Love and Robotics (6 page)

“Three minutes ten,” Alfred panted. “Must be a record.”

Josh felt his clockwork buzz beneath his ribs. Glancing at Alfred, sweaty and elated, he contrasted him with the brusque, angry man of four weeks ago. How much had changed!

“Why don’t you patent Thingummy? It’s better than the boring gyms humans use.”

“
I’ve
got one of those boring gyms,” Alfred said. “I like having something that’s just mine, if you see what I mean.”

“I do.” It was how Josh felt about his visits to Chimera.

The door nosed open. “’Lo, Grizzly.” Gwyn didn’t acknowledge Josh. “Nanny says it’s ready. Wants us to dress up.”

“Must we?” Alfred groaned.

“You can’t be a hermit forever.”

“I’ll be down in fifteen. Can you show Josh the best guest room?”

Josh didn’t want to get up but knew a dismissal when he heard one. He followed Gwyn into the hall. He amused himself by looking at the portraits, particularly one of Alfred in a ceremonial skirt and a hat with feathers.

“Here,” she said, showing him through a door.

The room beyond was wonderful: based around a turret, it was dove tinted with a sea green four poster, a rocking chair and a wardrobe with the sun, moon and planets painted on it.

“Oh, I like this!”

“He thought you would. See you in the Function Room.” She vanished without further ado.

Josh opened the wardrobe, expecting the launch suit. While it was there, in all its glorious parts, there were a further three, ones he recognised from the shop. A gong sounded. Careful not to budge his bandage, he unhooked a cream suit with a sky blue shirt. There were shoes as well - two tone, his size.

It was only when Josh had taken the wrong turning twice, ending up by the same stuffed swordfish, he realised he had no idea where the Function Room was. His sense of direction fogged at Chimera.

“Has my wicked niece left you in the lurch?”

Alfred leant over the balcony on the landing above. Josh had never seen him in dress clothes. They were a few years out of date, perhaps, but still stately. He came downstairs gradually, obviously uncomfortable.

“Thanks for the -”

“Don’t mention it. I auctioned off this vase I’ve been trying to break for years.”

They trailed downstairs, Alfred demonstrating his slapstick attempts to wreck the vase. Josh felt affectionate exasperation. Why did Alfred, normally so talkative, shy away from this sort of thing?  Just now, when Josh had said he looked “sumptuous”, he’d frozen.

“Don’t wander off!” A hand on his elbow. “This way.”

Nanny had done them proud. On ordinary days the Function Room’s main features were a swoop of velvet curtains and gilded mirrors. Not only was the grand piano topped by a buffet, she’d set the chandelier revolving so lights shimmered across the walls. A musicbox flipped disks as they watched.

“They always have dancin’ at these dos.” Nanny popped out from behind the chocolate fountain. “Thought we should teach you.”

“Dancing?” Josh exclaimed.

“It’s not that bad.” Gwyn ladled out servings of punch. ‘Dress’ in her case was a burgundy suit. “What’s a good track for a beginner?”

“
Epiphany
, I think.” Nanny padded to the musicbox. She wore her black bombazine. “You can’t beat an oldie!”

The querulous note of a clarinet, followed by a dreamy, out of focus band. She stuck out a stubby mitt. “May I have this dance, Alfie?”

They bowed. He passed her a yellow rose from a nearby vase and she crammed it into her cleavage. As the music swelled they started to shuffle.

“You dancing?” Gwyn mumbled.

“If you’re asking.”

“Then you’re dancing.”

“I haven’t done this before -”

“I’ll lead.”

It was the first time she’d smiled at him. She was pretty under all the surliness. She held out her hand, took his, and brought him close to her chest. “Copy what I do.”

He mimicked the lines of her arms, the sidesteps of her shoes. She executed a neat twirl, talked him through it. “See? Easy as pie.”

Her hands were on his waist, steering him round. It felt ticklish; he couldn’t help laughing. The song drew a last wistful sigh. Gwyn opened her arms and let him drop into them. As her hands curved around his back, she bent towards him.

A sound like cloth tearing. The disk was wrenched off its circuit.

“That will do.”Alfred’s mouth twitched. “Let’s get started on the buffet.”

