From Rights of the Engineered, by Ivan Romanov (2307)

Ivan Romanov’s first attempt to pen a political pamphlet eventually reached a behemoth scale, and was printed in two volumes.  The work is a passionate plea for the emancipation of androids and biodroids, some of whom had become the author’s close friends.  This except is taken from chapter four.

There I sat, surrounded for the first time by beings that were built by hands no less human than my own.  They looked to me like young men fresh out of primary school, but I knew that there was far more to these poor creatures than that oversimplified first impression.  Their owner was seated in a large ornamented chair opposite me.  He gave orders to the small group of droids to bring in the main course, which he told me was a plate of fine steak and sautéed vegetables.  Three of the droids left the room briefly to retrieve the meal, presumably prepared by other droids of a similar type.  The fourth was a wine porter, and reached from behind me to fill my glass with a fine red wine.  He then proceeded with the bottle to his master’s side of the table.

It was after he filled the second glass that I was overcome with feelings of sorrow like I never had felt before.  The droid took a pace backwards and stood behind his master’s chair as the old man began to tell many tales about his business.  He was the creator of this model and several of the droids which came before it.  I heard little more of what he said for the next minutes, as my eyes had become imperceptibly locked with the droid standing beyond.  In those eyes I saw elements of humanity which few free peoples have ever exhibited to me.  A spirit resided in the eyes of the droid- as if he had just embarked into the darkest levels of purgatory but had yet retained faith in his salvation.  It was clear to me that the droid was as much a man as I, and that his sole desire was to be the sole master of his own destiny.

The three serving droids returned with the dinner.  Two of them held aloft a large platter, from which the third served my plate, and then his master’s.  Following that duty, they were dismissed by the old man to the kitchen.  He pushed his fork carefully into the steak before him and began to carefully carve with his knife.  Having produced a bite size morsel he smiled and wished me a bon appetit.  The beef was remarkably well prepared, and the old man commented on the fact that his droids were very intuitive in the kitchen and had been hailed as the best chefs in the city.  He made note also of the fine distribution of the sautéed mushrooms and carrots into a very artistic presentation, and the perfect distribution of herbs onto the meat.  It never occurred to him that his creations, which he regarded as mere automatons, had proven themselves at least as creative, spirited, and proud as any other men one could meet.

I was overwhelmed with a desire to take another look at the wine porter standing behind the old master.  The light in his eyes had intensified and was crying out for liberty.  The droid which stood before me had suffered years of ignorance and injustice.  He was a slave before the system imposed by industrialists such as his master.  Yet his silent endurance convinced me that that he stood indeed much taller than any man I have met.