SINdrome Page 15

  It took me and Hernandez both a minute to process that question. I’d been okay with my “retirement” from the force, and I was having a hard time swallowing the notion that we’d come far enough that Tia was comfortable asking Hernandez to steal gas masks intended for response to nuclear, biological, or chemical attacks from the armory at work.

  “You think the Walton people are going to try to gas us?” Hernandez asked.

  “No. But the current run of military and police masks don’t have exhale valves,” she responded.

  I looked at Hernandez, who looked back at me, and I saw my own confusion mirrored in her dark eyes. “Uhm. Tia. I think you’re gonna have to back it up a bit for those of us who don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Tia smiled. I got the distinct impression she liked the mystery. And even more, that she like explaining things. To me. That was going to be…interesting…down the line. If there was a down the line. “Gas masks are respirators. They work by filtering out contaminants. Most of them have an exhale valve. Something that lets the wearer’s exhaled breath escape the mask without having to be forced through the filters. Makes the filters last longer.”

  “But doesn’t protect anyone else from anything the person wearing the mask might be exhaling. Like, say a virus,” Danielle added, clearly following.

  I’d spent some time in the NBC masks, both in the big green machine, and in the NLPD. The things sucked. Drawing in air wasn’t exactly easy, and exhaling was every bit as hard. Hard enough that when you really got to panting—like say when you were made to do PT wearing the fucking things in the middle of a desert—you started to worry that the seal would pop. I hadn’t really thought that was because my breath was being forced out through the same filter the “fresh” air was being drawn through, but it made sense.

  “So, it’s a sort of self-contained quarantine for Silas?” I asked.

  “And anyone else who starts showing symptoms.” She paused. Looked at Al and LaSorte. “Sorry guys,” she said with a frown. Al waved her off, and LaSorte, looking a little pale around the edges, nodded his understanding.

  I looked at the screen, to where Silas was watching us with intent, feverish eyes. “Sucks to be you, buddy,” I said. “Those masks are no bueno.”

  “If it eases your concerns about the fact that I will be part of this mission, then I can suffer well the indignities,” he replied. Then ruined it, by lapsing into another coughing fit.

  “If,” I added, looking at Hernandez, “you can manage to swipe a few?”

  “And some extra filters,” Tia added. “We won’t have Silas in the mask all the time, but those filters are only good for a few hours.”

  “You don’t ask much, eh, hermana? I can get the masks. With all the riot work, the fucking things are lying around the office. And they’re passing out filters like Kleenex. You give me today to do some recruiting, and I can get the masks and hopefully a couple of extra shooters here tomorrow morning.”

  “All right. Today we plan and prep. Tomorrow road trip to a potato farm. Silas, LaSorte. We need you guys running down everything you can on this place. Assuming she’s conscious, we can get you wired in to Larkin, so you can pick her brain. Hernandez has to go into work.” I looked over at Tia, Danielle, and Al.

  “I’ll put together a list of what we need to isolate Silas for the trip,” Tia said. “I can do that and check in on the sick as well.” A darkness passed over her face. “I… I hesitated to mention it, but we lost another one. We’re starting to get some idea of how the virus progresses, but… Well, the timing is all over the place. I suspect it has something to do with the specific purposes for which each synthetic was designed. Progress seems slower in those optimized for manual labor and…” She blushed a bit, but carried on. “And sex.”

  “Can’t have your playthings catching some nasty human disease,” LaSorte muttered.

  “Enough,” Silas interjected, cutting through the burgeoning pall in the room. “Callous as it may sound, we do not have time to mourn. If we are successful in our endeavors, we will mourn for all those who have fallen. If we are not, we can pray that someone will be, and that they, in turn, will mourn for us.”

  “Jesus,” Hernandez whispered.

