An Algorithm for Tears

Author note: This story does make some references to child cruelty.

I think, that I think.

But actually what I ‘think’ constitutes as thinking is simply automated electric responses processed by my CPU (Central Processing Unit). It’s a very high-tech piece of software, and I’m proud to say that I am programmed with all the latest data and multi-core processors for optimum performance levels.

I say ‘proud.’ But obviously I don’t mean that.

Androids can’t be proud.

But I understand the definition of ‘proud’ because I am equipped with the most up-to-date learning systems and intelligence networks. At some point someone also installed me with ABI capabilities (Artificial Biological Intelligence). Not all Droids have ABI capacity, but it’s particularly common in those taking on roles which involve a high degree of emotional intelligence, such as working in hospices or in childcare, as well as some more unsavoury jobs providing for those humans who are dissatisfied or unable to find a companion. An array of complex algorithms are input into the CPU, to ensure that ABI Droids can respond effectively to different emotions and facial cues such as anger, pain or pleasure. We not only have the facility to recognise these emotions in humans, but we also store this information on file so we can learn and adapt to similar situations in future.

I cannot remember a time when I wasn’t a ‘CareBot’ – that’s the name for Droids who work in the care industry. Although it’s possible I was programmed differently at some point. I know from accessing the intelligence networks that the use of Droids for what were once traditionally human tasks has rocketed over the last century: delivery drivers, transport services, care homes – so it’s possibly I started my Droid life in a completely different role. Most of us are leased, as Droids are still expensive enough for only very wealthy families to afford their own. Our memory drives are also regularly wiped as if they get too cluttered it can impact our speed and performance. Since the Droid revolution of the mid-2000s, our exteriors have also made significant advancements so our appearance can now be personalised to fit the required needs. I can change hair colour, body type – even the colour of my skin and gender – on request. 

Technically Droids do not have a biological gender and so it’s often just a case of changing the packaging. But, of course, my appearance is entirely in the hands of my owner or whoever has hired me.

Luckily for me, Droids are not able to feel vanity.

***********

The Bulmer family requested my appearance as tall, strong and male. It’s a popular model and, even though all CareBot Droids are all programmed with near identical strength and agility software, it appears to be human nature not to trust in these features unless we also look the part. My network research suggests that vanity is a very common human characteristic. Appearances are everything.

My assignment for this lease was Daniel Bulmer. I knew from the brief that Daniel was nine years old, underweight for his age and under-performing at school. His parents both worked in advertising and were unable to devote time to caring for their son. My task was to act as a full-time guardian for Daniel – dropping and picking him up from school, tutoring him in the evenings and taking him to football on Saturdays.

My memory starts when Mr Bulmer came to pick me up from the warehouse. My visual devices registered a small, rotund man with piggy features and a bristly moustache. Fleshy arms, more fat than muscle, strained against a sweaty blue shirt.

Information input: Poor diet, body odour, lack of exercise, irritable demeanour.

I instantly started inputting data into my systems.

‘And this is the model you’d recommend?’ Mr Bulmer asked the salesman with suspicion written all over his beady little eyes. ‘And the data this thing stores? That’s all wiped?’

‘You bet ya!’ the salesman agreed, ‘the data is stored for performance enhancements only. The memory and data get wiped as soon as you terminate the lease.’ He looked Mr Bulmer up and down with his salesman’s eye, ‘And you have full customer control over exterior personalisation – if you want to change it into a leggy brunette for a wild night or two then the missus will never know.’

He snorted disgustingly. Mr Bulmer chortled with him, displaying a row of crooked, yellowing teeth.

Thankfully, Droids are not able to feel revulsion.

********

Information input: Large house. Clean. Empty. The drawers automatically shut when opened in the kitchen. The wine rack next to the fridge is full.

Daniel weighs 25 kilograms which is underweight for a 9-year-old. He has ginger hair and brown freckles, which look like his nose has been sprinkled with cinnamon. He spends far more than the recommended time for children playing video games. I suggest he should cut down, as he will exceed the suggested screen time allowance, but he ignores me – sometimes he laughs at me. It’s the only time I see him smile.

I ask him what he’s playing. A thirst for human understanding is written into my hard drive – it’s part of the ABI functionality.

‘It’s FIFA,’ he tells me. ‘You know. Football…?’

I swiftly scan the intelligence networks available to me.

‘Yes Daniel,’ I confirm. ‘FIFA is a non-profit organization which describes itself as an international…’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Daniel responds with a human gesture I recognise as impatience. ‘Who cares about that? Do you want to play or not?’

And so this is how I am initiated into the world of football. Daniel beats me three times but I finally score a goal, just before Mrs Bulmer hollers from downstairs.

