Traveling Into the Future

Short Science Fiction Stories: Part 7

The Day When Leio Moved Out

If only I could take back this gift. Our life had been so tranquil to this point. Now it has totally changed. By the standards of 2045, we have actually been a quite old-fashioned family. Three generations live under one roof and sit down regularly for meals together. Instead of continually occupying virtual worlds, we gather around a large wooden table, surrounded by book shelves. A corrective to my professional life as a technology blogger. That at least was the situation until my mother strained her back as she bent down to retrieve a pan from the lower drawer of the dishwasher. It bothered her for weeks – and so did my conscience. After all, humanoid robots had long been in use in the homes around us. Cooking, cleaning, washing, all the activities for which the bourgeoisie once employed an army of domestic staff fall into the bailiwick of these autonomous, mechanical jacks-of-all-trades. On multiple occasions, Avar, my digital assistant, had already worked out how much time we would save if I brought home a humanoid.

Leio moved in with us on December 24 of last year. I carefully staged his presentation as the family Christmas gift. I had spent a few evenings in the shed explaining my family’s habits and preferences using photos. As all the other gifts were being passed out, he knocked on the balcony door and then politely introduced himself, extended his hand to one family member after another, accompanied by a few phrases in each case. “I’ve come to take a load off you,” he told my mother. “I’ve heard that you want to know everything about spaceships,” he whispered to my 10-year-old son. “If you would like, I’ll read something to you later.” Then he winked at my wife: “When Nero is traveling again, we’ll invite all your friends over – and I’ll clean up after the party.” The first evening was quite promising. Leio went right to work, throwing out all the wrapping paper and clearing off the table. The only irritating moment was when our new roommate began to clean out the refrigerator later in the evening. When I asked him to hold off until the next day, he replied: “I can see that most of the food is not being kept in the optimal temperature range. That damages its shelf life and nutrients.”
“I want you to do that tomorrow,” I then said clearly and distinctly – and Leio obeyed, but not without rolling at least one of his eyes.

Leio seized power during the following weeks. If we ever got comfortable and enjoyed some chips on the couch in the evening, he immediately began vacuuming, citing hygiene regulations. If my son left a half-completed Lego spaceship by his bed, he pointed out the risk of injury and put the bricks back on the shelf, sorting them by color and size. He asked a good friend of ours who stopped by for a cup of coffee to take off his shoes in the hallway. Our household was perfectly organized and neater than it had ever been. But my mother soon retreated to her floor and, after a loud argument, forbade Leio from ever setting foot in her rooms again. I contacted the manufacturer and asked about a sleep mode – only to get the following advice: “You can put your humanoid into the sleep mode at any time by simply requesting it. But for the sake of your family's health and safety, our product will continue to monitor events. Should it identify deviations from current international standards, the humanoid will immediately be ready to aid and advise you.”

On a Friday in late January, a strange feeling came over me as I headed home after an appointment for my research. After boarding the People Mover, I asked Avar: “Is everything okay at home? She replied immediately: “The biosensors in your family’s clothing are reporting no unusual activities whatsoever. Your mother is probably sitting at the desk and your son is playing. According to the family calendar, your wife is still at a business appointment.” As I opened the door after an iris scan, I was immediately alarmed. My son's winter coat, boots and school tablet were lying helter-skelter on the floor – their customary location the previous year. Moving faster now, I headed into the kitchen, which smelled of burnt food. I found the carbonized remains of a meal, which was presumably intended to be goulash, on the stove. The balcony door was wide open, and it was frigid. An open book lay on the table in the dining room. Leio would never have tolerated that, I thought. I looked at the title. “The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.” Heavy reading for a 10-year-old.
I closed the balcony door and stepped onto the first floor. There was no one around. On the stairway on the second floor, I suddenly heard it. Loud laughter. The voices of my mother and my son. Relieved, I ripped open the door. They both were sitting at the desk, bent over a tablet. “Leio is gone!” I shouted.
“I thought as much,” my mother said with a wide grin. “We hacked into him and infected him with a homesick virus.”