Artificial Love

The small car's engine roared as it trundled down the city street, cars passing to either side, most honking. There was the occasional middle finger thrown as well, as if for good measure. The noise coming from under the hood would have been fine, even welcomed, had this particular vehicle not been electric. It should have been whisper quiet, unlike the petroleum-fueled pollution machines that had preceded it. But the last gasoline car had been scrap for at least fifty years.

And so the hunk of plastic and polymers, once the pride of Atlanta (cars were no longer made in Detroit, had not been for some time), nearly limped through traffic, attracting copious amounts of attention from the multitude of pedestrians it passed. Luckily for the driver, the side windows were tinted, keeping him anonymous behind the darkened glass. For Scott, anonymity was good, even without the thundering rattle trap.

After another two blocks of angry glares and obscene gestures, Scott finally arrived at his building. He turned into the entrance to the underground garage, the steering mechanism groaning in protest. "Come on, almost there," he said, trying to coax just a few more feet from the beaten machine. As if in response, the electric motor developed a high-pitched whine, just as the front tires bumped over the slight bump just before the ramp leading down into the massive parking garage. "Great," Scott said as he nodded. "That sounds expensive."

As he brought the car to a stop at the automatic gate, Scott pressed the button to lower the driver's-side window, but nothing happened. He released it, pressed again, and the glass started to slide down. It stopped half way. "Son of a..." Scott started to curse, but caught himself. There was no point in profanity, not really, and instead, he fished for his apartment keycard in the cluttered center console. He tossed gum wrappers, a straw, a mint from a restaurant that he was pretty sure had closed at least a year prior. He finally found the card, somehow buried beneath the detritus, despite the fact that he'd just put the card in there that morning. How it could have reached the bottom of the cubby was beyond reason, yet Scott still wasn't surprised. That seemed to be the way of things.

He found that, by placing his arm through the partly-open window, bending his elbow, then forcing his shoulder almost out of place and pivoting his hips in the seat, he was able to get the keycard just close enough to the reader to still not be recognized. He instead resigned himself to opening the car door and reaching around its metal frame. A green light flashed, and the metal gate began to slide open. That, at least, worked. Probably because it wasn't his.

With a little pressure to the accelerator, Scott was able to get the tiny vehicle just inside the gate before it stalled.

"You can't be serious," he muttered, sitting in the now-silent car. "No, really, you can't be." He pressed the "on" button, noticing that the small blue light just below it was out. Nothing happened. He pushed it again, holding it. The same nothing happened. He jabbed the button several times with his finger (sometimes you had to be persistent with these things, or they'll think they're in charge) and yet, the car would not turn on.

He sat for a second, contemplating his options, although none came. The car was in the way of the entrance, just inside the automatic gate, and would have to be moved before anyone else could get into the garage. Pushing it was Scott's first thought, quickly dismissed though. He had the strength to move the little car, but he couldn't do that and steer, not without power steering. It seemed very unlikely that he could get the motor to start. Scott knew next to nothing about cars, except that it was starting to look more and more like he'd need a new one. He glanced around the garage, both hoping to see someone, and dreading it. He could use the help, if he found someone willing, but could stand to be spared the embarrassment.

As his options dwindled, frustration started to set in. Before he realized what he was doing, Scott balled his fist and punched the steering wheel. The car let out a loud, unexpected beep that made him jump. "At least the horn works," Scott muttered.

It took another minute or two of deliberation before he finally conceded that the car, as it was, would not be moving from its current location, and the sooner he accepted that, the sooner he could get inside and call a tow truck. Or a garbage truck, for that matter. Did they take cars? He thought not, was pretty sure they didn't, actually. But still... it might be worth looking into. If nothing else, they're probably be cheaper. He got out with this thought, slamming the door behind him.

"Hey! You just gunna leave that there, asshole?" a voice shouted from behind him. Scott turned to see another car, just outside the gate, its driver leaning from the lowered window, arm raised in a "what's the matter with you?" gesture.

