by D. B. Goodin
“Hello, Mr. Morris, it’s good to see you again,” Rex said, holding out a hand.
Brenton didn’t react; he was standing out of reach and didn’t approach.
“Are you feeling okay?” Rex asked, noticing his strange behavior.
“Yes—I just didn’t sleep well,” Brenton replied.
“I’m sure you’re eager to meet her. Follow me,” Rex said.
Brenton followed Rex into a small examination room next to his office.
“Shall I get her?” Rex asked.
“Yes.”
As Rex left the room, Brenton felt his heart race at the prospect of being reunited with his lost love. He closed his eyes, trying to relive the moment that he first met her.
Brenton hadn’t gotten along with many of his classmates at the Manhattan School of Music during the summer of 2045. He had been in New York City for less than a week before he started skipping his music classes. Instead, he would take a long walk through the streets; he loved the sights and sounds of Manhattan. Central Park was Brenton’s favorite destination in New York. He would spend hours walking through its natural beauty.
On one such walk, a thunderstorm almost ruined the day; the static electricity generated from the storm damaged Brenton’s phone and visor. He ran through the heavy downpour, looking for shelter as the footpaths turned into rivers. He spotted a footbridge, which provided limited cover.
As soon as he made it under the bridge, the sky opened, and it seemed like buckets of water were being poured from above. He had never experienced a storm this intense, but he had grown up in Los Angeles, and rain there was fairly rare. Panicking, he waved his arms about like a bird that had forgotten how to fly. Then he heard a most delightful sound.
Is that a woman’s laugh?
He peered through the small tunnel, looking for the source of the laughter. That’s when he saw her: a soaked blond woman about his age, giggling. She put a hand over her lips when Brenton noticed her.
“I’m sorry, but you looked like you were trying to take flight.”
Brenton joined her in laughter. It was infectious.
“I’m Tabitha, but please call me Tabby,” the woman said, extending a hand.
As soon as Brenton took her hand, a spark of static electricity shocked him—but not too badly.
“Did you feel that?” Tabby asked.
Brenton nodded.
They spent the rest of the day talking. After the rain stopped, he found himself seated across a drying outdoor picnic table, looking into the eyes of an angel. His connection with Tabby was immediate and powerful. Brenton had never cared for anyone . . . until now. During their brief interaction, he learned that Tabitha was also a music major and was attending a nearby music program at the Juilliard School of Music. He wanted to spend every waking moment with her. When Brenton explained that he didn’t possess the talent to pursue a music degree, Tabby suggested that he change his major to business while keeping a minor in music—then he would have the best that both subjects could offer.
“Mr. Morris, she’s ready,” Rex said.
When Brenton opened his eyes, he saw a woman standing before him, six feet tall, with long blond hair that ended just below her shoulders. His gaze gravitated toward her blue eyes. Seeing her again, even in this form, took his breath away. They had dressed her in a bikini—and nothing else.
Wow, Brenton gaped.
“What do you think?” Rex asked.
She moved like a human, Brenton noticed, but his Tabby seemed listless, as if disconnected from her consciousness. An image of a young woman appeared in his mind’s eye; the girl he remembered had the most captivating smile. His desire to be with her again was beyond yearning: it was a need.
Brenton embraced the doppelgänger that used to be his love—but he might as well have been hugging a mannequin.
“She’s magnificent,” he said, drawing away, “but what’s wrong with her?”
“What do you mean? I don’t follow you,” Rex said.
“She looks like my Tabby, but . . . she’s just a shell.”
“Mental topography isn’t my department. They tasked me at delivering a perfect biological specimen, which I have done.”
“Who the hell is responsible for the ‘mental topography’ department?” Brenton said.
Rex pointed at Dr. Howser. “Dr. Howser, I believe that mental topography is your area of expertise.”
“Why, yes, I . . .” Dr. Howser trailed off as he looked at the cyborg that was Tabby as if it were the first time.
