Then he turned back to his writing, and she turned her face back towards her book, but the words were a jumble. She had to come up with something to make. Something. Anything. Had she been wrong about herself all those times she’d dreamed of an opportunity like this? Could she really only improve on the ideas of others, and had none of her own?
She’d have to come up with some story to explain why she couldn’t just make more AI machines. Lack of inspiration wouldn’t help her there. And she couldn’t count on the little altered man magically appearing when she needed him a second time. Even if by some impossible chance he did, she didn’t dare risk him being discovered and the truth coming out.
But what reason could she possibly give? As far as the governor was concerned, she had done it once. Even if she lacked further brilliance, she should be able to duplicate the experiment.
Maybe it was time to just confess.
Or time to risk it again.
If nothing else, perhaps such an undertaking would bring a little excitement into this world of silk and books and breakfast and endless attempts to think and to create.
Then again, returning to a world without any of those things didn’t sound so appealing.
Nor did returning to a world without Byron. An honorary husband was better than none at all—right?
He laid down his pen and stretched. “I’m off to bed. Long day tomorrow. Do you need anything?”
She shook her head and forced a smile.
“Never hesitate to ask,” he said, then turned and left her alone in the enormous library to ponder her predicament and regret her foolishness.
VI.
A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes
“I’ve been thinking.”
These words signaled exactly what she had been dreading. Thinking. She hadn’t wanted him to think, of all things. Thinking was never good. Thinking meant he would start to wonder why she had yet to turn up any significant projects for him.
He was sitting at his desk again, answering letters and signing things she didn’t understand. She was again across the room, allegedly studying, but her book had begun to droop towards her lap as she dozed.
His words jerked her rudely back to consciousness. “Yes?” She forced the words past the tightening in her chest.
He scratched down another signature, then laid down his pen and turned towards her, arm resting across the back of his chair.
Her heart fluttered, painful butterfly wings against the constriction of her ribs.
“I was just thinking—perhaps while you work on your new inventions, you might be willing to create another AI machine, like Fiver.”
Her stomach twisted predictably, but she forced her body to remain outwardly relaxed. “Oh? Why? What happened to Fiver?”
He stood up and walked to the back of hear chair, then leaned on the back of it. “I sold him to Donovan and Company. Furniture factory. They were interested in incorporating some machines into their workflow, and Fiver can easily be programmed to carve or paint intricate designs. I’m hoping against hope that their experience will start to impact others.”
She latched onto the politics, hoping for a distraction from the idea of another high-functioning machine. “What about the Tyrellian Corporation?”
His shoulders drooped. “I see no hope there. If anything, I have my suspicions that they’ve been feeding the prejudices against both automation and alterations. I think they have at least a few senators in their pockets. They insist automation is dangerous and unnatural. Ironically enough, for a technology company.”
When he spoke of these matters, she liked to watch his eyes. Did they get more expressive over time, or was she just learning to read them? She sensed with perfect clarity his hope, discouragement, and the excitement in his soul. It sparked something in her own heart, but the flame burned her. She might share the tiniest corner of his passion, but she had no means to add to it.
“So…” He shook the sorrow from his eyes and smiled at her. “If you’re willing… I don’t want to take you away from what you’re working on now, but… what have you been working on?”
What would his eyes look like if she told him what a fraud she was?
“I’ve… actually been working on some ideas for improving high-functioning machines.” Sure. Why not delve a little deeper into the deception.
He leaned down towards her. “Would you make another machine, then? For me?”
Amanda should have been—and in her heart, she was—too sensible to believe that doing this would buy any of what she wanted from him. But with those brown eyes looking down at her in the glow of the dim electric lights—
“I’ll make two,” she said.
He reached down and took her hand in his soft, warm one, and she lost herself in the moment, feeling the sensibilities of her heart melt away under his gaze.
“I would love two,” he said.
She banished the knowledge that he was only thanking her, that he didn’t care for her beyond what he thought she could do, that if it weren’t for that, she would be naught but a stranger in the street to him.
His smile as he let go of her hand sent the last hesitating whispers into oblivion. The moment he turned to go back to his desk, she began her prayers that the little man—Rumpled—would appear once more.
Just one more time.
She had insisted on the conditions that exactly duplicated her previous feat. Byron had of course suggested she do it in the day, after a good night’s rest, and in her laboratory with better tools and better parts. She had staunchly refused. She claimed that it was “just how her inspiration worked.” (Whatever that meant—did inspiration work at all?) In reality, she feared that the chances of the little man showing up would be diminished if anything was different.
She even insisted on another silk gown. Though that was mostly for her own benefit.
Byron had agreed, and the next evening found her once again in a little stone room at the base of the palace, surrounded by piles of junk, with tools on a tabletop to her right.
