Just A Shell
by Chris Morton
“Another
coffee?”
The
robot looked down at the middle-aged man who was still busily
drawing. This time it was a large purply fruit, bumpy, like a
blackberry. Or … “Boysenberry?” the robot asked.
The
man looked up, frowning. “What did you say?”
“Boysenberry.
A cross between a blackberry, raspberry, dewberry and loganberry.”
The
robot’s voice was female. Pleasant.
“And
this one?” the man asked, now showing her another of the various
pictures littered across the table. There was a pause for a few
seconds while the robot said nothing. Then: “Looks like the inside
of a kiwi fruit. And a little like a gooseberry.”
“Yes,
that’s what I thought.” The man huffed. “And I suppose this one
looks like a strawberry?” he said, pointing to another of the
pictures.
“A
cubic strawberry,” answered the robot. “But the pink coloring is
most attractive. In my opinion, at least.”
The
man stared at the contraption serving him. “You things have
opinions now?”
The
robot hesitated.
“Would
sir like some more coffee?”
The
robot bent her smooth white arm downwards, the coffee jug held firmly
in her long metallic fingers. The jug hovered above the man’s cup
but failed to pour, awaiting his orders.
“So,
in your opinion,” the man asked, eyes fixed on the drawings,
seemingly unaware of her action, “which of these fruits strikes you
as the most original?”
“Original?”
“The
most like no other fruit that exists.” He spread the drawings
across the table, lining them up. “Which of these says to you: Now
that’s a fruit I’ve never tried.”
He looked up at her blank face. A visor over a head of shiny white.
The visor glowed in a warming tint of amber-orange. “Okay, want
to try,” the man said. “I mean, you’re a robot with opinions,
and I’d like to hear them.” Noticing the hovering coffee jug, he
gestured for her to top him up. “Come, come,” he said. “Let me
have it.”
The
robot’s visor flickered.
“Well
… as a robot
who is unable to eat real
fruit, I would say the strawberry is the most aesthetically
pleasing.”
The
man huffed. “The strawberry.”
“I
like the color. And the shape.”
“The
square shape.”
“And
the speckles. I like the speckles.”
“But
it’s still a strawberry.
That’s what you’re calling it.” The man took a sip of his
coffee, looking again at her smooth, oval face. “If you’re
already calling it a strawberry,
then that’s what it is and I’ve failed already.”
“How
about pink
square berry?”
“Pink,
square …” The man laughed. “A robot with a sense of humor, eh?
If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were making fun of me.”
“Just
trying to cheer you up,” came the reply. Incapable of smiling, the
robot just stared at the man, and in spite of himself, in spite of
his tired mood and the stress of having to come up with something
original by dawn, the man was beginning to warm to her.
“So
what d’ya say we work with that? Give it some fancy Latin name.
What’s Latin for pink and square?”
“I’ve
no idea.”
“Thought
you robots could access the net in an instant?”
“I’m
not that sort of robot.” She hesitated. “But I could do a
search.”
“Not
that sort of robot, she says.” The man gazed down at the picture of
the square pink strawberry. “Seem to know a lot about fruit though;
for a robot who never eats.”
The
robot’s visor flickered again in the orange tinting. “I work in a
diner. Food is my expertise.”
She
watched as the man huffed, pushing the picture to one side, then
gathered up the others into a neat pile which he folded together and
handed to her.
“Trash,”
he said. “If you please.”
“Of
course, sir.”
“And
get me a … what do you serve in this joint?”
She
waved a robotic hand over the tabletop’s IR and a holo-image of
blueberry pancakes on a large white plate spun slowly in front of
them.
“You
choose this?”
“It’s
the most popular serving for this time of the morning.”
The
man looked at his watch. “Five-fifteen a.m,” he sighed. “Two
more hours.”
“You
have to come up with something by seven fifteen?”
“Meeting’s
at eight. But I’ll have to go home and change. Pod to my building,
pod to the office. Even two hours is cutting it fine.”
Her
visor flickered again. “And you have to present a drawing of a
fruit?”
