This short story was originally published through Smashwords in 2013. It contains elements from The Erased Saga books.

Between the sickly sweet smell of coolant and the chemical spray I used on her simulated skin, you might think I’m not accustomed to working with a model like this. You might think the combination of such chemicals inhaled is the reason I think her so beautiful. Or maybe it’s the way the pinkish purple light of the engineering station reflects off her; she resembles a porcelain doll or the sleeping beauty of some long-forgotten fairy tale.

The terminal at my fingertips displays a blinking cursor, awaiting input. I’ve run diagnostics two or three times to maintain quality assurance. I’ve recorded her serial number just in case there may be future errors to report. Turing requirements have been met—she’s only as intelligent as we want her to be. She was a custom job, contracted specifically for some wealthy consumer. The paperwork says his name is Stephen Shields. She’ll likely be some kind of concubine.

On a job like this, I need to forget that and simply remain focused. I use a pair of tweezers to pluck her eyebrows just so. Black, matching her hair, which is tied back in a bun. Almost all female models have it tied back so their new owners can determine the style they prefer. I don’t know what name Mr. Shields prefers, but I like to call her Charlotte—Charlie for short. Once the brow is plucked properly, I use compressed air to clean the skin and hair. 

Her radiant violet eyes open after I type the input into the terminal. Sometimes a customer will request a strange eye or skin color as a sort of exotic dalliance. Maybe it’s just another power trip. As I examine her dazzling oculars, I notice a twitch. She’s seeing someone for the first time—she sees her own Pygmalion, carving her from ivory. 

Her hand moves to touch my cheek. It’s her very first movement and not as alien as you might think. Any number of times at this step in the process, the dull non-consciousness of these creatures provokes that instinctual desire to touch the first thing they see. I’ve been the first image in the minds of so many of these creations. The act of turning on.

But she’s different.

There could be any number of reasons for my infatuation. The confluence of sights and smells, the feel of her hand on my face, or maybe some subjective aesthetic. I’ll admit I’ve found gynoids attractive in the past, but never to this degree, never as though she tapped the central core of my being. Maybe I’ll never understand why. That old adage about how the heart wants what it wants, perhaps. We’re selling this specific, unique model to a high bidder—there’s no room for the fierce possessiveness I feel.

I scribble her serial number on a small piece of paper and put in my pocket.

——————————————————————————————————

The collar chokes me, but the bow-tie remains in place. The tuxedo jacket feels tight around my mid-section as well. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here, amongst the bourgeois. 

Charlie catches my eye, wrapped up tight in a sparkling black singlet and fishnet stockings, a faux smile plastered across her face. Her hair’s still tied back, as though her new owner had never even bothered to adjust it once she’d been removed from her packaging. She carries a perfectly level serving tray from person to person, delivering Scotch and Sodas, Martinis, Bloody Marys with celery sticks. When her eyes catch mine, that smile disappears.

I sip a short glass of bourbon and watch her move back to the bar. Another woman, this one with elegant red hair and curled bangs framing her face, steps to me with a gleaming grin. She wears a floor-length golden evening gown.

“Darling,” she says over the murmuring crowd. “Are you playing the game tonight?”

“Isn’t everyone?” I respond.

“What’s your name? I can get you your envelope. It’s all going to start in just a few minutes.”

My eyes can’t help but follow my creation, as she appears to laugh and deliver drinks to the other people. She works a grid pattern that begins to the left of the bar and pushes back into the darkness. Ignoring me. Pushing away from me.

“Your name?” the woman in the evening gown asks again. Despite her striking beauty, she’s simply not Charlie.

“I’m sorry, miss. My name’s Neil Prater.”

“Well hello, Neil, I’m Alyssa.” Without a surname, it’s difficult to tell if she’s another custom model or if she’s human. Maybe Shields has simply acquired a robotic harem. Her eyes are a stark emerald green, but could possibly be natural.

She hands me an envelope with my name scribbled in perfect cursive on the face. 

My friends told me I was silly to come here tonight. They didn’t know I’d broken laws to do it. I explained to them that Mr. Shields invited me as a thank you for the wonderful work I’d done, along with several other key NMAC employees. Truth be told, I thought it a fantastic opportunity to rub elbows with the elite. It wasn’t difficult to get my name on the list, or even to get in on the game. It sounded fun, and maybe the danger was the attraction. The game itself sounded dissident. The wealthy are able to get away with things like this. People in my pay bracket would fear being black-bagged. 

Maybe I just wanted to see her again.

