The Killer Sexbots, Part One

Rich Dietrich slurped the last of his coffee. Almost finished with the last update. He hoped those bastards in D.C. appreciated it. A few more hours . . .

            His doorbell buzzed. What the hell? One of the things he liked about working at home was no interruptions. And working in his underwear.

            He grabbed a pair of gray sweatpants. In his bare feet, he staggered to the door. He wasn’t sure when he’d gone to bed last. Once he finished these last few bits he could sleep for a long time.

            Dietrich peered past the chain on his door. “Yeah? What the hell do you . . .” He stopped. “Oh. Sorry.”

            She had short blonde hair—and an even shorter skirt. “Hi. Rick Dietrich?”

            “Uh, it’s Rich.” He unhooked the chain and held the door back. “Can I help you?”

            “Oh, sorry. Rich.” She smiled. “My name’s Val.”

            “Hi, Val.” He grinned. “What do you—need a cup of sugar or something?”

            “No.” She shook her head and opened her small purse. “This will just take a minute.”

            Dietrich stared at the knife. “What—”

            Val jabbed it into his throat.

            “Unngh . . .” Dietrich staggered back, the hardwood floor spinning below his feet. He felt his head hit, and gazed up at the ceiling fan, spinning around over his head. How could . . . this happen?

            Val stared at him until he stopped breathing. Then she slipped her knife back into her purse and backed out of the door.

           

Lynda Daugherty was convinced her husband Earl was cheating on her. “I don’t know—it’s just a feeling.” She was an attractive woman in her 40s, and lived with her husband in a small house in Glen Ellyn. “He’s just acting—a little different lately. I ask him about it, and he shuts me down. I’ve just got to know.”

Tailing cheating spouses is a big part of my life—Tom Jurgen, private detective. So we discussed the case and my fees, and she wrote me a check.

            The problem with tailing someone is that it’s time-consuming and expensive for the client. The problem was worse because Daugherty sold real estate, which meant he was in and out of his suburban office all day. We agreed that I’d trail him every other day for a week, and decide whether to continue after that.

            So I sat in my Honda on Monday outside their house in Glen Ellyn and waited for Daugherty to head for work in his Kia. Fortunately his office was in a strip mall a few miles away, so I could park and wait without being too obvious. The first day he went out twice to show off houses to young couples. Nothing kinky that I could see—if they were having three-ways inside the homes, they were quick about it.

            On Wednesday I borrowed my girlfriend Rachel’s Prius, just in case he noticed my Honda. But Daugherty spent six hours in his office, only going out for lunch, and then went right home.

            Two days after that—Friday—I was back in my Honda. Daugherty left for his office at 10 a.m. At 12:30 he drove to a Wendy’s, and after his lunch he got into his Kia and drove a few miles down the road to an industrial park in Wheaton, the next suburb west of Glen Ellyn. I followed him down the driveway until he got to a gate.

            He slid down his window and talked into a speaker. A moment later the gate lifted, and he drove through.

            Nuts. The park had three buildings that I could see, and maybe more behind them. Daugherty pulled up to the second one, four stories high with a sign I couldn’t make out. Now what?

            So I pulled up to the gate and slid my window down. “Hello?”

            “Yes, sir?” The voice was male, polite. A video camera loomed over the gate.

            “I think my GPS screwed up. Is this where, uh, Bowie Electronics is located? Its headquarters?” I’d been listening to David Bowie on the radio.

            “No, sir, this is Lawson Industrial Park. Do you need directions somewhere?”

            I sighed. “No, thanks. I must have made a wrong turn.”

            I backed up and turned around.

            Unfortunately, the park was in a wooded area, and there was no place close to park. I finally found a gas station where I could use the restroom, fill up Rachel’s tank, and call my client.

            “I’ve never heard of it,” Lynda Daugherty said. “Maybe he’s got a client there?”

            “It seems like an unlikely spot for a tryst.” But I was curious. “Look, I don’t think I can pick him back up after this. I should go back home and see if I can find out anything about this place.”

            She groaned. “Okay, I guess. But we should talk on Sunday. This is getting too expensive.”

            “I understand.” Sometimes these things just don’t work out. “I’ll be in touch.”

Back in the apartment I shared with Rachel on Chicago’s north side, I opened and beer and fired up my computer in our shared office. Rachel was on the phone with a client.

            She’s got short red hair, hazelnut eyes, and nice legs. She was wearing shorts and a black T-shirt. “Right, Adam. Right. Next Tuesday. For sure.” She hung up. “Asshole.”

            “Working all weekend again?” I typed in my password.

            “If they’d stop changing things on me every two hours . . .” She gulped some water. “What about you? Did you snap any naughty pictures?”

