Girls Girls Girls

"Good afternoon, Doctor Whately," the young woman said, standing up from behind the desk to shake Patricia's hand. "I'm glad you could make it to visit with us today." Her dress, the Bluetooth earpiece she wore, her mannerisms, even the way she wore her long red hair...it all spoke of consummate professionalism. If she hated Patricia, she didn't let it show.

Patricia took the proffered hand and gave it a perfunctory shake. She didn't blame-a quick glance down at the desk showed a nameplate with 'Linnea Hannigan' on it-she didn't blame Linnea for her choice of employer, but at the same time she wasn't about to pretend that she approved of her life decisions. "It's good of you to finally meet with us," she replied. "We've been looking forward to this for quite some time."

She was hoping to get a response from Linnea on that, but the woman simply gave a polite smile and said, "As have we." Patricia knew that had to stick in her throat just a little-it had taken six months of relentless press releases, interviews with every media outlet you'd care to name and several public demonstrations to get this meeting. They had to go the public route-'Girls LLC' had to be the most secretive company Patricia had ever dealt with in her nine years with the National Institute for Family Research. They didn't even have a company directory on their website, let alone a PR flack or an arrogant CEO they could bait into coming onto the talk show circuit to defend the company's...output.

In a way, that secrecy had been exactly what Patricia had used against them. They had no public relations department, no CEO willing to stand up on behalf of the company's practices, and no documentation to show who they were and how they operated. Patricia had been able to ask all sorts of awkward questions, and the silence in response was deafening. How could a company with over five hundred million products sold worldwide have no offices in the United States? How could anyone be sure that they weren't exploiting workers when they manufactured their Girls(TM)? How could you even be sure that the product was safe? Why weren't they willing to even meet with harmless little Patricia Whately?

After a few months of that, the NIFR watched that obnoxious little counter slow down a little more every day and knew they'd be getting a call sooner or later. And this was where it all paid off. "So, when do we get the grand tour?"

"In just a moment," Linnea responded. "I was hoping you'd introduce me to your friends."

"Of course," Patricia replied, her smile tightening just a little at the delay. "Where are my manners?" She gestured to a young African American woman standing next to her, wearing a similar business outfit and thick, chunky glasses. "This is my personal assistant, Quiana Dumonde. She works for the Institute, and will be acting as stenographer for any conversations we might have. Just to make sure we get an accurate record, of course."

"Of course," Linnea said. Patricia was beginning to get a little bit frustrated at the other woman's calm demeanor. She knew that deep down, Linnea had to be fuming-how could she not, given all the things Patricia had said about their company and its wares? But she wasn't letting any of it show, and Patricia and the others were depending on her to lose her cool.

She counseled herself to patience, and continued. She gestured to a young man with sandy brown hair, pale skin and a thick, bushy mustache, and an equally pale frizzy brunette with her own pair of thick glasses. "This is my camera crew, Mike and Gabby Watkins. They'll be recording everything we see on the tour." Actually, all of them would-the glasses everyone wore had hidden cameras in them that would record footage of everything they saw and heard. But Patricia wanted to make sure there was a big, obvious camera and boom mike in full view-it helped lull people into a false sense of security when they had something they could switch off. Linnea was bound to slip up at some point and reveal the true face of Girls LLC in all its perverted glory...and when she did, Patricia and her Institute would make sure the whole world saw it.

"Wonderful to meet you both," Linnea said, extending her hand to each of them in turn. Inwardly, Patricia was a little surprised-she'd expected Linnea to make a bit more of a fuss over the presence of a camera crew. (In fact, she'd been hoping for it. Nothing started an exposé out right like someone telling them to shut off the cameras.) But Linnea was smiling far more calmly than anyone who worked for pornographers and sex toy makers had a right to.

She didn't let her frustration show, though. She just reminded herself that it was her job to get under Linnea's skin, not the other way around. "Over here," she continued smoothly, "we have Jeremy Chafee." She waved towards a silver-haired Caucasian man in his late forties who wore an immaculately tailored suit...and of course, his own pair of glasses. "He's our legal counsel. He'll be examining everything we see in order to ensure that you comply with New Jersey's state labor laws."

