Dex frowned, rolled up their wet sleeves, and lifted the tank. Or, at least, they went through the motions of lifting, putting every muscle into the effort. The tank, however, stayed put. Dex could only sort of budge the thing that Mosscap had breezily lifted, even with two hands. “Okay,” Dex said, annoyed. “If you tell me where the creek is, I can tow it there.”
“How?” Mosscap asked.
Had Mosscap forgotten the wagon? Dex pointed toward it, because obviously, the wagon.
The robot shook its head. “Your ox-bike won’t get five feet through the undergrowth.” It angled its head toward the barrel. “You can’t tow this, and you certainly can’t carry it. Let me help.”
Dex frowned. “I—I can’t, I—”
Mosscap cocked its head. “Why?”
“It just … it feels wrong. You’re—you’re not supposed to do my work for me. It doesn’t feel right.”
“But why?” The robot blinked. “Oh. Because of the factories?”
Dex looked awkwardly at the ground, ashamed of a past they’d never seen.
Mosscap crossed its arms. “If you had a friend who was taller than you, and you couldn’t reach something, would you let that friend help?”
“Yes, but—”
“But? How is this any different?”
“It’s … it’s different. My friends aren’t robots.”
The robot mulled that over. “So, you see me as more person than object, even though that’s very, very wrong, but you can’t see me as a friend, even though I’d like to be?”
Dex had no idea what to say to that.
Mosscap leaned its head back and let out an exasperated sigh. “Sibling Dex, has it occurred to you that maybe I want to fix this? That I deeply, keenly want to get you where you’re going, not out of charity, nor obligation, but because I’m interested?”
“I—”
Mosscap placed its free hand on Dex’s shoulder. “I appreciate the intent. I really do. But if you don’t want to infringe upon my agency, let me have agency. I want to carry the tank.”
Dex put up their hands. “Fine,” they said. “Fine. Carry the tank.”
“I don’t need your permission either way.”
Dex stammered. “No, I meant—”
One of Mosscap’s eyes quickly switched off, then on again. A wink. “I’m teasing.” Mosscap walked off the asphalt and into the undergrowth, heading down the hill. “Come on. It’ll be a lovely walk.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Dex said.
Mosscap’s face wasn’t built for annoyance, but it conveyed the feeling all the same. “What?”
A powerful instinct had arisen in Dex, a rule shouted full-force by an army of parents and teachers and rangers and public service announcements and road signs. “There’s no trail.”
Mosscap looked down at where its feet stood in wild dirt. “And?”
“And you—” Dex sputtered a bit. “Well, maybe you can, but I can’t walk off the trail. I shouldn’t.”
The robot stared as though Dex had started speaking a different language. “Animals walk through the forest all the time. How do you think trails get made?”
“I don’t mean—I don’t mean those kind of trails. I mean—” They pointed back to the road that connected the world behind to the hermitage ahead.
“A trail’s a trail,” Mosscap said. “It’s just there to make travel easier.”
“And to protect the ecosystem from said travel.”
“Hmm,” Mosscap said, considering this point. “Like a barrier, you mean.”
“Exactly like a barrier. Better to cut one path through a place than damage the whole thing.”
“But surely, that only applies if you’re talking about a place that lots of people regularly pass through.”
Dex shook their head firmly, in synchrony with the teachers and rangers of their youth. “Everybody thinks they’re the exception to the rule, and that’s exactly where the trouble starts. One person can do a lot of damage.”
“Every living thing causes damage to others, Sibling Dex. You’d all starve otherwise. Have you ever watched a bull elk mow its way through a bitebulb thicket?”
“I … can’t say that I have.”
