His Robot Wife

by Wesley Allison

  “Killer whale?”

  “Yes, sir. The hotel, by famed architect Sean Pilson, was designed to evoke the proud image of the orca’s dorsal fin.”

  “Doesn’t look like it at all,” said Mike.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have a room?”

  “For how many nights, sir?”

  “One.”

  “Name?”

  “Mike Smith.”

  “May I access your information only for purposes of making your stay the most pleasant one possible?”

  “Yes. Michael… um, Mr. and Mrs. Michael Winston Smith. Springdale, California.”

  “Yes sir. I have you; 11 North Willow, 82803?”

  “Yes.”

  “Password, sir?”

  “Nimbus 2217903-1ΔΩΣ.”

  The clerk didn’t have to look down at a terminal or a wriTee. Everything he needed to do his job, including connecting to the Infinet and reading Mike’s information, was located somewhere under his skin.

  “Would you care for a sea view?”

  “Room 314,” said Patience, suddenly at Mike’s side.

  The clerk’s eyes darted to her and a look that Mike didn’t understand crossed his face. A second later though he was just as he had been.

  “Very good. Your room is ready for you.”

  Mike picked up one of the two suitcases that Patience had carried into the hotel and started toward the elevator. She picked up the other and followed.

  “Why room 314?” he asked once the doors had closed and he felt the familiar sensation of ascending in his stomach.

  “It has a balcony over the sea. We’ll leave the door open tonight and you can listen to the waves crash. It will help you sleep.”

  The room was a spacious and beautiful one. The furnishings looked completely new. Even the electronics had that smell of new plastic. Near the patio doors which looked out over the sea were a fireplace and a pair of very plump chairs. Behind that was a king-sized bed, and behind that a small kitchenette. Mike walked through the sliding doors while Patience stowed the luggage. The third floor was the only one which featured balconies and the one in room 314, like the others on the floor, stood far enough out beyond the rest of the hotel that one could look directly down on the water. Mike leaned on the railing and watched the blue waves roll in to smash against a bank of large rocks along the hotel’s base. Every minute or so he could see large squid darting to the surface and then back down again.

  “If this rail gave way, how long do you suppose I’d have before I was eaten alive?”

  His wife stepped up next to him and looked down at the water.

  “I place your chance of making it safely to shore at 89.5%.”

  “Really? Well, that’s pretty good.”

  “Yes, the odds of your being eaten alive are actually very small, dragged down and drowned slightly higher. The biggest danger is injuring yourself in the fall.”

  “Good to know. I was a little worried after that genitals remark.”

  “Squid-induced castration is well worth the worry.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir. Shall we take a walk down the beach?”

  The beach too was much changed since Mike had been here last. Very few people were on the sand, even though it was a beautiful day, and those who were, clustered together beneath the massive orange sun screen that had been erected on the public portion of the sandy stretch. Despite the seeming lack of tourists, a dozen new hotels were under construction in the area. They walked the length of the private beach, and at the point where it met the public portion, they climbed up the hill to the small seafood restaurant that shared the building with a hydrogen filling station.

  “Finally, a place where we can both get something,” said Mike.

  “That was supposed to be a joke,” observed Patience.

  “…Supposed to be.”

  Though Mike had been looking forward to some fish—real fish, the kind with fins, in the end he settled on a squid sandwich, both because of the exorbitant price of fish and because everyone in the restaurant seemed to be eating and enjoying their squid. The sandwich was delicious, and there was something to be said about eating something that had the circumstances been but a little different would have been eating you. Patience drank water. Despite Mike’s joke, she wasn’t currently in need of hydrogen for her fuel cell.

  “I have to tell you,” said Mike. “I really don’t feel like hanging out on the beach. I don’t know why, but it’s not as inviting as I remember.”

  “We’ll spend the afternoon on the balcony,” replied Patience. “On the way back to the hotel you can pick up some rocks to throw at the squid.”

  “Why would I want to throw rocks at them? Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  “Yes, and it was much funnier than yours.”

  After walking back, they changed into their swimsuits and went for a quick dip in the hotel pool, which was entirely deserted before they arrived. Then they did just as Patience had suggested and relaxed on their balcony over the waves in two lounge chairs. Mike dozed off just before he finished the single remaining page of Star Healer on his texTee, and didn’t wake up all the way when his wife took it from his hand and stuffed a pillow beneath his head. When he did wake up, he didn’t let on, but watched Patience as she walked around the room in her bright purple bikini, cleaning and straightening all the things that the maid had missed.

  “I ordered delivery for dinner,” she said, as she passed by.

  “More squid?”

  “Mexican.”

  “I’m not sure I can eat a whole Mexican.”

  She stopped and batted her eyelashes at him, but didn’t smile. “That was very funny.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dinner was grilled steak tacos, beans topped with authentic white cheese, and a chili relleno. Mike enjoyed the meal and was shocked when Patience took a large jalapeno from among the garnishes and took a bite.

  “Spicy,” she said, smiling as she chewed.

  Later, Mike could taste the hot flavor of the vegetable on her mouth when she kissed him.