Again, clueless. Again, afraid. This time she might have a smidgen of hope, but the stakes were also much higher. If this “Rumpled” didn’t appear, what would she do? How could she explain her ability to do something once, and then forget how in the span of a couple months?
For awhile—she didn’t know how long; there was no clock in the room either mechanical or electric—she just sat on the edge of the bed as she had the first time. She stared across the room, half expecting him to rise from the floor unbidden.
Like magic.
But he didn’t.
When the shadows of the junk heaps began to reach the walls and the little man still had not appeared, she stood and made her way across the room, trying to remember where the trap door had been. She knew the general area, but when she got to where she thought it was, she couldn’t discern a break in the floorboards.
Her heart sank. What if it really was magic? She had never believed in magic, or in miracles, or anything that she could not understand. But what if there was something mysterious at work here? What if the door and the little man had been there only for her benefit that once, an act of compassion by a higher power? And what if that same power was now poised to punish her for not learning from her first mistake, for lying a second time?
She gathered up her silken skirts and knelt, then pounded on the floor. In books, people always detected where a secret door was by whether or not the surface sounded hollow, but did this section sound hollow? She thumped her fists on another section to the right, and it sounded the same. She moved a little further and pounded there, too. Then she crawled forward, hitting the floor as she went, listening for that elusive “hollow” sound.
Finally she stopped and just pounded her fists on the floor over and over again until her hands were red and stinging and the shadows had lengthened into almost complete dusk. Then she sat back on her heels and stared at the floorboards.
The orange lights overhead fli
ckered on.
Exhausted, she crawled back to the bed and curled up on it, then cried.
Every last bit of light was gone from the window by the time she finally wore herself out and had no more tears and just laid, curled up, on the bed.
Maybe she should just run away. But how? If she could get out, where would she go? She couldn’t go back to her father. She had no friends close enough to endanger themselves for her.
She could just go far, far away. Run until she found a forest and then disappear into it.
If she could even get out.
And if she could ever shake the memory of her husband’s hand in hers. She clenched that hand into a fist until her nails bit her palms, and she found she had a few more tears.
A creaking from across the room propelled her into a sitting position, and her heartbeat climbed rapidly. She squinted into the shadows, praying to see the blinking red eye peering out at her.
A crimson glow coming from an opening in the floor made the tears flow freely again. The balding head poked up into the room, electric eye staring in her direction.
He climbed out of the hole again, but this time she didn’t wait for him to approach. She gathered up her skirts, stood up, and ran to him, barely giving him time to close the trap door before she dropped to her knees before him.
“I need your help,” she said.
Natural and unnatural eyes stared at her, nearly level with her own. “Why are you crying?”
She swallowed. “My husband wants more AI. Two this time. I told him I could do it again… I didn’t know what to do. Please, I can give you anything. Jewels, money, power… I can give you anything you want.”
He turned his face away so that she could only see the purely human side, and laid his hand on a scrap of metal in the pile next to him. “I don’t want any of those things.”
Cold gripped her body. “But… you did it for my necklace before, I thought…”
He looked straight at her again, and the chilling light of the red eye seemed to bore through her. “I did it out of compassion before. I demanded something only because I don’t approve of giving something for nothing. But I want no riches. I am a wealthy man.”
“What about power, then?” she pleaded, warm tears trickling down her face. “I could ensure you a position in the government.”
He smiled in the light of his eye. “Even if I wanted such a thing, you couldn’t ensure it.”
She knew that this was true. No one would ever allow an altered human to hold any kind of public office at all, let alone one with any significant power. Certainly not in New England. Probably not anywhere else.
“Please…” she clasped her hands. “There must be something I can offer you.”
He continued staring at her for a moment. Then, “Why is this so important to you?”
She swallowed. “I want to keep working.”
He smiled and shook his head. “If you wanted that, you would already have made something worthwhile. No, you are not a creator. You are a tinkerer. You can only improve. You know that now.”
If she could have done so with any sliver of truth, she would have denied it vehemently. But she kept her mouth closed. He went on.
“So tell me truly. What is it?”
She should have said that she didn’t want to be imprisoned, that she didn’t want to bring shame on her father’s house, that she didn’t want to bring scandal to the governor for his deception—something along those lines. But she hesitated.
“Ah.” He breathed out a long breath. “You love this man, this—prince charming, don’t you?”
She had no answer.
He smiled, but only with his mouth. The expression didn’t touch his human eye. “There is only one thing I want.”
“What is it? I’ll do anything.”
“A child.”
She pulled back and stared. His eye was dead serious, unwavering. “A child… but… I have no child to give you.”
“Not now, no. But one day, perhaps?”
One day? When would she ever have a chance to have a child? Her marriage, she knew, was a mockery. Byron had never expressed the slightest hint of interest in activities that would produce a child. Whether from respect for her or from true lack of enthusiasm, she did not know.
