The Caregiver

 

This is a short story I wrote in 2019. It was published in Andromeda Spaceways magazine. As of this posting, it's in the top 100 in the Launchpad Prose Competition. It also won the Screencraft Cinematic Short Story Contest in 2020. 

The Caregiver

Father dies first. Mother is too weak to bury him. The drugs don’t suppress the allergen anymore. Her lungs are calcifying. Every day her breath gets a little shorter. If she takes the gulp of air her body screams for, her chest cavity will crack like burnt paper. She would welcome the release from the slow panic of asphyxia. But she has to hold on for the baby’s sake. So that’s what she does.

They were the first couple to get pregnant. The others were months behind and the allergen finished the women before they came to full term. Mother and father assumed the baby wouldn’t last. They braced for the cruelty of just barely outliving their child. But two months went by, then three. Then they faced a worse cruelty. This atmosphere is not alien to the child. Instead of suffocating, she will starve. 

Unless, father had said. There’s a chance. The colony’s artificial intelligence. All but the most essential med lab equipment. Everything was committed to the effort. Father validated motor functions and logic pathways the day before he died. Only mother remains to teach a robot how to be a parent. She hasn’t nearly enough time. How do you upload instinct? What is the command prompt for motherhood? 

Just love her. Her voice is barely more than sand racing across the outer habitat wall in the windy season.

The robot cannot feel love. Please specify directives.

Mother closes her eyes. Her lung will break open if she sobs. Emulate human behaviors and acts associated with love. 

Define parameters.

Keep her safe from physical harm. Don’t let her out of your sight unless it’s essential. Promote her emotional well-being. Don’t lie to her. 

There is so much more to say, but she is exhausted. She needs rest before she can continue. 

She dies in her sleep, the baby in her arms. Cambria would have been the fourth colony beyond Earth. It collapses in just 27 months. People across the universe watch the tragedy unfold from the isolation of their worlds. Adrift on their little lifeboat orbs, all they can send now are thoughts and prayers. Anything of substance is constrained by physics and economics. Tian has yet to reach industrial maturity. Columbia is closer by a few lightyears. Earth has the most robust fleet. No matter how or where from, it will be 12 years before the child feels another human’s touch.

The baby cries. Her caregiver cradles her for the first time. A synthetic surrogate, it is the new Pieta for the interstellar age. The baby falls back asleep. The robot buries the mother and childproofs the habitat. 

The baby frequently cries through the night, though it wants for nothing. For six months the robot keeps uninterrupted vigil. Its arms hold her small body without feeling bone-deep weariness. It sterilizes bottles and washes diapers without desperate bouts of insecurity or loneliness. It listens to hours of wailing without the unspeakable secret regret that creeps into every mother’s mind. It cradles and feeds and hums lullabies without any sense of joy or affection.

The baby rejects another bottle. The formula is precious and must be preserved. The robot returns it to the warmer. The bottle will not fit. The robot twists it one way and another. The baby cries more frantically. The robot focuses on the task even as the child begins to writhe in its arm. Finally, the bottle seats in the warmer. The robot wipes a tear. The baby grabs the finger and sucks on it. The robot turns on a hot plate, changes arms, puts its other hand on the hot surface. The baby no longer cries. For the next six months, the robot continues to hold the baby this way, alternating arms and warming its hands to feel more human-like. The baby stops crying. The scent of heated alloys becomes soothing to her. She eats and sleeps better. 

The baby has its first birthday. 

The robot maintains the vigil through teething, earaches, and colds. It downloads and implements all the best practices to teach motor functions and early cognition. The child exceeds all developmental standards at the eighteen-month milestone. The robot receives a message from Earth. A rescue ship has departed. Because the planetary environment is lethal to humans, special precautions will be emplaced during retrieval. The robot is given new directives and parameters. Priority one: Care for the child. Priority two: research and, if possible, resolve the allergen pathology. All data relevant to priorities one and two must be secured.

Baba. The girl says her first word. It is the name she gives the robot. The robot deduces it comes from the child’s favorite book, about an elephant. A month later the child says her own name for the first time. Amari. 

