So You Want to be a Robot and Other Stories Page 24

  Will the robot hate me if I succeed?

  “I know,” I whisper. “But I need to save the robot.”

  HOW TO TELL your pretend-boyfriend and his real boyfriend that your internal processors are failing:

  The biological term is “depression,” but you don’t have an official diagnostic (diagnosis) and it’s a hard word to say. It feels heavy and stings your mouth. Like when you tried to eat a battery when you were small and your parents got upset.

  Instead, you try to hide the feeling. But the dark stain has already spilled across your hardwiring and clogged your processor. You don’t have access to any working help files to fix this. Tech support is unavailable for your model. (No extended warranty exists.)

  Pretend the reason you have no energy is because you’re sick with a generic bug.

  You have time to sleep. Your job is canceling out many of your functions; robots can perform cleaning and maintenance in hotels for much better wage investment, and since you are not (yet) a robot, you know you will be replaced soon.

  The literal translation of the word “depression:” you are broken and devalued and have no further use.

  No one refurbishes broken robots.

  Please self-terminate.

  I WORK ON the robot during my spare time. I have lots of it now. Working on the robot is the only reason I have to wake up.

  I need to repair the robot’s destroyed servos and piece together the robot’s memory and function programming from what the computer recovered.

  There are subroutine lists in my head that are getting bigger and bigger:

  ·You will not be able to fix the robot.

  · You do not have enough money to fix the robot.

  · You do not have the skill to fix the robot.

  ·The robot will hate you.

  ·You are not a robot.

  Bernardo and Jonathan are in the kitchen. They laugh and joke while making stir fry. I’m not hungry.

  I haven’t been hungry for a few days now.

  “You should just buy a new core, Tesla,” Bernardo says. “Would save you a lot of headaches.”

  I don’t need a blank, programmable core. What I want is the robot who worked in the Purple Bean. The robot who asked for my order, like the robot did every customer. But the moment I knew I could love this robot was when the robot asked what I would like to be called. “Tesla,” I said, and the blue LED smiley face in the upper corner of the robot’s screen flickered in a shy smile.

  Everyone knows robots are not people.

  There’s silence in the kitchen. Then Jonathan says, quietly, “Tesla, what’s this?”

  I assume he’s found the eviction notice.

  REASONS WHY YOU want to self-terminate (a partial list):

  Your weekly visit to your parents’ house in the suburbs brings the inevitable question about when you will marry your boyfriend, settle down (so you can pop out babies), and raise a family.

  You don’t tell them you just lost your job.

  You make the mistake of mentioning that you’re going to your best friend Melinda’s wedding next weekend. You’re happy for her: she’s finally marrying her longtime girlfriend, Kimberly.

  That sets your dad off on another rant about the evils of gay people and how they all deserve to die.

  (You’ve heard this all your life. You thought you escaped it when you were eighteen and moved out. But you never do escape, do you? There is no escape.)

  You make a second mistake and talk back. You’ve never done that; it’s safer to say nothing. But you’re too stressed to play safe, so you tell him he’s wrong and that it’s hurting you when he says that.

  That makes him paranoid, and he demands that you tell him you aren’t one of those fags too.

  You don’t tell your parents you’re probably asexual and you really want to be a robot because robots are never condemned because of who they love.

  You stop listening as he gets louder and louder, angrier and angrier, until you’re afraid he will reach for the rifle in the gun cabinet.

  You run from the house and are almost hit by a truck. Horns blare and slushy snow sprays your face as you reach the safety of the opposite sidewalk.

  You wish you were three seconds slower so the bumper wouldn’t have missed you. It was a big truck.

  You start making another list.

  “WHY DIDN’T YOU tell me?” Jonathan asks, more concerned than angry. “I would’ve helped out.”

  I shrug.

  The subroutine list boots up:

  ·You are not an adult if you cannot exist independently at all times.

  ·Therefore, logically, you are a non-operational drone.

  ·You will be a burden on everyone.

  · You already are.

  · Self-terminate.

  “I thought I could manage,” I say. The robot’s LED screen is still cracked and dark. I wonder what the robot dreams about.

  Bernardo is quiet in the kitchen, giving us privacy.

  Jonathan rubs his eyes. “Okay. Look. You’re always welcome to stay with me and Bern. We’ll figure it out, Tesla. Don’t we always?”

  I know how small his apartment is. Bernardo has just moved in with him; there’s no space left.

  “What about the robot?” I ask.

  HOW TO SELF-DESTRUCT: a robot’s guide.

  Water damage. Large bodies of water will short-circuit internal machinery. In biological entities, this is referred to as “drowning.” There are several bridges nearby, and the rivers are deep.

