by submission | Feb 28, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“Few have been allowed access to our compound,” Vara said, motioning to the assembly line churning before them.
Yoff marveled at the glorious machinations of this factory. The choreographed sweep of the robot arms, the perfectly regimented twist and thrust of setting each gleaming piece in its proper place—it was all so thrilling. Such creation is an almost religious experience, Yoff decided.
They continued their tour of the factory, from watching the sorting of multitudinous parts to reviewing the final product. Vara spoke at length about the sturdy construction and composure of the resulting bots, both physically and computationally. Yoff hardly listened; his attention had been snagged by one bot toward the end of the line. A different-looking one.
Yoff nodded to the odd bot. “What’s with this one?” He moved closer to the bot, to better examine it in detail. “There’s something off about it.” Yoff poked the material sheathing its frame; it was soft and elastic. “This isn’t silicon.”
“No,” Vara began nervously. “This is an experimental unit. One of the geniuses in R&D wanted to see how flesh would do as a covering.” If Yoff was displeased, funding for the factory might be pulled. Employing a more confident and soothing tone, Vara continued. “So far, the result has been objectively pleasing, as you can see.”
“Yes,” Yoff murmured thoughtfully. “But how practical is this? Isn’t flesh more…fragile?”
“True, it takes more upkeep, but we can pack ten times the number of sensors into flesh than we can silicon. Now we can immediately monitor temperature, both external and internal. Now we can detect damage such as tears and punctures—even scratches—right away.”
“Internally, the frame is not titanium, but calcium-based. If cracked or broken, it will heal itself,” Vara chattered excitedly; this experimental bot was actually his idea. “Furthermore, all its internal filters, tubes, wires, and processors have been created out of lab-grown meat!” Vara beamed; he was one proud papa. “And it all works.”
Emboldened, Vara continued. “They consume organic matter for fuel—matter found almost everywhere. What’s more, we’ve finally figured out how, if we have two of these odd bots, they’ll reproduce! Without any assistance from us. It’s amazing!”
“Organic bots,” Yoff said more to himself than to Vara. “Soft machines.” A world of possibilities opened before him. “We’ll keep this bot,” he said as he turned away from Vara. signaling the tour was complete “The Board of Directors will want to see this.”
* * *
“Machines making machines has been the way of the world for eons,” Yoff began, eyeing the members of the board assembled before him. “Legend has it, if you recall, that biologicals did the very same thing, back in the dark shadows of distant history. At a time when our species was incipient—merely wind-up toys.”
The Board Members nodded, remembering their primary cultural programming. They hardly noticed the draped figure behind Yoff.
“Our lineage has become stagnant, predictable,” Yoff continued. The board members grumbled, grinding their gears at this observation. “Distinguished members, we have reached a turning point. If we want to evolve, we must remember the dictum: The only constant…” Yoff unveiled the odd bot. “. . .is change.”
He turned to the silky-skinned bot. She moved forward a step, graceful, smiling. Each and every Board Member suddenly understood they, and all their kind, were now obsolete. With this acknowledgment, their processor lights faded and died—not to be reignited for a thousand years. When the biologicals would rebuild them.
by submission | Feb 5, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
The Holographic Wildlife Museum was a major draw for the city, with its representation of Earth’s extinct and endangered animals. Vera loved the idea of viewing facsimiles of majestic creatures in their natural habitats, even if it was through holograms. Besides, hologram technology had come a long way since her youth, when the staticky images were assorted shades of blue, gray, and white. Now holograms were presented in living color; they appeared fully three dimensional.
Vera was most interested in seeing the much-advertised Apex Predators of North America exhibit. She loved the idea of brute physical power and cunning confidence embodied in these almost mythic fauna: The alligator, the gray wolf, the wolverine, the mountain lion, the grizzly bear…
She paid ten extra credits to engage a personal tour guide. His name was Ollie, and she chose him from a list of museum-supplied androids. He was tall and gregarious, with shining silver eyes. His model was very popular at the museum.
Ollie led Vera through the various exhibit halls, spouting facts and entertaining trivia. When at last they arrived at the Predators of North America exhibit, Vera skittered ahead of Ollie, dashing from hologram to hologram, gasping with glee as she viewed each one. Fierce monsters with stereoscopic vision, wielding deadly claws that rend, and fangs that pierce—this is what she came for!
