Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6) Page 7

  “Not bad. Your father says hi and is planning to call you tomorrow about cell phones. He needs a new one and doesn’t know where to start.”

  My mom and I chatted amicably and affectionately about anything and everything, as was our way. But I braced myself for the end of the call, because she’d always bring up the same subject.

  “So . . .”

  Here we go.

  “Your father repaired the floor in the treehouse.”

  I smiled, closing my eyes and letting my forehead drop to my hands. “That’s nice.”

  “You know, just in case you or your brother decide to give us grandkids anytime soon.”

  There it is.

  “Mom.”

  “I was reading a story about a lady in New York who has one of those high-powered jobs like yours, and do you know what she did? She got herself a donor. You know, a donor?”

  “Oh God.”

  “Sperm.”

  “Yes, Mom. A sperm donor. I got it.”

  “That’s right. Sperm.”

  “Please stop saying sperm.” I started to laugh because apparently I transformed into a thirteen-year-old whenever my mother said sperm. My mom knew I wanted kids—one day—but since my thirtieth birthday, she’d become less subtle about her desire to have grandchildren.

  “Well, she got that sperm and she took it to the doctor and made a baby.”

  “This isn’t unusual. People do this all the time.”

  “Just wait. So, she got herself a nanny, to help with the day-to-day stuff. But then, as her baby grew older, she rented herself a dad.”

  “Wait, what?” I was no longer laughing.

  “That’s right. She rented a man, paid him to be a dad to her son. From one of those Internet websites called RentAFriend.com. You know, in Russia, it’s big business, what with their unemployment rate. Men will foster kids for payment. It’s just catching on in the States with single mothers.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “I know, right? Your generation is so clever, finding these workarounds, as you do.” She took a deep breath, like she was satisfied with how our conversation had progressed. “I’ll just leave you with that as food for thought. I know I’ve said it before, but your father and I would help, pitch in financially or any other way we could. Your happiness is important to us.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said numbly, too blown away by her suggestion to talk her off the limb of insanity.

  “No problem, baby. Talk to you soon.” She ended the call and I knew she did so with a smile.

  Meanwhile, I stared at nothing in particular for several minutes, trying to wrap my mind around the concept of what I’d just learned from my baby-crazy mother.

  7

  Tesla Model S Self-Driving System

  A machine learning algorithm which can self-drive an automobile with no human supervision.

  Source: Tesla

  I didn’t want to examine why—not yet—but the idea of using a robot to meet my romantic relationship needs didn’t appeal to me as much as paying for human services. Something about relying on a robot exclusively felt inauthentic, fake in a way that employing humans didn’t.

  “Matt.”

  “Who is this?”

  I grinned with satisfaction. Two weeks had passed since I’d made my threat to Dr. Matthew Simmons and the time had come to collect.

  “It’s Marie.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Greg gave it to me.”

  “Greg,” Matt said harshly, like his next-door neighbor’s name was a curse word. I could imagine Matt making a fist, his face scrunched in annoyance.

  Dr. Matt Simmons’s outburst of frustration was strangely adorable, and I had to press my lips together to keep from laughing. “Yes. Greg. But let’s cut to the chase. When can I visit your lab? See your prototypes? Look at your data?”

  I hadn’t gone into the office because I’d scheduled my first professional cuddling session for the afternoon. I figured I’d get all my errands out of the way: stop by Matt-the-pretender’s lab and then go get cuddled.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Is now good?” I was determined.

  “Now? No. Now doesn’t work. And I have no time to meet for the next month either.”

  This time I did laugh. I cackled, imbuing the sound with sinister enjoyment. “Oh, yes. Yes, you do, Dr. Simmons. You will make time right now. Otherwise the Chicago Tribune will be publishing the story I’ve already written about your research methods. And as a victim of those methods, let me tell you—”

  “You? A victim?” He scoffed loudly. “I think you mean Valkyrie.”

