FRIENDS, PLZ RD.
This past week and a half, I've been skipping class and homework to begin my novel, and so far I've only scrapped up bits and pieces.
Synopsis: It takes place in the 35th Century after humans have colonized part of the galaxy. Andrea is twenty-seven years old and struggling to find work after university. She is the only one of her family who does not live on Earth except her grandfather Marvin Walter. Marvin is a revered scientist who has broken ground with his contributions to the company Think-Exist, an android service. However, in his old age he wants to retire back to the mother planet, leaving Andrea by herself. Before he departs, he gifts her an android and havoc ensues.
Mainly, my goal with these sections are both exposition and character development. It's a bit of a romance, yeah, and part social-commentary. Approximately 6,600 words. The entire storyline takes place over one year, and these sections are scraps from the first six months.
Let me know what you think of the bare bones!
THE SUN SETS IN CALTHA
ANDREA: Today is the day my grandfather leaves Caltha and returns to Earth: July 23, 3403. It’s been a banal year of waiting for the swell of the hot season to meld into the mild seasons as the three stars slowly orbit above. My eyes flicker open just before my alarm device buzzes in my ear. I rip it off to prevent its shock. I’m already awake, thank you, I think while my fingers clumsily fumble for the seal on my bed. The digital visor that darkens Caltha’s perpetual sunlight slowly opens and I can feel the stars’ heat striking my face through the window, dotting my vision with tiny specks of searing white and red behind my eyelids. It is 5:29 in the morning and in four hours the great Marvin Walter board the cruise ship for the Old World. My grandfather, the only family I have on this colonized planet, will be leaving to enjoy his retirement on good old Earth.
I stumble out of bed as the railings lower with a soft hydraulic hiss and the faux-wooden floors send shivers up my feet and legs. The light from the windows catch the paneling at just the right angle to emphasize the nearly imperceptible solar grids blended into the grain of the wood. The shiny metal flashes in a way my friend Amelia says is chintzy, but I think the floors give the flat a real retro-Earth look even if the panels are without texture. I make the bed, close the visor and wipe it down with cleaning solution, and then proceed to sink the bed into the floor. It disappears as the floor panel slides shut.
I live alone in an efficiency loft on the southern end of Caltha. Generally the main room is empty except for when the walls open to reveal the refrigerator or the closet, or when the floor panels split open to produce tables, chairs, and my bed. My friends’ lofts have carpets and decorations and separate rooms that make such tiny spaces suffocating, but my single room appears to stretch forever. The right wall consists of a single one-way window that overlooks the city. The opposite wall is a large mirror like in a ballet studio that reflects the towering buildings beyond. I live in the city. At any time of the day I can stretch out on the fake wood floors and look in either direction at the burning suns, the peak of the university clock tower where I used to attend, and Marvin Walter’s laboratory. The only Dark Room I have is my bathroom. I like my minimalist lifestyle, waking up and turning to face the city, my reflection so insignificant and small compared to the backdrop of the looming buildings overhead. It’s as if with one wrong step, I’d free fall over the edge.
Right on schedule, at 5:35 another panel opens up in one of the two walls not covered in glass. A tiny screen slides out and begins to announce my morning messages in its monotonous, lifeless tone. That’s the problem with perpetual daylight: people are perpetually in motion, wanting to do things, wanting to accomplish and achieve and exhaust themselves in the dark of the East Sect of Caltha, calling me up to fool around in the slums.
… And I was thinking we could go E-S it. You know, find a nice Dark Room for dancing and another for Middling with Tock and Ang…
Mathers’ voice ambles over the speakers as I shut my eyes and take in the light. He’s a nice kind of fellow with a steady clerical job for some petrol engineering firm, spending his time hopped up on the best synthetic energizers. He’s the sort of person my mother would say about, “Now that’s a nice man,” when not-so subtly inquiring after my social life because he looks clean and works diligently. I think he’s nice, sure, but boring because of his pointless job and the numerous hours he spends whittling away outside of work in the grimy East Sect.
It could be worse, though. I suppose. Instead of living in Caltha - a middle class planet comprised of closet-junkies sneering at other suspects - I could be in Waymer or Bleke where people have no other choice than to live in the slums. At least Caltha’s decadent worst-kept secret is all by choice, a thriving township where no one actually lives, but where everyone crawls to after hours.
The screen informs me of another call, beeps, and the voice switches to Amelia’s discordant but vibrant yell of excitement. Andrea, get UP! the message shouts. Mathers, Tock, and Ang are all heading to E-S it and I’m off work. Are you busy? Are you busy?
I inspect my fingernails and then examine myself in the mirror, pulling my hair back so it stretches the skin above my temples taut. I smile at first, a look of sheer exuberance and joy before letting the expression fade into something coy as I lower my chin, glancing behind shuttered eyelashes. Then I straighten my shoulders, squaring my jaw as I frown and examine myself sternly. The machine beeps again.
Andrea, stop staring at yourself in the mirror! It’s your good ol’ grandfather! he says as if it could be anyone else. A slight smile creeps across my face again, gentler and genuine. Marvin Walter’s scratchy voice booms over the speakers. I relax my shoulders. I know your audition isn’t for another week, so come out and say goodbye to me. Six-thirty for breakfast up at North. He barks into the machine, and I can imagine his thick eyebrows furrowing. Oh yes, he adds. I left you a present too. Look to your right.
I look askance at the reflection of the screen in the mirror as the words, “End of messages” scroll backwards. My grandfather, the artificial intelligence engineer prodigy, is notorious for his gifts - at least in my book. He was the one that voice activated my apartment so that my bed would lift from the floor when I demanded it, but only when I used my most commanding tone, or so that the walls would open to reveal my refrigerator only when I leaned against the mirror and whispered meekly, “Food, please,” cheek cool against the glass à la Oliver. My eyes drift down to the floor where a piece of paper rests against the panels beneath the screen, Marvin Walter’s indecipherable handwriting scrawled messily across the page. Of course he would have found the time to sneak in here while I was away and land some elaborate scheme in my loft. Of course his departure must be both grand and devious.
I turn the leaflet in my hands. It appears to have been ripped from a sheet of printouts, an obscure calculation for one of his numerous artificial intelligence projects. I chew my lip while determining what he wrote:
Wants awaken intellect. To gratify them disciplines intellect. The keener the want, the lustier the growth.
Beneath, he wrote:
(you have to MEAN it)
This is my gift? I think. A quote. “Wants awaken intellect,” I say, as if I’ve first learned how to read. “To gratify them disciplines intellect. The keener the want, the lustier the growth.” I let the words roll around in my mouth. As an aspiring actress, I enjoy repeating things, feeling the weight of each syllable rest heavy in my throat as I determine where the emphasis lies. I say it again in a matter-of-fact tone as if instructing a classroom of school children on etiquette. Then I shout it, as if in an argument, listening to the echo bounce wall-to-wall in my vacant space. It’s just a game to Marvin Walter like the way I have to cajole the fan to turn on, or bully the screen to tell me the news.
I say it desperately. “Wants awaken intellect. To gratify them disciplines intellect. The keener the want, the lustier the growth!” I affect a look of excitement and intensity, urgency bleeding into my voice as the words rush together. I look at my reflection: the line of worry stretched across my forehead and the frustration set in my down turned mouth. It’s as if I’m about to shake the lapels of some imaginary opponent in a last attempt to make him understand. I hold the expression for a moment while underneath I bubble with pride. I look the part. I feel it.
Beneath my feet, the floor begins to vibrate and I turn as the largest panels near the wall shift and the platform rises. A huge coffin-shaped box emerges, a dull metallic color with the Think-Exist logo stamped on the front. It’s the company Marvin Walter retired from three days ago, and I instantly recognize the shape of the container and groan. He hid an android in my apartment. That was the big surprise?
