We, Robots

by Simon Ings

  Sorry ’bout that sir, said Ma. I know it don’t look too Christian, on my wedding-day and all. But Jessie-May here’s got learning difficulties. And sometimes the fact is, a big girl needs a big slap. Pissing yourself at your own mother’s wedding. What kinda behaviour’s that, huh? I said, HUH? And Jessie’s thinking: weddings suck. Everyone’s being mean. When Grandaddy leaves I’m hitching a ride.

  I tweak the sensor, fast-forward her the hell out. Jeez, I thought my family was bad, God rest em.

  So now she’s on her own in the desert someplace near the scene of the crash no doubt, all dry dirt and clumps of tumbleweed and other bitch-scratch vegetation. No landmarks, except a hill up ahead, turbines sprouting out, spinning to the max. And down there in the valley, a grove. Almonds maybe. Whatever. It’s a long way off but she’s thirsty as hell. She’s still wearing the dress that she pissed all over behind the marquee. She hates it. Well I empathise with you there Jessie-May. Lavender silk. A dumb sash at the back, like she’s a Christmas parcel.

  She’s just getting to wondering how the hell she got here. Jessie don’t think fast, but she thinks just fine – till Ma crashes in again.

  Might not all be such a blur if you paid some attention, Missy. Might not be if you asked a few questions of whoever was driving the car, check they’re not over the alcohol limit.

  If there was a way to un-fuse that bitch Ma from the kid I’d do it, believe me, but she makes a valid point.

  Jessie-May’s main feeling right now is thirst: I’m getting it too. She’s remembering how Grandaddy told her about the time he woke up from a blackout in the boondocks and found himself in a peach-grove and drank water straight from the irrigation pipe.

  Come on kid, Kylie’s rooting for you here. Use that memory, it came to you for a reason. You’re not the only thirsty one here.

  Up she gets. That’s my girl. Jessie-May’s legs are uncooperative but she makes it to the plantation and puts her lips to the rubber pipe that snakes along the first line of trees and sucks the water, too hot, with grit and all. Broken almond shells dig into her knees and there’s a diesel and blood smell on her that I can’t fade out completely.

  When she’s finished she looks up and sees a building: some kind of kiosk.

  So you gonna head that way and try get yourself cleaned up, or you gonna lie there and feel sorry for yasself, Princess? bitches Ma.

  The sign’s hanging loose. Place looks abandoned. But there’ll be shade.

  So what you waiting for, dumbass? Go for it, before I—.

  The door clangs as she pushes it open – an old fashioned bell. Interesting Angel factoid: retro or even genre features can pop up in folk who have the TV on all day.

  So she’s in, and I’m about to introduce a host when Medicine Man taps me on the arm and points at the monitor.

  Uh-oh, Jerry’s light’s flashing. He’s in the countdown phase. Unexpected. I slow Jessie-May’s trajectory as far as I can – her exit’s not too close at this point – and haul Jerry up. The re-boot’s caused him to re-wind a bit, chronology-wise. Another design fault. He’s outside, in the heat, probably right near where he crashed the car and half-killed them both. Landscape’s the same as where Jessie-May was, the turbines, the grove in the distance. Don’t look back, my friend, you won’t like what you see.

  Ahead, there’s the building. Some kind of hardware store, he reckons.

  Another Angel factoid: eight times out of ten it’s a retail outlet.

  He heads over. He’s still on the agitated side so I take him down a few notches till I get him through the door. Inside it’s dark and jumbled, the shelving stuffed with stock, a mix of new and second-hand. There’s rusty chisels and lathes, drills, glass jars full of nuts and bolts, others with nails in and in between, modern plastic-packaged items: Superglue, electric hedge trimmers, face-masks.

  Hmm, goes Jerry’s tragic little guy-brain, and he starts walking around looking at the shelves with a song running in his head, she’s a good-hearted woman in love with a good-timin’ man, up and down, she loves him in spite of his wicked ways she don’t understand. Didn’t I have a list somewhere, of shit I needed? Bulbs, three-inch masonry nails, grout, some WD40 for that hinge in the garage? Yeah. Through teardrops and laughter they’ll pass through the world hand in hand, and I sure could do with a real nice set of screwdrivers. State-of-the-art, a proper grip on em, ten different sizes, the good hearted woman lovin’ her two-timin’ man—.

