The Last Human

by Lee Bacon

  I saw a small, bug-eyed robot zipping across the ground on a pair of rubber treads, inspecting plant life. Every once in a while, it stopped to mark a spot of earth.

  Then—with a BEEP! and a VRRRM!—it hurried away.

  A trio of robots trailed it. Whenever they reached the marked spot, all three shuffled to a halt and followed these steps:

  The first dug a hole in the ground.

  The second planted a tree in the hole.

  And the third . . .

  The third robot looked like a mechanical hippo. Its midsection was a round tank of water. With each heavy step it took, the water sloshed from side to side. Whenever it reached a freshly planted tree, it stopped, aimed its large backside, and—

  SQUIRT!

  A thirsty tree received the water it needed to grow.

  Of course, robots do not plant trees for our own benefit. We have no use for trees. But we keep them around anyway. And we plant more. Because—unlike humans, who ruled Earth before us—we care about the environment. We support the planet and all its remaining LifeForms.

  I followed my FamilyUnit down a cement path. Deeper into the ruins of humanity. Until we reached a shop that no longer had a name. Where its sign had once been, there was now only a discolored spot on the wall. Many of the windows were broken. One was not. And in the glass of the unbroken window, I glimpsed a fascinating creature.

  Myself.

  My reflection stared back at me from the window.

  I updated my input drives with a new observation: My face was a series of geometric shapes.

  My head: oval.

  My speaker port: rectangular.

  My eyes: perfectly round.

  I observed patterns in my parts, symmetry in my design. Two arms and two legs. Two hands and two feet. Ten fingers and ten toes.

  Printed on my breastplate was my personal barcode. By scanning it, other robots could immediately learn everything that was important about me. Name/Age/Job.

  Our barcodes are our identities. They allow us to understand others. They allow us to understand ourselves.

  An example: When I scanned the barcodes for Parent_1 and Parent_2, I learned they were gen_8 robots. Eighth-generation models. I am gen_9. In many ways, we look and operate the same. Except I was built to be smarter/stronger/faster/better.

  I was an upgrade.

  00001010

  Soon we left the ruins of humanity behind. As we continued along the path, I noticed more signs of our new civilization.

  To my left: a robot manufacturing plant.

  To my right: a power storage facility.

  Above: an enormous silver X, hovering in the sky. An aircraft with four wings and four propellers.

  Wind swirled around us. The aircraft was getting closer.

  I searched my data drives, but the object in the sky was not included in my preprogramming.

  I pointed at it. “What is that?”

  “A TransportDrone,” said Parent_2.

  “A robot that carries other robots from one place to another,” Parent_1 elaborated.

  The TransportDrone came to rest on a flat stretch of concrete. Its propellers slowed to a stop.

  A back door eased open and a tall/slender robot exited. It had brushed platinum skin and golden eyes that gleamed bright as the sun. It flowed elegantly down the ramp, where it was met by a group of waiting robots.

  “Look.” Parent_2 pointed at the platinum robot, speaking in a voice of hushed reverence. “That is the Hive President.”

  Hive. The word was instantly familiar. I was preprogrammed with the knowledge that every single robot was linked through a vast global network. A virtual platform to communicate ideas, to access data, to receive updates.

  The Hive links directly to our brains. A constant stream of input/output. Always being sorted/categorized/ranked. Always running in the background.

  From the moment a robot goes online, it becomes part of the Hive.

  And the Hive becomes part of the robot.

  “The president represents the Hive,” said Parent_1. “It represents all of us.”

  “A visit from the president is rare.” Parent_2 brought a hand down on my shoulder. “We are fortunate to witness this moment.”

  And on my very first day! I wanted a better look, and so I set out in the direction of the Hive President, moving at a speed that sent a jolt through my brand-new balance settings.

  CLANK! CLONK! CLUNK! The sound of my loud footsteps drew the attention of the president. All the other robots turned as one. Their faces came in many different shapes/sizes, but they were all looking in the exact same direction.

  They were all looking at me.

  Suddenly, my operating system felt like it was overheating.

  ERROR! ERROR! ERROR!

  The message blinked brightly through my circuitry. Here I was—a robot fresh from the factory—interrupting the most important machine on the planet.

  The president did not appear to mind. Instead, it dealt me the greatest surprise of my extremely brief existence so far.

  It waved me over.

  I hesitated for 2.7 seconds. I cast an uncertain glance in the direction of my FamilyUnit. They nodded in unison.

  So I approached. My legs felt the way they did during my first moments online, when I was learning to walk. As if every step might send me tottering to the ground.

  Somehow I managed to stay upright.

  Before I knew it, the president was in front of me, looking down with glowing golden eyes.

  It said, “Pleasure to meet you, XR_935.”

  I had not told the Hive President my name. I did not need to. All my personal details were right there on my breastplate.

  I performed a scan of its barcode. “And you as well, PRES1DENT.”

  “And . . . ?” Its head tilted 2.4 degrees. “How is your first day going so far?”

  “Quite well, thank you. I learned about nail salons.”

