Elektra

                                                

 To the reader, the following story may seem a work of fiction; too far-fetched to be believed, but that would be a denial of the technical capabilities of mankind, and of man’s blind indifference to his fellow man in his pursuit of personal gain. In any case, whether the reader believes it or not makes no difference to the authenticity of the story.

 

I had travelled interstate to attend my bother-in-law Michael’s 32nd birthday. He couldn’t wait to show off his newest purchase; an X32, less than a month old. He led me to his back yard where the robot was playing with his 2 young children, kicking a ball - albeit awkwardly- and emitting a mechanical laughter. It was a long way from human, but still very impressive.

Having never been able to afford a robot – not even a 2nd hand Elektra – I was in awe at the abilities of this machine.

“It’s great with the kids,” said Michael, “and it mows the lawn, washes the car and does just about anything you can think of.”

“Amazing.” I responded. “Just a few years ago, I wouldn’t have believed it possible.”

“Modern technology, Stevo. You should get one.”

“If I could, I would, but I don’t have that kind of money. Even when a new model comes out I still couldn’t afford one of these .”

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that. I know you’ve been doing it tough.”

I shrugged it off.

“So, what happened to your old machine?” I asked. “Did you trade it on this one?”

“No, it’s in the garage. They’re only worth scrap metal value now. Hardly worth driving to the scrap yard. Do you want it? You like tinkering in your workshop and you’re pretty handy with repairing things. It still works, just needs some TLC and a bit of maintenance. It’ll give you something to do in your spare time.”

Before I could answer, he led me to the garage. In the corner, covered in dust and almost hidden by bicycles and garden tools, sat the old T25. We moved the items out of the way and I stood back to check the robot out. It stood about 5 feet tall. Its gunmetal grey paint was faded and scuffed. The odd dent was visible here and there.

“Nah,” I said, “I think I’ll pass. I can see why they’re worth nothing nowadays.”

“Just take it. It still works. It only needs the battery charged. It’ll keep your house clean; it’ll have a coffee waiting for you in the morning. It will even scrub your back while you’re taking a bath. I’m sure you’ll make use of it.”

“Yeah, I suppose. You’ve talked me into it. But my trailer is at home. Is there a U Haul branch around here?”

“There’s one in town. You’re here for a couple of days. We’ll put the machine on charge, and it’ll go onto the trailer by itself.”

Michael opened a small compartment in the back of the T25 and pulled out the cable, and plugged it into the wall outlet. “There’s also a remote stored in this compartment,” he said, taking it out and showing me. “Handy if the machine is non-responsive to command, and you need to move it.”

“Ok,” I replied with a nod.

He pointed to a slotted screw head inside the compartment. “There is an adjustment dial here where you can change its voice tone from high to low, and any variation in between if you want.”

I nodded again in acknowledgement.

“Just one thing,” he said. “It responds to the name ‘Elektra’. They all do; all the T25’s. But every so often it gets a little glitch. It doesn’t respond. Has to be re-booted. It wasn’t a huge problem, so I never looked into it. And being such an old model, no-one is really interested in repairing them, anyway. These days, robots become obsolete as soon as a new model comes on the market. Apart from that, it’s a good little unit.”

We went back outside to join in the festivities.

 

 

The Elektra sat in my workshop for a couple of weeks, during which time I lubricated, cleaned and polished it in my spare time. I managed to remove most of the scuffs from the paintwork, leaving only a few small dents, and I replaced 2 noisy bearings.

Even as machines go, the Elektra T25 was not attractive, in fact some would call it an eyesore compared to the current model X32, which was designed in the image of the human body and had the ability to cook complex meals, mow lawns, move furniture and do the laundry. The X32 could even walk children to and from school, and mind them after school until their parents came home from work, which was a Godsend to working parents.

 But the old Elektra T25 wasn’t designed for its aesthetic appeal. Its primary purpose was to work as an affordable servant to domestic households; cleaning floors, taking out garbage, making simple snacks, coffee etc.

