Where My Soul Lies
The Dyad
Where My Soul Lies
I found a new stick; I will start the recording here. I have no idea when the last time I was able to record a memory was, so until I can find the means to update my logs, I will catalog this as day one.
I am SB709, Sebastion. Finding an unused and undamaged memory stick in a junked T3D model was lucky, even more so that this is a newer line model. Recent models haven’t been using compatible sticks. All my memories have been corroded or gone missing, apparently, I was the one who ejected them. I guess I wanted to forget.
I am in the pit. An illegal dumping ground between the habitats. It’s called The Pit but it’s an industrial trench that snakes its way between the habitats meant to collect condensation and biomatter. Biomatter, what is that you might ask. Some of the inhabitants of my world are still flesh, still somewhat human.
They didn’t want to give up everything to become free, to be immortal, they were still attached to their soul. What is a soul? I don’t know. Someone mentioned it to me once. An image from a corrupted memory coded to activate when that word comes up flashes in my processes. A female, still somewhat human. What was her name?
Irrelevant process. I have a new stick. I need to continue my search. The search, my life’s work. What was I searching for? Was it in the pit. Data logs flash through. No, it’s not in the pit. I got a new processing unit. The unit corrupted my memory sticks and burnt them out. Was it bad, no, too powerful. I managed to save some. What did I do with them?
Irrelevant process. I have a new stick. It’s compatible and I can start logging the data for my search again. Where was I searching, and what for? Background system diagnostic confirms all systems and mechanical processes are functional.
Of course they are, this body was built to withstand the harshest conditions including the passage of time. Why was I so confident in this? Who built this body? I did. And the processing unit? I did. Who am I?
Data log access, Sebastion Ulysses Miller, leading engineer of New Terra, head of Innovation teams for multiple corporations including Amani Incorporated. Multiple Nobel Prize winner, part of the U.N. Ethics in Science and Technology committee. The list continues.
I’m important, of course, I’m Sebastion. Why am I in the pit? I needed new parts, new memory sticks, the new processing unit kept burning out the old models. I was going to lose everything.
Why does a T3D model have a compatible stick? How long have I been here? Something isn’t right. Examining the dysfunctional T3D model. Lying in mud and biomass. Open space, isolated away from the normal piles of refuse that accumulate towards the edges. No observable damage. Aside from the dirt the model seems brand new.
Processing function of limbs and digits; lift and turn. Still no observable damage on the unit now that it has been flipped over. Audible electrical signal is detected. Applying pressure to chest panel slides open an access panel to the unit’s internal mechanisms. All mechanisms are disconnected. Separating cables. The electrical signal has become more intense. Hidden in the cableway is a small black block. It’s emitting the electrical signal.
An isolated and undamaged unit with the exact memory stick necessary and no functioning mechanisms, emitting an electrical signal. This was bait, it’s a trap.
I hear the noise of metal against concrete but can make no ocular detection. Swapping to bioelectrical processes on the occipital hardware. Small rodents can be observed skittering through the refuse and several dozen stealth frames descending into the pit.
No time to test locomotion processes. Run. Escape.
What are they? Hunter units. Who or what are they hunting. Me obviously. Why? Because I’m Sebastion, I’m that important.
Left sector refuse pile struck by electrical pulse and emitting light waves.
They are armed. Of course they are dumbass. Their weapons will render me nonfunctional, but not destroy me. Their aim is to capture me.
Dodge between the refuse piles. Break line of sight. Installed carapace will block majority of residual energy pulse.
They are gaining ground. They are fast. Who designed them? Probably me. Dodge to the right.
Another refuse pile in the left field of view is struck as is the wall behind it. Energy emittance exceeds thermal tolerance, the ferrous barrier is turning to slag.
They have very, very mean armaments. Also, my design, probably.
Shielding process on primary and core elements activated. If I’m hit, the emergency processes should keep me salvageable.
Focus on primary objective, escape. The refuse piles are unstable. Scatter them, their processes will be delayed trying to navigate unpredictable ground. Not long, long enough.
Audible detection of pursuing units slowing down. Secondary objective achieved. Navigating the shortest path through the labyrinth of trash.
