Page 22 of The Dis-Graced

The way she’s conversing with the statue is cute and endearing, and I can completely understand why she’s doing it. Having ALAN’s voice come out of nowhere is quite unnerving.

And that’s when another bomb hits.

ALAN told Grace who I was in a meeting with and then went on to describe Daphne in near-pornographic detail.

What the fuck, ALAN!

I run my fingers through my hair, unsure of how to proceed. I should just shut ALAN down now, I know this, but Grace was quick to say she wouldn’t need his assistance like that again, and what I’m learning about ALAN is valuable. These security issues are important to assess, and knowing they exist can help me fix them, ensuring that if ALAN is ever released into the wild, we can make sure these blunders never happen. I just can’t leave myself vulnerable, which should be easy enough. He’s in my apartment, my phone, and my office. I just have to be careful what I say.

I open my desk and pull out a paperweight. It’s in the form of a man practicing yoga in the downward dog position. It was given to me by Luke in college after we attended a class trying to pick up chicks. It’s not something I’d keep on my desk, but I like to have it nearby.

“ALAN,” I say to the statue.

“Yes?”

I open my mouth to tell him never to report on the things that go on in my office but think better of it. This is no longer a journalistic endeavor as it has transformed into a greater test than I had imagined, and by redefining his parameters, I’ll never achieve the results I could get from riding this out a bit.

“How has Grace’s morning been?”

“Judging by the fact that you were just looking at our feed together, you should know that already.”

Damn—he’s good.

“Yeah, but have you noticed anything that the conversation or feed wouldn’t show?”

“She flusters easily. To be honest, human beings are each so different and complex, and if I may be so bold, irrational.”

I chuckle at his choice of words. When ALAN was programmed, we reviewed various dialects and speech patterns. It was Luke’s idea to use what he called ‘old rich people talk.’ It’s to the point, without being offensive. And the words are often straightforward with no hidden meaning.

“Well, tell me if you notice anything unusual.”

“Drake, may I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you like Miss Anders?”

And now this…A loaded question that is not at all straightforward.

“Like? I mean, sure. She’s a smart woman,” I reply, a little disjointed by his question.

“It doesn’t seem like you do.”

I arc a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Although it is obvious you feel a great deal of lust towards her, it appears you don’t seem to like her very much.”

“And how did you come to this conclusion?”

“The way you speak with her. Your tone and the words you choose indicate you have a distasteful opinion of her.”

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I feel ashamed. Every word he’s said is true, right down to my distasteful opinion of her, but it doesn’t feel right, and it doesn’t feel justified. Once again, I’m faced with the fact that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I never went hungry, and I never had to worry about our electricity going out. I remember once in high school, Luke had asked to stay with me for a couple days while a utility situation got sorted. I never once thought of Grace.

Grace, despite whatever she’s done to get ahead, pulled herself up out of a hell I’ll never have to experience. What right do I have to judge her?

“Actually, ALAN, my voice betrays my feelings.”

“Is that so?”