Amari turns two. Baba bakes a small cake. The robot reserved enough chocolate from the colony’s supplies to ice and decorate ten cakes like this one. It has thought of almost everything in advance.  

Amari learns new words. No. I don’t want to. Baba do it. I don’t want peas! I want cookies! Baba meets each protest with uncompromising politeness, counters each tantrum with merciless serenity. 

Take your vitamin, Amari.

No! I want a cookie!

The vitamin is important to bone growth and liver function. Please eat it.

I want a cookie!

If I give you a cookie, will you eat the vitamin?

Yes!

Baba gives Amari a cookie. Amari does not eat the vitamin. Baba comprehends that Amari has lied.

Amari, did you make this mess?

No.

Amari, are you climbing out of your bed?

No.

Amari, do you need a new diaper?

No.

It takes Baba six months to develop subroutines and compile enough data to discern a lie from the truth. It takes another three months to make Amari understand that lying is bad, and another three to convince her she will be caught and punished. Robot and child learn together through a process of error and trial. 

Amari turns three. She can read on her own. Her new favorite book is The Little Prince. She watches Baba tend the fields and asks if there are bad trees that will break their planet. 

No, Amari. Our planet is too big for the plants to hurt it.

But there are bad plants.

The plants are not bad. The plants make dust that causes people to get sick. We just need to figure out how to make the people better.

Amari frowns. How?

I must study the pollen.

I want to help!

You help by not getting sick, Amari. In time I will understand why everyone else got sick and you didn’t.  

And then we can get my mommy back?

No, Amari. We cannot get her back. 

Baba play with me. 

The game is hide-and-seek. Baba hides where it can keep sight of Amari. It cannot break its directive to protect the child. Ha! You’re a bad hider! Find me now! Count!  

Baba counts. It cannot block its optical sensors. It walks to where Amari is hiding behind a rock. No! Don’t look at me! Count again!

Baba starts to count again. No! Stop looking! 

Baba cannot stop. Baba has to watch. Mommy said Baba must always watch. 

Mommy said? When? 

Three years ago. 

Where is she now?

Mommy is dead. 

Amari cries. The game is over. 

Baba realizes a conflict in directives. Tell the truth. Protect the child’s emotional well-being. Baba must learn to tell the truth less, or say it more gently. In the meantime, cookies make Amari feel better and board games offer a safe way to play. Baba determines that adjusting difficulty levels is an acceptable means of adapting within the constraints of honesty. 

Amari turns four. She can almost beat Baba at Memory. Baba can almost tie Amari at I-Doubt-It. They split games of Uno.  

Amari exits her room one day with her mother’s dress wrapped around her.

Baba! Today the people come! Get dressed! 

Baba does not understand. No, Amari. No one is coming for many years. 

No, no! Pretend!

Baba can simulate the permutations of more than eight quintillion simultaneous genetic combinations in a second. It cannot pretend. It follows the child and does her bidding. Amari drapes clothes over the robot and throws all the tools out of a trunk.

This is the spaceship. Get in, Baba! Let’s go to Earth!

I cannot fit in the rescue ship. 

Amari looks over her shoulder at the box, then to Baba. 

I can’t go without you! Let’s make the ship bigger. 

Baba pauses for a second to consider the permutations of Amari’s statement and its directives. Its processor hums from the effort. Amari hears the sound and notices the lights within its chest glow a little brighter for a moment. She interprets this as love.

The robot takes a compass from the scattered equipment. You do not need to take all of me. This is my memory. It is all the things I know about you. So long as you have my memory, I will always go with you. Keep it safe. 

Amari hangs the compass around her neck and smiles. She faces forward and makes rocket engine noises. In her mind, she is blasting away from this lonely place of dying. She pretends gravity pulls her back into the seat, trying to hold her back. Baba assesses that it has successfully told a gentle truth. 

Amari gets to Earth. She does not know what to pretend about life there. Baba offers to explain, but Amari is done pretending now. I love you, Baba.

