The Perfect Wife(59)

And the size of the bill, you think cynically.

There are five people gathered around the glass-topped table in the lawyer’s plush office. As well as Maines, Tim, and you, there’s Mike and Elijah, though you can’t actually see what this has to do with them.

Maines ticks off points on his fingers. “First, they’re claiming emotional distress. We can pretty much discount that—it’s the usual chaff, to bulk out their other arguments. Second, data protection. That looks scary, but actually data laws are riddled with loopholes, as Google and Facebook know only too well. It’s the remaining three points that concern me more.”

“Go on,” Tim snaps.

“Their third contention is over ‘rights of publicity.’ Unauthorized appropriation of name and likeness for a commercial endeavor, such as the creation of merchandise, is always a no-go.”

“She isn’t merchandise,” Tim says with quiet fury. “She’s my wife.”

Pete Maines continues as though he hasn’t spoken. “The concept of ‘likeness,’ incidentally, has evolved through case law, and can include features such as mannerisms, speech, and personal style.”

“Wait a minute,” Elijah interjects. “I know something about this. Don’t a person’s image rights automatically pass to their estate after their death?”

Maines nods. “That’s correct.”

Elijah looks around the room with a grin. “Well, then, we’re in the clear. Abbie’s image rights are now Tim’s.”

There’s a long silence. Tim shakes his head.

“Why not?” Elijah demands, puzzled.

“Abbie isn’t legally dead,” the lawyer replies. “She’s missing, certainly, and her death has been presumed. But in the absence of a body, or a conviction for her murder, she won’t be declared dead until five years from the date of the inquest. In three months’ time, in other words.”

“So we stall,” Elijah says immediately.

“We can try. But for the same reason, they’ll be pressing to get this in front of a judge as fast as possible.” Maines ticks off his fingers again. “Point four is consent. Did your wife ever explicitly or implicitly give her permission to be re-created in this way?”

Tim’s face is dark. “She didn’t need to. It was understood between us.”

“But nothing in writing. Or in front of witnesses.”

He shakes his head.

“That’s not true,” you say slowly.

They all look at you.

“Our wedding vows. I give myself to you for all eternity. Remember?”

“Very moving,” Maines says. “But sadly, wedding vows have no actual weight in law. I don’t suppose anything was mentioned in the prenup?”

Tim shakes his head.

“Well, that does bring us to another point. Who actually owns this remarkable creation?” Maines gestures casually at you with the same hand that’s counting off points.

You stare at him, shocked. Tim flinches. “Owns? She’s not property, for Christ’s sake.”

“You may not like to think of her that way, but the courts will view it differently. She was constructed by Scott Robotics, I take it? Have you purchased her from the company? Or is she still the company’s asset?”

Tim bangs a fist on the table. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s my company.”

“It’s the shareholders’ company. Remind me who the majority investors are?”

“As of yesterday,” Mike answers quietly, “John Renton.”

Maines whistles. “Well, the good news is, it’ll be the company, rather than you personally, that bears the costs of fighting this.” He pauses. “Or makes some kind of settlement.”

“We’re not settling,” Tim says through gritted teeth. You can tell it’s costing him an effort not to explode.

“You should really hear me out before you make that call.” Maines holds up his hand again, the thumb extended. “The fifth and final point relates to moral rights. And that’s the one I think we’re going to find hardest to win.”

Elijah frowns. “Moral rights? What are those?”

“The rights of an artist to control their creation. California’s the only state to recognize them.”

“I don’t understand,” you say. “How am I Abbie’s creation?” Too late you realize you’ve just said Abbie instead of my. You’ll need to be careful about that. But no one else appears to have noticed.

It’s Tim who answers. “The very first version of you—the beta, if you like. It was your idea.”





SEVENTEEN


“I’d love to make a robot of you.”

Later several of us would swear we’d heard Tim say those words, or some variation on them, to Abbie as they walked through reception. (Since she’d gotten back from rehab they’d started coming in together again, hand in hand, their other hands clasping matching lattes from Urban Beans.) And while it was, on the face of it, an unusual thing to say, we all got it. We were roboticists, after all. We had long ago stopped thinking of robots as something freaky or weird.

What Abbie said in reply was the subject of greater debate. Some of us thought she laughed and said, “Sure.” As in, “Sure you would, but that isn’t going to happen.” Others thought she might have said “Sure”—as in “Sure, why not?” And many of us thought she said “Sure?” As in, “Really? Because I’m up for it, if you are.”