Most people in Caltha can afford androids as servants. My opinion of Caltha’s citizens is low. Though the constant sunlight and gorgeous architecture make the city and planet look beautiful, it’s filled with people who seek wealth and status without all the work. Caltha can be described in a single word as lazy. It is always sunny and warm and everyone has succeeded in economic comfort. The only conflict the planet really sees has a soap opera quality to it: affairs, adolescent misdemeanors, gossip. Many of my friends have androids that stand in the corner until summoned, their robotic legs thunking on the ground as they move to complete a chore, because they’d rather be out at the shops or the East Sect after work. I’ll admit, these androids are extremely impressive, built with sensors and memory and the ability to learn from experience, all thanks to my grandfather’s contributions. But still, I laugh quietly as I survey my empty loft. Why would I need an android? My quarters are immaculate.
Above me the screen flickers to life. “Attention. Attention,” it buzzes. I could fall asleep just listening to it. “You have scheduled a reminder: Breakfast with MW. 6:30.”
I glance at the clock. It’s good to know Grandfather takes care of my appointments too, I think sarcastically. It’s already six and will take me a half-hour by shuttle to get to the North side. “Look, Marvin,” I mutter under my breath. “You’ve got me off my schedule.” I frown at the coffin-like crate sitting in the middle of the floor and stand, raking a hand through my hair. I’ll have to leave it for later or ask him over pancakes to take it back. At the moment I have a breakfast-date to prepare for.
I face the mirror and politely ask the third panel from the left, “May I please have my clothes?” I pout and it slides open to reveal my closet. I hardly glance at what I’m grabbing, chucking my pajamas into the laundry chute before skittering off to brush my teeth.
When I enter the bathroom I roll my eyes in frustration before composing myself in the dark. I inhale a lungful of air and then propel myself backwards while screaming “LIGHTS, LIGHTS!” desperately, pressing myself against the back wall. I pretend to cower in fear until a little bulb obligingly flickers on so I may find the toothpaste, and I practically swallow my toothbrush as I shove it in my mouth, jerking it clumsily over my gums and spitting. In seconds I’m out the door shouting “Lights off!” and “Closet shut!” before sprinting down the escalator to the streets.
I ride up the escalator to my loft on the fourth floor and lean against the doorframe to calm my nerves. Maybe I should go back to Earth too, I think momentarily. The prospect of being without my grandfather is daunting, but so is returning to the mother planet. I press my palms against the door and whisper, “Open, please,” and it gives way.
The crate rests in the middle of the floor where I had left it in my hurry. I know it’s a gift but I silently consider it Marvin Walter’s parting shot. Though I love and admire his inventions and advancements, I’ve never had the personal necessity for an android, and it’s a fact that has always bothered him. I kneel next to the case and trace my fingers over the Think-Exist emblem and then fumble in my pocket for the security code he gave me over breakfast. I run my fingers over the box in search of the keypad on the side and crouch low to properly punch the numbers in. I hesitate, leaning backwards to rest on my feet while kneeling as the crate unlocks and begins to slide open automatically.
I expect to see the cool sleek alloy like Amelia’s android, the heavy boots and digital eyes, fingers encased in dexterous but heavy metal gloves. Instead, I see a glimpse of skin and hair that causes me to tumble backwards in shock. “God,” I groan, leaning on my elbows as I squeeze my eyes shut. My lungs contract and my chest tightens, and for the briefest moment a wave of panic hits me until I tilt my head back and gasp.
Just relax, breath Andrea, I tell myself. It’s still an android. But fuck, this is a sick joke on Marvin Walter’s part. I open my eyes, keeping my focus on the ceiling while cursing silently under my breath.
Think-Exist produces two types of androids. One I can tolerate: the cheesy, clumsy servants that are typical in any home across Caltha. Then there are Organ Hosts.
My grandfather’s main project focused on increasing an android’s performance as an assistant, improving dexterity and intelligence, but the company serves another function by creating androids with the sole purpose of harvesting parts. At first, Think-Exist patented artificial organs. They were expensive and rare but extremely effective. For people who could afford it, it removed the risk and precariousness of donor waiting lists. But soon they refined their methods and were able to create whole sets of organs, followed by bones and skin - everything except the brain. The really wealthy could afford to build Organ Hosts as their back up plan, keeping these androids locked up in storage as they wasted their bodies.
Organ Hosts are just shells with a small microchip for brains acting as the hypothalamus, making sure the heart pumps and all the organs are functioning in case of a transplant. The stomach can digest, the heart can beat, the skin has nerve endings, but without a proper brain the body can’t feel or act. It just waits.
It’s all a little too zombie-like for my stomach to handle. I hate, hate, hate Organ Hosts. It’s a fact Marvin Walter knows about me just as he knows the sun will never set here in Caltha. Nothing creeps me out more than a body waiting to be harvested even if it’s completely artificial. I have to get rid of it, but in order to move it I have to look at it, and the last thing I want to see is a replica of myself lying there in that coffin-shaped crate. I mean, if we are capable of taking bits and pieces out of an android and shoving them into our own bodies, then who’s to say that in ten years we won’t be able to put our brains in those shells and walk around in whatever body we choose?
I could call Marvin Walter, I think while staring at the ceiling. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears, my chest rising and falling as I lay with my back against the floor. I could call him, but he’s probably at the station waiting for the ship to dock. I’d never get a hold of him because any exterior communication waves interfere with their piloting and are therefore not allowed. It’s not like he’d turn around and take it back anyway. There’s probably some warped moral lesson he’s trying to teach me about anal retentiveness and living life to the fullest. Now I have an excuse to spend every night in the East Sect. Be happy, he’d say.
Right, well, I’ll be happy once that thing is out of sight. I hoist myself upwards and inhale a steadying breath before crawling towards the crate. If I destroy it, will that take care of the problem? I ask myself. If I destroy it, I destroy the organs, and therefore destroy its purpose. Will the city disposal take it with tomorrow’s trash?
I contemplate opening a floor panel and using a dining chair to smash its chest cavity in, but once I actually see the Host I freeze.
What? I think.
“What?” I say in the smallest voice possible, leaning over the crate.
In my shock, I had registered skin and dark hair before toppling over in fright. I had expected to see a carbon copy of myself, but once I take a closer look, I see it’s not me at all. It’s… male, I confirm. And tall. Dressed in a white jumpsuit thing courtesy of Think-Exist. Resting on the android’s stomach is a note in Marvin Walter’s handwriting - of course. It says:
I did it.
That’s it. “I did it.” Did what?
For a moment I stare at the android. Already in my head, I’ve begun to call it The Corpse. I hesitantly poke it in the stomach but retreat when my finger meets little resistance. I still expected it to feel like metal, but it molds like flesh and I can detect the slightest heat emanating from it. Perhaps The Corpse isn’t the best name for it then. Perhaps The Zombie or The Coma Patient. It doesn’t make me feel better, and I still don’t know what it is Marvin Walter has achieved or why he’s dumped it on me.
But I begin to have an understanding when the android’s life-like eyelids flicker open and its eyes focus on me. My grandfather, the revered scientist Marvin Walter, has fused the standard android and the Organ Host together.
Gavin leans close to me and brushes my bangs from my forehead. “I like it,” he informs me in a fashion-show falsetto, something he’s picked up on from watching Fashion Today in the Galaxy! on television. Then he adds, “It creates an aesthetically pleasing angle with your right eyebrow.”
I consider him momentarily. “…An aesthetically pleasing angle?” I repeat with skepticism.
“I find angles between 45 and 90 degrees are pleasing to admire,” he states in a matter-of-fact tone. Then he reaches with his index finger and traces the slope of my nose. “Like this,” he says. I scrunch my face when he stops at the cleft of my upper-lip, resisting the urge to back away when I remember that he is insatiably curious and needs to touch everything.
I can see my reflection in the wall as I chance a slight smile. Gavin watches with interest while he gauges exactly what I’m emoting. Then he mirrors it hesitantly. “Is this okay?” he asks, hand retreating slightly.
