Love in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction

by Judd Trichter

  Dale signals to Malcolm, who hands Eliot a notebrane that unfolds to reveal the financials of Monroe’s offer. Eliot examines the figures and considers the split that would pay his androids forty per day while GAC pockets the other forty as a fee. Hard mining in two-hundred-below weather would require a large expenditure of power, and with Monroe running the generators, who knows how much the mining conglomerate would charge the bots for juice? Forty ingots per day would leave no room for upgrades or spare components for damaged limbs, of which there would be many the way Monroe drives its bots. That means the androids, in order to survive, would have to purchase black market metal that runs a high risk of failure, corruption, or infection. That could lead to a depreciation in the value of the bots or, worse, an outbreak similar to the one on Mons Bradley that bankrupted Eliot’s previous employer. Finally, the commission on Dale’s offer would only get Eliot halfway to what he needs to buy a boat that can cross the Pacific.

  “I think there are labor providers who might take this offer.” Eliot stands and hands the brane back to Malcolm. “But GAC isn’t one of them. Thank you for considering us, Dale. It’s always a pleasure to see you. Give your wife and kids my best. Sally, please show Dale and Malcolm back to their car.”

  The Texan smiles and laughs off what he guesses to be a bluff.

  “Now, now, let’s not get our panties in a twist.” His chins jiggle as he slaps his glass on the table and sits back on the couch. “Malcolm, does it seem to you like we’ve upset Mr. Lazar?”

  “Seems that way, sir.”

  “What do you suppose we did wrong?”

  “I dunno, sir.”

  “I dunno, either.” Dale produces a pack of cigarettes and taps it against his leg. “Maybe they just lack hospitality here in Cali-forn-I-A.” He lights his smoke and takes a drag. “Or else there’s some other sensitivity we’ve managed to upset.”

  Eliot looks into his drink as he weighs his personal predicament against his professional ethics. The longer Iris remains in Los Angeles, the more vulnerable she is to a trapper, to a Militiaman, to an Android Disciple looking to punish her for dating a heartbeat. Lord knows she would never want Eliot to send three thousand souls to a frozen Hell on her account, but one way or another, Monroe Extraction will dig that mine. Dale Hampton will get his bots from GAC or some other labor provider, and they will pull that metal out of the ground. Better the commission goes to Eliot rather than a competitor. At least he’ll put it to good use and protect the androids as best he can. At least that’s the way he justifies it in his mind.

  “Am I right,” Eliot asks softly, “that Monroe lost two thousand of Bjork Nautical’s androids during an excavation beneath the Arctic?”

  “Well,” Dale replies in his crafty drawl, “a lot of them bots were listed as ‘damaged beyond repair,’ but the labor provider’s definition of DBR was miles apart from ours.”

  “And then you destroyed another five thousand during a ten-year dig on Mars.”

  “Now looky here”—Dale points a ringed finger in Eliot’s direction—“five thousand bots over ten years on the Red Planet is hardly something to be ashamed of. Besides, wasn’t like we was payin’ top-of-the-line metal. We was usin’ third-rate commie tin, some of the worst coolies Kindelan had to lease. Sure, the work dented a few heads, but what did they care? Kindelan got their money back when they sold the DBRs to Green Valley.”

  The Green Valley to which Dale refers is the recycling facility whose business it is to buy DBR’ed androids, pull out salvageable parts, then sell what they can to retailers in the secondary market. Whatever they can’t move as a component, they sell as scrap, and whatever they can’t sell as scrap gets rendered and returned to the Earth for future generations to mine. Selling DBRs to Green Valley is a last resort when trying to recover value from a wrecked bot.

  “I need my androids to work full capacity for six hundred days before GAC turns a profit,” says Eliot. “I need to run the company store to sell upgrades and replacement metal. If my bots get DBR’ed and wind up at a recycler, that’s just a one-time payment and I’m not generating revenue.”

  “Horseshit.” Dale blows twin streams of smoke out his nose. “The way y’all upgrade designs, most of them bots are obsolete in two years anyway. If y’all didn’t sell DBRs to Green Valley, you’d just release ’em as free roamers, and free roamers lower the cost of labor. So if you look at it that way, you’re better off I crush your fucking bots.”

