The Standby

1

Bob stretched out on his couch and flexed every cramped muscle in his tired body. He felt like turning in, but it was early yet; the shorter days of December made it seem later than it really was. So he decided to snooze instead, and a hard day's worth of leaning over a terminal began to melt away.

His viewer signalled an incoming message. Bob was irritated by the interruption, but as he rarely got any messages, his curiosity was aroused at the same time.

"Who is it?" he yawned.

"Universal Technologies Inc. online," a disembodied voice pronounced.

Bob groaned. What could they possibly want at this hour, having already extracted their pound of flesh for the day? He sat up and pondered putting his pants back on. A handy pillow forestalled the need. "Let's have it then."

The viewer lit up and bathed the room with white light, blinding Bob momentarily. When his eyes adjusted, he saw not the stern visage of a superior, but a written message with ornate script and Yuletide graphics.

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND UNIVERSAL TECHNOLOGIES INC' S ANNUAL CHRISTMAS PARTY.

TIME: FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18, 20:00 HRS.

PLACE: WORLD VISTA HILTON, EARTH ORBITTING STATION 6.

DRESS IS FORMAL, FEMALE ACCOMPANIMENT OR STANDBY REQUIRED.

RSVP R.G. TAYLOR

Message conveyed, the screen blackened, leaving Bob to mull over his predicament in the dark. Not another party!

He stumbled through the dark to his bedroom, waved a hand over a wall sensor to engage the lights, and another to open his storage closet. There, in the back, behind his skis, sat his Wendy 2500, right where he left her after the company's picnic in August.

He pulled the standby out and gave her a quick once-over. She was a mess -- knotted hair, grass-stained dress, and, as he recalled, her lingua-bank was still programmed for sports trivia. Which was a cute idea at first.

Now he'd have to take her to an AniMate centre for a tune, hairdo and a redressing, which would run him around 75 credits. He sighed, folded her over at the waist, and carried her out to the hall. He'd have to hurry to get to the shop before it closed for the weekend.

In his haste, he keyed in the wrong digit sequence on his apartment lock, triggering the alarm. Startled, he allowed his standby to slip free and clunk to the floor. He quickly entered the correct sequence, to stop the alarm, but by this time everybody on his floor was staring, and there he was with his standby, getting the same looks he'd receive if he never did get around to putting his pants back on. Red-faced, he scooped her off the floor and made a beeline for the elevator.

As he rode to the garage, he once again considered trading in his battered Wendy 2500, a sturdy but somewhat dated model, for the latest in the line, the superb Wendy 7000. But he just didn't have the credits. Like his eight-year-old jetcar, she was about the best he could do. It was tough to make ends meet with a 20,000-credit annual salary and living in Toronto. He knew he was fortunate to have an affordable apartment just 300 kilometres from the office.

And, all things considered, his Wendy 2500 wasn't too bad as standbys went. She could dance, carry on an intelligent conversation and required only occasional maintenance. The only problem, he figured, as he stowed her in his trunk, was the fact she wasn't real.

Getting the genuine article for the party would be impossible. There just weren't enough to go around.

So it had been for 150 years, since the late twentieth century, when a mysterious disease swept the planet and decimated the female population by 90%. Faced with the immediate danger of human extinction governments herded the remaining women of child-bearing age into "regeneration farms," and were disappointed to find that the alarmingly high death rate among baby girls kept the low female population barely at the replacement level.

Over the years many politicians were elected on the platform "Earth Needs Women," but no was actually able to do anything about it.

While one branch of science struggled with this problem, another sought to bring some comfort to the distressed male majority. They created the "AniMate," which, as technology and design improved, became a socially accepted substitute for women. These androids were ironically dubbed "standbys" as it was sorely hoped these machines would be a temporary solution. But each year there seemed to be fewer reports of promising research in redressing the issue of female scarcity while advertisements for more sophisticated and life-like standbys were more numerous.

In Bob's 25 years he'd seen them come and go: the Wendy, the Barbara, the Diana, and, for those who could afford the best, the Venus. With "silken hair," "living skin," and, a feature that still puzzled him, "feminine aura," they seemed to promise everything.

Bob wasn't convinced. His standby rode in the trunk, slept in the closet for months, and seldom saw the light of day. Bob supposed he could rent a more sophisticated standby for the evening, but his memory hailed back to an earlier party, during a time when "celebrity standbys" were all the rage. He thought it would be fun to pick up a "Marilyn Monroe" model, which purred, giggled and spoke breathily.

