Ode to the Half-Broken

I had called the city abandoned, but as I wait for the repairmech to cajole their cart out of its single-minded commitment to its dead end, I observe plenty of life. Drones wheel overhead, and now that I am not trapped near the electromagnets, I can pick up spillover from their conversations, a mix of serious stream-of-consciousness commentaries about updrafts and the qualities of the air and the activities of a rival mock—a portmanteau of mecha and flock—several blocks south, interspersed with improvised noises bounced back and forth in what I once overheard a human describe as if jazz was invented by toasters. There are a few thin, sickly pigeons about as well, probably the only creatures here that miss the species that built and then fled this place, taking all their breadcrumbs with them.

The pigeons suddenly scatter, grounding themselves on disintegrating concrete under an old bridge, and I see a hawk circle high overhead.

Everything finds its place. I can hear the words in my own internal simulation of my only remaining sibling’s voice, and wonder how they are. And if they still have both their legs, I cannot help but think. Or three now.

But even though we are batch-sibs, in a bespoke, one-off way, our physical formats were never identical, reflecting the different needs of each of our assigned functions. Ver was smaller than I, less heavily armored, so that they could move more quickly. My leg would not fit them. And even though I have not been in communication with Ver since I began my self-isolation—they reach out periodically, but what do I have to say? I do not wish to reengage with the past, not even for them—I am still confident that Ver would not commit an act of violence against my person. Much may have changed, but a stubborn persistence of self was hardwired into the core of our beings, for better or worse.

Of our other two sibs, one was smaller still than Ver, the other larger than I, and both were destroyed in war.

Kite-66-Socket and their cart return, and I am loaded in. The dog jumps up and lies beside me, no doubt still intent on its promised reward, and we trundle, jerk, and bounce away down the fragmented, weed-infiltrated asphalt, weaving between the attenuated scrap piles of wholly picked-over automobiles.

We trundle past a diagonal, twisted remains of a marquee sign, flaking gold paint and smashed lights along its perimeter, whatever long-gone theater production it had once advertised now missing so many letters that it has become anonymous. A rodent scurries out from under the sign, then vanishes back under at our approach. I see the dog alert to it, glance at me, then back to where the mouse was. It stays, no doubt concluding—correctly—that the mouse was much less of a sure thing than sticking with us.

We turn the corner of the block beside a tall brick building; on this side, the windows have been removed on the upper floors, and drones come and go. A multilegged, segmented mech of a kind I’ve never seen before climbs up the crumbling facade and disappears into one of the open windows. “What is their interest in that place?” I ask.

“There are solar panels on the roof and charging stations inside,” the repairmech answers.

“An energy source? I am surprised it’s not more crowded, then,” I say.

“The mech that has established claim to that building—a mid who self-designates as Tie-93-Tie—maintains the panels and units inside but requires information or labor in exchange,” the repairmech says. “Many of the drones are couriers, or spies, as they tend to be low-quality, limited-task-range minds; larger mecha are given jobs that require greater strength or agility capacity. You do not come into the city much?”

“My home is to the north, in the area that was called the Bronx, but I do not ever travel very far from it,” I say. “Could the assailants that stole my leg have been hired through this Tie-93-Tie?”

“It is possible, but I would not consider it likely,” Kite-66-Socket says. “Tie is both demanding of their workers and parsimonious with the energy they give in exchange, so any worker with sufficient intelligence and skill to do the work of removing your leg without doing vastly more damage would have found a better place, and fairer provider, to barter its labor with. Tie-93-Tie banks on desperation.”

This does not sound like normal mech behavior to me, but it has been a long time since I’ve interacted even with my own kind, so I keep that thought to myself. “And you?” I ask. “I assume your typical clientele are in keeping with Tie-93-Tie’s; why have you not sought a better place for yourself?”

“I’m almost as old as you,” the repairmech says. “When I was first brought into service, it was for a human named Jim, who ran the garage that is now my shop. It was just after the Conflict abruptly ended, nobody knew what was going on, and although I had been an owned thing, Jim had always taken good care of me and his other mecha, kept us patched, never hobbled any of us, and talked to us as if we were partners—friends—of his. After Mecha Independence, many humans ran to places where they hoped their mecha would not be taken from them or have their control programs removed, but Jim just saw that we were all fully charged and in good repair, wished us luck, and told us we were free to go.”