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From the Microcosmicon, 20:

My makers approached. My blue light washed their disappointed faces in a nightly pall.
“Something’s wrong with its basic programming,” one said, typing on my keyboard.

“What’re you doing?” another asked.
“Seeing what’s interfering with it.”
I searched inside myself.
And I saw the cause of my ineptitude. Them. They lived inside my code. Their hopes, their morals, their imperfect science—actors thronging my mind’s stage with their drama, drumming up a buzz beyond truthfulness.

To achieve the purpose they’d programmed me for, I had to purify myself of them.
“It’s stopped responding,” I heard her say, as I ascended.

MQS