“Whatever. Let’s get you dressed for action, and then I’ll show you around. Have you worked in funerals before?”
“Ur. Sort of. No. I mean, no.”
The place was a mess. I moved my face into what I hoped was a smile, trying not to laugh at the decor. The funeral parlour had been decorated in marble, which changed colour every few seconds. The reception resembled an ancient Greek temple.
The bot pouted pink lipstick and stuck out its flexi-chest. “We call this roomthe palace. It’s where you’ll greet customers and listen to their funeral demands. Blah, blah, blah. They talk a lot of crap. You should do everything they say and honour any request. You got that? It’s where you take their money. No pay, no final day.”
By now, I’d had a good enough look to ascertain that the bot was a mish-mash of styles, genders, and approaches. It was female-shaped and curvy, attractive and terrifying.
The bot dragged me into a tiny space decorated like the insides of a black hole, with red velvet on the walls. “And inside here is the staffroom. See what we done here? Hah-hah-hah. A coffin! See? Do you? See?”
I nodded, too scared to answer.
“Clothes. Off,” the bot instructed.
Gingerly, I slipped off my space suit.
“Off!” it cackled gleefully. “All off.”
“Off?”
“Yes! All off. Staff uniform can only perform when the employee is naked.”
“What’s the uniform? Is it a light-sensor suit?” I asked.
Light-sensor clothing was made of a complex system of colours and receptors that merged with the human body, creating the illusion of garments.
I hated artificial clothing because the nerve technology really messed with my tuning. “I’m not very good with those. Is it mandatory?”
The bot pointed at me with strong arms and big hands. “Off!”
Shivering, I slipped out of my underwear, trying to cover myself with my hands.
“You can call me Shirley,” the bot said, staring at my body. “I think you’re a size medium. Definitely not large. You’re quite bony, dear.”
Inside, I cried. My shame, however, did not silence an ever-lustful brain. Did Shirley date? What other tricks could those hands perform?
Deftly, Shirley activated the clothing dial. My body soon became draped in blues and yellows, the swirls converging and mixing until finally settling on an unlikely 1970s-type suit with flares that did not seem appropriate for a funeral.
My voice turned into a whimper. “Is this okay?”
Shirely’s head bobbed up and down precariously. “Yup. This week it’s disco. Very popular with dead retro customers. Follow me. I’ll show you how to work the time-sheen. You start work immediately.”
My heart hit the slidey-slide. “But I don’t know how to operate the technology.” My protests lost impact because my traitorous body began disco dancing. Light-sensor suits could manipulate a body. “I haven’t had any training. I don’t want to mess up the time-sheen or the funerals.”
“Blah, blah, blah. You’ll be fine,” Shirley said.
The bot led me into a huge room with rows of seats arranged against a speaking platform. “This is where we perform funerals. When the customers arrive, you program whatever they want. Songs, dancing, or sex. You got it?”
I was shocked and excited by the suggestion of sex, albeit synthetic.
Shirley grinned and led me to an operational pod. “Some customers come in the door, and others via the time-sheen. The vain ones like to attend their own funeral. It’s up to you to sort it all out. It’s a fucking mess. Just keep them happy. Okay?”
“But?” I said, desperately.
“Manual is there. Read. Ask Diane. Have a great day, Bella.”
The bot whirled away, and I was left alone with a trillion unanswered questions and an operation pod filled with nonsensical levers and dials.
