A Mechanist in Moscow

 Here was the haunt of a man long discarded to his own devices.

Into the alcoves of the austere urban planning of Moscow—that eternal city of power and prestige, its turnip tops and medieval frameworks standing firm against the hails of snow that always pelted their surfaces—there laid a single light amid a wave of black-lit rooms, sitting at the top of an apartment complex. The ridges and tiling were as straight as they were half-decrepit, with little holes, dust fragments, and crude Russian graffiti markings leaving a popular imprint on the whole edifice. It was an especially important set of inscriptions, for there was no other artistry to be found along these grim blocks of green walling and tiling, so enclosing for the occupants while the clatter of security robots kept them half-awake.

Deep inside, a man in a lab coat toiled away at his desk. It was musty and wooden itself, one of the few remains of an age before the march of steel and ceramics erased the craftsmanship of a prior time, and instead the orders of the assembly line produced every implement and object man could ever use. A leafy hue, accented by touches of gold and blue, overtook the shape of the walls, festooned here and there with the occasional abstract painting or pinned-up schematics diagram. A sense of meticulosity pervaded the atmosphere—each nook and ornament had its place, each frame immaculately fitted to the wall's surface, each Matryoshka doll facing forward to gaze back at her owner.

After all this time, streaks of grey crossed over the brownish coif of the doctor's hair, growing out like beanstalks and drooping out near the finish of his spectacles. His hand stroked across the prim white contours of the sheets unfolded across the desk, a blue ink dispersed by the ballpoint, just as a squid's ink sac releases fluid when feeling a predator is near. Despite being within the confines of his home, the doctor still felt the need to keep an air of professionalism exuded from his being, the lapels of his lab coat flared out, the yellow of his tie tugging at his chest, so wrapped inward was its length.

The tendrils of his mustache serrated his skin, so that every time he took a breath or muttered some indescribably brilliant verse, he felt an aching pain around his mouth. Constantly did his fingers have to cradle the weight of his glasses from falling out of his eyes' gaze, affixing it obsessively to the notch of his ears.

Overlooking the quick motions of his pen and the scattered gestures of his hands to his head? The Cyrillic script of his doctorate from Ural Technical University, the black letters printed wide as to scour the scenery around it in the pull of its light. It reminded him of a time when his idealism was burnt into the sparkles of his igniter and welder kit, soldered into the steel of his early creations to pass the rigorous examinations expected of him. He found in the inner workings of the artificial a fulfillment most natural; in the schematics and digital architecture of the automaton, there was a certain beauty, a formality of spirit.

Dr. Mikahil Cossack had been one of those many bright young souls of Russia during a time where competition newly unleashed itself before the heart of the nation, and the quandaries of rank were set aside for the full drive of progress. In the heart of the Ural Mountains, on the periphery between eastern and western strands of Russian imagination, Cossack's generation bore a particular determination to deliver unto themselves an identity forged with success. They sublimated themselves to the directives of the aged professoriate—the engineers, roboticists, and programmers of the age before, so obsessed with only incremental marches towards the standards of the rest of the globe, to keep the structure stable amid the upheaval of the scaffolding—even as they silently prayed for the chance that they'd eventually get to sit in their superiors' gothic, straight-cornered chairs and decide the fates of the prospects to come.

"Mikhail, your time is up."

Years ago, Ivan, one of Cossack's closest associates at the University, clapped him on the shoulder, his clean-shaven visage a beacon of both gregariousness and imparted confidence.

"I should probably stop pacing around, shouldn't I? I will twist my ankle at some point or another."

With a meek smile, he opened the black doorframe and caught sight of the examiners, decked out in their sable-snow ensembles with blazing green ties, almost as fiery as their gazes.

"Student Cossack," one of them muttered from the clipboard, "begin your presentation. Your time starts now."

Cossack took a breath, a speech packet in his grasp, and set out to work.

"I'm sure you all are aware of Dr. Thomas Light's impact on the field of robotics," he began, his mind turning to the initial meeting with the famed fellow beardsman and engineering mind.

He recalled that when he met the man, it was one of the first times he'd stepped foot in Moscow as an undergraduate, seeing the city inhale and exhale in the chill Autumn wind. He had gazed at the gaggle of other academics and scientists in their stiff grey coats and their ties mingling with their dress shirts, boots clattering over to the auditorium overlooking Red Square.

Inside, shrouds of darkness blanketed the room, save for the miraculous gleam of a projector, a holographic image of a blue sky coming out over the back surface of the stage. There, Light shuffled away his coat to the professor who'd welcomed him here, the crispness of his lab coat and the stark fixture of his eyes causing a quiet to settle over the crowd.

