His Led Smile

ONE - DELIVERY

Since things had gotten, you know,

worse

just about all over the place, a great deal of my time had been spent indoors, alone. Just like anyone else. Years of self-isolation from several pandemics, isolation-breaking protests worldwide fed by an equal measure of societal abuse and a sudden influx of everyone having the free time to protest, meant it had, for a long time, been better just to stay out of the way.

The back-draft of that was that people like me - introverted, socially inept and, who was I kidding, depressed - wound up with what was effectively a high-octane version of normality. It

also

meant that more big-tech companies were looking for ways to profit off data, as more and more people were sitting at home on their phones all day. It was a scary reality, but it was one that paid my bills.

Yeah, I was a data-scraper. It wasn't a glorious job, but it came with certain perks. Like, you know, working indoors for a decent wage - which could be considered a perk these days - as well as

actual

perks. Like the one that arrived this morning.

In all honesty, I thought it was a mistake at first. About ten minutes ago, the bell had rung, and the woman at the front desk of my block of flats told me they had a big parcel in for me. I hadn't ordered anything, but apparently it had my name on.

So, I went down, through the bleach-stinking corridors and down the glistening silver lift, all the while feeling like an imposter of some sort, like a stray cat that had broken into NASA. Unbrushed hair, second-day t-shirt and who-knows-how-long jeans, loose in the company-provided housing in North London.

Not that it felt like London in here. It was another world. All shiny and clean and not-me.

I had clearly picked up some bad habits after so long on my own, barely even venturing out for post - it wasn't until I was getting out of the lift and stepping onto the cold stone floor of the lobby that I realised I was barefoot.

I waltzed up to the reception, and was met with a disapproving look from an immaculately-well-dressed woman, her dress sharp and white, her glasses crystal-like and rimmed with black. Her eyes, framed like this, stared at me, and it seemed like she saw me as a lost stray, too.

'Parcel?' I said hoping that wasn't rude.

'Name?' she asked, her eyes giving me the once-over. Reflexively, I shrunk away, wish wasn't hard - I was slight at the best of times.

'Jennifer Mohan,' I said. The woman's eyes flared at me, and she turned away. Not soon after, the door to the reception opened on my left, and she backed out, pulling a great box on a short, flat trolley with her. 'What-' I almost asked, before the woman cut me off.

'I would open it in private,' she said with a low voice. 'People have... ideas about these things.'

I wanted to ask

what things?!

- but something stopped me. Specifically, her gaze stopped me, shutting me up and, I'm fairly sure, stalling my heartbeat for a moment. 'Okay,' I squeaked, and then took the handles of the trolley.

Pulling at it, trying to round the damned thing so I could drag it towards the lift, was hell - this thing was heavy as shit.

What was in there?

The woman sighed, and took over. With surprising ease that made me feel like a complete wimp, she dragged the thing into the lift, with me following quietly.

'Which floor?' she asked.

'Uh, five.'

She nodded, and mumbled to herself, 'that's right,' before pushing the

5

button. The doors slid shut, and for a moment of surprising tension it was just me and the woman, separated by the box between us. The box itself was a pristine-white cuboid with rounded corners, almost like a huge suitcase. I had seen these before, but their purpose I knew from TV

had

to be different from this one.

The lift came to a soft stop, and the silver doors slid open silently. The woman, whose name I realised I didn't know, stepped out, dragging the box on its trolley behind her. I followed, before speeding ahead to show her which door was mine.

'Number 506,' I said with an awkward smile she didn't return. Her face was still stern, her white dress unbothered by the exertion of pulling that thing around. If I'd have done it, I knew there would be pit-stains by now, so I thanked her silently as I unlocked the flat.

It opened straight into my embarrassingly untidy living room - my books in unsteady piles, clothes in unwashed piles, the remnants of more than one meal dotted around the coffee table and various table tops.

The woman gave the room an almost amused smirk, most likely thinking of me as some messy teenager. I had an urge to stand up to her, tell her I was mid-twenties, and killing it in my (deadend) career - I just didn't have all the time in the world for house work.

But, before I could, she pulled the trolley inside, tilted it to let the box slide onto the hardwood floor, and turned to leave.

