In the Gleaming Light

by H. R. Moore

  CHAPTER 7

  Lulu and T.J. grabbed a coffee from the robot in the kiosk at the corner of Regent’s Park. It was a bright, warm day at the end of summer, the flowers still looking wonderful thanks to the robot gardeners, the park almost shining it was so clean, thanks to the street cleaning robots, and birdsong the predominant sound, thanks to the electric, automated cars going about their business all around them.

  They wandered for a while, chatting and flirting outrageously, as they always did. They found a good bench from which they could survey a busy thoroughfare and sat watching the tourists ambling animatedly past. The tourists stopped here or there to take photos on their smart devices, some asking a passing robot, or using mini selfie drones to take photos of themselves. Lulu and T.J. often came to busy places, sitting and watching as the world went by. They would comment on the people, or discuss the news, or simply sit in happy, comfortable silence as they thought their own creative thoughts. They’d been walking with their arms linked, and had sat down the same way, their sides pressed together congenially, their proximity conducive to conspiratorial whispers. They were in high spirits today, and knew there would be a healthy, lively, in all probability unkind, commentary on the unsuspecting passers-by.

  ‘That skirt’s a bit short,’ started T.J., surreptitiously indicating to the left with his head.

  ‘And she’s totally in love with him,’ replied Lulu, as a group walked past.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The short one with dark hair.’

  ‘Never,’ said T.J., as though Lulu had lost her mind.

  ‘What? It’s obvious. Look at the way she’s batting her eyelids.’

  ‘That one loves him too,’ replied T.J., nodding to a girl farther back in the group, who was carefully monitoring his interaction with the girl at the front.

  ‘What do you think people say about us when they see us sitting here?’ mused Lulu.

  ‘What a good-looking couple,’ he joked, arrogantly, ‘with the look of creative genius about them,’ he nudged Lulu, ‘and an aura of fine business acumen,’ he said, pressing a hand to his own chest.

  Lulu laughed. ‘Or, maybe they think: what a terribly mismatched pair. One dressed in a smart business suit, and the other dressed in old clothes covered in paint.’

  T.J. leaned unexpectedly towards her. ‘My version’s better,’ he whispered, before kissing her passionately on the lips. Lulu was stunned, but kissed him back; she was an artist, after all.

  Eventually, when T.J. showed no signs of stopping, Lulu pushed him away. ‘That was...unexpected,’ she said, raising an eyebrow, ‘and you’re a surprisingly good kisser.’

  ‘Why surprisingly?’ laughed T.J., although his brow furrowed with uncertainty.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose I just never really thought about it.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said, eyes disbelieving. ‘After all the time we’ve spent together, you’ve never even thought about it?’

  ‘Maybe right back at the beginning,’ she said, cocking her head to one side as she gave it some thought. ‘But not since you became my muse; that put you into a different category somehow.’

  ‘What if I stopped being your muse?’ he asked, his features serious and vulnerable.

  ‘T.J., I don’t think it would happen even then,’ she said, kindly, squeezing his arm. ‘And I think I’ve kind of got a boyfriend.’

  ‘What?’ said T.J., shocked. ‘In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never had anything even close to a boyfriend, only a never-ending string of one-night stands. Who is it?’

  ‘Um...Guy Strathclyde.’

  ‘What?’ said T.J., reacting badly. ‘He’s a complete douche and stands for everything you hate.’

  ‘Look, I know you’re not that keen on him.’

  ‘Understatement.’

  ‘And I thought he’d be a total idiot too, but it turns out he’s not. He has a lot in common with us, actually. He cares about the issues with our political system.’

  ‘And yet he still sits at the top of his company, making a fortune while the rest of us...’

  ‘...the rest of us?’ exclaimed Lulu, shifting a little and unlinking their arms, so she could more easily look at his face. ‘Neither of us has been a member of “the rest of us” for quite some time now. You have a high-flying corporate job, just like Guy, and I make more money from my art than I know what to do with. I probably earn more than Guy and you put together, when you take into account that artists don’t have the same strict pay cap, and the fact that I can put pretty much every expense I have through my company.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t come from privilege, he does.’

