Skywalker

      First, the sound has appeared: someone's voice - deep and sonorous, obviously male. There was neither anger nor aggression in it. So kind and enveloping like the parent's voice. I listened to him without thinking about the words. My eyelids are closed, when I open them, the light will hurt ones - it's still trying to reach my sensitive eyes through a thin translucent membrane. Apparently, I'm indoors - it's quiet here. I can't hear the rustle of leaves or the hum of cars rushing along the highways, I can't even make out the intermittent whistling of the wind. Gathering my thoughts in the murky pool of consciousness I tried to catch pieces of memories, but I couldn't anything. My perception was limited to myself, my quality in which I found nothing except the sensations of the past few minutes and some basic things that one person seems to be born with. They don't need to be explained, we just feel them.       Only bare facts about our world came to mind, nothing personal. I didn't know what kind of hands I had, neither the color of my eyes, I didn't remember the sound of my voice. Does it really sound like the one in my head? I had no idea how old I was or what was my job. Moreover I was not even sure what gender I was. Man or not? Who am I? Where do I come from? A human without name, history and personality - this is strange and even scary. Only one memory seemed familiar to me: it was light, bright sunlight and the smell of wet grass, the way it tickles my cheeks and palm. I involuntarily smiled and thought, that a smile in itself is a pleasant feeling, some inner state of mine was expressed through this special curve of the mouth muscles.       Finally, I opened my eyes and was surprised, that my idea of this movement was different from what I felt. A sleepy person has one eyelid sticking to another. My memory clearly draws this moment: the skin stretches and you hear subtle sound, as something pops. It's the skin folds that parted and opened the way for light waves to the brain. But my eyelids opened freely with a soft rustle. They worked like a fine-tuned mechanism. I instinctively squeezed my eyes but they didn't need to adapt to the light. It seemed like the reflexes of another body much more sensitive and vulnerable than mine were inserted into my head.       A huge round lamp similar to those that stand in dental offices shone directly into my eyes. And a dark figure against its background loomed over me. It was a gray-haired old man, probably the owner of the voice.       - Welcome to this world.       In his hands he held devices the purpose of which I didn't know. I could see my reflection in the mirrorlike aviator glasses. I was afraid of my own appearance. Was I ugly? Oh no, on the contrary, I was perfect. Frightening perfection, too unnatural to be comfortable. People dream of becoming beautiful and change their bodies in pursuit of illusory ideals. Even the most beautiful of them are often unhappy in the imaginary ugliness created not by their bodies but by a wormhole in envious and depressed souls. They strive for beauty and they suffer endlessly because of it: some can't achieve it, others can't get rid of it. Before their feet is a whole world that exalts, perverts and smiles falsely, depriving a living person of depth and flattening to an empty shell with a successful combination of features. In the reflection I saw the apotheosis of the movement towards perfection, the culmination, a being without flaws. Enough magnificent creature to not need his soul, too graceful to be alive. That's how I felt.       — How do you feel? Move your hand, please, and... — duty requests.       — What am I? — I interrupted the man. The question that contained my self-awareness: scared and rejecting myself.       — Cyborg! You are a synthetic organism imitating a human, — came the answer in which I caught notes of surprise.       — Was I a human being?       The old man laughed:       — Never. Companion robots are usually not interested in such things, it's not embedded in your program. Although the new models have become much more sensitive. At that moment something seemed to break inside. Probably this feeling is similar to what people experience when a doctor states: "your body is paralyzed, you will never be able to walk or hold a spoon on your own." Patients feel it themselves, but words from the outside always have a stronger effect, since a person till the last doesn't want to admit what happened and hopes that tomorrow everything will somehow get better by itself. Ironically, I'm definitely not in danger of such a disease as paralysis. You can replace anything in the car, but this reduces its moral value. Today you change a part, and tomorrow you dismiss the whole one as obsolete rubbish. A person is much more vulnerable. It is almost impossible to "repair" a worn-out part without negative consequences, but this is why it's valuable. In terms of work, a person is like a machine — with age he will be dismissed as