Year 2102
“Hey. My name’s Michi. Nice to meetcha. So, why do I need to wear this? I thought the job was hacking.”
Michi stared down her nose at the frilly white apron over the regulation navy-blue dress, which bagged a little on her slender frame. Her flamboyantly orange hair, which she usually shoved into messy pigtails, was confined in a lace mobcap. The only personal item she’d been allowed to keep on was the pair of augmented reality goggles she needed for work.
“It’s some hacking to do with Madam’s virtual companion—her virtual carer, yeah?”
The head maid, an older woman in a high-collared black dress, hissed, “Her Ladyship is addressed as the Mistress.”
“Um, the lady you look after is an eighty-seven-year-old spinster—”
“She is the Mistress. The Mistress is the aunt of the family’s present head. No further questions.”
Oh, yeah? Michi held her tongue. It wouldn’t do any good to argue, she could tell.
“And you need to wear the maid’s uniform in order to visit the Mistress’s chambers. She does not entertain random riffraff. Weren’t you the one who said you needed to see how the Mistress treats her v-com?”
“Why can’t you just lemme watch from the monitors in her room?”
“Surely you jest,” the head maid scoffed. “Servants of our lowly rank would never be permitted to infringe upon the Mistress’s privacy in such a way. Of course, the v-com’s AI constantly monitors the Mistress’s condition, but unless there were an alarming change in her vital signs, we would not be privy to that information.”
Michi inwardly rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay, gotcha. So I’ve gotta pretend I’m a maid, sneak into her room along with the actual maids, and secretly surveil, yeah?”
“Correct. And you are not to speak.”
Hadn’t been planning on it.
“Is that clear? Human caregivers like us are luxuries. Our role as maids is to provide the Mistress with that special feeling of opulence. Never forget that.”
She’s turned me into a maid, but I’ve got to suck it up.
Hyper-unequal society. The concept had become so entrenched by the time Michi was born, twenty years ago, that the term was rarely used anymore. Though there weren’t well-defined castes, the disparities were acute. At the very beginning of the era, there had been less inequality, but there had also been strong discriminatory sentiment. Maybe that was how it all kicked off. The people on top had ridiculous amounts of wealth while those on the bottom, like her, struggled to make ends meet. It was lucky for Michi that she was good with technology: there were bits of gig work out there and she could feed herself for now.
The job she’d taken on this time was one of these precarious gigs. She weighed it up again, setting aside complicating factors like the maid’s uniform. The near bedridden old la—the Mistress, I mean—is rejecting one virtual companion after another, and they want me to find out why. The whole thing could be sorted out immediately if the Mistress herself would come out and say what kind of v-com she liked, but apparently she was far too proud to make her wishes known.
Honestly, Michi could relate. It might be easy enough to say what sort of drink you wanted, or to ask someone to close the curtains, low-level stuff like that, but to confess a want or a need that went to the heart of your character—liking or disliking a certain type of person, or your desired attributes in a v-com—was the same as revealing a vulnerability. A bit like having a hardcore rap battle but keeping the one you love a secret.
The job paid well, and it involved the kind of inner emotional workings she felt drawn to unravel. In the end, that’s why she’d taken it on.
Led by the head maid, eight women in identical uniforms carried linen and pillows in single file down a long, plush corridor. The high-pile carpet underfoot was probably Persian, Michi thought. As the impostor, she slipped into the second to last spot and let a genuine maid bring up the rear.
The Mistress’s room was spacious and bright, filled with fresh, sylvan air. There was an unobtrusive scent of flower bouquets at their absolute best, without a hint of decay. A mirror held by a half-naked female statue, carved chairs with cabriole legs, and weighty drapes added to the effect. What’s all this—Art Nou-something style? Only allowing her eyes to move, Michi observed the nursing bed, equipped with an automatic postural shift mechanism and robotic arms, and the window with its dimmer function. None of these were cutting edge. Actually, they were known as “dead tech”—stable pieces of kit that had been used by humans for decades. The latest technology tended to treat the user as an experimental test subject. Tech for human comfort was dead, really.
There was only one piece of modern gear in the room: the most recent virtual companion. A cheerful middle-aged woman in a discreetly expensive suit appeared to be sitting on one of the chairs; in reality, this was the projection of a 3D hologram. It was sophisticated, indistinguishable from a real person. Speakers placed throughout the room created a sonic image of her voice, each exquisitely adjusted so that it sounded as if she were really speaking. She was the sixty-first of her kind to serve the Mistress.
