Mad-Sci-Soc

by Arrand Pritchard

  “And you?” Terri asked red-faced.

  “I'm a regular three-way-split, 30-30-30,” beamed Jenny.

  “That's missing 10%,” observed Terri.

  “Oh, that's solo. By choice!” Jenny smirked. “I'm guessing you’re really 100% solo at the moment. Let's get that changed, shall we?”

  “That would be great, Jenny. Thanks.”

  “Select the robot you want from this catalog,” advised Jenny.

  “I thought they were banned in New York?”

  “Licensed. You might need some escorting after dark. I can get you a retro version if you don't like replicants.”

  “So you have one?”

  “Sure. Top of the range X.24,” said Jenny and opened up a cupboard. “This is Doug. I let him out occasionally.”

  A nice looking male replicant was behind the door. “Hi, there!” he waved enthusiastically. But he was in for some disappointment.

  “I'm actually after a real boy,” said Terri wistfully.

  Jenny closed the door on the dejected replicant. “We’ll get you a real one, Terri,” she smiled.

  Their first trip was to the fashion salon to change Terri's provincial, rainbow-coloured hairstyle to a more subtle ash-blonde with leopard-spots. While waiting for her hair to be re-style, Jenny selected her clothes.“I love the way that you look different, Terri, very Newtonian. But the aim is to look different within the fashionable trends of the city, university and sorority,” advised Jenny.

  “Sound complicated,” said Terri with a giggle.

  “Fortunately you have me and poochie here to help,” smiled Jenny giving her robo-pet a cuddle.

  She flicked through the catalog on her holoscreen, made some customisations and downloaded the latest outfits into her holo-clothes, adding fabricated red and purple scarfs and straps over a leather effect mini-dress. She entered a couple of virtual worlds to try them out on her avatar. However Terri soon grew tired of the untrustworthy and ingratiating comments from the A-I characters that danced attendance; she could barely tolerate artificial beings in virtual worlds or the real one. In those days she liked, indeed craved, the frailty and vagaries of humanity.

  Terri exited the salon looking like a stylish student from New York.

  “Thoughts?” asked Terri.

  “It's exybobulous!” nodded Jenny. Terri was pleased.

  Back at the Student Accommodation Block, Jenny completed her induction by filling in her social electronic profile on her top ten relevant social media sites.

  “So a couple more questions... What comms network are you with?”

  “Ms Bell, of course.”

  “And implant type and version?”

  “None. No implants.”

  Jenny's eyes raised. “Technophobic?”

  “Naturally aligned.”

  Jenny shrugged. It didn't matter to her whether Terri was electronically connected or not. “We'll go easy on you and just distribute your profile to a dozen or so net-bots and see what happens. You'll have to be patient, though, as it might be a couple of hours before we have the dates arranged.”

  “That'll be fine. I'll just go and hygenise.”

  Much to Jenny's dismay, Terri had only selected a single date for the evening; a real world one-to-one date and not a virtual world date. Terri was feeling unduly confident about the computer-selected, boyfriend-elect.

  A few hours later, Terri was ready for her first date in the big city.

  “I love that term, boyfriend-elect,” giggled Terri.

  “You go and elect him, girl,” encouraged Jenny.

  She looked radiant in her new hairdo and laser-effect sequin dress.

  Ralph was a second year student, good-looking, not unpleasant in that respect. The romantic prospects looked hopeful when they met outside the restaurant, Broadway/103rd West/Level 1. Ralph recognised Terri and Terri recognised Ralph as their apps also added hearts and starbursts when they met.

  But as the evening wore on reality intervened. Ralph, it seemed had done precious-little dating except with human-like, sycophantic replicants. In fact Ralph showed less interest in her than the AI menu sheet. “Hi, Terri,” said the computerised plastic card in its tinny little voice. “I didn’t know you had moved to New York. Are you going for your usual or can I interest you in the special…” Terri pressed the mute on the menu card; she hated such marketing gimmicks.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’ve invited you to a McSquirrels rather than to a Rodentia or some other up-market establishment,” enthused Ralph.

