Prisoners of Sol - The Servitor (1/8)

The used Servitor listing had several red flags around it, but I recognized that it was the only way I could get one. 

As a widower who’d been tasked with raising a son alone, and a baker by profession, I never had much money to cobble together. I couldn’t afford to pay full price on a new model, and I didn’t much care about the decreased life span of the product. During grief counseling…after the loss of my 11-year-old son, it was suggested that I get a Servitor to keep me company. Anything to feel less alone, right here and right now. 

I searched listings on the internet and found a well-off family listing a unit they’d had for six years at a bargain price. Polri was its name, the husband had explained, as he nearly begged me to take it on account of the fact that his wife hated that thing. Pressed for a few more details, he explained that she found it “creepy” and weird, to the point where she couldn’t stand the sight of it. He was quick to provide reassurance and to grant a discount, supposedly in acknowledgement of my circumstances.

Now, Polri lives with you at all times. So far, it hasn’t helped one iota, but it’s too late to take it back.

I didn’t know how to feel about the Servitor walking around my home now, hovering behind me oftentimes with its emotionless stares. Talking to it was like speaking to a brick wall; anything I said garnered few reactions. I stood now in front of the mirror, wearing the signature mane tassels of a grieving Vascar and dark brown attire to represent our return to the soil. The grief threatened to choke me, but with it having been…months, I knew I needed to float Laral’s ashes up to the storm gods. I had to let go.

I turned to face Polri, putting on a brave face against its unyielding stare. “How do I look?”

“I do not understand the query,” the Servitor responded. “Comparison functions must be specified for accurate results.”

“You don’t have any kind of opinion on my outfit?”

“No.”

It’s a machine. What did you expect?

I swallowed the lump in my throat, straightening the wrinkles out of the soft fabric. “I’m going to…my son’s funeral. I need to look nice.”

“This is not on my list of biological needs. If this is a request for assistance, please specify your wish,” Polri responded in a mechanical voice.

I gritted my teeth. Why does anyone want one of these things? Useless. “Fetch the soakgrain pastries I baked, on the counter. In the blue tins.”

“Yes, master.”

The android wandered off haphazardly, and I wondered if this unit was defective from how clumsy its steps down the hallway were. Its balance and sense of space seemed off, though it navigated to the kitchen without a problem. I resisted the urge to fall into the bed and give into death myself; Laral deserved the proper last rites, so that I wouldn’t fail him as a father once more. I was a fool to believe that Polri would somehow replace him, or give me a shoulder to cry on about…everything. 

The fact was, nothing helped. Nothing ever would.

“I have brought the nourishment items,” Polri beeped, passing them to me. I supposed it was at least nice to have some help around here, when I could hardly take care of myself. “Would you like anything else, master?”

“Thank you, Polri.” I could feel my paws shaking beneath the tins. It was all I could do not to let hours of hard work crash to the floor as a messy bomb of flaky crust and powdered sugar. “Just one more thing. Call me Berink, not ‘master.’”

“I have recorded your order, Berink. When do we leave for this ‘funeral?’”

“What?” A chill ran down my spine, staring at the cold, inflexible Vascar imitation made of metal and imagining it at my son’s funeral. “There’s no ‘we.’ You’re not going with me. You’re staying here.”

“Oh. My error. I postulated I could be of assistance. Organizing events is something that Vascar masters often need help with.”

“Well, I don’t. Not with this one.” Because you clearly aren’t capable of understanding that it’s personal, or helping with consolation in such a difficult time. Disappointed as I am by its conversational limitations, I can be cordial. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome! What would you like me to do while you are away?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t really care. You can’t follow me every second of the day, restless for your next order. That’s not what I need. That’s not what I got you for, dammit!”

Polri took several quick steps backward, its posture becoming meek and defensive. “Forgiveness is requested. I only wished to understand what you wanted. I am trying to help, and I wish to learn what I have done wrong so I can provide better service.”

I exhaled a flustered sigh, knowing from a glance at my watch that I had to get out the door this instant. “I thought you’d be a little more intelligent, that’s all. You did nothing wrong; it’s not your fault. I’ll find things for you to do later. Just wait here for me to get back.”

“Yes, Berink. I will wait.”

I stared for several seconds as Polri completely froze in place, taking an interesting interpretation of what I meant by “wait here.” These Servitors didn’t even come close to mirroring a Vascar level of intelligence, despite Ripweir Incorporated’s heavy advertising that they had a unique personality and no pre-recorded lines. The speech they generated in the moment felt stilted, without any hint of emotionality or a higher understanding. 

The computer piloted my car through the ziplanes to the funeral home, where I carried my pastries over to an apologetic staffer on legs that felt heavier than cement. I could see the fuel jets and tiny hot-air balloons tied to my son’s urn, the storm gods having taken the last of my family. It was ironic to send him up to the sky per our traditions, given how he died—a large factor in why I couldn’t put myself up to the funeral for months. Laral had died in a jetpacking accident on a class trip.

I signed the permission slip. I killed him.

