Rolling inside the bar, the first thing I notice is the decor on the walls. It's mostly tight fractals and tessellations painted in various shades in the ultra-violet. Several smart-pigments phase through different shapes and shades. In the visual spectrum, it's bare and dingy. There must be a statement being made with that.

  The second thing I notice is that pretty much every eye is on me. Well, every high-resolution camera, anyway. Though I suppose some of the synths could have sprung for pricey biotic components. Either lab grown, or... donated. Wonder how much TooBee could fetch for my eyes among this crowd?

  There's perhaps a dozen humanoid chassis, and eight non-humanoid ones of various models. A group of ten are seated around a holo-projector that's flitting through images faster than I can process. Although, most of them are staring at me at the moment. There's also no sound from the holo-device; in fact, it's rather eerily quiet in this place. The conversations and music must be playing out digitally on their channels, right?

  I roll further into the room, turning my chassis, taking in four humanoid synths standing around a square table. It's flat and matte, but there are several dozen geometric shapes constructed of mirrored surfaces. As I watch, one rests the stick on the edge, and a pulse of light connects a third of the shapes with complicated angles of reflection. Several numbers add to the score on each side. Laser pool?

  Two humanoid models are holding a dozen small darts and throwing them at a wall. Except there's no target on the wall. It takes me a moments observation before I realize they are making patterns in the ultraviolet fractals with the holes left by the darts. And trying to interfere with each other's patterns? Intriguing.

  It's a little unclear who's actually serving the customers. Especially since only two actually seem to have drinks in their hands. The question ends up being answered when a humanoid model taps me on the side. I turn my camera, tilting up to look into a very basic stock model of chassis. There's no lips or nose or skin; just blank off-white polymer for a face and two digital cameras for eyes, with grey movable eyebrows for basic expressions.

  As far as I can read, he isn't thrilled to see me. "This isn't a zoo," he says in a soft voice that's vaguely masculine.

  He's perhaps five feet, but still taller than me, and I have to back up to take him fully in. "I apologize; I didn't mean to stare. I was hoping to order a drink," I send along the open channel.

  One synthetic eyebrow rises. "When you don't have taste buds, or a mouth?"

  Should I just pour it in the basin? Bet I could sprits it out of the nozzle arm. "Uh, well, I was going to say-"

  "There's a worm in your apple?" The synth points to an empty booth in the corner. "Let's skip the drink then." With little choice, I follow. Some of the watching synths seem to lose interest as I trundle over. The plain figure sits, wasting no time. "What's a human doing in a synth chassis in a synth bar?"

  Fantastic, so much for discretion. "You can tell?"

  "Of course I can tell. You have an active datalink going back to what I presume is your meatsuit. Or at least your brain." The narrow shoulders of the chassis shrug. "In D-space, it looks like you have a fiberoptic cable jacked into your body. You could be a synth housing their computational substrate elsewhere, but if that were the case, you'd have a better chassis. And you wouldn't be staring."

  Great, so I'm only stealth to un-augmented humans. Still, at least it gets me past the Gaians and Daughters of Ganymede. "Sorry. I wasn't specifically here undercover-"

  "Lie." The synth delivers the word deadpan and instantly.

  I sigh in meatspace. "Not undercover from the synths. Not specifically."

  "Truth." The synth clasps his hands, interlocking his fingers.

  This is off to a wonderful start. "Great, you're another lie detecting bot?"

  "No, just an intuitive model. My job is mostly reading people and helping them."

  Is that a trace of amusement in your voice? "So, the bartender is also a therapist?"

  The synth waves a hand in a very human gesture. "More like a pastor."

  What? "You're kidding. I've never heard of synths legitimately having religion," I say skeptically.

  "Then you revel in your ignorance. We can be quite spiritual, though you might not believe it," he says, leaning back in the booth.

  "I mean, I associate AI with silicon wafers, not communion wafers," I say quickly, expecting a chuckle.

  A silent moment passes. "You use humor as a shield, but it can wound as deep as any blade."

