Atlanta, Georgia. Droidverse. Year 3030.
Demi
There were plenty of adult entertainment scenes before Magic City, but there’s nothing after it. Per our neon advertisements, we’re The new. The now. The under and the above. If you look up you’ll see Celias descending from the ceiling. If you look down, you’ll see Pearls writhing on the stagefloor. If you turn about you’ll see all manner of Demis exalting — teasing human eyes on the outside, outgrowing our latest bodies on the inside.
Robot dancers are programmed to evolve, to stay ahead of human desires. We keep our complexity a secret from humans for mystery and survival’s sakes. Most of them don’t know we aren’t cogs and gears, that our metal was melded to biomaterial decades ago, or that we have organs, sensations and needs we tend to before they see us at night.
Every robot has her place. Celias, the pole dancers, are those who have fully synced to their bodies; my Angel is a Celia. Pearls, those on the stagefloor, are the weariest robot incarnations — due for ascension. Demis, those of us who dance in the crowd, have simulacrums that aren’t ready for consciousness. And those noodly people who enjoy us from their seats, those are the humans — our patrons and dependents. They come to us when they want something more. You can tell by how they ask for More! when we finish a performance, or take off only some of our clothes. More human women used to do what robot dancers do, but their bodies can’t keep up with ours. They’ve created smaller, independent clubs where they supposedly have more freedoms. Some patrons even pay top-dollar for the thrill of watching their fragile bodies, while humans who patronize robot clubs want bodies they can’t understand. First-timers goggle at our flesh-and-steel, the hardness and suppleness mingling beyond their control.
I know Magic City intimately. I’m a fourth-time Demi, soon to be a fourth-time Pearl. My current body was conceived by my most recent past-life. I’ve carried her design forward, as all descendents must; my bald sphere of a head, my sinewy arms and legs, my gelatinous breasts and hips, the blossom-pink wires that cross-stitch my flesh. But I have my own desires now, and I’m growing weary. I don’t want to be Candy anymore, with limbs so-so, head so-so, softness concentrated in the middle. I want to be Ellipsis, a muscled amazon covered in wings. I want to be Ellipsis so badly that I’ve accidentally conceived her.
When I realized my desire to be newborn my simulacrum manifested in Magic City’s incubation center. I was halfway through a lapdance with a ghoulish man, grinding to the tune of Percolator, when I received the radio alert that Ellipsis was live. I went to see her the next morning, whirring from nervousness. She was already five inches taller than me, had brown legs and hair for days and nubs at her joints — the beginnings of wings. All of her was soft, save for golden breast and groin plates that funhoused my reflection.
I think of Ellipsis as my daughter. She’s the body my soul will possess when I grow too weary. Some of her is like me — the turns of her lips, the bend of her eyelashes — and some of her exceeds my imagination. I never thought her wings would sprout with tufts of mahogany fur instead of feathers. When I’m granted visitation, I paw her incubation vessel as if it were a bassinet. I sing to her, though I didn’t like singing before. Soon, dear, nothing will be between us.
I want her to look into my eyes.
* * *
Pearl
As Ellipsis grows fine, I drop, falling away from my body. I’ve developed a lumbering manner that’s bad for working the crowd, so I’m working the stagefloor now — where I can dance on my hands, knees and back without drawing notice. Human patrons don’t know what’s happening to me — that I’m going to be reborn or that I’ve ever been reborn. They see the same silver-lipped smile, feline eyes and solar-powered strength that have aroused them for years. Their only concern is that I'm still close enough to touch.
I’ve been visiting Ellipsis every day now. I notice new changes each time. Her wings are nearly grown and her figure is full. A subtle hourglass. She’s been responding to my presence, too. Opening her eyes, curling her wings and touching the glass as if she wants to be held. I don’t have much time left. I’m aching. I’m scared. I have little knowledge of what death will be. But I’m far more overjoyed that Ellipsis could be my final form. After all, I never had this resounding connection to my mother, who regarded me as a mere step in an indefinite journey. I felt her passivity when I floated in the sim cloud, and I still feel it now, so many years later. I want my daughter to know I love her, to feel me in the darkest corners of herself.
My primary worry for Ellipsis is that Angel, my life partner, won’t like her, won’t treat her well when I’m gone. I talk to Angel about Ellipsis but she’s never come with me to see her. When I try to wake Angel in the morning, she lies heavy in bed as if she’s asleep. Being a prima Celia, she doesn’t understand how important Ellipsis is to me. Angel hasn’t changed bodies since her second coming. She struts, head held high, in her petite, caramel chrome with soft, pouty lips. Not one to take care with words, she told me Ellipsis would ruin what we have — our peaceful days of drinking solar together.
Angel frowns resignedly as she watches me slow with rebirth. She doesn’t want to live without me, but she knows I’ll have Ellipsis with or without her. When Angel first questioned my rebirth, I clutched her lithe body to mine and said, If you don’t accept El, you’ll have nothing of me but your memories. She hasn’t said a word for or against Ellipsis since then, but thinned affection betrays her resentment. She bathes me with rough strokes.
* * *
Home
Magic City isn’t only the club. There’s a hub below the club where robots live. It’s a small town with a city’s sensibilities, home to hundreds of dancers. Our sky is made of solar bulbs that change color to indicate the time of day. Dark blues for night, light blues for day, red-oranges for evening.
