by Jeremy Bates
The anxiety in Mr. Kim’s gut ballooned, but he nodded nonetheless and led the way to the study. Cassandra sat on a chair next to his desk, a white sheet draped over her.
“You got the Casper the Ghost version,” Rocco joked.
Mr. Kim gripped the sheet, hesitated a beat, then whipped it away with a flourish.
“Whoa! She’s white!” Rocco said. “I thought you’d go Asian.”
“I want her!” Pips said.
“Sorry, Pips,” Mr. Kim said. “She’s taken.”
“I want her!”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with her, little man,” Rocco said.
“Shut up!” he shouted. “I’ll kill you!”
“Weird how they just stare like that when they’re not turned on,” Rocco said. “It’s like she’s dead.”
Pips reached out a hand to touch her.
“Hey!” Mr. Kim said, slapping his hand. “Back off!”
“I want to touch her!”
“No way.”
“Fuck you!”
“Don’t touch her!”
“Why?” he said, instantly flipping from aggressive to submissive. “Please? Pleeeeease?”
“No way,” Mr. Kim said. “I don’t know where your grubby hands have been.”
“Please!”
“Let’s see her tits,” Rocco said, making to tug down her dress.
Mr. Kim slapped his hand too. “Are you crazy, man?”
Rocco frowned. “What?”
“You’re not touching her breasts. That’s sick.”
“She’s a Mech!”
“Would you molest someone in a coma?”
“She’s a machine, dude!”
“She’s mine. Besides, I don’t go touching your girlfriend’s breasts—if you had a girlfriend.”
“I have one, Whiz, don’t worry about that. She’s in sales—”
“Whatever. Now, both of you, just go…stand back.”
When they did as he instructed—reluctantly—Mr. Kim lifted Cassandra’s right hand and twisted her pinky finger ninety-degrees clockwise. A small click sounded, and then her eyes snapped open, though they remained unseeing.
“She’s alive!” Rocco said in a bad imitation of Boris Karloff.
Pips began sucking his thumb with enthusiasm, his eyes never leaving the Mech.
Mr. Kim twisted Cassandra’s finger another ninety-degrees until it came completely free at the knuckle, revealing a plug. He attached a wire to the plug, which connected to the back of his computer.
In urban locations, Mechs were powered by wireless energy transfer. In remote outdoor environments, piezoelectric meshes in their skin generated electricity through movement, which charged internal batteries.
In other words, they were completely wire-free. But a wired connection was mandatory for security purposes when you rolled or re-rolled them.
“Kimi, big display,” Mr. Kim said.
The room’s smartwall turned black, and a line of meaningless white letters appeared.
“Are you ready, Whiz?” the house AI asked him.
He swallowed tightly, his mouth suddenly so dry he didn’t think he would be able to reply. But then he managed a rusty, “Ready.”
Immediately the letters began revolving like the reels on a slot machine.
Pips tugged his thumb from his mouth long enough to cry, “It’s starting!” before jabbing it back into place.
Rocco said, “Moment of reckoning, my man.”
Mr. Kim barely heard either of them. He was staring at the revolving letters with manic concentration, visualizing a top tier trait in his head, willing it to appear.
Chapter 6
“I’ve always been shy.”
Miuccia Prada
Las Vegas, five years earlier. Mr. Kim had been at The Luxor with Julie for their honeymoon. They’d had a nice dinner the day they’d arrived, then they’d watched an evening show. Afterward, back in the hotel room, Mr. Kim found himself in a foul mood. There were times when he loved his wife unconditionally. But there were other times when she bugged the hell out of him. It was the small things she did. Like how she would peruse the menu in a fancy restaurant for ages, pretending to contemplate all the different dishes when he knew she would end up settling for whatever fish was available. Or how she wouldn’t say a word to him for five minutes while they ate their meals, then suddenly become all chipper when the waiter came by to ask if everything was all right. Or how she would order coffee after dessert and just sit there for a good half an hour watching other people enjoying themselves. The little baby steps she took when she walked, toes turned inward, like she was Japanese and not Korean and wrapped in a kimono. The way she held her purse with both hands, fearing some rapscallion might snatch it at any moment. Even the length of her showers were enough to drive him nuts. She could spend hours in them. Like that very evening. They had agreed to watch a movie in bed, which was code for getting jiggy with it. But as soon as they’d stepped foot in the hotel room she beelined for the bathroom and jumped in the shower, leaving him to twiddle his thumbs.
Deciding to teach her a lesson, he went down to the casino floor. He only planned to play the slots for an hour or so, come back up when Julie was good and ready to “watch the movie.” But his machine began winning, and he ended up down there until well past midnight. When he returned to the room, drunk and smelling of cigarettes, Julie was sleeping—or pretending to sleep. Because as soon as he lowered himself into the bed, she asked him where he’d been. It was a fair question, but he was in no mood for her bullshit, and he didn’t answer her, and they ended up lying side by side, awake for half the night, furious with each other for no good reason, which was how they spent their honeymoon night…
Pushing the memories from his mind, Mr. Kim refocused on the revolving letters, barely willing to blink.
