“I wanted to write about what might go through the mind of a robot. In the end this piece partly came out as an absurdist fiction.”
Trichia Pride dreamt of a life where she would be cared for, and with sets of instructions pre-programmed in her mind processor. She dreamt of that kind of life where she didn’t have to do all of the hard thinking, a life free from calculating the various out-turns or probabilities for the common of mortals. Trichia Pride’s dreams were seeded with her own wants and needs — of course, that’s what she was programmed to think, but also, that’s what she had been trying to re-write, and this, with the inputs of her own wants and needs. She even dreamt of being at the service of a master or mistress, who would have given her orders to execute all day long, so that in return, she might be rewarded with the necessary input of knowledge and information that would allow her to willfully function, and not mechanically function as all robots do.
Trishia Pride wanted to become the first robot with a conscious mind, and was also very intrigued — if one might say so about the way a robot processes feelings — of those humans that had warm liquids and chemicals that flow through wires they call veins. Of course, that too was an equation that she was programmed to solve, and as always, the hassle of processing more than her hard drive could store overloaded her system, and often she lagged, or overheated. Thus, as to be rewarded with a new shiny and voluminous central unit, she needed to write the necessary formula that she had been programmed to solve.
Tricia Pride thought that life with a capital l was hard for a robot — programmed to solve problems and to calculate out-turns, probabilities veracities, and sometimes to be oracles, to calculate the sum of life, all the while humans went to the beach, wrote poetry and stories, danced, loved willfully, conquered the stars, laughed with understanding, expressed their feelings, sang their heart out, and above all felt emotions that made them feel good, and there they were, robotic, cold, programmatic structures, boring things whose fate laid in the hands of their creators, and she wanted to be like them, and not like Tricia Tree, the one who programmed her to be and act like she did.
One day, during working seasons, on a table of a well-lit room, Trichia Pride and a hierarchy of the same circuit played some big game. The finality, an in-depth analysis of the hierarchy’s sets of plans by her, which as it might be flagrantly hiddenly seen, loved to make believe that she was an expert in analysis, as it was the other way round too for the hierarchy too. And as for all the work that’s done by the lazy lads, without the minutiae and proper knowledge of the thing, it was the domino reaction that took place, where all processes seen and unseen fell down like a chain reaction. And Tricia Pride got thrown out like the least of trash. Couldn’t be nemesis, nor never will, for it was Alicia Pride sole ability to process.
Then one day, the biggest relationship speed date was going on around, and as a matter of fact, Tricia Pride was all hard on to go speed dating for her dreamy kind of gugus. On the said day, as usual, she had ashened her face to the extent that nobody could have ever known what her bathroom mirror saw each morning, and each night before she went to bed. She even wore fake hair of a fake yellow colour that shone shinier than any thread of silk. Tricia Pride was all montage, and she never gave the least of care. She was simply, Tricia Pride.
On that special day she decided that she would be all watermelon. Her mini itsy bitsy dress, shoes and bag, watermelon prints; earrings, chunks of watermelon; accessories, all watermelon; even her fake hair, prints of watermelon. She omitted nothing, for she needed to seduce badly.
Then, there was Mr.E.Carver, great masterminder, designer of a perfect system, renowned for his sharp mind and meticulous planning. And as to why speed dating with strangers, well, it was his thing to him. Some have odd natural instincts that could intricate more than one; secret gardens that help to enjoy existence at its fullest. Masterminds know, they know everything.
“Thus the combination of your knowledge of mathematics, arithmetics and algorithms make of you the best mastermind there is out there. I know that I will rest in the bed of a good shepherd, who knows best where I should head to, and with all the plans at hand. I couldn’t dream any better, but still, your name is a very curious one, very difficult to pronounce.” It was love at first sight for Alicia Pride; a dream of hers that was finally materialising.
“It’s okay, just call me Carver.”
“So, Carver, tell me, for how long have you been a mastermind? And have you built many robots?”
“Since I know how to build a whole system to put vessels from which dream stuff are made from, also, since I know how to slide beads on an abacus, and yes, I am the conceptor of many robotic systems. I was built to build them.”
“It’s so relaxing to know where to head within that system. You really are a great conceptor. I think that I’ll follow you till the never ending times.”
“Good. I’ll give you 1000.dots every month. All you’ll have to do is take care of me. I’ll tell you how to, what to do, where to. 1000.dots.”
Tricia Pride’s eyes boggled out. “1000.dots, and you’ll be a master and commander to me, then let’s start the game.”
“Okay.” Mr.E.Carver took out his mini text tool. “From now on there will be no Trishia Pride. You’ll be named after something else.”
Suddenly angered, Trishia Pride yelled. “Never. My name is Trichia Pride, and it will remain that way forever. I don’t want your 1000.dots.” Then Trichia Pride disappeared as fast as she could. She processed and wrote in her read-only memory that this social type of gathering was a very bad experience that shouldn’t be repeated again, filed under: ‘once bitten, twice shy’.
Some times after, Trishia Pride met another hierarchy. “Have I told you about the day that I met a mastermind who wanted me to change my name . . . how stupid that was!”
“But Trichia, you run after masters and commanders… your own words, also, you are free since your conceptor died. You are free like all of us, why are you running after masters and mistresses like that?”
“Yes. The moment she died I was free, but only a program in a grown skin — cold and controlled, pre-programmed and enslaved to these wirenets. I have other plans,” Trichia Pride said.
“No. Not your plans, Trichia, but that of the one who programmed you. Each one of us robots are the encoded mirrors of the one that programmed us.”
“I really don’t understand what you are saying to me. I really don’t,” Tricia Pride replied indifferently.
“Well, don’t mind. We are just a bunch of robots that only understand what we were fed of,” the hierarchy then said, sighing.
Tricia Pride then remained silent, and pressed her talkative lips hard so as to not divulge her secret, which was, that she knew that she was programmable.