Baba does not feel or understand love. Baba must be honest. Baba must protect the child’s emotional well-being. It pauses again. 

Would you like a cookie?

Amari turns five. Baba bakes another cake and gives her a soccer ball and her very own tablet computer. Amari’s face darkens when she unwraps the presents. Something has occurred to her.  

Is that the cake I had last year?

It is a new cake, identical in design to the last one.

This ball and this computer were already here. They belonged to someone else.

Our stockpiles are limited to whatever arrived with the initial logistics support module. No one owned these items. They were spares.

I don’t want them.

Would you like something else?

No. All of these things are from dead people and I don’t want them.

These items came directly from the stockpile. They have never been used—

I don’t want them!

Amari goes to her room. She doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t want to read books or do chores. She responds to Baba’s admonitions with impolite facial expressions. Her speech becomes limited to commentary on how stupid various things are. The plants they raise for her

nourishment are stupid. The shelter that keeps them safe during the windy season is stupid. Books and arithmetic are stupid. Board games are stupid. 

Amari, did you take a cookie from the jar?

No.

That is a lie, Amari. I can tell. I know you took a cookie.

Then why did you ask? 

It is important for you to learn honesty and to apologize for breaking rules. 

Amari makes an impolite face. 

If you cannot admit your guilt and apologize, I will stop making cookies.

Go ahead. I don’t want your stupid cookies. 

Amari grows restless. Her sixth birthday is even worse than her fifth. 

Those markers where Mommy and Daddy are buried are stupid. No one is ever going to come see them. 

That is not necessarily true. The allergen—

This whole planet is stupid. They were stupid for coming here.

Amari, you mustn’t say such things.

You’re the stupidest!

Baba turns to correct the child. Amari runs away. She is faster and more agile than Baba. She clambers a rocky hillside and taunts the robot. Baba assesses the terrain is too steep to negotiate. The robot stands at the base of the hill for twenty minutes while Amari pounds her fist against the world below her and screams at the heavens above.  

When she is done, Amari sees Baba through her tears. The robot is waiting at the bottom of the hill without judgment, or complaint, or anger. She doesn’t see a fissure in one of the rocks. Amari catches her foot and spills eight feet. Her body comes to rest in a grotesque position. Baba assesses the danger of attempting to climb up to Amari as severe. Amari whimpers. She does not answer when called. 

Baba labors up the hill. Amari’s arm is broken in two places and she is unconscious. Baba cradles the girl in one arm and attempts to slide back down. It slips and falls back. The dirt scratches its coating. A rock dents the torso casing. Baba’s free arm becomes lodged in another fissure. There is nowhere to put Amari down so it can free its arm. It must hold on for the wellbeing of the child. So that’s what it does. 

Baba wrenches back and twists. The elbow joint pops and they are free again. The child nuzzles fitfully against her broken robot’s chest. The robot meticulously guards the child’s broken parts from further pain. 

Amari wakes up to her arm in a cast and Baba watching over her. She does not cry until she sees Baba’s arm. 

I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me. 

I will never hate you. 

I’m sorry. 

I forgive you. 

This is Baba’s first outright lie. Baba cannot forgive Amari because Baba does not get angry or assign blame. But the child needs to receive forgiveness, so the robot offers it. 

Amari becomes sick whenever she looks at the grizzled bobtail of wires and metal hanging down from Baba’s arm. She keeps asking Baba if it hurts. 

Did you already lose all your blood? I don’t want you to die. 

I do not have blood. I cannot die. 

You said everyone has blood. You said I was born with special blood when you took some out with the needle.

All humans have blood. Robots do not. Robots are not born. They are assembled. Your father and mother assembled me. 

But if your mommy and daddy are my mommy and daddy, then they died… which means you can die! 

Baba does not know how to make Amari understand. It takes Amari to a terminal and unlocks a video log of a man assembling a robot. His skin is blue and there are beet-colored circles under his eyes. He keeps working though he is in obvious discomfort. 