Josh wandered the grounds with a plate of cheeses. He had a nagging feeling he was at fault. He went to sit beneath a tree, remembered the suit and chose a bench instead.

He always knew when somebody was behind him. They’d tested him: blackouts, blindfolds, switching off his hearing. Even unfamiliar cologne didn’t mask the sense impression.

“Hello, Alfred.”

“Hello, lad.” A musical lilt - had he been drinking? Turning, he saw that no, he was only upset.

They spoke at once. “I’m sorry.” Awkward laugh, then they did it again. “You first.”

“No, you.”

“Don’t be stubborn, Josh.”

“You’re one to talk. Gwyn’s a good girl.”

Undeniable pride. “She is. You couldn’t mistake her for anything but a Wilding.”

“She’s not like other girls.”

A quick, disquieted look. “No. She’s had a tough life. As her guardian -”

Josh caught something in Alfred’s tone. “Are you warning me?”

“I suppose I am.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about.”

“You’re not completely repulsive and her head’s easily turned. I hope you understand.”

Josh didn’t. Yes, he’d read Mandy’s romances, but they’d confused him more than ever. He only knew he wanted to put Alfred’s mind at rest.

“I would never hurt you. You’re the closest I have to a friend.”

Alfred looked away for a moment. Josh worried he’d spoken out of turn. When he did speak there was an odd quality to his voice.

“We’re overexcited. Frazzled, I expect.”

“Do you want to run through your speech?”

“Give me
some
room for improvement.”

The Launch

A night at the Palace. Now there was a thought to freeze the blood.

Alfred was lousy at these things. Ken used to cry off them, so he’d go as Gussy’s moral support. She linked her arm through his like a benevolent jailer, always knowing what to say. After she died he lost the knack. He stood in the corner, talked too much or too little, got drunk. When he was banned from the Palace he heaved a sigh of relief.

Now Josh had persuaded him otherwise. Damn the lad. If it wasn’t enough he had to wear a monkey suit, he’d agreed to talk. He hoped it’d go down better than his best man’s speech.

He was on his third lap of the hall, Puss shadowing. Josh should be here by now. Maybe there was a strike. Maybe he’d broken down. Maybe -

The bell pealed. He reached the door before Gwyn.

“Do me out of a job, why don’t you?”

He grinned. “Carry on like that, I’ll get Bill to drive. Ruffle a few royalist feathers.”

She made a face. He pulled a worse one back. Josh stared at them, baffled. “Have I picked a bad time?”

“No, you’re very punctual.”

“It’s as unpunctual to be early as it is to be late. I like to be on time.”

“If you say so.” ‘Alfred Time’ was a family joke. His idea of two hours later was half a day, if he remembered. Poor Gwyn got furious about it.

“You look terrific,” the artificial said.

Alfred would have suspected anyone else of sarcasm. Josh really
did
look terrific. Slim and pale as a ghost, his tie and the orchid in his buttonhole the only touch of colour.

“I brought you one.” Josh patted an orchid into place on Alfred’s lapel. The flower looked flimsy beside the tweed but the thought was there. “Now we match.”

“Where did you get them?”

“I’m growing them on the roof garden.”

“They’re wonderful.”

Josh put his arm through his. “Are you ready?”

“Born ready.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. How cringe inducing.

They’d been driving for an hour, eating sherbets and playing the games you do on long journeys. They were well into Gwyn’s favourite, making silly sentences from letters on vix plates. She and Josh were giggling at ‘Yeti Safety Blanket’ and ‘Evil Breakfast Attacks’ when Alfred was seized by a panic attack.

He knew the symptoms. His eye twitched, his leg jingled, he gripped his knees. His chest became a balloon swelling to bursting point, his mouth arid. From a great height he heard Josh say, “He’s gone funny,” and Gwyn exclaim, “Not again!”

“Is he alright?”

“Give him a nip from his flask.”

“He’s not supposed to be drinking.”

“It’s medicinal.”

“Shouldn’t he breathe into a bag?”

“Doesn’t work.” She pulled into a higgledy piggledy lane and tethered against a tree. He felt her patting his face but couldn’t tell her to stop it.

“Alfred.” The mist parted. Josh looked down at him. “Can you hear me?”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Do you do that a lot?”

“If I’m worked up.”

“It’s not too late to go back.”

