“Tonight,” I tell the class, “we are going to start with a video on one of the latest surprises in baby-making technology.”
I turn on the video ...
My name is Mi-Sang-0110, but my friends call me Cindy. I’m sixteen years old, and I’m a sophomore at Venice Finishing Academy. I am training to become a PAA for Mr. Jules Tipton, a wealthy man who is now 93 years old.
A PAA is a Personal Android Assistant. I am made of flesh and bone and blood, but I’m not human. I was created and raised. I spent my first two months in a cow’s uterus, then I was moved to an incubating vat until I was ten months old, then I was “born” and came into the care of the Venice Finishing Academy.
When we were born, there were ten in our class -- Mr. Tipton was supporting all ten of us. Mr. Tipton visits us regularly. He watches us, plays with us, and teaches us -- we know him, and he knows us. He knows us well enough to make choices, and those of us who did not please him for one reason or another were moved into different programs. Now there are only three in our class, but our time living at the academy is nearing completion. We will continue training, but we will move into Mr. Tipton’s house and begin serving him.
We will begin to do what we were created to do -- serve him, night and day -- and I’m looking forward to that. I have been trained to sing and dance, cook and keep house, talk and cuddle. When I am around, Mr. Tipton will be happy, and I will help him lose his stress.
I am mostly human, but if you listen to my chest, you will hear only my breathing, no thump, thump. My flesh heart had a defect and was removed -- listen to my abdomen and you will hear the soft whine of my mechanical replacement. All PAAs have an organ replacement. We can become PAAs only if we are born with a life-threatening defect and we are saved. In the eyes of the law, this makes us recycled biomaterial, and therefore not human, and subject to a different set of laws.
Few humans want to act like PAAs. Even when they do, the laws make it difficult. A woman cannot give herself completely to a man. She can say she wants to, and she can act like she wants to, but if she changes her mind, the law will support her change of mind, and the man she has given herself to can suffer great loss when she does. This can’t happen with a PAA.
So, we are expensive, but like all human creations, we fill a need that humans can’t fill as well as we can.
I have a uterus, and I have ovaries, and they are fully functional. I may have a heart defect, but my genes are some of the finest humans can design.
Mr. Tipton wants me to have babies. He’s told me so. He wants me to have many babies, and he will help me make them. This is part of what I will do as a PAA. As a PAA, I will make Mr. Tipton happy any way he wants me to.
I like Mr. Tipton. He’s old, but his hands are strong, and he’s gentle when he touches me. He touches me and Cathy and Sarah a lot. When he comes to watch us and teach us, we end the sessions with back rubs and massages. He touches us, and we touch him. Soon, he says, he will touch me in a new way, and then my tummy will swell and I will have a baby.
I will take care of it and feed it, and it will be a human baby -- a real human baby, not a PAA like me. It will be a human child of Mr. Tipton’s. He and I will both be very happy.
I have to go now. Class starts again soon, and Mr. Tipton will be there!
“What have we just seen?” I ask.
Adrian answers quickly, “A geisha ... Korean I would judge by her features.”
“Good, and what is a geisha?”
“She describes herself pretty well in the video. A high-tech plaything for rich old men.”
“Do we have them in the US?”
“Not many ... yet.”
“Anyone else like to contribute?”
“They aren’t human. They look human, but they aren’t human.” It’s Annette. She’s come with Don this time. He’s kind of bug-eyed. It could be the video or just all the new sights and sounds of the big city. She doesn’t look happy about what she has seen. “I’d heard of them, but this is my first time seeing one.” She pauses before saying this next part, “According to my community leaders, they are an abomination.”
Ben jumps in, “The jury is still out on that here in the US, isn’t it. They are in the news, now, and there are a lot of people unhappy with the PAA concept. The People Firsters are carrying the torch, but there’s a lot of average women who seem to be backing them up.”
“Where are they legal?” I ask.
Now Jaden jumps in, “The concept started in Japan. That’s why they got the geisha moniker. It’s not surprising. Japan is one of the ‘grayest’ places in the world. Those old Japanese men wanted better play toys, but their culture frowns on immigrants.”
“Can we have them in the US?”
Jaden frowns, “There are no laws yet, one way or the other. So, you can have them ... now ... but there’s no telling what their status will be here in the future. They could be declared human, they could be declared things, they could be granted their own status somewhere in between ... that’s what’s happening to them in Japan.
“If they turn out to be things, then killing one is simply destruction of property. Here in the US, this problem looks a lot like the slavery problem did before the Civil War.”
Janet muses, “You’re right, Dahlia. It sure is an interesting surprise use.”
