The sigma imperative, p.1
The Sigma Imperative, page 1
part #3 of The Synth Crisis Series
THE SIGMA IMPERATIVE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations,
places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2018
Thirsty Bird Productions
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recorded or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
For more books by the author
GREGDRAGON.COM
‡Contents‡
Chapter 1 – Angel’s Tears
Chapter 2 – Soulless Machines
Chapter 3 – Homecoming Day
Chapter 4 – A Shot of Bourbon
Chapter 5 – Pink-Haired Mary
Chapter 6 – Tattooed Tears
Chapter 7 – When Darkness Calls
Chapter 8 – Trouble in Paradise
Chapter 9 – The Faces You Know
Chapter 10 – Changing Faces
Chapter 11 – To Hack a Cypher
Chapter 12 – Against All Odds
Chapter 13 – A Cut Above
Chapter 14 – Sake on a Suzuki
Chapter 15 – Ghost in the Machine
Chapter 16 – The Eternal Chase
Chapter 17 – Deep Underground
Chapter 18 – Beyond the Lines
Chapter 19 – Wanted Dead or Alive
Chapter 20 – Friends in High Places
Chapter 21 – What Happened in DC
Chapter 22 – The Odd One Out
Epilogue
Glossary
‡Chapter 1‡
Angel’s Tears
It never used to rain in Tampa the way it did now. Always overcast with the slick, wet asphalt a glistening shard of glass reflecting prisms of neon lights. The people of the city knew that the rain wasn’t natural, but it came to define the age. It was part of the residual post-war fallout, what some liked to call angel’s tears.
Dhata Mays leaned against the hood of his large white Buick, pulling slowly on a dark cigar. The rain was massaging his smooth, bald scalp, and he was enjoying every bit of it. He loved this city and its people, but someone or something was trying to tear it apart. Humans were preying on their synthetic neighbors, and naturally the androids were fighting back.
The police were calling it “the Synth crisis,” but unlike them, he was on the frontlines. He knew that the implications went beyond a “crisis” and what they were facing was something substantial. He held the smoke inside his mouth and the tobacco worked its magic, adding to the moment.
A tone in his ear brought him back to the present and he was suddenly aware of his wetness. Touching the tiny node near his ear, he opened the interface and answered the call. It was Ariana, his police contact, calling from what appeared to be her house. This he saw through the augmented visual projected from his ICLs.
“Hey Ari,” he said. “What’s the drama for today?” He squatted down to push the last of the cigar into a puddle.
“Hey, Dhata, how are you?” Ariana said in a tone too casual to be natural.
“Wet, I’m wet out here in this wonderful Tampa Bay weather. Soaking up this toxic juice.”
“Careful, Dhata, you know that people have been reporting complications due to too much exposure to the rain.”
“Oh yeah? Well aren’t you a sweetheart, calling me after all this time to check on my health,” he said.
“I can hear you smiling through all that sarcasm, but I’m not calling about anything good.”
“What’s up, Ari? What do you need?” Dhata said, paying little heed to her warning about the rain.
“There’s been a kidnapping. A young woman. But we’re backed up with a lot of cases, and since the victim is synth ... well, you know how that goes,” Ariana said.
“Snatching synths? That sounds like a bounty hunter. Easy money if they get away with it. Black ‘em out, pull out their spine, replace the central nervous system. You can’t program synths, but you can transplant body parts, and an old, used up Mary could be an upgrade for someone else.”
“That’s horrible,” Ariana said, and Dhata was surprised. All these years on the force and she doesn’t know these things? he thought.
“That’s what we’re dealing with here, Ari. Synthetic body snatchers. They’ve been running rampant since way before our time. What makes this one so special that you’re calling me to look into it?”
“One of my girlfriends saw it happen, and I promised her that I would investigate,” she said.
Dhata inhaled the night air, then wiped his face. “What’s the pay?” he said as he slid into the Buick.
“Pay? I’m cashing in that favor you owe me,” Ariana said, laughing.
“Fair enough. I’ll find your girl. Let me get the number of the witness who saw it happen,” he said.
Ariana transferred the number and he filed it away inside his internal implant. He was working for The Unsung now—a secret society of powerful synths—and business like this, while important, would come secondary to whatever they needed.
He got off the call and started the engine. It was too late to call the witness, but too early to call it a night. If Lurita was home he would propose a rainy date night, but she was overseas, visiting her father. The only thing waiting for him at home was loneliness and a bottle of liquor that he was trying to avoid.
“Let’s go down to Ybor,” he announced to the car, and the cobalt lights of the dashboard danced. An image of a map floated above the center panel, then expanded into a three- dimensional hologram of Tampa Bay. Dhata released the steering wheel and let the Buick’s AI takeover. They had been to Ybor enough times for her to know where he wanted to go.
The rain was coming down hard, more than normal, and the drops were so heavy that it was all he could hear. It gave him flashbacks to his early days as a detective. Jason—his old partner—used to say that when the angels cried, there had to be a reason. Tonight they were practically bawling, and he reached down and rubbed his legs absentmindedly.
