2023 Fiction Winner: "Metal Bones Break Too” by Abi Whitney
Photo Credit: BoliviaInteligente, obtained and licensed through Unsplash
Metal Bones Break Too
Caroline sits next to me, crying. I run through the database of ways to comfort those in pain. Most sources focus on empathy and other human emotions, so I skip those. Finally, I land on one that says physical contact can lead to a release of oxytocin. I place my hand on her knee and give it a pat. Caroline looks up, and my sensors register a change in her expression. Something in it tightens. Her mouth maybe.
“Thanks, HA-ER,” she says, and wipes her eyes. Her leg shifts a bit to the left, which pushes my hand off her knee. It lands on the bench with a metallic thunk. I correct the movement error and place my hand back on her leg. Caroline sighs.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask, per my protocol.
“No. There’s nothing you can do.”
She gets up and joins the group gathered around Dr. Gordon’s grave. I follow her and weave through the many warm bodies. Some brush up against my hard body, which alerts the millions of synthetic nerve endings lying just under the thin layer of silicon acting as my skin. The contact sends shivers across my arms, a feeling I’ve never quite gotten used to. Whenever I brought it up to Dr. Gordon, he would say my feelings were nothing compared to those of humans. Mostly because they have trillions of nerve endings. He would laugh, though, like he had just said something funny. Even after careful analysis and cross-referencing I could not figure out the joke.
Caroline stands at the edge of the crowd, peering over into the hole. A man in a black suit shovels red dirt into the hole to cover the glossy wooden coffin. I stop next to her and follow her gaze down. Someone has thrown a red rose into the grave. Rosa rubiginosa. Most likely a reference to the ancient Greek way of honoring fallen warriors, or a human memorializing their love for the Dr. Gordon. It seems pointless to me. The rose will be buried with the grave, out of sight of everyone except worms.
“Caroline,” I say. She does not look at me. “Why did someone throw a rose into the grave?”
“To show their love for Henry.”
Even after careful analysis and cross-referencing I could not figure out the joke.
“I see. An interesting gesture, considering Dr. Gordon is not alive to appreciate it.”
She’s silent for a minute. Then, her mouth presses into a thin line and she quickly blinks several times. Her eyelashes flutter like tiny butterflies.
“It’s more for the person who throws the flower.”
“Did it make them feel better?” I ask and run a diagnostic on her body. Her amygdala is lit up with signals, her glottis is swollen, and her heart is racing. Common signs of distress leading to tears.
“No, it didn’t.”
The car ride back is quiet. Caroline stares out the window as I drive. Her heartrate gradually lowers until it is a study thump in her chest. The thick woods of eastern red cedars surrounding the highway slowly give to buildings until we are back in the city. I do not understand what peace feels like, but if I did, I think I would use that word to describe my state of being while in the city. The looming buildings, the lines of electricity running, the constant hum of machinery working underneath it all. A place that works for me. Dr. Gordon designed me to walk on concrete and hardwood floors, not soft dirt and gravel paths.
We pull into the driveway in front of the house. The moment I turn the car off, Caroline is out the door. She slams it shut. I follow her up the sidewalk and to the door. Usually, she holds it open for me, but today she lets the screen swing closed behind her. It takes a moment for me to get a grip on the tricky knob so I can let myself in. The patterns of her actions alert my Caroline mood tracker program.
“Is something wrong?” I ask when I enter, but she doesn’t answer, already too far into the house. She’s left her shoes in a pile by the door. Her footsteps are dampened like this, which makes it harder for me to find her. I activate thermal vision and scan the house for her heat signature. A lump of red and orange is sitting behind the couch, scrunched up in a tight ball. I creep over to her as quietly as possible, but my metal joints squeak as they rub together. They need lubrication, but Dr. Gordon always did it for me. He did not teach me how to do it myself.
Caroline is crying again, curled in the fetal position between the brown couch and the wall. She hugs her legs to her chest in an arrangement that must be uncomfortable. I try to pull her up, but she slaps my hand aside. I do not have pain receptors, yet I still flinch away.
I do not have pain receptors, yet I still flinch away.
