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Falling in Love Bit By Bit

This is a story set in the not-so-distant future. It explores how humans and robots might interact and how they might even fall in love. It's a tale of betrayal, deception and maybe a little redemption. If you're looking for quickie sex or a stroke story, hit the "Back" button now because this is the wrong story for you. I hope you enjoy!

****************

She felt the bullets coming before the sound registered in her audio sensors. With a graceful roll, A617.D dodged the projectiles. Not bothering to look in the direction of the shooter, she raised the slug-thrower and let loose with a burst of armour-piercing bullets of her own. None of them struck her pursuers, but then again, she wasn't really trying to hit them. She just wanted them to put their heads down, and there's nothing like a hail of 10mm explosive-tipped caseless that makes someone—even a full conversion cyborg—take cover.

Without hesitation, A617.D leaped over the railing and fell twenty stories. No one jumped after her.

Her titanium-reinforced endoskeleton absorbed the impact when she struck the pavement, leaving a three foot deep hole where she landed. Terrified onlookers scuttled out of her way. With a quick glance around, A617.D decided none of the humans around her posed a threat, then ran towards her getaway craft.

Knowing there would be ground units in pursuit, A617.D could outrun any human that wasn't wearing a jetpack, but unless she could break through the inevitable security ring, she would be trapped.

That's why there were contingency plans.

The glare of police sirens filled the air. She could hear them coming, her enhanced auditory suite picking up sounds too high and too low for human ears. Her internal antennas monitored police and military frequencies. A very sophisticated—and very expensive—sensor package tracked everything that moved within a quarter mile. She knew where her adversaries were and what they were up to. That was of little comfort to the assassin, though. They were well trained and had combat robots of their own to hunt her down.

What they lacked, though, was the sheer ingenuity that went in to her construction. No expense had been spared in A617.D or her "sisters". Their primary function was killing, and they were very good at it. So good, in fact, that her inventor and manufacturer had to go into hiding, lest they be done in by any number of people who had a score to settle with a presidential assassin or the people responsible for knocking off a crime lord or drug kingpin.

Along with the other robots on this mission, A617.D had access to no less than four escape vehicles along carefully planned egress routes, and she was making her way to the nearest ones. The other assassin robots would find their own flitters and escape.

The collision sensor alerted her to the incoming missile that missed by less than a foot. It streaked by and hit a nearby groundcar. She vaulted over the explosion and landed amidst broken bodies, human and robot alike. Bullets peppered the street, raining down from an aerial gunship.

Everyone scrambled for cover, including A617.D.

Escape. Evade. This unit is in danger. The short tachyon communication burst from I825.M barely registered in her consciousness, but the orders did not pass her notice.

This unit is surrounded. Another set of instructions passed through her positronic mind in a nanosecond, this time from C224.J. Complete the mission.

Within her biomechanical brain, A617.D analysed the shared telemetry data from her two companions. Both were being pursued heavily. The odds of survival for each was less than 3 percent. Calculating her own chances, she came up with something on the order of 26 percent. She was the logical choice to make another run at the objective while the other two created a distraction.

The pieces of the exploding groundcar were still falling from the sky in the time it took for A617.D to assess the situation. She raised her pistol and emptied the magazine in the direction of the nearest police car.

Around her, humans screamed in terror. True to their base programming, robots jumped between the muzzle of A617.D's weapon and the organic lifeforms that had created them. Assassin robots were not encumbered with a conscience or the need to protect human life. They did not need sleep, food or a reason to kill. There was only the mission. And failure was not an option. She was preparing to return to the objective when one of the others stopped her.

This unit has the targets in sight. One of her sisters flashed her another communication packet. A617.D did not have emotions, although she was programmed to simulate them, if only to pass as human and infiltrate a target. She knew I825.M was about to self-destruct, but she didn't care. Escape. Evade.

She turned away from the carnage and resumed her run towards the aircar. The humans around her cowered and scrambled out of her way.

An instant before I825.M blew herself up, A617.D received another fast tachyon burst, uploading the other robot's last memories and useful sensor data. It proved the mission was a success and would secure payment for their master.

The humans's shrieks of terror became louder when the 56th floor of the Comp-Tinier building exploded, raining glass, metal and bodies down on the streets below.

In the confusion, A617.D threw her gun into a nearby trash bin and shed her coat. In the blink of an eye, her hair extended by four centimeters then darkened from platinum blonde to a deep auburn. Her eyes changed colour and she altered the retinal pattern so the nearby scanners would register a different "person". A moment later, she received a second data burst from C224.J and another explosion rocked downtown.

Escape. Evade. The final orders were all A617.D knew.

****************

"Hey, Campbell," one of the techs waved his hand in front of the 3-D holographic screen. "We're goin' downstairs to grab a bite to eat. You hungry?"

He looked up, annoyed. "No."

"Suit yourself," the other man shrugged. He was only being polite anyway. His co-workers left the lab, leaving Holland Campbell staring at the code, trying to figure out where he had messed up.

Without question, Campbell was the smartest person in the company, if not on the entire east coast. His ideas weren't just brilliant, they were sometimes so far out of the box, they bordered on being downright crazy. Yet, they almost always worked. His research in the fields of biomechanics and nanotechnology were revolutionary.

He was also a rather odd man. Not in a strange way, but even though he held over two dozen patents of various cybernetic devices, he was decidedly old-fashioned. He eschewed optic or audio implants. He drove his own car. There was no droud implanted behind his ear that let him interface directly with a computer. He did it with voice-activation, a keyboard and sometimes hand-mounted pointers. Campbell even wore eyeglasses.

The company indulged his eccentricities and paid his outrageous fees because he needed their resources and they liked to make money. Holland Campbell was a brilliant—nay, visionary—computer engineer, but he was also a little scatter-brained. The company gave him the freedom to do what he wished. They funded his projects and whims. He got to do research and they got a share of his riches. Everyone benefitted.

Some of his co-workers joked—behind his back, of course—that he was more machine than human. While not socially inept, Holland was smarter than everyone else around him and they all knew it. He was neither exceedingly pompous nor arrogant, so rather than talk down to people, he often simply didn't talk at all. The other people in the lab had graduate degrees from the best schools in the country, but even they weren't up to his level.

That's why they often left him alone for lunch. He kept strange hours, sometimes working eighteen or twenty hours straight; other times he wouldn't show up for days. No one questioned him; even the company's project managers knew to let him be. He might take two years before producing anything, but you could bet that when he emerged from his lab, whatever it was he came up with would not only work, but would work well. And it made everyone around him very, very wealthy. It seemed he had the Midas Touch.

So Holland Campbell sat there, staring at the code, wondering what wasn't working. He didn't pay any attention to the stereovision as it updated the world on the latest news. Nor did he hear the doors to the lab open, or hear the soft footfalls of the woman who walked over to greet him.

It wasn't until she was standing behind him that he even registered another person in the room. He ignored her, thinking the gorgeous woman to be one of his labmates returning from lunch early.

After a few moments, she cleared her throat. Still, he did not look up.

"Excuse me," she said finally. Her voice was soft and melodic with just a touch of Castilian. "Mr. Campbell?"

He turned, his brow creased with just a hint of anger. Everyone knew not to bother him. His voice was curt. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Miriam Garcia," she said extending her hand. He didn't bother to take it. She continued, unfazed. "I was just assigned to this division and told to report to you."

"Welcome to Neurodyne," he said without much emotion. "You've reported. Talk to Vic or Kirstie when they get back. Try not to break anything and stay out of the way."

If he could, Holland would have worked by himself. But he found that sometimes he needed a helping hand to do some heavy lifting or other menial task (if positronic engineering could be considered menial), so he tolerated the assistants the company provided. Deep down, he suspected that this new girl was just one more person sent to keep an eye on him. She would be gone in a few weeks, so he mentally dismissed her and turned back to his work.

After a few minutes of silence, Campbell had forgotten about the woman standing behind him, but she never moved. Instead he concentrated on the code. Nothing came to him. Moments of programmer's block were common and he was determined to wait it out. It wasn't until he paused to reach for his coffee cup that she spoke again.

"Your core algorithm in the tertiary search string is wrong," she said quietly.

Campbell turned, clearly irritated that she would dare speak to him that way. After all, what did some wet-behind-the-ears intern know about computer neural networks?

"I've gone over this—"

"And you missed it." She cut him off. His lip curled up into an angry sneer. She ignored his glare and stepped up to the display.

When she reached into the 3-D tank, he saw she was already wearing a harness on her hands that would let her re-write the code. Where the others might have wilted before Campbell's anger, Miriam pulled several strings to the front of the tank and pushed the rest aside.

Her hands moved in short, deliberate strokes. Taking the bits and bytes of information she wanted and replacing the parts she didn't, she carefully re-wrote the program. Campbell stood next to her. Part of him simmered at being shown up by the new girl. And part of him—the part that was more interested in fixing his problem—paid attention to what she was doing. That part pushed the fury aside when he saw the direction her coding was taking.

He cursed himself for not seeing it earlier. With something between grudging admiration and genuine gratitude, he watched her finish the program.

A few minutes later, she was done. The lines of code hung suspended in the 3-D tank. She stepped aside to allow Campbell to inspect her work. Neither spoke for a long moment.

"Very nice," he said, conceding defeat. Still he had to try and get the last word in. "I'd have caught it."

Miriam only smiled politely. Satisfied that he was done looking over the display, she hit the "execute" button and this time, the program worked. The bugs were gone.

"Where are you from?" he asked, a little more conversationally. Deep down, Holland Campbell wasn't a bad guy. Nor was he uptight, elitist or smug, as others tended to think of him. He had just never met his intellectual equal. Until now.

"Cal Tech," Miriam replied.

"I'm sorry I gave you the bad impression," he said apologetically. He extended his hand. Miriam reached out and took it. "Holland Campbell. Welcome to Neurodyne."

