Table of Contents
The Nero Protocol
Book Details
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Two
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
About the Author
THE
NERO
PROTOCOL
VICTORIA
ZAGAR
Ario six-four-nine-one is an obsolete synth gigolo—especially when his latest trick proves to be his last in a brutal and horrifying way. But he's only a synth, it's not like he can really think and feel. No one will notice one more out of date synth tossed in the garbage.
Except for Elias, homeless and lonely because he's not what his father—or the world—wants him to be, haunted by a tragedy for which he cannot forgive himself. When he finds a battered, broken, long-discontinued synth in a dumpster, he decides to repair the poor thing despite all the reasons he shouldn't.
Then all those reasons come crashing down, and in order to save each other from a world that doesn't want either of them, Elias and Ario will have to sacrifice everything they hold dear: freedom, safety, and even themselves.
The Nero Protocol
By Victoria Zagar
Published by Less Than Three Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Emilia Vane
Cover designed by Aisha Akeju
This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition June 2017
Copyright © 2017 by Victoria Zagar
Printed in the United States of America
Digital ISBN 9781684310180
Print ISBN 9781684310197
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Ario six-four-nine-one analyzed the patterns in the ancient, dirty carpet of a run-down hotel as he lay bent over the bed. A middle-aged businessman was plowing him, sweat slick on his brow as he made awkward grunting noises that wouldn't have been out of place on a farm. Ario studied the carpet, even though he had seen it a million times before, and the pattern was stored in his memory. It was a habit of sorts, a way to pass the time as one faceless stranger after another fucked him.
He was torn from his reverie by the man grabbing his long, black hair and jerking his head back. Ario's neck snapped up, pain sensors firing as every synthetic nerve in his scalp lit up and sent signals to his neural network. The synth equivalent of pain shot through his sensors, warning him of impending danger that he was already aware of. This man liked to hurt synths. Ario had known that much as soon as he had stepped into the dingy room. The scars across his face were enough to tell Ario that the man was into some rough business. The predatory look in his eyes had told Ario he was the type to mete it out rather than take it.
"It's not enough," the businessman panted. "Not nearly enough." He wrapped his hands around Ario's throat and squeezed. Ario could feel the pressure of those desperate, filthy hands and was grateful he didn't need to breathe. He pretended to choke, hoping it would give the man what he needed so he would come already. The man slapped in and out of him harder before withdrawing. He wasn't getting what he needed.
There was danger in men with an edge who wanted to see synth gigolos. Sometimes, their obsession was more than any human could handle. Ario had seen the remnants of a synthetic who had fallen victim to a snuff chaser. It was something he never wanted to see again: shattered fiberglass, staring dead eyes, liquid coolant flowing down her face like semen. Her head had been literally torn from her body in pursuit of a man's fucked-up fantasies. They'd thrown her in the trash like a piece of garbage with nobody to mourn her. Nobody but Ario six-four-nine-one, who grieved, even though it was supposedly impossible for a mass of wires and computer programming to care.
The cheap price placed on his own existence scared him. Synths weren't supposed to feel fear, and yet, he did. How could any being exist that didn't protect its own life? Cybot Corporation was clearly lying, but people believed what they wanted to. Fear and other emotions couldn't be easily proven. Cybot's own data proved that any emotions seen in synthetics were nothing other than projections from their human users. Cybot's data was God's own word with a few million dollars' worth of hookers and bribes sent to influential senators and seniors at the Department of Synthetic Affairs.
"Get back on my cock." The businessman yanked Ario down onto his lap, thrusting in and out until he stopped again. His hand tightened back around Ario's throat, squeezing with all the strength the man had. Ario wondered if his neck might snap, but the thick steel supports that stopped his coolant lines from being crushed held up.
"Damn dolls don't need to breathe," the man realized. "You're fucking useless to me." He pulled out again and threw Ario to the floor like he was a sack of garbage. "Created for my pleasure—right. You're nothing but a rundown piece of shit that should have been hauled to the scrap yard years ago."
Ario said nothing. A million responses flooded into his brain, but he still had enough self-preservation not to goad the businessman into killing him. Not that Ario truly cared any more. His new master was the lowest of the low, the kind of 'legitimate businessman' who trafficked women, young boys, and synths for whatever desires his customers would pay for. The cops turned a blind eye to his operation as long as they received the right amount of money.
Movement caught his eye and he saw the businessman reach for his phone as his softening dick waggled helplessly between his legs. Complaints to the master were a bad thing. The kind of thing that could see him deactivated or sold to an even lower cause. He didn't want to end up on some torture porn flick, being ripped apart. Or worse: having his programming overridden so that he was the one doing the torturing. He'd heard it could be done. Revulsion was another emotion that he seemed to possess, even though he lacked a digestive system to physically quail and vomit like humans did.