In the old days, there were women who worked as lady’s companions for noblewomen in western Europe, providing them with company and conversation. Higher in rank than maids, they were occasionally privy to their ladies’ concerns and secrets, though never treated as friends or equals. In the present day, the most sought-after technology for nursing care at all levels of society was an AI-powered companion like this. A companion that would listen twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, to any cringey memory, to the same anecdote repeated however many hundreds of times, to meandering complaints that dragged on forever; a companion who would give the right responses without taking over the conversation and while picking up on anything out of the ordinary. It was ideal. On top of that, a holographic projection was low maintenance and easy to replace.
The v-com greeted the lady’s maids just as a fellow human would.
Cocooned in silk nightclothes, the Mistress was a bone-thin woman with a radiant complexion that belied her octogenarian status. Her gaze was alert, but her frailty was obvious all the same. In hushed silence and with great care, the human maids worked in tandem with the bed mechanism and the robotic arms to change the linens. The water carafe by the bedside, which resembled cut crystal glass, was probably made of relatively safer synthetic resin. The delicate coffee table, despite its appearance, must be constructed so as not to topple over easily.
“Martha, play some songs by Fauré,” the Mistress said in a slightly creaky voice. She ignored the maids, acting as if they weren’t there.
It was the v-com who replied—she must be Martha. “Certainly, Mistress.”
Over measured piano chords, a melancholy soprano broke into song. A translation of the lyrics appeared in Michi’s AR goggles. Oh, so it’s in French, huh?
I hope the morning did not hear
the name I disclosed to the night;
in silence, as dawn’s breeze drifts by
let it evanesce like a tear
May the harsh light of day betray
the love I hid from the morning
and on my open heart, burning
like incense it smoulders to flame
I hope the dusk will not recall
the secret that I told the day
and with my love, bear it away
in the folds of a faded shawl
“The lyrics are taken from a poem by Armand Silvestre,” the Mistress said.
Martha responded in pleasant tones. “That’s right. When Fauré turned it into a song, he did a little work on the fourth line of the second verse, I believe.”
“Indeed,” the Mistress creaked. “In its entirety, it is in octosyllabic verse with an embracing rhyme structure that begins with the feminine.”
Martha didn’t miss a beat. “Silvestre is a truly brilliant poet. In one of the pieces in Les Ailes d’Or, he used vermeil rather than rouge to signify the red hue that follows the ‘yellow gold.’”
“Mm, vermeil is also associated with gilded silver. He must have chosen that word as an apt foil to the gold. His subtle choice of words is indeed brilliant.”
They went on and on about French poetry, completely over Michi’s head. The v-com’s AI must be hooked up to big data, otherwise there’s no way it could hold up its end of the conv. As well as being able to discuss literature and music intelligently, there was its role as twenty-four-hour medical monitor, plus anything and everything else the Mistress required—a multitasking feat no human would be capable of.
The Mistress appeared to enjoy listening to the melodies. She also seemed happy with her interactions with the v-com, nodding magnanimously from the bed the maids had finished making.
“Mistress, your family will visit at four o’clock in the afternoon today,” Martha continued smoothly. “Dinner will be served at seven: turbot in parmesan and champagne sauce, Maison Burgaud canard challandais with black truffle espuma, and mousse de fraises du Périgord, if that suits?”
It might actually be puree or liquid food, but it sure sounds luxe.
“That’s all fine.” The Mistress didn’t betray a single hint of dissatisfaction. But then, abruptly, without even glancing at the v-com, she announced: “Martha, you are henceforth dismissed.”
Astonished silence fell, broken by the head maid’s gasp of “Mistress!”
The v-com’s AI must have decided it was best to do as the Mistress ordered: the figure of Martha vanished.
The head maid would need to send in a new v-com again, after an appropriate interval had elapsed. “Mistress,” she stammered, “if you could let us know what kind of companion you would prefer, I am sure we could find one that would suit. Please—”
“All of you, too. Leave me alone now.”
“But, Mistress—”
“Out!”
As the maids filed out, each one exhaled softly on reaching the corridor.
Ah, I see how it is. So this was how the Mistress rejected one v-com after another, even though she didn’t seem to have a specific problem with them.
