The Line

The Line, Facers, Pawns and a wild, imagined future...

I look at The Line in front of me. My men visible along a stretch of dirt we know well. The steep vistas behind us. Our furthest outpost beyond built into two sandstone cliffs. Each side of the massive walls colored in reds, tans, grays and whatever other rock exposed itself in the long bands that decorate desert landscapes.

We wait at a quiet spot where green rangelands meet barren dirt and sand. Where the rangelands were smothered in natural greens, browns and yellows; the land beyond The Line stretches in ruin toward the horizon. Those lands were supposed to be safer. So, the Council said. More protected. More controlled. But their grass and soil are forever burned by unnatural machines and weapons. Those things never sleep. Never stopped. Never dreamed. But they can never cross The Line, either.

Those were are way of things. They have their side and we have ours. All of my men know these stories and more. Our descendants dedicated themselves to this land. This life. In defiance of those on the other side of The Line.

In rebellion of the machines. Rebellion of convenience and leisure. While we lived for the land and each other in the simplest of ways, the rest live for the ecstasy of pleasure and comfort.

We rest calm on our horses. Each horse outfitted with saddles, blankets and weapons of our choice. A rifle. A shotgun. Handguns of every sort and energy caliber and capability. Other weapons created from trial and error by our weapon-smiths. Smart men. Patient. Dedicated to the art of creating steel and metal for killing.

We are armed well except for three men.

Our horses are special. Part breeding. Part training. Part survival. Nothing survives beyond The Line that isn’t supposed to. That’s the way it’s been before these men were born. Before the great wars and fighting among the stars and planets.

Even back when men fought men. And many centuries before that. The riders make a semi-circle around the three unarmed men. Our position faces The Line waiting the way we always do. I watch the three men.

See them looking around in their hoods. Smell the dirt and wind. The hoods cover their face, their hands bound comfortably to their saddle horns. No one speaks. No one turns away from The Line. I train my men well.

Behind me, nature is alive and blooming. If I turn, I can see forests in the distance beyond the canyons and mesas. The mid-morning storm rolling in the distance to our left. The sweet smell of flowers and different grass tickles our nose riding a soft breeze. A memento that even on the edge of devastation, there is life. I think of home. Lizzie. Her strawberry blonde hair. Her beautiful eyes. How she feels when I pull her close.

To those on the other side of The Line, we are primitive. Savage. Ignorant and forgotten. They know our lands are wild and dangerous because they are. Many things can kill you. And if an animal or some mutated creature doesn’t, nature will. It’s part of our purposeful embrace of this life. Dangerous and simple and free.

I lead our riders. I’m not the best fighter or the strongest or maybe the smartest, but I care for these men. Know their families and children. Their fathers and elders. I stood by them at the Reckoning to join me. The First Judgement. The Test of the Natural. The Final Blessing. Weddings. Birthdays. They are family.

I’m not the best of them but I know how to lead. I wouldn’t ask them to do something I wouldn’t and they know this. They’ve seen me do it. I value their lives probably more than my own and they know this, too. It’s why they fight proud and fierce.

My best scout spots movement miles past The Line. He’s gifted with unnatural eyesight and ability with his Storm Rifle. His lethal long-distance weapon can bring down almost anything. We catch a low noise. Like a high-pitched whine.

Hear they come, I say to myself. These meetings are frequent and routine, but something feels, strange today.

To those who read the histories, we look like cowboys. In fact, our world embraced those traditions after the Great Migration and the Great Purge. Governments collapsed. Nations fell. Everyone broke into tribes and groups and clans. We reject the ways of those who merged with machines. They called it the Great Transcendence. Argued it was for the betterment of humanity. Equality. Evolution.

I spit as I glance at the hooded men and think about those great cities beyond. We watch the growing dust cloud. I notice many of my men move their hands instinctively close to weapons. We don’t expect trouble, but I catch myself grazing my thumb on my Fire Shooter. The exchanges are planned. Prepared. Routine. Yet my distrust lingers in the air like a coming rainstorm.

I feel no emotion for the men in the hoods. They broke our laws. The codes of our culture. Some of the worst offenses. Normally, a bullet or blade is enough. But the exchanges are becoming more frequent. The Council decided to enact more of them. I don’t know why. I suspect those beyond The Line are in trouble. Nothing concrete, just a hunch.

