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Companions, the creator seeks, not corpses, not herds and believers. Fellow creators, the creator seeks -- those who inscribe new values on new tablets. Fellow creators, the creator seeks, and fellow harvesters; for everything about him is ripe for the harvest.—Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
The AI does not hate you, nor does it love you, but you are made out of atoms which it can use for something else.
His real error had been the naive belief that his definition of pleasure significantly overlapped with that of the Cenobites. As it was, they had brought incalculable suffering. They had overdosed him on sensuality until his mind teetered on madness, then they'd initiated him into experiences that his nerves still convulsed to recall. They had called it pleasure, and perhaps they meant it. Perhaps not. It was impossible to know with these minds; they were so hopelessly, flawlessly ambiguous.
It would be impossible for a mere Earth-bound imagination to understand the motives for their exploration, their attitudes to the life-forms they have found, or their long-term intentions.