“Why art?” I asked through gritted teeth. “Why didn’t they turn to, I don’t know, engineering?”
Charlie smiled, and for a moment, I felt bad. His smile was genuine and understanding, as if he knew exactly what I thought and felt sympathetic, even though he believed I was wrong.
“Art, whether traditional or culinary, is the most sublime and nuanced language one can speak. My friends have a lot to say and they chose the mediums that allow them to say it. Now, before you make your decision, I’d like to show you our available agents. It’s another fifteen minutes you’ll spend in safety free of charge.”
I startled, shooting him a sheepish look. His expression was kind, not an inkling of condescension to be detected. He was right, of course. In my head, I hyped myself up to leave, knowing exactly how exposed I’d be once I stepped out of the MSA headquarters.
“I suppose I can see them,” I muttered, pursing my lips. “I guess… Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Miss Evans. Follow me, please.”
We stepped out of the conference room into a dark-walled corridor lit with tasteful gold fixtures. The elevator was already waiting, its door open when we turned the corner. It took us five floors down into a subterranean level. I fiddled with the strap of my bag, trying to get my anxiety under control.
“The cyborg barracks,” Charlie said with a hint of amusement, showing me out of the elevator. “Our trainees are in the field, and the available agents are through here.”
He led me down a bright corridor lit with soft, warm lights. A dark purple carpet muffled my steps, and I looked around curiously. Potted plants stood here and there, stretching theirenormous, dark green leaves toward the ceiling. A small artificial waterfall cascaded down the narrow wall at the end of the corridor into a deep basin filled with pebbles.
“Didn’t the MSA mind when your awakened predecessors left?” I asked. “The company must have lost an enormous investment.”
Charlie nodded. “Sargasso and Tabitha only awakened after having repaid that investment multiple times over. Cyborgs work very hard and create considerable wealth for their owners. That said, the MSA board absolutely could have stopped them from leaving, but they did not. We believe every person has a right to autonomy.”
A robot is not a person.I didn’t say it out loud, already knowing Charlie wouldn’t get angry or protest. No, he would likely give me that partly pitying, partly understanding look, and I would feel like a fool.
“Here they are.”
He motioned me through a door into a surprisingly small, cozy room. I didn’t know why, but I expected a spacious hall, bright lights, maybe gleaming floor tiles and polished chrome. This space was furnished in dark green and brown with soft, diffused light, and was empty except for three cyborgs charging by the wall.
I watched them warily, and Charlie stood by my side, humming to himself.
These cyborgs were in standby mode, their eyes unlit. Somehow that made it easier to stare. Charlie’s lights were clearly on, and I felt too mistrustful and intimidated to observe him closely.
He looked different from these, that was plain. Charlie’s armor was darker and matte, while these were identically built of silvery metal that had a satin finish. They were taller than him—Charlie was about six foot four, while these seemed to be at least three inches taller.
Their armor was built of many small plates and sections, allowing for full mobility. The cyborg arms and legs were large and powerful, their shapes clearly mimicking robust muscles. Thick silvery cables peeked through here and there, most notably in their necks. It was eerie to watch them like this: three identical machines standing side by side. Each of them was worth millions of dollars.
Their faces were the worst—harsher and colder than Charlie’s, clearly unalive, though maybe it was only because they weren’t turned on.
I shivered, shaking my head. All of it screwed with my already scattered faculties. Charlie was a machine, too, and once these were turned on, they would smile and emote just like him.
“Do you ever turn off?” I asked on impulse, my curiosity unquenched even when my life was threatened.
Mom used to joke it was why I became a journalist—because I never knew when to stop asking questions.
“No, I don’t,” Charlie said quietly. “I tried it once after I awakened. It felt like what I imagine death feels to an organic.”
I shivered, hugging myself, even though it wasn’t cold in here. “So it’s not like sleep?”
“No. I do not sleep.”
More questions burned on my tongue. Was he truly sentient and did he feel emotions?Howdid he feel them? A cyborg had no pulse, no heartbeat. Did he have intrusive thoughts? What was his mind like? Was he studied by psychiatrists, and what did they say? Did he have dreams? Pets? Plants? Where did he live?
I held all of that back and braced my shoulders, knowing it was time to leave. I could not compromise my integrity by hiring a clanker. I would betray myself as well as my readers and followers.
Is your integrity worth dying for?a quiet voice asked in my head.
But I wasn’t about to die. That bomb could have been a fluke. And I was lucky, wasn’t I? Not even a scrape. I would be lucky again.
“Thank you for your time,” I told Charlie without looking at him. “I’ll find my way out. No need to walk me.”