  ‘So we should discount anyone who was born into money?’ Lulu challenged. ‘We should discriminate against them, despite the fact that they had no say over it?’

  ‘So, what? Guy Strathclyde is a man of the people now?’ spat T.J., full of hostility.

  ‘Why are you acting like this? What’s he ever done to you?’

  T.J. leapt to his feet in frustration. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, marching off without so much as a backward glance.

  Their robust conversation had attracted the attention of some of the tourists, so she got up and left too. The last thing she needed was for someone, or someone’s smart device, to recognise her, and for this whole thing to become a social media circus.

  * * * * *

  Benji and Guy projected the breaking news onto the wall of Guy’s office in Oxford.

  ‘There have been reports from two locations of butlers acting strangely,’ started the female news anchor. She was slim, had a blonde bob, and a face so full of makeup, it was remarkable she could still convince it to convey any expression at all. ‘Late last night, two butler owners phoned the emergency services and reported that their robots were complaining of emotional neglect. The Cyber Response Team advised them to turn off their devices, which they both did, and they have since picked up the rogue butlers for further investigation. Investigations so far have not discovered any obvious faults.’

  The feed switched to a pre-recorded video of one of the butler’s owners, a middle-aged man with a northern accent. ‘My butler is not neglected,’ he said, shaking his head violently. ‘We treat our Lenny – that’s what we call him – better than anyone else I know. He has the whole night off, every night. He doesn’t have to do any gardening, and there’s only me and the wife here now our kids have grown up and moved out, so there’s not even that much work for him to do.’ The man was on a roll now. ‘And I thought robots weren’t supposed to have feelings. What if they’re doing what we’re all scared of? What if they’re developing their own free will and taking over? What if they’re learning from humans and are starting to become like us?’

  The video ended and they cut back to the studio where the anchor was now interviewing an ‘expert in artificial intelligence’ called Percy Green. ‘Percy,’ she said, seriously, ‘we were all given assurances that this could never happen.’ She shook her head to add emphasis. ‘And now it looks as though our worst fears are coming true.’

  ‘Andrea,’ he said, ‘the most important thing now is to make sure that no one jumps to any dangerous conclusions. It is highly improbable that these robots are genuinely developing feelings, or developing free will. If we look at the science, as we must with anything robotic, this type of robot is really nothing more than a complex bundle of algorithms. Yes, they can “learn”,’ he said, putting quotation marks in the air with his hands, ‘but that learning only happens within strict, predetermined parameters. The butlers may learn how to respond to their owner’s emotions by recognising facial, speech, movement, and body language patterns. They may use these patterns to predict what their owner will do next and what their owner will want the robot to do next. But there is no code to start the butlers down the journey of developing their own emotional response in return.’

  ‘Then how can you explain the fact that not one, but two butlers, have done ex
actly that?’ asked Andrea, leaning forward in an ‘I’ve got you on the ropes’ kind of way.

  ‘There are several possible explanations,’ said Percy, calmly, ‘and they all centre around the presence of code which is not supposed to be in the robots. Now, how this theoretical code got there, assuming my theory is correct, one can only guess. Possible scenarios may include developers adding rogue code for their own amusement, a hacker flexing his or her muscles, developers exploring the art of the possible, their exploration accidentally finding its way into a software update, or even a competitor brand trying to take down a rival. Although, that seems unlikely, given that casting doubt on one type of butlerbot will inevitably cast doubt on them all.’

  ‘So you’re not at all worried about this incident?’ continued Andrea. ‘What would you advise our viewers to do if they’re concerned?’

