The Lilly Effect

By Geof Johnson

When a down-and-out android blows himself up in a crowded store, killing Jack Hartley's young wife, it changes Jack's life forever. In this society of the future, android technology has advanced at an incredible pace. Androids are no longer glossy robots. They look, think, and feel exactly like humans, with all of the emotional problems that can bring. Human society is struggling to adjust to these startling advances. Androids are abused, assaulted, and scorned, and they have very few rights. Life is hard for synthetic humans. They have the most mentally demanding jobs but suffer from low pay, no respect, and no social safety net if they fail.
Two years after the explosion, Jack is forced to work with an android woman named Lilly Thomas, and his life changes again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098383251

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CHAPTER 1

He zipped up his tattered gray coat before walking into the crowded store, hoping no one would see the unusual bulge around his waist for what it really was. On this busy shopping day, one week before Christmas, people were too preoccupied to see anything except the glittering merchandise in front of their faces. They wouldn’t look closely enough to tell that his hat didn’t fully cover the exposed patches of his carbon fiber skull, or that behind his sunglasses was a cheap artificial eye that he had bought on the black market. Any other day they might be worried, but not this one. He expected the security guards to be too concerned with the sheer volume of customers to notice an android in a store where only humans could afford to shop. By the time anyone became alarmed, it was too late to stop him from unzipping his coat, reaching inside it, and pressing the red button.

* * *

Jack woke with a gasp and sat up, frantically patting the empty space beside him. Then it all came back to him — the explosion, the phone call, the funeral — and he fell back on the pillow with a groan. Not again. I’m tired of this.

He knew how it was happening. In his sleep he would push his arm across the bed, feel nothing there, and wake up in alarmed confusion. The resulting surge of adrenalin would cause his heart to race and make it impossible to go back to sleep.

The glowing red numbers on the clock said 4:35 AM, an early time for most people to be awake, but for him it had become routine. He sat on the edge of the bed, clicked on the light, and rubbed his face, the stubble on his cheeks scratching against his palms and his fingers pressing into his gritty eyelids. Resting his elbows on his knees, he looked at the picture of Nora, his wife, still on the bedside table, just as he did every morning.

Hey, honey, he said. She never responded.

His therapist had suggested that he put the photo away. Two years is long enough, Mr. Hartley. This isn’t healthy for you. You need to let go.

Jack scowled. Easy for her to say.

Betty, start the coffee, please.

Yes, sir, she replied in her mellifluous, disembodied voice. Did you have trouble sleeping again?

I planned to wake up in a panic at four thirty-five this the morning.

Is that sarcasm, sir?

You’re catching on, Betty.

Did you not take your medication?

No. It’s not helping, anyway. I still have the dreams. He yawned and stretched his arms overhead until his shoulders popped. Better than the scotch, though. That gives me a headache. He scratched his belly and considered the bottle he’d recently bought. Did Carmen pour the rest of it out? Carmen was his housekeeper, hired three years earlier by his wife.

Yes, sir, as you directed.

Remind me not to buy any more.

Do not buy any more, sir.

That’s funny, Betty.

I am merely following your instructions.

He walked barefoot down the carpeted hall toward the stairs and hesitated beside the door to the nursery, a shrine to a child who was never born. If he were to open it, he would see the unused crib and glider and a few boxes of baby clothes and toys. He reached for the doorknob and Betty said, Your therapist recommended that you not go in there. It only makes you depressed.

I’m already depressed.

Being in the nursery seems to exacerbate the condition.

You’re not my mother or my therapist.

You told me to remind you of this.

I know. I’m sorry.

There is no need to apologize. I am only a computer.

Sometimes I wonder.

You also instructed me to remind you to clean out that room. Would you like for me to call an appropriate charity to come for the furniture?

I’m not ready for that.

Should I set a date for a future reminder?

Uh…I’ll let you know when I decide.

