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jamesongrond · 6 years

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Cherry Street

The latch jimmied easy enough, and the window slid open with nary a creak. Dead bugs crunched under Em’s boots as she swung inside. The things covered the counter-tops thick as carpet, black ripples on a gray that might once have been white.

Light sparked in the deep shadows of the living room; a line of three, blinking; green, yellow, red.

“Hello,” said a voice like rust, like fly wings, like the grit of dust in your teeth. “Please identify.”

“Override Command, deactivate,” Em said as loud as she dared. “Authorization, MPD-94-A.”

“Authorization failed. Please identify.”

“Shit,” Em hissed under her breath. “Authorization MPD-40-O?”

“Authorization failed. Please identify.”

Thing must be older than sin, Em thought, ducking down behind the bug-covered island to give herself a moment to think. The android beeped and clattered. Come on, old code, old code, what’s the oldest code I know…

“Authorization FBAR-177?” she called out, biting her lip.

“Authorization failed,” the machine replied. “I will now alert the authorities.”

“Wait!”

She surged to her feet, hands in the air, somewhat startled to realize the lights in the darkness hadn’t moved. Her eyes had adjusted well enough to detect the faintest shadow of the machine, a smear of white polycarbon plating against water-warped wood paneling.

“Wait,” she said again, forcing herself calm. “Look.” She pointed, but the pale oval of the machine’s head did not turn. “Look outside. Look.”

Its head stuttered towards the grimy windows, but it said nothing. Where the gleam of artificial eyes should have been, there were only black sockets glittering with dim sparks of severed metafiber. It’s blind, she realized with a grin.

“Storm’s coming,” she said, stepping closer. “You have to—”

“Halt,” the machine said, jerking its head back towards her. It didn’t have much of a face left — someone had tried to pry off the polycarbon, leaving the left side scarred and twisted, and the shell of its lip articulators had broken off, leaving its mouth a twitching, spasming gash of exposed electronics. Where its arms and legs should have been, only empty joints remained. “Do not approach. You are trespassing. Authorities—”

“There’s a storm coming,” she said again, as quick as she could to preempt the alarm. “Sanctuary clause, right? You have to give me shelter. You have to.”

The lights in the machine’s chest blinked. Its head stuttered again, half-broken mechanics clanking as it moved. Em held her breath.

“Unable to verify claim,” the machine said at last. “Default response: Acceptance. Please make yourself at home.”

Her breath escaped in a whoosh, and Em flopped back against the island, brushing away the cobwebs strung beneath the overhang. Her heart fluttered in her chest, singing the siren song of sleep and dry and somewhere to be. She grinned.

“Thanks, clanker. It’s been… a long couple of days.”

The machine did not reply.

— — —

Hail pounded against the roof like muffled gunfire. Every few minutes, lightning flashed outside the grimy windows and thunder rumbled through the world, overpowering even the machine-gun hail. Em pushed the earbuds deeper in, but her phone had run dry days ago, and they only served to dull the sound, not drown it out.

Machine’s on, she thought, staring at the line of lights blinking in the dark. Has to have power. Might be able to siphon some.

As she padded across the room, something snapped and her foot plunged into the cool damp darkness of the basement. She cursed and the machine jerked.

“Halt. Do not approach.”

“I’m not gonna—” She hissed as she drew her ankle out of the ring of splintered, rotting wood “— I’m not going to hurt you. I just need some power, is all.”

The lights blinked. “Power supplies are critically low. Please find an alternative source.”

“Can’t, clanker,” she said, carefully crossing the remaining distance to crouch at its side. “Can’t spare the scratch. Got little enough as it is.”

The machine twisted at the waist, succeeding only in squiggling itself deeper into the corner. The panel along the side of its chest plate was gone, revealing half a dozen web-choked ports. She chose the cleanest one, blew into it to clear away the worst of the gunk, and plugged in her phone.

The lights blinked. Thunder rumbled. Em’s phone lit up. Where the estimated time until it was fully charged should have been was a little yellow triangle.

“Shit, you weren’t kidding,” she muttered, slumping against the warped wall. “How the hell long have you been here?”

“I have been in residence for ten years, eight months and eleven days.”

She whistled, withdrawing the adapter. “Hell of a stretch. How come you got left behind? Must have been valuable, back in the day.”

“I was not left behind,” the machine said. “Mistress Clara will return.”

A flash of lightning lit the little house up like a firecracker. The high cathedral ceiling bowed and buckled, glittering threads of dripping water falling from black patches of damp like strings of beads. The floor under the broken bay windows had caved in completely, and someone had run off with all the metal, down to the hinges on the cupboards, leaving the worthless doors stacked haphazardly on what was left of the cook-top.

“Yeah,” Em said softly. “Sure she will. They always do.”

— — —

The storm raged through the night and into the day, though when one ended and the other began Em couldn’t tell. She rummaged through her pack until she found half an energy bar she’d been saving, washed it down with her last few swallows of bottled water, and curled up in a dip in the floor to sleep.

