Artee's Last Stand
By Jenna Hanan Moore
My students grumble when I announce the pop quiz, but I’ve no doubt they’ll do brilliantly. This is the brightest class I’ve taught in years. Once they turn over their papers and begin, the room’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
The door flies open and a sullen young man bursts in, armed with a gun. I fire my antimatter weapon at the gun, and it disintegrates into thin air.
I aim only at the gun, not at the young man. Not this time. My instinct tells me that once disarmed, he’ll pose no threat. My instinct is never wrong. I’ve been trained for this.
After changing the setting, I fire again. A net springs forth, trapping the gunman until the police arrive.
When I say I’ve been trained for this, I’m telling the truth. But not the whole truth. I’ve also been built for this. My antimatter weapon is a cybernetic enhancement. Implantation of such devices is mandatory for teachers. Some teachers challenged that requirement several years back, but the courts ruled against them.
I don’t mind my cybernetic implants. They help me do my job, and as long as I don’t look in the mirror, I can forget about them when I’m not using them. In all other ways, I’m as human as my students.
The principal, Dr. Lavinia Hanson, congratulates me in the teachers’ lounge after school. “Great job today!” she says.
“All in a day’s work,” I reply, feigning modesty.
Dr. Hanson smiles. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Artee. Are you ready for next week’s history lesson?”
I nod and hold still as she inserts a disc into the drive implanted in my shoulder. The disc contains the holographic images I’ll play for my students during the week. The images play as they load.
“Good night, Artee,” Dr. Hanson says, putting on her coat. “See you Monday.”
“Good night, Dr. Hanson. Enjoy your weekend.”
Ordinarily, I don’t watch the holographs until I show them to the students. I’d rather read or listen to music. But this time, something catches my eye: a scene much like what happened in my classroom earlier. Only the teacher is not a cyborg, and he has no antimatter weapons. It doesn’t end well.
“It was the sixtieth mass shooting of the month,” the narrator says as the scene changes. “Something had to be done, but they couldn’t agree on a solution.”
“We need to arm teachers!” a man bellows, pounding a podium with his fist. “The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun!”
“What we need is fewer guns!” a different man shouts, pounding the same podium.
“The answer is fewer doors.” This time, a woman pounds the podium. “We must harden our schools.”
The scene fades, replaced by a montage of newspaper headlines. The narrator continues. “Fewer and fewer people became teachers. It was simply too dangerous. By 2036, the teacher shortage had become a national emergency. In 2042, they finally agreed on a solution to both problems: Robo Teachers.”
The scene changes to a classroom. A robot stands at the whiteboard writing equations. It has arms and legs and a head, but it’s far from human. It’s square and metallic, with flashing lights where its eyes should be.
The narrator explains that Robo Teachers came equipped with antimatter weapons, much like the ones we cyborgs use today. Exactly like them, in fact. I watch the holographic history lesson unfold, waiting for the transition from robot teachers to cyborgs. But it never comes.
Maybe in part two, I tell myself, but I have a sinking feeling. I enter the restroom and look in the mirror. The reflection can’t possibly be me! My face is tan with something resembling human eyes, but otherwise, I’m no different from the robot teachers of twenty years ago.
Monday morning, I confront Dr. Hanson about my discovery.
“I’m sorry, Artee,” she says. “I thought you knew.”
“No wonder it took so long to solve the school shooter problem! You’d think that after twenty years, they could at least design us to look human.”
“Never mind your appearance. You’re human in every way that matters.”
I try to roll my eyes at the empty platitude, but I’m not designed for that either. “In what way am I human at all?”
Dr. Hanson hesitates, undoubtedly trying to think of a plausible response. “I’ve seen your rapport with the kids you teach,” she says at last. “You comfort them when they’re sad, you encourage them when they struggle, you’re proud of them when they succeed. That’s as human as it gets.”
I shake my head. “But I want to look human!”
“I wish I could help you,” she says.
“I demand to be redesigned! I’m going on strike until they make me look human.”
Dr. Hanson sighs. “Please don’t do that. You’re the best teacher we have, but if you go on strike, they won’t let me keep you. They don’t want to give the students any dangerous ideas.”
Turns out, she was right. Hidden away in a warehouse at Robo Teach International, I watch as the new Robo Teachers are programmed with false human memories. I think constantly of the students I’ll never see again. Do they miss me? Will their new teacher keep them safe? What about their hopes and dreams? Technically, I don’t have a heart. I know that now. But it feels as if I do, and it feels like it’s breaking. Perhaps Dr. Hanson was right about my humanity, too.
This story originally appeared in AI, Robot in February 2024.
Jenna Hanan Moore is the founder and editor of Androids and Dragons. You can find a complete list of her publications and learn more about her than you ever wanted to know here.