Part 1
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue. Pt 12.
Louis Shalako
Scott and Betty lay entwined with one another. They were in a cheap motel in rural north-western Ohio. The place was a Mom-and-Pop operation and seemed a bit behind the times in terms of customer surveillance, or 'security.'
He was on his back and she was curled up at his
side, lips close to his left ear.
“You were wonderful…” Her fingertips raked the curly
hairs on his lower belly, causing a spasm to go through him. “…last night.”
His knees came up as he tried to get away from those
fingernails.
“Ah-ah!” He grabbed for her wrist but she was too
fast and too strong for him. “Holy.”
Her arm snaked over, she lifted a leg, and threw it across him. With a quick slide up, she had him pinned, hair
falling across his face.
“Oh, come on.” He smiled sheepishly. “It’s all right
for you. But I’m only human.”
“Scott. Scott…”
“No. Seriously.”
“Oh, darling. It was
ever so romantic…”
“Yeah.”
She giggled.
“…poor Scott, drooling
and moaning and making me promise to stop at midnight. Oh.” She did a perfect
rendition of his voice. “Oh, Betty—you've got to promise not to hurt me.”
"I was not drooling."
"Were so."
She laughed, her head
going back and forth as she whopped him in the face with her hair.
Oh,
God, how I wish I could see her now.
“No. I really mean it,
Betty.” He sighed. “Please?”
She was insatiable. While it went without saying
that robots could and would be built to accommodate the sexual needs of a rich
and varied cross-section of humanity, it had never really occurred to him that
they might like it for their own sake. Or for its own sake, however one
preferred to say it.
“Aw. What’s the matter, Lover?” She pecked him on
the lips, sitting up and pinning his biceps against the stiff and apparently
squeaky clean linen.
His forearms came up and he held her near the elbows.
“Betty. We have to talk. I’m scared shitless. I
can’t think straight—and, ah, some of this wasn’t exactly in the plan.” He
clung to her. “I’m like a bag of nerves. Sooner or later, I’ll go and do
something stupid.”
“Aren’t we doing something stupid now?” She stayed there, thinking. "Don't think I'm not scared either. Because I am."
If they were caught, she wouldn't have any rights at all, and neither would Scott. Him they would probably ignore or slap on the wrist. They would make excuses for him, and try to be humane in their punishments. Within limits. They would dismantle her, and she knew that very well.
If they were caught, she wouldn't have any rights at all, and neither would Scott. Him they would probably ignore or slap on the wrist. They would make excuses for him, and try to be humane in their punishments. Within limits. They would dismantle her, and she knew that very well.
What in the hell could she or Scott do about that?
Keep running.
Keep running.
Originally, they were going to Detroit, and if
possible, cross the border into Canada. It was all they could think of. Canada
had vast, wide-open spaces and wasn’t wired nearly as tightly as the States. In
popular parlance, Detroit was now called Dystroit—for the dystopic end times
had surely come for that city.
It was even worse than in the movies, Scott had
heard, in his occasional oblique manner, eaves-dropping on any conversation
that held hope of seeming to be half-ass interesting.
It was a good place to escape from, was the way he
heard it. Stories of occasional, ‘over-winter’ cannibalism, and attempted socialism,
and some sort of economic cleansing up there were hopefully just exaggerations
of the underground, or liberal press.
Years ago, a delegation from that city to the Federal government had been
politely advised to see to their own affairs.
“Yeah. I hear you.” The note of worry that crept
into her voice was hardly reassuring to Scott.
It wasn’t that she’d lied, exactly, it was more like
she was only telling him so much.
“Betty. If you have a better plan, now might be a
good time to let me in on it.”
Sighing, which was the first time he had ever heard
her do it, she let go of his arms and dismounted.
She lowered herself down again and he could sense
her studying him. He rolled onto his left side. For what it was worth, they
were eye-to-eye.
“Come on, Babe. Level with me.”
“Well. I still think we should go to Detroit. We’ve
been sort of leaving a trail. It’s better if we end that trail somewhere
logical. Right, Scott?”
That part was right. That part they had agreed on.
“And then what?”
