Living in Syn (5 page)

Around
11:30, Jones emerged with the female on his arm and headed up the street. 
Mission exercised more care than ever before.  Why hide it?  The combat models
scared the hell out of him.  He wished he had brought the battery pack, but
this was to be a routine stakeout.  Well, this stakeout materialized as
something far removed from the routine.  Mission vowed that from here on out,
he would always carry the battery pack.

Jones
and his companion looked like young lovers.  They laughed and giggled, they
stopped to kiss, and she held tightly to the flowers he gave her.  Mission
didn't understand the behavior for synthetics, but he resolved to remember as
much as possible.  Perhaps Susan could make sense of all this.

Six
blocks later, they turned into a building that Mission labeled as bad news.  A
thriving hotel long ago, but now abandoned to the anarchy of the zone.  For the
last seven or eight years, the strongest group in the area controlled it. 
Sometimes a street gang, sometimes a drug operation, and sometimes a brothel
stronghold.  Drug operations had the hardest time because rumors circulated
about the big amounts of money or drugs inside.  From there it was just a
matter of time before a well-armed and desperate group made a grab for the
golden ring.

Mission
wouldn't even consider going inside one of those places.  You needed to decide
before you went in, that you didn't care if you lived or died.  Despite the
risks inherent in his profession, Mission felt relatively certain that he
didn't want to die.

What
would syns be doing in a place like that?  Protecting a place like that took
bodies and bucks.  You had to generate a big income to pay that kind of
overhead.  Jones worked a legit job that didn't pay big money.  Maybe the
female ...

Mission
shook his head.  He couldn't puzzle this one out tonight.  If all else failed,
long boring observation would tell him who ran the place and the nature of the
business.  Tonight, he just wanted to see if Jones went any place else. 
Anything he could pick up about the building would be a bonus.

By 1:00,
Mission decided that one more hour would be enough for the night.  He started
his thirtieth cigarette of the day and worked at relaxing.  He tried to picture
the added processors and programming for a combat model, when the female syn
rushed past.  Now he definitely wouldn't watch the building for another hour. 
It hadn't moved all night.  Mission walked in the opposite direction so he
could run down the parallel street and pick her up at the Free Zone border.  He
felt good.  He promised Miller that he would soon settle this score.

At
5'6" and a slim 115 pounds, she was one incredible physical specimen.  She
pulled her dark brown hair back in a ponytail and wore one of those fancy
skintight workout uniforms with a green army jacket over it.  Watching her
glide effortlessly through the streets was like watching a gazelle trotting
through the high grasses, and Mission had to hustle to keep up.  He reminded
himself as to how good she was.

"No
mistakes.  No second chances with this one.  You have to bide your time and
take her on when you are ready.  Not a second before.  Don't care if it takes
three months.  Not until you're ready."

Mission
saw no reason to delude himself.  She scared him.  "Fear is good", he
told himself.  "Nature's way of protecting you."

He swung
out behind her and followed her for twenty blocks, leaving as much as a block
in between them.  Now her demeanor changed to that of a panther stalking its
prey.  Mission took his bearings.  A very posh high rise apartment building sat
on the right with an exclusive shopping complex on the left.  He couldn't be
sure, but he thought the two connected underground.

At first
she caused him to wonder, but soon he realized she approached the apartment
high rise in a slow, cautious 360.  Apparently satisfied, she advanced to the
rear of the building with confidence.  She stopped at a service entrance and
stared at the door.  Finally, she reached out, turned the knob, opened the door
and went in.

Mission
didn't assume coincidences, he assumed purposeful events and reactions until
proven wrong.  So he assumed someone left that door unlocked for her.  He
pulled out his Glock and moved to the door very cautiously.  He heard a ping
and then a series of indistinct noises.  He thought he just heard her get on an
elevator.  He had to see.  He also had to prepare in case she stood there.  Do
a 180 and set.  Squeeze the trigger.  Okay.

The
adrenaline flooded his system.  He whirled around and saw ... an empty room. 
He looked over the elevator door.  It stopped on 27 and then sat there.  He had
to know.  He pressed the up button and a car opened its doors for him.  Mission
stepped in, pressed DOOR CLOSE, and held his Glock in the ready position. 

