The Heart Goes Last

by Margaret Atwood

  "They don't come through the town," says Budge casually. "This place is an extension, built onto the back of Positron Prison. The back portway of Receiving opens onto the outside. 'Course, we don't let any of those truckers come in here. No information exchange, that's the policy - no gawkers, no leakers. As far as they know they're delivering plumbing fixtures."

  Now that's interesting, Stan thinks. An outside portal. How can he wangle a job in Receiving without appearing overly eager about it?

  "Plumbing fixtures," he says with a chortle. "That's good." Budge grins happily.

  "The boxes have only the parts," says Kevin. "Made in China like everything else, but it doesn't pay to assemble them over there and ship the bots here. Not enough quality control."

  "Plus there would be breakage," says Gary. "Too much breakage."

  "So they come in units," says Budge. "Arms, legs, torsos, basically the exoskeleton. Standard heads, though we do the customizing and skinning here. There's a lot of special orders. Some of the end users are very specific in their requirements."

  "Fetishists," says Kevin.

  "Stalkers," says Tyler. "They'll get one made with the face of someone they're hot for but can't have, such as rock stars, or cheerleaders, or maybe their high school English teacher."

  "It can get sleazy," says Budge. "We get some demand for female relatives. We even had a great-aunt once."

  "That was a gross-out," says Kevin.

  "Hey. Everyone's different," says Derek.

  "But some are more different than others," says Budge, and they all laugh.

  "The info storage chips are already installed, and the voice elements, but we have to 3-D-print some of the neural connections," says Gary. "On the custom jobs."

  "We put the skin on last," says Tyler. "That's a skilled operation. The skin's got sensors, it can actually feel you. With the more expensive line, it can get goose bumps. When you're in contact, up close and personal, it's really hard to tell the difference."

  "But after you've seen one of them being assembled, you can't shake the knowledge," says Budge. "You know it's just an it."

  "They've done double-blind tests though," says Gary. "Real ones and these. These had a 77 percent success rate."

  "They're aiming for 100 percent," says Kevin, "but no way they'll ever get there."

  "No way," Budge echoes. "You can't program the little things. The unexpecteds."

  "Though there's these settings on them," says Kevin. "You can push Random and get a surprise."

  "Yeah," says Tyler. "She says, 'Not tonight, I've got a headache.' "

  "That's no surprise," says Kevin, and they laugh some more.

  I need to come up with some jokes, Stan thinks. But not yet: they haven't accepted me completely. They're still reserving judgment.

  "Up ahead we're coming to Assembly," says Budge. "Have a look, but we don't need to go in. Remember car factories?"

  "Who remembers those?" says Tyler.

  "Okay, movies of them. This guy does nothing but this, that guy does nothing but that. Specialized. Boring as hell. No latitude for error."

  "Get it wrong and they can have a spasm," says Kevin. "Flail around. That's not pretty."

  "Bits can come off," says Gary. "I mean bits of you."

  "One guy got clamped. He was stuck like a trapped rat for fifteen minutes, only it was more like a gyroscope. It took an electrician and three digital techs to unplug him, and after that his dick was shaped like a corkscrew for the rest of his life," says Derek.

  They laugh again, looking at Stan to see if he believes this. "You're a sicko," Tyler says to Derek affectionately.

  "Think of the upside," says Kevin. "No condoms. No pregnancy woes."

  "No animal was harmed in the testing of this product," says Derek.

  "Except Gary," says Kevin. More chuckles.

  --

  "This is it, in here," says Budge. "Assembly." He uses his card key to open a double door, with a notice on it warning against dust and digital devices, these last to be turned firmly off, because, as the sign says, delicate electronic circuits are being activated.

  Assembly lines are what Stan would expect to see, and that's what he does see. Most of the work is being done by robotics - attaching one thing to another, robots making other robots, just like the assembly at Dimple Robotics - though there's a scattering of human overseers. There are moving belts conveying thighs, hip joints, torsos; there are trays of hands, left and right. These body parts are man-made, they're not corpse portions, but nonetheless the effect is ghoulish. Squint and you're in a morgue, he thinks; or else a slaughterhouse. Except there's no blood.

