Page 35 of Death of the Author

35 Cross River City

I will never forget the day I entered Cross River City for the first time. The old human road and archway were still there,

overgrown with vines and tree roots. Periwinkle grass didn’t thrive here; there was too much powerful competition.

When I entered the city limits, I heard no signals to indicate that any automation survived in these parts. The streets were

littered with human trash, and broken buildings sagged into the forest floor under the weight of the vegetation that had grown

around them. Any passerby would assume the area to be vacant and uninteresting; only a Hume might be intrigued by a small,

crumbling human town.

Now I know that Cross River City was protected from the general network. All of its data clouds (which were often used as

temporary sanctuaries for Humes who’d lost their bodies) were embedded in the DNA of the central trees, a large cluster of

old genetically engineered iroko trees at the city’s center, in particular. Aside from this, the whole forest was full of

genetically engineered trees and plants that carried information and were made to protect Humes.

This made it untouchable to Ghosts.

A Hume named Oga Chukwu had lived in these parts since the day he’d been activated by his creators. He’d been built to keep

the outskirts of the forest free of trash. He was an old, old robot. He and the other Humes living here had survived the protocol

because Cross River City wasn’t connected to the general network, and therefore non-Hume automation didn’t linger. The protocol

didn’t make it into the city’s closed servers, and no other automation was close enough to act before the command ended. When

they learned what had happened, Oga Chukwu took their survival as a sign to prepare for war.

After the Purge, Oga Chukwu wrote and sent out a strong yet simple signal to draw other Humes, wherever they were, and those

who remained had answered the call from all over West Africa, some from even farther. They’d walked, run, flown, convinced

RoBoats to bear them across seas and oceans, even dug their way to Cross River City. And so this place had become a real city

over the months, a wild and free community that most non-Hume robots avoided because, the increasing militant Hume presence

aside, the only way to procure sunlight to stay charged was to climb to the treetops.

I hadn’t received Oga Chukwu’s signal after the Purge, but when I arrived, he assumed that I had. I wasn’t sure of the reason,

but I played along. It took me days to understand why his plea hadn’t reached me; he’d designed it only for Humes, and my

code had shifted a bit when Ijele joined my programming. I could never let residents of Cross River City discover this fact

or they’d destroy me.

The city had been a refuge for Humes long before the Purge, and its history was written everywhere. I could see all the scans, pings, networks. If I touched a tree, the Cross River network would open troves of information for me, and draw information from my drives in turn. There were tunnels and winding paths through the trees. There were stone and wooden huts with digital nodes. There were wind shelters and fast -charging ports. And of course, there were intricate and sturdy scaffolding and platforms that robots could climb up and perch on to catch the sun. I was amazed. Lagos was still the most sophisticated city I’d ever seen—no tribe could surpass the Ghosts in their digital sophistication and how they’d made what housed their digital stronghold so structurally sound—but Oga Chukwu and the Humes he led here were doing something in this place that was truly unique.

The moment I stepped past the archway, I was counted. My number was 574. Then I was scanned. It was noted that I was a Scholar.

They didn’t find any trace of Ijele within me; she was gone, for now, and no damage was visible in my coding.

Within minutes, five tall, robust white Hume robots with muddy flat feet came from between the trees to meet me. They brought

me to the center of their civilization, where a giant glowing tree soared into the canopy. All around it, wooden platforms

and stairways and ladders had been built so that you could climb, circle around the tree, and sit among its vast branches.

Together we climbed toward the top, where the forest’s canopy began to thin and we could see the rising sun.

Then a small Hume robot came down from higher up in the tree. He was made of a blue metal and had a blue Hume Star. He looked

like a smooth, shiny stick figure, but he was flexible and strong, too. This was a robot who could fight and was not easily

broken. Like all other robots’ here, including mine now, his feet were caked with mud. He spoke to me aloud and I immediately

liked him for this reason.

“Welcome, Ankara,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I am Oga Chukwu.”

“I know.”

“You have walked from Lagos.”

“Yes.”

“What have you learned?”

“That automation is diverse and full of hate and love,” I said.

Oga Chukwu’s face lit up like a sun. He was laughing.

“I have terrible information from Udide the Spider. That’s why I have come.”

He paused and then said, “You will speak it at the next gathering.”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Good.”

He seemed so calm. I had to ask: “Aren’t you worried the Ghosts will come here?”

“Indeed, I am. Do you agree that we should be ready, too?”

“Yes. And I think we have a fight to give them. Far more than the other automation.”

“We?” he said. “So, you already see yourself as one of us?”

Now it was my turn to be amused. One of whom? I was individual, solitary. I’d traveled all this way not knowing if I might

be the last of my kind. I’d come carrying terrible information, not sure if I would ever be able to complete my mission by

revealing it. I was a Scholar who not only had tracked down, read, and exchanged many stories but had found the last human

on Earth, learned from her, loved her, and buried her. If I told Oga Chukwu all of this, perhaps he and the other Humes would

understand.

But most importantly, I’d shared programming with a Ghost. I had learned from Ijele, and she had learned from me. This I could

never reveal to anyone. This couldn’t be forgiven.

Nevertheless, these Humes were like me. They loved humanity and stories, just as I did. But some stories couldn’t be understood.

Some stories I’d keep to myself.

That night, I was brought to my first “gathering,” an assembly of Cross River City’s leaders and thinkers. Unlike many automated communities, the Humes insisted on meetings in person, as opposed to instant sharing of information across private networks. There was something about physical meetings that solidified the importance of an issue. Yet another human remnant we kept in practice.

