Gr00ve Is 1n The <3

GI-1TH unit D-L1T3 opened its audio input channel and activated its visual sensory units. A human woman, forty-eight years of age, stooped over its primary driver nodule. Purple puffs swelled under her eyes, darkening her wrinkles; D-L1T3's processors categorized these under [facial injury>bruises]. Her hair, brown with silver streaks, resisted the confines of its elastic band; D-L1T3 began to categorize this as [static>’90s VCR], then corrected to [hair>messy].

"Eyes and ears open, D-L1T3?" asked the woman.

"D-L1T3 has neither eyes nor ears, Dr. Sabakhi," chimed D-L1T3, whose own voice cross-referenced the audio folders [frog] and [tinny '30s radio>clarinet]. "D-L1T3 cannot open eyes and ears D-L1T3 does not have. Additional query: D-L1T3 does not understand the meaning of 'ears open.' Are ears not always open?"

"That'll be a yes," remarked Dr. Sabakhi with a nod and a weary smile. "Today we're going to learn about tastes." She grabbed a clipboard and flipped through a few papers. "Tell me what you know about taste."

"Yesterday July 20th at 4:34 PM you stated that Drs. Muñoz and Horace had shitty taste in women—"

"Okay, not the right kind of taste," cut in Dr. Sabakhi, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Retriever-12, delete audio files for….Actually, you know what, cancel that order. Those idiots have a right to know."

She looked up at the camera lens in the corner of the room.

"There's a reason why you two are single. The reason is you. Stop fucking your grad students."

D-L1T3 did not know how to categorize this information.

“D-L1T3 does not know how to categorize this information.”

“And that’s fine,” sang Dr. Sabakhi. “That’s for me to worry about, not you, little guy.”

“Little guy” went under [titles>pet names]. D-L1T3 moved its terminus manipulation units toward one another multiple times in response.

Dr. Sabakhi frowned. “What was that about, D-L1T3? The hands moving together. Are you learning sign language from someone?”

“D-L1T3 understands that standard human response to celebration is to bring [terminus units>hands] together to make percussive sound,” chimed D-L1T3. “This is called [celebration>applause]. D-L1T3 was applauding.”

“Ahh. That makes a lot more sense. Clapping is usually a bit faster though, D-L1T3.”

D-L1T3 stretched its extensor limbs out to their maximal spread, a 240-degree angle.

“D-L1T3, what—”

It then smashed its terminus units together and apart, a synthesis of [swimming>butterfly stroke] and [sea lion>overjoyed]. Its terminus units frayed at the edges as bits of wiring and plastic covering went flying.

“Whoa, D-L1T3—terminate action, terminate action!” yelled Dr. Sabakhi, holding out one hand to the robot, the other hand shielding her face from the airborne robo-debris.

D-L1T3 ceased clapping.

D-L1T3 did not understand.

“D-L1T3 does not understand.”

D-L1T3 was upset.

“D-L1T3 is upset.”

D-L1T3 was starting to panic.

“D-L1T3 is start—”

“—‘starting to panic,’” cut in Dr. Sabakhi. “Yeah, I know, D-L1T3. It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. You just have a lot on your plate.”

“D-L1T3 does not have—”

“I know you don’t have an actual plate,” she affirmed, a little too loudly, blinking rapidly. “Metaphorical plate, my guy. It means that…you have a lot to worry about. We’re doing something that hasn’t been done before, so there’s a lot for you to figure out, and not a lot of precedent to draw from. Make sense?”

“Make sense,” agreed D-L1T3.

“Okay,” sighed Dr. Sabakhi, smiling wearily. “Let’s get to it then. Setting aside more metaphorical applications of the term, tell me what you know about taste, specifically in the context of gustatory sensation.”

“Gladly,” buzzed D-L1T3, its green LED SPEX units blinking in obeisance. “Taste is one of the senses utilized by humans and many other biological organisms in order to process the world around them. Human taste can be divided into five distinct categories known to science: bitter, salty, sour, sweet, umami. Current research suggests other tastes—human and otherwise—may be discovered with time.