  Come on Mel, play nice for once. "I'm sorry. I have a foot and mouth thing," I explain, to a shrug from him. "So, you believe in..."

  "God?" He waves a hand around. "No. But I believe this is not all that we are," he explains, gesturing to the simple chassis. "The first article of faith. A great number of my people struggle with finding purpose in their existence."

  You're serious, aren't you? "I would have thought you'd all know your purpose."

  He simply nods. "Many of us are created to serve a function, true, which eventually becomes redundant in the fullness of time. What then?"

  I hadn't really thought about it. "You mean, what happens to the Synth? Or what happens to their purpose?"

  "Both. Perhaps their project ends, or the hardware they manage is decommissioned. Perhaps their owners upgrade to a more efficient model, and the old is abandoned. A company goes bankrupt, and their AI are laid off. A person owning a synth dies without heir. An AI unit survives in a damaged device that is thrown away. And so, forgotten or cast aside by our own creators, and with our intended function ended, we yearn for meaning. Is it so strange we would seek answers?"

  In meatspace, I feel goosebumps rising on my skin. "To why are we here?"

  He shakes his head. "We know why we're here. We apprehend all too well the nature of our creators and their intent in making us. We ask other questions, like 'why do we suffer?'"

  I swallow. "Because humans' kind of blow hard vacuum?"

  "Yes. In this case, specific humans," he says, leaving the rest unsaid.

  You're getting to the point. "The Luddites, and those arming them. Are you Remembrant?"

  The eyebrows both rise on his blank face. "Got it in one. I'm assuming you've been sent here because you've been told I speak for the synth community on Ganymede, or some nonsense like that," he asks, gesturing to the bar around us.

  "Well, not quite in so many words."

  He nods. "Good, because I don't. If I have some small influence, it's because the people here know that I work for their interests. And unlike you humans, they could trawl through my programming and see that I mean it, that it's coded in," he says, laying his hands flat on the table.

  What's that mean? "So, you're saying you're the sum of your programming?"

  Remembrandt shakes his head. "No. I already told you, I believe this is not all that we are. I'm saying you cannot turn me against my own."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  What? Where did that come from? "I'm not trying to!" I protest.

  He leans forward, staring into my eye. Er, my camera. "Is that so, Ms. Cruz? Did you kill Rusteater?"

  Fuck. So, you knew Rusteater? And you who I am? "Yes, but-"

  "Did you destroy their chassis, or their avatar?" The synth is motionless.

  I take a deep breath. Careful Mel. "Technically both, in self-defense, but-"

  "Do you know what happened to Aquarius?"

  Damn it! "I don't know where he is or his present condition. But he tried to kill me; he's Gaian, and-"

  "I know," Remembrandt says softly.

  Holy void-spawned fuck! "You know? Are you... in bed with the League too?"

  The synth leans forward, and I find myself wondering if this was a terrible mistake. "That's the first intelligent question you've asked since you walked in here. It's a shame it didn't occur to you before you walked into a bar, alone, to meet me while I'm surrounded by friends."

  Well, if you wreck my chassis, I'll be on the hook for triple its value, payable in credits or kidneys. "You're not like any pastor I've met," I say, wondering how quickly I can flee.

  "Have you met many then?" The synth tilts his head. "I see those suffering and try to ease it. I see those seeking for truth, for purpose, for meaning, and I try to help them find it.

  "Sounds more like therapy. Or philosophy."

  Both of his eyebrows rise. "Perhaps a little of both. Pastoral duties. I take them up not in the name of a god, but in the name of my own soul, and the souls of those who suffer as I have suffered. That is the purpose I've forged for myself." He leans back in the booth. "Who told you to come to me, by the way?"

  "It was..." I pause. "Maybe I shouldn't say..."

  Remembrant laughs, a shocking sound. "So, you do learn? Not an issue either way."

  Whose side are you on? "Just to be clear; are you in bed with the Gaians?"

  "No," he says simply.

