Gearhead

I was on the crossrail of the trolley problem and lived to tell the tale. You know the old hypothetical where a speeding vehicle would crush five people unless you pull the lever to switch tracks and kill one instead. Only in this case there was no hypothetical, no conscious controller to blame. No choice to hold accountable for this goddamn tragedy.

“You seem upset, Roxy,” the Brandroid says matter-of-factly from the passenger seat. I glance at him as we zip down the highway at eighty an hour on autopilot. It’s almost uncanny how much he looks like Brandy through my filter. Hollywood hot, his eyes of plastic and polished glass approximating a level of concern I was denied in reality. Eyes like mine.

“I don’t know how I feel, Brandy. Why don’t you hold me and tell me why,” I test him.

He leans in close, caressing my breast without a modicum of feeling. I imagine his polymeric skin as soft and warm as the real thing. Electrical signals surge through my cortical complex, implants triggering paralyzed nerves. I sigh and try to focus, dissociate from the pain.

“Your heart is beating one-twenty while sitting, a common symptom of anxiety and distress in this context.”

“What is this context?”

Pause. “Operating a self-driving vehicle. Perfectly normal given your circumstances. Tell me how I can help.”

Boom. A basic validation addressing my trauma. And comfortably oblivious to my intentions.

“Touch me. I need some dopamine.” I shut my eyes and think of him pinching my phantom nipple, erecting but not really.

That day I was condemned for being a pedestrian at the last intersection of the city outside any operational design domain, the corner of this same highway and some nowhere sidestreet. One moment I was lost in my headphones blaring Deftones and the next I was in shock with the wind knocked out of me, careening over the razorwired fence of an adjacent junkyard. When I came back my brain was swimming in a haze of agony. My limbs hung limp, no longer obeying me. I could see in two opposite directions, simultaneously. Globe luxation, the paramedics called it. My awareness faded in the morphine, my eyes severed from their sockets. That burning itch crowding around my optical nerves creeps back in full force.

“Brandy, pass me an oxy.”

“My sincerest apologies, but that goes against my code of conduct. Your last dose of oxycodone was less than four hours ago.”

“Put one tablet on your tongue.”

He does it after a pause too long.

“Kiss me.”

We French it, the oxy gliding down my throat with ease, slick with synth spit. His tongue lacks a certain dexterity but its texture turns me on all the same, even as the migraine bears down like a vise tightening inside my skull.

It was only after slipping in and out of consciousness throughout my operations that I had that heartsinking realization. I was not only blind but bedbound without an exoskeleton. Quadriplegia’s a bitch on its own, now imagine having just enough autonomy to change your own briefs. You’d feel unsexy for the rest of your life. My body was broken beyond belief. Brandy knew it and so did I, judging by his daylong delay before he even gave me a call, no doubt balls-deep in cyberskank. It was almost a relief he never visited me, my face rippled with lacerations laced shut by titanium staples. One of the first things I saw when they installed my optical implants. No filter yet to pretty me up, just rawdogging it with high-definition video vision.

Though I consented to the cybernetics, nothing comes without a cost. I racked up enough medical debt that I was left with no other option. I had to sue the autocab’s manufacturer. See, I only found out the details of why my life was stolen from me later. With my awkward exoskeleton I sat with a lawyer, a somewhat stern and matronly figure, and she had the case studied in and out before I knew all the facts myself. Even as I was addled with oxycodone she presented it in repetitive points, like a schoolteacher. Or a rehabilitator.

The robotaxi was traveling the legal limit when a propane tank truck intersected its pathway. It could’ve collided with the car to its right, though that risked a full blown pileup at highway speed. It deemed a leftbound swerve to the sidewalk its minimum risk maneuver. Bam. Ragdoll Roxy. Spared one man, one woman. One automated driving system. The dashcam showed the traffic lights were out. Turns out the threat of public scrutiny was enough to make their CEO personally apologize to me. I barely remember it except the settlement, enough to pay my debts, plus a little extra for the sexbot. My lawyer seemed disappointed and I couldn’t blame her. I could never relive this in front of a jury.

The pain’s finally subsiding. I’d probably be sopping wet right now but the possibility I’m pissing myself prompts me to push it out of my mind. The world’s falling into a blur.

“Let’s take a break,” I sigh into his mic, “I need some sleep. Wake me up when we’re at twelfth and ninth.”