Is it? I ask myself. Often I’ve silently compared Gavin to an intelligent toddler: quick to absorb information but stupidly curious. I’m surprised he even asked if it was alright, albeit after his finger found its way in my vicinity. “It’s fine,” I tell him, smiling in a hopefully reassuring way. He smiles back and then I smile again. It’s like we’re stuck in a time loop - time loop - time loop - again and again and again.
I find his hand back in my personal space, resting against the side of my cheek. It is warm and heavy and chapped from the dry air inside. His other palm cups my jaw, lifting my chin slightly as he leans in. It’s as if he’s measuring the angles and planes of my face to determine whether the rest of me is aesthetically pleasing, perhaps sixty percent. I don’t know. Up close, his eyes are wide and bright but not unusual, and I can see the pores in his nose. The amount of detail Marvin Walter put into him astounds me, and I can feel his breath on my face, sour from breakfast as if he’s just like Tock leaning over to give me a hug. It’s all a little overwhelming.
Perhaps this explains why I lean forward three inches and press my mouth against his. Just to see, I think. His lips are just as dry as his hands but his skin is smooth. For a moment he stops breathing. I do too. Then I pull away and it’s over.
His eyes are open when I look up at him, shining with curiosity as his hands cup my face. I feel a little foolish. Why did I do that? I panic, but I smile anyway like nothing just happened, and he smiles because he believes nothing just happened. For a moment I think the damage is repairable, no harm done. He drops his hands to his lap.
“You kissed me,” he says in the same tone I might say, “The Suns are out.”
I nod. “Yes.” How does he know what kissing even is? He definitely watches too much television.
“…And you do that when you care about someone?” I can see the gears cranking in his head, or the circuit board… doing whatever it does. He’s thinking, and I need to find a decent way to explain that it didn’t mean anything but that sometimes it might. In the future. With someone else.
“Well, yes, but you kind of kiss differently for - uh - different occasions.” Okay, so far so good.
“And when you do something that makes me happy then I kiss you? Like this?” He leans in and my hands fly up to his chest but not before he presses his mouth to mine again. It only lasts a second, but this time he closes his eyes like I had done. Removed from my body, I think that he really is good at mirroring actions. Inside, I freak out and press hard against his shoulders until he backs up.
“No,” I say. Can I peg him for sexual assault? Not that he really understands what’s going on, and I kind of brought it on myself and -oh - he looks confused. “You… You kiss for different reasons,” I explain. “For example: a kiss on the cheek might be a greeting or… Well… It really depends on your relationship.”
He still looks baffled and I don’t blame him. Fuck it. I’ve navigated through twenty-seven years of awkward social situations, and I have no clue what’s going on. “What’s our relationship?”
“We’re friends,” I answer firmly, nodding.
“And friends kiss…?” He moves in again, hesitantly.
I stumble over my chair and fall to the floor yelling, “I didn’t mean to kiss you like that!”
He stops and frowns. It’s such a natural, fluid expression, a perfect mimicry of disappointment. “We’re not friends?”
“No, we are. Just. Friends.” I nod vigorously now and scoot a little further back as he looms over me. I’m not particularly afraid, but he’s not exactly small and I hate not having the upper hand in situations.
“That was a not-friends kiss?”
“Yes… well, no… well… It was a slightly more-than-friends kiss, but that doesn’t mean that we’re slightly more than friends and-”
“More than friends?”
I look at him and for the first time in minutes I relax. He doesn’t get it at all which is okay. There’s nothing to understand about social situations without context, and I sigh with relief. I stand and pat his arm, looking up at him while laughing slightly. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We’re just friends. That’s all you need to know. Watch soaps or something and then maybe you’ll understand.” Or not. Those shows never make sense.
He nods as I sit back down at the table, straightening out my chair, and I suggest that perhaps he could surf the intranet. I return to my plate of food and for a moment the silence is comfortable while I eat and he contemplates whatever it is androids contemplate. When I look up, I find he’s staring at me so I look at the television and then back at him, hoping he’ll get the message. Sometimes I worry that he might short-circuit or do some weird and irreparable thing. Who would I call if he suddenly froze up like my loft’s intranet service? I watch him walk towards the screen.
“Couch up!” he commands, and the panels hiss softly as they slide open. The couch rises on a platform from beneath for him to sit down on. “Television, please turn on,” he asks politely. The screen only responds to British accents, and his faux-voice sounds nearly perfect. It flashes on and asks him what he’d like to watch.
I pretend not to hear him when instead he turns and looks at me, whispering, “You say it as if there’s something more than being friends.”
I come home at 3:00. At all hours of the day Calthians are out but even after living here for several years, being awake at three in the morning seems like such an awful idea. Through the remnant haze of the East Sect, I wonder what Marvin Walter is doing, if he still wears those god-awful plaid shorts and what he’ll do in the winter. He hasn’t seen night or winter in a long time.
I take a steadying breath as I lean against the escalator rail, zipping upwards. Retrospectively, going out seems stupid. I hate Dark Rooms and Mathers’ wandering hands and Amelia’s idea of a good time. We were supposed to celebrate the understudy role I landed, but really it was an excuse for everyone to test out the new synthetic H pill. Stupid, at twenty-seven, I should be on stage already and not taking understudy positions or spending nights being convinced by friends that a good definition of fun is getting so that I look blurry to other people. Still, I had fun and the understudy role I landed is still prestigious. The MAG Theatre is revered across the galaxy and Tomáz Rockhardt is one of my favorite playwrights. I’ll understudy Mary Suzanne in his newest, a satire: The Marigold Field.
“Be real,” he said. “It’s not the characters we judge and laugh at. It’s the situation, the history, cause-and-effect. The stupid mistakes that snowball, coalesce into one massive tragedy as all these beautiful people are victimized.” It’s nice the way he says beautiful to describe the ugly and vice-ridden, the faulty. We are beautiful, I think, my heading swimming. This drug works wonders.
I reach the fourth floor and get off on the landing, squaring my shoulder as I attempt a delicate spin. I’m still high, the hairs on my arms and the sheen of sweat floating off my body up, up, and away. I tumble into the door ungracefully. “Open please! Open! Open! Open!” I shout, laughing. Hysteria and an edge of exhaustion bubble forth, and I forget that the door only opens when I whisper.
“Open!” I gasp, but it sounds close enough, and the sensors comply. The door unlocks. Success! I celebrate by raising my arms over my head as I hip-check the door open, and all I can think about is how I actually met Rockhardt and that I really want my bed. I tumble forth into loft.
I expect an empty room as usual, but I freeze when I see a man sitting in front of the wall of mirrors. My voice hitches in my throat, but he hardly spares me a glance, instead returning to frown at his reflection, then smile. He raises his eyebrows and touches his face as if he can mold it into any shape he wants.
“What-” I say, but suddenly the floor creeps up my legs and pushes at the back of my knees. I buckle and fall, hitting the floor hard. He looks at me then cautiously and rises off the chair. The chair. If he’s sitting on my furniture then he knows how to voice activate the apartment. Has he been spying on me? Fuck. I can’t move.
“Andrea?” he asks, walking towards me.
No. NO. “NO!” but it’s too late. He says something that might sound like a command and suddenly the floor slides open and swallows me whole. I sink, trapped as the panels close above me, but I can’t struggle or fight it. My limbs are lead and heavy, and in the dark I lose track of time.
It must be morning, or perhaps afternoon because the sun is still out when I wake. I must have forgotten to close the blinds the night before. I can taste sourness from a late night and my tongue sticks to the roof of my throat when I try to groan, rolling over while hoisting the sheets above my head. Is it Friday? I wonder. I have lecture. No, I’ve missed lecture. “Shit.”
“Good morning,” someone says above me. Huh, that’s new. He pulls the sheet back from my face and peers over me. “You were compromised last night. I hope you don’t mind that I moved you to the bed.” He talks in low soft tones and smiles. It’s nice even though I don’t know who he is. Waking up in strangers’ beds is nothing new to me because I like to think that I live the high life here at university.
