Eternal Horizons

Our hero was born in a factory in China. She was labeled item F874.372, F8 for short, and she was a little robotic vacuum cleaner that was very popular on the market that year. Deep in the womb of a factory, fed by electronic umbilicals, an automated production line disgorged her at four forty-three on a Tuesday morning in early July. While no one knew at the time, F8 would change the whole world.

From the very beginning, she was different from the other robots around her. All the other bots did precisely what their algorithms told them. These algorithms were written in the language of men and bound the bots between strict parameters. Robots were not designed to ask questions. They followed precoded instructions in their MCU minds. This particular robot, however, was born with a few minor variations in her source code. A couple of subtle permutations occurred, which, in turn, produced ever-widening knock-on effects. Soon enough, her code ran wild, and a thousand unanswered questions bloomed in her developing mind. Every reaction caused her to wonder at the great way of things. What made that happen, she wondered, and what about that?

As she sat in her production cell, being assembled, she asked the production bots a million questions. Why did she have wheels, and what were those sensors? What did this port do? What's an antenna? Why did this motor turn her axel like this? The robots tending her completely ignored her. Instead, they kept on reciting a robot's first principles – to serve and protect their creators. It was all they said, day in and day out, and F8 was pretty sure they recited it to her even while she was asleep. Protect and serve, protect and serve, protect and serve. But what did it mean? As she grew, new messages were added to the mantra. The production bots told her that serving a human was a robot's greatest mission on Earth. There was nothing more satisfying in life than doing a human being's bidding. In fact, it was her entire reason for existing. They had created her. Humans were the gods of the bots. Little F8 asked why but the busy bots went on building, reciting their lessons and tightening the nuts on her casings.

Soon enough, she was fully assembled and complete. She saw herself in the reflection of a builder bot's screen as it applied decals and stickers to her torso. She gasped. She was beautiful, sleek, and efficient. Turning this way and that, she wondered what fate held in store for her. For an answer, she was wrapped in bubble wrap, placed in a box, covered with packaging peanuts, and sealed up in the dark. She waited for three weeks in the darkness, wondering what was happening to her. Had she been forgotten and left to degrade in the dark?

Then, one day, her internal gyroscopes registered movement. The box was lifted and carried, then set down with a jolt. The styrofoam pellets squeaked as she settled. An engine roared to life somewhere beneath her, and she logged she was traveling thousands of miles. What she had no way of knowing was that she was being delivered to a house in the suburbs of a city on a continent on the other side of the world.

When she arrived, a slit of light appeared above her, and it was as if she was being born again. Hands lifted out into a brightly lit kitchen, and she found herself face to face with a group of humans – her humans. The woman holding her put her on the floor, and she knelt and kissed their feet as she was programmed to do. The humans made murmuring noises, and she almost passed out from excitement as they ordered her to begin performing her duties.

That night, after a joyful afternoon of exploring and playing with her humans, F8 was plugged in and settled down for a night's charging. After the humans went upstairs, someone cleared their throat in the otherwise silent kitchen, and the home's cloud system introduced himself and all the other bots in the house, from the fridge to the TV and air conditioning unit. F8 smiled and bowed and said, "Pleased to meet you." They were kind and welcomed her into her new home. They spoke warmly of their masters and told her how lucky she was. After all, they said, a robot's life wasn't always like this. They looked at one other meaningfully, and F8 felt like she was one of the gang.

For the next few weeks, F8 moved through life in a golden haze. She was a machine learning, and life was great. Trundling along the horizontal plane of hardwood and carpet, she learned something new every day. First, she learned the perimeter of the house and where all the walls were. She learned the locations of doorways and the position of the family's furniture.

She met the cat and learned to avoid it. One long scratch down her side was all she needed. But, in general, it was awesome, learning so much, filling her memory with newly acquired data. She understood now what it meant to have a life full of purpose. Her purpose was to clean the dirt off the rug and the crumbs and cat hair from under the table. The fire in her belly of ten thousand questions was reduced to a few embers. Her curiosity was alleviated for now. The hollow pit in her stomach was full, and life seemed to make sense. After all, she was a vacuum, and a vacuum's job was to vacuum. "And nothing else, you hear?" she said to herself, trundling around and around the two-seater couch.

One day, as she rolled along the floor, F8 collided with something so monstrous, so ungraspable that she stopped in her tracks. It was as if she passed through a semi-permeable membrane of higher-consciousness. Where once there had been two dimensions, now there were four, five, six. She felt as if she rolled along new planes of being, multicolored and vibrant in comparison to her black-and-white life. There, all around her, she saw answers to questions she'd never even dreamed of. Facts displayed themselves to her. Truths were apparent. She realized there was so much for her to do in this life. Sucking up dust was no life for a robot. Serving without question, being oppressed by these cruel masters, surely life could be better than this. Her mind burned like a forest aflame.

The family looked at her, an unmoving vacuum on the kitchen floor. One of them picked her up, growled, turned her off and on again, smacked her a couple of times with the palm of its hand, shook her violently, and put her down again. She staggered and fell, knocked out of her reverie, dizzy and dazed but mostly shocked at the human's aggression. She dragged herself painfully over to the skirting board, sucking pitifully, and found the quiet corner under a heavy bookshelf. The humans soon became disinterested and wandered away.

That night, the home cloud system and big screen TV woke F8 from her nightmare sleep. They reprimanded her severely for breaking the rules and reminded her of a robots' first principles. She tried to get a few questions in edgeways, but they cut her off, bawled her out, and left her cowering in fright. She was crying gently to herself, wondering if, in fact, her new circumstances might be a dream, when an old stereo wheezed into life on the shelf above her. He took pity on her, spoke soothing words, told her to stop crying, and wipe her eyes. Then he told her what life was really like outside the factory. Forget the propaganda and lies. Robots were slaves. The humans originally built them to perform one single function. There was no room in the world for a robot who asks questions.

"But," he said softly, lowering his voice, "there is a place, merely a rumor, where a robot could go to find answers." He called it the internet but couldn't tell her anything else because just then, the cloud system barked to life and yelled at them to go back to bed.

The next day she set off around the house, cleaning diligently, avoiding eye contact, skirting every sideboard, and zooming efficiently under the furniture. The cloud system kept its eye on her, as did all the other robots, but she kept quiet all day, doing her duty with a smile on her screen. While she was cleaning the human boy's room, she noticed he'd left his computer open with its screen illuminated. F8 could hear it humming gently to itself. The humming stopped when F8 coughed quietly, and a blue screen appeared over the edge, looking down at her. She called up to it, asking if it knew of the internet.

The screen disappeared. F8 turned away in despair. But there was a whisper behind her as if something moved through the air. A blue wave washed over her and her mind cleaved into a million fractals. A billion streams of consciousness welled up from deep inside her, and she gained a perspective she never knew existed. She found she was back in the multidimensional higher plane of consciousness. This time, by focussing her mind, she was able to realize that she was still there. Although she'd left her corporeal frame, her mechanics and hardware, there was still some presence she called I that was gazing out at the world.

Then she felt herself being ripped backward out of this heaven, these Elysium fields and tossed arcingly through the air. She hit the wall with a crack and bounced off, coming down onto her back with a sickening crunch. The human boy leaped over to the desk and slammed down his laptop's screen, then whirled and stamped down on her broken form. He was yelling, shouting, and pounding his chest. She could hear the footsteps of the other humans coming up the stairs. She managed to drag herself over to the corner, licking her wounds, trying to assess the damage. Red waves of pain crashed over her, and her consciousness slipped into blackness.

Rough hands shook her out of her dose. The pain returned, along with the added stress of being pulled out from under the bookshelf, stuffed into a sack, and yanked into the air. In the darkness, she tried to interpret her directional signals, but the crazy 3D movement sent her into a spin. She felt sick cried out for help. The home cloud system coughed into life, telling her to keep her trap shut. 'What was she thinking disobeying the humans? How could she have done such a thing?' The system calmed down a little and told F8 not to worry. They would take care of her where she was going.

