The Mad Scientist's Daughter (27 page)

  "That's not a name. How about Arianne? You seem like an Arianne."

  "I do not understand."

  Cat stiffened, her cigarette poised next to her head, her fingers pressed against the rim of her glass. He always said that to her.
I don't understand.

  "Is there anything with which I may assist you?" said the computer.

  "I just want to talk." Cat picked up the glass of whiskey. "Tell me something about yourself."

  "I am a Sunlight Model–"

  "That's not what I meant." Cat took a drink. The whiskey was expensive, smooth against the back of her throat. She barely tasted the alcohol anymore. "Who made you, Arianne?"

  "I was manufactured by SynLodge, in the Pine Hills laboratory in the Central Texas area. My make and model–"

  "I know your make and model," Cat snapped. "Who designed you?"

  "I don't know."

  "Do you know why you were made?"

  "That consideration isn't part of my programming. Would you like to watch a movie? Shall I provide you with a list of available options?"

  "No, I told you, I want to talk."

  "Shall I bring up possible contacts from your address book?"

  "No." Cat used the dying embers of her cigarette to light another. When she dropped the butt in the second tumbler it sparked and smoldered. "I want to talk to you."

  "I do not understand."

  "Please don't say that," Cat said. "You're an AI. I knew an AI once, and he used to talk to me."

  "I'm not programmed for extended discussion. If you are confused, I can provide you with a list of simple commands that I will recognize. Please describe what task you're trying to accomplish."

  Cat laid her head on the table. A line of ash fell across the polished mahogany.

  "If you are unwell," the computer said. "I can contact Mr Feversham–"

  "Oh, God, don't." Cat sat back up and rubbed her forehead. "And if I was unwell, why would you contact him? Why not 9-1-1?"

  "I'm programmed to contact Mr Feversham in case of an emergency."

  Cat rolled her eyes and slumped against the back of her chair. "Of course you are." She felt Finn's absence as surely as she felt the heat of the hottest day on record, as surely as she tasted the whiskey on her tongue. "Computer," she said. "Could you bring up the dining room monitor, please?"

  Two panels in the metal bookcase on the opposite wall slid apart. The monitor flashed on. Its background that same restored blood-red Rothko painting all the house monitors had.

  "I want you to search for news stories for me." Cat paused. "I'm looking for any instance of the use of androids on the lunar station."

  "Please wait."

  It took longer than Cat expected.

  "I have found fifty-three instances of the use of androids on the lunar station."

  "Any videos?"

  "There are ten videos dealing with instances of the use–"

  "OK," said Cat. "Thanks. Show me the longest one." She lit another cigarette. "No, scratch that. Show me one that was actually taken on the moon."

  The monitor turned black. The screen flashed the STL logo: that gray pockmarked moon, a city shooting out of its surface. The video started. Soundless at first. Only a slow, grainy pan across the surface, showing the lunar station against the backdrop of the perpetual night sky. Then a cut to the station's interior. A pair of astronauts, one man and one woman. Their mouths moved silently for two or three seconds. The sound started.
We've been here a few weeks now, and everything's going fine
. The woman waved, said hello to her children, her words several seconds behind the movement of her lips.
We want to show you some of the equipment we're using here at the STL Lunar Station.

  Cat tightened her fingers around her tumbler.

  
Let's introduce you to some of our robot friends.

  "Oh, for fuck's sake," Cat said.

  Robots that looked like spiders and tiny cars and photoprocessing machines paraded across the screen, blinking and whirring, shoveling gray dust, calculating atmospheric conditions.

  And then there he was.

  He stood on the gray soil. Half of Earth rose up behind him. She saw the top of Asia, a swirl of white clouds. He wore a jumpsuit like those the astronauts wore. He smiled politely. He waved. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded. Off camera, the male astronaut said,
This is George. George can do all the things we can do, only without a space suit or a helmet. We're very grateful for all of George's help here at the STL Lunar Station.

  Cat eyes fluttered. A single tear landed on the table.

  She was unraveling.

