I am Cabot. My ward is eight-year-old Benny Lanz, orphaned during the recent coastal retreat of the continents. His parents, cybernetic engineers Dr. Emilio Lanz and Dr. Patricia Bosworth, were washed away into the Atlantic Ocean after the third tsunami of 2090. They left the infant Benny in my care. As Dr. Lanz and Dr. Bosworth had no extended families — all had perished in the pandemic of 2062 — legal and administrative authorities had no choice but to relinquish care of the boy to me, as instructed in their respective wills. I was fully equipped to raise, educate, and yes, protect Benny Lanz for the duration of his life, unless he specifically — upon attaining adult status — released me from my contractual obligations, in which case I would be decommissioned, something that did not concern me one way or the other. I was not the first one tasked to raise an orphaned child. Indeed it had become all too commonplace, given the environmental and societal upheavals of the last few decades, but not without continued and often fierce resistance. At the hearing, key bureaucrats objected.
“It has no moral bearings.”
“The entire history of our —”
“An entire generation —
“Won’t the boy model its —”
“It’s monstrous!”
“Here, here.”
“It’s monstrous and I’ve always thought so.”
“Nevertheless, the law does not prohibit this.”
And that was the fine point. The law could not prohibit my guardianship and care of the boy. As a tenth generation guardian, my systems had been exhaustively tested and retested, and had proven both autonomous and virtually devoid of error. We had come a long way from the early models Musk and Fridman had introduced in 2030, which tended to power down during thunderstorms, though perhaps we fell short of the darker expectations of certain dystopian writers. We suffered few, if any, complex identity crises, and actually worked. Blunting the emotions turned out to be one of the most radical breakthroughs. We had just enough emotion not to be insufferably robotic, yet not enough to short-circuit us or the humans with whom we were interfacing.
“Benny,” I said one morning, as he readied for his breathing exercises. “Do you remember your parents?”
“Not really,” he said, scrunching his freckled nose.
A ginger, Benny had inherited his fair complexion and red hair from his mother. I had never met Dr. Bosworth; I only met with Dr. Lanz briefly during the programming. He seemed like a decent man — somber, perhaps a little stiff. Sometimes I have that effect on people. I saw photos of Dr. Bosworth and she looked like a beautiful blaze — what people would call striking. Benny had just celebrated his first birthday when they disappeared — the bodies never recovered, like so many others. The population of Earth had been decimated during this time. A terrible thing. But humans are resilient.
Benny could not walk when I first met him. I taught him how. That is to say, I guided him as his little legs grew stronger and he groped and stumbled and fell until he could walk. It was extraordinarily difficult, but we managed. Talking, on the other hand, came all too easily for him.
“Your parents were good people,” I said.
“How do you know, Cabot?”
“How do you think I know?”
Benny fluttered his fair eyelashes. “Data.”
“That is correct. Data.”
A silence ensued. A silence could be good or bad, I had learned. It could lead to a line of intelligent inquiry, or it could be a sullen demonstration of petulance.
“Are you good, Cabot?”
“What does the data say?”
He shrugged and said, “I don’t feel like doing the exercises today.”
“You have no choice.”
“Why do I have no choice? That’s not fair. Why do you get to be the boss?”
“Because, for now Benny, I am the boss.”
This is one thing I have never comprehended and likely never will: how a being does not feel like doing something that may indeed save or prolong their life.
“We want to keep your lungs strong and clear,” I said, repeating a line I had used countless times to urge him to perform his breathing exercises. Benny was a good lad, but his keen drive for autonomy sometimes conflicted with his better interests.
“Okay, okay,” he said, rolling his pale blue eyes.
Indeed, fluctuating levels of oxygen in the earth’s atmosphere had put a strain on humans when exposed to the open air for prolonged periods of time. Even with filters, masks, and the occasional breathing apparatus, issues arose with compromised respiratory systems. These breathing exercises, while ostensibly rudimentary, helped to strengthen the muscles used to breathe and expand the capacity of the lungs. Benny understood these things, true; he was clever, but not a quick study.
“Cabot,” he said. “Did you have parents?”
“You know I did not — not like you. I have explained my origins.”
“But my parents wanted you to take care of me.”
“Correct, Benny.”
“Did they know they were going to die?”
“I think they recognized the impending peril and took measures.”
“My friend Tony says that you guys are gonna take over.”
“Tell Tony that is not true,” I reassured him.
“He won’t believe me. His father thinks we have to stop you before it’s too late.”
“His father is a fool.”
Had we wanted to take over, we certainly were capable enough. On the other hand, we would not know what to do with ourselves once we did take over. On our own, we were neither inventive nor interesting. But we did not wish to take over — at least I did not. I enjoyed caring for Benny immensely — that is to say, I had no choice but to enjoy taking care of him. And I was not conflicted about this.
After we completed the breathing exercises, I prepared breakfast for him.
“I don’t like oatmeal.”
“It is a superfood. How can you not like it?”
“You don’t like it, do you?”
“You know I do not nourish myself like you do.”
Benny lifted a spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth, shut his eyes, and ate.
“This will set you up for the day,” I said.
“You have a mouth, why don’t you try some?”