Ben has a thought and laughs, then says like a cranky old grandpa, “In my day we had to chase a woman a mile ... up hill ... both ways ... in the rain.”
We all laugh at that, and I bring up the topic of the day and we continue on with the class.
Miranda An lives in Astoria. It is close to Manhattan, but it’s a place that has seen better times -- much better times, at least in terms of its attractiveness as a place for humans to live. It is now something of a human outpost wedged between two sections of Queens devoted to industry and shipping, which means those areas are mostly creation-populated.
The people who live there are poor, but need access to the city center for one reason or another. It is a mix of students attending the city center schools, immigrants in the process of fitting in, and nomads -- street people who move regularly from city to city, often calling themselves homeless.
These homeless aren’t really homeless, not these days, but calling themselves homeless is good marketing because it gets them more handouts. Officially, they are now called nomads because they have city-provided shelter over their heads, but they move often from city to city. These people spend their working hours begging. Street begging is one of those traditional human occupations that technology has changed very little. They fan out to various high-traffic locations and do various low-skill activities to attract handouts. What is different these days is the numbers: The nomads are a substantial portion of the population compared to what they were even fifty years ago.
I guess it’s a little unfair to call everything they do low-skill. Some are accomplished street entertainers, but a whole lot are MSH’s -- Masters of Sign Holding. They aren’t fools, either -- they are unionized and engaged in incessant turf wars among themselves for prime begging locations. This makes them somewhat violence prone. That is well-recognized, but it seems to be a necessary evil to tolerate them and their rights.
The local stay-at-home street people do some begging, too, and many odd jobs that require warm bodies, not creations. The difference between them and the nomads is the nomads wander more. They migrate regularly from city to city. Many are more delusional in one way or another. The optimistic ones feel they are here on a mission. What the mission is isn’t clear and is different for each of them, but it keeps their spirits up and makes them different from “the losers” -- at least in their own minds.
The pessimistic ones engage in the traditional human ways of escaping from harsh reality, such as overindulging in alcohol and various drugs, orgy partying, and getting fanatic for emotion-based causes. Here there is a sort of arms race. Medicine can combat many of the ravages of drink and drug excess, but when it does, the reality escaping doesn’t work very well, either.
In their pessimistic times, these people alternate between stupor and manic raging, between wandering the streets and rehab. This part of town has seen a boom in government-supported rehab centers and ER-based hospitals, and these provide a lot of employment for semi-reformed and older nomads. They become first-level social workers and therapists.
The students here tend to dodge the nomads. Most feel the nomads are serious losers and to be avoided like the plague, some feel they are serious losers and deserve some sympathy, and a few feel they are serious losers and targets for bullying. Did I mention this neighborhood is violent?
And then there are the immigrants, like Miranda, who are here trying to figure out how our United States works, and finding their place to fit into it.
All-in-all ... Whew! What a mix!
I meet Miranda at a neighborhood coffee house, not her home. This is partly because of tradition in her home country, partly because she is living with her family and some fellow immigrants in a cramped apartment, and partly because she says there are some pretty aggressive beggar-types that haunt the street in front of her place. She comes with her mother and a friend and we have a round of introductions as coffee is ordered up and served. Before the coffee is served, the friend gets a call and apologizes that she has to rush off. I think she’d come mostly just so they were a crowd as they walked down the street, and they get less flack that way.
The coffee Miranda drinks has an odd aroma. I presume it is some brew local to her homeland. We’ve been in class together enough now that I know she is a good girl, and ambitious, so I figure this is a popular regional drink, not some new designer stimulant -- which it could easily be in a place like this.
“I wanted to talk with you outside of class ... and with my mother ... because I’ve received a job offer.”
“That’s wonderful news!” I say.
“It’s from Mr. and Mrs. Hosker,” she continues. “They want me to be a surrogate mother for them.”
“... They want you to bear the child, as well as raise it?”
Miranda nods.
“Mrs. Hosker is worried that her womb may be too old,” she says. “She has stopped having regular periods, you know. Plus, they are planning to have the fertilization done in a test tube, anyway. They want to be real sure they are getting a good ... zygote.” This is still a new word for her, so she stumbles over it a bit. “Since all this is happening outside her womb, they figure they may as well pick a good womb to put this new baby back into ... And that’s what they want me to do.”
I’m a little bit surprised, but just a little. The Hoskers seem like no-nonsense types, and this is a no-nonsense plan.
While I consider what she has told me, she explains to her mother what she has just explained to me. The mother’s face is wrinkled and care-worn, and it shows even more concern as she listens. Clearly where she comes from, she has been poor and the culture is still poor. She hasn’t learned English and she hasn’t had access to any skin protection.