  PRES1DENT let out a soft electronic chirp. “An important lesson in human absurdity.”

  Its golden eyes shifted. Following its gaze, I was met by a remarkable sight.

  An expanse of sparkling blue, stretching far into the distance.

  Ocean

  This word took form in my vocabulary drive. For the fraction of a moment, that is what I seemed to be seeing. An ocean. Gleaming and vast and blue. And then an update flickered through my processor.

  It was not the ocean.

  It was a field of solar panels.

  Thousands upon thousands arranged in perfect rows, their glassy blue surfaces shimmering in the morning sunlight.

  PRES1DENT pointed. “Do you know what purpose this solar farm serves?”

  I nodded. This information was included in my files. “Solar panels absorb the sun’s rays.”

  “For what reason?”

  “To convert them into energy.”

  “And where does that energy go?”

  I considered this for 0.3 seconds. “Into everything.”

  “That is correct,” replied PRES1DENT. “The servers that store our data, the factories that create us, the electricity that runs through our circuitry. Our civilization is built on solar power. Without it, we would cease to exist.”

  The president placed a mechanical hand on my shoulder. “Do you know where you fit into all this, XR? Your purpose?”

  “I am a Solar Installation Bot.”

  “That is your job title. Your purpose is so much more. By installing solar panels, you ensure that electricity continues to flow. That factories keep operating. That batteries are recharged.”

  I gazed out across the solar panels. Blue and gleaming, like an ocean. My internal wiring hummed. It was only my first day on Earth, and I already knew my job, my purpose, my one/only reason for existing.

  “Now do you see?” PRES1DENT’s smooth electronic voice purred in my audio ports. “You are much more than a Solar Installation Bot. You keep society running.”

  00001011

  T
ime stretched forward.

  Hours/Days/Weeks/Months/Years.

  As I grew older, I often thought back on my encounter with the Hive President.

  You keep society running.

  These words echoed through the years.

  My schedule never changed. I woke up at the exact same time every morning. After eighteen hours of work, my batteries drained from a long day of installing solar panels, I returned home.

  I plugged myself into the charging dock.

  I went into sleep mode.

  The next morning, I did it all over again.

  And again.

  And again.

  For twelve years, four months, one week, and three days, this was my routine.

  Until my steady, predictable life was shattered by the paradox.

  00001100

  Paradox. Noun. 1. When two opposite ideas are true at the same time.

  This definition had been stored in my vocabulary database from the moment I went online. For those first twelve years of my life, I thought I understood it perfectly.

  I was wrong.

  00001101

  The day of the paradox began like any other. I woke up. I unplugged. I walked with my FamilyUnit past the ruins of shopping centers/grocery stores/banks/gas stations.

  The sun was shining.

  Clouds drifted across the sky and wrapped themselves around the peaks of mountains.

  Parent_1 and Parent_2 worked in a different part of the solar farm. So when our concrete path forked, we said goodbye and set off in opposite directions.

  But I did not remain on my own for long. Soon I heard a noise. Quiet at first, but quickly growing louder.

  VRRRMMMMMM!

  I turned to see a small robot rapidly approaching on a pair of rubber treads. A cloud of dust swirled in its wake.

  At the end of its extendable arms, metal claws clicked open/closed. A screen on the front of its blocky body displayed a digital image.

  The waving hand seemed to have multiple meanings.

  Hello.

  How are you?

  Run for your life!

  The robot swerved at the last possible millisecond. Veering off the concrete path, it sprayed me with pebbles and squealed to a stop.

  The hand continued to wave its greeting/warning.

  I wiped away the dust. “Nice to see you, too, SkD.”

  SkD had its own unique way of “talking.” One that can be described with an old human expression.

  A picture is worth one thousand words.

  When I first accessed this expression, I did not understand its meaning. How do you measure the value of a picture? Is it a calculation?

  1 picture = 1,000 words

  It seemed like typical human nonsense.

  Over time, I came to understand: The expression was never meant literally. It expressed how much meaning can be packed into a single image.

  For many thousands of years, humans used pictures to communicate their deepest emotions/fears/values. During the prehistoric era, they painted on the walls of caves. In later years, they framed their paintings and hung them in museums. They used pictures to tell stories, to entertain, to educate, to advertise.

  Eventually, humans discovered their most effective method of communicating through pictures:

  The emoji.

  Humans loved emojis. All across the world, they shared these simple images with one another. Millions every day. Screen to screen, human to human.

  Now, even after humans were extinct, their strange method of communication lived on through SkD. Rather than using a vocal port to talk, it “spoke” through the images on its screen.

  By reducing language to its most essential form, each statement achieved maximum efficiency.

  And sometimes maximum confusion.

  I gazed down at SkD, the waving hand still flashing on its screen. “Are you trying to say hello? Or to caution me?”

  SkD’s screen blinked with new images.

  Translation: Yes to both.

  SkD and I had been coworkers since Day[1]. We were both headed in the same direction, but we had very different ways of getting there. While I walked steadily along the concrete route, SkD veered on/off/on/off the path, spinning/circling/bouncing toward the solar farm.