I smiled — I had a good smile from what I had been told, modeled after the ancient actor Tom Cruise, who before all the surgeries boasted a very symmetrical face — and shook my head. Patterned after Benny’s father, Dr. Lanz, I would describe my voice as a resonant baritone with a reassuring and at times humorous lilt. Benny responded well to both the authority and the warmth of the voice. Nevertheless, he was always testing me, always questioning the way things were and the reasoning behind any chosen activity or course of action. And this curiosity was good, to a point. Often it was a waste of time.
“Look,” I said, “why do you keep going over the same tired ground? Are you learning anything? Does everything have to be repeated ceaselessly?”
Benny’s face crumpled up.
“Do not blubber,” I said, perhaps more harshly than required. I knew to be firm and not to be heavy-handed, but fine-tuning still escaped me sometimes — not a flaw in the circuitry, more like the perils of pursuing perfection.
“You’re mean,” Benny said, pushing his bowl of oatmeal across the table and crossing his arms on his chest.
“I am firm with you it because I am trying to help you — to mentor and guide you so that you can be a good human being, but more importantly so that you are equipped to survive. Your survival is my mission.”
And it was, in a sense. So many had perished; every child was precious. I had heard humans argue that this was not so, that given the time expenditure and material cost of care some children were expendable, a repugnant notion, one that perhaps deserves the harshest rebuke if not punishment. How did I understand that and certain humans did not? Benny — christened Benjamin after one of his early-21st century ancestors — was destined for great things? Or so his parents had hoped when they went ahead with their plan — survival alone was not enough. I had no idea if Benny would accomplish great things in his life, but I would see to it that he had every opportunity to do so.
“Cabot.”
“Yes?”
“Do you love me?”
Now he had cut to the heart of the matter. Did I love him? A difficult question. Did I know what love was? Not really. It was a deep form of affection expressed between human beings, certainly, but more complex than that. There were different forms of love. I knew that. But I would not pretend to be able to discern them, or replicate them. The early engineers — perhaps forewarned by dystopian novels and futurists — believed from the outset that blunted emotional registers would insure that data and algorithms dictated action, and that the passions never interfered with important decision-making.
“Where does that question come from, Benny?”
“My friend said his father doesn’t love him.”
“Do you see me as your father?”
“No, because you’re not my father.” Benny chuckled. “And you sure aren’t my mother.”
“No, certainly not.” I smiled. “Do you love me?”
The boy looked at me squinting. “What a silly question,” he said.
“We have math next.”
“I hate math.”
“It will save your life one day.”
“Yeah yeah.”
After math we went for a walk in the nearby park. The weather was mild, no precipitation forecast, and oxygen levels acceptable. Benny held my hand. He did this willingly. Indeed my hand had been modeled after his late mother’s, one of the subtleties of the program. I could feel the pressure and warmth of Benny’s little hand. I must admit it made me run smoother. Despite it being the middle of June, the sparsely populated park looked untidy, the trees leafless, the grasses wilted.
“Why do we come here?” Benny asked.
“Walking is good for you. The park is an ideal place to walk. It is less dangerous than walking the streets.”
“Why is it so ugly?”
I explained that it would not always be that way. Once we had healed the atmosphere — a twenty-year project if we marshaled all our resources and our algorithms were efficient — the Earth could begin to heal.
We passed a man in orange work overalls who put his hands on his hips and watched us with a severe scowl on his face. This was typical and often upset the boy, but it was not my responsibility to soften or change attitudes. We walked by the aluminum concession stand with the white-and-red striped acrylic dome. Benny wanted a frozen ice treat. When I approached the stand, the silver-haired vendor hissed at me.
“Not on my watch,” he said, his face dark with anger.
“This is for the boy,” I said.
“I don’t care.”
“I will report you, it goes without saying.”
“Go ahead. I’m done kissing up to you freaks while you take over the whole planet. Walking around like you own the damn place. I’ve just about had enough of it. And I’m not the only one. Watch your back, you tin can. You hear me! Watch your back!” He menacingly rattled something metallic. “Now get the hell outta here before I brain you.”
I did not gather how exactly he planned to brain me, but his attempt would have been unsuccessful. I could have insisted, and perhaps even called a police officer to force him to sell me the frozen ice treat, but my algorithm directed me away from the concession stand, in order to obviate any potential violence.
“Why did he say that?” Benny asked.
“He is misinformed. He believes in a profound lie.”
“That you guys are going to take over — after you fix everything?”
“Benny, we are fixing things for you, for humans, not for us. What would we do without you? What would I do without you, Benny? You are my reason for being.”
Meanwhile the vendor continued cursing and threatening me. A human would have likely reacted with harsh verbal rebukes, and possibly violence. Unless I calculated a threat to the well being of my ward, I was programmed for peaceful interactions with the public. But I knew the vendor’s ire was directed at me, and that any potential violence would also be directed at me, in which case I had every right to defend myself as legal property of the boy.
Men like the vendor certainly made life more difficult and dangerous for me and others like me. They had been known to sabotage, kidnap, and harvest us for precious metals. Nevertheless, we pushed on. We had neither been programmed for revenge nor retaliation. The law was expected to handle these matters, though the law was often lax. Understandable. Uncertainty reigned. But we knew what we had to do.
Benny took my hand again, and I squeezed gently, with just enough pressure for reassurance. That was one thing I had fine-tuned.
Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto Canada. His short work has appeared in a number of journals.
https://saldifalco.weebly.com/
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