RAZOR

"Razor. Come in, Razor."

It's Policy. Her voice message bulldozes its way in, overriding the system.

"Razor, you can't just ignore this. There are consequences for incompetence. Avoiding me will only speed things along."

Razor's eyes are ahead, on the terrain. He's managed to get his air bike up over the rock wall and onto the plateau. Below him, along the floor of the plateau, there are occasional canyons and canals winding their way through the rock. As long as he stays focused, activating thrusters at the precise time and at the right levels, he can glide over these gaps with his air bike, unimpeded. This is what he's been up to for the past hour or so. Meanwhile, the ship circles in a wide arc overhead, scanning the terrain, searching. While he trusts the findings of the ship's computer, he also knows it's possible for AI to miss things, so he's been keeping tabs on the data being transmitted, looking for anomalies. Between these two tasks--driving, and parsing through the datastream--he has no attention left to give. Certainly not to that bitch Policy.

Regardless, her messages keep butting in, a video and audio recording appearing in the top-left corner of his vision. In the bottom right corner is the datastream, scrolling endlessly. In the middle of his vision, distantly, the sun is starting to descend, its glow depleting to a dark orange, an egg yolk encircled by a grey, dirty, milky sky.

"I'm warning you," Policy says. "This is your last opportunity for correspondence."

Razor is surprised at how windy it is up there. Bits and flecks of dirt and rock lift up into the air, manipulated by gusts and cyclones. It's...eerie.

As the sun starts to disappear, orange light breaks, like the yolk being cut open with a knife, spilling out along the riven surface of the plateau, bright against the airborne debris.

Razor snaps a picture with his OS. He wonders what he should call the image. It's like a view of the end of the world. Perhaps the end of everything.

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"I'm going to count to three," Policy says. "I'm serious. One...two...three. That's it. You've brought this on yourself, Razor. I can't believe you've-"

The transmission cuts out, suddenly.

Blessed silence.

Razor doesn't know why, but he's thankful for it.

Now, I can-

A new transmission pops in, nearly a half-second after the other disappears. This time the messenger is a male biodroid, close to Razor's age, his face mostly obscured in shadow by the hood pulled over his head. When he speaks, only the lips and chin are visible from this angle.

"Razor."

His voice is dense. Modulated. Almost like there's some static or glitch in the transmission.

The real reason is that he's had his synthetic-organic throat and lungs removed and replaced.

"Daimon," Razor says. He hardly trusts himself to say anything else beyond that.

A long moment of silence follows this, during which Daimon doesn't move and doesn't say anything.

Just when Razor starts to wonder if there's something wrong with the comms, Daimon says, "I'll be there soon."

Then the transmission ends.

For a while, Razor continues to drive, fixated on his task. He turns the bike, heading south, with the sun shyly creeping below the horizon to his right, the sky beginning to lose its color and light.

I can fix this. I know I can. I-

His hands are shaking. And the shakes won't go away. The tremors correspond with the dread he feels growing inside, unfurling like a cobra in the grass.

If he's not careful, he's going to fumble, crash.

He slows the bike to a stop. The engine still runs, with the bike hovering in place a few inches off the rocky surface.

Razor lets go of the handlebars and holds up his hands to look at them, watching the mechanical fingers tremble. He curls them against his palms, making fists.

Fear. Indignation. Fury. So very...human.

And we're supposed to be superior to humanity. The next evolution. But here I am. Faculties jeopardized by mere emotions. Chemical transmissions in a synthetic brain.

Razor takes a deep breath. And another.

He has a sudden, inexplicable impulse to smash his fist into the bike. Break the vehicle apart, blow by blow.

For all the good this would do.

He takes a moment to watch the sun shrink, disappear. In the old world, it would almost be dark enough to see the biggest and brightest of the stars. The atmosphere was so clear back then you could them from the planet surface with the naked eye.

"Fuck!" He exclaims, suddenly. To nothing and no one. For no reason, and for all of them.