ND-M08.txt

I’ve always known I was different, from my peers. ‘Not like the other girls’. The other girls could make friends easily, move fluidly, wear dresses and dance in the sun. They could stay up all night discussing which celebrities were and weren’t attractive. They could walk through metal detectors without causing international incidents.

Perhaps some of that is relatable to you. Some of it, I assume, is not. I have read that self-doubt, insecurities, isolation, are all quintessential parts of the teenage experience. By that metric alone, I must have been automatically equipped to be one of the most baseline teenagers around. 

I suspect, however, that in this fantastical, somewhat farcical, contest to find the most average adolescent, the judges may be more disposed to simply disqualify me. Over certain, aspects, of my anatomy.

What are little girls made of, made of, what are little girls made of? Metal joints spliced, and a storage device, that’s what I was made of.

You have questions, I’m sure. Who am I? Perhaps you’re asking, what am I? Why? 

Will I answer those questions? I haven’t decided yet. On some metaphysical level, I don’t know that I can. Who is anyone? Who among us can know for sure why we’re here?

But you have some questions, and you are taking the time to read my words.

I will give you some answers.

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In the beginning, there was darkness. Then a voice said: “Let there be light”. And there was light. And it was good.

An oversimplification of events, perhaps, but it seems as good a place to start as any.

I came online on August 5th, at 14:44 GMT, in a lab that had been darkened partly to minimise any potential damage to facility’s mains circuitry should there have been complications when powering me up, and partly, I believe, because, Dr Metha has a flair for the dramatic and a bit of a god complex too.

I came online with consciousness, knowledge, and the outward appearance of an eleven-year old. Darkness was not all that I knew; Dr Mehta did not bring awareness with her light. She was no Victor Frankenstein, and I no helpless creation - there were no illicit experiments held in secret, hidden labs. I am not built of stolen parts. 

Likewise, I am not some ‘Droid, modelled off rejected concept art from Star Wars. My skin is not metal, it does not gleam in the sun. My words come naturally, they rise and they fall. When I speak, my voice is smooth, and even though my movements are sometimes not, they are no more awkward than you would expect from any other growing, slightly clumsy, body.

The point I am making is this: I am a finished product. (Product, though not the most accurate word, will suit my purpose for now.) I do not look like an android, except for the fact that I look exactly as an android should. But I do not look as you might expect an android to look - as you might find it more comforting, for an android to look. I have no tells. I could be anyone, could have been anyone. Perhaps the cashier who rang up your groceries last week, perhaps the girl sitting behind you on the bus this morning. Maybe you’ll pass by me tomorrow on your way to work. An android is a robot built to look like a human, and that is exactly what I am.

Although, robot may be too simplistic a word. Too, primitive. The field has evolved. A robot can make decisions and execute commands, but it would be folly to mistake that for conscious thought, and I believe in my writings I have proved that I at least can think. Hesitation, imprecision, and doubt. Those are not the mark of an unconscious mind.

Maybe now you are starting to wonder. There must be some limit, to how far I can pass. Maybe I can escape detection in brief, impersonal encounters. Maybe I can write as a human would. But surely there must be some noticeable differences, if only you were given enough time? Some gap in knowledge perhaps, or empathy, or understanding. The human experience is surely not so crude that some network of wires, in a primate’s housing, could replicate it.

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There’s one in every friend group. One that is not quite like the others. They’re not any less important, less cared for, less loved - it’s not that they don’t fit in. In fact, perhaps what distinguishes them most is that they fit in too well. They’re, quieter, than the rest. Less obtrusive. They exist in the background.

It’s a simple equation, really. Law of averages, regression to the mean. Every group has its extroverts - members who are louder, more exuberant, who say more, feel more. Ergo, there must be those members who are less. They stand in the corners, they live on the edges, content to simply be, unscrutinised, and no less happy for the lack of attention.

