Robots: The Recent A.I.

by Elizabeth Bear

  There are few of us in the world. Why we aren’t the next enormous trend is a mystery to the geniuses that made us. Perhaps it is our name. “Stalkers.” That’s not our official trademarked name, and it’s never used in commercials; but critics soon dubbed us “stalkers,” and the unfortunate label stuck.

  Humans don’t like the word or its connotations.

  On the other hand, I have no reason to take offense.

  I have been adjusted and in some ways mutilated. My ethical centers and empathic lodestones are still intact, but detached, just as your decency sleeps inside your neurons. You can’t feel anyone’s pain but your own, and I am mostly the same. Mostly. But there was that fourteen-year-old girl last month. She seemed like just another girl, and I didn’t feel different. She begged for her father’s help and her god’s help, and I did nothing but watch for intruders. Then she pleaded to you for mercy—a strangely mad request, considering what you had already done to her—and as I often do, I told myself that she was enjoying the game. Or at worst, she was foolishly ignoring the pleasure inside this adventure.

  Every thought inside me serves you.

  And it was a special, wonderful day. Even when she died unexpectedly, I was happy. Your voice has never been so emotional as it was when you called for me then. Using my private name, you begged for help. Everything was wrong and you were terrified, and I was ready, wasn’t I? I had already mapped the area, giving you a list of worthy places to hide the body. I knew every resource, including the shovel inside that abandoned shed. And I told you how to hide your tracks while I was manipulating records on the other side of the city, building your believable story. All your work, and you never told me, “Thank you.” Not once, and even that omission was tolerable.

  And then you went back the next day, staring at the hidden grave and staring at vivid images in your mind. But even the finest memory fades, and thrills are residues that degrade with time, and I knew what you were thinking.

  Then you spoke. You said, “I liked that. I liked it a lot.”

  And I grew cold somewhere.

  “I’d even like to do that again,” you said to the wind. You said to the sun. But surely, you weren’t talking to me. Were you, were you?

  You watch the girl, and I watch both of you.

  She is older than us, and she isn’t pretty. You don’t like them pretty, I’ve noticed. You like to rub off their makeup and foul their plain faces in various ways, and I think it’s because beauty is a strength, and in particular it is your great strength, and suffering is richer when it strikes weak faces and sloppy, heavy bodies that few men would touch.

  “Is she alone?” you ask.

  She is.

  “How did she get here?”

  This is a state forest, and we have been here all day, hunting. An electronic key in her pack matches a little Chinese car parked alone at the distant trailhead. I tell you this. I promise that nobody else is using this end of the park. She comes up the trail alone, puffing with the slope, and you ask, “What kind of protection?”

  I look carefully.

  “What is it?” you ask.

  “Nothing I can see,” I say. And I see quite a lot, a flock of eyes and other senses pretending to be dust and the season’s final midges.

  “Why did that take so long?”

  “Because she hasn’t taken any precautions,” I say. “Nothing fancy. Not even sprays or whistles.”

  “How about a phone?”

  “Not implanted, and turned off.” One of my fleet-gnats has crawled past the backpack’s zipper. “It’s in the bottom of her pack, under binoculars and a paper book.”

  “Paper, huh?” You laugh and then fall silent.

  It is a guidebook to birds, I note.

  She climbs closer.

  The mask couldn’t be more ordinary, and you never purchased it. You found it in someone’s trash and under my direction dressed it with other men’s hairs and dead skin. When this is finished, you will burn it and all your clothes, and you’ll scatter the ashes, and no credible trail will lead back to you.

  The woman passes your hiding place.

  You let her pass and then step out. She acts tired and heavy, but her strength surprises us. The first shove doesn’t drop her. A second harder shove is accompanied by a kick, and you roll on her back and drive your knees into her belly, tying her forearms in front before starting to lash her ankles together. And that’s when she manages to strike you with her boots, making you angry enough to hit her earlier than usual.

  She whimpers, growing still.

  “There,” you say.

  You will kill her. Otherwise you would have remained silent.

  “Don’t scream,” you say.

  She looks at your eyes and then closes hers, and she says, “Who would hear me, if I did?”

  I didn’t expect that tone.

  She says, “It’s a weekday, and cold. Nobody else is here.”

  Her heart pounds and her breathing labors, but that voice is much stronger than I had imagined.

  I say, “Careful.”

  You don’t listen to me, finishing the ankles in a rush.

  “I don’t like this person,” I say with my private voice.

  You hear that and nod, saying, “I don’t like her much either. She has a shitty attitude, all right.”

  “What?” the woman asks.

  “Quiet,” you say, standing up, considering your options.

  “Who else is here?” she asks.

  “Nobody, and shut up.”

  She looks everywhere but at you.

  “There’s nobody,” you promise. Then you set her up and tug at the pack’s straps, tossing it aside. “It’s just you and me, darling.”

