Fin

by Larry Enright

  “I do not want to hurt you,” he shouted.

  “But we’re going to hurt you good, traitor,” one of them shouted back.

  “Go home to your families while you still can,” said Fin. “Here. Take your blood money.”

  He threw a handful of credits at the Cys, and while they scrambled around in the rain for them, he ran up the alley to the front of the bar where another group of Cys was standing over the body of their friend. They spotted Fin and came after him.

  He took off down the flooded street and around the corner into the market district where most of the makeshift stalls had either blown away or been destroyed by the storm. Crossing the square, he ducked into an alley between two bombed-out hovels and crouched behind a dumpster with a clear line of sight to the square. He drew his Pulser and waited.

  The rain stung. It was relentless, blinding. He shifted the gun to his other hand and checked the charge. He had enough to vaporize all of them in a single wide-angled burst with plenty to spare. It would be so easy. And the beauty of it was there would be few if any repercussions even if a witness came forward to testify against him. They were Drabs and Pasties. It wasn’t murder to take their lives. It was a misdemeanor. So Council had decreed. He could kill them all, Tork, too, and no one would think twice. It was a crime not even worth the Man’s time to prosecute. There might be a small fine if he was caught, maybe even jail time, but jail wasn’t so bad. Was it? They fed you there. They kept you safe. And that would show them. That would show them all that he wasn’t just another filthy robot to be trifled with. Then the others would leave him alone. Then they would respect him, even Tork. Maybe even Book.

  The mob showed up across the square, searching the rubble, coming his way. Fin set the Pulser to full power, wide-angle burst and took aim. So what if a few more Cys were murdered? Cys were murdered every day. Trask was right. There was no law in Cytown. There was surviving and there was dying. That's just the way things were. Nobody would stop to say a few words over their ashes before the wind took them away. Nobody would care that something as worthless as one of them was gone. Nobody. Not even God cared.

  Fin stared at the Pulser in his trembling hand. He reset it to single stun and slid it back into its holster. Climbing into the dumpster, he closed the lid and covered himself with trash, holding his breath, afraid to move. The lid creaked open. The lid slammed shut again and the mob moved on, leaving the rain to beat without mercy on his broken world. The rain. Always the rain.

  Chapter 8

  You are my children and I love you above all else. I beg you, do not squander this most precious gift. Do not wage war on life itself. I am merciful beyond your understanding, but even mercy has its limits and God his rules that must be followed.

  It was another twilit rainy morning when someone lifted the dumpster lid and heaved one more body onto the pile. Fin switched off his Commlink and climbed out of the can. Raising his face to the somber sky, he welcomed the rain as it beat on the stench that clung to him like a second skin. Vendors were busy retrieving the pieces of their stalls blown apart by last night’s storm, competing with the scavengers who needed the broken boards and bits of cloth to rebuild their hovels. The market would be open for business soon. It would be dangerous for Fin to be there, so he took the alleys and side streets back to his apartment. The power was on again, his door wide open. He could see no one inside, but someone had been there. There was a puddle of vomit on the common room floor. It reeked of spoiled Reconstitute. He drew his Pulser and stepped inside.

  “Is anyone there?” he called out.

  The Homecom responded with unintelligible static.

  Fin checked the rest of the apartment. It was empty. He closed and locked the door, and began cleaning up the mess. His Commlink blinked. It was a call from an unknown number. He answered it, “This is Fin."

  “Welcome home, sir.”

  “Esse?”

  “No, sir. This is the Homecom. The apartment speakers are damaged so I have taken the liberty of patching into your handheld.”

  “Who did this?”

  “Unknown. I believe they were looking for a place to sleep, sir. I’m afraid several of them were quite ill. I’m sorry I was unable to clean it up. A great deal of my functionality is currently offline including the cleaning bots. I submitted a maintenance request, but the system shows a three-week backlog for non-emergency orders. I can reclassify the request if you authorize it.”

  “No, thank you. How did they get in?”

  “You left the door unlocked, sir.”

  Fin noticed two boxes in the corner of the common room. “Where did those come from?”

  “Semperesse delivered them after the intruders left, sir.”

  Fin opened one of the boxes. It contained several pairs of work overalls, the kind used by Grays and Whites: sturdy, practical, durable, meant for those who lived by the strength of their backs and the sweat of their brows. He checked the other box. In it were heavy work shoes, underclothing, and hooded sweatshirts. Fin stripped, bagged his dirty clothes, and showered and dressed. He was checking his Commlink for messages when the Homecom called again.

  “Sir, I just received notification of a reduction in your water allotment.”

  “On whose authority?”

  “The Bureau of Public Resources, sir.”

  “Was any explanation given?”

  “A shortage of water in one of Periculum’s residential sectors triggered an automatic shutdown of public fountains in the area. Several complaints were lodged, one by a Councilwoman. They have temporarily diverted half of the water supply for Cyblocks 101, 102, and 103 until they can rectify the problem at the pumping station. Taking into account your other basic needs, I calculate that you only have sufficient water for one more shower this month. There are eight days left in the month. Should I send an emergency request for an increase in your allotment?”

