The Warm Machine Read online

  The Warm Machine

  Humanity Series - Book One

  Seth Rain

  Copyright © 2019 by Seth Rain

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Human Fiction

  ISBN 978-1-9162775-0-2

  Developmental Editing: David B. Lyons

  Copy Editing: Jane Hammett

  Proofreading: Johanna Robinson

  Cover Design: Damonza

  Created with Vellum

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  A Brief Note

  I have used British English spelling throughout this series of books. Not only am I a Brit, but this story is set in Britain, and so it seems only right to use British English spelling. I hope this does not detract from your enjoyment.

  Seth.

  For Mum

  “I think our odds are no better than fifty-fifty that our present civilisation on Earth will survive to the end of the present century. […] What happens here on Earth, in this century, could conceivably make the difference between a near eternity filled with ever more complex and subtle forms of life and one filled with nothing but base matter.”

  Taken from Our Final Century (2003), Martin Rees (Astronomer Royal, 1995 onwards. 60th President of the Royal Society, 2005–2010)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Your Free Novella is Waiting!

  Thank you!

  The Warm Machine

  One

  The date tattooed on Scott’s left palm was the day he would die. That was definite. It was the same as the date on his watch.

  Scott stared out of the window, down at the Watcher illuminated by a streetlamp. The Watcher stared back at him, rain dripping from his hair onto the shoulders of his long grey coat.

  Fourteen minutes to midnight.

  A dog barked, making the Watcher squint along the street. Another dog barked in answer. The Watcher checked the tracker on his wrist.

  Scott looked again at his hand. The ink of his tattoo contained the information the Watcher was tracking. He poured a large whisky then took the framed photograph of Rebecca from the table. In it, her hair blew across her face, her fingers reaching to push it back.

  He downed the whisky then took a wallet from his trouser pocket, opened it and took out two train tickets: Piccadilly Station in Manchester to Oxenholme Station in the Lake District. The edges were damaged, the ink on each one faded, the dates from two years before.

  Outside, the Watcher was gone. Scott’s throat closed and his chest tightened. A self-driver shushed through the puddles on Sackville Street. He faced the door at the other end of the apartment, rolled his shoulders, grimaced and cracked his knuckles.

  Twelve minutes to midnight.

  Maybe this year. No use avoiding it. He never had. To run and hide was pointless. Instead, he stayed home, his light on, informing whoever – or whatever – where he could be found. Not that it mattered. Every centimetre of Manchester was mapped by CCTV and satellite imaging.

  The light in the hall, edging beneath the door, was momentarily broken by the shadow of someone … or something.

  Outside, the high-speed train arrived, as always with a whisper to begin with, then its vibrations building until they disturbed the heavy velvet curtains. A spoon rattled inside a bowl next to the sink, the lampshade quivered and Scott’s keys trembled on the table beside him.

  The smell of fried food from down the hall still lingered; the woman in thirty-three lived on her own time. Muffled shouts and angry exchanges often came from her apartment.

  He checked again for the Watcher but the street was empty. Above the rooftops, in the distance, the lights from two drones blinked in a regular pattern.

  Eight minutes to midnight.

  Another self-driver splashed through the puddles on the street. Then a second, coming the opposite way.

  More shouting from thirty-three, followed by two loud thuds. Scott watched the light beneath the door.

  The rain had been relentless for two months. It returned with force against the window, like handfuls of scree dashed against the glass. His skin was clammy, his T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and back, the collar scratching his neck. He pulled at the fabric. As he did so, he heard the sound of a door creaking open … then closed.

  Again, the light beneath the door was broken. Then, banging against the door. He checked his watch. There was still time. More banging. Someone crying. He watched the seconds pass on his watch as the bangs grew louder and louder. Six minutes.

  ‘Please!’ A woman’s voice.

  More banging.

  ‘I need your help. He’s gone up to the roof. I can’t stop him.’

  The train outside had arrived, thundering across the bridge behind the houses and apartment blocks where Sackville Street met Altrincham Street. The woman’s voice was drowned out by the train but he could still hear her fists thudding against the door.

  So this was how it was going to happen.

  He edged closer, then swiped across the two bolts and pulled the door open.

  The woman from thirty-three took Scott’s arm and pulled him into the hallway. ‘Help!’ she pleaded. She pointed to his left hand and his date. He had no idea she knew. ‘Please help. He’s on the roof.’

