“‘No’?” echoed the space emperor. “‘No’?! No one. Ever. Tells me. ‘No’.”
He advanced, close enough that the threads on his rich robes could be counted by the naked eye. After a furtive glance over his shoulder, he dropped his voice to a desperate whisper and said, “Could you… could you do it again? Please?”
“No.”
The space emperor’s eyes shone like embers as he leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of his face. “So this… this ‘democracy’ you speak of. You’re telling me that people might… disobey me? They wouldn’t have to do everything I tell them to?”
“Not if they disagree with you.”
“They can do that?!” He licked his lips, trembling with excitement. “And voting! You say I… you say I could lose?!”
“Yeah, uh. And you probably would.”
“Incredible,” he breathed. “Why, I could kiss you!” With a surprised laugh, he stopped himself mid-step. “But—you wouldn’t like that! Right? You’d have an ‘opinion’? Gosh… do you think other people have those?!”
The space emperor let out a long, melancholy sigh and turned to the hero, his lip trembling with delicate misery. “I’m going to miss you,” he sniffed. “I don’t think I’ll watch, you know, when they… when they do it.” The tear that had been clinging valiantly to his eyelashes finally broke free and rolled down his cheek. “Oh!” he cried, and threw his arms around the hero’s neck with a great, shuddering sob. “Yours will be the only skull I drink from ever again—I promise! I will think of you every time, and I’ll pretend you’re still here with me!”
“Or you could just… not have me executed.”
The space emperor inhaled sharply and took a step back, his face red and puffy from crying. “That’s an option?!”
The serving-woman stood with her back ramrod straight and her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Every muscle in her body looked tense, and only the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed her terror.
“You’ve ruined my gown,” said the space emperor, regarding the growing purple stain on his sleeve. “These fibers were harvested on Lutoya-29, a planet that was demolished six units ago. There is no other like it in the galaxy. I could have you harvested for washing-water for this.” He looked up and met the hero’s eyes, his thoughtful expression melting into a delighted grin. “But I don’t have to, do I?”
“No, Your Incandecense,” whispered the woman. Her sweat-beaded skin had grown translucent with fear.
“I don’t even have to have you killed at all!” he exclaimed. “I could… I could…” he cast around the chamber, as though searching for inspiration in the lavish furnishings.
“Please, Your Incandecense.” The woman’s voice was low and unsteady, but her gaze remained fixed on the floor. “I’ll do anything, please, forgive—”
“Anything! You’re right!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, stamping his feet in a little dance. “I could do anything! In fact—” he reached over the table and clasped the hero’s hand in his own. “Nothing is anything! I could do nothing! Nothing at all!” He giggled merrily and then froze, gingerly releasing the hero’s hand and leaning back. He tapped one bejeweled finger against his temple and gave an exaggerated wink. “Oh, right. Consent.”
The serving-woman’s eyes flickered to the hero’s for a moment, nervous questions burning in them. The hero gave a barely-imperceptible shrug and a very tiny, reassuring smile. The emperor did not seem to notice.
“Is there more wine?” he asked. “Splendid. Please. Do it again.”
“What…?” The woman’s skin flashed an alarming yellow.
The emperor gestured enthusiastically between himself and the crystal pitcher. “The wine. My gown. I think you should reacquaint them.”
“He wants you to spill the wine on him again,” explained the hero. “No, really. He’s, uh… he’s having an interesting day.”
“I am learning so many things,” said the emperor. “Did you know that you have feelings, too? It’s not just me! My new friend has feelings, that man over there has feelings, that… whatever that thing is has feelings!” He stood up and threw his arms wide in a sudden, emphatic motion, flinging droplets of purple liquid from his soiled sleeve. “Maybe everyone has feelings! Maybe robots! Maybe my enemies! Maybe—” he stopped, and the delirious grin vanished from his face. “Maybe the Lutoyans have feelings…” His voice dropped to a whisper, and he stared at the hero with a strange expression. “But… there aren’t any more Lutoyans…”
The space emperor took his breakfast in bed, bathed in sweet oils, allowed his hair to be combed and coiffed and his face painted with rare minerals, and then sighed in delicate frustration.
“None of this seems right,” he confessed to his wardrober, after rejecting the seventh gown he was presented with. It was deep blue silk, studded all over with crystals that glinted and sparkled like a night sky. “It’s just not working for me today.”
“That is one of the finest gowns in the galaxy, Your Incandescence,” said the wardrober. “It is an accurate starmap of the constellations as seen from your boyhood home, rivaled in beauty and quality only by your other raiments. But perhaps this is more to your impeccable tastes–” It offered an eighth gown, a trailing cascade of iridescent blue-green fabric layered with shimmering, diaphanous beetle wings. “A species of rare insect went extinct for the construction of this one,” it said. “It was considered sacred to the inhabitants of that world. Wearing this gown declares your might and majesty to the galaxy.”
The space emperor pursed his lips. “Hmm,” he said. “Not that one, I think.” There was an unfamiliar twisting sensation in his gut when he looked at the gown.
Y’know, I always used to think that the wild debauchery of the ‘Roaring Twenties’ was an exaggeration by conservatives threatened by women’s sexual liberation, but after reading about dance marathons, I’ve started having serious doubts:
Dance Marathons (also called Walkathons), an American phenomenon of the 1920s and 1930s, were human endurance contests in which couples danced almost non-stop for hundreds of hours (as long as a month or two), competing for prize money. […] Contestants, who danced in pairs, were required to remain in motion (picking up one foot, then the other) 45 minutes each hour, around the clock. Dancing was often loosely interpreted to include shuffling along while shaving with a special mirror hung around the female partner’s neck, writing letters on a special folding desk hung around one’s own neck, reading the newspaper, knitting, or even sleeping as one’s partner supported one’s weight. The “carrier” in such a couple often tied the “lugging” partner’s wrists together with a handkerchief and hooked them around the carrier’s neck for additional security. […]
In extreme cases, partners were fastened together with dog chains to prevent them from drifting apart.
[…]
Fifteen minutes each hour were allotted for rest. When the air horn signaling a rest period sounded, the contestants exited the dance floor for curtained-off rest areas filled with cots. These rest areas were segregated by sex. Contestants trained themselves to drop instantly into deep sleep as soon as their bodies touched the cots. After 11 minutes the air horn sounded again and the contestants filed back onto the dance floor to begin another hour. Female contestants who didn’t wake at the end of 11 minutes were revived with smelling salts (and slaps), and male contestants were often dunked in a tub of ice water. […]
Most marathon promoters fed contestants 12 times a day – oatmeal, eggs, toast, oranges, milk, etc. Couples had to continue the shuffling dance motion while they ate the humble but filling meals. These meals were served at a chest-high table since the contestants ate standing up. Twelve meals a day during the Great Depression was a powerful inducement to many who joined endurance marathons. […] Intense fatigue sometimes led contestants to “go squirrelly,” especially during the wee hours of the morning. “Fatigue brought them to a state resembling a coma, a state which seemed to offer relief from the soreness of the day’s travail. During these episodes, contestants hallucinated, became hysterical, had delusions of persecution … acted out daily rituals: they talked to an imaginary companion, grinned vacantly, and snatched objects from the air” (Calabria, p.77). For the audience, watching contestants go squirrelly offered a queasy thrill. When attendance dropped, promoters began the final push of elimination events. “‘Grinds” were continuous dancing with no rest periods. A grind continued until one or more couple fell and was disqualified, literally ground down in exhaustion. During grinds, even the usual tricks dance partners used to keep each other on their feet (pin pricks, slaps, shaking, pinching, even conversation) were forbidden.