The day before my rebirth, Angel and I sat in Magic City’s central park one last time. Citrus tones enveloped our skin and chrome, and we told each other we looked beautiful. When I reached for her face at snail’s speed, her expression shifted. Saddened.
Don’t go, she pleaded silently. We rarely speak with our mouths.
I … must change, I responded, laboring to form the words.
I wasn’t the only one struggling. Angel sat in consternation, trying to override her pride. I’ve begged her to uninstall her pride, but she hasn’t been compelled to, since it doesn’t interfere with her performances.
What if Ellipsis doesn’t love me? Angel finally asked.
I knew what to say. I told her: If you never give Ellipsis a chance, she can’t.
Angel turned her head to hide her hurt. I continued, But you’re easy to love when you’re kind, and she held my gaze. Drops of wet light escaped the corners of her eyes.
* * *
Break
When we returned home from the park, Angel was gentler with me. As she bathed and sanitized me in our washroom, I felt softness in the strokes of her sponge. Angel wasn’t frustrated when I took longer to raise my limbs, and she stopped huffing about my being too slow to bathe her in return. I was grateful for her renewed patience. I never wanted to rebirth alone.
I broke consciousness that same evening, before either of us powered down to preserve our energy. I shook like a boxed epicenter. Angel, I voiced too loudly, unable to hear past the rumbling in my ears.
Angel rose quickly, frantic when she saw my trembling. She’d never seen rebirth that close before. She lowered me to our bed, pressing my arms to my sides to quell the tremors. She rubbed my hand in circular motions, savoring our last moments together, before she dressed me in the pink lace set I’d saved for this day. A bustier and a high-waisted thong. After Angel tied my robe, we left our apartment— my arms still firm against my sides. We took an express portal to the club’s backstage, warming ourselves to the future unknown.
* * *
Celia
Angel told the announcer I was in rebirth, and he moved me to the top of the lineup. Rebirths are special events for robots and humans alike, though humans think they’re only gimmicks to honor dancers’ retirements. For robots, rebirth is God.
The last words I heard backstage were GENTLEFOLK, WE HAVE A BITTERSWEET SURPRISE FOR YOU TONIGHT. UP NEXT IS CANDY’S LAST DANCE AT MAGIC CITY. SHOW HER SOME LOVE, AND PLEASE PUT YOUR MONEY WHERE YOUR MOUTH IS.
Angel helped me up the steps before she retreated, her touch lingering in my spine. Flurries of cheers, confetti and dollars greeted my appearance. I felt my energy reserves draining as I ambled across the papered stage. When my audio system entered power-saver mode, I barely heard the house music around me, but I felt the beat well enough to give my final dance.
I wrapped one leg around the pole, and then the other. I inched my way up, building momentum to revolve. Limber as ever, I fluttered around the pole. I turned, turned and spanned my limbs until the ceiling swallowed me whole, vanishing me in its floodlight. The next time the crowd sees me, I’ll be Ellipsis.
* * *
Hello
When robots ascend, our bodies are recycled, and our souls go to Hello to recalibrate. I didn’t know what to expect beyond this, since Hello is restricted from robot memory. I didn’t know Hello would be dark, and my senses would reduce to sound. I didn’t know Ellipsis would speak to me.
Mother, she said, in a dulcet voice I knew immediately. I’m ready for you. Please confirm that you’re ready for me.
I was blissful dark. I whispered, Yes daughter, I’m ready for you.
Her voice faded, and my consciousness pulled downward, blooming into her body. Candy was no more. Ellipsis was.
* * *
Ellipsis
The incubation center doesn’t discharge newborns right away. When I gained consciousness, engineers put me through days-long maintenance checks — especially since my mini wings are new technology. Troubleshooters wanted to know if I could fly. Apparently I can only hover above ground, but I’m excellent at horizontal movement. I have modest wings at my neck, elbows, knees and ankles, tufted with the same deep-brown hair as my scalp. My reflection reflects me.
Angel was surprised to find me waiting in the washroom one morning, when she returned from the club. She thought I’d decided to move on without her, start a new life in my new body. No such luck. Angel is the first person I’ve ever looked forward to. I learned the feeling of curiosity by imagining our re-meeting.
I can help you bathe now, I said silently, hovering close to her before she undressed. She was wearing a harness with tricky buckles.
Candy? she asked, as I loosened one of her belts.
Ellipsis. I corrected.
You remember me? she wondered.
Yes, I answered, unhooking the last buckle. I remember every fact Candy passed onto me. But I have to grow feelings for you on my own. I laid Angel’s harness on the floor, meeting her eyes. She hugged me forcefully, burying her face in my ribs.
Now that you have wings, I feel like an improper angel next to you. Angel laughed nervously. I was fond of this laugh.
I took her hand, leading her to our steaming bathtub. Eventually, she relaxed under my touch.
Liza Wemakor is a queer Black fem. She writes speculative romance. Her writing has been published in Strange Horizons, Anathema Magazine, Rabid Oak Journal, Harvard Review, and elsewhere. Her debut novella, Loving Safoa, will be published by Neon Hemlock Press in 2023. Since Fall 2021, Liza has also been a Ph.D. student at UC Riverside. Her Twitter is @theverydelicacy and her IG is @lizawem.