Synapse

by Steven James

  He is out of the water.

  And he is in the helicopter.

  The countdown ticks away, second by second in his head. And he is conscious of it. Distracted by it.

  31 seconds.

  The fog coming down from the heights reduces the visibility, making it harder and harder to see and, despite what he’d been hoping when he took off, quite impossible for him to land.

  28.

  He will not make it.

  27.

  Fear.

  Pain. Death.

  25.

  Yes. It is coming. It will come to him.

  He will pass away.

  * * *

  I listened for the sound of the explosion.

  It had to be close to time.

  He’ll make it. He’ll run to freedom. He’ll get away.

  Nick’s voice came through Trevor’s slate. “They’re going after the Feeds. I need your authorization code to override their program.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “There’s no time! Tell it to me.”

  Trevor rattled off an alphanumeric code. Then waited.

  “Agent Vernon? Are you there? Are you okay?”

  But there was no reply.

  “Agent Vernon!”

  * * *

  A hundred meters up.

  It’s time.

  11.

  He makes his choice.

  10.

  Yes.

  Using the chopper’s connection to the Feeds, he sends two messages.

  The first, a post for his brothers and sisters that the CoRA isn’t real. Just a single message. But news will spread. They will hear. They will know.

  And second, to Kestrel. An image of a stuffed rabbit.

  5.

  And then, still unsure if God will hear him, he prays to the Lord. It is his first prayer and it is his last: Please, forgive me. Please accept me.

  1.

  50

  4:00 p.m.

  It happens now.

  In the thick fog I wasn’t able to see the explosion, but I heard the sound of the blast reverberate across the campus.

  Though I couldn’t be certain, it seemed to come from somewhere in the air and not from the ground.

  He was supposed to land! He was supposed to run to safety!

  “He jumped,” I said to Angelo, who was still beside me. “He had to have jumped.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he would survive, right? A fall like that?”

  Angelo didn’t reply.

  “Maybe he landed in the snow. On the side of the mountain. We need to find out!”

  “We’ll send some people out to see.”

  I felt tears burning in my eyes. A week ago I never would have imagined that I’d feel this way about an Artificial. But so much had happened. So much had changed.

  I tried to reassure myself that he was okay, that everything was okay.

  The people in the auditorium are safe.

  The terrorists are dead.

  What about Nick?

  “Are you there?” Trevor radioed him again, but there was still no answer.

  “We need to go see if he’s alright!” I told the men, and Trevor and I took off for the power plant.

  51

  Four hours later

  I sat beside Nick’s hospital bed in Seattle waiting for him to regain consciousness.

  The surgery had gone well, but the doctors told me that he’d lost a lot of blood, and it made me think of Ethan again from Wednesday, back when all this started.

  It was as if everything was coming full circle: An attack. Blood. Then death.

  Ethan didn’t make it.

  I couldn’t bear the thought that Nick might die as well.

  I prayed for him.

  Prayed that he would be alright.

  Prayed that God would spare him.

  And wondered if God would answer this prayer.

  I honestly wasn’t sure what would happen. In the last week I’d seen God work in ways that made sense to me and ways that did not.

  I thought of Nick and what it would mean to have to say goodbye to him here, like this, and quickly turned my attention to the digitized screen on the wall. I had it muted, but now noticed that Terabyne’s CEO, Artis Madison, who’d since recovered from being knocked unconscious in the auditorium, was addressing a group of reporters. I brought the volume up just loud enough to hear him reassuring the world that the Feeds were intact and so was the CoRA.

  “As you’ve no doubt heard by now, there was a terror attack at Terabyne headquarters orchestrated by the Purists, those purveyors of death, who desire to hold back progress and keep society from embracing all that technology has to offer.”

  Purveyors of death? Really? Who talks like that?

  It sounded more like a scripted speech than one he was sharing off the cuff.

  “The vile and cowardly perpetrators of this attack have all either been killed or taken into custody with no civilian casualties, thanks to our security forces working closely with the National Counterterrorism Bureau. During the attack, one of the terrorists posted a false and misleading message on the Feeds that the Consciousness Realignment Algorithm isn’t real, that the CoRA doesn’t exist.”

  What? Jordan wasn’t one of the terrorists! What is Madison doing?

  “This erroneous claim was intended to cause panic and hysteria, but it has failed, just like the rest of the Purists’ efforts have. We’ve released a patch that we’re sending out to all Artificials so they’ll no longer have to worry about receiving inaccurate information regarding the CoRA.”

  When I heard a knock at the door, I saw that Trevor had arrived.

  I signaled for him to come in and he asked me quietly, “How’s Agent Vernon?”

  “Still unconscious.”

  “What are the doctors saying?”

  Not much.

  “They’re hopeful,” I said.

  “Well, that’s good at least.”

  He took a seat beside the window and I turned down the sound.

  “Madison is calling Jordan a terrorist,” I told him.

  “I know.”

