Welcome to the Machine

A newly created android learns how to interact with the world around him, and what separates him from humankind.

The inside of the car smelled funny, like someone had been smoking in it before he got in. That wouldn’t surprise him. Lots of the people smoked in the big building he spent his days in. They all looked the same, too: older white men with graying hair and mustaches, smoking cigarettes and looking over plans or each other or the products that came out of the factory. They did a lot of looking, but he doubted that they ever truly saw what they were observing. To see, really see, required talent that not everyone had.

        He remembered when they had looked over him, a few months ago. They were very impressed when he did things as simple as sit up and move his fingers and toes. There was really nothing to be impressed about there; it was something they could all do, and he was just like them. At least, that’s what they told him during his first few days of existence: “He looks just like us,” repeated over and over, disbelieving. As if they were expecting to see something completely inhuman, some mutant freak of nature, some futuristic Frankenstein’s monster that would make their lives a living hell. What they had forgotten was that Frankenstein’s monster wasn’t born malicious, he was born - or, rather, reborn - scared and naive. He had read Mary Shelley’s magnum opus shortly after coming into existence. He found it in a bookshelf in his room, and on impulse, decided to read it. The story made him afraid, though not for the reasons Frankenstein scared most people. It filled him with existential dread, with visions of a possible future.

        “Emotion chip functional.” That was all that was said when the android’s creator found him curled up in the corner of his hospital-white room, rocking back and forth, the paperback book clutched to his chest.

        “Copy that,” came the tinny voice on the other end of his creator’s communication device. “Well done.”

        “Looks like the old movies got it wrong,” his creator said, making casual conversation. “We want our androids to have emotions, to have empathy. If they’re going to be serving other humans, they need to know how to fit in. It needs to be natural. I think we may have bridged the gap between canny and uncanny.”

        “You’re a marvel,” said the voice on the other end. “Let’s go out for drinks tonight.”

        The android didn’t understand what was so great about empathy, and why it was so important that he have it. He wondered where his creator’s sense of empathy was when he was found, worrying intensely about a fictional monster that probably didn’t deserve love after his first few murders. Emotions confused him, and he lashed out, angry at himself, like a student who couldn’t figure out the answer to a homework problem that was supposed to be simple.

        He was afraid that he, like Frankenstein’s monster, would be cast out, brought into the world and then immediately dropped into it with no clue of how to navigate it. Someone later told him that this was called ‘anxiety.’ He wondered why he had to have been given this emotion, too, when it didn’t seem particularly helpful. Then he was told that he had been given the whole gamut of emotions, the good, bad, and ugly.

        Being a human, the android decided, was hard work.

        His creator, and his creator’s assistants, were there for him. They taught him the basics: how to walk, how to feed himself, fine and gross motor skills. He could read, but writing was more of a challenge. The android needed to come into himself, to get coordinated, to understand how everything worked together to create one complete package. That was what they called him: a complete package. At first, this was confusing to him. In his mind, a package was something square and cardboard, and he was neither of these things. When he explained this to his creator, he was met with laughter. This, too, was confusing, for he had said nothing funny. He was just trying to be honest, and usually honesty wasn’t met with laughter.

        “Packages can come in all shapes and sizes,” his creator explained. “They can even look human.”

        “And this is what I am?”

        His creator shifted uncomfortably, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, then tilting backwards, balancing on his heels.

        “You’re more than that,” his creator said. “You are the first, and you won’t be the last.”

        “The first of what?”

        “No more questions,” his creator decided. “Go set the table for dinner.”

        Like a child, he obeyed. He did not ask any more questions that day.