  ‘We need to find out what happened as quickly as possible. Hopefully, this incident has come from the manufacturer itself. If it hasn’t, it means someone’s found a way to hack into the butlers and alter their code. This would be a worrying scenario, given that the hacker could make a butler do pretty much anything they wanted. However, I must stress that this is one of the less likely scenarios, and we should all stay calm until we know the facts,’ he said, giving Andrea a stern look. ‘Sensationalising, causing panic, or speculating, will only lead to worry, misinformation, and, at worst, unwarranted hysteria.’

  ‘But what should people do if they’re concerned about their own devices?’ repeated Andrea, clearly riled.

  ‘If they’re worried, then they should use the hard switch and turn their devices off. You can’t get a butler to do anything at all if that switch is off. Then they should wait and see what the investigation turns up.’

  Guy ended the projection and put his smart glasses back in his pocket. ‘Just what we need,’ he said. ‘Are the software guys on it?’

  ‘Yep,’ replied Benji. ‘They assure me no one’s been putting code in for their own amusement and no one’s working on any kind of project to give the butlers emotions. Unless we’ve got a rogue developer, it didn’t come from inside our company.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Guy, pacing up and down. ‘What about past members of staff?’

  ‘We’re looking into it,’ said Benji, ‘the head of software’s on it. Have you spoken to the defence minister?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Guy, taking a deep breath. ‘I’ll do it now.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Lulu and Guy lay on a day bed next to the swimming pool at Guy’s house, overlooking the ocean. They’d been for a swim and a sauna, and were now enjoying the soft summer breeze, the glass doors open. ‘That view is magnificent,’ said Lulu, leaning over to kiss Guy, who was reading a physical book, a Lord of the Rings first edition, no less.

  ‘As is this book,’ said Guy, indulgently.

  ‘Did you inherit that?’ she asked, taking it from him and carefully leafing through the pages. ‘It must be worth a fortune.’

  ‘Not as much as it used to be,’ he replied, matter of factly. ‘Given that inheritance is so limited, all possessions of any value over and above the one hundred thousand pound inheritance limit have to be handed over to the government. Consequently, the value of rare books, as well as other collectibles like jewellery and fine wines has decreased significantly. The market’s constantly flooded with the stuff, as each collector dies and their children opt not to buy the items back at market value, although they have first refusal to do so.’

  ‘I guess that makes sense; it’s the same with art. Kind of sad that money’s more important than sentimental things.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose. But the cold hard truth is that money can make people’s lives better in a way that books can’t. And there’s still trade in all these things; plenty of people make enough money to indulge themselves. But more distractions compete for those people’s time, the works come up more often, so are less rare, and, as people can’t pass them on as part of their legacy, there’s less interest in creating collections.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Lulu, shrugging. ‘In a way it’s made things more accessible.’

  ‘Yeah. Things are cheaper to buy, and museums have experienced a significant influx of donations. People would rather have their name next to a famous artwork on a wall in a museum, as thanks for the donation, as opposed to the government taking it when they die.’

  Silence settled over them as Lulu looked out to sea again. ‘It’s a strange choice,’ she murmured, leaning in to kiss him again.

  ‘What is?’ he replied, between kisses.

  ‘The Lord of the Rings,’ she said, as he pushed her back onto the bed and kissed her neck. She arched her back as a shiver of pleasure ran down her spine, her hand grasping his hair. ‘It’s so...depressing,’ she said, giggling, as his fingers tickled the contour of her side, before tracing the shape of her hip bone.

  ‘It’s inspirational,’ he replied, firmly. ‘Whenever I’m in the midst of a crisis...’

  ‘...like now,’ she teased.

  ‘Yes, thank you, like now,’ he said, nipping her ear in retaliation. ‘I find it calming to realise that my problems are nothing in comparison to what those hobbits faced, and if you just keep going and keep going, you have at least a small chance of coming out victorious. I heard a great speech once about how persistence is basically the only difference between successful and failure. I agree wholeheartedly.’ He looked adoringly down at her, pushing a stray strand of hair back off her face.

