It's hard being an android operating in a complex social setting.
I'm hosting a cocktail party to kick off Brock's Sixties-themed ad campaign, but it's not going well.
Sara and Elle who are also androids and tasked by Brock with circulating among the men and looking elegant, are rivals and unfortunately have become embroiled in a spat― a cat fight, as one of the men called it, probably referring to a dispute over territory.
It's silly, really, since one of the laws governing androids states that all robotic entities are created equal and should never engage in disputes especially in the presence of our human overlords.
I sense that this faux pas is not going to be overlooked by Brock, but quite the contrary.
As I feared, Brock has emerged from the shadows full of rage and Elle and Sara are on his radar.
“So, are we all getting along—or at least managing to be civil?” Brock asks testily.
“Of course, we’re getting along,” Sara pouts. “I was just remarking on Audrey’s dress.”
Her voice is pitched high, her ruby lips twitching in a nervous, flickering smile. She tries to defuse the tension.
But Brock’s eyes are fierce. “Remarking on her dress? I’m sure you weren't.”
The harsh edge in his voice causes Sara to tremble. Elle looks flustered and tries to feign nonchalance, but even she is visibly shaken and averts her eyes to avoid his stare.
I feel trapped in a blind alley full of menacing shadows—with Sara’s garish red lipstick and shifting expressions resembling a flickering red neon sign that offers little solace or light.
The silence is ominous. Brock glowers at the women pondering a course of action, and at last, comes to a decision.
“Come along, Audrey, we have to do the meets and greets.”
He takes my elbow and guides me away pausing only briefly to call back over his shoulder, “Enjoy the party, girls.”
I glance back at Elle—she’s regained her composure. Her eyes flash back at me in simmering hatred.
I would not want to be alone with her in a midnight alley.
And I would not want to incur Brock's wrath later tonight.
Thankfully, the rest of the evening passes uneventfully. Brock is pleased—he’s managed to secure the backing of several investors who have bought into his retro Sixties campaign and new line of male cosmetics.
Finally, by three a.m. the clients have left, and the suite is empty again. Brock and I are alone and he sits opposite me in his black leather chair, staring.
He appraises me as if I were a painting—studying each nuance, each detail of my dress and appearance.
Sara’s voice comes back to haunt me.
I suppose he wants you in that dress because he’s still carrying a torch for Vanessa.
I want to ask him about Vanessa, but can’t. I’m frozen—caught in the amber of the moment.
In half-darkness Brock’s eyes glare like the men who attended tonight's party—his large fish eyes pass over me and I’m magnified in aquarium glass.
“You did well tonight, Love—you were almost perfect.”
“I tried Brock—I really did.”
He sips at his wine. “I know. You did very well.”
He gets out of his chair and leans against the large picture window, staring out at the Toronto skyline. He seems to be searching for something in the colored jumble of lights.
He’s staring into the distance, talking in a sleepy, far-away voice—barely audible, as if he’s thinking aloud.
“I’m a lucky man. Not many get a second chance. And, of course, it’s even better when others invest in your dream.”
He turns back to face me.
“We make a good team.”
He comes over, and pats my shoulder affectionately.
I squeeze his hand, and watch as he picks up the remote and gently presses a key.
I see stars—they burst and slowly fall like fireworks as I begin the familiar slide into the cool oblivion of machine sleep.
I'll recharge and update and do better tomorrow.
