Gods in the Machine
He stared up into the celestial heavens, contemplating the moons that hung overhead. He wondered what it was like to fly through the mysterious vast of space. What dangers awaited? What knowledge? What people? What technology? The holy mainframe described it as a massive vacuum, where most life was incapable of basic survival without technological compensation.
He adjusted his vision, zooming out to his normal twenty-twenty vision. He drew his cloak closer as his biological components began to chill in the evening desert. He adjusted the knob on his suit, tuning his body temperature to forty-degrees celsius to combat the negative-five celsius freeze. Too hot and he’d cook, too little and he would frostbite. He quietly thanked Father for the heating transference module. He could see the ghostly glow of the camp below from his overlook.
The large tent in the middle drew his eyes as he zoomed his vision in. Seven pillars surrounded seven circumferences, which encircled the seven walls within. The temple mainframe where the holiest of Machine gods lay within. A humble structure for such a divine intellect. He gazed out at the horizon, seeing the hazy mountains covering the last of that orange giant; the main reason this Class-L planet was largely uninhabited. It had oxygen, plant-life, but only minor life-forms. From what the teachings of Father stated, if the sun were any closer this would have been designated a Class-D; a molten sphere that would have destroyed them all. As far as Father and the holy Machine god were aware, the orbit was stable. However, Uncle was less optimistic, believing the sky would fall on them any day. If not the orange giant, then one of a dozen moons that encircled them like celestial carrion.
A prickle of goose-bumps formed on his hand of skin and bone, causing him to wince as he pulled it close, gently rubbing it in his other metallic limb gently, less he sheared the skin off in a careless gesture. He cursed the weakness of his flesh. He stared into the circle of rocks at the glowing nacelle, their main source of light.
“Master-Jet, are you well?”
He glanced up at the gentle speaker, staring into the large glassy eyes of his towering combat robot. It was a massive shadow, following him everywhere as per Father’s orders.
“I am well, Maor-Euclid.”
He looked away, back to the camp, seeing other brothers and sisters beginning to leave their tents, “When shall I undergo full transfiguration? When shall I shed this flesh of weakness?” The question he asked was one made without angst; a query from emotionless logic.
Clicking and whirring rang out in response from the larger as its internal drives processed his question, “That is not known at this time.”
He pursed his lips as he pulled his cloak closer, “There is little logic in keeping me half transfigured. It is a waste of resources to maintain this flesh; moreso in this harsh land of dust.”
Euclid craned its head, their eyes flashing briefly, “Would you like to hear a joke?”
His left eye of flesh narrowed as his right lens scissored to a point, “You are attempting to divert this conversation. It shall not work.”
“Knock-knock.”
“Euclid…”
“Knock-knock.”
He relaxed, knowing full well it was a fruitless effort, “Very well, Euclid. Who is there?”
The combat robot paused for a brief moment, his hard drives clicking before he spoke.
“To.”
He breathed out a sigh, “To who?”
“No, to whom.”
His lips curled in the slightest of smiles before he suppressed them. A holdover of his still partially organic brain. He thought at first that humor was a waste of resources until Father explained such things brought bonding between brothers and sisters. He begrudgingly accepted it.
A trill warbling cry rang out from the encampment, echoing through the valley just as the final edge of the orange giant vanished on the horizon. He snapped back between the camp and Euclid. He rose to his feet, dusting the sand from his robes. The desert was harsh to exposed joints and parts and constant maintenance was essential to survival here.
The combat robot rose from his squatting position, his shoulder P-cannon unfolding from behind his back, “Come, master-Jet. It is time.”
He shouldered his carbine and gathered up the power nacelle from within the circle of rocks, powering it off and tucking it into the inner pocket of his robes. The three-and-half meter Euclid led the way, towering over his own meager one-point-three meter frame. He gripped his metal stave, shuffling along down the narrow path as it wrapped around the cliff face. The head of his stave was a large simple wrench, useful for keeping Euclid in working order. He would have preferred an omni-wrench or even the crane-halberd his Uncle wielded.
But being a child of iteration sixteen, he was in some ways low on the hierarchy. He passed a large crevice as another shadow trailed behind. He turned, hand on his R-carbine as he confronted the ambusher.