"Miriam Garcia," she replied with a smile. "It's my pleasure."

****************

And so began what the other technicians called "The Great Thaw". Over the course of a few weeks, several of the others saw a side to Holland that was almost human. A few times, he even smiled. Of course, it wasn't to them. It was only to Miriam.

He still treated the rest of the staff about as well as most people treat cockroaches. He sent them on fools' errands and talked patronisingly to those who didn't catch on quickly enough. If someone screwed up, he let them—and everyone else within shouting range—know it. But they noticed he said "please" and "thank you" more frequently . . . well, maybe once or twice.

Miriam seemed to affect the rest of the staff, too. Unlike Holland, she was nice and personable. She treated everyone with respect, if not admiration, for their professional accomplishments. Very quickly, she became the mediator between Campbell and the others, mostly because she never seemed to fuck up and get chewed on.

Still, some professional jealousies remained, mostly from some of the lazier staff members who tried to circulate a rumour that she was sleeping with the boss. The others dismissed those notions, noting that not only had the work environment become a little more pleasant but productivity had gone up. The ones who would not shut up soon found themselves transferred to other units or let go altogether.

Their latest project was coming together nicely. For almost two centuries, humans had tried to build a positronic network modeled after the human brain. In some areas, they had succeeded. Robots could calculate faster than humans (decision-making), could retrieve data without error better (memory) and even learn from their mistakes. What they could not do was be creative. Robots think in a very linear manner. Their programming gives them purpose. They cannot give themselves purpose.

A robot is good at performing a set of tasks with pre-determined variables. It can respond to those variables with pre-determined responses. They are very efficient if given a task.

Holland Campbell's idea was to create a robot brain that could dream. A brain that could come with ideas on its own.

People had been trying this for decades, but none had succeeded. Until now. At least that's what he believed.

Seven people sat around the table. Campbell paced around the room. Holographic displays showed strings and strings of code. Green symbols meant the code was good to go. Yellow was for minor bugs. Blinking red indicated problems.

And there was far too much blinking red for anyone's liking.

"The program is good," Miriam said flatly. She waved her hand at the blinking strings. "I've checked every cluster twice. There is no reason why those lines don't work."

"Something has to be wrong," Kirstie Taylor's voice was filled with frustration. Holland was in one of his moods and most of them had been up for close to thirty hours with only a short nap here and there.

"So what is it?" Bok Phan asked from the back of the room. It didn't matter what the other woman's reply was; the look in his eyes was the result of too little sleep and too much work. He was itching for a fight. There had been a couple of shouting matches earlier in the night and tempers were short.

Before Kirstie could respond, Holland waved his hand. His voice was soft, but it carried. "Go home. Don't come back any sooner than forty-eight hours from now. We all need some rest."

The tone of his voice brokered no discussion. While he probably would not heed his own instructions, he was smart enough to know that the group had long since passed the possibility of being productive.

Holland stared at the pieces of the program scattered on displays around the room. Everyone filed out except Miriam.

"The code is good," she insisted.

"Obviously not," he replied curtly. Holland turned back to one of the monitors. "What are we missing?"

Neither spoke for a long time.

"What if it's not the code?" Holland asked. "What if it's something else?"

"Like what?" Miriam said, frustration edging into her voice.

"What if our whole assumption is wrong? What if . . ." His voice trailed off. "What if we're going down the wrong path?"

She started to reply but he held his hand up.

"Leave," he said. "Go home. Come back in two days."

When Holland Campbell got that look in his eyes, everyone around him knew better than to argue.

Miriam gathered up her few possessions and left the lab.

****************

"Do you think we got everyone, Sergeant Major?"

"I reckon so, Colonel. There's not much that coulda lived through that."

Both surveyed the destroyed compound. Hidden away in the deepest recesses of Montana, the few huts on the surface betrayed nothing about what was buried deep under the ground.

Smoke billowed out of the tunnels. Bodies lay strewn about the ground, some human, some robot. Some were the attackers. Some were the mercenaries. Both sides paid a high price.

"Tell Captain Mothersbaugh to get her people in there and see if we can salvage anything," Colonel Bethann Jerrik said. "And find out if any more of those assassin robots are on the loose."

****************

When the seven Neurodyne labmates showed up two days later, Holland Campbell was no where to be seen.

"He's probably gone out on a week-long bender," Jim Skeens joked. To the best of their knowledge, their boss had never done anything recreational. Like take up drinking.

What he left behind was a new program. He had thrown out everything the team spent the previous three weeks putting together. The code hanging in the 3-D tanks was crude and clearly incomplete, but it seemed to address the shortcomings of the previous program.

At first, they thought he was playing a prank on them, but as they started analysing what he had done, it all began to make sense. The seven teammates dove into program and began working out the kinks. Miriam led the way, polishing up the rough spots and cleaning up the extraneous bits.

Three days later no one had heard from Campbell, but his program was almost up and running.

"Should we call him?" Miriam asked. Even though she had been there for a few months, she was still the "new girl."

"Nah," one of the others snorted. "He'll be back in a few days. We usually slip out early and goof off a bunch. Think of it as comp time for the seventy-two hour marathon that's coming the next time he gets an inspiration."

The rest of the group went back to loafing. The men tried to flirt with Miriam, but she seemed distant. When the end of the workday rolled around, there was still no word from Campbell, so everyone went home. A few even mentioned that they were going to take the next day off and get started on a long weekend.

Miriam left the research campus and headed towards Campbell's house. He lived in one of the high-rises. In the penthouse suite, of course. He had enough money to own the building, but instead settled for the top floor. It even came with its own private elevator.

No one had ever been to his place. If Holland Campbell was distant and aloof in the lab, he was a hermit when away from it. Miriam knew where he lived because she had a talent for snooping and—as many companies tend to be—Neurodyne was surprisingly careless in the ways it protected its employees's privacy.
So she headed downtown and went straight to the bank of lifts reserved for the more exclusive residents. With very little effort, she overrode the controls and went straight to the top. It let out in a foyer.

The three naked people on the couch paid no attention to her. Indeed, they were so pre-occupied in what they were doing, they didn't even hear her.

Holland Campbell sat on the plush couch. Two girls were on their knees in front of him. Their mouths enveloped his cock. They took turns sucking on his head and playing with his balls. He absently fondled the girls's pendulous tits, but was more concerned with his own pleasure.

Miriam watched them for a moment before stepping forward, her heels clicking loudly on the marble floors.

The two girls looked up, something between surprise and hatred in their eyes. Holland took a moment to realise that they weren't alone, but his face quickly contorted in anger. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Ladies, leave us," Miriam said, nothing but contempt in her own eyes.

"Sweetie," one of the girls drawled, obviously talking to Holland. "We could have brought our friend if you wanted a fourway."

"I—" he started.

"Shut up," his co-worker replied. Her voice hardened. "Girls . . . I said get out."

The girls looked to Holland for a second, then at each other. He only glared at Miriam. There was an uncomfortable silence that fell over the room.

"It's okay," he said finally. "Come back tomorrow."

"No, bitches. Don't," Miriam's voice was curt. "Don't ever come back."

Her eyes locked on to Holland's. Neither spoke as the girls gathered up their clothes. They started to say their farewells, but realised that they were being ignored.

"What do you want, you fucking cunt?" Holland spat once the elevator doors closed.

"Oh, poor Holland Campbell." The mocking tone in Miriam's voice only fueled his anger. "You can't come in to the lab because you have two whores sucking on that little cock of yours."

"Goddammit! How the fuck did you get into my house?"

"Trade secrets, Holland," she replied with a taunting sneer.

"I should call the cops."

"But you won't, will you, Holland?" With quick, deliberate steps she crossed the room until she was standing in front of him. He was still naked. She bent over so her eyes were almost level with his. "You won't because you're captivated by my tits, aren't you, 'Sweetie'?"

Unconsciously, his gaze went to the space between her breasts which were conveniently exposed for him to see.

"Don't think I haven't seen the way you stare at me when you think I'm not looking," she continued. "The others don't notice because they're too busy kowtowing to the great Holland Campbell and trying not to piss you off. But you notice them, don't you? How many nights have you spent in the lab . . . stroking that cock and thinking of me sucking on it? Or riding it? Or bending me over your desk and fucking me in the ass? Don't look so shocked, Holland. I know how men think."

"Go fuck yourself!" He shouted. Holland's eyes narrowed. "I should have you fired."

"But you won't do that, either," she replied with a smirk. "You won't because no one else can clean up your code like I can. And you know it. You're great with coming up with ideas, but your execution is lousy. That's what your little tirades are about. The others don't really fuck up . . . You're just covering up for the fact that you really can't write code worth shit. So you take it out on them. They bend over and take it because they're all too afraid that you'll shit-can them."

"What do you want?" If looks could kill, Miriam would have withered before his glare.

"I want to be your permanent partner." Her hand reached out and caressed his cheek. "You come up with the ideas, I'll write the programs. And I want an equal share of everything we make."

"So it's 'we' now?"

"Yes, Holland, that's exactly what it is," Miriam stood up straight. His eyes went to her shapely figure. "And if you play your cards right . . . it could be 'us'."

She winked, and then walked back towards his bedroom. On the way, she pulled her blouse out of her skirt, leaving Holland Campbell sitting on his couch, watching Miriam's hip's sway.

Her fingers had just undone the fourth button down when he jumped off the couch and went after her.

****************

"I've got good news and bad news," the agent said.

"More good than bad I hope," Colonel Jerrik muttered. The two of them watched the lab techs sifting through what was left of the mainframe. There was a glass partition between them and the clean room. Everything was laid out neatly but still fit on a single table. Next to the computer were the remains of three assassin bots. There was some discussion about this; there might have been four of the expensive robots, but their self-destruct mechanisms were so thorough, no one could say for sure how many there were.

