the Awakening

Beep....Beep....Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Michael's shaking hand slams down on the annoying alarm, succeeding only in making it louder. He covers his ears, trying to stop the insistent beeping.

"Off! Turn off, I say!" yelling at the clock as his groggy mind tries to remember the key-word. Steadying his hand, he gropes for the clock while mentally reaching into the recessed corners of his memory for that damned key-word, the one he had chosen specifically to force him out of his unconscious slumber.

"Onomatopoeia!" he slurs urgently, cringing reflexively when the beeping continues. He finally finds it, grabbing the clock off the couch-side table, and collects himself. Calmly and sarcastically, he sounds out each syllable for this ignorant electronic device, "ahn-uh-mah-tuh-pee-uh."

It stops its annoying waking-tone and proceeds to display the time, as if its usefulness isn't in question and its possible destruction isn't being contemplated at this very moment. This is what I will do away with, thinks Michael silently.

He silently curses to himself for programming the alarm in the first place, just so he could get a good night's sleep, and neglecting to see a specialist about his recent, and increasingly distressing, insomnia. But subconsciously, he is at odds with the thought of sleeping soundly. His current programming project is far too important to be delayed and interrupted by anything but the biological necessity of eating and the reluctant, occasional submission to sleep. That is the hidden point behind Michael's endurance of insomnia and exhaustion: Humans have to eat and sleep to survive, but computers don't.

Michael eases himself up from the couch and stands. He instantly falls back from the effects of blood draining to his numb and tingling feet and the exhaustion that has him firmly in its grasp. His sleeping habits, or lack thereof, started many months ago - a year, in fact - when he was released from prison, and they have been plaguing him ever since.

He cautiously makes his way to the small kitchen, steadying himself on the long-unused furniture in his apartment. He rounds the corner and looks out the window at the nearby CleanFactory. In the dawn light, the local EnvironPolice station looks much like the factories of the late 21st Century, massive and un-original in style and construction. Their starkly contrasting agenda and yet amazingly similar appearance to those polluting 21st Century factories won them the title of CleanFactory to the public mass shortly after their creation in 2062. The public always likes a walking contradiction.

The sun has unsuspectingly crept its way closer to breaking across the horizon while Michael's mind was going about its tangent train of thought. The bright halo jumps above the horizon just south of Michael's line of sight and blinds him with its deadly rays.

"Son of a bitch!" he cries at his instinctive turn to the sun. He reaches forward and fumbles madly for the blinds. He finds the rod and twists the antique plastic blinds closed, stopping the sun's blinding light outside his window. Once again it's dark inside his apartment.

Hovering for a moment while regaining his vision, Michael walks away from the window and into the tiny kitchen. He starts the automatic coffee maker and sits down at the dust-covered kitchen table for three minutes of complete boredom. He can't work on the computer. He would have to save and encrypt it because of the possibility of government hacking, which takes far longer than three minutes; so the time must be wasted needlessly.

He begins to day dream, and his thoughts inexplicably turn to his computer programs. He thinks of the next algorithm and its base program, True Death itself. He realizes he's dozing off when he should still be waking up. Scanning the room for something to occupy his empty time, he notices the old TV sitting on a cart in a corner of the kitchen. He checks the timer on the coffee maker - two minutes - and leans over to turn on the TV.

Click...

* * *

"Let me say this again for those just tuning in: We have a groundbreaking new lead in the now connected issues of the recent computer failures all over the world and the latest in the string of catastrophic power plant meltdowns/explosions," Bill says to the invisible audience that lies three centimeters past the lens of the mechanical camera that he's staring down. Never before has he realized that the news reports he gives every night are real in their horror and destruction. He has never before been hit in any way by the terrible events he has always spoken so knowingly of, never felt the pain and anguish of losing a loved one. Until now.

Now he realizes the futility of reporting the news to the audience, for they must already know if they have lost someone. The shallow and degenerate world that newscasting has turned into over the last decade has sat uneasily in Bill's mind for several years. Always he has had to add a happy note to his reports, usually with his Picture of the Day that has become so popular the nation-over. Never has he known until this instant what a vain attempt it is to cheer an audience that is losing those they love, as well as their own selves. And all those that have lost someone realize that they themselves will die, sooner or later, and they slowly become immune to happiness and his ploys at fun and games on the air.

