by Julie Koh
She wondered how she had become so lonely. Boring, bawling Orla – the one everyone left behind.
By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, Orla still hadn’t called the Sister Company. During the morning commute, she slipped her hand into her pocket and noticed the corners of the card were bent and soft. She’d have to make the call soon, before the whole card disintegrated.
Work was a tiny office in a building on York Street in the CBD. The company Orla worked for shared the first floor with a small-time wills and estates law firm. It was quiet in the office when Orla arrived – all the other content writers were already hooked up at their desks, their eyes closed.
Orla hooked in to her own set of neurobuds, closed her eyes, and started working again on the simulation on her task list.
She sat there developing a new scene, visualising a naked woman having an erotic moment on a horse. She added details to the visualisation: full breasts, hardening nipples, a red heart locket around the woman’s neck. She made the horse bare its teeth.
Then her focus wavered and she began thinking about buying an ice-cream on her lunch break. A soft serve cone suddenly materialised in the woman’s hand. In the woman’s other hand appeared a business card with blue capital letters.
Shit, thought Orla, and deleted the two details.
She rewound the draft in her mind and began working the angles. She started the visualisation again from the point of view of the woman. And then from the point of view of the horse. For every sim, there was always at least one weirdo who wrote in asking to experience the POV of the incidental fauna.
‘How’s the story going?’ The face of Orla’s boss flashed up on the interface to her right.
‘All right,’ said Orla.
‘How many hours has it taken?’
‘Twenty so far. I’m up to chapter six.’
‘Well, the budget’s thirty-five. So don’t get bogged down. No political intrigue, please. I know how you get. We’re producing erotica, not Richard III.’
‘Sure thing.’
‘The client’s looking for an eighty per cent job. They’re not paying for perfection. We need to send it to sound design by end of Boxing Day.’
‘No worries.’
‘Anyway, remember the Rising Tide sim you wrote the other month?’
Orla nodded but couldn’t remember. Maybe it was the one about the sea monster with six penises.
‘It outsold expectations by ten thousand. When you focus, Orla, you seem to have a finger on what the ladies want.’
‘Oh,’ said Orla. ‘Great.’
It didn’t feel great. Nothing felt great anymore. Orla couldn’t even remember the last time she really laughed.
‘We’re having after-work drinks with that client, first Wednesday after New Year,’ said her boss. ‘A bit of a celebration. Put it in your calendar. And, you know, try and wear some make-up for it. Spruce yourself up a bit.’
‘Will do.’
‘Can’t believe Christmas is tomorrow. The year flew by. What are you getting up to?’
‘Lunch,’ said Orla. ‘Maybe.’
‘Sorry I didn’t get around to organising a Christmas party. Working mother, juggling balls, trying to have it all, et cetera.’
‘Not a problem.’
Orla’s boss flicked off screen.
Orla locked her workstation and left.
As she made her way to Town Hall Station, a stream of people pushed past her. They were dressed in suspenders and fedoras and fishnets and feather headpieces and long strings of pearls. They piled into white minibuses that were parked in a chain up the street, ready to be driven off to their themed Christmas party.
Orla watched them flirt and giggle. They all wished they were in the Roaring Twenties, she thought, but instead they were living lives in which their bosses dictated to them what to wear on the one day a year assigned for workplace shenanigans.
Orla pulled the business card out of her pocket. She called the number.
‘Can I have your earliest available appointment?’
*
The closest branch of the Sister Company was in a narrow building on George Street, next to Wynyard Station. According to the building directory, it was the only office on the second floor. Orla shook the rain off her umbrella and took the lift.
The office was small, with bright red furniture and grey carpet. A small peace lily in a white ceramic pot sat on one side of the reception desk.
A middle-aged woman behind the desk looked up from some filing.
‘I’m here for a twelve o’clock appointment?’ said Orla.
The receptionist blinked. She ran one red nail over the pencilled entries in a one-day-to-a-page diary. There was something slightly mechanical about the way she moved, a waxy shine to her face.
‘Orla?’
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Rhonda. Merry Christmas.’
‘I was surprised you’re open on Christmas Day.’
‘The wellbeing of our clients is more important to us than public holidays. So, it seems you’re here to do a pre-session with us.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Please,’ said Rhonda. ‘Come this way.’
Orla followed the receptionist down a corridor. The office extended further back than she thought it would. She looked at the back of Rhonda’s wig-like hair, watched the stiff swing of her arm, and noticed the little lag in her feet as she walked. It finally dawned on her.
‘Sorry, Rhonda?’
‘Yes?’ Rhonda turned.
‘This is the first time I’ve met an android in real life.’
‘Not as scary as you thought, right?’
‘It’s kind of cool.’
Rhonda smiled. There was lipstick on her teeth but Orla decided not to mention it. Orla thought Rhonda’s smile looked fake. Maybe that was just an unavoidable consequence of having a fake mouth.
‘As the controlling company of your employer,’ said Rhonda, ‘the Parent Company has a mental health scheme in place by which it will fully subsidise you for six initial sessions with the Sister Company.’
‘Wow. That really helps.’
‘I don’t know why your boss didn’t put you on the scheme directly.’
