We, Robots

by Simon Ings

  Scott said that Alina was his favorite mashup between a sexbot and a toaster oven, but Alina disagreed. Although she shared the same buxom brunette shell as the 7832BNX7 series, she hadn’t been given a clitoris, vulva, or vaginal port. Her programming included only the most rudimentary knowledge of human sexual practices. On the other hand, her expandable womb was adjustable for time and temperature, had a durable protective shell, and could wirelessly transmit information the same way any kitchen appliance could.

  “I think I’m much more toaster oven than sexbot,” she said as he adjusted her left nipple tube.

  “Trust me.” Scott snapped her areola back into place. “Parents look at you, they see inflatable doll and not melting pizza. That’s why they had to frump up the rest of your series.”

  Alina glanced at the other units getting serviced in the maintenance bays of New Human, More Human. Some had oily hair (undesirable) or asymmetrical facial features (acceptable within certain parameters) or deliberately crooked noses (unacceptable). “I was the first?”

  “You’re number seven,” he said, floppy bangs hanging in front of his blue eyes (very desirable). “Lucky seven.”

  “I don’t remember the others.”

  “No, you’re not equipped with long-term memory.” Scott stepped back and gave her a wide grin. “Go ahead, squirt me.”

  She loaded her breast with saline from an internal reservoir and took aim. The fluid hit his lab coat. Scott spread his arms, delighted. “There’s my girl. You’re all set. Inspected, warrantied, and ready for your next implant. See you in nine months.” Alina buttoned her pink blouse, straightened her floral skirt, and walked herself down to the Impregnation Department. Six-foot-tall photographs of happy babies and their parents hung on the cream-colored walls. Dr. Oliver Ogilvy, who was tall (desirable for men) but had a weak chin (undesirable in either sex) brought her into his office. Awards and plaques dotted the walls, and the windows overlooked the Hudson Valley.

  “This is Mr. and Mrs. Crowther, Alina,” he said. “They like your profile. Eleven successful terms.”

  “That’s quite impressive,” said Mr. Crowther, jovially. He was middle-aged, with thick artificial hair and well-tailored clothes.

  Alina shook his hand gently. “Thank you, sir,” she said, although she had no knowledge of previous pregnancies. She was programmed to believe whatever Dr. Ogilvy told her.

  Mrs. Crowther, short and slender (both characteristics desirable in females, but not in excess) folded her arms across her chest. “Ninety-nine months pregnant. Doesn’t it… get stress fractures or something? All that expansion and contraction?” Dr. Ogilvy leaned back in his leather chair. “The womb is built for flexibility. The torso was specially designed to expand in proportion to your child’s development.”

  “And it walks around while pregn—while it’s incubating?” Mrs. Crowther asked.

  “We call Alina ‘she’,” Dr. Ogilvy said. “It humanizes the experience for you. Yes. She’ll be walking around. She’ll be living with you, consuming food at your table to process for your child. She’ll interact with you both on a daily basis. Your family and neighbors will get to know her. You might even have a baby shower.”

  Mrs. Crowther flinched. “Baby shower? For a robot?”

  “For you, honey,” Mr. Crowther said. “She’s just carrying it, but you’re the mom-to-be. You’ll be the center of attention. I promise.”

  Alina’s decision trees told her it would be appropriate to nod, so she did.

  Mrs. Crowther looked doubtful. “Maybe we should just let the machines carry it here. I don’t know if I want it in my house. It—she—seems so bland.”

  The chair under Dr. Ogilvy creaked as he leaned forward. “She doesn’t have a personality profile loaded yet. You choose the options. Shy, extroverted? Witty, educated, quiet, unobtrusive? You pick her intelligence level and hobbies. Her last couple wanted her to speak Italian and excel at cooking.”

  “I can cook just fine,” Mrs. Crowther said bitterly. “I just can’t get pregnant again. We’ve been trying for twenty-seven months now.”

  “That’s exactly what Alina is for,” Dr. Ogilvy said smoothly. “Think about it, Joyce. Nine months from today, you could be holding your son or daughter. Your waistline won’t change an inch. Your hormones will be steady and calm. You won’t have the trauma of childbirth or the risk of post-partum depression. Your child will be brought into this world in a safe, secure, extremely successful robot incubator.”

