"Kk," said Elvis Presley in his Spaghetti Western outfit. "I've been so lonely, baby." He shivered for a moment, and then fell silent; after that, his head came right off and slopped to the floor. Within ten seconds, Elvis Presley smelled of mulched paper and pencil shavings. Andy-Grigori Warhol-Rasputin 9 stared at the ugly mess, kicked it once with his boot, and turned to examine the 3D printer that dominated the studio. He'd been shot three times—once, by a militant feminist named Valerie and once by a Russian nobleman—beaten, poisoned, castrated, chucked in a river... and all he got was a square studio laboratory. They wouldn't let him see his daughter, Maria; she was supposedly travelling with the circus still. Somewhere in the Baltics. Andy-Grigori thumped the machine firmly on the side before sprawling out on the uncomfortable cot they'd fashioned him with; all his behaviours felt preprogrammed and unrealistic, but that wasn't a terribly unusual feeling.
The Marilyn Monrobots stood unevenly, four of them, in the corner. He hated them a little bit but of all the silkscreens, they'd lasted the longest; each one in a different colour scheme, shoulders almost touching, waving their hands in slow, disjointed gestures. Silkscreens did not, as a rule, speak. He could have probably done something about that. Why had the Marilyns lasted so long? Edie had dissolved after a paltry two minutes, as had Anastasia. The self-portraits went after an hour, each of them, after shadowing him around the studio and getting into the paint. The Marilyns, though, the Marilyns stayed together and didn't decompose. They each wore an Andy Warhol promotional T-shirt he'd fabricated with the printer, and Rasputin baseball caps.
Presently, the door at the far end of the studio opened. "This is Russia's greatest love-machine?" A schlub of a man in a sharkskin suit stood with his hands held behind his back, sneering into Andy-Grigori's space. The Marilyns turned, as one, to stare back. If he'd been smart, he would have replicated them with machine-gun breasts. Won his freedom that way. Beside the schlub stood Andy-Grigori's hostess, a woman wrought in perfect copper. Woman was something of a misnomer. If it weren't for the imprisonment, he might have liked Galatea, though. "More successful than the Pynchon-Feynman atrocity, I hope." The schlub was terribly nasal. Andy-Grigori fought back the urge to shrink into the corner.
Galatea betrayed no emotion when the "atrocity" was mentioned. She had perfect posture, and Andy-Grigori felt the familiar flush of his own hunched shoulders and bedraggled white hair, his long black beard. "Number 9," she said, after a moment—like a well-timed tour guide voiceover. "Number 9 exhibits better cohesion and integration than the previous eight. He/they exhibit none of the flaws like gunshot stigmata, psychosomatic castration, or DIY plastic surgery, that cropped up in earlier models." He'd once aked Galatea to sit for him, to let him commit her portrait to the machine. She'd laughed, haughtily, a pre-designed laugh. She was born mass-produced, she'd said. Didn't need to experience it any further. "He exhibits the hoped for characteristics of doubled genius, you'll be happy to hear."
"Edie was the real genius," said Andy-Grigori without thinking about it. He stood, jumbled up, clutching himself, watching the schlub watch him, the Marilyns rolling up behind Andy-Grigori like a posse, saying nothing but being present.
"Andy-Grigori," Galatea motioned to him, first, then to the schlub. "This is Mister Bendix. He is one of the project's benefactors." Was Bendix a man of God, he wondered? They didn't seem to have God anymore. Or everything was God. Bendix ran a hand through greased black hair, and Andy-Grigori fought the impulse to reach up and grasp at his own wig. Mimicry was a passing flaw in his design, he couldn't help it, though Galatea had remarked more than once that it was probably appropriate.
Bendix huffed, bit at his fingernails—as he pulled them from his mouth the nails were already growing back to their preferred length, time-lapsed, and Andy-Grigori immediately wanted to replicate himself a movie camera, one of the old Super8 deals. By then Bendix's eyes wandered back to the Marilyns flanking Andy-Grigori. "Christina Aguilera, isn't it? Charming." Oh, he could have slapped him. Bloody peasant. Bloody wretched nobleman, bloody-bloody-bloody—Andy-Grigori slapped the side of his head and reset. "And he's confined to these quarters, I'm to understand? No outside intervention beyond yourself, Galatea? He hasn't been given access to too much outside media, for example?"
"Only a light consumer-advocate blend recommended by my employers, Mister Bendix—Board-approved, of course." He and Galatea had spoken once of being superstars, but she didn't seem to understand the concept, and had regarded Marilyn Monroe like the Mona Lisa. Though, to be honest, maybe he had, too. She'd tilted her head when he hit himself a moment ago, and was probably recording all the minute details of his nervous system right now. She did that. He would have loved to have the opportunity. Maybe he was demonstrating a new flaw that would require a new version be brought out. Edie. He missed Edie, even if he couldn't quite remember all of their moments together, Sienna Miller surreptiously spliced in. "There are the typical recall problems, of course. Much it depends on extrapolation of known neurology."
Bendix hovered for a moment and then wandered around Andy-Grigori and the Marilyns to run a finger over the 3D printer. "There was no mention of Future Shock in your report to the Board, Galatea. He's adjusted to the new technology?"
"He/they were bred with specific adjustments made to ensure smoothness of development in our new world. He/they even predicted the existence of time-butterflies based on the minimal information I gave him about jump stations and his own origins. Rasputin was a mystic, after all. He had no problems understanding." Strange to hear Galatea modulate her tone like that; she didn't bother with him, knowing full well that her artificial nature meant nothing to him, was a comfort in many ways. A reminder of the good old days. But she was very complex, and knew exactly how to modulate her voice to impart control over people she had to deal with. He knew offhandedly that Galatea did not particularly like the Board.
"Excellent," said Bendix while he stepped over and ran a hand down magenta-haired dayglo-green Marilyn's orange ballgown. She turned to face him, always in silent communication with her sisters. "I believe it's time we moved him along and cleared out this space for something new. I want him hooked up into a deep-culture tank, I believe he's ready for immersion into the network. Box one of these Christina-drones and fire it off to the—"
"Marilyn." Andy-Grigori cleared his throat. He was at least a foot taller than Bendix. Why, he wondered, was Bendix such a schlub? Galatea had explained that genetics were so much easier to manipulate now. "Her name is Marilyn."
"...museum," concluded Bendix without bothering to look at him. He snorted once, and then returned his squirtsome attentions to Galatea. "Everything else can be pulped and converted to building materials for the Swedish Overlords."
© Ben Rawluk, 2008, all rights reserved.