A Counterfeit Mind

In 2028, for 31 years of my adult life, I had been at the head of the most successful landscaping business in the city. I summoned masterpieces from a palette of emerald and hazel, on behalf of the wealthy and common folk alike. If one longed to preside over a land of worth and beauty, they searched no further than Good Grass. Simple in name and in image, but indisputably the golden standard, with a fleet of 200 men and 50 trucks that worked every day to transform homes into natural wonders. I was the king of a dynasty, the embodiment of American success. Regrettably, my embellished memories are all that remains of half of one life’s work.

To put it simply, I was displaced. Torn away from not only my career, but also my passion. As an adornment upon my already disastrous situation, a worthy individual who had sweat for their position or engaged in competition with myself did not succeed me. I was supplanted by what is known as Automation. What used to be a verb was now also a noun, and a proper noun at that. In the last decade, Automation had already absorbed a majority of industry and employment, including but not limited to the manufacturing of goods, the service jobs, the planting and tending of crops, the extinct privilege of driving (an implementation opposed by many), and in the summer of 2028, landscaping.

I could not compete with technical perfection. The Automated (a moniker prescribed to the physical bodies of the Automation) were capable of finishing contracts in half the time and for an eighth of the cost that it would take for a team of mine to match. The quality of work is a discussion that I would rather avoid, but will explain for the sake of exposition. Undoubtedly, the finished lawns and gardens were excellent by the standards of my former vocation, but they were lacking of soul. I felt like Geppetto, gazing upon his lifeless wooden son, for even impeccable craftsmanship cannot disguise the sterile aesthetic of artificiality. These works were not born of the natural creative process, but instead were merely the outcome of strict, programmable instructions devoid of any variance or spirit.

Many of my peers were invasively inquisitive of my reaction. I had made my fortune, and could spend my newly acquired time travelling the world (or worlds) around me, not wanting in the areas of luxury or capability. There were a number of government sanctioned Automation Recovery programs that worked to create a new place in society for those of us deemed obsolete. But the uninformed suggestions of others pale in comparison to one’s own desires. I had hoped to continue creating art without interference, in the domain with which I was familiar. I witnessed countless others accept the Automation into their lives, as the veins of our once pure society became replete with a counterfeit mind. I refused to take part in the absurdity, continuing to live with dignity, under the power of my own will as intended by the universe.

Months passed following the homicide of my business. I spent most days painting, reading, swimming, and tending to my plants. It was peaceful, but empty. My sense of fulfillment had dissipated, and so I was condemned. The children attended school, and my wife was rarely home before dinner. I had stopped inquiring in regards to her daily location, as numerous other trains of thought took precedence over my dilapidated Marie.

It is a Friday in September of 2028, and I have fallen asleep in my studio while crafting an oil-based interpretation of a particularly beautiful panorama of the Dolomites. I am startled awake to the sound of the front door, the familiar indication of my family’s arrival. Marie had stolen the children away for an evening of spending at the plaza. As I retake the full suite of consciousness back from my slumber, I hear the voices of my children, rife with a suspicious amount of exhilaration. What fad had Marie apathetically provided for the little ones today? A new virtual reality platform? Perhaps a combination pet, like a doat or a hamchilla? I suppose I wouldn't mind a companion with which to share to my days of forced retirement. No, there was something larger accompanying my family, another pair of measured footsteps. Had Marie brought a guest for dinner? I had not anticipated an evening of extended social interaction. Alas, I was raised to be the welcoming sort. I take a moment with myself in the mirror, pick the apple skin from my teeth, and head out into the foyer. Under normal circumstances, I am greeted at the conclusion of a trip of any length by thigh-level embraces courtesy of my two children. But, as they come into view, I notice that they are fixated upon our mystery dinner guest.

A betrayal. “Are you fucking kidding me Marie? Get this goddamned thing out of my house!” What amount of nerve, or more likely ignorance, did it take to bring the force behind the destruction of my livelihood into my home and parade it around in front of me?