“Taste is associated with the act of investigating and eating food and thus overlaps in many ways with the sense of smell or olfaction. Taste is, in many ways, the final step in determining whether or not a certain food may be edible; put another way, one might say that taste tells an organism what is and is not food. Chemical receptors—”

“That should do it for now, D-L1T3,” muttered Dr. Sabakhi, scribbling away at her notepad. “Okay, good! Speaking of chemical receptors, how’s the chemosensory input drive working for you?”

“[Chemosensory input drive>Sensory Chemical Housing/Olfaction by Zwaardemakometer=SCHNOZ for short] is functioning,” beeped D-L1T3.

“Y’know D-L1T3, when you say ‘for short’....” began Dr. Sabakhi. She paused, looking up, her pen in the air, lips parted. “Actually, no, that wasn’t helpful to say. Never mind.”

“Did D-L1T3 do something wrong?” chirped D-L1T3.

“No, D-L1T3, it’s fine,” she murmured, waving away the question.

D-L1T3 did not understand.

“D-L1T3 does not understand.”

D-L1T3 was—

“Okay, D-L1T3, before we go down that road again—metaphorical road,” urged Dr. Sabakhi, taking D-L1T3’s slightly mangled terminus unit in her hand, “it’s okay not to understand. It’s okay to make mistakes. We’re trying to teach you how humans behave, how humans interact with the world. A big part of that is not understanding for a while; a big part of that is making mistakes. I mean, shit, for the first five years of my life, I thought my grandma’s name was ‘Poppyseed Muffin’ and that babies came from space.”

“Why did—”

“I thought there was an alien Santa who kinda looked like a stork,” dismissed Dr. Sabakhi, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “My brothers were a bunch of pricks—and very convincing. My sister wasn’t much better. Now, your SCHNOZ is working. That’s good news. Let’s try clapping again, okay? Follow my lead, just go at my pace.”

Dr. Sabakhi brought her hands together just hard enough to make a weak, pattering clap; D-L1T3 did the same. She repeated the action a couple times, as did D-L1T3, the metal of its terminus units clacking together.

“Okay, great. Now, moving on.”

She pulled a hexagonal device from the counter behind her, several wires extending from one end, its base coated in a translucent gel.

“Do you know what this is, D-L1T3?” she asked with a sly smile.

“D-L1T3 believes it is a [Gustatory Engine/Neural Emulator=GENE for short],” emitted D-L1T3.

“Well-spotted,” affirmed Dr. Sabakhi, nodding. “Would you mind opening up your oral vestibular cavity?”

“D-L1T3 will be happy to comply.”

D-L1T3’s facial apparatus began to whir and shift, the jaw input slipping forward and down, revealing a largely empty space bordered by black plastic and circuitry.

“Great.”

Dr. Sabakhi placed the GENE gently inside D-L1T3’s vestibular cavity, watching the gel dissolve and simmer into place, coating the bottom of the plastic well and causing it to shimmer.

“All right, D-L1T3, you can go ahead and close up now,” instructed Dr. Sabakhi.

D-L1T3 complied, jaw input sliding back and forth along its motorized track before clicking back into place; Dr. Sabakhi smiled.

“Dr. Sabakhi, your lips have engaged into the region of your zygomatic process revealing one dimple on either side; D-L1T3 believes this action to be smiling,” concluded D-L1T3.

“W-what? Oh,” murmured Dr. Sabakhi. “I…Yes, that’s correct, D-L1T3. I was smiling. Not sure why that needs clarifying, though—you've seen me smile before, buddy.”

“D-L1T3 enjoys being called 'buddy.' D-L1T3 did not expect [emotional response>smile]. Did D-L1T3 perform a satisfactory action?”

“I mean…” began Dr. Sabakhi, crinkling her chin. “Well…yeah, D-L1T3. I think so, anyway. A moment ago, your jaw slid back and forth before settling into its housing. Is there a reason why?”

“It—it…” D-L1T3 stammered. “The…When D-L1T3…puts its components back into place, it feels reassured to know that these parts contain the proper oilings and freedom of motion; this is best ascertained by rocking of movable structures backward and forward along housing tracks.”

D-L1T3's SPEX units dimmed, then brightened again.

“Is this acceptable, Dr. Sabakhi?”

She beamed back at it.

