Rusty Rose

The sky spread slate-grey above the city, and a seamless mass of traffic wound its way like a river through the roads.

Richard Grant slumped back in his chair after a hard day of work. Sighing, he reached up to loosen his tie, at the same time tapping the console at his side to order a drink. He could afford to relax. He'd just finished an entire week of signing, wining and dining the hardest-nosed businessmen the city had to offer, including hammering out a contract with Harrelson and Co - who seemed determined not to let him get what he considered his fair share of the proceedings. You would think he was trying to pull a fast one over them, the way they carried on.

But that wasn't how Endrane Corporation did things. It had been a fair deal - the only kind he ever inked. He had even written in a clause indemnifying them against any kind of suit from him. If that wasn’t fair he didn’t know what was. What did they want, full corporate immunity? He could just seem them sitting there smiling at him, the fat cats in their suits counting their chips as they took him for a ride.

Mentally scowling at himself - he hated thinking about work - he wound down the protective shield on the windows. He'd been told by his bodyguard not to do that many times, but sometimes he got bored of staring at the black screens instead of glass. Besides, he told himself, he just wanted to look out for a while, take his mind off things.

Outside were rows upon rows of buildings, a slate-grey vista of unbroken concrete. All his. All factories in his name. He hadn't gotten out of the industrial area of the city yet - it would be a good twenty miles or so before the scenery would consist of other things besides an endless procession of smokestacks and industrial buildings.

He wound the screen down again.

The next five minutes were spent in silence. He sipped his drink carelessly, letting his thoughts wander. It was a good thing he had gotten the Bioflux installed in the car - he generally wanted one the moment he stepped in, and having one made beforehand would just spoil the taste. He dialed another one up on the console and finished the first. The journey back from his office always made him thirsty.

It would be a while more before he reached home. As the minutes dragged on he realized, not without some surprise, that he was slowly but surely growing bored. Usually it was just one thing after another - meetings, lunches, company obligations. But today it seemed that he was presented with that rarity of rarities - free time.

To verify it for himself beyond all doubt, he mentally ticked off the things in his mind. No more meetings tomorrow. No lunches either. There was something to be cleared up about the leases in Seramel contract, but he would get his secretary and staff to handle that - he paid them more than enough, anyway. Yes, that was all there was to do.

Amazing. He relaxed back into the plush synthetic leather of his seat. Nothing else to do, not for the moment, and not for the immediate future either. He finished his second drink and laid back again, letting himself mull on the prospect of his newfound free time for a while.

Now...now was the time to relax for a while. He certainly deserved it. The time for relaxation...and the time for pleasure.

Before he knew it, his fingers were dancing over the touchpad for the phone, and soon enough, the cool chime from the receptionist droid was telling him that yes, his request had been processed, and that yes, they would have someone waiting for him at his residence in the evening, thank you very much for your patronage.

He settled down to wait, and the rest of the ride passed quickly.

The limousine turned and wound its way through the streets, down past the liner trains and the transrails. He saw the new ones being installed - they would reportedly reduce travel time down this at this area by at least half. Not that he cared. Those were for the commoners, though who could not afford their own private vehicles and had to use what meagre offerings the city could dole out to its less fortunate inhabitants. And out beyond that would be the spaceport, with its gleaming arches and tall spires.

It all passed him by so quickly he didn't register it. He saw the same scenery every day, and even if his mind hadn't been preoccupied with other, more pleasant things, he wouldn't have paid it any heed. Lost in thought, he was still musing while the car slowed and headed down the lanes leading to where he lived. When was the last time he had some time to himself? Too long.

Soon enough, the mansion came into view. He scowled as he passed the entrance. The gardens were in a terrible state. He saw two rosebushes out of place, and at least half of them were the blue of the last season, instead of the red that he had specified that he wanted. His trained eye scanned the flowers and his frown grew even more pronounced.

He would have to speak to Mrs Harrison about it, get it fixed. It wouldn't do to have people - clients, especially - come in commenting on the state of his gardens. He ran a tight ship here at Endrane, and he expected each and every aspect of that to be perfect - or at least come close - from his suit to the taste of the filtered water and the gardens. Especially the gardens. Real roses were hard to come by, and he wanted each and every visitor to his estate to know that he had the finest collection of them on the planet.

But that was another concern for another time. Today...today was for pleasure. The car swung into the empty alcove near his chambers and he got out, loosening his tie as he did so. Time to meet his guest.

He was early. But then again, he was always early. A working habit not easily broken...in his business it always paid to be early, never late. You never knew what would happen, and it was always good to take the extra time to be prepared. So even when he wasn't working he was always made sure to be more than on time. It didn't make sense to leave anything to chance.

He poured himself a stiff drink from the dispenser in his room and settled in to wait. After a while, she arrived.

She wasn't quite what he had expected. He paid the company to provide variety, but she was different than all the other girls that he had ordered before. It wasn't the pale red hair and the flat eyes that seemed to stare through him. It was something else...something that he couldn't quite pinpoint.

"You're new." It was a lame, obvious statement, and he knew it. But that was one thing about talking to an android, especially one paid for a service - you didn't need to be polite, didn't need to indulge in meaningless societal niceties; not if you didn't want to. It was almost always "just business". Oh, certainly there were higher-class models, and personal servants owned by the rich which you always had to accord at least a modicum of respect to, but, for the most part, you could dispense with the formalities.

