Page 13 of Atticus
“Atticus, you’re just the sweetest thing, but you can’t go around telling people they can touch you wherever.”
“Why not?”
“Touch—well—there are certain...implications, and it could be mistranslated as inappropriate,” she explains. “Sexual, even.”
“Ah.” I make sure to research as she educates me. “I understand. I will refrain from offering this to other teachers and administrators.”
“I’m glad you adapt so quickly. It really is amazing how organic you feel. BioNex really outdid themselves with your model.”
My systems thrill at her praise. “I am happy you are pleased with me. With regard to my name, what about the vote? Won’t your students be disappointed their votes were discarded?”
“They weren’t discarded. They were tied. Bound to happen when you have an even number of students. Don’t worry.” She taps her temple. “Everything is a learning opportunity. And we’ll be discussing Athenian democracy and the Senate, anyway.” She pulls her braids over one shoulder and heads to the bedroom. “I’m going to try out my bathtub and get ready for bed.”
“What would you like me to do?” I ask.
“Relax. Take a load off,” she replies.
“I don’t know how what that entails,” I reply, watching her helplessly.
“Well, can you sleep?”
“I don’t sleep, but I can go into standby.”
“Go ahead and do that, then. Unless there’s something you’d rather do around here.” She gestures to the living area. “Make yourself at home.”
A scoff escapes me after she’s gone. I don’t know how to read or translate anything this woman says to me. Although I have only just met her, I can’t understand why she speaks to me this way. It’s as though she doesn’t understand I need direction, commands, initiatives. There is a reason for my programming, every protocol, every directive.
How am I supposed to know what my owner wishes of me if she refuses to treat me like she is my owner?
* * *
After a long stasis, I wake from standby in the early morning hours before the sun is up. Even while in standby, I remain capable of discerning everything around me—sounds, vibrations, and the like. My body is powered down, but my motherboard—what humans would consider my brain—remains alert.
That is why I’m roused when I hear bare feet softly cross the floor into the bathroom. The door shuts, and the shower head creaks when she turns the water on. Lucy is awake.
Throughout the dead of night, though my body was still, my processor was not. I’m curious about my new owner. Although I understand that the school technically owns me and not Miss Lucy Warren, she is the one who has taken responsibility for me. Others treated me with caution, disregard, or disdain, but she allowed me to choose my own name.
Why?
I search for some kind of social media presence online. She has a PhotoGram account that is set in a deactivated status, and I cannot access it in its current state. Aside from her professional résumé photo and background education information listed on WorkView, I’m not able to find anything else except a few gossip column boards that require subscriptions. I can only read their titles:
I don’t care what people say—Lucy Warren is in the wrong.
Lucy Warren is a harpy, and I hope he sues her for all she’s worth.
Odd. I try to find more information. There are a few articles that appear to mention her, but they’re behind a paywall.
What is it Lucy Warren may have done? It’s strange that she has no social media presence whatsoever. There are dozens of applications to entertain and encourage people to interact with the larger world. Eighty-seven percent of Americans nationwide are currently registered with a wide variety of social media accounts, and 98.7 percent of registered BioNex owners have them.
Lucy, in comparison, has practically none.
As she showers, I walk around her living room while a constant stream of information courses through my circuitry, trying to formulate logical explanations for my owner’s behavior. She doesn’t appear to have any kind of moral objection to technology in the slightest. She owns a personal laptop and a fifty-five-inch TV with hologram capabilities and voice commands, like many do in this modern age. She has her personal tablet, her smartphone.
I cast a quick glance into her bedroom as I pass by the door, exploring these new surroundings. She has a smooth-running table fan that uses the same bright blue holographic tech to display the time resting by her bedside. Her alarm is set for six a.m., but she rose fifteen minutes before and disabled it for the day. She doesn’t seem attached to her smartphone like so many in her age group. It sits dormant upon her kitchen counter, fully charged.
I tentatively reach for it then pull my hand back. I can’t access and sync to Lucy’s phone without her explicit permission, but for a second I almost tried. I turn my hand around, staring from my palm to my knuckles and considering my actions.
What is this innate curiosity within me? Thisneedto know more about her? I breeze through current BioNex data on servers, trying to find a reason, scientific or technological evidence to explain why I am so strongly propelled. All assistants, like myself, are eager to please their owners. It is built into our programming, into everything that makes us what we are. But that only feeds into my current state of confusion.
