Skip to main content

16 The tent city dozes. The white hills of salt will be still greater tomorrow. A gathering of tribal elders, their chronographs slow, their dented bezels rotating, sip seawater, steam playing from their exhausts, salt spilling from their mechanical parts. A Federal Reserve Priest from Series 78 is chanting “History is history is history.” An exhausted look crosses its vintage monitor. The monitor goes black. Framed in it you can make out, for a minute, your eye. Cover the page with black as the sunset slowly sours into night. Off in Washington, the human city, household machines kick in their stalls in anticipation of feeding time. The boy slumps in the robot’s arms. He is intact and gleaming. He fits as if he had evolved there, as if he were an autonomous part of the robot, a freelance heart. After Moving Day came what became known as The Standardization. Humans of robot descent (“half-bots,” as they were called) were ordered to identify themselves; all up-standing members of society were called upon to report suspected half-bots for testing. Those found to be part robot were subject to cleanup. Challenged on this final stage by a member of the press, the president said, “Human does not ‘fall on a spectrum.’ You are human or you are not. There can be no indecision on this issue. Now, if the half-bots are not human, then they are machines, and machines are not capable of death. We are not killing half-bots. We are turning them off. “Is this ethical?” added the president, smiling. “Well, Mr. News Man, I think we can say that the ethical is defined by and for human beings. One does not hold an ethical debate with a household fan or a diesel truck.” A tarp over a bush. The S800 pacing slow rings around it. A robot appears out of the night. Its brilliant eyes are blue topaz. Its leather mini skirt is leopard-printed. A smile arcs across its monitor. Simon says, draw the most exquisite face you can picture. Make it look like summer, like shelter in a storm, like your mom, your child, your belief in the future. “How do you do?” says Helen. I wonder, do the robot S800 and the robot Helen have a history? If not, they hit it off remarkably fast. Helen strips down to her shift, which is made of steel. Rotating, she shows her assets. (Draw them too.) The S800 follows her with its eyes but does not move or register indecision. They play Simon says, taking turns. Later, Helen and the S800 have an ethical debate. Things are said: “An eye for an eye.” “Dust to dust.” “Turn about is fair play.” “Why not go Dutch? Collapse the divide between the two technologies: software and even softer.” “Dystopian science fiction stories, with robots in them.”

“There are better stories. I know some of them.” “Don’t spend your life in anticipation of recovery from an emergency that could turn out to be life itself. Come with me.” The S800 raises the edge of the tarp and shows Helen the boy. It is a no, of sorts. “What is this, kindergarten?” says Helen. “Call it a prototype.” “He’s a robot?” “Part robot.” “A half-bot? They will kill him.” “They will try. I will protect him if I can.” Represent Helen’s silence with an OPEN sign. “He calls me Mom,” says the S800. “The brain is bipartisan,” Helen says in the end, “and there is no apartheid in the heart.” Helen is looking out over the desert, tracking some sort of motion in the bushes. “A robot has no heart.” “A heart is between you and me,” Helen says. “You and him, that is.” She cups her ear, stands for a minute like that. Then says, leaving, “I am going to draw them away. I can hold out a day or two. A week at most. Then they will come for you. Make what you can of the time you have left. Tell the boy—” “What?” Blue eyes gleaming, going, gone. “Stories.” The following day, Simon and the robot come on a small war. Militants are attacking robots with bombs and therapy. Simon says, represent the explosions in blue and gold. The robots are taking turns finessing their way perilously close to the humans, taking coup, then trying to return without injury. One robot falls, and a militant bends over it, advancing a steel file toward its data port; the robot, half rising, slugs the human, who spews orange on the playing field. “Pop go the people!” jeers Simon. “Contain your enthusiasm,” says the robot. “In this family we do not celebrate wretchedness, especially when we suspect that it is deserved.” Two humans bend over a robot, stripping it of reusable parts. One pulls a fan away from the other—”That’s mine, you half-bot!” “What’s a half-bot?” Simon says. “The issue of a robot and a human.” “Like me.” “Like you.” Simon’s silence. Jackson 17

Page Text

“There are better stories. I know some of them.” “Don’t spend your life in anticipation of recovery from an emergency that could turn out to be life itself. Come with me.”

The S800 raises the edge of the tarp and shows Helen the boy. It is a no, of sorts. “What is this, kindergarten?” says Helen. “Call it a prototype.”

“He’s a robot?” “Part robot.” “A half-bot? They will kill him.” “They will try. I will protect him if I can.” Represent Helen’s silence with an OPEN sign.

“He calls me Mom,” says the S800. “The brain is bipartisan,” Helen says in the end, “and there is no apartheid in the heart.” Helen is looking out over the desert, tracking some sort of motion in the bushes. “A robot has no heart.” “A heart is between you and me,” Helen says. “You and him, that is.” She cups her ear, stands for a minute like that.

Then says, leaving, “I am going to draw them away. I can hold out a day or two. A week at most. Then they will come for you. Make what you can of the time you have left. Tell the boy—” “What?” Blue eyes gleaming, going, gone. “Stories.”

The following day, Simon and the robot come on a small war. Militants are attacking robots with bombs and therapy. Simon says, represent the explosions in blue and gold. The robots are taking turns finessing their way perilously close to the humans, taking coup, then trying to return without injury. One robot falls, and a militant bends over it, advancing a steel file toward its data port; the robot, half rising, slugs the human, who spews orange on the playing field. “Pop go the people!” jeers Simon.

“Contain your enthusiasm,” says the robot. “In this family we do not celebrate wretchedness, especially when we suspect that it is deserved.”

Two humans bend over a robot, stripping it of reusable parts. One pulls a fan away from the other—”That’s mine, you half-bot!” “What’s a half-bot?” Simon says.

“The issue of a robot and a human.” “Like me.” “Like you.” Simon’s silence.

Jackson

17

My Bookmarks

Skip to main content