PARAPHILIA TRASUMANAR

there was a wider spectrum of ethnic types. There was the sturdy, Midwestern Germanic (Gretchen), the east coast Semitic (Heike), the Caribbean (Lesia), East-(Gabra) and West-(Cisse) African, Mexican (Amora), Andean (Carina), Balkan (Emilya), Caucasian (Anya), Chinese (Bao), Korean (Eun), Indian (Indira), Japanese (Chika), Sicilian (Elizabetta), fine-featured French (Sophie). There was an African-America (Dawna), and even a range of handsome middle-aged professionals (Jennifer, Cassandra, Jacqueline). It was an ambitious catalogue of ladies, each with their subtle variations of face, figure, voice and mannerism. The sculptors molded and the linguistics techs recorded hour after hour of native speakers running through the sounds that built up their languages. Passmore hoped to have at least the models headed for the domestic market ready for swimsuit season. It would be a footrace.

April 14th had been a trying day. There were long video conferences spent trying to untangle the inevitable logistical difficulties in setting up sales centers in Seoul and Bonn, a briefing on the imposition by the Trade and Tariff Authority of export restrictions on neural biochips, and a protracted negotiation session with Mika Tanagi, a Butoh dancer chosen for her exquisite features as the model for the Chika faceplate. It was after 9:00 p.m. when Passmore returned to his office and found the post-it note: Borrowed your oxy inhaler. It is in Workroom B. Merci, E.L. All I need, he thought, as he gently swung open the workroom door, and watched the halogen streetlights play across the disconnected hands, heads and arms, each trailing its tangled network of wires, tubes and cables. As he turned up the aisle toward Lessig’s large worktable and lightbox, he was struck by a shadowy bulk perched delicately on the table’s edge. In the half-light, he could see it was a whole bot, hunched in robotic sleep. He reached for the switch on Lessig’s worklamp and stood back as the glare washed across the still figure. He first noticed the dark eyes, wild even at rest, the graceful shoulders full of kinetic energy, the silky black hair that was haloed in the lamp’s golden shine, the small, perfect ivory hands. She wore expensive lavender underthings and a lavender silk sash knotted at the shoulder into a bow. He cupped her chin in his hand and wondered at the educated shadows that pooled around her eyes and her sculpted smile. On her chest was a note in Endino’s blocky script: Happy birthday, from our Protolandra and the CustomGroup In all his time on the Synthelle Project, he had never once imagined Landra this way, perfect, placid, waiting for an educated hand to impart artificial life. He found himself, at once rushing on adrenaline and nerves, smiling widely like, he imagined, an incurable fool. He tingled with excitement thinking about what this experience would be like, and he found his hand enjoying the softness of her shoulder, feeling for the on-switch along the ridge of her scapula. A low shudder ran through her and she raised her head, her camera-eyes meeting his. She said nothing. He wondered what she had been fed, if she even knew him. Her smooth back was warming, as his now-adjusted senses searched for details: the mole along the collarbone, the tiny port wine stain on the inside of her thigh (how, he wondered, had Endino seen that?), the shivery reflex triggered by a brush on the crook of the arm. Her hair and neck smelled of Crepescule, that blend of sea salt, sandalwood and orange Landra always wore.

“Hello, Algy,” she said, and the sound seemed to contain every word within it. He did not know what he was doing, exactly, as he began to explore, his hands along her back and shoulders describing great ovoid curves like a harpist’s hands. He pulled her close, feeling her 210