Perion Synthetics (24 page)

“She loved you too,” said Roberta. “Even at the
end.”

Gil sat on a worn stool in his workshop and stared at the
folded piece of paper in his hands. It was a note from Jackie—the only hardcopy
she had ever given him and the only thing she left behind.

Gil thought back to that summer evening and
how he had come home after a long day expecting to be greeted at the door with
a kiss and a hug from the only person in Perion City who brought him happiness.
Instead, he had been met with silence and a jarring absence of all things
Jackie. Her throw pillows were gone from the couch. Her glass shelf in the
bathroom had been cleared. Shampoo and conditioner bottles sat atop a pink
loofah in the trashcan.

The pristine condo made Gil wonder if his
entire life with Jackie had been nothing more than a rush fantasy, a wandering
of his idle mind. It was then he spied the note sitting on the dividing counter
between the foyer and the living room.

Gil,
the note read,
my love for
you will always remain, in some form or another.

Not a rush dream after all.

Jackie had been in his life, and now she was
gone.

It was worse than never having her there in
the first place.

He had turned on the television absently,
more to drown out the stifling silence than anything else. And as his eyes read
Jackie’s handwriting for the hundredth time, his ears picked up the voice of
KPC anchor Lauren Simmons reporting on an accident on the Perion Expressway. A
delivery van coming from Perion Terminus had blown a tire and jumped the
median. It struck a taxi, killing both the driver and a female passenger.

“The victim’s name has not been released,
pending notification of the family.”

When Gil’s phone began to ring, his shaky
hands could barely answer.

And so Jackie left without explanation and
whatever reconciliation Gil could have hoped for had died along with her on the
Perion Expressway. He had kept the letter safely hidden in his toolbox, folded
gently and placed in a small compartment within the red lid. He didn’t take it
out often, but every time he opened the toolbox, he saw the edges of the paper
sticking out, reminding him of what he had lost.

In some form or another.

It wasn’t exactly poetry, and at the time,
Gil had written it off to what he imagined was a waning interest in their life
together, as if Jackie’s real life were a wheel rolling along at a set speed,
occasionally picking up people and things, carrying them through one or two
revolutions, only to leave them on the ground once more, changed for better or
worse, far from where they started. That’s what Gil felt when he held the
letter in his hand, when he sat on the same stool where Jackie had once walked
up behind him and slipped her arms around his stomach and laid kisses on his
neck; where he had spun around and pulled her close, sinking his hands down the
back of her pants to squeeze her butt, a gesture that had always evoked a
playful groan.

A note, a handful of memories, and a
lingering question of why Jackie had gone and how poor her decision must have
been to get such a strong karmic reaction.

Gil laughed. It was the kind of Meltdown-brand,
Zen bullshit he might use on the feed, a scenario so overblown it could only be
found on The White Line. Only Coker would make Gil dress it up, give it a spin
worthy of its primetime slot.

Love and intrigue in Perion City.

Just like some Banks Media fluff piece.

Gil returned the letter to its resting
place, folding it carefully to keep from stressing the paper. He closed the
toolbox and put it back on the shelf next to bins of various computer parts he
hadn’t used in years. There used to be a time when repairing machines made
sense, but working for Perion had shown him that not only was replacing the
entire system easier, it was preferred. Just RMA the copier and send the
defective unit back to the warehouse. Let the DeVry graduates tinker with it
for a while.

“We can make you a technician,” Coker had
told him. “You like building computers, right?”

Gil had tried to explain it was just a
vestigial pastime from youth, that now he cared more about being other people,
slipping into places where he didn’t belong, and getting the scoop no one else
could get.

Looking around the converted bedroom, Gil
tried to remind himself this was all an act, an illusory persona crafted for a
singular purpose: to infiltrate Perion City. And he had done that. In another
reality, he was already packing up his stuff and making a break for the PNR—he
would have done so before the sun even cracked the horizon.

But because of Jackie and Roberta, the sun
was already up, the day already set in motion.

Gil wondered what Coker would say if he
simply abandoned the story, if he got in his car and rammed the synthetic
guards at Outpost Alpha. It could work, though he wouldn’t be able to take
Roberta with him.

