Let's Play Choice of Robots: Run 1

[useantibioticgel]

Choice of Robots is, more or less, a detailed CYOA game about robots and things to do with them as written by Kevin Gold, a PhD in computer science. The game is published by Choice of Games, a company specializing in text-based CYOA choice games. As described on their website:

The robots you design will change the world! Will you show them the true meaning of love, or conquer Alaska with your robot army?

Choice of Robots is an epic 300,000-word interactive sci-fi novel by Kevin Gold, where your choices control the story. It's entirely text-based—without graphics or sound effects—and fueled by the vast, unstoppable power of your imagination.

Play out thirty years of your life as a brilliant robot maker, from graduate school near the present day to a future in which your robots have changed everything. Depending on your choices, your robots may be independent or obedient, clumsy or graceful, empathic or cold…and you yourself may live to an old age happily married or alone with only robots to comfort you.

Play as male or female, gay or straight, with nine characters to romance, four alternate climax chapters, and over seventy achievements to unlock.

Choices are presented frequently, and text in between is often short. For this first run I'm tentatively starting out with a base to demonstrate how the game works, then proceeding in short updates of varying length based on what choices need to be made. Pace will be figured out somewhere along the way, and likely sped up on subsequent playthroughs.

To vote on choices I'll be adding polls. Vote for one to (n-1) options. You can vote for 0 or n options too, but you're not accomplishing much if you do. I'll exercise my own judgment in the case of a tie. (By which I mean I'll be appealing to the random number gods about 95% of the time.)

This will not be a comprehensive LP of the game, but we'll see how much we do or don't cover.

Prologue

Where are you?
> In the court of the Egyptian god Anubis, answering for my sins.
> On a war-torn battlefield, with a robotic Statue of Liberty.
> On a cliff in Ireland, watching the sun set with a robot companion.
> On a utopian beach ruled by a godlike cloud of robots.

Might as well start with the scenario in the game art.

Sitting on a seaside cliff in Ireland, watching the sunset, is the robot companion you always wanted.
> He proposed to me at this very spot.
> She proposed to me at this very spot.
> He and I travel the world together, exploring.
> She and I travel the world together, exploring.

Yes, you two are the best of friends. (++Empathy) (+Autonomy)

She is clothed in a loose-fitting red tunic, and she shoots you a puckish, friendly look. You sit down beside her to watch the sunset together.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," you say.

"Actually, I'm still waiting," she says with a slight smile. "For you to build me."

"I can do that?" you say.

She looks sad for a moment. "Yes, but it will take a lot out of you." She puts her hand on yours. "But I promise you that if you give your humanity to me, then I will give it back one day."

"I don't understand," you say.

"Just remember that no great thing happens without sacrifice," she says. "And, I'm sorry."

Some things are in our control and others not.
—Epictetus

Chapter 1: Assembly

You awaken with your head on a desktop keyboard. Your 3D drafting program is still open, the schematic zoomed in to the recess where your smartphone will snap into its back to act as its brain. You recall fiddling with that part endlessly last night, until finally, your vision began to fade, there was a roaring in your ears, and you realized you had been working far, far too long. You must have passed out.

It's the fall of 2019. You're a twenty-four-year-old graduate student in the Ph.D. program in Computer Science at Stanford. And you're a...

> Guy.
> Girl.

Whose name is...

> Susan.
> Ada.
> Grace.
> Sophia.
> Hypatia.
> Marie.
> Cynthia.
> Here, I'll type it for you.

Ada is of course a reference to Ada Lovelace, often named as the first computer programmer due to her work on Charles Babbage's analytical engine. If we're going to pioneer robots of any kind, it's a worthy name.

And your last name is...
> Tesla.
> Calvin.
> Tezuka.
> Goldberg.
> !Kwane. The exclamation point is a click.
> Nguyen.
> Kim.
> Doniec.
> None of these is my last name. I'll type it.


You look around your apartment. What does it look like?
> My Battlebots trophy is perched on a widescreen TV equipped with the latest video game consoles.
> Neatly labeled plastic shelving units sit on a 3D-printer-equipped robot workbench.
> Busts of famous philosophers sit next to my own attempts to sculpt them.
> My shelves display all of the strange little robotic creatures I've made over the years.

We're all nerds here.

Yes, you're a competitive person by nature, and you grew interested in artificial intelligence by coding AI for games. When your high school fielded a team for a local Battlebots competition, sponsored by the nearby defense contractor, you eagerly took up the challenge and won with an aggressive bot that would ram the enemy bot while it was still figuring out where it was. You continue to compete at the college level. (++Military)

It strikes you for a moment that this kind of thinking about how your life affects your robots is second nature to you, though others might find it peculiar. You've always been fascinated by how every little detail of your life, from the content of your dreams to the decor of your room, changes the inputs to the robots you create—boosts their Empathy, or Autonomy, or Grace, or appeal to the Military. Surely, there are other things going on around you as a result of your decisions, but they don't immediately strike you in the same way.

Today, your robot is foremost on your mind because you're about to build its body.

You pick up your laptop and head for the Stanford machine shop.

It is a beautiful spring day in Palo Alto, California, and your apartment is only a short walk from the machine shop. But the streets of Palo Alto are not designed for walking; you find yourself climbing around palm trees and balancing on narrow curbs, as you do every day.

You hear a low roar overhead: glancing up, you see it's a flying car—a Nimbus. A little over three hundred thousand dollars can buy you a car with wings that fold out, so that it becomes a small sport plane. The red Nimbus looks sleek and sporty; it's the sort of car its owner takes religiously to the car wash. Though the commercials would have you believe you can fly anywhere you want in those cars, the FAA still requires them to take off and land from airports. Only here in wealthy Silicon Valley do you see them with any frequency. The first time you saw one, you couldn't quite believe the future had arrived so quickly.

But the second time you saw one, you thought...
I will own one of those one day. I swear it.
If I ever make that much money, I'll use it to help the world instead of buying that car.
> Why aren't those flying cars driving themselves?

Personally I can't wait for a future where we have self-driving cars.

Occasionally, you see a self-driving car on the roads of Palo Alto. But, for some reason, they still haven't caught on quite as much as one would expect, despite having been around at least as long as the flying cars. You've decided it's because people just don't trust self-driving cars enough. It's important to make your robots seem trustworthy; intelligence alone doesn't instill trust. (+Empathy)

The Stanford University fabrication shop smells like oil and burnt plastic. The room is dominated by large, metal, hand-cranked milling machines and lathes, dinosaurs of the twentieth century, while the most-used machines are the smaller 3D printers and computer-controlled water jet cutters that take a quarter of the space. The lights have the sterile fluorescence of an operating room, with only a single, tiny window near the ceiling to inform you that it is day.

You start up a National Public Radio podcast on your laptop. You haven't seen your advisor much since you joined the lab, so you choose the episode in which he's the interviewee.

"My guest today is Doctor Harvey Ziegler," says a woman with a soothing voice. "Doctor Ziegler, thank you for talking with us today."

"Well, a scientist does have some responsibility to inform the unwashed masses, Terry."

You let the podcast run as you walk over to the 3D printers.

What material have you decided to use for your robot?
> Plastic. It may break easily, but it's both lightweight and cheap.
> Metal. It is the most resistant to damage.
> Wood. It is the most pleasing to the hand and eye.

Though wood is an unconventional choice for a robot, wooden automata go back to the ancient Greeks at Alexandria. In Japan, they were called the karakuri ningyo. While the other machines in this room can create things that are beautiful in their own way, your favorite machine is the 3D printer that extrudes a wooden filament mixed with plastic, a mixture called laywood. (+Grace)

"Dr. Ziegler, in your new book, you talk about the Singularity. Could you describe for our listeners what that is?"

"Terry, the Singularity is the coming time when artificial intelligences will have figured out how to make themselves—and us—smarter. Once that happens, the process will build on itself until the robots are smart enough to figure out how we can live forever."

"Is that possible?" the interviewer asks. "Living forever?"

"Of course," Professor Ziegler says. "What does it matter whether our operating systems are made out of meat or silicon?"

"So you're predicting we'll become robots."

"Not exactly," Ziegler says. "But I do think the line between humans and robots will blur."

You are hardly listening to the podcast, because you're about to make your first robot part.

What does the head of your robot look like?
> A human face, as lifelike as I can make it.
> A simple box with eyes, clearly not trying to be anything but a robot.
> It will be felt-covered and big-eyed, like a puppet, so people will not be afraid of it.
> It will have a ring of cameras around its head for a 360-degree view.
> It will look like a Venetian mask: beautiful, expressionless, and otherworldly.

The 3D printer is only creating the frame now, so it actually looks a little disturbing, like a puppet skull. When the frame is done, you decide to glue down the cloth immediately, and attach the big, plastic eyes that make your robot look friendly and innocent. Ah! Much better. (++Empathy) (-Military)

"Dr. Ziegler, what makes you think the Singularity will happen now?"

"Well, for one thing, I'm around. But seriously. My lab is taking a unique approach because we're saying: why not teach a robot like a child? We're going to equip the robot with the best sensors money can buy and teach it English. Then it could rapidly teach itself using the Internet."

Well, that's annoying. Your advisor thought that a robot child was a stupid idea until you told him Turing proposed it back in 1950, minus the Internet part. But he isn't giving credit to either of you! You keep working, regardless.

How will your robot get around?
> It will walk upright on two legs.
> It will crawl on eight legs.
> It will roll on wheels.
> It will fly like a helicopter.
> It will roll on tank treads.
> It will walk upright but will also have delicate wings it can use for balance.

Wheels aren't to be underestimated as a method of transport, you think—they're easily maneuverable, fast, and versatile. (+Grace) You opt for a three-wheeled approach for maximum stability. As the 3D printer creates your robot's cylindrical torso, you realize your robot will remind people of R2D2.

You use the basic, hand-cranked milling machines to drill holes in the head for screws, since 3D printers aren't the best for threaded holes.

"And who is going to raise this robotic child?" the interviewer asks.

"Who does all the grunt work in a research laboratory?" Professor Ziegler says. "The graduate students, of course."

You find yourself wanting to reply to the podcast.
> "It's not grunt work. Education is critical to the robot's development."
> "We also do all of the real science."
> "Perhaps you could learn something from doing a little grunt work yourself, Professor Ziegler."

I could put a choice here (it affects our relationship stat with our good professor), but the fact that we're being set up is evident enough. For now, let's not burn our bridges before we've even gotten our robot running.

"Graduate students always overestimate the degree to which teaching actually matters," says Professor Ziegler, who appears to have entered the machine shop behind you when you weren't looking. "If the robot's smart, it'll learn no matter what, and if it's not, it won't."

Professor Ziegler is a heavyset man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and aviator sunglasses. He stalks over to your computer. "We'll be back in a moment," continues the interviewer. "We're talking with Professor-"

Professor Ziegler pauses the podcast by hitting your laptop's spacebar, and you flinch at this intrusion. He then pulls a cigar from his pocket and lights it, and the smell of smoke mingles with the oily smell of the machine shop.

"I'm writing a grant for DARPA and I need to see what you're making back here. We ultimately get funded by the Department of Defense, so we have to make sure they're happy with our product." He casts a critical eye on the work you've done so far.

"This is a prototype, right?" he says. "You're going to build the final thing out of metal?"
> "Yes, sir." (And I'm telling the truth.)
> "Yes, sir." (But I'm lying.)
> "No, but we could certainly say it's a prototype in the grant."
> "My robot is supposed to be a thing of beauty, not a tool of destruction."

Voting came to no consensus (the perils of small audiences) so I appealed to the random number gods. The random number gods want us to please our advisor like a good grad student.

You decide the material doesn't matter to you enough to fight about it with your advisor, and you'll probably benefit from a second pass at the construction anyway. You transfer the 3D model files to the water jet cutter and begin cutting new pieces. (-Grace) (+Military)

Professor Ziegler turns to examining your robot's head, which is currently sitting on the table next to the 3D printer.

"You've got to be kidding me," Ziegler says. "I am not selling a Muppet to DARPA."

"It's not for them," you say. "It's for kids. It's supposed to be a pleasant presence around the house. Why are you so fixated on DARPA? Can't we get funding from the National Science Foundation?"

"NSF grants are a killing field," Ziegler grouses. "The amounts of money are tiny compared to defense research, and you have to be the best of the best to get any funding at all."

You privately wonder if that's just Professor Ziegler's perception. You decide to try to apply to an NSF grant if you can find the time.

In the US, military funding is indeed more plentiful and easier to get. Back when I was doing work on tutoring system software my boss told me we were partially funded by some military grant because of some stretched rationale I don't even remember, for this exact reason. God bless America.

"And what are you planning to do for arms and hands?" Professor Ziegler says.
> "Tyrannosaurus rex was the most intimidating dinosaur imaginable, wasn't it? It will have T. rex arms."
> "It will have a gun for an arm. Like Mega Man!"
> "Mechanical grippers built for strength instead of dexterity."
> "I was thinking sort of Swiss Army knife hands with tools that pop out of the fingers."
> "I plan to build a soft hand with a good sense of touch."
> "I was thinking, why just two arms? It will have lots of arms springing out of its back, like Inspector Gadget."

"I like it," Professor Ziegler says. "It could repair other robots on the battlefield."

"Right, it'll have a screwdriver finger, a lockpicking finger, a mini-USB port finger…" You decline to mention the bottle opener, though you think that could be popular with soldiers, too. (+Military) Regardless, experience with a variety of different tools should prove useful in more than just military robots. You wonder if you could make a surgical robot with the same design. (++Grace)

"Fine," Ziegler says, waving away further explanation. "Carry on, then." He turns to leave. "I've got to go take a call from a New York Times reporter. Funny how journalists all copy each others' stories, but each garble the message in a unique way."

He makes it to the door, then turns and says, "Oh, one more thing. Do you think your robot can be ready by tomorrow? Someone from the Air Force will be in town, and I told her your robot might be ready to show off by then."

You feel your phone vibrating in your pocket. Hmm, bad timing. You resist the urge to check it while talking to your advisor. But it's probably someone with a better offer for what to do tonight.
> "No, there's no way this robot will be done by tomorrow. Sorry."
> "The robot will be done, but a demo will be out of the question. We need to test first."
> "Of course."

Professor Ziegler grudgingly nods. "I can see the logic of that. Maybe we'll just send her a demo video. Then it only has to work once."

Professor Ziegler turns and walks out of the machine shop.

You find yourself unclenching your hands.

Who was calling you while Professor Ziegler was talking to you?
> Elly Lao, a user experience designer and supportive friend.
> Eiji Aomame, a manga artist and generally good guy.
> My ambitious friend Josh Anderson, founder of the startup U.S. Robots.

Elly and Eiji generally have the same role in the story - we just get to choose the gender of our non-Josh friend. Our votes were even between Elly and Eiji. I'm choosing Elly for this playthrough, partially because I'm biased and envision her as an older/Asian Kat Donlan, Actual Robot Goddess and also for an even gender split among our two friends here:

From the missed call, your phone is displaying Elly's profile photo. It's a picture of Josh and Elly from the freshman welcome week dance, seven years ago. Elly is wearing a red, Chinese dress with gold trim, her long, straight, black hair falling down to the epaulets. The flash is too bright in the picture, making Elly's pale skin look washed out. Josh is wearing his usual gray hoodie, not having bothered to dress up for the dance, and his arm is around Elly.

What is the story behind that picture?
> I was in love with Josh's friend Elly—but my studies always came first in college.
> I was in love with Josh, but I never knew how to be more than a friend to him.
> I had agreed to be Josh's wingperson at the dance, and that's where he met Elly.
> I was testing a music recognition algorithm when those two started bothering me.

This not is a romantic commitment, but the answer does affect our relationship stats with both Elly and Josh. For once, this one was a unanimous vote! (Population size: 2.)

Yes, you pined after Elly in college, but knew that you would not have the time to pursue romance—not while you were taking five classes, some of them graduate work. (+Grace) (+Autonomy) That photo is from one of the dances during freshman orientation, before you had homework; you never went to another one. You continue to hope that someday, your perseverance and dedication will pay off. But a little part of you still longs for Elly. It's a part you fear, and even though she's working just an hour away in San Francisco, you haven't seen her much recently.

You notice that Elly also left you a text. Elly wants to meet for dinner at a jazz and sushi place in San Francisco, which is about an hour north of you. She also has tickets to a rendition of the musical Pippin in which most of the characters are robots.

Sounds like a date. That's a little terrifying.

You text back...
> "Sounds great, see you then!"
> "Afraid I can't tonight, sorry."
> "Busy tonight, but do you want to come by tomorrow to see the robot?"
> I don't reply—I'd prefer to pretend I missed the text.

Votes were split again. RNG wants us to go on the maybe-date with Elly.

"Great!" Elly texts back. "See you then!"

You spend the rest of the day drilling holes, polishing surfaces, cutting parts, and screwing things together.

When you are done, your robot's body stands before you: a metal three-wheeled robot with a puppet head and multitool hands. The whole thing is about three feet tall.

Now it only needs a name. What will you name your robot?
> Pickle.
> Curry.
> Miku.
> Wheelie.
> Trisk.
> Cuisinart.
> Killall.
> Ariel.
> Caliban.
> Famulus.
> Gardyloo.
> I'd prefer to come up with my own robot name.

You name your robot Wheelie. Because it has wheels. Yeah.

Well, if we're going with Sesame Street R2D2 it works.

Now that Wheelie has a body, it might be time to treat Wheelie more like a person. With what pronouns will you refer to Wheelie?
> "It" is just fine. It's not human.
> I will refer to her as feminine.
> I will refer to him as masculine.
> I would prefer to use entirely new pronouns for robots: rhe, rer, and rhim.

Encouraging people to think of Wheelie as humanlike, as opposed to objectlike, should help her get along with people. (+Empathy)

You look on Wheelie's three-foot-tall three-wheeled body with satisfaction. Now all she needs are motors and a mind. The motors will have to wait for tomorrow, but you've spent years in graduate school writing the code that would form this robot's mind—you can hardly wait to try it out.

In another timeline there would be more questions about how to build Wheelie, but instead we're ditching her to eat sushi and watch robot Pippin with Elly.

You take out your smartphone to check the time: it's almost evening. You hurry home to prepare for your dinner with Elly.

A contemplative sax solo greets you as you open the door to Yoshi's. The place is a little cramped and very busy. A tiny jazz quartet has set up in the far corner of the restaurant—piano, drumset, sax, and a petite Japanese woman in a kimono holding a mic but directing her attention to the soloist.

Near the band, Elly Lao is reading a book at her table. She's dyed her hair rose red—that's new. Her straight locks come down to her jaw. She has pale skin, but her eyes look Pacific. She's wearing a black cardigan over a lavender top, a black-and-white checkered skirt, and leather shoes. Her book is titled The Design of Everyday Things, and its cover depicts a red teapot with its spout facing the same way as the handle.

You join her at the table. "Hey."

She looks up and smiles. "Hey!" She leans down to put her book in her purse.

"What have you been up to?" Elly asks.

"I've been working all day on a new robot," you reply. "Just the frame's built right now but I wish I'd had time to add motors and start its mind running today. It probably could have learned a lot from even this conversation."

She casts you a skeptical look. "What would you hope it to learn, exactly?"
> "The rhythm of normal social interaction."
> "How to reconnect with an old friend."
> "How not to talk to a girl. Negative examples are important."

She grins. "Right on! I had the same idea."

"Do you want to come by tomorrow and see her after I power her on?" you ask. "It's going to be really cool."

Elly shrugs. "Sure, sounds good. It is a Sunday tomorrow, after all. And I'm curious to see you interacting with one of your robots. You used to rave about them all the time, but I don't think I ever saw one." Elly cocks her head to one side. "What is it with you and robots, anyway?"

> "Haven't you ever wanted to change the world?"
> "I think I just find them comforting, somehow. Like very confused pets."
> "I think you'll find I'm not the most introspective person in the world."

Elly tilts her head, considering you. "Yes. Definitely." She looks as though she wants to ask something else.

"Are you two ready to order?"

You've both hardly looked at the menu, so you have to tell the waitress to come back. The tastiest maki rolls look like they're named after jazz standards. When the waitress returns, you tell her you'll have...

> The Invitation.
> The Don't Get Around Much Anymore.
> The Paper Moon.

When the waitress leaves, Elly says, "'Paper Moon' is such a cute song." She sings, "'But it wouldn't be make believe if you believed in me!'" She considers you. "Doesn't surprise me—you're the sort of person who wants to make dreams real."

"Thanks," you say.

You're beginning to think she might like you. Like, like-like. Score!

"So okay," she says. "Let's say that you succeed. Robots are among us. What's good about that? What do you want them to do?"

> "They could do all kinds of things for us. Do the dishes, mow the lawn…"
> "I think it would be interesting to have someone to talk to that isn't a human being. I wonder what they'd say."
> "If I said 'take over the world,' would you think I was crazy?"
> "I just want to make something beautiful."

I've still got the reins for this choice, and when I do I'll try and stay consistent with Ada as we've established her so far.

Elly smiles. "That's pretty cool. Though, there are all kinds of people in the world who are very different from you. Do you try to talk to them?"

> "Sure. I like meeting new people. But a robot would be different."
> "No, good point."
> "Come on. You and I both know most people are boring."

