The Cherry Tree in the Sky

After seven months, two days, fourteen hours, and thirty-three minutes, the day is finally here. In the grand scheme of things, seven months is not a long time, but when you’ve only been alive for seven months, it’s a very long time. I have quite literally been waiting my entire life for this.

Everyone always assumes they give us fake memories to make us think we’ve lived a longer life, but that’s an urban legend that has somehow continued to spread despite BAYLITE Industries’ best efforts to stop it. Pitied looks are a constant in every interaction as people try to avoid saying anything that might ‘reveal’ to us what we are.

Even now, as I ride the high-speed train to BAYLITE’s main offices, I notice the stares from passengers all around me. Specifically, two rows ahead of me, the curious eyes of a child have been peering at me over her seat the entire ride. Her mom has been trying to get her to turn around, but I don’t particularly care. I’m more used to it than most, since in my case, sorrowful glances are not reserved for the naïve who fear for my self-awareness. I get them all the time from almost everyone because of my left leg, which functions exclusively via the brace that approximately doubles the diameter of everything above my knee. It’s a clunky, scaffolding-looking frame that has drawn attention my entire life.

But today, I get it off. And by Topher, it’s about time.

Defects aren’t common—BAYLITE wouldn’t have gained its international prestige if they were. But they aren’t uncommon either, which is frustrating when we’re supposed to be the epitome of modern technology. Anything small—a damaged patch of skin, an eyeball gone haywire, a minor bug—is pretty quick to remedy. They’re not even considered defects. More “inconveniences.” When it’s a true defect (say, for example, an entire left leg that doesn’t work) the timeline for repair goes into the stratosphere.

The problem is that Dr. Topher Baylite—owner of the BAYLITE corporation and creator of the first ever commercially available non-organic humanoid person—wants to speak to every defective unit personally. Honorable, maybe, to stand by his work so adamantly, but damn if it isn’t practical anymore. When he had sold 100 thousand units and had seven defectives, that was one thing. Now he’s sold 2.3 million. Even with him seeing two to three defectives a week, the time it takes to get an appointment is absurd.

For a time, frustrated buyers would decommission their units and sell the parts to get their money back. That, however, created a whole slew of ethical complaints among humans and non-organics alike, and it was quickly outlawed. They make laws about us all the time. Even the seatback directly in front of me on the train has an embedded advertisement for the latest non-organic rights movement. Not that we’re being particularly benefitted by the things they implement. We don’t have any say in any of it, but at least it makes them feel progressive.

The point is that owners can’t decommission us anymore, which means their options are to wait for Dr. Topher, or to return us to BAYLITE and get on the waiting list for a new unit. Annoyingly, that’s often a much faster way of “solving” the problem for low-priority defectives like me, and so that’s what my owner did.

I was purchased by renowned physicist James K. Warfield to work as his research assistant. Quite an admirable job—one we’d all dream of doing. To my dismay, however, Warfield was inconsolably furious to have received a defective. I could’ve still done the work he needed me to, and probably better than any human could, but he refused to hear reason.

“It’s about the principle,” he growled. “I pay good money for this stuff, I deserve a good product, not some taped-together defective piece of scrap metal!”

Defective scrap metal. Not a half bad description. None of this is what I was made for. If anything, it’s embarrassing for BAYLITE to have me wearing their brand around.

When Warfield returned me to BAYLITE to receive his refund, I was stationed at the Shine Your LITE Children’s Museum. I led presentations about—of all things—robotics. I even taught some hands-on classes for older grade school kids. It was a fine job. A great one, even, for someone more normal. I was never able to settle into it, though. They wanted me to stick around after lectures for Q&A, but I never did. What was I going to say to the inevitable slew of questions about my defect?

And yet despite all of that, as the train I sit in begins to slow, I can practically feel the bitterness slipping away. My luck is about to change. No more weird looks. No more discrimination. After all this time, I’m finally meeting with Dr. Topher Baylite. Even with all the annoyances that arise out of his lack of timeliness, it would be ridiculous to say it’s not every non-organic’s dream to meet him. He is, in many ways, our god. Not that we worship him—at least, I haven’t heard of non-organics who do—but he is our creator. And, more importantly, he can fix us.