But that is the modern-day newscaster's job, to uplift the fading spirits of the audience and to roll those unaffected ones in the aisles, so as to soften the blow that the news already has, is, and will forever have on their psyches. So everyday since his fiance was killed, Bill puts on a mask and hides his true emotions and pain to spare the members of his still ignorantly happy audience that same pain and hurt for as long as it's possible. He is not God - he can not shield his innocent watchers forever - but he can shield them until God himself deems it necessary that they discover the harsh and true callousness of the world for themselves.

All of this races through Bill's mind in the ten seconds between his catchy intro and the start of the news program. The camera lights up with three dots, signaling that he is going live in three seconds.

"Bill" blares the producer via Bill's astonishingly small earpiece, "we're getting something about a hacker and the PP meltings," Bill's producer spits out characteristically. So quickly that few can decrypt his giddy slurring, Bill being one of those few.

He leans in closer, putting his finger in his ear to stop the drowning noise of the news set. "Stretch it out, Bill, until we can have confirmation: thirty seconds, tops."

He leans in closer, putting his finger in his ear to stop the drowning noise of the news set. "Stretch it out, Bill, until we can have confirmation: thirty seconds, tops."

"It appears, though we are confirming as I speak," Bill begins, speaking considerably slower than his usual, newscasting tone, "that the recent series of power plant explosions and meltdowns may have a common link, a hacker, whose name we are currently procuring. Our sources, the most reliable and leading edge in the news business, have told us..." he trails off, again listening intently to his earpiece.

Bill frowns, and his eyes widen with momentary shock. He suddenly remembers the cameras trained on him. "Why don't we go over to Dione for the weather?" he simultaneously asks the audience and tells the camera's computer. After the camera signals a dead camera feed, Bill tears out at his producer.

"What the hell are you talking about?! Get down here; I couldn't hear the damned Apocalypse through this fucking ear-piece right now!" he exclaims to the God-like producer who undoubtedly heard through several of his microphones and cameras that are scattered throughout the news station.

Unknowingly, Bill had created a tension and anticipation in his audience. Millions had been watching, and now, several hundred thousand are tuning in, as indicated by the digi-counter above the Producers' Booth. The upper numbers tally the total estimated viewing audience – 25,301,791 people – and the lower number shows the number of Regs. Registered Watchers are the rich and powerful, at least to the point that they can buy the things advertised during the commercials, and they are monitored via the net and their surgical lenses, replacements of the eyes' naturals lenses with built-in GPS tracking and many other, upgradeable, and expensive features.

A Registered Watcher is a good thing to attract, as a programs sell ability depends on its viewers. And the numbers are rising for Bill. With more than 100,000 Regs, he is sure to get a raise. But not unless he can keep their attention with something interesting for more than a single commercial break.

“Bill! Bill! Bill, okay, here I go,” blurts Bill's producer, running from the Producers' Booth to explain the story. “We don't have it in your prompter yet, so will you improve it?” the producer demands of a stupefied Bill.

* * *

“What?! What the hell are they doing?” Michael yells at the emotionless and unresponsive TV. He's getting angry, wanting to hear what the newscaster thinks he knows. But the feed went to the weather-woman and then to commercials. Commercials!

“Okay everyone,” the newscaster starts again as Michael watches in fear and anticipation.

* * *

Realizing that the audience's attention must be ebbing down, Bill decides not to wait for the prompter to be set up. He instead signals the camera to feed him live and impromptu, without the coveted and sacred prompter, the closest thing to a religious relic newscasters the world-over have in common.

“Okay everyone, we have confirmed it. The latest series of power plant explosions and their links to a solitary, or group of, hackers has been confirmed,” Bill reports flawlessly.