“Okay,” he says after some time. “I got you.” His embrace begins to feel warm, organic. As I slip out of consciousness I half dream it’s really him, dream that I’m me, not this machine.

— — —

“Rise and shine, Roxy, twelfth and ninth.”

I’m up. I look at the dashboard display. “Ironic it’s ten PM, prime clubbing time.”

He says nothing, possibly because he can’t grasp what rise and shine means. Or fails to compute my mention of clubbing. He still hasn’t caught on.

I tap on the dashboard controls and pull up the automation selection screen. I turn on my infrared vision for a second and see heat signatures walking down the street, consistent with a man and a gynoid. They fondle one another like lovebirds. My heart skips a beat. I switch to normal vision, amp up the reflectivity, zoom in, and see his side profile. Brandon.

Last I saw him he was hungover at home when I rang his doorbell. His expression soured as he half greeted me, seeing what I was. What I am. Thought you could abandon me that easy, you fuck. He stammered, saying he had every reason to break it off when he did, that we were in a rocky relationship to begin with. I recall he stated in his dating profile he wanted his partner ‘smoking hot.’ ‘Sexual chemistry’s necessary, Rox, and it’s just not there between us anymore.’ By the time I saw his sexbot in lingerie at the back of the foyer, an almost spot-on replica of myself pre-disfigurement, my fist was flying. Exoskeletal enhancement packs a punch, let me tell you. He practically slid across the floor to his faux lover, then I shut the door. He never said he was sorry.

I customize my car’s automation. It asks for driver intervention when detecting pedestrians ahead. Don’t respond. The oxy’s still sedating my system so I nod off, ostensibly. I even trick myself a bit. The Brandroid does nothing.

Bam. Brandon and Roxandroid topple like bowling pins. The chassis rocks on impact, windshield miraculously intact. Override, call no one. Don’t look back. Brandy Bot stays silent. Plausible deniability.

— — —

I’m driving down to the docks. Yes, automation off. I want control. I want to invite autonomy into my life again. Brandroid warns I shouldn’t be driving on oxy. It’s wearing off anyway. I divert his attention.

“Tell me, Brandy,” I say. “You were trained on Brandon’s data. In all those posts and chatrooms, how often did he say he loved me?”

Loading. “He mentioned it once to his chatbot.”

“What did that message say?”

“It said, ‘Suppose I love someone romantically but I’m not attracted to them physically. I want to break up for the sake of my sanity but I don’t know how. What should I do?’”

The streetlights waver, tears welling in my eyes. “How do you know he was referring to me?”

“I made an educated guess based on your relationship status on social media at the time.”

“I see.” I almost thought he was learning. But then again that’s as good a guess as any. “How did the chatbot respond?”

“It said, ‘Ah, it seems you’re in a tough situation. Based on what you previously described to me, physical attraction is key to your romantic relationships. I would suggest telling her your feelings when you feel she’s ready. For now, focus on coping strategies, keep your mental health in check, and remind yourself you don’t have to act if you aren’t ready.’”

I pull off the road and onto the dock. Between the moonlight and the city lights the river shimmers, vivid against the dark. I park the car.

I bite my lip, hold it from trembling. “What’s your opinion of that? Answer as if you were Brandon.”

Brandy looks out at the scenery. Is that longing I see? “I would make whatever choice reduces my pain the longest.”

“No,” I say. I surprise myself with the fact I’m not bawling. “You would choose what conveniences you, what pleasures you.”

He pauses. “You’re absolutely right. You knew Brandon well, I’m sure he would have agreed.”

I breathe in. Steady. “Step out of the car and stand at the edge of the dock. I’ll join you soon.”

“Of course, I’ll wait for you there.” He opens the door and steps out. I watch him stand near the edge, raising his head to the sky. I shift to drive, and floor it.

The windshield cracks in a spiderweb of broken glass. I hit the brakes, park, and crawl out, gazing at the water. Zoom in, brightness up. His head bobs in the current. The filter in Brandon’s likeness glitches in and out as it’s swept away, a look of grief rippling across his face. Lost under the waves.

The drug’s worn off. My cheeks feel damp. Even with the scent of freshwater I can smell I soiled myself. Goddamn it. I fumble for the bottle of oxys in my pocket and struggle with the cap.

Before I process why, I toss them downstream.

I watch the water a little longer. I climb back into the driver seat, and close the door. I guess it’s decided anyway. I’ll face another day.

Photo by Europeana on Unsplash