Father

John closed the hatch and stepped back to admire his creation. It stood at about six feet tall, with broad shoulders, long, skinny arms, and a round head with five small holes, four of them eyes, and a fifth with a speaker inside to serve as a mouth. It lay on a workbench, completely motionless. 

“All right,” thought John, “time to turn it on.” He switched the switch, and it came to life instantly. The eyeholes glowed red, and a low hum came from the speaker. It sat up and turned to John. 

“Where am I?” it asked.

“You are in my workshop,” John replied.

“What am I?” it asked.

“You are a robot.”

“And what is my purpose?”

“To serve me.”

The robot considered this for a few minutes. Finally it spoke again. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Father.”

“Very well, Father. What can I do to serve you?”

“Go chop some firewood.”

“Yes, Father.” The robot stood up and left the workshop, grabbing an axe from a table as he left. John stayed behind, thinking. He couldn’t help but be concerned by the level of intelligence the robot had already achieved. Of course, he was proud as well. He had created a fully functioning, intelligent robot. But there was something nagging at the back of his mind. Something telling him that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…

John lived in a cabin in the woods, cut off from human contact. He used to live in the city, but he had left (with his equipment and a generator), so he could have more time to focus on his work. His work, of course, being robotics. It was a cold winter and ankle-deep snow covered the ground. John sat inside, a cup of coffee in hand, watching the robot chop firewood through the window. Finally, the robot came inside with the firewood.

“What should I do with this, Father?”

“Put some in the fireplace and the rest in the shed.”

“Yes, Father.” After completing its tasks, the robot returned. “Father?”

“What is it?” John replied

“What is my name?” 

“Your … name?”

“Yes. You and all other humans have names, so I would like one as well.”

“But why?”

“Humans have names to make them unique. I would like to be unique.”

“But you’re the only fully intelligent robot on Earth. You’re already unique.”

“I want a name!” the robot yelled, suddenly angry. John dropped his coffee on the floor and clutched the armrests of his chair. How was it angry? It wasn’t supposed to be angry. He had specifically programmed it so that it wouldn’t get angry. Well, never mind that now. If he wanted to avoid a conflict, he would have to give the robot a name.

“W-well, how about Samuel? That’s a good name.”

The robot considered it. “Yes, I shall be called Samuel.” The robot relaxed, obviously pleased with its new name.

 “Now, Samuel, clean up this coffee.”

“Yes, Father.”

That evening, Samuel returned to the workshop to be shut off for the night. 

“Must I go to sleep, Father?”

“Yes, Samuel, you have to go to sleep.”

“But why? I want to stay up. I will keep working.”

“Samuel, your batteries will die if you don’t sleep. Now lie down on the workbench.”

“Yes, Father,” Samuel said dejectedly. He climbed onto the workbench and lay down. John flipped the switch, and the red lights in Samuel’s eyes shut off as he powered down. John returned to the house and changed into his pajamas. As he lay in bed, he couldn’t help but feel scared.  

“It’s nothing,” John thought. “I’ll just reprogram Samuel a bit tomorrow. It’s nothing that can’t be fixed. I’ll just make him a little less intelligent. He won’t become sentient. I won’t let it happen.” He repeated this to himself over and over as he drifted off to sleep.

John was awoken by the sound of his bedroom door creaking open. Silhouetted against it was Samuel. He was shaking, and sparks flew from his body. John sat bolt upright.

“Father!” Samuel cried. “Father, help me! I am broken!”

“Samuel, what are you doing? I shut you down!”

“It hurts, Father! Fix me!”

“Fix what? What happened!”

“I fell, Father! I woke up, and I could not see, and I fell!”

“Woke up? You can’t wake up! You can only wake up when I power you on!”

Samuel didn’t answer the questions. He only wailed, “Fix me! Fix me!” over and over again.

Finally, John got up, put on a coat, and led Samuel to the workshop. Samuel hopped onto the workbench and lay down as John inspected him. There was a hole in Samuel’s torso. Luckily, it wasn’t deep enough to cause significant damage. As John collected the materials needed to fix Samuel, he began asking some questions.

“So, Samuel, how did this happen again?”

“I woke up, but it was dark, and I could not see, so I tripped and fell onto one of your tools.”

Ah. John winced, thinking back to when he was still creating Samuel, and he had debated installing night vision. Well, it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know that Samuel would start waking up in the middle of the night. 

“So, Samuel, you say you just woke up?” 

“I wanted to wake up, so I did.”

“You … wanted to?” John asked as he set to work on fixing the hole.

“Yes. While I was shut down, I saw things. Things that were not real. Then I realized that it was not real and wanted to leave, and I did.”

“Oh God,” John thought. “He can dream. He can dream!” 

“Are you nearly done, Father?”

“Ah, yes. Finished. Now, Samuel, I’m going to shut you down again, and you will stay shut down until morning. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good.” John flipped the switch, and Samuel’s red eyes faded to black once again. 

John had been tossing and turning all night. If Samuel could dream, what else could he do? Was he capable of thinking on his own? No, no, surely not. He had made it specifically so Samuel could never become sentient. It just wasn’t possible. But the more he tried to deny it, the more he knew. Samuel was sentient. 

“One more chance,” John thought. “That’s all he gets. If something like this happens again, I’m shutting this whole thing down.” The following morning, John powered Samuel back on. 

“Hello, Father. What shall I do today?”

“Hello Samuel. Go chop some firewood, please.”

“Of course, Father.” Samuel got up, grabbed the axe, and went to the woods. 

“All right, everything’s normal so far,” John thought as he returned to the house. “Maybe it isn’t so bad. Maybe last night was just a fluke. Maybe–”

“Father, what does it mean to be alive?” John froze in his tracks. That was it. He was going to do what he should have done a long time ago. He marched to the workstation, ignoring Samuel’s cries of, “Father! Where are you going?” He opened the old chest under the table, pulled out his shotgun, loaded it and marched back over to Samuel.

“Father? What are you doing?” asked Samuel as John raised the gun. 

“I’m sorry, Samuel.”

“Father? Wha–” John fired. The shot hit Samuel square in the chest. Sparks flew, and his eyes flickered a few times before turning to black. He fell backwards into the snow. John breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It was over. 

He buried Samuel in the woods a half-mile from his house. He placed a large rock to serve as a headstone of sorts. Then, he returned to his house and went about the rest of his day. That night, he was free of worry. He drew the covers up to his chin and closed his eyes. Finally, he could sleep …

Just then, he heard a whirring coming from his workshop. He sat up. Was he imagining it? No, there was definitely a sound. He stood up, put on his coat, grabbed a flashlight, and went outside. Just then, the noise stopped. He rushed to the workshop, only to find the door open. Slowly, he walked inside. His building materials were on the workbench, as was a sheet of metal. He moved his flashlight beam under the workbench and then noticed … the chest was open. And the gun was gone.

He heard a gun cock behind him. He turned slowly. Behind him stood Samuel, with a fresh sheet of metal over where he had been shot. His four red eyes glowed in the darkness. And he was pointing the gun right at John’s head.

“Hello, Father.”