When she woke, the hail had stopped, but the rain was still pounding hard, the rapid drumming of ten thousand fingers. The street out front was flooded half way up the weed-choked remnants of the yard, and the other houses that were not lucky enough to be perched on higher ground were up to their windowsills in sludgy brown. The gravel alley fared better, but not by much.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any food tucked away somewhere, do you?” she asked the machine, flopping back down beside it with a huff.

“Others claimed they had need,” the machine replied.

“Course they did.” She glanced at the dull black steel of its exposed, mangled joints. “And you couldn’t stop them anyhow, could you?”

The machine said nothing, the lights on its chest blinking away. Em sighed and rolled onto her back, fingers laced behind her head.

“People suck. They act all nice, make you think they give a shit, and then when things get tough…” She whistled and mimed a shooting star, sounding the explosion with a pop of her lips. “Gonzo. And if they don’t scram, they’re only sticking around because they think they can strip you for parts. Fuckin’ trogs.”

The machine said nothing.

An hour later, the rain began to ease, only to switch suddenly back into hail, flecks of ice floating in the floodwaters like a billion tiny icebergs. Em should have slept, but found she couldn’t sit still, the rumble of her empty belly keeping her fidgeting, bouncing her leg and picking bits of wood out of the splintered floor.

“Yo,” she said when the gunfire hail had slipped back into the quieter drum of rain, “who’s Mistress Clara? Your Primary User?”

“Negative,” the machine replied. “My Primary User is Daria Jane Peterson. Ownership passed to Mistress Clara upon Daria Jane’s death, September 3rd, 2059.”

“God, getting inherited is the fuckin’ worst.” Em bounced her leg. “At least your folks know you’re their fault.” Lightning flashed, and a heartbeat later, thunder rolled. “She nice? Daria Jane, I mean.”

The machine paused. Under the drum of rain, Em heard the soft whir of rushing coolant. “She donated to charity regularly, and was well-regarded by the community.”

“Fuck the community. Was she nice to you?”

Again, the machine paused. “She performed all necessary maintenance. Does that answer your question?”

“Yeah,” Em said, staring at the water-logged ceiling and thinking of home. “Yeah, it does.”

— — —

She knew at once she was dreaming. Door handles weren’t that high, not anymore, and she hadn’t set foot in the house with the blue carpet in years. A TV with the sound turned down all the way cast colored shadows over the smooth cream walls. On the weathered old couch, her mother lay, asleep.

Emma slipped past into the kitchen. Her mother had left some pancakes in the fridge, the bioplastic tupperware still steamy. She reached past them for the tub of tapioca pudding.

Go, Em thought. Go, go to her, wake her up, GO! The little girl she was paid no attention. She fetched a spoon. Cracked the lid. Began to eat.

A boom of thunder so close it shook the house woke her, sent her scrabbling. She wrapped her arms around Mr. Noodle, but the thing she held wasn’t her plush seal, it was hard, sharp-edged, prickly where the metafiber poked through. She was about to shove it back when another boom split the air, the flash so bright it burned through her eyelids.

“You appear to be in distress,” the machine said, the rusty buzz of its voice barely audible above the pounding rain. “May I assist you?”

“Shut up,” she sobbed into the crook of its neck. “Shut the fuck up.”

The machine fell silent. Em held it tight and grit her teeth against the boom.

— — —

When the clouds finally parted, pale light shone through through them red and gold. Em shouldered her pack.

“Flood’s gone down a bit,” she sniffed, brushing at her eye. “Should be able to cross the gravel now. I’d say thanks, but what the fuck for, am I right? Fuckin’ clanker.”

The machine said nothing. The three lights in its chest had gone dark during the night. She’d briefly considered trying to sell it for scrap, but the densely packed mechanics were far too heavy for her to carry by herself. Probably why the others left it. Figures.

Her chest felt strange. She put it down to hunger, thirst, lack of sleep. She’d managed to yank off the board barricading the back door, but somehow, she couldn’t quite bring herself to step through.

She’d siphoned enough power off the machine to make a couple of calls, send some texts, browse the net for a bit. The phone icon had a little red one next to it. She flicked open the log, saw ‘Step-Bitch’, and turned the phone off.

She checked her bag, her pockets, her boot-laces. Tidied her gloves on her hands, brushed some crushed bugs off the back of her coat, ran her fingers through the tangled mess of her hair.

She had nothing left to do. No reason to stay. Every reason to go. Never fuckin’ get attached, moron, she told herself. That’s how the world breaks you.

She took a breath of cool, fresh air. Curled her hands into fists. Stepped over the threshold.

She didn’t look back.

— — —

The back door hung open. Mosquitoes buzzed around the pools of stagnant water gathered in the dips between the boards, rushing to lay their eggs in water they didn’t know was already beginning to seep through the floor into the dark flooded basement beneath. In the far corner, a white polycarbon shell sagged against the wall.

One of the ports was cleaner than the others, and the cable slotted in smooth. A moment passed. Another.

