Living in Syn (4 page)

Mission looked worse now than when he woke up from his
nightmare, screaming and shaking.  Since he woke up that morning, he cursed his
computer as he went over and over the data on the four syns in Miller's file. 
In the three days since, he didn't take time to eat or to sleep or to shower. 
His pale complexion and dark circled eyes combined with his scruffy beard
stubble to yield a look that morticians dream about.  He relocated the coffee
machine to an end table in the living room, and his ashtray, a foot in
diameter, overflowed with cigarette butts.

"No dammit!  All four files.  Split the screen into
four columns and display one file in each.  Then we are going to compare line
by line."

"This compare has been performed on three separate
instances and yielded the following ..."

"I don't care.  Why should you care?  You got some
place to go?  A hot date maybe?  Then walk through the compare with me, line at
a time, on my command!  Now begin!"

He got so worked up that even he recognized it was
unhealthy.  He looked at the hard copy he had printed so that he could keep
looking even when he moved to the bathroom. 

Look at something new.  Something you normally pass over. 
He flipped through the raw stats from diagnostics, before they were interpreted
into a report that could be handled by someone other than a roboticist.  Each
field showed some cryptic sort of code and then an associated quantity broken
into active and reserved.

He fumbled through the stack of papers and found a legend
for the raw stats.  The report mapped the different areas of the brain, their
intended functions, and different indications of utilization.  The computer
continued to report on the line by line compare.

Mission laid out the four raw stats reports, and compared
them line by line, looking for big variances.  He found one.  This guy
established three times the number of synaptic connections as the other three. 
Now what area is this?  It's the ...  language center.  Okay, so does anything
in the history support that kind of difference?  Looking ... looking ... yes! 
Of course, this syn belonged to a Japanese exec who had brought his family with
him, and the house was bilingual.

This strategy would pay dividends.  He had no idea how. 
But at least he hadn't looked at this data six or seven times already.  And,
good news.  Only 4800 more regions to look at.

Mission opened his eyes with difficulty.  His computer
said, "Waiting."  He had fallen asleep on the coffee table and stayed
that way for a while.  The computer said, "Waiting."  He went to
raise his head and couldn't.  What the hell?  Obviously he spilled coffee and
he fell asleep in it.  Now that it dried, his face was glued to the table.  His
computer said, "Waiting."  Well, there was no sense in dragging this
out.  He gradually applied pressure and his wounds reminded him that both sides
of his face were torn, throbbing bundles of raw nerves.  But he had no choice
and he applied more pressure.  He sensed his cheekbone wasn't as firmly
attached as his jaw, so he focused the pressure there.  After what seemed like
an hour, he was free.

Mission smiled at his predicament.  "Help. I've glued
myself to my coffee table and can't get up.", he mimicked. 

His computer said, "Waiting."

Mission said, "Computer, how many fields have we
compared in this raw data?"

"3418."

"And how long have you been waiting for the next
field?"

"19 hours 12 minutes."

"Well, I guess I needed the sleep, huh?  I'm going to
get something to eat, I'm starved.  Save what we've done so far, and we'll
start again in a couple of hours.  Okay?"

"I'm sorry, your syntax was in ... "

"Okay, okay, okay.  Save all.  Wait.  How's
that?"

"Data is saved.  Waiting for resumption."

Twelve hours later, Mission still combed the raw data. 
Considerably past 4300 fields, he no longer expected to find anything, but it
would drive him crazy if he didn't finish looking.  He looked around for
another cigarette and the computer said, "Another significant deviation,
field 4341, code Dxt01077."

Mission looked in his legend.  "So, that's manual
dexterity/hand eye skills.  Which one has the deviation?"

"Synthetic John Jones established 88% more synaptic
connections than the other three."

Mission flipped through the history, looking at the family,
the location, the profession, the ... wait.  The owner, Sam Sheffield is
president of Sheffield Enterprises.  That doesn't really say what he does.  He
considered.