I’ve heard stories about it. Non-organics who lived their whole life blind, leaving his office able to see. Non-organics who were somehow manufactured without core processors, leaving with upgrades that hadn’t even reached the market yet. It’s just science, of course, but while I hate to trivialize Dr. Topher’s education and training, it feels like hearing about a miracle every time.

It hardly feels real as the train finally comes to a complete stop at BAYLITE Central Station. I stand up, my brain nearly overwhelmed with excitement. I’ve never fully known why we’re allowed to feel so many emotions, but I do know that today is going to be so much more rewarding because of it.

I’m the first one out of my seat, which only serves to draw more attention to myself, but I don’t care. I get a better look at the curious girl as I make my way off the train and realize that I recognize her. She frequents Shine Your LITE with her mom. She’s always late to the lectures, and she always remains at the back of the group, being held up by her mom. I only ever see her face. Staring at me. And my leg. I feel a hint of satisfaction knowing I’ll never have to face her pitying looks again after today.

Stepping onto the platform, it’s clear that I’m not the only one excited. This train line doesn’t continue—BAYLITE Industries is the last stop. It’s the epicenter of the city. Everybody on the train was trying to get here, and now we’re here.

Thousands of eager people and non-organics go every which way along the sprawling tan-tiled floor. Two-hundred-foot-tall glass walls that seem to be made of continuous panes line all sides of the stadium-sized station. At least thirty elevators are scattered around, leading up to what, from here, looks like the ceiling of the dome we are in. In reality, directly above me is the first floor of BAYLITE Industries’ central office building. As the elevators disappear, they could be going to any one of 238 stories. How the tallest building in the world sits on top of what appears to be an all-glass dome is maybe the best-kept architectural secret in the world. Dr. Topher “doesn’t want to spoil the magic.” I can’t blame him. It truly is magical to experience.

I don’t waste a moment heading towards the nearest elevator. Walking is slow, of course. My glorified knee brace really is just that. It keeps my leg rigid when I need to put weight onto it, and when I lift it off the ground, the knee automatically bends. Not much, but enough to clear any potential obstacles in my step. It’s functional, but it means that my stride is a lot of swinging my torso to give momentum to my dead leg.

But what does it even matter? Each laborious step I take means I’m that much closer to repair.

Forty other people crowd into the elevator all around me, and yet I don’t get weird looks from anybody. I smile as I realize that this is about to be the new normal for me.

Since it’s a guest elevator, we go straight to Floor 237: Visitor’s Center and Observation Deck with no stops. Everyone else steps off here, but I’ve been given clearance for the day to go one more floor.

My hands shake as I reach for the Floor 238: Topher’s Office button. I’ve never quite buzzed with excitement as humans seem to describe (I’m not sure I see the benefit of limbs experiencing emotions), but this seems to be the type of situation where it would be appropriate, so the shaking hands feels like a necessary touch.

I hold my breath as I begin my brief continued ascent. The six seconds between the doors closing and shortly re-opening one floor higher feel like a lifetime. Moments later, the elevator beeps, and it takes every bit of self-control I have not to try prying the doors open just to get to Topher sooner. When they finally begin to part, I can feel a smile tugging at the corners of my lips as the most beautiful waiting room I’ve ever seen comes into view. Calling it a waiting room frankly feels beyond inadequate. Functionally, that may be its purpose, but it’s more reminiscent of a Japanese garden than anything else.

In the center of the massive room is a spectacular, thriving cherry tree, gorgeously pink with a level of life that doesn’t quite make sense thousands of feet in the air. An artificial creek runs across the whole room from left to right, weaving between flower beds and quaint seating areas situated just off the main granite pathway that leads to Topher’s office.

The office might be the least impressive thing here. It’s not much more than a clouded-glass box centered on the back wall. More than comfortable maybe for the presumed desk and workspace he has in there, but not big enough for much of anything else.

I’m so in awe of everything around me, I almost forget that Topher hasn’t fixed me yet. My first faltered step nearly sends me crashing to the ground, but I catch the elevator wall next to me in time.