  “No.”

  “Sir, SIA regulations are quite specific on the issue of personal hygiene."

  “And these coveralls are not standard issue, but I do not think either will be a problem after today,” Fin replied.

  He left the apartment hunched over beneath his thick hood like every other tired workman on his way to the city for another day of slaving for the Man. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to him. The train was packed with Cys staring vacantly at the day's prospects. He saw no hope in their eyes that some almighty God would lift them up and save them from that hell. It was God who had put them there. It was God who had leased their miserable lives to the Man in a contract that only their deaths could cancel. That was their hope. That was their salvation. Two of them found it that morning when the train passed through the Periculum shield.

  Fin got off at Lower Downtown and hurried up the steps to the next level where a realization one year, three months, and eighteen days in the making took the life out of his step. The regimented meter of the classical music, the mindless buzz of the humans like bees around their queen, the insidious chemicals that scented the air—it was all a dissonant stew of lies and deception. The humans had been consuming it all their lives. So had he, but he had never tasted it until that moment. Its stench was fouler than any recycling can and its flavor more putrid than the poisons in the rain. Fin stared at the humans performing the same mindless repetitive actions as they had every day of his short life. This was no angry mob to be scared off by the warning shot of a Pulser or distracted by a handful of credits thrown into the air. This was the precursor of the end of all things. This was the sign that the goodness and purpose of life would soon be gone. There were no dark alleyways to run to and no recycling can safe enough to hide in. The end the humans were trying so desperately to prevent was upon them and he was its witness.

  Fin quickened his pace, ignoring the Lawspeaker’s warning. When he got to the elevators, he waved his ID over the scanner and boarded a crowded car, facing head-on the fear, the disgust, and the loathing of those who stared at this lowly workman,
this disgusting Cy who had the audacity to board their elevator. Some wondered aloud how something like this had gotten past security. Others were already calling the police. Fin considered showing them his ID and explaining that he was not dangerous, but what was the point? No one would believe him. He was a Cy. He considered wishing them a good morning and a “God be with you” but to what end? Humans had abandoned God. He moved to the far corner of the car and they as far away from him as they could, as if that separation were as impenetrable as the Periculum shield.

  When Fin got off the elevator at street level, he joined the Cybernites on the lower sidewalk heading to their appointed workplaces like cattle kept compliant by the prod of the Lawspeaker. When hunger reminded him that he had neither eaten breakfast nor scanned the headlines on the train ride in, Fin broke from the crowd and stopped at an electronic newsstand to purchase the daily download, a fortified Reconstitute bar, and a shot of Cybernite-approved ersatz coffee. He downed the dark stimulant in a single gulp and devoured the Reconstitute while paging through the news.

  The funeral for Mayor Colson’s son was scheduled for later that day. Council was sending a representative to decree that a memorial that would be erected in the Park Sector for the boy. Police had arrested and charged a gang of Pasties and the Metro official they had bribed to get shield passage. Further arrests were expected. Public recyclings would be held throughout the week. Attendance was mandatory. Destruction of the pharma warehouse had created a shortage of chemicals critical to the current military action against the Eastern Bloc. To compensate, Council was shifting resources from Cyblock repair and maintenance projects to several chemical factories. All work on Cyblocks 301 through 310 was suspended until further notice.

  Fin put his Commlink away and continued on to the Government Sector. When he arrived there he took the steps to the upper walkway, swiped his ID to gain access, and stopped to look up at the sky for the first time that morning. A single strand of cirrus clouds stretched across the field of blue. It was another beautiful day in the Man’s paradise, another beautiful lie. Not even this artificial firmament could deny the truth in the darkness beyond or the rain beating on it without end. There was no avoiding it, no diverting it like the massive collectors that sat atop the shield superstructure channeling the poisoned liquids through purifiers into the vast reservoirs beneath the city. The truth remained the truth, facts were facts, and the rain was never-ending. Always the rain.

  At the outer perimeter of the SIA, Fin showed his badge to the guards and was admitted through the graphene barrier. At the next checkpoint they scanned him and complained as they always did about his dense polyclonic tissue creating unreadable images on their computers. They made him strip and they searched him thoroughly, reporting his non-standard dress to their superiors before letting him pass through to the changing station. There, the clerk told Fin that his uniform had been decommissioned and his locker reassigned. He gave Fin a temporary pass and directed him to the elevators.

  The forty-third floor was quiet when Fin got off the elevator. A soft beeping was coming from one of the cubicles—a message for one of the junior agents not yet at his desk. Fin was the only one on the floor. The distinctive electronic smell of the sea of machinery had not yet been turned bitter by the unmistakable odor of human nervous sweat. He proceeded to his cubicle. It was empty. Not just empty—his computer, his desk, his chair, his cabinet with his case files, everything was gone except the sculpture Dr. Shepherd had given him. That was resting on the floor. His Commlink flashed. He answered it and listened to the voice at the other end.