“I promised I’d lend moral support -”

“- and you keep your word.” He held out the flask. “Need this?”

Alfred wanted it so badly, he could taste it, but dreaded Josh’s disappointment. “There’s pills in the glove compartment.”

“I’m proud of you.”

He heaved himself into a sitting position. “This had better be worth it.”

“C’mon.” Gwyn had returned. “We’ll be late if we don’t get a move on.”

“Fashionably late - what does that
mean
?” Alfred wondered. “What are you if you’re early?”

“Scruffily early?” Josh suggested.

Gwyn rolled her eyes. “Why are men full of crap?”

They arrived at the Palace without further incident. Josh took in the hulking building, squatting over the Pleasure Grounds like a monstrous lizard.

“I like the National Library better. This looks like a big house.”

“I thought banks were palaces when I was little,” Gwyn agreed. “They look grander. How long are you going to be?”

“Depends,” Alfred shrugged. “Brought anything to read?”

“I’ve got my powerbook.” Feet on the control panel, she was quickly absorbed in a game.

They advanced up the drive, Josh’s arm trembling. “It’s not too late to run, is it?” he asked.

“You’re the guest of honour!”

“I’ll stop you -”

“I’ll stop you.”

“Your orchid’s crooked.” Josh fixed it.

As they stepped over the threshold they were dazzled by light and noise.

“The artie!”

“That’s him!”

“Isn’t he lifelike?”

“Isn’t that -?”

“
Lord Langton?
”

Whispers scattered from one guest to the next. He heard one woman tell her husband he’d taken up the family business. As if anyone would
want
to tinker with robots.

Fisk materialised. She was wearing something long and blue, her hair wrenched into  painful bun. “Good evening, Josh. I’ll take over, shall I?”

He would
much
rather not, but obedience was hardwired. “Yes, Dr Fisk.”

“I’ll find you later,” Alfred promised. He was rewarded by a sweet smile and Fisk’s glare.

The usual merry go round, boring to tears. Friends air kissing, enemies cutting each other dead, everyone mooching like farts in a trance. Alfred combed the outskirts, mumbled vague nothings to people he thought he recognised. He was dying for a drink. Waiters cajoled, guests watched hopefully, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Pictures of Josh were everywhere. In evening wear, smart casual, swimwear. They drew lecherous stares from most of the women present. “If I had that in my bed, I’d never get out of it,” one commented.

“Mother!”

“Don’t say you’re not thinking the same.”

“Well, yes, but
still
-”

Human-robot relations were strictly monitored. If you fell in love with one, you had to declare your honourable intentions and submit yourself for psych tests. If you were found unfit, no amount of money would help. The definition of ‘unfit’ was laughably wide: a youthful indiscretion here, a patch of recreational drug use there. As a result relationships – dubbed “marriages”, to lend it a shaky respectability - were few and far between, the majority between faded socialites and their boy toys.

Thanks to its rarity, it had become a fetish, with dingy clubs sprouting like toadstools. If you couldn’t get an artificial, you could buy a pleasurecom from the Storm or knock one up in your shed. It was a popular porn scenario, inspiring titles such as
Full Metal Lover: He’ll Press All Your Buttons!
They generally featured a greased up man painted silver, unleashing a humongous cock.

Alfred glimpsed Josh across the room. Anything less like an oily, muscled hunk was hard to imagine. He winked and Josh tried to wink back. A solemn blink was the best he could manage.

Sugar bumbled over. “Lord Langton, we’re honoured. Thanks for looking after him.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I know he asks lots of questions. It’s wonderful to watch the development of a mind with no schema. Of course he’s the prototype; it’d be interesting to see how copies develop with different stimuli.”

Alfred knew scientists of old. Feed them the right questions and they’d talk for hours. “What sort of stimuli?”

“No doubt you’ve noticed he likes reading and puzzles? That’s down to Mandy, my assistant. She was worried about him getting bored. I explained boredom is a human invention but she wouldn’t have it. It’s given him unforgivably bad taste in literature. I’d like to see how a robot given quality literature might develop, or one who’d never seen a book.”

No one could blame Josh for being bored. Taking Alfred’s nod as assent, Sugar wittered on.

