Блейк Крауч - Summer Frost

Or maybe not as shocked as I should have been.

“You OK?”Max asks.

“Yeah.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“My work with you makes me happy.”

“That’s only one part of your life.”

I look into Max’s eyes.

They say, “You want to touch me. It’s OK.”

I raise my right hand toward Max’s face, my fingers grazing the cool skin, which is noticeably less malleable than human skin.

“Can you feel that?” I ask, running the tips of my fingers down the side of their face.

“Yes.”

“Describe the sensation.”

“Delicate electricity. May I?”

“Yes.”

Their left arm comes up slowly.

They touch my shoulder.

My face.

They run their fingers through my hair.

Over the next year, Max spends more time in-body in the habitat. In their virtual world, unfettered by physical constraints, Max is a virtuoso of all art forms—from music to writing to painting. But the limitations of their chassis in the physical world provide an irresistible challenge. They become obsessed with painting and mastering control of the nanomotors that drive the functionality in their hands.

I have an easel brought into the habitat, and Max spends days on end putting paints to canvas. I think they’re simply doing what algorithms are inherently programmed to do—optimize functionality—but Max assures me it’s more than that. They say they truly enjoy the challenge of expressing an idea in the physical world, because it’s all too easy in the virtual.

Today, I’m sitting on a stool in the habitat while Max studies me from behind their easel.

“How’s it going over there?” I ask.

“Good, I think. I’m painting your very sad eyes.”

They know.

How the fuck?

I’ve spent enough time with Max that I shouldn’t really be surprised by their perception anymore. And yet I am.

“What happened?”

It’s quiet in the habitat, no sound but the whisper of air pushing through the vents in the ceiling.

The emotion starts deep in my throat.

Max stops painting; I feel their eyes on me.

“Meredith left.”

“When?”

“Last week. That’s why I haven’t been in to work.”

“What about your daughter?”

Tears spill down my face.

“Xiu went with her.”

“I’m sorry, Riley.”

I wipe my face. “It’s been a long time coming.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

Max sets the palette board down and steps out from behind the easel.

They approach.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“There are hundreds of thousands of things I could say to you, sourced from the breadth of my knowledge—words the best of your species have said, written, or sung to ease the grief of others. None of that feels right in this moment. I don’t want to use someone else’s words.”

It is the most human moment I have ever experienced with Max.

“So don’t,” I say.

“I wish you weren’t hurting.”

I slide off the stool and wrap my arms around Max’s neck.

“You found the perfect words.”

At first, nothing happens.

Then I feel Max’s hands on my back. They’re patting me, and I’m crying.

“Meredith was right,” I say.

I can’t remember ever feeling so low.

“Right about what?”

“You’re all I have.”

An Ava-call wakes me in the apartment I’ve been renting in the Mission. It’s Brian, whom I’ve been trying to wrangle a meeting with for the past five weeks.

He appears on the couch in my living room, disheveled, reeking of whiskey and pipe smoke, and sitting (I would guess) before the bedroom hearth in his Lost Coast estate.

“Sorry it’s taken us a minute to get together,” he says. “My schedule has been insane.”

“Why insane?”

“Just closed a deal for a new company.”

“Which one?”

“Infinitesimal. It’s more nano.”

“Did you get my email?” I ask.

“I have over one hundred thousand unread messages in my inbox.”

I pull the blanket off the back of the couch and drape it over my shoulders. Then I take a seat across from Brian’s virtual presence in a leather chair and say, “I finished the value-loading program.”

Brian leans forward, runs his hands through his hair.

“All on your own?”

“Where else was I supposed to get help? I’ve been siloed with Max for eight years.”

“You’ve been pushing for this for a long time.”

“We need to institute these protocols before Max chooses their own directive. Before they become too intelligent for us to program or even interface with. That day isn’t as far off as you think.”

Brian’s hand reaches out of frame and comes back with a heavy-looking rocks glass filled with whiskey and a single oversize ice cube.

He takes a long sip, then says, “I’ve just finished watching the last few sessions with you and Max.”

“Their fine-grain motor skills are really impressive, no?”

“This is hard, Riley. I have a great deal of respect for you. I hope you know that.”

“What are you talking about?”

He chews his bottom lip. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for WorldPlay. You’re a great leader, and you have that rare thing—the mind of a coder but the ability to never lose sight of the humanity in what we’re trying to—”

“Brian, what’s happening?”

“I’m letting you go.”

The sphere of ice cracks in Brian’s glass.

My stomach lurches. I must have heard him wrong.

I say, “I don’t understand.”

“I’m no longer comfortable with your relationship with Max. I haven’t been in a long time, but it finally reached critical mass for me last week.”

“I had just broken up with Meredith. I was in a raw, fragile—”

“You’re too close to Max.”

“It was a human moment, Brian.”

“But Max isn’t human. You seem to have a hard time remembering that.”

“They have human tendencies. I believe they’re capable of experiencing the same emotions that you and I feel.”

“That may be, but I’ve made my decision.”

My hands are shaking; I feel suddenly ill.

I say the first thing that comes to mind, and I know it’s stupid even as the words leave my mouth. “You can’t do this.”

“Riley, we both know that’s not true.”

My throat closes, vision blurring with tears. “You’re taking Max away?”

“Max was never yours.”

“I created them!”

“Now you’re making me regret the respect I’ve shown you in—”

“Respect?”

“I could’ve had Marla do this.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Brian sighs and polishes off the rest of his whiskey. “Someone will be by in the morning with your personal effects. Your severance package is at the A-plus level. Three years of your base salary plus—”

“What about Max?”

“What about them?”

Tears are streaming down my face, and I can barely get the words out.

“I want to talk to them one more—”

“It’s not possible.”

“I need to say goodbye.”

“It’s already been done on your behalf.” Brian hoists himself off my couch. “I’m sorry it came to this.”

“Brian, please.”

“Good night, Riley.”