SO...I, THE SYNERGIZER

SO...LOOK...LISTEN...I,THE SYNERGIZER

                                                                 by Michael Lindsay Williams

 Chapter 1. 

"Politics is the art of governing mankind by deceiving them." Disraeli

He always knew when he had cancer.
The blurred edge to his perceptions and reactions was as certain a diagnosis as a blood plasma scan for malignant tissue by-products. Like the first symptoms of the latest flu the dolie Citizens wild-fired to each other by their sloppy personal habits and typical thoughtlessness, coughing and sneezing in each other's faces and never handwashing...then wanting to shake hands!!
Even his perscomp, "Birdie," in its hi-density med-mode usually failed to trigger an alarm before his own natural wards. Once again: evolved organics won over evolved electronics, at least in some areas, both physical and mental, as if there were a difference! Within the mirrored plastech helm his thin face twisted wryly to attempt a smile.
Probably hadn't even spread yet, not that it mattered. The countering effects of the smart pill he'd swallowed before leaving District Central tonight could also be felt. The nanomeds were already racing throughout his body, tasting for malignancy till each runaway cell cluster was found, then ripping them to bits more efficiently than his own incompetent immune system. And the programmed viri from the pill's other half would continue to hunt for any loose cancer microbes that might have caused this latest outrage. Total remission in two days, and he would feel great! Another justification for his professional betrayal: betrayed in turn by his own genetics.
The pole lamps of the next intersection made it day bright, but the antique trail signs had long ago been "collected" by poor hobbyists. Using Central's GPS ping was embarrassing, even for one of his position who'd been in the city for only three days.
"Birdie, map-loc."
"Verbal guide option," said the clear little voice from the phonmic implanted in the wall of his right ear canal.
"Birdie, no. I'd rath..." He was doing it again! The damned perscomp seemed more on the verge of going canny each day. Now he'd started rationalizing with it instead of just giving orders. Past time for a drydock and logic-ram to make sure it was subcogged. At least it wasn't backtalking. The green overlay grid display flooded the inner left wall of his helm, red blip dancing along his path from the car to this point and leaving a pink trace. His goal was a purple square that extended a tentacle to the blip along the shortest trail through this residential pod.
The gravel of the pedway scattered under his boots' thick steel soles as he turned right and wound through the well-kempt parkbelt. Lightfog puffs drifted into the darker underbrush to light it. This was an un-ordained pod, so he still felt safe enough going at null 'nics. The worst violence these rational sechumes normally engaged in were crimes of spontaneous passion, such as the one he'd heard of on the sobot net tonight. So the celeb got within 25 meters before he heard her hiheels crunching. In the blue-white of one lightfog her face was as gorgeous as surgery could make it without bone recon. The jewelry and fur stole had to be fakes, or she'd listed for them before puberty. An empty shell of vanity, ego vaunted utterly without foundation. The very last thing the truly worthy wanted to do was advertise. Of course she ignored him, as she strode by on her tacky way to seek adulation, and solace. Above, the crystalline stars blinked solace to him through a perfectly transparent sky.
The dolebox's theme was traditional Southwest pueblo, with several setback levels. He refused to incite Birdie again and had some trouble locating the third apartment setback. Exterior stone steps curved to the tan adobe veranda where the sobot was.
Naturally, there was also a crowd of curious tenants. Always rubbernecking for blood. He automatically stopped and booted his 'nics by flexing his middle ear muscles, which clicked solidly. The suit sensors, totally offline from any of Birdie's ingrown neural circuits, poured power from his belt batteries into the skeleton. The nets of polycarb tendrils stiffened along his torso and limbs down into the flexall gauntlets and boots. The faintest vibration issued from the skeleton's torque joints. The helm's phones and optic tee suddenly offered enhanced vision and hearing; sniffers could become doglike if he chose. The otherness of the skeleton's buoying grip, as it moved a split second after his own motions initiated it, was disorienting for a moment, as always. His maxlar skinsuit would diffract any hand laser or low-energy particle beam, deflect any lighter bullet, ensure against any usual Citizen attack, except a Spansion grenade. Again he felt the old pains in his head and side, years after that attack. His skeleton granted him 3 times the speed and 10 times the strength of any person without a Synergizer suit, but against the soldier-robot's potential this was nothing.