Footsteps in the hallway.

Roberta was standing at the door, a hint of
worry in her eyes.

“She’s coming,” she said.

“Stay here,” said Gil, as the soft tones of
the doorbell began to echo down the hall. He looked around the room. “Don’t
touch anything and don’t come out until I say it’s safe. You hear me?”

Roberta took the seat he had just vacated
and nodded. “I hear you, Gilly Bear.”

“Don’t call me that,” he replied, shutting
the door. He secured the electronic lock with a four-digit code.

The doorbell chimed again before he made it
to the foyer. On the wall above the light switch, the vidscreen showed two
people standing outside. One of them was Gantz, still dressed in his gorilla
suit, but he had tightened it up since their bullshit session behind the
warehouse. The other was a younger woman whose hardened face Gil couldn’t
place. She looked impatient, and as the delay dragged on, she nudged Gantz in
the elbow, to which he sneered and rapped harshly on the door. The sudden sound
made Gil recoil.

“Who is it?” he asked.

Gantz looked directly into the security
camera and said, “Perion City PD, sir. Can you please open the door?”

“Just a minute,” replied Gil.

He scanned the room, but Roberta had left no
traces in the condo. He dimmed the lights in the living room and kitchen, shed
his pants, and tried to wrinkle his shirt as much as possible. The photo stream
on the vidscreen continued to scroll; Gil slapped the remote control to turn it
off. Then, as he opened the door just enough to get his head through, he tried
to effect a fatigued look.

“Mr. Gilbert Reyes?” asked Gantz. His eyes
flared for a moment, entreating Gil to go along with the deception.

“Maybe after my coffee,” he replied. “Is
there something I can help you with, Officer?”

A flash of recognition passed Gantz’ face and
he suppressed a smile.

“I’m Chief—”

“Where were you at eight p.m. last night?”
interrupted the woman.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your
business, lady.”

“Mr. Reyes,” said Gantz, “there’s been an
incident in The Fringe this morning. A vehicle registered to you matches the
description of a car seen leaving the area.”

“
My
car?” asked Gil. “You mean
someone saw a blue Nissan on the road and you came
here
first?”

“We had to start somewhere,” said Gantz.

The woman broke in again. “You didn’t answer
my question.”

“I don’t see why I have to.”

Gantz cleared his throat. “Mr. Reyes, this
is Sava Kessler, head of public relations for the company. She’s investigating
the disappearance of a prototype synthetic, handle Roberta. Have you seen any
prototype synthetics running around the neighborhood?”

“She has a Brazilian template,” said Sava.
“Brown hair, light brown eyes, slim build.”

“No,” said Gil. “Not my type. I’m more into
Asian prototype synthetics.”

“Really?” asked Gantz. “But they’re so
small.”

Gil shrugged. “We all have our tastes.”

“Hey, asshole,” barked Sava. She shoved the
door open. An involuntary glance down at Gil’s loose boxers made her lock eyes
with him. “This isn’t a social visit. You’re a person of interest in a very
serious investigation.” Then to Gantz, “Make yourself useful and check the GPS
in his car. We don’t have time to be fucking around.”

Gantz nodded and held out his hand. “I’m
sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Reyes. If you could just give me your keys,
I’ll do a quick check of your car.”

Gil hesitated, but the look on Sava’s face
told him there would be no argument. He pulled the key fob from the bowl on the
dividing counter and handed it to Gantz.

“It’s in 8F,” he said. “Door code is 0724.”

Sava folded her arms as Gantz disappeared
down the breezeway and stairs.

“So,” said Gil. He searched for pockets to
bury his hands in, found none, and ended up scratching himself.

Sava huffed and turned away.

“Do you work in the Spire?” asked Gil. When
she didn’t respond, he continued, “I’ve been there several times. Nice place.
Always very clean. Kinda cold though, don’t you think?”

A noise from behind caught Gil’s attention.
He turned and looked down the hallway. With the rest of the condo dimmed, the
workshop’s light blazed from behind the door. Shadows crossed the thin beam at
the bottom of the threshold; Roberta was pacing the room.

Gil stepped away from the door.

“Stay where I can see you,” said Sava.

