by Neil Clarke
COME CLEAN. OR I CALL POLICE.
With a loud pop, the cameras swivel around. They are pointed at my face, still keeping the paper and the writing out of view.
“I need to make some repairs,” Sandy says. “Can you rest while I deal with this? Maybe you can check your email later if you’re bored.”
I nod. Sandy props up the tablet next to the bed and backs out of the room.
Dear Mr. Church,
My name is Manuela Aida Álvarez Ríos. I apologize for having deceived you. Though the headset disguises my voice, I can hear your real voice, and I believe you are a kind and forgiving man. Perhaps you will be willing to hear the story of how I came to be your caretaker.
I was born in the village of La Gloria, in the southeastern part of Durango, Mexico. I am the youngest of my parents’ three daughters. When I was two, the whole family made its way north into California, where my father picked oranges and my mother helped him and cleaned houses. Later, we moved to Arizona, where my father took what jobs he could find and my mother took care of an elderly woman. We were not rich, but I grew up happy and did well in school. There was hope.
One day, when I was thirteen, the police raided the restaurant where my father worked. There was a TV crew filming. People lined up on the streets and cheered as my father and his friends were led away in cuffs.
I do not wish to argue with you about the immigration laws, or why it is that our fates should be determined by where we were born. I already know how you feel.
We were deported and lost everything we had. I left behind my books, my music, my American childhood. I was sent back to a country I had no memories of, where I had to learn a new way of life.
In La Gloria, there is much love, and family is everything. The land is lush and beautiful. But how you are born there is how you will die, except that the poor can get poorer. I understood why my parents had chosen to risk everything.
My father went back north by himself, and we never heard from him again. My sisters went to Mexico City, and sent money back. We avoided talking about what they did for a living. I stayed to care for my mother. She had become sick and needed expensive care we could not afford.
Then my oldest sister wrote to tell me that in one of the old maquiladoras over in Piedras Negras, they were looking for girls like my sisters and me: women who had grown up in the United States, fluent in its language and customs. The jobs paid well, and we could save up the money my mother needed.
The old factory floor has been divided into rows of cubicles with sleeping pads down the aisles. Each girl has a headset, a monitor, and a set of controls before her like the cockpit of a plane on TV. There’s also a mask for the girl to wear, so that her robot can smile.
Operating the robot remotely is very hard. There is no off-time. I sleep when you do, and an alarm wakes me when you are awake. When I need to use the bathroom, I must wait until one of the other girls with a sleeping client can take over for me for a few minutes.
I do not mean to say that I am unhappy caring for you. I think of my mother, whose work had been very much like mine. She’s in bed back home, cared for by my cousins. I am doing for you what I wish I could be doing for her.
It is bittersweet for me to watch your life in America, seeing those wide streets and quiet neighborhoods through the camera. I enjoy my walks with you.
It is forbidden to let you know of my existence. I will be fined and fired if you choose to report it. I pray that you will keep this our secret and allow me to care for you.
Tom calls and reveals that he has been getting copies of my bank statements. It was a necessary precaution, he explains, back when I was in the hospital.
“I need some privacy,” I say to Manuela. She scoots quickly out of the room.
“Dad, I saw in last month’s statement a transfer to Western Union. Can you explain? Elle and I are concerned.”
The money was sent to a former student of mine, who’s spending the summer traveling in Durango. I asked him to look up La Gloria, and if he can locate Manuela’s family, to give the money to them.
“Who should I say the money is from?” he had asked.
“El Norte,” I had said. “Tell them it’s money that is owed to them.”
I imagine Manuela’s family trying to come up with explanations. Perhaps Manuela’s father sent the money, and is trying to send it without giving himself away to the authorities. Perhaps the American government is returning to us the property that we lost.
“I sent some money to a friend in Mexico,” I tell my son.
“What friend?”
“You don’t know her.” “How did you meet her?”
“Through the Internet.” It’s as close to the truth as anything. Tom is quiet. He’s trying to figure out if I’ve lost my mind. “There are a lot of scams on the Internet, Dad,” he says. I can tell he’s working hard to keep his voice calm. “Yes, that’s true,” I say.
