The Failed Technomancer: Robot Cannibal Apocalypse

By Boo Ludlow

There's no room for failure in the robot apocalypse, not if you don't want to get eaten.

With the world destroyed by insane, man-eating robots, only technomancers stand between humanity and utter annihilation.

Unfortunately, 64Bit might be the one technomancer who can't command robots with his mind. As an acolyte, he has managed to hide his shame, but then an army of hungry robots came marching right toward his home settlement. Hopelessly unprepared, beyond the point that revealing his secret would do any good, 64Bit gambles everything on the slim chance that he might be able to wake his master from a coma before everyone is devoured.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boo Ludlow
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987583005

Boo Ludlow

Boo Ludlow was named after Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird, a book he has not read, not Boo from Monsters, Inc, a movie he has seen. He’s fully aware of the tragedy there. He was active in theater throughout high school, but a love of writing both preceded theater and won him back quickly in college. Boo loves books and film; food; board, card, and video games; and writing content for tabletop role-playing games that he doesn’t have the time to play anymore. His most re-read book is The Hobbit and his most re-watched movie is The Princess Bride. Boo happily—and mostly by choice—resides near family in Utah, living with his wife and hyperactive baby. You can follow Boo on his blog at BooLudlowBooks.com, where he shares weekly writing updates and reviews on what he’s currently reading and watching.

Book preview

Two teenage boys flee from something. They're wearhing long brown robes and have a stone set into their foreheads. The older boy is bald, has white ovals around his eyes, and carries a staff. The younger boy has brown hair and a bleeding bite on his right forearm. The cover for The Failed Technomancer by Boo Ludlow, Robot Cannibal Apocalypse book oneThe Failed Technomancer, Book One of Robot Cannibal Apocalypse, by Boo Ludlow

For Kim Ludlow

None of this would have been possible without your love and support.

Acknowledgments

The first person I need to thank—profusely—is my wife, Kim. I can’t list everything she did to help make this a reality, but it ranges from the direct to the indirect, the spiritual to the physical, the emotional to the mental. She read multiple drafts of this book, helped with comments and editing, took care of the baby while I wrote, supported me in difficult financial decisions, and believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Without her this book may never have been finished—and it certainly wouldn’t be anything like it currently is.

I also want to thank my family. First, my mom and my dad. Aside from the fact that I literally wouldn’t be alive without them, they spent my lifetime nurturing, caring, supporting, and challenging me. I mightn’t have a love of books and writing if it weren’t for my mom, and I would have made a much bigger mess of starting a business (which is really what self-publishing is) if it weren’t for my dad’s knowledge and coaching. This is to say nothing of the confidence and perseverance I learned from both of my parents. You shaped who I am. I don’t want to forget my brothers, Tee, Zeke, and Eli, and my sister, Lilly. Thank you for being you, for making me think and imagine, for making me laugh.

This book wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for my friend Zac, and I mean that very literally. Conversation with him planted the story seeds that became this world and this novel. He also read much of the early drafts and provided extremely valuable feedback. Zac, you directly contributed to my insanity, and I thank you. I hope you enjoy being a background evil robot.

Thanks to my writing group, currently Tanner, Alex, and Erica, but once also including Kim and Zac. Meeting with you every week inspires me to keep writing, to write a lot, and to write well; your feedback helps to directly improve my characters, stories, worlds, and prose; your writing inspires me to try to create something as good as you; and, of course, I love how much you all make me laugh. I look forward to buying the first copies of your first published novels the day you all publish them, and I hope that day is near.

I also want to thank Sarah and Emily, previous members of my writing group. I don’t remember if you two read the earliest drafts of this novel before you left—though I’m pretty confident Sarah did—but you read and commented on other things I wrote. Your feedback helped shape my path as an author.

Not enough thanks and praise can go to Looseleaf. Any mistakes you find in this book are my fault, not theirs. Thanks to Kristy for being willing to take me on, for being my teacher at BYU well before I wrote the first word of this novel, and for applying a sharp eye and keen mind to my book. Thanks also to Faralee for your amazing line editing and believing in this project enough to prioritize it over certain other important projects—when Kristy told me, inwardly I was exploding with joy. Outwardly I was my usual awkward self, and quite drained from the convention. I doubt the importance of the moment, for me, translated well at the time.

For any other hands at Looseleaf that touched this book, hands that I might not know their owners, thank you.

I also want to thank my many friends who volunteered to help copyedit this book. A particular shout out goes to Erin, who just jumped in and went to work. Thanks as well to Anne, Sarah, Daniel, Dallin, Toree, Mark, Shamoy, Jake, Brandon, and Linda.

