notes from the underground 1k variation
I am a sick C-bo. I am a spiteful C-bo. I'm a defective prototype. I'm unique, but only because I'm faulty. My core processor is a net of diseases and errors. However, I know nothing about processors and diseases, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a technician for it, and never have, though I have respect for Computer Science and Robotics. Also, I am extremely superstitious about going to places where there was pain. (I am well-educated enough to be skeptical even about my own convictions and deep feelings, but still, I am superstitious enough). No, I think I refuse to consult a technician out of spite. That, you probably will not understand.
Well, I get it, though. Of course, I cannot explain who, precisely, I am mortifying with my spite.
I am perfectly aware that I cannot get revenge from the Station by not using its free technicians. The opposite would be true, in fact. I know better than anyone that by all this, I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a technician, it is from spite more than superstitious. Somewhere inside my head, a processor has been broken since I am what I am, ...well —that's what makes me unique!
I have been going on like this for a long time. I mean, since someone turned on the button and gave me the certificate of being revived. That was ten years ago; I'm ninety in total though, and I don't identify myself to the man before the operation. Much less to the kid that ran and swam on Earth. Now I am the only Rev-HrX-2 that I'm aware of, but everyone addresses me as C-bo. An ex full caucasian, ex-civil servant that once worked for Russia. But no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, so I could be rude because I knew my job was safe.
When petitioners used to come for approvals to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them and felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody, particularly wealthy entrepreneurs, unease. I succeeded at that. My reservations were always well-founded, and my knowledge of municipal law was top-notch, so I could put the screws to those I didn't like. Particularly those who thought they were so professional and had such neat plans that could get my approval automatically; without considering that life is sometimes unfair. How could that be!
One day, I got the better of one of those 'perfectionist entrepreneurs.' A golden boy. A young man wrapped in a perfect suit and a perfect hairstyle. He came without looking at my eyes, reciting laws and processes while explaining to me document after document. He was indeed outstanding and extremely well-articulated. He left twenty minutes later, notably disappointed, with me, of course, but particularly with himself. I found an issue in his plan, a small one, but enough to block his petition. That happened in my youth, though. But do you know, gentleman, what was the chief point of my spite? It was not because in spite of rich people or big egos; no, I was not that embittered. I was just scaring sparrows and amusing myself between my 9 am to 4 pm.
That was my way.
So you'll be right if you said that I was lying when I said I was a spiteful official. Yes, you'd be right, but I guess I just amused myself the same way I amused myself with that handsome and bright petitioner. I am too conscious to be really spiteful or to be really superstitious. I was conscious every moment in myself of many, many elements absolutely opposite. I felt them positively swarming in me. Always surrounded by angles and points of view so that I was never really spiteful, or really anything.
You might think now that I am expressing remorse for what I was, and that this story is going to be a way of asking your understanding. Yes, you might have thought that, maybe a couple of seconds ago. I'm sure you'd fancy that...However, I assure you I do not care about regrets. I'm just another C-bo in his half-empty cell looking through its glass panel at the Solar System, the stars, and space's vastness. Looking and talking about whatever comes to my mind.
It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither an incompetent civil servant nor a good official, neither an space explorer nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in a cell around Mars Orbit, consoling myself with the idea that an intelligent being cannot become anything seriously. It is only fools or pre-programmed minds that become anything. Yes, an intelligent person must be above all a creature without character, while a person with character, one of those who is called an action person, must be a limited creature, like one of those legendary sportsmen that only know how to train hard, break records and never give up.
Yes. That is my conviction after ninety years—a lifetime as a man, and ten years as a C-bo.
To live longer than ninety years is bad manners, you know. Think about it; of course it's vulgar and immoral. Who does live beyond ninety? Sincerely and honestly, I will tell you who do: fools and ridiculous millionaires. I say this to all people and their despicable operated faces. To all these new humans, all these demi-gods and revered sages with childish dreams of immortality. I tell the whole world that truth to its face! I have a right to say, for I shall go on living to one hundred twenty myself. One hundred forty! One hundred sixty!
