Inbiotic

By James Suriano

The 21st Century will be remembered by the rise of the Android.

Alia Vicadora is not your normal Android. Created at the hands of a disgruntled genius working in a Washington DC lab, she was engineered with stolen government technology to be used in war games, and process emotional components of adversaries. But his excitement does not last long when he discovers the government is getting closer to unlocking his secret. He wipes her memory and dumps her in an alley.
Alia spends the next days racing to piece together clues to her past, evading federal officers, and trying to integrate into a human world she doesn't understand. She finds herself quickly immersed in the adult film industry, and soon becomes one of its most prized stars.
Her rising fame gains the attention of the secretive group, Inbiotic, who is determined to lure her for their cause.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Suriano
• Release date: Aug 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310023446

James Suriano

James grew up in New York and was educated at Johns Hopkins University. He currently lives in Fort Lauderdale, FL and writes speculative and book club fiction in his spare time.He loves to hear from his fans at [e-mail]

Book preview

Inbiotic

James Suriano

Copyright © 2015 James Suriano

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

Genesis

Discovery

The City of Angels

Creator

Confrontation

Chambers

Regroup

Preparation

Secret Spaces

Boom!

Sin City

Welcome to Inbiotic

The Pentagon

Robot City

Unraveling

Roads

Prisoners

Penetration

Plotting

The Mayor

Rising Star

Offline

Under the Knife

Broken Dreams

The Scales of Justice

Battle

The Next Battle

Genesis

MY NAME IS ALIA VICADORA flashed across her view. Beyond the words were the sordid brick walls of an alley circa nineteenth century. Two androids were sorting through the trash, looking for something, beeping at each other intermittently and holding up pieces of gooey objects and inspecting them. As she lay there, they worked around her, keeping a five-foot radius from her body. Her black spandex suit clung to her, tracing every curve and crevice. She looked at her arms, which were milky white and bare, climbing up to her shoulders. Pain registered in her leg—something sharp was pressing into her from one of the trash bags. The ground rumbled; a fierce-looking machine with tracks crushing pieces of the pavement and stray refuse beneath them, pulverizing them into dust, was heading for her. Grinding metal parts and long metal forks with pincers at the ends grabbed chunks of the trash and pitched them into the gobbling mouth of the machine. She wobbled to her feet, climbed out of the heaps of trash piled outside the boxy blue recycling unit, then searched for footing against the sticky wet concrete. A loud pop whizzed by her ears, and the torso section of one of the androids exploded, its shrapnel peppering her arm.

Fuckin’ android, the driver of the machine yelled before making eye contact with Alia. He rolled down his window and whistled. Sorry about that, ma’am. I didn’t mean to go droid poppin’ in front of such a lovely young lady. He kept a hold on her eyes.

The sound of his lips was meaningless, but Alia saw lust in his eyes and smelled his pheromones flooding through the open window of the truck into the alley, across the stagnant water and oily garbage of the ground, slithering up into her nose. She nodded at him, then turned to look at the broken pieces of the body near her. The other android had begun disassembling it into recyclable parts, again holding each piece up for inspection.

Can it be repaired? Alia asked the other android.

It looked back at her blankly, beeping, and continued sorting.

She reached for her face in horror, her mouth open, her perfect teeth pressed against her permanent red lips. She let her manicured nails and delicate fingers trace over her face. The symmetry was perfect, the lines of her cheekbones and jaw pronounced but softened and covered with soft supple skin and microscopic hairs. Before she ran her hands across her face and through her long, dark hair, she had expected to find the smooth metallic covering of the two robots. Alia stepped out of the alley, the sunlight striking her eyes and taking her by surprise. Transport vehicles that looked like giant octopi were flying by, their arms reaching out and sweeping the passengers off the street and gently placing them inside the main body of the transport, all without stopping. Alia felt their quick pulses and nervous adrenaline. No one wanted to be on the street for too long. A sign overhead with flickering neon lost against the sunlight was for Lou’s Pizza. The sign buzzed continuously, distracting her from the three young men sitting below it.

After the first thug of the bunch hurled catcalls, the other two joined in. Alia turned in their direction, unsure what they were insinuating. Uneven red blotches covered their crotches; somewhere in her mind it translated as heat, a pulsing lifeblood heat. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel good to her. Their clothes didn’t fit them well; they were poorly sewn and made of blended synthetic fabrics.

Yeah, baby. C’mon over here. You want some of this? one of the men taunted her as she took a few steps in their direction. Her stance was commanding, and when she put her hands on her hips and looked down at them, they were reduced to silence.

I was wondering if you could tell me what city this is. She flipped her jet-black hair back.

