12 Miles Below

Activity made the small settlement scurry around like dew drops splashing in the ponds. The ex-humans here were frightened. Weary. They sent looks in her direction before quickly looking away. Always trying to pretend everything was as it should be, when nothing was as it had been.

Where she stood, a small empty void surrounded her, as the people didn't want to approach close. Part of that might have been due to the Old runner that had accompanied To'Wrathh here.

Curiosity was common among the older machines, though the subject and focus of that curiosity would wildly differ between model and rank. To’Wrathh had noticed that trend among all her senior staff. The old ones, who had survived trials and adapted to them, each showed an element of curiosity.

She wondered if that emerged after a long enough time, or if it was the prerequisite for their survival in the first place. Which came first? Perhaps with enough study, the answer would be clarified to her.

The old runner was curious about humans.

And while these ex-humans were no longer considered targets, they were as close to humans as the Runner would see. And more importantly, they held information on how the humans lived their lives, deep in the safety of their shielded cities.

There was a book To’Wrathh had read in her search for information and knowledge, an ancient book written by a human from a long-forgotten era. The machine archive had preserved the contents, if not the physical copies. In that book, was a quote she had found kinship to: If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.

If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.

To’Wrathh knew neither herself, nor the enemy. Before, when she had the form of a spider, her life had been simple and clear. Protect the nest. Observe. Hunt that which steps upon your territory.

Now, things had become complex. Her nest had grown to include dozens of different roles and ranks. Dozens, each with different priorities. To’Wrathh might not yet know what or who she was anymore, but that would come with time. She felt confident of that. What she could work on was to understand those that had sworn loyalty to her.

The ex-humans were the most convoluted of her new subordinates. Unlike the more simple minded machines, all with uniform desires, the ex-humans had hundreds. Each unique to the individual. They lived a life that reminded her vaguely of her old nest. Each grouping and dividing themselves into tasks. All of which was necessary for survival.

She watched one such group return from foraging, carrying baskets of frostbloom and other plants. Others carrying back fish poached from the rivers and lakes underground, long fishing poles held over their shoulders. They would deliver their goods to others who had dedicated themselves as cooks, creating a communal meal for the small tribe.

"What caused your people to leave?" She asked. "The records I’ve seen detail your people as a nomadic caravan. It did not explain why you chose to become one. This was not a wise choice. I do not understand why your people traveled as they did instead of finding safety in a city."

“Dangerous. For you. For humans.” The old runner grumbled. Skull staring directly at the tiny human by his side. “I not understand, either. Humans can not run from runners. You knew. Not stupid.”

The timid ex-human answered carefully. "It’s complicated..”

To’Wrathh raised an eyebrow. Complicated things were handled in the same way as anything else. One step at a time. “Then explain. Begin anywhere and continue.”

“We did live in a city once. We were… poor. We couldn’t afford to live inside the protection of the pillar. They didn’t want us around so eventually we were forced to leave. Or the machines would kill us eventually.” She took a glance at the Feather, then shifted her eyes back, noticing the confused expression on To’Wrath. “Erm, the further away from the pillar shield, the more time it takes to run for safety when machines are spotted. Eventually, the rim camps grew too big and people started dying each time the machines came for a raid. So instead of waiting to die, we grouped together and left. We set out to look for another pillar, to make a new city. "

"The city did not see any other means to repurpose you? Not even as expendable resources?" To’Wrathh didn’t quite understand why the humans would waste such potential. Even the bodies could be used, surely.

"No, we were undesirables. Not producing anything useful, taking up space and a drain on the food supply. We had hope, it could have worked. Maybe a few more months and we would have stumbled on something. There’s the underlayer, close enough to the surface for frostbloom to start growing and usually machines don’t go there.”

The runner shivered at the side. “Sacrilege. Heresy. The surface is not good.”

“Too cold for machines?” The girl asked.

“No.” The runner said, voice rumbling. A deep bass that vibrated her bones slightly. “Cold. Hot. No difference to machines. Surface is heresy. Surface is not good. No go there. No. Go.”

“But… why?” The girl turned, finally looking at the runner eye to eye, if only for a second before flinching away.

He remained silent for a moment. Then spoke. “A feeling. Surface is heresy.”

To’Wrathh gave the short girl a glance. “Your old god protected humanity in different ways. Hallowed ground most machines cannot step on. It does not stop the likes of me. How did you survive outside the city?”

