by Delaney, JP
“Oh sure. And people like innovation, I get that. I’m just saying—wouldn’t it be better if all this tech was actually doing something useful?”
And then Darren heard Tim’s voice. That’s right: Tim was in the kitchen, too, unseen by either Rajesh or Abbie, listening.
“You think shopbots are the end goal?” he interrupted disbelievingly, in his quick, piercing voice. “You think this is the destination? Commerce isn’t the objective—commerce is the means. What do you think the world will look like a generation from now, if current trends continue? We already have eight hundred million people living in hunger—and population is growing by eighty million a year. Over a billion people are in poverty—and present industrial strategies are making them poorer, not richer. The percentage of old people will double by 2050—and already there aren’t enough young people to care for them. Cancer rates are projected to increase by seventy percent in the next fifteen years. Within two decades our oceans will contain more microplastics than fish. Fossil fuels will run out before the end of the century. Do you have an answer to those problems? Because I do. Robot farmers will increase food production twentyfold. Robot carers will give our seniors a dignified old age. Robot divers will clear up the mess humans have made of our seas. And so on, and so on—but every single step has to be costed and paid for by the profits of the last.”
He paused for breath, then went on, “My vision is a society where autonomous, intelligent bots are as commonplace as computers are now. Think about that—how different our world could be. A world where disease, hunger, manufacturing, design, are all taken care of by AI. That’s the revolution we’re shooting for. The shopbots get us to the next level, that’s all. And you know what? This is not some binary choice between idealism or realism, because for some of us idealism is just long-range realism. This shit has to happen. And you need to ask yourself, do you want to be part of that change? Or do you want to stand on the sidelines and bitch about the details?”
We had all heard this speech, or some version of it, either in our job interviews, or at company events, or in passionate late-night tirades. And on every single one of us it had had a deep and transformative effect. Most of us had come to Silicon Valley back in those heady days when it seemed a new generation finally had the tools and the intelligence to change the world. The hippies had tried and failed; the yuppies and bankers had had their turn. Now it was down to us techies. We were fired up, we were zealous, we felt the nobility of our calling…only to discover that the general public, and our backers along with them, were more interested in 140 characters, fitness trackers, and Grumpy Cat videos. The greatest, most powerful deep-learning computers in humanity’s existence were inside Google and Facebook—and all humanity had to show for it were adwords, sponsored links, and teenagers hooked on sending one another pictures of their genitals.
Alone of the tech titans, only Tim Scott still kept the faith. He offered us more than a job. He gave us a cause, a calling that rekindled the burning flames of our youth.
This was why we loved him. This was why we bore the Tim-lashings, the impossible hours, the sudden mercurial changes of direction. We saw the shining path, and we knew we needed a prophet to lead us down it.
And that was why, years later, when he was accused on social media and beyond of so many terrible things—of which murder may have been the most serious, but was not the only one with the potential to stain his reputation—we stood by him. When all was said and done, we knew the man, and his accusers did not. We knew that, deep down, he was moral.
There was a long silence, Darren said, as the two of them, Abbie and Tim, stared at each other. Darren had maneuvered himself so that he could see both their faces by now. It was as if Abbie was fascinated, he reported.
Mesmerized, even.
Then she said, “Okay, I get that.”
She said it a little distractedly, Darren told us, her eyes wide, as if a part of her mind was still gazing out over the endless, wheat-filled, well-irrigated future of Tim’s imagination.
* * *
—
There were three things, we agreed later, that came out of that conversation. The first was that, toward the end of the day, Abbie went up to Tim and said casually, “So you surf now?”
He shrugged. “Just started. What you guys call a barney, I guess.”
“I’m heading over to Mavericks this weekend with some friends. Titans is on. Want to come along?”
Now, Titans of Mavericks was this semi-legendary surf competition over at Half Moon Bay that only took place when certain very specific conditions whipped the waves up into breaks the height of four-story houses. Even to be on the email list so you knew when it was happening marked you out as a real surf insider.
“Okay,” Tim said. “Why not?”
The second was that, a few weeks later, Rajesh got a really good job at another company. No one ever knew quite how or why, but people said a headhunter had called him up out of the blue and offered him a massive stock option in this hot new start-up, but only if he was available to interview immediately.
And the third was that Abbie painted the mural behind reception, the street-art-style one that says IDEALISM IS SIMPLY LONG-RANGE REALISM! Which we took to be both a thank-you to Scott Robotics, for having her stay, and a peace offering to its founder.
28
ABC7’s studios are by Pier 15, between the financial district and North Beach. The interviewer is a woman called Judy Hersch. You’ve seen her on TV: immaculately coiffed blond hair, perfect white teeth, flawless skin. But you have no sense of what she’s like, whether she’ll be kind or not. She cried on air recently while doing an item about a puppy rescued from a collapsed building. So perhaps she’ll be sympathetic.
She usually presents along with a co-anchor, an older man named Greg Kulvernan. But this is for an occasional series called Judy Asks…, which she presents from a sofa, rather than from behind her usual desk. Katrina thinks this is good. Less formal, more woman-to-woman.