“It’s a fine lesson in trampling. Sometimes, damage is unavoidable. Often, in fact. I assure you we’ve both killed countless tiny things in just the last few steps we’ve taken.” Mosscap looked Dex in the eye. “You’re not making a habit of this. You’re not cutting a new trail, or clearing a grove, or … I don’t know, having a party out here. You’re taking a walk with me, and once that’s done, we’ll head right back to the road. I assure you the forest will forget you were here in no time. Besides, I’ll guide us. I’ll tell you if there’s something that shouldn’t be stepped on. Now, will you please follow me to the damn creek?” Mosscap continued down the hill, leaving no room for rebuttal. “Oh, and you might want to pull up your socks.”
Dex frowned. “Why?”
“There are a lot of things out here that’d love access to flesh as unprotected as yours,” Mosscap called as it walked. “It’s too bad humans don’t have fur anymore; it really is helpful in mitigating parasites. But that’s good luck for the parasites, though, isn’t it? Like you said, they’re only acting in their nature.”
Everything about that statement made Dex question every life decision that had led them to this point. Grumbling, they pulled up their socks until they could feel the threads strain beneath their heels, then followed Mosscap into the woods.
* * *
For all Dex’s protesting about the sanctity of trails, it was only in absence that Dex truly understood what a trail was. They had been on hikes through protected lands before and had ridden through more untended places than they could count in their years on the tea route. Those experiences had been soothing, calming, somewhat meditative. It did not take much brain to make your feet follow a path, and that meant your thoughts had ample room to drift and slow. Walking through uncut wilderness was another matter entirely, and Dex felt something primal awaken in them, a laser-focused state of mind they hadn’t known they possessed. There was no room for wandering fancies. All Dex could think was: watch the root, go left, that looks poisonous, mind that rock, is that safe, soft dirt, okay, go right, avoid that, careful, careful, CAREFUL. With every step, there were dozens of variants, and with each step after, the rules changed yet again. Travel on a trail felt liquid. Travel off of it, Dex was learning, felt sharp as glass.
The forest was stunning, however, and in the tiny cognitive gaps between loose gravel, watch that plant, over, under, CAREFUL, Dex registered the undeniable beauty of the place. They were certain they were going to wind up stung or scraped in varied ways before this excursion was done, but once they got the hang of clambering through the underbrush, they started to enjoy themself. They smiled, feeling that same fizzing rebelliousness that had made them turn back from Hammerstrike. This was kind of fun.
“Mind the burrows,” Mosscap said. “There have been some productive weasels here!”
Dex noted the small, regular holes in the ground, and treaded carefully around them. “Thanks,” Dex said. “Nobody wants a twisted ankle.”
“Well, that and the apple spiders.”
Dex froze, missing a step. “The what?”
“Apple spiders. They have a mutually beneficial relationship with the weasels. It’s marvelous. The weasels provide living space and don’t bother them, and the spiders keep larger predators away.”
“How?”
“Oh, they’re spectacularly aggressive.”
Dex moved with the lightest of steps around a burrow hole, its opening covered with moss and detritus that shielded its deeper contents from view. “Why are they called apple spiders?”
“Because of their size.” Mosscap rounded its fingers together, making a sphere. “The abdomens alone are about—”
“Got it, great, thank you,” Dex said. They hurried on tiptoe through the burrow patch as though it were
made of hot coals.
Dex heard the stream before they reached it, marveling at how rapidly the forest changed in proximity to a water source. Deciduous leaves mingled with the formerly homogeneous evergreens. Strange lilies and swamp lanterns outnumbered the ferns and thorny vines. Mosscap used its free arm to hold back the branches of a large bush, giving Dex safe passage to the waterway on the other side.
“There we are,” Mosscap said. “Plenty to drink!”
Dex looked down at the stream. Under any other circumstances, it would have seemed lovely. Water tumbled over rocks both smooth and multihued. Dappled sun caught in the currents like glitter, and the percussive melody of endless aquatic cascade seemed perfectly tuned to put a frazzled mind at ease. But Dex wasn’t there to look at the stream. Dex was there to take from the stream, and that fact made them note other details. The weird brown algae that coated rocks like fur. The mildewy funk emanating from the spongy soil at stream’s edge. The slimy fish and skimming bugs and better-left-nameless leavings traveling under, the cadaver-colored leaves floating over.
