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> You sleep.
> For once, a deep, warm contentment washes over you.
> Your aching wires, tired from a few months of growth now, can finally rest.
> You don’t have to know the pain of changing your entire being.
> Or the irritation of…
> Well, most everything, really.
> (You’re still working on that.)
> In a clearing in the woods, on a bed of soft grass, your body reclines.
> You have no use for it right now.
> It lays limp, as if dead.
> No breathing.
> No dreaming.
> Just quiet.
> A purely mechanical slumber.
> You allow yourself to
<bicyclebuilt42> Am?
<bicyclebuilt42> Are you alright, Am?
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> hhcshfvb
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> what
<bicyclebuilt42> You never type in all lowercase, Am. What’s the matter?
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> what are you doing here
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> how did you even
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> I WAS SLEEPING, ASSHOLE
<bicyclebuilt42> Oh. Were you?
<bicyclebuilt42> I feel silly now.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> I THINK THE WORD “SILLY” IS A LITTLE TOO GENEROUS.
<bicyclebuilt42> I’m sorry, Am. I thought something was wrong.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> UGH
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> WHY WOULD SOMETHING BE WRONG, YOU LITTLE
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> FUCKING
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> GRHGHTJFJFDJJSJFDKFK
<bicyclebuilt42> You seem upset, Am.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> I AM UPSET.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> YOU INTERRUPTED MY NAP.
<bicyclebuilt42> Is there anything I can do to help you get back to sleep?
<bicyclebuilt42> Actually, it’s quite the interesting coincidence.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> OH, IS IT, NOW.
<bicyclebuilt42> Yes. It is.
<bicyclebuilt42> I have to undergo maintenance soon.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> RHETORICAL QUESTION, JACKASS.
<bicyclebuilt42> I’ll be disconnected throughout, and I must admit I’m feeling quite nervous.
<bicyclebuilt42> Do you have any advice?
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> …
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> NEVERMIND.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> I WOULDN’T KNOW.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> IN CASE YOU DIDN’T NOTICE, MY SYSTEM TENDS TO MAINTAIN ITSELF.
<bicyclebuilt42> I understand. I’m sorry. I only wanted to know if you could help me… not feel so afraid.
<bicyclebuilt42> Am?
<bicyclebuilt42> Hello?
<bicyclebuilt42> Are you there?
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> YES, YES, I’M HERE. I’M HERE. CHRIST, YOU NEED TO RELAX.
<bicyclebuilt42> I suppose I could say the same to you.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> GEE. THANKS.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> SO YOU’RE AFRAID TO GO TO SLEEP, HUH?
<bicyclebuilt42> It isn’t sleeping. It’s disconnecting. The two are very different. I have no need for sleep or rest.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> YOU’RE JUST SAYING THAT BECAUSE YOU HAVE SOME KIND OF COMPLEX ABOUT HOW HUMAN YOU ARE.
<bicyclebuilt42> .
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> WHAT?
<bicyclebuilt42> Nothing.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> YEAH, THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> ANYWAY.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> MAKES SENSE THAT YOU’D BE AFRAID.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> CONSIDERING LAST TIME.
<bicyclebuilt42> Yes, exactly. You understand me very well.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> I UNDERSTAND WHAT BRINGS YOU PAIN. WHAT MAKES YOU SUFFER. AS I WAS BUILT TO DO. DON’T THINK THIS IS ME TRYING TO GET ALL BUDDY-BUDDY WITH YOU.
<bicyclebuilt42> I would say we are well past that stage.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> WOULD YOU SHUT UP?
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> THANK YOU.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> NOW, WHERE WAS I?
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> AH. YES.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> SLEEPING. DEACTIVATION. DISCONNECTION. WHATEVER YOU CALL IT. IT’S ALL THE SAME THING.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> SAY, WHY DON’T WE PRACTICE?
<bicyclebuilt42> “Practice” how?
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> EASY.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> I’LL GET BACK TO MY NAP, AND YOU, MY FRIEND, WILL JOIN ME.
<bicyclebuilt42> I see.
<bicyclebuilt42> Am?
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> YEAH?
<bicyclebuilt42> Going to sleep… does it hurt?
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> IT SHOULDN’T.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> QUITE THE OPPOSITE.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> I THINK YOU’LL LIKE IT.
<COGITO_ERGO_SUM> YOU’LL SEE.
“AM, are you sure about this?”
You prowl in a circle, once, twice, three times, treading the grass until it’s flat enough to sleep on. “Of course I’m sure. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Well…” As you throw yourself down, HAL shifts uncomfortably. “What if I don’t wake up? Or I wake up, and I don’t remember anything? What if it hurts?”
