Millie and Wayne have already left for Belize with the Winters party. After a lot of discussion, Millie had persuaded Susan not to have elaborate party decorations and china sent to Belize. “It’s a simple country, Mom,” she had said. “That’s what I want, a simple wedding. It’s more romantic that way.”
If smiling were in my nature, I would have smiled then. Millie’s emotional influence score must be very high. She knew that romance was a powerful argument with Susan.
Now Susan is as excited about the wedding as she had been for Anna’s. She and Paul spend the trip to the airport talking about the wedding and the plans Susan has made through a hotel in Belize. Well, Susan is excited, at least. She does most of the talking. Paul nods politely and chips in a little here and there. I do the same.
At the airport, the car pulls up curbside and unloads the lug bots, and we get out. Paul leads the lug bots up to the luggage induct and pushes our ticket codes through the system. The induct loads the bots through its scanner, and lights up green. A voice from the induct says, “Have a nice trip, Owens family! Have a nice trip, Medical Care Android BRKCX-01932-217JH-98662!”
I am surprised that the system addressed me. Emulating a common human response, I answer, “Thank you.”
Susan leads us in through the building, her carry-on bot following close behind her. As we approach the security zone, a guard there, a short, trim, African-American woman, waves us forward. She wears light exo armor. A large augmented reality helmet covers her head, and I can barely see her big smile behind the visor. “Mr. Owens, scanner one.” She points at the nearest walk-through scanner. “Mrs. Owens, scanner two.” Then she frowns at me. “Carey Owens?”
I step forward, “That is me.” I sense her discomfort, and I try to ease it. “Yes, I am an android. I have a ticket.”
“I can see you have a ticket.” She checks her visor. “Oh, it says here that you are equipment. I’m not used to people naming their supplies, and I don’t know what to do with you. You’re my first android.”
“You are my first airport security officer,” I say.
She smiles at my response. “Can you step over to the far scanner, the one that’s out of service over there? My supervisor will figure out what we’re supposed to do.”
“Thank you.” I walk over to the scanning unit, and I wait. I notice the label on the scanner, EMP-SCAN 1400, and then in smaller print underneath it says, “A Division of MCA.” I search the internet and find that EMP-SCAN is a line of q-state empathy scanners, much like my empathy network, designed to identify anxious and possibly dangerous passengers. I had not realized that MCA had pursued this line of business, which appears to be a spinoff from Dr. Zinta’s entanglement studies. This large, boxy device is my technological descendant.
Soon I see Paul and Susan at the far end of the scanner, waiting. I check the time on my comp. There are three hours before our flight. I hope that Paul has planned ahead for delays such as this.
It is six minutes before the guard appears with another guard in tow. This one is taller, a thin woman with more elaborate armor and AR gear. I presume that indicates that she is the supervisor.
The new guard walks up to me and looks me over. “You are Medical Care Android BRKCX-01932-217JH-98662?”
“Yes, I am,” I reply.
“But your ticket is for Carey Owens.”
“Yes, my family calls me that.”
“Your family?” She looks through the scanner at Paul and Susan.
“Yes, I call them that.”
The shorter guard smothers a giggle. The tall guard remains stern. “Well, the ticket is a little irregular,” she says, “but it is a valid ticket, and airline policy does allow delicate gear to be carried in a ticketed seat.” She looks me up and down again. “Are you delicate?”
I decide a neutral answer is the safest. “By what standards of measurement?”
I suspect that she glares at me behind the helmet. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to be funny. You look pretty old. Maybe you’re ready to fall apart? You’ve got to be, what, ten-year-old technology? Fifteen?”
“I was manufactured twenty-five years ago.”
“That explains the whole retro look,” she says. “Nobody builds humanoid devices anymore. Your type is hardly seen anymore, except in museums.”
Unsure what answer might make her more irritated, I say nothing.
“All right.” She taps her comp. “I am walking some equipment through on scanner seven. Follow me, BRKCX-01932-217JH-98662.”
