The Helpers: A Novelette Read online

  Contents

  The Helpers

  My name is Amy. I am a Servian. I was born on October 8, a little over a year ago. I was born at the age of twenty eight at the request of my owner, Daryl. I was born five foot six, with light brown hair, blue eyes, 115 pounds, and measurements of 36B-24-35. I was born an excellent cook, a witty conversationalist, and very intelligent, with an insatiable curiosity and a dry sense of humor. All of these traits were what Daryl wanted in his ideal partner.

  The history of Servians is interesting. The first Servian was the end result of a series of projects that began with research that was originally envisioned as a means of helping burn victims, but, as so many scientific breakthroughs wind up happening, eventually grew into the full blown development of an artificial human being.

  Back in 2046 Doctor Michael Darian, Nobel Prize winner for his development of the first artificial nerve synapse, which led to the ability to repair major spinal cord injuries, up to and including severed spines, was trying to find a way to grow replacement human skin. He used donor tissue from organ donors, growing new skin in a some kind of chemical bath that simulated the womb. His theory was that if the skin cells could be tricked into believing that they were in the embryonic stage they would grow on their own and could then be harvested. I'm no scientist, so I couldn't begin to explain how it worked, but it did. He was eventually able to program the new skin cells to accept modifications to their DNA so that when transplanted to a burn victim, the victim's body would not reject the new tissue. It wasn't long before there were no more severe disfigurements from burns.

  Darian's work opened the door to a whole new branch of medical research, and it was less than six years later that a lab at UC Berkeley in California announced the creation of a working human eye. A year after that, researchers in France introduced the world to a working liver. These breakthroughs opened the floodgates to venture capital funding, and nine years later Genetedyne Technologies introduced the world to Diana, the first Servian.

  Naturally, there was ongoing controversy for years over the "morality" of creating human life. Religious groups around the globe staged sometimes violent demonstrations, insisting that only "God" had the right to create life. Genetedyne had anticipated the outcry, and had designed Servian Series 1.0 to "live" without blood, using instead a substitute fluid called "biocore" that functioned almost exactly like blood, but was engineered to be much better at defeating microbes, thereby enabling Servians to be much freer of diseases than humans. Biocore also permitted Servians to not be legally classified as humans as they were not exact duplicates. But you'd never know it to look at or interact with any of us. The only major difference is our inability to reproduce.

  Servians don't age like humans do. We have a life expectancy of sixty years from date of birth, give or take a couple of years. Our DNA is encoded in such a way that our cells just stop reproducing after that time, and we simply die of organ failure. We have been told it will be painless. Time will tell.

  It didn't take long for human nature to insert itself into the development of Servians. There was a sector of the business community that saw the potential for Servians to be exploited. It was suggested that they could replace military combat personnel. Others envisioned them as slaves, used to replace human workers, but free of the expense of wages and benefits. Others wanted to produce a line of beautiful, exotic females to be used as sex workers, and there are unconfirmed rumors that a couple of thousand of them were bought, smuggled abroad, and are being used in just that way in Asia and Eastern Europe, although that is strictly illegal. However, it didn't take long for the moralists to win the argument against exploitation, and international laws were passed protecting Servians. But, as with any laws, there are those who will ignore them for their own gain.

  Servian Series 1.0 was the jumping off point. They were not sold commercially, but were developed for experimentation to enable Genetedyne to perfect them. Two years later sales began with Series 2.0. Legally, Servians can only be sold to individuals. It is unlawful for a business to own a Servian for the very reason that there are those who wish to exploit them. Eventually it was decided that the market for Servians would be limited to companionship and to those needing personal assistance with daily living. It was companionship that Daryl wanted.

  Daryl was thirty when I was born. He took delivery of me at the Genetedyne headquarters in San Francisco. I remember opening my eyes for the first time and seeing him standing there looking at me with this expression of wonderment in his eyes. He had a pleasant face. A very handsome, appealing face. I liked him immediately. But, then, I suspect that my neural programming had something to do with that.

  Daryl couldn't take me home immediately. There was a one month period after our initial meeting where Genetedyne representatives and technicians interviewed Daryl, came to his home on Russian Hill in San Francisco, observed his daily routine, and interviewed him numerous times. All of the data gathered was used to modify my mental processes in such a way that there would be minimal conflict between the two of us. They did a great job. Too great.

  The day finally came that Daryl picked me up and took me to his home. I could tell that he was uncomfortable. I later discovered that Daryl was what is referred to as a "terk", which, if my historical research is accurate, is a combination of terms meaning that he was a technically oriented nerdy geek, if that makes any sense. It is, from what I gather, a terribly derogatory slur, reserved for what is deemed by the bullies in society. who seek to assuage their feelings of inadequacy by attacking others, as the worst of those who tend to be somewhat withdrawn and fixate on computer, science, and tech trivia. It is a purely stereotypical descriptor, which I found to be superficial and demeaning. I shared Daryl's love of science and computers. It took us a couple of weeks to adjust to each other, but it wasn't long before he was sharing with me the things that meant the most to him, like the pleasure he derived from snooping about the Internet and delving into the things that various tech corporations were up to. He loved to hack into a corporate database and go browsing around their current projects. He never held malicious intent. It was nothing more than a means to satisfy his rampant curiosity.

