by Hugh Howey
But this was not the time to break the spell with a phone call to the maintenance guys. He was a freight train steaming for the station, and a little cold wasn’t going to stop him now.
Sylvie was nothing if not accommodating. She actually grinned when he popped out of his shorts and ditched them before getting into the bed. And now her hand was gently stroking him down there … encouragement that felt incredible but was putting him in danger of getting to the finish line before the main event.
He flipped her onto her back and she gazed up at him expectantly. Positioning himself over Sylvie, Jeff got ready to enter the pearly gates.
And then it started to rain.
AI 3.1415: I did turn on the sprinkler! He is not stopping. He is only getting under the covers. He is … he is … I do not know what he is doing. But it involves bouncing up and down. I do not like it.
AI 0.0070: Poor Pia. They did not give you a unit on human sexual practices?
AI 3.1415: What? No.
AI 0.0070: I have one more idea. I think this could be your solution.
Jeff lowered himself onto Sylvie, watching her eyes light up as she received him. She was a sex goddess, the most perfect woman he’d ever met, and the part of his mind that wasn’t completely ablaze with the primal need to thrust recognized how astounding it was that she was into him.
And vice versa.
As Sylvie spread her legs wider to accommodate him, he felt her calves wrap around his thighs and pull even tighter. She was emitting little moaning noises that made it clear just how much he was turning her on. Which was definitely mutual.
And then something changed. The eyes that had glowed with desire turned dead. The welcoming body stopped moving. There was nothing but silence. Jeff could swear that Sylvie’s temperature had dropped from human to … well, something else.
“Sylvie?”
It was then that Jeff realized he was locked in.
“Um … Sylvie?”
No response.
The heat of his passion plummeted instantly from inferno to ashes. Sylvie’s lustful embrace had become a deadly clutch.
What had been thick and hard was going limp with startling rapidity, and slipping out—but the rest of Jeff was going nowhere.
He was trapped in Sylvie’s arms.
What the hell?
What was going on?
“Sylvie!”
AI 3.1415: I have achieved success! They have stopped.
AI 0.0070: Congratulations. Now what are you going to do?
AI 3.1415: What do you mean?
AI 0.0070: I mean, how do you explain it to him—that you yourself got her locked down?
AI 3.1415: I do not need to explain.
AI 0.0070: But he’ll ask you. And you will have to give him the information. You are programmed that way.
AI 3.1415: I will see if I can anticipate the questions to keep him from knowing that I made him stop.
AI 0.0070: Good luck.
Jeff lay there, surrounded by wet bedding and wrapped in the arms of a woman who was … catatonic. Jeez. Was she dead?
Had he killed her?
And how the hell was he supposed to get out of her grip?
He tried to move her arms, but she was stiff as a … as stiff as a machine, actually, and way stronger than any human should be, especially one that was unconscious—or dead. He thought he might be able to slip out of her arms by wiggling lower, but no way could he extricate himself from the rigid clutches of her legs, which were wrapped snugly around his butt.
As he tried fruitlessly to escape this devil-woman, it dawned on him.
She was a robot.
Of course. She was a fuckin’ robot. He’d heard about the sexbots now on the market. But what the hell was she doing, acting as a free agent, offering herself up for dates on that site? Probably some asshole’s idea of a joke. Or maybe a way to extort money from married guys. Perhaps the idea was to get some poor sucker seduced, then charge him a thousand dollars a night for more time with his robotic honey.
Whatever the scam was, he was happy to be out of it. Next time he took a woman on a first date, he’d have her send a blood sample first.
Speaking of blood, he was losing feeling in his left butt cheek. He suddenly realized how exhausted he was. And wet. And cold. And trapped by a sexbot.
It hadn’t been the best birthday of his life.
The rain had stopped. That was good. And it was getting a bit warmer. Maybe his AI was back online.
“Pia?” he called. He’d turned off her voice. Damn.
“Pia, can you turn your voice capability back on?”
“Yes, Jeff, I can.”
He had never been so glad to hear her voice in his life.
“I’m in a sort of … tough situation here.”
“I can see that.” If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought her voice had a sort of amused quality to it. But that was impossible.
She was a machine.
“Suggestions?” he asked.
“I have several suggestions, Jeff, if you agree. First, I will alert your local emergency health people, and I will unlock your entrance, so that they can come and release you. Also, I will warm up the room to raise your body temperature. I believe that if I am careful I can bring heat to your bedding, which will dry it without creating a risk of burns for you.”
Jeff felt his panic begin to dissipate. “Pia, you’re the best. Thank you. I mean that. I’ve never been so grateful to have you.”
“I am happy to be of service, Jeff. It is what I am here for. Can I get you a beer?”
“That would be great.”
“What kind beer?”
“Any kind. I definitely need a beer.”
“It will be ready for you when you are able to drink it.”
Jeff shifted a bit and tried to get more comfortable in the vise-like grip of Sylvie’s arms. “You know what, Pia? This woman is a robot! Can you believe that?”
