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Plasticity Page 27
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Alex stayed silent, waiting for whatever bombshell was coming, but was oddly disappointed.
“We would like the opportunity to bid for a contract to supply the clinic with plastics. I have, recently, had the opportunity to examine one of your expensive units, and someone I consider an authority on these things said it was, quote, 'A thirty-thousand-dollar robot with a fancy paint job.' Now, I have no idea how much you actually paid for it, but the customer said it cost two-hundred grand. You, or Insurance, either way, got screwed if you paid that much. Our team can build equal or better quality units, including full-custom models, reproduced in the highest fidelity, within a few days, not weeks, for about the same cost as your average barista unit.”
“And all you want is the chance to bid? You're saying I can reject the offer, if the board wants to? And it won't come back to me in the form of harassing emails, or horse heads in my bed?” Alex knew when something sounded too good to be true, it often was.
“That's it. The chance. That's how confident I am in this company. American-Made, high quality, honest pricing. You're getting gouged right now, and unless someone on your board is getting something from it, there's no way they wouldn't go with us. Keep that in mind when you bring it up. Anyone against going with us, is probably pocketing a significant chunk of that gouging for themselves.”
They watched, each with equal apprehension, as the automated ID clerk stripped the clothing from, and then scanned, the plastic. It made a horrific bleating sound as it scanned the midsection of the plastic, and Portland thought all of their work had just been invalidated. She began to panic, but the bleating was followed by a print-out barcode sticker that the automated clerk tore off and stuck to the left arm of the plastic. It returned to its roost behind a desk, as a door slid open in the wall, and a carry-bot emerged to retrieve the plastic. By all appearances, the charade had seemed to succeed, and Alex did not seem to believe otherwise.
“A presentation will need to be performed, and we'll have to look over the books, so we know what our numbers are. I won't tell you anything about them, so you can't fudge your numbers. Be accurate. If we accept, and your numbers go up afterward, it's costly to re-engage our former suppliers. I don't have to mention what cost you would incur, do I?” He looked at her with his head tipped, like he was scolding a child.
“Aw, that's cute, Lexi.” Portland blew him a kiss. “Send me the calendar date and time. I've got a presentation to prepare.” And she skipped off down the hall, hoping that her outside appearance properly disguised the wormhole of fear she had been bottling up. She had not realized how much mental stress she could build for herself, but the thought of getting caught with a knock-off had wrecked her mental state, and for the first time since her skin was made of polymer, she felt like she needed a drink.
Chapter 29: Money in the Bank
A week after returning the plastic “Hayley,” Portland was standing in an office that was placed considerably higher in the building than the last one she had been in. They had spent days cataloging parts, countries of origin, the manufacturer of the skeletal parts, and the approximated costs of construction. Between the cabin and the in-house-factory, they had enough parts to assemble between forty and fifty plastics. And now they stood, Lydia on one side, Portland on the other side of a new plastic. The presentation was in two parts: part one was the documentation packet, which would have been enough on its own, but part two was the newly minted plastic standing before them. A demonstration of its abilities, thanks to a modified OS, based on the upgrades Tabitha adopted from the updated version of herself, impressed upon the members of the board its superiority over a standard unit. The icing on the cake was the price range, where Portland knew if they were not swayed by everything up until that point, the price would push them into acceptance. Basic units starting around thirty-thousand, advanced units in the sixty-thousand range. Portland didn't have to know what they paid for their plastics to know that this had to be far below usual cost.
“And this is the moment. Your moment. Affordable plastics in the hands of every man, woman, and child, ushering in a new age of human history. Each bearing the logo of Maebashi.” Portland issued a command to the plastic, and Lydia held the door for it as it left, returning home on foot, without a pilot and without any trickery from Tabitha.
Alex admitted to himself that he had been impressed with what he saw, and if they could deliver in the time frame they described, for the price they described, he knew there was no way he was going to pass up the opportunity. He could hear the march of a new generation of robots, and their sound was coins in a jar, paper in a sorting machine, and the silent scroll of ascending numbers on a screen.
Alex looked around the table as the girls left the room, and was dismayed by the face of a senior partner, who looked as though the presentation had left a bad taste in his mouth. When the votes were cast, Alex made a mental note to investigate this partner, but the show would go on, regardless, and Alex could see himself at the head of the parade, waving his baton, in a crown the size of a watermelon, an army of drooling plastic idiots behind him. And he smiled.
Chapter 30: Severance
Portland and Lydia were greeted by the shining face of an angel upon their return to Alan's mansion. The face was delicately stitched to the polymer and titanium head of Helen Maria Caballeros, a woman who had grown on Portland in the preceding days. She had shown herself to be an immensely respectable person, and Portland had not, yet, found a way to atone for her earlier treatment, and she felt pangs of guilt each time she looked upon that beautiful face.
