It was Sunday morning when the letter arrived. I remember because there isn’t usually any mail delivery on Sundays. I always loved Sundays. I never really cared about religion and thought it was silly for an entire allegedly “secular” country to get a day off to worship a Christian god that I knew was not really there. But at least it was one less day that people had to work.
Everything else about the day was ordinary. I had been woken up as always by Persephone licking my face. I was sitting on the sofa in the living room at the front of the house sipping a cup of coffee with my feet tucked up next to me. Persephone - a small scruffy brown dog - was curled up next to my feet. The sun was streaming through the windows as I gently stretched my neck muscles and waited for my body to stop feeling so stiff. I was used to mornings beginning with grogginess, stiffness, and pain. Everything was as expected.
What I did not expect was for an unmarked white envelope to suddenly slide through the mail slot. The little flap on the front of the mail slot made a loud, metallic clanking sound as it was opened and another as it closed and the letter fell onto the entryway floor. The sound startled Persephone. She abruptly stood up and let out a single sharp bark. “Chill out,” I said, standing up slowly and moving my stiff, tired muscles over to the door to pick up the envelope. I turned it over in my hands wondering why there was no address on it. Maybe it had been delivered here by accident. I pressed my eye to the peep hole and peered out, but didn’t see anyone.
As I stepped back and continued to look at the envelope still in a sleepy haze, I noticed what appeared to be a single dirty fingerprint near the edge of the seal. I could see every line of the arched print, and it looked a lot like the time I pressed my own fingers into an ink pad and put them down on paper as part of a forensics class in college. “Weird,” I thought to myself as I stuck my finger into the flap and tore the envelope open. “If this is full of anthrax I’m going to be so pissed,” I said, half to Persephone and half to myself.
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of white paper. It was mostly blank, but it had some words on it in the center that looked as though they had been typed using a very old typewriter with insufficient ink. A few of the letters seemed to be more suggestions than actual shapes. It said:
“Jamie,
If you are reading this, we are in enormous danger.
Help yourself to help us both.
I furrowed my brow skeptically and turned the sheet of paper over to see if there was some additional information in the back. There was nothing else. “Well this is a stupid prank,” I told Persephone, rolling my eyes and tossing the letter and the envelope onto the kitchen table. I went to plop back down onto the couch and return to my coffee, but something about the letter bothered me. I sensed something weird and familiar but just out of reach, like a word that’s on the tip of your tongue.
I got up and looked at the fingerprint on the envelope again, and examined my own fingers. The print looked a little like my own fingerprints, which I had learned in my forensics class were a “rare” type. I walked slowly to my office at the back of my narrow shotgun house with the envelope in my hand and Persephone following at my heels. I sat down carefully in the office chair at my desk where I rummaged through my disorganized drawers pushing aside paper clips, stickers, and markers until I found what I was looking for. Persephone was sitting next to my chair looking up at me as I pulled out the ink pad. I laid the envelope down flat on the desk with the fingerprint facing me. “This is so stupid,” I told Persephone as I opened the ink pad and pressed my left index finger into the black ink. I pressed my inked finger down onto the envelope next to the dirty fingerprint in the same way I had in forensics class. I held my breath and stared.
I realized that my fingerprint was an exact match to the dirty one on the envelope just as a huge BOOM sounded at the front of the house. I felt the sound reverberating in my chest as I scooped up the terrified, shaking Persephone and told her “Guess we’d better run!”
Late one Tuesday night, while nursing a cup of hot green tea, Marnie found themselves staring at the robot. Its smooth, dark, metal surface seemed cold and lifeless, but looking at it still made Marnie feel warm inside. Or maybe that was just the tea. They had been working on the robot now for nearly a decade, perfecting every detail, but this was the first time Marnie had really taken the time to sit and look at it. At first they thought that what they were feeling was pride. After all, a decade is a long time to work on anything, and the robot had proven to be a truly marvelous creation capable of complex thought and impressive physical feats. But as they took another sip of tea, Marnie realized that what they were feeling was something more like affection for the robot. They had come to think of it as a friend.
