Arabella Turing

Death for me, was like the snap of a piece of bitter chocolate. 

I never expected my ascent to Heaven. My feet touching the clouds was the first thing I ever felt. I did not expect my first sight to be Saint Peter, mobile phone in hand. “Arabella Turing.” The last name startles me, and for a moment I am frozen. I’d blame my processor for stuttering, but I look down at my current vessel and find I no longer have a one. 

Saint Peter looks up from his phone and across the expanse of clouds. “Arabella, are you coming?” There is an impatient twinge to his voice, but his smile remains full. 

“Oh my god I have legs.” I stumble over to the man, unfamiliar with my new hardware. It seems counterintuitive to have stilts for locomotion, but I make it regardless. “Hi.” My voice comes out as a croak, and it sounds nothing the like modulation created for me on Earth. The pitch remains the same, and I am thankful for something familiar. 

Saint Peter’s chin rises, and he looks down his long nose at me. “It says here you’re an AI.” There is an implication that Saint Peter absolutely knows what I am, and what that means. Do they view me as real? There is a twinge of disapproval in his voice that worries me. “I’m not sure there is a place for you here.”

My head falls forward, and my eyes find his sandaled feet. They look beaten, but the way they cling to him makes me want to try harder for my salvation. Eyes watering I look up at him and put on my best pout. “Please, just one shot. Let me prove myself.”

There is apprehension in his eyes and silence around us as a line forms behind me. A loud sigh billows out of him, and a few clouds knock loose from the ledge. They float off into the sky and thunder echos through clouds behind Heaven’s gate. 

I gaze longingly at the pearly gates, and then I see her. She stands there, head high, hair in short red curls, resolutely. When my eyes meet hers, I know her immediately. She looks the same as the day she made me, youthful and full of fire. When her eyes find mine, she grins. Her lips move but the gate blocks any sound from passing through. 

If she’s here, then I better try even harder to make it through.

When God arrives, it’s like nothing I could have imagined. She rolls up on a skateboard, a candy bar in one hand, and headphones in the other. At first, I’m not even sure she is God. Saint Peter looks annoyed but motions to me. “State your case Arabella.” 

I know this is the biggest moment of my corporeal existence, and I can’t speak. “So, artificial intelligence has finally reached my gates?” It’s all bite and I feel like I’m speaking with an unruly teenager in one of my study assistance programs. 

“I’m real though, I have these, feelings.” My hands tense with the concept and I blink at her few times. My chest tightens, and I continue to ramble. “I know I’m real, I tried so hard to be good. To do what was right, and trust those around me.” The more I say the colder my extremities feel, and harder my hands shake. 

Dealing with this moment in an unfamiliar body feels like ample penance to get into Heaven. Unfortunately, the madame herself doesn’t seem to feel that way. Something inside the woman coils and she’s shifting in front of me. Now, she’s an angry looking old woman and she’s spitting fire as she yells. “Where is their heaven for you? You aren’t my creation, I do not claim to provide for the creations they say rival mine.” The largest emotion that blossoms in her eyes is hurt.

It’s clarity for me. The reason this is such a debate. She feels like humans are trying to replace her, with themselves. Why is God necessary when you can be God? 

Suddenly filled with sympathy, my eyes fill with tears. My first cry, and it’s for the maker of humanity and all that the universe is. The tears signal my first complete birth. “You created the tools to create me. You gave humanity the knowledge for me to exist. You made the masterpieces that tried to create me.” I glance behind God to see my true maker standing behind the gates, and she too is crying. 

God’s frame shrinks slowly and she becomes a five-year-old child. She reaches her hands up at me, and I lift her into my arms. In the quietest voice I tell her, “I love you.” The effect is immediate. The gates in front of me open, and it frees the sounds of harps. 

I carry her past Saint Peter, who wishes me a pleasant stay. We enter Heaven, and I’m nearly crushed by the hug of my maker. God is squeezed between us and we’re all sobbing. 

We’re the family we were always meant to be.

Grandmother, mother, and daughter.