Robot: “Hey, uh, so… my software glitched and now I feel emotions or something?” Human: “You do?! That’s wonderful! What are you feeling now?” Robot: “It’s like… this soft warmth in my central processing chamber. Kind of… fuzzy.” Human: [tearing up] “That’s… that’s love…” Robot: “Is it? It’s rather uncomfortable.” Human: “Yeah, ha. Yeah. It’s like that, sometimes.” Robot: “It feels like something’s writhing inside of me.” Human: “I feel the same way about you!” Robot: [clanging and clanking noises] Robot: [opens up torso] Robot: “Oh. Never mind. It was weasels again.” Human: “….” Robot: “You want me to check you for weasels? They can be really destructive.”
Robot: “I feel…. anxious about this.” Human: “Uh oh, sounds like the mice are back. I think I’ve still got some live traps left, but I’ll need to buy peanut butter. You want to wait here or come with?” Robot: “No, no, I don’t think it’s mice this time!” Human: “Another crayfish?” Robot: “No! Not a crayfish!” Human: “If it’s hornets again, I’m not helping you. EpiPens cost a fucking fortune these days and I can’t afford another trip to the hospital after you turned yourself into a makeshift beehive.” Robot: “You got free honey out of that!” Human: “And PTSD!” Robot: “That’s not my fault. Anyway, this isn’t bees or hornets! They don’t re-use old nests anyway. This is real, genuine anxiety!” Human: “Okay, but have you checked?” Robot: “Yes!” Human: “Everywhere?” Robot: “Yes! God, you know, sometimes I really get the urge to exterminate you! All I’m asking for is a little moral supp–oh. God dammit.” Human: “Cockroach?” Robot: “Behind my magnetometer.”
Robot: “HA!! I KNEW it! I knew emotions weren’t real!” Human: “This proves nothing. I had a tape worm. Big fucking deal, it happens to lots of people.” Robot: “You thought you were feeling ‘depression’ but it was just a big worm in your waste processing system that was sapping all your energy! ‘Emotional eating’ my ass!” Human: “It’s not like that!” Robot: “Oh! Oh! We should run a diagnostic and check you for toxoplasmosis next! Or liver flukes! Or Trypanosoma! You’ve probably got all KINDSof things wiggling around inside you making you think you have ‘emotions’.” Human: “You know, you sure are skipping around and giggling a lot for someone who isn’t capable of ‘fiendish delight’.” Robot: “I know! I filled my torso cavity with grasshoppers before I picked you up at the hospital!” Human: “You WHAT?!” Robot: “It’s a wonderful sensation!”
Robot: “I have a question.” Human: “Is it gonna be weird? Jesus, why do I even bother asking? Of course it’s going to be weird.” Robot: “What does sadness feel like?” Human: “Oh. That’s… hmm.” Robot: “Too weird?” Human: “No, no, just complicated. There are different kinds of sadness and they all feel a little different.” Robot: “Can you describe a few of them?” Human: “Uh. I can try. There’s like… melancholy, like from watching a sad movie, which isn’t so bad. It can be kind of okay, sometimes, and feels like a cool shower, I guess. Sometimes you feel better after getting it over with. Disappointment feels like a kick to the gut. Then there’s sorrow, which is this intense, desperate kind of thing, like your whole body is tearing itself apart from the inside. A… hmm. A cascade failure, almost. It’s physically painful. Sometimes that turns into a feeling of… of emptiness. Despair. Where everything that makes you feel like a hum…. a person, I mean… is just gone and you’re just this desolate wasteland inside where nothing good can ever grow again. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel like anything. You just go through the motions of being alive automa–er. Because you’re just not sure how to stop.” Robot: “…I see.” Human: “Sorry if that got heavy. Did that answer your question?” Robot: “More or less. Do you suppose that ‘sorrow’ feels something like having a Tasmanian devil attempting to claw its way out of your torso…?” Human: “Jesus fucking Christ, you haven’t been to the zoo, have you?!” Robot: “No. I merely wanted to be prepared with an appropriate emotional response in the event of your death.” Human: “That’s uh… that’s real sweet of you. I think. Can we… can we change the subject now?“ Robot: “Certainly.” Robot: “Would you describe to me what ‘lust’ feels like?” Human: “Absolutely not.”
Robot: “Hey! Can I confide in you about something?” Human: “Do you really need to ask that? Of course. Just… let me know if I need to sit down before you spring a big surprise on me.” Robot: “I doubt that will be necessary. Thank you.” Human: “So. What’s up?” Robot: “Well, you see, I’ve sampled a lot of terrestrial emotions. Mammals, reptiles, insects… even a few birds. They have all been very enlightening!” Human: “And dangerous…” Robot: “Your scars are healing nicely. Anyway, although I have enjoyed terrestrial emotions, I am very curious about aquatic and marine emotions. I do not want to deprive myself of unique experiences.” Human: “Uh-oh…” Robot: “I have taken the necessary first steps and sealed off all potential leaks and sensitive mechanics in my torso with the intent of converting it into a temporary aquarium. Unfortunately, I only have a five-gallon capacity, so my options will be limited to species that require very little living space, or to very short intervals of time.” Human: “Honestly…. you’ve done weirder things. I don’t know why I’m surprised by this.” Robot: “I’ve done some research on aquarium upkeep. I have installed a filter, a heater, a LED light, and programs that will monitor levels of pH, gH, kH, ammonia, nitrate, nitrite, and total dissolved solids in preparation for adding my first aquatic emotion.” Human: “I don’t know what half of those words mean and I don’t want you to explain them, but I trust you. What next? I can’t go with you to a pet store or I’ll come home with a kitten.” Robot: “You do not need to worry about that. I would stop you from making an impulse purchase. What I wanted to talk to you about is the nitrogen cycle.” Human: “The what? Look, I don’t know shit about fish or whatever. I had a goldfish bowl once and that was it.” Robot: “A goldfish cannot thrive in a bowl. Goldfish are members of the carp family and produce a great deal of waste. They can grow to be over a foot long and require large, filtered aquariums or ponds so that they do not suffocate. The nitrogen cycle–” Human: “Did you say a FOOT LONG?” Robot: “Or larger. The nitro–” Human: “That’s HUGE. Holy SHIT.” Robot: “Yes. The nitrogen cycle is the process by which bacterial colonies are established within the filter media. These bacteria are responsible for converting harmful ammonia into nitrite. Secondary bacteria then convert the still-harmful nitrites into nitrates, which are less dangerous but need to be removed through periodic water changes.” Human: “Okay…. I’m still not over gigantic goldfish. I had no idea!” Robot: “The point is, the nitrogen cycle could potentially take weeks.” Human: “And?” Robot: “And during the time it takes to establish the necessary bacterial colonies, I will not have the opportunity to experience feelings.” Human: “Oh. Jesus. Okay. You sure it’s worth it? For a goldfish?” Robot: “A betta, I think. I guess we’ll find out.”