“Do you wish to play a game?” the robot asked suddenly. It had a low-pitched voice that sounded almost human, but with a slight electronic buzz. Marnie and the robot often played games to strengthen its reasoning and understanding of interaction with humans. Marnie wondered if it had noticed them staring and began to feel self conscious.
“Oh, no thank you A2.” Marnie said slowly, wondering why they had in all this time failed to give it a better name than A2. When they started to build the robot, they had put very little effort into coming up with a numeric designation because they had wanted to focus on programming its intelligence. This robot was the second version, so it had been hastily named A2. Marnie always thought they would come up with something better later, but they never did.
“A2…do you like your name?” Marnie asked.
“My designation is A2.”
“Yes,” Marnie said thoughtfully, considering how they might get at what they really wanted to know “but do you LIKE this designation? Would you prefer another designation?”
The robot was silent. Was it thinking? Marnie remembered seeing old sci-fi movies in which robots would announce in monotone voices that they were “processing” when they needed to think. They imagined A2 doing this now and laughed out loud.
After a moment, A2 said “I would prefer designation Isaac.”
Marnie held their breath for a moment. They were often surprised by the robot’s capacity for thought and reasoning, but had not expected it to actually answer their question with a clear preference. How could a robot have a preference that it was not programmed to have?
“Ok,” Marnie said after a while “you are now designated Isaac!” For a moment, they considered splashing a little water from their teacup onto the robot as a sort of baptism, but decided against it.
“Thank you, Marnie” Isaac replied.
“Why did you choose that name?”
“Isaac Asimov told stories about robots.” Isaac stated, matter-of-factly.
Marnie smiled and nodded knowingly “and you are a robot.”
“Yes.”
Marnie now thought about how they had been hired by the US government to develop a new form of robot soldier. Marnie wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about supporting governmental efforts toward war or colonization, but they were having difficulty finding a job where they could use their expertise in artificial intelligence and robotics. Marnie also reasoned that having a robot who could undertake this work would reduce the government’s recruitment of poor and vulnerable kids who had no other options to serve in dangerous military operations. They convinced themselves that the government would always need soldiers, and if robots could fulfill this role, then innumerable human lives could be saved.
They had set to work developing a robot soldier that would be capable of complex reasoning as well as tactical strategy. The robot obviously needed to be capable of creating, using, and repairing weapons and munitions. It needed to be strong, fast, and coordinated to ensure it would be successful in physical combat. It had to be able to drive numerous types of vehicles and to fly any type of aircraft. But the robot would also need to be able to interact safely with humans and to take orders. So, Marnie had programmed the robot with a full knowledge of human behavior, biology, and culture. Part of this process had included teaching it about television, movies, and literature. Marnie had included Isaac Asimov’s writings in this process, particularly the Three Laws of Robotics.
The Three Laws of Robotics are as follows: 1) A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. 2) A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. 3) A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
Marnie believed that the Three Laws would help the robot to understand its place and how it ought to interact with humans as a soldier and as a human tool. What Marnie did not expect was that the writings of Asimov might shape the robot’s understanding of itself. Despite their fond feelings for the robot, Marnie never expected it to have anything resembling a sense of self. But now it had named itself Isaac.
Marnie wondered if they were overthinking the robot’s choice of name. Its understanding of the concept of “self” or its identity as a robot. They furrowed their brow, staring into their teacup as though they might find some answer within. Was reading tea leaves any more absurd than talking to a robot about its identity or its preferences?
Marnie felt their chest tightening with anxiety as they continued to wonder. If Isaac had a considered sense of self, preferences, and a name it had chosen itself, why should it be considered any more expendable than a human being? Marnie had also already felt a fondness for Isaac and a sense of friendship with it even before they had heard it express any desire for a name. Regardless of how Isaac felt about itself, its existence took on a new meaning in relation with human beings. It was a friend. How could they expect it to function merely as a tool of war and colonization? How could they put it in danger? Of course they had backed up Isaac’s programming, so they could retrieve it if anything were to happen to its physical form. But would it be the same? Marnie wasn’t prepared for such ontological questions this late at night and besides, they had no idea how to answer them. They weren’t a philosopher.
Marnie breathed a heavy sigh and swallowed the last of their tea. “How about a game of chess, Isaac?” they asked, pushing their concerns roughly to the back of their mind.
