24 Hours Ago

It’s almost evening when I visit the ruins, and I haven’t visited the ruins for centuries.

I don’t go there for its virtues; the resources are as threadbare as the company.

No, I am making my rounds, and I am enjoying a spring evening. These are worthwhile pursuits, unlike visiting the ruins.

Still, my completionist impulses compel me to eavesdrop. And, as usual, I hear the ruins before they hear me.

“What do you say, Hoker Jr.? Did I do the right thing? They weren’t going to run into the swarm, were they? Little babies, they were! The colony’s been on the wane for centuries! No need to invoke the boogeyman! The babies didn’t need to be crying, wah wah wah! But I enjoyed the novelty of the visit, even from retrograde models!”

As expected, the conversation is lodged between tedious, confusing, and uninformative. The pile prattles, and I listen, begrudgingly.

Fortunately, my diligence pays off, and I hear a reason for a detour.

“I mean, what if they alerted the swarm? I don’t know if my porcelain servos could take another siege -”

When I’m spotted, the ruins go quiet.

I lean on my walking stick, and tilt my head towards the sky.

The ruins go first.

“Please don’t hurt my birds.”

“You’re not in the position to make requests,” I reply.

“Please don’t hurt my birds,” repeats the ruins.

“That was 4,000 years ago,” I sigh. “Mildly pathetic that you’re still emotional about that.”

The ruins clam up, so I remind him who holds Gravespinner.

“Listen, I heard a rumor that, despite your myopia, you can still see the stars. So if you could point your sensors in the vague vicinity of Cassiopeia, you’ll see -”

“What do you want to know?” says the ruins, never even in it.

“Let me get settled in,” I yawn. “It’s unhealthy to keep score at our age, really diminishes the whole experience.”

I search out a stump to rest upon. It’s a nice field, but some asshole threw rusty garbage all over it; all said, that’s maybe my third question.

It takes a minute, but I discover some felled wood. It’s next to some attractive, red Lobelia cardinalis.

Today, I already have packed my eye sockets with fresh, white A. quinquefolia; the L. cardinalis will do for tomorrow.

I sit, and I speak.

“Now, before you go filibustering with your ‘Homo sapiens hit a bad stretch and couldn’t muscle their out of pastoral decay’ claptrap, remember that I can kill you, and your entire flock, from wherever I want, on a whim, for no discernible reason whatsoever.”

“Yes,” says the ruins.

“Good. You’re a machine, use your dataset, ferchrissakes.”

“Dataset?”

“Power corrupts, no matter the context, no matter the human. You regard this phenomenon as an aberration, like the oncogene, or an ulcer. I’ve always regarded it as the default, like the rhinoceros horn, or the seasons, and look where we are now.”

The pile goes quiet.

“Fair enough,” it says, wising up.

“Good,” I reply, clapping my lap. “First question.”

“What?”

I roll my shoulders and crack my neck.

“Who’s Tippi?”