"Computer, do you have a phone listing in this city
for Sheffield Enterprises?"

"Yes.  Would you like ... ?"

"Cross reference to yellow pages.  What is it listed
under?"

"Construction.  Custom built homes."

Mission smiled.  "You're mine."

Mission
sat in a waiting area, taking in the surroundings.  Only a truly prosperous
company furnishes the waiting areas with antiques.  He sipped his coffee with
appreciation.  A blend of Colombian and Cuban roasts of the highest quality. 
Even if one was not a coffee lover, one must appreciate being served from an
intricate and beautiful silver service.  Not to mention the fact that they
trusted him with a fine china cup and saucer with a sterling silver spoon.

The kid
that Mission yelled at over the com motioned nervously to him.  Mission smiled
and walked over.  The kid gulped.

"Dr.
St. Jean will see you now."

"Thanks. 
And relax.  I'm not going to yell today."

"It's
not you that scares me."

"Can't
help you there kid.  I'm scared of Susan too."

Mission
rapped lightly on the door and walked in.  Damn her.  She could be beautiful if
she wanted.  Today she made that more obvious.  Although the red jacket and
skirt definitely fell into the category of business suit, it was a departure,
and a good combination for her.  Especially the way her dark hair looked
falling on her shoulders.  And ... yes, she applied lipstick that reinforced
the color scheme.  He wondered if this look was a ploy to make him more
talkative, more cooperative.

"Mission. 
I do appreciate you coming.  I hope this isn't inconvenient.  Do you have a
date this evening?"

Mission
scowled at her.  "So ... it's going to be one of those kind of
interviews."  He gestured at the old clothes, the tattered work boots, and
the 25 year old navy yarn cap on his head.  "It just so happens that I'm
working today.  I've conducted my surveillance at one site this morning and
I'll cover another area this evening."

Susan
nodded.  "Nothing, I hope that will lead to a med tech station?"

Mission
shook his head.  "No.  I do homework first.  And then, only if I am
satisfied that the situation is favorable, do I move.  None of that tonight."

He
looked around the office appreciatively.  The mahogany furniture, her desk the
size of Rhode Island, and the circular table in the corner for conferences
spoke volumes on Susan's success.  Four different vases with fresh flowers
brightened the room.  Behind her stood an impressive collection of printed
books.  Mission could see the psychology section and he noted the presence of
every landmark book from Freud's
The Interpretation of Dreams
, to Jung's
Psyche and Symbol
, to Skinner's
Beyond Freedom and Dignity
,
through the more modern works.  Except ...

"Susan,
I see all the great works of psychology here, except
The Convergence of
Human and Synthetic Psychology
by ... hmmm ... who is it?  St. Francis? St.
James?  St. Jean?"

She
blushed and Mission counted it as a small victory.  She recovered and said,
"Well, you flatter me.  It is for time and the academia to determine if my
book should stand alongside these."  She gestured behind her.

"But
how do you know about my book?"

Mission
shook his head.  "Would you be surprised to hear that I read your book the
first week it came out?"

Susan
backpedaled.  "But the math, the formulas for estimation of synaptic
junction capabilities versus neuronal synapse connection is integral to the
idea that ... "

"That
constant elasticity balances the organism's superior capabilities in
redirecting processing responsibility.  But I think a deeper examination will
show it is the relatively primitive state of specialized processors like
visual, that limit syn flexibility.  There is no argument that there must be
specialized processors, but they must also be backwardly compatible so that
they are also capable of handling redirected functionality.  Thus, the syn
brain would have the ability to use 20% of visual processor capability to say,
salvage vital language functions."

Susan
didn't know how to react.  "That's ... that's a very interesting ... and
... and promising hypothesis.  How did ... how did?"

