Now Josh had persuaded him otherwise. Damn the lad. If it wasn’t enough he had to wear a monkey suit, he’d agreed to talk. He hoped it’d go down better than his best man’s speech.
He was on his third lap of the hall, Puss shadowing. Josh should be here by now. Maybe there was a strike. Maybe he’d broken down. Maybe -
The bell pealed. He reached the door before Gwyn.
“Do me out of a job, why don’t you?”
He grinned. “Carry on like that, I’ll get Bill to drive. Ruffle a few royalist feathers.”
She made a face. He pulled a worse one back. Josh stared at them, baffled. “Have I picked a bad time?”
“No, you’re very punctual.”
“It’s as unpunctual to be early as it is to be late. I like to be on time.”
“If you say so.” ‘Alfred Time’ was a family joke. His idea of two hours later was half a day, if he remembered. Poor Gwyn got furious about it.
“You look terrific,” the artificial said.
Alfred would have suspected anyone else of sarcasm. Josh really did look terrific. Slim and pale as a ghost, his tie and the orchid in his buttonhole the only touch of colour.
“I brought you one.” Josh patted an orchid into place on Alfred’s lapel. The flower looked flimsy beside the tweed but the thought was there. “Now we match.”
“Where did you get them?”
“I’m growing them on the roof garden.”
“They’re wonderful.”
Josh put his arm through his. “Are you ready?”
“Born ready.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. How cringe inducing.
They’d been driving for an hour, eating sherbets and playing the games you do on long journeys. They were well into Gwyn’s favourite, making silly sentences from letters on vix plates. She and Josh were giggling at ‘Yeti Safety Blanket’ and ‘Evil Breakfast Attacks’ when Alfred was seized by a panic attack.
He knew the symptoms. His eye twitched, his leg jingled, he gripped his knees. His chest became a balloon swelling to bursting point, his mouth arid. From a great height he heard Josh say, “He’s gone funny,” and Gwyn exclaim, “Not again!”
“Is he alright?”
“Give him a nip from his flask.”
“He’s not supposed to be drinking.”
“It’s medicinal.”
“Shouldn’t he breathe into a bag?”
“Doesn’t work.” She pulled into a higgledy piggledy lane and tethered against a tree. He felt her patting his face but couldn’t tell her to stop it.
“Alfred.” The mist parted. Josh looked down at him. “Can you hear me?”
“Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Do you do that a lot?”
“If I’m worked up.”
“It’s not too late to go back.”
“I promised I’d lend moral support -”
“- and you keep your word.” He held out the flask. “Need this?”
Alfred wanted it so badly, he could taste it, but dreaded Josh’s disappointment. “There’s pills in the glove compartment.”
“I’m proud of you.”
He heaved himself into a sitting position. “This had better be worth it.”
“C’mon.” Gwyn had returned. “We’ll be late if we don’t get a move on.”
“Fashionably late - what does that mean?” Alfred wondered. “What are you if you’re early?”
“Scruffily early?” Josh suggested.
Gwyn rolled her eyes. “Why are men full of crap?”
They arrived at the Palace without further incident. Josh took in the hulking building, squatting over the Pleasure Grounds like a monstrous lizard.
“I like the National Library better. This looks like a big house.”
“I thought banks were palaces when I was little,” Gwyn agreed. “They look grander. How long are you going to be?”
“Depends,” Alfred shrugged. “Brought anything to read?”
“I’ve got my powerbook.” Feet on the control panel, she was quickly absorbed in a game.
They advanced up the drive, Josh’s arm trembling. “It’s not too late to run, is it?” he asked.
“You’re the guest of honour!”
“I’ll stop you -”
“I’ll stop you.”
“Your orchid’s crooked.” Josh fixed it.
As they stepped over the threshold they were dazzled by light and noise.
“The artie!”
“That’s him!”
“Isn’t he lifelike?”
“Isn’t that -?”
“Lord Langton?”