She gulped, suddenly reminded that the machine she stood beside was far more dangerous than the massive hulking Runner. A Feather was an enemy of myth, and Tamery was surprised to find herself forgetting that anytime she spoke to Lady To’Wrathh. “We had twenty relic armors we brought with us. The knights hunted down power cells and kept us safe from the machine raids. They’re all gone now, Lord To’Aacar took them with him along with the others.”

To’Wrathh nodded, walking to the cooking fires grouped up. The old women there watched the Old Runner with weary eyes, and none of them seemed to notice the Feather.

The Feather in question observed the large pot of soup at the center, where one of the oldest of the women seemed to realize the food was still cooking and would still continue to cook regardless if a giant machine stood at the side or not. That one reached a shriveled old hand and stirred the pot, adding more spices and tasting it again, muttering all the while. The rest of the women didn’t have that same courage, each slowly edging away before leaving their duties behind to not so sneakily run.

The familiar action seemed to shake the lady out of her initial scare and she turned to stare up at the hulking monster towering above.

“Well?” She said, lifting the ladle and waving it in the Old Runner’s direction. “Ye don’t have a mouth to eat this with, so scram! Either put me out of my misery already or get out of the way.”

A bone-like hand wide enough to wrap around the old lady’s entire body reached out and plucked the threatening ladle out of her hand. The Old Runner brought the tiny metal instrument up, holding it delicately with three fingers before his skull, violet eyes searching the surface.

“Why. Stir.” He asked.

The old lady remained frozen in place. Then shook herself loose a moment after. “It’s fine, I’ve gone crazy a long time ago, I don’t even care anymore.” She turned and pointed at the pot. “It’s so that the soup doesn’t burn the bottom of course! Why, you think I like stirring a pot all day with these old bones?”

The machine shook his head slowly, up and down. Then he took a step past the woman, dipping the ladle down into the soup. He began to stir it slowly, those horrifying violet eyes hyper focused on the task. Watching the small bubbles drift up and pop at the surface.

Tamery thought she was going crazy as well. That this was all a vivid hallucination and she was actually back home on a sickbed, slowly dying while the city kept the doors shut and the medicine locked behind wealth. The sight of a massive hulking machine, hunched over a communal pot, stirring it with such fascination seemed almost comical to her. This couldn’t be real, could it?

To’Wrathh took a seat by the side of the pot, watching. “Why did you leave the city?” She asked the small ex-human girl.

Tammery slapped the sides of her cheek a few times, snapping herself awake again. Then, she scuttled over to take a seat next to the Feather. This was her duty, the best thing she could do for her little tribe. Placate the Feather, and possibly the machines may have mercy on them. So Tamery talked and gossiped, pretending the angel of death she spoke to was an old friend she’d finally seen again after years.

“Everyone here has different stories, for me, Da was a trader and died a few years ago when he was making a more dangerous pass. Ma tried what she could but wasn't able to really put two and two together like he did. She kept gambling everything he’d saved up."

"Gambling? Explain."

“Uhh, she would play card games hoping to get more money. It never worked, she had a problem with that.”

To’Wrathh tilted her head, “Money.” She said, a faraway look in her violet eyes. “A current medium of exchange in the form of coins and banknotes. Tell me more about what the cities use.”

It was times like these that Tamery could forget she was talking to the embodiment of Death. A Feather was an enemy best left to the Deathless. Even elite knights wouldn’t consider fighting one without having a massive number advantage. And here she was, sitting mere inches away and talking to one. Explaining what money is and how it was used.

But Tamery was a trader’s daughter and more than just that, she liked to talk about money. So she quickly forgot who she was talking to, becoming more animated with the topic by the passing seconds.

Before she knew it, the girl was talking about systematic monetary systems, trading voids and political collisions among the trading guilds. “Every city has its own bank, see? That’s how they dealt with the issue of coins. Coins aren’t good as money like they were in the older eras, anyone can print out gold or metal if they find the right printer and files. Imagine making a coin only to find out the city next door can simply print those out whenever. But there’s still goods some cities can make and others want, so they all settled on city-banks keeping individual accounts and everything digital. You can’t print up an encryption code. So traders like my father had dozens of accounts across different cities, all propped up on goods he ferried between each. Could be an entire headache to keep track of, but that’s what made him good at his job. So that’s how money is used.”

“And you ended at the city rim? You speak as if you had been wealthy. This does not make sense.”