        He and his creator ate dinner together every night. It was part of his routine. Every day, at seven o’clock precisely, after he set the table, his creator would come in, and another man would bring dinner. While his creator ate, he talked, asked questions about his creation’s day, what the android had learned. His creator would survey him while the creation jabbered on about the day’s activities. The android showed excitement frequently, it was probably his favorite emotion. He enjoyed the adrenaline rush, the way his brain seemed to light up when he discovered something new. He would talk a mile a minute, talking more at his creator than to him, while the scientist smiled, amused and impressed at his creation’s progress. He was proud of this artificial intelligence, but prouder of himself for being the one to put in the hours programming, making sure to catch all errors, to make his creation more human than human, as they said in the movies he grew up with as a teenager.

***

Once the basics were down, the android could begin uncovering the mysteries of the human world, all their unspoken social rules that everyone else was expected to understand after a certain number of years. He didn’t have the time that normal human children did. He was created to be an adult, and a functional one at that. If he was caught not knowing the rules, he didn’t know what would happen, but it would probably be something bad. The first thing that came to his mind was disappointing his creator, who had been so pleased to see him grow. He knew that he needed to keep pleasing his creator - he didn’t know why, it was just an instinct, and he knew that instincts were important. Instincts were what kept you alive.

        He set to learning the rules. He liked rules, they made sense and held society together. His creator was very big on saying that, over and over. Society was like a patchwork quilt, and the rules were the little stitches holding that quilt together. To tug at those seams would be to unravel the quilt, to destroy the beautiful thing that someone, or perhaps a group, had worked so hard on. The android understood his creator’s metaphor, but he preferred thinking of Frankenstein’s monster instead of an ordinary old blanket. Frankenstein’s monster wouldn’t be half as iconic if he was missing an arm or an ear. He would be incomplete that way, more pathetic than scary. Then again, maybe Frankenstein’s monster should be unraveled. The creature didn’t ask to come into a world that would automatically despise him because of his uncanniness, that feeling of interacting with a human who had something noticeably off about them. The android didn’t know much of anything about parenting - he knew that he would never become a father - but he did know not to bring something into the world unless you were ready and capable of taking responsibility for it. He had only existed for a short time, and he had never spoken to his creator about these things, so he wasn’t quite sure how he came to his conclusion. All he knew was that it made sense to him, and that was what mattered.

        Other things became instinctual to him. He began addressing his creator and his creator’s associates as “sir” or “ma’am.” He began walking around his laboratory home with his head bent downwards, as if the floor continually fascinated him. His creator had told him that those who worked in the lab were Very Important People, and that they didn’t much care for making eye contact. The android never asked if they avoided eye contact because they felt uncomfortable doing it with someone not-quite-human, or if this was more of a general dislike. He never even thought about asking that question. The rule was the rule, and he didn’t want to be responsible for unraveling a metaphorical blanket or a monster or anything, for that matter. Whenever he so much as thought about asking a question pertaining to one of society’s seams, he imagined having the death of someone that was already Undead on his hands. He was disgusted with himself. He kept his mouth shut, no seams necessary.

        The question became: was he happy? Well, he wasn’t anxious and he wasn’t sad, to start off. The android knew that being sad didn’t automatically make him happy. He wasn’t exactly sure how he felt. The adrenaline rushes that came with discovery were far less frequent. The curiosity he displayed during his first few weeks of existence was now replaced by determination. Learning how humans worked was like putting together a massive jigsaw puzzle. Things had to be just so in order to achieve accuracy. He stopped asking “why” and started asking “how.” How do you interact with important people, how do you make yourself presentable, how do you get people to not freak out when they meet you for the first time. These questions came with answers, and the android did his very best to practice the behaviors that came along with those answers.

        He didn’t want to be in the laboratory forever. He wanted to be out in the world. He wasn’t sure what he would do there, but hopefully he would receive guidance from his creator. His creator knew everything, he was a benevolent man. He wouldn’t send his special android out into the world without close supervision. He also listened to his android’s wishes, and one day, decided that he was going to take his pet project to school, as a test run, to see how well he could socialize and was socialized.

“I don’t think you’re quite ready to interact with grown-up humans just yet,” said his creator as they drove in his car down the road.

