses for Tom Brown recovery."

The screen showed that Mission had received extra for not
involving the police, for not injuring bystanders, for not destroying property
(Free Zone property didn't count), and for electrocution.  Susan was biting her
lip.

"They told me they were doing everything possible to further
my research."

Mission watched her struggle for control, and he felt like
a horse’s ass. He didn’t mean for this to happen. But he also had no idea what
to say to make it better. Maybe if he got her focused on work. "Hey Susan,
look, I really need to understand about synthetic emotions and their
development.  You're all that I've got.  So you have to help me a bit, and then
I will gladly do your interview.  Okay?"

Only the slightest trembling of her lower lip revealed the emotion
underneath.  She  looked up and with tremendous reserve said, "What do you
want to know?"

Mission shrugged.  "Just general stuff.  Like, why did
Paradox decide to give emotions to the syns?"

Susan took a deep breath and closed her eyes.  Bingo. He could
already see her shifting into work mode, readying herself to explain a complex
subject to someone who could never understand. "Two different priorities
converged to drive synthetic emotions.  Sales and marketing pushed hard for
them.  People wanted them to have emotions.  They were frightened by something
that looked so human, but had no feelings.  Have you ever been around someone
who had a dog or a cat?"

"Sure."

"Well, you might have noticed a tendency to project
human emotions, likes and dislikes onto the pet.  Like having them live
inside.  Dogs not only survived but thrived for the last hundred thousand years
living outside.  But we assume they would rather be inside because we would
rather be inside.  So they wander around confused, wondering why everything
smells like household deodorizer, wondering where all the other animals are,
and so on."

Mission nodded. “Yes. Anthropomorphism.”

Susan rewarded him with a faint smile. "Yes.  The
point is, this is a very strong tendency to project human attributes onto
non-human household members.  And sales took off once we added the emotional
features to our synthetics."

Mission nodded.  "You said there were two factors. 
What was the other?"

Susan pulled her hands apart and then folded them neatly in
her lap again.  "We still don't know much about how the human brain
works.  We only look at the brain and make crude imitations, not always
understanding why they succeed or fail.  The learning factor became Paradox's
greatest impediment to successfully placing synthetics in the home."

Mission put up a hand.  "I'm not sure I'm following
you.  What is this learning factor?"

Susan looked up to the ceiling.  Obviously, she was
searching for the best way to explain this to a primitive like Mission. 
"Our first synthetics went into predictable environments.  Factories where
the machinery was known well ahead of time, assembly lines where the procedures
rarely if ever changed, those sorts of work places.  When they went into a home
or other dynamic situations, they made people angry with their inability to
learn and to adjust to changes.  They didn't figure out that Mom likes the
roast a little burned, or that Dad hates synthetics and to stay out of his
way."

"So we incorporated learning routines into the brain. 
It should have been very straightforward.  We understood all the mechanics for
learning, where the storage and the various functions were located in the
brain.  Then we took the synthetics out for tests and ... well, let's just say
it was a complete failure."

"How?"

"Most of them simply shut down.  The learning features
allowed unresolvable paradoxes to creep into their logic units, and they became
trapped inside their own conundrums."

Mission smiled.  "Good word.  What happened to the
ones that didn't shut down?"

"Well, here I risk being guilty myself of projecting
human characteristics onto a synthetic, but the best description I can give is
that of a recluse.  They stopped accepting input from anyone or anything, and
simply found a place to hide."

Mission looked at her for a moment and then asked,
"Okay ... then how do emotions figure into this?"

"Well, Paradox tried dozens of different schemes to
make the learning work.  All failures.  Until we built a sort of limbic system
for emotional responses.  By accident, we discovered that having input filtered
through the limbic complex resolved the vast majority of problems.  We just
don't understand why this helps."

Mission looked at Susan critically and then pointed at
her.  "You are too modest.  You made the discovery, didn't you?"

He had done the impossible and caught her by surprise.  The
look of shock registered for only an instant and then she regained control. 
"Mission, you surprise me.  But yes, you are correct."

"You said in the vast majority of cases.  Would those
exceptions comprise the majority of my targets?"

"Yes, the introduction of emotions is not without
drawback.  A very small percentage, much smaller in fact than their human
counterparts, develop quite human psychoses such as schizophrenia, depression,
and manic depression."

"Do you have ideas as to why?"

She allowed a frozen smile.  "I have my theories,
yes.  I think they are the remaining learning problems.  The human mind is all
about collecting data, and then modeling reality in the mind, to project results
and to anticipate needs.  The most common mental problems occur when the
feedback loop is disrupted for some reason.  Then the data or the modeling, or
both fail to correspond to the common perceptions of society.  Many of the
problems can be traced to constant exposure to a family member with emotional
difficulties themselves." 

"This is the most delicate area in the entire
synthetic mind.  You see, for obvious reasons, our programming emphasizes that
an owner is correct, that they should be obeyed, and so forth.  So it is quite
difficult for a synthetic to determine that a human's input is flawed and
should therefore not be incorporated into the cognitive model.  On the other
hand, if the synthetic doesn't make this call or makes it too late, the mind
can be irrevocably tainted."

"Interesting.  And very helpful."  Mission sat up
straight and tried to look behind those eyes.  "Now I want to know about
the female syn I tangled with yesterday."

"What do you mean?"

Mission was parental in his tone. “Susan. Don’t play
innocent with me."  He shook his head.  "What do you mean?" he
mimicked.

"I mean why wasn't she ever reported as missing?  How
does a syn become screwed up enough to be able to strike first?  And she wasn't
trying to incapacitate me, she went directly for the kill.  So why don't you
tell me about a Paradox combat model?"

Susan looked up sharply.  Then she shook her head. "You
were hurt badly. And I think you’re inventing answers because you can’t face
the truth."

Now Mission was mad.  "And exactly what is this
truth?” And before she could answer, Mission continued.  "So let's look at
the facts.  The truth. One.  She made me and then set me up like a pro.  That's
surveillance and tracking techniques.  Two.  She has training in urban combat
for a syn.  The way she took the door out and used it for cover across the room
was brilliant.  But only a syn would have the strength to pull it off.  Three. 
She was an enhanced model.  I hit her in the head with a 70neg charge and it
glanced off.  It took five shots at point blank range to the chest cavity to
drop her.  Now you tell me she's not a combat model."

Susan sank lower in her chair and said nothing.

The anger continued to well up in Mission and he poured it
all over the conversation.  "And I want to know where she was when she
went renegade, and when.  Because after tangling with her, I know what happened
to Miller.  He was killed by a combat model. It’s the only answer!"