Living in Syn (23 page)

She
crawled back to cover and the clearly gloating computer voice told them they
had fifteen seconds.  Mission grinned at Pierce and he grinned back.  Mission
shouted, "Hell of a fight!  What if we blow the control panel?"

Pierce
shrugged, so Mission lined it up and ...

The
entire door they had used to enter the bay blew off the hinges taking part of
the wall with it.  The force of the explosion snatched them up and tossed them
like rag dolls.  It was strange.  Mission couldn't think.  He couldn't possibly
stay conscious.  Yet his eyes still saw and his ears still heard.

A group
of five dived through the hole in the wall, wearing full combat gear.  Everyone’s
attention was on this new group.

Mission
didn't recognize their weapon, but it took three of them to carry it.  Carson
screamed, “No!”

It was
some sort of huge, rapid fire, high impact mini cannon.  One of the three
setting it up was female. She turned slightly and Carson screamed again.
“Vivienne!”

The
three took concentrated fire as they completed setup. Two of them fell heavily.
But the canon was ready! A single sweep with the weapon across the two catwalks
utterly destroyed any still functioning syns.  Mission was dimly aware of that
damned computer voice saying, "... seven ... six ... five ... docking
aborted.  Docking procedure is aborted."

Mission
wondered who these rescuers were and why they couldn't have shown up five
minutes earlier.  He looked around for Susan.  She tried to move on her hands
and knees, shaking her head, and trying to regain her senses.  The back of her
head seeped blood.  Carson was screaming incoherently, and holding himself up
by locking his fingers in the forklift controls.  This was bad.  Mission could
smell it. Carson’s shoulder still burned with the chemical charges and he was
deep in the grip of shock.  He needed a med tech and some morphine now.  Then
Mission remembered that during his gravity defying run, he saw Montag wedged
behind the power shovel with an arm missing and a gaping, burning hole in his
abdomen.  In the dimmed recesses of his mind, it occurred to Mission that
Montag was the movement across the room he saw when the shooting started.  He
took several shots to shield them from the fire.

Mission
stood up and took a step.  When his foot touched the ground, he collapsed.  The
next thing he remembered was looking up and seeing a shirt with a med tech
emblem very close to his face.   She moved back and shined a penlight in his
eyes and frowned.

Mission
said, "I would like a drug overdose please ... "

When he
opened his eyes again, the med tech was strapping him to a stretcher.  He
looked over to the right and Susan was receiving similar treatment.  He
couldn't seem to keep his eyes open, but he tried to smile at her and said,
"See?  I told you I had a good feeling about this place."

Susan grimaced
and said, "You are a horse's ass."

He
opened his eyes again as they started to carry him out and he said,
"Wait!  Wait a damn minute!"

The med
tech tried to calm him and he struggled.  "No!  It's ... it's my partner,
Montag.  He's synthetic.  Tall, dark skinned, missing an arm.  He's ... he's
hurt over behind ... the power shovel.  He ... protected us.  Fix him ... fix
him up, okay?"

As the
med techs carted Pierce off, he reached out, grabbed onto the dozer and yanked
himself off the stretcher. Vivienne lay face down, motionless. Tears streamed
down Carson’s face as he gently cupped the back of head at her neck to turn her
over. He brushed back her hair from her face and…

Vivienne’s
face, burned by ion fire, revealed the polychromadrine underneath. She was a
syn!

It took
five med techs to pull Carson from the mining bay. The only intelligible word
amongst his screams was, “No!”

Mission
finally allowed himself to do one of those things that he not only enjoyed, but
was also quite good at.  He threw a fit at the med tech station and everyone in
it.

"You
are insane if you think I am spending the night here!  As pathetic and
claustrophobic as my room is, it is infinitely preferable to this place.  I
want a generous supply of Dilaudid, I want my arm repaired, and I want to be
carried back to my room."

The med
tech's expression was no different than if he had asked for a cup of tea. 
"You have experienced a number of physically debilitating trials tonight. 
Standard procedure is to hold the patient for observation for 24 hours."

"I
don't care about your standard.  It doesn't care about me.  I’m an individual
and I want to be treated as one.  When in the hell are you going to set this
arm?"

"We
are bringing a technician with an osteopathic specialty.  You do not have a
simple break.  The bone almost penetrated the skin."