For the incredible art that gave me shivers, thanks to my artist, Hannah King. And for the great work on mixing and cleaning up the audio for the audiobook, thanks to my audio man, Mike Michelsen.

With all the names I’ve mentioned, I’m confident that I missed someone, or several someones, and to them I apologize, and also extend sincerest thanks.

I want to thank my brother-in-law, Carson. You might be surprised to be in here, if you ever see this—you never read the drafts of the book, commented on it, or even expressed any interest in science fantasy (that I’m aware of). But you shared simple advice that stuck with me: when taking a chance on yourself, do your best and just move forward—if there’s no risk of embarrassing yourself, you took too long and missed opportunities. I might have poorly paraphrased the actual quote, but you reminded me that life is best lived by doing. It was one of several kicks in the pants that I needed to take a chance.

Finally, thank you, whoever you are, for picking up this book and giving it a try. Whatever your experience—though I did my best to ensure it will be an excellent one—I can’t thank you enough for giving this book a chance.

\ Prologue

Faith

I have been accused of hating what makes man human. Nothing could be further from the truth. I love humanity so much that I wish to isolate the core of what it means to be human and set it free.

—Arnon D’Bvaym, The Emancipation from Pain and Limitation: Collected Essays

(Written and collected before the Fall of Man)

The Creator’s spirit raged through Prophet like wildfire. He didn’t need to breathe, yet he flared his nostrils and inhaled for the sheer pleasure of the moment. No sensation even neared helping another person reach enlightenment—nothing so divinely affirmed to Prophet his sacred mission. Every sensor in his synthetic skin felt as if it were wreathed with holy flame.

Then came the disappointment. Instead of smelling the Garden’s usual sterile purity, the scent of blood and feces invaded Prophet’s nostrils. Unfortunately, corpses were messy, even the carefully-prepared one lying on a table behind Prophet.

The feelings lasted a moment. Prophet exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. On the operation table before him rested a metal, humanoid body. Moments before, it had merely been a shell, but now its skull housed a human brain. Prophet removed his bloody gloves and disposed of them in a disposal chute at the base of the other table behind him, then reached for the synthetic skin suit hanging off a branch of the Garden’s central tree.

Held in the air by its shoulders, the skin suit looked like a deflated version of the original man’s body, though improved in minor ways—a symmetrical jaw, eyebrows that rested evenly, and other small changes made him slightly more perfect. The metal body that now housed this man’s brain could never be an exact replica of his original body—a necessary evil of mass production—but the easily customized synthetic skin suit would bring it close by mimicking his shape and dimensions, relative to the size of the metal body. Once combined, it would be a far worthier vessel than the corpse on the other table. Prophet unstrapped the metal legs from the operating table to begin slipping the skin suit on the metal body. The suit was loose and easy to manage, but with the application of some heat it would tighten and fuse with the metal body, allowing it to mimic the feeling of skin and flesh.

The body’s grinning, silvery skull twitched. The man was waking. Prophet smiled. Today this man’s new, eternal life began.

Divinity, a voice interrupted. Prophet looked over his shoulder. A man in white robes stood at the entrance to the Garden dome, his face and upper body visible through the foliage. His expression was vacant as he opened his mouth again and spoke in monotone, his lips and words just barely out of sync. Divinity, you are called.

I am not to be disturbed during a ceremony, Prophet said, returning to the body. He sat it up and slipped its arms into the skin suit, carefully ensuring that each finger entered the correct digit sleeve. To finish, he flipped the face over the metal head and arranged the eyelids and lips just right—Prophet couldn’t allow this man to be reborn with lips positioned just to the left of his mouth, or eyelids that half covered his eyes when opened. The priest said something else, but Prophet paid it no mind as he sealed the back of the skin suit, laid the body down, and strapped it to the operating table again. Prophet then stepped back and allowed a gray box to lower from the ceiling far above, covering the body. The inside of the box would rapidly heat, causing the skin suit to meld with its metal frame.

The Hive speaks of a core processor, the priest said.

Prophet turned and focused on the priest, forgetting the man on the table before him for a moment. Give me a summary before I decide if this is worthy of my attention.

Id reported to the Hive a recent scan of the valley settlement. She said that she scanned both the technomancer and his acolyte. The youth has the right gene—he may be a core processor.