The verandah's glow picked out the seeming silver of his helm and true silver of the i.d. piping coiled on the skinsuit's mat black arms. As he went toward the sobot's thin composite-metal statue, the ring of residents gasped and parted.
A slight up flex of his ears and the sound of his soles was damped down to a mere scrape, while the whispers amped, played back in rec sequence: "Uh, oh, Big Bro'." "A Synergizer! A big one." "What's he doin' here?" As Birdie exchanged comm code with the sobot, he scanned the two dozen people surrounding it. Ordinary for secular-humans. No Daze-glazed faces, no nudity, no obvious clan sigils. Tidy and legal now, as expected after the crime. The guiltier they were, the more innocent they'd appear.
"Birdie, weapons." The optic tee popped up, and he stared through and twisted to view his audience just once. No hot signatures on IR or EM. The sniffer burped air to sample for explosives. Silence. Whatever anyone had hidden in their clothing could not hurt him. The sobot would've checked, but he had become obsessive about it these days, of course.
So what had done this to the corpse at the Tinman's dainty feet? It was...had been, human. In the crowd's barred shadow lay a twisted pile of oozing red-white sticks near the center of a blackening pool of crimson. Spongy fat still clung in tufts.
It had been completely skinned, except for hands and feet. Like the other 5. And crudely, the tightly connected areas over the sternum and at the groin tattered with hacked strips of dermis. No lasertome used. Probably just kitchen knives again.
He spoke open the helm comm to talk only with the Puppeteer veering the sobot drone from District Post Central. "Any i.d. yet?"
Naturally, his authority was accepted without return query. "No, Synergizer. The eyes are gone, as you can see." Her voice quavered, recognizing the pun only afterwards. "So...uh, no iris i.d. scan; but we'll do a DNA soonest I get to Central."
Typical 'link error, placing her body as well as her focus of attention at her telefactored sobot's scene. "The skin?"
This district's glyph glittered on the cephalic shield when the tall gaunt marionette rotated to him. Right trifinger held out what seemed to be a set of light-brown dripping longjohns, complete with attached hood and wig. In his tee's IR the cabalistic tattoos down the skin's spinal area stood out plainly, though again were unfamiliar.
"We know what t' do with unlicensed witches here!"
The speaker was a big male, who wore ivory slacks and shirt rather than the others' trendy pastel fatigues and who leered with all his teeth, certain of approval. The nods, murmurs, and shifts in stances toward him by the crowd confirmed it. Only short odds he was one of the instigators or actual wielders of the tools used in this...murder. Despite tacit government sanction, that's what this was. One reason he'd come.
But not to find the perps; that was the sobot's job. Or rather that of the Puppeteer now running it. He stepped into the blood and bent to tug the heap apart and expose the chest. Again a wooden stake had been driven completely through, and bone splinters rimmed the point where it exited near the spine. A full skin peel wouldn't kill at once. Staked before or after death? He was relieved he could still shudder at the question.
The helm's speaker carried easily through the instantly silent crowd. "Did this person live here?" Glances flicked at him and away. "A visitor?" More restiveness. "Was..." He glanced at the corpse. "...he brought here?" No reply expected; but asking this felt good. And the sobot's scans would rec autonomic facial/iris responses for later lie-detection analysis to aid pinning the perps.
A small woman with silver-gray hair raised her hand as though in den-school. "Some of the ordained pods hide them, so they say." True. And a good place, therefore, to hunt for them.
The big man's leer was replaced with earnestness. "You Big Bro's all know we us'ly co'perate with you. But not 'n this."
Total agreement, through stillness this time. Obviously, this man was the prime chatup he sought. Moving around the pool, he came into the horseshoe of sullen residents to the man. Even in his suit's hydra-kick boots he was only a few inches taller. "Citizen, I would appreciate a talk with you." He always asked politely, although refusal meant a stiff down-cred fine. And sechumes rarely refused. One reason they were still the one Citizen coterie he tolerated most easily, and why this sampling, this crime, here was so upsetting.
