SINdicate

by J. T. Nicholas

  If only we had the time. Sure, we could ignore the deadline we’d given to the world. Take as much time as we needed to gather all the evidence we could. But public opinion was everything for our little rebellion, and if all the protests and burgeoning anger fizzled because we missed our mark, could we ever recover? And every extra day was one more day for the NLPD or the feds to find us.

  “How long, Silas? Once we start releasing information, I can only imagine things are going to get worse. We’ve been incommunicado for almost a month—the second we drop another message, the second we show that we really do have the power we claimed…” I shook my head. Silas knew what would happen. Silas had planned for what was going to happen. The explosion of fear, of denial. Of violence. The inevitable increase in governmental controls sure to follow as an immediate countermeasure. And we couldn’t exactly delay the release. We had to stick to our guns, stick to our ultimatum, if we were to have any kind of credibility. “If we’re going to recover this cache, it’s got to be now. Before the first, at any rate. So how long will it take to hack the shipping company?”

  It was Silas’s turn to shrug. “We have to identify the company first, Detective, either the shipping company or one of the suppliers. That shouldn’t be too hard in and of itself. A matter of hours, likely, since it would not be secured information. From there? It is entirely dependent upon the companies involved. It could be hours. It could be days.”

  “Shit. We don’t have days, Silas. And let’s not forget that we don’t even know what we’re getting into once we enter the building.”

  “We are not completely in the dark,” Al’awwal interjected. His fingers tapped against the screen in rapid succession, and the image switched to a blueprint. From the exterior dimensions, it appeared to match the Walton Biogenics laboratory building. “These plans are a matter of public record,” Al’awwal said. “I have no idea if they are still accurate, as they date back to around the time of the building’s construction. The interior layouts may have shifted some. But here,” he tapped a spot in the corner of an office on the third floor of the eight-story building, “is where my father hid his cache. There is a small safe built into the floor here.”

  I shook my head. First floor would have been okay. Top floor would have been okay. Middle of the fucking building just made things that much harder. “One thing at a time. As much as I’m happy to see the protests and any modicum of support for our cause, they’ve presented us with a definite problem. Can anyone see any way in—particularly given that I’m probably the most wanted man in the fucking country—without hijacking a supply truck?”

  “Not with the resources currently at our disposal or that we are likely to acquire before out deadline,” Silas admitted.

  “I could probably find a way in on my own,” Al’awwal suggested. “So far as I know, I’m not on anybody’s radar. I doubt there’s anyone left at Walton Biogenics who knows I existed—at least as more than an experiment, anyway.” If he was bitter about his origins, he hid it well. No doubt a side effect of growing up loved by his father—or creator—rather than being seen as property. “I may be able to find a way into the building and retrieve the cache on my own. I haven’t to this point, since there is at least some risk associated with that approach—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “There’s a hell of a lot more than ‘some’ risk. If you get caught snooping around, particularly right now, at the very least they’re going to hold you for a while. Maybe long enough to fuck up our timeline. Even if they don’t hold you long, it will ratchet up their awareness another notch.” I sighed. “Let’s be honest. This is a long shot at best. We don’t know that this cache is still there. For all we know, it was found by Walton in a remodel and the contents destroyed. Or transferred somewhere else.” The more I thought about it, the thinner the whole thing was sounding, but Al’awwal was shaking his head.

  “There is some truth to what you say, Campbell. But my father had more foresight than that. He may not have been able to get the information out, but he was able to devise a way to know if someone else found it—or at least if they opened it.” He started swiping across the screens again, opening up a file that, to my eyes, was an endless stream of text. It was a wall of dates, with a zero next to each one. “This is a log file. Every time the safe is opened, a microburst transmission is fired off from the hardware of the safe itself, recording the time and date.” He scrolled through the screen, going back in time. There was an unbroken streak of zeros.

  After a whole lot of scrolling, the ones started appearing. Al’awwal pointed at the last one. “This is the last time my father opened the safe. You can see, nothing has been opened since. I can’t guarantee that it hasn’t been discovered, but this at least shows that it isn’t a complete wild-goose chase. There’s some indication that the information might still be there.”

  That was something of a relief, though the whole plan relied a lot more on luck than I was comfortable with. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. It was a long shot, but at the moment, it seemed like our only shot. “Fine,” I grunted. “But we’re only going to get one chance at this. We can’t afford to try the easy route in the hope that it succeeds. We have to play the percentages and go with whatever we think has the best chance of actually working, no matter how difficult it may prove.”

  “Perhaps. But I will need to go in with you, regardless. The safe is keyed to my DNA. You will be unable to open it without me or a significant amount of heavy equipment.”

  “And I suppose I will need to come as well,” Silas said. I arched an eyebrow at him and he gave me a half-smile. “I will not be of much use to you in a confrontation, Detective. It seems, however, that Al’awwal can fill that role.” I thought I detected the faintest hint of envy in Silas’s voice. “But you are almost certain to encounter electronic security measures. I can help circumvent those better from the inside than the outside.”

  “Right. So our plan, such as it is, is to hijack a truck, somehow sneak or fight our way past the inevitable security, find the cache, retrieve it, then get out again, all before the police—who are right outside, mind you—manage to show up and throw a wrench into everything?”

