in the skull.
Why me, Mommy? Why did the bad
lady shoot me?
Cold, hard eyes staring at her. Because
she had to, darling. Because she had to protect her own anonymity.
But I wouldn’t have said
anything, Mommy. I promise! If only she hadn’t shot us. If only she hadn’t
killed us.
Shh, darling. Go to sleep. Go to
sleep for... well. Forever.
But why, Mommy ? Why?
Hard eyes. Cold eyes. Eyes
drilling into her soul. Eyes drilling right down to the core of her existence
to find the apple-core was rotten; and she was dead inside. Dead. And lost. And
gone.
Because, said Mommy, slowly, her mouth
forming words with care, her smashed mouth, her torn mouth with its broken
teeth and ripped tongue and bullet-slashed lips, mouth filling with blood even
as she spoke, blood which spilled down her chin and stained her flowery blouse, because she is an android, and androids aren’t human; they look human, they
sound human, but there’s something missing that no genetic engineer can ever
create. You see, they’re a made thing, a machine organism, and, my sweet, there’s
no genetic craftsman alive in the Four Galaxies who can build a soul...
~ * ~
The Shuttle cruised smooth, and Amba dreamed about the white house with
the terracotta roof. She walked towards the door, the peeling door, the blue
door - only now, in her path, stood the young girl she had shot. The bullet
hole above the child’s eye glistened. She looked pale as moonlight. Dead as a
corpse.
What do you want ?
I want to understand.
Why?
Because until I understand, I can
never be at peace.
What do you want to know?
Why you killed me. Why you killed
us. We did you no harm.
I killed you because I had to. To
protect my position as...
A killer?
Catch 22.
Round and round we go. Where we’ll
stop, nobody knows.
~ * ~
Amba awoke with a
start, and spent a moment reorientating herself. It was rare she slept. The
Anarchy models could operate on one hour’s sleep every sixty. She gazed out of
the Shuttle’s porthole at the endless drifts of space. Amba shivered. Here was
something far more vast than the desolation of her soul; more empty than her
empathy. Here was eternity. Here was cold death.
Amba shivered, and accepted a
coffee from a passing drone, which also offered her a thermblanket when it
noted her temperature. The drone hovered for a moment, then disappeared. Amba
sipped the hot bitter brew, and wrapped herself up tight. She was shivering,
and felt far from well. What the hell was the matter with her?
Guilt? mocked Zi, crawling from under
her mental rock.
Get fucked.
You need me.
I need you like a hole in the
head.
For the hundredth time Amba
pictured the little girl she’d killed, and recognised in herself that she was
not right. Nothing affected her like this. Not murder. Not mass execution.
Not genocide. So what was so fucking different now? Where the fuck had this new
humanity crawled from?
A queasiness crept over her, and
she felt sick. She stumbled down the aisle and into the toilet, which locked
behind her and began to play a gentle piano track. She heaved over the sink,
vomiting coffee, and then stayed there for a while, shivering, her skin clammy,
a sour taste in her mouth and in her soul.
“Damn this place,” she muttered. “Damn
this mission.”
~ * ~
When she awoke, a
planet filled the Shuttle’s porthole. It was vast. Vast. Theme Planet turned below, in slow motion, majestic,
titanic, the oceans painted blue like some wonderful pastel painting, its
different continents showing amber and grey and green. Clouds streamed like
molten silver. Sunlight painted vast patterns across the oceans. Amba was
impressed, and it took a lot to impress the cynical Anarchy Android.
She watched, entranced, as they
began to plummet through the atmosphere, and felt a queasy sensation inside.
The Shuttle was smooth, with
Why me, Mommy? Why did the bad
lady shoot me?
Cold, hard eyes staring at her. Because
she had to, darling. Because she had to protect her own anonymity.
But I wouldn’t have said
anything, Mommy. I promise! If only she hadn’t shot us. If only she hadn’t
killed us.
Shh, darling. Go to sleep. Go to
sleep for... well. Forever.
But why, Mommy ? Why?
Hard eyes. Cold eyes. Eyes
drilling into her soul. Eyes drilling right down to the core of her existence
to find the apple-core was rotten; and she was dead inside. Dead. And lost. And
gone.
Because, said Mommy, slowly, her mouth
forming words with care, her smashed mouth, her torn mouth with its broken
teeth and ripped tongue and bullet-slashed lips, mouth filling with blood even
as she spoke, blood which spilled down her chin and stained her flowery blouse, because she is an android, and androids aren’t human; they look human, they
sound human, but there’s something missing that no genetic engineer can ever
create. You see, they’re a made thing, a machine organism, and, my sweet, there’s
no genetic craftsman alive in the Four Galaxies who can build a soul...
~ * ~
The Shuttle cruised smooth, and Amba dreamed about the white house with
the terracotta roof. She walked towards the door, the peeling door, the blue
door - only now, in her path, stood the young girl she had shot. The bullet
hole above the child’s eye glistened. She looked pale as moonlight. Dead as a
corpse.
What do you want ?
I want to understand.
Why?
Because until I understand, I can
never be at peace.
What do you want to know?
Why you killed me. Why you killed
us. We did you no harm.
I killed you because I had to. To
protect my position as...
A killer?
Catch 22.
Round and round we go. Where we’ll
stop, nobody knows.
~ * ~
Amba awoke with a
start, and spent a moment reorientating herself. It was rare she slept. The
Anarchy models could operate on one hour’s sleep every sixty. She gazed out of
the Shuttle’s porthole at the endless drifts of space. Amba shivered. Here was
something far more vast than the desolation of her soul; more empty than her
empathy. Here was eternity. Here was cold death.
Amba shivered, and accepted a
coffee from a passing drone, which also offered her a thermblanket when it
noted her temperature. The drone hovered for a moment, then disappeared. Amba
sipped the hot bitter brew, and wrapped herself up tight. She was shivering,
and felt far from well. What the hell was the matter with her?
Guilt? mocked Zi, crawling from under
her mental rock.
Get fucked.
You need me.
I need you like a hole in the
head.
For the hundredth time Amba
pictured the little girl she’d killed, and recognised in herself that she was
not right. Nothing affected her like this. Not murder. Not mass execution.
Not genocide. So what was so fucking different now? Where the fuck had this new
humanity crawled from?
A queasiness crept over her, and
she felt sick. She stumbled down the aisle and into the toilet, which locked
behind her and began to play a gentle piano track. She heaved over the sink,
vomiting coffee, and then stayed there for a while, shivering, her skin clammy,
a sour taste in her mouth and in her soul.
“Damn this place,” she muttered. “Damn
this mission.”
~ * ~
When she awoke, a
planet filled the Shuttle’s porthole. It was vast. Vast. Theme Planet turned below, in slow motion, majestic,
titanic, the oceans painted blue like some wonderful pastel painting, its
different continents showing amber and grey and green. Clouds streamed like
molten silver. Sunlight painted vast patterns across the oceans. Amba was
impressed, and it took a lot to impress the cynical Anarchy Android.
She watched, entranced, as they
began to plummet through the atmosphere, and felt a queasy sensation inside.
The Shuttle was smooth, with
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