  Mr. Crowther put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Sounds ideal to me, sweetheart.”

  Mrs. Crowther lifted her chin. She gave a tiny nod.

  Alina was impregnated the next day. The fertilized egg instantly attached to her artificial endometrium and began to divide. Forty-eight hours after that, she was loaded into a van, transported across the continent, and delivered to the Crowthers with a blue corsage pinned to her wrist. The corsage held a handwritten note from Dr. Ogilvy: “Congratulations on your future baby boy!”

  Mr. Crowther said, “Let’s name him Owen,” and Mrs. Crowther said, “Show it to its room.”

  *

  The Crowthers’ house was a two-story Mediterranean-style villa with hardwood floors and oil paintings of rustic landscapes. Alina’s room was on the second floor, adjacent to the nursery. She wasn’t allowed in the nursery. Her room had a bed, although she didn’t require one. It had a walk-in closet where she kept a different skirt and blouse for every day of the week. Her breakfast was delivered every morning, each meal perfectly calculated for the fetus’s benefit. After eating, she sat in a rocking chair by the window and gazed at the crystal blue swimming pool below. No one ever swam in its waters—not in the winter, when the hills were brown; not in the summer, when the hills were still brown and the maids complained of drought.

  Lunch was delivered promptly at noon. Afterward Alina emptied her waste port and returned to the chair again. She didn’t think or dream or speculate; she didn’t grow bored or restless or impatient; she had no insecurities to wrestle with, no resentments to harbor, no agenda to pursue. She monitored the fetus and adjusted hormones, nutrients, and antibodies as needed. She watched the faint ripples of pool water when the pump kicked in. She analyzed the colors in its depths as the sun moved across the sky.

  Late each evening Mr. Crowther would gather her at dinner. They ate in the large kitchen, with its gleaming marble counters and heavy smell of spices. Mr. Crowther asked about the baby and talked about his own childhood growing up in Schenectady. He would put his hand on her growing stomach and listen to her project the baby’s heartbeat through a speaker in her chest. He apologized for Mrs. Crowther.

  “We had a daughter, but she drowned,” he said. “And another, but she was stillborn. You’re our third chance at happiness. Maybe having a boy will bring good luck.”

  Alina had been programmed for optimism. “I’m sure it will, sir.”

  In her sixth month, after a dinner in which he consumed a bottle of wine, Mr. Crowther walked Alina back to her room and, once inside, leaned forward until his mouth was only inches from hers. His skin was flushed, his pupils wide. “Do you mind… I mean, I know you don’t… but would it be okay for me to kiss you? Could I do that and you wouldn’t tell Mrs. Crowther?”

  “I’m programmed to be honest if she asks,” Alina said.

  Mr. Crowther kissed her anyway. She measured the pressure and temperature of his lips and waited for him to stop.

  “Well,” he said, eventually. “Body of a sexbot, demeanor like a cold fish.”

  ‘Yes, sir,” she replied.

  On the fourth day of her thirty-fifth week, her womb transmitted a completion signal to Dr. Ogilvy’s office. A midwife-technician arrived six hours later. Alina stretched out for the first and only time on the bed in her room. Mr. Crowther entered his identification code. Mrs. Crowther entered hers. The skin over Alina’s belly slid back to reveal a hatch, and the hatch popped open to reveal baby Owen squirming in a pudd
le of earthy-smelling fluids. Alina could have reached down and cut the cord herself, but the technician did it.

  “Congratulations!” The midwife lifted Owen and deftly began to clean him. “Happy birthday, Mom and baby. Do you want Alina to nurse him, or is she coming back with me?”

  “We have formula,” Mrs. Crowther said. “Take it back.”

  The next morning she was back in the maintenance bay, her milk extracted and recycled. A technician named Scott flushed out her nipple tubes. He said she was his favorite mashup between a sexbot and a toaster oven.

  “I’ve never heard anyone say that before,” she said.

  ‘You’re not programmed with a long-term memory.” He stepped back and said, “Okay, let’s see how your aim is. Hit me with both barrels, baby.”

  She took aim and soaked the front of his jacket.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Go get knocked up, and we’ll see you in nine months.”

