Synapse

  Dedication

  To Amanda

  Epigraph

  “Humanity, in its desire for comfort, had over-reached itself. It had exploited the riches of nature too far. Quietly and complacently, it was sinking into decadence, and progress had come to mean the progress of the Machine.”

  —From The Machine Stops by E. M. Forster, 1909

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  30 years from now

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Advance Praise for Synapse

  Also by Steven James

  Copyright

  30 years from now

  1

  Tuesday, November 4

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  4:14 p.m.

  You do not hear your baby cry.

  “What’s wrong?” you ask, but you’re still weak and the words seem to come from someone else, someone not on this bed, someone who has not just born life into the wide, bright world beyond the womb.

  Yes, Naiobi should be crying, but she is not.

  A chill runs through you—every mother’s worst fear: silence after the birth of her child.

  You hear the beep of monitors and the hurried, hushed words of doctors, and then a nurse’s measured reassurance that “the doctors are with her,” but from the infant warmer, only silence.

  “Tell me she’s okay,” you beg the nurse. “She is okay, isn’t she?”

  “Shh,” she says. And, “It’s going to be alright” and to “Just rest.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Shh.”

  No.

  Your baby.

  You force yourself to sit up higher to see for yourself. The pain roaring through you is disorienting. You bury it.

  And catch a glimpse of your daughter, the neonatologist intubating her, another doctor doing compressions on her delicate chest, lightly and with two fingers, and yet firm enough to break ribs.

  Your baby is tinged gray instead of vibrant and alive. A pale and lifeless color.

  Oh, God, no. Please, no.

  The nurse was wrong. This isn’t going to be okay.

  You pray, yes, a gasping and frantic prayer: God, don’t do this. Bring her back. Take me instead. Punish me, not her. Oh, please, please spare her life.

  No child should die in a place like this. If she must die, let it be at home surrounded by stuffed animals and soft blankets, by warm candles and a loving family, but not alone in a hospital infant warmer, hemmed in by these strict square walls, alone and unhugged in harsh, unforgiving light.

  No baby should—

  Please, God.

  The nurse isn’t saying anything now. Instead, she’s just holding your hand and squeezing it tightly, too tightly.

  Yes.

  She knows.

  And she cares in her own way. You realize it now—yes, she does—but it’s not going to matter.

  The doctor continues the chest compressions.

  Thoughts flash through your mind—the times you held that music box against your stomach to calm Naiobi when she kicked too much. The nursery you prepared and painted for her. The songs you sang for her. The prayers you offered for her.

  Nine months.

  The doctor stops the compressions.

  “Keep going,” you gasp. “Try again!”

  “It’s too late,” he mutters.

  “It can’t be!”

  After a short hesitation he starts them again, perhaps just to calm you.

  Okay, this time they’ll work. Naiobi’s going to come back.

  You feel a shiver, soul-deep and terrifying.

  This isn’t really happening. She can’t be gone. There’s been some mistake. Maybe that’s someone else’s baby over there. Maybe this is just a bad dream that you need to wake up from, that you need to wake up from now.

  Wake up, Kestrel!

  Finally, the doctor is done. He turns and looks at you with heavy eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  You scream. You can’t help it.

  “Let me hold her. I need to hold her.”

  “Yes, okay.” After removing the tube they had used to intubate her, he signals to the nurse and she brings your daughter to you, wrapped in a blanket that serves no purpose anymore, save to keep your baby’s limp body from view.

  You tenderly accept her, even though it strikes you that it’s too late for tenderness to matter.

  She has fairy-like eyelids that will never flutter open to see the world.

  “Naiobi.” You’re barely able to speak her name.

  With a soft whisk, the door closes and the staff leave the two of you alone.

  Somehow you manage to hold back your tears.

  You realize that you’ll never blow out a birthday candle for your daughter when she turns one, or say goodbye to her on her first day of school, or build sandcastles with her at the seashore.

  The big things and little ones. The good and the bad.

  A lifetime never lived.

  She’ll never struggle with her homework, get bullied, cry into her pillow. She’ll never lean her head against a boy’s shoulder on the dance floor, never have him awkwardly kiss her good night on the cheek afterward.

  This baby, your baby, will never know what it feels like to be held to her mother’s breast, to be comforted and cooed to and hugged.

  You glance out the window.

  Not even the whisper of a breeze unsettles the few remaining leaves that still cling to the trees surrounding the hospital. Even the clouds are still—dark slats layered low in the heavens, encasing their cold November rain in the vast and lonely sky.

  It’s almost as if the day is mourning for Naiobi.

  Or turning its back on her.

