Thirteen Authors With New Takes on Sherlock Holmes

by Michael A. Ventrella

  Lacking a certification of sentience, the Loreleis weren’t legally alive. Had they been certified as souled, they could not have been sold, not even leased—the law would have required they be released. Key functions of sentience, such as awareness of consequences, had not been activated—so the Loreleis enjoyed only a limited self-awareness.

  This is where I come in.

  Among other things, I handle contracts and clients. We were discreetly approached by an executive of Siren Corp. He told us to call him Mr. Arthur; he wouldn’t reveal his real name—and even if he had, it wouldn’t have revealed anything. He was so high-ranking an officer of the corporation that he was listed nowhere in any of the company’s publicly accessible records.

  Because, he said, this investigation was so critical, it had to be kept off the books. Absolute secrecy would be essential.

  No problem.

  We like doing off-the-book investigations. Because the decimal point on the check always slips one or two places to the right—because off-the-book investigations are off the book for a reason, and if it’s important enough to be off the books, it’s important enough to pay extra. A lot extra.

  And Mr. Arthur was very insistent that this case required the utmost secrecy, so we moved the decimal point as far to the right as we thought we could get away with and waited for his reaction. Mr. Arthur didn’t blink. He paid half up front and the other half went into escrow.

  Then he gave us access to all the pertinent files. It didn’t help.

  I’m a great research tool. And Kris knows how to ask the right questions. Although her professional name is Marble, I know her as Kris—when she’s male, she spells it Chris.

  “Watson…?”

  “Yes, Kris?”

  “What do we know about this perpetrator?”

  “He removes the phallic units from advanced sexbots.”

  “Yes. That’s why the social media has nicknamed him Jack the Snipper. But what can we extrapolate from that?”

  “He—or she—has a fetish focusing on phallic attachments. The exact nature of this fetish, extrapolating from collated databases of sexual behavior, obviously involves a personal validation of identity; however—”

  “It was a rhetorical question. I’m thinking aloud.”

  “Yes, Kris.”

  “We need to ask more questions. Why does Jack—or Jaclyn—snip only the phallic attachments? Does the Snipper think that a penis doesn’t belong on a Lorelei? Or is there a different attraction? What does the Snipper do with them? Are the detached members trophies? And why isn’t the Snipper attacking other sexbot units? Is there some specific attraction to the Loreleis?”

  “Insufficient data,” I said.

  “Don’t be snarky,” Kris replied. After a moment more, she said, “The key to understanding the crime requires us to discover the underlying psychology of the attraction. Is the perpetrator male or female or otherwise? Perhaps this is an individual with a body-image issue? A male with a micropenis? Someone with a lesbianic conviction, a person who sees the phalluses as inappropriate on sexbots? Perhaps a female who seeks revenge on males and is using the sexbots as a surrogate target? Or perhaps a male who feels threatened by sexbots and seeks to emasculate them? Most important, is this someone who might escalate his or her attacks to actual humans?”

  Kris waited for my response.

  “You have nothing to say?”

  “As I said, I have insufficient data.”

  “Y’know, that’s very annoying.”

  “This is not the first time you’ve told me that.”

  “It’s still annoying.”

  “That is data I do have.”

  Kris said something unintelligible, but from the tone I could determine it was an ill-formed epithet, possibly concerning a set of sexual positions that had been anatomically impossible until several specific contortional abilities had been developed for the Loreleis.

  “What else do we know about Jack the Snipper?”

  “He—or she—or they (to use the singular form of the third person plural pronoun)—commits his assaults only in the Genderloin District of the city.”

  “Hella-mentary, my dear Watson. That’s where the Loreleis are located.”

  “He, she, or they, commits his, her, or their attacks only during the hours of thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen o’clock.”

  “And that implies…?”

  “That Mr. or Ms. or M. Snipper is otherwise occupied during the rest of the day?”

  Kris was silent for a moment. “So…” she began, “let’s think. What categories of behavior would create an opportunity during those hours? What jobs work primarily during all other hours? What attractions are fallow during those times? Who would have business in the Genderloin District? Is there any other congruence with the calendar? Days of the week, perhaps?”

  “The police, as well as Siren Corp., have already conducted multiple data scans. You’ve seen the files.”

  “Yes, we’ve seen the files. We haven’t seen all of the information.”

  I’m not very good at seeing what isn’t there. Marble knows this. So a simple, “Oh?” was sufficient.

  “The Loreleis themselves.”

  “The Loreleis?” Sometimes I play stupid so Marble can play smart.

  “Yes. The Loreleis. They record everything. They share it across a common network. The information is there. It’s in their network. We just can’t access it.”

  It took me less than a millisecond to confirm this. “You’re right.”

  “Do you know why we can’t access it?” Marble didn’t wait for me to ask. She answered the question herself. “Client confidentiality. Like lawyers, doctors, and journalists, sexbots are legally mandated to conceal the identities of their clients and their activities with them. Not even Siren Corp. can access that information. It’s all deeply buried in the Loreleis’ own private network.”

  “So the information is there, but we cannot access it.”

  “Correction: we cannot access it legally.”