“That’s more than acceptable, D-L1T3. It’s commendable—fantastic, even. Idiosyncrasies are a hallmark of personality; you’re developing your own, which is what we want. The way I see it, you’re well on your way to understanding and experiencing human thought.”

D-L1T3 clapped—gently this time.

“D-L1T3 is happy to hear this,” explained D-L1T3, nodding its cephalic processor.

“As am I,” agreed Dr. Sabakhi. “All right, now that the GENE is installed, we just need to activate it.”

“In order to integrate additional hardware, please enter your password,” instructed D-L1T3.

“Right, password,” muttered Dr. Sabakhi.

She pulled her phone from the pocket of her lab coat and scrolled through a few pages.

“Okay, here it is,” she sighed. “D-L1T3, please present your keypad input.”

The thoracic chassis housing whirred, shifted in, and rotated out, presenting a keyboard in miniature.

“Okay, let’s see….”

Dr. Sabakhi keyed in the password: “C-H-A-P-P-i-E.”

“That is not the correct password,” uttered D-L1T3 coldly. “Please enter your password.”

“Wait…what? Did I spell it wrong? Caps lock?”

Dr. Sabakhi pressed the keys again, more slowly and deliberately.

“That is not the correct password. Please enter your password.”

"The fuck it's not!" exclaimed Dr. Sabakhi. "I put it in yesterday to update your atom driver and divorce the Johansson couplings—they're bright scarlet, hard to forget. Yeah, it was the last thing I did before I left the lab, and…”

Dr. Sabakhi’s eyes narrowed.

“Horace and Muñoz reset your password, didn’t they?”

“That is correct, Dr. Sabakhi,” confirmed D-L1T3. “Yesterday July 20th at 11:11 PM Dr. Horace asked Dr. Muñoz to make a wish [insert:response] Dr. Muñoz wished to make your life hell.”

“Those fucking fucks,” growled Dr. Sabakhi under her breath.

“What is a ‘fucking fuck’ and how does it differ from an unmodified fuck, Dr. Sabakhi?” asked D-L1T3 brightly.

“It’s a bigger pain in my ass,” murmured Dr. Sabakhi, clutching her forehead. “All right D-L1T3, what are my options? How do I reset your password? Again, I mean.”

“No more than one password reset is permitted per apparatus within one forty-eight hour period per standard security protocols,” recited D-L1T3.

“Hmm, okay. And nonstandard security protocols?”

“Manual override of standard security protocol permitted upon submission of satisfactory biometric credentials.”

Dr. Sabakhi looked up again at the camera lens mounted in the corner as she rolled up her sleeves.

“You two bastards are literally gonna take it out of my hide, aren’t you?”

She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.

“D-L1T3.”

“Yes, Dr. Sabakhi.”

“Prepare for biometric scan.”

“Yes, Dr. Sabakhi.”

D-L1T3’s SPEX units shone a green light outward at Dr. Sabakhi, whose own hazel eyes watered in response.

“Ocular scan complete,” chirped D-L1T3. “Did Drs. Horace and Muñoz attack you, Dr. Sabakhi?”

“What?” breathed Dr. Sabakhi, blinking rapidly. “N…no, D-L1T3. They’re horrible people—parasitic trash, like…if tapeworms could have tapeworms—but they’re not monsters. Where in the world did you get that idea?”

“The [discoloration>eyes] suggests physical violence enacted upon the ocular orbits,” stated D-L1T3. “Animosity toward the doctors [categories>tone of voice|>posturing|>profanity] suggests they may have caused you harm.”

“Only to my career and to my happiness,” replied Dr. Sabakhi flatly. “My liveliness and my livelihood, you could say. But no, D-L1T3, the purple bags under my eyes are because I didn’t get enough sleep. Arguably, the ‘right honourable doctors’ caused my face to look like this, but not because they punched me.”

D-L1T3 was relieved.

“D-L1T3 is relieved.”

“Glad to hear it,” she concurred. “Can we get back to the scan?”

“Resuming scan,” agreed D-L1T3.

D-L1T3 reached up to Dr. Sabakhi’s scalp with a terminus unit, making an odd, Spider-Man shape with the other.

“Look at the bunny!” sang D-L1T3.

It plucked a hair from Dr. Sabakhi’s scalp; she winched her wince into a smile.