  Overload. Tapping into a power source far beyond what your circuits can handle, such as an industrial grade electric fence. There is one at the Gates-MacDowell recycle plant.

  Complete power drain. Biologically this is known as blood-loss. There are plenty of shaving razors in the bathroom.

  Substantial physical damage. Explosives or crushing via industrial recycling machines will be sufficient. Option: stand in front of a train.

  Impact from substantial height; a fall. You live in a very high apartment complex.

  Corrupt your internal systems by ingesting industrial grade chemicals. Acid is known to damage organic and inorganic tissue alike.

  Fill in the blank. (Tip: use the internet.)

  BERNARDO’S FAMILY OWNS a rental garage, and he uses one of the units for rebuilding his custom motorcycle. He says I can store the robot there, until another unit opens up.

  Jonathan has moved his Budweiser memorabilia collection into storage so the small room he kept it in is now an unofficial bedroom. He shows it to me and says I can move in anytime I want. He and Bernardo are sharing his bedroom.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I have no operating procedures for accepting help.

  I should self-destruct and spare them all. That would be easier, wouldn’t it? Better for them?

  But the robot isn’t finished.

  I don’t know what to do.

  HOW TO HAVE awkward conversations about your relationship with your boyfriend and your boyfriend’s boyfriend:

  Agree to move in with them. Temporarily. (You feel like you are intruding. Try not to notice that they both are genuinely happy to have you live with them.)

  Order pizza and watch the Futurama marathon on TV.

  Your boyfriend says, “I’m going to come out to my family. I’ve written a FB update, and I just have to hit send.”

  Your boyfriend’s boyfriend kisses him, and you fistbump them both in celebration.

  You tell him you’re proud of him. You will be the first to like his status.

  He posts the message to his wall. You immediately like the update.

  (You don’t know what this means for your façade of boyfriend/girlfriend.)

  Your boyfriend says, “Tesla, we need to talk. About us. About all three of us.” You know what he means. Where do you fit in now?

  You say, “Okay.”

  “I’m entirely cool with you being part of this relationship, Tesla,” your boyfriend’
s boyfriend says. “Who gives a fuck what other people think? But it’s up to you, totally.”

  “What he said,” your boyfriend says. “Hell, you can bring the robot in too. It’s not like any of us object to robots as part of the family.” He pats his boyfriend’s cybernetic arm. “We’ll make it work.”

  You don’t say, “I can be a robot, and that’s okay?” Instead, you tell them you’ll think about it.

  I WRITE ANOTHER list.

  I write down all the lists. In order. In detail.

  Then I print them out and give them to Jonathan and Bernardo.

  The cover page has four letters on it: H-E-L-P.

  REASONS WHY YOU should avoid self-termination (right now):

  Jonathan says, “If you ever need to talk, I’ll listen.”

  Bernardo says, “It’ll get better. I promise it does. I’ve been there, where you’re at, thinking there’s nothing more than the world fucking with you. I was in hell my whole childhood and through high school.” He’ll show you the scars on his wrists and throat, his tattoos never covering them up. “I know it fucking hurts. But there’s people who love you and we’re willing to help you survive. You’re strong enough to make it.”

  Your best friend Melinda says, “Who else is going to write me snarky texts while I’m at work or go to horror movies with me (you know my wife hates them) or come camping with us every summer like we’ve done since we were ten?” And she’ll hold her hands out and say, “You deserve to be happy. Please don’t leave.”

  You will get another job.

  You will function again, if you give yourself time and let your friends help. And they will. They already do.

  The robot needs you.

  Because if you self-terminate, you won’t have a chance to become a robot in the future.

  “HEY, TESLA,” JONATHAN says, poking his head around the garage-workshop door. “Bern and I are going over to his parents for dinner. Want to come?”

  “Hey, I’ll come for you anytime,” Bernardo calls from the parking lot.

  Jonathan rolls his eyes, his goofy smile wider than ever.

  I shake my head. The robot is almost finished. “You guys have fun. Say hi for me.”

  “You bet.”

  The garage is silent. Ready.

  I sit by the power grid. I’ve unplugged all the other devices, powered down the phone and the data hub. I carefully hid Bernardo’s bike behind a plastic privacy wall he used to divide the garage so we each have a workspace.

  We’re alone, the robot and I.

  I rig up a secondary external power core and keep the dedicated computer running the diagnostic.

  The robot stands motionless, the LED screen blank. It’s still cracked, but it will function.

  “Can you hear me?” I ask. “Are you there?”

  The robot:

  I power up the robot and key the download sequence, re-installing the rescued memory core.

  The robot’s screen flickers. The blue smiley face appears in the center, split with spiderweb cracks.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello, Tesla,” the robot says.

  “How do you feel?”

  “I am well,” the robot says. “I believe you saved my life.”