  “This patch that they’re sending out—how did they get it ready so quickly?”

  “It’s been in the wings. A contingency plan in case things ever came to this. In case it was ever needed.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Well, basically, it removes the possibility that Artificials can doubt the existence of the CoRA.”

  “It takes away their free will.”

  “That’s not how it’s being spun.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not.”

  I wondered what Jordan would have been like without his curiosity driving him forward, without his quest to find resolution and answers, and I found the idea of Artificials being unable to do that from now on regarding the CoRA tragic.

  Trevor glanced out the window for a moment, then said, “I turned in my letter of resignation an hour ago. I can’t in good conscience work for Terabyne any longer. I just can’t keep being a part of the lies.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  He brushed off my concern. “The tech industry is always looking for people with my type of background. I have a very transferrable skill set. I’ll find something.”

  A pause, and then I asked, “Has there been any more word on Jordan?”

  “Not yet. No.”

  I reviewed what we knew: The rescue team had found the wreckage of the helicopter and a few barely identifiable pieces of Jordan’s body scattered among the debris, but his central processors hadn’t been located. I was hopeful that if they were, some of the Terabyne techs might be able to restore his system.

  So for now, the search continued.

  After the explosion, a message from Jordan had been waiting for me when I checked my slate: a picture of a stuffed bunny, just like the one he’d seen me carry into the Pleasant Hills room. The one I’d set on Naiobi’s casket.

  Jordan had
a conscience, free will, the desire to worship, and felt the need to be forgiven. How is his consciousness different from a soul?

  Could Jordan have beliefs? Yes.

  Could he choose between right and wrong? Yes.

  Could he regret his moral failures and repent? Yes.

  Could he worship the Lord? Well, that was the question I didn’t have an immediate answer to. I just hoped that, somehow, Jordan had found the peace he was looking for before the explosion occurred.

  Peace.

  Yes.

  That was a thought.

  Both peace within us and peace between us.

  “I need to apologize to you,” I said to Trevor.

  “For what?”

  “For last year. Back when I was trying to share my faith with you. I was more interested in getting my point across than anything else. I didn’t speak the truth in love. Instead, I tried beating your arguments into submission. I didn’t listen to you. And for that I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t reply right away. “I’m not ready to become a Christian.”

  “I know.”

  “But let’s keep talking, okay? And listening?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That sounds good.”

  It was a start.

  And that was enough for now.

  Trevor nodded toward the bed. “Hey, I think he’s waking up.”

  I took Nick’s hand in mine.

  As he slowly stirred and opened his eyes, I said, “Hey, you.”

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he muttered.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I got beat up fighting a killer robot and then stabbed by her evil overlord.” His voice was soft and pained.

  “That’s a very specific feeling.”

  “Yeah. You should give it a try sometime.”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  He smiled, but the smile turned into a grimace. “Did they get to Conrad in time?”

  “Yes,” Trevor said. “Thanks to you. They found a wooden coffin under that freezer. He was inside it—unconscious, but alive. He’s in stable condition. The doctors think he’ll pull through.”

  Nick nodded. “And Rodriguez?”

  “On the run. The last I heard, the NCB was pouring all their resources into finding him. He won’t get far.”

  “He was stabbed in the right thigh. It was serious. He’ll need medical attention.”

  Trevor stood. “You know what? Angelo is right outside the door, guarding the room. I’ll make sure he knows to have the agents sweep all hospitals and clinics within driving distance of the campus over the last four hours. Then I need to make a couple calls. I’ll be back in a few minutes. In the meantime, I’ll let you two catch up.”

  “Can you adjust the bed?” Nick asked me after Trevor was gone.

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “Up. Just a little.”

  It was a hydraulic bed and I pressed the button beside my leg to raise his head slightly, but it responded faster than I thought it would and I had to pause it again almost immediately to keep it from going too far.

  We spoke for a bit. I assured him that the Feeds were fine, that he’d gotten the code in soon enough, but I could tell it was tough for him to reply and I didn’t want to exhaust him too much, so in the end I suggested he just rest.

  “A heart murmur,” he muttered. He was fading out. “Outside . . . a limp . . .”

  “What?” I said.

  “Kestrel, you have to . . .”

  “I have to what? Nick?” But he was gone. Unconscious again.

  When someone knocked on the door, I thought it might be Trevor returning already, but instead a looming orderly appeared, backing into the room, tugging a cart of food. “How’s he doing?”

  “Alright.”

  “Awake yet?”

  “He’s in and out.”

  It surprised me that they would send in food for someone in Nick’s condition.

  “They’re saying he’s a genuine hero,” the orderly said. He was stocky and tall, at least as big as Nick. “Saved the Feeds and everything.”

  “Yes.”

  Then, as he shuffled to the side, I noticed that he favored one leg.

  His right one.

  Nick said Rodriguez had a stab wound in his right thigh.

  Is it possible?

  No. It couldn’t be.

