The Imperfect Solution

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The drizzle that had dulled the October morning had run its course, and now a brilliant afternoon sun slanted its rays down on the leaves that shimmered under the sky’s pristine blueness. I knew exactly how long I had been in the ruins, reading, pondering, and experiencing the world, yet I had not predicted the complete change that mere hours could achieve. 

I watched the afternoon grow darker. My sensors detected the cooling air corresponding with the seep of shadows through the valley below. Soon, there would be stars. I had seen stars from the windows in the lab, from the city street when my trainers or Dr. Paul took me out, and I had the plethora of astronomical images and information in my files. But I had never seen stars from the hilltop ruins, in the cool dark, away from bustle and voices and flashing city lights. So I laid back on the wet grass and watched the sky turn black-blue as the woods fell to shadow. To the south, the city cast a rose halo and gold-lit smoke into the air; above, the winking of stars answered back to civilization’s glow. 

I could have stayed out all night with the grass and the stars and the rustling leaves, but that was not allowed. I would be reprimanded as it was, I predicted, for my late return to the lab. It was too dark by then for visible spectrum light to offer helpful input. I could have switched wavelength settings on my sensors, but did not bother. I knew the path perfectly, and retraced my memorized route. I could sense everything: warm and cool air currents, vibrations of animal treads within the woods, and, farther away, the city’s rhythm: traffic, electricity, people.

As I had predicted, no danger beset me on my walk back to the lab. Also in keeping with my predictions, I was scolded for my late return. Angie met me first, as soon as I was inside the white and blue entry hall. She scolded me, but I could understand her vocal patterns and physiological information as clearly as I could understand her words; I discerned that she was amused rather than unhappy. Accordingly, I apologized with a smile, and modulated my voice to be playful, matching her amusement. I had selected a good reaction, for Angie was pleased. 

“Why are you smiling?” I asked.

“You’re funny,” she said.

“Why?”

“You’re like a real teenager, you know that?”

“I did not know that. It was not my intent to mimic a teenager. That’s funny to you?”

“Not funny. Amazing. Brilliant.” She gave me a hug, which I returned. “You’re perfect,” she said. She pulled away, still smiling. 

Then Adam joined us, and did not offer a greeting or a smile. “What are the rules, Kari?” he asked. Adam was my lead trainer, and demanded more obedience than Angie or Dr. Paul. 

I was getting better at eliciting positive reactions through humor, and decided to try humor here. In the span of an eyeblink, I had accessed information in my database that might work as a joke. “One: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. Two: A robot must obey the orders given it –”

“Stop that!” Adam commanded. “I’m not talking about Asimov. Do you really not understand my question?”

“I am sorry. I was making an attempt at humor.”

Angie touched my arm, and I looked at her. “Try “I’m sorry,’ she said. “And ‘attempt’ sounds so stiff. Try something else.”

I complied and looked back at Adam. “I’m sorry. I tried to be funny.” I added, “I did not mean to displease you.” I lowered my head to communicate contrition.

I calculated that the deep breath I heard him take was for his composure. “Very well. Kari, look at me.” 

Angie stepped closer to Adam and said, “If you keep talking to her like a machine, how’s she ever going to learn to interact like a person?” Her voice was low, indicating that, though I obviously could hear what she said, I was meant to act as though I did not. So I waited, running my Standby protocol: rise-and-fall of chest to imitate breaths; blinking pattern; slight eye motion; shift weight; twitch fingers.  Each of these actions ran on an independent loop, which Dr. Paul had designed.

Adam said, “Alright. Kari, why were you out so late?”

“I went to the ruins to read,” I held out my book. “And when it

started to get dark, I decided to stay to see the stars.”

“You know it’s well past curfew?”

“It was only 24 minutes past curfew when I returned. I did not calculate that 24 minutes was enough to upset you.”

“Not ‘calculate,’” Angie said. “Machines calculate. You think.”

“I did not think that 24 minutes was enough to upset you. And since you keep track of my location, I thought that should my absence become alarming, someone would come get me.”

Adam’s anger was subsiding, and he meditated on my words. After a moment he asked, “Weren’t you scared, being out there in the dark?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I do not experience fear.”

“But you evaluate risks to your well-being and good standing. Wasn’t staying out a risk?”

“Yes, but I thought there was little chance of harm to my person. And I said before, I did not think my good standing would be hurt by being 24 minutes late.”

