The Peculiar Journey of Lauren Barnes, Installment One.
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The Peculiar Journey of Lauren Barnes, Installment One.
So, yeah. I've meant to do this for a while, and Kano's post finally pushed me to do it. Following is the opening chapter of my first story for this board. Forgive the terrible Dickensian title; I couldn't think of anything else. Criticism is much appreciated, and I sure hope you like it.
"The Peculiar Journey of Lauren Barnes," Installment One: The Entrepeneurs and the Naked Girl.
In the waning days of the twentieth century, mankind came together in celebration of its crowning achievement: AI, or Artificial Intelligence. So vast was its knowledge and so great was its power that blah blah et cetera. . .we all know the deal by now, don't we? Even if you've been under a rock for the last five years, you've at least seen "The Matrix," so you have some idea of what we're talking about. Anyway, it was a great idea in theory. Look, we've built a computer that can beat us at chess! Look, we've built a computer that can make telemarketing calls to your home and business at all hours! And finally, we've created a computer which can be as petulant and rebellious as a sixteen-year-old girl!
That's where I come in. Actually, I come in naked on a hotel room floor somewhere in Southern California, but I'm getting a little ahead of myself.
A few years ago, a couple of European capitalists felt it was absolutely imperative that the world be exposed to lifelike human duplicates. They would use the AI programs which had been developed by the Americans and build themselves attractive guys and gals, but mostly gals, to assume a variety of tasks. However, since they were Continental Europeans, "a variety of tasks" meant "syph-free sex." It had to be the first time that a Frenchman didn't come out and say exactly what he was thinking.
And then there were many deals made behind closed doors. Businessmen flying from Rotterdam to Emoryville; techies jetting from Tuscon to Nice; intermediate money handlers checking their bags, spending much too long in Quebec City while the plane is delayed, and finally making their way to Berlin to hand over the funds necessary in order to complete the last transaction on just the right set of plastic tubes to mimic the feel of the small intestine. It was all very boring, but everybody got enough frequent flyer miles to travel first class for the rest of their lives, and it all paid off one June morning when a surly German named Hans introduced his daughter to a conference room full of men from every country in western Europe. Everyone naturally went nuts when his daughter removed her face to display a carefully planned mass of wires underneath. There were a lot of "mon dieu"s, several "dios mio"s, and at least one "gott in himmel!" Her response? "Father, what are these curious languages these men speak?"
Oh boy. Wow. She had the look, but she was as stiff as a corpse. It was obvious that some field testing was needed. Over the course of three hours of shouting, a young engineer named Hristopher Jonas Quint rose above the pack and convinced the twenty-odd congregated in the room that his solution was the best and simplest for their needs. "We should send it to a college in America," he said. "The unit will meet people from every country and all walks of life, and gain experiences we could never teach it here."
The surly German nodded, utilizing twice as many muscles as he had during the rest of the conference. "Good idea, Hristopher," he said, underlining how ridiculous this young man's name was. "Prepare one of the girls, and start looking into fabricating an application to one of the larger institutions. And make sure she's waterproof. . .just in case."
For the next several days Hristopher and his team of AV-Club Alumni worked on a perfect simulant to drop into an unsuspecting freshman class. She had the appearance of an eighteen year old British-descended mutt, and was programmed to be absolutely blind without her contacts in. She was me, but I didn't know it at the time.
Hristopher Quint was dispatched to Los Angeles two months later with a rather curious package in tow. To one who didn't know better, it looked quite like a casket. At least, that's what the bellman at the Hilton thought it was. He was tipped quite well when he finally got the box into the room, and therefore buggered off with no delay. When the door was shut and the blinds were closed, Hristopher reached into his bag and pulled out the only two items contained within: a hammer and a ticket for a flight leaving from LAX two hours hence. There was no time to waste; if anything in the box was in any way damaged, he would have to spend hours on the phone with Technical Support in Fresno, and he really didn't have the time or the patience to deal with them. He dropped to one knee and began to pull out the nails out of the top of the crate. Hurredly pulling off the lid, he looked at the girl, made sure she had all of her fingers and toes, checked to see that her bag had been packed correctly, and carefully pulled her out of the box and onto the floor. He then began the activation sequence and headed for the door, fully ready to meet traffic on the 105 on the way back to the airport.
The girl lay prone on the floor. The air conditioner kicked in and started subtly blowing around her shoulder-length hair. Anyone walking in would have been shocked to find a dead girl next to an open packing crate, but other than that nothing much happened.
Then I took my first breath. Actually, it was more of a gasp. I convulsed off the floor, rolled over, thrust my hands around. It was anything but graceful. After a minute I began to calm, and I sat down on the bed to contemplate my situation. I was sure of only a few things: my name was Lauren Barnes, I had falled asleep with my contacts in, I was totally naked, and I had no idea where I was.
"The Peculiar Journey of Lauren Barnes," Installment One: The Entrepeneurs and the Naked Girl.
