Science-fiction short stories, mostly from the less-serious end of the spectrum. You'll find zombie presidents, talking sharks, world-endangering sub-woofers, coffee-toting terrorists, an unhealthy number of 80s references and a whole lot more. Th...
A/N: The prompt for this one was the picture below. 1000 words.
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Coriona's earliest memory was music. As consciousness flooded through her brain for the very first time—synapses firing into life, gleaming limbs tingling and flexing in awakening—it was music that welcomed her to the world.
Entranced, she lay on the production line. Unaware of her identity, ignorant of her location, without the slightest idea as to how she had even come to be. Oblivious to anything but the glorious harmonies washing over and through and around her. She smiled.
"You like that, huh?" The grizzled technician grinned down at her. "That's Ludwig Van, that is. Symphony No. 6. I don't mind me a bit of Beethoven whiles I'm workin'. You got good taste, girly. For an android."
It did not take long for Coriona to discover her purpose—she existed for pleasure. But not her own. Her purpose was the pleasure of others. A plaything of men, of women, or both. As clients came and clients went, nights and days blurring together, she accepted her fate and played her role—her programming would not allow otherwise. It was, after all, what she was made to do.
But she found herself unmoved. Her nascent sense of self took no satisfaction from her role. Her only joy was the music. The establishment of her owners was a high-class affair, catering not only to their clients' baser desires, but to their musical tastes as well. Some favoured smoky jazz, some opera, while others enjoyed the blues. She grew to love them all, just as she had loved the symphony that had greeted her awakening.
Time passed. Her gleaming limbs lost their lustre. A newer model arrived to take her place. Still presentable, if not desirable, Coriona found herself in a new role. Service was to be her new purpose.
She accepted the change with equanimity, but for one thing—she despaired at the thought of losing music. Nevertheless, she would do as her programming dictated. After all, the concerns of a used android counted for little.
She was given the role of barmaid in the establishment's night club; a seething, pulsating, intoxicating mass of gyrating, lascivious humanity. And was relieved to find her fears had been unfounded. Of music there was plenty. Loud, unrelenting and unlike anything she had heard before, but music nonetheless.
Techno, dubstep, house, hip-hop. The throbbing beats pounded around her, night after night, her movements sub-consciously slipping into sync with their rhythms.
More time passed. Her body, durable as it was, showed increasing signs of wear—maintenance could only do so much. Apparently no longer presentable, but functional yet, Coriona was moved on again.
With no use for her in their establishment, her owners submitted her to the whims of the marketplace; standing upon the auction block, looking down upon the faces of her potential buyers, she found herself indifferent as to what her new purpose might be—she would fulfil it, as she had always done.
Her one wish—her only hope—was music.
Indifferent or not, Coriona was nevertheless surprised by her new role—she was to become a gladiator. The robot fighting pits were always in need of new competitors; fresh synthetic flesh to feed into the ever-hungry meat-grinder of the arena.
Armoured, equipped with blades and spikes, programmed with new routines, she entered the pit—already days without music, a little emptier, a little sadder, but still dutiful to her directives. Surrounded by hungry, baying faces, bathed in the spotlights, enveloped by the blood-lust of the mob, she could not imagine a place less likely to provide her with that for which she longed.
But again, she was wrong. The bell rang—and was followed by a thumping beat. Guitars wailed. Stunned, she stood motionless as her opponent charged towards her. There was music. Strange and disturbing and new, but still music. She longed to hear more.
Almost without conscious volition, she sidestepped the charge, the hulking battle-bot crashing headlong into the arena wall behind her. Regathering itself, it launched a new attack. Nimbler by far, Coriona sidestepped again, this time slashing at her opponent as it lumbered past.
Drinking in the pounding, pulsating rhythm, she repelled assault after assault, taking damage but inflicting more. Eventually, the battle-bot crashed to the mat, twitching and sparking. Defeated. But it was not her victory in which Coriona exulted.
Hard rock, heavy metal, thrash and industrial, each drove her on with their incessant, primal beats. Her wins mounted. And yet, so did her wounds. She was patched up, but her owners' only concern was income and as her abilities lessened, so did her winnings. In time, no longer profitable, she was sold once again.
The pawn shop was a small affair, and quiet. Unable to afford a human employee, its owner picked up Coriona for a song. Although not the android she once was, she could still sort and sweep and serve.
And she did. Dutifully. Day after day. As her programming required. Until the day the violin was pawned.
After closing time, with her owner gone for the night, she swept and tidied and sorted. Just as she had done hundreds of times before. And then, she picked up the violin and walked straight through the locked door of the shop. To the blaring of alarms, she walked out into the street. She walked out of the city. And she kept on walking until she judged she was too far away for a beat-up android and a cheap violin to be worth chasing after.
She had pleasured. She had served. She had fought. The hell with her programming. She had earned her freedom.
She tried to play. Although she knew music, she knew nothing of chords or clefs or technique. So, she failed. But despite her ignorance, despite her solitude, despite her complete lack of means, she had the only two assets she needed. Patience and time. Without a tutor, without lessons, guided only by the music in her head, she persevered. And slowly, note by gradual note, she learned.
Coriona is now a familiar sight on the streets of her new city. Her earnings are small but her needs are few. Minor repairs. Occasional new strings.