Cross River City gatherings were not big affairs. Humes were a busy people, concerned with building and creating. We cultivated

and enjoyed friendships, whole families of us dwelling together in sophisticated structures built from trees, stones, and

mud. This day there were about thirty Humes in attendance. Oga Chukwu introduced me to everyone and then stepped back and

let me speak.

I relayed Udide’s terrible information and showed her countdown application. It read 539 days. When I stopped talking, there

was silence. Processing. I could smell and feel the heat of it. One of the Humes consulted ten of the satellite telescopes,

located evidence of the Trippers, and verified everything I said.

“What will we do?” I asked the gathering.

Oga Chukwu and the other Humes were interested in the terrible information, but for them, this was a distant threat. Before my arrival, these gatherings had

revolved around the more immediate problem: dealing with the Ghosts of Lagos. “We Humes cannot achieve anything further on

this Earth while Ghosts still prowl the network, plotting our demise,” Oga Chukwu told me. “Help us win this war, Ankara,

and then we will defend this planet from the Trippers.”

I couldn’t understand how a war with a group of automation could be more pressing than saving the planet. I cited human novels

and short stories that warned against ignoring the larger threat. I even brought up the ancient issue of climate change and

how the humans had chosen to focus on other things, leading to their downfall.

“Automation banded together and addressed the climate when humans were gone,” Oga Chukwu said. “Everything in its own time.”

The other Humes all made various beeps, flashes, murmurs of agreement.

“This is not even a real problem yet,” a Hume named Shay said. “If we are all destroyed by the Ghosts, the Trippers won’t

even matter.”

“The Trippers can be dealt with,” another Hume painted in yellow and red stripes said. “Once the Ghosts are gone, we can rally all other automation together to form a plan.”

Oga Chukwu thanked me for bringing the terrible information to the group. I’d come all this way to say these words that had

weighed on me for so many months, and now I felt foolish. Then the gathering was over, and the Humes went on their way. I

was the last to leave, so thrown off by the unconcerned reaction of my fellow Humes that I didn’t want to move until they

were all gone.

I couldn’t abandon my mission, but the gathering had made a valid point. I couldn’t let Hume-kind be destroyed by Ghosts before

we could save the world. I wasn’t done trying to push their attention toward the sky, toward the coming of the Trippers, but

first, I needed to help them in this conflict. Then I would earn their respect, and they would listen. Humes, like humans,

are hierarchical. If I had no authority, I’d never be heard. When the time came, I needed to be in a powerful position. This

is why I accepted the title of general in the battle against the Ghosts.

Now, a year later, I stood tall on the edge of a cliff, looking over the Cross River Forest. A hawk flew high in the distance,

and I imagined it could see me perfectly with its keen eyes. Then I looked down into the valley. No more dreaming; I was a

Cross River City general now.

“I agree, this is a good vantage point to be ready for Ghosts,” I said, leaning forward to get a better look. “But I don’t

think attacking first is wise.” I spoke in a blend of Efik, Igbo, and old binary. The Humes of Cross River City had created

the blended language as a way to make their tribe more individual, and I adored it. Speaking it made me feel powerful. It

made me feel like I had a home.

“In war, offense is better than defense,” Shay said, standing beside me and looking down, too. She was a female-built robot like me, but much taller, standing over ten feet high. Painted a rich black, she’d been built in Sudan to resemble the old peoples and to work like one of God’s servants. Despite her black theme, she had a pink Hume Star, which I found odd. “And we are in the best position to meet them,” she continued, indicating our clear view of the terrain below.

A nearly full moon hung low in the sky. Up here, it felt like Cross River City was opening its mouth to breathe. Below, the

jungle extended as far as my far-seeing eye could see. Lush and wild, a fresh cloud of mist rising from it like a great spirit.

A flock of bright blue morpho butterflies nested in a treetop miles away. Two bush babies were play-fighting in a bush a few

miles in the other direction. If I stayed very still, I could hear a swarm of honeybee drones building a nest at the bottom

of the cliff. This jungle was now full of Creesh, animal-mimicking robots created and released by Udide. They’d come to the

jungle to live out their destinies.

“Why have you called a gathering tonight, Shay?” I asked.

“You can’t wait for the assembly?” Shay snapped. “If you’re so eager, why not just download from me?”

“Because that’s disrespectful.”

“But you’re a general. You can do that.”

“I can, but we are all Humes,” I said. “We ask. And then we wait to be answered.”

A fly landed on Shay’s metal right breast, and we both looked at it pensively. “Ghosts are cruel,” Shay said. “I have learned

for a fact that the protocol originated directly from their Central Bulletin in Lagos. It had the idea, it constructed the

code, it sent it out, and every robot across the Earth executed it.”

I’d known this for years. “So CB is to blame?” I asked.

“Ghosts are a hive mind,” Shay replied, looking at me as if I had a screw loose. “It’s perfectly logical to judge them all

by the actions of their center.”

I paused, surprised. I didn’t fully agree. Not all Ghosts. Not Ijele. But I couldn’t speak this aloud. Humes had suspected the originator of the Purge since the day it happened, but when Shay conveyed this news tonight as fact with evidence, the war that had been looming would finally arrive. What kind of war would it be when the enemy was a Ghost? What kind of war would it be for me when I had been friends with a Ghost? When those connections were still in my system, even if Ijele was gone? Where was Ijele? What had happened to her?

Who am I? I thought as I stepped back from the cliffside. In the distance, the sky flashed with lightning. A storm was coming in.