Letters to an Android

by Wendy Rathbone

  I understand that you feel no need to tell your friends of my legal limitations. Whether they know or not does not change the status of my label. I do not wish any part of myself to cause you grief or cause your friends to be perplexed about you.

  Your life is lovely. Nothing should mar it. I would go so far as to say it is a grand adventure for me as well. Please do not forget that I appreciate your every word.

  Your friend,

  Cobalt

  *

  Dear Cobalt:

  We are a day out of Vaera still and I had some time to myself. I went back over our letters and was both pleased and ashamed.

  Pleased at our correspondence, which is a wonderful thing for me.

  Ashamed at myself. Not you.

  Before I say why, let me tell you that I gathered my friends together in the off-duty room, bought them all beers, and told them I wanted their advice.

  They all love to give advice (even when not asked) so they came quite quickly and willingly.

  While your last letter was polite and generous, showing an appreciation of me and my words, my adventures, I now think it might be undeserved. My decision to lead my friends to believe I had a human friend back home was not to spare you any discomfort but only myself. I realize that now.

  And…there was something in the tone of your letter…maybe I’m imagining it, but I could feel—almost—a pain in you. It is more than just the sadness you have mentioned before. You don’t speak of it, of course, but am I wrong? Tell me and I will adjust my thinking!

  Two word choices from your last wave stood out to me. Your use of the phrase “legal limitations” made me think of what was missing from that description. Personal limitations. You’ve never talked of those. And then I realized that maybe it is because you have none, that you are human with no limitations on that or your feelings, only those put onto you by the law. Forgive me if I’m ignorant about this, but I don’t think I’m wrong in saying you have emotions just like everyone else. Your early memories may be false but that does not mean the feelings aren’t real. People can react with intensity to fictions, why not androids to their own fictional memories?

  My point is, you have feelings like anyone and I should pay more attention to that.

  Also, your phrase: “Whether they know or not does not change the status of my label.”

  This is true. And whether my friends know or not also does not change the fact that you are my friend.

  So after a few sips of beer, I told them, “I need your advice. Cobalt…the friend I write to back home is an android. And I fear I may have offended him.”

  Sekina said, “You know an android?”

  Lark said, “I don’t know if I’ve ever met one. They’re so expensive and rare.”

  Tiri said, “I have met two who were trained soldiers. Cold as fuck.”

  They all began asking questions at once. How did I meet you? Where do you work? Are you a newer matrix 1001 model, or the older 900 version? What could I possibly do to offend an android?

  I told them that I felt it was not anybody’s business, really, where you came from, that to me you are just a person, but that I realized this attitude of non-admission, keeping who you are secret, might negate a part of who you are, or it might give the impression I’m ashamed, somehow, to have befriended you, especially when that label confines you, enslaves you, imprisons you. I don’t think doing that to another person, created or otherwise, is right. And if I don’t even speak of my thoughts, controversial as they may be to some people, then isn’t my silence, in a way, selfish?

  I’m not sure my question to my friends was completely eloquent but they did grasp the essential predicament.

  Tiri, whose entire social environment before joining C&C was combat restricted mainly to one planet, was the only one who’d met androids.

  She said, “But isn’t it true they are machines? They have cloned brains, yes, but no sense of self, really, and only manufactured emotions.”

  Lark, always the quickest in wit and problem-solving, said, “It’s the myth we’re taught. But really, what’s the difference between a brain grown in a fetus inside a womb and one grown in a womb-vat?”

  “But they aren’t clones,” Tiri argued. “Their skeletal structure is metal.”

  “That’s another myth,” I corrected her gently. “Their nervous system comes from the brain, the brainstem, and spine, which are organically grown. Their skin is real cells. They feel it when you touch them. Their bones are real bone although enhanced genetically to be stronger, as much of the rest of their bodies are.”

  Sekina said, “Only the wealthy own any. They are bought as toys, the same way the rich buy starships to play with. They are symbols of status. In the distant past it was Rolex and Rolls Royce. Now it’s Starcore sculpture and Cellex designer humanoids.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Lark said, “is if they are made as toys and bought as toys, they amount to nothing more.”

  Sekina frowned. “I’m not trying to be inconsiderate, or deny emotions that might be real even if misplaced though false memories or programming. But isn’t it like loving a bracelet, a pair of shoes, a house, a ship? The stars, even? They simply can’t love back. Not humanly. Liyan, this is like writing letters to the liner’s computer system. It’s intelligent. It can write back. But it’s not going to really mean anything. Not in the way you say this android is your ‘friend’.”

  “With the android soldiers I knew back on Raglin, it was that simple,” Tiri added.

  I listened to my friends. Lark had quieted. The other two discussed my situation as if I’d gotten perhaps over-involved with a fictional character in a virtual game. No harm in it, just no substance.

  When they finally stopped talking, I looked at all three. Then I said, “You have never met Cobalt.”

  Tiri said, “You admit you only met him once.”

