Atwood Margaret - The Heart Goes Last

“But he hardly looks at me, and he hasn’t asked me out again. And the job’s a nothing. Why does he want me there?”

“So nobody else can get you,” says Jocelyn. “He’s asked me to shadow you to and from work, and to report anyone – any man – who visits you at home. Needless to say I don’t report myself. Aurora, yes, I report her. She’s supposed to be doing grief therapy with you.”

“But what … I don’t see where this is going,” says Charmaine.

“I don’t exactly myself,” says Jocelyn. “But he’s got his double of you almost finished. Have a look.”

She brings up a window on her PosiPad: grainy footage of a corridor, Ed walking along it. He goes in through a door. “Surveillance footage,” she says. “Sorry about the quality. This is over at Possibilibots, where they’re making sex robots.” Charmaine remembers Stan saying something about that, but she hadn’t paid much attention, she’d been too preoccupied with Max. Real sex with him was so, was so … Divine isn’t the word. But if you could have that, why bother with a robot?

Inside the room, bright light. A couple of men are there, one with glasses, one without. They have green smocks on. There are a lot of wires and gizmos.

“How’s she coming?” Ed asks the two men.

“Almost ready for a trial run,” they say. “Just the standard prostibody for now, with the regular action. We can’t make the custom body without the measurements, and some photos for detail.”

“That’ll come later,” says Ed. “Let’s have a look.”

Segue across to a table, or is it a bed? A flower-patterned sheet over a body shape. Ed turns down the corner of the sheet.

There’s Charmaine’s head, her very own head, with her very own hair on it, slightly dishevelled. She’s sleeping. She looks so lifelike, so alive: Charmaine would swear she can see the rise and fall of the upper torso.

“Oh my god!” she says. “It’s me! That is so …” She feels a chill of terror. On the other hand, it’s thrilling in a strange way. Another one of her! What will happen to her?

Ed leans over, strokes the cheek gently. The eyes open, widen in alarm.

“Perfect,” says Ed. “Did you program the voice yet?”

“Just put your hands around her neck,” says one of the men, the one with the glasses. “Give a tender squeeze.”

Ed does so. “No! Don’t touch me!” says Charmaine’s head. The eyes close, the head is thrown back in an attitude of surrender.

“Now kiss her neck,” says the man without glasses. “A small bite is okay, but don’t bite too hard.”

“You wouldn’t want to break the skin,” says the other. “You could get a short. Malfunction.”

“Those can be ugly,” says the one without glasses.

“Okay, here goes,” says Ed as if he’s about to jump into a swimming pool. His head goes down. The camera sees two white arms come up, encircle him. There’s a moan from underneath Ed.

“You hit it out of the park,” says the one with glasses.

“The moan means you’re on target,” says the other. “Wait till you try the main action.”

“Genius,” says Ed. “Exactly to spec. You guys deserve a medal. When can I take delivery?”

“Tomorrow,” says the one with glasses. “If you’re willing to go with this iteration. There’s only a couple more deets.”

“You don’t want to wait for the custom body?” says the other.

“This one will do for now,” says Ed. “When I’ve got the stats and the pics I’ll send it back to you for the replacement.” He bends over the head, which is sleeping again. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you very soon.”

The film ends. Charmaine feels dizzy. “He’s going to have sex with her?” She feels strangely protective of her fabricated self.

“That’s the idea,” says Jocelyn.

“Why doesn’t he just … I mean, he could ask me instead. He could practically force me to do it.“

“He’s afraid of rejection,” says Aurora. “A lot of people are. This way, he’ll never be rejected by you.”

“By the way, heads-up,” says Jocelyn. “He’s asked me to plant some cameras in your bathroom, to take the pictures for the custom body.”

“But you won’t do it,” says Charmaine. “Will you?” Displaying herself for an unseen camera, pretending she doesn’t know it’s there … that’s the kind of thing Max might have asked her to do. Did ask. Turn this way. Raise your arms. Bend over. The joke was that there really were cameras.

“It’s my job,” says Jocelyn. “If I don’t do it he’ll know something’s wrong.”

“Fine. I just won’t have any baths,” says Charmaine. “Or showers,” she adds.

“I wouldn’t take that attitude if I were you,” says Aurora. “It’s not helpful. Think of it like acting. We want him to go through with his plan.”

“It’s partly business,” says Jocelyn. “You’re like a demonstration model. Can you imagine what a market demand there would be for customized robots like this, once they’ve got all the kinks worked out of the process?”

“In addition to those, we think he’s working on a sort of blend. Not that we know for sure,” says Jocelyn.

“A blend of what?” says Charmaine.

“Heavens, look at the time!” says Aurora. “I need my beauty sleep!”

“I think I’ll pay a visit to Possibilibots,” says Jocelyn. “Just to make sure the security is tight, around Ed’s special project. We wouldn’t want a malfunction the first time he takes it out for a drive around the block.”

“A what?” says Charmaine. “Why are you talking about a car?”

Jocelyn actually laughs. She doesn’t laugh much as a rule. “You’re terrific,” she says to Charmaine. “It’s not a car.”

“Oh,” Charmaine says after a minute. “Now I get it.”

Malfunction

The next day Ed isn’t at the office. There’s nothing on his schedule to suggest where he might be. Charmaine takes the liberty – or else the chance – of knocking on his door. When there’s no answer she goes in. No sign of him. Desk neat as a pin. She peeks quickly into a couple of his desk drawers: there are a few folders, but all they have in them is expansion plans for Ruby Slippers. No receipts for plane tickets, nothing. Where could he have gone?

She isn’t supposed to contact Jocelyn during the day, not by text, not by phone or email: no snail trails is Jocelyn’s motto. With no orders to follow, she occupies her mind by painting her nails, which is a very soothing thing to do when you’re anxious and keyed up. Some people like to throw objects, such as glasses of water or rocks, but nail painting is more positive. If more world leaders would take it up there would be less overall suffering, in her opinion.

After so-called work, she goes straight home. Jocelyn’s waiting for her in the living room, sitting on the sofa with her shoes off and her feet up. Charmaine is pained by the sight of those feet. As long as Jocelyn keeps all her clothes on it seems improbable that Max/Phil could ever have made love to her, but with the shoes off, displaying feet with real toes … And she has terrific legs, Charmaine has to give her that. Legs that Max/Phil’s hands must have stroked, in an upward direction, many times.

Charmaine can’t imagine Jocelyn in the grip of passion, she can’t imagine her saying the kinds of words Max likes to hear. She’s always so in control of herself. Nothing short of a thumbscrew could make her lose it.

“I’m having a scotch,” Jocelyn says. “Want one?”

“Why, what’s happened?” says Charmaine. Is there a shock coming? “What’s happened to Stan?”

“Stan’s fine,” says Jocelyn. “He’s relaxing.”