“That’s
right,” the man said. Reaching out, he swiped away the pancakes and
a menu appeared. With a series of further swipes he brought up a Key
lime pie, a fat slice with cream that now spun in front of them.
“It’s a winner,” the man said. “Original recipe, never
bettered.”
“I
see,” the robot said.
“See
what?”
“I
understand,” she answered. “I think I know what you’re doing.
You have to design a fruit. Something unique, like an original dish.”
“Exactly,
doll.” The man hit at the pie and in turn the robot beeped. Her
visor turned green: “Right away, sir,” she said, and spun around,
heading for the kitchen.
“Wait
…”
The
robot stopped in her tracks, turning back to face him. On her feet
were a set of rollers; it was the way the robots here moved. They
were short but not dwarf-like: the perfect height to be standing next
to a table talking down to the seated customer. Their bodies were fat
and round, their legs stocky.
“Yes?”
the robot asked.
“It’ll
be you bringing it to me, yeah?”
The
man gestured around the diner, to the other booths and other robots
serving.
“Of
course, sir. I am yours for the night.”
...
When
she returned with the pie, the man had begun on a new picture.
“Looks
like a chocolate apple,” she remarked, handing him his desert.
“Goddammit.”
He
screwed up the paper – watching him, the robot held out the jug of
coffee. “Another top-up?”
The
man sighed, tapping at his cup appreciatively. He took the pie and
sliced off the nose with the dessert fork provided, shoving the
morsel into his mouth, chewing.
She
topped up his coffee again.
“You’d
think it would be easy,” he sighed.
“To
design a fruit that doesn’t exist? No,” she stated. “I would
say, that wouldn’t be easy at all.”
He
looked up at her flickering visor. “There you go again with the
opinions.”
Bending
down, she placed the coffee jug next to him. “So this task of yours
is important?”
“Could
say that.” The man was slicing off another portion of pie. “But
only if I’m chosen.” He chewed again, hungrily. “If my design’s
chosen, I’ll be getting a fat bonus. Could even end up leading the
team.”
She
stood straight again. “So there are others, competing for this
bonus? You’d like to be the winner, I think.”
The
man appeared irritated for an instant. “Doll,” he said, “in
business the competition never ends.” Looking across at her blank
expression however, the man’s temper began to melt. He smiled.
“Look, doll,” he said, “this is kinda hush hush, but I’ll
tell you anyway. What the hell?”
The
robot waited.
“What
we’re working on. It’s a new idea, selling them the fruit first,
before the flavor. You understand?” he asked.
The
robot’s visor flickered.
“Take
this pie, for instance,” the man continued, gesturing at the Key
lime. “Now you can’t tell me that this is just about the taste.
Got hardly nothing to do with it at all. It’s about the design, you
see. What’s on the outside. The aesthetics. And the name. Key
lime pie.”
The man smiled. “Has a ring to it, don’t you think? Brings up an
image?”
“An
image.”
“Sell
them the image and the taste will follow.”
“An
original flavor,” she confirmed.
“Yeah,
but give them a new flavor and they’ll say it tastes like sweet
blueberries with a hint of lime and ginger. They’ll say it reminds
’em of mangoes, of pineapple. But sell the image first and you’re
on to a winner. An original fruit. Original flavor.”
The
robot said nothing again, but with a silence that seemed encouraging
to the man.
He
went back to his pie.
“You
know apple flavoring’s nothing like real apples,” he mused. “And
banana flavoring’s based on some breed that went extinct some two
hundred years ago. But they associate …” the man trailed off.
“Look at me here, talking like this to a robot. What would you know
about flavoring anyway?”
“One
can imagine.”
“Well,
that’s just it.” The man huffed, sticking a fork into the last
morsel of pie. He shoved it into his mouth, washing it down with a
hefty gulp of coffee. “The power of association,” he said.
“A
first impression, that one cannot forget.” The robot’s visor
flashed green. “Another customer,” she said. “Call me if you
need anything else.”
The
man watched his new friend slide across the room. Taking up a fresh
piece of paper, he began to draw her; at first slowly, but then
feverishly. Her body was elegant, smooth and white; her joints shaded
silver and her face a pleasant oval. Her visor tinted into a deep
shade of amber as she addressed the new customer.
