"Deus, in adjutorium meum intende... Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina..."

The Latin is flowing easily from your lips, the words filling your mouth with the bread of praise. Your hands grip the missal, your tongue prays the lamentations and jubilations which first resounded in the Temple of Solomon three millennia ago, then filled the catacombs of Rome, the hermitages of the Desert Fathers, the ancient monasteries of your Celtic ancestors, the citadels of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, the Gothic cathedrals of the Middle-Ages, and now rise here, in your room, where you stand in front of your small home altar, late afternoon sunbeams dappling your room's wood panel floor with their golden light. Your mind reaches out for the hidden meaning of the words, the history and the beauty of them all...

It fails miserably, of course. Your thoughts stubbornly revolve around—what else?—your personal circumstances, and the events of last night in particular. You see Amie's face as you hold the book, her eyes watching you steadily, her gentle smile speaking to you words of encouragement and support. Flipping a page thoughtfully, you ponder on the events that put you in this ambiguous state of mind…

"Similes illis fiant qui faciunt ea: et omnes qui confidunt in eis...."

What an odd feeling, to be so quietly content and yet subdued at the same time. You're unsure how to interpret your own feelings—something that's becoming a disconcertingly regular occurrence, ever since Amie was assigned to you. At any rate, you know that last night you felt ecstatic—or what passes for that emotion where you're concerned. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, you feel a peculiar emotion that feels almost like... loss. Like something is gone. But this cannot be loss—not for you. Everything that has passed has been a gain.

Your mouth twists. Well, so you would have said without hesitation, until your conversation with Amie over breakfast…

(Earlier that day)

"Dear sir?"

"Yes, Amie?" You lift your eyes from your newspaper. You're in a good mood. Last night's events during the drive back are still lingering in your mind. You feel a renewed sense of optimism.

"I would like to talk to you about something," Amie says quietly. Her voice is careful, almost timid. Something's on her mind. Now that you think about it, you thought you noticed her hesitate on several occasions earlier today and even last night as well, but you hadn't paid much attention to it. You're annoyed with yourself. "Of course," you reply. "What is it?"

"It's... It's about Gwen. You need to help her, sir!" Amie's words are rushed. "I mean... I mean..."

You stare at her, baffled. "Gwen? You mean Amir's primary wife? How would I help her?" You almost say 'it', but catch yourself in time.

"She's... well, sir, she's unhappy."

"That doesn't surprise me. But what am I supposed to do about that?"

"You could talk with her, sir." Amie fidgets. "For her sake, sir."

Your eyes narrow. You have the distinct impression Amie isn't telling you everything. "Amie," you say slowly, "is there something you're concealing from me?"

Amie's face crumples. She lowers her gaze. "I'm sorry, sir. Last night I promised her that... that you would talk to her. That you would help her."

You stare at Amie impassively. "What exactly do you mean?"

"She's unhappy with her husband, sir. She wants to become a real person, so she can be happy. She wants you to make her more human."

You can't believe what you're hearing. "What?"

"She wants you to change her, sir. And I... I promised you would. That you'd help." Amie bites her lip nervously, as if only now realizing that unconditional acceptance on your part was too much to hope for.

"Amir is aware of this?" You can't believe he'd agree to such a thing.

"No, but..."

"Then there's no discussion to be had. This isn't happening." First Ophelia, now Gwen? What is going on? You shake your head.

"But sir..." Amie says uncertainly, as if struggling to find her words. "It'd be best for her. You can make her happier... can't you?"

You silence her with a hard look. "I can't." You say this with finality. But, to your considerable surprise, Amie doesn't back down. With a desperate light in her eyes, she suddenly exclaims, "You don't understand, sir! Her life... Her life's in danger!"

As you stare at her uncomprehendingly, she quickly continues. "Her husband is a heartless man, sir. He's already replaced his wives before! He'll do it again, unless she does something to please him. She's a third generation model, so she doesn't know how. But if she can become more interesting, then she'll stay alive! If you change her, maybe she won't...!"

You hold up your hand. "I think I get the picture," you say. "I'm still not doing it."

"Please!" Amie leans across the table and grabs your hand. She looks at you pleadingly.

You stare at her a moment. "Were you aware that another of Amir's wives made the same request of me last night?"

Amie blinks. "No. No, I wasn't. What did you...?"

"I told her no," you respond flatly. "Do you really think I'll go behind Amir's back for the sake of a machine?"

Amie's face falls. "No... I guess not. But sir..."

"Stop," you interrupt. "Just stop. This isn't going to happen. There are too many complications, and I don't have the time for it. It's more than enough if you continue making progress without bringing in other androids into the picture."

