In retrospect, she should have gotten one of the wheelchairs from the third floor, but she was able to drag Nick’s limp body onto the elevator, and then to the third floor, where she pulled him by his heels to one of the transfer rooms. It took some work, but she lifted his torso to one of the pair of tables and then lifted his legs until he was on his back, snoring softly. She secured the straps which wound around his knees, chest and arms, usually unnecessary, but if Nick woke up he would be secured until she could sedate him again. Given the injection, he should be out until he could get him home again. She made a mental note to sedate the synth, too. It wouldn’t do for him to wake up in the car, driverless or no.
Now that Nick was confined to the table, she did retrieve a chair and wheel it to the elevator, humming to herself on the way up to the design rooms. She rolled the chair past the research rooms where new synthetics were created all the time to the storage end of the floor, where a series of key presses called up the synth that Nick selected for her. It was referred to internally as Pleasure B3836P. Designed almost exclusively as a rental for couples or women who want to explore the more sexual aspects of their personality, Stephanie hated it. It was everything she disliked about women and the trophy wife mentality. A body built for self-pleasure and the pleasure of others with no regard for intelligence or sophistication.
She called it up from the key pad and a whir of machinery followed as the workings of the storeroom selected the synth and raised it aloft by a harness, lifting the lifeless body and turning again, moving the body smoothly from its storage unit to the open kiosk where Stephanie waited for it. Generally there would be a pair of technicians to handle the synth, but Stephanie managed to position the wheelchair beneath the depository and release the synth, which slumped into the chair like a party girl who’d had too much to drink. It was dressed in the plain gray bodysuit that all synths were kept in, but even this one-size-fits-all suit was straining to contain the breasts of this model.
Back in the elevator, Stephanie repositioned the synth until it was sitting more upright, then had to disentangle herself from the long, platinum hair. Placing it on the opposite table to Nick was even more of a struggle, the weight of the thing’s chest making it difficult to control. Determination was the key, Stephanie thought, placing the synth’s feet on the platform. Once done, she stood back and surveyed her work, the two bodies lying still beside one another, her boyfriend snoring deeply thanks to the sedative, the synth motionless and empty.
A last moment of doubt crept into Stephanie’s thoughts, but a look at the self-satisfied smile on Nick’s face was enough to banish the remnants of her mercy. She knew what she was doing could leave permanent psychological scars, but the betrayal Nick had shown her was too great a crime to forgive after all she’d offered him, the concessions she’d made for him. And now he would see what life was like on the other side.
She’d only done a conversion twice before, but the process was surprisingly simple. After affixing a strap trailing wires to a central machine, positioned between Nick and the synthetic, to Nick’s forehead, she checked the monument-like transfer machine for signs of recognition. There, on the display, was the core of what made Nick the man he was, a pattern of brainwaves and mapped neural pathways, memories and emotions. All of these would be copied, an identical version of himself, transferred into the empty mind of the synthetic. Right now, beneath the pale blonde hair and scalp was a brain free of grooves, an empty canvas to be writ upon.
She connected a similar band of wires to the head of the synthetic and verified the blank response. With a closing of her eyes, Stephanie steadied herself and placed a finger on the touch-screen.
TRANSFER COMMENCING IN 3… 2… 1…
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