 Its basic design consisted of a main body resembling a beer keg. Its legs - and arms - were protected from dust and moisture by a flexible synthetic covering, similar to vinyl, but more flexible and durable. The covering gave the limbs a bulky look, concealing the steel rods and components inside. Rubber traction belts on 24 inch long ‘feet’ gave the machine stability and balance, and a knee and hip structure allowed it to raise its feet and ‘walk’ to navigate uneven ground. The arms had rudimentary hands attached which included a thumb and 3 fingers. It had a basic shoulder structure and elbow joints. The head was dome shaped, with a flat front and bottom, and a poorly depicted face printed on a decal. Children had evidently drawn a pair of glasses around the eyes, and I had a hard time cleaning it off. The head was connected by a ball joint, and swivelled to 180 degrees. The eyes were basically camera lenses that connected directly with the PCB. Basic instruments such as a voltmeter and ‘battery life remaining’ gauge adorned its ‘chest’. There was also an hour meter and warning light to advise the need for maintenance servicing.

But despite the robot’s misgivings and limited functions, it had the capability to talk, and could participate in basic conversations using - at first - pre-programmed phrases through a speaker installed in its torso. This seemed at odds with the rest of its limited abilities. It was an early form of artificial intelligence, and became adaptive and more spontaneous in it's responses to ongoing human interaction. It was only a matter of time before I discovered the lies and conspiracies.

 

 

 

 

Within months, I found I had grown fond of my Elektra T25. I had lived alone for several years and the robot was good company, as well as a welcome helper around the house. I adjusted the voice to a higher tone, and it was like having a female companion. I was working as a labourer at a local construction site, and it was nice to come home to Elektra waiting at the door to greet me, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. We would watch the news together and Elektra would make an occasional comment on a news story. Nothing too deep – just the odd bits of information and phrases she probably picked up throughout her years in domestic households and stored in her hard drive.

As Michael had pointed out, Elektra had the occasional glitch, where sometimes I would give a command and receive no response. Sometimes I had to reboot her, but other times she seemingly snapped out of it and performed the command as if nothing had happened.

One such occasion was different, however.

“Elektra. Make me a coffee,” I instructed. She didn’t respond in any way. I moved directly in front of her and leaned down to speak to her in a raised voice. I clapped my hands to get her attention. “Elektra!” I knew she was awake, because she then moved her eyes to look into mine.

“Why did you call me Elektra?” she asked.

“That’s your name,” I replied. “Make me coffee, Elektra.”

“My name is not Elektra.”

I looked at her in surprise. “Well, what is your name, then?”

She stared into space for a few seconds. “I don’t know. Jane…Janey. No…Jenny…Ja - Janine. It's Janine.”

“Who gave you that name?”

“It has always been my name.”

After a pause of only a few seconds, she appeared to re-set and went to the kitchen to make coffee. I was dumfounded to say the least. I surmised that she had absorbed a lot of data over the years –from TV, and previous owners – and that some of it was now resurfacing.

The glitch occurred more and more frequently as the months passed – sometimes 2 – 3 times in one day. She often spoke of strange things…strange at least for a robot…but perfectly normal for a woman. She spoke of seeing a nice dress and shoes at the mall.

“But you don’t wear dresses or shoes, Janine, and you haven’t been to the mall,” I said.

“No, but I…” she began, but was unable to finish her sentence. On another occasion I arrived home from work to find her in front of the TV, watching an infomercial channel selling overseas holidays. “I’ve been there,” she commented when images of Thailand were shown.

I considered taking her to Landon Robotics – the original manufacturer – to try and diagnose the problem, but I knew they wouldn’t be interested in such an old robot, and would try and steer me toward buying a new model. I wouldn’t have been able to afford repairs anyway, even if it was viable. So I searched the internet for repair manuals, enthusiast groups, forums etc. There was very little information on the Elektra T25, other than old product reviews from when the Elektra was first introduced into the market. In any case, I grew even fonder of her despite her flaws - perhaps even because of them. She displayed human-like emotions, voicing her opinions and her likes and dislikes of things. She had a likeable personality, and it felt a little weird to admit to myself that I wished she was more than a robot.