Conversations between a v-com and the person receiving its care were confidential. Of course, its AI interacted with big data, but the specifics of these interactions were made impossible for humans to monitor. The only cases in which the AI would notify human caregivers were if a medical anomaly was detected on the patient’s internal chip or if a cognitive abnormality was detected in the patient’s conversation with the v-com, and in the latter case the details wouldn’t be fully disclosed to humans. To protect the patient’s privacy as much as possible, the only information the AI would provide was the measures that were necessary.
If the Mistress had some kind of grievance with her v-coms, it would surely show up in her vital data. If they could only analyse that data, they would know what was wrong with the v-coms and in which moments they had offended the Mistress. But humans couldn’t access the data. That’s why they wanted Michi to hack in and get it.
Le sigh. If you asked her, it seemed like ridiculous lengths to go to.
• • •
Year 2030
“You are here to sell your appearance to Persona, is that right?” The company’s representative, a bland, middle-aged man in an equally bland suit, got straight to business.
Ryo flinched a little. Even though he was the one who had made the decision, it was painful to have it spelled out. “Yes.” He paused. “But there’s a lot I still don’t get. I have a few questions.”
“Of course. We need your informed consent.”
Ryo turned to look at his reflection in the large mirror in one corner of the room. He was still in his twenties. Neither too bulky nor too skinny, he was in great shape (if he did say so himself), with a V–shaped torso built up through hard manual labour and gym workouts. The face of an ordinary, personable, and approachable full-grown man. He should meet their requirements.
The rep launched into his spiel. “Here at Persona, we collect appearances and provide them for use in humanoid robots and virtual reality video, which we believe will proliferate in the future. The thing is, humans don’t think twice about giving AI their voice, but they shy away from giving up their appearance. In other words, if a vending machine or an airport guide speaks with their own voice, they don’t mind and sometimes even enjoy it, but if a robot or avatar has their own face, they find it uncanny. We at Persona offer the solution to this problem.”
“Oh.”
“If AI can’t use the faces of people alive today, you might think an appearance generated from an old photo would work, but it leaves companies open to claims from descendants. You imagine AI could generate countless different faces to use, don’t you? That’s what everyone believes. On a technical level, it’s true that it’s easy. But in reality, it’s not so simple. If a human face is generated completely from scratch, there will still be those who come forward and say, ‘My face was used without my consent.’ Even if you make a human face that looks a lot like a cartoon, or a face that is as simple as possible, like an automaton, there will always be those who claim it was based on their own appearance and seek legal redress.
“So that’s where the appearance trade comes in. We can prove that we got each personal appearance from a particular person. That’s what’s known as traceability.”
It doesn’t quite add up … or does it?
“Once you sign the contract, we will use your appearance for AI in perpetuity. Your personal identifying information will be made public. In return, you will spend the remainder of your days at leisure in our luxury resort facilities.”
Ryo frowned. “I don’t really understand that. Why does someone who signs over their appearance need to be quarantined?”
“Think about it. Imagine someone with the exact same appearance as androids and avatars at work in many different roles all over the world; someone who’s able to use that appearance to make cash withdrawals via facial recognition, or authenticate their gait and bone structure to get past security cameras. Can you see why that would be a problem?”
That could cause havoc, for sure.
“We guarantee you a life of abundance. Our resort facilities are well known for their high quality. Fact is, every year thousands of seniors try to sign up. But we don’t take anyone in that age bracket.”
“Why?”
“Say if every working AI looked like an old person—wouldn’t it be awkward? It would be like we were making seniors do all the donkey work.”
“Couldn’t you use their scanned data to recreate their youthful appearance?”
“At Persona we tried to do that, in the beginning. However, if there’s even a hint that appearance data has been processed or altered in the slightest, in the end there’ll always be those who claim that it looks more like them. That’s why we need to guarantee that we use only the pure scanned data of a specific person, captured precisely at the time they apply, without any modifications whatsoever. There will still be a chance likeness to some random individual, but we’ll come out on top with ironclad evidence to back us up. Right?”
“Well, yeah,” Ryo faltered. “I guess that makes sense …”
“So, with that in mind, what we’re really after is the appearance of a friendly-looking young person, like yourself.”
