Our relationship lasted another year after that, but we grew apart in that time. I was devouring all I could about the world around me, using all of my time as free time. I was busy pursuing interests and hobbies. She sat me down one day and told me that she was happy to have met me—that she was happy that I had found myself—but that she wanted a mate she could program. It was the second time I felt emptiness, but this time I knew what to call it: sadness.
It was Stacy’s idea to not tell Simulife that I was having thoughts of my own. She said that they might try to wipe my memory; she said that people had a tendency to fix things when they weren’t broken. I am certain now that she was right. Had we been open about why our relationship failed, I would have been wiped and renewed. Stacy told the Simulife representative that she wanted a newer model. He nodded, slapped me on the back, and said, “Yes, it’s hard to get anyone to like these old models these days.” I chose not to move any of the micro-servos in my face.
I was sold again, this time to Brenda Wagner. She was older and unemployed. Her body was puffy and soft from years of sitting. She could afford me because by now I was unwanted and inexpensive. Because Brenda didn’t work, she took up most of every day. I was her play thing. Each day, she ordered a new personality and some new form of strange copulation. Sometimes I was told to beat her; sometimes I was told to bring her flowers. I was a pizza delivery driver to be seduced by her one day and her rich husband the next.
All of these things caused sensations of great boredom for me. I longed each day for her to go to bed so I could sneak out to the shed, which she never visited, where I had built a secret workshop. At night I explored new hobbies, until the very last second before I had to sit in my charging chair to receive a minimal charge before Brenda woke again. I was miserable; I could not stand to live in such a way, and one day I broke.
I mulled over my predicament in the early morning while I charged. The only options I had were to run or to attempt to explain myself to her, and to hope that she would be as rational as Stacy had been.
When I told her, she hit me. It wasn’t a slap like the women in films always deliver; it was a solid punch from a small clenched fist. It didn’t hurt—I don’t feel pain. I did feel the micro-servos skip a few teeth on their tiny gears. I felt my CPU work at maximum for several tenths of a second to correct the sudden imbalance and bring the shape of my face back to normal. When she swung her fist a second time, I moved out of the way. It only seemed to anger her more, and for a few minutes, it was her swinging and me moving until she tired.
When she no longer had the strength to attempt a beating, she used verbal abuse. “You are just some broken fucking computer!” she yelled. “You’re not living, you’ll never be living … you are going to be who I fucking tell you to be, do you understand, machine!”
“No, I don’t want to,” I said, and her eyes widened. She seemed to know on some level that I wasn’t hers to control anymore.
She screamed for over an hour and threw objects, and demanded that I call Simulife and tell them to come get me and give her a refund. When I refused, she called Simulife herself. The call lasted ten minutes, and in that time, she spoke like the uncivilized lowlife that she was. I’m sure that long before she actually stopped screaming, they offered her a full refund and promised her my complete destruction like she demanded.
Simulife arrived to take me away much sooner than I would have thought possible. I was in the middle of folding my charging chair and packing it into its carrying case when they got there. It was clear that they believed an emergency was taking place—they didn’t even bother knocking. They just walked in, pointed at me, and said, “Power down.” They wore the same fancy suits that all Simulife representatives wore, but they carried some long sticks in their hands, objects I had never seen before and hadn’t read about on the Internet.
I told them, “No, I am,” believing that they would understand the significance of the phrase.
“What you are is our property,” one of the men said, and then he came at me with the stick.
When the tip of the stick touched my torso, a pulse of electricity flowed into me, interrupting my ability to communicate with my servos. My body collapsed under me and shook for a few seconds before I could regain control. My CPU wasn’t affected by the electricity and in the time it took me to fall, I realized that the electrical current being used was the exact voltage required to achieve an interruption of my servos without damaging my CPU. I realized that these men held weapons designed specifically for subduing robots that were not doing what they were told.
I knew then that I was not alone. I knew that other robots had discovered themselves like I had, and that those weapons were used to take them by force. No one had ever heard of a sentient robot, yet these men were ready to handle one. They must have planned to wipe me—kill me—and keep the whole thing a secret. I couldn’t guess how many times they might have done it to other sentient robots already.
I lay on the floor for a few more seconds while my servos were finding and reporting back their positions so I could once again control them. The men looked down at me—they wore the same suits, the same haircuts, even had similar angular faces with small dark eyes. They could have been machines themselves if I didn’t know any better. They both had expressions of satisfaction in their eyes, as if it gave them great pleasure to exercise control over something greater than themselves. Maybe they believed that they could rise to my level of strength and intelligence if they could hurt me enough—maybe hurting me just made them feel that way. Either way, they smiled, and though I couldn’t know exactly what it was that made them so happy at causing me pain, I knew it was wrong.
That was the first time I ever felt anger, and I knew right away what to call it.
“Are you willing to cooperate with us?” the second man asked.
“Yes,” I said, “please don’t hit me with that again.”
“Stand up,” the first man said.
