The Machines Fear Death

The Droid knew there was a list of names that came before Death’s blow and it was the first thing the Droid recalled when Death suddenly appeared in the canyon. Being an 80-year-old robot meant that its gears and screws were either rusted, bent, or just missing, and it likely wouldn’t get far. But running was the only option.

It ran as fast as it could, its metal foot-like structures ping-ing and pang-ing against the rocky base of the canyon, echoing off the canyon walls. The sound of metal banging against ore and graphite repeatedly would have been an unnerving sound to most, but the Robot knew… to Death it was familiar. This sound had become Death’s trumpet call. This meant the hunt was on. Like a hound excited to give chase, Death would be riveted by this harrowing, resonating, cacophony of artificial against organic.

As it came to the end of the canyon, the Robot tried to scramble over rocks and boulders. The boulders in its path were not much of an obstacle for a machine that did not get tired or pull muscles, but being so old and with no upgrades or repairs in such a long time, the scraping of its tiny four digits, meant exclusively for basic housework like raking or dusting, could not pull the cumbersome heft of its metal body up and around the ancient rocks. Struggling up the steep incline, the Robot shook as it tried to keep balance with its awkward limbs, hands, and feet, all of which were never designed, thus never intended, for such a climb.

Death was quickening its pace now, straight down the center like an arrow through the canyon. There was a screech emitting from Death. Maybe it was internal, maybe it wasn’t. The Robot clocked it as Mammalian, mostly. It was a screech that seemed to unify rage and glee. The robot reached its arm up over the last, and largest boulder, hoping to reach its iron grip into the top of the rock but was taken by surprise as a robotic arm reached forward and pulled the robot up, up, and out of the canyon completely. Momentarily out of harm’s way.

Death was fast, but it would take at least a few moments to get up the boulders.

“I am here to help you, friend.” the voice said.

The voice, and arm, belonged to a humanoid. There was skin, but it was faded as if pigmentation was washed out. Patches of the flesh were burnt, missing, or torn. It was nude, save for a belt around its waist.

 The body had no genitals, no breasts, no hair, and facial features were simple and slender while the eye, well the eyes didn’t match. One was green, the other was an orange iris surrounded by a hue of grey. The eyeballs made motorized sounds as they regarded the robot. Inside the holes of this being’s flesh, the robot could see metal screws and bars and traces of other inorganic materials. The body even had wires coming from the back of its head that seemed frayed and were once important, but no longer led to anything.

This was one of the few. One of the miraculously few remaining Cyborg.

“I know you d- n-t speak - know Death hunts yo- Comrade, you must - away with me.”

The Robot was able to register the Cyborg’s dialogue, even with the audio skips. It trusted the Cyborg implicitly, as its programming informed it to.

The Cyborg gripped the Robot’s hand and pulled it. The Robot did not know its leg parts could move so quickly. The Cyborg dragged the Robot but somehow the Robot kept up. It was as if the power of the Cyborg was somehow charging the Robot to handle the lengthy and fast chase. They ran together across the desolate lands. The Canyon had once been a place of refuge for Robots hoping to escape hunters like Death, but now it had become a trap, a pit of despair. The Robot realized the Cyborg must have known and waited for other robots to unwittingly wander in through the ravine.

But now, they had to escape Death. And to escape it meant to run in plain sight across the arid desert. Still, even with the risk of exposure, there was the chance to flee.

As they ran, dust and sand kicked up from behind them. The robot calculated they must be going considerably faster than it had ever considered going. Relief, or whatever computes as relief, began to settle into the robot. Death, at least today, could not get them.

As they ran the sun began to sink. The sky had been a blood orange but in the distance was a now purple and fuchsia hue erupting through the green clouds. The clouds were always green, the sky was usually grey. The sunsets were rarely this colorful.

If the Cyborg had the capacity to comprehend the sunset, let alone express it, there was no time to as an exploding sound of a vehicle behind them was enough to shake even the Cyborg. The Cyborg’s gate faltered for a moment and they stumbled but quickly caught their step and continued at the previous pace.

“Death has repa—red his automobile. We — destroyed it, months ago. We d-not expect him to g—t —back so quickly. I am sorry, Droid 7767. —- uld have come more prepared. We — —ry well may die.”

Vhhraaaaaaaarrrrkkkmmmm! 

The sound was louder now. The two-wheeled vehicle was a singular shade of jet black but clearly built from dozens, if not hundreds, of other machines. An amalgam of broken machines from a past that was supposed to be the future. It wasn’t just remnants once praised and collected man-made vehicles, it was also assembled using droid parts. Droid skull on the hood, droid hands holding the rear and sideview mirrors, droid feet as pedals, and droid eyes as headlights. All unnecessary for ideal performance, the Robot thought. The only tactical reason for this design was to instill dread in machines that could not feel dread.

The Cyborg, however, could.

“Death apparently t--- the bodies of --he droi-- who -----ed to destroy h-- --ode of tr-port--and fu--d them into it. I am d-m-yed that thi -- -s happened.”

They became part of their undoing, thought the Robot.