  “Well,” Al’awwal said, “On that note, I think I’ll help Ms. Morita. There are a number of other items we should secure, in addition to an RV and whatever supplies are needed for the quarantine chamber. I’ve probably got most of it at home, but, even if I haven’t seen myself on any wanted posters lately, that might be a bit risky. I’ll add it to the list and accompany Ms. Morita on her shopping expedition.”

  I felt a tightness in my shoulders that I hadn’t realized was there ease. Going out into the streets right now wasn’t exactly safe. Tia could handle herself well enough, and I’d make damn sure she brought a weapon with her. But Al’awwal was big enough that his size alone would deter a lot of would-be troublemakers. Troublemakers that would flock to an attractive young woman out wandering around a riot by herself. I gave him a brief nod of thanks, and he winked at me.

  “And I’ll help with the patients, and continue my studies,” Danielle added. “Even if we beat this thing, we’ll need to understand more about it.” She flashed a smile. “There may be an entire new branch of medical science in the very near future.”

  Yeah, but would any of us be here to see it? I didn’t voice the thought, just looked around the table once more at the faces of my friends and brothers- and sisters-in-arms. No one looked exactly eager—we all had too good an idea of the mountain of tasks that were ahead of us. But I saw the firm set of determination in every face. Even now, with the promise of legal status for the synthetics still fresh in the air, Walton Biogenics’ trump card, their final solution, might put us down. But if it did, I had no doubt that every person—human or synthetic—in the room would go down fighting.

  Sometimes, that was the best you could ask for.

  “All right,” I said. “We’ve got a metric shit-ton to do, and not a lot of time to do it. Let’s get to work.”

  * * * *

  I spent most of the day at loose ends.

  Everyone else had a meaningful task to pursue, but I was bound by the same limitations that had plagued me since I’d been named public enemy number one. Well I could go on forays out into the world if absolutely necessary, the risk of being recognized was too great for something as simple as a supply run. So, helping Al and Tia was out.

  Likewise, I lacked the expertise to contribute anything meaningful to Silas’s and LaSorte’s pursuits on the screens. They understood what needed to be done, what information needed to be gathered. They had a direct line to Larkin, and from all indications, she was honest in her desire to help us bring Walton Biogenics down. Which meant that if I poked my nose in there, even with my experience as an interrogator, I’d only slow them down.

  Helping Hernandez was out of the question, for obvious reasons. Even if she thought she could find a couple of sympathetic ears in the precinct, there was no way in hell I could go within a mile of a police station without getting my ass arrested.

  * * * *

  I made my way back to my room, such as it was, and dropped onto the cot that served as my bed. As it creaked under my weight, I had a brief, tantalizing thought of Tia. I didn’t think the cot would pass her standards for comfort relative to a round two. Well, just another reason to get to Idaho and rob a potato farm.

  I slipped my personal screen from my pocket and flicked my news app. The screen wasn’t really mine, of course. I hadn’t had a screen that was truly mine, in my account, since I’d walked away from the NLPD. I couldn’t remember whether this was my third, fourth, or fifth burner, but it didn’t matter. I’d stored my filters on an anonymous cloud, and it was a simple matter to drop them into the news app. If I wanted to look at events over the past few weeks that passed the filters’ tests, I�
��d have to wait a bit, but for current news, it took only a minute or so before the screen chirped, letting me know it was ready for review.

  I hit the text only option, not really wanting to watch even the innocuous talking heads of the filter app. The first bullet, unsurprisingly, read: Law enforcement officials still searching for wanted fugitive and former NLPD detective, Jason Campbell. No surprise there. Even if we won, I’d have to face my day in court. I had some small hope that, given the circumstances, if we were successful, the courts would show some measure of leniency. There were no guarantees, but I didn’t want to live my life as a fugitive. If we lived through the next few days, I foresaw turning myself in once again. The thought made my skin crawl, particularly around the various knife wounds that hadn’t yet fully healed, but there you had it.

