AP

This story is copyrighted 2006 by Kaereni, may not be excerpted, reprinted, reproduced, or reposted in any form without the express written consent of the author. Visitors to this web site may read or temporarily download pages but are not permitted to modify or re-distribute them.

The story contains sexual activities and situations that are to be read only by readers above the legal age of consent. The story is not to be read in locations where such stories are illegal. If you are not of legal age, or live in the wrong place, please do not read.

Chapter 1, Sam Shade

I was sitting in my office killing time, throwing darts at the dartboard on the back of the office door. That the board had the mayor's face on it didn't hurt my game any. My feet on the desk, relaxing by throwing darts at the most hated man in the city. Life was good. Then she walked in just as I threw, the dart missing her by a fraction of an inch. She didn't flinch, just gave a shake of that long blond hair and looked at me.

"You Sam Shade?" she asked.

Dropping my feet to the floor I looked at her from under the brim of my gray fedora. She was dressed in 1930's style, brown tweed skirt, matching blazer and a small hat with a feather sticking out of it at a jaunty angle. Her lips looked as if she'd kissed a freshly painted fire truck. I made a mental note to wander down to the fire station and see if they'd painted their trucks lately. I decided to play it cool as I nodded at her and gestured towards the chair in front of my desk.

As she moved forward, gliding over the floor and looking as though she were ice-skating, I realized my receptionist hadn't announced her. I made another mental note to have some harsh words with her after the doll had left. The chair gave the slightest of squeaks when she sat down. My ears perked, but I managed to keep the surprise out of my face. As she dabbed the tissue to her eyes, I was thinking, 'The only one to make the chair squeak that way had been Fat Johnny, and he was well over 400 pounds of pure lard.'

Her hand reached into her clutch purse and emerged holding a snapshot, which she offered to me. When I didn't reach out to take it, she laid it on the desk in front of me. She was wearing those black lace gloves and, underneath I could see her nails had been painted the same bright red as her lips.

"I'm Angela Williams." She sniffed a few times, making a big production number of it. "My brother...Alvin...He's missing...I want you to find him." Again she stops and makes with the sob routine.

I glanced down at the picture and then up at her. If that mug was her brother then they had different fathers to say the least. I leaned back and took a closer look at her.

"When did you see him last?" I asked.

The more I looked at her the more I realized the dame was out of place in this part of town. A class broad like her walking into my office to find a missing brother was about as likely as me winning the lottery. Seeing I don't play the lottery then the odds of that happening were damn slim. But there was something about her, something that made me want to help her.

"Two days ago," she replied, sniffling into her hankie. "He said he was going to meet a Mister Desalvo. He never came home." It was as if someone turned on the faucet with those last four words.

Frankie Desalvo was a small time hood that ran a club out on the west end called 'The Pink Pussycat.' Some people said it was a cover for a prostitution ring. He had several bigwigs in his pocket and was considered bullet proof. I guessed the cops hadn't shown much interest in finding Alvin.

I let her get herself under control before continuing with the questions.

"Did Alvin say what this meeting was about?" Something was nagging at my mind as I watched her and listened to her sobbing, but no matter how hard I tried I just couldn't pin it down.

"Please forgive me," says the broad, struggling to get herself under control. I watch her reach into her purse again. This time she produces a small perfume bottle, spraying it on her neck and inner wrists. "Don't think badly of me for carrying on like that." When she leans forward in her chair the squeak is even louder.

"Not at all Miss Williams," I say to her as I become aware of the musky scent of her perfume. I inhale several times before I realize what I'm doing. 'Capture scent,' my mind screams. A light bulb goes off inside my head as I put it together; if I'm wrong about this I'm sunk. I pull out the side panel on my desk and glance down at it while keeping my breathing as shallow as possible. I knew something she didn't, but once she figured out the capture scent wasn't affecting me as planned I'd be in trouble.

Looking up at her I smile and pull off my fedora allowing my long auburn tresses to tumble down over my shoulders. "Wrong sex sister, Sam is short for Samantha not Samuel." Looking down at the paper I read the words out loud before she has time to react. "Command override priority Alpha Beta Gamma X-ray Kilo Niner." She freezes even as her hand reaches out towards me.