“What’s the problem, doctor?” Brenton demanded.
“She’s perfect!” Dr. Howser said.
“She’s not,” Brenton insisted. “She seems . . . disconnected. Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
Dr. Howser left, then returned with some equipment. He put some kind of hat on Tabby’s head that resembled a halo; white light emanated from it.
“What’s that—?”
“Silence!” Dr. Howser said, cutting Brenton off.
Rex looked nervous. Brenton flushed; a sharp pain in his jaw reminded him that he was grinding his teeth.
“I need to perform a CT scan to be positive, but the subject’s synapses may need adjustment,” Dr. Howser said.
“Will she keep any of her memories?” Brenton asked.
“There’s a good chance she will keep memories of emotional events from her former life, but I can’t say with any certainty. Technology has advanced since the transference procedure was introduced fifteen years ago, but there are many factors at play here. The age of the source material is a factor, for example,” Dr. Howser said as he flashed a light into Tabby’s eyes. The emotion of a distant memory captured Brenton’s attention.
Brenton was back in his apartment. Tabby was there. They were arguing. Something about Tabby’s sister . . . The memory was faint, but the emotion that followed was horrifying. Brenton pushed Tabby, and she fell . . . the blood! A wave of emotion washed over him, and his entire face went numb from the weight of suppressed memories. Brenton again watched in horror as his wife-to-be hit her head on the edge of a kitchen countertop. He held her close as she continued to bleed.
Another flash.
Benton was in a hospital waiting room. A doctor delivered the news that his Tabby was no more. Before Brenton could react, he felt the power of a fist landing on the back of his head. He turned to see a woman, who was several years younger than Tabby. She was shorter, had green and purple hair, and several piercings.
“You bastard, you killed my sister!” the woman screamed.
Later—he doesn’t remember when—Brenton was in a room with several bodies on tables with sheets covering them.
“I will preserve the material,” said a man dressed like a doctor as he looked down upon Tabby’s corpse.
The man was looking into her eyes with a light.
Rueben—that’s his name! Brenton remembered, coming back to the present.
“Mr. Morris, you don’t look so well. Please, have a seat,” Rex said as he rolled a nearby office chair in Brenton’s direction.
Where am I? Brenton thought. He sat in the office chair, rubbing his tired eyes, then continued to watch Dr. Howser perform his examination of Tabby.
Dr. Howser put on his visor and appeared to be checking something.
“Hmmm . . . It’s confirmed, there’s trouble between the presynaptic neuron and the postsynaptic neuron,” Dr. Howser said. “A chemical imbalance could affect the neurotransmitter receptors. That’s affecting the memory function. But we can get the subject back in balance.”
“When will she be ready to leave this facility?” Brenton asked.
Dr. Howser gave Brenton a sharp look. “Not for a while, I’m afraid,” he said.
“I was hoping to have her with me at the CityWide Concert.”
Both Dr. Howser and Rex were staring at Brenton like he’d grown another head.
“I cannot make any guarantees,” Dr. Howser said.
“T
his is unacceptable—I need her home now!”
“Mr. Morris, I don’t think that is possible,” Dr. Howser said.
Brenton closed in on Dr. Howser. He raised his fists. Brenton felt as if his blood was about to turn into lava and burn through his skin. Dr. Howser stepped back; Brenton was so close he could smell the man’s sweat. He jabbed a fist into the man’s chest, emphasizing each word.
“You have until the end of today,” Brenton said.
Dr. Howser looked frightened. “I need more time.”
“You have until close of business.”
Brenton watched Rex and Dr. Howser leave the room with the cyborg.
New York City, Tuesday 7:48 p.m.
The ride back from MuseFam’s research facilities was an unpleasant one; Brenton was in a rage, throwing insults toward the driver. The events of the day had disappointed Brenton, but Dr. Howser had indeed delivered his Tabby. She sat behind him in the back seat.