“If I were an enemy, you would be dead, brother-Jet.”
He looked at the hunched and robed form of his cult-sister Amber, shouldering her uranium rifle.
"Sister-Amber…"
Euclid addressed her as he swiveled his torso one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.
"If you were a threat, You would have already been dispatched." It said cheerfully.
He stared at those massive fists, capable of engulfing him completely in their grip.
"That… is a fair point," she nodded back at the larger combat robot.
They turned to leave, marching down into the desert valley. Darkness quickly took hold, leaving only the lights from their suits and the stars above to guide them. Amber had already been fully transfigured, shedding the last of her human flesh in lieu of her perfect form of steel and silicone chips. She trundled along, her robes covering the massive bulge on her back as she used the butt of her two-meter Uranium rifle to assist her movement.
He turned his head back to address her, “Sister-Amber, what is it like?”
Jet looked into her large pair of glowing eyes, unable to read her expression. Her head was a maze of metallic plates and jutting wires, with horizontal pipes jutting out from where her mouth used to be, running to her chassis pack in her robes. She was among his iteration of sixteen, but was slightly older, and thus was one of the first of his generation to be changed.
“It is… Liberating. To no longer be burdened by cursed flesh. Worry, fear… To live as a pleasing vessel to the Machine god...”
She paused, as if processing her next thoughts. She gripped her small amber necklace around her neck, and by mimicry, he gripped his jewel of jet around his own.
“I shall ask Father if I can be in the next transfiguration.”
Euclid answered, “I very much doubt that, master-Jet. You are still quite young.”
He went quiet, tucking his arm of flesh deeper against his warmed chassis.
“I would not worry, brother-Jet. The timing of the Machine god and Father cannot be rushed. Nor predicted.”
They finished their descent as Euclid made a warbling trill of his own just as the robed sentries intercepted them. They parted, allowing them access to the camp. Brothers and sisters were all marching about hurriedly, gathering up packs and supplies, weapons and armaments, limbs and gear. The evening prayer would soon be upon them. And with the Machine god’s blessing, they would depart. Father had planned to travel only in the evenings as the nearly scorching seventy-degrees celsius would wear out their silicone systems, dedicating the days for hibernation and maintenance.
Each wore the colors of their cult, black-grey robes with red trim. Most were already transfigured, only a few sported any flesh; most were other brothers and sisters from iteration sixteen. They parted for a meandering servitor as it mindlessly carried a large load of supplies. It was half flesh, like himself, with the exception that the brain pan was replaced with a metal chassis housing a basic scripted brain. He wondered if Slate from iteration eleven was happy being mindless. Euclid drew his attention away.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“I shall begin my scheduled patrol as evening prayers commence, master-Jet,” He announced before he marched away, tattered poncho flowing in the breeze. Several brothers stepped aside for the larger combat robot.
A trill cry rang out again, announcing it was the call to prayer. Jet spotted a dozen small skull servitors crawling on the sand towards the temple tent.
“Come on, sister-Amber! If we hurry, we can have a seat up front.”
“Do not wait up for me, brother-Jet, for I am not fast…” She trundled along, slowed down by the oncoming press of the crowd.
He already rushed ahead, the excitement of the moment overriding the cold logic of his processors. sister-Amber was quickly left behind as other cultists began their pilgrimage to the temple. He passed by tent after tent made of a dynamic fiber that withstood the elements, provided insulation, breathability, and was easy to maintain. An invention by Father and Uncle that paid in dividends.
He saw the sparse crowds beginning to arrive as he shouldered his wrench-stave and sprinted along the sandy ground, past the seven pillars, and traveling through the seven circles near the left of the temple entrance. He slid on his knees to a stop near the seventh face of the tent, placing his tool along the ground and unshouldering his rifle. Yesterday it was his R-carbine that was blessed. Today it would be his stave-wrench. He hoped that one day he would be ordained to perform the holy rituals of his people, just as Father and Uncle had done before his iteration of sixteen had ever been imagined.
He clasped his hands in quiet prayer as others began to arrive, kneeling down next to him.
