Human After All

I wake up properly several hours later, a little before midday. Rolling over onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling as sleep releases its hold on me, taking the rest of my nightmare with it. It was the same one, of course, the same one I’ve been having for four and a half years, but it’s been a while since it’s woken me in the middle of the night screaming, like it used to. I’m rather thankful for that.

The nightmare’s almost fully evaporated in the dry, lazy heat when I haul myself out of bed to get dressed. I barely notice the heat, accustomed by now to the way it claws at my lungs and draws my chest in tighter every time I inhale.

The android’s pottering about in the kitchen when I trudge out, stifling a yawn behind my hand. It seems to sense me hovering behind it and turns around, smiling hesitantly.

“Good morning,” it says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Fine,” I reply as politely as I can manage. I’m not going to make this any easier by behaving like a spoilt child, so I may as well at least try to be civil. “What’s cooking?”

“Bacon and eggs,” it informs me, with something that might be pride. “Your favourite.”

I stiffen instantly. “How did you know that?”

It looks puzzled. “The oven stores a record of the food you make and your satisfaction with it and collates the data to find the most popular recipe.”

“Huh.” I frown, chewing methodically on my lower lip. “I didn’t know it could do that.”

It smiles at that, lips quirking up at the corners. “I imagine technology has progressed rather far since you were young.”

I stare at it for a few, gob-smacked seconds. “Did you just make a joke? At my expense?” I say eventually.

The android is still smiling at me when it replies, “Yes. Yes, I believe I did.”

“Okay, thing have definitely changed a lot since I bothered to keep up with technological developments,” I say, shaking my head. “Since when did your kind have a sense of humour?”

“We don’t,” it shrugs. “It’s a fairly recent development. Your friend thought a sense of humour would be a necessity for any robot that would be living with you.”

“Did she, now?” I mutter, folding my arms across my chest. “How lovely of her.”

(Callie works with robots, makes them, programs them, schools them in the art of human communication. I know I’m supposed to appreciate the gesture, know it was only done to make the whole ordeal that little bit easier, but I don’t. I refuse to appreciate anything even remotely related to the robot.)

The aforementioned robot hurries over to the stove to turn it off, before sliding the bacon and eggs onto a plate. When it bends down, I catch sight of a flap at the nape of his neck. The off switch. I make a mental note of its location, just for future reference. Never know when it might be necessary.

“Your breakfast, Ashley,” the robot informs me, holding out the plate. It must notice my wariness because it says in an almost wry tone, “It’s not poisoned or anything.”

My eyes narrowed, I snatch the plate away and storm off to the living room, slamming the kitchen door behind me.

It tastes delicious, better than anything I’d ever be able to make. Of course. It still burns my throat a little as I swallow it down, though.

***

We settle into an uneasy routine, the robot and I. If I’m feeling in a charitable mood, I’ll go and eat my breakfast in the living room, making polite conversation if the situation calls for it. Mostly, though, I’ll eat it in my room, in silence and alone, and that suits me fine because it’s what I’ve done for the past four and a half years.

For the most part, it stays out of my way; it does a lot of chores, like cleaning the dusty surfaces and tidying away all the stuff that collects around the edges of the flat. Sometimes, we watch shitty TV together and shake our heads in mutual disgust at the people who waste their lives away on reality television shows. Never do we go outside.

After two weeks of this, I’m about ready to tear my hair out.

Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on your perspective – that’s when everything changes.

***

I’m in the kitchen, making my own breakfast for once because the robot is nowhere to be seen. I’ve gotten used to it being there, a constant presence that is mostly irritating but nonetheless always there, and it bothers me for some inexplicable reason that it isn’t.

I glance up as the android walks into the kitchen. “I see the assassins failed in their mission once again,” I mutter, swallowing down a mouthful of cereal.

It stops, startled, and gives me a strange look. “I’m sorry?”

“Sarcasm,” I inform it, rolling my eyes. “I ought to order an expansion pack or something just so you can understand me, honestly.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” the android says, with its seemingly infinite patience. “I have grown accustomed to the strange way you choose to speak, and have added the mannerisms you exhibit when being sarcastic to my knowledge base. What confused me was the fact that you referred to me being... killed.” It looks at me, something akin to triumph in its eyes. “Robots can’t be killed, not by conventional human methods.”

But they can be killed. “Oh, shut up,” I mutter, glaring half-heartedly at the table. “It was just a figure of speech. Where were you, anyway?”

“I was taking a message from Detective Vernon,” it replies with an innocuous smile.

My chair scrapes back against the floor as I jump to my feet. “What? What did he say?” I demand, hands braced on the table. “Why did he want to talk to you?”

It merely shrugs. “Perhaps he thought I would be less likely to yell at him,” it remarks, making a strange noise that sounds an awful lot like it’s choking on something.

It takes me a minute to realise it’s laughing at me.

