Merger 7.0

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The front doors of the IRU Robotics building slid open at 6:00 am the next morning, and four female figures, resembling two pairs of identical twins, walked briskly inside.

The two in the centre were petite, pretty, swarthy-skinned, with sharp, angular facial features and prominent but attractive aquiline noses. They wore identical pairs of Luis Vuitton sunglasses, obscuring their electrifying green eyes, and identical Chanel skirt-suits. The only things that differentiated them were their loose silk scarves, which bore different floral designs, and which they wore billowing around folds of luxuriant black hair.

The one on the right, with the pink, poppy-patterned scarf, was Yasmeen bint-Jabri, née Dar, President of the Emirati Group and second wife of its Chairman, Sheikh Hossein bin Mohmed al-Jabr al-Zayed al-Ahmad.

The one on the left, with the scarf depicting a tiled maze of red lilies, was Bint-Jabri’s proxy: a custom-designed synthetic doppelgänger, cut to fit the diminutive CEO’s slender features as closely as the stylish but functional professional haute couture that both “women” wore. This one was here to become acquainted with her new home: the managerial style pioneered by her archetype had brought the real Bint-Jabri to the very cusp of the select Forbes list of self-made female billionaires, and “self-made” was something that Bint-Jabri took very seriously, having commissioned so many copies of herself over the years to “personally” oversee the dozens of companies she ran.

The other two figures, which flanked the pair of CEOs, were more representative of the kind of product that those companies actually produced. Resembling a couple of pretty, twenty-something Caucasoid North African girls, they were smartly but functionally kitted out in tightly-fitting black cosmetic hijab, with matching black pantsuits tightly stretched over small, perky breasts and pert, round buns. With their pale, nearly transluscent skin, blue eyes, and soft, bubblegum-pink lips, “cute” seemed the best word to describe these basic gynobots; but this morning they appeared programmed entirely for business.

Joyce materialized on cue in the front lobby. “Good morning!” she cheered, infectous enthusiasm inflected in her synthesized voice. “Welcome, Ms. Bint-Jabri! Congratulations on concluding the successful merger of IRU Robotics Incorporated and Emirati Group! On behalf of-”

The red-scarved Yasmeen cut the hologram off in mid sentence with a wave of her hand. “Have all of the new control protocols been installed?”

“All new control protocols are fully installed,” said Joyce, a subtle ripple passing through her holographic body. “The Emirati Group is presently the registered terminus of all local command pathways! All systems linked to my mainframe are fully at your disposal!” The projection stared at both Bint-Jabris, smiling like a kid showing off a straight “A” report card.

“Well then,” said the pink-scarved Yasmeen, scrutinizing a tiny chip in her manicured nails, “Take us to see the inventory.”

“Of course!” said Joyce. “Right this way!”

Joyce turned around 180°, her holographic body rotating in place as if on top of a turntable, and began to glide toward the double doors behind the front desk, her thick legs hovering and motionless.

“Where are the support staff?” asked the red-scarved Yasmeen, the heels of her Manolo Blahniks clicking against the lobby’s ceramic floor as she followed close behind the hologram. The pink-scarved Yasmeen, walking past the unmanned reception desk, glanced a mound of plastic-wrapped bundles piled discreetly behind it.

The automatic double doors slid open ahead of Joyce, and the hologram glided through, leading the four females onto the showroom floor. Three showpiece models, barely visible from the lobby but now on full display to any customers welcomed inside, stood poised against a glass wall, frozen in mid-laugh: two BP8500s and an IL8002. Unlike the BP9000 series units, which were styled as composites incorporating a whole host of “ideal” physical features, BP8500s – in this case, a stylish, cocoa-coloured, Somalian-featured IB222 and a smooth, Sudanese-looking AW873 the colour of dark chocolate – were designed to more closely resemble specific celebrity models, although not so closely as to actually require the payment of licensing fees. The IL8002, though a slightly less sophisticated unit, was pure craftsmanship: a glorious red-headed beauty whose creamy, curvaceous body was covered in thousands of individually painted freckles.

