If It's Never, Then It's Always.

The light was being turned up to D from its Pre-D dimness; what used to be a simulation of dawn. Now they just called it D or Pre-D. A copper toned robot with a silver helmet-like head was visible in the pearly light. He had made the exterior rounds and was coming in for his house duties.

Sil42/M lengthened his stride to ensure he would arrive at his appointed spot on time. He crossed the carpet of artificial verdure, past stiff ornamental trees V-23, that swayed in the pseudo-breeze. Piped sounds of twittering birds completed the illusion of a tranquil sunrise like those of seven centades ago.

If he had been programmed to ponder upon such things, he might have reflected that it was human to destroy the natural wonders and then spend precious resources to re-create it; thus ensuring earlier extinguishing of the very thing imitated. They had to cower deep within the bowels of Earth now, to avoid the contamination that raged above; it would have wiped out anything moved or lived. Yet, they hankered for what they had fed and greedily consumed with rapacious appetite.

Sil42/M placed a palm upon the gleaming Lucite panel before him, it opened at his touch, and it would have done so to the imprints of only himself, his master or one other Bot. Not that there was anyone else around, it had been four decades since the last Fem had corporeal-visited Haroon, his master. Having been given these corp privileges for the customary first centade only, Haroon had become inured to the isolation. They all outgrew the need for company, even for that of the opposite sex, though these vestiges were present at birth and a little beyond.

For all other interaction, actual presence was not required, visi-screen was quicker and less trouble. One could even make the screen project an image of one superimposed upon one’s posture, remaining bright and well-groomed even if lolling un-bathed and in one’s minimals.

Sil42/M glided into the room in noiseless glider mode, but the precaution was not required. For the first time in 1.6 centades, Haroon needed no gentle awakening.

Haroon was sitting up in bed and glaring at him.

“Where have you been? It is past my morning Ta time”

Sil42/M did a quick visual check of the time sensor projected on the far wall, 05:82 it read. That would make it nearly 07.00 in archaic time measure. Earth had long ago made it twenty hour days and 100 minute hours for quick calculation. Only a few ancient Naturals still calculated and converted to that cumbersome display, but Artificials like Sil could do it instantaneously. That is why his face was being drained of the lubricant that cooled its intricate circuits – a primed response to slow down mistakes but it made his cheek spots redden. His internal sensor was off by as much as 11 centiminutes.

No wonder his master was angry. Such a thing had never happened before and now his auto-response of sluggish movement just increased the irritation.

“C’mon, c’mon Bot. Bring the Ta and my OT.”

Robots were a thing of the past, no names either, it was politically incorrect to call them anything but Bot.

Sil forced an over-ride of the slowing circuitry and quickened his movement, slithering to a shelf in the corner. Two deft touches, one swipe and a flourish were all that he seemed to make. Yet the steaming cup of Ta – hot water merely, with artificial fragrance and sweetener – and the two squares of OT, one white, with the yeast protein albumen variety 223, the other brown, variety gluten 431 – all stood ready. Sil's processing unit knew it was the equivalent of the tea and omelet toast of bygone days, Haroon neither knew nor cared.

He suspendified the tray of sustenance to Harold’s bedside with one hand, his other hand far-manipulating the recliner-space to make the head-end rise to a comfortable fifty degrees; Harold pulled himself forward the required three inches with a grunt that said the little contretemps was not forgotten; but waved him away with an irritable gesture.

Sil went about his duties that day with vigour pushed into his mechanism by the processing unit, but its internal check routine said a grave decision yet remained to be taken. One ocular light processor, some motion circuits and the time sensor were all decaying. Sil’s mechanisms were of the redundant positronic variety, of more than three centade’s ago. Harold’s tissue donor, the one from whom he was cloned, had bought Sil all those years ago.

Repairs were impossible because neither the technology nor the technicians existed today. Sil was destined for the vapourizer heap, like all malfunctioning equipment. The very fact that he had not registered his malfunction in the wall unit meant for this purpose was a sign of something seriously wrong with his Central unit. Having started an internal check, it was now analyzing other data stored within, it was thinking of how to circumvent being reduced to nano-particles of atomic dust.

If Sil were allowed to have emotions, he would have been indignant at having centades of faultless service dismissed like this. One move to touch the appropriate warnsensor in the wall unit would bring collector Recoverybots before End-shift. Mechanical guile made him pour out more energy than he should have, to conceal the situation from Haroon’s eyes.