Quickly I get to my feet, walk to the windows and push them open as far as they'd go. For once the smell of exhaust fumes drifting up from the street is almost welcome. The sooner the air cleared the happier I would be. Even with her using the wrong capture scent I could still feel the fire of lust for her building in my mind. If she hadn't made the error of mistaking my sex, I'd have done anything to be allowed to cum all day, with no memory of the time lost other than a burning desire to see her again. Now I understand how she got past my receptionist. Opening the door I look out towards her desk and see her lying across her desk with one hand blurring between her open legs. 'As if she needed any encouragement,' I think, before turning back to the android sitting at my desk. "Stand." I order.

She climbs to her feet and I move in close, poking her flesh and feeling the skin on the back of her hand. It feels pliable and warm. Damn it's good, I've never come across one as advanced as this. I pinch the skin at the base of her neck real hard to make damn sure she is an android. Yep - no reaction.

I sit down at my desk again and consider my words carefully before speaking. Whoever sent her must have serious muscle and I needed to be careful that I didn't end up like my receptionist, masturbating myself into a coma. "You will answer all my questions fully and to the best of your ability." I pause for a moment and throw in a test to make sure she understood. You can never be sure with some of these AP's; they can be as slippery as a corrupt politician. "Does unit understand and comply?" I ask, unable to come up with a better idea off the top of my head.

"Unit understands and will comply." The woman's voice is flat, mechanical.

"Paraphrase your programming."

"Answer all questions fully and truthfully," the voice says. "Access Slade by any means and make him..." the woman's face turns and her eyes lock onto mine, "...her. Make her find Alvin Williams." The flat voice changes, and becomes that of the woman once more, "No matter what it takes to get her to agree."

"Who sent you to see me?"

"Null program."

"How did you get here?"

"Null program."

I frowned; this was getting me nowhere. "Who is Alvin Williams?"

"My brother," comes the answer.

'Her brother?' I ask myself and lean back in my chair. I need time to think. How could a real person have an AP for a sister, unless they're both AP's?

"Is Alvin Williams an AP, or an android?" I ask.

"No," says the woman in a flat voice.

I sit back, not quite sure what to think. I remember reading somewhere they were trying to make AP's think they were the same as humans. I frowned, figuring this was getting me nowhere. If I wanted to find out what was going on, I needed to find this Alvin guy, and quick.

"When and where was Alvin last seen?" I ask.

"Alvin left The Pink Pussycat Club in the company of a Rachel9 unit at 2am Thursday morning," said the woman. She blinked slowly.

"Trouble with your eyes?" I asked.

"My lenses need to be cleaned."

"What is your next step?" I ask, half expecting her to say 'go home' or something of the sort. For the second time in five minutes I got an answer I wasn't expecting.

"Trail Slade and neutralize her once Alvin is recovered," she says, as if ending my life means nothing to her. It hadn't escaped my notice that she hadn't stumbled over the him/her thing this time. Suddenly I let my instinct take over and look into her eyes.

"New program," I tell her.

The woman's eyes close and her voice becomes female again. "Ready for program input," she says. I give it to her in small, bite size chunks.

"You find yourself attracted to Shade." "You will do anything for Shade." "You will lay down your life for Shade." "You are in love with Shade." "You will not be able to tell any others of these commands." "Program ends."

"Program received... Processing... Complete." The woman's eyes flicker open and she looks at me sitting on the far side of the desk. I give her a long hard look.

"I've decided to take your case Angela," I tell her. "I'll find Alvin for you." Hopefully that should avoid the 'neutralize Shade' business from taking place for another week or two.

"Oh thank you Sam," she says leaning across the desk, coming as close to me as she can get with a six by four chunk of mahogany sitting between us, "How can I ever repay you?" Her voice has a breathless quality to it; maybe I overdid it a little with the new program.

One thought does come to mind. "There is one thing you can do," I say. "May I have your perfume bottle?" Without a moments hesitation she opens her bag and hands over the small perfume bottle I'd seem earlier, along with a second one. Looking at them I see one has the male symbol on it, and the other a female symbol. I look at her with some relief.

"Thank you so much Angela."

She closes her eyes and lets out a tiny moan before whispering her reply.