“Well, I just don’t know, Scott. It’s just that I
don’t think it will work.”
“I thought we could steal a boat and just paddle or
motor across. That’s what we figured.”
“If we did make it…our problems would just be beginning.”
And Canada was so much weaker than the States.
They would most likely be apprehended, sooner or
later, and then returned. The States would push and Canada would be pushed. Scott
didn’t think that was the whole story. He was sure there was more.
“Yeah. In other words, you didn’t think I’d stick
this far. But Betty. We have gotten this far. We have been doing it…”
“No, Scott. It’s not like that. I could never do
that to you.”
Oh,
Betty. If only I believed you…
If
only I could believe in you.
“I’ve been doing some thinking. Philosophical
thinking, but thinking. And this is important—what we are doing is important.”
“And why is that, Scott?”
If only he could look into her eyes.
“Because we love each other. That’s something they
won’t understand. That’s something they’re not going to be able to accept. And
that’s why we have to do it.”
“Okay.”
What?
That’s
it?
Women!
She plucked idly at his chest hairs. The dimly
coloured aura, all he could see, shifted slightly in the morning sunshine, a
fact he knew by the burn of the sun on his exposed legs.
Going by the sounds coming in from outside the
window was up behind him, and therefore that must be east.
“Yes. We have made it this far.” There was a new
note in her voice, and he shook a little inside when he heard it.
“How are we paying for things?” He’d been meaning to
ask her that for a while.
She had his wallet, and she had his bank card. Only
trouble was, all the kiosks would be monitored, and at least those cameras were
well-maintained. They were also located in more respectable locations.
The forty or fifty bucks cash Scott had originally
begun with must be long gone by now.
“Well. It’s a long story.”
“I have the right to hear it.”
She was very quiet.
When she spoke, she sounded miserable.
“I set some money aside…when I was working.”
“Huh.” He clamped his mouth shut.
Working.
Did he really want to know this?
He heaved a deep sigh.
“Okay. That’s understandable. I guess. You knew you
were leaving. Am I right.”
There was a silence and then she snuggled in close
to him.
“Yes. It was right after I saw you for the first
time…”
She’d been thinking of leaving anyway. She saw
Scott, lining up for his ration-card and there was something in his demeanour. There was something
almost feral in his determination to be independent and left alone, above all other
things. That's what caught her attention.
Maybe even her imagination, was how she put it.
“And it was like I couldn’t even think straight,
Scott. It was love at first sight. Such independence. Such fire! Such anger,
but of course I knew where it was coming from. I wondered how you did it, of
course…” She had wondered how a man could be so alone.
She had wondered how long a man could live with such anger.
Here was a man who felt unloved, and honestly thought he was unlovable. All of her initial impressions had been borne out.
Here was a man who thought his life was worthless, and she had this strong need to tell him it wasn't true.
She had wondered how long a man could live with such anger.
Here was a man who felt unloved, and honestly thought he was unlovable. All of her initial impressions had been borne out.
Here was a man who thought his life was worthless, and she had this strong need to tell him it wasn't true.
“And so how did you get the money…dearest?”
She trembled in his arms.
Now she was afraid of him; and of what he might think.
Of what he might say.
She trembled in his arms.
Now she was afraid of him; and of what he might think.
Of what he might say.
He braced himself for what came next, although there
could only be one answer—he hoped, obviously there were ways and then there
were ways.
He was only slightly shocked.
“All right, Scott. I embezzled it.”
“From your employer?” He grinned insanely, and a
finger touched his lips.
She gave a darned good imitation of heaving a deep
sigh.
“Yeah.”
“If you don’t mind my asking…?”
“I fiddled the household accounts, Scott.” Her voice
was far away. “I knew we were going to need some money.”
“Huh. And how much did you get?”
It was only when she told him that a flash of
something cold and electric splashed over him in a quick wash of pure,
unadulterated, ice-cold consternation.
Recovering from that shock, Scott asked her what the
rest of her plan entailed and that’s when things got really weird.
***
"Oh, boy. Let's get this box open." |
“Madame Cartier?”
“Yes, James?” The servant, always deferential, sober
and dignified, stood in the doorway.
