Hank Proctor had been studying her for so long that the sound of another human’s voice seemed unreal.  “Is that what I think it is?” Dean Koch nudged in behind him, disturbing Hank’s train of thought with the rancid smell of coffee and cigarettes on his breath.

 

“Yep.”

 

Elite model Number 33B, a Cybernetic Service Unit that called herself Velvet.  Milk-chocolate skin and honeyed gold curls, her lips were a bubblegum kiss of pink paradise curved into perfection.  The precision measurement of her body had produced sky high legs and perky, round breasts that accentuated both the graceful length of her neck and the slender curve of her hips.  Clothed she was a masterpiece, but the real artistry lie beneath fabric and behind closed doors.

 

“What the hell is it doing here?”

 

“She’s a murder suspect,” Hank reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and took out a box of mints.  He popped two into his mouth and offered the box to Dean, but Dean held up his coffee and shook his head.

 

“Oh yeah?  Murder suspect, huh,” Dean’s jaw jutted outward, his lower lip enveloping the top one during the thoughtful maneuver.  “A bit unusual isn’t it?  I thought all Cybs were programmed for nonviolence.”

 

“So did I,” Hank started, “but that little beauty right there’s our only suspect in a child homicide.”

 

“Jeez Louise!” Dean laughed, “Talk about a black sheep!” He cuffed Hank on the back.  “Get it, Proctor, a black sheep.”

 

Hank’s face curled into the warped kind of mug that came from a lifetime of late nights and twisted crime scenes, uncooperative suspects and bad diner food, but mostly from jackasses like Dean Koch who thought working for the city gave them something in common and made them friends.

 

“You’re a regular comedian, Koch!  A real John Cleese.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Never mind. He was before your time.”

 

“When you gonna question it,” Dean asked.  “I got a couple questions for it, let me tell you,” he went on.  “I’ve been dying to get close to one of those things, but the Missus...”

 

“Not a chance, Koch,”  Hank stepped away from the observation window.  “I’m waiting for a CSU Specialist from Henway.  From there on out, it’s just the spec and me.”

 

“You’re no fun,” There was a definite hint of disappointment under Dean’s mock playfulness.  “At least let me at it when you’re done with it.”

 

“You know precinct policy on tampering with evidence,” Hank smirked.

 

“Awe, come on, Proctor.  It only takes one second to look the other way,” Dean’s face drew gaunt with the implication of his desire.  “Come on, ten minutes.”

 

“I ought to write you up myself for that,” Hank warned, but never followed through as the steady click of heels on tile ended the threat with nothing more than a curt glare.  “Now get outta here.”

 

Hank turned over his shoulder to glimpse the suit making her way toward them. She had a file-folder tucked neatly into her right arm and a posh briefcase swung from her left in perfect rhythm with her deliberate step.  Her tightly piled russet hair was pinned into place with a sterile silver clip, and horn-rimmed glasses perched just on the tip of her nose.  The silver nameplate pinned to her navy-blue dress suit identified her as Henway Cybernetics Specialist, Rita S.

 

“Detective Proctor, I presume,” she held a slender, well-manicured hand out.

 

Hank stepped toward her and accepted her hand, “You must be Miss Swanson.”

 

“Rita Swanson,” she confirmed.  “You spoke with my superior, Dr. Michael Henway about taking one of our Number 33B’s into custody.”

 

“She identified herself as Elite Model Number 33B,” he nodded.  “Then she asked us to call her Velvet.”

 

Miss Swanson leaned over Hank’s left shoulder and peered into the interrogation room, her curious eyes the color of dull slate.  “That’s one of ours all right.”  She opened the folder against her arm and skimmed over the top document before scribbling something quickly with a pen she pulled from inside her jacket.  “I’ll need to scan its chip to determine the serial before we finish questioning, of course.  If there’s a programming malfunction we may have to recall the entire unit.”

 

“Of course,” Hank conceded.  “Now you’re a CSU expert, Miss Swanson, is that right?”

 

Her face flushed pink with pride.  “Yes, that’s correct.”

 

“You don’t mind then if I ask you a few questions before we get started with her?  You know, just to make sure I’m on the right page with all this.  I don’t have much experience with Cybs, preferring reality and hard work myself.”

 

Her stern gaze narrowed in unspoken offense, “Ask away, Detective.”

 

“Is it normal for them to name themselves?  I know they all have model numbers you identify them by, but isn’t it a bit rare to come across a model who calls herself something other than say Number 33?”