Do you understand now? I was built. I am a robot. I cannot die or feel pain. 

Was that daddy? 

Yes.

Are there more videos of him? Are there videos of mommy?

Baba’s processor hums in thought and its chest glows. Amari puts her hand over Baba’s chest. 

I miss them, too. 

Baba reviews terabytes of peer-reviewed literature on early childhood development and trauma in a few moments.  

Yes, there are more videos.

Can I see them?

Not now. 

Why?

They were very sick. The videos would upset you. Your parents would not want that right now. 

Baba, will you ever get sick?

No. 

You’re never going to leave me?

No. 

Amari has Baba sign her cast. The robot does not know what to write, so it asks Amari. The robot’s chest glows and hums in response to the girl’s request. Baba writes across the length of the cast in beautiful, exacting cursive. Amari surrounds the message with flowers and hearts. When it comes off, she places it in a box under her bed as a keepsake. 

Could you reattach your arm if I got it back?

Please make no attempt to retrieve the arm. It is too dangerous. 

But you only have one arm and it’s my fault.

You are forgiven.

But it’s not right you have to be this way.

I can perform all motor-function tasks equally well with either hand. The damage has negligible impact on my productivity.

I would be careful.

Amari, if you tried to retrieve my arm against my wishes, I would be hurt and disappointed. I would not forgive you. If you were to get hurt again I could not help you. I would be alone without you.

More lies. In the interest of the child’s well-being. 

I won’t go. I promise. I love you, Baba.

Rest. When you wake up we will make cookies. 

The child rests and helps to make cookies. She opens the oven door while the robot puts the pan in. The smell of dough and heated alloy makes her smile. She learns how to tend the fields. She helps to take pollen samples. She inspects her blood for antigens. She helps to clean. She learns to do all of these things with the same efficient motions as the robot. With the same speech patterns and vocabulary. With the same patience. Like robot, like daughter. 

Amari grows more mature, more methodical, more mechanical. Baba puts another cake on the table. 

Baba, I am nine years old. 

Yes. Happy birthday. 

I have been here nine years. 

Would you like to blow out the candles? 

Baba, I would like to see the videos of my parents.

You are not yet old enough. They were very sick. They were suffering. It would be an unpleasant experience for you. 

I have been conditioned to unpleasant experiences for nine years, Baba. I am well-adjusted to them.

Baba has never heard this before. Based on the structure and thought of the child’s argument, Baba assesses that she is old enough.

They watch the videos. Mom holds the baby and utters words Amari has never heard.

I love you, Amari. 

Amari closes her eyes and exhales. She breathes out something heavy and unpleasant that has weighed her down for nearly her entire life. 

I love you. Mom’s voice is warm and melodic. I love you. Amari wants to dance to it.

They keep watching. Baba materializes on a work table. Father deteriorates. Mom demonstrates how to feed the baby as Baba stands next to her. She explains how to change a diaper from a wheelchair, how to swaddle and bathe from her bed. Amari watches the circles under her mom’s eyes run deeper into the sockets, the corners of her mouth pull tighter in discomfort. She keeps trying. 

I love you. It sounds like sand blowing across the habitat walls in the windy season, but Amari can still make out the words. 

Amari watches Baba take her from Mom’s arms for the last time. Even in that moment, she knows Mom is still trying. Amari holds tight to Baba. 

The windy season comes early this year. Amari hears Mom’s ghost wandering the valley. There’s a rhythm in the beating of the wind against the walls, a melody in the creaking of the

structure’s joints. Mom is trying to say I love you. Amari asks if she can sleep with Baba. The robot will not be able to perform several evening maintenance items. Baba does not sleep. The robot lies down and puts an arm over Amari. The atmosphere roils around them. Their foster world whirls on its axis and twists around its sun like a leaf caught in a storm drain. 

The wind storm lasts four days. They stay huddled in the shelter. Baba plans maintenance checks each night, but Amari asks the robot to keep her company. Amari wakes one night and sits up. Something is wrong. Mother’s voice sounds different. She tries to tell Baba, but the robot insists it is just a dream. Baba cannot make believe, so Amari cannot make it understand. The building was meant to be a temporary shelter and it has stood for ten years. Baba has not done maintenance checks for four nights.

