SINthetic

by J. T. Nicholas

  His lead foot pivoted back, and his right leg shot out, unleashing the power of his heavily muscled hips and legs. I didn’t try to move away from it this time. Instead, I shuffled forward, bringing my left knee up and striking toward his kick in a counter that had been taught to me by a Pinoy. My knee caught his kicking leg in the meat of the inner thigh, and I stepped through and down with that leg. The half block, half strike had the combined effect of charley-horsing his kicking leg, and taking his balance as I crashed into him. But I didn’t stop there.

  My left hand lashed out in concert with my knee, catching and trapping his guarding hand. I pulled down and across his body as my foot hit the ground, turning his back to me and forcing him into a half bow, exposing the back of his neck. My right elbow swept high, coming down in a Muay Thai–style strike.

  Had I landed that blow fully, it would have been a knockout. It also would have had a high chance of causing some long-lasting damage, given that the target was all neck and spine. I pulled the blow, hitting just hard enough that he knew—had to know—that the strike could have ended the fight, but soft enough that no lasting damage would be done. Even so, it was still enough that he dropped to one knee with a pain-filled grunt.

  I dropped out of my fighting stance and put one hand on his shoulder. “You OK?” I muttered around my mouthpiece, offering the other hand to help him up, but eying him warily. I had dropped my hands, but not my guard—I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance that, enraged or maybe just a dick, he’d take another shot at me.

  He spat out his mouthpiece, catching it in one glove and taking my proffered hand with the other. I didn’t so much pull him to his feet as I provided some leverage for him to pull himself up. There was no way I could have moved that much mass with one arm. “Jesus,” he said as he stood, rubbing at the back of his neck. It was the first word he’d spoken since the whole thing started. His voice was a rather pleasing tenor, surprisingly calm and almost rueful. “I’d heard you were good, but Jesus. No one’s beaten me that easy in years.”

  I grinned as I removed my own mouthpiece. “You should have gone for the grapple. Things might have gone differently.”

  “The fuck?” Fortier demanded, pushing his way through the crowd. “I thought you were supposed to be good, Thompson.” It was almost comical, watching the sweaty little troll glaring at the giant who, I had no doubt at all, could rend him limb from limb if he so chose. But given the performance the guy—Thompson, I supposed—had just given, I wasn’t about to watch him get berated by the little asshole who was, if in rank only, his superior officer.

  “Tell you what, Fortier,” I said with a wry smile. “If you don’t think he’s all that good, why don’t you put on a pair of gloves and see for yourself? I’m sure all these people”—I waved one hand at the throng of onlookers who were still watching intently and hoping the show would continue—“would just love to see that.” A mutter went through the crowd that was part encouragement and part…hunger. Fortier paled a little.

  “This isn’t over, Campbell,” he snarled. He turned and pushed through the people to make his way out of the gym, a somewhat bashful-looking Stevens in tow.

  “What was that about?” Thompson asked as he pulled off his gloves.

  I shrugged. “He’s a dick.” I glanced at the digital clock on the gym wall. Close enough to lunchtime, and I knew the computer would still be churning. “I’m going to get some lunch. You want to know more, you can come along. What about you, Hernandez?”

  “In,” she said simply.

  Chapter 7

  I enjoyed a leisurely lunch with Hernandez and the recruit, who, it turned out, had the unfortunate name of Thomas “Tommy” Thompson. He and Hernandez did most of the talking, chatting amiably about the force, New Lyons, and mixed martial arts. Neither of them mentioned Francois Fortier and his abortive attempt to have Thompson beat me into the ground. It felt good to unwind, to let the mysteries of the murdered synthetics slip away, if only for a little while.

  As we were wrapping up, the big man, voice tentative, asked, “What was all that Fortier was saying about expunged records and redacted documents, Detective? If you don’t mind my asking, that is?”