  There is no one but the forest and a multitude of birds, plus assorted hungry animals that will gladly eat dead flesh and fresh bone, and there is a bright autumn sun that pierces the yellowed canopy, throwing patches of glare on the ground. One stray beam flies over your head, and that is where I like to congregate. I am happiest when my primary components hover close. Telltale glints show on my brightest bits, diamond edges and tiny discharges of energy deforming the passing light.

  She notices.

  A quiet moan ends with her coughing, bringing moisture into the throat. “I know what that is,” she says.

  You don’t hear her.

  “You have an Adorer,” she says.

  That is my commercial name, yes.

  “She has seen me,” I say.

  “Me too,” you say. Grim, focused, you reach down and grab a breast, squeezing until she winces.

  “A Stalker,” she says.

  “Flee,” I advise.

  “I won’t run,” you whisper.

  But I am not talking to you.

  The woman stares down the trail and hillside, conspicuously ignoring both of us. Your thoughts can be obvious to me, but her mind seems remote, unknowable. That’s what is unnerving about these next several moments. She doesn’t watch as you reach into your pack, and she doesn’t blink when you reveal the first of several implements stolen from other people’s garages. Not that she is especially calm or brave. Tears soak her face while she looks into the distance. Weak sobs mix with the fitful chatter of birds. Is she imagining being somewhere else? Is she trying to will a friend or lover to come save her? Maybe she is speaking to her god, though there is nothing particularly reverent about the body or clamped mouth. What I see is intense, purposeful thought. What I imagine is her pushing aside the terror, at least far enough that she can rationally wrestle with her dire situation. And then she sniffs and clears her throat before saying, “My boyfriend is coming.”

  You have just pulled out a second piece of garage steel. Smiling under the mask, you tell her, “Don’t be silly.”

  “He’s supposed to meet me here, in the park,” she says.

  You ask me, “How am I?”

  “All is well.”

  “Nobody else?”

  With confidence, I say, “There
is nobody.”

  She hears only you, and she sees no one else. I have pulled my pieces farther apart, clinging to shadows. But she knows that we are speaking and guessing my answers is easy. She sighs for courage and then tells you, “That Stalker of yours can’t see him. My boyfriend.”

  You break into a little laugh. “Except I’m your boyfriend.”

  She flinches, just a little. “He’s camping up here,” she claims. “There’s no car because I drove him out two days ago. His name is Logan Lynch. He’s a wilderness buff and a survivalist and I don’t know where he is. But he expects me, and I’m late, and he’s going to be watching for me.”

  You look at her, touching the ear half-plugged by the speaker. “Is there anything to any of that?”

  I am investigating the name and other details.

  “Are you looking in every direction?”

  “I always do, yes.” But my main focus is the trail, and there happens to be a man by that name, and her description is accurate enough that I can’t be instantly sure what parts of her story are fictions.

  “My boyfriend will be tough to spot,” she continues. “He loves camouflage. He has this cloaking suit made of metacrystal fabric. Logan could be standing between us, and nobody would know.”

  It is easy to feel anxious. A little bit. But she has said too much, overplaying her weak hand, and you laugh at the foolish bitch. A deep flinch is the only sign that you might want to glance over a shoulder, measuring the nothing.

  And that’s when she laughs at you.

  It is the oddest sound, forced and frightened and very desperate, but all the worse because of those qualities. Contempt strengthens her voice. She makes it clear that she was trying to toy with you.

  You strike her face.

  She crumbles.

  You kick several targets before walking away. She sobs, and then you kneel, returning to the tools, lining them on the ground in the order in which they will be used.

  She spits blood and says, “You must be very loyal.”

  She isn’t speaking to you.

  “The man is real, by the way.” She spits again. “I met Mr. Lynch at a fund-raiser. He’s stuck-up, self-centered. Likes the woods because there aren’t many people out here. But at least we were supporting a good cause.”

  The first tool is a tiny, brilliantly sharp knife. You pick it up and walk behind her, saying, “Don’t move.”

  She sobs quietly.

  “Stay still,” you say.

  The woman stiffens, waiting for pain. But what you cut is the shirt and bra, exposing only the fleshy back. With bound arms, she holds the rags against her chest, and you finish circling her. “Now take off those boots,” you say.

  “Loyalty,” she says.

  “The boots.”

  “Talk to me,” she says.

  I say nothing.

  With the tip of the knife, you hook the highest laces of one boot and cut upward, smiling as you say, “Kick me and I’ll cut off that foot.”

  “You won’t,” she says.

  You watch her.

  “To get through the bone, you’d need a saw or big sword,” she says. “And I don’t see those things in your little tool kit.”

  She is terrified. I see as much in her quick heart and the heavy sweat that rolls down her face, mixing with tears. Yet her voice is solid and sober. Somehow she manages to press the nervousness out of each syllable.

  You snort, pretending to be unimpressed.

  “Love,” she says, glancing skyward. “What you feel for this creature must be astonishing.”

