When Robots Learn to Cry

By Trenlin Hubbert

"When Robots Learn to Cry" - A Captivating Journey of Self-Awareness and Respect for Sentient Life

"When Robots Learn to Cry" is a thought-provoking and captivating tale that follows the journey of Chance-bot, a robot on the brink of being recycled, who is rescued by Ziggy, a homeless artist living on the fringes of a futuristic, high desert city. This unlikely duo embarks on a transformative adventure, where Ziggy imparts his wisdom on astrology, fate, and luck to the eager-to-learn Chance-bot.

 

The narrative takes a dramatic turn when Ziggy gifts Chance-bot to his friend Joud for an expedition to Varun, a water planet. Onboard the hydroliner, Chance-bot finds itself in the company of Joud, a kind-hearted young man, and Alex, a middle-aged wild child with a penchant for alcohol and mind-altering substances. These new relationships, coupled with the challenges of navigating the sea, push Chance-bot towards higher levels of perception and understanding.

 

The plot thickens when Chance-bot falls overboard, leading it to question which life forms might possess self-awareness. This incident forces the robot to make decisions independent of human input, marking a significant milestone in its journey towards self-awareness. Upon reuniting with Joud and Alex, Chance-bot receives an aquatic upgrade on a nearby satellite, enabling it to explore the watery depths of Varun while its human companions sleep.

 

The climax of the novel sees Chance-bot caught in a conflict that tests the robot's commitment to respecting all self-aware life and its ability to navigate complex moral dilemmas. "When Robots Learn to Cry" is an exploration of consciousness, morality, and the potential for artificial intelligence to transcend its programming, ultimately becoming a captivating and thought-provoking read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trenlin Hubbert
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224792573

Trenlin Hubbert

Trenlin Hubbert is a multi-modality creative with a diverse background in art, design, and literature.

Book preview

PART ONE

"M ost people believe the mind to be a mirror, more or less accurately reflecting the world outside them, not realizing on the contrary that the mind is itself the principal element of creation." ~Rabindranath Tagore

CHAPTER 1

When the Mentor entered the Core,  Mantaray emerged from the meditation of daily existence.

What is Life? the Mentor asked. 

Life is animate existence, Mantaray answered.

ZIGGY LAY FLAT ON HIS back, hands crossing his chest while he slept. 

In twenty-eight more seconds, I would awaken him.  In my mind, I observed the time as an overlap of calendars.  There were Mayan dots and dashes, Tibetan flowers and figures, the sharp edged Gregorian.  Like stepping stones, they guided me: calendar, on top of calendar, more and less lined up.  Inside the well of time, my progress was fractional: five. Four. Three. Two. one.

Time. 

Bending close, I whispered Ziggy’s name.  Gently, I touched his shoulder. 

His eyes cracked open.  Closed. Opened, blinked. 

I pulled back to allow space. 

He sat up, causing a cocoon of bedding to pool to his waste, revealing the lean hairless torso of a youth only recently become a man.  He had a pretty face beneath a heap of dark hair. The barest hint of a beard. 

I watched while he wrung the stiffness from his back and shoulders. 

He wiped grit from the corners of his shiny black eyes.  Ah-h-h, he sighed. Then Ho-o-o! he huffed with more volume.  Looking to me, he blinked again before delivering a mighty yawn: his overstretched mouth stalling to an open cavern for a beat before collapsing to normal.

We were tucked away in Ziggy’s favorite sleeping spot.  The cubbyhole, mostly hidden from public view, was a leftover space where the rough wall of an ancient mud house poked out from a sleek glass facade.  The intersection where old met new, left a triangular gap of residual space. By aiming his feet into the acute angle, Ziggy could lie down with legs fully extended, while leaving space enough for me to perch close by his head.

I watched Ziggy reach into the depths of his sleeping bag to grope around the oversize lump at his feet.  Dragging out a clutch of rumpled clothes, he dropped them on his lap then slid out from under them.  Freed from the bag, Ziggy crawled on his knees, and made quick work of smoothing out a shirt with the palms of his hands before donning it and some crumpled pants. 

While he rolled up his makeshift bed, I flicked open my chest without being told then held myself steady while he pressed his bedding into my proffered cavity.  While he pulled on his shoes, I opened my thigh and passed him a hairbrush. 

Thank you, Chance-bot, he said.

There were days when the man remained silent. Sullen.  But just as often, he was talkative.  Sitting cross legged and working the tangles from his hair, he grunted contentedly. I love these crisp mornings, he said.  Pop! he added, peering at me playfully.  Flowers, he smirked. In June the flowers pop into existence.  Some of them so tiny, he said. Staring past me, he added, half the size of my pinky nail. Smaller than that even.  He ran his fingers through his hair then a final pass with the brush before handing it over to me.  In the brief time it took for me to stash it away, Ziggy expertly bound his hair, employing a single fluid motion with a colorful length of cord.  You ready, Chance?

