Synthetics (11 page)

I felt like an old man.

***

We touched down at a deserted airstrip just outside the city limits. Sand swept across the tarmac, while the high sun scorched the landscape. A lone BMW was waiting. It looked more like a tank then a road car.

“Staggers!”

I saw Stuart stomping towards me. We were practically twins.

“You’re looking good bro,” he said.

“You too. How was the flight?”

“Yeah good good.”

We stood before each other. It was pretty awkward.

He fell in beside me when I started walking towards the car. Frederick was staying with the plane.

“Well let’s do this Staggers.” He patted me on the back.

I went flying forward and landed facedown on the tarmac.

“That’s hilarious,” said Stuart finally helping me up after going through all the motions of laughter that did not use your face. “I’m a beast.”

I shrugged, “You better not have scuffed my bodywork.”

“Don’t worry Staggers, I’ll shout you a trip to the panel beaters when we get back to the states.”

“You all good with driving?” I asked, sitting down in the passenger seat.

“Yeah Staggers.”

He scrambled in and sat silently with both hands on the wheel.

“What happens if the cops pull us up?” he said finally.

“Just tell them we are going to a costume party.”

“What are we dressed as?”

“Toy soldiers? Hell, I dunno. It’s not like they are going to argue with us.”

***

So the plan was, Stuart waited in the car in some deserted alley, while I went up with a Desert Eagle with specially tipped ammunition and either reasoned with her or shot her in the face. I was planning to tilt the gun to the side gangster style and to say something slick and cool.

“Why doesn’t Sasha send some professionals to do this? Do the job properly,” said Stuart as I exited the car.

“I think this is past the point of being professional.”

I swear I'm in the wrong body.

Well technically it isn’t my body so therefore I must be in the wrong body.

As I rode the lift to the seventeenth floor, my palms were not sweaty, my mouth was not dry and the hairs on my neck did not stand on end. I had being repeating Sasha's mantra over and over in my head; 'Virtue is selfish when it hurts the innocent.' I don't want to be selfish.

Actually, honestly I don't mind being selfish. Why was I doing this? I could take the moral high ground and walk away. Killing is wrong. My mum told me that when my friend wanted to shoot our cat with a twenty-two. I could walk away. CANA would be shut down and humanity would continue to wallow around in all this filth we call reality. But these aren't my dreams, they’re Sasha's. He wants peace and perfection. I want... It doesn’t matter what I want anymore.

The lift door slid open. I stepped tentatively into the hallway.

“Drop the gun.”

Damn. That didn't take long. I couldn't see the speaker but I gently lowered my gun and put it on the floor. I wasn't scared. I was just being cautious.

“Poor little thing.”

Okay that was very patronizing. I am a seven-foot tall, titanium alloy god. Not a poor little thing.

“So you must be Fletcher? The poster boy?”

I don’t know whether boy was the most appropriate term here.

She descended a small flight of stairs at the opposite end of the hallway. Her body was all curves and sensuous lines. Whoever designed it must've been a creepy old feller. Most likely she requested it. She kind of reminded me of a mannequin. The only difference was that she could probably tear me limb from limb. She was unarmed so I retrieved my gun. I didn't really know why I dropped it. I'm not a consistently logical kind of guy.

“Yes,” I said, “And you must be Samara?”

“Correct.” She motioned to the gun in my hand. “Can we please talk like regular people and not like Americans?”

She was a bit less loopy than I had been anticipating. I almost laughed but was unsure what would happen if I did. I was steadily losing the ability to laugh. I could make the noises, but without the facial expressions it felt too unnatural.

The cadence of her voice was short shifted; aggressive but engaging. I put the gun down. I guess I finally realized I didn't actually want to kill her. I didn’t want to kill anyone to be honest and she seemed all good. It was probably just a misunderstanding.

“Thank you Fletcher.” I imagined she would have smiled if she could. “Should we go sit down and talk?”

“Sure.”

“My apartment's just down the hall, if you would follow me.”

***

“I would offer refreshments,” she said as she ushered me inside, “But I somehow don’t think that’s appropriate.”

More humor. Psychopaths don’t use humor… Do they?

