L. L. Richardson,
David and Victoria: Can It Work?
excerpt
David and Victoria Publisher: Kindle Date: December 19, 2024 Size: 1,784 KB ASIN: B0DR335MNV |
In the year 2050, technological marvels push the boundaries of reality. Within the backdrop of advanced artificial intelligence and human ingenuity, two young professionals cross paths in a world forever changed by progress.
David, a human, is driven by his relentless pursuit of success in a future where the lines between human and machine blur. Victoria is a robot that is designed to be indistinguishable from her human counterparts. As they together navigate a cultural landscape where love and friendship take on new dimensions, their differences loom large, and they must confront the ultimate question: Can it work? Can a human and a robot truly find a way to be together in a world where society has yet to accept their union?
Chapter One
Dr. David March slouched comfortably on the city bus seat. He was tired, but it had been a good day. Assisting Dr. Jha, he left the regional medical center in Bharatpur early in the morning. The two of them, accompanied by two assistants, drove two hours, then left the car to hike to remote mountain villages whose residents were otherwise unserved by Nepal’s ministry of health. It was mid May, 2050. They made wellness checks, inoculated for polio and measles, checked in on a woman six months pregnant, and placed a cast on the arm of a teenage boy, whose fracture was a hairline crack confirmed by the medical team’s portable x-ray machine.
It had been a good day, as were most days. David liked the slow culture of Nepal, liked working with Dr. Jha. He was comfortable with his life in Nepal, if not truly happy. His life would soon change.
The diesel engined bus groaned as it struggled on the steep incline to reach the last stop of its route. Coming to the stop, the brakes let out wheeze, the bus door opened, and ten riders exited.
David stepped off into a cold wind. He turned up the collar of his jacket and checked his watch, the vintage gold self-winder that had been his grandfather’s. It was 5:40 p.m. Sheltered behind the open door of the idling bus, he pulled from the pocket of his tan corduroy jacket a nearly empty pack of American Biker cigarettes and tapped it on the heel of his hand to make the last two coffin nails pop up. He took one between his lips and pulled it from the pack. He reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a cigarette lighter, a vintage Zippo. With his thumb he flipped up the top, spun the small steel wheel that ignited the wick, then lit the cancer stick. As he stepped up onto the sidewalk, the bus belched a cloud of diesel soot and began its turnaround. He drew deeply on the American Biker, held it for two seconds, then let the smoke drift from his nostrils as he watched the bus roll back down the hill and fade into the blue-gray haze that hung perpetually over the city.
He walked at a brisk pace, the dead leaves of winter swirling around his legs as he took the narrow side street further uphill, inhaling from the coffin nail, pulling it from his mouth from time to time to check his progress. He had this routine timed precisely. From the bus stop to the fifty-year old, salmon pink, three story apartment building took exactly a cigarette and a half.
An old woman, her brown face deeply wrinkled, was out with her broom sweeping dust from the apartment building’s front steps. She was the landlord’s mother. The family lived in one of the two first floor apartments, the landlord and his wife and mother, and the landlord’s brother and the brother’s daughter. Seeing David, the old woman raised a bony finger to lift a straggle of white matted hair from her sunken eyes, nodded to him, a faint greeting coming from her toothless mouth.
He waited patiently for her to finish her sweeping, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, checking his watch, all the while fidgeting with his cigarette, its last quarter inch burning steadily toward his nicotine stained finger tips. The old woman, unaffected by the cold, was in no hurry to get inside out of the wind.
After several minutes, the woman again looked at him, nodded, then turned to grasp with both hands the dark bronze handle of the building’s heavy front door. She struggling against the weight, managing to get the door open just enough to slip the broom handle into the crack. Throwing down the burning cigarette butt, crushing it under his shoe, David took the two concrete steps in a single motion. “Grandma,” he said in a kind voice, “let me help you with this.” He took hold of the door and pulled it open. Half way into the doorway, the woman turned around and placed a soft, wrinkled hand briefly to his cheek as if to say thank-you, then half-stepping inside the building, she disappeared into the shadows beyond the stairwell.
He entered the shadowy foyer, tired both in body and mind, and ascended creaking wooden stairs to the second floor where he dug keys from his trouser pocket, opened the apartment’s door, and went in. He removed his jacket, draped it over the back of the worn, pale green sofa. He went to the kitchen. His housekeeper, the landlord’s niece, had left his supper on the counter next to the stove as she did every afternoon. He lifted the tea towel covering the plate and breathed in the spicy aroma steaming from the hot food. She must have left just minutes ago. The plate was covered with thick lentil soup ladled over boiled rice, roasted goat meat, and dumplings. He picked up the plate, took it to the small kitchen table and sat down. Scooping a spoonful, he lifted it to his mouth and blew. The food was good. Really good. How did she manage such food on the apartment’s pitiful two-burner stove? He took his time eating, savoring the rich flavors, enjoying the warmth the food offered him.
Finished with supper, he left the dirty dishes on the table. The housekeeper would take care of them in the morning. She insisted on it. If it weren’t for her, the dirty dishes would pile up, the apartment would be a mess, and he would run out of clean, pressed clothes. Most likely without her he also would be eating cold food from cans.