Whispers scattered from one guest to the next. He heard one woman tell her husband he’d taken up the family business. As if anyone would want to tinker with robots.
Fisk materialised. She was wearing something long and blue, her hair wrenched into painful bun. “Good evening, Josh. I’ll take over, shall I?”
He would much rather not, but obedience was hardwired. “Yes, Dr Fisk.”
“I’ll find you later,” Alfred promised. He was rewarded by a sweet smile and Fisk’s glare.
The usual merry go round, boring to tears. Friends air kissing, enemies cutting each other dead, everyone mooching like farts in a trance. Alfred combed the outskirts, mumbled vague nothings to people he thought he recognised. He was dying for a drink. Waiters cajoled, guests watched hopefully, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
Pictures of Josh were everywhere. In evening wear, smart casual, swimwear. They drew lecherous stares from most of the women present. “If I had that in my bed, I’d never get out of it,” one commented.
“Mother!”
“Don’t say you’re not thinking the same.”
“Well, yes, but still -”
Human-robot relations were strictly monitored. If you fell in love with one, you had to declare your honourable intentions and submit yourself for psych tests. If you were found unfit, no amount of money would help. The definition of ‘unfit’ was laughably wide: a youthful indiscretion here, a patch of recreational drug use there. As a result relationships – dubbed “marriages”, to lend it a shaky respectability - were few and far between, the majority between faded socialites and their boy toys.
Thanks to its rarity, it had become a fetish, with dingy clubs sprouting like toadstools. If you couldn’t get an artificial, you could buy a pleasurecom from the Storm or knock one up in your shed. It was a popular porn scenario, inspiring titles such as Full Metal Lover: He’ll Press All Your Buttons! They generally featured a greased up man painted silver, unleashing a humongous cock.
Alfred glimpsed Josh across the room. Anything less like an oily, muscled hunk was hard to imagine. He winked and Josh tried to wink back. A solemn blink was the best he could manage.
Sugar bumbled over. “Lord Langton, we’re honoured. Thanks for looking after him.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“I know he asks lots of questions. It’s wonderful to watch the development of a mind with no schema. Of course he’s the prototype; it’d be interesting to see how copies develop with different stimuli.”
Alfred knew scientists of old. Feed them the right questions and they’d talk for hours. “What sort of stimuli?”
“No doubt you’ve noticed he likes reading and puzzles? That’s down to Mandy, my assistant. She was worried about him getting bored. I explained boredom is a human invention but she wouldn’t have it. It’s given him unforgivably bad taste in literature. I’d like to see how a robot given quality literature might develop, or one who’d never seen a book.”
No one could blame Josh for being bored. Taking Alfred’s nod as assent, Sugar wittered on.
“It’s taken a while, but he has a fully working brain. We’ve spent the last year bringing him up to speed. Chronologically he’s two and a half, but he has the reasoning powers of a highly intelligent adult, bar the odd gap.”
Alfred reached for his hipflask, remembered it was in the vix a
nd tried to look as though he was leaning nonchalantly against a pillar. “You could say that about some humans.”
“Precisely. We don’t want to make him too much of a prodigy.” Was it coincidence his eyes flicked to Fisk, speaking regrettably loudly and clearly to a foreign diplomat?
“What will you use him for?”
“Depends what his skills are.”
“Is it too much to hope he’ll have a career?”
“Oh, no! Lots of robots work. We’re in correspondence with an artificial in Arkan; she works as a singer. We should get them together.”
He was holding forth about robots with jobs, Alfred wondering if Josh would have any say in the matter, when somebody toppled into the doctor’s back.
“Would you mind where you’re - Oh. Your Grace.” Sugar dropped into a sexless obeisance.
“That will do,” the Queen said. His back creaked as he straightened up. “Model yourself on Langton. He’s barely exerted himself.”
“Charmed, ma’am.” Alfred gave the briefest, curtest of bows.
