Love and Robotics (8 page)

‘
Readers of this column will know I’m not too fond of humble pie. Lately I’ve had to eat my words in a most unexpected way.

A month ago an artificial came to visit. You know how I used to think. I resented the intrusion and was unforgivably rude. Most people would have stormed out, never to return. Josh didn’t. He stayed and we talked.

Over the past month we’ve forged a friendship. It’s forced me to examine my old stance, see it for the hypocrisy it was. Josh isn’t a standard issue lump of junk. He’s sensitive, funny and good company
.
He’s charming. If he can accept me with my myriad faults, why can’t people accept robots?’

There was more, but these were the passages he recalled.
Funny ... good company ... charming.

Nobody had called him that before.

Still Life

The weeks following the launch, Josh was hot property. That, whatever it meant, was a favourite phrase of Sienna’s. Also, “Squeeze ‘em for every nupa they’ve got.”

Sienna was his publicist. Five foot of peroxide tenacity, she had a raptor’s face and a mind to match. She scared him witless with her raspy voice and gimlet stare.

“Science types are good at brain work, but they know dick about image,” she said. “Lucky you’ve got me.” She fielded the rush of appointments with an expert hand. She’d seem to sprout extra arms and heads as she took calls, made dates, dictated statements.

“Mr Foster would be delighted ... That doesn’t reflect CER’s energy policy ... We’ll see.” Sometimes she let him answer, but only if she had written what he was going to say.

“You’re the face of the robotic revolution,” she told him. “It’s your job to make the public trust bots.”

“Don’t they already?”

“Officially I’m not supposed to tell you. Unofficially CER’s in deep doo. Six months ago we nearly went bust.”

“Why?”

“Change of government. If it wasn’t for Jerry Etruscus we’d’ve had a cut in funding. People are stirring shit up. The PM. Broadcasting House. Effing god botherers.”

“What are they saying?”

“The politicians think humans should take precedence. As for the Theists, they’re wackos, who cares? A lot of it’s jealousy, saying we get funding which could go elsewhere.”

“That’s what Alfred used to say.”

“Ah, Lord Langton. Stroke of genius, getting him on side. Keep it up.”

Josh struggled to hide his irritation. He liked spending time with Alfred. He didn’t do it to look good.

“Charm their pants off. Make them see you as a man.”

“A man who’s also a machine?”

“Exactly.”

She treated him to endless pep talks. “They don’t know they want you yet, but they will. It’s the keystone of any campaign: show ‘em something they didn’t know existed and make them want it with all their soul.”

“How do we do that?”

“Watch and learn.”

Photo shoots. Interviews. Adverts. They filmed a whole series where he said, “I’m more than a robot, I’m an artificial person,” and gazed soulfully into the distance. Q&A sessions where he was prodded by schoolchildren (“What do you eat? Can you poo?”) Teenage girls showed up wherever he went. The first time they unfurled a banner saying ‘Josh is the Most’ and screamed, he dived for cover.

“Who are they?”

“Your fan club.” Under her breath, “I put an ad on the Storm.”

“Is this
legal
?”

“It’s good business sense. Look, they’re attracting attention.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s not even grammatical. ‘Josh is the most’ what?”

“Get up, you pussy. Your public’s waiting.”

In time he grew used to the Joshettes, though he was grateful for the presence of the security functionals. He tried talking to them but it didn’t make for sparkling conversation.

“Don’t you get bored?” he asked one afternoon.

Their blue eyes clicked. “What do you mean?”

“Herding me up and down. Don’t you want to do something rewarding?”

“I don’t understand,” one said. The other said, “We’re guards. What else is there?”

“You could have a nice job in an office.”

They avoided his eye for the rest of the outing. Later Sugar flagged him down in the corridor. “What the heck did you say to those functionals?”

“I asked if they’re happy with their work, and if there was something they’d like better -”

Sugar sucked in his breath. “Thanks to what you said, they’ve had to be reprogrammed.”

