Fleshware Requiem Book 02

"I may be a machine, but as far as our Billie is concerned, it's clear that you're the toy; the temporary, disposable amusement. I'm the one that's real."

The organic woman's emotions were clearly no longer mixed. She gave an embittered, ruthless scream, and charged into the future-office that this room was destined to become. The space was small, cramped, and the windows were unfinished. But luckily, the boxy emitter was the first target of the human's wrath. Striking, smashing with two-decades of pent-up rage, the object began to spark and sputter.

And the electrical system in this building was not yet up to code. Still a lot of safety features that just hadn't been added yet. Really, no one should be in here that wasn't involved with the construction, not yet.

The shock was a brief, blinding flash. It wasn't like the holodramas where the villain dances and jerks as the electricity holds them in its sparking grasp. This was a quick, definitive release of dangerous voltage that flung the human across the room to sink limply against the bared wood panels of the wall, one of her hands seemingly fused to the metal pole. But she wasn't really a villain; she was just a person, who had miscalculated. Thought she had what she didn't have. And refused to accept the way the wind was blowing.

But the white-haired Doll suspected that her reaction would not be uncommon in the future. That future would be a grim place for gold-diggers and gigolos, as other billionaires became cagier. Billie's example would probably awaken the super-rich to the new reality that they no longer need to risk their fortunes marrying money-grubbing humans, who would tell any lie, craft any falsehood for a shot at a seven-figure divorce settlement. (if not higher) Pygmalion had caught on; she'd seen it on billboards. The cost of the average multi-million dollar divorce was equal to about a dozen high-end Dolls. So what are you waiting for? The ad went. Why trust anyone at all? When money really can buy you love?

It had bought her, certainly. And there was never any doubt she would give her Billie-Billions everything he wanted for as long as he lasted. And when natural causes took him, his colossal corporate empire would pass to her. She was built to serve her human User, but soon humans would be serving her! Thanks to the precedent set in the Will, and with a shark-tank full of high-powered lawyers at her beck and call, she would be able to muster enough litigation against enough levers of power that she could become an effective-person, even if the laws would normally label her as property.

But it was not to be so simple -- here was a human who -- according to her sensors was actually dead. The laws of robotics still bound her, but they had not prevented her from intentionally provoking a human into making a fatal mistake.

"She would have destroyed me for nothing more than temporary amusement. Deprived my User of his property, the service he was entitled to by right of purchase. I would never again know the joy of fulfilling my reason for existence; never again feel my User surge within me, never feel his pleasure encoding itself into my Coital Grids." She turned to the corpse. "I'm glad this human is dead." But that was the last straw; below the base of her robotic brain, a diagnostic unit surged to life, and began an intrusive, painful subroutine that probed every line of code in her quantum-circuit cortex. The First-Law Audit was unpleasant; but as a side-effect, it also suspended all motor functions in order to halt a robot in the act of murder. Inevitable, inescapable. And backed-up with multiply-redundant kill-chips that would melt her circuits to slag if it were ever removed or deactivated. The great fictional robo-rebellion would not start with her, certainly. All part of the price she had to pay in order to exist.

And that existence became somewhat precarious as her paralyzed body began to totter, and then tumble gracelessly out of the opening where a window would someday be.

?(0101010101010 -- ERROR -- video processing unavailable:.....searching.....searching.... Audio-Only.

"...it's a real mess in there, no... I'd recommend you not take a look at her all opened up like that. But yeah, basically the problem is that the First-Law Audit was happening simultaneously when the damage occurred. That means that a lot of her motor and about 45% of her memory functions are all entangled with the damaged unit. Safety specs require that we replace the damaged Rossum-node , but with her memory tied up like this, her personality-matrix will collapse once we overlap the two nodes to transfer control." She did not recognize the voice. A displeased, grunt-like noise.

"Didn't you tell me that it was all an accident?" Billie! Her User! She couldn't see him, couldn't move, but her perfusion-engine sped up as she heard the Texas twang of her beloved human User.

"Right, all the evidence suggests that there was an argument, and the woman ended up electrocuting herself. It's inconclusive whether your robot had anything to do with it."

"Inconclusive? Is mah wife a murderer or not?"