Samara's apartment was meticulous. We sat in the living room with the sprawling city of Dubai peeking in through a massive window, which spanned an entire face. A painting of two women in a dingy, fishing in what looked like Scotland, hung to my left. Just between a potted fern and a man slumped on a chair. His neck hung unnaturally to the side, like he’d had a few too many. He was blue with a black and yellow collar. My back grew straight and in shock I smashed a decorative plate and sent the table it sat on flying across the room. I was stronger than I thought. I looked at the corpse, then at Samara; she was gauging my reaction. I was tripping out. I looked at the corpse again.

“God.”

“Yes Fletcher?”

I did not realize I had spoken. The corpse was pleading with me, its glassy eyes entrancing me.

“Why?” I forced the word out.

Samara appeared to not comprehend what all the fuss was about. It was as if the corpse were a tabletop ornament.

“Oh.” She said it silkily. “Does dear Mister Pinkerton frighten you?”

She made him sound like a pet. I was desperately trying to process the situation.

“God.”

“No darling. That is Steve Pinkerton. He used to be my lawyer. He was a dreadfully dull fellow.”

“Did you do this?”

“Of course I did. He was past the point of usefulness so he had to be put down. He was threatening to blackmail me.”

I stood, fast, and started checking for exits.

“Fletcher dearest, please don't leave.”

“You... You murdered him.” Samara's jet black eyes devoured me. She was like a siren; her decay masked with beauty.

“No, no,” she said standing and taking a step towards me, “Is it really murder or is it shooting chimps? Besides Fletcher, didn’t you come to murder me?”

“We are still human!” I stepped back, “And no, I don’t want to kill you.”

“Fletcher, Fletcher, you poor child. We are Synthetics not humans. You must grasp the way of this world. Monkeys created humans and humans in turn created angels. There is nothing human about us. We are glorious.” She paused and motioned towards Mister Pinkerton. “They are an embarrassing reminder of what we strived so hard to transcend. Weakness, lust, sickness... Death.” She took a step towards me. “They are the embodiment of our past failures.”

“I am still human.” I said it quietly. I didn't quite believe it but I wanted to. God I wanted to. She was standing directly opposite me now.

“I beg you to reconsider Fletcher.”

“No, we should help them.”

“Then you leave me no choice.”

“You want this don't you.”

“Want what?”

“To kill me, to dominate, to rule. Power; it always comes down to power. You are more human than you could imagine. You are just in a shinier body. You use pretty rhetoric to justify your actions but you are really driven by your emotions. You've been done before.”

Samara stood motionless. I thought she was going to calm down. I was wrong.

A screech pierced the air as she braced her legs and punched me in the stomach. I was sent flying across the room into the wall. It cracked under the impact. I felt no pain but I was aware of the deterioration of my structural integrity. I had to fight back.

I rose from a dusting of debris just in time to deflect a charge from Samara.

“Power is all we have boy! A well placed blow defeats any argument.”

She kicked out at my groin. It was an odd choice of target. I used my knee to smash her leg away, putting her off balance.

As she spun sideways she hissed mockingly, “Tell me Fletcher, what other noble cause should we pledge ourselves to?”

I stalked towards her readying myself to smack her in the face. I was already savoring the moment.

“We have power,” I said, my right fist connecting with her raised arm, “So we can help.” My left fist struck her in the temple, felling her.

“Define good,” She said rising. I backed off. “Are you good Fletcher? You were sent to murder me.”

I couldn't reply. The heat of the moment didn't allow for clear thought.

“You are all the same,” she accused, pointing her finger at me. “You champion petty ideals based on fluffy emotions. There is no substance, no reason to your thinking.”

“We have to help people...”

“Why? Do they deserve it? Did they earn it? Are they even worth a second look?”

“Because...” I didn't know what to say.

“Fletcher, you are trapped in your outdated system of morality. The morality of the universe is that the strong prosper and the weak die. It is simplistic and right. Your notions of right are just random collection of charges in your brain.”

I felt insulted. Actually I just felt confused and angry. I decided to take it out on Samara.

I charged. She tried to step aside but I grabbed her arm and dragged her along with me. Planting my feet I swung her towards the massive window. It shattered into crystal rain and she fell. I heard her screaming my name on the way down.

We may be immortal but we are not invincible.

Checking myself I peered over the precipice to see Samara. She was still moving but didn’t seem to be able to get up.

I started out of the apartment; picked up the gun I had discarded and entered the elevator.

