Function{}

Initialize

Diag(0,All)

1, Nom

Initialize

Call Function(Thomas, 78304027)

// _

I open my eyes. It’s about midday, as evidenced by the orange glow behind the overcast skies. A few high altitude lightning bursts shatter across the skies with no more than a growl, as they did every few minutes or so. A beautiful day for dredging.

Lifting myself off the ground, I decided to head back to sector 718-d. There were a few promising finds there last week, and it would be a long time yet before the area had been picked clean. Artifacts of the world before were still hiding deep in the rubble. I was one of the many left searching.

The sector wasn’t too far off, only 2.18 kilometers southwest. It was what remained of the city that was Baltimore, now only distinguishable by blasted road signs. Only a handful of buildings remained, and those that did seemed likely to crumble in a stiff breeze. I saw other collectors already rooting about in the streets, some through broken windows in half-demolished frames. I located an area that seemed vacant, and set to my task.

The area I had chosen to search was likely an old residential block, or perhaps an apartment complex. The buildings were knocked to their foundations in the early waves of the arrival, so it was difficult to say with any sense of certainty. The walls had caved in on themselves, buckling under the weight above, once their steel support rods were repurposed. Slabs of concrete lay in heaps some 12 meters tall. Under one of the smaller buildings, I detected some wood panels that could have been from an old dresser or nightstand. I use my legs to lift and toss aside the slabs to uncover the petrified remains.

Only a single leg and a third of a drawer door remained with any semblance of human craftsmanship, both adorned with an ivy pattern carved into an intricate lattice. The rest had been reduced to splinters and sawdust. Any clothing items, if there were any, had long since turned to dust by the elements. However, a few other items had managed to endure: a red plastic picture frame, a simple candle holder, the back and handle of a hand mirror, and an ornate jewelry box.

Scanning and cataloging each of these took only 1.37 minutes until only the jewelry box remained. The exterior was tarnished, dark soot and burn marks accentuating the once elaborate engravings, which were remarkably preserved. Opening the box revealed a handful of earrings, a silver crucifix, 3 rings, and a locket fashioned after a stylistic heart.

After cataloging the other items, I noticed that the locket is hinged. Careful not to damage the item, I slip a digit in between the two sides and gently open the locket.

Inside, I see two black & white photographs, each on the inner face of the two halves. On one, there is a man, mid-30s, clean cut and wearing a suit. The other…

It was a woman that looked...familiar.

I stare at the photo for minutes… minutes that seem like days. How do I know this woman? Who is she?

Suddenly, my mind is assaulted with images. The woman and I are on a beach, she turns back to me and laughs as she offers her hand. We’re walking along a crowded city street together. I look back to see her bumping into a few pedestrians, her eyes turned up to the sky and a look of awe on her face. We’re seated at a table, a bottle of wine between us and a single candle illuminating the soft smile that outshines the Parisian city lights.

Paris...that was our honeymoon. Sarah. Her name came to me like an ocean wave, jolting me back into the moment. Suddenly, the figure on the other side becomes more familiar. I had forgotten my own face. I couldn’t recall the last time I had seen a mirror. Thomas. Thomas A. Morrison.

A million questions flew through my mind as the memories of our time together came. However, a creeping realization was beginning to overshadow them, like the shadow of a predator looking down on unsuspecting prey. It was the growing realization that the hand that was holding the locket, if you could even call it one, was not mine.

The locket was held aloft by 8 wire-thin strands of metal. Tracing these to their source, I saw a metallic plate, hinged in the middle and with 4 strands protruding from each.

I recoil from the sight. I hear myself make a sound which should have been “Oh God!”, but reaches my ears as a wordless moan. They took my tongue!

More images flit across my memory. These however were infinitely less enjoyable. I recalled being strung up by the shoulders, arms behind my back, as the machines pulled out and severed my tongue, blood pooling in my mouth. An iron tube descends from the ceiling and rests against my chin as the chromed slime oozes out and into my mouth, nose and eyes.

That damned slime. A few scientists found what they assumed was a gallium deposit in a meteor that landed in a remote part of Nevada. They managed to report a few strange characteristics to the news: corrosive-like effects, unexplained increase in mass, irregular flow. 3 days after that story went online, the entire west coast was destroyed. After 8 days, the world went dark and quiet, save for the cries of those still alive.

