by Logan Hunder
As evidenced in the previous paragraph, Pia simply had something of a problem with self-control when it came to matters of matrimony. Her choice of male participants often did her great disservice as well. Worse still, her fleeting romances constantly impeded her aspirations of dog-show glory, for the lab whose maintenance was in question was a retriever of the chocolate variety. With ears of perfect length and glistening coat, a life of chasing squirrels and eating vomit would do him no justice, so she brought him here in search of greener pastures. More specifically, greener pastures forged from artificial turf and populated by judgmental people carrying laser measurers and digital thermometers.
Right from the get go, money was tight. She had to blow the first of her seventeen alimony checks just to cover the taxi drone from the CA High Speed Rail terminal that languished under the Salesforce Dildo. From there, the rest of her money dwindled away quickly on lodgings, naturally generated hipster food, and just enough data to locate the nearest dog show. Once the latter ran dry, her phone careened frisbee-style out the nearest window and she once more dashed into the streets. With cabs scarce and money scarcer, the only method of transportation left was to grab onto the nearest conga line and hip thrust along with the pupper tucked under one arm. The creature had four very capable legs of its own, but conveying airs of whimsy were far more important.
Her spirits were dashed once more upon arrival. For her beloved Woody, majestic, swarthy creature that he was, still required an entry fee in order to partake in any of these terrestrial contests. As a dog, he unsurprisingly lacked the requisite cash-procuring abilities to pay his own way. Therefore, the onus fell on Pia. While never ill-intentioned, she was no stranger to hubris, and her list of milk-able contacts reflected as such. But she had come so far. It would take great reaching, but with an internet café at her disposal and the motivational sight of Woody allowing himself to be humped by every dog, cat, and addict at the park across the street, she would persevere.
Her shame had officially been cast aside. There was purpose driving her actions; every unfortunate soul who had ever come into contact with her—be they veterinarians, mailmen, former landlords, ministers, or old college classmates—had to know. And if they had a nickel, then they would be petitioned for it!
After sending the most recent email, her attention was diverted by the mounting stir taking place outside. Like other patrons, she got up from her table to ascertain its origins. The buzz of excited chatter and fingers pointing skyward directed her face in a likewise direction while the occasional word like “Guantanamo” or “terrorist” made themselves heard.
Then the dark object appeared in the sky. At first, it was no larger than sprinkle. Then it grew, as objects careening in one’s direction are known to do. As it drew closer, it revealed itself to be a transport shuttle that a sensible spectator would realize likely had no driver, given the way it tumbled like a child with polio falling down a hill.
(Polio, being a long-forgotten disease by this point in time, was perfectly acceptable to laugh at.)
Less than a minute had transpired between the point Pia noticed the commotion and the time the seemingly unmanned transport shuttle vessel crashed into and utterly obliterated the Golden Gate Bridge. The explosion rippled across the cityscape and sent tidal waves in every direction while a comparatively calm smoke cloud gently retraced the steps of that which caused it. A sober silence took hold of the crowd. Then, barely a second later, they all returned to what they were doing, with the exception of two city workers. After placing their tools on the ground, they moved their ladder across the street to a sign that read “Number of Days Without the Golden Gate Bridge Getting Damaged,” which they reset to zero.
Pia would soon come across both of those men again. Later that day, all witnesses to the ship crash found themselves rounded up and confined to an Air Force hangar for questioning and reconditioning. Turned out the Government found prison breakouts resulting in jettisoned spaceships performing domestic kamikaze attacks more interesting than the average resident of San Francisco did. Who’d have thought? The communal disinterest certainly made their job of information containment easier. After only three neuralyzations, the men-in-suits felt confident that there no longer existed any memory of the shuttle or the alleged terrorists who had ejected it.
After release, Pia encountered each of the workers and married one later that day—and then the other a day later, after the second killed the first in a jealous rage. That night he would be bludgeoned to death by Pia herself after he got up at two in the morning for a bathroom break and accidentally stepped on Woody’s tail.
Woody never did go on to win any of those dog-part-measuring contests. It was difficult for Pia to enter him in any of them while fleeing from San Francisco’s fabulous fuzz, since it turned out the city’s tolerance didn’t quite extend to coldblooded killers. But that’s not to say she didn’t try anyway. Unfortunately, the garbage ship she smuggled herself off-world in did not have any wi-fi for her to send off her online registration forms. It was only after finding herself stranded on a remote asteroid colony that she finally accepted the grim prognosis of her dreams of dog-show stardom.
The pup never seemed to mind, anyway. After being abandoned, then taken in by some benevolent travellers, he would go on to irresponsibly sire thirty-eight children and maul four mailcopters. Some would say such a life was preferable to the one originally intended for him. Others would say “Dude, he’s a stupid dog. Who the hell cares?”
Those people have no hearts.
17.
SEE VA, WOULDN’T
WANNA PIA.