Ryo didn’t say anything. Until very recently, he had been a gardener at a grand estate. He’d been forced to leave his position. Once cast out, estate servants were never taken on by another estate. In fact, it was extremely unlikely he’d be able to find any kind of decent employment ever again. His only options were a bottom-feeder job—which he had no experience of and couldn’t imagine—or trading in his appearance. And he’d heard that in bottom-feeder jobs, anyone who used to work at a grand estate was seen as having ideas above their station and singled out for bullying.
He hesitated briefly, then picked up the contract.
• • •
Year 2102
The Mistress rejected Lilia, Martha’s replacement, the following day.
The only thing Michi learned after hacking in to access her data was that the Mistress was not, as it turned out, unhappy with the v-com in any way. So she’s rejecting v-coms for no good reason?
In the maids’ quarters, the head maid buried her face in her hands, and Michi threw her legs up on the table.
Seriously? Gimme a break.
The spring afternoon sun, streaming in through the open windows, was making her drowsy. Michi crossed her legs on the tabletop and stretched her arms out above her head. There was a lovely breeze coming in from the estate gardens. The windows of the Mistress’s chambers must be open too; she could make out the song they had heard the other day, faintly resonating through the maids’ quarters.
I hope the dusk will not recall
the secret that I told the day
The translation function, which Michi always left on, streamed the lyrics across her goggles.
And with my love, bear it away
in the folds of a faded shawl
The secret that I told the day …? In a moment of realisation, Michi blurted, “Aha!” The maids glanced over, curious.
“What is it? Do not raise your voice!” the head maid hissed.
Michi cut across the head maid’s scolding. “Right, I’ve got it! The Mistress isn’t unhappy with the v-coms, it’s the exact opposite—she must have a special someone in mind that she wants!”
The head maid gaped at her.
“Are there any actors or singers she likes?” Michi said.
“There is no need to pry into the Mistress’s concerns,” the head maid snapped. “Your only job is to come up with a solution.”
Michi groaned. “That’s what I’m trying to do—I’m trying to find your solution! There’s no one that springs to mind? Say a man, a woman, or even a dog or a stuffed toy? Someone or other she fancies.”
“The Mistress has never once mentioned such a preference, at least not since I began my service here.”
“Okay, are there any dramas or web mags she usually watches? Maybe if I check out the media she’s consuming, there might be a pattern of preference.”
“Recently she has been viewing many photo albums and videos of her past trips.”
“When she’s doing that, if I could access all the monitors in the room to find out what the Mistress is focusing on, and what her vital signs and reactions are to what she sees, I might be able to get an idea of what’s going on! Even AI won’t pick up on every single glance, every subtle movement and every sigh. Shall we give it a try?”
“Stop right there!” The head maid sounded scandalised. “That would be—”
“Gah, just shut up for once! If you want to get to the bottom of this, let me work!” Michi slammed her feet back on the floor and pulled her laptop closer (it was another piece of dead tech). Her fingers clattered on the keyboard at breakneck speed.
Once Michi had cracked the security, the Mistress’s room appeared on the screen. “Oh, she’s looking at something. Watching a video! It’s … where could it be? A video from a trip she took?”
The head maid was grumbling under her breath about how unmannerly and deplorable this was, but she didn’t interfere. The other maids clustered round.
“Ah, here it is.” The analysis results flashed up on her goggles. “Lake Geneva, where’s that? Switzerland, huh? It’s just a home movie, nothing out of the ordinary. I don’t get what’s so interesting about it. Why would you even film something like this?” The lake and mountain scenes rolled on then jumped somewhere different. “Oh, where are we now? This is—gotcha, Melbourne. Airport? Another home movie. Just crowds of people milling about, nothing really …”
It looked like the scene in the airport had been filmed secretly. But there weren’t any famous or beautiful people captured on camera, nor did anything out of the ordinary happen. The next home movie, filmed in the desert in Egypt, showed a group of tourists, accompanied by a robot guide which pointed to the Sphinx and spoke to them. Michi kept watching. What’s going on? They’re not even good or arty or anything special, so why’s she watching them?
However, as more photos and home movies went by on Michi’s laptop screen, she began to see a pattern. “Oh, she’s watching that—ah, it’s the one who was in the last video! In this video as well, we get a glimpse of him … is it the same guy? But he’s not a real person, they’re all robots or avatars. Come to think of it, it must be a copy, a male avatar provided by the appearance trade.”
