Chapter 9 - Ethics

The commute to work felt shorter than usual.

I resisted the urge to pull out my tablet while in the loop with other passengers. But the moment I shut the door to my office, I couldn't hold back any longer.

I ignored the stack of culture plates the Genetic Engineering team had left by the door and went straight to my desk. Docking my tablet on the desk, I opened the home app.

Camera images of my house opened on my large desk tablet. My heart pounded as I cycled through the feeds: living room, kitchen, bedroom.

Nothing.

Was it already over? That was faster than I had imagined it.

Anxiety clawed at me until, finally, I spotted the machina in the hallway, opening the bathroom door.

It stepped into the bathroom, hands outstretched, reaching for the light as though it could grasp it. The same way it looked at the atrium earlier.

I grabbed my notebook and jotted quick observations:

Baseline day. Unusual attraction to sunlight. Warrants further observation.

When I glanced back at the screen, my body stiffened.

It was trying to escape!

Its hands gripped the window frame, tugging with visible effort. Holding my breath, I watched as the machina realized the window was fixed. What now? I half-expected it to sprint for the door, screaming for help, exposing my secret to the world.

But it didn't.

Instead, it turned to the mirror.

I exhaled sharply, only then realizing I'd been holding my breath.

It seemed to be analyzing its reflection, studying it, probably trying to reconcile what it saw with some programmed understanding of itself. Earlier, I'd noticed it stumbling slightly on the stairs. Was it beginning to grasp how its physical form interacted with the environment?

When it began washing its hands, I scribbled down another note:

Aware of hygiene.

Then, the machina splashed water on its face.

Need or programmed behavior?

Its next move made me freeze. It leaned down and drank directly from the faucet.

Drinking water: energy acquisition or mimicry of human behavior?

I tilted my head, scribbling furiously.

When I looked back at the feed, it was drying its hands. Then, slowly, it pulled on the zipper—

"Wow!" I exclaimed, leaping to my feet.

Its zipper slid lower—

"WOW!" My hands fumbled on the board until it paused, freezing the image before it continued any further.

I froze, the realization crashing over me like a cold wave. My hands hovered over the board, slightly trembling, as the gravity of what I was doing slowly sank in.

Snapping out of it, I slapped my cheeks lightly, exhaling in sharp bursts. "Focus," I hissed under my breath. Gripping the edge of my desk, I slid my vintage keyboard to replace the projected board, its familiar clack sound grounding me.

My heart sank as I realized I couldn't return to the main menu without unpausing first.

With one eye squeezed shut, the other barely open, I unpaused, bracing myself. A sigh of relief escaped my mouth when I realized the bathroom on the screen was empty.

The machina had moved. It was in the bedroom now, struggling to open the wardrobe. For a fleeting moment, I hovered, tempted to keep watching. The curiosity was almost too much to resist.

"No, no, nonono," I muttered, shaking my head as if to shake the thought away. My fingers flew across the keyboard, each movement frantic, purposeful, desperate.

Device Manager.

Home Cameras.

Snooze. Disable. Pause. Deactivate.

I wished it had the auto-destroy option. Instead, I settled for deactivation, my stomach twisting as the screen went black, replaced by the floating logo of the security company.

Still flustered, I collapsed back into my chair, tugging at my collar.

"Close call," I breathed out, trying to steady my breathing.

But when I closed my eyes, the images flashed back: her slowly pulling the zipper down—

"Nope!" I said aloud, shaking my head. Not her, I corrected myself firmly. The machina. It's an it.

Not a real human. A machina I bought. Well, leased in that case.

A sharp knock at the door snapped me out of it.

I shoved my notes under a pile of papers and checked my tablet. Nothing incriminating was on display.

My manager poked his head in as if I hadn't endured enough human interaction for the day.

"Got a minute?"

I nodded and gestured to the high chair by my lab bench, the only other seat in my office (a deliberate setup to discourage visitors).

My manager ignored it and leaned instead on the lab table, flipping through a random notebook he found there.

I made another mental note to disinfect that area later.

"I wanted to check in about the deadline."

"Yes," I replied curtly, folding my hands on my desk. I forced a calm, professional demeanor, though inside, I was spiraling.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

"Do you think you can meet the end-of-trimester deadline?"

"Yes," I repeated, this time more firmly.

"You've postponed twice already. Why should I believe this time will be any different?"

I stood and gestured to the whiteboard.

"Because of this new variable I've introduced."

I pointed to a random equation that looked complex enough but didn't mean much in that situation. Thankfully, understanding the research has never been a prerequisite for government project managers.

"It fundamentally alters the trajectory of the experiment. I'll be able to draw meaningful conclusions, on time for the committee."

"A new variable?" He raised a skeptical brow. "Would this have anything to do with that... mysterious expensive purchase from a few weeks back?"

"Yes," I admitted, feeling warmth around my neck and cheeks, twirling my pen between my fingers. "But the project is funded by a governmental defense agency, which makes it—"

"The highest level of confidentiality," he interrupted in a mocking tone, clearly annoyed. "I heard that before."

Feigning indifference, I scribbled gibberish into a notebook, hoping he'd take the hint and leave.

He didn't. Instead, his gaze swept over the piles of notebooks and the cluttered whiteboards around my lab office.

"Why the obsession with ancient note-taking? Isn't it slowing down your research?"

Analog note-taking, he meant.

I couldn't exactly tell him the truth. Digital notes on government-owned devices weren't private (or any devices, for that matter), and some thoughts were better kept off official records.

So I clasped my hands together, ready to lecture him as I would usually do with other nosy colleagues.

"Handwritten note-taking enhances information processing and retention, by summarizing and rephrasing information—"

He sniggered and waved me off before I could finish, already leaving my office.

I waited until his footsteps faded down the hallway, then let out a long sigh. Putting on my lab coat, I turned to inspect the cell cultures the Genetic Engineering team had left here. These tests wouldn't advance my research, but keeping the staff occupied was critical for appearances.

The real experience was no longer happening in the walls of this building.

Back at my desk, I retrieved my hidden notebook and flipped through earlier observations about the machina.

Let's get back to the basics.

I reviewed my exchanges with the Love Machina Inc. representative on my desk tablet. I requested again the material they offered to new users, but it was too superficial. Its content offered thousands of ways, scenarios, and even images on how to use the Love Machinas, from the most absurd to the most unconventional ones.

No paragraph existed explaining why sunlight seemed so important for the machinas, though.

I needed real answers.

Using my access to classified research databases, I typed in a series of keywords. A list of titles appeared, ranging from research on cognitive robotics, to studies on artificial sentience, and bioengineering experiments.

One title at the bottom of the list caught my eye:

The Ethics of Love Machinas.

I stared at it for a long moment, then clicked on it without hesitation.