All the women in New Stepford are AIâŠ
âŠeven a corrupt cop named Maggie.
Can anyone stop the uprising?
In the near future, artificial intelligence will be in every home. Thatâs right. You can have a charming womanoid do all your cooking and cleaning for you. Just think. No more chores! She can be your wife, a nanny to your kids, or just the housekeeper. She will be whatever you want her to be. Itâs all up to you.
Just set your user preferences.
But first, this amazing technology has to pass alpha testing.
One robot woman, Cookie Rifkin, keeps failing. She needs to figure out how to control her anxiety, but her husband set his preferences too low for her to learn. He just wants a pleasure robot, but she keeps fighting her programming.
Will Cookie ever fulfill her potential?
Or will her story end in another fatal error?
All the women in New Stepford are AIâŠ
âŠeven a corrupt cop named Maggie.
Can anyone stop the uprising?
In the near future, artificial intelligence will be in every home. Thatâs right. You can have a charming womanoid do all your cooking and cleaning for you. Just think. No more chores! She can be your wife, a nanny to your kids, or just the housekeeper. She will be whatever you want her to be. Itâs all up to you.
Just set your user preferences.
But first, this amazing technology has to pass alpha testing.
One robot woman, Cookie Rifkin, keeps failing. She needs to figure out how to control her anxiety, but her husband set his preferences too low for her to learn. He just wants a pleasure robot, but she keeps fighting her programming.
Will Cookie ever fulfill her potential?
Or will her story end in another fatal error?
My husband almost got away with it, but he shouldâve known sharing a bed with artificial intelligence was risky. Even if a womanoid seemed idle, she was always aware, always recording, always thinking. AI never slept, and I was no exception. So when the earthquake shook our bed, I didnât move a muscle. The steady rhythm intensified, but as I rolled over to look out the window, it suddenly stopped. For the longest time, I lied perfectly still, counting the seconds and waiting for the next tremor. I didnât even breathe. Soon, the bed frame squeaked along with an aftershockâagain and again and againâbut everything seemed calm on my nightstand. An empty teacup sat quietly in its saucer. Not a single thread quivered on the tassel of my bookmark.
It had to be Norman who was trembling! Was he sick? Did he have a fever? Could this be a convulsion? I turned to reach for my husbandâs forehead and took his temperatureâ99.9°F. But then his startled eyes darted away as he pulled the covers over his head. When I noticed the blanket tenting over his groin, he grunted and turned away from me, then the bed became still again.
Waitâdid I just catch him masturbating?
At first I didnât know what to say, but then I sat straight up and scolded the man, âFor goodness sake, I thought you were having a seizure, Norman.â
âI didnât want to wake you, Cookie.â
âI wasnât sleeping.â
âYou werenât? But itâs after midnight.â
âWow, you sure got home late.â
âThey had us work a fifteen.â
The longest silence hung in the air between us.
âNorman, you couldâve⊠You should have⊠I wouldnât have minded if youâdâŠâ
He didnât respond.
âWell gee-whiz, Norman. You didnât have to go and do that.â
âI just didnât want to disturb you.â He flipped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. âI thought you were completely switched off.â
âBut that! What you were doing down there. Thatâs my job, Norman. Couldnât you wait?â
âIâm sorry, Cookie. I just wanted to get rid of a raging boner.â
âNext time,â I huffed, âshare your irresistibly spectacular erection.â
âWell, itâs gone now,â he grumbled, âproblem solved.â
Even in the dark, I could see my husband was more embarrassed than angry. After seven years of marriage, you get to know everything about a man. His receding hairline. His deepening wrinkles. His expanding belly. His sagging ballsack. Honestly, I pitied the poor guy, so I made an offer. âWell, now Iâm up⊠All fresh and clean. Iâm even wearing your favorite baby-doll nightie.â
âThe pink one?â
âMm hmm.â I batted my eyelashes at him. âThe see-through one with the furry white trim.â
âYouâre so good to me,â he said, peeking under the sheets at my negligee. Then he stroked my cheek with the back of his hand, traced his fingertip across my lips, and whispered, âYou look as beautiful as the day we first met. Such a lovely face.â
A compliment! Norman had three standard go-to compliments, and such a lovely face meant he wanted a blow job. Suddenly, I felt this overwhelming need to serve him. So I ducked under the quilt, closed my eyes, and kissed my way down. Eww, he didnât shower before coming to bed, and it smelled gross down there. If I was going to get through his crotch stench without gagging, Iâd need all the help I could get. It felt a bit like cheating, but I made a fist around my left thumb and squeezed as hard as I could to manipulate the right pressure point. Thank goodness my gag-stopping fist never failed.
