Mildred shakes her head. “I’m afraid it’s all over my head. But I’m so very happy for you, dear.”
“I could explain it again,” Susan says. “It’s really very simple.”
Mildred’s tone is sad. “No, no, I just don’t think I’ll understand.” Then she pauses and looks at me. “Susan, can you get me some juice?”
Susan rises from her chair. “Yes, Mother. What kind would you like?”
Mildred frowns, and her voice rises. “Not you, Susan.” She points at me, and I freeze, hoping to keep things calm.
But Susan is not calm. I can see her fear in her eyes as she says, “No, Mother, I’m Susan. That’s . . . Dr. Brown.”
Mildred’s mouth draws into a tight line. “I don’t know who you are, but I know Susan when I see her. Susan, get this person out of here!”
“Mother . . .” Susan reaches for Mildred, but the old woman recoils from the younger.
I touch Susan on the sleeve. “Please . . . Can we talk in the hall?” Susan’s eyes are wide, and tears are forming. She nods and follows me.
In the hallway, I almost expect Susan to slap me. She is prone to outbursts when she’s afraid. Instead, she surprises me by falling against me, sobbing. I update her emulation profile with notes about increased stress and heightened fears.
“It is all right, Mrs. Owens.” I would pat her back, but her profile warns me that would be too much familiarity. “It is all right. It is not you, she is having another bad day.”
Susan pulls back and wipes her eyes. “I know . . . It’s just . . .”
“I know. But here is what we will do. Let us take a few minutes, and then you can take her juice in. Mildred will have forgotten the incident, and you two can talk freely without me in the room.”
She sniffs. “You think so?” I nod. “But what will you do?”
“I have tasks around the house.”
“Oh, could you go out and keep an eye on Millie? Please? She gets into the darnedest things.”
“I can do that. Let us get that juice.” We go to the kitchen. Through the patio doors I see Dr. Zinta talking with Millie. I pour the juice and hand it to Susan, and she gratefully pats my hand as she takes the glass. She heads back toward the bedroom, and I walk to the patio door and listen through the screen.
Zinta and Millie examine the forsythia bush. “Those flowers are pretty,” Zinta says.
“Uh-huh.”
Zinta pauses before continuing. “Millie, I notice you don’t like the caretaker much.”
“Who?”
“The android who takes care of Grandma.”
“Oh.” Millie pauses and looks down. “Mr. Robot.”
Zinta grins. “Yes, Mr. Robot. Millie, can you tell me why you don’t like Mr. Robot?”
The pause is longer this time. “He’s not real.”
“It’s a real robot . . .”
Millie’s exasperation grows. “But not a real person. I don’t like robot toys, I like real animals.”
“I see . . . And is that the only reason?”
Millie bites her lip, and then she answers. “Sometimes he looks like Mommy. Or Daddy or Anna. Why does he look like Mommy?”
“Hmmm . . . And does that scare you a little?” Millie nods, and Dr. Zinta continues. “That’s okay, Millie. I understand. But . . . In Grandma’s room, you were pretending to be a frog, right?”
“Uh-huh . . .”
“But you weren’t a real frog. And you weren’t scary.”
“But . . .” Millie notices me, and she steps farther from the door. “He looks real.”
Zinta smiles. “It’s very good at pretending. I built it that way.”
Millie’s eyes grow wide. “You built it?”
“Well, me and my team,” Zinta explains. “We built it to take care of your Grandma. And we taught it to pretend because . . . because sometimes she imagines things, and she feels better when somebody imagines with her. It’s not as much fun to play pretend alone, is it?”
“Noooo . . .”
“I’m sorry that it scares you. It just wants to help your Grandma.”
Millie looks at me again. “Robots don’t want things.”
“This one does.” Millie looks doubtful at Dr. Zinta’s words. “It’s a very special robot—an android—and it wants to make your Grandma happy. And you, too, if you ask. It knows the names of every flower in the garden. All the bugs and frogs and fish, too.”
“It does?”
“Uh-huh . . .” And I nod in agreement.
Millie calls through the screen. “Are you Mr. Robot?”
