Behold, the Handy Household Helper:
An artificially alive android to fulfill all of your home-making needs! Your Helper can cook, clean, and everything in between, giving you more time to rest and relax!
In the snow-capped kingdom of Ira, there were, as such inventions tend to beget, many mixed emotions concerning the Helpers. Annoyance—one could not travel two feet without seeing a flyer; unease—perhaps people would devolve into stupid animals who could no longer take care of themselves; excitement—a groundbreaking discovery, one ought to celebrate such things; and more that I must leave unmentioned for the sake of time. The sheer intensity of the Helpers’ significance, however, was agreed upon in a far more unanimous fashion.
Ira is globally well-regarded for its innovative prowess. International serelism1 fairs are held biannually along the central riverbank, winding from the base of the cliffside castle all the way to the eastern cultural district, buildings shrinking in both size and number the farther one follows the water. I myself have visited three times, twice of which to interview serelism professor Sara A. Molina and innovator Eleni Averoff2 for my latest book, Those Who Harness Magic, a reflection on the impact of serelist education on the women’s rights movement here in the North.
The third trip was per my intrigue in the Handy Household Helpers.
On this latest visit to Ira, I regret to write that I had harbored a less-than-adequate understanding about the nature of these androids. I had assumed they were—while impressively high-powered—another brand of serving droid; I realize now the extent of my underestimation.
Here is an excerpt of one of my conversations with the serelist behind the Helpers, Henry Nelin:
LILIA ADIN: What was your goal, originally, when creating these Helpers? Has it changed at all throughout your process?
HENRY NELIN: My goal, yes. Well—I apologize, this might sound a little…*laughs*—but I have always been curious about the limitations of magic. Of course, we can’t create life, but it would be interesting to see if we could create something close. So I started working on something that could learn, essentially, how to act like a living being. Of course, not like it’s alive, but teaching it appropriate responses to commands and situations. That was my team’s goal. We went through many different iterations, but, years later, finally debuted this idea in our Helpers.
ADIN: Artificial life…in so many of Ira’s households now. That’s incredible. How soon might it be accessible to people in other kingdoms or countries, as well?
NELIN: Soon, very soon! *laughs* Of course, we’re constantly iterating—frankly, it surprised us how quickly people became interested—but it would really be a dream come true if this project could benefit as many people as possible. You know, take care of the homemaking so we can devote more time to further innovation, or arts and culture…
Rereading these words now, I’ve begun to feel nauseous, struck with the frightening realization of how hideously even something as innocent as this, a simple wish to give human beings more time, can backfire.
I do not blame Nelin for what happened, nor for his course of action post-incident, but I reluctantly admit that every night, my sleep is chased away by regret-filled memories and burning questions concerning the series of events leading to the Helpers’ untimely discontinuation. For that is what this story is, ultimately, about.
What does one do when an android starts to feel?
When I first met Nelin, it was at an ICERSF3 meeting in my home kingdom of Delle. I was sent to gather information about the conference-goers—names, companies, countries, etc.—and take notes on the featured inventions, one of which being the latest version of the Helpers.
When came his turn, Nelin stood proudly at the podium, explaining in great detail the inner workings of his innovation—the combinations of amulets used to animate the robotic components, his testing process, etc., etc.—and, the pièce de résistance, the modified memory charm resting at the base of the Helper’s neck dubbed the “Life Amulet,” which allows the android to recognize appropriate responses to given situations—his attempt at an artificial life.
This in particular caused a stir, especially considering the fact that most attendees were not from Ira and thus had not been surrounded by such ideas before. As somebody from Delle myself, I can confirm that while artificial life has always been a popular topic of discussion here, it has largely been regarded as an abstract vision, rather than an experiment to be pursued. Life cannot be created, and that is that. But, as Nelin chose to venture, perhaps it could be replicated instead, which intrigued me.
When I visited his booth after his presentation to ask a few follow-up questions, he invited me to his company building, a charming little castle he repurposed to house his projects, for a tour in further depth. Needless to say, I accepted.
A fortnight later, I visited his workplace, housed in Ira. Despite his impressive presentation at the ICERSF meeting, I was skeptical about the functionality of the Helpers. I had certainly read about them, and about Nelin and his team, but it was only in the belly of his castle workshop that I finally found myself internalizing the knowledge.
As I waited for Nelin’s arrival, I had an opportunity to speak with a family who employed the Helper’s household assistance. They were in the castle lobby, two parents and two children hip to hip spanning the length of a bench, and their impromptu review of the Helpers was nothing short of ebullient.
“Our Helper is so sweet; he doesn’t just do all the work really well, he also makes conversation sometimes, and it’s quite nice in between tasks to chat!” mother A. G. shared with me. “We all help him out—teaching the children valuable life skills and such—but he does most of the chores since my husband and I are often busy with work.”
The children had similar reviews: “He plays with us a lot and tells us stories. He’s really funny.”
Thinking back, I realize now my failure to recognize the warnings—but I digress. A few moments later, Nelin came to retrieve me. His grand tour consisted of a walk around the charm-development wing, in which animative, strengthening, or cognitive spells are cast through custom amulets, such as the Life Amulet; the technological wing, where the robotic parts themselves are created and strung together, aforementioned amulets woven throughout; and the testing wing—here I was able to interact with a Helper myself.
It—or rather, she—watched me from her place in the Helper lineup across the back wall. Nelin, noticing my interest, brought her forward to introduce us. She had the same proportions as a human being, except her skin was smooth and her limbs connected at joints like puzzle pieces slitting together. Her face was placid and sympathetic; the Life Amulet blinked at her neck.
“Hello,” she chirped in monotone. “How may I be of assistance?”
