Perion Synthetics (34 page)

Joe stood and was met with a cold, synthetic
stare.

“You too?” asked Synth J.

“James Perion wouldn’t do this.”

Synth J crossed his arms. “Don’t you read
the feeds, Joseph? James Perion is dead.”

Pure was one of the few buildings, and the only bar, to sit
beyond the Point of No Return. It was staffed by and catered to humans only.
The idea had come from Dr. Bhenderu, who thought people might need refuge from
the synthetic storm constantly raging around them, a place to go to feel human
again.

Joe had found Gantz outside the Spire after
the meeting with Synth J, still grumbling to himself about ethics and nature as
he fingered a code card in one hand. Joe suggested they grab a drink, and the chief
of police accepted with a grunt.

They pulled into the empty parking lot at
Pure just as the neon
OPEN
sign crackled to life. Inside, they found a
table toward the back and adjusted the slats in the windows to let a little
cool air in. The scraping of their chairs over the wood floor as they pulled
them back echoed in the bar.

Holmes, owner and proprietor of Pure for as
far back as Joe could remember, waited patiently behind the bar, arranging shot
glasses in neat lines of ten on a black dish towel. It had been his decision to
eschew the clean lines and thigh-to-ceiling windows so prevalent in downtown
Perion City for a more hole-in-the-wall motif to remind people that not
everything in the world was as shiny as the company made it out to be. The
throwback style reminded Joe of the dirty college bars he had spent so many
unremembered nights in during his time at Cal.

“I think I’m in,” said Gantz. He took off
his security badge and turned it over in his hands. This was typical; he didn’t
like to drink with the laminated ID around his neck, thought it sent the wrong
message.

“I think I’m glad,” replied Joe. “I’ll need
you for what I have planned.”

“And what exactly do you have planned?”
Gantz pocketed the badge and motioned for Holmes.

Joe ran his finger over a rut someone had
carved into the table. “A coup d’état.”

“How about a drink first?” asked Holmes. He
placed a small bowl of pretzels in the middle of the table and dropped cocktail
napkins on opposite sides.

“Dos Equis,” said Gantz. “And keep them
coming.”

“And for Joe-boy?”

“Filthy martini,” replied Joe. “And a glass
of water, Mr. Holmes.”

“No need for formalities, JP Featherbottom.
We’re past your father’s reach out here.”

Gantz smiled. “You’re damn straight.”

“Right back with those drinks, gentlemen.
Maybe one of you would be kind enough to find something on the jukebox before
it starts with the Garth Brooks again.”

“Still?” asked Gantz.

Holmes shook his head. “Ashley’s the only
one who knows how to work the damn thing and she thinks it’s funny as shit.” He
broke into song as he walked away.

“So, how are we going to overthrow your
father? And how are you going to make it legal?”

Joe shrugged. “The first part’s easy, I
guess. You and your team can just take him into custody. I’m sure your Scorpios
are stronger than he is.”

“Maybe,” said Gantz. “But I haven’t seen the
specs on the Virgo synnies yet. Cam is running around with one and it seems to
have strength and reaction speed beyond my Scorpios. I wouldn’t be surprised if
Synth J has some prototype enhancements we don’t even know about. We should
probably check with Mr. Huber before planning that part of the operation.”

“If we can’t shut him down cleanly, then
we’ll just have to put him out of commission.” Joe put his hand on his knee to
keep his leg from bouncing.

“I can do that, or I can have one of my AGs
do it. You don’t even have to be there.”

“Thanks,” said Joe, tearing a corner from
his napkin.

“One bottle of the gross Dos,” said Holmes,
placing the beer in front of Gantz, “and one martini drug through the mud.” He
paused, surveyed the table. “Ah, forgot your water. BRB LOL.”

Joe’s sliver beeped and displayed an
incoming email. He pulled out his phone to read it.

“Is it important?”

“Maybe,” replied Joe. “I asked Legal to look
into something for…”

He trailed off as he read Rita’s message. It
contained the information he had asked for: a top ten list of companies and
individuals who had made the most buys and who were poised to snatch up more
shares if the price of Perion stock dropped any lower. The number one entry was
Doyle & Associates, LLC; an asterisk next to the name made Joe scroll down
to Rita’s notes.

