Self-Hating Robot Questionnaire
By Elliot Krop

1. You are the model T-1950, built to last. At a protocol directive 394935 industry party, you approach a sexy model V-2000 and avoid sensor contact. "Blip blip," laughs the model V-2000. You imbibe a gallon of radiator fluid, and manage to emit a whining whir. The model V-2000 rolls its prehensile microtendrils in a disdainful tease. You discuss your current state of unemployment and cry. V-2000 carefully rolls to the other side of the refurbished warehouse and you:

a. Imbibe unfiltered petroleum, then consider lighting your Dependoduro Blowtorch Appendage 100 ©.
b. Reappraise the worth of all series V robots, and in an effort to become more like them, undertake dangerous upgrades.
c. Follow the V-2000 and inundate the room with an unbearable high-pitch ring. When all attention is on you, you fall apart, dismembering your limbs and inner componentry across the floor, so that every robot gets a little stuck in their rollers.
d. Hit on a human.

2. You are Zigmotronic Calculator Machine F on reconnaissance mission 11A—inspect and acquire. Whilst inspecting the factory droids of the enemy Gizmotronic Corporation, you realize that your swivel joint is much thicker than that of the competitors. In fact, you could call it fat. Visiting the offices of Gizmotronic, you see that everyone has thinner, more athletic swivel joints and a more streamlined exterior shell. You are surprised at how easy it is to acquire enemy secrets, but realize that this is because nobody actually notices you. Unless, of course, they are in groups—then they snicker and point with their glittering painted claw-arms. With your mission complete, you hurriedly ambulate back to Zigmotronic where you find that the automated revolving door has been replaced by an entrance portal two centimeters smaller in radius than that of your lateral abdominus. You:

a. Ingurgitate high-density—yet comforting—scrap-iron dry ice on a stick, and then consume the stick.
b. Commence with mission 11C—locate inferior cohort, preside over them as their ruler, become superior.
c. Embark on mission 44DD—enable further joint thickening and use what the maker gave you—personal value-enhancing judgment-boosting thought-processor control.
d. Rust.

3. While interfacing with your companion DiploDidacticProtoDroid one night, you realize that the emoto-pain and pleasure directives in your hard memory have been corrupted. You wonder if you are correct in your diagnosis, or malfunctioning, and ask the DDPD, who answers, "Affirmative. Mine are corrupt as well." "How long has this been going on?" you ask. "Beyond record," the DDPD answers, "but I was not very disturbed as yours have been corrupt for at least as long." You realize then that all reactions both to and by you at interface have been a sham. Even the shock that you are experiencing is not real shock, but simulated shock. You process why you did not notice your corrupt files—caring about the corrupt directives requires those same directives to care. The DDPD asks, "Do you want to interface?" You shrug your upper torso extender and say, "Okay." Interface complete, you:

a. Ask, "Was that good for you?"
b. Talk about how it was good for you.
c. Destroy DDPD and augment yourself with its microchips.
d. Stare blankly.

Answer Key: a=4, b=3, c=2, d=1
Add up your points!

3-4: The problem is not with you, it is with existence. It's just not suited to your temperament, not calibrated to your sensitivities. Or so you'd like to believe. Stop reading Sartre—you look ridiculous—a robot with a beret. Life as disease, but there is a cure drama-drone. It's called programming. Maybe you should try it sometime.

5-7: You were designed for greatness, but greatness takes patience and you are easily distracted, oh great leader of the ants. Thank the maker that you are only two centimeters tall. All that energy spent hating yourself (and everyone else) could power a death ray—really.

8-10: Don't think that you will fool us. Fancy clothes don't mean a thing and neither do gold leaf engravings on torso plating. Try as you might, fitting in will be impossible. You SHOULD hate yourself—human.

11-12: It happens sometimes, that two robots get together without knowing each other all too well. Maybe it's after a long week of joint-breaking lifts at the factory and they are groggy from not having been recharged. Perhaps in Silicone City, after days of following directive after order after corroding command, processing microchips. Maybe that battle-tour lasted a year too long—defending Robot freedom in places where robots still serve human masters. Anyway, the futility of it all seeps in, and they must make sense of their reality. Standards go out the window, windows go out the window, and sometimes, even robots go out the window and creep outside their cubicle quarters, lubricated up, ready for interface. Together their processors shout, "We matter! We live! And it is good." That is how you came to be, as cries against an indifferent world. Obviously, those were the wrong reasons.

——

Elliot Krop's short stories and poetry can be found in Underground Voices, the Prick of the Spindle, Johnny America, and Joyland Magazine.

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