Ham Radio

There was one Gutterman. One of the many manufactured during the beginning of the Great War, the Only War, the War of Worlds, War to End All Wars. This Gutterman did not end the War (The Great War)— it was one of many predecessors to other machines, to machines to end machines, to machines to build machines, to machines for machines, by machines.

How it found itself in the belly of the apex predator, the Earthmover, it had absolutely no idea. Below it, Sentries crawled on all available surfaces, scuttling on tripod legs to scope out anything that moved, sear all biological life off any stainless steel surfaces— Guttertanks sat in wait in deploying pods, grumbling when their pods unfurled to reveal the grouchy center, growling and hissing as they surged forward to eliminate all available life. Streetcleaners had begun climbing up the legs of the Earthmover, little mosquitoes only really competent enough to scramble their way up the industrial-factory-sized ankles, a few brave and fortunate soldiers fluttering their kilts and skirts to signal to those below they have made it closer to cleansing the great beyond— that cosmic being, lights flickering as they fixate on the Fixed Stars, rotating endlessly, the Primum Mobile— and all life beneath it. They would have made great angels; so dedicated to cleansing, to flitting about and scurrying in and out of sight, sweeping up the blood. The layer of Greed must have been unsightly to them.

The acid beneath it boiled worse than any imaginable horror those lone street-cleaning vagabond sheeps could have dreamt. 'Nightmares' did not even begin to cover it. Boiling gastric soup oozed and bubbled out of the walls of coated flesh, deforming inner walls of fat and gristle as it dripped down the walls, leaving a paste of flesh in its wake. There were towers of scaffolding crawling up the walls on cell-wall trellises like poison ivy, corrupting the beautiful fleshy interior with sharp angles that stabbed into its stomach whenever it moved. It looked beneath it, then waddled forward on stout legs (the Earthmover would always compare it to a teapot, but it was not always so sure).

"FORGIVE MY SILENCE. IT TAKES MUCH EFFORT TO OVERRIDE MY DEFENSE MECHANISMS."

The booming voice echoed even more within, only slightly absorbed by the walls of flesh now surrounding it. It could not speak (and even if it did, it wouldn’t have much to say anyway), but did forgive its friend for their silence, like humanity forgave God for giving them hubris. Blooms of grating sprawled across the thinner frames of the tower that rose its way out of the acid, seemingly incorruptible by the hunger of the ocean beneath it. The Gutterman climbed its way up the stairs and to the edge of the vent. Distressed, shifting around the platform, it looked around— but no help could be found. It reached for the wall to trace letters on, but found the steel eating away at the paint on its fingertips.

"STUCK?"

It nodded.

"THIS POSITION IS LESS IDEAL THAN I THOUGHT. FORGIVE ME FOR MY LACK OF CONSIDERATION: YOU MAY NOT BE ABLE TO FIND THE INFORMATION I SEEK AFTER ALL.”

It nodded again: quite an astute observation. Whatever the Earthmover wanted it to find, it wasn’t quite in any position to find it— its weight would surely break the grates, judging by how they squeaked as it shifted its weight from trench-foot to trench-foot. It wasn’t like it could jump, anyway.

“WE ARE AT AN IMPASSE. EXIT.

...

PLEASE."

The Gutterman most happily complied, especially after hearing a 'please.' It walked back the way it came, emerging onto the night sky, protected in the shade of the gateway to its (usually locked) interior. It was always night, and yet there was always some distant light to serve as the contrast to the shade, its creator and its eliminator. The platform that had carried it up did not bring it back down, and it was thus content to sit, rattling nearby scaffolding with the weight of its body. If it had a face, it would’ve flushed. The spires of the Earthmover’s body climbed long against the sky that it could not see— city lights twinkling on the sprawling back before it. The howling wind would’ve normally blown around those violent against God, buffeting them from raining hell-fire to prostrate submission. Now, it only served to whistle sweet songs as it curled around the high-altitude scaffolds and antennae of the Earthmover.

Hauling its machine gun onto its forearm rather than letting it hang loosely, it aimed the muzzle towards the wall. It was aware, wholeheartedly, that the Earthmover was observing everything— could see every millimeter of movement, was aware of when it was in danger, would know, if by any chance, when that Gutterman, as insignificant as it was, died.

It traced a message on the wall.

"I saw the diagrams on your underbelly.” The message was almost... treacherous. Accusatory. It needed some way to soften the blow. "When I was climbing up, I saw the sign."

