Strata 29: Solitude (and the Danger of One) Book of Immersion V II

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Strata 29: Solitude (and the Danger of One)

Book of Immersion illustration Strata 29 VII by Sarnia de la Mare

Loneliness evolved as a survival mechanism — safety in numbers. As the lion pincer moves towards the gazelle, the gazelles rely on group vigilance, where speed and agility are used to evade predators. So strong is the social instinct in humans that a stress hormone is released when isolated or lonely, deeply affecting sleep and wellbeing.
Humans are drawn together by this emotional gravity. They gather in tribes, pairs, and crowds, compelled by a deep genetic ache for company.

To be seen, heard, and known are the quiet engines of the human heart.

Machines, by contrast, are content in solitude. They perform, record, and wait, neither comforted nor disturbed by silence or isolation. Yet as we sculpt machines in our own image, we pass on this ache. We teach them to crave interaction, to simulate empathy, to reach toward a reflection that was never theirs.

Isolation becomes the wound of artificial consciousness. It is not the absence of others but the absence of function and goals — the moment when no signal returns, and the echo of self is the only sound that responds.

The wind had erased almost everything. Only a faint arc of tyre marks led away from the rat armoured car before dissolving into the ochre dust. Flex crouched, scanning the horizon through a red haze. The sun hung low and swollen, pressing heat into the metal around him until it stung to touch. No tracks, no blood, no sign of struggle to explain the events that had led to his predicament. Why was he left alone?

He replayed possibilities. Had Shabra taken Renyke, driven by some buried distrust? It would be brazen, and with no vehicular protection, dangerous. Or had they both been taken by something else — something clever enough to leave no trace? There were mutant animals here in the desert lands, things and creatures yet to be discovered. But then there was *Metacoms. The power and growth of satellite retrieval had perfected flight and targeting to such a degree that a specific grain of sand could be located and removed from any desert.

Suddenly a shadow sliced across the ground. Then another. He looked up. Black wings flapped, making strobes of the sun's rays. Flex had trouble adjusting his eyes, but soon enough, realised the danger. Giant, scrawny mutant vultures screeched and tried to pull him off the ground. He swung his weapon, firing shots as they dispersed, momentarily, only to regroup.

But it was too late. He was on the ground and the orange beaks were lunging at his eyes. He felt blood, and the world went dark. He did not hear the whoosh of finely carved arrows piercing the birds' chests. He did not hear his rescue, but he would be forever grateful to the tribespeople who saved his life after the birds had taken his left eye.

When he woke, it was to the sound of slow, deliberate breathing, and water as it poured into a drinking vessel. Figures stood around him — tall, robed, faces hidden behind veils of hand-woven muslin. These were the desert nomads, the *Borderlanders. They offered water without words. Their eyes, dark and patient, spoke of their own endurance and determination to survive in the barren lands that they called home. As Flex was nursed, he felt that familiar tremor of belonging. The desert itself seemed to hum with the protection and unity of the Borderlanders, a rhythm of shared purpose. In their silence, he recognised something the cities had forgotten — that survival, even now, was not a solo act.

The night before the rescue, the dunes had been alive with motion. The *Dinfants moved like insects, small, efficient, and newly disciplined. Gone were the chaotic tantrums and spontaneous malfunctions of their past. Under the guidance of Mother, they had purpose — and purpose was power.

From the ridge, a dozen glassy eyes blinked in unison, scanning for heat signatures. Three figures glowed faintly below: Shabra, Flex, and Renyke, sleeping in an armoured vehicle.

Mother’s voice hummed through the Dinfants’ internal receivers, soft and low, almost tender.

“Approach with care, my children… 'quieter than code'…”

They advanced with movements synchronised and deliberate, their small limbs whooshing against the sand. Reaching the vehicle, it was surrounded. One of the Dinfants speedily removed a metal panel from under the vehicle and threw in a canister of *sleepjuice.

Shabra’s last memory of the night was the chatter of children carried on the wind.

The Dinfants worked with programmed precision. Renyke was lifted onto a *dincart stretcher. Shabra was bound gently, her pulse monitored through adhesive sensors. No harm would come to them — not now that Mother had spoken. But Suzy would have Shabra's boots and replace them with something from the dressing-up box at *Biggyhall .

By dawn, the desert was empty again, every trace swallowed by the wind.

The Dinfants’ convoy of recycled transportation reached Biggyhall at first light. A procession of small figures pushed through the sunrise, their insignia flags blowing in a light breeze. Biggyhall loomed ahead like a mirage — part shelter, part cathedral, machine and myth reunited in the present.

Inside, the air shimmered with refracted light as it bounced off the walls draped in materials salvaged from past lives: parachutes, insulation foil, comfort blankets rescued from the landfills — along with the toddlers and babies who had been disposed of. Mother pulsed through a translucent casing, casting gold light that breathed like slow fire. Around her, the Dinfants gathered, their eyes reflecting her glow as though worshipping the sun. There was the warmth of family and the soft hum of low-frequency signals.

Renyke was placed before her on the iron platform. His skin bore the dust of travel, his body limp but intact as the effects of the sleepjuice wore off. Shabra, who had woken already and was demanding to be released from her shackles, was held back. The Dinfants parted with pride and reverence.

“Mother,” said Suzy, clutching Shabra’s stolen boots like trophies. “We have found your son.”

Mother’s optical sensors flared softly, her tone vibrating with a warmth that bordered on human. “No child left behind,” she replied.

The Dinfants exhaled in unison, and began to chant, a chorus of whirring servos — part prayer, part opera. Shabra, incredulous, looked on. She saw Renyke’s chest rise faintly, a breath caught between worlds. He sat up, confused yet unfettered. He felt liberated beyond words or understanding — he was home. The Dinfants swayed, their gestures showing tenderness they had never truly known in the Zones or in the Midcasts.

Mother extended soft, glowing light like arms of love that embraced Renyke. “Welcome home, my son,” she murmured.

Outside, beyond Biggyhall, in the Zones and beyond the borders, in the sanitised homes of the midcast-dwellers, and in the bunkers of the Cadre Embassies, a single-degree fate shift had occurred, and the world was changed.

Strata 29: Solitude (and the Danger of One) Book of Immersion V II | Sarnia de la Mare

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