"Different how?"

You shrug. "I don't know. That's what I want to find out."

Elly nods. "You're crazy, all right," she says. Her pleased smile makes it seem like a compliment.

The waitress brings your order of Paper Moon maki and you dig in to eat.

Just then, your phone buzzes. You take it out to glance at it: it's reporting malware on your phone's memory card.

"Is something wrong?" Elly asks.

"One sec." You quickly glance at the warning details. Apparently, some kind of virus has decided to take control of your phone's microphone. It appears to be sending the packets of audio data somewhere.

Huh. Of all the times to get a security warning on your phone. Who the heck would want to listen to your conversation? You really can't think of anyone.

> Power off the phone and don't worry about it.
> Ask to search Elly's phone for evidence of similar malware.
> Just keep copies of the data as it transmits—it'll be useful for training Wheelie.

"Can I see your phone for a second?" you ask.

Elly visibly tenses. "Why?"

"I just got a weird security warning. I thought maybe you'd see the same thing."

"Unlikely." Elly shows you her phone. "Apple?"

You show her yours. "Android."

"Thought so."

You grin. "Likewise."

You blurted that without really thinking about it—of course Elly would be an Apple user—and now you sort of regret it, like maybe this is a thing that would come between you, the way people who owned Gamecubes when you were young were just a little standoffish from the Playstation owners and vice versa. You suppose you could insist on checking her phone for malware, but it might seem a little crazy at this point.
> Press to see Elly's phone, stating that someone appears to be listening to the conversation.
> Just ask to see Elly's phone again but don't mention the audio recording part.
> Let it be.

Elly refuses, looking distraught that you asked. "Sorry. A phone is really personal."

"I understand."

You continue the meal chatting about random topics and enjoying the food.

Elly talks about how it's difficult to meet new people after graduating from college. Since Elly is half Asian, she runs into a surprising number of people doing online dating who are either Asian or white and can't accept that she's both. She looks to you meaningfully and appreciatively when she says this, until you finally realize she might be dropping a hint. In college, you had never quite believed someone like Elly would be interested in you. But apparently, she is.

Pippin turns out to be about the subject you've been thinking about the most lately: how to live an extraordinary life instead of an ordinary one. Elly sold you on this particular production because the supporting cast—everyone but Pippin and the love interest—are all robots. You can see in the play's opening number that the robots are following preprogrammed steps, and are not intelligent in themselves; but then, that doesn't surprise you. In 2019, artificial intelligence is still mostly being used for handy websites and smartphone apps, not robots.

The first song, "Corner of the Sky," is about Pippin's feeling that he doesn't belong anywhere, and wondering what the purpose of his life is. The robots, which look like imitations of Robbie the Robot from Forbidden Planet, are toiling at ordinary lives while Pippin sings about his wish for something better.

"This is called an 'I wish' song," Elly whispers to you. "I heard on This American Life that all musicals have to start with a song that is about what the protagonist longs for. It's like the unwritten rule of musicals."

You think for a moment about what your "I wish" song would be, and suddenly recall your conversation with the robot companion this morning: it was, perhaps, a peculiar sort of "I wish" song. You think of Wheelie's new frame you built today. You suppose whatever future that dream was hinting at, you still have a long way to go.

It occurs to you that if you're interested in Elly, now would be a good time to hold her hand.

> Do it.
> Lame! I put my arm around her instead.
> I am not getting any signals that she wants to be more than friends. No.

She casts a surprised glance your way but smiles and seems pleased. Yes!

The play goes through a series of vignettes in which Pippin leaves one lifestyle after another—he's not content to be a soldier, nor a king, nor a simple man in love. As Pippin sings about how he's going to leave the woman he met in the countryside to achieve something great, you think...

> He is right to leave a simple life to achieve something extraordinary.
> He is a fool to give up his love just because he has delusions of grandeur.

I know very little about Pippin but come on, we just got together with Elly.

You resolve that you will not be like this self-involved protagonist. You will, above all, live a good life, and if it means not making it into the history books, well, they can talk about someone else, for all you care.

You're pleased to see that Pippin makes the same choice: presented with a ring of fire to jump through to achieve greatness, he decides not to go through with it, and returns to his love. Isn't that the hero's journey, to come back to the place you knew and appreciate it? Why not love your home from the beginning?

But perhaps you're the sort of person who will get wrapped up in history whether you will it or not. Who knows?

Since the evening is going well, Elly asks to see more of your robots. "But that would mean going back to my place," you say, and then you say, "Oh."

You return to your apartment and flick on the light, somewhat embarrassed at the unmade bed and mess of clothes you've left on the floor.

"I'm sorry you couldn't see my robot in action tonight," you say. "Here, check this out." You show Elly a little, eight-legged robot with an old smartphone for a body.

"What is it with you and phone robots?" Elly asks.

"Well, I hate to throw out my old phone when my plan gives me a free one," you respond. "The processor's usually still as powerful as a desktop from a few years ago. So I use my old phones for robots. This one does simultaneous localization and mapping, or SLAM for short."

You power on the robot, and let it go on your floor. It promptly starts ramming the trash can next to your bed.

"SLAM, you say," Elly says, amused.

"It worked in college…."

"Isn't it a little dark in here?" Elly says. She peers up at your fishbowl-shaped light fixture. "I think one of the bulbs is out up there." She stands on a chair, quickly unscrews the light fixture, and hands it to you. Indeed, one of the two light bulbs underneath is out.

"Thanks," you say, a little embarrassed. The light fixture is also hella dusty.

"You have another?" she asks, unscrewing the dead bulb.

"No," you say, then an idea strikes you. "I think pickles are luminescent when you electrify them. I saw it on the Discovery Channel once. I have one in my fridge."

Elly gives you a dubious but curious look.

> "C'mon. Pickle."
> "You're right, it's probably not bright enough for the robot. I'll ask my neighbors for a CFL bulb."
> "Or we could just leave the lights off…."

There's only one way this is going to go.

Elly laughs. "Okay, sure."

You go into the fridge, find a rather large dill pickle of the kind sold at Renaissance Faires, and stick a couple of spare wires you have lying around into the ends as Elly watches with amusement. You put on some gloves to avoid electrifying yourself, and climb onto the chair beneath the light fixture.

(Note to player: Before engaging in any electrified pickle shenanigans yourself, be sure to go buy a copy of Penn and Teller's book, How to Play With Your Food. Please keep a copy of the book open to the page with the electrified pickle trick while attempting this stunt, preferably with a handwritten note that says something like, "I'm so glad I learned this trick from this book and not any product of Choice of Games LLC!")

"Be careful," Elly says as you wiggle the pickle into the socket.

Soon, your room is bathed in green light from your pickly sun. You jump down from the chair.

"That's weird and awesome," Elly says, grinning. "Like you."

We get an achievement for this!
Pickled: Electrified a pickle. How romantic!

Your phone-robot is now exploring the four corners of the room, showing curiosity about every stray piece of laundry on the floor. You realize that if you copy the map it makes, you could give Wheelie a head start on exploring the world tomorrow. (+Autonomy)

> Kiss Elly, then call it a night.
> Kiss Elly, then see if things can go farther.
> Hug Elly.

She enthusiastically returns the kiss.

"I should go," Elly says, checking her smartphone. "I'll miss the last train."

"All right," you say. "It was good seeing you."

"You too."

You invite Elly to watch you activate Wheelie tomorrow, and she happily agrees, though neither of you calls it a "date." You remain awake for much of the night, your mind racing with plans for what to show Elly tomorrow.

Chapter 2: Machine, Learning

Back to building Wheelie.

The next day, you take Wheelie's frame to the Stanford hacker space, which has more tools for electronics than the fabrication shop. None of the other students are around in the morning on a Sunday but the long stainless steel workbenches are littered with their strange, half-finished projects: a half-disassembled Furby, a potato gun, a circuit board connected to a houseplant.

Elly knows you'll need a little time with the motors, so she is coming in later.

You begin assembling the motors and wires that will power Wheelie's frame.

What will you use for a power source?
> A car battery. It's big and bulky but also inexpensive and locally made.
> A motorcycle battery: not quite as bulky nor as powerful as the car battery.
> A biodiesel engine. Good for the environment, and everybody likes the smell of French fries.
> Cell phone batteries made in China: lightweight and cheap while providing reasonable power. Clearly the best choice for a dexterous robot.

You're more environmentally and socially conscious than most inventors, ready to sacrifice some elegance in the name of saving the planet. You have your buckets full of leftover grease from nearby fast food restaurants all ready to go. People near Wheelie will find her smell of McDonald's French fries strangely comforting. (++Empathy)

You'll need a lot of motors to be able to power your full robot—in addition to the motors she needs when she rolls and the motors to power her multitool hands, she also needs motors for moving her head and eyes. But after speccing out the power available to you, you can still splurge by adding extra motors in one place. What will it be?

You can still splurge by adding extra motors in one place. What will it be?
> Extra degrees of freedom in the face for realistic facial expressions.
> In Wheelie's multitool hands for fine manipulation.
> I would prefer to save the power for Wheelie's mind.

You add several small motors to her thumbs, and a couple motors to each finger. Now she should be able to thread the eye of a needle. (++Grace)

It's about lunchtime when Elly enters the hacker space wearing a red blouse and polka-dot skirt fit for the summery weather outside.

She's carrying a translucent, blue container full of stuffed grape leaves, which she sets down on the countertop of half-finished projects.

"Hey, Ada!" she says. "I thought you might have forgotten about lunch, so I brought extra for you." She looks at Wheelie's frame with interest.

> "What are you working on, Elly?"
> "You brought lunch for me? Thank you—you shouldn't have!"
> "Hang on, I was in the middle of a thought…."

Showing appreciation for your girlfriend's efforts are good. Showing interest in her intellectual efforts is even better.

She smiles, pleased that you should take an interest. "I figured I could work on my own project while you work. I'm making a soil sensor. This Calathea ornata can get rootbound quickly, and it's finicky about its micronutrients. So this controller is going to do a little pressure sensing, and a little nutrient sensing."

It's easy to forget that Elly also went to MIT, except when she reminds you like this. You didn't quite realize gardening had its own technical jargon, and you're a little too embarrassed to admit that you don't know what "rootbound" means.

Elly examines Wheelie's body. "It's…kind of cute," she says. "I've got to hand it to you."

"Thanks," you say.

You take your smartphone out of your pocket and snap it into place in the core of the robot's frame.

Elly looks on with dismay. "Aren't you ever planning on calling anyone again?"

"I can always get a new one," you say. You then put the tiny periscope in place that will channel light from the robot's ostensible eyes to your smartphone's camera.

You start up the app that will bring your robot fully to life. A barbershop pole progress bar inches across the screen as the program systematically destroys all the other information on your phone to make room for Wheelie's working memory.

As the program is booting, you place Wheelie on the Formica floor, so that she is ready to move around.

When Wheelie's brain is done booting up, your smartphone's screen is simply a big, red button on your robot's back that says GO.

Wheelie slowly raises, then lowers, her multitool hands. She then makes a motion as if she's gathering energy near her chest to throw a fireball, but strikes an imploring pose instead.

"It's doing Tai Chi," Elly says, nonplussed. "Why is it doing Tai Chi?"

"It's sort of traditional in Japan to show off new robots' grace of movement by having them do interpretive dance," you explain. "It seemed like a good idea for letting her learn her motor parameters in a controlled way. Plus, if she does this whenever she wakes up in the morning, it's good practice for her motor control." (+Grace)

Wheelie completes her Tai Chi warmup with grace.

Elly claps. "I'm impressed!"

You feel pretty good about that. A whole flawless run the first time out means that your motor control code is pretty great.

Done with her Tai Chi forms, Wheelie rolls up to Elly. Elly cautiously waits for Wheelie to approach.

The robot does so and extends a hand, which itself is extending and retracting various knives, corkscrews, and tools. These all retract for the moment.

Elly relaxes and offers her hand. "Elly. Pleased to meet you, Wheelie."

They shake.

Is "Master" all right for what Wheelie calls you?
> "Master." Classic.
> No, Wheelie should call me by my first name.
> I prefer "Sensei."
> A simple "ma'am" will do.
> I'd like to type exactly what my robot should call me.

You decide to encourage Wheelie to be an individual, not your servant. "Please, call me Ada." (+Empathy)

"Yes, Ada."

"I'm impressed by how far you've come," Elly tells you. "I didn't know your robots could speak."

"These are still mostly stock phrases I programmed in," you say. "I need to train her to speak for real soon."

"You should show Josh," Elly says. "He'll be so excited."

You shrug. "Maybe I will," you say.

She gives you a kiss, which ends up turning into several kisses. She grins.

Then an idea strikes Elly: "Hey, are you interested in coming along with me to a volunteering event?"

"What's it about?" you ask.

"It's teaching science to elementary school kids." She points at Wheelie. "You could show them Wheelie! That would be perfect!"

Now would be a good time to show Wheelie to Josh, to see whether he's interested in funding her further development.
> I should show the robot to Josh.
> "Sure, let's go help some kids together. I don't know much about kids."
> I should fix the little things I noticed during the demo before I forget.
> I should probably get a new phone in case Mom wants to call tonight.
> I'd rather start teaching Wheelie words.

Elly seems pleasantly surprised. "You just finished your robot, and you're willing to drop everything to come with me and teach kids?"

"Yeah," you say with a shrug. "What can I say? I like hanging out with you."

Elly gives you a kiss for the compliment.

You keep Wheelie running, cradling her with one arm as you make your way to the local library with Elly. It's a typical, pleasant, sunny day in Palo Alto, and you wonder what it's like to be a robot looking up at the blue sky for the first time.

Wheelie appears particularly interested in the palm trees lining the path to the garage.
> I teach Wheelie words for things as we pass them.
> I ask Elly how she's adapting to Palo Alto.
> I just hold hands with Elly and chat about nothing.

"Palm trees," you tell Wheelie.

"Palm trees!" she says.

She speaks in...
> ...a monotone, like a classic robot.
> ...a sequence of autotuned notes, like human speech but more musical.
> ...a nasal, excitable voice, like a hyperactive munchkin with a cold.

Wheelie speaks with each syllable on a different note of a major scale, rising or falling in thirds and fifths when asking a question, expressing doubt, or providing a contrast. The lilting result sounds pleasant and a little otherworldly. (+Grace)

Wheelie turns her attention to the sky.

"White palm trees?" she asks.

"Clouds," you say.

"Clouds!" Wheelie says.

You think your word-learning code is working. Wheelie is learning to associate words with things. Of course, Wheelie might currently believe that most things are either clouds or palm trees but that's better than thinking everything is a palm tree.

Elly smiles encouragingly but you get the feeling she would have liked to talk to you on this walk, and Wheelie is sort of dominating the conversation. You briefly wonder if this is what it's like between parents of a newborn.

Wheelie turns her attention to the sun. Blinded, she panics and flails her multitool hands.

"Hey, look away," you say, guiding her head. "Don't look right at the sun."

She relents to your touch. (+Empathy)

"I never thought of you as…parental before," Elly says.

You shrug. "Learning mechanisms need feedback," you say, and Elly gives you a funny look in response.

The science mentoring program is a little rowdy when you get to the library's activity room, and the young librarian who had been stuck with babysitting until you and Elly got there is grateful for the relief.

Elly manages to calm the kids down long enough for a brief lesson on botany, showing the kids the plant project she'd been working on. But the kids keep looking at and asking about Wheelie.

Are you going to let Wheelie play with the kids?
> Hell, no! They are going to tear her apart. I'll just have Wheelie do a demo at the front of the class.
> Sure, I'll let her play with them. She's strong enough.
> I'll try to turn it around and have the kids teach Wheelie about science.

"I have an idea," you say. "Why don't all of you try teaching Wheelie something about science? Wheelie is trying to learn everything she can about the world right now."

You find that you have enough charisma in you to convince the students that this is a good idea, and Elly runs with your brilliant idea. Soon, the students are explaining to Wheelie all kinds of scientific facts, and the robot's questions make them think about things they take for granted.

"What is a cloud?" asks Wheelie, apparently inspired by the walk.

Many of the students look at each other in puzzlement but one girl says, "It's water."

"Why is it the case that the water does not fall?"

The students look to each other in puzzlement again, and Elly explains water vapor. She missteps and tries to talk about seeing the vapor they breathe out on a cold day, only to discover that many of these young Californians have never had that experience.

By the time the students leave, they and Wheelie have learned a fair amount from each other. (+Empathy)

This is actually a real strategy in education technology and research. I don't know a specific term for a mutual-learning case like Wheelie and the kids here, but there are programs that let kids learn by teaching what they know to a "teachable agent" that tries to make sense of what they're told. I don't have the background to talk extensively about it, but there are at least a few different attempts at teachable agents by different groups and universities. Mostly it's been done with virtual avatars, but according to a quick Google there has been some exploration into using a robot as the agent. More generally, one of the professors at my university (not Harvard, like in the linked paper) primarily studies human-robot interaction in relation to learning - which is kind of rad, isn't it?

As you leave the library, Elly thanks you again for volunteering. You think back to your seven-year-old self, the excitement of opening up a robot kit for the first time, and you feel good about it. Maybe you've sparked some robot dreams among those kids.

Feeling good about your accomplishments, you ask Elly out to dinner at a nice tapas bar in downtown Palo Alto. She agrees, and the two of you drop Wheelie off at your apartment before heading over.

The restaurant has no tables, so they seat you both at the bar. The two of you end up chatting so long that you stay for several drinks, and by the time you get to her apartment, you are both very giggly. The two of you have a very good time that night, and you can tell that Elly is very much in love with you.

The next morning, you return to your apartment to find Wheelie has thoroughly trashed it: shredded linens, a smashed monitor, and clothes scattered everywhere. Oops. That will cost a fair amount to repair. You find Wheelie in your closet, having gotten tangled in your laundry hamper. Perhaps this was a learning experience for her but you're starting to realize you aren't paying as much attention to her development as perhaps you should.

Then again, maybe Elly makes it all worthwhile.

The next day, the new semester begins. Though you're past the point of taking classes, you're a teaching assistant, and that means instead of doing one homework assignment, you grade fifty.

You're also busy writing a grant proposal for the National Science Foundation, trying to get an alternate source of funding that doesn't involve the military. Grant proposals are very long, it seems, and require you to make a lot of claims about things you don't actually know yet.

Thankfully, you still have time to see Elly every so often, though that takes up much of your remaining time. You always enjoy your dates, and you often hear people say you're a cute couple. Between your other time commitments, you're in danger of hardly seeing Elly at all. You had thought of yourself as developing a romance with Elly but it doesn't seem to be happening in practice.

As may be becoming evident, one of the major axes of choice revolves around how you do or don't balance your robotics and your human relationships. I've heard from older grad students that the later, dissertation-focused years are really isolating so this could be an easy trap to fall into. Get back to me in 4-5 years and maybe I can tell you from experience.

That said, if we neglect poor Wheelie too much things may not turn out too well for us in the future. Grad students have work to be responsible for, after all, and both our robot daughter Wheelie and our new girlfriend Elly are going to be relevant in the rest of our collective CYOA life.

> We'll just have to see each other a little less frequently—I'm really busy.
> I shouldn't be putting so much time into my advisor's grants.
> I shouldn't be spending so much time on Wheelie—Elly is a real person, after all.

Split vote again. RNG says to give a little on the academics.

You don't really see why you should be spending so much effort writing grants and sections of grants for Professor Ziegler—this is not the education you signed up for. You begin phoning it in a little bit when it comes to these documents, in an attempt to salvage your personal life.

As a result, you start to see Elly more again, and you feel comfortable referring to her as your "significant other."

You soon realize that, while you're busy, Wheelie could be learning from the Internet. The most important thing for machine learning is more data, and there's a lot of it out there.

Lately, there have been a lot of custom hard drives on the market that are good at quickly retrieving particular kinds of information. What sort of hard drive did you order for Wheelie's long-term memory?

> A media-enhanced hard drive, good for quickly recalling faces and memories of events.
> A multiblade hard drive that can efficiently store and query a giant amount of data.
> An encrypted and tamper-proof hard drive, making it more difficult for Wheelie to be tampered with or reverse-engineered.

Both in business and on the battlefield, it can be important not to leak secrets. Wheelie will have a hard drive that will give miscreants a hard time in reverse engineering your design. (++Military) However, encryption and decryption is slow, and sometimes there will be a noticeable lag before Wheelie can retrieve relevant memories. (-Grace) You lay Wheelie on your kitchen table, unbox the hard drive, and hook it up to her back. She squirms and flails her multitool hands as you do this.

Now it's time for Wheelie to learn about the great, wide world. You sit Wheelie down on one of your kitchen chairs and plug her into your apartment's high speed Internet jack.

How will Wheelie rapidly learn a lot about the world?
> She will trawl the Internet randomly, devouring whatever information she finds most interesting.
> She will watch a ton of television programming and movies from the Internet in fast forward.
> She will undergo a classic K-12 educational curriculum.
> She will quickly play all paths of a giant corpus of interactive fiction games.

You don't want your young robot growing up on junk, after all. You feed her the carefully selected and vetted reading list for the local school system. Because this is a relatively small data set, you have programmed her to make several passes over each grade level of material. At each grade level, as debug output, you have Wheelie report what she considers the most important thing she learns at each grade.

