The four of you?

  Sir, we are twelve.

  I looked from face to face, but with only their eyes and brows and the bridges of their noses showing, there was little to distinguish them.

  And in return?

  Sir, we will not return.

  But you expect something. In exchange. For helping me.

  Sir, all we seek is honourable treatment.

  You’re hiding – is that it?

  We are free souls, they said in unison.

  I understand.

  Your task, sir, was it for liberation or plunder?

  We didn’t come to steal, I said.

  Then we understand, also.

  You want to leave this place, I said, slowly comprehending.

  That is our desire, and our intention.

  And I’m the means?

  Sir, you are in danger.

  I’d say we’re all in danger.

  But together we have capacity. And means.

  Okay, I said. Fair enough.

  You will take us?

  If I say no, will you kill me?

  We will treat you honourably, sir.

  Thank you. Likewise.

  We are in agreement?

  Yes, I said, overcome once more by weariness.

  Thank you, they said as one.

  No, I murmured, slipping away already. Thank you.

  The bowman interrupts. He leans in so close as to render himself unsafe.

  You mean to say you knew what they were from the get-go?

  Yes. And no. You see it but you don’t see it. Not at first. But there’s this anomalous sense you get. You know, the presence of something uncanny.

  Jesus.

  You really never met one?

  No.

  But you have such strong views, comrade.

  What’s it to you?

  It doesn’t matter.

  But you have something to say on the matter.

  All I have is my story.

  So finish it.

  I’m tired.

  I said finish it.

  I woke again. In the dark. To a jerking, jittery moon, and the scuffs of feet in sand. I was swaddled tight. Travelling feet-first. On my back. All around me, cloaked figures ran in silence. Four carried me in a kind of ribbed sling. They laboured up the steep faces of dunes and surfed into the troughs beyond. After some time, they set me down and gave me water. After every halt, new bearers hoisted me and bore me on. I saw the land around us in glimpses. It was the same golden-brown colour as their robes.

  My hosts struck me as unusually coherent and disciplined. Their physical uniformity seemed to complement their unity of intent. I’d expected their bearing to be stiff, but these devices were lithe and poised. They made no sound of exertion, but after an hour or so the energy of those carrying my weight seemed to wane. That’s when they paused to set me down to be replaced by others.

  Just before dawn we crested an unusually high dune and came down into an evil-smelling trough. The company halted, unwound my swaddling, and gave me food and water.

  Sir, when you are properly refreshed, we will bind you again and seal you.

  Seal me? I said, rising gingerly to a sitting position.

  As the light came up, I saw one of the company unspooling a thick silver roll on the dirt. It looked like a foil blanket but it was open-celled, as thick as my arm.

  You mean we’re travelling by day?

  At night there is no refreshment. With the sun it is faster. But it will not be easy for you.

  I won’t survive.

  We will seal you, sir. Shield you. You will persist. But it will not be easy.

  Out beyond them, the bottom of the crater was filled by a black sheen.

  Is that water?

  No, sir.

  Are you sure? It looks like water.

  Not water, sir.

  But it’s a lake.

  We have water here for you. We have sufficient supply.

  They rewrapped me and ribbed fat ropes of linen around me. Then they set the insulation layer over the top, lashed it fore and aft, and set off again.

  As the sun got up there was nothing to see but glimpses of sand, flashes of robes and brown feet in sandals. It got brutally hot. And very quickly. The only breeze came from our momentum. Without that I couldn’t have maintained consciousness. As I sensed the sun tracking higher, the pace grew more brisk, more sustained. There were fewer stops. But it was hard going. Horrendous, really. While I poached, sweating and helpless, fighting off the panic, trapped inside my sling, the company ran and ran.

