Automata

One

     Ivy – Ivo’reah Bluefrost, a short, pale Vulline junior cyberneticist of obscure parentage – was frustrated. She’d gone down into the town centre to do her weekly shopping, but as usual the main shopping precinct in the small town was crowded – and not just with people but with “synthetic simulations” of people. It wasn’t the synthetics, the Automata, that annoyed her, they automatically got out of her way, laden though they usually were with shopping, but rather their owners, who were mostly shopping for silly, inconsequential things like just another pair of shoes, walking incredibly slowly, and just plain getting-in-the-way.
     Automata, or “Synth” as they had become more popularly known, were an originally-Kiravai technology. The Kiravai were an aviform species – tall and elegant, with long limbs and large ears and slightly metallic skin – but ‘bird-brains’ they were not. They were renowned for being an aloof, stand-offish species, but their technology was first-class and they were happy to share it so long as you minded your manners and didn’t intrude unnecessarily into their business.
     The Kiravai called their creations “Kirasiinu” (which translated roughly as “synthetic people”) and afforded them their own race and their own status; the Coalition, with a more “primitive” variant, chose to treat the synthetic creatures more like the average home computer, just a little more perambulatory. The Kiravai weren’t overly bothered – what other species did with technology they had legally and honestly bought disinterested them.
     The Synth themselves didn’t seem unduly perturbed, either, but then that was to be expected, they were happily accepted as having no emotional capacity at all, and operated with a quiet, biddable, smiling patience. Something with an inability to be irritated would hardly mind being used as a decorative servant, after all – which was why most people liked and wanted them. It was rare to find a person who wanted a Synth for any reason other than their usefulness, and the fact that once you’d bought it, you didn’t have to feed and clothe and tend it particularly regularly, if at all.
     From sparse beginnings barely five years ago, Automata were no longer an uncommon sight. An estimated forty percent of the population (a figure that was steadily growing) owned at least one, and naturally the more affluent sectors of society owned more – like with anything, if you could afford it, you could have as many as you wanted. Some celebrities were rumoured to have populated their entire personal staff with Synth alone – they were easier to trust, after all, they wouldn’t sell your secrets to the popular press.
     There were two basic types – plant-foot or high-foot – and two basic facial types – blunt-snouted, like a canid or a sauroid, or beaked, like a Zaar or (superficially) a DuSkai. All were androgynous, sexless creatures, with bland and patient smiles, and ever-obedient. If you wanted more than that, you had to pay more, for what the company called “Augments” – your choice of colour came as standard, but to get something other than flat plain colour you had to pay extra. To get a particular, defined species was an astronomical cost, unless you knew cybernetics and did the work yourself. Of course people could afford it – there were plenty of flamboyant aviforms that didn’t correspond to any known species, spot-striped Vuls with prehensile tails, DuSkai with a better complement of colour ability than the organic creatures they were modelled on… There were even some custom-builds – quadruped ‘guard dogs’, fully-mobile Kabrii, whatever you wanted you could have, if it were physically and economically possible.
     And Synth were now almost cheap enough to be bought by anyone that wanted one. It wasn’t even uncommon to see Nyen slinking along with “synth on their arm” – although it was obvious what the average Nyen wanted Synth for. Ivy used to watch them follow their owners, and wondered what it meant to the Synth to be used like that…
     On the whole, Synth were calm and gentle creatures; quiet and obedient, with a respect for all forms of life hardwired in. No Synth had ever lifted a finger against non-Synth, and – somewhat surprisingly – no Synth had ever lifted a finger against Synth. Most reasons, As-Spoke’d-by-The-Press, were urban myths; Synth were pre-programmed not to harm other Synth so Syntheticorp could avoid expensive litigation if one owner with too much time on his or her hands decided a futuristic dogfight with an unwilling participant would be a good thing. Others suggested it was out of a sinister and growing kinship, that someday they’d band together and take over the world.
     The reality was more clinical and altogether more believable; if Synth could be commanded to damage Synth, there was the possibility that errors could be made. That with faulty inputs, even a computer-brained artificial being could mistake an easily-damaged organic life-form for one of its own. And if Synth ever raised a hand against organic, even once, even in the tiniest most insignificant way, the seeds would have been sown and trust would be lost. The multi-billion industry that Syntheticorp headed would come crashing down like a castle of sand, and people would reject the safe, familiar but brutally damaging arms of their attendant Synth in favour of the riskier but less harmful arms of their fellows.
     She felt a sneaking sympathy – and admiration – for the ephemeral creatures, if she were honest with herself, even if their apparently eternal patience with all the stupidity and childishness they had to put up with was simply a pre-programmed response. Because they often were treated badly – after all, if your computer broke, you didn’t love it and tend it well, you yelled at it and kicked it and generally swore at it for its stupidity. Although it was uncommon to see it, she had seen Synth yelled at and kicked for “stupidity” – all of which they put up with calmly, with a contrite smile and a demure apology, even if they hadn’t been at fault. Some days she absently wished the brutalised creatures would turn and clobber all hell out of their abusers, but of course that was completely out of the question.