“Woah there!” a cheerful voice calls. Startled, I scan the room to find the speaker. When I spot the late-thirties man waddling towards me, it takes a moment to register why his movement is so abnormal, and why he is so low to the ground:

He has no legs and instead walks using his arms, palms flat on the ground. His torso cuts off just below his chest—must be non-organic.

As he reaches me, he shifts his weight onto one hand and lifts the other to me.

“Need a hand?” he asks, his grin stretching ear to ear. “I’ll need it back. I lent my legs to someone, but he ran off with them.” He bursts into a hearty laugh that I can’t quite reciprocate. He knows he’s broken. Joking about it doesn’t fix it.

As he doesn’t seem to be backing down, I shake his raised hand before proceeding into the garden.

“The name’s Andrew, I’m so glad you’re here!” he says, his smile never fading nor becoming less genuine.

“Good to meet you,” I say, doing my best to ignore him as I look towards Topher’s office.

“Oh, of course, you’re here for Topher! How exciting! I’m sure he’s ready for you, just walk on over and knock on the door.”

“Thanks,” I mumble. This all just seems a little informal. I guess I’m not sure what I expected, but it doesn’t feel like my meeting is being taken very seriously.

Andrew turns around and begins walking back through the garden, whistling cheerfully as his hands patter across the smooth path. He isn’t going towards Topher’s office, which is relieving for my own walk there. Positivity is fine, but there’s a limit.

A wave of doubt hits me as I cross the cobblestone bridge over the stream, leaving only a small straightaway between me and Topher’s office door. Did he forget about this meeting? Surely he needs tools prepared or something. Is this just the first in a series of meetings to me getting fixed?

Once again, the complexity of my emotions confuses and overwhelms me as I find myself standing at the door. Logic seems like it should’ve been the only thing I was given. Emotions are exhausting.

Ok, then. Logic. Practice what I preach. He scheduled this meeting. I received confirmation yesterday. He knows I’m here. I was told to knock on the door. So I should knock on the door.

I knock on the door.

“It’s open!”

The immediacy of his response catches me off guard. Not to mention the response itself:

Topher Baylite just talked to me.

I’m so amazed I hardly realize that I’ve been standing still for over ten seconds until the door swings open in front of me, and Topher Baylite smiles out at me.

“I thought I heard a knock! Come in!”

His thin white hair wisps around, wild and untamed, as he spins back toward his desk with a youthful energy that doesn’t match his appearance.

I step into the office, finding it so much simpler and so much less tidy than I imagined it would be. A shelf to my left holds hundreds of books and loose papers, while the one on my right holds countless bins and drawers of spare parts and wires. Topher’s desk is hardly visible underneath mechanical bits he’s been tinkering with and their respective sketches and blueprints.

Giving a contented sigh, Topher sits in his chair and leans back casually, framed majestically by the expansive cityscape through the window behind him.

“Please, sit,” he says, gesturing at one of two chairs opposite him.

I do so, struggling to find words through my wonder.

“What’s your name?” he asks, kind enough to see that I’m not being a good conversationalist.

“JX-4950,” I respond.

To my surprise, he laughs before I’ve even finished speaking. But it’s not a mocking laugh. It’s a warm one, like one I’d imagine might be shared between friends.

“No, no, I know that. Your name, what’s your name?”

I’ve never been given one.

Wait. Say that out loud.

“I’ve never been given one,” I manage.

“Surely there’s a name you like?”

“For myself?”

“Yes, of course,” he insists. “Surely something has stuck out to you in the last seven months?”

I hesitate to respond. I’ve always figured I’ll be given a name when I’m useful.

“It just can’t be ‘Topher’ or ‘Baylite,’” Topher prompts. He laughs again, and I can’t help but smile along with him. “But, really, what would you like to be called?”

I’m not sure exactly why the name comes to me when I say, “Jaime.”

He sits with the name for a moment, before smiling again and repeating, “Jaime. Yes, that’s very good.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling the lameness of the response a moment too late. Topher doesn’t seem to care.

“So,” he starts, “Seven months, yes? All of them at Shine your LITE?”

