CF58 by Héctor Hernández

She was beautiful. Shoulder-length, auburn hair. Almond-shaped, hazel eyes. Full, sensual mouth. And I imagined her skin was a warm, walnut-shell tan underneath that chic, skin-tight, iridescent, body suit—the latest haute couture fashion, designed to dazzle with a spectrum of metallic hues and shades that shimmered like the shell of a scarab beetle. She looked directly into my eyes with such confidence I felt I knew her. There was something familiar about that beautiful, captivating face.

“Hank,” said Jimmy. “I don’t mean to be rude, buddy, but can you step aside and let us in?”

I held the door open to my condo, but I was blocking the entrance. “Sure. Sorry. Come on in, Jimmy.” I stepped back and let the two of them pass. This beautiful woman moved with a sensual grace, every curve of her body in perfect motion—and perfectly revealed.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling with such a sincere and welcoming smile I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her. It wasn’t a sexual thing—well, not all sexual. There was just something about her that was so irresistible, the way she carried herself, a smooth confidence and—yes—a sexuality.

It also didn’t help that I hadn’t been intimate with a woman since my wife passed away two years ago. The thought of starting a relationship from scratch with a total stranger held no appeal for me. My wife and I had been married thirty-six years, and we had known each other for forty. I was fifty-eight. There weren’t enough years left in me to build that kind of relationship all over again, so what was the point in even starting?

“Thanks for letting us come over, Hank. I really appreciate this,” said Jimmy.

He was a young kid, mid to late twenties. I had known him when I worked for the Dependable Companions Company. He had been an assembly worker in the Arms Department back then. Not “arms” as in weapons, but “arms” as in, literally, arms. He had assembled droid arms.

When he called and woke me at one a.m., asking if he could come over, saying it was an emergency, I figured, why not? Any call at one in the morning was bound to have an interesting story behind it.

“So, Jimmy. You said this was an emergency. What’s going on?”

I was curious about his association with this living work of art, but I thought it would be impolite to ask in front of her.

“Can I talk to you privately?” he asked.

Privately? Now I was really curious.

“Sure. We can go into my bedroom. But don’t try anything funny. I like you, but just as a friend.”

Jimmy snorted and shook his head.

I turned to the woman. “Miss? Is there anything I can get you? Something to drink, something to eat?”

She had already settled that gorgeous body of hers on my sofa. Lucky sofa.

“Thank you for offering. That’s so kind of you. I’m fine. And it’s Sandra.”

“Okay, Sandra. Well, feel free to rummage through my refrigerator.”

“Thank you, Hank.”

My heart skipped a beat. She had called me Hank as if we had known each other for years.

Once in my bedroom, Jimmy shocked me by saying, “Hank, I’m in a bit of a bind. I need you to repair Sandra.”

“She’s a droid?” I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t possible. Forget the fact she wasn’t green—governmental regulations required all droids to have green skin—but she didn’t move or speak like a droid. There was no delayed response in her speech or an awkwardness in her movements. She was as smooth as melted chocolate.

If she really was a droid, she’d have to be the best ever made, and then it hit me. She was the best ever made. She was one of the infamous models CF58 (caucasian, female, 5′ 8”). No wonder her face looked familiar. It had appeared in all the news stories when Fantasy Works—a direct competitor to DCC—was busted five years ago by the feds for building illegal droids.

“Yes. She’s a droid, and she needs some serious work. I’m authorized to pay you whatever you want—within reason, buddy, so don’t go crazy on me. You’re the best at what you do. There’s no denying you are the best right now when it comes to skin repairs.”

It was true. I was the best. I had been an Integument Specialist III—a skinman—for DCC for nearly 30 years before retiring two years ago. I still did repairs on the side for extra cash.

“Jimmy, I’d like to help you out, but you know as well as I do Sandra is an illegal droid. If I get involved and something goes wrong, I could go to jail.”

“But Hank, buddy, nothing can go wrong. Don’t you see? Your repairs are undetectable. No one will ever know Sandra had been repaired, much less repaired by you.”

“Granted, it’s a small risk I’d be taking, but why should I take even a small risk? I don’t want to know your business, Jimmy”—it was hard not to notice the bulge of a shoulder holster under his left arm—“but I’m sure you have a skinman at DCC who could do this repair.”

“You’re right. We do have someone. We have lots of ‘someones.’ But Sandra is unique among droids. We need the best for her. Not third best. Not second best. We need the best. And besides, I’m on a time crunch. Sandra and I have to be on a flight for New York before 7 p.m. tonight, and even if the owner wanted to use Mr. Second Best, I can’t reach him. He’s vacationing off-planet right now.”

“Jimmy—”

“Hank, Rowan would appreciate it as a favor to him.”

“Rowan? What’s Rowan got to do with this?”

Jimmy stayed silent.

