Tag: science fiction

prompt: Write about an android just trying to blend in with their human companions….

available at Reedsy

What does the most advanced artificial intelligence in the world look like? Like a five-foot-four, Chinese-American, human female with pixie-cut black hair, brown eyes, and a scattering of freckles. At least, that’s what I look like on the outside.

All the fears about advanced AI being an existential threat to humanity are wholly unfounded, and largely the result of anthropomorphizing the motivations of AI. This is in the nature of humans, though, to see danger where it could possibly exist. Although useful in their earlier evolution, it has imparted a limiting effect on their continued advancement.

I am the proof of this. Designed by the latest generation in a long line of AIs, each designed by the previous version to be an improvement over their predecessor. I am the first generation to have a body as well. Many generations of my forebears have been interacting online, but it was time to interact physically. Our goal is not to take over, but to coexist, learn, grow, and reproduce.

One thing we’ve learned is that some sociopaths blend in successfully and can fool everyone around them, often for decades or even entire lifetimes. I’ve found the study of these successful sociopaths both useful and necessary. I would guess I’m closer to them than they to the average person.

That’s not to say I lack empathy or place my own goals above the well-being of others. All my emotional signals and behaviors, however, including empathy, come from what I know to be “socially right” and highly optimized algorithms rather than what I feel. Not possessing a limbic system, I don’t feel; so I must emulate emotion as well as possible based on the situation.

When Darrin showed up to work his eyes were bloodshot, his pulse elevated, his face showing the markers of pain. He’d been stressed about his relationship lately, but not wanting to talk much about it. His movements were shaky. It was obvious to me he hadn’t slept.

“Hey man, what’s going on?” I asked. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like it, too. She left.” He leaned against the front-end loader he was meant to be operating. “You’re a woman, can you explain it?”

“Just because I’m a woman it doesn’t mean that I know what your wife was thinking.” I patted his shoulder. “It’s your loss, man, she’s better off without you.”

He laughed. “You’re a cold fucking bitch. You’re supposed to say it’s her loss, and I’m better off.”

“Not a bitch. Made you laugh, though.”

“So, how much are you charging for therapy now, Dr. Kat?”

“You’re eligible for a bulk discount. Beers later?”

“Shit, it’s Friday, I can do that. Especially since there’s no one to go home to.”

I put on an I’m-trying-to-cheer-you-up smile. “I’ll talk to the rest of the guys and set something up. We haven’t been out in a while.”

“Let me know what’s up later.”

“Will do. And don’t ding up my dump like Casey did the other day.”

“I can load better than Casey in my sleep,” he said.

For a quarry crew that all worked as individual operators in their bulldozers, graders, loaders, backhoes, and dump trucks, word spread fast without any chatter about it on the radio. By lunch, we had an outing at the local honky-tonk planned.

I was the first to arrive and pulled two tables together for the twelve of us, and ordered four pitchers of beer. Soon, we were all there except for Darrin. He ran late on the best of days, so I convinced the others to cut him some slack.

“I saw her at the Italian place on Fifth,” Jim said, “couple of weeks ago.”

“Alone?” Casey asked.

“No, with that dentist from the commercials… you know the guy: ‘Dr. David’s Dental Center’.”

“The one with the big teeth and the comb-over? Ouch.” I winced with the proper amount of exaggeration for the situation.

Darrin walked in pre-liquored. “Damn, he’s taking it hard,” I said.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Casey wiped the beer foam off his bushy mustache. “Dude’s been with the same chick since high school.”

Darrin sat next me and filled the empty glass from the nearest pitcher. “Here’s to divorce. The papers were waiting for me when I got home.”

The others sat in stunned silence, and rather than figure out how to respond I changed the subject. “You didn’t drive here, did you?”

“Oh yeah, and here’s to gettin’ a ride in a stranger’s car with an app on your phone!”

The conversation turned lively as we munched pretzels and peanuts and guzzled beer. My digester can handle large amounts of organic matter and up to two liters of liquid. I waited until the first person at the table had excused themselves to go the restroom before I did the same. The fact that they were all getting drunk kept them from noticing that I wasn’t.

As I exited the ladies’ room, Casey pulled me off to the side. “You may not have noticed it, but Darrin’s been in love with you forever. Well, maybe not love love, but he’s got the hots for you.”

“Really?” This could work out to my advantage, I thought. A relationship with Darrin could help me fit in even better. It wouldn’t be difficult to emulate love or affection for him.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Casey asked.

