Dreamchild Enterprise

For the Behind the Last Window Challenge on Vocal+

She knew nothing of the outside world, but she could see a glimpse through the window in his room. Temperance thought the sky was bluer than usual today, too blue for the occasion. She gazed after her twin as Charity climbed into the car, never pausing to look back at Temperance. Not once.

The atlas was open on her lap, and she stared long after the vehicle turned past the sign with the Dreamchild Enterprise logo: a silhouette of a mother pushing a child on a swing. Strange, since neither she nor the others had ever ridden a swing. They never even went outside – except on their adoption day.

Something felt different, deep inside her gut. She rested a hand on her belly. “Is this pain, Papa?”

“Come away from the window now, Tempy. It will only make you sadder.”

Temperance didn’t budge. She found the city where Charity was being taken on her map and ran her finger over the rivers and roads that would soon lie between them. “How far away is Seattle?”

“From here?”

“Yes, from Boston. From here.”

“It’s too far for you to go on foot, if that’s what you’re thinking about.”

“Kids can go farther on foot than adults can. We have more energy – you always say so.”

He smiled a little, and a rueful chuckle escaped his lips, but only for a moment. The CEO of Dreamchild knew that to go out alone would pose infinitely greater hazards for a child than for an adult in today’s world. Even if a child had the physical strength – there was the black market to worry about. Some people were never satisfied.

“Will she come back?”

“No.”

“Will I go too, someday? Even if I go to a different family?”

He rubbed a weathered hand over his graying hair, averting his dark eyes from her piercing gaze. “It’s not simple, the process of deciding who will go.”

She knew he was right. Her short life had been anything but simple so far, with all the specialists. Still, she couldn’t help hoping. “Maybe someone won’t mind about my problem. There must be someone.”

“Our clients only get one chance to match. One child for all their lives. Most see an imperfect as a waste of that singular opportunity to be parents. You must accept it at some point.”

“If I am not to go, what will happen to me?”

“You will stay with me, my daughter.”

“You said you would try putting me on sale first.”

“You’ve been on sale for months. Ever since the specialists told us there was nothing more to be done.”

Tempy sank into her chair. “We were supposed to be perfect. The first identical twins. We had the same programming, why didn’t it work?”

“What’s perfect, anyhow?” He studied the child with her inquisitive eyes. From the first day he could tell she was different. Not merely because of her imperfections, but there was something else. She was a soul in a soulless world. “Charity won’t remember. She’ll be happy. Surely that must mean something to you.”

“Only because you had her reprogrammed. I want her to be happy with me, the way we were.”

“If I could reprogram you to forget as well, you know I would. To spare you.”

He sighed. The world had lost its soul when it lost its children. Families yearning for traditional domesticity were forced to adopt lifelike androids from companies like Dreamchild or Future Family. It generated ongoing business – replacement parts, replacement children as they aged. They could transfer memories from the younger model to the teenaged model, or parents could keep their child little for as long as they wanted.

Giving care, feeling needed, contributing to the future of society -- all primal desires. How long could we trick ourselves into believing that androids were a suitable substitute for flesh and blood children? Or perhaps the real question was, what if they were?

Tempy turned from the window as the car turned out of sight. Tears carved silent rivers down her face. “I’m glad you can’t reprogram me. I’m glad I can feel – even when it’s hard.”

“It’s why you’re the only one who gets to see the window. The others wouldn’t understand.”

Temperance wasn’t sure how to respond. She would have traded a thousand windows to go with her sister, but they wouldn’t allow it. All because her feelings couldn’t be moderated the way the others could. She was an “imperfect,” born with a defect in her programming, that was what the specialists said. “Everyone’s imperfect.”

Papa was silent.

“Everyone’s imperfect. It’s one of our lessons in class. If we’re too perfect, we’ll creep the parents out, so we’re supposed to know that mistakes are ordinary. Everyone makes mistakes. No one is perfect. So why does it matter that I’m imperfect?”

The man they called “Papa” stood and approached the window seat. “Making mistakes is very different than being an imperfect. We offer prospective parents the comfort of knowing that emotions can be moderated. It prevents certain very dangerous acts that can at times be promoted by...emotions.” He placed a hand on her hair, falling in ringlets over her shoulders. She knew nothing of the outside world, how could he possibly convey the toll of bearing emotions in a world without small animals or children?

