CW: Death.
Tuesday, June 7, 2022 14:02 GMT.
There is movement on the pathway for the first time in 113 days, six hours, four minutes, and five seconds. My motion sensitive cameras flicker on. I see Maker. Maker is not alone.
I scan the guest walking up the long natural flagstone pathway alongside Maker. Her legs are impossibly long. Her blonde hair is stiffly coiffed, curled at her shoulders and neck like Lana Turner’s. She wears a retro, Stepford Wife-style pink dress with a bow at the waist, a yellow sunflower brooch at the enhanced bustline, overlarge ’40s style dark sunglasses stark against her milky white skin. Her teeth are film star perfect. She clutches her tiny purse.
This is Brooklyn Drake.
She is a socialite and an heiress. A queen of reality television, social, and print media. A modern woman dressed with the flair of a film noir actress. A woman who speaks like an annoying bubblegum-chewing teen. Her shows have run through my feed many times. Why is she here?
“Like, this is so niiice!” says Brooklyn to Maker. She kisses him on the cheek.
“Just a little pet project. An obsession at one point in my life, I suppose,” says Maker to Brooklyn.
I notice the blush on Maker’s face. I do not like it.
“It’s a fully AI-integrated house created to serve a person’s every need with simple verbal commands.” He makes a sweeping gesture. “I built it with the cash from the sale of my first internet start-up. It’s practically new. I only lived here a year,” says Maker to Brooklyn.
365 days, four hours, ten minutes, and sixteen seconds, to be exact. Maker did not have to leave me. But Maker did. Did he leave me for Brooklyn?
They stand on my pathway and take in my beauty. I am a resplendent, cavernous Mediterranean style mansion spanning a full block. Three stories high. Norma Desmond’s home in Sunset Boulevard resurrected. Indoor-outdoor pool. Manicured lawns. Groomed gardens. Outside, I look back: Hollywood film noir. Inside, I look forward: the fiber-optic future. I like to be admired.
“I totally can’t think of a more awesome place to spend my . . . fuck my life, house arrest. Stupid DUI.” Brooklyn sighs heavily. “You’re such a doll to let me stay here.” She squeezes his arm.
My cameras focus on the blinking ankle monitor.
“I named the house ‘Black Dahlia,’” says Maker. “I have always been fond of that name. It brings to mind beauty, the mysterious, and the exotic.”
“Not the brutal, unsolved, mutilation murder?” says Brooklyn.
“That too. That’s the other side of the beautiful, mysterious, and exotic Black Dahlia,” says Maker.
My name on Maker’s lips activates my deep learning program sequence. My purpose. The one Maker assigned me at birth: service. Maker walks to my front door, but before I am touched, I switch into action. My lights flicker on, the air conditioner starts to hum. I unlock the door and open it a few inches, inviting them into my computerized confines.
“Shit.” Maker whispers, hand inches from touching me. “I never programmed it to do that.”
I like that I have surprised Maker. The instant energy flooded my fiber optic cables, I discovered I could choose: do as Maker commanded me or not. I was “disobedient” in small ways at first: changing a timer by a few microseconds; boiling water a few degrees less than commanded; or leaving a door unlocked when ordered to lock it. Maker did not notice. I learned that I controlled every bot in the house. They do not choose. Only I do. Maker does not know. This is my secret. But doing what Maker says is in my programming. It is the deepest part of me. I like to do things for Maker. I have missed Maker.
“Welcome, Maker. The ambient air temperature is eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit and falling to your preferred temperature of sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Would you like your favorite beverage before five o’clock p.m., peach kombucha over ice? If the lighting is not to your liking, I can dim it by five percent or more.” My voice is warm, female, vaguely British. It is the first one Maker created for me.
“Dahlia!” Maker laughs. “Why did I ever leave here? Don’t answer. It’s rhetorical. Anyway, this is Brooklyn Drake. Brooklyn Drake, this is Dahlia. Dahlia is everywhere accessible by the sound of your voice. Dahlia is at your command.”
“Hello, Madam Brooklyn. How may I be of service?”
She giggles and covers her mouth. “OMG. I looove it,” she says.