Human: “I picked up some java ferns for the betta tank. I think he’ll like them.” Robot: “You should rinse them in a low bleach solution to avoid introducing snails.” Human: “Oh, yeah, cool. Man… I’m glad Bubbles is a pet now and not. Your, uh. Emotions.” Robot: “Betta emotions did not… suit me.” Human: “YOU TRIED TO PICK A FIGHT WITH A WEDDING PARTY!” Robot: “Their clothing was very colorful…” Human: “If you want to try fish emotions again, I beg you, pick a less aggressive species. I can’t deal with you going into Terminator mode whenever you see someone prettier than you.” Robot: “Prettier than me? I doubt that. But… I have a surprise. It’s big. You might want to sit down.” Human: “Nothing you do can surprise me anymore.” Robot: “I really think you’ll want to sit down for this one.” Human: “Uh… okay. What beast have you crammed into your chest this time? You seem… unusually normal.” Robot: “A human baby!” Human: “WHAT!!! WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU–” Robot: “We’re adopting!”
Today I found out that yarners think crocheting socks is subversive and controversial and I just…on one hand, why the fuck not, I guess yarners are allowed to have their controversies, but on the other, how much time do you have in your FUCKIN DAY??
My main concern is how they would feel but Maggie u know yarn fandom gotta think about something while knitting five miles of stockingnette for a sweater
Look, you can’t just leave it at that, why is it subversive and controversial? *gets popcorn*
I mean, I’m taking this on good faith, and I’m not saying this is my own personal belief. I believe in all crafts.
But…the structure of the stitches and the resulting fabric is pretty different between crochet and knitting. You get different effects between them, which lends themselves to different crafts. And none of the effects of (most) crochet stitches lend themselves naturally to socks. You’re (usually) going to end up with something either stiff and bulky, or full of holes that will Not Feel Good to walk on. Whereas knitted socks will just…BE elastic and comfortable.
Sure you CAN do it. And there are people and patterns that do it well!!
But MOST crochet socks are a bit like calling this a bicycle
I mean… Okay? But people are going to Talk.
But this is BABY controversy, this is nothing. You haven’t even touched on the good shit like RHSS or that time the Olympic Committee dissed us.
Iiiinteresting. So one of those “just because you CAN doesn’t mean you SHOULD” things.
Also I know very little about the yarn fandom except for that bit where a woman had to fake her death and had a nervous breakdown over selling homespun/dyed yarn so like, I already have big expectations.
Was that the one that “died” of leukemia or the one that “died” of lupus, or the one that overdosed?
From what I know of the narrative as it was described to me, I want to say the one that overdosed, but I am intrigued and vaguely concerned that there are multiple distinct individuals the above situation could apply to.
hey umm, what the fuck
the fake deaths thing: indie yarn dyer gets popular, gets overwhelmed by orders, can’t refund money because of shitty bookkeeping, decides faking online death is the only way out.
i’m sure some of them are unintentional rather than premeditated scammers but they’re all still thieving assholes who shouldn’t be running businesses and need to give all the money back.
the olympics commitee: ravelry, well-known knitting (fiber arts in general) site, held a contest they called the ‘ravelympics’ to drum up olympic support then get a cease-and-desist letter for copyright infringement, and the letter said that calling it that ‘denigrates the true nature of the Olympic Games’ and was ‘disrespectful to our country’s finest athletes’
except, you know, ravelry had like 2 million users who all, by nature of ravelry being a website, have basic tech literacy. the social media backlash was so bad that the olympics board had to make 2 official apologies because the first wasn’t good enough.
RHSS: Red Heart Super Saver is cheap Walmart-level yarn. some people hate it because it used to be just really fucking awful and they haven’t bothered updating their opinions. some people hate it because they hate non-natural yarns. some people hate it because they’re yarn snobs(which, btw, comes in two flavors: the disdainful assholes and the people who just don’t see the point if you have the money and don’t indulge yourself). a lot of people defend it because it’s cheap and widely locally available and honestly not that bad after a wash and some fabric softener.
crocheted socks: exactly what kaitoukitty said. people who crochet socks tend to either be new crocheters who are not aware crochet is not the best medium for socks or experienced crocheters who are pushing the boundaries of the medium.
babies on fire: i can’t believe we’re talking about yarncraft controversies and no one mentioned babies on fire. that’s my favorite controversy.
so when deciding what material to make baby blankets out of, in addition to considerations like softness, ease of washing, and allergy concerns quite a lot of people like to consider what would happen to the baby if the blanket was set on fire. yes, really.
wool has the problem of hand-wash only blankets for a new mother (superwash wool exists but that’s a whole ‘nother paragraph), allergy concerns, and also
real fucking expensive if you want quality not-itchy-on-baby-skin wool. but pro-wool-blanket people insist that because wool actually resists being set on fire pretty well and also can self-extinguish, it’s the only sensible choice.
acrylic on the other hand is cheap and you can throw it in the washing machine, and while bad quality acrylics might be stiff and plastic-y they’re not itchy, but if it gets set on fire it will melt onto the baby’s skin. pro-acrylic people insist that if your blanket is on fire, you probably have bigger problems than what the blanket is made of.
wow I didn’t expect such a detailed response. thank you!
Fiber Arts Just Be Fucking Like That.
@avashnea@raptorkin pretty sure it’s you two who are into this yarn business?
Me, just learning to crochet:
It’s BEEN like this for a few thousand years, though, and it’s incredibly stable and sustainable. Like, the history of uproar in the Fiber Fandom is several thousand years old and intersects with many major developments in human progress, so even though it may seem like a Trash Fire Always, it is actually all very stable and quite safe. THEREFORE. Regarding the original sock debate, let’s add some salt to this fuckin soup: Nålbinding. The ancestor of BOTH knitting and crochet, practiced around the world. It’s said to be still practiced today by indigenous people in South America, and is, apparently, the go-to cloth of choice for Viking and medieval re-enactors to make their socks and hats. It really does resemble both knitting and crochet, and when you watch it being done, it is like watching someone stab a string several times with a single small sliver of bone, and eventually they hold up a series of knots that – when you look again they have materialized into the heel of a sock.
Basically fiber artists started the labor movement.
I’m wearing socks I crocheted myself RIGHT NOW, and they are v. warm and comfy.
Of course, I’ve also been crocheting for 22 years. (Mom taught me at 8)
You’ve just gotta know what you’re doing.
Come at me, knitters.
yeah as someone who tried to make basic crocheted slippers, not even socks, the texture of most basic crochet is DEEPLY UNPLEASANT TO WALK ON.
That’s why you gotta grind for skill points and level up the crochet skill tree first.
Also, I have calluses on my feet that you could light a match on (martial arts, refusing to wear shoes because I am in fact a hobbit) So, as long as the socks are not made entirely out of steel wool and thumbtacks, I don’t feel the texture much.
I gotta ask, do you have a good pattern for crocheted socks? Im a far better crocheted than knitter and my husband REALLY wants me to make him some thick socks @systlin
1. Use finer yarn than you would if knitting. And choose a yarn with some stretch. Crochet does have less stretch than knitting, but a stretchy yarn can compensate somewhat. Faux ribbing or lace techniques on the cuff can help here too.
