“Thank you for reaching out, Mx Shaddower.”
“Please call me Bobbie. Bobbie.”
“So, it’s true. You’re the Bobbie. Of Bobbie’s Law,” the attorney said in a way that made it part question, part reverence.
Bobbie nodded.
“I’m honored. And confused,” the attorney admitted. “If this is really about giving up the farm, I don’t understand. You won the case. The Supreme Court ruled in your favor. You own the property and assets. The first robot to be recognized as a legitimate heir in the entire world.”
Again, Bobbie nodded.
“So, why after your...your...your parents fought for decades to have you legally adopted and recognized as their heir, why do you want to forgo what they worked so hard to leave to you?”
From the sweeping porch of his parents’ home, Bobbie turned and looked over the patchwork of rolling fields of the farm with its many outbuildings and legion of autonomous mechs designed to cultivate the unbroken acres. “It’s not really mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father was born on this farm.” Robbie turned back to the attorney. “I was built on it.”
“You are the legal heir. Their child. Your parents singlehandedly created mechultivation. They established the model, the gold standard, for sustainable autonomous farming. They transformed the industry. Your parents started from practically nothing and because of their grit, ingenuity and compassion, the world has a more abundant and safer food supply. And it’s all in your hands now.”
Lifting his synthesized hands and considering them, Bobbie said, “For now, I am one of a kind. A fortunate byproduct of their work. A lucky accident.”
“One could say that about most folks, Mx Shaddower. Lucky accidents.”
“You didn’t have to prove your humanity.”
“True, though some people have to work on theirs harder than others.”
“Indeed,” Bobbie conceded. “I am very lucky my parents had such generous hearts and entertained such a broad definition of humanity.”
“Because of you they’ve made the world redefine it,” the attorney said, proudly. “Which makes it unclear why you would give up your claim to their property, patents, and wealth.”
“Those things are inconsequential.”
“Inconsequential?”
“Yes. I think my parents would agree,” Bobbie glanced again toward the farm where all shapes and forms of mechs unceasingly toiled, knowing the duty, the true legacy, he’d been given, “that all of this really amounts to nothing.”
“But your parents left you everything.”
“They did that long before they had anything,” Bobbie whispered, eyes brightening with a strange new feeling. Pride.
