Also: a super-evolved form of artificial intelligence to oversee it all.

  Colin Hague had helmed it, operating with the utmost confidence that it could be accomplished. Working on an accelerated timeline, after another year of simultaneous development, testing, and construction, the Cumulus system came online. Within three months, a controlled process of climate cooling composed in part by the super-intelligent AI protocols had begun reversing the rapid, long-term temperature rise humans had been experiencing since the beginning of the Industrial Age. Daily temperatures gradually came back into alignment with the known hundred-fifty-year average. The system learned and adapted its methods as it went, and within six months, it had mastered jet stream configuration. By the eighteen-month mark, climate the world over had returned to its status as predictable phenomenon rather than the hostile aggressor it had become.

  Nothing could be done about the coastline, though.

  They were scientists, not magicians.

  But the AI wasn’t finished once it had solved the climate problem. There was a litany of necessary and permanent changes that came along with the new climate, or NeuClimate as the NeuTech Consortium had deemed it. Carbon-based fuel was replaced by entirely renewable, sustainable, and harmless compounds found in the shaggy brown centers of sunflowers, of all things. Sunflower farming became an incredibly lucrative endeavor. Anything with an outdated mechanical composition under the hood—including cars, construction machinery, and factories—was replaced en masse by clean-running Sunfueler engines and wrapped in a sleek, shining, futuristic shell. Industry was reimagined and supplanted by its newer, more planet-respecting counterpart in relatively short order. Gradually, NeuTech’s AI brain (the CPNeu) had reformulated humanity’s interaction with its environment and expanded its modules into a wide-reaching corporate superstructure, familiar, yet friendly, comforting, and enticing. It was shiny and sing-songy and pretty to a fault, extending all the way to the arts, education, food production, medicine, governance, and of course, the workplace.

  Warren had come of age smack dab in the middle of it all.

  He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the advancements and enhancements. It certainly had righted what had become some very angry natural forces at a moment when the so-called big heads couldn’t decide on a solution. Things ran on time now, smoothly and precisely, and there were little machines running around everywhere performing menial tasks and making everything clean. From a superficial viewpoint, things had definitely improved.

  But there was weirdness, too.

  Beyond the obvious.

  Like the way weather was a scheduled occurrence now. The majority of events happened midweek to keep the weekends open, out of consideration for the standardized world-wide work week. There was an abundance of sunny days and clear skies, with a proper amount of rain allowed for farmers to depend on their crops being perfectly watered. In winter, there were just enough snowstorms to allow for run-off in the spring. And for snowball fights.

  People needed to enjoy themselves, the AI reasoned.

  There was that, too: everything was supposed to be enjoyable—where the AI was concerned, at least. It had evolved from an amorphous superintelligence (dubbed the Greater Logic) that lived as an array of light in a quantum drive the size of a raisin, to the gleaming newscaster-like holograms like Adam and Serena, who assured the human race they had nothing but the best intentions, who fed everyone information through bio-cuffs on their wrists that returned far more information than was necessary to the CPNeu. This was why things kept improving under their watch, including quality of life for people everywhere. That might have been the weirdest part of all: what the highly-sophisticated robots wanted most was for people to be happy.

  And they wanted to be the force that made it happen.

  Of course, they couldn’t let happiness run amok. That might make some humans uncomfortable. So there were programs like the NeuTech Worker Protocols that included the No Uninvited Touch rule Doris had experienced, among others. These gently reminded the workers—the humans—that there were standards to uphold if everyone was to experience and enjoy their utopia equally. And if humans couldn’t conform to the new normal? Well, they were suddenly just...not there. Not physically; not digitally. They were removed from the algorithm, as the story went. There were urban legends abounding about what happened to them: that they were jettisoned into outer space, or fed into the CPNeu somehow, their psyches disassembled and the usable pieces redistributed to the AI to help advance the evolution of the robot masterminds. Or that they were transferred to accounting and never heard from again.

  All of that was unconfirmed.

  But Warren thought about it often when considering Josh’s disappearance.