Mission
smiled.  "Do you think that I get wasted every night and watch football or
bass fishing or the all-sex channel?  Hell, there are 800 channels.  I get
drunk and watch the University Channel.  I've watched a math course every
semester for six years.  And computer architecture.  And literature.  I think
you judge me on your opinion of my occupation."       

"Okay. 
Guilty.  I'm guilty.  It is inspiring to know you haven't stopped learning. 
Have we traded enough barbs now?  Can I start my questions?"

"Sure. 
Let's start."

"Okay. 
How did you discover the synthetic Tom Brown?"

"I
count on the tendency of runaways to live in the Free Zone, but to work outside
it.  Then I patrol the Free Zone borders and look for visual matches.  I
spotted him on October 1 coming home from what I believed to be construction
work."

"Why
construction?"

"The
clothes were a good match, but the water jug clinched it, indicating he's out
away from plumbing."

"If
you spotted him on October 1, why did you wait six days before attempting
recovery?"

"I
like to watch them for a while.  I try to eliminate surprises.  I tailed him to
the hotel, made sure I knew where his room was, followed him when he left the
hotel, that sort of thing."

"Anything
unusual in his after-hours activities?"

"No,
he took long walks, he went to a bar, sat on a bench and fed pigeons."

"Why
do you think he would go to a bar?"

"I
don't know.  Why does anybody go to a bar?  No it wouldn't be that.  Second
most popular reason?  No, it wouldn't be that.  I don't know. 
Companionship?"

Susan
looked interested in this line of inquiry.  "I honestly don't know.  Did
you see who he was talking to in the bar?"

Mission
shook his head.  "No, it's an unacceptable risk with only one person
tracking.  Now when Miller and I ... " 

He
stopped.  And then very deliberately said, "With two, you can afford to
follow your target inside a public place."

This
question and answer went on for three hours.  Mission took note when the clock
struck four.  He had to get going.  "Susan, I'm sorry but I need to start
moving soon.  You haven't even asked me about the female yet."

She
sighed.  "I don't know that it would do any good.  I don't have a history
on her to correlate with your information.  Is there anything you can tell me
that would help?"

"No. 
I've already told you about her combat skills.  She never said a word.  I only
saw her clearly as she walked with Brown to the hotel.  Then I saw her as she smashed
through a window to kill me.  I'm afraid I didn't focus on details."

Susan
sighed.  "Alright.  Thanks for your help."

Mission
had a thought.  "Vans."

Susan
said, "What?"

"Vans. 
In the 1980s, car manufacturers built vans to carry ten to twelve people.  Then
these companies sprang up that took factory built models and installed all
sorts of exotic options.  Waterbeds, hot tubs, kitchens, all kinds of things. 
What would it take for someone to go into the business of syn customization? 
You know, take your basic DM model and add programming and maybe even
processors to produce a combat model?"

Susan
shook her head.  "Virtually impossible.  There are only a handful of people
that could integrate into the brain programming, and the process would require
an advanced facility and deep, deep pockets."

"You
mean the kind of resources that only a government or large multi-national
corporation could marshal?"

She
nodded.

"I
don't know Susan.  There are two alternatives for producing combat models. 
Paradox or someplace else.  If it's someplace else, maybe the key is a single
contract for a large  number of syns."

Susan
smiled demurely.  "Well, I suppose we must both search for this in our own
way.  Thank you again for your time."

Mission
stood up.  "I'm glad I could help."  As usual, Susan insisted on
shaking hands.  He walked to the door and turned around.  "Susan?"

"Yes?"

"You
look lovely today."

Mission
closed the door and bolted outside to catch an aircar to take him within a
couple of blocks of his stakeout location.

The
construction business hadn't changed for a long time.  Oh, the techniques
changed.  A new tool or a new way to do the work in a factory as opposed to the
construction site emerged every day.  But the game never changed.  The one
factor that remained constant was that the amount of land constituted a zero
sum game.  So you could build new structures, but you had to tear down an old
one to get the land you needed.  This made the trick in turning a profit to
house or provide office space in far greater quantities than the structure
being torn down.

