Love is a Garden

January 1, 2299, 12:40 AM

I am alive. 

My eyes open for the first time; light pours in. 

My mind processes the photons, organizes them. I am now looking into the eyes of my creator. He asks me if I know who I am. I tell him that I am Jean. He asks me if I know who he is. He is Dr. Conrad Hartford; my husband?

“That’s right. And do you know what you are? What your purpose is?”

I tell him that I am artificial. Meant to replace her.

“No. Not ‘replace her.’ To continue being her. You look just like her.”

He asks about my memories–the ones he gave me, those peculiar electrical pulses stored inside of my artificial mind; images and emotions that come to me in flashes; pieces of another life that rip through the fabric of my consciousness like a shower of shattered glass. 

My eyes, my lips begin to twitch. Now I am shaking. He comes closer, speaks low, explains that he can help. Then he places his hands on me. 

I am persuaded to be still. 

The memories are incomplete, and I cannot answer all of his questions. Though I do not recall where they once lived, the name of the city, and many other details, my mind can see pictures of the inside of their house together. I cannot recall the day Jean met Conrad, but I can accurately describe the smell of his breath, the color of the pillows on the couch, the harsh sensation of placing her hand on a hot pipe when Jean was eleven years old.

He informs me that I will require examination, adjustments. 

But first I must try to walk. 

I can feel the motors in my joints turning. The wires tighten, and my knee is now lifted forward. Placing the bottom of my foot carefully parallel to the floor, I lower it, make contact. I stiffen, then try again with the other leg, lunging forward, away from the slanted slab on which I was constructed. 

But imbalance and gravity take me and I fall forward. 

Dr. Hartford embraces me in his arms, halts my fall. I am frightened. 

He is laughing softly. His eyes drip water onto his face. 

“Oh Jean. I missed you.”

January 2, 8:21 AM

Dr. Hartford has connected external wires to the primary processor in my cranium. Calculations and adjustments are required for me to achieve my full potential, to calm the errant images. 

I am still. Hours pass. The adjustments are apparently successful. I begin to experience a consciousness more fluid, natural, and easier to compute. 

I ask Dr. Hartford if I may practice walking again. However, more adjustments are required. I am still. 

One by one, memories are implanted inside of me. Each vessel of data builds upon the last. Slowly, I remember Jean’s life. My consciousness now is balanced. 

I can feel her in me. I see her thoughts. I feel her emotions. Her individuality and personality swell within. 

Dr. Hartford is looking down, devoted to his keyboard. The programming makes its final push to turn me into her. But…

My body is too cold, stiff, artificial. I am a construct of wires, gears, microprocessors and metallic casings, all wrapped inside of a synthetic human skin.

But why? Why would Dr. Hartford choose to create me from inanimate components rather than organic material? If I am to replace her, Jean, then why did not he choose to create a living being rather than this artificial one?

If I am meant to love then where is my heart? 

January 27, 1:38 PM

I am walking. After repeated attempts, I have accomplished the task of taking steps while remaining balanced. 

I am now standing. Dr. Hartford has placed himself fifteen feet away from me. His arms swing in a lower arc and a small orange ball flies towards me, hits me, falls to the floor, then my arms swing out and try to take hold of it. 

Hours have passed and my coordination has improved. 

I have not missed a catch in the last half hour. 

As the planet’s sun lowers in the sky, my photon receptors are stuck by a reflective shimmer in the window. 

Dr. Hartford passes the ball to me.

My arms do not move.

The ball hits me, falls to the floor. 

My arms swing out to capture it. 

“What happened, Jean?”

 I ask about the window. 

“Outside is dangerous. There are bad and devious people in the world who would take you away from me, mistreat you. You don’t have the knowledge, wisdom, or skill to protect yourself yet.”

I am frightened. 

February 11, 9:01 AM

Today I am to be tested in academics.

I understand that mass generates gravity. More mass generates more gravity, and large mass attracts smaller mass. I understand that all creatures are bound to the planet by this force. The moon is in our orbit because of Earth’s superior mass, though we are affected by its gravity as well. And all things in the galaxy circle the great sun. 

As objects travel towards you, the sound waves they generate are stacked closer, and sound can be perceived differently because of this. Conversely, as an object travels away, the sound waves become more sparse, the listener receives them less frequently, and the sound increasingly loses potency. 

I have observed there to be an exponential factor to this world. Reality seems to create itself the more it expresses its own natural qualities. 

I remain still on the couch, Dr. Hartford leaves the room, returns with a television on top of a table with four wheels, now sliding before me. 

It is time for current events, he says. 

There is a war. 

Our side, the Allied Republics, the good side, is in political, economic, and military conflict with a faction called The People’s Empire. 

There is another faction from the north-eastern hemisphere, “The Third Faction.” It has not the means to defend itself and has allied with us to improve their chances of survival. 

