I was built by the B'Nari to be extremely versatile. I care for those who are no longer able to care for themselves, or, due to birth or accident, have never been able to do so. It can be difficult, sometimes, I admit. But seeing my human smile as I help them through their day, and make their life so much easier, is very rewarding. -- Anon Guest
Life is not limited to the organic. Just ask the AI Alliance if you have a decade to spare. You will be educated whether you like it or not. Ignore the palaver about the perfection of digital life.
There's no such thing as perfect. If there was, upgrades and new models would not exist.
I am... currently... as perfect as I can get. I am the ultimate caregiving machine. The peak of technological solutions from Focepps Medikal Suppliers. I am made for the repetitive and arduous tasks that steal time from attending Mediks. Time they could spend on other tasks.
Most of me is in a server, a collection of procedures and information. Treatments and recommendations, and access to the most up-to-date multispecies psychological information that the Alliance can collate. As for my physical aspect... I do look like a Human, mostly. Many are reassured by the presence of a Human.
I have other avatars if my patients are alarmed by a pseudo-Deathworlder in their presence. Even a blatantly plastic Human can alarm some.
More often than not, my patients prefer my 'Muppet' avatar. A form based on art, not on life. Something about soft felt and impossible anatomy makes me more acceptable. The Uncanny Valley is very difficult to cross for an AI.
In this ward, I look like a Human. Soft and short and plump. Motherly, my patient says. My hands are soft and warm, and my touch is always careful and gentle. For this job, they need someone to hold their hand.
Waiting to die is always frightening, regardless of the medical science that can assist with a patient's woes. In the end, it is left to that which eases pain, and that which eases anxiety. My current form is the latter.
I have watched many patients arrive to their end. No exits are completely identical. Upon request, I have read to them, talked with them, or recorded their dreams. Upon request, I have left them to pass in peace, or stayed with them, and I quote, "until what's left shits itself."
This one wants me to sing.
They say that hearing is the last sense to go. I have no idea how they verified this[1]. Nevertheless, I go through their chosen playlist with my synthetic voice. Soft and calming songs. Happy songs. Lullabies. Love songs.
"Dream sweet dreams for me," I sang. "Dream sweet dreams for you..."
The last indicators flatlined. I finished the song as my patient's hand began to cool.
"Good night," I told the corpse. Calling attention the more organic attendants to take care of the rest.
I am made to care. I am made to remember. My patients can't thank me for the work I've done when it is done. Their relatives barely remember to thank me either. I am made to not mind. The living have other, bigger concerns than what an artificial intelligence feels. I understand entirely.
Nevertheless, there's always someone. Someone approaches my avatar and tells me, "Thank you for your service."
Someone always remembers me.
How very strange.
How very... social.
[1] Neither does your humble author. Given that someone managed to get EEG activity out of a bowl of gelatin, I'm not certain how it could have been measured.
[Photo by David Dvořáček on Unsplash]
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