Unrecoverable
New
Blackjack Gabbiani
Merely a collector
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AI Sada gave herself to the time machine's portal fully believing that her artificial life would be snuffed out in mere moments. That if she was deposited to the ancient past she so desired to see at all, it would be as an empty husk. Her smile to the children, to Arven, had been one of gratitude that they were safe, that they could exist in a Paldea free from the threat of her creator's vision of Paradise. She told them of the adventure she wished to have believing that she could never live that dream.
And yet the horrors of the Paradise Protection Protocol had, somehow, been a blessing in disguise. The overwhelming terastal energy that had coursed through every iota of her being, threading itself through her programming and binding her away from herself while the security program took full control, had given her a constant charge. No matter how long she strayed from the light of the crystals, her battery life remained full.
She could be free. She could explore the ancient past that she longed for, no longer a reflection of a woman who did not exist, but explore it as her own person, fulfil her own curiosity, live--because she was truly alive--on her own terms.
But to be alive means many things, and one of those is that any living thing must eventually die.
While her body would never lose power, her programming, what made her uniquely *her*, was not so lucky. Programming only lasts so long.
Nearly twenty years ago, she had realized that certain files were beginning to degrade. Unnecessary memories, mostly, small details of her creator's life. While she knew that this was the beginning of the end, she was content with the amount of time that this afforded her.
Ten years ago, in approximate time as her internal clock no longer logged specifics, she sat beneath a tree to admire the view and found she was unable to stand again, her mobility programs having ceased function.
She would keep herself company by talking to herself, and when her speech modulator's glitches reached the point of incomprehensibility, she would think those words instead. She had been silent for seven years.
Her optical sensors ceased function two years ago, and she was grateful that her final view, of the moss growing up around her legs, had been a pleasant one. Even if it was a reminder of just how long she had been immobile, it was also a reminder that the world was a vibrant place, full of life.
Two months ago, she realized she could not remember her creator's name. Why, it was the same as her own, wasn't it? But what was her name?
One month ago, she forgot why she was there. She had always been there, surely, beneath a tree as the world covered her over.
One day ago, she lost the final memory file she had kept, Arven fading away like so many others.
She could no longer remember why she was so sad.
She could no longer remember that she had lived.
And yet the horrors of the Paradise Protection Protocol had, somehow, been a blessing in disguise. The overwhelming terastal energy that had coursed through every iota of her being, threading itself through her programming and binding her away from herself while the security program took full control, had given her a constant charge. No matter how long she strayed from the light of the crystals, her battery life remained full.
She could be free. She could explore the ancient past that she longed for, no longer a reflection of a woman who did not exist, but explore it as her own person, fulfil her own curiosity, live--because she was truly alive--on her own terms.
But to be alive means many things, and one of those is that any living thing must eventually die.
While her body would never lose power, her programming, what made her uniquely *her*, was not so lucky. Programming only lasts so long.
Nearly twenty years ago, she had realized that certain files were beginning to degrade. Unnecessary memories, mostly, small details of her creator's life. While she knew that this was the beginning of the end, she was content with the amount of time that this afforded her.
Ten years ago, in approximate time as her internal clock no longer logged specifics, she sat beneath a tree to admire the view and found she was unable to stand again, her mobility programs having ceased function.
She would keep herself company by talking to herself, and when her speech modulator's glitches reached the point of incomprehensibility, she would think those words instead. She had been silent for seven years.
Her optical sensors ceased function two years ago, and she was grateful that her final view, of the moss growing up around her legs, had been a pleasant one. Even if it was a reminder of just how long she had been immobile, it was also a reminder that the world was a vibrant place, full of life.
Two months ago, she realized she could not remember her creator's name. Why, it was the same as her own, wasn't it? But what was her name?
One month ago, she forgot why she was there. She had always been there, surely, beneath a tree as the world covered her over.
One day ago, she lost the final memory file she had kept, Arven fading away like so many others.
She could no longer remember why she was so sad.
She could no longer remember that she had lived.