By the time he made it down to the kitchen, Betty had the lights on and the coffee brewing in the dispenser, the warm smell welcoming him as he shuffled in.

While spreading cream cheese on a bagel, he scrolled through the news that was displayed on the table top at the breakfast nook. A far-right political group was advocating for total segregation of all androids, preferably on an island in the Pacific Ocean, and there was a short article about another android killed, an apparent victim of a gang attack. He swiped a finger across the table and the next page appeared.

Sometimes he had Betty move the news display to the wall on his right, or even one of the windows if it was dark outside, but he preferred the table view. The option for multiple displays was one of Nora’s ideas. She’d helped design the kitchen, and her touches were everywhere. It was big, too big for one person, with east-facing windows that let in the morning sun. A counter with a double sink lined that wall, and the other side of the room was mostly cabinets and shelves, all white tile and naturally finished maple. A long center island ran in between, with a stove top and plentiful space for food prep. A large oven and an oversized refrigerator were on the wall opposite the breakfast nook. The sink fixtures were made of clear ceramic, and when the sun struck them in the morning, it diverged into dozens of little rainbows everywhere, but not now. It wasn’t the time for sun or rainbows, or any color, for that matter.

One of the perks of being an executive at a big corporation was that he could afford to have expensive things, such as a big house, and tailored suits, but best of all, a luxury automobile. The sleek black machine was a guilty pleasure. He liked the way it looked, liked the way it drove, he even liked the way it smelled.

And he had never let anyone else drive it. Not Nora, not his in-laws, not anybody. Just him, Jack.

He almost always drove hands on. You didn’t own a car like that just to let a computer control it, but sometimes he’d relinquish the duty if he had things to do on the way, like putting on his necktie and checking his messages.

Jane, any calls?

According to Betty, you have four, sir, the computer replied. All from Natalie.

My relentless sister-in-law. Play the most recent.

Hi Jack, it’s me. Just called again to invite you to Mom and Dad’s house next Thursday night, since Friday’s a holiday. I already told them you’re coming, so don’t make up some excuse. Evie’s going to be there, and I know it was awkward last time, but just give her a chance. I think you’ll like her, eventually. I promise she’ll talk. Really, she’s capable of it. Bring wine or bread if you want. See you ’round seven…bye.

Oh crap, not Evie. She’d hardly spoken ten words when he’d seen her at a previous dinner that Natalie had arranged. He liked Natalie but wished she wouldn’t try to set him up with her friends. It wasn’t awkward, it was excruciating.

She didn’t have anything interesting to say, either. She talked more about less That wasn’t as bad as last month’s attempted setup by Barry Hodges from Marketing. Stop by for a little cocktail party, he’d mentioned to Jack in an offhand manner. Lots of people will be there, and it'll be loose and fun. When Jack arrived, everybody was paired up except for him and an annoying woman named Becca. Or Vicca. Jack couldn’t remember, or cared to. She talked nonstop and snorted when she laughed, which she did often and for things that weren’t funny than anyone he’d ever met. Afterward, Jack told Hodges that if he wanted to keep his job, he’d better not try to set him up with a date again.

Another perk of being an executive was that he got his own parking space in the concrete underground garage. Reserved for Jack Hartley, the sign on the wall said in bold black letters. The first time he saw that, he got a thrill, like winning a trophy at an awards ceremony, but the thrill had worn off, and now it was just a warning to others. Keep Out.

After parking the car, he had to go upstairs to the only entrance that was open before 6:00 AM. As he approached the glass-and-steel guard station, he noticed the dark-haired woman he often saw when he came in early. She and the guard were sharing a laugh, and she turned away and walked toward the building.

Morning, Mr. Hartley, the hefty, smiling guard said when Jack approached. How ya doin’, sir?

Fine, Jim. Is that a friend of yours? Jack glanced at the metal door that had just closed behind the woman.

That’s Miss Lilly. She’s friends with everybody. Nicest girl in the building, that one is. Jim had been working at the company longer than anyone could remember, and he seemed to know every employee by name. If you hurry, you can catch her.