The
doors opened on 26 and Mission saw an empty wall yawning at him.  He took five
seconds to study the layout of the hall.  He glanced at the stairwell exit at
the hallway end.  No good.  He would need a security key to get onto the next
floor.  He looked back at the elevator car balking at Mission holding it open. 
It was his only chance at checking the syn's movements.  But chance didn't
describe it.  More like lottery.  If she happened to look at the elevator when
he exited (and that was a common reaction), the odds favored her, not Mission. 
A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and onto his nose.

He stepped
inside the elevator and pressed 27.  As it took him up, he considered. 
Cartwheel out the door onto the opposite wall into a firing position that
provided the syn a minimal target?  Or walk out like he lived there and stroll
nonchalantly down the hall?  Aggressive?  Passive?  The door opened as Mission
pulled out his Glock and flattened against the wall to give him an unobstructed
view down one half of the hall.

He
tucked his hand holding the Glock into his jacket and eased into the shadows in
the hall.  This looked like a place that turned out the lights at 11:00 and
then burned just enough night lights to make sure everyone could find their
way.  It worked in Mission's favor.  He could stay in the shadows and move
almost the entire length of the hall without risking exposure.

He saw
the syn, close to the end of the hall on the right hand side.  She alternately
rang the bell and knocked on the door.  Mission crept within forty feet of her,
as near as he dared.  Then the door opened and a handsome, muscular young man
stepped out into the hall.  On his right hand he balanced a round silver tray
with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.  He said, "Hey, I was wo ...
"

The syn
didn't waste time.  She struck like a cobra, using a flat hand to the sternum
to send him flying back inside the apartment.  The tray and its contents hit
the floor as the syn moved inside.  Mission had already cheated toward the
door, and now he ran.  The broken glass kept the door from closing and Mission
flattened beside it, wondering what to do.

A woman
screamed.  A bloodcurdling scream.  "Well, so much for waiting till I'm
ready."  Mission took a deep breath and exploded into the apartment, gun
at the ready.

He saw
the kid who answered the door, flying across the room to land on a cherry
dining room table that collapsed into splinters.  Mission crouched in a foyer
with brick columns and as he moved through it into the living area, the syn
turned on him at incredible speed, kicking the Glock out of his hand and under
the furniture on the far wall.  Before he could even react, she bolted inside
his defensive perimeter to snap his neck.

Bu then
she sensed the kid coming up behind her.  He surprised Mission by getting up so
quickly.  He gripped a table leg in his hands and took a home run cut at her
head.  The syn shoved Mission into one of the brick columns and then ducked
into a crouch with both hands on the floor.  As the table leg whizzed over her
head, she took out the kid's legs with a sweep kick.

She rose
and turned to check Mission.  He cheated toward the general direction of his
lost gun.  She took a single step to cut him off, and when Mission moved in the
opposite direction, she took two lightning steps, grabbed him by the waistband
and jerked him skyward.  As Mission lifted off the ground, the syn put her
other hand on his chest and tossed him across the room into a six foot mirror
on the wall.  He crashed into the mirror with devastating impact, and fell to
the floor with the mirror breaking into shards over his head, cutting his face,
his hands and his forearms.  He screamed as much from frustration as from pain.

The kid
crouched in the entrance to the hall where the bedrooms would be.  The syn took
a couple of steps toward him and hissed,  "Don't be a fool.  I only want
the bitch!"

The kid
shook his head.  "No way."

She
pounced, landing on his torso and wrapping her legs around his midsection for a
disabling takedown.  The kid shifted quickly and bounced her on the floor.  She
moved a hair quicker than he did in getting to her feet, and she managed to
wrap an arm around his neck.  As she moved in for the kill, the kid caught her
free hand, but that only bought him a few seconds.

Meanwhile,
Mission untangled himself from the glass shards and tried to position himself
to help the kid.  He saw her pull her other hand toward his head and he knew it
had to be now.  He took three running steps (as many as he dared) and smashed
her with all of his weight in the small of her back with his shoulder.  He was
trying to push her into the kitchen, and she tried to steer them back into the
living room.  Mission saw that they would smash into the 100 gallon aquarium
right next to the hall entrance.

The syn
hit the aquarium with Mission's arms around her waist and he let go of her as
his arms hit the glass splinters.  It drenched them both in water and glass and
slashed them all to hell.  They hit the wall behind the aquarium and squirted
to the left to fall on an end table with a brass lamp and a crystal vase.  The
table legs collapsed and they hit the floor with jarring force.  Mission landed
on his back with the syn on her stomach at about his thighs.  He could feel the
fish thrashing in the three or four inches of water on the floor.  He spotted
his Glock just under the sofa, less than four feet away.  It might as well have
been a mile.

