THE BLADE RUNNER AMENDMENT (10 page)

She interrupted his reflections and finally answered his question: “I was told to come to you, that was all.”

The dance of her eyes gave the illusion of an approaching star. She seemed playful and dangerous, her innocence-glazed mouth an invitation to transgressive experience. Again, it was deceptive; a further reading of her parted lips showed the quality of the patience and restraint she had been practising. Here was fine ambiguous programming, with Humphrey’s hand, like God’s, nowhere and everywhere to be seen. He would have to take these conclusions, for the time, on faith. As for Humphrey, he wasn’t playing at being God – he’d taken on the identity in his chosen realm. At that moment, observing that particular detail, Virgil felt his presence, but could he prove it any more than he could with deity?

“I was told to come to you, that was all.”

His mind filled with the question of what her words meant. Coming from a human, the phrasing would be unremarkable but, for a humanoid, it sounded exceptional and, in the context of the recent funereal circumstances, even delightful. Something man-made possessed an innate magic when it transcended its maker in manner and performance, and she was here for him.

The reassurance of the words “that was all” perfectly communicated a human quality. It anticipated unspoken concerns. What combination of factors had he exhibited to elicit it – had they been approximately the same as in any commonplace human to human interaction? Over time in such company as hers, he suspected, he would stop wondering, but would she deal as adroitly with more complex issues of personality and emotion? A less sophisticated entity like Molly might have said, “I have no information for what it is about,” – a simple answer to a simple question. However phrased, it would be logical; whereas there was no logic – no humanoid logic – in tacking on “that was all.” Whether or not the words were suggestive of Humphrey, from Chloé’s mouth they invited inquiry and more than eased the operation of the human – himself – in the equation. They caused him to forget that there was an algorithmic effort to right an inherent imbalance.

Chloé, as she called herself, had a reason for being there. It wasn’t her fault if she lacked the particular information for what it was. In a human, the fault would be an annoyance and an intrusion. Not in her case. He could make allowances for a humanoid of her calibre.

“Are there any others like you?”

“Not in the public domain.”

“Are you in the public domain?”

“Ostensibly not.”

‘Ostensibly not’. More nuanced language to savour and to ponder, and another portal opened to inquiry. As with speech from a human source, it either conveyed an invitation or withheld it. Either way, one could come back with a natural response.

“And the others. Where are they ostensibly? Also not in the public domain?”

“I cannot say.”

Meaning she either knows and can’t tell or she is assuming their existence based upon her own.

The political debate over the question of whether or not there should be prohibition or regulation of humanoids that might superficially be mistaken for humans had ended in a shambles with nothing decided in law other than the almighty principle of freedom to conduct business. Simple economics dictated that the expenditure of energy and resources in their factory production and the low maintenance costs thereafter more than outweighed the overall investment required to bring a biological entity to full operational status. The latter’s ongoing needs and behavioural issues would add enormously to the bottom line. Simple competition meant that the new constructs would proliferate and outnumber the old, human ones in the work force.

Once Humphrey introduced his products to the individual consumer, the controversy became moot. No one any longer cared for a mundane, human look-alike when designer entities went so well with designer homes, designer pets and, in some instances, designer children. People have always been suckers for the non-threatening and cute. The introduction of new models brought enormous line-ups for their purchase. After all one designed one’s life, and the last thing needed was a feeling of competition with one’s PH – or personal humanoid.

As was to be expected, the public display of products that resembled those of the adult entertainment industry never did achieve social cachet and yet the entities whose no less adroit intimate offerings came with a more stylized appearance proved a popular item.

The old-line Mollies continued to knock about, mostly behind closed doors, until such time as they gave up the ghost in the machine or their owners upgraded and no longer had use for them. As for the generic offerings of Humphrey’s competition these never did lose that workman-like look they had always suffered under and that kept them priced for the undiscriminating mass consumer. The equivalent of fast, processed food appeared to have been their technological nourishment.

Virgil set aside for the moment that he found himself in the middle of something he didn’t understand and that he felt, correctly or incorrectly, he was somehow meant to solve, and studied what sat before him purely for its own sake. Merely Chloé’s demeanour – legs casually crossed, head propped on bent arm – made him wonder if she weren’t a materialized hologram so humanly relaxed was she, self-confident and self-possessed. Humans undergo similar transformation when they are the object of someone’s affection and achieve an esteemed presence at least in the eyes of their admirer.

Chloé’s retro human design was unfathomable. Was Humphrey Martinfield doing no more than showing off his genius in producing human grace notes? If so, it would be a first for him to favour his friend like this.

Previously, rumour and speculation would herd Humphrey’s audience to the staged reveal. The visionary would stroll out wearing signature pilot glasses as his contribution to the theatre of the moment. His competitors could never manage an effective response to this spectacle of hip self-endorsement.

Was Humphrey for once unsure of himself and of the reception a line of Chloés or variations on the same would garner? Especially when coming from him, this radically humanized design would stir up the old debates that good, old-fashioned morality had settled. Virgil was experiencing a whole range of emotions that were new for an entity like this and yet uncomfortably familiar – empathy among them.

“You look puzzled, Virgil.”

“Congratulations for reading me correctly once again.”

How does one speak to an android with human charms? Probably not in the manner he just did.

“Thank you, but I do not merit praise for my capacities. They are what they are and not a personal achievement. However I am programmed to expect it.”

Cute.

“By Humphrey…Humphrey Martinfield?”

“Perhaps. It could be anyone, couldn’t it, Virgil?”

“No, I don’t think so. But you do know Humphrey?”

