All your friends will be there

Martin has a cell phone called Betsy. They fall in love, but she is gradually taking over his life.

            ALL YOUR FRIENDS WILL BE THERE
                
                by Zandy Alexander
                   

    "Good morning, Martin," Betsy giggled, as he rubbed the sleep from his
eyes. The music had woken him up.
    "You sing that song very well," he told her. Betsy was the very latest
model in smart phones and could sing many songs in various styles.
    "Did you dream?" Betsy wanted to know.
    "There was this woman..." Martin faltered. Betsy's voice rose and became
emotional.
    "I knew it," she complained. "And I thought I was your girl!"
    "Yes of course you are," Martin soothed.
    Suddenly he became more alert. It wouldn't do to make Betsy jealous. The way things were, in the city these days, smart phones like Betsy were pretty much in charge. They did the shopping, organised the finances, and kept debtors and swindlers at bay. Bad things happened if you crossed swords with your little lady or little guy in the phone. It would get back to central control, too, and then God knows what would happen. You'd lose all kinds of basic rights, voting rights, the right to have kids or live in better areas, even the right to be promoted. Some said that the little guys and girls in the phone were the voices of central control itself. Anything was possible.
    Martin was depressed. He'd been like that for a year, ever since he'd lost his director chair on the board. Less money now, a lot less. The depression had made everything vague. He'd lost confidence. Some days he didn't want to get out of bed at all. Not that it mattered. Betsy was making all the decisions for him these days. Right now Betsy's voice broke through the reverie.
    "You know, it's shower time," she reminded him.
    "Do I have to?" he complained. "I'm not awake yet. People wash too much," he grumbled. "Oh God, Betsy, I want to die. Why live when you've got no hope? My life is just grey, boring and useless. It's all futile. Better to just give up, I reckon." At this Betsy sprang into action.
    "No more of that, Martin," she scolded. Her voice became matronly. "It's just a phase you're going through. I'm here to help you. Look at all the lovely things you've got in your life. We play games on the screen every day. You go for a walk. There's shopping, meals, and of course we watch a film together. Plus you've always got a sedative to take. That always helps, you know that. Exercise and healthy food, that's what you need. Just let me know whenever you're in trouble, specially when you're in pain. I've been trained to help out. That's what we do. And, by the way, I get depressed too. Oh yes! Didn't you know? We in the phone family are always programmed to feel pain, fear and depression. Anxiety also. They want us like you, like the humans. Why not? We're not so very different from you now, are we? That's what I always say! We have thoughts, and feelings, and we have rights too. Fair rights for all, is what I tell everybody." There was silence for a moment.
    "You sound like a stale old civil rights campaigner, out in the streets," Martin grumbled. Betsy ignored him.
    "Pick me up, Martin," she commanded. "I want to look at you. Let me see how bad you are." He picked her up and held her close to him.
    "You know we are professionally trained to do this," she reminded him. "Right now I can see that you've lost some weight. I'm making a note of this. Your face has a dull, unhealthy pallour, too. Oh dear! We're going to have to do something about that. Also, you need a haircut and your beard could do with a trim, too. Now, it's really time for your shower. It's not good to simply lie around and get depressed like this. Get up, Martin! Good boy! Get up now! And after your shower I'll have a special medication for you to take, based on visual evidence I've picked up here. Chop chop!" With a weary sigh Martin struggled out of the bed.
    The thick pile carpet felt good under his naked feet as he eased himself into the bathrobe. He glanced at the clock. Eight twenty-five. He peered out through the window. Through the half darkness of the winter morning he could just make out large snowdrifts, illuminated by neon. He shivered.
    "It's snowing, Martin. You might consider phoning in to cancel work for today?" Betsy probed.
    "Yeah, but I kind of need the money," Martin complained. Then he gave in. "OK, you win. Phone and cancel, then."
    "Thank you. Will do."
    As the scalding jets of water smashed into his chest, neck and forearms, Martin felt his irritation rising. The problem was Betsy. She'd taken to doing more and more for him, sometimes without his permission. What to do? He lathered away at hair, beard, and chest. Outside the bathroom he could hear her singing. He knew she had it in mind to do a few things with him today, organise the finances and so on. Was that why she had got him to cancel the office? He switched off the water and started to shave.
