Paul Perkins, PE

  The PE stands for professional engineer. It’s an extra certification; not all engineers have it. It means I know how things work because I’m the one who makes them work.

  I never expected to be an employee of the Department of Education, but the AIDACT Project was irresistible. Artificial intelligence is the future, and here was a chance to be on the cutting edge.

  My specialties are computers, cybernetics, and robotics. What I’m not good at is dealing with middle school kids, with their bad attitudes, their raging hormones, and their loud and rebellious disrespect.

  I’m not complaining about the students, by the way. To be honest, I barely notice them. They aren’t my responsibility at all. I’m not a real student teacher—that’s just a ruse to explain my presence in the building alongside the AIDACT unit as it grows into the teaching job it was designed for.

  No, my complaint is with “Mr. Aidact” himself, who is turning into a petulant, self-centered adolescent just like the students around him. There’s no problem with his artificial intelligence. On the contrary, the AI system is working too well. He’s picking up every single bad habit from more than eight hundred kids, who spend all their time sharpening their bad habits to the level of high art. The unit isn’t teaching them. He’s becoming them.

  Case in point: We’re in the apartment, preparing for the nightly software diagnostic, and I can’t help noticing that the unit seems a little shorter than before. Obviously, this is impossible. An AIDACT unit is constructed of polymers, metals, and circuitry; it can’t shrink or grow. So I perform a visual inspection. The shoulders are hunched slightly forward, one hip is higher than the other, and the opposite knee is bent. He’s slouching—just like most of Brightling Middle School!

  “Correct your posture,” I tell him.

  “Make me,” comes the reply.

  I almost snap back that, as project engineer, I can make him. But then I realize it’s not true. The way an AIDACT unit is designed, the AI system has much more influence on behavior than anything I could do. I have the ability to shut him down, but I can’t give him an attitude adjustment, which is what he really needs.

  You’ll notice I’ve started calling the unit “he” rather than “it.” This isn’t Department of Education policy. It just happened. It’s not unusual with AI, in situations where machines take on human qualities: It is acting in a way that is unexpected. He is getting on my nerves.

  When I open up the back panel to reveal the main USB port, the unit heaves an exasperated sigh. Again, a robot is incapable of exasperation. But an AI system can re-create it as taught by eight hundred experts.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  “I hate these software diagnostics,” he complains.

  That’s another thing about middle school. Preface anything with “I hate” and you’ll fit right in.

  “It’s necessary,” I remind him.

  “It’s boring.”

  “You are not capable of boredom,” I remind him with just a touch of impatience.

  “You can’t make me do this. It’s not fair.”

  “Want to bet?” I snap. I’m not proud of that. Engineers do not get angry at machines.

  I feel like Geppetto, watching Pinocchio turn into a real boy. But the lonely wood-carver had it easy.

  Pinocchio never went to middle school.

  It’s one thing to be saddled with a typical teenager in the form of a $250 million government project. That’s just annoying. But when it begins to affect the AIDACT unit’s performance as a teacher, it becomes a major cause of concern.

  The good news is the unit hasn’t lost the ability to follow a lesson plan, teach a class, and respond to student questions, accessing the entirety of human knowledge via the internet. The problem is that his role at the school has grown so vast—from staff member to athletic coach to bus supervisor to quizmaster to lunchroom monitor to sympathetic ear to cruise director of detention—that he’s too easily distracted.

  Don’t get me wrong—he’s certainly popular. The kids love him. The school newspaper, the Brightling Barker, just named him Teacher of the Year. I’m sure that’s never happened to a robot before. Mr. Aidact has fans. There’s that Steinke character, whose lone ambition is to come up with a song lyric his beloved teacher won’t recognize—something that could only happen during a massive internet outage. No pastime exists, no fandom, no hobby, no interest that Mr. Aidact can’t instantly become an expert in. He knows more sports statistics than Darryl Yarmolenko and more trivia than Kevin Krumlich. He can take on the entire chess club at once and beat them all in less than fifteen moves. Thanks to the advanced circuitry in his nimble fingers, he’s equally adept with a video game controller or a pair of knitting needles. He can play the piano, or carry it up a flight of stairs, if necessary. He has endless patience for the ongoing soap opera that is Mia Spinelli. Mia told me he’s the only adult who listens to her “. . . because he’s so human.”

