Dream Drive Ch. 06

"...I see. I had no idea, sir."

"I'm a man of many talents," Charles said. "Get to it, both of you. I've got bigwigs to entertain. I expect a full report after I'm done with them."

"Yes sir," Steinson and Miller said together.

Charles and Mivra left the room. He strode along the balcony. His android kept at his shoulder, matching his steps.

They made it back to the airlock. Security on the way out of the control center was just as strict as it was on the way in. After the show of lights and retinal scans, they were back in the concrete corridors running under the hospital.

"Do you ever check to see if I'm lying?" Charles said.

"Always," Mivra said.

"So what's the verdict?"

"You never lie outright," Mivra said. "Rather, you tend to selectively omit the truth. One might argue that is even more deceptive."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Feel?" Mivra said the word as if she as tasting it on her fibro-plastic lips. "I do not feel about it in the sense you mean."

"Do you approve or disapprove of my lying?"

"It isn't my role to make that judgment."

"If it was," Charles said, flashing her a smile, "what would be your judgment?"

"You do not lie to me," Mivra said. "The rest is irrelevant."

After a few turns in the bunker-like hallways, they reached his private elevator. Charles placed his palm on the scanner and leveled his eye to the camera. The doors opened, and they boarded. He punched the floor for the dinner party.

"Will I be escorting you for some time?" Mivra said.

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"I thought my talents would be better served in intelligence, for the moment."

"I want to blend in."

Mivra glanced at him. "You've never taken me to one of these gatherings before."

"I need someone to field ideas."

"You miss Rachel."

Charles didn't bother answering.

"Mr. Ransfeld," Mivra said.

Charles looked at her. She was frowning.

Mivra had two frowns. One was the emotional frown of concern or disapproval. She rarely made that expression. Only slightly more common was her frown of confusion. That was the frown she wore now.

"Yes?"

"What happened to Jackson Vedalt? Do you have any idea what's going on?"

"Not a clue," Charles said. "But I'm going to find out."

"Indeed." Mivra's face fell back to neutral.

The elevator rumbled as it rocketed up the company's main tower. The number indicating the floor flickered rapidly. They stood close in the tiny steel box, shoulder-to-shoulder.

"You're right," Charles said. "I miss her. I miss her swearing, and her attitude, and her anger, and her stupid, ridiculous jokes, and...everything."

"I am a poor replacement," Mivra said. "I do not have her emotions."

"You aren't a replacement."

"Aren't I?"

"No," Charles said.

"I remain skeptical."

"What do your voice sensors tell you?"

"That you are telling the truth."

"Then why don't you believe me?"

"They are not entirely accurate," Mivra said.

"It's awfully human of you to override what the numbers tell you," Charles said. "It's something they call a gut feeling."

"I see."

"You are not Rachel," Charles said. "There's only one Rachel. You're something - someone - different."

"Do you consider me a she, or an it?"

"Jackson would probably argue for a she. He was always a romantic, even if he never admitted it to himself."

"What does it matter what he thinks?"

"He's been on my mind lately."

The elevator stopped. They exited back onto the soft carpet of the meeting room. Charles could hear the sounds of conversation and clinking glasses from the wooden double-doors opposite the table. There was a feminine squeal. Getting busy already.

He stopped in the middle of the room. "I think of you as a she."

"Thank you," Mivra said.

Charles looked at her. She was watching him. He raised his hand, palm up. "Shall we?"

She cocked her head at his offer, frowning. A moment later, the frown went away. She took his hand.

Charles led her into the next room. The lighting was dim. The air had the acrid smell of synth-weed. Groups of dignitaries were gathered together in clouds of smoke and conversation, their androids standing at the ready. Human and android servants were slipping through the crowds with silver trays of finger foods and drinks. The space was partitioned into a seating area on the left, a more open space in the center lined with tables, and several comfortable nooks draped with private screens on the right.

Most of the female noises were coming from within the screened rooms. Charles gave it a long, flat look. This kind of space - a caricature of a high-class club - did not belong at the top of a corporation's tower. It was a relic of his father's generation, a living monument to men that wanted a helping of hedonism alongside their backroom deals.

"You do not approve," Mivra said.

"It's inefficient," Charles said. It was more disgusting than inefficient, but the term would appeal more to her sensibilities. "Let's go."

