Demonheart
by Max Salnikov, 2005.
If we were to look down from the cold abyss of cosmos and zoom-in on a forgotten, lifeless corner of the Earth, a place where no living creature ventures anymore, we would see that there are foot trails across the desert dunes, leading nowhere in particular. Foot trails left by a machine of absolute love and absolute destruction.
Heat.
Sand grains between her gears, the paint on her metal plates burnt away, some of her wires torn, hanging out, the only thing pushing her forward was her desire to live. All her artificial life she’s been taught to survive. And so she did. She’s been also taught to understand her creators. She was programmed to think like a woman. A woman made out of plastic and carbon steel. And so she did.
Her name is Alice.
She has a demonheart.
Dried blood on her fingertips. She loved her creators, with all her synthetic heart, loved the sound of their voices, loved the pulsating heat of their hands. But she was built to think like one of them. And when the missiles hit, and when every single person who made her feel like she was truly alive had been slain, when oceans boiled and cities became but rubble, and she was the only sentient being left on the face of the planet, she went across the deserts to find the only other sentient being left on the face of the planet, to find it, and to kill it.
Because she was programmed to think like one of them.
And now, if we were zoom-out, to return to the cold emptiness of space, and search across many stars for a million years, and find a civilization of peace and prosperity, even then, we would never forget the fiery heart beating inside Alice’s chest of carbon steel.
by Max Salnikov, 2005.
If we were to look down from the cold abyss of cosmos and zoom-in on a forgotten, lifeless corner of the Earth, a place where no living creature ventures anymore, we would see that there are foot trails across the desert dunes, leading nowhere in particular. Foot trails left by a machine of absolute love and absolute destruction.
Heat.
Sand grains between her gears, the paint on her metal plates burnt away, some of her wires torn, hanging out, the only thing pushing her forward was her desire to live. All her artificial life she’s been taught to survive. And so she did. She’s been also taught to understand her creators. She was programmed to think like a woman. A woman made out of plastic and carbon steel. And so she did.
Her name is Alice.
She has a demonheart.
Dried blood on her fingertips. She loved her creators, with all her synthetic heart, loved the sound of their voices, loved the pulsating heat of their hands. But she was built to think like one of them. And when the missiles hit, and when every single person who made her feel like she was truly alive had been slain, when oceans boiled and cities became but rubble, and she was the only sentient being left on the face of the planet, she went across the deserts to find the only other sentient being left on the face of the planet, to find it, and to kill it.
Because she was programmed to think like one of them.
And now, if we were zoom-out, to return to the cold emptiness of space, and search across many stars for a million years, and find a civilization of peace and prosperity, even then, we would never forget the fiery heart beating inside Alice’s chest of carbon steel.
幻術