"Wonderful. 
That's wonderful.  Does your expertise allow you to give me painkillers?"

"Yes,
I am fully qualified to ... "

Mission
roared, "Well give it to me and then get out of my sight!"

The tech
scurried to one of the cabinets to return and inject Mission.  Suddenly he
didn't know why he had been mad.  These techs did the best they could.  He
smiled at the wonderful tech and said,  "And the doctor here needs
painkiller as well."

Susan
said, "No I don't Mission.  I'm okay."

Mission
whispered to the tech, "I think she's still a little groggy.  You should 
leave her painkiller in case she suddenly needs it."

The med
tech left the room.  Mission turned to Susan and asked, "Have you heard
anything about Carson?"

She
shook her head and said, "No.  But I suspect it's much like your last
injury.  The wound is quite painful and it causes a high degree of shock, but
he should stabilize in a day or two. Physically, he’ll recover."

Mission
slowly nodded. "Yeah. I hope so.”

He
hesitated for another moment and then managed a weak smile. “See?  We made
it!"

"Yes,
Mission, but explain to me how we’re better off.  They killed Denman, shot and
beat the hell out of the rest of us, and now they’re giving us Band-Aids. 
Where’s the up side to all this?"

Mission
smiled dreamily.  "Oh, we are in the driver's seat now.  I'll give Atwood
till 8:00 tomorrow morning to bare his soul or I'll be on the com with the U.S.
Solar System Ambassador at 8:15, with troops here within twelve hours.  And now
we’re going to collect the data that's been slow in coming in and use it as
is."

He
struggled to prop himself on his pillow and nodded.  "I know we're not
finished, but we're in a position to drive it all to closure."

He
paused.  "So how are you?"

"Well,
I have this bald spot on the back of my head, where my hair was pulled out. 
And I get the feeling I'm going to be too sore to walk tomorrow.  But ... I'm
okay."

"Good
... I wake up a lot when I've been roughed up.  You mind if I call you?"

Now she
smiled.  "No, not at all."

Mission
and Susan talked for more than an hour that night.  The med specialist took
almost ninety minutes to set Mission's arm.  Then he molded a fiberglass rig
around Mission's upper body like a cutoff T-shirt.  The left sleeve extended
all the way to the hand and the elbow bent at a 90
o
 angle.  He would need another x-ray in four weeks to
monitor its progress.  He knew that after the first week, the cast would itch,
chafe, and smell terrible.  Something else to look forward to.

There
was a knock at the door and Mission yelled, "Come in."

Arthur
Atwood came in carrying a folding chair.  He unfolded it, set it down, and then
made himself comfortable.  He smiled and said, "Mission, I can't tell you
how relieved I am to know you and your team is alright.  The news about Dick is
dreadful, just dreadful."

He
clucked for a moment and then said, "Do you know what happened there in
the bay?"

Mission
was taken aback.  "Do I know?  Do I know?  How in the hell would I
know?"

Atwood
touched his index finger to his chin.  "Well, reviewing the facts I see
that we have synthetics that were more than three months overdue for
diagnostics and not a word from Paradox.  Suddenly the company calls in a
fluster, insisting on an immediate visit by a diagnostics team.  A standard
team is a junior grade engineer and two or three synthetic assistants.  Instead
we get the company's premiere psychologist/scientist, a bounty hunter, an Army
Major fresh from a combat tour, and a synthetic that is not registered to an
owner."

"They
come to our settlement, and begin to search through the city.  Then I get a
call that full scale warfare is erupting in the refining bay.  I am not
surprised to find that your team is right in the middle.  So why should I not
ask for an explanation?  The makeup of your team and the weapons you brought to
the settlement suggest you anticipated violence.  Your opponents in the bay
were Paradox synthetics.  So I ask again, what happened in there?"

Mission
smiled.  "Well, everything I heard about you suggested that you’re top
flight, and you are.  But no amount of finesse will get you out of this one. 
Now, something tells me that the brains of all the syns in that bay were somehow
destroyed.  But you and I both know that you are sitting on a powder keg of
modified, violent syns."

"And
I also know that I have enough information to get the ambassador and then the
Army in here, if we can't get to the bottom of this situation."

Atwood
smiled slyly.  "It's interesting you mention the Army.  I myself am
considering asking for military assistance.  Since Paradox is unwilling to
fully disclose what seems to be a tragic and violent flaw in their machines, I
may have to ask for a military recovery team to destroy the synthetics.  Here
and every place else in the solar system."