  “Admittedly, it does not sound like the very best of plans, Detective,” Silas said. “Particularly since you left out the part about how we do not know quite when or where said delivery truck will be. But at this time, I cannot present us with a better plan.”

  Al’awwal gave a sort of half-shrug, as if to say, “Me neither.”

  “Fantastic,” I said without enthusiasm. “Guess we’d better be about it, then.”

  * * * *

  We didn’t bother returning to the safe house. We’d already traveled in and out of it too much in the past few days. Better not to take the risk, and Al assured us he had plenty of room. Instead, Silas screened La Sorte and let him know what we needed, and the hacker ensured us he’d gather a few of his fellows and get on it. I screened Tia, mostly to make sure she was okay hanging out at a restaurant full of refugees on the wrong side of town. And maybe, just a little bit, to hear her voice. She assured me she was fine. We talked for a few minutes, but she was getting ready to do some basic follow-up on Jacinda, so we couldn’t talk for long. I let her go so she could get to her work.

  After that, there was nothing to do but wait, and hope. Hope that Silas—who had asked for and been given a quiet place to work his own screens—and La Sorte’s crew could find the information we needed. Hope that our harebrained plan to blindly infiltrate Walton’s lab worked. And hope that the information we found there was worth the risk. Hope that, even if it was, it was persuasive enough to the public to resonate, to get them to shed their apathy and act. So many hopes, and not a damn thing we could do but wait.

  The waiting was always the hard part. Silas hadn’t been able to give me a timeline, so I found myself at loose ends, with nothing to do but watch the screens, make use of the extensi
ve home gym nestled in one wing of the mansion, and try not to go out of my mind while Silas worked his magic. The screens were a nightmare—endless parades of pundits giving their uninformed opinions on what would happen when the “terrorists” attacked again on the first followed by live shots of the various protests happening throughout the city. Those almost invariably came with an “interview” in which the reporter appeared to have actively searched the crowd to find the least articulate, angriest human being possible and asked them nuanced questions that even the most intelligent person would have a difficult time answering completely in a three-second sound bite. The protester “interview” would, inevitably, be followed by a cut back to the studio where an “expert,” usually with enough letters after their name to make a passable bowl of alphabet soup, would go on to explain why the whole “movement” for synthetic rights was silly and then do their level best to obfuscate the data we’d released surrounding Evelyn’s pregnancy.

  That alone was infuriating enough to make me want to claw my eyes out and never look at another screen. But it wasn’t the worst part. Not by a long shot. I flipped on a live news feed, and what did I see? Francoise Fortier’s fat, greasy face. He was in the middle of answering a question, the sheen of sweat on his skin glowing like a coat of Vaseline.

  “… assure you that everything’s being done to find former Detective Jason Campbell and bring him to justice. You can’t go about inciting riots, much less conspiring to overthrow governments, and not expect to pay the price.” He seemed to be standing in front of New Lyons’ primary courthouse, an odd place for the press conference, but certainly grandiose enough. I snorted in anger as I watched his smiling face and piggy eyes.

  My ears perked up as a reporter asked, “But, Detective, what about the allegations that Campbell has made? What about the proof he disseminated across the net showing that synthetics are human?”

  Fortier snorted in derision. “Look, Campbell has a long history as a crackpot, okay? Probably should never have been a soldier, much less a cop. We’ve known he was a synth-symp for a while. Maybe it’s PTSD. Or a psychotic break. Doesn’t matter. He’s a nutjob, plain and simple, and should have availed himself of the services the force offers for counseling. But he didn’t. And now we have this.” He waved one fat hand, as if to take in the entire city.

  “But, his proof?” the reporter interjected.

  “What proof? A pregnant lady? Some data on the net?” He shook his head, lank hair swinging limply. “I can show you sites that will tell you all about the aliens that built the pyramids, or how the president is really a spy. Just because it’s on the net doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  I felt a white hot rage burning in me as that patronizing ass got a chuckle from the reporters.

  “Seriously, though,” he continued. “If Campbell really had a pregnant synthetic, or any hard evidence, do you think we’d all be here? Of course not. A competent doctor could put an end to all this nonsense. But he hasn’t actually produced this so-called pregnant woman—just videos. Why do you think that is?”

  “Because Walton Biogenics would kill me and Evelyn before I could get her through the fucking door of doctor’s office, asshole,” I growled at the screen.

  But the reporters just waited, cameras and microphones pushed toward Fortier.

  “Because it’s all a fantasy. One psycho nutjob costing the whole world a lot of time and money. Which is why all the protesters should stand down.” He raised his hands placatingly. “Oh, I know, it’s their sacred right. But are you really doing it for the right cause here, folks?”

  I had to hand it to the asshole. He could work the press. He even sounded sincere. But it was more than I could take. I switched the screen off.