  Lark said, very softly, “You should do whatever you fucking well want.” His eyes were softly sheened, golden and nonjudgmental, when they met mine.

  I thanked them for their time. Then we talked of other things.

  I had to stop writing for a moment and take a deep breath.

  I don’t know what else to write now. Starliners don’t put into our old home port. I know you may never meet my friends. But I wish you could.

  Your friend,

  Liyan

  *

  Cobalt read this letter five times, stopping at certain parts to think about the language, its awkwardness from Liyan’s youthful struggles to understand new things, as well as its essence which was the heart at the core of the author.

  He had fifteen minutes before his services were required at the penthouse top floor which offered the best view of the port’s virtual moon as it rose in poison-malachite skies.

  He sat back in his chair, careful not to wrinkle his gray silk suit, the velvet cushion flexing beneath him, and pictured Liyan in his mind from the only time they had met, sitting so young and thoughtful at the end of the counter at Rory’s Bar.

  Slim. Vibrant. Skin like sunlight. And that gleaming face. Dark-eyed with all possibility. His deepest secret was in that moment he’d wanted to be Liyan. Trade souls. Never look back.

  What would it be like to own his own body? To decide freely how to command it besides daily ablutions, hygiene, sleep? Even his aquamarine hair had been decided for him by the Cellex Corporation before his first owner had come to pick him up.

  He decided little things for himself, like picking the color of his shirt for the day. Or moving a piece of jewelry, a silver bracelet cuff given to him by his first owner, from right hand to left.

  When he wrote to Liyan, however, things were different. For that time, he was free. He chose to write to him…was not ordered to do so. He picked the words, decided on the length of the letter and the tone. He then sent his words across vast distances of void, freeing them. Words his brain had conjured. Words he’d composed. Words t
hat came from a kind of hollow place inside him he could not define.

  He had long ago realized he was a curious sort of being. But what he was doing here was more than that.

  Dear Liyan:

  Every letter I receive from you enhances me.

  If I think about the offenses other humans have bestowed upon me, your name does not come up.

  I wish I could meet your friends, too.

  It is true you and I have only met once. There are many things about my life you do not know. How can you? Just as I cannot know about you unless I ask.

  If you would like me to address your friends’ questions, I can do that.

  Am I a being only because I think I am? Could not the same be said of you?

  There is a very simple statement I can make, but few ever ask it of me.

  Yes, I feel. In every way.

  You might wonder how I can be sure of “in every way.”

  Well, I am sure. That is all.

  I would like to compose more, but I do not have a lot of time right now. The moon is in full brightness tonight. Real or not, it is a silver, enthralling blaze.

  I have my duties under its watchful eye.

  Your letters from far-flung reaches where expansion is the rule make me want to fight those duties. But I won’t.

  I will think of you and be happy instead.

  Your friend,

  Cobalt

  *

  Cobalt sent the letter without any hesitation.

  He got up and went to his window, parting the silks. In the verdant sky a sterling disk beckoned.

  In the elevator, on the way up, he adjusted his jacket’s cuffs.

  In the rich, draped penthouse he shared a glass of moon-colored wine with the man he met there. He pretended not to notice the hunger in the stranger’s gaze.

  Later, he let him undress him and touch him everywhere.

  The man took his pleasure three times. Cobalt felt everything.

  *

  Dear Cobalt:

  I love writing to you, never doubt that.

  Tiri can think I’m a fool and it’s okay. You value what I have to offer and that’s enough for me. Later for more questions.

  But now let me tell you of the past day, and the floating cities of Vaera.

  The liner’s sleek, arrow-shaped shuttle circled three cities before it came to rest, docking on the tarmac of the one called Glass.

  It was the four of us again. Lark, Tiri, Sekina, me.

  The clouds sat around us like big pearly marshmallows, and though it was day, some were flecked with mica-glints from the coming-going, blinking-winking city life.

  The city may float, but its grav-locks hold it tight so when you are in the middle of it it’s much like any city on any world. A constant rain-scent lingers. Knowing you are suspended in the air is the treat.

  We took a grav-cab through dewy, shining streets to Glass’s most famous club: Try. It was the size of a city block and noisy, shadowy, vapory and twinkling. They served us huge steaks and blue wine. Lark danced with Tiri.

  A young couple took an interest in me and pulled me into the swaying throngs. He wore a belt of light around his waist (no, his name was not Orion), no shirt, and pants torn in long strips up to his thighs. His skin was a dark bluish-brown. She wore spring-boots and a leather cloak and very little underneath. Both their eyelids were painted pink.

  I realize now the blue wine had ‘Enchantment’ in it. Later, Tiri did not lie about spiking our drinks. Her excuse: “We did it all the time in the army.” Sekina, who outranks Lark now and works for a different department, told Lark that because he was Tiri’s immediate boss he had to take care of it. Lark did not write up Tiri for it in the official log, but he took her away from navigation for a day and made her clean the level four portholes of the common rooms top to bottom.