  “Well it’s only a first date…” said Terri with a shrug and a smile.

  Ralph then spent a long time describing the musical he was writing and hoping to sell to the restaurant chain for promotional purposes. It was tale about a quarrelling family of squirrels. He demonstrated its plot using the salt and pepper shakers and sang key verses. He shooed the robot waiter away several times during the climatic final scene.

  Terri felt bad about her initial encouragement of his singing and acting out of particular scenes of his opus, as boredom developed she became aware of angry stares from fellow diners.

  Ralph’s lack of relationship management skills became even more evident once the food arrived. He had not only failed to ask her a single question but worse, when she did start a topic, he would interject mid-sentence enthusiastically with his own point of view.

  Terri craved real conversation but the majority of Ralph’s conservation appeared to be the rehashing the advertising slogans for the franchised food chain.

  “100% squirrel pummelled into a pellet. This isn't just squirrel steak. This is specially bred, spicy, tornado-grey squirrel steak with mouth-watering, acorn-jam sauce.” Ralph recanted just his first mouthful.

  When he belatedly noticed Terri losing interest, he did try to involve her in conversation but not effectively. For example, he asked, “Are you nuts for the McAcorn Salad? I know I'm nuts for McAcorn Salad. I'm crazy, huh? I'm certainly crazy about squirrels.”

  Ralph became increasingly nervous as Terri's look of pity withered his confidence. After the date he messaged via his G-Phone, requesting feedback, as is protocol, on his date performance. Terri, like most of Ralph's infrequent previous dates, bucked protocol and she did not reply, instead blocking him from her network and leaving Ralph non-the-wiser about his social ineptitude.

  Terri regretted only having the one date that evening, her high expectations, and for wasting time on such a bozo.

  Jenny did not dwell on I-told-you-so and suggested that the next night, Terri should try speed dating as the University Community Action Centre was holding speed-date introductions as part of the fresher week activities.

  Jenny gave Terri a tip on how to spot men with real world disconnection syndrome. “If they are male they have it. Until, that is, they prove otherwise.”

  ***

  Friday September 13, 2117 (One day later).

  Before meeting Dameon, the speed dating event had not been going well. She had already met a sports fanatic, an asteroid miner, a politician wannabe and assorted psychologically-underdeveloped arty types. There was even a replicant, no doubt entered by the event’s organisers to make up numbers but Terri had a knack for spotting the uncanny-valley-like behaviour that such machines exhibited after her many years of robot-chaperoned protection. When confronted, the dater merely smiled and moved on quickly.

  Dameon was date number 9. He was swarthy, dark hair, dark eyes and handsome in a rugged-sort of way. He was dressed all in black except for his white, thigh-length boots. He seemed interested in her and didn't talk too much about himself. He was a third year student and seemed a smooth operator.

  “I like your dress,” said Dameon, after the mandatory exchange of introductory information.

  “Thank you,” Terri replied pleased with receiving the first compliment from someone she actually fancied that evening.

  “It's a Harmonic style, right?” he asked in a soothingly, deep voice. Harmonic was
a famous up-market fashion brand. Jenny had downloaded the holographic costume from their network.

  “That's right. How did you know?”

  “I see the style around quite a bit. If you're interested in something new, a bit more avant-garde, then look me up on the net. I can show you around the boutiques down town. Perhaps we can get you a fabricated dress,” he crooned.

  “That sounds great, Dameon. Although just because I'm studying the twentieth century doesn't mean I want to go around in the same costume all day.”

  “Well, sure. I just think it makes a stronger fashion statement if you commit to a single outfit for the day.”

  Terri nodded, that seemed kind of intelligent even if a little on the arrogant side.

  The bell chimed. Everyone needed to change seats.

  “You make a good point. I'm certainly keen to see the boutiques.”

  “See you later,” he winked as he walked away.

  Terri looked up his profile on her headset: Dameon Lysenko, relationship status: Not in a relationship, orientation: hetro-80-10-10. “Wow. He's looking for a real woman too!” she mused. Thumbs up.

