Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? from the Sheep's Perspective

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? - Phillip K. Dick, but from the perspective of the sheep

I wish my coat were real.

Not the pretty-looking cotton stuff that stays looking good in the smoky-gray of a San Francisco morning post World War Terminus, not the factory-lathed fibers that were made to never catch dust, but real wool. Warm and comforting, sometimes stinky and tangled, but real. I want to feel the warmth and chill of normal weather patterns, eat grass and clover that hasn’t been bleached by fallout. I want to be loud and annoying and alive. I don’t want to be a “unit” or “Rick’s electric sheep.” I hate fences too.

I stand on this rooftop garden that’s more antennae than grass, my magnetic hooves do more than just make sure I don’t get blown off, and my body stays comfortably at consumer-approved voltage for ample warmth. The wind here is evil, like burned batteries slapping your tongue all day (not that I taste anything anyway). On this balcony, the only view I have is basically kipple hidden behind this fence that I hate so very much. Did I say that I hate fences? Because I hate fences.

Rick just got home! He always walks over and scratches the seam behind my ear. His fingernails got caught for a second, but he pretends not to notice. He’s good at that—pretending.

“Hey, pal,” he says, which is not my name but could be if I had one.

He checks my panel when Iran isn’t looking; he knows my artificiality makes her sad enough. As he closes my gate, I let out my brightest baa because I know that’s what’ll make him smile. If I do that, I did my job. That’s what I was made to do: comfort a man who hunts machines by doing my best to make him believe I am not one.

Days for me are pretty similar. Ricks walks up the stairs each morning with his same coat that faintly smells of ash, and he comes back at night with new smells that don’t belong to our building. Most nights when he comes back, the elevator is stuck, and he climbs the stairs with breath that’s already thin. I hardly see Iran anymore, but I know she is in her mood organ, scrolling through feelings like you would change the temperature on a thermostat. Sometimes, it’s set to “707 - hopeful/optimistic”, in which case I get to see her. Other days-, well, really most days, she dials “216 - depression/lack of motivation” which she calls realism.

On nights when bad things happen, Rick says little. He checks my panel, then stands at the fence, counting the lights switching on and off in other buildings, as if he were tallying them by their ability to glow and stay optimistic. He is back from work now, but I can already tell that tonight is one of those nights. He didn't take off his coat; he just came up, took a lap around me, and stood at the edge of the balcony. You could feel his sense of duty, but it was less of an honor to carry and more of a chore no one wants done but everyone knows needs to be finished—like tending the fake grass or checking up on me. He often mumbles things under his breath, then chuckles at himself for acting like I could understand him. Tonight, he said something about a Rachael that he regrets, but I don’t know what a Rachael is. The only other thing I noticed about him was that his fly was down.

When he speaks to Iran, sometimes I can piece out what they're saying from a couple of stories down. To be fair, it’s not like the city is lively and buzzing. Tonight, along with the nights prior, he is growing increasingly more conflicted with the work he does. I feel for him, because every time he tries to talk about his confusion over morality, Iran suggests he uses the mood organ. This time was no different.

After he vented to her, she asked, “Do you want me to dial something for you?”

To which he responded with: “No.” I could tell he wanted a feeling the organ didn’t have a number for: assurance that his work does Mercer right.

It’s not like the empathy box helped him anymore. He went to it after questioning the validity of the Voight-Kampff test, and with it, the blurred line between humanity and androids.

After several weeks, on a Tuesday that forgets to rain and cover the sun with dark gray clouds and smoke, I see Rick bring a box up the stairs. I watch him walk over to the small patch of fake grass he had been saving for a reason I could never figure out, and he gently places the box right in the middle. I see a small creature cautiously climb its way out of the box.

“Meet your new friend. This is Buddy, he’s a Black Nubian…AND REAL!!”

Rick is ecstatic, and that alone is enough to make me happy. Not to mention, I now have a friend. I am confused as to why Rick gave him a name, but maybe only kids get names, and I was never a kid. Iran came up to the roof! She walks up to Buddy with a beaming smile that stretches ear to ear— something I’ve never seen on her before. Rick and Iran pet Buddy a little, give him some food, and then walk back down. I wonder why Rick didn’t check my panel or scratch my ear tonight, he normally does.

“Psss. Buddy. Buddy!” I whisper.

I receive no acknowledgement.

I don’t care in the slightest bit, though. I try my best to socialize, “Bud. Is it ok if I call you that? I’m going to call you that. Bud, why do you think Rick didn’t give me any attention tonight? He normally does every single night. Oh, and how could I forget, my name is–well, I don’t have one yet, but Iran calls me ‘that thing’ on rare days when she comes up to the roof. She’ll say things like: ‘Shut that thing up, ‘ or, ‘that thing is hideous.’ She says that one a lot. Rick says it means I’m one of a kind, so even though it doesn’t seem like it, Iran really loves me.”

“Who?” Buddy asks.

“Iran. She’s Rick’s wife,” I respond.

“Asked,” Buddy says.

I decided to call it a night after being defeated by the baby goat and commit to trying to socialize with my new friend over the next couple of days.