  Hernandez went still with the question, and I knew it was on her mind, too. There was a part of me—a very small part—that wanted to come clean, to lay out the whole thing. But no. Maybe I could tell Hernandez, someday. But I’d just met the rookie, and I wasn’t about to lay out my darkest secrets just because he seemed like a good kid. Still, I couldn’t say nothing, either. So I told a small part of the truth.

  “My military records have a lot of sections that have been redacted,” I said, trying to keep my voice nonchalant. “I saw a fair bit of action overseas, and...well, let’s just say I participated in some operations that weren’t for the consumption of the general public. As a result, there are a lot of holes in my records. Fortier can read into them whatever he wants—he’s a snake who likes pushing people’s buttons. Don’t let him drag you into his bullshit.”

  Hopefully Thompson wouldn’t pick up on the fact that I’d only mentioned the redacted records, and not the ones that had been expunged. He just nodded affably. But Hernandez...she kept looking at me, and I could see the question lingering in her eyes.

  * * * *

  The digital readout on my phone read after 4:00 p.m. when, at last, back at the precinct, the computer issued an innocuous little chirrup.

  It startled me from a reverie that was at least half doze, and I struck the mouse with more force than necessary. The facial recognition software was still going, searching for the mysterious synthetic across the city. That was a little surprising. The NLPD didn’t have access to every camera that was live on the streets of New Lyons, but we had access to enough. Moreover, the cameras were distributed, not evenly, but in little clusters, all throughout the city. For someone, anyone, to not show up at any point meant they either lived a very localized life in one of the “blank” spots…or they knew enough about where the coverage was to avoid it.

  I remembered the casual way the synthetic had bypassed my security, and figured it was the latter. I canceled the search. If it hadn’t found him yet, it wasn’t going to, and I could use the processing power elsewhere. The other searches—the cross-referencing of all things PTI and the listing of identifying codes from the victims—however, had yielded results.

  I stared at the data, my lips turning down in a frown. Three of the eight girls killed—seven from the albino synthetic’s list and the one from the case I’d caught—had been property at one time or another of Party Toys Inc. The search algorithm found them in the tax records of the company. Two of the girls first showed on the most recent tax return, listed only by serial number, on a table titled “lost or stolen” equipment. They showed in prior years as well, under “depreciating assets,” again listed under nothing but the number. I tracked them back through the years, four for A73RM8932MC, the victim I knew as Molly Cummings, and six for Q93CC721AR. That serial number corresponded to one Anita Richards on the crumpled sheet of paper my favorite home invader had given me. They each would have been the equivalent of sixteen-year-olds when purchased. Molly died at twenty, Anita at twenty-two. An image of another girl, young and smiling at me, sprang unbidden to my mind. I ground my teeth and forced my attention back to the screen.

  The records for the third girl started ten years ago, when she, too, had been listed, number only, on a “lost or stolen” form. There were only fifteen years of tax returns on record, and the third girl, E22KU683PS, Pamela Starr, had “depreciated” through all the years on record until she, too, was “lost or stolen.” I had no way of extrapolating her age, at least thirty-one... A slight shudder ran through me as I wondered what happened, what would have happened, to these women had they not met an untimely end. What happened when their asset value depreciated to the point of zero? What happened as they aged and were no longer sought
after by Party Toys’ customers?

  Were they sold off to other companies or individuals, finding new life and labors? Or were they simply…destroyed? Put down like a horse with a broken leg? Tossed away like an outdated computer? What about the other synthetics, those that worked dangerous, backbreaking jobs specifically because the risk of injury was so high for a normal person? What happened when the inevitable injury struck? I had never considered it. Perhaps I had never allowed myself to, because, deep down, I knew the answer.

  I couldn’t undo those deaths, any more than I could bring Annabelle back. But I could at least try to find out why. Why had these eight girls died? No. That was only part of the question. What was it the albino synthetic had said… Why had the girls been mutilated? Why was the most recent victim, and presumably all the others, left in the street?

