Chapter Text
It had been a few weeks since my departure from the Rig in the Ice, my mind still occupied by poor Nansen’s fate, though I had other worries to attend to: winter had gripped the lands for three weeks, and this one seemed much harsher, and much colder than those of the last years. There had been an inexplicably warm season which ruled the climate, but it seemed then that this blissful period had ended – autumn alone had already been as frigid as the coldest nights of the recent winters. Thus, as I wandered along the convoy which accompanied my travels southward, soon reaching the unfamiliar shores of the equatorial lands I had last crossed nigh-on two decades ago, I kept watch for thick winter clothing to stave off the creeping effects of frostbite – I had no need for them before due to the little oil stoves we carried on one of our sleds, though considering my intentions of wandering alone, some thicker garments were in order. I had no flesh to blacken from cell-death, but my internals were affected all the same: oil coagulates into goopy sludge unable to cool or lubricate worn mechanisms which give rise to movement, to life. The cold kills the mechanical as it did the biological half a lifetime ago.
Eventually, after separating from my group to head west towards the looming mountain ranges, I found the remains of an old Berghardt expedition, hailing from the long-past days when we searched for new colonies to trade and relate with. Most returned empty handed, others in reduced numbers, some not at all – it seemed this group’s grim fate was as most had feared: machine-hunters, their telltale puncture wounds and oil-smears found in plenty across the dozen carcasses, each individually drained of their blood. All of them bore winter clothing upon whose sleeves were stitched our church’s insignia; I took one of the explorer’s garments as my own, equipping it overtop my trusted black coat. In mere minutes, my internals calmed from their cold-induced worries.
From my time, which I’d plenty to spare, I took a good two hours to bury my fallen comrades according to our church’s holy rites; they had perished in ordained duty, and thus shall join the divine nought of the hollow sun. I wonder at times if my defiance of the clergy’s wishes for me to stay and curate the stories and histories collected by others disqualifies me from reaching the void heavens, but these anxieties are quickly quelled: how often had I taken part in prayer? In repentance? In offerings of mind and body to the holy duties of the good church? Details and number counts are all long-lost to memory purges, though I know for certain they ought to “out-bless” my mild misdemeanours.
My lucky find could not have come a day later, for the climate turned for the worse not twelve hours afterwards, when I sat beside a campfire during the night. My old oil reserves suffered greatly from the frost, which led me to renew about half of what my veins contained; within my satchel, I always kept a little supply of fresh drone oil to keep me going on my more expansive travels. Exchanging it was as simple as always, for I needed only hook up the plastic line to the can and upper port, and open the drain on my backside which soon leaked with black sludge – the worst of the weather had yet to come, and yet my lifeblood approximated the consistency of tar rather than oil. In some ways, this was similar to a blood transfusion, with the exception of the drainage – had a human been in need of one, they’d be lacking blood, not exchanging it. I wonder now if this process I did then had ever occurred within human hospitals… Blood poisoning? Yes, that could work. Contamination of the fragile blood supply was surely severe enough to warrant some kind of renewal.
After completing my regular oil change, I slept away the frigid nighttime as the fire beside me crackled warmly, then dimmed to nothing more than a wispy glow as the sun rose. With the star awoken, so was I, ready for yet another day of travel. I must say, and excuse my choice of words, that it was fucking cold. The frost sapped away any energy it could grasp at, cooling even my most insulated internals as ice crept up my exposed visor. I did not feel the cold, no drone could meaningfully do so, I simply knew it; digital gauges which measured the state of my internals read out dozens upon dozens of values – most of little use to me – though one set in particular was of greater interest: the exact temperatures at which my pumps and processors worked during the moment. Should they have fallen below a certain value, and should my oil have coagulated into clumps within the precisely machined pumps, it would certainly have spelled my doom. Such damages could only reasonably be repaired at a doctor’s machine shop, when I knew I was in the good hands of the church back at home. I knew the risks of pursuing yet unrecorded tales and legends, bands and colonies, but, of course, this did not stop me. My lifelong hunger for adventure and putting into word the world around me had scarcely stopped. Still, I somewhat abstractly “felt” the biting cold nipping at my extremities, for my movements had slowed, and the pressure in my veins rose to unusual heights – flow resistance of returning oil had increased due to the thickening which occurred as a direct consequence of the frigid exposure.
The mountain peaks loomed ahead ever-present – beyond them, my hope for finding fellow drones which ought to share their history, their tales, their experiences, and for me to enact my ordained duty to gather them all to be preserved in the library of Berghardt. But first, before heading over a pass I had been informed of before my departure (which inspired this whole adventure in the first place) something else entirely rose from the horizon: a jagged skyline of a forgotten city. Perhaps my maps had been outdated. After all, satellite views were lost to the cataclysm, and the few paper maps our explorers could haphazardly scrounge together hailed from the early days of Copper-9’s colonization. I knew for certain my coordinates – longitude and latitude were easy enough for me to discern – and had triple referenced them with every map of the area I’d saved. Still, no noted signs of the strange city presented themselves. This was unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected, for the reliance on old world maps died along with the society that saw use in them.
I did not change my heading, for I was getting impatient and, most unfortunately, cold; the sooner I had these travels over with, the sooner I could return to my trusted home.
