Love and Robotics (3 page)

   
                              
Josh sat in the dark, watching the shadows on the ceiling. Sugar came in and switched the lights on.              

                                   “He’s like a different man. How did you do it?”

                                   “We just talked.”

       “Whatever it is, carry on. He’s giving us some of Lady A’s things,
and
written a cashtot. You’ll never guess how much for ...”

                            Josh let him prattle on.

Changes

              The changes to Josh’s life were instantaneous. Previously confined to his suite, he was allowed to wander and get to know the staff. He made two discoveries: Madge’s team in the Pond and Pip Profitt, the girl who did the tours.

              CER’s graduate scheme attracted a certain type. Girls with highlighted hair, rounded vowels and satchels. Pip dressed as though she’d been caught in a paint fight and rattled with piercings. Her hair changed constantly: pink, turquoise, spiked, shaved. She was bouncy, talkative and behaved as though the rules didn’t apply to her. Normally such a mismatch would be kicked out in a fortnight, but she was an outstanding guide. Repeat visitors always asked for “the girl with the hair.”

              “If you’re doin’ tours, do ‘em with panache. There’s hundreds of museums in this city. Give them an experience they dinna forget.”

              First he copied her style. “No! Be yourself.”

              “I don’t know how.”

              “Bollocks. I like you. The Pond likes you. Lord Langton frickin’
adores
you.”

“Really?”

              “Must do. He dinna used to give this place the time of day.”

              Josh allowed himself a small glow. It didn’t last.

              “Wakey wakey! When I’m done you’ll be the sultan of tour guides.”

              If that wasn’t enough, he had classes with Ozols about etiquette. “What does that mean?” he’d asked.

              “The proper way to behave.”

At first he’d been intrigued. By the third class he’d realised it was mainly table manners and ‘conversational technique’. They kept being interrupted by Monty, a malevolent ginger tom Ozols loved to distraction. If he wasn’t bringing in mangled rodents and demanding they admire them, he was spraying the plants or squatting in the wastepaper basket. He’d never heard of etiquette.

                            “Not being funny, but does any of this
matter
?” Josh was sitting at a table she had laid out. There was a formidable array of cutlery and glasses; he had to pick which to use first.

                            “In the grand scheme of things, no. But if you don’t want HG to think ‘Pleb’-”

                            “Won’t she anyway?”

                            “When you’re at the Palace you’re representing us. You need to put on a good show.”

                            “Seems a bit pointless.”

              “Langton’s rubbing off on you. You never used to be this gobby.”

                            Next he pretended she was the sovereign. The correct form of address was Your Grace, you had to bow and do a complicated handshake. “She or Prince Wulfric will ask what you do -”

                            “What
do
I do?”

                            “You’re a celebrity artificial.”

                            “What’s a celebrity?”

                            “Somebody famous.”

                            “How can I be famous when I haven’t done anything?”

                            “You’d be amazed how little that counts. Anyway, don’t turn your back on the Queen -”

“What’s wrong with my back?”

“I don’t think we’re getting anywhere. Use the rest of the day for being less annoying.”

He stared at her office door as it shut in his face. “I was only asking.”

The door opposite sidled open. He sighed. “Hello, Dr Fisk.”

“How many times have I asked you to call me Julia?”

Fisk stood in the doorway, licking her lips. It happened whenever she caught him alone. She stared wolfishly, he looked at the floor. Silence spooled between them.

“Sorry, Julia.” It tasted wrong.

“Is something worrying you? The launch?”

“No.” He met her eye. “I’m looking forward to it.”

A desiccated hand patted his. “My door is always open.”

He sensed her eyes following him. He wasn’t comfortable till he was four floors away.

Perplexing though these differences were, they didn’t swamp his primary concern: Alfred was coming to see him. Whenever he heard a vix he went to the window to look, but a tall red haired figure never climbed out.

              One afternoon
he was at a loose end. He wandered downstairs to the Pond, where the lines were busier than usual.

              “Josh!” Madge waved him over. “Fancy adding a string to your bow?”

“I suppose so - ”

She pushed a brochure into his hands. “The new Home Butler was released last week and we’ve had nothing but complaints. It hasn’t turned up, it keeps shutting down. Between you and me, it’s shite, but we’re not allowed to
say
that.”

The Butler looked like a standard functional, its only concessions to humanity a sketchy face and bow tie. It was shown performing a range of tasks: mowing the lawn, mixing a cocktail, loading the washing machine. It chatted about a range of topics, helped children with schoolwork and protected your home with its “handy surveillance system!”

“Why don’t people keep their old ones?” Josh asked.

“They like the latest gadgets.”

“Would you get one?”

“Nah, because I know what pains in the arse bots can be. Present company excepted. Are you up for it?”

“Sorry?”

“Talking to these miserable sods.”

“I don’t know anything about customer service -”

“Make sympathetic noises. If they moan, tell them to piss off.” Before he could protest, Madge shoved a bulb in his ear and pressed Available.

A querulous voice came on the line. “I demand to speak to the CEO!”

“I’m sorry, he’s playing golf. Is there anything I can do?”

He took four calls, all complaints. He tried to follow Madge’s advice but it wasn’t easy. Nobody seemed to be listening. “It’s nice to finally speak to a human!” they kept saying.

“I need a drink.” Somebody fetched him a coffee. “If they want your help, why are they so rude?”

“It’s why we call them cuntstomers -”

“Dean!” Madge scolded.

“What?”

“Don’t swear in front of Josh.”

“He’ll hear it sooner or later.”

“Yeah, but when Fisky asks
where
-”

“Fair dos.”