Linnea smiled with the self-assurance of someone who had a whole team of lawyers on retainer. "I'm sure that won't be a problem," she said, shaking Jeremy's hand.

"And the independent observers you requested," Patricia concluded. Inwardly, she was grinding her teeth a little at this part-the Institute had gotten into a little hot water over the way their last few videos had been edited together, and she would have preferred to avoid bringing along supposedly 'independent' observers who no doubt had all sorts of liberal biases they wouldn't mention until it was time to complain about 'deceptive editing' and 'smear campaigns'. On behalf of smut peddlers and robot perverts, no less!

She was suddenly aware that her smile had turned into a flat, tight line of anger, and made a conscious effort to restore it. "This is Aurora Lake, from the Associated Press-"

The short-haired Asian woman stuck her hand out and grinned at Linnea with far more genuine pleasure than Patricia wanted to see. "Call me Rory," she said. "Everyone does." She shook hands with Linnea with a degree of warmth that Patricia wholeheartedly disapproved of. Maybe Quiana had made a mistake with that one. Sound investigative journalism credentials, of course, but perhaps she was a little bit too friendly with the deviant culture?

Too late now. Patricia gave a meaningful cough, and gestured to the last member of their party, a Caucasian woman with long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. "And this is Callie Gainesborough, from Amnesty International. She'll be taking a look at your safety records." While Patricia didn't actually hope for a safety or human rights violation-that would be terrible, especially right here in the United States of America-she half-expected one. A company that viewed loving human relationships as disposable, something to be replaced with perverse robotic sex toys, well...they probably dehumanized their workers in just the same way.

"Well," Linnea said, "now that the introductions are out of the way, why don't we get started?" She walked over to a metal door with a keypad, and tapped in a code to open it. "This way to our factory floor, please."

Patricia darted to follow, almost expecting Linnea to slam it shut in her face. But she held it open as the entire group went through one by one. Patricia felt a strange tingling in her fillings as she crossed the threshold, like the doorway had some sort of static charge, but it quickly passed. She walked into a long, wide, open hallway with banks of cold, sterile lights overhead.

"Thank you all for coming," Linnea said. "It's my pleasure to introduce you to Facility Seven, one of twenty-three manufacturing facilities where the Girls(TM) are made. This is a rare privilege-you're among the first independent observers ever to visit one of our manufacturing plants!"

"How long has Facility Seven been in operation?" Quiana asked as they began to walk down the broad hallway behind Linnea.

"Since the beginning of the current rollout," Linnea responded proudly. Patricia knew that was a lie-the building they were in had only been leased to Girls LLC two weeks ago, a fact that they would be highlighting in their video. "They began with nine facilities for the current operation, but demand escalated much quicker than they expected. Sex sells, as they say."

Quiana was quick to jump on that one, and Patricia smiled in pride watching the young woman work. "They? So you're new to the company?"

Linnea led them down to the corner, stopping at a door near the point where the hallway bent. "Oh, I don't work for them. I'm just doing this as a favor to my Girl(TM). She asked me to meet you outside, because they assumed you'd be more comfortable dealing with a human being." She opened the door, and a thick wave of sweet odor wafted out to them. "Come on in, I'll show you the assembly line."

Patricia didn't move. She just glared at Linnea. "So you're saying you're not a manager-not even an employee of Girls LLC? You're just a customer? Because we were explicitly told that we would be meeting with senior management to discuss our concerns. If you think we're going to be pawned off with a-a volunteer, which may not even be a legal arrangement, then you had best think again."

Linnea smiled that same calm, beatific, infuriating smile. "I do assure you, you will be meeting with the senior management at the end of the tour. But-"

Patricia folded her arms. "I'm afraid that's simply not good enough. Your company-or whoever's company it actually is-hasn't exactly proven itself to be trustworthy. We want to meet with the CEO, or the owner, or whoever the top man is, and we want to meet with him now." She leaned back against the wall in a studied pretense at nonchalance. "I'm willing to wait all day if I have to."