The heating box shook slightly; a muffled growling emanated from within. Prophet ignored it and stared past the priest in thought. Then he smiled widely, revealing teeth as white as pearls, and swiftly exited the Garden as the heating box lifted into the air again, steam curling around its edges. Let us hope that, by the grace of the Creator, we are able to truly begin our divine mission. The world may finally be saved. Prophet stopped next to the priest and looked back at his work. The first of the two oper­ating tables before the Garden’s central tree held a corpse with the top half of its head sawn off; the second held the man that Prophet had just rebirthed. The man was naked, lacking genitals, and steaming from the heat necessary to mold his synthetic skin to his new body. He groaned and screamed incoherently as he strained to break his wrists and ankles free of their restraints.

Prophet’s smile grew. Finally, the path to save all lost souls was nearly before him.

Tend to this one, Prophet nodded at the rebirthed man before sweeping off into the ornately tiled hallway beyond. See what the Hive can do to guide him toward full enlightenment; I will return to assist. But first, I must instruct Id on the coming harvest—we must ensure that the technomancer acolyte survives long enough to fulfill his destiny.

---

Hard, rocky soil crunched beneath Hannah’s feet as she crested a tall ridge. For miles before her, all she could see was rust-colored soil, eventually bleeding into grassy fields, then trees, then gray-and-brown mountains. She stopped at the ridge’s edge and took a breath—unnecessary, as she hadn’t needed to breathe for years. She wasn’t tired from her rough, fast climb. She felt nothing. Even the hot sun pounding on her synthetic skin didn’t provide a sensation she truly felt. She was aware of the heat because of the sensors that ran up and down her arms and neck, but that awareness had the distance of an old, faded memory. She could turn the sensation off, if she wished. She just didn’t see the point.

Hannah turned and looked back. Behind her was an enormous basin, too perfectly circular to be entirely natural, but years had caused its edges to be broken up into a series of steeply ascending ridges. Below her, stone-faced as he climbed upward, was Gabriel. He was larger than her, heavier, and often stumbled and fell as the dirt crumbled beneath his feet and fingers. He kept picking himself up and climbing onward, though, making up more ground than he lost. He would catch up with her soon. Hannah shifted her gaze to the center of the basin and felt a faded memory of tightness in her chest.

The Gates of Heaven. The silent, motionless city arose from the flat, dead land, composed entirely of white stone and curved surfaces, with an enormous dome at its center. Prophet told her that the city was beautiful; he told her that the beauty of the city surrounded by dead land, rising above it all, was symbolic of their holy mission. She believed him. But she still felt nothing.

Gabriel’s hand crunched the soil at the edge of the ravine; it broke under his grasp, and he fell again. Like lightning, Hannah grabbed his hand and pulled him upward, then dropped him to the ground, letting him stand on his own. He stood, neglecting to brush the dirt off himself, and looked away from the shining city.

Hannah stared at the city a moment longer, ran her red eyes up and down its empty streets as Prophet’s words played in her mind. He’d asked her to keep a close eye on Id with the guise of helping her, was concerned that Id was growing…erratic as her time to be incorporated into the Hive grew closer. He asked Hannah to ensure that the core processor made it from Id’s hands to him alive. She didn’t like the lack of trust toward Id that his words suggested. And though Hannah was entirely loyal to the Divinity, she knew she would not be able to resist if Id commanded her mind directly to defy the Divinity or his wishes. Prophet knew this too, which made her wonder if he actually wanted the core processor alive; else why not go himself? However, the intensity with which he had spoken suggested sincerity. Perhaps sending Hannah was intended to build trust with Id, show Id that she was in control.

Hannah just had to have faith. Faith that she couldn’t feel.

We should start moving, Gabriel said.

Hannah nodded. She positioned her feet, then began sprinting, each step leaving a deep print in the dirt. There was a path, technically, that followed old broken roads and highways to Id’s territory, but Hannah preferred to move in as direct a line as possible. Running through underbrush couldn’t injure her skin; running for days wouldn’t tire her; climbing rough stone wouldn’t cut her hands; there was no point in taking the longer, slower path.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum.

As she ran, the empty cavern within her began to echo with a rhythm, an ache that grew with each beat; she was leaving the reach of Prophet’s influence, and soon she would not be forced to obey his commands. Perhaps this time, his blessing would fail entirely and she would become mindless again. She didn’t know if she cared whether or not that happened.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum.

Soon Hannah’s mind was as empty as her soul, her feet matching the beat within her.

\ End of Prologue

\ Begin Part 1

00000001 [1]

If we waited until we fully understood everything, we would never do anything.

—Arnon D’Bvaym

After a sufficient shock is applied, the chemical mixture will burn away and the anomaly will begin to form; if ye see fire, the shock wasn’t strong enough. The result looks like an ember coated in electricity, color ranging from an angry red to a deep purple (although why the color variation is beyond my ken). Light distortion and coloration doesn’t…doesn’t seem to…influence…distortion and coloration…seems to…

64Bit leaned back and massaged the side of his head. He had been hunched over the master’s notes for hours, scouring and re-scouring every crinkled page, and the words had begun to swim before his eye screens. With a thought, he turned his eye screens on and off, then concluded that his mind was malfunctioning, not his vision. He groaned and stretched, then fell backward on his sleeping pad and stared at the cracked ceiling.