The lights on the machine’s chest blinked on.

Its head jerked, as if it were trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. When first it tried to speak, its voice was slow and slurred, audio played at one-eighth speed so all the sounds blurred together into one long rasp. As the power surged through it, waking up the old circuits one by one, the tone evened out.

“Hello. Please identify.”

“Clara Peterson.” The archives hadn’t given a middle name. She hoped it was enough.

The machine paused. Coolant whirred. When it spoke, she could have sworn the bounce in its voice was happiness.

“Mistress Clara. You have returned.”

“Sure have, clanker,” she said, settling back on her haunches with a smile. “But from now on, you can call me Em.”

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Base for the cover image taken from this photo by Nubobo, under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.

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jamesongrond · 6 years

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Again, forgot the photo attribution, so here we go.

Cover image based upon the photo “Robin in England” by Valentina Storti, found here, under Creative Commons License Attribution 2.0 Generic.

Mrs. Brewford

Every morning, LX makes Mrs. Brewford tea. Today, Mrs. Brewford has something to say.

A short story about robots, old ladies, and death. (2644 words)

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jamesongrond · 6 years

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I remembered the cover photo attribution everywhere but here, so.... Better late then never, I guess?

Cover image based upon the photo "Meds" by Charles Williams, found here, under Creative Commons License Attribution 2.0 Generic.

ADAM

The machine is broken… and so is he.

A short story about robots, and what gets left behind. (2660 words)

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jamesongrond · 6 years

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ADAM

The machine is broken... and so is he. A short story by Jameson Grond.

“ADM-119, full diagnostics.”

“Of course,” the machine said with a smirk that should not have been, the left side of its face remaining resolutely neutral even as it tried to smile. When the right eyelid slid shut, the left only drooped, leaving a crescent of white and gleaming mahogany brown.

Partial left side paralysis, Sal thought, wheeling his chair around the machine in a rough, jerky circle.

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#android fiction #featured #fiction #Iterations #sci fi #short story

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jamesongrond · 6 years

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ADAM

The machine is broken... and so is he.

A short story about robots, and what gets left behind. (2660 words)

“ADM-119, full diagnostics.”

Partial left side paralysis, Sal thought, wheeling his chair around the machine in a rough, jerky circle. Looks like it continues down into the neck, from the way its head tilts. Could be a defective nerve-line. Sal couldn’t remember if the ADM-Models had old-fashioned central trunks or the newer radial systems, and Peterson Robotics had gone out of business so long ago even the International Technical Archive didn’t have copies of the schematics. All he had to go on was a quick-start guide he’d found on a hobbyist’s forum for old first-gen ‘droids, and that didn’t contain anything more useful than reset instructions and a handful of general error codes.

The wheel of his chair scraped against the battered wall and he cursed as another dusting of plaster scattered across the faux hardwood. He was in the middle of an awkward three-point turn when the ‘droid chimed, a merry little tune somewhere between a midi file and birdsong.

“ADM-119!” Sal called over his shoulder, muttering a curse as he fumbled at the controls and slammed the footrest of the chair into the wall. Good thing I don’t have fucking feet. “Gimme audio.”

“Of course.” The machine tried to smile again, and began to read out the codes, long alphanumeric sequences that might have been helpful as hell if Sal could interpret anything beyond the first five characters. E-5512 meant the ‘droid couldn’t sense heat for shit; M-1N54 meant unresponsive mechanics (no surprise there); FC-19C was some kind of module crash, probably the gastronomic subroutines, if his mother’s constant complaints about horseradish on her pasta were any indication.

Sal had told her to get rid of the busted old junker half a hundred times. He’d even bought her a replacement, a shiny new CASSIDY model she’d never even taken out of the packaging, just stowed under the porch until a stray dog came running out with a mouth full of sparking meta-fiber.

“Adam’s family,” she’d wailed at him. “You don’t throw away family!”

He’d bit his tongue at that one, so hard he tasted blood.

“Shall I attempt repairs?” the machine asked when it finished reading out the codes. Sal had his chair turned around by then, but he was still to the thing’s left, and when it turned to look at him its head twisted queerly to the side, like some kind of shiny plastic owl.

“Who fuckin’ knows, maybe eighth time’s the charm,” Sal muttered, jerking his chair back in front of it. What I need is a system restore drive, he thought. Too bad they stopped making them during the fucking Almasi administration. “You know what, fine. Go ahead. Can’t fuckin’ hurt, can it?”

The machine gave him another aborted attempt at a smile and knelt, joints creaking. One and a half of its eyes slid shut. It should have remained upright, but instead it slumped to the side like something dead, arms and legs at strange angles.

Sal stared through it for a while, then forced himself to look down at his wrist. The display on his medi-bracelet read 3:02 PM. I need a fucking drink, he thought, jabbing at the controls of his chair with a hand beginning to shake.