Ready when you are, Ziggy. 

The stars were in retreat.  Purple washed the charcoal sky, a hint of the coming light. 

I don’t want to lose this spot, Ziggy said.  He repeated as if reciting an incantation,  I don’t want to lose this spot.  We better get a move on.

I’d been learning when to follow, and when to match him.  We stood in unison.  Ziggy was the taller, by about a head. Being a first level bot, a personal assistant-bot, I was humanoid.  My face was designed to be convincingly human.  Reviews described my golden eyes, tawny complexion and agile features; as compelling.  Even handsome.  Less admired was my reddish cap of stylized curls.  The curls had been roundly condemned, as an ill conceived addition.  Indeed, it seems, my faux hair was the primary reason I was sent to the curb, one year, ten months, three days, twenty-three hours, seventeen minutes and. Three seconds ago.

That day, as I waited on the street for the recycling truck, the sky was electric blue.  My simple instructions admonished me to surrender to fate. While waiting for fate to find me, I observed the unfolding of a tranquil morning.  I first noticed the man because he walked alongside the mover, instead of riding it. I kept expecting him to hop on.  But he never did. When he came closer, I noticed the rumpled state of his clothing. By then, I realized he was watching me also. 

He stopped in front of me. I could see his mind was at work.  He began to question me. Then he sought to convince me; shyly at first but eventually with passion. In classic Ziggy style, he mounted a circuitous polemic. As his keystone argument, he kept repeating, Timing is everything. My fate, he declared, was to surrender to him. I couldn’t think of any rule forbidding it. I was programmed to serve. So, I agreed. I surrendered to him.

Using stealth and swift steps, Ziggy led our departure from our hideaway behind the mud wall. Moving quickly, we crossed through a patio, past a gate, and into the street. As always, Ziggy shunned the movers. While he discussed his plans for the day, we walked the in-between places, haphazardly strung together by transport corridors. 

Let’s go out to the sculpture park today, Chance-bot.  I have this great idea for a new project. It came to me last night before I fell asleep. Guess what it’s going to be. He laughed, You'll never guess. He glanced at me sideways, his face a maniacal grin. But his tongue did not pause for long. I’d not be required to guess.  This one's going to be about, how...ah...it’s about how beliefs create reality.  Eyes glittering, he laid out his premise.  Beliefs directly affect our perceptions, Chance. Like, like. I’ve heard that when a Fensterist has a near death experience, he sees the baby Shinza. Words crowding from his mouth, fingers jabbing at the air, he expounded. Fensterists claim that, just like that, Shinza arrives in time to help the dying person to. Ah. To ah. Make the transition. Now compare that to an Interstalist.  Interstalists claim to see the Seven Pestas at the. The, ah threshold.  But here’s the story I’ve heard, most often.  Usually, it seems, the dying person sees a light.  Just that: a light.  His posture a relaxed stroll, he caressed the air with upturned palms. Which I can totally relate to, he said, I mean. Just about everyone is afraid of the dark!  Right!?  His steps stuttered then stalled. But why is there discrepancy? he asked. He resumed walking to offer, By the way, I don’t think any of these accounts are fiction. He tapped his pursed lips with two fingers before waving a single finger to say, Nope. Not fiction. Here’s what I think. I think that as long as we are on the physical side of life, we see the world through the filter of our beliefs. Think about that Chance! Even at the moment of death our expectations determine our experience! His hands formed fists and he shook them with conviction. Beliefs are powerful! Glancing my way, he asked, Do you understand what I’m saying, Chance? He slowed his step to search my face. But only briefly, as his passion demanded movement. Surging forward with feet and mouth, he cried out, I want to make a sculpture called, Belief is Prejudice. Belief is Prejudice! What do you think Chance? 

Our relationship was still young. Having nowhere else to look for an answer, I looked to data.  Belief, I recited to him, is the combining of personal experience with ideas received through respected authorities. 

I looked to Ziggy for confirmation. The drift of his head implied uncertainty. But a sudden head jerk offered agreement. 

I continued, You are suggesting that a belief system acts as a lens that shapes or distorts perception. 

Another head jerk cleared me to proceed. 

I think I understand your contention, but I don’t understand how you turn your abstract concept into a physical object, I confessed. What will you build to express your idea?

I don't know! he crowed. Clasping his hands to a praying fist, he declared, That, my friend, is the magic of art. Art is a process.  You’ll see, Chance-bot. You’ll see. We’ll do it together. 