“Holiest of Machine god… we pray to thee,” he began, “from burden of flesh, set us free…”
Others began to mutter and pray, faces obscured by hood and chassis, all with every conceivable manner of limbs and gear. Several combat robots stood in the back row near the pillars, forgoing normal servo fists in favor of a full armament of P-cannons. More and more arrived, relegated to the outer perimeter of the seven circumferences. To his left and his right were shrouded in a sea of hooded cowls and hunched forms. Directly ahead was the inadequate temple for their redeemer. The clothy structure trembled in the evening breeze.
They all waited for the arrival of Father and for the evening sacred rites.
“Holiest of Machine god… we pray to thee…"
He continued his prayers, repeating the mantra, as if by sheer volume his hopes would be fulfilled. Or at the very least, prayers would be answered by order of queue.
The quiet mutterings reached a dull roar, just as the flap to the temple entrance opened wide to reveal the ones they waited for. Father and Uncle both stood tall in the temple entrance. The Deacons of their shard had arrived.
Father stood tall, as if the burden of carrying their cult made him stand straighter. His face was covered with a plate of metal, sporting a beard of cables running down his coif. His arms and legs were made of segmented plated joints, giving ample protection and flexibility. The arms on his utility casing were withdrawn, doing nothing to blunt his large presence. He gripped his omni-halberd, striking the butt against the desert ground as if to gather everyone's attention.
While Father was a leader of impressive form, Uncle, on the other hand, looked as if the burden of leadership were a heavy thing, bowing his back to the point of breaking. His face was a solid plate, apart from segmented sections of his mouth and jaw. The chains on the crane-halberd jingled quietly. His hunched form was an odd juxtaposition between the two. Before he could ponder anymore, Father spoke.
"My children of iterations one through sixteen, we come together in worship to our god. Let us be blessed, anointed, and full of cheer, for the Machine god gives us favor!"
He looked up, realizing Father was staring at him, one eye hidden, the other was larger and glowing with light.
"For those of iteration sixteen, transfiguration has been on your heart and minds. Many of you have already experienced it. Many of you yearn for it. But let us have a spirit of patience after the Machine god's own. The most almighty has given us their decree. We are to move east, deeper into this harsh land. For my sons and daughters have found our salvation from this world. A Titan."
The flock burst out in quiet whispers.
"Can it really be..?" He couldn't help but ask aloud.
Uncle spoke up, his voice was like a grumbling tin can, "It is true. We have confirmed sightings. It is the blessing of the Machine god itself that no other party has rushed to claim it."
Father continued, "We shall depart immediately after the sacred rites and blessings."
Usually it was Father who began the ritual, but this time it was Uncle. Why the change in habits?
"My son."
Why was Uncle leading and not Father? Could it be he was relinquishing his Deaconhood- was he stepping down? Uncle trundled to the massive chalice near the entrance, dipping the holy instrument in and pouring the purified waters of the Machine god onto a brother's long-rifle.
"Jet."
He broke from his daydreaming, staring up at Father, the larger man's arm outstretched.
"Jet. My son. Come with me."
He rushed to his feet, gathering his rifle and wrench-stave. His organics fluttered, his skin prickled.
"Is it… is it time?"
Father lowered his outstretched hand, grasping and leaning on his omni-halberd.
"This is something more than transfiguration."
What could be more than being changed into the destined divine form of the Machine god's will?
He wordlessly obeyed, following Father to the tent flap of the temple. He stopped, his breath becoming shallow. He was not supposed to enter. No one but Father and Uncle could commune with the Machine god.
"It is alright. You may enter," Father consoled him, holding the tent flap up for him as he ducked underneath and into the sacred mainframe. What awaited him was a mostly bare fabric floor, and sacred relics lining up against the walls of the tent, leaving a metal door on the other side of the temple. What drew his attention were a stack of clear cubes with cabling jutting from each square. Inside he could see a small hairless form of pale flesh, curled up inside a liquid blanket. He stepped closer, as if in a trance to stare at the tiny infants within the chambers. There were a dozen of them, all in various states of sleep or motion. One of them lacked the skull for a brain, immediately drawing the servitor Slate to his mind. Each had a deformity, a flaw that caused him to look away. A chill ran down his spine.
"Father, this generation appears to be defective. Will you terminate them?"
