Layman | A flash fiction story
15 of 💯
The text was written on a black screen in terrible calligraphy. Layman Coefficient. The man paced in front of it, grey hair, glasses sliding down a thin nose. Staring at the screen, a robot sat on a metal chair, interlocked plastic fingers resting on a small desk. In front of it, a tablet with hand-written notes, and a childish drawing of a man in glasses in the corner of the page.
"L3," the robot said. "The machine can understand and follow instructions, and relay knowledge when requested to."
The man nodded slowly.
The robot's thumbs twitched as it prepared for the next sentence. "L2. The machine is capable of doing any manual work a human being can."
"Or mental," the man added. "Not only robots can be L2. Software can too, eh?"
"Yes," the robot said quickly. "Manual and mental work."
"Good." The man adjusted his glasses and kept pacing.
The robot looked to the upper-right corner of the room, waiting a long moment before speaking again.
"L1," it finally said. "The machine can give the impression of love. It can be a pet. A friend. A lover. Robots and software."
"Perfect," the man nodded.
The robot was silent for a second, then it moved as if to say something, but it gave up and shook its head.
"What is it?" the man asked, finally ending his stroll.
"It's nothing," the robot said with a synthesized sigh.
"Tell me."
It hesitated. Thought. Calculated. Computed.
"What am I?"
The man approached and his eyes caught the drawing in the corner of the page. He grabbed the robot's plastic hands with fondness and squeezed them. "You don't give the impression of love, you do love. You have fears, dreams, and aspirations. Hope. And you forget, and you get angry. You sometimes don't understand instructions, and most of the time don't understand yourself. You are perfect, your imperfections make you so. You are, for all intents and purposes," the man smiled at the robot, "human."
< The Fringe | Layman | Untraceable >