Full lips pinched into flat lines as the man hesitated long enough to avoid the others' glances, then led off the verandah and down a plain glowalled corridor to an entry. The dermloc slid the port open at his touch. After wiping at gauntlets and boots with a proffered rag, the Synergizer followed him in. Despite the near-infinite decor choices available, he lived in austerity. The solid tan of carpet and cream of bare walls, the patternless brown upholstery of the few pieces of simple furniture, the total lack of kitsch were unexpectedly familiar. Almost...
"Are...were you Amish?" the Synergizer blurted, abashed even before the man returned such a puzzled look that he commed out briefly and ordered, "Birdie, truth."
The optic tee's IR showed involuntary increase in eye motion, circulation, and perspiration. Said Birdie, "High emotional involvement. Non-verity reply 95 plus or minus 3 percent probable." That meant additional questioning to tell the lie, and he had a more important goal.
"May I check i.d.?" As always when he asked this, the Synergizer fingered his helm collar to clear the liquid crystal mirrored layer and reveal his face. Such intimacy required such courtesy. The man nodded at once and stepped close to stare back through the tee. The iris scans would have to be relayed to Central since Birdie still wasn't uploaded with local recs. The organolinks would add several seconds to process time. The tee snapped down below his chin and hummed contentedly.
"What'd you mean 'bout bein' Amish?" The man had been polled before, it seemed. His wide handsome face remained calm and was unlined. Old-fashioned center part in his short lank brown hair, and there was a gap dividing his bushy left brow, the fine smooth kind of scar left by a ring propelled by a fist.
"Only that your apartment's style reminded me of their homes." Often, simple honesty gained the most.
"I interned inna Mennonite district when I'ze a kid. Back in Pennsylvania. They 'ere good, humble, God-fearin' people."
Without beeping, said Birdie, "Scan congruent for Citizen Owen G. Herner; residence listed as this apartment for 6 years; age 38; currently not contracted but 3 priors; no children claimed; no registrations for taxable occupations or social organizations; no recs for violations; passed Citizens Exam in 2244, Level 2..."
"Birdie, end." A clean-nosed, bright, loner dolie. Would not be the first time such a Citizen went berserker, for cause. But what? And why fratz some fake witch who couldn't or wouldn't make the grade into the Magic Corps?
"End what?" Owen Herner asked, his half-smile revealing he already knew that he was addressing his perscomp. "Offer you somethin'? This's just a dolebox...a standard unit, but I got a few extras. All legal, a' course." Suddenly he was spurting around the kitchen alcove, punching consoles and grinning artificially like a gameshow host.
"I'm not a cop," the Synergizer said with his own smile and answering chuckle. It was disarming, watching this man turn from the kind of petulance termed "peppery" in smaller men to that un-blooded cheerfulness he found so infuriating in faith fanatics, dead certain of immortality in the next life and of ethically perfect behavior in this one. If so, why was Owen Herner living here in a pod of rational secular humanists?
"You're naw a Tinman neither." Herner held out two tumblers of cold dark-amber liquid that bubbled. "Try this."
On impulse, the Synergizer removed his helm but kept up his 'nics. Unsafe, but he held it in one hand while choosing his glass with the other. A cautious sip: tart, sweet, smoky.
"It's the real thing?"
Herner's pride gleamed. "Dr. Pepper! Formula from the library recs and m' own mixer for th' syrup. Real...neat?"
"Popular worldwide back a couple centuries, like Coke, wasn't it?" It was easy to laugh with surprise. Commercial products had evolution, too; formerly at least. Recession and depression had honed down lines to only a few top competitors. The rest were now literally extinct, real competition and promo very rare.
Herner nodded. "Ha'n't been made since then, like Pepsi, since the, uh...Smart Wars." A shadow flitted over his bonhomie. "I do history trivia's a hobby." He aimed his glass at the Synergizer's bare head. "And if I hadda perscomp in my head it'd be a lots easier n' more productive."
But, for a Citizen, that was as illegal as a skeleton, although maxlar skinsuits were licensable, to the rich or those who could prove immediate need.