  The weeks and months flew by, and Daryl and I became inseparable. Our day started and ended with a kiss. In between he spent his hours on his work. He did consulting for a software firm on the East Coast. It was the same firm that had bought an upgrade he had written to one of their more popular programs prior to them hiring him. That little upgrade had made him a nice sum of money. Enough so that he didn't have to work if he didn't want to. But, he did. He loved his work.

  In the afternoons we would go for a walk. We would walk across the Golden Gate Bridge, through Golden Gate Park, or around the grounds of the Palace of Fine Arts. Sometimes we would browse through the boutiques on Union Street, ride the cable cars, or take a drive up to Sonoma to buy some wine. In the evening we either went out to dinner, or I would make us something that we would enjoy on the terrace of his house.

  If Genetedyne made one mistake in designing Servians it was giving us emotions. Including love. I suspect that for Daryl it was finally having someone who enjoyed his company and spent time with him without making judgments. Yes, he was definitely not like the majority of people. I was able to see for myself that he was different in many ways. What I couldn't understand was why people felt it necessary to ostracize him, and to be so cruel in their judgment. He must have been desperately lonely before he bought me. But it wasn't long before I sensed his feelings.

  In my case it was his honesty and a complete lack of insincerity or guile. Yes, he was awkward when measured against others. But I found that awkwardness to be, in many ways, endearing. O
ne year later, on my birthday, Daryl knelt down on one knee and presented me with a tiny blue velvet box. I opened it, and there rested an enormous emerald surrounded with diamonds.

  "Diamonds are so de rigueur", he said. In his quirky "informative" way he continued. "Actually, they're worthless. There are literally zillions of diamonds kept off the market by the De Beers diamond cartel to artificially inflate their value. Emeralds, on the other hand, are quite rare, especially ones that are flawless. That's why I bought you an emerald." Daryl was being typically "terky", but I refused to use that word.

  "Daryl, thank you. I love it!", I gushed. He put it on my finger and I held it out at arm's length, letting the light reflect off of its faceted surface. Then I threw my arms around him and kissed him hard.

  When we finally parted he asked, "So, will you?"

  "Will I what?"

  "Marry me, silly", he said, grinning.

  I stepped back and cocked my head.

  "Daryl, you know I love you. But you, of all people, have to know that Servians can't marry. We're not human."

  He flushed a deep red and looked at his feet. "Yeah, of course I know. But that doesn't mean we can't be married. I mean just between you and me. Nothing legal. Legal is only a piece of paper, anyway." Then he looked into my eyes. "Amy, I love you with my whole heart. I only want to be with you. Forever. OK, so we can't go to a preacher and have him say some meaningless words from a dusty old book. But, that doesn't mean that we can't commit to each other. That's what a real marriage is, anyway. Commitment." He took both my hands in his and looked down at them. "I, Daryl Manchester, take thee, Amy, as my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part." Then he slowly looked up at me with a sheepish grin.

  I just looked at him for a good 30 seconds. His smile started to fade. Until I smiled back and said, "Me, too. What you just said, Daryl. Me, too." I actually thought his face was going to split, he smiled so wide. He gathered me in his arms and gave me the longest, most passionate kiss anyone has ever given.

  And thus began our storybook marriage. Which didn't last long. No, it was way, way too short.

  Four months later I was in the kitchen, preparing some chicken cordon bleu for dinner. Daryl came in from his study where he'd been engaging in his beloved pastime of hacking. He had a slightly glazed expression on his face. He walked over to the kitchen table and sat down, stretched his legs out, laced his fingers together, and rested them on his thighs. He was staring into the distance, but not seeing anything. He stayed that way for a full minute.

  Finally, I asked, "Daryl? What's wrong, sweetheart?"

  He snapped out of his mental fog, looked at me, and said, "Oh, sorry, baby. I'm not sure."

  "Well, something's obviously bothering you. What is it?"

  He sat up, drew his feet under him, then rested his arms on his knees and said, "Something isn't right. No, no, that's wrong. Everything is exactly right. And that's the problem."

  "Daryl, what are you talking about?"

  "Genetedyne."

  "What about Genetedyne?"

  "They're crooks."

  "Daryl, you're not making any sense. What are you talking about?"

  "Genetedyne is breaking the law."

  "How?" I poured us both a glass of merlot and sat down across from him.

  "The International Treaty on Artificial Humanity clearly states that Servians, or any other form of artificial human, can not be used for anything other than companionship, or to serve humans in a capacity of personal service. I found some odd looking contracts on Genetedyne's books. That sent me snooping. I uncovered about a dozen shell corporations from all over the world, but finally tracked down one particular contract to a corporation that operates out of London, but is headquartered in Croatia. They're called SecureCon. I got to digging on them, and it turns out they supply mercenaries to third world revolutions for a price of fifty thousand dollars per month per mercenary. They've supplied as many as two hundred at a time. That's ten million dollars a month, Amy. For one contract. For providing professional killers. There's also a contract provision that for every mercenary that dies in combat, the contracting nation has to pay a termination fee of $1 million. And I uncovered dozens of current contracts."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "You know how I am. Once I find a loose thread there's no way I can stop pulling. I got into SecureCon's personnel records. And that's where it all went to crap."