“Tell me what he said, robot, or I swear to God I will rip your artificial head off right now,” I growl, my hands balled into fists.

It arches a carefully stencilled eyebrow. “Isn’t that what got you into this mess in the first place?”

There’s a scrape of bone as I grit my teeth together. “Just tell me.”

“He wants you back at work tomorrow,” it says, smiling uncertainly when my eyes light up. “But he wants you to bring me with you.”

The tiny bubble of euphoria in my chest pops instantly. “What? Why?” I ask, dismayed.

“I... don’t know,” it replies honestly, and I know that it isn’t lying because robots can’t lie, don’t have the capacity required for it.

(It’s just one of the things that separates them from us, that makes them something less than human. United Colours may have acknowledged them as a sentient life-form, but I’m pretty sure they’re missing a major requirement, namely the sentient part. They can’t think for themselves, not really. They can’t imagine anything beyond noughts and ones. They can only follow instructions, blindly and without question.

I kind of can’t understand how that’s considered life, really.)

“He said to tell you that if you turned up without me,” it continues, apparently oblivious to the way my body is shaking, “you’d be fired for good. Sorry.”

“This is just fantastic.” My head’s in my hands, slumped on the wooden table. “It’s like the guy lives to torture me or something. It isn’t enough that he’s forcing me to live with a robot for a month, no, he has to go and make me work with it too. Fantastic.”

I can feel its gaze on the back of my head, intent in a way a human’s never is. “Why do you hate us so much?” it asks eventually, sounding puzzled. “I was aware that you didn’t like us, that there was something about the existence of androids that bothered you, but I didn’t realise it was so...” It trails off, apparently at a loss to describe the depth of my loathing for its kind.

“That’s none of your business,” I say shortly, raising my head off the table slightly to glare at it.

“Was it the death of your-”

I’m across the room in an instant, grabbing the robot by the collar of its shirt. “How the fuck do you know about that?”

It blinks at me, fibrous eyelashes fluttering. “It’s part of my knowledge base,” it replies, like it’s that simple, and of course it is. “I was programmed with it.”

And it’s like all the anger, all the rage, all the emotion just seeps right out of me as I let the robot go and sink back against the wall. It eyes me warily, straightening its collar, but doesn’t say anything.

“Doesn’t anyone have any concept of privacy any more?” My voice is soft, tired like the rest of me. “Nothing’s secret, nothing’s sacred. Everything’s public knowledge.”

“They thought it might help-”

“I know what they thought.” I knead the heel of my hand into my eyes, working away at the sudden weariness. “You can talk to my oven, you know basically my life story- Anything else I should know about?”

“Ashley,” it says, and I give a start because it’s voice is suddenly a lot closer than it was before. The robot’s kneeling in front of me, hands clasped awkwardly behind its back. “I’m not your enemy.”

It’s proximity makes my skin crawl, makes something deep beneath the surface thrum and ache with ancient loathing. I pull my knees into my chest, defensive, bracing my arms across the top, and when I speak, my voice is even. “I never said you were.”

It sighs then, blowing out nothing because robots don’t breathe, don’t take in anything. “You didn’t need to. You think you’re on a one-woman crusade against androids and anyone who isn’t with you is against you. You have an irrational fear of any form of technology-”

“I am not scared of you, I hate you!”

“You’re scared of me.” It’s eyes are blank, impassive, defiant. “I know it. I can see it.”

I’m shaking my head, a bitter smile on my lips. “I’m not scared of you,” I repeat, but even to my ears my voice sounds weak. “I’m not. I hate you.”

“Yes, you do,” it says, and there’s something gentle about the way it’s looking at me. Something pitying. “I’m not going to hurt you, Ashley. I can’t. It’s against-”

“The first law of robotics, I know,” I say tonelessly. “I’ve heard it a million times. It didn’t stop that robot from killing my little brother, did it?”

The robot shrinks back as if I’ve slapped it, cringing with shame or pity or both. “That was a mistake in the programming. There’s no way anyone could-”

“Save it, robot.” My head lolls forward, resting against my knees, too tired to hold itself up any more. I’ve grown accustomed to the images that lurk on the back of my eyelids, no longer flinching at Jason’s snapped neck or the robot’s maniacal grin. “I don’t care. Your kind can masquerade as humans all you like but you are nothing like us and you never will be.”

“That’s not what the law says.”

“Fuck the law,” I snap, “and fuck United Colours for orchestrating it in the first place. Equal Rights for Robots, what a joke. You don’t deserve-”

“Why?”

I lift my head, frown furrowed between my brows. “What?”

“Why?” it repeats, voice stronger this time. “Why don’t we deserve it?”

“Because you’re not human,” I enunciate. “You’re robots. Cold, unfeeling lumps of metal, just lights and clockwork and fancy programming. You can’t feel. You can’t think. You can’t even dream. How are you anything like us?”

