Anax saw man and machine take shape before her; the images she had so painstakingly brought to life, through endless hours of retouching and refining.
Pericles had not been able to be with her during that time: the regulations forbade it. Perhaps this explained the passion she had poured into the sculpting of Adam. She had worked off file images, but now, looking at the man before her, Anax was made self-conscious by the license she had taken.
By eighteen, Adams blond hair had begun to darken, but she had restored it to its former lightness. His eyes, dark in the photographs, were here rendered piercing blue, to match his prison suit. Anax had never seen a hologram with the level of detail the examination room projector achieved. She stepped back, shocked by its clarity. It was as if they were both before her: man and machine.
Adam’s hands were handcuffed behind his back. He sat, his knees drawn toward his body, facing away from Art, refusing to acknowledge the android.
With Art, Anax had taken fewer liberties. He possessed a stout metal body, no higher than Adam’s knees, set on a construction of triple collapsible tracks of the sort first developed in the refuse industry. His two long sinewy arms, hydraulic, terminated in three-fingered hands — a nod to Philosopher William’s love of the preclassical comic. The crowning glory was the mischievous take on a head. Art had been given the face of an orangutan, wide-eyed and droopy mouthed; his stare restless, his toothy grin always mocking: all of it framed by a blaze of orange hair.
The two figures stood frozen in the space between Anax and the panel.
EXAMINER: So what exact period does this hologram represent?
ANAXIMANDER: This is from the first day. Twenty minutes after Adam was delivered to the laboratory. As yet, neither has spoken.
EXAMINER: Thankyou.
Art circled behind Adam, his head cocked to the side in a show of mock curiosity. The whirring of his locomotive mechanisms filled the room. Adam clenched his jaw and put his head down, refusing to respond. Art’s voice, when he spoke, was a little higher than one might expect, the ends of the words unnaturally clipped. (This matched the one reliable recording said to still exist, which Anax had obtained only after a long month of negotiating.)
“So, this is your plan then, is it?” the android asked. Adam stared at the wall before him, refusing to respond.
“You might want to rethink your tactics,” Art continued. “If it is a case of waiting one another out, my program gives me something of an advantage.”
Art waited, but still there was no response. He circled around, forcing Adam to face him. Adam looked briefly up at the elastic, apish features, then let his gaze drop to the floor.
“I’m saying I have more patience than you,” Art needled. “You cannot win by doing nothing.”
“If you’re so patient,” Adam mumbled, barely audible, “why are you talking? What’s wrong with just waiting?”
“Patience isn’t my only virtue. I am tactical too.”
“Sounds like you don’t need me at all.”
“No, but you need me.”
“I think you’ll find that’s wrong.”
The android backed away, his eyes still fixed on the prisoner. He stood still, watching carefully, lifeless save the occasional unnerving blink.
“What do you think they will do, if they see you are not cooperating?”
“If they were going to execute me,” Adam said, his head still down, the anger barely concealed, “it would already have happened. It’s political.”
“Still, while you’re here, it seems a shame to waste the opportunity.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t see it that way.”
“Why won’t you look at me? Do I frighten you?”
“I know what you look like. Why look again?”
Art whirred across the room, changing his vantage point. Adam followed his movements with a wary eye. There was a long silence, a minute at least. It hadn’t been noted in the transcript. Anax had improvised. Now its length stretched her nerves.
“We could be friends you know,” Art finally said, his voice smaller, less confident.
“You’re a machine.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’d as well make friends with my handcuffs or the wall.” Adam looked at the wall as he spoke, as if he was doing nothing more than thinking out loud.
Anax looked to Art, whose large eyes filled with sadness, and found it impossible not to feel sorry for him. She put the thought out of her head and concentrated instead on where the Examiners’ questions would come from.
“It’s your choice,” Art said.
“It is.”
“I’ll leave you to your handcuffs then. But you know where I am, if you change your mind. I’ll just wait. I’m very patient. . . We have a while.”
Adam rearranged himself on the floor, fidgeting. He breathed in deeply and let out a long, frustrated sigh. His eyes closed. Art spoke again.
“Your handcuffs seem very attached to you. That’s good I suppose. It’s how friends should be.”
“I’d prefer it if you kept quiet.”
“You do know you’re a prisoner, don’t you?” Art replied, his tone a little harsher. “You do know your preference is of little consequence?”
Adam swiveled toward the android. Art rolled back slightly, as if surprised by the movement.
“Shall we do a deal?” Adam said.
“I’m just a machine,” Art replied. “What good would a deal do?”
Adam ignored the jibe. “If I talk to you now, if I give you ten minutes, you will promise not to say anything else, for the rest of the day.”
“Make it fifteen.”
“Your programmer was very thorough wasn’t he?”
“I’m self-programming, and accept your compliment.”
“There’s no such thing as self-programming.”
“You are.”
“I’m not a machine.”
Art whirled suddenly forward and his eyes lit bright with excitement. Adam recoiled.
“I’d like to talk about that,” Art said.
“What?”
“What makes a machine a machine. Once our fifteen minutes has started.”
“It’s already started.”
“So you agree to it being fifteen then?”
Adam smiled. “Yes, but it started five minutes ago.”
“I see, well done.”
“You’re hideously ugly. You know that don’t you?” Adam leaned forward as he spoke, like a boxer jabbing to judge the distance between them. Art responded with a toothy smile. Saliva pooled on the creature’s bottom lip — a display of perversely thorough design.
“I’m programmed to find myself attractive.”
“I thought you said you were self-programming.”
“It was a wise choice, don’t you think?”
“Ugly’s still ugly, no matter how you see it.”
“An interesting assertion. Justify it.”
“You bring twenty people in here,” Adam told him, “and they’ll all say the same thing. They’ll all say you’re ugly.”
