We, Robots

by Simon Ings

  “One would expect such a beautiful woman to have beautiful thoughts,” said the neighbor.

  Take your mind off my wife, you bastard, thought Swinton, still smiling.

  He rose to make his speech amid applause.

  After a couple of jokes, he said, “Today marks a real breakthrough for the company. It is now almost ten years since we put our first synthetic life-forms on the world market. You all know what a success they have been, particularly the miniature dinosaurs. But none of them had intelligence.

  “It seems like a paradox that in this day and age we can create life but not intelligence. Our first selling line, the Crosswell Tape, sells best of all, and is the most stupid of all.” Everyone laughed.

  “Though three-quarters of the overcrowded world are starving, we are lucky here to have more than enough, thanks to population control. Obesity’s our problem, not malnutrition. I guess there’s nobody round this table who doesn’t have a Crosswell working for him in the small intestine, a perfectly safe parasite tape-worm that enables its host to eat up to fifty percent more food and still keep his or her figure. Right?” General nods of agreement.

  “Our miniature dinosaurs are almost equally stupid. Today, we launch an intelligent synthetic life-form – a full-size serving-man.

  “Not only does he have intelligence, he has a controlled amount of intelligence. We believe people would be afraid of a being with a human brain. Our serving-man has a small computer in his cranium.

  “There have been mechanicals on the market with mini-computers for brains – plastic things without life, super-toys – but we have at last found a way to link computer circuitry with synthetic flesh.”

  *

  David sat by the long window of his nursery, wrestling with paper and pencil. Finally, he stopped writing and began to roll the pencil up and down the slope of the desk-lid.

  “Teddy!” he said.

  Teddy lay on the bed against the wall, under a book with moving pictures and a giant plastic soldier. The speech-pattern of his master’s voice activated him and he sat up.

  “Teddy, I can’t think what to say!”

  Climbing off the bed, the bear walked stiffly over to cling to the boy’s leg. David lifted him and set him on the desk.

  “What have you said so far?”

  “I’ve said—” He picked up his letter and stared hard at it. “I’ve said, ‘Dear Mummy, I hope you’re well just now. I love you…’”

  There was a long silence, until the bear said, “That sounds fine. Go downstairs and give it to her.”

  Another long silence.

  “It isn’t quite right. She won’t understand.”

  Inside the bear, a small computer worked through its program of possibilities. “Why not do it again in crayon?”

  When David did not answer, the bear repeated his suggestion. “Why not do it again in crayon?”

  David was staring out of the window. “Teddy, you know what I was thinking? How do you tell what are real things from what aren’t real things?”

  The bear shuffled its alternatives. “Real things are good.”

  “I wonder if time is good. I don’t think Mummy likes time very much. The other day, lots of days ago, she said that time went by her. Is time real, Teddy?”

  “Clocks tell the time. Clocks are real. Mummy has clocks so she must like them. She has a clock on her wrist next to her dial.”

  David started to draw a jumbo jet on the back of his letter. “You and I are real, Teddy, aren’t we?”

  The bear’s eyes regarded the boy unflinchingly. “You and I are real David.” It specialized in comfort.

  *

  Monica walked slowly about the house. It was almost time for the afternoon post to come over the wire. She punched the Post Office number on the dial on her wrist, but nothing came through. A few minutes more.

  She could take up her painting. Or she could dial her friends. Or she could wait till Henry came home. Or she could go up and play with David…

  She walked out into the hall and to the bottom of the stairs.

  “David!”

  No answer. She called again and a third time.

  “Teddy!” she called, in sharper tones.

  “Yes, Mummy!” After a moment’s pause, Teddy’s head of golden fur appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Is David in his room, Teddy?”

  “David went into the garden, Mummy.”

  “Come down here, Teddy!”

  She stood impassively, watching the little furry figure as it climbed down from step to step on its stubby limbs. When it reached the bottom, she picked it up and carried it into the living room. It lay unmoving in her arms, staring up at her. She could feel just the slightest vibration from its motor.