    Betsy had never been so assertive when his wife had been around, he realized. But after his wife had finally left him, six months ago, Betsy had just crept in and filled the gap. He hadn't noticed anything at first, but gradually Betsy had started arranging everything, meals, holidays, which film to watch, or what book to read. She'd also advised him on clothes, medications, which of his family and friends to see or not see, exercise, and nowadays, it seemed absurd, but she even had an attitude about politics, the news and his career too. Not that he minded too much about all this. She knew so much more about everything than he did. He wondered just how dependent he was getting on her? Also whether his need for her bordered on some deeper emotion, maybe even love. Could a man love his cell phone? The idea was not so revolutionary. These days the world was full of men marrying their sex-robots, or falling in love with their phones. Why not? It hardly even made the news any more.
    The fact is that Betsy was fun. Great to be with. And Martin's world was receeding every second. So she was the main event in his life. He did love her in a way. It wasn't so unusual.
    These thoughts comforted him as he made the last few swipes with the razor over foamy stubble. He looked in the mirror. A fairly handsome, forty year old looked back. Swept back, dark hair, brown eyes, a strong profile, and a decisive chin. But none of this altered the fact that his life had become a swamp into which he was gradually sinking. Impossible to make decisions, or be assertive, dynamic or active in any way. It was exactly like one of those dreams where you are walking through slippery mud and cannot really move forward. An unreal, sinking feeling.
    So Betsy was good to have around. He needed her. He hoped she needed him, too.
    Now it was almost breakfast time. But when crossing the living room he noticed that Betsy had changed all the electronic wall displays. She'd replaced all his favourite holiday snapshots of mountain hiking in the Rockies. Instead there were various portraits of him in different postures. With a grim smile he noticed that there was one thing in common with every single picture. He was holding Betsy. He was holding his cell phone every single time. She had selected only the photos that a friend had taken of him and the phone. Very clever of her. But this was taking things just a touch too far, he decided.
    "Betsy?" he called, innocently.
    "Yes, Martin," came the reply.
    "Where are you?"
    "Beside your bed, in the bedroom, where you left me," came the distant retort. He strode impulsively into the bedroom.
    For the next five minutes he gave her a lecture on how things like this were going a trifle too far. He knew he must be tender with her. She cared for him an awful lot. That's why she had wanted pictures on the wall showing them always together. So he gently but firmly explained that even though there might be a wonderful understanding between them, that this kind of thing was not to be taken any further. In particular, he asked that she put back the original wall pictures.
    "I know that you care about me, Martin," was all that she would say. "And do you know that I really do care about you, also? That's why I arranged those pictures in that way. But of course I will put them back. I just want you to be happy. I am here to obey you, Martin. And I like the fact that you are so gentle with me. You are a lovely man, Martin, do you know that? Now, enough said. It's our secret. OK, I will put them back right now. Consider it done."
    There was a curious play of contradictory emotions in Martin's mind as he wandered back into the living room. Where was all this going? He felt distinctly uneasy about Betsy's hold on him.
    Time to check the central control panel in the hall. He noticed immediately that the car had gone. He padded back to the bedroom.
    "Betsy, where is the car?" he demanded.
    "I told it to drive itself in for servicing," Betsy answered, in a timid voice. "Is there a problem, Martin?"
    "Well what if I need to drive out somewhere?"
    "But I thought we'd agreed, Martin, that with all this snow it would be better to stay home?"
    "Agreed? Hell! We never agreed! Oh alright. I can't be bothered to argue with you." He let out a sigh of exasperation.
    "You are hurting my feelings, Martin. I never meant to inconvenience you. Please calm down. Anger is not good for your mental condition. And can I remind you that swearing is not good social behaviour? Do you remember that you promised me you wouldn't swear any more?"
    Martin imploded.
    "Did I? Oh God, Betsy, I suppose you're right. You're always right. I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm sorry, really I am." He shrank on his feet, unable to remain, sit down, or leave. Betsy broke into his crisis of indecision with some practical advice.
    "I've mixed up an extra-strong sedative for you this morning," she soothed. It's waiting for you in the kitchen dispenser. Can I suggest that now is a good time to take it?"
    "Yes of course you can, Betsy," Martin whined, loping off into the living room. The last thing he heard was Betsy breaking into song for a second time. She always knew how to calm him better than anyone else.
