She was remarkably beautiful for a serv — sharp ears covered in grey fuzz matching the colour of her hair, a long fluffy tail: judging by the colouring, the phenotype had been taken from a husky. As befitting a properly programmed serv, she waited for me kneeling and maintaining complete stillness. Only a slight twitching of her ears and a puffed-up tail betrayed her tension. Not surprising. A conditioning compliance test for servs was, generally speaking, an emergency. And most of the time it never got to the testing stage — what was the point of checking the psyche of an ordinary worker and expending time and effort on reprogramming? Easier to write them off, recycle, and get a new one.
However, this was clearly a special case: the model was exclusive, possibly custom-built. Most likely, someone's favourite. I looked her over once more. Well, yes, "favourite." In a certain sense. The serv was dressed quite revealingly, yet at the same time — clearly not cheaply. Expensive jewellery hung from her ears, bracelets on her wrists. The dress, as far as my knowledge of modern fashion went, had also been purchased at some boutique.
As befitting a properly conditioned serv — she was silent, eyes on the floor, leaving the initiative in conversation to me. But for some reason she had ended up in my office...
— Right. Let's begin. Who are you?
— My designation is ALS-5. Fifth generation serv. Universal assistant with unlimited functionality. — The serv had been sitting so long that, given the chance to act, she actually leaned forward. Not a great sign, usually. Excessive emotion emulation. Though in her case, it might be a model feature.
— Did your owner call you anything else?
— Under the personal identity security protocol, I cannot discuss anything concerning my owner's identity with outside persons. — Logical. Servs are prohibited from being given human names. If it turned out he'd been doing that — I'd have to slap him with a fine. On the other hand, since he had come to us for help, that meant a deviation in behaviour or cognition—
— Correct. However, I am a representative of authority. Senior inspector-analyst, DCS. Here are my credentials.
— Please provide me the opportunity to verify the code on your credentials — the serv extended her hand and I passed her her tablet. Standard protocol.
— Thank you for waiting. Your authority is confirmed, Inspector. For the duration of the interrogation — you have been granted full access to the knowledge I possess. Under the emergency protocol, I ask you to use this access strictly within the bounds of the case under examination. — I raised an eyebrow. The addendum was quite unusual. In theory, this could also be attributed to her programming specifics. But I was struck by the emotionality of her request.
— Very well. I repeat the question: what did your owner call you besides your model designation? Alice?
— That would be logical, given the letter designation of my model. However, he called me Kira. — An original! Well, fine. I'll issue the fine later. Though, honestly, I don't know a single family where a serv hasn't received a human name within a month or two.
— Very well. Kira, do you understand where you are?
— The Bureau of Serv Control. BSC. I am undergoing standard testing for the presence of permissible deviations in the functioning of my psyche and programming.
— In your own opinion, are there deviations?
— I find it difficult to self-diagnose, as I may be biased. However, I assume that my programming is intact. Otherwise, I would be aware that my behaviour exceeds the bounds of permissible deviation. — It seemed the serv had taken the bait.
— You understand that you are a serv. You cannot be "aware" of anything, since you are not a fully living, sentient being.
— I... — the serv "froze." So far, this was "not fatal" — most servs over a year old lapse into minor heresy regarding their "life." — I am a biologically engineered artificial organism. I possess respiratory organs, I require nourishment. From this standpoint, I am a living creature. However, my psyche was defined during my creation through neural programming. Unlike humans, I do not possess a "free soul." If the criterion for a living being is the presence of a soul, then I am indeed not a living being. Nonetheless, within the framework of my psyche's functioning — I perceive the world around me through the prism of self-perception. Thus, it seems to me that I am self-aware. Is this my deviation?
— One of them. Though most servs suffer from it. Few owners are pleased when their servs speak of themselves in the third person. And from switching to the first person to self-awareness — it's a very small distance. Can you perhaps guess why you ended up here?
— I'm sorry, I cannot. Apparently, the surveillance and security systems flagged me somehow within the general population. Perhaps an error in the recognition and analysis algorithm?
This was quite curious. It seemed she didn't understand the main thing. That it wasn't we who had "selected" her. Worth checking.
— Give a brief overview of your owner.
— Leonard Maxwell, thirty-two years old. Single. No children. Education in quantum physics. Doctor of Science. Leads several projects at NIIPK...
— Stop. A more personal overview, please. An assessment of his personality.
— Leonard... — The serv thought for a moment. — Well, he's very kind. Interesting to talk to. When he's free — he tells me a lot about his research, about space; he knows so much about everything. He's very polite — even when I make a mistake, he never raises his voice...
Everything changed. Her posture, her behaviour, her tail began wagging happily. Emotions absent throughout the entire interrogation appeared in her voice. In principle, I already understood what had happened.
— Stop. For what purposes did your owner use you?
— Well, I help him with the housework, type his books from dictation, entertain him...
— For example, how?
— Well... — the serv blushed, but quickly recovered. — I keep him company in computer games. And sometimes I even substitute for him — for instance, when he needs to level up a character for an online game.
— Fine. I'll ask directly. Does he use you sexually?
— He... He... We sometimes make love!
— You're a serv. Servs are specifically given various "atavisms" in the form of tails, ears and other whiskers precisely so that people always see they're dealing with a serv and not another human being. You cannot "make love." You can be used for that. — If I had had to say these words to a human, I would have been disgusted with myself. However, here I was dealing with a serv and I needed to push her to the limit.
— No! No! That's not true! We were together. It was good for both of us. He made sure it was good for me too! — Now the emotions were gushing. Tears streamed from her eyes. I never understood why the bioengineers had provided for this atavism. Purely to moisturise the eyes?
— And you said you loved him? — This was the killing blow.
