David Hanrahan - Archon of the Covenant

Therein lay a charred wreckage. A twisted chassis distorted by some infernal blaze. Painted with the ochre of time. It was the sentinel.

The traveller reached behind and pulled the pack off its back, setting it on the ground and quickly lifting out some components. It positioned the muzzle light on the sentinel and began working. Clipping wires, stripping cords, prying open panels and replacing melted circuit boards with new materials. Re-wiring. Reincarnating. As it worked, the traveller produced a small, pill-shaped vessel as well as an optical array. It fastened the optical array onto its center frame, where the prior version was before being shorn off at Asarco. Finally, it wired the vessel into the sentinel’s core and the tri-axel suddenly tensed up, the trident frame jerking to one side before finally loosening again in the junk pile. Its newly wired optics swiveled haltingly, panning around and fixating on the traveller’s helmet. The sentinel looked upon this being, its features hidden behind the steely visor that wrapped around its head. The vocoder rattled from its core and the words spilled out in a broken timbre:

“Becca number one?”

The traveller slung its shoulders back and shifted to the other knee, pondering the question. The cylinder rifle lay on its side against the junk pile. There was a silence except for the gusts of vapor firing from the sub-vent at the traveller’s neck. The achromatic visor wrapping around the travellers skull began to clear, its reflective luster dissipating into a glassy sheen and, from behind the thin shield, a woman’s face appeared. Her voice sang into the empty space between them from a hidden speaker in her suit:

“Well, no. I guess I’m more like… Becca number 12 . You can call me Sylvie.”

She dug her hands into the pile of wreckage and lifted the sentinel upright, its frame standing vertical on fleeced hubs. It shook gently as it came to rest, small flakes of soot carried off its wrecked chassis and into the light from the rifle’s muzzle. Sylvie smiled and wiped some of the grime off the sentinel. Sighing with relief, she addressed the charred machine:

“Doomsday Chaperone, 39th serial. DDC39. I wish you could know how happy I am that we found you.”

“We? Is Becca okay?”

“I have something for you to listen to.”

A new, different voice broke into the air from the traveller’s speaker. A woman’s voice, old, with some tinge of ailment behind it:

“If you’re hearing this, then you’re safe. You’re with someone who will help you. I’m safe too, 39. It’s me. Becca. We won’t see each other again, so I just wanted to tell you something. I had a really, really great life. I got married and even had children. Three boys and a daughter. Grand children too. I lived well, and saw a lot. My, if you could see the things I saw. I think of you often, 39. It took me a long time to comprehend what had transpired, and what you did. I owe you everything. We all do. My friend. I’m old now, 39. By the time you hear this, it may be many years since I’ve passed. I just want you to know….that you’re my friend and it’s time to come home. Goodbye.”

The recording trailed off into the silence of the cavern air and Sylvie stood up.

“Do you remember the book? ‘Oh The Places You’ll Go.’ Well, it’s time to go. We need you for something important, 39. Are you ready?”

“Where are you taking me?”

Sylvie looked upwards and pointed one finger into the space above them. She fastened the pack and rifle on her back then reached downwards, sinking her hands below the tri-axel and lifting the sentinel aloft, hoisting it behind her, arms stretched over her shoulders and hands gripped tight around the axel housing.

She walked up and out of the cavern effortlessly, her legs and arms given some exoskeletal strength from mechanics layered into her suit. They left the cave and into the dark of Sonora, the stars casting down on the high desert floor. As they climbed up the ramp and into Sylvie’s shuttle, the sentinel looked out at the massacre surrounding the ship. The new circuitry coursing through it was dawning some foreign logic, and it marveled at the carcasses strewn about the wild. A spark alighted in the recesses of its core. The sentinel wondered: what had come to pass here? What did these creatures think of the violence brought upon them? Did they believe in some divinity? Was this their reckoning? The questions surging through its CPU brought a realization for the machine: it was changed, bestowed with an otherworldly sentience. The carcasses were twisted into malformed husks, limbs bent upwards in sharp twists where the incinerated flesh pulled the rest of the tissue inward. Their wounds still glowed and embers flew off their bodies like fireflies dissipating in the wind. They, too, pointed to the heavens.

More than anything, the sentinel realized it needed a purpose. Resuscitated into an era unknown to it. Operating in a fugue state of digital existentialism. It realized this and pondered, for the first time, what it was worth.

The hatch closed and the craft lifted off into the night, ascending into the starry horizon. As it streaked across the sky, in the far distance atop the Whetstone ridge, a mirage passed through pine, dancing through the tree line like a phantom. A translucent homunculus. Spirit of the sierra. The pellucid creature stopped mid-sprint atop the high promontory, tracing the arc of the white shuttle as it soared into the upper boundary. The moonlight passed through the phantom and it refracted like a flawed gem. Standing there, watching the shuttle, the phantom lifted aloft a longrifle, bearing it upon the craft as it escaped into the night. A finger wrapped around the trigger of the massive gun then hesitated before finally easing off the grip. The solitary being lowered the gun, stock to ground, and stood motionless.

A pack of Mexican Wolves sidled up beside the phantom, watching along with it as the white craft disappeared into the black. The Sonoran desert fell silent, into the void. Into the waste. A calm wrested the violence from the fist of the wild and it hung in the air, suspended in time, wandering through the valleys of the Madrean Sky Islands like a cry shouted into the abyss, echoing off the canyons and fading to a whisper. Macwidag, toward the east. And there came the long clouds. And everything was different from what it had been.