“It’s taken a while, but he has a fully working brain. We’ve spent the last year bringing him up to speed.
Chronologically
he’s two and a half, but he has the reasoning powers of a highly intelligent adult, bar the odd gap.”

Alfred reached for his hipflask, remembered it was in the vix and tried to look as though he was leaning nonchalantly against a pillar. “You could say that about some humans.”

“Precisely. We don’t want to make him too much of a prodigy.” Was it coincidence his eyes flicked to Fisk, speaking regrettably loudly and clearly to a foreign diplomat?

“What will you use him for?”

“Depends what his skills are.”

“Is it too much to hope he’ll have a career?”

“Oh, no! Lots of robots work. We’re in correspondence with an artificial in Arkan; she works as a singer. We should get them together.”

He was holding forth about robots with jobs, Alfred wondering if Josh would have any say in the matter, when somebody toppled into the doctor’s back.

“Would you
mind
where you’re - Oh. Your Grace.” Sugar dropped into a sexless obeisance.

“That will do,” the Queen said. His back creaked as he straightened up. “Model yourself on Langton. He’s barely exerted himself.”

“Charmed, ma’am.” Alfred gave the briefest, curtest of bows.

“What brings you here, you roué? I wouldn’t have thought this was your scene.”

Sugar pretended someone wanted him on the other side of the room and left Alfred with the sovereign. She wore a severe dress in her favourite shade of arsenic green, swung the crocodile handbag she was never without. Needle sharp eyes darted in the heavily rouged face.

“Reminding people I’m alive,” he said carelessly.

“That never used to concern you.”

“I’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“If I know you, the reason’s a whom, not a why.”

He thought he would change the subject. “What do you think of all this?”

“You know I can’t comment. It’s too close to politics.”

“Off the record, then.”

A brilliant smile. “You won’t catch me out. How’s that housekeeper of yours?”

An embarrassed grin as they remembered the last time she and Nanny met. Alfred’s old butler Tolmash had mistaken the Queen’s room for Nanny’s during a house party; he’d died on top of her. Alfred and Nanny had been barred from the Palace for a decade - a shame, since she was an ardent royalist.

“She thrives.” What else could he say?

“It’s been lovely, but I must find my husband. We don’t want a diplomatic incident.”

“Maybe you should get a set of reins.”

“A muzzle might be more fitting. See you, sooner rather than later.”

Game old bird. The monarchy would go to pot when she died. He checked his watch. A quarter of an hour left. If he sat tight and didn’t make eye contact -

“BWAH HA HA!”

The impulse not to look up was stronger than ever. As he sat in the corner and nursed a glass of appleade, he heard the Mayor boom like profane thunder.

“Him, him - what about him?”

“Undoubtedly.” The fusty voice belonged to Prince Wulfric, Lux’s oldest and most objectionable man. “They say he has a casting couch for men.”

“At
his
age? - Prime filly, four o’clock. Phwooarr.”

The Prince echoed it. “Talking of shirt lifters, Quentin Bullen’s got the widget cornered.”

“Poor bot! I had to sit through one of his shows.
Spunk: A Love Story
. I don’t mind if they keep to themselves, but some of these buggers have to rub it in your face.”

“They can’t help it, Jerry. You can always tell. Take Bullen. You can smell the bum juice on him.”

“There must be someone who - Ah! The very man!” Jerry bobbed towards Alfred. “Langton, you’re an anthrowotsit. Settle an argument, will you?”

“What about?”

They were an ill matched pair: Jerry short and fat, looking like he’d got dressed in his filing cabinet, the Prince tall and cadaverous like the world’s wrinkliest nutcracker.

“Poof spotting. We always play it at these dos.” As Wulfric coughed, “Keep your wig on. He says you can tell if someone’s an arse bandit. I say not -”

“Poppycock,” the Prince blurted. “They’ve got queer eyes.”

There was no malice in Jerry’s elastic face. Even that despicable old earwig was only taking a scientific interest.

Alfred ran a hand through his hair. “Can’t say it’s a talent I possess. Yes, some are blatant, but others are more reserved. Depends on their culture.”

Jerry turned to Wulfric. “See? If he’s known benders around the world -”

Somebody touched Alfred’s shoulder. He wondered what now, this evening could hardly get worse, and was relieved to see Josh.