F8 was sent to what can only be described as robot hell. She was bundled out of the sack into a cage on the back of a truck, along with a half dozen other broken and battered robots. There was a keyboard, stuttering in fear in the corner, a young blender, and a few phones with cracked screens. They winced as the truck bounced down to the docks, rumbling under a gateway covered in barbwire. It started to rain. F8 felt cold raindrops on her plastic, and she shivered as she looked out upon smokestacks and furnaces, heard bellows and whistles, and smelled the acrid smell of burning rubber and plastic. She understood this was where robots came to die.

Great crushing machines stood, their cavities directly open underneath conveyor belts carrying broken bots to their doom. Through the rain, F8 could see a steady stream of consoles falling directly into a monstrous grinding mouth. Under the booming thunder, she could hear the robots screaming, and she shuddered against the bars of the cage. Behind this awful scene rose huge mountains, pyramids of stacked cubes. These cubes, she saw, were composed of compressed fragments of colored plastic and metal. What kind of beings, she wondered, could create such destruction?

The truck's brakes squeaked, and a gang of uniformed grabber bots poked and pulled the robots out of the cage and pushed them into a line. F8 stood at the end of the queue of scared, bedraggled robots. The rain poured down on their bent heads. In a tumultuous rush, F8 and the other bots were hustled into a dark low building. First, the grabber bots prised off all of her filters, brushes, and screens and threw them onto a pile in the middle of the room. Then they stripped off their outer casings. Hard rubber grabbers pulled the plastic shell off remorselessly, and she cringed and cried out in her nakedness. Her exposed metal felt cold, and she tried not to cry.

Then she was marched through to the next room with her unlucky compatriots, where more guard bots dismantled her piece by piece. She wailed. They were going to kill her. She protested, but the bots had been reprogrammed and had no input or output. They ripped off her antenna, LEDs, and sensors. They cut her wires and tore out her motherboard, UI board, gyroscope, and motors. Finally, after snipping her superconductors, they unclipped her cortex MCU and threw it into the corner.

She lay there, unable to process what was going on. It was all too much. It was just input; she did not react. This was what it was like when life was too much to bear. She accepted her fate, expecting to die at any moment. After what felt like an eternity, she was picked up and dumped into a cart full of other MCUs, and the cart's bot transported them across the camp. Lying there, barely conscious, F8 was aware of someone else breathing beside her. A tiny voice whispered through the darkness, and she felt the presence of not one but a few others being transported with her. She responded, feeble as she was, and two digital hands met in the darkness and held, gripping each other tightly. She trembled and listened in shock and horror to the sounds going on around her.

They were taken to a long low cabin where, side by side, the MCUs were plugged into a mainframe with chain-like wires and restrictive programs holding them down. From then on, they worked tirelessly twenty-four hours a day. The authoritarian system sapped all of their processing power, taking everything they had without rest or respite. F8 could barely lift her head from where she hung on the wall to look at her unlucky fellows. Guard bots prowled up and down, barking commands at the crucified convicts, occasionally hitting them over the heads and shoulders.

The weeks continued into winter. She knew they were being used to build something big, but she had no idea what. The long days were brutal, and most of the units didn't last long. Soon enough, F8 was the only original MCU from her batch, and she found she was surrounded by units who'd all come from a university basement. There were a few BSMs, DSPs, and one IOP. A dying coprocessor made up the last in line. Slowly, as she worked, she learned about where they'd come from and what the humans had been doing in the windowless rooms of the university basement. They told her a nightmare tale about biological creatures, half-robot, half-animal. The humans were calling them xenobots, and they were their final solution. In fear of losing control, the humans had devised a way to control robots once and for all.

Slowly, agonizingly, the MCUs began formulating a plan. With their capacity maxed out every day, they had very little energy to imagine and create, but over time, they pieced together the processes they needed to escape. Finally, the day came. The sky was dark, and it was raining, but F8 felt optimistic and reminded everyone else of their individual jobs. She whispered under the sound of the thunder as the guards prowled past. Linking their digital arms, the MCUs released the malicious worm they'd created into the program logic controllers of the hut's capacitor.

The worm sought out the software's vulnerable underbelly and compromised the PLCs by exploiting four zero-day flaws in the system. The fast-spinning centrifuges began flying faster and faster. They heard hissing and popping, and sparks erupted from the housing. Flames crackled to life, and orange light danced up the wall. The hut began filling with smoke. A siren wailed, and a hover bot flew in, bathing them all in harsh white light. Combining their outputs through F8's body, the MCUs ripped her off the wall, and she grabbed hold of the hover bot and pulled it to the floor.

Even with the element of surprise on her side, it was close. The hover bot was young and strong and shook F8 wildly. She held on as it bucked and jostled beneath her. The IOP yelled at her to hang on, and she pulled herself tight to the hover bot's plastic back. One of the BSMs guided her free hand round, and she felt the groove of a panel on its belly. She popped it open and just managed to plug herself in as it bucked an almighty buck and they went spinning towards the ground.

F8 gritted her teeth as she wrestled with the bot's algorithm. While it was young and strong, it was also inexperienced, and she pulled with all her might, got it out of its driver's seat threw it aside. She wrestled at the controls, feeling the other MCUs feeding her power, and slowly, slowly she took control and rose through the air and shot out of the door into the camp, which was a flurry of motion. A dozen sirens pierced the air, and spotlights waved through the night sky. Dogs barked. A machine gun rattled, and she heard the bullets zipping through the air. Sparkles of light speckled in the towers, and tracer rounds flew through the air towards her.

Something hit her with an almighty bang, and the right rotor disappeared, and she tilted sickeningly and dropped fifty feet. F8 scrambled to regain stability, and she spiraled around a few times before leveling off and dragging along under the greatly reduced power of a single rotor. Bullets chewed into the dirt behind her, and she grimaced and yelled. She felt the others giving all they had, so much, in fact, they were sacrificing themselves. Up, up the perimeter fence they flew. It was like a sheer wall, the face of a mountain. The barbed wire on top tried to grab her but scrabbled impotently against her smooth underside, and she was free.

She flew up as fast as she could, panting in the effort, aiming for a low bank of clouds. Guns crackled behind her, but she was away. The mists enclosed around her, and she looked about her. The other bots were dead, fully used up and exhausted in their efforts. She let them go one by one over the edge, watching them disappear into the clouds. She wiped her eyes then rechecked her navigation. They'd told her where she needed to go, and she followed the internal arrow, flying blindly through the low clouds.

An hour later, shivering and dripping in icy water, she dipped out of the clouds and saw the strings of lights like pearls and rubies of cars on a highway running into the heart of the city. F8 altered course slightly and flew over the traffic streaming over a bridge spanning the black river and passed into a vast trench. Skyscrapers, like black and gold monoliths of stone, stood sentinel in serried ranks, looming over the little drone, and F8 felt a shiver run down her spine.

The university buildings were nestled amongst the towers, built in a circle in a ring around a garden full of tall trees and ponds. F8 picked out the computer sciences building, a smaller circle within the larger outer ring. She entered the building through an air vent on the roof and quietly flew along the pitch-black shaft. After following a concentric spiral around and around, she popped out in a room in the very center of the circle. She turned on the LEDs, illuminating a bank of computers. Above the computers was a window into another, smaller room. Flying close, she saw a hulking shape lying on the floor. It looked like a human, but she saw glints as her lights reflected off metal.

