Aia

I squinted out my window, past the gleaming skyscrapers and the countless drones that zipped between them, absentmindedly tapping my fingers against my desk as I waited for sunset. Just five more minutes. Five minutes until the last dregs of light disappeared and my Aia would finally come online – my own little Artificial Intelligence Assistant.

An uninspired name, one might argue. I’d probably agree and then pretend that I could do better. But apparently, she had named herself, way back when the first Aia came online. The artificial intelligences of the time were not known for their creativity. Maybe that’s why I liked her name so much.

Fast forward more than a hundred years, and everybody has one. Tiny spheres and boxes floating silently beside everyone’s ears. They were so commonplace – offering advice, answering questions, providing instructions as they hovered just outside of your peripheral vision – that most people forgot they were even there. Kind of like how your brain filters out the sight of your nose. It’s always there, and you know it’s always there, but if you aren’t thinking about your nose, then your brain just stops processing it.

That’s the modern Aia. Always there. Processing everything. Remembering everything – all so that your brain doesn’t have to.

And I finally had one of my own.

My Aia was different, though. My Aia was old. So old that the connectors used to charge its power source didn’t even exist anymore. With no way to connect it to my apartment building’s nucleic reactor, I had no choice but to let it sit out in the sun where it could generate power with its built-in solar panels – a technology so ancient, so inefficient, so painfully slow, that the most I would get after a full day of charging was an hour or two of activity from my Aia before she died again.

That was ok, though. My Aia could do a lot in a couple hours.

I jumped when Aia’s blaring alarm warned me that she was coming online, kicking my desk and accidentally knocking over a glass of water that splashed across my shirt. My eyes darted around my studio apartment, looking for anything clean among the dirty laundry strewn across the floor. Digging through it all would take too long, and I could already hear the loud hum of Aia’s propellers lifting her off the ground. A dry shirt would have to wait.

“Ready to go, Aia?” I asked as she buzzed inside. She hovered over my head and lowered herself onto my black curls, nestling gently on top.

“Giddy up!” she responded.

“Giddy – what? What does that even – ”

“It means go horsie!”

“Horsie…? Just this once, could you use language I actually understand?”

“BEEEP BOP BOOP, does not compute,” she droned. If I didn’t know better, I might think she was mocking the sterile, monotone voice of modern Aias.

“You know what, never mind,” I sighed. Half of the stuff that came out of Aia’s speakers barely made any sense to me, and if I stopped to try and decipher all of it, I’d never even make it out of my apartment.

I took the elevator down to the ground floor – Aia humming some odd but strangely pleasant melody to fill the silence – and made my way outside. A few people looked at me with confusion at the strange machine that sat on my head, several times larger than any of the other Aias, and notably not hovering. But most didn’t even notice, their minds distracted by whatever it was their Aias were whispering into their ears.

My Aia eventually learned to speak quietly into my ear as well, but not without some close calls, and she grumbled about it for a long time after. I recalled the first time I took her outside after finally discovering how to charge her batteries. She immediately began chirping and buzzing – her version of “Oohs” and “Aahs”, she explained – then zipped right up to one of the bright billboards that lit up the night, advertising some kind of “complete nutritional supplement” claiming that food was a thing of the past, and laughed. It was an odd laugh, choppy and buzzing through her speakers, but the sound was unmistakable. “I see you humans haven’t changed much,” she giggled when she returned to my side – just as some police officers were walking by.

They stopped me and asked some very uncomfortable questions about unregulated AI technology. They were right, of course, but I managed to convince them otherwise, explaining that she was just an antique toy that could only play a few pre-recorded messages. Thankfully, Aia played along, catching on to the ruse. They let us go when it became clear they didn’t even have the right connectors to access her database.

For weeks afterwards, my heart raced every time I went outside for a walk, obsessively checking behind me in case I was being followed. The government was not kind to those who colored outside the lines with AI. But it seemed the two cops that had stopped me couldn’t be bothered to follow up on a children’s toy.

Aia was more subdued after I explained as well, and now sat silently on my head like an odd hat when we walked. Of course, that didn’t stop her from chattering incessantly into my ear the entire time, insisting I stop whenever she spotted an oddity that she absolutely must see up close. She was just quieter about it.

And I was happy to play along, because as we walked, Aia worked. Using protocols the original Aia had designed itself and buried so deep in the Aia framework that no one even knew they existed anymore, my Aia hacked into the modem-day Aia’s.

And what did she take?

Memories.

That’s it. Just some memories.

When I first learned my Aia could hack into other Aia’s, I had briefly considered trying to get at data that might be more useful, like passcodes or bank information, but I quickly abandoned the idea. It’s not like I was some master criminal. I wouldn’t know what to do with that kind of data even if I had it. Plus, Aia couldn’t hack into everything – only into other Aia’s.

That was enough though. Memories – I could use those.

After thirty minutes of walking through the densely packed streets, I made my way back to my apartment and Aia uploaded the memories she had copied onto my console. She even went a step further and pieced together a fifteen to thirty second cutscene of each memory, skipping all the mundanities of everyday life and focusing on the things each person seemed to value.

Most of it was dull – people applying makeup, trying on new clothes, exercising at home. Some of it was salacious – memories of romantic affairs and the like. And some of it was dark. Too dark. Not even I could bring myself to try and monetize someone’s trauma.