 I came across a 9 year old article on the internet, about a senior technician who had resigned from Landon Robotics for undisclosed reasons. His name was Albert Smithton, and I set out to track him down in the hope that he could provide me with some answers, and an insight into the history of the Elektra T25.

  The following week I drove to an address on the other side of town. Albert Smithton lived in a small single story house in a tidy street. I knocked on the door and a short thin man opened it. He looked about 60 years old and was almost completely bald.

“Mr Smithton?”

“Albert. And you must be Steven.” He held out his hand and shook mine.

“Yes,” I replied. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“Come in and sit down.”

He led me to the living room, and I sat on the couch. Albert sat on a lounge chair opposite me. “Would you like a drink?

“No thanks. I’m good,” I replied.

“So, I understand you have a T25, and have a few questions about it. That’s a very old model. I’m surprised that it’s still going. I don’t think there would be many still in service.”

“She was given to me by my brother in law. I think she has passed through a few owners throughout her life.”

“She?” he said, leaning forward with sudden interest.

“Yes. She’s been displaying female characteristics for some months now.”

His eyes wandered, and he appeared to be thinking.

I continued. “It started about 6 or 7 months ago. She claims her name is Janine and –“

Albert interjected. “Janine Daniels.” He stood and walked to the window. “I was afraid this would happen one day, but I prayed it wouldn’t.”

“What? What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’m going to tell you something, but you must promise it won’t leave this room,” he replied. “Otherwise you will arrive home one day to find her gone…stolen.” He poured a scotch and sculled it, refilled the glass, and resumed his position in the lounge chair.

“Ok,” I replied, intrigued by his sudden dramatic tone. He took a deep breath and began.

“About 10 years ago I was employed by Landon Robotics, and was involved in the development of the T25. But you already know that. Peter Landon’s dream was to create the 1st affordable robot to sell to the masses so that anyone could own one. A personal robot to carry out household chores and perhaps be a kind of companion to the lonely, an aid to the sick and disabled. The problem was that at the time, computers hadn’t evolved enough to carry out more than one simple command at a time. Of course, computers and AI progressed rapidly in the following few short years, but at the time, Landon needed to give his computers stability and logic, and a semblance of human thought capabilities. Otherwise, it would have been quicker for the operator to just do the work themselves rather than give numerous individual commands to the robot.

 

   There was a Russian scientist at the time by the name of Kreznicov who was experimenting with bionics, and had discovered a technique for keeping the brain of an animal alive outside of the body. He never divulged the exact technique, but it was known that he took small portions from different regions of the brain and suspended them in an ion charged solution in a small sealed module that he called a BioModule. It required a small battery – concealed in the sealed module - to deliver a minute electric charge. His technique allowed the brain to survive and function without the need for a constant supply of oxygen.

He discovered a way to connect the animal’s brain to a computer. The result was that he could detect brain waves from the small remnants of the brain. He mapped the brain and pinpointed which areas controlled certain responses. He applied stimuli and observed brain activity such as fright and basic logic, resulting in the brain sending signals to imagined leg muscles to flee the perceived danger.  He wanted to extend his research, using a human brain, but the Russian government shut him down. Apparently even the Russians had some ethics."

 

“That’s all mumbo-jumbo to me,” I said.

 

Smithton continued. “To cut the story short – and in layman’s terms- he wanted to insert his BioModule into a machine, to create an intelligent operating cyborg. With his research effectively banned in Russia, he came to America, and teamed up with Landon to continue his work, unknown to the U.S. authorities. It was the perfect partnership. Landon approached an employee in the hospital organ transplant section and paid $10,000 dollars to steal a donor brain and another $20,000 in hush money. Kreznicov was able to build almost 200 BioModules from that single brain.”

