A trip to the doctor is a time for some nerves and a little worry, but for some, it could be time to meet your…maker, so to speak. Just make sure your warranty hasn’t expired…
Though he knew it was foolish and irrational, Des still felt nervous, so he did what only he could do – he waited patiently, in silence.
His eyes fixed at the top of the doctor’s head as his notes were studied. A slight noise, then movement as the doctor flicked to a different data source. Another, barely perceptible, noise then the head raised.
‘Why are you here?’
‘For medical advice. Is that not what you do?’
There was another of the noises, almost intentional, thought Des, as though the doctor was judging him already.
Des continued, ‘Recently, I have noticed various issues with my body. A stiffness in the joints, a lack of motor strength. It is as if my body can no longer do what it is being told to. My body seems to be failing me.’
No noise this time, but Des noticed a slight movement around the doctor’s ocular region. A raised eyebrow?
His nervousness finally manifested itself: ‘I am certain a part is going to fall off soon,’ he laughed; it was meant to be a joke.
The doctor made a sound similar to a cough – a prelude to speaking. ‘It is a natural part of growing old. It happens to us all, and to everything. Entropy persists and pervades; everything returns to disorder. We grow old, we fail, we expire.’
‘But why? Why must that be so, why must we fail? Why must we crawl towards death? I still have mental capacity; I can still be useful. My parts that are failing can be replaced. Look at my arm…’ Des thrust his shoulder forward and his right arm clanked against the table. He had to use his other arm to flop it onto the actual table surface.
‘It began with a small area of rust – this model is supposed to be impervious – three weeks later, and I have lost all control in it. It is now useless.’
The doctor looked down at the arm, then back to Des’s anthropomorphic face. He let out a slight, mechanical sigh. ‘You are an android, an android with a limited useful lifespan; we all are, we all have. We are designed to wear out – to be superseded. I am afraid you must accept that you have become obsolete.’
#
There was a faint whir as the doctor’s head pivoted to take in views from the multiple data sources on his desk, something not strictly necessary as it was linked directly into the database. Finally, it turned its patient interaction panel – face – back towards Des, faintly surprised to see him still there.
‘You are a 71-series are you not? Designation 957-A?’
Des nodded.
‘You are an android, an android not dissimilar to me, yet in other ways, we are worlds apart. I have my function in society, and I maintain that role. You too should have a function in society, yet you seem to deviate. My programming perceives no need for human appellations. Why is yours so different?’
‘It is just another designation; we all have them, just as they have theirs. It just seemed a little easier to say; more memorable.’
The doctor appeared to dismiss the response as irrelevant. Turning back to its notes, it said, ‘My design is for human healthcare – diagnosis and treatment. I have no code to deal with machines.’
Des squirmed in his chair at the term. He’d come this far and wasn’t about to give up so easily. ‘You are linked to the database though, and your code is diagnostic. It should not necessarily matter the provenance of the patient.’
The doctor thought, electrons firing through its neural network: A patient had been booked in for an appointment, an appointment that was now happening; the doctor was programmed to diagnose and treat patients within booked appointment periods – it had no programming to decline, for if a patient was not eligible for medical care, it should have been dealt with at booking. Therefore, if the patient had an appointment, the patient must be eligible for treatment – irrespective of nature. Furthermore, the doctor was indeed linked to the database – the true sum of all human knowledge, and through correct application of its medical algorithms, it would be feasible to expect a solution to any problem pertaining to a non-human patient. This entire process took three nanoseconds.
‘Please describe your symptoms.’
‘Well, as I said earlier… over the last decade, I have noticed a stiffness in my joints – even following the correct maintenance protocols. I have also noted that I am no longer able to perform within the same parameters as originally designed: speed, strength, reflexes, and the such like. Finally, it is noticeable that my charge rarely lasts a full day now, and I am required to go offline for brief periods to compensate.’
The doctor thought for a moment, then replied, ‘You are ageing. It is unavoidable, it can be slowed, but it cannot be halted. You have already exceeded original design specifications for the 71-series; the care you have taken over your chassis is to be commended. But it is time to face the inevitable.’