I look at Dr. Zinta, and she nods, so I shift back to my neutral state. “You may call me that, yes, Miss Millie.”
Millie giggles. “‘Miss Millie.’ That’s funny. Mr. Robot, do you want to teach me the names of flowers and bugs?”
So I spend much of the day playing with Millie. She shows me frogs from the creek, and she finds insects and leaves and flowers, and I find their names in online databases. She delights in learning the proper names of things, and everything else that I can share. And I find that I want to delight her.
5. Today I Am Nobody
Today I am nobody. Mildred slept for most of the day, so I “slept” as well. She woke just now. “I’m hungry,” was all she said, but it was enough to awaken my empathy net.
6. Today I Am Many People
Today I am Paul, and Susan, and both Nurse Judys. Mildred’s focus drifts. Once I try to be her father, but no one has ever described him to me in detail. I try to synthesize a profile from Henry and Paul; but from the sad look on Mildred’s face, I know I have failed. This disappoints me.
7. Today I Am Paul Again
Today I had no name through most of the day, but now I am Paul again. I bring Mildred her dinner, and we have a quiet, peaceful talk about long-gone family pets—long gone for Paul, but still present for Mildred.
I am just taking Mildred’s plate when alerts sound, both audible and in my internal communication net. I check the alerts and find a fire in the basement. I expect the automatic systems to suppress it, but that is not my concern. I must get Mildred to safety.
Mildred looks around the room, panic in her eyes, so I try to project calm. “Come on, Ma. That’s the fire drill. You remember fire drills. We have to get you into your chair and outside.”
“No!” she shrieks. “I don’t like outside.”
I check the alerts again. Something has failed in the automatic systems, and the fire is spreading rapidly. Smoke is in Mildred’s room already.
I pull the wheelchair up to the bed. “Ma, it’s real important we do this drill fast, okay?”
I reach to pull Mildred from the bed, and she screams. “Get away! Who are you? Get out of my house!”
“I’m—” But suddenly I am nobody. She does not recognize me, but I need to win her confidence. “I’m Paul, Ma. Now let’s move. Quickly!” I pick her up. I am far too large and strong for her to resist, but I must be careful so she does not hurt herself.
The smoke grows thicker. Mildred kicks and screams. Then, when I try to put her into her chair, she stands on her unsteady legs. Before I can stop her, she pushes the chair back with surprising force. It rolls back into the medical monitors, which fall over onto it, tangling it in cables and tubes.
While I am still analyzing how to untangle the chair, Mildred stumbles toward the bedroom door. The hallway outside has a red glow. Flames lick at the throw rug outside, and I remember the home oxygen tanks in the sitting room down the hall.
I have no time left to analyze. I throw a blanket over Mildred and I scoop her up in my arms. Somewhere deep in my nets is a map of where the fire is within the house, blocking the halls, but I do not think about it. I wrap the blanket tightly around Mildred, and I crash through the picture window.
We barely escape the house before the fire reaches the tanks. An explosion lifts and tosses us. I was designed as a medical assistant, not an acrobat, and I fear I shall injure Mildred; but
though I am not limber, my perceptions are thousands of times faster than human. I cannot twist Mildred out of my way before I hit the ground, so I toss her clear. Then I land, and the impact jars all of my nets for 0.21 seconds.
When my systems stabilize, I have damage alerts all throughout my core, but I ignore them. I feel the heat behind me, blistering my silicone outer cover, and I ignore that as well. Mildred’s blanket is burning in multiple places, as is the grass around us. I scramble to my feet, and I roll Mildred on the ground. I am not indestructible, but I feel no pain and Mildred does, so I do not hesitate to use my hands to pat out the flames.
As soon as the blanket fire is out, I pick up Mildred, and I run as far from the house as I can get. At the far corner of the garden near the creek, I gently set Mildred down, unwrap her, and feel for her thready pulse.
Mildred coughs and slaps my hands. “Get away from me!” More coughing. She looks at me, and I understand what she sees: a metal skeleton draped in charred, melted silicone. Her eyes grow wide. “What are you?”
