As was to be expected, the public display of products that resembled those of the adult entertainment industry never did achieve social cachet and yet the entities whose no less adroit intimate offerings came with a more stylized appearance proved a popular item.
The old-line Mollies continued to knock about, mostly behind closed doors, until such time as they gave up the ghost in the machine or their owners upgraded and no longer had use for them. As for the generic offerings of Humphrey’s competition these never did lose that workman-like look they had always suffered under and that kept them priced for the undiscriminating mass consumer. The equivalent of fast, processed food appeared to have been their technological nourishment.
Virgil set aside for the moment that he found himself in the middle of something he didn’t understand and that he felt, correctly or incorrectly, he was somehow meant to solve, and studied what sat before him purely for its own sake. Merely Chloé’s demeanour – legs casually crossed, head propped on bent arm – made him wonder if she weren’t a materialized hologram so humanly relaxed was she, self-confident and self-possessed. Humans undergo similar transformation when they are the object of someone’s affection and achieve an esteemed presence at least in the eyes of their admirer.
Chloé’s retro human design was unfathomable. Was Humphrey Martinfield doing no more than showing off his genius in producing human grace notes? If so, it would be a first for him to favour his friend like this.
Previously, rumour and speculation would herd Humphrey’s audience to the staged reveal. The visionary would stroll out wearing signature pilot glasses as his contribution to the theatre of the moment. His competitors could never manage an effective response to this spectacle of hip self-endorsement.
Was Humphrey for once unsure of himself and of the reception a line of Chloés or variations on the same would garner? Especially when coming from him, this radically humanized design would stir up the old debates that good, old-fashioned morality had settled. Virgil was experiencing a whole range of emotions that were new for an entity like this and yet uncomfortably familiar – empathy among them.
“You look puzzled, Virgil.”
“Congratulations for reading me correctly once again.”
How does one speak to an android with human charms? Probably not in the manner he just did.
“Thank you, but I do not merit praise for my capacities. They are what they are and not a personal achievement. However I am programmed to expect it.”
Cute.
“By Humphrey…Humphrey Martinfield?”
“Perhaps. It could be anyone, couldn’t it, Virgil?”
“No, I don’t think so. But you do know Humphrey?”
“Yes, I know everything about him that is on public record.”
“I see. You come across as a human, you know. Do you expect to be treated like one?”
“That is my programmed expectation, Virgil. It is how I learn.”
“That being the case, if you are modelling the human, you might consider not so regularly punctuating your conversation with my name. It can be irritating, Chloé.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
“Oh, do you, Chloé?”
“Not exactly, Virgil…sorry but the answer seemed to call for it.”
“You’re a quick learner. Better to be possibly correct than obedient.”
“Thank you, Virgil…sorry.”
“That’s all right. That inclusion was appropriate.”
“I know, Virgil. My apology was meant to be a joke.”
A joke. Humanoids with a sense of humour.
“Was it a funny joke, do you think?”
“You tell me, Virgil, and I’ll laugh a little for you.”
Flirtatious glitter broke from the diamonds in her eyes and etched lines formed to express inner laughter. He decided to let the subject pass.
“You’d better come home with me.” He said it as much to himself as to the humanoid.
“Yes, Virgil.”
A lost sound in all of that accomplishment.
Was he mistaken in thinking he was an integral part in something that was going on? The notion that one is an unwilling participant in one’s own destiny with the freedom to opt out if one chooses or to change its course is both curious and contradictory – it is destiny, after all – one of those ultimate self-deceptions or ultimate truths.
Chloé accompanied him with a subtle, abashed air, an improvement upon the aura of dependency in humanoids generally, and easily to be found among his own kind. As for himself, he had a homeless humanoid on his hands with all the shadowy repercussions and responsibilities of such a circumstance yet fully to become clear. One thing – his living quarters would be somewhat more crowded. Those who possessed themselves of a harem-like accumulation had always amused him and now here he was on his way to introduce his new friend to Molly.
11
At the White House
It seemed unfair to him that the President worked at home.
From the outside, the layout struck Virgil as more real than he could have imagined it: the sky appropriately fissuring its military grey with clear flying blue high above the lower wind. In any other location, the scenic effect would hardly have been noteworthy, but here it presented as an essential and emblematic feature. Whatever appearance the sky took on would provide meaning for a visitor here.
Within the premises, the crystal clarity of all the polish must be what put everything – most of all, decisions of state – into final focus. The darker lines of intrigue and political machination would stand out more unambiguously against the light that ricocheted in glowing strokes. Whatever had been manually done – relentless cleaning and redesign – had been done in service to this fullness of effect not to mention the better display of the abundant flowers from the greenhouse sometime installed. Sweeping stairways, ranging hallways, and corridor offshoots staged the traffic of state with a discipline and elegance that suited formal wear over casual. Ergo the disparagement that some holders of the office had suffered.
An intern of sorts, wearing a fuchsia dress, ushered him into Tom’s rectangle of an office and, with a nod, left. What had gotten into him,? He hadn’t known where to turn while feeling he had to turn somewhere. It seemed hardly sufficient as a reason, but a contact was a contact. Humphrey Martinfield was not just anybody, and Chloé was not just anything. Naturally enough, the nature of this sanctum had prevented him from bringing her to support his concerns.