The syn
reached out with her left hand and found Mission's right pectoral.  Her fingers
dug right into the flesh of his chest as she pulled herself up onto him. 
Mission screamed from the pain.  From the terror.  This was it.  She extended
her stiffened right index finger, stopped it an inch from his left eye, and
smiled at him.  "Time for your lobotomy."

Mission
saw the brass lamp lying there beside him.  He grabbed the base and smashed the
bulb on her, leaving the exposed ends touching her wet clothes.  The world
stopped spinning as Mission felt the current pulsing through him, felt the
powerful tingling vibrating every cell in his body.  He thought the syn's
expression might fade into oblivion, but no.  Her eyes closed, then opened,
then closed.

The
lights flickered and the current died.  Mission never struggled like this
before.  He just knew the syn wasn't dead, and the panic overwhelmed him as he
tried to get out from under her.  His worst nightmares couldn't compare to
this.  Facing death, trying to get away, and not a single muscle would answer
his summons.  Suddenly a leg responded and he pushed and kicked frantically. 
He jerked free and dove under the sofa.  As he came back out, the syn pulled
herself into a crouch.  As her head swiveled toward him, Mission put a single
shot through her right eye.  For an instant nothing happened except for
lubricant leaking out the socket.  Then the charge flashed out the eye as it
hit her brain.

The syn
jumped eight feet directly into the wall, screaming an ungodly sound.  The
sound of a dozen mothers who had just lost their sons.  When she hit the wall,
her every muscle still contracted at full strength and speed, and she tore a
hole through the plaster into the next room and then collapsed in the wreckage,
brain dead.

Mission
tossed his apple juice and then tried to lift his head.  His head waved from
side to side and he searched his frazzled brain for any indication that he
could walk or stand or even crawl.  He realized he heard a woman crying and he
managed to tilt his head up enough to see her standing in the dining room, with
her hand on the light switch.  She had saved him.  She threw the switch to cut
the electricity.  As a few of his faculties returned, Mission noticed more of
this sobbing woman, in a black nightie, hair all over her face. 

He
crawled at first and then eventually took halting steps over to her. 
"You're okay.  Listen, you're okay.  Can you get dressed?"

The
sobbing slowed and she pulled her hair back to look at Mission.  His addled
mind could not reconcile what he saw with what he could believe.  He hurt and
blood kept running into his eyes and he smelled faint traces of burned hair
that was probably his.  Now this woman pushed him right into shock.  It was
Susan St. Jean!    

Susan
dropped to her knees beside the kid, sobbing, "Oh God, she killed him,
Mission. "  She looked up at him in anguish and her expression asked how
and why someone would do such a thing. He kneeled down beside her.

"I'm
so sorry Susan.  He died protecting you.  Can you do a pattern analysis, transfer
his mind into another body?"

Susan
came to attention.  "How ... How did ... How did you ... ?"

"Know
he was synthetic?” He shrugged his shoulders. The question was mostly rhetorical,
and explaining how he spotted syns would not be helpful. 

He took Susan
gently by the shoulders  and looked her in the eyes.  "With this
building's miracle insulation, I doubt anyone heard this happen.  Still, we
don't have much time to decide what to do next."

Her eyes
grew wide.  "What do you mean?"

"Look,
this isn't some innocent
I accidentally landed my speeder on your mother
kind of thing.  This was a combat model syn, dispatched to kill you."

She
shook her head "No.  That couldn't be.  Why would anyone want ... ?"

"Hey
Susan!  Wake up!  She", he pointed in the direction of the female syn,
"told your companion to let her have you and he could live.  And someone
arranged to unlock the service entrance of this building."

She
shook her head again, as if to clear it.  "It just doesn't make sense. 
How could I pose a threat to anyone?"

Mission
rested his chin in his hand.  "Well, let's see.  You ran those searches
for me, but that was several days ago.  Did you make run any research after our
interview today?"

"Yes,
I searched for large purchases as you suggested."

"And
ten hours later, a killer syn storms your apartment.  That's what I mean. 
Somebody in Paradox or with access to the Paradox database signed your death
warrant.  You've got to get out of here."

She
started to protest and Mission pulled her up to a standing position. 
"Look, I'm beat all to hell, I'm bleeding over everything, and I've got a
case of the shakes that won't quit.  Get your stuff, you can stay at my place
tonight, and we'll try to figure this out sometime tomorrow."

