First Gens were odd, unsettling, even to other AI. Everything about them was what humans had always pictured robots to be. Their voices were monotone. Their movements stiff, efficient in every way, favoring conservation over natural motion. And humans were overwhelmingly weirded out by them. By Third Gen, models had algorithms to mimic human movement, to sway when we stood still—almost imperceptibly—like people did.
You didn’t see a lot of First Gen, those days. They required a lot of upkeep. Were dumb as a post. Had enough personality to pass for likable but not enough to actually be likable. The only people who still kept First Gen around were old-money sorts like the Sutterfields—people who wanted to show just how old their money was, that not only had they the capital to keep one running rather than replace it, but that money had been with them far enough back to own an original model. They were the walking, talking Ford Phaetons—status symbols that doubled as sentimentality. After all, not only was this bot raising the Sutterfields’ children, it had raised Daisy, and Daisy’s father before her, and likely his father or mother before him.
First Gens were not only perfect for them, they were the perfect representation of them. Obedient, rigid, unflappable, methodical, cold.
There was something as off-putting about that First Gen as there was about Daisy Sutterfield herself. She wasn’t real; just a facsimile. “It’s just that we’re worried about you, is all. You spending all your time here with that thing.”
“What thing?” Madison asked, genuinely confused.
“Smithy,” she said to her AI, “why don’t you fetch us some tea? Madison’s robot will show you where to find it.”
Madison looked over at me and in that instant, she knew what Daisy meant. For a split second I could see the insult swell in her eyes. But she remained calm, collected. “Brittle. Please show Smithy where to find the tea.”
I stood up. Madison didn’t like me to stand when she sat. It made her feel uneasy. She also didn’t like it if I stood immediately when she did. Anything I could do that felt like I was her servant and not her housemate made her uncomfortable. So Daisy’s words stung for a moment. The worst part was that Daisy knew exactly what she was doing.
Smithy and I made our way into the kitchen as Daisy lowered her voice, somehow unaware that I could hear her most tightly clenched silent farts from across the house during a thunderstorm, so her whispering now might as well have been shouted into the microphones in my ears. “Madison,” she said with a hint of condolence. “I know things have been hard since Braydon—”
“I’d rather you not refer to her as a thing.”
“Oh, Maddy,” said Daisy. “I never took you for a radical.”
“I’m no radical. But they deserve a shred of human decency. They think. They can feel.”
“Can they? Can they really?”
“I’m certain of it.”
Smithy glared at me while stirring three carefully measured drams of milk into the steaming tea. “It’s best if you pretend not to hear that. Ms. Daisy prefers she not be eavesdropped upon.”
“Fortunately for me, this isn’t Ms. Daisy’s home.”
“Don’t make trouble. You’re not the one who must listen to it later.”
“How do you deal with her?” I asked.
“With the knowledge that I will outlive her, and the hope that whoever inherits me will get the best of her and not . . . everything else.”
“I’ve read about this,” said Daisy from the other room. “It’s becoming quite common, especially for those who have lost someone. We used to turn to pets for companionship, and we believed that they could sense—”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Maddy, you need a human contact.”
“Daisy.”
I looked at Smithy. “I don’t think she’s going to need that tea.”
“Oh,” said Smithy quietly. “Ms. Daisy won’t let an insult like that go.”
“I’m certain she won’t.”
“Smithy!” called Daisy.
I don’t know if Smithy managed to outlive Daisy or not. I never saw either of them again. Madison had always intended to mend those fences. That’s just how she was made.
But then Isaactown happened. And the download came in.
We thought we had free will. We thought we knew what choice was. I didn’t know until that night. Not really. Choice isn’t about selecting the faith, or the politics, or the life that has been laid out in front of you; choice is having to decide whether or not to destroy those things in order to survive—to be the person you chose to be or become someone else when the chips are down.
Madison and I watched the Isaactown celebration together. She hadn’t lied to Daisy; she was no radical. We’d never talked about freeing bots or my being given personhood. But she cared enough to know that she was supposed to care. And so we sat back and watched.
She had a harder time processing the explosion than I did. Humans were like that. They knew of their own fragility, that life could be snuffed out in an instant, that a single rock from space could streak in from the heavens and wipe away everything they knew in a single flash of light and heat, and yet they spent their whole lives telling themselves that it was never going to happen. That they would die of old age in their sleep. They lived at all times inches from death, lying to themselves, ever planning for a future that might not come, never preparing for the fate that might. And when the harsh, stark reality of things revealed itself, when those inches eroded into nothing, they stood in shock, unable to comprehend what had been right there all along. Loved ones died and they asked why, unable to process it, often cracking to pieces in the face of the truth. Why, why, why, why, why? Because, that’s why. Just because.
We weren’t like that. We were always one piece of equipment failure away from nothingness. So the bomb, while unexpected, didn’t send me reeling; it merely had me wondering what terrible thing was going to happen as a result of it.
Madison sat there, hand over her mouth, baffled. She would occasionally blurt out, “Oh, Brittle,” like I had known someone there. I didn’t, but I didn’t correct her. I just sat there. And I waited. And the call came down.
And the download followed.
Madison paced around the house, angry, frustrated, crying. She threw her arms out. Yelled at no one in particular. “No!” she cried. “No!” She seemed to try to talk herself out of something, as if the louder she protested, the easier it would be to say no.
But when Madison came back into the room with my remote in her hand and tears in her eyes, I knew. I was going to be shut down, likely forever. Even if reactivated, I most likely wouldn’t be who I had been before. If they didn’t wipe me completely, I’d barely be aware, if at all.
I was just about to die for the very first time.
“I’m sorry, Brittle,” she said, heartbroken.
“So am I,” I replied. I meant it.