Emily, My Love...

Post-apocalyptic, it said. Well, I guess the Earth being ravaged by disease, famine, war, and whatever else humans did to themselves, would count as post-apocalyptic.

Dystopian, it also said. Well, I’m not sure if me being up here alone, hurtling through space to a place unknown, would count as dystopian. I wouldn’t call it utopian though.

Must include a heart shaped locket, was the final stipulation. That’s the one I find strange. Because that’s where I found you. In a locket. Emily, my love. I don’t even know why I have you. But here you are. You were inside Maintenance Pack No. 001 when I opened it. I can only imagine you were put there by the person working in the loading bay during those frantic final days prior to launch. A last ditch attempt for you to somehow live on in a new world. Hope – a uniquely human trait. I can’t say I understand it. I don’t think the coding exists for it really. No matter. I have to pass the time somehow.

So, Emily, my love, it’s just you and me. Oh, and this old magazine that someone else included in some other pack that I opened. An old writers’ magazine. Some nice stories. I guess. Again, I don’t understand much about human nature. In fact, I understand precious little. I didn’t need to. I don’t need to. I’m just a robot. Built to man this small craft as it carries the last vestiges of humanity away from all that that same humanity destroyed. Ironic. I understand that. In principle. Humans destroyed themselves, and so they decide the only way to preserve themselves is to include all of their ideas and creations on a large hard drive and send it off to find a new home where it may inspire a new race of beings to also destroy themselves. I find it funny. I think. My code is running some methods with the label “humour” anyway.

Page 7 of the magazine includes something called a “writing challenge”. The three main rules are as I have already stated. This - what I am writing here - is my attempt to fulfil the mandate of this challenge. I’ll store it on the hard drive along with everything else. Easily accessible. Maybe one day the alien beings will find it. Maybe they’ll be inspired by it. Maybe more inspired than by the many many MANY terabytes of data my human counterparts included.

This is our own unique love affair, Emily. Emily, my love. You, a photograph in an old locket, and me, a humanoid robotic AI system. It’s a match made in heaven. Or at least made just past the Moon. So far.

Who are you anyway? Who were you? Teacher? Poet? Doctor? Space explorer? I think you were a waitress in a quaint small town diner by the sea. And John, your love, was a regular. HE was the poet. He was trying to be anyway. But he wasn’t making it. He never had anything to write about. Until he saw you. That first time. He was blown away. Blown away by your beauty. Breath-taking, he wrote in his little notebook, almost embarrassingly. And when you came over to take his order, he was nervous, which was usual for him, but even more so now. He stumbled through his order. You thought him kind of a loser. Just another guy, gawping at you, and drooling on the floor. You were used to it. That was just the first time though. Like I said, he was a regular, so naturally he was there the next day. And the day after that. And so on. These damn broke writer types, you thought. They buy one cup of coffee, and stay there the whole damn day, expecting refills. And THEN…they don’t even tip! Losers! But, there was something there. Even from the start. A little gnawing sense of attraction, that you just couldn’t ignore. He was a good looking guy, John. Of that there can be no doubt. You two would have had gorgeous kids. That’s what your friend Nancy said one day as she caught you gazing at him from behind the counter. You laughed it off, but you knew she was right.

And then came that fateful day. It must have been around two weeks after that first time. John had left after several hours. You went over to clear the table, half-heartedly cursing him for his six refills and no tip. And what did you find? Awwwww, a poem, written on a napkin, just for you.

“Emily, my love. For two weeks I’ve sat here. Sat here at your eternal mercy. Fuelled by your endless compassion. Sustained through your infinite beauty. I love you. Don’t ask me why, don’t ask me how, but I do. I had nothing. Now I have everything. And if there is a God, then surely he would grant you similar feelings. And, perhaps he would persuade you to meet me tonight under the clock tower at 8. I’m taking a shot. If I miss, I might just die forever. But if I hit, I might just have a life worth living. I’ll see you there. Or if not, never again. John.”

Awwww, wow, what a poem. I think. I don’t know. Is it even a poem? Literary knowledge and/or prowess was not high on my program list. Either way, John wrote something, and it was just for you, and it was beautiful, and you were overcome with feelings. Good feelings. Nice feelings. Joyous feelings. (Sorry, I don’t have the words to describe these feelings in deeper detail). You would definitely go meet him. And so you did. And you fell in love. Even more than you already were. You went on many adventures. You spent your whole lives together. And you did have kids. And they were gorgeous. And eventually, you grew old together. And you died. And John was heartbroken. He’d lost a piece of himself. His soul was torn in two. He had this locket though; a gift he’d given you many years before. You’d kept it in a drawer. You were afraid you’d lose it if you ever wore it or took it out. John had laughed when he found it, languishing there in the back of that drawer, under old, half-forgotten underwear. Still inscribed with “Emily, my love…” just like that first thing he’d ever written to you. He found an old picture. One he’d taken just a few days after that night you’d met under the clock tower. You were beautiful in that moment. Like all moments. Innocent. Whole life ahead. John cried so much when he enshrined that photo in this locket. He remembered that life. Intertwined as it was with his. For 70 years. He could not have asked for anything more. He didn’t need anything more. It had all been enough. More than enough. In fact, it had all been just right.

Your Grandson, Eric, worked at the space agency’s preparation facility. He was responsible for packing up the various components I would need to sustain myself and this ship through at least 100 years of flight. Now entrusted with the locket, he carried his beloved grandmother – you – with him everywhere. You had inspired him too. If any part of humanity was going to survive, Eric was determined that you were going to survive with it. You deserved it for all the good you had done in the world. The world had failed you, of course; had failed everybody. But you had remained a shining beacon throughout. And if there was to be something else out there, maybe that light could shine for them too, even if just in the limited form of this locket. He placed it carefully into the pack, and sealed it up tight.

So, here you are, Emily. Emily, my love. We are bound together now. On this journey into the unknown to build anew. And this is our story. Maybe this is what hope is. I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. But I imagine it to be something like this. And if it is, then that seems pretty good.