“Did we…? Last night?” I gesture, or at least I try to at The Man. I’m certain my hand actually just flails a bit since I’m not one hundred percent certain that everything’s still connected. I feel very cool as I slur my words and squint to see his face.
He has his back turned to me when he says, “Hmm?” Behind him, he reaches for something and procures a glass of water. He has nice hands with well-cared for fingernails. It’s not really my type, but whatever. I can’t remember, and it’s too early for me to care.
“Is this your bed?” I ask. I am very, very smooth right now.
“No.” He shakes his head and hands me two pills that I swallow without question. His eyes narrow momentarily before he raises an eyebrow.
“You look skeptical,” I note. The Man might be a philosopher or a political science major. A rhetorician, a Sophist. God, what was I thinking?
“I’ve been practicing my facial expressions.”
An actor then, maybe. Good. I don’t say any of this. Instead I mumble, “I might lie here for a bit more, mmm?” and shut my eyes from the sunlight.
For a moment he doesn’t respond, but with my eyes close I can feel him watching me. Then he rests his broad palm against the side of my face and traces his thumb along the rise of my cheekbone. It’s nice. “I’ll draw your visor, then,” The Man tells me quietly, and I fall back asleep.
I wake in the dark. I can feel Gavin next to me, the sheet stretched taut between us as it wraps around both our bodies in our separate spaces. I wait for my eyes to adjust before turning to look at him with hopes of maybe sneaking more of the sheet from his side because I’m cold and sweaty. He foils my plan though when I face him and find he’s already awake, regarding me with luminous eyes.
“Are you alright?” he asks me quietly. In the tiny encasement of the bed and visor, his voice sounds dead, and he keeps his limbs locked to his sides.
I can’t remember what happened, and I shift uncomfortably, rolling on my stomach. It brings me a fraction closer to him, a fraction of space which he maintains by scooting backwards until his body presses against the wall of the visor. “Gavin?” I ask. “What happened? Why am I cold?”
He hesitates before shucking off his share of the sheet, and reaches with one arm to drape it over my side. I draw the fabric around my body and shudder. In the dark, the pale skin of his arms and calves look bluish-white. “Better?” asks me. I shiver and he scoots closer, reaching to rest one hand on my shoulder. I roll into the touch marginally and close my eyes.
“I don’t remember anything at all,” I whisper. I feel the balance of the mattress shift as he slides closer yet. I’ve never let him lie so near before, but he’s warm and I’m confused and scared, and somehow that makes it alright when he drapes one arm across my back and slides the other underneath my stomach. He leaves space between our bodies, but I shift towards him until we’re perfectly aligned. I feel his breath against my neck.
“How was your audition?” he inquires quietly. We lie perfectly still.
Audition? I ask myself. “It hasn’t happened yet. I still have time to prepare.” It isn’t like Gavin to confuse dates. He has a built-in calendar chip in his data cortex.
I feel him tense slightly before he calmly asks, “Hasn’t it? Where did you go yesterday?”
Yesterday, yesterday… I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and think. Then I remember: Rockhardt. I saw Rockhardt. I tripped over the entry way to the MAG Theatre. I vaguely remember being ecstatic, but that could have been over anything, the paintings, the velvet red curtains. Then what? “I was at the theatre,” I finally answer.
He lowers his chin so it rests on my shoulder. “Yes,” he murmurs. “But why?”
I repeat uncertainly, “I haven’t had my audition yet.”
“Andrea, what day is it?”
“The seventeenth. November.” His runs his hand over my stomach lightly, and I feel a little lightheaded. “Right?”
He shakes his head. “Andrea, it’s the nineteenth. It’s almost 23:00. You’ve missed nearly three days.” His voice is soft and patient as he draws me closer into his body, curling his lean frame around me while speaking like a teacher might to a child.
Where did he learn to talk like that? I wonder silently. Television? My thoughts scatter and I have trouble grasping onto more than one fleeting notion at a time. What day is it? Where was I? “What happened?” I turn halfway to face him, and up close, his face appears blurry, fuzzy and distorted. “What do you remember?” I ask his skin, the curl of hair that registers as just a smudge in such close proximity.
“You left for your audition, yesterday. You came back excited, happy. You said you got a part as an understudy.”
My stomach clenches tightly and I turn my face towards the pillow. “I did?”
“Yes. You contacted someone via the intranet and changed your clothes. You put on a dress.”
“I never wear dresses.”
“You wore a dress,” he murmurs. His hands stops moving and curls into a fist around the fabric around my abdomen. “You’re still wearing your dress.”
I can’t see in the dark as I peer down. I touch the v-neckline. It’s inconclusive. I feel my bare arms where the garment is sleeveless, rub my calves together and feel for the edge of a skirt line. My breath catches. “I’m wearing a dress. Why would I wear I dress? Where would I go?”
He shakes his again. “I don’t know.”
“Well who did I call?” I demand, rolling away so I can look at him directly. I try to sit up as far as the shallow overhang will let me.
“I don’t know,” he says again. “I can check the history.”
“When did I come back?”
He fidgets. With anyone else I wouldn’t have noticed, but it’s Gavin - an android - playing with the fabric of his shirt while stalling for time. These habits, where did he get them? How didn’t I notice? My attention drifts and a sharp pain jolts in my temple. “This morning. Zero three hundred hours. You weren’t… right. You thought - you didn’t...” I shut my eyes to ward off the pain, and he touches the top of my hand to get my attention. “Are you alright?”
I inhale a sharp breath and wait for the pain to subside. “Yes,” I finally answer.
“There’s medicine.”
“No, just, please continue.”
“You didn’t know who I was,” he says softly. “You thought that - well - that I had broken into your loft or - or something. You thought I was going to hurt you, and then you passed out. I moved you to the bed.” He pauses, shifting again so he can sit somewhat upright with his back hunched over. “You woke up once, but you didn’t know who I was still. You… weren’t afraid though, this time. Just… well kind of friendly. I didn’t really understand.”
“Friendly,” I repeat.
“You thought this was my bed,” he adds. “You didn’t seem to be very concerned at all.”
“Huh,” I say.
“It doesn’t help much, sorry.”
I look at him across the few inches between us where we do not touch. He has no idea what he has implied - or what my disoriented self had implied earlier. I briefly muse over how Gavin seems sometimes to be so innately human, reaching out for contact, holding and comforting me as if it was intuitive without realizing there’s a whole other realm of physical contact. “It helps,” I tell him. “I think I can piece together what happened.”
He nods and looks away, setting his jaw firmly. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Gavin?”
“The East Sect. Whatever you call it - E-S-ing it. They talk about it on the news all the time.”
“Oh,” I answer. I fold my hands in my lap. “And… what do they say?”
“I don’t know, that people go there to be anonymous, do things they otherwise wouldn’t… Forget themselves, I guess. But I thought it was just a metaphor.”
“It is.”
He looks at me. “But you forgot.”
It wasn’t supposed to happen, I think. Instead, I ask, “But I got the part, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Congratulations.”
Gavin presses against the visor until it hisses and slides open. Caltha’s shining light pours through the windows and I bury my head in my hands as a fresh wave of pain pelts through my head. I feel the bed shift as he gets up and heads for the bathroom. He spends several minutes in there and I can hear the toilet flush and the sink run as I fight off tears. I want to remember. This was supposed to be the best moment of my life. He exits the Dark Room and dumps two pills on my bed. I instantly recognize them as Paxocine - the 35th Century’s magical cure-all. I pick up the pills, wincing into the light as I watch him walk away, coaxing the refrigerator into opening. “I don’t take these. You know that,” I tell him.
He summons the counter space and cupboards. Then he looks at me and shakes his head. It’s a mannerism he picked up that he does frequently, at least recently. “You had no reservations about it last night.”
I glance at the two white pills before slowly dropping them on the floor, watching as they roll out of my hand and hit the faux-wood panels. As I lie back down and switch the visor over the bed, I think that Gavin wears disappointment so well - as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Congrats! You made it through! If you have questions, please ask them! I find that the best way I finish projects is if I continuously think about and discuss them. Thanks!