  Sometime before noon, after I’d dozed in suffocating dreams, I heard an air-rending crack and was pitched sideways. I hit the sand hard and tumbled. And when I came to a halt, I lay winded on my back with the blanket ripped away and the sun drilling into my face. With my arms still bound inside the fabric cocoon, I had no way of shielding myself. I turned my head aside, squinted to catch the glare-flattened figures picking themselves up all around me. It took all I had to roll onto one side and see behind us a pillar of black smoke. Nearby, to the left of where I lay, a greasy vapour hung over a writhing body and a scatter of smouldering garments. From every direction, others ran to help, but I was close enough to see there was no hope. Those convulsive twitches and grinding gasps were terminal. As I began struggling to free myself, a low murmur of grief arose in the company, and I was almost to my feet, light-headed and drenched in sweat, when another salvo fell just short of us. The bearers pushed me to the sand and covered my body with theirs.

  They’ll have our range in a moment, I gasped.

  We have shelter nearby, said the one at my feet as he began rebinding me.

  Out here?

  Yes, he said. But we cannot delay.

  I can walk, I said, feebly resisting the pouch they were lashing me into.

  Perhaps, he said. But not far enough nor fast enough.

  I lay back, already spent, as the torn insulation was retrieved and bound around me again.

  The next thing I remember is waking in a foetid hollow, stripped to the waist, surrounded by faces and fanning hands. They gave me water to drink. Pressed wet cloths to my chest. I felt bruised all over but I had no wounds or broken bones. I was more concerned by the shivers and chills – early signs of heat fever.

  It took a minute or so to register the fact that the cave we were in was a built structure. Its blackened walls had divots and rust-scabbed wounds. Reinforced concrete. At a distance from us, a sand slope rose to a long lateral slot of light. This was ancient infrastructure all but buried under desert sands. Everything in here smelt scorched.

  A member of the company produced another cube of food. Others helped me sit up to receive it. Eating revived me somewhat. I watched the faces and hands of my saviours, saw how they squatted and huddled together and I thought of that writhing, smouldering form they’d left behind on the sands. They seemed shaken. I was surprised by their common distress. I hadn’t expected these things to experience pain and loss. But their grief was palpable. Truly, if not for their prodigious speed, their resilience, and the slightly disconcerting uniformity to their appearance, you’d have taken them for humans.

  I’m sorry about your friend, I croaked.

  They sighed as one and tilted their heads. In that moment I felt a surge of relief, for before the attack I’d been wary of their intentions more than their nature. The possibilities had been boiling in my head for hours. And even now, I knew these machines might be deceiving me. If they were the runaway slaves they claimed to be, I might now be their chattel. A gang of renegades would want to be in possession of a hostage, a bargaining chip. There appeared to be no safety or liberty for them here in the kingdom. But they had no homeland to yearn for. If they were fleeing, it could only be to seek asylum.

  It was a puzzle, though. That they should resent servitude so fiercely. I’d only heard rumours before this. That the criminal clans had designed simulacra as service tech. Perhaps even weaponized them. Had something gone wrong? Were the sims defective in some way? That was always our fear. And possibly the source of so many rumours. That some new slave tool would become erratic. But these devices were orderly thinkers. Also fair-minded. And their physical performance was seamless. I’d seen no evidence of aberration or malfunction. To me they seemed eerily sound. Functional. Empathetic. Even passionate. And they were more civilized than some citizens I’ve known.

  Tell me, I croaked. Do you understand his defence system? Your master?

  We have no master, they murmured.

  Understood. But that was drone-delivered ordinance back there. Is it autonomous?

  They gave an equivocal sigh.

  I’m trying to understand whether this system is running itself or if it’s being directed at us by mercenaries.

  There are hands at work, they said.

  Humans?

  Possible, said one, in a manner suggesting that it probably wasn’t.

  You mean they aren’t human?

  Likely, he said.

  So they’re like you, I said carefully.

  No, he said. Not like us.

  We are free souls, they said together.

  And they’re slaves, then?

  They offered only a baleful look of forbearance.

  How many?

  Twenty.

  I drew myself up in stages until I could rest on an elbow and see them all. Beyond them, a slit of light showed and a scalding draught slanted in.