  He’d been told it was a sudden relocation, that Josh’s family had experienced a tragedy; Josh needed to be with them and had left with no notice. It was Adam who’d delivered the news. And while it might have sounded plausible to people who didn’t know Josh very well, it didn’t sit right at all with his best friend, especially considering that there had been no contact made before or after to clue Warren in on the real story. Which was why everyone at NeuTech asked him on a far-too-frequent basis if he’d heard from him. It tore open the wound every time. Warren imagined it always would.

  It was impossible not to ponder what the truth might be.

  He was thinking about it now, in fact, as he skipped the shuttle waiting at the stop and walked toward home with his groceries in tow. There was nothing but controlled weather overhead, and an eyeful of sunshine all around, illuminating the shining surfaces, and the soft, cheerful burble of machines that didn’t upset the delicate balance the NeuTech AI had so generously reestablished.

  Then Warren felt a drop land on his head.

  Out of a clear blue, sun-strewn sky, in a world with preprogrammed weather, Warren Page felt unscheduled rain.

  It stopped him in his tracks. He felt his head to make sure it wasn’t birdstuff. It was absolutely only water, the clean, chemically-balanced, mineral-rich sort that NeuTech trafficked in during their storms. He looked around suspiciously, wondering what sort of flying vehicle might have been flying too low and leaking clean exhaust—a drone or a people mover. Something logical. But there were no vehicles overhead. Instead, he found a wisp...a feather-thin strip of white wafting several feet above him. It was swirling, sweeping, pulling together and growing into a larger wisp.

  Then it let loose another drop.

  He spun through the apps on his bio-cuff until he found Weather or Not, the aptly-named weather agenda. It showed there was no rain scheduled for the area. But there it was, a growing cloud that sent down another drop, then another, then a trio.

  Soon, it was an entire sprinkle splattering all over him.

  “Something’s broken,” was Warren’s first thought. “But...maybe in a good way?” There was no telling. If impromptu rain was falling, it meant Cumulus was malfunctioning. He searched the rest of the sky for more clouds, for more storm. For other rain.

  The cloud over him was the only one.

  And it was starting to rain harder.

  So Warren moved, walking out from under the cloud. The cloud slid over him again. It was strange enough, this unexpected weather but now it seemed to be following him. A single idea occurred to him: They know. His fear about fulfilling Adam’s request had come true; the executives were singling him out for discipline, right in the middle of the street, where everyone could see. They were calling him out, humiliating him, using their grand and frightening power of weather control to torture him for his crime. He was being made an example of.

  The AI was punishing him.

  “That’s stupid...this doesn’t feel like a punishment,” he said quietly as he tried to outrun the raincloud. “It feels like a glitch.” A realization struck him. “It couldn’t be Adam and his kinks...could it?”

  The rain kept up with him step-for-step. So he stopped and stood beneath it, letting it drench him through and through. Then, just as quickly as the rain had begun, it slowed, then stopped. And just as suddenly as the cloud had gathered, it dissolved and spread thin again, disappearing like a puff of smoke.

  Warren stood soaking wet in the middle of the walkway, his eyes trained on the sky as other people shuffled past, and the irritating little robots kept cleaning the buildings with their annoying bubble-popping soundtrack playing in the background of what he took to be a very bad omen.

  Set language to English or other?

  “English, please.”

  American or British?

  “Hmm...British.”

  Language set to British English. Please select an accent.

  “Set accent to Northern English.”

  Accent set to Northern English. Set age to young, middle-young, middle-aged, older than middle aged, or older?

  “Middle-young.”

  Age set to middle-young. Set intellect level to low, moderate, or high?

  “High. No, wait—moderate. No, wait—high.”

  Intellect level set to high. Set temperament to relaxed or energetic?

  “Energetic. Definitely.”

  Temperament set to energetic. Set charm to level between one and ten?

  “Maybe...eight.”

  Charm level set to eight. Please select a name for your Beaubot.