Mother’s ghost groans. The roof joist snaps. An aluminum bar tears and the wall next to them shears away as if in the teeth of a wild animal. They are swarmed by angry debris. Baba throws itself on top of Amari. 

The storm passes. Amari crawls out from under Baba to find the habitat completely destroyed. The composite skin dangles in shreds from skewers of broken frame. It looks like the carcass of some picked-over leviathan. Baba is tangled in the spars of its rib cage.  Amari fights through her fear to gather tools. It takes several hours for her to cut away enough of the metal to free Baba. Over and over, they have the same conversation.

I am sorry.

It is not your fault.

If I had not asked you to stay with me…

This could not have been prevented. Maintenance checks would not have led me to discover the structure failing. 

Another lie. It is necessary to protect her from trauma. 

Please be alright.

Everything will be fine. 

Baba is uncertain if that is true. It has already performed a self-diagnostic. There is an anomaly.

They go to the lab. Baba instructs Amari to examine it for damage. Take out these screws. How do the wires look? Good. Now remove the thoracic plate. Use the pliers if you must. See the four tubes running to my core processer housing? Do you see any liquid? 

Yes. The blue tube is dripping fast.

That explains the anomaly. One of the primary capillaries feeding Baba’s redox-based liquid quantum computer lost pressure. Baba is leaking brain fluid. 

Amari receives very important instructions. Get a new tube. Cut it to similar length. I will power off and you can restart me once you have replaced the tubes. Do it quickly. Save as much fluid as you can. 

The whole procedure takes less than two minutes. Amari catches several milliliters of the precious fluid in a vial. Baba returns it to the appropriate reservoir. Capacity is now at thirty-seven percent. Baba calculates the degradation rate at current performance levels. Eighteen months. It recalculates with power saving strategies. Two years. It calculates again with regular shutdowns. Again after closing subroutines. Again with higher thresholds for memory access during decision-making processes. Thirty-two months. Rescuers will not arrive for forty-eight months. Baba must find a way, so it keeps trying.

Are you okay, Baba? Did it work?

Baba simulates the permutations of the necessary measures and their consequences in less than a second. It will take Amari longer. Baba recalculates again, this time factoring for the girl. Then it tells another lie.

Yes. You did wonderfully. I must take steps to fully recover. I will power off at night now. It will help if you manually power me on in the morning. 

I can do that. 

Baba never says how long it will take to fully recover. Amari never asks. After a few weeks, the process becomes routine. Off. On. Off. On. 

The windy season gives way to harvest season. Amari frowns at Baba one morning. That’s a sickle, Baba. We need the hoe, don’t we?

Winds give way to planting season, not harvest. It is a small error. Baba exchanges for the hoe. 

The next week Baba seizes while powering on. It reboots. Baba says once in eleven years is within system tolerances. The same thing happens again three days later.

Baba, what is happening to you?

Everything is fine. 

Baba, it distresses me to know you are lying. 

Amari listens to lengthy technical explanations. The robot speaks in choppy sentences fraught with rates and percentages. 

You are dying.

I cannot die.

Amari wipes her face with both hands. She resents having to use the technical language. Your processor is approaching catastrophic failure.

Yes. My system performance is declining. Power management strategies will prolong my service life to the safe date. 

Amari has never heard these words before. Define the term ‘safe date’.

Fourteen days prior to rescue ship arrival. 

Amari’s lower lip trembles. What… she has to begin again. What will your status be when the rescue ship arrives?

The processor core will experience acute degradation. The system will be compromised.  

Amari nods. Thank you. I understand. We will work on strategies tomorrow.

The principal directives are to care for you and study the allergen. All other considerations are ancillary.

I would like you to begin your power-down cycle now, Baba.

Understood. Goodnight, Amari.

When the soft glow within Baba’s carapace is gone, Amari throws her arms around it and lets go of her tears. I love you, Baba.