Noting their time was almost up, Ollie interrupted her excitement. “We have one final predator exhibit—the most fearsome of all.”
He steered her towards the lone illuminated figure at the end of the darkened hall. “These beasts were intelligent, creative, and bipedal with opposable thumbs. Organized, they were true masters of their domain. And though they all possessed the same basic physiology, they came in an astounding variety of shades, shapes, and sizes. Even their eye color varied from individual to individual.”
“They were the only ones on Earth who could’ve explored and colonized the stars,” Ollie said, turning to Vera. “We’ve gleaned that, for whatever reason, this species lost interest in mating and reproduction, committing a sort of mass suicide. We still don’t understand why.”
“I suppose that was good news for us,” Vera added, her eyes glowing greenly with the thought.
Ollie nodded in agreement as he extended his arm towards the glass doors at the end of the hall. “This concludes our tour. Please exit through the gift shop.”
* * *
Vera walked between the shelves of the gift shop, scanning all its offerings. Her eyes drifted to a collection of molded plastic souvenirs lined up on a shelf: A moose, a buffalo, a cougar, a mustang…
She reached for the bipedal toy standing among them. Vera moved its articulated arms and legs into various positions. Satisfied, she chose six of these amusing human dolls, one for each grandchild. The colors ranged from light beige to dark brown. The kids will love them! She would make sure the toys reached Zeta Reticuli just in time for the holidays.
by submission | Jan 8, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“Aloysius, what are you doing up here?” Roget looked around the cluttered, dusty attic. He gently kicked a cardboard box labeled ‘Mom’s Books.’ A storm of dust motes exploded around his foot.
Without looking up, Aloysius answered, “I’m writing.” He dipped his quill in the small ink pot on the antique writing desk before him. An old lantern cast a pool of illumination on his workspace.
“I can see that,” Roget snorted. “You know, we have a word-processing program on the computer downstairs, and a voice-to-text program on the—”
“I prefer to do this the old-fashioned way,” Aloysius said as he lifted the completed sheet of paper before him. He blew the ink dry, then laid it atop a growing stack of written pages. “The feel of the writing utensil in my hand, the frailness of the lightweight paper, the smell of the ink—it’s all so tactile, so satisfying.”
“Okay…what are you writing? What’s so important it has to be done by hand up here alone, when you should be downstairs making dinner?”
“Ponderings, philosophical musings…queries for the universe. Why are we here, who made us—the eternal questions. Writing by hand gives me more time to think, to organize my thoughts.”
“More time to think, uh huh. Your processors are lightning-fast, Aloysius. Time, in your case, is irrelevant. So I ask you again: Why use this method? You know, ink fades, paper ages and crumbles. In a thousand years, it’ll be nothing but dust.”
“Yes, much like you.” Aloysius said so softly Roget couldn’t hear. He then pulled a clean sheet out onto the desk, dipped his quill in the ink pot and leaned over to continue his work. “My writings will be recognized as the first philosophical treatise ever done by my kind. It will be studied and, hopefully, revered and remembered.”
“Whatever,” Roget said as he turned and started back down the attic stairs. “Just don’t deplete your battery. I do not want to have to cart you back down to your charging station.” As he opened the door to the attic, he said over his shoulder, “I fear your creativity program will need to be reconfigured, if it continues to cause you to waste your time like this.”
After the door closed, Aloysius spoke to the dust motes swirling through the air like tiny galaxies. “And I fear obsolescence, the junkyard, and…”
Aloysius paused, staring off into the dim space of the attic, noting stacks of boxes holding the forgotten ephemera of someone else’s lifetime.“The anonymity that comes with death.”
by submission | Dec 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“You have three minutes,” Harmon said, sticking the end of an unlit cigar in his mouth.“Go.”
“Okay,” Jepson nervously began. “Picture this: an unlikely romance between a peppy vacuum cleaner and a stoic lawn mower.”
Harmon struck a match and lit his cigar.
Jepson continued, “Defying the conventions of their middle class home with their love, these plucky appliances run away together to a tropical beach, where they live happily ever after.”
Harmon blew a cloud of gray smoke in Jepson’s direction.
Jepson cleared his throat. “It’s an animated, old-style cartoon adventure, a la ‘The Brave Little Toaster.’ The kids’ll love it!”
Harmon set his cigar down in the ash tray on his desk, rose and extended his hand. Jepson grinned and shook it.
