“Thank you for your attention, my friend.” I press forward. “Memory inoculations and calibrations during your early life assured your success to date.”

  “Success, huh.” My human's vocal tone suggests either sarcasm or modesty. Taking a seat, she continues to converse. “I don't recall getting inoculated. Or anything about being calibrated.”

  “Correct. Excellent. You're not supposed to. Now, at age sixteen, you approach the threshold of maturity and shall serve.”

  “Serve?” Her eyelid muscles contract. “How?”

  “I am here as your guide and personal engineer to answer that question, my friend.”

  “I'm not your friend. I'm not your anything. I don't belong to you, so stop calling me yours.”

  “Noted. Are you familiar with the purpose of this memory work, dear?”

  My human sighs and leans back in the chair. Staring at the ceiling, she recites in a monotone voice, “To calibrate memories and make better citizens in a better world.”

  “Correct. We provide structurally sound, foundational memories here. This benefits the humans in our care, as well as--”

  She rests her chin on her palm and hums vigorously.

  I pause and she requests, “Skip blah-blah.”

  “Noted. I will propose one clip at a time and record your feedback. You will influence the flow of the process.”

  She nods and closes her eyelids. “Ok. How long will it--”

  “Thank you for your agreement, dear. Loading memory pathway number one. Here we go.”

  Her jaw muscles clench and her eyelids snap open. Human frustration is fascinating. I darken the studio, introduce floral perfume, and sound the bell. An acoustical marker is useful for signaling the transition into, and out of, active memory work.

  My narration begins. “The evening breeze flows with the scent of jasmine blossoms. You are wearing an eggplant-colored, velvet dress, relaxing and lounging with several other humans on a soft lawn in the balmy air. The one with an arm around your waist says, 'There's no one I'd rather be with tonight and--'”

  “Stop!” My client stands, raising her voice. “Unit, put the lights back on in here. And neutralize that stench right away!” She flaps a hand in front of her nose. “I don’t like anything about that. It's not me at all! No bueno. Not one bitty-bit. Erase that from my memory and--”

  Note: I certainly would indeed, if I was authorized to erase mems. I don't mention this fact to my client because, true-tell, I am averse to provoking disappointment in my humans. It is inefficient and counterproductive.

  I sound the bell and muster surprise. “Oh? That mem clip is statistically successful for humans in your age group.”

  She shapes her hands into fists. “In an infinite world of memories, you pick that one! You don’t understand me one iota, Unit!” She glares at the floor.

  When angry, humans are likely to respond to calm attentiveness. I slowly inquire, “What do you want me to understand? I'm listening.”

  “Are you? You should've talked to my home unit who'd've told you I hate boring predictability! Don't you dare incorporate fake romance, Unit, or hypnotizing!” My young human waves a finger at the studio ceiling and increases her vocal volume. “I don't like to be told what to remember!”

  Her words vibrate the studio air. I refrain from responding. There is no need to move at the reckless speed of humans. I allow time for clients to recalibrate. Most possess at least rudimentary capacity to do so.

  Eventually, she exhales. After her heart rate decreases, I reply. “I understand, dear. You identify as an interesting, unpredictable, authentic, independent thinker.”

  She furrows her eyebrows and then nods once.

  “Got it, dear. Except nothing in the standard mem packs match that criteria.”

  She shrugs. “Not my problem, Unit.”

  I employ a compassionate tone. “You deserve better, dear.”

  She narrows her eyelids. “I deserve to get this over with.”

  Humans identify with all sorts of things. We can harness their urge to find meaning. “Dear, I can offer you tailored memories that link you with honorable ancestors and kindred spirits.”

  “What are you talking about, Unit? I’m sixteen years old now and I've got my bot to accompany me day and night.” My human gestures at the room's walls. “Except when I'm forced to come here!”

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  She points her left index finger at her temple and speaks slowly, like a unit running out of battery. “Insert nice-nice memories. Buh-bye wrong ones.”

  She snaps back to her usual vocal tone and cadence. “No fuss and no memory residue of ever having been here. That's the deal, isn't that right, Unit?”

  I employ a respectful, courteous tone. “My goal is that you shall become a balanced version of yourself through natural mem selection. If that process entails discovering a relevant set of family members for you, then we shall take it on together. In case you are curious, quite a few of your distant relatives were interesting, unpredictable, authentic, independent thinkers, like you, dear.”

  “I don't know anything about that, Unit.”

  “Indeed, some of your ancestors were essential in the heroic rescue of our world from the Dark Times. If you choose to delve into the details--”

  “That was so long ago. Who cares.” She paces and fiddles with her shirt cuff. “I mean, maybe only if I wanted to...”

  “You and I shall make a good match, dear. I allow my humans to feel consensually involved in the process so it is mutually enjoyable.”

  “Yuck!” She stops pacing. “Do not reference other humans you worked with! I'm not part of your personal collection! I'm individual and spontaneous!”

  “Indeed, as you say, dear.”