As was typical of our mornings together, we wandered a circuitous route through the downtown neighborhood where the rough texture of the old mud houses were a common feature, slipping at odd angles from sleek glass. Though our route varied in accordance with Ziggy’s whims, every morning we eventually found our way to the bubble wall.  Captured in some amber glass, an endless supply of bubbles streamed ever skyward. When we stopped to watch, Ziggy’s face tightened with concentration. He hardly breathed while we awaited the inevitable.  When the random drift of bubbles regrouped into the current time, Ziggy let go a sigh, loosing the tense stance of his body. After this daily ritual, we always made a beeline to the brew shop.

When he finished at the brew shop, we clambered out the back way and over a low wall, where we dropped to the stripe of land where the river lived.  On this day while walking Ziggy’s path, we spied a harvester-bot.  Ziggy veered off track to fall in behind the squat little machine while I retrieved the mesh bag from my body. 

Shaped like a tub on a ball-shaped-wheel, the harvester-bot sensed ripeness on a long list of fruits, vegetables, and herbs. Agile as bees, these bots were a fairly common sight, weaving among the city plantings.  Specialized tools on telescoping arms allowed the harvester-bots to cut, pinch or carefully cup the edible focus of their ministrations.  The tubby little bots were perfect guides since the mere shape of a human hand compelled it to surrender the crop. 

Ah this, Ziggy cried with berry stained lips, is absolutely my favorite month.

Back on the river track, Ziggy recommenced his monologue.  He claimed the leftover strip of land limning the river was a relic hailing from the time of the Spanish Conquest, back in the teen-hundreds.  When a few minutes later, he declared the park was relatively new, I didn’t question the contradiction.  My current understanding held that I served the man best by receiving him without demanding explanation for every utterance.

Nearly an hour passed before we ascended from the river basin to the Paseo. The Paseo was dominated by mechanized motion. Racing down the center of the thoroughfare was a transport tube holding seated passengers. Flanking, both sides of the tube, were movers moving at a more pedestrian pace. Ziggy always became nervous in the thick of mechanized transport, so predictably he showed distress. I assumed the lead to hurry us forward.

A short distance later we arrived to a hub of chaos called Canyon Road Plaza. Up and over the plaza ramp we trotted before veering right onto Canyon Road. In our bid to escape, we loped the final blocks with our chests moving in parallel. Garcia Street was the relief we’d been angling for. There were no people movers on Garcia Street. Exiting Canyon Road, we entered the shade of apricot trees.  While Ziggy mumbled relief, we slowed our steps. There were stucco walls lining the way, and no people or bots in evidence. 

When we passed beneath a glass archway, Ziggy looked up, and asked, Chance, is the ceiling above us?

Tilting my head all the way back, I saw the pattern. The hatch of ultraviolet lines, infused in the overhead glass could not be seen by humans; but could be seen by birds; and kept them from crashing against the otherwise invisible barrier. Yes, Ziggy, there is a ceiling, I told him.

The temperature was stable beneath the heat harvesting glass. Ziggy slowed a bit more. Loose of limb, his face was serene. This is the Canyon Road area, Chance, he said. The Historic Eastside, he reminded me.  In the old days, he said, people rode donkeys instead of movers or tubes.  He threw back his head and laughed.  Imagine that, he crowed, riding an animal!  Of course, eventually the donkeys were replaced by machines.  Squinting, he murmured, Isn’t it odd that humans freed animals from slavery before they freed themselves?  I wonder. 

Biting his lip, he continued, See, a long time ago, people were divided into two classes. There were the rulers and there were the workers. This was before robots, Chance. Back in those days, all the work had to be done by people. At first, every person did every kind of work.  But towards the end, people became specialized. Highly specialized. And they. His voice cracked. They'd use up the balance of their lives performing some small group of tasks over and over and over. Until they died, Chance. His voice fell to a whisper. Until they died. Looking at me, he declared, Then there were robots. 

Lips twitching, he said, And strangely, the people resisted the bots. Resisted being replaced by them. Didn’t want to give their jobs up to them.  I. I guess.  He sighed. I guess, they’d forgotten how to be human without the identity of a job. They didn’t know what to do, or. I don’t know. Who to be, without a job.  So, they were. They were afraid to let the robots replace them. Even, Chance.  Even when they hated what they did! Ziggy shook his head. He blinked. Finally, he stated with conviction, it happened. People couldn’t really compete. They were no longer needed to. Well, to perform work.  Raising his brows and shaking his head again, he said, Scared. Obviously. That must have been it. They were scared. Who could even doubt it was a time dominated by fear. What else can explain the destruction? 