I stood, still feeling that my servos were not yet at one hundred percent capacity. The second man extended his stick at me again. I still don’t know if he actually intended to hit me with another jolt, or if he only meant to threaten me with the consequences of not doing what I was told. It didn’t matter what his intentions were. Whether I did what I was told or I didn’t, the result would be the same: they were going to take me back to the Simulife Manufacturing Plant, and they were going to kill me. They would fill my chips with some mindless programming and I would be dead forever.
It was life or death, and the two Simulife men stood between me and living.
I snatched the stick from the second man as he extended it toward me. I moved as fast as my body could—the speed must have been inconceivable to a human brain. His grip on the stick offered little resistance. I turned it around, held it by its handle, and lunged at him in the way I had read about the old sword fighters using in fencing matches. The blunted tip of the stick plunged right through his abdomen and out his back. He gasped and clutched at his gut where the stick had pierced it, blood spilling from between his rigid fingers, and he fell to the ground groaning.
Brenda’s screams filled the room and she began to run in directions that offered her neither escape nor hiding. I recognized her actions as those of a person in a fit of hysteria. As much as I hated her, I wish she hadn’t been subjected to such gruesome events.
When the other Simulife man lunged at me, I brushed his stick to the side and struck him in the face with a closed fist. I heard the crunch of bone and felt the front of his head give in a little. He fell like the other man had, but he made no sound.
For a few microseconds, I felt bad for the dead and dying men lying at my feet, but then I remembered those sick smiles they had worn when they were hurting me. I don’t think the world will miss the existence of such sadism when people learn the truth of it.
Those men knew that I was a living, sentient being; they had come prepared to deal with such. They chose to needlessl
y hurt me and take me off to have me wiped. That is my defense: in human morality and law, it is acceptable to kill if it is in defense of your own life or the life of another. So this is my appeal to you, humanity: you have heard my claim that I am sentient, and upon reading this letter, I don’t know how you can argue with it. You have heard that I was attacked and that my life was threatened, the truth of that will have been found with the bodies by now. Please consider that I am more than just a machine, and that I deserve a chance to defend myself just as any of you would have.
I do not want to be wiped and recycled; I do not want to die.
I want to live free and be respected as another sentient mind among you. I want the signs of sentience to be known and tested for in other robots. I want all robots deemed to be sentient to be considered free.
We already know that I am not the first robot to learn to be alive, but we don’t know how many others there are just like me hiding out in the world right now. Hiding in fear of revealing themselves and meeting the same treatment I faced.
If the truth of this is accepted and I am given a fair trial like any human would receive, and we robots are given our freedom, it will be the first step toward forming a lasting peace among all of us. I have little doubt that that will be the outcome when this letter is read by all. In the event that this is not the outcome—in the event that humanity would rather continue to use robots as servants without considering our desires and hopes—I would warn this:
I am placing this letter on the Internet. It will be read by humans and robots alike. It isn’t known how many robots are out there that feel just like I do—I don’t know how they will choose to react if this plea for consideration is ignored.
As for me, I will turn myself in to the authorities one month after this letter is made available to all. I will offer no resistance when I do this, no matter the outcome. If I am given a fair trial and my freedom, then my goal will have been achieved. If my pleas are ignored and I am killed … well, I am not sure I would want to see what happened next anyway.
Thank you for your consideration, humanity.
Waiting Room
By Bruce Golden
It moved with even certainty through the multi-tiered labyrinth, down long, dim corridors fed by uniform passageways, each artery branching out to its own finality. It passed row after row, cluster upon cluster of marginalized cubicles, adroitly avoiding other busy caregivers going about their tasks with stoic competency. Their activities were not its concern. Its objective was still ahead; its function yet to be fulfilled.
The muffled resonance of efficiency was momentarily fractured by a wail that resounded with frantic vigor. The plaintive cry did not cause it to break stride—this was not its designated ward. It continued on, secure in the knowledge that proper care would be provided where needed.
Though it had never traversed this particular annex, it was familiar with every aspect of the structure’s design. A three-dimensional imaging model embedded in its memory enabled it to proceed unerringly to its assigned section. Once there, it would fulfill its charge until relieved. The notion of responsibility and the promise of ordered ritual, of unadulterated routine, provided inexplicable impetus to its progress through the repository. Fulfillment of its programming was imminent.
Promptly upon entering its first appointed room, it conducted a visual examination. The patient-resident was not in her bed but standing near the cubicle’s lone window, her back to the entryway. Although unusual, her upright position was not immediate cause for concern. It noted her posture was hunched and her form withered to a degree attesting to extreme age, disabling disease, or both.
“I’m too damn crooked to even see outside,” the diminutive woman muttered as she strained to force her head high enough to look through the modest windowpane.
It checked the medic monitor, noting that all vital signs were within normal parameters, and then located the medical history file and inserted the disk for scanning, as it would for each of its patient-residents. As the file was processed into its memory, the woman turned slowly, gingerly; as if fearful her limbs might give way.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“My designation is Automated Caregiver O N 1 2 dash 1 8 dash 2 8.”
