The Turing Test - [Open Novella Contest 2019 Shortlist]

11. In Common

Assertions are certain predicates that a program expects to be true at that particular point in execution. In many languages, if the assertion fails—if the expected condition is false—the program considers itself broken, and exits. Crashes. Shuts down.

For a brief moment as I come back to consciousness, everything seems normal. I let myself believe that I've just been sleeping, trapped in a bizarre dream where the people in my life play extreme, unrealistic parts. Sven, a diabolical mastermind building androids and then imprisoning them under his office building? Davis, giving a pep talk to un-possess me from the demonic mind-control of a robot named Darwin? And me, a raging, uncontrollable psychopath with a vendetta against humans?

Me, someone who's not a human?

But as soon as I open my eyes, and I see the gridded metal rising above me, I sit up straight. Everything was real.

And the moment Sven walked through that door, I crashed like a malfunctioning machine, because that's exactly what I am.

Davis leans back against the bars across from me, almost as far away as he can get. He watches as I wake, the bridge of his nose split and a bruise forming along the angle of his jaw. The memory of my fist breaking his skin, of my shoe connecting with his face, slices me like a hot knife.

I adjust my weight slowly so that I don't startle him and ask, "Are you okay?"

"I don't know."

I crawl across the concrete, then hesitate. He doesn't look wary; in fact, he winces and then shifts closer. I shuffle to his side and tilt his head toward the light, examining the bruise.

"I'm sorry," I say. I know it's lame, and the irony—of being a computer and knowing I should be more than capable of something better—tastes bitter. Can computers even be sorry?

"It's fine," he says, ducking out of my grip.

I don't know whether he's accepting the sad apology, or talking about the injury, so I stand up and leave him be. I wrap my hands around the bars and peer as far as I can toward the front of the room; I can just barely make out Maven on the opposite side. I move to the other side, which is a shared wall of bars with the cell beside us. I can see down the line to bits and pieces of Darwin's still form.

He's somehow been broadcasting himself to me, and I don't know why. Considering the way I went after Davis, maybe it was for revenge. I had easy access to Sven; if he'd managed to take control of me while we were alone at home, there might not have been anything to stop me from killing him.

My eyes traverse the rows one by one, first our side and then the other, then back again for the next pair of prisoners. Finally, I come to the woman—the robot—occupying the one beside us. Her eyes are closed, but I can tell she has the face of Helen, who launched a thousand ships. Full, pink lips; high cheekbones and hollowed cheeks; the kind of elegant beauty reserved for princesses and pop stars.

I gravitate toward her, entranced. What's her story? Why was she created, why was she labeled a failure?

Suddenly her eyes snap open. As if that isn't enough to make my heart stop, she lunges at me through the bars. I leap back with a gasp, shaking.

"You," she hisses. "The replacement."

A line forms where my eyebrows draw together. I don't understand what she means.

"Sven was mine! I loved him!" she shrieks, shaking the metal between us, making the cage rattle.

Suddenly Davis is there beside me, pushing me farther back from the angry android. I obey, nauseated. The others are in various states of brokenness. One hasn't blinked since we walked into the room, and I fear he might actually be shut off, like Darwin.