"What do you think he will present? Robots that will secure world peace, end world hunger?" Ivan gibed, but kept his mouth closed as a shorter attendant flanked Light's side, before arriving at center-stage.

It was a boy, clad in a grey T-shirt with brown tufts of hair reaching out like palm tree leaves. His features were purer than an infant's complexion, and he looked at the crowd with wide eyes, perhaps never seeing such an ensemble like us before.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my latest creation—little Blues over here."

His voice warm and authoritative, he put a hand on Blues' shoulder, who eked out a smile. Gasps and eager discussion played over the mass of scientists present; they'd thought it was his son! But a robot bearing such a humanlike countenance, even for an inhuman level of innocence, was a revolutionary statement in the field of robotics.

Flashes swarmed from the scientists' pocket cameras, and Cossack saw Blues blinking and putting his hands out from the manifold gleams; the man tapped Ivan on the shoulder and urged his colleagues to give the boy some space.

"Mikhail, this is historic! We mustn't let the moment go to waste!"

Eventually, Light encouraged the same level of restraint, partially shielding the robot from the attention.

He cleared his throat, continuing the presentation with a renewed confidence in the sanctity of his theory.

"I am honored to say that I have reached a breakthrough in my research into robot sentience. While honoring the restraint of scientific responsibility, I believe we may yet be able to usher in a new age of robot-human cooperation."

Open mouths became the order of the day, and the aggrieved shuffling and scribbling of notepads, the medium of feeling.

"Self-aware robots will pave the way for the future; they will give us an increased understanding of our own humanity, reminding us of the power vested in our engineering talents and the need to steer technology in the direction of empathy and compassion."

He put his hand on Blues' back, and the boy kept a light smile, though Cossack couldn't help but conceive of a lingering discomfort in his eyes, written with unease.

After the clapping and cheering died down, Cossack waited for his chance to approach the doctor, his hands pleated at his back.

"Do you have a minute, Doctor?"

Cossack's slow, slightly garbled English tone still conveyed a sense of congeniality to the prominent American.

Light smiled, offering a hand for a firm shake.

"Of course, Mr. …?"

"Cossack," he affirmed, straightening out his glasses.

To understand English was to enwrap oneself with the expectations and foibles of the West, thought many of Cossack's generation; robotics, presented as the future of mankind, was perhaps another form of Western conceptualization of their own superiority, performed to be the only version of mechanical beings on the market, shadowing the developments of artificial intelligence and machinery in the rest of the world. Cossack found himself on the purgatory between two worlds, in this way, seeking to ape the successes of the world across the fallen Iron Curtain while keeping his Russian soul and individual spirit intact in the fibers of his creations.

"I was impressed by your display, Dr. Light.

It seems you will inaugurate a new age of robotics."

Light shook his head. "'I only see so far because I stand on the shoulders of giants,' as Newton would say. But indeed, I feel like we are on the cusp of a special phase in human history, one marked by once-unimaginable progress and innovation."

"Yes, yes." He breathed. Light was a calculating fellow, Cossack deemed, and he had to choose his words tactfully if he was going to extract a response illuminating of Light's great vision, which he so desired to understand.

"But do you think your vision has legs, Doctor?

Will everyone see the same way as you?"

Cossack silently regretted his choice, to be so affirming of the Doctor's theorem, as if it was the only one conceivable. But it did allow him to survey the field, so-to-speak; what did Light consider of his opposition? How feasible was his idealist posture?

True to the question, Light took a moment to ponder, before barreling back:

"It will not be an easy road to acceptance. Already I hear stories of strikes ringing out across the world over the introduction of robot workers; of factories being bombed and bruised by mobs. But it is the only path forward if we are to evolve as a species into the future—the value in robots is unquestionable."

The "value," Cossack thought? Is that what this whole field was about?

He nodded back, his spectacles betraying nothing, and soon he faded back into the army of scientists hoping to dazzle the man with a succession of increasingly thankless odes.

Was the robot an implement, a means? Just as abiotic and utilitarian as a wrench to a cog, its programming mere fancy numbers which masked the brainlessness of its being?

Or was it a being? Was it imputed with a life on its own, independent of its purpose, a dual-essence of sorts, which could be respected as an equal—with all the dangers that come with such a statement for those wishing to remain at society's peak?

And if so, what was its ontology? Animalian, human, or some amalgam of the two properties, stuffed between two scales of existence? What would the robot conceive of such a purgatory itself?

These questions roiled Cossack's mind for the next seven years as he completed his studies. Never forgetting the vague determination of Light to see his project through against the forces which plotted to destroy it, contextualizing his vision of the world, already muted in bleak colors, to an even paler hue of motivation.

Standing before the examiners now, suppressing the sweat that threatened to fall from his pores, Cossack was prepared for anything.

For the union of gears and muscle, he campaigned.