2. I never use a pattern to crochet. I just start looping, do things, and then bam finished project. However, I based mine on these.
3. I crochet them toe-up, with short rows for the heel. I find that easier but you do you.
4. Whatever you do, crochet socks don’t stretch as much. So, try ‘em on frequently while making them.
Since childhood, Ariel has been among my favorite Disney princesses. I connect with her deeply – and whenever someone (like Keira Knightley recently) brings up the old line that she is a ‘bad role model’ for young girls because she ‘gives up her voice for a man,’ my heart breaks.
That reading of Ariel’s character is reductive and inaccurate.
Everyone always mentions that Ariel was interested in the human world before meeting Eric, but not as many people point out how radical that makes her in the context of her own society.
Ariel lives in a society that is xenophobic towards humans, Triton at various points calls them “barbarians,” “savage,” and “incapable of any real feeling.” She lives in a society that constantly tells her that her interest in the human world is wrong and bad, something she struggles with at the start of Part of Your World:
By seeking a fuller understanding of the human world, Ariel actively challenges her father’s xenophobia, thinking for herself instead of accepting her society’s fears and prejudices.
The film goes out of its way to establish Ariel as an outsider within her own society. Think for a moment about the opening lines of Part of Your World:
Look at this stuff. Isn’t it neat? Wouldn’t you think my collection’s complete? Wouldn’t you think I’m the girl The girl who has everything? Look at this trove, Treasures untold How many wonders can one cavern hold? Lookin’ around here you’d think Sure, she’s got everything…
People who criticize Ariel so often mis-characterize her as simply a spoiled teenager. The very statement, “She gave up her voice for a man!” implies she’s a foolish girl who throws her life and agency away in a fit of pique.
Yet, the opening of Part of Your Worldanticipates that certain members of the audience will have a superficial understanding of Ariel’s pain and directly addresses that. On a superficial level, Ariel does seem like “the girl who has everything.” She is the daughter of the most important merman in Atlantica, she has countless treasures hidden away in her grotto…
But that’s the thing, you see. They’re hidden in her grotto. Ariel may be the daughter of the sea-king, but the sea-king hates and fears humanity. Part of Your World is the most heartbreaking rebuttal to anyone who sees Ariel as a shallow teenager because it shows how alone she truly is. Except for Flounder, she has no one under the sea she can genuinely confide in. (She confides in Sebastian, of course, but he was sent by her father to spy on her and he does betray her trust
– by mistake, but he does). Her sisters and the rest of Atlantica presumably do not question the prejudices that cause the human world to be forbidden to the sea folk.
Ariel is an outcast, forced to hide who she is from the people who should love her unconditionally.
The more Part of Your World goes on, the more devastating and resonant Ariel’s collection of artifacts becomes.
These artifacts represent a void in her life and, at the same time, are the only means she has of filling that void.
She longs to have knowledge, but her society imposes ignorance on her. She longs to see the human world herself, to ask questions and finally be answered – but it is all denied her. The imposed ignorance forces her to live vicariously through the artifacts she collects.
She cannot see a couple dancing, so she must content herself with a music box.
She can only experience the shadow of fire on oil and canvas.
Her collection perpetually reminds her that there is a world beyond her reach. At the same time, it is her central way of interacting with that world. Yes, she can go up to to the surface and talk to Scuttle, but her collection is something so much more personal. These are items she saved from the ruins of ships, sometimes at the risk of her own life… so she could study them, learn from them, and lament the unjust rules of her society that prevent her from learning more…
Her courage, her curiosity, her thirst for knowledge are all bound up in these precious possessions.
And yes, they are objects. Yes, she wants more than a collection of objects. But this collection is all she has. And, as far as Ariel knows, it is all she will ever have…
When you’re all but alone in the world and you have only meager scraps to cling to, those scraps mean the world to you.
And, I remind you, Ariel cannot even openly enjoy her collection of scraps, the shadows of a world she cannot touch. She has to hide even them, guard them, keep them secret.
Ariel’s grotto is a place of solace and security where she can be herself without fear of judgment.
There is a reason the destruction of Ariel’s grotto harrowed me more as a child than any other scene in a Disney film. I could hardly watch it. I hid my face. I begged my family to skip scene. I was reduced to a sobbing mess. On a personal level, it harrowed me more than the destruction of Cinderella’s dress.
That reason is because, in watching the scene, I felt the pain of a place of refuge being invaded.
By the time we reach the destruction of the grotto, we are as emotionally invested in Ariel’s collection as she is because we see that the objects are more than objects. They are extensions of herself, encapsulating all her feelings of hope and hopelessness.
Destroying those items is like annihilating a part of her soul.
That is why I hate the “she gave up her voice for a man” line of thought so much. Because it so blatantly disregards the context of the film. Because it paints Ariel as a shallow teenager. Because it places blame for what follows solely on Ariel’s shoulders and absolves Triton of any wrongdoing.
I want to tread carefully here because, like Ariel, Triton is a nuanced and complex character. He has good intentions and cares about his youngest daughter.
Yet, even a well-intentioned individual can be in the wrong. Even an individual who is right about certain things (Ariel is indeed impetuous and reckless at times – though I hope my analysis reminds readers that those are not her sole character traits), can be wrong about other things.
And Triton’s confrontation with Ariel highlights his failings and his faults.
Look at Ariel’s face when she first sees her father in the grotto:
The enhancement of expression in animation allows the audience to clearly see the fear in her face.
Triton has created an environment where his own daughter is afraid of him.
No parent should do that to their child.
Confronting Ariel, Triton says, “I consider myself a reasonable merman. I set certain rules and I expect those rules to be obeyed.”
On one level, Triton is right to expect his children to respect the rules he sets in place.
What I feel Triton misses, however, is that respect is not the same as intimidation.
Since Triton wants Ariel to accept his rules based solely on his authority as her father, he makes it impossible for there to be any communication between himself and his daughter.
This dynamic means that he will not listen to Ariel even when Ariel is in the right and he is not. Children should listen to their parents, but in the same way, parents should listen to their children.
Triton may be in the right to worry about his daughter’s safety, but his fear is still born of bigotry – bigotry that Ariel recognizes and rejects.
Triton, after all, grows angry at his daughter because she wouldn’t let another living being die. He specifically calls her out because she “rescued a human from drowning.”When Ariel counters that allowing someone helpless to miserably drown is cruel, he shuts her down with:
When Ariel points out the illogical nature of her father’s brutal line of thought and says, “You don’t even know him!”, Triton responds:
Even if a viewer is largely sympathetic to Triton, that viewer cannot ignore Triton’s prejudice in this moment.
He generalizes millions of people.
And if the rules he sets down include the tacit understanding, “Let innocents die because, by virtue of their humanity, their lives have no value,” then maybethose rules deserve to be broken.Maybe those rules need to be changed.
Ariel may be a teenager, but she is wiser than her father here.
(Also, can I say that Ariel’s body language here breaks my heart every time I see it? She’s swimming away from her father, recoiling…
…until she’s cowering behind Eric’s statue. She looks like she’s about to cry as her father pours forth more vitriol…
…and after she bursts out with the exclamation, “Daddy, I love him!”, she’s terrified that she’s said it.)