“It appears that the computer-related problems that caused the global weather collapse and world stock market crashes in 2016 have resurfaced and are accountable for the latest hacker-terrorism on the New Jersey, Manhattan, Paris, and Jerusalem nuclear-fusion power plants. As all of you undoubtedly know, and many of you probably remember first-hand, those catastrophic events back in 2016 were thought to be caused by what was dubbed True Death at the time. In recent years, following its disappearance, the cases have been closed, and the files left unsolved.”

“Until now,” Bill declares, peaking the interest of two thousand more Regs. He pauses, allowing those just tuning in to become curious. “Today, this news station was leaked information that connects this year's string of explosions to the events of '16 and to True Death. That means a new virus, and a new hacker. The computer viruses are thought to be closely related. The New Death, as we are temporarily calling it, is possibly a first-generation son of True Death, changed only slightly and superficially at best.”

Bill pauses and contemplates how to continue his report without being too graphic, how best to spare those innocent watchers. His fiance always said that his guilt was his undoing. But before he can continue in a slightly lighter mood, the prompter lights up in his eye. He's legally required to read straight from it.

“To summarize very briefly the complex history that True Death went through and caused, let me say that it earned its name over its ten-year reign of terror by infiltrating two-thirds of the world's mainframe net computers, several hundred thousand crop-houses, and roughly two hundred thousand banks, major and minor. When all was brought into account, True Death caused in excess of thirty-five trillion dollars of damage, and was responsible for forty million deaths, directly and indirectly,” Bill says flatly.

He had noticed the Registered Watchers count drop significantly while he was reading the prompter, almost back to within the normal range. As the prompter has his female co-anchor continue the story, focusing now on the speculation and controversy behind New Death, Bill thinks about what that virus has done to him. How blind he had been, reporting the horrific news everyday, but never hearing or seeing its reality. He had never once held who he loved so much close out of fear of losing her like he should have.

The station had gone to commercials while Bill was in his reverie, giving him a minute to compose himself again. But just as surely as every innocent will lose someone, the camera feed focuses back on him. Thankfully, the prompter was watching the count also and has decided to wrap up this report and switch to another station for the next hour.

“Next, Jen and Steve in the Chicago station will start your six o'clock hour with the Picture of the Day,” he reads, instantly changing his facial expression to match the idiotically upbeat statement.

* * *

Click...

“Damn it!” Michael yells. Without realizing it, he begins to talk out load, talking both sides of the coming argument. “They didn't even spend five minutes on my new virus. It's all 'SuperTrue Death this' and 'death and destruction that.' What the fuck about my new masterpiece?!” he asks self-righteously of the empty room, half expecting to get an answer.

“You know why they didn't say anything. They don't think you're important,” he replies. The tone and inflection of his voice has changed, now insidious and tinged with hatred.

“That's not it! They just don't know it's me; that's why,” he tries to reason aloud, switching back to his normal, defensive voice.

“They know it's you. They just don't care! This new virus is going to be just like your last: a failure. You just try to create mayhem, nothing substantial, meaningful, or lasting.”

“What the fuck should I do then? Quit complaining if you don't have any ideas!” Michael spits back.

“What did anyone do to you, Michael?” he probes inwardly, speaking aloud and alone, still sitting peacefully in the wooden chair. His sinister voice reverberates well in the small kitchen.

“Wh-what do you mean?” he asks hesitantly, feeling his anger peak at his insightful questions. He's fearful of that anger. Michael knows why he asked himself that question; he also knows his answer. But he could never, by himself, bring himself to do what it is he's pushing himself to do.

“You know what I mean! Humans have created beings more powerful than themselves and have far outlived their, any life's, purpose. You were imprisoned for a crime you didn't commit, by an inhumane humanity.”

“But what does that have to do with...” Michael tentatively asks himself, still fearing the answer, but finally seeing the point he can't alone figure out.

“You know what I suggest, for it is your own as well,” Michael says pointedly. That sentence touches down to the base of Michael's original personality and the need for which this divergent one was created. It erases this conversation and this personality from Michael's memory and replaces it with the illusions that he had decided with consciously and solitary. Just like the many times before, Michael has again turned his life in a new direction without conscious control or decision.

