My words are met with a moment of silence.
“You’ve been gathering data on me?”
Oh, bloody hell. I think of the mountain of files in our Dropbox that my research team dug up on Josie.
Leukemia at age six. Years spent in and out of hospital wards. Her mum scraping together the cash, by hook or by crook, to make sure Josie got the care she needed.
Josie hides her shadows so well. And wears her resilience admirably lightly. Apparently, late at night, she likes to read romance novels or watch old episodes ofAntiques Roadshowwhile crafting away—I know this from Honor, not my private investigator. If I had to guess what kind of gun she keeps, glue would be my first bet.
“No, no—it’s, it’s not like that. Not…stalkery,” I say, tripping over my words, which is not something I do. “At the party. The team couldn’t help but, well…notice you.”
“I don’t think I understand,” she says, blinking up at me. “What does it mean to be your source model? Like, you’d borrow my voice or something?”
“Not just your voice. Your…countenance. And disposition.”
Nine
Josie
“Mydisposition?” I ask, completely confused by whatever nonsense Axe is spouting. But this isn’t some weird Scottish-to-English translation issue.
I cross my arms and wait. When it comes to handling Axe, silence is my superpower.
“Yes, because I think…the teamthinks you’d be an ideal AI girlfriend. I mean, notyouyou, because, obviously, you’re not an AI girlfriend. You’re, you know, human.” Axe is flustered, and I’m thoroughly enjoying this new side of him. Usually, it’s me scrambling to recover from whatever casual insult he’s lobbed my way, my face burning red.
“Can you try that again? In English this time?”
“We want to model our prototype AI girlfriend on you,” he says. “See, you’re an interesting case, Josie. Take the other night—your impulses, your reactions, or even the next morning.”
“The next morning?”
“Aye, it’s not the usual girl who takes her coffee at five a.m. With milk and honey. These quirks, the little idiosyncrasies, can’t be pulled from a thousand women and add up to create one person.” He looks me in the eye. “What can I say? You’re a curiousmix of contradictions, Josie. And the model has advanced to the point where it does better with what it can’t predict.”
Could I be hearing this correctly? This man, who has made it very clear from the first time we met that he thinks I’m an absolute idiot, believes mycurious mix of contradictionsis worth copying? For a technological advancement that has an eight-figure investment?
I feel a little faint.
“What would that entail, exactly? What would I have to do?” I ask.
“For our research, you’d spend time with me. Date me, but not really date me. My team would then collect data on what you do or say on dates, who you really are—”
“Let me get this straight,” I cut him off. He wants to pay me to date him? Does he think I’m a sex worker? (Not that there’s anything wrong with being a sex worker, but that is most definitely not my jam.) “You brought me up to this…thisman veranda, which doesn’t even have an extra chair, to stand here while I listen to you proposition me to be…your fake, paid girlfriend? Like your personal toy?”
He frowns. “Man veranda?I preferguy grove.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“And why would I have two chairs up here?” he asks, fuming a little. “This ismyspace. I don’t want anyone else to get too comfortable and think about hanging out.”
“On your douche deck.” I smirk. He is not going to charm his way out of this.
“My bro orchard,” he replies.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You wouldn’t be my girlfriend, Josie,” Axe says. “My team at SynthoTech would have access to any data our interactionsproduce. And we aren’t using you as a toy. We’re using you as our model for the prototype.”
“This is the most bullshit proposition I’ve ever heard,” I say. Why would Axe want me, of all people, for his dating simulator? I’ve seen the way women throw themselves at him—he could find an actual model to be his model.