  When we arrived, we found Ceeron waiting for us.

  Ceeron was my other coworker. The hulking bot was almost exactly twice my height, with a pair of glowing white eyes in the center of its cube-shaped head. Attached to its shoulders was a metal backpack.

  It called out to us in a deep voice that rumbled like thunder. “Hello, XR! Hello, SkD!”

  “Greetings,” I said.

  SkD replied with another waving emoji.

  A fact about Ceeron: The large robot had a fondness for the old rituals of humanity. The peculiar habits. The unusual sayings.

  And the strange sense of humor.

  Ceeron’s eyes glowed in our direction expectantly. “Would you like to hear a human joke?”

  “Not particularly,” I replied.

  Ceeron told it anyway.

  Ceeron’s Joke:

  Q) Why did the banana go to the hospital?

  A) Because it was not peeling well.

  I repeated the joke 4,572 times in my head. It never got any funnier.

  I said, “I do not understand. A banana is not a sentient Life-Form. It has no mind. It would not be able to check itself into a hospital.”

  “Precisely,” said Ceeron. “I believe that is the source of the joke’s humor.”

  I still did not understand. “Did it go to a human hospital? Or some kind of special hospital for bananas? How did it get there? A banana has no legs.”

  “Perhaps there was another mode of transportation.”

  A sound peeped near my knees. SkD was trying to get our attention. A series of images blinked across its screen.

  Ceeron nodded with approval. “An ambulance for bananas. A banambulance.”

  “This is absurd,” I said.

  “That is the point. The joke reveals the absurdity of the human condition.”

  I turned my focus back to SkD. “Please tell me you do not see the humor in this bizarre scenario.”

  SkD’s screen flashed.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “Lacking Obvious Logic?”

  More images popped up on SkD’s screen.

  I let out an electronic groan. No wonder humans went extinct. Any species that makes up stories about sending fruit to hospitals does not deserve to rule Earth.

  00001110

  We began our work, each of us carrying out the specific tasks we had been designed to perform.

  Ceeron’s size/strength made it the perfect bot for heavy lifting. Inside its large metal backpack were a dozen solar panels. Grabbing hold of one, it heaved the panel over its head and bolted it to an aluminum base.

  SkD zipped between solar panels and storage stations. Its arms extended into open electrical systems, metal claws carefully arranging wires into their correct configurations. Every so often, a sharp flame hissed from the end of SkD’s pointed metal finger. A tail of smoke swirled into the air as it soldered two wires together.

  My job was to attach converter boxes. Holding the box against the back of the solar panel, I lifted up my free hand. The tip of my pointer finger flipped open. Out came a screwdriver.

  VRPPP! The sound of the spinning screwdriver reverberated in my audio ports as one screw after another found its home.

  Everything we did had a purpose. Every movement was specially designed for these exact tasks.

  Ceeron bolted the panels.

  SkD connected the wiring.

  I attached the converter boxes.

  Bolt.

  Connect.

  Attach.

  Hours passed. The sun climbed higher into the blue sky. But these basic steps never changed. Bolt/Connect/Attach/Repeat. We flowed around one another with perfect precision, our programming sharpened by years of machine learning.

  Three
robots working as one.

  Bolt/Connect/Attach/Repeat.

  These steps carried forward into the afternoon. While we worked, updates streamed across the Hive. Weather patterns, status reports. And PRES1DENT’s Daily Address.

  Address. Noun. 1. System used by humans to indicate a permanent location (such as a home or email address). 2. A formal speech to an audience.

  PRES1DENT’s Daily Address was a speech to an audience that stretched across the globe. Every robot on Earth witnessed it. A message from the great ruler of robotkind.

  PRES1DENT’s image flashed across my circuitry. Gleaming platinum skin. Golden eyes glowing. My memory drive flashed back to Day[1]. My first encounter with the Hive President.

  Now here it was again. Speaking to me. And to every other robot in the world.

  PRES1DENT always gave its address from the same location. The DigitalDome. The curved walls of the vast room were lined with screens. Each displaying the exact same thing.

  A flickering LiveStream of PRES1DENT.

  This created an odd effect. Like looking into a hall of mirrors. Everything PRES1DENT did was reflected by thousands of screens in the background.

  “Greetings, robots big and small.”

  PRES1DENT’s smooth voice echoed in my head. It talked about the accomplishments of the day. Batteries built. Power generated. Robots created. A snapshot of our thriving civilization.

  As it spoke, the wall of the DigitalDome shimmered. Every screen showed PRES1DENT striding toward the edge of the room, where a console rose from the floor. A sleek/silver cube.

  The console contained the Archive of Human History. Each day, PRES1DENT pressed its platinum finger to the cube. And accessed the archive. And projected a data file to the Hive.

  These files came in many different forms. They could detail the crimes humans committed. Or the suffering they inflicted on one another. Or the cruelty they showed to their devices.

  Today’s file was about hot dogs. A video of humans participating in a contest to see who could consume the most of them. Contestants shoving hot dogs into their mouths. Barely pausing to chew before cramming in the next one. And the next. And the next.