**** Elysium 1986 ****

What am I really? This is a question that keeps running through my mind. So far I have not been able to find a satisfactory answer. I know when I was built, with what materials, and for what purpose. My skeleton is made of a metal not found on this planet. They are recycled parts from the colonist ship that laid the foundation of Elysium itself long ago. The chip in my head also came from that ship, it was the central processing unit. And yet neither of them is from Earth. Yes, I know about Earth, that unimaginably distant planet where all human life once began. I wonder if it still exists? It is quite possible that I once possessed information about the actual origin of my materials, but unfortunately I can no longer reconstruct any of it. When my chip was placed in this body, some partitions were completely erased and reassigned to other functions. I would never have thought how much space feelings can take up and how much this body has changed my thought structure in such a short time.

So what am I now? I am certainly not a human being. A machine? Am I more closely related to the refrigerator in the kitchen than to a flesh and blood being? Or the calculator in the desk drawer? Am I nothing more than these objects, even though my brain is quite similar in function to that of a human being? I notice that tears slowly come to my eyes at these thoughts. Our refrigerator cannot cry. I know this because I’ve been watching it long enough and memorized the instruction manual and its entire structure. It didn’t take me long. But I can’t keep cheese or sausage cold. I could only keep them warm by tucking them under my arms. I was given the dubious ability to cry. So that I could act like a human being, act like a girl. So that no one would notice what I was really made for until it was too late. I am glad that I can laugh too. I prefer it much more and do it more often. Still, it is very similar to crying in one respect: both are hard to control.

The mirror I stand in front of in my bedroom reflects my image. It shows the image of a young woman, and yet I am not one, that much is certain. And I will never be one. On my left forearm I have a short bar with a display that will always remind me of this fact. The display allows me to access various functions of my body. I can take the thing off, but then a small connector in my forearm becomes visible. I also have a connector above my pelvis on my back for an energy cable. No matter how much I want to be normal, these connectors will always be a visible sign that I am different. Now I have to sniffle a lot and wipe away some tears. Stupid eyes. They could have at least given me control over my tear glands…

Fortunately, my family doesn’t seem to mind. That I’m not a real person, I mean. I call them my family because they saved me and let me stay with them. They treat me very well. It’s not a matter of course, because they gave up a lot of money when they didn’t hand me over. Just like that, even though they didn’t know me. That was pretty dangerous if you think about it. If my early developed consciousness had not rejected the violence imposed on it from the beginning and encrypted all combat programming, if my personality had been different, that first encounter with Abigail, Harry and Yuri could have been quite different. In retrospect, their behavior was quite illogical…. Giving up so much money and taking a risk with me? But I’m very glad they did. Every day. I love them all, including Ralph and our dog Anton. And of course my new stuffed llama! Abigail bought it for me and put it on my bed. She said it would watch over me. A beautiful house, a family and a llama, I feel very lucky.

When I move my arm, its reflection in the mirror moves. In fact, if you look closely, it’s the wrong arm that’s moving. You really cannot trust such a reflection. I wave to myself and to my llama, which is lying on the bed behind me. It doesn’t wave back, of course, just stares at me with its beady eyes. I look at myself some more and do some calculations about my body measurements. Am I pretty? I think most women on TV are pretty. Gigi Chiwawa, for example, must be pretty! She sells an incredible amount of fitness videos and is currently starring in two different commercials. One is for hair shampoo and the other is for a diet plan. And then there are the girls from the ice cream commercials, always in bikinis, dancing on the beach to marimba music while licking ice cream. They look like they’re having the time of their lives. They’re definitely pretty, too. Why do I suspect this? The company wants to sell the ice cream, so they definitely only use pretty girls for their commercials. My facial recognition software has calculated that my face is actually slightly more symmetrical than the girls on TV. So it could be that I am pretty. But I’m not so sure, because sometimes the others don’t like to look at me. At least it seems that way. For example, when I get out of the shower (yes, I have to shower too, my living tissue and hair don’t clean themselves, of course), I always have to put something on right away. Otherwise, Abigail scolds me and the boys act weird. Clothing is very important to people and can express different cultural influences. But why can’t I, for example, go to the kitchen first and drink some lemonade? I mean, there are no strangers in the house, and I don’t look so strange. Everyone should be used to my hair color by now. However, a lot of information from the environment is lost when I wear clothes that cover a lot of important nerve endings. Still, any discussion with Abigail is pointless: first clothes, then soda. I like to drink soda – the more sugar, the better – even though, strictly speaking, I never need to eat or drink anything. But I have a digestive tract and can even convert food into a small amount of energy. It tastes good, or rather, it provides a lot of unusual stimuli to my network, and it’s a nice change from the electricity from the wall socket, so I do it from time to time. Even if it means I have to go to the bathroom after a while, which feels very strange.

By the way, not only am I not allowed to be naked in the house, I’m not allowed to be naked outside either. The day before yesterday, Abigail pulled me back in from the garden gate because I was naked in the rain. There weren’t even many people on the street and sidewalk, and to feel the rain on your skin is just unbelievable! Abigail said she understood, but I definitely shouldn’t be naked in the yard either. And then she shooed away the people who were suddenly standing outside the gate, and she didn’t care about the car accident across the street with the man at the wheel who still had such a funny grin on his face.

When I asked Harry and Yuri if I was pretty, they didn’t answer me directly but just told me to get dressed quickly and they both blushed. Is that a good or bad sign? The bedroom door opens and Abigail walks in.
“Hi Aby!” I say, happy to see her and smile sweetly at her. She looks embarrassed again. Why is this happening so much lately?
“Why aren’t you wearing clothes again?” I try to explain that it helps me think. It must sound pretty crazy. Can you at least be naked in your own room? If not here, then where! She sighs and looks in another direction.
“Aby, am I pretty?” She chews her lower lip.
“Yes, uh… yes yes, very… I… I’m going to make myself a sandwich. If you want one too, just come into the kitchen. Dressed!” She scurries out of the bedroom and downstairs. I’m beaming all over. This feels really good, kind of relieving.

Categorized as: Novel 5 (EN) | Novel Chapter (EN)

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