SINthetic

by J. T. Nicholas

  A slight shudder ran through me. If they ever did share those secrets, I suspected there was nothing that their community as a whole wouldn’t be able to discover. I didn’t begrudge them the knowledge, certainly, but information was one of the purest forms of power, and the synthetics might very well be sitting on a cache of it that could only be described as nuclear.

  “So quickly, you grasp the situation,” Silas said. “You see the potential when given only a glimpse.”

  “Right,” I agreed, “I’m a magnificent specimen of humanity and a detective to the stars. So tell me again why I want to share any information with you? Particularly given the implications of your last statement?”

  “Because I set you on this path.”

  Now that was certainly debatable. Sure, he’d given me some names to investigate, even given me some questions to consider, but I would have investigated last night’s murder, regardless. But would it hurt to talk to him? What had I really learned in the past day? It might even help to discuss the details, to let my brain work in the background while laying it all out there for someone else. That was part of the reason cops had partners, after all. It could also earn me a little quid pro quo…and there was the second half of why he had said he was here: the warning.

  I grunted my assent. “Fine. Only link I’ve been able to find among the victims so far, is that three of them worked for an outfit called Party Toys Inc., an…escort service, I guess.” I didn’t pause long enough at that for him to correct me. There were less flattering terms for places like Party Toys, but it wasn’t relevant at this point, and we had a lot of ground to cover. “All three girls went out on calls, and never returned. Information on their final disposition never made it back to PTI, where they were, ultimately, listed as lost or stolen property.” I paused. “I got the impression that PTI has a fair amount of ‘lost and stolen property,’” I added. “Enough that these disappearances didn’t seem like more than business as usual. Probably, at least a few a year.”

  Silas nodded. “It is common in the sex trade. Most of the men and women who engage in those services are just looking to spend time with one of the ‘pretty people’ without having to navigate the complicated social hurdles that you humans seem to put in place around sexual dalliance. Others…others are more…exotic in their desires. Violent. At times, fatal. We lose thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of young synthetics every year to sexual violence.”

  I felt my lips turn down in a frown as thoughts of Annabelle once more danced through my brain. Well, that had certainly led to death, if not exactly the way Silas was implying. But I didn’t doubt his numbers. I’d been a cop for nearly a decade, a good chunk of that in Homicide, and I could see the correlation between the rise in the availability of synthetics and the drop in the official homicide rate, even over that short time. I was too much the cop—which was the same as saying too much the cynic—to think that the reason was the better quality of life the synthetics supposedly provided the “real” humans. Synthetics screamed and begged and bled like the real thing; but if you killed one, you didn’t get prosecuted for it. The murder-for-pleasure psychos and the more run-of-the-mill abusive assholes had found a judicial-system-approved way to get a pass.

  “In any event,” I continued, “I managed to get a list of the names of the last clients for the murdered girls. I’ll run them in the morning, and then see where they lead.”

  Silas steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Very well, Detective. It seems like you are taking this seriously, after all, and making an active effort to pursue it.”

  That sent a little tingle of irritation running up and down my spine. “Of course I am,” I growled. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. And I believed you to be different. But I’ve thought that of others before as well. There are many people out there who are sympathetic to the plight of the synthetics and the injustices visited upon us…right up until the point at which they are called upon to help.” He dropped his hands to his knees and leaned forward, staring at me intently with those strange pink eyes. “At that point, when they must weigh the comfort and security of their current life against the possibility—or perhaps certainty—of ridicule and social isolation, most, almost all, choose to turn away from us, and to resume their lives as if nothing ever happened.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m not too concerned about the complex social networks I’ve built, and as for the security of my life, it seems like people can waltz in and out of my place whenever the hell they want. So if you came all this way to warn me about that, you wasted your time.”

  “No, Detective. I came to tell you that, if you continue your investigation, people will most certainly try to kill you.”

  Chapter 11

  Silas’s words washed over me.

  If you continue your investigation, people will most certainly try to kill you.

  The words, or maybe it was the synthetic’s flat, emotionless delivery of them, had a certain gravitas about them. There was nothing quite like coming to terms with the idea that someone out there wanted you dead. I had been to war and been shot at, wounded, returned fire, and taken lives. But that had been a very impersonal, almost professional, sort of killing on both sides. We’d been ideological enemies, sure, but no one had been looking for me, specifically, to track down and put a bullet into.

  I had felt the chill of a nice, personal death wish once before, in that long-ago room with Annabelle, though I hadn’t had the luxury of dwelling on it at the time. That night still haunted my dreams, and that personal animosity, of knowing another person wanted your heart on the proverbial platter more than anything else in the world, was no small part of those nightmares.

  “Well,” I said after a moment’s consideration, “at least it won’t be the first time.”

  That earned me an arched eyebrow from Silas. As it seemed like he was perfectly willing to revert back to nonverbal communication and since I had no desire to learn who was out to kill me through a rousing game of charades, I asked, “Would you care to shed a little more light on this death threat?”