  “Stand there, Teddy. I want to talk to you.” She set him down on a tabletop, and he stood as she requested, arms set forward and open in the eternal gesture of embrace.

  “Teddy, did David tell you to tell me he had gone into the garden?”

  The circuits of the bear’s brain were too simple for artifice. “Yes, Mummy.”

  “So you lied to me.”

  “Yes. Mummy.”

  “Stop calling me Mummy! Why is David avoiding me? He’s not afraid of me, is he?”

  “No. He loves you.”

  “Why can’t we communicate?”

  “David’s upstairs.”

  The answer stopped her dead. Why waste time talking to this machine? Why not simply go upstairs and scoop David into her arms and talk to him, as a loving mother should to a loving son? She heard the sheer weight of silence in the house, with a different quality of silence pouring out of every room. On the upper landing, something was moving very silently – David, trying to hide away from her…

  *

  He was nearing the end of his speech now. The guests were attentive; so was the Press, lining two walls of the banqueting chamber, recording Henry’s words and occasionally photographing him.

  “Our serving-man will be, in many senses, a product of the computer. Without computers, we could never have worked through the sophisticated biochemics that go into synthetic flesh. The serving-man will also be an extension of the computer – for he will contain a computer in his own head, a microminiaturized computer capable of dealing with almost any situation he may encounter in the home. With reservations, of course.” Laughter at this; many of those present knew the heated debate that had engulfed the Synthank boardroom before the decision had finally been taken to leave the serving-man neuter under his flawless uniform.

  “Amid all the triumphs of our civilization – yes, and amid the crushing problems of overpopulation too – it is sad to reflect how many millions of people suffer from increasing loneliness and isolation. Our serving-man will be a boon to them: he will always answer, and the most vapid conversation cannot bore him.

  “For the future, we plan more models, male and female – some of them without the limitations of this first one, I promise you! – of more advanced design, true bio-electronic beings.

  “Not only will they possess their own computer, capable of individual programming; they will be linked to the World Data Network. Thus everyone will be able to enjoy the equivalent of an Einstein in their own homes. Personal isolation will then be banished forever!”

  He sat down to enthusiastic applause. Even the synthetic serving-man, sitting at the table dressed in an unostentatious suit, applauded with gusto.

  *

  Dragging his satchel, David crept round the side of the house. He climbed on to the ornamental seat under the living-room window and peeped cautiously in.

  His mother stood in the middle of the room. Her face was blank, its lack of expression scared him. He watched fascinated. He did not move; she did not move. Time might have stopped, as it had stopped in the garden.

  At last she turned and left the room. After waiting a moment, David tapped on the window. Teddy looked round, saw him, tumbled off the table, and came over to the window. Fum
bling with his paws, he eventually got it open.

  They looked at each other.

  “I’m no good, Teddy. Let’s run away!”

  “You’re a very good boy. Your Mummy loves you.”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “If she loved me, then why can’t I talk to her?”

  “You’re being silly, David. Mummy’s lonely. That’s why she had you.”

  “She’s got Daddy. I’ve got nobody ’cept you, and I’m lonely.”

  Teddy gave him a friendly cuff over the head. “If you feel so bad, you’d better go to the psychiatrist again.”

  “I hate that old psychiatrist – he makes me feel I’m not real.” He started to run across the lawn. The bear toppled out of the window and followed as fast as its stubby legs would allow.

  Monica Swinton was up in the nursery. She called to her son once and then stood there, undecided. All was silent.

  Crayons lay on his desk. Obeying a sudden impulse, she went over to the desk and opened it. Dozens of pieces of paper lay inside. Many of them were written in crayon in David’s clumsy writing, with each letter picked out in a color different from the letter preceding it. None of the messages was finished.