Father paused, deep in thought.
"No, Jet. Their life is as precious as yours and yours as precious as iteration one. You are all our children; the Machine god's children. Each one is cherished. What makes our Shard special is our ability to clone new children while other Shards recruit likely acolytes. However, the genetic strain used for each iteration was damaged when we were forced to land here so long ago…"
Father looked away and for the first time, he saw his leader's temperament change for a brief moment. Jet returned his gaze to the cloning cubes. It was a revelation that he could not describe in any other term but 'disappointing'. The expectations that the Machine god itself formed him and his brethren from the pure energy of the universe was shattered. He was born from a bunch of dirty cubes.
“Why do you show me this? This isn't the usual transfiguration ritual."
"But Jet, my son, this meeting isn't about transfiguration at all," Father stood a little taller, all of the morosity before had vanished.
Jet cocked his head, "Then why am I here in the temple mainframe?"
Father took a step forward, hand planting firmly on his shoulder. His hand was large enough that he could have enveloped his entire head.
"You are here because I chose you," With each pronouncement, Father's voice became more and more intense, "You are to become a Priest of the Machine god. You will know every ritual, know every artifact. You will know the Machine god's name. And you will collect and document every sacred technology we discover. My son, you will lead our people."
Jet was taken aback. Know the Machine god's name? It had a name? This wasn't like Father to say such things.
"You speak as if I am replacing you."
"The Machine god willing you will not. But everything in this life is temporary, that is simply the nature of the universe. Nothing lasts forever."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"The Machine gods live for eternity! Father… what you're saying is blasph-"
Father turned away, gesturing to him, "To me, my son. You shall come to know what I know. To carry the burden that I carry."
He went silent, obeying out of respect and curiosity of the holiest secrets.
Father halted at the metal entrance. Jet couldn't stop the trembling of his weak flesh.
"But Father, as you and Uncle have said, any who enter without the Machine god's blessing will die."
The Deacon pulled out a small console and began typing with a single hand. He had never seen sacred tech like this before.
Father gestured to him, "Over here. Please memorize this."
Jet peeked over the man's shoulder, seeing and immediately snap-shotting the hexadecimal code to his internal memory bank.
> 426c657373696e677320746f206d79206c6f76652c204a6164652c2077686f206861732073756363656564656420496f6e2c2077686f206973206b6e6f776e20617320496f6e612e
"This blessing will allow you entry. Otherwise, the security protocols of the holy mainframe will emit a mixture of various radiation, destroying both flesh and circuity alike. Always be aware of this and you must never share this under any circumstance. Guard it with your life."
He grasped his necklace as if he could hold the coded blessing to his heart, "I will, Father."
"Good. Very good. Now, repeat the blessing."
Father took a step back, allowing Jet access to the terminal. He leaned in, inspecting the sacred tech. It was a board with characters and numbers printed onto small tiles. A black screen with a white blinking cursor greeted him with a demand.
> Please enter authentication hash:
He always wished to be this close to the Machine god; but he never imagined ever gaining entry to the temple, much less the holy of holiest mainframes. The burden Father had placed upon him had left him dazed and stunned, allowing his logical processes greater control as he began to mechanically type on the board. He was slow at first, gaining familiarity with the method, but by the end, he had calculated he was around three-hundred and five words-per-minute.
The screen blinked a brief and cheery confirmation before the console folded up back into the mainframe wall.
The door opened with a rushing hiss, blasting him with freezing cold air. He recoiled, huddling into his robes as his flesh cried out in discomfort. He had never been so cold before. His suit warned him of dangerous temperatures of negative seventeen degrees Celsius. The blue glow blinded him from what was inside. He tore a strip of cloth from his robe, tying it to blind his eye of flesh, allowing his cybernetic eyes to focus on the inside.
He looked back at Father, waiting for his permission.
He gestured with his fingers, "Go on, she's waiting for you."
The Machine god had a gender? She?
He wordlessly marched into the holiest of mainframes.
He gazed upon the majesty of it, erasing all of the earlier disappointment at his own creation. His flesh threatened to break under the frost and shock of being in the presence of his Machine god. The doors shut with a hiss, sealing him inside.