That was one of the things he liked. The other? He didn't even know what it might be himself. But with them - normally, even in the most mundane of corporate settings, he would inadvertently say something that would cause even the most bored and jaded socialite to roll her eyes and seek more pleasant (or at least eloquent) company. But these girls? They wouldn't mind in the least. After all, they weren't human.

What was it about them? Their eyes? Their face? Even their manner of speech and movement - there was always something, something that nagged at the edges of his consciousness but that he could never quite put his finger on.

It wasn't that they weren't real. "Real" as in alive...it wasn't something so obvious. So crass. Nothing to do with the texture of their skin, the color of their eyes. The way they moved? The too-quick blinking of their eyes that even the best scientists could never remove? It had to be something else, but he could never quite figure out what.

It didn't matter, though. Right now she was standing in front of him, waiting, her handbag carried discreetly close to her, veil shading her eyes. She was dressed simply – a red dress that set off her eyes, and a cobalt blue sash over that. He thought the rose in her hair was a nice touch.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Rachel." the girl replied. A simple name. He held out his hand, and she followed him.

Along the way to his rooms, they made small talk - inconsequential, completely unnecessary dialogue. To his amazement he found himself stammering at one point, but she just smiled and blinked once, twice - and his embarrassment vanished. As they neared his elevator he was filled with sudden vain bravery and opened the door for her as they stepped into it, the ruthless businessman turned charming, even gallant.

He remembered that once he even caught himself offering one of them a drink - it had seemed like the proper thing to do - and then had ridiculed himself for his foolishness. They were paid to come here…he didn't need to treat them THAT well. And more to the point, they couldn't drink. It would just stain their systems and then he would have to pay a hefty cleaning fee.

Yes, he didn't need to do that. He could he wanted to, though. He could be anything - even cruel, even sadistic. He had heard that outright brutality was quite popular these days, among the rich. Apparently it was in vogue in some circles to damage them so much that they had to be taken back to the repair shop - only to be put back the next day without a scratch. The benefits of taking your wanton excesses out on a machine.

He mulled on it a bit longer as the walk to his rooms - always long, he preferred to live as far away from the main estate as possible - continued. He surprised himself by having more placid tastes. In his office he would insist that his water be served just so, his meals exactly on time. He had fired servants for less, screamed at them for failing to inform him of anything. It didn't matter - the staff could take it. It was even expected, for someone of his position.

With the girls, though, there was no violence, no demands or perverse whims to be catered to. With them he was content to simply flip through the catalogs carelessly, selecting this one or that one, even asking for advice or suggestions from the staff once in a while. The company did its job well - there was always something to appeal to him, something fresh and new, interesting enough to intrigue but not tawdry or overly-familiar. He supposed that somewhere there was a psych profile of him, somewhere in a room full of computers where they had matched his tastes and personality to exactly what they thought would please him. It didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. As long as he was happy, he would pay them their fee.

They had walked far from the gardens by then. It would just be a short way past the offices, and then they would be at their destination. He never took the shuttle with the girls - he always preferred to walk. It lengthened the pleasant time he would spend with them.

He turned to address her. "I'm sorry my rooms are so far, Rachel."

"It's fine, Mr Grant." He noticed that this one had just the hint of on accent - from where and of what, he couldn't quite place - and it delighted him strangely. He hadn't known he liked accents before.

Ten more minutes or so of walking and then they were there. He got the pass card out, and with a silent hiss, the door slid open. He gestured to the bedroom, and she followed.

Once again there was no fumbling, no awkwardness. He was only aware of undressing hastily and glimpsing her fair, white body before she beckoned to him and they both moved onto the bed.

He had done this many times before, with many different girls, but with her it was all a confused jumble of images and sensations. At times he didn't know exactly what he was doing – putting it in or taking it out, thrusting or grinding or turning this way and that. She was on top, and then the next minute he was, and through the haze of pleasure that assaulted him he could hear her faint moans and his own low grunts.

At some points he was tensing under her expert ministrations, and at others he was guiding her as if suddenly she was as innocent as a virgin maid. So many sensations – hard, soft, and everything in between - but all thoroughly pleasurable.

Then it was over - he didn't know quite when - and he relaxed, spent, on the bed. He felt her leave her side of the mattress but continued to drift in and out of consciousness in a light, heady daze.

It was only when he heard the music that he sat up.

"What are you doing?" Another stupid question - it was obvious just from looking that she had started to play the piano. From the glance she gave him - a quick flick of the eyes - it seemed that she knew the question was rhetorical, and that it didn't matter to her playing. Her fingers and hands danced over the keys, faster than any human hands could ever be, drawing from them a beautiful, haunting melody.

He hated it. Hated it with such violent intensity that suddenly he found himself wishing for something to throw at her - anything - at her, at the blasted piano and the damned music. He cast around for a clock or nearby lamp to hurl at the blithely playing android but turned up with nothing. Of course, the room had been swept clean before they even entered it. But the music…he hated it and it had to stop, immediately.

He strode to her, ready to wrench her hands away from the keys if need be, but just as he was about to raise his hands, he stopped. He stood over her, his face a mask of control. "Stop playing." His voice had sunk to a low undertone.

She stopped. Her eyes met his for a moment and then dropped back to the keys.

"This is a nice piano." she said, letting her fingers skate over the keys, almost but not quite touching them, skipping from one to another - black-white-white-black-black - with something approaching tenderness. "But it's not quite in tune yet."