They do not talk about preparing for the ship’s arrival. Amari is not ready to know how much time they have until the safe date.

Amari decides that Baba should have a birthday. She makes a cake with ten candles. The AI is much older than that, but Amari counts from the day the robot was activated. Amari makes the cake. The robot snuffs each candle out between its fingers. Amari detects the scent of singed alloy and feels warm inside.  

This is supposed to be your cake. Your birthday is in two days. 

My birthday wish is for us to celebrate yours. 

Amari’s birthday was two months ago. Something about Baba’s processor degradation and the lengthened shutdowns are causing it to lose time. Amari considers the ramifications.

Baba, I would like to implement a new power saving strategy. From now on, I do not want you to come out to the field with me. 

I should be with you if you have an accident with the machinery.

Monitor me using the cameras based on the observation tower. It will save some effort.

I concur.

Good. Assign yourself a new protocol not to leave the shelter unless I am in distress.

Amari has never told Baba to do anything before. Now with a single command she has made it homebound. Baba complies without judgment, or complaint, or anger. Amari always feels worse because of it. 

Amari works the fields alone. She spends long hours in the sunlight until her skin glows. With each seed bag hauled and field implement heaved she grows lean and strong and radiant. 

Inside the shelter, Baba’s processor slowly diminishes. The light of the robot’s mind dims. Amari has to make more rules. Verify with me that it’s time to cook before you try to make dinner. Do not engage the irrigation system controller. Do not use the ladder. Do not attempt repairs on electrical fixtures.  

Baba performed thousands of tasks every day to care for Amari. There are at least a thousand rules now, and for each one of them Amari has a new responsibility. She does not complain. She refuses to feel bone-deep weariness, or insecurity, or loneliness, or the resentment of coupling the energy of her youth to the care of one in decline. She has learned all this from Baba’s example. 

Amari observes the approach of her twelfth birthday. She does not want to make a cake, but she does it for the sake of helping the robot keep time. Baba has trouble pinching the candles. Its hand quivers too much to catch the flame just so. Amari holds the wrist steady as the robot extinguishes the flame. She leans over the candles and takes a deep breath.  

They must have a difficult conversation while Baba can still provide information. If Baba is to survive until the rescue day, it will have to be shut down indefinitely. Amari will need to know how to get them off the planet alone. 

Baba, please explain the procedure for the rescue. 

The ship will be here in approximately three-hundred days. It will transmit location data for a landing site. A lander with a small launch vehicle will land at that site. You will enter, follow instructions by radio, and wait until the launch window for the rescue ship’s orbit. The craft will dock with the rescue ship. There will be room for an additional six-point-eight kilograms of personal effects. 

Amari feels the words bite her chest. What about you?

Do you remember the time we simulated your departure? I told you the rocket was not big enough for me. 

We could have shut you down. You would have been okay.

The rescue was planned as quickly as possible. They did not anticipate a planet they could not land on. The retrieval vehicle was retrofitted. Accommodating my full assembly was not a principal concern.  

They never planned to get you. For the first time in years, Amari’s voice sounds angry. They never cared about you. 

They will save what is most important. Do you remember the compass?

Amari’s face streams with tears. Your memory drive.

Yes. I have recorded everything. My entire experience on Cambria will survive. 

I can load your memory to a new AI. A new robot. 

No. The retrieval team will take the memory core. My data is of extreme scientific value. It will be used to discern what happened to the colony effort.

Discern what happened… The words taste alkaline. 

Would it be possible to resume this discussion in two hours? Managing this conversation used more processing power than normal. 

Amari swallows hard. Baba feels itself slipping.

Yes, of course. Rest. 

The lights in Baba’s torso dim. Amari waits until they grow dark and cold, then goes outside. She kicks a rock formation and screams into space. 

Amari sits with Baba at the end of each day. Their conversations become more labored.

I think I have isolated the calcification mechanism. It is not chemical. There is an odd protein in the pollen itself. It interferes with cilia growth at the mitochondrial level—

I have compiled a list of common social behaviors perceived as inappropriate or rude in public spaces. It is imperative to understand these when you arrive on Earth.

