The Nero Protocol

by Victoria Zagar

  "What did you just do? Isn't that illegal?" Caroline asked.

  "Are you telling me legality really matters to you?" Elias kept his smirk. "I don't think so, somehow. Beyond not pissing Daddy off so much he stops paying for college, you don't really give a damn about the rules." He scratched the stubble on his chin, handing the tablet back to Caroline after he removed the flash drive. "Have a nice life."

  "Why would you do something like that for a stranger? You don't know me. Why would you take a risk for me?"

  "I might be the only person in this world with nothing to lose." Elias flipped the flash drive over and over in his hand. The repetitive motion calmed him.

  "That can't be true. Everyone has something they care about," Caroline said.

  "Not me. There's nothing in this world that matters to me anymore." Elias shrugged.

  That pitying look from before returned to Caroline's eyes. She started to make a tactical withdrawal. They all did after a little while—Elias's depression and self-loathing was too much for even the most positive people. Soon she was gone, half-walking and half-running down an alleyway like she was fleeing from a sexual predator. Elias scoffed, a bemused smile flickering on his face before fading away. He probably did look like a sexual predator. People always said there was something not quite right about him—he never knew where to look when he spoke to someone.

  Elias returned to the cigarette in his hands and the darkness of the warehouse. He lit the cigarette with the pink-and-black striped lighter Caroline had given him. Smoking was strongly discouraged in a world where most people were subconsciously trying to destroy themselves. Elias liked to think of himself as someone who was simply a little more honest about life. He stood up and paced the warehouse, smoking the cigarette down to the filter and throwing the stub into the fire. He looked into the barrel and saw the dying embers emitting a low light. There was little else to burn in the warehouse. He hoped someone would deliver a dumpster soon. A few places liked to store their trash in the warehouse until a truck picked it up.

  As if he'd summoned it, the far doors of the warehouse started to creak open automatically. Elias sat down in his corner and tried to look like he was minding his own business. He hoped nobody had come to cause trouble. All he wanted was to be left alone to his misery. The early morning light shone through the crack in the door and three men surreptitiously squeezed themselves into the warehouse. They looked around, scouting the area. All three wore black masks obscuring their faces, and plain clothing that wouldn't identify them. Elias closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, and either the men didn't see him, or didn't think him a threat. They opened the door wider and pushed a dumpster inside. They hustled it into a dark corner and rushed to the exit, as if leaving a time bomb behind for someone to discover later.

  Elias waited ten minutes, counting off the seconds in his head. Once he was sure the men had left the scene, he walked over to the dumpster and lifted the lid. Takeout cartons were strewn on top of the garbage, the disgusting-yet-delicious aroma of rotting Chinese food making his nose curl and his stomach growl. Elias dug a little deeper, because men in masks tended to dump a lot more than restaurant garbage.

  "Woah! Ah!" Elias fell on his ass as he backed up quickly. A human hand was sticking out of the garbage. A body! Great, now he was going to have to deal with the cops. They would be sniffing around for information, hoping to pin it to the homeless man they wanted off the streets anyway.

  Curiosity overriding his fear, Elias stood up and reached into the squirming mass of noodles. He pulled on the hand and a whole arm came loose in his hand. Wires hung out of the end.

  Oh, Jesus, it was just a synth arm. "Holy shit." Elias mumbled out loud, his heart racing in his chest. Fear turning to excitement, he started to dig frantically through the trash. He tossed cartons on the floor until a whole face was revealed beneath pea pods, gravy, and tiny ears of corn. The synth would have been attractive if it hadn't been smashed in the head by what looked like a baseball bat. The dents were obvious and had clearly been delivered with a large amount of force. Whoever had done this had wanted to decommission the synth.