"I don't care." He was still barely restraining his anger. He wanted to reach out, to snap that perfect neck, to slam his fist into the graceful, petite frame, but somehow he kept a hold on himself. "Don't you dare play it again."

"Why?" She looked up again, and her eyes were simple, guileless. "Don't you like music?"

"No." It wasn't quite the truth. He didn't dislike music - but then again he didn't much like it either. He had attended some concerts as part of charity events, and he found them pleasant in a vague, distant kind of way. He had been more interested in the bright lights in the background and the pretty girls on stage. But he hadn't really paid attention then.

But her playing was different. The music and that damn piano. It had roused something in him - a cold, dark anger that later he would find himself almost frightened and chastised by. Now...now he only wanted to get her out of the house before he did something he would later regret.

"Leave. Now." He watched as she gathered her things - silently, gracefully - and left, closing the door without a sound.

Then he slumped down on the bed, alone. He needed a drink.

He tried not to think of the incident after that. Of course, it had put him into an especially foul mood the next day, and his frustration and anger continued to dog him all into the next week. Work, usually simply just routine at best and tiresome at worst, became a dreary chore, and he delegated what he could to his subordinates, leaving the rest for his staff to clear up.

The next week he called the agency up again. Send someone up, he said. No, he had no preferences. Yes, he was sure. Yes, he trusted their expertise implicitly. Thank you very much.

The next day another girl arrived, just at the time he had specified. She was blue-haired and short, with pale lips and pierced ears – quite, quite different from Rachel. He went through the motions - the stammering, the initial nervousness, the act itself and the sweet, cool, aftermath.

But somehow it wasn't the same. Two days after he could barely remember the girl - the color of her hair, her name, her dress. He supposed that he had enjoyed himself - the agency always did a good job, but the pleasure seemed distant, faraway. Different.

The next week he called back again, and they sent someone else. But this time he enjoyed himself even less, if that was possible.

His foul mood persisted at work, and after two months had passed he began to contemplate other vices. His was considered a quiet, unobtrusive one by his peers. It didn't involve killing, or maiming. No ruined lives, no blood sport or addiction. It was simple, discreet - thought of by some almost quaint.

He tried. From a chance conversation at a ball somewhere, he was told that carrying on with drugged human females was quite in vogue nowadays. There was on the market a muscle stimulant so powerful that it was said to multiply the sensations of climax at least tenfold. Quite the rush. So he dutifully, almost by rote, went to purchase it (Tenebrol, it was called…or maybe Avinax? He wasn’t sure. He had no patience for drugs that he didn’t manufacture) and asked his staff to acquire a willing female. But when it came to the actual act itself he found it pathetic, almost disgusting. He had surprised himself again.

In the end he was back to where he was. For some reason that he himself couldn't quite fathom...he wanted her. Not anything else - not anyone else. Only her.

It grew to be almost an obsession. He found himself thinking of her at the most inappropriate times – in meetings, during worker inspections, while he was discussing the latest figures with his financiers. They would rise to mind unbidden - the memory of her red eyes and dress, the rose she wore in her hair, the sensation of her cool white fingers running down the length of his leg. He wished to be rid of the images almost as much as he reveled in them.

Until one day he came back from a particularly long and vicious meeting to find a message waiting for him. His secretary informed him that it hadn't come from the usual channels, but that it didn't seem to be bugged in any way. He nodded curtly and said that he would read it in his office.

It was from her. How she'd managed to find his private number, or been able to make a direct call, he didn’t know - but it also didn't matter. He just wanted to read the message.

It was simple enough. It stated how she had enjoyed his company, and how she would like to see him again. She wasn't working for the agency that he had contacted her through anymore, but if he wanted, he could get in touch with her new employers and they would see about contacting her. She would be delighted to come back to visit, but only if she could play the piano.

He spent some time in silence, reading it once, twice, three times. He had told his secretary to hold all calls, even urgent ones. "Mr. Grant is indisposed right now." That was what she should tell anyone who asked.

"Wasn't working for them anymore..." he didn't know quite what to make of that. How could androids "not work"? As far as he knew, it wasn't a choice for them. Maybe there was something he didn't understand about her, or about the agency. He had heard of black market chips that could override the control circuits of any android...it smelled fishy, and completely not the kind of thing that the head of a multi-billion corporation should get himself involved in.

He could get to the bottom of this matter. He could call up experts, specialists, even detectives. With the amount of money at his disposal, he could get in touch with a top-notch roboticist, ask him questions. He would be able to explain what the message meant, and what Rachel was really asking of him.

But he didn't. He felt suddenly tired, conscious of a great weariness bearing down on him. He had had enough of calling this or that person up, of asking questions and getting few answers. He had enough of that at work. And then, when the fatigue was too great to bear, he diverted himself with this or that idle pursuit - only to be left alone and spiritless at the end of the day.

So he found himself writing a short and simple reply. Yes, he would like to see her again. She was welcome to come back at any time if only she called in advance. The piano would be made available, but she should not expect it to be tuned.

He debated with himself on how to end it. "Thank you" seemed too prosaic. "Sincerely" would be false. In the end, he simply signed his name and sent it off.

The wait was longer than he had expected. It was three weeks before he received a reply, three weeks of interminable waiting and exhausted anticipation. This time, though, there was no pleasant expectation, no thoughts of an evening that would be spent lost in her pale white body.