  As tired as you are, you don’t want to sleep. It feels like a betrayal, however slight, against the love you have for your daughter. How could you sleep at a time like this? How could you even consider it?

  The nurse knocks softly on the door and asks if you would like her to take her. You have no idea how much time has passed, but it has not been enough.

  “A little longer,” you say.

  She offers to help you, to take a photo of her for you to remember her by, but you don’t want a picture. Not of Naiobi now. Not now.

  Not of her corpse.

  Such a terrible way to refer to her. Terrible but true, as the truth so often is. Terrible in its unforgiving, searing way.

  The nurse disappears.

  Afternoon settles into dusk.

  “I love you, I love you, I love you.” You find yourself saying the words aloud, even though you know your daughter cannot hear them, will never hear them.

  She has a tiny, f
eathery, disobedient tuft of hair. You calm it down with a gentle, moistened finger. This is a moment you must remember. You tell yourself that, and you close your eyes to take in all the sounds and smells that you can.

  You kiss Naiobi’s cheek and it feels much too cool, more like clay than the cheek of a child.

  With all of your heart, you will her to breathe, you beg her tiny heart to beat, but all the love in the world is not enough to bring her back.

  She’s in heaven now.

  She’s happy and at peace.

  She’s in the Lord’s presence.

  These are the things you tell yourself. These are the words you use to try to convince yourself that what you believe is true—the glory and goodness of the Lord. The laughter of a child in his everlasting care. But the words and comfort seem as cold as Naiobi’s corpse in your arms.

  Right now, heaven is only wishful thinking to you, an unreality.

  Finally, the nurse returns.

  The darkened window tells you that nighttime has fallen over the city. There’s no clock in here, and for all you know it might be the middle of the night.

  After a final, wrenching goodbye, you hand Naiobi to her.

  You know the nurse is going to take her down to the morgue. You know this because you are no stranger to what happens in this building, to the pain and anguish that the walls hold for so many patients and family members. You know this hospital’s ways. It’s part of your job.

  “Would you like to speak with a chaplain?” the nurse asks you softly. “I can send one in.”

  You’re not sure if it will help, but it might. “Alright.”

  Then she leaves, and you weep and you wish you were anywhere else other than the room where your precious child died.

  The doctor tried to explain what went wrong, but none of it really registered with me except the part about it being a difficult birth and Naiobi not getting enough oxygen—but he didn’t use her name and referred to her simply as “your baby.”

  I wanted to correct him: She has a name! but I held back. He was just doing his job the best he knew. I understood that.

  I’d wanted to have a child before I turned thirty-five, but time was running out and I’d finally decided not to let the lack of a man in my life stop me from having the baby I’d always dreamed of.

  The law allowed me to choose the sex of my child, her height and eye color, her personality, her resistance to any number of genetic disorders—all choices related to DNA manipulation that wasn’t possible even just a decade ago—but I chose not to design my baby.

  And now, it wasn’t anger that I felt toward God, but abandonment.

  It was as if someone had ripped away all the good that I had believed about him—that he was loving and caring and kind and that he sacrificed to give us hope for eternity. Now when I needed him most, I didn’t sense his peace. Only his absence.

  Nothing made sense.

  Not my faith.

  Not my God.

  Not my job.

  No, a pastor shouldn’t have those kinds of questions, this kind of heartache. A minister should have more hope at a time like this. Much more.

  A knock at the door.

  The chaplain.

  “The nurse told me what happened, that you might want to talk?” he said as he entered the room.

  But since that nurse had left I’d changed my mind and didn’t want my doubts known by anyone, even a chaplain who, out of confidentiality, would keep them to himself.

  “It turns out it might be better if I don’t.”

  Bearded and well-groomed, he approached my bed. “I’m Grayson.” He carried a stiff Bible. It looked like it might never have been opened. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No. Are you new around here?”

  “Just a couple weeks. Moved down from Milwaukee.”

  Silence.

  “I’m a minister myself,” I told him. “Methodist.”

  “Okay.” A pause that was hard to read. “Is there anyone you’d like me to call?”

  “No.”

  And it was true. There really wasn’t anyone to contact. My brother, Trevor, lived out in Seattle, but we weren’t talking. He would have been the only one to call. Besides, if he was interested, the Feeds would give him all the information he would ever need at the prompt of his voice or the touch of his fingertip. He knew I was going into labor. I just didn’t know if I was ready to give him the news about Naiobi yet. Eventually, but not yet.

  My congregation members would hear the news soon enough. A pastor often finds that it’s difficult to make friends with people in their flock. There’s an odd power dynamic at play that keeps people at a distance.

