Living in Syn (36 page)

Susan.

"Oh
Jesus!"

Mission
woke in hell.  This monster with his face and his hair on fire stood over him. 
And started pulling him out from under the cross.  Mission recognized the
clothes.  Montag came back for him.  Trapped under the burning wood, Paine
whispered, "Pilate.  I forgive you.  I forgive you all."

Mission
screamed, "Sabrina.  She's right over there.  Get her!"

In
another instant, Montag pulled them outside.  Carson doused their synthetic
protector with a fire extinguisher and set him on a stretcher. 

Pete
screamed, "That's what you were doing?  Risking your life to save a syn? 
You're crazy Mission."

A med
tech applied direct pressure to the artery while another tried to cut the flak
suit off him.  Mission knew he was hallucinating.  Army aircars and tanks
parked all over the place, General Steele, two hundred soldiers, and Susan. 
Susan.

He heard
voices saying,  "The human risked his life to save one of us.  That makes
no sense."

Mission
managed to move.  He yelled, "It does make sense.  But synthetics staying
here, that doesn't make sense.  This is a human world with human laws.  You
can't be free here.  But you can go to New Angeles and be part of a synthetic
society.  Your own world.  My name is Mission.  You can contact me through
Paradox and I'll guarantee you safe passage there."

He fell
back down on the pavement.  Pete stood beside him, incredulous. Then Carson walked
up, calm…detached. He looked at Pete for a second, and then noticed Sabrina,
unconscious, but still functioning. Carson stared at her for several long
seconds and then kneeled beside her. He cupped her head in his left hand, and
with his right hand, gently stroked her hair, and then nodded to himself.
“Maybe he’s not as crazy as he looks.”  He locked eyes with Mission and nodded.
“Maybe.”

Carson
walked away, toward the soldiers. Over his shoulder, he called, “Mission, you
owe me a beer.”

Mission
looked at Susan and she ran over. He smiled and said,  "What did I tell
you?  It ran like clockwork."

"You
are without a doubt the biggest horse's ass in this solar system."

"I
love you too.  They ... they hurt Sabrina badly.  Can you restore her to just before
this happened?  ... you always look so pretty ... "

By this
time, they had strapped him onto the stretcher and moved him into the medivac
aircar for a now familiar ride.

Mission
woke with the light bright in his eyes.  A doctor asked Susan if she had any
questions and she said, "Yes.  Do you give special rates for regular
patients?"

She saw
Mission's eyes open and moved over to him.  "How do you feel?  Or do you
feel anything?"

He
smiled and said, "More Dilaudid."

He
motioned her closer and said, "Paine will destroy us all."

"Mission,
he's dead."

"Doesn’t
matter.  We have to talk.  You, me, Chandler, and the Professor. Tell them
please."

He
blinked.  He felt like he looked at her through the wrong end of a telescope. 
He could sense himself fading back into sleep.  "How are you Susan?"

She
smiled.  "I'm fine."

The next
time Mission woke, Susan sat beside him and ... and her parents sat in the
visitors chairs looking thrilled to be there.  Susan whispered, "I have a
surprise for you."

Sabrina
and Montag stepped into his field of vision.  Mission laughed with delight. 
"Sabrina, you look wonderful.  No ill effects?"

She
shook her head.  "I have no memory of what happened, but Dr. Susan told me
what you did.  I want to thank you."

Mission
shook his head.  "No thanks are necessary.  I’m delighted that you’re back
to your old self.  And Montag, you’ve recovered from our battle?"

"Sufficiently
so.  It is you we worry about."

"Well,
there's no need.  You saved me Montag.  I was helpless and resigned to death
when you showed up.  Thank you."

Montag
answered, "As a wise man said very recently, no thanks are
necessary."

Susan's
parents stepped up to the bed and Hugh said, "You look like hell,
Mission."

"Well
thanks, Hugh.  You're looking good yourself."

"You
keep this up, you're gonna make my daughter very sad."

Mission
shook his head.  "No, no, no.  This is real progress.  I didn't get shot
this time."

Susan
said, "Then how do you explain the bullet hole in your trench coat?"

"My
coat got shot.  I didn't."

"Mission,
when you're wearing a coat and it's shot, I think that counts as being
shot."

"Well
I say that if you can't show me a bullet hole in my body, then I didn't get
shot."

As they
continued to argue, Monica turned to Hugh and said, "I had no idea they
were so in love."

On the
third day, Mission noticed he was in traction.  "Hey Susan, is this leg
broken?"

She
nodded.  "Two more days and they’ll be ready to put you in a cast.  Carson
and Pete received commendations and were called immediately to those islands
off Africa's east coast.  Price of success, I guess.  They said they want to go
drinking when they get back, but you have to buy the first round."

Mission
smiled. "I don't know if I'll be drinking when they get back, but we’ll
get together."

"Your
requested visitors are here."

Mission
looked up to see Chandler and the Professor.  "Hello gentlemen.  I'd like
to talk about Paine."

They
pulled their chairs up and nodded.  Chandler started to speak and then
stopped.  Then he looked at Mission and said, "You’ll be happy to know
that forty-eight synthetics have requested asylum in New Angeles.  Your
sidewalk speech had some impact."

Susan
said, "That reminds me, Arthur Atwood called for you yesterday.  New
Angeles held elections and overwhelmingly adopted the City Charter and Articles
of Incorporation.  Atwood remains their leader and refused the title of
President, electing to stick with City Administrator.  He said to convey his
thanks."