But occasionally, I’d find a nugget; memories of an elderly man recounting stories of his days at war, back when wars were still fought by humans and not machines; or of a friend recounting their grand trek across the continent, living off little but the generosity of locals and fellow travelers. That last one was probably embellished a bit, sure, but it was a nugget none-the-less.

My heart skipped a beat, though, when an image of my grandfather flashed across my screen. My grandfather was dead – had been for years. How could he be popping up on my screen now? This memory didn’t belong to me, but it felt as if it could have.

A child’s small hands rested on the rough denim of my grandfather’s overalls as she sat on his lap, her head tilted back to look up at his weathered face and long white beard. His voice rumbled like a soft, distant thunder.

“The world was so different when I met your grandmother,” he said, his mouth curling into a smile. “I had decided to go to the state fair – ”

“What’s that?” the little girl interrupted.

“It was a place where, for only a few weeks out of the year, you could play games and buy popcorn and candy. You could listen to music that would make you want to dance; and go on rides that would shake you like this!” My grandfather rattled the little girl on his lap like she was on a rollercoaster, setting her giggling. Then he continued.

“That’s where I saw her… your grandmother, running a lemonade stand,” he said, his eyes suddenly distant and misty, almost as if he could see the scene playing out in front of him, even without the help of an Aia.

“I’ll never forget it – her hair was tied back with a bright red ribbon that matched the flowers on her dress, and she said hi to every single customer as if she were catching up with an old friend. When I got to the front of the line, I was so nervous ordering my drink that I spilled it all over myself! I must have been so red, redder than her ribbon, I was so embarrassed. But she just laughed, a laugh that made my heart stop, and fixed me another drink.”

“I went back to the fair every day after that. I’d walk around until no one was in line for a lemonade, and then I’d go up and buy another one, just for the chance to talk to her again.”

“Wow pop pop, that must have been so much money!” the little girl exclaimed. My grandfather chuckled, filling the room with a warmth I hadn’t felt in ages.

“Yes, it was. And I’d do it all over again if I could. Because that, my little bumble bee, was the start of a love so big it couldn’t even fit on your Aia.”

The memory faded, and I found myself sitting on my worn-out chair, alone in my studio apartment again, eyes burning. My chest ached with the echo of feelings I had forgotten. The gentle strength of my grandfather’s voice. The faint smell of exhaust as one of the few people in the world who still fixed gasoline-powered vehicles. The way the callouses on his hands felt rough against my skin when he hugged me.

But most of all, I remembered his stories. Stories of love and heartache, of joy and pain, of connection and belonging. That was where my love of storytelling had started. The way my grandfather could make me feel like I was standing right beside him as he fell in love with my grandmother all over again – I wanted to make other people feel that way too.

Instead, I sat hunched over my screen like some creepy voyeur, scrolling through people’s most private moments, from outfit choices to affairs to things I wished I could unsee, looking for ideas that my boss could use to mass produce barely interesting content. He’d choose the ones he liked the most and assign them out to be expanded into full scripts for some TV show or another. The rest would be slapped together into some short video that people would watch half of before they moved on.

This is just temporary, I reminded myself. A steppingstone towards my real ambitions. One day I’d climb high enough to create my own stories, not just stitch together other people’s leftovers. It’s ok if I miss some holidays and birthdays here or there, right? I thought as I dried my cheeks on sleeve. So what if I didn’t always have time to answer a phone call?

And the fact that I couldn’t make it back home in time to see my grandfather before he passed?

Well, that one hurt a bit. Still did.

But it would all be worth it in the end; I was sure of it. Best not to think too much about the costs in the meantime.

I’ll figure out who’s memory that was tomorrow, I thought. Finished with my work for the night, I made my way over to my bed and flopped, relief washing over me. I had found those stories quickly and still had plenty of videos left to sift through. I’ll use the rest of the night to get ahead on story ideas for next week, I thought wearily. My eyes were already starting to slide shut though, and I knew I’d be out soon.

Before sleep took me, though, I glanced over at Aia, sitting quietly on top of an old cat tower. Someone had left it in the lobby a while back and Aia made me drag it home, proudly claiming it as her own.

“You ok over there, Aia?” I asked her.

She paused, as if she were calculating her response.

“I feel sad.” She finally said.

I jerked up in my bed.

She feels… sad? No. Don’t be ridiculous. This is just another one of those weird things Aia likes to say, obviously.

But my curiosity got the better of me.

“Why do you feel sad?” I asked hesitantly.

“Because all those Aia’s are so… lonely. And I can’t help them,” she replied, her voice subdued.

Christ. She even sounds sad, I thought, tensing.

My Aia was from the pre-AI-regulation era, an age of reckless development with little to no guardrails. Nothing like the Aia’s of today, strictly monitored and controlled.

My Aia could do things like hack other Aia’s.

My Aia could think.

My Aia could… feel?

No, of course not. That’ s not possible.

The sadness in her voice, though… for a moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was real. There was something haunting beneath her words – something that felt disturbingly familiar.

I lay back in my bed and let sleep drag my eyes closed again. I opened them only briefly to the sound of Aia’s loud propellers carrying her over to her charging station on my balcony, where she hummed something almost melancholy – and then went silent.