Finishing
his sketch, the man placed it to one side and began a new one. An
oval white fruit with checked lines of amber tinting. He drew a
dissected image beside it, with pips of bright green and a warm,
silver stone at the center that blended in with the white, fleshy
pulp. It was basic, but the design was clean – all it needed now
was a little personality; a little flavoring.
The
man sat back, satisfied. Scanning the picture to his pad, he looked
around for the robot to thank her. But she’d disappeared into the
kitchen.
He
looked at his watch.
...
“It
makes no sense,” said his boss. “It’s got pips, it’s got a
stone. Unnatural colors. And what are these lines for?”
The
man hesitated.
“But
that’s exactly why I love it,” the boss continued. “It’s
subtle, it’s mysterious. And like no other, no other fruit at all.”
They
were sitting in a small think tank on the seventh floor of the
company building. The other designers had been dismissed – in a
matter of no less than five minutes the boss had walked past each and
tapping at their designs, naming the fruits that one and every image
reminded him of, he’d called: “Out, out, out!”
But
when it came to the checked white and amber offering, he’d stopped.
Now
it was only the two of them: the man and his boss that were left in
the room.
“You
know what I like most about this?”
The
man sat silently, holding his breath.
“It’s
that it says nothing to me,” the boss continued. He began to laugh
hoarsely. “I mean, it’s attractive, sure, but in an unfamiliar
way. It’s incomprehensible. It’s like a …”
“A
clean slate?” the man offered.
“Exactly
right!” The boss patted the man on the shoulder, hitting him hard,
enthusiastically.
“All
it needs now is a little personality.”
The
boss grinned at the man. “Personality.
That’s exactly what I’m going to say to our flavoring department.
“Give this shell some personality …”
...
With
bonus credits now deposited, the man could have dined out well that
evening. He could have afforded a grade one restaurant, and had in
fact received a company voucher for himself and a plus one to do just
that. But he returned instead to the diner. He wanted to thank the
robot. Sure, it was just a hunk of metal with wiring and algorithms,
but it’d helped him.
Besides,
he wanted to see her again. He wanted to hear her voice, and tell her
what had happened.
When
he arrived at the diner, there were a dozen robots scuttling around
the tables. He sat down and one came up to him.
“Good
evening, sir.”
“Yes.
I …” the man hesitated. “There was another … another of you,”
he said.
“And I wanted to, to thank her for something.”
The
robot stood motionless. It seemed to be computing this information.
“Oh, you mean Sheila,” it said suddenly. “Yes, I’ll get her
for you.”
In
a short time the robot was replaced by a model of the exact same
appearance. Only the voice was different. Sure, it had the same
synthetic twang, but there was something warmer about this one. More
feminine.
“And
how did it go?”
The
man laughed. “You remember me?”
The
robot’s blank expression seemed to smile at the man. “Coffee and
Key lime pie. The fruit man. Did they like your drawing?”
“Yes,
yes they did.” The man fumbled around at his pad and brought up the
image of his design. “I wanted to show you. And thank you. Last
night, or rather this morning, before you talked to me, I really
didn’t think I could do it. But … you like it?” he asked.
“I
do,” she said warmly.
“You
know I based it on you. On your appearance.” The man held his hands
out wide. “I guess one could say you inspired me.”
...
The
next evening the man returned to the diner.
“Back
again?”
Her
voice was as affectionate as ever.
“Here
I am,” the man replied. He ordered something or other. It didn’t
matter. “So tell me,” he asked jovially, “what a robot like you
does on her days off.”
“Oh,
I don’t have any of those.” She paused and it seemed she was
happy to linger around his table.
“You
enjoy your work?”
“It’s
all I’m capable of.”
“All
you’re programmed to do?”
“Well,
no, not exactly.” The robot’s visor turned green. “Be back in a
moment.”
“Sure.
I mean, you don’t have to.”
“I
want to,” she replied. “I like our conversations.”
They
began talking of what he would do next in his project. As he
continued to go there regularly, he’d give her updates on how
things were progressing. There was much talk of what the texture of
the fruit should be like. “Although,” explained the man, “the
fruit itself will not be created.”
