The nicest family ever made

My hair was dirty and tangled. There were still smudges of grime on the backs of my hands, even though I’d done my best to wash them in the bathroom. My clothes had dried but my feet were still squishing in my soaked shoes. I was tired and my knees hurt, but more than anything, I was hungry.

Gideon sat beside me at the dinner table, looking no better groomed. He sat with perfect posture on his chair, hands on his lap, and smiled sheepishly as Mother—the robot designed to look like a middle-aged woman—leaned over and served him steamed peas from a bowl in her metal hand. The hair on her head was red, cut in a neat bob and she was wearing a flattering floral dress.

“Just say when,” she said.

“That’s fine, thank you.”

She smiled at him and Gideon smiled awkwardly back. She crossed to my side of the table and I arched back in my chair to give her room.

Father sat at the end of the table, a robot man wearing a shirt and tie. His sleeves were rolled back to his elbows and his tie loosened—the look of a man who’d finally had the chance to get comfortable after a long day at the office. He rested his elbows on the table and put his hands together, as if about to say grace. Thankfully, he didn’t.

From across the white table (a long, immaculate table lavish with chicken roast, pickled beetroot, yellow rice, cauliflower cheese), two robot children sat staring at us: Daughter and Son. Son was the one who’d answered the door, and he was eyeing us sceptically, probably wondering if we could be trusted. Daughter was a little taller, with a narrow “pretty” face, short brown hair curling where her ears should have been. She was staring at me dreamily—a teenager with her first fluttery crush.

I gulped and thanked Mother for the peas.

The house itself was warm and pleasant. A fire crackled in a large hearth, a few lamps bathed the rooms in a soft homely glow. Outside, the rain pattered the murky earth. Inside, it was like another world.

We were the humans, yet it was we who were the creatures of the night. In that house full of charming human touches, sitting before that dinner table topped with delicious human food, and hosted by the most “human” family I had encountered in years (perhaps even, the last of its kind on this shattered planet), we were the uncivilised outsiders. We were the grubby pieces that didn’t fit. I’d been pawing my food for so long I could barely recall how to use a fork and knife. I grabbed each and held them uneasily, like the ends of live wires.

“It couldn’t have been easy getting here,” Father said. “You gentlemen seem to have managed well. Very few make it this far up the road.”

“Nobody makes it up this road,” Son cut in.

“It’s not right to interrupt your father,” Mother said. “That isn’t polite.”

“Sorry, Mother,” Son said. “Sorry, Father.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Father said to his wife. “And apology accepted, Son.” Father turned back to us. “But yes, Son is correct. Nobody’s been here in a long time. Either the world’s become too busy with its own business, or there’s no business at all. These are challenging times, but I’m sure I don’t have to remind gentlemen such as yourselves.”

Father picked up his fork and knife and proceeded to eat. He sliced up his chicken, loaded his fork, and put it in his metal mouth. He chewed it comfortably. I watched him, wondering whether he could even taste it. As he swallowed, I was curious to know whether the food nourished him in any way, or simply dropped into a big steel tank in his stomach.

I realised I was staring, and turned to begin my meal.

“You’re right,” I said, cutting my food into neat bite-sized pieces. “The world has grown stranger. I’m not even sure it’s our world anymore.”

“That’s an interesting remark,” Father said. “Do you think it’s ever been our world?”

Well, not yours, I would have said if I hadn’t been wary of offence. But then, with a depth of awareness that astounded me, he added, “Actually, to be more accurate, your world?”

I loaded another forkful. The meal was remarkable. Perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned. It tasted like home, a home I wasn’t sure I’d ever had. Gideon seemed to agree. His attention was firmly on his plate and he was already halfway through the meal.

“Maybe not,” I replied. “Maybe you’re right.”

“And maybe I’m wrong.” Father looked at his robotic wife. “Honey, this is absolutely delicious! Thank you so much, my love.”

Gideon and I added our thanks at that point, and Son and Daughter mumbled something to the same effect. Mother patted her mouth with a serviette, hiding a shy smile of gratitude.

“Well, if I don’t feed this lot they’ll eat the shoes off their feet,” she said, deflecting attention.

“I love a good shoe every now and again,” Father joked, and the kids giggled. “A good, hearty shoe stew. Next on the menu on Dad’s dinner night.”

“Ew!” Daughter said. She pulled a face, but was obviously amused.

“Okay, okay,” Mother said. “Let’s keep the shoe-stew talk down until our guests have at least finished their meals.”

Father ducked his head to the kids and widened his mouth in a comically worried frown, as if to say, I’m gonna get it in the neck now—but she started!

He ended the gag there and continued eating, looking quite pleased with himself. The kids tucked in again. Mother ate slowly and delicately.

We enjoyed the meal in silence for a while. When Gideon had finished, Mother insisted, “Please, have more.”

Gideon bowed. “I’m fine, thank you. Your cooking was delicious. I’m very grateful for your hospitality.”

“Your house is beautiful,” I said. “How long have you been living here?”