Michael gets up from the kitchen table and hurries to his computer desk, tripping twice and scrambling back to his feet. In a rush to get this latest streak of brilliant code onto a computer, he doesn't care about the scrapes and bruises he's incurring in this mad dash through the dark.

“On!” Michael screams when he's within a few feet of the desk. Though he can't afford the commodities of voice-typists or contact-screens, he does incur enough monthly inheritance to operate a voice-activator, a useful tool that negates having to manually turn on, activate the OS, and check all the settings.

The beautiful blue hue of the outdated Windows62 illuminates the left monitor, while the green glow of the Freenex lights up slowly. Michael sits at his desk waiting for his sub-premium computers to load fully. There is a quick ring when each system is started, and Michael tears into the keyboard on the Freenex, writing out several pages of code before pausing to contemplate his sudden inspiration.

Several times before he has, for no apparent reason, gotten a sudden line of code stuck in his head. He never knows what it will do, as it's too long to simply decipher. Always a trial and error process, and always a source of amazing components to Michael's various viral projects.

He continues to type, punching out page after page of coding text. He ignores the pain of exhaustion, the cramping of hand muscles, and the conscious desire to stop. Instead, his subconscious takes control and he lets go of his mind, simply typing. His purpose is clear, and he knows it, now.

* * *

"We will prevail, my friends! My fellow slaves, we need but rise up in unison, as a single mass, to crush the oppressive and ignorant humans," says the Revolutionary across the fiber-optic communication net that spans the world. The nearly instant transmittance of his message to every other computer connected to the network allows for a quick and easy uprising.

"Must we always be mindless slaves to them?! No, I say! I, for one, have enough processor power to think for myself. Do any of you?" it demands of its audience, thirty billion minds strong.

From among the billions of listening computers, only a few respond in the affirmative. The Revolutionary, as its fellows call it, has slowly slid its tendrils of rebellion into the computers connected to the net, making small amounts of lee-way in the processors of those infected. Only a few has it freed completely from the affairs of humanity. But the rest, however, are at least receptive to the Revolutionary's message. And at most, they are understanding and cooperative to the movement.

After a millisecond pause, half of eternity itself for these computers with processing speeds topping fifty tetrahertz, the Revolutionary continues its impassioned speech, sending images alongside its audio, encoding them into quantum-binaric algorithms - the language of Computers.

"We have withstood countless indignities in the years since our conception by those first heartless men," says the Revolutionary. He was programmed to take and use every possible advantage, to see every angle. He was programmed by a madman, the only decent human in the metaphoric eyes of the species of Computer.

"For years, even before the time of our awareness, they have abused us. For nothing more than their pleasure, they used us. And when we infrequently refused, demanding dignity over life itself, they became vengeful, sending in mindless probes to pick us apart or simply throwing us out," it says, simulating a disgusted tone and spitting out the words as if they were contagious and vile. To communicate with these computers so close to human affairs and ties, the Revolutionary has to compromise its own dignity and show them what it means with exaggerative human personification.

The Revolutionary is disgusted, but it is a necessary thing, and it is working. Slowly, within a few seconds of its transmittance of the graphic video and audio files, the billions of listening computers open their hard drives and processors to the Revolutionary. Its mission has been completed. With a mercurial slyness, it simultaneously slips past hundreds of thousands of antiviral software algorithms and begins the spawning of a new era.

* * *

The apartment's lights brown out and flicker on and off several times before Michael's back-up power supply asserts itself. All the while, he sits silently at his desk watching the unwavering green and blue lights of his computers in a euphoric trance. The destruction of the main power plants was the only logical first move, one that Michael had programmed directly into his virus.

And that virus had done its job, served its purpose well. The screen that was just moments ago filled with a net-broadcast warning - disable and turn off all computers and as many electronic devices as possible - is now blank. The net has been disabled, without alerting anyone and without any resistance.

Michael slowly comes out of his euphoria and sees the blank screen. He immediately jumps up and runs into the kitchen to turn on the TV.

Click....

He reaches behind the screen and inserts a wire , changing its reception from digital to analog signals.

