It was a Wednesday when Odi was delivered to the Millicans. It was a strange day – or was it a Tuesday? It didn't particularly matter – the sky was uncharacteristically grey, the bleakness ever-intensified by the acceptably-overdue windows, in silent demand of a clean. Couriers wheeled in an oversized box with "this way up" printed almost patronisingly over every square inch of the cardboard. A nurse in NHS uniform introduced herself; there was a fabricated politeness to her, too deliberate for a synth. She was rightly concerned with delivering the box safely into the house, reflexively jumping or holding out an arm every time the box wobbled on the trolley.
Transferring the box over the doorstep and into an accessible area of the living room was no simple task. When the box was finally offloaded onto the carpet, George remembered being asked if he and his wife wanted to unbox Odi together. A bizarre question to be asked, considering if they had bothered to read his medical notes they would learn that she was ill in bed. He remembered answering sarcastically, "well, we did that with our new microwave and it was magical enough to last us a lifetime". The rest of the memory was a blur. Unveiling layers and layers of cardboard, bubble wrap and metallic sheeting, reading NHS England status disclosures, signing warranties, waivers, everything…
"The new technology might seem a bit much at first," warned the nurse in a warm, yet overbearing Northern accent, "we don't want to leave you on your own, it might be a bit confusing". Again, the damn notes. Inside the box was a blonde, pale adolescent-looking male. The synth was dressed in a shirt and somewhat oversized jumper, maybe to appear "homely". After switching it on, the synth rose to its feet and steadied itself.
"Hello, Dr George Millican. I am now in set-up mode, and require primary user bonding." George took the synth's hand and proceeded with the set up. He called it "Odi". A short, simple name, and relatively uncommon to distinguish the device in conversation from people. Over the course of months, Odi had become an important fixture in the household. Especially following the death of his didn't care to remember it today.
A year had passed, and Odi was starting to show some wear and tear.
"D-dr. George, Millican. W-would you like some toast and jam?" Stuttered the synth. Despite his well-spokenness and mechanically courteous demeanor, the edges of that veneer of humanity were peeling away. In every sentence and with every change in intonation George could hear the inner workings of the device's – Odi's - mind coming together from data clusters to speech. He sighed,
"Yes, Odi. Apricot, please." Odi was off to the kitchen, smiling unwaveringly. Odi seemed to derive joy from helping, in a way a Synth shouldn't be able to. George wondered if the punishment-reward matrix had been adjusted in the D-series models to make them more responsive, more caring; more human.
"And Odi. Just George is fine."
After three years, George received some letters in the post. His synth was due an upgrade, or rather he was due a new synth. Odi picked up the rest of the letters from the floor. "George. It is.. t-three, PM. Afternoon. A term used to describe- mid..." a pause, as Odi mulled over, no; calculated, his words. George couldn't help but feel for him. He knew there was no way Odi could reciprocate the bond he had formed with the synth, there was no way his code could qualify such a thing. Odi simply was. There was a brightness to him, a pureness of human-engineered spirit, and a childlike joy that emanated through every fiber of his being whenever he could help. "George, it's time to take your medication. Should I go and get it?"
The pills were bitter in George's mouth. The taste was bearable, but he was reminded of the fragility of the human condition. Humans were not faultless, and they would inevitably fail with age. His immersion in the thought was broken by the sound of glass on tile. Shards of an old teapot scattered and smashed on the kitchen floor, ringing through the room, Odi in the center, shaking; staring; struggling. "G-george," he mustered, twitching robotically. "George".
After six years, Odi had become proficient at playing hide and seek. This was an uncommon request for someone of George's age. Someone of George's age – quantity unverified, would not typically ask to play hide and seek. Odi hid more than he sought. Odi was provided to- George. Would often receive visits regarding his health. The visitors would not share data. The visitors were human, because they would not share data. Humans had, incompatible data. Odi was underneath a blanket. Odi was hiding underneath a blanket, because he was playing hide and seek with George. Odi often won games. Winning or losing did not affect his functionality. Odi experienced positive reinforcement when George was happy. This aspect of Odi's system had not been heavily utilised for several months. Bad_data. Data incomplete. Initiating power saving mode.
During the past few months, George had noticed Odi was deteriorating fast. He had taken over laundry duty to save Odi the confusion of seeing his worsening condition made tangible; a bright blue fluid leaking from his nose and eyes, staining everything it touched. When surveyors turned up to visit him and Odi, he refused an upgrade every time. An upgrade would make his life easier, provide a routine, and deprive him of his playful, happy, innocent reliquary of times gone by. But it was more than that, Odi needed George. Part of him knew any display of emotion or affection on Odi's part was programmed into him, but the exchange was conversations were real. Odi's memories were real. Odi was real.
When the visitors left this time, he knew it would be bad news. He'd have to find a better way of hiding Odi, who he discovered atop a chair in his outhouse.
"The bulb has reached the end of its useful life."
"Haven't we all?"