Of Blood and Malice: Awaken

There is only darkness- the soft hum of engines in the distance, the ethereal mist that settles like numberless locusts onto the rusting husks of machinery. There is not guiding light in the darkness, but the Machines do not need light.

In the Eastern sky Malice’s only moon, Artemis, finally rises above New Eden’s wall and pierces the darkness with a reddish glow, illuminating the ruinous expanse of the Clockwork Graveyard. Yet there is no creature alive that’s eyes suddenly adjust to view the rolling expanse of parts and pieces, cogs and gears, tanks and mecha; to suddenly awaken to an alien world of mindless locomotion and consumption, and, in horror, realize how inevitably screwed they are.

The ground rumbles for minutes before its arrival, setting off a series of miniature junk avalanches, and its grayish plume of smoke could be seen from miles away. Its creators may have had a name for it, but the few people of Malice to have come in contact with one simply call it a Compactor.

The enormous treads of the monolith press forward, smashing eons of technology in its wake and sending dust and fumes up into the air that hadn’t moved for centuries. Its single Claw cranks forward with haphazard precision and a shrill hiss of smoke, and grasps the largest pile of debris nearby. With another set of hisses and mechanical clicks, the Compactor lifts it up into the air and its myriad of Blades, which sprout from its torso like the legs of a clockwork spider, whirred to life instantly.

As they proceed to Deconstruct, a small figure falls from the carnage, miraculously untouched, and tumbles lifelessly to the ground. It lands squarely on the fender of a 2037 convertible and its spine breaks instantly.

Her pale metallic shell shines ivory in the moonlight and her expressionless face with clear pupils seems almost melancholy amidst the rubble of her entire age. She once was a companion android, an ELF3 model, but her angular features and synthetic hair are distorted now by rust and time.

As the thick inhibitor fluid seeps from her broken spine, her coolant systems whir to life and she begins to reboot. Her spine reattaches itself her weapon compartments realign, dropping a shower of rusted bullets, which echo through the night like rain. Her clear eyes begin to emit a pastel lavender radiance. Hesitantly she props herself up and commences an analysis of her surroundings.

Uncaring, unthinking, unstoppable the Compactor moves forward over the newly Deconstructed parts. Its sensors did not detect another sentient machine, for they had long sense rusted away. And perhaps, it would’ve compacted her legs anyway.

The ELF’s howl of raw pain echo all the way across the Clockwork Graveyard and cause the people of Last Respite to awaken in a cold sweat, thinking that the creatures of Hell were finally upon them.

Her sensors auto reset and when she finally regains consciousness all she can do is sob tearlessly. Her homeland gone, she cannot understand where she is; Her legs gone, she cannot find out. And, to her horror, she finds that her memory chip had corrupted during her hibernation. Feebly she tries to boot up her precious programming, each failing in succession.

Nothing. Only her name and a cryptic, mostly lost, string of text. Seraphim bites her lip as she tries to make sense of it. “…ain lays in the arms of the believ... only a… can give you peace.”

More nothing. Resigning her to confusion, Seraphim gazes longingly up towards the moon, wishing something would fly down and take her away. In a voice of satin and loneliness, she mumbles sadly, “If androids had souls, surely I would know in mine that I was now truly without a purpose.”

With a sudden flourish of feathers and robe, a figure swoops down from the sky and landed flawlessly atop the highest junk pile, framing himself in the moon. His long, black hair billows gently in an undetectable breeze and his wings open majestically to reveal his perfect features. He smiles widely, self-knowingly, self-appreciatively. Scornfully Seraphim thinks it the smile of a man who knows he’s beautiful. Yet she finds herself unable to look away.

He opens his mouth and begins to speak, his voice a regal tenor with a hint of a melody that echoes in the alcoves of his listener’s soul. “I am called Archangel Metatron, and I could not but hear your howls of anguish.”

Despite her programming, Seraphim suddenly feels shy. Bashfully she replies, “Good day my Lord. I seem to have lost my legs.”

“Quite true,” he observes, sliding down off the rubbish, his feet never quite touching the ground. “Pity that I am no mechanic or you a human.”

“Could you heal me?” Seraphim asks, wide-eyed as she looks upon the twisted mass of wires that once were her legs. “I mean if I were a human of course.”

“In a manner of speaking,” he nods, sweeping her broken torso up into his arms. “But perchance we can find use for you anyways.”

Before Seraphim has a chance to reply he leaps upwards into the air, extending his wings at the peak of his jump, and they begin to fly. Wind and clouds rush up around them suddenly. And then the world falls away. And Seraphim realizes that, in the moonlight, the Archangel’s wings softly illuminate the encroaching darkness.