In the waning days of the twentieth century, mankind came together in celebration of its crowning achievement: AI, or Artificial Intelligence. So vast was its knowledge and so great was its power that blah blah et cetera. . .we all know the deal by now, don't we? Even if you've been under a rock for the last five years, you've at least seen "The Matrix," so you have some idea of what we're talking about. Anyway, it was a great idea in theory. Look, we've built a computer that can beat us at chess! Look, we've built a computer that can make telemarketing calls to your home and business at all hours! And finally, we've created a computer which can be as petulant and rebellious as a sixteen-year-old girl!
That's where I come in. Actually, I come in naked on a hotel room floor somewhere in Southern California, but I'm getting a little ahead of myself.
A few years ago, a couple of European capitalists felt it was absolutely imperative that the world be exposed to lifelike human duplicates. They would use the AI programs which had been developed by the Americans and build themselves attractive guys and gals, but mostly gals, to assume a variety of tasks. However, since they were Continental Europeans, "a variety of tasks" meant "syph-free sex." It had to be the first time that a Frenchman didn't come out and say exactly what he was thinking.
And then there were many deals made behind closed doors. Businessmen flying from Rotterdam to Emoryville; techies jetting from Tuscon to Nice; intermediate money handlers checking their bags, spending much too long in Quebec City while the plane is delayed, and finally making their way to Berlin to hand over the funds necessary in order to complete the last transaction on just the right set of plastic tubes to mimic the feel of the small intestine. It was all very boring, but everybody got enough frequent flyer miles to travel first class for the rest of their lives, and it all paid off one June morning when a surly German named Hans introduced his daughter to a conference room full of men from every country in western Europe. Everyone naturally went nuts when his daughter removed her face to display a carefully planned mass of wires underneath. There were a lot of "mon dieu"s, several "dios mio"s, and at least one "gott in himmel!" Her response? "Father, what are these curious languages these men speak?"
Oh boy. Wow. She had the look, but she was as stiff as a corpse. It was obvious that some field testing was needed. Over the course of three hours of shouting, a young engineer named Hristopher Jonas Quint rose above the pack and convinced the twenty-odd congregated in the room that his solution was the best and simplest for their needs. "We should send it to a college in America," he said. "The unit will meet people from every country and all walks of life, and gain experiences we could never teach it here."
The surly German nodded, utilizing twice as many muscles as he had during the rest of the conference. "Good idea, Hristopher," he said, underlining how ridiculous this young man's name was. "Prepare one of the girls, and start looking into fabricating an application to one of the larger institutions. And make sure she's waterproof. . .just in case."
For the next several days Hristopher and his team of AV-Club Alumni worked on a perfect simulant to drop into an unsuspecting freshman class. She had the appearance of an eighteen year old British-descended mutt, and was programmed to be absolutely blind without her contacts in. She was me, but I didn't know it at the time.
Hristopher Quint was dispatched to Los Angeles two months later with a rather curious package in tow. To one who didn't know better, it looked quite like a casket. At least, that's what the bellman at the Hilton thought it was. He was tipped quite well when he finally got the box into the room, and therefore buggered off with no delay. When the door was shut and the blinds were closed, Hristopher reached into his bag and pulled out the only two items contained within: a hammer and a ticket for a flight leaving from LAX two hours hence. There was no time to waste; if anything in the box was in any way damaged, he would have to spend hours on the phone with Technical Support in Fresno, and he really didn't have the time or the patience to deal with them. He dropped to one knee and began to pull out the nails out of the top of the crate. Hurredly pulling off the lid, he looked at the girl, made sure she had all of her fingers and toes, checked to see that her bag had been packed correctly, and carefully pulled her out of the box and onto the floor. He then began the activation sequence and headed for the door, fully ready to meet traffic on the 105 on the way back to the airport.
The girl lay prone on the floor. The air conditioner kicked in and started subtly blowing around her shoulder-length hair. Anyone walking in would have been shocked to find a dead girl next to an open packing crate, but other than that nothing much happened.
Then I took my first breath. Actually, it was more of a gasp. I convulsed off the floor, rolled over, thrust my hands around. It was anything but graceful. After a minute I began to calm, and I sat down on the bed to contemplate my situation. I was sure of only a few things: my name was Lauren Barnes, I had falled asleep with my contacts in, I was totally naked, and I had no idea where I was.
- Cornelius
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I don't have much to add to any of the above comments... but I'll certainly echo them. You've definitely got my attention. Please do continue!
"Oh shut up Ray don't talk about gettin' with a robot
That is a ill idea"
--Roast Beef
http://achewood.com
That is a ill idea"
--Roast Beef
http://achewood.com
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Definitely agreed there; current story in the works that I'll probably get too distracted to finish has a nice android like that. ^_~velda2222 wrote:Great Start!
I really like stories that let the bot be fully autonomous and not just some remote controlled sex slave. But instead an artificial girl with desires, needs, and a deep personality. Anyways, this story is off to a terrific start.
Ryn
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