“Where's the freeloader? I've got something for him.” Portland looked around corners, peeked behind doors, and lifted couch cushions, a performance more for her own amusement than anyone else.
“Cyrus is in his office, planning our appearance at a certain expo.” Helen beamed, as close to literally as any human ever had.
Portland raised an eyebrow at her, half in disbelief. “Presumptive or reactive?”
“Got the call this morning, while you idiots were off having your little tea party without us.” Helen hinted at a motion to follow her upstairs, which Portland was viciously eager to do.
“I'm going downstairs, assuming Alan's down there.” Lydia walked into the living room, without waiting for a response. None was needed. Alan spent nearly every hour of each day down there. To the point that they had to stop him from crafting so many faces, using up resources with little regard for what they would do when they got the first custom order in. He had been officially fired from his job as dishwasher several days ago, and he had barely blinked at the news, being far too distracted by his latest creation. And Portland had only known about it because Charlie had told her, as an afterthought, at a rather inappropriate time while they were together for the first time in almost a decade.
Upstairs, in an office the size of Portland's living room, and more expensively furnished than said living room, Portland dropped a heavy envelope onto the massive, solid mahogany desk that now belonged to Cyrus, as CFO of their budding business.
“What's this?” He waited for an explanation, in lieu of taking the envelope.
“Severance package that Alex was kind enough to pass on from your old boss, since you have been unreachable recently.” Portland pushed the envelope closer, and sat down in one of the least comfortable chairs that had ever existed. Helen had taken the other of the two, and neither of them seemed to notice how uncomfortable the chairs were. Cyrus shook his head.
“Damn robot-people.” He lifted his solid gold letter-opener, his new pride and joy, from its bespoke sheath along the side of a rather pedestrian-looking pen caddy. The heft of the envelope seemed to imply an unreasonable amount of cash inside, or, if his old boss was being a dick, a bunch of ones. Cyrus was surprised to find neither within the paper confines of this prank-gone-wrong. “These are divorce papers.” He scowled at Portland.
“Hey, Man, I didn't know. Alex said your old boss gave it to him. I assum
ed it was money.” Portland shrugged.
“Oh it is... just not for me.” Cyrus shook his head, again, and thumbed through the papers. Typical jargon attempted to disguise blatant theft of all he had worked for over the past fifteen years, but, silver lining, he would get the kids every other weekend, and certain holidays to be determined as they arose. At this point, that was all he really cared about. Katie could have that shitty old house, both shitty old cars, and whatever money he had that she thought she was entitled to. He had spent a week unemployed, at least four days of that being officially unemployed, and he had no intention of being gainfully employed again until this whole divorce was over and out of the way. There was no need for a mess, or for fighting. Cyrus wanted this divorce as much as Katie. Maybe more. He had something infinitely better on the horizon, and in his bed. He signed the papers, initialed where it instructed him to, and stuffed the packet back into the smooth, cleanly split open envelope, before handing the entire packet back to Portland.
“What do you want me to do with this? 'Cause I'd just as soon drop it in the trash as ferry it about town for your lazy ass.” Plus you stole my girl, and I can be a vengeful bitch when I want to, she meant to say, but had not quite gotten the words to her lips.
“I may be unemployed, but that don't mean I ain't got work to do.” Cyrus scowled at her, but it was clearly without any actual malice, and Helen's giggle was delightful punctuation to their conversation.
Portland rolled her eyes and got up to leave. “It's just lucky for you that I have somewhere to go, and it's not out of my way to drop this off.”
Chapter 31: A Soft Belly
Charlie lay in bed, with Portland's head pressed against her breast. Her fingers threaded through Portland's hair, lazily lifting the distinct sections, hefting them against the back of her hand. It was oddly familiar, but foreign enough to avoid deja vu. Warm orange light spilled in through the open window, turning the top and corner of her dresser into a seamless, flameless fire. It was cold in here, leaving the half of Charlie's body that wasn't enveloped in Portland to prickle. For a moment, she considered not moving, so as not to wake Portland, then, upon realizing the folly in her thought, she reached for her comforter, pulling it over her waist and across Portland's chest. It left her shoulders chilled, but it was better, for now.
Portland liked Charlie's hands. Distinctly feminine, but clearly the hands of a metalworker. Her fingers weren't long and thin, and they were never shiny with oil concoctions or lotions. Her nails were always clipped short, and she had always had small rough patches along the edges of her fingers, and calloused fingertips. She smiled thinking of the first time she had touched Charlie's hands. So many years ago. A different life. In a less-than-cliché way, a lifetime ago. It had worried her, feeling the roughness and imagining it scratching and scraping at her soft bits. And, yes, it was a little much for the nipples, but everywhere else seemed to accept those hands without complaint. Now was different, sort of. Her left hand was the same as Portland remembered it being, more or less, but her right hand was smooth. Its perfectly manicured nails as smooth as glass, while a small collection of wrinkles graced it, made to look like the wrinkles of a twenty-year-old hand, and it was hairless, truly hairless, with a wrinkle-free wrist. A hand that would, without intervention, be perpetually youthful. The rest of the body would rot away around it, but that right arm would always be the right arm of a twenty-year-old. It was almost sexy. Almost.