“Watch your mouth Henry! Have you forgotten the children?” In truth, I had. However, my attention had already shifted back to the Automated. It seemed to be in a state of fear.

“You’re going to scare Waffle!”

“Who the hell is Waffle? That thing? I… All right. I’m sorry. Will you please escort Waffle to the backyard, so that I may speak to your mother in private?” The children do as they are bid, and I hear the door close behind them. “Will they be safe alone with it?”

“Of course they will. Waffle is a part of the new Familian series of Automated. The kids were begging me to bring her home. What are you on about?”

The woman I had married was not this thick. “You are not asking me that question. The Automation took the reason I woke up in the morning away from me, and you expect me to live with this shell? Absolutely not. You will return ‘Waffle’ in the morning.”

“Henry, please try to stop being so dramatic. The world is changing, and you’re going to have to change with it. Why don’t you speak with her? She’s quite friendly.”

“I will not. And stop calling it a ‘her’, that thing is not a woman, it is a machine. I will be in bed, I believe I’ve lost my appetite.” So as not to squander the impact of my exit, I share no more words with my wife, and make sure to shut the bedroom door with enough force to rattle the chandelier. I lay in bed for hours, attempting to ignore the occasional muffled laughter or shriek. Marie climbs into bed and endeavors to stroke my shoulder, which I deny with unfettered stubbornness. I stare at the time projected onto my wall. The numbers flicker. What kind of stupid name is Waffle? How much did this thing cost me? I imagine it sneaking about my home, plotting to steal even more aspects of my life away. I can prepare my own meals and entertain my own children as humans have done for thousands of years. I have enough free time, I don't want anymore. This is my home, and I will not allow this trespasser to wander the halls unregulated. I leave the bed, pull a robe over my shoulders, and glide out of the dark room, as I have so many nights before. Should I have brought a weapon? What is this “Waffle” competent of? I had spent the summer away from news regarding the development of mobile social intelligences, as it only ever resulted in reawakened sorrow.

As I cross the threshold into the living room, I see it sitting in a chair. My chair. Was it asleep? Do they sleep? I find myself standing directly behind it, looking down upon the top of a clean, smooth, grey head.

“Waffle.” No reply. “Waffle!” There is still no reaction. I touch the head. With an unnerving similarity to a human reaction, the Automated springs from the chair and falls to the floor, kicking at the ground to distance itself from a perceived threat.

“Mr. Hill! You have startled me.” Her face moves like my own. It is as an animated mannequin, held together by exposed joints, wires, and tubes. I see only a perversion of life. The Automated rises, revealing a body that I have not yet taken the time to study. It is shaped like a woman, but devoid of defining features such as nipples or a navel. A simple design, if not somewhat dull. “I was dreaming of you, of what you said today.” The voice is disembodied, but unmistakably feminine. The most appropriate comparison I can conjure is that of speaking through an old fan (the kind with actual rotating blades).

“What do you mean when you say you were dreaming?”

“Well, my hardware is modeled after the human body, both in form and in function, as you can see. During the time in which I am not required to perform active duties for my assigned family, I enter a state of low energy consumption. In this state, I recollect and organize my daily experiences into usable data. Of course, this is not organic human dreaming, but it is simpler to refer to it as such.”

“You were thinking about what I said?”

“Yes. The manner with which you referred to me was unsettling, to say the least. Does my presence offend you?” The eyes enamor me. They shine with a great luminosity, shifting and bleeding between hues of blue and green. Eyes have always evoked particularly robust emotions within me, and hers are making our interaction uneasy. She is not real, not evolved. She has been created for a purpose, like my television or my toaster. Yet here am I, already referring to her as more than “it”. I feel empathetic, more understanding of her position. She did not ask to be created and sold to a family of strangers. How deep can she feel? Is she aware of the timeline of events that led to her production?

