Synthetica Read online

  Copyright © Rachel Pattinson, 2015

  Rachel Pattinson has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or means (including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by smartcg.co.uk

  For Roy,

  Who always believed in me.

  Contents

  One6

  Two11

  Three19

  Four36

  Five43

  Five47

  Six53

  Seven57

  Eight63

  Nine70

  Ten79

  Eleven85

  Twelve92

  Thirteen98

  Fourteen103

  Fifteen109

  Sixteen116

  Seventeen123

  Eighteen130

  Nineteen138

  Twenty141

  Twenty-one147

  Twenty-two151

  Twenty-three155

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS162

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR163

  The green light flashed. Finally, the program was online.

  He paused, staring at the computer screen, hardly daring to believe it. The computer was an antique from the 21st Century, but using such old technology had its advantages. For one, it meant that its software didn't register on modern computer models, making it laughably easy to hack into any new system. These people truly were arrogant if they believed themselves to be untouchable.

  Well, he was just about to prove to them just how wrong they were.

  He skimmed the text with an expert eye, registering certain details as they leapt out at him. ID number, name, age, job title, where they lived, even what they ate last week. His laugh was muffled by the black mask strapped across the lower half of his face. This was almost too easy. It was almost as if they wanted to die.

  His fingers flew over the keyboard as he typed in commands, the computer whining as he pushed it to its maximum capacity. He pressed the 'Enter' key without pausing.

  Whilst he waited for confirmation that his command had been sent, his grey eyes wandered over to the small box of picochips on the desk; their silver and bronze whorls twinkling in the half light. If this test worked...these tiny wonders he created were about to change the world.

  Ten years. Ten years he'd been waiting for this moment. Waiting for them to mess up. Waiting for them to create something he could manipulate to his own ends. And finally, it was here. All of his waiting and planning would finally pay off.

  The computer beeped, telling him that his command had been accepted by the host. Behind his mask he smiled a cold, cruel smile.

  Time to see what Mr Smithson was capable of. He wondered, just for the briefest of seconds, if Mr Smithson had any objection to becoming a murderer. Not that it mattered if he did – he'd be dead in a few hours anyway.

  One

  The first time Anais saw a man being murdered, she was just seventeen.

  She was already acquainted with death – having witnessed the traditional burning of both sets of grandparents some years earlier, she knew what was what. But she'd never seen someone actually die. She'd never seen someone murder a man in cold blood. It was not to be the last.

  It was a cold, clear day, which marked the beginning of autumn in the Imperial City. The trees were a riot of colour, their crisp leaves crunching underfoot or floating dreamily on the still warm breeze. Anais was safe at home. She opened up the Food Dispensation Unit to find breakfast, predictably, waiting for her.

  “Good morning, Anais. Your biometrics indicate that you are lacking in protein today. Please find your suggested breakfast option below,” the cool female voice that inhabited the FDU intoned. Anais looked at the plate of diced avocado and bobbly cottage cheese, sprinkled with quinoa, in disgust and almost threw up.

  “System override,” she said hastily. “Requesting bacon and eggs.”

  The FDU was quiet for a moment, in what Anais imagined to be a sullen silence.

  “This course is not recommended,” the voice said. “Bacon and eggs has been requested three times in the last seven days. Variation at meal times is the best option in getting the recommended amount of vitamins and minerals per day.” Was it Anais' imagination, or was there a hint of reproach in the machine's voice?

  “Then stop making me stupid meals,” Anais muttered. A little louder she said, “System override.”

  The FDU remained silent. It's definitely taking longer to prepare food Anais thought. Could machines have feelings, or was she simply being paranoid? After a few seconds, the offending plate slid out of view, and a minute later a new one rose up, complete with three steaming rashers of bacon and two fried eggs.

  “Stingy,” Anais said as she inspected the plate. “You definitely gave me four rashers the other day.”

  The FDU didn't reply, so Anais shut the door with her elbow and turned away to place her breakfast on the table. She sat down and began to tuck in, although she couldn't help feeling that the bacon wasn't quite as crispy as usual, and the yolk in her eggs was only just runny – clearly, she'd caused offence one too many times.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, she pushed her empty plate away and touched a spot on the glass table in front of her. The embedded screen flickered into life, the latest news and entertainment stories popping up to greet her. She scrolled through the different windows, occasionally skim-reading a headline that looked interesting. One pop-up informed her that black and white stripes were back in season; while an advertisement for prenatal conditioning flashed repeatedly (Let your baby shine; neon DNA now half price! Only 2,000 CRD for a limited time only!). She touched the glass, beginning to turn off all the pointless notifications, when one of them caught her eye, hidden behind a slew of advertisements and celebrity gossip feeds. Her heart leapt. She maximised the window and began to read eagerly:

  You're invited!

