Synthetics (12 page)

Chapter 16

I may not be able to breath but I can suffocate.

I thought about finding some quaint little church to sit in. You know, like the conflicted protagonist does in the movies. I could seek solace by trying to focus spiritually.  It seems to work, extreme close ups on their furrowed brow, perhaps a single bead of sweat trickling down their forehead. Their eyes would close and a thin sigh would escape their lips. Their hands would be folded with perhaps a crucifix necklace hanging from them. You could substitute another doohickey, depending on your personal religious orientation.

If I could, I would sit in front of the mirror and pull faces at myself all day long.

However, I then realized that I would be a tad out of place. Some heinous metal abomination in the holy sanctuary. I wouldn't quite fit. Religion is a human thing. I don’t know what I am. Undefined, perhaps.

Instead of going to church I sat in Sasha's office overlooking Washington. This was the life. I am the pinnacle of human achievement and I didn't even have the guts to go for a casual stroll outside. I didn't want to scare the children. I told myself to think of the children. I wasn’t really in the mood for all the paparazzi that tailed me everywhere. The bright flashy lights played havoc with my optics.

I was still staring out the window, wallowing in silky melancholy when Sasha walked in.

“I'm surprised you're not out enjoying yourself and causing trouble Fletcher,” he said, sitting down on the black leather couch beside me, “Isn't that what young men do in their downtime?” We sat out of habit.

“I've turned a new leaf. I’m trying to be mature.” Recently I had been thinking of drowning my sorrows with alcohol but I wasn't even sure if getting drunk was even possible. I bet if I tried hard I could find a way. I had all the time in the world to find a way. Well, if this full integration thing worked out.

“What are you doing about Stuart?” I asked.

“Nothing,” said Sasha, staring out the window. He managed to look tired. “We will give him space and perhaps he will come back. He needs time.”

“What if he snaps and goes mental like Samara?”

“Then we will find him… He has a tracker installed.”

“And kill him?”

Sasha turned to face me.

“If we must.”

“But it’s Stuart?”

“He has a good heart. It won’t come to that.”

I decided not to point out that Stuart didn’t actually have a heart at the moment.

“What about the rest of the investors?” I asked.

“This episode has taught me that we need to be more diligent in the future. I’m sorry Fletcher.”

I started tapping my fingers on the coffee table. The glass veneer cracked.

“Sorry for what?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t seen me break the glass.

“For forcing this upon you. This is my fault, all of this. I should never have let the investors…”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll figure something out,” said Sasha standing up. “I had best be on my way. The procedure starts tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” I said.

“Thank you Fletcher. I truly am sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I watched the little old man stomp out of the room in his big slender body. He deserved more than this.

***

Frederick and Cole had left on some errand for Sasha, so I was left alone at CANA. Perhaps they were off to cripple a nations economy or assassinate some dictators. It wouldn't have surprised me.

A secretary girl came to inform me that I was to attend a party tomorrow. She called it a function. Lots of pretty people and powerful businessmen would be there. I guess Sasha had shifted his focus from keeping secretary Cosworth's support to securing more money.

I didn't sleep much now days. I could sleep (theoretically) and I probably should have slept, but I just didn't feel like it. I just kind of wandered the halls of CANA. They were very nice halls. They got me pondering if aesthetics were relative or if there was an objective formula to beauty. I'm joking. At about two in the morning I found myself before the bust of some balding Greek philosopher, possibly Plato. The plaque directly below his dismembered head read, “Death is not the worst that can happen to men.”

Perhaps an inscription a little less macabre would be better for company morale? Maybe something like, “A smile says a thousand words.” Short, sweet and infinitely less depressing. Apparently Sasha chose all of the artwork and furnishings for the CANA head office. I didn't quite agree with his taste.

As I stared at the balding head I realized I had come to the point of tedium. Life was dull and tasteless. I wasn't depressed. That involves a degree of emotion.

“I used to have green eyes.”

What the hell Samara. Couldn't you have thought of something more dramatic? The Jungle Book has more emotive one-liners than your crap.

I killed.

For some reason when killing is for a cause it is no longer called murder but justice. I killed Samara. Did I mention I killed Samara? It was all good though because I pretty much saved humanity’s future in the process.

I used to be a lot more sincere.

A purpose: that is what I needed. Something to keep my mind occupied. Well, I had a purpose. My mere existence paved the way for mankind's golden age; free from suffering and death. You don't need a purpose anyway. Pleasure is good enough. Sadly my capacity for enjoying pleasure was severely retarded. I could still get pleasure in just as many ways as before, perhaps even more ways now, but I just didn't feel like it anymore.

Guilt.

That was the emotion I was missing. I killed Samara. Even if it was the right thing to do, which was a completely different argument in itself, I should feel bad for the life I had extinguished. In reality I wasn't overly worried. I felt a tad shocked perhaps. It had left a bad taste in my proverbial mouth.

I want options. I want a crossroad instead of a one-way street.

I would settle for action. Action doesn't usually require too many thought processes. It's largely instinctive. Time consuming is good.

At least I had a party to look forward to.

Leaving the statue, I trudged back to my room to watch TV.

***

“Oh how wonderful. It must have been an interesting line of work.”

I had just told a ditzy crimson-lipped brunette that I used to own half of the oil refineries in Libya. She apparently believed me.