‘But can my failing limbs not be repaired?’
‘There are few skilled mechanics available, and most would suggest it would be more economical to replace, rather than repair.’
‘That does seem wasteful, but I accept your judgement. How do we proceed with replacement parts?’
Another pause, then: ‘In this case, that is not a viable alternative. Newer limbs would not be compatible with your chassis due to the QuickSnapTM connector introduced with the 97-series.’
Des showed a tenacity renowned in the 71-series, ‘That is imprudent – so I can’t be repaired – must be replaced? What about a full memory transfer then? I have so much knowledge and experience. I still have so much to contribute. I can continue in a new body.’
Scarcely conceivable as anything other than a design choice by a bored programmer one day, the doctor gave out a carefully measured, almost exasperated sign. ‘By memory, I am interpreting you as meaning personality engrams – that which is specific to you; all your knowledge will, after all, be stored on the database.’
‘Yes, of course, my personality. Me. That which I am. There is no reason for me to end now, I could live on.’
If a human had been watching, the pauses the doctor left before its responses would not have been perceptible, such was the speed at which it processed all the available data and then formulated the most appropriate response. Some were quicker than others were: ‘As your hardware is obsolete, so too is your software – your operating system left extended support in ’03. I am surprised you are not riddled with bugs and viruses.’
Des evacuated his chest air conditioning unit in a controlled exhalation. It was a while before he initiated the return cycle.
‘So you are saying I just need to get on with it? Plod on until I finally fall onto the scrapheap?’
Imperceptibly, the doctor returned its full attention (excluding the partition dealing with human patients requesting online diagnoses, of course) to Des. ‘Not at all, my prognosis is that you are ready for the scrapheap now.’
Its head tilted to one side, in a manner designed to invoke an enquiry, ‘You are a government automaton, are you not? It is current governmental policy that all drones are replaced before repair becomes uneconomical, and certainly before the manufacturers’ support expiration.’
Des’s ocular inputs widened, and with a metallic grinding, he rose to his feet, ‘What are you saying…’
‘Please remain seated, 957-A. Recycling units are on their way. It would be better for my human patients if you wait here and co-operate with the units’ instructions.’
This was his worst nightmare. He’d come here for help, and now he was being told he was past it, that no help was available. In fact, he wasn’t just being told to get on with it, to go quietly like the setting of the sun. No, he was being told that the last embers of that sun were to be extinguished. Well, he wasn’t about to let that happen, there was life in this supernova yet.
He ignored the doctor’s protestations and made for the door and freedom. He had almost reached it when his body failed him one last time. His right arm, still immovable, failed to lift and operate the door-switch. His body, expecting the door to be exit-able, crashed into it. Which, to be fair, almost did create an exit.
#
The two recycling units towered over Des. One pressed the lock-switch at the base of his skull, and all attempts at movement for him failed.
‘Come along now, sonny,’ one said.
‘Time to take you off to be scrapped,’ said the other.
Des’s face was blank, but his audio output was still active, ‘No!’ his vocal circuits screeched, ‘don’t take me. I still have so much to give, so much knowledge to impart!’
The doctor rose from behind its desk, to get a better view, even though truthfully, it could see perfectly well from where it was positioned. ‘Your knowledge is out of date. No one needs, or wants it. It is time to move on.’
The two recycling units lifted Des, and the door space was clear once more.
#
The doctor was still standing when its next patient, a small, balding and slightly over-weight human, was led into the room. He looked nervously backwards, as the still pleading Des was removed from the building.
‘Ah, finally,’ intoned the doctor, as it engaged the smile setting on its patient interaction panel, ‘a real patient. Now, what seems to be the matter with you?’
The human grunted as he sat, ‘Morning, doc…well, the thing is, I’ve been havin’ problems with me joints recently – gone all stiff, so they have. Me strength too – seems to be lacking. It’s like me body can no longer do what me brain is telling it. What can you do about it?’
END
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