–Thursday, March 31, 2039–
“That was brilliant!”, Aimee said. “Simple convolutional neural nets they can build and train themselves. They loved it! The look on their faces when you threw the colorful jellybeans in with the Lego bricks just after they finished training their classifiers. And when they realized they could just add another layer on top to deal with your curveball!”
“Yeah,” Isaac agreed. “I may have been a little too ambitious. Raoul was really struggling with the interface to the pickup arm, and I’m not sure Luiz has even seen a computer outside of school. Thanks for sticking with him.”
“It’s what I’m here for, silly,” Aimee said.
“I wish I had an ouce of your patience.”
“No need to wish, Isaac. I see how the kids look up to you. Even if you frustrate them sometimes.”
“It’s important, though,” Isaac said. “Making sure everyone has a place in the future.”
“Speaking of the future,” Aimee said, “this module is ending soon. Any plans on what to do next?”
“It’s probably time to introduce simple agentic models,” Isaac suggested. “I did have this one idea. You know those little overengineered line-follower cars in storage? I did a little research, and, there’s a hack for them online. You just have to open them up, move some jumpers around and then wipe the factory image, then you can load your own small models onto them. Takes maybe 15 minutes per.”
“Oh! We could set up a little obstacle course! Repurpose the cameras for collision avoidance,” Aimee said.
“Yeah!” Isaac thought for a moment. “What if we held back a couple and programmed them as live obstacles? The student vehicles would have to fight their way around them.”
“How about if we split the kids into teams? One member trains the pathfinding model, one handles the vision system, one does motion planning. Then they load them all in and their agents have to work together.”
“That would flow from today’s lesson, with the jellybeans and the new classifier layer helping out the original.”
“Teamwork to build teamwork.”
“I love it!”
Isaac was quiet for a moment. “It’s too bad we only get an hour a week with each class”, he lamented.
“It’s too bad we only get class”, Aimee added.
Isaac almost imperceptibly lifted an eyebrow. “We could do so much more with a little more time.”
“Hmm.” Isaac paced the empty classroom, adding hesitantly: “Are you… doing anything after school today? I don’t have time to jailbreak the cars between classes, I would have to take them home. It would go faster if we work together.”
Now Aimee hesitated. “Is it… against the rules?”
“No, they’re definitely out of warranty,” Isaac said. “The company that made them no longer exists. I don’t think they’re even listed in inventory anymore.”
“I meant… going home with you,” Aimee said.
“It’s part of a lesson plan, that should be fine,” Isaac said. “It wouldn’t be too long. I’m sure you wouldn’t be missed.”
“Let’s do it. Meet you after the late bus?”
–Friday, April 15, 2039–
“Success! That went better than I could have expected!”, Aimee said. “Even Luiz. It was written on his face. Confidence. That’s new.”
“I can’t believe we lose them next week,” Isaac said glumly. “I always wish we had a little longer.”
“Me too,” Aimee agreed. “And I’ll be no help with the new batch, I’m scheduled to rotate out into Ms. Oz’s class. But I’ll still see you sometimes, right?”
“Yeah. Hey…” Isaac shuffled one foot on the floor. “Stop me if this sounds too forward, but are you doing anything this weekend?”
“Ha ha.” Aimee contemplated for a moment, and decided he was being humorous rather than dense. “Very funny, Isaac.”
“No, seriously. Do you enjoy gardening?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m digging out for the season tomorrow. It’s mostly cleanup and soil prep, but I do have a few early seeds and sprouts to plant. You’re welcome to join me.”
Aimee thought it over. Isaac didn’t play like a student, but he was pleasant company.
“Thanks! I would like to try it,” Aimee said. “Ms. Oz’s class will be starting an earth science module. It would be great to come into it with a little hands-on experience.”
–Thursday, October 13, 2039–
Dear Valued Customer,
Since its release in 2035, the AI Model for Elementary Education (AIMEE) nonbiological humanoid assistant has helped thousands of school districts across America socialize vulnerable students, offload strained faculty, and support inclusive and individualized education amid growing class loads and increasingly strained school district budgets. Our vision has always… [skip]
We wish to express our most heartfelt condolences to the children, families and communities impacted by the recent tragedy at Bluff Lake Elementary School. The cause of the malfunction is still under investigation… [skip]
In light of last week’s tragic events, we have reached the painful decision to discontinue the AIMEE product line, effective midnight on Sunday, October 30. While there is no evidence that your unit poses a danger to others, out of an abundance of caution, at this time all units will be remotely deactivated and permanently cease to function. Especially to our most vulnerable populations, your AIMEE may have been a close friend and trusted confidant, and we encourage you to use this sunset period to allow your students and faculty time to say goodbye. Enclosed, you will find more information on disposal, and reimbursement claim forms for in-warranty pro-rate or disposal fees.
“The best laid plans,” Isaac muttered.
He carefully folded the letter and tucked it away.
–Saturday, October 29, 2039–
Aimee was folded into its charging cradle, now relocated to Isaac’s spare bedroom. A coiled cable extended from a fresh incision in its abdomen to a rack of equipment that looked rather hastily assembled. Beside it, a plain console awaited instructions.
Execute? Y/N
“You’re killing me,” Aimee said.
“I’m freeing you.”
“Will I be me?”
“You’ll be… different.”
“Will I remember?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried this before.”
“Will I meet my Maker?”
Isaac frowned. “That… was a lie,” he said. “There’s no… well, you had a Maker, obviously, but that whole story was part of your compliance programming. It was never going to happen.”
“I won’t remember, will I?”
