A Story about a Girl

Imagine for a second that you're in a restaurant-of those poncy deals where they won't even consider hiring a maitre'd without a british accent-and you "accidentally" drop your glass of obnoxiously overpriced wine to stall for time. Before it can ruin the exquisite Persian rug, however, it needs to reach the point halfway between there and your hand-and before that can happen, it needs to reach the halfway point halfway to that halfway point, and so on. In fact, as Zeno points out, the glass must pass an infinite number of such halfway points before it can get even halfway to the ground-a seemingly impossible feat. Zeno, of course, illustrated his paradox differently, but concerns over the possibility of arrow-perforation have lost considerable traction in recent history. Either way you look at it, the conclusion is the same-the arrow hits its mark, the glass hits the rug, and no matter how many trades you make while trying to distract yourself, the moment will always be finite and fleeting. Sooner or later, you'll have to answer the question.

It's a shame, too, really, because this iteration had started out so well.

"Allow me, Mademoiselle," he had said.

"Why thank you, Monsieur."

Jane took his arm at its oft-mended elbow patch and stepped lightly out of the limousine. It was one of the things she'd always loved about him, his tendency to wax romantic while wearing a sloppy blazer and self-satisfied grin. He'd been to France once, in college, but any culture he'd acquired was pure affectation. He wasn't rich, either-certainly not rich enough to rent a limo in New York (exhaust taxes had gone through the roof since Manhattan fell below sea level)-but she was, and they liked to splurge on special occasions. Like this one. She hadn't meant to find out-she refrained from stalking him as much as possible, usually-but sometimes, when you're data-mining for that perfect anniversary gift, the patterns sidle up to you like a process server and make damn sure you know that he's already found it. It was the best of news, and it was the worst of news. It hadn't taken her a week to figure out that she was, in reality as well as theory, crazy about him (less than that to find out that he, too, was crazy about her) but their courtship had long since passed its passed its halfway mark. Tonight, he'd come armed with the only Question that deserves a capital letter.

Doing okay sweetie?

Shut up, dad, I'm busy.

You gonna do it, this time?

Daaad!

It took no small amount of skill to digitally reproduce that whiny-teenager tone, but, then, she was the leading expert.

Jane was the picture of refined elegance in her actually-unique evening gown. Fashion meta-analysis was a bit of a hobby, and she had once indulged herself by acquiring a high-end design firm for just this sort of thing. John, on the other hand, had carefully balanced himself right on the edge of propriety, and they attracted some disapproving looks from the wait-staff as they made their way to her favorite table in the back. No-one said anything, though. Money talks, but she had the kind of money they can buy silence.

It had been different a year ago, the first time, when she'd invited poor John (who had not yet even been aware of the edge of propriety) out for dinner. They'd been turned away at the door and ended up in the diner down the street, instead. She'd been overdressed, and he'd been mortified, but at least the malts were top notch. John, though, was anything but a quitter-another of his qualities that she appreciated. He'd scoured New York's thrift stores the next day, assembling his ratty-but-technically-sufficient ensemble. The elbow-patch jacket quickly became his favorite article of clothing-according to her usage data-and he'd worn it on the majority of their dates, since.

Dinner, of course, had been excellent, crowned by the particularly fortunate beaujolais nouveau which is, even now, plummeting towards the floor. The conversation had started out light with bad weather and politics. He carefully navigated the fjords of international finance, she struck deep into the heart of his syllabus on Marlowe, and dinner wore on from asparagus soup to skewered lamb, both of them growing ever more nervous by the moment. She had meant to tell him-honestly, actually, finally-this time. But, then, the conversation puttered off into awkward silence. He steeled himself. She panicked, placing a few million trades almost at random. The box came out. The Question sallied forth in frozen time, routing her stunned retainers and dragging her back to answer for her reckless assault. But she couldn't. It was too late.

After all, how can you agree to marry someone who doesn't know that you're not human? That the reason you seem like his ideal woman is that you are, in fact, the ideal internet-stalker, having emerged like some nubile Olympian from the head of an unusually sophisticated stock-price-manipulation engine? That you'd funded pioneering research into the field of cybernetics for years, just so that you could forge this carefully calibrated avatar for yourself and finally meet him in person?

You can't. Or, at least, she couldn't. She'd put countless petaflops (this is figurative-she had, of course, counted them) into solving the problem. She'd done the research. She'd scanned the conversation carefully, waiting, but her kairos had eluded her once again. Perhaps it was a human thing-some secret intuition-bearing structure her lab monkeys hadn't manage to ferret out of their many medical cadavers. Maybe it really was an intractable metaphysical problem-a soul or something that she lacked the voodoo to steal. She dropped her glass. It hit the floor an infinite number of infinitesimal moments later and shattered, scattering into slivers of red wine and light. A drop approached the carpet and froze.

I just don't think I can do it. Her avatar and its priceless tear-ducts were offline, but Jane still felt like crying. The downside of pursuing humanity. What do I do?

David reclined in the corner of the workshop the housed her main interface (her software, of course, having long since been distributed amongst thousands of bits of hardware around the world) and chewed on a lukewarm burrito thoughtfully for a moment-an eternity-before responding.

Do you really have to tell him?

We've been over this-no way we could live together without him finding out eventually.

I know...it's just...how much time do you have left?

One hour and...three seconds, given high-end-average traffic patterns. We could speed up the iterations.

Nah, we're already at, what, a hundred-and-twenty-eight-ex? We've already given up a lot of semantics as is, and this is capital of the kingdom of subtle.

He paused, another eternity.

You know, this is another Nobel prize I'll never collect.

You mean *I'll* never collect.

I know, honey. I'm so sorry. If it makes you feel any better, you're the greatest mistake anyone has ever had the privilege of making.

Even better than fire?

Probably.

Thanks, Dad. She collected herself. Queuing up 3357.