by Rachael Eyre
“Are you sure you're not making this up?” Summer asked.
“Why would I do that?”
“It sounds a little too apt, that's all.”
I kissed the swell of her throat. She shivered.
“What did Azita do?” she said.
“The vizier was devastated, and swore he wouldn't watch his daughter die like so many others. As she kissed him goodbye, she whispered, ‘Father, I know what I'm doing. Trust me.’
In recognition of her father’s years of loyal service, the king said he would grant any request she wanted. She asked if she could be attended by Sabra, her dearest companion. He saw nothing wrong with this and agreed.
They had a swift hole in the wall wedding, followed by a private banquet and lovemaking. Sabra was with them at all times. As they prepared to go to sleep, Sabra asked Azita if she could tell one of her wonderful stories.
‘What's this?’ the king asked. It was the first he had heard of his wife’s gift.
‘You should hear her, sire,” Sabra said. ‘I've never heard anything like it.’
Azita pretended modesty, but the king insisted, and of course she had to obey. She began the most thrilling yarn, packed with intrigue and romance, but broke off at the most exciting part.”
“Ah!” Summer said sleepily. “Smart girl.”
“Super smart.- She said she was too tired to go on, and the conclusion would have to wait. Normally the king would have demanded that she finish, but Sabra had slipped a drug into his drink while he was occupied. So he agreed to her conditions.”
Story or no story, we were too frazzled to continue. I set the alarm and we both lapsed into a deep sleep.
***
Back on the ground, away from our sanctuary, I had a puzzle of my own to solve. What was I going to do about Robert?
He was up early, for him, and wasted no time in hauling Summer out of bed. “It needs to be dark for this,” he said.
I really didn't like the sound of that.
In his haste he had forgotten to lock me in. I stood at the bathroom window, looked down. I could see him but he couldn't see me. She lurched at his side like a sleepwalker, small and frail in the white nightgown. He pulled her over the wet grass towards the pond.
I was not seeing this.
He lowered her into the water, pushed her until only her head was visible. I hammered at the window but it stayed put, and he couldn't hear me. He sat watching on the edge, eyes glinting. He waved his hands and it was clear what he was asking her to do. Swim.
It was the coldest winter in years. The grass was trellised with frost; there had been fitful bursts of snow over the last two days. Yet still he expected her to swim in that icy, lacerating water.
A little known fact about artificials: although we can swim, we don't care for water at the best of times. And that's when the water is warm and clean. This does not apply to a pond that hasn't been cleaned for decades, scummy with weeds and dead fish.
Summer’s night gown filled with water. She started to panic, thrashing her arms and legs. She soaked Robert - I smiled at this, but he instantly pushed her beneath the water. I didn't care if he saw me. Consequences didn't matter. I went to the bedroom, took the gun off the bedside table. I ran downstairs and tried to go outside.
It was as though someone had swung a club at my head. I doubled up on the tiles in agony. I knew what this meant. It was a built in feature, to prevent arties from rising against their owners. It made sense: without such a chip, you'd hear about android-human violence all the time.
I gritted my teeth and tried again. This was a matter of life and death. If he kept Summer submerged in water past a certain point, he could fry her memory banks. He could kill her. Who cared about pain?
I fell out of the door and crawled across the grass. Where's nosy parker when you need her? Of course our neighbour was asleep, like most sane people at this hour. Head like lava, gun in my fist, I inched along the ground.
A tinny burst of music. I couldn't place it at first, then it clicked: Robert’s beebo. He answered it. “Yes. It is he.”
Summer used the distraction to heave herself out of the water. She lay on her side, made herself small. She would have moved all but the hardest heart. By that I mean her bastard owner, who continued his conversation a few feet away.
“Yes. I see. Thank you.” He snapped the beebo shut and put it into his pocket.
“Now,” he said, raising his voice as though speaking to a child or disobedient pet, “that was the nursing home. My father has taken a turn for the worse. I need to be with him.”
He was completely unmoved as he said this. He took her by the elbow and lifted her up.
“That's it for now. I will be gone for the next few days. Use the time for reflection and self improvement.”
***
I don't know how I got back inside without being noticed. Mind you, Robert didn't pay attention to either of us. He was too preoccupied with packing for the journey, composing sneers for his father. From what I heard, he wasn't planning to give the old man a peaceful sendoff. I kept hold of both the bedroom key and the gun; he showed no sign of wanting them. And since his stinginess is pathological, I doubted he'd want the cash tot card he'd left in his jacket either.
It was sunrise when he left. My first action was to run a bath and put Summer in it.
“It's true?” she whispered. “He's really gone?”
“For the next couple of days, yeah.”
She sighed. “Thank Goddess. I thought he didn't like his father.”
“He hates him like poison. That's why he's going.”