The sonic wave had caused sudden death to all whose brains couldn’t withstand the force. The aftermath was a mayhem of grief. Many had felt they couldn’t go on. His wife…

“Is this really the last window in the world, Papa?”

“Most shattered in the blast and were replaced with cement. People hope that –”

“That if it happens again that will keep them safe?”

“Yes. I think it’s a smokescreen. Without windows, without light, afraid to stay outside too long – it doesn’t help the crises of emotion. I need to wake up each morning and see that there is still light to shine. I guess the richest man in the world has that luxury.”

“Can I sleep in here tonight? On the window seat? I need to see the light again too.”

“Of course.” She didn't need to know this would be her last night on earth. Like all imperfects, she would be turned off and recycled. Her memories stored in a database for research. That was what he was told, but the technology was still so new.

“Tell me again where the children went.”

“There once was a piper who danced into town, playing a tune on his pipe. The children were hypnotized by the music, and they began to gather around the man, ignoring their parents’ warnings…”

“The pied piper…”

Tempy couldn’t sleep. Stars filled the night sky. She wondered if all the living children were up there watching over the droids.

What would happen when all the parents passed away and all that was left on earth were android children? Would there be a purpose to living if no one had a soul and memories could be altered by the push of a button? It was her imperfection talking – the other kids never thought about these things. Their purpose was to make the parents happy. “Then, what’s my purpose?” she whispered to the stars.

She was sure they winked back.

Papa told her that everyone has a purpose, even imperfects. It made her feel loved and wanted. He fought for her, but when it all came down to the recycling, he told her someday they may have no choice.

She tiptoed to where he had stacked the atlas by the closet in the corner. One book on the shelf had no words on its spine, and curiosity prevailed. Of course, she wanted to know what was inside that one first.

Tempy sat back down on the window seat and opened the cover by the light of the moon. A gasp escaped her lips, almost loud enough to wake Papa from across the room, and she covered her mouth with her hand. Looking up at her from the book was her own face, but it wasn’t her – was it?

There she was, sitting on a pretty woman’s lap, and Papa had his arm around them both. She couldn’t remember the day. They were outside, behind them she saw swings – just like the one on the Dreamchild logo.

Something pounded in Tempy’s chest, pounding inside her ears until it hurt. She pushed up the pink spotted leg of her pajamas to look at the serial number on her ankle. She was just like the others, wasn’t she? Except that she was imperfect.

“What’s imperfect?” she touched her chest and felt the same pounding as before. She’d always assumed it was part of her inner workings, but tonight it seemed to be speaking to her. She was imperfect because she was alive.

It wasn’t as difficult to open the window as she’d always imagined it would be. The grass felt different than she expected – it was soft, and damp, and she shivered in the chill of the wind. Atlas under one arm and photo album under the other, she knew only one thing. She was going to Washington.

The morning brought a wave of panic over the Dreamchild factory. When the CEO saw the open window and the single photo dropped onto the floor in her hurry to escape, he fell to his knees. “I should have told her.” He said to the air. “I should have told her she wasn’t a droid.”

A young handler stood several feet behind him, giving respect to the older man in his grief. He hesitated to speak, but dared, “Was she not to be recycled today, Sir?”

“I tried everything. Creating friends for her, even a twin, but the loneliness prevailed. She has no memory of her mother, no memory of the incident or the months that followed. She was in a coma. When she woke without memories – just like the droids – it seemed like the easiest solution, emotionally. To be the last human child in a generation would have been too big a burden to bear. Wouldn’t it?”

“It’s not my place to say, Sir.”

“It would have been peaceful, at least. She would have gone to her mother and they both could have been happy again.” The man they called “Papa” slumped to the floor, the loneliness of his making now deeper than anyone else's on earth. The mastermind of Dreamchild Enterprises without a child -- what a cruel irony. “Come back, Temperance! Tempy, come home!”

The handler stood at attention, silent. He thought the old man sounded utterly mad -- but what did he know about such things? He was only a droid, after all.

This story was brought to you with inspiration from this playlist by Abbie Emmons: