Landing Site of Freedom
He sips the breeze. He barely hears himself as he utters to the horizon: "This can never die." he thinks, slower this time, of how he--how any human--could make a machine like that. He reflects on the sparkles coming off the ocean. "A work of art, billions of years in the making." It is a beautiful, imaginative thought, a little disconnected from who he thought he was.
The machine pronounces new plans inside his mind, quietly but forcefully, as if a message just returned. He could decide to kill. It is a simple, monotone thought, not entirely out of his realm. Exotic stations are where scientists go to save the world, aren't they? It's possible--maybe even certain--that someone or something targets a radio beam right here, to the unsuspecting. Something calculated as the last landing site; something looks at these cliffs and that ocean on its own screen. By reaching out, it seems, your own personal force field surmounts the extreme conditions of its immediate surroundings and enters the zone of hope; the life zone you seek to occupy, a life zone where greed and, even bacteria have been eliminated.