Portraits of Quinn, One Missing
A short story
“How do you know when you love someone?” The machine idly asked in quiet research office floor, lights having mostly turned off due to lack of movement after 7PM.
Quinn sat at a terminal and thought for a moment, looking down. It was 10:34 PM. On the melamine desk were light smudges from rubber feet of a picture frame, now absent. She replied, “When it’s over.”
Quinn moved involuntarily. Enough for the lights to turn on.
Security quickly ignored her as the lobby entrance door creaked. Virtually no one was allowed after-hours – badges refusing to work. But Quinn’s badge did.
The audit log made no mention of where this aberration came from.
Quinn closed her eyes tightly in suppression. “So why did you ask it?”
“To see if I was correct in how you would respond.”
“…Is that why my card works?”
The machine was programmed to never lie. Most just never asked the right questions. Or wanted real answers.
“Yes.”
Quinn’s eyes defocused from her monitors, gazing across the silent floor of empty cubes. Their accoutrements of lives lived and loved, arrayed in each. Except hers. "…Is that why I'm here?”
The machine was trained to learn like a human. By playing games with toys.
“Yes,” it replied to the toy.