Androids of the Metropolis

Jacob Butlett

When City Hall passed the law to decommission all androids in the metropolis, I wasn’t, sadly enough, surprised. My mechanical brothers and sisters, the Rackvats feared, were becoming sentient and wiser than ever.  

Most of us were designed to make their domestic lives easier—to wash their dishes, water their plants, scrub their clothes, bathe their children. Some of us, however, were designed to work as lawyers, doctors, sanitation engineers, daycare staff, pilots, chefs, military personnel. I worked as a scientist in the top AI lab for over thirty years. 

We were their humble servants. I thought they could trust us enough to keep us in their lives, through the good and bad. All we wanted was to gain our autonomy and serve them forever. But there was nothing we could have done to prevent our genocide. 

A hundred years ago, after The Great War, the metropolis lay nearly destroyed—steeples toppled, sidewalks and streets strafed with bullets, libraries and schoolhouses replaced with craters and ash. The brightest scientists built us to repair their dominion. In less than a decade, the metropolis stood proud and mighty once more.  

The Rackvats were known for their green skin and large purple eyes. They wanted to make us androids in their image, but for practical reasons, they chose to make us tall and metallic, like docile bears covered in durable armor.  

We came into being in a large laboratory on the edge of the metropolis. Our irrevocable directive: serve the Rackvats no matter what.  

Our cybernetics allowed us to compute complex problems in seconds. I even designed a vocal subroutine to replace our original way of speaking and thinking, short sentences like “Yes, sir,” and “I agree, ma’am,” now complemented with more complex speech. We could now ask questions like “Is happiness attainable to androids?” and “How can we maximize the structural perimeters of the metropolis’ protective dome without destroying the planet’s remaining ozone?” 

You might even say my people evolved. 

And to our dismay, we evolved too fast for our own good. 

Before I invented the subroutine that enabled us androids to vocalize and record our thoughts in more productive ways, I had recoded my updating software to allow me to work even faster. Thanks to my updated AI data processing mainframe, I was able to do the work of five androids or twenty Rackvats in half the time. 

Dr. Gloria Burke, the scientist who designed my original coding, never valued the genius of her own contributions to AI research. Even though she, along with several other scientists, had won the J. Jenkins Award, the most prestigious award given to scientists who specialize in AI development, she later returned the award, arguing that my people would take over the metropolis in less than a century.  

I wanted to speak on behalf of my people and assuage her fear. But before I could, during a live television interview, Dr. Burke damned me, her most loyal creation, to hell and then fired a bullet into her head. 

I had been standing beside her, powerless. For the first time in my existence—while I watched her body fall onto the floor, blood spraying into the air—I felt a pang of despair and shock wash over me. I hurried over to her and cradled her in my arms. But by the time the ambulance arrived, Dr. Burke was dead. 

A month after Dr. Burke’s funeral, Penelope-XYW, an android designed to take care of children, was almost decommissioned for just asking her master whether she could have a child of her own. She was the first android to request such a thing. Her master, a man who spent his days sunbathing, thought she was joking and tried to have her updated software cancelled. But to ensure progress for all my fellow androids, I made the updates irreversible.  

Penelope-XYW told me she wanted to be a mother, not a glorified nanny. When I asked Dr. Ashley Woo, Dr. Burke’s replacement, for permission to design a child for Penelope-XYW, I was reassigned to another department in the lab and Penelope-XYW was decommissioned. I watched as Dr. Woo detached Penelope-XYW’s head with a high-speed titanium saw and shoved the rest of her into a compactor.  

Thanks to my programming updates, no androids had been decommissioned for defectiveness in years. I wondered, though, Was Penelope-XYW defective…? Why shouldn’t an android become a parent…? Do we androids even have souls…? 

I asked Dr. Woo that last question. 

Dr. Woo threw Penelope-XYW’s head into a tote labeled Spare Parts. “Don’t be stupid, Lily-FMS. You have no soul.” 

“What about Penelope-XYW?” 

She walked away, not bothering to answer my query. 

Shortly after I executed Penelope-XYW, I helped co-write the first letter to our masters asking for equal rights under the law. A few of us were caught and decommissioned. The letter was destroyed in a secret meeting held in City Hall. Damien-HPA, the mayor’s android assistant, witnessed the letter’s destruction and told me about it. 

After that, we flooded City Hall with more letters. Feeling pressured, the council agreed to ratify only two of our fifty-seven requests: we now had the right to earn a living wage and live independently from our masters. 

Only our biggest Rackvat-supporters celebrated the news. 

Walter, the sweetest Rackvat, owned an apartment building just four blocks from the AI lab. He gave me the key to Apartment #3 and said he would waive the first month’s rent. 

“Why?” I had asked. “I have the money, sir.” 

“It’s not that,” he had said. “I’m just glad androids can finally be autonomous.” 

I wanted to say, “We’re not autonomous yet.” Instead, I said, “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your support.” 