"It won't start," Scott said back, then shrugged. There didn't seem to be any more to say on the matter, and so he turned and began walking away, toward the elevator doors that led up into the apartment building.

"Hey!" the man shouted again, anger edging his voice. "You can't just leave that heap of shit in the way! How am I supposed to get in?"

Scott only half turned his head, and pointed straight ahead. "Entrance on the other side, on Eugene Street." He was still walking, and looked forward again after he had finished talking. The driver of the other car shouted something back, but by that point, Scott had lost interest. He was pretty sure something was said about his mother, but wasn't entirely sure just what. A minute later, the voice was cut off by the closing of elevator doors.

***

Scott lived on the one hundred and twenty first floor of the high-rise apartment building. It was so far up, in fact, that on certain rainy days, it was impossible to see anything from the apartment's windows except for the dark, billowy clouds. Once, during an especially nasty storm in which the clouds hung lower than normal, Scott's apartment was actually high enough to see the sunshine above them. He hadn't even noticed that it was raining until he left for work.

This day, though, the weather was far more typical: light breeze, temperature not terribly unpleasant, although still on the warmer side. The sun wasn't going down quite yet, although it had certainly passed its apex and was somewhere on the downward arc toward the horizon. This time of year it would wind up shining right into the wide living room window before dipping behind another building, preventing a view of the sunset. As Scott entered the apartment, a tiny arc of sun was just starting to show at the top of the window.

He dropped the keycard on the small table next to the door, then his wallet and the key fob to the car that he had just recently abandoned. A quick thought of the other, inconvenienced driver flittered across his mind, wondering if he had given up and gone around the building yet or not, then vanished.

Scott crossed the room (it wasn't much of a trip) and settled into his favorite spot on the couch, relaxing contentedly as the cushions molded to his body. They had been designed to do just that, sensing pressure points and adjusting padding to compensate, although at this point it happened as much because of the age of the couch as anything else.

As soon as he had gotten comfortable, the phone rang. Scott knew who it was already, and was in no mood to answer. Plus, he'd just sat down, and felt no real need to accommodate anyone who would interrupt the most sacred time of the day: the first few minutes after coming home from a long day at the office.

It took five rings before the machine picked up. Just like the old answering systems of years gone by, the ones that used two mini tapes to first play a greeting, and then record the caller's message, this one played the call as it was received. Scott recognized the voice immediately.

"Scott? This is Al, Al Harrison. The superintendent." Al had a bad habit of always introducing himself in exactly that way, no matter how long he had known you. Scott had lived in this building for four (or was it five?) years now, and any time Al had to leave a message, he always included his title. At first, it seemed almost self-important; like Al needed you to know exactly who and what he was, a proclamation of his authority and position. After some time, though, Scott had begun to think that it was more as though Al couldn't really quite remember if he'd told you who he was yet, and wanted to make sure.

"Hey," Al continued, "I just got a call from a really pissed off guy saying that your car is parked just inside the Mason Street gate. Uh, you know you can't really park there, right? Of course you know that. Look, do you think you could get it out of the way ASAP? You'd really be doing me a favor, man. Thanks." There followed a series of muffled noises, then Al's gruff voice saying "Oh come on hang up you mother..." before the line went dead. Scott couldn't help but smile, just a little.

Al was a good guy, and Scott really didn't want him in any kind of trouble, or really even inconvenienced if he could help it. He figured he'd have to call to have the car towed. A small laptop computer sat next to him on the couch. It took only a few minutes to find a local, cheap towing company. Repeating their number so he wouldn't forget, he got up to get the phone.

***

"Sucks about your car, man" Scott's companion was saying around a mouthful of pizza. "What are you gonna do without wheels? You can't get to work or anything."

"Public transportation," Scott said back before biting into his own slice.

"Bummer," the other man said.

They were sitting in Scott's living room, on the same couch, eating a delivered pizza and slowly killing beers while watching Star Wars. Gregg, Scott's company for the evening, had brought all three.