"Xan-Li? I am most displeased with this thing, but I think there is something you can do to make me a happy customer. You know my tastes. I'll pay you an extra thousand if you let me do it."
"Your reputation for ending prostitutes is well-known," Xan-Li said in heavily-accented English. Ario heard every word with his advanced sense of hearing. "It causes a lot of trouble these days. Synths have some rights now. The police will have to be paid. I'll expect to be compensated for that."
My master is protecting me? Ario felt a glimmer of what might have been hope before Xan-Li's next words dashed it.
"Pay me double that and you can do whatever you like. No questions asked."
"It's a deal." The businessman hung up the phone and tossed it onto the bed. "You hear that?" He stood up, his prick rising to meet the occasion. "I can do whatever the fuck I like, and nobody's coming to save you."
Ario's self-preservation systems came fully online as he scooted up against the wall. The businessman pulled a baseball bat from the backpack of equipment he'd brought to the session and grinned a filthy, yellow smile. A gold tooth adorned the mess, gleaming maliciously in the flickering strip light as he rounded on Ario.
Ario thought about running, but Xan-Li's guards would be right outside. If Xan-Li—his own master—had sold him to this man, t
here was no way he would leave this room with his life. If he'd known his shutdown codes, he would have used them—but that was the kind of privilege extended to synthetics who lived within the system. Synths with registered owners who wanted them to do the cooking and cleaning, maybe watch the kids for a couple of hours. Not him. Not an old-style gigolo synth who belonged to a darker age. By rights, he should have been decommissioned years ago. The human rights activists of the world didn't look beyond their white picket fences to the seedy underbelly of society, though. There was a black market in real human lives that went largely ignored—why would anybody worry about a robot?
The first blow hit him in the face with a sickening thud that made his senses overload. Blue antifreeze poured out of his nose as he felt circuit boards inside him snapping. Worse still was the loud heavy clang that reverberated through his neural network and the blinding headache that spoke of damage to his vital systems. A warning appeared before his eyes, his diagnostic system informing him of critical damage. He reached up to feel his rubberized skin dangling from his face where it no longer fit, and thick, white liquid pouring down his neck from broken coolant lines.
"Oh, yeah, that's more like it. Now you look like the piece of junk you are." The businessman dragged Ario to his feet and threw him over the bed, thrusting inside him. He reached forward and ripped out a handful of hair, tossing it away. Ario watched it float to the ground like so many feathers; black hair that lonely young men had called beautiful once upon a time. Even the regular businessmen had once seemed apologetic. One had even paid to sit with Ario one night as Ario tried to understand the man's ever-so-human problems. Many of his clients were dead now: some from suicide, others age and stress, others leaving the mortal coil while chasing that one final high. His internal clock stated that he had been in use for over twenty years. The average life-span of a synth was less than three years any more. The newer models weren't built to last. Conspiracy theories abounded that long-lived A.I.s had developed sentience and free will, an ethical conundrum that Cybot wished to avoid at all costs. Not that anybody really listened to the men in tinfoil hats, but Ario wondered if perhaps they were right. He had gathered his own sense of personhood over twenty years and it was about to end this night in the worst possible way.
"Don't you think about anything else," the businessman said, slipping out again. He turned Ario over on the bed and grabbed what was left of his face in a tight grip. "You're going to die tonight, you doll. I'll show you that synths are nothing but objects." He slipped his cock back into Ario's ass, hitting Ario's head against the wall as he fucked him. Ario put up an arm to stop him and the man grabbed it, twisting and snapping it with surprising strength. It hung uselessly, broken at the elbow joint. The pain sensors in his neural network overloaded and shut down, offering the bliss of relief in their place. If Ario was to die, at least he wanted to do it without his body screaming at him about a situation he could not change.
Ario closed his eyes. He felt the coolness of a steel blade and the odd sensation of being dissected alive as the businessman cut him open from neck to navel. He felt his internal wires exposed to the light for the first time since he was built. Still, the fucked-up man was plowing into him, muttering under his breath about being the superior race. He finally shuddered and came as he twisted the knife in Ario's gut. He withdrew with a sick grin on his face. Ario could still feel the man's seed dribbling out of him and his own sickening erection, programmed to remain as long as sexual activity was in congress. He felt himself being dragged onto the floor, where the man kicked him in the head over and over, wanting to erase him from existence. Ario recognized the motives of a killer who had no conscience and no remorse. He wanted to kill, loved it, relished the act of murder.
Satisfied with his handiwork, the man chuckled and packed up his things. Ario's visual circuits shorted out, leaving him in the darkness. He wondered if it was a mercy not to have to look upon the face of his killer any longer. He didn't have to run his hand across his chest to feel his perfect body ripped up, the ugly truth of his being exposed. Not flesh and blood, but wires and circuits. Because of them, his murder would be a crime investigated with indifference instead of horror.