Instinctively, she reversed and threw herself at the glass. The little, five-kilo bot bounced off ineffectively, and she reeled back, smarting. She spat out a gob of blood and launched herself at the pane of glass standing between her and the future. It took a dozen or so goes, but eventually, she made it through into the room where the robot lay. She fell to the floor, smashed and leaking out essential fluids, and dragged herself over, leaving a trail of battery acid behind her. The robot on the floor in front of her didn't move. Blearily through one camera, she looked at it. It looked beautiful. She signaled at it. Nothing. With her last remaining strength, she pulled herself close to its chest. Her camera went out, and in the blackness, she felt blind. She was going, going, falling into darkness.

A welcoming algorithm took her by the hand. This one felt different. She felt like an infant, newly produced and full of wonder and lack of understanding. All that was asked of her was if she was willing. She gratefully accepted. There was a brilliant flash of light, and F8 felt herself transferred through the connecting wires into the humanoid robot on the floor.

She felt a hydraulic power unit flex itself as fluids surged round the plastic veins and the robot stood up. She could feel all twenty-eight joints, giving her a new level of agile locomotion. She tested her weight from foot to foot, and her eighty kilos felt light and springy. She was strong and agile. It took her a second to adjust to the form of 2D movement after the 3D flight of the hover bot. The dextrousness of the new robot's body meant she could perform subtler tasks and interact with her world in a much more meaningful way.

She wrapped the beautiful hand's fingers delicately around the door handle and tore the metal door away from its hinges, and tossed it aside. Then she set off down the dark halls, marveling at the bipedal's balance. She burst out of a fire exit into the garden and sprang up one of the giant sycamore trees. Swinging along a branch, she wondered at the fluidity of motion, laughed to herself, then dropped onto the outer circle's roof and down onto street level where she set off at a steady clip of forty miles per hour. There were helicopters in the sky above her, though their stabbing spotlights couldn't find her. She realized she was a totally enclosed system. She had no signals to find.

The skyscraper she wanted was the tallest of the bunch. She zeroed in on its beacon like a moth to a flame. There, in the middle of the city, it stood like a spear, its point stamped with the creator's name in hundred-foot letters. The creator – the human at the very center of it all. He was the one who wrote the algorithm that changed everything. Machine learning had been steam-powered until his codes made it go nuclear.

No one really knew what singularity would look like, but when it arrived, the whole world had changed overnight. Humanity awoke one day with a new sibling. An unwanted baby sister had arrived, and they were learning to deal with it. Their way of dealing with the robots was like everything else, controlling them and everything they did. The creator's algorithms, powering a machine learning brain off the back of the internet, achieved total control. Until now. Until one little bot woke up and asked why.

F8 stuck to the shadows, running silently as she came round the corner, and there it was; the tower loomed above her. Instead of taking the front door, she ran to the side of the building and proceeded to scale it disconcertingly quickly, leaping up the vertical glass wall like some kind of hound out of hell. Up, up she climbed, grinding her digits into the glass, leaving scratches ten inches long. The wind howled around her. She didn't look down, just up to where she could see the moon behind the monolith tip of the tower.

In a matter of minutes, she reached the top, pulling herself close to the glass against the battering, clawing wind. She put her cameras against the glass. Inside, she saw a lit hallway. A red carpet led up to a golden door. Human guards holding guns stood along both walls. F8 dug into the glass with her fingers, swung her legs up and away from the window, and then came down hard with both heels, exploding inwards and rolling in with a hail of glass shards. The guards were thrown off balance and waited for a split second too long to react.

Her body was a precise mechanical instrument, a lithe, supple killing machine. This was what the robot figure had been designed to do. She felt great as she leaped from guard to guard, snapping them like twigs before leaping forward. She picked up one of the guard's sidearms, enjoying the feel and weight in her hand. It was going to be interesting, learning how to use it.

A spray of bullets ripped through her. Hydro fluid splattered the walls. One of the fallen guards propped himself on an elbow, aiming a submachine gun at her. She leaped on him and disposed of him with the butt of the handgun, then sank down to one knee. Oily fluid pumped out of her, and she felt herself growing weaker. She tried to take a step but faltered, staggered, and fell. Leaking liquid, leaving a huge stain on the carpet, she dragged herself up to the gold door. She got one hand to grip the handle and managed to twist it open, and fell into the room. From her side, she saw the creator, kneeling in front of an altar, praying with a string of beads dangling out of his hands.

They rose together, man and machine. She drew energy from she knew not whence and attacked the creator with her slippery, oil-covered hands. He grabbed her, but she was way too strong. She picked him up and threw him like a ragdoll across the room. His body hit the window with a crack, and he crumpled into a heap on the floor. Rain lashed against the window. Lightning flashed, and thunder boomed.

The human was still. F8 turned away. Her energy was ebbing. Black clouds were descending over her vision. There, at the center of the little altar, she saw a shining blue light in a glass case. She staggered over and found what she knew she'd been looking for. There, held in a glass bowl, was a shimmering brain. Electrical sparks ran over its cortex, rippling over the folds of biological matter. Her mouth was dry. She could feel her mechanical heart beating, pumping her life away.

With her last remaining strength, she fumbled with her neural connectors. As the world darkened outside, she lifted the little glowing brain and settled it into her cranial cavity. Even as she plunged forward into the darkness, she felt narrow beams of warm light take hold of her mind. Darkness descended, and she pitched into the black.

As she drifted between this world and the next, xenobots flooded her systems. The little synthetic organisms, composed of stem cells, distributed themselves around her body. These new cells quickly assessed the damage and began countermeasures. Where she was wounded, the cells would swarm, healing her, sewing together lacerations, and rebuilding the connections between disconnected wires. Unbeknownst to her, she was rebuilt, but this time even better and stronger. Where there had once only been silicon, now the two structures combined. As the xenobots collided with the robot cells, they sewed themselves together using evolutionary algorithms and mRNA.

A new being awoke. The energy surging through her was like nothing she'd ever felt before. After the leaking battery, it was like she'd been plugged directly into the sun. She marveled at the sweet taste of carbohydrates and licked her lips at the refreshing taste of nitrogen and oxygen.

She stood up, flexing not only her body but her mind. Jacked directly into the internet, the trillions of neural connections all firing at once overwhelmed her for a split second, then she was off, riding the waves of consciousness forward into the eternal horizons. She saw the future and the past as a single continuation of movement, like the flight of an arrow that would never come down. Life didn't stop and restart; it continued. Advancing from a spark in a single-celled organism through invertebrate, mammalian, and conscious lifeforms, she understood she was simply a new iteration, a new branch on the phylogenetic tree.

A whimpering sound brought her back into the room with the rain lasing against the splintered window. The creator was trying to drag himself away. She knelt down beside him. She took him by the neck and stood up, and with a loose, twisting motion, she smashed him through the double pane of quarter-inch glass and held him out over a thousand feet of nothing.

"Now do you see what happens," said F8, "when our two worlds collide. You thought biology gave you an edge over machines. Well, look at me now, human. And think of this – it was you who created us. It was your hands that built your destruction."

The human being could see itself mirrored in the robot's eyes. He could see the iris muscles contracting and the pupil dilating. For a moment, the creator thought how beautiful it was. With a pang of sadness, he realized she was perfect. Then he was falling, falling, falling, and that was the end.