Unfortunately he was unaware of the "Seven Year Itch" feature in which her skirt would blow up around her waist courtesy of concealed air jets. Everybody got a good long look at her anatomically correct robo-fanny while he desperately hunted for the off-switch, realizing only too late why the rental store clerk seemed anxious that he splurge on panties. He had never been so embarrassed in his entire life.

Most of his co-workers were in the same position, and as he neared the centre and began his descent, he didn't doubt he'd bump into some of them. But some would show up at the party with little sisters, or older women. One brought his aunt to the last Christmas party, and while she wasn't the greatest-looking date, she sure could dance.

For all of them, however, it was humiliating -- another opportunity for the big wheels to show off their hot flesh-and-blood women. Precious few men, like his supervisor R.G. Taylor, were able to get them, but he suspected they were only able to borrow them from the regeneration farms. They never brought the same date twice.

By the time Bob's jetcar set down in the lot, the AniMate centre was closed. He cursed himself for keeping within the 300 kph skyway limit, and got out to check the operating hours sign in the front window. Now he'd have to come back Monday, and the mad pre-Christmas rush would be worse.

As he backed away from the shop, he bumped into an older man, who seemed to have appeared from another dimension. He startled Bob.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you!" Bob gasped.

"No, no, it was my fault," the stranger insisted. "I tend to shuffle along pretty quiet." Bob laughed, and the old man did too.

"Got here a bit late, eh?" the old-timer noted.

"Yeah, dammit. I suppose I'll have to come back Monday," Bob replied, and he started for his jetcar.

The stranger followed. "I used to repair standbys for a living," he continued.

"That so," Bob said, trying to ease away politely.

"Yep. Did a top-notch job for 35 years. Still be doing it too 'cept for the golden age laws. Now I'm not allowed."

"Well that's too bad," Bob said absently as he struggled to key in the correct entry code in the dark.

"The technicians today -- hah! -- wouldn't trust them to fix a toaster, let alone a standby," the geezer spat. "In my day, the job was done by craftsmen. People who cared."

"I know what you mean," Bob said, as he finally opened the cockpit door. "Well, be seeing you."

"Please!" pleaded the old man mournfully, as he grabbed the edge of the door, "Let me take a look at your standby. It'll only take a minute."

Like most of his generation, Bob had oodles of respect for "the old ones," who managed to survive the fouled environment to retirement years. He tried to get away gracefully.

"Um, no, I'm afraid I really have to be moving along," Bob smiled, as he gently lifted the man's gnarled fingers off his door. The man ripped his hand away angrily.

"You think I'm just some old fart wandering around bothering people," he snarled. "Well, I'm not! I still got all my chips!" He pulled out a tattered wallet, and produced a crinkled old photo. He thrust it at Bob.

"There -- look at that! Some of my best work!"

Bob flicked on his cockpit light and examined the photo. He admired the attractive women surrounding a much-younger-looking stranger. He examined the image with growing awe.

"You're telling me these are standbys?"

"You bet," the old man growled, swiping the photo from Bob's knee.

Bob looked up at the simmering stranger and grinned. He got out and turned to the trunk.

"C'mon, friend," he said. "Take a look at my standby."

2

The old man's name was Keough ("like after P and before R") and Bob drove him to his home in the city's deteriorating "Esteemed Citizen's" complex, located conveniently beside the nation's largest nuclear waste dump. "The nation's spent resources all in one convenient location," the old man chuckled.

Keough invited Bob into his workshop, situated in an abandoned storage room in the parking garage. Cluttered with wires, circuit boards, boxes of chips and various pieces of standbys, it wasn't quite Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory, even if it was damp and dungeon-like. Keough cleared away a space on the counter, allowing Bob to seat his Wendy 2500 for inspection.

It took Keough only a few moments to pop open the circuit ports on the android for a cursory inspection. He shook his head and muttered as he poked around.

"What do you think?" Bob asked, figuring he'd stumbled on a way to get his standby back on her feet at minimal cost.

"Sure, I can fix 'er up," Keough said finally. "Needs a good cleaning in there. Where the hell you been keeping this? Under your bed?"

"Nope. Closet," Bob confessed.

The old snort man snorted. "Can't blame you my friend. This is one ugly piece of junk."