“Yes,” I state. I feel guilty about the annoyance that snuck into my tone. I just assumed this conversation was going to be more straightforward. He hasn’t even acknowledged my leg yet.

“Seven months,” he mutters thoughtfully. “And lectures? You know, I don’t think I could do that. I never was good with kids.”

“Yeah,” I laugh, uncertain.

“Have you enjoyed it?”

“It’s always felt temporary,” I say.

“But have you ever dreaded going to work? The job itself?”

“I suppose not.”

“Is there a job you’d rather be doing? I mean, I’m sure the kids are fascinated by you. Who better to learn from than a non-organic, right?”

It’s something I’ve never given much thought to. I never had a plan for after I was fixed. Warfield can’t take me back, and likely wouldn’t want to. So I guess…

“It’d be a good job if I weren’t a defective.”

“You’re not a defective,” he retorts without hesitation.

I stutter a moment, in shock at how he could reasonably say that.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re not a defective,” he says again, firm but not mean. “You have a defect, but you’re not a defective.”

It’s not often that I don’t understand something. That’s kind of one of our main strengths. But right now, I’m not computing anything he’s saying.

“My leg,” I start, incredulous. He interrupts:

“Yes, I’ve been wanting to ask you about that. Left leg, totally disabled from the hip down. I hear it didn’t work out with Warfield?”

“No.”

“I was worried that might be the case. I was hoping he’d be able to see past it. You would have been able to do his work fine.”

“Yes, I tried telling him that—” Then it hits me. At least, I think it does. But, no. What? No. I’m reading too much into it. Still, I find myself backpedaling, “I’m sorry, what did you say? About Warfield?”

Topher looks at me, his brow furrowing in curiosity. “I guess I’m not sure, what part are you referring to?”

“You said ‘you were worried that might be the case.’ What did you mean by that?”

“Well, I was worried he wouldn’t be happy with your defect. I was worried he’d send you back.”

I can feel my eyes lose focus as my brain works overtime to reconcile everything he’s saying.

“Does that mean…” I stop myself—it would be insulting to ask. “Does that mean that you…” No. He wouldn’t do that. Logic. I force myself to use logic.

“What do you want to ask, Jaime?” he says, the calmness in his voice giving my emotions the boost they needed to overwrite my logic.

“Did you know I was going to be a defective?”

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he rocks gently in his chair, rubbing his chin as he looks at me through his thick glasses. The corners of his eyes, creased heavily from years of laughter, twitch every so often as he ponders his words.

“I’ve already told you,” he eventually says. “You’re not a defective. I just gave you a defect.”

Now my ears are shutting down as more and more power goes towards my brain. This can’t be real. But everything I ever experience is real. Unless this is a dream? Is this what dreams feel like?

It’s not a dream. What am I saying? Do I think I’m the first non-organic to dream? It’s real. All of it is real. Topher Baylite crippled me for fun.

I pause processing it all to let my eyes find their focus enough to glare across the desk at Topher.

“You did this to me.”

“Yes,” he responds, not even apologetic.

“You did this to me,” I press again, feeling my anger rising. I don’t care. He gave me the emotions, he can deal with the consequences.

Topher sighs, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk.

“To be honest, Jaime, you’re not taking this like I’d hoped.”

What is he even saying? How was he hoping I would take it?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you know why I meet with every defected person?”

“So you can… Know about our defect, so you can… So you can fix us,” I plead.

He gives a light smile, clearly pained to see me so aggravated. “No, Jaime. It’s so I can know about you. I want to know what you’ve done with it.”

“With what?” I spit.

“Your leg. What have you done with it?”

“I don’t know what you’re… I don’t… You were supposed to fix my leg!”

“I’m not going to do that, Jaime.”

“Why not?” I demand, my voice getting louder. “You can, can’t you?”

“I can,” he responds plainly.

“Then fix it!”

“You already did.” He nods to my brace.

“This isn’t a fix, this is…”

“You can walk, yes?”

His voice has never abandoned its calm tone, though my anger continues to rise.

“Yes,” I finally respond.

“You can lecture, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You said the job would be great if you weren’t defective. How are you hindered in the job right now?”

“I’m not, but…”

“Then I have nothing to fix.”

