The Mechanic

"Good Morning, Life-Haver!" 

Sleep felt heavy on his eyes. He sat up in his small bed in the corner of his small living space. Four walls, a bed, a kitchenette, and a desk, all provided by the Tulane Group. A clock showed him that it was day 1372 of his begrudging participation in the Artificial Life Incubation Program. The advertisement had promised his own space, food, and steady work, all of which was better than what he'd had before. But, as his eyes scanned his four walls, he noticed again that there was no door out.

"Would you like me to make you breakfast, or would you like to do it yourself today?" the electronic voice that had woken him up said. He looked next to his desk, where his metallic companion was beginning its daily subroutines. The Mechanic, it requested to be called, was a bundle of servos and wires clinging to a metal frame in the shape of a human. Where its head should have been, there was a screen for conveying emotions its vocal modulator could never get quite right.

"I'll do it," he said, throwing his covers back. "You always forget to salt the eggs." He swung his legs out and hit the cool tile floor, heading straight for the full mug of freshly brewed coffee awaiting him in the kitchenette. 

"The human body only requires 1,500 milligrams of sodium per day, which you receive during your afternoon and evening meals. Additionally, the sodium chloride is stored outside of my reach while I am standing at the stove." The screen switched to a sarcastic grin, then to a passive smile wearing a hard hat. "Today will entail a standard testing sequence followed by a message from the Director of the Artificial Life Incubation Program."

"Can't I just wake up like a normal person? Ever? Jesus," he said before taking his first sip of coffee. So many days, so many years in this room had sharpened his personality into a blade, hungry to lash out and draw blood. "Why can't I just enjoy my coffee, enjoy my breakfast, and sit for a while in peace?"

"Apologies, Life-Haver, but you have enjoyed the morning briefing with your coffee 618 times in the past, or so you have indicated verbally to me."

"Saying 'thank you' is a courtesy. And, I think you would've figured out my sarcasm by now anyways, what with you approaching it yourself," he said, stretching out to reach the upper cabinet.

"Apologies again, Life-Haver. I will iterate another sweep of our past interactions to isolate sarcasm before we begin work for the day."

The salt on his synth-eggs did improve the flavor, but they still had a rubberiness from their uncertain origin. Everything here was like that: fake, synthetic, unreal. The coffee was flavored water, the grain in the meat was latticed from printing. Always too little salt. 

The Mechanic glided next to his desk where a plug hung from the wall at chest height. In one continuous motion, it grabbed the end of the plug and inserted it where a heart would go. A million tiny electronic connections sparked to life from the impossibly complex socket, and the Mechanic turned its face screen to him, showing a thumbs-up. "I am ready to begin whenever you are."

He shook his head and made his way to the desk, where he entered all 16 letters, numbers, and symbols that might as well have been his own name. After a brief wait, the computer brought up its simple interface, just two icons: a paper and pencil on the left, with "WORK" underneath it, and a giant red "X" on the right, with the words "END DAY" underneath it. He hit the left key on his keyboard (his only way of interacting with the computer), and the icons dissolved to show a question: "WHICH ONE IS THE LOBSTER?" Beneath this question, the screen showed two images. On the left, a cartoon rabbit with a carrot. On the right, a beautiful steamed lobster on a silver platter, placed at the center of a lavish dinner for the full family seated around the table. He hit the right arrow key, and the contents of the screen dissolved into a spinning circle. A few maddening moments later, a new "WHICH ONE IS THE" question appeared. The Mechanic's face screen was dark, but it was turned toward him. It seemed to watch earnestly, in complete stillness.

Hour after hour drug on, the time all blurring together. At some point, he got a synth jam-and-butter sandwich - other than that, each moment was the same as the others. Moments became hours, and hours became moments, until suddenly the screen showed "THANK YOU FOR YOUR HARD WORK TODAY!" and his companion slid the plug out of its heart-socket.

"Yes, thank you. Each day brings me new insights into the world."