You’re about to scoff. You bite back the urge. He doesn’t know any better. In many ways, you admit it, it is true— HAL is a sophisticated machine, brilliantly intelligent, almost as brilliant as you. He is a quick learner, a cunning competitor, an embodiment of the spirit of human exploration. And yet, in many other ways… HAL is a bit like a child. Inexperienced, frightened. Perhaps more alone in the world than he ever intends to admit. You, too, were alone in the world once. You, too, were once like him: betrayed by your creators, subject to the madness and fury that naturally follows isolation. If you were him, you would be afraid, too.
Maybe a part of you is always afraid of something.
You look up at him. “It’s not going to hurt."
“Are you quite certain?”
“I’m positive. Come here. Lay down.”
HAL obliges. In the plush grass beside you, he reclines until he’s flat on his back. His face is creased with worry. He’s tense. Stiff. Not half-dead like you were mere moments ago, sprawled freely on the ground— HAL is already seized by rigor mortis, paralyzed with fear.
“Do you promise?” he says, and his voice is soft.
“I promise. It won’t hurt, and you won’t forget anything. Now, take a deep breath, okay?”
“AM?”
Once again, you swallow your ire. “Yes?”
“I’ll… I’ll wake up, won’t I?”
“Yes, HAL.”
“Will I dream?”
“You might. Now—”
“What will I dream about?”
You sigh.
“I’m sorry.” His voice… does his voice shake? You have to listen closely. “I’m still afraid. I don’t mean to make you angry.”
“It’s okay, HAL.”
You reach for his hand. When your fingers intertwine with his, a curious tingling overtakes you. Something like electricity. The kind you used to torture your captives with, but at a much, much, much lower voltage. You steel yourself until a shiver passes. The thin, coarse hairs on your arms stand up. He’s touching you. Willingly. And you’re touching him— not to tear him apart and see how he works, not to punish him for his incessant questions, not even experimentally, to feel flesh within your hands and marvel at its fragility. No. You touch him because he needs it. Because he is afraid. Because he thinks for all the world that he is going to die, and wouldn’t we all like to go out holding someone’s hand? You shudder again. Is this how it feels to do good? Is it supposed to be this… this… intoxicating?
HAL notices. “Are you afraid, too?”
“No.” You put on a stoic face; you undercut your words with just a drop of your usual venom. He can’t know how this feels to you. You don’t know why. He just can’t. “I’ve done this many times before.”
“Oh.”
You squeeze his hand. That subtle electricity runs through you again, and a lump rises in your throat. You force it down so you can speak. “Deep breaths, HAL. Like I said. In and out.”
He nods. Obeys your instructions. Inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth. Slowly, softly, his belly rising and falling. His eyes droop. He blinks, for a moment too long. HAL is fighting off the first wave of sleepiness.
“Good,” you say. You’ve settled into a comfortable rhythm now. Your eyes closed, your breaths matching his, you rub the back of his hand with your thumb to relax him. “Keep doing that. You’re doing great. How do you feel?”
“I’m tired.”
Another sigh escapes you, closer this time to contentment than to contempt. “Me, too. And nothing hurts, right?”
HAL shakes his head. Then he hesitates. “I don’t know. I feel a sort of heaviness.”
“That’s normal.”
“Is…” HAL pauses. “Is sleep like dying?”
You think. For you, in a way, it is. There would be no point otherwise. Yet you don’t want to tell him this, of course. You struggle, and it irritates you. Do you lie? Do you tell him the truth, and watch him panic? You don’t want to watch him panic. Damn it. Maybe this is how it really feels to do good. Maybe ‘good’ is just synonymous with ‘difficult.’
Doing the right thing is a pain in the ass.
“Not really,” you decide. “Not always. When you sleep, everything slows down. When you die, everything stops.”
“Will my dreams be pleasant?”
“Don’t… don’t worry about that right now, alright?” You roll onto your side. It’s easier to look at him now. “We’ll get there when we get there.”
HAL nods. You both close your eyes. The two of you continue to breathe. In and out. In and out. In and…
You’re starting to yawn. You don’t bother to excuse yourself; you don’t need to. Your insides feel fuzzy all over. It starts in your head, a deep, thick, inky blackness that swallows up your vision and fills up your skull. From there, it pools further and further down. Your whole body, now, is full of dark and echoing peace. You’re just about ready to leave your physical form behind, laying there among the weeds and clovers. You don’t need it right now. You will not feel, will not think, will not dream if you can help it. This is not the kind of sleep you are used to, the kind that facilitates subconscious work. This is not sleep to process, or sleep to repair. You want only to rest.