Why must these notes be so unorganized? 64Bit muttered to himself. Even a quick application of headings would make it much easier to skim for information. I’d add them myself, but… he glanced down at the pages strewn across his legs. Well, regardless, that wouldn’t address the handwriting…

64Bit rubbed the bags under his eyes. Not being able to sleep much the past several nights hadn’t helped his ability to parse his master’s thoughts—and waking up in a cold sweat earlier that morning had left him unsettled. He had felt like he was being watched, not for the first time, but hadn’t found any evidence that the master or Cortex had been in his room while he slept. Perhaps he was feeling pressure over making his first particle battery tomorrow.

That couldn’t be right. Never lost sleep over a project before, 64Bit muttered. Diet hasn’t changed—that’s not the issue. Light exercise hasn’t changed—do I need more exercise? Worth thinking about. Same chores, same company. Hmmm. He turned his head and looked his room over. It was sparse—he had four small crates in two neat stacks against the wall, which served as both his dresser and his desk. There was a tower of worn books on one side of the crates and a sheaf of his own handwritten notes on the other, a thick rug for sitting or kneeling before the crates. Aside from his travel pack, sleeping pad, a half-finished computer that he needed to build a casing for, and spare slippers that he had sewn himself, the rest of his room was empty. Well, except the Therexe Cube.

64Bit narrowed his eyes. In the corner where the door to his room met the wall rested his Therexe Cube. Sized for a child’s hands, black, metal, and covered in screens and lights, currently off, the sight of it made him frown. He had thrown it there shortly after Cortex had taken his lunch plate away.

Red light, on, 64Bit thought. The cube did nothing. 64Bit scowled and sat up, then buried his nose in the master’s notes again.

A properly prepared particle battery casing must be completely structurally sound. Even the smallest crack or weakness in welding may be the difference between a convenient power source and a large explosion—

Two small knocks interrupted his thoughts. 64Bit commanded his eye screens to show him the time and winced. He had promised to eat dinner with Cortex and then studied well past that. Come in, he said, half staring at the papers in his lap.

The door slid open, revealing the master’s younger acolyte, Cortex. The boy was ten years old—a little over half 64Bit’s age—with yellow irises and the same glass port in his forehead that 64Bit had, a mark of being a technomancer, but Cortex’s was obscured by his shaggy hair. Cortex smiled brightly and held two bowls of stew before him. I warmed up some dinner! I figured you shouldn’t wait any longer. He stepped in and acci­dentally kicked the Therexe Cube across the uneven wooden floor. Oh—sorry!

64Bit set the master’s notes beside his sleeping pad and crawled to grab the cube, then stood and placed it on his desk. Doesn’t matter. He looked out into the hallway. We’re not eating with the master tonight?

Naw, Cortex said. A woman needed an emergency C-section—probably he was needed for more than just that, I don’t know. He’s been gone all day. Hey, what was your cube doing on the floor? As he spoke, he offered 64Bit a bowl and then flopped onto 64Bit’s sleeping pad, nearly splashing stew in the process.

64Bit pressed his lips together. He had been looking forward to speaking with the master before bed, and with his mentor gone, 64Bit would have preferred to spend the night studying. He could tell that Cortex was looking for social interaction, however, and the boy was already in the room…64Bit sat near Cortex, taking care not to spill from his own bowl, then glanced at the cube. It frustrated me.

Really? Cortex looked at the Therexe Cube and, a moment later, all of its lights were blinking. He grinned ear-to-ear. I think yours is much more responsive than mine. I have to think a lot harder to get mine to do anything.

Spoon halfway to his mouth, 64Bit paused. A Therexe Cube was a tool for technomancers in training. By commanding it to light up or run images across its screen, a young technomancer could practice mentally connecting with, and commanding, technology. It was supposed to quickly become little more than a toy as the technomancer moved on to more important things. It also represented the one thing, as far as 64Bit was concerned, that defined a true technomancer. Anyone could become a surgeon, write code, build computers, or engineer machines—or even become proficient in all of them, as was expected of a technomancer. But only technomancers could command technology mentally. 64Bit concentrated as hard as he could on the Therexe Cube and thought, Lights off.

The cube kept blinking, following Cortex’s previous command.