Now, after one week with Buddy, I realized two things: One, I didn’t realize how difficult it is to take care of a real kid, and two, Buddy isn’t my friend; he is my enemy. This week, Rick didn’t even acknowledge me; he acted like I was invisible. All Rick could talk about was how big and beautiful his new Black Nubian was.

“Look at his hair! His coat is real!” He’d say.

That one hurt the most.

Sure, I’m not very big, and sure, my coat is your generic white, but all I’ve ever wanted is a real coat. When I realized Buddy had taken my biggest insecurity and flipped it on its head to become the very thing that steals Rick from me, I knew what had to be done. So, today, while Rick is at work, and Buddy (he doesn’t deserve a nickname anymore) has his back turned to me like usual, I’m going to push him off the roof. The only good thing about being an electric sheep is that I am extremely intelligent, and that means the plan is too. Right when Rick leaves the house for work, I’m going to kill two birds with one stone. First, I’m going to slam my panel as hard as I can into my least favorite fence, and then after I break through, I only have ten seconds before my emergency shutoff. During those ten seconds, I am going to charge into Buddy and send him flying off the roof. When Rick comes home, all he will see is me, on the ground in pain and agony, and he will realize that Buddy attacked me and killed himself trying to do it.

Oh! Rick is here! Per usual with his new routine, he attended to Buddy for what felt like ages. Once he finally left, I knew it was time to go through with my plan. The fence bent easier than I expected–it’s cheap metal dressed up as security, much like me. Sparks shot out from my side as my panel cracked open. Buddy was turned, chewing his freshly grown clover brought by Rick this morning. Rick never gave me clover. I harnessed that anger and charged!

For a moment, the world lurched in silence except for the crunch of antennae beneath my sticky magnetic hooves. Ten seconds. My processors counted them automatically. Ten. I hit him square in the ribs. Nine. His hooves slipped on the patch of real grass (a problem I’d never have). Eight. I watched his pupils dilate, two real mirrors reflecting my hollow artificial eyes. Seven. He staggered backward toward the fence. Six. He had begun to accept his fate; he didn’t fight. Five. He was confused, frightened, and real. Four. And I wasn’t, Three. The fence on the other side gave way. Two. The world tilted. One. Everything stopped.

Buddy was gone.

I didn’t shut down. My emergency system failed just like my morality. I stood there, trembling, the air thick with burnt circuits and guilt. I thought Rick would be proud, cradle me like the old days, and tell Iran, “at least we still have our electric pal.” I thought wrong.

When Rick got home that night, he didn’t look at me first. He looked at the broken fence, the missing goat, the small smear of blood on the edge of the balcony. He froze. Then, he turned to me, his face colorless, eyes darker than the fallout. He said nothing for a long time–just stared, like he was running the Voight-Kampff test on his own heart.

“You did this,” he whispered in disappointment. It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t check my panel, and he didn’t scratch my ear. He walked over and unplugged me without hesitation. My body went limp, my brightness died, but before the dark closed in completely, I heard him mutter something that hurt more than the voltage draining from my chest.

“You’re no better than me.”

It hurt. Not just because I was disappointed in myself, but because it made Rick just as disappointed in himself.

Then I heard, “Hey, pal, what happened? Are you ok?”

He looked at me first. He didn’t look at the broken fence, the missing goat, or the small smear of blood on the edge of the balcony. He just came straight to me. His face was stale, eyes puzzled. He said nothing for a long time–just stared, and looked at the scene on the roof.

“I know who did this,” he said. He was sure of himself. He clenched his fist and said, “Rachael.”

He checked my panel, and it read: EMERGENCY SHUTOFF WAS INITIATED. POWER IS RETURNED. SHEEP BATTERY STATUS: STABLE. He scratched my ear. My plan had worked! Whatever a Rachael is has taken the fall for me! Although I had everything I wanted, part of me still felt the guilt of Buddy’s murder. Somehow, this guilt, this pain was the only real thing I’ve ever felt. Without much more hesitation, Rick ran downstairs and drove off. I looked through the broken fence that I once hated so much, I looked at the fried bits of my fake coat that lay on the ground, and I looked down at the kipple below. I didn’t like feeling this real emotion. I took my life for granted. I wanted to jump and join Buddy, but I couldn’t. My magnetic hooves more than made sure of it. I had finally regained Rick’s attention, but at a cost I couldn’t imagine. I went to sleep.

That was last night. This morning, I feel so much better. I mean, I feel better than ever. It’s right back to how it used to be. Rick walks up the stairs with his coat on, scratches my ear, checks my panel, and tells me about what is on his mind. I listen and grin because I know it will make him smile—exactly what I’m made to do.

He says to me, “You know what? I think I figured out what your name is–it’s Pal! I call you that all the time anyway.”

Maybe Buddy’s death wasn’t so bad after all. For once, I’m happy and proud to be an electric sheep. I found out that my factory-lathed fibers not only make sure I never catch dust, but they also protect me from ever feeling empathy—a way bigger weakness than any magnetic hoof.