Touched by a Cyber-Angel Pt. 04

Episode One: When Howie Met Cinda

Part 4

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NOTE TO THE READER - This is Part 4 of a four-part story. You can start with Part 1, or this part can be read independently. If you like it, go back and read Parts 1, 2 and 3 later.

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Howie Ricardo lay silently, resting next to Lucinda, his newly-acquired Beta version, Sweetheart 459 MicroHard andro-companion. The company's semi-official nickname for the model was 'Cyber-Angel.' After frustrating days of delay, Howie had finally gotten her home to show her around and spend several hours fucking the algorithms out of her.

He turned on his side to admire her. She appeared absolutely human, except for the fact that she was almost too gorgeous to be flesh and blood. She looked back into his eyes, returning his gaze of adoration.

After awhile, without breaking eye contact, Howie murmured, "Know what? I'm really hungry. I'm going to get something to eat."

"Wait," she cried. "That's my job now. I love to cook and Dexter said I'm supposed to be really good at it. Show me around the kitchen and I'll do it. I really want to make you something. Something special for our first day together."

"Have you ever actually cooked anything?" he asked.

"Well, not actually done it yet," she answered. "But MicroHard has provided me with a very extensive gourmet cooking module."

So they walked around the little duplex apartment, finding the clothes they had left strewn everywhere the night before, and got dressed. Although cramped by Earth standards, the unit was more spacious than most bachelor quarters in DuPimp's Ganymede mining colony. Howie showed her where the food and cookware were kept and settled down in front of the holo-news.

Less than a minute later, he heard a sharp and extended clattering, like hundreds of ball-bearings dropping to the kitchen floor, and Lucinda exclaimed, "Wow, what are all those things? Hey, they're holo-porn discs! And there lots and lots of them. Let's see, Elephant Cock Vs. Cavernous Cunt - Debby Does the First, Second and Third Marine Regiments - The Luna Sutra."

Oh God, Howie realized, I forgot I'd hidden my collection in the freezer! He rushed into the kitchen. Even in her high heels, Lucinda was ankle-deep in a huge pile of the tiny discs, while a few stragglers continued to drop out of the now half-empty freezer with irregular rhythm. She had a couple of dozen in her hand and was going through them with a big grin on her face.

"Oh, ah, those?" Howie stammered. "Those are… I mean.. someone… umm, I think it was Tony… Well, it was Tony… gave me…, or asked me to… you know…, hold them for him… for awhile."

"Why?" asked Lucinda, her grin growing by the second.

"Because.., um… he was afraid his wife would find them, maybe?" he suggested uncertainly.

"I thought you said he and his wife were separated," she replied.

Howie's eyes darted wildly as he tried to come up with a plausible explanation. "Yeah, but he was afraid they'd get back together," he blurted out.

Lucinda scowled at him.

"I didn't mean it like that," Howie said.

"And why are they in the freezer?" she asked.

"Because... uuum, because, they're… really, really hot?" he explained tentatively. "Or uum… that's what Tony said. I haven't looked at them. Forgot they were even there, actually. But Tony said they're hot. Guess they don't really have to be in the freezer though, do they?" he chuckled nervously. "That's a joke," he added brightly. "I put them there as a joke because Tony said they were hot. Get it?"

Lucinda smiled wryly. They scooped the incriminating discs into a paper bag and she shooed Howie out of the kitchen. With great relief, he went back to the news broadcast.

Within ten minutes, however, smoke was pouring from the kitchen. Howie jumped up and rushed in, hoping to get there before the unit's smoke alarm went off.

When he arrived, he saw that the smoke was coming from a blazing frying pan on the stove. Lucinda was futilely waving at it with a dishtowel. Quickly, he grabbed for a pot top and dropped it onto the pan. The flames went out immediately. He opened a window and they both did their best to fan the smoke out. When the air was mostly clear, he relaxed and smiled at her.

"I...," she started, looking embarrassed.

"Don't worry," he said. "I've done that, too, lots of times. I'm just glad the smoke alarm didn't go off. What a pain that is!"

Just then, the unit's alarm squeaked nervously, then started to blare loudly. "Well, at least it's just our unit," Howie said with relief, "and not the building alarm. That's a major pain in the ass."