  But what if it is?

  Angelo is right outside the door.

  I wanted to get help but couldn’t risk leaving Nick alone with this man, not if he was who I thought he might be.

  The man eyed me and it was almost like he could read me.

  “Angelo!” I cried, but no one came in.

  “I’m afraid he won’t be joining us.”

  Grabbing the cart, I shoved it as hard as I could against his right leg, and it must have hit on or near the stab wound because he clenched his teeth, stumbled backward, and had to place his hand against the wall to keep his balance.

  I started for the door, but he lurched forward, made his way across the room, grabbed me forcefully, and threw me toward the window.

  I crashed into the chair Trevor had been sitting in earlier and went down.

  The noise. It should alert someone!

  Then he came at me again. From where I was on the floor I kicked at his leg, going after his weak spot again, missed, but hit his knee, and this time he collapsed. I scurried backward to the other side of the bed, but he shot one of his long arms out under it, sliding his hand past the hydraulic lift, grabbing my wrist, and dragging me back toward him.

  Desperate to get free, I snatched with my free hand for the button to lower the bed and missed it twice before finally getting ahold of it.

  I punched it and the levers locked into place.

  The bed began to lower.

  He didn’t let go until it was too late.

  As his grip weakened, I pulled away and scooted backward.

  Then stood.

  If he’d been an Artificial or a Plusser, he might have been able to wrench his arm free, but as it was, his elbow became lodged in the hydraulic hoist mechanism even as the bed continued to lower.

  I turned away.

  I didn’t want to see.

  The crunch of bones was somehow both solid and moist at the same time, and when I rounded the bed and saw the look on his face, that was enough for me to know that I didn’t want to look under the bed.

  “I’ll come for you.” His voice was low and harsh and full or unequivocal resolve. “I’ll come for you both.”

  “We’ll be ready,” I said. And then, “They’ll make more chips, you know.”

  “One step at a time. Technology is a weak and ineffectual savior,” he seethed. “To embrace a full life and not despair about living a short one—that’s what we fight for.”

  “Well, you’re fighting for it the wrong way.”

  Trevor burst into the room. I went into his arms while I heard Rodriguez behind me struggling fiercely and unsuccessfully to pull free.

  52

  Three weeks later

  Saturday, November 29

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  6:18 p.m.

  Over the past few weeks I’d finally had the chance to begin truly mourning the loss of my daughter.

  I cried a lot. Prayed a lot—and didn’t hear from God as much as I would’ve liked. But I found new reassurance in my faith and in his promises to be there for me, even when I walked through the valley of the shadow of death.

  Which was where I felt like I was—the shadow of Naiobi’s death looming over me.

  My faith didn’t solve my sadness, but it did give me someone to hand my sadness to. And I reassured myself that at least that was the first step toward healing.

  I visited Naiobi’s grave several times and laid fresh flowers and carefully folded origami rabbits on the site. And each time I was there, I thought maybe it would get easier, but it didn’t.

  However, thankfully, it didn’t get worse eit
her.

  Jordan’s last words to me had been, “I’ll see you soon.”

  At the graveyard, I whispered them to my daughter.

  In Scripture, David wrote that our days are like a passing shadow, James that our life is but a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.

  A shadow.

  A vapor.

  Heaven is the breath of life that lives on.

  So, I’ll be with Naiobi again, and with the one who loved us both enough to die for us. Heaven is where love comes out ahead.

  Life is so precious and brief and fleeting, and it was like Rodriguez had said to me—experiencing all that it has to offer without despairing at its brevity truly did lie at its heart.

  He was in custody and awaiting trial at an undisclosed facility. Nick had assured me that he was locked away somewhere that even he couldn’t escape from.

  “He said he’d come after us,” I told Nick.

  “He’s not going anywhere.”

  Jordan’s central processors were never found.

  Trevor offered to buy me another Artificial, but I declined. For some reason it just didn’t feel right to replace Jordan like that.

  The day Jordan had drowned in the river saving that little boy earlier this month I’d taken him to the Terabyne production plant and they’d backed up his system files. At first when I returned from Washington to Ohio, I thought maybe we could use them to reconstruct him, but Trevor had been right—there was no way to capture the true essence of an Artificial’s consciousness, even when you backed up their files.

  Jordan was a machine. A highly advanced machine. But he was as mortal as any human being is. It was right that his consciousness couldn’t live on into infinity on a hard drive. It felt more honest to let him die, just like all of us will one day do.

  There’s no holding on to this life forever. Not for humans; not for machines.

  I was looking through my closet for an outfit to wear to church tomorrow when a knock came at the front door.

  I answered it.

  Nick.

  Scruffy. Just the way I like.

  “Hello, Reverend Hathaway.”

  “Well, hello, Special Agent Vernon.”

  I’d seen Nick several times since the incidents in Washington. He was recovering steadily from being stabbed and his broken wrist was set and on the mend.