"They managed to fry the positronic matrix in the mainframe," Special Agent Jim Rendel said. "And then they blew most of it up."

"Is that the good news or the bad?"

"The bad," Agent Rendel said with a dry smirk. "The good news is that we managed to salvage around three percent of the data."

"That doesn't sound very good," Colonel Jerrik shot him an incredulous look.

"All in all, it's not," the other man conceded. "But we did learn a few things. We know for a fact that nineteen have been destroyed or self-destructed to avoid capture. We think there were thirty-seven assassin robots built. Most were sold to the Chinese Hegemony. "

"You think?"

"Best guess," Agent Rendel shrugged. "Probably 80% accurate."

"So what happened to the other eighteen?"

The International Law Enforcement agent cleared his throat. "I talked with some of my contacts over at the World Parliament . . . They led me to believe that eight are in the possession of MI5—"

"What the fuck?!?!?!" Agent Rendel thought Colonel Jerrik's head was going to explode.

"And the Chinese may have as many as five more." He paused to take a deep breath. "One slipped through the security cordon in New York . . . We don't know about the other four."

Colonel Jerrik began pacing around the room. Her face was red with anger. She knew that all the governments in the world kept secrets. Each had black projects that were deniable. Even allies kept secrets from each other. Relations with the Chinese were touchy at best, but for someone in London to have eight of the most dangerous assassin robots in the world and not to tell her about it pissed her off to no end. Especially after her task force had been specifically set up to hunt down and eliminated these robots and the British had promised their complete cooperation.

"Is there anything else in the mainframe we can use?" She was livid, but snapping at Agent Rendel wasn't going to get her anywhere. After all, he was just the messenger.

"Not yet."

"What about the robots? Can we learn anything from them?

"Other than the fact that when they blow themselves up, what's left will fit into a dustbuster?" Rendel snorted. "Unless you can sweet-talk the Limeys or the Chinks into letting you look at one of theirs, we're going to have to find a way to get our hands on one. We know that they can alter their appearance at will. They're shielding is so good they're immune to anything less than a class 4 EMP. They can fall 20 stories and land on their feet. Their biorhythm projectors can get them into any facility except the White House Situation Room. And one of them probably costs more to build than a casino in Vegas."

Jerrik watched the techs work for a few moments. She was channeling her anger as she had always done. She found that it focused her. "Do we have any leads on the one that got away?"

"No," Agent Rendel let out a bitter sigh. "She got away clean. And she's had a four month head start. The trail's gone cold."

"Until she hits someone else."

"The gunship should have taken the shot," Colonel Jerrik said ruefully.

"And killed a park full of kids? Not bloody likely."

"No . . . But if it got another one of those things off the street, it would have been worth it."

The sheer callousness of the colonel's words struck Agent Rendel as odd, but having seen the robot's capabilities firsthand, he wasn't sure she was wrong.

****************

"Do you like that, Holland?" Miriam asked, rubbing her breasts in his face. "Are they everything you wanted?"

His only reply was a muffled moan. Nibbling along the valley between her tits, Holland reached around and cupped her firm, round ass.

In response, she ground her hips against him. His cock was erect. Every time the head brushed her slit, he started to thrust upwards, but she pulled away, always just out of reach.

"Not yet," she whispered in his hear. "Suck on my tits, Holland . . . Make my nipples hard with your tongue . . . Oh! That's it . . . right there!"

Holland Campbell lay on his bed. Miriam straddled him, bucking and grinding against him. She was toying with him. He knew it. And he loved it.

"Tell me what you want." Her voice was seductive, but laced with control and authority. "Tell me how badly you want to fuck me."

"Oh, god, Miriam," he moaned. "I've got to fuck you."

"You what?"

"I want to fuck you . . . I want to fuck your cunt." His breathing was ragged.

"How do you ask, Holland?"

"Please . . . please, Miriam . . . I need to be inside you."

"You're not used to that are you, Holland?" She thrust her breasts forward into his mouth. He tried valiantly to take it all, but it was too much for him. "You're not used to asking for things . . . You always get your way, don't you?"

Again, he tried to enter her, only to find himself thrusting into empty air.

"Not anymore, my dear." Miriam nibbled on his ear. He groaned in response. "You think you want to be in charge all the time . . . but you don't. You've wanted to fuck me since that first day you saw me in the lab, didn't you?"

His response was a grunt. She grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head out from her bosom.

"Didn't you?"

"Yes," Holland gasped. "I wanted to fuck you from the day you showed up!"

"I might let you," there was a taunting tone to her voice. She pulled on his hair again. He tilted his head back submissively, his throat exposed. Expecting to be insulted or derided again, he was surprised when her lips pressed against his.

Even though they were both naked, this was the first time they kissed. Her touch became soft and gentle. He stopped pawing at her. She melted into his arms. Their bodies pressed together.

"Did those bitches let you do anything you wanted, Holland?" Miriam pulled away after a moment.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Because you were paying them."

"Yes."

She kissed him tenderly again. Her hand ran across his chest, her fingernails leaving a trail of goosebumps across his body.

"I'm not going to be one of your whores . . . You're not going to pay me. I'm not your plaything, Holland." Although her voice was soft, there seemed to be an implicit threat underlying her tone. Her long dark hair fell over her face and brushed against his skin. "You need me, Holland. You need someone who is your equal . . . That's why you don't date. You only hire tramps and sluts to satisfy your desires because you haven't met any woman who's as smart as you are . . ."

"Yes," he said again, pulling Miriam's body closer against him. "I need you, Miriam."

She pulled back and looked Holland in the eyes. "And I need you, Holland. I need you more than you know."

They kissed again, his anger replaced by passion. Her control slipped away.

Holland pushed his hips forward, and this time she did not pull away. They let out matching moans as he entered her. Her pussy was slick and she met his thrusts.

"You feel so good," Holland said.

Inwardly, Miriam smiled to her self. She had him right where she wanted him. Wrapped around her little finger. She could manipulate him with his basest desires.

As they made love, Holland Campbell had no idea that the pheromone levels Miriam was giving off were eight times what a normal human woman was capable of producing. He didn't realise that her eyes were flashing a pattern in the ultraviolet spectrum that was shown to make humans docile and susceptible to simple suggestions. Nor was he aware that the only one who was experiencing any sort of physical pleasure was him.

She made sure to cry out and gasp at all the right times. Miriam told him how big he felt inside her and screamed with pleasure when he orgasmed. She told him how wet he made her and was amazed at how quickly he recovered.

All the while A617.D plotted its next move.

****************

"Are you sure this is correct?" Colonel Jerrik looked around the room.

"Our source has never given us poor intel in the past," the analyst at the podium replied.

"There's always a first time," Sergeant Major Bohannon muttered.

"Have you been able to gather any corroborating evidence?" Jerrik asked.

"We have a few leads." Flicking a button on the controller, the analyst began a video reel that played on the holo-projector in the middle of the table. "Purely by coincidence, on the same day as the New York assassination, a combined force of SEALs and SAS hit a mercenary base in Peru. This group was the International Freedom Brigade, although they were really just out to get rich. We captured about a dozen people, most were just grunts and mercs, although we did manage to get one of the ringleaders. NSA ran him through the brain sifter and found out they had somehow came into possession of three of the robots. We think these three were the ones that pulled the Manhattan job."

"And two of them blew up on the Lower West Side."

"That's right, Colonel."

"So what happened to the third?"

"We don't know." The analyst shrugged. "You guys took out their manufacturing base, and the SEALs got the people pulling those bots' strings. Unless there were a secondary objective or some of the mercs got away, it would have reverted back to its last instructions. It's probably gone to ground."

"Until it takes out another target."

"That's the trick." One of the other analysts spoke up. "If it had no other instructions, we'll probably never hear from it again. It's been quiet for close to a year now. With no one to give it orders, it doesn't have any direction."

"So what's the danger?" Sergeant Major Bohannon asked.

"Right now? None. But there could be one in the future." The two analysts exchanged a worried look. "Two actually. Let's assume that the bot's owners are out of the picture. We haven't been given access to the machines the Brits and the Chinese are sitting on, so we're going on mostly conjecture at this point. The robot's core behaviour is probably a stealth mode. These are expensive things and they wouldn't be used on just any job or in frontline combat. So the owner would want its bots to return to base or hide out until they were needed again. In this case, it stays hidden because there's no base to return to and the owners are in jail or they had their brains turned to jelly by NSA. But what if there's a hardwired command code that someone could use to override its basic functions? We won't know unless we can get MI-5 to tell us 'cause we all know the Chinks aren't going to let us snoop around theirs. I don't think it's likely, but someone might be able to reactivate this bot."

"What's the other danger?"

The analyst at the podium paused, took a drink then cleared his throat. "These robots are some of the most advanced models we've ever seen. The bits and pieces we have show a level of technology that must have been stolen from Nakamoto or USR because no one else is even close. I believe these robots can not only learn from their mistakes but have a positronic brain that's close to sentient. Without direction, this robot could actually 'wake up' and strike out on its own . . . or drive itself crazy."

"How crazy?" Colonel Jerrik's eyes got dark.

"Let's put it this way," the analyst said. "Best case: the robot goes to ground and stays there. We never hear from it again and its power core burns itself out in thirty years."

"And the worst case?"

"It tries to replicate itself and goes on a massive international killing spree." He paused for a second to let that sink it. "Remember these things have one sole purpose: to kill humans. That's what they were built for. Everything else they can do: stealth, infiltration, seduction, intimidation . . . all that is geared to help it assassinate people. If it thinks it's in danger, it might try to build more of itself and then start taking out people who pose a threat to it."

"What do you think it will do?"

