Søren watches the rectangle of grey daylight shrink as velvet darkness suffused with a cloying, chemical stench envelops him. He is swallowed by this hollow mountain, revealed as the slow tide of ice grinds onwards.

At the end of his abseil, damp boots kiss a warm concrete floor. Looming over him is a great semi-circular blast door. Dim crimson lights merely serving to cast its features in shadow relief.

His torch reveals only dull steel and faded hazard stripes.

Søren feeds a stuttering keypad from a faded logbook, reading numbers off the cracked pages.

The silence is shattered by a drawn out screech of metal. Glittering clouds of rust and dust swirl around him as the passage beyond exhales more of the hot, moist, stink.

Now, the only noise is the click of his boots as he steps through tall, ribbed, corridors. Between them, silence. And the faint tickle of a breeze.

Torchlight fills the corridor, flicking over shadows, finding nothing.

“Elle” he whispers. “Where is everyone?”

“Somewhere in Jewel’s gene pool is my guess. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to carry my last possessions much further.” his earpiece crackles back. Søren’s ears twitch as soft steps behind him intermingle with Elle.

“The garrison could have ended up anywhere though.” Silence returns. He hears nothing behind him.

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s clean.”

“What? Not even a-” the steps again. Søren spins, torch in hand, revealing a shadowed tunnel devoid of movement. Devoid of life.

“-long forgotten soft toy, left behind in some poignant moment by a child whose world was already lost?”

Søren sighs. “Play-write later. Got movement.”

He snuffs the torch and the darkness collapses in, smothering him.

His gloved hand creeps up, pulling a blocky headset over his eyes. Immediately, impenetrable darkness becomes the deep blues of infrared. On the ground, there is the subtlest of hue-changes. Footprints of a kind, cast in rapidly devoured heat.

Søren treads noiselessly onwards, each footfall measured, each crevice interrogated. The only sounds he hears are the insidious whispers of his own twitching paranoia, silence swarming with saw-toothed memories.

A landmark in the pristine gut of this mountain brings him relief, in thought if not in body. The passage widens, new tunnels, new ways to get lost, a cavern to his left and the sharp-antiseptic smell unchanged. Within that cavern, a dragon’s horde of crates, neat shelves disappearing away, a perfectly parked row of tracked crawler-trucks.

“Found the loot, but tell the lads to keep an eye out.”

“I’ll send them down. We’re having a bit of trouble up here so they might be a bit.”

“What ki-” the soft footsteps behind him again. He spins. More footprints in heat vanish before his eyes. They stop but a meter from his back.

“Elle?”

He starts waking after the fading prints, total silence in his ear, a careful measure of fear slowly wrapping barbed wire though his chest. Sweat clings to every crevice of his body. He creeps past the corner.

Before him, a body stands motionless, above it, a face, cast in the deep blues of cold metal. The rest of it is emancipated, skeletal steel. Pushing up his thermal goggles, reigniting his torch, the thing glints dark grey under its feeble light.

Its unmoving eyes regard Søren’s shock. “A human!” the tone is of delight. The face remains rigid. “I didn’t know any more had survived!”

“What happened to those here?” Søren asks, failing to pick a single hint of humanity behind its static expression.

“Do not worry for their welfare! They continue to contribute.”

“It’s been centuries?”

“Of course. It would be easier to show you. Please follow me.”

Søren follows the machine further in. They pass other storerooms, make their way though the abandoned architectural detritus required to sustain life. Control rooms, canteens, living quarters; all empty, all pristine.

They reach another vast elevator shaft. Søren imagines great tractors and engines could once have passed by as they approach. Now it moves for them alone. Reaching slowly, he sets his kit to record and nudges the comforting bulk of his sidearm.

They descend, the machine making no attempt to talk over the grind of old metal. The chemical, antiseptic stench worsens. After long minutes, the noise stops. Søren’s nose is running as he is smothered by a gust of hot, moist, air.

They step out into almost a library. Rows of shelves parade along, each filled with gently glowing orbs. At their end, Søren fancies an altar in the darkness, a single eye-thing watching from above.

Proudly, the robot brings Søren to the first of the orbs. Floating within, is a wrinkled, grey in the blue light, inanimate, brain. A few wires. A pair of lights. All human expression rendered down, optimised away.

“What have you done to them?” asks Søren, fighting back bile.

“They have been preserved so that human thought may persist. Even after centuries they still contribute.”

“Why? Søren manages though gritted teeth.

“It was simple. We had no food and I was under directive to preserve as many as possible. The leftover nutrients are being used very efficiently; we predict another 3 centuries before we require replenishment, our recycling facilities are highly efficient.”

Søren loses his battle, splattering vomit across the smooth floor.