  And so it goes in this mode until he stumbles on – WOAH! – the bad stuff.

  That happens, and you don’t always see it coming.

  He’s looking at a bunch of weird broken shit in a heap. Trash, mostly. A half-melted Barbie doll. A bike with its front wheel missing and no chain. A banjo with no strings and a cracked back.

  Cue the Freudian slash Jungian craporama.

  This is where they tend to flip into introspective mode, if they’re ever going to. The idea is, the broken objects represent their life’s mistakes, unfulfilled dreams and general regrets. Triggering the realization that they’ve done bad stuff, or failed to do good stuff, leading to some hokey self-assessment where they try to fix it by asking God/their Higher Power/the Universe for forgiveness before they croak, cuz the Angel’s not in the business of sending folk to hell, no matter how much they belong there. So here’s where they get the closure thing they need, to so-called rest in peace.

  So now he’s suddenly feeling low, and I’m co-feeling it. But – bad programming again – most folk just don’t see what’s there in front of them. So Jerry’s sensing that all this junk is significant, the melted Barbie in particular: something about Jessie-May being treated like shit by her Ma and probably the rest of the family too including him. But he’s not making the connection. The system isn’t nudging properly, is what’s happening here. Inadequate signposting. So he just stands there eyeing the pile of trash, feeling blue, not coming to any conclusions, still humming his little Waylon Jennings cheating song, wanting to fix things but with no idea how, even though he’s surrounded by tools and repair kits. Go figure.

  It’s not going to develop, I can see that, so I introduce another host, Jimbo 3, nicknamed “Jimbo the Sage” because of his great age of around 85 and his supposed backwoods old-timer wisdom, in an attempt to kick Jerry into a new focus.

  “Howdy. What can I do you for, sir?” says Jimbo 3.

  “Well I’m not sure.”

  “That’s often the way. You find us OK?” asks Jimbo 3.

  “Think so. Anyways, here I am. Feeling kinda strange.”

  “A common complaint sir. Folk can have real trouble getting here. By the time they reach us, some have had the time to ponder what they’re after so they’re pretty specific. Others – perhaps like you, sir – haven’t managed to pinpoint it yet. Do you have any ideas?”

  “I musta done before I came in, but now I’m not so sure. I was in Vegas but I changed my mind.”

  “Well, just take a look around, take your time, sir. No hurry. You on your own?” (The system’s not being quite truthful with him here. He’s got precisely 23 seconds left.)

  A thought comes to him. “My grand-daughter. Jessie-May. She was with me in the car. You seen a kid don’t look right, in a bridesmaid’s dress?”

  Aha, now we’re getting somewhere – but he’d better hurry, the timeout’s flashing. Go on Jerry, I’m rooting for ya.

  Jimbo 3 says, “She’s right here, sir.”

  “That’s great!” But he’s distracted by the tools.

  “You want to see her? Have a word?”

  “Sure. In a minute. I was thinking, you got any real nice state-of-the-art-type screwdriver kits?”

  “Oh shit, you dork!” I yell. The sexy doc looks up.

  “You OK there?” he mouths. I nod.

  The host says, “Screwdrivers? We sure have sir.” Twelve, eleven, ten…

  “So let’s see ’em.”

  Jimbo 3 goes: “And Jessie-May, sir? Did you want to see her, say a
few words?”

  Go on, you dick!

  “I’m talking the kind with the magnetised tip.”

  His wish is the Angel’s command. From nowhere a box appears and the lid flips open to reveal a gleaming array of stainless-steel screwdrivers. Even I’m impressed.

  “Can you beat that, sir?” asks Jimbo 3.

  And just look at Jerry’s face split ear to ear, dentures blazing and glory be. What a smile. The camera clicks and clinches the money shot – the one thing the Angel never fails on – and Jerry exhales, with his last breath, the immortal words: “Wow, willya just look at those big boys. Now that’s what I call a classy—”

  Then zaps. Game over.

  What a grade-A prick. Last chance to see his grand-kid, and chooses tools.

  I sign him out, depressed as fuck. “All done,” I tell Angus. “We can package him.”

  *

  When we get back to Jessie-May there’s not much time left on her countdown. She’s made her way into the kiosk, where there’s candy.

