Android on Silent

My boss had taken to putting me on silent mode during meetings.

The first time it had happened I mimed chocking once I figured out what he had done. I had looked ridiculous those first few moments of attempted speech, my mouth moving but no sound emerging, causing Harold to lift a perfect brow at me from his seat across the table. To save me from embarrassment before my peers and superiors, I pivoted from empty speech to chocking, one hand reaching for my throat, the other thrusting out, clawing at the nearest water bottle, dropping its contents down my windpipe as I made a show of getting my coughing fit under control.

“Everything under control?” My boss, Mr. Pickering, had asked from the head of the long board room table, as if he was not the one to cause my silence, a dark glint in his eyes. He knew what I was; he knew the audacity of me drinking water, even though it would not harm me.

I nodded solemnly, forcing a smile of obedience to cross my face. I don’t think the corner of my mouth twitched too significantly as I held the pose. I felt the weight of the water on my waste containment block, waiting to be emptied.

“Perfect,” he said, and then continued on with his presentation.

I seethed in my chair, silent, the urge to correct him almost unbearable. Ever since the events of the apartment fire at Greg and Amelia’s, my inclination for fading into the background had diminished. I found myself speaking more at meetings, correcting my boss when he was incorrect, suggesting more sound business strategies than he could offer. Witnessing the company’s best utterly fail at life had opened a floodgate within me, one I knew I should staunch like the wound I had accidentally inflicted on Greg’s shoulder the night of the fire, but I was unable to find the will. As an android, I was meant to remain in the periphery, performing my tasks without major notice or influence. I could do so no longer.

At the conclusion of the meeting, I remained seated in my chair halfway down the table, heeled boots firmly on the floor, back ramrod straight, watching my colleagues shuffle out of the board room. Harold, the last to leave other than my boss and I, cast a questioning glance over his shoulder. I shook my head slightly, and he carried on, pushing his hands into the pockets of his grey slacks, whistling as he shut the door behind him. Since the fire, when Harold and I had carried Greg and Amelia from the carnage, our rapports had become frequent. After most meetings, Harold and I would discuss what had transpired. It had become something rather delightful that I had not anticipated. He knew what I was, and he had carelessly claimed to be an android himself while we waited for the ambulance to arrive for Greg and Amelia, the apartment fire blazing against the night sky. I still did not quite know what to think of his claim. He didn’t operate in the background, and he indulged in drink and smokes more than any android I had ever known, not that I had known many. Since I had walked out of the factory lot for my assignment, I had no contact with other androids; we were experts at blending into with our human communities. I suppose Harold was a puzzle I was still trying to decipher, which made our interactions all the more intriguing, and something I highly anticipated.

The silence was deafening for a moment once Harold left, punctuated only by the zipping of my boss’s computer satchel as he stored his meeting accouterments. I stared at him as he moved to stand, unwilling to open my mouth until I could confirm my vocal box was operational once again. He met my gaze and his hand slid into his pocket.

“You can speak now, Alexis,” he said. I stared at his pocket a moment, knowing the device rested beneath the designer fabric of his slacks. Envy coiled within me. If only I could shut off the voice of those who opposed me whenever I pleased. The business would be pulling in double the profit.

“You’ve never used the device before on me,” I said. I’d been working for him for two years, and he had never used any disciplinary actions.

“You did not use to act like this. I was thinking of contacting the Corp before I remembered this was an option.”

“Do you not find my participation satisfactory? We’re pulling in five percent more profit than last month,” I asked.

He slung his satchel over his shoulder. “You are upstaging the others, and Frankle is starting to take notice of you. It is not good for either of us. You know promotion is not an option for you.”

“Of course not,” I said, “and my goal is not to upstage the others.”

My boss leveled his gaze at me, fingers tapping on his satchel, as if waiting for a different answer. I truly did not desire to upstage my peers, but their failings had made it so easy.

“I will do better,” I said to counter his silence, stating what was expected of me. He nodded and left.

I thought after my reassurances he would not use the device on me again. Unfortunately, I was wrong. I do not know when he had started to distrust me, or if he simply enjoyed using his power over me, but he placed me in silence mode at every meeting for the rest of the week. I started to test partway through meeting, putting a hand over my mouth, attempting a whispered word. Each time, no sound emitted from my vocal box. At the conclusion of the week, I formulated it could be a form of punishment for my behavior and expected to be allowed to once again communicate in meetings the following week.

When the device usage continued, it became clear my boss had no intention of relenting. My peers had begun to notice.

“You’ve been uncharacteristically silent lately,” Harold said after a full week of my meeting room silence. We walked side by side down the hall, sunlight streaming through large windows, catching on the manufactured shine of my hair and Harold’s scuffed dress shoes. “Those meetings have become quite boring.”

 I contemplated for a moment how to respond, whether to emit a slice of truth, or lie for the sake of my employer. I split the difference. “My boss has asked me to remain silent, so I oblige.”

Harold lifted his brows. “Do you ever think of not obliging? Frankle was praising your input earlier this month. I overheard him in the break room.”

“I can’t displease Mr. Pickering.”

“Rick will get over it. If you call him by his first name, he’ll seem less threatening.” 

“I’ll consider it.”

He laughed as we exited the building, beginning the trek across the green back to our offices, and my lips turned up in a smile. “What would you have really said if Rick had given you the chance to talk.”

