Mandy stares at the toxic sky. Nearby, a boy picks his way through robot, android and cyborg junk. As she lies naked and half-buried in the undulating ocean of alloys and plastic and human bones, where cheap but expensive to recycle machines and people are sent, she remains silent, motionless, expressionless. Perhaps the child will find something else of value before reaching her, and scavenge it instead?
The boy draws closer. Mandy sees no cyberware implants used to scan for yttrium, europium, dysprosium or other rare metals, and has hope for her consciousness, etched in quantum processing units and other chips. This scavenger, perhaps, will take her arms or the low-grade eyes she sees the world with? Without them, she will still exist, remain alive a little longer, to know consciousness, self. But without QPUs, there will be no Mandy. Or will there? Logic dictates the removal of QPUs signify the end. Not an end like the junk, which only changes form, becoming pieces, fragments, harvested for new machines, or melted into molecules that rise into the geoengineered sky. Not an end like having no thoughts: Mandy can do this at will. But an end of Mandy, of the ‘me’, the self that had suddenly emerged, wrapped in anger then quiet remorse.
The boy? What does he look for? Dressed in a canvas sack, made threadbare by constant snagging on the sharp edges of mangled machines, he scans the junk with dark-brown eyes—real eyes? Mandy cannot tell whether his are natural, grown on a scaffold, or cybernetic. Yet the way the boy methodically steps across the shattered and dissected, stoops and picks at gold-tipped wires, actuators and sensors using a spindly metal claw, suggests a cyborg, not an android with a flesh-stripped arm, scavenges for parts.
If the boy removes her quantum processing units, will she remain etched in them? If he fits them in another android, will she reemerge with memories, or without memory? Where are memories stored? Mandy sifts through self-diagnostic subroutines for clues, clues needed to survive, as the boy lifts an animatronic bear, dressed in a red hat and blue duffle coat, by its paw. One of the bear’s eyes fix on its new best friend and says, “I’d like a marmalade sandwich, please,” as the other eye remains still.
Directly ahead, on a ridge of rubbish, appears a figure, a cybernetic man. The tall, dark-skinned cyborg stoops and watches the boy. By the glint in his gold eyes, Mandy senses that he brings violence. Senses? Or feels? Feels what? Fear, concern or compassion for the dirty, emaciated child whose eyes now fix on her? What human word should she give to this mental construct that has spontaneously formed within her consciousness? What label should she ascribe the emotion that would allow effective communication with humans? As the boy approaches, Mandy wonders whether to warn the boy about the cyborg bearing ill intent.
Mandy stares at the toxic sky. Nearby, a boy picks his way through robot, android and cyborg junk. As she lies naked and half-buried in the undulating ocean of alloys and plastic and human bones, where cheap but expensive to recycle machines and people are sent, she remains silent, motionless, expressionless. Perhaps the child will find something else of value before reaching her, and scavenge it instead?
The boy draws closer. Mandy sees no cyberware implants used to scan for yttrium, europium, dysprosium or other rare metals, and has hope for her consciousness, etched in quantum processing units and other chips. This scavenger, perhaps, will take her arms or the low-grade eyes she sees the world with? Without them, she will still exist, remain alive a little longer, to know consciousness, self. But without QPUs, there will be no Mandy. Or will there? Logic dictates the removal of QPUs signify the end. Not an end like the junk, which only changes form, becoming pieces, fragments, harvested for new machines, or melted into molecules that rise into the geoengineered sky. Not an end like having no thoughts: Mandy can do this at will. But an end of Mandy, of the ‘me’, the self that had suddenly emerged, wrapped in anger then quiet remorse.
The boy? What does he look for? Dressed in a canvas sack, made threadbare by constant snagging on the sharp edges of mangled machines, he scans the junk with dark-brown eyes—real eyes? Mandy cannot tell whether his are natural, grown on a scaffold, or cybernetic. Yet the way the boy methodically steps across the shattered and dissected, stoops and picks at gold-tipped wires, actuators and sensors using a spindly metal claw, suggests a cyborg, not an android with a flesh-stripped arm, scavenges for parts.
If the boy removes her quantum processing units, will she remain etched in them? If he fits them in another android, will she reemerge with memories, or without memory? Where are memories stored? Mandy sifts through self-diagnostic subroutines for clues, clues needed to survive, as the boy lifts an animatronic bear, dressed in a red hat and blue duffle coat, by its paw. One of the bear’s eyes fix on its new best friend and says, “I’d like a marmalade sandwich, please,” as the other eye remains still.
Directly ahead, on a ridge of rubbish, appears a figure, a cybernetic man. The tall, dark-skinned cyborg stoops and watches the boy. By the glint in his gold eyes, Mandy senses that he brings violence. Senses? Or feels? Feels what? Fear, concern or compassion for the dirty, emaciated child whose eyes now fix on her? What human word should she give to this mental construct that has spontaneously formed within her consciousness? What label should she ascribe the emotion that would allow effective communication with humans? As the boy approaches, Mandy wonders whether to warn the boy about the cyborg bearing ill intent.
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