  The woman yanked Scott into the stairwell before running ahead, up the stairs and out onto the roof, calling him to follow.

  He looked back into the room and paused … then headed for the stairs.

  At the far end of the roof stood a young man, right at the edge. To his left was the Watcher, who nodded to him. Each year this happened, and each year, for some of the Chosen, it came with the same relief. He had at least one more year.

  The woman pushed Scott towards the young man on the roof.

  Scott recognised the long, lank hair and the skinny frame. He was tall and thin. He’d seen him many times on the stairs or c
oming out of his apartment, but they’d never spoken.

  ‘He’s Chosen?’ Scott asked the woman. ‘Is it today?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be today, this year. Tell him. Please. I know you’re Chosen too.’ The woman’s clothes were wet through, her hair matted to her face. ‘Tell him!’ she said.

  The Watcher took a step closer to the young man and the woman lunged at him, thumping his chest. ‘Stay away!’

  Scott walked towards the edge of the roof and the young man, who held up his hand to show Scott his date: 23.04. He’d had no idea the young man was Chosen too, but the fleeting, knowing glances he had given him … they made sense now.

  Scott’s watch read a minute after midnight. He walked closer to the edge of the roof. ‘Jason, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  The young man glanced at Scott’s hand. ‘I thought he might be here for you,’ he said, his eyes flicking to the Watcher. ‘But you have another year.’

  ‘I know how difficult it is,’ Scott said. ‘Getting through the day, knowing it can happen.’

  Jason scoffed, then peered over the edge.

  Scott paused. ‘More than difficult.’

  ‘Mum made us move here, knowing your date was the day before mine. She had this idea that if they came for me, the Watchers might take you instead.’

  Scott processed what Jason was saying; it was illogical, but made sense in some desperate way.

  ‘I’m done,’ Jason said. ‘I can’t do it any more. I was ten when I found out. Every year, waiting for it to happen. Why don’t they tell us the year? At least then…’

  Scott leaned over the edge. He didn’t have an answer to Jason’s question – not an answer that would help, anyway.

  ‘You can’t,’ Scott said. ‘Not like this.’

  Jason wrapped his arms around his chest, holding himself.

  ‘Jason!’ the woman shouted.

  ‘Your mum?’ Scott asked.

  ‘She has no idea what it’s like,’ Jason said, his voice calm, his stare fixed on the road below. ‘And I’m glad.’

  His mother stood next to the Watcher.

  ‘No,’ Scott said, ‘they have no idea.’

  Jason unfurled his arms and took a deep breath.

  He was right there, beside him. It would take a moment to reach out and pull him away from the edge of the roof. But Scott didn’t move. There was a coldness in the young man’s eyes, an expression Scott had seen in the mirror over the past few years.

  The rain smacked into the puddles on the roof. Scott’s chest was cold and still. His feet fixed, his arms motionless; he’d been here before, except then he had been waiting for a train at Piccadilly Station, with Rebecca, watching, waiting.

  Jason nodded. Without thinking, Scott nodded too. It was going to happen, whatever Scott wanted to do or say. He knew it. It was certain. Jason leaned forward and stepped off. In time with the rain, he disappeared over the edge.

  Above the swell of wind and rain there was a deep thud.

  Jason’s mother ran to the stairwell, flung open the door and disappeared, her cries echoing.

  Scott peered down. Jason was stretched out, half on the pavement, half on the road.

  The Watcher adjusted his collar. ‘I wish it—’

  ‘Don’t,’ Scott said.

  The Watcher edged closer.

  Jason’s mum leapt out of the door below and onto the street. She wailed, falling to her knees on the pavement next to Jason’s body.

  ‘You chose not to stop him?’ the Watcher said.

  The woman buried her face in her son’s chest and sobbed.

  ‘Chose?’ Scott said. ‘You saw his date. I know how this works.’

  The Watcher cleared his throat. ‘We are here to watch. That is all.’

  Scott huffed. ‘That’s all? You really expect me to believe that?’

  The Watcher shifted uncomfortably. ‘Some of them find it difficult to live with.’

  ‘Difficult? He’s just a kid,’ Scott said.

  ‘He is with God now.’

  Scott clenched his fists. ‘I saw you on the street. You made it look as though you were here for me.’