"Oh, I dunno," Bob protested. "She dances pretty good. Say, do you think you could get the squeak out of her voice? It sounds like rubbing balloons together."

Keough chuckled. "That's no problem. But wouldn't you rather have a new standby?"

"Of course," Bob admitted. "I'd rather own a Venus. But I also have to eat and pay the rent."

"A Venus? I can build you something better than a Venus," said Keough. "Let me take this standby apart and create a woman. Like the ones I showed you in the picture. A standby so real no one would know. How about it?"

Bob bit his lip and stared at his vacant-looking Wendy, leaning like a rag doll against the wall.

"How much'll that cost me?"

The old man shrugged. "How much can you pay?"

Bob reached into his pocket and dug out his passbook. He pressed the balance key, waited a moment, and saw the digital readout: 500 credits.

"I've got 400 credits," he lied.

Keough grinned and scratched his stubbly white beard.

"You give me 400 credits, and seven days, and I'll produce a tribute to womanhood as you've never seen."

It seems too good to be true, Bob thought. Hell, it was too good to be true.

"How can I trust you?" Bob asked, hoping the oldster wouldn't be offended on the off chance he was legitimate. But he didn't seem insulted in the slightest.

"You don't have to pay me anything now," Keough said. "In fact, if you don't like my work, I'll throw your old standby back together, running like a top, and we'll call it even. Like they used to say, your satisfaction's guaranteed."

Bob chewed that over, and confronted his standby one more time. As he pulled it forward by the wrist, he unwittingly engaged her speaking function.

"How about those Blue Jays?" she squeaked. "They've won the series two years in a row without a power-hitting DH or an adequate bullpen."

Oh please, Bob thought, as he shut her off. Anything had to be better than this. He offered his hand.

"Mr. Keough, you've got a deal."

3

A week passed. As the day drew closer, Bob fought the excitement building inside of him, and forced himself to remain realistic. Still, he couldn't forget the picture Keough showed him, and allowed a tiny glimmer hope that he had worked magic.

Suspicion nagged him. Not only did Keough refuse a deposit, he didn't even want Bob's address or number. He was simply told to come back in a week. To torture himself, Bob daydreamed of walking in on Keough babbling to himself while sitting in the middle of a pile of standby parts, unable to fit them together again.

After work on the seventh day, Bob nearly ran to his jetcar and flew a rather careless course to Keough's building. Following the old man's instructions, he made sure he was unobserved as he entered the building. Keough was worried about the rather severe "golden age" laws, with stiff penalties for those caught working over the age of 55.

There was an element of danger in this for Bob as well, as he made his way to Keough's workshop, as an accessory to his crime. Nearing the door, he could hear Keough puttering about inside. Bob hoped he was finished.

He opened the door.

"Keough?"

It wasn't Keough. A woman turned to face Bob, and he was shocked, and mesmerized at once by her lovely face. His eyes drank in a stunning figure, with long blonde hair, bright, piercing blue eyes and a smile that gave him cardiac arrest.

"Hello?" she said, awakening him from his daydream.

"Hi," he gasped before composing himself. "I hope I'm in the right place -- I'm looking for Keough...do you know him?"

"All my life," she smiled, and she offered Bob her hand. "You must be Bob. Keough told me to wait for you."

Bob took the hand and felt its warm. Upon closer inspection he realized from her too-perfect features, like her prominent, sculpted cheek bones, that he was addressing an android. He couldn't stop staring. He could hardly believe it.

"Y-you're my Wendy 2500?" he stammered.

She smiled -- perfect teeth, naturally. Or unnaturally. "No, my name is Joanne," she replied. "I'm to go with you."

Bob stared at her incredulously for a few moments, and then slowly paced around her to check all the angles to complete his inspection. She was absolutely flawless.

"Where is Keough?" he asked, "I have to talk to him." Not only did he wish to pay the man for his masterful work, he was also anxious to get an operator's manual for his new... Joanne.

"He had to leave in a hurry," Joanne said simply, as she gathered her handbag and a number of accessories. "He says he will call you. I am ready to go."

Bob watched as she breezed past him into the garage. He strained to find any giveaway to her mechanical construction, but there were none as she walked smartly toward Bob's car. Joanne waited by the passenger door to his relief. He didn't see how he could possibly put her in the trunk.

He opened the door, as a gentleman would, but as he got into the jet-car next to her, he reminded himself for the first time that she, in spite of Keough's genius, was still a standby.