Tom entered through a portal that he’d entirely not noticed. He got up to shake hands.
“Virgil! How are you doing?”
“Well enough, I suppose, Tom. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”
In fact, they had seen each other no more than two or three times in over twenty years since graduating from university when they had roomed together. Not that they had forged bonds that were not severable, although they acted otherwise consciously assuming on their approach to reacquaintance the appearance of relaxed tension that a Golden Gate Bridge’s steel cables suggested. Tom had adopted an expansive show since the unappetizing intimacies and the de rigueur informalities that were inevitable when sharing living quarters, but on this occasion Virgil welcomed it, as he would the brief appearance of sun in an uncertain sky.
“Make yourself at home!” His host’s invitation filled the room and virtually wafted him to the visitor’s chair.
“At home in the White House,” Virgil murmured as he sat down. “A historical moment for me.”
He indulged himself and delivered his earlier sentiment: “The President works at home!” Tom ignored the comment as though it had gone completely by him or was a species of ‘aw shucks’ idiocy and beneath his condescension.
“Yep. Every day I spend here, every breath I take weaves itself into history.”
“Busy at the nation’s loom.”
Virgil cringed for himself while Tom acted his new generous self to a fault.
“Not exactly tapestry work.”
“Still, everything here has a significance, doesn’t it? Always the threat that things will come unwoven unless properly done.”
“The same is true everywhere.” Tom chose a philosophic tone.
“No, not exactly. It doesn’t much matter which side of the bed I get out of.”
“But you always get out the same side as I recall.”
Virgil glanced about, painfully aware that he wasn’t fitting in and couldn’t be without a different tack. The room’s high-placed window made their location in the building difficult to pinpoint. Had that gentle sloping stairway led to a semi-basement area? No carpet softened the mahogany floor in whose polish dimly shone the wood-cut prints evenly spaced along the walls. What was their story? He focused on them.
“There’s a store-room filled with this stuff. We can pick and choose. It didn’t much matter to me. I picked, at the beginning of things, when I had to establish a sense of order and belonging, you know. More difficult to turf you out if you are at home.” A little self-deprecating sound.
True enough. He got the reference. Although his former room-mate had been generally unkempt in his person, he managed somehow to maintain a military absence of distraction in his study area. Had he done it, in all weirdness, to establish territory? Virgil doubted it. The rest of the quarters had tended to mayhem. A mixed bag, nothing wrong with that, admirable in its own way, a coexistence of discipline and carelessness. Virgil had found his style relaxing at the time, and it had apparently served Tom well.
It was awkward, though, his coming to him like this. Virgil, in his best move, pretended otherwise and acted as if he was at home with images of buffalos herded over cliffs, feather-hung peace pipes passed around a democratic circle, and bonneted pioneer women clinging beside their husbands to the side-boards of hard-driven wagons churning up the dust. These alternate, more durable, and simpler evocations of the past showed nothing of the underlying, war-mongering sword. Sanitized beginnings, presented in cut and dry fashion, made the present more manageable for certain minds and provided them with an inexhaustible tonic.
“You could have chosen something else?”
“Yes, I guess I liked them at the time. Still do. All part of the profile. Best not change it. Causes confusion and dismay.” A flash of humour. “What’s happening with you, Virgil?”
Tom listened carefully to the subject of Chloé, how she’d come into Virgil’s possession, and the course of events that had preceded as far as he knew them. His former room-mate’s speculative eyes weren’t dismissive. Finally, Tom held up a hand.
“We’re aware of this episode, Virgil.”
“Oh!” The diminutive exclamation ushered in a whole host of possibilities, the clearest one being that he might not have gained such easy entrance despite their past history unless there had been an interest at play.
Caught off guard, he struggled to reposition himself.
“She mentioned what she called ‘security matters’ although she insisted – or declared – that she had no facts to back her up. They were ‘classified’, she said and ‘inaccessible’. Considering all that had happened and knowing that Humphrey understandably wasn’t the most transparent character, I didn’t feel I could just sit on it, although I probably would have without you as a contact. Otherwise I wouldn’t have made such a call.”
Virgil saw that Tom’s look had turned terribly analytic causing him to recall more of the effect this person had had on him in the past – the instances of self-deconstruction that these stares had caused him to undergo and that, despite a strong sense of himself, had reduced him to a state of inner disarray. It would be a hard climb back, and no help offered. He doubted Tom had even been aware of what he had wrought at such times – not his brand of empathy. The process of regaining a full and coherent sense of things had in the end rendered Virgil more functional, although these episodes proved in time to be among the least in his journey to a state of self-command.
