by Rachael Eyre
I shook my head. I seemed to be doing it an awful lot recently. When had I become the straight man in a farce? “You do realise that trying to pass a bot off as human is a criminal offence?”
“Only if you get caught. I don't intend to.”
Robert: Interval
I see Vivaan’s got to you first, stuck his oar in. How he was the hapless bystander dragged into this sordid scheme, how he wants to save me from myself. You've taken his word for it because you like him. Everybody does. I expect he’s told you some shoddy anecdotes about uni. He’s only sore because he got a Third. Some of us went there to work.
He can't play innocent after the event. If it hadn't been for him, I would never have had the idea in the first place. I'd have continued my quest for the perfect woman, doomed because there's no such creature. Beauty can be removed with a handful of wipes, intelligence beamed into their skulls free of charge. We live in an artificial age.
But thanks to Vivaan and his bottle fairy, a whole new world opened up. I didn't need to waste time finding a woman, wooing her, coaching her in my likes and dislikes. I could choose one off the peg, so to speak, and mould her myself. She couldn't compare me with some specious point of reference because she wouldn't have any. I wondered why I hadn't thought of it before.
Actually, I know exactly why. You associate robot wives with a particular type of man: chronic masturbators who cobble an approximation of a woman together in their shed. I am not that man.
The night before I saw Vivaan, I did my research. It put my mind at rest. I met a welcoming community of kindred spirits - men who had been left behind by today’s females. True, some were embittered by divorce, and said inadvisable things, but having your heart broken by a duplicitous bitch will do that to a man. In contrast to human women, who take and take and still want more, the robot spouses want nothing, ask for nothing. All they want is a good man and a comfortable home, for what else is there?
Several of the men loved their artificials yet frequented whores. I didn't see the point. Not only is it ruinously expensive, you run the risk of being caught. If you have a reputation to lose, that is. I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone: have one bot to perform domestic tasks, the other more carnal duties. A live in concubine, if you prefer. Going by my own experience, you tend to lose interest in and respect for a woman once you have lain with her, so if you had an artificial whose sole purpose was sexual congress, this crisis could be averted.
Everything was going swimmingly, if I may say so myself. Audra was coming along nicely; I was due to collect my second artificial in a few days’ time. I wouldn't take Vivaan to that appointment. He has a tendency to become emotional, and do irrational things.
Excellent.
Elle: Juno’s
Madam Juno always used to say: the better the brothel, the more discreet it was. Bearing this in mind, she set out to run the classiest robot brothel in Lux.
We didn't advertise. It was word of mouth; perhaps your boss might tip you the wink. You'd see blokes wandering about outside, expecting some fleshly paradise.
(Juno appreciated a good turn of phrase. She taught me that, along with many other things).
Once inside, the punters were shown into a tasteful lobby, Juno herself on the counter. She’d fix them a drink, banter a little, then ask them to pick whichever of the arties tickled their fancy. There were seven of us in total. Five lasses for the straight guys, Rio for girls and guys alike, and me.
The girls used to kick off about this. How could I justify charging the same rates as them; what I did with my clients didn't count as sex. Madam Juno was playing favourites; probably she wanted to fuck me herself. Whenever they said this, I felt myself go hot and cold and weak all over. I wished it was true.
It was madness, of course. She’d picked me from the factory, like she had all the others. She’d taught me how to act, what to say. She wasn't even that attractive: forty if she was a day, with her sun damaged skin, pointy nose and greying sandy hair. But she had a fabulous figure and a voice like the hottest and wettest of orgasms.
I'd grow out of it. It was the side effect of all that fucking. You couldn't spend your professional life fingering and licking women without wondering what it'd be like to be on the receiving end for once.
Two years, three years passed. I hadn't grown out of it. My crush - if that's what it was - was as stubborn and secret as ever.
***
Sometime in the early Sixties, something changed. The humans started to turn against us, so subtly we didn't notice at first. We’d weathered other storms: the AAA picketing, PassionPlay nicking part of our client base. This too would pass.
It must’ve been ‘63 that things turned ugly. Girls were caught while they were out and about, stripped to their machinery and set on fire. One time they captured a human by mistake. While the press jittered about “a slaying of unparalleled ferocity,” we guessed what had happened. They hadn't reported the attacks on bots, of course.
The riots were a few months later. It confirmed what we’d always known: under the civil veneer, the humans hated us. Madam Juno wouldn't let us leave the building; it was far too dangerous. The only way to get fresh air was to go out on the fire escape. I'd stand there feeling the breeze on my skin, watching the city burn.
One evening Juno joined me on the fire escape. She didn't speak at first but I knew she was there. She sparked her lighter but her hands were shaking; it took three attempts. I sucked in her smoke, thinking only seconds before it had been inside her.