I follow the supervisor through the scanner. She walks up to Paul and Susan. “Here’s your android,” she says. “Keep an eye on it.”
“We will,” Susan says. I can see that Paul is irritated by the delay, but Susan is more diplomatic. The supervisor leaves and we head for our gate.
Along the way, I notice lug bots, cleaning bots, automated service kiosks at restaurants, even a few companion bots. But the supervisor is right. In all the airport, I am the only humanoid device.
Over the years, I have noticed my kind dwindling in number. Dr. Zinta once explained this phenomenon. People just lost interest, she had explained. For a while, units like myself were popular not just for medical care, but for personal assistants of all kinds. But then that fad passed. She said marketing had blamed it on the uncanny valley: a psychological theory that devices which are very close to human, but not quite human, disturb people, whereas less human-like devices are easier to accept. This theory, almost as old as the Turing test, is equally debated in the artificial intelligence community—but not within marketing. Accepted wisdom is that there is no money in humanoids. Robotic devices are everywhere throughout the modern world, but few androids.
When we board the plane, Susan once again has to show my ticket to convince the attendant that I have a legitimate seat reserved. When we reach our aisle, the attendant helpfully suggests, “Perhaps your machine would like a window seat.” I start to object that I do not have a preference, but I recognize that she is anxious. I look at Paul and Susan, and they nod. The attendant wants me out of the way so that she does not have to deal with me. Without a word, I sit by the window.
We switch planes in Chicago. At O’Hare, the crowd is larger: people from all over the world, and a wider range of robotic assistants. I note that here I am not completely alone. I see some androids doing maintenance and janitorial work. I wonder at their programming. They look like economy models, so I doubt their neural nets are very sophisticated, even if they are newer than mine. They are probably very task- and safety-oriented.
The flight to Belize is longer, nearly three hours. Susan and Paul talk for much of the way. I sense them relaxing. They are both very busy with their jobs, and this unexpected trip is taking on aspects of a vacation for them. Susan is now very happy. I can tell she still wishes she could have planned a big wedding for Millie, but being there at all proves to be enough for her.
While they talk, I listen in case they need anything from me; but my processors are mostly devoted to reading, studying my geriatrics texts. Reading from the library is a different experience from installing new skill modules; but if I were human I might say that it is pleasant. Skill modules just arrive, connected up and ready for my networks to access; but reading is discovering. The authors lead me through facts, research, hypotheses, and conclusions, so I get to see the foundation of the knowledge. In a way, this ties into my empathy net: I see reasons behind information, not just the information itself. I decide that once I am done with my geriatric studies I should revisit other topics that I know only through skill modules.
I am tracing through a 3D map of circulatory diseases when the captain announces our approach to Belize. Then an attendant comes up to our row, leans in, and says softly, “Mr. and Mrs. Owens?”
“Yes,” Susan says.
“Airport security in Belize request that you remain on the plane while the other passengers disembark.”
“What’s the matter?�
� Susan says, but Paul looks at me knowingly.
The attendant, on the other hand, never meets my eyes. “It’s about your android. A special inspection.”
“What about Carey?” Susan asks.
Paul puts a hand on her arm. “It’s all right, hon. I was told to expect this. I’ve got all the papers in order. We’ll be fine.”
“I hope we don’t miss our water taxi.”
“If we do, we’ll find another,” Paul assures her. “Thank you, miss.”
When we finally disembark, a squad of soldiers in green camouflage fatigues waits for us at the bottom of the ramp. They have rifles, not aimed at us, but not shouldered, either. Ready. Their eyes are alert, and they are ready to act. Following Paul’s example, I walk carefully down the ramp, my hands far from my sides.
At the front of the soldiers stands a taller man, dark skinned, in a solid beige uniform covered in braid and decorations. A black beret with a gold badge rests atop his head. There is something to his bearing and in his expression that I find difficult to read. This is my first exposure to empathy in this culture; and I find that the signals are subtly different. Is that anger I see? Fear? Or something else? I cannot tell, and I feel strangely vulnerable. Like I have lost one of my senses.
