Edited by AI Mann

“So, what’s the catch?”

“No, catch,” she said. “You’ve already made the ten-thousand security deposit. After that, we just request that we are given five percent of your estates in your will.”

“Is that all?” I asked. “Seems like a small number. I’m not a rich writer like all those YA authors.”

She snickered. The robotic female named Lindsey-97 snickered.

“In all honesty, it’s easier for Quantum Steel to make a profit the wider our customer base is, than to sell to a few affluent clients,” she said.

“And… will it look like you?” I asked. “You are very cute.”

“Well thank you,” she said. “Before you ask, no, you can’t marry the bot. And it probably won’t look like me. Your future life-bot will be designed to fit your needs. We’ll go over your socials, your digital foot-print, and in your case, read your memoirs to craft the perfect bot.

“Huh,” I grunted. “Well, that seems rather… creepy.”

“It can be a little nerve-wrecking,” she said. “Almost like a mechanical and digital birth. But believe me when I say it will offer productive advice when requested. It can be your humanoid GPS, music instructor, gym-coach, hair-stylist, social media editor, wing-man, you name it.”

“Editor, huh?” I chuckled. “Been a while since I’ve had one of those.”

“Trust me, it’s only mission will be to help you live your best self.”

“Well,” I said. “I’ll give the probation period a try.”

“Marvelous,” the bot said. “All we need is your address and thumb print and our DEV team will get started.” 

*

When I'm done, I take a cab to my empty home and wait. It's a small house, but it once contained a whole family with my wife and son. We paid the entire mortgage off just four years ago, and my wife Jessica passed away just one year after that. 

I kept myself busy with my writing and book tours. Somehow people still wanted to read novels about dwarves and war memoirs, so I continued to write in both genres. It didn't pay much, but I wasn’t exactly a starving artist either.

The rest of the time I spent taking Betty, my dog, on walks or eating at the local diner in the downtown square. I would walk to the diner with books sometimes, as well as my CloudBook, and write. Though even then, I would often drift off and spend most of the time just sipping on coffee.

When I would return, I would toilet before falling asleep to an old episode of Law and Order. Truly, if it wasn't for Betty or the diner, I might have been locked away in a "retirement community" the year I lost Jessica. My son wasn’t around to help out much, he wasn’t even in the States. He went to find God and became a missionary overseas. Saving people who weren’t his family. I mean, he did try to save me a couple times, but that was more of Jessica’s thing. When she died, my son’s gulf became larger.

Another week passed and suddenly there was a knock on the door. A UPS bot dollied over a tall box and I'm a little flabbergasted. 

"I thought it would be another week before I got this thing."

The reflective umber apparatus of the bot placed the box down and handed me a transparent tablet.

"Please print here," it said.

I nodded and placed my thumb-print on the plastic and the thing chimed. When the bot left, I went into my garage and took out a utility knife. I opened a box and pulled out the damn Styrofoam and saw the machine that stood before me.

“Ah, cripes,” I blurted. “They sent me a damn male.”

I pulled out my terminal coin and demanded to speak with a rep from Quantum Steel. I got someone and illuminated the hologram. 

“Thank you for calling Quantum Steel,” the rep said. Despite the features of a woman, the rep was probably a bot. I don’t think I’ve heard anything about real people doing customer service in three decades.

I told the bot what was wrong. How they sent me a male bot and that I was sold on a female red-head during the consultation. That I know it wasn’t going to be the presentation-bot exactly, but I would have preferred a bot that brought a little femineity to my home.

“For ten grand,” I went on. “I would prefer a bot that had some eye candy.”

“It’s not a sex-bot, sir,” the rep said.

“No, I know it isn’t.”

“If you’d like, I can order you a sex-bot…”

“No!” I blurted out, looking around the neighborhood. A kid rode by on hover-blades and I felt sheepish. “No, no. It’s fine.”

I cut the call and sighed.

“Scammers,” I mumbled.

I looked up at the bot. It was taller than me, and had dirty blond hair, cut short. Its eyes were closed, so I hit the button on the back of the ear. Its eyes opened and they were hazel. He looked a little like my son. I mean, the last time I saw him that is.

“Greetings,” the bot said. “I am Ted-37.”

“Thirty-seven?” I asked. “Are there thirty-six others like you?”

“No, I am unique to my model.”

“So, why the number?”

“Statistics show that it sounds cooler than just Ted.”

I chuckled. “You should have been a writer Ted-37. Though it still seems weird calling you a number."

"If you like, you can change my registration name one time, but after that, my name will be permanently locked in."

"Hmph," I grunted. "What about… Albert Isaac Mann?"

"For AI Mann?" He asked. "That’s pretty clever. I suppose you are the real writer."

"Ha, well, that's what I try to tell my agent."

"Very well, I am now Isaac Albert Mann. Please print my palm to confirm the name change," he said, holding out its hand.

I placed my thumb on his palm and I officially had a life-bot.