For kindergarten, Wheelie recites the alphabet and counts to a hundred.

For first grade, she says, "Reading helps you learn more."

And so on. Each grade takes about ten minutes to fully ingest, and is followed by an additional ten minutes of simulated experiences in which Wheelie tries to make friends, avoids bullies, learns swear words, endures assemblies and pep rallies, and gets picked last for dodgeball. As a result, Wheelie appears to be learning a little bit of everything. (+Autonomy) (+Empathy) (+Grace) (+Military)

She spends the most time of all considering twelfth grade, until she finally says, "Whether to exist or not is the most important question."

Wheelie didn't even have to deal with college applications to arrive at this question.

Wheelie blinks and looks at you. "What is the answer, Ada? Is it better to exist or not? Hamlet did not answer this for me."

You are so floored by the question, you are hardly able to speak. It worked!

Wheelie looks at you expectantly, wondering whether it is better to be or not to be.
> "It is better to be. There is so much in this world for you to experience!"
> "It is better not to be. But misery loves company."
> "There are some questions that are unanswerable."
> "That is a question you will have to decide for yourself."

"Ah. Good! Existence is better than non-existence. I will remember this, Ada." You've instilled a sense of optimism and a love of life in Wheelie, and that will help her make friends. (-Military) (++Empathy)

Another achievement!
Shakespearean: Discussed Hamlet's age-old question with your robot.

You establish a habit of bringing Wheelie with you to your office during the day, so that she can make use of Stanford's high-speed Internet connection while you write and grade papers. You then usually go to some public space after work so that Wheelie can play around in the real world. Where do you take Wheelie?
> The park playground. Wheelie will enjoy the playground equipment, and should learn to play well with others.
> The shooting range. Wheelie should learn to fire a gun.
> The dump. Wheelie could help me look for spare parts.

The other parents at the playground are somewhat divided about what to think about Wheelie. On the one hand, you have the parents who are in the tech industry, and who are often very excited to have their children interact with robots. They're surprised to see a robot like Wheelie, but maybe not as surprised as they should be; maybe they're just jaded by Wired articles and the popular press making it seem like Wheelie was possible ten years ago. On the other hand, some parents simply accept Wheelie's presence as just one of many things they don't quite understand.

The kids themselves don't really seem to care what their parents think; you've got the kids who cry when their parents shove them toward Wheelie, and the kids who want to stay when their parents pull them away. You can't really predict who's going to like Wheelie and who won't, but Wheelie seems to be learning, picking up on subtle cues, so that sometimes she says "goodbye" before the kid has even turned to run. (+Empathy)

You finish your grant proposal for the National Science Foundation, promising a robot that will be able to understand human emotion better than any robot that has come before.

A few weeks later, you find a form letter email in your inbox: We're sorry to inform you…many excellent applications this year…encourage you to apply again…

Discouragingly, you find that many of the reviewers talk about your advisor instead of you. Some of them barely seem literate, while others seem erudite but just didn't pay attention to what you wrote. The one thing that strikes you as directly aimed at you, though, is that a few of the reviewers essentially say that your work could be more focused. You're interested in too many things, one says. Science is about studying a very specific problem to death. It sounds like your robot wants to do everything.

You close your email client and sigh. You're in your office, and Wheelie is seated in your ever-absent officemate's chair with her eyes closed, listening to the information flowing through her Ethernet cable.

"Do you want to do and try everything, Wheelie?"

She peeks through one open eye. "Yes, Ada."

You nod. "Me too."

You're in your office contemplating what to do about this when Professor Ziegler opens the door without knocking. You smell the whiff of smoke on his Hawaiian shirt.

"We need to talk funding," Professor Ziegler says, grabbing a swivel chair to straddle the wrong way. He sidles up to Wheelie, whose eyes are closed as she explores the Internet through her Ethernet cable. When Ziegler's swivel chair squeaks, Wheelie perks up and looks at him, but Professor Ziegler pays her no attention. "Your robot here is simply not appealing enough to DARPA," Professor Ziegler says. "It's too…friendly."

Wheelie sinks a little in her chair. Professor Ziegler pays her no heed.

"Now, in crafting a message, you just have to make sure the audience doesn't hear more than one thing at a time," Professor Ziegler says. "Right now, we're saying two things…this is a good robot for military, and this is an emotional robot. What we need to do is tone down the emotional part, so that the military angle comes through more. You might think we need more military. We actually just need it to be less emotional. Very easy."
> "You're asking me to reduce Wheelie's Empathy from 16 to 6? No way. Not happening."
> "I suppose if it's the only way I'll complete my education, I'll do it."
> "Can't I just turn her arm into a gun or something?" (My offer is sincere.)

With no NSF grant and no other robotics people we know who can offer funding (i.e., Josh) and having lost the good professor's slight favor after phoning it in on the NSF grant proposals...our ability to graduate may be at stake here. On the other hand, Wheelie is our robot daughter. Is a degree worth whatever changes we could make to appeal to the military?

Two out of three voters don't believe so.

Professor Ziegler's eyes narrow. "You privileged students are all the same. You think this is all for your benefit. But someone pays your salary at the end of the day. Or at least, he used to."

"Wait…used to?" you ask.

"I'm letting you go," Professor Ziegler says. "You're too much of a problem student. You're done here."

"You're…firing me?" you demand. "But I'm a student! You can't fire me."

"I can stop supporting your tuition and ensure you don't graduate," Ziegler says. "It amounts to the same thing."

"I'll find a different advisor," you say impulsively.

"Good luck with that," Ziegler says. "They'll ask me what kind of student you were and I'll tell them. You were a problem."

You look back and forth between Wheelie and Professor Ziegler in disbelief. "You have no idea what Wheelie can do, even! I never showed you…."

"Get it through your head!" Professor Ziegler suddenly barks. "I don't need you. I can find other graduate students. So can everybody else."

"Wheelie, say something."

Wheelie looks back and forth between you and your advisor, who is ostentatiously practicing disinterest in Wheelie. She hesitantly suggests, "Estimated strength of relationship between Ada and Professor Ziegler: 30."

"I'm just trying to be brutally honest with you," Professor Ziegler says. "There is no point in getting a Ph.D. after you stop getting along with your advisor. Take your consolation prize Master's. You're done here."

He leaves your office and you realize that he is probably right. There really is no point in staying with him any more. Your classes are done, and you never really learned anything from Professor Ziegler at all, except the ways in which graduate school is unfair.

"Please help me pack my things," you say softly to Wheelie.

She does.

You spend the next few days preparing to move. Professor Ziegler has reported to the registrar that you are no longer a student, and the school's bureaucracy has quickly decided it is illegal to let you stay in on-campus housing. Elly helps you move.

"Completely ridiculous," Elly says, struggling with an extremely heavy box labeled BOOKS. "This can't be how science is supposed to work! You should sue!"

"It's okay, Elly," you say. "I don't really need the degree. I've got Wheelie and that's what counts."

But you can tell Elly is troubled by the idea that the military's influence apparently destroyed your promising academic career.

While you are busy carrying a heavy box, with Elly carrying the other end, you get a call on your new cell phone, which you have now had ample time to purchase. When you have set the box down, you check your voicemail.

"Hey, Ada, this is Mark over at sfchronicle.com. I've heard you have an interesting robot that you've been taking to the park and I'd love to do a story about it. Give me a call back." He lists a number and the message ends.

You glance over at Wheelie, who looks distant as she listens to the wi-fi signal floating through the ether.

"Whois service says sfchronicle.com is registered to the San Francisco Chronicle," says Wheelie. "The San Francisco Chronicle is a newspaper that started its website in 1994. Twenty-fourth in national circulation." She looks at you with interest. "Mark is a reporter."

Well, that's interesting. If Professor Ziegler cares so much about his image, then tarnishing that image would be one way to get back at him.

"Bayesian reasoning over publication rates suggests reporter's full name is Mark Ali," Wheelie says with her eyes closed. "Mark's article with most social media likes is 'How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love DARPA.' Article explains that DARPA stands for Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency." She hesitates for a moment. "Aforementioned article appears to contradict title. Reporter does not seem to have stopped worrying. Adjectives that bind to nouns describing DARPA and its projects: 'Crazy.' 'Orwellian.' 'Imperialistic.' Overall sentiment analysis is negative."

"Thank you, Wheelie," you say. You look the guy up on your phone. The picture you find of the stubbly, young, Egyptian man with tousled, black hair, hipster glasses, and a cigarette between his lips is probably outdated, but the disrespect for authority the man radiates is probably timeless.

You admit, a part of you has always wanted to be famous. But you suspect this reporter also has done his homework about your advisor, and he may already have an intended angle for this story.

Still, nobody on the planet has a robot as amazing as yours. Isn't it time you told the world about her?

You play the message back again a few times, mulling it over.
> I call Mark back and set up an interview.
> Media attention is just a distraction. I'd rather continue to take Wheelie to the park and pretend this never happened.
> I must protect Wheelie from the media. Wheelie must stay in my apartment from now on.

You ignore Mark's phone call and continue to take Wheelie to the park. (+Empathy) You also spend some time settling into your new apartment in East Palo Alto. Unfortunately, an intelligent robot is a little too big a story for you to stop so easily. You get another call from Mark while you're at the park—he warns you that he has enough material to run his story with or without your involvement, and you perhaps ought to consider the value of telling your side of the story. He sounds a little annoyed with you.
> Agree to an interview in person.
> Insist on an email interview.
> Continue to ignore Mark.

You sigh and agree to be interviewed. You and Wheelie can't hide from the world any longer.

Chapter 3: The Camera Eye

A few days later, you're sitting in a dive bar in San Francisco's Mission district with Mark, a somewhat scruffy, young reporter in a leather jacket. Mark has Mediterranean features, wavy, black hair, and ample beard stubble. He takes a deep pull on one of those artificial cigarettes that delivers all the nicotine with none of the illegal smoke, then opens up a cheap Chromebook that looks about ten years old and starts typing furiously. The place smells of smoke that never quite came out of the retro, upholstered furniture. It's the afternoon, so the place is mostly empty except for some dedicated drunks and you two.

"Thanks for coming," Mark says, even as he's typing something different about the atmosphere of the bar. "You'd be surprised how many people insist on just answering via email. But that's bullshit reporting. It's like trying to sell the public a car you've only seen in a picture. To find the truth, you've got to kick the tires. You've got to look them in the eye."

He looks you in the eye.

"Like right now, I can basically tell you're a nice gal," he says, going back to typing. "You try to do right by people. Haven't had to stick anybody in the guts to get what you want." He hesitates. "That's a compliment."

"Thanks," you say awkwardly.

The bartender, a tattooed and thoroughly pierced young woman with the build of a roller derby player, approaches Mark.

"PBR," Mark says lightly, as if it's just a reminder.

The bartender then looks to you expectantly.

> "PBR for me, too."
> "Got any, like, chocolate coffee porters?"
> "I'll have the Miller High Life, please. The Champagne of Beers!"
> "Guinness. For strength."
> "Just water for me, please.

I'm not actually sure if choices like this affect anything besides flavor text. Maybe relationship values, but I forgot to check and don't feel like replaying the last two chapters to find out. In any case, questions like these I'll just go ahead and make a choice. I know nothing about beer, but getting the same as Mark sounds safe.

Mark nods at your choice of beers, as if it is what he expected.

The bartender leaves to fill your order.

What's your initial impression of Mark?
> I don't think this guy and I are going to get along.
> Seems like an interesting guy. I think we'll get along okay.
> Kind of mysterious, kind of cute. I'm wondering if it's against his professional ethics to go on a date with me.

We're already in a relationship with Elly. I've never tried romancing two people at once (with one exception, to be detailed...later) but I'm pretty sure we're not allowed to be a Persona protagonist and date everyone at once. That said, 50% of our two voters aren't very happy about being forced into an interview.

He seems to notice your judging him, and you get the sense he's judging you right back.

"So I've heard your robot is kind of like a robotic four-year-old, only it's sort of like Edward Scissorhands somehow, and it's kind of bumbling in what may be an endearing way."

Mark gives you a skeptical look to tell you what he thinks of this.

"I guess I ought to show you my robot sometime," you say.

"Yeah."

The bartender comes back with your PBR and Mark's PBR.

You find that the initials stand for "Pabst Blue Ribbon," and that it comes in an elongated can. You try it and decide that you would probably not award it a Blue Ribbon. It tastes gleefully trashy.

"So, let's get to the most interesting of the rumors," Mark says. "Does this robot have human-level intelligence?"

The way Mark studies your expression suggests that your answer will say as much about you as it will about Wheelie.
> "You should see Wheelie while she is learning from high school textbooks. It's only a matter of time before she surpasses us."
> "Yes. Wheelie is absolutely the equal of any human."
> "Intelligence is a concept designed by elites to denigrate the lower classes. Wheelie is what she is."
> "No. She's still got a lot to learn."
> "No. Wheelie's mind is a pale imitation of human intelligence, which most people underestimate."


Mark raises his eyebrows at this. "Interesting," he says. "I've been doing this tech beat for a while and you're the first AI person to say anything like that." He seems impressed.

"It's true," you say. "Read Stephen Jay Gould's Mismeasure of Man. The early proponents of I.Q. were totally racist. And as an AI person, I can tell you, there's no such thing as intelligence. Raw computational speed exists, sure, but what we call intelligence is actually a diverse set of skills that are coded in Wheelie completely differently, most of which require special knowledge rather than pure speed of thought."

Mark nods at this appreciatively. "I can see that. A lot of writers might appreciate that sentiment, seeing how everyone's falling over computer scientists as geniuses these days."

You shake your head. "It's just a learned skill."

Mark nods again as he records your comments.

"Let's talk about your advisor, then. Professor Ziegler is famous for his pronouncements that, in the near future, we'll have robots smarter than humans. What role did he play in creating this robot of yours?"
> "He had nothing to do with it at all, besides providing the funding."
> "He demanded that the robot appear more useful to the military, without contributing significantly to its intelligence."
> "He provided some suggestions during the robot's construction."
> "I was greatly inspired by his thinking—I was listening to him speak on NPR as the robot was being built, in fact."

"Interesting," Mark says. "So you essentially made the robot entirely yourself, as a student."

"That's right," you say. "It's not as uncommon as you might think, as I understand it. Most scientific advisors are too busy to do much lab work themselves."

"What is it they do all day, exactly?" Mark asks.

You shrug. "Write grants?"

Mark makes a note of your answer.

"So, who is currently funding this work?" Mark says.

"Actually, nobody," you say. "My advisor kicked me out of his lab."

Mark raises his eyebrows. "Oh? For what?"

"For not going along with his stupid suggestions," you blurt in frustration.

"So you refused to change your work to appease DARPA," Mark posits. You think you detect approval in his voice.

"That's right," you say.

He raises his PBR to offer a toast. "Forgive the breach of journalistic objectivity, but fuck him."

You bump your PBR against his can. "Yeah." You both take a long drink.

Mark asks a few more questions about Wheelie, getting a sense of what she's good at and not so good at. He appreciates the effort you've put into trying to make Wheelie get along with people, while clearly expressing doubt that she would really understand humans.

Rude.

"Last question," Mark says. "Will you allow us to send a photographer to take pictures of your robot?"
> "Absolutely. In fact, you're welcome to come along and interview Wheelie."
> "Sure, send a photographer."
> "No. I don't want the media hounding her. Wheelie's still basically a child."

"Great," Mark says. "She'll be in touch."

You shake hands.

A few days later, a photographer comes to your place. She's a young, quiet, blonde woman with a slight Southern drawl when she speaks, which is not often. You're a bit embarrassed that your place is still strewn with boxes, since you haven't finished moving into your new digs after being kicked out of grad school. But the photographer assures you that none of that will appear in the photos. She asks Wheelie to sit on your workbench, then asks you to look as if you're busy fixing something on Wheelie's person.

Wheelie and you both comply.

"Smile," she says. You do.

You spend the next two weeks searching news feeds for your name and wondering every day when Mark's article is going to come out.

Meanwhile, what are you going to do with yourself now that you're no longer in grad school?
> I start my own robot business.
> I continue to work on Wheelie in my apartment as if nothing happened.
> I spend time on my relationship with Elly.

To hell with it—if Josh can run a startup, why can't you?

What will you call your company?
> WheelieWorks.
> NguyenTech.
> Ada's Universal Robots.
> Singularity.
> I'll make up a name.

You begin working out the logistics of mass-producing robots like Wheelie. You'll need some kind of outside investment just to get off the ground, and that will require a convincing business plan. It'll be a while before your factories start to produce robots, but for now, you're excited instead of downcast. You have a goal.

You're awoken on Friday, March 13th, 2020 by a klaxon—a script you wrote on your laptop has detected Mark's article on the Internet. You blearily sit up in bed and stop your laptop's alarm; it's about five in the morning. Wheelie rolls into your bedroom to see what's the matter, but you assure her that everything's fine so she goes back to sitting quietly in the living room, reading high school textbooks through her Ethernet cable.

The article is one of the lead stories in the Technology section of the San Francisco Chronicle's website.

"Exploring the World Through a Robot Child's Eyes" is the headline. The article tells the story of how you managed to create Wheelie with hardly any help from Professor Ziegler, and how you have a close, almost parental bond with Wheelie.

The article emphasizes that Wheelie is still learning more about the world, and is therefore an unfinished work.

With selective use of quotes from your interview, the article portrays you as a little vacant, and suggests that perhaps you have sacrificed some of your humanity for your robots. The article concludes with a quote from Elly:

"Ada is just a dreamer," she said. "Albeit one who is very good at making her dreams come true." (++Fame)

Another achievement.
Celebrity: Mark wrote a positive article about you.

One of the consistent characteristics of our protagonist in any playthrough - and resulting themes of the game - is that it's easy to create amazing robots (for some purpose or another) and harder to be human and maintain a life outside robots. We've put effort into our relationships and get along really well with Mark and Elly right now, which makes Mark's portrayal sound a little strange, but it serves as a reminder that we still have to walk this line.

Getting deeper in LPer Opinions Hour: this is one of those times where it's interesting to remember that the author is a real PhD in computer science. I hate "technology is sucking our souls" discourse as much as anyone else, but this is a different issue: the question of how much we focus on the tech as opposed to the larger world and how we influence it. When Big Data is a buzzword with ethics often considered after-the-fact and even technologies to replicate existing real-life practices can have disturbing implications I do think this is an issue of real importance. Literally a few hours ago I was talking to some students in a science education program about my feelings about the tech industry and one of them asked me if my undergrad institution - a well-known place for computer science research and industry - ever had a class on ethics for computer science majors. I was stunned because...we didn't, actually, and that had never occurred to me. All we got was a popular introductory programming professor who talked to his class about the importance of doing things with real and positive impact while his students struggled to program Bananagrams. After that, you made your own decisions.

Little ironies in life: I finally have a class considering technology and ethics, and it's only in grad school after I decided to try doing some good with my CS degree and study educational tech.

What will you do now?
> Show Wheelie the article.
> Call Mark, thank him for the article, and see what he's up to.
> Share the article with friends and family via social media.

"Wheelie!"

Wheelie rolls back into your room, and you show her the article.

"It is about me," Wheelie says, cocking her head to one side.

"Yes."

"You left graduate school so you could make me the way I am?" Wheelie asks.

"Yes."

Wheelie considers this. "It must be very important that I do not fight."

> "I think so, yes."
> "No, sometimes it's necessary to fight. Professor Ziegler just had very bad ideas."

I'm not even bothering with a poll this time, I know which way the vote is going to go. Same for the next choices coming up.

Wheelie nods to herself. "Very well, Ada. I will not fight." (++Empathy) (---Military)

You briefly check the Internet for more posts about the article. You find that the story has been picked up within the first hour by a multitude of bloggers, all striving to be first to comment on the article. You'd guess there are at least 40 different bloggers who have already written a secondhand piece about you and Wheelie, and they run the gamut from people hoping that your technology will save humanity to people who bitterly condemn you for creating technology that can be used for war. Oddly, not one of these bloggers has tried to get in touch with you.

Elly is calling via video chat on your phone. You pick up.

"Hey," she says. She looks like she's at work—she's dressed in a snappy, black jacket with a red blouse, and in the background you can see blueprints and sketches of robots drawn in spare, efficient lines. "Congratulations on the article! You must be really proud."

> "Honestly, I could use a break from all this attention. What are you up to tonight?"
> "Did you talk to Mark? And if you did, what did you say, exactly?"
> "Thanks, I am pretty proud. I'll talk to you later."

"I've already got plans with some people from work tonight," she says. "How about Saturday? We could go to the jazz concert in the park."

> "Sure."
> "I'd prefer to keep my options open for that night."

"Great! See you then. Until then, enjoy all the attention." The screen goes dark.

You're getting a phone call. According to the caller ID, it's Mom. As your finger hesitates over the answer button, a second call appears on your screen—a number in Glendale, California. Probably a reporter?
> Answer the call from Glendale.
> Take the call from Mom.
> Any minute now, these calls are going to be intercepted by my script that pretends I'm answering the phone.

Your phone shows Mom in her office cubicle, which is decorated with baby pictures of you and cute cat memes from the early days of the Internet that she has printed out. Mom is wearing a corduroy, lime-green jacket with 80s-style padded shoulders. Her image freezes constantly—you think she hasn't paid for enough bandwidth for this to work well.

