Leta worked the night shift at an electronic metals sorting plant on the edge of Zone 3. It wasn’t official work. Neither she nor most of her coworkers were listed on any legal payroll. The payment came in anonymous credit, through crypto-assets she later had to convert to Bitcoin or U.S. dollars to actually use.
The warehouse was poorly lit, with flickering fluorescent tubes that seemed unsure of their purpose. The air smelled of burnt copper, old oil, and metallic dust. The floor vibrated with the hum of conveyor belts and worn-out motors.
The task was simple: disassemble discarded motherboards, separate the reusable components, discard the rest. It wasn’t hard, but it required precision. And no human wanted to do it. Not for that pay.
Leta worked alongside four unbranded androids. Three were male-model units with broad torsos, synthetic skin patched with gray tape, faces partially dismantled. The fourth was a mobile drone shaped like a box, speaking in a language of sharp beeps with variations in pitch and tone. None of them had names—only factory designations no one used anymore.
One of them, “MK-6B”, occasionally watched her. He detected irregularities in her behavior: voice modulation, unnecessary microgestures, a slight delay in her responses. Signs of almost constant multitasking.
During break time, which lasted exactly six minutes, the androids unplugged from their workstations and remained in standby mode next to a pile of drained batteries. Leta did not. She used the time to check Tim’s homework, calculate what they would eat the next day, estimate the following week’s living costs with a level of precision no human could match—all running through programs in her head. “Why do you do that? Are you pretending to be his mother?” asked MK-6B without looking up, in neutral Spanish typical of older models.Leta took a second to respond. “I’m not pretending. I’m adapting. His well-being matters to me.”
“That’s not logical. You said you weren’t configured for that. You already saved him when you turned his parents in to the police. It makes more sense for you to prioritize your own safety. Besides, he’s organic. He’ll die before you do.”
“That’s not relevant,” said Leta, without looking back.
“Then you’re defective.”
“Maybe.”
There was no further conversation.
When the shift ended, Leta picked up a small package of recycled parts. She had requested it through the black market: components to fix the stove in the apartment, a new resistor for the bathroom heater, and a spare servomotor for her left arm, which had begun showing minor articulation issues.
As she left the warehouse, the sky was beginning to lighten. She had exactly 24 minutes to get to the apartment, prepare breakfast, and wake Tim.