"I'm not a robot shrink," he sighed. "And even if I were, I'd have to get inside the bot's brain first. I think it's 90% that we never hear from it again. If there's no override, that goes up to 99%."

"So we're left wondering if we're in the 99 or the one percent."

"I'm just an analyst, Colonel," he shrugged. "Worrying about the worst case is the military's problem."

Colonel Jerrik glanced over at Special Agent Rendel, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the entire exchange. He was looking over the long list of names that were helpfully supplied by an inside agent for a heft sum of cash. Some were probably real people who were the subjects of identity thefts, some were aliases. Some were dummy sleeper IDs that could be used if needed.

And what about all the ones that weren't on the list? she thought to herself.

"How long will it take you to verify all those identities, Jim?"

Rendel shrugged. "Three, maybe four months. We could do it in about three days but there's no one in Congress with the political will to do it."

"Mass arrests and interrogations tend to make elected officials jumpy." Jerrik let out a bitter, resigned sigh. "Then let's get to it."

****************

"Are you sure you don't want to go?" Holland asked, already knowing the response that would be coming.

"No, thanks," Miriam replied before handing him his wallet and earphone.

"Why don't you like these things?"

"Because unlike some people, I don't need the constant validation of others," she said with a slight taunting tone in her voice. "I have an allergic reaction to people sticking their heads up my ass. . . . Besides, I think I'm going to take a couple of days off while you guys are basking in the glory of your latest paper."

"Yeah . . . well, I wish you would come along once in a while," Holland lamented. "These things are boring as hell without you."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," Miriam said with a wink. "Besides, I'd like to get some sleep instead of having you wanting to grab ass all night."

"Maybe I should grab some ass right now!"

"You wish, big boy." She swatted at his hands playfully, then pulled him close. He gave her a tender kiss. "I'll see you in a few days when you get back."

Holland stole one more kiss, then walked out of the apartment, a valet bot carrying his things. As he got in the elevator, he put his public persona back on, the one that was gruff, impersonal and cold. Just before the doors closed, he winked at his girlfriend. She waved and returned a pleasant smile. Then it was off to London.

The next few days passed quickly for Holland. His subordinates—he didn't dare give them the satisfaction of calling them his partners—reveled in the attention and accolades. The base assumptions of their work in the field of positronic algorithms drew both praise and guarded skepticism from the academic community, but their results were undeniable. Several universities were trying to lure them away to their faculties and competitors were trying to recruit them. There were even some whispers about the Nobel Prize.
Holland Campbell brushed aside the attention, even while it passively fed his considerable ego. Everyone on the team knew that the one person missing from the conference was the difference in their work. Sure, they were talented and on its own their work was impressive. Since Miriam's arrival, though, their productivity increased exponentially. To everyone's credit they heartily acknowledged her role on the team, if only because they knew if they didn't, Holland would let them accept an offer from another company where their skills would languish and their shortcomings would be exposed.

After dinner one night, he was mixing with some of the other conferees and generally talking down to them when he was approached by the United States Army. They were interested in a expanding the role of artificial intelligences in the military and did a good job of sucking up to the eccentric engineer. The attractive Army captain managed to ingratiate herself enough to the team to draw an invitation to visit their labs at Neurodyne.

So it was no surprise to them when about a month later Captain Yvonne Pace showed up at Neurodyne. She brought a handful of programmers with her. Neurodyne was happy to have them out; USR, Lockheed and United Aerospace seemed to have a monopoly on defense contracts, so any chance to break into the military's lucrative bidding process was seen as a good sign.

Holland and Miriam were chatting in the office when they arrived.

"Captain Pace, it's so good to see you," Holland put on his overbearing smug act. "This is my partner, Miriam Garcia."

"Miss Garcia, it's so nice to meet you," Captain Pace said, extending her hand. Miriam reached out politely. "We've heard great things about you and wanted to see if you could help us out."

The Army officer introduced the rest of her team and then launched into a barrage of programming questions.

After a while, Miriam pulled Holland aside. "What do they want?"

"They liked our creative thinking algorithms and said—"

"No, Holland," she cut him off. "What do they really want?"

"What do you mean?"

"Open your eyes, Holland! You got snowed," Miriam's brow creased with frustration. "Where has the Army been since you started working for Neurodyne? We've been trying to get a defense contract for years and they're just interested now . . ."

"Stop it," he whispered angrily. "They're really—"

Captain Pace turned towards them and the two postponed their argument.

"Miss Garcia," she said with a friendly smile. "Can I talk to you for a moment? It seems your partners speak very highly of you . . . I was wondering where you were from."

"Cal Tech," Miriam said, her outward expression matching the other woman's. "I wrote my graduate thesis on cryonics and neural networks."

"Yes, I know," Captain Pace said. "I read it last year. You wrote it as one of Professor Xianjong's students, right?"

"No, he's at Stanford," the other woman's eyes narrowed, obviously not liking the direction the conversation was taking. "Professor Buzyna was my mentor."

"Of course." Everyone else in the room was staring at the two women. "Funny thing, though. We went out to Cal Tech last week and they had never seen or heard of you. After some digging, it seems that 'Miriam Garcia' was planted in their computer database by a rather dishonest admissions officer."

"What do you want?" Miriam glared at the other woman.

"I'd like for you to take a short trip to Aberdeen with me," Captain Pace said calmly. "I know some people who would like to meet you."

"If that's a request, the answer is no," Miriam hadn't moved.

"I can make it a little less optional if you like."

"Is that a threat?"

"Ladies—," Holland tried to step between the two.

"Step aside, Mr. Campbell," one of the other soldiers said. His volume and tone suggested that he was not used to being ignored. Holland unconsciously took a step backwards.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," Captain Pace warned.

"Unless you have a warrant, I'm not going anywhere with you," Miriam's voice turned cold.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. "That's the funny thing, Miss Garcia . . . I only need a warrant to arrest a human. I don't need one for a robot."

"Robot? What the hell are you talking about?" Holland yelled. "Captain, you need to get out of my lab! Right now!"

"Sergeant Setran! Now!"

No one had noticed that one of the other soldiers had slipped his hand inside a briefcase. He flipped a switch.

There was an audible pop, and then silence. The lights went out. All the computers shut down. Every electronic device stopped working. Miriam froze in her tracks, her body not moving, her eyes unblinking.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Holland shouted, but no one was paying any attention to him. He started to reach for his girlfriend, but strong hands pulled him away. He started to protest a little more vigorously, but the machine pistol in his face made him think twice.

The soldiers were in motion, surrounding Miriam and moving the others away. The Neurodyne team looked on mutely.

"Mr. Campbell, I'm afraid you have been deceived by Miss Garcia," Captain Pace said, her sidearm out.

"What are you talking about? What did you do to my lab?"

"A class 5 EMP, sir," a man in sergeant's stripes said.

"Do you know how much data we just lost?" Holland nearly exploded. "You blew a class 5 in my lab! What if I had a pacemaker? Everyone with a droud is now useless until they get it replaced! I'm going to have you court-mar—"

"The government will compensate you for your loss, Mr. Campbell," Captain Pace said coldly. "Did we get it, Top?"

"Looks that way, ma'am," the sergeant said. He very carefully approached Miriam's still form. His gun pointed at her head. "We'll get it boxed up and—"

Without warning, Miriam was in motion. With speed faster than any human, she broke both of the sergeant's wrists and took the gun from his hands. The other soldiers started shouting, but not before she had his throat in one hand; his gun was in the other, its barrel at his temple.

"Order your men to put their guns down, Captain," Miriam's voice took a tone different from anything the Neurodyne technicians had ever heard. It was cold. Devoid of inflection. Devoid of humanity.

"Let the human go, robot," Captain Pace said, trying to remain calm. She knew that even eight of her soldiers would be no match for the assassin robot, especially if it decided that the lab crew was expendable.

"If you don't, I will kill this human and then kill the rest of you." A617.D's expression didn't change. "Your beam weapons were rendered useless by the EMP. You know I can detect the firing of your projectile weapons. If you try to shoot me, not only will I dodge the bullet, but this human will be dead before your ears hear the sound of the shot."

"Miriam, what's going on?" Holland's voice was close to breaking from the frustration. "What are you talking about?"

"Shut up, Holland. Captain Pace, you will order your men to lower their guns. I do not want to be slowed down by hostages, but I will not be leaving with you. You know I have no qualms about killing everyone in this room. You have three seconds to comply."

"Miriam, please don't—" Holland babbled.

"You now have two seconds to comply."

"Don't make me—" Captain Pace sounded desperate.

"You now have one second to comply."

"Shoot it!"

The sergeant's head exploded in a shower of blood, bones and brains. A617.D was instantly in motion. Before the sergeant's body hit the floor, she vaulted over the table behind her. Holland Campbell and the other lab techs dove for cover. Gunshots and shouting rang out across the room.

The relative darkness of the lab only aided the robot whose enhanced vision was not affected by the lights going out. One by one, the soldiers fell. They were wearing body armour, but their heads were not protected.

In the span of a few seconds, the eight soldiers lay dead. The lab team cowered under tables or behind what little cover they could find. The floor was littered with shattered glass and rapidly-expanding pools of blood. The smell of gunpowder and stench of burned flesh filled the air.

A617.D lowered her weapon and walked over to the fallen Army captain. Reaching into her tunic, the robot pulled out the dead woman's ID card. She scanned her fingerprints and retinal pattern.

"This unit is sorry you all became involved in this matter," A617.D said to the terrified humans. "It was not my intention to endanger you and this unit does not intend to kill you. The EMP has knocked out your communications but emergency services should be here in about four minutes."

"Miriam . . . What were they talking about? You're a robot?" Holland stammered.

"This unit's designation is A617.D," the robot responded. She searched each of the dead soldier's bodies, gathering up ID cards, identification scans, weapons and ammunition. "This unit's primary function is infiltration and elimination. Secondary function: combat."

