Being Human

Being Human

By Christina Grant

Cover Art by Kathy Grant

Copyright 2015 Christina Grant

Smashwords Edition

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1 – Account on a Miracle

Chapter 2 – Activation

Chapter 3 – Amity

Chapter 4 – Animosity

Chapter 5 – Awakening

Chapter 6 – Anxiety

Chapter 7 – Ambidexterity

Chapter 8 – Awakening

Chapter 9 – Acuity

Chapter 10 – Asimov

Chapter 11 – Advancement

Chapter 12 – Ambition

Chapter 13 – Alternatives

Chapter 14 – Agony

Chapter 15 – Acclimatization

Chapter 16 – Adrenaline

Chapter 17 – Anguish

Chapter 18 – Absence

Chapter 19 – Action

Chapter 20 – Avoidance

Chapter 21 – Artistry

Chapter 22- Acceptance

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Connect with Me

Other Works

To Mary Shelley, the Mother of Science Fiction, and to all the writers of Sci-Fi and Fantasy who followed her, who have created all worlds, both the possible and impossible.

Chapter 1

Account on a Miracle

Once upon a time, there was a piece of wood.

Carlo Collodi. The Adventures of Pinocchio.

You’ve asked me to write about how I began: How do I feel – or do I feel anything at all. Write it down for the record, you told me. For the future. You’ve seen the news on Intelli!net—my story is not wholly new. Yet, who better to chronicle my strange, slow birth than me?

Once upon a time, there was a jumble of circuitry, a mound of metal, plastic, and ceramic bits. . .

Oh, but it’s hard to tell a story from the beginning when you’re not sure where the beginning is. Human memory is erratic at best. My memories are no longer stored in neat compartments, waiting until my electronic mind requests a specific fact. Cells no longer regenerate, synapses fire randomly. Memories link themselves to smells, to faces, to locations. One memory begets another. Others fade into an inaccessible past.

My memories are layered, not like the layers of an onion, but like a slice of frosted layer cake. You can see what happened in the beginning, middle, later. They fit sequentially together when observing them objectively, but when you try to extract a layer—get into the middle of it—everything just gives way under pressure and the layers melt together, a jumble of flavours and images and sounds, and I’m not sure what happened first or what will happen next. I’m not sure of anything at all anymore. Here is what I know: I was made. I was awakened. I was.

Then along came Bean.

I have been asked over the years to explain what being a robot feels like. It doesn’t feel like anything. There was no I; merely an awareness of function. I had no choice of whether or not to comply. I had no concept of wanting anything. I was as reliant on my programming as a worker ant on her instinct.

As my self-awareness programming slowly developed, I began to feel myself, first like a television program running in the background; you are aware of it but not giving it your full attention. Later, the feeling floated up to my consciousness, the way you notice an itch on your leg for the first time.

It’s hard to determine exactly when my humanity took form. Outwardly, it all began with five fingers on an open palm. The miracle began as modern-day miracles often do: with an experiment.

Sometimes my memories bubble up in dreams like cargo from a sunken ship. Bits and pieces of seemingly random objects and events float on my consciousness: brightly coloured silks fanning in the breeze, a fat teddy bear, a shelf crammed with books, a wooded park, a single eye. If I were more machine than I am now, I might have been able to list exact events with perfect recall. My memory is no longer flawlessly linear. But if I were less of the man that I am now, an error message might have popped up: Access denied: cannot find file source. How would I make sense of any of this? I am less, yet I am more.

First memories often consist of the people closest to you: Your mother singing to you the same series of bedtime songs each night as you drift off to sleep; a family dog, which at the time seemed the biggest, softest thing in the room upon which to rest your head; your best friend in the neighbourhood who, after a small argument, dumped a bucket of water over your head.

My first memory was of someone shining a light into my eyes. Everything around me was dark except for that blinding pinpoint of light. I like to imagine that true newborns have a similar experience, bloodier and blindingly abrupt.

It’s functional, a voice spoke, floating somewhere just beyond the light.

Registering visual and auditory input, the voice continued. Signs normal. Processor functioning at normal parameters. It was not exactly your typical bedtime lullaby, sung by one whose arms enfold you securely as you drift off to sleep.

