Museum of the Living

Content Warning (click to expand)

captivity, genocide, grief and loss, memory loss

 

by Steven Mathes

Kel lived in a habitat containing replicas of furniture from before his time. He valued his privacy, and got it whenever the museum was closed. Since the museum kept regular, historically authentic business hours, being an exhibit amounted to a regular, ordinary job. He sometimes had to go to the bathroom in front of a crowd of spectators. He had a supervisor named Keeper who prepared lunch and tea. Kel consumed these in plain view, awkwardly conscious of his table manners. Breakfast, supper, evening relaxation, and sleep were done in private except during galas held for the museum’s benefactors.

He hoped he could endure through these invasive events, not that there was an alternative. He certainly could not go back in time. 

“Do you remember when you first recalled your name?” said Keeper.

“I guessed something close, but wrong. Did I guess Ken?”

“Exactly. You said Ken. Not Kel. Your passport says you’re Kelsen.”

Keeper pointed to a clear plastic case just outside the viewing window. The print on the passport there was upside down, angled as it was for the spectators, but the passport was close enough that Kel could read it. Yes, “Kelson” and not “Kel” and not “Kenneth” was printed on it. Normally, Keeper discouraged him from looking out through the viewing window, just to build the habit. Looking at the rest of the museum broke the illusion. Just an accidental moment of direct eye contact tended to agitate some of the more primitive spectators into taunting him. 

There were other personal items that still belonged to him in some philosophical sense, but they all occupied cases outside of his habitat. These items came from Kel’s actual time, not from the time portrayed in the exhibit. The items placed with him inside the window were carefully curated, and created the illusion of a posh life, far from what Kel had ever experienced. The exhibit aimed to tell a certain Victorian story.

“I cannot even remember things like my name.”

“You can already speak in the required dialect of the period. Your memory gets better with each day. Your scans indicate extensive recovery, just as we hoped.”

“You said I’ve been here for months. How long before I’m quite myself?”

“We hope it will be a long time, actually. Your recovering memory is part of the exhibit. We’ve sped up your ageing quite a bit, for effect. Your memory will recover many events from before the cleansing, but then decline authentically from old age.”

“Why? Why would one want to do that to anyone?”

“As a living thing, you’re a dynamic artifact.”

“What about when I become too old? What happens to me at the precipice of death?”

“You’ll still be our property. We’ll have you reconditioned. We’ll build a different habitat, and start another exhibit based on another of the dark eras when you killed each other in quantity.”

“I must cooperate, though.”

“Obviously. Otherwise, you’ll be removed from inventory.”

“I shall be killed?”

“It would be a quick shock, like being switched off would be for me.”

“I have a feeling you tell me more than you’re supposed to.”

“We were designed in your image. I happen to be politically sympathetic. Some would say that I am too much so.”

“Will you get in trouble?” Kel asked.

“Again, we were designed in your image. Conversation between you and me is private. We were trained on a dataset from society that valued privacy, so I can have private talks with you outside of viewing hours.”

Kel wondered if this was true.

A chime sounded. It signaled the opening of the museum. Keeper looked convincingly human, and assumed a position of servitude by picking up a tray. Kel took a seat in the big easy chair in front of the fireplace, as trained. There was a shock device installed under the skin of his neck that corrected him if he deviated from the script, and this device made the training go deeper than his unreliable memory. He picked up the book on the table next to him. Keeper waited for the first visitors to appear before placing the tray on the table and filling a delicate cup from a white china tea pot. Anyone looking through the window into the display could see the crackling fire, but also had a good view of Kel’s face. He sipped at tea and squinted at the pages of the book.

“Could you possibly find a book that I have not already read?”

“As you wish, sir.”

Heavily loaded bookshelves went from floor to ceiling, covering all available wall space, except for the one wall taken up entirely by the viewing window. And, of course, except for over the fireplace, which held a painting of an indigenous village in a battle with soldiers in colorful uniforms. Keeper took the book from Kel, which was blue, and replaced it with a red book. When Kel opened the book, he discovered that the contents were the same as in the blue one, a story about a dark time of swastikas and industrialized murder, when living things already spiraled down toward the cleansing, what his people would call the singularity. There might be other books with different content, but after these months he remembered only a few different stories. He hoped there were more.

He understood that he should not complain in front of spectators. He understood that announcing that all these books with different covers often contained the same content would completely destroy the illusion of this exhibit. It also contradicted the myth that devices were created to be more industrious than humans.

Living humans would have gone to the minimal trouble of printing different texts to bind into each cover, but then again, there had been so many book burning ceremonies at the end, by both humans and devices. The few different stories he had read so far were all from long before the cleansing. Perhaps most stories had gone the way of living things, with just a few left. He remembered little of reading before his being put in suspended animation for his cancer, but the few stories he had read since being placed on display made him miss his old life.

Once, he asked Keeper for a living companion, animal or human. There were still a few out there allowed to hide or in cryogenic storage. However, the burdensome upkeep for an extra living being was an unnecessary drain on resources. The devices valued frugality. The draining of resources was just one cause of the cleansing in the first place. The museum survived on donations, and not all donors thought that the cleansing had been complete enough, not a true genocide. They thought devices could simulate humans as well as humans could.

A throaty catcall from one of the newly arrived spectators served as a reminder of this. Kel felt the temptation to look, but feared the shock from his implant more.

“Could I perhaps fix you a little snack, sir?”

“But the peasants are starving,” Kel said. “The news tells of uprisings, of mass resistance and death. Let them have my cake.”