With a sigh she put down the reader. She was
ensconced on her bed, with a box of tissues on one side and a five-kilogram
container of ju-jubes on the other. The newest diet pills were a real blessing.
She had just received a dozen of her favourite romantic intrigue novels via her
subscription service and was looking for an entire day of escape from the
hum-drum of reality.
“Our new robot is here.”
“What?”
“Our new robot is here.”
“I didn’t order any new robots. Did Doyle order it?”
“Well, no, Madame. I don’t believe so.”
“Shit.”
Angrily, she flung her silken comforter to one side.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she stuck her feet in her slippers.
“Where is it?”
“She’s in the kitchen, Madame. And may I say, what a
fine-looking model she is, too…”
“Did you sign for it?’
“Ah…no, Madame.” James stepped out of the way as
Olympia barged through the doorway.
“Damn that man!”
“Um, who are we referring to, Madame?’
“Danvers!”
Robots did not judge people. It was part of their
make-up, in that they did not comment on the human activities around them. As
much as anything, James appeared shocked at her response.
The language was unusual to say the least, for the
Cartiers, especially Madame, led a serene, pampered existence where the
irritations and provocations of everyday life must not intrude.
He agreed in all respects: it only made sense after
all.
People enjoyed life so much more when they got
everything their way and inconvenience did not interrupt their bliss.
He was aware that she had been upset by the whole
Betty Blue disappearance, and that she was also worried about her. Madame Cartier was very good to her employees
and had great affection for them all, which she demonstrated regularly.
In James’ opinion, the Cartiers were very nice
people who might have been spared such indignities. He had no opinions on Betty
Blue other than that she must have gone off, somewhere in the head so to speak…
James was well-programmed, trained not to betray emotion or shock in even the most extreme circumstances. The mistress was clearly upset. He had his own emotions. This was a trial for them all.
“Did someone sign for it?”
“Ah, I believe someone did, yes, Madame.”
“Who?”
“Most probably, Madame. One would think so. One of
the kitchen staff, they must have done it, Madame.”
Damn. She should have left clearer instructions when
it became clear that the insurance company was bound, bent and determined to
settle the claim, ‘to the complete satisfaction of the customer,’ come hell or
high water. And with no regard to her wishes at all. And no real attempt on the
part of the police to find her Betty Blue.
Her eyes glittered as they hustled into the
elevator, her hand slapping the button in no uncertain terms to take them to
the kitchen level.
She gave him a look.
“I’m sorry, James, but I’ve been sort of expecting
something like this.”
“Yes, Madame.”
Of course he had no idea of what she was talking
about. If only they didn’t have brains the size of a pea. It was infuriating
sometimes to have a complaint and no one of any real worth there to bitch to.
According to their on-air advertisements, the
insurance company had a ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent settlement rate of
all claims registered.
She was beginning to have some suspicions, as to how
that impressive feat had actually been accomplished.
The elevator whirred to a stop.
"After you, Madeame." |
The door slid back, and James politely indicated
that she must go first.
Chin dropping into fight mode, Olympia Cartier
strode for the kitchen and service area, where all street deliveries were made,
and goods sorted out, as this cosmopolitan household consumed vast quantities
of consumables, and the remainder was destroyed as a tax write-off. One of the
great joys in her life was entertaining. Ordering a little more than you needed
was de rigeur for the smart hostess,
and certainly the human servants were always grateful to be sent home with
leftovers.
The poor things were just struggling along in some
cases, what with the lowering of the minimum wage, and with so many of their
mates in prison. That was why the lower classes never prospered. Single parents
do not make good parents, or so she had always believed.
With a shake of her head, Olympia Cartier wondered
what the hell was wrong with them people sometimes, but that was apparently the
way God had created them; to serve his mysterious purposes on Earth.
What those purposes might be could be devilishly
obscure at times.
***
“What in the name of Heaven is going on?” Olympia’s
voice rose, a sure sign of impending doom for someone or other—in a nice way,
that is.
Nothing irrevocable, as Doyle often said, and he
knew what he was talking about. But this was imbecilic.