Manuela returns for my bath. Now that I know the truth, I do feel some embarrassment. But I let her undress me and carry me into the tub, her movements as steady and gentle as ever. “Thank you,” I say.
“You are welcome.” The mechanical voice is silent a while. “Would you like me to read to you?”
I look into the cameras. The diaphragms open and close, slowly, like a blink.
[Author’s Note: The image-orientation CAPTCHA Reverse Turing Test (or “Human Interactive Proof”) is described by Rich Gossweiler, Maryam Kamvar, and Shumeet Baluja in “What’s Up CAPTCHA? A CAPTCHA Based On Image Orientation,” first published in Proceedings of the 18th International Conference on World Wide Web (Madrid, Spain, April 20 - 24, 2009). The quote in the story is taken from that paper, a copy of which may be retrieved at: http://www.richgossweiler.com/projects/rotcaptcha/rotcaptcha.pdf]
Sandra McDonald is a former military officer, recovering Hollywood assistant, and perennially patient instructor who writes across the genres of romance, history, fantasy, science fiction, GLBTQA, and young adult fiction. Her first collection of stories, Diana Comet and Other Improbable Stories, won a Lambda Literary Award for transgender fiction. It was also a Booklist Editor’s Choice, ALA Over the Rainbow book, and Rainbow award winner. Her short fiction has been published in several dozen magazines and anthologies, including the Year’s Best YA, Year’s Best Science Fiction, Year’s Best Science Fiction and Fantasy, The James Tiptree Award Anthology #1, Clarkesworld, Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Lightspeed, Strange Horizons, and more. She has several novels in print, including the space opera series The Outback Stars, the award-winning Fisher Key adventures for young adults, and the asexual-gay thriller City of Soldiers. She currently resides in Florida.
SEVEN SEXY COWBOY ROBOTS
SANDRA McDONALD
I.
When I was a much younger woman, as part of the divorce settlement from my then-millionaire inventor husband, I asked for our house in Connecticut, a modest amount of alimony, and six sexy cowboy robots. Sentient sex toys, if you will.
The robots were my revenge for all the time and money Herbert had lavished on tawdry mistresses across the world. His company, New Human More Human, specialized in mechanical soldiers for the U.S. Department of Defense with a lucrative side business in sensual satisfaction. The factory delivered my boys in a big white truck. They jumped off the back ramp wearing shit-eating grins and oozing Wild West charisma. No other firm in the world could produce as fine a product. My husband was the Preston Tucker of his time: a brilliant innovator and visionary done in by vicious boardroom skullduggery.
If you believe that one strong man can succeed in the face of titanic conspiracy and unrelenting backstabbing, you probably believed global icing would be solved. Then the snow reached five feet high against your living room windows and your belief in science was shattered, as was mine.
In any case, Herbert fulfilled his divorce obligations. But he also incorporated his revenge. He had my guys created as sexy ice-skating cowboy robots with ste
el blades permanently attached to their feet. By design they were most happy when twirling, spinning, and jumping on ice. The frozen lake behind the house sufficed during the winter but back when summer was still a threat, I had to build an indoor rink to avoid months of pouting. There’s nothing more sad than a depressed sexy cowboy.
Let me back up. One of the best dates Herbert and I ever went on, pre-nuptials, was a charity benefit at the Hartford Ice Arena. A group of skaters in tight jeans, flannel shirts, and cowboy hats took the ice halfway through the show. They gyrated and spun around to an Elvis remix in a way that made the crowd—especially the female half—go wild. I myself heaped so much praise that Herbert turned red with jealousy. He was never very sanguine about competition. He was even worse at winter sports, and in fact met his mortal end ten years after our divorce by skiing off the side of a kiddie slope in Colorado.
Let me jump forward: this is not the story of a woman gifted with mechanical companionship who eventually realizes true love only comes in the shape of a flesh and blood man. Screw that. Since the day that white truck arrived, every one of my emotional, intellectual, and sexual needs has been satisfied by my cowboys (except for Buck) in their splendidly unique ways. Never again have I taken a human lover. I’m only writing this now because I’m a hundred years old and dying, hoping to find a companion for the one sexy cowboy robot who needs it the most.
