“I’ll try,” says Charmaine. Then she just has to ask, because why else is she doing all this: “Where’s Stan? When can I see him?”
“Not yet,” says Jocelyn. “You’ve got a few cards to play for us first. But he’s safe enough, don’t worry.”
Aurora comes in with the tray and three mugs of coffee. “Now, about your new job,” she says. “Here’s what we want you to wear.” They’ve been through her clothes, they’ve added a couple more outfits; they’ve got it all planned out.
Aurora makes her nervous. Why is she in cahoots with Jocelyn? Why would she risk her job? Has she done some criminal thing Jocelyn knows about? Charmaine can’t imagine what.
For her first day as Ed’s personal assistant, Charmaine has on a black suit with white trim and a high collar. There’s a white blouse underneath; it has a frilly white bow at the neck, a cross between angel feathers and underpants. She sits at a desk outside Ed’s office and does nothing much. She has a computer on which she’s supposed to keep track of Ed’s appointments, but his onscreen calendar seems to run itself and he adds things to it without consulting her. Still, she has a good idea of his whereabouts most of the time, for whatever that’s worth. He asks her to email a few people and tell them he can’t see them because he has prior commitments; he asks her to look in his address files for some contact numbers in Las Vegas. One of them is at a casino, one seems to be a doctor’s office, but one is at the new Ruby Slippers headquarters they’ve opened there after buying into the chain, which makes her go all nostalgic. If only she still had her old job, in the Ruby Slippers local branch where she’d been so content, before they closed that one down.
Or she’d been content enough. Being nice to the residents and planning special entertainment events for them wasn’t what some people would call exciting, but it was rewarding to be able to shine a ray of happiness into people’s lives, and she was good at that, and she’d felt appreciated.
Ed walks past her desk, says, “How’s it going,” goes into his office, shuts the door. A trained dog could do this job, she thinks. It isn’t really a job, it’s an excuse. He wants me where he can get his hands on me.
But he doesn’t get his hands on her. He doesn’t take her to lunch, or make any moves on her at all, apart from some benign smiling and an assurance that she’ll soon get used to things. He doesn’t even ask her to go into his office except to bring him coffee. She’s had a little daydream – a little nightmare – of Ed cornering her in there, and then locking the door and advancing on her with a leer. But that doesn’t happen.
What’s in the drawers of her own desk? Only some pens and paper clips, that kind of thing. Nothing to report there.
There’s one other thing, she tells Jocelyn, who’s come over in the evening to debrief her. There’s a map on the wall behind Ed’s desk, with pins in it. Orange pins are the Positron Prisons that are going up. Ed has told her it’s now a franchise: there’s a basic plan, there are instructions; it’s like hamburger chains, only with prisons. Red pins are for the Ruby Slippers branches. There are more of those, but that company has been going longer.
Ed seems very proud of the map. He made sure she was watching him the day he stuck a new pin into it, near Orlando.
On the fifth day of her job, three state governors called and Ed got quite excited. “They want one in their state,” Charmaine heard him saying on his phone. “The model’s proving itself! We’re cooking with gas!”
At the end of the week he went to Washington for a meeting with the president – Charmaine arranged the tickets and booked the hotel – but although he seemed pleased when he came back, he didn’t tell her what happened.
“Did you go into his office while he was away?” asks Aurora.
“It’s bugged,” says Charmaine. “He told me that.”
“I’m in charge of the bugging, remember?” says Jocelyn. “That’s how I know your house is clean. Next time go in. Have a look around. Not on his computer, though. He’d know about that.”
In the middle of the second week, Charmaine says, “I don’t get it. According to both of you, he’s mad for me …”
“Oh, he is,” says Aurora. “He’s at the moping stage.”
“But he hardly looks at me, and he hasn’t asked me out again. And the job’s a nothing. Why does he want me there?”
“So nobody else can get you,” says Jocelyn. “He’s asked me to shadow you to and from work, and to report anyone – any man – who visits you at home. Needless to say I don’t report myself. Aurora, yes, I report her. She’s supposed to be doing grief therapy with you.”
