"No, sir. My series was not approved for emotion chips."
The summer woods edged to fall and then winter, with snowfall so heavy that it blocked the road to town for two weeks. On the first day of Alina’s thirty-fourth week, the Womb Alert announced Au Lait’s readiness. Dan entered his code without error, but Mark was so nervous he hit the wrong numbers twice and nearly locked her womb. Baby Au Lait, now named Sonora, emerged healthy and kicking. Mark and Dan retained Alina to breastfeed her for six months. She also changed diapers, burped the baby, and rocked her through sleepless nights. But she didn’t love her, because how could she?
One day, Mark said, "Alina, we want to have another baby. You have to go back to the lab for the implant, but they’re not going to erase your memory of us. You’re coming right back here with a son. We’ve already nicknamed him Con Leche."
"That’s excellent news, sir," she replied.
Once she was back in the lab, Scott flushed out her systems and adjusted her nipple tubes. Bent close to her, his breath hot on her skin, he said, ‘You’re my favorite offspring of a toaster oven and a sexbot."
Alina tilted her head. ‘You told me that the last time you serviced my nipples. They seem to require much maintenance."
He abruptly stopped fiddling. "Did I? Maybe I should check your waste port instead."
Later she reported to Impregnation. The donor egg had already been fertilized with Mark’s sperm. Alina climbed into a transfer chamber and went into rest mode. A subroutine monitored the successful implantation of the egg into her womb. Shortly afterward, her external sensors recorded the dimming of the light over her chamber. The power feed snaking up into her foot abruptly spiked, and an emergency command was fed into her central processing unit: START STASIS.
Alina and Con Leche both went to sleep.
Thud, crack, thud, crack. Alina opened her eyes. She was in a dark transfer chamber. Above her were dim pinpricks of light, distant and shifting as something made noise and dug toward her. The external temperature measured below freezing (inhospitable to human life) and after a few milliseconds she concluded the chamber was buried by ice and snow.
No decision tree offered an advantageous course of action. She opted for inaction, and counted thuds and cracks until a shovel hit the plastic a few inches above her face. Soon a human face was staring down at her. The face was asymmetrical (undesirable) and damaged by sun and wind (regrettable). Snow goggles covered the eyes and a parka hood hid the human’s hair and chin.
Alina waited patiently until the human broke through the shield.
"Are you awake, or just staring at me?" the human asked.
"I’m awake, thank you," Alina said. "Are you a male or female? Your face and voice are indeterminable."
"Doesn’t matter," the human said. "Get up, robot-girl."
Alina freed her feet from their plugs and climbed out. What had once been the implant lab was now a snow cave illuminated by battery lanterns. Thick ice coated the equipment, machines, and computers. The roof had partially collapsed, which explained the snow and ice piled on Alina’s chamber. A long knotted rope hung through a separate hole that had been cut in the ceiling.
"I’m Coren," the stranger said. He or she was about Alina’s height, maybe a little overweight, no facial hair. Young, perhaps mid-twenties or so. It was impossible to discern breasts under the bulky gray parka.
"I’m Alina," Alina said. "Should I call you sir or madam?"
Coren began breaking the shovel down into smaller pieces that fit into a backpack. "You’re really hung up on gender, aren’t you?"
"I’m programmed to recognize two."
"Well, I’m not programmed to answer you," Coren said. "Call me by my name, or call me hey you, or just call me a person. I don’t care."
Alina’s databank lit up with information about gender-neutral pronouns. She had several options to choose from. Ze, En, Co, Thon. In her sixth pregnancy, the parents had both been professors of female sexuality at Brown University. They’d taught her feminist language and theory, matricentricty and gynocritics and—
The ice slid out from under Alina’s feet. She fell flat on her rear and stayed there.
"Hey!" Coren abandoned the backpack. "Are you all right?"
"I am functioning well," Alina replied, flooded with memories of that pregnancy— Professor Ahmeti and Professor Sauter, their house in Providence, the two white cats who sat in the sunny windows all day, the way Professor Ahmeti made meatball and garlic soup every Friday night and Professor Sauter chewed through pencils when grading papers, their happy faces when their baby was ready, the way they’d kissed Alina’s cheeks in thanks.
You’re not equipped with long-term memory, she’d been told. By Scott. Scott with his easy smile and his bangs in his eyes and his devotion to fixing her nipple tubes every time she came to the shop.
Coren said, "I know you’re just a robot, but I’ve seen healthier looking corpses. You sick?"
Alina adjusted her cheeks to include more pink. She flushed red to her lips, and made her eyes appear brighter and more blue (very desirable).
For some reason, the adjustments made Coren frown. "Let’s climb out of here. I’ve got a coat and clothes for you so you don’t freeze."
"I am impervious to most extremes of weather, Person Coren. Also, my uterus operates independently on its own settings and is at optimal temperature."
"Yeah. About that. Are you carrying?"
"Carrying what?" Alina asked.
"A baby, dummy."
Alina answered, "Yes. I am carrying the fertilized egg of Mark Dubay and Dan Poole. It is four days old. Are Dan and Mark nearby?"
"They’re dead," Coren said. "Let’s get out of this ice hole before we freeze over, and you can see what the world did to itself."
Winter had come and stayed. Although Alina’s calendar told her it was June, the forest around New Human, More Human was nothing but frozen treetops buried by snow. She saw no birds or squirrels, no smoke from cities or factories, no signs that any humans lived nearby. Only snow, ice, and gray sky. She attempted to connect with the data center, but received no answer.
Alina said, "Mark and Dan were studying climate science. They postulated a scenario of long-term adverse meteorological change."
Coren had hunched down next to a sled packed with supplies. "Sounds like fancy words for the Big Freeze. Come here, put these clothes on. Hard to explain me dragging you around dressed like it’s a heat wave."
Alina donned trousers, boots, gloves, and a gray parka. The clothes were frayed but clean. Coren handed her a pair of snowshoes that looked like oversized tennis rackets and asked, "You ever use these?"
"No sir or ma’am."
‘You better learn fast." Coren strapped down everything on the sled, shouldered two straps to drag it, and said, "Let’s go."
"I can pull that," Alina said. "I’m not susceptible to fatigue or strain."
"I’ll do it," Coren said.
Once they had hiked all the way down the hill, Alina saw that Dr. Ogilvy’s complex was indistinguishable under the wintry landscape. He’d be disappointed, she thought. He had worked very hard on her and her predecessors, Acantha and Adelphia and the other four whose names somehow escaped her—
If it was unexpected to have this reservoir of memories bubbling inside her, it was equally unexpected that the data was incomplete. She could picture Dan’s kind face but not Mark’s. Every detail of her room at the Crowthers’ villa was crystal-clear, but the inside of Dr. Ogilvy’s office was a gray box devoid of specifics. It was likely that she was internally damaged. But Scott had said she had no long-term memory capacity at all. Had he been wrong?