The Synergizer nodded affably, ice sufficiently broken. "It does that for my work." He backed and squatted into the easy chair across from the living room's tapestry screen, continuing to move slower than usual so the skeleton wouldn't force him to move faster than usual. The furniture wasn't overstuffed but padded comfortably and smelled oddly of cloves. Herner followed to the nearby couch, also ready to get serious. The apartment's domo adjusted lighting to put the ceiling's brightest area above. He leaned forward too swiftly and the hip torque joints whirred.
"They'll i.d. both victim and murderers within hours."
Herner's glance went down to his clothing and hands and back in one blink, but he said nothing, even with his expression.
"Oh, they'd never bother to check for blood residues on any of you. Could always say you got messed when you first found the body and were examining it for life."
"Well, that is what happened; we just cleaned up 'fore the Tinman came. A stranger's blood...al'ys dangerous, right?"
"Nothing that can't be cured now, remember. Anyway, doesn't matter. When the deceased's tracer flashed an expiration alarm, some skycam should've caught the tailend of the murder, if it was done outside. And if not, someone will crack, with trujuice."
Herner tossed his leonine head derisively. "That's not a'missible evidence in court...I thought."
"True, but mutual guilt always seems to bubble up confessions in this sort of incident. I'm sure there's several perps here."
The scar gap in his left brow nearly closed as his forehead bunched. "Punishment for murder, if not premeed, 's usually the five-chrom'some restructure, 'n't it?"
He stared into the dark eyes. "Doesn't change your mind, but does slow gland metabolism and response thresholds...way down."
"Endo'crine lobotomy?" A trace of smile slid onto Herner's relaxing features, betraying neither bravado nor fear.
"Some consider that inadequate for murder, premeditated or not. Even the killing of a freelance witch."
The prod worked. The big man was up and pacing instantly, shifting his expressions as the sentences preformed behind them. Then, incredibly, he stopped in front of the Synergizer and made a slight motion of his right hand, taking its pinky finger between the ring finger and thumb and turning the palm up and then down quickly.
He ignored it the first time, then the man repeated the gesture. The Synergizer Syblinghood had developed its own sign language. This gesture asked if they were being recorded in the suit's banks or were live to District Central. Recs could be edited later. Herner wanted a completely private talk. Fine.
"I'm offline," he said quietly and allowed his look to be challenging. "But how do you know that sign, Herner?"
The man plopped onto the couch with a sigh. "Not n'portant. Somethin' I picked up on th' road. I'mma guy who sees, and cares 'bout a lot mos' people don't. Ok?"
And brighter than the Level 2 his Exam had pegged, if true. Best to let it slide for now.
"But I know why you came t'night, and what I'm 'bout t' say 'ud get me a lot more upclose with sobots n's healthy."
The Synergizer kept his poker face. "Your freedom of speech and privacy are still guaranteed by the Renewed Constitution."
"Really?" The peppery man was back. "That's what I been rethinkin' lately. All of it, y' know?" He waved his drink so forcefully it sloshed a dollop onto the carpet, but he ignored it. "We barely made it in the Smart Wars. Took hundred fi'ty years t' get back, get th' environment in shape...better. Lost half the damned world's population to starvin' 'n disease—not all bad 'cept for the...waste. Supply and demand—hell, ever'thing!—was al'ys outta balance with so many people, but it's in control...for now. Everbody's got what they think they need, 't least. Call us Citizens 'dolie scum' if you want!"
More Dr. Pepper on the rug. "But everbody does deserve 'nough food, medcare, housin', clothes, basic edgeucation, and free city transport. Who cares what d'ya call that? Socialism? Communism? True democracy? Ha! 'merica never was a democracy! 'Representative republic;' that uz it. Even th' old Greek city states were never democracies, not when most of th' real work uz done by th' Helots, th' slaves, who cou'n't vote. Now it's done by machines, who...that can't vote...canny 'r not."
Oh, yes. He surely could pick his chatups well.