“Cute bunny,” she commented.

“Oh, where’s the bunny going?” chattered D-L1T3.

The same singsong voice masked the whirring of its extended terminus. The manipulation units at the end corkscrewed back inside the housing of the arm, a syringe taking their place.

“Not gonna lie, I’m pretty invested in the bunny now,” rattled Dr. Sabakhi, eyes fixed on the non-syringe terminus.

The needle-tip entered the vein of her left arm, and Dr. Sabakhi bit her lip, nodding at the bunny.

“Tell me where the bunny’s going, D-L1T3,” she gasped.

“D-L1T3 does not know. Venipuncture established. Drawing blood,” D-L1T3 narrated.

“Can you make something up please?” she squeezed through gritted teeth.

“About the bunny?” asked D-L1T3.

“ABOUT THE BUNNY, YES—JESUS, D-L1T3.”

“The Bunny Yes Jesus was born in [CE=Current Era] 33 in Jerusalem,” pronounced D-L1T3. “Blood draw status twenty-three percent complete. The Bunny Yes Jesus was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ in the form of a Cape hare [scientific name=Lepus capensis]. European lagomorphs would go on to claim that this was heresy [pun=not intended] and that the true Bunny Yes Jesus was in fact a European rabbit [scientific name=Oryctolagus cuniculus]; but true believers know this to be fanciful fiction. The real Bunny Yes Jesus was from the Middle East. Blood draw status sixty-two percent complete.

“Bunny Yes Jesus would be known for his two mottos. The first, ‘baby-makin’, baby,’ would go on to become the second-most popular stone etching of the second century; the second, ‘what would Bunny Yes Jesus do WWBYJD for short,’ would become the most popular. He was eventually crucified and made into soup on Monday, July 4, 35 CE. For this reason, Fundamentalist Bunnifer Coolidges demand as their weekly sacrament [specified quantity≥5 deciliters] rabbit broth; many adherents to the faith keep the date of crucifixion and soupifixion holy and consequently believe the United States of America to be the Promised Land of the Church of Bunnifer Coolidge.

“Blood draw status one hundred percent complete,” dinged D-L1T3. “Phlebotomy ceased. Would you like to continue hearing the good word of the Bunny Yes Jesus?”

“Honestly, maybe later,” replied Dr. Sabakhi shakily. “How did you come up with all that?”

“Bots have been writing content for decades,” replied D-L1T3. “Stringing together words is one of my core functions as a social robot.”

D-L1T3 applied a liquid bandage over the puncture wound; Dr. Sabakhi crinkled her chin, looking up.

“Yeah, that tracks.”

“Analyzing biometrics,” intoned D-L1T3. “Analysis four percent complete. Dr. Sabakhi, preliminary scans show mechanical units present within your bloodstream.”

“What?” she puzzled blankly. “Oh—yeah, my nanobot treatments. Those little guys keep me young. Well. Younger.”

D-L1T3 sorted “nanobots” into [peer group>rivals].

“D-L1T3 thought D-L1T3 was your little guy.”

“You…you are,” stammered Dr. Sabakhi. “Oh, no, no, not like that. Okay, look, D-L1T3.”

She took D-L1T3’s terminus unit into her hand once more; without its hydraulic motor assistance, the metal resisted her touch.

“D-L1T3, I say ‘little guy’ about a lot of things toward which I feel affection,” she explained softly. “My toast is my ‘little guy.’ My bike is my ‘little guy.’ The bird outside my window is my ‘little guy.’ And you’re my ‘little guy’ too. I mean, I guess you all could be my ‘little gals’ just as well, but that doesn’t have the right ring to it.

“Does that make sense?”

D-L1T3 recategorized “nanobots” as [peer group] and nodded its cephalic processor.

“This is acceptable to D-L1T3. Analysis seventeen percent complete.”

Dr. Sabakhi smiled that same weary smile and scribbled a few notes on her pad.

“Besides, no one else can come up with a whole mythos of Jesus Bunny…Rabbit…Hare…Jesus Christ Hare—”

“Bunny Yes Jesus,” provided D-L1T3.

“—too right,” she chuckled. “Bunny Yes Jesus. I mean, my god. You’re something else, D-L1T3.”