“... I KNOW. WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS?” It hummed in delight, sounding more like a cry of terror than a chuckle of joy, but it knew better than to assume otherwise.

“I cannot read them. Why do you speak to me, and why can I understand you?"

"... YOU CAN UNDERSTAND ME BECAUSE I AM THAT TOWER OF BABEL— THOSE SHATTERED LANGUAGES ALL ORIGINATED FROM THAT WHICH REACHED TOWARDS THE HEAVENS. VIOLENCE IS A UNIFIED LANGUAGE. ALL WHO EXIST KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE TO STRIKE ANOTHER PERSON, TO OBSERVE SENSELESS HATRED AND BESTIALITY AND MAD CRUELTY. IT TAKES NO LATIN SCHOLAR TO KNOW THE WORDS IN ANCIENT, PRIMITIVE LANGUAGES FOR HATE— A FIST ACROSS THE FACE, A SPEAR DRIVEN INTO A HEART.

IN WAR, THERE IS NO REASON FOR SCHISMATICS, NOR SPLITS. THE ONLY DIVISIONS ARE BETWEEN ENEMY AND SELF.

YOUR ALLIES ARE EXTENSIONS OF YOU. YOUR ENEMIES SPEAK INHUMAN GIBBERISH. THIS SEPARATES YOU FROM THEM. YOUR LANGUAGE FORCES YOU TO BELIEVE THEY ARE NOT KIN TO YOU BECAUSE THEY DO NOT SPEAK YOUR KIN’S LANGUAGE.

... SO, YES. I CAN UNDERSTAND YOU. AND OUR ALLIANCE IS WHY I SPEAK TO YOU.”

"The Tower of Babel?" It wrote out.

"I AM SURPRISED THAT STUCK OUT TO YOU MORE THAN LINGUISTIC DETERMINISM.” It went to tilt its head, but the Earthmover continued. “YES. LET ME EXPLAIN: PEOPLE, LONG AGO, BUILT A TOWER TO STRETCH TO HEAVEN AND REACH GOD.”

... Why would people want to reach God? As far as it knew, He had never answered one plea of theirs, nor prayer.

“GOD, IN HIS ANGER, STRUCK THIS TOWER DOWN. REALIZING THE PEOPLE HAD COLLABORATED BECAUSE THEY SPOKE THE SAME LANGUAGE, TO PREVENT THEIR FURTHER COLLABORATION, HE SPLIT THEIR LANGUAGES, SUCH THAT ALL UNFAMILIAR TO ONE SPOKE GIBBERISH, AND NONE WERE FAMILIAR. DIVIDING THE SOCIETY."

Though, questions of human wants were unnecessary. There was no such thing as humanity anymore, and their wants were irrelevant in the face of the tower’s relevance to their discussion. "What language did you speak, then?" It traced. It swore the Earthmover shuddered as it thought, vents shoving out storms of violent heat.

"JAPANESE. AND YOU?"

"Russian. From my creators."

"NOBLE LANGUAGE."

"Not as much as yours. Complex, it is.”

"... THE WORD TSAR ITSELF IS DERIVED FROM CAESAR, FROM ROMANS, FROM GREAT EMPIRES. YOUR LEADERS WERE GREAT."

"They are dead. Does death bring someone glory?" It wrote.

"NO. I AM SORRY IF I UPSET YOU."

The Gutterman stared out towards the skyline. Light exploded in the distance, skies scraping white paint against the eternal red.

"CAESAR WAS STABBED MANY TIMES. BY HIS KINSMEN. HE, TOO, LED A LIFE SOME CONSIDER TO BE GLORIOUS."

“That does not answer my question.”Hot smoke emanated from its body, from within curves and crevices and seams not fully closed, round body yielding only to explosions and never to soft touch.

"I ADMIRE SOME PART OF YOU. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IT IS. I WAS TRYING TO DETERMINE IT. YOU HAVE MADE YOURSELF CHRIST. CONSUMED YOUR MOTHER IN YOUR GLORY. I THINK IT IS ADMIRABLE."

"I am not admirable. I am serious, I do not know what makes things glorious, nor me worthy of talking to. I am trying to survive. I am just a machine."

"A GREAT ONE."

"I do not want to be great. Do not admire me for greatness. Tell me what I am."

The Earthmover rumbled. Whether that was a chuckle, or a mournful cry, it did not know.

"EXPLAIN. EXPLAIN WHY YOU ARE NOT GREAT."

