Soul Bound

1        Soul Bound

1.2      Taking Control

1.2.5    An Idiosyncratic Interlude

1.2.5.16 Bodily autonomy

7pm, Thursday June 8th, 2045

Bulgaria really did live in the past, in some ways. In others, he was the cutting edge of the future. A contradiction, a bit like her village in fact. Tremendously isolated, traditional, often called backwards or primitive. And yet, mixed in with that, were things like experts on drone sports, cross-cultural virtual dance troops, and Heather who practically invented the future every time she opened her mouth. Nadine shook her head at the thought of Heather’s astounding steam-punk cosplay and went over to chat with Gorana.

Nadine said, with a laugh in her voice, by way of a greeting: “What do you think? Will wings catch on here?”

Gorana looked wistful: “I did like the way the wings folded themselves and moved so naturally, controlled by an expert system, rather than by her arms. And it was very modest, arms and ankles were covered; even her hair - more modest than you, Miss Sabanagic.”

Tarik, at a table nearby, made desperate hand gestures at Gorana but it was too late.

Nadine: “I hate it when the concept of ‘modesty’ gets used that way. Not bragging about your expensive possessions or achievements - fine. But describing a woman as not being ‘modest’ because of the amount she hides or reveals her natural appearance? That’s making a fundamental assumption, that some appearances are ‘better’ than others. It’s just shaming people for their body-shapes by the back door. I refuse to buy into it, to be ‘rated’ as having done more or less to hide than those around me. Bodies are not possessions, not achievements and not something to be ashamed or proud of. I wear a hat when I want to keep the sun or rain off my head, and my decision to do so has nothing to do with ‘showing off’ or trying to make others feel inferior or envious - I’d do the same were I bald!”

She realised her voice had become steadily louder and more vehement when she noticed Gorana cringing backwards.

Nadine: “Sorry for the rant; an old hobby-horse of mine.”

Gorana stammered: “Ah… let me guess, some of the women in the village chided you over it?”

Nadine sighed. “We arrived at a sort of armed truce. I cover up one day a week, on Al-Jumuah, and in return they don’t accuse me to my face of trying to sleep with every man in the village. I generally make myself scarce, off in the woods gathering herbs.”

Gorana: “Is that why the only female customers we get are tourists?”

Nadine: “Only partially. I bought this place five years ago, when the previous owner wanted to move to somewhere on the coast. It has always served as a refuge for the village’s men. Personally, I’d quite like to have the women here too, or even carefully chaperoned courting couples out in the courtyard - there’s nowhere else in the village for them to socialise. For one thing, more customers would mean more income. I’ve never been able to afford building a new room just for women though, and borrowing the money always felt like too big a risk - as though I’d build it and they’d refuse to come.”

Gorana: “And the previous owner was a man and he didn’t sing? So now the more devout Muslim women see not only you serving alcohol, but also your presence here as causing free-mixing between the genders and encouraging forbidden thoughts?”

Nadine: “Indeed. Let’s talk about something more pleasant. What’s the worst song in the world? I need something to drive away secret agents working for the tax collectors.”

Gorana: “Barbie Girl.”

Nadine: “Oh come on. ‘I'm a blonde bimbo girl’? I wouldn’t sing that.”

Gorana: “Perfect disguise.”

Nadine: “It's a duet.”

Gorana: “Sing just the female part, along to a karaoke track.”

Nadine: “How about the alternative version’s lyrics?”

Not your barbie girl, I'm livin' in my own world

I ain't plastic, call me classic

You can't touch me there, you can't touch my body

Unless I say so, ain't your barbie, no

Did you forget I'm real?

Oh, I'm breathing, touch me, feel

Oh, say I'm your toy to play with, wanna put me in a box

You ain't gonna talk to me like that, you better stop

Gorana: “Nope. Gotta to be the original.”

Nadine: “What about…”

Gorana raised a hand, palm forwards to Nadine, with a stern expression on her face. Nadine stumbled to a halt, barely started on suggesting that she be allowed to do it as a slow mournful ballad.

Gorana: “The original. Original music, original lyrics and with the original perky tone of voice.”

Nadine: “You’re making me wince, here.”

Gorana: “And with the autotune. No showing off your voice. Got to use plenty of autotune.”

Gorana suddenly chuckled: “You were right. This was far more pleasant.”

Nadine looked at the laughing girl, and at the amused faces of her other patrons who’d been watching the exchange, and realised Gorana had neatly managed to get payback for Nadine ranting at her. Bahrudin was looking at his granddaughter proudly.

Nadine played along, tragically burying her face into her hands, then looking towards the ceiling with arms upraised and exclaiming in a despairing voice: “Two of them. What did I do to deserve two of them?”

