Atwood Margaret - The Heart Goes Last

Quality Control, says Kevin, is where they put the bodies through their paces before they attach the heads. It’s to test the mechanical and the digital, says Gary, especially the writhing and the grinding and the smoothness of the pelvic action. The space is filled with the motion of thighs and abdomens, like some grotesque art installation; there’s a soft pulsing sound and a smell of plastic.

“Waldo, you want a ride round the block on one of these?” says Derek. Stan reflects that, come right down to it, nothing turns him on less than the sight of a dozen headless, naked plastic bodies miming the act of copulation.There’s something insect-like about it.

“I’ll take a rain check,” he says. They all laugh.

“Yeah, right, we didn’t want to either,” says Tyler.

“They fix that smell later on,” says Gary. “They add synthetic pheromones, and then there’s a choice of orange blossom, rose, ylang-ylang, chocolate pudding, or Old Spice.”

“I’d say you need the head, at the very minimum,” says Budge. “They stick them on after the bodies have checked out Affirmative. It’s tricky, a lot of neural connections; all that work would be wasted if the body’s defective.”

Stan looks down the line, to the far side of the room: it’s like an operating theatre over there. Bright overhead lights, air purifiers. They’re even wearing full caps and surgeon’s masks.

“You don’t want any hairs or dust getting into those heads,” says Derek. “It can screw up the reaction time.”

They proceed to Wardrobe and Accessories. Racks of clothes stand ready – ordinary street clothing, business suits, leather outfits, feathers and sequins and gaudy costumes; also rolling shelves, with many different wigs. Movie sets must have looked like this, back in the days of Technicolour musicals.

“Here are the Rhiannas and the Oprahs,” says Kevin. “And the Princess Dianas. Those are the James Deans and the Marlon Brandos and the Denzel Washingtons and, the Bill Clintons, and that’s the Elvis aisle. It’s mostly the white jumpsuit model they go for, with the studs and spangles, but there’s other choices. The black with gold embroidery, that’s popular. Not with the old ladies though, they want the white.”

“And this is the Marilyn section,” says Budge. “You can have five different hairstyles, and in the outfits you get a choice too, depending on what movie. That’s from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, the pink dress; there’s the black suit from Niagara , and over there is the all-girl jazz band one from Some Like It Hot …”

“Where are these headed for?” says Stan. “The Oprahs. Are they that into Oprah, in Holland?”

“You name it, someone’s gonna be fetishistic about it,” says Derek.

“Our biggest customers are the casino operations,” says Gary. “The ones in Oklahoma, but they can be puritanical there. Even though these aren’t real women and so forth. Whereas, Vegas. It’s whatever, whenever, and the place is knee-high in cash. The rust-bucket stuff never hit there.”

“Not the upmarket venues, anyway,” says Budge. “Shedloads of foreign tourists, big spenders. Your Russians, your Indian millionaires, your Chinese, your Brazilians.”

“No regulations,” says Tyler. “Sky’s the limit.”

“Whatever you can think of, it’s either up and running already or it will be,” says Derek.

“There’s a lot of Elvises and Marilyns there anyway,” says Kevin. “Alive ones. So the replicas blend right in.”

“What’s that over there?” says Stan. He’s spotted a bin full of knitted blue teddy bears.

“They’re for the kiddybots,” says Kevin. “They get dressed in the white nighties or the flannel pjs. They’re boxed in flannelette sheets, and each one has a bear tucked into the package for extra-realistic effect.”

“That is fucking sick,” says Stan.

“I hear you,” says Derek. “Yeah, it’s sick. We agree, we felt the same when we found out about this product line. But they aren’t real.”

“Who knows? Maybe these bots are sparing real kids a whole lot of pain and suffering,” says Kevin. “Keeps the pervs off the streets.”

“I don’t fucking buy that!” says Stan. “They’ll use these for dry runs, they’ll practise up, then they’ll …” Zip it, he tells himself. Don’t get involved.

“But a lot of customers do buy it, if you see what I mean,” says Gary. “They buy it like hotcakes. This vertical is a big earner for Possibilibots. Hard to argue with the bottom line.”

“Jobs are at stake, Waldo,” says Derek. “Mega-jobs. Folks out there have bills to pay.”

“That’s not a good reason,” says Stan. They’re all watching him now, but he pushes on. “How can you go along with this? It’s not right!”

“It’s time for your trial run,” says Budge. He gives Stan’s shoulder a little nudge, turning him toward the exit. “ ’Scuse us, guys. I’ve got it set up in one of the private test rooms. There’s some things a man needs to do alone.”

Laughter. “Have a good trip,” says Derek. Gary adds, “Heavy on the lube.”

“Down here,” says Budge. “Nothing much left on the tour proper, except Shipping,” he says. “It’s mainly carting the boxes around; they’re all packed and locked by the time they get to Shipping. That’s my department, Shipping. Want to grab a beer?”

“Sure,” says Stan. He almost blew it back there, over the kiddybots. And those fucking blue teddy bears. What pervert dreamed that one up? “How about the trial run?” he says.

“Forget it. We’ve got other business,” says Budge. “Tulip business.”

“Right,” says Stan. Is he supposed to know what that means?

“In here – it’s my office.” They go in; standard cubicle, desk, couple of chairs. Minibar: Budge gets two beers, pops the tops.

“Take a seat.” He leans forward across the desk. “My job is to ship you. You and whatever you’re taking with you. I don’t know why and I don’t know what, so no point asking.”

“Thanks,” says Stan, “but …” He wants to ask about Charmaine, about her head. Is she in danger from some twisted stalker? If so, he can’t leave Positron. He can’t just desert her.

“No need for thanks,” says Budge. “I’m just a hired gun, I do what I’m told. It’s one of our specialities, people-moving.” He doesn’t look like a friendly uncle any more: he looks efficient. “Me, for instance. To get me inside, they tucked me into a box of torsos, along with the ID I’d need. It worked fine. But you’re our first try at shipping someone out.”

“Who’s this we?” says Stan. “You mean Jocelyn.”

“First off, you mean your brother, Conor,” says Budge. “We go way back, we did some time together when we were kids.”

“Conor!” says Stan. “How did he get into this?” Trust fucking Conor. Not that he does. He remembers the sleek dark car in front of the trailer park, that time he went to see Con. Who’s the pay pal?

“Same way he gets into everything,” says Budge. “We got a call, we made a deal. We have a reputation for keeping our word. Doing what we’ve been paid for.”

“Mind my asking who paid you?” Stan asks.

“Classified,” says Budge, smiling. “So, here’s the plan. We’ll put you into an Elvis outfit, then into a bot shipping crate. An Elvis would be the closest to your size.”

“Wait a minute!” says Stan. “You want me to be a sexbot? You’re pimping me out? No fucking way, that won’t –”

“It’s only for the shipping part,” says Budge. “There’s not a lot of options. You can’t just walk out of here. And they check every management vehicle and match up the biometrics. Remember, even though they think you’re dead, your data will still be on file. But inside the shipping box, and to the casual glance …”