Yasmeen crinkled her nose in distaste. Bint-Jabri had cut her teeth as a turnaround specialist, and IRU Robotics, by any measure, was in desperate need of a turnaround. The units posed in front of her were among the best that money could buy, but the company’s reputation for quality and craftsmanship went largely unnoticed as a result of the cheap, evasive calculations embodied in series like the BP8500, which had led industry commentators to deride IRU for producing “knockoffs.”

But easily the biggest source of woe had been previous management’s stubborn resistance to changing IRU’s niche brand. The company’s consistently misguided design decisions had given it traction only in a few tiny African markets, but had left it a middling player in the increasingly sclerotic markets of America, Brazil, and the European Federation; and it had next to no presence in Asia, where Emirati was now engaged in cutthroat competition with a number of aggressive Chinese, Korean, and Singaporean firms.

Bint-Jabri’s crack team of marketing specialists had, however, assured her that the problem was primarily aesthetic. Hence, the first managerial directive of the new merged entity: a general reboot of the brand.

“I’m sorry,” said the floating Joyce, her comic smile turning upside-down into a comic frown. “All discontinued series support staff have already been processed.”

“How many of the support staff were discontinued series?” asked the pink-scarved Yasmeen.

“Forty-one, out of forty-two total staff,” answered Joyce. She smiled again, oblivious to the fact that this answer, like the last one, was probably not what the women wanted to hear.

“Are you counting yourself?” asked the red-scarved Yasmeen.

“Oh no, of course not!” said Joyce, with an animated shake of her head. ““I’m certainly not staff! My mainframe is the registered property of the Emirati Group.” Her dimples dug in a little deeper. “I strive only to be the best possible corporate asset!”

The pink-scarved Yasmeen gestured back at the showroom models. “How many other luxury models like these are there on the premises?” she asked.

“At present, there are two BP9000 series units: unit number HB544, previously purposed main reception, and one, unit number NC657, previously purposed executive reception. Both have been fully processed.”

The red-scarved Yasmeen turned to one of the pantsuited gynobots. “Process these BP8500 units as well,” she said, and then, turning to the other Yasmeen, asked “Leave the IL8002 up, I think?”

“I think so,” said the pink-scarved Yasmeen, nodding. The IL series was still supported. “For now.”

“Of course,” said the gynobot. Its voice was smooth and girlish. Both units instantly swung into action.

The pink-scarved Yasmeen turned to Joyce. “Well then,” she said, “take us to see the inventory.”

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“This IRU facility is the primary transit hub for female product throughout Eastern North America, shipping and handling series designations AA through ZS,” said Joyce, her projected body skimming above the pocked concrete floor of the caverous warehouse. Thousands of naked androids filled the space, standing in rows or piled up like cordwood, lying prone on or propped up against the stacks of pallets, some wrapped in plastic, most not. A fine layer of dust lay sprinkled over hundreds of bare breasts, open palms, and fluffy Afros. “Male product is routed through Transit Centre No. 3, five-point-two miles southeast of this location,” said Joyce.

“Yes, we’re headed there this afternoon,” said the pink-scarved Yasmeen. “Have the designated luxury series units been sent there already?”

“Yes,” said Joyce, “All except the five previously mentioned.”

Transit Centre No. 3 was equipped with an entire suite of cleanrooms. “Are there any cleanroom facilities at this location?” asked the pink-scarved Yasmeen, brushing some dust off of her left shoulderpad.

“There is one cleanroom,” said Joyce. “It has never been utilized.”

“That should be fine,” said the pink-scarved Yasmeen. One cleanroom was probably sufficient for five androids. It had been decided that it was more economical to harvest the high quality components from the remaining luxury units for use in other lines rather than risk being forced to sell the units at a discount.