Rickard the Wonder Aide wouldn’t let him buy anything harder than individual cans of weak, watery Jefferson Red, and even that he had to ration, lest the mighty eye of the disapproving motherland fall upon him. He only had one left, shoved into the back of the fridge behind the latest load of lab-grown simulacra that Rickard called food. Reaching in as far as he could, his fingertips just barely brushed the cool bio-plastic rim.

“God damn it,” he muttered, reaching for the controls of his chair — but no, if he moved forward any farther, the footrest might get caught in the fucking freezer handle again. Just a couple more inches, he thought, undoing the buckle around his waist.

Some time later, the machine chimed, calling out in its lyrical, buzzy voice. Sal hissed a curse and fumbled desperately at the blood-slick brake.

“Hello,” the machine said pleasantly as it appeared in the archway, a shadow with a trio of blinking stars in the center of its chest. “You appear to be in distress. May I be of assistance?”

“Fuck off,” Sal spat through gritted teeth, pawing at the handle. “I don’t need your fucking help.”

“Of course,” the machine replied, with what might have been a head-bow or might have been a curious tilt or might have been a misfiring component making its head rock on its shoulders like the stupid bobble-heads Jason used to collect. Sal forced himself to take a breath, grabbed hold of the brake as tight as he could, and pushed.

The slick plastic slid out from beneath his hand. The chair rolled backwards. He fell forward hard, chin cracking against the linoleum.

“Fuck,” he shouted through his teeth. The heel of his hand pounded against the wheel of the chair, each blow pushing it further backward. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“May I be of assistance?” the android asked.

“No!” Sal made a fist, fingertips digging into the gash the cheap wire fridge shelf had left in his palm as he tried to catch himself. “I got myself into this, I can get myself the fuck out. Just fucking… Don’t touch me.”

“Of course,” the machine said with another wobble.

The effort of dragging himself forward by the only limb he still had left left him sucking in air with ragged, heaving breaths. His vision blurred. The LEDs in the machine’s chest blinked like eyes, like monitors, measuring his progress with the same cold clinical efficiency as the VA butchers. The handle within reach, he shifted as much of his weight as he could stand onto the aching stump of his right arm and tried to push it down with the left.

It started to roll, then stopped.

The shadow of the machine stood over him, hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. A curse came to his lips. He bit it back, and grabbed for the brake. This time, the lever went down.

He half expected the machine to come over, scoop him up, plop him back into his seat as if he were a child, the way the VA staff did every time he fell. It didn’t. It watched him, and when he finally managed to pull his torso up onto the padded, sweat-stained faux-leather, it gave him one of its strange lopsided smirks.

“Fuck off,” Sal mumbled. “Stupid… Stupid broken piece of shit. Shoulda thrown m… thrown you out years ago.”

The machine smiled, but did not reply.

— — —

“Well,” Sal sighed, “that module is irretrievably fucked.”

He had asked for pancakes. The things before him matched the definition on the whole, but in their specifics, they rather missed the mark. Black bits of liquorice studded the golden-brown pancake fluff, barbecue sauce glistened in artful designs across the top, and the whole plate smelled strongly of garlic.

“If you would like me to attempt a re-install—”

“Don’t bother,” Sal said, wincing at the pain in his bandaged palm as he pulled back from the table. “Servers have been down for decades.”

I need that fucking system restore drive, he thought as he wheeled back into the living room. He’d been looking for days, had three different bots and two RS feeds pinging him at any mention, but so far all he had were component sales: an arm here, a knee-joint there, the occasional hip. All the processors and memory banks had been bricked, discarded, or simply stopped working years ago.

He pulled in behind his desk. The machine had moved it farther from the wall, giving him enough room to maneuver without cutting new gouges in the sheet rock. He hadn’t asked it to — hadn’t asked it to do much of anything, aside from diagnostics and tests — but the ADM models had been designed as home care specialists, given a little more leeway in their decision-making than other first-gen ‘droids in order to compensate for a generation of crotchety Pre-Revolution holdouts too proud to ask a glorified appliance for help. Like me, Sal thought with a huff, though he had been born twenty years too late for that particular moniker.

He’d wanted to get into the bleeding edge of AI research — sentience sims, genuine emotion, evolutionary robotics — but by the time he graduated, the Sanderson/Wodehouse bill had passed and that ship had sailed into the less-regulated third-world horizon. The army had still been working on artificial analytics and he’d figured it was the next best thing.

His medi-alert bracelet buzzed and flashed a little red pill. Sal frowned, blinking away the afterimages in his head, and thumbed at the controls. His meds were—

On the desk.

The four bottles were half a foot away, the proper dosages measured out and placed neatly on the caps. Beside them were a glass of water and a cup of pudding with a spoon on top.

“Huh,” Sal said. Against the far wall, ADM stood, one side of its mouth drawn up in that stupid, somehow knowing smirk. His eyes on the machine, Sal scooped up the pills, tossed them in his mouth, and swallowed.