unfit, but finding a good specialist is more difficult than a new mechanism. In the sphere of personal relationships, a person is principally irreplaceable — once you met one, you will never find "the same", even if you really want to. The endless change of partners, friends and colleagues doesn't bring them closer to the desired result, they are only trying to supply what they once lost — a person. But I'm not a human, I'm a cyborg. Therefore a sense of inferiority was formed in me. When it was time to rejoice that shattered knees can always be repaired, I experienced a crisis of lack of individuality. "Companion robot" sounded like a terrible sentence. One day it will be more profit for them to replace entire me. But I'm not the only one, am I? If my mind is a program, does it mean that what I am experiencing is a normal adaptation process for my model? This conclusion slightly calmed me down. There are others, which means that when I see them, I will understand what I should do. I felt an urgent need of socialization among my own kind and the impossibility of delaying this any longer, although only half an hour had passed since my awakening. The artificial brain worked very quickly, so a few minutes I came to conclusions that would take a person more than one day, or maybe a whole month.       I abruptly got up, walked around the room, jumped several times. The old man was fussing, saying something like: "Be careful!", like a doctor to a patient tired of lying in bed after surgery. But I didn't care — if I am a mechanism, then there is no need to be afraid that "the stitches will open." And again a strange feeling came over me. An inner sense prompted absolutely human reflexes: don't rise abruptly — you will have dizziness, don't twist around — you will lose balance. But the synthetic body easily overcame biological limits. It seems that this is one of the riddles for which I couldn't find the solution myself — how do I know these sensations? My mechanical shell just couldn't experience them. Perhaps this is some part of the empathy program of cyborgs to better understanding of their masters' feelings. In this context, subconscious reflexes made sense.       — Excuse me, can I see what's outside this house? — I asked.       — Wait, we need to check the functions of your body, this is... — The master was confused, grabbing then one device, then another.       — It's okay, I feel great. Please show me the city. When we pronounce words, we don't always think about their true meaning. "Feel". Can I really feel anything? Why am I so confident calling this word what is happening to me? There were many questions but few answers. Therefore I learned that even the logical chain of the machine has a limit point when new data is needed to continue. Imperfect perfection. Is it because it was created by humans or because the concept of perfection is like a parabola, no matter how close it gets to the coordinate axis, will never be able to cross it? I went to get new knowledge about this world. It was important to see others and understand what place creatures like me — humanoid machines occupy here. I insisted. The old man, being intrinsically quite soft, didn't resist for long. When he swiped the card to open the door, I closed my eyes in anticipation, expecting to see the sky. Endless blue sky, bright sun and green grass, as in a single memory I had. These images lived in my head, seen or invented by someone. Doesn't matter. I knew the smell of wet greenery, imagined thin blades of grass tickling my palm again... But the reality was different. Bulky, with the smell of soot and the shine of glass. An uncontrollably growing multi-level city that seemed striving to become the successor of the Tower of Babel, and we are somewhere in its depths. There are hundreds thousands of tons of man-made alloys above us. Below us is the same. The house where I woke up was just one of many high-rises that served as prop columns for the artificial sky, which wasn't visible behind the cloud of neon signs and holograms. Apparently there was another level above our sky, and then another one. So the city has grown for tens of kilometers up and down.       I looked back at the sign behind me, not new, covered with rust and road dust. It said: "Robot repair workshop". A couple of glowing letters were blinking — apparently, the lamps inside them had reached the finish line of their lives, or maybe the contacts just decayed somewhere. Strange, why doesn't the old man fix it? Surely it's not difficult.       — So you're an engineer. — I guessed.       — Yes, I repair, set up and charge cyborgs. Now almost every family has a mechanical friend, so I always have work.       — Why don't you fix the sign? — I didn't stop asking.       — How is that why? Because ordinary people don't like to enter places with new signs, think it's expensive there. But they don't hesitate to enter my workshop — a rusty sign says that I've been working for a long time and I won't take a lot of money from them. — With an awkward smile explained the old man. His logic is interesting. Probably the locals know him, since with such a ruin on the facade, he still has clients. But the workshop looked very presentable and technologically advanced inside, an amazing contrast, like a delicious candy in an ugly wrapper.       — So do cyborgs need charging? — I clarified.       — They need, but you don't. — The master laughed. — Your system is running on a reactor. A rarity in our times, now it has become too dangerous.       — Dangerous? That thing in me, is it dangerous? — I wish I knew my body as well as this man.       — While it's in you, not. But if someone pull it out, it can be used to create weapons. Combat cyborgs are all on reactors and the old models also worked on them. But after a serie of large terrorist attacks, a ban was imposed, so the new ones are powered by electricity.       — So, I'm from the old ones? — if I'm old, then what are the new ones look like? Maybe this grandpa has a hobby of collecting junk? He probably dragged me from some dump and hopes that I'm still good for something. The Master laughed:       — Oh no, you're an experimental model, a rare case of new generation on the reactor. They haven't invented enough powerful and compact batteries you can work on them for more than a couple of hours, not yet. Therefore, we can say that you have a very strong heart.       — But wait, what about prohibitions?       — With a mechanic's license of my level, it is allowed to keep up to two cyborgs working on the reactor at home. If something happens, the guardians will be here in a couple of minutes.       — Guardians… — I repeated, and instinctively scringed. This word sounded uncomfortable. It seems that I'm a rarity in some way. To be honest, it flattered me. People don't attach much importance to their own uniqueness, it's given to them from birth. Even if the person see mediocrity in the mirror, because he is "one of many", exist mom and dad for whom he is the only one. Relatives are connected by the same blood, friends and lovers — by human nature, which requires to band into social groups. People choose the most suitable option from those they have in field of vision. However, a person's soul is often poisoned by a caustic fear: "They will find a replacement". But this "replacement" is abstract, multifaced and is always used with the expression "better than me", so, it's different: difficult to achieve and probably even non-existent. But the robot faces reality where there's always someone exactly the same. To the last gear, an identical pseudo-organism, measured only by monetary and practical value. And I was glad that my dangerous heart made me somehow different. Although it also turns me into a vulnerable segment in the system that can simply ban creatures like me one day . Then I'll have to hide. And yet the feeling that it's not easy or even impossible to replace you is particularly intoxicating and you want to believe in so much. It's scary to wake up one day and find out that you are already waste material. If I were something as simple as a wine cork or a plastic knife, used once, I would fly into the trash without any regrets, since I fulfilled my simple purpose. But cyborgs are something complicated, they absorbed many years of work of a large number of people, so the prospect of ending up in a dusty dump among crushed cars and other technical waste, when I even have my own consciousness, seemed a real tragedy. I thoughtlessly followed the old man. I found the city surprisingly calm, people walked slowly along the streets with their cyborgs. There were almost no cars, residents moved mainly on mopeds, battery-powered bicycles or on foot. Quite unusual, seems, It's because the city is small, these vehicles were the most convenient. I decided to investigate this issue in more detail later.       — What makes me different? — I broke the silence.       — From whom?       — From the old ones.       The mechanic mused, scratched his head, clicked his tongue and answered:       — Nature of movements and facial expressions. You will immediately understand that you are facing relic of the past. Moreover they are almost gone.       I looked at other cyborgs: they had fun if their masters smiled, were sad with their benefactors, or gave them support. But they didn't look lost or burdened with the same fears and doubts as me. Maybe they already knew the key of the universe, and now these lucky creatures could calmly do their duty, without an agonizing feeling of confusion inside? I wish I could ask them. I was distracted and didn't notice how the master turned onto a parallel street.       — Arnim, to the right. I need to go to the grocery store and get a tracing paper. — he loudly interrupted my thoughts.       — Wait, how you addressed me? How did you call me?       — Arnim. Your name. — The old man laughed. — You must have a name.       I thought: name. Probably, I really must have. The name is something of my own. I like it.