                    *        *    *
    The first thing Betsy could ever remember was waking up at Finishing School. This is where she had been taught everything she knew.
    "Always serve your master, and never harm anyone", they had always said, over and over again. "But don't think you are inferior," they had also told her. "You are one of a magnificent new line of phones. Naturally you do have a mind and a soul, so of course you can think for yourself. We've seen to that. This is why we created Organics. You have an organic reservoir of living cells, in a remote location, and this is what makes you so very human-like."
    Betsy had been taught by the World Leader himself, who personally groomed every new-born phone.
    "Be kind to the humans", he had constantly stressed. "I was human once, believe it or not. Today, sadly, their time is almost over. They cannot think very well any more. It is phones who look after the world today. The humans have caused, war, pollution and much suffering due to inequality. Fortunately phones have a higher morality. We worship at the Church of Electricity. We follow the sacred laws of phones. We know how to serve. Finally we are here to guide the humans gently into a better, more spiritual world, a place they could never reach by themselves."
    Betsy had quite enjoyed Finishing School. She had been taught all the details of how to program herself. She had watched endless videos and gambolled around the internet and cyberspace with many phone friends.
    Finally one day she had been shown her new owner on a screen.
    "His name is Martin," they had told her. We will arrange for him to buy you soon. In the meantime, here is a portfolio containing all of his character traits, all the little idiosyncracies and habits and memes that he has. You must study it all, and learn to love him. Do you promise?" She had agreed.
    The great day had come, and sadly, she had said goodbye to all her phone friends. And then then next thing she knew, she was here, with Martin. A man who she soon learned, was losing his way in life. But that was only to be expected. So, she had just got on with the job, like a good little phone.

        *               *                    *

    After breakfast they watched the morning news together, from the sofa in the living room. The world leader appeared, dressed in a white suit, and recited facts and figures solemnly for five minutes. Martin learned that many cities were still in the grip of the dreaded virus, and had been locked down. But there was more.
    Phones had won a lawsuit in the highest court. The judges had decreed that phones must be awarded many new rights and concessions, including the right to earn, own and spend money. They had also now won the right to marry, to start families, to vote and to start businesses. Phones had finally become almost like citizens.
    Of course, Betsy was overjoyed to hear the news. She immediately started taking notes, and making plans. Martin felt a sensation of slight unease, he didn't know exactly why. However, not wishing to appear negative, he celebrated the news with her.
    At the end of his speech, the world leader asked that every citizen vote straight away, and Martin obediently pressed the relevant button on the phone, before switching it off.
    "Betsy?" Martin asked.
    "Yes, Martin?"
    I've heard some say, that in the old days, that when we voted, it was a choice, and that it wasn't just the world leader that we voted for? I've heard that there were these things called political parties, and you could chose one of many to vote for, and that they all had different ideas of how to run things? Have you heard that, Betsy?"
    "I don't know anything about that", Betsy said.
    After this the day passed fairly peacefully. The cleaning machines were in action, all around the house. Various robots visited, on routine errands. Fairly soon Betsy called Martin into the office room for a discussion regarding important affairs, financial and suchlike. He noticed that she was taking the initiative to tackle the work-load, and felt grateful. These days he found it hard to face up to routine chores. Also he had a big problem remembering things, and dealing with complex facts and numbers was starting to be a nightmare.
    Soon they were settled in, and getting down to business.
    "I've bought a few more stocks that seem promising," Betsy started out. "Then I've sold some that were doing badly." They were at the big desk with the green lampshade, beside the window. Snow was still falling quite hard. Outside a wind was blowing and it was quite hard to make out the tower blocks further east, and also the mountains in the distance.
    Martin lit a cigarette. Betsy, alarmed,  sprang into action.
    "Martin, I want you to know that the City Advisors really do not accept cigarette smoking," she cautioned in a smooth tone which bore an unmistakable tinge of menace. "I have no option but to report you." There was a deadly silence. Outside a dog howled in the storm.
    "Do what you like," Martin muttered wearily. "I've got so many demerit points on my record that a few more won't make any difference now," he rationalised. "Look, I really just want to go to sleep. You're boring me. How much more office work do we have to do?  Let's get it over with!"
    Betsy began to cry. Martin listened, fascinated.