"You are so welcome Samantha." She reaches into her bag and comes out with a card. "You can reach me at this address and number. Any time day or night, call me?"

I take Angela's card and set it down on the desk.

"I'll keep you informed, have a nice day now," I tell her as I take her arm and usher her out of the office, smiling to myself as she shivers with delight at my touch. Back at my desk I sit down and stare at the card and the two bottles, and try to work out what my next move should be.

AP - Chapter 2, Jimmy the Geek

I learned long ago that it's better to spend time thinking things through than to go off half-cocked. It was this practice that made me one of the top private investigators in the city. With that in mind I pulled out a pad and a pen and started writing.

Item Alvin Williams - missing. Last seen - with a Rachel9 unit, 2am Thursday morning. Supposed to meet with mob at The Pink Pussycat.

Item Angela Williams - an AP. Cutting edge technology. Programmed to dispose of me afterwards. Capture scent.

I sit and stare at the list for a moment before adding the word 'bitch' to the programmed... comment, only to scribble it out again a moment later. My argument wasn't with Angela, but with whoever had bad-mouthed me while programming her memory.

I look at my list and frown. I don't know enough about robotics to be sure what's going on here, though I didn't need an expert to tell me it was trouble. This case stank worse than last week's blue plate special at Mom's Dinner. I think for a minute or two before picking up my pen and writing down a list of things I needed to know.

Question - Rachel9 unit specs. Question - Angela unit specs. Question - Capture scent access. Question - Alvin Williams job. Question - Mob??? Question - Who sent Angela? Question - Why?

That's the problem with my line of work, always far more questions that answers.

I put down my pen before the list gets any longer, run my eyes over it and nod. First stop is to find more about robotics in general, and this Angela in particular. I need to see Jimmy the Geek anyways, to thank him for slipping me the command codes. Perhaps a quick tumble between the sheets while I'm there, to quench the fire burning in my loins.

Standing up, I take off my jacket and slip the '45 colt into one shoulder holster and a tazer into the other. The two weapons feel heavy, but better to be safe than sorry. Replacing my jacket, I pull on a trench coat, tuck my hair up under my fedora and leave the office. On the way out I pause to check out my secretary. She's still on her back, down on the floor now, and her hand's moving noticeably slower inside her soaked panties. I shake my head and lock the door behind me as I leave. She's got her own set of keys; she can let herself out when she's done.

Leaving the old, rundown brownstone, I hang a left away from Jimmy's place. Just down the street is a used furniture store where I could watch for any sign of a tail. I know how skittish Jimmy is about people he doesn't know and want to make sure I lose any tails they've put on me. Shaking my head I see them working their way down the street, even third graders could do a better job than these clowns.

Without even looking at them I turn and walk down the steps into the subway. 'Let's try a simple one,' I mutter as I walk slowly down the platform heading east. When the train pulls in I jump on and get a place near the door. As we pull away I glance around and see two of them in black suits. They look like a couple of gorillas only without the apes good looks and intelligence. As we pull into the next station I act nonchalant until the doors start to close and then slip through the door and step out onto the platform and away. In the car I can see the thugs still fighting their way to the door as the train pulls away. I smile and give them a wave as I turn away up the stairs heading for Jimmy's again, still keeping both my eyes peeled for any other tails they might have put on me.

Jimmy the Geek ran a second hand electronics store and had a memory like a sponge when it came to electronic gadgets. If you wanted to know about twentieth century computers, Jimmy was the man to see. If you wanted to know about current military research into robotics, Jimmy was still your man.

After checking the street I slipped into the shop, slamming home the deadbolt and turning over the sign in the window. 'Back in I hour,' it read.

'What a dump,' I think to myself as I weave my way through the towering piles of electronic equipment threatening to topple over and bury me at any moment. "Hey Jimmy." I call out as I reach the counter without seeing him. As if in response I hear a distant flush. Relieved than nothing unpleasant seems to have happened to the Geek, I remove the hat and trench coat, draping them over the counter as I pull up a stool.

Jimmy comes in from the storeroom out back. His black pants are a couple of inches too short for his legs, his white tee-shirt still has the ironing creases in it, and the black plastic-framed glasses he's wearing are held together with tape at the bridge.

