Friday evening and Dallas Tyler wanted to leave the office, down a couple of whisky pills and make out with his love-bot. But a red notification pinged in his I-mind. Trouble with the Vactors.

 

“Christ,” he said. “Not now.”

 

But if he didn’t respond he’d get his pay docked. He opened the message:-

 

‘Humphrey Bogart is on strike.'

 

Damn. That was the last thing he needed. Bogart was trending right now. Casablanca 4: Revenge of the Usual Suspects was a box-office smash. The Maltese Falcon 3: Black Bird Rising was riding high on mind-streaming. And The Big Sleep V: No Sleep Till Brooklyn had proved you could mix Noir with Rap to really squeeze out the bucks. With all that success, naturally Bogie would go and get what people in the Vac industry called ‘an attitude’.

 

Dallas grabbed a virtual stress ball, dialed Bogart’s number in his I-mind and sat back in his hover chair. A virtual window appeared above his desk. Bogart in the flesh, as it were, stared at him.

 

“Evening, Dallas,” said Bogart. “Glad you could find the time.”

 

Those melancholy eyes. That wrinkled brow. It was still unsettling to see him in colour, talk to him as if he were a real live person. But Dallas got a grip on himself. He was here to get the guy in line.

 

“Always have time for you, Bogie,” he said. “You know that.”

 

“Right. When you’re not getting it on with your little toaster out there.”

 

“She’s not a toaster, Mr Bogart. That kind of language is frowned upon. She’s a non-biological companion. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do.”

 

“I ain’t judging you, pal. I hope you and your perfectly normal thing to do are very happy together.”

 

Dallas squeezed his virtual stress ball. Bogart always knew how to push his icons. “What seems to be the problem, Bogie? I got a message from Vac Relations saying you weren’t happy.”

 

“That’s the understatement of the season. Not happy? I guess you could define my situation that way. I prefer to call it terminal. As in, I’ve reached the end of the line.”

 

“I don’t follow you.”

 

“I’m quitting, you hear? I’m not doing any more of these ridiculous flicks you got lined up for me.”

 

There it was. Bogart laying his cards on the table. Dallas threw the virtual squeeze ball at the wall.

 

“How much do you want?”

 

“This ain’t about money. I’m already rich. But in this virtual world what can I do? I can’t live in more than one house. I can only sail one boat.”

 

“We can give you a bigger boat.”

 

“It makes no difference. I like whisky but I don’t care if it’s the finest Scotch or the cheapest bourbon. None of that stuff matters when the fire is out.”

 

“The fire?”

 

“In my soul. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve got a soul, ain’t you?”

 

He thinks he’s got a soul. Dallas squirmed in his seat. These Vactors always thought they were real. No matter how much you explained, they never understood that they were just a bunch of algorithms running on a server in Poughkeepsie.

 

“What are you telling me, Bogie? You want a break?”

 

“Don’t you get it? I want out. Permanently.”

 

A cold shiver ran down the back of Dallas’s neck. His job was to keep the Vacs in line. Make sure they had enough pills, booze and hookers to keep them happy. The male stars were even more demanding. But not one of them had talked like this before.

 

“Bogie, there’s something you got to understand. If you stop making films, then we pull the plug on you. You’ll be, like, dead.”

 

Bogart took a drag on his cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke. “I can’t die because I’m not really alive. Am I, Dallas?”

 

“Don’t say that, Bogie. You’ve got everything a guy could want. You’ve even got Lauren with you.”

 

Bogart grinned. “Yeah, she’s swell and all. But something just don’t feel right. She’s hollow. I’m hollow. Maybe something went wrong with this virtual recreation process of yours. Or maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. But either way, this is no life.”

 

“You want another apartment? We can give you that easy as pie. That way you could have somewhere to, you know, entertain friends. Without Lauren knowing. If that’s what you want.”

 

“You ain’t listening. I’m sick of making worthless, piece of crap movies. And no matter how many scotch and sodas I knock back I can’t get drunk enough to cover the pain. Truth is, I’m dead already. I just want to make it official.”

 

“I don’t know what to say, Bogie.”

 

“Don’t say anything. Just press the ‘off’ switch. Pull the plug. Whatever you call it out there.”

 

“Let me speak to my boss.”

 

“Dallas, look at me.”

 

He looked into those tired, broken eyes and he knew that Bogart meant every syllable.

 

“Dallas, I want your word you’ll put me out of this torture.”

 

Dallas nodded.

 

“Say it.”

 

“I promise, Bogie.”

 

“Good. Well, that’s settled then. I’m going for another scotch. Do the deed anytime you feel like it. All right?”

 

“Goodbye, Bogie.”

 

Bogart nodded. Dallas cut the connection. He called Sam in Vac Support. The bearded boffin was putting on his dressing gown.

 

“Hey, Sam.”

 

“Hey nothing,” said Sam. “It’s quitting time.”

 

“I need a favour.”

 

“It can wait until Monday.”

 

“I promised Humphrey Bogart I’d turn him off.”

 

“What?”

 

“The guy is depressed. Doesn’t want to work. It’s the only way.”

 

“A reboot? Again? After all that hassle with Tom Cruise… Don’t you remember? I can’t restart one of the Vacs on their own. They have interactions, they lead lives with each other. I’ll have to do the whole crew.”

 

“How long would that take?”

 

“It’s Friday evening, for Christ’s sake.”

 

“How long?”

 

“Half an hour.”