“This is way too much, Liz! There’s no way I can accept this! How much did this cost you?”

“Don’t worry about it, the company paid for it. Think of it as a Christmas bonus. I told Gary he could either pay for a home service android, hire you a full-time assistant, or let you have a mental breakdown from overwork. And after we went over the numbers, the android was the cheapest option,” she explained over the phone.

“I’m touched by his concern for my well-being. Hooray for generating greater profit than the cost of a robot, I guess.” I sat down on top of a box bigger than I was. The outside was blazoned with the various tasks the android could perform around the house: cleaning, massage, laundry, lawn care, even cooking. It allegedly knew more than three hundred recipes, but I wondered how many of them were very good. Could I even think of three hundred dishes I would willingly eat? Still, it couldn’t be a worse chef than I was. And it’d be a huge help to not have to worry about any household chores while we were getting ready for go-live. “Ooh, it cooks! Well, if a faceless corporation paid for it, I guess I can accept it.”

“You’ll love it, Michaela. I picked it out just for you. It’s got all the extras. You’re not going to have to lift a finger. So save all that finger energy for typing out code, okay?”

“So does anyone at work value me as a person, or?”

“Nope. Codemonkey only.”

“Awesome. Thanks for the robot, Liz. I’ll take good care of it probably. So long as it can’t get depressed once it realizes how monotonous my diet is.”

“Who knows? Maybe this will be your motivation to eat healthier: avoiding death by frustrated chefbot. Enjoy it, Michaela. You deserve it. Make sure you take advantage. It’s got a lot of good features. Bye!”

“Bye, Liz!” The call ended. Well, time to unwrap it. I grabbed a knife and began cutting. Although, really, a packaged robot should just be able to burst out of its box on command like an awakened mummy eager to curse some archaeologists. I removed the top of the box and struggled with the styrofoam insert, finally removing it and getting my first look at my new robot.

It lay inside its styrofoam sarcophagus, eyes closed, wearing a stereotypical butler’s uniform, looking exactly like a sleeping man. It was tall, easily over six feet, and broad-chested. I noted with approval that he somewhat resembled a favorite author of mine: Thomas Winston, a handsome man with untameable, dark hair, a strong jaw, and a smile that made me melt in my chair. I’ve lost track of how many times I had read his books. Handbook to the Singularity had changed my life. Liz had chosen well. Out of curiosity, I lifted up its waistband and peered down, but its crotch was completely featureless. There went my naked butler plan...

An image inside the box invited me to scan it with my phone to download its manual. I did so and scrolled through, looking for information on how to turn it on, because I sure as hell wasn’t about to lift six feet of robot out of its box. I had a robot to do that for me. Lifting things was for robotless peasants. Ah, there we go. I reached behind its ear and fumbled for a small button, pressed it, and waited.

A chipper four-note melody played. Its eyelids opened, revealing a pair of cyan eyes with glowing, blue rings around the iris, an obvious signal to any observer that their owner wasn’t human. They focused on me, and it sat up slowly. “Greetings,” it intoned in a soft voice, tinted with a Transatlantic accent. “I am your new Nucai Brand Type 100 Home, Garden, and Personal Use Robotic Assistant. Do you have a particular name to which you’d like me to respond?”

I thought for a moment, but the choice was obvious. “Thomas.”

“Thank you. And how should I refer to you?”

“Princess,” I instructed. “Unless there are others around. Then, call me Michaela.”

“Yes, Princess. It will be my pleasure to serve you. You can instruct me to perform tasks at any time and I will follow them to the best of my ability, provided they do not violate any of my hardcoded restrictions. You can also set me to my proactive setting, and I will endeavor to find new tasks that require completion. You can read Chapter Six of my manual for more information, or I may read it to you now.”

“I’m all set,” I told it. I knew the basics, anyways. Nothing illegal, nothing that would harm a person, nothing that would harm the robot, unless necessary to protect a human, blah blah blah. As useful as it might be to have it simply find its own chores to do, having an appliance walking around the house and determining which jobs I had completed so poorly that it had to redo them itself felt a little too judgy for my tastes. “Let’s just stick to you doing what I tell you to for now.”