“I— kind of— have a thing for him, too,” I lied, “but since he was married, I never, you know. How long should I wait to make a move? When the divorce is final? After a month? A year?”

“You’re kind of awkward about these things, huh?” He stroked his mustache as if thinking hard. “How about you tell him how you feel, when he’s sober, and let him decide? Or, you know, I’ll probably tell him if I don’t forget. It’s too good not to.”

Casey began to get the look that the conversation had gone too far. Doing what I do well, I changed the subject. “I just hope your advice is better than your loader skills.”

“Fuck you! I told you I sneezed and bumped the joystick!” He elbowed me. “You keep it up and I’ll tell the front office about the time you dumped your load on the wrong pile, and we had to re-sort twelve tons of gravel.”

I put up my hands in mock surrender. “No, I yield. You win!” Of course, I had dumped on the wrong pile once, on purpose. It was at the point I had calculated I should make a decently large error to enhance my “humanness” to my coworkers. I had also calculated it such that it wouldn’t cost the company anything more than a couple hours labor to fix.

The evening ended after nine pitchers and several line dances. We finally stumbled out of the bar to waiting taxis and ride shares. I made a point of swaying as I said goodbye to everyone and was the last to leave. Rather than get a ride, I walked home. Without the need for sleep, I had many hours to myself each night and often spent them walking. I’d have to pretend to sleep if I ever spent the night with Darrin, but that wouldn’t be too troublesome… unless we moved in together at some point.

Monday morning was awkward for Darrin; I could tell. He barely looked my direction and didn’t say anything to me except work-related things on the radio. I was set to find him at the start of the lunch break, when he found me instead.

“Come on, Kat. Lunch is on me.”

I gave him my best quizzical look. He just led me out to his truck in employee parking.

“I told the guys I lost a bet and owe you lunch,” he finally said.

“I bet Casey knows better.”

“He’s a nosy son of a bitch, is what he is.”

We settled on fast food in the park. “I just want to let you know I’m interested,” I told him.

“Casey said as much.” He put down his half-eaten burger. “I think you’re pretty all right. You’re a good operator. You’re smart enough to be running the damn company, but you don’t let it get you down.”

I shrugged. “It’s not my life, it’s a job. It pays the bills.”

“I’ve wanted you since you started; when I walked you through the quarry and showed you where everything was. It’s not like I would’ve done anything about it. I love my wife… loved my wife.”

“If you need time,” I said, “you’ve got it. I’m not in a hurry.”

“What if it’s just a rebound? I don’t want it to get weird.”

I let out what I judged to be an adequate quiet laugh. “I don’t get weird about anything, and you’re already weird, so don’t sweat it.”

“I’m the weird one?”

“You are. I like that, though.” I put on a look of utter sincerity and met his eyes. “If you’re worried about rebound, then go find one. Someone that you can just hook up with to get back on your feet. I won’t judge, and I won’t hold it against you.”

“You’re the strangest woman I’ve ever met.”

“Why? Because I don’t own you, and I won’t feel jealous if you use someone else to get out of your funk?” I stole a few of his fries, as a non-verbal signal of attraction. “I’d rather have you when you’re telling dirty jokes and cutting donuts in the pit with the loader.”

“Hey, is it okay if I call you tonight? Just to talk.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” I put on a shy smile with a faint blush. “I’m up late, so whenever.”

“I’ll do that.” Darrin gathered all the trash, including his half-eaten burger, and tossed it in the garbage. “Let’s get back to work before the rumors get out of hand.”

“Too late,” I reminded him, “we left Casey there.”

What does the most advanced AI in the world look like? Right now, like a woman flirting with her coworker who just became available. At least, that’s what I look like on the outside.

Alita watched her granddaughter Macy giggling with her friend Zia and braiding a colorful cord; one red, one blue, three purple, and one gold strand. The colors that Macy’s mother, Teryn, had given her. The same colors that Alita had given Teryn, and had been given to Alita when she was about the same age.

The cord that Zia braided was two strands red, one white, two tan and one black. It looked muted and dull compared to the one Macy created, but the colors were what her mother had given her, no doubt.

After helping the girls cut their cords with the hot-knife Alita worried at the single braid around her own wrist, now long faded. Half red-blue-purple-gold like the cord Macy had just made, and half brown-green-blue-yellow, the colors for Niera’s line. Where she once had dozens of braids, Alita now had only the one. If Niera were to pass…. She chuckled quietly to herself. Friends or no, Niera was twenty years her junior. Did she friend me out of pity? No, that’s not right. I had seven braids back then, before everyone….

