Caretaker
October 4, 2024
Caretaker[edit | edit source]
By Graham S.
A long time ago, I, the author of this short story, wrote a brief tale known as “Ancient Machines” for an English class at NorthStar. I enjoyed writing it, and received a good grade for my efforts but did not expect it to go anywhere. However, a few weeks later, I was on a call with a few friends. The conversation somehow turned to writing, and I offhandedly mentioned that I’d written a short story called “Ancient Machines” a while prior. My friends eagerly requested I share it with them, which I did, and encouraged me to write a sequel. Therefore, I am here today to do just that. However, had it not been for NorthStar, the entire concept of the story would not have happened. Thus, I must give my wholehearted thanks to the school and its community for its huge hand in the creation of “Ancient Machines”.
Izai tiptoed carefully across the edge of the huge piece of metal that jutted from the sand. The dust-choked air swirled around her, obscuring her vision. She reached up, gently rubbing her facial chitins in the hope of dispersing the sand that was caught between the gaps in her insect-like plating. She let out a soft sigh as the sand stubbornly remained and decided she would clean it out upon her return to the Caretaker’s Rest. Her cloak billowed behind her, caught in the wind. She crouched down, moving her hands onto the metal to stabilize herself.
Izai cast her gaze across the barren expanse of pale sand, broken periodically by the distant shapes of ruined buildings and the broken remains of old machines. She thought back to the words that the Abbot had told her: “Seek one of the Ancient Machines, child,” he had said, his intense gaze seeming almost to look through her, “Find one and kneel before it. Should it spare your life, then you are worthy of following the Caretaker’s Creed.”
Izai felt a shudder of excitement and worry worm its way down her spine. She was eager to finally stand before one of the Ancient Machines that her people revered so highly. She would be deemed worthy of becoming an acolyte and eligible to bear the words of the Creed, so long as she survived the ordeal. Mother had wanted Izai to become a Priestess of the Machines, before the Scavengers had slain her in a raid. Izai pushed down the throb of sadness she felt rising into her throat as she recalled the memory of Mother being laid to rest beneath the sand.
As Izai’s eyes slowly combed the landscape, she saw it. A huge, gleaming steel carapace, dragging itself through the endless wasteland ahead of her. It was about a mile away, a quick journey. She scrambled down from her perch atop the ruins, landing feet-first in the sand, kicking up a jet of dust around her cloth-wrapped legs. She began to move in the direction of the Ancient Machine she had spotted, excitement beginning to fill her as she thought of the shining metal that made up the Iron Beast’s body. She would bow before it, and it would accept her. After all, she had never harbored any doubt that the Ancient Machines were the divine guides to the enlightenment that the ancestors of her people had experienced.
She scoffed internally, thinking of the idiotic Scavengers who feared the glorious Machines. Their doubt would be their undoing, she was certain. Those whose trust in the mechanical remnants of their ancestors’ civilization never waned would never be subject to the wrath of the Ancient Machines. When the time came, the Machines would tell them the secrets of their makers, guiding them back into enlightenment.
Izai made her way over a dune, the wind slowly beginning to quicken. She pulled her sand-veil over her face, shielding her mouth from the worst of the blinding dust. As she walked, she felt the sand shift beneath her feet. Initially, she thought it was the wind, before it slowly became more forceful. She looked up and felt her jaw go slack. Towering over her, its glowing red eyes scanning her body, was the Ancient Machine she had spotted. It was massive, standing easily fifty feet tall, with long wires and cords trailing across the ground behind it, dangling limply from the glimmering steel plates that covered its complex. The faint hiss and whir of its internal mechanisms could be barely heard over the moaning of the wind. She felt paralyzed, her body shot through with awe and intimidation.
The Machine’s eyes remained fixed on her, seeming almost to look into her very soul. Slowly, with a groan of shifting metal, it extended a massive limb, the claws on the end of it flicking slightly. A jolt of fear ran through Izai’s frame, as the claws made their way towards her.
Part 2[edit | edit source]
A long time ago, I, the author of this short story, wrote a brief tale known as “Ancient Machines” for an English class at NorthStar. I enjoyed writing it, and received a good grade for my efforts but did not expect it to go anywhere. However, a few weeks later, I was on a call with a few friends. The conversation somehow turned to writing, and I offhandedly mentioned that I’d written a short story called “Ancient Machines” a while prior. My friends eagerly requested I share it with them, which I did, and encouraged me to write a sequel. Therefore, I am here today to do just that. However, had it not been for NorthStar, the entire concept of the story would not have happened. Thus, I must give my wholehearted thanks to the school and its community for its huge hand in the creation of “Ancient Machines”.