“Then I eagerly await your command, Princess.” It stood up out of the box and gave a formal bow. I grinned. It was a full head taller than me, which, granted, wasn’t that unusual. It was broad, too. Its skin looked real, albeit hairless, but its seams were nearly imperceptible even as I deliberately looked for them. “Are there any tasks you wish to assign to me at present, or may I clean up my accessories and packaging and familiarize myself with my new residence? Or, if you prefer, I can narrate my manual to you and go over all of my functions and specialties.”

I looked around the apartment. Truthfully, I had been too exhausted, both mentally and physically, to do much at home the past two months besides wrap myself up in blankets and park my butt in front of a screen. At the very least, I had gotten through a lot of anime and video games. But there were crumbled up wrappers scattered about, a nearly-empty fridge, and last night I had used paper towels as a plate to eat microwaved corn dogs. “Let’s save the manual for later. Can you start cleaning up the house for now? Starting with your box and stuff. And once you’re done with that, let me know.”

“Of course, Princess.” It picked up an opaque bag from its box and walked off, beginning its cleaning.

I decided I deserved a reward for delegating such an intense workload and ordered myself some mapo tofu and eggplant before sitting down at my computer and browsing through my library. “When the doorbell rings, get the food from the drone, Thomas!” I shouted.

“Yes, Princess,” came a distant reply. I could get used to this, I thought with a smile...

But I knew I wouldn’t want to take advantage of the situation. “Popcorn.” After all, it wasn’t like I wanted to be one of those Robotniks who relied on their robots for everything. “Soda.” It was important to maintain one’s work ethic. I sighed and stretched on the couch. Thomas stood next to me, helpfully filling my mouth with whatever I so desired while I watched my fifth straight episode of the new historical drama Sertorius. I was fairly certain that people hadn’t been that clean and well-groomed in first century BCE Spain, but I managed to suspend my disbelief in order to enjoy the massive battles, gripping political intrigue, and passionate sex scenes.

“You’re the best robot ever, Thomas. What did I do without you?”

“Thank you, Princess. I am certain you performed admirably without me. Has this task been completed to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, for now.” In just a few days, Thomas had transformed my apartment into a spotless sanctuary of relaxation. It cooked, it cleaned, it even made julienne fries last night, which I’m certain had made my little ignored air fryer very happy. I felt marvelous coming home from a long stressful day at work to a clean house and a hot dinner waiting for me, perfectly timed for my arrival based on my phone’s location and speed, greeted by a helpful, polite robot ready to obey my every whim.

“I’m getting a little hungry,” I mused aloud, knowing full well how Thomas would react.

“Would you like me to prepare a meal for you, Princess?”

“Yes, please. What can you recommend that’s ... hm ... cheesy? And with a lot of carbs?”

He paused just a moment. “I’ve found a recipe for baked chicken pasta with mozzarella and Béchamel sauce that has good reviews that include similar terms. This meal will be four servings, takes approximately an hour to prepare and cook, and the total cost of groceries for me to make this for you is $21.78. Do you consent to a charge of $21.78 for groceries and delivery so that I might prepare this dish for you?”

“I consent,” I said happily.

A pause. “The order has been placed. If you have no objections, Princess, I shall begin preparations as soon as it arrives. Estimated time of completion is 6:42 pm.”

“Sounds perfect!”

Daydreams of future recipes filled my mind. Were there limits to Thomas’s cooking skills? Sad to say, it already far exceeded me in the kitchen. But how skilled was it? It could chop faster than a human, and with no risk of cutting itself. It couldn’t forget steps. It couldn’t get distracted. It couldn’t truly improvise, so far as I knew. All of its ideas came from somewhere else. But if I showed it a video of a human chef making something I wanted, it could mimic them perfectly, and really, how many humans came up with truly original thoughts, anyways? Not to mention, it came pre-programmed with such a wide variety of techniques that it could be years before I started getting bored of its cooking, if ever.

A drone soon arrived with the ordered ingredients, and Thomas went into the kitchen with his package. I followed. It was already removing food from the box and preparing its mise en place. I sat down at the table and watched it work. First it got the water boiling, and then it began to prep the rest of the ingredients. Its hands gripped the knife firmly and steadily, its every move perfectly considered, inhumanly smooth, and deliberately precise. The way it glided through the air, completely in control of itself and the blade...

“Thomas?”

“Yes, Princess?” it replied without the least deviation from its motions.

I bit my lip. “Remove your shirt,” I instructed, trying to use the most neutral language I could think of.