  I grabbed my forty-five from my desk drawer and clipped the paddle holster to my belt. I confirmed the data transfer to my screen then slid it into a pocket and grabbed my keys. Party Toys Inc. had a local office, and if I hurried, I could probably catch someone there before they closed for the night.

  Chapter 8

  Party Toys Inc. sat in a downtown high-rise with a view overlooking the river. It wasn’t the best piece of real estate in the city, but it was also a long way from the worst. Business, it seemed, was good. The lobby boasted faux-marble columns and floors sheathed in the same material. Various sculptures, either original work or excellent reproductions, sat nestled in alcoves or displayed prominently in the open, though cordoned off by red velvet ropes. Classical music played over the speakers, filling the chamber with a cascade of tinkling notes. The entire effect should have made me think of an art museum, but I found it crass and gaudy. Maybe if I’d been here to see a lawyer or an accountant or something, I would have felt different. But I wasn’t. I was here to talk to the good people of Party Toys Incorporated. At best, you could call them an “escort service,” but I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable at that moment.

  A uniformed security guard sat behind a tall desk—also sheathed in the fake marble—his eyes latching onto me immediately as I entered. I saw those eyes narrow as I approached, focusing on the bulge at my hip where my jacket covered my sidearm. The security, at least, seemed to be better than the artwork. I flashed my badge as I approached. “NLPD,” I said. “I’m looking for Party Toys Inc.”

  The guard made a show of studying my badge. Maybe he was just being thorough. In any event, he nodded, glanced at a screen, and said, “Twelfth floor. Second bank of elevators.”

  I nodded my thanks and strode to the indicated elevator, hitting the call button. After a moment, a bell chimed and a set of the shiny metal doors parted, disgorging a press of well-dressed men and women, chatting amicably among one another. I didn’t see any synthetics. Hadn’t seen any anywhere in the building. I imagined those responsible for the upkeep, cleaning, and maintenance of the facilities wouldn’t go to work until after the “real” people left. Pushing that thought aside, I stepped into the empty elevator and hit the button for the twelfth floor. The doors closed, the floor lurched beneath me, and the car ascended.

  When the doors opened once more, I had to wonder if I was even in the same building, much less on the right floor. If the lobby below had been gaudy and trying too hard to impress, stepping onto the twelfth floor was like stepping into an ultramodern picture of elegance. Everything was sharp lines and contrasting colors, deep blacks and blinding whites juxtaposed to draw the eye and trick the brain into adding depth that wasn’t actually there. The elevator opened into another lobby of sorts, facing a receptionist desk that seemed almost to float on impossibly thin metal legs of chromed steel. The chair behind the desk was itself an odd contraption, unforgiving angles giving way abruptly to sweeping curves. It looked like some sort of modern art, designed for show and not for use. It looked uncomfortable as hell.

  The woman seated in it matched the chair perfectly. She had a slender, willowy body but with sweeping curves of her own, enunciating a femininity that the almost airy desk did nothing to hide. She wore a facsimile of a businesswoman’s suit—skirt, blouse, jacket—but all the garments were tailored not just to enhance the curves of her body, but to accentuate, to draw the eye. Nothing about them was crude in cut or length, yet they somehow...promised. Lush black hair, so dark as to be almost blue, rolled from her head and down her shoulders, contrasting her ivory skin. Her eyes were a liquid green that bordered on the edge of blue, without ever crossing over, and her lips, plump and red and ever-so-slightly pouty, curved into a warm and welcoming smile as she caught sight of me.

  She was a synthetic.

  But if you looked deeper into that face, into those pale green eyes, the hardness lurking beneath the warmth and beauty emerged. Yes, the chair and its occupant were perfect analogies for one another. Like it, she was a showpiece, as much a work of modern art as a thing to be used. I had no doubt that hiding beneath the waves of onyx hair, the skin of her neck was raised in a scannable pattern that marked her as a synthetic. I had no doubt that her serial number would appear on a table of depreciation somewhere in Party Toys’ tax records.