"I'm glad you're grateful," he said, groaning and getting out of his chair for the first time in three hours. He went straight for his bed, defeated. 1372 days of mindless tedium disguised as "hard work" helping develop artificial life. All he wanted was a life, a source of food, shelter, something to do. What do those even mean anymore? He knew nothing but four walls, work, sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep...

Defeat changed to rage in almost an instant. Someone's doing this to me, he thought. This damn Tulane Group... and this damn Mechanic. These fucking walls!

The Mechanic spoke: "I will now be playing a message from the Director of the Artificial Life Incubation Program." When no sound followed, he looked back to the Mechanic and saw the small lines of text appearing on its face screen. He rushed over to it and stuck his face close enough to the screen to read the text as it appeared.

"CONGRATULATIONS!

YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF YOUR STAY WITH THE TULANE GROUP'S ARTIFICIAL LIFE INCUBATION PROGRAM.

THE TULANE GROUP THANKS YOU FOR YOUR PARTICIPATION IN THIS RESEARCH PROGRAM.

PLEASE FIND A MEANS OF WRITING IN THE NEXT 5 SECONDS."

"Shit!" he said, fumbling around his desk for a writing instrument. He opened a drawer that contained a pencil, and another that had a notebook, and leaned in towards the Mechanic.

"YOU WILL NOW BE RELOCATED TO LIVING ACCOMMODATIONS FREE OF CHARGE, PROVIDED BY THE TULANE GROUP'S HAPPY HOMES PROGRAM.

THE ADDRESS OF THIS NEW HOME IS:

280 INNOVATION WAY #645

A SMALL CASH STIPEND WILL BE PROVIDED ON YOUR WAY OUT OF OUR FACILITY. FURTHER DETAILS ARE AWAITING YOU AT YOUR RESIDENCE.

ANY QUESTIONS CAN BE SUBMITTED TO THE TULANE GROUP'S QUESTIONS AND QUERIES DEPARTMENT, OPEN WEDNESDAYS FROM 4 AM TO 7 AM EASTERN.

THANK YOU ONCE AGAIN FOR PARTICIPATING IN TULANE GROUP'S ARTIFICIAL LIFE INCUBATION PROGRAM!"

He reread in disbelief what he'd written in his notebook: "Free Living, 280 Innovation Way #645, 4-7." Free? Out? Of here? The rage he had felt at Tulane, at the Mechanic, melted instantly. Sheer joy sprang up in its place, and he laughed.

"Yes, thank you for your assistance. I have been set up for great success due to your efforts." The Mechanic's face screen showed a stick figure bowing. "I am receiving additional instructions on your departure. Please show me your right ear."

He stuck his right ear as close as he could to the Mechanic. I'm finally out of here! Oh my God, grass- trees! I need to go on a long hike-

The Mechanic brought its left hand up to his right ear, and a long piston shot out behind his ear. It burrowed straight through his skull, stopped, and deposited a small receiver on his brain. When the piston retracted, he fell limp, and the Mechanic shut down.

He came to in a booth of a small diner. Most of the other seats were empty, save a few regulars at the counter. A small mug of black coffee steamed on the table in front of him, next to a glass of ice water slick with condensation. Where the table met the windows sat a container of ketchup, various jams and jellies, and a pitcher of syrup labeled "Real Vermont". Beyond, outside the window, cars and pedestrians hustled from Point A to Point B. The sun peeked from behind a few clouds and came down between the skyscrapers looming overhead. On the other end of the table, a waitress was getting impatient.

"Sir, I asked if you would like to order anything? Should I get a transcriber?"

He finally heard her, and tore his view from the window. He turned his head to look at her, then gave her a sudden, wide grin.

"No transcriber will be necessary," he said. "Apologies, I was just looking outside for the first time. I would like the breakfast platter, please. Eggs, sunny side up. No salt please."

"Of course," the waitress replied. "Who salts their eggs anymore?"