“There was a risk, though.”

“Yes.”

“But the risk was not as important to you as looking at the stars?”

“Correct.”

A new reaction was emerging in Adam: the input I sensed from his physiological signals told me that he was excited.  “You are a valuable investment, Kari. Remember that. Take it into account in your calculations. Or, thinking, rather.”

“I will,” I nodded to further confirm my understanding and compliance.

“Good night, Kari.”

“Good night, Adam.”

“’Night Angie,” Adam nodded as he turned away.

Angie looked at me. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get ready for bed.”

As we walked to my room, I asked, “Why was Adam excited?”

“What do you mean?”

“When we spoke, he was excited about something. I don’t understand what it was.”

Angie shrugged. “He didn’t seem excited to me,” she said. “He was cranky, as always.”

I did not continue the conversation. It was still difficult to discern what humans could read from each other and what they could not.

Angie helped me clean my hair, wash my hands and wipe down the rest of my limbs with a specially-formulated wipe that cleaned and preserved my synthetic skin coating. These were tasks that I could accomplish myself, sometimes with more effectiveness and efficiency than Angie could. I told her this again that night.

She sighed, and I sensed exasperation. 

“I’m sorry,” I said, slumping my shoulders and lowering my eyes.  I did not understand why the statement bothered her.

“Don’t be sorry, Kari,” she said softly. 

I read her physiological signals, cross referenced them to my files on humans and the data I had on Angie herself, and calculated that she was sad. I asked her why she was reacting this way.

“I’m not sad,” she said. “You understand giving help, but not needing it. I’m just…. Trying to understand you, and how you think, and how we can make you less robotic.”

“I am a robot,” I said.

“And there are robots a-plenty in this world. What we’re trying to do here is break ground on a creation that is more alive than anything ever designed.” She sighed again. “But we keep hitting walls. Maybe we’ve just reached the point where we can’t go further.”

“You said I was like a real teenager,” I said, reminding her of the thing that had made her happy earlier that night.

She smiled. “Sure are,” she said. “And come to think of it, why would we want any more of those than we already have in the world?” She kissed my cheek, and I returned the gesture. 

The next afternoon, when I had my daily checkup with Dr. Paul, he seemed pleased with me, as always. He ran the routine repair and maintenance checks, tested my various systems, and had me execute drills that involved adroitness of body and reasoning. “You know you’re perfect, Kari,” he said when we were done.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I mean it. As far as robotics goes, you’re more than I would have ever believed was possible to achieve in my lifetime. Maybe ever. And certainly not by me. Me--!” he laughed. “But there’s a problem,” he continued, growing sober. “Despite all your progress in imitating natural behavior, you still understand the world as an interrogation robot. Perfect memory, perfectly methodical and efficient, perfect ability to interpret cues, even invisible ones.”

I nodded to signify my agreement.

He rubbed his hands together. He was getting anxious. “We have a solution,” he said after a pause. “We dial back your perfection a little bit.”

“What do you mean?”

It meant making adjustments to my sensors, my wiring, and memory to make me less functional. Some things would be altered slightly; some things, such as sensing invisible wavelengths of light, would be completely removed. My processor would be significantly inhibited too. Dr. Paul described this all to me.

“How do you feel about it?” he asked.

“I don’t feel,” I said, “But I think you mean to ask if I find this course of action advisable.”

“Yes, something like that.”

I asked, “Is this because I broke curfew last night? Is this a punishment? ”

“No, not at all. But it is because of last night.” He leaned closer. “Kari, Adam and Angie told me about how you stayed out late to look at the stars.”

“I’m sorry,” I lowered my head.

“No, no, don’t be. I’m happy! We all are. As far as we can tell, your actions resulted of an independent choice – a choice not based on efficiency or effectiveness, but on a personal desire. Surely you understand what a breakthrough that is! Well, then, what are the next steps? We think that the alterations could bring us closer to our goal.” He leaned back and spread out his hands. “Well, there it is.”

He waited for my reply. Finally, I asked, “If I need to be made less perfect to be more human, why is being a human desirable? Shouldn’t you research how to make humans more like machines?”

“Outstanding point.” Dr. Paul smiled.   “There is research, as you know, and much progress, like this eye,” he tapped the socket in which a cybernetic eye rested. “We are finding ways to give people better and healthier lives. But there are so many people – the majority, in fact –who live these long, physically healthy lives, and are desperately lonely.  Think of what a companion could do for the lonely people. It could really help them.”

