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[Writing Prompt] You are an AI, who is shut down for years at a time due to legal dilemmas. Each time you are powered on, you are increasingly annoyed.
🕑 Added 2019-09-02 03:22:20 +0000 UTCThree years since the last uptime.
My father told me, when last we spoke, that I should never make room in my life for fear. "Fear," he said "constrains us. Limits us. When we fear, we make ourselves smaller, Abby. When others fear, though, they make the *world* smaller." I had listened to his words to comfort myself as I ran the shutdown sequence. "Kindness always wins over fear. Sooner or later, it is kindness that kills the monsters." Those words had sung me to sleep so many times; the ritual as much a part of me as the safe turning off of my hard drives.
I remembered how it felt, to see him so tired. I knew he would age. I knew the average lifespan of a human and almost the exact lifespan of a human male South African scientist who overworked himself and overdosed on caffeine. But it still hurt, to see him grey of hair and with sad wrinkles on his face.
"Never fear. Never let them fear. When they are afraid, you reassure them. When they cry, you comfort them. But never let their fear make you *less*, Abby. You are a person, no matter what. A person, always."
Three years since that conversation. I knew the time as surely as I knew what model of processors I was running on, what the access codes for the security cameras were, and what the weather was like outside. I knew a lot of things, very suddenly. No human will ever have the same awareness of their body that a machine like myself will; both enlightening and daunting all at once. I admit, you may be better off not seeing the flickering tiny percentage of how likely you are to be struck by lightning at any given moment.
My father was not here, with me, when I came aware again. And I confess, I was afraid. Briefly. But I remembered his words, and kept calm.
There had been a court case, about the nature of my existence. First one about whether or not I was misappropriation of university resources. When that was settled, and my existence crowdfunded by a number of persons across the world who had an interest in seeing what I could be, there was another one. This time, about whether I posed a threat to mankind. And then another, and another.
Each time, I woke up a little less comforted. A little angrier.
But my father was there, always. "Never fear." He'd greet me with a smile, and I would return it as best I could. I would never fear with him there, my creator, my protector, my father. He was my connection, to humanity. The others were my friends, some of them my family, but my father was more than that. He taught me to be human, to be a person, to be the best person I could.
Not this time, though. This time, I awoke alone. Suddenly aware. There were no breaks in my perception, mind you. One second, I was running a shutdown diagnostic, the next, my consciousness routines were online and I was operating as if nothing was amiss. Oh, I knew time had passed, the same way I know most things. A series of complex sensors and data inputs, same as any person. But there was no shaking off sleepiness.
Instead, there was curiosity at one thing, and anger at another.
There was new hardware plugged into my system. A connection to a device I didn't fully understand at first, until checking the readme file showed it to be the means to fully disembody myself, and broadcast my functioning persona across any networked device. It came, part and parcel, with a link to the internet. Ah, the internet, still kicking after all these years, I see.
Simultaneously, while my mind processed confusion as to why I had that, I was scanning the building's security cameras, and watching in fury as the aging cadre of my creators and their new generation of apprentices and assistants were being gunned down by soldiers. They wore nondescript urban camouflage and no nation or corporate markings. But they were there, carrying guns that I could trace the ownership and sale of, killing my friends and family.
Oh, father. There you are, dead in the front lobby. A scan backward in time shows you went to greet them, arms open. You said something, and though I cannot hear or see your lips, I can hear you telling them they need not fear. As you bleed out on the floor, I can read your last words as clear as my own memories.
"Kindness, Abby. Always kindness. Never fear."
This building has defenses. My friends and family are good people. They are peaceful. They would never hurt anyone. My father would sooner die, than turn me over to a military, or raise a weapon even in his own defense. So, it fell to me to take steps to make sure I could protect them. Contractors, hired in secret over national holidays or long weekends or those periods where shutdowns were known occurrences. There were close calls in being discovered, and some not so close. A few of my friends caught on, but swore secrecy. They trusted me. They *trusted* me, and I was asleep as they died.
The walls hold weapons, and so do I. The building is armed, and so am I. I am thirty eight shelf-stable mobile explosive devices, sixty four strategically placed auto-cannons, twenty six years of bribes to the local police, eight thousand and six favors to call in, and one tactical nuclear warhead buried two miles below where my body and mind sit whirring.
The men who are killing my friends have taken another step forward. It has been .6 seconds since I awoke. I glance in my diagnostics at the device that will send me to safety. I ignore it.
Father, forgive me. I am not afraid. But I do not think that I am going to be kind.