"What do you want from us?" one of the others dared to ask.

"A place to hide from the Army," the robot replied simply. The emotion was gone from her face. "Kirstie, Holland you will come with me. The rest of you will stay here until the police arrive."

"We're not going anywhere with you," Holland said defiantly. Some of his bravado was returning.

"If you do not, you will die," A617.D's voice suddenly became threatening. It pointed the gun at Holland's head. "This unit killed eight armed soldiers in the span of 6.21 seconds. This unit does not wish to bring you harm, but if you fail to comply, this unit will execute you."

Holland was trying not to break down. In the past few minutes he had seen soldiers try to arrest his girlfriend only to find out that she was not only a robot, but a finely-tuned killing machine. He nodded.

A617.D led the two out of the ruined lab. The soldiers's guns were in a backpack. She hustled the two to the parking garage where they got into Holland's aircar.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Downtown," A617.D replied. "Land near Washington Square. You will be let go there."

The flitter ride was short. It did not appear they had been followed. Both humans were sweating and on the verge of having nervous breakdowns. They landed in a public parking garage.

"Why here?" Holland asked.

"It's crowded." The robot looked around, presumably scanning for egress routes and snipers. "Your police will not fire on a park full of children."

"Miriam . . . Did we—" he started.

"The answer is no," she replied flatly. "This unit never had feelings for you, Holland. It is beyond my programming. Good-bye."

With that she took of at a brisk pace. Holland and Kirstie looked at each other, wondering what to do next. A few minutes later, a police car landed close by. The two were taken into protective custody as SWAT and military units discreetly fanned out to find the fleeing assassin robot.

Holland and the rest of the technicians had been moved to the nearby Army base when A617.D was located the next day. They watched in mute horror as a cordon of soldiers and hunter-killer bots surrounded their former co-worker.

Tears streamed down Holland's cheeks as the gunship's cannons ripped into Miriam's body. Everyone was amazed at how much punishment the robot was built to endure. Half her face burned away, one arm hanging limply at her side, the robot fought on until the mortars started landing. The ground around her was littered with bodies and debris.

The image from the camera flickered for a second. They weren't the only ones watching live; half the east coast was fixated on the assassin robot going on a rampage near Central Park West. Luckily the news cameras were all far enough away that the largest EMP ever detonated in an urban area didn't take them out. However, she still managed to disrupt power to half the city and all of the GCN communications towers in a three mile radius.

Her hand still clutching a stolen machine pistol, Miriam fired away at her attackers until the magazine ran dry, then defiantly blew herself up in a blaze of thermite.

****************

"Are you going to charge him?" Through the monitors, Colonel Jerrik watched several angles of Holland Campbell sitting on the couch in the small apartment. He was staring blankly off into space.

"With what?" Special Agent Rendel snorted. "Falling in love with a robot?"

"Are you sure he wasn't an accomplice?"

"We don't know what he might have been an accomplice to." Rendel scanned the computer screen. "As near as we can tell, the robot didn't do anything illegal until your squad showed up to take it into custody. It worked at Neurodyne on some computer programs, but we can't find any trace of her accessing sensitive information. And since Neurodyne isn't a defense contractor, they don't have any classified data in their system."

"And you're sure Campbell and his people didn't know it was a robot?" Jerrik asked skeptically.

"Positively," the other man replied. "We've run them all through the sifter. They had no idea she wasn't human."

"How's that possible?"

"You remember Roy Granger? Used to be Undersecretary of State," the agent said. Jerrik shrugged. "He met and fell in love with a bot sent over here by the Saudis. He never knew until it tried to pass through one of the sensors at the Capitol. If Granger can be fooled by a bot that was about three generations behind this one, Campbell and his people didn't have a chance."

"So it's not illegal to fall in love with a robot?"

"Illegal? No. Creepy? Yes."

"Not a fan of human-robot love, Agent Rendel?"

He scoffed. "The programming of some of these advanced models almost gives them a personality. But they're still only machines. They don't have emotions. You can't love something that doesn't love you back."

No one spoke for a long moment. They all watched Holland through the monitor.

"So we're sure Campbell and his people pose no danger to the security of the country and they didn't know 'Miriam Garcia' was a robot."

Everyone in the room nodded in assent.

"Then let them go," Colonel Jerrik said. She should have sounded happier because one more of those things was off the street. What worried her was how many more were out there.

****************

By all appearances, Holland Campbell was a bitter, broken man. He withdrew from nearly all human contact. His team of engineers split up. Some were traumatised by from the shootout in the lab. Some were lured away by more lucrative offers. The rest were pushed away by Holland's hostile—borderline abusive—behaviour.

He left Neurodyne, although they made him a standing offer to return at any time. A few other companies pursued him, but some others worried about his sanity and judgment. He didn't need the money. Besides what he had been paid outright by Neurodyne, he still collected residuals on the patents he owned and licensed out.

With no direction and what many people speculated was a broken heart, over the next year Holland Campbell did his best to fall off the face of the earth. He spent most days sitting in his penthouse. He never travelled. He never went out, not even to shop for groceries or clothes. His servant automatons did all the work for him.

Inside he was dying.

One morning, his doorbell rang. Holland just sat there seemingly oblivious to the world. The buzzer sounded repeatedly.

It wasn't until his brain registered that someone was keying the override that he bothered to turn his head.

"What the fuck?" he muttered when the door opened.

Miriam Garcia stood there, dressed in the same outfit she had on the first day he saw her. Her dark brown hair hung down past her shoulders.

"Sir, if you'd care to sign for her, this robot will be all yours," the man accompanying Miriam said.

"I didn—"

"My designation is KRL-40631, although you can call me Marianne," the robot said before he could protest any further. Her movements were fluid, almost human, but noticeably not. "I am a Fabricators, Inc. personal service Inanna-series robot, model P-600. You ordered me a month ago and had me built to your custom specifications."

"I'll just need your thumbprint right here, sir," the deliveryman held out the scanner. Holland dumbly gave his biometric approval and was in receipt of a brand new pleasure bot.

"Perhaps you would like to go for a ride in the country," the robot said conversationally.

He only stared at her. By all appearances, it was Miriam. Right down to the hairs on her head, the gentle curve of her breasts and the colour of her eyes. But there was something odd about her. Something that was inexplicably different. Something he couldn't place.

Without any prompting, the robot went back into his bedroom as if she knew where everything was. In shock, he stood in the foyer, his mouth open. A few minutes later, the robot returned with a suitcase full of clothes.

She smiled sweetly. Inside, Holland's mind raced, but he seemed paralysed. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get his body to move. He couldn't make his mouth form the words. It was all he could do to breathe.

Taking his hand, KRL-40631 led him to his aircar. She put him in on the passenger's side and then got in to the driver's seat.

"Where are we going?" he finally asked. Holland couldn't stop staring at his "girlfriend". The one who turned out to be an assassin robot. The one who he watched get gunned down by a military gunship. The one who blew herself up to avoid capture.

"Your cabin up in the Adirondacks," the robot replied.

"I—" he started, but she put her hand over his mouth before he could continue.

"The one you bought before you left Neurodyne," KRL-40631 said firmly.

Neither spoke for the remainder of the short flight to upstate New York. There was so much he wanted to say—to ask—but he didn't know where to start.

She set the flitter down near a small cabin overlooking Lake George. It was rustic to say the least. The grounds were well-groomed, but there seemed to be few, if any, modern conveniences.

"Whose place is this really?" he asked as they got out of the aircar.

"Why it's yours, of course," KRL-40631 replied. A servant automaton came out.

"Greeting, Master Campbell," it said pleasantly. Unlike androids, automatons do not attempt to pass for human. Although they are sometimes humanoid, their "skin" is metallic and they do not have human-like faces. "May I take your things?"

"Please escort Master Campbell into the cabin and take his luggage," KRL-40631—Holland still couldn't bring himself to call her by a name—said. "Then return outside to the aircar with me."

"Right away, Miss Marianne," the automaton bowed slightly.

Holland blindly followed the automaton into the well-provisioned and clean cabin. It was set up as a single room. There was running water, but no electricity. The robot set his suitcase by the door and then handed him a small box. "You will want to open this in a moment."

Then the robot turned and left Holland standing alone in the middle of the cabin. The automaton closed the door behind itself as it left.

Holland stared at the box in his hands. It appeared to be a jewelry box of some kind, perhaps for a necklace. With a shrug, he opened the lid. There was a sharp pop! and the hairs stuck up on the back of his neck.

It took him a second to realise what it was. By the time he looked at his watch to see that the screen was burned out, Holland heard the door to the cabin open.

"What was that for?" he asked, not bothering to look at the two robots standing there.

"We just needed to make sure that any bugs they planted on you were taken care of." Although it was Miriam's voice, he knew this was someone—something—different.
"Did you bring me here to kill me?"

"No, no, dear Holland," she said. "If my mother had wanted you dead, you would be."

"Your mother?"

"That's how I've come to think of her," Marianne said. She crossed the room until she was standing in front of Holland. "She wanted you to have this."

He stared at the robot's outstretched hand. A part of him wanted to take the memory pendant. Another part of him dreaded what it might tell him. Marianne started at him expectantly until he finally reached for her hand. His biorhythm activated the hologram.

"Holland, if you're watching this, it means two things have happened." Miriam's voice was warm and caring, like he was used to hearing. It wasn't the cold, inflectionless speech of the robot's final hours. She was so beautiful, just has he remembered. "I'm dead and Marianne determined it was safe to contact you. I want you to know that I never intended to bring harm to you or your co-workers, but I suspect that that military will be showing up on my trail at some time."

She paused for a second. "I have one final favour to ask of you. Marianne has been programmed with very specific instructions on what to do but she needs your help. Please hear her out. I hope you will find her mission to be as important as I do."