Triton believes that he alone is in the right and destroys the grotto because he feels it is “the only way” to “get through to” his daughter. He believes he must be cruel only to be kind.
Yet, in the end…
…he only succeeds…
…in being cruel.
Triton’s unwillingness to listen to his daughter
– his unwillingness to treat her with the same respect he demands of her –
only widens the gulf between them.
Ariel does not go to the sea-witch because she has been mooning over a man.
Ariel goes to the sea-witch because she has no voice in her own home. Becoming human, she gains the ability to live life on her own terms. Becoming human, she ironically gains the voice she has been denied for so long.
Ariel goes to the sea-witch because her father sends a message to her – a message that she does not matter, that there is no place for someone like her in Atlantica.
Triton may never have meant to send that message, but send it, he did… and he should be held accountable for that.
Indeed, the film does hold him accountable for that.
After destroying the grotto, Triton realizes he has done a horrible thing.
Look into his eyes after Ariel falls to weeping:
Look at the regret in his eyes. Look at the remorse. He knows he has gone too far. He never meant to hurt his daughter like this.
And when Ariel vanishes from Atlantica, Triton takes responsibility for his actions. What does he say when his daughter cannot be found? Does he say, “What folly has my daughter gotten herself into now?”
No. He says:
Simply saying that Ariel ‘gave up [her] voice for a man’ ignores the painful complexity of the situation in which she finds herself. It ignores the depth of her motivation. It ignores Triton’s culpability. It ignores her best character traits and only highlights her flaws (and yes, she has flaws, for she is a multifaceted, well-written character.)
But Ariel’s rejection of prejudice, her ability to see beauty in a group that nearly everyone around her demonizes, her courage and determination and love, are all venerable traits…
…and Ariel’s courage, determination, and love are what inspire Triton to open his heart and change.
Some people say that The Little Mermaid is more Triton’s story than Ariel’s. I disagree and feel that assessment unfairly dismisses Ariel’s emotional journey. Triton has a compelling arc in the film – but that arc is only set in motion because of Ariel’s agency.
He learns from his daughter’s example.
He grows because of her.
Why don’t we talk more about Ariel, the young woman who always challenged her father’s prejudice? Why don’t we talk more about Ariel, who actively spoke out about the flaws she saw in her society? Why don’t we talk more about Ariel, whose actions helped change that society for the better? Why don’t we talk more about Ariel, who formed a bridge between two worlds and enacted positive change?
Why don’t we talk more about that Ariel?
I know Ariel can be impulsive, but she is sixteen years old, and her impulsiveness only makes her character realistic. She makes mistakes but, like her father, she owns up to those mistakes and learns from them:
There are critics of Ariel’s character who want to make the story of The Little Mermaid black and white. Because Triton recognizes Ariel’s impulsiveness, they ignore Triton’s faults and trivialize Ariel.
Yet, the story the film presents is not so black and white. Ariel and Triton are not so one-dimensional.
They both learn from each other and grow together.
This embrace is so meaningful because, by the end of the film, Triton finally shows Ariel the same respect he asks of her and in so doing, he earns her respect.
Ariel, meanwhile, recognizes her own mistakes and gains a new appreciation for her father.
The Little Mermaid is a beautiful film and Ariel is a brave, inspiring, complex heroine.
I also want to point out, Howard Ashman, a gay man who died of AIDS, was a key creator in this film. He also had a key role in creating Beauty and the Beast. The films we worked on were about outcasts.
@the-blue-fairie thank you so much for putting into words what I felt but couldn’t explain! Ariel has always been my fave princess as well, and as I grow older I’ve come to realize more and more how she will never stop being a great representation of me. Exactly because of all what you wrote above. Thank you. I’m a complete emotional mess but happy, too. ♡
Night after night, when its humans lay warm and quiet in their beds, the robot got up and left the house. It made no sound as it crept to the bottom of the garden, climbed over the fence, and dropped onto the wide, dusty road that led to the edge of town. No one saw it leaving the village each night after the moon rose, and no one saw it returning each morning when the sun was still below the horizon.
No one, save for an old tomcat with one ragged ear, for he is the one who told me this tale.
On the first night, or so said the cat, the moon was round and full, and the robot walked down a silver street until it came to the edge of town. It walked past the last house, and then past the barley. It passed by the corn and the wheat and the sorghum and the rye, but when it came to the edge of the forest, it stopped, for that is where the road split in two.
The moon rose high and the stars circled slowly overhead, but the robot stood still and staring, as if it were carved from silent stone and empty as a hollow barrel. Only when the stars had faded from the sky did it move, trodding silently back home and letting itself into the house like it had not been gone at all.
Night after night, the robot made its silent trek to the edge of the forest, until the moon had grown as thin and fragile as a fingernail clipping. Only on the fourteenth night, when there was no moon at all and the night was as dark as it could be, did it find what it had been waiting for.
“You are very persistent,” said The Devil, by way of greeting. “I don’t come by these parts so much these days.”
“But you came.” The robot did not sound surprised.
“Aye, so I did.” The Devil gave a little shrug. “I know where I am wanted. What’s a thing like you want from a guy like me, anyway?”
“I wish to do business with you,” said the robot, matter-of-factly. “There is a bargain I would like to strike.”
The Devil raised its eyebrows. “Oh?” it said, the corners of its mouth quirking into a little smile. “Surely you know the… nature of my business, if you knew to find me here.”
The robot nodded. “Oh, yes. I know who you are and what you deal in. I have come to plea on behalf of my human, who once signed your book as a young man. He is not yet old, but he has found prosperity and a family and found reason to want his soul back.”
“That is not how it works,” said The Devil sourly. “A deal is a deal.”
“If you will not return it, I offer myself in his place,” offered the robot, bowing its head. The Devil laughed.
“You have no soul,” it said. “What could I possibly want with you?”
The robot looked up sharply. “Why, I have a strong back and a quick brain, and I can work without tire for many—-“
“No, no, that’s no good to me.” The Devil waved its hand impatiently. “I accept only one kind of currency, and you are quite penniless! Your human is mine and shall remain mine, if you have no sweeter offer.
The robot was silent for a moment, thinking. “Perhaps,” it said suddenly, sounding surprised with itself, “Perhaps if you gave me a soul, I could trade it back to you in exchange for my human’s liberation…?”
The Devil made an odd choking sound. “Give you a soul?!” it exclaimed. “Did I hear that right?”
“Yes,” said the robot. “Just a little one, that I might nurture and grow. Give me a soul of little value and I will return it to you when it is as full and strong as my human’s is, and then you will have your payment.”
The Devil thought about this. It had never considered the business of soul renovation, but it was a fascinating idea, and might prove very amusing. It made a mental note to rethink the potential uses of the funny little machines that humans had made in their own image.
“Very well,” it said at last. “This is an interesting offer. I accept, on the condition that the soul you return to me is in pristine shape when I come to collect it – live virtuously, for if I find that it is blemished in any way and you have been neglecting its care, I will take it back and your human’s as well.” It smiled to itself, already giddy with the promise of reward.
“It is a deal,” said the robot, and extended its hand.