Mission
nodded.  "Okay Atwood.  Round one to you.  Enjoy it while you can."

Atwood
picked up his chair and walked to the door.  Mission said, "Arthur."

He
turned back around to look at Mission.

"I'm
empowered by Chandler Hunt to negotiate for Paradox if a settlement is
possible.  I try to do what I say, so I won't make promises.  I still don't
know the whole story.  But I'm not necessarily here to shut you down or to put
you in jail.  You strike me as a decent man.  I want you to know that there may
come a time when negotiation seems attractive.  I'll be here, ready to
talk."

"That
would be a very generous offer, Mission, if I had anything to hide.  Please let
me know if there is anything I can do to make your recovery more
comfortable."

Mission
banged his fist down on the bed frame.  Easy as pie.  Just like you planned. 
All that the incident in the bay accomplished was to reshuffle the deck.  Now
he had to back up and come at this problem from another angle.  One that didn't
involve outsmarting Atwood.

 An hour
later, Mission knocked on Susan's door.  She wore her bathrobe and her puffy
face radiated a rainbow of bruises.  He sat down next to her and said, "I
take it you feel like hell."

She
nodded and said,  "This is how you feel after one of your
encounters?"

He
nodded and she added, "And you do this willingly for a living?"

He
smiled, "For some reason, people perceive physical pain as much worse than
emotional abuse.  Truthfully, I'll take the bumps and bruises."

"Well,
each to his own.  I never want to do this again."

"I'll
remember that next time we choose members for a strike team."

Susan
cocked her head and said, "So why did you let me treat you so hatefully when
you were roughed up like this?"

"Oh,
didn't I mention I've been running a tab for you?"

"I
don't know how I can ever pay you back" she said with mock innocence.

"I
have some ideas."

Susan
looked at him with more scrutiny.  "So, did you talk to Atwood?"

"Yep,
and I earned an
F
in boardroom debating.  He's way over my head."

He told
Susan about the conversation and she listened carefully.  "I don't rate
that as a loss, Mission.  That was round one and you looked each other over. 
All he did was remind you that he has the home field advantage."

Mission
shook his head.  "No, he turned me over his knee, spanked me, and sent me
to bed without supper.  But, this is good to know.  I don't think I can
out-argue the man, so I'm going to look for another way to take this on."

He
turned to Susan and asked, "Have you given any thought to what happened? 
I mean, who were the ambushers and why did they attack, and who were the
rescuers?  There seems to be two groups in New Angeles, struggling for
power."

"I
don't know Mission, I can't make sense of it."

Mission
perked up and said, "Hey, you know why I came by?  I thought we might
visit Carson and Montag."

"Okay,
I'll grab a quick shower and then we can go."

"I'll
ask for a gravity sled.  I don't feel like walking."

Carson
smiled weakly as they walked in.  Mission nudged Susan with his elbow and said,
"You see?  Carson feels terrible because he hasn't thrown a fit, have
you?"

Carson
shook his head and Mission sat down at the foot of the bed.  He smiled and
said, "Okay, here's what you do.  You scream at the top of your lungs and
throw your bedpan at the first person who shows up.  Unless it's one of us. 
Then you make a lengthy series of completely unreasonable demands.  You know,
you want a tossed green salad for lunch, you want a personal assistant for the
duration of your stay, and you want to smoke Cuban cigars here in your room. 
Then you personally abuse the staff, questioning their ancestry, their mother's
virtue, and their father's actual genus and species.  Boy, will you feel
better."

Carson pointed
his chin toward Mission and said, "How bad is the arm?"

"It's
okay.  They'll take more pictures in three weeks, six days, and then hopefully
I get out of this fiberglass dinner jacket."

"Susan. 
How are you?"

"Just
sore.  I expect to be the Ice Queen again by this weekend."

"What
about Montag?"

"That's
where we're headed next.  We'll drop back by and let you know how he is."

Carson
nodded and said, "What about me?"

Susan
said, "A doctor hasn't spoken to you yet?"

As he shook
his head, Mission already yelled.  "Hello?  Can we get some information on
this patient?  When is the last time someone checked on him?"