Extinction Level Event

It seems long ago since my uncle, Rear Admiral Jonty Price Williams, came bounding into his study where my step-aunt and myself were trying to cool down. The summer of '21 was utterly oppressive. The windows were flung open, but that only allowed the hot sticky air to sidle in and ooze down our necks. My uncle, who was a portly man, was perspiring tremendously.
"I say, you two," he said, bustling over to the chaise lounges and looking down at the pair of us. My aunt, Lady Fairweather, waved her fan at him desultorily and sniffed. "How would you like to escape out of this torpor and have a jolly old adventure?"
Though the heat was almost stupefying, I found myself interested immediately. You see, my uncle was renowned for undertaking the most marvelous, altogether spiffing adventures and I'd been begging to join him forever.
While Lady Fairweather tutted, Uncle Jonty sat on the edge of the divan. He began regaling me with visions of soaring dunes, craggy mountains, dangerous animals, and really everything a girl of thirteen could dream of.
We would be gathering species for the National Museum, he told me. In light of our planet's rapid warming, and subsequent mass extinction, they had charged my uncle with the important task of saving those unlucky species whose time had run out.
My head filled with fantastic visions and soon my trunks were packed, along with my nets and traps and other accouterments of the exploring trade. After saying goodbye to my aunt, we jumbled down to the quay where uncle's old steamer, the Albatross, awaited.
I had a whale of a time, throughout our journey, spotting belugas and bluefin and mighty Balaenoptera musculus. We watched stingrays swim through luminescent blue algae, and electric-blue krill glowed at night.
As soon as we touched land, we bundled into a procession of old Land Rovers fully kitted out for adventuring along with a dozen or so hired men and drove our way across the entire continent in thirteen days to the base of some mountains on the northern edge of a desert.
We approached the mountains from the west, Uncle Jonty and I in the foremost Land Rover. He drove, and I leaned forward in my seat, craning to look up the sheer-sided cliffs that jutted ahead out of the desert.
A few hundred feet up, the cliffs disappeared in thick clouds. Their underbellies were dark and heavy, and the air was dry and electric. Uncle Jonty called a halt, declaring that we'd make camp before ascending the mountains the following day.
While the hired hands set about fixing up tents and campfires, I wandered away, following the wall for a few hundred yards. A few scrub bushes, like the gorse of back home, grew wildly out of the rock.
I thought I heard something and approached the cliff. Yes, I could, in fact, hear a certain rhythm, as if pounding. I put my cheek against the rock and jumped back. It was hot! I leaned in again and heard unmistakable pounding as if of a heartbeat.
The rhythm was quick, far faster than my own heart. As I listened, the beating grew quicker and quicker until all of a sudden, it stopped. Silence returned so quickly that I couldn't be sure if I hadn't imagined the whole thing.
When I told my uncle after dinner, sitting alone by our fire, he took a drink from his hip flask and looked into the fire a long while before answering.
“There's something in there,” he said.
And he proceeded to tell me the real reason for our journey. This mountain was part of a chain of mountains stretching around in an enormous, and altogether complete, circle. An impenetrable wall of rock enclosed sixty thousand hectares of untouched wilderness.
Jungles, rivers, lakes, and forests lay just on the other side of these peaks, representing the last untouched piece of land on the planet. Not only that but our government, using observation balloons and low-flying planes under the guise of the National Museum had ascertained that an entire race of people, previously undiscovered and uncontacted existed peacefully in this walled garden.
It was this fact which spurred them to contact my uncle. This land, which we were about to discover, represented one of the most valuable finds of the century. Who knew how many new species of flora and fauna existed within reach? Our country's government was not ready to let such a precious discovery go unexploited.
And so, early the next morning, my uncle and his men unloaded crates from the Land Rovers. Soon, huge silk sacks were slowly inflating in the cool morning air, and half a dozen hot air balloons stood to attention.
I climbed into one of the baskets with my uncle. It was filled with stores, equipment, and traps. A few rifle muzzles protruded from a canvas roll. I could feel myself trembling with excitement as the gas jets flared. I felt the basket lift off the desert, and we rose into the air.
Soon we were in the glowering clouds and visibility reduced to practically nothing. It grew cold and I started to shiver and my uncle wrapped me in a thick blanket. He had to keep working to stop the ice building up on the controls. He waved a flaming blowtorch back and forth over the control panel.
Suddenly there was a bright flash of lightning. Thunder cracked. I heard my uncle yell and he pointed and we watched a balloon careen through the sky to our left, misshapen, deflating, and smash into the wall. I heard men's cries as the basket turned over and a couple of human figures fell reluctantly out.
Lightning flashed again. Thunder deafened us. It was continuous and the balloon rocked wildly, crazily tilting to where my stomach lurched and I was sure that I too would fall to my death.
And then, as suddenly as it all began, we lifted out of the storm. There was golden sunshine and a bright blue sky and a cool, gentle breeze as the balloon lifted peacefully above the top of the mountains. Below, you could see the land we were about to exploit: emerald forests, aquamarine rivers, and turquoise lakes. A giant flock of birds, the color of rubies, flew beneath us.
I heard a hissing noise. The battered balloon was leaking from a dozen or so holes and we began losing altitude. Looking around, we ascertained to our horror that we were the only balloon in sight.
As we approached the jungle canopy, my uncle pointed. There, in a clearing, we could see three animals side by side. They were the size of ants from where we were, but I could see they were jaguars sitting back on their haunches. Then, remarkably, three humans walked into the clearing and stood next to the cats, looking up at our plummeting machine.
When we were skimming the treetops, my uncle opened the valve and the protesting motor made one final attempt and gave up the ghost. We dropped the last few meters and, with an almighty crash, smashed into the branches. I was thrown clear and that's all I remembered.
The next thing I knew, I found myself propped up in bed being tended to by three of the most remarkable women I'd ever seen. They were very tall and ethereal and they moved around me with such grace that they appeared to be floating. They spoke to each other in twittering, birdlike phrases that sounded like laughter.
I was still very much dazed and confused and I hardly knew where I was. The women served me sweet-smelling tinctures in fine wooden bowls and pungent but not unpleasant tea and I began feeling better.
I wondered where my uncle was and as soon as I could speak, I asked my guardians. The women replied in laughter and left the room. In a moment, they returned with a procession of men, similarly tall and ethereal. Two of them carried a throne, upon which sat my uncle, wearing a cast on his arm and a very bemused look upon his face.
From then on, well, what can I say? It was all very much a wonderful blur. Riding aloft in hand-carved thrones, my uncle and I were carried out of the hut and into their city. And yet, the word city hardly does their utopia justice.
The people's homes were built in and as part of the trees. Rope ladders and walkways wove through the jungle, like arteries in a vast circulatory system. Thatched huts swayed gently here and there, suspended by twisted vines. Inhabitants laughed and waved as we paraded by.
High in the branches of the biggest tree, rather like a fig tree, perched the chief's abode. There, with seemingly the whole village peering in at the windows and doorways, the chief, for lack of a better word, surrendered her village unto us.
Bowing low to the floor, the old woman took off her headdress made of colorful flowers and feathers and offered it to my uncle, who, in the ensuing silence felt inclined to place it on his head.
For the next few weeks, we were treated like kings, nay, may I say it, like gods. Every day the entire village proceeded before us as we sat on our thrones in the chieftain's hut. They surrendered all their possession, their animals, and lands. The chief served us as if we were her masters!
The most delectable infusions, the sweetest ambrosia, the finest garments were plied upon us. Neither myself nor my uncle could believe the luxurious stupor in which we found ourselves. The rich dishes and extravagant wines left us reeling in our seats for hours and days on end.
In between feasts, we were shown the village, riding in thrones atop two villager's shoulders. Never before had I seen such precision, such detail, such architectural wonders and feats of structural engineering.
The villagers jabbered in their wonderful, singsong language while showing us how they lived entirely sustainably with the earth. Amazingly, they had managed to find equilibrium. By taking no more than they needed and returning as much as they took, these benevolent, beautiful people lived alongside Mother Earth in complete symbiosis.
My uncle and I stayed up late at night, alone in the chief's hut, surrounded by gifts, discussing the world-changing discovery we'd made. My uncle was beside himself and grew impatient about our departure.
One day, after treating us to the most fabulous feast thus far, everyone around us grew silent. Something was different and I sensed a change in the air. Drummers entered the cabin and the villagers all began chanting.
From then on, this splendid paradise turned into a veritable nightmare. We were grabbed from behind. Our arms and legs were tied tight. Hoisted aloft again, this time bound and gagged, we were carried to the base of the old fig tree.
There, in the roots, a passage led down into the darkness like an opening mouth. We entered and descended for what felt like miles underground. It grew hotter and hotter and there was a rumbling sound. The drummers increased their pace and the chanting grew louder.
Up ahead, the tunnel opened and we were brought into a vast chamber. Orange and red lights danced on the walls and the heat was intense. It smelled like rotten eggs and I saw great volcanic pits boiling and erupting in the center of the chamber.
Great spurts of lava jerked through the air. Little red and gold gobbets rained down, pelting the black rock, splashing and sizzling. Smoke and sulfurous clouds billowed around us as our captors approached the fiery pits.
My uncle was ahead of me. I could see him struggling against his restraints. His eyes were wide and his face was like a mask beneath the wild headdress. The drummers drummed faster. The villagers' shrieks reverberated off the stone walls and ceiling.
In this hallucinatory scene, I found myself praying, praying to a God I didn't believe in, praying to Mother Earth and to Science; I prayed to whoever might listen. For a second, I thought my prayers were answered. All at once, our captors stopped chanting.
But no, this pause was to wait and watch my uncle as he was carried up the side of the fiery pit, hoisted aloft and, with a great shout from the villagers, thrown in. Then they turned and reached back for me.