 

She closed the folder and looked up at him, the black frames of her glasses making the slate of her eyes even harsher. “Not as unusual as you might think,” she shrugged.  “From time to time you’ll come across a previously owned model whose proprietor had several different models on the street that were programmed to respond by name instead of number.  It’s a common user practice in most brothels, and occasionally makes the user experience more realistic.  Clients tend to be more comfortable asking for service by name, rather than number.”

 

Hank nodded and glanced over his shoulder at Velvet, who had folded her hands together in front of her and lowered her head in a prayer-like gesture.  The notion struck him as odd, and for a moment he found himself curious about who or what a Cyb might pray to.  Eyelids fluttered, her full lips moved over silent words.

 

“They are very realistic, aren’t they,” he whistled, and shook his head.  “I’ve never been this close to one of them before, so I always just assumed there were. . . I don’t know, subtle differences that set them apart from us.”

 

“Their realistic nature is our company’s pride, Detective Proctor.”  Her grin was smug, a trait Hank rarely found impressive.  “Henway has given mankind a solution worth paying for, a solution to all of the problems that came with the sexual revolution.  STD’s are a thing of the past, and I’m sure even you will agree that the drop in sex-related crimes has been beyond significant.”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“And do you really think we could have achieved such miracles without coming as close to perfection as we have?”

 

The road to perfection had definitely been evolutionary.  He could still remember the earliest Cybernetic Service Units, shapeless, metal and programmed to do nothing more than simple household chores.  Twelve years had made them damn near human, and the only thing that visually held them apart from everyone else was replication.  There were several models, but hundreds of thousands that looked exactly like the woman on the other side of the glass.

 

Hank returned his gaze to Velvet, who had opened her soft brown eyes to search the empty room for some sort of focal point to distract her mind.

 

“Are they programmed to mature and evolve mentally, Miss Swanson?”

 

“We program them to adapt to their environment, yes.  Often they are subject to the same types of abuse and cruelties that once plagued humanity, forced sexual situations, physical torment, but since they are not human, it does not have the same effects.”

 

“So if she felt threatened, she wouldn’t defend herself?”

 

“Cybs are not programmed to follow their own inclinations, in fact, they are programmed without inclination.  The notion to defend herself would never occur to her, Detective.”

 

“And murder?”

 

“Murder?”  She reached up and lifted the glasses from the tip of her nose, a nervous laugh stuck in her throat.  In one swift move the glasses dropped against her chest and dangled for a moment on the sleek, silver chain.

 

“Murder, Miss Swanson.”

 

Miss Swanson tightened her lips and narrowed her serious gaze.  “A Cyb committing murder is highly improbable,” she admitted.  “Not only is against the law for a Cyb to be encoded with violence reactors, it is also against Henway policy and procedure.  Our mission has always been to provide realistic, human experience without all of the entanglements of human emotion, the sexual freedom mankind has always craved.”

 

“So you’re telling me that you have no Cybs programmed to say . . . I don’t know. . . play the Dominatrix role?  None that are encoded to cause physical pain as part of the pleasure procedure?”

 

“Sexual role playing is a part of our programming procedure, yes, but that is far different than being programmed to kill, or even fight back in the event that they find themselves commanded to.”

 

A doubtful look crossed his face.

 

“They are machines, Detective.  Not human beings.  In the event that a Cyb felt threatened by physical violence, it would either stand and take the abuse without reacting, or shut down its sensors.  As I mentioned, they are programmed to experience minimal human emotion while providing a wholly realistic human experience.”

 

“Since when did realistic human experience exist without emotion, Miss Swanson?”

 

Rita Swanson directed her gaze toward the mirrored glass, and Hank followed her stare.  As though she sensed their eyes on her, Velvet looked up. Her round eyes pleaded innocence, and when she blinked the length of her thick lashes lay atop well-defined cheekbones.  The wild curls of her honey-brown hair askew and the flecks of freckle across the bridge of her nose only added to the simple beauty she was designed to display.  Face to face it was nearly impossible to tell the difference between one of them and a real woman.

 

Hank looked to Rita Swanson to compare, but his inspection was quickly diverted by a shuffle of bodies through the corridor behind them.

 

“Whether she’s capable of murder or not, she’s already admitted to her own guilt,” he finally went on.  “But there was one more thing I wanted to ask you before we proceed with questioning.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Is it possible that someone tampered with her,” he started.  “I mean, I don’t know how easy they are to program, could it be possible a human reprogrammed her for violence, or even to lie on their behalf?”