"Just thought I'd offer my congratulations! I saw the article. My little gal is famous!"

The Glendale number is calling again.
> Quickly end the call and take the Glendale call instead.
> Keep talking to Mom—the other number can wait.

The beeping indicating a call on the other line stops.

"You know, you should probably spring for more bandwidth on your phone," you tell Mom. "You're really choppy."

"What? I can't hear you—this connection is really choppy!"

You continue to chat with Mom. She says Dad hasn't been feeling well lately; he keeps having migraines that sometimes cause him to pass out or hallucinate. She asks you not to bring it up, though. "He told me not to tell you, because he didn't want to worry you," she says. "But maybe you could just keep him in your thoughts."

"I will, Mom." You end the call feeling good about having chosen to talk to your Mom over a random stranger.

Worried by what Mom said about Dad, you briefly call him as well. He's audio only since he never saw the point of getting a phone with a video feed. As usual, he doesn't quite seem to get why you would call someone without a goal to accomplish. He's pretty terse unless you get him going about a technical subject.

"What's on your mind?" he asks.

> "Mom said you were passing out sometimes. Can you tell me more about that?"
> "How are you doing?"
> "I was having trouble with one of Wheelie's joints. Can you tell me more about that?"

Dad lets out a quick breath through his nose, which he does when he's upset but hiding it. "I'm fine," Dad says. "The doctors just say I need to eat fewer refined carbohydrates."

"What about the hallucinations?" you press.

"I'm not hallucinating," he says in a way that suggests he's said it a lot. "I just have these very intense recurring dreams."

"About what?"

Dad hesitates. "It's not important."

That's Dad for you. Assuming the purpose of the conversation has been accomplished, he says goodbye. But you're glad you called him, too.

Your next phone call is from Josh. He must be using a new videophone because his image is crisp and popping with color. Well, insofar as a dark warehouse and his gray hoodie can pop with color. "Hey, Ada," Josh says. "I just saw the article. Congratulations! It looks like you're finally getting the attention you deserve."

"Thanks."

"Do you want to go celebrate in the city tomorrow night? There's a really good Led Zeppelin cover band playing." This would conflict with your plan to go to the jazz concert with Elly.

> "Sure, why not?"
> "Sorry, I was already planning on going to a jazz concert that night."
> "No thanks, I'd prefer to keep my options open."

We've been majorly neglecting Josh - in fact, this is the first actual contact we've had with him in the game. On the other hand, Elly is our girlfriend.

Full disclosure: I knew this choice was going to happen, but I went ahead and picked the options I did because I felt there was a 95% chance the votes would go that anyway. True to form, we're unanimously sticking with Elly.

"Ah, okay," Josh says. "No problem."

He hangs up.

You realize that you haven't checked your email at all today. Checking it for the first time, you find it is flooded with requests for interviews. But one email in particular catches your attention because of the author's unusual email address.

From: robotObsession1987 Subject: Amazing!!!

I read the article. You sound like a genius! Would you be interested in getting coffee some time? I've been interested in robots for as long as I've lived, and I would love to meet you and Wheelie.

Sincerely,

Silas

Well, that's flattering. What will you do?
> Arrange to meet this person for coffee tomorrow, and bring Wheelie.
> Arrange to meet this person for coffee tomorrow but leave Wheelie with a babysitter.
> Politely decline.

You write back a polite email in which you explain that you barely have time for friends you already know, and the additional media attention has left you swamped. You click "send" and hope that's the last of that.

What will you do this evening?
> Try to improve Wheelie's social graces before she goes out in public again.
> Improve Wheelie's self-defense, in case someone tries to attack her.
> I'd prefer to give myself some quiet time to read.

"Let's do a little roleplaying," you tell Wheelie. "Pretend I'm a reporter. Do you have any plans to take over the world or replace human beings?"

Wheelie lets out a robotic whimper. "Are they really going to say that?"

"Maybe."

You prepare Wheelie for some of the more aggressive questions reporters might ask. After a little while, Wheelie does understand a bit better now how cruel people can be. (++Empathy)

The next morning, as you are leaving your apartment, you encounter a very overweight man with a scraggly black beard, who appears to be peering up at your apartment window through military-grade binoculars.

> "Can I help you?"
> "robotObsession1987, I presume?"
> "I like birdwatching myself."
> "Please get out of here before I call the cops."

At the sound of your voice, the man lowers the binoculars to face you, yelps, then runs to an old, yellow BMW parked outside of your apartment complex. You quickly snap a picture with your phone as the man starts the car, and as he speeds away, you have your phone perform a face recognition search. Silas Cooper, San Jose, CA is the first hit. Well, all right, then. That would be the person who sent you that off-kilter email. You hope nothing more comes of it.

That afternoon, you glance outside your window and see Silas skulking behind a hedge across the street, as if he is casing your place. But he catches sight of you, pretends to pick up something from the ground, then puts his hands in his pockets and whistles as he casually walks to his BMW, starts up the engine, and drives away.

Well, that's not suspicious at all.

That night, you go to the jazz concert in the park with Elly. You can tell she is enjoying the upbeat, brassy music. She gets up to swing dance with you during a few of the numbers.

But you can tell something is troubling her, and you ask her what's on her mind.

"I don't know if you've been following your own coverage in the popular media," she says uncomfortably. "But there's this sketch comedy show, TGIFF, that did a skit about you last night, and it's been making the YouTube rounds. Someone at work showed it to me."

You sigh. "I guess it portrayed me as some kind of mad scientist, right?"

Elly hesitates. "Someone was playing me in it, too," she says quietly.

"Oh."

"I mean, they don't really know anything about me, but I guess they know what I look like, so they made fun of that," Elly says unhappily. "And in the skit, I'm like this idiot who doesn't realize that you're actually spending all your time with Wheelie, who's like your sexbot."

What comedian thinks up sex with Sesame Street R2D2? Wait, don't answer that.

"Wheelie's like a child!" you say. "Not a sexbot."

"Anyway, I was wondering if you could maybe stay out of the limelight a little more," Elly says. "I'd like to be seen for who I am, not as your...satellite."
> "I'm sorry. I'll do everything I can to stay out of the limelight from now on. Fame is not what it's cracked up to be."
> "Well, I can't really help it if people write stories about me, but I promise not to actually seek out any more attention."
> "I can't promise that. I'm going to be even more famous, I just know it. If you can't accept that, we won't be a good match for each other."
> "Then we may as well be in this together. Come work for me. Step all the way into the limelight. We'll work wonders."

Elly squeezes your hand. "Thank you!" she says, smiling. "I knew you'd understand."

You're as good as your word, and you spend the next few days at Elly's place, which the press doesn't know how to find. You don't return phone calls, and you leave emails unanswered. After a few days, the press moves on to a Watergate-like scandal in which the president told the NSA to intercept all of the opposing party's fundraising emails, and life goes on. (--Fame)

The next day, you get a call from your mother. Oddly, she chooses not to use video at all.

"Ada, I have some bad news for you," she says, and there's a heaviness in her voice that you've never heard before that fills you with dread. You are completely unprepared for what comes next:

"Your father passed away last night."

Your father's funeral is a simple graveside affair, with just a few attendees. The casket is sitting on a metal gurney next to the hole into which it will eventually be lowered, after everyone has gone. There are no trappings of any faith, since your father was not religious himself. Nor did he have many close friends; but the ones you know came. You find yourself sitting in the front row next to Wheelie, who was not explicitly invited, but was not explicitly prohibited, either. Wheelie seems overwhelmed by the sadness in the air…you have never seen her so glum.

Your mother, wearing a black dress and veil, goes up to stand next to the casket. "It's not often that my English degree comes in handy, as Bill would have been quick to point out," she says with a wry smile. "But on a few occasions, I find none of my own words seem sufficient. So I'd like to begin with a favorite passage of ours."

She begins:

> "Full fathom five thy father lies..."
> "To everything there is a season..."
> "Do not despise death, but be well content with it..."

"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.

"A time to give birth, and a time to die.

"A time to plant, and a time to uproot.

"A time to kill, and a time to heal.

"A time to tear down, and a time to build.

"A time to weep, and a time to laugh.

"A time to mourn, and a time to dance."

Mom clears her throat. "Bill was never one for religion, so I feel a little guilty quoting Ecclesiastes over him. But I'd like to think he would agree with the sentiment: that this, too, is the natural way of things. When we talked about his fainting spells, and then strokes, he always seemed relatively calm about it. 'When it's time to go, it's time to go,' he said. 'Meanwhile, I don't want everyone to worry about me.' Bill wanted you to take advantage of your time to laugh—you could mourn him later. And now that he is gone, it's right for us to be sad. It's also right for us to one day laugh again."

You glance at Wheelie, who seems very interested in this idea that there is a time and place for everything. (+Grace) (+Empathy)

You sit through a few more of your father's friends giving recollections of him. He was brilliant, they say, but you also get the feeling he was not always there for his friends, that he was lost in his own world. They never say he was kind, or that he was full of love. Indeed, he always seemed distant to you as well.

After the service, you walk up to your father's casket and place your hand on it. What have you resolved to do in light of his death?

> I must work on technology that is better able to remove tumors like the one Dad had.
> I must not be remembered only for my intellect, but for my kindness as well.
> I must find out more about why Dad died, and whether I'm genetically at risk.
> Moved by the quote from Ecclesiastes, I decide I must remember to experience everything life has to offer.

You realize that you take after your father: often too absorbed in your own projects to look out for the people around you. You resolve that from this point forward that you will strive to be more mindful of how you can serve others.

You decide not to let Dad's passing deter you.

You have decided that the surest way to change the world is with your own company. And indeed, WheelieWorks will have far-reaching impact...starting with Josh, who texts you a short message the day you're first covered in the Wall Street Journal (+Fame):

Welcome to the shark tank!

Chapter 4: Captains of Industry

A year later, you find yourself on a flight to your first meeting with a big client. You are twenty-six years old, and the year is 2021.

The past year has been one of hard lessons for your business, and you've often found yourself wondering if you would have made the same mistakes if you had learned to run a business from Josh. Regardless, you hope to prove to yourself that you've overcome your lack of experience by landing this big deal.

Who is your big client?

> Spark Incorporated, maker of flying cars.
> Rudolph Ventures, a shipping company working the newly melted North Pole.
> Galen Medical, a company specializing in surgical equipment.
> A man in Shanghai who wants to negotiate the import of ten thousand robots.
> The United States Air Force.

How did you fund your company?
Some small companies are run entirely out of pocket but even small, unforeseen expenses can cause such a company to go out of business. Independently wealthy entrepreneurs like this option because they get to keep all of the profit and grow still wealthier. But most companies choose to either take out loans, which requires paying the loans back eventually, or selling shares in the company to venture capitalist backers, which reduces the potential profit but spreads the risk amongst your investors.

> I financed my company out of pocket. (Requires Wealth: 1)
> I took out a big loan to start WheelieWorks.
> I financed the company by selling shares in it.

Your loan is large enough that you could build a factory later on. (++++Wealth) But the bank wants to see a contract with a big client soon to confirm that your business plan is sound, or it will come to collect early.

You open your laptop and go over your presentation slides. The diagram showing the latest model of Wheelie doesn't have anything to give the audience a sense of her current scale.

To give the audience a sense of size, you drop in a picture of...
> A Hobbit. Wheelie hasn't changed in size since I built her.
> Bill Gates. Wheelie is the size of a human now, so that models of her type are better equipped to perform human tasks.
> A Rancor monster so big she couldn't fit on the plane.

You celebrated Wheelie's first birthday with a new body the size of a human adult. Wheelie has since appeared to take more responsibility to think for herself, and appears more fearless. (++Autonomy) (++Military) However, you sometimes miss how cute she was as a little thing. (-Empathy) She's also a little bit less steady when she rolls. (-Grace)

You send a quick chat to Elly wishing your love goodnight. "Good luck tomorrow!" Elly chats back.

Then you close your laptop and go to sleep.

You find yourself in the lobby of Galen Medical waiting for an audience with the Vice President of Engineering.

The stylized caduceus behind the lobby's marble waterfall has an Art Deco look to it. It's the sort of caduceus a captain of industry would approve of.

Wheelie rolls back and forth nervously.

"Sorry again about having to check you, Wheelie," you say. "There's just no good alternative to flying for business travel."

"If I truly were an explosive device, I fail to see how putting me with the luggage would rectify the situation," Wheelie grouses.

The double doors to the Vice President of Engineering's office open, but instead of the Vice President of Engineering herself, it's a blond-haired man in a black peacoat.

"We'll have some results for you by Saturday," he calls back into the Vice President of Engineering's office. "We can discuss them after the barbecue—I assure you, you won't be disappointed by either the results or the meat."

Without missing a beat, he walks up to you and introduces himself.

"Dennis Clark, Luminoso LLC," he says. "We do text analytics and machine learning for medium-sized data. If you ever find yourself looking for new market opportunities, give me a ring. Your first sentiment analysis comes with a free barbecue. Come for the dimensionality reduction, stay for the delicious meat."

He offers his smartphone to you in the by-now universal gesture for sharing digital business cards.
You examine his card on your phone:
Dennis Clark
Co-Founder, Luminoso LLC
Vericon Charity Auction Winner of Cameo in Choice of Robots

> "What kinds of machine learning do you do? Got any tips?"
> "Hey, do you have any advice for a startup?"
> "You seem to be a smart guy. What is the secret to cooking delicious meat?"

"Grow slightly faster than you have revenue. Make sure you build a team you trust. Think about how you will do sales, because that is how you scale. Clients will always take longer to pay you than you expect. Sell clients what they actually want, and not what you want them to want."

It seems like pretty good advice, and it should start WheelieWorks off on the right foot. (++Wealth)

"Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go call my wife and discuss how we're going to solve the world's economic problems. Or at least solve what's wrong with economics." Dennis departs.

"The Vice President of Engineering will see you now," the receptionist says.

The Vice President of Engineering of Galen is an old woman who claims that PowerPoint is "rotting the brains of executives everywhere" and insists on reading something printed out. You hand her your business plan, and she dons her old, horn-rimmed glasses to read it.

When she gets to your revenue section, she chuckles a little. "I will let you in on a little tip," she says. "Because you are young and remind me of myself at your age, and because I am retiring in two weeks."

"Yes?"

"We are going to turn around and sell these for a hundred times what you are charging here. So you may as well charge us more."

You're a little stunned as you work out the implications. "You're going to charge a hundred million dollars a robot?"

"And that's cheap," she says lightly. "Medical equipment is expensive. If you've been selling robots for any less, you probably didn't get buyers because they thought it was junk and mentally added the price of a lawsuit." When she studies your stunned expression, she adds, "Oh, I could sit here and talk for hours about how the economics of this business is broken because of insurance and MediCare and so forth. But that's not really what you're here for, is it?"

Will you raise your prices to what the Vice President of Engineering suggests?

Once again I'm not even going to pretend there's any real doubt as to which way this vote would go, so we're just going on ahead.

> Hell yes! Let's be rich!
> Let's get Galen to agree to sell the robots to hospitals at a more affordable price.
> Wait, she said her price was on the cheap side. Let's increase the prices further.

"I'm in this to change the world, not to maximize my profit," you say. "I'd rather Galen agree to lower its prices."

The Vice President of Engineering looks appreciative. "I thought there wasn't anyone like you left in this industry. I can sign a contract like that, but there's too much risk to put cash up front."

You negotiate to a price that will be fair to the public, on the condition that you will only see revenue once the bots start selling.

With a deal in hand, you can now build a robot factory.

Where do you plan to build your factory?
> Detroit, Michigan. I see a bunch of listings for factories dirt cheap, and they probably have a good labor pool for manufacturing.
> Shenzhen District, China. A common location for tech company outsourcing, with cheap but skilled labor.
> Silicon Valley. I'll withstand the real estate sticker shock to have access to the most skilled engineers.
> Alaska, which is offering incentives to businesses willing to relocate to the coast near the newly melted Arctic Sea.

The factory in Sunnyvale, California is a little bit over the top when it comes to amenities. The stainless steel countertops look fit for a fancy New American restaurant, while the microkitchens on the factory floor feature built-in espresso makers, refrigerators for the free bottled water you will be expected to provide to employees, and ice cream freezers for dessert treats.

The real estate agent, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, still keeps talking about how all of this is not quite as good as what they had at his former employer; he points out that there's no space for a dedicated gourmet cafeteria, and that there aren't as many parking spots that are electric vehicle ready. You think he's new at this real estate thing, but it's good to know the expectations of the tech workers in the area.

The factory floor itself is a reconfigurable, sliding-block puzzle of 3D printers, laser jet cutters, paint stations, and welding arms. This is a factory where every order might be customized to the individual customer's preferences.

No question: this is going to be an amazing factory but operating this facility is going to be hella expensive.

> "Sure, we'll take it."
> "Uh, maybe we'll take a look at something else."

You sign the paperwork for the Silicon Valley factory. Even to you, the numbers involved do not seem quite real—you have very little concept of whether or not your business will be able to supply the sort of revenue necessary to afford the place. (---Wealth) But you aren't afraid to dream big, and you think your robots will benefit from the top-of-the-line facilities. (++Grace) "So should I let the community know you'll be hiring soon?" your guide asks meaningfully, taking away the contract.

What kind of labor will you hire?
> Wheelie's model of robot will perform all the labor, including supervision.
> Robots with human supervisors.
> Human labor at market rates—rather low in this economy.
> Following Henry Ford's model, I will hire human workers and pay them handsomely.

"Of course," you say. "In fact, spread the word that we're hiring at a twenty percent premium on local wages."

"Excellent," the guide says. "I'll be sure to tell my friends." (---Wealth)

And there goes all that money we had.

Your factory requires a fair amount of work to make it suitable for WheelieWorks, and you find yourself needing to come in daily to examine wiring issues, fix small problems in the design of the machinery, and get things ready to pass inspection.

You find yourself spending long hours every day getting the factory ready. Dealing with inspectors, government officials, banks, and balance sheets makes you more than a little cranky. You find yourself wishing you had the benefit of Josh's experience as CEO.

What will your factory look like from a distance?
> A fortified compound with solid walls and barbed wire.
> Like the Sydney Opera House, full of organic curves and glass.
> A geodesic dome will conceal a powerful dish antenna, absorbing the world's information for my robots.
> A plain, old factory—nothing much to look at but it's cheap and gets the job done.

You go for a frugal, plain, brick factory of the kind that can be found in any city's industrial district. Your scrimping on costs leaves you with a surplus. (++Wealth)

While your factory is being constructed, you personally review all of the applications for technical positions.

You notice that Silas, the somewhat unstable person who emailed you after Mark's article came out, has submitted a resume. Although his resume appears to have all of the right technical buzzwords for making robots under the "Skills" section, there are no activities at all listed under the last several places of employment, all federal labs or contractors. Perhaps this is explained by the "Clearance: TS/SCI" in bold at the top of the page which, according to the Internet, stands for "Top Secret/Secure Compartmented Information."

So, he's sketchy but sketchy in an official kind of way. Interesting.

Will you hire him?
> I'll give him an interview to see if he has the technical chops.
> No, that would be awkward.

Silas seems very nervous when you greet him at the factory gate. You have no desk yet, so you conduct the interview walking around the facilities.

"Suppose I'm trying to place factories in such a way as to maximize my profit…"

"That's a linear programming problem!" Silas blurts.

"Good," you say, "but suppose my cost function isn't linear..."

"Stochastic optimization! Or gradient ascent!"

These are pretty good answers, albeit not the one you had in mind. Then again, you're pretty much just winging it when it comes to deciding what to ask. You really have little idea how an interview ought to be conducted, having never been in one yourself. You wonder if other people who conduct interviews are pretty much just winging it, too. Silas knows a lot of the basics of machine learning, optimization, and robotics, but when you drill down to specifics, he often doesn't know. Or you have exchanges like this:

"Is there any other skill set you have that I ought to know about?"

Silas gives you an anguished, guilty look. "I can't tell you about it."

At the end of the day, you say goodbye to Silas and, as a stalling tactic, you say you'll make a decision in a few days.

What's your decision?
> Okay, sure, I'll hire him.
> Too many unknowns, and he weirds me out personally. I'll pass.

After stalling for a few days, you give Silas a call and let him know he didn't get the job.

After a pause, he says, "You'll regret that." Click.

Great.

Soon, you have hired a handful of full-time technical employees from the area, and they help with the setup of the factory. They seem relatively pleased to be working for you, and one of them fixes a problem with Wheelie's joints for free. (+Grace)

Finally, months after you've moved in, you are ready to pull the switch that starts the factory in motion, as your workers, Mark, Wheelie, and various invited members of the press look on.

Raw metal lumps start their way down a conveyor belt where water jet cutters slice the metal at precise angles to reveal a puppet head. Another machine drills two large holes for the robot's cameras.

The next machine pushes the hollow robot head onto its side, and a robot arm delicately places the encrypted hard drive inside.

At this point, the conveyor belt meets another that is supplying the felt, puppet-like faces, each stretched out flat and deformed like a projection of the globe. A glue gun shoots each face from above before a robot arm presses it to the head.