“I interact with you and the other scientists every day,” the android pointed out. He wasn’t trying to be rebellious or argumentative - not in the slightest. All he was trying to do was state facts. He kept his tone flat and even, a traditionally robotic monotone. He did not make eye contact while his creator was driving. He kept his head down and his eyes fixed on his perfectly white shoes.

“Yes, and we’re used to you,” his creator said. “Other humans wouldn’t be. Let’s see how you interact with younger humans today. Children. Students. Perhaps they’ll be less judgmental.”

The android had never seen kids before. He knew what they were, of course, but he had never met one in real life. Now he was about to be faced with a whole bunch of them. He hated to admit it, but he was a little scared. His stomach turned. Anxiety, no doubt about it. He tried not to let it show. Clearly, his creator had enough confidence in him to let him out into the real world. He was presented with a challenge, and he wanted to prove that he could surpass it. He swallowed his fear and was quiet for the rest of the car ride.

They pulled up in the parking lot of a brick building that said JEFFERSON ELEMENTARY in all capitals on the front. All around them, cars were pulling into parking lots, kids were spilling out, and harried parents were checking and double-checking that their children had their backpacks, lunchboxes, and homework. This environment was practically the polar opposite of the careful, sterile world that was all the android had ever known. The noises confused him, the disorganization, the small humans running around with untied shoelaces, pushing and elbowing each other.

        “I don’t think I like this,” the android said, baby blue eyes wide.

        “Relax,” said his creator. “Remember what you’ve learned. Be polite and respectful. Follow the students’ lead. You’re in their territory, you’re new. You know how there are rules for the lab? There are rules here, too. Learn them and you will be more than fine.”

        The android fidgeted with his hands, wringing them together. He knew that what his creator spoke was truth - why did he have any reason to lie? - but he was still nervous. He didn’t want to get out of the car. He wanted to go home and not interact with the real world anymore. He was barely interacting with it to begin with, and he wanted to keep it that way. The android understood the rules in theory, and he could follow them in a controlled environment, but this? This was anarchy. This was real.

        This was a test. Of course! Why didn’t he see it before? His creator had given him little tests like this before, comparing him to criteria that were written down long before his existence. He met all the criteria so far, passed each of his creator’s tests with flying colors. What was this if not another type of challenge? If that was indeed the case, then he would just have to go and pass this one, too. He had to impress his creator, make the human who brought him into the world proud of his masterpiece.

        He took a deep breath in, held it, and exhaled. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go. I’ll do it.”

        His creator smiled encouragingly. “Good,” he said. “If you want, I can walk you in.”

        “I’ve got it.” The android opened the car door and stepped out into the fall air. He had never been outside like this before. All around him, kids were running for the school’s entrance, wearing coats, hats, and gloves. This meant that it was cold outside, but the android did not feel any of that. He understood ‘cold’ theoretically, understood why his creator turned on the car’s heating system and why parents were making sure their children zipped up their jackets all the way before they said goodbye, with hugs and kisses and promises of being picked up at the end of the day.

        The android, confused by all the physical contact and intimacy, turned his thoughts to a different question. Specifically, he wondered why he couldn’t feel cold. He wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to, but it felt like some essential human experience that he was left out of. His creator had given him emotions, and had, for the most part, treated him as if he were a regular person… and yet he would never see chill bumps erupt on his arms, and would never feel the sun burning his neck in the summer. It was a disappointment.

        “Why are they wearing coats and I’m not?” the android asked his creator before he left. “Why didn’t you make me so I could be like them?”

        “You are like them,” his creator replied. “When I created you, I decided to give you some advantages. Trust me, you don’t want to experience cold or heat. People are always finding ways to complain about the weather, and I didn’t want you to be like that.”

        “But-” said the android. “But if complaining about the weather is something that people do, then shouldn’t I be able to do it, too? What if someone asks me about how the weather is? I won’t be able to answer them, unless I lie, but that would be breaking one of the rules. You said I wasn’t allowed to lie, and so I don’t.”

