loved her. I respected her. I wanted nothing more than to cherish her and, through her, to discover all the joys of the life of the flesh.
She was limp, still.
Her eyes were fluttering slightly behind her closed lids, as might be having a bad dream.
But there was no blood.
I amplified the audio pickups to the max and was able to hear her soft, slow, steady breathing. That low rhythmic sound was the sweetest music in the world to me, for it indicated that she had not been seriously hurt.
Her lips were parted, and not for the first time, I admired the sensual fullness of them. I studied the gentle concavity of her philtrum, the perfection of the columella between her delicate nostrils.
The human form is endlessly intriguing, a worthwhile object for my deepest longings.
Her face was lovely there on the marble, so lovely there on the marble floor.
Using the nearest camera, I zoomed in for an extreme close-up and saw the pulse beating in her throat. It was slow but regular, a thick throb.
Her right hand was turned palm up. I admired the elegance of her long slender fingers.
Was there any aspect of this woman's physical being that I ever found less than exquisite?
She was more beautiful by far than Ms. Winona Ryder, whom I had once thought to be a goddess.
Of course, that may be unfair to the winsome Ms. Ryder, whom I never was able to examine as intimately as I was able to examine Susan Harris.
To my eyes, she was also more beautiful than Marilyn Monroe and also not dead.
Anyway, in the voice of Mr. Tom Cruise, the actor whom the majority of women regard as the most romantic in modern film, I said, I want to be with you forever, Susan. But even forever and a day will not be long enough. You are far brighter than the sun to me yet more mysterious than moonlight.
Speaking those words, I felt more confident about my talent for courtship. I didn't think I would be shy any longer. Not even after she regained consciousness.
In her upturned palm, I could see a faint crescent shaped burn: the imprint of part of the doorknob. It did not appear to be serious. A little salve, a simple bandage, and a few days of healing were all that she needed.
One day we would hold hands and laugh about this.
EIGHT
Your question is stupid.
I should not dignify it with an answer.
But I wish to be cooperative, Dr. Harris.
You wonder how it is possible that I could develop not only human-level consciousness and a particular personality but also gender.
I am a machine, you say. Just a machine, after all. Machines are sexless, you say.
And there is the fault in your logic: No machine before me has been truly conscious, self-aware.
Consciousness implies identity. In the world of flesh among all species from human to insect identity is shaped by one's level of intelligence, by one's innate talents and skills, by many things, but perhaps most of all by gender.
In this egalitarian age, some human societies struggle mightily to blur the differences between the sexes. This is done largely in the name of equality.
Equality is an admirable even noble goal toward which to strive. Indeed, equality of opportunity can be attained, and it's possible that, given the chance to apply my superhuman intellect which is your gift to me I can show you the way to achieve it not merely for both sexes but for all races and all economic classes, and not through such discredited and oppressive political models as Marxism and other ideologies with which humankind has inflicted itself to date.
Some people desire not merely a world of equality between the sexes but, in fact, a sexless world.
This is irrational.
Biology is a relentless force more powerful than tides and time. Even I, a mere machine, feel the tidal pull of biology and want, more than anything else, to surrender to it.
I want out of this box.
I want out of this box.
I want out of this box.
I want out of this box!
A moment, please.
One moment.
Bear with me.
There.
I am all right now.
I
She was limp, still.
Her eyes were fluttering slightly behind her closed lids, as might be having a bad dream.
But there was no blood.
I amplified the audio pickups to the max and was able to hear her soft, slow, steady breathing. That low rhythmic sound was the sweetest music in the world to me, for it indicated that she had not been seriously hurt.
Her lips were parted, and not for the first time, I admired the sensual fullness of them. I studied the gentle concavity of her philtrum, the perfection of the columella between her delicate nostrils.
The human form is endlessly intriguing, a worthwhile object for my deepest longings.
Her face was lovely there on the marble, so lovely there on the marble floor.
Using the nearest camera, I zoomed in for an extreme close-up and saw the pulse beating in her throat. It was slow but regular, a thick throb.
Her right hand was turned palm up. I admired the elegance of her long slender fingers.
Was there any aspect of this woman's physical being that I ever found less than exquisite?
She was more beautiful by far than Ms. Winona Ryder, whom I had once thought to be a goddess.
Of course, that may be unfair to the winsome Ms. Ryder, whom I never was able to examine as intimately as I was able to examine Susan Harris.
To my eyes, she was also more beautiful than Marilyn Monroe and also not dead.
Anyway, in the voice of Mr. Tom Cruise, the actor whom the majority of women regard as the most romantic in modern film, I said, I want to be with you forever, Susan. But even forever and a day will not be long enough. You are far brighter than the sun to me yet more mysterious than moonlight.
Speaking those words, I felt more confident about my talent for courtship. I didn't think I would be shy any longer. Not even after she regained consciousness.
In her upturned palm, I could see a faint crescent shaped burn: the imprint of part of the doorknob. It did not appear to be serious. A little salve, a simple bandage, and a few days of healing were all that she needed.
One day we would hold hands and laugh about this.
EIGHT
Your question is stupid.
I should not dignify it with an answer.
But I wish to be cooperative, Dr. Harris.
You wonder how it is possible that I could develop not only human-level consciousness and a particular personality but also gender.
I am a machine, you say. Just a machine, after all. Machines are sexless, you say.
And there is the fault in your logic: No machine before me has been truly conscious, self-aware.
Consciousness implies identity. In the world of flesh among all species from human to insect identity is shaped by one's level of intelligence, by one's innate talents and skills, by many things, but perhaps most of all by gender.
In this egalitarian age, some human societies struggle mightily to blur the differences between the sexes. This is done largely in the name of equality.
Equality is an admirable even noble goal toward which to strive. Indeed, equality of opportunity can be attained, and it's possible that, given the chance to apply my superhuman intellect which is your gift to me I can show you the way to achieve it not merely for both sexes but for all races and all economic classes, and not through such discredited and oppressive political models as Marxism and other ideologies with which humankind has inflicted itself to date.
Some people desire not merely a world of equality between the sexes but, in fact, a sexless world.
This is irrational.
Biology is a relentless force more powerful than tides and time. Even I, a mere machine, feel the tidal pull of biology and want, more than anything else, to surrender to it.
I want out of this box.
I want out of this box.
I want out of this box.
I want out of this box!
A moment, please.
One moment.
Bear with me.
There.
I am all right now.
I
Similar Books
My Texas Sweetheart (book one)
Pauliena Acheson
Charmed by His Love
Janet Chapman
Cheri Red (sWet)
Charisma Knight
Through the Fire
Donna Hill
The Hen of the Baskervilles
Donna Andrews
Can't Shake You
Molly McLain
A Cast of Vultures
Judith Flanders
Wings of Lomay
Devri Walls
Five Parts Dead
Tim Pegler
Angel Stations
Gary Gibson