"Hey Red," he begins, "It's good to see you." He stops a few feet away from me, his head leans to one side and he gives me a disappointed look. "You're packing Samantha." Suddenly his voice is wary and formal. "You know you're not supposed to bring heat here," he says, as he backs away and reaches a hand beneath the counter.

Holding up my hands in mock surrender I give him one of my special smiles. "I know the routine Geek." I tell him and start to undress. As I do a slow striptease for him, I make sure my clothing is in one pile and the weapons in another. When I get down to my bra and panties I give him another smile. "Happy now Jimmy?" I ask, and wink at him.

He sweeps the two weapons off to one side and pulls up a stool to the counter. "Red, I swear you only pack heat because you know I'll make you strip." He looks me over one more time as if to photograph me. "It's okay," he says, "You can get dressed now."

Instead I lick a finger and trace it slowly down between my cleavage. "Oh, do I have to?" I say with a mock pout. Jimmy and I have been playing this game ever since I first walked into his shop five years ago. Even then I knew about his homemade death ray and his fear of weapons. "I love you too Geek," I say as I get dressed, leaving the jacket, trench coat and fedora sitting on the counter.

As I get dressed, he pours two cups of coffee, pushing one of them across the counter towards me before climbing up on his stool and flipping his way through a magazine. He glances at the two weapons and back at me, his face creased into a frown. "What's up Samantha, you never go around carrying both of them?"

"My god, the Geek is worried about me," I think to myself. Putting on a smile I try to shrug it off. "It's nothing to worry about Jimmy," I tell him and reach out to pat his hand in reassurance. Just before it lands, I stop and pull back. The Geek never likes to be touched by anyone, a fact I'd almost forgotten. He looks down at my hand hovering close to his.

"Nothing huh?" He says, looking me in the eye and taking my hand in his. I sit frozen, staring at Jimmy's hand. As far as I could remember, he'd never allowed another person to touch him, and here he was holding my hand in his with a look of concern on his face. "Talk to me Red. Something is up isn't it? The town is abuzz, and now you show up carrying your old man's Colt '45."

To break the tension of the moment I change the subject. "Jimmy," I say, "I need some information about Rachel9 units, and the latest developments in robotics. I also need some advice." I squeeze his hand before letting it go rather too reluctantly for my total peace of mind. That capture scent must have been a good batch

"Rachel9," asks Jimmy, and starts punching at a hidden computer keyboard. A small holographic image appears on top of the counter and spins around. "Rachel series: Sexbot, 5'6", 38DD, 22" waist, 36" hips, head hair to below shoulders, programmed to please." He looks up at me. "Sounds like a promotional ad," he says and resumes typing. After a moment he nods his head. "Here we go. This is from one of the trades. The Rachel series has put the traditional streetwalker out of business. Starting with the first introduction of this robot, each revision has become more lifelike. The latest version, Rachel8 is able to function as a solo unit without human programming. It is said that the next version, Rachel9, will be able to make command level decisions on its own. This writer, for one, is concerned about robots being able to make their own choices. Does this mean they have free will?"

I look at the Geek. "Free will, is that possible?" He looks at me through the spinning image of the Rachel series. "I don't know Red. There have been efforts in that direction but actual progress, I don't know."

"That leads me to another area I've been wondering about. Just how real can they look and act?" I ask. "I hear on the street that the Angela series really takes the cake when it comes to AP's."

"Angela series?" Jimmy asks. He starts typing. "Angela, Angela," he mutters her name to himself again and again, as though it was some kind of mantra. After ten minutes he looks up from the keyboard. "I don't know where you heard of this Angela series Sam, but there's no such critter anywhere on here."

I look at him, but he seems genuinely puzzled. "Hmmm, I guess my informant was wrong then," I say, trying to cover my tracks. "So how far can they take this stuff? What about emotions?"

Jimmy sips his coffee. "Well..." he says, "The simple emotions like happy or sad have been around for a while. All it needs is movement of a few servos to change a frown into a smile." He chews his upper lip as he's thinking what to say next. "But the stronger emotions are harder to fake. Laughter for instance is a human thing, and so far no one's been able to come up with a substitute for it."