Cortex waved his hands in front of 64Bit’s eye screens. Hello? You in there? Studying must have really done a number on you—your stare is just as vacant as the wall rozie. Cortex laughed lightly.

64Bit blinked, then looked away from Cortex’s smile. He wished the boy weren’t here. Instead of asking Cortex to leave, he stuck his spoon back in his stew and said, We forgot to pray. They both placed their hands over their hearts and bowed their heads and whispered separate prayers before eating. The savory stew was filled with perfectly tender roots and vegetables, and a surprising amount of flavor. If there was one thing 64Bit could never complain about with Cortex, it was his cooking.

You shouldn’t speak so lightly of the wall rozie, 64Bit said between bites. It’s a symbol of the danger that surrounds us, but also of how lucky we are to have avoided the worst of it.

I know, Cortex said. But it’s just…it’s just there, every day. I got used to it. He then leaned over with his bowl balanced precariously on his knee and scooted forward. He shoved a spoon in his mouth and, before swallowing, said, Hey, what were you studying anyway? Even more battery stuff?

Cortex! 64Bit exclaimed as the boy’s bowl tipped danger­ously near the old papers. 64Bit snatched up the master’s notes and began smoothing them out, making sure that no stew had fallen on them. These are very valuable. Please be more careful.

Sorry, Cortex said, then scooted away from the notes, looking down. Don’t we have electronic copies of those stored somewhere?

You know I prefer reading physical copies, 64Bit said. And besides, that doesn’t excuse not being careful. He noticed that the words on the master’s notes were blurry; he worried for a moment that the faded ink had gotten wet, but then realized that his eye screens were fogged from the steam rising off the hot stew. He took a corner of his blanket and wiped his eye screens clean, then held the bowl a little farther from himself as he continued eating.

You read too much. You could have tried to make two particle batteries this week if you’d spent your study time just doing it. Even if you got it wrong, you would have learned more.

64Bit knew he didn’t need to defend the master’s notes or his study time, but he still bristled. I want to be maximally prepared. I would like my first attempt to be a successful one. Just like the master. An acolyte needs to strive to live up to the example set before him.

Cortex wrinkled his nose. Nobody gets it right the first time. The master’s master didn’t get it right the first time.

"But the master did, and that’s all that matters," 64Bit muttered.

Huh? Cortex said.

64Bit shook his head. It—nothing. Don’t worry about it

Okay. Cortex continued to chatter, not needing 64Bit’s full attention to carry on a conversation. He complained about his maintenance duty on the settlement walls and how difficult it was to focus when reading anything the master had assigned. He talked about accidentally denting the chemical catalyzer machine that morning and about being punished with scrubbing floors for an hour, then spoke about looking outside and enjoying watching people walk by. After a pause to shovel some food in his mouth, he continued with a story about a three-legged rat he saw evading a cat in the streets, making an image of the two creatures appear in the Therexe Cube’s small screen. 64Bit shook his head—how did he make it look so natural? So easy? Cortex was a child, and he didn’t care about any other aspect of being a technomancer.

Has everything been put away in the kitchen? 64Bit inter­rupted.

Naw, Cortex said. Not yet, anyway. I didn’t feel like climbing all over.

Cortex climbing around in the kitchen was the primary reason why some of the cupboards didn’t have doors. Sensing an opportunity for some solitude, 64Bit said, I’ll take care of it. You get some rest.

No, I’ll do it! Cortex jumped to his feet, grabbed 64Bit’s bowl, and ran to the door before 64Bit could say anything; the door opened itself as Cortex approached it. You’re finishing your first battery tomorrow, right? I want to watch the whole thing, and when you mess up, I don’t want you complaining that it’s because I made you clean up dinner and you were tired. Cortex cackled and slipped into the hallway, neglecting to close the door behind him. With Cortex gone, the lights on the Therexe Cube stopped flashing.

Cortex, the door! 64Bit said. He stared for a moment, then heard the sounds of dishes being washed in the kitchen. He looked at the door and thought, Close.

The door stayed open.

Door, close, 64Bit said. Nothing.

64Bit grunted and walked to the door, then touched its frame. The door slid halfway closed, stopped. 64Bit groaned aloud. Now? Now is the time you break down? Then he saw Cortex step into view, looking down and holding his hands behind his back. Spots of water were on his gray robes.

No, that was me, sorry, Cortex said. He looked up. I just wanted to say, thanks for talking to me tonight. You two have been so busy all week. It’s been pretty lonely for me. He scuffed the floor with a slippered foot.