  ***

  Saturday, September 14, 2117

  Terri turned up in her most special high-heeled ankle-boots for the follow-up date with Dameon. They arranged to meet in Times Square at 11am and planned to walk into the garment district and check out the freaky fabrication boutiques. Dameon provided guided tour commentary and Terri followed with an increasingly fixed smile as she was led among garment manufacturing shops and warehouses. Her ability to smile deteriorated within half an hour because of the effort and care required to manoeuvre in her boots and her own self-loathing. Her legs began to ache and she began to get hungry. She was also stressed because she did not have the money, by several orders of magnitude, to buy the beautiful clothes she was being shown. The clothes were carbon-layered, as thin and as fine as silk which, when plugged into the machinists' network, reconfigured themselves to the latest style, texture and colour. Almost the same as holo-clothes, but actually solid rather than just an optical effect.

  They entered the Harmonic Fabrication Boutique. The shop sold low-cost holo-clothes, the type that Terri was wearing, and high-cost fabricated clothes, the type she would prefer to wear. They were finished with hand-made extras. Hand-made by robots, of course, but to add to the designer-cache of the product, they were antique robots; heavy, stainless-steel, 2 metre-tall jobs that sat quietly in the corner, trying to be inconspicuous, sewing accessories and labels into the clothes. Terri lingered around one particular jacket. It had practical pockets and tassels, attributes not available with holo-clothes. She looked at the price tag. It was as much as her whole year's grant. It would be impossible to purchase.

  Dameon came up behind her, “Yeah, good choice... Though you'd need to lose a few pounds to carry that one off.”

  Terri made a half-hearted smack across Dameon's chest and Dameon pretended to be injured by it. They laughed.

  While fascinated by the styles and the fabrication, Terri could not shrug off her hunger. One of the characteristics of New York is that food is available on every street corner; unlicensed fruit and vegetables prominently displayed in the streets from traditional, tourist-focused vendors. Generally no-one goes hungry in NYC, not even the beggars (when they are able to get past the robotised police cordon and surveillance drones circling the city, that is). Terri asked that they stopped for food at which point Dameon announced he had a large breakfast and while not hungry, insisted that he absolutely had to take Terri to his most-favourite-in-the-whole-world gelato bar, which was two blocks away. It would be an agonising journey for her, but Terri, still wanting to be loved, agreed. They eventually arrived at the tiny shop. Indeed, it was cute (and small). There were only two high chairs available and Terri parked herself on one of the seats while Dameon ordered gelato in Italian. He returned with a single large bowl of strawberry gelato and a single long spoon and proceeded to feed himself and Terri with the same spoon. Terri was horrified with herself, especially when Dameon would wave a heap of gelato at her and then change tact and wistfully discuss another subject, leaving her open mouthed waiting for her next spoonful. As thoughtless as she felt this was, she was captivated by this dominant male.

  Terri could see other people in the shop watching their performance and she became intensely embarrassed. She had had enough. She realised she was hating herself for the sycophancy she was exhibiting. She hated it in A.I. so why was she acting so submissively? In a pause between Dameon's guided tour-like diatribes, Terri spoke up.

  “Well, Dameon,” she said firmly. “It's been lovely. But I have to head back to campus. Jenny is expecting me to go to a nail bar this afternoon.”

  “Really, but we still have some gelato left.”

  “It's ok. You finish it.” Terri smiled and walked to the door.

  Dameon finishes the gelato in a couple of gulps and arrived at the door to hold it open.

  “I was just thinking though... That jacket you liked...” Dameon mused.

  “What?” Terri stopped in her tracks in the doorway. Was he planning on buying it for her?

  “I have a friend in the garment district...”

  Terri's interest was piqued. “Oh?”

  “She processes the blanks, the carbon-layered tubes before they are programmed.”

  “Go on...”

  “Well, my friend offered me a couple of the blanks.”

  “Hmm, well, they are just black sacks unless they are fabricated.”

  “We can manage that,” said Dameon smugly as they walk onto the street. “Come over to my place tomorrow night. About 7pm. I'll make dinner and fabricate a jacket for you. I'll even add some custom features to make the flare unique for you. You'll love it. Think it over. Come. Or not. It's up to you.”