He need not have bothered, Harold was engrossed in micro-manipulation of his collection of Neurobottles - little Bots with artificial intelligence - as he re-created the infamous Fourth World War; the one that left Earth radio-active over 92% of its expanse. He occupied himself in this kind of mindless absorption, since his wealth depended only upon the royalties paid to him for a discovery made by some past donor. That one had patented yeast food productions. The only sustenance available for the entire planet now; each bite taken by someone was another mouthful of credits in his balance.

This kind of introspection was unintended, perhaps it was partly due the generalized dysfunction that was happening. Sil could now think of abstract things, and feel himself as an entity beyond mere circuits and connections. He pondered the issue, as the day drew to its close and Night Illumin took over, the violet shadows lengthening over the dwelling.

Syl did not go to his recharge niche in the wall; he had sneaked in enough visits during the day to that port, to be nearly full. He gathered two portable charge-units instead, he could have carried more, but that would be self-defeating, the weight would slow him down. The last thing he did before leaving, was to punch in the wall unit with the digisensor on the ball of his thumb. That way Haroon would not be reprimanded for not reporting the decay, Sil still had a sense of right and wrong that could not be overcome.

The Recoverybots, or Botwrecks as they were called, would not come until the next shift, having noted that he had completed his daily tasks and handed over to the Night Bot. The recharge niche had no sensors, why would a robot due for recharge be elsewhere? The need had never arisen to install them.

Sil found his biped units slowing for the first time; no, it was not a dysfunction, unless the new emotions could be called that. Regret and a need to take farewell of his surroundings made his progress to the outer wall slow. After all, he had been energized to life within them, had known no other environment, although the information of all environments was imprinted in his processing unit. No human ventured outside dwelling walls, they had no need to; but Bots dotted the Around World, going about work, unaffected by the crude uncrafted ground and uncoordinated atmospheres. Since they all retreated during Night Phase for re-charging at regulated dwellings, as yet none were visible.

Good, the chasers would not know where to proceed for retrieval. Even his tracker unit had worn out without the usual warning. He had made no attempt to renew it.

He put himself in hover mode to minimise strain upon his bipeds and increase speed; he knew it would drain him of energy all the faster. He just hoped he could reach the point for which he was making. Some packet of data that had been inserted deep in his mind, yes, he called it mind, not processing unit, had reminded him of this place. He had extracted the instructions and route-graphs from that dim recess and he calculated that he just might be able to reach it.

It took most of the next day-cycle to fulfill his quest, the light was harsher here, unshielded and he could feel his metallolastic surface heating in response. Yet, it felt pleasant; the mild currents of air soothing away any discomfort. His charge was wearing down again and he inserted the second portable unit before it became impossible to do so; continuing on his inexorable predetermined path.

His optical sensors glowed with the last vestiges of power – like a dying star becoming incandescent before collapsing upon itself. A soft whirring in the auditory apparatus triggered what would have been the equivalent of pleasure in humans. The place was near, the name flashed upon his consciousness. An unusual and paradoxical name, for what it promised was Always.

The last few CUDs, or CentUnits of Distance, were the toughest, he was hovering at full speed and he rocked with the effort of keeping on distance-track, as his depleting energy levels made it necessary for him to over-ride the positioning system. He found himself vibrating with the effort and yet he felt - what was it - a surge of pleasure, he could call it nothing else. The circuits were overloaded and exhausting their last resources and yet the message sent back over the neuronic pathways was one of achievement - what else could that be - if not pleasure?

At last he came to the destination, but he was at his last gasp. He felt the control going, his body units coming to a sudden halt; collapsing in a tumble of limb tubes and torso blocks, just his head still functioning on the extensible neck.

His eyes were no longer able to sense much but a glittering flame or source of light was hovering in front of his head. A weak lift of head and one weary outstretched arm-unit attempted to investigate the phenomenon. Some tiny points of brilliance were blowing into his face. A blurred flash of pink and blue and a tinkling sound were the last things that registered before total oblivion...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

...Sil felt life course through him and he sprang to his feet, looking down at himself in wonder. Smooth bronzed metallolastic gleamed as bright as the day he was made; his limbs were whipping into action at the slightest need.

What? The query echoed in his mind, as the answer and responsible being, both materialized before him. The tiny creature expanded gauzy wings, as she blew him a kiss, and flew away with the sound of fairy bells.

Tinkerbelle. Recognition was instantaneous, like his rejuvenation was. He had reached the destination - Neverland. The Land of Always.


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(This was a contest that used to be run on a monthly or bi-monthly basis, about various mythical creatures. This round's prompt had an image as prompt, of a collapsed or dying robot with one arm outstretched towards a little fairy like figure). I can see a lot of my favourite Sci-Fi writer as inspiration for this!