Dr. Howser almost ruined everything by not accounting for the detailed information that I sent months ago, Brenton fumed.
Dr. Howser had assured Brenton that his team had handled Tabby’s programming with the utmost care. He explained that since the genetic material was more than fifteen years old, the scientists had to make several adjustments to account for time gaps in Tabby’s memories. If they were not addressed, Tabby could have expected behavioral consequences. Dr. Howser had provided Brenton with daily exercises that would allow Tabby to adjust to her new situation.
“Tabby, do you remember me?” he asked her.
The cyborg known as Tabby gazed out the window of the flying vehicle. After a moment, she looked toward him and said, “Brent . . . ton, I remember.”
Brenton observed Tabby, as she was seeing the world again through new eyes. She pointed to various New York City landmarks, such as the Empire State Building. Her lips would open as if to say something, but she was silent for much of the two-hour journey.
Moments after the vehicle landed on the top of MuseFam’s Headquarters, the driver opened the back door. Tabby stepped onto the platform and looked north toward Central Park. The sun glistened as it disappeared behind the buildings of Times Square.
“Do you see that?” Brenton said, pointing to a golden dome in the middle of Central Park.
Tabby followed his gaze.
“It appears to be some structure in the middle of a park,” Tabby said.
“Yes, my dear. Now come with me.”
Tabby followed Brenton into the building. After a quick flight of stairs and a short walk down a hall, they arrived at Brenton’s office. Tabby walked to the window and gazed out at the New York skyline below.
Brenton’s visor chirped. He tapped the “accept call” option. An animated image of Mark Olaf appeared, moving in sync with Mark’s voice. Most visor technology allowed its operators to choose any avatar, any background, or both; in this case, a cartoon version of Mark was sitting on a tropical beach. Brenton detested fake images, and he demanded that Mark turn on his video feed. Moments later, Mark turned on his video, looking much different from the everyday, well-dressed Mark Olaf that Brenton was used to. Brenton noticed movement in the distance; then he saw another man in a robe leaving the room.
“Mr. Morris,” Mark asked, “is Ms. Augustine with you?”
While he’d been waiting for his “special project” to be completed—that is, bringing Tabby back into his world—Brenton had often made use of certain robotic companions. Sometimes they would accompany him to dinner; other times they would spend the night at his place. Ms. Augustine—a synthetic human known for her phenomenal singing voice—had been one of them.
“No, I haven’t seen her since last night. She was in my apartment early this morning. I believe she mentioned something about a shopping trip on Fifth Avenue. She should be back at my apartment in the Upper West Side.”
“I’m afraid that’s not what I’m seeing on my report,” Mark replied. “I got an alert that she has left Manhattan and entered Brooklyn. Since you have no residence there, I called you to see what was going on.”
“Can’t you track her?”
“I just pulled a full audit on her implanted GPS tracking module, and at around 2:30 this afternoon, she traveled to Brooklyn.”
“Do you have a last known location?” Brenton asked.
Brenton saw Mark typing something into a terminal. Then Mark said, “That can’t be right!”
“What can’t?”
“Her implant went offline in the middle of the Brooklyn bridge. There is no signal from Ms. Augustine after that.”
Newark Heights, New Jersey
Earlier Tuesday afternoon
Alice woke with a massive headache. Alfred was sleeping next to her face.
What time did I get in last night? she wondered. The last thing I remember was the large gathering at Roxy’s . . . So, I’m the Emissary now? Or was it all a dream?
As Alice made her way to the bathroom; she noticed that the house was silent. Noise carried in Lindsey’s house, and if she was in the kitchen, Alice would know. Alice made coffee and put her AR visor on.
“Well, it’s about time you graced me with your presence, dear,” Doris said.
“You weren’t off for that long.”
“Only for the past twelve hours. While you were getting your groove on, I was processing all the threats in the club. It’s a good thing that you at least kept me connected while you were on stage. I bet you didn’t notice that Jamie was staring at you for a long time.”