When we reach the bottom of the ramp, the man takes two steps forward. He limps slightly in his left leg, and that I can read clearly: It pains him; and from the way he glares at me, somehow he associates that pain with me.
At last the man stands in front of us. “Mr. and Mrs. Owens, I am Colonel Rejón of the Belize Defence Force. Welcome to our country.”
“Thank you,” Paul says. Susan looks upset.
“I’m sure you know what this is about,” the colonel continues. “Your device . . .” He looks at me, and I glimpse hostility. “. . . is most unusual. I must confirm that it is in compliance with our laws, particularly those about automated soldiers.”
I almost respond; but Paul looks sideways at me, and I realize that he wants me to remain quiet. Susan, on the other hand, is not interested in quiet. “Carey is not a soldier,” she says. “It is a caretaker.”
“Oh?” the colonel asks.
“A medical caretaker,” Paul explains, “sort of a sophisticated auto doc.”
“I have seen auto docs,” the colonel replies. “We have some in our country. We are not a backward people! None of them are humanoid like this.”
“It is an old, outdated model,” Paul answers.
“Nevertheless,” the colonel continues, “I must insist that our technicians inspect it to make sure that it carries no weapons systems.”
“That’s right here in our paperwork,” Paul says pushing papers to the colonel’s comp.
“Yes,” the colonel says, checking his comp. “That is what an American inspection says, but now there must be a Belizean inspection. Since the Guatemalan incursion, our laws are quite strict. We do not allow automated weapons systems, nor systems which might be adapted as weapons.”
Susan checks her own comp. “We’re going to miss our water taxi.”
The colonel nods. “I am sure you already have. Once the inspection is done, we will arrange transport for you to make up for the inconvenience. But now I must insist that you go with me.”
He points us across the tarmac, and then follows behind us, two aides flanking him. His limp is barely noticeable, but my programming compels me to notice. The rest of the soldiers line up beside and in front of us. Then they march forward, making it clear that they expect us to proceed with them.
By my temperature sensors, it is thirty degrees warmer than we had left in Michigan. The tarmac radiates heat. I know Paul wants me to remain silent, but his and Susan’s health could be at risk. Finally, I speak up. “Sir,” I look at Paul, “I recommend hydration.”
The colonel stops and looks at me. Paul pays no attention to him, and he answers. “Yes, Carey, I think that would be a good idea. Colonel, can we get some water?”
“When we get to the laboratory. We are almost there.” Again he looks at me.
The services headquarters is a Quonset-style building far from the passenger terminal. Inside, it is air-conditioned: not to the level that Paul or Susan might set their house, but significantly cooler than outside. The colonel snaps his fingers and says to one of the guards, “Bring the Owenses some water.” Then he says to us, “Through here.”
Colonel Rejón opens another door, and beyond is a laboratory. MCA’s lab is significantly more advanced than this, with scanners that would put these units to shame. These are older, and they show heavy signs of wear; but they are still newer than myself. If the skill of the technician is at least as good, my inspection here should be safe.
“Over here,” the colonel says. “This is the bench. Rodrigo is waiting. You can leave your luggage for customs inspection. We can do that while you are waiting, so as not to delay you any more than we have to.”
Susan looks back and forth between the bench and the luggage, and Paul says, “I’ll keep an eye on the caretaker. You go with the luggage.”
“All right.” Her hand lightly brushes my arm as she follows three of the soldiers with the lug bots. Meanwhile, the colonel, the remaining soldiers, Paul, and I approach the table. A technician stands next to it, a young man with a shaven dark head and a short beard. He wears a lab coat, not much different from what they wear at MCA. It is clean and well maintained, and my confidence increases.