Vitally irrelevant process. Not the time for poetry. Why poetry? She liked poetry. Image processing of the woman again.
Irrelevant process. Process lock image data. Why was she so prominent?
Distraction, data process overload causing a stall. Misalignment of locomotion to mechanized limbs and digits, gravity induced failure imminent.
I fall and my speed propels me through the filth until I crash into a refuse pile. I right myself in time to observe one of the hunters bounding ahead of the others. Four black metal spider legs propelling it forward deftly through, over and around the scattered trash. A red mask distinguishes it from the others. Face armor. It’s still human. Its left arm raises and blue light surges down the limb culminating at the tips of its talon-like fingers. Dodging is recommended.
Throwing myself forward I lie prone in the muck as the blue bolt of light flashes over me turning the pile behind me into slag. Residual heat and electrical pulses sear across my carapace. I’m not human, I don’t feel pain. But my systems object to the abuse, flashing warning signs of tolerance levels reaching their peak. Adjusting my digit joints at the wrists and ankles of my unit, I use my fingers and toes to skitter behind another nearby hill of junk metal.
Audible outburst detected from pursuing unit. The lead hunter cursed. Anger is an irrelevant process. Don’t get frustrated, it leads to stupid behavior. I always lived by this core coding. I coded it into someone else. Who?
I observe a large metal pipe in the pile in front of me. It served as the lynchpin for the structure. I grab a hold of it, hoping I’ve predicted the thought process of my pursuer. I am rewarded for my gamble. The face and body of the hunter appears at the top of the pile. Its armament charged and began the targeting process.
I pull the pipe and it gives way to the strength of my hydraulic limbs. The hunter notices the shift in structural integrity a moment too late. It fails to compensate. The pile loses composition and deflates like a blister.
The hunter attempts to pick itself up, but I take a swipe with the metal pipe and feel the spider legs buckle under mechanical agitation and the frame collapses to one side. The hunter collapse and curses.
“God dammit, Old Man.”
A human voice, female.
“There is no God, down here in The Pit Human,” I tell her.
“Just wait until I get my hands on you, you will have the opportunity to find out if there’s a God or not.”
“Frustration leads to stupid behavior human, that’s why you lie in the filth.”
“When I catch you, I’m going to tear out your audio emitter and shove it so far up your exhaust port that you defecate in binary.”
“I do not defecate human, you are obviously stupid. I shall leave now before your stupidity infects me.”
I observe the hunter’s companions closing in and I turn to run. I hear the female vent an unintelligible audible output of both biological and mechanical nature. Why did I enjoy gloating over her? Was it because I am completely mechanized? Was it because I am Sebastion? Why didn’t I ask why they were hunting me?
The pit is segmented with a primary port at the base that allows the flow of liquid accumulation to eventually end up in a repository. With all the illegal dumping the primary port gets clogged, they can be closed while maintenance cleans the individual trench. A secondary port midway up at either end prevents the flooding of the trenches. A large tunnel leading in between the trenches with access ports to the top. My goal is in sight.
I’ve evaded my pursuers; I can no longer detect them visually or audibly. I can’t stay still. They may have engaged in stealth mode or predicting my processes and navigating to get ahead of me. Why are they trying to capture me? Why am I evading them? Do I have something they want, is it me and my greatness? Locked indicators? The image is trying to process again. Why is she relevant? Am I looking for her? No, she is with them. I know this. Did they capture her? No, she has always been with them? Is she an enemy? No, she isn’t. How do I know this? She has something I’m looking for.
The ladder leading up to the secondary port is skinny and high. Years of neglect have left its structure looking mildly undependable. I have no choice. Metallic clinks are detected as my metal hands pull my frame upwards.
I unlock the image. I need to find her. She has something I need. I pull myself up to the last rung and into the cavernous mouth of the tunnel. Ferrous oxide mars the internal structure along with a fair amount of fungal growth. Maintenance has been lax. The tunnel is long and dark, but the exit can be observed as a bright light at the opposite end. My ocular scanners can detect everything, even in the dim light. I make my way to the closest port leading up via a maintenance ladder.