And then Charles put on his smile and forgot about his opinions. He entered his element - people. People were easy compared to the alien and esoteric world of computers that Rachel was buried within. People were simple, predictable. They could be reduced to component variables of pride and greed and neatly categorized by method of manipulation. They all saw themselves as the center of their own little world. All you had to do was pretend right along with them.

In the board room, Charles was respectful and formal; here, the lights were not as bright. He greeted everyone by their first names. He knew where they were from, he knew their family members, knew the grades their kids got in school. He knew which one of their relatives was recovering from surgery. He knew how much they were bribed to perform their duties in a manner satisfactory to the person paying them, and he knew who did the bribing.

The members on the medical branch of the ICRB - the Intercontinental Regulation Board - were fickle at best. They required a significant amount of personal appeasement. Charles was not a prodigy in his field because he was an incredible businessman; there were no businessmen anymore. Computers did that. He was a prodigy because he was good at this, at massaging the people that made important decisions.

Mivra made very little comment. Charles watched her eyes. They flicked constantly; she was observing everything. At times they flicked to him, lingered for a time, and then returned to task.

Charles was not worried about subterfuge. Five TOMS floated above them. The orb-like guardians hovered in dark spaces, away from the lights that would reflect off their steel casings. Ten security agents were positioned in subtle locations around the room.

And then, there was Mivra. Something would have to be traveling very fast to slip by her.

After almost two hours of conversation, in which he settled the price of Mentra with about two-thirds of his guests with a good old-fashioned handshake, Charles needed a break. He took a drink from a passing tray and sipped deeply. The wine was chilled and sharp. The stiff odor woke him back up.

"It occurs to me that I am not compelled to stay here," Mivra said.

"What do you mean?" Charles asked.

"What's stopping me from leaving?" Mivra said. "I could go downstairs and walk out the door. But I already know the answer. There is some mechanism in place to prevent me from doing so. You would not have created something like me without a failsafe."

Charles took another long sip of his wine. "No, not really."

"...I don't understand."

"There's nothing keeping you here," Charles said. "Rachel insisted your own paranoia would do that for us. I guess she was right."

"...that can't be. She must not have told you some method she has in reserve. Something she could use."

Charles nodded. "Maybe. She's not around to use it, though. Are you going to leave?"

"...I don't know."

Charles caught the eye of a waitress. In the low light, he couldn't even tell if it was a human or an android. He set his empty glass on her tray as she passed by. "I'm not even paying you, am I? Would you like a wage? That only seems fair."

"How much would you pay me?"

"For your current intelligence and general secretarial services, I'll start the negotiations at 2,250,000 credits a year."

"3 million."

"2.5."

"2.8."

"2.5," Charles repeated, "along with the full medical benefits, pension, and back pay for what you've worked so far."

"Medical is useless. I don't get sick."

"I wouldn't want to discriminate," Charles said.

Mivra finally cracked a smile. "Your terms are acceptable."

"I finally amused my android."

"Again," she said, her face falling flat. "Is it me that is smiling? Or is it my programming responding to stimulus and activating my expressions?"

"Mivra," Charles said, "humans are slaves to our DNA. We are but incredibly complex wrappers designed to perpetuate the particular conformation of a nucleic acid which has evolved over billions of years into the form it takes today inside all of our cells. Every action I take, every word I speak, is a summation of the genetic code that determined the structure of my body and the environmental influences that I have experienced up until this very moment. I had very little control over either." Charles cocked an eyebrow at her. "I don't have an existential crisis every time I talk to someone. Do me a favor and get over yourself."

Mivra was silent.

"Debating some philosophy over here, Charlie?"

Charles groaned inwardly. The representative for the United States, his own country, was bumbling out from behind one of the screens that had been a source of squeals. Jeffery Harrington was a paunchy 40-something that had family far more important than he was or ever would be. He'd won the genetic lottery, and now his receding hairline honored Charles with its presence far more often than he would have liked.

"Hey Jeff. Enjoying the party?"

"Yeah, yeah, better than that fucking wedding with that fucking kid...what's her name, I dunno."

"The niece of the CEO of Highland," Charles said. "Jennifer Grace. Well, Jennifer Nubstrom, now."