-- Ali
Synopsis: It takes place in the 35th Century after humans have colonized part of the galaxy. Andrea is twenty-seven years old and struggling to find work after university. She is the only one of her family who does not live on Earth except her grandfather Marvin Walter. Marvin is a revered scientist who has broken ground with his contributions to the company Think-Exist, an android service. However, in his old age he wants to retire back to the mother planet, leaving Andrea by herself. Before he departs, he gifts her an android and havoc ensues.
Mainly, my goal with these sections are both exposition and character development. It's a bit of a romance, yeah, and part social-commentary. Approximately 6,600 words. The entire storyline takes place over one year, and these sections are scraps from the first six months.
Let me know what you think of the bare bones!
THE SUN SETS IN CALTHA
ANDREA: Today is the day my grandfather leaves Caltha and returns to Earth: July 23, 3403. It’s been a banal year of waiting for the swell of the hot season to meld into the mild seasons as the three stars slowly orbit above. My eyes flicker open just before my alarm device buzzes in my ear. I rip it off to prevent its shock. I’m already awake, thank you, I think while my fingers clumsily fumble for the seal on my bed. The digital visor that darkens Caltha’s perpetual sunlight slowly opens and I can feel the stars’ heat striking my face through the window, dotting my vision with tiny specks of searing white and red behind my eyelids. It is 5:29 in the morning and in four hours the great Marvin Walter board the cruise ship for the Old World. My grandfather, the only family I have on this colonized planet, will be leaving to enjoy his retirement on good old Earth.
I stumble out of bed as the railings lower with a soft hydraulic hiss and the faux-wooden floors send shivers up my feet and legs. The light from the windows catch the paneling at just the right angle to emphasize the nearly imperceptible solar grids blended into the grain of the wood. The shiny metal flashes in a way my friend Amelia says is chintzy, but I think the floors give the flat a real retro-Earth look even if the panels are without texture. I make the bed, close the visor and wipe it down with cleaning solution, and then proceed to sink the bed into the floor. It disappears as the floor panel slides shut.
I live alone in an efficiency loft on the southern end of Caltha. Generally the main room is empty except for when the walls open to reveal the refrigerator or the closet, or when the floor panels split open to produce tables, chairs, and my bed. My friends’ lofts have carpets and decorations and separate rooms that make such tiny spaces suffocating, but my single room appears to stretch forever. The right wall consists of a single one-way window that overlooks the city. The opposite wall is a large mirror like in a ballet studio that reflects the towering buildings beyond. I live in the city. At any time of the day I can stretch out on the fake wood floors and look in either direction at the burning suns, the peak of the university clock tower where I used to attend, and Marvin Walter’s laboratory. The only Dark Room I have is my bathroom. I like my minimalist lifestyle, waking up and turning to face the city, my reflection so insignificant and small compared to the backdrop of the looming buildings overhead. It’s as if with one wrong step, I’d free fall over the edge.
Right on schedule, at 5:35 another panel opens up in one of the two walls not covered in glass. A tiny screen slides out and begins to announce my morning messages in its monotonous, lifeless tone. That’s the problem with perpetual daylight: people are perpetually in motion, wanting to do things, wanting to accomplish and achieve and exhaust themselves in the dark of the East Sect of Caltha, calling me up to fool around in the slums.
… And I was thinking we could go E-S it. You know, find a nice Dark Room for dancing and another for Middling with Tock and Ang…
Mathers’ voice ambles over the speakers as I shut my eyes and take in the light. He’s a nice kind of fellow with a steady clerical job for some petrol engineering firm, spending his time hopped up on the best synthetic energizers. He’s the sort of person my mother would say about, “Now that’s a nice man,” when not-so subtly inquiring after my social life because he looks clean and works diligently. I think he’s nice, sure, but boring because of his pointless job and the numerous hours he spends whittling away outside of work in the grimy East Sect.
It could be worse, though. I suppose. Instead of living in Caltha - a middle class planet comprised of closet-junkies sneering at other suspects - I could be in Waymer or Bleke where people have no other choice than to live in the slums. At least Caltha’s decadent worst-kept secret is all by choice, a thriving township where no one actually lives, but where everyone crawls to after hours.
The screen informs me of another call, beeps, and the voice switches to Amelia’s discordant but vibrant yell of excitement. Andrea, get UP! the message shouts. Mathers, Tock, and Ang are all heading to E-S it and I’m off work. Are you busy? Are you busy?
I inspect my fingernails and then examine myself in the mirror, pulling my hair back so it stretches the skin above my temples taut. I smile at first, a look of sheer exuberance and joy before letting the expression fade into something coy as I lower my chin, glancing behind shuttered eyelashes. Then I straighten my shoulders, squaring my jaw as I frown and examine myself sternly. The machine beeps again.
Andrea, stop staring at yourself in the mirror! It’s your good ol’ grandfather! he says as if it could be anyone else. A slight smile creeps across my face again, gentler and genuine. Marvin Walter’s scratchy voice booms over the speakers. I relax my shoulders. I know your audition isn’t for another week, so come out and say goodbye to me. Six-thirty for breakfast up at North. He barks into the machine, and I can imagine his thick eyebrows furrowing. Oh yes, he adds. I left you a present too. Look to your right.
I look askance at the reflection of the screen in the mirror as the words, “End of messages” scroll backwards. My grandfather, the artificial intelligence engineer prodigy, is notorious for his gifts - at least in my book. He was the one that voice activated my apartment so that my bed would lift from the floor when I demanded it, but only when I used my most commanding tone, or so that the walls would open to reveal my refrigerator only when I leaned against the mirror and whispered meekly, “Food, please,” cheek cool against the glass à la Oliver. My eyes drift down to the floor where a piece of paper rests against the panels beneath the screen, Marvin Walter’s indecipherable handwriting scrawled messily across the page. Of course he would have found the time to sneak in here while I was away and land some elaborate scheme in my loft. Of course his departure must be both grand and devious.
I turn the leaflet in my hands. It appears to have been ripped from a sheet of printouts, an obscure calculation for one of his numerous artificial intelligence projects. I chew my lip while determining what he wrote:
Wants awaken intellect. To gratify them disciplines intellect. The keener the want, the lustier the growth.
Beneath, he wrote:
(you have to MEAN it)
This is my gift? I think. A quote. “Wants awaken intellect,” I say, as if I’ve first learned how to read. “To gratify them disciplines intellect. The keener the want, the lustier the growth.” I let the words roll around in my mouth. As an aspiring actress, I enjoy repeating things, feeling the weight of each syllable rest heavy in my throat as I determine where the emphasis lies. I say it again in a matter-of-fact tone as if instructing a classroom of school children on etiquette. Then I shout it, as if in an argument, listening to the echo bounce wall-to-wall in my vacant space. It’s just a game to Marvin Walter like the way I have to cajole the fan to turn on, or bully the screen to tell me the news.
I say it desperately. “Wants awaken intellect. To gratify them disciplines intellect. The keener the want, the lustier the growth!” I affect a look of excitement and intensity, urgency bleeding into my voice as the words rush together. I look at my reflection: the line of worry stretched across my forehead and the frustration set in my down turned mouth. It’s as if I’m about to shake the lapels of some imaginary opponent in a last attempt to make him understand. I hold the expression for a moment while underneath I bubble with pride. I look the part. I feel it.
Beneath my feet, the floor begins to vibrate and I turn as the largest panels near the wall shift and the platform rises. A huge coffin-shaped box emerges, a dull metallic color with the Think-Exist logo stamped on the front. It’s the company Marvin Walter retired from three days ago, and I instantly recognize the shape of the container and groan. He hid an android in my apartment. That was the big surprise?
