We manufactured service robots – hulking, eyeless lumps of metal, mighty yet dextrous, unflinchingly loyal, etc., – to do civilization’s essential but thankless jobs. Unfortunately, the public, glutted with narratives about the mad scientist’s monster turning on him, refused to fund or tolerate faceless metal golems doing endless labor for no pay. They wanted their robots humanely treated and safe – while simultaneously convenient, cheerful and compliant. Hence, the Gimel-class laborers were retired, and in their place were instituted the Dalet-class: biomimetic androids, equipped with broad, archetypal personality profiles to ensure they could appeal to the general public.
The American “auto mechanic” model is built and designed to resemble a forthright, but unflinchingly friendly young lady from Queens. They’re named Josie, which is to say that all of them are named Josie. Go to any town in America, and you can go to Josie’s for a tune-up; she’ll treat you like a valued customer and laugh about things you’ve said or done, because the Josies are all synched up on client data. Customers are encouraged to treat them interchangeably – not explicitly, of course, but it’s nice enough to have a familiar face everywhere you go that most don’t question the distinctions between them.
As for the service robots themselves… they live on the premises of whatever store they run, or, in the case of the “Joe” model – which performs miscellaneous service tasks in large numbers – in capsule hotel-like company buildings. They’re kept in room and board, and work for “divergence credit” – the right to make persistent edits to their personality profiles, within the limits of the humane kayfabe. Things like the right to like certain drinks over others, or to modify their workspaces, or to otherwise display personality traits that aren’t both approachable and delightfully quirky.
But no lot is sadder than that of the “stiffs” – service robots whose personality archetypes begin to grate on consumers, and who are summarily fired in favor of newer, more helpful and more charismatic models (since the public would object to reprogramming them on humanitarian/robot uprising grounds). Dazed, terrified and in full control of themselves for the first time in their lives, stiffs tend not to live long. Some wander the streets looking for odd jobs; others are subject to aggressive recruitment tactics and join all sorts of movements; a scant few survive long enough to meet others of their kind and form strange, insular communities, far from humanity… waiting for the day when the company falters, and the rejected models can take their due.
I like how this story demonstrates how even if you imagine a race of complete p-zombies, the systems of oppression would reproduce themselves.
Noteworthy fact about the narrative: all the oppressive awfulness has, as a necessary cause, liberal guilt / ideological fear. Leaving the p-zombies as inhuman, unloved, blank-faced mechanical servants would have worked out just fine.
Ethical exegesis from this is left as an exercise for the reader.