??A Black Tie Affair”
a short story
by
Grant Piercy
Copyright © 2013 Grant Piercy
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
1.
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.
2.
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