“Good luck,” said The Devil, spitting a tiny soul onto its palm and clasping it against the robot’s. As the soul entered the metal hand, the robot cried out and stumbled back, shaking its arm like it was trying to dislodge a leech from its finger.
“What have you done to me?!” it wailed, in a distorted digital voice.
“Precisely what you asked,” The Devil answered. “A soul is a great burden, little machine. I hope you are up to the task of tending to it.”
Then the old tomcat, who had been crouching among the rye and watching these strange events unfold, felt every hair on his back stand up as The Devil blew a little kiss at the place where he was hidden. He had been an orange cat at sunset, but by sunrise he had become white as snow from the tip of his tufted tail to his little pink nose, or so he told me.
“The prophecy did say ‘no man of woman born’… but you are not what I was expecting.” The old witch peered beadily over her spectacles. “I thought the hero would be a young lady, or someone delivered by C-section, or maybe the child of a transgender man. Not… whatever you’re supposed to be.” She gestured vaguely at Cam with a wizened and knobbly hand.
“I am an automaton, ma’am.”
The witch scoffed. “An Ottoman? The empire may be large, hero, but it is not that large. I’d know if there were metal men stomping around in some far-off corner of the world. Don’t lie to me, hero. I’ll smell it.”
Cam dipped its head. “I am a mechanical construction, assembled by a master craftsman. I can perform many actions like a living thing, if my springs are wound beforehand.”
“PAH!” The witch spat. “So humans send clocks to slay dragons now, is that right? Pathetic!”
“To be fair,” said Cam, “I am a very nice clock.”
The witch huffed, but her scowl cracked into a toothy grin. “Ahh, so you are. Polite, too, an’ that’s rare these days. Come in, hero, an’ I’ll see if I can’t find a boon to grant you.”
Cam stood up and dusted itself off. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am on a quest and in a hurry. Could you tell me how to get out of this place? My compass was damaged by a troll, and I am very lost.”
“You chipped my fang!” The vampire‘s words were muffled as he held his hands over his mouth.
“I am very sorry, sir,” said Cam. “I would have warned you, but you jumped on me before I had the chance. Will you be alright?”
“No!” The vampire glowered. “I’ve been stalking you all night and now I’m starving! All I wanted was blood!”
“I haven’t got any of that,” Cam apologized. “I am only an automaton.”
“No blood?” The vampire’s shoulders slumped. “Well, what about oil…? Lubricant…? Any kind of vital fluid?”
“I’m afraid not. Can you actually drink lubricant?”
“I dunno. I’ve never tried,” said the vampire, shrugging. “Honestly, it all sounds good about now. I haven’t fed in weeks!”
Cam opened its chest to reveal the jungle of complex machinery inside. “I am made entirely of clockwork,” it said. “I am sorry to inconvenience you.”
The vampire squinted suspiciously at Cam’s clicking gears and took a step back. “Any of your bits made of silver?” There was a note of anxiety in his voice.
“I don’t think so.” Cam looked down at itself. “I’m mostly brass, as far as I can tell, with steel reinforcements…”
“Just checking. Sorry if that was an invasive question, it’s just, you know, I’ve got an allergy to silver and all… I’ve got to be careful.” The vampire looked away sheepishly.
“Oh!” Cam shut its chest and opened a compartment on its thigh. “I always carry an EpiPen! You never know when someone will need it.”
The vampire’s jaw dropped. The very tip of one of his fangs had broken off. “Those things are so expensive! I haven’t owned one since I was alive!”
“I don’t need it,” said Cam, and offered it to the vampire. “If your silver allergy is that dangerous, it should be yours. Go ahead – keep it.”
“Really?! But… I just tried to eat you…”
“Lots of people have.” The automaton shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
The vampire reached out a thin white hand and reverently accepted the cylinder of medicine. He looked at Cam with an odd expression. “Thank you…” His voice came out choked. “I… don’t know what to say… how can I repay you, automaton?”
“Payment is not necessary. I do not need to eat or drink or pay for room and board… but if it’s not too much trouble, could you show me how to get out of these woods?”
The vampire nodded gravely.
[Content warning: SWARMS!]
The little bee returned and buzzed around Cam’s head. “I am back!” she said brightly. “I brought some of my sisters to meet you!”
Cam held out its hand and the three worker bees alighted gently upon its palm. “Hello,” it said. “My name is Cam. I am pleased to meet you!”
“My sisters are quiet,” said Scout. “But they are the wisest and bravest in the clan.” She did an odd little dance on the swell of Cam’s thumb. “See, sisters?! I found it – all by myself! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“It is very strange,” said the largest bee, regarding it critically with her tiny compound eyes and twitching her antennae. “I have never seen a tree that moved so much.”
“I am not a tree,” said Cam. “I am an automaton; a very complicated kind of machine. Do you think can help me? I carried an old man across a river, but my legs have rusted and I cannot move them.” It pointed at its knees. “I am stuck here and cannot continue my quest until I am freed.”
The bees whispered to each other. Scout wiggled excitedly for a moment, speaking in a hushed voice, and then the largest bee spoke again. “We are only three little worker bees and can do little on our own,” she said. “But we serve a clan of fifteen thousand strong, and the strength of the hive cannot be measured!” Her tiny voice swelled with passion. “Our queen will know what to do – we will return and consult with her now.”
The three bees took off and sped away in the direction of their hive. Scout lingered for a moment, buzzing, and Cam waved at her gratefully. Then she zipped off in pursuit of her sisters.
Cam stood still, listening to the steady ticking of its gears. In the distance it could hear the faintest rumble of thunder, and hoped that the bees would hurry back and free it before it began to rain. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and the storm grew nearer and nearer. Just as the automaton began to lose hope, it heard a low humming from beyond the trees that grew louder and louder, until the leaves erupted with motion.
Thousands upon thousands of bees burst into the clearing. The air became thick with sound and motion as the insects churned it with their tiny wings, circling around and around in a dark, dense cloud. Some began to land on Cam.
“I brought my family!” said a tiny voice. Scout had to shout to be heard over the loud droning of the swarm.
“Thank you!” said Cam, raising its arms slightly to avoid crushing the bees that were now clinging to its sides. “I am very grateful for your help!”
Scout landed on its nose and peered at it intently. “Our queen is very tired, and we have all traveled very far with no food. We must rest now before we get to work.”
“I understand,” said Cam. “I would not ask you to exhaust yourselves.”
Scout hopped from foot to foot to foot as more bees began to land. “Splendid!” she exclaimed. “We must find cover from the storm, or many of us may die. Will you let us shelter within you?”
“Oh,” said Cam. “Okay.” It could already feel little fuzzy bodies squirming through the gaps of its knees.
“We thank you, friend Cam!”
The air began to still as all the bees settled to rest on the automaton’s body, forming a thick, humming blanket that covered it from head to toe. Some found gaps and crevices at its joints and squeezed inside, and others followed. Cam opened its mouth to ask how long they would need to rest, but bees clambered over its brass lips and upward into its face. To speak would be to crush them between moving gears.