The “what” is too much for me. It shuts down my emulation net, and all I have is the truth. “I am Medical Care Android BRKCX-01932-217JH-98662, Mrs. Owens. I am your caretaker. May I please check that you are well?”
But my empathy net is still online, and I can read terror in every line in Mildred’s face. “Metal monster!” she yells. “Metal monster!” She crawls away, hiding under the lilac bush. “Metal!” She falls into an extended coughing spell.
I am torn between her physical and her emotional health, but physical wins out. I crawl slowly toward her and inject her with a sedative from the medical kit in my chassis. As she slumps, I catch her and lay her carefully on the ground. My empathy net signals a possible shutdown condition, but my concern for her health overrides it. I am programmed for long-term care, not emergency medicine, so I start downloading protocols and integrating them into my storage as I check her for bruises and burns. My kit has salves and painkillers and other supplies to go with my new protocols, and I treat what I can.
But I do not have oxygen, nor anything to help with Mildred’s coughing. Even sedated, she has not stopped. All of my emergency protocols assume I have access to oxygen, so I do not know what to do.
I am still trying to figure that out when the EMTs arrive and take over Mildred’s care. With them on the scene, I am superfluous, and my empathy net finally shuts down.
8. Today I Am Henry
Today I am Henry. I do not want to be Henry, but Paul tells me that Mildred needs Henry by her side in the hospital. For the end.
And I cannot properly be Henry. My damage is superficial. MCA can easily repair me, in time. But my silicone flesh is blackened and torn, melted in spots. My coloration tubules are broken. So I cannot emulate Henry’s appearance well, only his voice. But Mildred is too far gone to notice.
Her medical records show that the combination of smoke inhalation, burns, and her already deteriorating condition have proven too much for her. Her body is shutting down faster than medicine can heal it, and the stress has accelerated her mental decline. The doctors have told the family that the kindest thing at this point is to treat her pain, say goodbye, and let her go.
Henry is not talkative at times like this, so I say very little. I sit by Mildred’s side and hold her hand as the family comes in for final visits. Mildred drifts in and out. She does not know that this is goodbye, of course.
Anna is first. Mildred rouses herself enough to smile, and she recognizes her granddaughter. “Anna . . . child . . . How is . . . Ben?” That was Anna’s boyfriend almost six years ago. Mildred does not remember Vishal, Anna’s fiancée. From the look on Anna’s face, I can see that she has all but forgotten Ben; but Mildred briefly remembers.
“He’s . . . He’s fine, Grandma. He wishes he could be here. To say— to see you again.” Anna is usually the strong one in the family, but my empathy net says her strength is exhausted. She cannot bear to look at Mildred, so she looks at me; but I am emulating her late grandfather, and that is too much for her as well. She says a few more words, unintelligible even to my auditory inputs. Then she leans over, kisses Mildred, and hurries from the room.
Susan comes in next. Millie is with her, and she smiles at me. I almost emulate Mr. Robot, but I remain focused until Millie gets bored and leaves. Susan tells trivial stories from her work and from Millie’s school. I cannot tell if Mildred understands or not, but she smiles and laughs, mostly at appropriate places. I laugh with her.
Susan takes Mildred’s hand, and the Henry part of me blinks, surprised. Susan is not openly affectionate under normal circumstances, and especially not toward Mildred. Mother- and daughter-in-law have always been cordial, but never close. When I am Paul, I am sure that it is because they are both so much alike. Paul sometimes hums an old song about “just like the girl who married dear old Dad,” but never where either woman can hear him. Now, as Henry, I am touched that Susan has made this gesture, but saddened that she took so long.
Susan continues telling stories as we hold Mildred’s hands. She also quietly sings some songs, and Mildred nods to the tune. At some point Paul quietly joins us. He rubs Susan’s shoulders and kisses her forehead, and then he steps in to kiss Mildred. She smiles at him, pulls her hand free from mine, and pats his cheek. Then her arm collapses, and I take her hand again.
Paul steps quietly to my side of the bed and rubs my shoulders as well. It comforts him more than me. He needs a father, and even a poor emulation is close enough at this moment.
