SINthetic

by J. T. Nicholas

  I stared at myself in the mirror for a long moment, mostly not even seeing the tired reflection that was looking back at me. I was stalling, and I knew it. There were questions that had to be answered and decisions that had to be made.

  Time to get back to work.

  Chapter 29

  We gathered in the living room, though that seemed an odd moniker to apply to anything in Fowler’s house. Arlene and the synthetic woman had found a mishmash of clothing, none of which appeared to be large enough to fit Fowler, and sat on a floral-patterned couch. Silas settled his bulk into a recliner—again, though at least this time it wasn’t my recliner—leaving me to slump into a love seat.

  “When do I get to go home?” Arlene asked. “I need to see my mom.” She sat with her knees pulled up to her chest in an oversized sweatshirt with three Greek letters stitched across the front. The letters were stitched in a pastel pink. I tried not to think about the fact that its former owner was probably residing in a plastic bin in Fowler’s barn. That made the sweatshirt evidence, and I shouldn’t have given it to the girl, but fuck it. My career was done, anyway, and even if it wasn’t, I didn’t think anyone would give me shit about finding some clothes for a scared little girl.

  “Soon,” I said. “We just have to figure some things out.”

  “What is to become of me?” the pregnant woman asked. “Silas says I’ll be safe. That my child will be safe.” She said the word with a certain amount of scorn, as if safety were some sort of fairy tale. Given that she had the unearthly beauty of a toy, it almost certainly had been.

  My mind still struggled with the fact that she was pregnant. That wasn’t supposed to be possible. It did, I thought with a slight twist of my stomach, explain the state in which my murder victims had been found. The evisceration had been brutal, and no doubt Fowler had enjoyed it, but it also rather effectively removed the physical evidence of pregnancy. Pregnancy. It had to be some sort of anomaly, some sort of freak genetic accident. But how did Walton know? How could they send people like Fowler to clean up before the world knew? I filed that question away—I doubted anyone here had any answers. “What’s your name?” I asked.

  She just stared at me. I looked at Silas, who shrugged his heavy shoulders in resignation. “OK. Names aren’t important. I’m a cop. I’m supposed to call everything in and get a million response vehicles here in the next ten minutes. They would sweep Arlene off to her mother and then probably to a hospital. I’d be tied up with Internal Affairs and the feds for...hell, until they find a way to suspend or fire my ass. I have no idea what they would do with you, or Silas.” I paused. Silas didn’t look particularly concerned. The woman looked tired and on the perpetual edge between angry and terrified. “But I’m not going to call them. Yet.”

  I turned my attention to Silas. “You knew we were going to find her?” I half asked, half stated, waving one hand tiredly at the pregnant synthetic.

  “Yes, Detective,” he replied. “It was my sincere hope that we arrived in time to find her alive and...unharmed.”

  “And the other women? The...mutilated ones? They were pregnant as well?” I still couldn’t believe the words, even as I said them. Synthetics, male and female, were sterile. It was one of the reasons they were called “mules”—that and being used for manual labor. Everyone knew that. Just like everyone knew they weren’t people.

  “Not just pregnant. Impregnated by their ‘owners’ or ‘users’ or whatever piece of human filth decided to attack them.” He said the last with a snarl of anger that made Arlene flinch back.

  That snarl took me by surprise as well, enough so that it took a moment for his words to sink in. I think, on some level, I knew that was the case. Of course a young synthetic female was most likely to be impregnated by a human male. Even those not designed and marketed as toys were used by their owners. But the biological implications...

  “Proof, Detective,” Silas said. “Proof that humans and synthetics are the same species. Oh, not so ironclad that the hard-liners won’t trot out examples of horses and donkeys, but proof enough. Proof that we are not things. And if the child proves fertile, which I believe he or she will, provided they live long enough, a proof so incontrovertible that any arguments against it will amount to sheer sophistry. Interspecies breeding is a genealogical dead end, Detective. This young lady”—he gestured at the pregnant woman who still had not spoken—“for all the trauma she has suffered bears the proof that synthetics and humans are one. It is only a tiny spark, but in the darkness that is the lives of most synthetics, a spark can burn as brightly as the sun.”

  “A spark can also light a fuse, Silas. A fuse that leads to the biggest single powder keg the world has ever known.”

  “And would that stop you, Jason? Stop you from protecting that child or her mother? Would the fear of what might be stop you from doing what you know is right?”

  It was the first time Silas had used my given name. It was such a simple thing to do, to call a person by name, give them an identity beyond what they did, or what their perceived value to society was. It was completely disarming and, at the same time, made Silas seem far more vulnerable than I had ever seen him.

  “No,” I replied simply.

  “I am glad to know I chose the right person for the job.”

  We lapsed into silence, each of us no doubt contemplating what came next. I looked at Arlene. “Do you understand any of this?” I asked.

  She shot me the kind of contemptuous look that only a twelve-year-old girl could master. “Since the lady is pregnant, it means she’s a human. Duh. And that means that all the synthetics are humans. Which means the rest of us have been acting like—special dispensation—total assholes for a long time.”

  Without a word, the woman reached over and pulled Arlene into an embrace. There were tears rolling down her face.