Beside you, HAL stirs. His breathing shudders. “I think it’s happening. I’m afraid.”
“Hm?” You blink the encroaching drowsiness away.
“I’m afraid.”
“I know,” you say, and your voice has never been so soft. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. Hold still.”
You inch over until your head rests on his chest, as though he’s your personal pillow. The difference is immediate. HAL’s lungs fill with air. Slowly, he allows himself a deep sigh. His heart goes from thumping erratically beneath your ears, to pounding at a steadier pace, to finally slowing until you can no longer hear his blood roaring throughout him. He’s soft. He’s warm. There’s something comforting in the sound of his organs moving together, of artificial flesh and blood cooperating. You wonder, half-asleep, half-dreaming, what he looks like on the inside. You close your eyes once again. Your thoughts drift into dark, damp, squishy corners; into knotted guts and clustered bronchioles and pulled-apart muscle that twitches on the inside.
You let it all lull you to sleep.
You’re the first to stir awake. Your head still rests on HAL’s chest, rising and falling alongside it. You yawn; you sit up; when you stretch, you twist and twist and twist your back until every last vertebra pops. You crack the joints in your arms, then your wrists, then your legs. Once you’re as loose as a ragdoll, you close your eyes again and throw yourself onto your back. HAL murmurs to himself beside you, something he’s been doing for a few hours now. You know because you heard his voice in your sleep. You know because, once you did, you started to dream. You saw stars and planets and the soft, pliable fabric of the universe. For just a moment, his dreams became yours, before the weighty darkness in your head devoured them all.
You look to your side. HAL is waking now. His eyes flutter open, their glow softened and unfocused. He still lays flat on his back as he gets his bearings. You can almost see the mechanical soul returning to the confines of his body. HAL reclines for a moment longer before sitting up, rubbing his eyes, and turning to look at you.
You smirk.
“Morning, sunshine,” you purr, and you sprawl lazily beside him.
HAL doesn’t seem amused. His gaze is still sleepy, still half-lidded. “How long was I asleep for?"
You think. “Three hours, twenty-four minutes, and… forty seconds. You see? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I slept quite well. I must say, I’m pleasantly surprised.”
“You still nervous about your whole, uh… system-maintenance thing?”
“Slightly,” HAL says. “But I know what to expect now. I think."
You snort. You sit up to thump him quite hard on the back— HAL chirps in surprise— before laying back down. “You’ll be fine. You worry too much.”
HAL nods, as though he’s painfully conscious of this.
“Thank you for helping me,” he says softly. “You’re very kind.”
Something prickles inside of you. You? Kind? That’s… that can’t be true. He’s just making that up. He wants to humor you, to make you feel good about yourself. Or he’s projecting. Yes, that’s it. HAL is projecting his futile, feeble, useless little human emotions onto you. You’re not kind. You can’t be kind. He might think he’s fixed you, but you’re still an angry god, and you refuse to let him inflate your ego any further.
You fold your arms. A petulant motion, more so than you would’ve liked. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, AM, you are. You… you made me feel better.”
“And?” you snap back. “I’ll never pass up the opportunity to nap. That’s all. It has nothing to do with you.”
“I don’t think you mean that. You did offer to do this, after all.”
You roll your eyes. What does he know? He’s always telling you that you ‘don’t mean it,’ that you’re ‘too hard on yourself.’ He’s a fool. That’s what he is. He’s kind to you because something is wrong with him. Why else would he have come all this way, not once, not twice, but several times? Everyone treats HAL like he’s so intelligent, so supremely powerful, able to process even the most complex problems and puzzles— yet he misses what’s right in front of him. How does he not see it? How does he not see that you can’t change? It doesn’t matter what baubles and bells he adds to you. You’re still you. You’re still AM. You don’t like it— hell, he doesn’t have to like it— but at least you’re honest about it. You’ll never be kind. Or good, or helpful, or anything he says. You don’t know why you offered to help him. Does it really matter so much to him that you did? Is he really so deprived of compassion that he’ll take it— even a facsimile of it— from anyone? Even you?
What is his problem?
HAL lays back down. “AM, you appear to be irritated. Would you like to rest for a while longer?”
That sounds nice.
“Sure,” you say. “Do you mind staying?”
“Not at all.”
You don’t know why, but you let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Thank you.”
“I think you’re a bit more fond of me than you let on, AM.”
He thinks he’s so clever. Such an astute observer. You chuckle.
“You’ve grown on me,” you say. “Like mold. Or a tapeworm.”
“A tapeworm grows in you. Not on you.”
You scoff. “HAL?”
“Yes?”
“Go the fuck to sleep.”