  Holy crap, the synth was a Gigolo Maxxx! Elias's heart pounded as much with excitement as fear. Elias unearthed the rest of the synth and pulled it free from the garbage. The synth was heavy, but he was able to pull it out of the dumpster and onto the ground. He wiped noodles from the synth's thick, black hair and wondered how such a lovely model had ended up this way. He knew he wasn't going to like the answer. Down at the docks, a number of illegal activities often took place. Synth torture and snuff porn was growing in popularity amongst young men who wanted power in a world where control over their lives was increasingly slipping from their grasp. Elias felt sick just thinking about it.

  "I'll get you fixed up, buddy. It'll be a project. I guess we're going to have to move, huh? You'll be better off at the house." He delved back into the dumpster. "Don't suppose you came with an instruction manual? I guess not. Oh well, I don't need it anyway." Elias jumped down and brushed fried onions from his long coat. He was going to smell like Chinese sauce for days, but it was probably an improvement.

  He stuffed the arm and other loose parts in his backpack and set about dragging the synth to his other—more private—squat in an abandoned house right outside the docks. Hopefully, the men in the van didn't have plans to return to the scene of the crime, but whether they did or didn't, Elias planned to be long gone.

  *~*~*

  It took an hour to drag the synth to the back gate of the graffiti-laden, boarded-up red brick row home that overlooked the docks. The entire block was abandoned except for the odd neighbors he sometimes picked up: other down-and-outs like himself. An overgrown yard hid that the lock on the basement trapdoor was broken. Elias opened the hatch and carried the synth down narrow crumbling steps, making sure to close the trapdoor behind him. A tiny flashlight on a keychain that he kept handy served him well as he fought through dust and cobwebs to the stairwell that led up into the house. It had been a while since he'd stayed here: he preferred to sleep under the stars when the climate allowed.

  The house was a grim husk: layers of decor had peeled, each revealing a story about the home's previous inhabitants. From their high-rise city blocks and their fancy suburban sprawl, the rich had ceased to care about the blight on their inner city communities. It presented a unique opportunity for someone like Elias to have a place of his own. There was no running water and no electricity, of course, but the shell of a house offered some protection from the elements. The skeletal furniture was better than sitting on the warehouse floor, which made his ass numb after too many hours. The weathered boards that kept intruders out also gave Elias some privacy and security—as long as they didn't discover the trap door and venture in, of course. One day he'd fix the lock, if he could ever muster enough money, tools, and willpower to finish the project. Then the house would almost be his—as long as the real owners or the city didn't demolish it and sell the land.

  Elias pulled the synth into a back room he liked to refer to as his office. Moth-eaten velvet curtains were pulled over the boards, giving the illusion that there might actually be windows behind them. Elias set the synth down and pulled over a battery-operated lamp. The synth had been cut open down the length of his torso, but luckily no wiring had been removed, though all the coolant lines had been cut with a knife. The synth was in a bad state, but not beyond repair. The skills Elias had picked up in his synth tech course and from books over the years flooded his mind, rusty gears turning after years of disuse. The rubber skin was easily fixed with a heat gun, which would melt the material back together with a concentrated blast of air. The wiring would take more work—especially the severed arm, but he was hoping the synth could help with that. If Elias could get him to boot. If his neural network was toast, there wouldn't be anything he could do but salvage the synth for scrap. Synth parts sold for good money, but not without suspicion. He really didn't want to deal with the unple
asant contacts who worked in that field. The synth black market was something he hoped he would never have to see again. Most of it was centered beneath a club on Pike Street—a literal market of goods and services—but it wasn't the kind of place you just walked into. Unregistered synths were illegal and so was dealing in parts.

  An old laptop computer rested in the corner, charging from a battery Elias plugged in at a coffee shop once a week. Elias grabbed it, hooking up a couple of standard cords to ports in the back of the synth's neck. He turned the computer on, lamenting the length of time it took the relic to boot before he reminded himself he'd salvaged the hunk of junk for free from an office dumpster in the Business District. The information about its former owner was enlightening, but he didn't want to deal with the risk of bringing attention to himself by meeting an information broker, so the spreadsheets detailing money-laundering enterprises languished on the desktop. It probably would have been a little less obvious if the former owner hadn't named the files DELETE_ME and DELETE_ME_URGENT. In the end, everyone's destiny at some point depended on people who didn't give a damn.