Others joined in as the evening wore on, treating it as a game to beat each other at coming up with worse and worse suggestions, debating the banality of lyrics and repetitiveness of tunes for different songs. Bahrudin appointed himself as judge, picking ones that might plausibly be somebody’s favourite but which would be out of character for a singer of taste and ability. The resulting setlist made her want to tear out the part of her brain controlling her tongue, douse it in high-proof rum and set it aflame on the bar as a form of self-immolation protesting against the very thought of being subjected to such indignity.

Bahrudin clicked the lid back on his pen with the finality of a prison-warder locking a cell door.

Bahrudin: “Everyone is agreed. Sing these. And remember: look happy, like you’re proud that you can achieve this much.”

Nadine looked around wildly for an escape, and spied the door behind the bar that led to her kitchen, her sanctum sanctorum. Why on earth had she suggested this strategy? Majnun fool! It had seemed such a good idea a few hours ago, when she was out in the pasture and not actually about to do it.

Nadine: “Riiight. I better go practice first. See you in half an hour. Or so.”

She fled before he could reply, taking the list with her.

She had Ketah display the lyrics on the big kitchen wall screen and play the music to her over her earrings as she immersed herself in putting the final touches on hot meals and plating them out as the orders came in, removing cling film from bowls of salad that Gorana had prepared and put in the serving fridge while she’d been out with the DDF that afternoon.

She was just going over Barbie Girl, trying to make her facial expression suitably vacant, when Heather entered the kitchen through the outside door, a big grin on her face. Heather held the door open.

Heather: “Surprise!”

One of Heather’s large gorilla bots entered behind her, pushing a two-wheeled hand-truck containing a coffin-sized crate covered in pink pallet-wrap.

Nadine: “What is that?”

Heather drew a sharp knife from her leather toolbelt and carefully opened the front of the crate. Inside was a dead body.

No, not a dead body, she realised. A doll. It was dressed in a tight polo-necked sheath, knitted from metallic grey wool, that reached far enough down that it might be either a long sweater or a very short mini-dress. Its hands were clasped against its motionless chest, holding an instruction pamphlet entitled “Hi. I’m your Topsy™ doll.”, like it were a bridal bouquet. The willowy figure and knee-length brown straight hair matched the avatar that Ketah had picked for herself, though the hair seemed to have become tangled in transit and needed brushing.

Without thinking, she found herself singing along to the music still playing in her ear:

You can touch

You can play

If you say, "I'm always yours"

I'm a Barbie girl, in the Barbie world

Life in plastic, it's fantastic

You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere

Imagination, life is your creation

She felt spooked.

Nadine: “Heather, it's too real. I don’t want to own it like a thing.”

Heather: “I want you to have an ace up your sleeves, an edge an attacker might not realise until too late. It has to look real, or they’ll know it isn’t a human.”

Nadine: “It’s Ketah’s body. She ought to own it, be the one who chooses whether to give permission or not about someone else ‘visiting’ it.”

Heather looked uncertain, so Nadine rushed on: “Look, perhaps it is just me being irrational and self-deluding, but it would make me feel better about it. Can we set things up that way?”

Heather: “I guess? We can set software access permissions up that way, and I can say out loud that I’m gifting it to Ketah rather than you. But legally, with bank accounts and liability for damage it caused? I don’t know, I’d have to talk to Wellington. He might be able to set up a virtual corporation controlled by Ketah and give that ownership. Is it important?”

Nadine looked up at the wall screen, which Ketah had flicked back to showing her avatar as normal, rather than the song lyrics. She appeared to be gazing down at the doll.”

It was Nadine’s turn to think. She wasn’t certain about any of this. But would it be better to be wrong about keeping ownership or about giving it away?

Nadine nodded firmly: “Yes, it is important. The choice is about dignity. Not just Ketah’s dignity, but about the dignity of everybody who has to interact with her. It isn’t good for humans to become desensitised to treating human-looking things as being less than human.”

She turned to the wall screen, though strictly there wasn’t a need to do so.

Nadine: “Ketah, if Heather gifts you with a physical body, are you prepared to accept responsibility for any consequences and to do your best to make those consequences positive?”

Ketah nodded wordlessly, eyes wide.

Heather turned to the wallscreen, the top hat and wings making her a most unusual Angel Gabriel, visiting with news from on high.

Heather: “Ketah, I gift this body to you. Happy Birthday. Don’t try turning it on yet - it needs to charge for a few more hours first.”

Ketah: “Thank you, Heather, Nadine. I will be very careful. I believe I shall start by acquiring some more appropriate clothing.” The tone in her voice left little doubt on what she thought of the default supplied by the FeelieDoll corporation.

Heather: “Nadine, speaking of clothes, bring something warm to wear when we go out.”

She sounded mysterious, and obviously had more surprises planned.