  The Watcher pushed wet hair away from his face, his eyes fixed on the body below.

  ‘I am here for you.’

  Two

  Scott followed the Watcher down the stairs. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A Watcher.’

  ‘You’re not like any Watcher I’ve met.’

  The Watcher paused on the stairwell and faced Scott. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say – not to a Watcher.’

  They carried on down the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened to your wife,’ the Watcher said, glancing at him.

  Scott stopped for a moment, ‘My wife?’ He continued down the stairs, following the Watcher, and emerged on the street, next to Jason and his mum.

  Sirens bellowed from a few streets away.

  The Watcher knelt beside the body on the ground, tilted his head to read the tattoo on Jason’s hand and nodded.

  ‘Get away from him!’ Jason’s mother screamed.

  The Watcher stood, his revolver flashing inside his coat.

  The rain fell with more force, splashing into puddles and creating rising clouds of mist.

  ‘If you stay, you’ll have no choice at all,’ the Watcher said, lifting his head to the sky then glancing both ways along the street. He stared at Scott. ‘Stay and be taken, or come with me. Your choice.’ He nodded and walked away.

  Jason’s mum buried her head in her son’s chest. Scott paused, searching for words. But there were none. Already, the Watcher was some way ahead, striding towards the arches beneath the train tracks.

  Scott followed, glancing back at Jason and his mum. He saw it play over and over in his head: Jason’s gentle nod, his long hair rising, his body disappearing over the edge of the roof.

  The Watcher took a right onto Altrincham Street, his coat swishing against the brick building.

  Scott stopped again and looked back along the street. His apartment glowed, orange. A blue light scanned the buildings at the other end of the street. A drone’s siren blared. The woman stood and waved at the approaching drone. There was no need for any lights or sirens; it was too late.

  Scott jogged after the Watcher. ‘Tell me what happened back there,’ he said, catching up. ‘You were there to make sure he did it.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Don’t tell me how it works. I know how it works.’

  The Watcher raised an eyebrow. ‘Watchers don’t determine when a person dies.’ He bowed his head as if in prayer. ‘He does.’

  Scott’s eyes darkened and his brow furrowed. ‘I don’t believe any of that.’

  ‘We don’t have much time,’ the Watcher said, ignoring his words. ‘You’ve been told you are one of the 144,000, one of the Chosen. But I have reason to believe your date is wrong.’

  Scott stopped, his feet splashing in a puddle.

  ‘Your date,’ the Watcher said, also stopping. ‘It has been contested.’

  ‘Contested? That doesn’t happen.’

  ‘Which is why I’m here.’

  Scott shook his head. ‘The AI is never wrong.’

  ‘Believe me, I’m aware how ridiculous this sounds. Many of the Watchers, including Mathew, do not want to believe it either. For whatever reason, the AI can’t read your date.’

  Scott’s head spun with questions.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘All in good time,’ the Watcher said, waving away Scott’s question. ‘For now, I need you to trust me.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. Trust you?’

  The Watcher sighed. ‘I know you have had … that you have had … issues with Watchers before.’

  ‘Issues?’

  For the first time, the Watcher appeared sympathetic. ‘You are the first person I know of whose date has been contested. And I’m here to help you. There is someone wh
o will be looking for you, and I can’t be sure he will want to do the same. This is a lot to take in. I understand. But we have little time. I have moved more quickly than they have, but it will not take them long.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  The Watcher walked away. Raising his voice to be heard, he said, ‘You might be the key to answering that very question.’

  Scott stared at his feet and listened to the Watcher’s footsteps. His legs wouldn’t move. He willed them, told them to move, but they were still, his feet heavy against the concrete beneath. Finally, he flinched into life and was walking again.

  ‘I believe in the 144,000,’ the Watcher said. ‘I believe in the Second Coming and the Rapture. But not like this. If your date is wrong, we must find out why.’ The Watcher pushed back his shoulders. ‘Free will, Scott. The freedom to choose, to make decisions, to exert an independent will. To do things differently. I believe it is this that is at stake.’

  Scott walked beside the Watcher. ‘Free will disappeared years ago with the AI. As a Watcher, you know that better than anyone.’

  ‘But don’t you see? Everything has changed. If the AI is wrong, even once, it could be wrong about everything. All of it.’ The Watcher stopped. ‘And we can find the answer to your question.’