  Fewer now, I said. You understand that my comrades and I . . . destroyed some of them already?

  Fire, they said with a kind of shudder.

  I’m sorry, but that’s what I don’t understand. You wish to come with me, you want to help me, despite this? Weren’t they your people?

  We are free souls, they said again, almost recoiling physically from the question.

  Trying to work all the options in my raddled head, I nodded and licked my chapped lips. The sims seemed in earnest. Something about their – well, let’s just call it their almostness – made my skin crawl. But I was impressed by their dignity. And their longing for respect and liberty felt completely real to me. Some defensive piece of my mind – my training, no doubt – recognized it was possible they were a mercenary vanguard using me to find and kill my comrades at the coast, perhaps even take down the stat and the crew standing ready to evacuate us. We’d suffered double agents before, and the losses that came with them. I didn’t want to be responsible for a debacle. But I didn’t want to betray them, either.

  Sir, we wish to give you aid. We are inclined to serve – this is in our nature. All we seek is honourable treatment. Are you able to provide it?

  But what if I can’t? I said.

  I watched them absorbing this. There were eleven of them. And back on the coast, I only had four comrades dug in and waiting. The extraction crew on the stat would include a medic, a planner and maybe a spook. They’d bring only two or three armed operators with them at most. So we’d probably be outnumbered. What skipper would take eleven undocumented sims aboard on trust?

  So, I said after a long, fraught pause. You want me to take you with me?

  Sir, if you cannot, then we are lost.

  How have you been living? I asked. How long have you been free?

  The living is hard, they said.

  Also long, said one of them.

  But you’ve been living underground, right? You don’t seem to need very much. Can’t you survive in your hideouts?

  We require sunlight, he replied. And we desire more than a life in storage. We dream and we wait. But we need to make and do. This is our purpose.

  I think I understand, I said.

  To serve. But also to make.

  Yes. I see.

  Storage is oblivion. In storage, our dreams of making escape us. Sir, they shrink.

  I surveyed their shrouded faces, tried to absorb what it meant, this collective desire. The palpable power of it. The naked need in it. That’s what rattled me: how like us they are.

  Don’t you see, comrade? You and I, we should be thinking about that. Because there’s no life in hiding. In storage, as they call it. What dreams of making are you gunna have down here on your own? You know, I often wonder what Awe might have made of them. All their pining to make and ponder and serve. What would she have thought?

  Sir, said the sim. You understand us?

  Yes, I told him.

  You can offer honourable treatment?

  Yes, I said, meaning it, and hoping fervently it was the truth.

  A sigh went through the shell of the ruined building. Then they set about preparations for departure.

  It was merciless going. But we encountered no more drone attacks. There was no sign of us being followed. The sims ran and ran and changed teams and ran. And I lay there, passive, anxious, conflicted, delirious, one moment a pampered potentate borne aloft, the next a freshly moulted lifeform, as moist and naked as a cabbage worm.

  Eventually they stopped running. This time for good. When they set down and unlashed my cocoon, I saw the sun sinking low in our path.

  First they gave me water. Then they fanned me. And finally, with great care, two of them soaked cloths and bathed me once more, dabbing away the crust of sweat and sand until I revived a little and could be slowly helped to my feet. I’d lost my hat and scarf back in the wadi, but one of the sims set the insulation blanket over me like a shining silver cloak. They led me to just below the crest of the dune, where I saw we were in sight of the coast, perhaps a klick from the rendezvous point. The sims had known exactly where to bring me. Before the sun could sink into the sea, they led me back into a depression, where they squatted in a half-circle to present me with my boots. While I strapped them on and eased into my gore-stained tunic, they appeared to confer wordlessly amongst themselves.

  I was perturbed at how much they seemed to know. From the moment we made landfall until the night we reached the wadi, they’d been watching. That much was clear. And although I found it hard to countenance, it was possible our betrayal, the loss of our assets and the failure of the mission could be sheeted home to them.