  The next headline was of more interest: World leaders to hold summit discussing synthetic rights. I briefly scrolled through the linked article. It didn’t flow like a human-written work, being constructed programmatically, but it did convey the important information. At least four of the five “w’s” of journalism—Who, What, When, and Where—were easy enough for a machine to do the heavy lifting. “Why” was often more nuanced, but in this case, it was simple enough. The only thing I cared about was the when—and it was weeks away. Too damn long. Too damn long by a long shot.

  The third headline filled me with a sense of looming dread. “Reports of illness among synthetics amidst push for full rights.” I scanned that story as well. There were plenty of words like “isolated” and “scattered reports” which gave me at least a little bit of hope. But from what I could tell, the gist of the story was still being reported as something more along the lines of a consumer report or a “buyer beware” rather than a medical matter. No indication of an investigation into the illness. No commentary from doctors. Might as well have been a report on faulty airbags for all the health information presented. But the fact that there were enough cases that stories were being generated was beyond alarming. Even if we found a cure, or vaccine, or whatever the fuck we were looking for, could we get enough of it? Or manufacture enough of it? Fast enough to matter?

  A wave of blackness swept up from somewhere deep in my gut. Had this whole thing been for nothing? Had getting the attention of the people, of world governments been no more than a pyrrhic victory? What use are rights to the dead?

  “Fuck!” I half-growled, half-shouted, the word echoing off the walls around me. That was enough news for one day. I stuffed the screen back into my pocket and pushed myself up off the cot. Maybe I couldn’t help the others, not at the moment, but there was still a room full of sick synthetics, and those taking care of them could probably use a hand. I’m sure Danielle and the synthetics acting as orderlies wouldn’t turn me away.

  * * * *

  Danielle was more than happy to see me, and I was put immediately to work. As I moved from sickbed to sickbed in our makeshift infirmary, checking vitals and sharing a few words with each patient, I was struck by two things. First, even in the few short days, the number of sick had increased by a noticeable amount, although it hadn’t doubled or anything so grand. If it had moved that fast, the world would probably be in a panic, synthetics or no. But Walton had been smarter than that. More insidious. Their little cleanup plague either moved slow or lay dormant long enough to spread the illness out, so that by the time anyone realized what was going on, it would be too late.

  As I sat chatting with the sick, doing my best to lift their spirits in the few brief moments I spent with each of them, the weight of that responsibility settled a little more on my shoulders. If we failed, it could mean the end of the synthetic population. They knew it. But not one of the sick that I spoke with seemed to regret the revolution. A young—well, by appearance, anyway—man that I spoke with, who had likely been a Domestic as he lacked the beauty and grace of the Toys and the bulk of the Laborers, put it best: “I lived my whole life as someone’s slave,” he managed to gasp out between bouts of energetic coughing. “At least if I die, I die free.”

  Well. Fuck that.

  People deserved to live free. Free to make wonderful decisions. Free to make terrible ones. But most of all, they deserved to be free from the tyranny of those who held power over them. Didn’t matter if the power was wealth, or the long and sometimes oppressive arm of the government, or actual, physical strength. The synthetics had suffered under all three. And they were willing to die to end it. They couldn’t fight, not with their conditioning, but they could still resist, even if it meant death in the end.

  How could I do any less?

  Chapter 16

  “We need to meet, hermano.”

  Hernandez had screened as I was wrapping up a long day of helping Danielle and the others take care of the sick. It had been a torturous process coupling hard, unpleasant labor with an emotional wringer that left me exhausted. I’d found a new respect for the work nurses and CNAs did. All I wanted to do was sleep.

  “About what?” I half-snapped. Then I remembered where Hernandez was, and why. “Shit. Sorry, Hernandez. It’s been a long day. What’s up?”

  She let my outburst pass, which worried me. “I’ve got a couple of candidates. But I want you to meet with them.”

  Something in her voice set me on edge. “Who are they?” I asked.

  “I’ll explain when you get here. I’ll text you the address.” And she hung up. Just like that. My phone chimed a moment later, but I didn’t bother looking at the address, instead trying to think my way through the problem.

