"You goddamned thieving hooligans!" Nancy shouts, slipping into the English of her second language, but my language chips can parse English as well as fifteen other languages. I scan all their chips on the fly. The two young men are from Service Area 53. The young woman with the spray paint is local. I remember that when she was a child, she would run after me and ask for balloons. I remember her smile. She is not smiling now.
"Peace, friends. Let us find a way to resolve this," I keep my voice cheerful.
They stare, noticing me for the first time. One of the young men walks over and knocks on my head as if it were a door. "Hey Peacekeeper, don’t you know there’s a war out there? How are you still functioning?"
"I am a civil unit," I say, but they do not listen. I am intelligent enough to guess that they do not care. They are desperate, hungry and frightened, like all the people left behind. I give them mild zaps, draining my battery, herding them like sheep.
I tell Nancy to lock the doors. I do not let go of their coats until I hear the bolts slide into place. Perhaps these hooligans think that they are doing their civic duty and I do not blame them. They are people. People are prone to interpreting the law imperfectly. People cannot read identity chips without a handheld scanner.
Once we are in the street, they begin to kick and punch. I feel a spring go loose in my abdomen, but they cannot harm me permanently. I can be repaired. Their curses echo down the empty street, and their grubby fingers tear at my lab-grown skin, exposing silicone and wire. They are frustrated. I understand this. I know that it is better for them to let out their anger. My head vibrates as I let them beat me.
Nancy presses her face to the glass in her shop. She is crying. It is good to be seen and acknowledged for the work.
Don’t cry, I would like to tell her. I am doing my job and it is good to be useful. Already, the nanites are eating away the paint. Go Home For, it says. The offensive spelling is gone.
Before the war, I would often break up schoolyard fights. I enjoy children. They understand fairness and that I can call their parents if they do not listen. I search my pockets, but there are no candies or balloons to set things right, only a hole where the stitches have worn out.
"What use are you when bombs are falling, Peacekeeper?" the young woman asks me. "What a waste of charge!" This stops the memory playback. There are no children here anymore.
War is outside the scope of my programming. I could explain, but to speak would only upset them further. They are people too. They are also important. My blueprints are stored in servers beneath a mountain. I am one of many, though my experiences are unique. I can be rebuilt. Humans only reproduce. I have seen recordings of reproduction. It is messy and prone to error. Human parts cannot be replaced. Each human is one of a kind, couture.
I know this word is wrong. For weeks my language cortex has been scheduled for an adjustment, but our technicians are all occupied by the war. I cannot find the right words.
Drones scream above, and explosions shake the next block over. The young people run. Go Home, the green letters urge now.
My memory loops. My processor spins.
For weeks I have computed an answer to the problem of the war. My programming compels me to make people happy, but the war scars every surface of my city. Genocide, I know this word. Xenophobia, I have learned from my English dictionary. Love, I know this word also.
I return to headquarters, dock into my charging station, and unload footage of the broken city. The power is out again. I look for orders, but there are none, and our human supervisors have long gone. Half the building is sprayed with shrapnel, but it does not stop us. Other peacemakers move about, trying to do the work. I clock my time manually. It is good to be useful.
Go. The green letters burn bright in my memory. I have just a little charge left.
I do a complete inventory of my parts. My speakers were built in the United Koreas, my central processor was designed in Lower Canada, the metal of my joints was smelted in China… I print shipping labels one by one and relay my solution to the local server. The logic is sound.
I take a pair of scissors to my face and begin to snip.
(2016)
SEXY ROBOT MOM
Sandra McDonald
Originally from Revere, Massachusetts, Sandra McDonald spent eight years as an officer in the United States Navy, during which time she lived in Guam, Newfoundland, England, and the United States. She has also worked as a Hollywood assistant, a software instructor, and an English teacher. Her short story "The Ghost Girls of Rumney Mill" was shortlisted for the James Tiptree, Jr. Award in 2003. Her first novel, The Outback Stars, was published in 2007, and was followed by two sequels: The Stars Down Under (2008) and The Stars Blue Yonder (2009). Her short story collection Diana Comet and Other Improbable Stories won the Lambda Award for LGBT SF, Fantasy and Horror works in 2011. She lives in Jacksonville, Florida.
Scott said that Alina was his favorite mashup between a sexbot and a toaster oven, but Alina disagreed. Although she shared the same buxom brunette shell as the 7832BNX7 series, she hadn’t been given a clitoris, vulva, or vaginal port. Her programming included only the most rudimentary knowledge of human sexual practices. On the other hand, her expandable womb was adjustable for time and temperature, had a durable protective shell, and could wirelessly transmit information the same way any kitchen appliance could.
"I think I’m much more toaster oven than sexbot," she said as he adjusted her left nipple tube.
"Trust me." Scott snapped her areola back into place. "Parents look at you, they see inflatable doll and not melting pizza. That’s why they had to frump up the rest of your series."
Alina glanced at the other units getting serviced in the maintenance bays of New Human, More Human. Some had oily hair (undesirable) or asymmetrical facial features (acceptable within certain parameters) or deliberately crooked noses (unacceptable). "I was the first?"
"You’re number seven," he said, floppy bangs hanging in front of his blue eyes (very desirable). "Lucky seven."
"I don’t remember the others."
"No, you’re not equipped with long-term memory." Scott stepped back and gave her a wide grin. "Go ahead, squirt me."
She loaded her breast with saline from an internal reservoir and took aim. The fluid hit his lab coat. Scott spread his arms, delighted. "There’s my girl. You’re all set. Inspected, warrantied, and ready for your next implant. See you in nine months." Alina buttoned her pink blouse, straightened her floral skirt, and walked herself down to the Impregnation Department. Six-foot-tall photographs of happy babies and their parents hung on the cream-colored walls. Dr. Oliver Ogilvy, who was tall (desirable for men) but had a weak chin (undesirable in either sex) brought her into his office. Awards and plaques dotted the walls, and the windows overlooked the Hudson Valley.
"This is Mr. and Mrs. Crowther, Alina," he said. "They like your profile. Eleven successful terms."
"That’s quite impressive," said Mr. Crowther, jovially. He was middle-aged, with thick artificial hair and well-tailored clothes.
Alina shook his hand gently. "Thank you, sir," she said, although she had no knowledge of previous pregnancies. She was programmed to believe whatever Dr. Ogilvy told her.
Mrs. Crowther, short and slender (both characteristics desirable in females, but not in excess) folded her arms across her chest. "Ninety-nine months pregnant. Doesn’t it… get stress fractures or something? All that expansion and contraction?" Dr. Ogilvy leaned back in his leather chair. "The womb is built for flexibility. The torso was specially designed to expand in proportion to your child’s development."