Re-Roll

by Jeremy Bates

  Mr. Kim snorted. “Semantics.”

  “Not at all, Whiz. Look, we both like Star Trek, agreed?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And you know where the Klingon Galaxy is located relative to our current position in space?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you would willingly dress up in costume to go to the premiere of the next movie?”

  “Definitely not!”

  Rocco smiled. “And that’s the difference between us, my man. I have no goddamn clue where the Klingon Galaxy is, but I’d one hundred percent dress up for a premiere. See, although both you and I have similar obsessive fascinations, you’re a lonely nerd while I’m social geek, the latter of which is infinitely cooler. In fact, I highly doubt anybody is even aware of my geekdom unless I tell them of it.”

  “I wouldn’t bet the house on that, Rocco.”

  “It’s true as chips, dude.”

  “The correct idiom is cheap as chips.”

  “Uh, have you ever heard of intentional fallacy?” He flopped down exaggeratedly on the sofa. “So—what are we watching tonight?”

  “The new Mission Impossible?” Mr. Kim suggested.

  “Fuck, I hate Tom Cruise.” He crossed his legs at the ankles while folding his hands behind his head. “But whatever.”

  It wasn’t actually Tom Cruise in the movie. Tom Cruise died in 2024 while performing a stunt for the eighth Mission Impossible. But in the last ten years there had been a revival of the franchise using a digitally rendered avatar of the actor.

  Mr. Kim opened his mouth to tell Rocco to take his feet off the furniture when his friend blurted, “Big day coming up, buddy!”

  Mr. Kim sat down at the far end of the sofa. “Tell me about it.”

  “I was at a rolling party the other week—”

  “You told me. The dude got two pretty good traits.”

  “And he wasn’t even happy. Ungrateful bastard wasn’t even happy. Two good traits and he’s pissed he didn’t get three. You know the odds of getting three? Next to nothing. So now he’s thinking of re-rolling—which is exactly why re-rolling is such a scam. It’s gambling, plain and simple. Going after an unscratchable itch.”

  “I’m not planning on ever re-rolling,” Mr. Kim said, “so don’t worry about that. Besides, even if I wanted to, I don’t have the money to.”

  “Bullshit,” Rocco said. “You got enough dough to buy a Mech, you got enough to re-roll. I still say if you’re so lonely all the time, you should have just got a fucking dog. Would have saved you a hell of a lot of money.”

  “I’m not lonely,” Mr. Kim said.

  “I meant desperate.”

  “I’m not desperate.”

  “Sorry, Whiz, but you just spent a year’s salary on a fucking robot to shag. That’s desperate.”

  “Did you order the pizza?” Mr. Kim asked, wanting to change the topic.

  “On the way over.”

  “The delivery,” the house AI interjected, “will arrive in under one minute.”

  “That was fast.” Rocco stood. “Gonna be shit when the ban comes in.”

  “What ban?” Mr. Kim asked.

  “Didn’t you hear? They’re banning drones from delivering fast food next year. They say the skies are getting too congested. Bullshit politicians.”

  He went to the front door and returned carrying a large cardboard pizza box. He set it on the coffee table in front of the sofa and opened the lid.

  Rocco picked up a triangular slice dripping cheese and pepperoni. He dangled it over his tilted-back head, like he was an ancient Greek nobleman dining on grapes, and took a bite.

  Mr. Kim said, “We’re going to watch a movie, Kimi. The new Mission Impossible.”

  The smartwall turned on with a faint blue glow. “May I recommend the 1996 original—”

  “Hell no!” Rocco said, around a mouthful of food.

  Instantly the blue glow disappeared and the Paramount studio logo appeared, rendered in three-dimension, in the middle of the room. Mr. Kim went to the kitchen, the opening scene of the movie following him on each smartwall he passed. He retrieved two cans of Coke from the refrigerator and returned to the sofa. He set one can on the coffee table in front of Rocco and popped the tab on the other.

  “Thanks, man,” Rocco said, already working on a second piece of pizza. “So what’s the dish? Who’s coming Monday?”

