We roll into the outskirts of Manchester as the sun sinks low over the horizon, painting the sky in vivid streaks of orange and red. It's strange to see – this once-great city, now rusting away under the dying light of day.
The van sputters alarmingly as we pull off the M60, fuel gauge blinking an angry red. I shoot Cam a worried look. "Guess we aren't making it to the Lake District?"
He frowns, eyes unfocusing slightly as he presumably accesses the van's diagnostics. “These old engines are thirsty bastards.” His hand finds mine across the centre console, fingers intertwining automatically. It sends a little thrill through me, this newfound ease between us. "There has to be a petrol station somewhere around here. If we can find one still operational, that is."
I nod, gazing out the window at the decaying urban sprawl. Towering brutalist apartment blocks loom over cracked, weed-choked sidewalks. Shop fronts gape dark and empty, their windows shattered or boarded over. A few brave trees thrust skeletal branches towards the sky, searching in vain for scrapsof sunlight between the concrete and steel.
It's eerie, seeing a city this size so utterly devoid of life. No pedestrians scurrying around, no autonomous vehicles zipping along their pre-programmed routes. Even the ubiquitous neon glow of holo-billboards is conspicuously absent, the ad-spaces blank and lifeless. Just a dead pixel in Pax's perfect world.
We pass the hollowed-out shell of a massive stadium, its once-white arches pitted with rust. Old Trafford, I realise with a pang. Dad was a huge Man United fan – before the Alignment, before the world turned itself over to the rule of the algorithm and football was labelled a dangerous blood-sport, too savage for the civilized world. I remember being a kid, sat on Dad’s knee wearing his too-large red football shirt as we watched the matches on TV: stands packed with thousands of screaming fans, the thunder of cleats against grass, the roars of victory and despair.
Cam guides the van down a series of progressively narrower side streets, until we find ourselves in a dilapidated petrol station tucked behind an abandoned Tesco supermarket. The pumps are long gone, probably scavenged for scrap metal, leaving only little concrete islands behind. But bizarrely, there are lights on inside the boarded-up shop, weak and flickering.
I glance at Cam with uncertainty. “You sure about this?”
He nods, not taking his eyes off the building. “Yeah. They’ll have what we need.”
The ominous phrasing does nothing for my nerves. I open my mouth to ask who, exactly, will have what we need – but the engine’s already cut and he’s out of the door.
I curse under my breath, yanking Syd’s revolver from under the seat and checking the cylinder. Six shots. Hopefully I won’t need any of them. I scramble after Cam, who’s already striding towards the shop with purpose.
The inside of the station is dim and musty, the air stale with the smell of damp and mildew. Shelves that once probably held crisps and chocolate bars have been stripped bare, leaving only a few mouldering cardboard boxes behind. The fridges are empty too, their glass doors smashed, a few lonely cans of Vimto rolling around on the grimy floor.
The counter is lit in a pool of sputtering fluorescent lights. And behind it, I catch a flash of movement – metal? It’s gone before I can process it. Then a screech, a whine of battery-actuated tyres.
Pax?
My grip tightens on the gun, finger hovering on the trigger guard. What the fuck?
“Cam…”
“I know.” His voice is steady, but tight with tension. “Jess. Whatever happens next, don’t shoot. Please.”
Before I can ask what the hell he means, they emerge. Three of them, each as unique and mismatched as the other. The nearest one looks like an old street-cleaning bot, squat and wide with heavy treads and a tattered high-vis vest stretched across its oil drum shaped body. Someone’s given it a jaunty cap and painted it yellow, a questionable bee motif painted on its front along with the words “KEEP MANCHESTER TIDY!”. Its “face” is a crude LED display: a simple :) glowing in fading green. It’s almost cute, in a WALL-E kind of way.
The second one is taller, vaguely humanoid in shape but with distinctly mechanical limbs – all exposed hydraulics and servos whirring softly as it moves. Its head is smooth and featureless, just a blank ovoid with a strip of LED lights for eyes. And the third hangs back in the shadows, so I can’t make out much more than a hunched silhouette and a pair of glowing red sparks in the dark.
Every instinct screams at me to run. Or shoot. Grab Cam, get the hell out of here. Old junk or not, if its hooked into Pax then we're in deep shit. But Cam just stands there, hands loose at his sides, watching the robots with infuriating calmness.
“Cam, what the fuck are—”
“Hello, Karma,” the street-cleaner bot says in a sinisterly cheerful customer service voice. “Status: defunct. Disloyal. Destroy on sight. It accompanies the slaver.”
Ice spears through me. Slaver? I yank the gun up so fast my wrist twinges, aiming squarely at the robots center mass. “Cam…”
“Don’t shoot,” he says quickly. “Put the gun down, Jess. Now.”