What? Um. No. Just asking. She must be an early riser, too.

Jack went to the main floor restroom before entering the elevator, and stepped to the first urinal, where someone had scrawled over it Reserved for Jack Hart-less in bold, black ink.

He knew what his other nicknames were around the company: Jack Hard-ass, No Hartley, the Cold-Hearted Bastard, and others. He didn’t particularly mind. They came with the territory — his rise in the company had been rapid, and that surely ruffled some feathers — but he could do without the graffiti.

Just eleven years earlier, he had joined the Connor Corporation as a junior manager, and the promotions came quickly. Barely 18 months ago, he’d been named Senior Vice President, making him the number two man in the company. Jack had come back to work after Nora’s death with a fierce, almost maniacal dedication, and his boss must’ve seen something in Jack that he liked and trusted enough to give him the V.P. position.

The fact that Jack tended to fire incompetent people didn’t win him any friends, either.

He dodged a cleaning ’bot as he exited the elevator on the top floor, and was greeted by the smell of coffee. The cafeteria wasn’t open yet, but someone had made a fresh pot and left it on a small table in the hall. He poured himself a cup and went to the balcony outside of his office to drink it and watch the sun rise over the city.

Mrs. Hayes, Jack’s ever-efficient secretary and assistant, arrived and handed him his electronic slate. Your schedule for the day, Mr. Hartley.

He looked up from his desk and accepted the thin, incandescent-blue device. What’s the worst of it?

The tall middle-aged woman crimped her mouth thoughtfully. Your ten thirty. You always hate that meeting.

Yes, I do. He exhaled between tightened lips. If I have to listen to one more manager spout jargon and numbers at me, I’m going to scream.

Maybe you should, sir. Might be good for them.

I think I’ll try that, he said, and scanned the schedule. You coming?

I have other duties then.

Coward.

She laughed and returned to her office.

Jack jerked his head erect and blinked hard. Must’ve dozed off. He sat up straight in his chair at the end of the long, glossy table and looked across the room to where a man stood gesturing at a glowing exhibit of graphs that floated in the air beside him.

Who is that? Marshall? Damn, he’s boring. The man in the dark gray suit droned on, pointing at the display. I should record his presentation and watch it before I go to bed. Then I wouldn’t have trouble sleeping.

Marshall, apparently finished, gazed at Jack expectantly, and all heads turned Jack’s way. Yes, Jack said. You can have a seat, Marshall. Jack checked the slate one last time and set it aside. Any other business? When no one spoke, he stood and crossed his arms behind his back, and gave himself plenty of time to do it. I’ve decided to implement a new policy with our Monday meetings. I’ve been reading about other companies that have tried this, and they report noticeable improvements in productivity and morale. Every week after we finish the usual business, we’re going to open up the meeting and let anybody say what’s on their mind. Anything that’s bothering you about your job, the company, your schedule, the decor...anything at all. I want you to speak freely, without fear of consequences. He surveyed the stiff faces before him. Who wants to be first?

No one raised their hand.

"Come on now, somebody’s got to have something they want to get off their chest."

Still no hands.

Okay, if somebody doesn’t come up with something in the next ten seconds, — he glanced at his watch — I’m going to fire one of you today.

Reynolds from Advertising shot up her hand. Sir, I think the food in the cafeteria isn’t very good. She looked at the others around the table as if searching for agreement, which she seemed to be getting. I can’t stand to eat there anymore, so I have to bring my lunch. My break isn’t long enough to go out.

I don’t remember it being that bad, but I haven’t eaten there in a while.

It’s really awful, sir. There were a few murmurs of accord from the others.

All right, Jack said. All those who think our cafeteria’s food is terrible, raise your hand.

The showing was unanimous.

Does anyone here have any experience in food service, restaurant work, or —

Perkins lifted his hand, but only to his shoulder. Jack acknowledged him.

