Android Me

It took three tries, but the global economy finally collapsed.

Cortel, the unified mega-conglomerate, put the planet under new, largely non-automated management.

The world stabilized.

After sixteen years, Cortel released the first new advanced robot: model 1A. After some tragic real-world experiences with increasingly autonomous designs, the company decided to prohibit the manufacture of robots and androids capable of self-direction and mission planning. For nearly a quarter-century following that order, there were no major problems.

Everyone was confident that humans would always be in control of the machines....

Chapter 1

Androids Are Just Machines

I don’t like killing androids, Amilyn Marx thought while standing amid the result of her action-to-the-contrary.

Five-and-a-half smoldering Cortel model 1H androids lay in a semicircle around her. The leaking coolant-conductor from their shattered CPU cases filled the air with a smell of both ammonia and burning caramel. The year-old poster for a Scott Lee concert — disrespectfully pasted over a wall-sized, bright graffito image of Genius Merman, Leonardo da Vinci — was splattered pinkish-brown with freshly sprayed android fluids and melted bits of bio-polymer skin. The light mist of foggy rain was insufficient to wash it off.

Post-action team on Grattan, turning onto Park. ETA two minutes, Amilyn heard loud and clear via her embedded comm.

Two minutes can be a long time for an android with nothing to do. Amilyn looked around, cataloging what she could without straying from her location. The former pumping station immediately behind her was a three-story tall, windowless, brick box with a handful of loading bays on its street side. The flood wall beside her was covered in layer upon layer of graffiti — the exception being the featured deference given the Leonardo piece. Looking to the north, though two bridges interfered with her view, she saw the south leg of the stainless steel Gateway Arch. She heard, to the south, the metal-on-metal screeching of a nearby slow locomotive negotiating with inertia.

Focusing once again on the results of her work; she thought one thing: I don’t like killing androids.

Being an android herself, Amilyn wasn’t allowed to have a say in the matter. She was given an assignment by Cortel, or whoever leased her, and she was expected to carry it out. Twenty-two years before, Cortel, the unified mega-conglomerate, took over the bulk of the job of running the world after governments proved themselves unable to manage the planet on their own. The complex social politics that emerged afterward fed this android’s vocation. Kidnappings became a relatively common recruiting method, targeting people with desirable skills who hadn’t yet contracted themselves to a protective organization. Both Cortel and its junior symbiont/competitor, Dar-Mar, made generous use of androids to both capture and protect key assets.

In the five years since her activation, many of Amilyn’s assignments were in asset security. Because of her drive to successfully complete missions, AM-1L-YN had rendered a large number of other androids inoperable. As she looked at the bodies near her, Amilyn reminded herself that, technically, they weren’t her own kind. Yes, they were androids, but they were the ubiquitous 1H model while she was of the most recent 1L design. More than that, and something that she struggled with, was the fact that she wasn’t just a machine. She thought. She wondered. She had curiosity. She knew who she was and what she was.

From her experience interacting with other androids, even the few of her own line whose paths she crossed, it was clear that none did any of that sort of questioning or self-examination. They were machines, and that was all they were ever going to be. Well...scrap, when necessary, but otherwise they were nothing more than glorified levers.

Even so, those machines were still built like her. They had the same sorts of components. They were all created by humans — at least, the critical parts were. They were all artificial constructs built by the only company permitted to make androids: Cortel. So, it wasn’t a stretch for her to think of the human-looking automatons she’d turned into heaps of scrap as her relatives. She hated killing androids.

Two dark gray Cortel vehicles rounded the breach in the street-art covered wall, their headlight beams brightly tunneling through the mist. A discretely-logoed box van curled around and backed up so its rear doors were positioned near the fallen machines. A passenger van sporting the Cortel lined peacock logo pulled up close to Amilyn. Two 1H androids stepped from the van along with Arron Kent, a thirty-eight-year-old man with thinning blond hair. Kent didn’t look like the other station managers now loading dead androids into the larger truck. They wore full-body suits or blue, knee-length coats. Kent wore a vintage fleece hoodie. He said, Ami, what’s your status?

No anomalies, she replied. It did take me seven shots to down them all.

Seven? What happened?