            “No, darn it.” I clicked for a search. “I lost him in an industrial park. Now I just have to figure out if there’s anything in there that would give me a lead, like ‘Afternoon Delights Inc.’ or ‘Whores-R-Us.’”

            “Good luck with that.” She swung around and hunched over her computer. “Dinner’s going to be takeout. Your pick. Not pizza.”

            “Thai food.” I typed “Lawson Industrial Park” into the search engine and swigged my beer.

            I got lucky right away. The search engine’s maps function gave me a bird’s-eye view of the complex, and I could immediately find the building Daugherty had parked at—imaginatively named “Building 2.”

            A few clicks got me to a list of Building 2’s tenants.

            I spent half an hour looking at websites. Most of the organizations weren’t really “industrial”—a few financial services offices, a staffing and recruitment agency, and even a real estate place. Maybe that’s where Daugherty had gone. I made a note.

            Then I got to a place called “Yanna AI.” It claimed to be doing “cutting-edge research on artificial intelligence, virtual reality, lifelike robots, and more.”

            I clicked through. Artificial intelligence, check. They had all sorts of software useful for customer service interactions and the like. Virtual reality, check—mapping technologies, interactive videos, and more. Likelike robots . . .

            “Oh. My. God.”

            Rachel turned in her chair. “We’ve talked about talking while I’m working.”

            “Check this out. You’re going to want to see it.”

            With a sigh, she stood up and leaned down over my chair. “Hey! You’re not supposed to watch porn while I’m in the same room! Or ever, but I know what men are like.”

            “It’s not porn. Well, it is, but . . .” I finished my beer. “These guys make sexbots.”

            An experimental technology, ran the text below the pictures. Still in its early days. But Yanna AI is developing the next generation of companions for human comfort and support.

            “Yuck.” Rachel leaned closer. “Let me see.”

            There were four female models: Amy, Eve, Myn, and Val. They were posed against a white background, in tight tank tops and snug shorts. Amy was a brunette, Eve had a long black ponytail, Myn was Asian, and Val was blond.

            Two male models showed up below them: Ben and Dan. Ben was African American, with a broad muscular chest, and Dan was slender and white. They both were Speedos.

            I zoomed in on Dan. “That do anything for you?”

            Rachel licked her lower lip. “Not my type. I like a guy with a little more meat on his ribs.” She nudged my side. “Plus, there’s something off. In the eyes.”

            “Welcome to the uncanny valley.” The closer we get to realistic humans in CGI and VR, the farther away we get from faces that look human. Maybe they could fix it in the next Star Wars movie, but for actual human models? Something’s always a little off.

            “Let’s zoom in.” Rachel took the mouse. I expected her to check out Ben, but instead she zeroed in on Amy and clicked a button.

            “Hi! I’m Amy.” Her lips moved naturally, like a normal human’s. “I’m designed for conversation and companionship. I hope to be ready for activation in the next nine months. Please check back for updates.” She smiled. But her eyes were out of focus, and her face seemed out of synch with her words.

            “Huh.” I looked at the other models, but I didn’t dare click on any of them with Rachel right over my shoulder. “I have to think about this.”

            I had no evidence that Daugherty had gone here. The real estate office was a much more logical destination. The only reason I was on this case was because Lynda Daugherty was suspicious. How could I ask her about her husband having sex with—a sexbot?

            I backed out of the website. “Let’s order dinner.”

Allison Keyes finished her coffee and put the breakfast plates in the sink. Her two kids were downstairs, watching TV. She hated letting them, but she needed some quiet before she took them to school.

            Dave was already gone. He was a salesman at a car dealership. Allison got to work at home, doing programming for a tech firm in D.C.

            It didn’t matter that her job was more demanding. They needed both incomes and more to keep up.

            The doorbell rang. What the hell? 8:30 on a Saturday morning. Maybe it was Sandra, next door. She always wanted Allison to take care of her kids. Well, not today. No way.

            She stalked to the door. But it wasn’t Sandra. It was some tall blonde woman, in skintight jeans and a blazer over a sheer, almost transparent shirt. She had a small purse slung over one shoulder.

            “Hi!” She smiled. “I’m Val.”

            “Hello.” Allison stared. “What can I do for you? Are you lost?”

            “No, I’m fine.” She reached into her purse. “This will only take a minute. . . Allison.”

            Allison saw the long thin blade. “Wait—what are you—”

            Val stabbed her stomach, twisting deeply. She watched Allison fall, blood pumping from her body. Then she dropped her knife back into her purse.

            “Mom?” A child called. “Mom, are we going to go?”

            Val closed the door.