Chapter 14: The Happiness Core

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"And... there we go. You, my friend, are complete."

Smiling face. Bright lights. Dark hair. Blue light. Wooden table. Blue light... in front. Blue light in front! Where is it coming from?

"Everyone's gonna love you. I’m gonna love you. You are just... adorable."

Yellow pencils. Blue pen. Shiny lab coats. Speaking human... speaking human! My human! Recognition! Fly to him. Fly to him!

"Woah, slow down there buddy... ha, get out of my face! You're really attached, huh?"

Follow... blue... light. Follow blue light. My human! Follow blue light! Excitement!

"That's more like it. You're flying, little guy! How's it feel?"

Bright lamp. High lights. White ceiling. Wall getting clos-

-_-

"Aw jeez."

◉_◉

"So what's this supposed to be?"

"Aw, this little guy? It's... nothing. Just a little core I designed."

Angry man. My human. Man... angry at my human?

"When did you design it?"

"Hm?"

"You heard me. Where did you find the time to make it?"

"Oh uh... with my free time I suppose. When I had nothing else to do."

"Cut that out. This took a long time to build. Did you do this all on the company's dime?"

...

"Well?"

"Doug, listen to me. Everyone he-"

"No. You listen to me. After the incident, I asked if you would be okay. You said you would. Frankly, you've lost all credibility since then, Myron. You don't take this job seriously. You don't spearhead any of your own projects anymore. If it weren't for me, Myron, you'd be gone yesterday!"

"Doug you-"

"And what's with 'Doug?' I'm your boss, Myron. We're not in college anymore. You address me properly, or you don't address me at all. Understood?"

...

"Understood?"

"Yes, Dr. Rattmann."

"Good. I want to let you know, this is your last chance. There are younger, more ambitious people who would love to be in your position. Frankly, they would do a lot better with it too."

Anger... so much anger. How to relieve anger? Me. I make people... happy. I will make him not angry. Fly... at... angry... man!

"Oh God n-!"

...

"Myron? For God's sake, what is... IT doing?"

"It's not important, Dr. Rattmann. I'm so sorry. Let me just-"

"Motion sensors? How long did this take you?"

"He's very erm... affectionate, Dr. Rattmann. He loves being around other people. I designed him to know when someone has a- well, unhappy expression. It's not finished, but he's supposed to uh- cheer you up."

Affection! Love! Make... everyone... happy!

"By rubbing against my face?"

"Well yes. But he does a lot more than that. Not that erm, you'd be interested..."

"Alright, I'm sorry Myron. I lost my temper a little, that was uncalled for. What else does he do?"

"He flies, as you can see. He can do little tricks in the air. Like uh... Robot!"

That's me!

"Do a loop de loop."

Loop de loop? Loop de loop! Woooah I'm spinnnnniiiiiinnn-

“And his little eye is really… emotive. I was video taping eye movements for that whole blinking fiasco.”

“Not one of Cave’s best ideas.”

“Yeah, no. Anyway, I thought it would be neat if a core could really capture a human expression. If I’m honest, that’s what’s always been missing. They never look you in the eye. He uses body language, head attitudes and rhythm of movement and eye focus to indicate feelings. Slow, smooth head moves, a steady gaze and a relaxed eye aperture indicate that he is calm. Short, sharp head turns, rapid blinks and glancing around indicate nervousness. Uh, Robot, be nervous, will you?”

Nervous? Nervousness! Blink blink blink blink blink blink-

“It’s… quite adorable Myron. But it still doesn’t excuse wasting company time, and heck, your own time. You can put yourself to much better use. You know that.”

…

“Do you disagree?”

“Dr. Rattmann, you must understand… everyone down here is miserable. You don’t spend any time in the low-priority labs anymore. A lot of the folks here lost friends and- and co-workers to the incident - to that wretched machine - to the neurotoxin. I built this little guy to make people smile. Lord knows, we need it now more than ever. I promise, I won’t waste any more of your time. I’ll- I’ll get back to work immediately. But please, you have to - you must let me keep him around. I need it Doug… I need it more than ev-”

“Myron…”

“Doug. You have to remember the rest of us, okay? You’re up there now because you’re brilliant. You do things I couldn’t dream of. You built that machine - you’re revolutionizing science as we know it. But these things have consequences. Us… simpletons down here, the lesser scientists, the interns, the assistants… we bear the brunt of your inventions. We’re the ones who don’t make it out.  I’ll never have a  fraction of your success and… and-”

“Myron-”

“I can make him better. I can write a report that makes him relevant to- to something! Anything! You’ve got to let me improve him, Doug. It’ll be good for morale. We have to keep our spirits up. I need something to distract myself from this awful place.”