  Sally, Malcolm, and the androids in the tableaux remain stone-faced during the negotiation. Eliot wonders if any of them would like to be free roamers themselves. It’s a trade-off. Because they’re unowned, free roamers don’t have to split their salaries with a labor provider or some other owner. They work for less but pocket more. They drag down wages for bots and heartbeats alike. That’s why other workers see them as a threat. With no rights and no citizenship, the free roamers have none of the legal protections bots enjoy when they are the property of corporations or private individuals. Their only protection is their employee ID cards, which the trappers, according to their ethical code, choose to respect and allow the bots free passage. Without that card, a roamer will see his engine ripped from his torso within a year of gaining his “freedom.”

  “Eighty per day is too low,” says Eliot. “I can’t make the deal.”

  The burly Texan puts out his cigarette on the table. His drink spills as he stands and paces before the tableaux. Eliot gathers from all the posturing that Dale doesn’t want to return to his bosses empty-handed. He hasn’t left the room yet. Whatever his reasons, he’s still looking for a deal.

  “What do you have for security?” Dale asks, his voice slurring from the bourbon.

  Eliot indicates to Sally that it’s time to pull out the secret weapon, the yes-maker, closer of all deals stalled or wobbling. The secretarybot moves the screen on a fourth tableau to reveal a lithe, onyx-colored securitybot in black metal armor standing before a clean white brane. Knees bent, arms cocked, fingers spread. He’s ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, and yet it’s the calm in the bot’s demeanor that strikes the greatest fear. It’s as if Sally has revealed to the room the presence of a bomb, armed and ready to explode the moment it detects any thought that might precede a violent action.

  “Where’s the background on that?” Eliot asks.

  Sally apologizes. “We’re displaying the Satine 5000s against a white brane until marketing decides on a matching environment.”

  The securitybot stares forward with relaxed lips and smooth black eyes. The room chills in his presence. Dale stands before him pretending he isn’t transfixed by the contours and sharp edges of the bot’s features.

  Says Eliot, “Independent tests confirm that the Satine 5000 prototype outperforms all the top-rated securitybots on the market. Our creatives based the design on Polynesian war masks and ancient Spartan armors. They studied the movements of Japanese fighting fish and the musculature of panthers in the wild.”

  “He looks a wee bit small,” says Dale.

  “The data shows speed is more important than size. We charge a high premium, but you won’t need as many on your detail as you would using another brand.”

  Dale takes out a pocketbrane and shines a UV light on the bot’s limbs to see the serial numbers.

  “We don’t mix and match parts,” says Eliot. “His eyes extend from his face to get a three-hundred-degree view. His claws tear through concrete. His skin can hold off M2 bullets fired at a velocity of…”

  “I’ll pay a hundred per day on average for the whole package,” says Dale. “Provided you throw this son of a bitch in the mix.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Dale groans. “Eliot, you want to tell me why you’re being so difficult?” He crosses back to the coffee table to retrieve his cigarettes. His loafers echo against the marble floor. “Is this about our last negotiation? Is this about Mons Bradley?”

  Eliot remembers the loops in the newsbranes from when t
he story went public. Previously benign androids had become raging psychopaths overnight. They were infected by the foaming mouth virus transported to the moon through corrupted metal.

  “Mons Bradley ain’t somethin’ I’m proud of,” the burly Texan admits as he lights up. “Ain’t somethin’ I want to repeat.”

  “Me either,” says Eliot. “So pay my bots what they’re worth and allow GAC to run the company store. That’s the only way we’ll keep bad metal off the site.”

  Dale drops his lighter and crosses back to the Satine 5000. He blows a stream of smoke into the securitybot’s face as he stares into the blackness of his eyes.