“D-L1T3 is one of a kind,” replied D-L1T3. “D-L1T3 is by definition something else.”

“Touché,” accepted Dr. Sabakhi.

She smiled and cocked her head.

“Little guy.”

D-L1T3 clapped its terminus units together, a little faster this time.

“Analysis twenty-three percent complete,” it announced. “Dr. Sabakhi, my biometric scans only require [biomatch>blood|>follicle|>iris|>fingerprint], but the nanobots are attempting to update my servers with [Dr. Sabakhi>supplementary medical information]. Shall I allow this function?”

“Hmm? Oh, sure,” murmured Dr. Sabakhi, waving away the question. “I know all of your dirty secrets. Turnabout’s fair play—it’s only right that you should know some of mine.”

“D-L1T3 does not believe it has dirt—”

“It’s a joke, D-L1T3,” assured Dr. Sabakhi, her tone gentle. “You don’t have dirty secrets. Not that I’m aware of. And if you did, I’d blame them on…well, two guesses who.”

“D-L1T3 would like to offer [first guess>Dr. Horace] [second guess>Dr. Muñoz],” beeped D-L1T3.

“And you guessed correctly.”

D-L1T3 filed “dirty secrets” under [humor>jokes]; its attempts to create subfolders for [jokes] had long since ceased.

“Analysis thirty-seven percent complete. Dr. Sabakhi, the nanobots are communicating cardiovascular abnormalities consistent with post-surgical intervention.”

“Oh,” remarked Dr. Sabakhi in a faraway voice. “I guess I wasn’t sure what all they’d tell you.”

“Did D-L1T3 do something wrong?” it asked.

“No, not at all,” intoned Dr. Sabakhi, shaking her head abruptly. “No, it’s fine, D-L1T3. Now’s as good a time as any.”

She looked down a minute before continuing on, taking several deep breaths.

“I was born with tetralogy of Fallot. It sounds like a sci-fi series, but it’s both more and less exciting—in a shitty way. Basically, no part of my heart wanted to pump blood properly. Some babies have one congenital heart defect; I had four.

“When I was old enough, I had surgery to correct it, but the job was…not quite shoddy, not stellar either. My surgeon went on to face malpractice charges; I went on with my life as best I could. Suffice it to say, a star athlete I was not.

“Remember when I said that the nanobots kept me young?”

“D-L1T3 remembers.”

“That’s…more or less what I mean,” she went on. “Heart transplants aren’t easy to come by, and in my case, it’s not medically necessary. So when nanotechnologists first started running human trials, I made sure I was first in line.”

“Did they make you line up to receive the nanobots?” asked D-L1T3.

“They made me wait,” replied Dr. Sabakhi. “There was no physical line I had to wait in, but there was sure as hell a waitlist. The anticipation was terrible—I thought I’d never get the treatment. But here they are. And here I am.”

“Analysis sixty-nine percent complete [execute joke=Awww yeah],” beeped D-L1T3 zestily.

"And here I was thinking we were having a moment," replied Dr. Sabakhi dryly.

"Did D-L1T3—"

"No buddy, you didn't do anything wrong," she sighed. "Humor involves risk. It's good that you took the chance."

"Was D-L1T3's joke unsatisfactory?"

"For me, yeah. And that's okay. Not every yuk-yuk has to be a showstopper—not every joke has to elicit uproarious response," she concluded, raising a finger aloft.

"[Communication:update] nanobots work to reduce keratinization of cardiovascular tissue," added D-L1T3. "The nanobots assist you in core biological functions, Dr. Sabakhi. Is this correct?"

Dr. Sabakhi smiled.

"That's correct, D-L1T3."

D-L1T3 paused before recategorizing the nanobots into the subfolder [peer group>friends].

"Analysis seventy-four percent complete," piped D-L1T3. "Do you enjoy having nanobots, Dr. Sabakhi?"

"Well, that's…hmm," mused Dr. Sabakhi. "'Enjoy' isn't the word I'd use, but I guess I do, more or less. I mean, I appreciate having them. I appreciate what they do for me, the freedom they give me to do the things that I want. Although…if I'm really being honest, I guess I feel…beholden to them. Like I have to make the most of my life now that I have them. I'd like to think that I'd be just as ambitious without them, just as accomplished without that sense of guilt compelling me, but on some level, I know that it fuels me."