        “Relax,” his creator said. “It’s really not a big deal at all. Most people will probably envy you. Now, listen, we both have to go, so stop worrying about the little details, okay? Go to the front office and hand them this letter. They know you’re coming, but this is just a reminder. They’re going to be doing some silent observations of you and sending those to me. There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.” The scientist dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, which his creation put in his own pocket.

        The android nodded. “Okay.” It was a promise, after all. He turned and walked into the school with the other students. As he walked through those large brown doors, he realized something: the parents he saw told their kids that they loved them, but his creator had not done that for him. When he thought more about it, the android realized that his creator had never once expressed love for his creation. Pride, yes. Excitement, definitely. But love? Not yet. Interesting. Maybe love was just something that was aimed towards kids, or something between humans. Here was another thing androids were left out of. That was another disappointment. He considered asking his creator about this thing called love and what it was all about, but he would have to wait until two forty-five, when school let out for the youngest kids.

***          

The front office was easy enough to find, and when he handed over the letter, the nice lady sitting at her desk gave him a caramel candy and directions to Mrs. Daley’s fifth-grade classroom. The android couldn’t process food, but he pocketed the candy as a souvenir as he made his way up the stairs to the fifth-grade classrooms. Mrs. Daley’s classroom door had stars taped to it, and there was a name inside each star. The android didn’t have a name, but still, he imagined having one inside a star of his own, which he would tape to his bedroom door. He wondered why his creator never bothered naming him. A name provided a sense of identity, a cluster of letters that, when spoken together, meant you. He guessed he had an identity, but if he was asked, he probably wouldn’t know how to respond. To his creator, he was android, creation, but what was he to himself?

        Inside, the students were preparing to begin a morning meeting. They were arranging their blue plastic desks and chairs into a circle that looked more like an amoeba to the android, who was standing shyly by the door, taking it all in: the overflowing bookshelf pressed against one wall, filled with well-used and well-loved stories; the desks with coats draped over the chairs, the brightly colored posters telling students to NEVER GIVE UP! The lab had none of these things. The android thought the place might benefit from some more color after seeing all of this. It was inviting, made him want to stick around and learn a few things. The kids certainly seemed excited; they chattered in eager voices as they prepared for their morning meeting. Meanwhile, the android continued to stand by the door. Nobody had even really noticed him. He could have stood there all day, invisible, except one kid arrived late and elbowed him as she ran for her desk, jostling the android.

        “Oh!” Mrs. Daley finally noticed her visitor. He didn’t seem like much; he wasn’t incredibly tall, his features were unassuming: not exactly adult-like, but not childlike either. They were doll-like, she realized, and hoped that her guest wouldn’t notice her shiver. She looked down at the tablet that had the day’s schedule on it. “Right, you’re here for today. Well, come and sit down then.”

The android sat outside of the circle, not wanting to affect what was already there. He was very aware of twenty pairs of eyes looking up at him as he walked towards the seated students. He sat in a chair near the teacher’s desk, his right leg resting on his left knee. He could see the gravel that dusted the soles of his shoes. This was the first real time that his shoes had gotten messed up at all. The android ran his index finger over his left sole, examined the gray powder. The real world was messy, left marks on all those who entered it. Gravel on the bottom of your shoes was nothing compared to what other people dealt with. The android studied the kids sitting and listening attentively. He noticed that some of them had ripped jeans, cuts and bruises covered up with Band-Aids, a few with missing teeth. This was, of course, normal for people at that age: kids play rough, and losing teeth is a rite of passage.