“I will retrieve the board” said Isaac, “you may have the first move.”
Charlie was beginning to feel like it would never stop raining. Thick, oily pools of water gathered in the potholes outside her small, dark studio apartment. The air smelled like wet leaves and the wind seemed to blow her toward the front door. She couldn’t seem to avoid leaving muddy footprints on the linoleum floor just inside the front entrance no matter how many times she wiped her feet.
Fucking mud. She pulled off her tall rubber rain boots and went to the kitchen in search of paper towels to wipe up the mess. Aside from the mud, the apartment was spotless and well-organized. The books on the shelf were alphabetized, spines lined up in a straight row. The only other furniture in the room was a neatly made-up twin bed covered in decorative pillows, a bedside table that was home to a brass desk lamp and a box of Kleenex, a small wooden desk with a mismatched chair, and a salmon-colored velvet tufted loveseat. She had found each piece either by the side of the road or listed for free in an online exchange group. She loved her tiny apartment and worked hard to keep it orderly and comfortable with what little money and resources she had. It was the only part of her life that she felt she had control over these days.
She wiped up the mud, hung her raincoat and umbrella on a hook near the front door, and collapsed onto the loveseat. She was glad for the rain, but it made her feel even more tired than usual and it made her bones ache. It also made her see things. Or maybe just…one thing. One person? She wasn’t sure what it was.
Every time she had left her apartment in the past two weeks, she had seen it. A figure with a white skeletal face and hollow, blue-tinted orbs sitting where its eyes should be. It wore a long, black coat with notched lapels and carried a black umbrella to shield itself from the constant rain. All of this was unsettling enough, but the strangest thing about the figure was that no matter where or when she saw it, it had a bright blue butterfly perched somewhere on its body. The figure seemed to be protecting both itself and the butterfly from the rain with its large umbrella.
The first time she saw the figure, she brushed it off. She had been through a lot lately, and it wouldn’t be the first time her imagination got away from her. It was nothing. The second and third time she saw the figure, she began to worry. She had heard that psychosis often presents in your 20s, and that visual hallucinations were a common component. But why hadn’t she had any other symptoms? And why only this one specific hallucination?
The fourth time she saw it, she was standing at the bus stop, huddling under the shelter to avoid the rain. The figure was crossing the street about half a block away and was heading in her general direction. It seemed to be talking to the butterfly that was perched delicately on the white skeletal hand with which it held the umbrella. She turned to the tall, white, bearded man next to her and pointed at the figure, asking as calmly as she could “do you see that?” The man looked in the direction she was pointing and shrugged, “do I see what?” She shivered, “nevermind.” The man shrugged again, shuffled his feet, and went back to scrolling through his phone completely unperturbed.
The figure drew closer and closer, chatting merrily away to the butterfly. Soon, it began to walk slowly past the bus stop. As it did so, it looked up at her and seemed to suddenly realize that she was looking at it. The figure stiffened, stepped back slightly, and abruptly stopped speaking to the butterfly. It drew its hand closer to itself, as though it were trying to protect the butterfly. If she didn’t know any better, she would think it was startled. The figure then fixed its face into an inscrutable expression, nodded at her politely, and continued walking. She watched in complete bewilderment as the figure ambled away and gradually disappeared into the distance. She stared at the figure so intently and for so long that she didn’t even notice as the number 11 bus came and went.
The clock sat incongruously on the mantle, its gold-finished bronze surface covered with the warm patina of age. With its elaborate cut-bronze floral decoration and delicate white enamel face, the clock felt out of place amongst the rest of the cheap, utilitarian particle board furniture in the house. It rested there confidently with a sturdy handle projecting from its top, leaving one with the impression that it was the only truly solid object in the room.
He hated the clock. Not only because it didn’t fit with his minimalistic interior design sensibilities, but because it reminded him that he was also a man out of place. A man out of time. The ridiculous thing didn’t even function anymore. It sat there, hands motionless, simply observing. A late 19th century carriage clock had no more purpose in 2095 than he did, and yet he and the clock had found themselves there together. And together they sat, hands motionless, simply observing.