‘I don’t talk about my private life at work.’
‘I see,’ said Rhonda. ‘And we’re here.’
She opened a door and ushered Orla into a dark room. In the room stood a tall black box.
‘I know.’ Rhonda rolled her eyes. ‘It looks like a coffin. We have cutting-edge tech but idiot designers. You don’t have claustrophobia, do you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘When I close this door, you’ll find yourself in complete darkness. Don’t be alarmed. It’s meant to be like that.’
Sure enough, when Orla stepped in and the door closed behind her, she couldn’t see a thing. Whether her eyes were open or shut, all there was in front of her was pitch black.
Rhonda’s voice echoed around her ears.
‘Now, what we’re going to do is a top-down body and brain scan. I’d like you to speak about what’s been bothering you that has led you to seek therapy. The booth will be monitoring your brain activity as you speak. Start when you want to start. End when you want to end. You have all day, if you like. The more detail you can put in, the more it will assist us to tailor our therapy to your needs. When you’re ready to leave the booth, just push the door open and walk back up the corridor. I’ll be waiting for you at reception. Are you ready?’
‘Yes,’ said Orla.
‘Great. Keep your eyes closed throughout the process and I’ll see you on the other side.’
A low buzz replaced Rhonda’s voice. Orla closed her eyes. Through her eyelids she could see a beam of light slowly moving down past her face.
She started where she wanted to start, and ended where she wanted to end. She didn’t know how long she was in there but it felt like an hour, maybe two. The light seemed to move in a cycle, passing her eyelids o
ver and over again.
When she was done, Orla fumbled in the dark for a tissue and wiped her eyes. She sat quietly for a moment before feeling for the door.
Back in reception, Rhonda smiled at her.
‘How was it?’
‘All right. A bit emotional.’
Orla noticed Rhonda’s nostrils flare. She was yawning through her nose, as if Orla wouldn’t be able to tell.
‘It can be difficult,’ said Rhonda, ‘but it’s a very brave first step to take.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well, then, what we’re going to do now is collate the results of your scan and I’ll see you at the same time next week.’
‘Oh! That’s New Year’s Day.’
‘Are you busy?’
‘No.’
‘Good. It’ll be a two-hour introductory session with your therapy companion. All sessions thereafter will be one hour each.’
‘Do I need to sign anything?’
‘It’s all taken care of.’
Orla went out into the street. She didn’t feel like going back to her flat, with its one tiny room and grimy windows and cockroaches that came crawling out of nowhere.
She walked down to York Street and caught the lift up to her office.
She settled into her chair and hooked herself up. She visualised the rest of the Equine Equinox sim and went through to check that she’d more or less stuck to the assigned plotline. Then she printed out the list of required product placements and went through the draft again, adding an Hermès bag here, a Jeep there.
Orla was sick of it all by the time she got to the Lacoste shoes. There were still about thirty placements to go.
She unhooked herself from the desk and walked across to Town Hall. She decided to pass the rest of the day riding the train around Sydney.
The train spoke to Orla and everyone else in the carriage.
‘Merry Christmas and thank you, customers, for choosing to ride with ParentRail.’
The message annoyed Orla, as it always did. She’d had no other choice.
Orla tried not to look at the ads flashing all over the floors, walls and ceilings of the carriage. It was difficult. Her eyes settled on a live-action ad showing a bunch of women with taut bodies dancing around in multicoloured underwear.
As the train passed Macdonaldtown, the carriage lights dimmed, the windows transitioned to grey, and an American celebrity hologram began moving through the carriage. The holograd started talking to the grey-haired woman next to Orla about a new cola. The holograd shimmered and held a holocan out to the woman.
‘If it has zero calories, does it really exist?’ asked the woman.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said the holograd.
‘What’s it like dating Judd W?’
‘A gentlewoman doesn’t kiss and tell,’ winked the holograd. ‘But what I will say is that this cola tastes like freedom.’
The woman ordered two cases on the spot to be delivered to her doorstep. The holograd scanned her wrist, confirmed the transaction and continued its virtual sashay through the carriage.
*
On New Year’s Eve, Orla didn’t even leave the flat. She got into her pyjamas, baked a batch of frozen chips, and turned on the NYE coverage.
Orla didn’t feel like hooking in to the sim version. Having it play out in her own mind would be too much, so she watched the coverage on her old vision. She watched two blond hosts compliment each other on their tasteless fluoro dresses, dropping the names of their designers. Somehow, the women looked younger than they were last year.
‘After a year of highs and lows, gains and losses,’ said one, ‘you deserve these fireworks, beautiful Sydney.’
‘There’s certainly no greater place in the world to live,’ said the other.
Orla flicked through the other channels – ParentGlow, ParentTen, ParentHood. The same program was being broadcast on all of them.
Next up was a montage of hurricanes and tsunamis and scandals and elections and parades from the year that was, a few clips of 2030’s hottest hits, and then the nine o’clock family fireworks, accompanied by a medley of Wagner and uberpop.