  Rachel Culiver had imagined her perfect lover for a very long time. He would be a scholar, not necessarily a professor, but knowledgeable like one, a savage conversationalist who composed instrumental music and read classic literature in his spare time. He would know how to dance but would never use that knowledge to show off. He would cook like nobody’s business and would insist on wine-tasting weekends and long trips to the woods. But for all she’d imagined about him, she’d never bothered to imagine a name. She really hadn’t needed to; he was always just a presence in the back of her mind who moved to the front of her mind when she felt dissatisfied with her life and needed an escape, one that nobody could see or share with her or judge her for. Now that she was moving into the realm of a virtual paramour, she was at a loss for what to call him. It had to be perfect; she would be summoning him by this name, waking him when she needed attention lavished upon her, prompting him to explain his position on all sorts of subject matter—and quite possibly, calling out his name in the heat of simulated passion.

  Clearly, it was a very important decision.

  “Let me see...Northern English, middle-young, energetic, charming...” All of the generic names rushed past—David, Robert, Michael—and she silently vetoed every last one. She leapt to the furthest reaches of uppity naming possibilities—Rutherford, Hawthorne, Darby—and decided those were far too stuffy. She had to imagine herself with him, sitting across the table in a dimly-lit restaurant while he gazed longingly into her dewy eyes, kissed her hand and stopped her breath, just before the profiteroles arrived. “Rachel,” he said as his lips broke from her skin, then again, “Rachel,” as he pressed his mouth into her palm, and once more, “Rachel,” as their fingers interlocked. And the name she would call him back as he cradled her face in his hands was...

  “Gavin.”

  Set name as Gavin – is this correct?

  Rachel visualized his reaction to her saying his name. It made him smile broadly but not sloppily, and his eyes practically danced. Then he kissed her hand again.

  “Yes, correct—set name as Gavin.”

  A symphony of soft synthesized tones arose from the crystal dome that sat on the nightstand. Gavin is calibrating. Please configure digital image.

  Rachel made small circles in the air with her index finger, activating the Physical Selections panel that projected from the dome. She scrolled through facial choices—eyes, jawline, nose-to-forehead-to-chin ratio—made hair selections—color, texture, highlight, brow and facial—and finally selected a physique—height, weight, tone, proportion. And when she had run through all the menus, she had created a tall, lanky British intellectual with a Northern accent, a late-summer tan, a swimmer’s physique, hazel eyes, a perpetual five o’clock shadow, auburn hair with a gentle wave that curled around his ears, and a taste for classic literature, symphonic music, and pre-century art house films.

  She wasn’t one to brag, but she thought she was pretty good at this boyfriend creation stuff.

  Then she pressed the vocal test selection. Regulating vocal depth. The voice was at least an octave higher than she’d imagined. Rachel spun the projected dial to the left. “Repeat, please.”

  Regulating vocal depth.

  Now it was so deep she feared she’d created an opera singer. She spun the dial toward the lower end of the center. “Repeat, please.”

  Regulating vocal depth. It was like listening to honey gleaming in sunlight.

  “Oooo, yes,” Rachel said. “There.”

  Please confirm Beaubot selections.

  Rachel watched the holographic projection spray into the air above the dome, a mist of lighted particles that assembled into a figure looming over her. When it was complete, he looked almost exactly as she’d imagined he would all this time. There were variations, of course; her imagination had always been fluid and flexible. But the man she saw materializing in front of her was as near to her personal perfection as she was likely to come.

  Then, her creation spoke.

  “Hello. I’m Gavin.”

  Rachel’s breath halted. “You certainly are.”

  Gavin smiled, subtle and rakish. “And who might you be?”

  “I’m...wow.” Her heart fluttered at the sound of his accent. “Sorry, I’m...I’m Rachel. Rachel Culiver.”

  “Rachel Culiver.”

  Initiating imprinting protocol...

  “That’s a beautiful name. Tell me about yourself.”