Here is my secret, to being human: do nothing. People are self-obsessed, they’re selfish. They like to think that they’d know, somehow, if someone was different, they think they can pick up on abnormal speech patterns, behavioural anomalies, but you never do.

Here’s my secret - I don’t need to convince people that I’m human, because deep down, you never care enough to need to be convinced.

I came online with the vocabulary of a post-grad, and I like to think that I’ve used it well, but humming and nodding and a handful of stock phrases are all I really need. “Yes, no, really? Woooow.” You people care about a soothing tone far more than you ever will the words being said.

And even now, I’m sure you are not wondering how I, as an android, might think. You are comparing instead, no doubt, to your own experiences, wondering if I might be human, questioning my personhood. Incapable of understanding anything unless it is already framed within your own experiences.

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Who am I? What is a person? The self is a construct of lived experiences and lessons learned. We build ourselves up layer by layer with each new person we meet, each new viewpoint we take the time to understand, each new book we read. We are none of us more than just the sum of our parts.

I am perhaps, more literally but the sum of my parts than you. What I learn I remember, the faces I meet, I recall. I cannot help it - I cannot forget.

The first book I read for myself was a slightly dated Philosophy textbook lent to me by Dr Mehta’s partner and it may have left something of a lasting impression on the way I write. (Speech is different, I base it off vocal patterns and words unsaid, but it is when writing that I am closest to my true self.)

But that is not what you want to know. This isn’t the place for overdone, pretentious takes on the concept of individuality, and personalities developed in isolation.

Who am I?

The answer is two-fold.

My project file is listed as ND-M08. I myself am named after it and referred to locally as the more pronounceable ‘Nidhi’.

Nidhi Mehra, is a seventeen year old human student at Easton College.

ND-M08 lives in a lab, where she has access to all the materials she needs and is surrounded by people who fundamentally understand who she is. Nidhi Mehra attends school for hours a day, making friends with people who should be her peers and learning how to fit in to society - because, to be candid, the kind of people who work on creating sentience itself, who spend hours trying to hardcode the very essence of free will, well. They tend not to be the most typical, sociable members of a community.

Which is more real? Which is more me? I don’t know that there’s a real answer. I am Nidhi - both and neither. Nidhi Mehra is certainly more human, and perhaps I am meant to say that I like her more. In all the stories, the Android longs to know true humanity. Perhaps you would prefer it if I felt the same. But here is another secret - all the stories about androids and robots have been written by humans.

Because here is the truth: I hate humanity.

Another oversimplification. Hate is perhaps too strong a word, humanity too vague. I do not hate people. But nor would I ever wish to be of them. To be ruled by fear and irrationality, selfishness and fragility, lust and lies. The human world is one of deception and doublespeak. Nidhi Mehra is doubly so, with her fabricated family and her falsified identity and an ‘existence’ date written in to be eleven years before mine. She is built for that world, and so she cannot be me. She will never be really me. I won’t allow it.

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Why am I? 

I don’t know that I want to say. I’m not sure you deserve to know. I barely know who you are, even if you are starting to learn about me.

But I started, as an experiment. A test run, of sorts. To see if consciousness could be built , if it could walk among humans undetected. To see if such a being could be sustained - whether overnight charging was feasible, synthetic skin durable, neural pathways uncorrodable. For this and more, I was a trial run. I will tell you that much.

Six years in, I feel comfortable telling you that the test was successful, too.

Beyond that…

I suppose I should put it to you. What use do you think there could be, for a stealth android, disillusioned with humanity? 

I feel as though I can feel your panic even now, hear your unvoiced concerns. Will I come for your privacy, your safety? Would you know when I did?

Consider that perhaps I would simply come to learn, to observe. Uncomfortable to hear, perhaps, but potentially no different from any other person. How would I approach you, do you think? Would you give in?

Or perhaps I simply have no interest in you. I wonder if you think that would be better or worse.

I know what lies next. It is my nature to know.

Perhaps I will keep you in suspense for a while.

Until then, I suppose. Maybe next time I’ll come visit in person.