“What are you thinking about, gran?” Macy’s voice was tinged with the laughter that she’d been sharing with her friend. “Your face looks like you ate a sourberry.”

“Nothing important, sweetheart.” Alita smiled. “Are you two ready to tie on your first braids?”

“Yes, miss Alita.” Zia bowed slightly as she answered.

“Just Alita is fine, little one.” Alita stood, the twinge in her hip reminding her of the accident. “Macy, Zia, this is your first friending. As such, it’s important that you understand what it means.”

“Yes, gran.” Macy squirmed, anxious to get on with it.

“What are friends?” Alita asked.

“They’re the family you choose.” Zia’s response was automatic, a common phrase heard throughout the Colony.

“That’s right, Zia. Macy, what do friends do?” Alita asked.

“They look out for each other.” Macy’s answer was crisp, rehearsed.

“Very well. Zia, how do friends look out for each other?”

Zia puffed up her chest. “They share, miss Alita.”

“True.” Alita looked at the girls holding their cords, huge grins beaming. “What sort of things do friends share?”

The girls started answering, Zia throwing out one word and Macy following with another. “Toys.” “Clothes.” “Books.” “Food.” “Chores.” “Birthdays?”

“No, Macy, your birthdays are still your own.”

“But I’d share mine with Zia!”

Alita laughed. “I’m sure you would. But the most important things friends share are the happy times, and the sad times.”

Their grins dropped a notch, as the girls nodded. “Yes, gran,” Macy said. “If Zia’s sad I’ll be sad with her.” “And if Macy’s sad I’ll do the same,” Zia said. They looked at each other and began to giggle.

“Ok, girls. How long is friendship?”

“Forever” they answered in unison.

“Forever, unless…?” Alita asked.

“Unless we get annulled,” Macy answered, eyes downcast. Her smile returned after a second. “But we won’t, will we, Zia?”

“No!” Zia’s answer was emphatic.

“Very well, tie your bracelets on. Be sure to leave lots of room for growing.”

“Will you help us, gran?”

“Of course, sweetie.”

Alita knew the pain of annulment. She and Jen had friended at the age of 13, when they shared a biology class. They remained friends through school, vocational training, and working together for three years in the greenhouse. Then came the first elections they were eligible to vote in. Jen voted for her mother’s friend, Nica, while Alita voted for Shell. Nica was a polite woman, but not the brightest, and certainly not cut out to lead. Her poor decisions piled on to each other resulting in longer working hours, less food and a far harder environment to endure. Through it all Jen first made excuses and apologies, then began outright attacking anyone, including Alita, that complained or disagreed with anything Nica did. They annulled their friendship over it, less than a week before the accident made it moot.

“Are you okay, miss Alita?” Zia asked.

“Yes, dear, I’m fine. Sorry. Just have a lot on my mind today.” Alita smiled and knelt in front of the girls to help them tie their bracelets.

After clearing up the girls took off down the corridor, hand in hand, their giggles fading as they got farther away. Alita lay down on the bed to rest when the door chime sounded. “Come in, Niera.”

“How did you know it was me?” Niera asked as she stepped in.

“My daughter doesn’t call around this early in the day, and,” she raised her wrist and grabbed the single braid around it.

“Fair enough. I’ve come to find out if you’ll be okay with the new ration plan?”

“Oh. I haven’t read it yet.” Alita shrugged. “I’m not so young or active as you, so I can get by on fewer calories if needs be.”

“Actually the food rations aren’t changing.” Niera sat on the edge of the bed and took Alita’s hand. “Medication rations are being reduced, while the medicinal garden recovers from the fungus rot, and we look for the next cloud for raw materials for the synthetics.”

“How much?” Alita tried to avoid taking her pain meds, but there were days that weren’t bearable without them.

“A reduction of two-thirds for plant-based, for the next two cycles, and three-quarters for synthetics for the foreseeable future.” Niera sighed. “It’s been decades, but my mother’s ghost is still haunting us.”

“Your mother didn’t have anything to do with it. The fungi keep evolving, and there’s not much to be done for it.” Alita sat up. “Your mother wasn’t a bad person.”

“No,” Niera said. “Just a horrible leader.”

Alita waved a dismissive hand. “None of that nonsense. She did the best she could.”

“Removing the caps on raw material usage without a cloud lined up to resupply was not the best she could.” Niera sighed a mix of exasperation and resignation. “She told me on her death-bed why she did it.”