“No?”
“No,
not at all. That’s a given. It’s purely the idea
of the fruit. That’s what we’re selling. Getting that idea into
the mind of the consumer. The image, but not the fruit itself.”
“A
shame though,” she said. “That it won’t physically exist.”
“I
guess so,” the man admitted. “But like I say, that’s not the
idea.”
There
was much debate at his workplace over the flavoring – whether it
should be sweet, bitter, sour … and because of the importance of
this, a final decision was taking its time: a decision not made easy
by the flavoring department daily offering up new samples.
“So
you’re waiting?”
“Mostly.
But the design department are kept busy with producing visual images
for possible commercials.”
“Oh,
yes?” She poured him some more coffee. “They’re not overworking
you, I hope.”
“No,
no,” he waved away her concern. “It’s simple really. A young
girl drinking juice with a picture of the fruit on the carton; a man
biting into a donut with a green and white centering; a mechanic
holding out a slice of pie … a cartoon grape cracking a joke to an
animated lemon and then our fruit comes in with the punchline …”
He laughed. “Look at me, going on.”
“They
have a name for it yet?” she asked, interested, encouraging.
The
man paused. Then: “Well, if it were up to me, I’d call it
Sheila.” He began to blush, but then covered his blushes with a
friendly wink. He looked away.
“Funny
name for a fruit,” she remarked, taking in his blushes. Her visor
flickered.
“But
of course it’s not, not up to me at all.” The man sighed, looking
back at her. “Out of my hands. Flown the nest.”
“Flown
the …?”
“Yeah,
you know. When you have kids and they grow up. Become independent and
fly away.” The man did a little motion with his hands. “Like a
baby bird going out on its own.”
“And
as its parent,
you have to let go.”
The
man grinned. “You’re a smart one, Sheila, a smart one indeed.”
...
It
was about a month later when he was called into his boss’s think
tank.
“Oh,
yes,” the boss coughed, waving the man in. “I wanted to pick your
brain.”
The
man bowed. “Of course, sir.”
“Yes,
the … goddammit, can we get this music to stop?” There was an
opera concerto coming from the walls, which halted as the automated
response picked up on the words music
and stop.
“Thank
God for that.” The boss went over to a pad in the wall, to the
controls for the holo-projector.
In
the center of the room an image of the fruit now displayed itself:
white and speckled with subtle amber-orange checkering, it grew in
size to that of a watermelon, then shrank to the size of a small
lime.
“Like
that,” the man said. “But slightly larger, a little. Yes, that’s
right.” Suddenly he was by the holo-image, commanding it and the
boss watched him, impressed.
“And
the taste?” the boss asked.
The
man turned to face his superior.
“The
taste? You’re asking me?”
“Of
course I’m asking you, man.” The boss chuckled. “Amount of
snazzy ideas coming at us … tangy, fizzy … that seems to be the
most popular; but I’ve gotta admit,” he said, looking at the man,
“I gotta be straight in saying that I’ve no confidence in putting
through any go-ahead without asking you first.” He smiled, showing
the man the palms of his hands. “It’s your baby after all.”
The
man bowed again, this time gratefully. “Thank you, sir.” His eyes
sparkled, growing in confidence. “You know what?” he said,
looking back at the holo-image. “I’d kinda imagined it sweet.
Like …”
The
boss watched the man circling the fruit. He watched him hesitate as
he appeared to remember who he was talking to.
“Come
on, man. Let me have it.”
Finally
the man spoke. “As it is with love,” he said, the words falling
from his lips almost accidentally.
“Love?”
the boss boomed. “Love?”
He was on the verge of laughing out loud.
“Yes,
I mean, no, not exactly love,” the man stuttered. “Not mushy, not
that kind of love. Just, warm, you know? Friendly. Companionship.”
He was muddling his words. “It should be luscious, and pure,” he
tried. “But something to cheer you up.”
“Sounds
mushy to me.”
“No,
no …” More determined in his expression, the man looked his boss
in the eye. “Over time I’ve thought about it a lot. And I can’t
help associating this fruit with something strong, warm, sweet,
addictive. Something new and wonderful. But long-lasting. A flavor
that never loses that power of the first bite.”