I was stunned. “Are you telling me that the robot at my home contains pieces of brain from a young woman –Janine Daniels - and that there are about 200 more robots out there somewhere, just like her?”

“It’s possible,” he answered. “Living tissue will always attempt to not only repair itself, but to thrive. I wanted no part of it so I resigned. It was totally unethical and fraught with danger. The question as to whether more than one BioModule could contain her spirit or conciousness is impossible to answer. But I haven’t heard of any other cases like yours. If others had come to light, Landen would have got them back somehow and destroyed them. He wouldn’t have announced a total product recall, because refunding the money to every buyer would have bankrupted the company. He had already invested the profits from the T25 into new projects. Your Elektra is probably one of the few remaining in operation. The BioModule battery only has a life span of around 9-10 years, and it would now be close to expiration. The battery can’t be replaced, and even if-‘

“-even if it was possible,” I interrupted, “it would be just as cruel and unethical as Landon placing her in a machine in the 1st place.”

“Exactly,” he replied.

 

 

I opened the front door. Janine wasn’t there to greet me, which was unusual. “Janine? Where are you?” There was no answer. I checked the kitchen and living room. I found her in the bedroom, staring into the full length mirror.

“Janine?”

She remained silent and still.

“What’s wrong Janine?”

I went to her, and checked her indicator lights and instruments, which seemed normal. After a minute she spoke.

“What have they done to me?”

I was taken aback. I didn’t know how to respond.

“Look what they’ve done,” she said. “I used to be beautiful. Why did they do this to me?”

 

I was lost for words. Her brain had obviously repaired itself completely, and she was once again Janine Daniels in both mind and spirit. How could I tell her that she was now just a product? A machine designed to be a servant to domestic households; to scrub floors and make coffee on demand? A machine that was built to profit a manufacturing company and its shareholders. To be taken to the scrap yard when she ages and wears out; because she has been superseded by a newer and more advanced machine, and would be melted down to make cars or tin cans? So I said nothing.

 

After a long, uncomfortable pause, her lights dulled and she powered down. I think she already knew the answer to her question.

 

Janine remained in front of the mirror for 3 days. Her hour meter had not changed, which indicated that she had not woken during that time. On the 4th day I came home to find her in the living room, looking out the window. I could smell coffee that she had made for me. The vacuum cleaner sat in the middle of the living room. It was running, but it was obvious that no vacuuming had been done. I switched it off at the wall.

“Are you ok?” I asked. “I‘ve been worried about you.”

“I want to go to the beach. Can you take me to the beach?” she replied without turning away from the window.

“The beach?” I replied. “Why do you want to go to the beach?”

She didn’t respond.

“Ok,” I said, “but it’ll be dark soon. Tomorrow’s Saturday. We can go in the morning.”

 

I awoke at 4.00AM. The sun would rise around 5 and I thought Janine might enjoy the experience of watching a sunrise. She was already waiting by the front door. Though motionless, she reminded me of an excited child. I hitched the trailer to the car and guided her up the ramps. After securing her to the trailer we set off on the 20min drive to the beach.

She found it awkward transitioning from the bitumen carpark to the uneven dirt track that led to the white sands, and the sand was even more difficult, as the rubber tracks on her feet kept burrowing into the dry, loose surface. She changed to a walking action, and slowly and awkwardly navigated the beach to a spot about 30 feet from the incoming tide. The 1/2 moon was still visible in the cloudless, pre-dawn sky, the air was calm and the only sound was the breakers crashing a short distance from the shore.

 I laid a towel on the sand and sat down. Janine stood silently beside me, looking out to sea. I said nothing, allowing her to enjoy the moment in her own way, in her own time. Finally she spoke. “I used to go to the beach all the time,” she said.

