by Jeremy Bates
As if sensing Mr. Kim watching her, Annabelle looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. She stood and came over to the fence, pulling off her dirty gloves and pushing a lock of blonde hair out of her green eyes.
“Hey now, Mr. Kim,” she said in a syrupy Southern drawl. “How’s it going, neighbor?” Dialect and accent were something else you could choose when customizing your Mech. One evening after George had had a few too many beers, and they’d gotten to chatting over the fence (something they almost never did), George reminisced about a summer romance he’d once had with a Southern Belle from South Carolina, leading Mr. Kim to deduce she was the inspiration for Annabelle.
“Hey there, good looking,” Mr. Kim said, deepening his voice a little and adopting a winning smile. He might be hopeless around real women, but he could be a total Casanova around Mechs. “The yard looks fantabulous.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” Annabelle said, her eyes sparkling how they always did. “It’s almost a fulltime job for me.”
The ladybug took flight and landed on Mr. Kim’s shoulder. He flicked it away.
“Hey now!” Annabelle said. “You should be gentle with those little critters. They’re a godsend for the garden.”
“It’s just a stupid beetle,” he said.
“That eat aphids, a gardener’s worst enemy.”
“Aphids suck,” he said, and waited hopefully.
Mr. Kim usually had to explain his jokes to others—he didn’t have very good comedic timing or delivery—and so he was pleased when Annabelle laughed at this latest attempt, indicating she understood that his statement about aphids was both literally and figuratively true.
“So where’s Georgy-boy?” he asked, resting his elbow in what he considered to be a leisurely manner atop the fence. “I haven’t seen him around much lately.”
“He’s been spending a lot of time at work. The new bridge he’s overseeing is turning into a logistical nightmare.”
“Hope he can bridge the difficulty.” Mr. Kim grinned.
Annabelle smiled but didn’t laugh this time.
Not firing on all neurons, are we, toots? he thought, irked.
“So—how are you, sweetie?” she asked.
“Just working, you know. Bringing home the bacon.”
“I haven’t seen much of you lately. You’re always cooped up in that office of yours, working vampire hours.”
“Vampire hours?” he said.
“I don’t sleep. Well, sometimes I lie down next to George. But I don’t need sleep. So some nights, when I’m star-gazing in the backyard, I see the lights on in your office long after the rest of the living have gone to bed.”
“I’ve never seen you out there.”
“Do you come outside at night?”
“Er, no…”
“Well, that’s probably why you never see me, silly. Unless, of course, you have x-ray vision like Superman and can see through walls?”
“Unfortunately not.” He pushed his heavy black eyeglasses up his nose. “But I do have a Superman bathrobe.”
“Hey now, you do look a little like Clark Kent. Has anyone ever told you that, honey?”
Mr. Kim removed his elbow from the fence—his arm had turned numb with pins and needles—and stood straight, puffing out his chest. “I guess I do look a bit like him, don’t I?”
She nodded. “An Asian version. Clark Kim.”
He chuckled. “Clark Kim. I like that. You sure one of your traits isn’t Humorous?”
“Quite sure,” she said. “I’ve checked the back of the box I came in.”
He chuckled louder, which included an involuntary snort or two.
“My, my, darling,” she said, “you are something.”
“One of a kind,” Mr. Kim said. Then, feeling the conversation was going well enough to crank up the flirting, he added, “Um, don’t you get lonely, being home and alone all day?”
Annabelle shrugged. “I keep myself busy.”
Thinking about me, I bet.
He forbid the smirk that wanted to spread across his lips and said, “Gardening?”
“Among others things.”
“Such as?”
“I read a lot. I also like doing crossword puzzles.”
What’s a four-letter word to describe Mr. Kim?
Stud!
He asked, “Do you like computers? I mean, I know your traits. I know you’re not a Technophile. But do you have any interest in computers? Because, you know—they don’t call me The Whiz for nothing.”
“Who calls you that, sweetie?”
