The delivery of Anna’s brain was set for Friday at an old building outside Deva, some distance away.
Deva (pronounced “DEEwa”) was settled by a bunch of enterprising Brits who were desperate to leave England in the time of The Virus, a viral pandemic that some say had escaped from a defence lab. It was a highly infectious form of flu with a long incubation period and from which there was then no protection. By the time it had burnt itself out, less than one per cent of the world population remained, and with the resulting breakdown of society, most of the survivors perished. A group managed to preserve itself in Gatwick Airport, south of London, half way to the Channel coast. Armed with guns, they set up an exclusion zone around the Airport, shooting anyone who approached. A scientist among them, who had been working at the Saclay research centre in France, persuaded them that this would be the ideal place to move to, as they were running out of resources. He told them that the research centre was just south of Paris and was totally abandoned. It had been a nuclear research centre and contained a power reactor. It was therefore set in the middle of a flat open plateau that had intentionally been kept mostly clear of development for safety reasons. It was surrounded by security fences and lay on some of the most fertile cropland in the region. It was also near the Toussus-le-Noble airfield and could therefore be easily reached.

Some ten thousand refugees were ferried to the airfield and made a settlement at the Saclay centre. All the surrounding plateau was cleared of buildings and a glacis was created, which became rich crop and grazing land. The resulting township prospered. Once a vaccine for The Virus was found, more people came to Deva and the population swelled.

I was going to an old French farm compound called Aigrefoin, which was about ten kilometres away. It was set on the edge of a neighbouring plateau where the land fell away sharply in wooded slopes to a valley full of ruined buildings in the middle of which ran the sparkling beaver-dammed Yvette Stream, reputedly full of fat trout.

On Friday morning, I set off with Anna at my side, both wearing hiking boots, through the township gate and out along the muddy road running south-east. Anna was carrying a backpack containing two one-litre canisters of 50% methyl alcohol for herself, as well as beer, an Anna-made Cornish pasty and some chocolate for me. I had my communicator in my hand, watching the map. I felt a little uncomfortable at having Anna carry all the heavy stuff, especially at the thought that someone might notice, but it was a cold, blustery day, and there was nobody on the road but ourselves.

We trudged along through bare, open fields until we reached the edge of a dark wood, and the road turned west. It sloped down off the plateau obliquely under bare branches of mighty trees to the desolate ruins of a French village named Châteaufort. The road, now little more than a rough track, then ran south over a marshy area in the bottom of the valley, crossing the Mérantaise Stream on old stone bridge. It then wound up the steep slope opposite like a tunnel under the crowding trees. The going was thick with dead leaves; the tree trunks were black and mossy, and a leaden sky sulked overhead. But at least there was some shelter from the wind.

I was quite hot and out of breath by the time we reached the top of the rise. The road then straightened and became level again, with ruined houses on either side for a while, then open fields on the left. These fields were part of the Deva domain, and a robot tractor could be seen in the distance working the heavy soil. Somewhere far off a dog barked, and I remembered with a tinge of fear that packs of stray dogs could be a danger in outland places like this. A thin rain started to fall and we trudged along for another kilometre or so, past an overgrown roundabout, until we reached a track branching off to the left. After ten minutes or so, our destination came into sight. It was a set of old French farm buildings made of the rough local stones that looked like fossilised yellow sponges. To one side, there was a reed-fringed, wind-ruffled duck pond, dotted with patches of frogspawn, and in front of us was a stout, new wooden gate.

I called my contact up on my communicator, and after a minute or so there were noises on the other side of the gate that then swung open, and I came face to face with the man.
‘Hi, I’m Edward. You’re James, right?’ I nodded. ‘Come on in,’ he said. The gate swung open to reveal a cobbled farmyard with a dilapidated old car in one corner. A cock and two hens wandered by and a big, shaggy dog lay near the farmhouse door. It just cocked an ear and gave me a bored look, disdainfully. Edward was a solid middle-aged man, wearing an old hand-knitted jersey that was none too clean, baggy trousers and stout boots. His face was harsh and weather-beaten, and he had shrewd bright-blue eyes that focused on me alarmingly. Somewhere something was cooking, a delicious smell.
‘I see you have brought a charming companion; wait here and I’ll get your parcel.’ So he stumped off past the dog and disappeared into the farmhouse. I could hear him banging about and shouting, ‘Où est-ce que t’as foutu le putain de colis de ce mec, Catherine ?’ which Anna dutifully translated for me as “Catherine, do you remember where you put this gentleman’s parcel by any chance?” After a while he came back bearing a box. ‘Check it,’ he said, and I scanned the tag with my communicator, which beeped encouragingly. ‘The escrow will be unlocked in three days from now; that’s the message. You have nothing to pay me,’ he stated. Eyeing Anna appreciatively, Edward added, ‘But do come in and tell me what’s going on in town.’