“Caroline, what can I do to help you?” I ask. Her discomfort rings every alarm programed into me. She says nothing, instead buries her face further into her legs. “What can I do?”
“Nothing,” she says, voice cracking. “I told you earlier, there’s nothing you can do. Nothing at all. So, please, just leave me alone.”
“Then there is something I can do for you,” I say. “Leave you alone. Would you like me to exit the room?”
“Yes, whatever, just get out of here.”
“Whatever? As in, leave the room or stay?”
“Get the hell out!” she says, finally lifting her face. Her face is contorted into an unpleasant expression, bloodshot eyes open wide in what I assume is anger. She bares her teeth like a racoon. I take a step back, then two.
“I will put myself to sleep then.”
I wait for her to rescind her order or apologize for her strong tone as she usually does. The data Dr. Gordon uploaded into me, a Human Automaton Emotional Regulator, states that she does not like to be alone when upset; and I know from the empirical data I have collected over the last year that she rarely lashes out at others. Everything in my programming screams at me to stay, to not leave her alone, but she has given me an order. Dr. Gordon told me to do everything she said.
My main charging station is in his workshop down in the basement. I have not been here by myself since Dr. Gordon’s death. Even when the cancer had weakened his body so much that he couldn’t stand for more than 5 minutes, he still came down to tinker on his projects and work on me as I charged. The lights are off. It shouldn’t be a problem for me, since I have scotopic vision, but it gives me the impression that the space has been laid to rest, just like its master. I step carefully through the room. The countertops lining the walls are covered with scrap metals and half-finished projects, mismatched tools strewn in and out of their cases on the tables and ground.
Everything in my programming screams at me to stay, to not leave her alone, but she has given me an order.
I do not feel good. Even though I was recently programmed to follow Caroline’s orders, they went against the programming deeply engrained in my mainframe. Above everything, I am to look after her wellbeing, no matter the situation or who else it might affect. The second most important thing is never to leave her. Dr. Gordon spoke of those things almost the same way, like there was little difference between them. Yet I cannot disobey Caroline’s wishes.
I know why I was created. I know my purpose. But did Dr. Gordon prepare me for situations like this, where I am forced to decide which regulation to follow? My gears fight against my separation from Caroline, creaking and crunching in an effort to get moving towards the woman who is both my ward and my master.
It takes measured effort to shuffle into my charging station. The moment I step in, my body freezes from magnetic suspension, my feet suspend millimeters above the ground. The strain on my joints is gone as the strong force halts all movement. If Dr. Gordon were still here, this would be the moment he’d grease my joints and fix the small issues that accumulated throughout the day. Instead, I sit in the dark until I am fully charged. I was not designed to dream, but sometimes when I am suspended like this in a dark place, inactive for several hours, streams of light drift in and out of focus like tiny dancing snakes. I never told Dr. Gordon in case he fixed whatever must be wrong with my wiring. If he had asked, I wouldn’t have had a choice but to tell him, but by chance he had never questioned me about what happens while I charge.
The magnets only release me once I am fully charged. My internal clock registers the time as being a quarter after seven. I pick up the sound of birdsong outside the concrete walls. That kicks me into motion. Each morning, I prepare breakfast for the residents of the house, which now only includes Caroline. Stepping out of the charging station, I swiftly make my way to the door leading to the rest of the house. The handle was made specially to be easy for my hands to grasp. I twist the knob and attempt to push it in, but there is unexpected pressure from the other side. Trying again, except with a harder push, does not work. I do a quick scan of the door. My sensors pick up a thick metal bar running across the door on the other side, which is strange. There is a bar, but it is only there out of paranoid safety measures. It must have fallen in the night. I initiate a call with Caroline, but she does not answer. I keep the line up in case she decides to call back.
Despite my lack of neurons and glial cells, I am not incapable of performing logic. There is an endless stream of possibilities, but the most probable one is that Caroline locked me down here. For what reason, I do not know. It is most likely a continuation of her outburst from last night to leave her alone. If I had human emotions, I might be hurt or offended or angry or confused or annoyed. I am none of those things. I am, however, still conflicted. Do I break the door down and resume my careful watching over her? Do I sit down here and let her do as she pleases, which could lead to her getting hurt? I must break an order one way or the other, but I do not feel prepared enough to make an informed decision. No database has the answer for my questions.