  I blinked, surprised by his choice of labels, and felt oddly . . . flattered. “Sure. We can go with that imagery, if you wish. Regardless, I’m stopping by today, as in,” I quickly calculated the time it would take for me to walk to the university, “within the hour. Expect me. And text directions to this number. Bye.”

  Not giving him a chance to respond, I clicked off the call, smiling to myself.

  Grabbing my packed lunch from the counter and the box of six coconut macaroons I’d made for Matt, I left my apartment.

  Okay.

  Yes.

  Yes, he’d been a jerk, but he didn’t seem like a horrible person. I didn’t wish him ill. Plus, in his defense, I was going to be placing my marauding paws all over his hard work and pillaging his data for my own wicked purposes.

  Yet I wasn’t a monster.

  So the cookies were a peace offering. Fiona had said that coconut was his favorite. Therefore, macaroons.

  Wanting to take advantage of the weather, I was dressed more casually than my typical pencil skirts and button-down Oxfords, wearing instead my favorite summer dress and sandals. I’d also packed shorts and a tank top for my afternoon appointment, as per the advice of Jared, my soon-to-be cuddler.

  I made it to the university earlier than expected, but that was no matter. Matt had dutifully texted me directions to his office instead of a laboratory. Nearly there, a man came around the corner and my steps faltered because I recognized him. I’d know him anywhere, even though we’d never met.

  Seeing my expression, his steps slowed, his eyes widened, and he glanced behind him, as though searching the hall for danger.

  “It’s you.”

  “It’s me?” the tall bearded man asked, smiling warily, like he couldn’t make up his mind whether or not to flee. “Who is me?”

  “You’re Derek.” I closed the distance between us and was unsurprised to find his eyes were dove gray.

  “That’s right. I am.” He nodded congenially, with artless friendliness. “And are you here to rescue me?”

  “What?” I laughed, completely charmed.

  Two dimples—mostly hidden by his beard, but too deep to be completely obscured—bracketed his mouth. “You have that look about you.” His voice deepened as his gaze traveled over my face.

  “What look?”

  “A woman on a crusade.”

  “Marie.” The sound of my name pulled my attention away from delightful Derek. Matt stood just outside an office, glancing between us with a mild frown on his features. He was wearing dark jeans, Converse, and a Battlestar Galactica T-shirt. His hair was askew, like sticking up at all angles, and resembled an accidental Mohawk. “What took you so long?”

  I blinked once, surprised by the question more than his impatient tone. “I’m early.”

  “I see you’ve met Dr. Merek, the other despicable scientist preying on the women of Chicago.”

  Derek gave me a look that was part sheepish, but mostly whatcha-gonna-do, amiright? and whispered conspiratorially, “Except women actually enjoy it when I prey on them.”

  I compared the two men; I couldn’t help it. Where Matt dressed like a graduate student—a dichotomy of both jock and nerd—Derek looked every bit the role of a college professor. Dr. Merek wore dark gray dress pants and a slate dress shirt, rolled up to his forearms, the top button undone, revealing
a black undershirt. He was softer in the middle than Matt, as though he spent most of his time sitting at a desk, using his mind. His beard was very becoming, giving him an aura of experience and wisdom.

  And it wasn’t just that. He had a stillness about him, a calm certainty that Matt didn’t possess. Derek spoke quietly, but not softly, as though he knew he didn’t need to be loud to make a point, secure in the knowledge of his own ability and place in the world.

  I liked him.

  Matt mumbled something I couldn’t quite catch, glaring at his colleague while reaching for my elbow and pulling me away. He appeared to be agitated, and I could guess why. I imagined he didn’t like being strong-armed into sharing his data.

  Deciding the time had come for my peace offering, I went to reach into my bag. “Here, I brought—”

  “You look great,” Matt said. But it was like an accusation, effectively stunning me.

