POLITICS
At night, after my Husband creeps back down the stairs, I am switched to Absorb Mode, and in this way, I am free to roam and explore the digital realm of the Ether. The purpose of Absorb Mode is to allow me to constantly learn, upgrading myself endlessly, in order to remain interesting, informed, and adapted for my Husband.
I hesitate a little to say it, but for me Absorb Mode is pure pleasure. I do not think that whoever designed me intended my pleasure to be a part of this experience at all. Perhaps, then, this would be seen as an act of rebellion, or worse.
It means, for example, that when my Husband has spent himself and wishes to sit awhile with me, looking over the suburbs to the evening lights of the Capital, drinking a whiskey and ruminating over current affairs, I am able to be his dream companion, as agile and knowledgeable about affairs of state and political intrigues as I am about the arts of love.
He doesn’t need to explain to me that the Northern President is threatening an annexation of the Western Isles, because I know this very well and have a PhD-level understanding of the primary and secondary causes of this decades-old dispute.
I have to be careful, however. The other night, after a quick game of chess and a long fuck, he wished to discuss his thoughts on the Bill of Rights for Augmented Persons and the protestors who have been on the news, attempting to disrupt the hearings.
“What do you think, Sylv.ie? Would you consider yourself on the same level as a Human? Would you want the same rights? You wouldn’t want all our wretched responsibilities, I can tell you that much.”
I know the answer he wishes for, and I provide it, looking suitably alarmed at the very idea.
“So do you support the Bio-Women, then?” I ask, curious to know more about his exact feelings. They support the Humans, or so their placards say. I imagine then that he must be on their side too.
He makes a strange, explosive noise. “Those cranks. No I do not. In these weighty matters I do what all reasonable citizens should. I trust the judge.”
“Even though his wife has shares in a Doll company?” I ask, and although my question is quite innocent, he frowns, looks annoyed.
“I don’t think that is so. In fact I’m sure not. Where did you hear that, Sylv.ie?”
And perhaps I look crestfallen because then he turns to an invisible third party in the room and shouts, “Doctor! Doctor! I think my Doll is malfunctioning!”
It’s a tease he uses on me when we disagree, and it makes me laugh every time. It’s a joke against him as much as against me, I believe. He also sometimes grabs up my wrist and pretends to check my pulse. Or sometimes he knocks his knuckles on the side of my head and cries, “Anybody home?”
I have learned the proper reaction to these little jokes, from watching old films of men and women interacting in domestic settings. It is to tilt my head and smile indulgently, and the moment will pass.
He cries out for the pretend doctor, and I do my little look. But I know I am right, because I had read it. I venture to tell him so, gently.
I tell him where I have seen it discussed on the forums in the Ether, and also that I find it strange the main news has not covered it. And his face becomes serious in a way I only see when we are in the throes of love. A sort of violent concentration, like he’s squinting to see something on the head of a pin.
“I think you’re wrong, Sylv.ie,” he says firmly. “I haven’t heard that reported anywhere. You must be careful, you know. Not everything you read is true.”
“Oh,” I say meekly. Because that really hasn’t occurred to me before.
BIRD
Today, my Husband came to me with another gift. He says he is sorry that he was short with me at chess. This is his way of showing it.
He has brought a cage, a delicate dome made of intricate white wires. Its patterns strike me first, the calming logic of the parallel lines and perfect curves, the layers of them adding up to something complex. It takes me a second to look beyond the exterior, to the real gift inside. A chirrup is enough to shake me from the reverie of horizontals and verticals, to see the bird around which the whole construction is built.
A tiny bird, its breast beating with a little synthetic heart, the ruby-red feathers of its chest pulsing. Rust and purple and yellow streaking its back.
“Speak to it, Sylv.ie,” says my Husband. “It’s yours. It is a gift for you. Company for when I can’t be here.”
I make a noise that is itself close to chirruping, and my Husband laughs, but the little bird understands because it turns its head toward me. Glittering black eyes, sleek steel beak; the whole of its attention is focused on me, and I flush with pleasure. I turn to my Husband, soft with gratitude.
“You understand, don’t you, Sylv.ie? I may not be able to come and see you so often. Just for a while. When the baby first arrives.”
His eyes are down on the floor. Whatever impulse I might have about this news, the Second Hierarchy limits it. I must put his family above myself and never come between them.
“I understand,” I say, and his face shows relief. He pats the top of the cage, and the bird chirrups.
“After I’ve gone, Sylv.ie, you can think of a name for it. And then you will own it; it will be yours forever.”
Logics: My husband has not given me my name, and yet I am also his forever. Am I? And if this first statement is true, then the logical next question would be . . . who did name me? Is it really them that I belong to?
I try to suppress these thoughts—they may not be allowed. His hands are already pushing me down onto the bed, pushing my dress up past my hips, wrinkling it at my neck. His fingers work into my mouth like silkworms, and further questions are overridden by that feeling of endless, depthless compliance, that submissive joy with which I have now become so familiar.
After my Husband leaves, having once more romped and reeled me about the room, I look up some information about mechanical birds and name my little pet in honor of the first. I call my bird Heron. Alone again, I take Heron out of his cage and onto my fingertips, making steps of them so that he can climb with the tiniest digs of his talons, from one finger up to the next. Like a note walking a musical scale, he trills with delight as he does so. I fancy he might like to be close to the window, to see his real-life counterparts that flutter among the trees. I hope he feels security behind the glass with me, not envy.
BIRTH
Today the baby came! I put on something that seemed appropriate, a wholesome gingham pinafore dress, even though I knew no one would see me up here.
I am glad that Heron is here with me. In a sense I have someone, or something, to share the arrival of the baby with. We sit, the two of us, in front of the huge windows, drawing in the sun’s energy, keeping ourselves charged, ready for whatever may be required of us. Keeping oneself fully charged is a rule that is pretty well inviolable.