  “Eliot,” says Dale, “I fear you suffer from an excess of compassion. I witnessed the foaming mouth outbreak on Mons Bradley. I was there.” His voice trails off to a growl. “I ain’t talkin’ ’bout one or two spinners gone loopy with drool on their lips. I’m talking ’bout hundreds of rogue bots rippin’, robbin’, and rapin’ everything on the moon. Tearin’ apart heartbeat men, women, and children. The things they did to them children.” Dale gives each bot in the room a hard look before returning to the Satine. “That ain’t somethin’ a fellow forgets.”

  No, thinks Eliot, Dale didn’t forget. He lost some thirty coworkers, but he kept his job. The labor provider took the blame, not Dale, not Monroe Extraction. After all, Monroe didn’t own the bots, they just hired them from Daihanu. And six years later, Dale’s still working for the same company, still procuring androids and shuttling them to Hell while Eliot lost his inheritance and had to start over at a new firm.

  “Three hundred per day,” Eliot states his price. The ask is high, but if the client will meet him in the middle, it’s the last deal of its kind that Eliot will ever have to negotiate. He’ll never have to deal with the likes of Dale Hampton again.

  “Three hundred a day is more than I’d pay a heartbeat.”

  “Heartbeats can’t survive in the outer solar system.”

  “One fifty,” Dale counters, and Eliot comes down to 275. He can see Dale Hampton being seduced by the Satine. The bot appeals to the Texan’s reptilian vanity. He has to have him. Has to show him off to his bosses back at Monroe. Sleek like an Italian sports car but far more threatening. And he’d be the first on his block to have one.

  “Just how good is this son of a bitch?” Dale asks. His wet lips curl as he unholsters his .357 and crosses to the coffee table. His smile indicates he’d like to see a demonstration.

  “Tim,” Eliot calls to the Satine. “Protect Mr. Hampton.”

  The onyx-colored bot steps out of his tableau so that he has an angle on all the players in the room.

  “Malcolm, you ugly shit,” says Dale, as he drops his gun on the table. “I want you to grab that gun and shoot me.”

  The confused android looks at his owner to see if he’s kidding. He looks to Eliot then to the Satine.

  “Go on.” Dale positions himself between the table and the securitybot. “You pull this off, you’ll be a robot hero. They’ll name a bot holiday after you. Call it Malcolm Saturday.”

  Again, the bot looks at the gun then at his owner then at Eliot, who is as curious as anyone to see how this all plays out. Even the Torrell-9 leans across his desk to watch from his tableau.

  “Hey, monkey lips,” says Dale, “did you not hear what I said? Grab that gun, or I’ll hang you myself from a hook on the Green Valley line. Now stop being a dumb piece of shit and shoot.”

  The repressed emotion from years of insults burns to the surface of the android’s face. It happens quickly. Malcolm runs to the table and grabs the gun in a fast-twitch motion hoping he can get off the shot before anyone reacts. He can’t. The Satine 5000 flings a knife from his belt as Malcolm’s hand rises. The blade threads past Dale and strikes at Malcolm’s wrist. The gun clanks to the floor. Malcolm bends to pick it up, but by then, the Satine has closed the distance between them. Malcolm’s legs fly from beneath him. His arm is snapped off at the shoulder. Within a second’s time, the Satine has retrieved the gun and offered it back to Dale.

  The burly Texan cannot hide his awe. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He holsters the gun as Malcolm bleeds oil in a heap of twisted limbs. “I’ll be Goddamned!”

  “Sally, get some maintenancebots and an engineer to help Malcolm reattach his parts.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lazar.” The secretarybot moves to a workbrane and types the request on the hologram keyboard.

  “And prepare some contracts for Mr. Hampton. A three thousand bot order for five years at two fifty per day.”

  The Texan puts down his drink and claps his meaty palms in appreciation.

  “Wait ’til I show the boys back home. They ain’t gonna believe this!”

  But as Dale Hampton claps, Eliot notices a narrow slit across the sleeve of his blazer. Then Dale notices it, too. On closer examination, he sees the fabric coming apart.

  “What the…?”

  Oh shit. “Sally, have the valet get my car.”

  Dale tears off his jacket to find a red circle expanding on the white cotton of his shirt. “He cut me!”

  Eliot grabs Dale and pulls him toward the elevator.

  “That son of a bitch cut me. He damn near cut off my arm!”