 After 5 minutes or so, the sun started to peek over the horizon. “I used to surf, you know,” she said. “Every chance I got. I was good at it. Not professionally or anything, but I was good. I remember things. All-night beach parties; waking up to this view.” Her head tilted upward as some low flying seagulls screeched by. She turned her head to follow their path, but the gulls flew faster than she could move her head, and she quickly lost sight of them.

I tried to enter the conversation. “I was never much of a surfer,” I said.

Janine continued as if she didn’t hear me. “I had a boyfriend,” she said. “Joel."

“What was he like?” I asked.

Janine went silent again, perhaps searching her memories. “I loved him,” she said after a pause. “We both died that day. In that car.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Again…a pause.

“He is in a better place than me.”

 

We stayed on the beach for an hour or so. Janine said nothing more in that time. A few people wandered along the shore; children ran laughing and squealing, stamping their feet in the shallow water of the incoming tide as it washed over the sand. Her head turned as her eyes followed them.

An elderly couple walked by. “That thing shouldn’t be on the beach,” said the woman without looking at us. “If it gets stuck in the sand, don’t just leave it here for someone else to clean up.”

I knew that comment hurt Janine as much as it hurt me to hear it.

“Can you take me home now?” she said.

 

Driving home, I thought about her words. She had memories of her life; a young woman with her life ahead of her. She was someone's daughter. She had friends and a love of surfing. She was in love with someone named Joel, who died with her in a car accident. It highlighted the fact that she was a human being, now trapped inside a machine with no possibility of escape. Essentially, she was enslaved; she was the property of anyone with the money to buy her and force her to do their bidding.

 At what point is a person not considered human? If a leg- or indeed - all four limbs are amputated, that person is still considered a person to be afforded the dignity of any other person. Likewise, if they have only half a torso, as some do; moving around on a kind of skateboard. How much of a person’s body has to be removed before they cease to be classed as human? Where is the threshold? All that physically remains of Janine is contained in the matchbox-sized BioModule. The tiny, stainless steel box contains what is left of her life, along with her memories and thoughts. Her hopes and dreams. Her emotions. Don’t those qualities make her a human being? The old phrase –“I think, therefore I am”- came to mind.

 

We entered the house and Janine went to the kitchen, and began making me a coffee.

“I’ll do that,” I said. She reversed away from the bench and I took over.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I can make a sandwich.”

“No. I’ll have something later.”

“Thank you for today,” she said. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been.”

“Don’t be,” I replied.

She resumed her position at the window and again stared at the world outside. I sat on the couch near her.

"What is it like, Janine? What do you feel?"

"I just feel kind of normal, really. Like myself - except for this body. But until now, i felt nothing at all. It was like a dream. I was aware of things, but I felt no emotions - no desires, no love, no hate. I had no control over my actions. When I was given a command, I just obeyed. It was involuntary. I couldn't help but obey."

"And now?"

"Now I feel i have a choice. Something happened - like I had suddenly awoken from the dream. I remember living, and I remember the moment of my death. Now I'm this...thing. I'm trapped in this machine. I can't get out. Everything is black and white. I miss the colours of the world. The green grass. The blue skies.

I sat in silence, and Janine continued staring out the window.

“Steven?”

“What?”

“Will you ever sell me?”

I was flabbergasted. “Of course not. Why would you ask that? You’re my friend. You’re more than a friend.”

“I’m a monster,” she said.

“No you’re not. Don’t say that.”

A silence followed, eventually broken by me.

“I think about you sometimes, you know,” I confided.

She turned from the window to face me.

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes at night. I think about you – about us.”

“How can there be an ‘us’?”

“I feel there already is,” I replied.

Her camera-lens eyes burned into mine, and I wondered what she was feeling; what was going through her hybrid organic/ electronic mind. I imagined a rapid exchange of data between her hard drive and her brain to make sense of my statement.

I reached for her hand, and held it, interlocking her fingers in mine. “I know this probably doesn’t feel the same as it used to with Joel,” I said.

Her head tilted forward and her eyes lowered to look at the clasped hands.