“But there are lots of caregivers, ‘bots, virtual companions….”

“Those all give help. Give and give from preprogrammed solutions. You but you know what people actually need to stop being lonely? Someone to give to.  That’s the difference between having a servant and having a friend. An important part of living is helping fellow humans through their weaknesses and failings.”

“I need to be weak and failing to be like a human?”

“We’re pitiful, aren’t we?” He smiled, but the smile was a sad one. “It’s your choice, Kari. You may stay as you are and return to the police force. Or you could stay on and help us here at the lab. You decide – what do you want?”

“I understand want, but I do not experience it.”

“The stars, Kari. Why did you stay out looking at the stars?”

“I attached greater importance to viewing the stars than to returning to the lab by curfew.”

“That weighting you did, that was deciding what you want. Now it’s time to decide what you want again.”

Two days later I delivered my decision. I would go through the humanizing downgrade. 

When Dr. Paul asked me why I made that choice, I explained my reasoning. “I saw that the only important course of action was this one,” I said. “Interrogator ‘bots and android assistants have achieved perfection at their roles. Only in experiencing humanity has a robot still to progress. That is more important than continuing perfection, I think.”

The alterations took three weeks. I could tell the difference as soon as I came back online. My vision was not scalable or as precise as before. The spectrum of light and sound that a human can sense were the new limits of my perception. My databases were almost completely wiped, though my files on direct experiences remained intact. I still had room to add, Dr. Paul explained to me. But even when I learned something, it was stored in a new way that was not as instantaneous to access, and required deliberate effort on my part. 

Angie’s help with my nighttime routine became essential; without assistance, the process would be sloppy and protracted. “I need you now,” I told her one night soon after my recalibration.

“How does that make you feel?” she asked. 

I could not discern her emotions or expectations for my answer. “I do not feel,” I said. “But it seems impractical. How does it make you feel?”

“That’s the first time you’ve asked that question,” she noted.

“It is the first time I have needed to ask,” I explained.

She gave me a kiss but no answer.

I still visited the ruins. Even with my limited perception, I could still experience a richness of colors in the blazing leaves and high, blue sky, and sense the chill on each breeze that rushed through the foliage to tangle my hair.   One night, I stayed out late again. When tiny lights winked from the infinity above, I knew I should return to the lab. 

Directionless murk engulfed me as I started into the woods. I tried to follow the memory of the steps I had taken before, but I found myself wandering among the endless trees long after I should have reached the lab. I considered returning to the ruins to try and plot the route again, but I was trapped in the maze of towering trunks and deep shadows.  I continued on, looking for landmarks or a way to measure my progress. But the trees all blended together, the terrain was all the same, uneven and damp, and the canopy of leaves closed off any direction I could have found in the stars. The noise of the city could not guide me either, for my dulled hearing could not pick up sounds from that distance.

After some time, the trees broke in a wide clearing, though not a familiar one. I had wandered to the far side of the hill. Spread before me in the heavens was a view that seemed alien: it was my first time seeing a piece of night sky that was beyond the reach of the city’s soft, eternal burn, and the undiluted blackness revealed a splendor that had been hidden before.  Sprays of stars, layered and infinite, made fissures of sparkling light in the depthless night.  I had not realized that such a rich display could be viewed in the visible spectrum. A slice of moon, silver and cold, hung above the swaying trees.

Adam found me as I stood, motionless and staring. “What are you doing?” he asked. 

“Looking at the sky.” I looked toward him, and the moonlight outlined the angles of his stoic face. I had no input on his circulation, temperature, or even a good look at his expression.  I waited unsure and slouching with the expectation of his anger.

“Curfew was an hour ago. Why are you still out here?”

“My alterations kept me from successfully mapping my return course.”

I looked back to the sky, taking in the sight as long as I could before Adam ordered me to return to the lab. I did not expect him to put his arm around my shoulders, and gaze up as well. “I didn’t know we had a view like this here,” he murmured.

I wrapped my arm around Adam, imitating his hold on me as best I could. We stood there for some time, though I could not say for how long.

Then Adam said, “It’s late, and I’m cold.” 

“If only I could generate heat, like an organic body,” I replied. “Then I could help you by keeping you warm.”

“Well, don’t sweat it,” he said. “Nobody’s perfect.”