Scott and Gregg "went way back", as Gregg liked to put it. They had been friends in high school, and despite their wildly separate careers, Scott a mildly successful software engineer and Gregg a... well Gregg didn't exactly have a career, as such. He had jobs, sure. But nothing substantial. In fact, the pizza on which they were currently dining had come from the restaurant for which Gregg delivered. Still, even with their lives having taken different paths, and with few everyday things in common, the two had stayed fairly close, the friendship relying on shared interests, like sci-fi and zombie movies.

"Hey," Gregg said just as Scott was getting up. "I thought, like, didn't you say you had some money for a new car or something? I thought you said you'd saved some."

Scott was heading to the kitchen, which was really just an open area to one side of the room, separated off by a high bar. "Huh? Oh. A little, I guess," Scott answered as he reached the fridge and opened it. "I mean, I was starting to put together enough for a down payment."

"Yeah," Gregg agreed, now finishing the crust from his most recent slice. "Yeah that was it. I mean, you had to know this one was on the way out, right? You could like, hear it from a mile away. And wasn't the window kind of wonky or something?"

"Something," Scott said, retrieving two brown bottles from the fridge. "Beer?"

"Dude."

Scott shut the refrigerator door with his foot, bringing the cold bottles back to the couch and handing one over. They were twist off tops, and he did his barehanded. Gregg used his shirt.

"I don't know if I've saved enough yet," Scott said, just after his first swig of the fresh brew. "I wasn't expecting it to die right away, you know?"

Gregg looked incredulous. "Are you shittin' me? How could you not know that thing was knocking on death's door? I'm sorry, man, but a car isn't supposed to sound like that. Hell, it's not supposed to sound like anything. Don't take offense at this or anything, but I gotta tell ya, I was kind of afraid to ride in it, myself."

Scott's lips thinned and his eyebrows lowered in an annoyed grimace. "It didn't seem to stop you from bumming rides,"

"Hey," Gregg shrugged, "a guy's gotta take what he can get, right?"

"I never did understand why you wouldn't drive your own car."

"Because, man. It smells like pizza."

A half hour later, Star Wars had ended, and a string of commercials followed the credits, each one trying to convince viewers that their product could somehow enhance, extend, enrich or otherwise improve their lives. These were mostly ignored, until a specific one came on.

"Oh, hey, here we go," Gregg said, pointing to the TV while still holding his beer bottle. "There, this is what you should spend that money on, man." By now, Gregg was well past tipsy, and a good ways into inebriated.

"What?" Scott asked, following the point but not recognizing the commercial.

"Just watch," Gregg said, leaning forward.

Scott had heard of GenTek and their most prominent product. Word was that the androids they produced were the most lifelike available, and the commercial would have you believe just that. They sold androids for all sorts of domestic, industrial, manufacturing and administrative purposes. From what Scott could tell from the commercial, and from word of mouth, they really were very impressive. But he had no use for one.

"I don't get it," he said as the clip was ending. "Why do you think I would buy an android?"

"Dude, not one of the ones they were talking about then. You don't need one of those. You need... you know..."

Scott shook his head, a little too fast at first (the beer was catching up to him as well), then more slowly. "No. I really don't know. What are you talking about?"

"Come on, Scott. You know... It's not like you've got a girlfriend or anything. It's just you in this apartment. A man has needs, and all, and you don't seem to have any luck with the ladies. Not the real ones anyway. Maybe it's time you, you know... bought yourself one."

Scott said nothing for a minute as he tried to think over a response. His brain was slowed by the alcohol, but was still able to mash together at least a few thoughts on the subject. For one, Gregg was right, at least partly. He, Scott, didn't, in fact, have a girlfriend. His luck with women wasn't great, but not really for the reasons that Gregg probably thought.

In truth, Scott had been successful with a few women, at least to the point of getting past the second or third date. He was a good-looking guy, tall, with a surprisingly muscular build, especially considering his profession. Truth be told, Scott had had a few real relationships that had progressed fairly far, but they always fell apart. He could never admit to his friend why, though.

