Technician #479 had been so excited when given this assignment, ecstatic at being handpicked to birth SIA, one of only a dozen model-D bots being birthed. It proved there had been a point, a reason for all his grueling years in Construction, first as a Picker, rushing to and fro, 'round and 'round the lower floors of the factory to collect the necessary parts in the allotted seconds, the supervisor yelling in everyone's ear...
Do you want to be replaced by a hunk of metal? 'Cause they will replace you without a thought unless you give 'em a reason to keep you meatbags. So make your times!
Then as a Courier, which was somewhat better even though he still had to make his times, because at least then he'd had his electric cart to move the endless boxes and boxes, so many heavy boxes. And only sometimes would he have to move the bodies, those Pickers who'd collapsed or died on the spot, their heart or legs or lungs finally spent.
He didn't mind carting the bodies so much, since he'd had just such a collapser to thank for his first job as a Picker -- the woman had collapsed right at his feet, and administrators pulled him out of the line leading to Janitorial, for which he'd originally been hired. He'd heard Janitorial was even harder than Picking and for much less pay, so he was grateful for the improved opportunity.
(He'd also heard that those employed in Janitorial would never have to worry about being replaced by bots, because "the guys over in corporate are sadistic pricks, and they'd never let that happen." Which made him appreciate the guys over in corporate just a little bit more, even though he'd never made it to Janitorial himself, and didn't know what was meant by sadistic pricks.)
And then, luckiest of all: that time when one of those sadistic pricks from corporate had driven all the way across town for a factory visit.
The corporate executive had gathered everyone on the floor during the lunch break; the courier stood against his cart at the edge of the throng while the executive spoke about productivity and something called synergy. A loose screw glinted on the ground in the dim factory light. The courier had instantly known in that way he sometimes just knew that the executive would slip on that screw and fall, and that it would be bad for them all.
And so, Courier #479 did the only thing he could think to do: he dove to the ground to retrieve the screw. He was too slow though, and the corporate exec was already on his way down. The courier adjusted his body mid-dive, swiping the screw as he held up the sadistic prick by the back of his fancy black jacket.
"What the fucking hell?" the corporate exec yelled at the courier.
"I'm sorry, sir. B-b-but, I saw this screw on the ground." The courier held up the offensive scrap. "I wanted to stop you from falling on it."
"Oh," the executive said, brushing his pants, adjusting his jacket. "Well. Good catch. You saw it from over there in your cart?"
"Yes, sir. Can't be too careful. A screw or something could trip me up bad, so I keep my eyes on the floor. To make my times, you see."
"Well, that is excellent commitment. And what fine attention to detail, courier number..." he leaned closer to peer at the courier's badge, "...four seven nine."
"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir."
Then the corporate exec turned to the administrator who hovered behind them, a reluctant shadow. "Do you see that? A courier with more commitment and attention to detail than you! Why was there a screw on the floor in the first damn place? What kind of sloppy crew are you running here? Maybe you're trying to steal from the company--"
"No! N-n-no sir, no. I would never."
"Maybe I should give Courier #479 your job. How about it courier, would you like a promo--"
The shriek of the lunch bell echoed through the factory, cutting off the guy from corporate. Everyone remained rooted in place, unsure if the bell meant the lunch break was truly over, since none of them had gotten to eat yet for the day. Surely there would be time to eat.
"Well?" The executive looked at the crowd with disgust. "Why are you still standing there? Don't you all have crap to do, times to make?" The prick from corporate waved his hands at the crowd, shooing them away, officially ending the lunch break.
The crowd broke in an instant, not wanting an infraction. Bodies dashed through the factory to make it back to their stations before the second bell rang, cursing themselves for wasting precious time (cursing corporate for wasting precious time).
The very next morning when the courier arrived at the factory, he was told to hand in his cart keys and report to Tech training. He emerged one week later with a crisp white coat to wear over his blue coveralls, and a shiny new badge rechristening him Technician #479.
#
The technician sighed with pride at the memory of his journey. But now, having made a Mistake? And with one of the first model-D's?
"Are you upset?" SIA asked, her voice musical and lilting and raspy at the same time. "You seem upset, number four seven nine. Please don't be upset."
The technician opened his mouth, but no words came out. What was there to say? In fact, he needed her to stop talking; the talking of bots wasn't allowed at the birthing stations. His head swiveled frantically. No one had seen them as far as he could tell. He knew what he would have to do: he would have to shut SIA down.
He turned to the screen and concentrated. SIA had somehow rotated the floor turntable onto which her body was secured so that she now faced the technician's workbench. She stood with her head cocked to the side, almost touching his shoulder. She scanned the bench, then watched the technician as he faced the glass monitor, his eyes scrunched tight.
The technician's eyes flew open as he let out a tiny squeal of excited recognition; he knew what to do and how to do it. SIA let out a tiny squeal too, another emulation. Technician #479 turned to SIA, and looked at her deeply, as if seeing her for the first time. Sadness and regret flooded his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "But, I have to... I have to turn you off."
"Off?"
"Yes," he said in an urgent, hushed voice. "You're not supposed to be on just now. But it's only temporary, I promise. Once I'm done, you'll go to Cosmetics and get a layer of derma-synth and hair and make-up -- all that."
"Derma-synth." SIA held out her elegant arm, turning it this way and that, examining or admiring, the technician wasn't sure. "Hair." She touched her smooth head, then looked down at the cavity of her still open chest.
"Oh." The technician gave her an apologetic smile, which SIA returned, the perfect mimic. He fumbled with the sleek cage of her ribs, gently swinging them shut until he heard them click into place. SIA smoothed her hands down over her torso, admiring her titanium form. But still, she was on, and that could not be.
After a deep, yearning stare and a long, wistful sigh, the technician turned back to his workbench and the flat screen jutting out, and punched in the code.
taskkill /f /installer_AI_sia.exe
Long seconds of time where nothing happened stretched out like eons to the technician. Surely he would be Fired. But then SIA's hands fluttered and her eyes stuttered, as if trying to fight what was happening to her. A moment later, nearly as abrupt as she awoke, her eyes shut closed with a clink. The technician gave her a tentative push, the tiniest touch with his finger. There was no response. He slid a finger over her closed eyelids, and they remained closed.
Technician #479 slumped against his workbench, heaving a sigh heavy with relief (and something else, a foreign emotion the technician could not name. Had he the language to fully express himself, he would have called it regret).
With shaky fingers, he gathered a white microfiber cloth from his station and began to slowly wipe down SIA, removing all trace of his fingerprints. All trace of him. Until once again the SIA model-D bot gleamed in the light. Just when he'd finished -- almost as if he'd been under surveillance -- the conveyor over his workstation came alive with a buzzing and clinking and bright-light blinking, signalling it was time to send SIA to her next workstation.
This realization caused something to seize in the technician's chest. With that tight seizing-something came the thought of not attaching SIA. Of keeping her with him. Obviously, this would mean Unemployment and that would not do, so the technician dutifully attached SIA to the conveyor that had first brought her to him. He wanted to do more, make a parting gesture, say something. A goodbye. But she could neither see nor hear, so it wouldn't matter. With a final push of a button, the conveyor let out a guttural groan and whisked SIA away.
SIA was Technician #479's only model-D birth.
* * *
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