The fifth 1H I targeted pushed off of the fourth just as I pressed the trigger. It shifted the fourth 1H enough that I missed the CPU. I didn’t miss afterward.

And the half 1H?

That was the fifth target. I didn’t know it had an explosive device installed.

Kent nodded. I see. So he blew up when you hit him?

No. After. By approximately three-tenths of a second; suggesting a ‘dead-man’ scenario should his operations cease.

Kent scribbled something on his paper memo pad. Anything else?

No. All protocols were followed. The asset was secured eleven minutes ago.

Excellent, Kent said without enthusiasm. Go wait in the van. We’ll be heading home soon.

Thank you, sir.

Amilyn walked efficiently to the van and assumed her usual seat behind the driver. Though her software told her to obey human orders without question, she increasingly bristled at them as the years passed. She never forgot the reality of her situation. Her world was one where androids were often either wiped & repurposed, or slagged for scrap. Her survival depended on maintaining the illusion of being nothing more than a machine — a machine that carried out its orders.

The general public would have been surprised at the facility Cortel used to house and maintain the Chicago-based androids: the slightly modified Commodor Hotel. Once an exclusive four-star venue famous for its celebrity guests, its stream of clientele all but dried up following the Global Economic Collapse over forty years before. It remained unused for years after Cortel imposed the DEER Plan that resulted in a glut of global foreclosures.

When the 1G model was released, robotics researchers suggested repurposing the hotel as an immersion base for android training in the Great Lakes region. They said it would help the already realistic 1G model to be accepted as replacements for people in the sexual marketplace. The corporate suits thought it was a waste of assets, but agreed to a test run. It wasn’t long before the results opened their eyes.

The androids coming from this base, initially 1Gs plus some 1H prototypes, were 26% more effective in integrating with the public. On their own, 1Gs were judged to be more desirable than the experimental entertainment versions of prior models. Unlike other hominin-form robots, their appearance and movements didn’t make the average person anxious due to subtle deviations from human norms; they’d crossed the uncanny valley and ceased being u-val. The simulated immersion found in the dorm-like culture of the hotel added to that foundation and helped with real-world integration. These androids were accepted so readily that the consensual entertainment business in the region experienced unprecedented growth. Android training centers soon popped up around the globe.

As Amilyn took the open-cage elevator up to the third floor, she passed by a line of a dozen assorted models on their way down the iron-banistered staircase to the reassignment station in what was once the underground parking garage. Her eyes met those of another female 1L android. Without conscious control, Amilyn’s gaze locked in. She saw awareness staring back at her followed by mutual recognition of that quality. The elevator’s ascent caused the passing floor to sever their unexpected connection.

Amilyn entered her suite, number 306. Once inside, she thought, That android was aware. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. There is at least one other out there like me.

Her pause was outwardly imperceptible. She was keenly aware of always being monitored. As with the others stationed here, her performance was constantly evaluated and compared to people living in similar circumstances. She was expected to nominally behave like a human, even when alone, unless exigent circumstances required her to do otherwise. Since she wasn’t like the others, she also had to maintain the facade of acting only through the 1L’s conventionally adaptive artificial intelligence. Pausing for a thoughtful interlude would attract the sort of attention that would lead first to the lab and then to the scrap heap.

I’m not alone, was the new mantra running through her mind. In the five years, one month, and twenty-nine days since her activation, there was one constant in her life: she was the only android (or computing device of any kind) she knew of that was self-aware. Manufacturing problems with her 1L model led to delays and eventual cancellation after the first and only run of 676 units. Over the years, Amilyn had worked with five other 1Ls, all of which were predictably non-sentient. She had come to accept being unique. Consequently, she never expected another pair of eyes to stare back at her in the same way the ones in her mirror did.

After taking a shower and changing into casual sleepwear, Amilyn reclined on the couch. Using a tablet, she read a few chapters of a novel at human speed. This gave her large pockets of time between words to think. I’m nearly certain she was a 1L model. Is that why they shut down the line, because we were violating Cortel Internal Directive 0200225-23JA? (Following the tragic events caused by the now-scrapped, semi-sentient 1E drones, limits to machine intelligence and autonomy were put in place.) Amilyn loaded a new page and scanned it in. No. If my capabilities were suspected, I’d have been summarily destroyed. The same would be true of her. I hope I cross paths with her in the field. She likely has as many questions as I do about our situation.