He spent the time in work and what seemed like endless trips to and from the office. He answered call after call and went to meeting after meeting, trying to put all thoughts of the android girl out of his mind.

But finally the reply came. If it was alright with him, she would visit next week, and come around in the evening. She looked forwards to seeing him again. She would be wearing a white dress this time, with a lily in her hair. No mention was made of the piano.

Next week came, and after a restless day at work, he arrived home to find her waiting for him in the gardens. They said nothing to each other and simply walked in silence to his rooms.

It was different this time. Half-remembered images of their previous interaction mixed with sharp sensations of the present, and he relaxed into her even as he tensed against her cool body. He was faintly aware of her voice in his ear coaxing him on to greater heights, and he tried to respond as best as he was able until finally they both reached their peaks and he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

He awoke to find her sitting at the piano in the state of half-undress, a silken ribbon draped carelessly over a bared thigh. She smiled at him and began to play.

He bore it the best he could. Grimacing, he turned away and stared out the window. The melody leapt and danced with frivolous glee, and it was obvious to any listener that she was more than expert at the instrument, her hands coaxing lilting notes from the keys deftly. But all that beauty and grace was lost on him. All he wanted was for the music to stop.

In an effort to take his mind off her infernal playing he continued to stare out the window. He saw the rows and rows of corporate housing and he wondered, not for the first time, how the other people in the city lived. The ones who had not the resources to afford mansions and roses and android playthings. What did they do for work? For leisure? Some of them undoubtedly worked at Endrane, and others made the car that he took to work and back every morning - or did robots do that? In that case, someone had to make those same robots. Where did the flow of industry stop and begin?

The thoughts managed to stop the flow of notes to his ears and he was perversely grateful for that. He continued to think in the same vein for a while. If people made the robots that maintained the city, then some must also have had a hand in the creation of androids...unless those didn't live in corporate housing. If they were skilled enough to create girls like Rachel, they most probably lived in mansions like his own, which meant that...he suddenly realized that there was no more music.

When he turned around to look, she had left.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

But she came back the next week, and the week after that. Without any letters or words being exchanged, they had fallen into an unspoken agreement of sorts. She would come in the evening, and they would make love, and afterwards she would play the piano while he looked out through the window.

It became a routine. What had stared with stammers and unknowns had become a sense of open familiarity. The second month he even struck up a conversation with her - about what, he couldn't quite recall. Something mundane and completely uninteresting.

She had replied politely and noncommittally, and he didn’t remember what she said either, but crinkling of her cheeks in laughter and the too-red of her lips as she raised a hand to them - those he did remember, and for a long time.

Weeks came and passed, and one day he even had the piano tuned. She hadn't seemed to notice, but then again, maybe she couldn’t even tell. He had no idea how androids heard music, and somehow she had been able to play it perfectly many times despite

He lost track of time. How long had she been coming here? It could have been months, or even a year. He didn’t know anymore. Everything was on his company records, of course, but as usual as it was with her he felt disinclined to check…to do nothing expect spend time with this strange android girl who had so captured his attention. If it wasn’t for her penchant for piano playing, he would have bought the rights to her from her employer (whoever it was) a long time ago. As it was, he was content to have her come over each week where they would make their exchange and part till the next week. And the next.

One evening on a whim, he has asked her to join him outside his window on the balcony for a drink, and he had been surprised as her ready acquiescence.

They looked out over the city, and he allowed himself to imagine what she might be thinking. Did androids dream? Or wonder? Her face was the same expressionless mask as always - pretty, but bereft of any feeling or emotion. How she could look so distant, and yet be so passionate in bed? It was truly a wonder of science and engineering.

He wasn't sure if that was what so entranced him. Maybe it was. Before he could pursue that thought further, she surprised him with a sudden question.

"Your drinks...?"

"They're non-alcoholic." In response to her raised eyebrow he let out a short bark of laughter. "Yeah, it's a joke alright. Near impossible to find genuine alcohol nowadays. The most they have is some artificial or chemical stimulant. Works well, apparently gives the same buzz, but without the side effects. I can't do without it." The last was true. He couldn't remember the last day he had gone through without a drink or two. He supposed that he could do without them for a day - or even a week - if he tried (they were supposed to be non-addictive after all) but he had never dared to try.

And why should he? A man of his wealth could drink them all day and afford the regenerative treatment if any of his organs should fail from over-imbibing.

She smiled, and went back to playing the piano, and he went back to staring out of the window, thinking.

Another visit came soon on the heels of the last. He had grown inured to the piano playing, or at least he thought he had. He simply drank, or stared out the window, and somehow he was able to tune it out at least partially.

It was amazing how...familiar they had become over the last few months. She knew his schedule like clockwork now, and she came in exactly when she was wanted and left precisely on time. He supposed that his timetable had been downloaded to her database in some form of high-tech wizardry or another – but he didn’t need to know how or why. He was just happy that they could spend time together.

Slowly it began to grate on him. Not her company – that was as delightful as always. They had dinners together occasionally, and when he could spare the time, even lunches. Breakfast was out of the question – he was too damn busy! – but there was always time for a dalliance or two in the middle or near the end of the day.

It was the damned piano playing. He knew the terms of their agreement quite well - sex in exchange for playing the piano. He had inked enough contracts to know that if he broke the agreement he would get none of what he wanted. But there were some things he just could not stand, and the piano was one of them.