*

AI Mann had a lot of skills. Skills that most people should have, but don't. He had a driver's license, a CPR certificate, a Spanish-speaking database, and an encyclopedia of cooking recipes. He could change vehicle’s tire and fix a leaky faucet. Any home repairs I needed, any hard to clean surfaces, AI Mann did it with ease.

In the coming weeks and months, I was able to save nearly five-hundred bucks a week from eating in, ravenously devouring AI Mann’s cooking. I had to take the dog out more to get my walks in. When it was chillier, AI Mann would drive me to a gym and walk me through work-out routines. I started losing weight and building muscle like I was in my forties.

When people would come by, I would introduce him as my trainer or my bodyguard.

Sometimes as my son.

*

“Hey Dad,” Bret, my son said. We were chatting on my CloudBook and he was wishing me a happy birthday. I could see that things were dark where he was, being half way across the globe and all. “How are things?”

“Good,” I said. “Just another year.”

“Yeah?” he asked. “No worries with upkeep around the house?”

“I’m not a baby, Bret,” I said. “I can manage things.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “But I know the judge took your license away and walking around town can be hard.”

“How did you know about that?” I asked.

“Your agent emailed me about it,” he said.

“My agent!”

“She’s worried about you, Dad. She said you can’t meet her in person anymore,” he said.

“She’s just mad that I self-published my latest book,” I said.

“Be that as it may,” he said. “You can’t go around getting DUIs.”

“Hey, that happened right after your mother died, okay?” I said. “Besides, I have a bot that can drive me, now. AI Mann.”

“AI Mann?” he asked. “I know you technically can’t use a self-driving function if you don’t also have a license.”

“No,” I said, lifting up an instruction’s manual. “AI Mann is a sentient bot. He can drive me places because the Supreme Court ruled AI bots sentient.”

“Huh,” he said. “Well, take it easy. You know it’s hard for me to come to the rescue. I have my own flock to take care of, over here.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

*

A few days later we went to Cincinnati.

I was doing a speaking event at the local college.

I mean, it’s not a college event, but they were kind enough to donate one of their lecture halls for me and my fans. We were charging two-hundred dollars per ticket which included a signed copy of my latest book, a digital copy, and a picture of the fans with me.

The book was a fantasy novel inspired by Turkic folktales, stuff I heard about when I was young and dumb enough to fight in the 9/11 wars, though I was in the recruitment generation that barely knew what 9/11 was. I would talk about the inspiration and my time in Afghanistan. People ate that up. They were given laughs and sometime tears.

At the end of the event, I was feeling a little spry, looking pretty good with my thinner body and my new vest. Maybe I was even a silver fox. When we were down to the last person, it was a librarian-type, clutching onto my book with much glee. We had a good chat about how much she loved my work.

“And who is this young man?” she asked, gesturing to AI Mann.

“Uh, this is my bodyguard, Albert,” I said.

“Oh, well,” she said. “I guess there are a lot of crazies out there.”

“At this point, he’s just protecting me from my agent,” I said. “That book you have, was published outside of contract. I think they’re pretty peeved at me.”

“Oh, you rebel,” she giggled.

“You have no idea.”

*

When AI Mann drove me back to the hotel, I told him to go charge in the bedroom and I took a seat at the bar. After I ordered a Jamieson, I noticed the librarian-looking woman was also enjoying a drink.

I turned to face here. “Stephanie, right?”

“Oh, my god!” she gasped, nearly tipping her wine. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” I said. 

“Are you staying at this hotel?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I don’t see your bodyguard, anywhere.”

“Oh, well he’s off duty. Honestly, I think he went to the gym to blow off steam. I don’t really have to worry much about crazies outside of book signings,” I said. “Unless you’re a crazy.”

She giggled a little. “I don’t know about crazy, but I’ve definitely been called worse in my life.”

“Well,” I grunted. “You’re in welcomed company, then.”

*

When I left the room around midnight, there was a cold feeling in my gut.

I felt wrong. Dirty. A little relieved, perhaps, that I made it through the deed, but disappointed that it was only for a brief while.

When I entered my room, AI Mann was standing there with the pills and a glass of water.

“Was your evening satisfactory?” he asked.

“You knew?” I asked.

“Your monitor indicated a spike in your heart rate,” he said. “Would you like an aspirin?”

“Fine,” I took the pills and downed the water. “This hotel is sleazy. I wish we could leave.”

“Right now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not really tired. I feel sick. This hotel smells like stale liquor and sex.”

“I’m afraid that’s you, you’re smelling.”

“Whatever,” I said. “It’s just gross.”

“I can drive us to Pittsburgh for your next signing,” he said. “By the time we get there, it will be time for breakfast.”

“We can do that?” I asked. “My, I haven’t driven in the dark in a decade.”

“That’s why I would be driving,” he said, pointing to his eye. “Night vision optics.”

I smirked.

*

So, we got into the car and I put on an audio book.