'Enjoy,' she said with a smile that could have been lecherous, if she wasn't so obviously tickled by the mess that was my living situation.

Then, the door clicked shut, and I was alone. Well, alone with the box.

True enough, there was a small paper label sticker on the front with my name on. Jennifer Mohan. So, it was definitely mine.

Wait - underneath, there was a short code. 207889818--B. Annoyingly, maybe because of my penchant for numbers and code, I knew what this meant. Plus, I recognised it.

I'd been sent an email about a week ago about the 'company perks' we were entitled to, including a draw for a B-Model Assistant Homestay, . The people on the news liked to say it like Beemah, which always sounded so silly, especially when they were first being introduced to homes across the UK and Europe. God, they'd reported on it like it was the end of the world. Turns out, they just made good ethical servants, and they caught on

real

quick.

Whatever it says about the human condition that, as soon as we were able, we created ethically-acceptable mechanical slavery, I wasn't getting involved. Not my fight.

In fact, it was

so

my fault I'd avoided getting one for a few years now. Besides, they were expensive, and present context showed me I wasn't exactly a stickler for cleanliness.

I'd entered into the prize draw for one, and never heard back. Shit. I must have won.

For a moment, the woman's face flashed in my mind - those dark eyes. What had she meant when she said 'Enjoy'? She'd said it so knowingly, and yet these things were known for being... boring. All they did was housework. Maybe that's what she meant, and she was just making fun of my flat.

Which would be fair, I guessed.

So, I squatted, gripped the unyielding non-handles on the sides of the box (which were just more ridges than anything actually grabbable), and pulled with unpracticed muscles, dragging the damned thing into the middle of the room.

Well, almost. Moving the box across the smooth-ish wood was one thing, but trying to pull it onto the fibrous rug that sat in the 'comfy' section of my living room - under the coffee table, and surrounded by the two chairs I had and the small sofa, as well as what was supposed to be a TV but which usually served as a monitor for my PC - was a lost cause.

I gave up on pulling it any further, and sat on the floor next to it to see what was what.

'How do I open you...' I mumbled to myself, before seeing that there was a slight crease in the sticker that hadn't been there a few moments ago. In fact, I realised, there was a thin crease that split the top of the box lengthways, and the two sides were not

completely

sealed.

I picked at the sticker, and pulled it away, only to see there was a button underneath.

Real smart, packaging company. Covering the 'open' button with the fucking label

.

I pushed it, felt it vibrate softly as it took a scan of my thumb, and then sat back as the tops unlocked. They opened quickly, but without much force, and revealed the true

perk

within.

B-Models had scared people because, rather than just representing the redundancy of a lot of western capitalist labour and the end of unpaid home labour as we knew it, they

looked

like us. They were people-like enough to seem invasive. Like the grey squirrels forcing out the red. They signalled a huge shift, if not in the actual power of humanity, then the

perceived

power we had. They were us, but different.

Of course, this idea is one that was largely undercut when everybody got one, and they turned out to be butlers and cleaners and bed-makers, and little more. No SkyNet looming over us and hacking the nuclear codes. No Matrix-like false reality being beamed into our minds to control us and feed off our electrical energy, or whatever.

No, these were just... helpers. Assistants, as their name indicated. Just that.

I watched as the being, laying as it was in a slightly unsettlingly-foetal position, shimmered with light, as the white plates that gave it the smooth, rounded edges of false muscles and imitation skin glimmered and came to life.

Ha.

Life

.

Under the white plates were smooth silver and black joints and plating, all of the far more complicated internal machinery hidden away. It was all very smooth and smart and perfect. It felt like the building we were in - which made sense. They were both owned by the same people, ShemmTech. Everything in this room was paid for by the wages they paid me.

I realised I didn't like it.

It was almost disappointing. This phenomenal thing, a testament to human ingenuity, the thing whose very existence had destabilised and reorganised the world, just kind of reminded me of my job.

How shit was that.

It moved, and I jumped. I'd drifted, and the sudden reminder that there was something else in here was... jarring. I'd been alone in here for so long, having anything in here was completely strange to me.