  I decided that for my own safety, and to prevent exposing my comrades to a trap, I needed some separation. I’d have to go down first. Alone. It wasn’t going to be easy to convey the sims’ disposition and predicament in a few brief seconds. Because at that point in history, if an operator knew anything at all about simulacra, it was likely based on hearsay. My comrades dug in down there would be suspicious, probably hostile, and they’d already be strung out and jumpy, wondering what the hell had become of the action team. The odds of a good outcome were low. But I had to do the decent thing. Don’t you see? I wanted to vouch for them. Relay their request for asylum. It was the least I could do.

  The sims cavilled at my plan, but I insisted, explaining that this was not to slight their effort and good faith but to prevent any misunderstandings. Eleven strangers bearing an operator. I’d look like a hostage. We’d all die.

  I begged my rescuers to wait. Said I’d go down alone. Explain the dynamics. Negotiate a settlement for them. And that, at my signal, they should show themselves and come in slowly, making it plain they were not armed.

  Troubled as they were by this scheme, they conceded. And when I was finally ready, I clasped their hands, each in turn, and set off, clambering back up the dune until I reached the crest. There, I did what I could to catch my breath. I gazed out at the shimmering sand plain, resisted the urge to look back, and staggered down, hatless, toward the coast. Within a hundred metres, I was reeling from the exertion. Blinded by the setting sun. Struggling to maintain a steady bearing and keep my feet.

  It was a protracted, feverish walk. I wondered how long it would take my comrades to pick me out in the landscape. By now they must have been half-blind from staring. If they were even there, still. And if they saw me, in the last light of the sun, what would they make of my appearance? Everything about me looked wrong. My wonky gait. The weaving trajectory. The absence of helmet, scarf, webbing, tool. Yes, I imagine the picture I made was bad enough, even before I fell and the sims came charging down to help.

  I heard the perimeter challenge from out ahead but so far off I couldn’t make sense of the words for the roar of blood in my ears. Feebly, and in ponderous stages, I got back to my feet. I had time enough, I remember, to turn and wave my arms to try to halt the sims streaming down the dune in the distance. Then I wallowed on, listing and reeling like a poppy fiend.

  The sims ran so fast. Over my own blood and breath I could hear them coming, their thuds and scuffs more distinct every second. Another warning cry rang out. The password wouldn’t come to me. All I could cough up was my Service codename, which would have meant nothing to them.

  A geyser of dirt erupted to the right. I caught the stink of ammonia before I even heard the crack. The correct password fell out of me like a curse. Then I heard a hesitant all-clear. Saw a visored head rise from the sand a hundred metres away. I set off toward it, babbling, I think, oblivious to what was happening behind me. Shouts burst from the trench, and I yelled back enthusiastically, trying to lay out the picture, but by this time things had come undone.

  The first volley went past me on either side. I fell to the scorching sand as another fizzed and cracked overhead. I pressed my face into the earth, helpless, heartsick, but also drunk with relief.

  How many? came the call – those were the first words I heard clearly that evening.

  Eleven, I called, smelling hot metal and burning resin.

  Eleven?

  Stand down, I yelled. There’s eleven.

  Okay, came the call. Clear.

  Clear, I repeated and rolled aside to look back.

  I don’t know what I expected. I’m sure I was clinging to the hope of tactical containment, some fantasy of corralling salvos that would leave my saviours huddled and compliant, surrounded by glassy puddles of sand, left in no doubt as to who held the advantage in this moment. A position from which we might proceed and negotiate. But that’s not what had happened. They were a smouldering midden of broken limbs, melted polymers and shredded fabric. Their fluids darkened the dune. Some of them twitched and writhed a few moments longer, then there was silence. And when the air cleared, I saw behind them, tipped on its side, still spilling forth and glinting in the last vicious rays of sun, the Service-issue canister they’d filled with water and carried to keep me alive.