“How long will it last, d’you think?” I nodded to the fracas below. Sirens and searchlights had become commonplace.
She shrugged. “Human blood isn't like robots’. It takes longer to cool.”
“Have there been riots before, then?”
“Never like this. When the first bots were built, they'd smash the factories. Nashites, they'd call them, after their leader, Oriana Nash. She said robots were unnatural - they spat in the face of the Goddess.”
“I'd spit in her face, holier than thou bitch.”
“People are scared of what they don't understand. Humans and bots alike.”
I scoffed. “What would you know?”
She looked at me straight on, more vulnerable than I'd ever seen her. “More than you'd think.”
I don't know who started it. I only know that the space between us was closed, and we were kissing. Lips became tongues, hands cupped and stroked and sought.
“What if someone sees?” I asked.
“At this height?”
Still, she led me to the shadowy part of the wall, slipped her fingers into me. Now I knew why my customers twisted and sighed, bit their lips and swore softly. It was better than I could have hoped, than I could have dreamt. It soared above any transaction that had taken place in my room, to another realm entirely.
***
We set some ground rules. Business and romance didn't mix; no one could know. I'd visit her office after hours; she’d come by my room. As a whore, sex had become reduced to the stark act. I had to be taught sensuality, tenderness. The first time she put her tongue inside me, I gasped at the unexpected heat and intimacy. It felt naughty - a word I'd always found trite.
We didn't always sleep together. She’d talk of getting out of the business for good, ask me about my goals. She loved telling stories. Our favourite was Princess Azita, forced to marry a murderous tyrant in order to save the kingdom. She spun him a different tale each night in order to stay alive.
“Azita had a handmaid,” she said. “Sabra. They loved each other as women and men love.”
This was the first time I'd heard about people like us. I don't know what I’d thought, maybe that it was a kink that humans liked to practice on bots. Yet here it was, in a legend thousands of years old. I marvelled.
“But she went ahead and married the king?”
“She had to. They carried on loving, once he’d gone to sleep. It was very risky - he could've found out any time.”
I
lost interest in Azita’s many tales after that, no matter how colourful they were. I wanted to know what happened to her and Sabra, if they made it out alive.
“If I'd written it,” I said, “they'd’ve got their own back. Punished him for all the women he killed.”
“I know, baby. Sadly the record’s quiet on the matter.”
***
We had been seeing each other for a few months when we received an unwelcome visitor.
With Juno I'd discovered a taste for games. I’d always liked cards - they helped fill the time between jobs - but she introduced me to poker, word games, chess. Once I'd asked why you had strip poker but not strip chess. Tickled by the suggestion, she incorporated it into our game. I'm sure she lost on purpose.
That fateful day, we were playing it in her office. She was tipsy and touchy feely: her foot caressed mine, her hand rested on my thigh. That wonderful bronze cleavage was already on display. If I played it right, she would soon be sliding naked onto my lap, pressing her hot flesh to mine.
A panicked knock at the door. Scarlet, Juno groped for her clothing and tried to make herself presentable. “Yes?”
Rio fell into the room. He was fresh from a client, wild haired and spilling out of his satin robe. “There's a copper in the lobby. He won't take no for an answer.”
Juno frowned. We knew all the cops in the smoke, none of them would push their luck like this. “He’s either new or an idiot,” she said brusquely. “I’ll deal with the little shit.”
“He’s -" Rio touched his forehead, the international sign for someone who isn't just ruthless but a nutter. “Be careful.”
“I always am.” She found the razor she cut her cigarettes with and slid it into her garter.
We gave her a moment’s head start, then went soundlessly to one of the second floor balconies. If we stayed perfectly still, nobody would notice us. It's one of the few benefits of being an artie: instant camouflage.
Rio was almost as invested as I was. He'd been found wandering the streets two years before, his memory wiped clean. Juno took pity on him and brought him in. He considered the brothel his home. No jumped up prick of a police officer could threaten that.
Juno faced the intruder. He was perhaps late forties, early fifties, and a hideous little gnome. I've seen better looking gargoyles on the sides of buildings. Nose and chin in the air, he clearly fancied himself.
“Madam Juno, I presume?” he lisped. My hackles rose.
“Who wants to know?”
He cracked his knuckles, enjoying her wince. “Captain Eustace Lucy at your service.” He revelled in the pause, a bullfighter flashing their cloak. “Of Perversion Prevention.”
Rio gripped my hand, hard. This was serious. Perversion Prevention policed all the sex crime in the country. Human sex was their bread and butter, but in recent times they'd turned on artificials, closing down the brothels and pleasure hubs. They could give Juno’s the kiss of death.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Juno’s expression was carefully neutral. She was doubtless thinking of the blade strapped to her thigh.
He was already on the move, examining the decor and furniture. You expected him to leave a trail of slime. “I've heard nothing but praise for this outfit, in spite of the downturn. What would you say is the secret of your success?”