“I didn’t mean -”

“They’re functionals. They’re built to work. If they don’t, they’re scrap. Let me show you something.”

They took the lift to -5, one of the Centre’s underground chambers. After announcing “Noah Sugar and Josh,” the doctor beckoned him to follow.

Functionals were on every shelf, packed like eggs in a box. Josh reached out to touch one. The blue eyes were dead, the hinged arms hung loose in their sockets.

“Are they broken?” Josh asked.

“This is where we keep them after a day’s work,” Sugar said.

“They’re switched off?”

“No sense letting them run down.”

“But -” Josh couldn’t put his distress into words. “You wouldn’t switch
me
off.”

“You’re intelligent. These are nice guys, but they’re disposable.”

Josh recognised functionals as he went. “The one who makes the coffee. The one who washes the windows. Can you tell them apart?”

Sugar shrugged. “Can’t say I can.”

Josh shivered. He didn’t need charging, he wasn’t cold, but another moment amongst these blank faces and useless limbs was more than he could stand. “Can we go upstairs?”

They didn’t speak until the lift arrived outside his suite. Sugar moved towards him, remembered the no touching rule and stepped back. “Sorry if it upset you.”

“Tell me, Dr Sugar. How would you like it if I’d shown you a room full of switched off humans?”

His creator didn’t answer, only bowed his head. “Goodnight. Keep yourself busy.”

Josh waited till he was gone, then walked to the speakertube. “Chimera? Alfred, can I see you tomorrow?”

He was the only person who didn’t use him.

From that day on Josh led a split existence, the underground hall never far from his mind. He’d divide his day into units: tours, publicity, helping Madge’s team. Sessions with Ozols were enjoyable, ones with Malik weren’t.

His real life was outside work hours. Sugar agreed he should have one day off a week, to do as he wished. What he wished was to see Alfred.

While he chafed at the monotony of life at CER, it was always exciting at Chimera. “Wotcher, Josh!” Alfred called from wherever he happened to be: up a ladder, trimming bushes, feeding the doves. He’d entice him to join in the day’s sport. Clearing out junk in the secret room (“Time for a death sale.”) Letting cannons off across the grounds. Helping him disable booby traps a spiteful artist had left centuries ago. Hunting for treasure. Brewing beer, only to blow the potting shed roof off. Josh found a fiddle during one of the death sales and taught himself to play. Alfred endured it for three days, then confiscated it. “Don’t take this the wrong way, old man, but you haven’t a musical cog in your body,” he said.

Alfred had a notoriously short attention span. If he was bored by one activity, he moved on to the next. He let Josh have the run of the library; they read in companionable silence, or to each other. Sometimes Josh brought his sketchpad. He’d given up trying to sketch Puss. She refused to keep still.

Above all, talking. This was the main reason he visited, more than gung ho antics or exploring the house. Conversations at CER were loaded, tailing off when a minefield was reached. He and Alfred could discuss anything, and did.

They were working on Alfred’s portrait in the conservatory. He’d pulled a muscle in his back so sprawled full length on the chaise longue. He was more fun to draw than so-called handsome people. The nick in his eyebrow, his ragged scars. How his mouth wasn’t quite symmetrical, the legacy of a stroke.

“I call it
Adventurer Reclining,
” Josh said.

“
Adventurer Declining
, more like.” Alfred cracked a chestnut and popped it into his mouth.

Josh pulled a face. He didn’t like it when Alfred put himself down. “It’s funny.”

“What is?”

“You’re the only person who doesn’t go on about me being a robot.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, it makes a nice change. Do humans think about being human all the time?”

“Doubt it. We’re used to it.”

“That’s what I don’t understand. I’m used to it, I’ve never been anything else, but they bring it up. How do I do that, how does that feel -”

“They’re just curious. You’re the first smart robot they’ve met.”

“I’m not so smart.” He remembered the lifeless functionals and shuddered. “Don’t you want to know more?”