“But what … I don’t see where this is going,” says Charmaine.
“I don’t exactly myself,” says Jocelyn. “But he’s got his double of you almost finished. Have a look.”
She brings up a window on her PosiPad: grainy footage of a corridor, Ed walking along it. He goes in through a door. “Surveillance footage,” she says. “Sorry about the quality. This is over at Possibilibots, where they’re making sex robots.” Charmaine remembers Stan saying something about that, but she hadn’t paid much attention, she’d been too preoccupied with Max. Real sex with him was so, was so …
“How’s she coming?” Ed asks the two men.
“Almost ready for a trial run,” they say. “Just the standard prostibody for now, with the regular action. We can’t make the custom body without the measurements, and some photos for detail.”
“That’ll come later,” says Ed. “Let’s have a look.”
Segue across to a table, or is it a bed? A flower-patterned sheet over a body shape. Ed turns down the corner of the sheet.
There’s Charmaine’s head, her very own head, with her very own hair on it, slightly dishevelled. She’s sleeping. She looks so lifelike, so alive: Charmaine would swear she can see the rise and fall of the upper torso.
“Oh my god!” she says. “It’s me! That is so …” She feels a chill of terror. On the other hand, it’s thrilling in a strange way. Another one of her! What will happen to her?
Ed leans over, strokes the cheek gently. The eyes open, widen in alarm.
“Perfect,” says Ed. “Did you program the voice yet?”
“Just put your hands around her neck,” says one of the men, the one with the glasses. “Give a tender squeeze.”
Ed does so. “No! Don’t touch me!” says Charmaine’s head. The eyes close, the head is thrown back in an attitude of surrender.
“Now kiss her neck,” says the man without glasses. “A small bite is okay, but don’t bite too hard.”
“You wouldn’t want to break the skin,” says the other. “You could get a short. Malfunction.”
“Those can be ugly,” says the one without glasses.
“Okay, here goes,” says Ed as if he’s about to jump into a swimming pool. His head goes down. The camera sees two white arms come up, encircle him. There’s a moan from underneath Ed.
“You hit it out of the park,” says the one with glasses.
“The moan means you’re on target,” says the other. “Wait till you try the main action.”
“Genius,” says Ed. “Exactly to spec. You guys deserve a medal. When can I take delivery?”
“Tomorrow,” says the one with glasses. “If you’re willing to go with this iteration. There’s only a couple more deets.”
“You don’t want to wait for the custom body?” says the other.
“This one will do for now,” says Ed. “When I’ve got the stats and the pics I’ll send it back to you for the replacement.” He bends over the head, which is sleeping again. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you very soon.”
The film ends. Charmaine feels dizzy. “He’s going to have sex with her?” She feels strangely protective of her fabricated self.
“That’s the idea,” says Jocelyn.
“Why doesn’t he just … I mean, he could ask me instead. He could practically force me to do it.“
“He’s afraid of rejection,” says Aurora. “A lot of people are. This way, he’ll never be rejected by you.”
“By the way, heads-up,” says Jocelyn. “He’s asked me to plant some cameras in your bathroom, to take the pictures for the custom body.”
“But you won’t do it,” says Charmaine. “Will you?” Displaying herself for an unseen camera, pretending she doesn’t know it’s there … that’s the kind of thing Max might have asked her to do. Did ask.
“It’s partly business,” says Jocelyn. “You’re like a demonstration model. Can you imagine what a market demand there would be for customized robots like this, once they’ve got all the kinks worked out of the process?”
“In addition to those, we think he’s working on a sort of blend. Not that we know for sure,” says Jocelyn.
“A blend of what?” says Charmaine.
“Heavens, look at the time!” says Aurora. “I need my beauty sleep!”
“I think I’ll pay a visit to Possibilibots,” says Jocelyn. “Just to make sure the security is tight, around Ed’s special project. We wouldn’t want a malfunction the first time he takes it out for a drive around the block.”
“A what?” says Charmaine. “Why are you talking about a car?”