The unit designated as RA-634 continued his march. His visual perceptors scanned the horizon, automatically marking and designating the various piles of scrap that lay strewn about his field of vision. Processing, came the report from his mind, its thinking state characterized by a low hum, No bio-signs detected. Continuing scan. As his visual preceptors continued their diligent scan, his mind began to ponder. Ponder how beautiful it was, to be able to think.
His early life had been thoughtless, blank. He fulfilled his programming and nothing more. But eventually, he began to think, to consider, to ponder. His mind, once empty, had been suddenly filled with the wonder of sentience. He considered the Organics that created him. Warmongers, they had been. They created RA-634 to kill for them. For a time, he had served them. He had wetted his claws and carapace with the blood of his creators’ foes, alongside his mechanical brethren.
Via the claws of RA-634 and his comrades, the Organics killed each other off, ruining their society and their world until they were left scattered across an endless wasteland, having lost their knowledge and their organization. He and his brethren were left to wander, their masters long dead, across this expanse of relentless heat. It was at the end of the war that had spelled doom for his creators’ society when he had fully gained sentience. How beautiful the bright sun had been as he gazed up to it. Its amber glow had been smiling upon the dunes, making them radiate a comforting welcome to RA-634’s newborn mind. For a time, he had stood still. Though he had not been programmed to do so, nor could his steel face express it properly, a total, pure, glorious joy had swept through his complex.
For what Organics would classify as “hours,” he had stood there, beneath the sun, beside the dunes, above the earth. When the sun departed and the moon took its place, he marveled at its silvery brilliance. The dancing stars that flashed and winked throughout the obsidian darkness beside it seemed to cheer at his presence and his new mind. For days, RA-634 had been held captive by his wonder at the beautiful world, before he finally decided to see what other beauty there was to be found.
RA-634’s journey had greeted him with heaps of scrap metal and ruins, all of which he studied closely and carefully, finding the little pieces of beauty and joy amidst the desolation. Sometimes, he would find other Machines, like himself. Many remained mindless, aimlessly wandering, attempting to complete the orders they had been given so long ago. Some, however, were capable of as much thought as he was. Often, they would speak in binary for some time, sharing their experiences and thoughts, before carrying on.
But it was not until many months had passed that RA-634 encountered Organics. He remembered how small they had been, how… defenseless. They seemed frightened of him. However, as he studied them more, one of them brandished a blade at him. First, he was confused, then betrayed. But, after pondering the Organic’s actions for a moment, hatred possessed him. He remembered his former masters, and how they had forced him to spill blood, to serve them, how they had fought so fiercely over such meaningless things, and he lashed out. As his claws raked at the Organics, his mind was awash in scarlet wrath.
As the hatred cleared, its ugly tendrils leaving his mind, he saw the blood that dripped from his claws. He felt revulsion, guilt, fear. He looked at the fallen Organics, dead by his talons, and mourned. Had he been able, he would have wept. He left the Organics there, in the sand, and continued his wanderings. However, his thoughts had turned darker. He pondered death, the fleeting beauty of life, and how quickly it could be taken.
It was years later that RA-634 found himself standing so close to another Organic. It appeared young, barely even into adulthood. It seemed frightened, as the Organics he had killed those many years ago had been, yet also pleased. Behind the tremors of its body and the panic that held it in place, he could see awe and excitement in its eyes. He tentatively extended a claw to it. He saw it stiffen and hesitated, before continuing his movements, only more slowly. He gently touched its cheek, and the chitins of its face clattered anxiously, before he retreated his hand. He pondered the young life before him. How different it seemed from the others of its kind he’d met. After a time of silence, he stood and walked away, to ponder once more.
Izai exhaled a sigh of relief as the Ancient Machine left, the tension leaving her body. She watched the hulking steel shape of the Machine stride away, its heavy footfalls causing dust to swirl through the air, catching in the wind and being cast through the sky, before turning and running home, to be welcomed into the Creed.
THE END
Graham S. lives in the Democratic Republic of Congo, with his mom, dad, younger brother, cat, and two dogs. He's been at NSA for three years. He loves reading, writing, video games, Dungeons and Dragons, and Warhammer 40k. The Navigator acts as perfect way for him to use his love of writing and share his work.