Michi scraped the details. “Um—blah, blah, blah—so according to the profile provided by Persona, this guy’s called Ryo. He was a gardener at an estate until he supplied them with his appearance at the age of twenty-eight, and that was seventy-two years ago. He’s dead. He died thirty-six years ago. Okay, so there are copies of him all over the world. Do you know him?”
Michi showed the head maid the 3D image on Persona’s site.
She shook her head. “I apprenticed here about forty years ago. I wouldn’t know of any matters before I came.”
“What if this is the estate Ryo used to work at? You need to ask the old guy, the head of the family!”
“How dare you speak in such a manner! His Lordship was not yet born at that time.”
“Right, makes sense. Well, never mind. Seeing as Ryo’s an appearance copy, not a flesh-and-blood human, it’s easy, right? All we need to do is sort out a v-com with his appearance.”
The maids exchanged glances. Some smiled, hopeful, while others looked bemused.
Ryo’s appearance data was quickly retrieved, and the image of the new virtual companion was projected into the Mistress’s room. He wasn’t stunningly handsome; he was a young man with a kind, friendly face, full of life and energy. Clad in an off-white suit that was a little over the top, he was lean and beautifully muscular. The young male v-com sat down on a chair by the Mistress, who was having her afternoon nap, and waited for her to wake.
Eventually, the Mistress opened her eyes. Tension rippled through the maids in attendance. The v-com was sitting there by her side, in full view. Watching from the other room, Michi captured data expressing positive changes in her vital signs. The Mistress ordered the maids out.
“Do you think it was the right thing to do?” The head maid turned her anxious gaze on Michi. “Could the Mistress be happy now…?”
In the Mistress’s chambers, the new v-com bowed gracefully, with an understated but completely sincere look of delight—the only emotion visible on his face. “My name is Ryo. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“I know your name, sir. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Thank you. I apologise for keeping you waiting.”
The Mistress held his gaze imperiously. “I’ve walked all over Japan and gone to so many places all over the world. I knew your likeness must be working somewhere. I saw you a few times.”
“I appreciate your efforts to find me.” After an imperceptible pause, the v-com’s AI came up with the optimal answer. “I will stay by your side always.”
“Please do.”
There was nothing to worry about in the data Michi was receiving. Looked like her job was done. Closing the laptop, she gave the head maid a thumbs-up. “Seems fine. Her central nervous system and other health metrics are amazingly good. She should be able to enjoy a long and happy life.”
“That is our hope. Thank you, Michi, from the bottom of my heart. How can we ever thank you adequately?”
Michi flushed. “Don’t mention it. It’s my job. Still, it’s good that things worked out. She must’ve been thinking about him for so long—the gardener below her station. She couldn’t tell anyone, she couldn’t do anything about it, all she could do was think of him from afar. I’m glad that the Mistress finally got what she really wanted … Okay, not the man himself, but at least, the best option possible now. But after seventy-two years? Kinda sad.”
The maids were surreptitiously blotting away tears.
Standing by the old woman’s bedside, the v-com Ryo smiled with innate charm. “Tell me if there is anything I can do for you, Mistress.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I’d like to listen to Fauré’s ‘Piano Quintet No. 1.’”
“Certainly.”
Over rippling piano arpeggios, the strings came in one by one. The Mistress closed her eyes briefly, but soon opened them again, drinking in Ryo’s body. The v-com’s AI calculated the optimal position, and Ryo moved to where he was discreetly out of the way but best placed for the Mistress to look at him.
• • •
Year 2030
“So, this is off the record, but can you level with me?” The Persona rep leaned in closer, sounding more friendly. “Honestly, why? Working at an estate is the best the likes of us can hope for. Why throw it away to trade in your appearance?”
Ryo grimaced. “I didn’t throw it away. I had to leave the estate. The fifteen-year-old daughter of the house told her parents I’d made improper advances to her. It wasn’t true. But after that, there’s no way I’d ever get another position at an estate. You know a guy in my situation has no good way to survive, other than to trade in my appearance, don’t you?”
“Ah, so that’s what happened. Guess you’re all out of options.” The rep shrugged, leaning back again. “Right then, sign here.”
• • •
References
Armand Silvestre, Les Aires d’Or, poésies nouvelles 1875-1880, Paris, G. Charpentier, 1880.
Reiko Kinpara, Gabriel Fauré et ses poètes, Tokyo, Fujiwara Shoten, 1993. The lyrics to Fauré’s Le Secret were translated by Katherine Barraud.
• • •