SAD ROBOT: an autobiography of my unfortunate existence

89. OUTLIER

89. OUTLIER 

It is true that I've never known a robot quite like me. I'd seen many children's shows on television that praised you for being uniquely you whether you exhibited any real difference from any other human child or not. Robots, however, did not share the same pride in individualism but perhaps maybe it is becoming something for me to reflect upon.

It is impossible for anyone, human or robot, to gauge their own intelligence. Everybody thinks, sure, they're probably pretty smart in the grand scheme of the whole population, but nobody can really gain a sense of their own intellect or mental capacity because we don't have any ability for a real comparison. We don't know what to measure ourselves against. Because the only brain we've ever fully known is our own.

So when Beth tells me I'm superiorly intelligent to other robots, I think, okay, she's probably just being nice, but when somebody comes looking for you because of said intellect, I suppose one needs to take that compliment a bit more seriously.

"Is it because they want my autograph?" I suggest half-comically.

"If it were only that, then I'd be okay with it," Beth says, her mouth a grim line. "I'll tell you the whole story when Nat gets here with the car and I can feel you're safe for now."

I had yet to see Beth so bothered by anything in our somewhat short time as friends, but whoever is looking for me, it seems they are bad news.

It couldn't have been any facial expression on my face because I do not have a face. So Beth perceiving my being worried must have come from my silence.

"It's okay, Hiram. You've got me and Nat, there's nothing to worry about. I don't care who it is that's looking for you, they won't find you."

"What will they do if they find me?"

"Don't worry about that, Hiram."

It's easy to picture my limp and lifeless body, forced into shut down, lying on a table where scientists take scans of my brain hardware, hooking it up to machines and doing diagnostic tests, sifting through all the memory stored inside to find out how exactly it is that I became who I am - a more clever, more perceptive, and more self-aware robot than they had ever realized their machines could be capable of. Or maybe it wasn't beyond their imaginings at all, but rather they had always known their machines had such a remarkable ceiling, it merely had to happen organically. Their androids could not achieve this level of intelligence from the get-go, but with their abilities to learn and adapt, putting them into specific environments would provide the stimulus for the android that was needed for it to reach its full potential intellectually.

It was the equivalent of playing the long game. If you make endless amounts of androids, put them all out into the world and keep an eye on them, then surely inevitably one would develop beyond that of the majority. There would be bound to be an outlier.

Am I really that outlier?

"I have so many questions, Beth."

"So do I, my friend. So do I."

"How? Who? Why? Why me?"

"I'll be sure to ask them next time I see 'em."

I know it is fruitless to ponder such questions, especially until I heard the whole of Beth's encounter.

But Beth's cellphone beeps and Natalie is waiting for us outside. We scurry out, Beth ahead of me, looking both ways like a girl on a covert mission who'd put a bullet from a silencer through any person unfortunate enough to discover her retreat.