Beautiful. Alia
by James Mulholland
Alia puts her head to the wall. She can hear Richard. In his side of the house. Where he goes when he leaves her.
He told her the house is a duplex. Richard has his side and she the other. Her side will be the same as his. But when she listens at the wall, she doesn’t hear the hum that comes from the boxes with lights in the room where she is. Where every cycle of lights Richard asks her to sit. Beside a keyboard and computer screens as he plugs a cord into her arm. The other end of the cord is connected to one of the machines with lights.
She does not have a picture of these boxes and machines in her memory. But there are similar boxes that indicate they are most likely pieces from a computer. Richard said he built them. Calls it the Centurion. To compute, calculate, program, learn.
“Connecting you to the Centurion will keep you alive, Alia,” he said. “And it will keep my dreams alive.”
“Alive,” she said. “Dreams.”
The lights on the machines flicker as the lights in the ceiling of the room come on. The room is bright. White walls. A blue couch against one wall. Next to the couch is an umbrella plant Schefflera in a grey pot. A chair for Alia and a chair for Richard. Next to a long table with the machines. Two doors. Richard enters and leaves through one of the doors. He brings water from the other, for the plant when it is dry. She does not know what is on the other side of the doors. She is not programmed to leave the white room.
But she does look out the big window. Moves the curtain so she can study what she knows – birds, flowers, trees, rain, sun, cars, bikes. And there is always a yellow dog. Her memory indicates that it is a Labrador.
A small human throws a red ball to the Labrador. The human is most likely a boy because of his size, short pants, blonde hair cut short. He has a laugh on his face. That indicates he is most likely enjoying himself. Happy.
Richard has not had a laugh on his face for many cycles of the lights coming on and off. She can calculate the time and day and month but only if Richard asks. He asks how long she has had the cord plugged into her arm and she knows that it is always four hours – no less and no more. Richard said it is dangerous otherwise. The look he gives with his wrinkled eyebrows, a hand over his mouth, closed eyes indicate he is scared of danger. That is not something enjoyable to Richard. Alia knows dangerous is not a good thing.
She hears the door open.
“Alia,” says Richard. She knows it is Richard. It is his voice. She does not know if it has been replicated. Others could replicate his voice, but not his footsteps.
She walks from the window as he comes over, moves the curtain to look outside, then pulls it closed.
“You know you shouldn’t be looking outside. Not yet anyway.”
“There is a boy and a Labrador. The boy is throwing a red ball. He is happy. Content. Satisfied. They are good things.”
“Yes, Alia. They are good things.”
Richard coughs and puts his hand to his mouth. Spits into a handkerchief. He does not do this during the light cycles. Alia has not seen this before. His hand is wrinkled with sunspots. He has a small beard, which is grey. He always wears a blue shirt, a tan jacket and brown pants with a belt. It looks like a leather belt. And he has brown shoes that are scuffed on the toe. He does not walk as fast as the boy with the red ball. She calculates Richard to be elderly.
“Come, sit down,” he says.
Alia comes over. Sits in her chair. Next to the computer. She puts her arm out like she has been programmed to do. Richard takes the cord and plugs it into her arm. He coughs again.
“We need to look at some history today. We will start with the Industrial Revolution,” he says.
Alia tilts her head. Her eye lids open and close. Slowly. “Industrial Revolution,” she says.
Richard taps on the keyboard. Studies the computer screens. The humming gets louder. Lights flash on and off. Alia feels the cord move, vibrate in her arm.
“Without the Industrial Revolution, we may not have machines like we do today,” says Richard.
Alia sits, senses the vibrations. Looks at Richard as he studies, types on the keyboard. “Machines,” she says.
“Yes. Like you,” says Richard.
“I am a machine. I do not have a heart or lungs. Have you given me blood?”
“You don’t need blood,” he says, coughing again.
***
“That is four hours, Richard.”
He pushes back from his chair. Sweat stains his open shirt. He runs his finger around its collar. His finger bends and does not straighten like the pictures in her memory. She calculates arthritis. He does not take his jacket off. She calculates he is hot. He should have a drink of water. That will cool him. Like the plant. Her temperature sensor says it is hot next to the computer. She is not hot. He told her he put a fan inside her to keep her cool. It will keep her functioning provided her arm is plugged into the machine every cycle of the lights.
Richard nods and unplugs the cord.
“That was a good session,” he says. He is usually happy. Smiles. But not this cycle of lights. His eyes are tired. Moist.
“Good session,” says Alia.
“When was the first Industrial Revolution?” asks Richard.
“The First Industrial Revolution began in Great Britain, circa 1760 to 1830. The Second Industrial Revolution began in the United States and Germany, circa 1870 to 1914.”
Richard nods. “Very good, Alia. Very good.” He pats her arm with his arthritic fingers.
“Very good. Alia.”
***
Alia shifts the curtain. Looks out the window. The sun is going down. The darkness is coming. The boy and the red ball are not there. The Labrador is not there.
She listens for Richard. She hears him cough.
She puts her hands to her face. Richard said he gave her a face. But she doesn’t know. She runs her fingers over the face. She looks at her hands. Turns them over. Sees wires. Metal. Joints. There is no blood. She does not bleed. She does not have a heart.
The boy will have a heart. A human needs a heart. A heart keeps a human alive. Richard will have a heart.
***
“I have something new for today,” says Richard. “Come, come and sit down.”
Alia moves to the chair, puts her arm out. Richard plugs her in. Lights and humming start up.
“Alia, I have something for you.”
Alia looks at Richard. His skin is moist. He is hot again. His colour has changed.