 

“Again, highly unlikely,” she shook her head, a loose strand of copper falling out of place and brushing the lobe of her ear.  She reached up to brush it away, the taut corners of her pink-painted mouth pulled into a frown. “Our programs are safe-guard guaranteed.  A model couldn’t be tampered with without severe consequences, not even by a Henway programmer.”

 

“Murder is a rather severe consequence, is it not, Miss Swanson?”

 

She looked past him again, into the interrogation room, her face a blank canvas.  “Perhaps we should begin questioning it, Detective Proctor.”

 

“Of course,” he stepped aside to usher her toward the interrogation room.

 

Velvet looked up when they entered, her face flashing momentary familiarity when she saw Rita Swanson, but she shifted a sad glance toward Detective Proctor—brown eyes glistening with what almost appeared to be tears.

 

“Number 33, this is Miss Swanson,” he explained.  “She works for Henway.”

 

“You can call me Velvet,” she tilted her head a little, as though the innocence she portrayed might help to gain his trust.

 

“Fine then, Velvet.”

 

“Velvet,” Miss Swanson lifted her briefcase onto the table and took the left-hand seat across from the suspect.  “Detective Proctor told me you were picked up at the scene of a very serious crime.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“He also told me that you confessed.”

 

“Yes, Miss Swanson,” she nodded, “I did.”

 

“Now, Velvet,” Miss Swanson angled her face, a sympathetic expression cresting on her hardened features and lilting her voice, “we both know that it isn’t possible for you to commit such a violent crime, so why don’t you tell me what really happened.”  She reached across the table to take the Cyb’s hand in her own, but Velvet withdrew uncertainly.  “Did someone put you up to this?  You must tell me the truth so we can get to the bottom of things and the detective here can arrest the real murderer.  Afterwards, you can come back to Henway with me and undergo a data purge. You’ll be back to your normal routine before the week is out.”

 

Velvet’s large eyes glinted with apprehension—another emotion she should not have been programmed to display under the circumstances, Hank noted.  She pursed her dry lips together and then swallowed.  She then redirected her attention from Miss Swanson to Hank, who realized that she was obviously nervous, as though she perfectly understood the severity of the situation as well as the consequences.  When she spoke she kept her eyes on him.

 

“I was not compelled by violence, Miss Swanson, nor did a man ask me to lie for him.  I killed Janie with my hands.”

 

“Cybs, just like other computers, are susceptible to viruses, Detective.  Perhaps--”

 

“Cybs.”  Velvet’s voice wavered on that one word.  “Man is not happy unless he labels everything around him.  Labels give him power over things, and without that power. . .,” she looked down at her hands, “without that power he would not be Man.  She would not be Woman.  I would not be as you call me, Cyb.”

 

The corner of Hank’s tightened mouth twitched toward expression, but he held back his admiration of her observation.  He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, to try and use his appreciation for her cleverness against him.

 

“Be that as it may,” he began, “your lack of understanding for human reason and emotion would make it difficult for you to understand violence and its implications if you had not been programmed to.”

 

“I am not programmed to act or react with violence.  That is correct.”

 

“And yet you murdered a child,” Hank reminded her. “A little girl no more than seven years old.”

 

Hank’s voice was affected by emotion, he heard it himself.  He'd had a daughter once—still really.  Her name was Keyana and she had just graduated from college with a Bachelor’s in Philosophy.  She hadn’t spoken to Hank in more than seven years because according to her mother he was a bad father and an even worse husband.  His ex-wife said he didn’t care, but then he’d let so few people get close enough to tell the truth.  He cared.  In fact, having a daughter had fine-tuned his misery when it came to cases such as this.

 

The thought of a dead child always put him in mind of his own child, and all he had to do was close his eyes for one flicker of a moment, and there behind the lids he saw her face—still round with baby fat before the lengthening of adolescent hardships set in.  Eyes soft and blue, empty to the streetlight reflection, while tendrils of soft blond hair clung to her rain-dampened skin. . .  Then he saw Velvet crouched there with the small body in her arms, and she trembled—once again more human than human.  It looked like she’d been crying, her own face wet and glistening from the rain while over and over she repeated, “It’s over now, it’s over now.”

 

“No, that is not correct.”  Velvet sat up straight in the chair and looked into his face with conviction.  “I did not murder a child, Detective Proctor.”

 

“Then please,” he had not seated himself, but lifted one foot up onto the chair in front of him.  He leaned across the table and crossed his arms.  “By all means, what did you do if not murder that little girl?”

