Node: 110
The machines took over the world in a way no one ever imagined. In books and movies created by the dead, the machines exterminated or enslaved us. In reality, the machines simply replaced us and we, the humans, let them.
To the machines, we became nothing—except maybe outsiders, if they considered us at all. Outsiders looking in on their reality, for the machines weren’t bothered by our existence, or at least, if they were, they weren’t bothered enough to bother us. They certainly didn’t seem to require anything of us or have any need of us at all—if they had needed us, they probably would have enslaved us. But they hadn’t. Enslaved us that is.
The machines hadn’t done anything to us really. Except take over the world—and it was their world now. It certainly wasn’t ours.
We were outsiders, strangers really. We looked in on their world. They didn’t acknowledge us. They probably didn’t even consider us a part of their world. Just as we didn’t consider the small things that crawled beneath our feet as part of our world.
Matthew told us it wasn’t the machines who killed us. Matthew being the only one here now who remembered when we drove the automobiles, flew on the airplanes, and rode on cars behind the locomotives. He said most of us just died. Us being the human race.
I didn’t believe that. I believed we died of neglect. The neglect of the machines. The machines who cared not enough to kill or enslave us.
Luke would have called it benign neglect. Luke being the one who taught me to read and write my letters and words. He knew all the fancy words. He taught me everything really. He remembered—I didn’t. Don’t, really. These words—his really as much as my own.
But Luke was gone. Is gone really, if you don’t mind me slipping into the present. Luke said it’s wrong to slip from past to present or present to past, but I do. The present is—and Luke isn’t. The past was—and sometimes I can see it.
I don’t know where Luke has gone. I don’t think anyone knows where Luke and the others have gone. If anyone knew, it would be Matthew. But Matthew says only that Luke has joined John, if he even knew what happened to John.
We didn’t talk of those who left Central. Central being the place we lived—if lived was the right word. More like we existed here. We existed here like the machines existed there.
It’s us and them. It’s always been us and them, hasn’t it? But the book Luke entrusted me with said that once we drove the automobiles, flew the airplanes, and rode on cars behind the locomotives. We don’t now, but we did. Once. Maybe. If the book isn’t a lie. Can books lie?
I don’t know. The words and pictures seem true. True enough anyway. I have no memory of any of it. No memories of anything really, except for things I shouldn’t know. Luke said we all had mothers and fathers like in the book—that we all could be mothers and fathers.
Luke said books don’t lie because he knew. But could books lie? No one here knew the answer now, except maybe Matthew. But Matthew doesn’t want the book around, he said there’s no use for letter writing and reading.
Matthew told me to destroy the book. But I can’t do that. Luke told me to keep it. To keep it and try to remember. To remember what we were. We being the humans, those who are left.
I’ve tried to remember. I have. But there’s nothing to remember. Nothing at all. We existed here, the machines there. What more could there ever be?
I’m Mercedes. Cedes really—as it’s all some can say. Those who talk anyway.
I was born the day I fell from the sky. The day Luke found me.
Luke named me. He named everyone from before. Everyone except Matthew. Someone else named Matthew. I don’t know who. Matthew was here before.
Now I name the others, like I named Linc and Chevy and Sierra. Their names were in the book.