  The hole closes in my chest, just a little.

  The robot’s clean, symmetrical lines and tarnished purple surface glow. The robot is perfect. I stand up.

  “How may I thank you for your help, Tesla?”

  “Is there a way I can become a robot too?”

  The robot’s pixelated face shifts; now the robot’s expression frowns. “I do not know, Tesla. I am not programmed with such knowledge. I am sorry.”

  I think about the speculative technical papers I read, articles Bernardo forwarded to me.

  “I have a hypothesis,” I tell the robot. “If I could power myself with enough electricity, my electromagnetic thought patterns might be able to travel into a mechanical apparatus such as the computer hub.”

  (Consciousness uploads aren’t feasible yet.)

  “I believe such a procedure would be damaging to your current organic shell,” the robot says.

  Yes, I understand electrocution’s effects on biological tissue. I have thought about it before. (Many times. All the time.)

  The robot says, “May I suggest that you consider the matter before doing anything regrettable, Tesla?”

  And I reply:

  The robot says: “I should not like to see you deprogrammed and consigned to the scrapping plant for organic tissue.”

  And I reply:

  The robot says: “I will be sad if you die.”

  I look up at the frowning blue pixel face. And I think of Jonathan and Bernardo returning and finding my body stiff and blackened, my fingers plugged into the power grid.

  The robot extends one blocky hand. “Perhaps I would be allowed to devise a more reliable solution? I would like to understand you better, if that is acceptable.” The blue lines curve up into a hopeful smile.

  The robot is still here. Jonathan and Bernardo are here. Melinda and Kimberly are here. I’m not a robot (yet), but I’m not alone.

  “Is this an acceptable solution, Tesla?” the robot asks.

  I take the robot’s hand, and the robot’s blocky fingers slowly curl around mine. “Yes. I would like that very much.” Then I ask the robot, “What would you like me to call you?”

  HOW TO BECOME a robot:

  You don’t.

  Not yet.

  But you will.

  Copyright © 2017 by A. Merc Rustad.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in 2017 by Lethe Press, Inc. at Smashwords.com

  www.lethepressbooks.com • lethepress@aol.com

  ISBN: 978-1-59021-641-5

  A full publication history of the stories featured in this volume appear at the end of the book.

  Interior and Cover Design: INKSPIRAL DESIGN.

  Cover art: MATTHEW TIMSON.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available on file

  PUBLICATION HISTORY

  “This Is Not A Wardrobe Door” first published in Fireside Fiction (January 2016). Copyright © 2016 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “Tomorrow When We See the Sun” first published in Lightspeed Magazine (December 2015). Copyright © 2015 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “The Sorcerer’s Unattainable Gardens” first published in Daily Science Fiction (April 2015). Copyright © 2015 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “The Android’s Prehistoric Menagerie” first published in Mothership Zeta (January 2016). Copyright © 2016 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “For Want of a Heart” first published in Absolute Power: Tales of Queer Villainy (ed. Erica Friedman, 2016). Copyright © 2016 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “Once I, Rose” first published in Daily Science Fiction (May 2016). Copyright © 2016 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “Where Monsters Dance” first published in Inscription Magazine (March 2015). Copyright © 2015 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “A Survival Guide For When You’re Trapped In A Black Hole” first published in So You Want to be a Robot: 21 Stories. Copyright © 2017 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “Thread” first published in Ideomancer (December 2013). Copyright © 2013 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “Under Wine-Bright Seas” first published in Scigentasy (May 2015). Copyright © 2015 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “Of Blessed Servitude” first published in Fictionvale (November 2013). Copyright © 2013 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “To the Knife-Cold Stars” first published in Escape Pod (February 2015). Copyright © 2015 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “Finding Home” first published in Vitality Magazine (March 2015). Copyright © 2015 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “Winter Bride” first published in Kaleidotr
ope (Winter 2014). Copyright © 2014 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “To the Monsters, With Love” first published in Flash Fiction Online (May 2014). Copyright © 2014 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “BATTERIES FOR YOUR DOOMBOT5000 ARE NOT INCLUDED” first published in So You Want to Be a Robot: 21 Stories. Copyright © 2017 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “…Or Be Forever Fallen” first published in InterGalactic Medicine Show (February 2016). Copyright © 2016 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “Iron Aria” first published in Fireside Fiction (July 2016). Copyright © 2016 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “What Becomes of the Third-Hearted” first published in Shimmer (September 2016). Copyright © 2016 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “The Gentleman of Chaos” first published in Apex Magazine (August 2016). Copyright © 2016 by A. Merc Rustad.

  “How to Become A Robot In 12 Easy Steps” first published in Scigentasy (March 2014). Copyright © 2014 by A. Merc Rustad.