  "How flammable are they?" he asks Budge. "The bodies." It's Budge who seems to have the authority. And the card key for the doors: Stan must take note of which pocket he keeps it in. He wonders what other doors that key can open.

  "Flammable?" says Budge.

  "Supposing a guy is smoking," says Stan. "Like, a customer."

  "Oh, I don't think they'll be smoking," says Tyler dismissively.

  "Can't walk and chew gum at the same time," says Derek.

  "Some guys like a smoke, though," says Stan. "Afterwards. And maybe some talking, just a few words, like 'That was awesome.' "

  "At the Platinum level it's an option," says Tyler. "The lower-tech models can't make small talk."

  "Fancy language costs extra," says Gary.

  "There's a plus though, they can't pester you, like, did you lock the door, did you take the garbage out, all of that," says Budge.

  A married man then, Stan thinks. He's overcome with a wave of nostalgia: it smells like orange juice, like fireplaces, like leather slippers. Charmaine once said things like that to him, in bed. Did you lock the door, honey? He warms toward Budge: he, too, must once have led a normal life.

  BLACK SUIT

  Black flatters me, thinks Charmaine, checking herself in the powder room mirror. Aurora had known where to take her shopping, and though black has never been her colour, Charmaine's not negative about the results. The black suit, the black hat, the blond hair - it's like a white chocolate truffle with dark chocolate truffles all around it; or like, who was that? Marilyn Monroe in Niagara, in the scene right before she gets strangled, with the white scarf she should never have worn, because women in danger of being strangled should avoid any fashion accessories that tie around the neck. They've shown that movie a bunch of times on Positron TV and Charmaine watched it every time. Sex in the movies used to be so much more sexy than it became after you could actually have sex in the movies. It was languorous and melting, with sighing and surrender and half-closed eyes. Not just a lot of bouncy athletics.

  Of course, she thinks, Marilyn's mouth was fuller than her own, and you could use very thick red lipstick then. Does she herself have that innocence, that surprised look? Oh! Goodness me! Big doll eyes. Not that Marilyn's innocence was much in evidence in Niagara. But it was, later.

  She widens her eyes in the mirror, makes an O with her mouth. Her own eyes are still a little puffy despite the cold teabags, with faint dark semicircles under them. Alluring, or not? That would depend on a man's taste: whether he's aroused by fragility with a hint of smouldering underneath, or perhaps by a hint of a punch in the eye. Stan wouldn't have liked the puffy-eyed look. Stan would have said, What's wrong with you? Fall out of bed? Or else, Aw, honey, what you need is a big hug. Depending on which phase of Stan she's remembering. Oh, Stan...

  Stop that, she tells herself. Stan's gone.

  Am I shallow? she asks the mirror. Yes, I am shallow. The sun shines on the ripples where it's shallow. Deep is too dark.

  She considers the black hat, a small round hat with a little brim - sort of like a schoolgirl hat - that Aurora said was just right for a funeral. But does she have to wear a hat? Everyone did, once; then hats disappeared. But now, inside Consilience, they're appearing again. Everything in this town is retro, which accounts for the large supply of black vintage items in Accessories. The past is so
much safer, because whatever's in it has already happened. It can't be changed; so, in a way, there's nothing to dread.

  She once felt so secure inside this house. Her and Stan's house, their warm cocoon, their shelter from the dangerous outside world, nestled inside a larger cocoon. First the town wall, like an outside shell; then, Consilience, like the soft white part of an egg. And inside Consilience, Positron Prison: the core, the heart, the meaning of it all.

  And somewhere inside Positron, right now, is Stan. Or what used to be Stan. If only she hadn't...what if, instead...Maybe she herself is a kind of fatal woman, like Marilyn in Niagara, with invisible spider webs coming out of her, entangling men because they can't help it, and the spider can't help it either because it's her nature. Maybe she's doomed to be sticky, like chewing gum, or hair gel, or...

  Because look what she's done without meaning to. She's caused Stan's funeral, and now she has to go to it. But she can't reveal her guilt at the funeral, she can't cry and say, It's all my fault. She'll have to behave with dignity, because this funeral will be very solemn and pious and reverential, it will be the funeral of a hero. What the whole town believes, because it was on the TV, is that there was an electrical fire in the chicken facility, and Stan died to save his fellow workers.