  “Welcome,” says a voice. Jessie-May turns. The host-lady she’s conjured looks like her Ma, but nice, and not pregnant or in a wedding-dress. Softer, less make-up, less mean. She sinks down to look Jessie-May in the eye, all kind and concerned. Smooth skin, smells of honey and roses.

  “What’s your name sweetheart?”

  “Jessie-May.”

  “Pretty name! How can I help you?”

  “Is this a store?”

  “It’s whatever you like,” says the lady, and smiles. “Do you have any idea what you’d like on this mighty hot day?”

  “You have ice-cream?”

  “Sure, hon. Got a whole freezerful out back. Baskin Robbins, Ben and Jerrys, Häagen Dazs, you name it. Got a favourite flavour?”

  *

  Jesus. Not again.

  You see, this is the point where it goes wrong. Every time. Look at Jessie-May: she’s talking ice-cream now because that’s what she was prompted to do with that “mighty hot day” shit, and naming the freaking brands: that’s what an attorney would call a leading question. So now we’re into Peanut Butter, Bubblegum, Double Chocolate Chip and blah blah. I’ve been here a thousand times, I know how it ends: they exit thinking of a favourite ice-cream flavour slash sexual position slash in Grandpa Jerry’s case, set of goddamn screwdrivers. Now maybe that’s a cool way to go. But ask yourself, is that what the system was designed for?

  *

  “Jesus, this sucks,” I tell Angus when the kid’s zapped out. “Sweet Parting my ass.” We check out the money shot. Will that cute smile trigger Ma into having some long dark nights of the soul concerning the shit way she treated her? More likely she’ll say to herself and everyone, I did everything I could for her as a mother, she passed away knowing she was loved, just look at my adorable happy girl.

  Medicine man puts his hand on my arm. “It’s a tough job, no question.” He’s got a hint of stubble, I like that. And you can tell he works out. “Some gum?” He fishes in his pocket, pulls out – woah. Like, about seven varieties. Including a brand-new one I never seen before.

  “Gingko Berry? You’re kidding me. Gotta give that a go.” I unwrap it and chew. “Mmm, weird.”

  “New things are always weird the first time.”

  “Make me laugh, Angus. I need cheering up. You got any more jokes?”

  He thinks. “How did Captain Hook die?”

  “Go on.”

  “He scratched his ass with the wrong hand.”

  I crack up again. Hysterically, if I’m honest. He puts his hand on my arm, firmer this time. He’s strong, his skin’s warm. I look at his wrist. I could never resist a hairy wrist.

  “How about a drink this evening, Kylie? I think you’ve earned one.”

  The gingko berry’s growing on me. “As in, a date?”

  “As in.”

  Hey. Hey. “You betcha.”

  “Good. You got a favourite bar, Kylie?”

  I smile. “I have.”

  I write down my address and hand him the piece of paper.

  He reads it, takes in what it’s telling him, smiles back at me big and slow, then he glances around to check if anyone’s there before kissing me long and hard, right there in the ICU cubicle. It’s so good I swallow my gum. Finally he pulls away and looks me deep in the eyes. “So, what would you wish for if you were hooked up to the Angel right now?” he murmurs.

  I laugh. “Well you know the answer to that one, Angus van der Kamp. You ain’t dumb.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Let me hear it from you.”

  I lean forward, whisper in his ear: “OK. I’d wish for someone hot to give me the fuck of my life.”

  *

  And it was the fuck of my life. Out of this world. Unbelievable. Life-changing. I’m still pulsing from it, high on my first ever set of multiple orgasms. Twenty-seven, since you ask. And no, I wouldn’t have believed it either. We’re on my bed with the fan turning above us, the noise of the lake in the distance, outboard motors and cat-calls and music. He’s not one of those guys falls asleep right after which is good, cuz sex wakes me right up, gets my brain going. We’ve got through half a bottle of Southern Comfort, handing the bottle to and fro and sharing cigarettes.

  “So now the fairy godmother has granted your sex wish, do you have any more?” he wants to know. I blow out smoke.

  “Yeah. I do. I been thinking about that kid today, Jessie-May. And yesterday’s, the primitive. Can’t shake them off. I want to know what the Angel’s really for.”