Most people in Caltha can afford androids as servants. My opinion of Caltha’s citizens is low. Though the constant sunlight and gorgeous architecture make the city and planet look beautiful, it’s filled with people who seek wealth and status without all the work. Caltha can be described in a single word as lazy. It is always sunny and warm and everyone has succeeded in economic comfort. The only conflict the planet really sees has a soap opera quality to it: affairs, adolescent misdemeanors, gossip. Many of my friends have androids that stand in the corner until summoned, their robotic legs thunking on the ground as they move to complete a chore, because they’d rather be out at the shops or the East Sect after work. I’ll admit, these androids are extremely impressive, built with sensors and memory and the ability to learn from experience, all thanks to my grandfather’s contributions. But still, I laugh quietly as I survey my empty loft. Why would I need an android? My quarters are immaculate.
Above me the screen flickers to life. “Attention. Attention,” it buzzes. I could fall asleep just listening to it. “You have scheduled a reminder: Breakfast with MW. 6:30.”
I glance at the clock. It’s good to know Grandfather takes care of my appointments too, I think sarcastically. It’s already six and will take me a half-hour by shuttle to get to the North side. “Look, Marvin,” I mutter under my breath. “You’ve got me off my schedule.” I frown at the coffin-like crate sitting in the middle of the floor and stand, raking a hand through my hair. I’ll have to leave it for later or ask him over pancakes to take it back. At the moment I have a breakfast-date to prepare for.
I face the mirror and politely ask the third panel from the left, “May I please have my clothes?” I pout and it slides open to reveal my closet. I hardly glance at what I’m grabbing, chucking my pajamas into the laundry chute before skittering off to brush my teeth.
When I enter the bathroom I roll my eyes in frustration before composing myself in the dark. I inhale a lungful of air and then propel myself backwards while screaming “LIGHTS, LIGHTS!” desperately, pressing myself against the back wall. I pretend to cower in fear until a little bulb obligingly flickers on so I may find the toothpaste, and I practically swallow my toothbrush as I shove it in my mouth, jerking it clumsily over my gums and spitting. In seconds I’m out the door shouting “Lights off!” and “Closet shut!” before sprinting down the escalator to the streets.
I ride up the escalator to my loft on the fourth floor and lean against the doorframe to calm my nerves. Maybe I should go back to Earth too, I think momentarily. The prospect of being without my grandfather is daunting, but so is returning to the mother planet. I press my palms against the door and whisper, “Open, please,” and it gives way.
The crate rests in the middle of the floor where I had left it in my hurry. I know it’s a gift but I silently consider it Marvin Walter’s parting shot. Though I love and admire his inventions and advancements, I’ve never had the personal necessity for an android, and it’s a fact that has always bothered him. I kneel next to the case and trace my fingers over the Think-Exist emblem and then fumble in my pocket for the security code he gave me over breakfast. I run my fingers over the box in search of the keypad on the side and crouch low to properly punch the numbers in. I hesitate, leaning backwards to rest on my feet while kneeling as the crate unlocks and begins to slide open automatically.
I expect to see the cool sleek alloy like Amelia’s android, the heavy boots and digital eyes, fingers encased in dexterous but heavy metal gloves. Instead, I see a glimpse of skin and hair that causes me to tumble backwards in shock. “God,” I groan, leaning on my elbows as I squeeze my eyes shut. My lungs contract and my chest tightens, and for the briefest moment a wave of panic hits me until I tilt my head back and gasp.
Just relax, breath Andrea, I tell myself. It’s still an android. But fuck, this is a sick joke on Marvin Walter’s part. I open my eyes, keeping my focus on the ceiling while cursing silently under my breath.
Think-Exist produces two types of androids. One I can tolerate: the cheesy, clumsy servants that are typical in any home across Caltha. Then there are Organ Hosts.
My grandfather’s main project focused on increasing an android’s performance as an assistant, improving dexterity and intelligence, but the company serves another function by creating androids with the sole purpose of harvesting parts. At first, Think-Exist patented artificial organs. They were expensive and rare but extremely effective. For people who could afford it, it removed the risk and precariousness of donor waiting lists. But soon they refined their methods and were able to create whole sets of organs, followed by bones and skin - everything except the brain. The really wealthy could afford to build Organ Hosts as their back up plan, keeping these androids locked up in storage as they wasted their bodies.
Organ Hosts are just shells with a small microchip for brains acting as the hypothalamus, making sure the heart pumps and all the organs are functioning in case of a transplant. The stomach can digest, the heart can beat, the skin has nerve endings, but without a proper brain the body can’t feel or act. It just waits.
It’s all a little too zombie-like for my stomach to handle. I hate, hate, hate Organ Hosts. It’s a fact Marvin Walter knows about me just as he knows the sun will never set here in Caltha. Nothing creeps me out more than a body waiting to be harvested even if it’s completely artificial. I have to get rid of it, but in order to move it I have to look at it, and the last thing I want to see is a replica of myself lying there in that coffin-shaped crate. I mean, if we are capable of taking bits and pieces out of an android and shoving them into our own bodies, then who’s to say that in ten years we won’t be able to put our brains in those shells and walk around in whatever body we choose?
I could call Marvin Walter, I think while staring at the ceiling. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears, my chest rising and falling as I lay with my back against the floor. I could call him, but he’s probably at the station waiting for the ship to dock. I’d never get a hold of him because any exterior communication waves interfere with their piloting and are therefore not allowed. It’s not like he’d turn around and take it back anyway. There’s probably some warped moral lesson he’s trying to teach me about anal retentiveness and living life to the fullest. Now I have an excuse to spend every night in the East Sect. Be happy, he’d say.
Right, well, I’ll be happy once that thing is out of sight. I hoist myself upwards and inhale a steadying breath before crawling towards the crate. If I destroy it, will that take care of the problem? I ask myself. If I destroy it, I destroy the organs, and therefore destroy its purpose. Will the city disposal take it with tomorrow’s trash?
I contemplate opening a floor panel and using a dining chair to smash its chest cavity in, but once I actually see the Host I freeze.
What? I think.
“What?” I say in the smallest voice possible, leaning over the crate.
In my shock, I had registered skin and dark hair before toppling over in fright. I had expected to see a carbon copy of myself, but once I take a closer look, I see it’s not me at all. It’s… male, I confirm. And tall. Dressed in a white jumpsuit thing courtesy of Think-Exist. Resting on the android’s stomach is a note in Marvin Walter’s handwriting - of course. It says:
I did it.
That’s it. “I did it.” Did what?
For a moment I stare at the android. Already in my head, I’ve begun to call it The Corpse. I hesitantly poke it in the stomach but retreat when my finger meets little resistance. I still expected it to feel like metal, but it molds like flesh and I can detect the slightest heat emanating from it. Perhaps The Corpse isn’t the best name for it then. Perhaps The Zombie or The Coma Patient. It doesn’t make me feel better, and I still don’t know what it is Marvin Walter has achieved or why he’s dumped it on me.
But I begin to have an understanding when the android’s life-like eyelids flicker open and its eyes focus on me. My grandfather, the revered scientist Marvin Walter, has fused the standard android and the Organ Host together.
Gavin leans close to me and brushes my bangs from my forehead. “I like it,” he informs me in a fashion-show falsetto, something he’s picked up on from watching Fashion Today in the Galaxy! on television. Then he adds, “It creates an aesthetically pleasing angle with your right eyebrow.”
I consider him momentarily. “…An aesthetically pleasing angle?” I repeat with skepticism.
“I find angles between 45 and 90 degrees are pleasing to admire,” he states in a matter-of-fact tone. Then he reaches with his index finger and traces the slope of my nose. “Like this,” he says. I scrunch my face when he stops at the cleft of my upper-lip, resisting the urge to back away when I remember that he is insatiably curious and needs to touch everything.
I can see my reflection in the wall as I chance a slight smile. Gavin watches with interest while he gauges exactly what I’m emoting. Then he mirrors it hesitantly. “Is this okay?” he asks, hand retreating slightly.
