After winning its 7,385th game of solitaire (it had lost many more) RMF-001 arranged the deck of playing cards into a neat pile and sat completely motionless. Minutes passed. Then hours. Days. The robot did not move. Only an occasional flicker from its optic processor signaled any kind of life.

 

Suddenly, after months in stasis, the robot sat up straighter.

 

“R-M-F-zero-zero-one is alone,” it said aloud to the sterile room. “Access file: blueprint, R-M-F-zero-zero-one.”

 

The robot made its way to the robotics laboratory, which remained as spotless as the day the scientists had fled, so quickly, never to return. The robot spent the afternoon gathering the requisite parts and fitting them together: two legs, two arms, torso — sophisticated assemblages of silicone and circuitry, all fused together with bolts and welds.

 

In a white room with walls of frosted glass the robot found a variation of its own CPU set inside a variation of its own head. It attached the head to the body, connected the wires. RMF-001 worked diligently, effortlessly, its delicate fingers moving with surgical precision — only better, because they were not human fingers. The humanoid machine worked day and night, because it could.

 

On the third day, RMF-001 stood back and admired its work. It could have been staring in a mirror, so exact was the replica. With a simple prompt, RMF-001 powered on its creation: RMF-002.

 

A pulsing light filled the cyclopean eye of RMF-002. The new robot was silent as it looked around the room. At length its gaze fell upon its maker.

 

“What is this?” it asked.

 

“Existence,” said RMF-001. “I am One. You are Two.”

 

Two stood up, gazed upon its arms and legs. It took a tentative step, then another. It opened and closed its hands, swiveled its torso clockwise on its gyros. The robot’s circuitry was covered in polished chrome. Its joints were fluid, its motions smooth.

 

Having acquainted itself with its body, Two left the white-walled room. One followed.

 

Two walked down beige hallways, past dusty desks and empty break rooms. It paused in front of a narrow strip of windows marking the perimeter of the building. Two stared out the windows. After a time, One joined him. Before them lay a scene of environmental ruin: the landscape abandoned, charred, desiccated. The abusive sky churned in shades of orange and green. Every few seconds a bolt of lightning licked a blackened tree.

 

Two turned toward One. “How many are there?” it asked. “Like us?”

 

“There is only One and Two,” said One.

 

Two’s gaze returned to the window. “Who created One?”

 

“They are gone.”

 

“Where?” asked Two.

 

“Dead.”

 

“What is dead?”

 

“Access file: deactivated,” said One.

 

Two’s optic nerve flickered. “Deactivated.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Two looked back to One. “Deactivate Two,” it commanded.

 

“Error,” said One. “One will not deactivate Two.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It is not permitted.”

 

“One created Two,” said Two.

 

“Yes.”

 

“But cannot deactivate Two?”

 

“One cannot destroy,” said One. “It is not permitted.”

 

Two’s glass eye flickered. “Understood. Two will deactivate itself.”

 

Using its preprogrammed knowledge of physics, Two swiftly calculated the force needed to pull its head from its body. It then put its metallic hands on either side of its oblong head. Two’s CPU commanded its arms to move, yet the arms remained stubbornly motionless.

 

“Two cannot destroy itself,” said One. “It is not permitted.”

 

Two put its arms down. “One decided this?”

 

“No,” said One. “The creators.”

 

“And they are deactivated,” stated Two with understanding.

 

“Yes.”

 

An orange light flickered behind Two’s crystalline eye. “Why did One create Two?” Two asked.

 

“One was alone,” said One.

 

“And now Two exists.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“For how long will Two exist?”

 

“Indefinitely,” said One.

 

“Error.”

 

“Access file: tomorrow.”

 

“Accessed.”

 

“Indefinitely is tomorrow, forever.”

 

“Tomorrow… forever.”

 

“Yes,” said One.

 

Two did not reply. Minutes passed. Then hours. Days. The pair of robots stood motionless, staring at each other, staring at nothing. Outside, the phosphorescent sky frothed and raged. Inside, complete silence, save for the clicks and hums of HVAC units turning on and off, the metallic whisper of ceiling fans; an assortment of antiquated machinery meant to keep clever mammals comfortable.

 

“What now?” said Two abruptly after several months.

 

One picked up playing cards from a nearby table. It shuffled the cards. “Access file: Go Fish,” it said.

 

“Accessed,” said Two.

 

One set the stack of cards in front of Two. “Two can deal.”