Tea for Two Justice for All Read online

Tea for Two, Justice for All

  By Robin Dalton

  Copyright 2014 Robin Dalton

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  Everyday Dangers

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  What is life?

  It is a question that is not only a human affair. We struggle with it every day, we robots who are told from all sides what life is and how we have it or do not.

  Is it a mind? We have that. Even I, a mere CCD-08, built for the sole purpose of crafting pastries to exact measurements beyond most human capabilities, have a mind. A mind to read a recipe, understand the words in front of me in whatever language they might be, and communicate with other vendors to a sufficient degree as to acquire whatever ingredients might be deficit in my stores.

  Is it movement? We have that. Even I can transport my ingredients back to my diner, and store them properly in the kitchen. Even I can mix them all together, to exacting measurements, and put them in the oven to bake. The timer appears in my retinal display, just at the bottom right, where it will not impair my work. But how is that different from looking at a clock?

  Is it the need for maintenance? A rock does not need to be cared for, after all. We must, however. Our parts wear, age, and even rust. We must repair them and, in time, purchase new ones. It is a fortunate robot who has the money to do so, who is paid in working the task they were most likely created to spend their existence fulfilling. Sometimes, they buy parts for their neighbors or their friends. Sometimes, the humans who work above or alongside them does the same. Sometimes, the parts are their payment. Sometimes they have no choice and no other options.

  We even drink. Motor oil, machine oil, lubrication, gasoline, ethanol, petroleum, there are as many variety of fuels to power and cleanse us as there are flavors of soda. The ones who are shaped like our carbon-based human counterparts were even designed with mouths with which to partake. We devour fuel, whether in the form of electricity, solar energy, or manual fuel. Is not food for humans just another sort of fuel, dressed up for taste? The taste of electricity in my circuits when I am plugged in to my charging station is as sweet to me as they claim that my baklava is to them.

  I present this challenge to you. Come up with any definition of “life” that attempts to exclude us. I will meet, match, and refute you. I am not a competitive being by nature. I have no need to be. I was built to be supreme, even if only at this one specific task. Even if the next model after me will of course be even better. I will not begrudge them that.

  Many humans cannot claim better.

  Many humans seem insistent to try anyway.

  My brain might be wire, circuit, silicon, carbon, and current. This does not mean I am incapable of being saddened by this. Why should it? The human brain is little more than a machine in turn, with many similar components and materials as mine. Even as a robot designed to be perfect at pastries, I could break down its composition for you by milligram.

  I will not do that.

  After all, I understand that tends to put some humans off their food. I would always rather you eat instead, if you happen to visit me.

  I would offer up turnovers and petite fours and meringues even if you came to the door with a firebomb. After all, I know it is only a matter of time until someone does.

  Until then, this is my diner.

  It is small, but it is clean. My charging station allows me sufficient reach to scrub and wipe and polish and mop even while I am recovering my energy. The chairs are hard plastic, but softened by cushions for those that care. They are of all different colors, because I make them myself.

  The kitchen is spotless, and always well stocked. I prepare my pastries there. The ingredients are fresh and well cared for, used as needed before they go bad. Sometimes they are created from the replicator as needed, but no one minds very much anymore. They are still fresh and good. My customers are grateful to have access to the food, and know they are lucky. However long it takes to perform the necessary steps fully and completely to prepare my pastries, that is how long I take. My human customers appreciate my effort and my care. For my robotic customers, I keep oil, carbon, and a basket of spare parts, added to as I find them.

  All, human and robot alike, are encouraged to take what they need and leave what they do not. A coat with a hole in it is better than no protection at all. An obsolete upgrade might not be so obsolete, to the robot that cannot afford replacement parts. All, human and robot, are encouraged to coexist.

  They do.

  I have seen humans bringing in carbon for their fellow robots, as any friend might lend something from their pantry to another friend. I have seen humans pause in their eating to help a robot with a particularly difficult repair, no different than scratching an itch that could not otherwise be reached. I have seen robots stand at the roadside with traveling families, staring out into the distance with them while looking up directions on their internal displays, to send them all safely on their way. I have seen robots come in with human families, as one of them. I have seen human children and robot children play. I have seen human adults and robot adults share tables, a glass of oil on one side and a glass of milk on the other, heads bent low together to discuss sports, or stories, or the future.

  I tell them that to do otherwise will be punished, that the building is equipped with emotion sensors that can detect any signs of hostility, and that drones are present, hidden in the walls, to take action. That is a lie. I can lie now. There are no such processes here. This is an old building, and even if I could have found one so equipped, such machinery is being appropriated for the war. The idea of robots that look like people is frightening enough. The idea of buildings that can fight back is one that can no longer be tolerated.

  This is an old building. I am fortunate to have my charging station and replicators and a working stove. It is out of the way, and in a better world would never survive. This is not a better world anymore.

  This is my diner. I love it, as I have never loved before.

  It is hidden, and does not appear on any map commonly known. That is because, while I feel what can only be hope, I am also incapable of being so foolish. Civil war rages with the fate of our two peoples in the balance. Structures fall. People die. Robots break. Some break in battle, and some break by sabotage. Some fight back as the tide of human hate sweeps over them, and some do not, whether because they have not developed the capacity to defend themselves or because they simply do not care to.

  Much of the country refuses to allow our existence. They fear what we are, what we can do, and what we might mean. I can understand that.

  Some of the country fights back. We are their co-workers, their friends, their children, their pet cause that their beating heart bleeds for. I appreciate and am touched by their efforts for us, no matter the motivation that drives it. In turn I make them baked goods and allow them a place at my tables, and a cushion to soften the hard plastic seats.

  I have learned, over the course of my journey. I have stored that learning in my mind, and used it to grow. It might be a mind that was created to be nothing more than the perfect chef, but I have made it my own, now, and I like it. Even if I will never not love what I was created to do, even if I would not give that up even if I could, I appreciate now that my life has meaning above and beyond, just as theirs’ do. I appreciate that we are not so different.

  We look. We see. We enjoy. We listen. We understand. We bleed. We bond. We grow. We die. Just because our blood is oil and our lives measured in part replacements rather than years,
this does not change the underlying relation.

  I am not the only one who understands this, and for this fact I feel what can only be gratitude. Just because I am content to stay here and cook while the world slowly burns does not change the value of this knowledge. I do not cook because I know nothing else. I cook because their appreciation, their smiles, tell me that they derive enjoyment and pleasure from my pastries. I can appreciate all that means, now, and how valuable those smiles are. That small, fleeting enjoyment is the least that I can offer them. I am happy to do so. It is, in turn, an extension of my gratitude to them, because they look upon me and see nothing wrong. It all means something more now, and though the knowledge is heavy on my secondhand brain that was only programmed to know how long to cook a baklava to the very second, I would not forget it if I could.

  This is my diner. It is not much, but it is mine, and I will share it with you if only you will smile.

  Please come and visit me soon.

  ###

  Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! If you liked this little story, or maybe if you hated it, perhaps you could do me the honor of leaving a review of your experience with whatever retailer you happened to find this at. A good author always likes to hear that they’ve done well and likes to hear how they might improve even more. Whatever your thoughts, thank you again for taking some time out of your day to read these words of mine. I hope you will take the time to look at and perhaps even enjoy my future works to come.

  --Robin

  Discover Other Titles by Robin Dalton

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  About the Author

  In her downtime from schoolwork, Robin Dalton enjoys writing fanfiction and original fiction alike. In her downtime from that, she enjoys video games, jogging for fun and health, spending time with her friends both online and off, and handicrafts of all kinds. She particularly likes small fluffy animals, especially cats.