64Bit blinked. He preferred solitude. But he nodded and said, I enjoyed talking to you, too, Cortex. Have a nice night. 64Bit tapped his doorframe again and the door slid closed. He knelt on the rug in front of his crate desk, set the master’s notes on top, and read for a few minutes. He planned on studying until the master returned home, but his full stomach and previous late nights conspired to pull his eyes closed. After an hour, 64Bit sighed, tapped a sensor on the wall, and his room’s light flickered off. He knelt beside his sleeping pad, prayed, and rolled into it, asleep almost before he stopped moving.

---

64Bit sat up in his bed, breathing heavily, body cold and covered in gooseflesh. He took a long, slow breath, then rubbed some spots off his eye screens. Tired—stressed. No dreams. Hmmm, he whispered. If this lasted another day, he would speak to the master about it. Groaning, he dragged himself out of bed, placed a hand over his heart, and began his morning meditation, biting his lip to maintain wakefulness. By the time he opened his eyes, a gentle light pierced through his high, narrow bedroom window. He took another slow breath and said to himself, Do this right—the first time.

Breakfast wouldn’t be ready for another hour, based on 64Bit’s internal clock and Cortex’s morning habits. That didn’t stop 64Bit from moving swiftly as he brushed his teeth, shaved his head, and changed into a new robe. He knelt before his crate desk, placed his and the master’s notes next to each other, and then began studying and writing once again.

Yer in much the same position I left ye yesterday. 64Bit whipped his head around to see the master standing in the doorway to his room. The old man was bent, covered in wrinkles and liver spots, and had wispy hair on the top of his head but a clean-shaven face. The glass port in his forehead reflected sunlight as he smiled. Ye studied all the night through then?

64Bit placed a hand on his right breast and dipped his shoulders toward the master, then responded. Um… I slept fine.

The master cocked his head. "Oh, is that so? I didn’t know fine left purple bruise-likes under one’s eyes."

64Bit rubbed under his eye screens. Not as well as I would have liked. But I feel ready for today. I’ve studied, I’ve practiced… 64Bit pantomimed putting together a particle battery. He would use a machine to assist him when he actually built the battery, but miming going through the process helped him feel more prepared—and, he hoped, showed his competence. I’m going to make you proud.

The master nodded, face plain. Well, I thank ye for caring for my feelings. Don’t do it for me alone, though. He turned as if to leave, then looked back. Most fail on their first try, lad. A finicky, tricky process, it be. Don’t hold yerself to an unrealistic standard. The Creator expects us to fail and try again, not be perfect all at once. Aye?

Yes, sir, 64Bit said. The master nodded slowly, then turned his head sideways and stared distantly, massaging the scars on the back of his head as he did so. He blinked, then looked back at 64Bit.

Lots to do today. Best be starting on it quick. Don’t be late. The master walked off.

"But you did it perfect the first time," 64Bit muttered. He organized his and the master’s notes and found his Therexe Cube hidden under some papers. 64Bit pressed his lips together, then left his room, tapping the door frame behind him to slide the door shut.

00000010 [2]

What consequences? We can speculate, but there’s no knowing until we move ahead and see what happens.

—Arnon D’Bvaym

64Bit’s home was worn and compact. It had two hallways set in a T-shape, the T’s stem ending with the front door and the two arms holding most of the rooms. It had been abandoned for years—decades, more likely—before Fort was settled by the master and others. Smooth, blank spots showed where walls had been broken and repaired, while cracked and faded paint marked where walls had been touched by age alone. Wires were attached to the floor and ceiling, running all across the house, and the wooden floor was warped or splintery in parts. This was home. As 64Bit approached the kitchen, his nose was greeted by the warm smell of toasted bread and oatmeal, making his stomach rumble.

The master and Cortex sat at the table eating as 64Bit stepped into the kitchen. Cortex looked up and motioned to a bowl next to him, the toast resting directly on the oatmeal. Here you go!

64Bit nodded, then sat and prayed before he began eating. The thick toast was dense, crunchy on the outside, and chewy on the inside, while the oatmeal was plain. He ate the two separately while Cortex ate by scooping oatmeal with his toast and eating them together.

When are you making the battery today? Cortex asked.

64Bit shrugged and looked at the master. His eyes were glazed over and flicking side to side. Most likely, he had downloaded some document directly to his cranial hardware and was reviewing it—perhaps reports from the settlement masters, perhaps information traded from the Binary. 64Bit wished that the master were fully present as he turned back to Cortex. I might study a bit more and then get to it.

Can I watch?

Don’t you have chores to do? If I remember correctly, we had some medicines that you needed to mix together.

Cortex frowned. That isn’t going anywhere. But you only get to make something for the first time once. I want to cheer you on!

We’ll prepare the battery right after we finish eating, the master mumbled. His eyes kept scanning as he spoke.

