The Holy Machine

15

‘How are you George? It’s nice to see you! Would you like a glass of wine, or some coffee or something?’

‘No thank you.’

Lucy was wearing her little, sleeveless denim dress. She settled on the bed, tossing back her hair, curling her legs up underneath her, in that graceful, teasing way that I normally found irresistible.

She smiled.

‘You look tired. What do you want to do, George? Talk a bit? Shall I tell you about what I used to get up to with those naughty sisters of mine? Or do you want to watch me undress? Or do you just want to…’

‘You’re not real, Lucy.’

She laughed, apparently unabashed.

‘I mean, look at this stupid room,’ I said, ‘Those books. You can’t even read can you?’

‘I can read. Sometimes visitors like to write things down they want to do, if they are feeling a bit shy. Would you like to do that George?’

I grabbed one of the books from the shelf and flipped through the pages: Science Fiction in the Twentieth Century.

‘The characters lack depth,’ I read, opening it at random, ‘and it’s obvious that the relationships between them are of much less interest to themselves or the author than their relationship with technology. It is as if the latter has become a substitute for…’

I flipped impatiently to the table of contents.

‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘If this is your book, tell me the names of some twentieth century science fiction writers!’

Lucy smiled: ‘Heinlein, Asimov, Aldiss, Ballard…’ she began.

I was surprised and, very grudgingly, impressed by the thoroughness of her programming.

‘You could have got that just from the contents page. Okay then: Asimov, Heinlein… Tell me some of their books!’

Lucy looked at me with her beautiful, gentle eyes.

‘I, Robot,’ she began, ‘Stranger in a Strange Land…’

I tossed the book aside.

‘Oh well, so you’re programmed to load up information. So what? You’re still empty. It’s not even as if Lucy is the only person you can pretend to be is it?’

‘Do you want me to play another role? The menu is there beside you.’

I picked it up.

‘Jolene’ I read, ‘A real hard bitch from New York City… Rigmor: The Swedish Doctor who likes to be in charge… La Contessa…’

I shrugged.

‘Okay then, let’s see you do La Contessa.’

The transformation was instant and total: body language, facial expression, everything became languorous, sensual, aristocratic…

And when La Contessa spoke it wasn’t just the accent that was different, but the voice itself, deep and husky, completely unlike Lucy in every way…

‘I am so ashamed, but I need sex now. Do you understand me? I need eet very badly. My husban’, thee count, he ees a good man, but he ees – ‘ow can I say? – too good…’

‘Alright then, be Rigmor.’

Again, instant transformation: Rigmor was stern and stiff and harsh.

‘Please to remove your clothing, and I will begin the examination…’

‘Oh for god’s sake, forget it. Just be yourself…’

Be herself? Herself?

The face of the syntec suddenly became slack and empty. Its limbs froze. Its mouth hung slightly open. It was like my vision of the syntecs in the lounge after the customers had all gone home.

‘I mean be Lucy!’ I cried out in horror.

Lucy smiled. She tossed back her hair. She asked me what I’d like to do now?