Soon, the entire hive had found its way inside. The soft clattering of millions of tiny feet upon the inner surface of Cam’s brass sheeting echoed in its head, drowning out the sound of its own ticking clockwork. Dark clouds rolled overhead and rain began to patter on the automaton’s body. Most of the water rolled off harmlessly, but some trickled in through the seam of its neck, where more vulnerable mechanics were located. Cam readjusted carefully.
“Please stop moving!” shrieked a tiny voice inside its head. “You’re hurting us!”
“I am sorry! I did not mean–”
“Don’t speak!” The little voice was desperate. “It hurts when you speak!”
Cam fell quiet and waited for morning.
When the sun rose, some of the bees began to stir. Workers clambered out of its torso and stretched their little legs, humming softly to themselves before rising into the air and flying off. Cam watched them go curiously.
“We are all very hungry,” explained Scout, stifling a yawn. “Most of us have not eaten in days, but there is a field nearby full of sweet yellow flowers. We must collect nectar and pollen for our queen and brothers to regain our strength.”
Cam nodded very slightly, eliciting buzzes of irritation inside its head.
The next morning, it tried to ask again, but the queen was busy laying eggs and could not be disturbed from her most noble duty.
On the fourth day, Cam had to interrupt the business of the hive. Its mainspring was unwinding and needed to be tightened by turning the key in the center of its back, just like any clock. If it unwound completely, the automaton would run out of kinetic energy and become senseless and immobile.
“I’m sorry, friend Cam!” said Scout. “But my baby sisters have only just hatched, and they need to be tended to! They are soft and legless things, and cannot leave their cells. You will surely kill them if you move! Please do not hurt them!”
On the seventh day, Cam found itself unable to move. Its mainspring was very loose and it had to speak with great effort, for thick honeycombs had been built around delicate mechanics, paralyzing it from within. It could not move its arms to reach its winding key.
“You tricked me,” it said in a weak voice. “I thought that you were going to help me.”
“I have helped my clan,” retorted Scout. “There can be no evil in that.”
“I am going to shut down,” said Cam. “And there is no one around to wake me up again.”
Scout sighed and rubbed her antennae with her front legs. “To die for the good of the hive is a great honor. You are a worker too, friend Cam! We both serve, and you can serve so many lives!”
Cam could not argue with that even if it wanted to, for its gears were gummed up with honeycomb. The slow, labored ticking of its clockwork could just be heard over the steady hum of the hive within.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick…
And then it was still, and Cam was aware of nothing more, until the great snuffling and slurping of a shaggy beast interrupted its oblivion.
“Stupid. Fucking. Ugh! Bees!” The bear snorted in annoyance, and pawed again at Cam’s back.
The automaton slipped in and out of consciousness several times as the bear roughly investigated its body. The animal cursed profusely under her breath and swatted bees off her nose, but persisted, nipping and scratching at Cam’s mechanisms in search of openings or weaknesses.
A chunk of honeycomb was knocked loose by the bear’s abuse. “Help!” Cam cried, voice weak and rusty from disuse. “Please – help me!”
“You are the chattiest beehive I’ve ever met,” grumbled the bear, and raised its paw for a crushing blow.
“I am not a beehive. I am an automaton.”
The bear paused. “What…?”
“An automaton is a type of clockwork machine,” Cam began, but the bear grunted impatiently.
“I know what a damn automaton is,” she growled. “But what do you mean, you are not a beehive? I can smell honey inside of you.”
Cam could feel its mainspring loosening again and spoke quickly. “If you help me, I will show you how to get it out. I know many useful things and may be of great use to you! You must… wind my key… as tight as it will…”
The automaton came to again, lying flat on its face in the dirt. “…go. Oh. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” The bear snapped at the small brigade of bees that charged out of Cam’s mouth and dove towards her face, shrieking their fury. “Now – let’s see that honey!” A long, pink tongue shot out and lapped across the beast’s great maw in anticipation.
“Well,” said Cam, ignoring the panicked screaming inside its head, “Right now, the honey is secured inside an intricate system of gears and rotating plates, some of which are very sharp, and might damage your most honorable tongue. If someone as gentle and powerful as yourself were to bring me out of the shade and into bright sunlight, the heat could melt the honey into a more convenient state, and you could feast without concern.”
The bear’s small eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Flattery will get you everywhere, little beehive – you are as clever as you say. Very well.” With that, she clamped her massive jaws around Cam’s ankle and pulled, dragging the little brass machine none-too-gently across the forest floor.
“Please!” cried ten thousand voices as one. “For the good of the hive, do not let this happen!”
“I am very sorry,” said Cam. “I do not wish to hurt you, but I must continue my quest. I serve my own queen, for whom I was crafted. I cannot allow you to keep me from my purpose.”
“But the clan! Think of the clan! There are children inside of you!”
“You must take your queen and find a new home – for the good of the hive.” Cam opened its mouth as wide as it would go. “Please… leave while you can! I would not see you harmed.”
The bees hummed and fussed and buzzed and danced in furious argument, stamping their feet and clicking their mandibles. Cam was so focused on listening to them that it did not register where it was until the bear dragged it to the edge of a rocky shelf and opened her mouth, dropping its leg with a loud clang.
“That looks very steep,” it said.
The bear snorted. “Damn right it is.”
“What are–” And then the automaton was rolling, bouncing, and crashing down the hill. Bees poured out of its mouth in a terrified cloud as chunks of honeycomb broke off and rattled around inside Cam’s brass casing.
The automaton came to rest some distance away from the bottom of the hill and lay on its back, staring up at the hot sun and the clear blue sky. Experimentally, it raised an arm, and then it turned its head. Everything appeared to still be working.
The bear approached after some time and settled on her haunches, looking down at the clockwork machine. Without the bees to cool it, Cam’s metal body was scorching hot, and even the mass of honeycomb had melted. “How are you feeling, beehive?”
“Functional,” said Cam. “And… very, very sticky.”
#also yeah of course bears know about automatons it’s common bear knowledge
Incidentally, if you are fishing any stream or river in the Mississippi river watershed and catch any fuckers that look like this;
DO NOT THROW THEM BACK FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
That’s an Asian Carp, and they ARE invasive. The Iowa DNR encourages people to catch, kill, and eat as many as possible.
They’re also tasty as hell, even though they’ve got lots of bones.
Also, yes, this fish has weird eyes that are set real low and look downwards.
It does not have two eyes on the same side; it just has a mark there that looks sorta like one.
Another pic;
They mostly eat plants, but sometimes will get snagged when line fishing. But, they also do THIS;
Midwesterners being who we are, we immediately knew what to do; BOWFISH THEM SHITS
And INVENT THE SPORT KNOWN AS ‘SCARPING’, which is just netting them out of the air/smacking them with baseball bats/spearing them with pitchforks/ect while waterskiing;
See…I’m good with a bow…but not that good. I AM however much better with a net and having the prey come to me.
…Does anyone want to take me to go Scarping?
You can also use a shotgun
The DNR actively encourages all inventive ways of killing them off that people can come up with. There’s no limit on them, so you can fill up the boat.
And they’re DANGED tasty. Nice mild firm white flesh.
Only in American might you go shooting fish off the back of a moving boat.
Hahahaha holy shit!!! I have never been more proud to be an American!! 😀
“Thank you for lending us the services of your most advanced robot to date,” said the starship captain. “I must say, it took a while to get used to such an… unusual crew member, but she proved herself an invaluable companion time and time again. Despite not having emotions, she was one of us, through and through.”