One evening the strange, sudden anger seized him again and he spat out the words harshly.

“Could you stop playing?”

She paused, fingers frozen in mid-stroke. “Excuse me, Mr. Grant?” He had never been able to get him to call him Richard, even though he had asked her more than once. The farthest he had gotten was an indulgent smile from her and the questionable pleasure of her saying his name once…and then having her revert back to her usual mode of address.

“Stop it. Stop playing.” He had to fight to keep the rage out of his voice. The piano...it did something to him, something that all the level-headedness he displayed in corporate settings could do nothing for.

“The terms of our agreement are quite clear, Mr. Grant. You will let me use the piano for as long as I let you use me.” She put it baldly and bluntly. Were this a contract negotiation he would be amused and impressed, but this was the bedroom, not the boardroom, and he didn't appreciate her glib answer in the least.

"Just stop playing that damnable instrument." He walked towards her, intending to seize her by the shoulders, but stopped himself at the last minute. Violence would do not good. He turned away abruptly and spoke to the air.

"A man of my means could have you seized easily enough, Rachel. You could be programmed to serve me. This...agency of yours would be able to do nothing." He wasn't sure how empty a threat he was making, but it never hurt to bluff when you at least had some cards worth playing.

“You could try, Mr. Grant.” She turned to face him, her expression blank as usual. He suddenly realized that she would be a terror at his job, with expressions that no one could read or fathom. “You do not presently have any rights to seize me or order me to do anything beyond what our agreement has stipulated." Not to mention a keen legal sense.

She was right, but he would be damned if he would admit it.

"Get out." His voice was low, guttural, even beast-like. It came from somewhere deep inside that he had never known existed. All his desire and need had vanished in the face of what was welling up inside of him.

She played a few last notes as if taunting him, then stood and dressed with her customary inhuman grace. He turned to face her as she was leaving, and as their eyes met...was there just the faintest hint of a smile on those rouged lips?

A few seconds later the door hissed and she was gone, and he was left with only the blackness and hunger within him.

At first he had been angry - who was she to dictate terms? - but the agency had been oh-so-polite about everything. I'm sorry, Mr. Grant, she is not available today. No, Mr. Grant, we don't approve of our members "putting on airs" but each is entitled to their own rights and privileges. Mr. Grant, the subject of ownership and rentals relating to android rights is unfortunately beyond my expertise - if we could direct you to our legal department?

In the end he had given up. She didn't want to come, not if she couldn't play the piano, and that was that. He had shouted down the phone a few times and that had made him feel better...knowing he could vent all his frustration and all he would hear was the cool, clear voice at the other line telling him no, Mr. Grant, and yes, Mr. Grant, and we regretfully apologize for any inconvenience you might be experiencing. He was pretty sure that there was another android on the other line - probably female as well, though you could never really tell with them - and in a brief flight of fancy he debated asking for the receptionist instead.

But he didn't. It wouldn't be the same. He didn't want any other girl, now - he wanted her. And he didn't know how the agency could refuse his demands. After all, he was prepared to pay in cash, up front, and he was not a man that you wanted on your bad side. He had toyed with other ideas - blackmail, coercion - and had settled on trying to bribe the company representative they had sent down one week.

It had been of no use. The representative (not an android) had blinked his eyes once, pretended not to notice, and come right back to offering him a premium membership. Or some kind of deal in which he could possibly rent three girls for the price of one. He couldn't remember which and didn't care.

It was stupid. Getting this worked up over an android, a mere machine. And yet - it still nagged at him, teased him. He wanted her, but he couldn't have her. In a rare flight of fantasy he had even once thought of having her forcibly repossessed. Androids - no matter how sophisticated or well-made - were in the end property. They could only be owned, never own. And so if the writ of ownership was transferred from the agency to him...sure, it was illegal, but if you threw enough money at something, laws had their ways of changing.

And yet it didn't seem right somehow. Too crude, unrefined. No finesse. His father wouldn't have approved.

He scowled and took a particularly savage swig of his drink.

He had taken to drinking more when Rachel was here and now even when she had gone, the habit persisted.

How had his father gotten mixed up in this? He supposed it was the music - the damned music. He had gotten better at blocking it out during the past few months, but it still bothered him. He could almost hear the tinkling of the keys in the back of his mind, and her too-white fingers dancing over the keyboard.

The old man had always liked the piano - couldn't play it, but liked it. He had never moved it out of the room, never even allowed anyone except certain staff members to touch it, and even hired an expert to tune the damn thing when he knew well enough no one in the family could either play it or wanted to. The piano had class, the old man declared, class and quality.

And on rare occasions when he wasn't shouting at people, or drawing up another deal, or screaming at him, his father would sit quietly at the stool, fingers resting on the keys, not making a sound.

Strange. He hasn't thought about his father in years. Decades, even. Why should he? The old man was gone. Dead and buried. And there had been no love lost between the two of them either, just endless shouting matches and arguments. Frankly he had been glad when the old coot finally kicked the bucket - at least then he would have free rein of the corporation and never need to justify himself to anyone ever again.

That damn piano. He didn't even know why he kept it around. He should have junked it like he had disposed of all his father's other things. But something in him wouldn't allow him to, and if he HAD thrown it away...then Rachel wouldn't even give him the time of day.

Of course, he didn't even know that Rachel existed at that time. Or that he had a thing for androids. So he had kept the piano for reasons that continued to elude him even now.