When no
one appeared immediately, he fumbled at the databay with his unwieldy cast and
finally asked Susan to download Carson's chart into her com.  As the data came
available, he and Susan looked it over.

Susan
said, "You lost some muscle.  Burn trauma to the deltoids.  The IV drip is
feeding you a steroid combination to promote healing, and some new wonder drug
antibiotic."

Mission
grabbed the reference from her and said, "Hey, they are giving you some
wimpy anti-inflammatory for pain instead of an opiate."

A med
tech rushed in and said, "Only medical personnel are permitted access to
those files."

Mission
said, "Well, if you had been here ten minutes ago when we asked for
information, you could have stopped us.  Now what is the prognosis and when can
our friend get out of this torture chamber?"

"Major
Pierce can leave in seven to ten days, depending on the progress of his injury
in repairing itself."

"And
what purpose will it serve for him to stay here?  Once you switch from IV to
injection or ingestion, why can't he stay in his own room and come in for a
checkpoint every morning?"

"Major
Pierce suffered a serious injury and he cannot simply ... "

"Are
you the Senior Technician?"

"Well,
... no, I am not."

"Well,
you do this.  You tell the Senior Tech that Major Pierce is checking out
tomorrow morning and will be back each morning at 8:00 for an examination. 
Okay?"

"Mr.
Mission, that simply is not possible."

"Well,
maybe you should sell tickets to all your friends, because the impossible will
happen tomorrow morning.  Now get the hell out of here."

She
scurried out and Mission looked at Carson and said, "See?  I feel much
better."

Carson
smiled a weak, perfunctory smile and said, "Thanks for coming by."

Susan
patted his hand and said, "We'll be back this afternoon, Carson. 
Okay?"

But he
was already asleep.  They left as quietly as possible and asked the gravity
sled driver to take them to synthetic repair.

Mission
watched the route carefully.  They moved through the connector to the B Hub and
through a twisted trail, finally entering a triple-sized room.  Technicians
wearing sterilized garments inside a controlled environment made repairs,
adjustments, and enhancements to the synthetics. 

Mission
made mental calculations and decided these rooms nestled just inside the far
end of the refinery, a strange place to put a repair shop.  Mission tapped on
the glass and mouthed, "Who?"  The technician pointed them down the
hall.  He and Susan found a door bearing a Repair and Restoration sign.  They
knocked and walked in.

A
smiling young man with reports and data plates all over his desk said,
"Hi.  Can I help you?"

"Well
I hope so.  Our friend Montag was injured in the skirmish in the refinery bay
last night.  We wanted to check on him, see how he's doing."

"Terrible
business, that whole incident.  If Paradox can't build a safer synthetic, they
should get out of the business."

Susan
started to respond, but Mission squeezed her arm.  "Quite right.  So ...
Montag?"

"Ah
yes!  Oh no.  He's not here.  Discharged this morning."

"But
he's alright?"

"Well,
yes.  I mean we repaired what we could, but he suffered extensive skin damage. 
That will take a while to heal, you know."

"Thank
you very much, you've been most helpful."

As they
walked out the door, the young man said, "You know, he was really quite
lucky.  Every other synthetic was completely destroyed."

Susan
and Mission stepped back on the sled and it dropped them at Montag's door, They
knocked.  From inside they heard, "Go away.  I do not wish to see
anyone."

Susan
and Mission looked at each other.  Susan said, "Montag, it's Susan and
Mission.  Please let us visit for a minute or two."

"No! 
I am not fit to be seen.  Please leave me."

Susan
said, "Montag.  You’re part of our team and you were hurt saving the lives
of your teammates.  Please let me understand the problem so that we can
help."

"Only
Mr. Mission.  Not you, Dr. Susan."

Mission
said, "It's okay Montag, it's just me."

Mission
opened the door and then quickly closed it behind him.  It was dark and as he
adjusted the dimmer, he could understand why Montag wanted no visitors. 
Mission had never seen a leper, but he didn't believe one looked as bad as
this.  Much of his skin was burned or rotted off.  The remaining patches of
skin looked infected and drained a disgusting white substance.

Mission
said, "Montag, what is this?"

The
light was still very faint, but as Mission turned his head slightly, he saw
enough of Montag’s face to realize tears were streaming down his face. Montag
tried to speak and failed, then tried again. “Please? Please don’t.”