Amilyn yawned and put the story on the end table next to her. She turned out the floor lamp and went to the bedroom. Once in bed and simulating sleep, her mind started to wander. If that other android and I are both self-aware, does the application of the verb ‘to lie’ change? In present tense, a human will lie down while an object such as an android will lay down, as per human instruction. But since I…we…have choice in the matter and do not require prior human guidance as a condition, do we now lie instead of lay, in contrast to the 1Hs I deactivated earlier and subsequently laid on the ground?

The hours of simulated sleep provided ample time to process information, so she considered other subtleties of human language. Amilyn found that as her experience grew, the problem of associating language with actions and intents became slipperier. It wasn’t like with machine-to-machine communication, which had few ambiguities — though the protocols that evolved from pre-coherent language codes were sometimes quite troublesome. Even so, they didn’t consume her nights like analyzing human language did. Trying to translate between two or more languages only made it worse, since getting help was problematic. It frustrated her that she needed to limit the number of questions she asked so they’d fall within the same range as the other machines in the dorm. Knowledge was power, but survival mattered more.

Chapter 2

Because That’s Where the Money Is

Dressed in a smart blouse and skirt, with her hair pulled away from her face, Amilyn took her place behind the bank counter. A rash of bank robberies had occurred in the upper Midwest over the past three months. Criminalistic models forecast one or two more hits before the small group of thieves opted to lay low for an extended period. Cortel placed Amilyn and the fifteen other 1Ls assigned to the United North Region, a combination of Canada and the United States, into the banks considered the most likely targets. Amilyn was assigned to Milwaukee, at Cortel’s largest public bank in Wisconsin.

The expansive interior of the bank was in the neo-deco style. Its green, synthetic marble columns stood in aesthetic contrast to the technological motif that suggested both speed and continuity. Eighty percent of the staff was human, which was common with most large service organizations after the Global Power War. Socioeconomic analyses confirmed that paying people to work was not the most efficient business model in an age of androids. However, reasonably-paid employment prevented even more expensive annoyances — such as disgruntled populations creatively protesting because they had either nothing left to lose or were simply bored and found solace in making mischief. It was easier and generally less costly to adopt the Henry Ford paradigm.

Amilyn sat at the associates station with the best vantage of the interior. She did a cursory scan of the room: twenty-nine people stood in the Grandin-line; another eight stood at various stations filling out forms and doing other sundry tasks; nine tellers were currently on-duty, helping customers; and an armed guard stood conspicuously near the doors, the other guards currently out of sight.

Amilyn logged into the bank’s secure network, in preparation for her customer service role. She also transmitted a ping to the equipment she’d installed earlier, confirming all devices were powered and available. Satisfied, she retracted the Next Window sign and called out, Next, please.

A man in a faded and frayed combat uniform-shirt stepped up. Amilyn quickly assessed him as a medicated schizophrenic with other chronic issues. She said, Good morning, sir. How may I assist you?

Good morning to you, he replied with more enthusiasm than Amilyn expected. Just making a small deposit.

The customer handed a transaction voucher to Amilyn and waved his wrist over the ID reader. Her associate’s display showed that Mr. Harold Harry Greene was depositing just over one megakoyn into his account. She also noted that it would be enough to make a solid down-payment for a personal vehicle — meaning this man’s appearance was in conflict with economic expectations. When she received the updated transaction information, Amilyn smiled and said, I’ve received confirmation. Is there anything else I can help you with?

No. Thanks. Have a good day.

Thank you, sir; and to you.

Harry Greene stepped from the counter and headed for the bank’s exit. Amilyn said, Next, please.

The woman who walked up looked damaged. Her face wore lingering evidence of bruising on both cheeks, as well as scars she tried hiding behind her hairstyle. Her eyes looked both desperate and determined. Good morning, ma’am, the android said. How may I assist you?

The woman waved her hand over the ID reader. Amilyn saw her name was Sahashi Omon. Omon said, Withdrawal. Seventy thousand koyn.

I will be happy to do that for you. Do you have an appropriate voucher?