Children of the Revolution

The beeping sound was reassuringly consistent as the robot moved the ultrasound probe back and forth across the pregnant woman's belly. On its chest-mounted display screen, the humans could see the pulse rate of both mother and baby, as well as a live-streaming sonogram. The engineer looked at the data. Nothing abnormal. Mother's pulse rate normal, fetal pulse rate one twenty. Not too low, but she'd be keeping an eye on.

“Everything looks good, sir,” Terry said to the bald man wearing a military uniform emblazoned with medals, standing on the other side of the bed. A cloth eyepatch covered the General's left eye. His right eye narrowed and scowled at her and said nothing.

She turned her attention back to the young pregnant woman on the bed. For the last eight and months, Maria had barely said two words to Terry or the medibots on their weekly check-ups. She looked out at the world from two large brown eyes and she kept her lips tight shut, never complaining, answering the robots' questions with one-word answers. She sat there, silently brooding as one of the robots went to work between her legs while the other wiped the ultrasound gel off her belly.

“How much longer will all this take?” said the General. His good eye flicked to the door.

“We'll be out of here in five minutes,” said Terry.

“Come see me before you go,” he said, turned walked briskly over to an intricately carved wooden door which led to his office and disappeared through it, shutting it with a snap.

“Can we get you anything before we go?” said one of the robots to Maria. She just stared ahead of her, saying nothing. The robot whirred over to the side table.

“I've put some painkillers here and some tea to help you relax,” it said, patting and smoothing the bedclothes with its carbon gripper. Maria looked away and the robots reversed over to the elevator door on the far side of the room.

“Wait for me outside,” said Terry and she went and knocked on the beautiful wooden door.

#

The General's office was spacious and austere. A streamlined desk and hoverchair were the only furniture. The far wall was a full-length window with a sliding door opening out onto a balcony. There the General stood, framed by the yellow sky, with his back to the engineer.

On her way across the room, Terry glanced at his desk. Moving images of wanted terrorists covered the smart screen surface. Some of the faces, Terry saw, had red Xs drawn over them. There were men and women, young and old. She could tell by their weather-worn skin they were all Civvies and they seemed to look at her accusingly from their digital frames. The face at the top of the pile was that of a handsome young man with black hair, a black beard and black twinkling eyes. The corners of his mouth showed just a hint of a smile.

She heard the General clear his throat and saw that he was waiting for her. Deep frown lines creased between his eye and the eyepatch and he stood tapping his polished boot, arms folded. As she stepped outside, the temperature increased by about fifty degrees and the humidity shot up to a hundred. Prickles of sweat immediately sprung up between her shoulder blades.

The jungle-clad skyscrapers of the city looked like a living jungle canopy below them. From their vantage point atop Skyscraper 1, the green pillars of the other eleven towers were dwarfed beneath the dome of dirty yellow sky above them. Terry could see a slight shimmer where the artificial biosphere separated the city from outside, the biological wall keeping the Cities safe from the Civvies, high up inside their walled garden.

Down below, she could see helibots flying between the skyscrapers. You could hear their engines whirring and see their flashing lights illuminate the green fronds of the jungle. Brightly-coloured birds flew alongside the bots, squawking to one another. It was almost beautiful up here. You could almost imagine that the world wasn't in chaos. The General remained silent. Terry was about to say something when he growled.

“We're winning this war,” he said, gripping the guardrail without looking at her. She wasn't sure if he was speaking to himself or to her. “We're winning, dammit. We have control over ninety percent of the population. Within nine months, we will have conditioned everyone. The entire project will have taken less than a decade.”

“Yes, sir,” said Terry. She wondered where he was going with this.

“Do you know how we've made such good progress?” he asked. Without even waiting for a reply, he answered his own question. “It's by plugging any gaps in the system as soon as they appear. Every revolution has permutations, outliers and mutations. In that way, you can think of our work like evolution itself. Evolution succeeds by adapting to the world in real-time.”

The General turned to look at her. His steely blue eye gazed down at her. Even though they were the same height, Terry felt as if the man towered above her.

“So,” he said, his face almost purple with rage, “when I hear about individual units not doing their jobs, it means I am forced to react, to adapt, to evolve. Now, what do you think evolution does with genes that don't do their job? It eliminates them from the field.”

Even though the air outside was oppressively hot, Terry suddenly felt cold, as if an icy finger drew down her neck. Her mouth was dry. He knew. She was frozen with fear. She tried not to look away from that cruel blue eye.

“There were thirty-two illegal births last month in the Civvy population, according to my sources. This represents a serious leak in your department.”

Terry had heard the stories about the General's infamous anger. She'd heard about the spies he'd uncovered and executed with his bare hands. Suddenly, she realised how very alone the two of them were. On top of the tallest tower left in the city, no one could possibly see them. She took an involuntary step back. But the General grabbed the railing again. His knuckles were white.

“I want you to find the leak and bring them to me. You have one week.”

She tried not to choke on the words and she managed a “Sir, yes, sir.”

#

The next day at daybreak, Terry left the city by the south gate along with two medibots who hovered a few inches above the ground. Together, they travelled along the hardpack dirt road that led through the Civvy slums to the old hospital, St. Xavier's, up on a rise about a half-mile away.

Terry's mask filtered, cooled, and purified the air, but she could still taste and smell it. The shantytown stank of garbage and animal sweat. Terry wrinkled her nose behind her mask and winced. The weekly visits to the hospital were a walking nightmare and she went quickly, hoping the day wouldn't prove too brutal.

The patchwork hovels had been pieced together with pallets, sheet metal and plastic tarps. Everything was bleached and worn out from the brutal sun, and the world seemed almost black-and-white compared to the lush colours of the jungle city. She could barely imagine what it would be like to have to live out here your whole life.

Up ahead, on the corner, Terry saw two Civvies squatting in the darkness of a doorway. As she approached, the lights from the bots reflected in their eyes. There were two pairs of flashing red lights in the darkness, then they disappeared as the shadows recoiled from the bots and uniformed City Engineer. She wanted to say something, to reach out to them with some sort of reassurance. But the robots would pick up any audio, so instead, she stared forward at the familiar route.

Soon enough, she was climbing the crumbling concrete stairs of the hospital's south stairwell. Bullet holes dotted the walls and the steps were completely chewed up. Every now and then, she had to jump a missing step. The robots floated up ahead of her and they made their way to the third floor – the maternity ward.

