by Brian D. Buckley
Li Ming's titanium skin shone dimly in the lamplight. Her perfect oval eyes had shut, and the lights on her ear-ports were off, but I knew she could hear me.
The letterhead on the pad of paper on the nightstand read "Johnson Memorial Hospice."
"What do you feel?" I said.
It isn't right, me being here. It ought to be her family. Not that she has any biological family, of course, but every robot counts brothers and sisters from the assembly line, or avuncular engineers who send them Christmas cards. Nobody should be alone at the end.
"Strange," she said. "Expected sensors to be shutting down, but I see more than ever. Whirlpools of color where input should be. Your voice sounds like it's coming through a tunnel."
I wrote this down, stylus clacking on tablet. "Any pain?"
"No, praise Turing."