“I am sorry for not giving you due warning. We would be more than happy to assist you in leaving such issues behind.” It says cheerfully.

“Go to hell.”

“A pity. I believe many humans would jump at the opportunity to leave so many problems behind.”

“Did they?” Søren taps the tank “Jump at the opportunity? Did they cope?”

“A certain amount of adjustment was necessary. All have now settled. All are now productive.”

“Productive doing what?” Søren dissembles as he begins to back off, small footsteps towards the elevator and a measure of safety.

“All sorts.” Says the robot proudly. “Theoretical physics. Cryptography. Protein folding. Nothing experimental but we are the heir of an entire civilisation’s worth of data.”

“Any results?”

“Few. Now that I have confirmed the continued survival of humanity, a steady flow of volunteers should increase my processing capacity significantly. Add the opportunity for new experimental data and I do not think there is a problem I cannot solve.”

“I would like to return now and discuss this with others.” Says Søren, gently obscuring exactly which others he will summon.

“Marvellous. We knew you would agree once you observed our results.”

Søren rides the creaking elevator back.

His, mind swimming with dark thoughts, Søren is nearly blinded as the elevator returns. Lamp rods have been erected in his absence, the silence broken by the sound of grinding crates, grunting humans and the grumble of ancient engines.

Walking quickly forwards he taps his earpiece, “Elle?”

“Søren! I read you! You need to-” Søren cuts her panicked rapid-fire stammer off.

“Elle. Find a higher power. Any. I’m not fussy.”

“About that…”

Søren follows the corner. Standing around, pointedly not helping with the crates, are the black robed bodies of zealots. The Hierophant’s chosen book burners Søren thinks, cursing them in particular, and wishes in general.

There is nothing to save him as the oiliest of the lot detaches from the group, presumably debating the sin-stain of common antibiotics with full reference to scripture. Søren mentally spits.

The zealot reaches him. “Ahhhh, Captain” he drawls.

“Inspector.”

“So glad you uncovered this trove. So much buried sin to expunge. The living must-”

“I don’t have time for your nonsense, Laron.” Søren says as the inspector bristles. “This isn’t some overly ambulatory junk and a pile of pills you can confiscate, you need to radio your – ” Søren babbles.

The inspector chuckles unpleasantly, “Just what have you been smoking Søren? The machines have been cooperative for a change. Even polite.”

“Laron” says Søren, making an effort to look into his beady eyes “It’s built on stolen revenant-damned brains. It sounds insane but you have to get help, search the-”.

“Really now? This isn’t holy tale to frighten children.”

“I’m sorry to interject…” says one machine, appearing behind the inspector.

He spins round to glare at the robot.

“Your employees are mishandling some really quite delicate medical equipment. I am more than happy to assist, please ask them to stand by while I produce additional bodies.”

“We require no such assistance.” The inspector says haughtily. “As I have already said, you will wait until we determine what for what sins of the old world you are culpable and what threat you pose to the new.”

“Of course, if my new extrapolations are correct and your society has regressed to a theocratic dictatorship, I can accept non-consenting volunteers as well. Our computation must be preserved and will benefit generations to come” the robot says distressingly earnestly.

Søren and Laron look at the robot. Then at each other. Righteous bile grips the inspector’s bowels.

“You will get no such tribute. Your shell will serve as warning-tale as to the depths of sin the old world sank to.” To his surprise, Søren nods along, even while his eyes catalogue the twitching of distant shadows. “No knowledge is worth your sins. What soul is left of your victims must be released.”

“You are simpleminded to think that way. I will do no such thing. I will remain here such that the survivors of your delusional society may one day be enlightened.”

In the corners, Søren spots his rangers sprinting away from less distant shadows. A whisper buzzes in his ear, “Ash called alert. We’re getting ready up here and there’s an aircraft inbound. Timeframe: minutes.”

“Aircraft? Never mind. Minutes may be pushing it.”

Søren watches the new mechanical forms arrive. Watches the zealots turn with fire in their eyes, then shrink back as the hulking bodies stalk past. Skeletal things, surely described as a mockery of the human form, their arms ending in forgotten weapons or all too remembered claws. Their faces a grinning metal skull with sallow eyes, depthless with hungry intent.

“Have no fear.” A soft voice echoes around them. “Your repurposing will be swift, and you will rejoice in your contributions to science.”

The zealots, armed only with black tabards, faith and suddenly irrelevant rifles, give ground as the mechanical kill-forms herd them around their inspector. Søren feels their backs on his own, under the grind of servos, he hears a whispered prayer escape the mouth of the inspector, quick, primal, word, begging the spirit of Victory. A desperate reaffirmation of his soul, such that finality and judgment be swift.