“Not really. The robotic revolution never happened in this house.”

“How do you explain me, then?”

“You’re a charming young man I met another way.” Alfred seemed embarrassed for some reason. “Haven’t you wondered what it would be like to be human?”

“What’s the point?”

“Go on. What would you do?”

Josh didn’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t mind working in a library.”

“You could do anything, be anything, and you want to be a
librarian
?”

“Why not?”

“I expected something more -”

“Ambitious? Unusual? Like you?” Josh teased.

“That makes me sound really up myself.”

“We can’t all be scientists or explorers. Some of us are ordinary.”

“That’s me told.” Changing subject abruptly, “How’s that coming along? Mind if I peep?”

The next time Josh went to Chimera, he collided with Alfred on his way out.

“I thought you said I could visit?” he said, dismayed.

Now he looked properly, Alfred was carrying the most extraordinary jumble. A canvas bundle wrapped around poles. What looked like a cookstove, a holdall and a banner.

“How do you feel about getting up the establishment’s nose?” Alfred asked.

“Will we get in trouble?”

“That’s half the fun.”

“I’m not sure -”

“Alright, you have my word. You won’t come to harm. If not -” Alfred nodded at a bulge in the canvas.

“That had better not be what I think it is.”

“Oops.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Coming?”

“Do I have any choice?”

They were picked up by Harry Bailey of the Hanged Man, who had crammed half the village into a hired vix.

“Hello, Lord Langton!” he cried. “Oh, Mr Foster. I didn’t know you were political.”

“Neither did I,” Josh said as they climbed inside. “What
are
you getting me into, Alfred?”

A dozen voices answered at once.

“Sodding Mayor’s cuts -”

“He’s shutting down the Well clinics -”

“Stopping child support after the third kid -”

“Bet
that’s
a blow, you horny sket.”

“And he’s closing libraries.” This was Gwyn’s friend Estelle. “He doesn’t think they’re commercially viable.”

“He’s siphoning public money into these blooming Games,” Harry said. “No wonder Lila’s bankrupt.”

“Spending any money left on effing bots -”

“Wilbur,” Alfred said quietly. The old man saw Josh and shut up. Looking around the demoralised faces, “How about a singsong?”

After a few false starts they launched into a tuneless rendition of
Rose of Lila
.

“I’ve never been to a protest,” Josh whispered.

“You’ll like it.”

“I hope so!”

“Wilbur always messes this part up - yes, there he goes. We’ve rehearsed it Thea knows how many times.”

Josh fished out his hipflask. “You might need this.”

He grabbed it and necked it. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

They arrived in Lux three hours later, pitching outside the Summer Temple. Protesters thronged the streets, swapping news and erecting placards.

“I make that five hundred tents,” Josh said.

“That’ll wipe the smirk off Jerry’s face,” Alfred agreed.

He’d spent hours working on his sign, a zombie Mayor teetering on a tightrope, and hung it outside their tent. Others proclaimed ‘Games = Shame’, ‘Down With Bots’ (Alfred glared at the owner of this sign, who removed it), ‘3 Million Unemployed’ and similar.

“Any vultures?” Alfred asked.

“None,” Alphonsia Bailey said. “There’s someone coming - some kind of minister.”

Alfred looked through his binoculars and swore. “Father Fondle Me.”

“That’s never his name.”

“Cedric Donnelly. My school minister. Nonce.”

“He’s not going near Holly.” She checked: her daughter was still by the Bailey’s tent, helping Harry paint his sign.

“His tastes run more to little boys.”

Eddie the locksmith spat. “That’s sick! Why was he never reported?”

“We tried, believe me.”

Josh hadn’t understood the conversation but as the clergyman fixed his haughty gaze upon him, he felt an overpowering wave of nausea. He choked.

Alfred touched his arm. “Are you alright?”

“Swallowed a fly.”

“Then swallow a spider,” Eddie said.

“If you can’t think of anything useful to say, shut up,” Alfred snapped.