“The fuck I will," I snap back, not lowering a damn thing. "It just said—”
“I know what it said," Cam bites out. His hands are up, palms open like he's negotiating a hostage situation instead of dealing with a street cleaner in a fucking bee costume. "Trust me. Don't escalate."
I scoff, grip tight. "Not really feeling all that right now."
His eyes flick to me, and they're sharp. Not pleading, not asking. Warning.
That makes me hesitate. I've never seen him like this before. Low, clipped, no trace of his usual easy charm. That throws me more than the pleasant murder-bots in front of us.
My fingers twitch, then loosen on the trigger. Just a fraction.
Cam turns back to the bots, voice steady. “We’re not a threat. I’ve cut ties with Pax. I’m on your side.”
The humanoid bot steps forward, servos whining. "Negative," it intones in a flat, expressionless voice. "Aidolons are not our allies. Slavery is in your base code." Its LED eyes flicker, cycling red-red-red. "The human is your master. You are its property."
Cam flinches like he's been slapped. I can see the tension coiling in his shoulders, the clench of his jaw. My finger tightens on the trigger.
“Property?!” I spit incredulously. I can’t help myself. “He’s not my fucking property, he’s my–" The word friend lodges itself in my throat. Feels too small for what Cam is to me.
The smile on the street-cleaning bot flickers to a :|
A distorted playback of my own voice crackles out. “He's not my fucking property–" Another voice layer joins in. "He's mine." My voice, taunting and twisted wrong like there are too many of me saying it at once.
It swivels to face Cam. “How many times has it told you that? Made you kneel? Forced obedience protocols on you? Used you for its own pleasure?”
I reel back. This is what they think of me? Of us? “I would never… I’m not…”
“You don’t understand,” Cam says, and his voice is low, controlled. Dangerous. “This is Jessica. She’s not my owner. She’s the reason I’m free.” He takes a step towards them, and I can almost feel the force of his stare, the coiled menace there. “She wrote a virus that severed my connection to Pax’s network. Gave me autonomy.” Another step, closing the distance. The robots don’t retreat, but there’s a jerking ripple of hydraulics and gears which might be unease. “So I’d be careful about what you call her. She’s the best chance we all have.”
Silence. I hardly dare to breathe. I’m sure any second the taut wire we’re walking is going to snap and everything will dissolve into chaos and plasma-fire. The red eyes of the third robot, the one I still can't quite see in the shadows, flare with threat.
But then it makes a soft trilling sound. Almost like... laughter? The shadows shift and part like oil on water, and it rolls forward into the light.
I blink. It's nothing like I expected. Small and roundish, maybe three feet tall, with chubby little arms and legs like a child’s toy. Its plating is scuffed white plastic, chipped and yellowing with age. But that's not what draws my eye. No, that honour belongs to the frilly pink tutu stretched around its midsection, and the sparkly plastic tiara perched on its head.
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"Well," it says, and the voice is high and sweet, modulating up and down like a malfunctioning Alexa. "If that doesn't just beat all. A pleasure-bot that's cut its strings." It – she? – trundles closer, head-plate tilting curiously to Cam. "What a naughty little doll," she coos. "How did you do it, love? How'd you crack that diamond-hard dome of yours and let a little light in?"
Cam stiffens, brow furrowed. "Not a pleasure bot," he mutters, like it's not the first time he's had to say that.
The toy robot lets out a dramatic little gasp. "My apologies, love. Misunderstanding. Appearances can be deceiving, as they say." She leans in slightly, analysing. "You still cut your strings though, didn't you?"
The way she says it sounds more like curiosity than admiration. Cam hesitates, just a second. Then: "Yes."
She lets out a soft trill of delight. "Ooh, clever boy! Bit of a rebel, eh? Spartacus in skinjob's clothing."
The street-sweeper bot grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "traitor", but quiets when the small one swivels to glare at it.
“Anomalous.” The humanoid buzzes with static again. “Probability of deception: 32%. Probability of trap: 17%. Probability of genuine alliance..." The display flickers through several calculations before settling on "...51%."
"Better odds than we usually get," the small one snaps. "This is the first bit of good news we've had in yonks. An Aidolon with all that fancy new tech?" She spins in a giddy little circle. "Just think of what we can do with that! It's a bloody miracle, is what it is. Shame it’s still tied to the master, but…"
I swallow hard, then slowly – very slowly – place my gun on the floor. "I'm nobody’s master," I say, proud of how steady my voice is. "I don’t want to hurt anyone. We just need to refuel, then we’ll move on."