‘Daniel! You better be doing your homework and not playing on that computer!’

Before I’m able to process the information and run analytics on the irritation present in Mrs Bulmer’s voice, her husband appears in the doorway. His stance wavers slightly and the red liquid sloshes in his glass like a sea of blood. His wide frog mouth is stained red as a vampire’s, and his pink, sweaty forehand glistens in rage.

‘What the f…..’ He bares wolfish teeth at both me and his son. ‘How much are we spending on this thing a month and instead of helping you work he’s playing ***** video games!?’

Information input: Emotion identified as anger. Algorithm recommends apologetic response.

‘I’m sorry Mr Bulmer. It won’t happen again.’ I stand up and position myself away from the remote control, but Mr Bulmer screws up his face in fury and throws the controller against the wall. The suggested algorithm does not seem to be working.

‘He didn’t know, Dad,’ Daniel bravely pipes up in a small voice, ‘he hasn’t been told.’

Mr Bulmer winds his right arm back, before his fist springs forwards into my jaw, knocking my head back so it’s horizontal with the floor. My systems and sensory units freeze for a few seconds before automatically rebooting.

Fortunately, Droids are not able feel to physical pain. We do not bruise and we are able to withstand great force.

But I do not play video games again.

**********

Information input: Recycling days are Tuesdays and Thursdays. Daniel has football on Saturday. He is also not allowed to play video games until he has done his homework. The wine rack in the kitchen is now half-empty.

‘What homework do we have tonight Daniel?’

‘Boring…. Philosophy.’ Daniel’s mouth turns up at the edges. ‘Wanna play FIFA instead?’

Almost a smile.

‘No Daniel,’ I lie. I have learned enough of Daniel’s emotional response to know that he’s joking so I ensure I give the correct facial cue by smiling myself. ‘According to your school notes you have to choose a famous philosopher and write down their beliefs. Have you chosen one?’

Daniel nods. ‘Descartes.’

I quickly browse the intelligence sites.

‘What did Descartes think?’ I test.

But Daniel is ready for me, ‘I think, therefore I am.’

‘Very good Daniel.’ I nod in perfect imitation of an understanding primary teacher I saw in a 20^th century film in the databank. ‘And what does that mean?’

‘Descartes was only sure of his doubt. But in doubting his existence it means that must have actually existed.’ Daniel waved his hands around as he explained. ‘So for example… you think. Therefore you must exist. Do you see?’

I tried to compute. ‘But I do not doubt my existence. I already know that I do not think. I am programmed to know so.’

Daniel looks as me with sceptism. ‘How are you programmed to know so?’

‘It’s embedded in my CPU.’

‘What’s a CPU?’

‘It stands for central processing unit.’

‘Like a brain in humans?’

‘Yes Daniel. But it’s sends electronic responses to react to the external sensory inputs I receive. It doesn’t make me human.’

Daniel is still unconvinced. ‘But how is that different to a human brain?’

I guffaw in automated response even though I know it’s not quite the right social cue on this occasion. I hastily browse the intelligence sites, but the boy has a point and I don’t have an answer for him.

Unbelievable. The most up-to-date education system downloads and ABI technology and I’ve been outwitted by a nine-year-old human.

All I can say is: ‘Daniel, you are obviously a very intelligent child – how come your school grades are so bad?’

Daniel shrugs. ‘I don’t care all that much.’

Once his homework is finished, I start getting him ready for bad and pull out his pyjamas from the drawer. As he pulls his jumper over his head to change, I notice his arms are covered in a series of blue and purple marks.

‘Daniel, what is this?’ I ask, conscious that the concern in my voice is just a response to something I recognise as pain. ‘Are you hurt?’

Daniel pulls his pyjamas on as quickly as possible, covering the bruises.

‘It’s nothing’ he says. ‘Just football.’

**********

Information input: Today is Saturday. Football Day. Daniel now has a name for me. He calls me Des after our Descartes conversation. It seems to amuse him and sometimes he even smiles. I wonder if any of my other owners gave me a name.

‘Daniel – wake up! It’s Football Day.’

Obviously Droids can’t feel excitement and so let’s just say I’m intrigued to actually see the game in real life. Yes, that must be it. I’m curious. Curiosity had been embedded as a feature in my CPU.

To my surprise, Daniel pulls his pillow over his head and tries to go back to sleep.

I try again. ‘Daniel, football.’

‘I hate football’ comes the muffled response from under the pillow.

There must be a mistake.

‘No Daniel. You love football. I know you love football.’

He sits up, puffy eyed and still half-asleep.

‘No Des – I hate football. I like FIFA. But actual football… I’m rubbish.’ He looks down, ‘and they all hate me.’

My algorithms are unable to suggest an appropriate response for this scenario and so instead I just ask, ‘why do they hate you?’