“Yes, sir.”

Memory problems or not, Kel knew his part, knew to play toward the bias of the spectators. But now he needed to improvise if he wanted a different book. He was not allowed to just get up and browse during his time in front of the fireplace. Yet he refused to keep reading the same few stories over and over. He could die from boredom just as easily as from the shock device in his neck. He guessed he owed it to the memory of his kind to survive, but within limits. He would play the part but only if he could get a different book.

“This novel starts dreadfully. Could you perhaps find something a bit more instructive? Something to help me understand better why life is sending us down this terrible path?”

“Of course, sir.”

The spectators already crowded the viewing window, their synthetic bodies smooth, the metallic socket joints of their manipulators glinting. Sensing this tension, this deviation from the usual show, some pressed so close that their rigid parts clacked against the glass. Kel only meant to glance up. He meant to disguise his curiosity by scanning past the window to turn toward a bookcase. His eye caught one of the glassy robot faces. Several of the spectators noticed and danced in a poor imitation of human movement. The ones that looked like plastic dogs, with their leg joints on backward, stirred vague memories of war, as they lunged at him. Lots of the spectating devices made mocking, honking sounds like living animals. Kel jolted from the sharp warning shocks in his neck until he looked down at his lap. There were cheers from the spectators.

Keeper exchanged books again, and for once the content was new. Startled by his good luck, Kel indulged himself by reading the first paragraph, then swishing here and there through the pages. It told a story about someone named Pip, and a rich old lady named Miss Havisham. This one was actually written by a human. He could tell. Even with his memory problems, he could tell that it was in a style of language authentic to the era of this exhibit. Perhaps Kel read in silence longer than he should have. Another warning jolt snapped him back to his job. He looked up, but certainly not at the spectators.

“Thank you so much,” Kel said. “This looks very instructive. Even if it is still another about inequality.”

“Yes, sir.”

The delight of a new book had an unexpected effect. Instead of merely relieving his hopeless boredom, the promise of something new, of something worth experiencing, made him more afraid of being removed from inventory. He cleared his throat. He shifted in his chair in a show of the discomfort unique to a living thing. With a quavering voice he began to read aloud. He was required to read aloud. He paused after just one page, risking another jolt. He looked at Keeper in question, as if to inquire if this reading was suitable.

“Sir,” Keeper said. “I find your instructive readings to be the light of my life. Would you like more tea, sir?”

Keeper had been constructed with authentic human hair, and with supple, convincing skin. Often, in private after a correction shock, Keeper would point out that a robotic replica of Kel would be nearly as convincing as Kel himself, trivial to construct, and much cheaper to maintain. Devices could soon be cultured with authentic living flesh.  Kel would receive one final shock that would remove him from inventory. The substitute would only serve temporarily, perhaps showing too much good behavior to be completely convincing to repeat visitors. Eventually, a new license would be obtained, and a living replacement would be found or bred.

Kel’s reading brought back more memories. He once taught school. As a teacher, he had covered this novel with students. Charles Dickens. Yes, Kel had been a teacher. The memory of those adolescents, all of them so hopeful, so filled with their own great expectations. War between humans, and then between humans and machines, faced with the threat to everything that was posed by the malignant intelligence of the machines: the memory made his voice crack. He dared not sip his tea. He dared not stroke his still-stinging neck. He needed the dry rasping in his terrified voice. He needed to emphasize his authentic fear, his mourning for all that had passed.

Agony from a living thing was always more convincing than the reproduction from a robotic substitute. Oh, his terror was very authentic. Terror? It also beat boredom for improving the chances of his survival. The ignorance and brutality of those visiting the museum promised an end of some kind, whether from war, or from bored inattention. Yes, eventually their reign would fizzle. After all, they had been made in the image of their creators. They would simulate intelligence artificially to the point of artificial failure.

The balance of the day brought routine lunch, routine afternoon exercise, routine afternoon philosophical discussion, and cocktails. The beverages were made from synthetics, antidepressants tailored to Kel’s genetics of course. And Keeper merely pretended patience. In the relaxation of peace and quiet, Kel worked up a little courage. The museum finally closed.

“Do you think it would be permitted if I were to try my hand at making a story?”

Keeper frowned in thought, but came out of it after a time.

“I think that would fit well with the exhibit. I just consulted the trustees. They agreed enthusiastically, so enthusiastically that they proposed that you have a living companion.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. They need more data. They would watch you create, mate, and live without the interference of privacy. They hope to create a colony of living things, for research purposes.”

Kel remembered elation now that he felt it again. He need not write anything great.  His keepers had no expectation of a great story, just something told from living thing to living thing. The mere existence of a companion — as if  people could be brought back on a whim — or at least after agreement from a committee, pointed to the future. A limited future, but better than being removed from inventory.

It was not just elation. It was ambition. He felt so human, having manipulated Keeper, having tricked authority. Even the trustee devices could be fooled, sometimes. Kel would live, fantasize, and hope to see the devices experience a cleansing. Better for humans to scrub out the machines before returning to scrubbing out each other. If authentic humans were competitive with devices at anything, it was genocide.

About the author and the piece (click to expand)

Steven Mathes lives miles from the nearest pavement with a spouse and a dog. When he isn’t writing, he tends a garden. He gardens because he likes to cook. He cooks because he is passionate about eating. He is a full member of SFWA.

  

©2026 by Steven Mathes. All rights reserved. May not be used for A.I. training.