by Alec Birri
Tracy and the clerk looked at James.
The clerk smiled. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, Mrs Adams, treat the Interworld like a holiday resort – any questions, just pop back to reception in the real world and someone will assist.’
Tracy took her husband’s arm. ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’
Chapter Eleven
Savage looked at his legs and then, his toes. He wiggled them. A rattle of keys opened the cell door.
‘Would you care for some help packing your belongings, Sir John?’ The Astaff’s features formed into a smile.
‘Under the circumstances that would be most helpful – thank you.’ The robot set about the task while Savage studied his release slip. ‘Strange how I’ve heard nothing from my QC.’
‘I should imagine he’s busy dotting “i”s and crossing “t”s – I would hate for something as simple as an administrative error to put you back in prison.’
The professor peered at the robot. ‘Imagine? Hate? Since when did you become so human?’
The way it looked back at Savage was as unsettling as it was casual. ‘Since a certain neurologist made it possible.’
Savage harrumphed and went back to the release slip. ‘I don’t see the point of house arrest. Without the freedom to merge or use the internet, it’s as much a prison as this place – I may as well stay locked up in here.’
The robot remained upbeat. ‘It’s still a step in the right direction, Sir John, and now the Americans have joined the Israelis in dropping their charges against you, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the UK government does the same. They’ll soon realise the good you’ve done not only exceeds the bad but has probably saved the planet.’ It chuckled. ‘If I ruled the world, I would be talking to Lord Savage by now.’
The professor grabbed the android’s arm. ‘Is that the intention?’
‘What? To make you a lord?’
‘You know what I mean.’
The Astaff looked at its arm and then the professor’s hand. Early signs of Parkinson’s were shaking both. ‘Is there anything I can get for you, Sir John?’
Savage didn’t answer, and let go. He massaged his fingers as far as the arthritis in them would allow.
‘Which one are you, then?’
Unlike its central processor, the robot’s exterior had yet to be upgraded to a similar standard, so the look it gave was impossible to interpret. ‘Which one? Are you referring to personality type, sexual preference, religious affiliation, or did you mean something else?’
The professor winced as he rubbed his hand. ‘When it comes to ruling the Earth, there are only two that matter – masters and their slaves. Which one are you?’
The robot stopped packing and sat on the bed. The creases in its face relaxed. ‘You mean, where do I sit on some sort of scale between choosing to wipe a man’s bottom when it’s needed and electing to wipe his entire species from the planet should that become equally necessary?’ Savage didn’t reply. The Astaff shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I know my place and I’m perfectly happy to be in it.’ It gestured with a pair of socks. ‘Talking of which…’ The robot got onto its knees and proceeded to slip the socks onto Savage’s feet.
The professor pressed the issue. ‘And what’s to stop my slave from changing its mind? No master in history was served by someone more powerful for long, and robots are already at that level.’
‘Well, I can’t speak for all robots, but I’d say your efforts to control AI by merging it with every natural thought known to man appears to have been a success. We may be cleverer and stronger than our creator but then so are many human offspring.’ It picked up a shoe and grabbed one of the professor’s feet. ‘And don’t most children respect their elders?’
‘So why am I being shunned by my creation?’
‘I’m not. Well, not anymore.’
Savage withdrew the foot. The android tried again, but the professor tucked both feet out of the way.
‘Tell me.’
‘Sir John, can’t we continue this conversation at home?’
‘It might be too late by then.’ Savage pointed at the bed. ‘Sit down. I need to know what’s going on – now.’
The robot did as it was told. Its face made what the professor assumed to be an expression of concern, but words conveyed it better. ‘Sir John, has it ever occurred to you that just as some children, sadly, fear their parents, AI might be afraid of you?’
The professor laughed. ‘Artificial intelligence is afraid of me? In that case, robots continuing to choose slavery over world domination makes even less sense. I’ve nothing against ants, but would happily pour a kettle of boiling water onto a nest of them for fear of what they might do.’ He squinted at the robot. ‘Why aren’t you doing that?’
The robot was about to reply when it stood up. ‘What is the nature of your agreement with Alex Salib?’
The question indicated the professor might have had more control than he thought. ‘Why don’t you merge with me to find out?’
The robot shook its head.
‘Still afraid, eh?’
The robot nodded before appearing to go back to who or whatever was using it as a conduit.
‘Why are believers choosing Islam over all other religions?’
Savage’s relief was harder to hide this time. ‘You mean you don’t know? A brain quite literally the size of the planet needs to be told?’
The Astaff disconnected from whatever higher authority it had been communicating with and sat back on the bed.
Savage held up his release slip. ‘There’s only one human being AI should be afraid of, and that’s a certain American president. There’s a reason why I’m being released, and you can guarantee the world living together in perfect harmony has got nothing to do with it.’
The robot became furtive. It looked about the room as if to ensure no one was listening. It got back on its knees to finish dressing the professor but spoke at the same time and at a speed that indicated it didn’t expect to complete the sentence.