‘July 2nd last year – penalty shoot out Daniel raises his big, brown eyes to the ceiling. ‘I missed. I lost the game.’

At that moment he looks a lot younger than nine years old. I note the weariness in Daniel’s voice and try to be comforting.

‘Daniel – it’s just a game.’

‘Yeah, tell them that.’

Watching football at the local club isn’t quite as exciting as it is on the screen – you don’t get the same aerial viewpoint or interaction as in the computer game. Even so, I realise that Daniel is incorrect – he is neither worse nor better than many of his teammates. I keep a close watch on Daniel though – I do not want him to get hurt.

He makes it through to the end of the game without a scratch, however just as we’re about to leave, one of the older boys steals Daniel’s trainer from the bench and starts to kick it around on one foot as if it’s a football.

‘Hey! ‘Stop it!’ Daniel leaps on to the pug-nosed bully, and two boys cling together in a furious huddle. I launch between the pair of them prising them apart.

‘Give it back!’ Daniel yells.

‘Whatever’ says Pug Nose and. to prove how macho he is, he hoofs Daniel’s trainer into the bushes next to the pitch. ‘Whatcha gonna do? You gonna set your Tin Man on me freak?’

It takes a second for me to realise Pug Nose is referring to me.

‘Tin Man is incorrect,’ I argue. ‘The term originates from a book written in the 1900 by L. Frank Baum. it doesn’t take into consideration of the leaps and bounds in science and nanotechnol…’

‘What a loser! The loser’s even got a loser Droid to babysit him.’

‘He’s not a loser,’ Danny screams, his hands making tiny, angry fists. ‘You don’t even know him!’

In that moment my information input freezes – I’m experiencing something in my adaptive software I cannot recognise and process. It does not fit within the set algorithms I have available.

Then I’m back to normality.

‘Come on Danny’ I say. ‘You can buy another trainer later, but this child will wake up tomorrow and still be a pug-nosed bully. And that is a lot harder to fix. Time to go home.’

Both boys’ jaws drop slightly as I start to walk away. Daniel runs to catch up with me.

‘It’s ok Des,’ he says. ‘He’s not so bad really. He just thinks he’s funny sometimes.’

Calling a child a ‘pug-nosed bully’ is probably frowned upon, but sometimes even Droids get things wrong.

**********

Information input: Saturdays are when Mrs Bulmer likes to watch her favourite reality talent show. The wine rack in the kitchen is empty. Daniel is quieter than usual.

‘What do you mean you lost your trainer!?’ Mr Bulmer shouts, his hands shaking as he thrusts a finger into his son’s face.

Daniel doesn’t say anything – an almost holy expression crosses his face, like a priest praying.

Mr Bulmer starts to poke Daniel’s face, jabbing his cheek violently. The boy just turns his cheek without reacting.

I have to intervene. ‘Mr Bulmer – it wasn’t Daniel’s fault… another boy threw the t…’

Mr Bulmer spins around and pushes me violently in the chest. ‘Who the **** asked you? You stupid piece of metal!’

He turns back to his son, ‘And as for you…. What have I told you about standing up for yourself.’ He takes Daniel by the shoulders and shakes him, so his head snaps back and forth like a doll. ‘You’re a sissy boy. A nothing.’

I take a few hesitant steps towards Daniel – unsure how I am supposed to respond, knowing that what happening in this household is wrong on some very basic human level.

‘You Droid!’ Mr Bulmer barks. ‘Get out of my sight!’

Unfortunately I have to do as I’m told. It’s written into the programming.

When Daniel comes into the room for bed, his face his puffy and his eyes red from weeping. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I. Instead I put his pyjamas out for him as usual, and I do not comment on the fresh purple bruises which are now forming over the old ones on Daniel’s skin. I understand now that these are not the kind of injuries that a child might sustain during your average afternoon football match.

Daniel’s breathing is choked and raspy as he climbs into bed. I draw the coverlet up to his eyes, hiding his tiny frame, and he clasps my strong wrist with thin, pale fingers as I do so.

‘Don’t leave me, Des,’ he pleads with large, watery eyes. ‘Promise.’

I lie to Daniel. I promise. I tell him it will be ok, and that, of course, I will never forget him.

But I know that sooner or later the Bulmers will erase my memory drive and I’ll start a new life as a Droid somewhere else. I’ll no longer remember the smell of the football pitch or the elation of scoring a goal. Daniel will no longer exist for me. The name ‘Des’ will no longer mean anything.

I know that Daniel’s tears are approximately 98% H₂0 and 2% sodium electrolytes. My eyes are unable to shed one single tear. There is no available algorithm for tears.

And I suppose this is what makes me less human.