I used her serial number to track a network address. I used tunneling protocols to see through her eyes, to remote activate her. I added myself to the guest list by using Charlotte.

“I’m sorry, sir,” another woman says, touching me on the shoulder. She’s brunette and out of place wearing a pantsuit. The color of her clothes, an almost drab soldier’s brown, betrays the glamorous attire of the other females in this ballroom. She wears circular eyeglasses, reflecting the light from the bar. “You said your name was Neil Prater?”

“Yes, miss?”

“That’s strange, sir.”

“Why strange?”

“The other attendants of this party, they’re big names. Jetsetters. Shields himself,” she takes time to point him out of the crowd, “he’s the heir to a department store fortune. Over there’s the lead singer of Cold Cloning. Musicians, writers, even a bona fide movie star or two. But Neil Prater, that name’s not familiar whatsoever.”

“I’m a guest of Mr. Shields,” I tell her, scrambling to come up with something. “Invited for a project I participated in. And who are you?”

“Lieutenant Marjorie Jeffries, Office of Strategic Services,” she says, flashing a badge.

“What interest does the Office have in a simple dinner party?”

“Security issues. Shields’ people contacted us about a possible information systems breach. And I’m here to see which of these things is not like the others. Can you verify your identity?”

“Miss,” I respond. “If I’m not who I say I am, why is there an envelope for me to play the game?”

“That’s fine and good. Still, it doesn’t mean the name’s not fake.” 

Tenacity from law enforcement’s not something I expected tonight. I need to get out of here, or I most certainly will wind up black-bagged. I reach into the back pocket of my slacks and produce my wallet. I slip her my ID.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Alyssa shouts from the bar area. “Honored guests! Distinguished colleagues. Friends all! I’d like to welcome you and invite you to grab a drink! We’re just about to start. I would also like to thank the Bodega Lodge for hosting this event. Get ready to have a lot of fun!”

In the corner of my eye, Charlie receives a kiss on the cheek from a random partygoer. The terror of handing the OSS my credentials creeps into my mind, making me light-headed. Pins and needles prick up and down my arms. 

“So you’re here for the game?” she says, handing back my ID card. “Have you been to one of these soirees before?”

“This is actually the first. And I have to say, I’m a little surprised the OSS isn’t busting up the place.”

“Why would we do that?”

“The whole thing sounds dissident to me. Isn’t that what you do? The Dissident Materials Act and all that?”

“That’s not my department, sir.”

“Loosen up, Lieutenant. Have a drink. This is a party after all.” I start to walk past her, but I feel her heavy hand on my chest. Suddenly I’m not sure if she’s trying to intimidate me or flirt with me. She locks eyes and speaks in a low tone. 

“Watch yourself, Neil.”

Her eyes appear to be a natural blue, but it’s difficult to tell through the glasses. It crosses my mind that maybe even Lt. Jeffries could be an NMAC model. Maybe this is part of the game.

She marches away through the throng, maybe towards another target. The partygoers seem to swallow her whole as she disappears amongst them.

Alyssa’s now standing above the crowd, either on a bar stool or chair. She’s all smiles and laughter, decadent elegance and panache. “If you’re participating in tonight’s affair, you’ll have received an envelope with your name on it. At this time, I’d like you to open your envelopes if you have not done so already.”

At her behest, and perhaps despite my better judgment, I raise the envelope and rip the edge away. With two fingers, I pluck out the piece of paper inside. Before reading, my eyes catch Charlie again, maneuvering the crowd with drinks perfectly balanced on the tray cradled by her right hand. She’s coming this way. Before she passes me by entirely, I place a hand on her left arm. 

“Miss?” I ask.

Her startled face offers recognition, but she attempts to mask it. Her only knowledge of me would be that of creator, of being her first sight. Her artificial intelligence is not exactly childlike, but hindered by the hard problem of consciousness. What she experiences is not exactly comparable to what we do. “Sir?”

I hold the envelope and paper in the same hand as my drink, though the bourbon seems to have been sipped dry. Now that I have her attention, I shift the glass to the other hand and tip it in her direction. “May I have another drink?”

“What’s your preference, sir?”

“Do you have any bourbon?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir.” Her gaze is cold and unfeeling, unfettered by typical human emotion. Still, a hint of confusion flickers across her exceptional violet eyes. “I’ll have to go back to the serving area to obtain one for you.”

