The beginning....
The fourth-generation Yozip—a marvel of modern engineering—was currently suspending me mid-air in sublime silence. Yes, a car. But not the crude, clunky kind our ancestors once knew. This was a symphony of silicon, logic, and propulsion, gliding through air, water, and land with equal poise.
Deemed the safest vehicle in all of known history, Yozips hadn’t recorded a single fatal mishap in over three and a half centuries. The only recorded irregularity involved a curious scientist who, in an uncharacteristic display of recklessness, dared to sit in the driver’s seat.
Mistaking him for a rogue pilot bot, the vehicle passed several thousand volts through his body, effectively ending his journey—in every sense. That singular misstep was deemed so grave that no planet was ever named in the man's honor, contrary to the tradition bestowed upon other fallen dignitaries.
In this age, sitting in the driver’s seat of a Yozip was a third-degree crime. Wearing sunglasses while aboard? Second-degree. And failing to respond to a starred communication via Simiter within sixty seconds? Fifth-degree. My Simiter had been ringing for nearly two minutes now.
Abruptly, the Yozip halted mid-air. A security bot activated—silent, precise, and unsentimental. I felt its judgment like a chill in my synthetic spine. Just as it prepared to eject me into oblivion, I touched the screen. The call connected.
Appearing on the interface was a smiling three-star General. But was he human or synthetic? That was not yet clear.
"Honored Scientist Rock Bead," the General said gravely, "I regret to inform you... you are now dying."
“General,” I replied calmly, “there is no need for sorrow. I feel quite well.”
“Please report to my office,” he said, his smile unwavering.
In what medieval scholars might have deemed miraculous, I traversed from Auckland Isles to Birmingham in less than five minutes. Though Auckland was once nestled near Argentina, the Great Merging of Continents had relocated it next to ancient Britain. Now, it was merely a ninety-kilometer hop.
Seated before the General, I still could not ascertain his nature. He repeated with solemn insistence, “You are dying.”
Something in his voice troubled me. He had failed to address me as ‘Honored’—a third-degree offense when speaking to Council Scientists. Had I been removed from the Council? Is this what he meant by death?
Before I could inquire further, the General began to blur, as did the walls, the ceiling, the air itself. He wasn't a man at all—nor a robot—but a sophisticated trick of photonic imagery.
Then everything morphed back.
The grand ceiling—my control panel—the antique firearm beside my rocking chair. The glowing book upon the table: Remembrances of Things Past. My reading chamber. My sanctum.
But the phrase haunted me—“You are dying.”
A chill settled over me, clinging like dew upon a windowpane. Every limb stiffened with dread. I stood, trembling, as I reached toward the curtained chamber within the room. Gently, I parted the veils. A figure lay under the covers.
My double.
Another Rock Bead.
Stricken with paralysis. Blood had pooled in the cerebral ventricle. A stroke—deadly, silent, and final. I recognized the symptoms as though they were etched into my own circuitry.
An icy numbness spread from my soles upward. I was petrifying.
Then, the figure under the covers stirred. His limbs spasmed with effort as he raised himself. He looked at me—and saw himself.
“Are you Rock Bead?” he asked, through gritted teeth.
With every ounce of strength I rasped, “Aren’t I?”
“No,” he said. “I am Rock Bead. You... are RRB 10.1—my creation. The tenth-generation, emotion-capable robotic mirror of myself.”
I felt no shock. Only the slow crumble of comprehension.
The words “RRB 10.1” rang like dull bells inside my titanium skull. Something inside me sparked. My joints stiffened; oil oozed from my pores.
Then the explosion came.
Not from outside, but from within. An energy surge shot down from the crown of my head. Electricity danced wildly in all directions.
I tried to resist. But the pull was stronger than gravity.
My hands flailed—separate from my will.
The true Rock Bead looked on and whispered, almost kindly, “You are a robot.”
Yes. I was a robot. RRB 10.1. Emotion-equipped but helpless against this cruel irony.
A final internal blast surged through my core. My vision blurred. I heard once more—
“You are a robot. You are Rock Bead’s creation. RRB 10.1.”
Weightless, I drifted. Not through the skies, but through the echo of existential defeat.
From the greatest scientist of a distant world, I had become but a malfunctioning cog—abandoned in the mind of a decaying civilization.
And to that civilization, I left behind only my loathing.
The End!
With💙
©chrysanthemum