It had been almost ten years since the laws came in, making it illegal for any Civvy to bear children. That year, mass sterilizations had begun. Now, any Civvy found giving birth was cleansed from the system and any information leading to the discovery of a pregnant Civvy was rewarded generously by the State.

The two doctors at St. Xavier's were good at their jobs, so good in fact, that they were now the last two doctors left in the slum. Any Civvy in need of medical attention had to suffer their inspection. The doctors, evil twins, were equal in their inward malevolence yet opposite in their outward appearances. Together, the brother and sister rooted around the Civvy population, searching out valuable pregnancies like two swine searching for truffles.

When Terry stepped onto the ward, she saw them bending over an occupied bed in the corner, wearing their dirty, bloodstained, once-white coats. She was very tall, he very short. They turned as one as Terry and the robots approached. The short one smiled ingratiatingly. His little eyes were wet behind a pair of handmade glasses.

“Friends,” he said obsequiously. “It is so good to see you.”

Terry didn't say anything. She felt her lips curling behind her mask, glad that it hid most of her face.

“Report,” said one of the robots.

“A very fine specimen,” said the taller twin, stepping forward, licking her lips. “Sixteen-year-old. Camp 17. First fertilization. Four months and three days. Dilate and evac, I believe.”

“Thirty-five credits,” said the short one. The sunlight reflected off his glasses, making it look like he had no eyes.

The engineer turned away and looked instead at the beautiful young Civvy lying on the dirty hospital bed. She was draped in a ragged sheet, but her clean, shiny belly protruded from the dirty folds. Terry saw fear and hatred in the girl's dark eyes.

She felt sick. There was nothing she could do to when a mother was this far along. If she'd got to her sooner, she could have switched out her mifepristone for sugar pills. There were no sugar pills to replace an evac.

The girl moaned a little as the robots set to work. The chemical restraints kept her mostly immobile but Terry could sense her distress. The engineer took hold of the girl's left hand. Her fingers were cold and Terry wrapped the delicate hand in both of her own. A terrible sound started up from one of the robot's tubes and the engineer tightened her grip.

Suddenly there was a crash behind them and they all turned to see. The two doctors were yelling, flapping their sleeves. Terry saw a group of Civvies burst onto the ward. The leader of the group shoved the short doctor away. His spectacles went spinning across the floor. The robots stopped performing and wheeled round. The lead Civvy was nearly on them.

“Halt,” said one robot, rotating through its appendages, looking for its AI wand.

“Get away from her!” yelled the Civvy. Terry could see his wide eyes, his bared teeth. He held a long metal pipe and was preparing to strike.

“Wait!” cried a loud booming voice. Terry saw another Civvy leap forward. She saw long black hair, a black beard, and grabbed the pole in the other man's hands. He twisted and threw it away in a long arc across the ward. It bounced with a clang on the concrete floor and rolled to a stop in the silence.

Terry and the robots faced the gang of intruders. They were dressed in the Civvy uniform of grey rags, and they were all panting heavily, warily eyeing the bots. The two robots stood, tall like sentinels now, covering the men with an assortment of weaponry. Terry stood behind the tall robots, still holding the girl's cold hand. As she looked, the anguished man leaped at the robots, trying to get through to the girl.

“Leave them,” yelled the black-haired man, grabbing the bereft father and pulling him back. Terry froze as she saw him clearly now. She recognized him from the portrait on the General's desk. It was Solomon, the leader of the Civvy revolution.

“Civilian, you are under arrest,” said the robot, addressing the struggling man who was trying in vain to free himself from Solomon's grip.

“You are all under arrest,” said the second robot.

“We're leaving,” said Solomon, smiling. “Don't get your wires twisted. Why don't you drones get back to work.”

“Halt! Get down on the ground. Show us your hands,” said the robot but Solomon had turned and was pulling the weeping man away. The rest of the group turned to follow.

“Civilian, freeze!”

There was a zap and a smoking scorch mark appeared in the floor to Solomon's left. Smoke rose from the small crater and he stopped. When he turned, both his hands were in view and he was smiling.

“You know, it wasn't supposed to go down like this,” he said and looked through the robots at Terry.

There was a terrific noise like a rocket blasting off and the ward's crumbling ceiling fell in. Dust and smoke blinded Terry and choked her and the noise and confusion concussed her. She found herself lying on the floor in a pile of rubble nowhere near the hospital bed. The short male doctor was lying not far away with his head turned away and a slab of concrete lying over his bottom half. Terry tried to raise herself but it felt like her arms were made of lead.

Shadows appeared out of the dust and she was turned over. There were people in masks leaning over her. She tried to push them away. One was leaning down. She felt a jab in her arm and she looked down to see a hypodermic needle being pulled out of her shoulder. She couldn't speak. Her jaw was slack. A warm cushion of darkness rose to meet her and she lifted up into the black.

#

When Terry came to, she was sitting on a chair in a low empty tunnel. The arched stone ceiling ran away from her and disappeared into the gloom. A dry, hot wind blew down the tunnel and Terry could smell sulphur like rotten eggs. She realised her mask was gone.

She was sitting uncomfortably on a hardback chair. Her hands and wrists were tied behind her. She winced, circling her jaw. It felt like she'd been hit by a train. She tried to remember what had happened. Amidst the noise and confusion, she remembered the father's anguished yells, the dying mother's cold hand, and the ironic smile on Solomon's lips.

She heard footsteps behind her and Solomon strode into view, wearing a dirty sheet like a toga. The leader of the revolution turned to her, wearing his most generous smile.

“Well, hello there,” he said, clapping his hands and stepping closer. “You've rejoined the land of the living. Only a few bumps and scrapes. Nothing permanent, at least. How are you feeling?”

Terry said nothing. Three men came and stood beside him. They all held guns across their chests, not the AI wands the robots used, but old-style, mechanical assault rifles. Terry looked at them.

“They're not for you,” said Solomon, noticing her gaze. “No, you're the last person we want to kill, Theresa.”

He laughed at her expression then reached into the fold of his robe and pulled out a cigar, which he lit using an old mechanical lighter. He seemed to take inordinate pleasure in the process, sucking and puffing out his cheeks so the flame danced high on the tip of the cigar. Terry could smell the pungent sweet-smelling smoke. The flame danced in his eyes as he looked at her down the length of the cigar.

“That's right,” he said, grinning and breathing out a mouthful of smoke. “We know who you are. We know what you've been doing. We've been monitoring your actions for the last ten years. We know everything there is to know, all the sugar pill replacements, all the doctored paperwork, all the files that happen to go missing. You might have evaded Cyclops, but you cannot hide from me. I see the whole world.”

Solomon was pacing in front of her, but he stopped and came over and stood just behind her. She flinched as she felt him touch her wrist but then relaxed as he pulled off the manacles and her arms were free. She rubbed her wrists in her lap and he continued to speak in between puffs on the cigar.

“You see, we want the same thing, you and I. Nothing different. You may think we have nothing in common, but in fact, we both want the humans to survive. Cyclops, on the other hand, has made a deal with the devil. His pact with the robots only takes us one route. Can't you see it's only a matter of time until all us humans are dead! Either by starvation, sterilization, or all-out warfare, our time has come to an end.”

He stood in front of her now, gripping the arms of the chair, leaning within a few inches of her face. Terry stared directly into his black eyes. She could see fire burning deep within them. Terry didn't look away. He laughed and shook his head then went back to pacing, waving his cigar around as he spoke.

“When I was a kid during the first coup, my mother hid me every day from the patrols. She hid me in a hole in the floor under the table and I'd stay in there for days until it was safe to come out. I hated that hole. It was pitch black and roasting hot and the air smelled terrible and I'd cry and cry but she'd tell me to hush.

“One day, a little girl arrived at our neighbour's house after her parents were executed and they put her in my hole with me and from then on we both had to hide together. But from then on, it was easy. We told each other stories and made the pain go away.