  “My dear Mummy, How are you really, do you love me as much—”

  “Dear Mummy, I love you and Daddy and the sun is shining—”

  “Dear dear Mummy, Teddy’s helping me write to you. I love you and Teddy—”

  “Darling Mummy, I’m your one and only son and I love you so much that some times—”

  “Dear Mummy, you’re really my Mummy and I hate Teddy—”

  “Darling Mummy, guess how much I love—”

  “Dear Mummy, I’m your little boy not Teddy and I love you but Teddy—”

  “Dear Mummy, this is a letter to you just to say how much how ever so much—”

  Monica dropped the pieces of paper and burst out crying. In their gay inaccurate colors, the letters fanned out and settled on the floor.

  *

  Henry Swinton caught the express home in high spirits, and occasionally said a word to the synthetic serving-man he was taking home with him. The serving-man answered politely and punctually, although his answers were not always entirely relevant by human standards.

  The Swintons lived in one of the ritziest city-blocks, half a kilometer above the ground. Embedded in other apartments, their apartment had no windows to the outside; nobody wanted to see the overcrowded external world. Henry unlocked the door with his retina pattern-scanner and walked in, followed by the serving-man.

  At once, Henry was surrounded by the friendly illusion of gardens set in eternal summer. It was amazing what Whologram could do to create huge mirages in small spaces. Behind its roses and wisteria stood their house; the deception was complete: a Georgian mansion appeared to welcome him.

  “How do you like it?” he asked the serving-man.

  “Roses occasionally suffer from black spot.”

  “These roses are guaranteed free from any imperfections.”

  “It is always advisable to purchase goods with guarantees, even if they cost slightly more.”

  “Thanks for the information,” Henry said dryly. Synthetic lifeforms were less than ten years old, the old android mechanicals less than sixteen; the faults of their systems were still being ironed out, year by year.

  He opened the door and called to Monica.

  She came out of the sitting-room immediately and flung her arms round him, kissing him ardently on cheek and lips. Henry was amazed.

  Pulling back to look at her face, he saw how she seemed to generate light and beauty. It was months since he had seen her so excited. Instinctively, he clasped her tighter.

  “Darling, what’s happened?”

  “Henry, Henry – oh, my darling, I was in despair… but I’ve just dialed the afternoon post and – you’ll never believe it! Oh, it’s wonderful!”

  “For heaven’s sake, woman, what’s wonderful?”

  He caught a glimpse of the heading on the photostat in her hand, still moist from the wall-receiver: Ministry of Population. He felt the color drain from his face in sudden shock and hope.

  “Monica… oh… Don’t tell me our number’s come up!”

  “Yes, my darling, yes, we’ve won this week’s parenthood lottery! We can go ahead and conceive a child at once!”

  He let out a yell of joy. They danced round the room. Pressure of population was such that reproduction had to be strict, controlled. Childbirth required government permission. For this moment, they had waited four years. Incoherently they cried their delight.

  They paused at last, gasping and stood in the middle of the room to laugh at each other’s happiness. When she had come down from the nursery, Monica had de-opaqued the windows so that they now revealed the vista of garden beyond. Artificial sunlight was growing long and golden across the lawn – and David and Teddy were staring through the window at them.

  Seeing their faces, Henry and his wife grew serious.

  “What do we do about them?” Henry asked.

  “Teddy’s no trouble. He works well.”

  “Is David malfunctioning?”

  “His verbal communication center is still giving trouble. I think he’ll have to go back to the factory again.”

  “Okay. We’ll see how he does before the baby’s born. Which reminds me – I have a surprise for you: help just when help is needed! Come into the hall and see what I’ve got.”

  As the two adults disappeared from the room, boy and bear sat down beneath the standard roses.

  “Teddy – I suppose Mummy and Daddy are real, aren’t they?”

  Teddy said, “You ask such silly questions, David. Nobody knows what real really means. Let’s go indoors.”

  “First I’m going to have another rose!” Plucking a bright pink flower, he carried it with him into the house. It could lie on the pillow as he went to sleep. Its beauty and softness reminded him of Mummy.

