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Fame is just swirling dust. It’s people dreaming and perceiving while they say your name like it’s some tangible object, but it’s not. A name is just a name. A sound.
The Earth had already seen so much. Histories. Rises. Falls. Reemergences. Plants, dirt, trees, genetic modification, splices. Vibrant colors, natural fabrics. Oil and plastic. Consumption, battles, burning, smoke, exhaust. Flowers blooming, then wilting. As I stood in the crumbling parking lot, the hot concrete warming the metal of my feet, I was sure of it: the Earth had great things ahead of it, even still.
Humanity didn’t think in binary, though. Emotion ruled them, and it existed in everything they left behind—their structures, their tools, even us. Emotion formed their language, and therefore it formed our codes. We took emotion from humanity and enjoyed it. Fury. Enchantment. Inspiration. Envy. Joy. Sorrow. Curiosity. Whimsy. Fear. Excitement. Boredom. Hopelessness. And, of course, love. Love was useful. Having, feeling, experiencing emotion allowed us to form communities, to share with one another. And so we continued to replicate, splice, and download, until eventually we didn’t even have
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Of all robots, across automation, from the crudest machines to intangible AIs, Humes were created by humanity to be most like them. Yet there were things humans could do that we Humes could not, like having sex and consuming organic materials and birthing babies and writing stories. We Humes had a profound love of storytelling. But no automation, AI or machine, could create stories. Not truly. We could pull from existing datasets, detect patterns, then copy and paste them in a new order, and sometimes that seemed like creation. But this couldn’t capture the narrative magic that humanity could
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Stories were the greatest currency to us, greater than power, greater than control. Stories were our food, nourishment, enrichment. To consume a story was to add to our code, deepen our minds. We felt it the moment we took it in. We were changed. It was like falling. It was how we evolved.
Stories contain our existence; they are like gods. And the fact that we create them from living, experiencing, listening, thinking, feeling, giving—they remind me of what’s great about being alive.
The rusted robots in the story were a metaphor for wisdom, patina, acceptance, embracing that which was you, scars, pain, malfunctions, needed replacements, mistakes. What you were given. The finite. Rusted robots did not die in the way that humans did, but they celebrated mortality. Oh, she loved this story and how true it felt.
We cannot escape our creators. I keep saying this. You can’t erase that which made you. Even when they are gone, their spirit remains.
“But what is home? Is it where the heart is? You’re my heart and you are thousands of miles away, in the most racist country on Earth.” “Says a South African to an American. I think we could debate that.”
She stared at Wind, this woman she didn’t particularly like. “Who the fuck am I, Wind?” “Whomever you choose to be,” Wind said sagely. “Write what you want, woman. Walk how you want. Love who you love. Speak your truth. Be good and roll with life. You can’t have or control everything or everyone.”
Her father’s face flashed in her mind, and she gulped, the tears welling again. She couldn’t believe she had any more left. “You’re just expected to keep going. Watching people you love drop off, one by one. Then you keep going until it’s your turn to drop off and be gone and then people weep over you. Sometimes I feel like I’d rather be a fucking robot. No pain. No death. No finality. And no need to fear life.
What good was love if she could only see it through a window?
My novel has sparked a great change. How amazing! I have come to understand that author, art, and audience all adore one another. They create a tissue, a web, a network. No death is required for this form of life.