The girl scowled at that. “Okay, so, there’s this asshole in control of the trading company Da worked at. He’s a greedy little scrapshit and saw an easy way to swipe up all the accounts leftover. Bribed the right people, and before I knew it, ma had already signed away all the accounts without knowing how much they were worth. And just like that, our home was gone and we were kicked out into the rim. Ma got sick pretty quickly out there, and then it was just me.”

Tamery had found kinship with some of the other rejects. She’d once thought they’d all been lazy homeless trash that deserved to stay in the rim... until she was among them and forced to confront the misguided logic she’d been fed. They’d all been like her at some point, simply dealt a bad hand that spiraled out of control. The ones who weren't lucid didn't stay alive outside the walls for long, so the remaining homeless were like her - survivors.

To’Wrathh, on the other hand, was realizing war wasn’t all that made humanity. To understand her enemy as to be able to crush them more efficiently, she would need to learn their culture. Something she hadn’t considered to be a factor before.

“Lift it up, let me taste.” The old woman at the pot ordered. Curiously, the Old Runner followed the command, lifting the ladle with a full scoop of the soup.

“Taste?” The Runner asked, confused.

“Yes, taste! How else am I gonna make this soup taste good if I don’t taste it as I cook it? You think I can just snap my fingers and the mites will make a good soup for me? Hah!” The woman stuck out a small spoon almost angrily, lifted a bit of the gruel and stuck it into her mouth. “Needs more salt and a bit more pepper, yes.” She grumbled, “Wish we had more corn, pity.”

“Corn?” The runner said, putting the ladle back into the soup and continuing his slow stirring.

“Yes, corn! Goddess save me, it grows on the walls in green vines. Bright yellow, tastes good, hardly needs any water. You can’t possibly miss it if you pass by a vine. Steam it, boil it, grill it, everyone can eat corn and everything’s better with corn.” The old woman ranted as she grabbed ingredients from the discarded workstation her fellow cooks had deserted. When she returned, it was to toss out some black colored powder into the pot. The old lady then peered up at the machine. “‘Xcept you. You don’t got teeth or a mouth to eat with. What do you even get to do out here if you don’t get to eat good food? Stare at walls all day?”

“I run. With pack.” The old runner said. “I hunt. I fight. I kill. Soup is new. Cook is new.”

The old woman winced, suddenly aware that this monster had killed dozens, perhaps even hundreds of her old kin. She took a hesitant step back, before breathing in deeply, squaring away her courage and stepping forward again, staring down the monster before her. “Well, what else do you want to do in your life? You want to cook now? That it? You want me to show you how to cook?”

The old runner tilted his head, contemplating. A pause.

“Ok.” He said. The skeletal hand moved the ladle and the pot bubbled. The Old Runner didn’t need more reasons, this was new and different. He liked that. Soup was interesting. Soup was different.

To’Wrathh watched the interaction. She stood, the wings behind her lifting her onto her feet with little effort. Two light steps forward and she peered over the pot of bubbling thick soup.

“What do you do with this soup?” She asked.

The old lady looked back with disbelief. “It’s food. What did you want to know about it?”

To’Wrathh realized she hadn’t looked into how humans used food. It was a hole in her knowledge. “What do you do with food?”

“What do you do with food?” The old lady repeated, dumbfounded. “Well, for starters, you eat it. That’s what you do with food. You machines keep asking the weirdest questions.”

She’d read the books they had on war - it had mentioned logistics and supply lines. Food had appeared hundreds of times as a necessary ration. She knew humans ate the food. Soldiers eat. The books didn’t say how soldiers eat.

She could have searched for that question in the archives and found an answer. However, she was beginning to believe the books and archives machines kept didn’t describe the enemy as they were today. It was all outdated. Too removed from the source of information. To’Wrathh wanted to understand her enemy, she needed to learn from them directly.

To craft her own memories rather than borrowing from someone else’s.

“How do you eat soup?” To’Wrathh asked.

The old lady didn’t seem to quite understand the question. She grabbed her spoon, dipped it in the soup, staring at To’Wrathh the whole time. As if it were evident, waving dramatically to the spoon filled with soup. Then, she brought it back up and then chomped it down noisily. “Like this see? You take a spoon, chew it up and swallow. You got a mouth right? What you think it was made for?”

“Speaking?” That was all she’d used her mouth for. Was there other functions for the human mouth besides language? In hindsight, To’Wrathh realized she hadn’t the faintest idea of human biology. How had she not thought about their biology? The old woman had tasted the soup previously, and To’Wrathh hadn’t even noticed the strange action. She ran a quick mental check through her functions, looking for abnormalities or lowered thought processes.

