by Neil Clarke
IV.
First Daud taught Sallehuddin Arabic letters and numbers. Then he taught Sallehuddin how to read the words based on the guide markers: the short pauses, the long pauses, the hard stop, the repeated sounds, the inflections, the sighs, all the correct tajwid when reading the Quran. He taught Sallehuddin the meaning of the words, and before long his vocabulary grew.
During Ramadhan, the Islamic fasting month, Sallehuddin accompanied Daud in reading the Quran, a chapter a day. Daud seldom had to correct him, but after completing the twelfth chapter, Daud stayed seated opposite the android.
“When will you start reading with your own voice?”
“I do not understand. My voice is factory–standard, but if you want to, the pitch is adjustable.”
“Not that. Your voice. Sallehuddin’s voice. Not like how I read, not like the recordings of the imams you listen to at night. Each person has his own inflections, flaws and strengths. You sound like a machine, too perfect, emotionless.”
“Does my reading not please you?”
“Not that. I want you to put your personality in it. I want your reading to be individual.”
Sallehuddin cocked his head slightly to the right. “I will need time to process this. I fear I may not be equipped to comply.”
Daud gave him a look that he could only interpret as faith.
That night, while he sat plugged to the living–room socket, Sallehuddin reviewed his conversation with Daud. He played recordings of Quran recitals from all over the world, and studied the individual voices, comparing the differences, both subtle and obvious. He was astounded about how reading the same thing could sound so different from person to person. He then reviewed his entire existence, how his experience after coming out of his packaging was different from other RX–718s even though there were five units active in the same neighborhood.
When he read the Quran the next day, his recital was just as smooth and clear as before, but he sounded different, even though the change was subtle.
Daud stopped reading and gave a smile that creased his entire face with deep lines. “Now you sound like Sallehuddin.” With that, and a nod, he resumed reading.
From then on, Daud taught Sallehuddin the Faith. When he was not learning from Daud, the android scoured the worldnet for more information. When Jamil came back toward the end of Ramadhan, Sallehuddin had learned more about Islam than Jamil had in his entire life.
“Has Abah been hard on you? He used to flick my knuckles when I read the Quran wrongly.” Jamil sat beside Sallehuddin with a steaming mug of synthetic coffee in his hands. Daud was asleep upstairs, and Sallehuddin had updated Jamil on what he and Daud had been doing since the last time Jamil had come back.
“He is a good teacher, and I am thankful for it. I feel I have grown exponentially in his care.”
“I thought you’re the one who’s taking care of him?”
“I feel that he takes care of me, spiritually.”
“Hmm.”
“He does that, too, all the time.”
“What?”
Sallehuddin adjusted his pitch to mimic Daud’s voice. “Hmm.”
Jamil burst out laughing, filling the stillness of the night with his deep voice. “You sound just like him! I picked up his habit when I was a boy, I guess.”
“Is that how it is, to have parents?”
Jamil rolled the mug with his hands. “I guess. Hey, if it makes any difference, I think Abah thinks of you as his son, too.” Sallehuddin cocked his head but remained silent.
In the predawn darkness, with Jamil asleep in his room, Daud walked down and gestured for Sallehuddin to follow him. “Come, let’s do the Subuh prayer at the mosque.”
The android followed without hesitation.
The mosque was still empty. The main chamber was spacious, with a high, domed ceiling, and slender support pillars arranged at regular intervals. The thick, carpeted floor was free from dust and dirt. But the emptiness was profound. Sallehuddin felt it even though it was his first time in the mosque.
“It’s almost time. Connect yourself to the speakers and Azan. If anyone can call people to pray here again, it’s you.” Again, the old man’s eyes conveyed unquestioning faith.
Sallehuddin complied, and recited the call for prayer, in his own voice. “Allah hu–akhbar, Allah hu–akhbar. . .”
When he’d completed the call and turned to face Daud, he saw tears streaming from the old man’s eyes.
“Have I done it wrong, Abah?”
“No,” Daud whispered, and wiped his face with the base of his wrists. “I forget how beautiful it sounds.”