It stares back at me for a few timeless seconds. “When we look like you, talk like you, act like you, who are you to say we aren’t like you?”

“But you can’t feel,” I repeat. “The rest of it’s worthless if you have no feelings.”

“You defend emotion so fiercely,” it says, frowning as if with confusion. “Even pain, even hatred... even loss?”

“Feelings make you human,” I say quietly, my hands balled into fists. “Feelings- emotions- they hurt, by God do they fucking hurt, but it’s a reminder that you’re alive.” I look up at the android, a defiant tilt to my chin. “I’d rather feel everything, even the pain, even the hatred, even the loss, than nothing at all because that’s the only thing stopping me becoming like you.”

It’s quiet for another few moments before it says, it’s voice soft, “How do you know we can’t feel?”

“What do you mean? Of course you can’t-”

“But how do you know?” it insists, staring at me with those eerie blue eyes. “Emotions are abstract concepts. They cannot be measured or observed.”

“They can’t be programmed, either,” I point out with a wry smile.

“That’s not strictly true. After all, enough rules and you can build an answer to anything. Who’s to say that in experiencing emotions, humans aren’t just following a set of incredibly complex rules?” it argues, eyes flashing with something that could almost be righteous anger.

It’s never looked more alive.

My mouth opens, tries to form a response, finds it has none, and shuts again. I glance away, unable to hold its unnervingly intense gaze.

“I should go,” I mumble eventually, dragging myself to my feet. “Lots of things to do, to get ready for tomorrow.”

“Ashley,” it says, but I’m already stumbling out of the room to my bedroom, the door shutting gently behind me.

It doesn’t take me long to find the box, shoved under the bed right to the back. It scrapes against the floor as I pull it out, blowing off the dust that’s collected on the lid.

There’s not much in it, really. Just a couple of photo albums and old books that used to belong to my grandparents and other odd bits and pieces. Resting on top is a picture of me and Jason taken years ago, when we were teenagers. We’re both so ridiculously happy, all open smiles and wide shining eyes, it makes something in my chest twinge and ache.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to carry this overwhelming feeling of loss around with me all the time. It’s just so hard to hold onto that pain, that grief, and it hurts, it hurts so much. But without it I’m cold. Without it I’m no better than the machine that killed my brother four and a half years ago and I’d die before I let that happen.

Maybe it isn’t healthy to be this angry all the time, to have all this hatred, all this grief. But it’s the only thing I have left, the only thing that means anything to me and I can’t- I can’t let it go. I can’t.

A kick to the box pushes it back under the bed and once it’s out of site I collapse on top of the blankets, clutching a pillow to my chest. Body shuddering, eyes watering, I close my eyes and succumb to the blackness.

***

The android’s still sitting in the living room when I venture out again, shuffling across the laminated floor. It looks up when I halt in front of it, toeing the ground at my feet.

“Ashley,” is all it says, with a small, hesitant smile. “I’m sorry if I upset you. That was never my intention. I know you loved your brother a great deal and it was insensitive of me to-”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I find myself saying, and the robot abruptly stops talking in favour of staring at me in confusion. “It wasn’t- it didn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Ashley,” it begins, but I’m shaking my head insistently and it seems to understand because it nods, smiles, gestures for me to continue.

“I’m not scared of you,” I say, “really I’m not. I think I used to be. Even before... I never really liked technology. Didn’t really get it. But I think- I think I get it now. You’re not like us, and that’s a good thing,” I add quickly, at the look on its plastic face. “You’re not human but you’re not a robot, you’re an android and that’s fine. That’s fine.”

I lean forward and wrap my arms around its body. Its not as stiff as I thought it would be; the flesh is soft and warm, heated by something underneath the artificial skin. When it hugs me back, its arms are not metal bars trapping me in, they’re just arms. Warm, almost-human arms and maybe, maybe that’s enough.

I pull away after a few seconds, shifting awkwardly on the spot. It’s staring at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “You hugged me,” it says, and it sounds almost... accusatory.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing a chuckle. “I did, didn’t I? I, um, I’m sorry, for, uh, for being a bit of a prat to you in the past two weeks. You didn’t, um, you didn’t deserve it.”

An eyebrow rises on its forehead. “What?”

“Please don’t make me say it again,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. “It was hard enough the first time.”

It beams at me then, a wide, face-splitting grin, and takes my hand in its own. I was wrong, earlier. Now, with that unmistakable look of joy in its eyes, the robot – Luke, his name is Luke – has never, ever looked more human.

***

What does it mean, to be human?

I thought I knew. I thought I had it all figured out in my head, everything in neat little boxes, black and white.

But nothing’s that straight forward. Nothing fits into neat little boxes. Nothing’s black and white.

What does it mean, to be human?

I don’t think anyone knows any more.