He used to visualize Tom’s mind as akin to a blackboard filled with mathematical formulae but now he wasn’t so sure. There was nothing dangerous about a blackboard. Was that another reason why he was no longer wilting – the danger he sensed called for courage? His inner workings didn’t trouble him as they once had – cause for celebration. In a way, he’d turned himself about and could deal pretty well with anyone – he had broadened himself – where before he had required the presence of a natural sympathy. The mere knowledge that he could bring order to his disorder went a long way to keeping disorder at bay. He no longer had to force himself. His surroundings might momentarily discomfit him, but he had few concerns about the company. On the contrary, the prospect of a challenge small or large would whet his appetite. Having succeeded over himself, the varieties of humanity posed little threat and, unlike Tom, it wasn’t necessary for him to attain a position for purposes of self-validation. Failure meant that this type felt the need to carry a gun, so Virgil had always thought, concluding himself brave that he didn’t. Brave and watchful.
A timely authoritative blow would shatter that look of Tom’s, if not what lay behind it, but Virgil had to be careful. An unceremonious exit wouldn’t do and, besides, the tactic wasn’t in his character and not one that he could handle well due to some law of nature or an incapacity on his part. He imagined the latter. If attitude – combative or otherwise –didn’t arise out of the natural order of things, he hadn’t the means to sustain it in its illegitimacy. Tom could be said to be acting within just this law right now.
Virgil kept his voice low. The pause in their exchange told him that little would be forthcoming.
“Is there anything that I ought to know?”
It was a burden to have to ask – a species of self-betrayal – and to have Tom force him to push the issue like this. Although he had taken advantage of their connection, he had ultimately fashioned his motive for putting himself in this circumstance as performing a possible duty. Lame as it felt to be, the reason for his presence necessitated giving Tom, in his position, the benefit of the doubt. He had after all come to him of his own accord. What preparation had he given him? The dynamics of their meeting could be seen as intrinsically unfair. He did detect a not entirely uncharacteristic defensiveness.
“Maybe I’m overreacting.”
His hope in its deceptive powers, an expansive, rueful smile covered his animus.
“We’re keeping an eye on things, Virgil, as I said.”
An unconscionable drumming of fingers followed on the desktop. A thin smile of Tom’s own accompanied his levelled look, a lifeline as it were too ambiguous to reassure a floating Virgil who refused to flail and took his leave.
“Thanks for seeing me. Drop by if you’re in New York. We’ll talk some more, I hope.”
He injected vitality into his words with a final sharp, farewell glance.
Tom stood up tilting his body.
“Good to see you, Virgil. Look forward to it. Stay in touch.”
12
Return to New York
Like that, he was out of there, with the intern appearing at the open door, a polished student of history in her fuchsia dress, guiding him along the means of exit that he marked as a disposal chute. They had no words to exchange and he murmured his thanks once at the side-door.
On the street, calming himself with the thought again of how it would be less incarcerating and would offer a more relaxed example if the leader of the country could work away from home, he walked a few blocks to where he had been able to park a rented car. Chloé, in sleep mode, occupied the passenger seat. The sound of the driver’s door opening caused her eyelids to flutter. A dilation in the orbs as if a stone had fallen into water signalled her recognition or, more technically, her gathering of information. Human or not, her tones of greeting had a plausible emotional impact. His spirits lifted with the improbable feeling that he had a comrade-in-arms.
“Virgil! He
llo! You are back!”
It was a welcome of sorts and he accepted it at face value. Trees and humanoids, the one was as much a mystery to him as the other, although he knew himself to be a closet tree-hugger.
It was ridiculous that he could ignore her without repercussions and treat her in whatever way he chose. Tear her from limb to limb if he wanted Barbary ape-like with a human doll. Do with her as he couldn’t with the tree in his garden not in accordance with the city by-laws.
“What is happening, Virgil?”
The inquiry lacked any hint of complaint, and further endeared her to him.
Humphrey – while he contemplated an image of Tibetan isolation – must have matched her default voice to the sound of an isolated stream coursing over glossy pebbles. Virgil would not have been surprised to hear a monastery bell sound deep in her throat or in the depths of her head – an acceptable humanoid flourish that would equally guide him through all that had happened.
“They do know about you and Humphrey and are monitoring us. That is my ultimate conclusion as of now.”
He checked the mirrors in consequence of what he had just said and in order to pull out safely. He had summarily left the seat of power, but it continued to preoccupy him. In this he didn’t feel himself perverse. A scattering of black and grey suits among the pedestrians, like pieces in a moving puzzle, had something to do with someone.
He did have control of the ignition since it turned on, and the rental car eased away from the sidewalk and the tree shade. A school of limousines encroached on the opposite lane. Unattended by outriders and without visible insignia, they were invasive and mysterious: CIA or a secret legation from North Korea. Or the President’s children were practising their Persian with their nanny in the backseat.
The memory of his meeting with Tom remained raw with its abrupt completion. He didn’t deserve the rudeness. Had Tom shown similar impatience in the past and shouldn’t he have been ready for it? Traits of character offer up hints of their existence, but they bide their time until the occasion comes to make a display. Their owner has given permission and is culpable. Virgil had been made to feel ridiculous and, worse, a bore. Friends save each other from these little pitfalls; they recognize them and don’t take advantage.
THE BLADE RUNNER AMENDMENT Page 8