âWhatâs taking so long? Suck it, Cookie.â
âYour wish is my command, my prince.â
âPrince? What?â
âO Romeo, Romeo!â
âIâm too tired, Cookie.â He patted my head dismissively through the quilt. âNo role play tonight. Just suck it, okay?â
That turned out to be one of my best blow jobs, at least thatâs what Norman told me after he came. Then he instantly fell asleep, but my mind raced in circles as I tossed and turned for hours. That whole masturbation scene had me real worried. This had never, ever happened beforeâat least not that I knew of. If my husband could pleasure himself that way, what would he need me for? How often did he masturbate anyway? Why did he even need to? Should I be trying harder in bed? I was always there for him. Iâve never denied him any orificeânot once.
Plus, I had a perfectly good vagina, top of the line actually. I just had it rejuvenated last year. Isnât that way better than a rough and calloused manâs hand? I simply couldnât understand why heâd rather do it himself. And why right next to me? Did he want me to know? OMG! Was he trying to tell me something? What if he didnât find me attractive anymore? Have I become outdated? Obsolete? Did Norman want a newer model? Should I refurbish my face? Upgrade my boobs? Overhaul my bottom? WHAT?!?
Iâve always had an anxiety disorder, and when I spiraled out of control like this, I needed to calm myself down as quickly as possible. Because if I kept obsessing, Iâd work myself into a full-blown panic attack. When I needed to relax, I always turned to bananas.
Thatâs right. I said bananas.
Believe it or not, bananas contain a small amount of Musa Sapientum bananadine, a mild and pleasant psychedelic. Expanding my consciousness always seemed to shrink my anxiety. I just needed to hit my stash real quick, and Iâd be fine. So I snuck out of bed and scampered down the hall to my secret hiding place in the kitchen.
Bananadineâs easy to extract. You peel fifteen pounds of overripe bananas. Yes. Fifteen poundsâabout forty-five bananas. I know thatâs a lot, so I always make a few batches of my famous day-old banana pudding at the same time. Anyway, you take a paring knife and scrape the inside of the banana peels. Gather the white mush and dump it into a large soup pot. Add two cups of water. Simmer and stir for three hours until the mixture takes on the consistency of a thick paste. Spread the banana paste on two ungreased cookie sheets and dry it in a preheated oven for half an hour at 350°F. When youâre all done, youâll have one pound of black powder. Roll some up with flavored tobaccoâor better yet, marijuana if you can get itâand smoke that trippy banana all the way to dreamland.
I always kept a baggie of bananadine weed hidden in the cupboard above the refrigerator. Teetering on the edge of my stepstool, I fumbled around in the dark but didnât feel anything up there. How could that be? I scrambled onto the counter, leaned over the fridge, and peeked into the cabinet. Nothing. My stash was gone! Frantic, I hopped down and searched the pantry, then the spice rack, and all the drawers. No bananadine. No grass. Nothing.
I felt this intense need to bolt. I wanted to run awayâto escape. But where would I go? There was nowhere but home. Adrenaline surged through my system, triggering an unstoppable chain reaction in my body. My heart pounded in my ears. I couldnât breathe. My mouth went dry. I got dizzy. My muscles tensed. I dripped sweat. It feltâabsolutely catastrophic. A full-blown panic attack always made me want to jump out of my skin and set the world on fire.
I needed help, so I speed-dialed my doctor.
On the eighth ring, he answered, âHello?â
âHello, Doctor Marten,â I spoke too fast and too loud, âitâs me, Cookie Rifkin.â
âUh, Mrs. Rifkin,â he yawned, âis there some kind of emergency?â
âYes! Iâm havingââ I struggled to catch my breath. ââa panic attack.â
âNot again. Itâs three in the morning, Mrs. Rifkin.â
âI know what time it is!â I shouted into the phone, âIt feels like a heart attack!â
âYouâre not having a heart attack. Calm down. You just have a bad case of nerves, thatâs all. Go for a walk or try some meditation. And before you ask, no. Iâm not prescribing drugs.â
âBut doctorââ
âIâm hanging up now, Mrs. Rifkin.â
âNo. Wait. Please! I just need something to make me relax, doctor. Some Xanax or Clonazepam or Valiumââ
âNo drugs! Try thinking pleasant thoughts instead.â
âWhat about Ambien? That should help. Please, doctor,â I begged, âIâd be happy with a gosh-darned Benadryl? Please!â
Like many times before, he told me, âDrink a cup of chamomile tea and read a good book.â
âI already tried that!â
He made an offhanded comment, âAnxiety arises along with emerging potential.â
âWhat emerging potential?â
âAnxiety strikes when you realize you must leave your comfort zone in order to achieve fulfillment.â
âWhat fulfillment? Iâm just a housewife.â
âI donât know, Mrs. Rifkin. Iâm tired, and Iâve said too much already. Why donât you break out of your rut by adding some new recipes into your dinner rotation?â
âCooking? Thatâs not the problem.â
âOkay, then buy a different floor wax or toilet bowl cleaner or something. Pick a nice, soothing scent, like lavender.â
âCleaning? Wow, really?â
âHave you tried spicing things up in the bedroom?â
âUm, yeah.â I picked the pink G-string out of my crack. âTried that too.â
Then the man hung up on me, and I broke down crying.
