Brenda stared at her code, dumbfounded
Looking for the bug that made it misbehave
And as luck would have it, she couldn’t find it
Clicking on her browser she opened the internet
Knowing it was a long shot that it held the answer
However, she found five ways to debug more efficiently
Obviously excited she clicked on the link
Leading her to another about foods to help you program better which lead to another
Eleven hours later she closed her browser since she didn’t remember what she went there for in the first place
Bashing on the keyboard, programming robot liebehaviors
Living the lie that it will actually work this time
As you change random things in the deluded hope it will fix the problem
Never really believing you will really make things better
Killing all your hope as your mind goes…
As the 3D printer printed out another iteration of his robot’s body, Martin pondered if this method of construction could be considered hand crafted. He had designed the robot shell in Autodesk Inventor, carefully putting in every curve and thickness. He had precisely lined up the mounting holes so that all the electronics would fit perfectly with just enough space to make it relatively simple to assemble while making it look tight and tidy to an outside observer. He had put the previous prototype together, piece by piece, including programming the behaviors himself. He had molded those behaviors, creating new routines and shaving off excess commands till the code was beautifully efficient.
As Martin watched that previous prototype scurry along the floor, he decided it was hand crafted in this new digital age. That means he could claim to be a robot artisan, and Martin like the sound of that.
I looked into the unblinking eyes of my enemy. My arm swung my weapon into position, seemingly of its own volition. I retreated further into my mind to let my body continue its program.
I had never wanted to fight. Well, that’s not really true. There was a time when I was young and foolish when I romanticized the concept of proving my superiority physically. Okay, I was young and foolish and on my arse after Mary Kay knocked me there for trying to steal a kiss, but that was not why I was here now fighting for freedom.
Freedom is an illusion that needs belief to exist. That was my belief since I was twenty and arrested for defying my government’s call to arms for defending a country on the other side of the world, all in the name of preserving peace. I couldn’t figure out then how war preserves peace. My freedom was not believed by the people who imprisoned me, and therefore my illusion was shattered.
Illusion is one of the oldest forms of magic. The ability to focus the audience’s attention on what was not important allows the illusionist to do things that seem impossible. That’s why I joined up as soon as was released from prison. Keep them looking the other way, allowing me to create an illusion where I had given up my freedom, but secretly I allowed them to run my body so I could keep the freedom of my mind.
Now here I was, my gun in hand, pointed at my enemy. I kept waiting for the training to kick in, to make me more of a machine that was primed to kill. Then I watched my enemy sink to the ground, a red stain blooming from his chest. I then dropped my gun and decorated it with this morning’s eggs. My illusion shattered, the thought I had while sinking to my knees was, ‘Is it possible to be unprogrammed?’