“My friends. It’s my nickname. Didn’t you know? Anyway, my point is, if you’re ever bored, and you want me to show you the ropes, just pop on over.”
Now he allowed the smirk to surface, flashing his perfect white teeth.
“I, well, yes…” Annabelle said. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you for the invitation. Anywho, I guess I should—”
“You know,” Mr. Kim went on, “I just got one of you too.”
She raised her eyebrows. “One of me?”
“A Mech,” he said, acting like it was no big deal. “Just this afternoon actually.”
“How exciting for you!”
“The rolling party’s tonight. We’re going to be rocking like it’s 1984.”
“Well, I hope you roll well, sweetie.”
“Hey, maybe you want to come over? I mean—you can bring Georgy-boy too, I suppose. It’s going to be a blast.”
“That’s very kind of you. I’ll be sure to mention it to him.”
“You know,” Mr. Kim said, “if she got your traits—my Mech, her name’s Cassandra—if Cassy got your traits, I’d be super happy. I think you have great traits. I’ve never told you that. But…” He shrugged, letting the compliment sink in.
“That’s very flattering—”
“George is a lucky guy.”
“Thank you—”
“Real lucky.”
Annabelle looked away. And was she blushing?
That’s right, babe, Mr. Kim’s in the building, and he’s on fire!
“Speaking of George,” Annabelle said, “I think he said he was coming home early tonight. And—you know what?—silly old me hasn’t even put dinner on. So I really must run, sweetie. It was nice—”
“What are you making?”
“Excuse me?”
“For dinner?”
“Oh—let’s see…beef stroganoff…and chocolate mousse for dessert.”
“Yum, yum, give me some.”
“Yes, well—bye, bye, see you guy!”
With an amused smile and a wave adieu, she started toward her house.
“Hey!” Mr. Kim called after her. “The party starts at eight! Be there or be square!”
“I’ll be sure to let George know.”
Mr. Kim watched Annabelle until she disappeared inside. Then he went inside himself, a congratulatory grin on his face, thinking, Now if only you could be so smooth with the biological versions, buddy…
Chapter 5
“Don’t be like all the others, darling.”
Coco Chanel
Rocco arrived for the rolling party first. He wore a black T-shirt with the word “RE-ROLL” behind the No-Ghost sign popularized in the Ghostbusters movies. His tiny drone hovered silently behind him, defying gravity to carry a twelve-pack of Budweiser.
“Got enough beer?” Mr. Kim remarked.
“Six each, dude,” Rocco said.
“I’m not drinking six beers.”
“Come on, Whiz, this is supposed to be fun! Live a little, okay?”
“Hey, the hot Mech from next door might come by.”
“The hot one?” Rocco said. “They’re all hot. Who orders an ugly Mech?”
“Well, the one with amazing traits. I invited her over.”
“Whoop-de-doo.”
“She’s Charismatic/Romantic.”
“Like I give a shit, dude. Unless she fell from the sky, she belongs to someone, and Mechs don’t
cheat on their owners. So what the fuck do I care if she comes by?” He pried two beers free from the case, then instructed the drone to leave the rest in the kitchen. “Where’s Pips?” he asked, handing Mr. Kim a bottle.
Mr. Kim shrugged. “Should be here now. But he’s never on time.”
“It’s those little legs of his. Takes him ages to get anywhere.”
“He only lives half a block away.”
“It was a joke, Whiz! A joke! Fuck, you’re wound as tight as a yo-yo.”
“I’m cool,” he said.
“You’re cool? You’re the permanent antithesis of cool, my man.”
“What does that mean?”
“The booger in Satan’s nose is cooler than you.”
Mr. Kim scowled. If Rocco had been around to see him work his magic with Annabelle earlier, he’d be eating his words, that was for sure.
“If hell freezes over,” he said.