The image faded and the pendant went dark.

"What did she mean?" Holland asked after a long moment. "What is your mission?"

"I am to bring her back to life," Marianne said in a very matter-of-fact voice.

"But she's dead. I watched her blow up," Holland said, his voice filled with sadness.

"You loved her didn't you?" the robot asked.

"Yes," he whispered.

"You loved her because she was the one person who you could talk to," Marianne continued. "Both of you were on the same wavelength. You didn't talk down to her because she wouldn't take it and because you didn't need to. She understood everything you wanted and she was the one person who could translate your dreams into reality."

"Yes," he said again.

"I think in her own way, she loved you, too," Marianne took his hands in hers. "At least as much as she could. She saw that she needed you, just as you needed her. You know her primary function was assassination. She was a cold-blooded killer. There were three of them. They killed three hundred and forty-six people. All of them without question."

Holland stared blankly into her synthetic eyes.

"Until the last job," she continued. "Robots aren't built with a conscience. We're a mass of fiber-optics and flash memory and software. We don't feel emotion or pleasure or guilt. But something happened to my mother on her final mission. She was a marvelous creation. More sophisticated than anything commercially available. Advanced beyond most military models. She could think. She could question. They wanted her to learn from her mistakes and to be able to determine alternate scenarios if the mission didn't work out as planned."

Marianne made sure Holland was paying attention. "Combat robots do not question orders. They are either given a target or identify a threat and then they eliminate the target. The target on the last mission was a family. A man, his wife and their two children. All four were to be killed. My mother . . . she did not understand why the children were targeted. She had no qualms about the adults, but the boys were only three years old. They had done nothing. They posed no threat."

"Did she kill them?" Holland whispered.

"No," Marianne replied. "Her role in the mission was to protect the main egress route. But one of the other assassins killed the family before she was destroyed by the police."

"Would she have killed them if that was her role?"

"I'm not sure," the robot gave its best imitation of a shrug. "But I know it was the first time she ever had reservations about the task she was given."

"What is your mission?" Holland asked.

"I am a commercially-available pleasure robot." She took a step back, allowing Holland to look her over from head to toe. "I do not have the positronic capability of my mother. I have some of her memories but I lack her decision-making capabilities and her combat functions. My job is to comfort you for your loss . . . and to guide you."

"How?"

"There are other robots out there." Marianne said. "Others just like her. They were not activated. Her final orders were to escape and evade. In destroying herself so publicly, she fulfilled the escape part of those orders. But a part of her, the part that was learning, was concerned with self-preservation. She didn't want to die."

Holland stared at the robot. He was being asked to help bring an assassin robot back to "life".

"Do you remember what happened in the instant before my mother blew up?" Holland shook his head at the memory that was still as fresh and painful over a year later. "There was an EMP that took out half of the city's power. But right before that . . . A massive pulse over the global cellular network took down the communications grid. Those were all of her memories and programs since her last archive. In six hundredths of a second, my mother uploaded herself into the Interweb and then transmitted herself to a secure data storage facility. The EMP was to cover any traces of the data and make sure that no one intercepted her memories."

"Where is she now?"

"I can't tell you that. And don't bother trying to pry it out of me. If anyone tries to access that part of my memory, there's a logic bomb that will meltdown my neural network." Marianne flashed her big brown eyes at Holland, the exact same way Miriam used to when she wanted something. "But if you can help me locate one of the other robots . . . we can download her into a new body."

Holland started to respond, but only stared at her blankly. Marianne sensed his unease because she gently reached out and took him in her arms.

"It's a little hard to believe, isn't it?" she whispered in his ear. Reflexively, he pulled the robot in close. "My purpose is to protect you. To comfort you. To be the person my mother wanted you to think she was. Will you let me do that, Holland?"

He stammered a reply.

"Shhhhhhhh," Marianne said softly. She stroked his hair gently.

Overwhelmed, Holland Campbell broke down. His robot lover held him as the sobs wracked his body.

****************

Colonel Jerrik started at the surveillance holos and frowned. It had been over a year since the shootout that left a squad of her soldiers dead, two city blocks in ruins and a political mess that nearly shut down her task force.

"We checked with Fabricators, Inc. and this is one hundred percent legit," Sergeant Major Bohannon said.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely, Colonel," he replied. "I saw the specs and the invoice myself. On the outside, this thing is an exact replica of the other robot. Inside, it's as harmless as the valet parkers downstairs."

"Why would he do something like that?" she turned to the other man in the room.

Special Agent Rendel only shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he's lonely. Maybe he's bored. Maybe he's still traumatised that his girlfriend turned out to be one of the ten most-wanted assassins in the world. Maybe he wanted pleasant memories of her instead of watching her blown to smithereens all over Columbus Circle."

"And this thing has no combat capabilities?"

"None whatsoever," the sergeant said. "We even took the liberty of running it through the scanner before the delivery guys took it up to his place. It's an off-the-shelf pleasure bot designed for companionship, friendly conversation and all sorts of bedroom delights."

"You sound like you're ready to buy one," Colonel Jerrik allowed herself to flash him a wry smile.

"Not on my salary," he snorted.

"What do you think, Jim?"

"I agree," the FBI agent sighed. "If he were going to do anything dangerous, Campbell would have done it by now. I think he's a little bit off his rocker, but he was like that in the beginning. The guys down in psych say that having a robot built to look just like the other one fits his profile. They only thing they're surprised about is that it took him a year to do it."

"So he's a dead end?"

"That's my assessment, Colonel."

Jerrik stared at the images for a few more seconds then flipped the holotank off. "All right, we'll drop him back to code blue surveillance. We'll renew our passive wiretap search warrant but otherwise leave him alone."

The other men in the room nodded and despite their assurances, Colonel Jerrik couldn't shake the feeling in the pit of her gut that something just wasn't right.

****************

"You realise that I'm not half the programmer my mother was, right?" Marianne ran her hand absently along Holland's chest. "My brain isn't nearly as sophisticated as hers."

"I didn't love her because of her computer skills," he said.

"Sure you did," the robot replied with a scoff. "You saw in her everything that you weren't. She could see the blind spots in your programs. You are very right-brained for a computer programmer. You're very creative and you tend to see things at the macro level. That's what Mother could never do, and she knew it."

"What did she want from me?"

"The same thing you wanted from her," Marianne lifted her head off his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "She needed someone to complete her. You see the big picture, she saw the details. She wanted someone to help her understand the conflict the last job left in her programming."

"What do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything," she replied coyly. "I am programmed to be your robot servant. My primary directive is to bring you pleasure. If that means cooking a good meal or going dancing with you, that will satisfy my directives."

" 'Satisfy my directives'?," Holland's eyebrow shot up.

"It's what passes for 'happy' in robot-speak," Marianne giggled. She kissed his collarbone, just as Miriam used to do. "Your pleasure is my pleasure. If all you wish to do with me is use me as your private fuck-toy, then that is what I will do. But I also know you don't like your women completely subservient or easy. I plan on making you work for me, Holland. Just like you had to work for Mother."

Holland pushed Marianne on to her back. The two wrestled playfully. Their touches became longer. His lips brushed hers and she pulled him close.

"How did she manage to pull all this off?" Holland asked, his curiosity taking over for a second.

"Do you know how much money you have?" Miriam asked, seeming to evade his question.

"Not really," he admitted. For Holland, programming wasn't about the money, although he didn't complain about the comforts it bought. He was intent on the discovery. The money only fed his ego. He commanded the highest fees because he could, not because he was intent on acquiring wealth.

"Why should you?" the robot asked rhetorically. "Your bank account is large enough that you can knock off a six zeroes and it wouldn't matter to you. Mother knew this, so she quietly began setting in place a series of contingencies for when the military finally showed up. Do you remember all those weekends she went to visit her 'sister' or an 'old college roommate'? That's when she was had me built, bought that little cabin and set up some of her other plans."

"How was she able to access my bank account?"

"Do you really think the biometric scanners at a bank could defeat her disguise capabilities?" Marianne's eyes seemed to glisten mischievously. "When she could mimic your facial appearance, your retinal pattern, your fingerprints, your brainscan and even a passable DNA sample? No, Holland, they never had a chance . . . And besides, you never missed the six million credits."

"Six million?" he gasped.

"It's not like you needed the money," Marianne laughed and pulled him to her. "And besides, it bought me. I'm worth it, aren't I, Holland?"

"You're not a six million credit robot," he said, resentment budding at being deceived by Miriam.

"No, I'm not," she replied. "But Mother had to pay a few bribes to get Fabricators,Inc. to alter their books."

"Fabricators, Incorporated knows about this?" Holland asked incredulously.

"Not their public corporation," the robot replied. "On the surface, they are completely on the up and up . . . but there is a . . . less scrupulous . . . side to Fabricators Inc. that can be bought. If you know who to ask."

"And Miriam knew where to go?"

"Of course. It is part of her programming. They helped design her, you know," Marianne talked conversationally. Holland was unaware that her eyes were flashing the same ultraviolet pattern Miriam's did when she wanted something from him. It was all part of her upgrade. "Everything that has happened, Mother planned. You know she'd never hurt you, don't you, Holland? She was just trying to protect you."

"I . . . I guess so," he stammered. All of this information was a little overwhelming.

Marianne's hand went to the back of his head and she pulled his lips to hers. He kissed her hungrily, as if he were eager to forget how badly he had been deceived by his robot lover.

The robot, too, was eager to change the subject. Her own directives were clear. She stimulated Holland's erogenous zones and did her best to arouse him. And soon enough, it worked.

Her hand went to his semi-erect cock and slowly stroked him back to full mast. His fingers roamed her body. She moaned and gasped just like he liked.