  ‘I agree too,’ she said, ‘mostly, at least.’

  ‘Well, you’re mostly right then,’ he smiled, mischievously. ‘Now,’ he said, turning suddenly more business-like, ‘there’s something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Lulu, sitting up in anticipation. ‘Sounds serious. I’m all ears.’

  ‘How would you feel about painting me a mural?’

  Lulu laughed. ‘That’s your question? Don’t you have enough of my work already?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be for here, for me,’ he said, reaching down to pick up his gin and tonic from the floor and taking a sip, building suspense.

  ‘For your office building?’ she guessed.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, disappointed she’d stolen his thunder. ‘Everyone else seems to be doing it, so I want to get in on the act too,’ he said, pulling his best pouty face.

  ‘You want to keep up with the Joneses?’

  ‘Oh please, I am the Joneses,’ he said, doing a pretend hair flick.

  ‘Never do that again,’ she warned, giving him a playfully shove.

  ‘But seriously, it’s a brilliant opportunity to make a statement,’ he said, getting up and pacing as he continued. ‘And, as well as a physical mural, I want it to be available digitally too. Everyone who uses our virtual reality technology will have it as their login screen, and I’ll set it as the background on the work terminals too. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed and following him with her eyes as he moved. ‘I mean, I’m happy to do it, but do you really want to draw more attention to yourself at the moment?’

  ‘Why not? The investigation won’t find anything,’ he said, more confidently than he felt, ‘and the butler issue will be fixed soon. Our engineers are on it, and they’re the best in the world; they’ll fix it. And you only live once,’ he added, as an afterthought.

  ‘Okay,’ she said simply, shrugging her shoulders.

  ‘You’ll do it?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘Of course.’

  A playful look painted itself across Guy’s face. ‘Will you bump me up the list, ahead of the guy from St Andrews who wanted you to paint him a mural?’ he asked, crouching in front of her and giving her his best puppy dog look.

  ‘That would compromise my professional integrity,’ she said, in a mock stern voice.

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t want that,’ he said, sending her a bold look. ‘So we’ll have to think of some other way to spin it...�
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  ‘What’s in it for me?’ she flirted.

  Guy smiled, a broad, happy smile, knowing he’d got his way. ‘I’m sure we can find some way to make it worth your while,’ he said, triumphantly, before kissing her excitedly on the lips.

  * * * * *

  Thomas took a long, deep breath. He went over the evidence on his smart glasses, using his eyes and thoughts to control the images they showed him. He’d been through it four times already this morning, each time playing over in his mind what he would say and how he would act. Thomas tried to imagine how Richard would respond, what questions Richard would ask him, and had prepared a story he hoped would be convincing. He went over it with a fine-tooth comb, trying to spot if there were inconsistencies, making sure everything fitted together coherently, making sure it was compelling in both content and delivery. A nagging voice at the back of his mind told him he’d missed something, or that Marvin would be a step ahead of him, or that Richard would see through it. But that voice was his constant companion, and if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that it could not be relied upon. His gut, on the other hand, was wholly dependable, and it was telling him to march confidently into Richard’s office, and get this shit done.

  He pulled off his smart glasses, carefully folded them, and put them away in his jacket pocket. He slowly rolled back his chair, inhaling deeply as he stood. He pushed in his chair in the fastidious way that only an accountant could, and headed across the open plan floor to the lift.

  ‘Thomas,’ said Marvin, stopping him dead in his tracks, ‘do you have a minute?’

  Thomas turned and looked behind him, to where Marvin sat, rigid, as always, at the work station he’d just passed. ‘I’m afraid not, Marvin. I can do later this afternoon though?’

  ‘Your diary says you’re free now,’ said Marvin, insistently, ‘and it is rather urgent.’

  ‘I’m afraid Richard’s just requested that I go up and meet him,’ replied Thomas, his tone smug, but his face blank, unreadable.