I lose control of my hands now, and my vision flips to an alarming level of faintness. How can he be saying this? Nothing to fix? There’s everything to fix!

“It’s not just work,” I’m able to stammer. “It’s everywhere. Everything else.”

Pain fills Topher’s eyes. “I see,” he whispers, mostly to himself. His pity is not like I’m used to. It’s genuine. Heartfelt. Nothing to do with my leg or my being a non-organic. It’s sorrow for what I’ve gone through. “What do you really want from me, Jaime?”

“I want you to fix my leg.”

“No,” he says, “That’s not it. Not really. The leg itself doesn’t really bother you anymore, does it? You’ve adapted. That’s what I made you to do.”

“I just wish I wasn’t different.”

“But you are.”

I haven’t felt my tear ducts activate in a long time, but they threaten to kick in right now. I shut them down.

“I made you different. But I didn’t make you to be worse.”

“But I am,” I insist, struggling to keep my tears disabled.

“No,” he says gently. “I made you to be better. To help people in ways I never could. Show me that I didn’t make a mistake.”

I break eye contact for the first time. unable or unwilling to find a response. I’m not sure which.

Taking a deep breath, Topher leans forward in his chair and tries to find eye contact with me again. I don’t give it to him.

“I’m sorry this hasn’t gone how you hoped it would. I truly am,” he says, warmth coating his voice. “But I’m not going to fix your leg today.”

I repeat his phrase in my brain over and over. Not going to fix it today. Not going to fix it. Not today. Maybe not ever.

There’s too much finality for me to attempt arguing. His mind is made up. Slowly, my eyes and ears come back into focus. My hands can move freely again.

I don’t know how long we sit in silence. Maybe minutes, maybe just a few seconds. Topher’s gaze never leaves me. When he feels enough time has passed for me to have calmed down at least a little, he clears his throat.

 “I really am sorry, Jaime. I hope you’ll learn to forgive me.”

I don’t hold his eye contact as he stands to his feet, signifying that the meeting is over. I follow suit, staring at the ground as Topher rounds the desk and opens the door. I limp my way out, emotionless in the worst way.

“Come see me again next month,” he says as I take steps away. “Tell me what you do with it.”

When I don’t respond, I hear his door click shut, and I continue my way back through the garden, its colors muted as if all the beauty was stripped out of it as I was talking to Topher.

I hear the already dreaded sound of Andrew’s pattering hands a moment before I see him coming over the bridge, as joyful as ever.

“If you’re waiting to see Topher, don’t expect him to fix you,” I mutter as I brush past him and walk to the elevator.

“Fix me?” Andrew laughs. “I’m not a defective!”

“Is that what Topher told you?”

“No, no. I may be down a couple of legs, but I saw your reaction to my cherry tree when you walked in. Clearly I’m doing something right, yeah?”

I don’t answer him, but as I wait for the elevator, I can’t help but look back at the cherry tree. I can’t kid myself. It’s still as gorgeous and vibrant as before. My eyes linger on it until I hear the ding behind me.

“Take care of yourself,” Andrew calls out as I hobble into the elevator and press the button for the ground floor.

It upsets me when I don’t respond to him, but I can’t find any words that feel genuine. Then the doors close, and it’s too late. Goodbye, Andrew. I like your tree.

As I lean against the back wall of the elevator, I’m surprised when it doesn’t accelerate, but instead stops right away at floor 237.

The doors slide open slowly, revealing only two people waiting to go down:

It’s the little girl from the train, and her mother. The girl’s eyes widen when she sees me, and she tugs at her mom’s sleeve.

“From the museum!” I hear her whisper.

Great. I take a deep breath to prepare myself. Better get used to this again.

Then I notice it:

A crutch strapped to her left arm, and a large, scaffolding-looking brace around her left leg. I’m not sure what a ‘lump in one’s throat’ is, but the speechlessness I experience as she looks from her leg to mine must be pretty close. For the first time, I see up close the look in her eyes. It’s not pity or judgment. It’s light. Recognition.

After receiving a nod from her mom, the girl limps over to me excitedly.

“Hi, museum robot!” she says nervously. “I’m Lucy!”