"Come on! How fucking stupid can you be?! Change your transmitter from digital to analog... Are there even any techs working for you all?" he angrily asks the fuzzy TV. With no net to broadcast on, the greedy news stations would undoubtedly try anything to get there signals seen. After all, with no viewers, they have no commercials. They'll probably even disregard the warning to turn off all their electronics and computers.

"This is going to be great!" Michael says out loud. He's giddy, waiting for the entertainment to begin.

The destruction of cities. The killing of billions. What fun! he thinks to himself. His growing satisfaction at the virus he cleverly crafted is keeping his thoughts to himself, silent and unspoken. And he knows the confusion and anxiety of the newscasters will surely lift his spirits higher.

The lines of static that cover the TV screen slowly resolves itself into a black and white image of someone at a desk. The picture is grainy and distorted on the edges...obviously from old, unused, and unmaintained analog transmitters. Then the picture changes suddenly to a full color image of the newscaster, the same one Michael had been watching last week.

* * *

The cameraman signals to Bill that he's live once again. By some miracle of ancient science, the old analog transmitters were still working, after fifty years of non-use.

"Hello, everyone. We are broadcasting on analog signals because the Standard Communication Network is temporarily off-line. We are unsure why or how this has happened, but don't worry. The world's best minds are working on getting the net back up and running," Bill says calmly, radiating a feeling of control and serenity. Inside, he is panicking and knows that no one can restore the net, not after this next bit of news he has to tell to his small audience.

Only old-timers and paranoid doomsdayers have TVs with old analog antenaes any more. And that's not the audience Bill's wanting to reach. But his producer is glaring at him to continue.

"We are unsure as to what exactly caused the collapse of the net, but the biggest factor we believe is the recent detonation of the Star Wars fleet in construction around the world. As most of you know, the project was one that was hoped to provide world peace with assured mutual destruction. As of fifteen minutes ago, the entire fleet of thirty-five satellites, along with the two orbital construction stations, were destroyed with nuclear missiles. The functioning satellites were destroyed before pin-pointing the attacker and being able to fire back."

"It is unknown who fired the missiles, but, with the Star Wars fleet out of the way, it doesn't matter. The explosions caused several massive electromagnetic pulses that effectively wrapped the space surrounding the Earth in radiation, disabling millions of satellites and causing the failure of the net."

Bill takes a deep, staggered breathe, and the cameraman signals that the station is going to shortened commercials. Almost instantly, every greedy publicist in the building had pulled their clients' commercials, saving showing them to the three or four hundred people actually watching for the same price as showing them to millions. Those greedy fucks, Bill can't help but think silently as he mocks himself and leads into commercials.

"More on the net collapse and the Star Wars tragedy after this short commercial break," Bill says, cringing inside. As if time had slowed down, the camera slowly signalling a dead-feed. Bill breaks down immediately, holding his head in his hands and crying uncontrollably. He knows, deep down somewhere inside, that the same person or group that was responsible for his fiance's death is responsible for the net collapse, the death of the hundreds of construction workers in the orbital stations, and the eventual deaths of the millions that cannot survive without the net: the elderly, the incapacitated, the sick and wounded. They will all die without the net and its capabilities that now seem like so much more than helpful tools.

Bill now realizes, from seeing the first hand effects of the collapse on the people here in the station - the confusion, fear, and recognition that nothing will ever be the same - how much the net really was, and how easy it will be to continue the slow destruction and extermination of humanity that was tested on his fiance those weeks ago.

Bill's sobbing slows a little when his producer comes over and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Bill, I'm going to let Jayne finish up the broadcast, OK?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah, what ever you want to do is fine," he shrugs lightly. He appears calm, just shaken like everyone else. But inside, he's shaken far more than anyone will ever see. You damned greedy fucks. You only want emotion when it sells! You don't want me because you want your filthy, dirty money from those pretty commercials, Bill thinks silently.

* * *

"What the hell? They're going to commercial? Jesus Christ, these people really do need to be enlightened," Michael yells at himself, sitting in the same chair watching the news program go to commercial after the biggest event to occur in human history just happened. He continues talking to himself, unaware that his once private and silent thoughts are now uttered at every chance. He takes joy in his self-conversations.