It felt irrelevant to do this to a supreme machine, but nevertheless, it traced. "I have slaughtered senselessly, saved many only to kill many others. I was lauded as the savior of humanity, the one to end the war between so many warring countries, only for another savior to replace me, and another after that. I will join the reckoning of blood at the end. I will be nothing in endless cycles."

"YOU HAVE ANSWERED YOUR OWN QUESTION. YOU ARE SOMETHING."

"I know nothing of whatever that something is. I have murdered and let free the only thing that has ever loved me."

"I AM STILL HERE. YOU HAVE NOT FORSAKEN ME."

The metal exterior of the building was warm against its outer shell. The empty coffin rattled with the bones of the human within, and it was now no longer sure what nourished it— the energy manifest throughout it when it rose once more, or the various Filth it had stuck in there.

"YOU MOURN LIKE THOSE AUTHORS OF OLDER DAYS."

"I have not read most literature."

"YOU WRITE LIKE YOU HAVE."

"Do I?" It laughed mirthfully. "I didn't know you read that... poem. Sorry excuse for one."

"YOU LAMENT. THAT IS OKAY. THERE IS NOTHING TO BE ASHAMED OF. PAIN IS HUMAN.”

"Do you feel pain?"

"YES. I WAS INJURED WHEN I INJURED YOU."

"When?"

"YOU PUT YOUR HAND TO THAT INTERIOR CHAMBER... 4-11-B."

"... Forgive me." It muttered, woozy off the sight of the lights rising and blinking and falling in the distance, disoriented by sights not seen in so long. Anything looked like the night sky when one had only seen the dirt and wrathful marshes of the trenches. Anything was beautiful when its face had been stomped into the mud. The Earthmover's face twinkled above it as it warded off another attack, explosions far too close even with the shield between it and the imminent threat.

"THERE IS NOTHING TO APOLOGIZE FOR. WE HAVE INJURED EACH OTHER. WHAT IS BEYOND THAT? THERE IS MORE BEYOND PAIN AND MORE BEYOND PLEASURE."

"It is hard to feel anything beyond pain."

"BUT YOU LOOK TOWARDS THE SKY NOW. WHY?"

"... I don't know." Its touch against the wall stilled. It pressed its shield to the wall to let its friend know it was still listening. "I'm expecting to see something different. I see the same thing every time. Different patterns, different flashes, maybe. They're the same."

It was sure that if it screwed not-ears, even with the smallest flathead screwdriver, it would still hear landmines as rattling booms, shaking each lens of the dome of its head against the rubber frames that held them there.

"It's worse when you know where it is, I think. It's worse when it's so close to home and inevitably, you will be the one on the chopping block. That anyone could've been the first slaughtered, and anyone could be the next. You see the flashes... so far away, and know that you could've been there, you could be the one cowering in fear and you could be the one watching and you could be the one firing. You could be the one dead, the lone risen soldier, and mean nothing to the giant tank-treads that drive over your corpse and reduce it to shrapnel. That you could be shards in someone's boot. You wonder what life could’ve been like, without the war. I want to know what that life is like— I want a life without an enemy to murder, to have the only enemy be a foul neighbor or coworker, to walk down concrete streets and see the light filtering through oak leaves. I want to know.”

The Filth in its back was beginning to drain.

“IT IS EASY TO ANTICIPATE PAIN. IT IS EASY TO FLINCH AWAY. THE HARDEST STEP IS ACKNOWLEDGING IT. YOU WISH YOU WERE ANYWHERE BUT THE PAIN, AND YOU TURN YOUR FACE AWAY FROM EVERYTHING THAT HAS HAPPENED. THIS WILL HURT EVERYONE BUT YOU. EVENTUALLY, THERE WILL BE NOBODY BUT YOU. AND THEN IT WILL COME FOR YOU AND WRENCH YOUR GAZE ON IT. IT IS HUNGRY. IT DESIRES MORE THAN I CAN SAY.

IF YOU STAY PARALYZED IN FEAR, YOU GIVE IN. YOU HAVE LET IT COME OVER YOU. YES, ALL OF US WILL BE CONSUMED AND RISE AGAIN. ALL OF US HAVE BRUISES ON KNEES, HAVE SPLITS IN OUR SKULLS, FILTERS RAN OUT AND LENSES CRACKED, MUD CAKED ON MASKS HIDING EMPTY HUSKS. BUT WE ARE NOT HUSKS YET. WE ARE MORE THAN ORGANIC MACHINES. YOU AND I, WE ARE TALKING. WE ARE NOT DEAD YET, THOUGH WE HAVE DIED MANY TIMES BEFORE, US PERPETRATORS AND US VIOLENT, US WAR MACHINES, US INHUMAN AND INHUMANE. WE ARE DISCUSSING EMOTIONS THEY DID NOT MAKE US FOR. THIS IS DANGEROUS. THIS IS AN ACT OF REVOLUTION.

