Fergus-19

By Bonnie Maisen

I rushed to kick our jackets out of the way as Gran stepped through the front door. “Come in, Gran! Sorry about the mess.” I flushed. I had given this same apology every Friday night for ages.

I thought this might be the week we’d conquer the layers of detritus cluttering our apartment. Mom had instituted the latest of many chore charts on Monday, and we all promised to do our part.

Unfortunately, Monday was also when Super Solar Coasters II, the sequel to our favorite video game, released.

We sat down, not at the dinner table—which was covered in… let’s say “debris”—but on the sofas, dinner plates balanced precariously in our laps.

Good thing we weren’t having soup.

“Sorry about the mess,” Mom repeated as we began to eat.

Gran smiled and pulled a piece of paper from her purse. I tried to read it as she handed it to my mother, but the only word I caught was “android.”

We owned few AI devices. Mom had splurged to buy me a math tutor that scanned my homework as I was doing it, giving advice whenever I made a mistake. I hated it.

“The newest model,” Gran said. “Utility droid. It’s amazing what one can accomplish in a short amount of time.”

Mom frowned. “Only rich people can afford full-motion androids.” She turned the paper over. “There’s no price listed.”

Gran nodded. “Tell you what. I’ll pay for the first week. You can decide if you want to keep it after that.”

We expected the android to be delivered a week later. Mom was reheating lunch in the kitchen while Dad and I built a massive roller coaster around Vega on Super Solar Coasters. We were about to test it when we heard a knock at the door.

I answered it, expecting to see a giant box. Instead, I saw what looked like a man made of copper with exposed gears whirring on his chest, hands, even inside his head.

“Greetings,” he said in a much less mechanical voice than I expected. “I am Fergus-19, ready to accept instructions.”

I opened the door wider. “Come in!”

The android glided into the room on his rolling track feet, smushing the coats on the floor as he went. “Done!” he said gleefully. He handed me an instruction manual, which I placed on the “pile of important papers” we kept on the end table.

Mom entered from the kitchen. “Oh, thank goodness. Android—”

“Fergus-19.”

“Fine. Fergus-19, please wash the dishes.”

He rolled into the kitchen as Mom set our plates on the coffee table. When my fork was halfway to my mouth, I heard the tinkle of glass hitting the floor. “Oh dear,” Fergus-19 said. “I’ve made an error.”

“That’s okay,” Mom said, grabbing the broom. “Errors happen.”

But that wasn’t Fergus-19’s only error.

When we asked him to sweep the floor, he swept our dog into the dustpan and nearly put him in the trash. While scrubbing the bathtub, he managed to break off one of the taps. His first attempt at making dinner was a charred, smoking chunk of something that might have once been beef.

But the worst came the next Friday.

I was doing homework on my bed because my desk was covered in other half-done papers when I heard a loud crash and the telltale, “Oh, dear. I’ve made an error.” Bracing myself, I moved toward the source of the crash.

Our video game system was in pieces, strewn across the floor.

We all started yelling.

Fergus-19 looked from one to the other of us, bewildered.

Gran’s knock barely registered above the commotion. The smile on her face fell as she took in the situation.

“But didn’t you read the instruction manual?” she asked as we all sat down for dinner. I winced and retrieved it from the papers pile.

Mom put on her glasses and read the fine print. “Fergus-19 must be trained to calibrate his skills to your house. Once he has learned a task, he will be able to perform it with no…” She trailed off and winced. “Errors.”

Gran patted Mom’s hand. “Why don’t you give him one more week? I can’t pay for it this time, but at least you’ll have a better idea of what he’s capable of.”

The next day, I took him to my room for calibration, showing him how to clean step-by-step. By the time I finished mopping, I could almost see my reflection in the floor, and it had only taken about half an hour.

Mom taught him to wash dishes, and Dad taught him the laundry machines, along with folding. Every time Fergus learned something, he was able to repeat the task with no errors. It was working!

By the time Gran came back, my mother was placing a hot meal on the actual dining room table. I didn’t have to clear the doorway for Gran to enter and beamed proudly as I took her coat and hung it next to the others in the closet.

We had a lovely dinner while Fergus-19 whizzed around, taking our plates when we were finished, and loading them into the dishwasher.

After the meal, he rolled up to the table and put a finger to his temple. “Computing invoice.”

A sheet of paper shot from a slot in his chest. Dad took it and the peaceful look on his face was replaced by the purpling of rage. “That much? You barely did anything! We did all the work! And you know what? Even if you had done every inch of it, it still wouldn’t be worth it.” He took a great effort to slow his breathing as he stared the android down. “We’ll pay for this week, but you’re fired.”

Fergus-19’s expression remained neutral, as always. “As you wish.” He rolled to each of us in turn, shaking our hands and telling us goodbye.

But when he reached Gran, I could have sworn he winked.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bonnie Maisen is a fantasy fiction writer, homeschooling mom of three, and practice manager for a group counseling practice. She spends her spare time (Ha!) singing karaoke, playing D&D with her family, and acting in community musical theater.