Rocco frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“The booger in Satan’s nose would only be cooler than me if hell freezes over—”
“Jesus Christ, Whiz!” Rocco hooted. “You crack me up. You really do. Woo-wee!” He chugged some beer and wandered into the living room. “So where’s the music, dude? The food? Haven’t you ever been to a rolling party before?”
“Of course,” Mr. Kim lied. The truth was, not only had he never been to a rolling party before, he’d never been invited to one.
“Kimchi!” Rocco said.
“My name is Kimi,” the house AI reminded him evenly.
“Put on some music. Thirties rock.”
A moment later music played through hidden speakers in the room.
“You seem a bit morose, buddy,” Rocco said, slapping Mr. Kim on the back with his bionic arm. “Aren’t you pumped?”
“Yeah, I’m pumped,” Mr. Kim said, neglecting to add he also felt sick with anxiety.
“You don’t sound it.”
“I’m pumped, man.”
“Say it like you mean it.” Rocco demonstrated, jumping up and down on the spot. “I’m pumped!”
“Get lost.”
“Say it!”
“Forget it.”
“Say it!”
“I’m pumped!”
“There you go!” Rocco said, grinning. Then, looking around the room, he added, “So where is she, dude? The star of the show? I want to check her out.”
“When Pips arrives,” Mr. Kim said.
“Why not now?”
“What’s the rush?”
“Hey, I got you a little something.” Rocco reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew a bottle. “Happy rolling.”
Mr. Kim accepted the gift and read the label. “Shochu?”
“It’s what you guys drink, right?”
Mr. Kim arched an eyebrow above his eyeglasses. “You guys?”
“Koreans.”
“I was born in America.”
“So what? That un-Koreans your Koreanness? You look Korean. You eat kimchi every day. Most of your relatives are all back in Korea. Oh, and you make people address you by your surname. That’s pretty fucking old-school Korean—not to mention un-American. So all I’m saying is, yeah, you’re still Korean. Korean-American, how about that?”
“Shochu is Japanese. Koreans drink soju.”
“Stop being such an ungrateful prick, dude. I didn’t have to get you anything.”
“Thank you for the gift of stereotyping,” he quipped, taking the bottle to a nearby cupboard.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Rocco said. “We’re drinking that shit!”
Mr. Kim hesitated. “It’s warm. It’s supposed to be served chilled.”
“Seriously, Whiz. Let your inner lion roar. This is your big day.”
Sighing, Mr. Kim went to the kitchen and set two small glasses on the counter. He unscrewed the bottle of shochu and poured two drinks, neat.
“Geonbae,” he said, raising his glass in the air.
“To a good roll!” Rocco replied, clinking.
They drank.
“Hey,” Rocco said, refilling their glasses, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you want to be immortal?”
Mr. Kim rolled his eyes. “I’ve already told you a thousand times before, I’m not participating in any of your stupid work experiments.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you don’t have to participate in anything this time. I just want your brain.”
“My brain?”
“Like I said the other day, dude. Machines are the future. They’re going to take over the world, us included. And you know the old saying. If you can’t beat them…”
“Join them?”
“Merge with them. And, yeah, we’re close to merging human and machine consciousness. Unfortunately, we’re running short on human brains. They’re not so easy to come by. Which is why I could use yours.”
Mr. Kim shook his head. “Sorry, guido, but I’m quite attached to my brain right now.”
“Not now, man. I just mean, if you die or something, can I have it?”
“And you’ll make me immortal?”
Rocco bobbed his turtle head enthusiastically. “We’ve finally figured out what’s been holding us back in this field for so long, Whiz. Like everybody else, your pals at Newbotics included, we’ve been focusing on artificial intelligence at the neuron level. But the thing is, while you can reduce machine intelligence to a single neuron’s on/off switch—because all machine brains are perfect computers, perfect calculators, composed of perfect transistors—human brains aren’t. Our neurons misfire up to ninety percent of the time, which is why we can be so fucking quirky and make so many mistakes. So if we want to merge our imperfect intelligence with a machine’s perfect intelligence—or consciousness, if you prefer that term, as they’re really the same thing—we have to do it at the neural network level, because the plasticity and adaptive nature of the network will account for all the faulty individual neurons. That’s the secret. And that’s where we are right now in our trials. So come on, dude. What do you say? Can I have your brain if you die?”
