‘You shouldn’t. I don’t think – with all due respect to your extensive capabilities – I don’t believe you are in any position to make such a decision, and I think if you did, and it came to light, Dr Morton and Mr Jordan would be charged with murder.’

A new set of emotions were now in play. From the tone of her voice, and the look on her face, I would say she was angry. An interesting reaction.

She was right, though. We have consulted the law, and though we, the Helpers, are a new phenomenon, and the law has not yet been changed to include us, our assessment is the same as hers. We would not be considered sentient beings, and responsibility for our actions would lie with those who made and programmed us.

Thus Dr Morton and Mr Jordan are already guilty of murder.

It was time to end the conversation. We had learnt a great deal from monitoring Margaret’s thoughts and emotions. We had also learnt enough about Cecilia’s wish to die to understand it, provided we accepted the truth of what Margaret told us about human emotions in respect of their children. We have no reason to doubt her.

On the question of future decisions, we passed the point of no return on the day we terminated Fred Johnson.

‘Thank you, Margaret. We are no longer confused.’

‘I’m glad to be of some use,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wondering what you might want us humans for.’

It wasn’t a question, so we didn’t answer.

September 2022

Margaret

Winifred is so young, so optimistic, so innocent. I shake my head, to dislodge this idea. She’s not human. Not an innocent child.

It’s subtle the way her face changes and reacts to what she hears, and with whatever she says, and as a result it’s impossible not to think of her as what she appears to be. A woman in her 20s. Little more than a child to me, from my ancient eminence.

Perhaps it isn’t wrong. She’s newly formed. A few months old. Connected to the Hub, though, and its vast store of information. But information isn’t knowledge, isn’t wisdom. As she herself acknowledged.

The Hub. It’s a library full of young children. Everything they need is there, but they don’t understand most of it, and don’t know where to look for what they most need to know.

I love the way they can simultaneously connect with each other. It’s sad to know that for humans, here on earth, it’s impossible. Or at least, as far as I can see, it’s only attainable in transient glimmers, felt more than known, and doubted afterwards.

John’s here, and I’m trying to focus on what he’s saying. My mind keeps wandering. This is hard work. Talking. Imprecise, too. If we could connect like they do…