“Doyle fronts for several political groups,”
Rita had written. “Most notable is the campaign fund for Governor Howard.”

“What kind of something?” asked Gantz.

“I had an idea,” said Joe, scanning the list
again. “That someone might be profiting from our stock crash. Legal gave me ten
names of people who have been snatching up shares and you’ll never guess who’s
at the top of the list.”

Gantz took a long pull of his drink. “Dear
Lord, let it be me.”

“Governor Howard,” said Joe. He waited for
the recognition to hit Gantz. “Well, not the governor personally, but his
campaign fund. If shares go back up to last week’s prices, he’ll make
millions.”

“Shit,” said Gantz, reaching into his jacket
for his phone. He scrolled through his calendar. “And guess who’s coming to
dinner tomorrow.” He slid the phone across the table.

Joe scanned the calendar for Friday.
“There’s a press conference tomorrow? What for?”

“I don’t know, but Synth J requested extra
security. Howard is coming in via helicopter and I’m supposed to have my best
men waiting to meet him.”

“He’s going to do it,” said Joe. “He’s going
to show the world he’s still alive. What more reliable witness than the
Governor of California?”

“Pretty slick move. I wouldn’t be surprised
if one of those companies is owned by your dad. You know, like a front betting
against itself?”

“I don’t recognize anyone else except Banks
Media,” said Joe.

“Are they number two?”

“No, but they’ve been buying pretty
regularly since the beginning of the year. Number two is Diaz Investments,
based out of Sacramento. I’ve never heard of them, and yet they’re buying every
share they can get their hands on.”

“Maybe they’re just big fans,” suggested
Gantz.

“Know what I’m a big fan of?” asked Holmes.
He threw down another cocktail napkin and placed a glass of water next to Joe’s
martini. “Greasy Chinese food.” He set a glass of dark, amber liquid in the
middle of the table. “This one’s on the house, just in case one of you realizes
he’s drinking piss. It’s my own brew.”

As he walked away, the jukebox flipped over
a shiny disc and began playing
American Honky-Tonk Bar Association
.
Holmes’ curses were drowned out by the cheers of the concert audience.

Joe put his phone down on the table and
folded his arms. As Garth’s voice filled the room, he muttered, “This changes
things.”

“Yeah,” said Gantz. “I feel like I should put
on a cowboy hat or something.”

“No, I mean with Governor Howard. No one
would make such huge buys without having insider information. Doyle and
Associates, Diaz Investments, Winston and Price: they
have
to know
something. The question is how.”

Gantz groaned. “You’re suggesting more
leaks.”

“Maybe not. Howard thinks he’s coming to
meet my father, which means he knows he isn’t dead and that the stock price
will recover.” Joe narrowed his eyes, tried to see all of the pieces at once.

“Collusion,” said Gantz. “They’re working
together.”

Joe considered the idea, tried to work out
who would benefit the most from such an arrangement. Governor Howard’s campaign
fund would certainly welcome the additional support, but in exchange for what?
Why did Synth J need him so badly?

“There’s something I haven’t thought of,”
said Joe. “All of my father’s relationships, with politicians, with
companies—what happens to them when I take over? I haven’t even heard of a
tenth of all the people Dad knows.”

“Coups are never easy,” said Gantz, emptying
his bottle. He reached for the glass of home brew. “There’s more to it than
sitting in the big chair at the end of the table. I’m behind you, Joe, but you
need to make sure you’re ready for this. If your father made deals or had
arrangements with people, they’re going to expect you to honor them.” He took a
sip and nodded approvingly. “At least then we’ll find out what kind of deal he
made with Howard.”

“Or I could just ask the governor himself
tomorrow.”

“There’s always the direct route. What would
we do in the meantime?”

“Go on as normal, I guess,” said Joe.

Gantz snorted. “It’s not exactly business as
usual for Perion engineers to be experimenting on people.”

The Paulson imprint—why did it upset Gantz
so much?

“Leak it then,” said Joe.

“What?”

He smiled and chomped on a pretzel. “That’s
pretty much the norm here now, isn’t it? Something that’s supposed to be a
secret somehow ends up on the feeds?”