  And to save the chickens, of course. And he did save them: no chicken had perished. That fact has been emphasized in the news story as making Stan even more truly heroic than if he'd saved just people. Or maybe not more heroic, only more touching. Sort of like saving babies: chickens were little and helpless too, though not so cute. Nothing with a beak can be truly cute, in Charmaine's opinion. But why is she even thinking about Stan saving chickens? That fire was made up, it had not in any way happened.

  Stop dithering, Charmaine, she tells herself. Get back to reality, whatever that turns out to be.

  --

  The doorbell's chiming. She teeters down the hall on her black high heels: it's Aurora, who slipped out earlier to change into her funeral outfit. Behind her, waiting by the curb, is a long dark car.

  Aurora's wearing a Chanel-style suit, black with white piping: way too boxy for her figure, which is boxy anyway. Dump the shoulder pads, Charmaine finds herself thinking. The hat is a sort of modified shovel design that does nothing for her, but no hat could. It's like her face is stretched like a rubber bathing cap over a large bald head. Her eyes are way too far to the sides.

  When Charmaine was little and recession was a dirty word and not a fact of life, Grandma Win told her that no one should be called ugly. Instead, such people should be called unfortunate. It was just good manners. But years later, when Charmaine was older, Grandma Win told her that good manners were for those who could afford them, and if an elbow in the ribs for the person trying to barge in front of you was what it took, then an elbow in the ribs was the tool you should use.

  Aurora smiles her unsettling smile. "How are you feeling now?" she says. She doesn't wait for an answer. "Bearing up, I hope! The suit looks perfect." Again she doesn't wait for an answer. She steps forward, and Charmaine steps back. Why does Aurora want to come in? Aren't they going to the funeral?

  "Aren't we going to the funeral?" says Charmaine in a voice that sounds - to herself - plaintive and disappointed, like a child who's been told it won't be taken to the circus after all.

  "Of course we're going," says Aurora. "But we need to wait for a very special guest. He wanted to be here in person, to support you in your loss." She's holding her cellphone, Charmaine sees now; she must have just made a call. "Oh, look, here he is now! Johnny on the spot!"

  A second black car oozes down the street and draws up behind the first. So Aurora arranged to come early, to make sure that Charmaine is still holding it together and not staggering around and raving; then she sent an all-clear signal on her phone, and here comes the mystery man.

  It's Max. She knows it is. He's slipped away from that cold and controlling woman, the head in the box. He's snuck off, the way he used to, and very soon she'll be wrapped in his familiar arms. Nothing stands between them except Aurora - how to get rid of her? - and also the funeral, the one she has to go to. Already she can hear the ripping of black cloth as Max tears off her layers, destroys her lace, flings her down on...But what is she thinking? She needs to attend.

  Though wait: Aurora can go to the funeral in her own car, and Charmaine and Max can take the second one, and sink back into the luxurious upholstery, and then, one hand on her mouth, a cascade of buttons, teeth on her throat...Because the funeral isn't real, Stan isn't actually in a coffin there, but he's dead, so it won't count as cheating.

  No, Charmaine, she tells herself. Max can't be trusted, he's already shown that. You can't let yourself be swept away on a tidal wave of treacherous hormones. Oh please! Let yourself! says her other voice.

  But the man getting out of the second car isn't Max. It takes Charmaine a moment to identify him: it's Ed. Ed himself, alone, come just to see her. Now that's a surprise! Aurora is beaming at her as if Charmaine has won the lottery.

  "He wanted to make the effort," she says. "It's a tribute to you. And to your husband, of course."

  Does Charmaine feel flattered? Yes, she does. This feeling is not a good thing morally, she knows that. She should be too distraught by the death of Stan to feel flattered about anything. But still.

  She smiles uncertainly. It can be very appealing, uncertainty - a sort of bashful, hesitant, but guilty look, especially if not fake. And hers is not fake, because right now she's thinking, even as she smiles: What does he want?

