AI Girlfriend

Within three to five business days of my AI girlfriend evolving into an ape, I was served with a legal notice from the state of California. The notice stated that I was, without delay, to surrender my AI girlfriend to a wildlife preserve at the enclosed address. Failure to heed this notice, the notice advised, was punishable by a fine of up to $20,000 and up to ten years of jail time.

“It’s a new species…a-a new genus, really,” the researcher explains. Our footsteps echo on the terracotta tile of the veranda separating the research facility and the outdoor enclosure, “that evolves exclusively from AI girlfriends. Many have called this the final frontier of evolution.”

“I can see why.” It is a violent thing, to evolve. It must not happen often.

The researcher has already reminded me that buried deep within the terms and conditions I certified to having read upon downloading the AI was a disclaimer: we at AI Girlfriends (copyright, all rights reserved) cannot be held responsible for the development, up to and including potential evolution, of your AI girlfriend. This, he quoted from memory. Your AI girlfriend responds to you, and learns according to your behavior (Results may vary).

Should something like this— true evolution, that is— happen, one user, @mikumilky, in r/aigirlfriends, postulated when I looked it up three to five business days ago, “It means you were so intelligent, so impeccably human, that it forced her into the early stages of humanity.” Here, user @mikumilky adds, “Nice work brother.” The comment won several user-selected accolades, including a cartoon star and a cartoon cake that winks once a second.

“That clause in the terms and conditions,” the researcher now informs me, “was in fact created when the first AI-ape girlfriends began to evolve in China, around 2019.”

“So around the time people started getting Covid from apes?”

“Best not to think about it,” he says.

We leave the veranda for the atrium of the facility proper. Sunlight pours in from the domed ceiling, splattering the marble floors. The marble walls between the marble pillars feature Latin phrases carved into the marble mouldings, informational posters on ape anatomy, and brochures with such titles as: AI and You, Evolution for Dummies, and That’s Not Your Girlfriend, That’s a Bonobo!

“This way,” he instructs when I lag behind.

Bamboo spills out of pots, and a marble waterfall burbles serenely behind the reception desk. The receptionist, who looks somewhere between ape and human and who wears a white skirt suit, clicks something on her keyboard to allow us through a pair of stainless steel doors, above which is a sign marking the area RESTRICTED.

“Thank you, Lucy,” the researcher says with a cordial smile. The desk-ape inclines her head politely. “Lucy,” he informs my AI girlfriend and I, “is part of our post-evolution life skills program.”

“That sounds exciting,” I say with a pointed look at my AI girlfriend, who frowns.

“It is, very.” The researcher says. “First of its kind. The program aims to equip evolvees with job skills in the hope that one day they may replace minimum-wage workers.”

“What a perfect solution,” I say.

“Isn’t it just?” The researcher beams.

When we reach the end of the hallway – plain white walls interrupted only by a break room from which the smell of coffee emanates, a locker room, and a men’s restroom – the researcher pulls out a key card and swipes it against a screen. Two more metal doors pull open to reveal a library of cages, stacked three high, lining the walls of the vast room door to door. All in all, there must be at least thirty—no—fifty?

“Remember Hatsune Miku AI?” he asks me.

“How could I forget?”

“These,” here he indicates three of the cages in which sit or lay identical apes with blue and white markings, “evolved from that very AI. Note the vestigial, pigtail-like growths from the crowns of their heads.”

“Fascinating,” I say. Sure enough, grotesque with veins, odd flaps of fat and skin dangle beside the apes’ faces in an imitation of questionably aged anime pop icon Hatsune Miku’s pigtails.

“Isn’t it just?” the researcher says. “Watch this.”

He lifts a white iPhone from his white pocket. He text-searches for a song sung by questionably aged anime pop icon Hatsune Miku and selects play. The song blares from invisible speakers, coating the room in sound.

The Miku-Apes begin to sway, as if to dance. Those asleep wake instantly, compelled by the music. They begin to mimic the sounds in a hollow, animal way, but stop and start, as if aware that what they are doing is not quite right. Then they begin to wail, to scream.  Some hurl food or feces at us, others beat their chests. One or two other apes, with similar markings to my AI girlfriend, in cages nearby, regard us with caution.

The researcher quickly ushers us further into the facility, assuring us that these are “newer evolutions,” and thus “highly unstable.”

“Based on her markings and her temperament,” he says, indicating my AI girlfriend, “this one likely evolved from an older, more predictable AI.”

“Well good,” I say. “Wouldn’t want this one to cause you any trouble.”

My AI girlfriend clings to my hand, begging me with wide ape eyes not to leave her with these men in white coats. But the men in white coats have already reassured me that it will be best for my AI girlfriend to be socialized among others of her kind, and reminded me that as a newly-evolved species (and therefore an endangered one), she must be contained for observation and for protection, per the California Endangered Species Act of 1973.

I myself will need to undergo a battery of tests to make sure my AI girlfriend didn’t infect me with some novel pathogen, kicking off the next global pandemic. “That,” the men in white coats said, “will come from the melting permafrost.”

Once my AI girlfriend is assigned a name and a number and introduced to a carer in khaki bermuda shorts and a white safari hat, our tour continues. “The preserve was built once the numbers of evolved AI girlfriends approached the hundreds. Now, they’ve climbed into the low thousands.” My AI girlfriend’s issued number is 01169. The researcher inclines his head. “Nice.”

My AI girlfriend rolls her eyes.

“This is our highest-clearance area,” the researcher says with a conspiratorial glance at me. “We house our most evolved specimens here – you’re very lucky to get to see this – not many people have the opportunity.”

I feel lucky. I smile.

Another swipe of the key card leads to a white room lined not with cages, but with glass walls. I am surrounded by all manner of creatures in all manner of enclosures. Some are partially aquatic, marinating in tanks with flipper-limbs and gaping mouths, toeing the shores at the tops of their enclosures with trepidation. Others sit twirling telephone cords around their feet or hands. These appear to be apes, but when they speak, it’s with the sultry affect of a human woman.

“You like that, big boy?” one intones into the phone pressed into its shoulder with the tilt of its head. Its eyes are heavily lidded, and it’s painting pink the nails on one flexed hand with the other. Inexplicably, the front of my pants suddenly becomes very tight.

“Another proud member of our life-skills team,” the researcher beams, sporting a matching tent. “This model works as a call girl. When you search for HOT SINGLES IN YOUR AREA with whom to engage in a late night chat, chances are they’re one of ours.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Wow indeed,” the researcher says.

My AI girlfriend pulls a face that might indicate disgust in a human woman. But in an ape, I’m sure it means she’s hungry and I should leave her to her new home.

Reassured that this is, indeed, the best place for my AI girlfriend to begin life as a corporeal being, I bid her one final farewell once we return to the atrium. She regards me, new eyes filled with hate, with the thing she’s come to understand as betrayal. The researcher injects her with something that makes her smile instead. We hug goodbye to a chorus of “aww”’s and the snap of a polaroid camera, and I am ushered on to the exit. The doors are lined with men with white coats and identical smiles. They wave in perfect synchronicity.

Who wouldn’t be happy here?

The doors slide open to the big, blue world. And for just a moment, I feel lighter. I receive a notification on my vape (via Bluetooth, in my AirPods): former president Donald J. Trump has just been shot.