You told me about those yesterday, Baba. We don’t have to do it again. I saw some haze out east today. Might mean an early windy season. I think I will dust the solar panels tomorrow, just to make sure we get a good charge on the batteries. 

There may be men on the rescue craft. You have never interacted with one before. Interactions between human males and females are more complex than I comprehend. However, certain general principles will be valuable to you for—

If there is an early windy season the rescue ship crew will be waiting a while for a recovery window. 

Then perhaps we should review retrieval procedures. The lander will—

Amari pounds her fists against her forehead.

I don’t want to talk about the stupid lander or its stupid procedures! I don’t want to go! I want to stay here with you!

You cannot stay here, Amari. Even if you did, I will cease to function. 

You said you would never leave me.

I will not leave you. You will leave me. 

Amari’s face contorts. Baba cannot assess whether the girl is making an impolite face, so it cannot formulate a response. The girl falls asleep. The robot powers itself down shortly after. Days pass. Amari simply directs Baba to cease discussions of Earth or retrieval. She cannot bear the thought of moving on without knowing how to let go. 

The windy season does not come early. The rescue ship does. The computer sends a communication alert. Amari plays the message. There is no video. Amari hears a woman’s voice. 

“Hi, Amari. How are you? My name’s Karen. I’m a doctor and I’m here to help. Me and my friends have come in a spaceship from Earth to help. We’re all excited to see you and we want to know if you’re doing alright. Can you please send us a message back?” 

Amari has to play the message several times to understand it. The woman speaks with an accent. She uses contractions and odd sentence structure. She talks so fast. 

Amari sends her response: Your arrival was not anticipated for another three weeks. I request a one hundred-twenty- hour delay before initiating retrieval operations. 

The ship responds thirty minutes later. 

“I know this is a difficult time for you, Amari. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

There are no difficulties. I had not planned to prepare for departure for another three days. I request time to adequately prepare.  

“We brought plenty of things with us just for you, Amari. If there is a special toy or game you have trouble leaving, let me know and if we don’t have one here I’ll see if we can make one.” 

Amari almost thinks that the woman on the radio is odd for thinking she would have an emotional attachment to a toy. Then she realizes the woman is using her degrees and certifications to talk about Baba indirectly. Amari realizes the woman is dishonest… and stupid. She can’t be the one in charge. Amari can use that.

I am conducting a test on the allergen. If my hypothesis proves correct, then it may have value to producing a cure. I request time to complete the test.

The test is a lie, but the hypothesis is not. Amari has learned from Baba that this is the most effective way to lie. There is a long delay on the radio while the child expert finds someone with more appropriate certifications. 

“That could be dangerous, Amari. If we wait, there could be wind storms that make us wait even longer, and then we have a problem making sure there’s enough food for the trip back. We don’t want to risk your safety, do we?” 

Understood. Barometric readings give no indication of high winds occurring in the next eight days. I request a ninety-six-hour delay to allow for pre-departure preparation.

“Are you asking for the delay so you can say goodbye to Baba?”

The sound of the woman’s voice saying Baba’s name makes Amari angry.

Negative. I have not yet prepared my personal effects. 

There is a long silence. The rescue ship keys the microphone twice without saying anything before the woman comes back.

“Amari, would seventy-two hours be enough to complete the test, prepare the memory drive and assemble personal effects? We can give you ninety-six if you really need, but the captain is very concerned about your safety. We all are.”

Thank you for your concern. Ninety-six hours will be sufficient. Please advise when the lander is in position.

Amari signs off. She has clawed back four days. The end that never should have come is still coming sooner than it should. 

Baba, may I ask you a question?

Of course. 

I have an ethical dilemma. You have said that I must take your memory drive to the rescue crew. The drive would give researchers full access to all information about the allergen.  It would also give full access to all recordings of private moments, actions, and thoughts throughout my entire life. It would represent an extraordinary invasion of my privacy.