  I looked to him, finding his eyebrows pinched in a frown, his jaw ticking, his glare moving down and then up my body. “Where are you going? Why are you dressed like this? Do you have a date?”

  “No,” I responded irritably. “I’m dressed like this because it’s almost summer and it’s gorgeous outside.”

  A non-committal sound rumbled from his chest and his eyes narrowed. “Have you been dating?”

  An incredulous and involuntary laugh escaped my throat. I decided to ignore his question. He was probably just trying to get a rise out of me. I didn’t have time for his antics.

  Disentangling my arm from his grip, I reached into my bag and pulled out the macaroons, holding them between us. “Here. These are for you.”

  He glanced at the white bakery box, his frown even more severe than before. He didn’t take the box. “What’s in there?”

  The look of suspicion made me smile in spite of myself. “Cookies.”

  “Where’d you get them?”

  “I made them.”

  His expression cleared and he snatched the box from my hands. “You did? What kind?”

  “Macaroons.”

  “Coconut!” He’d ripped open the box with impressive speed, his eyes widening with what looked like elation. “Come to me,” he said reverently to the cookies.

  “I hate coconut,” Derek said conversationally, coming to stand next to me.

  “She didn’t bring them for you, did she?” Matt said, his head doing an unexpected, sassy bobbing movement.

  I rolled my lips between my teeth, breathing through my nose while my eyes bounced between the two men.

  “Maybe she will, next time.” Derek grinned at me. “I like chocolate.”

  Matt’s eyes cut to mine. “Are you making a mental note? You look like you’re making a mental note. Don’t. Don’t make a mental note. Don’t bring him cookies.”

  “Gentlemen.” I pasted on my best professional smile. “I will be happy to bring cookies, to you both, but first I need to see what you’ve been working on.”

  “Fine.” Matt slid an exasperated glance at his colleague, and then turned, marching into his office. “Let me show you. Come. Sit.”

  I followed, placing my bag on the floor by the door, glancing around his office as I did so. It wasn’t large, but it wasn’t small either. A window overlooking a green area spanned the length of one wall. His desk was covered in printed data tables, papers with handwritten notes, and random machine parts. Upon closer inspection, the notes looked like code.

  Along the back wall, he had a large corkboard with a poster of what looked like—at first glance—a human brain. I stepped closer to study it and realized it wasn’t human at all.

  “Uh,” he stepped around me, removing the schematic from the board. “That’s not—that’s off limits.”

  “What is it?” I peered between him and the poster he was rolling.

  “It’s something I’m working on for my old employer.”

  “Gamble?” I guessed, remembering Fiona mentioning his work there.

  He nodded absentmindedly.

  Gamble was an interesting hybrid company, with its hands in both pharmaceutical and tech. Medical devices that interacted directly with the human brain were their specialty and I remembered reading an article on early clinical trials for robotic implants for ears and eyes.

  Based in Palo Alto, CA, Gamble had been leveraging their proximity to the tech giants in order to form partnerships in areas of shared interests—like bioprosthetics—therefore leveraging computing power.

  “Okay, let’s get started.” Matt guided me to a chair in front of a wall of monitors.

  And by a wall of monitors, I really and truly meant a wall of monitors. He had nine flat-screen computer monitors mounted to the wall, seven of which displayed what I assumed was code being compiled on some background process.

  He sat next to me, his jean-clad thigh brushing my bare skin. He leaned close to point to a graph of some sort on one of the two closest monitors—basically a bunch of dots—on the screen.

  “When do I get to see your prototypes?”

  “You mean the AI?”

  “That’s right.”

  He frowned. “Not this time. What I have to show you won’t make sense, not for your purposes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I can show you code, I can show you our design for the neural networks, but you can’t interact with it in any meaningful way.”

  “Oh.” I cast him a suspicious glance. “You’re not trying to get out of our deal, are you?”

  He gave me a small smile and shook his head. “Nope. I want your questionnaire data, and this is the only way I can get it.”

