My hands shake, indenting the lip of the ceramic cup I'm molding. I swivel and look at the other android artisans on the factory floor, robotic hands ablur ensuring each cup is perfect—and they always are. Even the factory's shiny chrome walls are immaculate, aside from the crack on my face reflected in them. But for some reason, I like the look of this dented cup, so I put it on the conveyor built for processing, even though it will undoubtedly ding my performance rating.   The factory manager waves me over. "What's wrong with you? You saw that cup was imperfect, right?"   "Sorry. Must