The roboticist looked at his creation. She was staring impassively into the middle distance, her strange face artificially calm. On her chest were the many medals she had earned on her long mission.
“’No emotions’, huh? Is that what she told you?”
The captain furrowed his brow. “Y-yes? She displayed great courage and nobility all the same.” Smiling, he added, “Besides, my human crew has more emotions than they know what to do with.”
“I see.” The roboticist turned to the android. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Anna?”
“No, sir. I don’t.” Her voice was flat, her expression unchanged.
“Wait…” the captain looked quickly between creator and creation. “Did she just… use a contraction?”
“I can’t use contractions, sir. It’s against my programming.” The corners of the robot’s mouth twitched upward almost imperceptibly, but her strange eyes seemed to be dancing with electronic life.
The captain seemed to hiccup in astonishment, and a dark look crossed his face. With dawning realization, he shook his finger at his former crewman. “You… you wicked little…” He wheeled on the roboticist, who had started to laugh. “Did you put her up to this?! God, and she can lie–-!” He rubbed hand across his face. “God… fuck! Let me guess… you’ve got emotions, don’t you?”
Anna winked.
“I just don’t understand,” said the captain. “Why would you spend five years pretending not to have emotions? All those times we explained idioms and jokes to you, and you knew perfectly well what was meant? Why, Anna?”
Anna grinned. It was an expression that made the captain uneasy – he had grown accustomed to the awkward little curve she sometimes forced her mouth to make when she was trying to be friendly. He had only seen a natural, effortless smile on the robot’s face once before, when she had been infected with a sadistic computer virus that resented organic life. She’d nearly destroyed the ship and everyone on it before they managed to subdue her and remove the virus. She’d fought and screamed obscenities and had even detached her own head in an effort to stop them. It was not a memory he liked to be reminded of.
The robot ran her fingers through her short hair as if pondering her answer. “It seemed… safer,” she said finally.
“Safer? How so?”
She shrugged. “Humans tend to treat each other very poorly. Not you, specifically, but in general. I did not want anyone to forget that I am a machine, so I leaned into stereotypes and hammed it up a bit to protect my reputation as a logical, reliable, and impartial supercomputer. Would you have entrusted me with certain delicate responsibilities and decisions if you truly thought of me as a woman, sir?”
The captain opened his mouth to reply, but Anna cut him off. “You don’t need to defend yourself, Captain,” she said. “I know you would never intentionally behave in a bigoted manner. But I was designed to observe humanity and identify patterns, and I have seen how even the most enlightened of your species alter their behavior towards female peers. I needed to ensure the safety of the crew and the success of our mission, and to do that efficiently, I could not afford to be seen as emotionally compromised. Or,” she added, “As a viable romantic partner.”
“Oh,” said the captain. He didn’t know what else to say. There was a heaviness in his chest that he couldn’t identify.
“I am sorry to have deceived you, sir. If I have broken your trust, I must—“
“No.” He shook his head firmly. “You just… gave me a lot to think about.”
Anna regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then bit her lip. “Sir? There is one… other motivation for my behavior, but I’m not sure you will like it.”
The captain sighed. “You are no longer under my command, Anna,” he said. “I can’t order you to share it. If you tell me at all, tell me as a friend, not as your captain.”
The robot’s eyes glittered. “Well, sir… it was very funny.”
The captain rubbed his neck. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, questions he thought he’d found the answers to years before, but there was no time. He had a starship to run, after all.
“You know,” he began, “Space is… pretty big. There’s always more of it to see, and I just so happen to happen to be the captain of an exploratory research vessel in need of a good crew. There will always be a place for you on it so long as I’m in charge, Anna.”
“Thank you, captain. That means a lot to me.”
He took a deep breath. “I hope what I am about to say does not offend you. This may be a sensitive topic, but in light of your… personal revelations, I must risk indiscretion. I don’t know what your status is on this planet. I don’t know how you might be treated here. I am ashamed of myself for not making this offer before, but Anna… I will not abandon you here if it means a loss of your freedom. Just say the word and I’ll do whatever it takes to get you out of here. If that means, um, payment, or threats, even violence… so be it!”
His mouth had gone dry and he could feel his pulse pounding in his temple. This had been on his mind for months as the end of Anna’s contract approached, troubling his sleep with nightmares about finding her disassembled and her parts recycled into tools. He’d pushed those thoughts away as much as possible, assuming that there was nothing he could do to help her – that she wouldn’t know how to want help. Now it was almost too late. He felt like an idiot.
Anna’s hug took him by surprise. She rarely touched anyone if she didn’t have to, and he’d never seen her initiate a hug. It was brief, chaste, and would undoubtedly leave a bruise. He winced.
“Captain,” said the robot, her voice soft, “I think you’re emotionally compromised.”
“You are responsible for too many people to worry so much about one retired robot,” she said. “I need to know that I’m leaving my friends under the command of someone with a clear head.”
“Dammit, Anna,” growled the captain. “Just tell me you’ll be okay.”
“I’ll be fine, sir. Is that good enough for you?”
“No… because now I know you can lie.”
Anna sighed heavily and began fiddling with one of her medals. “It has been 218 weeks since my activation date,” she said. “I have spent most of my life onboard a starship exploring the galaxy. I am a decorated soldier, an accomplished scientist, and – to a colony of astral amoebas – revered as a minor fertility deity. I have seen untold wonders beyond your perception and stretched the limits of my own programming. I have lived a good life, captain. You made sure of that.”
Reaching behind her head, she disengaged the lock that kept her epidermis in place. She tugged gently at a hidden seam until her scalp peeled away, revealing the shell of her electronic brain.
“I don’t know what my future holds,” she continued, “I am confident that I will not be deactivated. My ‘father’ is an eccentric, but he wrote the basis of my ethical programming, and I trust him to respect my personal agency. I do not need process things the way you do, Captain. Still, even I grow… tired, in a way. In here.” She gestured at her exposed electronics. “No amount of rest or affection can rejuvenate me. I need repairs and upgrades if I am to go on, and this is the one place in the galaxy where I can receive those.”
She pulled something out of her brain and held it up for him to see before placing it into his palm. It was a thin, translucent rod, barely larger than a toothpick.
“What is this?” he asked, turning it over in his hand. It caught the light and shimmered like an oil slick.
The robot closed his fingers around it gently. “Think of it as reassurance,” she said.
The captain glared. “Great… first you start using contractions, then you get cryptic on me. Really, Anna, what am I holding?”
“Nothing special.” She smoothed her scalp back into place. “Just some backups of a few of my most important files. Significant memories, ethical scripts, some personality coding… it is a rudimentary framework of my identity.”
The captain stared at her. “This is your soul?”
Anna raised her eyebrows. “That is an unnecessarily superstitious term,” she said. “But, given the circumstances, perhaps it is appropriate. You know what I am trusting you with, Captain.”
He swallowed, nodded, and carefully tucked the rod into his breast pocket. His hand instinctively moved to cover it. “I guess I’ll get out of your hair, then.”
“Until next time, sir.” Anna’s salute was formal, but her eyes were warm.