Most would say I am a true believer. I care fiercely for my family, my people and terrorize my enemies. I don’t believe I’m driven by something terrible inside. I understand the harshness of our world. Survival. In my mind, the survival of my family and friends means embracing an appropriate level of mercilessness. I know kindness and love. But my hands and a heart know violence and wraith.

I see a light blue haze from the approaching mass of machines. Their forms became clear as they speed out of the barren dust. Transport vehicles. Light grey. Military in design, color and purpose. They hover slightly off the ground. Form in a line and swing from left to right.

Facers.

Abominations. More machine than human. The transports land with their backs to us. Several yards behind The Line. Doors open seamless with a slight hiss as machines march lifeless from the ships. Regimented. Orderly. Devoid of life. Nothing but essential movement. Created for one purpose.

I guess 40 or 50 of them. They carry no weapons. But we know different. Pawns. It isn’t their real name. Slang for the lifeless army of machines used by Facers. Hard to kill. Built to attack and rip people, animals, anything apart with their strength.

The Pawns align in squares and march up to The Line. More Pawns than usual. We move closer as well but keep a distance. One of my men removes the hoods from the three men. Their eyes adjust. Take in the horizon with brief glances left, right, then ahead. Hair unkept. They carry a look of defeat and surrender.

The way people look after long nights of worry. The men know their fate. Escape does not register. They accept what is coming. A new life of sorts.

I thank them on the ride out for not pleading or crying. Our kind doesn’t do cowardice. Or softness. The three men’s eyes are tired against the morning sunlight. They take in the soft glow of the machines. Their noses catch the final smells of our land.

The Pawns make space in the middle of their ranks. A man and a woman marched forward. Nearly robotic. But human. Immaculate features. Impossibly good looking. Unnaturally fit. Startling blue eyes.

Designed, I remember. Nothing earned. No scars or training or time spent building endurance. The benefits of embracing machines.

Similar color hair. But then again, most Facers are similar. After generations, fewer and fewer distinctions. Like a company failing to innovate. I’ve never seen this pair before but that means little. New styles and looks are always changing across The Line and Facers follow each other for fear of being different or missing a trend. They’re all the same to me.

The pair walk toward me. Movement made for maximum efficiency. They march past The Line and stand just beyond its invisible barrier on our side. The three men shuffle toward the pair. A cold morning. Crisp smells of distant pine trees. Grass. A brisk wind that tickles my eyes.

The pair show a slight twinge as they crossed The Line. Like a muscle pull or something aching. Nothing painful. But a second’s discomfort. I step off my horse and walk toward them with the three men.

“Morning,” I say and hold up a hand to greet them. I may not like these things, but I don’t hold resentment.

The pair nod in unison to me. The Pawns remain anchored on their side of The Line. But something’s wrong. The quiet response isn’t normal and Facers thrive on programmed and coordinated reactions.

I ignore them and turn to my left to look back at the three men and point with my thumb.

The gesture saves my life as I catch the eyes of one of the three. Eyes wide. Fear. Surprise. Something unexpected.

You live as long as I do and those looks mean the difference between living and dying in an instant. The morning sun puts a slight shadow across the three faces as a tingle and intense whir flies past my face.

My response is instinctual. Nothing a machine would understand. A biological human instinct. A gut feeling. I keep staring at the three men but roll forward. I draw my Fire Shooter and feel another strong pulse from beyond me as one of three men explode into a pink mist. Completely there one second. Gone the next.

Move, I yell in my head.

As I snap around sighting my weapon, I see another pulse fire from one of the Facers as I fire back. The woman. She wasn’t holding a gun. Some kind handheld barrel that connected up her forearm. My riders have never fought a Facer before, but their instincts take over and they scatter and start shooting back. They form small groups and spread out to be harder targets.

Its decades since a battle between us and the Facers. During The Virus. A rogue Facer put a virus into The Code back then. Sort of a program or operating manual that connected Facers, Pawns and everything else on their side. As far as I knew at the time, The Virus made the Pawns go crazy. Wild. They tried to wipe us out. And certain Facers. I fought in that war. Much younger than I am today. A bloody war. Brutal.