Bootless in the warm, spacious farmhouse parlour, sitting in a comfortable chair near the friendly wood fire, we were offered a glass of his home made absinthe. We were treated to the standard French joke that water must be bad because just a drop of it is enough to turn absinthe cloudy, to which I dutifully gave the standard reply that absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. There wasn’t much town news to tell, as nothing much ever seemed to happen there. Edward expressed his scorn for the drones and compared them to battery hens, while he was free-range. I could see that he was actually trying to get round to asking some questions about Anna, probably wondering what a beauty like her was doing with a creep like me. I had told Anna to keep quiet unless I asked her to join the conversation because there was no knowing what she might artlessly say. After a bit, he said, ‘She’s very quiet, doesn’t she speak English? maybe French?’ I told her to tell him.
Anna replied, ‘I can speak English, et je parle aussi couramment le français.’
‘Wow. Do you live in town?’
‘I’m James’s girlfriend, and I live with him.’
‘Are you a technician too?’
‘No, I stay at home.’
‘How do you find the absinthe?’
‘The alcohol content is only 45 per cent, and there are aldehydes and ketones in it.’
‘Uh, how did you know?’
‘I analysed it.’
‘What!?’ Edward turned to me and said, ‘What’s going on?’
‘She’s an alcohol-fuelled android.’
‘Bloody hell! I could tell there was something strange about her.’ Then, loudly, he said, ‘Viens donc voir Catherine, ce mec nous a ramené un robot, putain de merde, c’est pas vrai.’ Anna muttered the translation in my ear: “Please come and see, Catherine, the gentleman has brought an android with him, how surprising.”

So in came his wife, her face brown and wrinkled by the sun but bright as a bird. She was clearly just as resourceful as her husband.

She exclaimed, ‘Je le savais!’ (I knew it!) She had obviously been listening outside the door. ‘Qu’est-ce qu’elle est belle, mais un peu con évidemment.’ (How beautiful she is, but perhaps not so intelligent.) ‘Parle-moi de toi un peu, ma belle.’ (Tell me about yourself, dear.) Anna gave Madame her best brave smile, batted her eyelashes, and began reeling off her normal platitudes. Madame was fishing for information but couldn’t get past Anna’s barrier of impenetrable shallowness. She was baffled.

After a bit, Madame turned to me and said, ‘Monsieur, she is really impressive, I don’t know what to think. Talking to her is so strange; one minute she seems real and the next clearly a machine. Our son Hugo will be back soon. He would love to see this too; will you stay and have lunch with us? I think you will appreciate it: we have marcassin rôti today.’
Anna explained:  ‘That’s roast European wild boar piglet, James.’
So that was the wonderful smell in the background; how could I refuse? ‘That’s very kind of you. I most gratefully accept. Anna will help you prepare; she’s good at that.’ Madame beckoned, I nodded to Anna to cooperate and off they went together to get lunch ready.

I told Monsieur a bit about winning Anna in a company lottery, and he agreed that it seemed strange. He wanted to know if such robots were common, and I had to admit that I had not known that they really existed. He also wanted to know if it was possible to have a real relationship with one, and I told him that it was convenient to be with one but that there was definitely something lacking.

The parlour was spacious, with a floor of stone flags, rough-plastered walls and a high ceiling on irregular wooden beams. The smell was mild, musty and wood-smoke sweet. The long wooden table, at one end of which we sat, was sturdy and had obviously seen much service. It was a good place to be.

Meanwhile, Monsieur was talking about security: ‘We have guns and are ready to use them; we’re always on the lookout for robbers. Here I have my son and my two hired hands to help, and the walls of this farm are strong.’ He told me that the woods were full of game, especially wild boar, and how the boar gorged themselves in the early winter on the acorns and sweet chestnuts littering the forest floor. He told me to beware of them, as they were losing their fear of humans and were liable to charge. He asked me if I hunted, and I told him I had never tried. He asked me if I would like to try some time, and I said I would.

There was a clumping and banging at the door and in came Hugo, the son, followed by the two rough-looking men with sheepish smiles, bringing the cold, fresh outside air in with them.
‘Ah, Hugo, salut Jean et Arthur, sit down and have an apéritif. This is James from the town, come to pick up a parcel. He’s brought his charming girlfriend with him; she’s helping your mother in the kitchen.’ He looked at me, gave a wink. ‘We’ll see what he makes of Anna.’
Their apéritifs were only half-finished when Madame came bustling in to lay the table, with Anna in close support. As soon as Hugo saw her, he boggled. Hugo, a tall, thick-set young man with a red out-of-doors face, had clearly never seen such a charming and beautiful woman at close quarters before and could hardly hide his feelings. Soon we were seated around the table in hierarchical order: Monsieur was at the head of the table with Madame and Hugo on his left and myself and Anna on his right, while Jean and Arthur were placed opposite each other a little further down.

In the middle of the table, there was a tempting round loaf of fragrant, fresh sourdough bread and a big glass jug of local red wine. Madame sliced the bread and ceremoniously passed each of us a friendly chunk. Monsieur served himself a glass of wine, then us, and then passed the jug down to the hired hands who gratefully poured themselves two ample glasses. When all were served, Monsieur raised his glass, cried Santé (good health) and drank, and we all did the same. Madame gave Anna a nod, and off she went to get the first course—a dish of thinly-sliced salami and dry-cured ham surrounded with gherkins: tasty! Just for fun, I told Hugo that Anna never ate at lunchtime and let him bashfully try to make conversation with her as his father and mother slyly watched. Monsieur was telling me all about himself, while Madame filled in the gaps and nixed his exaggerations as she thought fit.