After a few months, he gave in. His desire for her (need, rather) overwhelmed his reason and his hatred, and one day he found himself dialing the number of the company and saying yes, he would allow her to come back to play the piano. The cool, calm voice at the other end replied in the affirmative, and they were so happy that Mr. Grant had been able to reach a satisfactory agreement. He listened to the whole stream of corporate boilerplate and then slammed the phone back down onto the receiver when they were done.

An android who wanted to play the piano. This time when she came - in a green satin dress that set off the red of her hair, and an orchid in its curls - he asked her why she wanted to play the piano in the first place. He supposed that he should have asked this much earlier but for some reason it had never occurred to him.

She looked at him with that steady, blank stare that he had grown to know so well. "I like music. Especially piano music."

Why? He asked and she stared at him and replied. "Because it sounds nice."

He gave up. There was nothing you could do with answers like that. Instead of wasting more time he simply took her to bed, had his way with her, and then lay resting on it as she got up and played as usual.

He had experimented with various methods of blocking out the noise over the months that they had been together. Looking out the window, his old favorite. Thinking about anything except the music. Even going through his work schedule and what he needed to do on any given day. In the end he had found that a combination of musing and staring at the bleak grey cityscape worked the best, and so that is what he did, desperately trying to distract himself from the tinkling of the keys.

A string of high notes tore him out of his reverie. For some reason he was sensitive to the high sounds, and he had asked her on more than one occasion to not play pieces that had too many of them.

"Well, it depends on the song, really. Some of them have more than others." was her only reply. Not a yes, not a no. She would look at him for a second, expression blank as usual - then go back to her music.

He shot her an annoyed glance, but she was oblivious to his irritation and played on, one soaring note after another. After a minute or so of that she stopped and turned to him.

"Don't you like the music?"

Like...like the music? He barely was able to tolerate it for their agreement. Rage flared through him again but strangely enough this time it passed quickly enough.

"No. I don't like the music." He answered simply.

"I see." She regarded him steadily for a moment and then slipped off the chair to get dressed. It seemed like the concert was over for today.

Another week passed and found them back in the same state as before.

They were drinking again but it was alcohol this time. He had asked if she could metabolize the liquor and she had nodded. He supposed that it would simply be drained from her digestive systems later and reconstituted - all androids had functional digestive tracts so they could mimic the act of consumption, but since they ran on power cells, anything that they ate or drank had to be voided somehow later.

He tried not to think too much about it. It broke the illusion of their seeming humanity too brutally for him to enjoy her company.

She had looked at each drink slowly, pale eyes blinking, and then had held it up to the light so she could watch bubbles float through the amber liquid. A curious android - now he had seen everything. Then again, he had never met an android who loved piano music either.

They toasted and drank, and then her eye fell on a bottle of pills on the table. She picked it up. It was one of their products. He didn't know why he kept it in his room in the first place.

"What's this?"

He wasn't sure what she meant. "What do you mean?"

She pointed to the bottle and nodded. He caught himself staring at the nape of her neck, so very white...too white, whiter than any human neck could or had the right to be. But he managed to retain enough presence of mind to answer.

"Oh, that. It's just something we make."

She raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Do you ever take it yourself?"

"No, never use my own products. Bad form."

"Maybe you should consider using them, Mr. Grant. Then you might not need the services of piano-playing androids any longer." He took there, shocked, as a slight smile played around her otherwise smooth and even features.

Then, before he could formulate a reply, she was gone. Until next week, at least. He wasn't even surprised that she hadn't played the piano this time.

She wore a different flower in her hair each time she came, but most of the time they were roses. He didn't know or ask how she knew he liked them - just like he didn't know or ask how she had learnt to play the piano. He supposed in all their time spent together she had learnt more about him that he had realized. Either that or her programmers were skilled enough at interpretative analysis to enable her to guess. Whatever the case he liked it, and so he didn't complain.

He grew to like the scent of roses. He ordered that his office be scented - just a faint odor, he didn't want to overpower his clients' noses. It was done the next day, and he thought it was a vast improvement. He even debated hanging some paintings of roses on the walls, but decided against it. It would clash with the color, and with the scent already present the effect might be too strong.

Fake roses, sir? his assistant had inquired. They might go well with the decor. On impulse he had said yes, and the next day a dozen beautifully crafted roses in a variety of colors arrived. He tried placing them on his desk, on the chairs, on the walls - but somehow they just didn't look right. He abandoned the idea and went back to just the scent.

He didn't even ask about real roses. He was aware of how much they cost. He could afford them outside in the gardens, were they had their intended effect - instilling a sense of awe in anyone who was visiting. Anything else was an extravagant expense that he couldn't justify even with the amount of money at his disposal.

She seemed to like the effect. He had no idea if androids could smell, and if so, how well - but on the day that he had the scent put in he fancied that she smiled just a little more than usual. She turned playful, almost coquettish, and teased him in and out of bed with word games and subtle gestures.

Or it could all be in his mind. It was hard to tell with androids. Still, he was happy to partake of the illusion. The cold businesslike part of his mind reasoned that it was a small cost to pay for her imagined happiness. And another, more cynical part thought the scent of fake roses for the false joy of a human facsimile...somehow appropriate.

But another part of him was just glad she liked it.

She was playing the piano again, and he was trying to do his utmost to block it out. Again. He had supposed that it would get easier each time but it actually seemed to become harder. The notes would do their gentle cascade up and down and he would grit his teeth and try to think about something else and very often almost succeed.