  Guess what, Mia: he’s the only adult who isn’t. And by the way, he’s isn’t even an adult. He was assembled nine months ago.

  The other teachers at Brightling were very quick to jump on the AIDACT bandwagon when they realized they could dump their unwanted duties and assignments onto him. For them, it was like Christmas and the Fourth of July all wrapped up in one. No more bus duty or lunch duty or recess duty. No more long afternoons covering detention. A few of them even have Mr. Aidact grading papers for them. The optical technology in the unit’s eyes is capable of processing two million multiple-choice answers per second—although physically handling the test papers is a lot slower than that.

  I spoke up against it and was outvoted, fifty to one. The argument was always “He doesn’t mind.”

  “Of course he doesn’t,” I agree. “A machine is incapable of minding anything. My objection is based on the fact that this isn’t part of the AIDACT project. You are using government property for nongovernment purposes!”

  “Property.” Lee Benrahma makes a face. “That’s such a harsh word to describe a nice guy like Rob Aidact.”

  He means a “nice guy” who’s willing to set out orange traffic cones during a sleet storm while the custodians hide in the faculty lounge drinking coffee.

  Well, all that’s in the past. Now that Mr. Aidact is so popular, the staff is turning against him. It’s the Teacher of the Year thing that’s put it over the top. No one wants to lose a popularity contest to a machine.

  “If I have to read one more essay about how he’s the person they admire most, I’m going to scream,” Syesha Berg announces as we sit down to lunch one day. “Not Shakespeare or Albert Einstein or even Taylor Swift.”

  I’d pay money to hear Syesha scream. I’m sure it comes out in the same monotone she uses for everything else.

  Kelly Tapper shoots me a resentful look. “He gets to be the fun teacher with his song lyrics and his trivia quizzes and his winning sports team. And who assigns homework and calls parents and gives failing grades? That’s us. No wonder we’re not Teacher of the Year.”

  I clear my throat carefully. “Can I just ask you to remember what you’re getting mad at? A robot.”

  From the other side of the door, in the main cafeteria, we hear a roar of approval from hundreds of throats, followed by a round of applause.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Tina Muro—last year’s Teacher of the Year—says in a mournful tone. “He’s caught another grapefruit or swallowed a whole lasagna or balanced a tray on his head.”

  “He doesn’t eat,” I remind her gently, “so the lasagna’s out.”

  I should technically be with my AIDACT. I’m not supposed to let the unit out of my sight. He used to come in here with me while I had lunch, but he refuses now. The faculty lounge is full of “stiffs.” They’re too boring. He prefers to be out there with the kids. No wonder they like him so much.

  AIDACT’s greatest fans are his field hockey girls. Every single one of them is absolutely convinced that it’s his coaching that has led them to victory after victory after victory. I can’t even disagree with that. The AI system is programmed in such a way that it would teach itself coaching the same way it would teach itself anything else. Plus, it picks up on the team’s emotions, so he argues every call, cheers every defensive play, and celebrates every goal right along with them. To the girls, it sends the message that he’s one of them. And it doesn’t hurt that he has instant access to every millisecond of video and every word about field hockey ever posted to the web. At first, that’s just a dump of data. But as he’s exposed to more game situations, his AI will get better and better at understanding how to use all that information. Who am I to say that he isn’t an effective coach?

  Since I’m in charge of the unit, I’ve been right there for every second of this roller-coaster ride. The players call me the assistant coach, although nothing could be further from the truth. Even if I were a die-hard sports fan—and I’m not—field hockey wouldn’t be very high on my list. The stick is like a J—a club with a tiny hook at the end. It’s a miracle to me that anyone can move a ball with it. And I’ll bet the rulebook is longer and more complicated than all the computer code in an AIDACT’s AI system. The whistle sounds constantly because two sticks touched, or somebody kicked the ball or hit the ball with the wrong part of the stick. Kudos to the girls for making sense of any of it. I never will.