Within a few minutes, one person after another entered the main doors of the mosque, Jamil included. Most of them were elderly or middle–aged, but all came with curious looks on their faces. The Imam, who had been standing silently at the back of the main chamber, clasped Daud’s hands. His eyes were equally red from tears.
“I have not seen this many people here in years. What software did you use for your robot? The recordings I play can never get the congregation to pray here.”
“I didn’t install any software. I taught Sallehuddin what I can, and he learned the rest on his own.”
“He? It’s a machine, Daud.”
“That may be so. But Sallehuddin is a Muslim, Imam.” The Imam inhaled sharply. “That’s blasphemy, Daud!” “Is it? I have taught him the syahadah, and he follows the Islamic ways.”
“Even praying? How is it possible, when it can’t even take ablution?”
“He is waterproof, Imam. Even if he cannot risk getting water in his joints, Sallehuddin has learned to take ablution using fine–grained sand. Isn’t that acceptable when you have no access to water?”
“Yes, but—”
Jamil knelt down beside his father and lowered his head to look at the two older men. “What’s going on?”
“Talk your father out of this insanity, Jamil. He thinks the robot is a Muslim!” The Imam shook his head, his jaw set.
“Abah—”
Daud kept his gaze forward. “Everyone’s waiting, Imam. Lead the prayer, already.”
If the Imam was indignant at being reminded of his job, he did not show it. He stood up, walked to the front of the chamber, and gave Sallehuddin a cursory glance. “Qamat.”
Sallehuddin nodded and recited a similar call as the Azan, only shorter. The Qamat was to inform the congregation to stand in rows behind the Imam, shoulder to shoulder. When he finished, Sallehuddin padded to the back, behind the last row. Then he saw Daud making his way to the back row, and signaled for Sallehuddin to join him by his side. The men around them muttered among themselves but did not stop Sallehuddin from joining the prayer.
It was then that Sallehuddin began to comprehend that he may be different from the rest of RX–718 models after all.
V.
“Abah, I know Sallehuddin means a lot to you. But to call him a Muslim?”
Daud plucked resilient weeds choking his orchids. “What’s wrong with that?”
“He’s an android, Abah.”
“Who made the rule that only humans can be Muslims? There was even a time when people believed there were Muslim djinns and spirits. What’s wrong with a Muslim android?”
“It’s just—” Jamil sighed and slumped against the wall. “I’m worried about you, Abah. Maybe I should just stay home and take care of you.”
“And have us live off my pension? We won’t even afford Sallehuddin’s monthly installments. I’m not going crazy, if that’s what you mean.”
“I don’t want to have to worry about you when I’m not around.”
“Then don’t. I’m fine. I know what I’m doing.”
Sallehuddin watched the argument between father and son in silence. They were angry with each other. He had done something to endanger their relationship. He felt the conflict in his system. When Jamil stormed into the house, Sallehuddin followed him to his room. “Forgive me, Jamil. I did not mean for you to argue with A
bah.”
Jamil shook his head. “You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s Abah that I’m worried about. Has his behavior been erratic in any way?”
“From my observation, no. He is an exemplary model of human behavior.”
“You know what, the Imam asked me to return you to the manufacturer, to reboot your system at the very least.”
Outwardly, Sallehuddin did not even twitch. But his system jumped to overdrive, and his awareness worked furiously to interpret the strange, oppressive feeling that had suddenly invaded him. For the first time in his existence, Sallehuddin felt fear.
“But I’m not going to do that.”
He actually let out a small sigh.
“I am going to take your advice, though. I’m buying the application so that I can observe Abah through you.” Sallehuddin nodded.
“But I don’t want you to tell Abah about this. He won’t like it, I guess.”
The android nodded again in assent.
VI.
Sallehuddin continued to accompany Daud to the mosque for all five daily prayers even after Jamil left for another assignment. The Imam allowed him to recite the Azan, but only grudgingly; he had tried to play a recording one time, but the turnout was poor. Sallehuddin’s recital differed subtly each time, much to everyone’s surprise. Other Muslim owners of RX–718 and later models tried to duplicate Sallehuddin’s feat, but none of them succeeded. The androids all sounded the same, every time.