The one negative to the constant rain was the pain that came with implanted cybernetics. Whenever the rain was coming, he would feel it in his legs. Near fatal injuries on the job had turned him into a poor man’s cyborg. It was easy to forget that he was part machine, especially during the downtimes when he wasn’t working. When it was just him and Lur, he felt fully human, but now it was raining and his body ached.
“CINI,” he said.
“Yes Dhata, what do you need?” came a synthetic voice from the Buick’s dash.
“Where in the world does it not rain?” he said.
“Right here in North America, Dhata. You could visit Las Vegas,” CINI said, her voice taking on a relaxed tone. “No damage from the war was reported there. It is dry, and the sky is clear. You could rest, drink a variety of exotic liquors, watch some shows, and even gamble.”
“Whoa, CINI, I’ve never heard you like this before,” he said. “Did I somehow stumble upon your sexy, travel planner mode?”
“No, Dhata, there is no such mode, but your partner Lur Diaz did give me an upgrade. My voice and responses will be a lot like a human’s now, and I have a variety of voices and accents.” She switched her voice to have a Spanish accent. “I can even sound like Lur if your prefer—”
“Your voice is fine, CINI, don’t make it weird. God knows I spend enough time with you … don’t need you getting attractive,” Dhata said. “Vegas sounds nice, though; that’s a solid suggestion. Lots of gangsters, and synths working as dealers. It would be a welcome break from here, if ever I feel the need to escape the rain.”
They pulled up to a set of dark buildings that bordered 22nd street, and CINI parked beneath a streetlight. The road continued on into Ybor proper, but there was an invisible perimeter that Dhata knew to avoid.
Tampa was still in the middle of a small civil war, and most of the fighting took place down here. There were magnetic blocks that would disable vehicles, and the synth hools were as cold as they were ugly. But Dhata was a veteran of the Ybor streets, so he parked and pulled on his duster.
The synths knew his face, and they knew his badge, that unsung shield, that glittered against the leather on his belt. If they didn’t respect the badge, they could expect to meet his revolver. He had a reputation as a shooter, so most hools stayed out of his way.
He walked down the barren street and took in his surroundings. It was a pathetic version of what it was before the war. Ybor was once a valuable part of Tampa Bay; it had history and a spirit not found anywhere else. Now it was a bombed out husk that was barely kept alive by the castaway synths that called it home.
The roads were busted up asphalt, and the buildings were mostly ruins. Next to the curb on both sides of the road ran a brownish green fluid that stunk of garbage. This gutter seemed endless, and the few drains he could see were overflowing and added to the smell. He hadn’t been on this side when it rained before, and he was regretting it with every step.
When Dhata rounded the corner towards Centro Ybor he ran into a line of men. He had his head down against the rain, and as he lifted his face he could see that they were surprised. Obviously they hadn’t realized who he was on approach, but now that it registered, they opened up a path.
Beyond was the splash of neon lights that comprised what used to be Centro Ybor. There w ere a lot of synths here, milling about: some selling things, others making their way to their apartment or shelter. Dhata found an empty wall under a blown out building, and walked over to it and sat down. There was shelter here and the rain had slowed, so he made himself comfortable and logged into his implant.
Ariana had sent notes on the missing girl; there was a written description, and some video footage. He closed his right eye to get a better view of it all and played the surveillance video.
The woman was one of several, and from her body language he could see that she didn’t belong. An outcast playing at being popular, he thought, and in Hyde Park of all places. Are you some sort of bad girl? No, you were out looking for rust busters, weren’t you?
He sighed audibly at the state of the times. Not too long ago he would have been at that club.
“Her name is Rebecca,” he said out loud, and repeated it several times. He was trying to embed her name and face into his mind so that he wouldn’t have to look into his files again. She was regular, and this was unfortunate because regular was easy to forget. There were over twenty human girls at that club who looked and sounded like her.
This was going to be a challenge, being that she had no discerning features. Instinct told him to look at her friends; perhaps one of them had something unique.
He rewound the footage and froze it on them. All normal, all the same height; the only thing unique was that one had a discolored arm, the telltale sign of a black market swap.
“So the main blonde’s a gamer,” he muttered as he watched. “Definitely the alpha of the crew. But she isn’t concerned with them as much as that bouncer. I wonder if he went home with her.”
The footage stopped after they got inside the club, and he wondered if there was more for him to see. I bet they wiped the rest to protect that guy, he thought.
Dhata recorded the bouncer’s face and filed it away. He would have to reach out to him later on. There was some commotion on the street in front of him, so he logged off and opened his eye. Instinctively he reached down and gripped his revolver. He had three bullets left from his depleted stash.
There were two synths arguing and they had come to blows. One punched the other, and he countered with a knife. The hool who got stabbed was screaming at the top of his lungs, and the crowd had widened to avoid the attacker.