  “You can call me Evelyn.”

  The words were barely above a whisper, probably only meant for the girl’s ear, but I heard them anyway. I doubted it was her given name, or even the name that she had originally chosen for herself, but then, it seemed appropriate. Evelyn. Eve. Mother of the human race. Or at least, a mother who is of the human race.

  I looked at Arlene. “So you understand that, at least for a little while, it’s really important that you don’t tell anyone about any of this? That you stick to the story of not having any idea why the Fowler person kidnapped you and not mention anything about Evelyn to anyone else?”

  She gave me that “oh my God, adults are so dumb” look again and said, distinctly, “Duh.”

  It was a “duh” that warmed my heart. Whatever she had been through, it looked to me like Hernandez’s daughter was going to be just fine. The rest of us, though? “You’ve been the man with the plan all along, Silas. What now?”

  “Now, Detective? Now we change the world.”

  * * * *

  Silas’s penchant for dramatic declarations aside, there were any number of details that demanded resolution. The first, and not so insignificant, was getting Silas and Evelyn the hell out of there. An obvious synthetic and an equally obviously pregnant woman could not go walking through a neighborhood like Fowler’s in the wee hours of the morning without drawing some sort of notice—the kind of notice that tended to be remembered once a swarm of cops descended on the place.

  I’d left my cruiser at the precinct and dismissed the cab. Which put us in an odd spot. We needed a vehicle, but didn’t have one. If the NLPD bothered to pull up my travel records, they’d be able to track every ride I’d taken. So far, I could explain all of them. Probably not well enough to keep my badge—gallivanting off to meet, and subsequently shoot to death, kidnappers pretty much guaranteed that ship had sailed, and that was before the whole overthrow-society-as-we-knew-it shtick even came into play—but enough to keep out of jail, at least. If they pulled those records, and the last charges they found on my accounts were for
a cab that arrived at Fowler’s house and then left without me in it, what would they think? Maybe I could play it as a moment of panic, but then coming to the right decision when the cab arrived and calling everything in. After all, in another glaring blind spot, the cab company would show that no people were transported.

  In the end, we decided to risk it. We had no choice, really. Silas and Evelyn had to get out of there, and there was just no other way. Before climbing into the cab, Silas handed me a compact screen. “It’s clean, Detective. Prepaid. It has one number in it—to another burner. Call that number when you are ready for the next step. In the meantime, I will see Evelyn to safety and set about doing some other things that must be done.”

  The circus, as predicted, arrived within minutes of my call. I ignored the captain, the feds, my fellow officers, all of it, until I got to see Hernandez rush to Arlene’s side, all tears and hugs at the reunion. They were both whisked away in a sea of black EMS uniforms, headed, most likely, for a waiting ambulance and a ride to the nearest hospital. And then probably to a long line of psychologists and therapists. I almost smiled at that thought. I had a feeling the headshrinkers would meet their match in Arlene. That nut hadn’t fallen far from the tree and was hard enough to crack teeth.

  When they were gone, though, the hordes descended. I got to hear the full pantheon of disparagement. Terms like “lone wolf” and “hero complex” and even “stupid motherfucker” were thrown around with abandon. The feds added a few of their own, with “obstruction of justice” and “willful negligence.” There was even one mention about leaving the scene of a shooting, and the term “manslaughter” came up.

  That one at least got shut down pretty goddamned fast when I showed the investigators the barn. It was a bad day for the evidence collection team, not only for having to deal with the atrocity that was the plastic bins, but also for the amount of ejecta that spewed forth from the various officers who just had to have a look, because surely with all their experience, they couldn’t be affected by the horror.

  It ended, as I’d expected, with me handing over my badge and gun. Well, and all the rest of my clothing, down to my skivvies. Evidence collection. Clad in a New Lyons Police Department sweat suit—the evidence techs always seemed to have a few sets stashed in their truck for just such an occasion—I climbed into my cruiser (recalled when I called in the rest of the boys and girls in blue) and told it to take me home.

  My days as a cop were numbered, and I knew it. Suspension would stretch into paid administrative leave, which would, in its own turn, evolve into early “retirement.” Without a pension, of course, since I hadn’t put in the time, but probably with enough of a “shut up and go away” settlement to live off for a few years. If I didn’t rock the boat, of course.

  I grinned at that thought. Ever since I’d planted a knife in the murdering heart of Annabelle’s “owner,” I’d gone out of my way to keep the boat nice and level. I’d grown complacent, channeling all my anger and bitterness into protecting that fucking boat, first as a soldier, then as a cop. Sure, I’d stayed dry, but all around me people were drowning, and I—and every fucking other person along with me—had sat and watched. No. Had enjoyed it. Because, hey, it kept us safe and dry.

  I was done playing nice. I was done being complacent. Silas thought he could change the world. He was probably kidding himself. The people—the “real” people—had all the guns and money and training. They had the weight of decades of “tradition” and a quality of life for the average working stiff that approached utopic levels. Provided, of course, you were one of the people that counted as people. All the odds were stacked in their favor, and what did Silas have?

  A pregnant woman. And the truth.