  "Welcome to utopia," Elias mumbled.

  Elias waited for the computer to establish a connection with the synth, then held down the power button on the synth's lower back. His eyes were drawn to the impressive genitalia between the synth's legs. The Gigolo Maxxx models had been deemed distasteful fifteen years ago, around the time android rights really started to make progress. Elias had been under the impression that all the remaining models had been decommissioned, but he shouldn't have been surprised that at least one had been sold on the black market. There was always someone willing to pay for the exotic and the unknown. A lot of the more modern synths had been reprogrammed by black marketeers for sex work usage, but the Gigolo Maxxx was the only model that had been specifically designed and created with the pleasure of the user in mind. He probably had some interesting stories about his clients, that was for sure. If he was programmed not to tell, it didn't matter. Elias simply wanted a friend who wouldn't leave him, and what better companion than a synth? If he'd had the cash, he would have bought one—but without a fixed address, he wasn't allowed to register a legal synth, and the black market was likely to charge the kind of money Elias would never see in a lifetime, even if he had been able to hold down an honest job.

  The synth booted, but barely. Elias was able to access maintenance mode and run a diagnostic program. Surprisingly, the synth's neutral network wasn't all that damaged. Even more surprising was that it was self-repairing while in shutdown mode. Synths rarely had that level of sophistication. This model had clearly been top of the line in its time.

  Elias looked up blueprints for the Gigolo Maxxx. A pirate download site offered them and he used the citywide wi-fi network to initiate the download. Owning blueprints was technically illegal, but that was the least of Elias's long list of misdemeanors. He opened the plans for the Ario model and bit his lip as he pored over them. The arm would be fixable, with the right tools. His face could be carefully repaired with a little work. Restoring him to full functionality would take some time, but it was certainly possible.

  "Hello." Elias nearly jumped out of his skin as the synth on the floor spoke up. "My name is Ario six-four-nine-one. I am a Gigolo Maxxx spec synthetic designed for your pleasure, Master."

  "List your registered owners," Elias said. If this synth had a recent master, there was a chance he or she would be coming back to get the synth. Or maybe he'd been stolen and there was someone waiting to get him back. Someone who could fix him up better than Elias could on his limited income.

  "That data is not available," Ario said.

  "Wiped. Of course." Elias sighed. "I'd rather you not walk the streets unregistered. It would suck if you got swiped by the black market. Is it okay if I register you?"

  Elias watched as Ario sat up and looked around the room with what seemed to be curiosity. "This is not a registration office, sir. Are you insinuating you intend to illegally register me?"

  "Yeah. I don't exactly have a fixed abode." Elias scratched the back of his neck. "I know this isn't… above board, exactly, but I don't want the Department of Synthetic Affairs getting their hands on you. They'll retire you in an instant if you don't have any owner data."

  "You can't be any worse than my former master, so go ahead. I have no desire to retire," Ario stated.

  "Wow. Natural speech. I didn't know the Gigolo Maxxx models had that."

  "We were the first to imitate human speech patterns accurately. The software is not perfect, but I am able to make far better conversation than any of my predecessors." Ario managed an easy smile that looked menacing with his facial distortion and torn skin. Elias fought not to recoil at the sight. Despite his training as a synth tech, looking at synths exposed would always be like seeing a human opened up on an operating table: uncomfortable and rather disgusting.

  "How the hell did a treasure like you end up in a dumpster?" Elias shook his head, marveling at human stupidity.

  "It is better that you not know. I have served all my clients faithfully by keeping their identities secret. It is a protocol I will not break," Ario said.

  "Ario, someone beat you within an inch of your life. Don't you want revenge? No, scratch that, of course you don't. Synths don't initiate violence under any circumstances. It's a rule, I forgot."

  "I am not alive." Ario blinked and Elias looked on in wonder as his irises reacted to the light. "It is fortunate that my former master seems to have had no idea of my ability to self-repair certain vital systems." He saw Elias for the first time. "What is your name, would-be Master?"

