“Sexy. And
robotic.” I sat down and sipped a Coke. “They do bring people in for a, you
know, test drive. You want to go undercover? You saw their male sexbots—”
“Don’t make
me hit you.” She cocked a fist.
“Okay,
okay!” I held up a hand. “I just—I don’t think I can do anything more for my
client. I can’t prove her husband is having sex with those robots. I mean, I
can’t think of any reason why a real estate agent is visiting a sexbot
facility, but . . .” I shook my head. “Sometimes you can only take it so far.”
Most of the
time, when a spouse suspects cheating, it’s usually pretty easy to get
evidence. Because usually they are cheating. But every once in a while you can’t determine
whether they’re cheating or not. It’s frustrating—especially for clients, who
still have to pay me for no firm results.
Had I asked
every question? Had I done everything I could? I used to be a reporter. I was
trained to ask questions until I ran out.
I wasn’t
quite done.
I took a
gulp of Coke and a deep breath, and called my client.
“I didn’t
find anything conclusive,” I told Lynda Daugherty. “I can confirm that people
do apparently visit the facility to, uh, test the technology out—”
“What?
Yuck!”
“Yeah.” I
shrugged. “But beyond that . . . I can give you the number of the marketing guy
I talked to today. You could search your husband’s phone. That’s not definitive
proof, but you could use it ask him some questions of your own.”
“R-right.”
She caught her breath. “Okay. What’s the number?”
I fished
the card from my wallet. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I don’t
know. This is just . . . weird.”
That’s
where a lot of my cases end up. “Call me if you need anything.”
We hung up.
I started typing up my report and the invoice.
Then the
knocker clattered on our door.
Damn it.
People were supposed to call from the front to be buzzed upstairs. “This better
not be the Jehovah’s Witnesses again.”
Rachel went
back to her computer. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and headed for
the front door. Peered through the peephole.
Who the
hell? “Rachel! Come here, please.” I opened the door.
“Hi!” The
woman in the hallway smiled. “Are you Tom Jurgen? I’m Val.”
I backed
away. She wore a short black dress that exposed plenty of her cleavage and lots
of her legs, and carried a small slim purse slung over her shoulder.
“Hi, Val.”
I peered over her shoulder to make sure she was alone. “What can I do for you?”
“This will
just take a moment.” She snapped open the purse and drew out a long, slender
dagger.
“What’s
going—” Rachel stopped behind me. “Oh. Wow. Is the dress supposed to be that
slutty?”
I had to
admit she looked sexy. “Val, what’s that knife for?”
“This will
just take a moment.” She stepped forward.
I took another
step back. Rachel darted behind me—good—and then veered around me, lifting a
dining room chair. Less good.
The chair was
wooden and heavy. She jabbed it at Val like a lion tamer. Val dodged, jabbing the
dagger in the air—but clearly confused, as if she hadn’t been programmed to
defend herself if she met resistance.
Rachel
swung the chair and hit Val’s shoulder. Val staggered to one side but kept her
grip on the knife, using the wall to regain her balance. Rachel hit her again
on the head, and Val went down to her knees.
Rachel dropped
the chair, then darted forward and slammed her foot down on Val’s wrist. Still
Val didn’t give up the knife.
I ran.
Yeah, I’m a coward, but I had an idea. “Keep her there!”
In the
kitchen I grabbed the biggest carving in the wooden block next to the sink. I
dashed back to the living room. Val was still on her knees, twisting Rachel’s
ankle with one hand as Rachel kept slamming her heel down on her wrist, trying
to shake the dagger from her fingers. “Do something, asshole!”
I skidded on the floor like a
baseball player sliding into home. Then I jabbed my knife down into Val’s hand.
I twisted
the blade. Fluid spurted out—not blood, but something clear and thick, like
oil. I stabbed down again, cutting through the pale synthetic skin. I could see
wires and tubes. I hacked, drawing the knife back and forth.
Rachel was
panting. But Val hadn’t made a sound. Her red lips were still curled in the
same smile she’d worn when I’d opened the door.
Finally I
hit something important. Val’s hand opened, and Rachel kicked her dagger away.
Then she staggered back and dropped to the floor as I struggled to my feet,
still clutching my knife.
“T-thanks.”
I leaned against the wall.
“Fat lot of
help you were.” Rachel caught her breath. “You okay?”
Val sat on the floor, still smiling.
Her face looked eerie. I stepped carefully around her to close the door before
the neighbors started yelling and calling the police.
Rachel
pulled out her phone and started taking pictures of Val’s smiling face, the
dagger on the floor, and the wound in her arm. “Now what? You calling Sharpe?”
“Wait a
minute.” I crouched. “Val?”