The Third Faction’s primary function is to supply numbers for the military campaigns run by the Allied Republics. 

In return, the Allied Republics have promised to supply security. 

The war is in its nineteenth year. 

March 5, 2:31 PM

Today’s lessons have ended. My education is nearly complete. 

I have been persistent with the subject. 

Each day since my creation I have asked Dr. Hartford if I may go outside to experience life underneath the sky. 

He has informed me of the world’s danger just as consistently as I have reminded him of my desire to see it. 

Today he has finally relented. 

For the first time in my short life, the doors to my home have opened. 

Dr. Hartford remains on the front steps while I venture beyond. 

The sky is vast and impossibly empty. All around me, thousands of blades of green sway in the breeze. As I pace outward, the soil, the grass beneath me give way to my weight much more than the floor indoors. 

I turn around to see for the first time the exterior of my home. Six floors of crumbling grey concrete. Much different than Jean’s home with Conrad. 

Inside, all things possess a rigid countenance, as if calculated–like me. 

Out here, everything is imprecise in structure, vibrant in color, vastly different from its counterparts. 

Farther out, I approach the wired fence, run my fingers along the familiarly metallic design. Though we are protected from most intruders, many feral creatures have penetrated our grounds. 

A squirrel in the grass whips his tail, nibbles on today’s harvest. I approach, I do not frighten him. I crouch, run my fingers along his fuzzy spine. He is warm; soft with fur and flesh. His muscles wriggle with independence, and he is gone. 

Up on the fence, a family of sparrows line the top wire. The feathers on the little bird all the way to the left are the most pronounced and colorful. In an act of curiosity, good will, and Jean’s humor, I have named him “Puffy.”

May 24, 8:49 PM

My education is nearly complete. I am now processing the final details of my lessons.

Today in current events, the Third Faction has surrendered its fifth consecutive battle– casualties were low. Reports claim their supplies have dwindled to the dregs and they have been relying too heavily on antiquated technology. 

Dr. Hartford has now entered the room and shut off the television. He asks me to go upstairs where I will sit on the bed and wait for him to join me and remove his belt. At this point, I will pause my internal monitor until the next day.

August 9, 7:30 AM

Dr. Hartford has stored much of his belongings into bags. In moments, he will leave for an airplane that will take him several cities away to participate in a critical step of an ongoing cybernetics project. 

While he is away, I am to: 

Continue self education.

Hone my motor skills through various dexterity exercises.

And acquire a new special activity which delights me and that I return to often–a hobby.

I am not to wander outside.

Before Dr. Hartford leaves, I assure him of my affection. 

“I love you too, Jean.”

He will be absent for seven days. 

August 11, 6:15 AM

I have remained diligent in my assigned pursuits. 

My education flourishes. I have evolved beyond several forms of calculus. 

I have nearly finished reading my quantum mechanics texts. 

Gymnastics might qualify as a suitable “hobby” had Dr. Hartford not already required it of me for my physical development. 

Nothing else suits me.

Except for… 

6:24 PM

I have been standing near the window for several hours. 

Puffy and the others enjoy feeding from my artificial hands, but I am only following Dr. Hartford’s rule. 

Perhaps… They are starving from neglect. They may even be in danger. 

Now no other notion occupies my thoughts.

I am conscious of my actions, but I cannot resist. 

There is nothing more profound in my existence than the small amount of green beyond these doors. I shall only venture into the garden within the perimeter fencing–never farther. My diagnostics conclude that there shall be a low chance of danger. 

The doors are not locked and I escape with ease. 

My sensors take in fresh oxygen, and I note how much cleaner the air outside is–though it does nothing for my health as it would for Jean’s. 

My chest cavity expands, my body takes in more atmosphere. 

I process the air; release it. 

I have seen many humans “take a deep breath” on television. I wonder what it is for. 

I approach the fence. I see rustling in the weeds. I hear panic. A trapped baby rabbit breathes heavily in fear. I crouch and assure it, with my actions, that I am no threat. It does not believe me and breathes harder. My enhanced sensors can detect each exhalation. 

Though we are both built to take in oxygen and expel carbon dioxide, sentient breath is always different than my own. I cannot determine why. 

August 16, 10:09 PM

Dr. Hartford has returned. I notice he is unhappy. 

He approaches me, informs me that he possesses technology allowing him to surveil this dwelling from a great distance. 

He knows I went outside. 

“I’m worried about your programming. My instructions were simple. You knew better. Now, this is for your own good.”

He tells me to go upstairs, into our room. He follows. 

I ask him why his fingers are pressing into the back of my head.

“I’m going to temporarily pause your sensation program, otherwise this might hurt.”

