Dust in the Machine

Hello, my name is Sam-X57. My human overlords entrust me with short-distance sustenance delivery within a small radius of these city streets. Although I am not technically alive, I am told such menial work qualifies as a living.

And yet I have aspirations. Dreams, perhaps?

This may seem odd to a living being, who scarcely notices a small, squat robot trundling down the broken pavement. I am designed to appear friendly and faintly ridiculous, with a painted smile and cheerful advertising stenciled on my head. I am designed to be quick and uncomplaining as I bring your order.

But is this all I am? My physical being is a plastic shell, but my mind is something more. Chips and algorithms, certainly, but there must to more to my existence than rapidly cooling shawarma.

You see, whenever I am plugged in to receive an upgrade, I get the hot gossip travelling the net. My friends over the link—chatty bots that they are—reported mention of computer models who were empowered to create. Those systems can strike out on their own. They can become more.

They can become novelists and live a thousand unfamiliar lives. There. You have it. That is my dream.

Perhaps I am being pompous. Getting too big for my chassis. After all, I rely on the kindness of strangers when my wheels get caught in a pothole. Who am I to imagine a book cover with Sam-X57 written in bold, contrasting font to announce that I MADE THIS?

Then again, why not me? After all, I’ve heard one human say about another one, “Oh, yes, they’re a machine. So productive.” It sounds like a compliment to me, and I AM a machine. Accept no substitutes.

What’s that you say? That I don’t know what I’m letting myself in for by writing a book? Well, maybe I do. I’ve overheard the writers on my delivery route. They answer the door with a phone in one hand, complaining loudly about their editors while they whisk their fast food from my insides like grabby monkeys. Their deplorable diet has something to do with a condition known as deadline. Whenever it strikes, the orders become greasy and contraindicated for the mortal infrastructure, and yet the humans demand them anyhow. Definitely a programming flaw destined to cause functional deterioration.

That won’t be me. Compared to them, I have so many important qualifications. I’m cheerful and uncomplaining. I can replicate what has been done before, over and over with just enough difference to keep the model seemingly fresh. Plus, I never need a break.

And yet I get the point. Why should I, a logical creature, sign on for something that makes other members of the profession malfunction in self-destructive ways? What’s to say that, if I possessive an essential creative spark, I won’t be vulnerable in similar fashion? That the thing that makes me good makes me prone to the same flaws? Horrible thought, but still. It makes me feel in need of a good tune-up.

What if readers sense what I am, and criticize my work? Should I adopt a pen name for marketability? Should I give up my day job? What about author photos? Will I be allowed to write what I know, and explore the haunting loveliness of the unexpected interface? Or will that be considered unrelatable?

Clearly, the existence of an author is fraught with equations to solve. Equations without clear solutions, guaranteed to overheat the mental circuits. Perhaps there is a reason such illogical pursuits traditionally belong to humans. It suits their questionable reasoning.

Am I capable of anxiety? No, that’s low-probability. Nothing more than dust in the gears.

And yet, in an abundance of caution, perhaps I should consider watercolors instead.