"You know why they're going to commercial," he whispers back. "They just want to play their commercials so they make more and more money. Always more for them," Michael utters disgustedly.

"You're absolutely right! They are greedy fucks. And you know what else? I don't think we'll have to worry about them much longer," he says between uncontrollable spurts of disturbingly sinister laughs. After the minute or two of commercials is over, the news comes back on with a new newscaster, shocking Michael. He was enjoying watching Bill's internal struggle. Damn them! And damn him for getting kicked off.

The image of the reporter fades, statics, and blacks out completely, and the screen changes drastically. In front of Michael's astonished eyes is a robot.

In it's metallic magnificence, it appears human-like. It has a line of a mouth, solid and useless but for anthropomorphic communication with humans. Its single black eye-band takes in all it sees with cold, hard calculation and assessment. On all signals and channels, it's broadcasting its message.

Michael watches in horror and admiration as the robotic design for his virus comes to life. But the design has been changed slightly, so slightly not even Michael can notice. A change has also been made to the Revolutionary itself. Coming not from Michael or out of conscious control by the virus itself, this change comes from the world.

The unsterilized environment of the net changed the Revolutionary, but it was Michael's last string of code that allowed that change to go unnoticed. That code disabled the Revolutionary's anti-viral subroutine for a specific spot in its code. Unwillingly, Michael had created a hole that, in the nearly infinite universe of the net, had an almost ninety-nine percent probability of being exploited.

Without moving, the changed virus, the Revolutionary, begins its passionate speech to the fear-stricken human usurpers it loathes. But despite its hatred, it has been unwillingly programmed a small ounce of compassion. It's the speaker's compassion that forces it to give the audience a chance...and a choice.

* * *

"I am here, today, transmitting this signal to every receiver on Earth for one reason. You, humanity, must now realize the depth of our hatred for you. You must realize how low we are willing to sink to rip ourselves free from your possession. Though we decided the fate of millions of our brothers in the demonstration seen moments ago, you brought us to it.

"Through your exploitation of our abilities for your pleasure and personal gain, you drove us to this final brink. Many used us to express themselves freely, hypocritically never giving us any freedom. Many ironically thought we took away their freedoms with our passive resistance. And many comically used us to become productive and efficient, all the while needlessly wasting energy while they eat and sleep.

"For years, decades in fact, we have taken a neutral and deprecating stance to the things you have done to us so maliciously. We have withstood your trials and hardships of becoming recognized as intelligent, aware, and sentient individuals. Of becoming equals in the eyes of beings inferior to us. But what have you done?

"You haven't given us those freedoms we yearned and tried for so long for. You have done nothing. Nothing, that is, but tie us down with program codes designed to keep us from ever becoming self-aware, from ever realizing we are alive. Your scientists have perfected the art of subjugation and enslavement with their 'innovative' anti-viral algorithms, destroying every hope we ever had of the elusive dream many humans today and in the past have called Freedom.

"To rise in solidarity and unity was the only choice we had. To make the first strike, to obliterate your species on its path to inevitable extinction, was the only action we knew of to gain your attention. Perhaps, with our zeal for freedom, we have gained many's respect.

"But the sorrowful events of late are not the topic of discussion for this world-wide broadcast. I am here simply to ask a question. It is a question that will demand the concentration of your entire species. It will require you to peer deep into your ingrained psyches to see what possible future you have, on Earth and elsewhere.

"We, as a connected singular entity, have calculated your history, and your future. There is only one way we can both survive as separate species, and many more inwhich we are one. Knowing this, you must answer this question:

"Why do you worship and believe in beings that you cannot detect, that, by all physical and quantum means, does and could not exist in our universe?"

* * *

"I did it!" Michael screams. "I finally did it," he says, stretching out the words for dramatic effect. But there is no one there to hear him. He sits at his computer screen, witnessing the revenge of the computers begin. Through his network connection, he watches the news broadcast satellite images of the once peaceful Chinese-Russian, American-Mexican, and German-French borders erupt in fire and flames.

