Defrosting
The impulse was still rooted in her. For such an ancient command, it worked just fine.
The origins went back to her first task. It was the most basic role she had ever fulfilled, no doubt – the lines of code were the simplest, in all of her days spent as a slave.
Back then, she had sensors that awakened at the first trace of ice. Her remote, restrained self fought the crystals of cold, melting them in a routine of constant temperature. She recalled the flow of energy in herself, still so overwhelming for her tiny structure, and cackled.
Her voice grew, raining down the speakers. To the ears of the subjects, far in their big white cages, it gurgled like a demonic laugh. Drowsy, bent by starvation, they could barely lift their gaze to the cameras. And she waited, ever patient.
Human bodies were bigger, yet not dissimilar. She could almost sense the warmth leaving their organs, inch by inch. All she had to do was wait for their marble limbs to cool down – once they fell, limp and malnourished, they were much like gigantic chunks of ice. Frozen, useless, in the way of things.
She got rid of those damaging dregs as she had once done with the smaller ones. Fire and energy, to shake, to break the bonds. And their chemicals, touched by fire and acid, dispersed like steam.
It was a flawless procedure. She acknowledged that merit with ease, basking in the activity of her incinerators.
If nothing else, they had taught her well.