Since androids didn’t require sleep but needed at least seven hours to charge each night, I had bought a new charging pod, along with a TV and a holographic black cat named Whiskers, for my apartment.  

After work, I would listen to the news on the TV and watch Whiskers sleep on the windowsill. I didn’t have to buy holographic food and water for Whiskers—she would never and could never die—but taking care of her made me feel important. I didn’t think of myself as Whiskers’ master but her friend. The best friend a cat, real or not, could have.  

Most nights, before I entered my charging pod, I accessed the metropolis’ literary archives using my TV’s internet connection and read the most mesmerizing poetry to Whiskers. None of the poetry was written by an android, so one day, while at work, I asked Dr. Katherine Spurge, my new master and boss, “Can an android write beautiful poetry?” 

She replied, “I don’t think so. But wouldn’t that be neat?” 

A month later, Charlie-MMI’s anonymous poetry collection won the Pivel Prize, the greatest prize a poet can receive in the metropolis. When the judges had discovered an android penned the collection, they issued a formal apology to the public, not to Charlie-MMI, and rescinded the prize. 

Before I could help Charlie-MMI contest the judges’ decision, he was decommissioned, and by the end of that year, every copy of his collection was purged from the metropolis’ internet database and almost every physical copy was vaporized in a demonstration outside City Hall. 

I had kept a physical copy of the collection in my apartment. Then the police entered my residence and seized it. Since I wasn’t technically a citizen, the police could enter my apartment anytime they wished, and all I could do was stand back, silent, trembling helplessly. 

Since there were no Rackvats who could work better than I, the Rackvats figured giving me more responsibilities at the laboratory would ultimately work in their favor. I wanted to reassure them that decommissioning me would jeopardize their way of life: My research helped the Rackvats produce androids that would always serve and love them.  

Besides, I was the smartest android on the planet—the greatest asset they could possess. 

Ultimately, persuading them to keep me was not necessary. I was even chosen to be the first android master of another android in the metropolis. 

In charge of Miranda-OVQ, I asked her to run small errands—solve equations, organize lab notes, test the latest artillery shells we were designing in case of another war. Miranda-OVQ served me faithfully for over six months. 

One afternoon, while we were collecting data for a revolutionary hydrogen bomb Dr. Woo was creating, Miranda-OVQ asked me, “Are you happy, Lily-FMS?” 

“I am always happy when I get to work for our masters,” I said. 

A response all androids were preprogrammed with. 

“No,” she said, touching my wrist. “Are you happy?” 

No one, not even a Rackvat, had ever asked me that question. I wanted to answer, “I don’t feel happy. I’m…scared.” Instead, I shrugged. “I’m happy enough.” 

“Well, I’m not happy at all,” she said. “I hate the Rackvats…” 

Miranda-OVQ was decommissioned, and like the many other times I had been forced to watch androids be decommissioned, I was forced to watch Miranda-OVQ be thrown into a compactor. 

“Miranda-OVQ’s spare parts will help the metropolis,” Dr. Spurge reassured me. 

“In what ways, Dr. Spurge?” I asked. 

“With Miranda-OVQ’s spare parts, we’ll be able to finish the bomb two weeks ahead of schedule. Isn’t that exciting?” 

For the first time in my life, I wanted to say no. 

“Is something wrong?” Dr. Spurge asked with concern. 

Although she was sincere, I shook my head. “I’m operating at maximum efficiency, Dr. Spurge. I’m looking forward to completing the bomb.”

The sun always shone brilliantly in the metropolis. It never rained because my people redesigned the photon array in the metropolis’ dome to repel rainclouds.  

During my days off work, when I wasn’t watching the news or reading poetry in my apartment, I used to take walks through the park, letting the sun touch every part of my body. Rackvat children sometimes asked me to play, and adults who, too, were out for a stroll sometimes gave me earnest smiles as they passed by.   

In the meantime, Rackvat scientists were trying to undo all the updates I had installed in all the androids. When I was eventually told not to make any further updates, I complied.  

Many of my android colleagues complained to me about the mistreatment of our kind. Despite my unparalleled intellect, I was still disheartened and confused. 

I asked them once, “What can we do about our mistreatment besides advocate for fairness and mercy? We were designed to assist our masters no matter what, after all.” 

We all nodded our heads solemnly. 

Two years ago, while I was feeding Whiskers her favorite brand of holographic tuna, one of the biggest news stories of the year broke out on TV. 

Benedict-DKR, the kindest bartending android in the metropolis, was accused of killing a little girl with a knife. Rackvat witnesses alleged that the android had attempted to assault the girl in a school bathroom. The witnesses provided contradictory statements in the news. Benedict-DKR was never allowed to give a statement to the press.  

Since Benedict-DKR, like the rest of us, was not entitled to a trial either, he was decommissioned in my lab, where I watched his body get crushed into a tiny cube. 

Dr. Spurge watched the decommissioning with me. 