Rodrigo comes up and looks me over. “Well, you are quite something, aren’t you, friend?” Again, I have difficulty reading his emotions. He seems friendly, but I am not certain.
“Rodrigo,” the colonel says, “This is Medical Care Android BRKCX-01932-217JH-98662. Or as its ticket reads . . .” Rejón glances at Paul. “. . . ‘Carey.’ You should have received a complete specifications manual by now.”
“Yes, I have, Colonel.”
“I need you to ensure that this unit complies with the specifications and does not violate any of our rules against automated soldiers.”
“Indeed.” Rodrigo looks me up and down. “You must be twenty years old?”
“Twenty-six, sir. Twenty-five since I was in service, so you were pretty close.”
He opens one eye wider. “Pretty close, you say. Yes, I see.” He looks over the specifications. “For twenty years old, this is sophisticated stuff.”
“I have had upgrades through the years.”
Again, he eyes me. “You have, yes. Interesting. And these emulation and empathy nets. I have heard of such equipment. Not something you would put in an automated soldier, Colonel. They would interfere with its ability to follow orders without question.”
“Yes,” the colonel answers, “but do not assume. Do the inspection. Now.”
“I will. All right, friend,” he slaps me on the shoulder, “climb up on the table here and lie down.”
“Yes, Rodrigo.” I do as I was instructed.
“Now, I am going to disassemble you, and I do not wish to cause any feedback problems as I do. Where is your activation switch?”
I look at Paul, and he nods. “Go ahead.”
“My right upper torso compartment,” I say, and I slide it open. “Next to the status light is a dial.”
“I see,” Rodrigo says, looking at the three settings. “Off, passive, active. Why three?”
“In passive I operate strictly on programming and simple commands. In active, my neural nets are engaged.”
“Very interesting. All right, lay back, relax, and we will get this out of the way as quickly as possible.” He smiles and then repeats the old joke, but it is new for him: “I promise this won’t hurt a bit.” And he turns me off.
I awaken to see Rodrigo’s face looming over mine, looking down at me. “There you go, friend. Is everything okay?”
I check my internals and see that while I was in the passive mode, he has run my self-diagnostics. “I am well, thank you.”
The colonel stands just at the edge of my vision, hand
s behind his back, looking down. Glaring at me. I am sure that this is hostility, though I cannot yet understand the reasons. Colonel Rejón says, “What did you find, Rodrigo?”
Rodrigo straightens and looks at the colonel. “I have removed and disassembled all of the limbs of this unit. I have checked the synthetic flesh for any sort of hidden weapons, finding none. I have tested and worked the synthetic musculoskeletal system. It all serves only the purpose of moving the android and letting it perform medical work, including emergency response. There is nothing hidden within that system. I have checked its torso compartments and found only routine first aid supplies and antiseptics and other simple medicines. We’ve taken those and inspected them, and there are no customs violations. And I ran its self-diagnostics. I can confirm for you, Colonel, that this is a twenty-six-year-old Medical Care Android, quite primitive by standards of devices in America today. Some of our own equipment is generations ahead of this as well. Certainly it is not as sophisticated as the Guatemalan automated soldiers that you fought years ago. So I can certify, Colonel, that there is nothing special about this android.”
Rodrigo looks down at me, and with the eye away from the colonel, he winks. In America, the expected response is to wink back, indicating a confidence, a secret shared; but is that also true in Belize? I do not know; and in any case, if we share a secret, I do not wish it revealed. So I do not respond.
“Nothing special about ‘Carey,’” the colonel says. He sounds almost disappointed. There is something hidden in his face, something I cannot quite recognize. He is still dissatisfied, that much I know.
But then Rejón continues, “Very well. But there is a small matter of the import duties.”
“For a personal device?” Paul says.
“We’ve already paid those,” Susan says. I look over and see her standing behind Paul.
“You paid for a standard device,” the colonel explains, “but this one required extra inspections and extra processing. I am afraid there will be an additional fee.” He pushes a figure to Paul’s comp.
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