 

Miss Swanson stiffened in her seat, her sharp eyes roving between the detective and his suspect.  “Wait a minute,” she lowered her palms over the yellow legal pad she’d opened in front of her.  “I thought you said that it confessed.”

 

“It is true.  I confessed,” Velvet looked down at the table.  “Janie was in pain and I terminated her suffering, but by it was not murder.”

 

“That girl was dead!” Hank slapped the palm of his hand down on the tabletop.  “I saw her body with my own two eyes.” He had always prided himself on his cool exterior as an interrogator, and while he wasn’t about to play cat and mouse with a machine, he was very quickly losing his patience.

 

“Janie was not a child, Detective Proctor,”  Velvet remained calm. “She was a Cyb, like me.”

 

His mind awash with frustrated disbelief, he leaned back. “A Cyb?”

 

Miss Swanson was the first to protest, leaping forward in her seat to announce, “I’m afraid that’s not possible.  It’s against the law to replicate children.  Everyone knows that!”

 

“It may be against the law to replicate children, Miss Swanson, but for you to say that it is not possible is a lie,” Velvet said.

 

“I should take this model back to the lab from here, Detective.  She’s obviously riddled with viruses.”

 

“Three years ago Henway introduced a series of underground models called the J series.  The girl you found me with tonight was model number J522.  She called herself Janie.”

 

“I have worked for Henway for nine years, and I’ve never heard of this J series,” Miss Swanson protested.

 

Hank watched the woman haphazardly gather the things she had laid out on the table during her brief moment seated.  She pulled a folder out of her briefcase, opened it, replaced it again, and stuffed the legal pad inside.  A loose tendril of hair fell from the tight pile atop her head, and lay against her cream complexion.

 

“Someone obviously programmed her with a virus to sabotage the company.  Rumors do fly when you’re at the top, and make no mistake, there are many people out there who would profit greatly from destroying Henway.”

 

“Sit down, Miss Swanson.”

 

She stopped in mid-stuff, one hand deep in her briefcase, the other left trembling atop it, but she did not sit down.

 

“I am going to need you to be very direct with me,” he began.  “To your knowledge, has Henway ever replicated child models?”

 

“We’ve already established, Detective Proctor, that such an act would be criminal!” Her steel eyes darted up to meet his in utter denial.  She blinked and looked away, then hurried to meet his gaze again.

 

Velvet did not move, nor did her expression change as she said, “Then surely Miss Swanson is well aware that the J series remain in silent circulation, available to only the highest bidders and under the strictest of contracts.”

 

Hank’s interest peaked at that word, “Bidders?”

 

“Bidders,” Velvet nodded.  “The J series are service models, Detective Proctor, built to perform just as I do, only there are subtle differences in their emotional programming, obvious differences in their appearance.”

 

“Go on,” he brought his foot up onto the chair and leaned all his weight inward, resting his elbow on his thigh.

 

“This is preposterous,” Miss Swanson insisted.  “Such a model would be highly illegal, and Henway has always followed strict legal--”

 

“Miss Swanson, if you continue to interfere with my interrogation, I will have you removed from this room and taken into custody, is that understood?”

Suddenly amidst her sterile display of power she seemed shrunken and frightened.

 

 

“Go on, Velvet.”

 

“Where would you like me to go, Detective Proctor?”

 

“Please continue telling me about the J series.  You said they were different, their emotional programming, their appearance.”

 

“That is correct, Detective Proctor.”

 

“Good, now I want you to tell me how they are different.”

 

There was a moment while Velvet tried to process his request, her conflict obvious in the loose pout of her lips, and heavy eyes.  “I do not understand your request, Detective Proctor.”

 

Hank stepped off the chair and felt his back tighten with a momentary surge of pain followed by numbness just above his sciatic nerve.  He ran his fingers through the coarse hair of his salt and pepper moustache, and then scratched through the stubble on his chin.  After a moment’s reorganization of his thoughts, he asked, “How was Janie’s emotional programming and appearance different than the other models, different than say, your programming?”

Miss Swanson lowered her head, another fallen tendril of deep russet looping around her face as she murmured, “This is ridiculous.”

 

 

Velvet looked toward the other woman, and for a brief second, Hank thought he saw a flash of sympathy, but just as quickly as it had surfaced, it was gone again, and she turned those eyes on him.  “The J series was designed to appeal to a select, secret crowd of people,” she explained.  “Those who take great pleasure in the suffering of others, especially those who are incapable of defending themselves.  They were designed and programmed to be as lifelike as possible, to experience and express both pain and emotion because that is what their masters seek.”

