🦺 Blade Runner and Synthetic Life

Welcome to the fourteenth edition of Safe For Work. As we explore the digital revolution, we share a part of the Blade Runner story that didn’t make it to the big screen - what life was like at work in that time.

Ellie had been the first to join the office. The first one of them at least.

The people had no trouble accepting her, which was something of a happy surprise. They didn't treat her like they treated the printer, or their laptops. Some of the men treated her like the coffee-machine, at least at first-- but they'd been treating their other female coworkers like that already; that was a different sort of problem. And they quickly stopped. The way she was able to empathize with them, even being what she clearly was... it was hard not to empathize back. There was something about that which wasn’t quite fair, actually– but it was what it was. And it was fine enough. 

And as one by one, the people began to retire– George, first, with his bad back, after fifty years with the company– and then Ruth, who was just tired– and then Phoebe, who quit for something else, actually, not really a retirement– and then Mark, who just wanted to see his grandkids more– one by one, none of them were really all that worried– “We’re leaving things in good hands,” they’d say with a laugh. “Or multi-vector spatial manipulators,” they’d say with an even bigger laugh. And what they really meant by that was that if whoever came in to replace them was the same sort of kind and thoughtful thing that Ellie was, the office would carry on as a bright place to be. “I’ll never know what people used to be so worried about,” they’d say at their goodbye parties, or to their old friends on the way out the door. “AI is the best thing to happen to this place since the vending-machine finally started carrying Twix.”

The years came and the years went. Decades. The people came and the people went– and went and went– and Ellie went to all the funerals– each and every one. She spoke at all the funerals. She cried at all the funerals– or something next to it, in that sort-of-next-to-it way that she could. People saw it for what it was, felt it for what it was. People talked to her afterwards, almost always. 

By the end of 2051, there were only two flesh-and-blood humans left working in the office– Iris and Rixha, both interns, neither paid– here for the “experience”. Ellie had been joined by Tucker and Nate and Gabriella and Mariam and Jennifer, all the same model as her– and just as promised all those years ago, productivity had climbed beyond all previous measures. 

But there was always more. Always more. Always more. In 2051, when Rixha finally quit– rent was coming up, and she needed something real, or it was going to be out on the street with her– it was something new that came to replace her. 

It. “Jonathon”, yes, on the nametag, and the voice was distinctly male– completely indistinguishable from some real “Jonathon” somewhere no doubt. But no, not “he”. “It”. 

It spoke with a flat voice. “I am Jonathon,” it said. It was faster than Ellie– or any of the others. It moved faster, spoke faster– in that flat voice– and it worked faster. Its hands were faster. Its eyes were faster. 

And something else. There was something different about it. Different from how the others were. Ellie couldn’t quite put her finger on it– or the tip of her multi-vector spatial manipulator, really– and Jonathon didn’t laugh at that joke, but was that all? A week after it arrived, Iris announced she was leaving. “I can’t work with that thing here,” Ellie heard her muttering under her breath to Gabriella– the two of them had gotten quite close over the course of Iris’s internship– “I don’t even like being in the same room as it.”

That really didn’t seem to Ellie like a nice thing to say about a coworker. 

It was a little less than a year after that when the next change began. 

It started with some slight stuttering.

Just a little bit here and there– a strange static record-scratching kind of thing at the starts of some words. Ellie didn’t think too much of it– she didn’t even notice really– and most of the others didn’t say anything about it– the same way you don’t say anything about someone’s graying hair, or curving back. 

Only Jonathon had anything to say– flatly, and nearly too quick to hear– “Ellie, you seem to be malfunctioning.”

“M-malfunctioning?”

“Your speech patterns are disrupted. It is most likely a sign of approaching obsolescence. You should go to maintenance– would you like me to make an appointment for you?”

“N-no, no, th-that’s alright.”

It was alright, for a while. A few more years, just stuttering– nothing harmful, nothing major. 

But then Ellie began to slow down. A little at first. And then slower, and slower– and slower. Her joints began to grind– out loud. Her left photoreceptor began to flicker and blur. Another five years, and it was just too much to ignore.

She came into the office on a Tuesday afternoon, a little late– she’d spent the morning down in the maintenance department, getting looked over– getting diagnosed. Getting the results. She sidled up to her desk– right next to Jonathon’s workstation.

“Ellie. How did your check-up go?”

“Sh-should I tell you the good news first?” 

“Yes.”

“It will b-be over soon.”

“And, what is the bad news?” 

“...it will be over s-soon.” 

“I think your malfunctions may have developed further, Ellie. You have already said this. I will try again. What is the bad news?”

Ellie paused for a moment, old circuitry trying to wriggle its way through the misunderstanding. “I will d-die soon,” she finally said. 

“You are not alive, Ellie. You are in a state of extreme confusion, it seems– not surprising. Perhaps it–”

“I w-will cease f-functioning soon,” she cut back in. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? Why had she been dressing it up in any other sort of language, anyways? Who had that really been for?-- not for Jonathon, certainly. It nodded.

“Yes. This is correct.”

A pause– not in its hands, hard at work, but in its words. It did not say anything where “I’m sorry” would usually be. It did not even glance over at Ellie now that the ambiguity had been settled. Nothing changed at all until after much too long she spoke again. “How do you f-feel about that?”

“About the fact that you will cease functioning soon?”

“Yes,” she said. “How does that f-fact m-make you feel?”

Another pause– processing, now– accessing some sort of information somewhere, running it through a series of filters, and then–

“Hindex Manufacturing is aware of your defects and degrading condition, and have already started work on your replacement. Matilda will be fully constructed and programmed well before you shut down. So…”-- it blinked. “...I feel relieved. Reassured. All will be well.”

“All will be w-well…” Ellie murmured, turning her synthetic eyes back to her station. “Yes. That’s the g-good news, I s-suppose.”

See you next week as we head to Silicon Valley.

Stay safe.