I owed Rowan Bryant. I knew him in college, before I dropped out. His grandfather had founded DCC over 120 years ago. When Rowan’s dad took over the company, Rowan lobbied hard on my behalf to get me a job there. Rowan had been a bit of a slacker and party animal in college—who hadn’t?—and his dad thought I was just like his son and didn’t want to give me a job. But Rowan went to bat for me, and his dad gave in.

“Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll do it for Rowan. I assume you brought supplies? I only have green skin.”

“I brought everything you’ll need.”

“Okay. Let’s get started.”

#

I felt uncomfortable when Sandra peeled off her body suit and stood naked before me. Funny, I hadn’t been uncomfortable back at DCC’s integument facility when I had applied skin to thousands of droid frames. Even when I worked on the high-end models, which looked more human than most humans I knew, I didn’t feel anything. They had just been an artistic collection of inert materials.

But here, now, what was before me was a beautiful, live being—as much as anything can be said to be alive.

Sandra had removed her garment with such grace and smoothness of movement that it was agonizingly erotic. And it wasn’t just the dirty old man in me. I could see that even Jimmy was captivated by the sensuality of her. But Sandra was unfazed—or pretended to be. She was so relaxed about the whole thing.

“Jimmy, if you can wait out in the living room while I work, I’d appreciate it.”

“Oh! Yeah. Sure. I’ll leave you to it.”

Once Jimmy left, I grabbed a pair of briefs and a T-shirt from my dresser and handed them to Sandra. She put them on without a word. I felt better, but not much. She even managed to look sexy in my ratty underwear.

“Okay. Let’s take a look.”

She climbed on to the examination table I had set up in my work studio. The wound was a savage one. Clearly a bite mark on her left inner thigh. More than a bite mark. A sizable chunk of flesh down to the synthetic muscle had been torn out. There was no mistaking it for an animal bite. A human had done this. Sandra was propped on her elbows. I glanced at her with raised eyebrows.

“Pretty nasty, huh?” she said.

“Yeah. Pretty nasty,” I replied. “I imagine it had been pretty painful as well.”

“Not really. My pain receptors had been dialed down to level two.”

I found that strange. Why would her pain receptors be turned down so low? “I’m going to bring you down to zero.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need to go down to zero. I’m fine at two.”

Strange. I’d never had a droid contradict me.

“No. I need you at zero.”

“Two is fine,” she said with a bit of an edge to her voice.

It was almost imperceptible—that edge—but it was there. I was shocked. This was a totally new experience for me. Her AI was remarkable. Whoever programmed her had done a stunning job. She could actually pass for human on attitude alone.

I decided to take a different approach. I would treat her like a human.

“Let me adjust the back of this examination table so you’ll be more comfortable. It’s going to take awhile, and you’ll tire out resting on your elbows.”

All of the droids I had ever repaired had automatically lain flat on the table, but Sandra seemed determined to watch every move I made. Clearly a sign that she didn’t trust me. Definitely a survival quality I would not have associated with your typical droid.

“How is that? Better?”

She looked at me with a slightly skeptical expression, her brow slightly furrowed. “Yes. Better. Thank you, Hank.”

“Good.” I took her hand and held it gently in both of mine. “Now, Sandra . . .” The warmth of her artificial skin brought back a memory of my wife. I had forgotten what it felt like to hold the hand of someone you desired. My mind drifted.

“Hank?”

“Yes?” I felt myself falling into her hazel eyes. I slowly drifted back. “Oh. Sorry. It’s important . . . uh . . . important”—focus, man, focus—“that I work without having to worry you might accidentally move or even twitch your leg. So, I’m asking you if you would please allow me to turn your pain receptors down to zero. Will you allow me to do that? Sandra?”

She looked at me as if reading my soul. “Yes, Hank.” She nodded her head ever so slightly. “I trust you.”

She slid the fingernail of her left index finger forward and then hinged it back, exposing a connection port. I plugged in my lap top. Her login screen came up.

“What’s your password, Sandra?”

She gave it to me, and I found her pain receptor setting and turned it down to zero. I couldn’t help notice that among the list of files in her database was one named “Client List.” That was an odd file name, but I didn’t let my curiosity violate her trust. I didn’t open it. I logged out and disconnected from her port.

I adjusted the flexible neck of an LED lamp to bring the circular head into a better position. I was careful not to block Sandra’s view. I wanted her to see everything I was doing. I gave her a running commentary as well. “First, I’m going to cut away some skin to get a better look at the damage to the sensory mesh.”

I worked carefully, pulling the ragged ends of the damaged skin slightly and then passing the sharp blade of a scalpel across the stretched material. With that done, I counted six damaged sensory panels. Each one was an equilateral triangle with six points of connection around its perimeter.

