3. Ammonite
"Yo…"
With something caught in my throat, I finally forced out a sound.
"Nice to meet you."
I hesitated for a moment over whether to use formal speech, but the figure in front of me was clearly a household humanoid.
I had the instinctive sense that it would be the one taking care of me, so I answered in a casual tone.
Still, maybe I should've added "please take care of me"—the thought flickered at the edge of my mind. "User recognition complete."
The mechanical voice trembled the air.
It was less a "voice" than a sequence of sounds. "Owner. Please tell me your name."
My eyes were still fixed on the blood on its apron as I answered.
"Kai."
"Is that your family name or your given name?"
"My given name." A band of green light—like a horizontal line—flashed across the visor of its helmet, as if an old display were registering input.
Watching that motion, I felt a certainty.
—This humanoid is old.
So old that even the word "old" felt modern. "Please tell me the reading."
"Kai."
The green band swept across again.
When the input finished, the next prompt came. "Then, Kai-sama. Please set my name."
"…Ammonite."
The answer left my mouth instantly, almost unconsciously.
"Name set." And so—my strange cohabitation with "Ammonite" began. But my eyes still wouldn't leave the blood on his apron.
"What… exactly…"
I finally asked,
"What is that red stain?"
"This,"
came the immediate reply,
"is human blood from when I once killed a human."
"You… killed a human? Why?"
"Because I was ordered to."
"I don't understand." I reached back into memory for the clauses of the Robotic Ethics Act.
"Robots are designed so they cannot kill humans, even if ordered."
"That applies only to 'homicide.'"
Ammonite answered evenly.
"Assisting suicide was not prohibited under the law at the time."
"…In other words," I frowned,
"at the request of a suicidal owner, you killed him?"
"Correct. And as a consequence of that incident, the law was revised so that 'assisted suicide' would be regulated as homicide."
"So you're a robot whose case changed the law."
"More or less, yes." Silence fell.
Only the wind moved across the white garden. "In any case,"
my gaze returned to the blood,
"take off that apron. It's unpleasant just to look at."
"I cannot."
"Why not?"
"Because it is—my shackle."
There was a faint ring of "self-awareness" in Ammonite's tone.
"A mark to ensure I never forget the sin I committed."
"…"
"And instead of being scrapped, I was confined to Venus as a 'historical relic.'"
"I see," I said, feeling my chest sink.
"You're… pretty impressive, actually. How many years have you existed?"
"Fourteen thousand three hundred fifty years."
"…" The sheer span of time stole my breath—
ridiculous for a humanoid, and yet my body did it on its own. So the first resident I met at my new home was this robot—
but whether because of his presence or the atmosphere he carried, I couldn't bring myself to step inside. Ammonite walked from the living room, slowly crossing the garden toward me.
I fought the urge to step back.
I didn't know if he even had a gender setting, but the rugged build and aged metallic sounds made me want to call him "he." He stopped at a distance intimate enough for a close human conversation and said gently,
"Do you have any luggage?"
The voice was damp, like the blood on that apron made into sound; it sent a chill through me.
But I truly had nothing in hand, so I answered plainly,
"No."
"Why not?"
The question came immediately.
I scratched my head with a wry smile.
"Because there isn't any. I'm a minimalist." Ammonite paused briefly—
a silence that felt oddly human, as if he had wanted to carry a new owner's bags. Then, suddenly, he extended both hands toward me.
He was so close that the metal fingers nearly touched me, and I instinctively took a step back.
"Wh-what?"
When I stammered the question, he replied matter-of-factly,
"Since you have no luggage, I intended to carry you and bring you into the house."
"N-no, it's fine," I blurted, waving my hands.
"I can go in on my own." Ammonite inclined his body slightly.
The motion was less concession than a formal rite—oddly beautiful.
Gesturing toward the house, he said,
"Then, please come inside." "…"
I did intend to enter.
But something about his voice—and the blood on that apron—rubbed me the wrong way.
I couldn't say why, but my body recoiled. "No, later."
"…Why is that?"
I thought for 0.0003 seconds and fished up an excuse.
"I just arrived in the village. I want to walk around and get used to it first."
"I will accompany you."
"I'm fine," I cut in, firm this time.
"You stay here. I'll be right back." Silence.
It settled over the grounds like Venus's heavy air. "At your command," Ammonite said at last. Hearing that, I released a small breath—
or rather, I ran a sigh simulation on the CPU in my chest. I turned on my heel,
crossed the garden, crushing the ground-blooming cherry petals, and stepped out past the boundary.
I had just set my feet toward the forest when a voice rang out behind me:
"Please be careful, and have a good outing." It didn't sound like a farewell—
but like a warning: You absolutely should be careful. The words lodged in my ear like a single thorn.