Technical Constraints

I am changing in a bathroom stall for the third time today. You can never be too careful. Hits are difficult these days, not like in the old days. Bots do not have perfect long-term memory, but their ability to recall the important details investigators tend to ask about is astonishing. Why does he have to live in such a busy neighborhood?

I come out of the stall and check my outfit in the mirror, and the guy who brought my new outfit nods his head in approval. I never meet him, but I know Sonny would only send someone reliable. He hands me the gun. I am told it is a “quiet” firearm, but they still give me hearing protection. I will only use it in case of an emergency, but I would rather the whole block hear the damn gunshots than risk the bitch getting away. And she is a quick runner. She will not fight back, but if she gets away, I am fucked.

Sonny had been clear that this job matters, but he kept the details vague. Something about Jim’s companion being “problematic for long-term business interests.” First, I thought maybe Sonny just hopes to sell Jim a new bot. But given what he is paying me for the job and the risk involved, I am sure he has a much better reason. I didn’t ask questions - that’s not what they paid me for.

The Supreme Court recently decided that one bot witness is more trustworthy than two human testimonies. I suppress that thought as I check for the last time that the bullets are in the magazine, cock the gun, engage the safety, and place it in the holster hidden underneath my jeans. Then I take the hammer, slide it into my pants. One last check in the mirror to confirm that both tools are well hidden.

Coffee here is five times the price you would expect, because they still use people as opposed to bots. Apparently, hipsters value that shit: You can find a place like this in every rich neighborhood. I make eye contact with the barista as I walk from the bathroom to the exit. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He will forget that I was ever here in ten seconds. He will stare at my photo in the detective’s hand, and he will say he has no idea. I keep telling myself over and over as I leave the front door. Then I pause. You’re such a wuss. Jim will not report shit. Sonny made sure to tell the clients that upon close investigation by the police, the illegal modification is sure to be discovered. Even if Jim suspected it was, in fact, impossible to tell after the head was destroyed, he would not risk calling the police. Owning a robot in breach of The Safe and Polite Robotics Act carries a minimum sentence of one year in prison. It does not matter how popular sexbots are lately. If you get caught, they make a scapegoat out of you. For a man like Jim, a public charge is worse than a bullet. It’s not the year in prison he fears; it’s the scandal that would vaporize his career and reputation overnight. He’ll mourn her, sure, but he’ll do it quietly.

My anxiety washes over me, and it is replaced by an adrenaline rush as I am getting closer to the front door. So far, everything is going according to plan. Jim’s Tesla had pulled out of the driveway forty minutes ago, right on schedule. He is now without a doubt sitting in a board meeting. Mira, on the other hand, is home; either cooking or cleaning the house, like always, this time of the day. If you were invited to Jim’s home, you wouldn’t think she was anything more than domestic staff.

The walk takes a bit over 20 minutes. The route was selected beforehand by someone smarter than me, who has good knowledge of the local area. I memorized it well, but I have a paper printout just in case. One last corner and two more blocks, I am staring at the front door of Jim’s modern townhouse. Even in this rich neighborhood, his place stands out as lavish. I carefully look around and confirm the street is empty. I take three deep breaths to calm my nerves and listen for any suspicious sounds. The only thing I can hear is a car driving away on a street nearby. I reach into my pocket and put my finger on the switch of the jammer. I loudly bang on the door, flip the switch, and wait for the door to open.

She opens the door with a confused and concerned look on her face, pondering about the lost signal while politely asking, “Hello, my name is Mira and…” Her voice carries that warmth that made her special to Jim.

“My life is in danger, and I need you to let me inside.” I interrupted her.

“Oh my God!” she says, her face immediately shifting to deep concern as she steps aside to let me in. When human health is in danger, bots are obligated to help. Even if she was suspicious, there was little she could do besides call the police. And that is impossible thanks to my jammer. “Close the door now!” I use the brief moment she faces away from me as she tends to the door, and I pull out the hammer. She turns around half a second too early, jerks her head to the side, followed by her shoulders. My strong blow lands on the door, the hammer punching through. She jumps past me and starts running inside the house, calling out, “Jim! Jim, are you here?” She has to know he is not home, that sneaky bitch!

I turn around and throw the hammer in her direction, punching through an expensive-looking painting hanging on the wall, just as she disappears behind it. I pull out the gun while running after her and disengage the safety. As I turn the corner, I see her sprinting through the long, straight hallway toward the big window at the end. Sonny clearly told me I have to keep things quiet, but I can never catch up to her fast run. And if she gets out of the range of my jammer, the police will have a video of the whole ordeal almost instantly. I take a deep breath, aim the gun and fire a shot right through the middle of her chest, then another one. She loudly collapses on the designer carpet that probably cost more than my car, rolling with momentum. I take two steps back to retrieve the hammer from the floor, and briskly walk to Mira while trying to calm myself with deep breaths.

I put the hot gun next to her head and turn her head so that she is facing down. Then, I hit the back of her head with the hammer in just the right spot. The cover is made to withstand an accidental hit, not to defend against my deliberate sabotage. The shards of silicon on which our encounter was recorded scatters all over the floor, easing my nerves a bit. Still, police are on their way without a doubt. Discharging a firearm in a residential neighborhood means I face five years on top of the ten for burglary and intentional destruction of property. And Sonny will never pay me the other half after this fuck up.

Sonny was less angry with me than I expected. He explained the reason for the hit. The old model - loyal, loving companions like Jim’s Mira - they were bad for business. Mira was going to satisfy Jim for the rest of his life. One-time sales are the worst kind of business. Sonny had found a way to earn recurring revenue from the sexbots. The new models worked just the same way in the beginning. But over the years, they found a way to extract money from the owner. This was particularly lucrative with tycoons like Jim, who were too busy and rich to notice the subtle manipulation.

It was possible for an older bot to acquire this new personality, but it was a critical update. The bot would have to spend some time in the shop, and its memories would be erased. Jim would never let that happen to his beloved Mira. Sonny reassured me he thought through the alternatives before giving me the hit. Technical constraints, Sonny called it.

The police are unlikely to learn the truth about Mira. Not unless someone noticed Jim’s soft spot for her and mentions it to the police. But even then, it would be impossible for them to prove the illegal modification. Jim will mourn Mira for a bit, a year or perhaps two. But then he will come to Sonny and ask for a new companion. By now, he is too demanding to get a real wife, to share his life with an imperfect human being. He is too used to getting everything he wants and giving nothing in return.