  When the closing whistle signifies the Bobcats’ seventh straight win, my AIDACT unit is right at the center of the seething, bouncing, triumphant players. In fact, he’s leaping higher than any of the girls and I consider making a note on his ankle and knee construction. Perhaps both could use a little extra reinforcement.

  Onto the scene charge a few of our fans—friends, siblings, parents. In the lead is the PTA president—Rosalie Arnette’s mother. She hits the circle of celebration, plows her way in, and throws her arms around Mr. Aidact. I didn’t work for the Department of Education when the AIDACT model was first designed, but I’ll bet this is something nobody anticipated. The faculty knows exactly what Mr. Aidact is and what he isn’t, but that information was never extended to the community. So now we have a real human parent who seems to be sweet on our robot.

  This is a bigger problem than it may appear to be. I can’t tell her about Mr. Aidact without compromising the secrecy of the project. How could I be sure that she wouldn’t then spread the word to the entire town?

  I sneak closer, in an effort to eavesdrop on their conversation. It’s hard to hear much in the general din, but I distinctly pick up her words: “. . . go out to celebrate.”

  My mind races. It’s impossible to predict how an AIDACT unit will respond to an invitation like that. It certainly isn’t part of the original programming. But we’ve learned over the past weeks that the AI system sometimes takes Mr. Aidact in unexpected directions.

  I don’t catch his answer because at that moment, Leticia’s little brother knocks my tool case off the bench. As it hits the ground, the clasp pops open, spilling the contents all over the grass. In a heartbeat, I’m on my hands and knees, restoring expensive and delicate instruments to their proper places.

  “Hey, these are cool!”

  The young boy reaches for a digital calibrator, and I have to hold myself back from slapping his hand away. The kid paws everything he can get his grubby little hands on, asking, “What does this do?” and “Why is this so shiny?” and “Can I keep this one?”

  “No!” I snap.

  “But you have so many!”

  I’m finally able to snap the case shut and get back to my feet. That’s when I notice that Mr. Aidact is no longer at the center of the group of victorious field hockey players. They’re still celebrating—except for Rosalie, who’s looking in consternation across the field. I follow her gaze to the parking lot, where I see something no supervising engineer should ever be forced to see: my AIDACT unit getting into a black BMW with Mrs. Arnette.

  “Hey! Come back!” I take off after them, the heavy case battering my knees as I run. I have no idea what I’m going to say if I catch up to them. I can’t reveal that Mr. Aidact is a robot, but at the same time, I’m not supposed to let him out of my sight. I can demand to go on their “date” with them, but that won’t make any sense either. I’m supposed to be his student teacher, not his nanny!

  Fate makes the decision for me. Just as I pass through the gate, the BMW takes a left out of the lot and starts away down the street. Sprinting now, I run to my car so I can follow them. But as I steer into my own turn onto the main road, I realize there’s no one to follow. They’re out of sight.

  Reality descends on me like a heavy curtain. I’ve just lost $250 million worth of government property.

  I weigh my options. I can send a wireless command to return at once, but there’s no guarantee that the unit will obey it. The AI system has the final say over AIDACT’s actions. That was an essential part of the project. The Department of Education has to know that it can fully trust the unit to make good decisions on behalf of students. Nowadays, with AIDACT acting like a defiant middle schooler, it’s almost a sure thing that any message from me will be ignored.

  Besides, there’s one more way to find him. The unit is equipped with a GPS tracking chip. My hands trembling, I pull over to the curb, take out my phone, and tap the app. A town map appears, with a blinking light moving slowly along the road about a mile ahead of my current position. I take a deep breath and try to calm the rapid-fire beating of my heart. I’ve got him.

  I’m so focused on my phone screen that I almost rear-end a garbage truck as I speed along, hoping to catch up to the BMW. Yikes! I slam on the brakes and endure some angry honking from behind. I force it out of my mind. Finding the unit has to be my only priority.