What? One of the kids had his two front teeth outlined in gold and wore a New York Giants jersey.

You heard me. Alia brushed them off with a motion of her hand and turned her back to them. Forget it—you guys are useless. She kept walking in the direction of the marble-columned building that the street dead-ended into, hoping to find a landmark she recognized. The city was Greek in its feel. Columns soared, topped with rosettes and acanthus leaves. Greek keys were etched into railings and roads, buildings and balustrades. Everywhere she looked, the architects of this city had paid homage to the great ancient civilization.

What did that bitch say? the guy in the jersey said to one of his friends sitting on the water pipe that extended out of the corner of the pizza joint.

I think she said you were useless.

They were all standing now. The shortest of the trio was grabbing his crotch and baring his teeth. His baseball cap, flat brimmed and pushed to the side, hid the folds of his forehead as he squinted and grunted at her. They all howled like monkeys and jumped up and down. The most vocal, the one in the Giants jersey, made his way in front of Alia’s path and stared at her.

Where do you think you’re going, woman? You just going to insult me like that, then take off? You didn’t even let me answer your question. You want to know what city you’re in? How ’bout this, bitch? You’re in my city, and I’m about to make you know it.

The alcohol that seeped from his mouth and pores made Alia cringe. She felt the other two guys behind her, pressing into her personal space.

She looked down at her feet to see what she was wearing. Her boots were pointy toed and black leather, with a small heel that boosted her up an inch.

She faced the man in the Giants jersey—he was smiling, sure that he had her in his power. After giving him a slight smirk, she rammed the heel of her boot into his crotch as hard as she could; he buckled under the pain. When the two men behind her realized what was happening, they reached for her. One of them grabbed her hair and yanked it back; she let him pull. One thing at a time, she thought. The other man had a hand on each of her shoulders. She turned her head to the side and sank her teeth into his left hand, tearing a piece of flesh from the top. He howled in pain and released her shoulders to stare in disbelief at the tendon that hung from the open gash. The grip on her hair tightened; the force she felt pulling her to the ground was unrelenting. When her back was parallel to the sidewalk, she looked up and saw her attacker’s face. It was the short thug, and she instinctively reached into a small pocket in her tight black bodysuit and slipped her finger through the hole at the end of a shiny stainless-steel spike.

You’re going to pay for this. He spat the words in Alia’s face.

The thug didn’t see her arm sail through the air with the force of a pro pitcher until the pain seared through his head. She drove the spike deep into his eye socket, wrenched it to the side, piercing his eyeball like a cocktail olive, and violently ripped it from its home. When he released his grip on her, she pushed his body off her, and he smacked the sidewalk. She sprung to a standing position and looked down at his crumpled body. He was holding his hand up to the space where his eye had been as blood poured through his fingers.

Alia took a step up to the ringleader and pressed her boot against his throat.

One more time…what city is this? she asked him.

Fuck you, he croaked out.

She raised her knee level to her head, then slammed her foot down, crushing his windpipe.

Wrong answer.

She walked down the sidewalk toward the columned building, swinging her hips as if she were strutting down the catwalk at a fashion show. Sirens were wailing a few blocks away. The city’s emergency response must have witnessed what happened, but she wasn’t sticking around to find out if they were coming for her or the three men who now were in a heap on the sidewalk.

The barren city streets were lined with abandoned buildings whose windows and doors were covered with rotten composite wood and closed metal grates. The derelict buildings continued for a few blocks. After Alia passed under the city’s maglev track, she emerged on the other side, facing a wall of hurried, purposed people. They formed an invisible barrier against the walkway that ran alongside the track. A few gave her sideways glances as she came from the abandoned zone of the city.

She weaved her way through the river of people, staying on the sidewalk of the street she’d been walking on. She looked up to see 7TH STREET NW on a green sign jutting from a light pole. She noticed the men who turned their heads to look at her. She noticed their ages and the way they were dressed. She noticed who paid attention to her and who didn’t see her. She looked different from the people in this city. She wasn’t wearing a conservative suit, the apparent fashion hallmark of this working town. Instead, she exuded vixen and lust.

Alia spotted a clothing boutique in the next building and quickened her pace so she could get inside and avoid detection. The woman at the door greeting her was a projection, but Alia couldn’t place where in the room she was projecting from. Her bleached, straight hair wavered in the air it was projected on, making it look like it was drifting in a light breeze. She was dressed like everyone on the street but with more expensive jewelry and shoes.