Chapter 15

Tinny jazz permeated the elevator, making me feel like I was in a twisted remake of The Godfather. There was a mirror in the elevator; it scared me. I think I was developing a fear of mirrors. That said, I couldn't stop staring at my reflection.

Before I reached the ground floor the elevator halted on the seventh story. A little old man with a zimmer frame was inching his way towards the elevator. He started jabbering at me, in whatever language the locals’ spoke, as the doors started closing before him.

I put out my arm to hold the elevator as he soldiered on. When he was finally in, he tipped his plaid hat at me and offered up a smoke. I politely declined.

I realized I had stuffed up. Samara was out in the street now so finishing her off would be very public. I guess I would just have to hope that no one in Dubai was handy with a video camera.

It was nice in the elevator, just the grandpa and me. I could have stayed there forever but the doors opened and reality beckoned.

Reality is a douche.

The little old man grasped my arm as I made to leave. He drew me close, pulled my head down and whispered something unintelligible into the vicinity where my ear would have been. He seemed so contrite. Must be as blind as a bat. Bidding the man goodbye, I strode down the deserted hall, through the sandstone-bricked entrance and out into the street. A crowd of motorists and pedestrians had already gathered. The police would arrive soon.

I better make it quick.

Samara lay on her back. Her arms reached up to the sky. She looked like a toddler waiting for a hug.

“Fletcher?”

“Yes it's me.”

Stuart had pulled up beside us. He was screaming something at me, but at this moment he was irrelevant.

“You're going to kill me now?” she asked.

“Yes. I think I am.”

“Okay.”

I stood over her, stealing her sunlight. She didn't need it anyway. I raised the gun.

“Wait...”

I waited.

“Do you want to know a secret?”

I nodded.

“Can you keep a secret?”

I nodded again.

“I used to have green eyes.

I nodded once more, paused… inclined my head to the side and pulled the trigger. Once... Twice... The third time was a charm. Each shot brought a spasm of writhing limbs and garbled noise, until she no longer moved. I noticed a dark substance pooling on the tarmac. Whether she was bleeding or had sprung a leak was debatable.

I heard screams and saw people running. I stood amidst the chaos feeling eerily at peace. I noticed the old man calmly hobbling down the sidewalk, oblivious to the scene behind him. The police had started to arrive. Sirens and lights and nervous men with guns, started to appear.

I was about to hop into the car when I saw the old man knocked to the ground by a fleeing bystander. I imagined his innocent distress as he crawled to his knees searching in vain for his broken zimmer frame. I contemplated rushing to his aid, swatting aside the policemen to help him. I was still contemplating it as I was dragged back into the escape car.

I didn’t struggle.

Inside Stuart sat silently at the wheel for a second before accelerating away down the crowded suburban street.

“Aren’t we glorious,” I said taking one last look at the hunk of metal lying on the tarmac.

Stuart glanced at me and then fixed his attention back at the road. “Aren’t we?”

***

CANA must have some friends in high places because the police gave up pursuing us after a few minutes. The ride back to the airstrip was awkward and silent.

Stuart stopped the car on the tarmac, at least a hundred meters away from the plane. I started walking towards the jet but Stuart put his hand on my shoulder to stop me.

“Did that feel good?” he said.

“What are you on about?” I shrugged his arm off.

“You didn’t have to kill her Staggers. She was screwed up. We could have taken her.”

“I had to kill her,” I replied, “You weren’t in there. You don’t know what she was Stuart.”

Stuart started pacing and shaking his head.

“Well I’m starting to see what we are, Staggers.”

He took my hand and shook it, “I like you Staggers. You’re a good guy. Now can you promise me one thing?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t chase me.”

He turned and ran. That was the last time I ever saw Stuart, just a little fading speck on a bronze horizon.

***

The jet ride home was uneventful; I spent most of it playing tetris, staring at the clouds and wondering if I should of chased Stuart. No, I should not have chased Stuart; I should have gone with him.

“So who were you?” I asked Frederick at one stage of the flight.

I was sick of suffocating in the tedium. At first I thought he wasn't going to reply. After about thirty seconds, words started to spill out.

“An accountant.”

Well perhaps spill is an overstatement, dribble might be a more suitable word.

“Really? And?”

“That’s it.”