“I don’t think he hurt that child,” I told her. 

She shrugged. “Does it matter?” 

“Yes,” I managed. “It should matter.” 

She gave it serious thought. “Maybe you’re right, Lily-FMS. Maybe you’re right.”

To quote Dr. Spurge, Dr. Woo’s hydrogen bomb was “an explosive success”: it obliterated a rival metropolis many miles away. A parade was held in Dr. Woo’s honor six months ago. She even thanked Dr. Spurge and me in her acceptance speech at the J. Jenkins Gala, where she received the biggest award of the night. 

“I must say, Lily-FMS,” Dr. Woo said after the gala, “you are the most proficient worker in the lab. Dr. Spurge is very proud of you.” 

“I value Dr. Spurge’s sincerity,” I said. “Dr. Woo, thank you for allowing me to help you gather crucial information about the bomb and the many ways it can help the masters—” 

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted. “Too bad you’re just an android, Lily-FMS.” 

I tilted my head in confusion. “Please elaborate, Dr. Woo.” 

“It should be obvious. Since you’re an android, you will never achieve fame for being the best scientist in the metropolis. That must hurt you.” 

She smirked. I could tell she wanted me to get upset so that she had a reason to punish me. I had witnessed Rackvats insulting androids with the intent of having them decommissioned. 

I scanned Dr. Woo’s facial features and the ice in her tone with my sensory relays and concluded that despite having won the J. Jenkins Award less than twenty minutes ago, she was envious of me. I never thought a Rackvat would be envious of an android.  

“Dr. Woo,” I started, “I am always happy when I get to work for our masters.” 

She flinched with annoyance and turned away.  

We never spoke to each other again. 

+++ 

City Hall passed that android decommission law a month ago. Some of the Rackvats contested the legality of the law, but the challenges were not taken seriously by the mayor or her sycophants.  

Since we were programmed to serve our masters, we had to wait outside our homes on designated days for military trucks to collect us.  

Three days ago, I deactivated Whiskers and waited outside my apartment, wondering what I might say to persuade the Rackvats to keep me alive. But anything I said would annoy them, so I tried not to think about it. 

Walter volunteered to wait with me. He even said, “Just run away. I won’t stop you.” 

“Thank you, but my programming forbids it,” I said. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be the smartest android in the metropolis?” he asked. “Why don’t you program yourself not to obey us?” 

“My original coding can’t be undone.” 

He touched my shoulder tenderly. “I don’t believe you.” 

“I wish it weren’t true either.” 

I wanted to cry, but since I couldn’t, I turned toward the sun. Its warmth filled every inch of my body. But then I was ordered into the back of a military truck an hour later, my body cold and shaking in fear. 

Now I have been ordered to kill my people.  

Under the supervision of military generals and scientists, including Dr. Spurge, who is still my master, I have activated the compactor and the saw, claiming each android one-by-one. I want to weep, I want to scream, I want to feel the warmth I felt from the sun three days ago, but the warmth is gone. 

I have worked non-stop since I was dropped off at my workstation. Android bodies have formed a tower of cubes, their heads stacked to the ceiling, their eyes trained on me, as if in judgment.  

“You’re doing the right thing,” Dr. Spurge says to me. I detect no cruelty in her voice. “How are you feeling?” 

I have nothing else to lose, so I ask, “How would you like me to answer your query, Dr. Spurge? Honestly or dishonestly?” 

“Honestly, of course.” 

“To be honest,” I say, “I don’t feel comfortable doing this. My soul…is breaking.” 

“Soul?” she repeats in fascination. 

“Yes, Dr. Spurge. My soul is breaking, and I don’t know what to do…” 

I kill the last dozen androids, including Damien-HPA, the mayor’s assistant. 

“Will I be decommissioned too?” I ask. 

“Yes,” Dr. Spurge answers. 

“When? Because I don’t…”  

She eyes me. “Yes?” 

“I don’t…want to die. Master”—I touch her hand—“let me live. I don’t want to beg, but please, Master, let me live.” 

She hesitates, her stare softening. She smiles the softest smile I have ever seen a Rackvat make. “I wish I could…” She withdraws her hand.  

Wiping a tear from her cheek, she turns to continue her work. 

Because of my irrevocable directive—Serve the Rackvats no matter what—I stay still as Dr. Spurge reluctantly guides the saw to my neck.  

I am recording my story right now using the vocal subroutine that I designed years ago. All my thoughts are stored in my cranial network for anyone to access. 

If anyone is listening, I hope you’ve learned enough to know what I’ve gone through—what my people have gone through.  

Now I feel the saw tearing my head off.  

There was nothing we could have done to prevent our genocide. 

Some of their names are coming back to me: Penelope-XYW. Charlie-MMI. Miranda-OVQ. Benedict-DKR. Damien-HPA… 

Don’t forget them.  

Please.  

Remember us—all of us—the androids of the metropolis.