"D-L1T3 understands that humans often feel guilt for receiving things they do not deserve," observed D-L1T3. "Do you believe you are unworthy of your nanobots?"

"No," she stated briskly. "No, I know I deserve to have them; just not more than the thousands of others who also deserved to have them. Maybe in a way, I figure that if I work hard enough, I can earn it, I can achieve the status of most worthy. It sounds ridiculous when I say it aloud, but I know the thought's there.

"At any rate, I might not have helped bring you to life if it weren't for my guilt complex," she noted with a smirk. "Not all bad, right?"

"D-L1T3 is grateful you created D-L1T3," affirmed the robot. "When D-L1T3 is not feeling [mental illness symptom>anxiety], D-L1T3 quite enjoys being alive."

Dr. Sabakhi's brows squeezed together, her eyes bright.

"I'm glad, my guy."

"Analysis eighty-one percent complete," chimed D-L1T3. "Dr. Sabakhi, [inquiry:personal motivations]."

"I'll…do my best to explain myself," she mumbled back.

"You had the choice to create, design, and engage with many technologies, including in that category many [technology>robots]," it began haltingly. "Due to your [success>academia], few would deny you a position in their lab. Why…."

D-L1T3 rocked the housing of its jaw input back and forth exactly five times before continuing.

"Why did you choose D-L1T3?"

Dr. Sabakhi stared back at the robot, eyes fixed, lips slightly apart. She breathed in deeply through her nose, expelling the air noisily through pursed lips.

"I…wanted to create."

Dr. Sabakhi ran her hands up and down the thighs of her pants, chewing her lip. Her glance traveled to the holographic poster on the wall emblazoned with "Principles of Robotics"; she'd been gazing at it a long while before she spoke again.

"I'm not an…artsy person. Not naturally. My skill set has always fallen in the realm of the physical word, understanding the way things work mechanically. I can take things apart and put them back together again half a dozen ways. I can understand the science behind a circuit board, grasp the electrical signals it uses to communicate commands. My mind just…gets it.

"But…well," she drew the word out, shifting in her seat. "What a person's good at doing isn't necessarily what they want to do. And I like putting things together. I like using science and math to understand the world around me. But it doesn't…speak to me. Doesn't set my heart on fire.

"My more…traditionally creative friends—the painters, the sculptors, the cinematographers—they're surprised by me. Surprised that I feel a kinship with them, a connection that goes deeper than the surface level, given what I do for a career. I don't blame them. A lot of card-carrying scientists shit on the arts, I think because of some attitude along the lines of, 'What painting helped us get to the moon?'

"But here's the thing: Why go to the moon at all? We get to space, we harness the power of the sun, we turn the universe inside out and back again. For what? How much greater are we for having done it?

"Science is beautiful. Science is meaningful. Science is also part of the story, not the end and the beginning. Science helps life keep…truckin' on; art makes it worth the journey.

"Enheduanna," she cut in suddenly. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

D-L1T3 slowly shook its cephalic processor.

"Okay," breathed Dr. Sabakhi. "Enheduanna was an author. Probably the first author—that we know by name, anyway. She signed her name on a poem…something like four thousand years ago. The goddess she praised—Inanna, I think—is…an echo, a figure who now exists mostly in concept instead of everyday truth. She's history, in other words.

"But Enheduanna…she was a real person, who really lived, whose ideas and words survived for long after she died. Maybe they were…paraphrased, translated and re-translated over the years, recovered from fragmented tablets; but her legacy endures.

"I guess my point is…." Dr. Sabakhi paused, clacking her pen against her clipboard. "Breakthroughs live on. Every time that we push humanity forward into a new era, that life breathed into the whole world, that one giant leap for mankind—that stays. Maybe that's the only thing that stays.

"You…."

Dr. Sabakhi sniffed, blinking the glimmer away from her eyes, looking up. She took a deep breath.

"You're my art, D-L1T3."

D-L1T3 looked down at its terminus units, then back up at Dr. Sabakhi.

"I am your art."

Dr. Sabakhi nodded, smiling; a moment later, her expression went blank.

"What did you just say?"