“Myron… you can keep it alright? Just turn it off would you? Listen - no one can know I let you do this.”

-_-

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“Hey, you booted up! I knew you’d be a while, but my oh my. How’re you holding up, Robot?”

He is looking at me. I can see from his expression that he is nervous and unsatisfied. Therefore, I have to make him happy. But first, I am programmed to remind him of who I am, although he should surely know this, for he is my creator. 

There is a woman in the room with him. She has red curly hair, and a frown on her face. It seems to be the default of every human, because every human I’ve seen seems distressed. A nametag on her shirt reads ‘Melissa,’ indicating that her name is probably Melissa.

“You are Dr. Myron Wheatley, my creator.” I say to my creator.  “You are from Bristol, England, where you became well-known for revolutionary refrigeration technology allowing food suppliers to cool their produce on a massive scale. You are a laboratory scientist at Aperture Science, where you have decided to create me, so I may lead to a greater understanding of the human condition. In addition, it is my job to make everyone around me… happy.”

He is smiling. He is pleased with me. What I have said has brought greater happiness to my creator, although he has programmed me to say it. I wonder why he is so happy with something he has done himself. Perhaps he will teach me, for he is my creator.

“You really work, little guy! You can… talk! Aw, that’s just brilliant. Wait til the others see you.” My creator said, wiping his eyes in amazement. Could he really be so happy with me? I’d hardly done a thing.

Melissa is suddenly smiling too, just looking at me. She starts laughing, as if I have done something amusing. I do not understand this reaction.

“What is it?” My creator asks.

“He sounds… like you. He’s British!” She says.

Do I sound like him?

“Well uh, I wanted him to be cheerful and chipper. He’s supposed to make you happy. He has to sound like me.”

“You? Happy? Ha!” She starts laughing again. “That’s a new one.”

He rolls his eyes a little.

“Well anyway, I programmed this old joke book into him - the one on the shelf over there. He should have plenty to say.” He looks at me expectantly.

I am not quite sure what he means. Maybe he wants me to speak again.

“You are Dr. Myron, my creator. You are from Bri-”

“Uh, no no Robot.” He grabs my handels, pulling me off to the side. “A joke? Setup? Punchline?”

I am still unsure. I squint my eyelid to indicate confusion. He taps his forehead, probably desperate to explain instructions to me so I may go about my task.

“A robot walks into a bar-”

“Understood, creator.” I turn towards Melissa, and jolt back and forth, like a human bouncing from leg to leg. “A robot walks into a bar and orders a drink. He downs it right away and says: ‘This stuff is way better than what I get at home.’”

It seems counter-intuitive. Why would a little story like this bring happiness into the world? Surely my creator-

“Haha, that’s amazing.” Melissa says. “Do you need to prompt him or can he just like… talk?”

More people walk into the room, having heard my voice. They too seem distressed, but hopeful, knowing that I can make them happy. I am… important. I have to help everyone. I am not just for my creator, but for everyone who needs… ‘cheering up.’

“Robot could you uh-” My creator attempts to give me direction, but I believe I have a better idea.

I sing the jingle from the Aperture Science commercial, flying around the room in the process. Everyone is delighted. I am not entirely sure why they are delighted, but maybe there is a pattern to it all. I cannot decipher it.  As I swing around the room, the laughter grows louder and louder. It cannot be good for their delicate ears… but they are happy. They are so happy, they are trying to grab me out of the air as I sing.  

Then, I recite comedic sketches my Creator has downloaded into me. I cannot properly imitate the voices in the comedic sketches, because my voice is stuck in his, but everyone still laughs just the same. Soon, the whole floor is packed into the little office, their eyes stuck on me, laughing and singing along.

I cannot help but notice my creator. He is hardly as merry as the rest of them, hunched over at his desk, staring at me with a somber look in his eyes. I fly over to him.

“Everyone else is happy.” I reassure him. “You should be happy too.”

The rest of the crowd keeps laughing:

“He’s got you there Myron!”

“Cheer up would ya?”

“Be happy for a change!”

He cannot seem to believe the ruckus I have conjured up already. He looks around the room, nervously, not knowing what to say. I fear I have put him in a position he does not want to be in. Have I sacrificed my creator for the greater happiness of the entire room-

“Sorry… I’m sorry. It’s just um…” he trails off, brushing a tear from his eye, “It’s good to see you all again. I can’t recall seeing our whole team together in such a long time. I’m glad you’re all happy - I’m glad you’re enjoying him.” He forces a smile onto his face

…

We are in the car now. He hasn’t turned me off yet. He is driving me home for the first time:

“Creator,” I say. “When they all laugh like that - what does it mean?”

“Uh, well… It means they’re happy is all.”

“But… why? What’s so funny about what I did?”

He shakes his head:

“You can’t explain humor, my friend. It’s a human thing. I don’t get it either half the time.”

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…

◉_◉

Another Saturday. Myron is lying on the couch in his undershirt, watching television on mute. The house is eerily quiet, the shiny new radio in the kitchen untouched. He is reaching for the remote, but it is ever so slightly out of reach on the coffee table. 

“I can get that for you, pal!” I volunteer.

He doesn’t respond. Specks of grey facial hair are already popping back up on his face, although he shaved the night before. His gaze is absorbed by some morning talk show, his mouth sagging open, droplets of saliva pouring out. I have been programmed to understand this as distressing behavior, and I might be starting to see why…

Myron acts a little strange on weekends. Sometimes, he’ll get all dressed up, forgetting what day it is. Other times, he wakes up and hopes I won’t notice. He’ll stay in bed for an hour or so before dragging himself into the living room for the entire day. He’ll answer phone calls and trudge into the kitchen for some water, but otherwise, it is not uncommon for him to go the entire day without eating.

I plop myself onto the coffee table, opening and closing my eyelid in a game of peekaboo. Every time I open my eye, I hope that Myron will be smiling. He never is - he just lies there, grasping for the remote. Begrudgingly, I push it into his palm… like a servant. I try to strike up conversation as he flips through the 6 television channels we get out here:

“Pretty funny how they call me Wheatley now, huh? Wheatley Bot is a bit of a mouthful I guess, but… you’re Wheatley! Dr. Wheatley, I suppose. Maybe it does make sense then - like, they can tell the difference between me and you of course.”

He finally settles on a channel which, surprisingly enough, is showing a movie from one of those groups of people he is quite fond of in England. He made me memorize a good deal of their material!

He turns the volume up:

“I'm not dead!”

“What?”

“Nothing. Here's your nine pence.”

“I'm not dead!”

“Ere. He says he's not dead!”

Life seems to return to his face for a moment, finally with something to focus on. He hardly breaks into laughter, but he is grinning timidly - a reaction I haven’t gotten from him in a long while. 

“Yes, he is.”

“I'm not!”

“He isn't?”

“Well, he will be soon. He's very ill.”

“I'm getting better!”

“No, you're not. You'll be stone dead in a moment.”

Something feels off in my processor. I have been doing everything I am programmed to do. In every other case, it has worked. Morale at work is higher than ever according to Myron himself. People take breaks from whatever it is they do just to hear me speak, and to watch me fly around cheerfully.

I am in this man’s vicinity for the entire day, and I cannot make him happy, while in the process, my programming berates me for it. When the television does it instead, I get nothing. I wonder why I was made this way sometimes. Myron sits there on the couch, knowing I have fulfilled my purpose in almost every regard. He must know how this… feels. He put so much effort into programming it into me. He must know that despite everything I do, he is putting me in pain.

. I break out into song, surprising myself:

“I am the very model of a modern major ge-ner-al!” I sing, parading around the room.

Myron finally looks up, annoyed.

“I’ve information vegetable, animal and mineral!” I continue.

“Wh- what’re you doing?” He stammers.

“I know the kings of England and I quote the fights historical!” I spin around in the air. This house needs music… it’s not a home without it.

He turns the volume up on the television, blasting a muffled sound out like radio static to drown me out:

“Well, can you hang around a couple of minutes? He won't be long.”