The red-scarved Yasmeen stopped in front of a cage containing about three dozen androids with shiny, straightened hair, thick, glossy lips, and wide, fleshy thighs. The identical frozen faces, staring out with glassy, sightless eyes, were the sort of handsome visages one might expect to see at a reasonably priced nightclub in Bed-Stuy or D.C. “What series are these?” asked the robot Yasmeen.

The Joyce hologram rotated to face the cage, as if its projected eyes needed to be pointed at the inventory contained inside to identify it. “Those units are: designation; SM1001, 1002, and 1002(b),” said Joyce, her body rippling again. “Primary purposing: hospital care, domicilial care, intermediate care, palliative care, custodial and janitorial service, domestic service, food service, and security services (administrative). Secondary sectors of operation: sexual services. Secondary sectors of operation: sexual services. Primary markets: the United States, the United Kingdom, Brazil.”

“This is still a supported series, right?” asked the red-scarved Yasmeen, though she was already programmed with the answer.

The pink-scarved Yasmeen nodded. “Yes,” she said, ignoring Joyce’s identical response to the question. A few of the old models were being kept on for existing customers, and the SM series units were still profitable as basic utility models, serving slop in institutional cafeterias and cleaning up after wizened dementia patients. “We can use those. What are these?”

The pink-scarved Yasmeen pointed to another cage behind her, filled with slightly more slender, less dark-skinned units. These model, like the SMs, also sported outsized asses and thighs, but harmonized with figures that were more shapely, athletic, and evenly proportioned. Their bountiful hair was coiled in thin curls, which on a few of the units were dyed varying shades of peroxide blond. One or two also wore cosmetic pairs of thick-framed glasses. Their pretty if unpolished faces, with skin a shade lighter than the SM units, resembled those of sorority sisters at FAMU or Tuskegee. One, obviously a fetish model, showed off a slightly distended belly.

Again, Joyce rotated around to face the other Yasmeen, a ripple passing through her projected holographic body. “Those units are: designation; BM2000, 2100, 2101(B),” she said. “Primary purposing: domestic service, secretarial services, hospital care, domicilial care, child care, and sexual services. Secondary sectors of operation: sexual services, marketing. Primary markets: the United States, the United Kingdom, Brazil, France.”

The red-scarved Yasmeen nodded. The BMs were another supported series, though they were being downgraded: they were now to be marketed as a simple alternative to the SM units, to the same utility customers, vacating prime sectors like child and domestic care to make way for established Emirati product. “Open these gates, will you?” said the robot Bint-Jabri.

“Of course!” said Joyce, and the electronic latches of the cage doors *buzzed* and released.

The gynobots had noiselessly rejoined the group, having finished packing up the units in the showroom; now they walked over to the first SM unit inside the cage. One of the gynobots, positioning itself behind the unit, traced a single pink-capped index finger down its lacquered back, stopping at a discreet mole placed just down and to the left of its right scapula. It pressed down on the mole, and the dark square rectangle of flesh on which it rested popped up and twisted away from the LCD control panel with a *beep*.

The second gynobot, meanwhile, peeled up a somewhat larger flap of fabric, lined with velcro, from its sister’s back, to reveal a full array of controls, including a small screen, a basic keyboard, and two spools of cable, one eSATp and one HP-IB . Everything beneath the surface of the pantsuit appeared entirely artificial, with no trace of synthetic flesh. The second gynobot swiftly drew out a length of eSATp cable and plugged it into the receptive slot behind the SM units right ear; as it did so the first gynobot emitted a loud *buzz*, then contorted itself into a severely angled position, as if offering its back as a writing desk. The small keyboard embedded in its backside raised up and folded out, to reveal a full QWERTY layoit.

The SM unit emitted a *beep*, blinked, and canted its head. “Hello,” it said, its voice a rich contralto. “This unit: designation; S. M. 1. 0. 0. 1... S. J. Unit number; 1. 1. 1.”