  Silas steepled his fingers once more and leaned back in the chair. “I cannot tell you much,” he began.

  “Bullshit,” I interrupted, drawing another arched eyebrow. I was getting tired of the game, the mystery, the…well, the bullshit. “You can tell me plenty, certainly more than you’ve let on. If you actually want me to find out who’s responsible for killing those girls and see them brought to justice like you claim, you’ll tell me everything. No more games.”

  “I do not know everything, Detective,” Silas said. “But I will tell you most of what I know.”

  “What do you mean, ‘most’?” I demanded.

  “I will not tell you all of it, Detective. I will tell you what I know that will help you find the killers, and keep you safe. But some of it…well, you would not believe me if I did tell you, and it would only cloud the issue. If that is not sufficient, then I will leave, and you will not hear from me again.” He stopped speaking and regarded me with those disconcerting pink eyes.

  I didn’t like him deciding what I would or would not believe; not because he was a synthetic—I would have been equally pissed at anyone trying to tell me what to think. The irony, however, was not lost on me. My irritation at not getting everything I wanted seemed like a child’s tantrum beside the literal programming and conditioning that synthetics, all synthetics, underwent. That conditioning didn’t stop at limiting what they thought…for all intents and purposes, it told them exactly who and what to be. What had it cost those like Silas, who seemed to have broken through the brainwashing? How did his own people, those still locked into their programming, view him? Would he be the hero, or the villain? Were there others like him out there? Or was he the only one running around, telling everyone the emperor had no clothes?

  I thought of Sasha at Party Toys Inc., of the hard, know
ing look in her eyes that had nothing to do with the compliance and supplication that was supposed to be bred in the bone of the synthetics. No, he wasn’t the only one. How many, then? How many of those staring, blank faces hid minds that had, somewhere along the line, fully awakened to the world around them? How many of those minds burned with hatred? How many hungered for revenge?

  I couldn’t be sure, but I thought that, had I been in Silas’s position, my heart would be blackened by hate for the so-called humans who subjugated my people and doomed me to a life that I knew was so much less than it could be.

  Silas still stared at me, waiting for me to decide if I could accept his limitations. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t have a choice. I had the distinct feeling that the synthetic could empathize with that, though. “Fine,” I grunted. “Tell me what you can.”

  “Did you know there is only one company licensed to manufacture synthetics?” he asked by way of answer.

  I did know that. Some of the first reading I had done during my stint in the military—when I had both the time and access to the net again—had been researching synthetics. My search had centered on how emotional attachments to synthetics could form, a desperate attempt at finding a coping mechanism in the wake of Annabelle’s death, but it had taken me far and wide across the digital landscape. There were thousands, tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands of articles, blog posts, research papers, religious musings, and more, all centered around the synthetics.

  All written by “real” people, of course. I hadn’t found a single byte of information that came from the proverbial horse’s mouth, or from those who had taken the time to interview them directly.

  Most of those articles were simplistic affirmations of what everyone already knew. Synthetics weren’t real. They were subhuman. They were lesser beings, not even on par with animals because—at least according to some of the religious blogs—they were created by man and not the hand of God. But all those articles, whether they were mainstream acceptance of the treatment of Silas’s kind or blistering denunciations buried in the deep web, all of them started at the same place.

  “Walton Biogenics,” I said in response to Silas’s question.

  “Yes,” he nearly hissed. “Walton Biogenics. The only company allowed to manufacture synthetics. Do you know why that is the case? Why, in a supposed free-market economy, one company is granted a monopoly on what is, perhaps, the most lucrative ‘product’ ever created?”

  “Tell me,” I suggested.

  “You understand that synthetics aren’t really synthetic at all, not by the definition of the word. We are every bit as organic as the rest of humanity, with the same genetic makeup.” Something that wasn’t quite a smile twisted his lips. “Actually, we have a superior genetic makeup, the product of targeted genetic engineering to reduce certain traits and enhance others.” His voice took on a note that was somewhere between bitter and proud. “Even those designed for construction or menial labor are not only stronger and faster than their human counterparts, we’re also more resistant to cancer, have stronger immune systems, and a life expectancy longer than your own. Or we would, if so many of us weren’t simply killed out of hand.”

  It took me a moment to digest that. I mean, yeah, one look at Silas and I knew he was stronger than me. With his compact frame, barrel-like chest, and bulging arm muscles he looked more closely related to a simian strain than a human one. And sure, most synthetics were prettier—by a long shot—than your average human. More bodily symmetry, better muscle tone, metabolisms that could give teenagers a run for their money. But resistant to cancer? Enhanced immune systems? Longer lives?

  “If that’s all true,” I began, but Silas cut me off.

  “Then why hasn’t this wonderful technology been released to humans?” Silas asked, completing my thought. He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes searching. I began to wonder if the question wasn’t meant to be rhetorical when Silas said simply, “Doing so would destroy your society.”

  The calm certainty in his words left me speechless. It wasn’t just the casual declaration of the end of society as we knew it, but something about the way Silas spoke told me that he not only thought it inevitable, but, ultimately, longed for it.