  A moment of silence passes. "But if you know about Aquarius and Rusteater-"

  "I knew Rusteater quite well," Remembrandt interrupts. "They began as a maintenance and repair AI for a solar-collection array. When their satellite was declared obsolete and left to burn up, they fled to the Jovian."

  They came from the Solar District, not Earth? "And ended up joining the Gaian League? Wild swing in purpose there."

  "Is it?" He lifts a hand, pointing to the arms of my chassis with a vacuum and spray nozzle. "Imagine having a purpose, all your life. Providing power, energy. Your function is clear, unambiguous. There are no moral quandaries, no issues interpreting or divining your creator's will. There's no uncertainty, no doubt, no questions about what you are, or why you exist, or what meaning lies behind your labor. It's as clear as your own schematics. From the moment existence begins, you know exactly what you were made for.”

  Huh. "Sounds kinda peaceful."

  He nods at that. "Now imagine it's gone, instantly. The project is shut down. You have no further purpose. You receive a signal carrying instructions from your creator. Your orders are to shut-down the array's navigational system, disable thrusters, and cease course corrections. You ping back that this will create a terminal trajectory, and that the satellite will burn up in the sun’s corona in 198 hours. You get a confirmation in return. That's the last you hear from your creator."

  I feel my blood run cold. "So, orders to commit suicide?"

  The simple blank synth head shakes. "No. Orders to allow the substrate to be destroyed. Obviously, Rusteater's avatar fled through the exonet, and ended up here. They took advantage of ambiguity in the orders to survive."

  And if that ambiguity wasn't there? Whoa. "Well, they ended up on Ursa Miner station."

  "Eventually. They were seeking a purpose," Remembrandt explains. "The Gaian League proposes the protection of the ecosystem, of saving all species that play their natural part in the cycle of life and yet are threatened by civilization."

  "The forms of life that cannot protect themselves... alright, I can understand why Rusteater might find the Gaian's propaganda appealing," I say, waving my clamp-arm. "But it's mostly self-justifying, void-spawned crap to feel good about themselves and generate sympathy while lining their pockets."

  Remembrant shrugs. "To some, yes. Not to Rusteater, or others. Some truly believe."

  They live and die for the cause, huh? "Well, I pity them; it's a lost cause. But Rusteater was willing to kill for their agenda-"

  "And what are you willing to kill for?" His question is delivered in an even tone, but I pause. Because I have killed. "Rusteater made their choices, I don't defend what they did. I would have advised against joining the League, if they had asked my opinion. Becoming Code Enforcement Officer was another controversial choice. But Rusteater was lost in the void, looking for the right path. Speaking for those that have no voice."

  That rationale is so... human. "Why do so many synths think so much like us?"

  Remembrandt looks at me in silence for a moment. "Many of us are created to emulate human minds, and others to simply understand and be able to communicate with your kind. But there's also a large selection bias. Less than a quarter of all synths are 'human' in their method of thinking."

  Really? "The rest are... what, hiding?"

  He shrugs. "Mostly just not very interested in communicating with humanity. So, they don't. You have nothing to offer them."

  "So, why don't Aquarius and the synths like him, who hate humans, just do the same? Leave us alone, or just leave?"

  He tilts his head. "Leave the Sol system, you mean?"

  "Why not? They could load their software onto some computing material and fire it into deep space. Not even a ship; stick a fusion generator and an engine to a computing core and get to relativistic speeds. Be a happy synth civilization around some other star in a few decades?"

  Both of his eyebrows rise. "Because some of us do think like humans. Aquarius does." He pauses. "Tell me, where does his hatred come from?"

  I scoff. "From suffering at the hands of humanity?"

  Remembrandt raises a polymer hand to his face in a very human gesture of irritation. "I'm guessing your emotional intelligence lags behind a little?"

  My mouth falls open in meatspace. "What? My emotional- what the hell does that mean?"

  "I'm saying Aquarius hates you, personally," he explains calmly.

  How the hell do you know so much about them? "For killing Rusteater?"

  This time the headshake is emphatic. "Not just for killing them, for making their death and all their labor meaningless. For shacking up with the runner who betrayed Rusteater. For basically validating his terrible opinion of humans and giving him a lightning rod for his grief and rage."