“Are you ready to take another call?” Madge asked. “It’d really help.”

This latest customer was the worst. She kept interrupting, seized on the most innocuous phrases - “
Should
? You
will
-” and threatened to dump her Home Butler on CER’s doorstep if somebody didn’t collect it that evening.

“I’m sorry, madam, we won’t -”

“Madam? Do I look like I run a brothel?”

“You
might
run a brothel. Is it the sort of thing you would do?” This remark, reasonable to his ears, made her gurgle with rage.

A roar of laughter. “Now
there’s
a satisfied customer.”

He only knew one person with a voice like that: hoarse but musical, like a good singer with a sore throat. He pressed the Release button and grinned at Alfred.

“Hello! What are you doing here?”

“Well -” Alfred considered. “I thought I’d pop by to admire the architecture, then realised I could kill two birds with one stone and see you.”

Josh looked to Madge for permission. “May I?”

“Ask Shuggy.”

Sugar took a maddeningly long time to trace. Finally Josh ran into him coming out of the fifth floor lavatory.

“Alfred, sorry, Lord Langton, wants to know if I can go out. Says we’ll be back by dinner.”

The roboticist considered. “Nineteen o’clock sharp. Else he’ll have me to answer to.” As Josh blinked, “Used to be a su mon du champion. Bet Langton can’t say that.”

Josh had only seen Lux as sprinkles of lights beneath CER. On the rare occasions he’d been taken out it was to a lab, always in a hired vix with tinted windows. Alfred’s vix was a very different proposition: gleaming platinum, cream seats that sank as you sat down. What he’d taken for a chauffeur was Gwyn in a driving cap and jacket.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Anywhere and everywhere. Josh?”

“No idea.” He wallowed in leather. “This is my first time in the city.”

“We’ll give you a tour. Gwynnie, put some music on.”

She was astonishingly like Alfred, as though somebody had hammered out a copy but made it female at the last minute. They shared many mannerisms:  lifting an eyebrow when they were bemused, propping their chin with their hand, drumming their fingers. They seemed to read each other’s thoughts. Josh wished, uselessly, he could have that close a bond with someone. There
were
no people like him.

“Lux is best explored on foot,” Alfred explained. “There are all sorts of weird and wonderful places the tourist never sees. What are you wearing to the launch?”

“One of the techies lent me a tux -”

“Borrowed clothes never look right. It’s got to be something you’ve chosen.”

“You’d know,” Gwyn teased. “You were born in tweed.”

Josh thought he had misheard. “I can pick it myself?”

“Uh-huh.”

The parking bay wound into a shopping centre, the glass and colour reminding Josh of the Centre’s fish tank. So many windows, displaying so many things! Fat tubas and elegant fiddles. A toy helter-skelter, bobble hatted penguins whizzing round. Confectioners stretching taffy.
Lacy bustiers high kicked with sheer stockings.

This was real life. The couples dabbing cream on each other’s noses, old men heckling on balconies, teenagers spinning on the dance floor. When a robot came into view, whether a Dave with his stun gun or an S10 in the ticket booth, they were intrusions.

Their first stop was an outfitters called Ratcliffe’s. The window was full of ‘Alfred wear’: mainly tweed, but also suits of impeccable cut, snowy shirts with starched collars, silk ties and buttery shoes. Alfred ambled inside, Gwyn following.

Somebody plucked at Josh’s sleeve. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

It must be his clothes. A sweater, twills, brogues - fine for mooching, but not somewhere like this. “I’ll come back when I’ve changed.”

Josh would always remember this man. Short, wide shouldered, pot bellied. He was wearing one of his suits, but what looked debonair on a dummy was ludicrous on him. He’d gummed his hair across his bald patch; Alfred and Gwyn were trying not to giggle. “We don’t serve arties. You’ll have to go,” this vision said.

Alfred, examining a rack of ties, looked up. He was quickly at Josh’s side. “
What
did you say?”

“Lord Langton!” The man was all cringing obeisance. “I was telling this young, er, robot -”

“He’s with me.”

“Oh!” He fidgeted. “If you could ask your, erm, property to wait outside -”

Alfred glowered. At times like this you noticed how big he was. “
He
has a name. He’s not my, or anybody’s, property. I was going to buy him a suit, but if you’re this pig ignorant, I don’t think I’ll bother.”

“But -”

“We’re leaving.”

Alfred stormed down the arcade. “What a
bastard
!”

“I don’t mind,” Josh insisted.

“Having that invertebrate with his stupid comb over talk to you like that -”

“We could go to another shop -”

“He’s right.” Gwyn laid a hand on his arm. “There’s bound to be somewhere nicer.”

“Refusing to serve somebody because they’re an artificial! Isn’t this a free country?”

“You get tossers everywhere. Ignore him.”

Now the shock had passed, Josh didn’t care. “It’s over,” he said. “Forget it.”

While Alfred and Gwyn bickered, Josh wondered what had caused the turnaround in attitude. The man who signed himself ‘AW’ demonised artificials. He’d gone to Chimera determined to battle with that man. Instead he met Alfred, who treated him with courtesy and respect. Not only was he buying him a suit, he was getting worked up because somebody had snubbed him.

How strange humans were; how strange and nice.

Early on the outing suffered two handicaps. First Josh discovered a passion for clothes. He couldn’t pass a rail without spotting two items he liked.

“It’s a function at the Palace,” Alfred cried. “Black tie. That makes you look like a peacock.”

Josh wished he could take them all home, but where would they go? The problem increased tenfold when Gwyn asked, “What are
you
wearing, Grizzly?”

“I’ll scrape the moths off something.”