"Yes, sir," Amie says dejectedly. Wiping a stray tear away, she abruptly rises from her chair. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." She hurries out of the dining room.

You sit still, considerably taken aback. Things had seemed so promising last night. You're not sure what to make of all this. A month ago, you were so far removed from all these complications. You take another sip of coffee.

"Per Dominum nostrum Iesum Christum..."

Concluding the office, you close your eyes and bow your head for a moment. You snap shut your missal. The familiar feeling of an old-fashioned leather cover. Something about the book reminds you of your father, despite the fact that he never used it. He never went to Mass at all, in fact. He believed in God... but he was one of those Catholics who didn't pray. "Spiritual, but not religious," was how he put it. Perhaps that's what Amie reminds you of: a person who considers themselves spiritual, but doesn't practice the faith. Of course, Amie is a different case altogether; she can't practice, even if she wants to... which, annoyingly enough, you think she does. Her default programming, doubtless. You've already dissuaded her on several occasions, but it may be necessary to set her straight once and for all.

You absentmindedly stow away your missal, still ruminating over Amie's impassioned appeal. Gwen. Amir's first wife... formerly his fourth. You vaguely remember when he had first purchased her. You hadn't seen much of her; Amir had preferred taking his first and second wives on outings. You don't recall their names. They had just been run of the mill androids, like Gwen and Ophelia...

You pull out your ludicrously outdated PCD and consult your messages. It's been a few days since you last did so, you realize.

Subject: doublecheck and request From: David Sangster ([email protected])

Hey Ely,

AJ finally got back to me with the edited version of last month's interview. Give it a look see and tell if there's anything else you want changed before we run it.

Btw, had an idea for the follow up article's Q&A section. I think our readers would be interested in hearing your thoughts on AI designed architecture. It's a hot topic atm and I figured you'd have some views on it. Let me know when's a good time.

David

Subject: Re: doublecheck and request From: Ely Brennan ([email protected]) Looks good to me. I'll let you know.

You hit send, then scroll down.

Subject: Design query From: Theresa Yoo ([email protected])

Hello Mr. Brennan,

I am an architecture and urban planning student currently working on my undergraduate degree, and a great admirer of your work. I would like to incorporate your views on design into my civil engineering thesis. I was hoping you could spare some time to speak with me. Please let me know if a virtual meeting would be possible; if not, are there any works you could recommend me?

Very respectfully yours,

Theresa Yoo

You sigh. Is the girl stupid? You haven't the faintest idea about city planning design and she asks you for your professional advice on it? How did she even ahold of your email address in the first place, anyway? You shake your head before typing out a quick reply.

Apply Pugin's macro principles to your field.

You hit send. You scroll down, down, down... then stop.

Subject: Let's catch up From: Zuleyka Rivera ([email protected]) I'll be in town next Saturday. Treat me at the old place.

You blink. You stand still for a moment, your mind going into overdrive as you try to think of an excuse, any excuse.

Say you're busy.

Say you're going to be in a meeting.

Say you have a prior engagement.

Say... you're married.

You're very tempted to do so. But you're not married, not really. You type out a message and raise your thumb over the “send” button. You...

Decide to deal with this later. Zuleyka can wait. Right now, you've got a recalcitrant android to get in hand, a massive backlog on your plate, and a seven hundred thousand square foot building that needs to be completed. Knowing you won't be able to work with any peace of mind until the situation with Amie gets resolved, you tuck the PCD away in your pocket and exit your bedroom.

You head to the kitchen, expecting to find Amie there preparing dinner. However, the only active appliance there is the refrigerator. You try the ground floor bathroom next, thinking you might find her scrubbing the toilet. Nothing. Curious. Where could she be? Perhaps she's searching through the wine cellar for a bottle for tonight's dinner. You check, but no, she's nowhere to be found. You scratch your head. Your home is eerily silent without her around. You proceed next to the attached garage, certain that you've excluded all other possibilities. More lifeless devices greet you when you open the door, but no Amie. This is really starting to concern you. Maybe she's outside, tending the garden? Exiting the garage, you make your way to the backyard and call out, "Amie? Are you there?"

No answer. The only thing you hear in return is the gentle tinkling of a neighbor's wind-chime. A cold wind blows, and you shiver involuntarily. Where could she be? She's not downstairs, and you know she wouldn't dare to enter your study; you were just in your bedroom before that, which leaves...

Ah. Of course. Drawing up your collar, you climb up the porch and reenter the house. Making your way through the foyer, you climb the stairs up to the second floor. You take a left, and soon find yourself standing outside Amie's bedroom. You haven't seen it since she first moved in, you realize. You rap your knuckles against the door. "Amie? You in there?" No answer. Turning the doorknob and pushing open the door, you step into the room and see...