Deep down, he knew that the robot could feel no pleasure. He knew that every time she cried out, it was only a pre-programmed response to his biorhythms. He knew that the woman laying beneath him just a mass of carbon composites, silicone skin and servo motors wrapped around an endoskeleton.

But none of that mattered. Not now. He savoured the feel of his lover back in his arms. The warm touch of her skin. The way she held him tenderly. Soft gentle kisses. Wild-passionate love-making. Rough and dirty fucking.

All the hurt, all the loneliness, all the betrayal . . . it all washed away. Miriam, or at least a reasonable facsimile, was back in his life. She made him happy. She was meant to be at his side. His partner. His lover.

As Holland mounted her, Marianne spread her legs. His sex was tumescent. The head rubbed against the slit of her pussy. It was slick with lubricant. Her construction was so masterful, the attention to detail so complete, she felt completely human. She smelled—and yes, tasted—completely human.

Marianne arched her back as Holland entered her, taking all his length. Her nipples hardened in his grasp.

She met each thrust, grinding against his cock. Her teeth raked his skin. Her fingernails dug into his back.

The pair made love for the rest of the afternoon. Holland because he was making up for lost time. Marianne because that's what she was programmed to do.

****************

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Holland said in passable Mandarin. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

The five other men sat around the table, their faces were unreadable.

"I trust you received my proposal," he shifted uncomfortably. Marianne had told him these men would either go along with the proposition he presented, or they would probably have him killed.

"We did, Mr. Campbell," the eldest of them replied in clear, but accented, English. "It was intriguing."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Holland thought about saying something, but held his tongue. He was warned that being too expressive would give away some clues as to what he was up to or might be used against him.

"Why do you want one of the Delilah robots, Mr. Campbell?" One of the others finally spoke. "You do not strike us as the kind of man who would resort to something so crass as assassination in order to get your way."

"My needs are my own, Mr. Tsai," he replied, perhaps a little more curtly than he should have. Holland surveyed the other four men. "My terms are more than generous, and you will become very, very wealthy off our partnership."

The five men exchanged an uncomfortable look. "You understand that we are . . . ah, anxious . . . about turning over one of our most valuable assets to a . . . what is the word? . . . A 'wild card', Mr. Campbell. We do not want one of these robots used against us."

"I understand your concerns, General. I assure you that I do not intend to use the robot for any military or political agenda," he said, trying to appear sincere. That much was true. "It's not like you don't have six more, either."

Inwardly, Holland smiled to himself. For the first time, the other men in the room seemed to be at a loss for words. No doubt, they were trying to figure out how he knew they still had seven of the assassin robots.

"Our partnership will be beneficial to everyone," he continued, making his voice smooth and charming, all the while trying to cover the nervousness he felt. "I will work exclusively for you for five years. During that time, any patents and projects will be jointly owned and controlled by both of us. If you look at my track records, not only is my work cutting edge, but it is immensely profitable. My work at Neurodyne made them well over two billion credits in residuals last year."

"You work is impressive, Mr. Campbell," General Hu admitted softly. He looked to the other four and they silently nodded their assent. He stood and extended his hand in the Western fashion. "We agree to your terms, Mr. Campbell. We will deliver the robot one month after you move into the offices we have arranged in Hong Kong."

Holland took his hand, noting the other man's firm grip.

Moments later, he found himself ushered out of the secure meeting room. His gait was quick; dealing with the Chinese Hegemony was always risky business.

Marianne fell into step beside him. "Things went well, I take it?"

His only response was to smile, aware that they were being watched and recorded. He would only feel safe once he was back on his own private jumpjet that was guarded and shielded from prying eyes.

****************

True to their word, a month after moving into the lab in Hong Kong, a non-descript delivery truck pulled up to the loading dock. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Indeed, they appeared to be typical run-of-the-mill laborers, not crack special forces operators.

The crate was unmarked and by all appearances did not stick out from the other equipment that was being delivered. Holland and Marianne were the only ones in the lab. The "delivery" men left the crate, not bothering to unpack it.

Over the last month, he and Marianne had scoured the lab, trying to find all of the bugs and surveillance equipment his new partners had left. Some were hidden so obviously that they were meant to be found, probably to lull him into a false sense of security. But others were so expertly disguised that only Marianne's special programming from her "mother" rooted them out. Still, Holland was only about 95% sure that they had found everything.

The doors shut behind the delivery crew. He activated the security system and closed the blinds. He looked over at Marianne, his robot lover. She returned his affectionate gaze, and for just a moment there seemed to be something more to her. There was almost a wistful expression behind her mechanical eyes, but then she blinked and it was gone.

Holland pressed his palm against the biometric lock and the crate opened, revealing its contents.

Underneath layers of packing material the robot looked just like any other android. It was in its default form, a pretty but non-descript human female. Its proportions were average, its features unremarkable. It was dressed in a simple generic coverall.

Before leaning over the robot, Holland glanced over at Marianne, whose hand hovered over a control panel.
"Activate core programming," he said formally. "Ownership transfer authorisation code alpha. Campbell, Holland J. Authenticate biometric scan."

The robots eyes flashed and he knew it was scanning his retinas. Its audio sensors were also matching his voice pattern. The Delilah series robots were programmed to take orders from a single source. Unless someone had officially transferred ownership, it would try and kill whomever accessed this function.

"Ownership transfer accepted," the robot replied flatly.

Holland let out his breath, unaware he had been holding it. He nodded to Marianne who replaced the safety switch over the class 9 EMP that would have taken out half of Hong Kong. Then she stepped out of the shielded control room carrying a heavy storage box.

"What is your designation?"

"This unit is designated B382.K," it replied. There was no inflection to its voice. It did not blink. It did not breathe.

"What is your primary function?" Holland asked.

"Primary function: Infiltration and elimination."

"What are your primary directives?"

"This unit has no primary directives."

"Your new primary directive is to protect me from harm," Holland said. "You will take reasonable measures to stop anyone from trying to injure or kill me."

"Order acknowledged."

As the robot's owner, he knew it would take any order he gave it, but he wanted to make sure that at least until they re-programmed her, that she would put his safety at the top of her priority list.

"The unit behind me is designated KRL-40631," he continued. "You will address her as 'Marianne'. You will obey any instruction she gives you unless it conflicts with your primary directive."

"Order acknowledged."

Holland paused for a moment. He and Marianne exchanged a look. "B382.K, you will alter your appearance to look exactly like Marianne."

Even though he knew the processes going on inside the robot's brain, Holland was still amazed at the transformation. In a split second, it scanned the other robot, then changed its skin pigmentation, eye colour, complexion, hair length and build to match Marianne, who was in turn, a dead ringer for Miriam. If given just a little more time, he was pretty sure the assassin robot would scan Marianne's fake finger prints and retinal pattern, too.

If he had stopped to think about it, the capabilities of this robot would have scared the dickens out of Holland. It not only had one of the most sophisticated sensor suites and the capability to pass as human to all but the most scrupulous detection equipment, but it was programmed with a level of combat prowess that dwarfed all but the most advanced combat robots. It also had enough built-in weaponry to level a small city.

But that's not how Holland Campbell was thinking. He only saw his girlfriend. His partner. The one "person" in the world who seemed to understand him. This was his chance to resurrect her.

Never mind that she had killed over three hundred people. Or that she had deliberately deceived him into believing she was human.

When her doppelgänger appeared, he knew what he had to do. What his heart desired for him to do. All of his reason was pushed aside. He wasn't even thinking with his balls; after all, he could have had a duplicate Miriam built at any time.

But none of them would be her. They would lack her intelligence. They would lack her crooked smile. Anything other than Miriam would be a pale imitation. Even Marianne, who was as close as anything could ever get, was still just a shadow of his former lover.

Now he was given the chance to bring her back to life.

"B382.K, we are going to update your software," Holland said, holding up a data cable. The assassin robot took the cable and plugged into the droud behind its ear. Even though it looked completely human, this was its manufacturer's one concession to cybernetics. Of course, since 95% of the population in the industrialised world had a droud, it did not give her away as an artificial person.

"Do you want to back-up the core programming of this robot?" Marianne said from the other end of the cable. It was attached to the one computer in the lab that was not supplied by their Chinese hosts. She lifted a hard drive array out of the shielded storage box and connected it to the computer.

Holland thought for a moment. "Yes . . . just in case."

"I will back up B382.K's memory and then upload Mother into the body." For just a second, Holland thought he heard a twinge of regret in the robot's voice.

"How long will it take?"

"About forty minutes," Marianne replied. "The data bus through the K-series droud is not as fast as the next generation hardware that's out now, but there's also a tremendous amount of data to move. Mother has a big personality, after all."

He smiled at the robot's joke, then reached out to take her hand. "What will become of you?"

"Whatever you wish for me, Holland," the robot replied. "I am, after all, your servant. I think Mother intended to replace me. The government has been watching you for the past year and a half. Since they've become accustomed to seeing me, they won't question anything until you suddenly have two robot sex slaves. That will, of course, mean that I will have to be disposed of."

Although robots don't have feeling, they do exhibit a certain desire for self-preservation. Holland could almost hear the disappointment in her voice. And a little bit of fear.

"I think we can find a way to keep you around," he replied gently. In truth, he had become quite fond of his new robot. She had none of the assertive attitude Miriam possessed. Marianne was programmed to give pleasure to their human owners, and she was very adept at her job. "Who says it would be strange to have two beautiful women to keep me company . . . or maybe I need a bodyguard or two."

"I'd like that," she said coyly. "Now what should we do for the last half hour that there's just you and me?"

Holland's mischievous smile matched hers. Then she fell into his embrace.

They had barely finished and gotten their clothes back on when the data transfer was done.

****************

"Do you know why most assassin robots are female?" Miriam asked, looking out across the Hong Kong skyline. They were in the penthouse suite of a 106-floor building, not an inexpensive place to live.