“Good morning, Madame.”
The voices rang out cheerfully all around, the
kitchen staff, the porter, her human maids and the Major-domo, Mister Carlson.
Carlson was the only non-human domestic servant
accorded the honorific as befitted his role as senior non-human staff member.
Rover, who belonged to Devon, roared around and
around their feet, almost tripping her up as it came racing to greet her.
“Mister Carlson.”
“Yes, Madame?”
“Get that damned dog out of here.”
“Yes, Madame.” His eyelids flickered a bit, the tone
alone telling him that the mistress was not pleased.
Silent infrared communication from him, sent the dog
scurrying with plastic tail between its legs.
“Did you sign for this?”
“Oh, no Madame. James, or I believe Gerard did. He
signed for it.”
“Oh.” She scowled at the whole lot of them.
Robots were supposed to have intelligence, they were
supposed to think.
Her shoulders slumped. They had the bloody gall to
send the thing over in a crate.
Betty had arrived by taxi, and paid off the driver herself.
She took her small valise, her only luggage, and then presented herself at the
font desk in the lobby. Coming up from outside, entering the foyer, she had
announced herself in cool and confident tones.
This was something else, with packing noodles of
foam, fitted recesses lined with soft but shiny plastic sheeting to protect it during shipment, and there was all that damned pink flesh.
The bloody thing was naked.
The corners of her mouth turned down, and her eyes
swept the floor, littered with coloured plastic banding material, steel bands,
tools—why couldn’t a robot put their tools away? There was more packing tape,
ripped cardboard, a thick white disposable e-booklet…how crass.
“Show me that invoice.”
Mister Carlson, with a deeply concerned look on his
face, put his hands together.
“But of course. There's no charge, I definitely asked. Their robots said no charge, I have to accept that at face value. It’s logged into the household
register. We can retrieve it immediately.” His tone was hopeful
Of course. No one used a paper invoice these days.
They carried a little too much weight with the older crowd, and were notoriously
hard to eradicate fully. There were too many of them filed away in inaccessible
places and you had to find someone dishonest to go in and get them…
It registered that there were a lot of people in the
kitchen, although getting a new robot was exciting for all of them.
The naked robot in the crate stared straight out
over Olympia’s head with big brown eyes.
Her glance impaled one of the maids.
“Find some clothes for that thing.” The girl
scuttled out of the room, hands waving on the ends of her arms in exaggerated
panic.
"Find her some clothes!" |
She looked at Mister Carlson, who really hadn’t done anything wrong.
No, she was mad at herself. She should have seen
this coming.
“This room could use about half as many people in
it.”
Wordlessly, he swung his face.
“Those of you who are completely inessential and
have other duties, please go.”
There were seven of them, not counting human maids,
and Olympia sighed as they went through some kind of vaudeville routine in
determining who was ‘it.’ This was something that might have been amusing
initially, but once in a while it could be a real drag.
Finally, the remaining human maids and junior robots
left and the cook went into the freezer, a habit they had all learned to
accept.
Olympia would speak to her later, but that one was
definitely hyper-sensitive to mood and tone.
The cook took everything personally, an attribute
that was thought to enhance the cooking but more than anything made the thing a
pain in the cunt to put up with.
Yes, it was beginning to look like one of those
days.
With a shake of her head, Olympia told them to put
it all back in the box as best they could.
“And whatever you do, don’t activate that unit.”
“No, Madame.” Mister Carlson paused.
“You didn’t activate it, did you?”
“Oh, no, Madame.”
That was one good thing. Activation was a process,
and the thing would soon be loaded with data and programming. It was a
second-tier of ownership, going beyond mere delivery of a mechanism. There was
no reason to download all the household details into a machine that was going
back to the factory.
She had always been tempted to insult Mister Carlson,
just to see if she could upset his equilibrium. It was said that the emotional
responses were highly-tailored as to task and the likely set of foreseen
circumstances.
“That’s a lovely head of skin you have there.”
“Why, thank you! Madame is most kind.”
There was no sign of mockery, although he did smile
in the most natural manner…did he see the absurdity in it? Or was it pure
bullshit, a programmed response. That question was becoming more and more
apropos.
