​Flesh For Trade

We receive a surprising amount of submissions to Terraform about sex and machines; it's a theme that titillates and terrifies in equal measure. It's true that from the moving picture to the rise of pornography on the web, sex has always driven innovation—but perhaps when the technologies of pleasure become more sophisticated, that which separates us from machines will not be a question of hardware, but rather a question of what we are capable of sacrificing, as this story so chillingly illustrates.

— The Editors

The delivery woman pushed through an angry crowd picketing the brothel. Most were women, some were undressed, all carried signs. Her two packages—one male, one female—followed closely, hemmed in by the throng of people. She hoped no damage would be done to them. When they breached the line, the delivery woman looked over her shoulder. She caught sight of one of the signs: "FLESH for trade." The paint ran, but the message was clear. Another job lost to the machines.

The delivery woman entered the whorehouse holding a clipboard. She was greeted by the Madam. Tall and heavy; pantsuit and a fitted blazer.

"Sign here," the delivery woman said.

"These the new models? I need to inspect them first."

The delivery woman nodded in agreement.

"Strip."

In one motion, the female lifted her tight black dress over her head and dropped it on the floor. Then her bra. Her panties. Lastly, she kicked off her flats. The Madam inspected the body: stretch marks, a pudgy gut, saggy breasts. She looked real.

"My models are usually in better shape," the Madam said.

"We specialize in realism…."

The Madam didn't respond. She lowered her right hand and placed it between the thighs of the female. She inserted a finger, then raised it to her nose.

"Turn around."

The female model obeyed. Another finger was inserted, deeper than the first. She moved it around a bit before removing it. Without saying anything, the Madam walked over to the male.

"Strip."

"He's fine," the delivery woman interjected.

The male turned his head and looked at the delivery woman. She lowered her head. The Madam kept her eyes on her new property.

"Strip."

The male obeyed. Jeans and boxers lowered, shirt lifted. He bent over to untie his shoes.

"That's fine, keep the shoes on."

The male stood back up. He was in better shape than the female. Prettier too. The Madam opened his mouth with her hand and inspected it, as you would a horse. Then she lowered her hand. Her fingers played and squeezed gently as the delivery woman watched on uncomfortably. There was movement.

"Good…turn around."

He did. Same treatment as the female. She removed her finger.

"And they're more functional?"

The delivery woman let out a deep breath. "The newer models can dispense liquids."

"How often do they need to be refilled?"

"We can take care of that for you."

The madam placed her ear to the chest of the male. The faint sound of a beating heart greeted her. She looked back at the delivery woman. "What else?"

The delivery woman took out a folded piece of paper.

"Read for yourself." The Madam looked down at the proffered paper. It shook between the delivery woman's bone-thin fingers, her wedding ring hanging on by knuckle alone.

The Madam took and unfolded the paper. On it was a complete list of upgrades: can simulate emotions (eyes dilate, breathing changes, heartbeat sound picks up and softens), self-lubricating, scented chemical to mimic sweat, saliva, scented vaginal fluids, scented urinal fluids, ability to raise and lower erection of male, scented seminal fluid, realistic reddening and breaking of the skin, blood.

"Is this everything?"

The delivery woman nodded again. "We pick them up at night, clean them and bring them back the next day. Also the payment…half." Her voice quavered on the word, as if it were a negotiation.

The Madam made eye contact with the delivery woman for the first time. She looked gaunt. Hungry and sick, which is to say normal, nowadays. She wouldn't bring in much money. The Madam couldn't help evaluating strangers—habit.

"I'm used to keeping my property," the Madam said as she placed a hand on the male shoulder.

The delivery woman's breathing picked up. "We do all the work and take all the risk."

"You expect payment daily?"

"Easier to keep track of…"

The Madam made eye contact for the second time. Then she took the clipboard.

"Fine."

The pen moved on the page. First and last name signed. It was official. The Madam handed back the clipboard, but the delivery woman ignored it. Her hand shot up to her mouth. She began to cough. Softly at first, then hard. Rough. Her innards seemed to wrench from her stomach. The Madam patiently waited for the delivery woman to finish and compose herself.

"Sorry," the delivery woman said as she took the clipboard back.

"See you tonight," replied the Madam.

The delivery woman hesitated. Then, abruptly, she whispered something into the male's ear. It was quick and soft.

The Madam couldn't make out what was said. "Is there a problem?"

"Just a command I forgot to give earlier."

The Madam stared at the delivery woman and waited.

"And the female?"

"Oh…the male will relay the message."

On cue, the male leaned into the female and whispered. The Madam tried to listen but still missed what was said. The delivery woman took a step back towards the door. "They're ready…" She nodded one last time and made her way out.

The Madam adjusted her glasses. She looked at the male. The female.

"Follow me," she said, behind her shoulder.

The male and female stood at the head of the line-up. There were three other women and two men, all androids. The Madam dressed each one differently: fishnets, mini-skirt, lowered jeans, lingerie, a thong. She let the new female keep her black dress. Just boxers for the male. Tomorrow would be different.

A man walked in. Average height, thin, shy.

"I heard the new models might be coming in today. Do they—" the man stuttered, "—can they…use the washroom?"

The Madam gave the customer a wide and welcoming smile.

"Of course. These are our two new models—and between you and me honey, I'm actually into that as well."

A lie, one the Madam told regardless of which customer or of what fetish. She was a performer. Watcher. Giver. Receiver. Whatever the customer needed to hear. She sold acceptance.

The customer ignored the male and gave the female a quick once-over. Her appearance wasn't that important.

"How do I…"

"Just like the older models, you tell her what you want and she will take care of the rest."

The customer took out his wallet. Money first, then he was taken to one of the open rooms. The Madam closed the door behind them. The male watched the Madam return. But his attention was diverted to the door. A second customer walked in. Another Man. Bigger than the first.

"Hank," the Madam said with a hug and smile.

The man smiled back and held the hug. He saw the male over the Madam's shoulder.

"This one is new," the customer said, releasing the hug.

"Just came in today…" The Madame knew this man's history. He was rough. But the new models had to be tested eventually. "So he'll cost a little more."

The customer gave the model a closer work. He watched the lean stomach go in and out as the male breathed.

"How much more?"

"An extra hundred."

The man pressed his hand on the chest of the male. It was soft and firm.

"That's fine," the man said, his sight still on the male. "I'll take the first room."

"Of course."

The man and male followed the Madam to the first door on the right. The Madam stood outside as the man and the male entered. She closed the door. It was just the two of them now.

The man did up his pants. The male said nothing. He lay there silent. Breathing. He heard the sound of the door closing. He was alone now. With effort he walked over to a mirror in the corner of the room. His reflection stared back at him. The male looked down at his bare wedding finger. Then he returned his gaze to the glass.

A tear came down his face. In a panic he wiped it off. He blinked a couple times to dry his eyes before taking another deep breath.

"Better me than her," he said to himself.

This dispatch is part of Terraform, our online home for future fiction.