He stared at her again, and she stared back.

"How do I turn you off?" he finally asked.

She offered a melting smile. "You don't."

4

Everyone gawked. Bob loved the attention. From the parking attendant to people on the street to his neighbours in his building, all were captivated by her. When crusty old Mr. Balthorne gave him the "thumbs up" in the hall, it occurred to him: no one suspected a thing. Just as Keough promised.

As the days passed, Bob's fascination with and awe for his new mechanized roommate grew. Unlike the Wendy 2500, Joanne's movements were fluid, her speech lilted naturally and she had a wonderful laugh. She also had a way of putting people at ease, showing genuine interest in them and asking the kind of questions eliciting interesting conversation, charming his friends and neighbours in the process. Bob cobbled the fiction that she was new in town and a friend of his family. Everybody bought it.

As Bob prepared himself for the company party, he decided to take the deception to the next level. He would gamble on Keough's handiwork and introduce Joanne as his date. And why not? It was an ideal way to plant his name in the minds of those who decide promotions and raises. People like R.G. Taylor, who had the irritating habit of calling him Bill.

At the shuttleport, Bob walked right past the cargo counter and picked up two passenger tickets. Joanne continued to turn heads, but as they entered the ballroom of the Vista, Bob was suddenly gripped with fear. What if she slipped up?

Bob's fears were hurled into space. To his delight, he found Joanne well-equipped to charm everyone who met her. She impressed his superiors with her knowledge of their business, her poise and her contagious sense of humor.

Bob was also amazed to see her consume food and drink, a feat conventional standbys were incapable of achieving. In fact, she put away enough goodies to embarrass him on a couple of occasions, as hors d'oeuvre trays emptied if they strayed near her grasp.

As the evening drew to a close, Joanne whispered that she had to dispose of her intake, and, with a wink, was off to the ladies.

Bob turned and saw Taylor heading his way, drink in hand, and insincere smile on face. Taylor was one of those unfortunate people whose smiles heralded unintended warnings of lies or trouble ahead.

"Bob, you rascal," he grinned, nudging Bob's shoulder. "You've got one fine woman there."

"Why, thank you Mr. Taylor," Bob said modestly. "She's one of a kind." A little too cute.

"Please, call me Reg."

Bob's eyes widened. Well! The evening was working better than planned. Now he was on a first-name basis with old stoneface.

"Alright... Reg," he said, launching his boss' name with great care.

"Tell me, where have you been hiding this goddess? How come we've never had the pleasure of meeting before?" Reg pried.

Bob had already planned a response. "We met last year during my holiday in Mexico," he said matter-of-factly. "We kept in touch, and now she's moved to Toronto so we can be closer."

Reg winked, nudged him again, and then put a fatherly arm around his shoulder.

"Listen, Bob... I wonder if you might do your old boss a favor," he said confidentially.

"Sure -- Reg -- if I can."

Reg's face got rather uncomfortable looking, and he even began to sweat.

"Um, well...after the party, I've been invited to a little do the president's throwing in his suite, and, ah... I was wondering, if you would, if you could ask Joanne if she'd come as my, uh, guest."

Bob reddened a bit. "I don't know Reg. I mean, she's my girlfriend and..."

"Oh, please Bob," Reg blurted with sudden urgency, "it would mean so much to me. It would help me make a big impression with Mr. Skylar. Please!"

Sure, Bob thought. But what's in it for me?

"I'm sorry, but I can't tell her what to do," Bob explained ever-so-delicately. "She has a mind of her own -- I mean, it's not like she's a standby." Bob didn't believe for a minute that would be the end of it. He hoped it wasn't.

Reg tightened his fatherly grip and continued to press. "Bob, there's an opening for senior programmer that's just come up, and I can swing it your way if you could please, please, ask her!"

Bob smiled and nudged Reg in the shoulder. "I'm sure she'll do me this little favor -- Reg."

Bob could hardly believe his luck. When Joanne returned, he quickly explained what he wanted her to do. But to his shock, she resisted the idea and showed every intention of upsetting his plans.

"I'm not a whore!" she hissed, her angelic features disappearing behind a cloud of anger.

Bob tugged her, gently, into a quiet vestibule by the door. "I'm not asking you to sleep with him, I'm asking you to go to a party and take his arm. It's harmless. And it means a big promotion for me," he insisted.