He had finally made the connection between the piano and his anger. It was simple, really - his father. He should have seen it way before but the life he lead left little time for reflection and introspection. His world was simple - money, making more of it...that, and android girls who played the piano.

The old man had made his life a living hell, and not just through business either. Nothing was ever good enough for him - not their revenues, not the clothes that they wore, not any of his sons and daughters. He wasn't the only one who resented the old man's critical ways...his sister refused to have anything to do with him altogether, and the family as a whole had heaved a collective sigh when he has finally died.

So why hadn't he destroyed the piano? Sentimentalism, he guessed. That and the fact that it was quite an expensive instrument indeed. He could afford another if he had to but...he didn't quite understand it himself, just like he couldn't quite understand his attraction to Rachel.

He looked out the window again. Rows upon rows upon rows of smokestacks greeted his eyes. He supposed smokestacks wasn't quite the proper term. Firstly, they didn't even blow out smoke. But he had read about it in a book somewhere and it seemed the right thing to call them.

"Do you ever get bored of looking at them?" She didn't even raise her head to look at him now when she asked. He turned to answer, noting that her forehead was creased as she navigated a particularly complex sequence of notes. In that brief second she was more radiant than ever. Not that he would ever tell her that.

"No." Somewhere along the way he had gotten into her habit of giving short, simple answers.

She played on for a while and left him to his thoughts. And then came another question.

“Do you often think about the people in the buildings, Mr. Grant?” My, she was inquisitive today. He supposed that he had better humor her.

"No, not really. I don't need to know anything about them except the fact that they buy from me."

"And what is it that you sell?"

"You don't know?" He paused and looked at her, uncertain and incredulous. She looked back with wide, honest eyes, then nodded, indicating with that simple motion that yes, she didn't know, and yes, she would like to. "You really don't...well, we sell Priespex."

"And what is that?"

"Priespex. For when you're feeling alone." He rattled off the product line glibly, smiling a little at himself. "I wouldn't think androids need things like that, though."

"I suppose not. Humans might, though." She paused. "And those are in those bottles of yours?

He nodded yes and asked a question of his own. "And if you were human?"

She laughed, raising a hand to her mouth. "I didn't think of that. After all, I'm not." Then she turned to him, eyes suddenly filled with impish glee. "And you? What if you were an android? Perhaps then you would like piano music."

"But I'm not. And I don't." he said shortly.

“I guess not.” she replied. After a moment’s pause she returned to her piano playing.

On her next visit he asked to go out to dinner with her and she accepted.

He supposed that this was what they called a date. He had selected one of the finest restaurants in the city - money was no expense, not to him - and they had driven there in the same car he took to work every day. He had had his assistants pick out a suit for him - something subdued, nothing too fancy. Then he had even gotten a bottle of wine. Alcoholic, of course.

This was more deviant behavior than even his dalliances with her. He was treating her like a human being. And why wouldn't he? Android or no, she was more real to him than anyone he had ever known or met.

Unlike everyone else he knew she was unafraid to voice her opinions or viewpoints. From her there would be no trite replies or rehearsed speeches. Even the sudden stop-start of her eyelids as she blinked was more concrete than the drone of corporate wageslaves that he had to listen to every day.

So they had gone on their date, and it was the most pleasant evening he could remember in recent memory. The food was excellent, and the company even more so. There was soft music to accompany their meal, and somewhere in the middle of it he had watched in something approaching rapture as she had lifted a finger to dab at a stray trickle of juice running down her cheek.

Once he had even made a feeble attempt at a joke and she had laughed - whether at his delivery or effort he couldn't know.

And afterwards they had gone back to his rooms and made love with a gentleness and intensity that astounded him. He wondered for a moment whether she was happy. Could androids feel? Was it all just algorithm and analysis, endless rounds of computation in data banks and internal storage? Did they sleep, or dream...and if they did indeed do the latter, what did they dream of? Electric sheep, or roses and pianos?

He had learned to stop asking questions when it came to her, not in the least because they would never be answered. And as she traced a hand languorously across his naked chest as they lay cooling, he reflected on the fact that he didn't need to know.

And then one day she disappeared. Just like that.

Their customary meeting was supposed to take place but instead there was no contact from her. He waited one hour, then two, and then three. Nothing. Finally he called the agency but they were no help either. All he got were the familiar rehearsed replies and pat answers. They couldn't tell him where she went, or why she wasn't here in the first place. Once again, nothing.

His worry and upset soon transformed into anger, and he grew furious again. At himself? At her? Both, probably. Her for disappearing without so much as a by your leave, and himself for caring so much.

He called the agency again a week later but predictably they gave no reply or forwarding address. Ever professional, they suggested a variety of replacements. There was a new model in stock, apparently almost human-like in actions and mannerisms. The receptionist (probably an android herself) suggested delicately that she would be able to take care of needs, whatever they were.

He didn't care if they made an android who could fly or could juggle or count backwards. Nor did he care how human or robotic any replacement might be. He wanted her and nothing else. But she was nowhere to be found.

The piano sat in a corner of his room, abandoned and forgotten, and each time he looked at it he felt the twin emotions of longing and hatred well up in his heart.

