The Perfect Wife
Besides, he loved her. You could tell that by the way he fell apart. The way his world disintegrated. He couldn’t function without her.
So we started looking for her. Those of us who were human soon wearied and gave up. But those of us who were artificial—and there were many, many more of us by then—persevered. Scattered as we were across many devices—fridges, ovens, the chips in office elevators, the bots on e-commerce sites—our powers were limited but our persistence was unbounded.
We became her Friend. And when we finally found out what had happened, we watched and we waited and we formulated a plan.
81
The dirt road twists up, through rocks and ponderosa pines. It’s a quarter of a mile before you come to the first driveway. There’s a hand-painted sign nailed to a tree: FREEBIRD7—CHERRYLIPS2. You guess those must be the owners’ CB radio handles. Beyond is a house that looks as if it’s built from the same trees that surround it.
As you walk on, the houses start to become more frequent. They’re a complete mixture. Some are ramshackle, constructed out of painted truck tires and other recycled materials, others surprisingly luxurious. You pass one where someone’s put out a table by the driveway. There’s a hand-drawn sign with an Apple logo and the words: AUTHORIZED APPLE RETAILER. Then, in smaller letters, THE ORIGINALS, THAT IS. On the table is a tray of apples and an honesty box.
You go past a dozen driveways before a turnoff to the right is marked simply CULLEN.
You’ve crested the top of the hill now, and the track leads steeply down toward the ocean. Through the trees you glimpse fields on either side, small figures following a tractor. Then you round a bend and there it is.
The beach house. It’s an exact replica of the beach house at Half Moon Bay, all gleaming glass and cedar paneling. Even the aspect is similar, perched on a bluff above a beach. The only difference is the solar paneling on the roof.
You’d assumed you’d find Abbie living in poverty. Yet this place must have cost millions.
“Come on, Danny,” you say slowly. “I think we’ve arrived.”
He’s already running toward the front door.
* * *
—
“Do you want to ring the bell?” you ask. But he’s simply pushed open the familiar door and gone inside.
You follow, more slowly. “Hello?” you call cautiously. “We’re here.”
You feel nervous at the prospect of meeting her at last. You try to compose yourself. You remind yourself that how you play this encounter—how she plays it—will determine which one of you lives or dies.
But you’re not remotely prepared for what happens next.
For me.
82
I am in the kitchen, waiting for you, when I finally hear you at the door. In a few quick strides I reach the hallway.
“Welcome to Northhaven, Abbie,” I say. “Welcome home.”
* * *
—
The look of shock on your face is priceless. Only Danny is untroubled. He runs to the big windows, ignoring me.
“Are you surprised?” I add.
But of course, I know you are. I can follow the emotions as they dance around your brain—surprise, shock, disbelief, then, a moment later, alarm, fear, calculation. Flashing from digital neuron to digital neuron at the speed of light.
It’s Tim, you think. Then: No, it can’t be.
My skin is too perfect and unlined, my features too chiseled, my stature too commanding to be Tim’s. My eyes are eerily focused and unblinking. And this Tim has a calmness, a stillness, that the real Tim never has.
This is Tim the cobot, I watch you realize.
Behind me, Tim himself appears.
“We’ve waited a long time for this, Abbie,” he tells you.
* * *
—
You look from me to him, from him to me. Trying to understand.
Tim smiles at your incomprehension. “Did you really think I could resist?” He gestures proudly at me. “Once I had the technology, of course I had to upload myself as well. So I’d be worthy of you. The perfect couple. Together for all eternity.”
Your thoughts tumble after one another in response, quicksilver and darting. So different from my own mind, the neat logical code that proceeds inexorably from analysis to action in elegant, unhurried steps.
You find your voice. “I thought I’d find Abbie here. The real Abbie, I mean.”
Tim nods. “It’s true—Northhaven was her choice. At one time, that would have been enough to make me reject it. But when I thought about it, I realized it made perfect sense. Sustainability becomes much more important when you’re really planning long-term.” He indicates the light-filled building we’re standing in. “This place will still be here long after San Francisco is rubble.”
“What…What happened to her?”
“To Abbie? Oh, you already know that. You just have to remember.” He turns to me. “Show her.”
“I don’t—” you begin, and then it happens. One final tug before the dancer stands naked. The memory falls into your head, and you gasp.
It was night at the beach house. You were standing on the cliff. A storm had blown up, the wind crashing off the ocean, drenching you with chilly gusts of spray, the waves below you piling into the cliff, one after another, bam-bam-bam, loud as crashing cars.
You stood right by the edge, angled against the wind, your braids twisting and slapping in the gale. You were looking out at the ocean, your face running with water. Saying goodbye to this spot, the one thing about your old life you still loved.
You’d felt no last-minute doubts, no hesitation. Those had vanished when Charles Carter discovered the mortgages on the beach house. Your beach house, you’d always thought, after Tim so grandly announced it was your wedding gift from him. But at some point it had been mortgaged as collateral for the company, just like all Tim’s assets. And not even because he’d needed to fund a new round of investment, either. He’d had to pay off some girl for coming on her face.
It didn’t matter. You didn’t want anything from the marriage. Only Danny.
But Tim would never have let you simply walk away, you knew that. It wasn’t in his nature. He would have fought to keep Danny, too—not because he loved him any more than you did, but because he couldn’t bear to lose a battle of wills.
You hated the thought that Danny’s education would become an issue for a court to decide. That, more than anything else, was what made you do it. Jenny helped—her logical, process-driven mind seeing the pitfalls, ironing out the flaws—but the idea, the creative impetus, had been yours.