Cogito Ergo Sum

Yegor Kudashov stared at the thing morosely. It was completely, creepily lifelike, laid out on his cot, clad in plain, white cotton clothes.

Buying the fancy companion robot was a spur-of-the-moment decision Kudashov made when he was slightly tipsy and exceptionally lonely, and which he regretted instantly.

The worst part was, he mused as he flipped through the manual, that he was pretty wary of robots to begin with. The newer models were so detailed and so intricately programmed, the superficial beholder couldn't tell them from a living, breathing person, and tricking himself like that was the last thing Kudashov needed.

Thing is, he was lonely a lot. Such is the life of an interstellar delivery man. He sometimes spent weeks all on his own. Being a social, extroverted, friendly person, this was as far from a dream-job as it got, but also the only one available for him right now. The company he worked for belonged to his parents – who paid him well, and even provided him with some extra allowance – on the condition that he 'had his life together', that is he had a steady job. Having fluked his original degree, for the moment he had to contend himself with courier service, which was slowly but surely killing him from the inside.

This was how one day, right before setting out on a month-long trip, he woke up with a gaping hole in his account and a man-sized parcel on his doorstep. Vigorously cursing his lack of impulse-control he loaded it in his ship with the rest of the cargo, resolute that he'll just ignore it and return it to the manufacturer at the first given opportunity.

His resolve lasted exactly two days.

Even if his curiosity has not been constantly nagging him, there was also the suffocating loneliness that slowly but surely crept back upon him.

So here he was, after carefully unpacking the blasted thing, finally attempting to turn it on. It was indisputably beautiful. It was made to look like a very young man, tall and slender, with long, flowing silver hair. That was the only unnatural-looking feature on him – all humanoid robots had something deliberately artificial on them, be it their hair or eye colour. Of course in the world of neon hair dyes and contact lenses this was a completely futile endeavour, but still, the manufacturers felt obliged. The android's eyes were closed, but according to the brochure they were supposedly dark brown. All in all he – it, Kudashov corrected himself – looked positively regal. Kudashov, after having consulted his collection of old novels, led by the same trollish logic that makes people name their hamster 'Sir Humphrey the III.', decided to call it Onegin.

According to the manual it could be turned on by pressing two hidden buttons in its throat. By essentially the same motion you would strangle a person, Kudashov noted with distaste. None the less he followed the instructions, and after a soft click, the thing's chest began to rise and fall, and its eyes fluttered open.

It studied Kudashov's bedroom for a while, its gaze finally settling on Yegor himself. He (it) propped itself up and peered up at him with a questioning, slightly lost look.

'Hello.'

Kudashov was staring. If he hadn't just turned it on, he would have sworn it was an actual human.

'Hello?' it repeated.

'Oh. Uh. Hello, Onegin. I'm Kudashov. Um. Make yourself at home.'

With that, he darted back into the control room, resuming his mantra of cursing himself. After a few moments it followed him on soft, bare feet.

***

The next few days were decidedly uncomfortable. At first Kudashov tried to ignore his new companion, such as it was, but it followed him everywhere, and as it looked and moved exactly like a human, Kudashov often found himself chatting at it. Which would have been fine, Yegor often talked to the ship itself too, but this new robot of his sometimes answered. Not always, mostly it was content (not content, it can't be content or discontent) to just listen to him, but sometimes it would ask for clarification or even inject some small remark on its own.