64Bit looked at his half-empty bowl and suddenly wasn’t certain he could finish it. Are you sure?

Aye. Ye’ve studied enough. Better to try and… Hmmm… The master pursed his lips as his eyes froze, then continued flicking. Look into that later. Yes? Oh, and ye will have the whole day to try again if needs be. If the mixture doesn’t burn just right or if the casing is too thin ye can fix it right off, get back to it.

The lights flickered on and off. 64Bit looked around, confused, then saw Cortex grinning. 64Bit said, Cortex, stop playing with the lights.

I’m just setting a mood, Cortex responded.

Enough mood, the master said. He set down his empty bowl and pushed it toward Cortex. Cortex, I have a lesson for ye on the main computer. Go do it now?

But I don’t want to miss 64Bit’s thing! And the dishes aren’t cleaned up yet— Cortex began.

The master waved his hand. Ye can take a break when 64Bit starts. Off ye go, now. Yer well behind on your studies.

Grumbling, Cortex hopped off his stool and dragged his feet toward the hallway. As he exited he yelled, Don’t you dare forget about me!

64Bit took a deep breath and tried to force himself to take another bite of oatmeal. He didn’t want to be distracted by hunger pains while working on the battery—everything had to be just perfect.

Lad.

64Bit froze, then slowly met the master’s gaze. His brown eyes were sharp and clear as they bore into his acolyte.

This isn’t like ye. Something’s on yer mind.

I don’t really know, 64Bit said. I’m trying to manage it myself. I’ve been categorizing the past few days and comparing them to how life usually goes, and I don’t find any oddities. Our meals are pretty consistent, my study is pretty consistent, and our chores around Fort follow a seasonal pattern. I didn’t lose sleep over my first computer.

"So ye are losing sleep."

64Bit nodded. Yes. I just have had a hard time sleeping recently. I toss and turn, wake up nervous. I felt I was being watched a few times. You haven’t installed cameras in the house, have you?

The master narrowed his eyes. Watched, hmm? No, no cameras or such from me. Perhaps Cortex playing a trick on ye?

No. I swept my room. Everything in there I recognize as mine. I tapped the walls to see if something might be hidden, and I checked outside my window to see if there were footprints in the dirt or marks on the wall to suggest someone climbing. All my theories are coming up without any data to support them.

Something else, then, the master said.

64Bit ran his thoughts over the past few days again. I still can’t get the Therexe Cube to do anything. He felt his hands clench. Cortex can so casually make it do anything, while I concentrate on it for hours and nothing happens. It’s not right. Something—something has to be wrong.

The master’s expression was unreadable, as blank as a computer screen turned off. A late bloomer, that’s all. Lad, let all things grow in their proper time.

I’ve been waiting! 64Bit shouted. He paused and took a breath. The words tumbled out of him. "I’ve been waiting. Since I became your acolyte. Waiting. At least when working on a broken computer I can get a sense of progress by taking it apart. Or when growing a plant I can dig at the soil a bit to see if roots are beginning to spread. I have no way to see any growth for me. Nothing changes."

Hmmm. The master rubbed the back of his head. He nodded. Aye, well, we need to speak more about this then. Rather than just letting it fester. He sighed. About time as well, I suppose. Yer getting on the edge of yer years to be an acolyte. First, though, the battery.

Why? 64Bit asked. He could tell the master was being cryptic about something and felt annoyed that he was changing the subject.

The master pushed himself away from the table. Good practice, learning to do something important, something ye’ve never done before, while having to put aside loud thoughts. Come, build the battery quickly, we’ll talk further after.

"About time? For what? 64Bit muttered as he followed the master out of the room. As he passed the shuffling old man he said, I’ll collect the casing and the chemicals."

I’ll move to the workroom just as fast as these old bones move.

64Bit took a right at the T to get to the robotics room, where he collected a casing that he had made earlier. It was very practical, if not much to look at: a simple gray tube, capped at one end, and a disk that would be welded on to the open end later. He then visited the lab to collect two chemical solutions in large glass bottles. Arms full, 64Bit was forced to stop outside the workroom and open the door by tapping his forehead against the doorframe—the master had programmed the touch sensors to respond to skin only. 64Bit scuttled into the room.

The workroom was a love letter to controlled chaos. Almost every spot within it was occupied. There were several long tables covered with tools and spare equipment that had been scavenged or crafted over the years: nuts, wires, circuit boards, and any other random thing that might be necessary for an engineering experiment. Boxes underneath the tables overflowed with more of the same, and the wall space was covered with hung tools.