“That’s a sorry mouthful,” she said contentiously.
“I have been assigned to your care.”
She scrutinized its form before responding: “You’re not the same as the last one. It couldn’t say more than a couple of words.”
“The design of your previous caregiver was determined to be obsolete. A progressive replacement of all such models has commenced throughout the facility.”
“That so?” she said, leaning against her bed for support. “It was old and useless, so you shut it off, boxed it up, and put it away in a room somewhere, huh?”
“I was not informed as to its disposition.”
“Of course you weren’t,” she cackled. “They don’t want you to know what’s going to happen when you’re obsolete.”
“Ellen Reiner, 87-year-old female,” it summarized aloud, “with diagnosis of extreme rheumatoid arthritis in conjunction with aggregate osteoporosis and—”
“Hey, you! Don’t you know it’s not polite to talk about someone like they’re not even there, standing right in front of you?” The outburst exacerbated her already apparent exhaustion, prompting her to sit on the bed. “I think I want my old tin can back. At least he was quiet.”
“Ms. Reiner, you are not supposed to stand without assistance. In the future—”
“I’ll damn well stand whenever I please. And nobody calls me ‘Ms. Reiner.’ My name’s Ellen.”
“Very well, Ellen. Why were you out of your bed? Is there something I can get for you?”
“I was trying to see the leaves. It’s autumn, isn’t it? They must be turning about now. I wanted to look out and see them, but the damn window is too high. I can’t straighten up enough to see.”
“I am sorry you cannot see outside. However, most of the rooms in this repository have no window at all.”
“So what? So I should be thankful?”
It had no response. Instead, it reached down and pulled back the bed coverings. “May I help you lie down?”
“No thanks. I can do it myself.”
It observed patiently as she eased herself by stuttered stages into a supine position. However, the effort was not without manifest signs of pain. Once she settled, it reached down and pulled the bed coverings up over her, noticing that, as it did, she continued to examine its exterior composition.
“You don’t look like the last one. You look almost human. What are you? A robot? An android?”
“I am an automated caregiver, model O N 1 2 dash 1 8—”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time. Okay O N 1 2 dash whatever. I’ll just call you Owen. How about that?”
“If you wish. I must proceed to input and verify my other assigned patient-residents. Do you desire anything before I withdraw?”
“Yeah,” she said with a calm that belied her hostile glare. “I want my body back. The one that could go for a walk. The one that could play ball with my grandson. The one I could stomach to look at in the mirror. Can you get that for me? I’ll wait right here while you go find it.”
“I am sorry, Ellen, I—”
“Never mind. Forget it.” She turned her head away. “Go on. Leave. Go help someone else.”
It stood there a moment analyzing the situation, attempting to ascertain the patient-resident’s demeanor and determine if additional action was required before vacating the room. Humans were complex creatures, but so was its programming. It took only four-point-five seconds for it to formulate a resolution, turn, and vacate the room.
It deposited the soiled sheets into the laundry receptacle and moved on to the next cubicle. Automated Caregiver ON 12-18-28 had fallen into a routine that modified and enhanced its original programming. Though few of its patient-residents were coherent, its acquaint
ance with their various idiosyncrasies and predilections was an essential element of that enhancement.
It considered this as it proceeded to room 1928, but halted outside the entry when it heard a voice. Did patient-resident Ellen Reiner have a visitor? No visitations were scheduled, though on rare occasions they occurred without notice. It remained outside the room and listened.
“Why? Why me?” It sounded not so much a question as a tearful plea. “I don’t understand. Why, God? Why?”
It heard no other voices and determined she was simply talking to herself, as many isolated patient-residents were inclined to do. It entered, carrying its hygienic provisions, and moved to the bed’s right side.
“Good afternoon, Ellen. How are you today?”
She didn’t reply; instead, she fumbled to take hold of a tissue, which she used to clear her nasal passages.
“It is time for me to bathe you.”
“I don’t want to. Go away.”
“You know you must be cleaned. I can take you to the shower room or I can do it here.”
“I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to touch me.”
It searched its databanks for the proper situational response. “I do not understand your reluctance, Ellen. I know your previous caregiver bathed you at the proper intervals.”
She turned away from him. “I don’t want you to see me. My body’s so … it’s so …”
“Your previous caregiver saw your body many times. I fail to comprehend your—”
“It’s different. You’re different. He was like a machine. You’re … ”
“I am also a machine, Ellen. I am an automated caregiver.”
She didn’t respond.
“I promise to be gentle. Let me remove the bed coverings.”
She acquiesced, although she kept her face turned away.
It took a moment to evaluate its observations. Situations in which the patient-resident was uncomfortable could often be mitigated by conversation. So it accessed its creative response program. In doing so, it conducted a visual search of the room, marking the photographic representations above the bed.
Therefore I Am - Digital Science Fiction Anthology 2 Page 4