The letters slowed, then stopped.
SHY
Mr. Kim experienced a moment of disbelief, which quickly morphed into stunned rage. Some people liked this trait. Shy Mechs were endearing and easy to get along with because they bent to their owner’s will.
Nevertheless, Shy wasn’t top tier.
Not even close.
“What’s it say?” Pips asked.
“Shy!” Rocco told him, and the bastard had the gall to smile. Then to Mr. Kim, “Not bad, dude. Not bad at all.”
“It’s not top tier!” he replied, panicked.
“It’s not a throwaway either.”
“It’s not top tier!”
“It’s second tier, man. It could have been worse—”
“It’s starting again!” Pips said.
Everything seemed to be happening far too fast. Mr. Kim barely had time to get his head around the first trait before turning to the letters on the wall once more.
Come on, he pleaded. Come on. Cut me a break. For once in my life, cut me a break, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything—
NEAT
“Neat!” Rocco said.
“Neat!” Pips repeated.
Mr. Kim stared at the word, feeling as though he were in a bad dream in which a thousand people were behind a one-way mirror, watching him, laughing at him.
“Not bad,” Rocco said.
“It’s not top tier either!” Mr. Kim said, now completely freaking out.
“Could have been worse—”
“Stop saying that!” Mr. Kim exploded. “Just stop saying that! I don’t want mediocrity! Jesus! Jesus!”
“Hey, chill out, Whiz. You’re doing fine. And you have one more roll. You can still get a top tier. A top tier and two second tiers, that’s a pretty damn good roll, you ask me—”
“It’s starting again!” Pips said.
Mr. Kim zeroed in on the revolving letters, his eyes bug-wide, his pulse racing, his body trembling. He felt hot, sick. The world seemed to be canting. His knees were weak. He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t not look.
Please please please please please please…
The le
tters slowed, then stopped.
The final trait appeared.
***
Mr. Kim didn’t know where he was or what happened. Then he understood why Rocco and Pips were looking down at him. He lay on his back on the floor.
Frowning, he sat up.
Rocco crouched next to him and said, “You just totally fainted, dude.”
“Fainted?” He didn’t remember fainting. The last thing he recalled—
He looked at his Mech sitting on the chair beside the computer.
Artistic.
Please, no, he thought. Had Artistic really been the last trait? Had he really rolled all second tiers?
Was Artistic even second tier?
Had he rolled two second tiers and a throwaway?
Rocco was saying something.
Mr. Kim blinked torpidly at him.
“You okay, dude? Did you hit your head?”
“A painter,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“A painter… I got myself a painter…”
A mad kind of laughter wanted to bubble up his throat, but he held it at bay.
“She’s not a painter, man,” Rocco said. “She’s Artistic. That’s not bad. Not bad at all.”
“Could be worse, right?” Mr. Kim said sardonically.
“I think you did pretty good. Shy and Neat are pretty solid traits. Especially Neat. Think of it like you just got yourself a personal maid—”
“I’m already neat!” he snapped.
“Yeah, but Neat’s still good, man. And Shy—that’s really good. Really easy to live with a Shy Mech. And Artistic, yeah, that might not be your thing. But that means she’s creative, right? That’s pretty cool. She could probably help you with your computer stuff. Thinking outside the box—”
“It’s a throwaway,” he said woodenly.
“It’s not, dude. Second tier. Solidly second tier.”
Shaking his head, Mr. Kim got to his feet and went to the kitchen. He snatched the shochu bottle off the counter and took a swig. He still felt as though he were in a bad dream, or perhaps sleepwalking, everything sluggish.
Rocco and Pips, he noticed, had followed him. He waved them away. “Go home,” he said.
Rocco frowned. “Don’t be like that, man.”
“Party’s over.”
“You’re overreacting—”
“Go!” he thundered.
Frown deepening, Rocco gripped Pips on the shoulder. “Come on, little man,” he said. “Time to split. Let The Whiz have his meltdown in peace.”
Chapter 7
“Don’t spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it into a door.”
Coco Chanel
After his friends left, Mr. Kim finished off the rest of the shochu. The last gulp went down too fast, or the wrong way, turning his stomach queasy. He dashed to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet, which politely dispensed the advice that he should take a tablespoon of Pepto-Bismol and rehydrate with water.
Mr. Kim flushed, then curled into a ball on the floor. He had never laid on the bathroom floor before. The fact he was doing so disgusted him. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to move right then. He couldn’t do anything except think about the lemon of a Mech he was now stuck with, and the whopping year’s salary he’d blown on it.
Why couldn’t he have just rolled one top tier trait? Just one? Was that too much to ask?
Maybe one day he could re—
No.
Christ, was he already thinking about that?
Eventually Mr. Kim dozed off. When he opened his eyes, he was cold and his body ached. Groggily, he climbed to his feet. His head pounded and he winced. Sleep. Proper sleep. That’s what he needed. He felt as though he could sleep for a week.
While zombie-walking to the bedroom, he paused at the threshold to the study.