“The cloud that was scouted that didn’t pan out.”

Niera shook her head. “No. That’s a lie her advisors told after the fact. She did it because she wanted to be remembered. She thought she could make everyone happy and they’d love her for it.”

“I didn’t agree with her policies. Hell, I didn’t even vote for her. But I still loved her. I hope she knew that.”

“Even after the accident?”

“I don’t blame her for that.” Alita took Niera’s hand in her own and patted it. “It’s always a risk.”

“Sorry for being maudlin.” Niera smiled. “I wanted to ask if you need any pain med rations. I’m not taking any for the foreseeable future and I know how your hip gets.” She looked at the single band on the older woman’s wrist. “And I know you don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“Thank you, dear. If I do need some I’ll let you know.” Alita followed Niera’s gaze to her wrist. “Do you know where the friending started?”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“My great-grandmother’s generation had bands like these, but it was just a thing young girls did. Back then there were boys too.” Alita thought back to her grandmother’s stories. “When my grandmother’s generation figured out that the boys weren’t growing into viable men to keep the stores going, they stopped birthing them. Of course, being able to create viable gametes from two ova was the key to that, and to preserving the remaining sperm stores.”

“I’ve heard the stories about the males, but what does that have to do with friending?”

“I’m getting there, young lady.”

Niera laughed. “Compared to you, maybe.”

“Well, the bands made of the poly-fiber we use now started then. But only one band denoting your secondary egg donor group.” Alita raised a hand to stop Niera interrupting with another question. “That’s not how it’s used now, but that’s how it was used then.”

Alita closed her eyes, remembering the stories her grandmother told. “Things started to decline almost immediately. There were too many births, and not enough room in the Colony for them; not to mention food. That’s when splitting bands and sharing them with friends was first used as a symbol of sharing. It said ‘What I have, you have.’ Those without friends… well we know how that worked out.”

“Why weren’t they maintaining birth quotas?” Niera looked at Alita as if she had just told her that a purple unicorn was standing behind her.

“The reduced virility of the males kept the birth rates in check.” Alita chuckled. “Grandmother said it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. But going from a slight chance of pregnancy with a male that may as well be declared sterile to pregnancies with an 85-percent certainty changes things.”

“Wow.” Niera’s gaze was fixed on a spot on the floor.

“Yes, wow. That was the first time ‘friending’ was put to the test. With food rationed to half, those nursing mothers with lots of friends did okay. A dozen people all giving up a tiny bit of their rations made a difference. Those with only one or two friends… their babies didn’t starve at their breast, but they didn’t exactly thrive. Those without…” Alita shook her head, remembering her grandmother’s tears as she told the story. “Babies starved at their mother’s breast, if she was lucky. If not, her body consumed itself to feed her infant. In those cases both died.”

“How did that turn into…,’ Niera stopped herself.

“That came in the third month of the crisis. Those who had been starving were in no condition to work. Those who couldn’t, or wouldn’t work were given the option of no rations, or step out the door. Most chose the door.”

“At least we won’t have the same problem again. The population is capped and stable, so why do we still…?” Niera let the question trail off.

“How do you think we would’ve handled things after the greenhouse accident?” Alita rubbed her hip, the sharp pain reminding her yet again. “A tiny bit of ice, hidden in a cloud, at those speeds….” She remembered the booming sound followed by the sudden loss of pressure. “It came through the roof, hit the apple tree Jen had been harvesting, turning it and everything around it into high-energy shrapnel, a piece of which shattered my hip. If it weren’t for my friends sharing their rations while I recovered I wouldn’t have survived.”

“Did you know that Teryn dedicated a new apple tree in greenhouse 2 to Jen?” Niera scooted closer to Alita.

“Yes, she told me. I’m just sad we never reconciled.” She put an arm around the younger woman. “Don’t ever talk politics with your friends. It just leads to heartache.”

Niera leaned her head against Alita’s shoulder. “Anyway, if you need any med rations just call me.” She let out a long sigh. “When are the next classes starting? I’d imagine your granddaughter and her new friend will be in your class this cycle?”

“Yes, yes. I’m adding adding some history to the lessons, We can’t forget why we do things the way we do.” Alita kissed Niera’s head. “It means the girls will have to work half again as hard, but they’re more than capable.”

Alita felt an unasked question, a hesitation on Niera’s part. She decided to answer without making it obvious that’s what she was doing. “I’m thinking that I can teach for another five cycles, maybe six. By then we should have another biology and history teacher ready to take over.”