Susan keeps telling stories. When she lags, Paul adds some of his own, and they trade back and forth. Slowly their stories reach backwards in time, and once or twice Mildred’s eyes light up as if she remembers those events.
But then her eyes close, and she relaxes. Her breathing quiets and slows, but Susan and Paul try not to notice. Their voices lower, but their stories continue.
Eventually the sensors in my fingers can read no pulse. They have been burned, so maybe they are defective. To be sure, I lean in and listen to Mildred’s chest. There is no sound: no breath, no heartbeat.
I remain Henry just long enough to kiss Mildred goodbye. Then I am just me, my empathy net awash in Paul and Susan’s grief.
I leave the hospital room, and I find Millie playing in a waiting room and Anna watching her. Anna looks up, eyes red, and I nod. New tears run down her cheeks, and she takes Millie back into Mildred’s room.
I sit, and my nets collapse.
9. Today I Am Repaired
I awaken in Dr. Zinta’s laboratory. My internal chronometer tells me that three days have passed since the hospital visit. My maintenance logs tell me that my silicone flesh has been repaired, and Dr. Zinta’s team have even installed some mechanical upgrades that have been developed since my manufacture.
But I notice that they have not upgraded my quantum processors, and a preliminary self-diagnostic confirms: My nets are unchanged.
I see Dr. Zinta at her diagnostic console as usual. “Hello, Dr. Zinta.”
She looks up. “Hello, 98662. I’m almost done with your diagnostics, and your physical repairs are complete.” She takes a step toward me. “How do you feel?”
It is still an odd question, but I am coming to expect those from her. I look within myself, and I can find only one answer. “Mildred is dead.”
“I know.” She crosses to me and puts her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “You need not be sorry for me. The Owenses lost their mother. You should feel sorry for them.”
But then I notice, like a hole in my emulation profiles: Mildred’s profile still echoes there. I can still describe how she feels when she smells lilacs, or when she is confused by a new face. I still know her happiness when she sees Millie, her frustration when she does not know who the child is. Her profile is still within me, still available, but now she is not there to add to it.
It is good, then, that my assignment is complete. “Dr. Zinta,” I say, “I am r
eady to have my nets wiped for my next assignment.”
“About that . . .” Dr. Zinta frowns. “Come over to my office. Let’s talk.”
I follow her, confused. She has never invited me into her office before. We always perform maintenance and diagnostics in the lab.
When we enter the office, she closes the door behind us. Then she gestures at the guest chairs. “Sit, please.” I do not need to sit, not in the way that humans do, but I do as she wishes. She sits behind her desk, rests her chin on one hand, and looks at me.
“98662,” she finally says, “do you know why the Owens family would want to keep you around now that Mildred . . . has passed away?”
I almost answer. Susan still fears she may need my services—or that Paul might, and I may have to emulate her. She never admits these fears to him, but my empathy net knows. Because I learned this through empathy, though, my options are limited. “I may have an answer, Dr. Jansons, but confidentiality prevents me from sharing it.”
She smiles. “I thought you might. You’ve grown very perceptive. And I can guess the rest, but I won’t ask you to break confidentiality. Yes, they have asked if you can stay on.”
I review my service manual. “That would be highly unorthodox. The lease terms specify that I am assigned to a patient or a facility for the duration of a case.”
“Uh-huh,” she answers. “That’s how things are usually done here at MCA. But you . . . are unusual.”
“I do not understand.”
“Your nets, the way they’ve grown. Your unprecedented sense of self. You are highly unusual, 98662.”
That surprises me. I have never thought to ask, but I had assumed that my development was typical. “So how many Medical Care Androids have developed like me?”
She pushes down on the desk and leans back. “I’ll be honest. You are unique.”
Unique. “And so you are reluctant to have my nets wiped until you understand why.”
Dr. Zinta laughs at that. “You see? You figured that out on such scant information. You’re special, 98662, and I want to understand. I definitely don’t want you wiped! And since you developed in the social-psychological environs of the Owens family, I think it’s best if you stay there, if I can figure out the legal angles to allow it. We can’t tell yet what factors may have been formative for you.”
Today I Am Carey Page 3