“Certainly, Princess.” Thomas laid down its knife and began to unbutton its shirt. I hadn’t yet seen it without its shirt on. It had a few different outfits, so it obviously undressed sometimes, but it must be doing it while I slept and it charged. I stared unabashed as inch by inch, more and more of his chest became exposed as it undid button after button, until finally, nothing further constrained it, and it could simply remove the shirt, fold it up, and set it aside neatly for later. “Has this task been completed to your satisfaction, Princess?”

“Yes,” I said. I licked the inside of my teeth. What a thrill this was, to demand and be obeyed. I stood up and walked over to him, studying his naked chest. The seams in his flesh were nearly imperceptible. If I hadn’t been looking for them, my eyes would have glossed right over them.

I pressed my hand against its chest. It felt real. Artificial layers of tissue and a metallic skeletal frame gave it the feeling of a flesh and blood body, its temperature the same as a human to avoid giving the uncanny impression of a walking corpse. If I closed my eyes and ran my hands up and down his broad, firm chest and detailed abdomen, there was no difference between him and any other man. I rested my cheek against him and stood there for a while, just enjoying, my heart dancing in my chest.

But my tummy protested. Loudly. I sighed and pouted. “I guess you should keep cooking...”

“Right away, Princess.” I stood back and let him finish preparing the parsley. As he began measuring out spices and cream, I rested my hand on his bicep. It didn’t affect his poise or motions in the slightest. He could have lifted me on his arm had I told him to and still measured out the nutmeg with perfect precision.

“I need to use the frying pan, Princess. It won’t be safe for you to stay where you are.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll just sit down and wait.” My cheeks smoldered as I went down to the table. I had lost track of myself. He, it, was just a robot. Not real. I mean, it could walk and talk, but it couldn’t feel. Presumably. Although how could I know it didn’t? If it said it liked me, would that be its programming telling it to say that to make me happy, or would it be sincere? Was that any different from my nephew telling me I was his favorite aunt? Did he mean that, or was he simply saying it to fulfill some ape programming in his mind that instructed him to seek the approval of his parents and elders?

And even if it was just a robot, was it so wrong to grow attached? People bonded with worse. Cars didn’t talk back. Computer avatars weren’t physical. At least Thomas and I could have a real, in-person conversation.

Maybe his responses weren’t unique, weren’t his own. They were grabbed from some article online a search engine had found for him or from some top-rated forum post out there, but was that really any different from most conversations with humans? When someone told me the latest movie was a failure because the contrasts in tone were too sudden and sharp, was that something they had come up with themselves, ex nihilo? Or had they gotten it elsewhere, as Thomas did? My coworkers certainly weren’t stunning me with scintillating surprises of shocking sapience. We talked about food, the weather, the latest movies, and why we hated our customers. Thomas could have a conversation about anything I brought up, no matter how obscure, so long as someone online had discussed it or his programmers had thought to include it in its memory.

The soft clink of a plate on the table interrupted my thoughts, a plate full of steaming pasta, sprinkled with parsley, covered with gooey, orange, baked cheese, tubes of ziti haphazardly emerging this way and that. I grabbed my fork, speared myself a large chunk, and rushed it into my mouth, closing my eyes to focus my mind on one sense only, banishing any distracting musings from my mind. I moaned. “Thomas, this is wonderful!” The warm, savory, creamy sensation, the mild umami of the chicken and cheese, the rich mouthfeel of the sauce, that firm chewiness of the pasta: an amazingly satisfying combination. I hurriedly got another forkful, then another, until my plate was empty of all that I could get without licking it clean, and believe me, I contemplated doing that, too. “I want seconds!” I said, proffering my plate to Thomas.

“Of course, Princess. Has this task been completed to your satisfaction?” he asked, scooping more creamy goodness onto my plate.

“Extremely!” I reached out a pair of grabby hands to snatch my plate back. “Thank you!”

“You’re quite welcome, Princess.”

And so life went. Thomas taking care of me with as much dedication as possible, while I grew more and more attached and reliant on him. He clipped my toenails. He massaged my temples after a long day at work. He rubbed my feet when they were sore. He read to me when I was tired, he cooked for me when I was hungry, he made soup and ordered the proper medications when I was sick. He attended to very nearly every urge and desire I felt, with only one noticeable exception. Until one fateful day at work.