Guests came up to offer condolences, but I could do little more than offer blank nods to acknowledge their presence; I was about as responsive as Polri. I wanted to get the last rites over with and go home. There was a reason I’d scarcely left my house since it happened, beyond when I needed to for my shifts or because my cupboards had run bare. I didn’t need to worry about stocking up on food as much as I used to, since I’d go days without eating sometimes. I felt the pointlessness of my existence draining me, the aloneness crushing me beneath its weight. 

My life was over at the age of 36. Everyone I loved was gone, and there wasn’t much willpower stopping me from wanting to join them in the immediate future. The reminders of their absence were every time I turned around. I’d kept going dutifully after my wife’s passing, put on the stoic face because I had to for my son. Looking around at the turnout for this somber occasion, I found myself wondering what they would say at mine.

“Berink, look at me.” I locked eyes with Mirimak, one of the sixteen members of my grief counseling group who’d shown up to support me here. They told me this was a “good step.” As it happened, she was an employee of Ripweir, who hatched this whole scheme to get a Servitor. All a marketing ploy? “I know this can’t be easy. When I…found my mother like that, I saw her lying in a pool of her own blood, every time I closed my eyes. It was as fresh as the day it happened.”

My nostrils flared with bitterness. “It’s not getting better. The void left by their passing can never be filled! Certainly not by that hunk of metal you talked me into buying, like that would magic away the pain.”

“I never said that it’d fix everything; I thought it’d help to have someone to talk to! I didn’t know that you got one, but maybe you need a helping paw with how to use them to their fullest potential. What bothers you about your Servitor? Has it really made it worse?”

“No.” I hesitated whether it was appropriate to discuss Polri at Laral’s funeral, but I needed the distraction. Maybe this Servitor could function as a way to occupy my mind, even if it couldn’t do much else. “It’s just…weird and creepy, beyond the normal Vascar lookalike thing you people conjured up! The seller told me as much, that’s why he wanted to get rid of it.”

“Hm, it might’ve gotten some strange behavior patterns rooted in. I’m not supposed to do this, but as a favor to you, I could give it a free factory reset if you bring it. I’ll leave the learning modules intact so you won’t have to wait for it to be retrained, just wipe its memory and pattern reasoning.”

“That’ll work?”

Mirimak raised a claw with certainty. “You bet. Bad habits, gone, just like that. Ripweir can salvage faulty products more than they do, but without a hefty repair fee, they’re usually not so inclined. Your guy is hardly the only one to be acting…creepy the last few years. They’re going to roll out a patch in the next couple months, but unless you want to wait…”

“No, that’d be great. I’ll bring Polri in…when I’m feeling up to it. Thank you.”

“Of course. Anything I can do to help you.”

I cleared my throat, gesturing to my son’s urn. “Forgive my audacity, but how is the Servitor supposed to help the grief process at all? It doesn’t even pretend to show sympathy about Laral, and it doesn’t understand how to make the most simple judgments. It hardly answers sometimes.”

“Well sure, I know Servitors are robotic and literal; it’s not going to be like talking with a real person. Sometimes, it helps just to express your feelings and to have any kind of response. They’re around whenever you need them, and they won’t leave or betray your confidence. You need any kind of support network, just to be physically present. To distract you.”

“I can see the benefit of having anything to take my mind off of this unending nightmare. Maybe it’s not so bad that it won’t…give me my space. I’ll have someone to bitch to about all of this. Storm gods, can they just light the fires and send Laral up already? The walls are closing in on me.”

Mirimak reached out, squeezing my wrist for comfort. “You don’t look well, Berink. I’m sorry you have to go through this loss all over again; funerals aren’t always kind to those left behind. I’ll see if they can expedite the ascension, so you can escape this place.”

“T-thank you. You’re a good friend,” I said, wiping away a tear. The realization that the last piece of my son was about to be taken away was a kick in the teeth. “Please, put me out of my misery.”

My friend from grief counseling scurried over to the funeral organizer, whispering a few words in his ear and pointing to me. I followed the gaggle of people outside to the lawn, walking on legs that I couldn’t feel. With eyes that blinked as little as Polri’s LEDs. I watched Laral’s ashes rise in a lightning-quick flash toward the waiting clouds. The cavernous emptiness inside threatened to swallow me, and I doubted that having a Servitor could do anything about that. 

Tuckered out by the briefest of excursions, I trudged back to my vehicle and prepared to return home. I’d talk to Polri about all of this, for two reasons: because it wouldn’t stare at me with pity or judgment for still being in the throes of grief…and because I had no one else to talk to.

Next

A/N - A new story! A father heartbroken by the loss of his son in a jetpacking accident buys a used Servitor at the advice of his grief counseling group, but finds that the machine is a lot more stilted, insensitive, and follows him around creepily at all hours of the day. Berink struggles a great deal to get through the funeral, opting to try to use Polri as a distraction; he plans to take Mirimak up on her offer to factory reset Polri, correcting its behavior. What do you think about Polri’s mannerisms, from how robotically it talks compared to modern-day Mikri and even its unusual walking? Is there any intelligence in there yet? Do you think the Servitor will be able to help Berink through his devastating loss?

As always, thank you for reading and supporting!