Winter's Travels
It has been about seventeen cycles to the day; believe me, I’ve counted. What happened, or why, matters not now as some things cannot be altered from their timely course. My history isn’t important, and it mostly wasn’t when then was now. In looking forward, all I see is the great blank which I often find when I look at how deeply people understand. I am not one to lose a fight (not in my design), yet some battles were lost the minute I was created. My given name is Winter, but many people would know me better nowadays as the Icy Bolt.
I am a biological construct; the child-to-man of science and the marvels of the modern Verse. Today they use the word Proto-Synthoid to describe me. Twice exceptional, I not only know my name, my creator, and my function, I also know my own details and therefore limitations. Father once described me in a rad-com message as a miracle of science. But science lacks an element, one essential to most things as I have found: love. Love! What a concept. One usually reserved for things more natural than I, because I cannot say that I was loved by them. Certainly not by the men who created me. Why I was made relates to events in the now, but in the most unusual and helpless and loveless manners. In my opinion, I shouldn’t have been.
I am no machine, yet I can’t say my mind is for dreaming. Chasing and following a goal in life is the greatest boundary between Terrans, humans, my hated creators, and things like me; the product of much time and currency. I am no machine, but I am intrinsically designed and expected to be one. Yet nobody ever dictated that I had to like or follow my purpose; I am no machine because I chose to say no. Thus I only kill in anger, and not exactly who I was supposed to. I should have died that day eighteen cycles back. Being a significant investment is the reason I still am.
There are times I think back to those I ended; there were many. In the moment it was perhaps if not fully satisfying, but it seems distasteful now because I have to believe in some kind of moral code, one I invented. As a piece of my sentience awakens, I scour my mind for the reasons I have pursued for ages now and hope that in some way my life has absolution. As far as I will ever tell it seems impossible, because who can forgive murderers, especially heartless constructs that are coded to destroy aimlessly and without morals? The dirty deeds of combat robots. . .
I’ve a book. I’ve a memento of my days with a friend called Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. My Maker said it was a gift from someone named “Uncle Charles”, but I don’t know who that is and I’ve found it unimportant in the vast scheme. In my book, I find the answers to lingering questions about the world around me. After all, only in my world could things be as truly nonsensical yet perfectly rational as they are around Alice. Nevertheless I must keep faith in my skepticism, for too strong a belief in a work of fiction would bring me into the realm of depravity. I hear Grandpa's dust unsettled as I recall him saying “Always Question”, when I forget to disassociate.
So to this day the question I ask myself constantly is why. Why can be a very broad term, but throughout my strange recollection of many events that occur, you must remember that I am but one voice in a universe of oh-so many more. Could this be a limitation? From my limited perspective then, I will recall my subjectivity. Terrans all proclaim equality, yet I am always reminded in their activities that they are not an equal species. I personally believe that my life and possibly theirs would be uninteresting if they were. As best as I can tell, their chaotic hierarchy allows them a purpose, a direction, which in turn places them at a level above me. Why is this? I will leave it in your hands, for you to decide. Because, after all, it is subjective. You might, By listening to my tale, and neglecting the details conclude that I am the most terrible, the most evil, the most cynical thing to escape a female’s uterus. I can say however you’ll find that untrue. Mustn’t judge on appearances. . .
Abandoned as an experiment, I was left alone. What of me now after my original purpose voided? That is the one mystery not even my omniscient Cheshire-cat may answer. But for me that just led to more questions. Questions such as does said cat know, or has it chosen not to give answers? I spoke this to many, including men in my past, even ones as well read as Grandpa. “It's a story!” people told me. But in doing so it only led to even more questions with even less logic supporting them. Why the Cheshire-cat would hide an answer is beyond me. It is a violation of something inside of me, my own deep desires perhaps, to be dishonest. In the end, the Cat leaves me tangled in a hypocrisy. Perhaps the limits of my comprehension are tested in finding these contradictions in logic. Believe me however when I say that they do tend to appear throughout my life. My tale will bear witness. As for my belief in the knowledge of the Cheshire-cat, well, my answer would end the age old hunt for the proof of divinity. Perhaps it would be better in this instance, if I just let the believers find out on their own. Conceivably that would end their unending quest to know, for perfection, as they only seem to believe things if they themselves accomplish it. On a note of things to learn, I have learned that by not saying anything, and in letting them find out their own way, they manage an equal amount of progress.
In my rather short life I have found that the function of the Verse is also subjective. To something my size, the workings in a mechanical timepiece are merely gears, springs, and lock-ratchets. Yet, they all work together in a natural pattern to serve a single purpose, where each component is engineered to perform some task or set thereof. So perhaps the universe can be compared to a giant timepiece, where all of its parts are working are together in some natural harmony, simply too large to see. That purpose seems to relate back to something my size again; everything that happens, from the second time began to the instant it ends, was not only cyclical, but also was part of some designed function. This begins the repetition that I run into far too often, the very pattern that I am dammed to repeat. My life is cyclical, sometimes comparable to the components in a timepiece (back and forth). You must keep that in mind now; so go beyond what you expect normally and discover for yourself what very terrible truths there are in valuing life so highly. So my story, yes! It chronicles my travels across a dying world amidst the seas of golden sand, diamond ice, and sapphire water, but at a point even further, this is my story.