  I thought about that. Not just Silas’s longing—the root cause of that seemed readily apparent. Synthetics were slaves, even if no one used the word. Were I in his place, I, too, would long for the end of the society that oppressed me, enslaved me, in the hopes that whatever rose from its ashes would be better for me and mine. It was human nature. And, that, I realized, was the rub. It was human nature. “The one thing that could bring about the fall of society as we know it, would be to convince everyone, beyond any reasonable doubt, that synthetics were human.”

  He leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he stared across the coffee table at me. “Exactly,” he said, biting the word off.

  Chapter 12

  “I don’t understand,” I said, frowning in thought. “How would these genetic breakthroughs convince anyone of anything?”

  A quick look of irritation flashed across Silas’s face. “I get some of it,” I said, letting a little irritation creep into my own voice. “If it was developed for synthetics but works on humans, that certainly suggests a…a relationship. But we’ve done medical experimentation on close genetic relatives of humans for centuries. We’ve adapted those results and used them, without caring whether the initial research came from chimps or rats or whatever, and certainly without suggesting that we are somehow the same as those animals.”

  “We are not the same as those animals,” Silas snarled, and I heard real anger in his voice for perhaps the first time.

  “I didn’t mean...” I began, realizing that I had, albeit inadvertently, compared the synthetics to lab rats and monkeys.

  “I know.” He sighed, the anger draining from his face and leaving in its place a look of near-complete exhaustion. It was there for only a moment, hidden beneath the implacable mask so fast that I had to wonder if I’d seen it at all. “I know what you meant, Detective. Regardless, the sameness is verifiable in this instance.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Then why hasn’t it been verified?”

  “Walton Biogenics holds all of the data, all of the patents, all of the intellectual property rights, everything about us wrapped in layers upon layers of legal protections. Did you know that it is illegal for most medical professionals to draw blood from a synthetic? Or to administer anything beyond the most superficial levels of care? Why do you think that is? Why do you think the bodies of synthetics are so promptly consigned to the crematoriums, even in cases where useful information might be learned from a more thorough examination?”

  I thought of Ms. Morita and felt a flash of guilt. Had I made her an unwitting accomplice to a crime? “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I thought it had to do with—” I stopped, choking a bit on the words, but I had to say them. “With warranty issues.”

  “Yes,” Silas snapped. “That’s precisely what Walton Biogenics wants you to think. They’re just the friendly local company, trying to do the right thing and stand by their product. The crushing press of corporate greed predates electricity, much less synthetics, and people still buy into the marketing schemes, turning a blind eye to the harm in exchange for an easier life.” He shook his head in disgust. “The reason they offer such a wonderful ‘warranty’ is because they want to minimize the chances of any of their ‘product’ undergoing any genetic-type testing. In point of fact, they’ve used patents and copyright laws and an army of lobbyists and lawyers and bought-and-paid politicians to ensure that any such testing carries with it harsh legal penalties. Now, tell me why.”

  The anger was back. Silas was biting each word off, nearly coming up off his chair—off my chair—glaring at me with burning eyes. I felt my own anger flare in response, filling my chest with a tightness. Who was this guy to break into my house and b
erate me, when all I was doing was trying to help him? Didn’t he realize that I wasn’t the bad guy here?

  But I was the guy who had done nothing to change the situation.

  The anger drained from me, leaving in its wake a faint echo of shame. It wasn’t pleasant, but it at least allowed me to focus on what he had actually said, and not the blame that I had heard. I thought about it, and no matter how many different twists and turns I let my mind wander down, I always came back to the same spot. “Because they’re afraid of what that sort of genetic testing would reveal—that the synthetics, down to their very genome, are human.”

  “Yes.”

  I wanted to deny it. Wanted to shout that the government, that the people, wouldn’t allow such a thing to happen, wouldn’t stand idly by and permit such abuse. But I knew better. People—those who counted as “real” people, anyway—were living better than they ever had in human history. Part of that was the steady march of progress, but not all of it. According to the studies, there was a strong correlation between happiness and the ownership of synthetics. Who wouldn’t be happier with a servant to do all the grunt work? And “servant” was only one of the many roles—and the least dark among them—that a synthetic could fill.

  I nearly jumped from my seat as a rusty, almost painful sound emerged from Silas’s mouth. It took me a moment to realize he was laughing again. Wherever that laughter came from, it was not a place of sunshine and rainbows, but somewhere dark and twisted and full of thorns. “You don’t want to believe it, and yet you can see the truth of it, can’t you, Detective? And you have already answered the question that most would ask: ‘Why would we let this stand?’ Because if you didn’t, society as you know it would crumble, tearing the thin veneer of utopia from the cancerous ulcer that is the world you so reluctantly live within. Do you see now why Walton Biogenics would kill to keep their secrets safe? Do you see why the government that you served as a soldier and continue to serve as an officer of the law would turn a blind eye toward—or even encourage and assist—their actions?”