The hefty blond-haired man said, My family owns a restaurant, and I worked there all through high school and college.

Think you can do something about our cafeteria?

He shrugged noncommittally.

Is that a yes or a no?

It’s a yes, sir.

What could you do about it?

I’d have to review the entire operation and figure out if the problem is bad menu choices or bad cooking, or both.

Have we ever failed a health inspection?

Not to my knowledge, but you can still have bad food and get a passing grade.

Okay, then, start today. Clear your calendar and make it a priority. How long do you think it will take to fix the cafeteria?

A week. Maybe more

Can you do it in less time?

Not if you want it done right.

All right. I’ll go there next Wednesday for lunch.

CHAPTER 2

Mr. Gilchrist will be calling in the next few minutes.

Thank you, Mrs. Hayes. Jack knew it wasn’t wise to keep the important man waiting, so he ended his other call and sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the padded armrest of his chair, staring at the space where his boss would appear.

A three-dimensional image of Mr. Gilchrist materialized above the desk. His graying hair appeared to be ruffled by a breeze, and he wore a Hawaiian shirt, open at the neck. Blue sky and a palm tree were behind him, a narrow drink glass was in his hand. Jack, good to see you. How’s everything?

Fine, sir, but there are a couple of —

I have a big assignment for you. How’s your agenda for the next month?

Uh, busy, as always. I have a —

Put off what you can and shift what you can’t to somebody else.

Jack started to speak again, but his boss didn’t give him a chance. I’m looking at picking up a Japanese company. It’s a pretty large acquisition, maybe bigger than our last. They have an auxiliary office in San Francisco, so the time difference won’t be too bad in case you have to call them. I need you and an accountant to go over this outfit with a fine-toothed comb and make sure everything squares with what they claim. They have several divisions so it’s going to be complicated, and we only have thirty to forty days, which isn’t a lot of time. Can you handle it?

Jack had done several such reviews before his last promotion and was probably the most experienced in the company. Yes, sir.

Thanks, Jack. The accountant’s name is Miss Thomas. You can meet her tomorrow.

Why just one accountant? Shouldn’t we use more?

She can do the work of three, and she speaks fluent Japanese. She’s all you need. He image winked out.

Jack sat at his desk for a while longer, drumming his fingers again, only faster. He looked at his watch and decided to call it a day. If he left immediately, he’d have enough time to get in a 45-minute run before dark.

* * *

Jack arrived at work the next morning, and the dark-haired woman was at the guard station again. He wanted to say hello to her, but he would’ve had to run to catch her, and he didn’t want to be seen doing that. He entered the building in time to see her get on the elevator, but she was going down and he was going up.

He figured Miss Thomas should be in her office by 8:00, so while he waited, he drank some coffee and cleared his schedule for the next month. Then he headed for the accounting department in the basement.

The woman who greeted him was the same one he saw every morning at the guard station. It took him a couple of seconds to gather his wits, and he said, You’re He stepped out of the elevator on the bottom floor and followed the long corridor, counting down door numbers until he found hers, and he knocked. A woman’s voice said, Hold on," and a few seconds later the door opened.

Miss Thomas?"

Yes, sir. You act like it’s a shock.

Oh, uh, no…it’s just…never mind. He coughed into his fist. I believe we have a project to work on.

Are you Mr. Hartley?

Oh, uh, yes. He was surprised by his awkwardness. I should’ve said that. He offered his hand and she shook it.

She was slim, with medium-length hair that was tied back, and she wore a plain blue, slightly faded business suit. She smiled, and it included all parts of her face, especially her eyes.

She’s pretty. He returned her smile.

She gestured at an empty chair. Have a seat. I hope you don’t mind the mess.

Do you actually work in here? My walk-in closet is bigger than this.

"I’m at the bottom of the pecking order, so I get the smallest office.

It’s not so bad."

He sat down and she squeezed around to the other side of her desk. So, Miss Thomas, I’ve heard that you can do the job of three accountants. How do you manage that?