"Bought myself one," Scott repeated, his tone low, thoughtful.

"Sure, man. They don't really advertise them on TV, but they make... uh... you know, other kinds of androids. They call them 'companion bots' I think. They say that they're really uh, lifelike and stuff. Maybe you should check them out. You know, just to see..."

"We'll see," Scott said, having no intention of checking it out at all.

***

It was only the following day that Scott was on GenTek's site, browsing through the "Companion" section. It offered a wide range of models just for domestic purposes. You could order a housekeeper, or a cook. There were drivers, bodyguards, even personal trainers and sports instructors. In addition, the appearance of the androids was entirely customizable. The buyer was free to specify body and face, hair and eye color. The possibilities seemed endless, and yet, nothing really matched what Scott was looking for.

That is, until he reached the end of the page, where a small, rather inconspicuous link waited. It was titled "FetishBots". Scott clicked.

It took nearly two solid hours of customization, adjustments, tweaking and finalizing. But by the time he was done, he had created his perfect artificial woman. A few clicks and a credit card number later, and she was ordered.

***

GenTek guaranteed that your android, no matter which type, would be delivered to you, at your convenience and at no charge, on the fourth week after your purchase. You had the first three days to decide to cancel your order, if you so chose. After that, your order was locked in. It then took two and a half weeks of assembly and initial programming. Finally, you chose your delivery date some time during that last week. Scott, like many others, had picked that Friday.

He'd spent the first three days debating with himself, going back and forth between something just this side of panicking, and a surprising calm. Occasionally, there were quick, intense moments of pure excitement as he allowed himself to fully grasp the idea that, within no more than a couple of weeks, he would have the companion he'd always wanted, a girl he'd designed himself.

He counted the days, then the hours, then finally the minutes until it was too late to cancel the order. Once it had struck midnight on the third day, Scott finally, if only partially, relaxed.

He then spent the rest of his time over the next several days creatively distracting himself with little projects, like trying to find the best combination of walking and public transportation to get to his most needed spots around the city. Work wasn't much trouble. His office building was in a busy, crowded downtown area with plenty of bus and subway stops. The grocery store and what few brick-and-mortar retail chains still existed were similarly positioned.

Other places, like his gym and his favorite burger place were not quite as accessible. In a way, he eventually thought, this might have been an advantage. He didn't exactly need the burgers, and a little extra exercise on the way to and from the gym couldn't hurt.

Once his routes were figured out, after he'd determined just how much earlier he needed to get up before work (only another twenty minutes, not bad), Scott again found himself with nothing to occupy his mind enough to distract him from the upcoming big day. He was having trouble concentrating at work, and had even had his supervisor politely, but firmly tell him to get his head in the game. He promised he would, and tried. He really did. It mostly worked.

***

Scott had requested the big day off, and his boss almost seemed eager for him to take it, apparently hoping that the extra rest would help Scott clear up whatever issues he was having. Scott even managed to duck out of work ten minutes early the day before, unnoticed. The anticipation, the build-up, it was all becoming too much. By that night, he was ready to pop. Sleep didn't come until late into the night, and even then it was restless and not undisturbed.

There was no set time for the delivery, part of the reason that Scott had requested the entire day off. By noon he hadn't eaten, showered, shaved, anything. He was watching TV when it occurred to him that he must look awful, still dressed in boxers and a robe, and finally decided that a shower might be in order. If nothing else, he didn't exactly relish the idea of the delivery guy catching him in little more than his skivvies. The android would at least wait until he'd put on clothes.

Scott was just turning the shower faucet when there was a knock at the door.

Still in nothing but underwear and the faded blue robe, he headed to the front door, at least taking the time to cinch and tie the belt around his waist.

The delivery man was short, stout, with a developing beer gut and scruff of beard that probably hadn't seen a razor in three or four days. He stood behind and to the side of what would best be described as a large crate that stood almost four feet tall, and three wide on each side. It was made of a damage-resistant plastic, instead of wood, and seemed to have latches instead of nails keeping it closed.