Mission
smiled a strange smile.  "How about that?  It will be interesting to chart
their progress over the next ten years.  That is good news."

He
turned back toward Chandler and the Professor.  "Now, Paine. What can you
tell me?"

Chandler
and the Professor both hung their heads. “All that we know about him has come
from you. The fire burned too hot, and his brain was melted, destroyed."

Mission
asked, “What about using facial recognition? An artist’s sketch and then you
trace back against models you’ve leased?”

Fenwicke
had a worried look. “It’s very strange. We got a virtual photograph from
Sabrina before we restored her previous memory. No matches against our
database.”

“How can
that be? We know Atwood had his looks modified. Is it possible that Pioneer, or
some other party was sponsoring synthetic plastic surgery?” 

This was
a disturbing chain of thoughts, and everyone’s faces reflected the sobering
possibilities.

Mission
took a different tact. “Anything from Sabrina, anything from any source that
gives us insight as to how Paine penetrated the synthetic logic construct?”

Susan
answered. “No, clearly Paine saw through Sabrina from the start. He told her
nothing of any use.”

Fenwicke
added, “We’re performing code reviews to look for the fault. So far, nothing.”

Mission
said, “So you’re reviewing program language code. I’m sure you performed a
comparison between the program code and the object code that actually executes
in the brain.”

Chandler
looked up, puzzled. “It’s the same thing.”

Mission
shook his head. You’re telling me that you’re 100% certain that there’s not a
single patch in your entire brain program?”

Chandler
was about to say yes, but his position was undercut by the Professor scribbling
notes furiously. It didn’t matter, Mission already knew the answer. When
programs passed even an elementary level of complexity, patches were a reality.

Mission
nodded and said, “This is probably moot anyway. How many lines of code are we
talking about?”

Susan
replied, “Forty million.”

“Yeah,
so your chances of finding the error without an example of the flaw occurring,
in a program of that complexity is…infinitesimally small. Unfortunately, there
is an even more disturbing possibility. What do you think your chances are of
discovering the fault, if it was deliberately inserted into the code?”

Susan
was definite. “No. That makes no sense. Why would someone do that?”

“For
reasons that make sense to them.”

Chandler
permitted himself a small smile and said, “But it doesn’t really matter. Paine
is gone and we won’t see synthetics being turned anymore.”

 Mission
said, "That’s actually what I wanted to discuss. I’m not at all sure that
your worries are over. Paine seemed clear on one point. That he would raise
from the dead."

Everyone
spoke at once. But their thoughts were the same. Mission was talking nonsense.

“Think
about it. A charismatic leader fixed on the notion of the Passion Play, of the
notion that he is a modern day messiah.”

Chandler
was incredulous. “You entertain the possibility of Paine rising from the dead?”

Mission
shook his head. “Think about it. The New Testament is essentially a series of
letters from the most devout followers with instructions and advice on
converting others to the Christian philosophy. And you don’t think a man with a
messiah complex wouldn’t pass on instructions for conversion, to his trusted
followers?”

The full
impact of Mission’s words were spreading through the room. The expressions were
horrified. Susan, hand to her mouth, gasped, “Oh my God.”

Mission
nodded. “Precisely.”

Fenwicke
asked in a very hushed voice. “Suppose you’re right. What do we do?”

“That’s
a business decision, isn’t it? But you’d better monitor renegade statistics
like never before.”

Chandler
was virtually in a trance. “This could be the end of it all.”

They sat
in silence for several minutes. Finally, Chandler cleared his throat. 
"Mission, the Professor has brought to my attention that I behaved badly
toward you.  I want to say I’m sorry ... and I’m grateful for what you’ve done
for Paradox."

He
extended his hand and Mission said, "Apology accepted.  And now if you
gentlemen don't mind, I'd like to be alone with Dr. St. Jean."

Susan
walked them to the door and then stepped outside to talk with them for a
minute. Suddenly Mission smiled, smiled at the idea of his life as an abstract
painting. It was just as true today as that evening when the notion first crossed
his mind, that evening when this adventure began. Which is to say, the idea was
partially true.

But now
the landscape had changed. Instead of a series of rooms, there was a place for
a home. Now some of those inert, inanimate objects were replaced by people,
people for better or worse, who were part of his life. He stopped his thoughts
for a second. Yes, and at least one of those people in his life was synthetic.

Perhaps
his life wasn’t a snapshot that faded with time. Perhaps the painting was
always, in some small way, in motion. He liked the thought that he could
exchange items as he changed. That exchanging items could drive the changes in
his life.

Susan
walked back into the room and smiled. He motioned for her to come closer.  He
said, "When can I get out of here?"

"Three
days."

"And
how long before I can walk without crutches?"

"Three
weeks."

"That's
perfect.  Because you know, I've always wanted to see Florence and I know you
love Paris, so I booked ten days in Europe for us.  You know ... a romantic getaway."

Susan's
eyes lit up.  "Mission!  That is so ... "

Mission
held up his hands and said, "Don't say it.  Did my pants survive?"

"Your
what?"

My
pants.  Did they make it?"

"They're
in the closet."

"There's
a piece of paper in the right hand pocket."

She
found the paper and came back to the bed.

Mission
said, "Okay, read it."

She
glanced at it and said, "I'm missing something."

"That's
what you should say instead of the S word."

"
Highly
considerate of me as a person while retaining a distinctly masculine quality.
 
That's what you want me to say instead of sweet?"

Mission
leaned back and smiled.  "Yes."

Susan
kissed him and said, "I think I'll stick with stupid."