Page 5

All I can do is stare. The room is smallish and entirely white.

A white circular dais graces the center of the floor.

And standing casually on the dais, in the mode of Michelangelo’s David, is a young man with curly golden hair and smooth tan skin.

A gauzy white toga drapes pleasingly from his angles.

He is Eros.

There is nothing to differentiate him from a statue.

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

It’s like they took the most perfect parts of every ideal man throughout history and legend and combined them into one.

He’s Alexander the Great. He is both Achilles and Patroclus.

He’s Apollo, beautiful and terrifying. He is the god of love himself.

Ian glances at me, and for the first time, I see a hint of eagerness in his gaze. Like he’s finally allowed to be vulnerable here, at the feet of his holy child. Like he’s finally allowed to hope that he made something good.

“How do you like him?” Ian asks.

I lick my lips. My mouth has gone dry. “He’s beautiful,” I whisper. “Perfect. I thought… well, I’ve seen him before. I know what he looks like. But it’s not the same, is it? In person. Every pore, every strand of hair, the veins in his arms… It’s so intimate.” I move forward, almost by instinct.

“You may touch him,” Ian says. “He’s in sleep mode. Nothing you do or say will be picked up or remembered.”

“What, you don’t want him hearing all this praise?” I say laughingly. “Worried he’ll get a big head?”

Ian moves up to run a hand along Eros’s well-muscled thigh. He gazes up at his creation. “The more he gets to know you,” he says, “the better he can please you.”

A shiver rolls through me. I imagine what it must be like, having your own Eros.

I wonder how he arrives. In a box? Do you unpack him like any other parcel, setting aside the cardboard and the Styrofoam until you reach his muscular warmth?

I wonder if he needs to be lifted from the packaging, dead weight until he’s ready to be turned on.

I imagine him watching me, learning me, understanding me. And when I need him, he already knows what I want.

Does he also know what to say after? Does he murmur sweet nothings? Does he clean you up and kiss you goodnight?

“I want to say hello.”

“Everyone does,” Ian replies, rolling up his sleeves. He crouches, pressing something at Eros’s heel. Then he stands, arms crossed.

A ripple rolls through Eros. It’s almost imperceptible, maybe even imagined, but I’m sure I can see him come to life. He’s a statue one moment, and a human the next. He’s soft, malleable, and breathing. His chest rises and falls. His fingers flex. His nostrils flare on an inhale.

And then he opens his eyes.

His gaze flits to Ian, and then to me. He smiles slowly, like a lover just waking up in the morning after a long night of making love. I don’t believe Eros ever fucks. He makes love. Those long musician’s fingers, the sensual lips — those are an artist’s features. And sex must be his canvas.

“Good morning, Katherine Fox.” Eros’s voice is warm, like summer sunlight on the Mediterranean Sea.

My heart caves in.

When I was a kid, before my parents disappeared from my life, they took me to Italy. We visited a cathedral where monks still sang every evening at Vespers. I remember staring up at those stained glass windows, wondering if this was what it felt like to believe in God.

That’s how Eros’s voice makes me feel.

He’s not human. He’s a machine. From his well-formed feet to the curls on his head, he’s utterly synthetic. Those eyes, which seem to look through me and into the very depths of who I am — they’re mechanical. Every magnificent part of him is fake, manufactured, invented.

But I feel I’m in that cathedral again, looking up at God’s image and almost believing.

“How do you know my name?” I ask.

Eros steps off the dais and moves toward me. His movements are smooth, unmarred by human imperfection. He lifts his hand to cup my face. His skin is warm, and his touch is gentle but confident. I can’t help but melt into him.

“I know all about you, Katherine Fox.”

“I updated him before you arrived,” Ian clarifies.

“Uploaded all your info. It’s wireless, of course.

He doesn’t need Bluetooth. No wi-fi necessary.

That’s another thing we’re working on — integrating tech that doesn’t cut out, that isn’t exclusive from device to device.

Imagine if individual Eroses could speak to each other, receive instructions without needing me to upload data. The possibilities! Endless. Endless.”

“Wow,” I say, staring up at the Pleasurebot. His hand still cups my face. His gaze is sweet, his brows arched over bright blue eyes. There are absolutely no flaws. No hints that he’s inhuman. He’s fucking perfect . I feel like a whole new world just opened up before me.

“Katherine Fox,” says Eros, “how are you?”

“Call her Kit,” Ian says, coming around to stand beside me. “She prefers Kit.”

“I’m sorry,” says Eros, dropping his hand. He smiles, bright as the sun. “Kit.”

Ian turns to me. “Want to fuck him?”