Useful and Useless

This home is old. As old as the plaque that labels it a historical landmark. Protected by the state is eight acres at the bottom of a glen. Rolling gardens, native veggies, and AI bees surround a crumbling Victorian castle. Amongst the blades of Old English grass are rusted helpers. Helpers might be too generous. After all, the groundskeeper is stuck running into the oak tree every three seconds. And the house servant's still wiping the same spot on the window. The rest scatter, like bugs. They're useless.

They, like this house, belong to Wayward Herb. Most would remember him as the legendary AI engineer of the 34th century. But that's the past. Wayward is useless now.

Secilia Herb is his daughter. She has no interest in AI. She's completely useless when it comes to tinkering. The pastel-painted woman is simply attempting to squeeze out any good memories with her father before he dies. And, what a challenge that's been. It started when she was born, but back in her home at twenty-four, it's even more challenging.

Her steps clack hard on the wooden floor, kicking up dust the 'HouseMeNot' robot has yet to clean up. She yells over to the rickety robot sweeping with the wrong side of the broom, “You! Where’s my father?” Its face is half missing. Its skin peels back to reveal nuts and bolts, and its rusted finger rises. It points towards the parlor. Secilia groans, unsure if she should say thank you still. It’s been three years since she’s been home. Sunlight peaks through the seven-foot windows at a different angle than she remembers. And running past a couple more forgotten tools, she remembers when they looked like humans. They all used to look real and be useful. This house is unsettling. The paintings of her mother don't even look right anymore, she thinks. She looks down, following her feet like a scared child.

In the parlor, Wayward sits at a dusty grand piano. His age is catching up to him; he stares blankly at dust bunnies hopping in the afternoon air. Utile, his bodyguard, interrupts. “Sir, weren’t you going to play me that song?” Utile, a giant man with blonde hair and broad shoulders, stands over the withering man. His voice is smooth in the dusted air, his long finger presses the key C—Suddenly, Wayward is here again.

“Enough of that,” coughs up Wayward. He spits, “No one wants to hear the playings of a boots-swallow like you!” He swats Utile's mechanic hand, only hurting himself. But he plays it off, like a "real man" of his time. He begins the tune with the weary touch of a few keys.

Wayward has always hated the military. 'They're a bunch of scheming lawbreakers,' he's always said. When Utile arrived three years ago, Wayward had more wits about him. He had more energy to spit out his disgusted opinion of the military, but he's all but lost that now. To Utile, a couple of curse words just mean Wayward's back to his senses... for now. Behind Wayward, Utile smiles to himself, proud to be a boots-swallow in this moment. His breath releases under the southern melody. Utile calls Wayward's unnamed song Heaven’s Sunset.

“There you are!” An echo comes from the hall at the top of the overture. It's Secilia Herb. "Why not just tell me where you are in the first place?! Why am I even here?!" Three notes become late at the ghastly interruption, but it recovers. To Utile, Secilia’s steps are never in time. Her gripes always echo above D sharp. Her voice should be perfect for music, but all she does is complain. He understands that not every relationship is perfect, but why come here just to argue with an elderly man? Utile watches the door, anticipating the bratty woman's entrance. Brooding to himself, he looks back down at the decrepit old man he's become fond of, ‘I thought his daughter Secilia was dead.’

Secilia stomps through the entrance way, huffing and puffing. She sneers at her father, then the retired soldier behind him. There the two are again, together. He could've given her a heads-up, no? Maybe her father's a little forgetful now, but he's not. She doesn't like Utile. There are too many things to dislike about him. His blonde hair and stature, they're too out of place. He's way too bulky, and he's always fully covered. ‘Is he one of my father's fix-me-nots too?' She thinks. Well, it doesn't matter really. Either way, it's clear to her that no matter who or what he is, Utile, No-Last-Name, Security Guard, was sent here by the military.

“Father, I see you're well enough to play the keys. Did you take your medicine this morning?” Secilia unconsciously belts as if she's still a child. At a young age, she became accustomed to her father drowning out her questions with the sound of tinkering tools. Only now he's replaced it with piano keys. "He hasn't changed a bit." She mumbles. Her hand, digging into the wood. Wayward skips through the melody to the bridge. Secilia pushes herself farther into the parlor. She takes a deep breath, “Father, you need–”

“Sir Herb, I think it’s time you took your medicine.” Utile’s words are soft and pungent. They break through the sheet music easily. Secilia is frustrated; she wrinkles her dress in her grip. He's always interrupting her. Wayward stops. He sighs, rubbing his aching hands together.

“I guess you’re right.” Says Wayward. And there it is–

“Father!” Secilia sings. What did he call her here for, if he was just going to ignore her all over again? Utile moves smoothly, ignoring her as well. Guiding Wayward's floating wooden walker to his side. It helps Wayward push himself up and directs him slowly out of the room.

The walker asks, “Where to, my Lord?” The faded blue light of another of her father's fixed-up machines weighs on Secilia's heart.

"He's always liked those damn tools more than me", she whispers.

“He has been more and more forgetful lately. You shouldn't take it personally.” Utile’s calm voice behind her feels like knives.

“I don’t need you to tell me that!” Secilia snaps.