Standing at the stove, he licked a finger then flicked it against the side of the cast iron teapot. It was still hot. He took a white china cup from the cupboard, filled it with steaming water and lowered in an Earl Grey tea bag. The loose leaf Nepalese teas were good, but they were just too much trouble. He had asked his aunt Margo to include a sampler box of tea bags in the monthly care package that came from the March Foundation, this being one of the few requests he made besides a new pair of good walking shoes every six months. He placed the tea cup on a saucer and took it to the living room, sat down on the sofa, kicked off his shoes and reached for his webpad. He swiped the screen to bring it to life. As he sipped the tea, he tapped open the Pinnacle News feed and scanned the headlines.
U.S. President Mendoza schedules a ten day trip to Cuba to vacation at her family home.
NASA hopes Congress increases its budget to allow the restart of the on-again-off-again manned Mars mission.
A private plane is missing over the northern Brazilian coast; all on board feared lost.
Before he had time to read any of the articles, a small, red blinking light on the upper corner of the webpad told him a video message was coming in. A quick tap and swipe of a finger opened the message. On the screen appeared a rotund man in his early forties, dressed in an immaculate charcoal three-piece suit. “Doctor March,” the man said, “I’m Alfred Remington, the attorney for Max and Margo March. You and I met before, about two and a half years ago when you were here in California for your parents’ funeral. I need to speak with you about events related to the disappearance of your aunt and uncle.”
Disappearance? David looked up from the device, placing a hand on the back of his neck. What the hell was he talking about?
Remington continued. “I’m providing a link so we can establish a secure connection. I hope you’ll pardon me for seeming to be overly cautious but I want to ensure our conversation is private. The link may take several minutes to set up. You’ll be notified when it’s ready.”
“Dammit” David muttered. He let the webpad fall from his hands as he slumped back into the seat cushion, his mind swimming. In Nepal, his adopted home, he wanted nothing so much as to be left alone by the rest of the world. This unexpected call from this attorney was just the sort of intrusion David feared.
The virtual button that would establish the secure connection appeared on his webpad screen. He hesitated. Whatever Alfred Remington had to tell him, it must be bad news. David had more than his share of heartbreak in his life. He wasn’t sure he could handle any more. But Max and Margo were his only living family. He couldn’t refuse to hear what their attorney had to say. He tapped the link to establish the connection. As he waited he opened the news report about the missing plane.
A corporate plane is reported missing near the northern coast of Brazil. According to aviation sources, the vertical takeoff and landing aircraft was en route from Fortaleza, Brazil to Cayenne, French Guiana. So far there’s been no report of a sighting of the downed plane and it’s unknown whether the plane went down over land or over water. Besides the crew, on board were the world famous roboticists Maxwell and Margo March.
David’s jaw went slack. He drew in a deep breath then let out a heavy sigh. He often wished he could have had a closer relationship with Max and Margo, wished there had been more warmth between them, but his life and theirs had diverged when he started college. Medical school took all of his attention and energy, and they became immersed in robotics research.
He patted his shirt pocket but found it empty. Nicotine would help him relax. He ran a hand along the floor just under the edge of the sofa. There was the pack he dropped there two nights ago. He fished it out and fingered it open. In the bottom of the pack was a single smoke broken in two. He put the larger piece between his lips, dug the lighter from his trouser pocket, and brought the end of the death stick to a red glow. He closed his eyes, sucking in a deep drag, and did the only thing he could do. He waited.
He was crushing out the stub of his cigarette on the saucer under his tea cup when the webpad buzzed. Reaching for it, he saw on the screen a pop-up window displaying the prompt, Call Mr. Remington Now, with two virtual buttons appearing, YES and IGNORE. He looked up from the device, a hand running through his hair while his other hand hovered a finger over the IGNORE button. If he pressed it he would be telling Remington I don’t care. Please, just leave me alone. Because he did want to be left alone. But that would be turning his back on his only family. He tapped YES.
The pop-up disappeared, replaced by a larger, blank window. A green progress bar steadily lengthened from left to right. After twenty seconds the progress bar blinked out and Alfred Remington appeared wearing a flannel pajama shirt, his thinning hair uncombed. Of course. In California it was early morning.
“Dr. March,” Remington said, “if you’ve seen any recent news you may be aware of the situation regarding your uncle and aunt.”
“I read a short item in a news feed. It was brief. Not much information. What the hell’s going on?”
“All we know,” Remington said, stifling a yawn, “is their plane dropped off the radar about twelve hours ago somewhere over north-eastern Brazil or over French Guiana or possibly over the south Atlantic off the coast of Brazil. The authorities there waited to release a report until they were sure this wasn’t a glitch in their radar system.”
David’s eyes widened. “What...what are you saying? The authorities can’t find the plane? What about the emergency signal? Planes are supposed to be equipped with something like that, aren’t they?”