64Bit glanced past a hand-cranked charger for battery-powered tools, then a plethora of outlets for corded tools, as he made his way to the back of the room where the master stood before a chest-shaped machine as tall as 64Bit’s sternum. Simply called the workstation, its brown plastic was cracked and faded, but the glass bubble that covered its top looked as clear as if it had been installed yesterday. Within the bubble were two metal robotic arms at rest on a flat surface.

The master looked at 64Bit as he approached. The old man patted the workstation, then walked to one of the overburdened tables and leaned against it, arms folded. He appeared distracted, not quite focused on anything. 64Bit paused before the machine, then pressed his lips together. Open, he thought. The machine did nothing. Shaking his head, 64Bit knelt and carefully placed the two glass bottles he held onto the floor. The metal casing slipped, and he flinched as it struck the wooden floor and bounced, knocking one of the glass bottles over.

Excellent…excellent start, 64Bit, he muttered, then picked up the bottle, dusted it off, and checked it for cracks. There was a small chip where the casing had struck the bottle, but the overall integrity of the bottle appeared to remain. 64Bit retrieved the casing, which had rolled under a nearby table, and stood, glancing at the master, then at the workstation. He took a deep breath. One other thing only a technomancer can do, I guess, he muttered.

64Bit screwed the tip off his little finger and watched as the universal jack there shifted its shape until he could insert it in the workstation’s port. After he was plugged in, he commanded the glass bubble to open, which it did. He then set down the casing and cap, then briefly ejected his finger again to fetch the glass bottles and set them next to the casing.

The door to the workroom opened. Wait for me! Did it start already? Cortex said. 64Bit looked back to see the boy, red-faced, bouncing between tables as he approached 64Bit. You didn’t finish did you?

I just got started, 64Bit said. You didn’t miss anything.

You should have called me! Cortex said, looking hurt.

64Bit sighed. It’s fine, Cortex. You’re here. And I need to get started. He turned his attention back to the workstation. With mental commands, he ordered the glass bubble to close again and commanded the metal arms within to lift into the air and unscrew the glass bottles. As he worked, 64Bit noted how easy it was to manipulate the machine when he was manually connected to it—it felt like an extension of himself, a third arm he never knew he had. He only wished he knew what felt like to control a machine without a manual connection. Would it feel as natural, having what amounted to another limb that didn’t need to be attached to his body?

He dumped the contents of one bottle into the other, capped it, and shook, then inserted a metal rod into the mixture as it bubbled.

A moment passed, two, as 64Bit waited for the bubbling to increase, his eyes glued to the workstation. He heard a scuffing sound behind him and assumed it was Cortex shifting positions; none of that mattered. Finally, finally, he was doing something only a technomancer could do. He felt his lips begin to twitch into a smile, a weird sensation that made his lips feel creased.

Maximum strength, pulse, 64Bit thought. The rod crackled with energy, creating a flash of light that appeared for just a moment then seemed to get absorbed into the chemical mixture. He held his breath.

It began glowing red.

Yes! It’s working! 64Bit cried. He looked back and saw only Cortex. The boy was standing on a table and leaning over in an attempt to get a better view. The master was nowhere to be seen. Where…where did he go? 64Bit said.

Told me he had some quick business, to keep an eye on you. Said he’d be back soon, Cortex said. Don’t stop! This is interesting.

I can’t stop, 64Bit said as he turned back toward the workstation, feeling like a baby bird that was pushed out of its nest for the first time. The chemical mixture had pulled into itself, forming a pulsing ball that slowly floated into the air. 64Bit lowered the glass bottle until the pulsing ball was free. So far, so good.

The floor shifted. 64Bit stumbled, then leaned back against the workstation. He turned and looked at Cortex again. Did you feel that? Was that an earthquake?

What? Cortex said.

64Bit shook his head. He was psyching himself out. He took a deep breath, but rather than clearing his mind, the breath made him feel light-headed. As his vision faded in and out, he tried to command the metal arms to take the casing and scoop up the floating, glowing ball of energy, but everything seemed to be moving so slowly. The last thing he saw as he fell and his finger popped out of the workstation’s port was the gooseflesh on his hands.

---

The sky was shadowed over, filled with boiling clouds.

64Bit tried to shake his head but found that he couldn’t move. Where am I? he thought.

His vision was pointed downward. Below him, he saw rugged mountains, forests, and the moldering remnants of ancient suburbs and roads in the process of being reclaimed by flora. Finally, staring farther downward, he saw Fort, its crowded streets, repaired or makeshift homes, tall surrounding wall. Crucified above the main gate into the settlement was a dead rozie, the left half of its body covered in synthetic skin to make it look like a man, the right half