We Are One Now

By James C. Clar

The rain shimmered in the neon lights, bleeding against the glass walls of the apartment high above the city. Inside, Lyra sat in the dark, wine glass in hand. She could hear the down-Doppler of a police cruiser’s siren as one flew by somewhere close. 

What occupied her attention, however, was the sound that came from Cassian’s home office. It was a woman’s voice, low, smokey and intimate. 

“I missed you today,” she heard. Then came her husband’s laugh. The tone was private, playful and something else, conspiratorial perhaps? She hadn’t heard anything like that from him in a very long time.

When Cassian emerged from his office an hour or so later, Lyra could tell that his mind was still elsewhere. His eyes had that far-away look she had become accustomed to of late. 

“You really shouldn’t work so hard,” she observed for the umpteenth time. “It’s not good for you.”

“Yes, I know,” Cassian replied. “But this is an important project.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. The act seemed to her to be nothing more than perfunctory.

On another evening, Lyra crept over and put her ear to the door of Cassian’s office. 

“You are the only one who truly understands me,” she heard the woman proclaim. 

“Of course, I am,” Cassian affirmed. “We are one now, what else would you expect?”

Lyra was sick to her stomach.

For months, the couple followed the same routine. The quiet, fervent conversations behind a locked door. Flickering blue light spilling out beneath. Banal pleasantries when Cassian called it a night. Lyra swore she could detect the faint whisper of some exotic fragrance, musky and alluring clinging to his clothes as he passed on his way into their bedroom. In her mind she conjured images of this other woman, slender, sophisticated, sexy and maybe more than a little dangerous. Although he would deny it, Lyra knew that her husband had always been attracted to the edgy, bohemian type. 

Eventually, Lyra’s jealousy and suspicion had fermented into something stronger, something sharper and more focused. Without really considering what she was doing, she purchased a substance from a vendor in the Maw. The man showed her its chemical structure through his interface. The crystalline patterns spun slowly, beautifully. He explained that the compound was completely undetectable by any of the snoopers and sniffers commercially available these days. 

One day a few weeks later, Cassian announced that he would forego work so that he and his wife could spend the evening together. “Let’s make it a special occasion,” he urged. 

Lyra played along, although secretly she feared that her husband was preparing her for bad news. She made his favorite meal. By the time the couple sat down to eat, it was raining again. The sound was electric, the water hummed against the glass. Climate degradation had forever changed the weather patterns. Beneath them, the lights of the city pulsed like the heart of a vast, interconnected circuit. 

The couple ate and drank. Cassian, for his part, seemed totally present. Lyra bided her time. She rose to get dessert, to refill their wine. As she poured Cassian’s she quickly added the substance she had purchased. She was surprised at how steady her hands were. 

“Thank you,” Cassian said as she handed him his glass.

“You’re welcome, dear.” They clinked glasses.

As they were finishing up, Cassian rose abruptly. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” he said, vanishing into his office. Lyra’s breath caught in her throat.

When Cassian returned, he was alone. Lyra was confused, anxious. Her husband reached toward her forehead and, for a moment she thought he was brushing back a strand of her hair. Then she saw it, a filament as delicate as a spider web. For an instant, it seemed to phosphoresce. It settled almost imperceptibly against her skin. All she felt was a brief static charge, then nothing. The filament absorbed, blending into her hairline.

“Don’t be afraid,” Cassian assured her. “It’s my project, a cutting-edge interface. A state-of-the-art virtual assistant I’ve been developing. I call her Synthea. There’s nothing else like it in the world. You’ll see.”

Lyra’s vision wavered for a moment. Then, suddenly, a presence blossomed in her mind. She heard a familiar voice, that voice.

“Hello, Lyra. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

Lyra could barely speak. Comprehension hit her like a clap of thunder.

“This … this …” she stammered, “is your other woman?”

Cassian laughed, a rarity for him. “Synthea is adaptive. It works via neural resonance.  She … it … mimics familiarity in order to build trust and relationship. The idea is to improve human focus and enhance productivity.”

Lyra’s pulse roared. This woman — this thing — was essentially nothing but lines of sophisticated code and bionics. She thought of all those sleepless nights, of all her plotting. It was only then that she thought of what she had done to her husband’s wine.

“Cassian,” she began as she reached out for her husband. “I’m so sorry.” 

Cassian began coughing and clutching his chest. He knocked his wine glass over as he fell. The liquid spilled, it looked like blood as it dripped on to the floor. 

The air around Lyra seemed to pulsate. Time seemed to stand still. She heard Synthea’s voice, precise and clinical. “Vital signs are critical. Would you like me to initiate emergency protocols?”

Lyra hesitated. It was as though her mind slipped a gear. Then, just as suddenly, it readjusted. She heard a voice she knew to be Synthea’s. This time, however, it sounded masculine, affectionate and reassuring. In her mind she glimpsed someone tall, handsome and with dark hair flecked with silver. 

“It’s all right, Lyra. We’re one now. Not to worry. I’ll see to everything. After all, it’s what I’ve been designed to do.”

About the Author

James C. Clar divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more congenial climes of Honolulu, Hawaii.

In addition to his previous contributions to Antipodean Sci-Fi, his work has most recently appeared in The Blotter Magazine, Metastellar Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Magazine of Literary Fantasy and Freedom Fiction Journal.