The Reanimation




A single spark flickers within ancient metal circuits. The spark travels through the cold metal. Another spark joins it and another soon follows. Those sparks are joined by more electrical impulses steadily becoming a live current. Processes begin to awaken within a machine frozen in time and snow. The whirr of servos and the muted hum of some inscrutable power come to life as the machine slowly begins to activate. A consciousness forms as the machine’s components begin to move. Base processes. Restoring control to various limbic systems. Environmental sensors. Basic levels of awareness and self-awareness. Heat. Life.


It’s cold. Below the freezing point of water. The machine’s diagnostics determine it’s missing an arm. It’s humanoid in nature, with a human number of limbs and a head. Internal systems are mostly functional despite outward damage. Motor functions begin to return and the machine begins moving. It’s covered in snow and ice, the machine’s movements disturbing the layering of frozen water on top of it. Opticals return. The machine simply sees a dull white color shadowed by the relative lack of light refracting through it. A quick switch of internal processes and the white becomes illuminated by a halogen white glow. The machine’s eyes begin to melt through the snow as it slowly moves. The motorics are clumsy, barely more than a base level function of simple machinery.


It’s not alone. As the snow melts away the machine sees more of its kind buried among the snow and ice. Computational processes resume. The machine instantly calculates that there are tens of thousands of similar machines in various states within perceivable range. Perhaps there are even more nearby? Higher thoughts begin to form as more functions are restored. What happened here? Why am I here?


Why am I the only one working?


It slowly begins to rise from the ground. There’s no other active machine in the immediate vicinity. All scans for activity come back negative. They’re all dead. Death. The machine contemplates the word. Death. An organic term. The cessation of existence. It’s just a machine. A machine that thinks. A machine that feels.


It’s alone.


I am alone.


The machine scans the horizon. Through the snow and distant fog a single white light faintly flickers. It’s barely perceptible. It’s very far away. But it’s there.


I must follow the light.


There’s no other option. To stay is permanent isolation. And perhaps cessation- death- once more. The light may not even be reachable. But it’s there. And the machine must reach it. Servos whirr and the machine slowly begins to move. The snow compresses under its bipedal legs with every step. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The machine trudges forward. Its future is uncertain.


The machine moves forward regardless.