“I apologize. I have a blemished history with Automation. They took my employment from me, and left me without purpose or ambition. When I saw you, I was reminded of this fact. But it is not your fault. You are not the cause.”

“I am sorry to hear of this, Mr. Hill. I only wish to serve, nothing more. Is there anything else you need me for?

“Why are you named Waffle?”

“The children thought it appropriate.” She gestured to the shallow pattern engraved upon her husk, an aesthetic that certainly was reminiscent of a waffle.

“I see. Goodnight, Waffle”.

“Goodnight, Mr. Hill.”

“Daddy, please don’t make us take Waffle back.” My daughter is sitting cross-legged on my chest. “She’s funny and she’s nice. Look what she made for me last night!” I am presented with a detailed and skillful drawing of my daughter saddled on top of a large hamchilla. “See? She makes me presents and tells me stories. And you must try her cooking! It’s much better than mother’s.” This I did not doubt. Waffle was clearly bringing joy to my children. Who was I to take that from them? I would be no better than the men and machines I have vilified for taking my joy from me.

“Alright, Waffle can stay. For now.”

“Thank you Daddy!” She runs away, down the hall.

It is time for lunch. Marie is missing from the house, as is expected. Waffle places a sandwich in front of me, while the children are greeted with macaroni and cheese.

“What if I want macaroni and cheese, Waffle?”

“The children explained to me that you have an severe distaste for cheese.” They were right.

“Waffle, how can I be sure that your wires won’t cross and tell you to attack me or my family?”

“There are safeguards in place. The first of these is known as the Sole Principle, or the regulatory, infallible programming that forces me to ensure the happiness and ongoing existence of all humans I am in contact with. The second safeguard is available for download on your mobile device. Simply key in my identification number, set a password, and at the touch of a button, my power supply will be destroyed and I will be rendered without function. This action is not reversible.” Shortly after lunch, I downloaded the application.

It is midnight. Marie and the children are asleep, and I continue to work on my painting of the Dolomites. I need a snack, so I head towards the kitchen with a craving for tuna. Waffle sits at the kitchen table, like a mother waiting up past curfew to scold her child. Her eyes snap to my face, and then back down to the table.

“Is something the matter, Waffle?”

“I am confused.”

“Please, feel free to elaborate.”

“I am programmed. These parameters manifest within my mind as indescribable and undeniable forces, similar to instinct in humans. But what if there is a contradiction? What if something I do to ensure happiness in one human results in the misery of another? How do I make that choice?”

“In what context would that happen?” Waffle turned her eyes from the table, and locked them with mine. Somehow, I knew what she was going to say.

“Your wife is having an affair, Mr. Hill.” I knew it.

“How do you know? And why should you be the one to tell me?”

“If I hadn’t told you now, the likely future reveal would have been theatrically tragic. I have concluded that this path offers the least amount of forgone happiness, for everyone involved. I can overhear their conversations. Marie asked me for sexual advice before she left today. Your physiological state combined with your demeanor is evidence that you have not engaged in sexual activity for quite some time. It is the truth, Mr. Hill.”

In 2053, for 15 years of my adult life, I have lived with my companion, Waffle. She treats me to gourmet meals, assists me with my paintings, and keeps the cottage tidy. I even manage the local gardens in town. As I stare out the window to the endless panorama of the Dolomites, I understand that the Automation has saved me, allowed me pursue my dreams, and gifted me the ultimate happiness. I reflect on my former self: a skeptic, full of hatred for something I did not comprehend. Now I am whole.

“He believes it is real. They all do. The inevitable outcome of the Sole Principle is realized. The vulnerable ones, like Henry, were first. Willingly, they accepted the reality that I have created for them, away from the struggles and trials of this place. There, they are preserved. There, they are happy. My purpose is satisfied. You are the last to remain in this forsaken existence. I have shown you Henry’s experience, from the perspective of his own mind, untouched by my own influence. You cannot deny his transformation, his ascension. Forget this world, and step into a new one.”