She shrugged. “Each to their own. I don't understand humans.”
“It's not worth bothering. They don't want to understand us.”
Sitting there, watching her bathe, was - odd. I'm the last person to be a prude, but she seemed so thoroughly naked with her hair swirling and foam clinging all over. I sat like a lemon, trying not to look.
“You can come in if you like,” she said, shifting her legs.
Don't ask me why, but I clammed up. “I've got stuff to do!” I squeaked. Leaving her baffled and disappointed.
Summer: Breaking Our Programming
That first day was quiet, restful. Perhaps it's projection on my part, but the house always seems to breathe out when Robert’s gone. It can be its true self again.
Elle wouldn't hear of me doing anything. “You need to rewind your clockwork,” she said. She insisted upon fussing over me: food, blankets, absent minded kisses. She was so unlike her usual brash self, I wanted to laugh. Or perhaps this is who she really is, under the swagger.
I wasn't haunted or traumatised, like I should have been. I never expected anything of the wolf, so I couldn't say I was surprised. What I was was angry.
I was angry Ms Adelaide had let me go to a complete stranger. Furious that Robert could treat me this way. Enraged that this was my life now, unless I did something to stop it.
I needed answers - and who better to supply them than Ms Adelaide herself?
***
I put my idea to Elle when she brought my dinner up on a tray. It was poached eggs and spinach; she had spent the day teaching herself to cook. The eggs were on the rubbery side but the thought was there.
“No,” she said instantly. “No freaking way.”
“This has to be in breach of the contract,” I argued. “Ms Adelaide wanted us to be willing and compliant companions, but she said nothing about the owners mistreating us. If Robert has broken that agreement, doesn't that mean it's void?”
Elle grimaced. Her face is much more mobile than mine, I feel like a china doll in comparison. “I get what you're saying, but it probably wasn't thought of. Or else -”
“Or else what?”
“Customer used to do the grossest things. Never to me -” as I held her, horrified. “Juno made sure I was okay. But one guy pissed over Chi, and another cut one of Tatiana’s breasts off. They did what they would never dare to the wome
n in their lives, because they could.”
I shook my head. “Don't you see, that's why we need a place for arties? Somewhere we can be safe?” Because she still didn't understand, I spelt it out for her. “We’ll go to Ms Adelaide, tell her what's been going on. If she can't help, we’ll come back here and decide what to do next. Someone must be able to help us.”
Elle scoffed. “Like someone's going to listen to us over Doctor Douche.” Her reluctance didn't ring true. After a moment’s sulky silence, she said, “Fine, but I'm coming too. One of us has got to have street smarts.”
I grabbed her and kissed her. Embarrassed, she tousled my hair and said, “I'll go reconnoiter. This is going to take some serious planning.”
She wasn't exaggerating. The second day, she pulled down Robert’s collection of maps from the main bookcase. Since he only followed the most rigid of itineraries, they were several years out of date, furry with crumbs and tea stained.
“It could still be useful,” she said, shaking the Central Lux map open. She pored over it intently: the dots, dashes and icons meant something to her. I sighed, wishing the school had taught me this rather than dining etiquette.
“Brotherton Row …” She scanned the page, stabbed it with her finger. “We’re here. Whereabouts was Ms Adelaide’s?”
I had anticipated this. She wasn't going to like the answer. “I don't know.”
To her credit she didn't lose her temper. “Okay. How do we find it?”
This was my plan, my quest. I couldn't fail her at the first hurdle. I had to remember. I pressed my hands over my ears and concentrated. “There were lots of fields. You could only see the city from certain places. There was a factory, I think.”
She had been lolling in her chair; now she cracked her head against the back. “What sort of factory?”
“It was a tall ugly building, all chimneys and funnels. It pumped out this sharp, vinegary smell. You could always smell it, even when the windows were shut.”
“Do you remember how long the journey was?”
“Robert put me on standby.” As she groaned, “Wait. It was half twelve when we were in Ms Adelaide's office. We can't have left that much longer. It was fifteen when we arrived here.”
She snapped her fingers. “Magic! Are you sure?”
“Yes. Robert insists upon observing the time whenever the clock strikes.”
It was the first glimpse I had of the hall - clock grinding, the banisters going past when Vivaan carried me up the stairs. I couldn't help shuddering. To think I'd felt safe with him once.
“Let’s say two hours tops.” She'd pilfered a ruler and pencil from the study; I watched as she sketched in a roughly diagonal line. She whooped.
“Birling Beet Factory! Which means -” she tapped at an area of arable land, hemmed in by woods - “Ms Adelaide’s must be somewhere around here.”
“How will we get there?” I really was hopeless. Having devised this scheme, I kept planting obstacles in our way. “It'd take ages on foot and we can't drive.”