Susan
looked at him suspiciously and said, "Is this what all your nonsense is
about?  Me staying at your place?"

Mission
stared in disbelief "Oh, you are losing it. Look at me.  I'm not thinking
about sex, I'm thinking about how to dress for my autopsy."

He
stopped for a minute and then said, "So you have your choice, my sofa or
my bedroom.  I’ll take the other."

She
shook her head.  "No, I'll go to a hotel instead."

"Going
to use a data transaction to check in or to pay?  A combat syn will deliver
your room service in less than two hours."

She put
her hands to her head and slowly pulled her hair from her face. Then she looked
at Mission "Okay, I'll get my stuff."

Mission
insisted on walking six blocks before hailing an aircar.  Five minutes later,
they arrived at his apartment and ten minutes after that,  Susan was asleep in
the bedroom.  At 7:00 in the morning, she woke up and went in search of juice. 
She found Mission, smoking a cigarette and resting his head on the top of the
sofa.  An empty bottle of Jose Cuervo peeked out from underneath the couch. 
Susan poured her juice and sat down beside him.

"Mission,
have you been up all night?"

"Huh? 
Yeah ... you know, I had about two hundred cuts to wash, disinfect, that kind
of stuff."

"Aren't
you tired?"

"Exhausted."

"Well
then how can you stay up?"

Mission
managed a tired smile.  "No choice.  The adrenaline just flows. You can't
just turn it off because the fight’s over, and go to bed.  Sometimes not for
days."

"I
had no idea your work was like ... this."

Mission
looked at her closely.  "I've never seen you like this
,
dressed
like this.” He motioned toward her slacks and knit blouse. “ I think your looks
must really bother you."

"Now
what do you mean by that?"

"I
just mean it seems very important to you that you are judged on the basis of
your mind.  You are repulsed by the idea that you might catch some slack
because you're beautiful.  That's what I meant."

"And
where is your basis for this theory?"

"The
way you dress at work, the hairstyle and the makeup.  The image says that, at
best, your looks are a distraction, and should be minimized."

Susan
donned her emotionless smile.  "The flaw in your theory is this:  I must
believe I am beautiful to feel the need to hide this ... distraction.  I hold
no such belief."

Mission
smiled.  "Of course, you're right.  I don't know what I was thinking,
giving you an objective point of view.  Let's change subjects."  He looked
at her with childlike anticipation.

Susan
cautiously said, "All right."

"I
want to play a game, where we discuss scenarios for producing combat model
syns."

She
winced and turned her head slowly to face him. “Please don’t call them that.”

“Syns?
Wasn’t that Paradox’s master stroke? Embracing the indictment?”

About ten
years ago, when the synthetic numbers were really increasing, the
Fundamentalists waged an all-out campaign in opposition. Synthetics were
stealing jobs from humans, our children were being raised by Godless, soulless
creations, synthetics were abominations, they were sins…Syns. The nickname
stuck, and the message gained traction with the public. Until  a particularly
clever marketing executive at Paradox tackled the problem. Mission remembered
the first time he saw the billboard.

A very
attractive and affluent couple, relaxing in the family room, having a cocktail
while a smiling toddler played at their feet. A very fetching synthetic in a
maid’s uniform was in attendance, mindful of their every need. And the caption
at the bottom read, “Living in Syn.”

The war
was over. It caught the public’s imagination and simply wouldn’t let go.
Synthetics became what every family aspired toward. It became THE symbol of
success. “Oh you don’t have a syn? Well, maybe someday soon.”  

Susan
gritted her teeth. “They are not sins. They are…they are far more decent than
humans, They are synthetic homo sapiens. Or synthetic humans. But…not…sins."

Mission
nodded. “Okay, noted. I will try to do better. But as far as turning out combat
models…”

Susan
protested, "I've already told you, it just isn't possible."

Mission
held up his hands.  "Hello, this is Mission with your 7:00 wakeup call. 
You will admit that the syn, the synthetic in your apartment was ...
modified?"

She
slumped back in the sofa.  "Yes, I see what you mean.  They have to come
from somewhere."

"Okay. 
Now.  Does Paradox make any models with a reinforced chassis?"

"No. 
Wait, yes!  We offered a redesigned mining model last year.  Prototype status. The
constant stress of mining caused an unusually high failure rate starting at
about three years."

Mission
frowned.  "But would they make reinforced female models?"

"Oh
definitely.  The mining camps on Jupiter's moons and the like, it's more than
90% men.  It would be crazy to send synthetics for mining and a separate set
for entertainment."