Linnea's calm smile faded. It didn't feel as good as Patricia hoped it would-she'd wanted to wipe that smug grin off the other woman's face ever since they'd met, but she was expecting to see another emotion replace it. Instead, Linnea's expression went completely blank. She looked like a...Patricia shivered at the analogy, but it was the only way to describe it. She looked like a robot waiting for instructions. They stood there for what seemed like forever, the uncomfortable silence stretching out like an eternity, before Linnea's smile suddenly returned like it had never left.

"Of course," she said. "I'm happy to oblige. But we do have to cut across the factory floor to get to the Executive Lounge, so I'll still need you to follow me. And along the way, I'll show you our operation, so you have the proper context to put the meeting into perspective. Shall we move on?"

Patricia glared for another long moment. Then she nodded. "Very well. Let's go." She followed Linnea into the larger room.

*****

And it was large. It was much larger than Patricia had been expecting, perhaps the entire length of the warehouse they'd entered. There were dozens of conveyor belts, each one moving a Girl up and down the length of an elaborate assembly line in varying stages of completion. And working at each station, wielding tools and putting pieces of Girls together, was...a Girl.

Hundreds of them. Thousands, perhaps. They were a little different from the ones in the ads, she observed as she watched them work-they were all a uniform tan color, none of them sporting the rainbow of hues that the company advertised. Their bodies were smoother, more streamlined-none of the feminine anatomy that the perverts who bought them no doubt cared about more than anything else. But still clearly Girls, every last one of them.

"You...you let them build themselves?" Patricia heard herself saying. Her voice held a dreamlike terror that was almost too big to feel. She imagined each and every one of the robots building another robot, and each one of those building another, an endless row of Girls creating wave after wave of Girls, who poured off the assembly line to assemble more Girls in turn. Even as she felt the wash of slow panic sluicing through her body like an icy stream, she made sure to film it all with her glasses. People had to know about this...this abomination. They were reproducing. They were breeding.

"Well," Linnea said, taking off her jacket and folding it neatly before setting it on the floor next to the door, "strictly speaking I don't let them do anything. But yes, the entire process is automated. What you see here are the factory models-they don't actually leave the manufacturing facilities. Their sole job is to make sure that each Girl(TM) is assembled to the company's exacting standards."

"But...but how do you keep them from getting out of control?" Quiana asked. Her voice held the same tone of revulsion that Patricia felt herself. "Making too many?"

Linnea chuckled as she unbuttoned her blouse. "That would be kind of a waste, wouldn't it? Every Girl(TM) is purpose-built for its new companion, and the factory models only make as many of each other as they need to keep up with demand." She peeled her blouse off and set it on top of her jacket, seemingly unaware that her audience had stopped paying any attention to her words. "We don't have unlimited resources, after all, and we want to make sure first and foremost that there are enough Girls(TM) to go around."

"Ahem." Patricia tried to say more, but for a second the outrage choked her voice off. She found it again pretty quickly, though. "Why are you stripping naked in front of our entire party?"

Linnea wrinkled her brow in confusion. "I'm sorry...what's the problem here?" She undid her bra and tossed it onto the pile of clothes.

"You are flaunting your body in front of two married men, that's what the problem is!" Patricia hissed out. Privately, though, she was exulting-this was exactly the kind of shameless, shameful behavior they were hoping to expose. They'd have to blur the footage, of course, but nobody was going to defend this company if this was the kind of activity they encouraged on company time. (Which meant that they couldn't mention she was a volunteer after all. Damn.)

"Oh, I see!" Linnea said, her voice breaking into laughter. "I'm sorry, I should have mentioned-Facility Seven is entirely clothing optional. You can take your own clothes off here, they'll be perfectly safe while we continue the tour."

"Under. No. Circumstances," Patricia hissed out. "You may have an interest in letting your private parts out in public, but we believe in common decency. And since I obviously can't convince you to put your clothes back on by appealing to yours, I suppose we will just have to continue. Mister Chafee, Mister Watkins, I apologize on behalf of Miss Hannigan. Obviously some people simply weren't raised right."

"Quite alright," Jeremy said, studiously looking the opposite direction. He held his briefcase in front of his body, and Patricia felt a surge of sympathy for the poor man. "But I was wondering-does the state of New Jersey, or the federal government, know that your operation uses these robots to take hundreds of jobs away from working Americans?"

