I blinked once at Matt, very slowly. “Can you hear yourself speak? Disliking a person based on their penchant for deception is entirely appropriate.”
“But that’s not why you dislike me,” he challenged, a hint of his wily smile returning. “Admit it,” he pushed, giving me the sense he enjoyed trying to get under my skin, “you don’t like me because my work challenges your small ideas.”
Okay, mister. The gloves are coming off now.
Gritting my teeth, I stared at Professor Matt Simmons, the urge to upset his preconceived notions of women like me almost overwhelming. Clearly, he was small-minded, too. But in a different way.
“You think so, huh? You think you know me so well because, why? Because you’ve read my profile and I’m basically the same as all the other women out there within my demographic?”
“More or less.” He tilted his head back and forth in a considering motion, and I couldn’t figure out his goal.
Why was he keeping me here? To insult me? To argue with me?
Unless he truly believed he held the key to knowing people, what they wanted, what drove their motivations. And if that was the case . . .
Hmm.
I decided I wanted his data. I wanted to see his findings. I needed him to work with me.
But how could I convince a researcher—who was understandably territorial about his research—to share it with me?
You either trick him or force him to do it, just like he tricked you.
“Everyone is predictable?” I narrowed my eyes on him, a fully formed idea blossoming, and it was a beautiful idea. Maybe the best I’d ever had.
“Yep.”
“Based on data? Based on the advances of technology?”
“Yep.”
“Hmm. Well, that’s good news.”
His grin wavered. “Why is that good news?”
“Because, Professor Matthew,” I patted his shoulder, “you’re going to show me your findings and research and I’m going to write a story about you and your advances in AI.”
And my editor will love it. I hope.
His grin fell. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.” Now I was grinning.
Matt took a step back, his tone growing combative. “I’m not showing you anything.”
“You have no choice.”
“You think so?” His glower returned, and I detected the edge in his voice.
“Yes. I know so. Because if you don’t show me your findings—and interpret them to my satisfaction—then I’ll write a different news story, warning the women of this fine city of a deception study being conducted by two douche canoe researchers from the University of Chicago in the pursuit of developing a sex robot.”
His jaw ticked, a storm gathered behind his expressive eyes, his glower persisted, but he said nothing.
“And how biased do you think your data will be then, Matthew?”
For a long moment, he remained silent, though I did get the impression he was trying to shred my soul with his stare.
“Fine,” he ground out, looking positively irate. “But you have to give me something in return.”
I snorted, crossing my arms. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes. You do.”
“I’m not giving you a damn thing.”
“You’ll consent to the questionnaire—”
“Fat chance—”
“Or else I’ll share nothing,” he said, granite in his voice, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Write your article, tell the city, tell the world about our study, it doesn’t really matter. We’ll just pause our data collection, wait for the story to blow over, then start again. Sure, the time delay will be irritating and costly, but not devastating.”
I took a deep breath, considering him, trying to figure out if he was bluffing. The professor was difficult to read.
“Consent to the study,” he whispered, like a taunt.
“That’s coercion.”
“And what you’re doing isn’t?” he volleyed back.
I was still gritting my teeth, frowning. He had me there.
“Fine,” I stuck out my hand, “I’ll consent. You can do your imbecilic questionnaire and use my data. Happy?”
He took my hand, shook it once, and then dropped it.
“I’m so far from happy, I’m not even sure what that word means,” he ground out, his eyes flashing. Truly, he looked pissed.
Oh well.
Pissing off people who were never going to like me didn’t bother me much. Occupational hazard.
I could definitely understand why he was angry, but I’m not one of those people who get angry just because someone else is angry. In fact, faced with an angry person, usually I grow calmer.
Turning away from me, both of his hands now in his pockets, he said, “Congratulations,” more a growl than a word.
“For what?” I called after him.
Pausing outside the door next to Fiona and Greg’s and withdrawing his keys, he said unhappily, “For being unpredictable.”
6
Arria
An analyst and a writer in one, this AI "reads" complex data (such as financial or meteorological) and writes accurate, easy-to-read reports for general consumption.
Source: Arria NLG plc
“I’m thinking that this could be a series of articles, about how we—and by we, I mean women, all of female humanity—can replace romantic relationships by using either paid services or robots.”
I bit my lip, chewing on it, knowing I had no way to snatch the words back now. They were out there. Both Tommy and my editor had heard them. I just had to . . . commit to the crazy.
Clearly, I was mentally disturbed.
The idea had solidified late Friday night—technically early Saturday morning—and I couldn’t let go of it. As a counter balance to Matt’s Compassion AI, I realized paid services were the answer. Whether Matt knew it or not, he’d provided a solution to my angst. The angle would be: no one needed a romantic relationship, not if they didn’t want it, not in today’s age of technology and access to information and services.
Not anymore.
And I was going to prove it. I was going to free women from the shackles and disappointment of modern companionship.
Why put myself through the misery of egotistical men with their FOMO and inferiority complexes? No. Never again. I was going to give single women everywhere the tools they didn’t know they needed to live relationship-free, never settling for adequate—never settling at all—and womankind would be happier for it.
“You’re joking,” Daniella deadpanned, sighing tiredly from her end of the conference call.
“No, no. Hear me out,” I rushed to explain. “So, have you heard of professional cuddlers?”
“Yeah. I think so.” She sounded bored, irritated.