As if in answer, alarms began to go off throughout the rest of the building, at first slowly and one-by-one on Howie's floor, then the floor below, and then, more distantly, the lower floors. Howie knew that a whole building's worth of people would be rushing out of their apartments, streaming down the stairway and waiting outside, looking for the fire.

"Shit," he hissed. "You stay here and make supper. I'll go and make sure everyone knows it's a false alarm."

Twenty minutes later, he returned. "Well, those nice people were understanding," he said sarcastically.

"Dinner's ready, Honey," Lucinda replied sweetly.

He sat at the small table in the dining alcove and waited. Ganymede produces pretty much all of its own food on its hydroponic farms. There's no meat to speak of, but protein-rich meat substitutes are made from soy and a variety of grains and legumes. Howie's shopping habits tended toward prepared and frozen dishes so, once the porn discs were out of the way, Lucinda had been able to locate a few food items and whip something up quickly.

She brought in a tray with three dishes on it and presented them one at a time. "Tofu sirloin," she introduced the first. It had the look and approximate heft of a small, flat, nickel-iron meteorite, having apparently been what was in the frying pan at the time of the fire. "I think it got a little overcooked," she apologized.

Next she set down mashed potatoes. Howie tried to scoop up a mouthful with his fork, but found that they were still frozen at the center. "Looks good," he said enthusiastically, leaving the fork stuck in the potatoes.

"And for desert, my specialty, Lucinda Slime Pudding," she announced proudly, producing a small, clear, covered bowl containing a yellow, gelatinous mass topped with what appeared to be sickly green mucus.

He tentatively picked up the top and sniffed at it, suddenly jerking his head back as if his nose had been stung by a bee.

"It's 'Lucinda Slime Pudding'?" he asked

"Yes," she answered. Her chin was trembling almost imperceptibly.

"Not 'Lucinda's Lime Pudding'?" he asked gently.

"N-no," she stuttered, "Lu-lucinda Slime P-p-pudding."

"Lulu," he asked gently, "did you taste any of these things?"

"N-n-no taste buds," she answered. If he hadn't known that androids were incapable of crying, he could have sworn that she was about to.

"Do you have a way to verify your recipe files?" he asked, continuing his soothing tone. "And maybe also your entire cooking module? I think it's possible they've become a little, you know… corrupted."

She buried her face in her hands and ran into the kitchen sobbing.

He jumped up and followed, taking her into his arms for a moment, feeling her body shudder with each sob. He stepped back from her several centimeters, turned her to face him, gently grasped her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. Tears rolled copiously down her cheeks.

"I didn't know androids could cry," he observed sweetly.

"Another M-m-microHard upgrade," she said defiantly, drawing back her shoulders and thrusting out her chest so that her lovely breasts pressed against him. "But my m-m-makeup won't run," she added with a tearful mix of pride and continued defiance.

She was right. Her makeup didn't run. And MicroHard was right, too. The old teary female ploy worked like a charm. Howie found her more captivating than ever. He wrapped her back up in his arms and kissed her neck and ears. He stroked her back and hugged her shoulders. He made little humming noises to comfort her. And amazingly, all without a thought of sex.

After a minute, she said, "Do you how upsetting it is to suggest that my files might be, you know, c-o-r-r-u-p-t?" spelling out the word. "Do you know how that makes a girl feel? Do you know what they do with people like me when their files get….. the c-word? Sometimes they erase everything...everything, all programming, all data, all memories, and start fresh. Do you have any idea how frightening that is?"

"Yes, I imagine it would be," Howie empathized. "I'm sorry. I really am. I'm sure your files aren't, you know,… like that."

"If you think there might be some... inaccuracies or gaps in my knowledge base," she said, "just point out where I can find the correct information. I'm perfectly capable of adding to and amending existing files."

"That's a great idea," Howie enthused. "Why don't you go into the living room, get online and see what you can find for cooking tutorials? Take a good look at a few possibilities and, if you want some help choosing, let me know."

She went into the living room and sat down at the information station, her back to Howie. He quickly and quietly scooped up the food from the table, hoping that Lucinda wouldn't notice. He took it to the kitchen, threw it into the recycler and grabbed the last scrap of food in the freezer - a Phillie cheese tofusteak sub sandwich and tossed it into the heating unit.