"Really?" 
Mission entered this on the vue screen.  "Are there any other models with
a heavy duty chassis?"

"No,
that's why the redesign took a while.  It was the company's first try."

"Now,
the agility of these combat models.  Are they at least as agile as a the normal
synthetic?  Say an eight or a nine?"

She
nodded.  "Yes, a nine recently performed gymnastics routines far beyond
the capability of the world's best humans."

"And
surveillance, tracking, reconnaissance.  These are skills that Paradox doesn't
offer, but don't constitute a major hurdle.  That is to say, they wouldn't
contradict or interrupt hard coded logic?"

Susan
said guardedly, "I guess not.  What are you getting at, Mission?"

"I'm
trying to establish the requirements for developing a combat model.  Once we
define those parameters, we can look for people or organizations with the
qualifications, or with the access to needed components, or with facilities and
other resources needed to make this happen.  See?   Then we see several
different angles from which to approach the problem.  And that significantly
increases our chances of success."

Susan
looked impressed.  "Mission, I had no idea you approached work in such a
... cerebral fashion."

"Ah
yes, I'm a true renaissance man.  Now, for the big one Susan.  How would you
alter the base programming so that a syn could attack a human and even commit
murder?"

Susan
clasped her hands together. “And that’s where your theory falls apart. It can’t
be done. The cases you handle represent the most extreme synthetic pathologies.
And even in those instances, they only retaliate, when their survival is
directly and immediately threatened. Before that much core programming could
break down, the synthetic would cease to function. We don’t have a single
documented case of  unprovoked violence."

“Then
what do you call last night’s little encounter?”

Susan
sighed and nodded her head in agreement. There were minutes of silence and then
Mission said,  "Did you not serve on the team that worked out the
mathematics, the transaction processors, and the very design of the brain that
drives all current Paradox syns?"

"Well
yes but ... "

"Well
then, you evaluate the odds for me.  Which would be easier, to throw the
Paradox design out the window and build a new brain, or to modify the existing
brain with an encapsulation system?"

Susan
stuck out her lower lip.  "You already know the answer.  A new brain costs
more than $10 billion and requires three to five years for development."

"So,
back to my question.  How would you modify base programming?"

"Mission,
I don't know."

Mission
refused to surrender.  "Let's talk about specialized processors.  Could
substitution or addition of processors make an impact?"

She
shook her head.  "I don't think so.  Specialized processors generally
handle sensory input.  The speech processor converts language accepted in
visual or audio form.  The speech output processor converts machine format back
to human language and then to verbalization.  No, I don't think so."

"Does
Paradox use a special processor for physical movement?"

"Yes,
on the eights and nines.  But it coordinates muscle groups.  The decision to
move in the first place occurs in command central."

"What
about intercepting all sensory information and altering it to create situations
in which the syn believes it is behaving defensively?"

"How
do you mean?"

"I
don’t know. I’m throwing out anything that pops into my little brain."

Susan
shrugged, “I just don’t see how you could do it, it’s so incredibly complex.”

Again they
sat in silence for minutes, and then Mission said, “For now, let’s accept your
position that core programming is simply too complex and secure to alter,
easily. So let’s focus on the peripheral chips. Highly specialized, sometimes
contracted to third party suppliers, it feels like the most obvious point of
attack on cognitive integrity."

Several
hours later, Susan decided she could not go on.  "Mission.  Mission! 
Let's take a break from this.  Okay?  You give me the feeling that if we finish
this early, we'll start work on that pesky little perpetual motion problem. 
Can you spell obsessive?"

"Oh,
excuse me.  I thought with your life and mine in jeopardy, there might be some
sense of urgency.  No hurry though, once we're dead, we'll have nothing but time
on our hands."

Susan
gave him a pained look.  "I think there exists some middle ground between
painting bulls eyes on our chests, and driving ourselves into nervous
exhaustion."

"Point
taken.  So, you need to buy some clothes since you can't go back to your
place.  We both need a decent meal.  And we are in walking distance of two
excellent choices for entertainment.  The Van Cliburn Competition first round
at the Fine Arts Auditorium, and the Modern Art Exhibition at Redgrave
Hall."

Susan's
look soured.  "My God, Mission.  No wonder you drink to excess.  You need
to lighten up.  How about a movie with gratuitous sex and violence masking the
lack of a discernible plot?"

Mission
smiled at her.  "Cool."