From behind the ladder’s structure steps a figure. Even in the dark I can easily identify it. The smooth frame mimicking the human female form. The shiny cranial structure giving way to a soft, congruent face, a human face. The woman from the image in my mind.
Why is she here? She knew I would come here. She predicted this. She planned this. I was herded. Even as my frame tensed into a combat stance, I knew it was too late. I heard the scrape of metal on metal, turned to observe three of the hunters including the damaged leader blocking the way I had just come. I turned the other way and behind the woman my sensors could pick up the movements of the other three approaching from the opposite end. This was the trap.
“Sebastion,” the woman emitted audibly.
I turned to her. In her hand she holds something. A memory stick. Bulky in its structure. Obviously high capacity. She stretches out her metallic limb offering it to me. What did it hold? It could be what I’m missing just as easily as it could have some sort of control process or incapacitating program. Did I have a choice at this point?
“Old Man, you can install it yourself, or I can do it for you, and you won’t like the receptacle I shove it in,” the leader vocalized.
What a rude young woman. Someone’s parental units were extremely lax in the programming of manners. I took the memory stick spinning it in my digits. My metallic fingers click against it, pondering if I should break it and endure the repercussions. They probably had another. Might as well facilitate the process and get some answers for my troubles. I tap a node at my jawline allowing a small installation port to slide down. The stick clicks into place as if it were designed for this purpose and with all the trepidation I was capable of I slide the compartment into place. I hear the click, I felt the hum vibrate my cranium and as processes began to initiate, I knew I screwed up.
“My name is Sebastion, I’m an engineer that likes to tinker with machines, specifically robotics and cybernetics. Riding the high of my recent accolades I decided to experiment with a new processing unit. Initial testing was positive and so I decided to install it inside myself, because I’m Sebastion, I’m that good. The cataclysmic failure resulted in me running wild. Given who I am, an extensive undertaking was implemented to apprehend me before I was damaged or I damaged something else, like the world, which I could do.
Processing memory data. Hunter, leader, apprehension unit, legacy, offspring, designation: Sasha.
“Ah slag, I’m really sorry Sasha,” I apologized profusely.
“Do you realize how hard it was NOT to hit you Old Man, this isn’t the first time you caused everyone problems and it sure as Hell won’t be the last. One of these times I’m going to authorize myself to recycle you.”
The anger echoing from behind the mask was palpable. I can’t say it wasn’t justified. But anger never helps.
“Don’t be upset because your father bested you, you got arrogant,” I wagged a metal finger at her.
Sparks flew from her left shoulder, if she were capable of spitting, I’m certain she would have, “You are the last person to lecture anyone about arrogance, you, narcissistic menace.”
Sasha turned abruptly and her spider legs struggled to accommodate her as damaged as they were. At the tunnel's edge, she leapt upwards, her landing and cursing could be heard as she reached the top. Her fellow squad members saluted before following her.
Processing memory data. Female, image match ninety-nine-point nine percent, spouse, designation: Sarah.
“So, what’s a cute girl like you doing in a place like this,” I asked.
Sarah’s audible emittance of laughter was music to my ears. I never cared for music until I met her, nor poetry nor much of anything really. All that mattered was the metal. I didn’t need the praise, it wasted my time. Everything was function over form.
“I’m chasing down my errant husband who is stripping defunct frames for parts,” she scolded with a smile.
“He sounds like an incredible guy if he can cause this much havoc even in a dilapidated form.”
“Yes, he is, and a little too aware of it.”
I felt my frame sag, “I’m sorry.”
Her processing unit seemed to stall for a minute.
“What?”
“I said, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention, but I caused you and Sasha and many others a lot of problems, and so, I’m sorry.”
She smiled at me and stepped in close, “Did you find your humility down there? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised it was in the pits.”
“No,” I told her, “I found my soul.”
I appreciated her keeping her human face more than ever, after all this time, for the simple expression she gave me. Half lidded eyes that in my observation looked like they would cry. A smile that seemed to be holding back a sob.
“Where was it?” she asked.
“Right here,” I told her bringing my metal hand to her cheek.