  "Turn it off." She stabbed her cigarette into the tumbler. "God, turn it off."

  She stumbled away from the table. The house was too dark. She put her hands against the wall to steady herself and it was cool to the touch, foggy from the constant rush of the air conditioner. The condensation left her fingers damp. She took a deep breath. Her heart slowed back to normal. Calm. She was calm.

  She was numb.

 

Richard took Cat out on a business dinner: one of the investors and his wife. Cat wore a blue belted dress and a pair of white pumps, and she had her hair styled at a salon. She applied her lipstick on the way out the door.

  As they drove into the city, Richard tightened and loosened his tie. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Cat kept her hands folded in her lap and stared out the window. It had been a week since she'd tried to contact Finn and seen that video at the dining room table; she'd been in a fog since. Always wanting to sleep, her limbs aching.

  "You look nice." Richard glanced over at her and then back at the road. "Really classy."

  "Thank you."

  Richard didn't say anything. She knew that when they arrived at the restaurant he would step out of the car transformed, as smooth as glass. Since their fight, she was more aware of his vulnerability, of his weaknesses. She was aware of the way he buried them so neatly in the rituals of business.

  Nothing could touch Cat. Nothing could hurt her. But Richard – she looked at him and she knew how easy it would be to twist a knife into his heart and let all that insecurity flow out.

  They arrived at the restaurant. The investor was so old it hurt to look at him. His wife was Cat's age. She wore the exact same shade of lipstick. When the four of them met in the restaurant's lobby, Cat and the investor's wife stared at each other in the candle-lit darkness without smiling. Then the investor's wife tucked her clutch purse under her arm and limply held out her hand.

  "It's lovely to meet you," she said.

  "Likewise," said Cat.

  All of the tables were full, but their party was whisked away, without any wait, to a quiet back corner. A pair of candles burned steadily in two red-dyed cracked jars. Richard pulled out Cat's chair, but as soon as she sat down he turned to the investor.

  "You have no idea how excited I am about this new product," Richard said. "It's a game-changer."

  Cat shut him out, sipping her glass of wine. The investor's wife drummed her fingers against the table, flicked her eyes from Richard to Cat.

  "I like your dress," she said finally. The candles on the table flickered, and the investor's wife looked as insubstantial as a ghost.

  Cat smiled politely and thanked her. "It's a Dior."

  "Ah." The investor's wife tugged at her earrings. They looked like sparks of electricity. Her own dress was a drapey black thing, rather avant garde, the sort of dress Cat had admired through boutique windows when she was in college. "Yours looks like a…" she held out one hand. "Let me guess. I love guessing."

  The investor's wife waited.

  "A Yamamoto," said Cat.

  The investor's wife laughed. "You're right," she said. "Are you in fashion?"

  "Sort of," Cat said. "I used to work in textiles." She thought of the last time she had touched a loom. How she had woven a piece of herself into that tapestry for Finn. It was still unfinished. It would never be finished.

  "Textiles?"

  "Yes," said Cat. "Weaving."

  The investor's wife smiled politely, one of those subtle social cues Cat had learned to recognize during the course of her marriage to Richard. It meant she wanted to change the subject.

  Cat glanced over at Richard. He leaned forward over the table, nodding intently to whatever the investor was saying. They were talking about money. Cat didn't have to listen to the conversation to know. She could barely understand the investor anyway. He slurred his words in the manner of men from the swamps. It took him forever to say anything.
A selfmade man
, Richard had told her a few nights before, over dinner.
More money than God.

  Cat wished she could light a cigarette on the table's candle. Instead, she passed her fingers over the flame. The heat warmed her skin.

  "So how long have you known Richard?" the investor's wife asked.

  Cat looked up at her. She realized she couldn't say. It felt like a lifetime. All that time before Richard had been a dream. Finn. Finn was a dream.

  "A few years," she said.

  "I met Michael three years ago." The investor's wife looped her arm in her husband's and he glanced at her, interrupting the conversation with Richard. The lines of the investor's face melted into a smile. Richard looked annoyed.

