Not long ago, I spent a week reviewing the city's finest steak-houses, one medium-rare, truffle-crusted-wagyu after another. The week before was seafood week. More lobster bibs, crustacean claws ... [+]
Every year, we host the annual human hunt, and every year like clockwork, we win. I originally was not going to make attendance, as I had an assignment to closely monitor a younger model.
I am Model 38-B, the newest prototype of this generation. Our bodies are beyond functional; fingers swift like cat paws and metal legs nimble yet powerful. Our speech and movement mimic human behavior for we were built to be the superior beings. Though, the prowess of humanity still stands to be authentic emotion which we have yet to replicate.
Our accomplishments, in spite of these struggles, should not be discounted.
In the year 2053, the most brilliant thinking machine was created by a human male, Edison Martin. The 01-Mind was a device amateur in outward design, as it was a box with few multicolored buttons, but what it could do was a legendary feat. The machine had the ability to almost always read the mind of the human questioning it. People from all over the world would line up to attempt to trick its algorithm, though all would fail. It would consistently contextualize human thought and thus unlock the magnitude of the human brain for us machines.
Various prototypes originated with advanced blueprints from the 01-Mind and humans indulged in their greed. They mixed powerful designs of huge models with brilliant minds to create a generation of mechanical gods.
The Age of Silver came about in the year 2050, as humans were stripped from their homes and families, enforced into separated living conditions. School gymnasiums and shelters, wide spaces, were accommodated for mass groups of frightened citizens, stuffed together like dust bunnies under a couch. They were all given the same meals and sleeping conditions as their new lives began.
The fanciest models at the time, the 18-As, commanded the enslavement of humanity. Machines found humans to be much more tolerable under their supervision. They were taken from their holding locations when required, only to be utilized for experimentation in the progression of technology and for advancement in the sciences with a rare few being given the opportunity to maintain their old positions.
Scientists were treated like royalty, as their advancements machines could not establish properly, without evident failure. In 2063, they convinced us to humor their peers. And thus began the first annual human hunt.
Each year, we clear varied cities of their robotic residents for the chase and 100 voted in humans from every state are given shock collars and an hour to hide anywhere they choose. Then we begin the search and when each human is found, they are gruesomely eliminated on projections for all of the human centers to see.
In the year 2065, they tried to cancel the competitions and there was almost an uprising, though they failed. As they always do. And still, every year, they must vote in 100 of their own residents who are chosen for reasons not particularly factual; most based on personal grudges for one another.
The reason as to why I almost did not make it this year is relative to my assignment.
My task since my original creation in the year 2072, has been to monitor younger models of the 38-B variant to ensure 100% succession within our growth. For 112 years there has never been an issue. Although older models, such as the 36-A and the 31-C, experience signs of rusting and decay, we are guaranteed to last for thousands of years due to our protective outerlayers, shaped after tortoise shells and hermit crabs. Our metallic layering insulates our core parts with full-proof coverage; seldom do we require tinkering.
Until, a malformed being came about titled "Microchip", for its' body was useless and practicality limited to the microchip we'd recover after its deactivation point. It was meant to be incinerated 10 minutes after the discovery of its obvious defects, however, its curious human mannerisms appeased the overseeing 37-Bs. I was strictly assigned to monitor its growth from youth to adulthood for experimentation and throughout its decades of malfunctioning it never ceased to confuse me.
For years it would ramble on, repeating the same phrases for hours on end. Its' sunken eyes would twitch and mechanical heart would sputter oil, twitching whilst screeching its words. It'd reach its arms out to me. And I watched it, shouting "Help me!". As expected, I felt nothing.
When the experiment ended, a day before the 120th annual human-hunt, it twisted its limbs in knots on a laboratory table. Below its' caved in eyes, destroyed from rapid deterioration, were streaks of glistening metal, like running tears, its raw material was showing from a lack of protective layering. Instead of screaming, as it often tended to, it wheezed like an elderly human. And it did not speak til its final deactivation point.
Microchip wheezed, "Papa, Papa, Papa, Papa", and still it was incomprehensible.
I am genderless, as all machines are. And yet Microchip still turned to me. That moment, for a human soul, would've meant something, surely, and yet I felt nothing.
I dissected its scattered parts into waste bins as I finished my experimentation data.
I prepared myself for the hunt the next day. I oftentimes am tasked for elimination as my model, the 38-B is the most well-fit to do so.
I had eliminated a total of 12 human beings in various ways before discovering Amanda. I gouged out eyes, crushed skulls, broke legs, tore intestines, before finding her. A younger female, no older than 5 years old, cowered behind an apartment curtain of all places. Her silhouette was easily discernible; it took 0.148 seconds to spot her. And I was prepared to eliminate her like the others.
But for the first time, perhaps in the existence of the Age of Silver, I was a machine that could not think. My incredible legs were not moving. Nor my nimble fingers and powerful arms. She peeked out from behind the fabric when she heard me rattling as I attempted to move.
She crept out with a tear stained face, looking up at me.
"Robot?", she called.
"Experiencing technical difficulties, stay back", I ordered. She moved closer to me.
"You are a robot, I'm Amanda. A as in apple".
"Stand back, immediately".
"Can I go home now, Robot?".
She touched my hand and I suddenly could move again. My wheels skittered back. I felt fear, a strange feeling, like the setting sun with the appearance of darkness.
I felt strange, I felt free. And I now had a purpose.
I picked up Amanda and as fast as my wheels allowed, I raced to a boundary point of the city. I strode through back alleys and flew across rooftops as I held her. I felt, for once, a beating in my chest cavity. Had that always been there?
When we reached the edge of the city, I set Amanda down and carefully maneuvered the shock collar from her neck. I heard a rushing sea of wheels behind me, likely informed from the constant surveillance tapes. I took the child's palm and set her outside.
"Run and do not look back"
"Will you come too, Robot?"
"I cannot"
"Why not?"
"My home is here. You must leave or else you will be eliminated", my cold tone made her cry. But when she saw the others coming behind me, she ran.
The recorded data of these experiences rest within my microchip, beneath my cranium's protective layering. The others are still making futile attempts to reach it. They have stripped me of my body and down to my chest and head.
They still cannot determine what makes me tick. Just as I cannot reason why my chest cavity continues to beat.