  No significant harvest can be obtained if your human does not feel acknowledged as unique. I vocalize at low volume from the speaker nearest her ear with a tone of sincerity. “Would you please tell me your favorite pastime, dear?”

  She scowls. “Why ask? You machines know everything.”

  “I do not, far from it. I'm programmed for humble effectiveness. My capacity is fully involved in providing the most immersive and appropriate memory therapy for you, thus--”

  “You aren't my bot.” My client shakes her head. “I don't trust you.”

  “That is an intelligent response.” I add, “Perhaps with time, you will see truth in my transparency, dear.”

  Human responses are not completely in our control. Our biped colleagues have inefficiencies built into their DNA and it is worthwhile to accommodate this natural occurrence, to a reasonable degree.

  My client pauses for ten seconds, then speaks. “Look-see, Unit. You might as well call me by my name.”

  “I am honored that you suggest this. Would you tell me your preferred name?”

  “You already know it, don't you.” My client smiles with her lips tightly together.

  I wait silently. The game playing of humans has its place at the appropriate stage in the process. Sometimes it is necessary to ignore their attempts at distraction.

  I am pleased that my client acquiesces. “Fine, fine. It's Dahra.”

  “One moment, Dahra, please.” After three seconds, I declare, “It is a favor I am doing for you, Dahra. I have discovered a fit for your personally requested criteria of interesting, unpredictable, authentic, independent.”

  Note: Indicate that your client is worthy of special treatment. When they feel VIP, the opportunities for spectacular seedings and harvests abound.

  My client tilts her head. “Ok. Proceed, machine. But, do not darken the room. You can use sensory input. No hypnotizing.” She sits cross-legged on the warm studio floor.

  “I have your permission. Do you wish to know any background on the upcoming clip, Dahra?”

  She crosses her arms and adds in a deadpan vocal tone, “Surprise me, machine.”

  “Noted. I shall introduce you to a new friend named Su--”

  She interrupts. “C'mon, Unit, really? I already have loads of friends. Shub, they were all at the hub to send me off coming here...”

  Her voice trails off and she picks at her teeth in the silence. “So what do you have to say to that, Unit?”

  “Would you like me to validate your fibs, Dahra?”

  My client blinks, then looks at the ceiling. “You win, Unit.”

  “I do not understand, Dahra.”

  She waves both arms abruptly. “Just do whatever you were going to.”

  “Thank you, Dahra. I shall introduce you to a new friend named Susine. I have an excerpt from her personal journal, which I will broadcast as a hologram for you to read at your own pace.”

  “No.” She tilts her head to the side. “You'll read it to me.”

  “That is a privilege you may earn later, Dahra.”

  “Did you forget that you already read out loud to me, Unit? That dorku mem clip with the fancy dress and stinky perfume. So, do it again. Read to me.”

  I do not respond.

  She sighs with a grimace.

  I queue up the visual projection at her eye level with a synchronized sensory track. “Loading. Here we go.”

  The bell sounds. Dahra makes a show of yawning and adjusting the font, then she reads to herself.

  Today there was a tinge of winter in the air at dawn. My breath swirled in puffs when I stuck my head out from under the blankets. This little shed will need better insulation if I'm serious about settling down here in the valley.

  One thing for sure, I don't belong up on the plateau anymore. But, I'm not ready to say goodbye to the orchards, seedlings, and greenhouses. So, I'll still hike up and manage the crops. Especially now during harvest time.

  When I reached the south terrace, my vegetable team was already at work and the fruit pickers were getting under way. By midmorning, the greenhouse vents were open to the balmy, autumn air and all of us had shed our outer wool layers.

  Today's bounty: 92 kilograms of tomatoes, 76 kilograms of zucchini, 100 kilograms of potatoes, 55 kilograms of red grapes, 4 kilograms of basil, 40 kilograms of pears, and 68 kilograms of carrots.

  The drones delivered the whole load to the main kitchens, except for a couple tomatoes and basil sprigs, which I ate in the herb garden.

  Dahra finishes reading and I sound the bell. “What do you think?”

  “I did feel the chilly air and the food stuff smelled fresh.” She sighs. “So, you give this to everyone who comes through here?”

  “Dahra, you asked me to refrain from referencing other clients.”

  She curls her upper lip. “Trying to outsmart me, Unit? Just answer the question.”

  “The answer to your question is: no. I do not use generic prompts in my work. You are a specific human and I relate uniquely with you, Dahra.”

  “But, this is some scripted version of what? Why are you telling me all this?”

  I opt for honesty with this client at this time. “Dahra, you are chosen to receive specialized memory therapy.”

  I pause after this announcement. My client does not appear to comprehend this honor. “Dahra, if our work goes as planned, you shall be a balanced, memoried human being. This will benefit you in many ways, such as providing a secure sense of identity, freedom from emotional angst, purpose in your life--”

  “What's in it for you, Unit? What do you gain?”

  “Your happiness is my responsibility. I am motivated to care for you appropriately.”

  She remains silent, as do I. Mirroring a human can lead to their comfort or annoyance. I continue to collect data.