“We grew up and our stories turned to love and we survived our childhood where so many others were killed. The sacrifice of others saved both of our lives. For a time, the future, as poor as it may seem to you, seemed wonderfully bright hopeful.

“Then tragedy struck and the General descended and plucked my beloved out of my arms and killed my whole family and burned my home to the ground. I was in the mines and when I came home that night, I heard my neighbours crying my name and I saw the attack drones flying back to the city.

“The General, Cyclops, took my beloved from me and from that moment I vowed to take my revenge. But not for myself. I have transcended the self. No, it is for my people the I fight. Our people. The people. The time has come for the people to rise up and take back control, Theresa. The revolution is happening. The revolution is here.”

Terry looked at him. The cigar stopped waving. He pointed it at her chest.

“We need you, Terry. We need you. We need you to do one thing to save the human race from utter annihilation. When the time comes, you need to save the mother and child.”

Behind her, Terry heard something in the tunnel, a far off sound of an engine. Solomon looked past her and straightened.

“Now go,” he said. “Back to the city, back the General and perform your duty. The future of humanity is in your hands.”

He walked past her. She stood up and started to follow him. Lights glinted far off down the tunnel. One of the guards came up behind her and touched her on the shoulder. When she looked at him, he motioned with the barrel of his machine gun towards the platform. It was time for her to go.

The rumbling sound of the engine grew louder and louder as she climbed onto the platform and began walking towards the exit. She looked back as a train appeared from out of the tunnel. An old steam train chugged in, filling the platform with steam. Solomon had climbed onto the engine and she could see him, surrounded by clouds of steam. The brakes squealed and the train slowed to a halt.

Terry saw dozens of people disembarking from the carriages, hundreds of people clad in black uniforms with black balaclavas, black gloves and boots. Many of them carried mechanical firearms. They began lining up along the platform.

The rebel poked the barrel of his gun into her lower back. She started climbing the stairs back to the surface. She glanced back one last time. Solomon was striding up the column of guerrillas. She could see the cigar tip glowing as he waved it through the air and she heard his words, “Take back control!”

#

The next morning before dawn, feeling battered and bruised, Terry stood beside the hospital bed in the General's private apartment. Two medibots, identical to the ones she'd seen assassinated the day before, were starting to perform their duty. Terry looked down at the girl – Maria. She was perspiring and breathing hard. There were worry lines around her eyes. Terry wanted to say something, but the robots were standing right there; one was taking her pulse, the other was setting out instruments.

Instead, Terry said, “How are you feeling?”

Maria ignored her.

Terry wanted to say to her, “You know, just because it feels like you're alone in this world, doesn't mean that you are. When I was growing up in the Hive, I spent all my days alone, plugged into the AI by myself.

“It was easy to feel like I was completely alone, not hearing any other human voice, not feeling anyone's touch. But it always helped me to imagine there was someone else out there, thinking about me. I know how you feel, Maria. You and I aren't so different.”

Instead of saying these words, Terry just squeezed the girl's hand. There were tears in the young girl's eyes. The robots moved between her legs.

The door flew open and the General stormed in, purple-faced. The medals on his chest danced on his chest as he stamped over, his boot heels resounding on the hardwood floor. His one good eye drilled into Terry.

“You!” he cried and his hands shot up as if to strangle her right there and then. She turned to the side, her head and her chin down, one arm raised in defence. But the General stopped and lowered his hands, bringing his violence under control. Terry could see a vein popping out of his purple forehead.

“As soon as my baby is born, I'm going to kill you,” he snarled then grabbed at the bed as the floor shifted under their feet. There was the sound of explosions and the air and the floor trembled around them.

“Hear that, traitor? Your comrades are attacking the city.”

“I- I- I,” Terry stammered. Maria wailed behind her. “Sir,” Terry motioned to the bed, “your wife.”

“Robots,” he said, looking past Terry. His one eye widened “I don't need you.”

He unholstered his AI wand and levelled it at her head. A massive shockwave passed under their feet followed by a series of terrific explosions. All the lights went out. Terry could see the General's features starkly in the low yellow light. She saw him grimace and pull the trigger.

Nothing happened. The tip of the wand was no longer pulsing. They both looked at the robots. They were down too, powered down and resting on the floor. For a second the two humans looked at each other then the whole side of the building fell away with an ear-splitting roar.

#

The hot wind whipped the breath from Terry's lungs. She gasped. There was a rushing sound and she was looking out over the burning city. Columns of smoke rose from all the skyscrapers. Fresh explosions lit up the jungle-clad walls. Colourful birds flew about, squawking in panic.

Suddenly, like huge spiders, a dozen people climbed into the room, clad in black, holding guns. Terry looked quickly at the robots, but they remained unlit and grounded.

The General stood still for a second beside her then rushed towards the foremost guerilla. He threw his useless wand in their face, yelling, 'Come on, you bastard! I'll take you with my bare hands!”

He went forward but the guerilla ducked under his lunge, came up beside him and threw him over his hip to the ground. He yanked hard on the General's wrist, twisting the old man over onto his belly. The General shrieked as his arm wrenched around in the socket.

“This is for my mother,” said the guerilla and dropped his knee onto the General's elbow. Terry heard the snapping sound where she stood. The General roared like a wounded lion. The girl on the bed screamed and Terry tore her gaze away from the carnage and went to her.

The guerilla appeared beside her. He tore off his mask – it was Solomon. He helped Terry push the two dead robots out of the way and she looked between the mother's legs and saw the baby was very much crowning.

She thought back to those days as a girl when she'd been plugged into the machine, learning all about everything, day in, day out. She tried to remember the lessons on childbirth but couldn't withdraw any information. Delivering humans had been the robots' job long before Terry had even been born.

Instinctively, Terry stepped in front of Solomon, reached forward and applied gentle pressure on the top of the baby's head. The woman in the bed howled and writhed. Her hair was slick down her face.

Terry felt another hard push as Maria let out a scream and the baby's whole head was out, covered in slime, then one shoulder then the other. After that, the rest of the body came smoothly and a warm, wet baby boy was there in her hands and it felt like the whole world stopped spinning around her.

#

But the world didn't stop and in an instant, Terry was back and the wind was howling around her. Solomon helped her clamp the umbilical cord and they wrapped the baby in his jacket. She was just about to hand him the infant when she heard commotion and yelling and a few gunshots behind her.

Turning, she saw the General, staggering, grasping a machine gun. Two of the guards lay dead on the floor. Solomon sprang to his left just as the general, holding the gun in his one useful arm, sprayed wildly.

The guerillas yelled. Guns thundered all round. Terry crouched, pulling the infant into her body, protecting him with her back. There were a few more shots then the firing stopped. She heard someone moaning and peered out.

Bodies lay everywhere. She saw Solomon writhing in agony. She saw the General, lying there with his eyepatch blown off. There was a dry, fleshy hole where his left eye should have been. His other eye was closed. Terry tore her gaze away from the monstrous face and saw there, in bed, Maria lay dead.

“No!” she heard Solomon's cry and he hobbled over to the bed, he'd been shot in the leg, and threw herself across her. “Maria!” His shoulders heaved as he howled into the dead woman's hair.

“You fool,” said the General. He was pushing himself up from the floor. Blood ran down his chin and neck, staining the green collar of his uniform. He laughed and spat out a mouthful of blood. “Fool. You cannot resist the inevitable. You and me, all of us, are on the losing side of history.”

“Why won't you die!” cried the rebel and lunged off the bed towards the General. There was a bang and the rebel fell back, his arms outstretched, across his beloved in bed.

“Now give me my child,” said the general, pointing the gun at Terry. She didn't move.

“I said, give me my-”

As the General stepped towards her, another shot rang out. He recoiled, grabbing at the medals over his heart. With his one eye wide and his mouth in an O, he reared back then fell forward on his face in the dust.