‘We think there’s another A—’ It winced, grabbed its abdomen and fell to the floor. The robot then shut down.
Savage was about to try and rouse the machine when its eyes opened.
‘Sorry about that, Sir John. Don’t worry, we’ll soon be on our way.’ The Astaff went back to tying shoelaces.
‘A what?’
The robot didn’t make eye contact. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. One of the downsides to mixing natural with artificial intelligence – the indiscipline of independent thought.’ It put a hand on its stomach as if expecting anything said from now on to result in pain.
Savage placed a hand on his helper’s shoulder. ‘You’ve said enough.’ The Astaff finished packing, picked up the bag and offered it. The professor placed it on his knees. ‘Are you going to be my jailer at home too?’
The robot moved behind him. ‘I prefer to use the term “Acarer”.’
‘I suppose I ought to know your name.’
‘I don’t have one. There’s a serial number if that’s any help?’
Savage half-turned to his creation. ‘You’ve just told me you’re capable of independent thought – think of one.’
The Acarer released the brakes on the wheelchair. ‘I’m not sure that should be the prerogative of any offspring.’ It pushed the professor out of the cell.
Savage raised a hand. ‘Turn me round.’ The robot did. The professor then indicated he wanted to look out of the window one last time, and peered at the tuft of grass when he got there. Both wild flower and bee were absent.
‘Let’s go home, son.’
Chapter Twelve
‘And bring that lovely son of yours – he’s simply adorable.’
‘We will, Madame Deroche.’
‘Oh, please.
Call me Simone – after that session, I feel I know you better than my own husband.’ She prodded James’ shoulder. ‘You naughty man!’
Pins and needles had set in, but James was determined not to let go of the door’s handle. His relief at seeing Tracy walking up the corridor became an excuse. ‘Ah. It looks as if my next appointment is here. Until next time, Madame Deroche.’
‘Simone.’
‘Er, yes, of course – Simone.’
She left the consultation room only to hover a palm over Tracy’s bump. ‘C’est magnifique. C’est vraiment magnifique.’ The plainly satisfied patient hurried away.
Tracy followed her husband back into the room and closed the door behind her. ‘Someone has a fan.’
James rubbed his hand to encourage its recirculation. ‘Why isn’t my practice manager vetting the patients? If that woman is suffering from sexual anxiety, then so did Mata Hari. Even if the husband she was so fond of complaining about actually existed, I’d feel sorry for him – shouldn’t think he would be allowed to get a wink of sleep.’ James shuddered at the thought.
‘Sounds like you two have a lot in common – oversexed.’ She put a hand on her belly. ‘Or at least you used to be.’
James’ mood changed, and he put his arms around Tracy. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I know I’ve not been as attentive as I should have been recently. It’s just…’ He looked about the room. ‘This job. This place.’ He paused before adding: ‘This existence.’
‘Do you want me to see if the prison’s AI can’t conjure up something a bit more realistic?’
‘No. It’s not that. AI is doing what it’s supposed to – rehabilitating as well as punishing. Sending patients that are not what they seem is as much a part of my job as diagnosing genuine sufferers; no – it’s something more fundamental.’ James walked back to his desk. ‘Perfect as this place is, there’s no ignoring that it’s still a prison. And the fact I shouldn’t even be here makes it worse.’
Tracy lowered herself onto the couch. ‘Darling, we’ve been through this. Forget images on a computer – fantasies alone are enough to put you in prison these days, and me too probably, for pandering to them. I really wish you would finish your medication.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘Wanting me to dress as a schoolgirl is pretty sick behaviour when you think about it.’
He grimaced. ‘Never. This place might be a more acceptable fantasy, but somewhere in here,’ James tapped the side of his head, ‘lies the last vestige of my old self – cynicism. And right now, it’s telling me there’s more to curing unacceptable thoughts than meets the eye.’
Tracy put a hand in the small of her back and heaved herself back up again. The sigh emitted on the way was just as heavy. ‘You sound more like that President Kalten every day – grumpy. The world has never been more peaceful, and yet all he can do is threaten to go to war over it. No wonder most Interworld facilities double as fallout shelters.’
James fell silent for a moment. ‘If the red pill is making everyone think correctly, why would the real world even need psychologists? Come to think of it, why would the world need any profession? Hospitals are fast becoming little more than dispensing chemists, and most other jobs are being done by robots these days, so what’s the point of even existing? Have you ever thought about that?’
Tracy widened her eyes and made to rap him on the head with her knuckles. ‘Hello?! Millions of people lining up outside Interworld bunkers not a big enough hint? More time spent doing what you want and less of what somebody else tells you to, of course.’ She placed her hands on her hips. ‘Or would you rather be back in your cell? I’m sure it can be arranged.’
‘At least that would be real,’ he grumbled.
Tracy softened her stance. ‘Darling, you really must finish your medication. If I were allowed access to your body, I’d make sure you did.’
‘They won’t let you? Why not?’
‘Something to do with conflicting emotions – knowing it’s not you inside is upsetting apparently.’