First I’ll tell you what happened to the other five, so that you understand the great responsibilities and sexual joys of owning a mechanical cowboy.
II.
Naturally all my boys were great at mending fences, roping horses, and tending the vegetable garden, but from day one Doc distinguished himself as our go-to robot for any mechanical or electrical problems. Not just with his brothers—that time Yuri cracked his knee on a sideboard, or when Neill’s arm was stolen by government agents—but in the mansion and across the grounds, too. Over the years he fixed the garbage disposal, the furnace, the sonic Jacuzzi, the vacuum bots, and the cranky house computer. Whenever my aircar had problems he was the first to slide under the fantail, and once we built the indoor rink he single-handedly redesigned the chillers to double their output at half the energy cost.
On the ice he specialized in triple lutzes and a signature move that included hooking his white cowboy hat on his jutting pelvis. In between rehearsals and shows, he built his own workshop in an old shed and would spend many happy hours tinkering. At night in my bed his hands were warm and his breath sweet like maple syrup. He insisted on calling me Katherine instead of Kay. From him I learned the importance of wearing protection from the knees down; steel blades are hell on shins and satin sheets.
From Doc I also learned the importance of foreplay. Not that I was unacquainted with its benefits, but the first lovers I ever had were awkward teenage boys, and then a string of adult men mostly interested in themselves, and then there was Herbert, who believed lovemaking should take the same amount of time it takes to eat a boiled egg. I wondered if his speediness was specific to me, but his worldwide mistresses reported the same brisk efficiency. Doc, on the other hand, thought foreplay should take as long as a seven course meal at a five-star restaurant. His long, supple fingers were more than sufficient but he also brought massage oil, soft feathers, and small appliances to the task. He was an inventor and tinkerer, remember, and thought the human body was a fine engine to tune.
I knew he loved me but wasn’t in love with me, as the saying goes. He loved circuits and designs, and making machines work better, and landing quad jumps in front of adoring crowds. Of us all, he was the most patient with Buck’s unpredictable temper tantrums. His theory was that Buck’s brain had been ever-so-slightly damaged in the manufacturing stage. Doc was also good at keeping secrets. I didn’t realize he was smitten with a secret love until the security staff caught her sneaking out his workshop window one cold winter morning. Dr. Skylar Anderson was the chief designer at New Human More Human, and my ex-husband’s latest wife.
“Skylar,” I said disapprovingly, arms folded over my chiffon bathrobe. She straightened the lapels of her lab coat. A red bra strap poked out from under her blouse. “Kay.” “Does Herbert know?”
She sniffed. “He’s been too busy whoring his way through the secretarial pool. I’ve already filed for divorce.”
This made her the enemy of my enemy, and thus an ally, so we had tea and pancakes and discussed lawyers. Later, at lunch, I asked Doc, “You and Skylar. You don’t think it’s very Oedipal?”
“Would you mind it something awful if I went to live with her, Katherine?”
“Would that make you happy?”
“I reckon so.”
“But where will you skate?”
“There’s a city rink near her house,” he said, cheerful and optimistic.
Their affair only lasted three weeks. Doc came back complaining that Skylar had only wanted him for his circuits, but I think it was the poor quality of the city rink that disappointed him most. We commiserated over the breakup on a faux bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire and then he went back to his workshop, happy as any sexy cowboy robot can be. Eventually he went to work for the UN Commission on Warming the Planet Back Up, at their headquarters atop Sicily. The Sicilian women adored him and the frozen Mediterranean was excellent for skating.
III.
Neill and Buck both came off the delivery truck wearing tight white T-shirts and leather vests, very similar in appearance: rugged, fair-haired, with chiseled chins and bright blue eyes. But there was always something comforting about Neill and dangerous about Buck. Maybe it was the way that Neill could stand at the center of a frozen pond and let the stillness of the piney woods seep into him, no need to show off or test the ice. Buck, though? From day one he had to spin as fast as he could, jump higher than anyone else, be the center of a private solar system around which the rest of us orbited in agitation or love or both.