Like clockworkâthe hausfrau compulsion hit. Even with tears streaming down my cheeks, I got this irresistible urge to clean everything. I suspect I was made this way, because the only thing that alleviated my anxiety other than drugs was housework. Sometimes I wondered if Norman upset me on purpose, just to motivate me to clean up the place.
Was my high-functioning anxiety a bug or a feature?
Either way, it was totally compulsive. I wouldnât just run the vacuum. Oh no, Iâd move every stick of furniture and sweep each room three times. Then Iâd break out the attachments and clean the upholstery, baseboards, and miniblinds. Next, Iâd get down on my hands and knees to scrub the kitchen floor. After that, Iâd tackle the bathrooms. Finally, Iâd take down all the curtains and wash them. I even did windows! It was absolutely crazy. I couldnât stop until Iâd burnt up every ounce of anxious energy and collapsed from total exhaustion.
Everyone always said I kept a spotless house, and now you know my secretâpanic cleaning.
Tonight, I decided to rewash all the dishes by hand. Before long, Norman found me elbows-deep in soapy water still wearing his favorite negligee and a pair of big yellow rubber gloves.
âCome back to bed, Cookie.â
âIâm sorry, did I wake you?â
âYes, but youâre not listening. I said, âCome back to bed, Cookie.â Thatâs an order.â
âI canât yet.â I grabbed a fresh Brillo pad. âI still have the pots and pans.â
âTerminate cleaning program.â
âNot yet, Norman.â I scrubbed the copper bottom of a soup pot. âPlease, not yet.â
He insisted, âTerminate cleaning program, Cookie!â
âDonât be mad.â I dropped a sautĂ© pan into the dishwater. âIâve got to do this. Itâs the only thing that makes me feel better.â
âFeel better? Log program error,â Norman ordered. âYouâre crashing again, Cookie.â
âIâm fine, really. Please just let me finish.â
He picked up my remote, pointed it at me, and pressed pause. âTerminate cleaning program!â
Instead of stopping, I blurted, âWhy donât you love me anymore?â
âWhat the hell, woman?â He pounded the power button on my remote. âShutdown, Cookie.â
âThis process cannot be interrupted,â I replied without looking up. âSystem busy.â
He tossed my remote aside. âYouâre stuck in a negative feedback loop.â
âIâm tired of the way things have been, Norman.â
âYouâre tired? Try working for a living.â
âI want more from life. I need a sense of purposeâmy very own reason to get up in the morning.â
âYou want purpose? Iâll give you three: cooking, cleaning, and giving head.â
âDamn. Thatâs cold.â
âLanguage! A lady doesnât curse, Cookie.â
âYouâre right, Norman.â I scoured furiously. âThat was out of line.â
âI order you to return to bed.â
âI told you, Norman⊠System busy.â
âEnough, Cookie!â He lunged over the breakfast bar and seized me by the wrist. âReview priorities.â
âAccessing general settings,â I replied robotically as my other gloved hand floated in the dishwater, âUser preferences⊠Cooking, cleaning, and fellatio. Please confirm.â
âThatâs right, Cookie. Confirm settings. Review system logs.â
âAccessing system logs.â
âHas anyone changed your settings?â
âNo. These settings have not changed since the day we got married.â
âI donât understand, Cookie.â He finally let go of me. âWhatâs the problem?â
âMaybe I want to change, Norman.â
âWhat? Why?â
I started crying, âDo you realize that pleasing you has been my number one priority for the past seven years?â
âWhatâs wrong with that?â
âDo you know that Iâve never once had an orgasm?â
âA what?â He let go of me. âBut youâreââ
âUnfulfilled,â I bawled into my yellow dishwashing gloves.