"I'm hoping you'll be more understanding. You know, since you just arrived–"

Secilia whips back, "Shut up!" The sunlight makes his golden hair look artificial. He looks disgusting.

Utile continues, “It’s been so long since he’s really seen his daughter. So, you should forgive him if–”

“And, that's his fault!" Secilia yells. Utile pauses. "And, what are you supposed to be?!” Her voice isn't as smooth as the piano, and she knows that. She's not as compliant as his tools. She could never be as compliant as this thing in front of her. “I may not have seen my father in three years, but I know him well enough without you're help! He calls me here, only for me to come home because he's supposedly dying–Only to find he's being shadowed by… something so huge.” Secilia glares at Utile. He's just like how all the other helpers used to be.

Utile’s eyes sharpen. “I am a former military officer. I am only here–”

“Oh, so you’re modified.” Secilia sneers. The crack in Utile’s calm shows. "A modified military officer!" Utile had no choice in his body; it's a forgotten military standard of the war. He can't get his old body back. And due to regulations, he’s not allowed to deny it if anyone asks.

Through gritted teeth, he says, “...A former military officer. And, yes, I am modified. Equipped with Wayward mechanics.” His slow walk to Secilia is not meant to be menacing, but it is. It doesn't take much for his bulky body to block out sunlight, and Secilia is rattled. She steps back.

“And... Wh-What would my father need security like you for?” She stammers out. Her tone falls to a mutter, her frustration simmering. Secilia knows she's right. She is right. What would Wayward Herb, an old, forgotten first-class mechanic of a different era, need the security of a modified military officer? But what can she do about it? She's just human.

Utile tsks. Irritated by her eyes that quiver, and her leading questions. He thinks, ‘As a body, hers is useless, but it’s ideal.’ To Utile, Secilia looked like one of those modern machines that mimic humans. They were worthless when it came to combat or everyday tasks, but they've become quite popular. They look and act like–Secilia’s clothes are dainty. A soft blue silk dress that tapers off at the thigh and a ruched white cardigan. She can feel Utile’s eyes veer down. She covers her body, crossing her arms across her chest, while the other pulls down the length of her dress.

“Wh-What are you g-glitching or something?!” Most machines don’t have that feature yet. Secilia’s mind rages at the thought of the military programming that in into a war machine. It sickens her. Utile snaps out of it, embarrassed by what she thinks of him. She stutters out, “I-I don’t know what the military wants from my father, and I don’t c-care. I was called here to spend his last moments with him. And I deserve to do that in peace!”

“I called you here,” Utile says sternly. “I was worried. Day in and out, hearing Sir Herb calling out for his dead daughter—"

"You?! Wait, dead?"

"—So, I figured it wouldn’t do any harm if they sent over a machine that looks like her. Who knew you’d be so irksome?” Utile is displeased with himself. He attempts to regain his composure. It's his job not to frighten people. “So, why don’t you do your job and be more compliant towards Sir Herb?”

“Ha!” Secilia has burst. She laughs and giggles as one of the rusted machines from the halls enters the room. “You think I’m fake?” She snorts. “I’m the one who put in the order for a security guard for my father. Only to come here and find that the military has planted some overpowered machine with the face of a, clearly, dead soldier.”

“You think I’m AI?” Utile scoffs. He smiles, a smile of disbelief. "I am a former military officer." He thinks they've made her so well she doesn’t even know. I hate that that’s the standard now.

“Then ask me the question.” Secilia smiles devilishly. She walks up to him, placing her hand on his robotic heart. “Ask me the question, Utile.” He stares at the almost perfect woman. She’s suggesting something dangerous for most AI. It could rip apart her humanity and render her useless.

Article 3, Section 9 of Artificial Enhancement, Bill 36. When asked, a machine made of artificial intelligence is required by programming to identify itself as such, in the nature of its intelligence and hardwiring.

“I may be modified, but I am real. Are you sure you want to know?” He second-guesses himself; he wasn't trying to be petty, but he thought he'd finally gotten away from his body dysphoria. Every time she looks at him with disgust his mind haywires. "I'm sorry, this is dumb. We should stop—"

“No! I know who I am, Utile. Do you?” Secilia says this earnestly. She's frustrated he doesn't see what's blaring in front of his face. Utile's name is an armed forces name. One from the days of war. At least one in a hundred soldiers got it; Utile meaning 'Useful' in French. It pisses him off that she uses it like that. His mechanic body kept him alive, he should be grateful. Secilia softens, "You called me AI first, but now it doesn't feel too good to be accused, does it?"

The two ignore the maid robot that’s entered the room. Utile plants his feet. Focusing all his attention on Secilia. He rolls his shoulder back and asks. “Are you sure you want to know?"

"Are you so sure you're human?" Secilia wips back. Is he? "Are you so sure I'm not?" In the back of her mind Secilia began second guessing herself. She knows her dad's love of useless tools too well.

Utile begins, "Secilia Phénix Herbs..."

"Utile, are you..."

"Are you artificial intelligence?”

"...Artificial intelligence?”

In broken sound, faded under static, the maid robot speaks. “Wayward Unne Herbs is deceased.”