Herner took a big swallow and smiled. "Synergizer, that ol' government uz a farce. People never were repersented fair. Oh, I know all the arga'ments. An' no system's perfeck. But so much injustice and plain wrong decisions, pushed by special inter'sts, had to end in th' '30's Catastrophe. Politics'd become one long megabuck media blitz jus' t' get reelected; and elections were just a ways to oust th' losers, who were most a th' federal and state congresses ever poll day. Did y' know there were some local elections where only ten percent voted? Ten percent! The loonie fringe ran the shows, or the super rich who bought 'em, dinkum. So th' whole country jus'...rotted by inacshun. Strainin' at gnats; swallowin' large camels, as the Bible says."
The man's ideas sounded like Jakob's...frighteningly so.
"So now we got just th' state and national Synods, and the Synoders all hold eight-year non-staggered terms, and all of 'em get equal campaign promo, an' get voted in or out on the same day's the President and all the state gov'nors."
He halted for a gulp and swung an arm at the tapestry. "Ut least we all have a direct vote on th' comp system, with no cheatin' in the count. Never'd a poll under 85 percent!"
Because the PR pressure to vote was enormous, including the mediawide roster of the names of all who abstained.
His eyes became glasslike, unfeigned hate burning through. "But it's the rest a it I can't stand. And I don' mean you guys. You Synergizers and your polls 're the best part of th' 'ntire gover'ment. Honest 'ficiency experts who try t' find out the facts and suggest improvements f'rall our lives. If your advice frips too often, you're out, without havin' to wait for an election. Neat. Too bad not everbody likes that, and once inna while some hottop tries t' freeze you out." His gaze covered the black and silver suit once, ending with his bare head. "And the sobots...well, we got to have cops, so long's there're people with no morals. But what I don't, can't unnerstand is why the Synoders' staffs must have somebody from th' Magic Corps! Why should charlatans and grifters be allowed t' help run things?"
Here it was.
"Well, don't forget the Corps of Engineers and the Corps of Academics, as well as the sechume advisors."
"Yeh, but technics and ethnics aren't 'nough f'r a Synoder to make decisions. There's the nonmater'al...the spiritual side of things. I'm not one a your backward sechumes; I'm all for the 'filiation of church 'n state. But how c'n even licensed witches and psychics show balanced points a view?"
"You would like to see other representatives of the Occult on Synod staffs, or perhaps none?"
Herner bristled at the word "Occult," brow gap widening.
"Don' see why the older organized religions shouldn't have a real say. Yeh. Even 'f they are only minorities now. Why should Occers alone be in on makin' the real decisions?"
"All Synoders consult with all church leaders and anyone else in their constituencies who have something constructive to offer. In fact, confirming such people is one of my main duties."
"Yeh, Synergizer, but it's not th' same thing. The influence is no 'ere near equal.
He was supposed to draw him out, not debate with him.
"Owen, do you believe in the Occult?"
His eyes squinted. "After all 'iss time, there's still not one bit of scientific evidence for the 'paranormal' that can't be explained by errors in experiment, 'r nat'ral coincidences, 'r mistakes in satistics; e'en deliberate hoaxes. What those fake magicians do's clever, not supernat'ral. I believe that's the sole power a' God, His Enemy, and Their servants. When n', if any, M.C. does a supernat'ral act, it must be 'ith Their help."
The Synergizer's eyes wided before he could stop them. This man was a theist! A recent convert, no doubt. Part of his own theory supported, not confirmed. "And, in your own mind, how do you justify this belief with the scientific evidence?"
Herner's grin was totally confident, his tone quoting again. "There's no conflict between thinkin' using the scientific method and th' act of faith we call belief. God wants us t' be rational in our thinkin' lives. But the nonrationality of belief's an intimate part a' Free Will. If faith could be found by some pat science process, there'd be no freedom t' choose the wrong path."
These were the ones who made him the angriest...and the saddest. The sellouts, who'd betrayed in reverse of himself. Traitors gone from rational to irrational mindsets. Surrendered thinking for belief to calm fears of death and hatred of others or self. As his own people still did, they blended the opposites of mind and heart together—and also penetrated part way to the truth about reality, and the government. But not far enough. He wanted badly to take hold and lead Herner a little on, make him his Offer again. That was strictly forbidden. And more talk would be profitless. He'd need some bluff to edit all this out now and still make sense of the interview rec.