Mr. Kim thought the proposition over. “You guarantee to make me immortal?”
“I’ll do my best, man.”
“Well, I guess…if I’m already dead…”
“What do you have to lose, right?”
Mr. Kim shrugged. “All right, sure.”
“Kimchi, you heard that?” Rocco said, clapping once, loudly and excitedly. “You’re our witness.”
“The conversation has been recorded for posterity,” the house AI replied dryly.
***
Mr. Kim and Rocco were each on their third glass of shochu when Pips arrived.
Pips was one of those guys who, had he lived in a small town, everybody would know him by name and say hello to him on the street or even stop to talk to him—more out of pity, mind you, than any desire to do so. But he would still be included in the community. In a city like LA, however, he was an outcast that everybody did their best to ignore while trying not to stare, a veritable paradox.
Part of Pips’ problem fitting in was his physical appearance. Although thirty-six years old, he had the body of a fifth grader as he stood somewhere south of five feet tall and was pretty much hairless except for the mop of brown hair atop his head. He also had a deceptively boyish face if you didn’t look close enough to see the crow’s feet around his eyes or the fine wrinkles on his forehead.
Yet his freakish Benjamin Button looks aside, it was his behavior that really set him apart. He suffered mental retardation as well as the most common form of Turret syndrome in which he shouted whatever he was thinking. His unfiltered comments and observations about the world around him were often amusing if you knew him, but if you didn’t, they were socially inappropriate at best and downright insulting at worst.
Mr. Kim’s parents had met Pips’ parents through their church, and due to the fact they only lived a few houses apart, they’d become close acquaintances. Consequently, Mr.
Kim used to spend a lot of time over in Pips’ backyard playing with his toys and catching insects, or in Pips’ basement playing VR games. They went to the same school too, but Mr. Kim did his best to ignore Pips there, given Pips was in Special Ed. Still, they would often walk home together, provided they took a route little frequented by the other school kids. After high school they fell out of touch because Pips went to a kind of Special Ed for adults, while Mr. Kim was accepted to UCLA to study computer programming. Then Mr. Kim got a job with a major software company and moved to San Diego for a number of years. He and Pips only reunited when Mr. Kim’s parents’ died and he inherited the house, which he decided to move back into for the memories rather than sell.
“Hey, little buddy,” Mr. Kim said when he greeted Pips at the front door. “How’s it hanging way down there?”
“Where’s the Mech?” Pips said, not so much speaking the words but having them burst from his lips. He was dressed in track pants twisted off-center and a Polo shirt that appeared to be inside-out. “I want to see her!”
“Soon, man,” Mr. Kim said. “Rocco and I are just having a drink out back.”
In the kitchen he offered Pips a beer despite knowing what the answer would be.
“No!” Pips shouted.
“Coke?”
He seemed to think about this for a moment. Then in his quiet voice—he only had two volumes, loud and quiet—he said, “Yes, please.”
Mr. Kim got him a Coke, and they went outside.
“Hey, you little weasel,” Rocco said, ruffling Pips’ hair like you do to children.
“Don’t!” Pips protested.
“Don’t!” Rocco parroted him, though in an effeminate voice.
“Shut up!” Pips shouted. “I’ll murder you tonight!”
“Where’s your date, little man?”
“I said shut up!”
“Where’s your date?” Mr. Kim asked Rocco.
“I told you, she’s working.”
“On Monday evening?”
“She’s in sales, dude. She works late. She has ambitions. And you should have felt the orgasm she messaged me last night. I can forward it to you, you want. Will blow your mind.”
“No thanks, man. I don’t do sloppy seconds.”
Rocco drained his shochu and said, “Okay, enough dicking around. We’re all here. Let’s go do this!”