  *

  Dan Poole and Mark Dubay were a gay couple who paid for an egg from an anonymous donor. They each provided sperm but asked the laboratory to randomly pick whose would get used. “She’s going to be both of ours regardless,” Mark said confidently, and Dan agreed, and so Alina was forbidden from revealing that it was Dan’s DNA she could detect in the fetus. Both men were of African descent, and the egg had come from a similar donor. Alina mixed up hot chocolate and added just enough cream to illustrate the baby’s probable skin color.

  “Our little café au lait,” Dan said, which is how the baby earned her nickname.

  Their house was a large, L-shaped ranch set in the countryside of central Georgia, surrounded by forests and streams. They both worked from home. Greenhouse science, they said. They had opted for her to be energetic, polylingual, knowledgeable about wines, and good with dogs. Every day Alina took a long walk with either Mark or Dan and one of their three Dobermans.

  “Are you happy being a pregnant robot?” Dan asked one day as they walked along a stream.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Really?” Dan threw a stick for one of the dogs to fetch. “Can you be happy?”

  “I’m programmed to say it and portray it in appropriate circumstances,” she replied. “You seem eager for me to say yes, so I said yes.”

  “But you don’t have any emotions of your own.”

  “No, sir. My series was not approved for emotion chips.”

  The summer woods edged to fall and then winter, with snowfall so heavy that it blocked the road to town for two weeks. On the first day of Alina’s thirty-fourth week, the Womb Alert announced Au Lait’s readiness. Dan entered his code without error, but Mark was so nervous he hit the wrong numbers twice and nearly locked her womb. Baby Au Lait, now named Sonora, emerged healthy and kicking. Mark and Dan retained Alina to breastfeed her for six months. She also changed diapers, burped the baby, and rocked her through sleepless nights. But she didn’t love her, because how could she?

  One day, Mark said, “Alina, we want to have another baby. You have to go back to the lab for the implant, but they’re not going to erase your memory of us. You’re coming right back here with a son. We’ve already nicknamed him Con Leche.”

  “That’s excellent news, sir,” she replied.

  Once she was back in the lab, Scott flushed out her systems and adjusted her nipple tubes. Bent close to her, his breath hot on her skin, he said, ‘You’re my favorite offspring of a toaster oven and a sexbot.”

  Alina tilted her head. ‘You told me that the last time you serviced my nipples. They seem to require much maintenance.”

  He abruptly stopped fiddling. “Did I? Maybe I should check your waste port instead.”

  Later she reported to Impregnation. The donor egg had already been fertilized with Mark’s sperm. Alina climbed into a transfer chamber and went into rest mode. A subroutine monitored the successful implantation of the egg into her womb. Shortly afterward, her external sensors recorded the dimming of the light over her chamber. The power feed snaking up into her foot abruptly spiked, and an emergency command was fed into her central processing unit: START STASIS.

  Alina and Con Leche both went to sleep.

  *

  Thud, crack, thud, crack. Alina opened her eyes. She was in a dark transfer chamber. Above her were dim pinpricks of light, distant and shifting as something made noise and dug toward her. The external temperature measured below freezing (inhospitable to human life) and after a few milliseconds she concluded the chamber was buried by ice and snow.

  No decision tree offered an advantageous course of action. She opted for inaction, and counted thuds and cracks until a shovel hit the plastic a few inches above her face. Soon a human face was staring down at her. The face was asymmetrical (undesirable) and damaged by sun and wind (regrettable). Snow goggles covered the eyes and a parka hood hid the human’s hair and chin.

  Alina waited patiently until the human broke through the shield.

  “Are you awake, or just staring at me?” the human asked.

  “I’m awake, thank you,” Alina said. “Are you a male or female? Your face and voice are indeterminable.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the human said. “Get up, robot-girl.”

  Alina freed her feet from their plugs and climbed out. What had once been the implant lab was now a snow cave illuminated by battery lanterns. Thick ice coated the equipment, machines, and computers. The roof had partially collapsed, which explained the snow and ice piled on Alina’s chamber. A long knotted rope hung through a separate hole that had been cut in the ceiling.