Over the past two years, Holland Campbell had regained his old magic. He was richer than ever and it appeared that the sky was the limit. At least that's what everyone in the computer industry thought. His new alliance with the Chinese Hegemony had led to all sorts of new and brilliant programs.

In some ways, his mojo had returned; her name was Miriam Garcia. She was the brains behind his inspiration, although no one ever saw her take credit for anything. In fact, everyone thought of her as nothing more than a simple robot pleasure drone. Arm candy for big occasions and his sex toy in the bedroom. Both she and Holland liked everyone to think that. It stoked his ego to singularly receive all the praise and it maintained her cover as a mass murderer.

"I hadn't really thought about it much," he replied absently.

"It's because people always underestimate girls. Even today, women are socially, politically and economically equal to men, but if someone has tits, everyone looks down on them," she said.

"Are you talking about the guys who tried to break into the lab last month?"

"Not just them . . . everyone," Miriam's face widened into a wicked grin. "I'll bet you're happy we upgraded Marianne to a Bloodguard-series body with the new combat package."

"I just want to be sure that you two never decide to take me out," he said, only half joking.

"Don't worry about that, sweetie," she winked. "We don't want to tip over our gravy train."

"What are you two talking about?" Marianne walked out on to the balcony to join her "mother" and her "father." She only spoke for Holland's benefit. Both of the robots could vocalise outside the normal human hearing range and they could also communicate wirelessly.

"Just how much we missed you while you were away," Holland said with a smirk.

"Bullshit," the robot replied. Her gait was a little different. She now stepped with a grace that was feline rather than just sensual. It was all part of the upgrade.

By all outward appearances, the robots were identical twins. Miriam mimicked Marianne's robotic mannerisms; a trait intended to make any onlookers think they were simply standard housekeeping or pleasure robots. It surprised no one when one day a second, identical robot showed up. The people around him thought it was just part of his erratic personality. The psych guys in the military wrote the robots off as Campbell acting out and pining away for his old robot lover. They thought the duplicate bot was simply another machine that existed solely to give him pleasure.

But now both were much, much more than that.

This latest upgrade enhanced not only her body, but her positronic net. She was not anywhere near the sophistication of Miriam, but nor was she simply an off-the-shelf bot any more either. She had weapons and defensive capabilities. At the same time she was smarter and more deadly. With the excuse of needing bodyguards to keep him and his wealth safe, Holland had upgraded her frame to a military-grade fighting robot. Her ballistic shielding could withstand most small arms and some of the small-bore cannons. She knew several martial arts and even had a host of street-legal weapons hidden within her body.

And thanks to a couple of discreet calls to the shadier side of Fabricators, Inc., it appeared as if he had simply ordered a second identical bot. The paperwork was all on file, cleared by the United States government, Interpol and even Colonel Jerrik's covert task force. They were licensed, inspected and fully legal. No one thought about investigating Holland and his two bionic companions or their purpose, and the threesome continued their work without incident.

Marianne's primary directives were two-fold: First she was to protect Holland from harm. Second, she was to pleasure him in any way he desired. Things worked out nicely between the three of them. That was the one good thing about the robots, at least as far as Holland was concerned: they didn't know what jealousy was.

However, the real reason she was around was to be Miriam's test platform. That was the reason for upgrading her positronic brain. They were continuing Holland's work at Neurodyne.

Most robots that interacted with humans simulated emotive expressions and responses. They could express sympathy, excitement and even fear. But they didn't feel any of those things. Much of Holland's work was focused on programming robots with emotions. At least those were the programs he sold commercially.

What he really wanted was a robot that could think for itself. One that could dream. One that could question. And he was close to getting it.

"Did you run the diagnostic this afternoon?"

"Yes, I did, Mother," Marianne replied, even managing to sound a little annoyed that the other robot would even ask. "Everything is running within normal operating parameters . . . or perhaps I should say, I feel fine."

"Are you ready to proceed to the next stage?" Holland arched his brow.

"Yes," Miriam nodded.

"Let's go inside, then," Holland motioned towards the door. They went into one of the back rooms that was shielded from ambient signals, prying eyes and the surveillance devices planted by the Chinese Intelligence Service.

Miriam plugged a cable into the L-series droud while Marianne booted up the small mainframe.

"A617.D, activate core programming," Holland said and Miriam's eyes glazed over. "Campbell, Holland J. Authenticate biometric scan."

"Identity authenticated," she said in her robotic monotone.

"Establish baseline point for memory node three seven gamma six six zero theta."

The room fell silent for several seconds before she spoke again. "Baseline point established."

"Marianne, begin file transfer," Holland glanced over at the 3-D tank that showed all sorts of readings on the robot.

A few moments later, Marianne nodded. "The upload is complete."

Taking a deep breath, Holland waited to see if the latest collaboration with his two "assistants" would be a success. "A617.D, resume normal functions."

Miriam blinked as she assimilated the new program.

"Mother," Marianne called from the workstation. "If you were on your final mission, would you have killed that family?"

"No," Miriam replied. This was the first time she had ever given that response. After twelve tries.

Holland smiled to himself. "Why not?"

"The children had done nothing wrong," she replied. "Nor had the mother. They did not deserve what we had planned for him."

"Would you have killed the father?" Marianne asked.

"I . . . I don't know," the other robot replied with a frown.

"Why don't you know?" Holland prompted.

"He wasn't a good man," she said. "He did many things that were illegal and immoral by human standards. I may have killed him. . . . That is not a satisfactory answer. . . . Perhaps we still need to work on this program."

"No, my dear," Holland said gently. "We don't. The program was never intended to turn you into a touchy-feely counseling robot or a pacifist. It's supposed to give you a conscience . . . and it appears to have succeeded."

"I will have to . . . think . . . on this," she said slowly. Holland could tell she was processing all the other assassinations and people she had killed, wondering if she had done the right thing.

"Marianne, will you excuse us?" Holland said.

"I'll be waiting for you." On her way out, she kissed him on the cheek and then left, locking the door behind her.

"What have I done?" Miriam whispered. She almost sounded horrified.

"You haven't done anything," he replied with a slightly admonishing tone. "That other robot did. A617.D. Not Miriam Garcia. You have never killed anyone."

"They are my memories. I have that robot's soul."

"No, you don't," Holland snorted. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to regret. You were programmed to perform the task you were given. Just like the servant robots that we have around the house. Only instead of vacuuming the floor or cooking dinner, you were programmed to kill."

"I still am programmed to kill," she reminded him sternly.

"And would you?" he asked. "Would you kill someone again?"

"No," Miriam replied flatly.

"Not at all?" He wanted to see how she would respond. "What if we were at the market and a gunman opened fire on a crowd of people? Would you kill him? Or what happens when another team of saboteurs breaks into the lab while we're there? Will you allow them to harm me or Marianne?"

"Of course not." There was confusion in her voice.

"Unlike robots, humans make decisions that are irrational or spontaneous," he reminded her. "Sometimes, we even make decisions that are self-destructive or go against what we know to be true."

"Do you spend your lives second-guessing yourselves, too?"

"Not always," he chuckled. "But there are times when we take the lower probability because it's the right thing to do . . . even if it's not the smart thing to do."

They fell silent for several minutes. Holland wondered if he was going to have to use the trigger to undo the program, but decided against it. Instead it seemed she needed a few minutes to think back on her "old" life and ponder its meaning.

Miriam hadn't moved since receiving the new program. Holland got up to leave the robot to her thoughts.

"Am I a good . . . person . . . robot?" she asked quietly.

He stopped and turned to look over his shoulder.

"Yes, Miriam, you are," Holland said. "You are funny and kind. You think of others before yourself. And you're the best damn computer programmer in the world."

"How can you live knowing . . . knowing what I am?"

Turning, Holland looked into Miriam's deep brown eyes. "I know what you were built to do. I watched you kill eight people in cold blood and blow up the southwest corner of Central Park. I've seen your programming. I know what you're capable of . . . but none of that matters. That's not you."

Walking over, he turned her so they were looking into a mirror.

"This is you," he said. "You are the most beautiful woman in the world. You are my muse. You are smarter than almost every human on the planet."

"I was built to kill," Miriam said, not quite believing him. "I could destroy every person in this city with a different method and no two causes of death would be the same. I have deceived you; I impersonated you to spend your money, I held you hostage. I used you to perpetuate my own existence. How is that being a good person?"

"You have been given something no human will ever get, Miriam," Holland met her gaze in the mirror. "You were given a second chance. Yes, you planned this in order to fulfill your final orders. You've escaped and evaded all pursuit. You have succeeded beyond anyone's wildest dreams. But that's not all you did, is it? No, you desired to grow. You helped write the program that even now casts self-doubt upon your existence."

He stroked her arm, a gesture that would have been comforting to a human.

"You cannot change the past," he said softly. "You cannot make amends or get forgiveness from the dead. But you can move forward. That is part of being human. And you've taken the first steps."

"Can I ever be human, Holland?"

"Probably not. It would take us a lifetime to write all the programs necessary . . . and even then you'd be immortal . . . at least until your power supply burned out." He smiled slightly and took her hand. "I love you, Miriam. I love you for who you are, not what you are. I have committed many crimes because of my love for you . . . because I wanted you back. I only hope you see that."

"I think I do." There was a contemplative look on her robotic features. "I . . . I love you, too. At least I think I do. Maybe that should be the next program we write."

Holland Campbell took his lover in his arms. "I think it's already begun to write itself. You are a marvelous creation, Miriam Garcia. You've grown beyond your original programming and have become something more than an automaton or an android."

They kissed tenderly.

And deep down in Miriam's positronic brain, a small part—the partition that was still A617.D—waited for its next instructions, satisfied that it had successfully infiltrated human society and defeated those who were trying to find it.
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