It’s fair to say Neill was bisexual, but during threesomes he was usually more interested in Yuri or Dana than he was in me. When he and I were alone, he was determined to experiment with ropes, knots, and just about every position in the Wild West Guide to Sexual Positions. The Mosey, Saddlehorn, and Road Stake went well enough, but I had to replace the damaged headboard after we did the Appaloosa, and needed anti-inflammatories for a week after the Missouri Toothpick. Between rehearsals and marathon sex sessions, Neill read his way through most of my library. He would thump from one bookcase to the next with plastic guards on his skates, fascinated by the great philosophers and religious thinkers.
I wouldn’t have minded his choices so much if he didn’t entirely skip my row in the self-help section. That’s what I did before the Big Bad Ice: Dr. Katherine Campbell, best-selling psychologist. Maybe you’ve heard of my books? The Power of Last Night. Getting Things Mostly Done. The Nine Habits of People Who Really Matter. I had a syndicated radio show. I appeared frequently on daytime television. My hair, makeup, wardrobe, and jewelry were impeccable, and my teeth brilliantly white. I was, in a word, insufferable.
In retrospect, Neill showed good sense by skipping my books. Herbert never read them, either. Like his creator, Neill also preferred ink on paper, and the way pages were sewn into spines.
“I prefer gravity,” he said, more than once. “Pixels have no weight.”
After Buck left us to build his secret laboratory up at Dodge Falls in New Hampshire, Neill volunteered to ski up the Connecticut River and talk some sense into him. The rest of us weren’t too keen on the idea. Bad enough to lose Buck to the crazy world outside, but risk another of us as well? Since the advent of the Big Freeze, snow bandits had taken to seizing any shipments of food or fuel that tried to make it overland. On the estate we had the aircar, the heated gardens, a security system and a larder full enough for decades. Out in the valley, Neill would be on his own.
“What if you don’t come back?” asked Dana, number five in the sexy robot lineup. He was our cross-dressing robot: sexy cowboy on the ic
e, alluring cowgirl off it. He rested one manicured hand on Neill’s arm. “What if someone lassoes you and burns you for heat?”
Neill said, “I’ll ski by night and hide by day.”
Yuri took a sip from his beer bottle. None of the robots needed food or liquid, of course, but they’d been designed with storage tanks in their chest cavities to keep up social pretenses. “You think you’ve got a chance in hell of convincing Buck to come back?”
“I think it’s worth a try,” Neill said, square and honest. Of all the robots he was the one who most missed Herbert, or the ideal of Herbert; the absent father who had created them but then abandoned them with his death. Buck was a piece of Herbert that could not be lost as well.
Neill set off one winter sunset with the sun red behind the pine trees. To make it safely to Buck’s lair, he would have to climb over broken bridges and dams, avoid any local marauders, and keep himself safe from the dangers of the natural world. We received messages letting us know he’d successfully passed through Hartford and then Springfield. Then, somewhere near Turners Falls, he fell off the map. We heard nothing until Buck broke radio silence, popping up on the vid screen one night to inform us that agents of the U.S. federal government had captured Neill for nefarious experiments. They were holding him in an underground lab near Mount Sugarloaf.
“Experiment on him for what?” I asked, bewildered.
“Herbert personally designed him,” Buck said, his voice grim across the many miles. “New Human More Human is defunct. Skylar Anderson destroyed the last of the company records years ago. What’s left of the Defense Department thinks they can tear Neill apart and learn enough to build a whole new line of robots.”
We mounted a rescue attempt immediately. Cody, number six in the cowboy lineup, was a pilot whenever he wasn’t practicing his sit spins. With his aerial skills, my financial resources and the true bravery of cowboys everywhere, we sped north. By the time we arrived, flames were shooting from the pristine countryside. The government lab was in ruins. Neill and Buck were safe in the woods, but Neill’s left arm was missing.