Welcome to Arlanda. Voted the most fashionable retailer of the year. Her smile was intense, her eyes a bit too wide and sparkly. Can I help you find something? A shawl to wrap through your sculpted arms? I think I have just the right color. We’ve noticed that tall women, with such perfect proportions, can wear bright colors well. She draped the orange shawl that had appeared in her hands around Alia’s neck. Then she stepped back and looked at her, smiling and nodding. Yes, yes, yes, she cooed. It’s perfect.

Alia looked past her, ignoring her antics. Graph lines appeared in her vision, and the store fixtures and workers transformed into hollow outlines, drawn against the grid. The richness of the imagery overwhelmed her as she took it all in. Behind the checkout counter she saw a cable connection disappearing into the ground, stacks of clothing, and a mechanical belt and arm retrieving clothes for the customers, steaming them, and pushing them through the projected wall, where they sat wrapped perfectly on the counter, ready for customers to take home. Jewelry cases, mannequins, and racks of clothing re-created the runways of Milan in the store. Customers were searching through the racks and holding the projected clothes in front of them, looking in the mirrors to see how they looked. But even the mirrors weren’t real; they were projections of projections. Discreet algorithms churned behind the green screens that lined the room.

A different sales hologram approached Alia. Your milky complexion is just radiant. You must get compliments all the time. We have a necklace of crystallized travertine that would look perfect on you. Can I show you?

Alia was no longer able to see the woman’s face; all she saw was a dim outline of her body and the programming code typed out in a small font, starting where her forehead would be and stopping at the tops of her thighs. She looked past her to the one salesperson with a heartbeat at the back of the store. She was adjusting one of the display configurations and waiting for the robotic arm to retrieve a blue merino wool sweater for a customer so she could process her transaction. Alia approached her cautiously. Her presence was so vivid; she had been unnerved by the mean-spirited reception the residents of this city had given her so far.

Hello. Can I help you with something? the woman asked. Alia realized all the holograms were made to look like her.

Can you tell me what city this is? Alia asked.

What city? That seems like a silly question from such an edgy-looking woman. It seems like you know just who you are. Why don’t you have one of our salesgirls help you with a few updates to your wardrobe? She went back to something on the screen in front of her.

Alia ignored the sales pitch. The city and the date?

What about this opal pendant on a shell chain? It would pick up the gray in your eyes and bring it through your whole outfit. Really, I think you can’t leave here without it. The woman’s perfectly lined teeth looked like one solid carved piece of ivory surrounded by a thick layer of frosted purple lipstick.

No, thanks. I’m only interested in knowing where I am and the date.

Well. She looked Alia up and down. If you aren’t interested in shopping here, maybe you should try the next store up the street. It might be more your style. She busied herself with her work, then looked up at Alia again. Washington, DC, can be a very unforgiving place for a woman dressed like you. She pursed her lips.

Alia quickly turned around and pushed one of the holograms out of the way; she was surprisingly solid and swayed when shoved. The salesclerk Alia had been talking to gasped when the hologram fell to the floor.

She pushed the glass door open—one of the few real structures in the store—and continued to the street. The storefront next to the boutique was a café: LE PETIT PATISSERIE was written on the window in swirly gold letters. She sat down at a table outside the door on a small veranda walled off by a knee-high iron fence. Cream and black alternating tiles covered the sidewalk in the area of the tables, while potted palms gave the patrons some privacy from the heavy foot traffic. A teenage boy sporting spiky black hair and wearing an apron tapped her table. The surface illuminated, and the same script that was on the window was showcased against a backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. He dragged his finger to the next page, which displayed the drink selections.

Just push this when you’re ready to order. He showed Alia the blue button, which read ORDER in white letters. I’ll come back. He picked up the two empty coffee cups and saucers from the next table over and disappeared through the door.

Alia paged through the menu beyond the last pages of desserts. There were several pages of advertisements for clothing stores and other restaurants in the neighborhood. At the end of the menu, provocative ads for nightclubs and dark services filled the screen. One of the girls was posing in a bikini, with a whip over her shoulder, and winking at the ad’s reader. Something about the woman’s face was familiar to Alia; she could hear her breath roll over her plump lips, saying, Get in touch with me when you’re back. Alia flipped quickly through the rest of the advertisements. The last page was only a quarter filled. The first line read, Female Models Wanted, Covered Payments. There was a link, but Alia decided against selecting it, thinking the content might be dangerous. She memorized the IP address and scrolled back to the cover page. After a few minutes, she decided she wasn’t in the mood for coffee after all and left.