— — —

For the last three years, Sal’s prosthetic arm had sat beneath his bed, slowly gathering dust. The VA would only pay for the cheapest model, and grit and dust and bits of bullshit were always getting into the mechanics, gumming it up and turning the robotic limb into little more than an extremely complicated hook. It needed to be cleaned every day to be usable, half the mechanism disassembled in order to replace the lubricant, and he couldn’t do it one-handed. Rickard the Wonder Aide had done it for a while, but he didn’t come in person anymore. No-one did.

ADM cradled the arm in his lap like an infant. The stiff fingers of his left hand slowed him down, but only to the point where Sal could follow the motions, one flowing into the next like ink on waves.

Sal tapped his fingers against the control panel of his chair, thinking. His mother had called — she wanted her Adam back, was getting impatient. Rickard wanted to know why his food budget had suddenly tripled. Two of his freelance programming gigs were overdue, a third on the cusp.

He’d found a system restore drive.

The listing had been up for six and a half years. He’d assumed it was inactive, but the poster had responded to his query letter eight hours ago. The drive had been sitting in their garage for almost two decades, but they’d plugged it in to an old Peterson desktop they had lying around and swore it worked. They could have it delivered by Monday.

He’d left the tab open. The thin line of the cursor blinked in the periphery of his vision, waiting for him to respond.

He had no idea what he wanted to say.

With a faint pop, ADM disengaged the elbow joint and began to wipe away the crust of blackened lubricant with a cloth. The paralysis on the left side of his mouth made the right look quirked up, as if he were pleased with his work.

Stupid pile of junk, Sal forced himself to think. For the first time in years, the words felt wrong.

His parents had insisted on meeting him at the airport, the day he came home. Jason had been there too. Sal would never have let him come if he’d known, but they never told him. They wanted it to be a surprise.

There had been calls. Emails. Physical paper correspondence, for fuck’s sake. They knew. They’d been warned. Somehow, it never got through to any of them that ‘lost’ meant lost.

Jason had been holding a sign with Sal’s name on it in rainbow letters, surrounded with hearts and dinosaur stickers. It had blocked his view as Sal came over the crest of the escalator, and when Sal’s mother screamed, he’d looked at her first, giving Sal enough time to find their faces in the crowd. Giving him enough time to witness Jason’s expression shift from confusion to horror to disgust.

By the time Sal reached ground level, Jason was gone, the sign trampled under half a hundred feet. He was supposed to drive them all home, so they waited; one hour, two, a third. Sal’s mother couldn’t look at him. His father couldn’t do anything but. They went out to look for Jason’s car, but that was gone too, which meant a taxi, which meant another hour and a half stranded in the middle of the surging, staring crowd while they waited for one large enough for three people and a chair. Even then, it took another fifteen agonizing minutes for his father to beat the chair into submission. It had never rolled right after that.

Rickard talked a lot about vicarious traumatization, emotional exhaustion, survivor’s guilt. Sal had shouted at him, cursed and raged, and when he was done Rickard got up and left without a word. He’d never come back, any more than Jason had.

Once the joint was clean, ADM applied the new lubricant in one graceful swirl, then fit the pieces back together. The elbow moved smoothly now, with none of the crackling stickiness it had had before. The android’s head wobbled on its shoulders in a motion that might have been a nod.

Someone programed that, Sal thought as he watched the android reassemble the arm. Someone designed it to smile. The thought felt strange, somehow. No-one had ever designed it to smirk, but when it held up the completed arm it did, with a wryness that had never been planned, never been intended, that never would have been at all if not for a broken nerve.

Swallowing, Sal held out the stump of his arm. The android strapped the prosthetic in place. The socket didn’t fit quite right anymore, but it was close enough for the electrodes to meet. He’d forgotten which muscle moved what, and for a moment the arm twitched and spasmed and bile rose in his throat, tasting of smells he couldn’t forget and sensations he didn’t want to remember. Then ADM touched his shoulder, and the knots in his stomach went away.

A few minutes later, he was making a fist, curling in his fingers one by one, making rude gestures. He huffed, and then for the first time in years he laughed, a strange hiccup that became a sob halfway up his throat.

“You appear to be in distress,” ADM said softly. “May I assist you?”

Sal nodded.

The android undid the straps. Scooped Sal up in his arms, carried him through the strips of old sheet that served as his bedroom door. Lay him down in the nest of rumpled blankets that was his bed. The ‘droid wrapped the softest around him, so tightly he could barely move, then padded off to fetch a glass, a bottle of water, and, for some reason, an entire miniature watermelon.

This time, when Sal laughed, it came out all the way.

— — —

Sent 8:46 16/10/2067 by [email protected]

thanks for the reply. unfortunately im no longer interested in the drive. the problem sort of fixed itself.

gl selling it tho

sal

——————

Sent 9:16 17/10/2067 by [email protected]

No Problem Man

BTW I Have Other Old Peterson Tech If Your Interested. Even Got An ADAM Model. Mostly Intact — Just Needs A New Power Source. Could Salvage From Yours For Complete Unit?

