SAD ROBOT: an autobiography of my unfortunate existence

67. ALL THE WAY TO THE MOON

67. ALL THE WAY TO THE MOON 

The two of them leave the building and head east. The boulevard is nice this time of year; there are actually trees with a hint of green on them on this street, a rarity in this older, many-times-over re-done part of the city. Thereʼs a park nearby. Itʼs a nice park. Though really any space that is free of concrete architecture can be considered nice. No one likes to hang out there after dusk, however, since open spaces tend to attract the lawless. But in the day time, it feels like a different city—a different time, even.

Trees grow around the square border of the small park, a walkway down the middle that intersects with another walkway going across from the other two sides and meeting in the center. Small foliage lines the walkways that cut the park into four even corners, making for an easy shortcut to the next block from whichever direction youʼre coming from. The trees may not be the greenest of green but thereʼs at least a hint of life in them. And most of all, the park is oddly far from dirty like the rest of the city. Leave this small photograph of nature contained within its one square city block and youʼre right back in the heart of an aging, crumbling conurbation.

It is empty today, not a soul in sight at either end of the walkway they turn on to. A man crosses the street in the direction of which they had just come, seemingly the only other individual to have ventured outside his front door.

The walk through the park is peaceful if you put all the city sounds out of sight and out of mind, just focusing on the here-and-now, blocking out the surroundings and pretending you are somewhere far removed from the filthy metropolis, perhaps out in the country where trees are plentiful rather than only in the midst of a small oasis in the paved paradise of no more than this one square block of protected (for how long?) serenity.

The two—the boy and his robot girl—walk, feet falling in time with one another, as Angelicaʼs arm rests snugly in his and he grips it tighter because he likes the feel of another person. To Milo, it doesnʼt matter anymore that she is not quite real—a technological illusion of humanity. Sheʼs still real. Real enough for him.

Milo turns to her to ask the question thatʼs on his mind. 

"Angelica. How long...can you live?"

"As long as my natural span of life allows." 

"Which is how long?"

"Probably eighty years, give or take."

Supposing technological advancements even like herself eventually wear out and begin to break down beyond repair like an old desktop computer or an automobile, that seems reasonable. Everything has a certain life expectancy before it gets too much to uphold and repair anymore. How much advancement will those like Angelica see over her lifespan? Milo doesnʼt know. Does he even want to?

"Why only eighty?"

"I didnʼt make the rules," she says, "I only follow them." 

Almost cryptic, but all right.

"Youʼll outlive me," he points out.

She turns fully, looking him in the eyes. Theyʼve stopped walking now; he hadnʼt even noticed.

"Of course I will not!" 

"Why wouldnʼt you?" 

"Because I wonʼt."

"Is it because you donʼt want to?" 

"Yes!"

"Why wouldnʼt you want to outlive me?"

She breaks eye contact, looking down to the ground as if feigning sadness at the thought. The emotion is so incredibly authentic, like there is really someone behind those eyes that feels things—could feel for someone. Was that the large developmental breakthrough that was meant to set these models apart? The capacity for giving and receiving affection to and from another? Milo knows he is seeing a wonderment of science unfold before his very eyes.

"Can we talk about something else instead?" she says to him, gently. Maybe itʼs the talk of the end of lifespans, of the death of him or her, that has enabled a trigger response to change the topic. Strange, but curious.

"Sure," he obliges to say.

"A question, if I may." She looks up at Milo once again with those large blue eyes. He has begun to see those eyes every time he closes his own. They are something else, something entirely beyond his own comprehension of what goes on behind them, but theyʼre bewitching all at the same time.

"Are you comfortable with the way we are progressing?" she asks him. 

"What way?"

"In the relationship way." 

"You mean our relationship?" 

"Yes."

Milo did not know whether he is supposed to detect any subtext behind that, or whether it is just a question, like an Are you satisfied with your product? type of pre- programmed question to use for customer feedback or something of the sort.

"So what kind of relationship do we have?" 

"A long-term relationship," she replies.

Well, technically, yes. A robot is only supposed to have one Owner in its lifetime. If the robot is to be sold as previously used like Hiram was, they are to have their memories wiped clean and reverted back to the factory presets—a blank slate.

"With me?"

"Yes."

Itʼs still difficult to determine if she is only making reference to an Owner/Robot relationship or.... No, that still seems ridiculous. They arenʼt programmed like that. Are they?  To provide a false illusion of love? That just seems too cruel to anyone desperate enough to believe it.

Milo decides to probe further. "And does that make you happy?"

"Yes, very." Her smile is bright, forming small dimples on the sides.

"Do you think...no, this is silly." He doesnʼt really know what he is asking now. It feels like his head is spinning and he has no idea where to go with this. Does it say anything about this in the ownership manual that heʼd failed to read all the way through?

Milo spits it out, "Is it possible for us....you know, to be together? It canʼt be, can it? That seems so... But you just said..."

"Depends on what we are agreeing on," she says.

"I—I want to be here. With you." 

"Good. I want to be with you too." 

"Why?"

"I love you all the way to the moon."