In Artemis’s soft glow, the land below seems small and tranquil. From the Desert of Glass to the north to the Void in the south, for a moment everything seems glamorous. Seraphim even glimpses, for a mere fraction of a second, the alien beauty of the Clockwork Graveyard.

“Incredible,” she manages. A smile reaches Metatron’s face and Seraphim is surprised that it doesn’t look smug.

“I know,” he nods, his eyes never veering from a destination only he could see. “There are times it is the only thing left worth existing for on this Earth.”

“You mean… you no longer reside in His realm?” she whispers and for an inexplicable reason her heart ached terribly.

“Just as the Lord cast the demons from their realm, Heaven is no more,” Metatron sighs, nostalgic for his home.

“So what do you do now?”

As he spoke, his face shifted subtly and Seraphim once again felt uneasy. “I do as all His former servants do, I survive.”

“Serephim was designed to live off of organic compounds easily collected from the air and soil, as well as nutrient supplements digested orally at irregular intervals,” she informs him mechanically, her voice tinged with anxiety. “How does an Angel survive without His blessing?”

“He created us, human and angel kind alike, out of the same essence. Perhaps you could call it a soul,” he explains, his face tranquil and his voice angelic. “Yet, upon eating the Fruit of Knowledge, Man’s ability to replenish himself off Him alone was revoked. He was forced to learn to convert matter into soul. But angels do not possess this option, only soul can beget soul.”

“I…I’m not sure I follow,” Seraphim stammers, knowing she did not want to.

“It’s simple really. We must consume essence.”

“Consume essence…” Seraphim puzzles, her grip tightening around his arm until her knuckles whiten. “You mean you eat people’s souls?”

Metatron laughs amiably, as if she’d suggested a farmer eats his crops. “Well how else would I survive?”

“Where are you taking me?” she asks suddenly, alarmed by his implications.

“Humans may be petty and sinful, but they are not entirely stupid,” he clarifies tenderly. “It has many centuries since the Lord turned His back on them and they have since begun to suspect my kind, as they rightly should. It has become harder to find sustenance. And yet… who would turn away a Saint and a beautiful young girl in desperate need of medical attention?”

“So I am to be used as a lure?” Serpahim asks, her voice moving from shock to anger. “I will not participate in such actions!”

“Darling,” he smiles condescendingly. “You forget your place. You will participate in whatever actions I suggest, after you are reprogrammed.”

“But don’t you feel guilty?” she pleads, hoping to find a shred of conscious. “I do not understand. Isn’t murder sinful?”

“Wrong?” he laughs. “My darling, I have watched humanity for over a millennia. I’ve watched them lie and cheat, kill and steal, rape and torture. I’ve watched them systematically exterminate each other in countless ways. How is it a sin to do their work for them? I am as I always have been, merely a servant of humanity.”

“I too was a servant for many years,” Seraphim replies, suddenly re-accessing data she’d thought had been lost and freely filling in events as she felt. “My master was a young professor, he wanted nothing more than to enlighten others and go beyond the cycle of violence you now participate in. I never saw him harm a single creature, living or non. How could he have been better than you?”

His grin curls over into a smirk and his thin, elegant features suddenly resemble nothing more than a fox’s. “I know now that you are bluffing. You remember nothing of your master or of your old life.”

She opens her mouth to protest but realizes he is right.

“Don’t you wonder what your fragment of data means?” Metatron asks, and she knows suddenly that he will tell her. “Pain lays in the arms of the believers, only an Angel can give you peace. Your master was a man of faith; he knew that the only Truth was His.”

“You would do well not to twist my master’s final words to your own devices,” Seraphim glares darkly, rejecting his supposed truth.

Metatron laughs once again, although this time it has a harder edge like thunder or searing flesh. “You are certainly not in any place to threaten me. Your weapon systems are down, you have lost your legs, we are thousands of feet in the air, and I happen to know your inhibitor fluid prevents you from inflicting harm to any living creature.”

It is true, Seraphim realizes, ELFs were not given many of the anatomical gifts that were given to humans. They were not blessed with eyes to emote, lungs to breath, or a tongue to taste. But they were given a single gift the humans were not— two rows of perfect, stainless steel teeth.

With a sharp grin, Seraphim replies without words. A howl like none ever heard before in heaven or Earth leaps forth from Metatron’s throat, along with a spray of thick angelic blood. As they tumble into a headfirst spiral towards the earth, Seraphim’s teeth crush the bones of his shoulder and compress his supple flesh into her mouth, a process quite reminiscent of the Compactor.

By the time of impact, only Seraphim’s lifeless body remains in the settling dust. And once again, there is only darkness.

Writer's Note: This was one of three novel ideas I thought about for National Novel Writing Month 2008, although I did not select it. Most likely it will remain a one-shot.