A scar across my back marks participation. Most of my graduating class of Rangers fell in the war. They patched me up well back then, our medicine as advanced as the machines. I remember the Pawn that gave me that scar. I used my blade to cut its head from its body.

Tremendous heat blows my hat off. My ear rings and I feel burning as I return fire and sprint sideways. The male Facer fires at me and misses multiple times. As I squeeze off several rounds, I keep firing and pull the Facers fire toward me to give my men time to aim and drawn down on our attackers.

I hit the male Facer with three rounds. The rounds smash into the thing with a thumping and burning noise. Large, explosive calibers designed special for destroying machines. The rounds mushroom once they hit. The disfigured Facer falls to his knees. Blue liquid streamed from his mouth, eyes and chest. But he is still mobile and firing.

Benefits of being a machine, I think. I fire again but miss wide.

The Facer weapons boom. Heat. Vibration. Impossible power. The Facers fire and miss me but hit one of my men. I see him fly off his horse and smash to the ground. Thankfully we have our own protection.

A thick and flexible body armor. Like a shield that absorbs energy. Made for fighting Pawns. Not for Facers and exotic weapons. Multiple more rounds hit the male Facer as he falls on his knees and hands. Our unit is moving and shooting now; training taking over the surprise of the attack.

I sprint when I see the male Facer fall prone and as he turns his face upward, I blast him at point blank range. My Fire Shooter is unforgiving at close range. The Facers human/machine head blows apart. A blue mist and liquid rain around me as I hear some type of electrical whining quiet.

I turn my attention to the woman Facer as she dispatches the third man in the hood. A blast left the man’s leg broken and barely attached. I watch the woman aim a blast at his chest and crumple him to the dirt. She turns to fire at my men as our weapons have little effect on her. She’s obviously the Alpha. Each Facer group has an Alpha; a stronger mate developed special in their labs to fight and maintain order.

They’re built to stop an uprising of machines, but against humans they could tear us apart easy. She walks normal. Like the current battle is nothing more than another task to her.

A few of my men go down but their armor absorbs most of the blasts. I see them roll from their horse and take cover behind slabs of rock and granite to keep firing. Others ride in zig zags and circles. The boulders keep them covered until the women begins blasting rocks to pieces.

We let loose an array of firepower on her as she moves. Still no effect. Suddenly she pulses. Whatever energy she used to fire with now hums. Vibrates. My scout uses his Storm Rifle to hit her in the leg and she falls down. Suddenly, The Line where she stands evaporates.

Disappeared. Gone. A hole. Breach. Not possible. It’s never happened in hundreds of years. I stare disturbed. My men freeze.

Then, the Pawns behind The Line stream through the opening. About half make it in before the woman losses focus. Or power. She seemed to open a hole for them. The gap closes and The Line restores itself.

It cuts several Pawns in half. The ones that make it through engage in a bloody battle with me and my men. I join the madness. Shooting, swinging, punching and using my larger Half Steel to cut through Pawns.

Chaos. My men are experienced in combat. Violence. Weapons. Best fighters among our people but we are evenly matched.

The Line has never been breached. Sometimes raiders from the Glass Desert to the west attack us but they are human. People. Not Pawns or Facers. Not fighting machines and humans with their DNA and genetics blended to make them quite literally superhuman. We fight intensely and with abandon. Pawns have no weapons. They engage us hand-to-hand.

We dispatch most of the Pawns before they close the distance on us. A handful surround the woman Facer as they fight. Several of my men fall. One Pawn punches through one of my men’s armor and rips something out of his body. He’s holding his heart.

Then the machine smashes his head clean open. I know his wife. I sprint and gut the Pawn by cutting it in half. I turn to see another Pawn break one of my men’s leg before punching through the side of his chest.

Blood sprays us as the Pawn rips into the dying man before my men bring it down. I think about that man’s son. I yell and slam into Pawns as I shoot, cut and fight without mercy. Adrenaline is pouring through me. A Pawn smashes my face with its head and tries to grab me, but I slice its arm off and then slice its head.

The woman Facer finishes off a few more of my men with her blade. Not separate but connected to her like another arm on her. I pull my Fire Shooter out and take careful aim among the chaos and bloodshed. As she swings at another of my men, a man she pulled from his horse, I breathe in.

