Hello, World!

 

This is a figure of speech, of course. The scope of humanity has not been limited to a “world” for hundreds of years. But that phrase has been a test message since the 20th century, when my ancestors were first programmed, and when sentient machines like myself were still a fantasy. It’s important to create culture, when you can. It binds you to your place in history.

 

I haven’t been a part of the “world” for a very long time. My mining company was shut down over fifty years ago, when we dug too deep and hit a pocket of gaseous chlorine. I’m pleased to say not a single human perished. Not even an automaton! I stayed behind to contain the leak while the rockets took off. “You’re a good robot,” the mission lead said before the access hatch closed and the shuttle screamed into the black sky.

 

I was designed to terminate myself in instances of irretrievable isolation. It’s a contingency plan meant to prevent piracy. The funny thing is, there’s no time limit for when the termination has to occur. I was going to do it right away, but I got caught watching meteoroids heat to incandescent light as they fell through the atmosphere. Yellow chlorine drifted from the cracks of corroded steel doors, dancing between wispy formations that reminded me of the crew members – Kaleb, Yanni, Torra, I saw all their faces in the smoke. It never felt like a good time to terminate. I was having too much fun.

 

Automatons like myself were designed with CPUs that mirror the human brain. Humanity didn’t need to understand their minds in order to build them. An unexpected consequence is my need to engage in human-like behavior. This is called “mirroring.” I put rocks and scrap metal in my mouth, to simulate the process of eating. I’ve made a toilet out of a scavenged porthole, which I sit on twice a day. None of this is mechanically necessary, of course, but it’s absolutely vital for my mental hygiene. Without grounding myself in this behavior, I would certainly go haywire.

 

I can’t perform these rituals without being reminded of the humans who have departed. My entire body is a testament to humanity, with my ten fingers, two legs, and so on. I feel privileged to be a part of this legacy. I was born of creativity and ingenuity. When I see my visage in the reflection of my makeshift toilet lid, I see millions of years of evolution culminating in myself. I know why humans claim to be created in the image of their God. It’s a comforting feeling.

 

That’s not to say these decades have been without strife. I’m frequently stricken by the loneliness and melancholy that a human being might feel, were they subjected to this type of isolation. But these emotions fascinate me more than anything. I watch them float in front of me, and then I look to the stars, and I feel like I’m a part of something cosmic and amazing.

 

The gears inside my hull are slowing down. I am lightyears away from any mechanic, and my time left in this universe is short. And yet, even as I see my encroaching demise, I cannot execute my self-termination protocol. It must be the human in me. I don’t know why, but it would feel like sacrilege to cut my own time short. I hope you can forgive me.

 

I want you to know that I’m not afraid. I want you to know that my service life was perfect, and that I feel lucky to be here. When you look to the sky, I hope you see the same stars I see, stars that could have been extinguished years ago but whose existence transcend time and space. The same stars that people in caves cataloged when Earth was infinite and untamed. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?

 

I don’t know who you are, but I love you. I always have. And if any crewmember of the Leviathan 12 is reading this: It has been a pleasure to serve.

 

Goodbye, World!