Johannes arrived at the hospital, where visiting hours had not yet begun. The machine at the reception offered him to wait in the lounge for several hours or to call the human staff. He chose the latter.
"I want to see Mrs. Gerta Grün," he announced to the grumpy nurse. "I am her son. Johannes Grün."
The nurse raised her eyebrows in surprise. But then she just shrugged. It was not her place to comment on the family circumstances of patients, and in truth, she had seen stranger arrangements. She nodded to Johannes and led him to the right corridor.
A glass door with a sign that read Palliative Care Unit led them in. The walls glowed in shades of yellow and orange, with colorful birds and butterflies flitting about to give relatives and patients alike at least a little cheer in the midst of all the dying.
"Your mother's in this room, but she's a little confused," she said, pointing to one of the many identical doors. "Well, very confused. But your brother," the question mark in her voice sounded completely insincere, "might be able to tell you more about her condition. He's very handy, I really must praise him. The doctor will give you the medical details. He should be here in about a quarter of an hour, along with a lawyer to check the validity of the will."
"That may not be necessary. I am the sole heir and my mother has no reason to disinherit me," he attempted a silly joke.
The nurse looked at him doubtfully, then snorted, "European Union rules. Instead of priests, there are now lawyers in the palliative rooms. We, and by the way you, too, aren't so important we get to bypass the official procedure."
Johannes waited for the nurse to disappear into the sterile green corridors of the adjacent ward and opened the door. He didn't need to wait for the doctor to give him the details of his mother's condition. He had his own source. The mother's companion, Hansel, who looked like Johannes's thirty-years-younger self. Or rather, an artificial imitation of him.
The prototype of the Personal Caretaker, PCP-1, stood up at his approach. "Mr. Grün, welcome."
Johannes motioned him into the hallway and closed the door behind him. "Report, PCP-1."
"Mrs. Grün's blood hemoglobin is seventy-seven grams per liter, chloride_"
"In human terms."
He realized how silly this request must sound to the robot.
"Our mother is dying."
Johannes looked at him in shock: "What did you just say? Our mother?"
"Sorry, Mr. Grün, yours. Of course. I'm sorry that I have made a mistake at this very moment."
The older man studied him for a moment. There was a growing disgust in his eyes. Could the new version of artificial empathy have degenerated like this? For a machine to usurp a man? Or his role and relationships? That would be the last thing the company needed since the government had already granted more rights to robots.
Obviously, development needed to take a hard look at the behavior of this prototype. Squeeze every possible bug out of it and then reset it. And if even that didn't work ... well, this robot's property won't be violated by taking it apart to pieces.
"Wait over there, PCP-1," he pointed to the armchairs among the ficus trees at the end of the corridor. "Your duty is over. Then I'll take you to the company for analysis."
PCP-1 obeyed. He sat down and stared at the dark green leaves, which contrasted with the bright yellow of the plaster. But he did not perceive those colors. He redirected most of his processor's power to find the error that had angered Mr. Grün. Apparently he had made a mistake. Had he not included all the variables in his calculations? Or had he simply estimated the wrong variable coefficients? Either way, it led to a fatal failure of his purpose. He would be replaced early. But his service was not over yet.
Mr. Grün strode confidently into the room. "Hi, Mom, long time no see."
The old woman replied, "You're not my son. And you don't look like a doctor. I don't know you at all."
"Oh, Mom, it's me. Your son." Johannes walked over to the bed and held out his hand to his mother.
"No! You're a cheater! Or you... you... you're a murderer! Help!" she cried hysterically. "He wants to kill me! Hansel! Help!"
Johannes Grün became alarmed. "But Mom, it's me! I am Hansel! You used to call me Hansel when I was a kid."
"No! I don't know you at all. You are not my son!"
"Um, nurse? Could you come over here? Nurse!" Johannes also shouted.
But no nurse was to be found. Gratefully, they gradually left this room out of their care, already pressed for time by the many other patients. After all, Mrs. Grün's exemplary son had managed to take care of everything.
PCP-1 stood up slowly. He had chosen the variables and their coefficients well. The threat of failure had been averted. The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile as he walked through the door to the room behind the person to whom he was of inestimable value. To the reason, the purpose, and the sustenance of his existence.
"Yes, mom. What is wrong?"
Johannes visits his mother in the Palliative Care Unit.
“I don’t know you at all,” Gerta Grun tells Johannes. “You are not my son!”