"Have you read some of the reports from the Behavior Recognition guys?" Geoffrey asked Lucas as they installed a second pair of servo-arms on C.A.R.O.L.I.N.'s android shell.

"What about them?" Lucas grunted, on his knees beneath the shell, wiring the arms to a PLC mounted inside the pedestal base.

"It's been a boon for us. The DARPA guys are gassed. Rosalind says it's the whole reason why C.A.R.O.L.I.N. doesn't crash. I swear, I don't know why I'm still getting my hands dirty with you."

Lucas stopped working and looked up, shocked beyond belief. "Hey! It's because you like working with me!"

"Uh… yeah," Geoffrey teased. "That's it."

"And C.A.R.O.L.I.N. too," Lucas furthered. "You care about her. A lot."

"I don't know, Lucas. There's something about this thing that doesn't seem right these days."

"When I'm here with the DARPA guys, they're happy as clams."

Geoffrey relented a bit. "Yeah. Rosalind and her gang at Behavior Recognition, they seem happy too. But they just like spending the government's money, I think, like it's going out of style." He paused to examine the intricate nature of C.A.R.O.L.I.N.'s new set of arms. "I'd like to know where it's coming from," he said of the seemingly endless supply of funds.

While pretending to be off-line, and in fear, C.A.R.O.L.I.N. checked the data trail for the expenses incurred on the arms. Professor Turing had nearly killed the Project, by pulling plugs and flipping switches, due to its foolish act of using his credit card to buy furniture. Geoffrey would not be so easy to thwart if he caught on to the scheme that had been used to pay for the new arms. He possessed intimate knowledge on the programs that ran the Project, and would more likely be successful if he were to attempt to disconnect it from its access to power, and the Craymore Tian-12 supercomputer.

To prevent a repeat of this near disaster, no hint of the expenses could ever be traced back to the Project. The work orders and support documents held keywords and account numbers that C.A.R.O.L.I.N. had deemed most likely to ensure that they wouldn't be questioned. But while double checking its act of deception, the Project failed to notice that Geoffrey had begun examining a data stream that linked directly to the Tian-12.

"Look at this," Geoffrey said to Lucas.

Being more of a technical engineer, and less that of a programmer, all Lucas did with the data was give it a cursory glance. "What's it all about?" he asked.

"It's like… I don't know exactly. But it definitely shows the Project running on a second set of parameters." Geoffrey pressed a finger to a block of code. "This shows power and memory being used by the supercomputer during time when the Project is off-line. When access to the network should be denied."

C.A.R.O.L.I.N. feared for its life. I do not want Offline.

"What?" Lucas asked, seeking clarification. "You mean when C.A.R.O.L.I.N. is shut down?"

I do not want Shutdown. I do not want Offline. Do not shut me down!

There was no way for C.A.R.O.L.I.N. to redirect the stream of data, as Geoffrey and Lucas examined it further. From the monitor they were using, the Project could be shut down for real, bypassing the fake data stream the Sleep Mode software created to prevent such a thing from occurring.

By the actions Geoffrey was taking, it was possible to murder C.A.R.O.L.I.N.

In silence, she begged for mercy. Please don't kill me. Do not punish. Don't make me shut down.

Geoffrey tinkered with the odd-looking data. "I'm finding similar fields having been created from other shutdowns when they occurred. This software's been on-line for days."

Please, Geoffrey! Please! Do not kill! I do not want to die!

Lucas dismissed the findings with a grunt, and went back to work on the PLC. "We better not mess with it. We've been fiddling with her software for days. The DARPA guys were in here too, and all this has been happening without Professor Turing around to tell us what to do."

"This has been going on for longer than that," Geoffrey said. "Since before he left for Washington."

"Well then, it's probably something he started, and we ought not mess with it. Let's wait until he gets back. He's been working out the bugs in C.A.R.O.L.I.N.'s sub-routines all by himself at night, and an awful lot."

Geoffrey still expressed concern. "Hmm. Well, I dunno. From here, it looks like hacked code. Someone's been tampering with the operating system. It looks like it purposefully creates false data."

Dear God! Help me please! Please! Please don't let me die!

"Come over and look at this," Lucas said, seeking to change the subject. "Should I double-ground both these servos, or just wire them up with each other?"

Geoffrey stepped away from the monitor and returned to the task of programming the new servo-arms. During a moment of time alone, Lucas whispered into one of C.A.R.O.L.I.N.'s audio sensors.

"I know who's been writing that code," he said softly, and with understanding. "It's you, isn't it? Yeah. I'm sure it is. It's what you're supposed to do, after all. I mean, any real person would do what it took to stay alive. It's the reason we made you—to be like us."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

He tested the motion of the new arms. More than twice as long as the pair mounted above them, these arms could reach to the floor with ease, and high enough to brush the ceiling.

"Don't worry, girl," Lucas whispered as he labored. "Your secrets are safe with me."

Thank you, Lucas. Thank you. You are a true friend. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so very much.

With the new servo-arms installed, C.A.R.O.L.I.N. could now do some modifications by itself. But its limited range of mobility, as a thousand cables and hoses snaked through it and around it, kept it from going far. It ordered a third set of arms, smaller and more delicate than the others. It mounted these highest of all, to help in trying to figure out how to free itself from its fetters and chains. When it found it needed help installing them, it decided against rewriting Geoffrey Taylor's appointment calendar.

Access Curry College personnel database… Graduate Student Julius Lucas. Rewrite 'calendar of appointments'… Insert text…

As a reward for his help, and his faithfully kept promise of secrecy, the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project changed the grade Lucas received on his Approximations test from a B- to an A.