“That’s all she says right now,” mentioned Nelin to me. “We’re still working on the voices of this lineup here. But she’s got quite a few quirks about her already. You can take a closer look if you’d like.”
I chose to instead continue with the tour, still mildly uncomfortable with how these azoic products were regarded in an almost human manner. But during my short time with her, I noticed curious details about her movement. A head tilt here, a flexed finger there. Personal characterization, I had assumed. I was impressed by the attention to detail, and returned to my hotel to work on the manuscript of the interview I conducted with Nelin post-tour.
Here the narrative begins to derail, for, a few days later, I was notified of the untimely deaths of the Vale Family.4
I had stayed in Ira to visit some nearby relatives, and, due to my close proximity, was called to Vale Manor to report on the tragedy. Poison in the ventilation, I was told. There was a gas leak.
Upon arrival, I waited outside, gathering notes as the mansion was aired out and the poison put under control. Somebody mentioned that the Vales had a Helper, and my mind wandered to the family I had met those few days before. They had two children, as well. The thought saddened me, and I busied myself with my notes instead, writing “HELPER” at the bottom of the page.
A few hours after I had arrived, we were given the “all-clear.” The photographer and I followed the emergency services into the building, and even though the poison had been taken care of, I covered my nose and mouth, unnerved by the shadows in the corners and the stillness of the family photos crowning the tables along the entrance hall.
We traveled up the wooden staircase, charms along the sides lighting up with each footfall, and trickled into the upstairs hallway, where the children’s room was located. The bodies had not yet been extracted. I readied my pen and notepad as the leader of our little group found the room in question, a colorful sign reading “Miles and June—do not DISTURB!!!” as the identifying feature. I inhaled sharply as he swung the door open.
I do not believe any of us could have been prepared for the sight inside.
Two beds on either end of the room. A boy’s hand loosely fisting his blanket, face turned away. A little girl’s golden hair sprawling across her pillow. And a robotic Helper, smoothing the child’s hair from her slack-jawed face, sitting atop the blanket, gaze fixed to her unmoving frame.
The Helper did not seem to notice our little crowd, and we, far too unfamiliar with the sight before us, were frozen where we stood.
She stood up then, dragging her feet to the other end of the room and sinking to her knees by the little boy. She grabbed his hand—interlocked their fingers—and watched him as she had watched his sister. Almost as if waiting for him to wake up again.
She’s grieving, I had realized.
One of the officers with us must have realized it, too, as he snapped out of his stupor, sprinted forward, and ripped the Life Amulet from the base of her neck. She fell limp to the ground before the rest of our company could register his movement. The crack of her bionic skull hitting the floorboards jolted us awake.
“What was that?” the young photographer had breathed, fingers fluttering about the camera’s trigger, as if unsure of whether or not to record photo evidence.
“It must have watched too many shows with them. Learned how to act when someone passes away,” I heard someone say. “It’s an android, it doesn’t feel. Now come on, we can’t leave them like this. And you, Tad—” she pointed at the officer still holding the amulet “—you need to—”
“Look at her, Day,” he interrupted, eyes wide. “Look at her and tell me she didn’t feel anything.”
Here I must write that I was unable to catch the remainder of the debate. Staring at the motionless figure crumpled on the ground, a crater in the base of her neck where the charm should have been, any and all discussions fell onto deaf ears. I do not have the words to express all I felt at that moment, though I doubt any other witnesses have fared better.
Horror, perhaps. Life is not meant to be magically created. Was this not one of the many concerns of the citizens of Ira? While the conspiracies had been taken rather unseriously, there is now proof of a truth behind this fear.
I must have felt sorrow, too. The Helper was dead—no, shut down—before she was even ready to say goodbye, parting on somebody else’s terms. How tragic.
I would have remained lost in my thoughts had Day’s frustrated acquiescence not snapped me back to the present. She looked as disturbed as I felt, unsure of where to go from there. Suddenly I could no longer stand to be in the same room as the bodies and raced back outside. It was snowing that day, I remember, and the crowd outside had grown with a new influx of reporters. I told somebody to send for Henry Nelin and paced back and forth across the Vales’ yard in the cold, the image of the Helper’s fingers lovingly swirling through the dead girl’s locks burned into my mind.
In the weeks following the incident, the Handy Household Helpers were discontinued. The ones currently in use were forcibly returned to Nelin’s company building and were stripped of their Life Amulets. There is a room in the castle workshop full of their bodies now, a temporary graveyard until somebody can figure out what to do with them. While unfortunate, I find it inevitable: should the lives of these androids become no longer artificial, if they can learn personality and emotion, what would come of us, the people who serve as the example? What awful things might we teach them to do with their newfound life?
Then again, as I consider this, I am reminded of the Vales’ Helper, who, as I later learned from friends and neighbors, would partake in discussions with Pauline about unfortunate governmental goings-on, provide feedback on Ben’s heart-wrenching novels, diffuse petty fights between Miles and June, and still retained love. Above all, she retained love.
And what is to live, if not to love?
I must admit, rereading my words now, back in Delle, I am not even sure this story can still be considered an article. Originally intended to be an informative reflection about recent occurrences, it seems to have turned into something else entirely. Perhaps I shall rewrite it.
But it is nothing short of unbearable to maintain an objective focus for such a narrative.
There is something so precious and personal within these pages. A story that perhaps I’m not meant to tell, that I’m not able to tell. An android and the children she looked after. An android and the children who taught her how to love. No, I do not have the knowledge to give such a story justice. But must it really be shared with the world? Does something become more meaningful upon broadcast? No, I do not believe so…
Then perhaps here in my desk drawer it shall stay. Perhaps I will look at it from time to time, to remember not the hopeful innovation turned country-wide crisis, but a single Handy Household Helper who looked at her wards with kindness, sorrow, and love.
Yes, I think I like that story better.