  I remember only fractures of the rest of the night. I hesitate to write of what I remember. It’s personal and yet I feel more comfortable about certain subjects in a letter rather than face to face. So I’ll continue.

  The couple took me to one of the club’s many private rooms. The outfit I wore had a lot of zippers and buttons and the woman kept undoing them.

  When she was on top of me I kept looking at the guy’s lightbelt as he watched us through drug-slitted eyes.

  I never did anything like that before. The words formed in my brain but didn’t travel to my mouth. ‘I’ve never done this before. Please go slower.’

  I kept looking at the man’s lightbelt with a strange, hungry concern.

  Soft breasts against my chest. A hard couch at my back. The flashing belt. A tightness gathered in the bottom of my throat as I stared at him. I really don’t recall the pleasure at all. Later, when I tried to put all the pieces of my memory together, I realized what I really wanted was the man.

  My point: it was my first time and not everything I’d hoped for.

  When I said this two days later to Sekina, she said, “No worries. That’s how it is for everybody, honey.”

  The thing is, I didn’t expect to be sad about it.

  The floating cities. Orion’s belt. Clouds. Rain. Drifting on the wind.

  Sorry I can’t tell you more about Vaera.

  Your friend,

  Liyan.

  *

  Cobalt read as he rested in the surroundchair as it hummed about his body, massaging, comforting. His thick cotton robe wrapped him in warmth. He sipped white tea.

  Perhaps he had not fully processed how young Liyan really was until now. His demeanor in Rory’s bar and his letters were mature beyond his age.

  And yet this last part of the letter showed the vulnerability of his youth. Despite his enthusiasm for travel, for his new job, Liyan was more disciplined than most young men his age. He’d admitted it at the bar; he’d spent his life pursuing his dream job. The wildness of, perhaps, someone like Tiri did not reflect Liyan’s own nature. A personal naiveté showed through in his outer maturity. A lack of social experience.

  By the fourth time he read the letter he could describe the feeling inside his skin as a bit like anger. But not anger. It was a need as if to tightly crush something to release an inner pressure.

  A childhood memory frothed in his mind. In a concrete play-yard a little boy punched him. Heat. Pain. He wanted to cry. Instead, he punched the boy back. A hand grabbed him. Adult and firm. Took him to a dark room. Hit him on the thighs with a wooden stick.

  The teacher said, “Go now and stop crying.”

  He replied, “I’m not crying!” His first fight and his first lie.

  All unreal. Some other boy’s memory.

  But the feeling he had now? It was something like that.

  He leaned forward and created a blank page.

  Dear Liyan:

  Your memory slices of Vaera are greatly appreciated.

  I have little contact with people in more personal conversational matters. So your descriptions of your travels as well as personal insights and experiences are welcome and very interesting. I can see holos of outworlds and fictions on the wave any time, but my real life is limited. The words you write to me are real. I can hear you, picture you. For me that is a great thing.

  Your letter reminds me there is quite a vast difference in our ages. At least memory-wise. In real time we are the same. I have existed for 20 years. But I was born adult and given 20 extra years of memories to ground me. That’s what they called it, grounding. While we have both existed for 20 real years, I have 20 years of adulthood while you are still in the process of embarking on it.

  I am glad you did not stop writing of your evening on Vaera. Perhaps it is not only words, but the long distance communication itself that makes it easier to write of more difficult subjects than talking about them. In this way, we both benefit.

  If you are bothered by your experience with the dancing couple, I can tell you that you will undoubtedly have more, better and different exper
iences to look forward to, if that helps.

  Because of my status, I must know many things. My memories were chosen to educate me in all areas. Thus, I was not really born a virgin. It sounds impossible, but not for me. I was given memories of sex so that I would know everything about it should I be called upon to perform that specific task in all its assortments. It is one of many subjects I was born knowing how to do.

  Like you, my first “real” time was unremarkable as well. Put in a position where I have no choice in any matters pertaining to jobs I am hired to do, I am mostly surrounded by selfish humans. The situation is fortunate, perhaps, for them. Not so for me.

  Some androids must go through long, harsh training to accept and expect this fact. The rebellious ones are destroyed. Or so they told us. Since we are expensive to produce, I suspect this was a lie. Because we are ingrained with a strong will to live, maybe threatening us with oblivion was also was part of the training. My time at the kennel-yards was brief. I am a quick learner.

  I don’t know if you even want to hear about these things. So I will stop here.

  Know that your letters are some of my most treasured moments. I always look forward to them. That you can share with me the intrigues of your life honors me.

  What will be your next destination?

  Your friend,

  Cobalt

  *

  5. Quasar of the Bearded Dragon

  The ship spun into the smashed backdrop of foldspace. A violent light invaded his skin, a thousand simultaneous needles.

  His mind threw itself against the void. Windsong moaned. It was all black stars and burnt sugar.

  Liyan struggled to navigate without numbers. He had forgotten the equations of abysses. He could not count a single beat of his heart.

  His mind banged, amorphous, the walls of the universe. A deep well of bells.