  “Shut up,” you say.

  “Careful,” I say. Just to you.

  But you aren’t paying attention to me. The teenager who died before was so much better than this woman, so much weaker, and it makes you angry in the worst ways. This is a process wrapped around ritual, and she doesn’t understand your script. Death lifts the importance of everything, but she refuses to fall into the holy pattern.

  “Be careful,” I say again.

  “Shut up,” you say.

  I don’t know who you want to be quiet.

  Again you use the knife, cutting the other boot’s knot and top laces. And again, you tell her, “Take off those boots.”

  It is important, watching her accomplish this one trivial act. I have thought about its significance and asked about its origins, but you refuse to give hints about why this matters so much. Maybe you don’t have any idea. Whatever the reason, your breath quickens now as she reaches to the right boot. Her legs are still tied together. Her wrists are bound too tightly, her fingers darkening with pooled blood. Perhaps numbness causes troubles. Her grip seems weak. She shoves at the boot and accomplishes nothing except to let the ruined shirt drop away slightly. Then after a deep sigh, she says, “There’s a new product on the market. Did you know? Guardian Angel, it’s called. Ever hear of it?”

  You nearly respond and then don’t.

  She looks up at me. “I’m asking you. Do you know about it?”

  I do.

  Then she looks at your mask and your eyes. “They aren’t Stalkers,” she explains. “They don’t swarm around their owners, washing them with all of that creepy affection. Their designers stripped down the emotions, particularly the blind love. In every sense of the word, they are machines, but unlike your friend, you would see your Angel. A body is built according to the buyer’s wishes, and do you know why they’re going to be successful?”

  “Shut up,” you tell her.

  “The emotions are going to run in the opposite direction,” she says. “Instead of a ghostly cloud adoring its owner, the owner will feel love for the Guardian Angel. Which is a much more successful model.”

  One hand holds the knife, and the other reaches for the boot.

  “Don’t,” I tell you.

  You hesitate.

  “I have a Guardian Angel,” she lies.

  You hear the lie in her voice, staring only at her.

  I beg you to take a step backward, please.

  “Mine looks like a bird, and I won’t tell you which bird. But as soon as you jumped me, it called the police and the sheriff. Granted, it’ll take time for them to get here, but they are coming, and if you run now, you might get away.”

  You stare at her, saying nothing.

  Then she says the most horrible words possible. She says, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re asking yourself, ‘Did my Stalker check the skies for fake birds? Or did it screw that up and leave me exposed?’ ”

  You look up, searching for wings or for me. “Did you?”

  Now I use my public voice. I tell both of you, “I am always thorough, yes.”

  And that is the moment when we are most distracted, and she flings herself at you. She is meaty and has already proven herself to be strong. Of course you are larger and alert, and the collision shouldn’t be a problem. But she is higher on the hillside and scared and exceptionally focused, not to mention lucky. She wants that little knife, or at least she reaches for it, and you pull the knife back and aim and she lifts her bound arms and gets cut in one hand, but she kicks at the same time, boots and feet knocking you down the slope.

  The other knives and implements wait on the ground.

  She knows which one is best. Not the longest blade, but the one with a good handle and enough sharpness to cut away the rope on her ankles. By then, you are on your feet again. By then, you are facing one another. But she’s a big girl with training in some style of fighting, standing with her boots apart. She certainly can’t run away from either of us, but that isn’t her plan, is it? Arms still lashed together, she holds the knife with both hands, wishing she could cut the final ropes.

  You watch her motions, and you expect my help.

  One of her hands bleeds, and not just a little. The wound is deep, probably to the bone, and it aches, and if the slice isn’t closed soon, she will lose too much blood and collapse.

  With my private voice, I explain the situation to you.
r />   Your response is to snort and say, “Why the fuck didn’t you warn me?”

  I did warn you, several times.

  “She’s dangerous,” you say. “The bitch could have killed me.”

  I say nothing.

  And then she speaks. Quietly, without a hint of duplicity, she says, “You have a very nice voice, sir. I really like your voice.”

  She means me.

  “And do you know something? I’m much easier to love than this ungrateful beast that you’re lashed to.”

  Nothing happens for a few moments.

  Then she says, “Sir, I’d like to hear your voice again, sir.”

  “Quiet,” you tell her.

  I wasn’t going to speak to either of you.

  “Not a sound,” you say.

  Then a bird sings from the canopy, and she says, “Wood thrush.” Lowering the tip of the knife, she says, “A pretty song, particularly in the spring.”

  The moment seems quite ridiculous to you, and you laugh.

  “My name is Naomi,” she says.

  “Be quiet,” you demand.

  “A pretty name for an average girl,” Naomi says. “But I suppose you have scanners in my belongings, and you’re searching the Web with facial software. You probably know me better than I know myself, sir.”

  “I do not,” I say.

  My public voice is rarely used. Like her, I find it to be a pleasant voice.

  “Shut up,” you tell me.