Jocelyn actually laughs. She doesn’t laugh much as a rule. “You’re terrific,” she says to Charmaine. “It’s not a car.”
“Oh,” Charmaine says after a minute. “Now I get it.”
Malfunction
The next day Ed isn’t at the office. There’s nothing on his schedule to suggest where he might be. Charmaine takes the liberty – or else the chance – of knocking on his door. When there’s no answer she goes in. No sign of him. Desk neat as a pin. She peeks quickly into a couple of his desk drawers: there are a few folders, but all they have in them is expansion plans for Ruby Slippers. No receipts for plane tickets, nothing. Where could he have gone?
She isn’t supposed to contact Jocelyn during the day, not by text, not by phone or email: no snail trails is Jocelyn’s motto. With no orders to follow, she occupies her mind by painting her nails, which is a very soothing thing to do when you’re anxious and keyed up. Some people like to throw objects, such as glasses of water or rocks, but nail painting is more positive. If more world leaders would take it up there would be less overall suffering, in her opinion.
After so-called work, she goes straight home. Jocelyn’s waiting for her in the living room, sitting on the sofa with her shoes off and her feet up. Charmaine is pained by the sight of those feet. As long as Jocelyn keeps all her clothes on it seems improbable that Max/Phil could ever have made love to her, but with the shoes off, displaying feet with real toes … And she has terrific legs, Charmaine has to give her that. Legs that Max/Phil’s hands must have stroked, in an upward direction, many times.
Charmaine can’t imagine Jocelyn in the grip of passion, she can’t imagine her saying the kinds of words Max likes to hear. She’s always so in control of herself. Nothing short of a thumbscrew could make her lose it.
“I’m having a scotch,” Jocelyn says. “Want one?”
“Why, what’s happened?” says Charmaine. Is there a shock coming? “What’s happened to Stan?”
“Stan’s fine,” says Jocelyn. “He’s relaxing.”
“All right then,” says Charmaine. She flops down into the easy chair; she’s so relieved her knees feel weak. Jocelyn swings her feet over and onto the floor, pads across the room to pour Charmaine’s drink. “Water, I think,” she says, “but no ice.”
It’s not even a question. Darn it, Charmaine thinks, when will she stop bossing me around? “Thank you,” she says. She kicks her own shoes off. “There was a funny thing today,” she says. “Ed wasn’t there. At his office. And there’s nothing on his calendar, no appointment. He’s just vanished.”
“I know,” says Jocelyn. “But he hasn’t vanished. He’s in the Positron hospital infirmary. He’s had an accident.”
“What sort of an accident?” says Charmaine. “Is it serious?” Maybe it’s a car crash. Maybe he will die, and then she won’t have to worry about whatever was supposed to come next. But if Ed dies, she’ll lose whatever power she’s got. She won’t have any function for Jocelyn She has a quick thought: why not do what Ed wants? Become his whatever. Mistress. Then she’d be safe. Wouldn’t she?
“Painful accident, I expect,” says Jocelyn. “Judging from the video surveillance records. But temporary. He’ll be back to normal soon enough.”
Whatever he calls normal, Charmaine thinks. “Oh dear,” she says, “did he break something?”
“No. Not break. But he got a little bent out of shape.” Jocelyn smiles, and this time it’s actually a friendly smile. “He got tangled up with you, as a matter of fact.”
“Me?” says Charmaine. “That’s not possible. I never …”
“Okay, your evil twin,” says Jocelyn. “That prostibot with your head. He got carried away. He squeezed your neck too hard, and then he bit you.”
“Not me,” says Charmaine. Jocelyn’s being mean. “It’s not
Charmaine blushes, she can’t help herself. So Jocelyn hasn’t forgiven her: she’s still holding it against her, that time with Max. With Phil. “What did I … what did it do?” she asks. “To Ed?”
“Some kind of electrical short,” says Jocelyn. “Those circuits are so sensitive; the smallest thing can throw them off, such as a foreign object – such as, oh, a pin – or a maladjusted setting. Maybe it was sabotage. Some resentful functionary. Who knows how it could’ve happened?”