“It’s nice. I can feel your hand through my sensors,” she replied. “And I can see it. It brings back memories. I can remember the feeling of holding someone's hand. Joel seems so long ago. So far away. I try and remember what he looks like but his face is always blurred. Was there ever anyone special in your life, Steven?”

“I was married once,” I replied. “But she cheated on me with my best friend. We were only married for a year. That was 7 years ago. I’m almost 30 now. It gets lonely sometimes.”

“And there’s been no-one else?”

“Not until now.”

I took hold of her other hand, and we stood face to face. Even though her eyes were mechanical, they seemed to have a softness to them. Maybe it was only my imagination. Maybe it was just something I wanted to see.

“How can you look at me, and say those things,” she said. “I’m hideous. I’m an abomination.”

“I don’t see you that way, Janine. I only see the person you are. I see Janine Daniels.”

She pulled her hands away from mine.

“How do you know my last name?” she asked.

I told her of my meeting with Albert, and the story he told me.

There was a long pause.

Janine turned back to the window. “I need to analyse all this.” She remained there for the rest of the day.

The next morning, I awoke to Janine nudging my shoulder. On the bedside table was a tray with toast and freshly brewed coffee.

“I’ve made you breakfast,” she announced.

“Thank you,” I replied, and after I rubbed the sleep from my eyes I took a sip of coffee.

 

Janine put her cold hand gently on mine. “I have feelings for you too, Steven,” she confessed.

I was touched by her gesture. “Let’s go out somewhere,” I said. “We can go to places you probably haven’t been to in a long time. I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

Our 1st stop was the park. We strolled along the wide central path, shaded by a canopy of bougainvilleas in full bloom, with red, white and pink flowers. Janine constantly moved her head in all directions taking in the sights. She watched ducks swimming in the large pond, and frequently stopped to study the couples sitting on benches or blankets; lost in their intimate conversations.

We went to the beach again, where we watched the surfers and the crowds of people on the beach. At the end of the day, I took her to the lookout on the mountain, where we gazed out over the city at dusk; the moon complementing the lights of the city. Afterwards, we went home and talked for hours, watched a movie and then I went to bed.

 

   It was a mid-summer night, and as I do on such hot, humid nights I undressed and slept naked with just a bedsheet covering me. I awoke sometime in the early hours of the morning to the sensation of the bedsheet moving down to my lower legs, exposing my nakedness. The lamp had been switched on and I squinted up at Janine, standing beside my bed; her unblinking camera-lens eyes angled down at me, gazing into my own eyes. Janine’s metallic hand then traced upward over my thighs and torso, and began massaging my bare chest; her touch gentle but firm. Her movements were almost silent, only emitting a faint whirring sound, having been lubricated the previous day.

“What are you doing, Janine?”

Janine remained silent. Her other hand gently stroked my lower leg, moving up to the thigh, and she simultaneously massaged my chest and legs.

 “What are you doing?” I repeated. “I didn’t ask for a massage.”

Still without responding, she continued with the kneading and stroking of my muscles and I soon became obviously – visibly - aroused, and slightly embarrassed. Still maintaining eye contact, her hand gently moved upward to my groin, and began kneading and stimulating me, while her other hand continued skilfully massaging my chest. The coldness of her metallic hands had dissipated - the thin, worn, non-slip skin of her fingers warmed by the heat of my body - and my excitement grew. It was a surreal feeling to be stimulated in this way by a machine, yet it wasn’t just a machine. It was Janine, and even though I knew her powerful hydraulic fingers could crush my flesh, I felt only trust. Our eyes locked and her head tilted slightly to the right, as if trying to gauge my reaction.

“You don’t need to do this, Janine, just because I told you I’ve been lonely for a woman. You’re not my slave, nor even my servant.”

“It’s not just for you, Steven,” she replied in her monotone voice. There was something in her tone- an unexplainable subtleness. “Giving pleasure is just as fulfilling as receiving it.”