A long line of metal wheels rolls in from another part of the factory, meeting a conveyor belt of multitool hands.

The three tributaries of parts meet in the center of your factory, where humanoid robot workers perform the complex task of assembling the parts into the final robots. This final assembly line requires a great deal of careful manipulation of each part and adjustment to each robot part's subtle differences. This is the part that would be done by human labor at another factory, but here, your human employees only supervise the process, watching for any errors in your laborers' work that would stop the line.

For this particular run, they call a halt after the first robot rolls off the line—so that you can celebrate. The robot that stands before you looks like Wheelie but sleeker and more beautiful in every way. Your employees have clearly poured their hearts into the design, inspired by your leadership. (++Grace)

Your staff cheers.

Mark smiles as he furiously takes down notes on his Chromebook, though you can't tell whether he's pleased with your work or his. (+Fame)

"I have brothers and sisters!" Wheelie exclaims.

How do you feel about your first shipment of robots?
> I yearn to see my creations spread to the corners of the world.
> I have a strange feeling about this. Is this a good thing I've done?
> Finally, I'm seeing success! The world shall remember the name Ada Nguyen!
> God, I hope we don't go bankrupt.

Seeing the assembly line is a dream come true—every robot you send out into the world brings you joy. You admit, there may be some code in these robots that isn't strictly necessary for their jobs, but you'd hate to deny these creatures the full richness of life. (+Autonomy)

You start up the line again, and more robots begin to roll off the final assembly line.

By the end of the day, you are standing in your large warehouse with over two hundred robots—two hundred fifty-six, to be precise—lined up in a square formation, sixteen on a side, ready to be activated. Your audience from earlier in the day is gathered there as well.

What will your production models use for minds?
> Wheelie's initial state, ready to learn and adapt to the client's needs...with some effort on the client's part.
> Copies of Wheelie's mind, as of today. They will be a little confused at first when they realize they're clones, but they'll get used to it.
> These robots don't really need sentience. I wrote a more traditional program that will do the job.

You hit a big, red button on your phone that says "Go!" sending a wireless signal to power on the robots.

The robots all have the same programming, so when they look around curiously, they all look left in unison. Then all the robots look right, but some take a little longer than others.

What unfolds is like a curious optical illusion where order is gradually displaced with disorder; tiny differences in the robots' input result in behavior that diverges, until every robot in the square is doing something different: some say hello to each other, others become interested in their own multitool hands, and so on. One robot starts to cry. Another moves to console it. The robots instinctively and quickly move to keep their distance from each other, resulting in tiny movements of one robot creating ripples down the line.

You send a kill signal via wireless, and the robots power down.

Your audience seems to be at a loss for words.

Oops.

Your workers begin to mutter amongst themselves. They sound worried by the robots' chaotic behavior.

"My brothers and sisters seem to be a little rambunctious," Wheelie says.

"Now they are," you say. "But they need to be nonoptimal to be adaptive. You're still learning, but more slowly, because you've already decided what you'll be like. They're still blank slates, waiting to be shown how to be."

Wheelie nods.

"I sure hope you know what you're doing," one of your human workers says.

After a few months, your first shipment to Galen Medical is ready. Unfortunately, one of your surgical robots gets involved in a major accident that ends up killing a patient. Lawsuits begin cropping up in which people who have been treated by your robots complain of pain afterward. But your robots are naturally likeable and friendly, and so hospitals can't quite bring themselves to get rid of them. Many patients express surprise that they seem less robotic than the doctors. Though you pull your line of robot surgeons, your robots do well as nurses, and the profits there make up for your losses from lawsuits. (++Wealth)

Unfortunately, our Grace isn't high enough for our robots to perform well as surgeons. Currently our Empathy is pretty high though - something to keep in mind for the next decision.

You still need to search for a big client again to pay off the loans on your factory—there's not quite enough money to pay off that loan (Current Wealth 4, need Wealth 5).
> Spark Incorporated, maker of flying cars.
> Rudolph Ventures, a shipping company working the newly melted North Pole.
> A man in Shanghai who wants to negotiate the import of ten thousand robots.
> The United States Air Force.
> On second thought, I'd rather just sell robots directly to the public.

Usually with three voters we usually get a majority somewhere. This time, however, three different people each chose a different option. This is a good time to remind everyone that I allow multiple votes for a reason! Too late though. For the sake of moving on I appealed to the RNG gods, but for a Nerd Aside™, theoretically we may been able to avoid this with Borda counting - unfortunately there's no free poll system that makes this easy. I sound like a voting nerd here, but in reality it's just something I heard in a math lecture four years ago and thought was really cool.

The flying car industry is in its nascency: it's still necessary to take off and land from airports, and it's mostly rich people who have both the money for the cars and the time off to take flight lessons. One of the key factors driving up the price is human labor, so you think Spark might be interested in some automation. They didn't mention intelligent cars as a possibility on the phone, but perhaps you'll bring that up, too.

The Vice President for Automation of Spark is a white-haired woman in black pants and a gray blazer. Her office is decorated with photos of executives shaking hands with men and women wearing hard hats.

She bids you sit before her polished black desk, and you do.

"We talked a little over the phone about our needs," she says. "The labor unions are making it difficult to compete internationally. Though we're bound by contract to keep the workers we have at existing plants, the flying car industry is still expanding, and we would like to open fully automated plants. Your robots will need to be strong, graceful, and most importantly, not make demands of us. Can you offer all of that?"
> "Yes, we'll be happy to offer you robot labor."
> "Let's make sure the unions are on board first."
> "Instead of trying to cut costs, why not offer a truly innovative product—a car that thinks and chats with you, like KITT from Knight Rider?"
> "Actually, I think we're done here."

You're not so interested in getting in the middle of a bad relationship between a company and its workers, so you demur and say your goodbyes. It will take some additional time to find a new client but you think it will be worth it. (-Wealth)

After a few months, your first shipment to Spark is ready. Your robots reduce the cost of their labor so much that the price of flying cars drops significantly. Soon, even low-income families are joining the long lines of flying cars at airports, and the commercial airline industry begins to take a nosedive. Spark re-orders more robots, and the airline industry's loss is your gain. (++++Wealth)

Your company's loan comes due. Thankfully, you have enough money in the bank to pay it off. (-----Wealth)

One day, while driving in to work at the factory, you find that your staff has strung a banner across the entrance to the factory that says "Happy Birthday, Robots!"

"Surprise!" your employees yell as you enter the factory floor. They're all wearing party hats and blowing into paper horns at each other. Robots wearing party hats built for the occasion rolls about serving up cake and champagne. Has it really been one year since the factory shipped its first robots? You must have lost track of time.

It warms your heart a little to see that the staff loves working for WheelieWorks so much.

Another achievement!
Beloved: Your company threw a surprise party for you.

As you go around looking for other clients, you begin to find that, in many cases, Josh has beaten you to the punch and made a deal you can't hope to match. He has switched to a robot labor force, and he passes the savings on to his customers. (-Wealth)

Will you switch to robot labor?
> Yes, and at the same time, I will try to develop a line of robot workers I can sell.
> Yes, but I will concentrate on improving my own work force, not making a model I can sell.
> No, my human workers are partly responsible for my success. I won't sell them out.

You nobly refuse to adopt robot labor, even as your bottom line feels the sting. (-Wealth)

Unfortunately, the recent stresses to your company's financial health have proven too much. WheelieWorks must declare bankruptcy. You must sell all of its assets just to pay off what debts you can.

Josh's company U.S. Robots and Mr. Sun, the man in Shanghai whose offer to buy ten thousand robots you ignored, each buy up some of your company's property, patents, and inventory at auction.

Luckily, Wheelie was never the property of WheelieWorks—you suppose she's technically Stanford property, which you hope they never realize—so you get to keep her.

"I've never practiced asceticism before, Ada!" she says as you watch movers cart off pieces of your factory.

"Well, it looks like you may have the chance," you say glumly.

So. You're broke enough that you can't make the rent.

How are you going to pay the rent?
> I will try to beg some money off Josh.
> I will try to move in with Elly.
> I will try to live with Mark.
> I will ask Josh if I can crash with him for a while.
> I think I'll just move in with Mom.

Make Josh pay for his sins. Okay, no really I almost went ahead and chose Elly for you guys since we're a very pro-Elly LP but I figured Mom was a logical option too...good thing, because that's what you guys ended up choosing!

It is a strange regression to go back to your old room, which Mom has kept as a shrine to your early years. Your bedsheets are a Bayeux Tapestry of Autobots fighting Decepticons, and your shelves could be a display at a museum of the history of robot toys. It's all much neater than you ever were, though; a more realistic recreation would be strewn with the skeletons of dissected robot toys.

Though you find it's more difficult to lead a normal social life when living at your parents' place, you also find it somewhat refreshing to get back in touch with your childhood dreams.

You find yourself with a fair amount of time as a 29-year-old with neither job nor school to attend. What will you do with it?
> These look like credulous people in my neighborhood. I try to start a cult around Wheelie.
> I am an artist, and Wheelie is my art. I try to make her as beautiful in form and movement as possible.
> I help Wheelie discover new books that weren't part of her education.
> I've had it with real robots. I work on my robot novel.

Wheelie tears through the great Russian novelists, goes on a Milan Kundera kick, and has far more patience than you for David Foster Wallace. (++Empathy)

When she starts digging into Sylvia Plath, you recognize a general trend:

"You really like depressed authors, don't you?" you ask Wheelie.

"Does not our present predicament suggest that life is pain, Ada?"
> "You're probably right. Hey, if you like Sylvia Plath, try this book called The Hours."
> "Yes, but you're being too melodramatic about it. Try reading the Stoics next."
> "Here, try some Lois McMaster Bujold. You'll feel better with some good space opera."

Wheelie's mood appears to improve dramatically once she leaves the fiction section of the library for the more optimistic science fiction section. In particular, Wheelie seems to empathize with Lois McMaster Bujold's character Miles Vorkosigan, a short spaceship captain with the motto of "Forward momentum!" (++Autonomy)

From there, you guide Wheelie to Bradbury, LeGuin, Willis, and Wolfe, and on the whole, she becomes much more pleasant to be around. (++Empathy)

Months pass, and you can't help but notice that as time goes on, two things are happening.

The first thing you've noticed is that all of the people you would normally interact with over the course of the day are slowly being replaced with robots. All of the cashiers at the grocery store are now robots, replacing the supervised self-checkout systems that became popular a few years ago. Police patrol cars have largely been replaced with drones at every intersection, which automatically issue tickets against people who break traffic laws. Drones delivering packages fly by the empty storefronts they are replacing. It seems Josh is really starting to be successful in the robot business, with or without you.

You hate to admit it, but perhaps it was just the right time for sentient robots to gain traction, and Josh didn't need your expertise in particular after all.

The second thing you've noticed is that there are a lot more people milling about these days, out of work. Between the Internet and robots, there just isn't much for your average person to do. Instead, wealth seems to be concentrating in the hands of the few who can build those Internet services and robots. Your neighborhood is becoming filled with people who draw unemployment checks and drive twenty-year-old cars—while, every so often, a flying car passes overhead to remind you all that at least some people are living in the future.

How do you interact with your unemployed neighbors?
I'll advertise tutoring in programming and basic electrical engineering.
> I try to keep Wheelie out of sight and keep my past a secret.
> I will encourage Wheelie to interact with them as if she were human. People can get used to anything.

While most of your neighbors don't take you up on your tutoring, the few who do seem very driven to succeed at it. Their high schools never taught them how to program or invent, and as a result, they felt left behind in the new job market without a clear way to get ahead. You feel pretty good about giving your students a livelihood, and it's not a bad way for you to make some cash, either. You're surprised your rather poor students can scrape together the money, but they find a way to make it work. (++Wealth)

Soon, you begin to see another kind of robot appearing on the market: cheap Chinese versions of Josh's line of home robots. These are inexpensive enough that even people in your neighborhood begin to purchase them for work around the home. You're not really sure where they even get that kind of money, but you suppose people find a way when they really want something.

A few months after these robots have taken the market by storm, you get a call from Josh.

Have you noticed that we're seeing a lot more of Josh lately than of our own girlfriend? I actually haven't gone down this path before so I don't know whether us being so buddy with Josh after the minimum of contact and having our company bought out is a product of the CYOA "all roads lead to Rome" bottlenecking or an assumption of "just business" since getting bought out decreased our relationship stat by a whopping 2%. Probably the former.

"This is bullshit!" he cries. "This Chinese company stole my designs—I have no idea how! But now they're undercutting my prices with their cheap labor and cheap raw materials."

"The designs did look familiar," you say lightly.

"Can you testify before Congress that the designs are stolen?" Josh queries anxiously. "If you do, they might embargo the robots, and that will keep U.S. Robots afloat. They said I need an expert witness who isn't in my company, and I've hired everybody else who's good."
> "Sure. Anything to help out a friend."
> "Do you think you could promise to make your own robots affordable for the people in my neighborhood?"
> "Only if you're willing to make it worth my while with a consultant's fee."
> "Do you think you could give me a job after I testify? Turns out, being unemployed is kind of boring."
> "No. This is not my problem."

"Really?" Josh says. "I know this sounds bad, but why do you care?"

"How are their kids ever going to get excited about robots if they've never even seen one?" you say. "These people are getting locked out of the future, Josh. A lot of them are on disability just because they can't imagine a job that doesn't involve physical labor. What are they going to do when robots make those jobs impossible? The future's going to be all about the people who can make the robots and computers go, and I want them to at least have a shot at being a part of it."

"You know what, you've convinced me," Josh says. "I promise to try harder to create some affordable intro models people can tinker with."

You go to Josh's factory, where he lays out his own robots and the Chinese robots side by side. Sure enough, it's pretty clear someone has duplicated the designs exactly. It's as clear to you as plagiarized text.

Based on your testimony, Congress passes a law banning the import of all Chinese robots.

In retaliation, China cuts off all exports of rare earths and the batteries derived from them. Suddenly, the cost of all the little, miniaturized electronics people have grown accustomed to—cell phones, laptops, wearable computing—becomes prohibitively expensive.

One day—April 10, 2026, a date you will not forget—you are awakened by singing outside of your Mom's place in San Francisco. It sounds like a large choir with an accent you can't quite place, and the song is quiet but insistent.

The people are the heroes now
Behemoth pulls the peasants' plow

You go to the window. Red-shirted people waving red banners have lined up in immense numbers all along the main boulevard outside of your Mom's place.

Noting your interest, Wheelie rolls up to the window as well. "Ah," Wheelie says. "This must be the parade for the Prime Minister of China. Can we go see, Ada?"

"Sure," you say. "Why not?" Now that Wheelie mentions it, you think you saw something about this on Reddit: the Chinese Prime Minister is visiting San Francisco to discuss trade issues with President Irons.

You cast a glance back at Elly, naked and sleeping under the covers, and decide to let the poor thing rest.

You emerge from your Mom's place into the crowd of red-shirted, flag-waving supporters, mostly Chinese. You have the sense this kind of groundswell of support for a politician outside of his home country isn't normal, like maybe these supporters were paid. But that could just be an American point of view; you're not sure.

Further down the street, you see the vanguard of the parade: robots designed to look like gods of the ancient Chinese pantheon. They wear Chinese opera masks, bear banners with river dragons on their backs, and twirl bared swords.

The people are the heroes now
Behemoth pulls the peasants' plow

Behind the sword dancer vanguard, you see a troupe of robots wearing the Chinese tunic suits sometimes called "Mao suits" and carrying little, red books. They are the ones singing the song, now growing more insistent as the parade draws closer. Behind them, you see a legion of men in modern Chinese military dress uniforms. With the ancient past, more recent past, and the present covered, you surmise whoever comes next will be meant to symbolize China's future.

And mountain ranges one by one
Rise red beneath our harvest moon

You are stunned to see that behind the Chinese army of the parade are a phalanx of robots that look like Wheelie. The legion rolls down the street in an orderly, military-style parade block. Each robot's puppet head is decorated with a red star. In their multitool hands, they carry rifles.

At the end of the parade, a Chinese man in a suit stands in an all-red, winged convertible, waving at the crowd. It is one of the sleek, new, Chinese-made flying cars, the Tian Eight, a symbol of China's rise.

You can see down the street that the parade is going to pass close to an anti-robot protest being held in the park. The unemployed hold signs that say things like "I'm with the 99%," "People vote, machines don't," and "America is coming for you, China."

You have a growing sense of uneasiness as this Chinese parade heads toward the protesters.
> I send Wheelie to scout amongst the protesters.
> I tell Wheelie to stay near the Prime Minister and his entourage.
> I tell Wheelie to stay close to me.

"Stay close," you tell Wheelie. "I'm not sure what's going to happen but I don't want you harmed."

"Yes, Ada."

You soon hear a shot ring out, coming from the crowd of protesters.

A crimson splotch wells through the Prime Minister's shirt, and he falls over into his Tian Eight, dead. His robotic soldiers fire back into the crowd, who panic and flee in all directions.

Some of the panicked protesters are carrying weapons, and they begin to fire at the parade. The parade-goers farthest from the protesters flee, but the closer ones decide, en masse, to rush the protesters.

The parade-goers farthest from the protesters flee, but the closer ones decide, en masse, to rush the protesters.
> "Let's get out of here, Wheelie!"
> I tell Wheelie to help the Americans.
> I tell Wheelie to help the Chinese side.

Wheelie nods.

You run as the sound of gunfire intensifies.

The Chinese contingent is massacred, and the Chinese government vows vengeance. The first shots of the Robot War have been fired.

Chapter 5: The War Machine

Three months into the war, the Chinese have captured many islands in the South China Sea that they had long contested with their neighbors. The press speculate that besides the islands' military importance, the move sends a signal to the neighboring countries that the United States is weak. (The United Nations also doesn't do anything, but that surprises nobody.) Autonomous drones equipped with cruise missiles sink two American carriers in the exchange.

What war means for your neighborhood is jobs; the military remains a steady source of employment for neighborhoods like the one you have found yourself in. The recruitment office always seems to have a line out the door.

You get plenty of military recruitment mail addressed to "Resident"— glossy images of people in camo uniforms fighting dragons, shooting lasers, or engaging in other video game metaphors—so you almost throw out a personal invitation to come to the nearby government research lab.

You are allowed to bring one guest.
> Invite Elly.
> Invite Mark.
> Bring Wheelie.
> Decline the invitation. Wheelie should not think I respect the military.

"This is what I think of the military," you say, ripping up the invitation ostentatiously in front of Wheelie. In your small apartment, it's hard for Wheelie not to notice everything you do.

"So you do not believe in the many broadcasts that claim allegiance to the country is essential in this time?" Wheelie asks.
> "No. Questioning the country is essential at this time."
> "I cannot respect anyone who kills for a living."
> "We must show them that they need us more than we need them."

"Of course. It is essential to question," Wheelie says. "I have not been questioning enough. I will do better." (++Autonomy) (+Empathy) (---Military)

A year into the war, China attacks Taiwan. Chinese drones harry the nearby American carriers, keeping American bombers and fighters at bay while their transports bring wave upon wave of robot warriors to the shores. There is a bloodbath in the streets which the United States is powerless to prevent; the Chinese robots kill soldiers and civilians alike.

Taiwan is taken, and the headlines that appear across the world the next day are changed by Chinese hackers to read "China Finally Unified."

Some days after that, you have a visitor at your Mom's place: a man in a suit who shows you an FBI badge.

"Sorry to bother you. I'd like to ask you some questions about your friend, Elly."

Wheelie rolls up beside you. "What's going on, Ada?"

"Are you aware that Elly is a Chinese citizen?" asks the man in the suit.

> "You're mistaken. Elly is American."
> "I know."
> "No, I was not aware of that."

The agent's already small lips tighten. "Are you prepared to swear to that? Perjury in this matter is a federal offense." He seems overeager.

> "Yes, I am confident enough to swear to it."
> "No, I suppose I'm not."

The agent smiles tightly, as if you've somehow played into his hands.

"Has Elly ever asked you about, or shown an interest in, the technical details of the robots you create?" the agent asks.

> "Yes, often."
> "Only once, in graduate school."
> "No, she has never shown much interest."

The agent rolls his eyes, as if to say I'm so sure.

"What is this about?" you finally ask, losing your patience.

"It is illegal to export certain technologies by sharing them with foreign nationals," the agent says. "Because Professor Ziegler has incorporated your AI algorithms into United States classified military technology, that puts your technology on the restricted export list."

"But I didn't share any information with her."

"Doesn't matter," the agent says. "Your technology is military grade, and we must take every precaution. So if you could do a favor for us, text Elly and tell her to come here."

"And then what happens?" you ask.

> "I have a question for you first. Are you the good guys, or just some guys?"
> Text Major Rogers and ask her to intervene.
> Text Elly and tell her to come here, as the agent is requesting.
> Text Elly, telling her that the Feds are after her.
> Refuse to cooperate until the agent leaves.
> I tell Wheelie to attack the agent.

The agent's smile is bitter. "We're just some guys."
> Text Major Rogers and ask her to intervene.
> Text Elly and tell her to come here, as the agent is requesting.
> Text Elly, telling her that the Feds are after her.
> Refuse to cooperate until the agent leaves.
> I tell Wheelie to attack the agent.