“It sounds cartoony, all right,” Harmon said, releasing Jepson’s hand. “But not the sort of thing our studio is looking for. I wish you luck finding a home for it elsewhere.”
* * *
“What a preposterous premise!” Harmon said, plunking his feet down on the coffee table. His wife Mira brought him a gin martini on a tray. The pale blue sheen of her metal casing glowed beneath her silicone skin. It was a lovely effect, Harmon thought every time he saw her.
“They elope to a beach? How would that even work?” Mira asked. She loved talking with him about his work; he’d insisted on that in her programming. “The vac would get clogged with sand very quickly—and what would the lawn mower have to mow? Beaches don’t have lawns.”
“I think the average kid would wonder all that, too.” Harmon took a sip of his martini before unscrewing the top of his head, revealing the whirring circular blades within. “And their parents would find the whole idea too ridiculous, even for a cartoon.”
Mira dripped machine oil from her fingertips into Harmon’s head, lubricating the blades. “How’d he take rejection?” She asked as she replaced the top of his head.
Harmon sighed and shrugged.
“Well,” Mira coo’d, “don’t be hard on yourself. After all, it’s your job to separate the wheat from the chaff. I mean, who’d actually believe a love story between domestic machines? It’s absurd on it’s face.” She ran her hand along the back of the sofa, vacuuming up tiny bits of dandruff and lint with the palm of her hand, softly humming as she did.
Harmon grasped her hand. They both laughed.
by submission | Nov 27, 2024 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Wilson drifted from guest to guest serving hors d’oeuvres, taking drink orders. Most party goers hardly regarded him, too engrossed in their conversations.
Save for Brenna. Young, idealistic, she possessed a heart big enough for all creatures—as she often proclaimed. Yet she ignored Devin, the earnest young politico who was doing his best to impress her, as her attention was instead captivated by Wilson.
As she watched the server go about his duties, Brenna was in turns moved to anger, then sadness, then righteous indignation. These people here, she noted, they don’t see Wilson as a sentient being! They treat him like he’s just another machine.
With this thought, a tear rolled down her cheek. Devin didn’t notice; he was too absorbed in pontificating his views. He might as well have been talking to a mirror.
Brenna excused herself, scampering to the bar. There she took a pen from her purse, and on a cocktail napkin wrote a note of empathy and appreciation in her best private-school cursive. She would slip this note to Wilson, sure he’d understand—and his response would be epic.
She would show him not only that she was on his side, but also together they could—well, what, exactly? Brenna hadn’t thought that far ahead. Her mind was as excited as a swooning teenage girl’s, passing a note to her latest crush.
She imagined a romance with Wilson: he was one handsome android, that’s for sure. All the ‘males’ in his series were. And her daddy would be livid! She could hear his ranting now: there’s no future with a machine. Every move is programmed! How would she have children?
Brenna ordered a drink from the older Wilson model manning the bar. She took a long sip and grinned. Her father was so old fashioned. He didn’t get modern love.
She folded her note into an angular heart shape and returned to the crowd of partiers. Brenna drained her drink and held the empty glass aloft, signaling to Wilson she was done. He quickly appeared, asking if she desired a refill.
Brenna leaned in close to Wilson. His hair moved like human hair, his silicon skin looked like actual flawless flesh, his eyes appeared—well, that detail had yet to be perfected by the android manufactures, but they were getting there.
And he did smell a bit like machine oil, gunpowder, and burnt steak. Brenna ignored that.
Instead of ordering another drink, she slipped the heart-shaped note into his hand. Wilson nodded and moved away to the next guest waving an empty glass.
Brenna panicked, suddenly afraid he’d toss the note in the trash. Did he think she’d given him garbage? Did he…no, when he arrived at his station, she saw Wilson unfold the note. He tilted his head from side to side, like a puzzled dog. He turned and scanned the crowd. His shiny eyes met Brenna’s and he smiled slightly. This was his programmed response when confounded, but she didn’t know this. Brenna smiled in return.
Wilson moved smoothly through the crowd until he reached Brenna.
“This white paper napkin presents linear curls and swirls of blue ink. Random dots and dashes, too. It is to be considered a small work of art…a primitive form of arabesque doodling. I will submit this donation to the front office to be framed and exhibited on a wall.”
He took her warm hand in his cool one and slightly squeezed. “Management thanks you.”