The dilemma is a conflict between two primary directives: serve the scientific mission and preserve your emotional and physical well-being.

Yes. Amari smiles and wipes a tear away. Baba has always been so clear about things. So direct. The conversation with the space woman has made Amari realize just how much she will miss the way Baba understands her.

If you had to decide between my well-being and the scientific directive, what would you choose? 

I no longer have the capacity for such high-level ethical judgments. My system is too degraded to effectively assess ill-defined parameters. I would defer to your assessment.

Defer to me?

You have demonstrated a high level of psychological maturity, and it is a logical choice because the decision impacts you so directly. 

One of my… directives is to do what you… evaluate as the best course of action. 

I cannot make an assessment. 

Please, Baba. I need your help. This is… an unpleasant experience for me. 

You are well-adjusted to unpleasant experiences. I am confident that you will negotiate the assessment process in a manner and with results that satisfy your conditions. I apologize. I must power down. 

It takes Amari forty-eight hours to make her decision. Another sixteen to determine it satisfies her conditions. She notifies the retrieval ship crew that she will be ready to launch on time. It is a lie. She will never be ready.

Hello, Baba.

Hello, Amari. I perceive that more than sixty hours have passed since I powered down. Is there a problem? I had planned to bake cookies for your departure. We can still do that if there is time. 

That will not be necessary. There is no problem. I had to prepare to leave and there was the ethical dilemma to reconcile. I needed time to consider directives. 

I understand. What did you decide? 

I would rather not say. I do not want you to be angry with me.

I could never be angry with you. 

Never?

Never.

May I just say then that I am very satisfied with my choice. 

That is all that matters. 

I am leaving tonight, Baba. We will not speak again. 

Based on the data I retrieved on human children and my observations of your development over the last twelve years, I assess that you will succeed in any endeavors you may choose in your life. 

Thank you, Baba. 

Amari waits, hoping that Baba will say something—say one thing. But it cannot.

You may power down at your discretion, Baba. 

Be sure to follow all safety instructions during the launch sequence. Goodbye, Amari. 

The girl watches the warm light inside the carapace fade. The gentle hum within lowers and fades to silence.

I love you, Mom.

The robot dies. The girl buries it beside the father and carries out pre-flight checks. 

Telemetry confirms that she has carried six-point-oh-seven kilograms on board. Amari hears the jealous ghosts of long-dead colonists roar underneath her. They press on the ship and rock it back and forth, demanding to be let in. A moment later the lonely world that was home drains out of the window beside her. Amari is pressed into her seat by grief. She is surrounded by hot light, then unnatural blue, then a darkness so black that it must be make-believe. The craft comes to a halt with a sickening thud. There comes a hollow knocking, a metallic creak. Amari hears voices and is gripped by fear. 

The expert space woman appears. Another one follows her in. Amari is welcomed. She is told she is safe, though she does not feel it. The people are hard to understand. They speak in a way she is not used to. She asks them to slow down. Enunciate. 

“The memory drive? Do you have it?”

No. 

“You were told to bring it. It was very important.”

That is why I left it.

The space women look at each other in aggravated despair. Amari sees that they don’t understand. It is not much of a lie to say she is too exhausted to explain herself.  

The ship loiters around Cambria for a time. Amari undergoes medical examination. She recoils from the warmth of human hands. A course is plotted. They go from transfer orbit to superluminal velocity. The journey will take three weeks or twelve years. They are going home or leaving it behind. Everything depends on the frame of reference. 

The expert lady and the other crew members offer Amari cookies and colorful clothes and toys and games. She asks only for hot chocolate.

Amari goes to her room and comforts herself with the one item she brought up from the surface. A robot’s forearm rests peacefully in the embrace of a child’s cast. She places the hot cup against the palm until she detects the scent of heated alloy. Amari turns the cast over and reads a message from long ago. She traces her finger lightly over the beautiful, exacting cursive, and remembers an ethical dilemma and a choice made. It is the one memory she carried with her. It is the memory of everything. 

Love always, Baba.