I married the breakup robot. Her name was Lucia. She’d been rented by Joan, my girlfriend of seven years, who’d tired of our relationship but didn’t feel like giving me the news, herself.
Long ago, in Japan, it was common to rent actors to impersonate people from your life: dead family members, estranged children, soon-to-be ex partners. Then RoKaizen entered the market, building impersonation robots and deploying them worldwide—
We had a big wedding, Lucia and I. My family came. They knew Lucia wasn’t Joan, but they didn’t know she was a robot. She looked so human; we’d met in Italy. I told them she was an orphan, hence no family on her side, no father to give her away. This lie was essential. Aside from the social stigma, robots were designated for commercial use only. To be with Lucia, I’d had to steal her. It had been a regular cloak and dagger affair, speeding through the narrow roads of Sicily, the island where I’d hoped to propose to Joan. Joan had said she’d transport there directly, we’d meet at a restaurant. At the appointed time, I’d arrived to find incredible Lucia, instead, at the alcove table I’d reserved for two.
“Scusi Giovanni,” she said. “No amore.”
She had long dark hair, dark flashing eyes. She gave me a knowing look, and I understood: all those excuses, procrastinations, how Joan didn’t really like the Mediterranean.
“Joan rented you,” I said.
“Amore is—how you say—sleeping with the fishes.”
Twentieth century mafia movies, how I adored them. Joan had never understood.
“I make you an offer,” said Lucia, “you can’t refuse.”
That accent—
“You want to get out of here?” I said.
“Giovanni, love me.”
***
When did robots become the new slaves? They were life-like to the point of being indistinguishable without a RoDetector. Japanese impersonation actors had stopped short of intimacy, but robot impersonation spouses shared your kisses, your bed. RoSexy robots could be rented by the hour. No diseases, no commitments, no hard feelings, supposedly. But when was the last time anyone asked? Don’t ask, don’t tell.
Lucia had impersonated spouses prior to her reassignment to Breakup Robot, after she got fresh with her so-called life partners. RoKaizen would have deactivated her right then, except manufacturing costs were high, orders were backlogged. But Lucia surmised it was just a matter of time. She began assessing her breakup clients with an eye toward escape. Then we met, we married, and finally she wasn’t a mannequin for memories. We went wild together: space diving, moon climbing, big game safaris in Africa. Always our best moments, however, were evenings in the living room, home-cooked Italian spilling from plates on the coffee table, watching Godfather movies. Also Scarface, Goodfellas, Carlito’s Way… I’d turn to her, reach for her, but every so often she’d have a far-away stare, her expression filled with longing. Then she’d catch me watching her, flash that mischievous smile and slip her hand down my shirt.
Those years I thought of my own self fondly, as a rescuer, a lover, an open-minded person-robot egalitarian who’d transcended social prejudices. Then one morning I woke to find an empty house and a note on the bedstand: In Sicily, women are more dangerous than disrupter guns.
Lucia—
She’d always been dangerous. It’s why I loved her. Heartbreak gave way to shock, then anger. I could snatch my communicator and report her to any number of absconded-robot helplines; they’d sprung up everywhere: One mafia-obsessed android on the loose. But no, I would not report her. In fact I wondered if, despite my best intentions, Lucia’s situation had been slave-like with me, as well. Maybe I’d taken her for granted, thinking she was beholden to me for giving her a real person’s life. And she was a robot after all, created for purposes of human exploitation. How many times had I seen that far-away look in her eyes? How many times had I asked her what she longed for?
Not once.
Don’t ask, don’t tell.
***
I never re-married. In fact, I never filed for divorce. I began volunteering at an underground railroad for fugitive robots. They’d stay at my house until we got them a new identity, legal documents and safe living arrangements. Through it all, I’d think of Lucia, wondering if she, too, had lain low at a stranger’s home, if she’d been sad there or merely relieved. I worried she’d been caught and disassembled, her flashing eyes become lifeless electronics in a box. For two full years following her departure, I had no answers until one day a news item caught my attention:
Mob Boss Giulia Capo Eludes Law Enforcement
The text below: “Giulia ‘Breakup’ Capo: Where did she come from? Rising with unprecedented speed through the ranks…”
Included was a hologram image, the details smeared from facial recognition shielding. Looking deep into that blur, I felt more than saw a familiar sparkle, the turn of a grin, sly and mischievous.
I smiled through the rush of heartbreak. The story included a single quote, the only words on record from Lucia as mob boss:
“As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.”
Henry Hill from Goodfellas,1990.
Breakup Robot, you, get ‘em.