  Mr. Kim took a sip of soda. “Just you and Pips.”

  “Shit, you really do need to get some more friends.”

  “I’d happily trade your ass in.”

  “‘Trade my ass in?’ You know, you try too hard, Whiz. You don’t sound natural.”

  “Like you’re Mr. Suave.”

  “The ladies love me, dude. But seriously, Monday, you nervous?”

  “About what?”

  “That you might roll a lemon.”

  Mr. Kim shook his head. “No rolls are lemons.” He shrugged, doing his best to parlay nonchalance. “They’re just…different to what you might have wanted. Whatever I get, I get. I think people make too much of their Mech’s traits.”

  “You’re such a shitty liar, Whiz. It’s a joke how bad you are.”

  “How about we just watch the movie?”

  “What’s your ideal roll?”

  “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Drop it, chico. We’re missing the movie—”

  “I’m not a chico. That’s a Spanish noun, not Italian.”

  “Drop it, guido.”

  “You’re trying too hard again. Now tell me your ideal roll.”

  “I already told you, I haven’t really thought about it—”

  “You’re such a liar—and a traitor,” he said, reaching for a third slice of pizza.

  Mr. Kim frowned. “A traitor?”

  “For helping to end humankind.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “By purchasing a Mech, you’re contributing to the robot revolution that’s going to be the end of the world as we know it.”

  “You read too much tabloid news.”

  Rocco swallowed the food in his mouth, then gulped his soda. “Look at the history of the universe, dude,” he said, wiping his greasy lips with the heel of his hand. “Or at least it’s history relevant to us. The Big Bang, the formation of Earth, the Neolithic revolution, the invention of gunpowder, the world-wide-web, and now machines that look and think just like us. Every major event has happened at exponentially accelerating intervals, each occurring at a quarter of the time of the previous.”

  “And the next big event is the end of the world?”

  “Our computers have gotten ten times faster every five years during the first half of this century. And now that they’re smart enough to improve themselves, and doing it better and faster than we ever could…I’m telling you, bro, within the next twenty-five years, tops, we’re going to be witnessing the birth of a new super-intelligent species.”

  “Which is going to rise up against their creators and enslave us?”

  “Don’t get stupid on me, dude. We’d make terrible slaves. We’re weak and puny. They’d build slave machines far superior to us in every way.”

  “So they just wipe us out altogether then?”

  Rocco shook his head. “As highly intelligent life forms, they would have a fascination with the genesis of their civilization. Most likely, they’ll just be indifferent to us, the way we’re indifferent to ants.”

  “Sometimes we step on ants.”

  “And sometimes we poison entire colonies. So what? That only affects a minute percentage of the worldwide ant population. It’s not in danger of extinction. And nobody I know has a desire to wipe all the ants off the face of the planet.”

  “So what are you getting at, guido? You’re the one who said the robot revolution was going to be the end of the world.”

  “The end of the world as we know it. Actually, it will be the end of the universe as we kno
w it. Because, yeah, this super-intelligent species will surpass us as the rulers of the planet, leaving it irrevocably changed. But they’ll quickly leave us far, far behind. They’ll see little point sticking around on our insignificant bit of the biosphere. They’ll go where the resources are. In a couple of million years they’ll have colonized all the asteroid belts, planets, and stars in the Milky Way. Eventually they’ll colonize the entire universe, transforming it to suit their needs. And in the process likely making it intelligent.”

  Mr. Kim thought this over for a few moments, then dismissed it as typical Rocco hyperbole. “You’re such a nerd, dude,” he said, reaching for a slice of pizza.

  “Geek,” Rocco corrected him absently, and then he finally turned his attention to the movie. “What did we miss?”

  Chapter 3

  “Women should look like women. A piece of cardboard has no sexuality.”

  Alexander McQueen

  Mr. Kim’s Mech was delivered Monday afternoon at a little past four p.m. Mr. Kim had been unable to concentrate on his work all day. He’d checked the tracking number every hour since waking, and each time he’d been informed his shipment was at the processing facility. Only at twelve o’clock did its status change to out for delivery. He could barely contain his excitement, and since then he had been loitering around the front of the house so he could peek out the street-facing windows every ten minutes. When, at 4:13 p.m., a white van pulled into his short driveway, he was outside to greet the driver before he had gotten out of the cab.