  Dear Imperial City Citizen,

  Here at Civitas, we can't believe it's our 50th birthday already. Where has the time gone?

  Over the years, we've prided ourselves on bringing you the latest in technological innovations; from more efficient FDUs, to allowing effortless communication with the latest RetCom designs.

  Now the time has come to celebrate our 50th birthday in style!

  You're officially invited to our street party and parade, taking place outside our headquarters on Saturday 15th September at 12:00. There'll be food, music, and of course, a large discount on selected Civitas products! So if there's something you've had your eye on, what better time to purchase it? Our party is also the ideal time for us to launch our highly anticipated Scholarly Learning Programs; download knowledge on any subject you wish – instantly!*

  So come along and bring all the family – we look forward to seeing you there!

  *Programs are subject to availability. Please click here for full list of programs. Terms & Conditions apply.

  Anais finished reading the invitation, excitement coursing through her. She clicked on the link provided and scanned through the list. She didn't have to look very far to find what she wanted. There, in-between Aerodynamics and Art (Oil based) was the subject she'd been waiting for; Arch
itecture. A huge smile spread across her face.

  She absentmindedly rubbed the small area behind her right ear where her ID chip was implanted as she looked through the rest of the subjects Civitas would offer on their SLPs. Sometimes she imagined she could feel it sitting underneath her skin, not quite tingling, but definitely aware that it was there. The feeling had intensified since she'd had it upgraded last month so it could handle the new SLP software.

  Her dad walked in at that moment, switching on the HoloVision set as he entered the kitchen. A hologram showing the latest news flickered into life, projecting itself into the air above the HV console, a hubbub of voices filling the air.

  “Morning, love,” he said, giving her a kiss on the top of her head as he passed.

  “Morning,” Anais replied, concentrating on the screen in front of her.

  “Up a bit early for a Saturday aren't you?” he asked, as he opened the FDU. Anais focused on the bottom left hand side of her vision where her electronic RetCom lens covered her eye.

  “Oh yeah,” she said vaguely, as the time displayed on her RetCom showed ten to eight. “The street cleaners woke me again. Thought I might as well get up.”

  There was another reason she was up so early; it was at the edge of her memory, but try as she might, the thought kept eluding her. There was something she was supposed to do today, something to do with the Academy. She had a vague recollection she was supposed to be somewhere, but after having the last few weeks blissfully free of school since she'd finished her final exams, all thoughts of anything school related had been washed from her mind. She blinked and looked up in time to see her dad making a face.

  “What's up?” she asked, leaning back in her chair slightly to see what edible delights the FDU had cooked up for him. He pulled the plate out and offered it to her.

  That bloody machine! She knew it – there was definitely some kind of malfunction going on somewhere in the food network. There, right in front of her, she could swear was the exact same plate of avocado and cottage cheese it had tried to feed her. Mr Finch looked down at it mournfully.

  “I don't suppose you want to swap?” he said, his expression lifting hopefully before he registered Anais' empty plate, and it fell again.

  “Sorry, dad,” Anais laughed. “I've already eaten. It tried to give me the same thing. Why don't you just ask it for something else?”

  Her dad shook his head as he sat down with a sigh.

  “It won't let me,” he said, looking miserable. “Apparently I've been disregarding its advice too many times, and now I'm not allowed to override the system until my cholesterol is back to normal.”

  “Says who?' Anais asked, baffled. “I didn't know appliances could actually stop you from doing something.”

  “They can't,” Mr Finch sighed. “But your mother can.”

  Anais stifled a laugh. There was a ping inside her head, and a small circular icon depicting a calendar flashed in her vision. It expanded out into a short paragraph, informing Anais of her schedule for the day:

  MISS ANAIS FINCH

  ID: 901219

  10.00AM – CAREER’S ADVICE

  LOCATION: CITY HALL

  STATUS: COMPULSORY

  CURRENT TRAVEL TIME TO DESTINATION: 37 MINUTES

  She groaned as she read through the information. This was what she couldn't remember. She'd completely forgotten her year group was due to have their careers advice before they left the Academy for good – after they'd spoken to the careers advisor, the Academy would enrol them in whatever training program or job the advisor deemed them suitable for, regardless of whether or not they wanted to pursue that particular career path.

  “Something wrong?” Mr Finch forced down the last mouthful of food and sat back with a grimace.

  “Career’s advice,” Anais said, blinking away the words in her eyesight.

  “Ahh yes,” her dad nodded. “I was wondering when yours would be. I can still remember mine. I had someone called Mr Peters. Horrible bloke. Told me I could go far if I applied myself, but because of my appalling exam results, he gave me a job at the picochip factory.”

  Anais stared at him.