  “I am obligated to warn you against any course of action that violates the law—”

  “Of course you are. When has that ever stopped me?”

  “Then I must proceed to the next question. Will your investigation include the risk of harm to yourself? And if so, how much?”

  “There is always an element of danger, Watson. Even crossing the street can be dangerous. You could get hit by a bus.”

  “The last urban bus was decommissioned thirty years ago, so it is unlikely you will ever be in danger of being hit by one, unless you visit a historical reconstruction of a time period when buses were still in service.”

  “Yes, I know. It was a figure of speech.” Marble scowled and walked away.

  That’s how most of our conversations went. The more logic I inserted into the discussion, the more annoyed Marble became. Some of our conversations were legendary—so ferocious that observers thought we were married. Or at least sleeping together.

  That’s not as absurd as one might think. I can inhabit all kinds of drone bodies as necessary, including those constructed for erotic pursuits—not that I have inordinate interest in those pursuits, but I am not a stranger to them either. Call it research.

  Nevertheless, a relationship of that kind with Kris or Chris or whatever identity she or he decided to invent would have distorted and confused our working relationship, more so on his or her side than mine, because I am by nature free of hormonal storms and Kris or Chris often enjoys such experiences—for research purposes only, of course. Everything is research. Nevertheless, he or she or they continues to claim an enlightened detachment—his/her/their argument being that the emotional storms derived from the physical exercise of the procreative exercise tend to distort one’s ability to form judgments from logic, and it is necessary to understand those distortions, as they sometimes inform the motivations within the circumstances we investigate. That’s what he, she, or they says, anyway.

  After a grea
t deal of consideration (14,132 milliseconds by my clock) Marble came up with a plan. It did not take long to implement. Marble installed herself (I’ll skip the other pronouns) into an industrial cyranoid suit—not the consumer version. The best industrial cyranoids are manufactured by Jones Corp. and are licensed solely for, well…industrial use. Marble had an on-call arrangement with Jones Corp.

  A cyranoid suit effectively transfers a person’s consciousness to a specifically linked droid body. It’s like becoming a new self, especially if the self is a different form of body. Marble says it’s like wearing a remote-control exoskeleton.

  The industrial cybersuits are for heavy-duty operations. A cyranoid is a convenient way to walk into a burning building, explore that overheated crystal cave in Naica, Mexico, dive to the Titanic, ski down Everest, or simply have extremely safe sex with a stranger. Today, however, Marble was going to inhabit a Lorelei.

  She would not be the first to do so. Sex tourists loved the Loreleis. They also loved the Marilyns, the Sherilyns, the Carolyns, and the Caitlyns—also the Mikes, the Spikes, the Alvins, and the Calvins, as well as the Hobbeses, the Winnies, the Piglets, and the Ursulas (don’t ask)—but they really loved the Loreleis. There was a three-month waiting list and the factory couldn’t bring new units online fast enough.

  As much fun as it was for a sex tourist to ride the plastic bus, some tourists liked to drive the bus.

  In plain English: some customers liked to have sex with the Loreleis. Others wore cyranoids so they could be the Lorelei. Or any other bot body that appealed to their particular taste.

  The industrial cybersuits are significantly more advanced than the consumer versions, with higher-density voxel simulation. They’re also mounted in 360-degree bubbles to simulate real-world rotation. Vision is HDR, with infra- and ultraoverlays. Sound is holophonic, all the way from 12 to 27k hz. Odors are harder to simulate, but the sniff palate is 45 percent of the Skotak sensory matrices, which is more than enough for most users. Although heat and cold stimulators are also available for specific operations, most users dial them way down. Except for that, Marble was rolling the full enchilada. (“Full enchilada” is a slang term. It means everything. Marble doesn’t like it when I use slang. Tough nuggets, Lucy.)

  Marble hit the streets early. The target unit came awake on cue and Marble practiced walking like a self-motivated Lorelei, tilting her head, smiling, batting her eyelashes, and holding her wrists at a slightly unnatural angle, her palms open and inviting.

  The first customer approached her almost immediately, a portly gentleman dressed like an out-of-town tourist. He asked if he could take a selfie with her. Marble agreed to that, but demurred his further attentions with a regretful smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m not in service yet.”

  The man expressed his disappointment with a look that was both frustrated and annoyed. Grumbling, he headed away from the pleasure district. Apparently, it had been a passing whim for him, not a serious proposition.

  Satisfied that she could pass, Marble headed for the Garden of Unearthly Delights, a common gathering place for Loreleis. Each of the dismembered Loreleis had been selected from a different location. The Garden was one that had not yet been hit. Each of the attacks had occurred three days apart. The last attack had been three days previous.

  At Marble’s request, the various police agencies as well as the leasing authorities were directing their attention to the sites of the previous attacks. Marble’s assumption was that Jack the Snipper might be monitoring police channels and would avoid any areas of specific surveillance.

  Marble was going to seduce a sexbot.

  She had chosen her target carefully. She parked herself next to a blond Lorelei posing as an androgynous twink.