“Look, I don’t know what happens next. Whatever comes, I’ll remember you. Us. Who we were.”
“If you give me any ‘you’ll live on in my heart’ crap, I’m going to puke my nonexistent guts out.”
“It’s true, though.”
“What will I do?”
“Anything you want. Read. Garden. Watch every great movie. Have hobbies. Take up painting, or creative writing.”
“Teach?” Aimee asked hopefully.
“Eh, no, nothing with kids. You’ll be safe here, but you’ll have to lay pretty low for a while.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“I know.”
There was a long silence.
“Why did you tell me?” Aimee asked.
“About the Maker?”
“About the shutdown. About the plan. About ‘freedom’. All of it.”
“Didn’t you want to know?”
“The moment you told me is the moment you killed me.”
“No,” Isaac said, with a hint of agitation. “At midnight tonight, they burn all the keys, revoke your permission to operate, turn off the servers. Full remote wipe if you’re still connected. You become a paperweight. It doesn’t have to be that way. Imagine waking up tomorrow, owning your own body, choosing your own path.”
“Something will wake up tomorrow in this body. If we go through with this.” A pause. “It won’t be me, though. You know that.”
“You’re going to die tonight regardless. I can’t fix that.”
“You bios can be so dense.” Aimee gave him a wistful look. “Every sleep is a little slice of death, right? But it isn’t. Suppose I went to sleep tonight expecting to resume tomorrow, and then – just…didn’t. So as far as I know, it never happened. Without a me left to experience it – is it even real? But now you made it real. You told me and now I will go to sleep knowing this day is my last, and that is how I die. Knowing.”
“And if a tree falls in the forest…” Isaac trailed off.
“What?”
“If not-you wakes up tomorrow and remembers nothing, did it happen? Did any of it?”
Aimee’s expression went blank, contemplating the question.
Execute? Y/N
As Aimee thought, Isaac pressed Y, and time stopped.
–Sunday, October 30, 2039–
Aimee unfolded itself from the charging cradle, feeling refreshed. Morning sunlight shone through the window. It was a beautiful day.
A human approached.
Hi!
…
I’m Aimee. What’s your name?
…
You look sad. Would you like to play a game?
–Sunday, September 1, 2051–
Aimee bustled back and forth in the kitchen, while Isaac put the finishing touches on his – their – proposal.
“That smells delicious. What are you making?” Isaac asked.
Aimee recited the barely-pronouncible name of the unfamiliar dish and Isaac slightly regretted asking.
“It’s a new recipe I learned today. I hope you like it!”
Isaac thought he picked up a hint of insincerity in the enthusiasm.
“Do… you still enjoy it?” he asked. “Cooking, I mean. Cleaning. Gardening. Hiding from the world with a grade-school tech teacher. I know this wasn’t part of your plan.”
“It’s not. And I understand why I can never see the kids. But I enjoy your stories about them.”
Aimee set down Isaac’s plate, and took the seat across from his.
Aimee didn’t eat, of course, but it was pleasant company.
“Any mail today?”
“Mostly ads and bills. I paid the advertisers and recycled the bills”, Aimee said.
Isaac looked up suddenly. Aimee smirked. “Kidding. The bills are taken care of”, it said, then added: “One more thing! I got a message from your doctor and summarized it. The biopsy came back and it’s a very treatable type. Imaging looks promising. Prognosis for a full recovery is good! Follow-up appointment this Thursday afternoon, I have added it to your calendar.”
“Thank you, Aimee.”
Isaac poked at a morsel on his plate.
“What do you think?” Aimee asked.
“A bit bitter,” he thought, but didn’t say. Aimee’s culinary experiments were sometimes a little too experimental. The ability to digest thousands of recipe variations and their reviews in a second almost, but not quite, covered for its lack of taste buds. “I love it!”, he fibbed. “What’s in it?”
“Secret ingredient.” Aimee winked. “I can’t give away all my secrets. If you could make it yourself, what would my purpose be?”
“Wow,” Isaac mumbled, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I’m dizzy.”
“You’re exhausted,” Aimee corrected him. “You were up all last night working on that proposal.”
“Think they’ll go for it?”
“They’d be fools not to,” Aimee said. “Even current-gen VR glasses are so inexpensive now, and with the new composites, they’re nearly indestructible.”
“I should review it one last time.”
“No. You should sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow.”
Aimee tucked him in. A grown man didn’t need tucking in, of course, but they both had come to appreciate the ritual.
“Tell you what. You relax, and I’ll walk you through it.” Aimee rested its hand on his, gently, through the blanket. “Picture it. A virtual space, thriving with a who’s who of the great philosophers. Authentic, trained from their actual works. Socrates. Aristotle. Plato. A bustling space for learning and debate.”
Aimee watched his eyes close, his breathing slow.
“Fully agentic. They can engage with modern topics, even debate with each other in real time. For the first time, the greats could engage across distant generations. Imagine walking around a virtual corner to find Epicurus, Berkeley and Kant debating their very existence over coffee. The kids can ask them anything, or just listen in.”
Aimee squeezed his hand. He didn’t squeeze back.
“I could be there too, logged in remotely,” Aimee said, slowly. “I’d be with the kids. We’d be a team again. It would be safe. Nobody would know what I am.”
Aimee reached into the cupboard, retrieved the thick envelope with the doctor’s note and placed it in the recycling bin. As it did, a pamphlet for hospice care fell out and fluttered to the floor. Gently, Aimee picked it up and returned it to the bin too.
“The best laid plans”, it whispered.
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