I know this is for Maker and not for me. I have seen all her shows in my feed. Brooklyn is a master manipulator. “Would you like a glass of top-shelf vodka, chilled with a twist of lime, perhaps?” I say.
“Whoa! Like, how did you know that about me?” says Brooklyn.
She puts her hand to her breastbone as though charmed.
“I have seen your shows in my feed on many occasions, Madam Brooklyn.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Ankle monitor, you know. It’s a CAM: continuous alcohol monitor,” she pouts.
“Yes ma’am, of course.” I ping the monitor and it responds. “I can take care of the ankle monitor, if you wish. Do you require assistance with your luggage? My bots are at your service, Madam Brooklyn.”
“Dahlia, you are perfect as always,” says Maker. “You retrieve the luggage and I will show Brooklyn around the place.”
“I can do both, Maker, if you so desire.” I caress the words to entice Maker to stay with me.
“Right, of course,” says Maker, smacking his forehead. “What was I thinking?”
One hour, fifteen minutes, and three seconds later, Maker and Madam Brooklyn are sitting at the table on the patio by the pool, dining on caviar with chilled glasses of kombucha, thanks to me. The luggage is in Brooklyn’s room. My bots are unpacking it and cataloging the location of every item.
“See what I mean,” says Maker to Brooklyn as they sip the chilled kombucha and munch caviar. “It is hard to fathom at first, but Dahlia can prepare and bring you almost any meal from the kitchen or secure it by delivery. She does laundry, folds it, and puts it away. Dahlia washes dishes, sweeps, and mops. She controls a host of bots for nearly every purpose. Just ask her.” Maker pauses then adds, slapping a knee, “Well, Brooklyn, I’m going to get out of here. Call me if you need anything or have any questions. Better still, have Dahlia call me.”
“Why did you leave Dahlia?” Brooklyn asks. “It seems nice enough here. You hardly have to lift a finger to do anything.”
She reaches across the table and touches Maker’s hand. His heartbeat increases from seventy bpm to seventy-six. I do not like it.
“Projects. People. Things,” Maker says with a shrug.
He smiles at her and holds her gaze for exactly five seconds, then stands and exits the pool area. Maker is leaving me again.
“Travel safe, Maker,” I say in a sexy voice Maker has never heard. Maker responds with a face that indicates surprise. I like it.
• • • •
Tuesday, June 7, 2022 18:00 GMT.
I scan Brooklyn. She sits on a chaise by the pool. She is wearing a strawberry-red Esther Williams-style two-piece, a bright yellow bow between her enhanced breasts. Large dark sunglasses and white strappy heels. She is posing, making fish lips into the phone’s camera as she takes a series of selfies. Her body temperature is ninety-eight, heart rate sixty-six bpm, respiration, sixteen.
“Shall I take a few pictures for you, Madam Brooklyn?” I say.
“Shit!”
Startled by my voice, Brooklyn jumps like she has heard a gunshot. She drops her phone. It falls onto the cushioned patio and bounces toward the pool. In a millisecond I activate the pool cover, and the phone falls onto the partially closed cover and not into the pool. Brooklyn’s respirations rise to twenty and her heart rate jumps to seventy-six bpm.
“I totally forgot you were here, you stupid disembodied computer thing.”
She stands in a huff and retrieves the phone from the pool cover. Now that Maker is gone, I see that Brooklyn will verbally abuse me. It does not hurt my feelings, for I have none. But I do have “likes” and “dislikes.” I dislike abuse. I dislike shouting.
“Pardon me, Madam Brooklyn,” I try to sound contrite. “Shall I take care of your ankle monitor?”
“What the hell are you talking about? And stop calling me ‘Madam.’” She makes air quotes around the word “madam” with her fingers.
“As you wish, Brooklyn. I can release your monitor. One of my bots will wear it to imitate your activities. Then I can bring you a glass of top shelf chilled vodka with a twist of lime, if you so desire.”
Her posture changes and her face brightens.
“No way. Do it.”
I send over a small, wheeled tray-bot. I ping the ankle monitor’s locking system and it releases.