Juno remained where she was. “Business acumen and hard graft.”
Lucy tittered. “In which case, Madam Juno, you're a very rare bird indeed. In fact -" he wheeled around, strode up to her so she could feel his breath on her face - “I've taken a liking to you. Let's make a deal.”
“I don't respond well to intimidation,” she said, turning her cheek.
A high pitched snigger. He had an annoying laugh for every occasion, it seemed. “Who said anything about intimidation? We don't work that way! No, what I'm offering is protection. A paternal interest in this worthy establishment.”
The face she presented now was the one she used on drunks and bums: fiery, imperious. “I don't need protection.”
He reached around her throat. Rio tried to pull me back, hissed that there was nothing I could do, but I was deaf to his pleas.
“Let her go, you cunt!”
He dropped her with a flick of his wrist and she fell gasping to the ground. He grinned up at me, licking his lips. “Well, well. I've always fancied a bit of black. Perhaps I could overlook this.”
Juno was in pain and cradling her throat, but she jumped at this. “You'll not touch Elle!”
Looking between the two of us, that despicable man guessed our relationship. If he was sneering before, he was leering now.
“Nice. I think, in the circumstances, you might want to consider your position. I'll be back in a day or two. Let me know what you decide.”
Tipping his hat, he showed himself out. Rio was gaping but I didn't care. My only thought was for Juno. I flew down the rest of the stairs and held her.
“Juno -"
“It's alright. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“I'll fucking kill him.”
“Don't!” Real alarm showed in her eyes. More calmly, “Don't. You knew what the penalty is for killing a human. The squelcher.”
The squelcher sounds like it ought to be funny, a dirty joke. It's neither. Shaped like a large bottle opener, it's the machine they use to permanently destroy arties. They use it in sex cases too - in fact, any vice involving us. We’re taught to fear it from our earliest moments. If you pass one, you shake your fist.
“What are you going to do?” I asked. She was trembling and crying from fright.
“I don't know, baby. I just don't know.”
Summer: Dead Time
It's been a fortnight since I came here, since my apprenticeship began. Though what the wolf’s ultimate plan is, I don't know. Nothing as wholesome and idealistic as Girls’ Love.
I miss the school, its comforting monotony. I miss Ms Adelaide and the thousand obscure exercises. I even miss the other girls: sweet Rosalie, bossy Miarka. (Though nothing could induce me to miss Leda). I wish I could wake up in the dorm in my crisp white bed, wash myself with my blue china water jug. I wish I could be doing ordinary things.
At least I have a room to myself. My first evening here I pocketed a piece of chalk and drew a protective circle on the wooden slats. It's so big, you can't see it. You could say that about the rest of my life now.
The alarm goes at five. I have a perfunctory wash, tie a cloth over my hair and wear the smock he gave me on my first day. I have to soak it in the sink and dry it each evening; I have no others. I've tried to ask the wolf for more clothes but courage fails me. He's startled if I speak without being spoken to.
Ablutions done, it's my job to attend to every nook and cranny of this vast, draughty, mouldy house. Why one man occupies such a huge space I couldn't tell you, and he only uses five rooms of it. Though at least this means I'm unlikely to run into him without warning.
I wash and wipe the windows, shampoo the carpets, beat the rugs, wax the stairs. The other day I idly considered overwaxing them, so he could overbalance and break his neck. May She forgive me. I never used to have these unworthy thoughts.
I asked for a vacuum stick the third day. He wouldn't hear of it. “The vibrations would be terrible! It'd completely sap my powers of concentration!”
That was the first time he mentioned vibrations; it wouldn't be the last. He must have acutely sensitive hearing: if the window squeaks or even if a broom rustles overhead, he runs out of his study and points an accusing finger.
“Audra?” he calls peevishly.
It's not my name and never will be, but I have to answer to it. “Yes, sir?”
“I'm working. Whatever it is you're doing, desist. I can't write another word with that racket going on.”
In my head I come up with tart responses. The one time I said what I thought, it must have been the fourth day, he grabbed my chin and held it so hard, I felt the pinch for hours afterwards. He didn't spe
ak, merely increased the pressure until I thought he would twist my head off.
When he let me go I fell against the banister. I struck my head on the second bar and felt giddy.
“You won't do that again, will you?” His face was completely expressionless.
He was right: I only have to recall the pain, the humiliation, and I burn with rage. Even when he puts on a white glove and runs his hand over a surface I've just cleaned. He holds it up for me to inspect: the smallest speck of dust. “I think you've missed a bit,” he says, waving his finger an inch from my face.
What does he want me for?
I ask myself this every night as I lie in my bed, hearing his snores below. Like his speaking voice it's high, irritating and peculiarly resonant. There's always a pause, and I hope he's died, but then it resumes.