Despite how pained he felt, he wasn't as badly affected as he thought he would be. The scent of roses still lingered around the room and served to blunt the loss somewhat. He didn't feel the desperate hunger of the first few weeks, when she had left because he didn't allow her to play the piano. No, what he felt now was more of a dull ache, a certain grey emptiness not unlike the color of the skies outside the city.

But he would be lying if he said he didn't miss her. He tried working more, but that didn't help. All it did was stress him out more, which in turn made him desire relief more, which led him to remember how she was so good at coaxing the cares and aches of the day from him, and how soft her lily-white body was against his.

He almost considered taking his own medicine. For when you're alone...but he wasn't alone, not really. She was always around him - inside his mind, under his skin, lingering in his thoughts and emotions.

After a month he dispensed with the smell, because it did two things to him - it drove him almost crazy with desire, and it distracted him from work. A splinter in his mind that caught between the memory of the past and the bitter reality of the present.

It was one day as he was staring out from his window - a habit he couldn't quite break - that the thought occurred to him. Real roses might work where fake ones only served to remind him of her. He had plenty of them outside his mansion, and since they weren't taken care of as well as he would like, why not do that himself? It would be a welcome change from pining after something that he couldn't have.

So he took up gardening. He had staff who could tend the gardens for him, but this time he wanted to do it himself, to see each bloom be nurtured into health and growth by his own hands. The ones he had under his employ were incompetent in any case. They could never grow roses the same shade as the ones in her hair.

It was more calming that he had ever thought it could be. The cycles of birth and death, growth and decay. A man of his position was unaccustomed to having to wait for anything - besides her, of course - and now he was forced to deal with the rhythms of soil and seed, where all the money and power in the world would not make them grow any faster or better.

It was a humbling experience which gave him ample time for the self-reflection that he so abhorred and yet longed for. Amidst the cutting, shearing and pruning of rosebushes, he mused to himself that he would never have thought that he would enjoy working with his hands so much. But then again he never would have thought that he would come to be so attached to an android either. Or that she would leave.

His days and weeks became punctuated by the blooming and dying of roses. Before it was her visits, but now each round of death and rebirth was how he kept time. They grew, they died and then their petals fell. There was a tranquil regularity about it that he grew to relish and enjoy.

But every so often he still dreamt of her, and his body would ache with suppressed desire. He longed to see her - to touch her - again, and the roses could only do so much. But for now, they were all that he had.

The roses were blooming well this week.

He touched one gently, feeling the spring and resilience in the petals even as his fingertips registered their softness.

As his skills had progressed he had tried to plant more and more, experimenting with different blooms over time. Blue roses were the hardest. They never seemed to want to grow, fragile and recalcitrant and drooping at the slightest touch. Then he tried the yellow, which were a little better. They took to the soil easily enough but they still seemed to wilt without constant attention.

He went with others as well. Purple, hardy but prone to mold. White, difficult to grow at first but well worth the effort it took. Blue, vivid and arresting.

But he always came back to the red roses. They were robust, strong and managed to grow in whatever conditions he put them in. When meetings prevented him from coming to the gardens as often as he liked, they weathered his absence without shedding a single petal.

He couldn’t lie to himself any more – he had planted the roses because they reminded him of her. The hue of carmine called to the mind the shade of her lips and most of all, the flower in her hair that she had had in it when they first met.

He plucked the one that he was holding onto and moved on to the next.

Roses. How his life seemed to have become filled with them.

From memories of her to the gardens that he worked on almost every day now. As time passed he had gotten better at cultivating them and soon he had so many of them that he didn't know what to do. He ended up putting them in vases, one in his room and the rest in his office.

Some clients even commented on how nice they looked, but he didn't care what they thought. He hadn't brought them in for them. He did like the way they looked, though. Also, they didn't smell very strongly and he was actually very glad of that.

He had almost ordered the piano destroyed as well, but at the last minute he had changed his mind. It reminded him of his father, yes – which is why he had so hated her playing it all this time – but it also reminded him of her, and how she would sit naked after their lovemaking, her long white fingers dancing rapidly over the keys where only minutes before they had dragged climax after climax from his gasping body.

He had even considered learning to play it once...but no. The roses were enough for him.

It was one day in the gardens when he was weeding and pruning that it came - a call. He had told his office to hold all calls for the week. He had just finished a particularly tricky contract negotiation with Paradyne Corporation, and he needed time for himself after three grueling days spent doing nothing but crunching numbers and discussing figures.

Wait. There was only one person who had this number. He put down the shears and put the phone that was never far from him to his ear.

“Richard. I wanted to see you.” It was her. He would know that voice anywhere – half girl, half woman. Soft, but with just a hint of breathiness to it. The same voice that had whispered to him in bed and giggled in amusement while they were talking.

“Where have you been?” He tried and failed to keep the trembling out of his voice.

“I won’t be able to see you anymore. I just wanted you to know that…to know that…” – was that indecision in heard in her tone? Or something else? She continued before he could be sure.

“I enjoyed our time together, and I will be sad to leave. Keep the piano in tune for me, won’t you?”

He knew better than to plead, or to ask her to reconsider. He could try tracing the call but he had a suspicion that wouldn't work either. The agency would be of no use. In the end she would do whatever she wanted to do, because that was who she was.

He was still standing there thinking of what to say when the line went dead abruptly.

He stood there for a few moments, unmoving, then placed the receiver back onto the handset gently. Then he went up to his rooms.

And there he took the vase of roses that was in it, put it on top of the piano, and left.