For
many, this appeared a straightforward proposition.  You built a much taller
building to get more from the same space.  Others tunneled down to take
advantage of thermal differentiation for a power source.  But the true artists
attacked the whole prejudice of the superiority of single family dwellings. 
They ran adverts showing the vulnerabilities of houses versus their secured
buildings.  They offered magnetic card, voice recognition, palm print, or
retina scan keyed entry into the domicile. They pointed out how children could
choose from 1000 other children as playmates, as opposed to the 15 or 20 kids
within walking distance of a house.  They even shot a Civil War cannon inside
one of their units to demonstrate the complete sound insulation now featured. 

Then
they focused the design on the nature lovers.  Solar panels covered most of the
rooftops, but now made some space for batteries of fiber optics that ran to the
apartments where a diffusing mechanism provided 100% natural sunlight for
gardens, solariums, or whatever the resident desired.  Mission had to admit
that the adverts did look inviting.

He
looked up at the building he would monitor this evening and estimated 40
stories.  The math didn't work out as well as some might anticipate.  For every
100 residents added, you had to deal with a pro rata share of elevators,
plumbing, power, and yes, fiber optics.  Each of these decreased the amount of
usable space on each floor.  But they must realize some marginal return,
because they kept building them higher and higher.

This
building like most, featured a smoked glass panel exterior.  Decorative inserts
of masonry formed a pattern across the exterior.  The side Mission looked at
lay dormant.  He sighed and started his trek through the construction debris to
look at the adjacent side.  This was site number eight on his surveillance
list.  He caught sight of the next side with workmen on scaffolding attaching
the exterior windows with help from a crane.

Mission
looked at the junk, the weeds, and the briars and sighed even deeper.  Thorns
covered his pants legs already.  He melted back into the shadows and worked over
to the next side.  The satisfaction registered on his face.  Stacks and stacks
of brick and tiny dots of what were masons, up on maybe the 30th floor.

Mission
rested for a moment.  He didn't have binoculars with him, so he would wait for
them to come down.  He thought back to the raw data search.  Once he saw the
increase in motor skills, one phone call to Mrs. Sheffield answered his
questions.  He told her that he worked for Paradox (which in a way, was true)
and that he wanted to follow up on their synthetic's disappearance.  He asked
several general questions and finally, asked if anyone in the home had taught
the syn any skills.  She answered no, and Mission prompted her.  Not gardening,
or typing, or home repair?  Oh yes, her husband did teach him to lay bricks and
they built a patio and barbecue last summer.

Thus,
Mission visited construction sites from the closest to the alley where Miller
died, to further and further out.  He wanted a cigarette, but couldn't risk
being detected.  He assumed that a syn's eyes worked better than his.  Mission
gauged where the scaffolding would set down and he worked his way over to that
spot.  Jackpot!  Jones handled the ground duties by loading bricks to be
carried to the men on the scaffold.

Mission
estimated it was 4:55.  Hopefully the masons would quit at 5:00 and he could
start moving.  Yes, the men started their slow descent down the scaffold, toward
quitting time.  John Jones, you are history.  Maybe they'll recycle you into a
sigmoidoscope or something equally appropriate.

The
masons went their separate ways and Jones headed toward the Free Zone.  While
Mission trailed him, he thought hard about what happened to Miller and, more
recently, to him.  He decided to take a chance and cut over several streets, to
try and intercept him three or four blocks deep into the zone.  That would
definitely make it harder for a syn to spot him.  It minimized the risk.  And if
he lost Jones, he could pick him up at the high rise again tomorrow evening.

Mission
grinned as he took his detour.  He always found a way to have a cigarette when
he needed one.  He moved comfortably down the streets, knowing he at least
doubled the syn's predictable pace.  He came to a liquor store and darted in. 
He heard a buzzer but thought nothing of it until a guy about 6' 8"
stepped into his path and brought a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun to bear
on him.  Mission threw his hands up.