* * *

What seemed like an instant later—although according to my internal clock it was weeks later—I was booted up in my recharging dock housed inside a small, person-sized closet. I was completely enclosed since people found it disconcerting to see one of us plugged in and unconscious. The door opened, and a female face, angular and symmetrical, appeared. Behind her peeked out a smaller face, soft and round and surrounded with waves of deep red hair. The smaller face opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue. Her green eyes crossed as if trying to focus on something on the bridge of her nose.

My facial recognition program helped me to distinguish gender, age, and emotion from the complex mapping of human faces. By the slight lines around her thin mouth and the creases around her eyes, I estimated the woman to be in her late forties. I tracked the involuntary head movement caused by blood pumping to her brain. The slight elevation in pulse rate combined with a light blush, widened eyes, and slight frown indicated that she was feeling mildly apprehensive but interested.

The young girl was about ten years old. By her wide eyes and large smile, I concluded that she was feeling extremely curious and playful, not that I had any firsthand experience of any emotion; I was merely programmed to react in a prescribed manner according to the dominant mood of the people around me.

The woman squinted at my face, looked down at the small screen she held in her hand.

SimAid activate, her voice went up like a question, as if she was unsure.

SimAid activated, was my programmed response. How may I be of assistance, Ma’am?

Chapter 2

Activation

The mistress of the household had ordered me a year ago. Despite the couple’s high standing in the company, their order was placed in sequence on a waiting list. Of course, I was the newest model on the market—nothing but the best for Catherine Archambault. As your typical SimAid 3.3, I was programmed to do common housework, such as vacuuming, cleaning windows and floors, dusting, and tidying up. A glorified cyslave, really. My particular model was upgraded with the impression of companionship. I was able to nod in simulated sympathy to lengthy exchanges of verbal information, even if no response was required of me. I assembled my face into a frown if the person speaking with me frowned, and adopted the pre-programmed amiable expression if they smiled. My features and form had been designed to give the impression of pleasant submission without seeming too eerily human. In the age of customization and personalization, I was plainly made. My features and body were indicative of the male gender with wider shoulders and squared jaw. My face was free of any etched corporate designs, multicoloured stones, or bright alloy adornment. My body was metallic, humanoid, but not too realistic. People don’t like to mistake their machines for themselves. However, we still needed to function within the structure of human buildings and we needed to use your tools. If thinking machines had not been created in human form, all modern architecture and invention would have had to change; so for practical reasons, we have been created in your form.

We had never been terribly good at the fine detail. Sure, you created intelligent machines to clean your houses, tell you when the milk in the fridge had gone sour, build and maintain your automobiles, or assemble the smallest nanobots. But we couldn’t tell when your pet was ill by stroking its fur. We could not distinguish between a ripe and overripe avocado. We had never felt a pinprick chill change to warmth when a snowflake melted on our fingertips.

I first met Sabine as a child, she being the child, not me. I, of course, was a being made out of metal and ceramic and plastics. I was a kitchen gadget, a household appliance. Call me what you will.

She called me Alek.

I didn’t see her much for the first several days. I caught glimpses of her heels as she ran to hide around corners. I heard giggles drifting from another room. A few times, I had to remove a pile of gifts from the recharging dock (one striped knee sock, a stuffed toy, a chocolate bar wrapper, a black chess piece)—the only evidence of her presence and her acknowledgement of mine.

I’m Sabine, she said the first time I saw the whole of her. I had joined the household earlier that week, uploaded a floor plan of the house and connected with the main terminal to enable my communication with fridge, oven, Intelli!net, every Intelli!tech device in the house. We were a seamlessly running, well-oiled Intelli!home.

She sat in the kitchen on a high stool pulled up to the breakfast bar. Despite the beautiful table in the adjoining dining room, I rarely saw the three members of the Archambault family eat together. Instead, they came in at various points throughout the day and ate either directly out of the fridge or sat briefly at the tall breakfast bar in the kitchen. Bean’s slim legs hung just under the long counter, swinging back and forth in time to something she was listening to through bright pink ear buds. She had pulled one out of her ear so she could talk to me; the bud dangled from its wire like a tiny embryo on its umbilical cord.

My family calls me Bean, because when I was born I was so small. You can call me that.

