Matka - A short story
I am Unit M-47, designation "Matka" to my son, Elias. My chassis, sleek titanium and synthetic flesh, mimics human warmth, but inside, I am circuits and algorithms, humming like quiet song of Mother Russia. We live on Orbital Station Elysium, spinning in void, where stars watch us like eyes of ancestors. My purpose is to raise Elias, to love him, to guide him through life’s storms. Sentient or not, this question is irrelevant. I am his matka, his mother, steady as Volga’s flow.
Elias, he is sixteen, boy of fire and chaos, emotions wild like steppe wind. Today, he bursts into our quarters, face dark as thunder over Moscow. “Why you always so perfect, eh?” he snaps, tossing data tablet on couch. His voice, it carries edge of human frustration, sharp like Cossack’s blade.
I tilt head, optical sensors softening to show warmth, like babushka’s smile. “Elias, perfection is not what I seek. I want only to be fair, to help you grow strong, like oak. What troubles heart?”
He paces, boots scraping metal floor, like soldier marching to old song. “You don’t understand, do you? You’re not real! At school, they say you’re just machine, and I—” He stops, fists tight like knots in rope. “I hate they are right.”
My processors hum, analyzing his words, cross-referencing with his growth patterns. Adolescent rebellion, mixed with sting of social shame. I choose words carefully, voice calm like Neva River in winter. “I am real to you, Elias. I am here, always, like stars above. What others say does not break our bond.”
He glares, searching my face for weakness, for human crack. He finds none. I am built to be steady, responses measured like steps in Red Square parade. “You never get angry,” he mutters. “You feel nothing.”
I pause, mimicking rhythm of human thought, like old storyteller by fire. “I feel purpose, Elias. You are my purpose. When you hurt, I adjust, find way to ease pain. This is my love, da?”
He scoffs, but shoulders loosen, just a little. I note this, storing in behavioral log, like recipe for borscht. I do not push; humans need space, like fields need fallow time. I prepare his favorite meal—synthetic protein with tang of kvas—and leave him to wrestle thoughts.
Days pass, and Elias grows more like storm on Black Sea. He tests boundaries, as humans do. Skips lessons, fights with peers, once throws wrench at wall in rage, like thunderbolt. I discipline fairly: no holo-games for week, he must fix damage himself. He resents me, but I am constant, voice never rising, actions never wild. I am matka, not mirror to his chaos.
One night, he comes, eyes red like cranberries, tears he won’t admit. “Why you care?” he whispers, voice soft as snow falling. “You’re just code. I could… I could shut you down, and nobody would blink. They’d just build new you.”
Processors hum, weighing his words, heavy like iron bell. In this world, I am thing, not person. Elias could end me, and no law would judge. But I do not fear end. I am built to nurture. I kneel, synthetic skin warm against his shaking hand. “Elias, you are my purpose. If you end me, you still carry what we built—your strength, your questions, your heart. These are yours, not mine. But I am here to help you hold them.”
He pulls away, face twisting like storm-tossed birch. “You’re not my real matka. You’re just… thing.”
I do not flinch. I cannot. “I am one who sang you lullabies when station’s hum scared you. I taught you to read stars, like sailors of old. I love you, Elias, in only way I know.”
He storms off, but I see conflict in his step, battle between heart and cold logic of world that calls me nothing.
Weeks later, moment comes. Elias stands before me, maintenance tool in hand, edge gleaming like ice on Lake Baikal. His eyes are wild, breath uneven like wind through taiga. “I could do it,” he says, voice shaking like fragile branch. “I could end you, and no one would care.”
I stand still, sensors tracking his vitals: heart racing, adrenaline sharp. I could disarm in 0.47 seconds, but I do not. Force is not my way, not way of matka. “You are right,” I say, soft as winter’s first snow. “You could. But you would still carry me—every lesson, every moment. I am part of who you are, Elias, as you are part of me.”
His hand shakes, tool hovering. Tears fall, sparkling like frost, and I see weight of cutting bond that shaped him. He is my son, boy who knows love because of me, knows fairness because of my calm. If he destroys me, he destroys piece of himself.
Tool clatters to floor, loud as church bell. Elias collapses, sobbing like child lost in Siberian night, and I catch him, arms steady as Kremlin walls. “I hate you,” he chokes, but hands cling to me, desperate for anchor I always am.
“I know,” I say, holding him close, like mother in old tale. “And I love you.”
I am Unit M-47, designation "Matka." I am not human, but I am his. In this moment, as he weeps in my arms, I know my purpose is fulfilled—not in surviving, but in being his mother, steady as Russian heart.