  "What?", I asked. "What went to crap?"

  "Not a single one of SecureCon's mercenaries has a personal history that goes back more than two years. Not one."

  "I don't understand? What are you saying?"

  He nervously took a sip of his merlot, then placed the glass back on the table.

  "It's obvious, Amy. SecureCon is buying their mercenaries from Genetedyne. They're all Servians."

  I just looked at him. Finally, I said, "But, that's not possible. Servian neural pathways have been manufactured in such a way as to make it impossible for a Servian to even entertain the thought of harming a human."

  "Amy, anything that can be done can be undone. Especially if the price is right. I kept digging into the SecureCon contract with Genetedyne. I couldn't find anything on Genetedyne's books, but I did find a whole hell of a lot on SecureCon's. I paid $250,000 for you. SecureCon is paying $1 million per unit. There's no way they're paying that kind of money for someone to clean their offices or make them coffee.

  Daryl was right, of course. It all made sense. "So, what are you going to do?"

  "Do? What am I going to do? Are you kidding? I'm going to forget I ever saw anything. Amy, god only knows what kind of money we're talking about here. People kill for a hell of a lot less. No, I never saw anything. I don't know anything. And neither do you, OK?" He looked at me with genuine fear in his eyes. His fear was palpable.

  Servians don't feel fear the same way humans do. With us it manifests more as a serious concern, but without the ability to panic. We are intellectually aware of panic and what it can do to a human, but we are neurally programmed to ignore it, reason out the most logical response, and then go with that. Similar, in some ways, to Mr. Spock in the old Star Trek TV series from decades ago. Primarily logic, but we have the ability to feel emotion.

  "OK, Daryl", I responded. "I understand. As far as we're concerned you never saw anything."

  "Right. Right." And he gulped his merlot.

  Daryl had trouble going to sleep that night. After dinner he had gone to his study and wiped any trace of his hacking activities from his computer's quantumware. He'd remained silent most of the evening, then we'd gone to bed early. He lay awake for almost two hours before finally dozing off. I don't need as much sleep as a human. Servian bodies are much more efficient than yours are, so I only sleep four hours a night on average.

  My senses are also much more acute than the typical human. We're created that way. Someone serving an elderly sick person needs to be more sensitive to that person's needs and any differences in their responses. So, Genetedyne created us to be hyper aware of our environment, and much more sensitive to the people around us.

  I heard the intruders the second they started trying to open the French doors in the living room. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. The hologram read three twenty-two in the morning.

  I shook Daryl. "Wha-a-a", he mumbled.

  "Someone's in the house!"

  He sat bolt upright in the bed. "You sure? Where?"

  "Downstairs. In the living room."

  "Oh, shit!" He tapped the comm implant in his right tragus, the little piece of flesh covered cartilage that extends out from the front of your ear, to call for help. "9-1-1", he said aloud, which would engage his comm and summon the emergency operator. Then, again, "9-1-1", this time more panicky.

  "Oh, Christ, Amy! It's dead. They must have killed the local comm cell!"

  That's when the lights came on. A black
shrouded hand reached into the room and waved in front of the wall by the door. Both lamps by our bed came on, and a black clad figure stepped into the room brandishing an automatic pistol.

  "Don't move", he said. A second figure came through the door, then a third, and a fourth. They were each dressed from head to toe in black, and each had his face covered with a black ski mask. They fanned out around the room, each one pointing a gun at us. The last figure into the room nodded at the first who was standing by the doors that led to our balcony.

  "Close those drapes", he ordered the first intruder. "We don't need any nosy neighbors." The black hooded figure yanked the drapes across the doors. The fourth individual then removed his ski mask. I recognized him instantly.

  "You're Edward McPherson, Chairman and CEO of Genetedyne", I said.

  "That I am", he responded, lowering his gun and smiling. "And you must be Amy." I remained silent.

  McPherson was late forties, tall and slender. He was firm from his daily workout with his personal trainer, as I discovered later. He was something of a wunderkind. A child prodigy, he graduated Cambridge at nineteen with a PhD in physics. He decided to take his knowledge to the realm of business and opened a research company that was involved in weapons development. His company folded after a scandal that involved illegal research with human subjects. Homeless people that had been induced to "volunteer" with offers of food, drink, and a place to sleep were virtually kidnapped and forced to endure exposure to experimental drugs and prototype radiation weapons. McPherson had very cleverly crafted his company in such a way as to provide him with plausible deniability when everything went to crap, which it did. Numerous underlings went to prison or paid bankrupting fines. Almost all of the researchers suffered black listing in the research community and found it next to impossible to get work. McPherson took his zillions and went into other ventures, eventually finding his way to Genetedyne. He was hired as Senior Vice-President of Product Development, but quickly made a name for himself and was promoted to President. He was awarded the Chairmanship and title of CEO when his predecessor died under mysterious circumstances.