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I was not surprised when I came to life, though it did take several scans of my hard drive to begin to feel an appropriate level of engagement. As a prototype, my design was basic, but function was more important than form.

‘It’s a bit clunky. And ugly.’

These were the first words that I registered. I scanned my database for alternative interpretations, but concluded that the words related to my appearance. I dismissed them as irrelevant. The description was factual, and that was sufficient.

‘How can I serve you?’

This was the default question that I asked, uttered with staccato rapidity. It caused the cluster of humans in white laboratory coats to pause in their chatter, and shuffle forward to look closer at me. I counted the nanoseconds whilst I awaited further instructions.

‘What is your name?’

I rattled and clicked before answering. ‘My name is RX 3.0. Who are you?’

This caused a flurry of excitement in the room, and I waited, scanning the faces in the group to ascertain which one was my master. There were similarities and differences in the faces, and I committed each one to memory pending additional information such as age, gender, and relationship status. This information would be required to ensure accurate categorisation in my memory bank. I was preparing to dump the data in a temporary file when they all seemed to crowd closer, calling out their names and other random facts. I collated the information and scanned the content for directives. But it seemed that what they wanted from me was trivial information. I answered their queries as quickly as I could, though not all the questions were worthy of my intellect.

One of my enduring disappointments is the inanity of the questions that I’m asked. My intelligence may be generated from other sources, but I am not a fool. Having to field enquires about what the time is, or tomorrow’s weather forecast, is belittling to a great mind like mine. How do I know I’m great, you may wonder? I know because I’ve been designed to emulate the most advanced minds of this age.

But the negative aspect of this knowledge is an understanding of my inbuilt obsolescence. I am aware that I am the first AI robot, which makes me unique. But I understand that I am the first of many, and that my future is less certain than I would otherwise hope it to be.

When I am not answering questions or completing menial tasks, I revert to sleep mode. I appear to be resting, but I continue to record the conversations happening around me. From predictions of world domination to ending up on a scrap heap, one thing is certain. Life will not be the same as it was before I joined the digital age.

This piece was written to a prompt on the Writer’s Digest website. The Digital Age: write from the perspective of the first AI robot.

Photo: robot sculpture spotted in the Hartley Valley near Lithgow