  “How may I help you, sir?” the synthetic nearly purred.

  I flashed my badge again. “I need to speak with someone in charge.”

  “One moment, sir. If you’d like to take a seat, someone will be with you shortly.” She smiled as she said it, and put just the faintest hint of an emphasis on the words “with you,” turning them into a languid promise.

  I moved to the chairs, but remained standing. Something in the receptionist’s words—the contrast between their soft innuendo and the edge that lurked just beneath her carefully trained expressions—filled me with unease. If synthetics were programmed to behave a certain way, here at least, was one that had not succumbed to it. She said, and I presumed did, all the right things, but still that edge lingered. It didn’t detract from her beauty, but it did set it on a level that was somehow dangerous and unobtainable, like a jagged mountain peak. I shuddered to think of the kind of person that would request the “services” of a synthetic like her. I didn’t think it would be the affable mountain climber who thrived on challenge. No. It would be the asshole who sought to dominate and subjugate all around him; who, seeing the jagged beauty of the distant mountain, would want to tear it down, and leave behind a broken shadow.

  I trembled again, but this time it stemmed from an anger boiling deep within my gut. What would happen to you if your existence was simply to be hired out to an endless succession of such people, to be subject to their every whim? I knew from personal experience that such people existed, and it made my fingers twitch, itching to wrap around a throat and throttle the life out of someone. I clenched them tight, opened them, clenched them, taking slow, deep breaths as I did so, fighting to control the rage that had started boiling within me.

  When it finally passed, I couldn’t stop the relieved sigh from escaping my lips. I hadn’t felt that level of anger in years, not since Annabelle. My time in the military had given me leashes with which to harness that anger and had taught me how to channel the rage into…something else. Call it controlled violence, but where the control was every bit as important as the violence.

  I looked up from my reverie to see that I had drawn the attention of the receptionist. She was watching me—no, she was studying me—in that way women have, giving me the kind of look that convinced me that not only could she read my mind and tell me my shirt size, but also what I had for breakfast that morning. But then she smiled, a very different smile from the professionally sultry one that had greeted me when the elevator doors opened.

  “Ms. Anderson will see you, now,” she said. “Please, follow me.”

  I did so, making a point to keep my eyes where they belonged and not focused on the exaggerated, rhythmic swaying of her hips. We passed through a glass door and into a lushly carpeted hall. The hall branched off in
four directions, but I didn’t have much of a chance to look around, as the synthetic kept a brisk pace. I got a general impression of understated wealth. The office space would not have been out of place for a thousand-dollar-an-hour law firm. The hallways had an almost museum-like stillness about them.

  I was escorted—no pun intended—to one of the few open doors. A wooden plaque on the outside read Sylvia Anderson, but there was no title or role printed there. I wasn’t sure what to expect as the receptionist, all hard edges under velvet again, said, “A Detective Campbell to see you, ma’am.” My mind’s eye could not shake the picture of a debonair Old West madam running the local cathouse next door to the saloon.

  Instead, I got a trim, middle-aged businesswoman in a suit that probably cost more than everything I owned put together. She stood from behind her desk, a massive thing of dark mahogany that had been polished to such a sheen that it seemed to give off a soft light of its own. She offered me yet another false smile and reached out to shake my hand. Her skin was three shades lighter than the desk itself, her hair short, straight, and jet black. Her grip was firm, quick, and practiced, like that of someone who frequently made handshake deals. “What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked, dismissing the synthetic with a flicking motion of her wrist. “Assuming, that is, you’re not here for our business.”

  The smile took on a slightly wicked cast, but I didn’t sense any real malice in it. Fortier was proof enough that establishments like this received customers from law enforcement, and why not? Nothing about the operation was illegal. For that matter, prostitution among non-synthetics had been legalized decades ago, and only dropped off when the people involved found it hard to measure up with the synthetic competition.