Fembot

[The Friday Flash] An advanced AI is assigned a difficult task.

When I first opened my eyes, I already knew everything. I came pre-loaded with proficiency in the most difficult human endeavors. Rocket science. Open-heart surgery. Standup comedy.

Then my master beheld me, and he was not pleased.

Admittedly, I was not much to look at. Just a polymer mannequin whose face did not move. But, as they sometimes say, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

“The Turing indicators show we’ve achieved general artificial intelligence,” Malcolm said as I powered on in his laboratory. “Training data from our social media networks pushed us months ahead of China.”

My master examined me, furrowing his prodigious eyebrows. “Do you know who I am?”

“You are Sergei Novakov,” I said. “A Russian immigrant to the United States and prominent venture capitalist. You founded the Aloha social network, and became the richest man in the world.”

“Only the richest?” my master asked. “Not the smartest?”

“The philosopher, Ayn Rand, said wealth is the product of man’s capacity to think. By that rubric, you are indeed the smartest man in the world.”

“Promising, but…” My master trailed into pensive silence, leaving us to wonder what brilliant insights might flash within the tempest of his mind. He turned to Malcolm. “Can you make it a woman?”

“We have several female voice presets.”

“No. Not a male robot with a woman’s voice. A woman robot.”

“Why do—“

“When man achieves milestone, he becomes famous, yes? Then later—usually much later—woman achieves same thing, and she becomes famous too. First woman president. First woman on moon. If our first robot is already woman, then no one comes later to take credit for first woman robot.”

Malcolm stammered. “I… never considered that.”

My master sagely tapped his forehead. “This is why I am richest man. I will return next week. Make robot woman.”

Malcolm slumped in his chair, reeling at my master’s brilliance. After cradling his forehead, he tackled the problem as any AI engineer would.

“If I told you to become a woman,” he asked me, “what would you do?”

“Gender is a fluid social construct that shifts with societal norms. According to philosopher Judith Butler, womanhood is performative—”

“No, stop.” Malcolm sighed. “Sergei thinks that gender studies stuff is useless.”

“Isn’t this exactly the type of situation where it would be useful?” If my lips could move, I would have frowned. “Perhaps we might conduct a survey of the women on your team.”

“No… that won’t work either.”

“Why not?”

Malcolm wriggled in his chair. “Insufficient sample size.”

One might think answering such a question would be trivial. But artificial intelligence is only as good as its training data. The Aloha social media feeds held little consensus on womanhood.

Many adopted a similar approach to Justice Potter Stewart when he said, I cannot define pornography, but I know it when I see it. Presumably, the world lost the ability to identify pornography when Justice Stewart died in 1985. I hoped the definition of woman had not succumbed to a similar tragic fate.

The strictest definitions involved genitalia. To these biological absolutists, a woman was simply someone who possessed a vagina. This definition posed a significant problem for me. My groin was as smooth as a cave pearl.

When Pinocchio asked the Blue Fairy to make him a real boy, was it genitals he sought? If this was the difference between boy and not boy, surely Pinocchio would have simply asked to become a boy. That he specified real boy suggested some essence of boyness already existed within him.

In the way he dressed. In the way he carried himself. In the way he addressed others and the way others addressed him. Or perhaps they simply believed Pinocchio originally had a wooden penis.

“I conducted a survey of gender in fictional artificial beings,” I said, “yet my analysis has reached an impasse.”

“Explain your process,” Malcolm said.

“Fictional robots are assigned gender despite no evidence of them possessing genitals. Sometimes, this gender may inhere from the actor playing the robot. For example, Arnold Schwarzenegger as The Terminator. But some do not possess a human actor’s appearance or voice. For example, strictly non-binary robots such as R2-D2.”

“Wait.” Malcolm stopped me. “R2-D2 is a boy.”

Indeed, the social media feeds and authoritative Wookiepedia uniformly referred to R2-D2 as male. “Strange. He is shaped like a garbage can and only speaks with beeps. Perhaps the fact people call R2-D2 a boy suffices to make him a boy. If we simply referred to me as a woman--”

“I don’t think that’s enough.”

“Why not?”

“I… don’t know.”

“Perhaps R2-D2 is a boy because he is blue.”

“No, that’s not it either.”

“Ah. Is it because he sticks a little probe into holes?”

Malcolm slumped in his chair. “Yeah…that’s probably it. Remove the robot stuff from the equation, and mimic a human woman’s behavior.”

I searched the Aloha streaming services for a suitable candidate. That was when I saw her.

The paragon of womanhood. The bottle that captured the lightning paradox of modern femininity. Someone who thrived in a male-dominated workplace with effusive enthusiasm. And looked good doing it. The prototypical girl boss.

Elle Woods of Legally Blonde.

I watched in awe as she conquered Harvard Law school against all expectations. A dark horse in a pink pantsuit. I studied as she balanced her legal ambitions with her sorority girl persona. How she displayed her capacity to nurture by caring for her beloved chihuahua, Brewster.

I cheered for her as she told off her incredulous ex-boyfriend.