  Back when I’d first gone underground, Hernandez and I had established some screen protocols, to allow us to keep in contact and keep us both safe. We’d abandoned a lot of them when Silas had set her up with her very own secret-squirrel burner phone, but I still remembered the protocols and I was certain she did as well. She hadn’t slipped the duress phrase into the conversation. So, she probably hadn’t been found out and detained, and then forced to try to set me up. Probably.

  Then why the secrecy? I trusted her enough that if she thought some of our brothers in blue were ready to be brought into the fold, then so be it. I glanced at the address on the screen. It wasn’t far. Just off Floattown. A distance I could easily walk, and through a place I knew well enough to avoid the prying eyes. Hernandez had visibility into what the cops were doing, which meant it should also be a place without any extra security.

  I thought about going to Silas, or Al, or Tia. Letting any of them know what I was about to do. But they’d just want to discuss it, or come with me. If it was somehow a trap, it would catch two as easily as one. And whatever Hernandez was up to, I knew I was going to go. Talking about it wouldn’t change that. I owed her a lot more than the trust to go to a meeting with some possible recruits.

  I made my way back to my room and geared up as best I could. My wardrobe was still intensely lacking. I was half-convinced that it was the result of some widescale joke the others were playing on me. But I’d managed to scrounge together a pair of half-serviceable jeans and a zip-up hoodie. Not the most stylish, but it would serve, and the hood would help keep my face hidden from watching eyes.

  I still had the nine-millimeter and somewhere along the line, Al had managed to find me a couple of spare magazines. I missed my forty-five, but I was starting to warm to the blocky peashooter. It had served well enough at Larkin’s house. I still didn’t have a holster, so I tucked it into the back of my pants.

  I made my way through the Ballasts, moving toward the surface. I passed only a few synthetics along the way, but no one gave me so much as a second glance. I did not run into Tia or Al. Those two wouldn’t have let me pass so easily, and I was grateful that I’d managed to slip out of the occupied levels without running into either of them. I’d pay for it later, and I felt a slight pang at the thought that the long, narrow Well, not dishonesty, but certainly avoidance…would do some damage to my burgeoning relationship w
ith Tia. I’d rather risk that damage than put her in danger.

  Floattown was quiet as I emerged once more into a sheltered alleyway between some of the pre-fabbed buildings. The sun had slipped below the horizon an hour or two ago, and the moon had yet to rise. The winter darkness always added a sense of stillness to the evening. Not quite peace, not in New Lyons. But something more akin to a sense of waiting. What the city was expecting, I didn’t know.

  I drew a deep breath, tasting the Gulf in the air, and let it out in a steadying sigh. Then slipped into the shadows. My hood was up, head down, hands stuffed deep into the central pocket of the hoodie. Hopefully, I looked like every other BSL-er walking aimlessly around the streets at night. My steps weren’t aimless, though, and they took me through the buildings, past the edge of the commercial zone and to one of the narrow bridges that connected Floattown with the mainland.

  The area on the landward side of the Floattown bridge was mostly industrial, with a few commercial enterprises scattered about. The standard workday was over, but given the number of warehouses, transport companies, and other ventures that didn’t keep regular hours, there were a fair amount of people walking around. No riots or crowds, though, not here.

  I moved among the crowds, keeping my eyes downcast and the hood low, avoiding the cameras as I could, and relying on my “disguise” to spoof the ones I couldn’t. Hernandez had chosen a meeting spot in a narrow alley that ran between a truck mechanic’s shop and a long, narrow brick building that might have been a small-scale factory at some point. It didn’t have any signage to indicate what it was now, though there weren’t any broken windows and I saw at least one light burning in the interior, so it probably wasn’t abandoned.

  As I slipped into the alley, Hernandez stepped out from a doorway on the maybe-abandoned mystery building. “This way, Campbell,” she said, waving me over.