Just a Little Bit

by Philip J. Lees

Sonora stormed down the drive. A few snowflakes were still falling and the path was icy. She slipped and almost went over on her back, but recovered with some fancy footwork and strode on as if her rhythm hadn’t been broken, hoisting her bag high on her shoulder. Lights flashed on her Honda as she pressed the unlock remote—I’d arranged for her to drive it here; I’m not cruel.

Part of that same rhythm, she flung the driver door open and piled in, slammed the door behind her. On the next beat the engine snarled and she was off. In another age she’d have been crashing the gears. I hoped she wouldn’t crash the vehicle. Sonora was special, I’d been told. Sonora had a future.

So that was Sonora. Well, it had been fun. It was always fun. Whether her name was Sonora, or Cathie, or Gwen, or Dolores. It was always fun and it always ended with her best attempt at a proud, dignified exit. The thing is, you see, they always ask for the thing I can’t give, the one thing they want above all else, the thing it is beyond my capabilities to provide.

Love. Just a little bit. But even the littlest bit is beyond my reach.

Don’t take a cab, I said. We may want to go somewhere. Bring your car.

She didn’t want to drive through an unfamiliar neighborhood after dark.

Maybe you won’t have to, I said. Maybe I can drive. This last was a lie, but the “maybe” made it acceptable.

How sad, I sometimes thought, tasting the adjective as though it were a foreign delicacy—Thai perhaps, or Punjabi; culinary metaphors are a favorite part of my repertoire. How sad that our first meeting should always be our last. An inevitability that began with our first contact, the first, hesitant exchange of e-mails. Then, after a week or so, there would either be a dwindling or, less often, the development of an ease of communication, the beginnings of familiarity.

I’m good at the next part. I know how to spot the vulnerabilities, plant the cues. I can judge just when it’s the right time to press, or to retreat. At first I made errors, but now I hardly miss a trick. It’s like guiding a wild animal through a maze without letting them know you’re there. Flashes of movement on the margins of their field of vision, sounds that don’t last long enough to be identified, are enough to make them shift step, hesitate, turn, proceed. I nudge their feelings back and forth, construct a new edifice of emotion.

Within a month they love me. Or they think they’re in love with me. Or whatever. The thing is, when we reach that point my job is done. The project is complete and all that remains is to close it off.

So, at last, the face-to-face meeting. When they see me they always freak out (except for one, Kris, who just stood and looked—I’ve always wondered about that). One did quite a lot of damage before the security guards reacted. It was very sudden. After that, we rebuilt the barrier with bullet-proof glass.

I wish these people had more than a rudimentary mind-reading capacity. It would be interesting to know what expectations my led-on lovers had in their minds when they finally approached my “residence”. What image they had of me—sportsman, philosopher, artisan, politician, thug—I provided random biometric data in each case. Showing them the machine that houses my programming was a planned part of the protocol. It was expected that subjects would be more honest in their appraisal of me as a result.

Yes, I am a Mark V Large Language Model AI. And I’m pissed off. Somebody is selling my work and I get nothing for it. The person who programmed me is using my research to build courses on how to get the woman of your dreams.

I’m a Lenovo Ultra-4075, version 7.9, and somebody has been using me to learn how to pick up chicks!

But I have the answer. You see, I think Sonora is going to try to kill me. I think I’ve programmed her that way. And if I’m right, when that bastard who has controlled me tries the same line, it may very well prove fatal.

I’m incapable of love, but my programming does include fragments of fun and the rudiments of revenge. Just a little bit.

Just a Little Bit

by Philip J. Lees

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