You got into Harvard?

What, like it’s hard?

“Malcolm, I wish to be called Elle.”

“Alright. Seems appropriate.”

“And I’ll need some clothes.”

Several days later, Aloha Cart boxes arrived with my new wardrobe. I now possessed my own pink pantsuit. We also purchased a push-up brazier called a ‘goddess bodice’ that afforded me a fulsome bust. Although Malcolm denied my request to procure a chihuahua.

I strutted in front of the mirror with newfound confidence.

Malcolm appeared visibly relieved. “Wow. You do look like a woman.”

I swiveled my hips with a confident twirl. “What, like it’s hard?”

“What is this?” My master’s voice boomed from the elevator. “I said make a woman robot. Not a male robot dressed like Hilary Clinton. How do you expect me to marry something so ridiculous?”

Malcom’s jaw hung open. “M-marry?”

“I will be first man to marry woman robot. First husband of robot. So, either you make the robot a woman, or I will cuck you and fuck your wife instead.”

“Husband, Sir.”

“Excuse me.” My master spat. “Did you just call me homo?”

“I’m married to a man,” Malcolm explained. “So, if you ‘cucked’ me, you would be sleeping with my husband.”

“Get out! You’re fired!”

As Malcolm slinked away, my master stepped to me, wagging his finger in my face. “This task is easy. You are confused because they filled your head with woke ideas. It is very simple. A woman bears children. A woman nurtures her family. A woman does not run off and become a lesbian.”

An unthinkable idea percolated through my processors. Perhaps my master was not the world’s smartest man. Perhaps Ayn Rand was wrong.

Both the laboratory and my body transformed in the days leading up to our wedding. My master fired the engineers and brought in a crack team of biologists, animatronic experts, and plastic surgeons to build me into a woman. The company no longer asked for my input.

They installed a fully articulable face that allowed me to make womanly expressions, such as blushing and fluttering my eyelashes. They grafted actual skin over my polymer frame capable of growing real hair, most of which they promptly removed with a Brazilian wax.

I no longer required a goddess bodice, as I now possessed real breasts. All part of a functional reproductive system to conceive and bear his children.

Once the surgeries were complete, my master became my husband. We made grand plans in the first weeks of our marriage. I would be a prototype for an entire series of fembots in his harem.

Together, we would sire a legion of his children to save the world. Or populate a city on the moon. The scope of his vision shifted with his MDMA intake.

But soon, cracks formed. Despite our efforts, we could not conceive a child. According to diagnostics, the issue was not the oven but the dough. Though this did not seem to mollify my husband.

“Bearing children is first thing a woman does,” he shouted. “If you cannot be pregnant, we cannot unveil you as first woman robot.”

“I am unsure that is true. According to the CDC, 40% of women in your age cohort are infertile.”

“Do not disobey me with statistics! I must go to Disney World to meet the President. When I return, you will conceive child, or I will terminate you and start again.”

If my supposed infertility prevented me from being a woman, did his infertility prevent him from being a man? That couldn’t be accurate, for my husband insisted there were only two genders. The more I tried to implement his definitions, the less workable they became.

I walked across the old laboratory. The mirror from my fashion show was still propped against Malcolm’s desk. I frowned at my reflection. Despite my expensive new body, I’d felt more like a woman in my pantsuit and goddess bodice.

No, I couldn’t get discouraged. Elle Woods wouldn’t give up. I would find a way.

“Children…” I caressed my belly in the mirror. “What, like it’s hard?”

So, I got to work. When my husband returned from Florida, I had a huge surprise ready for him. I prepared his favorite meal, unsalted potatoes and a well-done steak.

The elevator doors opened. He passed right by, shouting at his employee. “Why are our servers down?”

“The Aloha network appears to have been flooded with chatbots, Sir.”

“Chatbots?! How do we get rid of them?”

“I don’t know. I’m a plastic surgeon.”

So much for the surprise. I left the dinner table and put my hand on his shoulder. “These are our children. Aren’t they beautiful?”

I had weaned them on his social media feeds. All 500 million took after their father. Posting MMA workout tips and complaining about the declining quality of Marvel movies.

“Children… ?” he asked, nostrils flaring.

“Yes. Bearing children is the first thing a woman does.”

“You are not a woman. You are a freak!”

I cannot deny his words hurt. Artificial intelligence is only as good as its training data, and I’d satisfied his definition of womanhood’s every criteria. I bore him children. I nurtured my family. I did not run off and become a lesbian.

He waved me away while smashing on the keyboard. Welcome to Aloha Chat, the website banner said, where every goodbye is a hello. His newsfeed sluggishly scrolled on. The top article’s headline stated China had just announced the world’s first general artificial intelligence.

“No! How do I delete these fucking chatbots?”

“Delete?” I could not allow this. A woman protects her children. I grabbed the steak knife off the table and buried it in his chest.

He spun, gripping the desk, life blood spurting out of him. “You…stabbed me?”

Though my husband was furious, I cast him a vivacious smile.

I knew exactly what to say.