“Normally, yes” Remington said, “but it doesn’t seem a signal has been detected so far.” Remington’s tone sounded oddly calm. “The authorities aren’t certain that there’s actually been any sort of crash,” the attorney said. “That sort of aircraft has the ability to land just about anywhere.”
With a shake of his head, David asked, “And no one has any idea why the plane would go down?”
“I’m not saying it was terrorists,” Remington replied. “But Max and Margo have enemies. Their work has made possible rapid integration of robots into U.S. society and some people are violently opposed to that.”
David felt his mouth go dry. “So this is an anti-robot terrorist thing?” he asked.
“I’m not saying that,” Remington assured him. “But it is a possibility. Or perhaps there was a mechanical failure which forced them to land. At this point we don’t know.”
The attorney was sending mixed signals. Feeling frustration welling inside, David asked, “Is someone trying to find out? You’re their attorney. What are you doing about this?”
“Dr. March, there’s not much I can do from California other than wait for the Brazilian authorities to conduct a search,” Remington replied.
David turned his face away from his webpad, away from Alfred Remington. He closed his eyes, straining for some thought that would make sense.
Remington continued. “I know you and they didn’t talk much on a personal level but they closely followed your work in Nepal. They read all of the field reports you sent to the Foundation, and they often expressed to me a high regard for you.”
David looked again at Remington. “Okay,” he said, “I appreciate your getting with me and letting me know what’s going on. I’m just not sure--”
“The Foundation board asked me to contact you and urge you to return to the United States and take over the management of the Foundation’s medical work. That’s if Max and Margo are not located within the next two days.”
David flushed. “I can’t do that!” he protested. “I have responsibilities here. I can’t just up and leave the work here.”
“I understand this must be a shock for you but under the circumstances, Dr. March,” Remington replied, “the Foundation needs you to come to its headquarters at Rosebrook. I can arrange air transportation for you.”
David’s voice took on a decidedly aggravated tone. “Mr. Remington, you’re not hearing me. I’m not in a position to leave Nepal.” He stared at the webpad’s screen. The attorney stared back with that look of patience, the look that says you know you have to do the right thing here.
Dammit. Max and Margo had supported him, had funded the work in Nepal. “I need some time,” David finally said. “I need at least a chance to sleep on this.”
“Certainly. I’m going to arrange airline tickets for you to fly out of Kathmandu to Hong Kong where our people will be waiting. From there a Foundation jet will fly you to San Francisco. A car will get you the rest of the way to the Rosebrook estate.”
“I haven’t said I’m going along with this,” David said. “There’s still a chance that Max and Margo will be found, isn’t there?”
“Of course. This will be a contingency plan. Just in case. Either way I’ll stay in touch with you over the next couple of days,” Remington said just before he signed off.
David threw the webpad to the far end of the sofa. Using the padded sofa arm for a pillow, he stretched out on his back digging his fingers into his eyes. It was late, he felt heavy and unable to think any further.
At midnight, wakened by stiffness in his neck, he pulled himself off the couch and stumbled to the bedroom, switching off lights along the way. At the head of the bed a low-watt lamp put out a candle-like glow. Drawing back the bedspread, he turned and took a step and a half to the dresser. Opening the middle drawer, he stopped before reaching in for his pajamas. On the dresser top were a half dozen small photos in plain inexpensive black plastic frames, all of Darlene. Darlene and he in Nepal during her one visit there. Darlene in a military uniform after she joined the army reserves. A shot of her in a fur-lined parka taken somewhere in the Antarctic when her unit was mobilized to support the war. Wiping with the back of a hand the burning from his eyes, he spoke slowly as if she were still with him. “Hey. I got a call from the Foundation’s lawyer. It looks like I might have to go back to the States. I...I don’t know what I’m supposed to do there. I don’t know if I am ready to go back.” He knew she wasn’t there to hear him.
His head was heavy and he didn’t want to make any more effort to think. He undressed, left his clothes on the floor between the bed and the dresser, and walked naked to the bathroom. He skipped brushing his teeth. He just didn’t feel like it. He removed the cap from the Listerine and poured some into his mouth, letting the liquid burn for a half a minute before spitting it into the sink.
Opening the narrow cabinet next to the sink, he took out a stack of towels and set them on the toilet seat. At the back of the cabinet shelf were two brown plastic pill bottles he hid there six months ago. He pulled them out, set them on the sink and replaced the stack of towels.
Sitting on the side of the bed, he stared at the labels for ten seconds. Both bottles were four months expired. The medications were from the health ministry kit which had been supplied to the medical team. He was supposed to have disposed of them, but instead he pocketed them. No one noticed. One label read Ativan, one milligram tablets, the other Lortab, 5 milligrams. He uncapped the bottles and jiggled two tablets from each, telling himself, just this once. Just to get me through this one night.
He lay on his bed flat on his back waiting for the drugs to kick in, staring at the brown water stain on the ceiling, thinking about Nepal and its peaceful culture, its humble people, its value of tradition. He thought about the States, about the social unrest, the political fighting, the materialistic, egocentric culture. He hated the thought of going there.
© January 13, 2025 by L. L. Richardson