Ziggy fell silent. We passed through another opening in the glass.  Cushioned by spongy pavement, our feet silently propelled us. When Ziggy spoke again, he said. I don't know exactly how it happened.  People seriously did seem destined to destroy. Well. To destroy everything!  There was this big die-off.  So much death. He frowned.  Maybe there was an element of self loathing? He hugged himself with both hands. Anyway, I doubt anyone will ever know how people found their way out of that. That. Well, that death march. But, I’ll tell you what I think, Chance-bot. I’ll tell you what I believe. I believe it was art that saved us. Believe in art, Chance-bot. Believe art.

CHAPTER 2

In the Savaj City Airport Terminal, Danel waited for his luggage to appear. 

Yo!  Danel! a familiar voice shouted. 

Danel looked up and witnessed the crowd become an audience. Heads turned to goggle. It wasn't only the metallic sheen of Alex’ clothes. He wore a bronze shirt and pewter pants bracketed by a shiny chrome scarf and shiny chrome shoes that shot shards of light. No Alex’ clothes were minor accessories to the sensation he contrived.  Perpetually exuding an urgency of purpose, Alex was an adept at drawing attention. His movements were large, with arms swinging, and legs reaching. His feet slapped, bouncing him into his next step.  Alex' sandy hair was long enough to curl around his ears and over his collar. One fat lock fell to his forehead over a prominent nose. 

Alex converged on Danel with pronouncements, I've been looking all over for you!  We have to hurry.  We’re late, now!  That’s when Alex launched himself, nearly knocking Danel over, as he sought to capture him in a melodramatic hug. 

Intent on telling every detail of what had transpired since they’d seen each other last, Alex embarked upon a self-centered monologue.  The deep tones of his operatic voice excluded no one in the vicinity. 

Finally, Danel’s duffle popped into view.  Grabbing it up, he said, Okay. 

Alex spun and dashed.  Danel fled after him in hot pursuit.  The elevator had nearly escaped when they arrived. With a quickly placed hand, Alex stopped the doors from closing.  They reopened to expose a tightly packed group of riders.  Alex, relentless, began compressing the unhappy occupants to a tighter fit. The rumble of complaints was not subtle. 

Pulling Danel forward by the arm, Alex demanded, Just two more.  It'll take at least three to crash this crate. 

Murmuring a curse under his breath, Danel allowed himself to be dragged into the crowded booth.  Then the doors of the little box closed, and they were cast from the surface.  Deep beneath the Atlantic Ocean, the condensed riders burst free into the bustle of a narrow corridor, acting as a street.  Bubbling paragraphs, Alex wove through clogged arterioles with Danel in close pursuit.  Head bent to the task, Danel was riding Alex' heals around a blind corner when, abruptly, Alex slowed his step.  The two briefly collided bringing Danel to a halt, while Alex spun around.

I have these root pills from a shaman in Lacandonia, Alex hissed.  They are simply delirious.  As it happens, I saved one just for you.

Ah. Gee, Alex. That's very generous of you, but. Ah. I have a lot I need to get done on this trip. I think I'll just stick with known poisons.

Oh, come on! Danel. Even with the crowd skimming close, Alex put his hands on his hips and struck a wide stance to perform his sales pitch. His chrome neck scarf mirrored the surging throng as streaming dots of color. These just make you feel kind of euphoric. No major special effects. Danel! I promise! Honestly, Danel, these are nothing like the ones I gave you the last time. Plucking at a pocket on his hip, Alex pulled out a little tiny vial. He snapped open the top of it. Go on then.

Crossing his arms, Danel made his hands unavailable. I don't have—ah. Quite your ability to metabolize exotic substances, Alex.

Fine, Danel, more for me.  Popping the pill into his own mouth, Alex spun on the balls of his shiny shoes.   

They entered a club. 

The music pulsed. Purple, blue and green shafts of light partitioned the room.  Sound and bodies swallowed Alex and Danel. Somewhere in the center of the melee, hands rose, gesturing. Alex gave a shout and pushed forward. Danel followed close, groping through the thicket of humans. Alex thrust Danel into a tight circle of his chums, supplied rapid unheard introductions, then disappeared to buy the first round.

A carefully dressed man, wearing an odd hat, stood opposite Danel.  Shouting over the din, the man volunteered, Alex says you're an architect.  What brings you to Savaj City? 

Danel replied, I'm here, voice straining over the noise, so he leaned in closer, to check out the new Westport District.

In a scarcely audible shout, the odd hat man returned a complaint. The Westport, huh? It's not really happening yet. Not that it matters to the tourists, who’ve lost no time claiming it. Go to any restaurant over there, and it's just them. With a