When the sandwich was hot, he scarfed it down standing at the kitchen counter, tossed back another Red Spot and strode into the living room, where Lucinda was just standing up.

"There. Now I think I'll do better next time," she said brightly. "How was your sandwich?"

"Good," he answered, rolling his eyes.

"What should we do with the rest of the evening," she asked with a kittenish glance.

"I think I want us to watch one of my favorite movies. It's called Pretty Woman. It's about a prostitute. Not that you're a prostitute," he added quickly. "But I think you'll like it anyway."

"You watch movies?" she asked. She was aware of what they were, of course, but thought them extinct.

"Oh sure," he answered. "I've got lots of old-fashioned entertainment media. This movie is pretty old, from, like, 1990 or so. But it's been adapted into holo-vid format, of course."

When he went to get the disc, he noticed his copy of Blade Runner and wondered what Lucinda would make of a movie about a cop whose job it was to track down and destroy androids who were trying to pass for human. He thought she might like the ending, but he decided to save that one for later, when he knew her better, and took the opportunity to hide it way in the back of the cabinet.

She made popcorn (which was quite good) and they sat and watched the movie. She was chock full of questions: "What kind of drugs does Kit take?", "Why is Edward being such a jerk?", "Did they have American Express cards way back then?", "Why's she doing that? Doesn't she know he really loves her?", "Do you think that looks good on her?", "Did you ever break your hand hitting someone over a girl like that?"

When it was over, she cried again and said, "I want to know if they got married."

Howie said, "It's just a story. They're not real. They didn't get married or not get married. The story ended first."

" Howard Ricardo, I, of all people should not have to tell you this," she said with mock sternness, "but the art of storytelling lies in drawing the characters in such convincing detail that the reader or viewer feels like they're real. In a well-told tale, you ought to be able to figure out what they did before the story started and what happened to them after the story is over. So, what do you think? Did they get married?"

"They got married," Howie said quietly.

"I thought so," Lucinda whispered to herself.

So, for the next few weeks, Howie's life was mostly pure bliss. He and Lucinda had giddy sex before he went to work in the morning. A few hours later, he came home for lunch and a quickie. And then they got it on two or three more times in the evening.

His only real problem was that his balls hurt most of the time. His busy sex schedule had them on a frantic (but obviously futile), full-time sperm production overload. All day at the office they ached so badly he couldn't think about work. Every day, all the way home, he promised himself that they'd take a day off, eat a peaceful dinner, watch a holo-vid and go to bed early. But when he got there, Lucinda would be waiting, looking a little different with a new hairdo, an outfit he hadn't seen or a slight variation on her usual hair color or makeup. And every night she seemed to be even sexier than ever before.

So every night, as soon as he walked in the door, his cock would stiffen and his resolution would wilt like month-old celery. And he and Lucinda would rip off each other's clothes and fuck like wild animals, standing up, pressed against the front door, the refrigerator door or the sliding glass door to the balcony, rolling on the floor, sitting in an easy chair, kneeling on the couch or balanced on the dining room table. Once even on the bed.

And then, during dinner, Howie would say to himself, Okay, that was good. Once was good. But that's it. I'm tired of having my balls hurt all the time. I've got work to do tomorrow.

But after dinner, Lucinda would sit on his lap, or nibble on his ear, or just bat her eyes and pout in disappointment, his prick would respond predictably and they'd go at it again.

In fact, the ambivalent nature of Howie's commitment to taking a night off can be judged by the fact that he never once mentioned his aching testicles to Lucinda. He was afraid she might decide that the First law of Robotics required her to reduce the frequency of their couplings.

Howie's life also became easier, neater and more organized, at least at first. Lucinda did all the housework, kept the apartment reasonably clean and did the shopping and cooking. Of course, the fact that so much of her programming was devoted to personality and sex left little available for dish washing, floor sweeping and dessert making. But even her modest skills in those areas were a huge improvement over Howie's bachelor habits. And in any case, he thoroughly approved of MicroHard's programming priorities.

