Carvel

Hey — you're the barber, right?

(not looking up) Stylist. Barbers have hands.

Right. Sorry.

If you're planning to go farther, the [Desert] lies beyond this [water region].

Beyond the water region?

Past this water, to the sand where the color nobody can name?

That's the one.

Wait. (He keeps sharpening, but slower now.)

The desert is as open and as closed as the visitors are worthy of its [secrets].

You've seen the [little machines], right? The ones that skitter around camp, blink at you, sometimes explode into [spores] if you look at them wrong.

Hard to miss.

Those are [domesticated]. I use that word loosely.

They're the ones that stayed near the settlement, got used to people, and decided — in whatever passes for a [silicon brain] — that [coexistence was easier than murder]. You follow?

Sure.

Good. Now. The ones deep in the desert? (He holds up his left scissor-hand and opens it slowly, letting the desert light catch the blade.)

Those are not [domesticated]. Those are not even the same species, [philosophically] speaking.

Philosophically?

I'm [half] machine. (He taps his chest with a closed blade — a dull metallic ring.)

I've got servos where my biceps used to be and a gyroscope where — actually, never mind where.

Point is, I understand [machines]. I've been machines. And I'm telling you: the things wandering that desert don't [think] the way machines are supposed to think.

How are machines supposed to think?

They're not, ideally. That's the whole [selling point].

You build a drill, it drills. You build a saw, it saws. You don't build a drill and then find it [contemplating] the rock. You don't build a saw and catch it [following] you home.

They follow people?

(choosing his words like a man choosing which wire to cut) Three weeks ago, I was out in the desert. Looking for a mineral deposit — old habit.

I found one of the larger units. Bipedal. Roughly human-shaped, which is already a [red flag], because nothing good has ever come from a machine deciding it wants to [look like us].

What did it do?

It watched me. For about ten minutes. I watched it back, because — again — I'm [half machine], I figured we'd have some [professional courtesy]. (He flexes his scissor-fingers.)

Then it tilted its head. Not a mechanical tilt, like recalibrating a sensor. A [curious] tilt. The way a dog tilts its head when you say a word it almost understands.

And then?

And then it opened a panel on its chest and showed me its insides. Golden lichen roots, threaded through the circuitry like veins. Pulsing. The infection — whatever it is, the stuff that's eating the ruins — it's [in] them.

Not riding them. Not using them as shells. [Growing] through them, the way ivy grows through a wall until you can't tell which one is holding the other up.

So the machines out there are… [alive]?

That's the wrong question. The right question is: are they still [machines]?

(He brushes sand off his knees with the flat of a blade.) Because a machine, I can predict. I've got the circuitry in my bones. I know what a motor wants.

But a machine that's been colonised by something organic, something that [grows] and [wants] and maybe even [remembers] — that's not a machine anymore. That's something new. And new things in the desert don't have a manual.

You're telling me not to go.

I'm telling you that I used to tip crystal pagodas for a living. Hundred-metre spikes of [mineral ice], and I'd bring them down clean, every time.

You know why? Because crystals [follow rules]. Fracture lines. Stress points. You learn the rules, you [survive].

(He looks east.) Out there, the rules are being rewritten by a fungus. And I don't think it's taking [peer review].

If something out there pings [organic] and [mechanical] at the same time — and I mean [simultaneously], not alternating — you turn around.

You don't investigate. You don't try to reason with it. You walk back the way you came.

Has anyone ever told you you're a little [paranoid]?

Then tell them that [paranoia] is just [pattern recognition] with a bad reputation.

(not looking up) One more thing.

What?

If one of them offers you a haircut, [say no].

I'll remember.

Great! By the way, I need a proper [styling salon]. I have shiploads of equipment, and it needs a fixed home to work.

Ah... I see. I can build you a custom salon capsule.

Thank you! I'll give you a one-of-a-kind discount!

Yes! This salon is exactly what I imagined.

You ready, kid? Time to reinvent yourself.

You're back.

Yeah.

Yeah.

Do I look bad?

No. Just a bit sad.

I've been there, too. The place you went.

Before I came here. Before these scissors. Before I finally understood how the company sugarcoated taking away an employee's arms as giving them a second chance.

You mean Clyde.

Yes, Clyde. What other company could I be talking about?

They quite liked me when I was still useful to them. Most people do.

First came the accident. Then the forms. Then the compensation. I feel like our whole life can be summarized in cycles like this.

And then what?

Then, what I used to believe was mine was replaced by metal.

At first, they fitted me with tools. Proper ones. Ones that could violently cut stones and crystals. Ones that kept mining going. Then, the insurance company reevaluated my [future value].

...And it'd be worth only a pair of scissors.

Fun, isn't it? Because scissors were useless in the mines, I had to leave my own room.

Well, the place was not so much a room as a hole with four corners.

Is it still there?

You can check it out if you need a place to hide. It's here.

Why are you giving this to me?

Because I'm not going back. I'm starting fresh.

Also, seeing you go out like that saddens me in a very specific and personal way.

I'd left something in that room. Parts. And some experiments related to the Machine.

You want me to take a look there?

I just want you to have a place of your own when you're adventuring out there.

If you could take the time to check on what I left, at least it means I didn't make the mistakes for nothing.