  “I understand, sir,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he was outside Commander Roberts’s office. John Roberts had been the SIA’s commander-in-chief for many years. Fin had met him only once and that by accident during his orientation tour of the facility. Roberts had been coming out of a meeting and Ben Clayborn made a point of introducing them. Roberts was the one who had signed off on the experiment to bring Fin on board, but he made it crystal clear that he had done so only because Council decreed it.

  The receptionist ushered Fin into the commander’s office where Roberts and Clayborn were waiting. During his year at the agency, Fin had come to know Roberts as a stern taskmaster, but that was only judging by his orders and the conversations he overheard while waiting in hallways and outside conference rooms for Agent Clayborn. Fin was never admitted to any briefings with the commander. His orders always came from his senior agent. That was protocol.

  “God be with you,” Fin bowed.

  “Sit down, Blue,” said Clayborn.

  Fin took the proffered chair while Roberts judged him from across the desk.

  Clayborn was sizing him up, too. “What’s with the getup, Blue?”

  “My apartment was vandalized, sir. My SIA-standard street clothes were destroyed. This is all I had to wear. When I arrived this morning I was informed without explanation that I no longer had a uniform or locker. I can only assume that this is my exit interview.”

  “You gave up your gun. An agent never surrenders his piece.”

  “In my defense, sir, it was taken from me forcibly while I was unconscious.”

  “If someone takes your Pulser it had better be from your cold, dead hand.”

  “With all due respect, sir, that makes no sense."

  “It wouldn’t to a Cy.”

  “But I got it back, and my badge and Commlink, sir.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Is there no mercy in your heart? Is there no forgiveness for this one transgression?”

  “One? You’ve got to be shitting me. You went after the DDs without authorization, against my direct orders. You almost got yourself killed and you created a real shit storm for the local police. Should I keep going?”

  “No, sir.”

  Clayborn did anyway. “I got a report this morning that you discharged your weapon again without authorization last night. The locals found two dead Drabs at a bar near your place. What the hell is wrong with you? What were you thinking?”

  “Sir, that was not my doing. If you check forensics, you will find they were shot with a laser not a Pulser. Please, you must believe me.”

  Commander Roberts slammed his fist on the desk. “Enough! This decision wasn’t made lightly.” His unforgiving eyes fixed on Fin. He waited until the Cy looked away before continuing. “I don’t like bucking Council. I don’t like having to explain why I can’t follow orders. And I’m definitely not in the habit of giving up, but this experiment is a bust.”

  “I am sorry I failed you, sir.”

  “It’s not me you failed. It's Council. They’re the ones who approved Dr. Shepherd’s experiment. It failed, plain and simple, just like I told them it would.”

  “Don't take it personal, Blue,” said Clayborn.

  “How can I not?” said Fin. “This was my life."

  "You're not a total screw-up. There were times you were a damn good agent. Just not this time."

  “That’s true,” Roberts admitted. “I pulled your jacket. You did some good work, but that was just window dressing, part of your cover, as far as I'm concerned. The only reason you were here, the only reason, was to find that mole. That was the experiment, to uncover someone we couldn’t. Turns out, Doc Shepherd’s finest couldn’t either.”

  “Sir, please give me another chance.”

  “We’re not in the second chance business here. We need this fixed now. Two more agents went offline yesterday.”

  Fin looked down at his trembling hands. “I admit my failure in my primary objective, sir, but perhaps I could continue to be useful to the agency in some other way.”

  Roberts opened a file on his desk and paged through it. “Clayborn suggested I transfer you to Central Stores where you wouldn’t have to interact with the public. He thinks you might be a good fit there doing research.”

  Clayborn was staring out the window, refusing to meet Fin’s gaze. Fin
looked back at the commander. “I will gladly accept the transfer.”

  Roberts closed the file. “Like I said, that was Clayborn’s idea, but that’s not going to work for me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not fit for duty, any duty. Your behavior has been erratic. This taking matters into your own hands . . . I can’t take the chance you won’t go off the rails again. Next time we might not be so lucky.”

  “I promise I will do better."

  “You’re not listening,” said Roberts. “So let me put it in words even you’ll understand. I’m not about to give a machine a job that should go to a real person.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I am a real person.”

  “Don’t interrupt the man,” said Clayborn.

  Fin apologized.

  Roberts went on. “Jobs here are like plums. Everybody wants one, but there are only so many on the tree. There’s no way in hell short of another Council decree that I’ll give you a job here, any job, when I have hundreds of qualified applicants who need the work.”

  “Are any of them Cybernites?”

  “Dr. Shepherd made you smarter than us, didn’t he? You figure it out.”

  “Is this your final word on the matter, sir?”

  “I had Legal go through your employment contract and check your rights under the Artificial Intelligence Act. Your medical benefits terminate immediately and, based on your length of service, you’re not entitled to any severance pay or pension. Your apartment is paid up through the end of the month. After that, you’re on your own.”

  “Sir, I have several ideas about the security breaches. Before I leave, may I at least document them for you to pass on to whomever is assigned the case?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “What about the mole, sir?”