  “I’m Coren,” the stranger said. He or she was about Alina’s height, maybe a little overweight, no facial hair. Young, perhaps mid-twenties or so. It was impossible to discern breasts under the bulky gray parka.

  “I’m Alina,” Alina said. “Should I call you sir or madam?”

  Coren began breaking the shovel down into smaller pieces that fit into a backpack. “You’re really hung up on gender, aren’t you?”

  “I’m programmed to recognize two.”

  “Well, I’m not programmed to answer you,” Coren said. “Call me by my name, or call me hey you, or just call me a person. I don’t care.”

  Alina’s databank lit up with information about gender-neutral pronouns. She had several options to choose from. Ze, En, Co, Thon. In her sixth pregnancy, the parents had both been professors of female sexuality at Brown University. They’d taught her feminist language and theory, matricentricty and gynocritics and—

  The ice slid out from under Alina’s feet. She fell flat on her rear and stayed there.

  “Hey!” Coren abandoned the backpack. “Are you all right?”

  “I am functioning well,” Alina replied, flooded with memories of that pregnancy— Professor Ahmeti and Professor Sauter, their house in Providence, the two white cats who sat in the sunny windows all day, the way Professor Ahmeti made meatball and garlic soup every Friday night and Professor Sauter chewed through pencils when grading papers, their happy faces when their baby was ready, the way they’d kissed Alina’s cheeks in thanks.

  You’re not equipped with long-term memory, she’d been told. By Scott. Scott with his easy smile and his bangs in his eyes and his devotion to fixing her nipple tubes every time she came to the shop.

  Coren said, “I know you’re just a robot, but I’ve seen healthier looking corpses. You sick?”

  Alina adjusted her cheeks to include more pink. She flushed red to her lips, and made her eyes appear brighter and more blue (very desirable).

  For some reason, the adjustments made Coren frown. “Let’s climb out of here. I’ve got a coat and clothes for you so you don’t freeze.”

  “I am impervious to most extremes of weather, Person Coren. Also, my uterus operates independently on its own settings and is at optimal temperature.”

  “Yeah. About that. Are you carrying?”

  “Carrying what?” Alina asked.

  “A baby, dummy.”

  Alina answered, “Yes. I am carryi
ng the fertilized egg of Mark Dubay and Dan Poole. It is four days old. Are Dan and Mark nearby?”

  “They’re dead,” Coren said. “Let’s get out of this ice hole before we freeze over, and you can see what the world did to itself.”

  *

  Winter had come and stayed. Although Alina’s calendar told her it was June, the forest around New Human, More Human was nothing but frozen treetops buried by snow. She saw no birds or squirrels, no smoke from cities or factories, no signs that any humans lived nearby. Only snow, ice, and gray sky. She attempted to connect with the data center, but received no answer.

  Alina said, “Mark and Dan were studying climate science. They postulated a scenario of long-term adverse meteorological change.”

  Coren had hunched down next to a sled packed with supplies. “Sounds like fancy words for the Big Freeze. Come here, put these clothes on. Hard to explain me dragging you around dressed like it’s a heat wave.”

  Alina donned trousers, boots, gloves, and a gray parka. The clothes were frayed but clean. Coren handed her a pair of snowshoes that looked like oversized tennis rackets and asked, “You ever use these?”

  “No sir or ma’am.”

  ‘You better learn fast.” Coren strapped down everything on the sled, shouldered two straps to drag it, and said, “Let’s go.”

  “I can pull that,” Alina said. “I’m not susceptible to fatigue or strain.”

  “I’ll do it,” Coren said.

  Once they had hiked all the way down the hill, Alina saw that Dr. Ogilvy’s complex was indistinguishable under the wintry landscape. He’d be disappointed, she thought. He had worked very hard on her and her predecessors, Acantha and Adelphia and the other four whose names somehow escaped her—

  If it was unexpected to have this reservoir of memories bubbling inside her, it was equally unexpected that the data was incomplete. She could picture Dan’s kind face but not Mark’s. Every detail of her room at the Crowthers’ villa was crystal-clear, but the inside of Dr. Ogilvy’s office was a gray box devoid of specifics. It was likely that she was internally damaged. But Scott had said she had no long-term memory capacity at all. Had he been wrong?