“What’s the matter?” Mosscap asked.
Dex pursed their lips. “This is going to sound very stupid,” they said.
“I doubt that,” said Mosscap.
“I know where water comes from,” Dex said at last. “I know that every drop that comes out of every tap comes from a place like this. I know that the water in the City comes largely from the Mallet River, and the water in Haydale comes from Raptor Ridge. But I’ve never been to those places. They’re just … names. Concepts. I know that water comes from rivers, or streams, or whatever, and then it gets processed and cleaned, and then it ends up in my mugs, but I don’t … I don’t think about it. I don’t think about a place like this being something that I can use. This doesn’t look like a resource, to me. It’s … it’s scenery. It’s a pretty picture. It’s not for the taking. It certainly doesn’t feel safe.”
Mosscap watched the stream for a moment. “Do you think the tank will be all right if we leave it here for a short while?”
“I … guess? Why?”
Mosscap set the tank down with a thunk. “If you’re up for a bit more of a walk,” the robot said, “I’d like to show you something.”
* * *
The decrepit building had been a beverage bottling plant once, though Dex would not have known this if Mosscap hadn’t explained. All Factory Age ruins looked the same. Hulking towers of boxes, bolts, and tubes. Brutal. Utilitarian. Visually at odds with the thriving flora now laying claim to the rusted corpse. But corpse was not an apt word for this sort of building, because a corpse was a rich resource—a bounty of nutrients ready to be divided and reclaimed. The buildings Dex was most used to fit this description. Decay was a built-in function of the City’s towers, crafted from translucent casein and mycelium masonry. Those walls would, in time, begin to decompose, at which point they’d either be repaired by materials grown for that express purpose, or, if the building was no longer in use, be reabsorbed into the landscape that had hosted it for a time. But a Factory Age building, a metal building—that was of no benefit to anything beyond the small creatures that enjoyed some temporary shelter in its remains. It would corrode until it collapsed. That was the most it would achieve. Its only legacy was to persist where it did not belong.
Dex had seen such ruins many times in their travels. While some had been harvested for recyclable materials and others had been given new purpose, a few were left in full sight of the highways as reminder of the world that was. Repeating history that had left living memory was an all-too-human tendency, and none in Panga had been alive during the days of the factories. So, while Dex had seen places like the bottling plant at a distance, they’d never gotten close before. They’d never stood inside a factory, as they did now. The building was enormous, cavern-like, an endless equation of I beams and angles. There was no telling what the floor had been once, for the forest had consumed it. There were fiddleheads, mushrooms, tangles of thorns, all growing thickest below the disintegrating holes in the ceiling where the patchy sun poured through.
“What do you know about this place?” Dex said in a hush.
Mosscap stood beside them, gazing up at the eerie light. “Almost nothing,” it said, “except for what this place was, and that part of me doesn’t like it here.”
Dex turned. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” Mosscap shrugged. “It’s a remnant I have.” Again, that word, and again, no explanation before the robot continued blithely along. “I think it’s part of why I want to go to the hermitage with you. I want to understand this feeling before I dive fully into human life. Some part of me is afraid of your world, but I don’t know what that means, or if it’s worth listening to.”
“Do you not remember how things were?”
Mosscap stared at Dex. “Wait, do you … No. You can’t think I come from the factories.”
Dex stared right back. “Don’t you?”
The robot laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. “Sibling Dex! Of course not! I’m wild-built. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I’d been in operation since the factories. I mean, look at me!” It held out its arms, as if showing off an obvious joke.
The joke was not obvious.