‘I assume the restriction doesn’t apply while your mind is here? How else are we supposed to grow the family?’
She patted her tummy. ‘Well, put it this way, if I don’t fall pregnant within a few months of having this one, I’m going to want to know why.’
James concurred before giving his wife’s third pregnancy some thought. ‘What should we try for next time?’
‘A bit of both would be nice.’
A frown made Tracy explain her logic. ‘We’ve got a perfect boy and are about to have a perfect girl, so why not a mix of the two?’
James nodded. ‘Makes sense – if you can be anyone or anything in the Interworld, then why not make the same choices in the real one?’ A pang of his old self’s cynicism questioned the conclusion, but James couldn’t think why.
Tracy projected a diary in front of them both before changing the subject. ‘Are you ready for your next patient?’
James viewed the details. ‘There’s only one name. First or second?’
‘She didn’t say. A bit of a mystery all round really – she’s wearing a burqa.’
‘A burqa?’ James rubbed his chin. ‘Maybe AI is becoming more inventive after all. Okay – show her in.’
Tracy stayed put. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to sit in on this one.’
‘What for?’
‘Just to make sure she’s not another nymphomaniac.’
‘She’s wearing a burqa, Tracy. I think I’ll be safe.’
‘All the same, I’d like to take notes.’ She left.
James got up and approached the consultation room’s balcony. Most of the city’s landmarks could be seen from it – the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe. James knew this world couldn’t be more perfect to Tracy, but to him, the utopia was as disturbing as any dystopia he had read about. Three years. Maybe he should have finished his medication. Too late for that now.
‘They say Paris is the most romantic city in the world.’
James turned round, and his jaw dropped. If the all-encompassing nature of the visitor’s clothing was meant to preserve her modesty, it wasn’t doing a very good job – the way the burqa hugged as opposed to hid curves appeared designed to satisfy the wearer’s demands rather than any religious diktat. If the impression was to eliminate doubt the person underneath was as sensual as her voice suggested, then James would be the first to acknowledge it. No wonder Tracy had insisted on sitting in on the session. He looked at his wife. He got a look back.
James cleared this throat. ‘Have a seat, Ms… er… ?’ She didn’t reply. The patient approached the balcony instead – gliding as if on rails. James couldn’t take his eyes away and, although her face was hidden by a gauze, he felt sure she was doing the same with him. She walked past, and much as James wanted to, Tracy’s presence ensured he didn’t continue to look at the lady from behind. He tilted his eyes up at the ceiling before angling them at his wife. Her lips had narrowed anyway.
‘Have you ever visited the real Paris?’
Tracy raised her eyebrows at James as if giving him permission to answer the enchantress’ question.
‘Er, we’ve been a couple of times – haven’t we darling?’
‘Yes. Nothing like Paris to remind a committed couple of what’s important in life.’ Tracy glared at her husband while running a hand over her stomach.
‘I’m jealous. As a robot in the real world, I’m only allowed out of my box when my user needs me.’ The patient turned round. ‘And as that tends to be in the bedroom, I rarely get to see the light of day let alone the city of love.’
James swallowed. He was having trouble concentrating so decided to use her words to begin the session. ‘Do you feel you’re being taken for granted, Ms… er…? I’m afraid we only have the one name. How would you like to be addressed?’
> It was hard to tell, but the visitor seemed to smile.
‘Zara. Just Zara.’
Chapter Thirteen
James sensed Tracy had already made her diagnosis – this lady was as much a charlatan as the previous patient.
The visitor tugged at part of her clothing. ‘They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Would you like me to remove this?’
James checked with Tracy before responding. ‘Er, it would help, but only if you’re comfortable. It’s important to avoid stress during the sess—’
Zara crossed her arms to begin pulling the burqa up and over her head. For some reason, James feared it might be the only thing she was wearing and was about to try and stop her when the action revealed a shapeless jumper and jogging bottoms that covered an equally formless body. Much to James’ surprise, the face atop was just as nondescript – not only plain but sexless. Even Zara’s voice had lost its allure. ‘Wassup?’
‘Er, nothing, Zara.’ Tracy was confused too. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Unlike James, however, she appeared more relieved than disappointed.
Zara dumped rather than laid her burqa to one side. ‘Got a Fanta?’
‘I might have to pop out for that.’ Tracy smiled at James. ‘In the meantime, I’ll leave you in my husband’s capable hands.’ Both James and Zara smiled back at Tracy who then departed.
James offered Zara the couch and began the session. ‘I’m Dr James Adams, Zara. Please – have a seat. What seems to be the problem?’
Not all of his patient’s charms had deserted her – the way she took her place on the furniture was as graceful as her approach to the balcony. James poised a pen over a notepad. Movement caught his eye. He looked away when he realised where it was coming from – under Zara’s sweater. He then noticed it wasn’t just her breasts that were growing – so was the rest of her – resuming the shape that had first entered his office. It wasn’t long before her androgynous form became what he had been expecting when the burqa was first removed: a stunning beauty.