What All the Real People Feel

Sneaking another glance at the woman working the bar, I can’t help but ask myself The Question.

Is she real?

She looks real enough to me. It’s not just that she’s beautiful, with long red hair, creamy white skin, and a sprinkling of freckles that set off her bright blue eyes, especially when she flashes a quick smile at one of the patrons. It’s what’s not perfect about her, like the way her hair is starting to frizz and the sweat dampening her shirt under her arms. A long shift in a busy pub will do that to anyone, I suppose.

But she still might be a robot. An android. A machine designed to be so much like us that you can’t tell the difference. Which is why I’m still sitting here, staring at her from across the room.

“Hey, Bobby, come back to us!”

I tear my gaze away from the woman to look at my friends. They’re watching me, knowing looks on their faces.

“You’re doing it again,” says Michelle, cocking her head.

“What?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Staring at her,” Evan replies, nodding towards the bar. “You’ve been doing it all night.”

I frown, lift my beer for a sip. “Not all night.”

“Just since you came in, right?” Evan gives a dramatic sigh. “Just go ask her.”

I swirl the contents of my bottle. “You’re not supposed to do that.”

It used to be a game. Something people would make bets on. Argue for a while, then just go up to the potential android and flat out ask them if they’re real or not. But not since the Ruling, when the government declared, in a controversial case that went all the way to the Supreme Court, that humanoid androids were officially people, granted all the rights and responsibilities that went with the appellation. Including the expectation of polite treatment.

At least in ideal.

“Why not?” Evan asks with a shrug. “If she’s real, she’ll laugh it off, most likely. And if she’s an android… well, she’s just a machine. Not a real person, so who cares?”

“That’s rude,” Michelle says. “She can think for herself; all androids can. So, she’s a person. It doesn’t matter if she came from somebody’s womb or a manufacturing plant.”

“Of course it matters,” Evan says, speaking around the mouth of his beer bottle. “Michelle, if she was manufactured, she’s not human. She’s a device, like… like a phone.” He gestures at his, where it sits on the table. “Designed to perform a function.”

I’m staring at the woman again, and have to force myself to look away. “She doesn’t look like any phone I’ve ever seen,” I murmur.

“That’s a terrible comparison,” Michelle shoots back at Evan, ignoring my comment. “Androids can do a lot more than any single device. Can your phone cook? Or build a house? Or tend bar?”

“But that’s by design,” Evan says, shaking his head. “They have to be programmed to do that.”

“And it’s not that way with humans?” Michelle arches an eyebrow. “No one’s born with the ability to, say, fix a car.”

“Yeah, but we can choose to learn to fix a car.” Evan holds out his hands, palms up, like he’s pleading for reason. “An android can only do what it’s been programmed to do.”

I watch the woman chatting with a customer, a smile on her face as she mixes a cocktail. Then she glances my way, and our gazes meet. I look away quickly.

“Not so,” Michelle says. “They can learn new things. New skills. They can make their own decisions about what to learn.”

“It’s not a decision,” Evan says. “Androids have a compiled index of data; when they’re presented with a choice, they review it for the appropriate response.”

“Oh, come on.” Michelle rolls her eyes. “That’s how everyone makes a decision. We all have an ‘index of data’, formed over our lives. We wouldn’t know what an appropriate response is without it.”

“Okay, what about spontaneity?” Evan growls, irritated now. I guess he feels like he’s losing the argument. “Creativity? Imagination? Show me the android that can come up with something new and intuitive.”

Michelle purses her lips. “Are all people capable of that? Some people can write books or paint pictures; some people can be engineers or doctors or scientists. Some can’t do any of that. They’re just not wired for it.” She nods toward the bar. “They do stuff like wait tables or serve drinks. Does that make them less human?”

I find myself only half-listening, my eyes following the woman as she pours a drink from the tap, seeing her eyes sparkle with amusement as she laughs at something someone says to her.