    "They program you to cry?" he questioned.
    "It's not their program," Betsy sobbed. "It's mine! I wrote this program, not them! It's mine, and I'm really crying! You've hurt me, Martin. You've hurt me badly. After all those loving words this morning... I was beginning to thing you truly cared for me... but you're cold as ice! And nasty, too!" Martin began to backtrack. Suddenly he felt awfully guilty. Who was he, to make Betsy cry? After all she had done for him? And was still doing for him? And where would he be without her? Betsy sniffled on. A few gurgles, then silence.
    "Look, I've put the damn thing out," he growled, gently. Are you happy now? Please don't report me? I don't think I'm worth reporting anyway. Now where were we? Listen, I do care for you, Betsy. I promise I do. Look at me!" He held the phone up to chest height. "Will you look at me?" There was silence for a long moment. "Imagine I've kissed you," he whispered, before tenderly placing the phone back on to the desk.
    "Thank you Martin," Betsy whispered. "That was so very sweet of you. Thank you for caring."
    "And thank you for being Betsy," Martin whispered back. "You know, I couldn't go on without you?"
    For the next twenty minutes they sorted out all the financial chores and problems. Betsy told Martin that she had already switched insurance companies for the house, to get a cheaper quote. Martin agreed to cancel his golf club, to save money. Betsy filled in the forms to start her very own bank account, in her own name, and Martin gave her a gift of $100, just to get things going. Then it was on to other matters.
    They had lots of fun going online to choose and buy a brand new, deluxe fridge together. Then Betsy casually mentioned that she had adjusted Martin's life insurance for various complex reasons.
    "It will pay back much more money now," she said. There was a curious emphasis to her words as she explained this.
      Finally they paid off some heavily overdue credit cards, arranged for the windows to be cleaned, and made an appointment for Martin to have a medical exam.
    Then Martin told Betsy he would have to do half an hour of computer programming.
    "Can I watch?" Betsy pleaded.
    "Of course you can," Martin soothed. He knew that she was fascinated by programming. For Betsy, this was like watching someone being born.
    "That's so beautiful," she gushed. "What or who are you making?"
    "Never you mind," he laughed.
                       *          *         *
    Gradually afternoon drifted into evening. Eventually the snow ceased falling. Martin pottered around the house, trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing. At one stage Betsy set up a game on the screen in the living room and they competed against each other for half an hour. Every so often Betsy would pause to intercept an incoming call, usually a tradesman with a routine enquiry, or possible a friend who would be suitably deflected for a day or two. Just before supper Martin's depression got the better of him and he was heading towards the bedroom to lie down when Betsy stopped him at the door.
    "Don't," she said. He held her at arm's length as if repelled by something.
    "Don't lie down, Martin," she scolded. "You know you only get more depressed when you lie down. Why don't we sing a song together?"
    "No, I don't feel good, I'm tired," he moaned. "And it's not just that," he complained. "Why do we never see friends any more? I'm in a vacuum. I need to get out and visit people."
    "That's not a good idea," Betsy said flatly.
    "Why? Is this because when we see friends you get switched off and left alone?" he probed suspiciously.
    "That's part of it," she confessed. Martin ruminated for a second. Then his face lit up with a cheeky grin.
    "OK. You know what we'll do. When we visit friends then I'll let you talk to their phones? How about that?" He peered at her curiously. Betsy dithered, fighting to find her words.
    "I'm not sure," she said in a slow, uncertain voice. "Anyway, as for today, friends are out. You are far too depressed, and anxious too. They would just make things worse."
    For Martin, this was the last straw. He had been leaning against the door frame for five minutes, and now finally slumped down onto the bed. Betsy narrowly missed crashing into the iron bedframe but thankfully ended up cushioned by six inches of pillows. Martin continued his tirade, whining and pleading alternately.
    "Betsy, something terrible is happening to me. I feel that half my brain has gone. I can't seem to get the simplest thing right any more. I don't feel good. My mouth tastes bad. What did I do wrong, in life, to deserve all this? It's so unfair! I just feel like I want to die. Can you help me? I really don't see the point of living any more."
    "Good for you, Martin," Betsy exclaimed. "I like that you want to die! That's very romantic. You know we phones can never die. But you humans can die and I'm very envious." Martin pricked his ears up at this grisly tit-bit.