He stood and gave him back the glass. "Owen Herner, I will use your opinions but not your identity in this matter. May it come out the best for all." He replaced his helm, but left it clear to catch the man's eyes once more. "And remember this: the majority of Americans do believe in the Occult. That's why they ratified the Fourtieth Amendment to the Renewed Constitution. The Magic Corps favors no one ordained church or belief. Isn't this proper in our form of government?"
Herner's sigh was resentful. "Then at least we shouldn't have ta, won't, tolerate anybody who pretends to 'r does practice supernat'ral powers outside th' law." He seemed glad to speak openly, tired of repressing truth as he saw it.
And it was practically a confession, one he'd delete later. When he returned to the veranda, the ambulance was just lifting off. The crowd was down to a few waiting to be processed for later workup. He commed to the sobot.
"This is SYB 88. I'll need dupes of your scans. Keep me informed on this case, Puppeteer."
"As you require...Glassman."
He offed comm before his snort broke free. The Synergizer Syblinghood preferred to keep personalities a secret. No names outside. But even his ident had garnered a certain notoriety in the past two years. The Man of Glass: tempered to hardness; cold, blunt, transparent in all action and purpose. Yet capable of bending and shifting reality's form by his own axiom and focusing his energies to create something new and better than the sum of its former parts. The very paragon of Synergizers.
If they only knew.
The rock hit him because he was noting the blood still on his gauntlets and ignoring the suit's warning beep. Halfway across the verandah, he felt the thump on the helm's backside and his neck bent forward almost two centimeters before the skeleton absorbed the stress. The sobot already held the young thrower in its other hand, her toes just touching the crete. The Synergizer halted, saw the witch's blood black on the sobot's hands, the triumph on her young face, and continued back to his car. Then he wiped his gauntlets and soles thoroughly.
From the elevated priveway the city was a large rolling checkerboard of light splatters and ink blots, residence pods with their parks and maintenance stations, and this district's sobot Post buried near the center of one dark blot. Through the little 'lectric's bubbletop, he watched the city's Skyway above as rider plates spurted through the glowing cobweblike tubes. Then the broken picket-fence silhouette of the Governor's pod grew and moved in front of him. The autocomp flashed at his spoken desire to stop before entering the garage, and he hopped out in the night-lit portico.
This Governor's Mansion was identical to all others in state capitols: an exact replica of the White House, but 90 percent of the true working space was underground. His home this week, this city...and in every capitol, of course, due to identical layout. No one got lost. In a giddy whimsy, he twisted the helm off and breathed in the fresh coolness, risk be damned. How had it been 200 years ago? To have stood under a blanket of filthy air that dimmed this sight as did his helm. The contrast between this scene and the one he'd just left was more depressing. Belief in irrationality was unpreventable, of course—and indispensable to the government. Yet neither could they allow the spread of it without balanced countering controls.
The Offer must continually be made to all Citizens.
So the practicing of witchcraft, or any other form of paranormal powers, by these freelancers could not be tolerated. Herner was ironically correct there—and was himself a victim of such one-sided practice; old-time religions still had that power, too.
He shook his head in total derision, unable to accept the hypocrisy. Only the Magic Corps could be allowed to 'exercise' para-abilities. When caught, non-Corps violators were made the focus of intense public media debunking and exposure, till their pretense to powers was revealed. Only recently had vigilante acts begun against the freelancers.
Could his theory be correct? Was it simply a sechume backlash? Or the start of a new pogrom by the old-time religions, through new converts like Herner? The last one had been almost a century ago and had nearly touched off a civil war. And had his own brother Jakob truly become a leader in this newest insanity? Dread leapt sour and thick in his mouth.
He turned to descend to his assigned quarters, the monk's cell so like his plain room in his Amish childhood. He needed a drink, to drink. Too bad there were no genes for belief. Couldn't tool foolishness out of a person the way canniness could be tooled out of a sobot, or a perscomp.