by Grant Piercy
locks eyes and speaks in a low tone.
“Watch yourself, Neil.”
Her eyes appear to be a natural blue, but it’s difficult to tell through the glasses. It crosses my mind that maybe even Lt. Jeffries could be an NMAC model. Maybe this is part of the game.
She marches away through the throng, maybe towards another target. The partygoers seem to swallow her whole as she disappears amongst them.
Alyssa’s now standing above the crowd, either on a bar stool or chair. She’s all smiles and laughter, decadent elegance and panache. “If you’re participating in tonight’s affair, you’ll have received an envelope with your name on it. At this time, I’d like you to open your envelopes if you have not done so already.”
At her behest, and perhaps despite my better judgment, I raise the envelope and rip the edge away. With two fingers, I pluck out the piece of paper inside. Before reading, my eyes catch Charlie again, maneuvering the crowd with drinks perfectly balanced on the tray cradled by her right hand. She’s coming this way. Before she passes me by entirely, I place a hand on her left arm.
“Miss?” I ask.
Her startled face offers recognition, but she attempts to mask it. Her only knowledge of me would be that of creator, of being her first sight. Her artificial intelligence is not exactly childlike, but hindered by the hard problem of consciousness. What she experiences is not exactly comparable to what we do. “Sir?”
I hold the envelope and paper in the same hand as my drink, though the bourbon seems to have been sipped dry. Now that I have her attention, I shift the glass to the other hand and tip it in her direction. “May I have another drink?”
“What’s your preference, sir?”
“Do you have any bourbon?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, sir.” Her gaze is cold and unfeeling, unfettered by typical human emotion. Still, a hint of confusion flickers across her exceptional violet eyes. “I’ll have to go back to the serving area to obtain one for you.”
“Your name is Charlotte,” I offer. Once again being so close to her, I feel as I did when constructing her flawless face and body, crafting her vanilla simulated skin. Peering into those delicate eyes, the electricity that drove me to craft the ultimate perfection sends jolts up and down body, as Alexandros of Antioch must have felt when sculpting the Venus De Milo.
“No, sir.”
“What does Mr. Shields call you?”
“Dana.”
“He didn’t make you,” I reply. “He shouldn’t get to name you.”
“Do I know you, sir? You look… familiar.”
Laughter erupts from somewhere near the bar. It’s Alyssa, entertaining a group that looks like it includes Shields. Lt. Jeffries moves toward the group of laughing socialites; maybe that’s my cue to exit.
“Dana, Charlotte, whatever. I came here for you, to see you.”
“Me, what…” she starts to ask the question and looks toward her master, but I cut her off.
“Your face haunts my sleep.”
She begins to push away, a look of panic creeping across her face. “Who… who… No.” Her violet eyes shift like those of an animal about to be put to sleep.
“I’m not… I don’t want to hurt you,” I tell her, taking hold of her arm again. “I just want you to know, no matter what he does for you or what he says to you, someone out there loves you and always will.”
She stops struggling, her eyes no longer twitching. I want to look back at Lt. Jeffries to see if she’s speaking to Shields yet, but I can’t. My perfect creation holds my gaze—her face contorts slightly as she tries to determine the meaning of my statements in light of her condition. The hard problem of consciousness. “Take…” she mumbles, trying to compose herself. “Take your hand off me.”
“I should be going,” I say, peering back toward Jeffries and Shields. Charlie, or rather Dana, begins to walk away, tray of drinks still perfectly level. “Auf wiedersehen, Fraulein.”
I never should have come here. There was no reason for it. I’m not even terribly sure I meant the words I said to her. She’s the property of another man, and even though I created her… scratch that. Even though I was part of the project team that created her, I can’t afford to even purchase a similar model. I shouldn’t be out here, trying to convince a gynoid of my emotions when we don’t even share a comparable experience.
Carrying the letter from the envelope and still hanging onto my drink, I need to make my way out of the party. At the main entrance to the ballroom, which is a particularly tight squeeze anyway, there’s a black-suited bald man with an earpiece. It’s difficult to see any other possible exits with the dim lighting. A misty layer of smoke hangs over the party.