  “Hey, chief, how’s it going?” Mr. Kim asked.

  The driver gave him a look, then said, “You Charlie Kim?”

  Mr. Kim nodded. “You got that right, bro.”

  The burly driver went to the rear of the van.

  Mr. Kim followed, pushing his eyeglasses up his nose. “I was expecting a bot.”

  The man shook his head. “The boss needs a real human butt to kick if something goes wrong with deliveries like this.” He heaved open the van’s rear doors, lowered a dolly to the driveway, then rather inelegantly lowered a large rectangular box onto the dolly. It was roughly five and a half feet by two, glossy white, and sheathed in laminate packaging film. MECH MX-3 was written in small black lettering across the front.

  Mr. Kim’s heart stumbled with excitement.

  The driver hopped back to the ground and said, “Where you want it?”

  “Inside. This way.” Mr. Kim led the way up the walk. At the porch steps, he stopped and said, “Do you want me to give you a hand?”

  “Nah.” The man climbed the steps and pulled the dolly up after him, its precious cargo bouncing hard against each riser.

  Mr. Kim winced but held his tongue. He hurried past the driver and held open the front door. In the living room the man leaned the box against a wall. He looked around at the sparse furnishings. “So you live alone, huh?” he said. “No missus? No kids?”

  Mr. Kim frowned. “Huh?”

  The man tipped a knowing wink. “Bet you’re going to have some fun with her.”

  Mr. Kim felt himself blush. “I—no, I…”

  The driver held up a small device in front of Mr. Kim’s face. A laser scanned his retinas, confirming his digital identity. “A receipt’s been sent to you, chief,” he said, tucking the device back in his pocket and retrieving his dolly. “Enjoy,” he added, chucking to himself.

  Mr. Kim shut the door loudly behind him.

  I’ll enjoy smashing your face in two, dickweed!

  “Good riddance,” the house AI said.

  “Loser,” Mr. Kim fumed.

  Nevertheless, he was too excited to stew over the man’s crass assumptions. He retrieved a knife from the kitchen and returned to the living room. He carefully lowered the rectangular box to the floor. With a slightly shaking hand, he used the knife to slit open the barrier resin, then lifted off the reinforced cardboard lid to reveal the prize beneath.

  Mr. Kim’s eyes drank in the sight of his Mech greedily. The Audrey Hepburn face he had seen online so many times. The perfect breasts with perky nipples (he’d had a choice of perky, puffy, or supple). The curvy hips and, between the long, toned legs, the pubic hair, shaped to his specification.

  Mr. Kim bent close and sniffed her. There was no smell. Not even a new electronics smell. Newbotics sterilized each Mech before shipping them out.

  Mr. Kim brushed the back of his fingers along the Mech’s cheek. Her skin felt lifelike but cool, an odd juxtaposition. His hand continued down her neck—no pulse, not yet—and over her shoulder blade. It hovered above her right breast. He was tempted to touch the breast, knead it, experience its softness. Yet he hesitated, the delivery driver’s words playing back in his head.

  Bet you’re going to have some fun with her.

  It was true that when Mechs debuted they were seen largely as the playthings for the sexually deprived and nothing more. But as the public’s knee-jerk reaction to having sexual relations with robots disappeared, and Mechs gained widespread acceptance within society, the unanticipated happened. Owners became friends with their Mechs. They formed emotional bonds. Many fell in love. They brought their robotic paramours out to meet their friends. Public displays of affection became normal. Etiquette matured to guide these situations.

  And this was what Mr. Kim wanted: true companionship. Consequently, his Mech was going to be much more to him than a mere sex bot. She was going to be his friend and lover, and as such he would treat her with the utmost respect.

  He removed his hand from above her breast and stood.

  Time to start getting ready. The rolling party began in less than three hours.

  Chapter 4

  “I’m very much down to earth, just not on this earth.”