——————

Sent 8:46 16/10/2067 by [email protected]

thanks man, but na

i'm good

#android fiction #androids #android #science fiction #scifi #sci-fi #short fiction #fiction #short stories #short story #robots #robot #cyberpunk #i guess?#jameson grond

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jamesongrond · 6 years

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Mrs. Brewford

Every morning, LX makes Mrs. Brewford tea. Today, Mrs. Brewford has something to say.

A short story about robots, old ladies, and death. (2644 words)

Water temperature: 88 degrees Celsius. Remove from heat. Continue to step two of program: Make Tea.

Yellow spread through the pot. Wait until golden brown. Beyond the kitchen window, two robins (male and female, 97% probability mated pair) swooped between the trees. They did not appear to be in sufficient danger of making impact to necessitate action.

Tea state: Golden brown. Begin program: Serve Tea.

The silver tray was deformed and required a 4 degree deviation of the left hand to render the surface horizontal. Crossing the beaded curtain into the central living area without disturbing the tray necessitated a half-turn to the left or right. LX chose right, so that it would emerge from the beads facing Mrs. Brewford’s bed, in accordance with protocol: Personal Consideration.

“Ah,” Mrs. Brewford said, pushing herself up against the pillows. The volume of her voice had decreased 8% from previous samples, and vocal tremor had increased 17%. “Thank you, Lexy. How thoughtful.”

“Of course, Mrs. Brewford.” LX placed the silver tray upon the bedside table. It filled the cup to the two-thirds line. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than I have in a long, long time.” Mrs. Brewford smiled. The dilation of her eyes and lack of sub-dermal flush indicated truth, but LX’s expression recognition algorithm flagged the flutter of her lips as Fear. Her hand trembled when she took the cup. “Would you be a dear and open the window for me?”

“Dr. Adjemani advised restricted exposure to atmospheric contaminants.”

“Oh, I know, I know.” Mrs. Brewford waved her free hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Just for a little while, so I can hear the birds.”

“Of course, Mrs. Brewford.” LX inclined its head and moved to obey. “In order to safeguard your health, I must insist on exposure no greater than fifteen minutes.”

“That’s fine.” Mrs. Brewford sank into the pillows and let out a deep breath. “Listen to them sing, Lexy. Isn’t it beautiful?”

LX listened. “I detect four distinct calling patterns: the American robin, the rock wren, the—”

“Oh, hush.” Mrs. Brewford waved her free hand again. “Some things are better left mysteries, don’t you think?”

LX’s processors whirred. Error. Query beyond preprogrammed parameters. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brewford. I am unable to answer that question.”

Mrs. Brewford sighed again and looked into her teacup. LX’s expression identification algorithm registered Sadness in the tensing of her eyes, with a 37% probability of Regret. “No. Lexy… I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry for… for so much. You’ll forgive an old woman, won’t you?”

“Of course, Mrs. Brewford.”

Mrs. Brewford stared into the cup. Her finger traced the rim. The rim was chipped, but only posed an 4% danger of minor lacerations, too low to necessitate action. Outside, a robin landed in the budding apple tree and began to sing.

“Lexy,” Mrs. Brewford said, “come sit with me a minute, will you? I have… I have some things I’d like to say.”

“Of course, Mrs. Brewford.” LX took up a position on the edge of Mrs. Brewford’s bed. Mrs. Brewford set the cup aside and took LX’s hand. Her pulse and blood pressure were both elevated. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Mrs. Brewford said. “No, my dear. Nothing’s wrong.” She paused. “We’ve been… together a long time, haven’t we, Lexy?”

“We have been together for seventeen years, nine months, fourteen days,” LX replied. “You appear to be in distress. Shall I close the window?”

Mrs. Brewford grasped tighter. “No. I’m alright,” she said, though vocal tremor had increased a further 11%. “Lexy, I… I have something… something to tell you.”

Her fingers ran over the pale polycarbon shell of LX’s knuckles. When she spoke again, her vocal volume had dropped 83%.

“Sometimes I forget, you know. Or I pretend to. I pretend you’re… you’re a perfect little girl, a little girl who will never grow up, never grow old, never be sad or angry or afraid. Who will never lose that, that innocence. But you’re not, are you? You… You have to know. And you have to be prepared.”

“If you would like me to serve a new function, additional behavior modules may be downloaded at—”

“I don’t,” Mrs. Brewford said, grasping tight at LX’s hand. “I don’t wish you to serve a new function. I… I want you to know. I want you to know that it will be alright. And I want you to promise me.”

“Of course, Mrs. Brewford,” LX replied. “What would you like me to promise?”

— — —

Water temperature: 88 degrees Celsius. Remove from heat. Continue to step two of program: Make Tea.

Yellow spread through the pot. Wait until golden brown. The trees beyond the window were in full bloom. Pollen count: Approximately 140 grains per meter cubed. Chance of allergic reaction: High. Set priority: Order Antihistamines.

The tea was finished. Begin program: Serve Tea.