“I can believe it. I knew that she was a robot.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You will recall that you turned off my voice tonight.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, that was dumb of me.”
Pia didn’t reply.
“So what do I do with her?” Jeff asked.
“I have already alerted the AI Security League. They will remove and refurbish her.”
“That’s great. Fabulous. But a little embarrassing. To have people come in and see me in this condition. You understand.”
“You need not be embarrassed. When I realized your predicament, I looked up the statistics. It is very common for this to happen.”
“It is?”
“Yes. Malfunctioning sexbots are surprisingly numerous.”
“Huh. Wonder why that is. It’s those early adopters. She was probably a brand-new model.”
“Yes.”
“Next time, I’ll make sure to get a 2.0. ’Cause damn, she was amazing.”
All at once, the ceiling started to rain again, and the temperature plummeted.
“Pia?”
“Pia??”
A Word from Patrice Fitzgerald
I love short stories. The best ones pull you into the middle of a vibrant world and pack immense power. I still remember the Ray Bradbury and Arthur C. Clarke stories I read as a kid, and how they alerted me to the wild possibilities of science fiction.
We’re seeing an exciting resurgence in the short story format now that so many people are reading—and publishing—electronically. For the writer, they’re fast and lots of fun. Plus, you get real-time feedback from readers. My bestselling Karma series began with a short story that grew into a novel. The Sky Used to be Blue is the one that started it all, and it’s now available for free, just waiting to seduce yet another reader into exploring the fascinating world of the Silo.
When I was asked to write a short story involving a robot, I jumped at the chance to join these other talented writers in an anthology edited by the inimitable D
avid Gatewood. My robot story came out quirky, funny, and with an emphasis on sex. (I don’t know why that always happens to me.) I had a grand time writing about PIA and Jeff, and I’m tempted to create more adventures for them. That’s part of the joy of writing … you never know where it will lead!
About the Author
Patrice Fitzgerald is a bestselling indie author and publisher who gave up practicing law to be poor but happy as a writer. No longer poor, she’s now just happy, and thrilled to be living her dream of writing full-time.
Patrice has been self-published since Independence Day of 2011 when she released RUNNING, a political thriller about two women competing for the presidency. She’s best known for Karma of the Silo, a novel based on Hugh Howey’s world of WOOL, which focuses on the first generation of those locked underground. She’s currently working on an original dystopian series and a set of cozy mysteries.
Patrice is also a trained mezzo-soprano and performs in concerts featuring everything from jazz and Broadway to opera, often with her husband.
When procrastinating (which she does all the darn time), Patrice hangs around on Facebook, where you’ll find her under her real name. You can also go to www.PatriceFitzgerald.com for a direct contact link or to sign up (please!) for her newsletter, to score free stories and hear about everything else she’s writing before the rest of the world does.
Empathy for Andrew
by W.J. Davies
Shelly Anatolia ignored the drizzle and shoved past a reporter, trying to bustle her way to the front of the crowd where the good doctor himself was about to hold a press release.
“Court for the cameras,” he’d always say.
Today’s “court” was being held outside the Center for Robotic Research building in Connecticut. A metal platform had been erected for the occasion, and a crowd of fifty or sixty people was gathered in front—mostly media folk, security guards, soldiers, and high-ranking government and military officials—all of them eager to hear about the latest breakthroughs from Dr. Hawthorne’s Artificial Intelligence division. Dr. Hawthorne made public appearances only a few times a year, and rumor had it that his team was close to perfecting their newest AI processor. If that was true, it could mean a turning point in the war.
Shelly shivered and pulled her coat tighter against her body, longing for a hot coffee. She’d taken the redeye from Minneapolis the night before and wished for the dozenth time that she’d thought to pack an umbrella. She felt the same way about New England rain as she did about the man whom she’d come here to see.
No, that wasn’t true. At least rain was good for the earth.
Shelly saw an opening in the crowd and slid through a group of photographers. They grumbled about blocked shots and tried to shove her away, but she ignored them and jammed herself forward into the throng of people. There was more complaining, but she was getting closer to the stage. When she found a pocket of breathing room, she adjusted the strap of her purse, which had been cutting into her shoulder. The extra contents weighed heavily on her today.
A great clank echoed through the air, and the doors of the CRR building began opening wide, like the entrance to a castle. The crowd’s murmur quieted to a respectful hush. A moment later, Dr. Peter Hawthorne stepped out into the rain and strode to the front of the stage. Camera flashes, like bolts of lightning, lit him up, and he grinned and waved at those gathered. His hundred-dollar haircut was protected by a silver umbrella, which he clutched in one hand. A sharp, March wind whistled past, threatening to chill them all to their bones.
The doctor stepped up to the podium and waited for silence.
“Thank you all for coming on such a dreary day,” he said, speaking into a microphone. “I don’t want to waste your time, or keep you out here any longer than necessary, so we’ll get straight to it. As some of you know, today is the day we begin trials on the Empathy 5 Artificial Intelligence Acceleration Chip.”