One of the investors probably did own half the oil refineries in Libya.

“Not half as interesting as you,” I responded.

I was sucking whatever amusement I could get from this situation. She had her head cocked to the side, clutching a glass of red stuff in a wine glass (which was quite possibly wine) and a cigarette in one hand. We were both working each other. She just didn't know it.

“Stop it,” she giggled like a prissy twelve year-old, “You look like a knight in shining armor, you know.”

No, I’d never heard that before.

If only I could take my armor off.

“And you look like my princess,” I replied.

I leant in closer. We were on a balcony overlooking the CBD while the party raged indoors. I liked the breeze. I liked to imagine its touch on my skin.

“Such a charmer.”

She wouldn't stop giggling and preening. She was like a canary with ADD.

“Perhaps I can be your Prince Charming?” I wasn't letting up.

The romantic drivel was flowing freely. It felt good. I may not have found a way to get wasted but this was the next best thing.

“Really Fletch?”

Her free hand was covering her heart. She appeared sincere. It frightened me. No one called me Fletch anymore. Before I could stop myself I had sworn at her and stormed inside. I kept swearing softly to myself.

I found a seat beside Cole at a near-empty table below the stage.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Headache,” I replied.

“That's not good.” He gave me his full attention. “Perhaps we should run some tests when we get back.”

“I meant figuratively,” I grunted.

“Oh, well we can resume your sessions with...”

“Can you shut up?”

“Certainly Fletcher.”

Awkward much. Cole recoiled slightly. Perhaps I overreacted. Good thing I didn't care.

The lights suddenly dimmed and a spotlight centered on the stage. The crowd fell silent. The hall seemed empty without the steady murmur of animated conversation. I wondered what all the hush was about. A movement at the edge of the stage drew my attention. It was Sasha.

He strode into the limelight with measured steps. His silver shell shimmered as he moved, like the moon’s reflection on the water. His gaze swept over the crowd, his eyes sought me out. They were devoid of color. Two bottomless wells in a field of serpentine contours; he didn't need the microphone to speak.

“Good evening Ladies, Gentleman and Synthetics'.” I imagined he was smiling. “My name is Doctor Sasha Neumann.”

A fervent murmur rippled through the crowd. For the first time I realized that there were numerous other synthetics attending. It must be the investors. They were hard to miss with their ostentatious retinues. I'm pretty adept at being inattentive.

“Thank you for coming. I am overwhelmed that I should be worthy of such support. Either that or the catering is truly divine.”

This brought a polite chuckle from the crowd.

“I have invited you all here tonight to witness something truly extraordinary.”

He paused. He appeared as pleased as a plum pie.

“Me.”

More polite laughter.

“Recently I underwent a groundbreaking procedure known as neural transmutation. This involves the transferal of my consciousness, from my biological brain, to a new synthetic brain. This marks the beginning of a new age. At this moment we are starting to commercialize the process of integration so that it may be open to the public. Humanity shall finally be free from its age old oppressor, Death.”

His head turned to an investor.

“If anyone has doubts about the validity of my claim, a detailed video log of the operation can be provided to satisfy any untoward suspicion. Now I would like to propose a toast. Firstly to my colleagues Fletcher, Frederick, and Cole for standing by me, and secondly…’ He looked around the room. ‘To a bright present.”

He raised his hand. The crowd raised their glasses.

“Cheers.”

To a bright present.

***

“I don't trust them.”

Sasha had come down from the stage and was sitting beside me. He kept fiddling with the napkins on the table.

“The investors?” I asked.

“Yes,” he clarified, “now that I have perfected the process I am no longer necessary.”

“Why do you say that?”

Sasha wouldn't look at me.

“It matters not.”

Yoda speak ae; serious it must be.

“Thanks for mentioning me in your speech,” I said trying to make conversation.

“You earned it.”

“I haven't done much.”

“You have done more than you know.”

“Er thanks. So are you really... You know?”

“Entirely synthetic?”

“Yeah.”

Sasha kept folding the napkins. He wasn’t very good at hiding his inner grandpa.

“No and yes. I have detected no deterioration in my faculties. Indeed my mind seems more agile. I am still a sentient just like you.”

“Do you feel?”

I reminded myself of secretary Cosworth. I hadn't seen him in a while. Too bad he wasn't invited to the party. I quite liked him.

“The same as before,” he answered before being hustled off by Cole to meet a potential investor.

Money. It's funny how a poor man can't be a charitable man these days.

Man?

***

I decided to ditch the party and go for a walk. Yes, a casual walk outside; just the footpath, a gentle breeze, and me. It was the first time in maybe half a year since I had ventured into public on my own (unless you count that business with Samara).

Samara. I'm sure she was a nice lady at one stage. She had green eyes. I think that in the end she was trying to convince herself that she was human. That or she was just loopy. Perhaps I should go buy myself a birthday cake. I’m sure it was getting close.

As I walked it started to drizzle. I smelt the harsh tang of wet tar and bitumen. Got you. I didn’t actually but I detected it. There is a difference. I felt I lacked qualia, as a philosopher would put it.

I was covered in raindrop tears (I’m blue… Raindrops have to be described as tears when you are sad). As I passed under each street lamp they shimmered like undulating stars falling from the sky to my feet.