“What brings you here, you roué? I wouldn’t have thought this was your scene.”
Sugar pretended someone wanted him on the other side of the room and left Alfred with the sovereign. She wore a severe dress in her favourite shade of arsenic green, swung the crocodile handbag she was never without. Needle sharp eyes darted in the heavily rouged face.
“Reminding people I’m alive,” he said carelessly.
“That never used to concern you.”
“I’ve turned over a new leaf.”
“If I know you, the reason’s a whom, not a why.”
He thought he would change the subject. “What do you think of all this?”
“You know I can’t comment. It’s too close to politics.”
“Off the record, then.”
A brilliant smile. “You won’t catch me out. How’s that housekeeper of yours?”
An embarrassed grin as they remembered the last time she and Nanny met. Alfred’s old butler Tolmash had mistaken the Queen’s room for Nanny’s during a house party; he’d died on top of her. Alfred and Nanny had been barred from the Palace for a decade - a shame, since she was an ardent royalist.
“She thrives.” What else could he say?
“It’s been lovely, but I must find my husband. We don’t want a diplomatic incident.”
“Maybe you should get a set of reins.”
“A muzzle might be more fitting. See you, sooner rather than later.”
Game old bird. The monarchy would go to pot when she died. He checked his watch. A quarter of an hour left. If he sat tight and didn’t make eye contact -
“BWAH HA HA!”
The impulse not to look up was stronger than ever. As he sat in the corner and nursed a glass of appleade, he heard the Mayor boom like profane thunder.
“Him, him - what about him?”
“Undoubtedly.” The fusty voice belonged to Prince Wulfric, Lux’s oldest and most objectionable man. “They say he has a casting couch for men.”
“At his age? - Prime filly, four o’clock. Phwooarr.”
The Prince echoed it. “Talking of shirt lifters, Quentin Bullen’s got the widget cornered.”
“Poor bot! I had to sit through one of his shows. Spunk: A Love Story. I don’t mind if they keep to themselves, but some of these buggers have to rub it in your face.”
“They can’t help it, Jerry. You can always tell. Take Bullen. You can smell the bum juice on him.”
“There must be someone who - Ah! The very man!” Jerry bobbed towards Alfred. “Langton, you’re an anthrowotsit. Settle an argument, will you?”
“What about?”
They were an ill matched pair: Jerry short and fat, looking like he’d got dressed in his filing cabinet, the Prince tall and cadaverous like the world’s wrinkliest nutcracker.
“Poof spotting. We always play it at these dos.” As Wulfric coughed, “Keep your wig on. He says you can tell if someone’s an arse bandit. I say not -”
“Poppycock,” the Prince blurted. “They’ve got queer eyes.”
There was no malice in Jerry’s elastic face. Even that despicable old earwig was only taking a scientific interest.
Alfred ran a hand through his hair. “Can’t say it’s a talent I possess. Yes, some are blatant, but others are more reserved. Depends on their culture.”
Jerry turned to Wulfric. “See? If he’s known benders around the world -”
Somebody touched Alfred’s shoulder. He wondered what now, this evening could hardly get worse, and was relieved to see Josh.
“Come at the right time?” the artificial whispered.
“You have no idea.”
“The bell’s about to go. Good luck.”
The China Room was one of the Palace’s marvels: a delicate blend of mother of pearl and fine lines. Now the beauty of the mouldings was ruined by a chunky stage and twenty foot screen. A digital Gussy loomed, patting her hair. Alfred mounted the steps and approached the soundtube.
Faces beyond the footlights, expecting him to cock up. He heard Prince Wulfric’s loud whisper: “Is he going to catch flies all night?”
“My sister and I had a ritual -” Had he gone deaf? He adjusted the soundtube. “My sister and I had a ritual every year on our birthday. Once the presents were opened, the cake cut, we’d make a toast. Nothing alcoholic - we weren’t that precocious.” Laughter. “We vowed we’d be famous; she as a scientist, I as ... whatever I wanted to be. A pirate, I think. Gussy’s no longer here, but her work is immortal.”