  “I can sit with you,” Grayson offered.

  “Yes. Okay. But please don’t tell me that God has a plan for me. Don’t tell me that everything will work out for good in the end. Don’t tell me that God loved Naiobi enough to end her suffering. Don’t tell me anything.”

  He acquiesced and said nothing as he sat on the chair beside my bed.

  I’d thought that having him here might help in some way, but it didn’t. The silence between us eventually grew too awkward and I asked if I could be alone.

  “May I pray for you?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Only after saying the words did I realize what an odd response that was. But it felt honest in the moment, and I let it stand without explanation.

  “Okay,” he said. “Shall I talk to the hospital about memorial service arrangements?”

  Since the nurse had left I’d thought about this. “Thursday at two at Saint Lucia’s Chapel, over by the river.”

  “I know the place.” He verified the availability, then he left me a link on the Feeds with a form to fill out.

  After he was gone, I asked the staff if I could be taken to another room, and they transferred me. At least that way I wouldn’t be looking at the infant warmer where they’d tried and failed to save my daughter.

  Wednesday, November 5

  In the morning I confirmed the reservation for the chapel, and as I was preparing to leave, one of the representatives from Terabyne Designs showed up, a visit I’d been expecting.

  It was standard in a case like this, although I’d already made my decision regarding getting an Artificial.

  The man introduced himself as Benjiro Taka. During the times I’d come to the hospital to comfort congregation members who had just lost loved ones, I’d crossed paths with a few of the Terabyne reps, but I’d never met this one.

  Terabyne’s regional production center was close by, just off I-75—in fact, my car would take me past it on the way home—and Terabyne employed hundreds of employees, many of them sales reps, so it wasn’t very surprising that our paths hadn’t crossed yet.

  “First of all,” he said, “let me tell you how sorry I am for your loss. My deepest and sincerest condolences.”

  The words sounded genuine, and maybe they were. Or maybe he’d recited them so many times that he’d learned to make false sympathy sound authentic.

  “Thank you for saying so.”

  “Terabyne Designs would like to do all we can to help you navigate through this difficult time in your life.”

  Yes, and I knew what was coming next.

  He went on, “Many people find it helpful to have—”

  “A replacement.”

  “Well, a surrogate. A specially-designed, unique, and personalized Artificial. We have models this size. We can replicate everything about your daughter for you down to her fingerprints. And we offer our units at a greatly reduced price for people in your situation.”

  “In my situation.”

  “For anyone who has experienced the recent loss of a loved one.”

  I knew it was his job, that some people found solace in an Artificial at a time like this—a newborn-sized robot that could cry and be comforted, that would mimic the sleep cycles of a Natural. Far more than simply a technologically advanced doll, the Artificials this size loo
ked so real, acted so real, that it was almost chilling. I’d seen them. I knew. They help some people.

  I didn’t mention it to Mr. Taka, but my brother, Trevor, was the vice president of global security at Terabyne’s headquarters out west. With his high-level position I could get an Artificial any time at cost, but I’d never had any desire to acquire one, not since what happened to our parents when I was in grad school.

  I didn’t want a robot in my life, especially one that was intended to fill the void left behind from my daughter’s death.

  “No thank you, Mr. Taka. I’m not interested.”

  “Of course.” He swiped a chip-implanted finger through the air to pass along his contact information to my slate the way someone in the past might have offered me his business card. “If you change your mind.”

  I knew that wasn’t going to happen, but I didn’t want to be rude so I accepted the data transfer.

  Then he left and I passed through the silent and sterile hallways toward the exit.

  By the time I got there, I found a message waiting for me on my slate from my brother. “I saw the Feeds. I’m sorry, Kestrel. Really. I sent you something. It’ll arrive at your apartment this afternoon.”

  He could afford anything money could buy. I could only imagine what he might have sent.

  Honestly, I wished it might be something that could take the pain away, or at least distract me enough so I could begin processing what had just happened here. But at the moment I doubted that such a thing existed.

  I thought about stopping by the morgue to see Naiobi one last time, but decided against it.

  It wouldn’t help anything, especially now, more than sixteen hours after she’d passed.

  An Artificial wouldn’t be affected by death like that. The thought came to me and troubled me. An Artificial wouldn’t decompose.

  A shudder.

  Alone, I found my car.

  I had the kiss to be thankful for. And the moment when I pressed down that tuft of hair.

  Those were the two things on my mind as I left for home to see what my brother, whom I hadn’t spoken with in over a year, might have sent me.

  2

  I didn’t make it far before I witnessed the explosion.