“Yes, I know everything about him that is on public record.”

“I see. You come across as a human, you know. Do you expect to be treated like one?”

“That is my programmed expectation, Virgil. It is how I learn.”

“That being the case, if you are modelling the human, you might consider not so regularly punctuating your conversation with my name. It can be irritating, Chloé.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.”

“Oh, do you, Chloé?”

“Not exactly, Virgil…sorry but the answer seemed to call for it.”

“You’re a quick learner. Better to be possibly correct than obedient.”

“Thank you, Virgil…sorry.”

“That’s all right. That inclusion was appropriate.”

“I know, Virgil. My apology was meant to be a joke.”

A joke. Humanoids with a sense of humour.

“Was it a funny joke, do you think?”

“You tell me, Virgil, and I’ll laugh a little for you.”

Flirtatious glitter broke from the diamonds in her eyes and etched lines formed to express inner laughter. He decided to let the subject pass.

“You’d better come home with me.” He said it as much to himself as to the humanoid.

“Yes, Virgil.”

A lost sound in all of that accomplishment.

Was he mistaken in thinking he was an integral part in something that was going on? The notion that one is an unwilling participant in one’s own destiny with the freedom to opt out if one chooses or to change its course is both curious and contradictory – it is destiny, after all – one of those ultimate self-deceptions or ultimate truths.

Chloé accompanied him with a subtle, abashed air, an improvement upon the aura of dependency in humanoids generally, and easily to be found among his own kind. As for himself, he had a homeless humanoid on his hands with all the shadowy repercussions and responsibilities of such a circumstance yet fully to become clear. One thing – his living quarters would be somewhat more crowded. Those who possessed themselves of a harem-like accumulation had always amused him and now here he was on his way to introduce his new friend to Molly.

It seemed unfair to him that the President worked at home.

From the outside, the layout struck Virgil as more real than he could have imagined it: the sky appropriately fissuring its military grey with clear flying blue high above the lower wind. In any other location, the scenic effect would hardly have been noteworthy, but here it presented as an essential and emblematic feature. Whatever appearance the sky took on would provide meaning for a visitor here.

Within the premises, the crystal clarity of all the polish must be what put everything – most of all, decisions of state – into final focus. The darker lines of intrigue and political machination would stand out more unambiguously against the light that ricocheted in glowing strokes. Whatever had been manually done – relentless cleaning and redesign – had been done in service to this fullness of effect not to mention the better display of the abundant flowers from the greenhouse sometime installed. Sweeping stairways, ranging hallways, and corridor offshoots staged the traffic of state with a discipline and elegance that suited formal wear over casual. Ergo the disparagement that some holders of the office had suffered.

An intern of sorts, wearing a fuchsia dress, ushered him into Tom’s rectangle of an office and, with a nod, left. What had gotten into him,? He hadn’t known where to turn while feeling he had to turn somewhere. It seemed hardly sufficient as a reason, but a contact was a contact. Humphrey Martinfield was not just anybody, and Chloé was not just anything. Naturally enough, the nature of this sanctum had prevented him from bringing her to support his concerns.

Tom entered through a portal that he’d entirely not noticed. He got up to shake hands.

“Virgil! How are you doing?”

“Well enough, I suppose, Tom. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

In fact, they had seen each other no more than two or three times in over twenty years since graduating from university when they had roomed together. Not that they had forged bonds that were not severable, although they acted otherwise consciously assuming on their approach to reacquaintance the appearance of relaxed tension that a Golden Gate Bridge’s steel cables suggested. Tom had adopted an expansive show since the unappetizing intimacies and the
de rigueur
informalities that were inevitable when sharing living quarters, but on this occasion Virgil welcomed it, as he would the brief appearance of sun in an uncertain sky.

“Make yourself at home!” His host’s invitation filled the room and virtually wafted him to the visitor’s chair.

“At home in the White House,” Virgil murmured as he sat down. “A historical moment for me.”

He indulged himself and delivered his earlier sentiment: “The President works at home!” Tom ignored the comment as though it had gone completely by him or was a species of ‘aw shucks’ idiocy and beneath his condescension.

“Yep. Every day I spend here, every breath I take weaves itself into history.”

“Busy at the nation’s loom.”

Virgil cringed for himself while Tom acted his new generous self to a fault.

“Not exactly tapestry work.”

“Still, everything here has a significance, doesn’t it? Always the threat that things will come unwoven unless properly done.”

“The same is true everywhere.” Tom chose a philosophic tone.

“No, not exactly. It doesn’t much matter which side of the bed I get out of.”

“But you always get out the same side as I recall.”

Virgil glanced about, painfully aware that he wasn’t fitting in and couldn’t be without a different tack. The room’s high-placed window made their location in the building difficult to pinpoint. Had that gentle sloping stairway led to a semi-basement area? No carpet softened the mahogany floor in whose polish dimly shone the wood-cut prints evenly spaced along the walls. What was their story? He focused on them.

“There’s a store-room filled with this stuff. We can pick and choose. It didn’t much matter to me. I picked, at the beginning of things, when I had to establish a sense of order and belonging, you know. More difficult to turf you out if you are at home.” A little self-deprecating sound.

True enough. He got the reference. Although his former room-mate had been generally unkempt in his person, he managed somehow to maintain a military absence of distraction in his study area. Had he done it, in all weirdness, to establish territory? Virgil doubted it. The rest of the quarters had tended to mayhem. A mixed bag, nothing wrong with that, admirable in its own way, a coexistence of discipline and carelessness. Virgil had found his style relaxing at the time, and it had apparently served Tom well.