By YenYen Lintang

The woman’s face was cold and unmoving, like the glass roses sitting on the table between them. The blood red curves of the artificial flowers were perfect and undying.

The pale, thin girl sitting across the table waited, her eyes desperately searching for some sign that her words had not been in vain. But the cold woman merely stared back, face betraying nothing.

Finally, the girl could stand it no longer.

“Is there nothing? Nothing at all that you’d like to say?” she asked, her voice almost breaking with urgency.

The silence across from her continued for a moment longer before the vision of coldness spoke:

“We are imperfect creatures.”

The girl’s hands went limp in her lap.

“I know that,” she said, “but just because we can’t be perfect doesn’t mean that we should embrace — degeneracy.”

“Is that what you think I am?” the woman asked. “Where is the wisdom in trying to attain an imaginary perfection? There are no absolute values in this world; values are created by society, by Man.”

“No,” the girl said vehemently. “There has to be something more. I’m sorry. I’m leaving now. Goodbye, Rose.”

The woman watched her go, making no moves to stop her.

Long after the door had slammed and the footsteps on the other side faded, the woman still sat in the same position. The lights from the city faded as evening fell.

Silence.

Darkness.

Aloneness.

Finally, the woman stirred.

“Yes, we are imperfect creatures, aren’t we?”

No one heard her.

+ + + +

The child was perfect. Her hair and skin were perfectly soft, her features were perfectly proportioned, and she would love her creator with a perfect love, unconditional and everlasting.

Rose allowed herself a small smile as she watched the child being dressed. Four maids were conscientiously buttoning up a frilly skirt lined with rosebuds and ribbons, with four layers of lace. In such a sweet, summer-time outfit, one could almost forget that underneath the soft skin of the child was actually a labyrinth of wires and metal screws.

When the maids had finished and left them, Rose stood in front of her creation and patted the robot child’s cheek.

On cue, the child smiled, a robotic smile so much warmer than the one that her human creator offered in return.

“Lily,” Rose said.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Are you happy here?”

“Professor asks me every day.”

“And the answer is still — ?”

“I will always be happy as long as I am with Professor.”

Satisfied with this, Rose turned to attend her daily business. Before she could leave the room, however, the robot child called out to her.

“Professor? Why am I here?”

Rose froze. She turned slowly to face her creation. A thousand answers raced through her mind; the same thousand answers that race through everyone’s minds.

“To show the beauty of your creation,” she finally said, slowly, carefully.

The robot girl was still for a moment. Then she smiled the most breathtakingly beautiful and genuine smile that Rose had ever seen.

Before she could become at ease again, however, the girl asked her another question.

“Is that why you are also here, Professor?”

Rose snorted.

“The rest of the world is not like you,” she told the robot. “We are flawed and ugly. We have no genuine reason for existing, and must make our own reasons. That is why I became a scientist; I will create sense and perfection in a nonsensical, imperfect world.”

The robot was silent for a time, digesting this. Then, watching her creator closely, she said:

“Professor must feel such fulfillment for serving the world so nobly.”

Mechanical eyes bore into her, as if probing at Rose’s innermost being. She knew what the robot was trying to ask her, after all.

“There are many questions in this world,” she finally conceded, “but not so many answers.”

“Surely?”

“You doubt me?”

The robot hesitated.

“Professor has been teaching me much. Professor tells me that there is nothing certain, nothing absolute in this world, and that Man must make his own way. But Professor also told me before that sailors used to tell direction by the stars.”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps humans are all sailors, all needing a reference point outside of themselves once the answers from within fail to satisfy.”

Rose stared coldly at the metal child for a long time. When she spoke again, it was with false nonchalance:

“You are a robot. There is no need for you to trouble yourself over Man’s condition. After all, it makes no difference to you in the end.”