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Power Cut
by
Michael A. Kay
“Sick. Sick and twisted.”
“I just pity anyone who finds themselves in such a position where they have to resort to something like that.” Phil threw the adult catalogue down on the desk, where the force of the impact warped its plastic screen just long enough to wobble the picture slightly. “Base, crude, carnal pleasure.”
“Depraved,” his colleague Steve agreed, absently.
“Was that depraved? Or deprived?”
“Both.”
“Hmm. Can’t they find the attention they crave any other way?” Phil looked down at the touch sensitive screen and scoffed contemptuously. “I mean, who pays who to come up with stuff like this? ‘The First Law of Robo-Erotics: A Fundroid shall do anything possible to please its master.’ Asimov’s probably turning in his grave, poor man.”
Steve, staring at his workstation, furrowed his brow and nodded as the taller man stood and fumed happily to everyone in the vicinity. The Red-Light Robotics electronic catalogue looked innocently up from the desktop, as if surprised that anyone could be making such a fuss over little old it.
“The whole point of the sexual side of a relationship is to cement and strengthen the bonds that already exist between two or more people—”
“Apart from kids.”
“Of course apart from kids. Kids go without saying really,” he shrugged. “But what happened to traditional civil partnership values? When people really love each other and want to express that otherwise indescribable depth of feeling? Or am I being too twenty first century about this?”
“…For the times they are a’changing…” sang Steve softly.
“Well, yes, of course, goes without saying, really,” Phil conceded. Then: “Maybe some men prefer to live alone. Fewer arguments, no commitment. But look, Steve, you and I, we’re both family men, right? Both happily married? Aspirations for a bit of reproduction in the not too distant future, eh?”
“Mmm.” Steve was noncommittal.
“Of course we’ve never met your Sandra; we must get together outside work sometime, you and Sandra and Mary and I. Catch a holopic, maybe; those things are getting so ridiculously realistic these days.” He smiled, the catalogue temporarily forgotten.
“Err, yeah, sure, some day.” Steve’s eyes didn’t move from his network interface. “But I’ve got, err, a very busy schedule these next few weeks, very little free time, and I expect I’ll have to spend most of that sleeping, you know, and, well, you know how it is.”
“Yeah, sure, I understand. Whenever you’re free. Whatever.”
“Mm. Anyway, must get on.” Steve flicked a glance up at his friend, followed it up with a timid half smile, a nervous twitch of one lip. “But I’ll let you know.”
“Definitely.” Phil flashed a confident smile and returned to his desk. Steve glanced disdainfully at the catalogue—its ‘anatomically precise’ mechanical partners failing to entice—and, with a swift flick, tossed it into the recycler.
“Steve! You’re home early.” She grinned, the sunbeam waterfalls of her hair flowing sumptuously over golden brown shoulders, delicately curved, her petite collarbones enchantingly well defined.
“Sandra.” He beamed as he entered the apartment. “The earlier train was a little late, so I didn’t have to wait.”
Her emerald eyes radiated a sparkling glee like the morning grass, rich with early dew as he dropped his coat down the refresher chute. It whizzed away to some unknown cleaning destination several floors below. “Phil found a Fundroid catalogue at work today,” he remarked, blithely.
“Really?” She folded her arms, a mock inquisitor. “You weren’t tempted to replace me with an android, were you?”
“Of course not,” he reassured her. “They can’t quite simulate walking properly, yet, you know. Just sort of lurch. And think of all the awkward maintenance costs they would entail.” He enjoyed a luxurious stretch.
She nodded enthusiastically. “At least you don’t have to oil me.” Her full red lips parted, an elegant white smile sliding into view as she moved forward; head to one side, she approached and drew near. Her eyes grew shadowy as her lids lowered.
“Oh, Steve, I’ve missed you…”
He looked down. “I can tell…”
Softly she placed a bronzed finger to his lips and leant in close to his ear. “Have you had a hard day at work?” she cooed. He felt each individual hair rise as one as her warm breath caressed his neck. He inhaled sharply.
“Yes,” he rasped, his broken whisper not entirely truthful.
“Let me make it better…?” she pleaded, stroking a stray strand of dark, wavy hair he had tucked behind one ear.
He feigned reluctance. “Well…” he teased her. She pulled back to look him straight in the eye, one eyebrow raised, mouth curling impishly.
He slid his arms around her slim frame; their mouths found each other with a forceful passion.
“Oh, Steve…” she breathed.
“Sandra…”
And the room went black. Hands moved through thin air as the apartment descended into darkness and force fields failed. Steve nearly fell over; Sandra had disappeared with the light. He sighed. Damn power cut.
Michael Kay is a British university student who spends most of his time wishing he spent more of his time writing. Unfortunately, his social life, physical activities and, albeit to a lesser extent, his degree, frequently frustrate this aim. He has been writing since before he can remember, but can only seem to find reliable records of seriously written short stories back to the age of 13. He is happy that this is his fourth published story, and even happier that you seem to be reading it. Thank you.
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