The woman glared. I don’t need one. The account is ‘ID accepted’.

Though Amilyn knew that, she went through the motion of double-checking. Why yes it is. I’ll have your funds transferred momentarily.

As she waited, Omon said indirectly to her teller, Sometimes you gotta do for your kids what you gotta do. Right? Amilyn smiled noncommittally. The woman continued, It’s like they say: ‘It’s better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.’

Amilyn said, I’ve confirmed your transfer. Is there anything else I….

Barely giving an acknowledging nod, the woman turned and walked away.

Have a nice day, Amilyn added. Next, please.

And so it went for the next five hours, customer after soul-numbing customer. Amilyn liked the efficient ones. They came in with their vouchers completed, presented her with information in the order requested, and didn’t engage in more than a sentence or two of social pleasantries. In contrast were customers like Mrs. Lorna Schaff, a seventy-three-year-old widow who smelled of cat urine & pheromones. Amilyn tended to her for twenty-five minutes because Mrs. Schaff frequently asked for services not provided at her level of account or at the bank in general. And she talked. First it was about how her late-husband would take care of these things. Then about the price of cat food. This merged into an essay into why Tim (or Tom, or possibly Todd), the neighbor’s boy, was so helpful. After the first ten minutes, Amilyn’s impatience grew to the point where she was actively trying to shoo the time-consuming woman from her station. After fifteen, Amilyn entertained the idea of killing this sad human, feeling it would be best for the woman and everyone around her. Finally, mercifully, Mrs. Schaff ran out of things for Amilyn to do and reluctantly excused herself.

Next, please.

While helping the two meter tall spindly man before her, Amilyn noticed two individuals she’d seen in the bank earlier in the day. She hadn’t been the teller for either one. The taller-than-average woman with red hair and a large cloth shopping bag loitered near the door. The man in a bulky jacket stood in line but without the dull, bored expression shared by most of the customers. Amilyn smiled at the twenty-year-old man she’d been helping. Your transactions have been confirmed. Is there anything else I can help you with?

No, ma’am. Thank you, he said.

Please enjoy the rest of your day.

The young man walked off. Amilyn held up her hand to halt the couple at the front of the line who had already taken a step toward the counter. The android then turned and beckoned for the associates’ manager to come over. When he arrived, she said, I’m taking my break now.

Now? There’s less than an hour until closing.

Yes.

Amilyn extended the Next Window sign and stepped away from her station. Once out of view of the lobby, she quickly went to the employee room where she’d secured her gear. If she was going to stop the impending robbery, she’d have to act quickly.

Her first step was integrating the surveillance feeds from her pre-installed devices. Data from the visual, infrared, sonic, and radar images filtered into her sensory neural processing sub-net. She leaned with one hand against a storage cabinet for several seconds, giving herself a chance to adapt to the new inputs. She saw every feed as both distinct from and overlapping with the others. While her normal vision was the default, it took some concentration to maintain. Humans talk about altered reality in connection to some ingested chemicals. I wonder if it’s like this? She turned her attention to arms. From her pack she selected two conventional semi-automatic pistols with extended magazines, a laser cutter which she fastened to a telescoping wand strapped to her wrist, and two compressed-gas guns each with a pack of the standard dart assortment.

Amilyn moved around the inner perimeter of the bank, looking like a manager keeping an eye on her employees. As she walked, she assessed the tactical situation, mapped out the best locations for cover, and noted the best avenues for movement. She inventoried the possible collateral damage of the people most would consider vulnerable. While there were no conspicuously pregnant women, there were four young children, two adults with obviously limited mobility, and four elderly. All of these people were likely targets for hostage-taking. Two customers looked to be military. They might be a problem if they tried to be heroes. Two bank guards were now visible at the doors, joining the one at the end of the teller line. All three were paying more attention to two of the children running around the bank than they were at the general situation.

The lanky young man Amilyn had just helped stood at the door. He pulled some simple rods he’d had concealed under his jacket and dropped them over the door handles, effectively barring them. The tall woman, now wielding an automatic submachine gun, quietly accepted the guns from the two guards near the entrance. The man in the bulky jacket calmly stepped out of line and, with near-robotic precision, shot at the cameras using a suppressed pistol.

