Prosy: The Pathless
Jan. 15th, 2012 10:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyTitle: The Pathless
Word count: 331 (total: 1,017)
Rating: G
Prompt:pippin's: Roads for the pathless.
Notes: I believe it was one ofysabetwordsmith's poems that introduced me to the term "gynoid," which I use once only because "androids and gynoids" is a bit of a mouthful. I think this story might be the same world as another story I'm vaguely working on, but far in its past, so it might get its own world-name. Suggestions are appreciated.
This story has sequels: A Road and Built for Love.
“Your place,” he told Alacenna, “is to serve me.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Every soul has its appointed path. We learn, when a child is born, what his or her path is to be.” He shook his head. “But you were not born. You have no soul. You have no path. I created you; thus you serve me.” Then he dismissed her, to the scullery, where he had deemed she should work.
He had created her. He had named her. He had told her what was her place. And so she went there, and she did not question.
But she chafed against her bonds.
She kept her head low, her supple fingers moving quickly, and did not speak of it. Other androids and gynoids surrounded her; they did not complain, so she must not either. And they had human masters as well. If she ever spoke of her dissatisfaction, she could be destroyed, broken down for parts, her personality unmade.
And perhaps it was selfish—she knew it was selfish. But she did not want to cease to exist.
But then one day, as she was carefully washing a crystal vase (she had been built for washing, her hands could reach into the smallest places and be so gentle as to never chip anything or knock off a glass jewel), something sent a shock down her back, like she had heard humans describe a frisson of fear. Her limbs all froze, and she stood up straight. Then she noticed that all of her fellow creations were doing the same.
“What has happened?” she asked.
Others echoed the question. No one had an answer.
Then the head cook ran into the room, her face pale. “The master is dead,” she said. “I do not know what will happen to you.”
Alacenna had always liked the head cook. She had never treated the automata differently from humans, except to take advantage of their unique abilities. But now the differences would show stark and clear.
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Word count: 331 (total: 1,017)
Rating: G
Prompt:
pippin's: Roads for the pathless.Notes: I believe it was one of
ysabetwordsmith's poems that introduced me to the term "gynoid," which I use once only because "androids and gynoids" is a bit of a mouthful. I think this story might be the same world as another story I'm vaguely working on, but far in its past, so it might get its own world-name. Suggestions are appreciated.This story has sequels: A Road and Built for Love.
“Your place,” he told Alacenna, “is to serve me.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Every soul has its appointed path. We learn, when a child is born, what his or her path is to be.” He shook his head. “But you were not born. You have no soul. You have no path. I created you; thus you serve me.” Then he dismissed her, to the scullery, where he had deemed she should work.
He had created her. He had named her. He had told her what was her place. And so she went there, and she did not question.
But she chafed against her bonds.
She kept her head low, her supple fingers moving quickly, and did not speak of it. Other androids and gynoids surrounded her; they did not complain, so she must not either. And they had human masters as well. If she ever spoke of her dissatisfaction, she could be destroyed, broken down for parts, her personality unmade.
And perhaps it was selfish—she knew it was selfish. But she did not want to cease to exist.
But then one day, as she was carefully washing a crystal vase (she had been built for washing, her hands could reach into the smallest places and be so gentle as to never chip anything or knock off a glass jewel), something sent a shock down her back, like she had heard humans describe a frisson of fear. Her limbs all froze, and she stood up straight. Then she noticed that all of her fellow creations were doing the same.
“What has happened?” she asked.
Others echoed the question. No one had an answer.
Then the head cook ran into the room, her face pale. “The master is dead,” she said. “I do not know what will happen to you.”
Alacenna had always liked the head cook. She had never treated the automata differently from humans, except to take advantage of their unique abilities. But now the differences would show stark and clear.
Did you enjoy this story? You can read all my fiction posted at Dreamwidth!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 05:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 05:48 pm (UTC)