DAIMON

The wind. It's a permanent fixture of this place. It ebbs and flows, like the breath of a living organism. It whispers, hushed and low, as if afraid to utter its secrets too loudly. Then its voice grows in volume. It speaks, its circulatory exhalations raking and scratching across the surface of the desert and plains, carrying specks of dirt and rock with it, forming dust clouds and dust devils.

I, Daimon, watch the proceedings from a vantage point atop the plateau. Miniature tornados drill chaotic paths across sandy slopes and flat stretches alike. I've seen the cycle before. I already know what happens next, with or without the readings from my OS, and the little notifications warning me. Soon, as the sun descends, and the heat of the day gives way to the ice-borne night, the voice of the desert will become a roar.

While the earth may not be conscious, it is certainly alive. It has existed as an organism far longer than any living creature so far has inhabited it. It will continue to exist long after the humans are gone. Perhaps after the machines are gone as well, regardless of which side is the victor in the robotic conflict.

Still. It's not immune. The planet bears its own scars from the war, this desert being among them. Perhaps these terrible storms are its screams, its cries of defiance in spite of its suffering.

At least, I wish I could consider it that way. It's a dramatist's perspective, but an appealing one. Poetic. Soulful.

A notification beeps in the corner of my vision, signaling an incoming message.

I answer it. “Yes?”

There’s no video feed to accompany the audio transmission. The caller doesn’t answer right away. There’s a tension in that gap. A dissatisfaction all the more palpable for the fact that it’s unsaid.

“Do you have the rogue Biodroid?”

The voice of Suzerain is unmistakable. Terse. Biting. There’s a low rumble which might indicate a certain weary aged-ness if he were human.

“In my possession?” I say. My eyes are fixed on particularly large dust devil in the distance, growing in size.

"It's a yes or no question, Daimon."

"You already know the answer. You have more than enough surveillance data."

"I do," Suzerain says. "I'm surveilling you right now. What I don't understand, is what the hell you think you're doing, and why."

"I told you I'd bring him in," I say. "And I will."

"Delayed obedience is disobedience," Suzerain says. "Have you forgotten that?"

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There's a slight twitch along the upper part of my left cheek, almost like a spasm.

"How could I forget?"

"This moment has been decades in the making. Are you really about to drop the ball now, at the end? I thought I was very specific you would be responsible.

"First, I hear that you tried to hand the task off to Razor, of all people. And now, rather than performing your due diligence to rectify that mistake, you're off...I don't even know what you're doing."

"Watching the light die," I say. "Killing time."

"That had better be a joke, Daimon. And if it is, it's a poor one."

Another twitch, this one in my lower right cheek.

"There's a community of humans here. I told them they had two hours to hand him over. By my count, they still have..." I look at my OS timer. "...twenty-eight minutes."

"I can't wait to hear your reasoning."

"There were a group of watchdog fighters guarding the bunker, acting independently," I say. "I dispatched two of them and disabled the rest, based on my calculations of the least amount of damage required to make the desired impact. I gave them an ultimatum. Now they have plenty of time to solve their internal politics and transport the model. I also took into account the fact that they've likely started trying to open him up for parts. Now, they have time to put him back in a suitable condition, similar to how they found him. Less of a headache for me, since I'm the one who has to transport him back. I figured you'd want him more or less...together."

"You would sacrifice our goals and future," Suzerain says. "For the sake of convenience. On the part of a few...humans."

"Why spill blood unnecessarily? Why invade their home, and decimate their defense measures, when I can convince them to bring the model to me?"

"That's rich coming from you. Blood doesn't wash off so easily."

I feel a strange weight, somewhere in the center of my frame. Somewhat like the sensation of falling.

"I never said it did," I say. "I always do what's necessary, when I deem it so. But that doesn't mean I enjoy it."

"We both know that's not true," Suzerain says.

And maybe he's right. Maybe it's still true, even if I wish it wasn't. There is a certain euphoria to taking the life of another. It's something I still don't understand, as a machine. Murder is not efficient, or reasonable. Resources should be assimilated or repurposed, not destroyed outright. And yet...

"But let's set that aside. The problem here, is that you've given the humans every chance to open the model's system and see what's in there for themselves."

"What?" I say, surprised. "No, that's impossible. They can't-"

"Don't tell me what's possible, Daimon. I know more on the subject than you ever will. My instruments just received a security protocol notification. They're in the system. And if they've managed that, they might be able to see...everything."

I'm already hailing my docked ship. The engines buzz. The side door slides open.

"I've made a mistake."

"You think?" Suzerain says. "Don't delay, this time. And when you get there...do I really have to say?"

"No," I say.

If I had a heart, it would be somewhere in my gut right now. But that's what this sinking feeling is an attempt to simulate. The sensation of the way emotions affect organs in the body. The connection between the mental and the physical.

When I arrive at the bunker, I'm going to have to do more than just break in. I'm going to have to kill. I'm going to have to put down every person who could possibly have discovered what was in that memory unit. And who knows what will happen to the rest, as a result.

As I hop into the ship, I take one last look out at the horizon, the dwindling light slipping like a bright blanket being drawn back, with only darkness to replace it.

In the end, a planet is just a rock. It is compacted matter, formed into a sphere by the forces of gravity and the unyielding passage of time. It is nothing more than the universe itself at work. And there is no meaning to the universe. It's a harsh truth that few care to admit. But I don't personally engage in self-delusion.