I was beginning to realize that sarcasm and flippancy were one of the primary tools used to cope with unfortunate circumstances.

“Family?” I asked.

This was the sucker punch to the face. I could tell by how he answered so quickly.

“No.”

Guinea Pigs sing more than Frederick talked.

“Love?”

“No.”

“Pets?”

“A dog.”

“Cool.”

My theory was that Frederick's dog had left him for another master while Frederick was off auditing some multinational corporate empire. So heart broken was poor old Frederick that he took to the bottle and spent all of his time playing cards. One smoky night Sasha waltzed into Frederick's favorite hangout and won his undying devotion in a game of Texas Holdem poker.

“What happened to your dog?” I asked.

“It's at my sisters.”

The plot thickens.

“So you do have a family?”

“No.”

For some odd reason I kept picturing a choir of Guinea Pigs singing opera in Italian. A little fat brown one was singing like Pavarotti in baritone. The thought that I might be going a tad insane hadn’t occurred to me. Why point out the obvious?

“Do you ever want to go back?” I asked.

“To where?”

“To what we used to be.”

“Human?”

“Yeah.”

Frederick was smiling. Well in my mind he was. I also pictured him as a butler wearing a suit and carrying a white cloth over his forearm. Frederick was a good name for a butler.

“Why would I ever want to go back? Look at us.”

“Exactly,” I agreed.

We both wanted to go back.

***

Remembering the past is always gilded in golden nostalgia. Anticipating the future is always softened with hope. Dealing with the present is just straight up unpleasant.

When did I become such a depressing individual? It could have around the time that I killed a seventy year-old Ukrainian lady who happened to be wearing a titanium alloy body… I only found out she was seventy on the flight home. She was probably a grandmother.

“Fletcher?”

“Yo.”

I snapped out of my little reverie. I was in a board meeting with Sasha, Cole, Frederick and ten of the investors.

“Why didn't you take the remains with you?”

Sasha was addressing me. Everyone looked like futuristic toy soldiers except for Cole.

I shrugged. (I'm a god not a saint.)

“Didn’t really think about it,” I said.

I was mulling over the thought that the only organic part of me left was my central nervous system. Bundle of nerves; I liked that joke. I used it a lot.

“Hopefully Secretary Cosworth does not find out about this. Luckily I was able to make some calls. It was supposed to be clean.”

“I'm sorry.”

I thought Sasha was going to get his rocks off at me but he just dismissed the topic.

“We are all under substantial amounts of stress. Mistakes are inevitable.”

I found I still quite liked Sasha.

“Now on to the next order of business.”

This was the investors cue to start a general hubbub.

“He's dead Sasha.”

“You said we would be immortal.”

“Free from sickness.”

I only just noticed that there were only ten investors. Twelve minus Samara should equal eleven. Therefore one was missing. Man I got this math business down.

“What happened?” I whispered to Cole at my side.

“Kenneth Baxter died this morning. He was already eighty-five when he was integrated. It didn’t exactly work. Well it worked… It just didn’t keep working.”

“Why should age matter? Aren't we immortal?”

Cole grimaced. I envied that frown.

“Not exactly. Brain cells still die, axioms decay, nerve endings wither away; we were experimenting with stem cells but we still haven't made enough progress yet. They are too unpredictable.”

I should have been shocked. First I was told I was immortal now I just got told I was going to die. It wasn't that much of a biggie to me though.

“What now?” I asked.

Cole nodded at Sasha who was standing now.

“Watch and see.”

Sasha spread his hands wide.

“I am sorry for your loss but this has always been a possibility.”

“You knew this could happen?”

I didn't catch which shiny individual said it but he, or she, didn't sound particularly happy.

“It is a set back, yes. But this is a process and we can still move forward to phase two.”

No one spoke. They seemed desperate.

“Full integration,” continued Sasha, “Our Neural Transmutation Division has perfected a method for transferring a consciousness from the organic brain to an artificial brain.”

One of the investors started laughing. “You expect us to believe this? Has it been tested successfully?”

“No,” Sasha said, “Not on humans anyhow, but I will be the first to undergo full integration.”

Everyone was silent.

“I believe that concludes our meeting,” said Sasha, “Next time we meet, you shall see firsthand if Full Integration is a viable option.”

I would have felt nauseous.