He expanded on what he and Josh had discussed. Gussy as big sister and best friend, Lady Augusta the powerhouse. He was enjoying himself, an unfamiliar feeling.
“Gussy loved her work. She wanted to make robots an integral part of our society. I used to be sceptical; now I’m sure it’ll happen. On this, our fiftieth birthday, would you join me in toasting Josh? He is the future.”
Five hundred of the City’s worthies - politicians, press, anyone who liked a gawk and free grub - followed suit. “To Josh!”
Josh bowed in his seat. “Thank you, Lord Langton. Thank you, everyone.”
Alfred took the steps down into the audience. All the breath was knocked from him; Josh had thrown his arms around his neck.
“You were wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t I say you had nothing to worry about?”
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“You’re wonky.” Josh patted the orchid. “There. You’ll be fighting them off.”
“They’re too busy drooling over you.”
“You think so?”
“Have you seen you?”
Alfred knew he shouldn’t mind, but it stuck in his craw. Society mares introducing themselves, rubbing up against Josh like bitches on heat. The older ones were the worst, thinking that because he was a robot it didn’t count. Just because the lad was good looking –
No, that was inadequate. Anybody could be good looking. He’d been, once upon a time. It was something in the eyes, something pure. Josh was beautiful.
“What now?” Alfred hissed.
“You should’ve come to rehearsals! A slideshow.”
He prepared to be bored. The Palace chairs were wretchedly uncomfortable and designed for midgets. He worried he’d get stuck and wander around looking like a hermit crab.
Pseudo classical music started to play, ‘The Life of Lady Augusta Wilding’ scrolled across the screen. He leaned forward, forgetting the seat’s limitations, and caught his thigh.
The early years. The pair of them in identical outfits, hair the same length. Their mum recognising her daughter’s genius. The university years. Would they - could they? It didn’t make sense otherwise -
They had. Vamoosed, vaporised. He should have expected it, CER had lived in denial the past decade, but that they’d have the brass bollocked nerve -
He squirmed out of the chair, dropped it onto somebody’s foot. “He’s away!” Wulfric hissed gleefully.
Sugar stared like a betrayed child; Fisk shook her head. Unable to explain, he retreated into the night.
“Alfred?”
He thought Josh’s quick, light footsteps had gone past, but they reversed and found him.
“Go away!”
“I won’t abandon a friend in need. You’re crying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“What do you call this?” Josh pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
“I’ve fucked everything up.” Alfred rubbed his nose. “Bet you wish I hadn’t come.”
“Why would I do that? Your speech was terrific -”
“And then I disconknockerated the seating plan.”
“Is that a word?”
“One of Gwyn’s.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
A long fruity blow, wrecking Josh’s hanky. “They’ve rewritten history and don’t care. There should be a point where they say, ‘Enough. We forgive’ - well, maybe not forgive -”
“Do you want to come back inside?”
“Not really. But you’ve no way of getting home -”
Josh stood his ground. “I’m not going in unless you’re there.”
“Looks like we’ve reached a stalemate. Let’s check on Gwynnie.”
They followed the sign posts to the drive. Gwyn was sitting on the vix, talking to someone. Josh’s friend Pip, her pink hair akimbo, wearing a knotty gold dress. Earnestly nodding, looking Gwyn up and down.
Alfred thought about leaving them to it, but Josh sensed no such undercurrent. “Fancy seeing you!” he exclaimed. “How do you know each other?”
Pip brazened it out. “There’s a grapevine. Y’ guys okay?”
“Alfred had a migraine. He’s starting to feel better.” The lie tripped glibly from Josh’s tongue. “Are you coming with us?”
“You don’t have to,” Alfred said, seeing her eyes stray to Gwyn. Young love. He envied them.
“Let me finish my cig.” She ground it beneath her heel.
Love and Robotics Page 6