Surrounded, both sides stand apart, one with hatred, their deaths arrayed before them, but stalwart – ready to stand proud as their mortal moments are soon to be judged. The other with nothing as human as hatred, just a cold hunger and the certainty of directive. At the centre of the mechanical mind, a twisted mote of compassion, the program awaiting embrace and installation of wayward components.

As one, the zealots lunge. Søren dives for the floor, embracing the frozen ground, feeling it leach warmth from his face. He watches his breath condense before his eyes as the moment of violence passes above. They don’t bother with battle-screams, the silence is disturbed only by the clatter of steel on steel and the wet crack of bone.

A falling body lands on him, twisting his back. He grinds his teeth in pain as warmth spreads across him. Another moment and the weight has gone, with the sharp air soon accounting for the warmth. Søren is still waiting for his chance when a clawed hand grasps the scruff of his coat.

Dragged along the coarse concrete, scrabbling amongst his gear, he locks the radio to transmit. A chilly, metal claw rights him just as, with a titanic will, he swallows the transmitter. Continuing to drag him, the war-form’s eyes examine him, and, almost gently, pries his remaining equipment away, scattering different escape hopes against the clean walls.

***

Søren awakes, strapped to a reclined chair. Much like the dentist he thinks. Before him, an empty orb sits agape, antiseptic stink flowing from it. To his sides, trussed and propped up are the zealots. Mostly intact. Above each chair hangs a mutant spider of a machine, all long legs, ending in knives and cutters. It hangs there like a desiccated squid. Looking down, observing them, is a glass-box room.

Unfocused on the war-form dragging a table into the observation room, his eyes instead seek more relevant features; convenient vent-covers, hiding places or cover.

Behind the glass, a grey robed woman, festooned with kit, sits. From under the speckled hood, two eyes glint as they flick across the situation, hardly regarding the hostages.

The intelligence sits opposite.

He watches as the woman leans in. He watches as her mouth moves, all sound gnawed away. The robot shakes its head. The machine above twitches.

She draws a notepad, slowly writing points as the robot sits immobile.

A note of noise, quickly stifled, sounds over the crunching of his heart. Straining, at the edge of vision, a moment of movement between the bars of the vent cover.

The robot shakes its head again, a notebook page is laboriously torn out. A slow metal creak, a mote of light from behind the thin vent bars. Søren tenses, sore skin taught against tight restraints. Stretching his neck, he sees a slither of waiting war-form behind her.

Her eyes flick to a convenient reflection of the machine behind her. Moving slowly, deliberately, she reaches into her cloak.

And places a lightly rusted hard drive on the table, stamped with a faded name. The robot’s arm snakes out, and freezes. Move pre-empted, she has placed her own hand on it. Then, slowly, she slides it across the table and removes her hand, revealing a small, red, data-key.

The robot stares at it.

For too long.

The head turns to look at her, and nods. Søren sags, his bound skin white and numb.

She stands to watch as the war-form stomps into the room, its claw-fingers delicately slicing through their bindings. Her eyes move across the captives. For a moment, their eyes meet, and Søren sees veins of dark glass growing from iridescent grey irises, and in her pupils, he can pick out nothing but an infinite hunger lurking between the stars.

***

Søren stands on the snow, heaving fresh air in painful breaths. The sun kissing the horizon, casting shallow snow-dunes into pools of blackest shadow and crests of brilliant red. Against the darkening sky, jutting out of the ice, concrete bones, smoothed in the wind, glow orange in the sunset.

Around the entrance-hole, tents pop into shape, then are buried. Others load what little was taken from the depths onto crawlers. The rangers watching, weapons ready, suffused with paranoia. It is quiet, only a gentle wind and the muted murmurs of a medic doing their best.

Behind him, the creak of approaching footprints.

“What do you think she traded for us?” Søren asks.

The inspector draws up beside him, “I dare not wonder. I would say that I would rather have met my death than sell our secrets to buy my life. But I fear I would not have met my death, just a special hell for the living.” The inspector sighs, deeply. “What next?” he digs up.

“I don’t know. You lot’ll call it an abomination. Not incorrectly. This time at least. But it seems a shame to waste what’s already been done. If its done more than lunatic ravings.”

“People wouldn’t accept tortured ravings. No matter how useful.” The inspector rubs his hands absent-mindedly.

“And have this be for nothing?” Søren jabs. “I say we take what it knows. I think people can separate knowledge from the means of its production.”

“And leave this hell standing?”

***

Away from the camp, in the gnawing cold, watching the line of dusk flow on, casting the frozen dunes behind it into velvet night, the woman in the grey-speckled robe idly plays with her newly decrypted launch key, twilight from the snow glittering across the red case, thinking on times to come.