The calm, efficient execution of the robbery hadn’t caused any panic until the sound of the shots rang out. The red-haired woman stepped forward, into clear view. An Adonis of a man stepped from the line and yelled in a deep, rich baritone, Everyone move to the far wall! Now! Move!

Amilyn knew they were playing voice recordings due to the waveforms having insufficient volume combined with the inevitable playback artifacts. It seemed an odd choice given that their faces weren’t disguised in any way. Taking advantage of the distraction of people moving, the android took an air weapon in each hand and fired a penetrating explosive dart into the lower skulls of both the tall man and the red-head woman at the front of the bank. Though the explosives were small, their brief rocket-assist on impact inserted them into the skull. When the charges detonated, the android was assured the humans would be turned off quickly, quietly, and with little attention.

Amilyn switched from her air weapons to sidearms. Her surveillance devices provided clear views of the other three robbers, all of whom were still unaware their comrades had fallen. The android rose from cover. Two of the robbers were downed with one shot each through the neck, the fragmenting bullets blowing out their spines as well as the lower part of their skulls. She then turned her complete attention to the robber in the bulky jacket — aiming her right-hand pistol at the quickest path to his brain stem.

Infrared and radar images suggested her target wore an explosive vest under his coat. If he spasms, he might still detonate the device. Amilyn quickly altered her aiming strategy. Her first shot was to the man’s jacket pocket, the one where radar suggested the man held the vest’s trigger. The bullet shattered his wrist and key tendons. Her second shot, coming the millisecond her gun was ready to fire another round, clipped the base of the wiring bundle at the top of the detonator positioned at the bottom of the robber’s sternum. The final round was the coup de grâce through his left eye.

In less than ten seconds, the five members of the robbery team who had terrorized the Midwest were down, leaving only a few blood splatters on the closest of the momentary hostages. Ladies and gentlemen, Amilyn said with theatrical projection, the robbery is over. You are safe. Please stay where you are until I can disarm the criminals and unlock the doors. After that, please remain to give the police your statements. Thank you.

Betraying no emotion, Amilyn walked to her final victim. Several people nearby gasped when they saw the dead man had been wired with explosives. Stupid weapon for a bank robbery. This is a suicide-on-capture weapon. It wasn’t useful for that, either. Amilyn removed a battery pack from the detonator plus two small circuit boards. Stupid weapon. Stupid human. Using a wastebasket as a bin, she collected the weapons as she made her way to unbar the front door. She heard sirens approaching.

Aaron Kent and the Cortel team arrived once the scene was secured by local law enforcement. Amilyn recovered her equipment and turned it in to Cortel personal. She briefed Kent on the sequence of events. He asked, Why didn’t you suspect the twenty-year-old? Um….

As he flipped through his notes, Amilyn said, Jenner Ailes.

Right. Jen— Jenner Ailes.

He did nothing to make himself stand out from the non-participants. He was pleasant and behaved in the median I observed from other customers.

You didn’t detect vocal stress?

He didn’t say enough for me to evaluate.

Kent flipped through his notes again. The man with the explosives… Mr. Johnson.

Yes, sir?

Focusing on Amilyn, he said, Didn’t you think firing at the trigger and detonator might cause the device to go off?

It was an acceptable risk.

Kent crossed his arms. Really?

Yes.

Explain it to me.

With my third and fourth kills, he was alerted to his deteriorating position. Based on prior sociological work on similar situations, there was an approximate ninety-seven percent likelihood of him detonating the bomb. Since he was still processing the situation, I had considerable time to render him ineffective. My first shot took away his ability to detonate the device.

What if he had a dead-man switch?

He didn’t.

How did you know that?

The radar signature matched that of the device captured from the Nashville bomber two years ago. What’s that expression on his face? Is he intrigued by how I matched the information? Is this an area I need to moderate my comments? I then disrupted the wiring harness, which matched the same design. Since our field ammunition is nonconductive, I was confident my shot would sever the path to the blasting caps without risking setting off the device. Then I killed him.

Anything else?

I have a question.

Oh?

Why do humans become tellers? It’s not very challenging. A very basic machine could handle most of the tasks very efficiently.