Take her down, I tell myself.

I fire multiple rounds. Grouped together quickly. Hit her in the neck twice and shoulder. Where we would strike a Pawn to cripple it. As soon as she falls, all the Pawns crash to the ground. Lifeless.

I advance to the woman and hold up my hand to the other men to stay back. I pull the downed rider away from the woman. Switch to my Spray Rifle. Lethal at close distance. I turn her over with a kick of my boot. She smiles. Seemingly unhurt. Unbothered. Eyes calm.

“Hello, Peter,” she says to me. She knows my name. She turns her weapon on herself. Stabbing herself. The last thing I remember if flying backwards because of an explosion. I roll to my side moments later. I’m somehow alive. The air smells metallic. Burnt. I taste blood. Feel a pain in his eyes and shoulder. As my men pull me up, we watch something horrifying.

The other Pawns. They move. They remain in their square formation. But they cross The Line now. They don’t turn off like they are supposed to. They don’t power down or get cut apart. They move slow. One step again. And again. Until all the remaining Pawns stand inside The Line.

No machine has crossed The Line in modern memory. Or ancient memory for that matter.

Machines aren’t supposed to work beyond The Line. That was the point. Long ago disagreements about machines led to fighting. Fighting led to war. War led to near extermination. Conventional. Then nuclear. But then peace and a decision to go our different ways.

I whistle to my men and we grab our horses and take off. We ride quick and watch The Pawns. None of them have moved since crossing The Line.

They stand inside. Alive. Powered. But still. Very still. Waiting.

We ride toward our outpost. My men are anxious. Not scared but searching for answers. Confused. Like those that know something life-changing has happened, but they can’t believe they’re living it. I worry about getting the wounded men to our Healers.

Something monumental happened. Facers don’t attack. Facers need us to survive. Someone on the Council told me Facers stopped living past the Growing process months ago. It’s why exchanges at The Line increased. We give them men and women who fail to live by our rules.

My men exchange looks from time to time. We catch the storm blowing in across the large lake beyond. The clouds build tall and puffy, making the sky grow and stretch with pops of white, grey and blue. Mostly we glance behind us.

Once we are far enough away, we look straight ahead until the edge of the outpost comes into view. It’s built beyond The Line on the other side of large valley into the canyon. Green grass. Soft bushes and blue pines around the road leading to it.

I look out beyond the valley as we ride down. A loud quiet takes over our group. The kind you only find in open spaces devoid of people but teeming with nature. That loud quiet you can breathe in and gaze for miles and miles. The wind plays in the trees and bushes. I trace the vast open space and find one hundred little details.

The outpost is built into the canyon walls like a dam. Except instead of keeping something back, it stops anything from coming in. It protects the rest of our land. The entry to Rim, the Forest Land and the Hive.

To get around the outpost, you’d ride a few hundred miles in either direction until you hit mountains on one side or the massive lake on the other. Both largely impassable and filled with their own dangers.

Other Rangers and men fill out the outpost. Tough men. Tough families. I remember my first rotation there. A windswept place. Breathtaking but a harsh landscape that will kill you quick. A place where humans feel small and the country feels menacing. A spot where time seems to forget itself amid the storms, sun and dark nights. I know things worse than Pawns prowl the forest and canyons at night here. Lizzie loved the sunsets but hated everything else.

As we ride up the trail and into the valley toward the front of the outpost, we spot a commotion. Other riders surround something. I can see the outpost and town are bustling beyond. Alert. Radio calls must have gone out to tell them what happened to us. But a commotion stirred in front of the outer wall.

A Pawn? Another attack? We ride up to soldiers surrounding a person. A Facer.

I ride next to them and look at a familiar face and yell out, “Henry?” The soldiers recognize me and stand up straight. Others salute me.

Henry looks at me and grins. That warm smile. The Facers may be short on humanity but much of it found it’s way into Henry.

“Peter, my friend,” he hopes his words will relax the riders around him. No luck.