Cassandra sat in his padded executive chair next to his desk, her face at rest, her knees pressed together, her hands folded on her lap. She looked so sweet, so innocent. She had no idea the shit she was causing him, she was blissfully unaware of everything going on, at peace in her ignorance…and this was somehow comforting.
Maybe he was making too much of her traits, he thought. Maybe they didn’t really matter as much as everybody made out. Why was Charismatic so much better than Shy anyway? Who cared what others said?
You just have to try her out for yourself.
“Are you all right, Whiz?” the house AI asked him. It was the first time Kimi had spoken since the rolling party, and he realized she would have been keeping silent until sensing his mood tick upward a little.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Kim replied.
“I hate to admit this, but your buffoonish friend Rocco was right. Your roll isn’t as bad as you believe.”
“I just wanted…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Will you turn her on?”
“Do I have any other choice?”
Mr. Kim could return Cassandra to Newbotics, but there was really no point in doing so, as the company didn’t offer refunds. The other alternative would be to sell her, but again there was really no point, as Mechs lost ninety-nine percent of their value as soon as they were rolled. This was due to the law that required every Mech to be registered to an owner, and the sub-clause that stated any change of registration required a re-roll, which cost nearly as much as a brand-new Mech that came prepackaged with the initial free roll. It was all a sham, of course, a devious way for Newbotics to keep second-hand Mechs from flooding the marketplace and cutting into their bottom line.
“I think you should give her a chance,” the house AI said. “You might be pleasantly surprised.”
Mr. Kim didn’t reply. He simply stood there, studying Cassandra, a thousand conflicting thoughts banging around inside his head.
Finally he made up his mind.
He entered the study and tore free the wire from the stump of Cassandra’s pinky finger. He produced the corresponding end of her finger from his pocket and reattached it with a quick clockwise twist. Then he twisted it in the same direction once more.
Three consecutive beeps sounded, and in the next instant Cassandra’s eyes blazed with life. They found Mr. Kim’s, and her mouth stretched into a brilliant smile.
“Hello,” she said.
***
“Uh, hi,” Mr. Kim said, swallowing the sudden knot in his throat. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“I’m Cassandra,” she said, extending a lithe hand.
“I know,” Mr. Kim said, shaking gently. “I named you.”
“Oh, right.” She flushed.
“You’re warm,” he said, surprised.
“I am?”
“Before I turned you on, you were cool. Now your hand’s warm.”
“Oh, yes. We warm instantly.”
He released his grip. “I’m Mr. Kim.”
“Mr. Kim,” she said, still smiling.
He licked his lips. “I, uh—do you want to try to stand?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, and then appeared embarrassed by her over-enthusiastic reaction. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just really excited. I’ve never stood before.”
“It’s pretty easy,” Mr. Kim said. “You just…stand, I guess.”
Cassandra raised herself from the chair.
“You’re a natural,” he said.
She looked around the room in wonder. “Is this your house?” she asked.
He nodded. “Do you want a tour?”
“I’d love one.”
The tour took about ten minutes. By the end of it Mr. Kim still felt a bit nervous—after all, it was a lot of pressure meeting your lifelong companion for the first time—but at least Cassandra was proving to be pretty chill.
“And here’s the last stop,” he said, strolling ahead of her into the kitchen and gesturing valiantly around. “There’s the fridge. There’s the stove. Microwave, toaster. Cutlery’s in that drawer. But I guess you don’t really care though.
”
“Why wouldn’t I care?” Cassandra asked, stopping beside him.
“Because you don’t eat,” he said.
“But I still like to cook.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I believe so.” She seemed to think about it. “Yes, I do. Absolutely.”
“Huh,” Mr. Kim said, studying her.
“Huh?” she said.
“You don’t know what you like?”
“No, I do. It’s just that—my memories are all new to me. That might sound strange, but…” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m acting foolish, aren’t I?”
“No sweat,” he said. “I sometimes have that effect on babes.”
She smiled. “I like that you think I’m a babe.”
“Yeah? Well, you are. You’re a total babe.”
“Thank you.”
“Babalicious from babe-land.”
Cassandra laughed, a mellifluous sound. “Anyway, you have a beautiful home, Mr. Kim,” she said. “It’s lovely. It really is.”
“You can just call me The Whiz. Everybody does.”
“You have a beautiful home, The Whiz.”
“No—not like that. When you’re talking about me, I’m The Whiz. You know, like, ‘The Whiz just left the building.’ But when you speak directly to me, it’s just Whiz. Get it?”
“Got it,” she said.
“Coolio.”
“So have you lived here long, Whiz?”
He nodded. “I grew up here. The house belonged to my parents. They left it to me in their will.”
“Oh my.” She touched a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“To hear what?”
“That your parents have passed on.”
“They were on a cruise in Australia. During one of their port days, a croc got them.”
Her eyes widened. “What!”
“They didn’t see the No Swimming sign.”
“A crocodile ate your parents?”
“That’s life, babe. Shit happens.”
“Are you pulling my leg?”
“You think I’d joke about how my parents died?”
“No, of course not. I’m—God, I’m so sorry.”
Cassandra looked down at her hands—shyly, Mr. Kim determined—and abruptly his good mood one-eightied.