  “Just watch out where you touch me with that mouth. Some parts of me are more sensitive than others.”

  “Sometimes a little pain is a good thing,” she replied.

  The following morning after breakfast, they took another walk up and down the beach before climbing back into the car and heading on their way. Mike took a drive up the Southern Coast Highway through Oceanside rather than getting right back on Interstate 5, because he wanted to take another look at the little villages. He was disappointed. The small town feel was disappearing and more huge buildings were under construction all the way up to San Onofrey. Back on the freeway, they stopped briefly at San Juan Capistrano for breakfast.

  Mike had planned on having lunch in Long Beach, but they arrived much earlier than planned, and he was still full from breakfast. So instead of eating, he and Patience went on a tour of the Long Beach Maritime Museum—a massive collection of sailing vessels that had begun with the Queen Mary, but had come to encompass representatives from almost every era. The highlight for Mike was the Sinopian cargo ship dating from 489BC that had been recovered in 2029 from the Black Sea. In the end, they stayed far longer than planned. This combined with the fact that Mike insisted on reaching Santa Barbara resulted in it being quite late when he pulled into a shiny new hotel just off Highway 1—the Wilkins.

  Mike entered a beautiful lobby filled with shining fixtures including several large vueTees. The teal walls still smelled of fresh paint. He was surprised to find a human being behind the check-in counter—a man about his own age, unassuming and with a blond crew cut.

  “Good evening.”

  “Hi. I’d like a nice room—king-sized, or a suite if you have one.”

  “For two?”

  “Yes.”

  The man behind the counter stared at him for a moment.

  “Oh, let me check.” He pulled out a texTee and flipped through seve
ral pages. “I don’t usually do this. I’m Tom Spencer, the assistant manager, so I don’t usually… or ever do this. We have a Daffodil clerk.”

  “Where is it?”

  The man pointed to a chair in a corner behind him. There sat a robot almost identical to the one that had worked at the Orcino, the same handsome face with an unusual combination of features. Sitting lifeless, without any movement, it looked more mannequin-like than human.

  “What happened?”

  “Tech support says it has something to do with the Biosoft.”

  “You upgraded to 1.9.3?”

  “No. We didn’t upgrade and apparently there are some pretty real problems with the old version and some of the new components coming online. They say I shouldn’t restart him until they ship me the new upgrade on a u7 plug.”

  “You can’t just have him download it himself.”

  “Not without turning him on first, and then he just freezes up.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I do have the Presidential Suite available. It’s $6700.00.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Mike. The look on Tom Spencer’s face clearly showed that he hadn’t expected a positive response.

  “What President stayed there?” asked Mike.

  “President?”

  “It’s the Presidential Suite, right? Which President stayed there?”

  “Um, none… yet. The hotel is brand new. We’ve only been open three weeks.”

  “A lot of new hotels opening up along the coast.”

  “Well, the Wilkins was here before,” said the assistant manager, with a vague wave. “The old one burnt down two years ago Christmas Eve… This one is completely safe though. They were having a nineteenth century Christmas celebration with a very large spruce tree decorated with lit candles.”

  “Ah. Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it,” observed Mike.

  Patience arrived with the luggage and they took the elevator to the twentieth floor where the Presidential Suite was located. Mike was extremely impressed. It was about the same size as his whole house, but unlike his house it featured a walkway suspended above a reflecting pool, a solarium, an indoor garden and fountains, and hot tubs in each of the bedrooms.

  “This was a great deal,” he said, kicking off his shoes and relaxing on the couch.

  “Their rates are heavily discounted due to reduced patronage,” reported Patience.

  “Because of the fire?”

  “That might have something to do with it. It is more likely due to the rerouting of US 101 and the overall increase in available hotel rooms. Even at the reduced rate though, this was quite an indulgence.”

  “I’m hungry but I’m too tired to do anything about it,” said Mike, heading toward the bed.

  “The Presidential Suite comes with room service,” said Patience, and then cocked her head to one side. “But it’s out of service.”

  “Probably because their robots are out of service. The guy at the desk said there is a problem with BioSoft O.S. 1.9.1 working with the new robot… something or other. He said Daffodil told him to upgrade to BioSoft O.S. 1.9.3.”

  Mike peeled off his shirt, but then stopped when he noticed Patience was just staring at him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Go ahead and climb into bed. Watch the vueTee. I’ll find something for you to eat.”

  Mike did as directed and watched the opening of the Hunter Tylo Show. His wife returned twenty minutes later with a McMeatloaf and an order of yogurt sticks.

  “There is a McDonalds just around the corner.”

  Mike ate and then fell asleep with the vueTee still on. He woke up to a darkened room to find that Patience had not joined him on the bed, nor was she moving around during the night as she often did. Getting up on one elbow, he saw her sitting immobile on the couch.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes Mike. I’m fine.”

  When he woke, Mike glanced at the clock on the bottom of the vueTee and was startled to see it was almost noon. Patience was still sitting where he had seen her during the night. She wasn’t doing anything at all, just staring ahead.

  “Why did you let me sleep in so late?”

  “You were tired.”

  “I was, but we’re supposed to see Hearst Castle today.”