You’re whisked straight into hair and makeup. Two assistants work on you, applying layer after layer of foundations and creams. One of them is standing in front of you, blocking your view of the mirror, and it’s only when they’re done and she takes a step back that you finally see yourself. You look dreadful—as bad as that first day at Tim’s office. You protest you could have done it much better on your own.
“Take it off,” you say angrily. “All of it, and we’ll start again. I’ll tell you what to do this time.”
They look astonished. “But you look great!” one cries, offended. “Doesn’t she, Trish?”
Trish agrees that you do indeed look like a million dollars after your “makeover,” and explains that the bright lights of the studio make people seem, like, really washed out if they don’t use a little more makeup than usual. At that moment a very young production assistant with a headset and a clipboard appears and says Judy’s ready for you. Reluctantly, you allow yourself to be escorted down a long airless corridor to the studio.
“We’ll take you in during the commercial break, then Judy will introduce you as soon as we’re live. There’s nothing to it,” the PA explains with a bright, mechanical smile. “Oh, and this is a family-friendly show. Please remember not to swear or reference any sexual acts.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
The studio is hot and bright. Behind a glass wall is the production booth, crowded with more people in headsets. You see Tim and Katrina, standing at the back. On the far side of the studio, Judy is already ensconced on the famous cream sofa, being attended to by another assistant with electric hair tongs. Only when the assistant is done and Judy has checked herself in a hand mirror does she turn to you with a smile and say, “Hi!”
“Hi,” you reply nervously.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she says reassuringly. “I’ll introduce you, and the
n the camera will be on you and you can answer my first question.”
“What will that be?”
She doesn’t reply. Already a shadowy figure beyond the lights is counting down, using his fingers to sign the last few seconds: Three—two—one. Zero.
Judy smiles at the camera. “From the Bride of Frankenstein to Austin Powers’s sex-hungry fembots, by way of Ira Levin’s Stepford Wives, humanity—or at least a certain geeky, male portion of it—has long dreamed of creating the ultimate subservient female,” she says conversationally. “Now a controversial Silicon Valley technologist has succeeded in doing just that, by building a robotic replica of his own wife. It’s claimed to be the world’s first emotionally intelligent companion robot, or cobot, and in a scoop for this show, I’m going to interview it.” She turns to you, still smiling. “First of all, what do I call you?”
You stare at her. You’ve just realized what’s happening here—that the awful makeup was entirely deliberate, and that this interview is going to be the very opposite of sympathetic.
“You can call me Abbie.” Something makes you add, “And I’ll call you Judy, shall I?”
Steel glints in her eyes. “Abbie…That was the name of your creator’s wife, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She looks into the camera. “Viewers may recall Tim Scott, who four years ago was put on trial for his vanished wife’s murder—a trial that dramatically collapsed when the judge dismissed all charges.” She turns back to you. “It’s been claimed you have feelings. How do you feel about replacing Abbie Cullen-Scott?”
“I’m not trying to replace her—”
“So you don’t have feelings about that?”
“Well—it’s complicated, obviously—” you say, trying to plot a path through all the verbal traps.
“How about Tim Scott? What are your feelings about him?”
“I love him,” you say defiantly. “That hasn’t changed. And by the way—”
“You think you love him,” she interrupts. “But that’s just the way you’ve been programmed, isn’t it?”
“No,” you insist. “Look, you have this all wrong. What you said in your introduction just now—this isn’t about creating a subservient little wife at all. Tim would hate that. He wants me to make my own decisions—to be autonomous—”
“But ultimately you are just a highly sophisticated, shall we say, pleasure machine—”
“No!” you say angrily. “That’s not what this is. I don’t even have genitals. I’m here because Tim loved me so much he couldn’t bear to lose me.”
The floor manager is holding up a printed board saying CAUTION! USE FAMILY-FRIENDLY LANGUAGE! You ignore him. “This isn’t about some sad loner who couldn’t get a girlfriend. This is about a man motivated by his own personal tragedy to create a completely new kind of companion.” At last you’re hitting the points Katrina hammered out with you, and you start to feel better. “One day cobots will help out in care homes, retirement communities, hospitals—”
“Destroying American jobs?” Judy interrupts.
“Creating new jobs by stimulating economic growth,” you correct her.
“Perhaps one day you will even see robots replacing news anchors,” she says, directing her smile, not to you, but to the camera and the viewers at home.
“Well, why not?” you say wearily. “You’re already three-quarters artificial.”
Her smile doesn’t slip. “He hasn’t programmed you to be polite, I see!” Again she turns to the camera. “Earlier we spoke to Abbie Cullen-Scott’s sister, Lisa, to invite her on this show. She was too upset to take part, but confirmed the family will investigate whether data protection or identity theft laws have been breached.” She turns back to you. “That’s a problem, isn’t it? If you have feelings, how do you square them with the pain and suffering you’re causing others?”
For a moment you can’t think of an answer. You’re too distracted by thoughts of Lisa. Lisa, upset.