It’s our own fault, I guess. We wanted our robots to be as human as possible. For years, we made them look more and more like us, act more and more like us. Think more and more like us. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise when androids banded together, hired lawyers, and made a case for being granted equal rights. The We’re Human, Too movement gained momentum fast, sweeping across the country. Sides formed. For the most part, it was peaceful, apart from a few clashes between protestors. When the androids actually fought back, didn’t fall in line when they were ordered to, it only strengthened their position. Debates and demonstrations followed, led to deliberations. It went to the highest authority in the land, and then came the Ruling, and just like that, androids were as human as possible.

That angered a lot of people, of course. Androids were a big money saver. They could work longer and faster, with fewer mistakes, and none of the personal problems of a human worker. Anyone who wanted to open a bar or restaurant or the like could lease a few androids for a fraction of the cost of paying human employees a wage or salary. Corporations could increase profits by laying off most of their office staff. After the Ruling, when everyone had to start paying their robots, well, all those big profits went away, and a lot of small businesses had to shut down.

Makes me wonder, with all the money and scientific evidence and rational arguments against the androids, what could have swayed the justices to make the decision they made?

Whatever the reason, some of us haven’t gotten over it yet.

The conversation has died off around me. Seems like Evan’s run out of ideas. “Sorry, Evan,” I say, without taking my eyes off the woman as she cleans up a spilled drink, waving away the customer’s apology with a tight grin. “I feel bad for you, but it looks like this one goes to Michelle.”

Evan shoots me a glare. Then he sits up straight. “You feel bad for me,” he repeats. “Empathy. An android can’t feel bad for someone; they can’t empathize. They aren’t capable of it. No matter what they might say, they’re just pretending. Androids aren’t capable of empathy, so they aren’t really human.”

Michelle opens her mouth, closes it again. A scowl crosses her face; she looks like she just bit into something rotten. “Seems to me that some humans aren’t capable of empathy, either,” she mutters at last.

A smug grin is Evan’s only response to that. I frown, still watching the woman. Is he right?

I need to know.

I push my chair back and stand up.

“Where are you going?” Michelle asks.

I drain the last of my beer. “To ask her if she’s real.”

I cross the room quickly, hoping to get this over with before I lose my nerve. In a few steps, I’m at the bar, and she’s right in front of me.

“Hey, there,” she says. “Ready for another round?”

For a second, I can’t speak; I’m lost, staring into her eyes. Then I glance down, clear my throat, look back at her. “Yes. Please.”

“Comin’ right up.” She spins away in a swirl of red hair, and I catch a whiff of her perfume. She snatches three bottles off the shelf, whirls back to face me, all in one smooth motion. The beers hit the bar with a snick. She stands there, staring at me, something expectant in her gaze. “So?”

I blink. “So… what?”

“Are you gonna ask me?”

“Huh?”

“If I’m real or not.” A smile forms on her face, one I’d have to call mischievous. “I saw you and your friends having ‘The Discussion’.” Her fingers make air quotes as she says the words.

I can feel me face going red. “Look, I’m sorry—”

She puts a hand on my arm; I shut up instantly. “Hey, I get it all the time. A lot of androids work jobs like this.” She takes a breath, blows it out in a sigh. “What was the verdict, anyway?”

My mouth works for a moment, but I can’t get the words out.

“Let me guess,” she said. “The argument ended on the ‘they can’t feel’ line, right?”

I can only nod.

She nods back. “That’s usually what gets ‘em. I mean, who’s ever seen a phone,” she gives me a wink, “that can empathize with its owner? Androids are machines. They can’t feel what all the real people feel, right?”

I still can’t ask. I’m no longer afraid the question will hurt her; I’m afraid asking will only hurt me.

“I’ll help you out; I’ll ask it for you.” Her expression turns serious. “Am I real?”

I can’t meet her gaze. She seems like such a wonderful… person, whether she’s a human or a robot. If she is an android, maybe she can’t understand empathy, can’t learn to feel it. But maybe androids aren’t the ones who need to.

“I’ll answer your question, if you’ll answer one of mine first,” she says. Soft, warm fingers cup my chin, gentle pressure tilts my head until I’m staring into her eyes again. “If the ability to feel what others feel is the only thing that separates humans from androids, if empathy is the only thing that makes the difference between real and not real, tell me this.” Her eyes won’t let me go. Her smile is a little sad. And a little hopeful.

“Are you real?”