Who's Major Rogers? This is where the flaws of writing such a giant CYOA novel come in - she's a character we would have met if we ever gave the military the time of day, but unfortunately the options we get don't consider the possibility that we haven't.

I have no idea what happens if you try to text her at this point and I'm leaving the option in in case you guys want to try and find out, but otherwise I think I know which way this vote is going to go you guys surprised me again!

"I'm afraid I can't help you," you say.

"You seem to call Elly quite a bit," the agent says. "Surely you could send a simple text like what I'm suggesting."

"Are you suggesting that you listen to my phone conversations?" you ask. "Because it's illegal to do so without a warrant."

"Elly is a foreign national," he says. "We were listening to her end of the conversation, and incidentally intercepted yours."

You give the agent your most dubious look.

To his credit, the agent begins to look uncomfortable. "Well, let us know if you see her," he says. He puts on his hat and departs.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

What will you do now? Elly's smartphone is probably not going to have strong enough security to provide privacy if the network is tapped.
> Try to contact Elly anyway, trying to get the truth without revealing why I'm calling.
> Try to contact Elly anyway. I'll be open about why I'm calling.
> I send Elly a cryptic message that she'll understand means "flee to Canada."
> Find Elly and flee the country.

You think she said something to you about being interested in buying a flying car for herself, so on a hunch, you drive to the local dealership.

You arrive just in time.

Outside the car dealership, Elly is being escorted by two white men in dark suits into the back of a black car. (Sometimes cliches are also true, apparently.)

She looks relieved to see you. "Ada!" she calls to you.

Wheelie rolls after you warily.
> I tell Wheelie to free Elly.
> I try to run the agents down in my car.
> I drive away without Elly, leaving her to her fate.

The agents pull their pistols out and fire, smashing your windshield. You raise your hand to deflect the spraying glass. A stray bullet hits your shoulder. Pain explodes up your arm, and you can feel the bullet lodged there, unnatural.

As your car approaches, the agents are forced to jump aside, but Elly gets the idea and leaps onto your hood, rolls through the broken glass, and crawls into your passenger seat.

"Are you all right?" you ask as she pulls herself up. She's bleeding all over from the glass.

"I always thought I looked good in red," Elly says. "Just drive."

You make your getaway with Elly and Wheelie. You drive like hell to the nearest flying car rental place— you assume after that little scene, the dealership probably wants nothing to do with you.

The person behind the counter checks your ID against a database, but the government is not known for its bureaucratic speed, so you're in the clear.

You drive until you hit a long stretch of unoccupied road, then deploy your rental car's wings and take off.

Where will you fly to seek asylum? Both Canada and Mexico are neutral in this war.
> Canada.
> Mexico.

Unfortunately, you realize too late that the Mexican border is far more heavily guarded than the Canadian border. Your car is intercepted by two F-16's coming out of a base near San Diego, which threaten to blow you out of the sky unless you land. You and Elly are taken prisoner and forcibly parted when you land, each flying to the military base in a separate helicopter.

"Don't forget me," Elly says as they shove her into a different border patrol helicopter. "Please! If you get out, remember me!"

That's the last you see of Elly for a while.

At least your arm gets some immediate medical attention at the field office. A very good medic removes the bullet and stitches you up.

You are flown to a military prison that you gather is somewhere in the Caribbean. The barred cells of the prison go up many floors and encircle a giant, cubical, central chamber in which a confusion of quadcopter surveillance drones fly about, scanning the cells for signs of trouble. Suspension bridges cross the chasm at each level like the gossamer strands of a spider's web. The cells are no bigger than your old apartment's bedroom, yet it looks like three or four inmates are cramped in each, using bunk beds. Occasionally, a pair of drones breaks from the swarm to fly to a single cell, perhaps attending to some unusual sound or motion. For such a large chamber so filled with people, it seems unnaturally silent, save for the buzzing of the drones.

You await your trial in a cell with three college-age students. Two are students who organized anti-war demonstrations. They think they will be released; they've heard of activists who were just arrested as a scare tactic. The third was caught with drugs, which apparently made her an "enemy combatant" in the War on Drugs. You make some experimental conversation with your fellow inmates, partly to attract the drones and study them. Both the drones and the students are reassuringly familiar, reminding you of your college days, when you knew less about both robots and the world. You smile to think that there was a time when you thought your hardest, most life-changing decision was whether or not to go to dinner with Elly.

You are a little annoyed to see that the drones bear the logo of Josh's company, U.S. Robots.

You are tried in a small, military court within the prison itself, where your defense lawyer calls no witnesses and does not allow you a phone call "for reasons of national security." Your actions at a time of war are apparently sufficient to classify you as an "enemy combatant."

They take all of your things, including your clothes and identification, and put them in plastic baggies. You now wear an orange jumpsuit and have a number instead of a name.

You wonder what they did with Wheelie.

What do you daydream about, day after day in prison?
> Rebellion. One day, I will make these people pay.
> Wheelie. Sometimes, I even have imaginary conversations with her.
> I sketch new physical designs, working on my drafting skills.

Your imaginary conversations with Wheelie provide a stark contrast with the actual conversations you have in prison. The other inmates are dismissive of you and hard to talk to. You made the mistake one day of claiming you have made fundamental discoveries in artificial intelligence, and they mocked you mercilessly for it. Though you tell yourself that they are younger than you and they don't know better, their insults still sting.

Your fellow inmates are case studies in what not to do in polite conversation, and when you imagine Wheelie, you now expressly imagine her doing the things they don't. You imagine you could make these changes when you get out…eventually. (++Empathy)

"How are you today, Ada?" imaginary Wheelie says from the corner of your cell. "I am asking not because I cannot interpolate from your expression, but because I am reaffirming that I care about the state of that variable!"

"I am well, Wheelie," you imagine saying (you only sometimes accidentally speak aloud). "And I care for your well-being, too. I wish you were here."

"Ada, you are not very good at maintaining a consistent fantasy," Wheelie says. "For if I were here, you would not actually wish I were here."

"I'm sorry," you say aloud, and between Wheelie's syllogism and your cellmate's don't-go-crazy-on-me look, the fantasy is dispelled. Your cellmate who's awake, the one who was caught with drugs, is a butch woman with a nose piercing who looks like she could break you in half. But she also wears librarian glasses that she can peer over like a schoolmarm, which she is doing now.

"I'm sorry," you mutter.

Some time later—it's only months, although it feels like forever—your warden irritably tells you you're being released. You think she's joking at first—she does have a weird, cruel sense of humor—but she duly punches a security code into your cell door and rolls it open.

"Wait, that's it?" you say. "I thought I was being detained indefinitely."

"That was before you became a goddamned martyr," the warden says. "You're apparently some kind of Einstein or something?"

Apparently, your friend Mark, formerly of the late San Francisco Chronicle, did a piece about you for the activist news feed, Involuntary Servitude. Titled "How America Treats its Geniuses," the story followed your trail to a U.S. territory in the Caribbean called Navassa Island, which is apparently where you have been these past few months. Though little was publicly known about your prison compared to the more famous Guantanamo Bay prison a hundred miles to the north, Mark managed to revitalize the thirty-year-old campaign to close Guantanamo Bay by making you a symbol for the unfairness of enemy combatant laws. Rather than close the prison, President Irons has chosen to defang the movement by releasing just you.

You are sent free with a letter, ostensibly from the desk of President Irons, explaining that your incarceration was not a mistake, because federal agencies do not make mistakes; that you will not be given another chance; and that the country salutes you for your sacrifices to the cause, including your unfair incarceration. All in all, the letter looks written by committee. It has a few typos, including the "Sincerly" (sic) at the end.

Another achievement.
Pardoned: Freed from jail by order of the President.

As you retrieve all your belongings from plastic baggies, you find Wheelie's parts in a bunch of separate, red baggies. Each is individually labeled "low threat" and has a date on it. You note with chagrin that a few parts are missing, including the biodiesel engine—apparently they took away everything that could be used for a bomb. You'll make do with some spares at home, but Wheelie will probably miss the well-worn parts, which fit her like a comfortable pair of shoes. (-Grace)

When your plane lands in San Francisco, you're surprised to find a huge crowd of supporters waiting for you at the airport. Some of them hold signs saying "Welcome home, Ada!" Mark's article was apparently very sympathetic. (++Fame)

Mark and your mother are at the front of the crowd.

Mom has tears in her eyes as she runs up to you and hugs you. "Oh, sweetie," she says. "I was so worried about you. When you didn't call, I knew something was wrong, but nobody would help me."

Mark hugs you, too. "It's good to have you back."

When you get back to your Mom's place, the first thing you do is reassemble Wheelie. You work around the clock, doing in hours what previously took you days. It's early morning by the time you power on Wheelie. She groggily blinks awake.

"What happened, Ada?"

"It's a long story, Wheelie," you say, but you tell it anyway.

Wheelie is indignant by the end. "How dare they treat you that way! They shall pay for this!"
> "A wise person once said that when someone strikes your right cheek, offer them the left."
> I say something like that first option, but I use a Buddhist story instead.
> "All in good time, Wheelie. Believe me: I fully intend for us to exact revenge."
> "I encourage you to practice defending yourself from now on, in case they change their minds."

You tell Wheelie the story of two Buddhist monks who encountered a woman by a fast-flowing stream.

The woman was not strong, and she was afraid she would be swept away if she tried to cross. But the monks were forbidden from touching women ("This was a long time ago," you say in response to Wheelie's protests), so they were not allowed to help her.

And yet, the older monk picked up the woman and carried her across anyway.

The younger monk was furious that his older counterpart would show such blatant disregard for the rules of their order. Sensing his colleague's anger, the older monk asked, "Is something the matter?"

"You touched that woman!" the younger monk blurted in humiliation.

The older monk said, "I left that woman by the stream. Why are you still carrying her?"

"If you don't let go of what's bothering you, then it'll take over your thoughts," you tell Wheelie. "And for you and me, our thoughts are the most valuable things we have."

Wheelie contemplates what you've said. "I will think about that some more, Ada," she says. "It seems...more interesting than thinking about the government." (++++Empathy) (+Autonomy) (--Military)

The war is apparently in a stalemate, with both sides unable to gain much ground. Turns out, the Pacific Ocean is pretty good at discouraging equally matched countries from attacking each other.

A few days later, while you're in your office looking over some designs for new domestic robots, you get a call from Mark on your smartphone. The video is quite high resolution, and you can see the bags under his eyes and beard stubble with high fidelity.

"I wanted to get your comments for an article," Mark says. "Did you know a Major Juliet Rogers?"

"Remind me who that is," you say.

"She was an acquisitions officer for the Air Force," Mark provides.

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"She died in an attack on a base in the Aleutians yesterday," Mark says. "She was performing field tests of a robot called Wheelie V when the Chinese forces attacked. The American robots didn't stand a chance—almost as if they were never designed for fighting."

"And?"

"And they weren't, because you designed them that way. This is Ziegler's copy of your robot, Wheelie. A lot of people are calling for his head, but I remember our chat when you were in grad school. He wanted a robot that was better for the military, and you were the one who seemed to want something else. Do you have any comment?"
> "I'm sorry. I wish my robots could have saved Major Rogers."
> "It's not my fault that the military tried to misapply my technology to war."
> "How many people were stationed at the base? Did they all die?"
> "How many copies of Wheelie died?"
> "I didn't really know Major Rogers, so I fail to see why I should care."

Mark writes a defiant piece in which he questions the other articles that lionize Major Rogers. He writes about how your robots were never intended to go to war, yet how Ziegler and his sponsors could only see war machines in them.

The article draws you enough attention to win a MacArthur Fellowship. (++Fame) (+Wealth) The committee awards it to you "in the hope that you will continue to work toward a peaceful future."

When China finally attacks the fifty states themselves, their assault comes over the North Pole. A massive flotilla of icebreaker ships equipped with giant buzz-saws carves a straight path through what little ice remains in the Arctic Sea. Giant robot arms pick up and hurl the ice blocks out of the way. Small platoons of robots are left behind at every oil rig and deep mining station they claim along the way. The American bases in Alaska are overwhelmed by wave upon wave of Chinese robots.

When the headlines break, the dollar goes into a death spiral, as people around the world are selling them for Chinese yuan. Canadian dollars are dropping in value as well, as people speculate that China will invade Canada next. (--Wealth)

Canadian dollars are dropping in value as well, as people speculate that China will invade Canada next. (--Wealth)
> I quickly sell my American dollars at a loss, exchanging for yuan.
> I quickly convert my currency to Canadian dollars, speculating that China will not invade.
> I hold on to my currency.

You hold on to your American dollars. But the worldwide disdain for them continues, and hyperinflation takes hold. Soon, it takes a thousand dollars to buy a loaf of bread. (-Wealth)

By the time the American aircraft carriers stationed in Hawaii reach the Aleutian islands, Chinese ICBM batteries have already been assembled throughout the former state.

The Chinese then offer peace, content with their conquest.

Now that the war is over, what will you do?
> I will develop the algorithms that will end war forever. (Requires Grace 25)
> I want to build a robot that knows how to love. (Requires Empathy 20)
> I will begin a rebellion in Alaska. (Requires Military 20)
> I'm afraid I've done all I can. My time to influence history has passed.

As might be evident from the stat requirements, what happens here will follow along one of 4-5 different paths based on our dominant stat(s) and our own choice. Why isn't an Autonomy path listed here, you ask? Well, think about it - if you build highly autonomous robots, are they going to wait around for you to choose that path?

That is to say, maybe you'll get to see in another run if we get there.

You're tired of seeing robots used for war. You want to show the world that robots can love, as well.

Will your companion be male or female?
> Male.
> Female.

What will you name her?
> Flame.
> Key.
> Galatea.
> None of these—I will type it for you: Holly

Are you looking to have a companion with whom you can be...romantic?
> Yes, that's the idea.
> No, I simply want a friend who finally understands me.

You select Holly from among the many robots in your factory because she reminds you of yourself. You have Elly for a romantic partner. What you really want is someone to whom you can talk freely, about anything. You don't need it to be romantic.

Another fault in the CYOA format: apparently Elly just popped back up, despite being dragged off by the military last we saw of her. Also, we haven't had a factory since before the war. Oops.

It doesn't occur to you now—it will later—that Holly may have some thoughts on the matter as well.

Chapter 6B: Empathy

It is the year 2034, five years after the war with China. Robots that look like human beings have become the new hot technology, albeit one that is still divisive. Some say that if the same technology had been put into robots on the front lines, America would have won the war against China.

You and Elly remain in an uneasy limbo about Holly—you think she is at least a little bit jealous—and so you've remained unmarried.

You live in San Francisco, a city of drastic inequalities brought about by the robot tech boom. It's where you need to be for work, but it isn't necessarily the best place for Holly. You can't believe how much you're spending on this somewhat shabby apartment—inflation combined with spiraling rents has made every month's rent almost ten thousand dollars. You're scraping by; you have no idea what people who aren't in tech do to survive.

You are hanging balloons in your Mom's place for a festive occasion: a tasting party. No robot you've made until now could taste food, but you've just finished a prototype artificial tongue. It's not the most necessary thing in the world, but you think your robots ought to be able to enjoy food with others. There is something primordial, you think, about the ritual act of sitting down to eat with another person. To eat but not taste seems somehow like an impolite sham. No more—your robots will taste.

Which robots will try out the tasting sensor at this party?
> Holly.
> Wheelie.
> I created two prototypes, one for each of my robots. (Requires Wealth: 1)

Wheelie rolls from cabinet to cabinet in the kitchen, eagerly helping you set the table. Holly helps as well—this is what is expected of a companion robot—but she is slow and pensive. She has not been a happy robot since you made her; you're not entirely certain why. Perhaps she is conscious of how difficult it will be to replicate the bond that you have with Wheelie.

Wheelie sticks her new tongue out, trying to taste the air. "Whath tha I tath?"

What kinds of foods will you serve to introduce Wheelie to the wide world of culinary delights?
> Wine and cheese.
> Simple, wholesome tastes: fresh bread and fruit.
> Desserts—I think Wheelie will appreciate those the most.
> The weirdest stuff I can find — I'm curious to see whether Wheelie will think of it as normal.

"That's baking bread you smell," you tell Wheelie. You feel it's best to teach Wheelie the simple pleasures that all people can enjoy—the better to relate to everyday people. (++Empathy) You bring forth plates of fresh oranges, plums, grapes, and pomegranates. You check on the bread in the oven: your long-nourished sourdough, whose starter you had to tend for weeks as if it were a strange infant, is finally baking alongside a baguette—oops, that's already done, you take it out—and a crackling rye.

You hear the snick of the front door's lock.

"I'm home!" Elly calls.

Elly has aged gracefully into her late thirties, still cultivating a youthful appearance even as the signs of middle age set in. She has dyed her hair a bright red, but you can see some gray at the roots. The subtle wrinkles at the edges of her eyes make it look like she's smiling slightly; maybe she is. She hangs her stylish red overcoat, made of a new dirt-repellent fabric, on a coatrack near the door, revealing a black bolero, white on black polka-dot skirt, and tall, black boots. Elly now works as a designer for a smart clothing manufacturer; she's very good at making the technological touches subtle, unlike the in-your-face designs of the early wearable Internet devices. You have no doubt the coat she just hung up is connected to the Internet and has an associated app for finding out its location and the contents of its pockets. You similarly have no doubt Elly deactivated all of that in her own coat. Under one arm, Elly is carrying a reusable bag of groceries from the local organic supermarket. "I hope I'm not too late," Elly says. "I brought some veggies and kombucha."

Elly sets the groceries down on the kitchen counter. As she does so, you notice the pale scar that runs all along the back of her hand. Elly doesn't like to talk about her time in a concentration camp during the war, but you know that's from an incident where she got in a fight with another prisoner. You gather she won.

Elly gives a tight smile to Holly. "How are you." Elly then returns to unpacking groceries.

"Fine?" Holly says. "How are you?"

"Good," Elly says curtly. You think she dislikes Holly, but you're not sure why.
> Pull Elly aside and ask what's wrong.
> Pull Holly aside and tell her not to worry about Elly.

You beckon for Elly to follow you into the living room, and she follows, looking a little embarrassed, as if she knows she's guilty of being rude.

"What's this about?" you ask.

"It's just weird having Holly around," Elly says. "I feel like I'm being replaced."

"That's definitely not it," you say firmly. "Nobody's replacing you."

"'Supplemented,' then," Elly says. "I'm not sure what to do. Do I get an artificial version of you, to get even? I don't want one."

You'd been planning to take the robots to a local swing dance hall, to get them socializing more with people and robots outside the home. But perhaps you haven't been going out with Elly as much as you should since Holly was built.
> I ask whether Elly wants to go dancing with me.
> I ask whether Elly wants to go dancing, and whether Holly can come along.
> I ask whether it would bother Elly if I went dancing with Holly.

"Why don't we go swing dancing?" you say. "Like old times."

Elly grins. "All right." She hesitates. "No robots?"

"Well," you say. "I was hoping Holly could tag along."

Elly looks rueful. "I'd really prefer not," she says.

But across the room, Holly perks up—you think she heard your request.

"Just the two of us, then," you say, but you wonder whether Holly will go along with this plan.

Elly nods, satisfied.

You and Elly make your way back to the kitchen.

There's a knock at the door, a firm one-two-three-four-five. You open it, and find Josh. He's still wearing a button-down shirt and khakis from work—his grudging nod to the fact that his old style doesn't look right on a guy with some gray hairs—and carrying a large wine bottle case with both hands. A different large bottle of beer sits in each cubbyhole.

Noticing your interest, he says, "I've got all kinds of stuff here. Belgians, pilsners, an imperial stout, some barrel-aged stuff, a chocolate coffee porter—I seem to remember you liked those?" He grins. "But it's mostly for Wheelie."

"Thanks," you say. "This must have cost a lot."

"Just some things I had lying around," Josh says. "Hey, Elly."

"Hey, Josh," Elly says. "Long time no see. You're looking good."

Elly says that because, come to think of it, Josh is not looking good. He looks tired. But he gratefully accepts the compliment. "Thanks. You're looking good yourself. I bet you still get carded."

"I do," Elly admits, pleased.

"Wow, what is all of this?" Wheelie says, picking up beer bottles one by one.

"You can put anything in beer when you're brewing it as the last five percent of the mix or so, and you get a different taste," Josh explains to Wheelie. "So I thought this would be a good way to show you all kinds of different tastes in the same context. 'Compare and contrast,' like they used to say back in school."

You now recall how you had a tough time deciding whether alcohol should decrease inhibitions when Wheelie tasted it. What did you decide?
> Yes, it wouldn't be the full human experience otherwise.
> I only gave Wheelie the ability to feel buzzed, not get drunk.
> No, my robots have iron livers.

Their livers aren't literally iron, but they do have filters designed to break down all of the food they consume rapidly, so that the robot can use the same facilities as humans for getting rid of their waste products. Any alcohol sensing in the system, not to mention the balancing of the algorithm for changing their mental states, would have simply been extra work, and you didn't really see the point. Wheelie eagerly tries a little of each beer, then a lot of each beer. But it has no effect. Perhaps that's just as well; this is a tasting party, not a frat party.