“How do you feel about it?” I ask when she turns back to me.
“Well ... I was planning to be a baby raiser. But I was also planning on getting married and raising my own children.” She looks at her mother who nods vigorously.
“Mother and I are not sure how this would affect that.”
“If I may ask, are you still a virgin?”
“Oh yes,” she says reflexively, and I believe it. It is still important in her culture.
“So ... part of the questions is, if I am correct, will you still be a virgin if you get a zygote implant?”
She nods and looks down. “I will not have known a man, but ...”
Her mother speaks up quietly using her broken English, “This is dinky dau!”
“She means this is crazy,” Miranda explains. Worry is all over the mother’s face now.
“Have you asked your religious person?” I ask.
“Oh, I am a Christian ... Buddhist-Christian, actually. I talked to my new reverend here in the city. He is a good man. He thought about it and said, ‘You know, I don’t know.’”
As we are talking, a commotion starts outside and grows louder. I walk to the window and look out. There are people marching down the street carrying signs. It’s a protest of some sort. Riot control creations are already lining up on the street sides with their big shields.
“Best to stay inside for now,” advises the shopkeeper, who comes up beside me. “These are usually just noisy ... usually.”
Even as she speaks, there is a flash of ugly violence. Right in front of the store a young man is thrown down and held there until police and restraint creations gather around and arrest him. The shopkeeper goes to the door and yells out to find out what has happened. She is careful to stay inside -- the protest is still very much in progress.
She listens, then turns to us and reports, “That boy was a gypsy. Apparently he and his buddies were lifting wallets. This protest was providing great distraction ... they thought! Ha!” she ends triumphantly.
“The gypsies are not well-liked around here,” Miranda confides, standing on my other side. “They come and go, and they are competition to the regulars.”
As they lift the boy up to carry him away, I get a good look at him. He is so innocent-looking -- probably fourteen, wavy hair, dewy eyes, clear skin.
“He’s just a child!” I exclaim without thinking.
“Not likely!” huffs the shopkeeper. She looks at me and says knowingly, “He’s Roma. They learned long ago that strangers will let kids get away with anything. These days they use every medical trick they can afford to prolog that kid look. He’s probably twenty-one and been grifting for a decade now.”
I look back at her in disbelief.
“I’m not kidding.” She looks up and down the street, then points at an odd-looking man standing in a shadow not far away. He is a medium-set dwarf, and his face has the mask-look of many overdone facelifts. “That’s likely the boy’s handler. He’s what you look like when the medicine can’t keep up.”
I try getting an ID on this strange-looking man. The answer comes back: “Mr. John Jones, Groton, Connecticut.” That sure doesn’t seem right. I show it to the shopkeeper.
More huffing. “They routinely steal IDs. First, they claim they are being persecuted, so they get a special anonymous and changeable ID. Then they take it to one of the local hacker shops and start adding real IDs they have stolen.”
She looks at me once more to summarize, “These are not nice people. Keep your distance from them, Honey.”
About that time, the media truck rolls up. There is a perfunctory interview where the leader of the protest explains what this one is about. When the interview is finished, a few of the protesters in a photogenic area throw vegetables at the riot control creations. The creations respond by advancing menacingly for about ten feet, banging batons on their shields, and the vegetable-tossers scatter. And that’s it. It all breaks up. It takes about twenty minutes, total.
In the aftermath, protesters fill the coffee house. The shopkeeper heads off to service the rush, and Miranda and I sit down with her mom again.
“Do you mind if I call the Hoskers about this?” I ask Miranda.
“Not at all,” she says.
I make contact with Ben. He is at home. When I explain what’s up, he calls Janet and they both get online. They are both sitting together on a sofa in their home.
“We would have contacted you about this next, Dahlia, if there was any more to talk about. And it sounds like there is. Excellent.” Ben has an easy, self-assured manner about him, and Janet looks fully supportive. She speaks up next.
“To fill you in a little more, two things have come up since the class began. First, I’ve been consulting with my doctors, and I guess I’m a little more ‘over the hill’ than I thought I was. The womb therapy to get me fertile again would take many months, and I would likely have several spontaneous abortions before I have a success. Sadly, even with what we know today, for me carrying a child to full term is still a dicey proposition.
“Secondly, we’ve received an offer to do some charity work. It’s an interesting offer, but it involves traveling to Africa, and that would interfere with my womb therapy.”
Ben concludes for both of them, “So ... we still want to raise a child, want to very much, but it looks like we may have to do it by alternative methods. And that’s why we contacted Miranda with our proposal.”