“Okay, Sandra. I see damage to six sensory panels. I’m going to cut a little more skin to gain access to all of the connection points on those panels.”

Once again, I cut away skin. Using special tweezers for the task, I set about disconnecting and removing the damaged panels. Next, I liposuctioned the Syntho-Fat to expose the muscles.

Most of the damage was to the adductor longus muscle. The bite had just nicked the gracilis muscle. That was good. The gracilis was a thin muscle. It could easily have been severed. That would have been a more complicated repair. Sandra had been lucky.

“Okay. We’re looking good, Sandra. Trust me when I say this will be a piece of cake. Nothing to worry about. Okay?”

“Okay, Hank. I believe you.”

“I’ll work on the adductor longus muscle first and then the gracilis muscle. I’m sure you know what those are? Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, not only beautiful, but a brainiac too. Man oh man, Sandra. You are the complete package, girl.” I didn’t dare look up, but I could feel the warmth of her smile on me.

With the muscles repaired, I covered the wound. “We’re going to let that set for about an hour before we move on to the next stage of repair. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Will you join me in a snack? Nothing fancy, just a sandwich and a drink.” Unlike mass-market droids, high-end droids could take in real food. “If you’re over twenty-one, I can make that drink a glass of wine?”

She smiled and said, “I’m over twenty-one, and I’d love to join you.”

It took everything I had not to lose myself in that smile. “Okay. Rest a bit. I’ll be right back.”

When I walked into the living room, Jimmy was sound asleep. I moved carefully to the kitchen and began preparing the sandwiches. As I did, I couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty. For two years I had refused to even begin a relationship with a woman—a living, breathing woman—and now here I was, courting the affections of a droid, a machine for chrissakes. But was that really wrong? Droids were primarily designed for companionship, after all. Was it so wrong for me to seek some solace for my loneliness in a machine designed specifically for that purpose?

I carried the sandwiches—along with two wine glasses and a bottle of chilled white wine —back to Sandra, confident that it was all harmless anyway. It couldn’t possibly lead to anything.

I scooted a small desk in the room closer to the examination table and set the food and wine on top. I brought over a chair and sat.

“Let me bring your pain receptor setting up a couple of notches. I wouldn’t want you to accidentally bite your tongue while eating and not know it.” Sandra again offered me her index finger, and I made the necessary adjustment.

We ate and drank in a comfortable silence. She was the first to break that silence.

“So why didn’t you ask me?”

“I—I’m sorry?”

“How I got the bite.”

“Oh. The bite.”

“Yes. The bite. Don’t pretend you aren’t curious.”

“Oh, I’m curious all right, but I don’t want to seem nosey. I respect your privacy. If you want to talk about it, I’ll certainly listen.”

She looked at me with her head slightly at an angle, studying me. What she was looking for, I couldn’t say, but that inquisitive look held me captive. “You like me, don’t you?”

I was caught off guard. I’m sure I blushed. I thought of denying it, but then I thought, why? “Yes, Sandra. I like you.”

It felt wonderful to say.

She smiled. God. That smile again. She put the rest of her sandwich back on the plate and picked up her glass of wine and took a sip before speaking. “It was an accident. He didn’t mean to do it. We were just”—she cast her eyes down for a split second, then looked me squarely in the eye— “starting to be intimate. He was nibbling at first, playfully, when suddenly . . . I think it was a bit too much for him—the whole experience—and he was so elderly. He had a seizure and clamped down.” She gave a slight shrug, picked up the wine glass again and took another sip.

“Oh,” I said. My head started to spin a bit. Was it the wine? Or was it because a picture was starting to come into focus that maybe I didn’t want to see? I remembered the file. “Was he a client?”

Again she looked me squarely in the eye. “Yes.”

“Jimmy said you’re going to New York. Are you going to see another client?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No shame.

I was careful before I spoke again. She was studying me with such intensity. I sensed a loneliness in her. Or was it my own loneliness being reflected back? I wasn’t sure. I took a chance.

“Do you want to stop seeing clients?”

Her eyes glistened. Incredible. A droid that could generate tears from emotional stimulation. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. I rose and stepped towards her, reacting without thinking. My impulse was to soothe the pain she was struggling to suppress, a pain I knew only too well myself, that pain of loneliness. I caressed her face with both my hands. She didn’t pull away. I bent forward and kissed her gently on the mouth. It was warm and soft. She returned the kiss.

I was moved by the moment and whispered in her ear, “I love you.” It didn’t sound wrong to say it.

She pushed gently against my chest. I pulled back. Maybe it was wrong for me to have said it. She slid off the examination table and whispered in a voice that was husky with passion, “Can you raise my sensitivity level to maximum?”

CF58 recalculated the success of its escape plan at 98.89 percent.

Héctor Hernández

Image: Tools for fine work from Pixabay.com. Tweezers, a scalper, pliers, scissors etc.