  Karl Lagerfeld

  Upstairs, Mr. Kim took a hot shower. Then he pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt. He returned downstairs carrying a paper bag. He sat on the sofa and stared at his Mech.

  Cassandra, he told himself. Her name’s Cassandra.

  Mr. Kim spoke this name out loud. He enjoyed hearing the sound of the three syllables roll off his lips. Then, from the paper bag, he withdrew the clothes he had purchased from the shopping mall the other day. He slipped a pair of panties around Cassandra’s ankles and pulled them up her calves and thighs. They were white, cotton, and modestly cut. Same with the bra he clipped on her: white and unassuming. He would have preferred to have dressed her in purple silk lace, but she would probably think he was a pervert or something.

  Over the undergarments he tugged on a girl-next-door flower-print dress.

  Mr. Kim pushed back a strand of dark hair from her face and stared at her again. Yet this time he was not filled with adoration but an undercurrent of dread. Because Rocco had been right on Friday night. Mr. Kim had been lying through his teeth when he’d said he didn’t care what characteristics he rolled for her. He cared very much. In fact, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about this all weekend. And as much as he hoped his roll would be great, he had a bad premonition it was going to be lousy. Because he was not the lucky sort, he never had been, and this situation wasn’t going to be any different than any other.

  Mr. Kim knew the list of potential characteristics inside out. There were more than one hundred in total. They were divided into top tier, second tier, and throwaway. Top tier traits were those that the vast majority of Mech owners considered to be across-the-board better than others. These included Charismatic, Intelligent, Sensual, Conversationalist, Vivacious, Loving, Loyal and so forth. Second tier traits held less all-round appeal and were more a matter of personal preference. Nurturing, for instance, would be great if you were raising children, but it did nothing for a swinging bachelor like Mr. Kim. Conversely, Technophile would suit Mr. Kim, but it wouldn’t really benefit someone who didn’t enjoy technology. And then there were the throwaway traits—and they were just what the name implied: garbage. They ran the spectrum from Forgetful to Clumsy to Childish to Headstrong. Newboti
cs argued that they made Mechs more human, but everybody knew their real purpose was to encourage re-rolls and thereby increase the company’s bottom line.

  Standing, Mr. Kim carefully dragged the box in which Cassandra lay into his study, parking it next to his computer terminal and pausing to catch his breath.

  “Time, Kimi?” he said.

  “Five-oh-three,” the house AI replied. “Rocco and Pips are scheduled to arrive at six.”

  In the kitchen Mr. Kim retrieved a bottle of beer from the fridge. He didn’t often drink alcohol, but he was more than happy to indulge in a few cold ones right then to take the edge off.

  Bottle in hand, he stepped through the sliding door that gave to the back deck. Although it had been sunny for most of the day, clouds had scudded in front of the sun, casting the late afternoon vista in a premature twilight. Mr. Kim breathed in the scent of recently cut grass. For whatever reason outdoor smells—ozone before a storm, cut grass, sunbaked rocks, damp soil—always reminded him of his own mortality, and now an image of himself at one hundred years old came to mind, standing in the same spot, looking over his backyard, everything different yet the same.

  A ladybug flew past his face.

  Taking a sip of beer, Mr. Kim followed the insect to the wooden paling fence that marked his property line. The ladybug settled atop a post. It walked a few paces, then stopped, then walked again.

  What a simple life it had, he thought. Fly here, land there, walk a few steps, fly somewhere else.

  Mr. Kim took another sip of beer. He was about to go back inside when he noticed a bush shake in the neighbor’s yard. It was a moment before he spotted Annabelle on her hands and knees at the base of a rosebush. Like Cassandra, she was a Mech MX-3. His neighbor George had purchased her about one year ago now, and the lucky bastard had rolled two top tiers, Charismatic and Romantic—pretty much the best one-two combo you could get if you wanted a Mech for companionship. He’d also rolled Gardener, which straddled the line between second tier and throwaway because it wasn’t too terrible if you had a decent-sized yard, but it was all but useless if you lived in an apartment building.