It lifted it's shiny arm, the white glinting against the light that came in from outside, the midday sun shimmering across it, and rested a hand on the side of it's box. In a manner somewhere between alive and machine, it pushed itself up, the head and chest rising from the box. It unfolded, smooth and perfect, and pulled its leg up by the knee. A foot, toeless and yet nothing like a shoe, rested on my carpet, mimicking a child's first steps.

I stood, too, as the thing came up in a slow bound. The thing stood before me, not-human, imitation, and just... was there. It's face wasn't a face. It was a blank white vaguely face-shaped plate with blinking blue LEDs that sat behind, giving it the appearance of eyes. They were supposed to be for my comfort I knew - so I could tell when it was paying attention, and so that it didn't make me feel like it was watching something it shouldn't be.

It would be, of course - the eyes were performatively human. It didn't see through it's face. It didn't

see

at all. It sensed. Movement, heat, sound. They were just different kinds of input, which it could decode and use to navigate the world. Apparently it did also use visual-scanning, but the 'cameras' weren't in the face either. It was all just performative.

It was taller than me, which wasn't hard. Even in heels, I struggled to see over most people's shoulders - fuck, how ling had it been since I wore heels? At an easy six foot tall as standard, the B-Model casually towered over me, it's blank face looking out at the room passively.

It's head turned, in a way all too natural, the faux muscles pulling at its neck, and the skin-like plates of its chest stretching so turn a little where it stood. It scanned the room with its non-eyes, looking over all of my things. It would be able to see the make and model of every device I had - my phone on the table, the type of TV I had, my fucking

microwave

. It would, in minutes, know more about this living space than I did.

Once it had finished its scan, its LED lights pretending to be eyes fell to me. They softened, and it took a small step back, as though to give me space. 'Hello,' it said. 'Are you Jennifer?'

Its voice was soft and pleasant, clearly male but not overly masculine. 'Hi,' I said. 'I am, yeah.'

It held out its hand. 'Nice to meet you. I'm a B-Model Assistant Homestay. I think I'm going to be staying with you. Is that alright?'

Oh,

I thought.

I didn't expect it to be so polite.

'Yes,' I said, a little awkward. I didn't know how to act around it. How much of what was happening in my flat was going to be recorded, and kept as a data-point by ShemmTech? Would they have access to the brand and colour of my underwear at the B-Model did my laundry? Would they take note of my sleeping schedule? When I was buying tampons? How regularly I masturbate?

'Excellent. First things first, there's some set-up we can go through. Would you like the default systems, or do you have custom settings you would like me to assume?'

Perfect. 'Custom. I want to go through everything.'

It nodded, and motioned to my sofa. It was inviting me to sit. In my own fucking home. It sat on the chair opposite me, and rested its hands on its knees. It was so natural, it almost felt like a guy in a suit - but it wasn't. It was a piece of machinery, a data-collector disguised as a roomba with hands.

'Okay,' it said, casual and composed. I wondered if it

could

sound any other way. If it even knew what voice intonation was. Questions, questions. 'Is there a name you would like to give me?'

I paused, not expecting that. 'A name?'

'Many new owners of B-Model Assistant Homestays like to assign a name to it. Often beginning with the letter 'B', like Bob, or Barry, or Bruno.'

I shrugged. 'Bruno is nice,' I said.

'Okay. My name is Bruno. Nice to meet you, Jennifer.'

'Jen,' I said. 'Only my mum calls me Jennifer.'

It - Bruno - nodded. 'Okay, Jen. I have a few set-up options to go through with you. These can be changed at any time. Do you have a preference of where you would like to start?'

'Privacy,' I said quickly. 'I want to start with privacy options.'

It nodded, and sat back, as though relaxing. It was so... I didn't know how to put it. Somewhere between off-putting and reassuring. Like I could feel myself slipping into a false sense of security. 'Privacy,' it said. 'As of new regulations, as enforced by ShemmTech and the UK Government, no data points collected by me, Bruno, within your household or about you and your habits will be shared outside of my on-site memory.'

I frowned. 'Meaning?'

A pause. Buffering. 'Meaning, Jen, that no matter what you tell me, or what I see or learn about you and your life, none of it will be shared outside of me. ShemmTech have no access to my memory, unless you actively send that information to an outside party. Simply put, your secrets are safe with me.'

'What can you learn?' I asked, digging deeper.