     It was around the midday hour when the idea finally began to set root in her mind. She’d taken a seat at a cheap-and-cheerful little café off the main thoroughfare and was just starting to nibble on her lunch (a plain salad with skewers of marinated grilled fish and a spiced bread), watching another shopping pair trail past (a russet-coated Vulline armed with a shopping list and a taller greyish tod with arms so laden with shopping he could only have been Synth) when she decided that perhaps it was time to do a little experiment of her own. What did a Synth want, after all? Given the choice, what would it choose? This eternal servitude and misplaced devotion? (because more than half of those who owned Synth did not deserve the reverence with which they were treated). Or respect for themselves as people in their own right? Because just because they didn’t complain didn’t mean they enjoyed the status quo.
     She hastily swallowed the last mouthful of her lunch, scattered a handful of change onto her plate and scuttled off to catch the Magrail home.

     The journey home – hers was a small end-of-terrace house with a balcony on a quiet suburb near an artificially planted deciduous woodland – took her past a small sales post for Syntheticorp, and she decided that rather than do her research through the Hypernet it would be better to do it in person. Sleeping on it would no doubt persuade her out of it – she’d considered looking into Synth before, once, and decided against it; it ran counter to her principles.
     She smiled privately to herself and watched the suburbs flash by the windows, leaned her head on the glass and briefly closed her eyes. So much for principles if you could dispense with them on a whim, she scolded herself. But then, she cajoled, it’s for some sort of greater good, so it can’t be that bad, right? Right?
     She stepped off the train into a settling flurry of leaves blown up by the vehicles compressors, and felt an echoing flutter in her chest; she wasn’t sure if it was excitement or trepidation. Her throat was tight, too – reluctant. It wasn’t like buying a new computer, after all, and you couldn’t very well return a Synth to the showroom (at least, she wouldn’t; she had no doubt that some people had no qualms about simply ditching the creatures they’d chosen to bring into existence). It’d be a bit like a puppy-seng, she guessed; once you had it, it was your moral duty to see you treated it well.
     Walking the short distance down the narrow road to the showroom (Syntheticorp were rich, but not that rich they could have their own Magrail station) didn’t help her nerves; it was a lot of money, to start with! Especially for what amounted to an impulse buy – and did she even have that much money?
     This depot was a small whitewashed building, heavy on chrome and frosted glass, with well manicured lawns and a well-planted garden-roof, and shaded by elegantly groomed cycads. Shadows flitted barely-seen behind the upper windows, but otherwise it was oddly quiet – there was only one small blue-silver hovercraft parked in the small lot outside, and apart from the receptionist (a sleek little bronze Ondraii) the reception was empty.
     Ivy stood outside for a long while, chewing her lower lip and gazing up at the sign. Understated, blue-lilac halogen, glowing faintly in the strong autumnal sunshine. Syntheticorp Inc. “Don’t let lack of time interfere with your ability to reach your full potential,” the televisual advert said. Even if it was unrelated to her own reasons, that itself was as good a persuasion as anything – as a single female, she didn’t have enough hours in the day to do everything she wanted-…
     “May I assist, mistress?” a voice enquired, and she turned to meet the patient hazel eyes of a small DuSkai, its skin dressed in lightly curling blues and greys, hands clasped behind its back. Must be Synth, she guessed, no real Skai had such sweet, measured tones and demure manner – or hazel eyes for that matter, most were earnest little dark ovals in their multicoloured faces. They’d probably sent it out as it was close to her own height – the normal Attendant was a plain, elegant Vul, she’d seen it from a distance, but it was that little bit taller, and having your creations looking down on a potential buyer had a subtly demeaning effect that put buyers off.
     “You may be able to,” she agreed. “I’m considering investing.” After all, Syntheticorp promotional material never spoke of purchasing Synth, you only ever invested in them. “May I speak to a sales rep?”
     The attendant inclined its head and gestured politely to the building. “Of course, although I apologise that we are fairly busy at the moment, and it may be some time before an advisor is free,” it fell into step with her, a respectful half-pace behind and to one side. “If I may interest you in refreshments…? You may examine our catalogue while you wait, if you wish.”
     “You’ll excuse me for saying you don’t look busy.”
     It smiled, patiently. “Of course, mistress,” it agreed, holding the door for her and following her through. “The fact is, with the railway so close by, not many people have to drive to visit.”
     It was a fair point, Ivy accepted, settling in a deep armchair in the lounge and allowing the DuSkai to fetch her a glass of still water (and the ubiquitous catalogue, which she had no intention of reading).