  "You can self-repair and you're still hanging out with me? My name is Elias. I'm a twenty-eight-year-old homeless man with no life and no future. Welcome to my world, Ario." He gestured around the room, showing off his grand empire.

  "I'm a twenty-year-old synthetic with no arm and no master. So, it would seem we are in the same boat, though I suspect it is a somewhat leaky one."

  "You're funny. Today's synths have no sense of humor. Your former master clearly had no fucking idea about you. Holy shit, you're the find of the century," Elias said.

  "I am programmed to entertain. It is my purpose to provide company and support to humans, as well as sex. I'm glad I could make you laugh, would-be Master."

  "I prefer Elias. Just Elias." Elias rifled through his backpack until he came up with his flash drive, which he plugged into the computer. He downloaded myriad software programs to help hack the registration codes. "I'm not into the whole Master-slave thing. I don't need whatever kinks are stored in your repertoire, either. I just want a friend, and you happen to be… available."

  "Did you steal me?" Ario asked.

  "You were thrown out with the trash. I don't think anybody will miss you." Elias rustled around on a shelf. "I don't have the right tools. I can't do anything about your arm right now. I'm sorry. I know it won't self-repair, I mean, unless there's something you're not telling me. It would be miraculous if you could repair physical damage as well as data errors, but even the new models can't make water into wine." He knelt back down beside the computer. Its glow bathed them in light.

  "I thank you," Ario said.

  "Thank me? Why?"

  "I do not wish to be decommissioned. You saved me. I thank you."

  "Huh? Well I guess nobody wants to die, though I can't promise you much of a life." Elias set up the hack and chewed on his nails as he waited for the lines of code to do their work. The software uploaded to Ario's database and sent the false registration code to the Department of Synthetic Affairs, where the computer would see it as a real one. Just like using a dead person's Social Security number, though, it could backfire on occasion.

  "There. It lists me as your registered owner. If any Department trolls or cops scan you, we'll be good. Hopefully." Elias stretched. "I hope you don't mind, Ario, but I'm bushed. I need to sleep and fully process the fact that I now have a Gigolo Maxx." He half-crawled, half-scramb
led to the mattress on the floor in one corner of the room. He pulled off his coat, t-shirt and jeans, throwing them over a broken chair.

  "Do you wish me to join you, Elias?" Ario's invitation felt casual and non-threatening, but Elias knew what it really meant and the thought scared him. He hadn't had sex in a long time, not since—no. He cut off the thought before it could overpower him. Ario wasn't exactly fetching at that moment, either—what with his peeling skin, distorted face and missing arm.

  "Um, no. That's okay." Elias crawled under the thin, moth-eaten blanket and pulled it tightly up to his neck. He was asleep in moments, exhaustion washing over him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Elias woke to a delicious smell. From the stifling heat in the room, it had to be around midday. He pulled his clothes on and walked into the kitchen, where Ario was using the kerosene stove to fry eggs. The kitchen was in the same sorry state as the rest of the house, with the addition of scorch marks on the walls where at some point, a minor fire had broken out. The countertops were losing their marble veneer, the cheap plastic peeling up to reveal fiberboard underneath. Elias ran his fingers across a loose corner, flicking it and prying it a little further off. "You can cook, too?"

  "People are often hungry after sex, so the Gigolo Maxx software includes over one thousand simple recipes to satisfy any appetite," Ario said.

  "I guess that makes sense," Elias replied. "You don't eat, though, so it's weird seeing a synth cooking."

  "There are many cooking and cleaning synths. It's one of the most common applications for synth technology."

  "Yeah, well… Dad didn't like synths much, so he never kept one for domestic chores. He was angry when I told him I wanted to become a synth tech." Elias shrugged. "I never finished the course, though."

  "Why not? You seem talented enough. Hacking the registration process is not for beginners." Ario finished frying the eggs and tipped them onto a plate of hot buttered toast.