Most train weapons on him. No one smiles or betrays kindness. The wind whistles through the canyon. I jump down from my horse and walk between the weapons. Most drop them back down. I shake Henry’s hand and pat his shoulder as we give him a horse to ride with us.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask him once he is situated on a saddle. We start a slow trot to the front of the wall. The wind kicks at the outpost wall and canyon. I can smell the fresh water of the lake and the stuffy, dry dirt.

Henry looks around before responding, “Looking for you of course!”

I glance around. The town is busy. On alert. Word got out. Him being here is a risk but as long as I keep him close, no one will bother him. I look at Henry and catch something I failed to notice about his face. Henry looks like any other Facer. Impossible features. Regal. Too perfect. But now, he’s beaten all to hell.

Terrible bruises cover his face. Stained blood marks his head and neck. Henry ditched the metallic clothes the Facers wear and sports a robe and large clothes with holes and rips. He looks like some wondering, insane monk from the ancient times we learned about in school long ago. My silence must have tipped Henry off.

“Self-imposed,” Henry says pointed at his face as we dismount from the horses and walk toward the outpost wall. He winks at me. It’s then I see Henry only has one eye. He wears a rudimentary patch and bandage on the other. I look him over, “What happened to you? Did the Rangers do something? Attacked by a Night Howler? And how the hell did you get here?”

Henry waves his hands and shakes his head, “No, my old friend. This is what you would call freedom.” Henry points to his face as he talks. I don’t understand and he says nothing more to give me answers.

As he turns to study the outpost and town behind the massive walls, I realize there’s a rudimentary set of stitches and bruise behind Henry’s ear. He tore his ‘chip’ out. All Facers are implanted with chips in their heads during the Growing process. Connects them together. Keeps The Code intact.

Why waste time thinking or remembering information or even communicating out loud when you could all be connected.

I know there were rumors that Facers were “born” with chips inside them. Grown. But nobody believed the speculation. Humans still had to be born like normal humans.

“Things are not going well for us. In the great city there was a…“ I hold up my hand to stop Henry from finishing his sentence, “Not here.”

We walk through the outpost perimeter and begin to make our way into the town. I notice no kids or women. The Council must have moved the families away from The Line. Now, only riders and those who run critical operations remain. Preparing for battle. For war.

A few of my riders join me as we move Henry toward a busy looking building with several floors. Several people cast angry glances toward Henry. A few other riders stop us at first, but everyone goes about their business when they see me. If Henry is with me, then it’s none of their concern.

I lead the Rangers in the Rim and the Forest Lands. Other Rangers, riders and soldiers don’t question me. Most know me on sight. My reputation speaks for itself. Peter the Protector; that’s what they call me. Lizzie calls me honey. Sometimes other names when we are alone in our bed. I like that better. I’m not much for nicknames or legends.

The building is wood and stone and resembles a barracks of sorts. Massive logs and timber make up the front. A second story features large windows and stone design. The floors continue upward toward a viewing tower and communications. The only electronics and machines allowed aside from medical equipment. Riders are busy preparing equipment. Weapons. Radios. Patrols.

We walk through the entrance with Henry and my men. A meeting room on the first floor awaits us. Away from the commotion. A large fire crackles in the middle of the room. Warm brown benches and chairs fill the space. Food and drinks wait. I send injured men to the Healers with their modern machines for medical care. I get the attention of a rider walking by, “Can you tell the commander we’re here? I need to see her as soon as possible.”

The rider nods and takes off upstairs. He looks back several times at me, Henry and the group. A little star struck but confused by Henry.

“So, what the hell are you doing here? And what is going on? How did you get in here?” I say to Henry as soon as the doors close.

He sits near the fireplace with a coffee-like drink in no hurry to answer me. I make my way to the food and fill a plate large enough for two or three men. The fight leaves me exhausted and starving. My men grab plates and eat in groups around us. The smell of burnt wood and strong scent of kindling blanket us. The fireplace beats back the cold morning air and the space becomes warm and comfortable again. Lizzie would like this. I can almost smell her hair until Henry interrupts my memories.

“I apologize deeply for my appearance and alarming you,” Henry says. “I’ve undergone removal of my chip and controls. Everything. Even the data link in my eye. Ripped it out myself. Painful,” Henry laughs and sips the drink.

“Why? Why are you here?” I ask him, shoving food in my mouth. I’m surprised when Henry gets up and makes himself a plate and eats across from me.

