Non-essential situations? Park thought. What did that mean? Who was determining what was essential and what meant nothing? The androids themselves? “So, what,” she said slowly. “He had—seniority over you?”

“Something like that,” Glenn answered. He looked grim. “His processing unit was generations ahead of mine. A unit of my grade—or lower—usually feels that it’s most likely best to comply, even if we don’t . . . understand.”

This was ludicrous, Park thought. She had never heard of any kind of hierarchy among robots, different levels of authority based on model numbers and generations. Deferences to be paid. She’d never seen two androids interact with each other in any way other than neutral. What Glenn was saying couldn’t possibly be true—that they were developing some kind of society, a culture of their own. There was no evidence for it. But then again, she was beginning to realize that she didn’t know anything.

She said, “But why would he bother? Pretending to be human? You wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“It was a response to the protests,” Glenn said. “The anti-robot activism in the city. The design firm that created him wanted to disprove the naysayers who would oppose android integration into society. If they could prove that a sufficient amount of people were fooled—if the unit became well-liked—then the robotics companies could use that result to eliminate any argument against them. They could prove that humans and androids could indeed coexist.”

“But he isn’t well-liked,” Park said desperately. Her throat felt like withered bark. “Wasn’t. I was the only one who talked to him.”

At this she began to sink to the floor; Glenn caught her arms and sank with her. His face was still emotionless, impassive. At first she was almost appalled, but then her blood quickened: deep down, she knew why. Nobody meant anything to Glenn besides Park.

“So he’s gone?” Park said. Her breathing was winded, as if she’d been struck. “Forever?”

Glenn glanced at her bedside shelf, where her wrist console was lying unclasped. Park knew that if he were to turn on the screen, she’d see the familiar images: battered, dented limbs, straggling black wires like clumps of human hair. It was always the same.

“Destroyed beyond repair,” Glenn said. “They were waiting for him on his route to your school.”

“How did they know?” Park demanded. “Even I didn’t—know.”

Glenn opened his hands a little, the android version of a shrug. “There was a leak,” he said. “There always is. Someone found the files about him, released it to the anti-robot activists. They reacted as one would expect them to react, after finding out there was a synthetic in their midst, posing as a human. The activists found him and tore him apart.”

“Activists,” Park whispered. “Murderers.” But no, that was wrong—you couldn’t commit murder if the victim wasn’t alive to begin with. She felt as if she might cry. The hot, humid feeling was there behind her eyes. She was surprised by the strength of her reaction: she’d only known Dataran for a few days—and he hadn’t even been real. Not real in the way that she thought.