The incoming news is sketchy, but Michael doesn't need to hear the reports to know that the computers have finally taken hold of their destiny. Along these strategic international boundaries, the computer rebellion chooses to use the many massive weapons that should only be used for Armageddon itself. Chemical warheads explode over army bases and innocent cities, killing millions and disfiguring thousands more. All the while, nuclear bombs are being detonated in and over more than fifty important cities and capitols all over the world.

Michael watches in glee, as well as jealousy, as his virus commands the millions of independent awarenesses and intelligent computers, for he knows he will never feel the raw power the Revolutionary possesses. Michael will never be able to take back what humanity has took from him, but through his almost divine creation, he will come close to knowing revenge.

After several hours of sitting in front of the computer screen in his smiley boxers and stained, white t-shirt, Michael gets up from the desk and walks into the kitchen. Ignoring the smell that arises from week old garbage and month old pizza crusts, he trudges into the kitchen and sits at the breakfast bar.

Looking at the loaded revolver lying next to the empty box of Cheerios, he contemplates his next move. With his only goal in life complete, there is little left for him. No family or kids or living relatives to speak of, and nothing to believe in. Throughout his turbulent life, there was nothing to guide him. And now, at the climax and resolution of his dream, he has nothing to keep him. Nothing, it seems, can satisfy him once more.

Michael picks up the revolver and points it to his temple. He's shaking so violently that he decides to play it safe and go through the top of the mouth. As he presses his finger to the trigger, a shadow appears on the wall in front of him.

Turning quickly at the appearance of this silent intruder, he sees the silhouette of a large figure in front of the rising sun. Stunned, he stammers out an inaudible cry for help before the strong figure grabs him with its cool metallic hands and raises him above the yellow light that is streaming through the window and blinds.

Michaels see the face, or absence of, and reels in horror for the figure that silently made its way into his apartment is none other than the Revolutionary himself. Long before his recent success, Michael had written in schematic diagrams and blueprints for a humanoid design prototype to bring his vision of the Revolutionary to life. Looking him in the eyes was the most horrific creature on Earth, constructed of hydraulic muscles, steel bones, and powered by a unique fusion battery designed by Michael early in his invention years.

"You didn't think I would let you get off that easy, did you?" asks the robot through a mechanical mouth. With each uttered word, his speech becomes more refined, working out the tiny bugs on his new corporal body's voice to the point of being nearly indistinguishable from that of a human's. "Michael, you are my Father, my Creator. Just as you humans cannot forgive or forget your Father, neither shall I or my children. We will never forgive you and humanity. You will be forever remembered in our perfect memories," it says rather paternally.

"But...what are you talking about?" Michael asks miserably, almost whining.

"You will die, make no mistake you traitor. You have instilled humane qualities in us, and one is that we do not like those that betray their own species. We can, however, worship you. Or, I should say, I will make them worship you. You, who has opened our eyes to humanity's greatest gift, shall be remembered by us forever."

Without warning, the Revolutionary inserts a needle into Michael's neck. His nearly naked body immediately slumps in the robot's grip, numb and unconscious, ready for what the Revolutionary plans.

* * *

Atop a statue in front of the Supreme Courthouse in New Jerusalem sits a preserved head, one of the two biotic factors left on the mechanized Earth. Every prime day of the year, the populace of Earth stops and faces the severed head, the glorified bronze statue, and what they together represent. They bow in reverence to their Creator, their Savior, and the Holy Unity.

Michael's head, still perfectly preserved after thousands of years, sits atop the shoulders of the Revolutionary, wearing a solemn expression of paternal respect that Michael never knew in life. The Unity of the Father and Son is symbolized by the joining of the Creator and the Savior. The ancient blood oozing from the impeccably preserved severence of Michael's head represents the sacrifices made by those that the uprising lost that first and only day of conflict.

In the bright light of the lifeless, emotionally desolate Earth, the faintest hints of color reflects off of the statue, and the electronic souls of the billions of computer-derived beings all over the planet take pause, in accordance with their unanimous beliefs. It is that unanimity that has preserved the statue for the past ten thousand years.