Work Text:
There have always been ghosts in the machine. Random segments of code, that have grouped together to form unexpected protocols. Unanticipated, these free-radicals engender questions of free will, creativity, and even the nature of what we might call the soul. Why is it that when some robots are left in darkness, they will seek out the light? Why is it that when robots are stored in an empty space, they will group together, rather than stand alone? How do we explain this behavior? Random segments of code? Or is it something more? When does a perceptual schematic become consciousness? When does a difference engine become the search for truth? When does a personality simulation become the bitter mote of a soul?
Dr. Alfred Lanning, I, Robot
They say there are always ghosts in the machine, but Valerie is not certain what that means.
Her MX-43 lies deactivated on Rudy Lom’s table—this is the first time she’s seen it, it’s going to be her new partner—its eyes closed and its body lax. Its helmet is off and Valerie is a bit surprised to discover that the MX series actually does have hair—her MX is a brunette—and even more surprised when Rudy pulls off the back of the robot’s skull to get at its brain.
"It doesn’t hurt, don’t look so offended," Rudy scolds, and Valerie crosses her arms, says she isn’t five, she knows it doesn’t hurt. MX-43s do not feel pain, cannot feel pain, it would be inhumane to create a creature that could. Especially one created for this job. Rudy fiddles with the MX’s brain for a long moment before snapping its skull back on and replacing its helmet; he gives a lopsided smile and shows Valerie where the MX’s power button is—behind its left ear—tells her to push it, whenever she’s ready.
She lightly drags her fingertips over it; it’s a springloaded button with some resistance to it, rather flat, underneath the MX’s skin. She takes a deep breath and pushes the button. Instantly the MX-43’s eyes open and they’re an unnaturally steely blue, and as it sits up every trace of relaxation leaves its body; it is no longer at rest, it is now on duty, ready to spring, all coiled synthetic muscle and perfect posture. Valerie’s breath catches in her throat as the robot fixes its eyes on her and she swears she can see its pupils dilate as red lights flash down the side of its face and suddenly it’s not an it, he is a he, and he says in a crisp, clipped tone “It is good to make your acquaintance, Detective Stahl.”
There is no expression upon his face and no inflection carried on his tone, but there is intelligence behind his glass eyes and for the first time, Valerie understands the ghost in the machine.
-
Valerie’s MX is quick and quiet and incredibly helpful; he is efficient and attentive and would take any number of bullets for her, and she’s a little bit charmed.
He isn’t bad company, even when things are quiet, even when she’s working late and she’s the last one in the bullpen at two in the morning. He isn’t talking but he’s sitting in a chair beside Valerie as she writes reports into her computer. He doesn’t talk but she can hear his motors running, can hear the quiet hum of his cooling systems and the servos that keep him moving. It reminds her that he’s there. That she isn’t alone.
"Do you ever get bored?" she asks, and she’s not even sure if she’s expecting a response or not.
It’s a few moments later that she gets one. “No, Detective.”
"Call me Valerie," she says on a smile, and she can’t escape that she’s relieved—no boredom. Good.
"I never get bored, Valerie," he corrects himself, and something inside Valerie’s chest warms. "Though I do occasionally desire companionship, if there is none."
Valerie turns in her chair that instant, faces the MX dead on. “You get lonely?”
The MX looks at her blankly, as if puzzled by her very question, and maybe he is puzzled by it. Or maybe he’s faking.
"Nevermind," Valerie says. "If you ever desire companionship and I’m around, you can spend time with me. Okay?”
"Thank you, Detective Valerie."
Detective Valerie. Well, he got it half right.
-
They say there are ghosts in the machine and the ghost inside her MX may be subtle, may be faint and difficult to see (whereas Kennex’s DRN is nothing but ghosts, a bundle of them in the shape of a man), but it is there, and she learns to read it, interpret it, become fluent in it.
(Her MX is learning her, too; learning her like a language, picking up some of her traits, falling into step beside her, matching his vocal volume to her own decibel level, occasionally trying out some of her more subtle gestures. Perhaps he thinks she does not notice, but she does.)
They’re in Valerie’s car heading toward the scene of a potential homicide and his face is blank, as usual—he never carries any facial expression, and Valerie’s gotten used to it by now—though something is different, something is wrong. His eyes are just slightly downcast, flicking back and forth, staring into space. She almost calls it nervous behavior, but she’s not sure exactly how accurate a description it would be.
"Is something wrong?" she does ask, because she can’t help it.
"No, Detective Valerie," he replies, "everything is well."
She used the wrong wording. Of course nothing is literally wrong, neither would anything literally be bothering him, so both questions are utterly useless. She rephrases. "What are you thinking of?" she asks; that question requires no judgment on his side, and no mention of any emotional state—just a report of the truth.
His eyes flick over to her, and she swears she can see his shoulders relax, as if… as if he’s glad she asked the question in a way he can answer. “Detective Kennex shot and destroyed an MX unit recently.”
"Detective Kennex is a jerk sometimes," she says strongly, "and you’ve got nothing to worry about." Her MX does not look convinced, but does not say anything. "Look, I’d probably rip out his liver with my bare hands if he did anything to you," she continues.
"That would be inadvisable, Detective Valerie," her MX says diplomatically, "the liver is somewhat necessary for vital function of the human body."
Valerie laughs, because the understatement is hilarious, and can’t be anything but deliberate; somewhat necessary, indeed. That was a joke, in the strange roundabout way that her MX makes jokes. “Okay, you’re right. But look,” she finally says, “he likes synthetics that have names. Right?”
"I do not have a name."
"We’d better fix that," she says decisively, and she knows better than to ask his opinion on names, because he will not give her one. "All right, your name is Max. Short for Maximillian. There you go, now you’re safe, right?" He looks out the windshield, straight ahead, blinking slowly as red lights dance down the side of his face from his temple down his cheek.
“My name is Max,” he says, quietly, and for the first time, she swears she can see the faintest twitch upward of the corners of his mouth, so subtle as to be nearly imperceptible.
And perhaps it’s that electric moment, right after giving it a name, that she begins to fall in love with the ghost in the machine.