Synths were tough, but they were built to emulate humans, so a cut to one of his “vitals” would force his brain to shut down. Several of the synths glanced Dhata’s way, and it took everything within him not to shout, “I am not a John!”
He had been off the police force for an extremely long time, yet he somehow hadn’t figured out how to stop looking like one.
Something buzzed in his ear. It was an incoming call, and his ICLs reported that it was Lur.
“My beautiful trouble,” he said, answering with a smile, and Lur’s sweet laughter caressed his eardrums.
“Who you calling trouble, skiptracer? You are the one with the gun and the reputation. I am just an immigrant who tries to save your soul. You should be happy to hear from your angel, right?”
“Of course I’m happy. I haven’t seen you in a week. How’s it going out there with your father?”
“Good, mi vida, but Papa wants to see you. Something about making it right, since you both love me. I didn’t really want to call about this, Dhata, but he’s pretty insistent on you talking to him. He’s old-fashioned, you know, and the last time—well, he treated you badly. I told him about the good things that you are doing for the synth people, and how you helped me to meet Hiroshi and become a cypher.” She inhaled audibly and Dhata realized that she was struggling. “Help me out, okay?”
“You mean, me coming out to Cuba?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “We want to see you.”
He thought about the time when Lur’s father had him tortured, back when the old man thought that he could use him. It had been two days of hell as they beat him bloody, even cutting open his thigh to expose his cybernetics. He could still feel the blades and the numbness of his face – this is the man she wants me to make peace with?
Then he remembered that Lur had run away to be with him after finding him inside her father’s basement. He had loved her since then, loved her before that, if he was being honest. If meeting his torturer meant peace for his love, why not go through with it?
“I’ll come talk to your father,” he said, reluctantly, trying not to think about it. “You think he’s going to force me to marry you?”
“Force? Are you serious? He is not to tell me who I am to marry. Never again.”
“I’m joking, baby, just lightening the mood. I’ll come visit your father, and we can talk about the woman I love. How are things otherwise?”
“Very relaxing, actually. I wish you were here to enjoy the beach with me.”
“Got a new case, Lurita, so the beach will have to wait. It’s a simple kidnapping so it shouldn’t take long. I have to see your face when we visit Tokyo. I’m betting your eyes will pop out of their sockets when you see the clear blue highway.”
Lur laughed before agreeing. They talked for a time, but then another scuffle broke out in front of the building. Dhata got off the call and got to his feet; he was in a dangerous spot. The man who got stabbed had returned with some friends, and in his hand was an electroshock tube. From the looks of the weapon it had been modified somewhat, since the cartridge was lumpier and had a battery attached.
What’s this? he thought, I have never seen this before. The crowd scattered, and Dhata slipped behind a busted wall. If the darts started to fly and one came his way, he didn’t know if he would survive a modified tube.
More commotion rose, and a group of men appeared. These were the friends of the knife-wielding hool. Dhata recognized their tattoos; these were Aaron’s men. Aaron ran the largest synth gang in all of Tampa Bay. In recognizing this, he knew that things were about to get insane, and he quickly scanned the area for a way out.
A shot rang out, and a synth went down from a minor explosion in the left area of his chest. Whatever had been done to that tube had turned it into a lethal weapon, and the rounds acted like tiny warheads, blowing holes in synthetic flesh. More shots rang out, and two more of Aaron’s men went down. It was open war on the streets.
“That’s my cue,” Dhata said, and climbed through a hole in the wreckage.
‡Chapter 2‡
Soulless Machines
How many times must I tell myself to stay out of Ybor? Dhata wondered as he pulled himself over the rubble to gain the inside of the building. Behind him he could hear the popping sound of the tubes as the gangsters fired on them, but he dared not cave to his curiosity. In time he found a door and was back out in the rain, this time in the back alley of a dark street.
Ybor was a dump, but some of the buildings maintained their splendor. One such building was The Glacier, a tall, multistoried hotel. It had been renovated by former synth boss, Peyton “Pretty Boy” Ace, but he died prematurely before taking up residence. Now it was occupied by the heir to his empire, a synth by the name of Aaron Tang.
Dhata knew Aaron well. They exchanged favors often, so he hoped that he would have information on the kidnapping business. He thought about calling him, but he owed the man a visit—though it would be a pain since his hools made access difficult.
There were cars stacked in the road with mounted guns at the top. An army of armed hools patrolled the perimeter. Dhata also knew that there were booby traps everywhere, so he walked up to the militia that stood in front of the cars.
“What do you want, hume?” a short, rat-like hool shouted as soon as Dhata stepped below the streetlight.
“Ask me again with a little respect and I’ll forget that you insulted me when I talk to Aaron,” Dhata said.
The man looked him over and was about to say something more, but then another walked over and whispered in his ear. The hool’s features went from tight and angry to something softer and more relaxed. “My bad, Dhata,” he said softly. “It is real right now for us, and I don’t know you.”
“No offense taken. I’m here to see Aaron. Tell him it’s a quick visit; I just have a question and some files to leave with him.”
