The Traveler's Companion by Christopher John Chater Read Free Book Online Page A

really wanted to know was: could a man love a machine?”
    “That’s what you do all day? Solicit pervs on the Internet?” Gibbons asked.
    “The data suggested that the idea of a woman was as emotionally intoxicating for these men as a real woman, maybe even more so. Real women are flawed, but the girl who exists in their imaginations is perfect. For a man to love a machine it would have to nurture his fantasies while divorcing him from reality. Luckily nature beat us to it. Romantic love isn’t much more than mind-altering chemicals released by the brain for the purpose of propagating the species. But to get the brain to release the drug, the object of his desire has to fit the necessary criteria. The trick is to fool the mind into thinking the criteria have been met,” Iverson said.
    “Can’t imagine the Department of Defense is beating down your door,” Gibbons said.
    “The DoD wants a leather-clad vixen with a bazooka. But why create a soldier when we could crown a queen?” Iverson asked.
    “Meaning?”
    “Imagine Angela inspires romantic feelings in a man. All of a sudden she has power over him. She might be able to influence him from committing some heinous crime. She persuades him to turn himself in to the authorities. No bloodshed necessary. Hasn’t it always been the goal of the DS&T to save lives, even the lives of—”
    “Save the public service announcement, Iverson. We need the Terminator and you want to sick Jane Eyre on his ass. Whatever happened to blowing these bastards back to hell where they belong?” Gibbons asked.
    “With her there’s no collateral damage, no destruction to property, no post-traumatic stress disorder. Her programming saves lives.”
    “What if he’s gay? They go shopping together?”
    “If Angela’s successful, phase two will deal with those types of snags,” Iverson said.
    “Phase two?”
    Angela entered the room holding three cups of coffee. She set a cup in front of Gibbons and then handed one to Iverson.
    “With phase one she can bring us coffee, and for only twelve billion dollars. If tax payers only knew,” Gibbons said.
    “Wait until you try it. Worth every penny,” Iverson quipped.
    She put the third cup before an empty chair and sat down.
    Iverson, watching her with slight concern, asked, “Who’s that third cup for, Angela?”
    “That’s not for her?” Gibbons asked.
    “I thought Mister Go might want one,” Angela said.
    “He’s here?” Iverson asked in a pitch higher than usual.
    There was a knock at the door.
    “Call security!” Gibbons cried out, jumping up from his seat.
    Iverson stood as well, pulling out his cell phone and wielding it like a buck knife.
    Another knock at the door.
    “Should I get that?” Angela asked. She stayed seated, her fingers intertwined on the conference table.
    “No!” Gibbons shouted.
    The door opened. A man in his early thirties, wearing a black button-down shirt untucked, a black blazer, a pair of denim jeans, and white leather sneakers, stood under the doorframe. At first glance it was difficult to determine his nationality: the full lips of a German, the aquiline nose of a Greek, the bronzed skin of a Polynesian, and, his most anomalous feature, bottle-green eyes. An attempt had been made to mousse a head of voluminous, wavy hair to one side.
    “Mind if I come in?” he asked.
    Iverson shut his phone with a snap and put it in his pocket. For now, he didn’t feel threatened. His first impression of this stranger was that he belonged in one of the many nightclubs in the city, chasing girls, drinking too much. He was unimpressive as a wanted man.
    “Do you know where you are?” Iverson asked.
    “This is the CIA, right?” the man replied with a grin. “Sorry for the intrusion, but I lost my date here earlier. I should apologize for her. I wasn’t aware she was under the influence of a hallucinogen. I attract basket cases, what can I say?” he said with a shrug. “I want you to know I took care