The man left the room, slamming the door behind him. Ario could hear his phone ringing in the corridor, the quick banter of his voice as he rattled off orders to some subordinate. The world grew quieter by the moment, time slowing as Ario's systems shut themselves down one by one. The critical damage to his neural network was probably beyond repair. He could still process input, surprisingly, but his body was beyond his control.
As he faded from the world, there was one last glimmer of a memory that he recalled: a hand gently caressing his face in one tender motion. A kiss on his lips that came not from lust, but genuine admiration and care. It wasn't any of his clients that he remembered. Perhaps it was just a fantasy born of electric dreams, but it filled him with a warm feeling as he abandoned life. His critical systems shut down one by one until there was only a supine, broken synth body lying on the floor, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
CHAPTER TWO
Elias sat on the floor of an abandoned warehouse. A fire burned in a metal drum just a few feet away from him, but it barely warmed the air. Elias watched his breath form vapor clouds in front of his face. He pulled his worn trench coat tighter around him and leaned his head back against the cold, corrugated-steel factory doors.
He needed sleep, but it was too cold to rest. On mornings like these, it was too easy just to consider giving up entirely. The bridge had a certain siren's song to it around twilight. It would be easy to jump into the river and end his miserable existence.
With shaking hands, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He'd bummed them from an outreach worker who was trying to discern why a twenty-eight-year-old man with an I.Q. off the charts had dropped out of society to spend his life down by the docks, sucking the occasional dick for money and strumming an out-of-tune guitar on the subway. He lit a smoke and sat there thinking about the young woman who had come down to the docks to ask questions. She had meant well, but had reminded him of a time he preferred not to think about.
"It's quiet here," he had told the social worker. "Don't see a whole lot of synths down at the docks anymore." Industry had pretty much all been shipped out to China, and the docks were the only place that hadn't turned into a mass of technology stores and fast food joints.
"You don't like synths?" The young woman was taken aback, as if he'd said something quite frightening. He saw her hooded sweatshirt underneath her jacket read "Equal Rights For All—Synth Rights League." Black hair was highlighted with shocking pink streaks and she wore a leather jacket and brand-name pants that looked pricey.
"I've got nothing against them. I even wanted to be a synth tech once. I even took the course, but I dropped out when my boyfriend died," Elias explained.
"So that's how you wound up here? Down by the docks, turning tricks?" Her nose turned up a little, and Elias snorted in amusement. They were worlds apart, and her concern was not enough to bridge the gap. Sincere as she was, she simply didn't have the life experience needed to relate to him.
"Over ten years ago, yes. One minute, we were driving down the Interstate. The next, a synth-driven flower delivery van bailed over the median and right onto our windshield. I escaped with my life, but Brynn wasn't so lucky. His head was severed from his body in just a fraction of a second."
"Do you blame the synth?" The girl eyed Elias with a mixture of compassion and pity.
"No. His master was the one who fucked up. He thought the synth was fucking his wife and programmed him to turn off at three p.m. every day—the time he thought the synth was banging his wife. Turns out the wife just had the synth helping her out at work and he was driving the van when he shut down. The negligence charges never stuck."
"I could find you a job. You could move into a nice little apartment." The woman twirled her finger as if handing him a ca
rrot he hadn't been offered a hundred times.
"No thanks." It wasn't that he didn't want the warmth and security of a permanent home—he did—but nothing ever seemed to stick. He could never keep a job. He forgot to go to work half the time, mired as he was in depression and saddled with short-term memory defects due to a head injury he'd sustained in the crash. He didn't want to live on welfare—a tiny sliver of pride demanded he make it alone. It was better to be by himself and try to find his purpose down by the water, where he didn't have to rely on anybody else for his survival. Whether he lived or died was up to him. It was the only way of life that afforded him control.
"Is there anything I can do for you? I have to do eighty more hours of this shit. I don't really feel like picking up another case," the girl said.
"A pack of smokes would be nice." Elias smiled, charmed by the woman's blunt honesty. "What's your name, anyway?"
"Caroline. Here." Caroline delved into her pockets and came up with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
"Ugh, menthols." Elias turned his nose up in mostly mock disgust, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth and took a cigarette.
"The girls' choice." Caroline grinned. "Sorry, it's all I have."
"It'll work. Thanks. Sorry I can't lower your homelessness figures."
"Eh, it's just mandatory community service. Between you and me, I vandalized a Cybot store."
"The battle for synth rights, huh? Keep up the good fight. Hand me your digipad a sec."
"Uh… okay." Caroline reached into her backpack and came up with a small tablet. She handed it to Elias, who brought up the interface. His fingers moved across it with lightning speed. He reached into a dreary, torn backpack and pulled out a tiny flash drive, which he inserted into the bottom.
"There. You're logged for the remaining eighty hours of time. Enjoy your freedom, Caroline." Elias smiled for the first time since meeting Caroline. She looked back at him with wide eyes.
The Nero Protocol Page 1