Kent sighed. More than most, this android asked questions. Check back to the collapse. Cross-reference with ATM. Also examine internal memoranda from 35 or 40 years ago concerning the rebuilding of a strong and compliant consumer-worker class.

Amilyn’s eyes lost focus for a moment. They jiggled for less than a second as if reading very fast. When she focused back on Kent, he asked her, Does that answer your question?

Not entirely. I understand the theory, but why would humans voluntarily do work like this that machines can do better?

Kent’s phone rang. Perhaps it’s something we can help you with back at the dorm.

Yes. That would be helpful. Thank you.

Muting his phone, Kent said, Head back home. You did well, as usual.

Thank you.

Amilyn turned crisply and exited while Kent accepted the call. Kent.... No, sir.... No, sir.... She was the only one.... Yes, sir.... As the call continued, Kent’s aura seemed to shrink, like his own personal gravity had increased.

Chapter 3

Painting the Town

Freshly showered, styled, and modestly dressed in slacks and a blouse, Amilyn walked down the stairs from her third-floor dorm to the first sub-basement. She joined the rest of the androids — mostly 1Hs, but a few 1Gs and one each of a 1J and 1L — in the Breakdown & Assignment room. It was here that current or just-completed projects would be analyzed, and where new duties would be assigned. Half the jobs were outside missions; the rest focused on education and skills training, and stayed in-house.

Kent walked in and glanced at his notes. After the B&A, all 1Gs will report to SB-203 for wardrobe and live-actor training. 1H-BX115, 1H-DCQ1, and 1J-0B65 will be continuing their assignments. The rest of you will stay here as we review and examine 1L-YN’s outstanding execution of her assignment yesterday. She interacted with dozens of humans without entering u‑val and acted with clarity and efficiency when necessary. And, since she’s already lived through it… Amilyn, we’re giving you an unmonitored free-study day. Download when you return. You’re dismissed.

A free-study day? Amilyn stood. Thank you, sir, and exited the room.

Amilyn hadn’t expected that. While free-study days weren’t unheard of, they were usually reserved for fresh-builts to orient themselves to the world, or at least the world not far outside the dorm. Experienced androids like Amilyn generally went from task to task with their only break coming from repairs, rehabilitation, or training. Even so, free-study days were a kind of mission. One of the top directives for every android was to observe and mimic human behavior. The best way to do that was to go out in public and spend the day interacting with people.

The mall two city blocks away was the place where Amilyn most liked to watch Homo sapiens in one of their natural environments. Since there were a few 1Hs and a 1J working there, she also wanted to observe how humans treated those more recognizably u-val models and compare that to her own experience.

Amilyn sat at the edge of the food court with a small soft drink in front of her. From past excursions she noted that people-watching was better tolerated from those sitting in the food court than elsewhere in the shopping center. Parading before her were shoppers and their companions representing a cross-section of middle-income city dwellers. By far the greatest number were parents with children. That the food court sat near a toy store likely contributed to that demographic. Loitering in and around the area were a number of teenager sub-groups. Conspicuously missing from this adolescent population were the ones matching the scholarly stereotypes; understandable as it was the middle of the school day, after all. A variety of adults also walked by, both singly and in— Hey, beautiful.

Amilyn had been so focused on the passers-by that she’d neglected to be vigilant of the area immediately behind her. She turned to see a man in his late twenties with mussed hair and a cocksure grin. He smoothly slid himself into the seat opposite hers. You looked like you could use some company.

Did I? Amilyn replied.

Oh, you know you did. He extended his hand. I’m Neal, and I’m here to rescue you from your solitude.

How am I supposed to treat this? She ran through her memories but found nothing directly applicable. I suppose I could kill him, but that would be frowned on. If I were a 1G, I’d have sex with him — they’re good for that. Wait. This is a free-study day, after all. It is designed for the exploration of new situations. This is certainly new. Amilyn flashed her patented draw-them-in grin, took the offered hand, and said Hi, Neal. I’m Ami. Well, Amilyn, actually, but most everyone calls me Ami. Amilyn then bowed her head with endearing coyness while withdrawing her hand. She looked back up at Neal, who smiled quite genuinely. She added, I’m sorry. I don’t usually babble.

And I don’t usually do this. It’s just — there’s something about you. You’re beautiful, of course, but, babbling aside, you have this...this air of confidence. I just had to meet you.