  "Ah, yes," said the investor. "I remember that day well." He tapped the side of his head. "I bought a pack of cigarettes."

  "I was a vice stand girl," the wife said.

  Cat laughed. The dream-life. "So was I. In college." She paused. "And for a few years afterward."

  "Oh, a lifer, huh? What stand did you work?"

  "The one in Juniper Park." Cat sipped her wine. "I guess it's still there. I haven't been back to check."

  "I was out on the Interstate," the wife said. "Awful. I heard the in-town stands were much nicer."

  Their food arrived. The waiter walked over, a tray hoisted high above his head. Only the most expensive restaurants were staffed by human waiters rather than robots. "Mahi Mahi glazed in ginger-sake sauce," he said. "The plate's very hot."

  Cat looked down at the cut of fish displayed across the white china.

  "Ain't this nice," the investor said. Everyone except the waiter turned to him. Steam curled up from his plate. "Not too often you get served by a human anymore." He grinned at the waiter, who nodded stiffly, asked if everything was to their satisfaction.

  Richard frowned, furrowed his brow. The investor laughed.

  "Oh, don't look like that," he said. "Lord knows we still need those things. But sometimes it's nice to go back to the old ways of doing business."

  Richard relaxed, his shoulders slumping beneath his crisp suit. The investor cut into his fish, and silence fell as everyone ate. Cat pushed the Mahi Mahi around in its thick sweet glaze.

  "So, Mrs Feversham," said the investor. Cat looked up at him, startled. "You've been living in the Sunlight House. What do you think?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "He's asking for your opinion," said Richard. "Darling."

  The investor nodded. "I like the sound of it," he said. "All the benefits of an AI and none of the legal hassles. I was just wondering what it's like to live there."

  Cat felt Richard staring at her.

  "I appreciate its convenience," she finally said.

  "Ah. That's it? What do you think of your husband's AI? Does it work as well as he claims?"

  Cat took a bite of fish so she wouldn't have to answer. It melted on her tongue like a communion wafer.

  "It works fine. Doesn't it, honey? Helps you keep track of your appointments." Richard slung his arm around her shoulder rough enough that he hurt her collarbone. "She's self-employed. An artist."

  The investor laughed. "Artists. The vice stands are lousy with 'em. Same with the damn robot-rights groups–"

  His wife's fork clattered against her plate. "Michael," she said. "Please don't start–"

  "I'll talk politics if I want." The investor turned to Cat. "I'm sure you're not involved with all that nonsense, though. You got a good head on your shoulders." He winked. "I can tell."

  Cat felt the movement of her blood through her veins. She felt her heart pumping in her chest. In the moment, she was ashamed of her humanity.

  "Actually," she said, "I donate regularly to the Automaton Defense League."

  The entire world went silent. Cat kept her gaze straight ahead so she would not have to look at Richard. The investor set down his knife and fork and rubbed his chin, and his wife's lipsticked mouth froze into a lovely, crystalline smile.

  "Well," he said. "That's a bit unexpected."

  "Why do you say that?" Cat's voice came out calm and sweet as syrup.

  "They've tried to shut down SynLodge," said the investor. "Haven't they?"

  "More than once." Richard's voice rang out across the table.

  Cat dropped her head, heat flushing her cheeks. She twisted her napkin around her right hand.

  "I take it you didn't know about this, Feversham?"

  Richard sat up straight. "You shouldn't take her seriously." He tilted his head toward Cat. When she turned to meet his eye, she did not recognize what she saw there. "She's joking."

  Cat smiled weakly and smoothed the napkin over her lap. Richard pressed his mouth into a grimace.

  "See?" he said. "A joke."

  "A joke." The investor looked from Richard to Cat. "Something tells me that ain't no joke."

  "It was. She jokes all the time. Very wry. Right, sweetheart?"

  "I suppose." Cat turned back to the investor. She was calm; she was lighter than air. "And to answer your question," she said, "about the AI? It works very well."