  TIPTOE THROUGH THE TULIPS

  Receiving and Assembly were straightforward enough: nothing they couldn't do at Dimple Robotics. "Here's where the Blue Fairy works the magic," says Budge. "And Pinocchio comes to life."

  They're in Customization. None of the workers here are robots: too much individualized detailing, says Tyler, especially when finishing the heads. Stan wants to see them work the facial features, especially the smiles. He has a professional interest, from his job at Dimple. The Empathy Model he'd worked on could smile, but it was the same smile every time. Though what else did you need for checking out groceries? Put two eyes on anything and basically it looks like a face.

  "They do the hairstyling over there," says Tyler. "Everything with the hair, like the beards and moustaches. Lumbersexual is a trend."

  "The what?" says Stan in a slightly too loud voice. "There are guy prostibots? Since when?"

  Kevin shoots him a look. "Possibilibots is for everyone," he says.

  Of course, thinks Stan. It's the age of tolerance. Stupid fucking me. Anything goes, out there in the so-called real world; though not inside Consilience, where the surface ambience is wholesomely, relentlessly hetero. Have they been eliminating gays all this time, or just not letting them in?

  "Granted, most of the orders are for females," says Tyler. "Though that could change. But as yet there's not much capability, except at the Platinum level."

  "Because these economy bots can't walk around or anything," says Kevin. "Limited mobility. No locomotion. So mostly it's just the missionary position. They do what's required and that's about it, whereas with guy on guy -"

  "Got it," says Stan. He doesn't need the details.

  "Anyway, some of the male items are for the older women customers," says Derek. "They say they feel more comfortable with a bot. They don't have to turn out the lights." There's a shared chuckle.

  "You can get all different age groups, different body types," says Budge. "Fat, thin, whatever. Grey hair, there's some requests for that."

  "Over here is the Expression Department," says Gary. "There's a menu of basics. Then on top of those, the folks here can make a few tweaks. Only thing is, once you've set the expression it can't be changed. The functioning human face has thirty-three sets of muscles, but the full deck would be way too expensive to build, maybe impossible."

  Stan watches with interest as a tech runs one of the faces through its repertoire of smiles.
"That's really advanced!" he says. "Really. It's kind of amazing."

  "This is only the lower end," says Budge modestly. "But most users are in transient-client situations. The gated amusement parks, the casinos, the big-show venues, the destination malls; or the designated cheap-bot quarters in places like Holland, and increasingly right here at home. A few rust-belt towns have already been rejuvenated by setting up a cheap-bot shop, or that's what we hear."

  "The pro girls are pissed about it," says Derek. "It's undercutting their prices. They've held demonstrations, tried to smash displays, torn the heads off some of the bots, got arrested for destroying private property. It's not a small investment, setting up a facility."

  "But those joints make a bazillion," says Gary. "Vegas is totalling more out of these than the slots, or so they say. But it stands to reason, it's almost all margin once you've put in the front money. No food to buy, no death as such, and it's multiple use squared. There's the lube, you do have to front a lot of that. But those girls are sturdy! A real one could only do, say, fifty gigs a day, tops, without breaking down, whereas with these it's endless."

  "Unless the flushing and sanitation mechanisms malfunction," says Derek.

  Stan picks up an order form off one of the worktables. There's a coded checklist, with letters and boxes. "That's for the standard expressions," says Budge.

  "What's W?" Stan says.

  "That's for Welcoming," says Budge. "But sort of neutral, like a flight attendant. T+H is Timid and Hesitant, L+S is for Lustful and Shameless. A+B is for Angry and Belligerent; not too much demand for that, you might think, but you'd be wrong. The V is for Virgin, which is T+H plus a few other adjustments."

  "Now, over here is Customization Plus," says Tyler. "This is where the customer sends in a photo and the body type is chosen to go with it, and the face is sculpted to look like the photo. Or as much as possible. Those are all private orders. Of course we do the dead celebrities for the more entertainment-oriented venues. A lot of those in Vegas."

  "It's like being able to go wild in Madame Tussaud's," says Kevin. "There's a big demand."

  Stan looks with curiosity at the special custom work that's underway. Brunettes at one table, redheads at another. Over here are the blondes.