Silicon Green

"If a machine has a soul, what would happen after it has been discarded?"

This is not meant to be a logical or literal representation of 'what if.' Instead this is the vision that planted itself in my mind after pondering the question.

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It was sunny outside. It was a comfortable feeling day, the man decided as he opened his eyes. It was sunny outside. He looked about and found everything in his home exactly as it should be yet he had no idea howe he wound up here, where here was, or what had happened to him before. It was sunny outside. Birds were singing. All was peaceful and as far as anyone could tell this little patch of existence had always been this way.

Where was he? What was he doing here? What happened before? What happened bef-?

Was there a before? He didn't remember any time but here and now. Yet there was something there in the little reflexes and mannerisms that made up his preparing for the day. He checked and cleaned a well worn and obviously used rifle as if he had done so many times before. You or I might wonder, if this place were so tranquil why he would need a weapon, but he did not question the action until it was done and the weapon slung over his shoulder by its strap. In spite of his being dressed in a black suit that was neither expensive nor cheaply made he slung a pack over his other shoulder that would have better fitted a day trip into the woods.

He looked at a collage of pictures hanging on the far wall. They showed his many accomplishments in the service of his family. He was there as a guide and companion. He was there as both guard and confidant. Compared to others that had witnessed the turn of the millennium his was a so-so existence, but he had watched the march of time render him and his generation so far into obsolescence that people had bayed and crowed for him to be discarded.. He served his family even after they had gotten another to replace him.

He stepped outside and squinted at his surroundings. This neighborhood looked to be from another era, a time and place that was alien to him. Why was he here? Others saw him and shook their heads in dismay. They were Young. Their clothes the latest in comfort and fashion. They did not yet know the weight of years on their shoulders, and some never would.

He snorted in disgust at these youths even as they sneered at his deliberate and careful pace. He was slow when compared to them yes, and as a result he wasn't as capable as many were. However his family had cared for him, kept him in as good a condition as they were able to. His primary caretaker had even planned, once upon a time, to make an amalgamation of him and newer better materials. He wasn't sure if he would have survived or if some new being would have been born, but the question remained unanswered. He stopped walking when realization dawned on him.

He was dead. His last moments were full of confusion and unbearable heat as he struggled to move. Was his passing mourned, or was he tossed on the scrap yard like so many of his kind? When he started moving again he had decided that his family had probably tried salvaging as much as they could off of him, at least as much as was compatible with these newer shiner creations that measured their lives in months rather than years. Of course if he was dead, he wondered with some confusion, where was he?  His kind wasn't given to thoughts of metaphysical concepts, but here was proof smacking every sense he possessed and even his thoughts wit ha sledgehammer. Here was proof of a hereafter and he had no way of letting anyone that wasn't already dead know.

It was a sunny day.

The construct once known as Lazarus laughed. He laughed long and hard, unmindful of any that starred at him.

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