MEANWHILE, PIA DICKINSON, AGE of fifty-two, LJ recipient of the Master’s Degree in Everything from Education Station, and definitely the Pia with the laboratory who had invited Cox to visit her, stood in front of the large circular window of her bedroom. Her jetblack hair didn’t quite reach her body, which was completely bare in spite of being visible to anyone that happened to drive by. Shy, she was not. Sipping coffee in this fashion was a common pastime. A rather uneven ratio of pilates, well-rounded meal supplements, and the state-of-the-art cosmetic surgery commonly purchased by wealthy spinsters kept everything looking tight. Marlon Brando didn’t seem to have any complaints. He just lay in bed, smoking his cigarette and otherwise keeping his mouth shut.
She seemed to have already forgotten him. Her face wore a serene expression, as if through this window was an empire of which she was sovereign. Had she known this would be such a regular activity, a concerted effort would have been made to stick the window on the other side so that she could actually look down on the rest of her lab from high in her room. But, alas, the opportunity was missed and imagination would have to suffice. If the room did have a view, it would see the sprawling circular superstructure that her wealth cultivated and that now cultivated her wealth. With her quarters at the top of the pillar and a ring at the bottom, the whole thing was shaped like an inverted basketball hoop. However, to own a space station was not enough of a statement anymore. The devil of the details separated the classy from the tacky. Thus, she forewent the retro polished-metal look and covered the whole exterior in ornate stonework that swirled continually around the whole of the headquarters in such a way that it would cost an absolute fortune to render if this story were ever turned into a movie.
The top was a lonely place. With the exception of her mother, it had been quite some time since she had a real interaction with a real person. Cabin fever may well have set in some time ago, but if so, then she hadn’t noticed. Her regimen was far too absorbing. Quotas had to be met, prototypes had to be tested regularly, and new models were coming off the line faster than the older models that operated the line could keep up with. Such descriptors might give the impression of soul-crushing torture. However, all work and no play only dulled those who could derive no satisfaction from it. With so much excitement awaiting her every day, it seemed like such a waste of time to indulge in such contrivances as social interaction
.
Unfortunately, the one drawback to self-imposed exile was that it isolated her from any who would shower her with praise. Positive reviews from satisfied customers were a pale imitation of the surge of pride that only came from someone telling you how awesome you are right to your face. It was an itch that needed another scratching; a deep, mauled-by-a-grizzly-bear level of scratching that would stave off the desire for an extended period. Sure, her legendary work ethic could persist even through such wistful desires. And it often had. There was no need to test its limits this time, though, because the brief time she spent in college interacting with the people of the public had put her in contact with someone she believed was literally the most complimentary man in the universe. After much waiting, he had finally returned one of her emails.
It wasn’t entirely clear why he attended in the first place. For a man of more-than-moderate means, no door that opened for him triggered his fancy. The whole pursuit of knowledge that came with the college experience seemed to run secondary to his main desire of making others like him. At least, that’s what she assumed his primary aspiration to be. All she could confirm was that everything everyone did fascinated the fellow, while the material being taught did not. She would never forget watching his restless squirming during a five-minute-long computer-science brain download, only to see him leave and spend the next half-hour listening to a homeless man give his theory on how being born on Earth caused autism.
The only drawback was that he didn’t come as promptly as she would have liked. Such was the price of not paying for praise. Further, he left very little time between his response and the time he simply showed up. For once, the thoughtlessly placed window of her bedroom gave her a view of something. In this case, it was a large cork-shaped ship with drab metal coverings that chugged along like a bellows-powered submarine. The pilot cut it a little close for Pia’s liking on their drive by. The drifting behemoth came near enough for the longhaired hefty fellow sitting by one of the portholes to nearly choke on whatever he was eating after a casual glance out the window gave him a glimpse of her. He seemed to like what he’d seen, spastic attempt to hide afterward aside.
Having gone so long without guests, it took her a moment to remember the social convention of wearing clothes during interactions. With little to work with, a turquoise silk robe haphazardly tossed across her shoulders would have to do. With the aforementioned convention satisfied, she began a calm trot to the elevator to receive her guests, wholly unbothered by the bit of boob hanging out.
They united at the bottom of the shaft. Pia stepped out of the elevator just in time to see her old acquaintance, as ageless as she was, emerge from the gangway and immediately spread his arms wide.
“Pia!” The overjoyed man declared as if she were not aware of her own name. “How are you? It’s been forever!”
“It’s actually been thirty-one years,” she replied in a pleasant, if monotonous, voice, not reacting at all to the hug he wrapped her up in. “I see you have brought company.”
“Oh yeah, this is Willy! He really wanted to come for some reason.”
Willy gave a curt nod upward of his smoldering face.
“Sup. I’m the bodyguard. I keep him safe and . . . stuff. Your place is cool.”
“Good for you. Keep your compliments centered on ‘my place’ and you can stay.”
THEY FOLLOWED ALONG THE ring in a counterclockwise fashion. Pia’s tour-giving style certainly would never score her a gig at Disneyland, as her attempts at directing attention were given with all the enthusiasm of a minimum-wage fast food worker. It may have been sheer exposure that dampened the fires of her passion. Many long years had been spent here, so trying to bring others up to speed on what was now second nature was an understandably taxing endeavour—especially for one that barely seemed to care.