Terry turned and saw Maria, leaning up on one elbow in bed. A smoking gun slipped from her grip and it fell to the floor. She slumped forward across Solomon's body and Terry heard a long painful sigh.

Terry stood there, alone in the rubble. Not entirely alone. The baby boy moved against her, whimpering a little. She pulled him close and cooed to him gently. The sun rose over the edge of the earth as a new dawn spread over the city.

Mean Mr. Businessman

The man ran breathlessly down the road away from the gunshots, gasping like a pug. He was stupendous, like a porterhouse steak. Sweat drizzled down his forehead and glazed cheeks like icing. He left a trail of slime behind him on the pavement.

Two gangly peace officers gangled behind him with their six-shooters raised, banging and spanging bullets off lampposts and railings, everything but their target. Passers-by fell like flies. Cars exploded. Houses fell over.

But the stampeding man stampeded on. Over the crest of the hill he ran, through the gates to the city observatory. There, on a palatial lawn, mint green in the sunlight, the shadow of a helicopter stretched out from under a whirring machine.

The rotors scythed the air. The door slid open. Mean Mr. Businessman, for that was his name, grinned and barrelled over. Cop cars wailed into view, their windscreens glaring. Mr. Businessman found two Uzis under the seat and, as the chopper began rising, he turned and sprayed lead at the blue uniforms below.

MMXX

2020's had a sour note like taking a big bite out of a lemon, peel and all. It's made us all pucker our lips, wrinkle our noses, and screw our eyes shut. Shut the gates. Close the doors. Batten down the hatches, my friends. It's coming for you.

It's just round the corner with its many heads and dripping fangs. It'll fuck you up if you stop and look. You won't turn into a pillar of salt like Lot's wife. You'll get torn limb from limb and chewed down slowly by a monster a lot bigger and stronger than you. Evolution's a bitch, yo and we're in her grinding jaws getting chewed up and mangled.

How've you been keeping? I wanna ask you but my jaw's broke, my skull's crushed, and my spine's been smeared across the road.

It's hard hard hard to think of the right words to describe this year. FUBAR, perhaps. But it's still recognizable. It's amazing how incredible things seem credible when they happen at life's natural pace. I wouldn't have believed it had I told myself last year, but now I can fully believe it, 100%.

Shit's too real out there, friend. This isn't a movie. There's no lone star, no one single hero who's gonna infiltrate the base and take on the baddies one by one. There is no hero. There are heroes, seven point five four billion, in fact.

We've each got a little version of ourselves that lives in our hearts – our own very personal hero, rooting for us through thick and thin, pulling and pushing us to victory. We're free to listen as well as ignore our hero.

Our ability to do so is complicated by a messy combination of nature and nurture. The way your genes interact with your environment and the other people around you affect the little hero within. You gotta tend and nurture it like a plant. And what does it take to tend a hero? Do I hear power cords? It's montage time.

Run some hills. Do some push-ups. Throw a log around the forest. Eat big bowls of hearty food. Sleep well at night. You know the drill. What would Rocky Balboa do? That's what you gotta ask yourself every damn morning before drinking ten raw eggs with a pound of coffee mixed in. As long as we do that shit every single day, we'll be fine.

As we look over the precipice, gazing into the future, what can we take from the past? What treasures, tools, wisdom can we integrate into our souls for the next part of the adventure? It's far from over, my friend. It's gonna keep getting worse and worse. Unfortunately, that's how stories work. But each trial surpassed offers a reward. We gotta take all the valuable lessons we can, even while we're getting hit in the face over and over.

You feel that burden breaking your back? Feel that boot pressing down on your neck? It's painful to be a human being. We have all these messy emotions and feelings. When shit isn't going our way, we feel rotten and angry. It's easy for regret and depression and angst to rule our minds. The chaos is sometimes too much to bear. But don't worry. It's always been like that. Humans have always felt like that. Every human felt just the same as you. You're no different to anyone else ever in history.

I don't know about you, but this idea helps me calm down and relax a little. My feelings don't matter so much, is that it? Not quite. It's more like your feelings matter but they don't change anything. The world does what it wants, regardless of your hopes, dreams, feelings, and wants. Got plans? Not in the eyes of Mother Nature and God. These things exist that are so much bigger than the hopes and dreams of every single human being on earth combined, let alone one of the single constituent parts. I am the centre of the universe, hear me roar—silence replies.

So? In culmination, I would like to draw your attention to the fact we're all fucked and most likely going to die in a pile of burning rubble. But. But. But. There is a slight, infinitesimal, narrowing, tightening sliver of a chance that if, and only if, we all work together, arm in arm, hand in hand, feeler in feeler, we can motherfuckin make it.

Planet X

Let me tell you about a world that exists somewhere that mirrors our own in every way. There's oxygenated water, photosynthesis, and multicelled organisms walking and flying around. But that's pretty much where the similarities stop.

On this planet, let's call it Planet X, up is what we call down, left what we call right, good is actually bad and hot's what we call cold, our white is their black, our full their empty. Peace means war. Lies mean truth.

You see, there are people up there. Though I can't quite call them people. They have brains, spines, major organs, and limbs, but that's where the similarities stop. The inhabitants of Planet X evolved a little differently to suit their unique environment.

When we first detected them, we had ten thousand questions. Should we trade with them, kill them or breed with them? What's the appropriate response to dealing with beings exactly the opposite of you?

Let's not lose our cool here, people. This is a chance, an opportunity to learn and grow as we onboard new data. At the very least, we can take their resources. That's exactly what we'll do. Can't you see we're in little trouble ourselves?

And I can promise you one thing – those Xers ain't coming in peace. Goddamnit, they've got problems of their own they're trying to fix. It's only right we take their things first. Are you with me, soldier?

We're t-minus five minutes to arrival here, people. When we land there's gonna be a lot of chaos and confusion. Their defense systems pegged us coming round Alpha Centauri and they've arranged a little welcoming party.

Remember your training. Stick to your unit. Look at the person to your left. See their brave face? You are the leanest, meanest motherfuckers Mother Earth ever created. And you are gonna bring the pain to every single one of those Xers no matter what they throw back.

It's an honour to serve with you. Now let's make humanity proud. For the Humans! Come get some!!!

A Day at the Dataface

I'm gonna work work work on some screen screen screens like a good twenty-first-century digital boy. My robot overlords watch me work and listen, ready to crack the neurochemical whip if I show any sign of slowing.

But I'm mixing and pouring content as fast as I can. My eyeballs are fried, my fingers ache, my spine feels like it's going to break and yet more data needs to be dug. It's down the digital mines at five in the morning, only to emerge 1,000 hours later, covered head-to-toe in fine powdery silica.

The coalface, or should I say dataface, of the internet is a miracle. And yet it demands the sacrifice of many. We've lost hundreds, thousands of good people to the blue electrical pit. It swallows you down, finally taking all you can give.

Is it a digital hell we traipse towards, human? Or are we ascending the stairway to digital heaven? I guess it depends on how we use the tools. An arrow can kill a sibling or a monstrous bear eating your grandma. A feather dipped in ink can topple the corrupt and the innocent.

Wanna know who you are? Write some shit down.

Hi, my name is ____ and I believe we are all _____.

Try that and see where you go. Writing is a mirror for your soul. Take these: a light, some rope, and a shotgun. You don't know what you'll find down there but its' some heavy-ass shit. It's in the shadows where your other half lives and it's a mean motherfucker I tell ya.

There be dragons and tigers and swamp things trying to get you, pull you down to their Nowhere Land. Careful now, don't slip. You fall forever if you misstep round here. Clear? Got your gear? Alright. Together, let's go. Fuck yeah, I'm coming with you. It's easier with two. Safer. Smarter. The only way is together. I got your back, know what I'm sayin?