Her eyes
blinked slowly. “Yes?”
“Why did
you try to kill me?”
Her head tilted.
“I am not permitted to hurt people.”
What? “You
tried to stab me. That would have hurt me.”
“I’m not .
. .” She pulled her arm up. “I am damaged.”
“I’m sorry.
But you tried to hurt me.”
The
question seemed to confuse her. “It was my instruction.”
I thought
about Myn, complaining about inappropriate touching. Did the sexbots have any
kind of free will? Or was it all just programming? “What are your instructions
now?”
“I have to go now.” Val rose and stepped
to the door. I was amazed at how humanlike she moved as she turned the doorknob
with her left hand, her right arm dangling and leaking, and glided out into the
hall.
“Stay
here.” I slipped my own phone from my pocket.
“What are
you doing?”
“Following
her. It’s what detectives do, remember?”
We’re on
the third floor. Val took the stairs instead of the elevator. I followed,
staying just out of reach. She staggered on a few steps, but she didn’t seem aware
of me above and behind her.
Outside Val
crossed the street to a blue Miata. As she got in, I started taking photos. I
tried to zoom in to get the license plate, but I wasn’t sure how much I got. I
aimed at the driver—white male, thin dark hair, a blunt nose—and he saw me.
The Miata
started up. I stayed on the sidewalk as he jumped the car out into the street,
a minivan blaring its horn at him.
I saw the
driver glare at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to try ramming
through the fire hydrant on my side of the street to run me down. I took one
more shot and darted back up the steps to the front door, and he backed up, his
mouth curled in curses, and drove away.
Rachel came
out the door behind me. “That him?”
“Yeah.” I
started to tremble. “I got some shots.”
“Good.” She
stroked my shoulder. “Let’s go upstairs.”
I got a partial license plate number from my photos,
probably enough for the cops to get a hit. But did I call the police? Even
Detective Anita Sharpe—I’d worked with her on various vampire cases—would
probably wonder if I’d finally gone off the deep end when I told her I’d been
attacked by a sexbot.
The
driver’s photo wasn’t very clear. But I remember what someone had told Moniz
about Val: “Ross took her out.”
I went back
to the Yanna AI site. A tab at the top linked to “Our People.” I clicked.
I scrolled
down, looking, looking . . . “Here he is.”
Ross Walsh.
Senior programmer. Graduate of the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana,
master’s degree in computer engineering. His profile snapshot matched the photo
I’d taken—dark hair, blunt nose. “That’s him.”
“So let’s
call the police.” Rachel punched my arm.
“Hang on a
minute.” I wanted more information. He’d worked for Microsoft In Seattle after
college. Then he’d moved to D.C. to work for a tech company called UNUSUAL
Technologies Ltd. He’d joined Yanna two years ago.
I searched
for UNUSUAL and found its website. Like Yanna, it specialized in AI
applications for business. Nothing about sexbots. But when I searched for news
about the firm, I ran across two articles:
Chicago
police had recently discovered the dead body of Rich Dietrich, stabbed to death
in his apartment on the west side. Dietrich was a programmer for a tech outfit
in Washington, D.C. called UNUSUAL Technologies, Ltd., specialized in AI
applications for business and personal use.
And on Monday
morning a woman named Allison Keyes, mother of two, had been murdered in her
suburban house, also stabbed to death. Her kids had found her on her living
room floor.
Allison
Keyes also worked as a freelance programmer for UNUSUAL Technologies.
“Oh hell,”
I breathed.
“So NOW do we call the police?”
Rachel punched my shoulder.
Maybe she
was right. But would I run with this story when I was a reporter? My editor
would want more facts, more comment.
This wasn’t
a story. Someone had tried to kill me. But why? Just for asking questions about
the sexbots?
I needed
more information. I’m stupid that way.
I went back
to the top of the “Our People” section on the Yanna website and found a whole
page for the founder, Dr. Julius Yanna. I checked his profile. He had a Ph.D.
from Stanford, and then he’d been with MIT in Boston before starting his first
company in the mid-2000s, a social networking site that called ThisLife that
had crashed and burned in the wake of Facebook and MySpace,
I guess it took some guts to
highlight a colossal failure on your own company’s website.
But now
Yanna was riding high—at least according to the glowing marketing copy. “Yanna
AI is the leading company in personalized AI experiences. Dr. Yanna personally
oversees every project with his extensive knowledge of AI software and
programming. To see his recent media interviews, click here.”
Personally
oversees? I wondered about that. I picked up my phone.
“What are
you doing?” Rachel got ready to punch me again.
I sighed.
“First I’m calling Sharpe. Then I’m going to arrange to talk to this guy.”
She lowered
her fist. “I’m coming with you.”