Just beneath the thin surface of arousal, writhed a queasy emotion, akin to revulsion. Portland could accept the hypocrisy of feeling this way despite having her own eternal youth, because nothing of her's would ever age. Not visibly, at least. Charlie's body, however, was already showing her age, making the arm stand out a bit more. Caressing it, Portland sort of felt like she was touching an actual twenty-year-old girl, an age gap of well over a decade, which, in turn, sort of made her feel a little dirty, and briefly reminded her of Hayley. A betrayal of thought, which brought a wash of gentle guilt. A shallow pool, to be sure, but its existence could not be denied. Charlie craned her neck down and kissed Portland softly on her eyebrow, and Portland's thoughts were forgiven, for the moment.
“So, when are you gonna come by and see the facility? Alan has something he's wanted to discuss with you forever, but he can't bring himself to leave the basement for anything longer than a pee-break.” Portland brushed her face against Charlie's chest, a cat in perpetual heat, trying, and failing, to distract from her obvious ploy.
“I'm not going full-prosth. I'm happy being flesh, thank you very much.” Charlie bucked Portland's head from her chest, but let it come to rest there again, without complaint.
“Oh, sure, for now. One day, though, you'll wake up a ragged old lunatic, and then what? You won't pass a psych eval, and I'll have to do the transfer in some dirty back alley like a common peasant.”
“Get up, I have to pee.” No she didn't.
Portland slid herself out of the bed and stretched, pointlessly, uselessly, a performance for effect only. She watched Charlie's naked body, soft and so fragile, as she left the room. She had never stopped loving her, and was certain this feeling was what mortals referred to as “happiness.” She slid the closet door open, planning to help herself to one of Charlie's thin cotton t-shirts. Beneath a rack that looked like a lazy artist just duped an item a dozen times, she saw a single shoe box. “Well, now, that's not out of place, or anything.” She knelt to the box and opened it where it sat, not bothering to lift it from the floor. Positively archaic, she mused, sorting through the various letters and photographs. Only some silly, misguided view of romance would inspire someone to write physical letters and print out physical copies of pictures.
Portland shook her head, looking at her and Charlie's smiling, idiot faces, eyes shining with the stupidity of young love. She tried to read one of the letters, but had to stop and stuff it back down in the box out of embarrassment. She closed the lid of the shoe box, and decided to pretend she hadn't seen it. All these years, through God knows how many other partners, she had kept these ridiculous mementos of their time together. That had to count for something, right? She slid on one of the silky cotton shirts, leaving her half-nude, and flicked her nipples to make sure they stood out the right amount. It was today's mission to distract Charlie as much as possible, while trying to get some of her own work done, as well.
In the bathroom, Charlie was hunched over the sink, gazing into the mirror, questioning herself and the situation she had let herself be dragged back into. She fought hard to blame her mother for this, but she knew Margot would not have been able to talk her into this, if she had not wanted it for herself. She rotated her arm, wincing at the pain in her shoulder. And then she removed the arm, for the first time in almost a year. She was surprised to find it relatively clean under there. It was a pretty good connection, under constant guard by the synthetic skin that stretched from her actual shoulder to the ball and socket of the robot arm, but she had worried about it, anyway. She rinsed the knobby, scarred mound of remaining shoulder and dried it with a towel, not bothering to remove the towel from the rack, and sulked out of the bathroom. She needed Portland to see her like this, without the fake arm. In her real skin. She needed Portland to accept it, even if she had told herself a thousand times that she accepted herself, and that was all that mattered.
Charlie felt like she was on the verge of tears when she walked back into her room, but she concentrated on keeping herself together, so to speak. Portland was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a t-shirt. It was comical, but her attempt at a laugh turned to a croak in her throat, and tears began to well up in her eyes. She stood there, holding her light-weight, robotic disguise, and let her face crumple into an ugly cry.
Portland rushed to her, taking her into her arms, and petting her hair. “Baby, what's wrong?” She got no response, aside from sniffles and Charlie nuzzling her head into her neck. She didn't push for an answer, she just held Charlie and let her
cry softly against her neck and cheek.
Portland gently pulled the prosthesis from Charlie's hand and set it on the bed, without releasing Charlie from her embrace. She kissed Charlie's armless shoulder and whispered into her ear. “It's okay, Baby. I'm here for you... and I'm rich... and my nipples look great in this shirt.”
Charlie smacked her on the arm, but she was smiling at least, and that was a start.