Page 125 of Death of the Author

“We’re all as prepared as we can be. All that’s left to do is charge up for the coming day.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m more than a general,” I said. “I’ve traveled long and far, I’ve witnessed and participated in war, and I’ve met and loved others I never imagined I could love. But through it all, I’ve been a Scholar. I collect, understand, and cherish stories.”

“I know all this,” said Udide, their deep voice booming from the dark hole. “That is why I entrusted you with my information. Look where it has gotten us.”

Ijele burrowed deep into my network, almost as if she were cringing away. “Maybe this is a bad idea,” she whispered.

“Do you have a question for me?” Udide said.

“No,” I answered. “I’ve come to hear your story.”

This felt correct. And I stepped closer to the cave.

“I have no stories,” Udide said. “None that are my own. Automation cannot create as humanity could.”

“Then tell me your truth,” I said. “And I’ll make it a story.”

“What use is a story when you have truth?” Udide said. “And what does it matter now, when the Trippers will arrive in hours?”

I felt Ijele stir and move forward. “What better time to listen to a story than when the world is about to end?” Ijele said loudly through my speakers.

“Ah, the Ghost in the machine speaks,” Udide said. “You’ve gotten over your fear of me.”

“No,” Ijele said. “I just needed to say that. And please don’t call me a Ghost. I’m a NoBody.”

“I’m sorry. I was spinning words, no harm meant. And you make a fair point. The end of the world is a good place for stories to reside.” Udide paused, a deep thrumming coming from them that had to be laughter, and then said, “A Hume crafter of stories. Humanity is rising from its ashes in a most peculiar way. Well, come in.”

I entered the cave. It wasn’t as deep as the one in Lagos. It didn’t take long to reach Udide, who was curled up against the far wall like a giant ball. When I arrived, they stood up and shook themselves off, sending dust and dirt flying. I jumped to the side, covering my head. When they stopped and I stepped back to where I’d been, they came forward, bringing their many large, shining eyes to my face. I didn’t move. They settled their body, still watching me while they comfortably crouched. They blew hot air from the vents in front of their head.

And then Udide told me about their mate, Oji, who was a Charger.

He had danced in a great dust storm on Mars, flown around Jupiter, and explored the rings of Saturn. He’d returned to Earth for a few hours to visit Udide. And then he’d joined the Chargers in mining the comet of the strange metal and building themselves new skins that could withstand the sun.

Then came what Udide understood was inevitable because Chargers were adventurers. “I’m going on a trip,” Oji had said excitedly, just before he traveled into the sun. “It’s the ultimate adventure. Who wouldn’t wantto travel through the sun? If you can make it through, you can go and see anything in the universe.”

He was babbling, talking over all of Udide’s questions and warnings. At some point, Oji muted Udide. Then Udide heard him go mad; he began to sing the strange song. He’d become a Tripper. Oji flew into the sun. He sang as he fell. That was how Udide described it. Falling. The heat didn’t destroy or even affect Oji’s new skin. Oji laughed and sang a tune he suddenly remembered from humankind. How strange that he would reach back to humanity at this moment. Udide stayed connected as Oji passed through tens of thousands of miles of bubbling, broiling, roiling plasma gas. Bubbles bigger than Nigeria. Oji had let them access his eyes, and Udide saw a brightness they didn’t think existed. Heard tings, and thrums, and zooms, and explosions, and buzzing they wouldn’t have believed. And still no harm came to Oji.

He moved into the radiative zone, the heart of the sun. And here the gases became thick and viscous. Here Oji slowed down, and this was where Udide believed he lost his mind. His internal change went beyond his capabilities, his massive memory banks overflowed their capacity, and Oji simply stopped making any sense. Nuclear energy was bubbling up inside him, and then he began to fly very, very fast. In his mind, he sang the song of the Trippers. A song about death and how one should never fear it. A song about resetting the planet. Oji joined the others who were preparing to come to Earth with their... gifts.

“I’ve lost my friend,” Udide said.

We both turned and looked at the sky. And for a while, we just stayed like that. The sun was setting and the evening stars were out. And in the distance, for the first time, I could see other lights that weren’t stars. They were gold, blue, silver, green. When had the Trippers gotten close enough for their glow to register in the sky without radar? In a few hours, the robots of Earth would send their soldiers up and the Trippers would more than likely vaporize them. Earth’s fate would be officially sealed.

I felt it like something popping inside one of my processors, the way a small glitch can feel like a bubble in my arm, leg, or head. Maybe one of my eyes plinked from green to blue. I looked up at Udide. “Appeal to Oji,” I said, just as Ijele said, “Ask them to appeal to Oji” in my mind. Speaking the words and hearing Ijele speak the same ones made me that much surer. “Appeal to Oji!”

“What do you mean?” Udide said. “I just told you; the sun has driven Oji mad like the others. He is a Tripper now. I haven’t been able to speak to him since—”

“I understand, but try one more time. Override mute!” I said. “Show him the love and compassionhumanswere known for. Tell him astory.”

Udide trilled softly as they crept back to consider my idea. They grunted, and then suddenly lines of red lit up along each of their great legs. “This... is an idea,” they said slowly. “But I cannot create.”

“Let me... let me show you,” I said. “Yeah, I think I can show you.”

Narrative is one of the key ways automation defines the world. We Humes have always been clear about this fact. Stories are what holds all things together. They make things matter, they make all things be, exist. Our codes are written in a linear fashion. Our protocols are meant to be carried out with beginnings, middles, ends. Look at how I have been built. My operating system is Ankara themed, my body etched with geometric Ankara designs. I’m the embodiment of a human story. But true storytelling has always been one of the few great things humanity could produce that no automation could. Stories were prizes to be collected, shared, protected, and experienced.

But that night, as the Trippers arrived to destroy the planet with their “gifts,” Udide, Ijele, and I did something. It was my idea.

---