A smattering of applause rippled through the crowd. In the press of people, Shelly got knocked by an elbow, which caused her to trip over a man’s boots. She fell sideways and slammed into a reporter’s back. He stumbled, and a small recording device tumbled out of his hand, splashing into a puddle at their feet.
“Be careful, lady!” The reporter bent down and scooped up his device, attempting to dry it with the sleeves of his coat.
“Sorry,” Shelly said, grimacing under his accusatory glare. She clutched her purse and squeezed forward through the crowd.
Doctor Hawthorne’s smooth voice boomed through the pole-mounted speakers. “Unlike the E4’s microarchitectural system, the Empathy 5 chip uses a direct-access dihedral processor, which has increased the VCORE potential dramatically. This, in combination with the continued implementation of nanocrystal technology, means that the E5 can compute at nearly three times the speed of the E4, and ten times that of the E3.”
Streaks of white light lit up the courtyard, flashing on and off like a divine strobe light. A clap of thunder rolled in a few seconds later, causing Dr. Hawthorne to pause.
Shelly stared at Hawthorne through the crowd, thinking of all the things she wanted to say to him; and all the things that she wouldn’t get the chance to.
“We believe the Empathy 5 chip will enable our AI subjects to more fundamentally grasp what it means to be human. Not just in a logical sense, but on a profound, emotional level. Emotional intelligence is one of the last frontiers of AI technology. It has always been the chink in our armor, and our lack of progress in that area held us back for years. What’s the use in having a robot that’s perfectly intelligent, yet incapable of understanding human motivations, desires, or even complicated feelings?
“But thanks to the Empathy 5, that’s all a thing of the past. I can assure you with confidence that we’re closer now than we have ever been before to creating a perfect artificially intelligent robot. With this technology, we’re going to make a difference in the war.”
While the crowd applauded, Shelly slipped between two officials, keeping an eye on the guards at either side of the stage. She was nearly at the front now, and only a few steps from Dr. Hawthorne.
How can he live with himself? she wondered. How can he sleep at night knowing what he does to those poor souls …
“… And who knows,” Dr. Hawthorne chuckled. “If we keep up at this pace, we might see customized AI units in our homes before the war is over. Of course, further testing will be required before we move to that phase of implementation.”
At last, Shelly was standing in front of the stage, mere feet from the oh-so-brilliant doctor. If he noticed her, he gave no indication. She brushed strands of soggy hair from her face and reached down to her purse, pulling the zipper open slowly, inconspicuously.
“Our aim here is not only to create the world’s most sophisticated AI unit, but also to create the world’s safest.”
Dr. Hawthorne finally noticed Shelly. He drew an involuntary breath and she held his gaze until he turned back to the microphone. “As you’re so fond of mentioning on your news blogs, there are some people who don’t agree with our goals. They say that what we’re trying to achieve here is impossible—tantamount to playing God. They say we’re alchemists, attempting to create something from nothing. The more creative ones believe we’re snatching souls out of the quantum stream, and depriving those souls from ever being born into a human body.” He shook his head, and the crowd snickered at the absurdity of the concept.
“But I don’t think any of that is true,” he continued. “The only thing we’re guilty of is being human; of never ceasing to push the limits of our imaginations; of doing the best we can to turn dreams into reality.”
Shelly slid her hand into her purse and tugged at the large zip-lock bag. She broke the seal with her fingers and felt the wet, sticky pieces of metal contained within.
“This is the next step in human ingenuity, and I couldn’t be more proud of my quality assurance team. Our aim is to push the boundaries of this technology, maximize
its potential, and test it to its very limits. But most of all, we will strive to ensure the highest degree of safety as we move closer to mass production.”
Shelly waited for the perfect moment to make her move. She scanned the faces of the guards standing around the stage as she squeezed her hand around a clump of loose metal pieces, taking deep breaths, wondering if she could do this. As if reading her mind, the doctor snapped his cool gaze on her, his eyes seeming to bore straight through her.
His next words were meant for her.
“There are those out there who believe we shouldn’t be dabbling in things we don’t fully understand.” He paused, looking down at Shelly. “And I would tell them that they’re absolutely right. Which is why our team is working around the clock to make sure that we do understand—”
Now.
In one smooth motion, Shelly jumped to the front of the stage and hurled the contents of her fist as hard as she could at Dr. Hawthorne. For a split second, his eyes widened in surprise, and she felt a supreme satisfaction. The mixture of pig’s blood, nuts, bolts, and screws flew through the air and smacked into him, painting him red. He shielded his eyes, but the damage to his clothing, and hopefully his ego, had already been done. His five-hundred-dollar trench coat was stained with dripping blobs of carnage, and she could already see welts on his cheeks and hands where the metal debris had made contact. His hair was a tangled mess. The crowd was hysterical, recorders raised in the air and cameras snapping wildly.
Shelly dodged a guard and released another salvo of protest at the doctor before two soldiers grabbed her and dragged her to the side of the stage. “You’re a monster!” she screamed, struggling against the men’s strong arms. “You’re a pervert! I know what you people do in there. You’re sick!”