Even though everyone loved Sallehuddin’s Azan, they still had difficulty accepting him praying with them. Daud stood right at the back, always beside Sallehuddin. There was no smugness in him, nor disdain. He was the same as he ever was.
“You’re right,” Jamil said to Sallehuddin via their worldnet link. “I was wrong to worry about Abah.”
“The Imam has kept his peace. He may not accept me, but I do not think he’s rejecting me either. I’m glad Abah isn’t having such a bad time with the rest of the congregation.”
Jamil’s chuckle reverberated through his consciousness. “It’s still weird, hearing you call him Abah. But I don’t mind having you as a brother, I guess.”
“That is—” Sallehuddin cocked his head. “Unexpected. Thank you, Jamil.”
“Maybe one day I can talk you into accepting humanoid skin.”
“My opinion remains unchanged. I do not plan to be your substitute. You are his son.”
“Well, two more months here and I’ll be back for half a year. They’re shutting this mining plant down, and I’ll be doing paperwork for a while.”
“That is good. Abah will be happy to hear this.”
“No! You can’t tell you have this application, remember?”
“I assumed you were going to make a conventional phone call.”
“Later, I guess. What are you doing with Abah today?”
“There is a storm outside, but he insists on going to the mosque to pray.”
“Can’t you talk him out of it?”
“Without success.”
“Well, be careful then. Call me if you need anything.”
Sallehuddin ended the connection well before Daud came down with an umbrella in his hand. The old man thumped the left side of his chest with his balled fist, and flexed his arms repeatedly.
“Is there anything wrong, Abah?”
“It’s the storm and the cold. I feel it in my bones. That’s what happens when you get old.” His gentle smile lit his face and made him look more like his son.
“Maybe we should just pray at home.”
Daud waved his hand. “Nonsense. Come, we don’t want to be late.”
Sallehuddin held the umbrella in one hand and wrapped his free arm around Daud’s shoulder to steady him in the howling tempest. Tall trees swayed and bent around them, humbled by the force of nature, and both of them were soaking when they entered the mosque. The Imam was already there, less wet as his house was just beside the mosque. Sallehuddin ran a quick diagnostic sweep on himself, and did not find any aberrations in his system. Daud, on the other hand, was shivering, and his pulse had quickened. Sallehuddin held him close and gave off comfortable warmth.
When his teeth stopped chattering, Daud pointed to the front of the main chamber. “Go, it’s already time to Azan.”
Sallehuddin hesitated, but eventually nodded and complied. His amplified voice competed with the roar of the storm outside. The Imam waited for a good fifteen minutes after the Azan, but only three others turned up. He looked at everyone except for Sallehuddin, and they in turn nodded at him to go ahead with the prayer. Sallehuddin stood directly behind him, and even though the Imam looked uneasy, he did not say anything.
In the middle of their prayer, the doors by the side of the main hall banged open from the force of the tempest. The Imam stumbled in his recital at the distraction, but Sallehuddin guided him back, just audibly. It was the responsibility of the man standing behind an Imam to correct him when he stumbled, and Sallehuddin did this without hesitation.
A loud thump overhead, followed by an almost imperceptible crack, alerted Sallehuddin of another danger. In a split–second decision, he overrode his first commandment. He had to harm the humans in order to save them. Just as the glass dome overhead shattered, with an uprooted tree jutting into the gap, Sallehuddin pushed the Imam forward, toward a small alcove, and pushed the rest of the startled men away. He grabbed hold of Daud and lay atop him.
Glass shards bounded off his carbon–enforced polymer body and scraped the aluminum parts. He knew he had saved the men from harm, but jumped off Daud when the old man started to gasp for air. Daud clutched at his chest; beads of sweat rolled off his forehead. Broken glass lay around them, and the men could not come close.