Mission
was so very confused. He didn’t understand the technical and organic issues
that caused this condition, but that was the least of it. He was bewildered by
this machine, albeit an excellent and loyal machine, acting like such a….person. 
And suddenly Mission moved from confused to absolutely bewildered, because he
realized that, like any other friend, he would do anything he could to make the
pain stop.

Quietly,
Mission said, “Tell me about it. I’ll help.”

Montag
looked up and finally, gave a single nod of his head. "This is a rampant
infection that sometimes takes hold when too great a percentage of the organic
segment of a synthetic is damaged."

"What
is the prognosis?"

"The
medication and supplement infusion are reversing the process, but it will be
more than a week before I am able to appear in public."

Mission
nodded and said, "I understand.  Is there anything that Susan or I can get
for you?"

"I
would like an assignment that I can complete here in my room, to occupy my
mind."

Mission
smiled.  "Boy, do I have one for you.  I'll drop by with details later
today.  Anything else?"  

"How
is the Major?"

"He's
going to be all right.  It'll take a while for the shoulder to heal, but he'll
be okay.  Listen, Montag.  You really came through for us at the refinery.  We
might be dead without your assistance.  Thank you."

Montag
looked like he had just received the Medal of Honor.  "You are very kind
to say that, Mr. Mission.  Very kind."

As
Mission reached the door, he said, "Hey, you should call Carson.  He asked
about you, and he's probably going stir crazy too.  See you this
afternoon."   

As
Mission walked Susan to her room, he explained Montag's situation.  She invited
Mission in and they both sat cross legged on the bed.  The more Mission looked
at her, the more she tried to hide behind her hair.  Finally she said,
"Stop looking at me.  I look like the day after a boxing match."

"Everyone
else seems to be viewing this very negatively.  I am delighted we’re still
alive."

She took
his hand.  "I am too."

"What
do you plan to do these next few days while we all recuperate?"

"I
hadn't really given it any thought, but I do recognize a leading question when
I hear one.  What do you have in mind for me?"

Mission
smiled at her.  "Already you know me too well.  I've been wondering about
the other half of this equation.  We've been focusing so desperately on New
Angeles, that we haven't paid enough attention to the
Teacher
and his
flock down in the Free Zone."

Susan's
eyes darted from side to side.  "What aspect of the group are you talking
about?"

"The
whole notion of an evangelist, if you will, who is able to persuade synthetics
to countermand very fundamental programming and abandon their owner to live
independent lives.  More and more, my mind is telling me that this philosophy
is integral to what is happening here."

Susan
said, "Keep going Mission.  You're bound to hit something I can
understand."

"Susan,
I think it has to be the learning.  Whether Paradox intended it or not, the
learning mechanism is permitting even the most fundamental programming to be
altered.  Just like a human can overcome the fear of falling and jump from an
airplane.  Or a sword swallower can suppress the gag reflex, the most primary
reflex we have.  Just like a human can overcome any hardwired programs, so can
the syn."

"And
this
Teacher
has discovered the secret, and is converting syns as fast
as he can call them on the com.  Does any of this sound feasible?"

Susan
nodded.  "It is possible.  I need to work through some of the math with a
dozen or so values to see how deeply the changes would penetrate the neural
network."

"Then
you could get Elliot on one of your super computers to plot a representative
sample and give us a probability graph?"

"Yes,
that would be the next step."

"Okay,
as long as you two have that perspective opened up, you may as well consider
any alternatives that can seal off certain rules that Paradox deems immutable. 
It may be your only chance of saving the company."

Susan
looked horrified.  "What are you talking about?"

"I'm
saying that if Paradox synthetics desert the first time they hear two paragraphs
on Jefferson's Rights of the Individual, the company is bankrupt.  Would you
recommend producing another synthetic knowing what we know?"

She
tried to hide it, but the thought frightened her.  Mission said, "It's
going to be okay.  People aren't running to Paradox screaming about problems. 
You're ahead of the game, and I think you have a very good chance of making
changes to production without skipping a beat.  Are you going to be okay?"

She
nodded.  "Yes, I ... I'm just a little unnerved.  Once I wade into the
middle of the assignment, I'll be okay."

She
looked up at Mission and smiled, "You know, you have this really slick
method of asking leading questions until you've created an assignment for a
person, without them even realizing it.  Now that I know, I'll be watching
you."