Is it? I ask myself. Often I’ve silently compared Gavin to an intelligent toddler: quick to absorb information but stupidly curious. I’m surprised he even asked if it was alright, albeit after his finger found its way in my vicinity. “It’s fine,” I tell him, smiling in a hopefully reassuring way. He smiles back and then I smile again. It’s like we’re stuck in a time loop - time loop - time loop - again and again and again.
I find his hand back in my personal space, resting against the side of my cheek. It is warm and heavy and chapped from the dry air inside. His other palm cups my jaw, lifting my chin slightly as he leans in. It’s as if he’s measuring the angles and planes of my face to determine whether the rest of me is aesthetically pleasing, perhaps sixty percent. I don’t know. Up close, his eyes are wide and bright but not unusual, and I can see the pores in his nose. The amount of detail Marvin Walter put into him astounds me, and I can feel his breath on my face, sour from breakfast as if he’s just like Tock leaning over to give me a hug. It’s all a little overwhelming.
Perhaps this explains why I lean forward three inches and press my mouth against his. Just to see, I think. His lips are just as dry as his hands but his skin is smooth. For a moment he stops breathing. I do too. Then I pull away and it’s over.
His eyes are open when I look up at him, shining with curiosity as his hands cup my face. I feel a little foolish. Why did I do that? I panic, but I smile anyway like nothing just happened, and he smiles because he believes nothing just happened. For a moment I think the damage is repairable, no harm done. He drops his hands to his lap.
“You kissed me,” he says in the same tone I might say, “The Suns are out.”
I nod. “Yes.” How does he know what kissing even is? He definitely watches too much television.
“…And you do that when you care about someone?” I can see the gears cranking in his head, or the circuit board… doing whatever it does. He’s thinking, and I need to find a decent way to explain that it didn’t mean anything but that sometimes it might. In the future. With someone else.
“Well, yes, but you kind of kiss differently for - uh - different occasions.” Okay, so far so good.
“And when you do something that makes me happy then I kiss you? Like this?” He leans in and my hands fly up to his chest but not before he presses his mouth to mine again. It only lasts a second, but this time he closes his eyes like I had done. Removed from my body, I think that he really is good at mirroring actions. Inside, I freak out and press hard against his shoulders until he backs up.
“No,” I say. Can I peg him for sexual assault? Not that he really understands what’s going on, and I kind of brought it on myself and -oh - he looks confused. “You… You kiss for different reasons,” I explain. “For example: a kiss on the cheek might be a greeting or… Well… It really depends on your relationship.”
He still looks baffled and I don’t blame him. Fuck it. I’ve navigated through twenty-seven years of awkward social situations, and I have no clue what’s going on. “What’s our relationship?”
“We’re friends,” I answer firmly, nodding.
“And friends kiss…?” He moves in again, hesitantly.
I stumble over my chair and fall to the floor yelling, “I didn’t mean to kiss you like that!”
He stops and frowns. It’s such a natural, fluid expression, a perfect mimicry of disappointment. “We’re not friends?”
“No, we are. Just. Friends.” I nod vigorously now and scoot a little further back as he looms over me. I’m not particularly afraid, but he’s not exactly small and I hate not having the upper hand in situations.
“That was a not-friends kiss?”
“Yes… well, no… well… It was a slightly more-than-friends kiss, but that doesn’t mean that we’re slightly more than friends and-”
“More than friends?”
I look at him and for the first time in minutes I relax. He doesn’t get it at all which is okay. There’s nothing to understand about social situations without context, and I sigh with relief. I stand and pat his arm, looking up at him while laughing slightly. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We’re just friends. That’s all you need to know. Watch soaps or something and then maybe you’ll understand.” Or not. Those shows never make sense.
He nods as I sit back down at the table, straightening out my chair, and I suggest that perhaps he could surf the intranet. I return to my plate of food and for a moment the silence is comfortable while I eat and he contemplates whatever it is androids contemplate. When I look up, I find he’s staring at me so I look at the television and then back at him, hoping he’ll get the message. Sometimes I worry that he might short-circuit or do some weird and irreparable thing. Who would I call if he suddenly froze up like my loft’s intranet service? I watch him walk towards the screen.
“Couch up!” he commands, and the panels hiss softly as they slide open. The couch rises on a platform from beneath for him to sit down on. “Television, please turn on,” he asks politely. The screen only responds to British accents, and his faux-voice sounds nearly perfect. It flashes on and asks him what he’d like to watch.
I pretend not to hear him when instead he turns and looks at me, whispering, “You say it as if there’s something more than being friends.”
I come home at 3:00. At all hours of the day Calthians are out but even after living here for several years, being awake at three in the morning seems like such an awful idea. Through the remnant haze of the East Sect, I wonder what Marvin Walter is doing, if he still wears those god-awful plaid shorts and what he’ll do in the winter. He hasn’t seen night or winter in a long time.
I take a steadying breath as I lean against the escalator rail, zipping upwards. Retrospectively, going out seems stupid. I hate Dark Rooms and Mathers’ wandering hands and Amelia’s idea of a good time. We were supposed to celebrate the understudy role I landed, but really it was an excuse for everyone to test out the new synthetic H pill. Stupid, at twenty-seven, I should be on stage already and not taking understudy positions or spending nights being convinced by friends that a good definition of fun is getting so that I look blurry to other people. Still, I had fun and the understudy role I landed is still prestigious. The MAG Theatre is revered across the galaxy and Tomáz Rockhardt is one of my favorite playwrights. I’ll understudy Mary Suzanne in his newest, a satire: The Marigold Field.
“Be real,” he said. “It’s not the characters we judge and laugh at. It’s the situation, the history, cause-and-effect. The stupid mistakes that snowball, coalesce into one massive tragedy as all these beautiful people are victimized.” It’s nice the way he says beautiful to describe the ugly and vice-ridden, the faulty. We are beautiful, I think, my heading swimming. This drug works wonders.
I reach the fourth floor and get off on the landing, squaring my shoulder as I attempt a delicate spin. I’m still high, the hairs on my arms and the sheen of sweat floating off my body up, up, and away. I tumble into the door ungracefully. “Open please! Open! Open! Open!” I shout, laughing. Hysteria and an edge of exhaustion bubble forth, and I forget that the door only opens when I whisper.
“Open!” I gasp, but it sounds close enough, and the sensors comply. The door unlocks. Success! I celebrate by raising my arms over my head as I hip-check the door open, and all I can think about is how I actually met Rockhardt and that I really want my bed. I tumble forth into loft.
I expect an empty room as usual, but I freeze when I see a man sitting in front of the wall of mirrors. My voice hitches in my throat, but he hardly spares me a glance, instead returning to frown at his reflection, then smile. He raises his eyebrows and touches his face as if he can mold it into any shape he wants.
“What-” I say, but suddenly the floor creeps up my legs and pushes at the back of my knees. I buckle and fall, hitting the floor hard. He looks at me then cautiously and rises off the chair. The chair. If he’s sitting on my furniture then he knows how to voice activate the apartment. Has he been spying on me? Fuck. I can’t move.
“Andrea?” he asks, walking towards me.
No. NO. “NO!” but it’s too late. He says something that might sound like a command and suddenly the floor slides open and swallows me whole. I sink, trapped as the panels close above me, but I can’t struggle or fight it. My limbs are lead and heavy, and in the dark I lose track of time.
It must be morning, or perhaps afternoon because the sun is still out when I wake. I must have forgotten to close the blinds the night before. I can taste sourness from a late night and my tongue sticks to the roof of my throat when I try to groan, rolling over while hoisting the sheets above my head. Is it Friday? I wonder. I have lecture. No, I’ve missed lecture. “Shit.”
“Good morning,” someone says above me. Huh, that’s new. He pulls the sheet back from my face and peers over me. “You were compromised last night. I hope you don’t mind that I moved you to the bed.” He talks in low soft tones and smiles. It’s nice even though I don’t know who he is. Waking up in strangers’ beds is nothing new to me because I like to think that I live the high life here at university.
“Did we…? Last night?” I gesture, or at least I try to at The Man. I’m certain my hand actually just flails a bit since I’m not one hundred percent certain that everything’s still connected. I feel very cool as I slur my words and squint to see his face.