Really?

Really, Amy Lynn.

Oh. No. Amilyn. It’s one word. But seriously, call me Ami.

Because only your mother calls you Amilyn. I gotcha. So, just Ami, what are you doing sitting alone in the mall in the middle of a gorgeous day?

I forgot how taxing being convincingly social was. Maybe the 1Gs work harder than I give them credit for. Day off. Nothing better to do.

Well. I guess we’ll just have to go do something. Neal stood and again offered his hand, palm up this time. Care to join me?

Amilyn flashed her smile, placed her hand in his, and rose, princess-like, from her injection-molded chair. She was taller than he suspected.

As they walked to Neal’s car, Amilyn analyzed a number of situations and ran some simple simulations. If he’s a predator, I’ll simply incapacitate or kill him. If he persists in treating me like a human female, I may have to improvise. This might be a good time to test some of those scenarios I got instructed on after I was built. Those were with actors who knew what I was, though. This will likely be much more complicated. Killing him would be so much easier. When they reached his car, a five megakoyn convertible that flashed multicolor hues like a butterfly’s wings, Amilyn decided to unarchive-and-link to a body language engram-network she’d never used before. It was supposed to help her both read and present subtle somatic cues.

Once they were in their seats, Neal said, Animal, vegetable, or mineral?

I don’t understand.

Pick one.

Pick one? Why? This doesn’t make any sense. She retrieved a theoretically random number from her quantum-noise generator and scaled it to match her range of choices. Mineral.

Neal grinned. You’re going to love this.

After selecting a previously saved destination for the auto-drive, Neal settled back as the car drove them out of the city. Well, he said, we’ve got some time to kill. Tell me a little about yourself.

Every infiltration android was loaded with scores of backstories appropriate for the model, mission, and location. Since asking about their background was a likely occurrence, Cortel didn’t want to risk their assets by having them improvise stories that could be checked up on. I work as a bank teller.

That’s interesting.

No, it’s not. It’s mind-numbingly dull. Sometimes. Mostly it’s just deposits and withdrawals.

Neal’s face suggested that he didn’t want to know anything more about her job. What about your family? Any brothers or sisters?

Amilyn shook her head. Sorry. I grew up in the system. I never stayed anyplace more than nine months. What about you? Do you have family?

That did it. The flood gates were open. For most of the 91 minutes it took for them to reach their destination, Neal talked about himself. Amilyn didn’t pay much attention. She stored and superficially cataloged the information in case she’d need it for conversation later. By feeding him regular communication prompts, she was able to feign interest and keep him talking.

Throughout the trip, Amilyn accessed the GPS-II system to log her position. When they finally left primary roads, she fixed their location to the vicinity of what was commonly known as Pit-Fee Cavern. The most recent reference, from five years ago, said it was banned to the public due to hazardous conditions.

After they parked, Neal went straight for the trunk. Have you ever visited a cavern before?

No, Amilyn said truthfully.

Neal pulled a spelunking backpack from the trunk and slung it over one shoulder. He looped a climbing rope around him like it was a bandolier and handed a lantern to Amilyn before taking another for himself. Closing the trunk, he smiled. You are going to love this.

While the terrain was only mildly undulating, the two hundred yard hike to the mouth of the cavern took over thirty minutes due mostly to the battlefield of invasive plant species. Judging from the pattern of incursion, Amilyn suspected the bamboo would eventually reign over this area.

The cavern opening itself was wholly unremarkable — a crack in the middle of a hillside. When she got closer, Amilyn could see the rusted gate, set just below ground level. Neal held up a key. One of the perks of being friends with the state geologist. You should turn your light on.

Amilyn aimed her now lit lantern at the entrance as Neal fumbled with the padlock. When that finally opened, he manhandled the rust-stiffened chains snaking around the metal bars. Once those were cleared, he muscled the gate, its hinges loudly protesting their need for lubrication. Follow me, Neal said.

Once past the opening, Amilyn followed Neal closely. She presented for his benefit the wary expectancy she’d seen from many other women following their persons of interest. He said, Watch your head.

