Richards' sensing presence. He really doesn't like you. Look at him scowl!
Shut up, Genie, just… just stop that, get out of my face! I can't concentrate.
Ooh, well, sorr-ee, I don't get to come out much, in case you hadn't noticed. This is interesting.
Are you surprised? All this jabbering! Keep yourself in the closenet system, Launcey's here somewhere.
Hmph, said Genie.
We are on a job. We concentrate when we are on jobs. It's hard enough passing myself off as a man in this plastic knock-off without you jabbering away in my head. It might look good, but the devil's in the detail. So, please shut up. There's a good girl.
The android sheath Richards wore presented the outward appearance of a good-looking, well-groomed man of means. It fidgeted for him, passing its glass back and forth, glancing about, shifting its weight – tics Richards could never remember to do for himself.
Don't shout at me, said Genie.
Keep quiet and then perhaps you will learn something, OK?
OK, said Genie. Keep your lovely plastic hair on.
Richards tipped his glass at a couple as they walked past, oblivious to his and Genie's internal conversation. The man frowned and hurried the woman along.
Smell, Richards sagely told Genie, the last ridge in the uncanny valley. No matter how sophisticated olfaction units become it'll never be crossed. That's why they're scowling. I don't carry their animal pong.
Riii-ight… said Genie. Isn't it because you look like a smug EuGene catalogue model? You should be on a beach gazing at a distant ship with your jumper round your neck.
I look right more or less, insisted Richards. But I don't smell right. Humans leak proteins, they give out airborne chemical signals and a cocktail of trace gasses. They expect to smell the same on me. Sure, meat people'll talk to me and not be aware they're conversing with a replicant, but they'll feel uncomfortable, like there's something… off. It's a real issue, no one, meat or numbers, have cracked it. Artificially duplicating human scent always fails. It's cheap rose perfume that only manages to smell of synthetic roses. It makes 'em agitated. In the worst cases, it makes the men aggressive.
You should stop hitting on them then.
I'm trying to teach you something here!
And I'm trying to be quiet and concentrate on my scan, like you said , said Genie petulantly.
This is important, for when you go out in the field on your own.
"You'll let me out in the field? Really? On my own?" Richards' sheath squeaked. His hand shot up to his mouth as a trio of men turned to look at him. "Sorry, phone call," he said.
Genie! Hands off!
Sorry.
Richards shot the rest of his lecture into Genie's memory, although without the mediation of her higher functions this was nowhere near as effective. Normally, Richards wore a sheath that was identifiably artificial, because it made his clients more at ease. The human mind is happier knowing what something is for certain; it becomes perturbed when presented with something that is not what it purports to be. The more subtle the signifiers of falsehood, the proportionally greater its perturbation. Richards' usual sheath might as well have "I am a robot" printed on its forehead, and everyone was the happier for it. Masahiro Mori had been bang on the money about that.
Yeah, thanks, said Genie . I knew all that anyway, we did it in school.
Undercover he felt as ill at ease with his sophisticated shell as his fellow concert goers did. He tried not to show it. He didn't want to stand there cursing his own involuntary movements like a lunatic.
The crowd swelled. Richards scanned their faces, running over muscle structure, skull form and blood-vessel patterning, fed in by the sheath's wide-band vision system, his cunningly wrought nose teasing DNA fragments out of the air. Genie, projected remotely from the office like him, did the same through the building's security net. Hiving off duplicate minds was a big AI no-no, but
Shut up, Genie, just… just stop that, get out of my face! I can't concentrate.
Ooh, well, sorr-ee, I don't get to come out much, in case you hadn't noticed. This is interesting.
Are you surprised? All this jabbering! Keep yourself in the closenet system, Launcey's here somewhere.
Hmph, said Genie.
We are on a job. We concentrate when we are on jobs. It's hard enough passing myself off as a man in this plastic knock-off without you jabbering away in my head. It might look good, but the devil's in the detail. So, please shut up. There's a good girl.
The android sheath Richards wore presented the outward appearance of a good-looking, well-groomed man of means. It fidgeted for him, passing its glass back and forth, glancing about, shifting its weight – tics Richards could never remember to do for himself.
Don't shout at me, said Genie.
Keep quiet and then perhaps you will learn something, OK?
OK, said Genie. Keep your lovely plastic hair on.
Richards tipped his glass at a couple as they walked past, oblivious to his and Genie's internal conversation. The man frowned and hurried the woman along.
Smell, Richards sagely told Genie, the last ridge in the uncanny valley. No matter how sophisticated olfaction units become it'll never be crossed. That's why they're scowling. I don't carry their animal pong.
Riii-ight… said Genie. Isn't it because you look like a smug EuGene catalogue model? You should be on a beach gazing at a distant ship with your jumper round your neck.
I look right more or less, insisted Richards. But I don't smell right. Humans leak proteins, they give out airborne chemical signals and a cocktail of trace gasses. They expect to smell the same on me. Sure, meat people'll talk to me and not be aware they're conversing with a replicant, but they'll feel uncomfortable, like there's something… off. It's a real issue, no one, meat or numbers, have cracked it. Artificially duplicating human scent always fails. It's cheap rose perfume that only manages to smell of synthetic roses. It makes 'em agitated. In the worst cases, it makes the men aggressive.
You should stop hitting on them then.
I'm trying to teach you something here!
And I'm trying to be quiet and concentrate on my scan, like you said , said Genie petulantly.
This is important, for when you go out in the field on your own.
"You'll let me out in the field? Really? On my own?" Richards' sheath squeaked. His hand shot up to his mouth as a trio of men turned to look at him. "Sorry, phone call," he said.
Genie! Hands off!
Sorry.
Richards shot the rest of his lecture into Genie's memory, although without the mediation of her higher functions this was nowhere near as effective. Normally, Richards wore a sheath that was identifiably artificial, because it made his clients more at ease. The human mind is happier knowing what something is for certain; it becomes perturbed when presented with something that is not what it purports to be. The more subtle the signifiers of falsehood, the proportionally greater its perturbation. Richards' usual sheath might as well have "I am a robot" printed on its forehead, and everyone was the happier for it. Masahiro Mori had been bang on the money about that.
Yeah, thanks, said Genie . I knew all that anyway, we did it in school.
Undercover he felt as ill at ease with his sophisticated shell as his fellow concert goers did. He tried not to show it. He didn't want to stand there cursing his own involuntary movements like a lunatic.
The crowd swelled. Richards scanned their faces, running over muscle structure, skull form and blood-vessel patterning, fed in by the sheath's wide-band vision system, his cunningly wrought nose teasing DNA fragments out of the air. Genie, projected remotely from the office like him, did the same through the building's security net. Hiving off duplicate minds was a big AI no-no, but
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