  “We still can. It’s not that far away.”

  “I know I asked you before…”

  “I’m fine, Mike.”

  Patience was correct about their having time to see Hearst Castle. It was a relatively short trip northward to San Simeon where the famous edifice was located. The tour of the estate once owned by William Randolph Hearst was fascinating, even though the current contents were all replicas, the famous furnishings and artworks having been sold off by the state of California during the previous decade. The visit ended with a viewing of Citizen Kane in Hearst’s own theater.

  “That was interesting,” said Mike, as they climbed back into the car.

  “Yes. It’s different seeing a place for one’s self, rather than as a collection of information from the Infinet.”

  “Yeah, I… that’s a really unrobotic thing to say.”

  “Is it?” asked Patience, looking at him.

  “I don’t mean that in a derogatory way. It’s just a very human way of interpreting the world around you.”

  “Hmm.” She crossed her arms.

  “I think it’s probably time we headed home.”

  “You don’t want to make it all the way to San Francisco, like you did when you were a boy?”

  “No, I think it’s about time to go home. It’s a good five or six hours driving though.”

  “Six hours forty three minutes with you driving.”

  “…so, I think we better stay the night and start home tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine,” said Patience. “But I don’t want to stay at the Wilkins.”

  “You don’t want to?”

  “That is what I said.”

  “Alright.”

  Mike drove northwest and was rewarded with a view of the Piedras Blancas lighthouse just as it came on. They stopped for the night at the historic Ragged Point Inn and were rewarded with a cliff top room that overlooked the ocean, though they had missed what must have been a glorious sunset.

  They ate at hotel restaurant and Mike was finally able to get fish that he had been craving, and it didn’t bother him one bit that the gourami had been raised in a fish farm. During the meal, Patience sat drinking her water and watching him eat, just like she did at home. For some reason that Mike couldn’t quite put his finger on though, she seemed distant. When they got back to the room, her behavior changed again. She undressed and put on her robe, then walked out onto the balcony to sit in the darkness. Mike had to admit to himself that it was not really all that odd. It just didn’t seem like what Patience would normally do.

  “Are you alright?” he asked her for what seemed like the thousandth time.

  “Yes. I’m just anxious to go home.”

  “Anxious? I don’t recall you ever being anxious before.”

  “I’m not really anxious. I’m just slightly disquieted and mildly restless.”

  “Those words mean the same thing as anxious.”

  “Just leave me alone for eight to fourteen and one half minutes.”

  “Leave you alone?”

  “Yes Mike.”

  Mike closed the door to the balcony and sat down on the bed. He piled up the pillows behind him so he could read, and turned to his texTee. His eyes were drawn again and again to the figure sitting rigidly in the chair outside the glass door. Patience didn’t move a mechanical muscle, but a gentle warm sea breeze whipped around a few strands of hair.

  Chapter Six

  “Well that was a peachy trip,” said Mike as he shut the front door behind him. The drive home had been a long one and had seemed, at least to him, a tense one. Patience hadn’t spoken unless he had asked her a question. He had tried to draw her out by pointin
g out some of the scenes along the highway, but after a few monosyllabic answers, he had stopped.

  “I don’t recall seeing a single peach,” replied Patience.

  “I was using ‘peachy’ as slang, and besides, I was being sarcastic.”

  “If you found the journey less than pleasant, you are 76.45% to blame.”

  “I’m zero percent to blame—zero. You’re just moody all of a sudden.”

  “I’m a robot, Mike. Robots don’t get moody.”

  “That’s what I used to think. You do get moody, and you really put a damper on the trip. That’s why I didn’t want to spend another day. It’s your fault—eighty… eighty three percent, or something like that.”

  “We could certainly have stayed another day if you wished,” said Patience. “It was entirely your decision. You make all the decisions.”

  “That’s because I’m your owner.”

  “You’re supposed to be my husband.”

  Mike turned and stomped up the stairs. He was outwardly still angry, but inside he felt a sinking in his stomach that he knew was caused by his own choice of words. He took off his shirt and pulled a t-shirt over his head, then kicked off his shoes.

  “Are there any new messages?” Mike used a complete sentence even though the household network only needed the last word.

  “You have 145 messages.”

  “You’re kidding.” It was a very rare day when Mike received more than five phone calls. “Play the first two.”

  “Hey Mr. Smith. It’s Curtis. I wanted to let you know that Francis got an A on his paper. Also I saw you had that sign on your lawn—the one with your picture on it… um, you and your wife’s picture on it. Do you have any more of those, because I told my mom we should put one up at our house too. Well call me back.”

  “Hello. This is Daniel Alvarez, your neighbor at number 16. I saw you had a ‘No on 22’ sign in your yard and I wanted to know where I could get in contact with the ‘No on 22’ organization. I thought you might know. Please call me back at your earliest convenience.”

  Hurrying down the stairs again, Mike found Patience bringing in the rest of their things from the car.

  “Looks like we’re going to have help fighting Prop 22. I want you to go through the incoming calls and make a callback list. I’m going to order a hundred yard signs. Do you think I should make it two hundred?”