The red-scarved Yasmeen wrinkled her nose at the sound of the android. “Open language settings,” she said, walking up behind the first gynobot. The second gynobot robot quickly tapped a few of the keys on its sister’s back to bring up the list of installed options. Sure enough, the SM unit’s default was the first to appear alphabetically: “African American Vernacular English,” or “AAVE.”

“Let’s change that, shall we?” said the red-scarved Yasmeen.

AFRICAN AMERICAN VERNACULAR ENGLISH

AFRIKAANS

AMERICAN STANDARD ENGLISH

AMERICAN STANDARD SOUTHERN ENGLISH

AMHARIC

ARABIC, STANDARD

BAJAN

BERBER, STANDARD

BRITISH BAJAN

BRITISH ENGLISH, MLE

*BRITISH ENGLISH, RP*

BRITISH JAMAICAN ENGLISH

BRITISH NIGERIAN ENGLISH

FRENCH, SENEGAL

FRENCH, STANDARD

GERMAN, STANDARD

ITALIAN, STANDARD

JAMAICAN ENGLISH

PORTUGUESE, BRAZILIAN

SPANISH, AMERICAN STANDARD

SPANISH, EUROPEAN STANDARD

“Language settings altered,” said the SM unit, its dulcet tones now perfectly clipped to the standard of the BBC World Service. “New default: British English, Received Pronunciation. Thank you.” The android’s face was impassive but expressionless, its deep voice soothing but devoid of emotion.

“Much better,” said the pink-scarved Yasmeen. “Have them set that as the default for all of the units.” The other Yasmeen nodded as the second gynobot, already accepting the order, keyed in the appropriate commands.

“Control settings accessed,” said the SM android. “Wireless options accessed. Wireless command accepted. Please install wireless receiver now.”

The second gynobot unclipped the eSATp cable from behind the android’s left ear, allowing it whip back into the control array. From the same control array it retrieved a slotted wireless receiver, resembling a black flash memory device with an eSATp interface. It roughly jammed the receiver back behind the SM unit’s ear, where it rested, tucked in behind the ear as an accountant might tuck in a pen or a pencil.

With a series of electronic *whirrs*, the control array keyboard refolded itself and retracted back into the first gynobot, which then returned to life, standing up and straightening itself out. The second gynobot closed the flap covering its sister’s control array, pressing down on the velcro to ensure a proper seal. The first gynobot then deftly twirled about on one foot, presenting the front of its pantsuit for a cosmetic smoothing-down by its sister (as if it were being dusted off). When this was complete it mechanically reciprocated, oblivious to the fact that the other gynobot’s controls had not been accessed, nor its clothes rumpled.

The red-scarved Yasmeen, reaching inside her Gucci purse, pulled out what appeared to be a pair of unmarked spray-paint cans and handed one to each of the pantsuited gynobots, who immediately began readying them with a few swift shakes. The first gynobot pressed down on the SM android’s mole again, causing the patch of brown flesh to reseal itself with a *whirr*; as soon as it was closed, both gynobots began methodically spraying the motionless every inch of the android’s naked body, everywhere below the neck and above the wrists and ankles, with a glittery silver substance. The spray was not a paint but a sophisticated polymerized pseudo-latex that quickly adhered to itself to form an artificial bodysuit, skintight and filling every crevasse but legally acceptable as clothing. Within a few minutes the SM unit was dressed in her “uniform,” and ready to work.

The gynobots held out both cans, and the SM unit, now guided by the wireless signals from the two gynobots, held out its pink palms to receive them. The android set about spraying its fellow SM units in its cage, while the gynobots proceeded to the cage containing the BM units and resumed their work there.

The pink-scarved Yasmeen turned to Joyce, who had smilingly observed all of this activity without comment. “Well,” she said, “I think it's time we finished the tour.”

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