Buffering. 'I will hopefully learn how to assist you. I can pick up on your habits, and anticipate your needs, to a point. For example, if I observe that you awake at the same time each morning, and that you quickly make yourself a coffee before anything else, I would happily make that coffee for you, ready and at perfect drinking temperature by the time you were up.'

I cocked my head. 'How would you know what the perfect drinking temperature is?'

'I would observe how long between brewing and drinking you wait. Or,' I could almost see the smile on its not-face, 'you could tell me.'

I nodded. 'Right. So, you don't share my data with anyone else - but what about my privacy

from you

?'

It nodded, as though it had been waiting for this question. It sat forwards again. Fascinating.

'You can set a command word which will cause me to stop all motion, and cease any input. I will, effectively, shut down and freeze in place. I would not see or hear or sense anything in those moments. ShemmTech has on record that this is often used during sexual escapades, and during hygiene rituals.'

The words 'sexual escapades' seemed a little inappropriate, but I didn't want to probe. That was a line of thinking I had no interest in. Not with a fucking robot, anyway.

'Right,' I said. 'Let's set that command to 'Bruno, Freeze'.'

Bruno nodded. 'Command set. You are also able to command me to erase a period of time from my memory, in case I witness something you would rather have stayed private. Typically, the standard command for this would be 'Bruno forget the last two hours,' for example. Is that okay?'

I nodded. 'Sounds good.'

Bruno nodded. I was starting to think of it as having a name, which was strange. It was phenomenally well-suited to lowering those walls, making me feel comfortable. I didn't know if that should be worrying or comforting, so I stayed somewhere in the middle. Neither paranoid, nor soothed.

'The next set-up subject is liability. Is that okay?'

I sighed. On with the boring stuff, I guessed.

TWO - SET-UP

Bruno's set-up was a long, gruelling process which, by the end of it, had me wishing I had just shrugged and accepted the default settings and kept the rest of my day. I was happy, though, to know the in-sand-outs of what having Bruno in my life - and in my home - would mean.

Upkeep was simple. Weekly cleans with a compress-ed air canister, plus 4-hours charging every 40 hours of activity. Aside from any accidents - for which he was insured and fully covered by warranty - that was it. Designed for any pleb to take care of.

Once the set-up was complete, and my personal preferences had been added to ensure my safety and comfort, it was mid-afternoon. I had clocked the hours lost with my supervisor, Alan, so he knew what I was up to all day instead of meeting quota, and he said he'd done the same when he got his. Huh. Looks like everyone had a B-Model after all.

My mind drifted to the receptionist again, and her knowing smirk. What was I missing?

In any case, I sent Bruno off to clean the living room of all of my dishes and clothes, and within ten minutes the place was clean. Within an hour, it was

clean

- all of the dishes washed and organised away, Bruno had made itself familiar with my kitchen layout and all of the cupboards, and it had even set a clothes wash going in the washing machine. In that time, I did what I always did when I should have been working - fuck all.

I

tried

to get some work done, of course - but there was no use in trying to focus with

it

in the flat. Every time I booted up my PC, and started up the ShemmTech software I was doing some in-house troubleshooting for, I could hear it. It was quiet, soft on its feet and careful not to bump into things, which was oddly... upsetting. It was too perfect, specific and trained in its movements even though it was only a few hours old.

Eventually, I gave up, and just watched it move. It cleaned my bedroom next, making the bed and sorting my piles of clothes into separate piles to be washed, and hanging and folding the clean stuff away.

I did little other than watch. Fascinated, sure. Curious, definitely. Suspicious, a little.

'Bruno,' I said as the time clicked past 6pm. 'When you finish your chores, what do you do?'

It paused, half-way through folding a shirt of mine. 'What would you like me to do?'

I shrugged. 'There's only so much housework, buddy. And since I don't leave the flat often, you might get bored.'

'Boredom isn't a concept I can feel,' Bruno said, as placid and calm as ever. 'In fact, I don't feel anything, Jen. But I would be happy to help you with your work, or hobbies. Or, if you prefer, I can simply go into stand-by mode until there are jobs you require me for.'

I nodded, considering it. It was strange - he - it! - was such a casual presence in the flat, and it truly felt like having a maid or something pottering around. But, I could literally just switch him off when I wanted to.