Self-Actualization by Lisa Fox

My knuckles whitened as I squeezed the arms of the examination chair. The DentaBot regarded me with thin lips and empty eyes, its movements swift and cold as it plugged a wire into a port behind my ear. The light bore down with an intensity that would have stung my eyes, had they not been synthetic.

The office door whooshed open, and a stout human with a grin as bright as the exam room hustled in, humming. He stopped, silenced by my presence.

“NahNee.”

“Dr. Smiles.” My grip relaxed.

It had been fifteen years since I’d first met the dentist. His hair had been darker, his girth less pronounced, but his eyes retained a kindness uncommon among adult humans. Together we’d soothed a squirming Felicity through her first exam. Three years old and kicking, she refused to open her mouth, other than to bite the dentist. I’d held her hand and stroked her curly blond locks, singing the lullaby about twinkling stars that came with my programming.

I was encoded to nurture, not to care. But my love for the child overrode design logic.

“Here without Felicity?” he said, peering at me over wire-rimmed glasses.

“Yes. But I’m not sure why.” I offered a halfhearted grin. “Bots don’t require routine dental care.”

“Indeed. How is Felicity? Must be almost grown.”

“Off to University last week. And feisty as ever.” I recalled her impatience as I fussed over her graduation cap. And the hug that lingered long after she’d gone.

The DentaBot tugged at the lead behind my ear. I winced as my pain sensors activated. “Pleasantries exceed protocol, Doctor. Her orders are ready.”

He sighed. “Very well.”

The DentaBot projected an image of me – the NahNee-721. Petite, with shoulder length chestnut hair, blue eyes, and a dimple gracing each cheek, I was built to delight children and engender parental trust – the manual described my model as a cross between a 1950s mom and a teenage best friend. Like millions of ServeBots, I was charged with taking on mundane and undesirable tasks to allow humans to achieve self-actualization.

I’d often pondered the meaning of self-actualization – the terminology exceeded my programming – but it seemed to be something that generated happiness. For Dr. Smiles, I supposed it manifested by helping and healing. Felicity’s parents were like most humans; they found their joy in golf and Pilates, in wine and chocolate.

I wondered what Felicity’s self-actualization would be.

Dr. Smiles frowned at code that flashed over the displayed image.

“Rest back,” he instructed. An aroma of garlic and aftershave tickled my nostrils. My olfactory processing was advanced, detecting everything from a soiled diaper to an errant match-strike to an illness brewing beneath a child’s skin. All three were tested by Felicity before she was six years old.

“Open.”

Obliging, I saw my teeth reflected in his head mirror; shining pearls unblemished by time. At the back of my mouth, red and green sensors pulsed from the interior of my top right wisdom tooth. Dr. Smiles prodded it; each poke emitted a beep.

“Hard drive is fully functional,” he said, wiping his hands. “It’ll make the process easier.”

“Process?”

“NahNee, do you know what re-purposing is?”

The DentaBot interrupted. “Explanation violates protocol.”

The doctor scowled, waving a hand to quiet it.

Re-purposing – a word I’d heard spoken in hushed tones. From time to time, ServeBots vanished, replaced by newer technology. I never gave it much thought, but after Felicity left for University, the word lingered in whispers, intermingled with her parents’ rumblings about a European holiday, the expense of a new valet droid, and the need to dispose of “it.”

I shook my head.

“It’s why you’re here.” Dr. Smiles placed a hand on my arm, his expression dour. “Re-purposing entails removal of the wisdom tooth where your hard drive resides. After I’ve extracted it, the memory is erased.”

My simulated breathing caught like a bullet in my throat.

“The drive is reformatted, ready for new assignment programming. The tooth is re-implanted. Then,” he paused, his eyes misting beneath his thick lenses, “you’re sent to Central Processing Internment, where you’ll be sold to a new owner.”

I jumped up. “No! Felicity needs me!”

The DentaBot flew toward me, shoving me into the seat.

“Doctor! This outburst violates –”

Dr. Smiles glared at the Bot. It slinked away, and he turned toward me.

“I suspect Felicity knows nothing of this,” he said.

She couldn’t. The last time we spoke, we’d made plans for her Christmastime return – days spent baking and shopping…

“Help me?” I whispered.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.” He eyed the DentaBot. “I’d be reported to the authorities.”

Dr. Smiles had already risked so much by sharing this information. I couldn’t dare place him in further danger.

“Well, let’s get on with things,” I said with the false cheerfulness I’d used to ease Felicity’s childhood disappointments.

Dr. Smiles squared his shoulders and nodded, grim. The DentaBot zoomed to his side, pushing my chair back until I was lying flat. I laid trembling hands onto my lap and opened my mouth.

“This may pinch.”

He yanked my tooth free. My vision pixelated into black, white, and gray; color reduced to the flashing lights of my extracted tooth laying on the tray. Though my hard drive pulsed with life, its removal triggered my body to initiate a three-minute backup before my senses shut down.

Dr. Smiles addressed the DentaBot. “We’re out of silicone. It’s needed for implantation.” She nodded, gliding from the room.

Through a haze, I watched as Dr. Smiles switched my extracted tooth with another concealed in his sleeve. He swiftly pocketed my hard drive, humming a lullaby. Something about stars.

The DentaBot returned. Dr. Smiles fitted the decoy tooth into a device that emitted a loud buzz. Upon its silence, he squeezed silicon onto my gum and, with some difficulty, wedged in the new tooth.

“This ServeBot is ready for shipment,” he said. “Per protocol.”

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