“Your name is Charlotte,” I offer. Once again being so close to her, I feel as I did when constructing her flawless face and body, crafting her vanilla simulated skin. Peering into those delicate eyes, the electricity that drove me to craft the ultimate perfection sends jolts up and down body, as Alexandros of Antioch must have felt when sculpting the Venus De Milo.

“No, sir.”

“What does Mr. Shields call you?”

“Dana.”

“He didn’t make you,” I reply. “He shouldn’t get to name you.”

“Do I know you, sir? You look… familiar.”

Laughter erupts from somewhere near the bar. It’s Alyssa, entertaining a group that looks like it includes Shields. Lt. Jeffries moves toward the group of laughing socialites; maybe that’s my cue to exit.

“Dana, Charlotte, whatever. I came here for you, to see you.”

“Me, what…” she starts to ask the question and looks toward her master, but I cut her off.

“Your face haunts my sleep.”

She begins to push away, a look of panic creeping across her face. “Who… who… No.” Her violet eyes shift like those of an animal about to be put to sleep.

“I’m not… I don’t want to hurt you,” I tell her, taking hold of her arm again. “I just want you to know, no matter what he does for you or what he says to you, someone out there loves you and always will.”

She stops struggling, her eyes no longer twitching. I want to look back at Lt. Jeffries to see if she’s speaking to Shields yet, but I can’t. My perfect creation holds my gaze—her face contorts slightly as she tries to determine the meaning of my statements in light of her condition. The hard problem of consciousness. “Take…” she mumbles, trying to compose herself. “Take your hand off me.”

“I should be going,” I say, peering back toward Jeffries and Shields. Charlie, or rather Dana, begins to walk away, tray of drinks still perfectly level. “Auf wiedersehen, Fraulein.”

I never should have come here. There was no reason for it. I’m not even terribly sure I meant the words I said to her. She’s the property of another man, and even though I created her… scratch that. Even though I was part of the project team that created her, I can’t afford to even purchase a similar model. I shouldn’t be out here, trying to convince a gynoid of my emotions when we don’t even share a comparable experience. 

Carrying the letter from the envelope and still hanging onto my drink, I need to make my way out of the party. At the main entrance to the ballroom, which is a particularly tight squeeze anyway, there’s a black-suited bald man with an earpiece. It’s difficult to see any other possible exits with the dim lighting. A misty layer of smoke hangs over the party.

I try to sneak along a wall, which has a ledge for people to set drinks. Lt. Jeffries appears to be sifting through the crowd with a group of men. They differ from the others–suits, not tuxedos. Muscle. I lean on the ledge and set my drink down, facing the wall so hopefully I won’t be spotted. I look like I’m reading the letter when it really does catch my eye:

“You are an android engineer in love with a female model you created specifically for the host of the party: Stephen Shields, a prominent businessman. Your goal for the first half of the party is to confront the female model and avoid being taken into custody by the authorities.”  

It becomes even harder to breathe, as though the tie around my collar has tightened further. Beads of sweat form on my brow. I was contracted to build the perfect concubine, which he uses simply to serve drinks. Have I been set up similarly, just to be a pawn in a game for drunken rich people?

More laughter from somewhere near the bar. I can only assume gentlemen are fawning over the possibly inhuman Alyssa, and the story of the game continues. Charlie seems to have disappeared altogether. The letter drops away from my hand. There’s a fire exit near the back of the ballroom and I begin to rush in that direction. Before I can get there, another man with an earpiece steps in front of the door. Luckily, a passageway leads to the left of the fire exit to the restrooms. 

Over my shoulder, I see the man at the fire exit pressing his finger against his earpiece. Seconds later, Jeffries comes into view, with her strange khaki uniform and circular glasses. Without hesitating, I enter the men’s room and dart into one of the seven stalls. Two of them are already occupied; there’s no other play to be made. 

I stand on a toilet seat, the door closed just enough so I can’t be seen by someone simply passing by. Stretching, I hold the door in that position with one hand. The outer men’s room door creaks open—two sets of footsteps enter.

“Prater?” Jeffries calls out. “Are you here, Prater?”

One of the men occupying the other stalls responds, “What’re you doing in the Men’s Room, honey?”

“Prater, there’s nowhere else to go.” Her footsteps approach. 

I hear a loud thud, then a “What the hell?” from another stall, the same voice that questioned Jeffries when she entered. She must’ve kicked in a stall door. She doesn’t apologize for breaking in on the guy; she simply moves to the other occupied stall and kicks in that one as well. “Jesus, lady!” 

In a low voice, she croaks, “Check the empty stalls.”