Alice stopped drinking her coffee.
“I didn’t see him,” she said.
“I made visual contact when you were dancing with those freaks on stage.”
“Have you gathered any information on why he was there?” Alice asked.
“No, but he keeps showing up when Lawrence does. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but my logic processors seem to go on high alert when he’s near. It’s almost like he has an evil AI tucked away somewhere,” Doris said.
“If you’re questioning the moral gray area that are his intentions, I would say you are spot-on,” Alice said. “I had a strange feeling the other night when I saw him with Lucy—it’s almost if she’s under his spell. I don’t know Lucy well, but she’s been acting strange since getting captured by Elias. Dancing half-naked in the street and acting like she’s on drugs is not her normal behavior.”
“Who are you talking to?” Lindsey said.
Alice turned in Lindsey’s direction. She was carrying some bags of groceries from the front door.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you come in. I was just having a . . . meaningful discussion with my AI,” Alice said.
Lindsey gave Alice a sideways glance.
“Are you sure it’s healthy to talk to an AI so much? I only heard one side of the conversation, but it sounded like you were talking to an actual person.”
“Well, besides you and Oscar, Doris is the closest I have to a friend these days.”
I need to check in on my old friend Oscar, Alice thought with a wince. He saved me a few weeks ago. If it weren’t for him, my stuff would still be in that alley.
“Well, you could have fooled me,” Lindsey said, dropping the groceries on the kitchen counter. “There were several people looking for you yesterday. Some old guy named Nigel, and a younger guy—I think his name was Simon—called the house. Didn’t he drain your bank account?”
Oh, crap! I forgot to check the messages from those guys!
“You talked with them? What did they say?” Alice asked.
“The older guy didn’t say much of anything. He mentioned that he wanted you to call back to check on a repair or something.
How did he know to call Lindsey? Does Simon have my contact list?
“The younger guy said something about you being followed, and he wanted you to call him.”
Maybe I should call Simon—I should hear him out.
“Care to fill me in?” Lindsey asked.
Alice sighed. “F
or starters, I learned that Brian is pushing through legislation to ban all human clubs. Later today, the New York City Council is hearing from the public, and I plan to be there. The mayor has preapproved a city ordinance to force all-human clubs to accept robots. I think the public hearing is a formality.”
“Brian has been working on a case that involves MuseFam, but I don’t think it has anything to do with a New York City ordinance.”
Alice clenched her jaw as she gave Lindsey a suspicious look. Lindsey responded with a look of confusion. After a few minutes, she finished putting away her groceries.
“Roxy’s ex-husband Lawrence mentioned Brian by name,” Alice said. “How do you explain that?”
Lindsey turned to face Alice. She had a pained look—almost as if someone had punched her in the stomach.
“I don’t think Brian would do anything to hurt you, Alice.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t know if he knows what the potential impact of this ordinance could be to local club owners. I don’t think synthetic humans should have the same civil rights and protections as humans!”
“I’ve heard Brian talk about lawful discrimination before. Once he defended a man who refused to wear a shirt in a restaurant. The establishment refused service, and the customer sued. They threw it out of court because of a federal statute called lawful discrimination, which allowed the restaurant to refuse service because the customer broke the established rules or something. It’s all confusing legal gibberish to me—”
“Doris, check into this ‘lawful discrimination’ practice in New York City,” Alice said, cutting Lindsey off. “I don’t think you understand how important this situation is, Lindsey. Don’t you get it? This is just another attempt to take away our human rights.”
Lindsey crossed her arms and gave Alice a distressed look.
Alice shook her head. “Sorry, Lindsey, I need to eat and run. I’m going to fight city hall.”
“I’m worried about you, Alice,” Lindsey replied. “You seem to be in some trouble. I think we need to sit down and discuss the situation. I think you owe me that much—it’s not like I saved you from living on the streets or anything!”