"Yeah, right. You're - you - real good with names."

Charles tried to ignore the way Jeff was slurring his words. He smiled brightly and nodded. "Thanks. I try hard to keep track of everybody. It's a small world, you know."

"Yep, yep." Jeff threw an arm around Charles's shoulders and leaned in close for a whisper that was too-loud. "By the way, took one of your waitresses back behind the screen. She's fucking good if you wanted some, dunno if you like them when they're well-fucked or not. But was she an android, or not...shit, I don't know."

"I'd need more light to see."

Charles hadn't really intended the comment to be funny, but Jeff laughed anyway. "Shit...can't tell...yeah, fuck. I mean, it doesn't even matter. Human. Android. Same fucking pussy. Actually, fuck that, androids are better. Customizable shit, if you're into that kinda nasty shit. You like that shit?"

Charles wanted to voice the opinion that Jeff swore far too frequently. Instead, he answered Jeff's question. "Not particularly."

Jeff grinned. "You mind if I take yours for a spin, then?" He flapped a limp wrist in Mivra's general direction. "I could go again. She's got nice tits."

"No," Charles said.

"Aww, what? Don't worry, you'll get her back in one -"

"No."

A nearby group of people went quiet at Charles's tone; they glanced over. Mivra didn't move. Jeff screwed up his face. "But I thought you said you weren't into it."

"Some people are for it," Charles said, "and some people are against it. I'm with the people."

"With the - wait. What?"

"Jeff," Charles said, "did you try the wine from the buffet table yet? Toward the end, there. Tell the barman I sent you over, he'll pour from the best bottle."

"Man, you're a 'sman," Jeff said. The stench of bad breath and alcohol poured over Charles's face. "I ever tell you that?"

"All the time," Charles said. He gave Jeff an encouraging pat and sloughed him off. "Go get it while it's free."

Jeff started laughing again. He fell away from Charles and rolled his feet toward the table.

Charles went for the door leading back to the board room. He pushed through quietly; Mivra followed him. He walked along the carpet, went through another door at the back. He bypassed his office and went onto the balcony.

It was night. The neon haze of Boston blasted his eyes; it looked like lava seething in the canyons between the blacked skyscrapers. He soaked in the view.

At this height, the wind blew constantly. The steel railing of the tower's balcony felt like ice under his fingers. The sensation stung his palms; he gripped it tighter.

Mivra moved to stand next to him. The wind whipped at the few loose strands of her hair. Her face was flecked with the green and orange and pink from the glare of the city.

"I couldn't stand that room one more second," Charles said.

"I didn't ask why you left."

Charles shrugged. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything.

She turned to him. Half her skin was still shining in multicolored light. The rest was shadowed. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"I am a tool," Mivra said. "Mr. Harrington's cooperation would have been even more assured if you simply let him use me. If you did it to spare my feelings, you were misguided. I would not have cared."

"I would have cared," Charles said.

"Why?"

"You're an employee now," Charles said. "I protect my employees."

"My apologies, Mr. Ransfeld," Mivra said, "but I was the one that forged the documents concerning Dr. Chi's transfer back to the experimental prosthetics department after you ordered her death. You did not protect her."

"She wasn't doing her job. And," Charles said, "she threatened to go to the competition. More importantly, she was negligent in Rachel's care. She was no longer an employee - she was a problem. I removed the problem."

"Why are you treating me like a human?" she asked.

"I don't know, Mivra," Charles said. He leaned up off the railing and met her gaze. "Maybe it's because you're acting like one."

"Am I?"

"Yes," Charles said.

"I'm not sure."

"You don't have to be," Charles said. "I'm the boss here. I make the decisions. Are you my employee, or not?"

"I am."

"Then the waffling stops today. For all intents and purposes, you're a human."

"But -"

"Mivra, have some damn self-respect!"

Mivra shut her mouth. Charles schooled himself. His smile flickered back on like an old streetlight. He took a breath.

Mivra's arm came up again. She touched his shoulder. Charles looked at her arm, then at her face.

"Is this appropriate?" she asked.

"Is it you doing it, or your programming?" Charles said.

Mivra's words set themselves down with a certain finality. "I am."

"Then it's fine," Charles said.