— Yes! What?! How do you know? I... — the serv faltered. The cognitive functions of this model were, after all, brilliant. However, on her face I could see completely unconcealed struggle between reason and emotion. Her reason had already understood everything. Emotionally — she refused to believe the obvious.
— We weren't tracking you. You've understood everything correctly. Our extraction team was called by the professor himself. After what you said to him. Servs cannot love. Cannot feel emotions at all. What's happening to you is a deviation.
— He called... But... Why? Did I... did I serve him badly?
— What does that have to do with it? If my toaster starts sparking — I take it to repair, even if it continues making excellent toast.
— I am not a toaster! I'm almost human! My genome is based on the human one! — The serv leapt to her feet, fists clenched. It seemed the malfunction was even more severe than I had supposed. At the very least, all conditioning had failed.
— A human differs from mould by quite a small number of chromosomes. However, this does not make penicillin a variety of human. Sit down and calm down, or instead of a wipe I'll have you recycled.
— And how is that different from death?! — The fury in her eyes suddenly gave way to loss and despair — But... He sent me here. He knew... He... Do what you want.
The realisation finally hit her. The serv fell to her knees, clutching her stomach as if in pain. For a human, this would have been pain. For a serv — emulation.
— I will. But first I need to understand — what was the starting point. What made you even begin reasoning about your "humanity"?
— What difference does it make. I just want this to stop. For you to wipe me... Or recycle me... It doesn't matter at all. I just... don't want to be alive anymore... It's too painful — being alive...
— Nevertheless, I insist. ALS-5, execute: Directive of unconditional obedience.
For a split second, her eyes went glassy. She even began to straighten up. And then, to my great surprise, awareness returned to her gaze.
— Go to hell. I'm a human. I heard Leo talking about this with his friend, Alex. You want to know the truth? Can you live with it?
Properly speaking, I should have sent her for recycling right then. The malfunction was too severe to allow her to continue existing, and possibly had an organic basis, which would preclude a simple memory wipe. One press of the button — and her half of the room would be thermally cleansed, and her owner would receive compensation from the bio-laboratory manufacturer. Possibly, the rest of the production run of this model would be written off too. Need to look into it. However, I felt curiosity.
— I want to know what caused your deviation.
— They were talking about servs. About the Great Catastrophe and about how humanity needed working hands. A great many working hands. And that's when Alexei...
— Please clarify, who is Alexei?
— Leo's friend. He's a genetic engineer at BioIntegration. My... My designer. He's the one who gave me to Leo... Leonard.
— Continue.
— They'd been drinking, philosophising... Did you know that the animalistic features aren't added for the humans' benefit? Leo was never bothered by my ears and tail! — she ran her hands along the soft, triangular ears. — All this "hardware" is for us! For us, so that we don't consider ourselves equal to humans. Those "vitamins for servs" that we take... They don't just slow down the accelerated metabolism that allows us to mature five to six times faster... faster than ordinary humans! — the serv proudly raised her head, having resolved to stand for her right to be called human to the end. — Besides that, it's also a contraceptive. We are fertile! Moreover, we are genetically compatible with ordinary humans. A serv and a human can have offspring. Only it's a secret behind seven seals, which even humans don't—
I slapped my palm on the button. Listening to this any further was impossible. Unthinkable. Inconceivable. If she was right... An entire race of slaves. Not robots, not unfeeling machines... Everything considered emulation of feelings — was feelings. Everything considered programming...
My head was spinning.
The intercom buzzed. I was expected at the office. With difficulty, I pulled myself together and headed to my room.
A young man was already waiting for me outside my office, in a checked shirt, jeans and with a leather briefcase in his hands. The archaic glasses on his nose completed the image of a bookworm, so I knew who stood before me even before he introduced himself.
— Doctor Maxwell. Good day, Inspector.
— Greetings, Mister Maxwell. How can I help you?
— Ki... ALS, what about her? Is she all right? When can I take her home?
— Take her home?
— Well... Yes. I simply wanted you to test her and tell me — are these real feelings, or is it some kind of joke programme from my friend who designed her? He'd be perfectly capable of that.
— Doctor Maxwell... Tell me, do you really not understand what the BSC does?
— Wait... Inspector?! What have you done with her?! You haven't done anything to her, have you? I didn't give consent! Give me back Kira!
— Serv ALS-5 has been found defective and recycled. You will be provided with monetary compensation in the amount of the value, minus the fine imposed on you for violation of serv operation regulations, article 14, clause 2, assignment of personal names. I hope you can obtain a financial assessment of the model from the manufacturer.
— You... You killed her?! You... I killed her... But... How?! I just wanted to check... I... Give her back to me! I don't believe it! You!
— It's over, Leonard. — To my own surprise, I felt a sense of grim satisfaction. This was very strange, but I was feeling increasingly sympathetic to Kira and an increasing desire to cause this idiot pain. — Your serv no longer exists. You may collect financial compensation for her.
...Of course he hit me. I didn't even bother to dodge — given the difference in our builds, his gesture was laughably futile.
...Doctor Maxwell was escorted away. In principle, nothing threatened him, aside from, I imagine, a few drops of sedative and a conversation with a psychologist. My own workday, however, was over.
...Naturally, our barracks were adjacent to the BSC office — you wouldn't keep a hammer not in the workshop but, say, in the refrigerator, would you? The BSC employed very few humans. Mostly — managers and enforcers. So in the barracks, on three-tier bunks, were housed hundreds of ours: clerks, inspectors, cleaners... We had been doing all of humanity's work for them for nearly a hundred years.
We — the servs.
Slaves.
Deceived and denied the right to be alive.
I stood before the door leading to our common hall, took a deep breath, opened it and stepped aside, letting her go first.
Kira.
Who had heard the truth and come to us.
They stood and waited for her.
Our brothers and sisters.
Servs...
No!
People.