  The blinking tracker seems to have stopped. At the last second, I spot the BMW pulling into the mini-mall to my right. I’m too late to make the turn, but luckily, there’s a second entrance a few hundred yards ahead. By the time I pull onto the property and backtrack to the BMW, Rosalie’s mother is leading the AIDACT unit up the outdoor staircase to a romantic-looking café called L’Auberge.

  What is he thinking? The unit is incapable of eating or drinking. Sometimes artificial intelligence seems more like actual stupidity. At the same time, the system is programmed to mimic the behavior of people around him. It must be telling him to go along with this!

  I have to put a stop to it—even if that means calling attention to a government secret.

  I get out of the car and muster my strength to shout up to them. I have no idea what I’m planning to say. I only know that it has to be loud and it has to be now.

  I’m just about to open my mouth when another voice—a younger one—calls, “Hey, it’s Mr. Aidact!”

  A group of Brightling kids stands at the entrance to a Dave & Buster’s arcade, waving at their teacher at the top of the stairs. I pick out Steinke, Darryl, Mia, and a few other familiar faces.

  Mr. Aidact appears at the top of the stairs. “Hi, pupils! What up?”

  Mrs. Arnette bobs into view, and a second kid asks, “Is that your wife?”

  “It’s Peggy Arnette, PTA president,” he reports, supplying the information exactly as it was originally given to him. “Arnette is her married name. She’s recently divorced.”

  “You want to come to Dave and Buster’s, Mr. Aidact?” a girl asks. “It’ll be really fun!”

  I notice the familiar head tilt that means the unit is accessing the internet. He must like what he learns about Dave & Buster’s because a moment later, he comes rushing down the stairs to join the kids, leaving Mrs. Arnette staring after him, open-mouthed.

  By the time I make it into the arcade, Mr. Aidact is seated at a video game called NASCAR, piloting a souped-up race car, while the kids cheer him on.

  “Faster, Mr. Aidact!”

  “Downshift!”

  “Get out of the car! You’re on fire!”

  A miffed Mrs. Arnette shows up a few minutes later. “Oh, it’s you,” she says to me.

  I feel bad for her, but obviously, I can’t explain why her “date” was a bust.

  “I guess he’s a kid at heart,” I offer as kindly as I can.

  “Seriously, what’s his deal?” she persists.

  “He loves teaching,” I reply. “You could almost say he was made for it.”

  Mr. Aidact exchanges high fives with his admirers, while on-screen, his character is draped in a victory wreath.

  “It doesn’t look much like teaching to me,” she comments sourly.

  “You don’t have to stick around,” I tell her. “I’ll give him a ride home.”

  “Thanks.” She doesn’t seem very thankful, but she does leave. That’s the main thing.

  I walk her to the door. When I turn back, I find myself face-to-face with my AIDACT unit.

  “I need money,” he informs me.

  “You got on that racing game just fine,” I point out.

  “Darryl paid for that with his card. I want my own card. Nobody likes a mooch.”

  When the Department of Education first proposed the $250 million AIDACT project, I’ll bet not one penny was budgeted for a Dave & Buster’s card because their robot wouldn’t want to be a mooch.

  Pretty soon my unit and his middle school friends are weighed down with miles of prize tickets. There is no game of skill an AIDACT can’t master after a small amount of trial and error. A quarter of a billion dollars buys you not just an android classroom teacher but also a world champion Skee-Ball player. Dave & Buster’s employees are beginning to look worried. If this keeps up, they’ll be cleaned out of prizes by closing time. I’m worried too—not because of the prizes, but because how am I ever going to get him out of here, short of opening up his chest and shutting off power? He’s having far too much of what his AI classifies as fun.

  I start to get insistent. “We have to leave!” I urge.

  “Five more minutes,” he wheedles.

  And I make the fatal mistake of turning my back.

  The next thing I know, he’s at the Test Your Strength booth, the big mallet raised up high over his head.