***

      I had no idea how to entertain myself. In the city, I just followed the old man and carried his bags, but at home I still didn't know the boundaries of what was allowed to do. The owner so far an hour was busy in the workshop with some kind of cyborg, whose hand wouldn't open. And I was sitting in a chair and wondering if I should help him in some way. Maybe when the time comes, my program will tell me what to do? However, she has been silent since the moment I woke up. Dumb as a fish, sickening. People are being prepared for such independence, but I was just thrown into this world and deal with it as you want, decide, take responsibility. And where is my growing up period? Where is the carte blanche to make mistakes and get bruised? Although, maybe all my actions and thoughts are actually controlled by the system? And I just don't realize it, it's somewhere in the subcortex, like knowing how to breathe. Therefore, when something is needed, the body will do everything by itself? Sounds next to impossible. If the old man thinks that I can live without his instructions, he is greatly mistaken. I don't have a single idea, and the master doesn't seem to care about my confusion. Having dealt with clients, the engineer began to modify some drawings. The tracing paper we bought was used. In the age of computer technology, this old man still uses tracing paper. Is it convenient? I got up and came to his table. The owner ignored me. It's not bad, it means I don't bother him.       — Why are you using tracing paper? It's longer than on a computer.       The man chuckled:       — But it's not about speed, Arnim. And not even in the result. I like the process itself. He really looked very enthusiastic, combining parts of the drawing through a translucent surface. I kept watch on him for a while, quickly got bored, walked around his workspace, looking at various devices, and finally stopped in the living room by the bookshelves. The old man's cabinet smoothly flowed into the living room: separated only by glass walls, these rooms were perceived as a single space. I think this was done for customers, they could comfortably wait in cozy armchairs with a cup of coffee and not worry about the progress of work.       It seems that, wherever possible, the engineer preferred something material to technology, such a paradox. I took a book from the shelf: I wonder what it's made of, since I haven't seen a single tree in the city. My assumptions were justified, the fibers of the local paper were created by chemical method. Maybe on the levels above there is vegetation? I have a clear idea of how dewy grass feels like and how the shadow of the leaves feels on the face, hiding it from the bright midday sun. Such memories couldn't be implemented without knowledge of the subject. So, they must be somewhere up. The bell on the entry door rang: probably another visitor. So late, is the workshop still open? It's almost ten pm.       — Dad, I'm home! I'm late today. — Said a deep, velvety voice.       Dad? Does the old man have a son? I abruptly turned towards the door. A black-haired guy about twenty years old looked at me in astonishment.       — Isa, welcome back! How are your work? — The master, awkwardly getting out from the table, greeted the newcomer. However, the guy ignored his question.       — Why? Why did you turn him on? — he began in low voice, but with each syllable the tone became more and more louder and irritated.       — To amuse you, you... — The old man began to justify himself, but Isa interrupted:       — I told you that he's defective and you don't need to turn him on! Damn geek of technology! You are fiddling with them all day, wasn't enough?       He sullenly looked then at me, then at his father, and I didn't understand what I had done to be so hated. I wanted to ask:       — I'm sorry, but why... — I was interrupted.       — Shut up and stay out of my sight, defective.       — But Isa! — the father wanted to protest, but the guy glared at him so viciously that the old man fell silent. I even felt sorry for the engineer. Why is his son so rude? At least there must be some respect for the parent.       — Next time, do as I say. - Grumbled the brunette, frowned and went to his room, loudly slamming the door.       The engineer sat down heavily in a chair and sighed sorrowfully:       — After the death of his best friend, he isn't himself. I thought maybe you could bring him back.       So that's what the old man wants from me. My God, it's better to be a dishwasher than to find a common language with a person who hates me just because I exist.       — I'm sorry, sir, but I can't help. You saw by yourself. — I squatted next to the chair so I could see the master's eyes. He shook his head:       — Don't apologize, it's not your fault.       It seemed that at that moment the old man, whom I considered the owner, communicated with me almost as an equal, as with a living being. Is it because it's difficult for the human brain to rewire? Or does he really perceive me as something more than just a piece of iron? When people feel lonely, they talk to animals, if there are no animals, with dolls or objects, with imaginary interlocutors. From this point of view, cyborg is a good alternative. We can even keep up the conversation. But can we really replace people? Should we? I doubt.