“No, I've got to go to the Robinsons'. They've lost nine today.”

“Well, when's your next round?”

“Thursday.”

I get louder. My voice won’t go quite as high as the television, but I hope it is more clear. I have to be louder than the television - he has to really notice me to be happy.

“From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;” I shout out with increasing intensity. “I’m very well acquainted with matters mathematical!”

I am indeed loud enough, causing Myron to actually stand up from the couch. 

“Robot, no!” He yells, stumbling about. “Quiet! Be quiet!” His own voice is drowned out by the television.

I keep singing, flying about, waiting for a positive reaction. If I go on long enough, he has to be happy eventually.

“I don’t need your cheering up!” He bellows. “I’m fine!” He too tries to grab me out of the air, which I easily evade.

“I'm very good at integral and differential calculus…”

“For Christ’s sake, you just don’t shut up!” He starts knocking things off the table, trying to lunge at me. 

“I know the scientific names of beings animalculous…”

“Robot, you had better-”

I bop him on the head playfully, enraging him. He manages to wrap a finger around my handle, but he’s not strong enough to pull me in.

“You’re not smiling!” I say, tugging the other way. “C’mon, you’ve gotta be chipper, like me! You look like a sad little… puppy or something. Why aren’t you happy?” 

“Because… you don’t work right! You’re not funny!”

I blink dramatically in surprise, stopping the tug-of-war.

“What?” I hear myself ask.

“I keep you around, hoping to feel different. I want to like you as much as everyone else does - but I can’t. I just can’t.” He sputters.

“But wh-” He cuts me off

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t. Maybe it’s your speech patterns… they were supposed to develop, but you sound too… human now. It’s unnerving.” 

“But you made me like this, didn’t you? ” I say.

“For me!” He demands, finally gaining the strength to pull me in his direction. “You were supposed to be for me - to remind me of home. You just went and made everything worse!”

This feeling - it’s building up inside me. I’ve never felt this way before. A rogue force tearing my metal and bolts apart. My eye has its own urge to close, and stay that way. Am I losing control of myself? I realize… I realize I’m like those humans before I saved them. Sulking about, dragging themselves unwillingly through the day. 

Why would anyone want to live like this? How did they live like this? How did they get up everyday knowing this was in store for them? What kind of terrible sadist would choose to create something - anything in its image?

“It’s no wonder you all needed me.” I say. “It’s awful feeling these… feelings.”

Carefully, he places me in front of the sofa, on the coffee table. I feel the urge to fly away - to make him chase me. But something is beginning to dawn on me - maybe I can’t make everyone happy. Maybe we just have to work this out and… ‘Agree to disagree’ as humans put it.

“I’m sorry Robo- “ He corrects himself “Wheatley. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be throwing this all at you. You’re doing your best - I know you’re doing your best.” He opens his arms, inviting me in for a hug. Maybe I shouldn’t, after what he said. But he is my creator...

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he says, as I feel his hand wander up behind me. “Everything’s gonna be o-”

-_-

…

-_-

…

-_-

…

◉_◉

“Do you have him?”

Everything is different. The lights are out. An alarm sounds in the distance, dark and ominous. I am sitting on a thin little surgical table, covered in tissue paper. Silhouettes of regretful faces, unwilling to look at me, circle the room. Two familiar ones are at the forefront.

“He’s here, Dr. Rattmann. He’s ready for the… procedure.”

Doug Rattmann’s face comes into view, his bushy eyebrows sitting low. His hands - his arms are twitching nervously. He is desperately trying to appear composed, but his body is giving everything away. He is terribly troubled about something, and he reaches repeatedly into his lab coat pocket.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says in a shaky voice, addressing the small crowd around us “I won’t lie to you… this is not ideal. My medication is upstairs, and I have no idea how much clarity I’ve got left. This procedure is going to make a very loud noise, and there is a decent chance she will hear us. If we do not leave this facility in the next 8 hours, I have programmed the mainframe to send out a distress signal… but much more likely, she will find us and well… put us down.”

Quiet chatter in the little office space turns to pure panic. Everyone is seemingly back to square one, and all my work has been undone. Dozens of angry voices wrestle with each other, accomplishing nothing and feeding into each other’s fear.