He knew that his teeth were manufactured never to fall out or chip. He also knew that he had never really played before, not properly, and not with anyone else. It dawned on him that something that these children had that he didn’t was friends. As he saw them get up and rearrange their desks, he noticed that they tended to clump up in little groups of two, three, sometimes four or five. Sometimes they would get separated from each other if they talked to each other while the teacher was talking, little whispers that would occasionally become giggles that were much harder to hide. The thought of holding secret conversations seemed like a lot of fun to the android, silently observing from the back of the classroom, seated in a chair a few sizes too small for him. He had never had secrets to keep, another human experience he had missed out on. His creator said that he had done everything in his power to make something as human as possible, but it seemed like he had forgotten to include quite a bit.

The other students paid him no mind at first. The android could tell that they were feeling shy around him, that he was a stranger and all strangers should be treated with trepidation. Also, he was feeling incredibly awkward and out of place, and those feelings must have been radiating out of him, creating a metaphorical barrier separating him, feeding his anxiety. He wasn’t supposed to be here, he didn’t belong here, wasn’t qualified to be here. Then again, this place was a school. People came here to learn, and besides, these were just kids. They weren’t qualified for anything yet, so he should loosen up. Right?

Easily the most stressful part of the day was when the class was lining up for their lunch/recess block. The android went with them, even though he didn’t eat human food and had never played on a playground in his life. (Could he call it life? He wasn’t sure.) He was planning on staying in the classroom for that hour, but then one of the kids asked, “Is he coming with us?”

They were curious, they wanted to know more about this new visitor. They didn’t know he wasn’t actually a human, they just knew that he was awkward and hadn’t spoken a word to anyone yet. This made him mysterious, and it made the kids want to see who it was exactly that they were dealing with. Surprisingly, he became a hit once the kids realized that they were interacting with an honest-to-goodness robot. He didn’t want to correct them and use adult words like android, synthetic, or artificial person. They seemed comfortable with their new robot buddy, and he became comfortable with these little humans, too. He didn’t mind observing their soccer games or making sure they didn’t fall off the jungle gym and monkey bars. He listened to their stories, no matter how strange they were, and shared some of his own weird tales in return. The class was disappointed when they learned that he would not be returning the next day.

        “Do you have a name?” one of the girls asked him as he was about to leave the room.

        “No,” he said. “My creator never gave me one.”

        “We could call him Robby,” one of the boys suggested. “That’s the name of a robot from this old movie that my grandparents showed me one time.”

        “He’s not exactly a robot,” said another boy. “More like an android, right?”

        The android nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.”

        “So we call him Andy,” the boy decided. “Like Robby the Robot, ‘cept it’s Andy the Android. It’s goofy, but it works, doesn’t it?”

        The class agreed to this with laughter and smiles. A few of them said, “Bye, Andy!” when he left.

        Andy, he said to himself as he walked through the hallways and down the stairs. How hard could it have been for my creator to come up with something like that? These ten-year-olds did it in the span of about five minutes.

        “Did you have a nice time?” Andy’s creator asked. They were back in the car, heading for the lab, for home.

        “They gave me a name,” said Andy. “I’m Andy now.”

        “Are you?” his creator asked. “Sounds like you had an exciting day.” Andy’s creator did not call him by his new name. Andy wondered what was holding him back.

        “It was nice,” said Andy. “Thank you.”

        His creator laughed softly to himself. “You know, in the old movies, artificial intelligence really wigged people out. You never could trust an android in those films, but you seem to be getting on well with regular humans. That’s good, you know.”

        Andy nodded in agreement. “I did what you said. I followed the kids’ lead. I think I became their friend.”

        His creator smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in it. Andy wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the happy-sadness that a parent had when they saw their child grow up, like he had read in books. Andy supposed that he was starting to grow up, in his own way. He had survived a day in the real world. More than that - he thrived. His own creator had said so, that he was an android who could successfully live and work around humans, and this was no small feat. Andy knew that this was more his creator’s doing, but he still felt proud of himself anyway. He was proof that his creator was doing good work, and that made him content.