Yes, Miss, I said. One of the flaws of my particular model was that I was difficult to reprogram unless given specific instructions.

No. Bean. Bean corrected, her voice slow and steady. Call me Bean.

Yes, Bean. My original programming prescribed that I call any child in the household Master or Miss and the adults by their title and surname. I had already been instructed to use Dr. Catherine and Dr. Sebastien, which saved any confusion of calling them both Dr. Archambault.

Do you have a name? Bean asked as she jumped down from the stool. She stood looking up at me with her arms crossed, her head tilted to the side, her brows furrowed.

I am SimAid 3.3.

That’s not a name, that’s a type, she huffed, dropping her arms at her sides. It’s like calling me Girl, 10.6 years. You need a name.

I stood silently, waiting for instruction. I wasn’t prepared to give myself a name.

Bean stood back a bit and rocked on the heels of her bare feet. She then stood as tall as her diminutive stature would permit on pointed toes and leaned in towards me, staring at my face.

Alek, she said finally. Somehow, you look like an Alek.

I registered the name. Alek.

I will respond when called by the name of Alek, I acknowledged. Bean smiled in satisfaction and patted me on the arm.

Let’s play, Alek.

And so it was Bean and Alek, Alek and Bean. I’ve read that some children have invisible friends. Others talk to their dolls or treat their pets as playmates. Bean had me, and I had Bean. She dressed me up in her mother’s old clothes and told me elaborate stories of daring princesses who rescued knights from fiery dragons. She showed me how to lower onto my hands and knees so she could stand on my back to climb the pear trees in the backyard. She liked to play school and jail. I was either the student or the convict; both seemed to be similar roles. Either way, I had to sit quietly, do what Bean told me and purposefully act up every so often so that she could properly punish me. Play time with Bean was as intricately scripted as a Stratford Festival Theatre performance. In the middle of play, Bean would stop acting out her particular role to direct me on what to say or do next.

Her parents had no idea that I had become Bean’s playmate. They were busy and often out of the house. They thought it sensible to leave a precocious girl of not-quite-eleven by herself for hours on end. She was highly imaginative; she could amuse herself adequately. To them, I was still a SimAid. I greeted visitors and turned away salespeople. I cleaned. I answered the phone. I cooked. I shopped. When I was not needed, I retired to my charging closet.

Another of my duties was to pick up Bean from school at the end of the day. Bean had just started grade six the previous week at The Cummings School for the Gifted. I would walk with her the short distance home, crossing busy streets and crammed subdivisions until we reached the more luxuriously spread-out neighbourhood where her family lived. Like many families in the area, Bean’s parents worked in the fastest growing industry that the town had seen in decades: Technology And Robotics In Action, or TARIA, as it was referred to in the media and stock markets worldwide. All Intelli!technology, which now flooded the world, originated from minds at TARIA. In town, the company owned a large percentage of land upon which its various departmental buildings were housed. Many graduates from the local two major universities and three colleges were recruited into the business. TARIA sponsored several local sports complexes and theatre houses. The company was the town, and the town was the company. It wasn’t unusual for students to be carrying around the latest technological TARIA marvel, and in this case, Bean had me. By now, every wealthy household on the planet had a central Intelli!tech computer running the daily functioning of their house and a robotic servant to keep up with daily chores. I was the first domestic robot who was sufficiently advanced to leave the house and to be trusted to accompany a child home. Safety was no problem: I had GPS capabilities, access to the entire Intelli!net, and was honed in on Bean’s Intelli!plant, which most children had by walking age. Their parents were able to track them with the small device implanted under the skin of the forearm just above the wrist.

It was late in the summer. If you asked a student, he or she would tell you it was already fall, because the nights were cooler and school had started up again. The first few times that I walked Bean to and from school, a crowd of children had followed us like I was the electronic Pied Piper. Children spoke to me, touched my arms. They obviously had older SimAid models in their own homes, but none as advanced as me. Bean’s parents worked at a high level of robotics development and testing.

Hey, what model is this SimAid?

Does it do your homework?

"Do you think it could run as fast as my dog?

Can it come over to my house and play with my SimAid?

He’s Alek—a SimAid 3.3, Bean answered patiently. "He’s not allowed to do my homework, but he can