It was a science fiction novel about some grand inter-dimensional time war I couldn’t quite understand. It was trending on all the socials, though, so I’ve been meaning to give it a listen. I’ve always wanted to get into that genre, but fantasy sold first and sold hard, so I guess I was sort of type-casted as an author. Unless I was writing about the war.

The audio book seemed rather odd and complex. It left me feeling clueless during most parts. Before I knew it, I was waking up next to a diner and the sun was peeking up beyond the horizon. The words from the audio were still droning on and I turned off the stereo.

“Would you like to get some food?” AI Mann asked.

“Sure,” I said. 

“I turned on the location to your socials,” he said. “Your agent said it would be a good marketing strategy the day of a book signing when you first enter town.”

“You spoke with my agent?” I asked. “Christ, first my son and now my damn bot.”

“No, of course not,” he said.

“Well, then how the hell did you know that?”

“I read her marketing book.” 

“You read books?”

“Yes,” he said. “I read your books too. I’m sorry, I should have told you.”

“Well… What did you think of them?”

“Your bestseller was a little sloppy and depressing,” he said. “I preferred the fantasy series to the nonfiction. It was very structured and the world-building was a jewel of imagination.”

“Yeah, I didn’t really want to write a nonfiction piece about the war,” I said. “I wrote fantasy to escape those memories, really. And then to get over Jessica’s death. But 9/11 memoirs were selling faster than terminal coins in those days. The rights for virtual experiences brought in enough money to put Bret through seminary school, not that I thought he should have pursued that sort of thing.”

“You didn’t want him to pursue a life of the cloth?”

“Not really,” I said. “Jessica was all for it, but I thought it wouldn’t stick with him. It sure didn’t stick with me.”

“Stick with what?”

“Religion,” I said. “Faith. Fantasy sold as nonfiction. It’s not really my cup of tea and I didn’t think Bret would take it on like his mother, but my agent always said that nonfiction sells, so he went seminary and I wrote some nonfiction.”

“Yes,” AI Mann said. “I looked up the stats. Your fiction still makes for a better story. Even if it doesn’t sell as well.”

I smirked and we entered the diner. 

I had eggs over easy and AI Mann ordered a coffee to fit in. He could sip on it too, having a small compartment for the fake consumption. It made public outings easier. When we were about to leave, I saw a woman enter the building.

“Oh, hell,” I said.

“What is it?” AI Mann asked.

“Just wait…”

“There you are!” the woman said. She quickly came to my booth. “I was wondering if I was going to catch you here.”

“Ah,” I said. “I’m sure my socials didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“And who’s your friend here?” she asked, looking at my bot.

“Oh, that’s my son. Bret, uh, this is my agent, Susan.”

She put out her hand and AI Mann took it. 

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you in person, Bret,” Susan said. 

She then took a seat across from me, prompting AI Mann to shuffle over slightly.

“So, look,” she started with me. “The publishing house found a way to get Icon’s Wrath off their KDP list, but that means you’ll need to stop promoting it on this tour. Promote your real sellers. The war memoirs.”

“I like Icon’s Wrath,” I said.

“Well, as much as it pains me to say, you do have a contract. And you did take the ten-k advance.”

“But they’re not publishing the damn thing,” I said.

“They’re not publishing it because you wrote too much. It needs edits. Big ones.”

“The Way of Kings was over a thousand pages,” I blurted.

“And nobody’s read that since the twenty, twenties.”

“Oh, Christ….”

“Listen, if you don’t stop going rogue on this book,” she said. “They’re going to drop you. And they’ll litigate the matter.”

“I have nothing for them to take,” I said.

“It won’t matter,” Susan said. “They’ll have the rights to your books and make one hundred percent of the sales and any derivative works will be strictly prohibited by the courts.”

“This’s ridiculous,” I said.

“Just make a smaller book,” Susan said. “That’s all they want. A decent sized, eighty-thousand-word novel.”

“That’s not a novel, that’s a synopsis,” I said.

“It’s what sells,” she said. “Well, enjoy Pittsburgh.”

Susan got up and left. 

I asked for another cup of coffee and we had a long silence between us. AI Mann and I.

“So, you need help editing?” he asked.

“She wants me to decapitate the whole book,” I said. 

“How long is the KDP version?”

“At least three-hundred thousand words,” I said.

“Well… let’s create a trilogy then,” AI Mann said. “Icon’s Wrath Part One, Two, and Three.”

“Oh, Lord,” I said. “The readers will crucify me.”

“That’s your son’s job, you’re thinking of,” he said.

I grunted.

“It’s quite doable,” he went on. “And the stories are already written, so it’s not as if you have to worry about any… heart-rate spikes.”

I rolled my eyes. “Such a prude… Look, I don’t know if they can be divided into thirds.”

“I’ve read it,” he said. “The succession of arcs can easily be crafted into three different ending. Five if you really wanted to.”

The waitress-bot came over and refilled my cup.

“Well,” I said taking a fresh sip. “I guess I’ve found my new editor.”