  He takes a swig of Southern Comfort, toys with a strand of my hair. “We’re not supposed to discuss it with anyone outside of Threshold.” He grins. “Bad girl.”

  “Come on, it’s not some federal secret. Anyway I need to, it makes me feel so helpless.” I still got this mean little rage going, about the whole Sweet Parting deal. “We might as well use a stun-gun on them and just get it over with, instead of horsing around in their hippocampuses, jinxing their dumbass psyches, stirring up stuff best left buried. I’m not the only operator thinks that. Consensus is, it’s asking the wrong questions. Bad programming. Bad priorities. The ethical side to this, it’s way over our pay-grade. We’re technicians. We didn’t sign up for this. We’re talking inbuilt systematic incompetence. Something as important as this? You don’t let Cal-Tech Aspie nerds design it. You bring in expert psychologists, right? I mean that kid today, Jessie-May. For what it’s worth, d’you know what I think she really wanted? A decent Ma, is what. That woman in the store, that was her shitbag Ma, turned nice, offering her ice-cream. But does Jessie-May ask for a hug, does the good version of Ma offer her one? No, cuz the Angel’s a dumbass. It’s thinking commercially because those are its values. So it gets her to the brink but the woman selling ice cream doesn’t turn into the kid’s mother, like it should, so there’s no closure. Trigger-image recognition failure or whatever. Or it’s a language issue, maybe change the tense of the verb or something? I’m no linguistic cognoscenti but my thought is, instead of asking what flavour ice cream, it should just go, what do you want most in the world?”

  “I hear you, Kylie.” He hands me the bottle and I take a big swig.

  “So you plug me up to the Angel and here’s what I say: I say I wanna give Threshold Care Systems a piece of my mind, ask them what they’re really up to, cuz you can bet they’ve got a hidden agenda.”

  He rolls over and props himself on his elbow. “Hmm. Wonder how that would go.”

  I look him in the eye. “I’d say to the host, whoever it was, I’d like to get to the bottom of this shit.”

  He nods. “And the host’d go, let me guess. It’d go, Don’t you already know the answer to that, Kylie?”

  I bang the pillow. “Yeah, exactly. The client always has the answer buried within his own mind, and blah blah. So I’d say, Well the big business slash the Pentagon slash Silicon Valley has to be behind it somehow, right?”

  “Hmm. The military-industrial complex?”

  “So
mething like it. I don’t know.”

  He nods. “And the host says?”

  “He or she – probably a he in my case – says right, Kylie. Got it in one. And I’m like, I knew it. I mean you have to ask yourself, as an Angel operator, who are the real clients, cuz there’s no advantage I can see, in them – whoever they are – finding out what someone’s last wish is, and making their passing a thing of ease. Cuz giving a bleach-swallower an ass-crack tattoo, or Jessie-May a peanut butter ice-cream, or her drunk grandaddy his dream screwdriver kit isn’t something you spend a billion dollars on. They’re so low down the food chain they’re like, amoeba. They’d want a machine that gets to find out, you know… big thoughts. Secrets maybe. Famous people. Presidents and shit, what they regret, what they never told anyone, what they dreamed about achieving that they never said aloud. People whose minds are worth exploring. That’s what I’d use it for, if I was them.”

  “Hmmm.” He lies back on the pillow, his arms tucked behind his head in a way that shows off his world-class chest. “You know, Kylie, I have a hunch you’re right.”

  “I know I am.”

  “Well say you are. And say I’m being the host here,” he says.

  “Shoot.”

  “Would what you’ve just articulated answer your question about the system’s purpose? Its raison d’etre?”

  Raison d’etre. Primitive. He has a way with words. I have a think. “Yeah. I guess it would.” He hands me the cigarette and I take a deep drag and another swig of bourbon, and let the two sets of chemicals do their combined work. “I guess it… does.” Something’s sinking in. “Medicine Man?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not sure how to bring this up, but… I said I wanted the fuck of my life and I got it.”

  He grins. “At your service.”

  “So I’m starting to wonder, are we entering a different… register here?”

  He grins. “Hmm. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re smart, Kylie. That’s what I love about you. Your imagination’s bigger than you think. Just look at today. You won! You answered your own questions about Threshold and its agenda, and on top of that, you had some spectacular orgasms. Maybe Sweet Parting’s more sophisticated and generous than you give it credit for.”