I stood within a field of snowed-on rubble, lit by a warm twilight on my backside. The dim sun had fallen just below the horizon, now providing orange illumination instead of white which fell beautifully onto a towering skyline of abandoned, nigh-toppled skyscrapers looming in the near distance ahead. The city to which I had travelled was of no particular interest to me – it had simply been on the way. But nevertheless, its presence would certainly be of great use. Stocking up on consumables such as oil and pencils (since I keep breaking them… damned flimsy things…) is always a welcome occurrence, especially in a place such as this, equally devoid of drones and machine-hunters alike.
Soon, as I came upon a complex of concrete ruins on the very border of the city, I noticed a shine on the ground entrenched in an odd, snow-less circle. Looking closer, the shimmer revealed a spot of liquid which had not yet frozen. An unusual sight, especially considering how cold it truly was; this was no mere water, for within it swirled sickly colours and glistening particulates which reflected back the lowly light of my visor. It could be wrong, but I believe my sensors picked up on faint fumes which rose from the incongruent splotch.
It stank, reeking of rot; the putrid puddle singed my sensors of smell. Whatever this was, it didn't get here on its own – its… owner was nowhere to be seen, neither was I prompt on finding out its whereabouts. It was dark already, and it'd only get darker as the night progressed. Staying out here wasn't a good idea, this I knew well, but I could not muster the strength to leave the repulsive curiosity alone. It called to me in some way, beckoning me closer.
My curious nature got the better of me; I outstretched my hand, touching the anomaly with one of my fingertips. The strange goop felt sticky and slimy, almost tar-like as its warm texture soon burned my polymer skin like a well-fed flame. Faint smoke rose from my appendage, quickly accompanied by a searing, burning pain which radiated outwards into the rest of my body.
In a fit of panic, I unthinkingly smeared the vile concoction onto my jacket, relieving me of my pain – the plundered garment which now bore the acidic mixture seemed to melt under its influence: the affected fibres formed into a singular, stinking mass which drooped under its own weight. I wanted to discard the item then and there, thinking I was still in danger, though thankfully my hasty actions seemed to somewhat neutralize the toxin. It was still so terribly cold, and I’d not fancied sustaining frost damage, so I chose to keep my jacket on.
I had little time to ruminate on the ooze’s origin, for not soon thereafter, out of a dark spot in the ruins near me emerged a dreadful sound, one so unnerving it shocked me into stillness. A chattering and a creaking, a clicking and a crack. Like a tree bent and swung in a great storm, a sound like churning branches echoed into desolation's wake. As the cacophony of sickening sounds drew near, I scrambled back into action and ran away as fast as I could into the concrete spires of the broken city.
Through decrepit buildings and half-fallen skyscrapers I dodged and weaved, the terrible soundscape behind me getting only closer as I hurdled over dusty desks and vacant window frames alike. A tapping of too many legs, a gust of wind blown by great wings lifts laying snow and shifts the still falling flakes, a wall of heat rose in temperature second by second, flashing the loose, airborne ice to steam.
It followed me relentlessly, tracking me without mercy nor effort, though I desperately tried to shake its attention. Throughout my maddened flight, I turned abrupt corner after corner and leapt from one office building to the next, to little avail; the raging rampage drew but closer and the yellow light only strengthened in its luminosity. A storm of thought brewed within me: How could this be? What is this thing? How is it following me? Then, an idea.
It was the jacket, the putrid fluid upon it still singing the fabric. I tore it away from me, leaving it behind in the trodden path, and as I ran along, the raging wave of sound grew quieter, eventually falling into silence.
I was cold, but I was alive.
A machine-hunter of a size and function never before known to me had followed my lowly shape through tight corridors and claustrophobic alleyways alike, ceaseless in its chase. What had saved my life was my intuition, and my accidental stroke of genius: Had I smeared the putrid fluid onto the ground instead of my disposable jacket’s thick fabric, I would have surely not removed it in its entirety. Its smell would have attracted the thing until it had reached me. Had I not touched it at all, then, while its chase might have been less intense, I would have had nothing to distract it from my person had it caught up.
I admit, I did not directly see the thing, for the only glimpse I was allowed was one of a yellow light-array entrenched in deep shadow. But what I realized in that minute moment of observation was only that it was large. Thus, I was not content in finding out its true intentions, for I already knew them: hunger was to be satiated, and rubble wouldn’t do.
I write this now as I sit beside a rumbling campfire; I had no intentions of staying the night after my gruelling encounter, so I trekked steadfast throughout the night into the nearby woodlands, and set up a place of rest there. It is still bitter cold, but I know from experience that this cold spell cannot last much longer than the few weeks it already has. Winter is ending after all – a good few weeks have passed since my departure at the Rig – though I hold out little hope for snowmelt. My limited meteorological knowledge tells me that the next few days ought to be a little nicer, but not so much that I need not fear the cold: Tomorrow, I must return to the city and gather a coat warm enough to get me across the western mountain range. I had passed by these tempting peaks once before on my pilgrimage oh so long ago, though I had never before seen the lands beyond – I remember my duties, and hold them dear to me.
…The fire is getting hungry, I ought to feed it lest it go out. I’ll write of tomorrow whenever I have the time.