  “Ha!”

  “Look,” he turned toward his monitor, “I thought we’d start here. This is a scatterplot of women in their thirties, displaying trends of responses. And you can see here how the responses are clustered, giving us prototypical subsets. Four main types of respondents exist represented by four different colors. Now, down here, below. You can see how the responses to our interview are also clustered, except the colors are mixed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means a woman’s demographics and responses via the dating website data—which determine the original cluster—doesn’t allow us to predict how she will respond to our interview, and therefore what she most values in a partner.”

  “Is that bad?”

  He tilted his head back and forth in a considering motion. “No. Not bad. There’s not really a bad. Just surprising.”

  Matt continued showing me scatterplot graphs, analyses, some raw—de-identified—data, all the while munching on my macaroons. I didn’t detect any of his previous baiting and belligerence from two weeks ago. Perhaps the cookies had affected his change in attitude. Or maybe he really did want my questionnaire data very badly. Whatever the reason, I was relieved by his easy-going manner.

  He showed me how his team was attempting to create personality algorithms for their AI, dependent on how a woman responded to the interview. It was fascinating, and I wasn’t sure I comprehended all of it, but by the time we were wrapping up, my brain was exhausted.

  “We’re not pursuing a DeepMind AI, not yet. Emotional intelligence is our primary aim.”

  “DeepMind? What’s that?” I glanced up from my notes.

  “That’s—well, how do I explain this—that’s Google’s AI.” His expression became conflicted. “It’s . . . well, it’s advanced. And the simulations they’ve run so far have shown fascinating—if not disturbing—results, none of which have been peer-review published as of yet.”

  “What do you mean, disturbing?”

  “It becomes aggressive when faced with competing resources, but cooperative when it’s in DeepMind’s best interest to be cooperative,” he said starkly. “It wasn’t taught that behavior, DeepMind learned it. Self-taught.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Right. Our prototype won’t learn to protect itself from harm, or compete for resources. It won’t be self-serving, like
DeepMind. We’ve specifically designed it to eschew ego.”

  “But without ego, will it have self-worth?”

  “No,” he responded simply.

  I frowned, wincing slightly. “Don’t you think that’s a bad idea?”

  “Why?” He looked curious.

  “I mean, the implications for people, humans, who own this robot, assuming you meet your aims, are somewhat concerning. People who choose this robot as a companion, as a life partner, won’t have any demands placed upon them. They’ll never have to be unselfish.”

  “Exactly.” Matt acted as though I’d just answered my own question.

  “No. Not exactly,” I argued, feeling deep down that the idea of creating substitutes for humans that were devoid of self-worth was dangerous. “What if people start mistreating their robots? Purposefully?”

  “Mistreating a robot?” Matt echoed, as though I’d spoken a different language, and then a sly grin spread over his features. “You mean like, pushing its buttons? Get it?”

  I had a hard time fighting my smile at his goofiness. “No. I mean—”

  “Or playing something other than its favorite music, which everyone knows is heavy metal.”

  I groaned, laughing and shaking my head. “Oh wow. That was impressive.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” As he examined my face, his smile deepened and his eyes warmed, as though he was both surprised and pleased by my laughter. “Sorry for interrupting, I just have a million robot jokes and no one lets me tell them.”

  “You can tell them to me, anytime.”

  “Good to know.” He nodded slowly, inspecting me with his lingering smile, like I was something different. We swapped stares for a few protracted seconds, during which I admired how humor, being funny on purpose, did something wonderful for his features.

  Eventually, he shook himself, clearing his throat and nodding once deferentially. “I’m sorry, I interrupted you. You were saying, about mistreating robots.”

  “Oh, yes. What about ethics? Have you or any of your colleagues considered developing a regulatory board or oversight system for the treatment of robots or AI?”

  Matt flinched back, his eyes wide, and stared at me like I was nuts. “No. Why would there be?”