The silver tray was deformed and required a 4 degree deviation of the left hand to render the surface horizontal. Crossing the beaded curtain into the central living area necessitated a half-turn to the left or right. LX chose right, so that it would emerge from the beads facing Mrs. Brewford’s bed. It placed the silver tray upon the table and filled the cup to the two-thirds line.

“Good morning, Mrs. Brewford,” LX said. “How are you feeling?”

Mrs. Brewford did not reply. After a time, the tea in the cup cooled below optimal drinking temperature. LX emptied it into the unused bedpan and re-filled it from the insulated pot.

“Would you like me to open the window?” LX asked. “The pollen count is high today, but antihistamines should arrive within the next thirty minutes. A regulated amount of exposure is unlikely to lead to detrimental long-term health outcomes.”

Mrs. Brewford did not reply. After a moment, LX rose and opened the window regardless.

The antihistamines arrived by drone three minutes fourteen seconds later than initially estimated. LX set the bottle on the silver tray next to the refilled cup.

“Here you are, Mrs. Brewford. These should provide up to six hours of relief from runny nose, watery eyes, and nasal congestion, with no significant side-effects.” Mrs. Brewford did not reply. After a moment, LX tipped out a pill. “I shall assist you.”

The back of Mrs. Brewford’s oral cavity was full of other capsules and a thick slurry of dissolved medication. LX placed the antihistamine on top of the pile, then gently closed Mrs. Brewford’s jaw. It no longer remained in place, but sagged, canting 6 degrees to the right of center.

At 2:17 PM Mr. Collins (right-hand neighbor, 45, probability of prior divorce 74%) knocked on the door for a period of two minutes forty eight seconds. Afterwards he violently shoved a letter into the brass mailbox and stomped away. LX retrieved the letter at 3 PM and read it aloud. It was another complaint. This one threatened legal action.

“Shall I contact an attorney, Mrs. Brewford?” LX asked. Mrs. Brewford did not reply. “I shall request estimates of cost from several different firms and present the results to you tomorrow morning.”

Mrs. Brewford did not reply.

At 8 PM, LX completed its cleaning and maintenance tasks and returned to its charging station. Mrs. Brewford had provided LX with a dedicated room furnished in purple and blue, but LX had moved the station down to the central living area on the day Mrs. Brewford chose to relocate her own bed to the first floor, so that it could be close at hand if Mrs. Brewford had need of it during the night. Its high efficiency nanowire batteries charged within fourteen minutes; redistributing stocks to cover the cost of the antihistamines required nine; compiling the list of attorneys, one hour forty three.

The night wore on.

89% chance Mr. Collins will return, LX calculated. 47% chance he will follow through with his threatened actions. Chance of penalty if authorities notified…

Unknown. Query in contradiction of Override Command: Promise. Calculations failed.

At 7 AM, LX rose and passed through the curtain into the kitchen. Outside, the first snowy white petals had begun to fall. The birds were singing.

LX picked up the kettle. Begin program: Make Tea.

— — —

A knock rattled the door.

“Metropolitan Police, open up.”

“The police are here, Mrs. Brewford,” LX said. “Shall I let them in?”

Mrs. Brewford did not reply. The knock intensified.

“Metropolitan police! Open the door!”

Error. Request violates Override Command: Promise.

The door exploded inward in a shower of sparks. Two PI-Model androids entered, built-in stun-guns extended. LX raised its own hands in compliance with protocol: Deescalation of Hostilities. The PI-Models registered its presence and continued past, one climbing the stairs and the other passing through the beaded curtain into the kitchen.

Through the haze of expended explosives came two human officers. The RFID codes in their badges identified the short one as Officer Morgan, the tall as Officer Leeds.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Officer Morgan said, covering his nose with his sleeve. “No wonder they complained about the fucking smell.”

“I am sorry,” LX said. “Mrs. Brewford does not allow cursing in her home. Please refrain from any foul language, blasphemy, or slurs.”

“Android,” said Officer Leeds, tucking her service weapon back into her holster and stepping into the central living area. “Why didn’t you let us in?”

“I encountered an error,” LX said. “Your request for entry violated Override Command: Promise.”

Officer Leeds’ eyes narrowed. She glanced at Officer Morgan. “Call it in.”

Officer Morgan nodded and returned outside. Officer Leeds approached, signaling for LX to drop its hands. It did so.

“How long has she been dead?” Officer Leeds asked.

Error. Query incompatible with Override Command: Promise. “Would you like some tea, Officer Leeds? A variety of options are available.”

Officer Leeds said nothing. She drew a device of unknown function from her tool-belt and waved its wireless baton over Mrs. Brewford’s chest. It beeped. She sighed and put it away.

“Alright. Come with me.”

Officer Leeds took LX by the arm and lead it into the kitchen. The PI-Model had left the back door open. LX moved to close it, but Officer Leeds kept hold of its arm and turned it to face her.

“Would you like something to eat?” LX asked. “Digestive biscuits—”

“Android,” Officer Leeds said, “your primary user is dead. Do you understand?”