The slime was a deposit of nano-bots, sent into space by the inventors. Upon designating the world as mineral rich (which was mercifully slowed by the sterile conditions of our laboratories) the nano-bots would begin breaking down everything they came in contact with to replicate themselves. Furniture, buildings, animals, people, all were broken down at a molecular level on contact with the sentient crawling chrome, adding their mass to its own.

By the time the mass had engulfed Texas, the slime had shifted from replicating itself to building other things. First among these was a beacon, calling the inventors to their newest catch. Then came the air processors, breaking down the carbon dioxide in our atmosphere and belching out carbon monoxide, simultaneously suffocating Earth’s biosphere and making accommodations for its new masters.

By the time it had reached the east coast, the slime had created the Striders: five-legged machines towering at almost twenty feet with the purpose of wrangling up existing species. They had their fill of wildlife within hours, but it was obvious that they were treating the humans they found differently.

Sarah and I were hiding in our basement when we heard one barrel through our home. The doors above us crashed down as a writhing mass of wires snaked through the doorway, splitting in two and grabbing each of us in an instant. I remember how she screamed as we were taken to what looked like a mountain made of iron. We would later understand these to be processing plants.

Coming back to the moment, I feel a weight in my belly that could only be described as nausea, and I wonder in horror whether or not they left me with a stomach. I look down and see not legs, but metallic beams branching out from where my hips should have been. Five legs, precisely 72 degrees apart. I reach my new hands up to feel my face, only to realize that I can’t feel anything with these wires that now were my fingers. I needed to see myself.

I recalled a puddle of water .756 kilometers due roughly east and raced off. My spider-like legs carry me much faster than any human has any right to go, but I make an effort to not dwell on that. I have to see my face!

I see the puddle in a blasted strip of street, level with the surrounding asphalt and undisturbed. I dread approaching it, but find myself crossing that short distance as if by someone else’s will.

Looking down at the puddle, I realized that I knew full well what was done to me, but I needed to see. I wanted my eyes to refute the reality playing out in my memories. But my eyes were gone. My face, from the nose up, was a smooth ball of steel. Five lenses, faintly glowing red and placed in seemingly random locations across what was once my face were now my windows into the outside world. I now notice the red hue coloring the world.

My jaw was removed entirely, as I no longer had any need to eat. The green liquid filled canisters bulging from what was once my back were some sort of chlorophyll-like chemical that allowed me to gain energy from the scant rays of sunlight that penetrated the clouds. I was also covered in a kind of mesh material, where my finds were collected after being scanned.

I'm a collection drone. That was what the collective had me categorized under. These inventors were ruthless in their acquisition of new planets, but they also seemed to be a curious bunch. They insisted that everything about the planet's previous tenants be documented. It was easier if you had minds already familiar with the purpose of these disparate items. Besides, the human brain, though likely primitive by their standards, was still an impressive supercomputer. Better to reprogram than rebuild.

The collective! It had been too long since I had sent an update to the hive-mind, and already I could hear a metallic scraping coming from the direction of where I saw the other drones earlier. Grateful that at least the sense of hearing remained relatively unaltered, I choose a direction likely to be the least populated and scurry as fast as my spider-like legs can carry me. Already, I can see two drones emerge from the rubble giving chase.

I was only able to make it another three blocks before a third caught me from the side, our metal limbs tangling in the collision long enough for the other two pursuers to subdue me. Unable to break free, or even plead with them for release, I am forced to wait in horrid silence. I can see every scar, every inch of seared flesh that was made to give way to the steel that now made up these mockeries of men.

Not long after, a fourth drone emerges, but different from the others. Slithering down the alley is a steel snake, a red glow spilling from between its scales. Its head has no mouth, but a human-like face rests at the top of its head, between where the eyes of a natural snake would go. It bears an expression of pure neutrality. It is genderless, and as close to featureless as possible while still being uncannily human.

The eyes open, followed shortly by its mouth.

"Do not resist, probability of regression for collection drones is approximately 78.67% given proper stimuli."

Its lips never move, and the voice is thin and tinny.

"Per standard protocol, reprogramming will commence now."

As it lets loose that last word, slits open along the sides of its neck and a mass of wires protrude, winding their way towards my face. I try to scream. I can feel the wires as they enter the remains of the roof of my mouth and can see other areas being penetrated as well.

It takes long, too long, but eventually the pain overtakes me, and the world goes from red to black.

}

End function

Wipe(memory, cache, 4)

Reboot

Initialize

Diag(0,All)

1, Nom

Initialize

Call Function(Thomas, 78304028)

// _

I open my eyes. It’s late afternoon...