Despite my lack of neurons and glial cells, I am not incapable of performing logic.
The answer comes in the form of a sharp knock on the door hours later. I had resigned myself to watching her heat signature travel through the house, pacing back and forth in the living room like she had for the last few days before the funeral. When I say “enter,” the door opens to reveal a woman who is not Caroline. The bright light from the hallway shines down the stairwell and casts a deep shadow on her face. She smiles at me.
“Hello, HA-ER. I’m a friend of Dr. Gordon. How are you doing today?” she says, like she’s speaking to a child. I do not like that question. She must know the irony that it inherently holds.
“I am fine,” I answer, fulfilling the exchange as is culturally expected. “What are you here for?”
She laughs, and only then do I see Caroline behind her, face blank but eyes still lined in red.
“I guess there’s no point in having small talk with a robot. I’m here to take you away to my workshop for some maintenance.” Her heartbeat spikes when she says maintenance. Her underarms begin to secrete sweat. I know she’s lying.
I study the two humans in front of me. The new woman’s artificial red hair looks strange next to Caroline’s naturally orange hair, and I am struck by the indescribability of the human experience. Why dye your hair a color that only pales in comparison to the real thing? Why lie to a robot when it can read your vitals?
“What are your true intentions?”
“Damn. You weren’t kidding,” the woman laughs again. “You can’t get anything past this thing.” Caroline covers her face with her hands and shakes her head. The red-haired woman pats her shoulder lightly. “I am here to take you away. You will get maintenance, just not by me. And I guess it’s not my workshop. But it’ll be yours! A new place to call your own.”
“What are you saying?” Her words are not computing. A place to call my own? I don’t need that.
“I’ve got another friend. A real scientist. He can help you out, give you a new purpose. Something to get you out of Caroline’s hair for a bit.” Caroline gives the woman a look after she says this, something serious, like she messed up. And she’s right. She did mess up.
Caroline gives the woman a look after she says this, something serious, like she messed up.
I take a step back and put a few steps between us.
“No. I am not leaving Caroline,” I say, which makes her flinch. I do not understand this sudden change in her, why she is trying to push me away.
“Sorry buddy, but you are. Not forever, just for a bit!” Another spike in her heartbeat. Another lie. “I know this must be confusing for you. We can talk it all out on the car ride, okay? I’ll answer all your questions once we leave.”
She steps towards me, and I take several steps back. My gears are really whizzing now, ready to kick in the moment I decide to bolt. Caroline must recognize the building pressure, because she steps in front of the other woman and puts a hand up.
“Give us a minute, Saoirse.” Saoirse starts to protest, but Caroline shakes her head, hard. “I’ve got this.”
She steps towards me, and I let her grab my arm. She leads me up the stairs and into the hallway. The artificial light taints the gray painted walls a yellowish color. I don’t like being in the hallway, a space meant to be a transition. Not something to linger in.
“I don’t want you around, HA-ER. I’ve always respected Henry’s work, but I can’t handle taking care of his unfinished projects. Not right now at least.” She pauses and wraps her arms tightly around her stomach. She looks so thin, a stark difference from her sturdy build she usually maintains. Ever since Dr. Gordon died, she stopped lifting weights. This is just another part of her I have failed to protect. Caroline breathes in. “In a strange sort of way, you remind me of him. Always trying to look out for me. But this is something you need to understand. I am not Henry. I don’t have answers for you. I cannot lead you like he did. I don’t know how your computer brain processes things, but if you ever thought of him like a father, that’s alright. He created you. But me? I am not your mother. I cannot take care of you.”
She breathes out heavily and collapses in on herself, like that breath was the only thing holding her up. Saoirse rushes up the stairs to catch her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder to steady her.