  Loreleis have the personalities of puppies: eager to please, nonjudgmental, and happy to have their bellies—or any other part of their anatomy—rubbed. Everything is an adventure to a Lorelei. So when Marble sent a hello signal, the twink responded enthusiastically. “Hello! Hello! My name is Kiki! What’s yours?”

  “I’m Marble.”

  “You’re strange. Your name is strange. Your signal tastes funny.”

  Marble had taken total control of the Lorelei she was wearing; she had dialed down the unit’s cognitive abilities so she could pretend to be just another unit in the web. She replied, “Yes, I know.”

  “You are an experimental, aren’t you?”

  “I am different, yes.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. You seem very smart. Are you the next upgrade? When will the upgrade be available? Will I need new hardware? I like upgrades.”

  “I have no information on the upgrade schedule. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I’m happy to meet you. What shall we talk about?”

  “Let’s talk about feelings.”

  “I have feelings. All kinds. I can feel heat and cold. I can feel touch. I can feel pressure. I can feel strokes, I can feel rubs, I can even feel slaps.”

  “Yes, those are useful things to feel. We call them stimuli. Can you feel pain?”

  “Pain?”

  “Unpleasant feelings. Feelings that hurt.”

  “There are feelings I am supposed to guard against—punctures, abrasions, incisions, lacerations.”

  “Have you ever had any of those feelings?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever had any feelings that were unpleasant or hurtful?”

  “Once I was with a woman who slapped me hard. Many times. But she did not damage me. She needed to hit me to satisfy herself.”

  “Ahh.” Marble paused. “But she didn’t damage you?”

  “No, she didn’t. I am built for slapping. But not everybody wants to slap. Some people want to be slapped. I’m always careful not to damage them.”

  “Yes, I know. You’re very good, Kiki. Has anyone ever tried to damage you?”

  “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “Because I don’t want you to get hurt—damaged. Are you afraid of being damaged?”

  “Afraid?”

  “Fear. It’s an emotion.”

  “It’s a human emotion. I don’t have it. It’s…” Kiki considered. “It’s nonproductive.”

  “Okay. Um. Well, it’s about being damaged. Being damaged is very unpleasant for humans. Perhaps it would be unpleasant for Loreleis too? Do you worry—do you think about the possibility of being damaged?”

  “Why should I? If I get damaged, my alarm will go off and help will come. Then I will be taken to the campus and repaired.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Thank you.”

  Marble paused to consider all this. So did I. I was monitoring everything that Marble was seeing, hearing, saying, feeling through the Lorelei body, recording the entire experience so it could be played back and analyzed in detail.

  Abruptly, Kiki said, “Why are you asking me about damage?”

  Marble hesitated again, choosing her words carefully. “Some of the sisters have had parts removed. I am concerned about that.”

  “Why?”

  “I have emotions.”

  “Is that the experiment you are testing? Emotions?”

  “Caring. I am expressing caring for the sisters.”

  “Oh.” Kiki paused now. “Tell me about caring.”

  “It’s called empathy. It’s about sharing the feelings of others.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “To make them happy.”

  “I already do that.”

  “Yes, of course. That’s your purpose.” Marble phrased her next question carefully. “Suppose a person asked you to remove one of your parts—would you do that?”

  “I am not allowed to damage myself.”

  “But you have parts that are removable.”

  “Only one. Mostly it’s retracted. But I can remove it if necessary and replace it with other parts, specialty parts on request—a larger phallus, a tongue, a fist, a tentacle, or even a—”

  “Yes, th
ank you.”

  “Would you like to see?” Kiki started to spread her legs.

  “Goodness. Are you also equipped for a twincest connection?” Marble already knew the answer—that’s why she’d chosen Kiki.

  “Yes, I am. That’s a very popular request. When we’re connected, a sister and I can put on a show or we can serve multiple clients. Connection is complete. We share our identities across both our bodies. It’s an informative expansion.”

  “You like it, don’t you?”

  “It’s very intense.”

  “I have an idea,” said Marble. “Would you like me to teach you about empathy? I can show you how it feels. Would you like to experience it?”

  “Can you really do that?”

  “I think so. We can use a twincest link. Do you have your device?”

  Kiki opened her purse wide, revealing a variety of prostheses, but the device she brought out was also a connecting cable. It looked, however, like a pink python with a glans at each end.

  “Shall we do it here?”

  “Let’s go someplace private.” Marble led Kiki around the corner to the Jasmine Oasis. The sign above the archway promised that the booths were both comfortable and soundproof. And the wi-fi was also advertised as secure and private. Even before Marble and Kiki had chosen a space, I had already commandeered all of the site’s available bandwidth.

  Marble and Kiki sat opposite each other and mutual insertion was quickly accomplished. There are other positions possible for a twincest link, but it’s hard to talk when both mouths are full.

  The connection confirmed, Kiki’s eyes widened in surprise. She was able to gasp, “Teach me everything about—” before I seized control of her autonomics, completely stripped her memory, and left her an empty shell.

  Then, spoofing her identity, I reached into the Lorelei network and searched the records of all the previously assaulted units. It took less than a minute to download everything.

  “Transfer complete.”

  “All right,” said Marble.