"That's an excellent question," Linnea said, stripping off the last of her clothes. "Walk with me, and I'll answer it as we go."

They walked for what felt like hours past rows of robots working to put together more of their own kind in what Patricia imagined had to be some sort of robotic version of pornography, with Linnea leading the way. Patricia tried very hard to look anywhere but at the other woman's backside as she walked.

"As you can see, this is a highly advanced operation," Linnea said. "Each Girl(TM) is assembled to very precise specifications, to a design tolerance that human beings couldn't possibly match. If they were to put people on this production line, not only would the process slow down, but they'd have too many defective Girls(TM). And they care too much about us to give us a defective model."

Suddenly, Gabby spoke up. Patricia hadn't actually expected to hear from her-usually she stayed quiet behind her equipment and let other people do the talking. But she looked more than a little out of sorts in general; her face was flushed, and she seemed a little unsteady on her feet. "What's that smell?" she asked, wiping away sweat from her forehead.

"Oh, that?" Linnea shrugged. "That's just some of the lubricant that's used in the manufacturing process. It's also used by the finished Girls(TM)-if you've ever been with one, you'd-"

Patricia nipped that line of conversation right in the bud. "We have not," she snarled. "None of us here have. You might have gotten your five hundred million sales-"

"Five hundred ninety seven million, two hundred forty three at last count," Linnea cut in smoothly.

"But there are still some of us out there who cling to the notion that making love is a part of the bond of holy matrimony, meant for a sacred purpose," Patricia finished righteously. "And we have not yet outsourced it to machines."

But Linnea refused to be drawn into a debate on the subject. She just said, "Well, that explains why you're not familiar with the smell. Here, I'll show you what I'm talking about." She reached over to one of the nearby conveyor belts and ran her finger through a smear of clear fluid, then held it up to Gabby's nose. "See? Perfectly harmless."

But Gabby clearly didn't feel that way. She visibly swooned, her eyes rolling back in her head as she inhaled. Her face went bright red, and her breathing quickened as her knees buckled. She didn't fall, but she definitely sat down much quicker than she intended.

"Harmless?" Patricia exclaimed, privately looking forward to putting that scene into the video. "You've practically poisoned her! Do you test that stuff at all before you foist it onto the public? Is the FDA aware of what you're using for 'lubricant'?"

Linnea patted Gabby soothingly on the shoulder, accidentally leaving a smear of lube on her sweater. "Don't worry, Doctor Whately. Some people do get a little overwhelmed when they're not used to the scent. Mrs. Jenkins can wait in one of our hospitality lounges for a bit, and continue the tour when she's ready."

"That's simply not sufficient," Patricia snarled, even as Linnea spoke a few whispered words into her earpiece. "We demand she be examined by a qualified medical expert in order to ensure that she's not in any danger as a result of her exposure to your toxic manufacturing chemicals. If there's not one on-site, then-"

Linnea cut in smoothly. "There's no need to worry, Doctor Whately," she said. "We have fully qualified medical technicians who will be happy to examine Mrs. Jenkins thoroughly. And if you're at all concerned, Mr. Jenkins can accompany his wife in order to make sure she's well taken care of."

Patricia was torn. On the one hand, she didn't want to leave Gabby in any kind of unsafe situation. She half-suspected that Linnea had engineered Gabby's sudden illness with the specific intent of getting rid of their cameras. On the other hand, Linnea's 'kind' offer was exactly what Patricia was hoping for. If she thought she'd gotten rid of the cameras, she'd no doubt let her guard down even further, and Patricia and the others could get some footage of what the Girls LLC operation did when they didn't think anyone was watching.

She let her reluctance show on her face, playing it up ever so slightly for effect. Finally she sighed and nodded. "Alright," she said. "Mike, you go with Gabby, make sure she's okay. We'll continue on."

Linnea nodded as though she'd been expecting the decision. Two Girls-the factory workers, thank God-came up and helped Gabby to her feet. They supported her weight with no sign of effort, and carried her off towards a door set in one of the side walls. Mike followed along, still carrying his camera.