Dad and Ick is a lovely short story about a scientist and an intelligent robot he raises as a child. Somehow, it melds technical information with a genuine and heart-warming story about a father and son.
As it’s a Nature article with a paywall/institutional access, I’ve reproduced it here (1k words):
“Dad, Dad! What’s that?” Ick points a zinc-plated finger at a weed sprouting from the packed dirt path.
“Good question,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me?” We’ve been working on their research and reasoning capabilities. Chances are high that making Ick work it out for themself will result in them falling down several tangential rabbit holes but it’s a skill set I want them to develop.
“But I don’t know what it is,” Ick replies.
“You have all the resources you need. Analyse and cross-reference it with your —”
“Don’t you know what it is?” they interrupt.
“Yes, I do, but you should be able to find out for yourself.”
“I do find out myself,” Ick says. “I ask you. You tell me. Then I know.”
I can’t argue that it’s not an efficient methodology. I could dig my heels in but it’s getting late; we should be heading home.
“Fine,” I concede. “It’s a dandelion.”
“Dandelions are yellow,” Ick says, using a tone reserved for indisputable fact.
“I suppose in your experience, they are, but these are also dandelions.” I gesture to the many puffballs growing near the trail. “In fact, they’re the same ones we saw a few days ago. When they first bloom, dandelions have yellow petals, but after a while, the petals fall off and …”
Ick has lost interest in the dandelions, or more probably, in my explanation, and has gone rolling on ahead.
“Icarus, stick with me,” I remind them. They’re supposed to stay close on our walks. Ick keeps rolling. I’m not sure if they’re too preoccupied to hear me or just acting preoccupied. The result is the same, regardless. I pick a dandelion from the ground. “Ick, want to see something cool?”
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That gets their attention, they turn around. I puff up my cheeks and blow. Seeds scatter and waft in the air.
“Oh oh oh oh oh!” Ick races back to me, their camera lighting up in delight. “Again, Dad. Again!” they chirp, rocking on their chassis.
I oblige, picking another dandelion.
“My turn. Me now!” Ick announces.
They pluck a dandelion, pulling up the roots. They try to position it in front of their fan but it’s on their rear and their arms aren’t flexible in that direction. I didn’t anticipate them needing to be. There are lots of things I didn’t anticipate when I set out to create a sentient artificial companion. I went in with the expectations set by Asimov, Kubrick, Roddenberry and their successors. Of course, I hoped for results closer to Lt Commander Data than HAL 9000, I nevertheless thought sentient machine intelligence would be a mature intellect from the start. It didn’t occur to me that it would develop at roughly the same speed and trajectory as its organic counterparts. I didn’t predict the short attention span or the stubborn streak or that, despite having access to vast databases of information, they would look to me to explain the world.
Ick continues turning and grunting in frustration, the dandelion clenched tightly in their fist.
“I don’t think you can reach, buddy. Want help?” I ask, holding out my hand for the flower. I sense a tantrum looming.
“No!” Ick pulls away. “I do it!” They angrily wave the stem at me. A few seeds shake off. Ick lets out an astonished squeak. They shake the dandelion until it’s completely bald, crowing in triumph the entire time. “Look, look!”
“I see. Good job.”
They start pulling up more dandelions.
“OK, Ick, it’s time to go home.”
“It’s not,” Ick grumbles.
Transitioning from one activity to the next is a challenge. It had taken a fair bit of persuading to get Ick excited about the nature preserve. Now they don’t want to leave.
“Check your clock. What time is it?”
They don’t answer.
“What time?” I ask again.
“Four forty-three.” The answer is petulant.
“And what time do we need to be home?”
“Five.”
“Let’s go.” We head back. Icarus starts lagging behind.
“I’m tired,” they say. I check their battery status.
“You’re charged to 60%.”
“I’m tired,” Ick insists. “Carry me?” They hold their arms up. It’s been a long day; their processor could be running slow due to over-stimulation. I relent and pick them up. Ick goes limp in my arms. My shoulder protests.
“C’mon, help me out.” I jostle Icarus. Reluctantly Ick puts one arm around my neck.
I walk us towards the car. Ick rests their head on my collarbone. The whir of their servers is the only indication that they haven’t gone into sleep mode.
“Hey, Ick? What was your favourite part of today?” I ask this most days. It’s enlightening to see which activities made the biggest impression.
“I liked when we met the cat.”
Ick had spotted a stray cat near a tangled hedge and rolled towards it at top speed. The cat wasn’t interested in making friends and disappeared into the hedge. Icarus followed. My forearms are covered in scratches from extracting Ick from the brambles.
“And,” Ick continues, “when I found the mud.”
“You found a lot of mud,” I agree. That was shortly after the cat incident. It had taken 40 minutes and two packets of pre-moistened towelettes to clean out their wheel-casings.
“And the dandelions. And this.”
“This?” I bounce them a little. “What we’re doing right now?”
“This,” Ick confirms. “What’s your favourite?”
Ick isn’t helping much with weight distribution anymore; my neck is starting to complain. Also, I’ve just noticed that my sweater is snagged on their adapter port. Sometime since picking them up, Ick began playing ‘Moon River’ from their secondary speakers. It had come on the radio on the way here. I mentioned how much I’ve always liked that song. I didn’t think they were paying attention. Ick adjusts their position, tucking their head under my chin.
“This,” I say. “This is my favourite, too.”