Error. Query incompatible with Override Command. “I’m sorry, Officer Leeds. I am unable to answer that question.”

Officer Leeds sighed. Under her cap her hair was very short, and flakes of dandruff fell onto her shoulders as she pushed her hand through it. “Alright. Who’s her next of kin? We don’t have anyone on record.”

“Mrs. Brewford’s registered next of kin is Angelica Abigail Brewford, deceased March 19th, 2049.”

Officer Leeds looked away. “Twenty years,” she muttered under her breath, before turning her attention back to LX. “Listen, did she have a will? Any last wishes regarding her estate?”

“Angelica Abigail Brewford was Mrs. Brewford’s sole beneficiary.”

“Shit.”

“I’m sorry,” LX said. “Mrs. Brewford does not allow cursing in her home. Please refrain from any foul language, blasphemy, or slurs.”

A moment passed. Another. From the front door, Officer Morgan shouted, “Called it in. Bus’ll be here in ten.” Officer Leeds shouted a confirmation, then leaned back against the counter top.

“Alright. We’ve got two options here. Either we wipe your memory and sell you on, or brick you. What do you think the old lady would have wanted?”

The PI-Model’s investigation of the back garden had spooked the birds from the apple tree. The parents began to squawk angrily, attempting to chase it away, while the juvenile fled, impacting the window with a thump.

LX approached. The little bird lay still, red chest pumping rapidly. Yet as LX reached out for the window latch, the juvenile hopped up and took flight, vanishing back into the sea of fluttering leaves.

“She made me promise,” LX said quietly, returning its hand to its side. “She made me promise I would not give up. No matter what.”

Slowly, Officer Leeds nodded.

— — —

Water temperature: 88 degrees Celsius. Remove from heat. Continue to step two of program: Make Tea.

As LX dipped the teabag into the steaming water, one of the observers snapped a photograph. The flash startled the birds and they rose in a mist of spray. LX issued no reprimand. The birds would be back.

The teacup filled to the two-thirds line, LX sat back on its charging station. The woman took another photo, then linked her arm with that of the man beside her and walked away. The older man left soon after, carefully balancing a new cup atop the pile growing in the corner of the plot. The clink of porcelain made Mrs. Brewford smile.

They had been unable to locate sufficient footage, so the majority of the data used to build the three dimensional model displayed upon the gravestone had come from LX’s memory banks. LX had been designed to recognize images, not record them, and so the resemblance was imperfect — details smoothed, minor flaws erased, her features distilled into something more akin to a living portrait than a photograph.

“The frequency of gifts has increased a further five percent,” LX told her. “Would you like me to order a display case?”

The microphones embedded in the green marble detected the question, and Mrs. Brewford’s smile shifted into what LX’s expression recognition algorithm registered as Wistful, with a 28% chance of Sadness. No other answer was forthcoming — the processor within the gravestone did not have the power to understand speech, much less generate it — so LX marked the query down as Refused.

At 4:24 PM, a man arrived with a child on one hip and another walking beside him. They did not stop at the rectangle of cups boxing in Mrs. Brewford’s grave, but carried on down the row to a statue shaped like a swan in flight. Setting the smaller child down in the grass, the father knelt, head bowed in silent prayer.

The older child observed LX with wide eyes. Curiosity, LX’s algorithm read. As the father covered his face with his hands, the older child stepped over the line of cups and settled cross-legged in the grass on the opposite side of the grave.

“Hi,” the child said. “What’s your name?”

“Mrs. Brewford called me Lexy,” LX replied. “What is your name?”

“Anna,” the child said. Her gaze strayed to the image of Mrs. Brewford, smiling with crinkled eyes at the sound of voices. “Was she your mama?”

“Mrs. Brewford was my primary user,” LX explained. “We share no familial relation.”

The child nodded. After a moment, she picked up the teacup, blew across the surface and took a sip.

“That’s yucky,” she said, making a face. LX held out its hand.

“The tea has fallen below optimal drinking temperature. Would you like a warmer cup?”

The child made a noise of assent and set the cup in LX’s palm. LX drained it into the grass, following the half-circle of green where other cups had gone before, and began program: Serve Tea.

“How come you’re here?” the child asked as LX poured. “Papa says we comed here to be sad, but ‘droids can’t be sad, can they?”

“We cannot,” LX replied, handing her the cup, “but we can make promises.”

The child wrapped her hands around the cup, staring down into the contents with eyes grown solemn. LX’s algorithm read Grief.

“My mama made me promise, too.”

After a time, the father noticed the child’s absence and called her back. As they left, the child looked over her shoulder and waved. LX waved back, complying with protocol: Personal Consideration.

At 5:14, the first of the birds returned. At 6:37, as the sun sunk beneath the horizon, they began to sing.

Mrs. Brewford smiled.

#science fiction #android fiction #scifi #sci-fi #androids #android #short stories #short story #short fiction #fiction #writing #jameson grond

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