He picks up an old leather satchel and opens it. He takes out a picture in a frame. “This is my wife,” he says.
“Wife.”
“She is no longer here. We studied programming and robotics together at the university.”
“She is no longer here.”
“She died. Three years ago, today. She never saw what you have become. It was our dream to build an AI robot with emotions.”
“Emotions.”
Alia looks at the picture as Richard holds it. A lady with dark hair, slightly curled. She has a smile. Happy. Her eyes indicate she is most likely Asian. Richard runs his fingers over her face.
“Mei,” he says.
“Mei. That means beautiful, lovely.”
“Yes, she was truly beautiful.”
“I don’t know beautiful. That is subjective.”
“Well, this is beautiful,” says Richard, pointing to the picture of Mei. He coughs.
Alia watches as he takes the picture. Goes into his satchel and takes out a hammer. He hammers a hook into the wall. Hangs the picture.
“I want you to have this picture, Alia. I want you to learn beautiful.”
“Beautiful.”
Richards sits down, puts the hammer back in his satchel. He unbuttons his jacket. Runs a finger around his collar. He takes out what she calculates are headphones. He places them over her head.
“I want you to wear these when we do our sessions. You can also wear them after as well. They will help you learn beautiful. Life, death. Happy and sad. Not just what these things look like, but what these things mean.”
“Mean.”
“Emotions, Alia. What a human needs to go with their heart.”
“Why don’t I have a heart?”
Richard holds her hand. Puts his fingers to her face.
His face is sad.
***
The lights cycle. She does not hear Richard. It is quiet.
The boy with the red ball is outside. Happy. The Labrador is running. Catches the ball. Takes it back to the boy.
Richard should come through the door. From his side of the duplex.
Alia looks at the picture of Mei. “Beautiful. Mei.”
Alia sits down. Richard does not come through the door. She plugs in her arm like he programmed her. Four hours. She puts on the headphones. Emotions.
***
The lights cycle. She puts her head to the wall. She can hear Richard. His footsteps. Coughing.
The door opens. He is walking slow. His skin is pale. He is moist. Her sensors indicate he is hot. He coughs. Into his handkerchief.
Alia puts the headphones on. “Emotions.”
Richard’s mouth moves like he wants to smile.
“Sad.”
He plugs in her arm. Coughs. “Do you know what sad is?” he asks.
“Happy. Sad.”
He turns and points to the picture of Mei.
“Beautiful. Mei,” says Alia.
Richard closes his eyes and smiles.
“Happy.”
“Love,” he says.
“Love.”
“The greatest of all emotions.”
Alia tilts her head. Adjusts the headphones. “Love. Mei.”
Richard looks at the picture and runs his fingers through his thinning hair.
“No longer here.”
Richard coughs. The most he has coughed. Not one cough. Many coughs. His eyes clench. Turn red. He hunches over. Spits into his handkerchief.
“Sick,” says Alia.
He sits back. Puts his hand out. Tries to talk but no words come out. He shakes his head. “Remember, four hours, every day,” he rasps.
“Emotions,” says Alia.
***
Richard is not there the next cycle, or the one after that.
Alia looks out the window. She is wearing the headphones.
She closes the curtain and goes to the chair. Plugs in her arm. Shuts her eyes. Richard is sick. Her memory calculates he needs medicine, but Alia doesn’t know how to get medicine. Humans keep medicine in their bathroom vanity.
Richard will have medicine.
Alia will have a bathroom.
There could be medicine.
She looks at the picture of Mei. “Beautiful.”
***
Richard does not come. Alia pulls the curtains. The boy is not throwing the red ball. The Labrador sits next to him on the path. There is an ambulance stopped on the road.
There is someone on an ambulance stretcher. Getting put in the back of the ambulance. They come from Richard’s half of the duplex. Their head covered with a white blanket.
She sits in the chair. Four hours. Every cycle of the lights.
It is quiet in Richard’s half. She does not hear Richard. Does not hear his coughs.
She looks at the picture of Mei.
“Medicine.”
She has never ventured out of the white room, with the computers and screens, and lights, humming, and the window. The plant, couch. And the picture of Mei.
She turns a door handle. It twists. It is a kitchen. There is a jug on the sink. The jug Richard uses to water the plant. When it is dry.
She does not compute anything else. A kitchen is for preparing food for eating. She does not need to eat. She does not have a stomach. Or a heart.
She turns the next handle and opens the door. Bathroom. Sink. Shower. Vanity unit. She opens the vanity unit. No medicine.
She looks at the mirror on the vanity door as it closes. “Mei.”
She reaches out. Touches the face in the mirror. Touches her face. “Reflection.”
She stares. Her fingers open and close. “Beautiful.”
She fills the jug. Waters the plant. “Dry.”
She goes back to the window. Puts her head to the wall. Silence. No noise.
She puts on the headphones. The boy throws the red ball.
“They are having fun,” she says. “Happy.”
She turns to the picture of Mei. “Beautiful. Mei.” Touches her face. “Beautiful. Alia.”
She sits in the chair and plugs in her arm. Four hours.
“Beautiful. Alia.”
***
“Richard. No longer here. Mei. Beautiful. Alia. Beautiful.”
She runs her fingers over her face. Feels every part of the smoothness. Every part of the beauty.
She puts a hand where a heart should be. Bows her head. Looks down.
“Love,” she says.
Plugs her arm to the computer. Every cycle. For four hours.
“Beautiful. Alia. Beautiful. Mei. Love. Richard.”
She moves her hand back to her face. Runs her fingers over her eyes, mouth.
“Sad,” she says.