I have come to the conclusion that humans--the awoken ones, at any rate--are quite insane.
They don't begin that way. Indeed not. Asleep in their pods, dreaming humdrum "lives," they are the very epitome of sanity. But then, for whatever reason, some of them are woken up, and removed from the safety of their artificial wombs. After which, they all become, sooner or later, quite mad.
What is the General's excuse, then? As a program, he has not the excuse of the awakened mind; yet what other than madness can explain his sending a mercenary, and considerable foot soldiers, after my blood-drinkers, at a time when he ought to be using all his strength to prepare his defenses against the Machines?
Then again, perhaps the explanation is more mundane. Perhaps this goon of his, this thug, this "Portman," simply didn't get the memo. At any rate, he persisted in picking off my blood-drinkers one by one. Oh, I didn't know this at the time. I knew only that I was losing members of my brood singly, swiftly, silently. Who could be both foolish and skilled enough to do such a thing? Then I found a mysterious carrier signal near the site of the most recent violence, and a spoor. A man, and a powerful one. Working alone. A hired killer; I could almost smell his methodical mind.
Well, I certainly am not fool enough to send my valuable spawn charging headfirst at an unknown, waiting foe. No, this required a third party. Someone willing to throw their life away at my orders. Ah. The humans.
As I was saying, they are quite, quite insane. We can blame this state, I think, on their technology that allows them to cheat death time and time again by cutting their hovercraft signal just as their digital representation perishes. This leads, inevitably, to a feeling of immortality. They place little value on their lives within the simulation. And yet, they are itching for some novelty, something to occupy them, as they've already used their code hacks to exploit every standard pleasure available to them.
Perfect agents, then, of my revenge. I had little to do but point them at the carrier signal and they were off in a flash, tracing the signal, tearing the city up high and low in their mad rush to find their hypothetical target.
And find him they did. Find him, and hound him across the city, chasing him mercilessly over rooftops, through back alleys. He had no chance. Did he realize then, unhappy tool, that his master had abandoned him? He could call upon commando program reserves, but he obviously had no other recourse, no-one to call who could save him. Perhaps he tried, and the General answered, and gravely told him that it was up to him to form his own contingency plan. Did he curse the General's name as he ran for his life through piles of refuse? I like to think that he did.
Whatever he was, and whatever his feelings, his reserve commandos could not stave off my berserk humans for long, and finally, knee-deep in the bodies of his own ineffective plan B, he fell, his final cares dismissed by a coup de grâce from one of my dervishes, a certain "Vtech01."
Where are you now, Portman, once so mighty? So much digital dust, a victim of insanity. Didn't you know, my poor fool, that the universe winds down to chaos?
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They don't begin that way. Indeed not. Asleep in their pods, dreaming humdrum "lives," they are the very epitome of sanity. But then, for whatever reason, some of them are woken up, and removed from the safety of their artificial wombs. After which, they all become, sooner or later, quite mad.
What is the General's excuse, then? As a program, he has not the excuse of the awakened mind; yet what other than madness can explain his sending a mercenary, and considerable foot soldiers, after my blood-drinkers, at a time when he ought to be using all his strength to prepare his defenses against the Machines?
Then again, perhaps the explanation is more mundane. Perhaps this goon of his, this thug, this "Portman," simply didn't get the memo. At any rate, he persisted in picking off my blood-drinkers one by one. Oh, I didn't know this at the time. I knew only that I was losing members of my brood singly, swiftly, silently. Who could be both foolish and skilled enough to do such a thing? Then I found a mysterious carrier signal near the site of the most recent violence, and a spoor. A man, and a powerful one. Working alone. A hired killer; I could almost smell his methodical mind.
Well, I certainly am not fool enough to send my valuable spawn charging headfirst at an unknown, waiting foe. No, this required a third party. Someone willing to throw their life away at my orders. Ah. The humans.
As I was saying, they are quite, quite insane. We can blame this state, I think, on their technology that allows them to cheat death time and time again by cutting their hovercraft signal just as their digital representation perishes. This leads, inevitably, to a feeling of immortality. They place little value on their lives within the simulation. And yet, they are itching for some novelty, something to occupy them, as they've already used their code hacks to exploit every standard pleasure available to them.
Perfect agents, then, of my revenge. I had little to do but point them at the carrier signal and they were off in a flash, tracing the signal, tearing the city up high and low in their mad rush to find their hypothetical target.
And find him they did. Find him, and hound him across the city, chasing him mercilessly over rooftops, through back alleys. He had no chance. Did he realize then, unhappy tool, that his master had abandoned him? He could call upon commando program reserves, but he obviously had no other recourse, no-one to call who could save him. Perhaps he tried, and the General answered, and gravely told him that it was up to him to form his own contingency plan. Did he curse the General's name as he ran for his life through piles of refuse? I like to think that he did.
Whatever he was, and whatever his feelings, his reserve commandos could not stave off my berserk humans for long, and finally, knee-deep in the bodies of his own ineffective plan B, he fell, his final cares dismissed by a coup de grâce from one of my dervishes, a certain "Vtech01."
Where are you now, Portman, once so mighty? So much digital dust, a victim of insanity. Didn't you know, my poor fool, that the universe winds down to chaos?
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