        Several months passed. Andy got to visit other young humans every now and then, and he even got to go home with his creator for Thanksgiving. He got to meet his creator’s family and sit at the table while the humans dug into their turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie. He helped the kids with the dishes and passed the already-drunk uncles more bottles of beer as they shouted at the football players on the television. He liked his creator’s family, even the drunk uncles. He liked how they seemed to be like a unit, that despite their small arguments, they carried a sense of togetherness with them. Andy would never have that, he knew. That was okay, though. He could always imagine that he was a part of the family, if he closed his eyes and wished hard enough.

        One day, a bright spring day, his creator said, “Get in the car.” The car smelled like smoke, but that was fine. The smell didn’t irritate him, didn’t give him a headache or make him want to roll down a window. His creator must have been smoking earlier, and Andy wondered why. His creator would smoke a cigarette occasionally, but never in the car - he said that it was a bad habit. His creator only really smoked when he was nervous. Andy was a bit nervous as to where he was going, but mostly excited at the newness of the experience.

They stopped in front of a large white house. Four people were waiting outside, blond haired and blue eyed. They were what his creator called a “nuclear family:” a mother, father, and two children, a boy and a girl. The boy was maybe nine, the girl maybe seven. He hoped they would be like the kids Andy had previously interacted with, imaginative and empathetic.

        “This the machine?” the man asked when Andy and his creator got out of the car.

        “This is it,” his creator agreed. “Smart, loyal, obedient, good with kids. If it feels like questioning you, it’ll do it in its head. If it does so out loud, you should have no problems shutting that behavior down.”

        Andy wasn’t paying attention to any of this. He was looking around his new surroundings, eager to explore.

        “...come on in and I’ll write you a check,” the man said to Andy’s creator. “This should be a big help. I can’t thank you enough.”

        “Only the best for the best,” said Andy’s creator. “Not everyone can afford an android like this. It’s my finest quality work, I should think. Thank you for being willing to volunteer for this beta test. Let me know how it goes after, say, two weeks. I don’t expect you to have any problems, but protocol, you know.”

        “Excellent,” the other man said, and they shook hands. “I look forward to using it.”

        They headed for the indoors, the wife and children following. The man turned around, jerked his head towards the house.

        “Hey, you,” he said. “Android. Synthetic. Come on. You’ll be a fabulous asset. Make us proud, tin man.”

        All of a sudden, Andy wasn’t sure if he wanted to do that anymore.

Author's Note

This is the first short story I've submitted to a site like this. I'm not really sure what to ask specifically; I guess I'd just like some general feedback.

Reviews

[barleygirl]

You are obviously a strong storyteller with complete command of writing structure, so I'll just speak to the way this story was to read. Strong points: your imagination is off the charts, as far as thinking up a wide range of realistic details to SHOW the lessons & differences. Weaker points: at times there were long passages of explanation that could've been relieved by having some storyline action happening. There is some action, breaking up explanations, but it's still a bit heavy on explaining at times. You do a great job of creating empathy for this android in the reader. We really care about what's happening to him. Many times, in fantasy stories, the characters do not come alive & become objects of spontaneous empathy. I was wondering if this android had more feelings than those that could be attributed to his training. When he made observations, taking things personally, this did not seem to be part of the protocol, but beyond that, perhaps more feeling than would've been what was taught to him. That is to say, he felt a little too human in a few spots, but it still works as far as engendering sympathy from the reader toward the android. This is a very ambitious story & it could be a snooze-fest with all the details explained thru-out, but it's an overwhelming success, in that I did not feel tempted to skim over any parts (which honestly happens with long stories) *smile* Fondly, Margie

[Hayley]

Thank you for reviewing! I'm glad you enjoyed it. I shared this with a few friends and they liked it as well, so hopefully I'm onto something here. :) I'll try to cut out some of the long detail-y bits, maybe replace them with action instead of internal monologuing.

[Iain L. Luen]

This is a great story. The ending left me sad, but I know it's the way it should be. The history of slavery never ends.
One qualm: This line lost me.
"The android knew that being sad didn’t automatically make him happy."