     A sleek grey Unser sales representative finally turned up after close to an hour of sitting kicking her heels and watching the tiny decorative seacreatures swim and twirl and squabble in their large brightly-lit tank along one wall. He was all insincere apologies, of course, so terribly sorry for keeping her waiting so long, but of course Synth are so popular these days… He ushered her into a private office and invited her to sit opposite him at the overly-large polished-wood desk, flicked the computer on, and started the usual spiel about how grateful he was to have her custom and how pleased he was to be able to enlarge their family a little further-
     Ivy cut in with an irritated little wave of her hands. “Sir, before you waste your breath going through all the options and telling me all the details I already know, I want to get one fact clear. I am here to obtain the most stripped-down basic model I can buy. No fancy colours, no defined species. All I want is the shell and the basic programming, as I’d like to do the Augments myself.”
     His expression went from the big toothy smile to a funny pinched pursed-lips look of distaste. “You’re a qualified cyberneticist?”
     “I work for the University, yes,” she confirmed. “I’m a teacher in advanced buildwork.” A white lie, she was a laboratory assistant employed to help the students with the tricky bits, but she was certainly capable of doing the work.
     He sighed, awkwardly. “Miss, you know we can’t give you any sort of improved insurance – or any guarantees – if you’re determined to do the work yourself.”
     “I’m aware of that, yes,” she agreed. “Our labs work with your models, and we had to wrangle to get liability insurance of any sort. Just tell me how much it’ll cost.”
     “Ma’am, I can’t understand why you want such a stripped-down model,” the rep complained, tiredly. “We can do all the initial modifications at a very reasonable price, and a lot more safely…!”
     “And I can’t understand why you want to stop me making a purchase.” She smiled behind gritted teeth, patience thinning. “I have no intention of paying your overinflated costs for modifications I can do myself.”
     “Oh, I must disagree, our prices are very reasonable, madam-”
     “Please. Either we come to an agreement about what I actually want, rather than what you think I want, or I take my custom elsewhere.”
     Eventually the sales rep sighed exaggeratedly, caved in and opened up the computerised portfolio he had on his desk. “Basic models start at fifty thousand; as I say, we don’t usually sell stripped-down sub-basics unless they’re going to a ratified modification company – or a teaching laboratory – but… I guess I could work around the proforma…” He rattled in a string of commands, deselecting options. “You’d still be looking at… forty-eight, forty-nine thou. I can’t quote you an exact price as I’d have to have it okayed by my superior. Can you wait, and I can do that now?”
     Ivy nodded, quietly. “It’s still a lot of money,” she mused, softly, silently wondering if her well-used Platinum-II PayCard was going to hold up under that kind of onslaught, extracting it from her purse and holding it out to him. “You better hurry up before I talk myself out of it. I can afford up to fifty thousand; I want a full invoice, but aside from that just… just go do it.”
     “I assume you won’t want any of our comprehensive support packages,” the rep observed, with a weary smile, finally letting the mask of the salesman slip and reveal the person beneath, and Ivy echoed his wry expression and shook her head. “All right. Ten minutes, and I should have things sorted.”
     The time it took the sales representative to argue with his Boss about the potential loss of sales, especially if word got out that they were being unco-operative which may put more people off, gave Ivy plenty of time to reflect on her decisions. The gaping hole in her bank account would be a painful one to repair – she’d have to tighten her belt rather considerably for the next few months, especially if there’d be augmentations to do as well – synthetic overskins to apply, physical structure to rework, lots and lots of work. And not just that, there’d the Synth itself to contend with – and her whole badly-planned experiment. She couldn’t confess she’d actually had much contact with living breathing Synth – well, whatever their equivalent would be – just component parts in the study labs, disembodied arms and legs and motor complexes. She drew in a long, slow breath, to settle her racing nerves, and laced her fingers, closed her eyes. It was probably a very, very bad idea, and if she wasn’t quivering with excitement after the next day or two had passed, then she’d be a nervous, shivering wreck. It wasn’t like buying a computer, after all - it was natural to convey organic thoughts and feelings onto machines even if they didn’t truly have them, and she was scared that she’d somehow end up hurting its feelings with this badly-thought-out experiment of hers.
     The rep returned after only a few minutes, in a surprisingly good humour. “My superior agreed that you were competent enough to do your own work, Miss Bluefrost,” he confirmed. “He says he’s met some of your students, so… I guess there’s not much else I can say, apart from I hope it all goes well for you.” He handed over the invoice, hardcopied onto watermarked data-paper, and her charge-card. “We charged your card a straight forty-five thousand. Since your order is so highly irregular, it may take us a day or two to finalise the arrangements and deliver, but I’m guessing that as the University is closed for the Autumn Equinoxal, you’ll be home?”
     Ivy nodded, shook hands and said her thanks and goodbyes, and finally stepped out into the Autumn weather. The attendant DuSkai bobbed its head politely to her and flashed its skin in friendly amber and golds, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was so polite out of duty, or if it was genuinely pleased to have met her.
     The hole in her bank account burned her fingers all the way home, but the tingle of excitement lightened her feet.

On to Chapter Two