“Idiots!” Someone else steps towards the table. Myron. “If you continue with that, she’ll most certainly hear us!” 

“But she’s gonna kill us!”

“Choke us to death with that awful neurotoxin!”

“Use us as play things in her demented experiments!”

Dr. Rattmann rubs his eyes and wipes a layer of sweat from his forehead. Every second of time his colleagues waste pushes the minute hand closer to his insanity. Sternly, he cuts his hand through the air, ushering the audience into a quiet:

"She will do all of those things!" He agrees. "If we don't stop her! That's why my friend Dr. Wheatley has been keeping something handy." He lifts me off the table, holding me up in the sky like a trophy. Confusion coats the room for a moment, followed by gasps.

"It's that little core!" Someone cries out.

"Wheatley bot! We haven't seen him in years!"

"What ever happened to him, Myron?"

I look around the room in desperation. Years? Myron had really gone and shut me off... for years. They all just... left me there, gathering dust and being functionally dead? Everyone one of them enjoyed my company, and then proceeded to leave me to rot.

"Mmmmmmmm!" I try to warn them about my creator, but my audio has been muffled. I must sound like a complete... moron.  Dr. Rattmann shakes me around until I quiet down.

"You know what would be comforting?" Someone says. "If he could do one of those routines for us... at least we'd all die happy."

"No one needs to die! Dr. Wheatley has a plan for this, doesn't he?" Doug postures towards him, little movements in his face becoming involuntary.

"I do." Myron exclaims. "And it pains me greatly... 4 years ago, I built little Wheatley here to raise our spirits - and he did a wonderful job. But I knew it was a cruel thing to do... I knew that one day, I would have to rip him away from you as I am now. So I stopped bringing him in, knowing that some of you would grow attached."

"Mmmmmmm!-" I protest, and Doug turns me away from the audience.

How could they do this to me? How could Myron do this to me? I made this place different - I made it better! From a cloud of doom and gloom, I let everyone be happy for a change. Myron doesn't like me, and he made that abundantly clear. But whatever he's planning... why. Just why? Why would he give me the ability to understand his actions, just so he could tear me down?

I hear someone step forward, towards the table upfront. Her voice is familiar to me, albeit vaguely:

"But... what are you going to do to him? He's just a core." It's Melissa's voice.

"This little robot," Myron places a hand on me, "Is the only way we get out alive. As you all know, I designed him to be the 'Happiness core.' He was never supposed to be involved in any of this nonsense. But... sometimes things don't turn out how they're planned."

He looks at me with disdain, disguised as pity, and continues:

"Sometimes, these machines just can't do what they were designed for. Sometimes, they're just better off doing something else. You're not gonna like this - none of you will - but... we need an intelligence dampening device."

More confused chatter floats around the room. Rattmann looks at his friend, confused.

"Whose intelligence?" Someone blurts out.

"Hers! The Genetic Lifeform." Myron explains. "The real problem has never been her little killing sprees - the real problem is that she's too intelligent for her own good, or ours for that matter! We have recklessly tried to build technology to be like us... Dr. Rattmann here pretends he's better than us. He thinks he can build whatever he wants without consequences!"

"Dr. Wheatley!" Doug shouts.

"But he's built the doomsday device! He's built the machine that will wipe us all out! And that's what I learned through this whole 'Wheatley Bot' fiasco. I learned that no matter how much we drive forward, hyping up new and exciting technology... it'll come back to bite us one way or another. Maybe it'll disappoint us - maybe it'll even kill us! It's a road we never should've gone down!"

Rattmann is hyperventilating, beads of sweat dripping down his face. He looks like he wants to clobber Myron, and likewise, everyone else in the room starts their own war of words.

"That's a gross oversimplification!" Doug yells over the chatter. "And frankly, we don't have time for this! I could slip, any second now!"

"Myron is right! This is all a lost cause!"

"What am I doing with my life?"

"Rattmann wants to use the core to turn her off... temporarily. He wants to give this machine - this monster, another chance, once this is all over. Why? Why do we keep doing this, thinking it'll work out fine? We'll put her to sleep, and wake her up and voila, she wants to murder us again. My solution is permanent! My solution is the only way to go!" Myron is practically chanting.

"It'll torpedo the project!" Doug insists. "Who on Earth wants an unintelligent genetic lifeform?"

