the other into the slot on the Clockwork’s chest. Silver credits clatter into the enormous pile of tokens in his stomach.
The vaporware heart in his chest expands and contracts with an audible thud. The numbers above the chrome plate on his chest make a ratcheting noise and roll over with a series of rapid clicks, to read 00:59:59.
And the seconds begin to tick down.
5.
He knew she would pay long before she dropped her tokens, knew when her back was still turned to him, just from the way she looked at her Monowheel and how her shoulders slumped at the sight of it. Body language says more than words ever do. And his processor, which is lethargic by the standards of modern computing, is still fast enough to complete two million clock cycles before she can get her hand out of her pocket with the coins in them. That’s enough time to read and reread the complete works of Dickens.
Her body temperature is elevated, and she’s sweating from labor but also from a frayed mood. The command line, which fills him always like breath, compels him to supply comfort with a bit of easy cleverness.
“You got three questions,” he says, selecting for random grammatical errors. Informal speech always plays well with the young. “Let me answer them in order. First: What’s my name? Chip. It’s a joke. But it’s also really my name.”
The girl says, “What do you mean it’s a—”
He taps one finger to his temple, indicating the logic boards hidden behind his ceramic face, and she smiles.
“Chip. Glad to meet you. What are my other two questions?”
“If you have to pay me, how can I really be your friend? The company that built me programmed me with one directive: For the next fifty-nine minutes, all I care about is you. I won’t judge you and I won’t lie to you. You are Aladdin and I am the genie. I’ll execute any wish that’s within my powers and isn’t strictly forbidden by custom or law. I can’t steal. I can’t beat anyone up. There are certain adult functions I cannot perform owing to the 2072 Human-Clockwork Obscenity Laws—laws that have actually been repealed but remain a part of my OS.”
“What’s that mean?”
The command line impels a crude, comic response. Her social profile suggests a high probability that this will be well received.
“I can’t eat pussy,” he says. “Or take one up the ass.”
“Holy shit,” she says, a blush scalding her cheeks. Her embarrassment confirms he appeals to her. Physiology is confession.
“I have no tongue, so I cannot lick.”
“This got real very quickly.”
“I have no butthole, so I cannot—”
“Got it. Never even crossed my mind to ask. What was my third question?”
“Yes, of course I can carry your Monowheel. What happened to it?”
“Someone ripped the battery out. Can you carry it all the way to the Stacks?”
He unbolts himself from the charging plate, free for the first time in sixteen days. She unlocks the Monowheel from the hitching post. He grips the inner rail and lifts all 408.255 kilograms off the ground, slips it onto his shoulder. The tilt of her head implies satisfaction, while her body language suggests that the initial pleasure at solving a problem is fading, to be replaced by some other source of distress and exhaustion. Probably. Emotions cannot be known with any certainty, only hypothesized. A darting look of anxiety might suggest inner turmoil or merely the need to urinate. Apparently clever, witty remarks often shroud despair, while the statement “I’m dying” hardly ever indicates life-threatening physical trauma. Without certainty he follows the routines most likely to produce comfort and pleasure.
“I’ve answered three of your questions, so now you have to answer three of mine, fair?”
“I guess,” she says.
“Got a name?”
“Iris Ballard.”
Within a quarter second of learning her name, he has gathered every bit of information he can find on her in the socialverse, collecting half a gigabyte of unremarkable trivia and a single ten-month-old news report that might matter very much.
“I’ve known one Rapunzel, two Zeldas, and three Cleopatras, but I’ve never met an Iris.”
“Do you remember everyone you’ve met? No, forget it. Of course you do. You probably have terabytes of memory you haven’t used. What was Rapunzel like?”
“She had a shaved head. I didn’t ask why.”
Iris laughs. “Okay. What else?”
“You don’t have a household Clockwork to help you with your busted Monowheel?”
Her smile slips. The subject is red-flagged as a threat to her approval. An algorithm ponders the possibilities, decides she is financially