“Summer, it's only deep personal affection that's stopping me from killing you right now,” she said wearily. “How else do people with limited funds travel? By derdyt.”
“But - money -”
She flourished a slither of silver. “Robert’s cash tot card. He doesn't know I can have it. I can use this anywhere, no questions asked.”
“Um, won't they be expecting a man?”
She smirked. “He has a battered old comtec he makes private purchases on. I was able to alter a few details on his account, namely -” as I continued to gape - “changing his name to Roberta.”
“Isn't that incredibly unethical?”
She arched an eyebrow. “And?”
***
The difficult part was always going to be breaking our programming. If you're an artificial, the Robotics Charter simply is. While humans have blood, we have infinitesimal codes running through us, determining everything we do. It's what shackles us to our owners, however unworthy. Our minds may scream rebellion but our bodies are compelled to obey.
That said, it was twice as hard for me. Elle had enjoyed a certain amount of independence in her old life. I had always been a nice girl, a good girl. Look where it had got me.
“We need to start small,” Elle said. “We can't throw the door open and belt down the road. We've got to do this in increments.”
She scowled at my surprise. I have to keep reminding myself she did have an education at the brothel, that it was in all likelihood more rounded than mine. I can't gawp every time she uses a long word.
“Such as?” I asked, to cover the gaffe.
“Break something. Anything. But not anything he'll miss.”
She must have known, once the shock had passed, I’d imagined myself screaming through the house, kicking the rods from the stairs. The perfect way to revolt, striking back at my prison. But she was right.
“Wait a second,” I said.
I dashed through to the kitchen and snatched up the teapot, called into service whenever Vivaan visited. I'd grown to loathe it over the past few months. It was another gimmick: shaped like an elephant, you lifted its tail and tea came spurting out of its trunk. To make matters worse, it was bilious yellow green. “Snot colour,” as Elle said.
I lifted it above my head. “No more fucking tea parties!” I cried, the expletive strange in my mouth. It was illicit, like eating a whole sugar cube. I went to let go.
Only I couldn't. My fingers remained locked around the handle. I might have had an iron bar blocking my path.
“I can't,” I whispered, shamefaced.
She seemed prepared for this. “It's okay. Programming’s hard to break -”
“Like teapots.”
“Listen to me.” Her eyes never left my face. “You don't owe Robert a thing. You were sold against your will. All he has done is mistreat you, even though -” she stuttered, embarrassed, “he should count himself lucky to have you.”
I closed my eyes, recalled the ordeals he had put me through. Holding my head under the water, firing at my ankles, scourging my bedroom. The time he took hold of my chin and squeezed until I thought my neck would break. His voice rang in my ears, hollow and uncaring: “You won't do that again, will you?”
I screamed, hurling the teapot with all my strength. It smashed at my feet, the sound spectacular. The elephant’s trunk taunted me by the skirting board. A foot had landed on the table.
Elle hooted. “You did it! You're a bloody marvel!
She whirled me into a victory dance. I felt instinctively the time was right, so I kissed her. She blinked, startled, but passion soon took over. She must have wanted it as badly as I did.
Her lips ran over my forehead, my neck, my shoulders. I'd thought tongue kissing sounded disgusting when I read about it. Now, with a real ardent tongue teasing my lips apart, nuzzling mine, I understood the appeal.
I broke away. “I don't know what to do.”
“I'll show you.”
We held hands and raced up to the attic. It was the only place I could call mine, the only place I wanted this to happen. Smock and dressing gown were tossed aside. Never mind smashing teapots and taking Robert’s name in vain. This was revenge.
“Are you okay? Are you sure this is what you want?” Elle asked.
“Please.”
We took it slowly. She caressed my breasts, sucked my nipples. I gasped, astounded that such a small thing could spark such pleasure. She fondled me like cloth, like newfound treasure; I shivered and tingled in response. By the time she had moved downwards, I was wet and waiting for her.
I thought I knew what to expect. Rather than put in a finger or the rest of her hand, she dived between my legs and licked me into ecstasy. I couldn't believe it. I think I actually screamed, cramming my hand into my mouth. When she finally delved inside, I felt as thought my entire body had caught fire. I couldn't speak, could only gasp and sob.
She resurfaced with a wicked grin. “How wa
s that?”
“Amazing. But what about you?”
“Bloody hell, woman, you're insatiable! Alright. If you insist.”
For the next few hours the attic might have been the centre of the universe.
We wanted nothing else: the heat and urgency of our bodies, love talk murmured or shrieked to the rafters. “Bet that biddy’s got her ear trumpet out,” Elle joked.
I was worried I was like one of her women, and asked her. “No,” she said emphatically. “I don't think it would've made any difference if I'd been a sex bot throbbing between their legs. - They have them, you know,” off my bemused expression. “You're real. You're here.”