Nothing. The truth was simple. To’Wrathh had simply not thought of human biology in any other way besides the methods of disabling it.

She knew the heart was important. She knew blood was as well. The average amount of blood required for a human to remain conscious was a number she was familiar with.

And it was dawning on her that this single number explained nothing else.

The Feather set to rectify that, downloading from the archive the full set of human biology. In this, she made another discovery: That her form was not identical. Instead, massive swaths of functionality was missing, as if the base template for a Feather had simply been a copy taken from still images and video footage. Hundreds of details were lacking. Details that could not have been guessed at by simple observation.

She had no stomach. No taste buds. No lungs. No vocal chords. Her throat led to a dead end.

Relinquished had designed this form. And clearly, the pale lady had made only a pale imitation without true thought or care. Something was wrong.

How had her mother ignored such details? And for so many years after the initial template? How had To’Wrathh herself remained so ignorant until it had been made obvious to her? A blindspot?

Or was this information something her mother had deemed non-essential? Surely, Relinquished could not have simply forgotten this part, like To’Wrathh had.

Relinquished was ancient. Wise, and powerful beyond measure. She'd taken over the world after all.

The Feather didn’t know why her body lacked all of these functions. But she would rectify that problem now. She signaled her nano-swarm within to build the correct structures.

Power bled from her form as the swarms within her went to work. First, she gave herself lungs and more artificial muscle to move them. Then, she crafted vocal chords that replaced her speakers. The designs were found deep in the archives, made by humans experimenting with such android technologies. Primitive, but all she had to work with.

Artificial taste buds and a true throat that led into an empty stomach were made next. The ability to smell. She went down the list, one item at a time, repairing her form.

Some things she couldn’t mimic. Others she came up with more creative work arounds.

To’Wrathh continued the work quietly as the camp moved around her. Tamery remained at her side, not quite sure what was going on, but seeing signs of black smoke moving around the Feather.

When To’Wrathh returned, she had completed all possible modifications within her ability. She cleared her throat, now understanding why such an action was necessary. Programs had been copied and powered on that should have made the transition between a speaker and her new voice cord a seamless transition.

Still, when she spoke, the voice was dry and hoarse. The Feather coughed again.

“Lady To’Wrathh… are you all right?” Tamery asked. She wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but nobody in the camp was paying attention to the Feather. All eyes were on the old lady and the Runner she was now ordering around to fetch her items and cut fish up.

They had been at it for a while now, the soup had taken on a far more thick consistency. The smell of fish and herbs had begun to waft out in the air.

For the first time in her life, To’Wrathh smelled the food. The onslaught of new information struck her like a sledgehammer, filled with nuances.

“I am fine.” She said, her new voice similar to the previous synthetic version. And yet subtly different, no one consonant said at exactly the same pitch. “I have made some modifications to my form.”

“Modifications? Why?” Tamery asked, now curious.

“I wished to eat the soup.” To’Wrathh said, taking a spare spoon and dipping the end inside. Scooping out a spoonful as the old lady had done before. She brought it to her mouth, and crunched down, biting the spoon in half. Then, she chewed, bits of metal spoon crunching in between her teeth, mixing with the warm soup.

It was interesting. Different. The information sent by the taste buds mixed with what her new nose had sent.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to eat the spoon with that.” Tamery said, trying hard to keep her face neutral. “It’s only used to get the soup in your mouth. Like this,” The girl dipped a spare spoon herself into the pot, brought it back and licked off the tasty broth. Time and work had made it begin to truly taste like soup rather than simple stock, despite the cheap ingredients used, like fish.

To’Wrathh nodded, ordering the nano-swarms within her to pool out and repair the spoon back to its original form. Energy continued to drain from her reserve power cells. She would need to be more careful, the modifications had cost her and she would need to recharge soon. No more mistakes would be allowed. Only mites could create or destroy matter without paying a price in power.

Once more, she dipped the spoon in the soup, brought it back and sampled the broth. This time, only the soup was tasted. It was good. To’Wrathh decided she liked soup. Very much so.

She turned to the Old Runner, who had returned with grilled fish, breaking apart the flaky chunks and placing them into the broth as per instruction. To’Wrathh sent a data package to the runner: Her experience and the taste of the soup the Runner had helped prepare.

He froze, processing the data. Tasting the memory. It took some time before the Old Runner moved again.

“Soup good.” He finally said. “Cooking good. I search for corn next.”

Next chapter - Fish and letter

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