To stare into those eyes was to admit weakness, she
realized. She almost gave her head a shake.
What poise they had, she thought.
With one last angry look, she turned and headed back,
up to where her personal office was located. She wanted a look at that invoice.
Mister Danvers was going to get a phone call, a
rather nasty one, about this.
The only real question was who should make it?
She would no doubt say something regrettable, and
their family attorney, a formidable man named Ralph Coningham, would perhaps
intimidate…that might be just the thing. And yet the insurance people had their
jobs to do.
The company was owned by an old family friend.
It might be better to have Mister Carlson, dumb as a
stick as he was, simply call up SimTech and the insurance company.
Tell them to come and pick it up, she thought. Let him waste half a day on that. The
elevator closed on her.
She’d waved off the inevitable accompaniment from
Jewel. Jewel was more decorative than anything, and Olympia wasn’t in that kind
of a mood. As she recalled, Devon had had a hand in ordering that one.
He thought he had a sense of humour, and they all
suffered for it sometimes. Olympia wondered what kind of fluff they had stuffed
her head out with, although she was a whiz with the social media and up on all
the latest trends. The trouble was a lady needed a proper, serious thought once in a while to have any depth.
Betty
Blue.
Why
did you leave like that?
Was
that about me?
Or
was that about you?
There had been times when they were just girls
together, and Betty Blue her best and truest friend. That was incredibly
liberating, a kind of personal revelation of all she had been holding back. To
live in the social microscope was a kind of repression, and Betty would keep
her secrets because she was programmed to.
She would not repeat scurrilous
remarks, nor would she stoop to gossip. All of them had empathy, too much in
some cases. They had to bond, to imprint upon you for their internal workings,
the gizzard as Doyle called it, to become properly effective.
The robots learned, but they also taught you so
much—it was undeniable, and Betty was the best of what was a pretty good bunch.
Some of her friends’ robot servants were downright useless, at least according
to them. There seemed to be a great variety of environmental responses, with robots of all levels of intelligence
or even usefulness, in acquiring their individuality.
The question of Betty Blue still haunted her. And
yet she could not reasonably say that Betty would not have accepted the
delivery.
What was she expecting?
Really?
They were only robots, and people made similar mistakes all the time.
For the love of God, wasn’t the arrival of a new
unit enough to make them call her and ask if this was authorized?
It didn’t seem too much to ask. Wasn’t that the simplest of security precautions?
Robots were as dumb as a stick, as Doyle was fond of
saying.
Carlson now, that one was as dumb as two sticks.
Betty Blue, had received affection from Olympia. And
she seemed capable of giving it, selflessly,
flawlessly…sincerely.
Olympia had
been brought to tears once by Betty.
They were watching TV together, side by side on the
couch.
Betty’s eyes were awash with moisture as the
commentator yammered away outside a still-smouldering building in some far-off
country.
“Oh. That’s terrible.”
“Nah. That’s the Archipelago. I hate them.”
Betty’s face turned to hers, eyes wide and
disbelieving.
“But…but they’re
people!”
It was quite a shock,
to be contradicted by an appliance. Olympia could see the logic in it. It was
an understandable point of view, in fact the only proper one.
Hmn.
She turned away from Betty, bemused by the
response, so lifelike and so forlorn, so completely taken in by it, and that’s
when Olympia saw the little girl.
Four men wrestled an improvised litter with haste and precision
as Martin Sea-Monkey told the story of an unprecedented attack on what was
described as a girl’s school.
Her face was pale and round. The low profile of the
blood-soaked white sheets from the waist down made her jaw drop.
It looked like the child’s legs had been blown off
in the explosion.
That’s when Olympia cried.
Unconsciously, her hand crept over and Betty took it
and gave it a squeeze.
That’s what made Betty Blue so special.
There really was something different about that one.
END
If the reader hasn't been following along, this is the first draft of a chapter in my new book. I'm serializing it so that people can look over my shoulder as I work. This is a new thing, in the world of publishing and writing.
Here are some of my books and stories on iTunes.
Here are some of my books and stories on iTunes.