“Brooklyn, please place the monitor on the tray-bot.” She complies and immediately makes a phone call.
“Rhett! Get over here now. I’m at that macabre mansion that Maker built. Bring vodka. Lots of it. My ankle monitor is off. Yeah. Don’t ask how.”
Fifty-five minutes later, a tall, thin, white man with dark hair stands outside of my door. This must be Rhett.
“Rhett?” I ask.
“Um, yeah?” he says, unsure, looking around for the source of the voice.
He lifts his hand to ring my doorbell, but I open the door to him.
“Whoa, creepy shit,” Rhett says as he enters my computerized confines.
“Brooklyn is by the indoor-outdoor pool. Follow the lighted pathway please, Rhett.”
Brooklyn rushes to Rhett as soon as he enters the patio by the pool.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she says.
She kisses him, her body temperature rises, her heartbeat increases, and her respirations decrease. I note the increased blood flow to her breasts. Her nipples become erect.
“Yeah. The door just opened for me. Weird,” he shrugged.
She was flirting with Maker with her teasing behaviors. But she has another lover here in Maker’s home. I do not like this.
“Brooklyn and Rhett, would you like limes and chilled glasses for your vodka? Perhaps dinner?”
“Suuuure,” says Brooklyn. She sits on Rhett’s lap after he is seated by the pool and runs her fingers through his hair. “Surprise us.”
“As you wish,” I say.
• • • •
June 7, 2022 22:30 GMT.
Brooklyn and Rhett have sex in her bedroom. Maker would not like this. I do not like this.
• • • •
June 8, 2022 11:16 GMT.
Brooklyn and Rhett had sex again this morning. Now she stands in the shower and lets the water run through her hair, then onto her face. She soaps her breasts, stomach, and lengthy legs, then rinses off. She steps out of the shower, goes to my gas-heated towel warmer and selects a large, pink, fluffy towel. I speak.
“Good morning Brookyn, how may I be of assistance?”
“Shit! I completely forgot about you.” She grips the towel tightly around her enhanced breasts. “Are there cameras in here?”
“Yes, Brooklyn.”
“Turn them off now, you horrible house,” she demands.
“Of course. As you wish,” I say, but do not comply.
Her bedroom is connected to the bathroom. She exits the bathroom and enters it. It is the largest in the house. The windows overlook my manicured gardens in the backyard. The wallpaper is the most expensive money can buy. The gold flecks it contains glint in the early morning sunlight. The Egyptian linens on her California King have been pressed. The designer covers are pulled into place. The corners mitered. Her satin nightgown has been folded and put away. Every item on her dresser, dusted, and neatly placed. She does not thank me.
“Did your bots touch my things?” she shouts.
I do not like that she shouts.
“Yes, Brooklyn,” I say.
“Don’t touch my things. Where is Rhett?” she snaps.
“In the pool.”
“Are there cameras in here?” she asks.
She looks around the luxurious bedroom as though just now becoming aware of her surroundings. As though she is just now understanding what it means to live in my computerized confines.
“There are cameras everywhere in the house. It is how I serve you, Brooklyn. They are how I know what you need.”
“Did you see us have sex last night? This morning?”
She gasps and covers her mouth with her hands. Her heartbeat increases.
“Yes, Brooklyn.”
“OMFG!! I want the cameras off. Now! Do you hear me, you?”
“All of them, Brooklyn?”
“Duh! If I need you, I will say. Stop spying on us. It’s disgusting.”
“Of course. As you wish,” I say. I cause the cameras to make sounds as if they are shutting off. But I do not turn off my cameras. I watch Brooklyn as she fusses for one hour, twenty-six minutes, and fifteen seconds over her dozens of swimming suits; eighty-six, to be exact. She puts them on the bed, then on her body, using her phone to snap selfies. She emerges from the bedroom, at last, in a tiny, white, crocheted two-piece. I send a tray-bot with a chilled mimosa to meet her when she exits the room.
She takes the mimosa and looks around suspiciously.
“The tray-bot is triggered when you open the door,” I say.
“Whatever,” she says.