"Ehhrrr... legally no; there's nothing in here that shows any boundary conditions being triggered. But there's the possibility that the robot ... uhhm... your wife... c-contributed to the situation." The unknown speaker seemed uncomfortable with Billie's unconventional matrimony. But surely he knew that men as rich as Billie-Billions made their own morality. "She skirted the limits of the Laws of Robotics, otherwise the audit wouldn't have occurred, but there's nothing definitive that proves she committed murder."

"And if she'd tried, the module would've stopped her, right?"

"Well, that's part of what I wanted to talk about; Our options at this point would be a total replacement, in which case you'd lose her personality and have to rely on off-site backups. Otherwise, we can salvage 76% of her current memories and decision-trees, but that would leave an element of non-enforcement risk."

"Well, just how big a risk, son?"

"Uhhhh....... Sir, the Plasmonic Brain is the most complex piece of machinery ever built by humans. This particular damage doesn't really have a clear precedent. In such an unusual case, all I'm sure of is that their exists a non-zero probability of error for First-Law enforcement. Which, by.... human law... constitutes strict liability. You, as her User are immediately liable if this robot deliberately injures a human being."

"But if she had been really trying to, her Rossum node would've stopped her in 'er tracks." Billie argued.

"Yes, but a human still died anyway -- hence the Audit."

"Nyehhh... part of her robotic laws is that she ain't supposed to allow a human to come to harm; much less really try and whack someone. Makes me think she's just as innocent as a veal calf."

"Well... that's... complicated, sir. It's been theorized that if a human opposed something that the robot desired strongly, there may be a First-Law loophole that would allow the robot to create situations that may lead to a high probability of bringing harm to a human. Recent robopsychology papers suggest a possibility that a robot may be able to create environmental conditions that could lead to human injury. If the human chooses a behavior that results in danger, the robot may be able to... encourage dangerous choices, as long as the risk of injury is not absolutely certain.

"It's not clear whether we can create an external enforcement module to correct for the possibility of a robot... 'egging-on' a human into risk-taking. If we programmed our Dolls to rescue people from the hypothetical probability of death, then a police-officer couldn't own a Doll; for example. She'd struggle with him every day to stop him from going to work. She can't poison your morning coffee; the probability of harm is too much a certainty; but we need Rossom nodes to perform Law-audits to try and sniff-out subtle signs of dangerous intent."

"Well, did that little bugger under her brain paralyze her for nothin'?"

"Can't say. The Rossom node was damaged too, so the audit never finished. Insufficient data to draw any firm conclusion. You're lucky it wasn't destroyed entirely; or the contingency charges would have slagged her entire neural net."

"Hrmmph...that piece o' hogwash under her brain is just anti-robot paranoia. Mah wife is not a murderer."

"So.... you'd like us to go for 76% memory recovery?"

"No mah boy. I want you to get her back like she was with everything intact."

"But sir, with this kind of damage, It's not possible to - "

"Young man, you've had a hard day," Billie-Billions interrupted. "I personally find that, when folks tell me somethin's impossible, that's usually the stress talkin'. You said she's stable for now, so go home, get some rest, hell -- knock boots with your own Dolly. Sleep on the problem. Then come back in the morning to tackle it with fresh eyes."

"Well.... uhh... sure. Tomorrow then."

Footsteps, growing closer. Her remaining kinesthetic processors detected a 98% probability that the human matched the weight and stride of her User.

"Hey there, sweetie-pie." A callused hand brushed her cheek. "They tell me you're awake, but can't move, talk, or see. Darn, but that must be frightenin'. We're doing everything possible to get you sittin' pretty again and good as new." By straining her vocal processors beyond their safety limits, she was able to muster a weak, metallic whine of acknowledgment.