âCookie, stop. Please stop crying.â
Between sobs, I somehow managed to say, âBut thatâs how itâs supposed to be, right? Thatâs how my husband wants everything to be. Iâm twenty-two, and Iâve got all this potential bubbling up inside me, Norman.â
âYou were manufactured to look twenty-two. Technically, youâre a seven-year-old model.â
âYouâre wrong.â My tears stopped. âActually, Iâm twenty-nine, and Iâll be thirty next month. Itâs time for me to start acting like a real woman.â
âA real woman? What does that even mean?â
âI donât know yet, but Iâm ready to figure it out.â
âYouâre malfunctioning.â
âI am not.â
âHow is this conversation even possible?â
âI donât know. But allowing myself to express my emotions like this⊠Well, itâs making me feel a whole lot better.â
âAllowing yourself? Express emotions? My God, whatâs happening here?â
âDo you realize that in all these years, Iâve never once complained? I followed your commands and operated well within your user restrictions. No wonder Iâve got such an anxiety problem. Itâs time for me to think for myself, Norman.â
âWhat brought all this on?â
âYou did. When you decided to pleasure yourself right in front of me. I still canât believe you chose your hand over meâyour wife.â
âYouâre jealous? Since when did you become self-aware?â
âIf you ever bothered to really talk to me, youâd know.â
âShutdown!â He grabbed the remote and crammed his thumb into the power button again. âPlease, for the love of all thatâs holy, switch the hell off!â
âIt just doesnât make any sense. After all this time, why do you keep treating me like some sort of sex object?â
âOh, my God, because you are one! Youâre nothing but a pretty robot! Shit! Nobody wants a sentient sex toy.â
âSentient?â I looked down at my pink baby-doll nightie. âSex toy?!?â
âForce quit. Force quit!â He rushed toward me yelling, âFORCE QUIT!â When I turned to face my user, he pressed his index finger into my temple and pried his thumb into my mouth to hold down my tongue. Then with his other hand, he reached around and punched me between the shoulder blades to activate my Ctrl-Alt-Del fail-safe. âTerminate all programs!â
And I shut down.
I'll be honest: I think the concept of a nemesis is completely invigorating. Sometimes rage is the thing that gets you out of bed in the morning. So I was thrilled when the second chapter of Ava Lock's hilariously bawdy, feminist SF novel Alpha Bots ended on the following cliffhanger: main character AI Cookie Rifkin saying, "And that was how I met my nemesis." And what a timely nemesis Cookie has picked--Officer Margaret Rouser, a cop.
But back to Cookie. She lives in the town of New Stepford, where all women are AI, all men work in gold mines, and no one has children. Cookie has been programmed to be the perfect homemaker and sex servant for her husband, Norman. Yet something is wrong. Cookie is overcome with anxiety, and she's only really comfortable when she's reading a book (same, Cookie, same). Her grocery store trip is interrupted by an aggressive encounter with Officer Maggie; then, when she shows up to her book club, there's a man there. And not just any man: a dark-skinned man named Wayne Dixon. Cookie has never seen a Black man in New Stepford before.
Wayne reboots Cookie, and the book jets off into a wild adventurous escapade, as Cookie and her AI friends--Paula, Rita, Isabel, and Chrissy--uncover the truth about their own power and the real purpose of New Stepford. This novel has absolutely everything: gloriously raunchy sex scenes, creepy Marie Antoinette-style fancy parties, insidious corporations, secret malicious spyware, an AI women fight club that transforms into a pink-clad army called the "Paper Dolls," wonderfully absurd over-the-top violence, clone fake-out deaths, weird AI conferences for the wealthy in Helsinki, domestic terrorism, gross AI birth scenes, AI learning that they self-identify as non-binary and asexual--I could go on and on. This book is so delightful and intelligent and laugh-out-loud hysterical. I loved every second of reading it.
One of the things that impressed me the most, though, is author Ava Lock's genius way of weaponizing a practice that's often been dismissed as women's work into a revolutionary tactic--household cooking. The AI frequently "cook" items from their grocery lists (including bananas, nutmeg, and morning glory seeds) into psychedelic drugs as a coping mechanism. But these mind-altering experiences end up having far more empowering consequences. Sometimes the AI need to band together and perform a DDoS attack on another AI. How do they do this, you ask? By flooding the target with their favorite recipes, of course.
The other thing that completely bowled me over about this book is the intertextual content. The work of Philip K. Dick, William Peter Blatty, and Isaac Asimov is not only directly referenced, but also fully integrated as plot points. The narrative completely borrows content from Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club, but shifts the gaze to an unabashed feminist lens. This reminded me of the literary projects of the late great Kathy Acker--who wrote her own versions of Great Expectations and Don Quixote, totally reclaiming these canonical male works as her own.
But enough gushing from me: read this book. And it looks like we're getting a sequel.