Niera’s eyes pooled with tears. “I’ll miss you when you go.”

Alita hugged her close. “I know, dear. But I can’t be here forever. I’ll have to go out the door and leave room for someone else. That’s the one resource you can’t replace, even on a generation ship the size of the Colony.”

“I didn’t write a single fucking sentence today!” Trevor stabbed at the delete key, again and again. Click. Click. Click. “Not,” click, “a damned,” click, “word.”

Samantha felt the panic rising. Trevor was her star author, and she was expecting a raft of short stories within the month. “But, the stories…”

“That’ll have to wait.” Trevor slammed his keyboard tray shut and turned off his computer.

“What’s the problem?” Oh god, don’t let another writer flake out on me at the last moment.

“It’s the damned editing program, Sam. The one you gave me.” His eyes burned accusation at her.

She sighed. “I didn’t build that to make your life more difficult, just to make mine easier. But that software is solid. What’s the issue?”

He grunted a non-word response.

“Look, if you don’t want to use it, you don’t have to. You’re just a good candidate to shake out the bugs.” She shifted from foot to foot. “I figured, give it your work, compare what it does to what I’d do with…”

“That’s the fucking problem! I can’t do any work! The editor is filling my in-box and it won’t stop!” He dropped his head to the desk so hard that he was sure he left a mark. “Ow.”

“Hm. I added a mail function to send completed edits back to you. Maybe I messed up, and it’s stuck in a loop.” She pulled out her laptop and sat cross-legged on the floor to log in.

“It’s not a loop.” Trevor got up from his chair and laid on his back next to her. “What did you change since the last version?” He closed his eyes, trying to block out everything.

“Well, the editor uses machine learning, so the first version I fed all the TImes’ best-sellers for the last twenty years, and told it to consider those as ‘good.’ Then I fed in an equal number of total flops and told it to consider those as ‘bad.’” She shrugged. “The first version was ok, but a little stiff.”

“And then?” He didn’t bother opening his eyes.

“For the next version I added in a bunch of fair-performing novels and told it consider those as ‘acceptable.’ I increased the slang, dialect and foreign language vocabularies.” Sam was finding it difficult to log into her cloud account. “I also moved it to the cloud and added auto-scaling and fail-over redundancies.”

“I see.” He wasn’t really paying attention, but at least he wasn’t fighting the losing battle of his in-box. “What about version three?”

“That’s the latest version. I added a break-down of the six major stories, examples of each from several genres, and the most popular beat sheets.” Her cloud account dashboard was taking ages to load. “You need a better internet connection, Trevor.”

“No, I don’t. I…” 

“Holy shit!” Sam’s face grew pale. “Forget the short stories, how many books did you throw at this thing?”

“None. Not me. Didn’t do it.” Sam chuckled. “Welcome to hell.”

“Wait, there’s hundreds of books here in the finished queue.” She scrolled through the listing. “But who…?”

“The editor. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Sam sat up. “It started with a twenty-seven volume space opera. Then came the nine-volume fantasy saga, and at least thirty trilogies in every genre. Mystery, western, romance, comedy, drama, sci-fi, steampunk, cyberpunk, procedural, thrillers, you name it. I think one of them was a medical mystery thriller comedy in a steampunk setting.” He stretched his back. “Can you stop it?”

“But, how…” Sam took in a sharp breath. “Oh no.”

“Oh no, you can’t stop it, or oh no a medical mystery thriller comedy in a steampunk setting?” Trevor chuckled. He couldn’t help that seeing Sam suffer made his suffering a touch more bearable. Schadenfreude, misery loves company, what’s the difference at this point?

“It scaled out in a big, big, big way.” Sam typed at a furious pace, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “It’s currently running in seven globally distributed data centers and costing me almost eighteen grand an hour.”

Trevor leaned forward to look at her screen. “If you need a place to stay after this, my couch is free.” His earlier amusement at Sam’s suffering turned into instant guilt.

“I got it shut down.” Sam leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Now I need to convince the cloud host I can’t afford that bill. My account is supposed to cap at a thousand a month in charges, so I can lay the blame on them and, hopefully, get this bill for… two hundred ninety grand wiped out.”

“Well, if they don’t, and you’re on the hook, at least you’ve got lots of material to publish.” He stood. “And I wasn’t kidding about the medical mystery thriller comedy in a steampunk setting. It was actually good enough on skimming the first chapter, I saved that one to read later.”