She quickly understood the grid pattern with the overlaid diagonal streets named after states. She wandered through lush parks with impressive stone monuments and modern buildings. She wondered why the city’s residents would waste so many resources on areas with no purpose. She walked quickly through the streets and bounded up stairs with force and strength. She wasn’t sure of her limits; her body seemed so new and strong. Her nails were painted a bright green, in contrast to her milky-white skin. She looked at the ladies passing her, noticing their often bulbous and arthritic knuckles; bony, veined hands; and uneven fingers. She observed the perfect symmetry of her own body, and it made her feel even further removed from the people moving quickly on the streets, excusing themselves in buildings and not hesitating to tap her if she was in the way of the city’s routine.

The day was a succession of extended glances, seductive smiles, and lascivious gestures. Some of the most conservative-looking men seemed the most interested in her. She found her greatest power had nothing to do with how well she could speak or fight. She shot back glances, avoided wives and girlfriends, and circled the men as if they were prey, only to disappear when they turned around for one second. She felt an intense urge to fight, to hammer away at the slightest annoyance that crossed her path. She kept learning, kept discovering what made these men work, how their minds were easily overridden by her voluptuous body and knockout looks.

Night came over the city. The business suits were replaced by tight and revealing clothes, the women in seductive colors and exposed cleavage, the men with their tight-sleeved shirts complementing their bulging biceps and trim waists. They talked and laughed, in and out of bars and restaurants. The more refined individuals, dripped in jewels, sauntered to the theater. The young and taut drank themselves into hazes of delirium. Each hour uncovered a facet of the city that wasn’t seen during the day. Alia was still walking, looking for something to tell her which way to go or what she was supposed to be doing here. She stopped at the bottom of a steep set of granite stairs that led up to two soaring arched doors, topped by stained glass with the inscription COME UNTO ME.

It was late, and the warm winds were rustling the leaves that flanked the ancient cemetery next to the church. She climbed the stairs and pushed on the doors. They yielded to her and opened to a warm orange glow of a candlelit sanctuary.

She stood at the back of rows and rows of wooden pews. Everything was solid and real in here; she couldn’t see through any of it. The grid lines that had appeared in her vision at the boutique were gone. This must be real, she thought. The altar was draped in white cloth embroidered with gold, and colorfully painted wooden icons filled the walls between the stained-glass windows. Large, heavy stones fit together in no particular order to form the floor. Alia stomped once and felt an echo from beneath her. The word crypt came into her mind, but no image of the word came to her. She heard someone shuffling behind the altar. A stooped man with a blood-red hooded robe made his way from behind one of the tall gold-backed chairs. He was staggering a bit, as if he had just woken up.

Alia walked up the aisle and made her way into one of the pews.

The man looked out, scanning the pews until his eyes came to rest on her.

What is it, child? Why do you come in the middle of the night? He walked toward her, forgetting whatever he had been focused on when she arrived. My experience tells me the only people who come at this time of the night are those who have done something horrible or who are in need of great help.

Sorry to disappoint you, Father. I’m just trying to find out today’s date.

The deep folds in his face came together in concern, like recently wet cardboard that had become wet and collapsed.

You’re in the house of the Lord. Why does the date matter? And what is a beautiful young woman like you doing out in the dark of night?

The date, she repeated, beginning to wonder why grounding herself in an imaginary construct was important. She knelt with her hands clasped in front of her as she stared up at the crucified Jesus behind the altar.

It’s September eighteenth. As he turned his back to her, his red-and-green robe spun out into a circle, making him look like Father Christmas. He walked into the confessional booth and closed its door behind him.

What is it with everyone? Alia said under her breath. She brushed the dust off her knees and headed for the confessor’s side of the booth; then she opened the door, went inside, and sat down. Father, what’s going on? Why’s there such secrecy around this town?

People have their reasons. It’s a skeptical age. But know this, even out there you’re under a watchful eye. He put his finger through the brass grate that separated them. She reached for him and touched his finger. I want you to know I exist, he said.

Alia could feel his heartbeat, his energy, and she knew what he’d said was true.

Thank you, Father.

After he pulled the small wooden slat over the brass grate, she stood up, her hand reaching for the doorknob.

One more thing, Father…where should I stay?

God doesn’t keep hours, and neither does his house. Stay here until the night passes.

She left the booth and made her way back to the pew where she’d been sitting. She noticed another young woman in the sanctuary now. Tears were streaming down her face, and her left eye was black and swollen. When she saw Alia had left the confessional, she made her way to it. Alia watched her close the door and heard whispering. She took a Bible out of the wooden pocket from the pew in front of her, placed it on the bench, and laid her head down. Then she stretched out her long body and drifted off. Eventually, the whirring in her head faded. Moments later, when she felt a blanket being placed atop her, she kept her eyes closed, ashamed of her dependence.