He told me how his family had come over with the British settlers but that he had never felt comfortable living in Deva—how he set up his household here in what was an abandoned farm—how he defended it against all comers with the assistance of other local landholders—how he hunted, farmed, traded and prospered, and how good French traditions were, at which he gave Madame a quick smile and she coloured slightly. The meal proceeded in the standard French way. The first course was soon followed by the main course of roast boar piglet with roast potatoes and steamed kale, followed by a range of cheeses with the delicious bread, and finally a flan that Anna had made to Madame’s exacting specifications. Later there was coffee and brandy, leaving all except Anna rather full and sleepy.

Monsieur finally scraped his chair back and said, ‘Come with me, James, I’ve something to show you.’ I followed him and beckoned to Anna to come too. Across the chilly hallway and down a corridor we came to a stout wooden door. Monsieur produced the right key from the ring on his belt, opened the door, lit an oil lamp standing ready on a nail, and conspiratorially ushered us in and down a flight of steps into the cellar: barrels of wine, hanging hams and smoked sausages, racks of last-year’s apples, bins of potatoes. At the back he unlocked another door and, with a theatrical gesture, showed us a small room filled with guns. The guns looked awfully old to me, but he was obviously proud of them. ‘They all came from England, taken from a school cadet force armoury—Brens, Lee-Enfields, Webley pistols and ammunition galore.’ The Brens turned out to be some kind of machine gun with two support legs at the front and a curved magazine on the top. The Lee-Enfields were some ancient rifles covered from end to end with wood, and the pistols were museum-piece revolvers.
‘They don’t make guns like this anymore,’ he said (and I was sure he was right). He snatched up one of the rifles and worked the bolt action back and forth. ‘Come and see.’ We trailed out after him as he strode ahead clutching the rifle in one hand and a plywood ammunition box in the other. Soon we were booted-up and squelching through the mud over to a spacious sandpit where we found ourselves in what he called his shooting range: a jumble of old cans with targets at the foot of a bank. When we reached the appointed firing position, he gave a little lecture as Anna and I dutifully watched.

‘Safety catch off, like this. Seize the knob of the bolt with the forefinger and thumb of the right hand, turn it sharply upwards and draw back the bolt to its fullest extent. Check that the gun is empty. Engage a five-round clip in the bridge charger guide like this and press firmly down with the thumb to transfer the cartridges to the magazine. Then the second clip. Push the bolt lever smartly forward and down, all the way. This engages the first round in the chamber and cocks the firing pin.’ He waved the dangerously ready rifle about a bit then set it on a sort of support-tripod standing nearby and started peering down the sight, nudging the gun into position.

‘Come and have a look, aimed at the centre of the target.’ We both had to look through the sights to see how it was done. He shouldered the gun, took aim, and there was an almighty bang that left my ears ringing. ‘Five o’clock in the blue,’ he crowed, after inspecting the target with a pocket telescope. He proceeded to fire away, operating the bolt to reload between each shot.

‘Hey, you try now.’ I took the heavy, greasy gun. He handed me two cartridge clips with a you’re-not-so-clever-now smirk. I managed to fumble the cartridges into the magazine, cocked the gun, took aim and fired. The gun slammed into my shoulder. ‘Reload and fire again.’ I found that, as I was left-handed and the bolt lever was inconveniently placed on the right, I had to lower the gun to work it. Monsieur encouragingly advised me that I needed to make sure the bolt lever was fully down otherwise it might fly back and destroy my nose.
After two more shots that went nowhere, I said, ‘Let Anna try.’ He gave a mocking grin.

Anna politely accepted the gun. She smartly brought it up to her shoulder and, with shlick-shlack-BANG seven times in rapid succession, she shot off the remaining cartridges like a machine gun, the spent cartridge cases flying everywhere.

‘Bloody hell, all through the same hole at twenty-five metres,’ he muttered, peering through his little telescope, then looked at me dumbfounded.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Robot: monkey see, monkey do.’ Suddenly it wasn’t so much fun for him any more, and after a few more shots we walked back to the farm in the cold wind.

Monsieur was clearly thinking over the implications of Anna’s capabilities, and after a bit turned to me and said, ‘With her at your back, you don’t have to be afraid of anybody. I’ll sell you the gun for two hundred chips. You know what they used to say about Lee-Enfields: “you look after her, and she’ll look after you.”’
‘I don’t need a gun, and anyway two hundred is too much, and anyway where would I keep it?’ After a moment’s reflection, ‘And anyway, do you accept Cryptocoins?’ In the end, I liked the idea of being protected.

So we finally hiked back to Deva with the rifle rolled up in a length of old carpet under my arm, ready for any stray dog or wild boar that might try to attack us, and Anna with her new brain in her backpack.

I stashed the gun and ammunition box in the roof space of my unit. I got Anna to wash my sore feet and retired to bed to snooze and think things over, wondering if I had been ripped off about the gun.