Sallehuddin placed three fingertips over Abah’s chest, where the vital points of his heart should be. Full diagnostic ECG was almost impossible with the old man thrashing about, but Sallehuddin managed to get enough readings to compare with worldnet database. “Ventricular fibrillation.”
The Imam padded as close as he could. “Can’t you do something?”
“I’m not equipped with medical capabilities. I cannot depolarize his heart safely. Please, Abah. Please hold on.” Sallehuddin did the only thing he could do. He called Jamil.
“What’s wrong, Sallehuddin? I’m in the middle of—” A short pause, and a sharp intake of breath. “Abah! What’s happening to him?”
“He’s having a heart attack, Jamil. I’ve called for help, but I cannot do anything to help him. He needs you now. Talk to him, through me.”
“Abah.” Sallehuddin’s lips moved, but the voice was Jamil’s. Daud’s eyes flared opened with feverish clarity. “Jamil?” “It’s me, Abah. Hold on. Help is coming.”
For the briefest moment, Daud’s grimace turned into a smile. Then his head lolled to the right, limp and lifeless.
Sallehuddin grabbed him and held him close to his chest. “Abah!” both of them wailed simultaneously. There was no telling which voice was human, and which was android.
VII.
In the predawn darkness the day after Daud’s funeral, Sallehuddin and Jamil walked side by side to the mosque. A temporary polyfiber sheet had been draped over the gap in the dome to keep the elements away. The Imam was already there, ready to play a recording of the Azan.
“Jamil. I thought, after your father passed away—”
“I would no longer pray?” Sallehuddin interjected. “I am a Muslim,
Imam. For me to meet Abah again in Heaven when I expire, I have to be a good Muslim.” “You can’t be serious.”
Jamil rested his hand on Sallehuddin’s shoulder. “Do you know how I pray up there on the moon? With the Earth rotating, the Kaaba is never at the same place to be my kiblat. And it’s always daytime, so I don’t have a guide for my prayer time. I place my mat facing my bunker door, and I set my alarm in time with our prayer times here. I just do it because I have faith that Allah will accept my effort all the same.” He looked at Sallehuddin, then back
at the
Imam. “Sallehuddin believes that his prayers will be accepted, too. Maybe you should have the same faith in him as Abah had.”
For a while, the Imam stared at them, stroking his white beard. Finally, he took a deep breath and sighed. “Do you truly believe you have a soul, Sallehuddin?”
The android cocked his head slightly to the right. “I do, Imam.”
“Then go ahead and Azan. Call the congregation to pray with us.”
Sallehuddin nodded and took his place.
Ken Liu (kenliu.name) is an author and translator of speculative fiction, as well as a lawyer and programmer. A winner of the Nebula, Hugo, and World Fantasy Awards, he has been published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov’s, Analog, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and Strange Horizons, among other places.
Ken’s debut novel, The Grace of Kings (2015), is the first volume in a silkpunk epic fantasy series, The Dandelion Dynasty. It won the Locus Best First Novel Award and was a Nebula finalist. He subsequently published the second volume in the series, The Wall of Storms (2016), as well as a collection of short stories, The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories (2016).
THE CARETAKER
KEN LIU
Motors whining, the machine squats down next to the bed, holding its arms out parallel to the ground. The metal fingers ball up into fist-shaped handholds. The robot has transformed into something like a wheelchair with treads, its lap the seat where my backside is supposed to fit.
A swiveling, flexible metal neck rises over the back of the chair, at the end of which are a pair of camera lenses with lens hood flaps on top like tilted eyebrows. There’s a speaker below the cameras, covered by metal lips. The effect is a cartoonish imitation of a face.
“It’s ugly,” I say. I try to come up with more, but that’s the only thing I can think of.
Lying on the bed with my back and neck propped up by all these pillows reminds me of long-ago Saturday mornings, when I used to sit up like this in bed, trying to catch up on grading while Peggy was still asleep next to me. Suddenly, Tom and Ellen would burst through the bedroom door without knocking and jump into the bed, landing on top of us in a heap, smelling of warm blankets and clamoring for breakfast.