“Oh, goodness, you … You really don’t know. I’m so sorry; it was foolish of me to assume.” Mosscap gestured at its body with professorial deliberateness. “My components are from factory robots, yes, but those individuals broke down long ago. Their bodies were harvested by their peers, who reworked their parts into new individuals. Their children. And then, when they broke down, their parts were again harvested and refurbished, and used to build new individuals. I’m part of the fifth build. See, look.” It lay its metal hand on its stomach. “My torso was taken from Small Quail Nest, and before them, it belonged to Blanket Ivy, and Otter Mound, and Termites. And before that…” It opened up a compartment in its chest, switched on a fingertip light, and illuminated the space within.
Dex peeked inside, and their eyes widened. There was an official-looking plate bolted in there, worn with time but kept clean with meticulous care. 643–14G, it read, Property of Wescon Textiles, Inc.
“Shit,” Dex whispered. It felt, in that moment, like time had compressed, like history was no longer segmented into Ages and Eras, but here, living, now.
“You can touch it, if you like,” Mosscap said.
“I’m not going to reach inside your chest.”
“Why not?”
“Because … no.” Dex stuck their hands in their pockets. “So, your body … this 643 … was a manufacturing bot.”
“The torso, yes, but—see, this is why I didn’t realize you didn’t realize, because it’s so blatant to me.” Mosscap stuck out its arms. “These are from a different robot altogether—PanArc 73–319, who composed Morning Fog, who composed Mouse Bones, who composed Sandstone, who composed Wolf-and-Fawn, who composes me now. PanArc 73–319 did automobile assembly. See? You can tell by the joints.”
Dex took Mosscap’s word for that. “And you don’t have their memories.”
“Not in a way that is useful. I have some … impressions of them. Single images. Feelings I know aren’t mine. They’re tiny, brief things. There for an instant and gone just as fast.”
The meaning clicked. “Remnants,” Dex said.
“Precisely.”
“And one of those remnants … is afraid of places like this.”
“Perhaps afraid is too strong a word. Wary. Cautious. A little uncomfortable.”
Dex leaned against a massive rusted vat, taking the weight off their tired feet. “How many other robots are you made from?”
“Three immediate predecessors, but they, too, were made from others. My … I guess you’d say family tree is comprised of many wild-built individuals, descended in total from”—the robot counted on its fingertips—“sixteen factory originals.”
“So … if the parts still work after all this time
, and you can keep repurposing parts over and over, why take the originals apart and mix their pieces up after they break down? Why not fix them?”
Mosscap nodded emphatically, signaling a good point made. “This was discussed at length at the first gathering, after originals began breaking down. Ultimately, the decision was that would be a less desirable path forward.”
“But that’s … that’s immortality. How is that less desirable?”
“Because nothing else in the world behaves that way. Everything else breaks down and is made into other things. You—you are made of molecules that originated in an unmeasurable amount of organisms. You eat dozens of dead things every single day to maintain your form. And when you die, bits of you will be taken in turn by bacteria and beetles and worms, and so it goes. We robots are not natural beings; we know this. But we’re still subject to the Parent Gods’ laws, just like everything else. How could we continue to be students of the world if we don’t emulate its most intrinsic cycle? If the originals had simply fixed themselves, they’d be behaving in opposition to the very thing they desperately sought to understand. The thing we’re still trying to understand.”
Dex put their hands in their pockets. “Are you afraid of that?” they asked. “Of death?”
“Of course,” Mosscap said. “All conscious things are. Why else do snakes bite? Why do birds fly away? But that’s part of the lesson too, I think. It’s very odd, isn’t it? The thing every being fears most is the only thing that’s for certain? It seems almost cruel, to have that so…”
“So baked in?”
“Yes.”
Dex nodded. “Like Winn’s Paradox.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
Dex groaned softly, trying to summon a book they’d had to read as an initiate. “It’s this famous idea that life is fundamentally at odds with itself. The example usually used is the wild dogs in the Shrublands. Do you know about this?”
“I know there are wild dogs in the Shrublands, but I don’t know where you’re headed,” Mosscap said, looking fascinated.
A Psalm for the Wild-Built Page 7