Did she really think that one more lie, one more miracle, would change that?
Byron was always so considerate of her comfort and happiness, but it was not love. It was mere kindness. But married she was.
What had she been thinking?
And yet—if she did this for him, this one more glorious thing, it might—just might—buy her that. Perhaps—he would look at her differently. If not—well, there was no child yet. And in all probability, there never would be.
She pinched her lips together. “You’re asking for my child, should I ever bear one?”
“Correct. I would take excellent care of it.”
People adopted children all the time. And again—there was no child even to speak of.
She took a deep breath.
“Agreed.”
Electronic and human eyes blinked in unison. “I will make two more machines in exchange for your firstborn child, then.”
Two automated lives for one human one that did not even exist.
“All right. Do it.”
He nodded and rolled up his rough, rumpled sleeves. “Get some rest. Your eyes are more red than mine, dearie.”
She tried to smile at this, but her heart was weighted too heavily. She got to her feet, walked back to the bed, pulled down the covers, and laid down. Then she watched him work until she once again drifted off to sleep.
VII.
Whistle While You Work
Again, the warmth of the sunlight on her face awakened her. But unlike last time, the first thing she noticed was the lack of silk and plush on her resting place.
AI. Rumpled had made it for her again.
She sat upright and looked around the room. Again, the little altered man was gone. Again, the junk had been transformed, this time into two machines, which faced her, staring with lifeless eyes in the silence.
She stood up and walked to them. They were different from the previous one, but just as intricate and beautiful. She peered at the one on the left, whose torso was covered in gears of all colors and sizes, and she ran one finger along the mechanical pathway, taking in the changes from rusty to smooth metal among them.
“What is your name?” she almost whispered.
Its eyes flickered to life, becoming points of dim, blue light in its metallic face. “My designation is J-N. How may I serve you?”
She watched with fascination as the gears whirred and wires arced with tiny bursts of electricity. “Can I call you Janine?”
“I will answer to Janine. How may I serve you?”
Her imagination projected a more feminine quality onto this one, and a spark of affection crept into her heart.
A knock at the heavy wooden door startled her from her fixation on the machine. “Amanda?”
She realized then that she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him call her that.
“It’s me, Byron,” he went on. “May I come in? Are you finished?”
It was an improvement over just walking in on her, like before. An improvement born of respect, perhaps? Her heart fluttered. “Yes, come in,” she said.
Byron pushed the door open and stuck his head into the room before entering. A smile lit up his face when he caught sight of the machines.
She smiled back.
“They’re beautiful,” he said. “Thank you so much.” He stepped through the doorway and approached where she stood with Janine.
Her heart sank ever so slightly when his eyes remained fixed on the machines rather than on her. He took in every detail of their bodies hungrily and touched Janine on the shoulder. She followed his gaze to the glowing blue eyes and her heart ached.
“Byron?” she said.
“Yes?” He turned to her, still smiling.
“Maybe… we could keep this one?” She prodded a finger in Janine’s direction. “If you can afford it.”
He rubbed his chin. “I suppose we could. Yes, I think we could. At least for awhile.”
“Thank you.” She started to curtsy, but stopped mid-bob. He was her husband, even if only in name. Why should she curtsy to him?
He didn’t seem to notice. “You are a godsend.”
She looked down. “I’m glad.”
He spent the rest of the morning examining and working with the AI. She watched until she could bear it no longer, then retreated to her workshop to wait again for inspiration to strike.
The cycle began all over again. Breakfast in bed, long hours in the workshop or the library, or sometimes walking, exploring the house, or even napping. The only difference was that she kept Janine with her everywhere she went. When she woke up each morning, she would call out, “Janine,” and the gears would whir and the wires would spark, and the machine would straighten up and turn her blue eyes on Amanda. “How may I serve you?”
She taught Janine how to bring her books and tools and how to choose clothes from the wardrobe and how to adjust the heater, how to get a bath ready and how to carry a tray of food upstairs. She took her on walks and taught her to carry on a simple conversation. Mostly this only involved asking how Amanda was, listening a lot, nodding, and sometimes interjecting an automated, “Oh,” or “That’s nice,” or “I’m sorry to hear that.” As the days dragged on, the machine learned slowly to interpret the tone of Amanda’s voice and began to be able to pick the appropriate response for what she was saying. When she heard the word “lonely,” Janine learned to reach over and pat Amanda’s arm twice.
But Janine could only do so much, and it wasn’t long before Amanda was again bored. She was tired of taking bits of metal, welding them together, and having useless contraptions sent down to the basement furnace. She would create out of desperation, but never anything with any practicality or interest whatsoever. She was tired of reading, and grew restless to actually put her knowledge to use. There was no more of the house to explore except the basement, where she had no desire to go. There were no more dresses to wear or foods to try. And she had run out of things to teach Janine.
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