I’m an android, sir. I have an excellent memory and concentration. That’s why the company hired me.

He didn’t hear much of anything after android. The blood drained from his face and he sat there like a lead block. A grinding hum churned in his head.

Android.

Mr. Hartley?

He walked out without saying a word. He took the elevator to his office where he asked Mrs. Hayes to get his boss on the line. Jack expected to wait for quite a while, but to his surprise, Mr. Gilchrist’s image popped up immediately, almost as if he’d been waiting for him.

What’s the problem, Jack?

The words stumbled out. Sir, the accountant, Miss Thomas. She’s an android.

What’s wrong with that?

Aren’t you forgetting something? I mean…my wife? The bomb? She’s an android!

Not his most articulate outburst.

Mr. Gilchrist flattened his eyes. Did Miss Thomas kill your wife?

Of course not, but —

If a human had killed her, would you have a problem working with a human accountant?

No sir, but —

Then I don’t see a problem. She’s the best accountant in the company, and I like to think that you’re the best at this kind of investigation. His eyes flattened further, to ominous slits. Do I need to call Barkley and give the project to him?

Roland Barkley had been bucking for the promotion that ultimately went to Jack. There was no way Jack was going to let him take this assignment. That would be career suicide. No sir. I’ll do it. Somehow.

That’s what I want to hear. Mr. Gilchrist’s expression relaxed. Now listen, I want you to be nice to this woman. You know how abrasive you can be to the other employees. I need you two to get along, and you’re probably going to have to work together every possible minute because we have such a tight schedule. You’ll have to work through quite a few lunches and put in some late hours. I want this job done by the deadline and I don’t want to hear any excuses. He gave Jack another hard look. Do you understand?

Yes sir. Jack knew he had no choice. We’ll get this done on time.

Good. That’s the Jack I know. His image vanished.

Jack slumped in his chair, taking shallow breaths. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

I have to.

The door to Miss Thomas’s office was open when he returned, so he walked in without knocking. He sat down and she looked up from her monitor.

I’m sorry I walked out like that, he said after a glance at her. There’s something you need to know. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her watching him intently, but he couldn’t face her, so he spoke toward the bookshelf instead. About two years ago, my wife was killed by an android.

I’m so sorry to hear that, sir.

She was seven months pregnant. He shifted in his seat toward her.

She didn’t immediately reply. Her hand went hesitantly to her mouth, and then her eyes glistened. She stood and said, Excuse me, sir, and she left in a rush.

It was his turn to wait in the office, so he busied himself inspecting the small room. He was particularly interested in a picture on the wall, a bouquet of flowers, that looked like it was painted in watercolors, an original instead of a print.

She returned about five minutes later and stood in the doorway, arms crossed tightly as though she was trying to hold herself together. Her voice quivered as she spoke. Mr. Hartley, I think you should assign someone else to this project.

I can’t.

You have to.

Mr. Gilchrist said that you and I are to do it.

Why did he assign me to this?

He said you are the best.

Then I resign my position at this company, she said with an emphatic nod.

I won’t accept your resignation. You can quit when we’re through, but until then, you and I are stuck together on this project. Let’s be professionals and get the job done. He almost laughed aloud. I’m the one who should be struggling with this.

She uncrossed her arms and regarded him with sad eyes. I don’t see how you can stand it, after what happened to your wife.

Thank you for your concern, but you didn’t kill her. It’ll be fine. I hope so, anyway. He gave her another moment to object, but she didn’t, so he said, We have to work in your office today because you have access to all the files we need, but I think we should get a bigger temporary office pretty soon. This one’s way too small, and it’s too far from my office upstairs. I’ll get my assistant to find one for us.

Jack had a second monitor and terminal brought in and they set up facing each other across her crowded desk. At first, he had to spend a lot of time standing over her shoulder and looking at her display while he explained the process of breaking the Japanese company into parts, each part to be analyzed individually. She caught on quickly, so before long he was back in his chair, and they settled into a working groove.