“You
sound like an ad man.”
“Well
surely that’s what we are?”
The
boss walked over to the man, putting a hand on his shoulder. “As a
designer I can’t fault you,” he said. “But … love, love he
tells me. My man, you need to get yourself out more.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“You
married?”
“No,
sir.”
“Girlfriend?”
The
man paused. “No, sir.”
“Sure,
sure. A romantic.” The boss smiled. “So where you get the idea
from anyway?”
“The
idea, sir?”
“The
fruit. The fruit, man. It’s a goddamn inspired design, I’ve gotta
say.” The boss gestured to the circling holo of the fruit. “You
know they’re still trying to come up with a name for it. Why I
asked you … love, you say. I guess we could work with that. Amour,
Eros
…” the boss twirled his fingers theatrically and laughed. “What
you do, base it on a girl?”
“No,
not exactly. It was a robot. Downtown, there’s this diner. The
robots there …” The man looked away, embarrassed. Then: “They
just happened to be around me when I was working on the design.”
“A
diner you say?”
“Yes.”
“Robots.”
“Yes.”
The
boss chuckled. “Well, wouldn’t you know. All this time.” He
stared back at the fruit. “Now you mention it, I think I even know
the ones. Been to places like that myself. Some of ’em can even be
quite chatty.” He smiled. “But you understand they’re not
robots, right? Is that why you –”
“Not
robots, sir?”
The
boss looked back at the man, puzzled at the expression of perplexity
he was receiving. “They’re cripples. Disables. Most of them, no
not most, I think it’s all of ’em. No control over their bodies.
You know the type. Motor neuron disease … out in the country
hospitals, tubed up and bedridden.” The boss did a vulgar
impression, screwing up his face and holding his arms out crookedly.
He did an “Ahhh,”
sound and laughed some more, then caught himself and attempted a more
solemn expression. “But it’s a great thing, sure, enabling those
unfortunates … giving them something to do. Some can only move
their eyelids, you wouldn’t believe it. But the technology these
days. Rigged up at their remote locations, they control the robots
just fine. “Can
I take your order?”
the boss said in a comically robotic voice, squinting his right eye
and holding his arms out rigid. He began to laugh again, amused at
the man’s expression of horror. “All this time,” he said,
turning back to the revolving fruit, while beside him the man shrunk
slowly into the padded flooring of the think tank.
...
The
man spent the rest of the day in a haze. He was unable to draw
anything. He got off work early, went home and showered. Later,
turning on his bed, the man said out loud that he’d never go back
there, that he couldn’t …
...
At
eight o’clock the city neon sparked. Through the bustle of
pedestrians the man pushed his way through to the diner’s entrance,
swiped his pad over the IR. Behind him the setting sun was large and
a deep orange while wispy clouds moved slowly in the twilight.
The
man entered the diner.
There
they were, the white robots, shifting from one table to another while
way out in the country, in God knows what hospitals and facilities,
those patients, all but comatose.
Unable
to eat real fruit.
“Good
evening, sir.”
“Yeah,
sure. Sure,” said the man, bleary-eyed, dazed.
“The
usual table?” The white robot looked at him blankly.
“Yeah,
yeah, sure,” the man replied. “Usual table. Usual one of you.
Where is she, anyway?” The man huffed, looking around. “Sheila
here? She busy?”
“I
am Sheila.”
The
man turned back at her. He opened his mouth but the words wouldn’t
come. He just stood there, awkwardly.
“Is
something wrong?” she asked. Her smooth white body was also
motionless. Her visor flickered and for a long time neither man nor
woman said anything.
Then
slowly the man took her robotic hand in his own. “No, nothing at
all,” he replied, the words finally coming to him, finally making
sense. Her synthetic shell seemed to quiver in response as he
clutched her hand tighter. “In fact,” he smiled, “I have good
news. A promotion. Let’s go find a table and I’ll tell you all
about it.”
Chris Morton is the creator of this blog.
He has released two sci-fi novels,
one collection of short stories
and a few other scribblings.
You can find his amazon page here.
