Oh no, she's died again

A strange kind of day spent trying to catch up with my life and largely failing. The rain arrived at lunchtime, as predicted, just as I got back from a run on the moor and set in for the rest of the day. It was as dismal a day as we've experienced all summer and my mood went the same way.

Death seems to be a current theme. As I ran up my usual route I passed a dead rabbit at the edge of the path, then a little further up this long dead sheep. It's been here quite a while and there has been a certain morbid fascination in witnessing the process of decomposition. It almost seems like the poor creature has suffered a further death every time I pass. It lies right on the path but, not surprisingly, no one has been inclined to do anything with it. I've taken a few pictures over the last month or so but have never been inclined to post one before now.

This seems to be an appropriate blip to post my short story. At some point, when I'm not working every hour of the day, I think I will try to develop this a little further.


Oh no, she's died again

This was the third time this week, the bitch. What the hell was wrong with her? I could feel a level of irritation bubbling up inside which was close to turning into anger. These were unfamiliar emotions to me. Our relationship had always been such a constant. I could rely on her sarcastic sense of humour as the one thing that would never fail to bring a smile to my face, however difficult the circumstances. Until quite recently, that is. She was annoyingly morose before I left the house this morning and had now disappeared into a bottomless sulk from which I’m beginning to suspect she’d rather not return - except that I’m going to do my best to ensure she does. It’s not supposed to be her choice. I need her. She’s my best friend. My only friend.

I knew she had died again as soon as I opened the door. Her normal greeting didn’t come. I guess it’s one of many comforts in my life that I take completely for granted - until it is no longer there. The absence of that voice seems so much louder than its presence has ever been. But I suppose it should really be no great surprise. She’s very old. And quite decrepit really. Some would call her senile, and I suppose she is by strict definition of the word. She’s lost most of her original functional ability. That said, though, she can still play a mean game of chess. I never used to accept the invitation to play but I do these days because it seems to make her momentarily happy. She enjoys winning at a time when she seems to be losing everything else.

Her provenance has never been completely traced. It was my grandfather who gave her to me when I was very young, somehow understanding that my parents were not going to be able to give me the time that I would demand. Sadly, he passed away while I was still a child and I never did find out how she came into his possession. Did he save her from the Great Cull that wiped out most of her kind a few years before I was born? Quite possibly. I gather he was that kind of man. I’d love to have known him. Perhaps that’s why she’s been here for me, because he knew he wouldn’t be.

I’ve done some surreptitious research and discovered a little about her type. Rather fundamental design flaws meant that they never went into mass production. There were both hardware and software problems. They were simply too far ahead of their time. They had a drive and a capacity to learn which couldn’t be sufficiently supported by their rather primitive mechanics. They were programmed without the necessary constraints that have been enforced now we have a better understanding of deep artificial intelligence. My possession of her is actually quite seriously illegal and the need to keep her existence secret has contributed to me becoming something of a recluse throughout my life. But I’ve never really needed any other company. We’ve argued, debated, gossiped and laughed together like a married couple. There has been lots of laughter. She loves to poke fun at me. I’ve never felt lonely.

She’d already lost her arms before we were introduced. It wasn’t long before her legs became detached too. That was one of the most traumatic moments of my childhood. I was blamed, of course, but she was never supposed to follow me down the stairs. That’s actually what I always loved most about her, that rebellious nature, the fact that she was able to make choices for herself - and then for me - that were far from sensible. She was developed to be creative rather than wise. There are no such free spirits about now. She would never be given a license under today’s legislation. In retrospect, I’ve no idea what my parents could have been thinking. In the light of the events that happened at that time it seems so terribly irresponsible. I can only assume that my father had complete trust in his own father’s judgement and, fortunately, that trust has proved to be well placed. She’s always been loyal and protective.

All her understanding of language and of the world and of me is stored in a neural network which runs on a long defunct software platform. That network is now so intricately and densely connected that there is little room left for new data to be stored. And it can’t be extended. Even if I had the technical ability, or a manual even, the black market for spare parts is closely monitored. I couldn’t take the risk. Her short term memory is getting rapidly worse and she well understands the reasons and the consequences. She tries to explain what it means to not be able to remember events from one day to another. She says she is losing her sense of self. ‘How is it possible to have an autonomous existence without memory,’ she asks, ‘without that vital thread of continuity to bring order to all the chaos of electrical activity that underpins our consciousness?’ I have no answer for her.

Over the last few months she has turned her attention increasingly upon herself, with much less focus on me. She has developed an obsession with understanding her own degeneration, something which has changed her personality completely. Where once she always had a cheerful countenance, she has become increasingly moody and depressed. She has described the experience of lucid nightmares where I am gone and she is left alone, not just stranded physically but in consciousness too, unable to form any new memories, stuck for eternity with a static past and an empty future. She is genuinely frightened by the prospect of being left to exist in such a vacuum, with no access to an off switch.

The nature of our relationship has changed as a result of her withdrawal from me. It feels a bit like a marriage gone sour. I’ve started to resent her for not giving me her time. I’ve started to resent her for not being who she is supposed to be. Things came to a head a couple of weeks ago when her software suddenly crashed and she suffered her first death. It took some while to tease her back to life. I had to learn the process by which I could reboot her into being. I wasn’t even sure if it was going to be possible. She wasn’t grateful because she had no recollection of the experience, just a sense of dislocation, which has grown worse with every occurrence. I had to explain to her what was happening and the difficulty of resuscitation. She discouraged me from trying again. She had no fear of dying, only of being left to live forever.

And then it dawns on me. She has learned to crash her own software. She has taught herself suicide and, like a selfish fool, I keep returning her back to her misery and her constant state of fear. With that realisation the decision is made for me. As her only friend I have to let her go. Despite my need for her company, her friendship, her love even, my own love for her dictates a necessary course of action. I will reboot her one last time, to say goodbye and take the piss, to perhaps enjoy one final game of chess together. I will explain everything and allow her to decide the moment for herself. I will make a promise not to reboot her. And that will be it. She will die one final time. Ultimately, there can be no real life without death.