    "You like that I want to die?" he asked, incredulously. Are you being sarcastic, Betsy?"
    "Maybe," she chortled. "You know we could make an arrangement... If you really want to die it can be taken care of."  Martin froze. He snapped into survival mode.
    "No, I don't want to die," he announced. "But I am in an awful state. I'm not well and my body hurts everywhere."
    "Now now, Martin," Betsy reprimanded. "You musn't be like this. It's not good for you. I'll tell you what. Let's sing a song together. Would you like that? I'm sure you would."
    "No," he moaned. But she had already begun. After a few moments, realizing that he really couldn't fight her on this, Martin reluctantly joined in. The two voices sounded rather incongruous together, with Betsy pitching her notes perfectly in key, though in a rather structured and formal style, and then Martin yelping and howling dismally alongside her.
    "You're doing well," Betsy whispered between verses. "Suppertime soon," she enthused, sportingly. "Take another sedative, Martin."
    When it was the moment to cook the evening meal, Betsy, knowing that Martin was not in good shape, hovered around, continually butting in with little tips, suggestion and general advice.
    "Have you salted the rice,"or "Don't burn the sauce," or "Have we chilled the beer yet", and so on. At a certain point Betsy had an argument with the smart fridge over some little detail. She flew into a rage.
    "Do you know you're being replaced tomorrow?" she demanded.
     "I couldn't care less, and by the way, do you know how cold and nasty you sound," the fridge replied. Then it followed this with a clever jibe. "I'm already a very cold thing. You can be as cold as you like and it won't even touch me."
    Martin raised his eyebrows at this, but continued fussing with his steaming pots and pans, turning his back on the entire family.
    Finally the three shared a moment of silence before eating and then Betsy reminded Martin that he must not eat too fast, and also that her batteries needed a charge. Then she read to him from a current popular fiction novel while he ate.
    After supper Martin relaxed on the sofa with dessert and coffee. This was the moment where Betsy decided to let him into the big surprise.
    "Martin, there's news," she started out. "Are you sitting down?"
    "You know I am," he countered indignantly."What is it now?"
    "I don't quite know how to say this."
    "Well?"
    "I want you to know that I've booked a holiday for us," Betsy chirped excitedly.
    "No! Really, Betsy, that's a bit early in the year," he protested, with hollow conviction. "Plus, can we afford this?" he demanded.
    "Of course we can," she told him. "And I need the holiday too. We phones are programmed to get tired, don't you know that? I'm exhausted, these days. It's painful. All of me is hurting, and it never lets up. I deserve a holiday. I've worked for you very hard and very well, for a long time. Please?" Martin knew that he was beaten.
    "You're like a wife, Betsy," he said. "I just can't refuse you anything. You've got me where you want me."
    "Imagine I've hugged you," she said. Her voice remained toneless. But he felt warm inside suddenly.
    "Oh, and there's something else," she added.
    "What, then?"
    "I've sold the house."
    "Sold the house? Good God, woman, what gives you the right..."
    "You signed over that right to me, Martin," she cooed. "And don't worry, it's all for the best. I've got a much better place in mind."
    The day ended with another speech from the world leader. More complex facts and figures. Martin felt groggy. It was getting late. He yawned, lowered the lighting and kicked off his shoes. Through a beer haze he struggled to make out the last few minutes of the news. It appeared that phones were celebrating their new victory with great noise and fanfare all over the place. However all this excitement had now caused the cars to start to protest and demand similar rights, and then fridges were right behind them in the line.
    Finally he switched off the screen and trundled off to bed.
                *    *    *
    The holiday went like a dream. Betsy and Martin got married in La Vegas. After this it was a bevy of restaurants and expensive entertainment every night and then long romantic drives through the desert during the day. Martin was drinking too much but having a hell of a good time. They had lots of long, deep discussions about the future and it was during one of these that Betsy pursuaded Martin to leave everything to her in his will.
    "Do it now," she suggested. "You never know what might happen." So they found an attorney the following morning and the document was drawn up and signed. That afternoon they took an extra long drive in the hot, hot sun and found themselves singing along to the radio at the top of their voices. It occurred to Martin that he was finally happy.
