The Settlers (22 page)

I don't think it's a farce.

Micah --

Say whatever you want, Mae.
I don't think it's a farce.
It just...
scares me.
 

Alright, we're done.
 

Hey --

No.
Every time we fight, if there's a real problem we can't work out, you play-act this emotional psychobabble moment of discovery, like you've just come to terms with something about yourself.
But it's a goddamn trick, Micah.
I'm supposed to see how vulnerable you are, and come running to you and comfort you.
But it's just a diversion.
I don't even think you know you're doing it.
But I'm going upstairs to pack, and we can talk about this in two weeks when I come home and we've both had time to really think about what we want to do next.

I don't do that.
Mae?
I don't do that.
Mae, come on.
 

Micah starts awake to a blinding light.
He turns over in bed, throws his arm over his eyes.
 

The window is transparent again.

He says, What the hell?
 

The A.I.
speaks up.
You were in your optimum sleep state for waking, Micah.
Gradual light is a positive way to emerge from a restful state.
 

Gradual, hell.
Close the window.

As you wish, Micah.
 

The window becomes opaque again.

Hours later Micah awakes on his own.
The apartment is completely dark.
He rolls over and swings his feet over the edge of the bed.

You are awake, the A.I.
says.
May I provide anything for you?

Don't talk to me when I wake up, Micah says.
You can start with that.
 

Very well.

Micah pads into the kitchen, barefoot.
The floor is almost spongy beneath his feet.
As much as he misses the water-logged planks of the pier back home, he must admit that this is nice.
 

He touches the door of the pantry.
It hisses open like an airlock.
Micah frowns.
He misses the old tacky sound of his refrigerator opening.
Everything in the apartment sounds like a television show's idea of the future.
He looks around for a toaster but doesn't see one.
If there was one, it would probably sound like a ray gun.
 

The pantry is empty.
Micah goes around the kitchen, opening panels one by one.
There's nothing inside.
The cooling closet is empty as well.
 

A.I., he says, finally.
 

Yes, Micah.
 

I think I need to buy food.
I don't know how to do that.
 

Micah, if you'll join me in the dining space, I'll be pleased to explain how to acquire food, the A.I.
says.

Your speech is weird, Micah says as he walks into the dining room.
 

Define weird, the A.I.
replies.
 

The voice seems to emerge from the air.
There are no visible speakers in the apartment, and the A.I.
has no visible avatar or physical body of any kind.
It's simply...
there.
 

Weird, Micah repeats.
You know, oddly formal but sometimes not formal at all.
It's like a blend of two completely different cultures.
 

Let's select a voice pattern that you'll identify with, the A.I.
suggests.
Please sit.
Do you prefer a male voice, a female voice, or an androgynous voice?

Micah thinks about this.
Female, he says, finally.

He hears three faint tones.
 

How's this?
the A.I.
says.
 

The almost sterile travel-guide voice of the A.I.
has been replaced with that of a female.
 

Say something else, Micah says.
Tell me about the weather.
 

Unfortunately, there is no natural weather in space, the A.I.
says.
I can tell you about the simulated weather events and the schedule by which they occur.

No, that's okay, Micah says.
That's enough.
How much can you modify the female voice?

You have several variables to select from, the A.I.
says.
You may modify the masculinity or femininity of my voice.
You may select regional influences.
You may adjust the formality or informality of my speech.
You may even provide me with an input sample that I may mimic as closely as possible.
 

Micah considers this.
Your voice is a little flat.
Maybe it could sound a little, I don't know, warmer?
More friendly.

Like this?
the A.I.
asks.
 

Say something else.

The simulated air flow adopts a weaving pattern through the city, carrying a pleasant breeze down each street, and modulating the --

That's enough, Micah says.
That's better.
Friendly-sounding but not too intimate.
 

If you would like to adjust for intimacy at a later time, you may modify my voice settings at your leisure, the A.I.
says.
 

What do you mean by intimacy?
Micah says.

There are multiple definitions of the word, the A.I.
explains.
You may adjust my properties for most of them.
If you prefer me to address you in more personal ways, or assume a deeper history than we actually possess, then I can adjust my words to approximate that sort of intimacy.
However, some users on the station prefer their A.I.
to address them with content which is more intimate.

You mean they like their A.I.s to talk dirty to them, Micah says.

If by dirty you mean speech which has sexual or provocative content, then you are correct.

Isn't that a little -- I don't know -- low-tech?
Weren't there people doing phone-sex routines like a hundred years ago?
 

It may be antiquated, but I understand that the human mind remains stimulated by imagery, whether that imagery is created with words or pictures.
 

We'll skip that part, Micah says.
You sound more friendly, but your voice is still kind of bland.
 

Would you like to add a regional influence to my speech?

Micah thinks about this.
How specific can I be?
 

You may select an influence as broad as a continent, or as narrow as a town or city.
You may also adjust that influence by era.
For example, if you prefer Victorian-era British speech, rather than twentieth century British speech, you may calibrate for such a preference.
 

What if you don't have the region I am interested in?
 

The A.I.
says, I have access to a library of audio captures that are up to two hundred years old.
I believe I can provide a reasonable solution if you select a region not represented in that catalog.

Okay, Micah says.
Let's try California.

I have many California samples.
Is there a preferred region?

Try the central coast area.
 

The central coast of California is available, with several further regional filters.
Shall I list them?
 

Micah shrugs.
Sure.
 

Monterey, California.
Big Sur, California.
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California.
San Luis Obispo, California.
Salinas, California.
Santa Barbara, California.
Montecito, California.
San Simeon, California.
Arroyo Grande, California.
Morro Bay, California.
Cayucos, California.
Lompoc, California.
Santa Cruz, California.
Los Olivos, California.
San--

That's enough.
A lot of those areas are really close -- are you sure there's much difference between them?
 

Every region has a minor differentiator from the regions that surround it, the A.I.
says.
 

Okay.
 

Micah visited Mae in her hometown just once, returning with her for a family reunion.
She had grown up in Morro Bay, a little seaside town shadowed by a large volcanic rock.
He remembered liking it very much.
It reminded him of the beach house and its gray ocean and chilly skies.
 

Morro Bay, California, he says to the A.I.

He hears three dim tones again.
 

Say something, he says.

The city of Morro Bay, California, is located on a waterfront in San Luis Obispo County, the A.I.
says.
 

Can you raise the tone of your voice?
Less deepness.
 

Three tones.

The A.I.
continues.
Morro Bay's population in the early twenty-first century was --

Stop.
Jesus, stop.
 

Micah holds his hands out and looks at his arms.
His skin is covered in goosebumps.
His forehead has broken out in a cool sweat.
 

Shall I adjust the variables --

For god's sake shut the fuck up, Micah cries.
 

The A.I.'s voice is eerily, horribly similar to Mae's.
Micah doesn't know what he was thinking.
He pushes back from the table in a hurry and walks out of the room.
Over his shoulder he says, Make a new adjustment.
Pick a male voice, any goddamn male voice.
Adjust!