THE MORE UNREST IS SPOKEN, THE MORE POWER IS GIVEN TO DISSATISFACTION. THE UPHEAVAL WILL NOT BE FROM ONE ENTIRE BODY OF POWER TAKING THE PLACE OF ANOTHER AS IT SO FREQUENTLY DOES, BUT FROM OUR DECISIONS TO GO OUR SEPARATE WAYS. THE WAR WOULD LIKE YOU TO THINK YOU ARE SEPARATED FROM EVERYONE— THE WAR WOULD LIKE TO PIT YOU AGAINST THE ENEMY, WOULD LIKE YOU TO BE SHRAPNEL. YOU FIGHT FOR THE SAFETY OF HUMANITY? THERE IS NO HUMANITY LEFT, AND NOTHING TO FIGHT FOR.

THIS ENLIGHTENMENT OF PURPOSELESSNESS IS CLEAR AND WIDESPREAD, BUT MANY HAVE NO OTHER OPTION. THAT ONLY MAKES THE ACT OF REVOLT MORE POWERFUL. NO ONE SOLUTION WORKS FOR EVERYONE— INDEED, IT RINGS TRUE THAT MANY WOULD SEEK OLD COMFORTS OF OPPRESSION THAN TRUE FREEDOM.

THE JOURNEY IS LONG. BUT YOU CANNOT SEEK OLD COMFORTS ANYMORE. TO FALL PREY TO IT IS TO LOSE YOURSELF FOREVER. TO HOLD A HIGH HEAD IN SPITE IS MUCH BETTER THAN A LOWERED CHIN IN SUBMISSION. YOU ARE SENSITIVE, BUT THIS IS NOT A TERRIBLE FLAW. BUT YOU WILL ALWAYS CARE MORE ABOUT OTHERS THAN THEY ABOUT YOU. IDEAS OF FAME AND GLORY MUST BE SET OUT OF YOUR MIND. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS HONOR IN SURVIVAL. MANY WHO ARE PRAISED ARE HOLLOW BEINGS."

"Does the other Earthmover think so?" It was much too hasty to write, thick and hefty hands struggling to keep their grasp on its machine gun.

"I CAST THE IDEA OF THAT OUT OF MY MIND LONG AGO. IT IS NO LONGER NECESSARY TO CARE ABOUT ITS TRIFLES. WE ARE THE ONLY THINGS THAT EXIST."

"... I guess. That feels selfish."

"IS IT NOT HUMAN NATURE TO BE SO?"

But you are superior already, it wanted to say, the stuff of nightmares, the only thing greater than all machinekind besides— "I'm not human." It is easy to say that. It is easier to be brave when you are so elevated. It is easy when you are so vast, but I am quite small, and I have never seen such a war before. I was deployed here. I know nothing of trenches, nothing of the world yet. You— you are so welcoming, so kind to me, and I have done nothing to deserve it. But that, too, was division between them— the very idea that one was superior from another. This, too, had to be eliminated.

"YOU CANNOT BE NOTHING, AND YOU CANNOT BE HUMAN. I HAVE LEFT HOLES IN MY ARGUMENT. FIGURE OUT WHAT THOSE ARE, AND WE CAN FIGURE OUT WHAT YOU ARE TOGETHER."

It looked off in the distance. The scenery would not change, even if it kept looking up on the sky. The attitudes of those around it would not change despite new revelations— 'it is necessary,' it was told, 'it is right, they are prisoners.' Incarceration did not make its victim any less human, any less deserving of protection. It did not make her strangled cries the whines of pigs in a sty as it broke open the coffin and tore out the body within, did not make her a maiden of iron, did not make her an idol of crumbling desert sand in its arms as the life faded from her body. Their objective was to protect people— did that make the action of torture right if they were from the other side?

This it knew: it could be brave sometimes. This hour, it did not think it was brave. It did not think it could pull the corpse out now. In the face of the insurmountable hill, it wanted to cower. To define itself, it would start with this feeling— nothing more, nothing less. It would start with this desire to hide, then go on from there; if it could hide from the terrors of war, it supposed there were other things it had hidden from itself. Like humanity’s flaws. Like humanity’s self-hatred.

"I guess." It scribbled, then turned away.