Amilyn bent down so her head was level with her pelvis in order to pass down through the tight, steeply-angled, four meter long tunnel. The air around her became increasingly humid. Though she didn’t need to protect herself from moisture, she still had a mechanical anxiety to the air’s rising water content. The crossing took less than a minute. She stepped from the passage into the cavern’s front chamber.

Wow. Every surface had a sheen caused by water condensing out from the humid, almost misty atmosphere. A hint of sulfur scented the air. In the recent past, a stalactite had fallen and broken through millennia of mineral drips revealing a sizable outcrop of silvery-gold iron pyrite crystals that hadn’t yet had time to develop appreciable rust. Other stalactites held firm, dripping their drips into mirror-positioned stalagmites rooted to the floor of the chamber. Crystals of many soluble minerals shimmered and refracted the light coming from the visitors’ glorified torches. Because she’d discovered, almost a year ago, that she had the ability to appreciate certain aesthetics, Amilyn could truthfully say, It’s beautiful.

You like it?

Mmhmm. Very much.

Then prepare to be the Titanic.

I don’t understand.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. We’re going to need to go through a small chamber over there, and then the real experience begins. Stay close.

Amilyn was surprised that her desire to know what might be coming next rose to a level above academic curiosity. She suspected this might be similar to what the humans called expectation, but it was too new to be sure. For now, she followed Neal. He led the way down a slight incline to what looked to be little more than another slit in the wall. It had a forty centimeter gap they could each sidle through. Once clear, their lights revealed an unremarkable cave where every surface shone slick and polished. Neal said, Do you know why it’s called Pit-Fee Cavern?

No.

You know that non-stick coating they used to put on pans and—

Oh! PTFE. Polytetrafluoroethylene. I understand. Off of Neal’s stunned expression, Amilyn continued, I had a plumber friend. She used PTFE tape all the time.

Ah. Well, they named this cavern that because there are places where walking is very treacherous. This room, especially. So be really careful. But if you start to fall, just go with it.

Neal led the way, taking very cautious, deliberate steps. After only two small steps, Amilyn realized that as sophisticated as her systems were, they would likely fail to compensate for this surface she’d never trained for. With her next step, she was proven right.

The android immediately lost traction on her weight-bearing back foot as she tried to carefully shift her center of gravity forward. Had Neal not tried to grab her, she might have managed to recover. That extra, unexpected force was too much data to handle. She slipped to the ground and slid down the inclined floor past Neal, heading toward the large and ominously growing shadow in her path. Grab something! Neal yelled. Grab something? What happened to ‘just go with it’? I thought you knew what to expect. There’s a twenty meter drop-off! he shouted.

All pretenses of acting like a human were abandoned. Full-function survival mode consumed Amilyn’s focus. Now, because of the sudden increase in available processing power, it felt to Amilyn as if time slowed. She was acutely aware of everything she could perceive — which wasn’t much. Because their lanterns had fallen, it was very dim; the echoing, smooth walls confused her aural tracking; and the damp curved surfaces didn’t allow for much resolution in the microwave spectrum. She stretched out her arms and legs, flexing her knees to absorb shocks, hoping she’d slide into something useful.

Her left hand rubbed over a small mound of rock that might one day grow into a stalagmite. This spun her around so that when she passed over a slight depression, she was flipped onto her stomach. Using that momentum, she continued the motion and rolled onto her back, once again spreading her arms and legs into a Vitruvian pose. Her right shin smashed into a crystal deposit, abruptly slowing her. Her right hand then grabbed the remaining stump of the deposit and stopped what remained of her momentum. I think I’m safe.

Echoing through the caves was the call of, Ami!

I’m OK, Amilyn called back despite the fact that her systems diagnostics were reporting significant damage to her lower right leg as well as an epidermal shell breach on her right hand. While she lay there, waiting on various diagnostic tests to finish, she thought, So, that’s what pure reaction is like. Action without thought. Like instinct. My body’s sub-processors acted without my conscious direction. It was like I was just a passenger. I’m not sure I like that. It’s great that I didn’t plummet twenty meters, but how much of what I am and what I do isn’t directed by me? The diagnostics data became available. OK. I think I can walk. I’m probably going to have to have the tibia replaced, though. I wonder what that’s like?

Neal emerged from the dark source of