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The Robot
The robot approached and for the first time I was not afraid. For the first time I felt in control. Ever since I had seen the shooting star and gone to investigate the burning wreckage I had known that the charade could not continue any longer. The robot was not in control as it pretended to be. There were others like me.
It was dented and scorched, as it usually was when it returned from its excursions and I saw that the metal carapace had been penetrated in one area and flickering wires sparked beneath. The robot faced me and the screen listed the necessary repairs. I stood before it in my tattered clothing and put down the molten metal repair gun and the panel-beating mallet and took a step back.
The robot paused and the screen flickered for a moment. Then it moved forwards, picking up the gun and mallet with its claws and held them out to me. The screen enlarged the first repair instruction.
I took another step back but did not turn to run. If I ran the robot would chase me down again and clamp one claw around my neck, holding me up as it burned more gouges into my legs; it only needed me to be able to stand and move short distances. I did not take the proffered tools.
Eventually the screen blinked off and the robot put down the tools. I imagined I could hear a faint whirring sound emanate from the shell as it calculated all the possibilities and decided upon a course of action. Eventually the screen flickered back to life with two choices; I/O.
Indenture or Oblivion. Which did I choose?
I stared defiantly into the robot's faceplate and pressed my finger hard into the O on the screen. Had it not already burned out my tongue I would also have told it to go to hell. With my choice finally made and communicated to the robot I felt at peace at last. After months of abuse and existing solely on the scraps it provided me with, sleeping when it left to fight and patching it up when it returned, the shooting star had shown me the truth.
The crash site had been a mess, a black crater in the desolate landscape and yet the occupant, dead on impact, was wearing a uniform, was well fed and healthy and was human. The robot was fighting humans, those that had survived must have banded together and I was repairing the robot after each engagement.
One arm extended and the claw snapped back to reveal the laser I had suffered so often, only this time I prayed it would be set to kill instead of simply to burn. The robot faltered. Maybe it didn't understand my defiance. Maybe it knew that it needed me to help it continue the fight; maybe I was the only one who could repair it?
It was only then that I realized that it couldn't possibly kill me. It would keep me alive in whatever way it could so that I would continue to repair it. With a beam of heat and intense light the laser started its elaborate burn pattern.
Oct.20.2005