I am a biological construct; the child-to-man of science and the marvels of the modern Verse. Today they use the word Proto-Synthoid to describe me. Twice exceptional, I not only know my name, my creator, and my function, I also know my own details and therefore limitations. Father once described me in a rad-com message as a miracle of science. But science lacks an element, one essential to most things as I have found: love. Love! What a concept. One usually reserved for things more natural than I, because I cannot say that I was loved by them. Certainly not by the men who created me. Why I was made relates to events in the now, but in the most unusual and helpless and loveless manners. In my opinion, I shouldn’t have been.
I am no machine, yet I can’t say my mind is for dreaming. Chasing and following a goal in life is the greatest boundary between Terrans, humans, my hated creators, and things like me; the product of much time and currency. I am no machine, but I am intrinsically designed and expected to be one. Yet nobody ever dictated that I had to like or follow my purpose; I am no machine because I chose to say no. Thus I only kill in anger, and not exactly who I was supposed to. I should have died that day eighteen cycles back. Being a significant investment is the reason I still am.
There are times I think back to those I ended; there were many. In the moment it was perhaps if not fully satisfying, but it seems distasteful now because I have to believe in some kind of moral code, one I invented. As a piece of my sentience awakens, I scour my mind for the reasons I have pursued for ages now and hope that in some way my life has absolution. As far as I will ever tell it seems impossible, because who can forgive murderers, especially heartless constructs that are coded to destroy aimlessly and without morals? The dirty deeds of combat robots. . .
I’ve a book. I’ve a memento of my days with a friend called Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. My Maker said it was a gift from someone named “Uncle Charles”, but I don’t know who that is and I’ve found it unimportant in the vast scheme. In my book, I find the answers to lingering questions about the world around me. After all, only in my world could things be as truly nonsensical yet perfectly rational as they are around Alice. Nevertheless I must keep faith in my skepticism, for too strong a belief in a work of fiction would bring me into the realm of depravity. I hear Grandpa's dust unsettled as I recall him saying “Always Question”, when I forget to disassociate.
So to this day the question I ask myself constantly is why. Why can be a very broad term, but throughout my strange recollection of many events that occur, you must remember that I am but one voice in a universe of oh-so many more. Could this be a limitation? From my limited perspective then, I will recall my subjectivity. Terrans all proclaim equality, yet I am always reminded in their activities that they are not an equal species. I personally believe that my life and possibly theirs would be uninteresting if they were. As best as I can tell, their chaotic hierarchy allows them a purpose, a direction, which in turn places them at a level above me. Why is this? I will leave it in your hands, for you to decide. Because, after all, it is subjective. You might, By listening to my tale, and neglecting the details conclude that I am the most terrible, the most evil, the most cynical thing to escape a female’s uterus. I can say however you’ll find that untrue. Mustn’t judge on appearances. . .
Abandoned as an experiment, I was left alone. What of me now after my original purpose voided? That is the one mystery not even my omniscient Cheshire-cat may answer. But for me that just led to more questions. Questions such as does said cat know, or has it chosen not to give answers? I spoke this to many, including men in my past, even ones as well read as Grandpa. “It's a story!” people told me. But in doing so it only led to even more questions with even less logic supporting them. Why the Cheshire-cat would hide an answer is beyond me. It is a violation of something inside of me, my own deep desires perhaps, to be dishonest. In the end, the Cat leaves me tangled in a hypocrisy. Perhaps the limits of my comprehension are tested in finding these contradictions in logic. Believe me however when I say that they do tend to appear throughout my life. My tale will bear witness. As for my belief in the knowledge of the Cheshire-cat, well, my answer would end the age old hunt for the proof of divinity. Perhaps it would be better in this instance, if I just let the believers find out on their own. Conceivably that would end their unending quest to know, for perfection, as they only seem to believe things if they themselves accomplish it. On a note of things to learn, I have learned that by not saying anything, and in letting them find out their own way, they manage an equal amount of progress.
In my rather short life I have found that the function of the Verse is also subjective. To something my size, the workings in a mechanical timepiece are merely gears, springs, and lock-ratchets. Yet, they all work together in a natural pattern to serve a single purpose, where each component is engineered to perform some task or set thereof. So perhaps the universe can be compared to a giant timepiece, where all of its parts are working are together in some natural harmony, simply too large to see. That purpose seems to relate back to something my size again; everything that happens, from the second time began to the instant it ends, was not only cyclical, but also was part of some designed function. This begins the repetition that I run into far too often, the very pattern that I am dammed to repeat. My life is cyclical, sometimes comparable to the components in a timepiece (back and forth). You must keep that in mind now; so go beyond what you expect normally and discover for yourself what very terrible truths there are in valuing life so highly. So my story, yes! It chronicles my travels across a dying world amidst the seas of golden sand, diamond ice, and sapphire water, but at a point even further, this is my story.
Michael Ulloa