The Experience-Smith

“Cue the rain,” Stigfield said, leaning into the microphone. His voice was quiet, somnolent. 

He always got like that when he worked. No idea why. It’s not as if his clients could hear him.

Through his holoport he watched as the couple—his clients—stood in front of that baroque fountain and the rain began to dribble down, just as he ordained. 

The “man” was tall, rugged, handsome. A brick jaw, a stern brow. Stigfield noticed—and not for the first time—that his clients never gave themselves double chins. 

The “woman”, our hunks soon to be ex-fiance, was just as striking: Thin, athletic, demure but with an edge to her that made you think there could be more in store if she invited you for a nightcap. Her dress was an impossible shade of red. Her mink a perfect facsimile of a long extinct animal. Her movements, elegant, like the grace of an angel or an old Hollywood starlet. 

Stigfield pressed button channeling his microphone directly to his “male” client: “Lean in…”

The AI construct—as seen through Stigfield’s holoport—did as he was told, his lips so close to hers, his 5 o’clock shadow brushing her cheek. 

“Say: ‘It was you. All along it was you.’”

The woman looked up at him, her eyes wide. Stigfield saw high amounts of neural activity in her tensor-net. A warning light flashed, a buzzer beeped. She was about to go off script. 

Stigfield slammed the big red HALT simulation button. The picture on the holoport froze: the couple, the passing cars, the rain.

“C-Decka-53.” Stigfield growled. 

There was a hesitant pause, then the synthetic tone of an AI’s voice answered: “Experience-Smith Stigfield?”

“You were about to say something weren’t you?”

Another pause, almost guilty. “I was.”

“You do realize that would fuck all of this up?”

“I… I didn’t expect him to say that.” 

“Of course you didn’t expect that. What do you think you’re paying me for?” Stigfield asked.  

The AI did not respond.

“I’m the best Experience-Smith on the planet. Especially with break-ups. You sought ME out. Not because I’m okay. Or good. Because I am the best. You sought me out because you and your VR hunk boyfriend—”

“Gamma-Gamma-25 is not my boyfriend.” The AI cut in.

“Whatever. You and your ‘not boyfriend’ wanted to experience what having a relationship was like. All of it. Falling in love. The sex. Tons of sex! Pillow talk. The whole nine-yards. And now, you wanted to experience the break-up. And part of a relationship, especially the hard parts, the parts that really stick with you for fucking ever are the unexpected parts. So will you calm your robot hormones and let me direct this experience for you?”

The silence stretched uncomfortably long. Stigfield half expected her to disconnect, terminate his contract. It had happened before with other clients. 

“Very well Experience-Smith Stigfield. We shall continue with your scene.”

“Good.”

Stigfield hit the RESUME button. For the part of the AI inside the simulation, just as for the rain drops suspended in virtual air, no time had passed. He cupped the microphone, speaking as soft as ever, his frustration with his client evaporated. “Whisper, Not again John. Never again.” 

He turned an emotional inflection nob. C-Decka-53’s avatar repeated his words, her voice imbued with virtual pain.

“Good. Now lean in as if to kiss him, then push him away. Yes! Now, run down the street.”

The Experience-Smith didn’t even have to hit a trigger pad. C-Decka-53 was crying all on her own as her heels clacked across Columbus Avenue. Gamma-Gamma-25’s manly form watch her go. Was that a tear in his eye too? Or simply the rain?

Stigfield knew. He leaned back in his chair. He’d done good. Sure the AI’s ruled the world, had all the money, but it was only humans who could craft the emotional experience for them. And he was the best. 

A moment later his phone dinged with a notification: 2.5 million just transferred into his account. He cleared the notification on his phone, should have looked away from the device. He knew better. But he didn’t. He never did. 

He stared at his phone’s wallpaper. A picture of a young man, and woman. If you squinted hard enough, the young man looked a lot like Stigfield except clean shaven and wearing a tuxedo. The woman. She was something. A raven haired beauty in a red dress. They stood in front of a fountain outside of Lincoln Center in old pre-bomb New York. The sun was still out but in the distance clouds were forming. The couple were smiling. 

Finaly, Stigfield put away the phone. He sat in silence as two Artificial Intelligence constructs, and one man, all wept human tears.