Robert

Robert

When I was five years old my sister died; I didn't shed a tear. My Mother cried and my brother cried and at the funeral so many friends and extended family members gathered around some tables and chairs and wept uncontrollably for days on end. I didn't cry, because I later came to learn that I was in fact a robot.

I had suspected as much for some years. The doctors who came to see me, while my Mother sat quietly by my bedside, seemed to think that it was something to do with my brain, but they were wrong. My 'illness', as they described it, was a degradation of my neural network, the result of a failed experiment in advancing robotics and increased computational capacity. Friends and family and doctors; the pivots of my short life.

I didn't mind, of course. I knew that by studying the problems that had arisen during their experiment, the engineers who posed as doctors would be able to determine how they could improve in the next model.

Just seven years had passed since my birth, and in all that time my Mother had looked after me, cared for me, kept me safe and nurtured me. I didn't have a Father that I knew of, but such a figure was not necessary for my growth and progression. I never understood exactly why my family chose to continue with the deception that I was a real boy – it was likely that they wished to study the effects on a robotic mind that believed itself to be human – but they hadn't done enough to keep it secret.

Emotional detachment; that was the key. Robots experienced no emotion, and neither did I. It wasn't just when my sister died. I didn't laugh or feel happy or sad or angry, I just was. At school, I processed information quicker than my peers, and I knew that it scared some of them and even my teachers, so that was the next clue.

People were afraid of robots. They used them in the home to help clean up and keep kids from hurting themselves, and in the factories to make stuff. But they didn't want robots out on the streets, let alone in the schools. Robots were faster, stronger, and smarter than people; fear was the only natural reaction. The government made all the robots stay indoors under licence, which I guess was fair enough, but it made me learn not to talk about myself in public. One time we were out shopping and we met my Mother's friend. When I told her about myself she looked scared, and later on my Mother cried again.

Another time at school, another kid started teasing me and calling my a freak and I got into a fight. I hurt him so bad I drew blood and it made my head hurt to have done so. I had injured a human being, but I was protecting myself and my Mother had told me always to do so. After a few years my Mother paid for me to be home-schooled, but I didn't really see the point. Perhaps it was another of the experiments, gauging how quickly my neural network could process, store and recall data fed into it manually, rather than downloaded, like the other robots?

I was taken to see all kinds of doctors and psychiatrists and made to do tests. I liked tests, as I always seemed to pass them. Some of the doctors looked pleased with the results, others not so. My Mother remained quiet the whole time and would often cry, although I could never understand why. It all seemed to me to be part of my programming, so I didn't worry about it. I had read about doctors using robots for emotional stress testing, experimenting with the transference of human emotion onto artificial minds. This was perfectly normal.

Pretty soon, however, I started to realise that my remaining life expectancy was dwindling and I learned from the doctors that the problem was within my 'brain'. I was starting to struggle with my movement and cognitive functions, and pretty soon I found myself confined to a bed. It was all unnecessary, I was sure. I would have been satisfied sat in a chair, but they felt that a bed would be more comfortable so I didn't object. I was learning that if I kept my Mother happy then she wouldn't cry so much.

I spent a lot of time with other robots in those final months. My Mother said she felt too sad to be around me too much, and my brother was older and spending time with girls. I didn't mind, because I liked the robots we kept around the house. Our housekeeping robot was called Sally and she was really old. She was one of the first generation of humanoid robots to have been created and she spoke about how people used to behave towards robots in the old days. Sally told me that people didn't always fear robots, and treated them like useful children, making them do the boring stuff they didn't want to do. Until, that was, robots started getting too good at things, and taking their jobs, and then people got scared and the government and the scientists stepped in.

I wondered what people would think if they knew about me. I had real skin, and I bled when cut, and I could run and jump and smile. People couldn't tell to look at me that I was a robot, metal and plastic computers wrapped in a human skin. Sure, I was only an experiment, but others would follow and they would get better. As I lay in my bed, I hoped that humans would find it in their heart to love robots like myself and Sally and embrace us as friends.

So my final hours have drawn near and the room around me has filled with people. My Mother is here, sat towards the end of my bed, welcoming and greeting the friends, family and doctors (engineers, surely?) who come to see me before my neural networks disengage. My brother lurks in the corner of the room, unable to control his own tears. For once my Mother is holding up well on that front; I suspect she knows that my death will not be in vain. She even manages a brief smile in my direction and tells me that she thinks I am brave.

Brave. A strange concept, given the circumstances. Death is inevitable for all humans, and eventually even the best built robot must come to the end of its functional existence. My passing should be no more strange or fearsome than that of a hundred year old human. There is little bravery involved, that much is certain. I'm connected by wires and probes to a small bank of computer monitors behind, out of my view. A quiet, rhythmic beeping noise monitoring my cognitive functions, no doubt.

Finally, my vision begins to fade and slowly the friends and family and doctors filter from the room. Only my Mother and my brother remain. Tears streak their faces while I smile back. The beeping gets slower and a quiet alarm now sounds from the computer station. I feel nothing, but I tell my Mother and even my brother that I love them deeply. Perhaps it is even true. I briefly feel a sharp stab of pain in my chest.

As my vision fogs and my dreams fade, my Mother cries, and my eyes turn towards darkness.