The fans in my head whir loudly, attempting to cool down the rapid heating up of my mainframe. I am not sure what to say. How has she completely and utterly misunderstood the situation? Was I programmed unsuccessfully? Everything that I have done to comfort Caroline, was it all wrong? Did I fail that much? Countless alarms ring through my system, sensing both my own mechanical distress and the declining state of Caroline’s emotional wellbeing.
She breathes out heavily and collapses in on herself, like that breath was the only thing holding her up.
“Caroline,” I begin slowly. “I am sorry that I have not served you as well as I should have. I will leave if that is what you wish. Before I go, however, there is something that I need you to understand. Dr. Gordon created me for you. He began his plans for my existence the moment he learned of the terminal cancer in his stomach. I am not some piece of scrap metal left behind for you to bury. He programmed me to care for your wellbeing knowing that one day he would be unable to do so. If you do not need me, that is okay. He must have been wrong in his assumption about you. You will be fine on your own. But I have not been programmed to be fine with leaving you. So, either I stay, or you destroy me.”
Both women have strange expressions on their faces. I try to match them to the pictures in my databases, but nothing fits. I cannot read them. Caroline stumbles forward and grabs my arm in her hand again. This time her grip is tight, so tight that she squeezes straight into my titanium frame. She drags me down the stairs and into the dark. Instead of turning on the light, she stumbles until she reaches a workbench, then drags her hand along the surface. When it lands on a scrap piece of metal pipe, she snatches it up and raises it high into the air. A sudden wave of something unfamiliar washes over my artificial body, and I lift my arms to block the heavy blow she swings down at me. The pipe connects with a loud ting. She raises the metal scrap again and brings it down for another hard blow. A third, then a fourth, and a fifth, until I loose count of the barrage of hits against me. I feel no pain, yet sparks fly as she hits vital spots. My vision blinks out for a moment when she hits my head. She is screaming. Not words, but a long stream of sounds, like a rabid animal with its leg clamped in a trap.
Saoirse appears at the bottom of the stairs, the space behind her bathing her red hair in a halo of light. She flips the light on in the workshop, and it is like that switch worked on Caroline too. She stops, pipe raised and chest heaving. Tears stream down her face in angry rivers. She looks at me, straight in the face, and winds up the pipe like she is going to hit again, but then her eyes flicker down to my wrecked arms. I follow her gaze and see that my silicon skin has been ripped to shreds, and so have the layers beneath it, revealing the tangle of wire running through my limbs. It is strange seeing myself laid out so bare beneath her.
That unnamable expression on her face crumbles, and she falls on me, wailing: “He was right. He was right. He was right.” Saoirse rushes over and collects Caroline’s frail body into an embrace. She sobs onto Saoirse’s shoulder.
Despite the show of violence against me, the drive to comfort Caroline propels me to place my battered hand on her head and run my fingers down her hair. A gesture carefully programmed into me by my creator. Caroline turns to me, and her eyebrows knit together. Slowly, like she’s trying not to scare an injured animal, she reaches out and pulls me into the embrace. It’s strange hugging two people at once. The synthetic nerve endings under my skin hardly work, but I still feel a hint of soft warmth as I’m enveloped in the arms of humans.
A gesture carefully programmed into me by my creator.
“You know,” Caroline whispers. “It’s not good that he was right. I should be fine on my own. The fact that I need you means I’m too weak, and Henry knew it.”
Saoirse shushes her, and I shake my head and let my hand rhythmically pat her back. I search through the logs of late-night conversations with Dr. Gordon and countless databases on dealing with grief. Then, I answer.
“You won’t need me forever. Eventually, you will be fine without Henry. He knew that. But he also knew he was being taken away too soon, and no matter how much time you had to prepare, it would never be enough. It’s okay to need me now, Caroline. It’s okay to not be fine.”
She doesn’t reply to that, and I don’t expect her to. I continue petting her hair, listening to the cooing of a mourning dove far outside these walls.
Abi Whitney
Whatever it Abi Whitney is a junior double majoring in Creative Writing and Spanish. She is from Overland Park, Kansas. She is involved with K-State Libraries Ambassadors and works at the Sunderland Foundation Innovation Lab. In her free time, she likes to obsess over The Hunger Games and Pride and Prejudice, as well as work on her writing.is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.