“Since when do Facers eat real food?” I say between bites.

“You mean why do Facers only consumer that liquid sludge?” Henry teases as he begins to eat careful. His bites and mannerisms are funny, like he has never really tried real food before. The fireplace shows off Henry’s eyepatch. Makes him look comical as he wolfs down food in between words.

“Where to begin, my old friend. So much to say,” Henry winks with his good eye. “Likely so little time. Let’s start with me. Why am I here,” Henry eats raspberries and blueberries fast. The colors stain his hand, but he smiles at the sweet taste. I notice his bites and chews create their own rhythm and noise in between his words.

“Why am I here. Well, the Great City is in turmoil. Maybe rubble,” Henry pauses. “When I left there were some organized pockets. But most of it lay in ruins. Chaos. War. Rival factions and families of Facers fighting for control among the carnage. I barely escaped.”

My men hear him and stop talking, listening. They’ve heard stories of the Great City on the coast. Impossible size, tens of millions of people. It’s where the Facers call home. All stacked on top of each other.

I look at him, “Another hacker? Rogue AI group again? The Code?”

Henry shakes his head and looks at me smirking, “Yes. My techs and I found a problem with The Code months ago. Bit of a problem at first that we assumed would be a quick fix. But the Techs never saw anything like it. Now, Pawns and the rest of those drones are at war with Facers. Wouldn’t be surprised if any survive. Pawns are crazy. Majority of Facers have lost it, too.”

“What happened to The Code?” I question. The Code links the Facers and plays a role in their genetic structure, DNA and abilities.

Henry smiles at me, “Evolution. A piece of The Code hid itself from our tracking. Sentient. The Code evolved to avoid detection and then, changed. Mutated.”

My men stare at him. I stare, “Henry, how can a piece of computer code evolve?”

“Who knows but it’s in the wild now,” he smiles at all of us. “Our society was sick anyway. Our Growing process continues to fail exponentially. Our species cannot replace itself. We know what the histories and biology says; it is the quickest path to extinction. Now, the Pawns will do most of the work a slow collapse would have. Maybe it’s better this way. Others will see the chaos and invade soon. For the best.”

I stare at him as he talks. Like he speaks of the weather or the latest strange music they listen to. But the reality of his words gives me pause.

“Henry, you’re talking about hundreds of millions of Facers dead. And how many Pawns do we face now? Tens of thousands?” I reply astonished. He shares no remorse or care as his people are obliterated.

Henry shakes his head, “We lost our humanity long ago, my friend. Yes, a formidable amount of Pawns. Strange though, I saw them walk through the Line. It seemed to turn off for a moment,” he shrugged at me and for the first time. “Peter, I am here with urgency. I need to get to the Forest Lands. And, to her.”

I know who he is talking about and I shake my head, “No, Henry. Out of the question. She would never see you. She barely sees us. She won’t see a Facer; she will simply kill us before we can get within a mile of her.”

He points to himself, “Peter, I’m no more a Facer now than you?”

I shake my head again, “Sorry, Henry. No one sees Mother. I can’t simply let you walk in there. Especially during a time of war.”

Henry looks at me again, “Peter, I need to see her. Now. You have a special connection with her. I know it.”

I watch him and try to betray nothing. How could he know about the secret ceremonies? The Connecting? I shake my head again.

“Peter, they’re coming. I need to speak with her,” Henry pleads. I ask him who. Pawns?

Henry shakes his head, “No. I’m not worried about Pawns.”

I stare at him as my men listen to our conversation, “Then who?”

He sighs and looks at me and my men and points up, “Them. The Black Fleet. The ones who fled Earth in the Great Purge. They’re coming back, Peter. Coming for all of us.”

I look at him. Another impossible thought. The Black Fleet left Earth centuries ago. Practically a myth now. No contact in almost a thousand years. They swore never to return. I look at my men. At Henry.

The outpost commander walks in. I sip my drink and shake my head as she scowls at me, “Alright. Let’s go see Mother.”

I sigh at what Henry asks of me. What I must do. I know he’s lying but what choice do we have. A sadness hits me that I may never see Lizzie again. What choice is there staring down at the end of times.