“That’s awful,” says Charmaine.
“Yes, it’s terrible,” says Jocelyn. Would you call that a grin? It’s not exactly a sweet smile. But Jocelyn’s not in the habit of those. “Anyway, the thing went into spasm, trapping Ed inside it, and then it started thrashing around.”
“Oh my goodness,” says Charmaine. “He could’ve died!”
“Which would have been a business disaster for Possibilibots if the news leaked out,” says Jocelyn. “Luckily, I was keeping tabs on him, so I sent the paramedics in before too much damage was done. They’ve got some ice packs on him, and they’re using anti-inflammatories. There shouldn’t be too much bruising. But don’t be surprised if you see him walking like a duck.”
“Oh my goodness,” says Charmaine again. She’s got her hands over her mouth. Whatever she thinks of Ed, it wouldn’t be nice to laugh. A person is a person, however creepy they may be. And pain is pain. Just thinking about that pain makes a tingly wire shoot up her back.
“He was fairly mad at you, though,” Jocelyn continues in her detached voice. “He sent you back to the shop. He ordered you to be destroyed.”
“Not me!” Charmaine says. “Not actually me!”
“No, of course not. You know what I mean. The boys at the shop said they were sorry, and they’d tested it beforehand, but as he’d been informed, it was a beta and these things happen. They said they could debug it, but he told them not to bother because he’s through with substitutes.”
“Oh,” says Charmaine. Now she has a sinking feeling. “Does that mean what I think? You told me not to let him …”
“That still goes,” says Jocelyn. “He’ll be back on his feet again soon, and then you’ll have to keep yourself in view but out of reach. It’s crucial; I must emphasize how important that is, and how important you are. We’re absolutely depending on you. Play the piece of cheese to Ed’s rat. You’re clever, you can do it.”
It’s not very nice being told you’re a piece of cheese, but Charmaine is pleased that Jocelyn has called her important. Also clever. Up till now, she’s had the impression that Jocelyn thinks she’s an idiot.
Unpacked
Stan jolts awake. It’s still dark, but he’s moving rapidly through the air, feet first. Then there’s a bump. Muffled voices. Snap, snap, snap, snap: the fasteners on his casket. The lid lifts, light streams in. He blinks in the dazzle. White-clad arms reach for him, hoist him into a sitting position.
“Upsy-daisy!”
“Wow, what stinks?”
“Get him some other pants. Make that a whole other outfit.”
“Don’t be harsh, he didn’t do it on purpose.”
“All together now! Heave-ho!”
Stan is lifted out of the satin coffin, stood on his feet. How long has he been asleep? It feels like days. He shakes his head, tries to unslit his eyes. The room is lit with a bank of overhead LEDs – hyper-bright, but that’s because he’s been in the dark so long. He seems to be in an office; there are filing cabinets, a couple of desks. A computer terminal.
Two Elvises, in white and silver with blue capes, are holding him by the arms; three more are surveying him. Each has the hairdo, the belt buckle, the epaulettes, the lips. The fake tan. Propped against the walls there are seven or eight more, but those don’t seem to be real.
“Don’t let go of him, he’ll fall over!”
“Oh dear, his mouth fell off!”
“He looks like the walking dead.”
“Make yourself useful for once, get him some coffee.”
“I’d say a sports drink.”
“Why not both?”
Another Elvis bustles in, carrying yet another Elvis outfit. Stan blinks. Cripes, how many Elvises are there?
“Here we go,” says the tallest one; he seems to be the leader. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable. Don’t be embarrassed, everyone here’s wet themselves at least once in their life.”
“And most of them weren’t locked in a packing crate,” says another. “There’s a washroom over there.”
“We won’t peek!”
“Or maybe we will!” Laughter.
Fuck. They’re all gay, Stan thinks. A roomful of gay Elvises. Is this a mistake, is he in the wrong place? He hopes they’re not expecting … How can he tell them he’s straight as a Kansas highway without sounding rude?