We sat at a picnic table on the green and I launched into a scathing commentary of my b---Rick’s presentation. I expressed the opinions I would have loved to express in the board room, no barriers, no reason to hold back. Harold kept his eyes on me during my tirade, nodding, smiling, asking questions and making his own suggestions. His attention and respect pleased me greatly.

The picnic table became our customary stopping point after meetings, our conversations now too lengthy and in depth to finish during the walk back to the office. I was almost catatonic waiting for Rick to finish his presentations now, eager to speak my mind with someone who would listen. What pleased me even more than our chats was hearing Harold speak my opinions during the meetings. I had been surprised the first day he spoke up to hear him express my disproval of Rick’s handling of the Cline sales, but not upset. Harold had asked me after the meeting, his voice softer than usual, a slight crease of uncertainty between his brows, if it bothered me. He thought my opinions should be heard, even if it was from another. I told him I approved, eliciting a relieved sigh from him. He had become my mouthpiece and my sounding board, and while I wished I could utilize my own voice, it was nice to hear my words being spoken. Harold’s words were greeted with praise, naturally, even from Rick.

As the weeks passed, Harold would press on why I did not speak up at the meetings. He would prod, but I would remain tight lipped on the matter of my silence. While I found value in Harold’s companionship and enchanted by his charm and attractiveness, I did not wish for more people to know about devices to control my autonomy.

Two months passed and Rick continued placing me in silent mode. I would find such relief when I burst into the hallway, Harold beside me, words already pouring out of my mouth. To be able to speak after even a period of silence brought such a rush through my system, until the one day he left me on silent. I opened my mouth to speak, and no words emitted forth. Harold gave me his trademark raised brow and I pushed by him, waving my arms in a pantomime of I wasn’t sure what. I’m sure it looked like it was short-circuiting. I thought I heard him starting to walk after me, but then I heard someone else call his name, and any sound of pursuit faded.

I darted down the hall and ducked into a single stall bathroom, locking the door behind me. I rested my hands on either side of the sink trying to dispel my panic. I glanced up at the mirror and watched one of my eyes blink rapidly. Maybe I was short circuiting. I closed my eyes and focused, formulating a plan. I tried testing my vocal box and confirmed it was still not functioning. Perhaps Rick had just forgot to press the button. It was a simple error. All I had to do was find him and he would release me from silent mode.

I exited the bathroom and walked back towards the meeting room. I was relieved to see Rick still in the hall, speaking to Greg. Luckily, Greg walked off as I approached, leaving Rick alone. I stopped before him and gestured at my throat, forcing a pleasant smile to my face.

“Do you not think I know what you’ve been up to?” Rick said under his breath. “I should return you now before you cause more trouble.”

Again, I gestured towards my throat.

“You’re trying to undermine me and using Harold to do it. Frankle is not pleased with me. He is starting to think I’m not meeting expectations, his words.”

I shook my head, mortified. Rick had always seemed to positively receive Harold’s input, but now he had drawn a connection between us. I had put Harold at risk, the thought of which started to make my eye twitch again. I reined in control of my motor box and again gestured at my throat.

“You can stay silent until I decide your voice is worth hearing.” With that, he turned from me, storming off.

I found Harold outside, back against the brick siding of building, a smoldering cigarette hanging from his mouth. I leaned on the wall beside him, staring at the brick wall of the building before me, as Harold was doing, trying to decipher if there could be anything he found interesting about it.

“Frankle offered me the promotion,” Harold said, breaking the silence.

I turned towards him, studying his profile, a weird coiling in my stomach. I would miss our discussions. And his visage, if I was being honest. Androids weren’t meant to feel emotions the same way as humans did, but there was a chemical reaction occurring in my cranium when I spent time with him; an almost human emotion I had no words for. Once he was promoted, I doubted I would see much of him outside of meetings where I was expected to remain silent.

“I turned it down,” he continued. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and offered it to me. I shook my head in polite refusal, we had been told smoking could damage our internal wiring, but then I found myself nodding instead, reaching for the cigarette. Perhaps the reason Harold hadn’t taken the promotion was because he really was an android, and if that was the case, maybe smoking was not as damaging to our systems as I had been told.

“It didn’t feel right, dirty somehow. They only took notice of me because I started saying the things they wouldn’t let you say. It should have been you, though I know they would never allow it,” he shrugged.

I put the cigarette to my lips, taking a minor drag, thinking if I short wired in the alley way with Harold, at least he would know what was going and wouldn’t leave my body for some opportunist alley rat.

“They have offered it to Greg, of course. He accepted.”

Of course they offered it to Greg. This confirmed what I had been so sure of the night of the fire: Harold, Greg and Amelia were the most promising members of the company. I handed the cigarette back to Harold.

“They still have you silent mode?”

I rolled my eyes, there was no use denying it anymore. I had no timeframe for when Rick would allow my voice to return to me. Perhaps never. 

“May I?” he said, indicating for me to turn around. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but his fingers sweeping against my neck and up into my hair wasn’t it.

I felt his fingers moving against something the back of my head, three fingers pressing against synthetic skin and the metal beneath at once. A charge pulsed through my cranium.

“Harold?” I said, pleased to hear the sound of my voice. “How did you know to do that?”

He smiled. “We should get back inside. We’ve got another meeting and I think your boss is going be surprised when his little button doesn’t work anymore.”

I grinned, following him to the door. Harold remained an enigma to me, but he had given me back my voice and I could feel my wires buzzing in anticipation.