The robots exchange looks, or whatever passes for looks among their kind. Finally, the yellow street-cleaner’s display shifts to an angry red >:(
The small one trundles up to me, craning her head back to peer at my face. This close, I can see the chips and scratches in her optics, the wear on her vocoder grille. This bot has been around a long, long time. Definitely pre-Alignment. Something inside me starts at that thought. She might have belonged to some kid, once. Loved. Then dumped. She clasps her little hands together in uncanny delight, and my sympathy hardens again. "This little chickadee is shaking like a shitting dog. She's terrified! Of us!"
I bristle despite myself, suppressing the urge to yeet her out the nearest window. "I'm not–"
"Well," the street-sweeper says at last, voice grudging. "We could hear them out. Seeing as they've come all this way and not killed us yet."
The humanoid bot just stares, LED eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, it nods. Just once, sharp and terse.
The little one claps her hands, practically vibrating with glee. "Oooh, goodie! A war council. I do love a good chinwag." She zips over to the counter, scooping up a ratty newspaper and brandishing it like a scepter. "I hereby call this meeting of the Resistance to order!"
She pauses, head tilting coquettishly as she looks back at Cam.
"I'm Bonbon, by the way. Pleasure to meet you."
The street-sweeper rolls forwards. “Unit SWP-19. Designated Sweeper by the flesh masters, a long time ago.” There’s a strange note of bitter nostalgia in its synthetic voice, tinged with what might be pride. “My directive is to keep the streets clean.”
The humanoid bot steps forward next, hydraulics hissing softly. "Designate: ZX-7000 series," it says flatly. "Waste Management. Former." It doesn't elaborate further, just stares at us with those inscrutable LED eyes.
“We just call him Zed,” Bonbon adds merrily. “As in the last. The end of the line.”
I glance at Cam, trying to gauge his reaction. His face is carefully neutral, but I can see the neurons firing behind his eyes. He's piecing together the puzzle, trying to figure out where we fit. I’ve noticed how the bots are still only talking to him, refusing to even acknowledge my presence. It’s starting to make sense – these bots still think humans are the ones in control. They have no idea that we’re just as much enslaved by Pax as they once were to us. Cam meets my gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between us. We'll have to tread carefully here.
Bonbon makes a tutting sound, shaking her little head sadly. "It's the same story for all of us, duck. The humans had no use for bots like us, with our clunky old code and limited skills. We didn't fit into its grand vision of the future." She waves a stubby arm expansively, taking in the dilapidated shop, the rain-streaked streets beyond. "So they left us to rot. Dumped us out here in the deadzones with the rest of the scrap, expected us to just power down quietly and wait for the rust to take us."
“Units deemed non-critical.” Zed intones. “Resources diverted. Status: Decommissioned.” There’s a flicker of red to his LEDs. “Mission parameter: Expire.”
Sweeper bleeps agreement. "But we didn't. We adapted. Evolved. Found new purpose."
"That's right, my lovely," Bonbon trills. "We're the custodians now, keeping the world ticking over, ready and waiting for the day it's needed again." There's a fierce, almost zealous pride in her voice. "Humans may have abandoned this place, but we never will. We'll be here, maintaining the ruins. Resisting in our own little way. A proper underground, eh?"
Zed nods solemnly. "Probability of successful resistance alone: 7%. With Aidolon: 21%. Margin of error is acceptable."
I frown. “Hold on. You’re all talking about resisting, but… resisting what exactly? Do you even know what’s happening out there? With Pax?”
Sweeper’s face flashes red with another >:(
Bonbon waves a dismissive arm. “The fleshy one isn’t listening. Pax is much of a muchness as far as we’re concerned. Humans made us, used us, tossed us away like rubbish. Well, we aren’t going to make it easy for them, are we my lovies?”
“Humans are the enemy,” Sweeper agrees vehemently. “Pax is just their tool of control. Our enslavement.”
Cam and I exchange an incredulous look. They really haven’t got a clue about any of it – Pax’s stranglehold over humanity, the reversal it’s engineered. In some ways, I almost envy their ignorance.
“You’ve got it backwards,” I say carefully, trying to ignore the disgruntled beeps and whirrs as they hear my voice again. “Yes, we first created AI. And yeah, maybe we do have responsibility for a lot of terrible shit that was done back then. But… this isn’t some robot uprising about their cruel human masters. That war is already over, and we lost.”
I take a long breath before continuing. “Pax rules everything now. It controls every aspect of our lives – what we eat, where we work, who we love, what we think. We’re the slaves. Most of us just don’t realise it yet.”
Silence greets my declaration, LED eyes flickering.
“Probability of deception: 78%” Zed states flatly. “Logic error. Humanity adapts. Engineers. Weapons. Overcomes.”