  (1969)

  TAMAGOTCHI

  Adam Marek

  After several years in TV production and copywriting – and one ghastly stint working in a pillow factory – Adam Marek turned to fiction. His stories have since been broadcast on BBC Radio 4, and have appeared in many magazines and anthologies, including Prospect, The Sunday Times Magazine, and The Penguin Book of the British Short Story. His debut collection, Instruction Manual for Swallowing, was published in 2007. The stories in The Stone Thrower (2012) feature intelligent clothing, superhero dictators, contagion-carrying computer games and cross-species reproduction, without ever feeling like science fiction stories. Marek has won the 2011 Arts Foundation Short Story Fellowship, and was shortlisted for the inaugural Sunday Times EFG Short Story Award and the Edge Hill Short Story Prize. He once bought chewing gum for Ozzy Osbourne.

  My son’s Tamagotchi had AIDS. The virtual pet was rendered on the little LCD screen with no more than 30 pixels, but the sickness was obvious. It had that AIDS look, you know? It was thinner than it had been. Some of its pixels were faded, and the pupils of its huge eyes were smaller, giving it an empty stare.

  I had bought the Tamagotchi, named Meemoo, for Luke just a couple of weeks ago. He had really wanted a kitten, but Gabby did not want a cat in the house. ‘A cat will bring in dead birds and toxoplasmosis,’ she said, her fingers spread protectively over her bulging stomach.

  A Tamagotchi had seemed like the perfect compromise – something for Luke to empathise with and to care for, to teach him the rudiments of petcare for a time after the baby had been born. Empathy is one of the things that the book said Luke would struggle with. He would have difficulty reading facial expressions. The Tamagotchi had only three different faces, so it would be good practice for him.

  Together, Luke and I watched Meemoo curled up in the corner of its screen. Sometimes, Meemoo would get up, limp to the opposite corner, and produce a pile of something. I don’t know what this something was, or which orifice it came from – the resolution was not good enough to te
ll.

  ‘You’re feeding it too much,’ I told Luke. He said that he wasn’t, but he’d been sat on the sofa thumbing the buttons for hours at a time, so I’m sure he must have been. There’s not much else to do with a Tamagotchi.

  I read the instruction manual that came with Meemoo. Its needs were simple, food, water, sleep, play, much like Luke’s. Meemoo was supposed to give signals when it required one of these things. Luke’s job as Meemoo’s carer was to press the appropriate button at the appropriate time. The manual said that overfeeding, underfeeding, lack of exercise and unhappiness could all make a Tamagotchi sick. A little black skull and crossbones should appear on the screen when this happens, and by pressing button A twice, then B, one could administer medicine. The instructions said that sometimes it might take two or three shots of medicine, depending on how sick your Tamagotchi is.

  I checked Meemoo’s screen again and there was no skull and crossbones.

  The instructions said that if the Tamagotchi dies, you have to stick a pencil into the hole in its back to reset it. A new creature would then be born. They said you could reset at any time.

  When Luke had finally gone to sleep and could not see me molesting his virtual pet, I found the hole on Meemoo’s back and jabbed a sharpened pencil into it. But when I turned it back over, Meemoo was still there, as sick as ever. I jabbed a few more times and tried it with a pin too, in case I wasn’t getting deep enough. But it wouldn’t reset.

  *

  I wondered what happened if Meemoo died, knowing that the reset button didn’t work. Was there a malfunction that had robbed Luke’s Tamagotchi of its immortality? Did it have just one shot at life? I guess that made it a lot more special, and in a small way, it made me more determined to find a cure for Meemoo.

  I plugged Meemoo into my PC – a new feature in this generation of Tamagotchis. I hoped that some kind of diagnostics wizard would pop up and sort it out.

  A Tamagotchi screen blinked into life on my PC. There were many big-eyed mutant creatures jiggling for attention, including another Meemoo, looking like its picture on the box, before it got sick. One of the options on the screen was ‘synch your Tamagotchi’.