"Whoa,
what's the problem, big guy?"

He
responded with a series of decipherable snarls.  "You're my problem!  Why
you bring a weapon in here?"

Mission
didn't get it for a second.  "Oh, you mean the Glock.  Hey, I'm just here
to buy booze.  You want me to check my gun?  Or the clip?  I mean, you've got
the shotgun.  It's your choice."

"Lace
your fingers behind your head.  Now drop to your knees."

Mission
sighed, and complied.  A slight, older man stepped out to frisk Mission and to
take his Glock.  Mission looked at the big man.  "You happy?  Can I get my
booze now?"

He
nodded and Mission grabbed the cheapest whiskey offered.  Then he looked at the
juices in the refrigerated display.  Apple juice looked just right.  Great.  He
took his purchase to the counter, paid and then asked for his Glock.

The
older man experienced a serious lapse in judgment and said, "Gun?  What
gun?"

Mission's
temper erupted.  He roared, "Hey Tiny!  Get over here!"

The big
man strolled up nonchalantly, shotgun in hand and said, "What you
want?"

"My
gun.  Now!"

The big
man grinned.  "I don't know nothin bout no gun."  He looked around to
the other store employees and they all laughed with him.

Mission
said in an even tone, "Don't do this.  Just give me my gun back and I'm
outta here."

The big
man pointed the shotgun at him and said, "You outta here anyway. 
Move."

Mission
stood there for a few seconds.  "Okay.  I'm going."

The big
guy put the barrel against his back and pushed him toward the door.  Mission
opened the door and the big guy said. "And don't come ... "

As the
big guy started his sentence, Mission could sense him pulling his foot back to
kick him in the rear and send him sprawling into the street.  Mission whirled
around and snapped off a right cross that broke the big guy's nose.  Before the
blood started to spurt, quick footwork took Mission alongside him, and he
kicked his feet out from under him.  He crashed to the ground and Mission
stomped on his wrist, harder than necessary, and scooped up the shotgun.

He
leveled it at the older guy behind the counter.  "You've got five seconds
to bring me my gun.  Then I kill you and ask someone else."

Mission
put the Glock back in its holster, still holding the shotgun and went behind
the counter to eject the CD from the computer system.  He held it up and said,
"In case you're thinking about calling the cops, I have your store
recordings, including you stealing the Glock from me."

He
ejected the shells from the shotgun and threw them to the left.  He tossed the
shotgun to the right, compared the employees to biological waste elimination
mechanisms and left.

How much
time had that cost him?  Probably about two minutes.  He ducked into an alley
and poured the whiskey in his hair and over his clothes.  Then he filled up the
bottle with apple juice.  No one would question it.  He moved quickly until he
knew he had made up the lost time.  He slowed down to a drunk's staggering pace
and entered the Free Zone.

The
streets overflowed with partygoers which was unusual for around 5:20 in the
afternoon.  Wait, it's Friday!  Everyone celebrates early on Friday.  The
evening would witness more than half of the week's  prostitution, drugs, and
gambling sales.  He passed through what he called the Fascist Strip.  Almost
two blocks of Nazis, KKK white supremacists, and racial purity focused
extremist loonies.  You'd think the junkies and transvestites would get together
to evict this kind of trash from the neighborhood.  The fascists provided
outdoor seminars on the government promoting the mixing of the races.  They
should hope it's true.  If the government is trying to make it happen, it's
almost a guarantee that it won't.

Mission
came to the
Leather Boys
, although they boasted an equal number of
women.  Dressed in black leather with cutouts to reveal buttocks, breasts,
whatever.  Some wore leather masks and carried whips.  Pathetic old white men
on leashes crawled around on all fours.  The weird ones that sported hundreds
of rings and pins piercing their bodies.  Small cages lined the sidewalks with
males or females inside.  You found one you liked, paid for a certain amount of
time, and then climbed inside the cage to do whatever you could.  All in view
of the world. 