“Thank you,” Mother said. “What is it,”—she looked at Father—“a few years now?”

“That’s right,” Father confirmed. “A few years.”

“It’s very inviting.”

“Why thank you! We try,” Mother added. She pointed to the rest of the food. “You sure?”

I waved my hand and smiled to assure her that I’d had plenty.

“Unfortunately,” Father said, and then paused to consider his next few words, “we did lose a family member some time back, and it’s been difficult on us all.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Gideon said.

“A tragedy,” Mother said. “It was no way for anyone to go, let alone someone so dear to us all.”

“What happened?” I asked, and then, realising my question might have been inconsiderate, added, “I’m sorry.”

“No! No, it’s quite all right,” said Father. “I brought it up. Perhaps after dinner you’ll join me for a drink in the conservatory and I’ll tell you all about it. I’ve got a drop of single malt both of you will probably enjoy.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

“No, Kayle,” he said, his milky eyes flitting between Gideon and me. “We should be thanking you.”

We helped carry the dishes to the kitchen then joined Father in the conservatory, as he had suggested.

The two children retreated to their rooms to do their homework, maths problems that Father had set for them, Son said. Mother was in the kitchen (we had offered to help her, but she would have none of it) and Gideon, Father and I were now sitting in red armchairs in a glass-walled room full of hanging ferns, spiky succulents and a few herbs and vegetables. The rain struck and streaked the glass, revealing nothing of the black night beyond.

Father leaned forward from his red chair and poured us each a tumbler of the single malt. He put the bottle back on the unvarnished wooden table that sat between us, stained with the rings of previous drinks. He picked ice cubes out of a steel bucket, pushed our glasses towards us, grabbed his own, and sat back.

“Cheers,” he said, and we tapped our glasses together. Gideon and I sipped our whiskeys and watched as Father threw back his silver ribbed neck to take a big sip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed.

“I’m well aware how odd this must all be for you,” he said. “We are not without our insecurities either. Whether we were programmed to feel this way, or learned to be, our self-awareness comes with all the familiar drawbacks.” The ice clinked as he swirled his whiskey in his hand. “In my particular case, my fears and insecurities are predominantly related to my family’s capacity to cope with trying times.”

“I don’t know much,” I said, “but your wife and children seem as if they’re doing fine. Or they hide it well.”

Father smiled genially. “Thank you for saying that. That’s all I need to know. All I need to ever know. Mother and I have little more than fifteen to twenty years left of battery power. Then we’ll be gone. Dead and rusting. And my children … they’ll be left in this strange world, where nothing seems to mature with age. Not like this malt, anyway.” He sighed and took another sip.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Losing our memories may have been the best thing to happen to this world. No industry. No pillaging. We may have given the natural world the break it deserves.”

“The natural world. That is interesting.” Father smiled. “Humans have interesting ideas about their relationship to the world. Yes. Truly polarised ideas. Some believe humans own the world and can do whatever they want with it … and some believe humans are worthless as a species, that they are not what was intended. This latter group tries not to affect anything, resenting their own existence. But they are just as guilty of making a distinction between man and nature. Because you are of the world, aren’t you? As much as the oceans and the animals and trees. You are just as natural, as are your acts and intentions—as devastating as they can often be. Am I incorrect?”

“No,” I said. “Technically, you’re right, I suppose. We are a natural part of the world. That doesn’t count for much, though. Not any longer, when we’ve made such a concerted effort to destroy our own home. If we’re natural, what does that say about us, or the world, for that matter?”

“Hm. Yes. Well, perhaps then it would be better to classify you as natural disasters.” Father laughed at his own joke. I wondered then how many humans he had ever met. Had these ideas been programmed into him or had he somehow been able to reach his own conclusions? How much experience could he have had on the subject?

“It does seem to be the case, though, doesn’t it? Some humans treat their own intellect with such antipathy,” he went on, “as if it is an alien thing. Intellect is treated like a dirty foreign object brought into the world on the underside of your boots! They seem to think it is noble to be dumb and ambling, without self-awareness, that you should all be possums and sunflowers and three-toed sloths.” He paused and sipped again. “But never mind all that. We could go on about it all night. Most importantly, the two of you are here. And that gives me hope.”

“Hope?” Gideon asked. “Hope for what?”

“You have no idea, do you?” Father said, jingling his ice. “He said you wouldn’t.”

“Who did?” I asked. I rolled my tumbler in my hands. The rain came down harder, clattering on the windows like a thousand fingernails.

“I know you’re looking for your son,” Father continued. “I also know you are not here by chance.You’ve been led here,” he looked at me closely, “but something tells me you know that already.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I was told by a departed member of my family, who was also my best friend.”

“Shen,” I said.

“Ah, so you do know,” Father said, raising his glass.

“That’s all I know,” I said. “I was given a name and nothing else.”

“Well, it’s enough for me. Enough for me to tell you …”

He sat up and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, tilting the neck towards us in offering. We held out our glasses. He smiled and topped us up. “It goes down smoothly, doesn’t it?” he said. “Much more than most things these days.”