He has his back turned to me when he says, “Hmm?” Behind him, he reaches for something and procures a glass of water. He has nice hands with well-cared for fingernails. It’s not really my type, but whatever. I can’t remember, and it’s too early for me to care.
“Is this your bed?” I ask. I am very, very smooth right now.
“No.” He shakes his head and hands me two pills that I swallow without question. His eyes narrow momentarily before he raises an eyebrow.
“You look skeptical,” I note. The Man might be a philosopher or a political science major. A rhetorician, a Sophist. God, what was I thinking?
“I’ve been practicing my facial expressions.”
An actor then, maybe. Good. I don’t say any of this. Instead I mumble, “I might lie here for a bit more, mmm?” and shut my eyes from the sunlight.
For a moment he doesn’t respond, but with my eyes close I can feel him watching me. Then he rests his broad palm against the side of my face and traces his thumb along the rise of my cheekbone. It’s nice. “I’ll draw your visor, then,” The Man tells me quietly, and I fall back asleep.
I wake in the dark. I can feel Gavin next to me, the sheet stretched taut between us as it wraps around both our bodies in our separate spaces. I wait for my eyes to adjust before turning to look at him with hopes of maybe sneaking more of the sheet from his side because I’m cold and sweaty. He foils my plan though when I face him and find he’s already awake, regarding me with luminous eyes.
“Are you alright?” he asks me quietly. In the tiny encasement of the bed and visor, his voice sounds dead, and he keeps his limbs locked to his sides.
I can’t remember what happened, and I shift uncomfortably, rolling on my stomach. It brings me a fraction closer to him, a fraction of space which he maintains by scooting backwards until his body presses against the wall of the visor. “Gavin?” I ask. “What happened? Why am I cold?”
He hesitates before shucking off his share of the sheet, and reaches with one arm to drape it over my side. I draw the fabric around my body and shudder. In the dark, the pale skin of his arms and calves look bluish-white. “Better?” asks me. I shiver and he scoots closer, reaching to rest one hand on my shoulder. I roll into the touch marginally and close my eyes.
“I don’t remember anything at all,” I whisper. I feel the balance of the mattress shift as he slides closer yet. I’ve never let him lie so near before, but he’s warm and I’m confused and scared, and somehow that makes it alright when he drapes one arm across my back and slides the other underneath my stomach. He leaves space between our bodies, but I shift towards him until we’re perfectly aligned. I feel his breath against my neck.
“How was your audition?” he inquires quietly. We lie perfectly still.
Audition? I ask myself. “It hasn’t happened yet. I still have time to prepare.” It isn’t like Gavin to confuse dates. He has a built-in calendar chip in his data cortex.
I feel him tense slightly before he calmly asks, “Hasn’t it? Where did you go yesterday?”
Yesterday, yesterday… I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and think. Then I remember: Rockhardt. I saw Rockhardt. I tripped over the entry way to the MAG Theatre. I vaguely remember being ecstatic, but that could have been over anything, the paintings, the velvet red curtains. Then what? “I was at the theatre,” I finally answer.
He lowers his chin so it rests on my shoulder. “Yes,” he murmurs. “But why?”
I repeat uncertainly, “I haven’t had my audition yet.”
“Andrea, what day is it?”
“The seventeenth. November.” His runs his hand over my stomach lightly, and I feel a little lightheaded. “Right?”
He shakes his head. “Andrea, it’s the nineteenth. It’s almost 23:00. You’ve missed nearly three days.” His voice is soft and patient as he draws me closer into his body, curling his lean frame around me while speaking like a teacher might to a child.
Where did he learn to talk like that? I wonder silently. Television? My thoughts scatter and I have trouble grasping onto more than one fleeting notion at a time. What day is it? Where was I? “What happened?” I turn halfway to face him, and up close, his face appears blurry, fuzzy and distorted. “What do you remember?” I ask his skin, the curl of hair that registers as just a smudge in such close proximity.
“You left for your audition, yesterday. You came back excited, happy. You said you got a part as an understudy.”
My stomach clenches tightly and I turn my face towards the pillow. “I did?”
“Yes. You contacted someone via the intranet and changed your clothes. You put on a dress.”
“I never wear dresses.”
“You wore a dress,” he murmurs. His hands stops moving and curls into a fist around the fabric around my abdomen. “You’re still wearing your dress.”
I can’t see in the dark as I peer down. I touch the v-neckline. It’s inconclusive. I feel my bare arms where the garment is sleeveless, rub my calves together and feel for the edge of a skirt line. My breath catches. “I’m wearing a dress. Why would I wear I dress? Where would I go?”
He shakes his again. “I don’t know.”
“Well who did I call?” I demand, rolling away so I can look at him directly. I try to sit up as far as the shallow overhang will let me.
“I don’t know,” he says again. “I can check the history.”
“When did I come back?”
He fidgets. With anyone else I wouldn’t have noticed, but it’s Gavin - an android - playing with the fabric of his shirt while stalling for time. These habits, where did he get them? How didn’t I notice? My attention drifts and a sharp pain jolts in my temple. “This morning. Zero three hundred hours. You weren’t… right. You thought - you didn’t...” I shut my eyes to ward off the pain, and he touches the top of my hand to get my attention. “Are you alright?”
I inhale a sharp breath and wait for the pain to subside. “Yes,” I finally answer.
“There’s medicine.”
“No, just, please continue.”
“You didn’t know who I was,” he says softly. “You thought that - well - that I had broken into your loft or - or something. You thought I was going to hurt you, and then you passed out. I moved you to the bed.” He pauses, shifting again so he can sit somewhat upright with his back hunched over. “You woke up once, but you didn’t know who I was still. You… weren’t afraid though, this time. Just… well kind of friendly. I didn’t really understand.”
“Friendly,” I repeat.
“You thought this was my bed,” he adds. “You didn’t seem to be very concerned at all.”
“Huh,” I say.
“It doesn’t help much, sorry.”
I look at him across the few inches between us where we do not touch. He has no idea what he has implied - or what my disoriented self had implied earlier. I briefly muse over how Gavin seems sometimes to be so innately human, reaching out for contact, holding and comforting me as if it was intuitive without realizing there’s a whole other realm of physical contact. “It helps,” I tell him. “I think I can piece together what happened.”
He nods and looks away, setting his jaw firmly. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Gavin?”
“The East Sect. Whatever you call it - E-S-ing it. They talk about it on the news all the time.”
“Oh,” I answer. I fold my hands in my lap. “And… what do they say?”
“I don’t know, that people go there to be anonymous, do things they otherwise wouldn’t… Forget themselves, I guess. But I thought it was just a metaphor.”
“It is.”
He looks at me. “But you forgot.”
It wasn’t supposed to happen, I think. Instead, I ask, “But I got the part, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Congratulations.”
Gavin presses against the visor until it hisses and slides open. Caltha’s shining light pours through the windows and I bury my head in my hands as a fresh wave of pain pelts through my head. I feel the bed shift as he gets up and heads for the bathroom. He spends several minutes in there and I can hear the toilet flush and the sink run as I fight off tears. I want to remember. This was supposed to be the best moment of my life. He exits the Dark Room and dumps two pills on my bed. I instantly recognize them as Paxocine - the 35th Century’s magical cure-all. I pick up the pills, wincing into the light as I watch him walk away, coaxing the refrigerator into opening. “I don’t take these. You know that,” I tell him.
He summons the counter space and cupboards. Then he looks at me and shakes his head. It’s a mannerism he picked up that he does frequently, at least recently. “You had no reservations about it last night.”
I glance at the two white pills before slowly dropping them on the floor, watching as they roll out of my hand and hit the faux-wood panels. As I lie back down and switch the visor over the bed, I think that Gavin wears disappointment so well - as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Congrats! You made it through! If you have questions, please ask them! I find that the best way I finish projects is if I continuously think about and discuss them. Thanks!
-- Ali