  Dameon tapped his wrist controls and his contact details transferred (“toothed”) over to Terri's digital assistant application on her G-phone.

  He clicked his fingers, pointed at her and winked, “Ciao!”

  He was already probably out of earshot by the time Terri recovered from her daze and called out incoherently, “Thanks for... the... you... er, Dameon.”

  ***

  Sunday, September 15, 2117

  Terri felt compelled to show up at Dameon's apartment the following evening. She was already hating herself for allowing herself to be so blatantly bribed. In fact, as she stood outside of the apartment block, she was having not only second thoughts, but twenty-second and twenty-third thoughts about entering. She really needed to go to church she had promised her mother she would register with the Geniuses at the local Jobsian Chapter. She turned away only to be confronted by Dameon walking towards her.

  “Hey-hey, so glad you could make it. I just popped out to get some tea. Ceylon, right?” he said, arms outstretched as if to catch her.

  He escorted her along the pavement and into the building.

  “You'll be impressed with this. Security. Not only card access, voice activated, but also...” he said putting his eye in front of scanner, “...heartbeat and retina-scan biometrics.”

  “Welcome, Dameon,” intoned the lift as the door slid open.

  “So facial recognition is not enough?” asked Terri.

  “That’s just for targeting you for ads,” he winked. “For real security you need the full biometrics.”

  This luxury apartment block had a Magi-Lift that moved horizontally as well as vertically to take occupants straight to their apartments, no further corridor required.

  In the blink of an eye, Terri was inside the apartment. A luxury living room with kitchen and breakfast bar but was er… untidy with piles of unwashed dishes scattered around and the corners stacked full of boxes.

  “Sorry, for the mess. We don’t allows robots in here,” said Dameon collecting the rubbish and putting it into a disposal chute. “We have tea, of course. But I was wondering whether you'd like something a bit more chic,” said Dameon donning
on a chef's hat and busying himself behind the kitchenette bar counter.

  “I really don't like alcohol and I don't have a license for it,” said Terri uncertainly.

  “I was thinking more like Starlight and Infinity,” purred Dameon. Starlight and Infinity were the latest designer-mood enhancers. They were strictly licensed to the major urban areas.

  “Oh crumbs, no,” stuttered Terri. “I haven't done any research on them at all, let alone certified.”

  “Sure. I'm with you on this. No pressure, girlie,” he soothed as he ducked under a counter to open a cupboard.

  Terri cringed at the diminutive appellation.

  “Meanwhile, Dinner! Chopped bucatini pasta with a creamy, ooey-gooey sauce with a baked crust, dusted lightly with smoked paprika,” announced Dameon

  “Oh?” said Terri trying to figure out what he had just said.

  Terri looked around the room and saw a box from the South American Rainforest Corporation full of dried pasta ready-meals.

  “So,” she said. “We're having Mac-and-Cheese?”

  Dameon replied dead-pan, “I thought you liked cheese. You have a problem with that?”

  “I don't eat processed cheese,” stated Terri. “Only natural cheese and preferably Gruyère.”

  “O-M-J. Are you a purist?”

  “I just have a few dietary preferences.”

  “Preferences or restrictions?”

  “I'd like to call it my regime,” said Terri shyly, sitting on the couch.

  Dameon moved to Terri's side on the couch and put an arm around her, “Any chance of a regime change?”

  “Not in the immediate future.”

  “Ok, I'll get something delivered. Is that ok?”

  Terri smiled a fixed fake smile, “There's always something to eat in New York, right?”

  “Hey, always. There's Chinese from Wok-Around-the-Frock?”

  “That would be great.”

  “So, we’ll go Dutch?”

  Terri maintained a smile, “Dutch for Chinese. Yeah, sure!”

  Dameon leapt back up and into the kitchen and returned a minute later with a cup of tea, “The food is ordered. Here's your tea, you bad-girl.”

  “Tea is my only drug!” Terri said with a smirk. But the tea was awful. Dameon had not used boiling hot water made worse by the wrong sort of milk. “It's lovely,” she said, realising she was being overly compliant again.