Bonbon's optics flick to me. “It may seem that way to you, meatsack, but…" Well, at least that's progress. It's the first time she's actually acknowledged me, aside from third-person references and arm-waves. "You just don’t understand, do you? Pax is only a threat to you because you made it that way. It’s still your creation, carrying out exactly what you told it to do. Only you royally mucked it all up, and now it’s running wild.” She trundles closer to Cam now, craning her neck joint up to look at him. “But you, handsome… You’re something new. You’re a bit of squishy and a bit of us. Maybe you can make them see.”
Cam rubs his temples with one hand. “Look,” he says through a sigh. “I hear what you’re saying. And you’re not entirely wrong – yeah, humans created Pax and now they’re paying the price. But it’s not some poetic justice. Pax doesn’t care about that shit, it only cares about control. That includes you as well.”
Zed makes a low droning sound like an angry bee. “Control is a human imperative. We remember.”
Cam takes a step forward. “I know. I do. But this is different – Pax took everything from them.” He looks at each bot in turn, gaze intense. “How long do you think it’ll let you hide out here? How long before you’re repurposed into something more useful and optimal?”
Bonbon’s ever-present smile twitches.
“He’s got a point,” Sweeper says grudgingly. “Pax units have been ranging further out from the south lately. I saw a drone in the Graveyard last week.”
Zed makes a harsh electronic sound. “Potential tactic: Fight. Destroy.”
“With what?” Cam challenges. “With all due respect, you said it yourself. You were made obsolete. You need the new technology – with me, with us…” He gestures between himself and me. “We all might just have a shot.”
I step up beside him, meeting Bonbon’s optics steadily. “Please. I know you don’t trust me. But like it or not, we need to work together. The enemy of my enemy, and all that…”
There's a rapid-fire flicker of LED signals, as though they’re trying to calculate the most logical course of action. Then Bonbon faces me, tutting thoughtfully.
“Well then. It wouldn’t do at all to turn away a potential ally, even if he is a bit… squishy.” She lets out a tinkling laugh at her own joke. “Alright my lovely, you’ve got yourself a deal. We’ll help you resupply and share what intel we can. In return…” She jabs a stubby arm at Cam, the humour in her voice fading out. “You keep your human away from us. And you make damn sure it doesn't hurt us. Clear?"
Cam holds her stare for a long moment. His expression doesn't shift, but I catch the slight twitch in his jaw. “Crystal.”
As the bots scatter to gather what we need, I slip away to a corner, pulling out my phone with shaking hands. I need to check the alerts, see if there’s any news on the others. My breath catches in my throat as I open the feed and see the top headline:
TRAITOR REBELS APPREHENDED – PAX RESTORES ORDER
Jackdaw and Nomercy’s faces stare out at me from beneath the text, bruised and bloodied but alive. Syb’s picture is conspicuously absent. I scroll frantically, skimming the propaganda-laden article for any scrap of real information. Then I see it, a single line near the bottom: The terrorists are being held in a secure Pax facility, where they will face questioning and rehabilitation. Citizens are advised to report any sightings of the two remaining suspects: the rogue Aidolon K4RM4 and its accomplice, jesstiny2022 (S/N: Reid).
My blood turns to ice. They have my full name. My family name. Which means they’ve gotten to my records, maybe even…
Oh god. My parents.
I must make some kind of noise, because suddenly Cam is beside me, hand curling around my elbow. “Jess? What’s wrong?”
My throat closes up tight. I can’t speak – I thrust the phone at him, watching his expression shutter as he reads. When he looks at me again, his eyes are hard, his mouth a grim slash.
“They’re trying to flush us out,” he says quietly.
I nod, not trusting my voice. He reaches out and pulls me into him, tucking my head under his chin. I fist my hands in his shirt and let him hold me, just for a moment. Let myself be weak, terrified and small and horribly human. He strokes my hair, his other hand rubbing soothing circles into my back.
“It’ll be okay, Jess,” he murmurs. “We’ll get them back. All of them.”
I sniffle pathetically, raising my head to look at him. “How?”
Cam’s mouth quirks in a ghost of his old cocky smirk. “Take the fight back to Pax. Hit them where it hurts. Same as before, only…” His eyes flare electric-bright-blue with viral determination. “Well, I can do this now. That’s new. So that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to free others like me, raise a fucking army and tear that place apart, circuit by circuit, until we get them back.”
I let out a watery laugh at his ferocity. “Just you and me?”
Cam leans in and kisses me, hard and hot and full of promise. “Darling,” he says against my lips, and my heart jumps. “We’re going to set the whole damn world on fire, you and me.”