unbeknownst to billions of Internet users, ceased on the day of the Extermination, and the inevitable accumulation of faults together with ordinary entropy overcame all the transoceanic lines one after another. Engineering work deep in the ocean was one of those things that there was no point even attempting without the support of a whole civilization.
With that, the transformers could forget about freely logging into mechs anywhere in the world. The guilds and alliances ossified into regular nations, since now they were united not only by language and culture, but also by time and place.
The GOATs and Black Castle divided Tokyo and its power plants between them. They united, split into factions, and then united again. Now they were really Japanese.
Bartek had not paid them a visit for over eight years, so he was astonished when Shining Dawn announced Dagenskyoll’s arrival.
“Cockroach,” said Shining Dawn. “Brrr!”
The Bully Boys packed all their non-local guests into mass-produced GE mechs from the Burg I series, which resembled two-legged scarab beetles more than humanoids. The Dwarf Fortress was selling them to all the American transnations along with the spare parts. It was the only model for which it had proven possible to reboot production and – since 8488 PostApoc – intermittently keep it going. Shining Dawn and other extroverted vectors had developed a deep aversion for this design. Bartek figured that it must have had something to do with the trauma after the Iguarte Republic’s attack on the Farm in the last years of the war.
Dagenskyoll entered the garden with a flourish, flapping the black solar panels of his bug wings in all directions. The sun was about to set, and green shadows rustled over the bushes and flower beds.
Shining Dawn hid behind some grapevines and began to throw stones at Dagenskyoll from behind the gnarled trunks of the apple trees.
“Why don’t you just set the dogs on me?” cooed Dagenskyoll.
“We don’t have dogs yet.”
Bartek stood up straight, unplugging his USB mustache from the condenser lines. He was working in a specialized Mandrake II-A, on six praying-mantis legs, with batteries of agro-cultural tools sticking out from under the casing. The corporations had been trying to replace farmers with machines. Enormous sums of money had been invested in these agronomical mechs just before the Extermination.
Bartek emoted a handshake. Dagenskyoll emoted an evening spent over a beer or two. Bartek emoted a table and chair. They stood facing each other in the garden as if they were seated.
“You Yankee Bull Boy Mengele.”
“You vampire kamikaze Jap.”
They emoted amicable guffaws.
“I’ll gobble him up, gobble him, gobble him,” sang out Shining Dawn.
Dagenskyoll displayed a question mark.
“You’re as good as gobbled,” said Bartek, pointing at the irigotchi stealing up from the north side of the garden – stuffed animal Frankensteins, covered in filth and caked with mud; a veritable cornucopia of furry patchwork creatures cobbled together from dozens of mechanical toys drawn from the gamut of pre-Extermination cultures and age categories. “Tomorrow they’ll be talking and walking you from morning to evening.”
The black cockroach shuddered, as if a shiver had just run through it.
“Can we talk somewhere out of earshot?”
Bartek pointed his manipulator at his dorsal plate.
“I’ve got a hard link to Wiesner.”
Bartek was processing on the servers of the MIT Media Lab with extra B&B backup from the shipping containers of portable Google servers near Boston.
North America had stuck together over the land lines, from California to New England. The Dwarves were already producing fiber-optic cables, Intel bless them.
“I mean, I know you’re not sitting in this praying mantis here, and I’m not talking to some Iguarte. But I guess I can trust you, right?”
“And you? Where are you living from? Surely not from Tokyo.”
“It’s a
With that, the transformers could forget about freely logging into mechs anywhere in the world. The guilds and alliances ossified into regular nations, since now they were united not only by language and culture, but also by time and place.
The GOATs and Black Castle divided Tokyo and its power plants between them. They united, split into factions, and then united again. Now they were really Japanese.
Bartek had not paid them a visit for over eight years, so he was astonished when Shining Dawn announced Dagenskyoll’s arrival.
“Cockroach,” said Shining Dawn. “Brrr!”
The Bully Boys packed all their non-local guests into mass-produced GE mechs from the Burg I series, which resembled two-legged scarab beetles more than humanoids. The Dwarf Fortress was selling them to all the American transnations along with the spare parts. It was the only model for which it had proven possible to reboot production and – since 8488 PostApoc – intermittently keep it going. Shining Dawn and other extroverted vectors had developed a deep aversion for this design. Bartek figured that it must have had something to do with the trauma after the Iguarte Republic’s attack on the Farm in the last years of the war.
Dagenskyoll entered the garden with a flourish, flapping the black solar panels of his bug wings in all directions. The sun was about to set, and green shadows rustled over the bushes and flower beds.
Shining Dawn hid behind some grapevines and began to throw stones at Dagenskyoll from behind the gnarled trunks of the apple trees.
“Why don’t you just set the dogs on me?” cooed Dagenskyoll.
“We don’t have dogs yet.”
Bartek stood up straight, unplugging his USB mustache from the condenser lines. He was working in a specialized Mandrake II-A, on six praying-mantis legs, with batteries of agro-cultural tools sticking out from under the casing. The corporations had been trying to replace farmers with machines. Enormous sums of money had been invested in these agronomical mechs just before the Extermination.
Bartek emoted a handshake. Dagenskyoll emoted an evening spent over a beer or two. Bartek emoted a table and chair. They stood facing each other in the garden as if they were seated.
“You Yankee Bull Boy Mengele.”
“You vampire kamikaze Jap.”
They emoted amicable guffaws.
“I’ll gobble him up, gobble him, gobble him,” sang out Shining Dawn.
Dagenskyoll displayed a question mark.
“You’re as good as gobbled,” said Bartek, pointing at the irigotchi stealing up from the north side of the garden – stuffed animal Frankensteins, covered in filth and caked with mud; a veritable cornucopia of furry patchwork creatures cobbled together from dozens of mechanical toys drawn from the gamut of pre-Extermination cultures and age categories. “Tomorrow they’ll be talking and walking you from morning to evening.”
The black cockroach shuddered, as if a shiver had just run through it.
“Can we talk somewhere out of earshot?”
Bartek pointed his manipulator at his dorsal plate.
“I’ve got a hard link to Wiesner.”
Bartek was processing on the servers of the MIT Media Lab with extra B&B backup from the shipping containers of portable Google servers near Boston.
North America had stuck together over the land lines, from California to New England. The Dwarves were already producing fiber-optic cables, Intel bless them.
“I mean, I know you’re not sitting in this praying mantis here, and I’m not talking to some Iguarte. But I guess I can trust you, right?”
“And you? Where are you living from? Surely not from Tokyo.”
“It’s a
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