  “You didn’t ask to work at the factory? But...I always thought that’s where you wanted to go.”

  Mr Finch shook his head.

  “Nope. First choice was…” he frowned as he tried to remember. “Medic, I think. But it all turned out for the best – you know what I’m like at the sight of blood.”

  He grinned at her and Anais gave a small half smile in return, but there was a sick feeling in her gut. She knew getting an apprenticeship as an architect was a long shot, but what if she didn’t get into her second or third choices either? What if her exam results had been so bad that she was deemed to be unemployable, or worse, ended up in a dead end job as a street cleaner or working in the underground recycling plant? In a moment of panic, she called up her exam results on her RetCom, scanning quickly through the list. They didn’t seem so awful to her – she’d scraped passes in everything but Programming, but she chose to ignore this result. She'd always hated Programming.

  “I guess Career's Advice will be redundant in a few years anyway,” Mr Finch continued. “After these SLPs are released, you'll be able to get whatever job you like.”

  “I hope so,” Anais muttered darkly. She didn't fancy spending her life toiling away at a job that she hated. But in a week's time, none of that would matter. Instead, she could simply buy whatever knowledge she wanted. She chose not to think about the fact that she had no idea how she'd actually pay for an SLP; Anais could only hope that the advisor wouldn't look too closely at her poor grades, and didn't enrol her in something that paid peanuts.

  Mr Finch opened his mouth to say something else, when he was interrupted by a burst of music from the HV. Both of them turned to see the noise of the commotion, as a large hologram of the words BREAKING NEWS flashed in the air. A flawless-looking blonde newsreader appeared, her pink and silver flecked eyes looking unusually sombre.

  “Police investigating the murder of a thirty-six year old man, who was pulled from the Golden River early this morning, have discovered the body of the man believed to be the murderer near the scene of the crime.”

  The hologram cut to a team of medics and police huddled round a white tent that had been erected by the riverside. Judging by the skyscrapers behind them, Anais guessed they were somewhere downtown, west of the financial district. A picture of a man with floppy auburn hair appeared and began to rotate in the air.

  “The victim has been identified as thirty-six year old Ben Anderson, a director of medical supply company MediTech. The suspect has been confirmed as forty-two year old George Smithson, a recycle plant worker.”

  A second head appeared by the first. This man had neatly trimmed mauve hair, and the faintest hint of stubble on his cheeks. Both men didn't look a day over twenty five. Perhaps it was just because of the nature of the story, but Anais felt a chill down her spine as Smithson's pale blue eyes bore into hers.

  “ - found with his throat cut. The police are yet to determine the cause of Mr Smithson's death. They are currently appealing for information about the events leading up to Mr Anderson's murder. Anyone who may have seen anything suspicious is encouraged to contact the police immediately.”

  Anais frowned as she watched the footage of a forensics team sweeping the river's edge. A line of matt-black securi-bots were patrolling the area, guarding it from curious passers-by. There was something familiar about the company the victim had been a director of. She knew the name well enough, but it took her a moment to realise that it was also the same company that her best friend's parents worked for. She made a mental note to message Dalla and ask her if her parents were okay.

  The cameras returned to the glossy, golden haired newsreader who flicked back her p
erfect bob and began reading her next story. A movement caught Anais' eye and she turned to look down at the table which had an explosion of new notifications, all clambering on top of each other in a desire to catch the reader's attention first; relaying the news of the murder, speculation about the murderer's motives, gossip about the two men's fashion sense and whether or not Smithson wearing last season's tartan was a crime in itself.

  "How awful! Anais, were you planning on going downtown today?" came Mr Finch's horrified voice. Anais looked up at him, and for the first time that day, she registered the dark circles under her father's eyes. His teal coloured hair, which was normally slicked back, was beginning to look lank. Working twelve hour night shifts at the picochip factory was starting to take its toll. If he wasn't careful, he'd soon be starting to look like his true age. No doubt his boss would soon be snidely enquiring when his next appointment at a HelixPod was booked for.

  She shook her head.

  "Just going to City Hall. Dalla mentioned something about going shopping afterwards," she said.

  Mr Finch furrowed his brow.

  "I don't know if that's such a good idea, sweetheart. Maybe you should just come home afterwards? Just until all this dies down," he added, nodding towards the table which was still lit up with photos of the murderer and the victim.

  “Dad, we'll be fine,” Anais said gently, reaching over the table and squeezing his hand. "But if it makes you feel any better, I'll ask Dalla to come over here instead."

  Mr Finch flashed her a relieved smile.

  "Thanks, love," he said, patting her hand.

  “Goodness me, Anais, aren't you ready yet? Don’t think you can get out of going to Career's Advice - they sent me a reminder just in case you conveniently forgot. And you, Martin, what on earth are you still doing up?”