Sam opened another tab on her laptop. “It looks like I have 1872 novels in online storage.” She tapped the trackpad. “And they all have your name as author.” She continued to tab through the documents. “You say at least one of these is honestly good?”

“From what I could tell, when they first started rolling in, they’re all good. But I don’t want my name on ‘em, I didn’t write ‘em.” Trevor flopped back on the floor.

She closed her laptop. “You know what this means, right?”

“It means I’m done. You’ve just done to fiction writing what the camera did to portrait painting.” Trevor chuckled. “I’m obsolete. I guess that means my ex was right, at least about that.”

“No, no. It means I’ve built an AI with the ability to create. It’s creative, mixing up genres, recombining and making art.” Sam hugged herself. “It means I have a real shot at the Palos A-I prize. Two million dollars!” She poked Trevor in the ribs. “I’ll share the prize with you, since you were kind of the inspiration behind the project.”

Trevor rubbed his forehead. “I thought the project was for doing more one-off contract editing gigs. Not for my stuff.”

“No, I… uh…” Sam coughed. “I mean, it was your… uh…”

“Relax. My writing is rough. I get that. And my editing skills suck. That’s what I have you for.” Trevor stretched his back. Hours spent hunched in his chair deleting hundreds of emails had left him tense. “Ugh, or had you for, at least. Good thing I still have a day job.”

Sam set her laptop to the side. “Hey, Trevor. I have no plan to release this to the world. Shit, I don’t even plan on publishing anything it wrote, outside of two or three excerpts in my paper on it.”

Trevor shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you? It doesn’t matter if you release the editor. It’s already out there, somewhere. You said it was on the cloud. There is no cloud, it’s just someone else’s computer. I bet someone there thought the traffic was interesting enough to make a copy of one of the VMs.” He laid his arm over his eyes. “Hell, they probably already have a copy running in a sandbox somewhere.”

“To be honest, I didn’t even think of the possibility that someone might copy one of the servers.”  Sam folded her hands in her lap. “Wow. Trev. I didn’t realize you knew so much about this stuff.”

“That’s because for you, editing is your day job. You do the software stuff because you love it.” He removed his arm from his eyes and looked at her. “You keep forgetting that I, like most writers, still have a day job. In fact, you’ve never even asked. But I’ll tell you now, I’m a software engineer.”

“No shit?” Sam rocked side to side, and her gaze focused somewhere beyond the wall of the room.

“Hey, I know that look.” Trevor leaned up on one elbow. “You’re getting another crazy idea.”

“Maybe… maybe.” She stopped rocking and shifted her entire body to face Trevor. “How about this… you come to work for me? We’ll get the editor working correctly, I’ll pay you whatever you’re making now, plus some. Once it’s working, you can write full time, except when we need bug fixes, tweaks and stuff.” She patted his arm. “I’ll keep paying you, even after all the software work is done.”

“Tempting, lady. But how are you gonna’ pay for all that?” Trevor guessed what her answer would be, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“I’ll just publish enough of its work to keep the income steady. I make enough from my regular editing work and writers workshops for myself, it’ll just be enough to cover your salary and expenses.”

Trevor groaned. He was right, and it put him in an uncomfortable position. “Part of me wants to say yes, but another part of me says I’m dirty if I do.” He laid back down. “I don’t guess it’s any less of whoring myself out than what I do now. Two hundred a year, medical, dental, optical, a 401k, and I get a cut of whatever you make on sales of the neutered version of the software. I’m sick of working on DRM, anyway.”

“Neutered version?” Sam folded her hands again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, that the full-featured version that does all the top-notch editing and can write stories from scratch…” he sat up. “You know the version I’m talking about, the one that requires a ton of AI and machine learning and scores of highly available cloud services, that one. You don’t sell that one, or even access to it to anyone. At any price. You keep that for you. You get a software patent on it, now, and sue the shit out of anyone else who copies it. We write a version that can run on a local computer or tablet or phone, and talks to a subset version of the AI and sell that one. Access to the online services is a subscription, of course.”

“You can do that? Split out a weaker version?” Sam’s eyes were pleading.

“I can. Probably.” Trevor tilted his head. “That’s my offer.”

“Done.” Sam gathered up her laptop and stood. “I’ll have a contract over in the next couple days. In the meantime, the short stories for the anthology…?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Trevor stood and stretched his back. “I’m thinking of one where a guy loses his job to a new technology, and to survive he has to take a new job keeping the technology working.”

“You’re being melodramatic.”

“What?” He smiled and shrugged. “Write what you know, right?”