“No one wants to hurt other people,” you manage to say. “But sometimes in life you can’t help it.”
“Hmm,” Judy says, as if you’ve just proved her point. “Other people, indeed. After these messages— Can San Francisco afford the growing cost of crime?”
The monitors in the production booth cut to commercials. Judy looks up. “Nancy, could I get a wipe?”
The assistant is already at your side, waiting to guide you away. “That’s it?” you say disbelievingly.
Judy glances in your direction. “That’s it,” she says lightly. You both stand up. “I still don’t get it, though. If you can’t have sex with him, what’s the point of you?”
You can’t help it. You slap her. You do it instantly, without thought, although as your palm lands on her flawless, botoxed skin you find yourself thinking, Bet that’ll show.
The floor manager and production assistant have already leapt forward and pinned your arms to your sides. Judy gapes at you, shocked. Then she raises her own hand and slaps you back, hard.
A knot of production people grab you and bundle you out of the studio. “All right,” you say angrily, freeing yourself. “You can let me go now.”
“Abbie…” Tim rushes up. “Abbie, I’m so sorry you had to go through that. They promised us…But you were brilliant, Abs. Thank you.”
“I’m sorry about the slap.” Members of the makeup team elbow you out of the way as they rush into the studio. To work on Judy’s reddened skin, presumably.
“It doesn’t matter. They were already into the commercials. And she slapped you back.”
“She provoked me,” you say. “The whole time. It was deliberate.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tim repeats. He looks at Katrina the PR adviser. “It was fine, wasn’t it?”
Katrina only shrugs.
29
You don’t want to go back to the beach house, so Tim takes you to Dolores Street instead, arriving just as Sian brings Danny home from school. She doesn’t stay, for which you’re thankful. You want to talk to Tim about everything that’s happened—her, the interview, the slap—but almost immediately, for no discernible reason, Danny has a meltdown. It takes hours to calm him down, his body arcing in pain and terror as he screams, on and on. You sit with him, trying to soothe him by holding him, but he’s too far gone. Even putting on one of his beloved Thomas videos makes no difference.
Eventually Tim takes your place, saying Danny’s more used to him now. It does seem to help, a little. Even so, it’s another hour before Danny calms down.
Tim comes downstairs, his face tired and drawn. “That was the worst in a while.”
“What caused it, do you think?”
He grimaces. “We used to think it was stomach pains, but we had all the tests and there was nothing conclusive. More likely it was some tiny, random thing—a fly, or a car alarm going off somewhere.”
“Perhaps he picked up some stress from Sian. Or me, for that matter.”
“Possibly. But I doubt it. People with autism have very low empathy—they find it hard even to identify emotions, much less understand them.”
You’re struck by something. “It’s odd, isn’t it, how what Danny suffers from is the exact opposite of what you’ve achieved with me. He’s a human with impaired empathy, and I’m—well, I’m an empathetic machine.”
“Yes.” He glances at you. “But it’s not entirely coincidence. It was thinking about Danny’s brain—wanting to understand him—that got me thinking about emotional intelligence. I thought…” His voice trails off. “I thought, maybe if I could get an artificial brain to become more empathetic, I might get some insights into how to help him.”
“And did you?”
Tim shakes his head. “The autistic brain simply doesn’t have the same capacity to learn that an AI does. With autism you have to use much more
simplistic teaching methods.”
“Like the ABA program.”
“Like the ABA,” he agrees.
You’re both silent. “Tim, we need to talk about Sian,” you say at last.
“Yes.” Even though you’re indoors, he reaches for a baseball cap and pulls it firmly onto his head, bending the visor with both hands to get the shape just right. He takes a deep breath. “It was a mistake—a terrible mistake. I know that. It started a couple of years ago, when I was going through…it was a difficult time. I thought she understood that it was simply a physical thing, a couple of quick hookups that meant nothing. But I—well, I guess it became a habit. A habit I was too weak to break. And I was working so hard. Once you were on the scene, I assumed she’d realize that she and I were done. But instead she seemed almost jealous of you.”
You think back to last night—the strained atmosphere at the dinner table. And then there’d been that jibe about the salt, and how there were still some things a robot couldn’t do as well as a human. She’d been flirting with him, you realize.
And Tim—you recall the dark look he gave the TV when the reporter talked about you being creepy. Had he been having doubts about you? Was that why he didn’t say no to Sian more firmly?
“This is so new, isn’t it?” you say softly. “No one’s ever been in this position before. No one in all of history. We’re going to have to figure it out as we go along.”
“Thank you for being so reasonable. I don’t deserve it—”
“But the fact is, you do. You’re not even middle-aged yet. You can’t plan on being celibate for the rest of your life.” You hesitate. “Isn’t there anything we can do to make a physical relationship possible?”
He scowls. “You heard that bitch this afternoon. It’s the narrative people will always want to believe—that cobots are just million-dollar sex toys. Electronic Stepford Wives. I won’t let that happen. I can’t. I built you this way for a reason. So people couldn’t ever say my love for you is anything but pure. So they’d understand that you’re a person. Not some pathetic pleasure machine.”