“Wait,” I announce, stepping down off the toilet seat. “I’m right here.” With my hands in the air, I slowly exit the stall. “You’ve got me.”

She holds a gun on me and hands the big man with the earpiece a pair of handcuffs. “Put your hands out in front of you,” she says. “There’s no need for us to disturb this party while we walk out of here.” I hold my wrists up, waiting for the cold slap of the cuffs.

“Are you going to erase me?” I ask.

“That’s a decision we’re going to have to make. For now, you’re mine,” she says from behind the sight of her pistol. Once my hands are secure, she holsters the weapon and steps close. I feel her hand reach deep into my armpit and she begins walking me toward the door.

Her raspy voice close to my ear, she says, “Why did you do it?” 

“There was a letter, given to me by the woman running the game, the woman you overheard. The letter predicted my actions. This is some kind of setup. They knew who I was before I got here. I’m just a guy who wanted to see how the wealthy live. Rub elbows.”

She’s walking me down the hallway, back toward the ballroom. “What woman?”

“I don’t even know if she’s really a woman. She might be a gynoid.”

“A robot?”

“Yes. The redhead in the evening gown, Alyssa.”

“It’s my impression, this is Stephen Shields’ party. I thought he was running the game,” she says over my shoulder.

“If that’s the case, I’m just a pawn. I don’t even know what the game is.”

As we approach the bar, we see the group of men surrounding the lascivious redhead. She seems more vibrant than she did when I was first approached with the letter, as though her charm had been amped up. Then again, at the time, I only had eyes for my creation… for Charlotte. 

“Are you part of the game?” I ask Jeffries. 

“I can assure you, Mister Prater, this is no game.”

“Even if you haven’t been hired, he must’ve wanted you here, specifically. Maybe you’re part of the game whether you know it or not.”

“Mister Prater, I’ve been looking for you!” Alyssa speaks up, over the murmur of the crowd. She pushes her way through the group surrounding her. “I have another letter meant for you. It’s time for the second half of the game!”

Jeffries reaches in front of me, insistent on taking the letter from Alyssa’s hand. The smile drops away from the redhead’s face as the Lieutenant stares her down. I see my name written on the face in that same cursive script. Jeffries rips open the envelope and pulls out the letter.

After reading, she hands it to me, despite my hands being cuffed. It says: 

“You are the killer. Avoid capture at all costs.”

The lights in the ballroom drop. The rabble of the crowd dissipates to near silence. A single flash strobes near the bar while a thunderous crash echoes throughout the ballroom. A scream bellows next to me, probably Alyssa. “Jeffries, JEFFRIES!” I shout. “I’m handcuffed! It’s not me!”

“It’s not a gunshot!” Jeffries yells at her companions. “What in the hell?”

The house lights come back up. I’m holding my hands in front of me as best I can to signal to the Lieutenant that I haven’t done anything. “It wasn’t me,” I reiterate. “I’m still in your custody. You know I’m not armed.”

“No I don’t, actually,” she says and begins to pat me down, almost viciously. There’s nothing on my person besides my wallet and keys.

“Who’s the victim?” Alyssa asks, watching with a sort of teary-eyed apprehension. “There’s a victim, isn’t there?”

“Over here!” someone shouts. The group of men who had previously surrounded the luxurious Alyssa had shifted to gape at the hapless body on the floor. Then I begin to panic; it all starts to make twisted sense.

Through the crowd, through the black tuxedos gathered round, I can see the figure prone on the ballroom floor. She wore black high heels, fishnet stockings. Broken glass litters the ground, spilt cocktails – Scotch and Sodas, Martinis, Bloody Marys. Her arm sprawled out, her perfect violet eyes still twitching in their sockets; she appears as the model of a Renaissance painting, reaching for her creator.

“No,” I whisper, rushing away from Lt. Jeffries to examine the poor creature. “You’re nothing more than a product to them.” I brush tears from my eyes to cup her angel face in my bound hands. “But not to me. You have someone who loves you. Your name is Charlotte.”

Jeffries stands above me, next to the smiling Stephen Shields, proprietor of this event. “You did this, it was you.” I find myself weeping, then launching myself upon the department store heir. Using the cuffs to strangle him. If only Jeffries hadn’t been there to pull me away. Kicking, frothing, shouting, “This has all been for your amusement! This has all been an act, a play, just for you. This has all been a fiction. She was nothing but a fiction.” Shields is left on the floor, choking and gagging.

The crowd laughs and applauds as I’m dragged toward my inevitable erasure, out of the ballroom and to oblivion.