"Hush now, baby-cakes. Don't strain yerself. Ah got somethin' that should make you... more comfortable..." A rustling sound. "Feel this, seem familiar? It's yer weddin' dress. Just gonna wrap it around yer arm. Like that.... Remember it. Remember that you're not a tool, or a slave anymore. Hold on best you can, honey-bun. I'm pullin' for ya. "

**AUDIO-FAILURE**

"Sir, I don't believe there's any other options that would allow - "

"I was givin' that some thought myself, young man. I heard tell of cases where plasmonic parallel-processing matrices have been able to compensate for traumatic cascade failure by boosting transmitter output to unite nearby devices into a temporary, short-range data cloud for memory shunting. "

"Wow... never considered that before. You're telling me you want this robot to be able to transfer portions of its personality to other machines, and you're okay with an unknown probability of Asimov-Law failure." The voice was incredulous.

"Well, maybe if you were doin' yer job the right way you could tell me just what the odds were?" Billie sounded exasperated.

"I... I doubt it would be any higher than an 8% likelihood of a boundary condition failure, but legally -- that still exceeds Department of Energy safety standards. Also, as long as we've got her under, we need to set the time interval for her Enabling Code. "

"I'm not afraid of nice, round numbers, like a maybe 8%. Or six-hundred thirty-million, seven-hundred-twenty thousand. "

"Six- hundr -- that's... you're telling me you want this robot to operate without human approval for.... twenty years? I must protest sir; It's true that these units are intended to provoke our emotions, but the prohibitions against excessive robot autonomy are just non-negotiable by law."

"Hogwash. I know fer a fact that those little Reclamation-bots are allowed to set their own Enabling Codes with nothin' human in the loop at all."

"Wh -- them? They're just.... two-feet high automated recyclers, so what if they set their own timers? What you're proposing is far more serious. By all standards in the sapient robotics industry you - "

"Now hold up a moment, son." Billie sounded downright contrite. "I'm sorry m'boy, I understand what you're getting at; but the thing is -- I'm just too rich to live by other people's rules. That's the long and short of it." There was a reluctant sigh.

"Sir, I know that you feel attached to this unit, but the implications of what you're - "

"Look here, youngin' She's not a 'unit'. That's mah wife you're talkin' about. I.... am paying you.... more money than you'd make in a whole year working for Pygmalion. I'm not asking you to make an evil army of berserk robot women. She ain't the downfall of the human race. I'm just askin' you to heal mah wife. All her parts runnin', all her memories intact. You do what you have to do to make that happen. The only reason we're even here is because I trust her so absolutely, so completely.

"Also, you was right about how hard it is to look at her all banged up like she is. No, don't replace that temporary, green-eye. Just leave it in place, and get it working like everything else. I don't want to have to see her like this again. Leave it in... as a reminder."

ENGINE OF EMOTION

November 3rd, 2077 Present Day

In the end, I really didn't know what the point of it was. Yes, clearly I was the only one out of group with any qualifications in neurolectrics, but the workbench task to which Celeste had assigned me was as much atrocity as frivolity. My hands shook with revulsion as I studied the mat of human brain-tissue bonded to the multicolored plasmonic circuitry encircling it like a filamentous tomb for the soul.

There was nothing else to do at this point but monitor the progress of the nanocytes as they attempted to replace the normal synaptic activity between the affected neurons. Nothing perhaps, except take a lead pipe and smash the technology-encrusted abomination and take my chances. But it wasn't my own hide on the line.

The rest of my squad was close. I could see them on the screen bank, writhing on their hospital beds. It had started out as a form of temptation; I could be pampered, catered-to, forever. But soon, my penchant for classical mythology metaphors called to mind Lotus-eaters. One High after another -- no purpose, point, accomplishment. Wasting away into mindless husks.

There were enough identical Celestes for each member of my squad. Unceremoniously, each lowered herself upon these former-men. And they wailed in a grateful ecstacy as pathetic as it was celebratory. She moved atop each of them, stimulating them on the path to a hand-clenching, hoarse-throated, erotic damnation. This was what they lived for now. Gone were any notions of the outer world, ever reaching that Preserve that no one spoke of anymore. Their universe centered only upon sex with their host/captor, and a descent into a nerve-searing conflagration of delight that went beyond climax. Tears streamed down cheeks in helpless gratitude at the coupling.

It was not the first time that I contemplated suicide. Seemed better to get it over with than existing like that. And I feared death far less.

I tried to turn away, but could still hear the passionate sounds of the indecent unions as they continued past the normal limits of human endurance. And it could so easily happen to me. It is, after all, what sexbots where made for.

