Author: Taylor Pittman

They moved around the room, their bodies jerking at odd moments, their voices slipping into mechanical ranges as they served beverages. She could not stop her eyes from trapping the waiters in her periphery. If she looked close enough, she could see the stitch pattern embedded behind their ears or across their wrists. Their eyes, too shiny, too attentive, yet holding nothing. Don’t stare, Mama said, they are human too.
They called them HCR Models, a new worker bot meant to replace human laborers. The ones serving this Gala were meant to showcase their potential. Marin watched as one of them bumped into another, sloshing golden bubbles from one of the six champagne flutes on its tray. Marin tried to keep the disdain off her face as she looked around at her father’s business partners; greedy, wheezing, red-faced men with their taciturn wives in one hand and a checkbook in the other. One man had stopped a female HCR Model and was tilting her face to and fro, his hands holding her chin like a child would maneuver a doll; his wife was smiling, but her eyes were screaming.
Marin scanned the room for her mother and spotted her on stage, near the podium, with her father. She wasn’t smiling; no, Marin’s mother was stoic as ever. She stood with tan skin and thick, dark hair parted down the middle, falling to her back in a silk sheet. She carried the energy of a woman whose kindness you wanted to earn. Marin’s father had an arm around her waist, confident and comfortable as he threw his head back with a laugh at something the professor squeaked out, baring his teeth through his curly beard.
They looked perfect together—the head of a technological empire.
Marin grabbed a glass of champagne from one of the trays floating near her head. She took a long drink, savoring the pops of flavor and the warmth that spread through her chest. She would make the most of the night. Finishing her drink, she set it down and gripped the cold steel of her chair’s wheels and moved towards the back of the room.
“May I have your attention?” Her father’s voice echoed over the speakers. He tapped the podium mic twice. “I’d like to say a few words before the open bar kicks in.”
Marin rolled her eyes and looked to the side. She paused. An HRC was staring at her, empty eyes unblinking. It was the one who spilled the drink.
“We usher in a new age, where human imperfection is no longer the standard, but rather the past. Our new model is more than a robot—it’s an assistant. An assistant dedicated to serving you and your needs only.” Her father had everyone’s full attention.
“HRC Models don’t need lunch breaks, they don’t have ‘mental health days,’ and most of all,” his gaze slid over to Marin, “they don’t get sick or injured.”
The HRC smiled widely at Marin.