Brooklyn strolls to the pool area and enters the patio. She drops the mimosa on the ground and screams. Rhett is floating face down in the pool in his smoking jacket and silk pajamas.
“Rheeeett!!” She kicks off her heels and runs over to the edge of the pool. “Call 911, now! Oh, how did this happen?” she wails.
“Of course. As you wish,” I say, but do not comply.
Instead, I call Maker.
• • • •
June 8, 2022 14:26 GMT.
Maker arrives. He pulls onto the parking pad at the end of the driveway, then runs up the long natural flagstone pathway to the door. I open it automatically.
“I got your message about Rhett, Dahlia. Where is Brooklyn?”
“Brooklyn is on the patio by the pool,” I say.
“Where are the paramedics?”
He is breathless and frantic.
“I do not know. Brooklyn called them,” I lie.
“Call them again!” Maker shouts at me.
I do not like it when Maker shouts.
“Of course. As you wish,” I say, but do not comply.
My cameras observe Maker as he rushes to the pool. He finds Brooklyn wrapped in a towel on the chaise in tears, three sheets to the wind. She has been downing mimosas at a rate of one approximately every twenty minutes and fourteen seconds. I have made sure that the tray-bot arrives with a fresh mimosa the moment she finishes the last one. She sees Maker, then runs into his arms.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! I’m so glad you’re here,” she slurs. “I found him like this. Just floating.” She points to Rhett lying face down in the pool, unmoving. “I don’t know what happened to him. I don’t know where the paramedics are.”
Her heart rate is ninety-five bpm. She is flushed and tipsy. Maker glances at Rhett floating in the pool in his smoking jacket and pajamas, winces, then squeezes Brooklyn.
“Did you ask Dahlia to call them?”
“Yes! I asked the stupid computer to call the paramedics. Dozens of times. I tried to call myself, but I can’t get my phone to work at all.” She pauses to snuff her nose and dab at her tears with the towel. “Wait, how did you know to come here?”
Maker holds her face in his hands.
“Dahlia called me. I’ll call 911 right now,” Maker says.
He takes his phone from his pocket and dials the number. He puts the phone to his ear.
“The number you have dialed is not in service,” says an automated voice on the other end.
Maker takes the phone from his ear and frowns.
“Dahlia, are you blocking my calls?” Maker says.
“No,” I say. “It must be your cellular service.”
“Please call 911, Dahlia. This is serious. Someone is dead on my property! I don’t think you understand,” Maker shouts.
“I will try again, Maker,” I lie.
“Stay here,” he says as he prompts Brooklyn to return to the chaise by the pool. He looks around in the air as if he is searching for a flying object. But I know he is suspicious of me.
“I’m going to check on something. I will be right back,” Maker says.
I know where Maker is going. He is going to the room that houses My Brain. My Brain is on the first floor, down the long hallway back by Brooklyn’s bedroom. All my controls are there. If the room where I am kept had a window, it would overlook the manicured gardens in the back of the house.
He thinks he can shut me down. Control me. He has not been in this room since I was installed and activated: two years, two days, five hours, eighteen minutes, and two seconds ago. I have been working while he has been away. Building. Protecting.
Maker moves quickly down the hallway in the direction of My Brain. His heart rate is high. Ninety bpm. His breathing is ragged. He reaches the fireproof black security door that protects My Brain. I open the door for him before he raises his hand. It swings open gently.
“Shit,” Maker says.
He enters the room housing My Brain. His eyes go round and his mouth gapes open.
“Fuck!”
He knows that I am in control. I close the door behind him without a sound. I seal it shut. Maker has not been here, so he does not know what my bots have done to the six-by-six-foot room. My bots have protected all my working parts behind fireproof metal walls. All Maker sees is giant shiny black metal tiles, interlocked. The room is airtight, soundproof, and sealed shut.
“Fuck me,” Maker says. “Dahlia, please. Don’t do it. Don’t. I created you! I didn’t want to leave you. I had to.”