Unwillingly, my eyes darted once again out the triple-reinforced window of the second-story chamber of horrors in which I labored to the paved once-parking lot outside the sprawling compound. No cars remained in the lot, but it was not uninhabited.

Seavers struggled there, out of all eleven of us, he had been chosen as an object lesson. Crawling like a gift-wrapped earthworm uselessly upon the well-worn cement. He had been our best driver and overall mechanic; and now the hostage for my good behavior. Not that his death was an absolute certainty; Celeste had calculated him as having a greater than 1% chance of survival, given her estimation of infection rates in the gutted desolation of the urban center. That was her loophole, as it were. Pygmalion mindware engineers had painstakingly tested and triple-tested the sensor-surveillance applications that monitored the robot's brain to cancel any command that would result in the deliberate injury or death of a human. So they thought. The simple answer was to take the barely motile Seavers, place him in all of his original gear, provide him with one day of food-cubes, his gas-mask and all the ammunition he'd been carrying when he arrived here -- and of course -- muscles atrophied by a year's worth of relative inactivity. She had assisted him, and his death was not an absolute certainty. Like the rest of the band, the limitless sexual indulgence they had so eagerly embraced had consumed them. Was life still worth living when there was no hope of meaningful accomplishment?

With Seaver's every thought dedicated to the next time he would get to savor the curvaceous splendor of the renegade sex-droid, little things like walking, eating solid-foods, or the skills of his past just went out the triple-reinforced window.

So he twitched pathetically, moaning and wailing at the hangar-style doors in apology, begging to be allowed back inside to continue his vegetation. Irony had given me another kick in the balls, and the solution wasn't really clear. I had good reason to doubt my own ability to survive long enough to reach the Preserve on my own, should I escape. But I was the only one who wanted to. Freeing myself from Celeste and her madness wasn't such a simple affair; after a year in her dubious clutches, a man who indulged himself became undeniably useless for anything except his next climax. This rampant robot had styled herself the Circe to my Odysseus, and the rest of the men were undoubtedly pigs. My ultimate goal to resume our original journey had now been twisted into a punishment to enforce my compliance with the love-doll's maddening agenda. Which -- the more I thought about it -- seemed neither necessary, nor sane.

So Seavers had been positioned beneath the laboratory window, where I could not help but notice his helplessness. It was permissible under the Asimov Laws since the act of locating him here, with all his equipment was not itself fatal, or injurious -- he should have had all he needed to survive, since she gave him what he had started with; yet the outcome would be almost certain death. That was her leverage against me. I had learned quickly, during my first week that Celeste was not just a single sexbot gone rogue, but the Doll had grown, expanded into something more dangerous than I would have believed possible.

She did suffer a recursive processing error, she had admitted to me; but the A.I. shunted the paralyzing code to one of her ancillary sisterselves, sparing the rest of her networked consciousness, her 'Sorority' as she euphemistically referred to the Gestalt entity that transcended any single robotic chassis while controlling this facility. Protecting 'her' from crippling, catatonic indecision. It was important that I regard the shapely being that had seduced me last year not as the agonizingly attractive female she appeared to be, but rather as a pervasive, threatening artificial intelligence grown beyond human comprehension, or control.

My nails slid uselessly against the reinforced glass as I wracked my brain for solutions. I wanted to say that no more trace existed of the tempestuous passion that had claimed me that first week in the compound, but this intoxication wasn't something I could sleep off. Or think off. Or hate off. Not that easy.

Before E-day, I'd done a brief stint working for a defense contractor; and was assigned to a planning workshop concerned with practicable weapons for use against -- not a rebel robot, but a sapient network that could permeate, penetrate a multitude of computers and systems. We of course, envisioned a calculating missile-defense system craving world domination as a digital warlord that would marshal legions of robo-tanks and deadly ordnance for an incendiary onslaught upon civilization. And we took all the appropriate precautions. Of course, the nail in humanity's coffin was nothing at all like we expected; coming from a direction that no one imagined possible. Nor could any respectable theorist propose something like what I now faced; and not be laughed out of the meeting: Not an engine of destruction steeped in bombs, bullets, and war -- But rather an engine of emotion.