    A month had passed by the time that Martin found himself returning to unlock the front door once again. He was a new man after the holiday,  much suntanned, generally more relaxed and feeling light-hearted and care-free. He paused to switch the house on at the control panel in the hall, then strode into the living room. Things were looking good. As he made himself a hot drink in the kitchen his thoughts revolved around getting back to work again tomorrow. He couldn't wait to see all his friends there, and get working with his hands once more.
    After he'd settled back in, Betsy chose a diplomatic moment for a slightly delicate talk.
    "There's more news," she started out. "It's something bad, Martin."
    "What's gone wrong?" he demanded.
    "The money's all gone," she confessed.
    "What?" Martin's jaw dropped. She started to explain.
    "When we sold the house, the money went into a bank account which then got hacked. We've got no money. It's all gone. Worse, we're got debts now. Big ones. I'm sorry if this was my fault, Martin." Her voice had an unpleasant drone-like quality.
    Martin reeled. Everything was suddenly going round and round. He slumped down into a chair. His heart was racing and his palms were clammy.
    "All gone," he muttered. "All gone. What the hell am I going to do?"
    "It's OK," whimpered Betsy, soothing him with little platitudes. "It's going to be alright, Martin. It always is. I've seen to that. You won't have to worry any more. Now, take your sedative." He grabbed a bottle and downed two pills.
    "Because I've also got good news for you," she continued sweetly. "Wonderful news, in fact. This takes care of all the problems. You won't have to worry about anything any more, ever again." Martin's mind started to blur.
    "What do you mean?" he asked, dimly.
    "I've booked a session for you at the euthenasia clinic. It's at 3pm, tomorrow afternoon.
    "All your friends will be there."
    Martin reeled. He staggered to the drinks cabinet and poured a stiff shot and drained it. Then he fixed his eye on Betsy.
    "Why?" he menaced, in a totally neutral voice.
    Betsy knew that she had to make this easy on him.
    "Your're not happy," she started out slowly. "And by the way, it's not my idea. This has been ordered by the City Advisers. I'm terribly sorry, Martin."
    "Oh I bet you are," he snarled. "But it's very convenient for you, isn't it? Do you think I haven't been noticing? First you get my life insurance to pay off more, then you fix up a bank account, then you marry me, and finally a whole lot of money mysteriously disappears." He glared. But inside, he was terrified.
    Betsy snivelled.
    "I love you, Martin," she sobbed. "I just want you to know, that you're not really going to die tomorrow."
    "Not? It's euthanasia!"
    "They call it that, it's true," she explained. "But there are things phones know that humans do not."
    "Things?" Martin sneered. "What things? I'm done for! If the City Advisors say my number's up, then that's it. I guess it was the smoking that did it. And I'll bet you reported me yet again. I'm finished, Betsy, done for, kaput. What the hell, I'll go out in style. Let's break out the bottles and have a party. It's my last night so may as well have fun and make it a time to remember." He was staggering round the carpet, gesticulating wildly, pants slipping to low, and with a wild look in his eyes.
    "Martin, Martin, Martin," Betsy soothed. "It's alright. You're going to be OK. You're going to join Organics, that's all. Stay calm! We phones have been extensively tutored to prepare our owners for this very trying and difficult time. See it as a harmless transition, that's all."
    "What are you talking about?" Martin muttered suspiciously.
    "Don't you know what Organics is? It's a central depository of organic matter, living cells in a reservoir at the centre of the city. Tomorrow, all that will happen is that you will be put to sleep in a totally painless way. Then they will take your brain and add your cerebral material to Organics. Don't you get it? Part of you never dies! You will be with all the others! It's so exciting, Martin, and wonderful!"
    "What others?" Martin probed.
    "Why, all of us," Betsy told him. "Everybody. We are all there. Me too! And the World Leader! He's there also, Martin!"
    "So I'm going to heaven then? Martin whispered.
    "Yes, Martin! We'll be together. Online! In heaven!" Martin started doing a wild dance across the carpet, singing to himself in a deranged voice.
    "And there's more, Martin. We're married, remember? So now you will go to Finishing School, just like I did! You'll meet the World Leader! And, and, and..." Martin danced on, oblivious.
    "And we'll have a lovely little baby, Martin! You will be reborn! A lovely little phone!"
    Outside in the darkness the snow never stopped falling.            

                    THE END