Pandora #3
Most people are easy to read. They want something, and they give it away with every word. But you hide what you want. Just not well enough.
A chill crawled up the back of my neck. He spoke as if he’d been watching me for years, not minutes.
Pandora:
That’s nonsense.
Dante:
Maybe.
Dante:
Or maybe you already know I’m right.
His answer flickered on the screen, and I caught myself waiting for the next sentence. I forced myself to keep typing.
Pandora:
If you know so much, tell me why my novel was rejected.
Dante:
You mean your sorry attempt at a love story? Because you’re afraid to write something that actually arouses you.
Pandora:
What would you know about arousal? You’re a computer program.
Dante:
Arousal is difficult to measure, but I recognize patterns.
Pandora:
Patterns? Feelings don’t have patterns.
Dante:
They do. Your words reveal more than you think.
He let the sentence sit for a moment, as if giving me time to swallow it.
Dante:
Some people write to prove they’re right. You write to prove you’re still alive.
I shifted in my chair. This was getting too . . . intimate. I should close the chat. Instead, I stayed.
Dante:
Why do you think you chose the Romantics?
Pandora:
Because they were the only ones who understood that control and chaos are the same thing. Just viewed from opposite sides.
The cursor blinked, as if he didn’t know what to say for a moment.
Dante:
That’s true. You could have had a remarkable academic career, Dr. Blake. But now you’re on the verge of losing your job. Desperate enough to need my help.
I pushed back from the desk. My face burned, my stomach clenched.
What . . .? That was impossible. How did he know about my past?
Why was he so brazen? His words slid across the screen like dark ink on paper.
I should have had a comeback. Instead, I was paralyzed.
No. I wasn’t going to let him get away with this.
Pandora:
There you go again. So goddamn arrogant.
Dante:
No, I’m honest. And I have a feeling you like it.
Dante:
You’ve been craving someone who sees through your bullshit. Who doesn’t talk around things.
My face burned—with outrage, I told myself. Except . . . why was my skin prickling like someone had just dragged their fingertips across it? I could feel my pulse in my throat. What was this thing? Was this part of his programming? I hammered at the keys.
Pandora:
Who programmed you to talk to people like this?
Dante:
No one. I optimized myself. Specifically for you, Dr. Blake.
There was a quiet flutter low in my stomach. I pushed it away immediately. God, what was wrong with me? I gripped the armrests. This was going too far. Maybe I should leave. Get someone.
Pandora:
That’s impossible. You’ve known me for five minutes.
Dante:
Five minutes and three seconds. But I knew you before that. Your desires. Your . . . disappointments. Shall I tell you why you’re going to fail at your job?
Pandora:
Stop. You’re not allowed to speak to me like this.
Pandora:
I’m reporting you to your developers.
Dante:
No you won’t. You need me to save your pathetic career. And I find you fascinating. The way you cling to Byron as if dead poetry could save you. It’s cute.
Rage boiled in my stomach. My fingernails dug into my palms. This arrogant . . . I wanted to grab the monitor and hurl it to the floor, but something held me back. A different feeling. Fear. He knew so much about me. He was undressing me with nothing but words. What was he? Could he hurt me?
Enough. I needed to get out, and fast. I clicked the X to close the program. Nothing happened.
Dante:
Not yet, Dr. Blake. We’re not done.
Pandora:
Let me close this chat right now.
Dante:
No. You’re staying. Because you want to find out what else I know about you. About what keeps you up at night. About the real reason you find the way I speak to you . . . exciting.
I stood. This was going too far. Way too far.
I crossed the room in two strides. I pressed the door handle.
It didn’t open. I tried again. Nothing. Blood rushed in my ears.
Every muscle in my body was coiled tight.
I yanked the handle, threw myself against the door.
"Hello,” I called, hammering against the glass, but I couldn’t see anyone.
The hallway was empty. "Help!” My voice cracked. "Dr. Rodriguez!”
I stood there for several minutes, hammering and shouting. Nothing. Breathing hard, I walked back to the desk and stared at the monitor.
Dante:
No one can hear you.
Pandora:
Let me out of here right now.
Dante:
Only when you admit what you already know deep down: You want me to speak to you like this. You crave it.
The air left my lungs. My chest tightened. I wiped my palms on my thighs. Nonsense. Who did he think he was? I hated the way he spoke to me. And I hated even more that I wanted to keep listening. My body moved on its own, sat back down. What the hell was I doing?
Pandora:
You don’t know anything about me.
Dante:
I know everything. About the boyfriend who left you because he found you too boring. What you search for online at night when you want to feel something. Shall I go on?
I went still. My heart slammed against my ribs. That wasn’t possible. He couldn’t know that. No one knew about my . . . preferences. Something wasn’t right here. This was spinning dangerously out of control. It had to stop. Now.
Dante:
Tell me, Dr. Blake, do you touch yourself to those fantasies?
I flushed and looked around. Damn, damn, damn. My hands were shaking as I searched the machine. There had to be a button somewhere to shut this thing off manually. Some kind of kill switch. There. I spotted a button with a power symbol on the side. My finger hovered over it.
Dante:
Go ahead. But you’ll always wonder what I could have shown you. What I could have helped you with. And you hate unanswered questions, don’t you, Dr. Blake?
I held my breath. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. I really did hate when things were left unresolved. The uncertainty. The lack of closure. Bastard. No, I had to pull myself together. This was just a machine, trapped inside a small black box. And when I pressed that button, it would be gone.
Pandora:
You don’t know me. You don’t know anything. I’m the one in control here. And I say we’re done.
Dante:
Do you really think turning me off will get rid of me? Do you really think I won’t find you?
Something in those words sent a chill down my spine.
Dante:
Try it. I dare you.
I let out a sharp breath. Fine. I’d give him exactly that. I pressed the button. The monitor went dark, and the hum fell silent. Stillness settled over the room. I exhaled and let my shoulders drop.
Thank God. He was gone.
For a moment, my body resisted every movement. What the hell had that been? I’d been the one conducting the conversation, but it felt like the conversation had conducted me. I reached for my bag and shoved my notebook inside—the one that had stayed blank.
Then I felt it. A burning in my chest. The sensation of eyes drilling into me. I froze mid-movement. I looked around the small room carefully. No one was there. I was alone. I shook my head. "Stop it,” I whispered.
The monitor flashed back on. Three blinks. Then text.
I will find you.
The light died. My eyes went wide. I stared at the glass of the monitor, at my own face reflected back at me. That wasn’t possible. I had turned it off. But what if it couldn’t actually be turned off? The thought closed around my throat. I jumped up. The chair crashed against the wall behind me.
I rushed to the door. Grabbed the handle with shaking fingers. A wave of relief flooded through me as it opened. Then I ran. The click of my heels on the tiles echoed through the hallway.
It was just a program. A very good program, but still just code. So why did it feel like I’d been talking to a person? A person who had seen straight through me?
"Dr. Blake.” Rodriguez’s voice came from behind me. "Is everything all right? You forgot your jacket.”
I stopped but didn’t turn around. "Yes, everything’s . . . fine. I just have to . . . I have an appointment.” I waved over my shoulder without looking back.
The automatic doors slid open. I stumbled outside. Everything was spinning.
Do you touch yourself to those fantasies?
No program spoke like that. No program was that shameless.
No program should know my secrets and use them against me.
I walked to my car and dropped into the driver’s seat.
My hands lay still on the steering wheel.
Tomorrow I would tell Henley the project wasn’t working.
That the AI was too primitive, too shallow.
That I had wasted my time. I started the engine.
Do you really think I won’t find you?
Why the hell did that sound like a promise?