As they had been for a number of years, the fireworks were pre-programmed graphics superimposed on microdrone footage of Sydney’s landmarks. According to the government, these were cheaper and safer than actual fireworks, and kept citizens from milling around in dangerously large groups at vantage points across the city’s foreshore.
The musical accompaniment and fireworks combinations varied each year, to keep the mix fresh. This time, the display opened with millions of shimmering rainbow pinwheels and dancing monkeys. Eleven cricketers in green and gold walked across the sky. A fleet of eleven silver ships sailed in the opposite direction. The smell of gunpowder wafted through the vision’s olfactor.
When the last of the virtual nine o’clock fireworks had spun out over Sydney Harbour and poured golden from the Harbour Bridge, Orla turned off the vision, twisted earplugs into her ears, and went to sleep.
*
It was quiet in the CBD the morning after, as Orla made her way to her next session with the Sister Company.
Just like the week before, she took the lift.
The doors opened onto the second floor. A gangly blond woman in a sky blue dress rushed in, bumping into her.
‘Fuck, sorry,’ she said.
‘No worries,’ said Orla, stepping out.
The woman’s eyes were red and puffy. She held a tissue to her nose, sniffling.
‘You know how it is,’ she said as the doors closed. ‘Therapy dredges up the worst. But they say I’ll be functional again soon.’
Orla sat in the waiting room. For a while, she watched Rhonda pottering around – refilling the business card holder, adjusting the height of her swivel chair, flicking through documents and licking her index finger now and then. Orla bowed her head and stared into her lap.
‘Orla?’ a woman said, in a voice that sounded precisely like her own.
‘Yes?’
Orla looked up. The first thing she noticed was her therapist’s black flats. They were identical to Orla’s, with little shiny bows at the top. Then Orla saw the black trousers and polka-dot shirt. The therapist was wearing the exact same outfit that Orla had worn to the pre-session.
‘Hola, Orla,’ said the therapist. ‘Happy New Year.’
The other strange thing was that the woman’s face looked exactly like Orla’s, minus the chubbiness. Overall, the woman was slimmer than Orla, with clearer skin. Her hair was also ash brown but without the black roots. In fact, everything that Orla hated about her own body – the fat in weird places, the heavy arms, the forearm freckles – was gone.
‘How did …’ Orla took a moment to think. ‘You’re an android.’
‘I am. My name’s Kabuki.’
‘As in kabuki theatre?’
‘I’m Japanese tech, Australianised. The Sydney development team thought it’d be cute to name me after words they pulled out of a Tokyo guidebook. Initially I saw your name and thought you were going to be Irish.’
‘I’m Chinese, Australianised. My parents named me after a brand of kitchen sponge.’
Kabuki smiled, nodding.
They shook hands. Kabuki’s was surprisingly warm. It felt like real flesh and blood.
Kabuki ushered her down the corridor and into a consultation room. A bookshelf lined one wall. The shelves were mostly empty, except for three antique paperbacks, stress balls in assorted shapes and colours, a series of frosted blue vases, and a cactus in a terracotta pot.
‘Don’t be too overwhelmed by how realistic I appear,’ said Kabuki. ‘Our receptionist, Rhonda, is an earlier model. Artificially intelligent but nothing more.’
‘I didn’t know technology was so far along,’ said Orla. ‘They still can’t even get the train timetable right.’
They sat down opposite each other.
‘The public isn’t always aware of the latest technological advancements,’ Kabuki said
. ‘It’s a matter of priorities. With money and commitment, you can make anything happen.’
She crossed her legs and clasped her hands, resting them on one knee.
‘So what we’re beginning today is a program of individualised therapy, which we call Integrational Realignment – a sort of early intervention with a personal touch.
‘The edge I have over regular and holotherapy is that I can completely identify with your particular situation. As you recall, in the pre-session we monitored your brain activity as you recounted emotions you felt during past trauma.’
Kabuki reached behind her left ear and pulled out a microchip the size of a pea.
‘The program in this chip replicates that unique mix of emotion and experience. It functions as an overlay for my essential system. It’s like having a brain that can run on two tracks simultaneously. On one layer I have your lived experience, which provides me with the ability to feel exactly as you have felt. Underlying that layer is in-depth therapeutic knowhow, which I’ll use to help you nurture your positive thinking. In short, what I can offer you is exceptionally tailored coaching and companionship that will help you become functional again.’
‘So you understand why I made the appointment,’ said Orla.
Kabuki reinserted the chip, nodding.
Orla was relieved. If Kabuki really did have full emotional capabilities, then she knew how it all felt. The weekends of interminable crying, the inordinate weight gain, the sheen disappearing from every new acquaintance and wedding and party and barbecue. She knew about Orla having no family left. About all the good friends who’d upped and moved away without bothering to leave forwarding addresses. About the guys Orla had dated who’d dropped off the radar and never called again. She literally felt how Orla felt, watching everyone around her just following the crowd, procreating, and marking time with gins on Friday nights and lattes at weekend brunches.
Kabuki smiled. ‘You’ve lived in Sydney your whole life but you don’t have much to show for it. You wonder if this is all an illusion, a nightmare. You wonder if this is a holding city, where you’re just waiting to die. You’re slowing down but the days are speeding up and blending into each other.’