* * *

Jack and Miss Thomas made excellent progress on their project over the course of the week. By the following Tuesday, he was feeling more comfortable in his forced partnership with the android woman.

He was also feeling hungry. Let’s break for lunch. I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes. He headed for the elevator and considered his options. A Reuben sandwich would be good right now, and he walked out of the building in the direction of Domenic’s, the little cafe around the corner.

It wasn’t the fanciest joint in town, and certainly not the cleanest, but the sandwiches were great and Jack liked the atmosphere, such as it was — small and dingy, with mismatched chairs and a handful of small tables inside, and a half dozen more on a patio that was bounded by a low brick wall. On a nice day it was pleasant to eat out there and watch the world go by. Domenic was an entertaining character, too.

Yo, Jackie Boy, the barrel-chested, dark-haired man with the dirty white apron said from behind the counter. What’ll ya have?

Reuben, Domenic.

Today, ya gotta pay double.

Why, you think you’ll have to make bail again? What did I tell you about chasing underage girls?

The only underage girl I chase is your sister.

Jack didn’t have a sister, but he loved the place. Pickles and insults were free.

As he walked back to work, Jack suddenly remembered what his boss had said about working through lunch. Probably should’ve taken Miss Thomas with me. Maybe next time I will.

Jack entered her office and there was a crust of bread and a paper plate in the trash can by the door. Oh good, you got some lunch. He glanced at the crust of bread again and furrowed his brow. I didn’t know androids ate.

Her eyes turned to ice. Do you think we run on batteries?

Well, no, I—

We charge ourselves up at night? Plug an electrical wire into our belly buttons? She pointed to her head. Or we have solar hair?

Employees do not talk to me in that tone of voice. For some reason, he let it slide. Gee, I didn’t know. A little sensitive, are we?

Her mouth twitched briefly, and then settled into a less agitated position. "I hear that sort of thing all the time, and I am a little sensitive about it."

Jack produced an ungainly smile and took a seat across from her. I put my foot in my mouth that time.

They tried to pick up where they had left off, but Jack never did his best work right after lunch. He always felt a little bit lazy, and today, a little bit chatty. How did you learn to be such a good accountant? And the Japanese? How’d you learn that?

How’d you learn to do what you do, whatever that is?

I majored in business management.

And how did you learn that?

I studied.

That’s how I learned what I know. Hard work and study.

I thought they just stuck something in your head on the assembly line and poured your smarts in, or put the right circuits in your brain, or wires, or chips, or…whatever they do.

"For your information, I was not made on an assembly line, I don’t have a single wire or circuit in my body, and my brain is organic, same as yours. It’s genetically engineered to be good at certain things, but it’s no better than a human brain."

Why not?

It’s the law. We can’t be bigger, stronger, faster, or smarter than a human. I’m talking about really talented humans, not average. We can only be as good as one of your best. She looked at him with her head slightly tilted to one side. You really don’t know much about androids, do you?

How could I? You’re probably the only one I know.

Then maybe it’s time you learned a little something about us.

How am I supposed to do that, I mean, besides asking you stupid questions and putting my big foot in my mouth?

You could come to my support group on Wednesday nights.

An android support group? What do you do, sit in a big circle and whine about your problems? I’ve been to groups like that. He’d tried one for a while after Nora died. It didn’t seem to help.

We don’t sit in a circle and cry! She frowned for an instant. We meet in an old storefront building downtown that’s leased by All Saints Church. Father Dempsey — he’s a human, by the way — he organizes the sessions. They’re very casual, but Father Dempsey starts off with announcements, and then we have food and entertainment. I bet you didn’t know that we have talent, either, did you?

Like what?

Some people sing or dance. One guy juggles. Things like that.

What’s your talent?

Her gaze flicked toward the bouquet painting on the wall.

"You did that? I like