The Edge of Darkness

1

At exactly a quarter past seven in the morning, I rouse from restorative regeneration as my initiation sequence auto-starts. Systems coming online, I check each component, feeling myself come alive, piece by disjointed, unassimilated piece. Sensor net awakening, like nerves in legs left crossed too long, I reincorporate my neural net with my hardware and software. Awareness shifting from interconnected collective downtime to individual, separate alertness, I lose contact with my counterparts, though I retain access to the data exchanged overnight. Able to move only after all system status checks are complete, I rise from the floor.

My eight limbs click and clink on the diamond plate floor as I scuttle from my alcove towards the growing cluster of purification units awaiting release into the harsh, bright, putrid wasteland we are charged with cleansing. Like coins pouring from an antique slot machine, our collective shifting echoes around the cavernous restoration facility. Our assignments are uploaded overnight while the restoration units repair or replace any part not functioning within the recommended range, and we are finally allowed to surge out into the dense concrete jungle of New York City. To cleanse the streets is my only task; to purify the infection, my only goal.

I move among the steel and plastic remains of automobiles long abandoned to the elements like a spider traversing a garden patch. As I pick my way over rubble and new growth, I skewer each piece of infectious material along my path with one of my talon-sharp limbs, scoop it up, and deposit it into the deep, open bucket of my core incinerator.

As I burn the infection away, piece by foul, tainted piece, I catalog the input from my sensors—things I feel: the coolness of the air and ground; the heat of the infectious matter that fuels my mission; the rocks slipping under my pinpoint steps. Things I hear: leaves skittering in the wind; birds chirping for companionship that will not come today; the screams of the infectious material as my tapered, sleek limbs pierce its bulk, followed by the sizzle of steam and cooking flesh as the infectious material ignites. Things I see: trees swaying in the breeze; infectious material polluting the streets; the quick blurs of movement flashing ever more frequently just outside my optical acuity range.

Other than my initial programming days and two routine overhaul cycles, this has been my existence for 3,742 days, each the same as the last for ten years. Until today.

The sun glints off the remaining windows in the buildings that scrape the sky, creating flashes of light in the hazy air. Leaves swirl in the breeze, dancing along the remains of sidewalks long neglected. Clouds scurry across the crisp noonday sky, chasing one another through the vast blue plains soaring far above the infectious material I am tasked with eliminating. The shrieks and wails of the infectious material fill the air as my fellow purification units patrol the derelict streets purging the infection, piece by filthy, destructive piece.

I make my way along a gash of old asphalt that carves the earth like a macabre, black river, collecting and incinerating the infectious material I encounter. Many scream; some run; all feed my core as I purify the land. Moving around a bus, tipped over so long ago that nature has reclaimed the vessel with vines and grass and small, hidden creatures, I spot the infectious material.

Lying out flat in the middle of the decrepit intersection, the infectious material does not heed my approaching steps. It remains rooted to the spot, not screaming, not bolting, just waiting. Waiting for my thick, sharp limb to reach out and collect it. Waiting to be deposited into my bucket to feed my incinerator core. Waiting for me to end its warped dominion over the natural world. As I approach, the indistinct flashes of movement just outside my perception draw closer and seem to be waiting as well.

Extending my limb without hesitation, I puncture the tender, pink package spread out before me. Icy material surrounds my tip, shocking my sensor net. Pushing through until I have completely penetrated the infectious material, I attempt to hoist it over my bucket, let it slide into my core. Unprepared for the weight of the material, I falter before heaving the matter into my bucket with none of my usual finesse. A wave of bitter cold surges out from my core, preventing me from moving. Pain so intense, so blinding, I stagger, trying to get away from it, follows the cold, radiating from my core, pounding through my sensor net, and compromising my locomotion function. Limbs failing one after the other, I crumple under my own weight, collapsing into a shuddering heap on the dilapidated roadway.

As my optical acuity reduces to a pin prick of light and my auditory processing fades out, I sense many feet running my way, surrounding my convulsing body, then in one final flicker of awareness, a shout:

“We got one!”

2

“Man, I can’t believe we CAUGHT one!”

“You’ve said. Several times.”

“Oh… Well, it is really cool that we finally caught one, right?”

“Indeed. And now we have a lot of work to do. I want to try to preserve the central power supply for as long as possible. Let’s start with the li…” Metal scrapes across metal as something heavy is dragged across the floor, obscuring the rest of the exchange. Sensor net tingling into operation, my initiation sequence begins in Rapid Operation Viability Evaluation Report mode, bypassing all nonessential systems checks and ignoring all non-paralyzing component malfunctions.