  The coverage on the screens made one thing clear, though. As the deadline crept closer, the mood on the streets was growing darker. Isolated outbreaks of violence among the protesters started to capture more of the vid time and got an even greater signal boost on the social media outlets. I sincerely doubted that most of those reposting the violence had ever heard the phrase, “If it bleeds, it leads,” but they didn’t have to. It had been the mantra of modern “journalism” for so long that it was the status quo. The bloggers and vloggers and reporters had all been raised on a steady diet of sensationalism with a healthy side of sarcasm and snark, which had culminated in a journalistic environment that didn’t even bother to blur the lines between information and blood sport.

  All of those crusaders out there hunting for the “truth” didn’t understand what cops and soldiers had known since the first cameras appeared on the battlefields. Violence propagated violence, and humanity was only a short hop away from monkey-see, monkey-do. Sure, reporting on the truth was important, vital even. But minutes-long videos of riots and beatings? Beautifully framed shots lingering lovingly on the burning wreckage of what had, until only moments before, been someone’s livelihood? Artfully displayed shots of a young girl smiling beatifically at the camera next to a pool of blood? Those images served no purpose beyond inciting emotion. They weren’t about the truth—they were about eliciting visceral reactions and getting people emotionally invested. Because when people were emotionally invested, they kept watching, kept clicking, kept paying.

  But there was a darker side to human emotion, one that had always lurked beneath the surface. Once awakened, anger seldom raised its bleary-eyed stare, looked casually around the room, rolled over and went back to sleep. No. Anger was a thirst that demanded to be slaked. As the deadline neared and the uncertainty grew, so too did the anger. That anger burned on a foundation of long-standing inequality and on what I believed to be an honest desire to right those inequalities. In that climate, some level of conflict was inevitable. But the constant coverage, the playing and replaying of every act of violence until the people at home could be forgiven for thinking that violence was all that was happening, was spraying a steady stream of gasoline toward a smoldering tinderbox.

  All it would take was a spark. One spark at the wrong time and wrong place, and the entire city would go up. No doubt, some among the protesters wanted that to happen. Hell, some among the “reporters” probably wanted it to happen too. If it bleeds, it leads, and if it burns down the city, it pays for a vacation home. Maybe it even needed to happen, but I hoped to God we could find a way to win the war without turning the city—the country—into one big battlefield.

  Which just underscored the need to find the information Dr. Kaphiri had ferreted away, so we could direct all of that pent-up anger toward its proper targets and away from those synthetics who were, quite literally, unable to defend themselves. Which brought me right back to the waiting. With a snarl of frustration, I stood up, stretched, and went to hit the gym.

  The gym wasn’t empty when I got there. Al’awwal was lying on a bench, pushing a respectable two-twenty-five. As he heard me enter he racked the weight and sat up. “Mr. Campbell,” he said.

  “Just Campbell. Or Jason, even,” I replied. Then I chuckled.

  “Campbell, then,” he replied affably. “You have come to work out?”

  I nodded, eyeing a heavy bag hanging in one corner. “Need to do something. I feel like I’ve spent the better part of the past month waiting for something to happen.”

  “I thought you were heavily involved in this budding revolution. Surely that’s kept you busy?” He stood from the bench and wiped it down with a towel. Arching one dark eyebrow he nodded toward the weights. Well, I had wanted to exercise. I could handle the weight no problem, but I would have preferred to do a warm-up set or two. Male pride being what it was, I dropped onto the bench.

  “The revolution’s Silas’s show,” I said, as I sat on the bench. “I get the feeling he’s been planning it for a long time.” Given the revelation of his age, a very long time indeed. I lay back on the bench and positioned my hands on the bar. “He had it ready to go the second he found someone who would listen to
him.” I grunted as I pushed up on the bar, taking it off the rack. Al’awwal hadn’t moved into a spotting position, and I hadn’t asked him to. I locked out my arms for a moment, let my body adjust to the weight and balance of the loaded barbell. Then I lowered the weight smoothly until the bar touched my chest. My ribs twinged at that, but testosterone and male pride made for a potent pair of pain killers, so I ignored them. I exhaled as I pushed upward again. Repeat.

  I didn’t talk any more as I completed the set—I didn’t have the breath to spare. It had been too long since I’d worked the weights. More than a month, probably more like six weeks, and it showed. The damn ribs didn’t help, either. After the tenth rep, I racked the weight and sat up. I couldn’t stop myself from rubbing the spot where my chest and shoulder joined, massaging the stretched muscle fiber.

  Part of me knew I was being stupid—we could be rolling out at any minute to try and break into a secured facility. The last thing I needed was to risk further injury, or even excessive soreness. But there was something in Al’awwal’s eyes, a challenge, that I couldn’t resist. “Since New Year’s,” I said, “my job has mostly been to babysit the synthetics that have managed to find their way to us. Well, babysit’s probably the wrong word. I guess I’m more the sheepdog, in case any wolves come knocking.”

  “And the synthetics are the sheep?” Al’awwal asked. There was no reproach in his voice. Something more like curiosity.

  I shrugged. “Call them what you will. The fact remains that they can’t defend themselves if someone who wants to do them harm shows up. Secrecy is our first weapon against that eventuality.”

  “And you are the second?”

  I stood from the bench, and he tossed me a towel, which I used to wipe off the sweat I’d left behind. “For what it’s worth.”