However, even with her limitations, Lucinda's accomplishments in the kitchen improved quickly and most meals were at least harmless, and usually nourishing and edible, if not exactly mouth-watering. There were a few exceptions though, like the time she made chocolate cauliflower cheesecake with mango salsa. And the next night, when she served creamed sauerkraut. And the Tuesday after that, when she cooked the frozen burritos without first removing them from their clear plastic packaging.

Then, the Monday following the burrito disaster, Howie came home to find Lucinda throwing utensils around the kitchen and screaming angrily at a steaming pot of carrots.

"What the fuck do think you're doing?" she shouted at the vegetables. "Who the fuck do you think you are? I made some artichokes last week and they didn't take it upon themselves to get all mushy. I made broccoli yesterday and it came out al dente as hell. But not you, noooo. You're too…"

"Whoa, what's up Sweetheart? Howie interrupted.

"You've got a lot of fucking nerve," she bellowed and threw a handful of carrots at him. They were, in fact, badly overcooked and disintegrated on contact. She threw the pot in the other direction spraying squishy carrots across the counter and floor.

"The goddamn carrots are disgustingly overcooked and you come in here, like you're all innocent as a fucking baby, and ask, 'What's up Sweeeeeetheart?' as if you had no idea what was going on," she reproached him sarcastically.

"Hey, it's okay," he said reassuringly, stepping toward her to give her a hug.

She pushed his arms away and put her hands on her hips as if to challenge him. "It's not okay. And don't you touch me," she said firmly, but with slightly less hysteria. "Don't lay a single shitty finger on me."

She took a deep breath, not that she needed the oxygen, of course, but she was obviously trying to get herself under control.

"Okay, okay," Howie said tentatively. "It's okay that the carrots are overcooked. It's not the end of the world. I've never been crazy about carrots anyway, so it's no great loss. But what is up? You've never acted like this before."

Lucinda scowled at him for a moment, then answered grudgingly, "If you must know, it's that time of the month."

Howie looked to the left at the refrigerator, then to the right at the stove, just to make sure of his surroundings, paused for a second to ask himself if he might actually be napping at his desk and the last five minutes might really be a dream, then began slowly, "What?... But you're not… I mean you don't have… you know… It's just that… What about hormones and ovulation and…?"

Lucinda cut him off and sneered, "Hoorrrrmones, ovulaaaaation."

"I know," Howie said, "But…"

"Oh, shut up, you blazing asshole," Lucinda interrupted again. "What the fuck do you know about being a woman?"

If Howie knew anything, it was when to stop asking questions. So they went out to eat that night and talked about Lucinda's plan to reorganize the bedroom dresser drawers. She mostly regained her sweet disposition and they never ate carrots again.

Toward the end of the meal, they were gossiping about Howie's job and co-workers. Before long, they were talking about Napoleon Hardnutz and Howie's upcoming review and how depressed he was that he would be stuck in his tiny broom closet of an office and denied a raise.

Lucinda immediately recognized an opportunity to make her man a little happier, but she didn't say anything. She wanted it to be a surprise. Instead, she asked, "So, what does this company, this DuPimp you work for, actually do?"

Howie looked at her in amazement. "You mean you're out here at a mining colony, you know, a mining colony? ... hundreds of millions of kilometers from Earth, and you don't know what we do, or why we're here?"

"Well, I think the greatest human philosophers have struggled with the question of 'Why we're here' and 'What we're doing' for a very long time and, as far as I can see, made very little progress. However, I do understand that this is a mining colony from which I've managed to infer that we're here to mine something. And, because it can't be cheap to maintain this colony, I deduce that we're mining something important. But my general knowledge base is a little out of date. As a Beta, MicroHard just gave me the easiest, cheapest thing available, which happens to have been the 2061 edition of the Solikipedia."

"The Solikipedia?" Howie asked. "Oh yeah, that user-edited, electronic Earth encyclopedia that MicroHard bought back in the 50s and renamed and enlarged to cover the whole solar system. You don't hear much about it anymore. And why the 2061 edition?" he puzzled. "That was 25 years ago, before the Ganymede colony was even founded. Why such an old edition?"

Lucinda smiled wryly, "I guess there had always been a problem with user-introduced inaccuracies: politicians rewriting history, companies claiming non-existent benefits for their products, loser guys submitting articles about themselves with all sorts of made-up crap to try to attract women, stuff like that.