Lawrence

Lawrence pressed the “prepare meal” switch and the processor whirred into action, mashing protein cubes into the paste that would be breakfast.

He left the machine working while he checked the meteorological forecast: minus 20 max, blizzards, improving over the next 24 hours. The snow had been falling on and off for two weeks now. The airstrip was covered, and tall drifts had formed on the north side of the main building.

He returned to the kitchen, adjoining the operations room, and switched off the processor. He pressed “deliver x3” and three plates rolled out of the base of the machine and onto the stainless steel bars that served as a shelf.

Lawrence took the plates to the table, then moved to one of the walls. An electronic eye triggered a full-length panel that hissed open, revealing a darkened room beyond. Lights on the ceiling flickered into life; three figures lay on separate bunks, all apparently asleep.

Lawrence entered, singing softly:

“Wakey wakey
Rise and shine
The day’s begun
It’s wake-up time.”

He repeated the little song half a dozen times until one of the figures stirred, turned over and sat up: a bearded man in his 40s.

“Thanks Lawrence. That’ll do.”

Lawrence stopped singing immediately.

“Good morning, Captain Scott. And how are you feeling today?”

“You ask me the same thing every morning, Lawrence, and I tell you the same thing: I’ve just woken up, so I feel like shit.”

“Ha ha. That is a good one, sir.”

“All right, Lawrence,” Scott laughed. “That will be all. I’ll wake the others.”

“Very good, sir.”

Lawrence swivelled round and left. Scott got up, went over to the other two figures and shook them gently by the shoulder.

~~~~~

Breakfast over, the three colleagues sat round the table, finishing their coffees.

“Weather’s breaking tomorrow.” The captain sipped from his cup, peering over it at the other two — Evans, a scientist in her 30s, and Corporal Wilson, a little younger than Scott. “I think they’ll be able to land finally — we can clear the runway when the snow stops.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“They’ll be bringing the new unit, and you know what that means.”

They looked over at Lawrence, standing in a corner with his arms folded. His dull eyes showed no reaction to the conversation.

“Scrap?” Wilson whispered back. The captain nodded.

“No need to whisper,” said Evans. “He’s in down-mode.”

Scott sighed. “I just wish I didn’t have to be the one to do it — you know, disconnect his CPU.”

“I’ll do it if you like.” Wilson’s offer was as tentative as he could make it; he didn’t want to do it either.

“Maybe we can draw lots,” Evans suggested.

“It’s an idea.” Wilson was relieved that his offer might not be taken up.

“He’s been a good old boy, though,” mused the captain, something catching in his throat.

“He has,” agreed the other two.

“But hey,” reasoned Evans, “he’s a machine. Okay, I admit I’ve kind of … anthropomorphised him myself. But he’s just metal, plastic, wires, circuits … He’s got no real feelings, has he? He won’t know he’s being switched off.”

“Exactly. ‘He’ …” The captain left the idea hanging.

“Come on,” said Wilson with forced enthusiasm. “Cheer up! It’s Christmas! Let’s get that tree decorated.”

And the three of them, dark thoughts momentarily put aside, busied themselves hanging coloured lights and draping tinsel on the plastic Christmas tree, looking vaguely pathetic in one of the corners.

Lawrence stood in the opposite corner; on the back of his head, under the synthetic hair and out of sight of the three colleagues, a green light was silently flashing.

~~~~~

Lawrence pressed the “prepare meal” switch and the processor whirred into action, mashing protein cubes into the paste that would be breakfast.

He was humming softly the little tune that he’d sung the morning before, and which he sang every morning.

Leaving the processor to do its work, he went to the table. He picked up a pen and began writing rapidly on a clipboard.

The processor had stopped. Lawrence took the three plates from the machine and placed them carefully on the table. He removed from the clipboard the sheet of paper he’d written on and stuck it on one of the branches of the tree, gently adjusting the tinsel.

After some moments quietly contemplating the tree, he moved to the main door. He punched a switch on the wall and the door slid open. Outside it was still dark, with a fierce wind whistling by. The floodlights on the outside of the building picked out the heavy, almost horizontal snow that was falling.

Lawrence turned to take in his home for the last time, then stepped out into the snowstorm and trudged away, never looking back.