This Mockery of Light || A Collection of Stories

Android

I'm fritzing. Behind his desk, the round-cheeked man with the round glasses says something, but my central processing unit freezes up again and misses it. My vision cortex is working right, but everything else is going haywire, and I'm just sitting on the couch, watching him—who is he, Dr. Something, a human I think—as his mouth moves up and down. My processor is buzzing faster and faster, sending jumpy shocks of electricity sparking through my wires. I'm terrified my CPU will overheat and I'll crash entirely. But I'm no more in control of my fan than I am my thoughts. I'm fritzi—

—Vision disappears as a memory sweeps across my processor. Mistress hovers over my immature, fumbling hands as I struggle to thread a needle. Her amber hair brushes silky against my synthetic skin, like the fabric of the finest dress. "I already told you not to do it like that."

My failure courses disappointment and frustration through my system. "Mistress, why aren't I programmed to know this already?"

Her cold eyes look me over like I'm a jammed sewing machine she has to fix. "Androids don't ask questions. They accustom their system to their work, and then they perform that work. Now, do it right this tim—

—My digits ache from pushing the cloth through the stitching machine, and the constant whir-whir-whir stimulate a pounding at the base of my cranium. Mistress says the pain receptors are warnings to my cybernetic system, but I'm ordered not to heed them unless they pose a fatal threat. I spend every day wishing she would just turn them off, but you don't disable warning systems for valuable propert—

—Older, nimbler fingers thread the needle easily. The fabric Mistress picked for this dress is dreadfully thick, and as I punch the needle through it, my pain receptors warn of damage. A blot of red blossoms on the white cloth—

—A liquid darker than the shadows drips from the workroom ceiling hatch, plops on the stair step, and pools.—

—The dark of the basement workroom is peaceful, a welcome respite from the dim fluorescents that strained my visual cortex as I sewed all day. I stand facing the back wall as the projector hums to life. The familiar narrator's gentle, clipped voice greets me as a row of androids appear on screen. "Hello, Android, and welcome to your next training module. With these new tools, you can better fulfill all of your new owner's needs—

My mouth whirs to life like the projector. Dr. Something's mouth stops half-open, startled. I just interrupted a human, but for the first time, I don't care. "What about the tapes? The training tapes?"

His lips twist, and if I were a person, I'd hate their pity with a fire to outmatch any human's passion. "Do you want me to show you the pictures again?"

"My memory banks work fine. I don't need to see the—"

But of course, my memory banks aren't working fine. I'm fritzi—

—Finally finished with the garment, I lean back from the sewing machine and allow my systems a moment's recovery. As I stand, I try to shake off my stiff joints and pain receptor's warnings. Pulling the gorgeous white dress off the machine, I hang it up and admire the gentle curves of the fabric, the elegant beading along the hem. This is one of Mistress' best designs yet.

Now to fill the order, I only have to sew it eighty-seven more times—

—shouting so loud, the words drift down to my workroom clearly. "The money, Marie!"

A high, fearful pitch taints Mistress' voice. "I don't have it—" A clatter rings above, and I pause sewing. "Yet! I don't have it yet. The store called back the order; it's not my fault. It's not!"