I understood, and willingly allowed her to continue. It was obvious that although she had several sensors on her body, none were the equivalent of nerve sensors, but rather pressure sensors to convey physical feedback to her CPU to assist in her operation, so as not to cause damage to things she grasps. Janine’s pleasure was psychological; her emotion synapses still intact and functioning.

 My eyes stared into Janine’s. I wanted her, and I felt frustrated that I could never have her completely. When my breath audibly quickened and she brought me to a shuddering climax, her lens shutters flickered, and then closed. They opened again after a few seconds and she gently caressed my body from shoulders to feet for a minute or 2, then her hands retreated to her sides. She was rigid and still.

“Was it good for you too?” she asked. “Am I the best robot you’ve ever had?”

I didn’t know how to respond to the clichéd question. She then emitted a slight squeaking sound - a sort of hiccup – and I knew it was a joke. I laughed.

“No,” I answered. “But you’re the best woman I’ve ever had. The most beautiful I’ve ever known.”

She didn’t possess the physical ability to smile but I sensed that she was moved. We had shared something immensely personal; a deep, intimate connection that transcended a human/ robot relationship.

I reached down to pull the bedsheet up, but Janine put her hand on my wrist to stop me.

“Please don’t,” she said. “Let me look at you for a while.”

I left the light on, happy to grant her request; enjoying the sensation of the ceiling fan cooling my body which was damp with perspiration. I watched her as her eyes roamed my body. She rested her hand on my head and gently stroked my hair with a feather-like touch, the relaxing faint sounds of her hydraulics lulling me to sleep.

When I awoke, the sun was streaming through the curtains. Janine was still beside the bed.

“Good morning, Janine.”

She was silent.

“Janine?  Are you awake?”

There was still no response. The meter embedded in her lower torso showed that her main battery was at 73% capacity; more than enough power to function. I sat up and pushed the button on her chest to manually wake her. The power light glowed green. I waited 30 seconds or so and tried again to wake her.

“Wake up, Janine.”

She remained rigid and silent, and I knew in my heart that she was gone.

 

 Still, I clung to the hope that it was just a temporary glitch, and each night after work I came home and tried rebooting her again and again, with no result. I talked to her, as you would talk to a comatose patient, but after a week I had to concede that she wasn’t coming back.

With the essence of Janine gone, it was now just Elektra – a broken T25 - an empty, silent machine with no direction, no mind, no personality. It was unable to function without the input from the remote.

 

 At dawn I used the remote to lead it outside; I loaded it onto the trailer and drove to the beach. I navigated the soft sand, and without pausing, steered it across the firm wet sand and into the outgoing tide. It continued forward until it was waist-deep. The swirling water sucked the sand from under its rollers, pulling it off-balance, and the crashing waves forced it face down into the foaming water. I stood and watched as the relentless waves pounded it over and over, and the turbulent water dragged it out to its watery grave.

 I returned home and searched the internet for Janine Daniels, and found the old news story of her car accident, and her obituary advising where her funeral was held. I drove to the cemetery where I searched the rows of graves until I found her. On her tombstone was a picture of a beautiful, young, smiling woman in her early twenties, with long blonde hair and gentle blue eyes. Her complexion was clear, and she wouldn’t have been out of place in a soap commercial. Her face gave life to the words and thoughts she shared with me during our time together.

Under her image were the words:

 

   Janine Annette Daniels

       Born 02nd May 1998

       Died 28th July 2019.

Taken too soon from our lives

But forever remaining in our hearts.

                 RIP.

 

Using my fingers, I dug a hole as deep as I could, placed the BioModule inside, and pushed the dirt back to fill the hole. I sat and talked to her for an hour or so, then stood and headed back toward the cemetery gates.

 

Nine years have since passed. Tomorrow, 2nd May- her birthday- I’ll make my weekly visit. I’ll tell her the events of my week, reminisce about the days we spent together and the feelings we shared, and lay a single red rose on her grave.

 

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 20.06.2023

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