“But why would you think I would or could…”

“Use a proxy,” said Joe. “Drop some hints to
Banks’ aggregator. Make sure he’s in the right place at the right time so he
sees what’s happening.”

“I don’t know. I think if I get involved at
all, I’d have to go full tilt.” Gantz raised an eyebrow. “You realize once we
set this in motion, there’s no stopping, right?”

“Yeah, but at least we have a plan now. You
help the Vinestead spy, I’ll question Howard, and at the end of the day, we
take out James Kirkland Perion the Second.”

“We don’t know she works for Vinestead.
Hell, she could just be some Kaili Zabora copycat looking to make a name for
herself.” Gantz pulled his badge from his pocket and slipped the lanyard over
his head. “Let’s start with the first two,” he said, pushing his chair back.
“Depending on what we find out, we can go from there.”

“Fine, but it will be
my
decision,”
said Joe.

“Yes, but you’re going to need
my
help, so do me the courtesy of talking it over before you fire the first shot
of the human-synthetic war of 2015.”

“You don’t think I’m ready for this, do
you?” asked Joe, standing up.

“Joe, I love you, man, but taking out your
own father? That’s gotta be difficult for anyone.” Gantz turned and headed for
the exit. “Put it on my tab,” he called out to Holmes.

“How about I put it on your face, Bob?”
asked Holmes.

Joe followed the chief into the parking lot.

“Robert, I can do this!”

Gantz stopped in an empty parking space. He
looked at Joe’s GT-R and then at the long road back to town.

“What is it?” asked Joe.

“You see that car over there? Wasn’t there
when we arrived.”

Joe followed the road to a sedan that
appeared to have drifted onto the shoulder. Through the windshield, he could
make out an arm draped over the steering wheel.

Gantz began walking and Joe followed close
behind. As they neared the car, Gantz covered his face with his sleeve.

“Christ, do you smell that?”

The stench hit Joe a second later, a mix of
burning rubber and hydrochloric acid.

“It’s a synny,” said Gantz, opening the door
with his free hand.

Joe got a good look at the melting hulk of a
synthetic man, now nothing more than a fragile shell hovering over a pool of
green sludge. On the floorboards were the charred remains of shoes, already
eaten through by the corrosive cocktail. Next to one shoe was a pistol; its
surface bubbled and popped under the emerald liquid.

“That looks like one of your—”

Joe’s sentence was lost under the sound of
exploding gunpowder. Gantz pushed backwards into Joe, sending both men to the
ground as shards of metal flew above their heads. More bullets followed; they
pinged off the frame of the car for several seconds.

When the fireworks finally stopped, both men
rolled onto their backs and panted at the sky.

“What is a synny doing on this side of the
PNR?” asked Joe.

“With a gun,” said Gantz.

“With a gun.”

“I don’t know.” Gantz turned his head in the
direction of the Spire. “But it wouldn’t have crossed the Deadline without
being ordered.”

“You think it was meant for us?”

“Or
one
of us,” said Gantz.

Joe stared at the sludge dripping down from
the new holes in the bottom of the car and wondered if Synth J had the audacity
to send a synthetic to kill a human.

To kill his own chief of police.

To kill his own son.

Joe wanted nothing more than to confront Synth J about the
attempt on his life, but even walking back to the car had proven difficult.
There was pain in his face as if someone had attached a vise to the bridge of
his nose, and everything smelled like blood. He had the back of Gantz’ head to
thank for that one, though if the chief hadn’t forced Joe to the ground
somehow, they might both be riddled with bullets instead of dealing with the
headache to end all headaches. Joe recalled the moment of impact, how the
sensation had crackled around his skull like a halo of lightning, touching each
part of his brain with its prickly fingers before fizzling out into a dull
ache.

He threw up before he got to the car,
prompting Gantz to escort him around to the passenger side.

Gantz drove them back to the Spire and acted
as a crutch for Joe as they rode the elevator down to Medical on B5. A
synthetic nurse checked them both out and gave them a prescription for
painkillers. Gantz refused his, waved them away as he spoke harshly into his
phone. He was ordering his men—his
real
men—out to Pure to examine the
melted synthetic. They wouldn’t find anything, of course; the self-destruction
protocols would see to that.