Discovery

At 6:00 a.m., the church bells rang, their resonance throughout the interior of the church pulling Alia out of her sleep. She heard feet shuffle by her in the aisle. The massive entrance doors creaked open, then slammed against the red exterior brick walls of the church. Streams of sunlight illuminated swirling tendrils of smoke as they washed over the alabaster floor. Alia detected a slight whiff of burning electronics. It was the distinctive smell of a processor working overtime. She’d had a recurring dream of lying on an exam table surrounded by computers. She was still sorting through what was imagined memory and what actually had happened to her. She pulled herself upright. A young monk was returning from opening the front doors and nodded to her as he splashed a sprinkle of holy water on her and kept walking. It caught Alia in the mouth; all she tasted was metal.

Thanks be to God, the monk said in a loud voice, announcing the line she should have said, although he apparently wasn’t annoyed enough by it to turn around. She noted her mistake and repeated it after him before she folded her blanket and made her way to the door.

She stepped off the last stair and onto the sidewalk below. The fall colors tinged a giant maple in the cemetery next door. She didn’t feel any closer to figuring out why she was here and quickly made her way back to Le Petit Patisserie. There she’d find that familiar face in the ad—her only clue.

When she sat down at the same table, the same teenage boy emerged from the café.

Good morning. Was there something wrong yesterday? he asked.

No, I’m sorry. Something came up, she lied.

No worries. Well, you know the menu. Let me know when you’re ready to order.

I’ll start with a café Americano.

He nodded to show he was sure he would remember her order and headed inside the café. It was all an act. The table already had picked up her voice order and relayed it to the barista. The Americano was ready when the waiter reached the bar.

Alia scrolled through the pages of advertisements then tapped on the link with the familiar face. She winced at what might come up. It redirected her to the last page with the Models Wanted ad. She scrolled back, assuming there must be an error in the page, and tapped the link again. It brought her to the same place, so she tapped the advertisement. A phone number came up. She instinctively looked at her hands and arms for her Personal Information Device but didn’t see it. In advertisement after advertisement, she had seen the PID, as it was commonly called, integrated into bracelets and rings. It sometimes was even implanted subdermally, with the skin marked by an intricate tattoo. Although PIDs were advertised more as fashion than function, it was nearly impossible to get around without one. She searched her pockets and found a small card wallet with a national ID card that listed her name and citizen number, along with a $100 bill. When the waiter returned, she asked him for a pen. He looked confused by the question as he set down her café Americano. Then he saw the cash on the table.

Where did you get that? He pointed at the money.

I’m not sure. You don’t happen to have a PID I could use, do you? She looked up at him, her steel-gray eyes pleading.

Sure, but you’d better put that cash outta sight. He fished in his pocket, then saw the black band sewed into the sleeve of her suit.

You have one right here. He pointed to it.

The woman at the next table was staring at the $100 bill with her mouth hanging open, as if she were witnessing a crime.

Can…can I get you anything else? He was flustered; the look Alia had given him had stirred his boyish lusts.

I’ll take two beignets, extra powder.

The waiter nodded, then scurried into the café. Alia felt around at the thin strip of electronics sewn between the fabric. When she applied pressure, a small set of data appeared above her wrist. She spoke a number to the display but got nothing. Ten second passed, and then a full unshaven face filled the screen.

Jarvis, the face said into the screen.

I saw your ad for models. Are you still looking?

Yeah. His fat face squinted at her.

Okay, well, I’m interested. Should I meet you somewhere?

Uh, yeah. He looked away from the camera. Shut up! he barked at someone Alia couldn’t see. I’ll send you the address. You know this is for nude modeling, right?

When should I come? She ignored his question.

Now? His eyes were trying to peer below the table she was sitting at.

I’ll be there. She disconnected. She wasn’t sure about the modeling part, but she knew she needed to find out the connection between the woman in the advertisement and the man she was just talking to.

After receiving the address, Alia found her way to Jarvis’s apartment, which was a short walk from the café. She arrived at the concrete high-rise whose architect hadn’t tried to disguise it as anything but. The entrance was a single door flanked with large, round concrete planters adorned with embedded pebbles. The plants looked lackluster. Evergreen shrubs that once were well manicured now sprouted offshoots in every direction. The complacency of the building’s management annoyed Alia.

A security guard sat slumped behind a desk in a faded black uniform. When Alia rapped on the glass door, he looked over and waved her in. The door buzzed, and she pulled on the brass handle.

I’m going to apartment 1244, she told him.

Is that so? He raised his eyebrows.

Alia rolled her eyes. I assume it’s on the twelfth floor? She pointed to the elevators.

"Ah, you’re a smart one. Don’t see many of those going up