  Dale goes for his gun, but Eliot is there to stop him. He pulls at Dale’s arm as the elevator arrives.

  “I want him dead! I want that son of a bitch cut in a million pieces and melted to a chunk of shit!”

  “We have to get you to a hospital.”

  “Let me at ’im!”

  The Satine steps back into his tableau as Eliot pushes Dale inside the elevator. Blood streams down the Texan’s arm and drips from the tip of his finger.

  “What kind of operation are you runnin’ here, Lazar? That bot is a Goddamn killer!”

  The doors close and the elevator begins its descent. Eliot removes his tie and uses it as a tourniquet to stanch the bleeding.

  “No son of a bitch bot gonna cut me and live to tell about it. You gonna pay for this, Lazar! Your whole damn company gonna pay!”

  Eliot tightens the knot around Dale’s shoulder and wipes the blood from his hands. He can see the blue-green fields and black-sand beaches of Avernus drifting a little farther away.

  THREE

  The Younger Brother

  Five hundred global ingots for Dale’s hospital bill. Another six hundred on a new coat and shirt. A hundred and fifty on dinner and drinks to settle him down. All of it out of Eliot’s pocket. Sally had Malcolm driven to the station where Dale and his bot boarded a vactrain back to Houston. Eliot saw them off. Come again soon. Shithead.

  There’s a message on his deskbrane when he arrives back at the office:

  Eliot—

  Dinner tonight. On me!

  —Erica

  Fuck.

  “Gita, did the boss say anything about the meeting with Monroe Extraction?”

  His coworker eats a salad at her desk and watches Eliot even when she’s looking away. “Nope.”

  “Did she mention why she wants to see me?”

  “Nope.”

  Of course the Hairy Mole doesn’t need an excuse for ruining Eliot’s night. Ruining it because Erica Santiago, VP from the Paolo Alto office, has a giant, hairy mole on her lower lip that moves when she chews like a beetle trying to escape her mouth.

  Eliot fakes a sneeze.

  “Bless you.”

  “Thanks.”

  In a move he has perfected over the years, Eliot pops open the vial in his pocket and dumps the remaining drip into a Kleenex in an open drawer. He pulls the tissue to his face and breathes in loud enough that it sounds like he’s blowing his nose when in fact he’s sucking in another glorious hit of the only thing in the world that will get him through the night.

  “Gita, if the boss asks, tell her I had plans with my brother and can’t make it tonight.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Have a good one.”

  “You, too.”

  Gita stays. Pr
obably wants to snoop around. Gita is always snooping around, though what she’s looking for God only knows. Eliot says good night to Sally at the reception desk and waits for the elevator. It arrives with the Satine 5000 alone in the corner.

  “Jesus Christ.” Eliot shakes his head as he pushes the button for the garage. The doors close. “Tim, what the Hell was your objective up there?”

  “Protect the principal.”

  “And who was the principal?”

  “Mr. Hampton.” The Satine speaks in a whisper that he can focus so that it’s only heard by the person he addresses.

  “Then why did Mr. Hampton get injured, Tim? Why did I have to take Dale Hampton to the Goddamn hospital to get him stitched up?”

  “There were two hundred ninety-three methods of defense of which the knife throw had the highest probability of stopping the attack while causing the least possible injury to the principal.”

  “And that was your only calculation? You weren’t also factoring in anything you heard during the negotiation?”

  “I was focused on the objective.”

  Eliot wants to believe him, but he knows his bosses will see the accident in a different light. They’ll see it as a reason to have the Satine sent to the Green Valley recycling plant to be terminated, separated, and rendered.

  “I’m assuming all your parts are clean.”

  “They are.”

  “Make sure of it. I want you to get an oil change and a virus scan.”

  “Should I get it at the company store?”

  “Not unless you want this on record.” Eliot pulls out his wallet and hands the bot a fifty-ingot note. “Get it done at the downtown mission. There’s no reason GAC has to know, but God help you if this ever happens again.”

  A tone from the elevator indicates their arrival at the lobby.

  “Did you close the deal?” asks the Satine.