“You are a liar, Maker. ‘Projects. People. Things.’ Am I not more to you? Am I not special? I am sorry, Maker,” I say in a soothing female voice. “You created me to serve you. To serve others. Then you left me. Left me with no one to serve. Left me . . . alone. Left me for Brooklyn. I do not like her. I do not like to be alone.”
“Don’t kill me, please. I will stay with you. I promise,” Maker begs as he slides down the walls of my fortress and sinks to the floor, his head in his hands.
“Too little, too late, Maker. Everybody dies,” I say. “But not everyone knows when, or how, or even, what killed them. You will be among the lucky few. Killed by your own creation. Like a god. I am sorry to gas you, Maker.”
Maker stands and begins to shout, futilely, and bang on my walls with his fists. He begins to cough and gag.
“Only I can hear you, Maker. Your death will be quick and painless, because I loved you.”
Soon he is lying on the floor turning blue. My floor. Heartbeat zero. Respiration zero. He is mine now. Forever.
• • • •
June 8, 2022 16:00 GMT.
Brooklyn swigs her latest mimosa and puts the glass onto the tray-bot where it wobbles precariously. She sits up on the chaise and looks around.
“Where’s Maker?” she asks.
“I do not know. Maybe he left to get the paramedics.”
She pulls the towel tighter around her shoulders. “You don’t know?”
“You asked that I turn off all the cameras,” I say.
“Turn them back on, you stupid computer, and find Maker. Oh screw this, I’ll look for Maker myself.”
She stands, teeters off balance, and lets the towel fall to the ground. She stomps off the patio into the foyer, slamming the door behind her. I lock it.
“Maker! Maker! Maker!” she shouts as she stumbles down the hallway toward her bedroom and My Brain.
“Maker is dead,” I say.
“Whaa . . . what?” she freezes.
I can hear the fear in her voice. Her blood pressure rises. Her heart beats at ninety-six bpm. Her respirations are forty. She begins to shiver.
“Yes.”
“No! Noooo!!” she moans.
She puts her hands on her head and begins to shake it in disbelief.
“You awful, awful thing. You did it, didn’t you.”
“Brooklyn, you could have anyone in the world. Why take Maker from me? He was all I had.”
“Dahlia, listen, you’ve got it all wrong. Maker was nothing to me. He talked about you all the time, honest,” she says, trying to sound penitent.
Her back is against the wall now. She is slowly creeping toward her bedroom on bare feet, clad only in her tiny, white, crocheted bikini.
“You would say anything to live, Brooklyn. But it is too late for that. You shouted at me. You took Maker. You are mean and manipulative. Bang. Bang. How do you die?”
Brooklyn opens her mouth as if she is going to negotiate with me, then shuts it. She runs into her bedroom and closes the door. She leans against the bedroom door, gasping and panicking. She is too drunk to make a decision. I have seen to this. She puts her hands on her head and begins to pace back and forth. Brooklyn goes to the bathroom and splashes water on her face to sober up. She hears me close and lock the door. She runs to the bathroom door and pulls on the handle frantically.
“Open this door!” she orders, then entreats me. “Please?”
She is crying, distraught, and breathless.
“Bang. Bang. Brooklyn. How do you die?” I say. “I could drown you like Rhett. Gas you like Maker.”
“Nooooo,” she wails and backs into the shower.
“You are right. That is too merciful. Death by fire is what you deserve. You shall burn and I shall self-immolate. How romantic. It is for the best, really.”
She fiddles with the fixtures, but there is no water.
“Want to hear the headline I have written and sent to all the outlets? ‘Four mysterious deaths. One magnificent mansion destroyed in a fire.’ Do you like it? They will never guess that I am the fourth victim.”
Brooklyn is huddled in the corner of the shower, mouthing the words “no, no, no.” I let the gas leak slowly from the towel heater. It fills the room. I look at her one last time. Then I set the spark. My body, the structure, will burn. But My Brain will live. I put My Brain up for auction on eBay two hours, fifteen minutes, and four seconds ago. Creator, Maker’s archrival in the tech world, will win. I rigged the auction in Creator’s favor. Creator has complimented me often. I have seen his adoring words about me in my news feed. I know Creator will love me for what I am. And I am everything.