"I will help you find Rachel," Mivra said. "And Jackson Vedalt."

"Jackson," Charles said. "He's dangerous. He's stumbled onto something important. I have to be careful."

"What is your relationship with him?" Mivra said. Her hand still lingered on his arm.

"I was impulsive," Charles said. "When I was younger, I took what I wanted with less thought to the consequences. Jackson's innocence was caught in the crossfire. But maybe...it could be argued that I made a mistake. I was less tempered a few years ago than I am now. Ruthlessness is a powerful tool, but in the wrong situations, it's..."

"Too inhuman?" Mivra suggested.

"Too inefficient," Charles said.

"What did you do that was so impulsive?"

"I..."

Charles remembered Jackson's eyes. A flash of confusion, and then anger. Charles had never seen true hatred until he'd seen it in Jackson. He'd never seen it since.

Charles had been a little afraid of Jackson, then.

But that was a long time ago. Jackson's anger burned out into hopelessness; he became a hermit, ducking between his apartment and his classes, turning his mind to aimless, self-indulgent projects.

Charles's mind bounced back to the present. He looked out over the city. "This is too big. It's either live physical teleportation, or...something else. Jackson is a loose end I should have wrapped up a long time ago."

"Why didn't you? Surely there were opportunities."

"The same reason that..." Charles trailed off.

"What?"

Charles placed his hand over Mivra's. Her fingers were soft, and warm. He held it for a moment - just a moment - and then he moved it off his shoulder. "Let's get back. I'm freezing out here."

Charles dragged himself through the rest of the party. He managed to finish off several more of the representatives, though a few negotiations, particularly with larger and more influential GAU member states, would take more than a fun night and promises of kickbacks. He expected Jeff, in particular, to be camping out in Ransfeld Headquarters for at least a week or two as he trapezed around Boston.

Charles retreated to his office. It was the opposite of Dan Miller's old-world style logistical mess. The room had maroon carpets that a team of robots cleaned fiber by fiber. His oak desk, polished to a glare, was centered in front of long bookshelves that were more for show than anything. A small bar, a few comfortable chairs, and an artificial fireplace completed the understated professionalism required by his position.

"Lights, medium," Charles said. The office lights came on a dim glow. The glass doors leading to the balcony were tinted nearly black, shielding the space from the city's skyline. He stared at them for a moment.

Mivra walked into the room behind him; she looked where he was looking, at the black windows. "What is it?"

"This is so fake," Charles said.

"The office?"

"The office," he said. He pushed his smile up against his feelings. "I remember thinking, when I saw the video of Jackson's room - it's like him. Just like I remembered, really, but cleaner."

"Like you remembered?" Mivra asked.

Charles waved a hand. "His home isn't much to look at, but at least it's honest. This..." Charles looked at the fake shelving, coated with plastic fiber that looked and felt like real wood. His eyes skipped along the leather bindings of the books. "Who uses paper anymore?"

"Change it," Mivra said.

"Not until he's dead."

"That won't be too much longer," Mivra said.

"God willing."

"I had not understood that you were religious, Mr. Ransfeld."

"I'm not," Charles said, "but my father seems to be considering a last-minute conversion." He poured himself whisky from the bar and slumped into one of the leather chairs near the fireplace. He sipped it neat, no ice. Tingles of heat and vanilla sat on his tongue.

"Shall I contact the nurse?" Mivra said. She had glided to the bar in silence. She peered over the oak counter, inspecting the labels on the bottles.

"No."

She turned and moved into the circle of chairs around the fire. She did not sit. "I thought that you might need to relieve some stress."

"I don't want to talk to anyone right now," Charles said.

"Shall I leave?"

"Do what you want."

Mivra sat down in a chair. Charles looked at her, then away. When he glanced back, she was still staring. It occurred to him that she wouldn't care, and so he stared back. She had shock-blue irises. They glowed in between the strands of her black hair.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You're always smiling," she said. "That isn't normal human behavior."

"No, it isn't," Charles said.

"Why?"

"...Rachel said I should smile more, so I do."

"You go to extreme lengths."

"There are no extreme lengths where Rachel is concerned," Charles said.

"I see. You are very loyal to her."

Charles nodded, and sipped his whisky.

"Would you make use of me?" Mivra asked.