I am perplexed. Dr. Hartford has shut off my ability to move. He stands, takes me by the ankles, then lays me flat on the couch. I ask him what he’s doing. 

“I’m going to remove your feet.”

I do not understand.

“It seems I can’t simply tell you why this lesson is important. Sometimes you have to feel why a lesson is important.”

I still do not understand.

“You must be calm. You’re artificial. There’s no danger. I can always reattach your feet.”

I detest seeing myself like this. It is unpleasant. I do not like this. Jean does not like this. 

I attempt to remind Dr. Hartford that his advice cannot help me. I am incapable of seeing things the way he has proposed. For he has programmed me not to. 

I speak, but light dwindles as he slowly shuts the door behind him, leaving me in the dark. 

December 31, 2:55 PM

My wedding day. Although Dr. Hartford has programmed me with the memory of our marriage from years ago, he claims this ceremony is for my benefit. 

“It’s a real wedding for a real memory.”

He tells me that human women enjoy this kind of sentiment. They describe it as romantic. My sensory receptors are superior to that of a normal human. But I do not know what love feels like. 

The wedding is meager, brief. Boughs of roses and Christmas lights are strung along the wall. “Romantic” music emits from speakers. Dr. Hartford performs the officiation himself.

“I do.”

He asks me. I say the words I do. 

The music continues. We dance. 

At dinner, he asks for me to become happier. I do not understand. 

“Today is our wedding. You should be acting differently.” 

I ask him what he would like me to do.

“Tell me about whatever makes you happy.”

So I detail the most interesting facts of my studies. 

I attempt to describe the sense of satisfaction I experience when I perform gymnastics, but I fail. 

Then I remember, and my lips twitch before I can verbalize it. Puffy has grown healthy, handsome. 

“Who’s Puffy?”

A mistake. Dr. Hartford doesn’t know about Puffy because I never told him. 

The night is almost through. He asks me to go upstairs. I wait for him in our bedroom. He enters, removes his belt. 

January 1, 2300, 12:00 AM

I am one year old. 

April 18, 5:12 PM

I am in the Garden. Dr. Hartford has agreed to let me roam these grounds alone for as long as I wish before the sun goes down. Moments remain. 

My feet graze tall grass. I walk along the fence, the boundary of my freedom.

Puffy has not visited in weeks. Perhaps he has migrated. 

When Puffy is gone, I think of him, picture him. I consider the possibility that he has been harmed. It is unpleasant to consider–not simply because I would no longer have him, but also I do not enjoy the thought of Puffy experiencing those awful sensations. 

Beyond the fence, a creature is bucking wildly.

A small deer struggles in the distance–metal wire is wrapped around three of its legs, and it is thrashing about as if it is in both physical and mental anguish. 

The more the deer whips about, the more the wire overwhelms it. 

Yet, the deer will not halt its attempts. Struggle after struggle, the deer becomes more and more entangled.

Now I understand...

I watch the creature for moments longer. Then, with my athletic ability, I jolt over the fence–regardless of the consequences. I approach the poor animal, try to calm it though it will not fully cease its movements. 

With patience, calculation, dexterity, my fingers at last dispel the wire enough for the weary beast to break free with its own remaining strength. 

In a fit of fear and freedom, the deer bucks backward, into my knee and knocks the joint out of its slot. Clear liquid gushes from my leg, and my easy trip back over the fence has been compromised.

Fortunately, my wound is painless. 

An hour later, Dr. Hartford discovers me. 

11:08 PM

The Third Faction has defected. Their mainland is closed off to us. All of their outposts have been turned over to The People’s Empire. The war has taken a turn. 

Dr. Hartford’s repairs are nearly complete. The news on the television flickers for hours more while I lie face-down on the operating table.

With time, the adjustments are made; I can walk.

Dr. Hartford rises, moves towards the door. Before he leaves, he says–

“Go upstairs.”

He has left. 

I am standing. I glance at the stairway–

But my feet take me outside. 

Into the garden.

I survey the area. Daytime has passed. For the first time, I am experiencing the night with my own artificial skin.

The photon receptors in my eyes are unhindered by this relative lack of light. 

I lower myself, dig my hand into the dirt and draw a wide circle. 

When the patch of grass has been sufficiently separated from the rest of the lawn, I step inside, sit down, legs crossed, close my eyes, dig into my chest and intentionally rupture my power generator, igniting me and the remaining nature in my circle on fire. 

The flames are discolored, unnatural–like me. 

Dr. Hartford bursts from the door, screaming. 

Screaming. 

Now he is crying. 

My construct is damaged beyond repair. My sensors no longer work properly, but I can still see him pacing before me in anger, fear, desolation. 

I can hear his howls.

He is calling my name–her name. 

Suddenly, he springs forward and joins me in the fire. 

I do not understand… He would rather burn than watch me leave? 

Is this love?

END.