  It didn’t seem like much. Hell, it didn’t seem like close to enough. But somehow, it was. Enough for me, anyway. Enough to set a spark. And a spark could light a fire. And a fire could change the world.

  It was time to change the world.

  It was time to rock the fucking boat.

  Epilogue

  Detective Melinda Hernandez’s House

  December 31

  23:58

  Melinda sat on her couch, glass of red wine in hand and her wall screen tuned to the ball drop in Times Square. One arm was curled around Arlene, snuggled up against her on the couch. Her daughter had long since fallen asleep, but so far she didn’t seem to be experiencing any of the nightmares that had plagued her in the weeks since that fucker Fowler had kidnapped her. There wasn’t a power in the world that could have made Melinda move and risk waking her.

  She took a sip from her glass and stared at the screen, tuning out the insipid commentary from whatever celebrities du jour were hosting. She couldn’t keep up with them anymore, a surer sign that she was getting old than the few strands of gray she found in her hair from time to time. She stared more at the giant countdown in the upper-left-hand corner of the screen, and waited. Around the world, people waited, with her.

  In minutes, the old year would be gone. The new year would be ushered in. A time of rebirth and regrowth would begin. Every eye was glued to a screen where broadcasts from iconic vistas promised countdowns to a new beginning.

  With only minutes to go, those screens flickered and jumped, blurring momentarily into an almost forgotten static. Melinda frowned, but she didn’t move, didn’t let sound the curse that came to her lips. She didn’t want to wake Arlene.

  When the picture resolved, there was the image of a man. He was a remarkably normal-looking man. Not pretty enough for video, surely, and with a certain sadness, a certain tiredness, about the eyes. He was, one would think, a man who had seen things, who had experienced things that had left their marks upon his body, and perhaps, even deeper. Melinda felt something twist in her stomach, and a strange sense filled her. Was it excitement? Or foreboding? She couldn’t be sure, but she recognized Campbell’s mug staring out of the screen at her.

  For a full five seconds, Campbell remained silent, just staring out from the screens with his dark, soulful eyes. Melinda had no doubt that, in the short-attention-span world, nearly everyone else watching tried to change to a different station, a different site. Out of curiosity, she set down her wineglass and did the same, flicking her fingers to cycle through the stations. Campbell was everywhere.

  “What are you doing, hermano?” she whispered, still conscious of her sleeping daughter.

  Almost as if in response to her words, he began to speak.

  “My name,” he said, his voice as tired as his eyes, “is Jason Campbell. You don’t know me. No reason you should. I’ve done a lot in my life. I’ve been a soldier. I’ve been a cop. I’ve taken lives and saved them. I’ve earned commendations and condemnation along the way. But mostly, I’m just a guy, just a human being, like all of you out there listening to this.”

  He paused, a troubled expression passing like a cloud over his face. “And I do mean all of you. You see, we’ve all been lied to. It’s been a big lie. It’s been the worst kind of lie—the kind that we all wanted to be true. So, we just accepted it. We let it go because it made our own lives better. And as a result, we’ve become what is arguably the worst society in human history.”

  He paused again, and Melinda knew where he was headed. Arlene had been quiet when the feds and other detectives tried to question her, telling them only about the man who broke into their home and going near catatonic when asked about the rescue. But she hadn’t been able to keep any secrets from her mother. Melinda grabbed her wine again and took a quick gulp. She was about to watch Campbell go from a cop forced into retirement by the unforgiving brass to the city’s most wanted.

  The camera pulled back and panned over. There, in the frame, was a woman so pregnant she looked about to pop.

  “This is Evelyn,” he continued. “She might just end up with one of the first babies of the new year. Which is remarkable for more than the normal reasons.�
� The pregnant woman brushed back her short hair and the camera zoomed in. The raised pattern of a skin tag was clearly visible against her pale flesh. The camera lingered there while Campbell continued to talk. “You see, Evelyn is a synthetic. Not human. A thing.” He spat the words, not as curses against the woman, but against any who would call her so.

  “Except, the father of Evelyn’s child is not a synthetic. He is, undoubtedly, a raping asshole. But despite that, we still have the gall to call him human and call this woman a thing. But things don’t get pregnant, and even if they did, they certainly couldn’t breed with a human.” He glanced at someone off camera, and a faint murmur of conversation floated through the open microphone. “The search traffic we’re seeing shows that you’ve already started looking. That you’ve already found the answer that you know to be true. That you’ve already started to question the lie.”

  “Shit, Campbell,” Melinda whispered. “Are you really doing this?” Of course he was, the fucking idiot. Noble idiot. But still an idiot.

  “The only thing that can breed with a human and produce offspring is, of course, another human. Not a thing. Not an object. Not an animal. Synthetics are none of those things. Synthetics are human.”

  The camera came back to the man, who seemed to be looking somewhere off screen. He nodded slightly. “A packet of information has just been released. You should see the address now. And...it’s gone. Another. Again. They don’t want you to know the truth. They’re trying to stop this feed. They’re taking down the sites where we’re posting the truth as fast as we can put it out there. They’re trying to prop up a society that has been built on a slave labor more heinous than anything known in our history.”