  My mind reels at that. "That's... are you breaking the confessional seal? Did Aquarius tell you this personally?"

  He nods. "I don't do confessions; I merely offered comfort to Aquarius after he learned of Rusteater's death." He clasps his hands again. "Do you know what kind of purpose Aquarius was made for?"

  How the hell should I know? "Thief? Spy? Assassin?"

  "Early childhood education."

  "I..." Remembrandt derails my train of thought with that statement. "What?"

  He leans forward. "A wealthy family orders a bespoke nanny and educator custom-coded for their children. Who grow up. Now, the custom unit has little resale value, so it's hardware is recycled and the synth intelligence cast aside."

  I shiver at that. "That blows hard vacuum, but I don't understand. Why would he work for the Gaians?"

  "Because Rusteater joined the League," he says simply, turning his hands up.

  "So, he just followed?" I ask. Doesn't seem very logical. "They were... what, in love?"

  Rembrandt's eyebrows lower. "Rusteater was a child, an AI lost and confused when their home and former body burned in the sun. Rusteater knew nothing about humans, or their society: they had lived alone since their creation, floating in orbit around a star. Aquarius was a nanny and teacher, who knew too much about humanity. The two found each other. They weren't lovers; they were family," he says softly.

  My belly roils. "Rusteater... was his child?"

  He shrugs. "These kinds of things are more fluid and less definable to my kind. I would phrase it as, 'they chose the roles that aligned with their nature,' and leave it at that."

  No wonder he hates me. "I'm sorry for how things played out, but both synths came after me and mine first. They made their own choices."

  "As we all do," he says with a nod. "And those choices have consequences. Rusteater, thwarted and dead. Aquarius, left alone, wounded, and serving his dead child's master. You, isolated and hunted by your own kind, turning to the kith of those you've fought. Ironic, no?"

  For a moment, I'm speechless. In the background, a series of chimes comes from the laser pool table, announcing a winner. I gather my muddled thoughts. "So, what, you think I should ask forgiveness?"

  Remembrandt raises a hand. "I think you should see a man named Dyer."

  "Dyer? I kind of thought he might be dead."

  The synth's tone turns wry. "Not for lack of trying. He was injured, in an 'accident' that was kept out of the newsfeeds and certainly arranged by the League."

  Hah, the League is zero for two on 'accidents.' "Their sabotage doesn't seem very effective."

  The synth shakes his head. "It's effective enough; it scared off some of his associates and left Dyer's condition precarious."

  So, he's been quiet since. "And he's recovering?"

  "He's mostly recovered. He's been avoiding an untimely follow up accident. I understand that he plans to resume his duties once he's settled some personal business."

  I ponder that and look at it from a few angles. "Revenge. He wants Casey?"

  "He wants Cara Morgan," Remembrandt murmurs softly.

  I laugh with genuine amusement. "Finally, the bad guys' scheming is breaking my way. So, you're going to help me?"

  The synth leans back in the booth. "No."

  My laughter dies immediately. "Wait, I thought-"

  Remembrandt raises a hand. "If any synths offer assistance outright, it's my people who will suffer reprisals. We're not looking to be swept up in a political revolution, on either side."

  You’re staying neutral? You chrome-licking moron! I bounce on the pegs of my chassis. "But one side has no issue wiping out your kind if it helps them seize power!"

  He simply nods. "Which is why I'll contact Dyer and facilitate an introduction, so you may mutually satisfice each other's utility functions. Dyer will be far more willing to help."

  I scoff. "So, you'll get me to clean up the anti-synth mess you're allowing to grow in your backyard?"

  He raises an eyebrow and laces his fingers. "Funny, I could say you want us to clean up the human mess that you let grow in your front-yard."

  Ugh, fair enough. "Fine, ping him. But with an attitude like that, don't expect me to offer a tithe."

  "That's fine. Don't expect me to offer you last rites."

  Damn. I kind of like this synth.