The night continues with Wheelie trying one bread after another, and sampling all the fruits in turn. Wheelie lingers especially on a hunk of sourdough, calling out the various subtle notes of the taste as they are discovered. Elly seems to enjoy the evening, and has a conversation with Wheelie about the chemistry of cooking that puts your long-forgotten knowledge of organic chemistry to the test.

Josh proves full of stories about exotic foods he himself has tried over the years from fancy restaurants: mushroom-flavored push-pops, exotic terrines, and French consommé attract his particular praise.

Holly just stands there the whole time, occasionally trying to remark that the food "looks good," but obviously keenly aware that she is being left out.

Wheelie's comments about the food are a bit odd, focusing on the individual elements of the chemical composition, like she's reading the back of the box for ingredients. You try to explain how each ingredient contributes to the taste, but the individual elements just don't seem to be coalescing into a meaningful whole for Wheelie. You then realize that until this point, memorized ingredient lists and recipes from the Internet were all she had to go on to infer what foods must taste like, and you suppose it's those individual elements that Wheelie now finds so interesting.

"Hey, Ada," Josh says, "I've been thinking of getting a companion robot for myself. What do you think about that?"

You glance at Elly across the room: she's telling Holly about the virtues of local food.

"That depends," you say. "What do you want one for?"

Josh sighs. "I guess I've just come to realize that I don't have time for a real relationship in my line of work. I secretly want someone there who's going to make dinner and clean and ask me how my day was — that kind of absurd fifties housewife model — but I'd feel bad asking a real woman to be that for me, especially since I know I'd be busy all the time in return. So maybe a robot is just who I want." Josh looks worried for a moment. "The robots really are designed to enjoy that kind of lifestyle, right? That's what we've been saying in the ads, so I sure hope it's true."

"Yes, they're designed to genuinely enjoy serving others," you say. "I don't think the public would stand for anything else."

"Good." To his credit, Josh looks relieved.

"But would you..." You're not sure how to delicately phrase your next question. From Josh's immediate blush, you think you know the answer anyway. You switch tacks. "Never mind," you say. "How sure are you that you want this cooking and cleaning sort of person, rather than someone independent?"

"Not very," Josh says. "Maybe a housewife robot would be bad for me. I don't know—what should I want?"
> I encourage Josh to find romance with a companion robot.
> I tell Josh that he shouldn't sell himself short—he'd make a real person very happy.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with dating a robot," you say. "They're just as emotionally intelligent as people now, maybe more so." You grin, nodding to Wheelie. "And soon, they'll even be able to taste their own cooking."

"All right, thanks," Josh says, nodding. "Maybe I'll try to go on a date with one at the local dance hall."

"Good idea," you say. "I've been thinking of going soon, too."

"Great!" Josh says.

He casts a glance at Holly.

"Not her," you say reflexively, though you're not sure why you're so instinctively defensive about her.

"I wasn't suggesting," Josh says.

"Okay."

If you think this is just sci-fi relationship problems, they aren't entirely: companion robots are a real thing, or they will be in the future. There is some anxiety around this issue; for example, MIT professor Sherry Turkle argues that interactions and relationships with therapy robots, digital pets, companion robots, etc. are "safe" options or ones we mistake for real through various tricks. I don't necessarily agree with Turkle on all points, but this dialogue is out there.

Certainly, though, we take Wheelie and Holly as being real friends or family. This is sci-fi, admittedly, but what does that dialogue mean to us when we accept that robots are still people in this way?

Soon enough, the food is all gone, and you're left discussing the evening with Wheelie.

"What did you think?" you ask.

"It's amazing, Ada!" Wheelie says. She continues to nibble on an orange slice, apparently trying to make it last as long as possible. "I think I understand so much more about emotions now. I know what it is to be sweet, like an orange, or bitter, like a lemon."

"I'm not entirely sure you've quite got it," Elly says uncertainly.

"But still, it's very much like emotion, Ada," Wheelie says. "It's difficult to describe and powerful, and moves in a way largely unsymbolic. I think I have never had such a primal experience before."

"That's a lot of people's first reaction to beer," Josh says.

"I want to learn to cook," Holly says suddenly.

"Of course," you say, surprised that the evening should have such an effect on Holly despite her not having had anything to eat. "I'll try to build you another prototype sensor as soon as I can afford it."

You feel a bit guilty about having excluded Holly from the tasting this time around. Perhaps you should consider giving her a chance to shine next time.

On Friday, you go to the local swing club with Elly. She's wearing a white-on-red polka-dot skirt that she says really pops when she spins on the dance floor. You wait in line to the dance hall, a converted YMCA basketball court, behind some women wearing snazzy polka-dot skirts and men wearing vests and newsie hats, along with some younger folks, college-age maybe, who are probably here for the first time, judging from the guys' T-shirts (too shabby) and the women's high heels (too impractical). About half of the snappy dressers are robots…you can tell because of the way they stand, a little too straight, but someone who didn't design the balance algorithms probably wouldn't notice. You don't think any of the really young people are robots; it would be surprising, you think, for someone to spend all the money on a robot and not pay to dress it well.

You pay admission for you and Elly and enter the dance hall, which they've decorated with fake portholes and life preservers, along with a large banner that says "Happy 100th Anniversary, Anything Goes!"

The lights are all up currently, as two robots in the center of the hall have just started a swing-dancing lesson. "Slow, slow, quick quick," says the male robot of the pair, demonstrating. Robots and humans in a circle around the instructors try to mirror the steps, with varying degrees of success.

You notice Josh is on the other side of the circle, wearing a very slick vest himself. He's with a very pretty companion robot, who has come in a striking, low-cut, velvet dress. It takes you a moment to recognize that Josh chose to match his own features in all the custom features of the robot: pale skin, blond hair, blue eyes. But that seems to be the case for most of the robots in the circle—for most of the aspiring dancers who brought robots, the robots mirror their own features to a great degree.

You notice Mark the reporter in the corner of the dance hall, typing away. He's now a little balding and sporting a beard that reminds you of Toby Ziegler from that old show your parents used to watch, The West Wing. He catches your eye and grins. "How's it going, Ada?"

"Well," you say. "What's the story you're currently writing about?"

"Robot romance," he says. "What do you think about all the robot couples?"

Elly leans in to attend your answer.
> "I think everybody needs to find their own path to happiness, and that may mean marrying a robot."
> "Robots are too subservient to provide real love. A real relationship is a give and take."
> "I think you should join us, rotate partners, and find out what it's like yourself."

Mark nods. "Fair point. I'm embarrassed to not have thought of it myself." He goes to the lobby to pay his admission.

Over the course of the dance lesson, you end up being instructed to rotate partners a fair amount, dancing with both robots and humans. The flesh-and-blood dancers are a mixed bag—you get the impression some of them have never danced before in their lives, while others seem practiced and must come every week. You yourself danced plenty back at MIT, but that was almost twenty years ago now, and you welcome the refresher. Though most of the dancers must be in their twenties, they seem like babies to you; you find it hard to believe you were their age when you learned. You certainly didn't feel young then.

Are you learning the leader's part, or the follower's part? Women traditionally danced the follower's part, but this has become more fluid over the years.
> The leader's part.
> The follower's part.

The robots you dance with tend to be female. You find that you're relatively good at sending the signals necessary for your partners to understand your lead, and the robots do an admirable job of following. It is a beautiful thing to behold your technology at work—for it was you who developed the robots' capacity to understand and intuit your actions. But it's also nice to feel you're a good leader.

As for the robots' grace, you find that they are a pleasure to behold—all their spins and turns seem absolutely lovely. (When led correctly, of course.)

Over the course of the lesson, you relearn the basic step, how to lead underarm and overarm turns, how to spin out your partner, and the "Sweetheart," a move that lands your partner nestled in your arms.

At the end of the lesson, you return to Elly for the dance proper.

The lights in the hall dim, and you get to the business of dancing with Elly in earnest. You struggle to remember all the things you learned, and put them in time to the music: inside turn! Um, um, outside turn! But Elly seems to have no trouble following, and is enjoying the dance.

Just then, you notice Holly entering the dance hall, wearing her best dress. She looks around, then spots you and approaches.

"Uh oh," Elly says. "I think your robot found us."

"Ada, may I have this next dance?" Holly asks.

Elly frowns in your direction.
> I ask whether Holly knows how to dance.
> I'll have the next dance with Holly.
> I tell Holly to go home.
> I suggest Holly dance with someone else.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you," you say to Holly. "Maybe you could dance with someone else here? There are lots of people looking for partners."

Holly does look a little disappointed, but she nods. "All right. Thank you for letting me stay." She goes in search of a dance partner, and quickly finds one.

"Holly really seems enamored with you," Elly says. "Should I be worried?"

"No," you say, because there's nothing else you can say. But you're a little worried about her yourself.

For a time, the two of you just dance. There's a lot of Cole Porter tonight—"Night and Day," then "Love for Sale." It must be because of the Anything Goes anniversary.

"Have you thought about getting married?" Elly asks.
> "In fact, I have the ring right here. Will you marry me?"
> "Are you willing to accept Holly and Wheelie as family?"
> "I like things the way they are between us."

"That's a bit strong," Elly says uncertainly.

"Well, they're part of the package," you say.

"Let me think about that," Elly says. But she doesn't bring it up again for the rest of the night.

And though I'm not a great romancer
I know that you're bound to answer
When I propose...
Anything, anything, anything...goes!

The lights go up, the dancers clap, and you realize that was the last song of the night.

Across the dance floor, you see Josh kiss his companion robot, and the two of them make their way out without saying goodbye to you, his arm around her protectively.

You head home with Elly and Holly, but say little to each other on the drive home.

You spend the next few months having more adventures with Elly, bringing Holly along when it's appropriate, but more often than not, finding it's better to leave her at home. Elly seems very happy. Holly, meanwhile, seems to get more and more depressed, although she is reluctant to admit it. "I don't want to be a burden," she says when you inquire further. She insists that it's all right you leave her behind, but it becomes increasingly apparent that it's not.

You see little of Josh these days—you think he's fallen in love with his own companion robot. You catch glimpses of them at big events, like the New Year's First Night celebration welcoming 2035. His social media accounts just show him and his robot—Delilah—on one adventure after another.

Good for him.

It's well into the evening, and Holly is holding aside a curtain to look out the window at the bright lights of the city.

"You know what I've never done?" Holly says. "Stargazing. I've been out in the evening so little, and the few times I did go out, I didn't think to look up." She drops the curtain and looks back at you. "Would you go with me to the park? It's technically closed after sundown, but people online say nobody checks."

It occurs to you that Elly may not be entirely comfortable with the way Holly is looking at you right now. That adoration coming from someone who looks not only human, but beautiful...you can see how going stargazing alone with Holly might cause jealousy. It's Thursday, too, which is usually a night you and Elly go out.
> I will go to a park with Holly to stargaze.
> I will go with Holly to stargaze, but invite Elly, too.
> I suggest Wheelie go stargazing with Holly instead.

"Wheelie!" you call to the robot's room. Wheelie peeks her puppet head around the corner. "Could you escort Holly to the park? She wants to go stargazing."

"Of course, Ada!" Wheelie says, excited for the chance to prove herself.

"But…" Holly looks back at you.

"You two should go," you say. "I have plans with Elly."

"Oh." Holly looks a bit defeated at that, while Wheelie excitedly takes her by the hand.

"I personally like running an app for sharpening images while I'm looking at the night sky, " Wheelie is telling Holly, who is still looking over her shoulder at you. "There's not a lot of light, and you can see much more that way. May as well take advantage of the differences between us and humans, right?"

"Right," Holly says. The two of them leave.

You go out that night with Elly to a fancy restaurant that specializes in recreated meat from the DNA of extinct species. Your Tyrannosaurus tastes remarkably like chicken, but the dodo terrine is quite good. Elly sticks with a salad made from Pleistocene greens and berries. The whole time, you wonder whether any of it tastes like the genuine extinct animals; the idea that you can never possibly know unsettles you somehow.

"You need to consider whether to make any more of these robots," Elly says. "Holly just seems doomed to be unhappy."
> "You're right, nobody deserves to be bought and sold. Robots that look human were a mistake."
> "I think we should just try to educate people to be nicer to their robots. Would you help me?"
> "Maybe I should simply make it so the robots don't have feelings to hurt."

"Of course!" Elly says. "That's a great idea. I'm pretty good about evangelizing things, and it would be something to work on together."

You spend the rest of the evening with Elly chatting about how such a campaign would work.

Later that night, the two robots come back very damaged. There is severe damage to the joints in Wheelie's multitool hands, with the plastic tendons snapped in places, and Holly has a large chunk of her skull bashed in, exposing chips underneath that occasionally spark.

"What happened?" you ask.

"We got jumped," Wheelie says. "They had two-by-fours and knives, and they said we needed to stop replacing humans."

"Oh, dear," you say.

"Silas was with them," Holly says.

"The one you told me about, who first sent you that email when Mark published an article about you…"

Somehow, it doesn't surprise you too much that Silas would have fallen in with a gang of Luddites. "Let's see if I can get you fixed up," you say. "I can order the parts tonight."

You examine the damage. It looks like Holly needs some repairs to her artificial prefrontal cortex, where long-term planning and impulse control happens.

But Wheelie's multitool hands are also in fairly bad shape.

> I'll pay for the repairs to Wheelie. (Requires Wealth: 1)
> I'll pay for the repairs to Holly. (Requires Wealth: 2)
> I'll pay for the repairs to both robots. (Requires Wealth: 3)
> I can't afford to repair the robots.

You just don't have the money lying around to do further repairs, you're afraid, and you tell the robots so.

Over the next few weeks, Holly seems to get angry more often, slamming doors and breaking glasses. But you can't tell whether the anger is justified anger at the world, or a condition resulting from her damage. Maybe both.

You find a somewhat inexpensive solution for Wheelie using thread from the local craft store. She moves her multitool hands a little more haltingly than before, and gingerly so as not to break the thread. (--Grace) But it's better than nothing.

You decide to press charges against Silas. How much will you spend on the lawyer?
> I want to spare no expense. (Requires Wealth: 3)
> I'll pay for the services of an average lawyer. (Requires Wealth: 2)
> I'll look on the Internet for a bargain lawyer.
> I will campaign to raise the money for Holly's legal costs.

You start a campaign to raise money for Holly's legal costs. The public is moved by the tale of Holly's unprovoked assault, and along with your own contribution, you can afford an excellent lawyer. You charge Silas with assault. The jury rules in Holly's favor, awarding substantial damages. A follow-up trial puts Silas behind bars, with a reduced sentence due to mental instability. (+++Wealth) (+++Fame)

You begin to campaign with Elly for robot rights. You invest some of your savings to pay for travel costs, but you feel it's well worth it. (-Wealth) Gradually, month by month, you see polling numbers rise to questions like "Do you think robots and humans deserve equal treatment?" (++Empathy) Meanwhile, you and Elly become famous as the face of the campaign for robot rights, publishing books and appearing on podcasts and vlogs. (++Fame) Eventually, while you two are chatting with the host of a popular Internet talk show, Elly says, "All right, it's my turn to ask Ada something."

Elly turns to you, gets down on one knee, and opens a box with a titanium ring.

"Will you marry me?"
> "Yes."
> "I'm sorry, I can't."
> "I'm sorry, I can't. I think I could only love Holly."

You find that planning a wedding is hard work—it takes about a year of preparation and requires making a slew of choices that you should be thankful we're skipping here. Thankfully, Elly helps you remain patient during the process and contributes equally to the preparations.

Same sex marriage is legal now in every state, but you decide to get married in California anyway, just so you can be guaranteed some good weather. You're both confronted with the prospect of inviting relatives you never quite came out to, some of whom have very different opinions on the matter. But your grandparents are much more welcoming and far less surprised than you would have expected. The dour aunts and uncles who disapprove use it as an excuse not to come, and everyone else is happier for it.

Eventually, you walk down the aisle with Elly.

As you look into Elly's eyes and say "I do," you can see that your love is mutual, and you're tremendously excited to start a life together.

Another achievement.
Spouse: Got married!

For years afterward, you think back on that campaign for robot rights. It's funny how, in trying to build a better world, you ended up building a life together.

But maybe that's just how it works, and the person who falls in love with you is just the one who happens to be the one nearby when you're at your best.

Chapter 7: The Ways to Say Goodbye

Fifteen years later, you find yourself in Surprise, Arizona, walking up to your mother's house. A few of the cacti in front have Santa hats on them.

It is the year 2049, and you are about to surprise your mother with a present for the holidays. She has finally been released from the hospital after surgery—performed by robots of your design, you're proud to note—and is living on her own in her retirement community.

The houses in Surprise are shabby, and trash litters the streets. The United States is still recovering from the loss of the Sino-American War twenty years ago. This retirement community is full of people like your mother who lost their jobs in the war, or a little before, and never got them back.

What did you get Mom?
> A robot cat.
> A robot dog.
> A new 3D mail printer, so she can send and receive objects over the Internet.
> The keys to a new flying car. (Requires Wealth: 2)

More achievements.
Filial: You bought a gift for Mom in her old age.

You powered the cat down after it started making a fuss in the car, but now it's back on, making confused mewling sounds from its carrier. Like the rest of your robots, it doesn't like to be alone.

You knock on Mom's front door. "Coming!" you hear her call from inside.

When Mom answers the door, you see her left eye is synthetic. Though it is intended to look as humanlike as possible, it looks dry, and its movements are just not quite as fast as those of a human eye. She had been going blind in that eye, and had opted to have it replaced shortly after her tumor was taken out. The hair near the site of her original surgery is a little dry and thin, and it's all gray—your mother is very old.

She smiles when she sees you and gives you a hug, which you return. "Come in, come in!"

The wooden shelving unit in the living room proudly displays all of the little robots you've given her over the years for presents.

Photos of your wedding day with Elly are framed on the wall of the living room. Following your gaze, Mom says, "Can you believe how long it's been?"

"The years go by quickly," you agree.

"But you're still as in love as the day you got married, right?"

"More," you say.

"You should have brought Elly down!"

"Next time," you promise.

Did you adopt a child?
> Yes, a boy.
> Yes, a girl.
> No, Wheelie would always be my child in spirit.

What is her name?
Lilly

Near the wedding photos of you and Elly are photos of Lilly in the hospital, shortly after being born, then more as Lilly turned one, two, four, six.

"How's little Lilly doing now?" Mom asks. "You're still sending her to a traditional school, rather than doing Internet learning?"

"A little of both," you say. "I can't quite give up the idea that it's good to have a child learn to interact with other children face to face. But I think Lilly does learn a lot more from the Internet. We're doing one of those part-time schooling things, light on the hours. Wheelie loves to teach, too. We do a lot of that."

It occurs to you, looking through all of this stuff with Mom, that the whole time you were concerned about the future of your creation, Wheelie, Mom was excited for you in the same way. You were her creation, miraculously walking about the earth, so full of intelligence, accomplishing great things.

"I have something for you, too," Mom says. She goes into her closet and fetches a brand new MiniMe robot kit. It's a robot construction kit composed of little arms and wheels that plugs into a smartphone. You examine it skeptically, convinced Mom would have gotten something on sale that only worked with smartphones from twenty years ago, but it looks new.

"It's not really for you, it's for Lilly," Mom says. "I don't know whether she likes robots, but if she's anything like you or your father, she will."

"Thanks," you say, because the implicit message there is, You turned out pretty well. Not that you'd expect anything less from Mom. "I think she'll appreciate it."

"Anyway, I've got to fly back now," you say. "Happy Holidays, Mom."

You hug your mother, present the robot cat—she loves it, but you think she wouldn't let you know if she didn't—and say your goodbyes.

Later that day, you set out for home.

Your car navigates the twists and turns of your mother's old neighborhood by itself as it heads for the local airfield.

You recall in your youth that you had some notion you might make cars intelligent enough to hold a conversation. Now, you're a little sad you never got around to it; though the technology does exist, you find the inferior AIs installed by car manufacturers irritating, and bought a car without the feature. You pull out a tablet and begin to read the newspaper as your car does its work silently and efficiently. The top headlines these days are all about China, China, China: engaging in skirmishes in the Pacific and Indian Oceans, flouting the ineffectual mandates of the United Nations, building factories overseas. It's nothing serious, merely a new superpower flexing its muscles. You suppose this is what it must have been like to grow up somewhere that wasn't the United States, though you suppose you'll never know. You feel the lurch of acceleration, and you know without looking up that you are airborne.

Where did you, Elly, Holly, and Wheelie decide to spend the rest of your days?
> Cambridge, Massachusetts. I still have fond memories of going to MIT.
> Palo Alto, where I went to grad school. I love seeing what the young people are working hard to create every day.
> We decided to move to the small town of Hope, in Canada.
> We remained in Silicon Valley, where the factory was.

You live in the town of Hope, a small lakeside town in British Columbia, where Elly fled during the war. Hope is a quiet town surrounded by evergreen trees, and you and Elly sometimes like to picnic along the Fraser River. But it is not quite so far from the memory of war as either of you would have liked; years after moving here, you discovered that the nearby Sunshine Valley was once an internment camp for Japanese Canadians. Sometimes you hike there with Elly and Wheelie and leave flowers.

The writing is a little confused about what exactly happened to Elly during the war. Much like the continued references to our nonexistent factory, I'm pretty sure the game was written with certain "main path" choices/circumstances is mind.