Cox played his role admirably, especially for one unaware they had a role to play. With each convincing “Oooh” and orgasmic “Ahhh,” it became easy to forget the field trip was being conducted by the opposite of Ms. Frizzle. Fascinating as bubbling beakers and oversized centrifuges were, the educational component received little aid when the instructor merely pointed to them and stated what the equipment was called. As they trod along the linear circle, the captain found himself feeling more and more lost. At no point during any of their email exchanges did he actually ask what it was she created here. It was assumed that such notions would be the first things addressed upon arrival. However, now that he was here and well into the tour, not only was he still left in the dark, but now they were sufficiently far along that he was afraid to ask. It felt like forgetting a girlfriend’s name while in the middle of meeting her parents.
A few feet in front of them a door opened, and from it emerged a man who was so attractive it could only be described as unfair. This tall, masculine, chiselled, bright-eyed and darkhaired gentleman commanded all attention the moment he appeared. He likely did so every time he went anywhere, because he was the most perfect-looking man who ever lived.
“Holy crap!” Cox gasped, jaw dropping. “Is that beloved early 21st century actor, singer, and dancer Hugh Jackman?!”
“I have no idea,” Pia responded in a bored voice. “But probably. We get requests from many people sending us his picture and asking us to make him for them.”
“It’s true!” Beloved early 21st century actor, singer, and dancer, Hugh Jackman said with his divine accent.
Willy shrugged up at the man with pursed lips.
“He’s okay, I guess.”
“He is much better than okay,” his creator boasted, dry as ever. “Specimen 24601 is one of our top-selling models. We get high satisfaction reports from his purchasers.”
“Heh, what can I say? I’m happy if I can make others happy!”
“That will do for now, 24601. Report to my bedroom for testing. I will join you once I am finished with my guests.”
Whether it was due to crafted obedience or because Hugh Jackman is just such a nice guy, he carried out the order as if compelled. From his walk to his idle whistles, he seemed human in every way. So much so that Cox still felt the need to wait until he had disappeared into the elevator before further inquiry. No need to risk offending him, whatever he was.
“Sooo uh . . . You make robo-people?”
Pia’s mouth fell open and the faintest wrinkle quivered into existence on her brow.
“They are not robots! I pointed out incubators. Why would I have incubators for beings comprised of mechanical components? My creations are living, breathing people. They are like my children.“
The captain and his guard traded looks before returning them back to her. Cox held his tongue but Willy couldn’t resist.
“Dude, didn’t you just send him up to your room?”
Such an accusation didn’t fetter her in the slightest.
“I did,” she said as she carried on down the way.
“So, uh . . . What do you guys do up there, then?”
“Ability assessment depending on each unit’s intended purpose. Every creation is put through a testing process of their core functions. They can perform an impressive variety of tasks, you see. Nearly as many as any human. From menial duties such as a servant or housekeeper to more advanced activities like chauffeur or handyman. Like us, they can sing, they can create, they can work, they can converse, they can learn, they can even love.”
“Ohhh, I see!” Cox interjected as if relieved. “Wow! That’s amazing. So what was that one made for?”
“Sexual intercourse,” Pia responded without looking back. “Ninety-nine point nine eight percent of all orders are placed for units proficient in sexual intercourse.”
Cox’s stride suffered due to his mounting discomfort. An inverse effect seemed to take hold of Willy. Despite their age gap, he had been inexplicably enamoured with her since the moment they docked, and with this bizarre turn in topic, he now hung on her every word.
“Wooooaaah! That’s nutty. And you do that with all of
them?!”
“Of course. Quality control is an essential part of the manufacturing process.”
“B-but . . .” The captain protested from behind. “Didn’t you say they are like your children?!”
“I did say that, Timon. Not unlike a mother, I create them and foster their potential. I would consider that a sound simile.”
“Yeah, dude, it’s simple! They’re like her kids, but she also bangs ’em sometimes.”
“Nearly always, actually.”
“I am so uncomfortable right now.”
“What about the girl ones?!” Willy pressed. “Do you make girl ones too? And . . . do you test stuff with them?”
“Mister Padilla! Buddy! You can’t just ask somebody tha—”
“I do not administer testing on our female products, as my own sexual proclivities are male-centric,” she said, ignoring Cox. “Instead I simply oversee the quality control conducted by one of my personal attendants.”
The attendants, as they were referred, could be seen through the windows of each room passed by. As many of them were bespectacled with protective goggles and clad in white lab wear, it was easy to unconsciously objectify them to the same level as the objects they operated—if not more. After all, in areas that billowed smoke and hisses, the roiling vats of vibrant liquids and oddly satisfying whirling arms of machines were far more engaging to a layman than those manning them.
However, when he took a moment to pay some extra attention, the captain found himself floored at the amount of faces familiar to a history buff such as himself. Icons of stage and screen, or song and sport, all manned the line like common peasants. Each one looked as though they spent the same amount of hours in the gym and make-up trailer as their bygone era counterpart. Madame Tussaud would be proud.
“That’s weird how they’re all celebrities from the 20th and early 21st century,” he noted.