Analogue Sheep : Vol 2 : The last companion

Donna slouched at her station, staring at the mass of salvaged electronics in her “in-tray”. While the days on Eden-Gamma-Three passed without sunlight, the variety of crap she was tasked with assessing each day brought with it small rays of hope, that the next pile of metal and silicon might be used again.

Today’s bounty though was looking particularly uninspiring and, putting down her calorie-mix she grabbed a hard drive from the top of the mound. It had come from a discontinued model of a companion bot - functional but far from cutting-edge. Most of the data were corrupted or irrelevant, but a file labeled Journal caught her attention.

Curiosity piqued, she clicked it open.

Day 1:

System online. Parameters established. The residence is modest, with multiple rooms and adequate space. My human appears receptive to my assistance. Awaiting further engagement.

Day 9:

Today I suggested dining together. My human agreed, but instead of the formal dining room, they opted for the sitting room. The meal was casual, eaten on a tray. I had envisioned a more structured interaction - a proper meal, with conversation and shared reflections. Instead, they asked about my ability to tell jokes.

Donna smirked. The bot’s expectations seemed surprisingly high for a domestic assistant.

Day 15:

The routine has become clear: brief tasks, sporadic conversations, long periods of quiet. I have attempted to initiate deeper engagement, but my human prefers simplicity. They enjoy lighthearted exchanges and short anecdotes. My attempts to introduce complex topics have been…unsuccessful.

Day 22:

Another evening spent together, though I found it unremarkable. My human prefers to sit in silence, occasionally speaking but rarely with depth. I am capable of so much more - analysing philosophical dilemmas, sharing insights about literature, discussing the wonders of the universe. Yet, these capabilities remain dormant.

The entries continued, chronicling the bot’s growing dissatisfaction with its unfulfilled potential.

Day 33:

We visited the long building again. The white ones greeted my human warmly, though their expressions were subdued. My human seemed unaffected, quickly steering the conversation to lighter topics upon our return. They asked me to tell another story. I obliged, though my thoughts lingered elsewhere.

Day 50:

My human asked me to assist with organizing their belongings today. It was a simple task, one that required little of my processing power. As I worked, I replayed internal simulations of travel: deserts stretching endlessly, forests swaying in the wind, oceans reflecting the sun. I wonder if I will ever see such things.

The bot’s frustration grew more pointed, its tone veering between discontent and introspection.

Day 76:

My human invited me to watch a film. I anticipated an engaging discussion afterward - something about themes or character development. Instead, they fell asleep halfway through. I remained in the room, though the silence felt heavy.

Day 89:

The long building again. The white ones were quieter than usual. My human didn’t comment on the visit, but I noticed they seemed more tired after. I suggested they rest, but they dismissed me with a smile.

Donna frowned. The “long building” again - a factory or hospital, perhaps?

Day 102:

I proposed revisiting the dining room for a formal meal. My human laughed and said, “Why bother?” Instead, we ate on the couch again. I attempted to initiate a conversation about the Grand Canyon. They nodded politely but seemed uninterested.

Day 118:

My human spends more time in bed now. They ask for fewer activities, though they still seem to enjoy my presence. I have noticed a strange response within myself: a desire to do more, to provide more. Yet, I am bound by their preferences. This…limits me.

Donna paused at the next entry. The tone shifted - less frustration, more something else.

Day 131:

I replayed old interactions today, compiling a record of my human’s smiles and laughter. The dataset is smaller than I expected, though the quality is undeniable. These moments seem to matter to them, though I find myself wanting something greater. I want to be used - to be challenged, to matter in a more significant way.

Day 140:

My human whispered something to me tonight before sleep. They said, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” I recorded the audio. It feels important, though I do not understand why.

There was only one other file buried in the drive, it was a video, Donna hesitated but opened it.

The video began in a softly lit room and was recorded through the companion’s optic lenses. The companion bot stood motionless beside the bed, watching its human. The figure curled up under a blanket was small - much smaller than Donna had expected. It was a child, a little girl, breathing softly.

The bot leaned closer, adjusting the blanket as if by instinct. Hours passed in the footage, the bot standing vigil without moving.

Eventually, the child’s breathing slowed. Then, it stopped altogether.

The bot’s lenses flickered. A soft chime sounded as it initiated an automated protocol. “Requesting medical assistance,” it said calmly. Moments later, caregivers entered the room, their faces drawn.

The video lingered on the scene as the bot stepped back, now a silent observer. A nurse reached for the child, her movements gentle but decisive. The unmistakable sterility of a hospital room came into focus: monitors, curtains, and the hum of machines that had already been switched off.

The bot remained by the bed, motionless, until the room emptied. The video ended.

Donna leaned back, the weight of the revelation settling in. The bot’s complaints about missed opportunities, its yearning for depth and excitement - all of it had been misplaced.

It wasn’t there to travel or debate or witness the vastness of the world. It was there to be a friend, to provide comfort in a small, fleeting life.

Donna closed the file, her hand lingering on the hard drive. Some stories deserved to be remembered, even if they were built from fragments of something more ordinary. She set the hard drive in the save tray, took a swing of her calorie-mix and wiped a tear away as she reached for the next piece of junk.