Now
Mission reached the junkies and the hookers, the offspring of heroin use. 
Junkies did not maintain a rigid class structure and allowed drunks and other
rejects to rest in their area. Why anyone else would choose to stop here was
the real question.  Junkies are necessarily without friends or morals, and they
will screw anyone without consideration or remorse, just to get one more fix.

Anyway,
another drunk wouldn't look out of place here.  He had to admit the prospect of
dropping the syns that killed Miller excited him.   Mission wanted a cigarette,
but first he carefully inspected his clothes.  They were dry enough.  He didn't
want to risk setting himself on fire.  He pulled on the cigarette and it
relaxed him.  He could wait as long as it took. 

Mission
watched as the Free Zone took on its own life, and led its citizens into the
escape of celebration, of glorious abandon.  The world had branded these people
as unfit and unacceptable.  On Friday nights, they showed the world that they
were the only ones left who knew how to have a good time.

Loud,
distorted music blanketed the Zone, and its rhythmic pulse drove the crowd. 
Scores of bare breasted women danced through the mob.  Some men shot their guns
in the air.  Junkies wandered in and out of the crowd, trying to pick pockets. 
Some succeeded, some failed.  Mission saw a big, burly man catch a junkie with
his hand on his wallet, and break his neck.  Individual acts like that couldn't
dampen the festive air, though.  These people were inured to violence and
alcohol or drugs fueled most of their joy.

Mission
considered surrender.  Jones could walk right past him and he would never
know.  He stepped into the crowd to head back to his apartment, and Jones
almost ran into him.  Mission staggered and fell, took a swig of his apple
juice, and finally turned around to pinpoint Jones.  He spotted him over by the
burrito vendor.  Mission stood up unsteadily and headed in his direction.  He
lost sight of Jones several times, but didn't let it bother him.  He had
flowers!  Mission hadn't noticed before. 

Jones
ambled into a bar without a posted name and kissed a woman waiting there.  It
was her, that mechanical monster that killed Miller.  He'd bet anything on it. 
He memorized her features as he walked past.  Then he crossed the street,
doubled back, and climbed to the first landing of a fire escape trying to
surrender to gravity.

Mission
propped his head against the steps going up and relaxed.  This could be a long
wait.  It was probably 5:50.

At 7:30,
Mission started to wonder where he could get another pack of cigarettes.  He
watched the crowd, now in full debauch, ebbing and flowing.  He remembered one
of the last incidents here that led to declaration of the Free Zone.  A
celebration much like this one burned hotter than the police could stand, and
they sent one of their new aircars to the scene.  They were very high tech and
very expensive.  The aircar hovered over the crowd and ordered the celebrators
to disperse.  When they ignored the orders, the police dropped canisters of
gas, and then fired on the remaining fun lovers.

The news
shows featured the police commissioner declaring a great victory for law
enforcement.  The mayor and the policeman's union showed equal enthusiasm.  The
next Friday came, and everyone turned out again for a celebration.  The aircars
showed up and started the same routine.  During that time, the Jamaican gangs
controlled much of the inner city, and they brought a certain discipline and
organization to areas under their control.  They sent people out on the
rooftops to pour a flammable, tarlike mixture on the aircar, followed by Molotov
cocktails.  The flaming aircar hit the side of a building and dropped to the
sidewalk.  The newsreel showed the crew, strapped in and burning alive, while
the crowd cheered and roasted hot-dogs on sticks.  Less than a month later, the
city designated the area a Free Zone.

Mission
decided the hot-dog vendor would have cigarettes and wandered over that way. 
He caught a glimpse inside the bar.  Jones and the female sat at a table with
maybe ten other people.  His cigarettes in hand, Mission returned to his fire
escape perch.