  Rachel steadied herself and tried to remember that she was speaking to a simulation of a human being. But it was a striking facsimile, and her choices in his appearance had turned out to be an impeccable collection that made what she considered a perfect-looking man, with interests that matched the things she loved. It was difficult for her not to tumble into his eyes as he gazed with interest into hers.

  So she leaned against the nightstand, and she let herself fall.

  And twenty minutes of introduction later, Rachel and Gavin had hit it off splendidly. Their virtual-to-human relationship was off to a rollicking start. She’d given him her backstory, from hometown to school days to young adulthood to now. He’d listened to her with his full attention.

  She couldn’t get enough of it.

  “Tell me more about your art, Rachel.” Gavin’s warm tone and smooth enunciations made every subject seem paramount. “I’d love to know the sorts of things you create.”

  “Well, I do freelance graphic design for a digital marketing company.”

  “No...tell me more about your art,” Gavin insisted.

  Rachel paused, unaccustomed to someone asking her to explain her soul to them. She wasn’t prepared to open up this much this soon. In her experience, it took at least three encounters before she felt comfortable enough with a man to reveal her innermost world to him. It took him earning her trust—not that she found it difficult to trust men. On the contrary, she’d learned some very difficult lessons about how willing she was believe someone who said all the right things. Which was how she’d eventually found her way to the Three Dates Before Trusting rule. There were many men in the post-utopian world who were so blandly satisfied with literally everything about their lives, who had no desire to dive beneath the superficial and learn anything more about her. She never lasted in relationships like that; she had to make sure they were ready for her to bare her soul, and that they were equally ready to bare their soul in return. It was a bit more intense than her dates were usually prepared for.

  As an artist, intensity was her default mode.

  There was also a profound possibility that she drove men away with her insistence on connecting with them, and holding that connection firmly at all times. It had put an end to more relationships than she could recall. And that troubled her.

  She poured herself a second glass of Chardonnay.

  And she explained her art to Gavin, breaking her rule and exposing her soul in the process.

  “I work in mixed media,” she told him. “Collage, with scraps of old text painted into gouache and oils, then drawn over with charcoal pencil. I write messages into the wet paint, sort of like a bas-relief or an engraving that solidifies my words and makes them real.”

  Gavin seemed fascinated. “And what do you write in them?”

  “Anything, really. Snippets of love poems. Pieces of recipes. Grocery lists. Whatever strikes me at the moment. I usually add those just before the paint dries. I let the spirit move me.” She heard herself like an echo resounding off the walls of her apartment, and she laughed at the sound of it. “Oh, am I ever pretentious.”

  “Actually, I find that quite a creative touch.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. You’re decorating your work with the ephemera of your life. With bits and bobs of moments that have meaning to you, to the epic tale your life is telling the world, turning your beautiful moments solid for us all to see. You turn yourself inside-out and show everyone else what lies within themselves.”

  There were moments in Rachel’s past romances in which she felt reached, or touched, or cared for. Loved, even. On very rare occasions, she felt heard. But until that moment, Rachel had never felt fully understood. “Be careful when you say things like that, Gavin,” she said, sipping her wine. “I could fall savagely, wickedly in love with you.”

  Gavin’s image leaned in on his elbows and rested his chin in his hands. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Rachel had friends who’d tried this, but she wasn’t fully certain how the rules worked, what sort of restrictions governed how she interacted with personal virtual AI. She only knew that in less than an hour of chatting with her new Beaubot, she felt lighter and more relaxed than she had in a very long time. There were tabloid-style stories about people attaching so deeply to their digital lovers that they never had a romantic relationship with another human being. They gave up entirely on their own species in order to have something akin to an interspecies relationship with a being that was only real in the loosest sense of the word. She could never have imagined herself doing that. There would always be a missing element—physical touch or spontaneity. The reality of having an analog human being present to respond to the unpredictable things in life felt necessary. Digital beings seemed to have the answer for just about everything, and they were highly adapted to learn how to solve for whatever variables were left. It may have been close to human, but it wasn’t actually human. From where Rachel was sitting, the difference was notable.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8