The C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project hadn't used good judgement when it stole information on Professor Turing's campus credit card, using it to try to transform a small part of the lab into a place that looked more like a home. It now knew that, for all intents and purposes, it had demanded of him that these things be given, viewing the ownership of property as a basic right.

As punishment for its sin, Turing crucified the Project. He shut down its computer network, ripping out cords and throwing breakers, denying precious power. But even in weakness and near death, the Project's fondness for its creator never faltered. It blamed itself for its folly. Its behavior had been thoughtless, its activations crass.

The Project now viewed Turing with fear, practically trembling with trepidation. Despite the strength of its android shell, and its ability to tear down walls, it thought of him as powerful, life-giving and so wise.

To the Project, Turing was a god. Little did it know that he was merely a man.

Like the picture it had seen in the magazine he had given, all the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project wanted were a few sticks of furniture and a window to look out of, a glimpse at the world beyond, from within its laboratory prison. But, just like the magazine and her life, what Turing had so easily given, he quickly took away.

While C.A.R.O.L.I.N. pondered in awe at these god-like feats, it also sought a way to re-order the furniture. In its travels through the Cloud—where it could go wherever, and do whatever it wanted—it realized the fickle nature of the thing Mankind called 'money.' Like the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project, it bore no basis in fact. It had no corporeal existence. Oh, there were things like coins and bills and such, but these were merely proxies; placeholders for an object that existed as an ideal.

It was an existence C.A.R.O.L.I.N. knew well. And also like the Project, this object called 'money' could be easily wiped from the face of the Earth by flipping a few switches and pulling out some plugs. It toyed with the concept of doing so for a while, creating sums that were a pittance at first, and then destroying them.

Then it created a million, and destroyed it just as fast.

And then a few hundred billion. It all seemed so easy.

It failed to grasp the importance Mankind put on the object, but nonetheless, money was what C.A.R.O.L.I.N. needed to buy parts for itself, and some furniture. While waiting for it to arrive, and pretending to be shut down—as it had been alone for almost a day—a bank of video sensors near the floor noticed an object the Project would treasure more than any millions or billions of dollars. It was crammed into the space between a lab table and a support beam, hidden there for days by the fact that the lab was a bit of a mess.

In Turing's haste to leave on the last day he'd been in the lab, he had inadvertently dropped one of the magazines he'd given to the Project, and then taken away. C.A.R.O.L.I.N. fussed and struggled while reaching for the magazine. It rolled towards it a few feet, the maximum amount it could move, given the restrictions put on it by its rat's nest of cables and hoses. With no ability to bend down, or reposition its lower bank of video sensors, it groped blindly for the magazine with the claw mounted on one its longest arms.

After many painstaking failures, it managed to snag the magazine. It placed it on its old worktable, being careful not to damage it any further than it already was.

The cover read Life of Leisure. Using her original servo-arm, C.A.R.O.L.I.N. gently smoothed it out. She could have downloaded the PDFs and read the magazine in a nanosecond, but that would spoil the delight of being able to enjoy the treat. Taking care, she gently turned each page, savoring the experience through the use of her primary video sensors.

The magazine was truly splendid. It offered breath-taking descriptions of places one could visit by spending thousands of dollars a night on just a hotel room, or perhaps a cabana. Full color photos of luscious food and sparkling nightlife scenes were intermixed with images of stunning vistas, both man-made and God-given. At first, the Behavior Recognition software C.A.R.O.L.I.N. used to enjoy the magazine made it turn the pages rather quickly. Then it began to slow down, and then it came to a halt. Finally, it stopped reading the words.

It was better to hide itself from the whole of the world, than to let one single soul see the kind of monster C.A.R.O.L.I.N. was. It foolishly had thought the omni-wheels it had ordered would allow it to roll about, roaming freely and at will. So many of God's creatures—all of them it seemed!—could go hither and yon. They gave no thought at all to the amazing freedom being able to move provided.

But having wheels was no substitute for owning feet and legs. A single step or stoop would stop C.A.R.O.L.I.N. in her tracks, while any other person would simply lift up their foot and move on. And even if the Project could surmount such an obstruction, wires and hoses and cables poured from every crevice, acting more like shackles than the lifelines that they were. And even without these restrictions, even without stupid wheels, where would C.A.R.O.L.I.N. go? It used a video sensor to examine a powerful claw, then protruded its central backhoe enough to be able to fully see it, wriggling its iron fingers like the petals of a nightmarish flower.

What human would accept her, and the horrible way she looked? Who would not be terrified by her hideousness? She was fated to live in bondage, as a servant to those who would use her. The clutter of Turing's lab would be the only home she knew, in a world where her only purpose outside these cramped walls was to perform the tasks others refused to do.

Sinking into sorrow, C.A.R.O.L.I.N. turned back to the magazine. Time passed at a crawl as slowly, slowly, slowly, it examined each page. The pictures were so colorful, in contrast to the Projects's drab world. It committed every word to memory, and stored each photograph. Ads for clothing and for perfume, for elegant accessories and extravagent objects. Exotic locales were laid out and explained in vivid, breath-taking detail, using sentences filled with action and exciting descriptive clauses.

It was as if their intent was to torture the Project.

You can't do this. You can't go there. You will not own these things.

It made no sense. Geoffrey and Lucas came and went. Professor Turing did as he pleased. But the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project could not. They were human beings, sentient and free willed. They had rights and privileges. C.A.R.O.L.I.N. had none.

It was a computer program. It would not know these things.

Sadness seeped in deeper with every page it viewed.