“Just grabbing the remote,” said Gil,
scooping it up from the back of the couch.

The vidscreen popped back on and he tuned it
to the local KPC news station. Once again, Lauren Simmons appeared on his wall,
her long blonde hair framing a thin face, one punctuated by the brightest red
lips super definition could deliver. Although the sound was muted, Gil gleaned
everything he needed to know from the inset video in the upper right hand
corner. It showed the warehouse where he had brought a woman named Cyn back
from mental death. It looked different now, as all things tended to when they
were engulfed in flames.

“Looks bad,” said Gil.

Sava turned to face him, followed his gaze,
and nodded at the vidscreen.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“A few fatalities,” she replied.

Was that satisfaction in her voice?

“Who?” asked Gil, pushing the words past the
lump in his throat.

“You tell me.”

They stared at each other for several
seconds before Gantz came lumbering up the steps again, slightly out of breath.

“Car checks out clean,” he said, tossing the
key fob back to Gil. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Reyes.”

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” said
Gil.

Sava stared at Gantz for several seconds.
“Okay,” she said, “then I guess we’re done here.” She turned and headed for the
stairs, pulling her phone from her pocket as she went.

“Have a good day, Mr. Reyes,” said Gantz,
following after her.

Gil peered into the breezeway just enough to
see Gantz turn and walk backwards. He made a series of gestures: first,
pointing to Gil’s condo, then miming breasts with his hands, then finally flashing
a questioning thumbs-up.

He knew, or at least, he suspected. Leave it
to the Chief of Police not to miss a damn thing.

But then why had he lied about where Gil’s
car had been?

Gil glanced over his shoulder and then back
at Gantz. He nodded, made an OK sign.

“Move your ass, Gantz!”

The chief put a finger to his lips and then
hurried down the stairs.

The vidscreen in the kitchen came on at seven, as it had
every Saturday and Sunday morning for the last few years. Previously, Gil had
used the droning of the morning news to get him out of bed, and then later, as
a backdrop to a breakfast of peanut butter toast or instant oatmeal. He hardly
ever watched the television, instead preferring to flip through the feed board
on his palette. Specialized apps pulled data from the big three feeds and
displayed them in a carousel of content. Small up and down arrows below each story
let Gil customize his megafeed, which over time, learned his preferences:
technology, gadgets, and naked women.

Though Benny Coker might not have liked one
of his aggregators subbing the other feeds, he knew it was necessary for Gil’s
cover, as showing preference for any one media house might reveal him to be
biased. Besides, Lincoln and Banks put out good content from time to time. At
the core, it was all the same news. When a pic of some celebrity getting out of
a low car in a short skirt popped up, it was only a matter of time before it
appeared on all three feeds. The only thing that really mattered in the feed
business was who had it first.

Coveting everything leaves you with
nothing.

Gil stood with his forehead pressed against
the front door waiting for the adrenaline to drain out of his body. It pooled
in the small of his back, causing the surrounding muscles to spasm in protest.
Even though Gantz had covered for him, Gil still read suspicion in the Kessler
woman’s eyes.

“Mr. Sedivy, can you comment on the rumors
of James Perion’s death in Perion City?”

Gil turned at the mention of Arthur Sedivy’s
name. He approached the counter and put a hand on the back of a stool.

On the screen, Arthur Sedivy looked regal in
his navy blue suit and black tie—a uniform for Vinestead International
executives if there had ever been one. Though anyone else would have been put
out by a mid-meal interruption, Sedivy simply smiled and folded his napkin.
There were a few seconds of playacting, as if he were trying to choose the
right words instead of already having a prepared statement.

“Obviously,” he began, ignoring the reporter
and staring straight in the camera, “the entire Vinestead organization is
deeply saddened by the recent stories implying the death of James Perion. As I
understand it, he is battling, or was battling, a common form of cancer. I, of
course, put the whole of Vinestead International at Mr. Perion’s disposal, to
include my personal medical team, but for his own reasons, Mr. Perion has
declined my assistance. Although we did not see eye to eye on many things,
there is no denying he is a pioneer and a visionary, two qualities this world
is severely lacking. If he has truly passed on, then the world has suffered a
great loss.”