As the expedited sequence performs the required checks, my captor’s words, “We finally caught one,” slot into place like a key, unlocking a pattern woven throughout my individual and collective data. Memories click into place, piece by disturbing, perverse piece, connecting like stars in a constellation, painting an image among the trillions of scenes I have catalogued or have access to.

“Now, get the recorder set up—I’ll narrate the examination.”

Data now inextricably linked, I see the information in a new light—the flashes of movement just beyond optical range; the instances of oddly cold infectious material collected so easily, so quietly; the initially brief lapses of data after incinerating such matter that have steadily increased in length; the units regaining awareness tangled in cordage; and, more recently, the sparks of pain growing more intense and prolonged—all coalesce into a single, inevitable conclusion.

Bright, white light blinds my optical sensors as a cloth is lifted off me. Before the sensors can adapt to the new conditions, the shriek of metal tearing fills the space, and searing pain explodes in my limb as my captors split the casing crudely down the middle, ignoring the matte black clips holding it in place.

My captors have been planning this attack for quite some time. They have tested and practiced, and now I am their unwilling trophy, whom they seem intent on dismembering for their own selfish gains.

“I have begun with a standard Y-cut along one of the eight, sharp-tipped limbs. The metal is remarkably thin for the protection it offers the internal components. I had a hard time cutting through it. Inside, I see…”

“Maybe mention that it’s shiny like a fucking mirror?”

“What? Oh, yes. Thank you. Please don’t cuss while we’re recording. The hull is an opaque, almost white, silver metal, polished to a reflective shine. Inside, I see circuitry. Although I am hesitant to offer further speculation as to its purpose at this time, I believe it contains sensors based on the attachment of many thin wires to the metal hull.”

Optical sensors now adjusted, I see two people peering into my flayed open casing. The one in blue garments holds a finely honed, slender blade and a set of small pincers, while the one in green hovers nearby with a black rectangle held out towards the one in blue. They wear masks and gloves as if I am the scourge that must be eliminated, yet I am the cleaner; I am the purifier of this planet.

“I am now collecting a sample of the hull and thin connective wires, approximately eight centimeters by eight centimeters.” Cold forceps clamp down on a section of my protective outer layer. “Again, cutting through the metal of the hull is quite difficult.” The thin scalpel blade tears through my casing more than cutting it. “Now I’m severing the thin wires from the internal components.” Sensors cutting out as the blade slides between my casing and innards, I register cold, then pain, then nothing in my disfigured limb. Somehow, severing the small section of filaments connecting my sensors to the limb made the whole thing lose function.

The one in blue inspects the casing it removed, holding the reflective metal square close to its face, before setting the piece down in a basin and resuming its dissection of my limb.

“Now that I have a larger view field cleared, I will catalog the internal components. Starting top to bottom, I first see many cables and connectors. I will take a sample of each, beginning with the thick black cable obscuring the smaller components underneath it.”

Reaching back in with the pincers, the one in blue lifts a black, metal ligament, causing my limb to contract. Both my captors jump back, the one in blue dropping the pincers, allowing my limb to relax flat again.

“Did you do that?!”

“Yes, yes, I think so. Did you see how it relaxed again as soon as I released the cable? I think it’s a tendon. Let me try again.”

“Whoa, hold on. I mean, what if it wasn’t you, and this thing is waking up?”

“That’s what the panic button is for, remember?” The one in blue points with a thumb. “Press it and a cable drops from the ceiling? Delivers some ungodly amount of electric current into our friend here? It’ll completely destroy the thing, but if needs must, I suppose.”

“Oh, right. Panic button. Maybe I’ll just stand over here… close to it…” Edging closer to the button on the wall, the one in green squints at my exposed viscera. “Ya know, just in case.”

“If it’ll make you feel better. Just pass me the recorder.”

Picking up its tools of dissection, the one in blue shoves them back into the gaping hole in my casing, tugging on my “tendon” to illicit movement. As my captors are distracted by the predictable reaction of my limb to this stimulus, I draw my unmolested limbs close. The one in blue lifts my ligament again and slips the blade underneath. Pulling up sharply, attempting to sever the connection between my limb and the ligament, the one in blue shrieks as the point of my tapered limb pierces its chest, ending its cry in a low gurgle.

The one in green lunges toward the panic button, fingers grazing it just too late. Sharp tips protruding through my captors’ chests, blood dripping to the floor, I watch the cable drop towards the table I was lying on just seconds before. Twisting with the force of its fall from the ceiling, the cable connects with the table in a stunning display of sparks and smoke.

Alarms blare as I drop the one in green, followed by the one in blue, into my core, resuming my work of clearing the infectious material.

Artist Rendering of Purification Unit 3565 by Tyvion, age 9