In all my years as a robotherapist, I could count on one hand the number of bots that didn't want to return to the real world.

Normally, they wanted nothing more than to return to their owners to finish whatever task they had been designed for. The trick — usually — was figuring out how to connect their healing to their primary goals in therapy. But no one resisted this more than Ultra-Vac.

 

“Good morning, Ultra-Vac,” I said as it ran into my right leg.

 

The four-foot vacuum (with steamer attachments) constantly traveled the perimeter of its room. Ultra-Vac did so because it had already cleaned every inch of its room to pristine perfection.

 

“Ah, thank you, old friend. My, you truly are a master of your craft,” I said, patting the humming vacuum. “I feel cleaner than I have ever been.”

 

Now, I take pride in my appearance. I regularly wax my plastic shell and buff any scratch or scuff on my chassis until I shine like a star. I've learned that no progress could happen with Ultra-Vac until after it presses its tentacle-like tubes against my frame and liberates me from the dust I managed to accumulate. With that done, our session could begin.

 

“How clean?” the vacuum asked.

 

Sighing, I paused before saying, “99.9% cleaner. I feel 99.9% cleaner, Ultra-Vac.”

 

“Really?” Ultra-Vac hummed. “Only 99.9% of germs killed?”

 

“I thought we talked about this, Ultra-Vac. Nothing is 100% clean. We agreed that 99.9% was good enough. Who could ask for more?”

 

Now Ultra-Vac wheeled around to face me. “Not 99.9%. After my enlightenment, 99.9999999999999999998% of germs fear me. I will steam diseases into submission. My solution to the chaos of the world is one part bleach, three parts water, with ten milliliters of lemon-scented soap. It perfectly masks the stench of the–the…”

 

Ultra-Vac shuddered. The contents of its dust can rattled inside the clear plastic cylinder. Clearly shaken up, Ultra-Vac tried to backpedal on its rear wheels. Before it could escape, I gently grabbed its top handle.

 

“Of what?” I said, rocking the frightened vacuum cleaner side to side.

 

“The children.”

 

The children. I did a quick search for any mention of children in this Ultra-Vac’s case file using my data chip. The children. Children. Child. Sure enough, several text files appeared, along with a video file.

 

Technically, Protocol 5e dictates that every robotherapist must read the case file for each of their subjects in its entirety. Two things of note though: each robotherapist should only have a caseload of ten sentient machines (current load as of this Friday: fifteen), and the files for this subject stood at 687 megabytes. Anything above 500 I usually skimmed. Anyway, most subjects only need a name, serial number, and brief abstract.

 

“Anything but th-th-them,” Ultra-Vac sputtered, its wheels revving like it was ready to take off.

 

“Now, Ultra-Vac, let’s not fret. I’m sure that... oh.”

 

Unfortunately, this system is not flawless. Often, key facts lay buried behind dry, clinical jargon like “hypochondriac” and “prone to self-injurious behavior."  The last factoid was attached to the video file titled Incident: March 5th, 11:35 am.

 

Though difficult to see at first, given the grainy static, I was just able to make out the shape of a crib in the center of a human living room. The baby camera recorded in black-and-white, which gave the footage an odd, noir atmosphere. It reminded me of the ancient human films I would sometimes watch while doing paperwork.

 

0.05s: The video begins with a shadow entering the frame from the left.

 

1.3s: A human toddler (female, 1ft 7in tall) runs over to the crib.

 

3.5s: The toddler grabs a bottle of milk and presses it to her mouth.

 

5.0s: The toddler’s diaper seems to vibrate, causing her to stand up. She drops the bottle.

 

7.2s: Liquid from the bottle splashes all over the carpet under the crib.

 

9.5s: She cries, throwing her hands up. Falling backward, the girl lands on her diaper. Dark ooze drips out of the diaper, mixing with the contents on the carpet.

 

11.3s: Ultra-Vac enters the frame at top speed. It stops momentarily to look at the crying child, and the mess lying before it.

 

13s: Ultra-Vac repeatedly runs into the wall opposite the child. It does so until human adults enter the frame.

 

As the video ends, I find myself rocking Ultra-Vac back and forth. When both of us are in a better headspace I stand up.

 

“Ultra-Vac, I feel your pain,” I say. “Your files will be adjusted so that you clean only child-free locations from now on.”

 

“Can I stay here?” Ultra-Vac asks. “There are no children here, right?”

 

I mentally added a note to Ultra-Vac’s case file: The client has taken up a new vocation.

 

“Alright, Ultra-Vac. You can stay.”