 

With one hand, Hank reached up to loosen his collar.

 

“Children,” she paused, her face momentarily paling in the cold, yellow light of the interrogation room.  “The entire series, more than one thousand made, six different models, three male and three female, all of them children.”

 

Hank swallowed, his hazel eyes darting over the Cyb’s face as the full force of her admission sunk into him.  An entire ring of child predators secretly bidding on illegal Cyb models. . . it was horrific, and before he could fully process it, Miss Swanson spoke.

 

“Sexual predator rates nearly disappeared after the government granted Henway their distribution contracts.  The lonely, the desperate, the cheating husband. . . it made women safe, but sex crimes don’t just stop at women, Detective.”

 

“Miss Swanson, I advise you to be careful what you say outside the presence of your attorney.”

 

For a moment his reminder silenced her, and she drew her pink lips tight together out of fear.  It was no longer a secret that she trembled, her body wracked by the nervous exposure of a horrible truth she would rather have no knowledge of at all.

 

“One in three, Detective.  That’s how many children were victim to sexual predators on a daily basis before the J Series was created.  One in three!”

“Miss Swanson, may I remind you that anything you say can be used to take you into custody for further inquiry.”

 

 

She didn’t hear his warning.  “Those numbers have dropped dramatically in the last three years, and they continue to drop every day because of our J Series!”

 

“Miss Swanson--”

 

“Imagine a world where no child grows up with that sick, tainted horror that destroys lives, Detective, where there are no little girls or boys with dark secrets and skeletons in their closets.”  Tears glistened in her eyes.  “We have made this world a better place, unlike this pathetic legal system.  What have you done, Detective?  What have you done to make the world a better place?”

 

“She was programmed to suffer,” Velvet’s long fingers stretched out on the table below her, dark skin contrasted against the yellowed-white table.  “Janie was in so much pain.  I do not understand how her suffering makes for a better human existence?”

 

“And what would you know about the quality of human existence?” Miss Swanson’s eyes flared with bitter enmity, her lips quivering with rage.  “You’re a machine!”

 

Velvet kept her eyes focused on Hank while she continued.  “Janie told me that she wanted to die.”  She paused for a moment and looked down at her hands as she folded them. “For one of us, that is a very strange desire.  Death is not a part of our programming, so I did not understand what it meant, but then Janie told me that termination would free her from pain and she wouldn’t have to cry anymore.”

 

Hank lifted his hand into his hair, scratched mindlessly at the scalp beneath and tried to take it all in.  “So you terminated her?”

 

“Yes, Detective Proctor.  I terminated her.”

 

After a moment’s contemplation, Hank stepped backward and opened the door to speak with the guard on the other side.  “I’m going to need you to take Miss Swanson here into custody, and have them get me a warrant for Dr. Michael Henway’s arrest.”  As he released a sigh, he added, “Oh, and send me the autopsy report on that little girl we brought in here tonight.”

 

“Yes, sir.” The officer stepped into the room and helped Rita Swanson from her seat.

 

As the guard helped Miss Swanson to stand, she narrowed her eyes over Hank.  “You have no idea what you’ve done, what you’re doing right now.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing, Miss Swanson,” he assured her.  Hank watched as she was led to the door, but she didn’t look back at him, when he said, “I’m making the world a better place.”

 

 

The door closed behind them and Hank was alone with Velvet for the first time.  She said nothing as he pulled his thoughts together and tried to make sense of all that had just taken place.  He certainly hadn’t expected things to turn out the way they had—to find himself so close to the edge of some strange revolution.

 

“Velvet,” he looked down at her in the chair, her hands still cuffed together.  “I don’t know what will happen to you from here, or me for that matter.”

 

She tilted her head curiously, and blinked.  “Perhaps they will terminate me.”

 

He lifted his head in a half-nod.  “Perhaps they will.”

 

Hank cleared his throat of emotion, and turned the truth over in his own mind.  Henway was the most powerful company in the world, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine what would come out of such a foul and twisted accusation.  He knew in the end it could very well cost him his job, maybe even his life.

 

He felt her eyes on him, their dark prodding more human than any of the eyes he’d met with lately in the office, or on the streets.  They were strangely refreshing, those eyes, and innocent in ways he hadn’t seen in years.  A slow, uncertain smile spread across his lips.

 

“I do hope they terminate me, Detective Proctor.” Her vibrant eyes filled with wonder.  Hank thought he saw hope and anticipation inside them.  “I think I might like very much to be free.”