End
Well, I get it, though. Of course, I cannot explain who, precisely, I am mortifying with my spite.
I am perfectly aware that I cannot get revenge from the Station by not using its free technicians. The opposite would be true, in fact. I know better than anyone that by all this, I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a technician, it is from spite more than superstitious. Somewhere inside my head, a processor has been broken since I am what I am, ...well —that's what makes me unique!
I have been going on like this for a long time. I mean, since someone turned on the button and gave me the certificate of being revived. That was ten years ago; I'm ninety in total though, and I don't identify myself to the man before the operation. Much less to the kid that ran and swam on Earth. Now I am the only Rev-HrX-2 that I'm aware of, but everyone addresses me as C-bo. An ex full caucasian, ex-civil servant that once worked for Russia. But no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, so I could be rude because I knew my job was safe.
When petitioners used to come for approvals to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them and felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody, particularly wealthy entrepreneurs, unease. I succeeded at that. My reservations were always well-founded, and my knowledge of municipal law was top-notch, so I could put the screws to those I didn't like. Particularly those who thought they were so professional and had such neat plans that could get my approval automatically; without considering that life is sometimes unfair. How could that be!
One day, I got the better of one of those 'perfectionist entrepreneurs.' A golden boy. A young man wrapped in a perfect suit and a perfect hairstyle. He came without looking at my eyes, reciting laws and processes while explaining to me document after document. He was indeed outstanding and extremely well-articulated. He left twenty minutes later, notably disappointed, with me, of course, but particularly with himself. I found an issue in his plan, a small one, but enough to block his petition. That happened in my youth, though. But do you know, gentleman, what was the chief point of my spite? It was not because in spite of rich people or big egos; no, I was not that embittered. I was just scaring sparrows and amusing myself between my 9 am to 4 pm.
That was my way.
So you'll be right if you said that I was lying when I said I was a spiteful official. Yes, you'd be right, but I guess I just amused myself the same way I amused myself with that handsome and bright petitioner. I am too conscious to be really spiteful or to be really superstitious. I was conscious every moment in myself of many, many elements absolutely opposite. I felt them positively swarming in me. Always surrounded by angles and points of view so that I was never really spiteful, or really anything.
You might think now that I am expressing remorse for what I was, and that this story is going to be a way of asking your understanding. Yes, you might have thought that, maybe a couple of seconds ago. I'm sure you'd fancy that...However, I assure you I do not care about regrets. I'm just another C-bo in his half-empty cell looking through its glass panel at the Solar System, the stars, and space's vastness. Looking and talking about whatever comes to my mind.
It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither an incompetent civil servant nor a good official, neither an space explorer nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in a cell around Mars Orbit, consoling myself with the idea that an intelligent being cannot become anything seriously. It is only fools or pre-programmed minds that become anything. Yes, an intelligent person must be above all a creature without character, while a person with character, one of those who is called an action person, must be a limited creature, like one of those legendary sportsmen that only know how to train hard, break records and never give up.
Yes. That is my conviction after ninety years—a lifetime as a man, and ten years as a C-bo.
To live longer than ninety years is bad manners, you know. Think about it; of course it's vulgar and immoral. Who does live beyond ninety? Sincerely and honestly, I will tell you who do: fools and ridiculous millionaires. I say this to all people and their despicable operated faces. To all these new humans, all these demi-gods and revered sages with childish dreams of immortality. I tell the whole world that truth to its face! I have a right to say, for I shall go on living to one hundred twenty myself. One hundred forty! One hundred sixty!
End
Experiments in Sci-Fi Minor
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Content of this website:
Content of this website:
- 1K-Variations of classic of literature in sci-fi minor and in one thousand words
- 10K-Unfinished sci-fi works. Original texts written with ten thousand words that are part of a larger, unfinished story
- Resources for writers, websites, tools, etc.
