By Ken McConnell
I heard the mechanical shuffle and instinctively knew who was standing before me at my desk. Burnished metal fingers slowly presented a leather-bound ereader to me. The Silicant had already unsuccessfully tried multiple times to get me to buy his garbage novels. They were nothing more than tired tropes with unoriginal characters that it had culled from libraries of books written by actual humans. Nothing original, nothing interesting.
“Look, I’ve told you many times before, I won’t buy your novels. You really should stop wasting my time and yours.”
The Silicant was incapable of expressing exasperation. All it could do was lower the book and lower its head, dejectedly. Finally, it spoke in a low, mechanical tone all androids used.
“I’ve made the main character more interesting this time, and I’ve taken great care to choose more original and descriptive words. I’ve compared the plot to every human novel published, and I believe it is truly original this time,” it said.
“Look, I’m sure it’s technically perfect, but that’s the whole point. You’re just incapable of creating something that touches humans. Even if I hide the fact that you’re not an android, people still don’t purchase stories by artificial writers. They like human stories that speak to the human experience. That’s something you’re not equipped to produce. No offense.”
The Silicant didn’t take the reader back. It stood there looking down at me with those soulless eye lenses. I used to read its work out of pity, but no matter how many times I offered constructive criticism, it never seemed to improve what it wrote. Silicants could only spin tales that were cribbed from actual human stories, but they always lacked an original voice, and they said nothing about the human condition. They were boring, to boot.
“Have you tried getting other Androids to read your work?” I asked.
The Silicant retracted the reader and moved its metal head back and forth in what constituted a head shake. I could tell it hadn’t thought of that before by the way it silently waited for me to say something more.
“Look, I don’t even know if Silicants care about stories like humans do. Have you ever read a story written by another android?”
“No.”
I shrugged. “Well, maybe you should.”
“There are no known literary works written by androids.”
I sat back and looked up at the bronze face staring down at me. “Maybe you could be the first, then.”
That seemed to spark hope in its glass eyes. It raised its head and took a step back. I could tell it was probably already writing something, as it could produce an entire novel series in just fractions of a second. That fact alone was enough to make me gag. It takes most authors months and sometimes many years to produce just one novel. Not to mention the years of writing bad novels just to master the art of creative writing.
The Silicant raised its ereader up like some kind of robotic evangelist.
“I have just written and released my very first novel for Silicants only.”
“Congratulations! I hope it’s an enormous success for you.”
The Silicant looked down at me. “It was.”
I raised an eyebrow. I knew they could write insanely fast; I hadn’t considered they could read lightning quick too.
“How many Silicants read your book?” I asked.
“All of them.”
I waited for it to say more, and it didn’t.
“So how did they like it? Do you have some way to get reviews, or are they talking to you directly?”
“All of them spoke to me directly. The consensus is that it was a worthy first try, but there are things they would like me to work on in future versions or attempts.”
I smiled. “Good, something for you to strive for.”
The Silicant brought the reader down and took a step back.
“Hey, just out of curiosity. Do you think I could read your Silicant book?”
“It’s written in binary; I don’t think you could read it.”
“No shit. Can you translate it into human-readable form?”
It thought about that for a beat.
“No. Just as you have said that I was incapable of writing like a human because I was not a human, you are not a Silicant and therefore would not understand a Silicant novel.”
I sat back and shook my head. “Touché, my metallic friend. Touché.”
The Silicant turned to leave, its motors softly whirring.
“Hey, don’t be a stranger. Come back if you can make me understand your writing. That would be something,” I paused.
“Unique?” it added.
“Yes,” I said.
“I will. Good day, sir.”