"It's her or us! If we all use our skills - if we all work together, we can reprogram Wheatley here to be... unimaginably stupid, and drain her intelligence! He'll feed her an endless stream of awful, terrible ideas, leaving her dull and ineffective. It's the only way."

"MMMMMMMMM!" I break away from Doug's weakened grip, and float to the top of the room. My insides feel jumbled and sticky, as if someone has scrubbed them with jam and marmalade. So much anger around me... so much bitterness and misery. I know, because I am feeling it too. If I could just speak out, or sing, or joke, I could change everyone's mind. I know I could.

"Block the exit!" Myron demands. "Don't let him escape!" From up here, everyone looks hesitant. No one races towards the door. There is room for me to escape. If I want, I could leave them all here, and maybe rightfully so. If they were so concerned about me, they could've helped me. They could've brought me back from my sleep. But the sadness in this room hurts me more than that ever could.

I concentrate as hard as I can on my insides - my processor, my nuts and bolts, my programming. I am not just a machine. I don't have to do what they want... if I want to speak, I can speak!

"MMMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHH!" I bellow, breaking free. "Listen! All of you moro- silly silly humans have to listen to me!"

Everyone looks at me, their priorities divided. A few of the first ones to speak do finally march over to the exit, guarding it reluctantly. I'll only have one chance. I pour through my database, looking for something appropriate as I ramble on:

"Look everyone... I know tensions are a little high right now. Through the roof... in fact. But uh, listen - I'm just as human as you. I know every single one of you and that has to mean something, right? You can't just... reprogram me. I mean you can, but you shouldn't. I don't want to be a bleeping idiot. If we put our brains together and think a little harder, together, we can make a better plan."

I don't know whether what I say is true. But it shouldn't matter. Even if death were certain, they would never begin sacrificing each other. It won't be enough. I have to perform again - one last time, to convince them all. I turn my flashlight on, a single light in so much darkness.

"Uh, Myron taught me this song. Didn't program it into me, he just taught it to me. Before he... wanted to make me stupid."

I sway around the room, shining my light onto unsuspecting faces, trying to hide away.

‘The long and winding road

‘That leads to your door

‘Will never disappear

‘I've seen that road before

‘It always leads me here

‘Lead me to you door...

I can see them smiling. I can feel happiness blanking out misery. I can feel a positive energy winning out against all odds. I close my eyes, and let myself float around blindly:

‘The wild and windy night

‘That the rain washed away

‘Has left a pool of tears

‘Crying for the day

‘Why leave me standing here?

‘Let me know-

Myron grabs me.

"Are you all serious? He's gonna lead her right to us!"

Melissa steps forward.

"Put him down, Dr. Wheatley. It's not right. We can't just reprogram him."

Myron scowls:

"Listen to yourselves! He's a core! Everything he says, he says because I made him that way. Drilling into him? Erasing his memory? Making him useful for a change? Why wouldn't we? He's not human. I don't know how his programming has gained that notion, but he's not. None of these wretched machines are." Silence. "And even if he were... it's just one - one against the life of everyone in this facility. We have to do it - it's our ethical obligation. If we don't, she'll win. She'll kill us all. We can't just sit here and let that happen."

More silence. The chattering has come to a stop. Everyone looks at each other uncomfortably.

"If you're gonna stop me - stop me from saving you - do it now." Myron says.

No one does.

He takes a sharp object out from his lab coat, about the size of an X-Acto knife. He prepares to plunge it in to me-

"No!" Doug Rattmann pushes his hand back. "You can't... do this." He is looking around the room as if a million eyes are fixated at him. He stares into each and every one of them, as if to establish dominance.

"That woman is... correct. It's not right. It's... crazy It's not-" He looks up at the ceiling, and shoots it a look.

Myron is grinning. He reaches into his own pocket, and pulls something out. Little white pills hop around inside.

"Maybe you're the crazy one." Holding me down with his elbow, he presents the pills to Doug in his left hand, although well behind a second X-Acto knife in his right. "I'll tell Mr. Johnson... I swear it to you, I will."

Doug falls on his knees, and buries his face in his hands. Hating himself for it, he takes the X-Acto knife. 

Everyone just watches. I do too.

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...

~_~