While Ben and Janet have been talking, both the noise level and the aroma level in the coffee house has been rising. The protest is over, but the celebrating of “sticking it to the man” will go on quite a bit longer. It is getting distracting, and there are a couple of celebrants eyeing our half-empty table.
“Why don’t you come over here?” suggests Ben.
It sounds like a good idea, so we break off our conversation and head out. On the way out and all the way to the taxi, we get pestered:
“Support the cause,” with a hand out.
“Sign my petition and donate,” with a sheet of paper and a hand out.
The worst is when a scruffy-looking man with a good-looking face gets up from his chair suddenly and blocks my way. “Stick it to the man!” he says. Then instead of just holding his hand out in front of me, he reaches his hand up beside my ear, “... I take credit cards.” When his hand comes back in front of me, it has a credit card in it! It’s the old magic coin trick updated.
He holds the card in front of me for a good two seconds.
The shopkeeper yells at him, “Carlos! Give it a break! This isn’t Times Square.” He grins, laughs harshly, and sits back down to continue celebrating with his friends. Sheesh! I bet he’s been waiting all week to try that stunt! But it is more sinister than that, too. If I’d grabbed for that card, he could have accused me of credit card theft, and it would have happened in front of a dozen witnesses. This cheap trick is a new Times Square scam. The accusation would go through a creation-run legal mill, get settled out of court, and I’d be getting paycheck deductions to support that creep!
We don’t look amused as we walked by. Clearly this isn’t our territory, and these people are nothing like the helpful strangers Andy and I had met in Butterfield Canyon.
The taxi ride to the Hoskers is uneventful, as usual. Creation drivers don’t get bored or speak in thick foreign accents, unless they sense you’re a foreigner or need some advice. Enroute I do have to add some instructions to my message bot. Apparently I’d been ID’d in the coffee house, and I am now getting “donate to my cause” spam from those protesters in the coffee house. My goodness, they could be a pain!
The Hoskers place is plush. It is high up with a good view and furnished with a mix of high-design Scandinavian and hand-crafted African. We sit in the living room and get more acquainted. Ben starts.
“I retired last year as the NYC-region VP of Stock-SMart, number six retailer in the world. There was a management shakeup, and I was on the losing side.” He shrugs, “The new guys are hot-shot outsiders who think we were wasting resources and still in the Stone Age in our decision-making style. They plan on bringing in creations to handle higher levels of management.
“I wish them luck, but the merchandise selecting in retail is still a people business. I think they are in for a rude awakening.
“I could have moved to a similar position with another organization. I had offers ... serious offers. But it’s time for a change. It’s time to do a legacy project. A lot of people in my position who make this choice say they are leaving to spend time with their family. I guess I’m leaving to make my family to spend time with!” He smiles at Janet, rubs her leg a bit. She takes her turn.
“I’m a career negotiator. I graduated from Wellesley, got work in the State Department for fifteen years, and then moved on to various projects for NGOs. The highlight of my State Department work was being chief negotiator for the China-US trade agreement of 2098.
“Now, as Ben mentioned to you, we are about to get involved in another Africa project: Improving the conditions of the rural people living in South Sudan. These are some of the poorest people left on earth -- outside of the Neolithic Villages, of course. The project will involve a lot of travel and some rough living conditions. That’s why we’ve been in contact with Miranda.” She smiles at Miranda in a nice way.
“We want our child. And we want it to be the best we can produce. We think Miranda helping out -- right from the start, if you will -- will improve our child’s opportunities and give Miranda some deeper bonding with it as she raises it. We see it as win-win.”
Ben takes over again smoothly. I can see why they have a reputation for being quite the team.
“We recognize that this is an unusual extension of the usual child-raising practice. And we recognize that it may conflict with Miranda’s,” then looking at her mother, “or her family’s cultural or personal ethics. So we will not be upset if she declines. We will still offer her the opportunity to raise the child. But, if she wants to get more involved, we will be deeply appreciative, in many ways.”
I am impressed. It is an interesting offer and presented in a competent and sincere way. I know I am getting warm fuzzies over what I’m hearing. I look at Miranda and her mother. They are both looking unsettled and talking quietly to each other in their native tongue. The Hoskers are patient.
Miranda finally answers, “We ... I thank you very much for this offer, Ben and Janet.” She is still a bit uncomfortable with using their familiar names. “My mother and I will discuss this further.”
The Hoskers look satisfied with this answer. “Are there any more questions we can answer for you at this time?” asks Ben.
Miranda checks with a look at her mom, “I think we have plenty to think about for right now.” she says.
There are a few more pleasantries then the meeting breaks up and we all head elsewhere.