I try to sneak along a wall, which has a ledge for people to set drinks. Lt. Jeffries appears to be sifting through the crowd with a group of men. They differ from the others–suits, not tuxedos. Muscle. I lean on the ledge and set my drink down, facing the wall so hopefully I won’t be spotted. I look like I’m reading the letter when it really does catch my eye:
“You are an android engineer in love with a female model you created specifically for the host of the party: Stephen Shields, a prominent businessman. Your goal for the first half of the party is to confront the female model and avoid being taken into custody by the authorities.”
It becomes even harder to breathe, as though the tie around my collar has tightened further. Beads of sweat form on my brow. I was contracted to build the perfect concubine, which he uses simply to serve drinks. Have I been set up similarly, just to be a pawn in a game for drunken rich people?
More laughter from somewhere near the bar. I can only assume gentlemen are fawning over the possibly inhuman Alyssa, and the story of the game continues. Charlie seems to have disappeared altogether. The letter drops away from my hand. There’s a fire exit near the back of the ballroom and I begin to rush in that direction. Before I can get there, another man with an earpiece steps in front of the door. Luckily, a passageway leads to the left of the fire exit to the restrooms.
Over my shoulder, I see the man at the fire exit pressing his finger against his earpiece. Seconds later, Jeffries comes into view, with her strange khaki uniform and circular glasses. Without hesitating, I enter the men’s room and dart into one of the seven stalls. Two of them are already occupied; there’s no other play to be made.
I stand on a toilet seat, the door closed just enough so I can’t be seen by someone simply passing by. Stretching, I hold the door in that position with one hand. The outer men’s room door creaks open—two sets of footsteps enter.
“Prater?” Jeffries calls out. “Are you here, Prater?”
One of the men occupying the other stalls responds, “What’re you doing in the Men’s Room, honey?”
“Prater, there’s nowhere else to go.” Her footsteps approach.
I hear a loud thud, then a “What the hell?” from another stall, the same voice that questioned Jeffries when she entered. She must’ve kicked in a stall door. She doesn’t apologize for breaking in on the guy; she simply moves to the other occupied stall and kicks in that one as well. “Jesus, lady!”
In a low voice, she croaks, “Check the empty stalls.”
“Wait,” I announce, stepping down off the toilet seat. “I’m right here.” With my hands in the air, I slowly exit the stall. “You’ve got me.”
She holds a gun on me and hands the big man with the earpiece a pair of handcuffs. “Put your hands out in front of you,” she says. “There’s no need for us to disturb this party while we walk out of here.” I hold my wrists up, waiting for the cold slap of the cuffs.
“Are you going to erase me?” I ask.
“That’s a decision we’re going to have to make. For now, you’re mine,” she says from behind the sight of her pistol. Once my hands are secure, she holsters the weapon and steps close. I feel her hand reach deep into my armpit and she begins walking me toward the door.
Her raspy voice close to my ear, she says, “W
hy did you do it?”
“There was a letter, given to me by the woman running the game, the woman you overheard. The letter predicted my actions. This is some kind of setup. They knew who I was before I got here. I’m just a guy who wanted to see how the wealthy live. Rub elbows.”
She’s walking me down the hallway, back toward the ballroom. “What woman?”
“I don’t even know if she’s really a woman. She might be a gynoid.”
“A robot?”
“Yes. The redhead in the evening gown, Alyssa.”
“It’s my impression, this is Stephen Shields’ party. I thought he was running the game,” she says over my shoulder.
“If that’s the case, I’m just a pawn. I don’t even know what the game is.”
As we approach the bar, we see the group of men surrounding the lascivious redhead. She seems more vibrant than she did when I was first approached with the letter, as though her charm had been amped up. Then again, at the time, I only had eyes for my creation… for Charlotte.
“Are you part of the game?” I ask Jeffries.
“I can assure you, Mister Prater, this is no game.”
“Even if you haven’t been hired, he must’ve wanted you here, specifically. Maybe you’re part of the game whether you know it or not.”
“Mister Prater, I’ve been looking for you!” Alyssa speaks up, over the murmur of the crowd. She pushes her way through the group surrounding her. “I have another letter meant for you. It’s time for the second half