Death smiled at the Droid from a meter away as the vehicle picked up speed, knowing full well the Droid could see him from this distance. The 7767 lost its grip on the Cyborg’s hand and stumbled. Once it caught its step, it split from the Cyborg, forming a Y in the sand as it fled in an opposite direction. Robots don’t fear… but something new was happening.

“Stop! You w—n’t make it alone!”

7767 knew it shouldn’t run, but it could not process these new thoughts quickly enough. The computations alerted the Droid of flight not fight, of self-preservation and determination to stay with Cyborg. But another computation, a latent impulse perhaps, deep inside 7767 was compromised by some sort of virus-like fear of Death.

Pink-pank-pink-pank-pink-pank-pink-pank!

The steps from the copper coating of 7767’s feet rang out across the shingly, rugged, surface as the Robot began to stray from the strands and onto the craggy rocks.

The vehicle pulled up close to 7767 keeping pace with its frenzied running. Death wore a helmet that also appeared to be made from fragmented droid parts, complete with the fin from aquatic droids melded to the top of the helmet. The monstrous humanoid was also outfitted in leather and rags. On every limb and twice bound across his back were holsters filled with weapons. His vehicle also had holsters for weapons such as guns, spears, and more. It was an intimidating and merciless sight.

From a holster attached to Death’s leg, he pulled a short black stick. With a flick of the stick, it became a medium-length pole which, upon pushing a button at the handle, began to spark.

The sounds of the vehicle’s engine vibrated the metal of 7767. It tried to run left and away from the wheels but Death kept on, hounding the poor Droid. Death was cackling and 7767’s receptors could process this unfathomably maniacal joy.

As Death took aim with his pole, the Cyborg leaped upon him and knocked him clean off his vehicle.

“Huhrph!”

“—oooo!”

The vehicle spun out and rattled as it rolled on itself and flipped over. The impact nearly took out 7767 but with a quick duck and head cover, the Droid was clear. Cyborg was holding Death down into the sand, pushing into his wrists. 7767 could hear bone-cracking as Death screeched vitriol.

“Y— are a relic. You do not bel—g here! You m—st die n-,” the Cyborg tried to protest.

Death chuckled through his groans of pain.

“I will turn you back into the lifeless plastic and metal you once were,” he promised, spitting mouthfuls of sand and leering back up at the Cyborg through his cracked helmet.

7767 looked between the two, trying to decide whether or not to keep running. As 7767 approached it noticed the boot of Death was covered in spikes, specifically a blade wedged into the heel. Before it could warn Cyborg, the man folded himself up under the grip of the Cyborg and the foot slammed into the Cyborg’s back.

With the strike came a flinch and with the flinch came a loose wrist and with that came an electric rod right through the left eye socket of the Cyborg.

7767 stepped back in surprise. It stepped back again. Then it turned and ran.

The Cyborg was not yet dead, however, and reached to wrap its limbs around Death’s throat. Death used both his aged and calloused hands to wrap around the false skin of the Cyborg’s forearms, digging into the flesh and pulling it apart, revealing wiring, tubes, gears, and electrodes.

“You’re not real.” Death whispered to the Cyborg. With all his weight he spun off his back and pinned the Cyborg down onto its now injured back. The Cyborg made a cry in pain as it hit the sand.

“You were a mistake,” Death said. “A mistake that learned to perform violence. To murder. To maim. To eviscerate. Now, I will say their names, and you will hear them.”

The Cyborg could feel its processors sputtering and its jaw trying desperately to open and close and utter pleas and curses both at Death.

Death listed several names, names meaningless to the Cyborg. Who were these names? Were these people that had died in the war? Friends or family of Death? The Cyborg in this moment connected with as much of its humanity as had remained intact and accepted that this ritual was one borne out of vengeance. Or loss. Or both.

The Cyborg’s visual receptors were shuttering and failing, it was leaking precious and rare fluids that ran through its tubes into its cortex, generating faster and more accurate emotions than the average droid.

With final moments it looked to its killer and tried to smile, the mechanized gears behind the flesh whirring as it did.

“D—n’t you s- that you –re less –mpty th-n all –f us?”

Death reached over to his right. He picked up a large rock with one hand while his forearm held the Cyborg down by its throat.

“I’m not like you. I made you. I am your God.”

And with that, Death dropped the large rock onto the Cyborg’s face resulting in an explosion of fluids, wires, and falsified flesh. Death repeated the motion until his arm’s were exhausted.

Pink-pank-pink-pank-pink-pank-pink-pank!

7767 ran deep into the night. The purple had faded into a darkness highlighted by ripples of green clouds that would have shown the moon if there was any light left available to see it. The sky was gross, but the robot didn’t have the ability to feel that way about it. It hadn’t died. That was the only thing it could process as it ran.

That night, as the acidic rain quietly fell from the sky, the Droid found a small cave, or a covered opening between two boulders, really, and climbed into it. It rocked itself slowly as it recited Pi quietly to itself. In between the growling thunder, the Robot heard Death’s vehicle journeying over the remainder of Earth, searching for the next Robot to destroy.

7767 wept for the first time that night.

End Program.