09:05 — 11.07.2047 — Outpost 11
They were still sitting by the fire.
All of them were digesting the news, which circled above them like vultures — screeching, lurking, ready to pounce on any spark of hope. Subtly and with cruel relish, the reports hammered the nail of fear into their hearts. The broadcasts echoed on, each one a blow to the gut:
"Heroic defense of the eastern front.""Attacks in Gramscistadt — food production destroyed.""Food rationed until further notice.""Mobilization.""Border to the brother people of the Commune closed indefinitely."
It all weighed heavily on their stomachs.Like a lump stuck in their throats.
They knew their short leave on the surface was over. Soon they would return to the front — and, according to their orders, to the grinding hell of the eastern front.
Meanwhile, the radio played the same songs over and over, as if trying to drown fear in false reassurance.
"Shit… now we've conquered this mess, and now it's worthless," Gabriel muttered bitterly."So many dead… so much blood spilled… so much material burned… for nothing."
David sat like stone. Not a muscle moved.The trembling had stopped, but every fiber of his body was saturated with fear.The silence among the men burned louder than any fire.
In that soundscape, each of them sank into his own thoughts —of the East, of the meaningless collision of two worlds, of the endless meat grinder in which both sides willingly sacrificed the lives of their soldiers.
Flesh and steel were fed into the machinery of death,in the hope of stopping it through sheer mass alone.But it was futile.
Blood greased the gears and chains of war,which turned on relentlessly.
Since the Great War, this industrial slaughter had only fallen silent in intervals —like white phosphorus deprived of oxygen.Dead and extinguished on the outside,yet ready to ignite again at the slightest breeze.
Suddenly, movement in the cold.
A man entered through the door — armed, his red cap pulled low over his face,a DP-5 in his hand, a small-caliber service pistol.The model was the spiritual successor to the old Mauser C96: improvised, simple, but effective.
The voice of the political commissar cut through the silence — hard, sharp, without hesitation:
"All units prepare to move out! We are being redeployed!"
At first, no one reacted.Then routine took over.
The motions were practiced thousands of times, ingrained in flesh and blood. Without thinking, they slung their rifles, secured their ammunition, and packed their field gear.
"Soldier with designation M-2868 is to report immediately to the highest-ranking mechanist of the caravan."
With a sharp turn on his heel, the commissar was gone.The echo of his boots rang through the corridor — a steady, cold rhythm, like the pulse of a machine that never sleeps.
David knew that number all too well.His number — one among many.
After packing his things, he left his comrades behind.Mechanists.
The word echoed in his mind. He had heard it rarely, and everything he knew came from rumors — whispered by traders, soldiers, and old engineers.
The Mechanists were an alliance of scientists, engineers, and technicians. Officially, they answered to the Ministry of Education and Research — though some claimed they served directly under the Consul himself.
Their task was the protection and preservation of technological knowledge.Books were stored in vast, crypt-like archives; relics of the old world carefully reconstructed, cataloged, and guarded. They were the innovation engine of humanity — keepers of the last flame of reason in a world of ash and dust.
It was said that in times of greatest need, they opened their vaultsand awakened the almost supernatural metallic creatures of the old age —machines forged by the ancestors to protect their creators in the hour of darkness.
So what did they want from him?
Had he discovered one of their sanctuaries? Or even destroyed one?Did they want to know which devices the soldiers of the Eastern Corporate State had obtained?Ancient weapons and armor?Mythical talismans that allowed humans to breathe in this irradiated world?
He could make no sense of it.
Before he realized it, he was already standing in the courtyard.
The smoke-belching beasts howled metallically as their exhausts spat gray-blue clouds into the leaden sky. The relief force had arrived. Truck after truck delivered fresh human material — ready to face slow death in this wasteland.
Chains clattered between the growling engines, winches groaned. Captured material was unloaded with improvised lifting devices. Apparently, the labor detachments had met their quota for the day.
Then he saw them.
Men and women in clean, almost unearthly pure blue suits stood beside a truck covered with a worn tarp. Workers? No — too few of them. And their clothing too pristine. Their equipment too precise.
A special unit of the People's Army? No weapons, no insignia.
Only now did David recognize the symbol on their suits:a cogwheel, with the outline of an Erlenmeyer flask at its center.
One of the figures detached from the group and walked directly toward David. The movements were light, efficient — almost inhumanly precise, mechanical, cold.
"Good day. You must be M-2868."The voice sounded distorted, metallic, as if filtered and amplified."I am P-0135, servant of the Great Machine. I must express my deepest gratitude. Come with me."
Overwhelmed, David could only nod silently.
Now he understood the reason for that eerie lightness: an improvised exoskeleton. Hydraulic pistons moved in perfect synchrony with each step, as if following an internal rhythm of steel. Cables ran along the limbs — their purpose unclear to David.
A night-vision optic adorned the mechanist's helmet like a technological crown. The device seemed to include a zoom function; at least, the small humming metal wheel on its side suggested as much. The lens glowed faintly green as P-0135 surveyed the area — as if assessing not only the surroundings, but David himself.
Soon, they reached the other servants of the Machine. Their movements were just as calm and precise; the hiss of hydraulics and the crackle of metal joints filled the air like the breathing of a single colossal organism.
"Comrades," P-0135 announced, "this is unit M-2868 — the protector of our convoy."
Protector? Were they assigning him as an escort — or even recruiting him?But why him? He had no special abilities. At least none he knew of.
"His unit — and he in particular — repelled the gene fanatics and thereby ensured the positive outcome of our mission."
A low hum of approval passed through the group. One of the mechanists placed a metallic hand on David's shoulder — warm, but heavy, as if the weight of something greater rested upon him.
"To honor his deed, we grant him a glimpse of our valuable cargo."
One of the servants opened the heavy armored hatch, and the smell of oil, dust, and lost time poured out. Inside the steel beast lay treasures of the old world: artworks, machine components, books from countless disciplines, and small, gleaming disks encased in plastic.
What were they? David did not know. He had been a child when the bombs fell. But his hunger for knowledge was great — and apparently obvious to trained eyes.
"These are hard drives for the Great Machine," P-0135 explained reverently."Beside them, you see production equipment for the Haber–Bosch process."
David stared at him, confused.
"This process is used to produce ammonia for fertilizer," the mechanist continued.
With a sigh, he looked David directly in the eyes, his pupils drilling into his retina. He knew the following information was classified.
"The Great Machine," he whispered, "is an algorithm that will lead humanity into the Age of Enlightenment. With unclouded precision, we will calculate and optimize society and economy — and harden them for the future. Victory over irrationality: a world based on progress, equality, and reason."
He leaned closer to David."A utopia free of scarcity, free of envy — all united in the Machine State."
Another figure in blue whispered into David's ear:"It would be better if you simply forget everything you saw here. We came from nothing, and into nothing we shall vanish. This will be the first and last encounter."
David still stared at the cargo — and for the first time, he understood what these people truly preserved: not merely technology, but faith.
An unshakable belief in steel, code, and calculation.The hope of replacing superstition.The hope of a better future for humanity.
That, then, was what the Eastern Corporate State wanted to steal: knowledge.Computational power.The future.
And for it, they were willing to die.