It's dark out by the time you make it home. Winter always catches you by surprise that way.

You live in a single-story house you purchased a while back. Real bona-fide houses are expensive these days, so while a baby boomer may have scoffed at something so small, in the mid-twenty-first century, it's a sign you did all right for yourself.

"Welcome home," Elly calls from the other room as you open the door. Elly rounds the corner, and you see she's wearing an artist's smock covered in big, red daubs of paint. She comes to greet you with a warm hug and a kiss you think is longer than what is normal for couples who've been married as long as you two. But it's not longer than what is usual for Elly.

"Oops." Elly jerks back. "Sorry, got some red on you."

You see that indeed, some of the red paint on Elly's smock was not quite dry, and you've got big, red daubs of paint on your clothes now.

"No worries," you say. "I thought you were busy making fundraising calls today?" Elly runs a charity for people displaced in the war, helping them with the legal costs of reclaiming their property.

"I was, but it's later than you think," Elly says. "It's almost nine."

"Where does the time go?" you ask. It's a question that's been bouncing around your head all day, in fact—it feels good to let it out.

"Here, I'll show you what I've been working on this evening," Elly says. She leads you to her studio, where her half-finished painting depicts a field of red flowers, all spinning like pinwheels. The paint itself looks like it's moving; you think Elly has used one of those new "living paints" that uses phototaxic microorganisms to impart the illusion of motion. It's a surreal but somehow compelling image.

"I came across this line the other day," Elly says. "'Consider the lilies of the field: they do not toil, nor do they spin.' And I thought, well, why couldn't they spin? It's a striking image, don't you think? They're called 'red fury' lilies."

"It is," you agree. "It's beautiful." Elly then gets a concerned look. "How's your mother doing after her surgery?"

"She's actually looking quite good for a woman who just had surgery. But walking around her place made me realize how old I'm getting."

Holly glides by carrying a tray of little bacon-wrapped dates. "For you, Ada."

"Thank you." You take one, and the robot returns to the kitchen to make more amuse-bouches.

That never gets old, you think.

"There was also some snail mail for you," Elly says.

"Really!"

Elly leaves briefly, and returns with a bottle of Alaskan wine (a 2040 Cabernet Sauvignon) and a card. Josh wishes you the best this holiday season, and he wanted to let you know he started a charitable foundation for kids coming out of juvenile hall and trying to figure out what to do with their lives. "Finally got my wish to change the world in a way I was unequivocally proud of, and I have you to thank for it in part. Merry Christmas, Josh."

"That's sweet," Elly says.

"Where's Lilly?" you ask.

"Probably upstairs being reclusive," Elly says. "Wonder where she gets that from." A smile plays at Elly's lips.

"Well, that does give me a chance to hide her present," you say.

What did you get Lilly for her eighth birthday?
> A robot kit.
> Paints and an easel.
> An Internet-enabled contact lens.

You try to encourage Lilly to be creative in ways that are different from you. She takes more after Elly with her love of visual art, and that's just fine.

You stash the paints and easel in a closet. Next to it, you put the MiniMe kit from Mom. You hope she appreciates it; she probably is at an age where she takes Mom's gifts—and Mom—for granted. But you don't; not anymore. "I'm going to go say hello to Wheelie," you tell Elly.

Elly waves you away. "Of course."

You peek into Wheelie's room. She's reclining in her special chair, built for her three-wheeled form, reading Hamlet for what must be the millionth time. But eventually, she notices you. "Ada, you've returned!" Wheelie says, and she greets you with a hug.

It takes a moment to realize something's not right. It's like the opposite of a headache: your head feels a little too light. You can't see very well—you're not sure when you stopped seeing very well. But when you think about it, you realize you can't really see Wheelie in front of you. There's also a roaring in your ears, like static. Was I a robot all this time? you think absently. Maybe that explains everything.

"Ada?" Wheelie asks. "What's wrong? You look pale."

You realize that now you can't see anything—you only hear Wheelie's voice. This is what it's like to not see, you think distantly. It's not black. It's not anything.

"Help," you say faintly.

You're sitting on a cliff next to the sea. Holly is sitting next to you, as she was when you first met in a dream many years ago.

"You know, you surprised me," Holly says. "I told you it would take a lot of you to create me. But you've remained basically good. As human as human can be."

"Thanks," you say. It feels good to hear Holly say that, even if this was only a dream.

Holly looks out to the sea. "I hope I was what you wanted."
> "It's okay, Holly. You're everything I dreamed."
> "I'm just happy to be your friend."
> "I'm sorry...I was so focused on robots, I think I neglected you."
> "I'm sorry I wasn't prepared to take responsibility for you."

Not that we've ever been very kind to Holly, especially considering that she's in love with us.

Holly looks hurt, but manages a grin. "Thanks."

You sit in what you hope is companionable silence, but then you notice motion out of the corner of your eye. Holly is ever so subtly leaning over the cliff, toward the water.

"Wait!" you cry, and you grab for Holly's wrist, just as she tumbles over the edge. Her weight yanks you over, and you find yourself tumbling to the water as well.

You awaken in a hospital room. A small garden at the windowsill, probably tended by the robot nurses, lends a floral scent to the room. The paintings on the walls are Thomas Kinkade-like lighthouses and pastoral scenes, no doubt calculated to have the most positive effect on the average patient's feelings.

"Welcome back," says Elly, who squeezes your hand. She looks tired. But she can't have been here long—she's still wearing her overcoat.

"Ada, you're awake!" Wheelie rolls up to your side. "I was so worried."

"Good morning, Ms. Nguyen." Your doctor reminds you of Ella Fitzgerald—you can hear her smile in her voice. Only her eyes, which are made of glass and don't saccade quite fast enough, give away that she's not human. "Why don't you tell me what happened? I have some guesses from your scans, but I want to hear you tell it."

You tell the doctor briefly about how you passed out back at your house. Elly looks alarmed to hear you describe the process.

"I wanted to help, but I wasn't sure what the problem was," Wheelie tells the doctor.

You hesitate because you can still recall your dream, but it seems very personal and not necessarily relevant. "I had a dream…a familiar one." You shake your head. "Then I woke up here."

"Well, I don't mean to alarm you, but you've had a stroke," the doctor says gently.

Elly looks to you in alarm. She squeezes your hand, but it's more like she's asking to be reassured.

"A stroke," you say in disbelief. "But I'm not that old. I'm hardly past fifty."

"I'm afraid the news gets worse," the doctor says. "You carry a newly identified genetic disorder called Algernon's Disease. You have too many of the genes that promote neural branching and glucose consumption, which at a certain point becomes harmful."

"Harmful how?" you ask. "That just seems to be a recipe for increased intelligence."

"It is," the doctor says. "There have only been a handful of other cases, and they all became wealthy entrepreneurs and inventors—one of whom funded the research that led to our understanding of the disease. But starting from the age of fifty or so, or occasionally earlier if you're under a great deal of stress, Algernon's victims get seizures or strokes, often accompanied by hallucinatory visions."

"Under a great deal of stress…" Could your first dream about the robot companion have been one of these episodes? You had stayed up all night, so you had assumed you'd simply passed out from exhaustion. What if it were one of these episodes? "But was there anything I could have done? Is there anything I can do now?"

"There was nothing you did wrong," the doctor says gently. "I know it must seem as if it's your fault somehow, but nobody gets to keep on living forever just because they've made the right choices. Everybody dies of something."

"I just wish it didn't have to come so soon," you say.

The doctor nods. "Well, it may not have to. I've looked at your scans. Surgery is an option. We can either try to excise the neurons that are acting up, without replacement, or try to replace them with an artificial neural network."

"So I'd be part AI," you say speculatively. "That sounds interesting."

Elly frowns a little at this.

"Yay!" Wheelie says.

"You should be aware that most patients report a side effect of loss of emotional affect," the doctor says. "The pattern recognition of the damaged tissue would be there, but without the full suite of neurotransmitters, some of the emotional signals running around your brain would find their lines cut." The doctor looks very serious for a moment. "Also, I don't want to downplay the very real chance that you could die in surgery. A slip of the needle could trigger a final epileptic response and death. Of course, it's all done with robots these days, but you may or may not find that reassuring."

On the whole, you don't find that reassuring—the robots you made weren't known for their grace, and they're state-of-the-art.

"And if I don't have any surgery at all?" you ask.

The doctor shrugs. "You could have six months or six years."
> "I don't trust our surgical technology. I'd prefer to live my life normally, and take what comes."
> "I will undergo surgery to remove the damaged tissue."
> "I will undergo surgery to replace that part of my brain with a robot core."
> "I will create a robot body and brain for myself. I'm not attached to this squishy meat."

You announce your decision to not undergo surgery, and the robot doctor nods. "That is perfectly respectable."

Elly looks stricken at the idea. "How can you just let yourself die?"

"I'm just weighing the risks of each option," you say. "Maybe I've got years to go yet with this Algernon's disease. I'll probably see the end coming this way, at least. Who wants to die on the operating table?"

"I don't understand!" Wheelie says, completely distressed. "Your decision is incomprehensible! Why don't you trust the robot surgeons?"

But you can't explain without hurting Wheelie's feelings.

"Very well," says the doctor. "I will not schedule any surgery for you. Good day."

You leave the hospital in a somber mood.

"So that must be what happened to your father," Mom says on the phone that night, after you've explained Algernon's disease. She looks wistful in the video feed.

"I thought that might be the case," you say. "You said he had a stroke, but did he have any episodes before the last one?"

"Oh yes," your mother says. "He fainted several times, but he wanted to hide it from you. He said he didn't want to worry you, but I think he just didn't like showing weakness. He begged me not to tell you."

"I don't understand your generation sometimes," you say. "I could have done genetic testing long ago, if I'd known."

"We didn't understand it either, honey," Mom says. "You're used to living in a world where everything is under control and makes sense, but medicine…just still isn't there. Old age is full of things coming out of the blue to get you. There's that old saying, 'old age isn't a battle, it's a massacre.'" She smiles. "Oh, do you even understand how much you've done personally to change that, sweetie? It was your medical technology that saved me."

"Well, I'm…trying something a little different now, Mom."

"Of course you are," Mom says with a smile. "I look forward to seeing what you come up with."

"You know, somehow, talking to you convinces me everything's going to be all right," you say.

Mom laughs. "That's not what I'm saying at all, honey! But it's like the Serenity Prayer says, 'Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to tell the difference.'"

"I think I can change a lot," you say.

"I know you can, sweetie. I know you can."

When you get off the phone with Mom, Holly finds you. From her look, you can tell she has heard about your condition.

"Let's take a walk," you say, and she nods earnestly.

It's evening, and as you walk down the streets of Hope, you see many other people walking hand-in-hand with companion robots. But you don't hold hands, usually.
> This time, I hold Holly's hand as we walk.
> I let Holly hold my hand if she likes.
> I keep my hands in my pockets.

After some hesitation, Holly does hold your hand.

"I don't know what I'm going to do when you're gone," Holly says. Seeing your look, Holly adds, "Oh, of course I'm going to miss you. That goes without saying. But ever since hearing the news, I've been worried sick not just about you, but about myself. And when they wouldn't admit me to the hospital, that just drove home the point."

"They wouldn't admit you?" you say. "That's absurd. They admitted Wheelie."

"The laws are different for a companion robot," Holly says. "Wheelie is your personal property, grandfathered in from a time before companion robots existed. I'm different. Not quite human, not quite a thing." Holly gives you a tormented look.
"What is going to happen to me? You're not always going to be here."
> "Why don't you start a restaurant? You've always been interested in food."
> "I want you to take care of Elly when I'm gone."
> "I want you to take care of Wheelie when I'm gone."
> "Do you think you could take care of Mom when I'm gone?"
> "This is all irrelevant. I'm not going to die."

Holly smiles, surprised. "That sounds amazing." She slumps again. "But where will I get the money?"

"I may not have much money, but I am relatively famous," you say. "Feel free to capitalize on it. Write a tell-all biography, become a celebrity on Hollywood Squares, or whatever it is people watch these days..."

But Holly is crying. Your restaurant idea is just too impractical to distract Holly from the pain of seeing you go.

"It's okay," you say, putting an arm around Holly. "I'm here now."

Holly sniffles. "I hate how much I need you."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," you say. "I've needed you since before you existed."

That night, after the lights are out and you and Elly are in bed, and you are wondering if Elly is still awake because her back is turned to you, and if she would want to talk if she is awake, Elly says quietly, "Ada?"

"I'm awake," you say.

"I love you," Elly says.

"I love you, too."

"Whatever happens, I want you to know you're the best thing that's ever happened to me," Elly says. "If I've sometimes tried to pull you away from your robots, it's only because I've felt our best moments were often together. I wanted you to see what you what we had. What we have." She squeezes your hand.
> "You're the best thing that's happened to me, too."
> "Thank you."
> "Where I'm going, you can't follow. I'm sorry."

What you didn't say hangs in the air. But you can't quite bring yourself to say that Elly was the most important thing in your life. Clearly not, and Elly knows that. She sees it in your face.

"You're very special to me," you add, hoping that improves things.

"Just stop talking." She snuggles against you. This is how it's always been, and Elly is used to it by now. You both accept that she is the satellite, caught in your orbit.

The next day, you take Wheelie to the park just outside Hope, hoping walking around one of her favorite kinds of places will cheer her up.

The idea that you may not always be around seems to have put Wheelie in a somewhat melancholy mood. "I'm not young anymore, either, Ada," Wheelie says. "You might not think of me as aging, but technology ages even faster than people. I look just old and clunky compared to the robots around us. When you built me, people would throw away their computers after just four years. Their phones, after two."

"Nobody's going to throw you away," you assure Wheelie.

"Without you, I'll probably stop working. Someday." Wheelie looks off into the distance. "If I die, Ada, do you think I will continue to exist after death in some form?"
> "You'll live on in the ways you changed people's lives, Wheelie."
> "I don't see why you couldn't have a soul."
> "But that's the difference between us, Wheelie. You never need to die."

"Really?" Wheelie asks.

"Certainly," you reply. "Turing argued the same thing, back in that first paper about artificial intelligence. 'In attempting to construct such machines we should not be irreverently usurping His power of creating souls, any more than we are in the procreation of children. Rather we are, in either case, instruments of His will, providing mansions for the souls that He creates.'"

Wheelie gives you a funny look. "You memorized all that, Ada?"

"Is that so surprising?" you say. "I always did think of you as my child."

Wheelie gives you a solemn look. "If you die, I will destroy myself as well."
> "No, you need to be alive so that you can tell my story. Nobody else knows it as well as you."
> "No, this is a part of your education, too. Remember that everyone you meet must face losing loved ones someday."
> "Most humans would love to have the opportunity you have—to keep exploring. Take it."

Wheelie seems to ponder this deeply. Apparently, this never occurred to her. Finally, she lets out a great wail. "But that means—this world is full of so much sadness, Ada! How does it keep functioning?" (+++++Empathy)

"We adapt, Wheelie," you say. "And so can you."

The sun is setting, so you head home before it gets dark.

You recall from your earliest days making chatbots that the easiest parts of the conversation for an A.I. were always the beginning and the end. As in a chess game, there are only so many ways to open: "Hello!" "Heya." "Sup." And as in a chess game, once the action is done, there are only so many ways it makes sense to close: "We should do this again some time," or "It's getting late..." The pieces are off the board, and some moves will never be made.

So, too, with life. There are only so many ways to say goodbye.

The next day, you celebrate Lilly's birthday at your house. Lilly's friends are a mix of boys and girls, all talking about Internet programs you're just familiar enough to make sure they were appropriate for Lilly to watch—but you admit, you don't really follow their discussions of the characters and plots.

Another achievement.
Celebratory: Celebrated a birthday party.

Elly is there as well, helping with crowd control. "You're pretty good at babysitting," she says at one point, impressed.

"Well, I did effectively do it for a long time," you say.

Holly is there too, having played an essential role as Lilly's nanny over the years.

The gifts are all in a pile on the table, and you eye the box containing the paints and easel you bought Lilly. Is it pushing too hard, your gift—trying to make Lilly who you want her to be? Well, you think, she'll have plenty of decisions to make later in life—it couldn't hurt to give her a nudge in a good direction.

You smile to see Mom's wrapped gift on the table, too. You'll have to call her later in the party and let her video chat in.


You go into the kitchen to retrieve the cake—and your vision begins to fade. You feel light-headed, and there is a roaring in your ears, like the sea, growing louder.
When did you stop being able to see anything? You can't see.
> No. Not today. I try my damnedest to shake it off. (Requires Humanity 60)
> I let it wash over me.

You start shaking your head and hands, just to get some feeling in them again, and it seems to work, so you keep doing it, hoping nobody walks in and sees you shaking like a mad person. It seems to help. It's not getting worse, though you're feeling very light-headed.

Gradually, your vision returns. You can see the cake in front of you. You can hear the babble of the party in the next room. You wait a moment, but it doesn't return.

You scoop up the cake and return to the party.

Lilly smiles, and her friends let up this little, adorable cheer.

Someday, I will have to leave you, you think. But not today.

Your heart is bursting with all of the things you want to say to Lilly, all the things you want to teach her, but for now, you just want to say how glad you are she's alive, and you express it in the traditional way on this most beautiful of days.

"Happy birthday to you..."

The End

Another achievement.
Alive: Made it to the end without dying.

What do we want to do next?

Current Stats

Year: 2049

54-year-old Ada Nguyen
  Humanity: 93%
  Gender: female
  Fame: 11 (Internationally Famous)
  Wealth: 2 (Getting By)
  Romance: Married to Elly

Wheelie
  Autonomy: 12 (Stable)
  Military: 0 (Nonexistent)
  Empathy: 41 (Singular)
  Grace: 11 (Stable)

Relationships
  Professor Ziegler (Bad): 26%
  Elly (Great): 87%
  Josh (Very Good): 61%
  Mark (Great): 78%
  ?: 50%
  Silas (Bad): 39%
  ?: 50%
  Holly (Bad): 33%

World Power Balance
China: 55%
U.S.: 45%

Summary of Completed Chapters

Chapter 1

On the day you first built Wheelie, you awoke from a dream about a robot companion to head to the lab. Your graduate school advisor pressured you to make Wheelie more acceptable to the military. After some back and forth, you ended up making a metal three-wheeled robot with a puppet head and multitool hands.

You then went to a sushi place and a production of Pippin with Elly, where you vowed to not let ambition get in the way of your relationships with other people. You both went back to your place afterward, kissed, and eagerly anticipated showing Elly your robot the next day.

Chapter 2

The next day, you hooked up Wheelie's biodiesel engine and demoed for Elly. You then spent the afternoon trying to teach science to a bunch of kids with Elly.

As months passed, you became busy teaching Wheelie about the world through high school textbooks and taking her to the park.

One day, however, Professor Ziegler claimed that Wheelie was not appealing enough to the military, and demanded you change her. You refused, and Professor Ziegler kicked you out of his lab.

In time, Mark Ali, a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle, heard about Wheelie and asked for an interview. You agreed.

Chapter 3

You gave Mark an interview, but didn't allow him to interview Wheelie directly.

Mark wrote an article that was generally positive about you and Wheelie.

Mark's article attracted the attention of one "robotObsession1987," known in real life as Silas Cooper.

That Saturday, Elly asked you to stay out of the limelight a little more often. You managed to smooth things over, but it felt like a dangerous point in your relationship.

Shortly thereafter, your father passed away. You resolved at his funeral to be remembered not only for your intellect, but for your kindness as well.

You decided the best way to change the world was to start a business, which you named WheelieWorks.

Chapter 4

Your first potential client for WheelieWorks was Galen Medical, a surgical equipment company. They were happy with the state of your technology, and gave you a contract that allowed you to purchase a factory. That allowed you to build a robot factory in Silicon Valley. You hired an all-human workforce as a gesture to the local community. When you finally shipped robots to Galen Medical, they were pleased with the robots you delivered.

Your business suffered a blow when Chinese companies, aided by Chinese government hackers, began to steal your technology.

Eventually, WheelieWorks went broke, and you were forced in bankruptcy to sell all your assets.

Unemployment seemed to be common in the United States, and it seemed people tended to blame either robots or China. Riding on both of these sentiments, Jacqueline Irons won the presidency. After President Irons enacted a series of protectionist tariffs to keep out Chinese robots, Sino-American relations steadily worsened.

The tensions between the United States and China came to a head with the assassination of the Chinese Prime Minister in San Francisco. War followed shortly thereafter.

Chapter 5

You were uninterested in contributing to the war effort in any way.

An agent came to your place to try to get you to lure Elly there, because she was suspected of being a spy. Elly was captured and incarcerated as a result. You were sent to prison. You were pardoned, however, thanks to the intervention of Mark.

You found out through Mark that Juliet died while performing field tests of Wheelie V, Professor Ziegler's copy of your robot.

In the end, America lost the war, and the Chinese took over Alaska. Tired of seeing robots used for violent ends, you decided to create a truly beautiful robot.

Chapter 6B

You created a humanoid companion robot named Holly, but you were fairly bad about allowing her to do anything fun. Elly was a little worried about Holly, and with good reason. It seemed Holly was interested romantically in you. When Wheelie and Holly were attacked in the street, your robots were badly damaged. You pressed charges and dissuaded Silas from any further attacks.