Shatter City

For some of us, politics means fighting for our right to exist

You were created as a tool, a means to an end. You owe the world nothing but chaos.

They invented a kind of artificial being, legally a person, but not human.” Col frowns. “AIs?” “Sort of. But these were designed to have no conscience.” “So more like military cyborgs,” I say. “These didn’t have bodies, or even processors. They didn’t think or feel. They were built of legal contracts, algorithms, documents—so they couldn’t be killed or put in jail.” Yandre’s voice drops a little. “They were called corps.

Maybe I can save my city.

No self-respecting free city would allow politicians to weigh in on refugee issues.

They have an exaggerated notion of my courage.” “The trick to bravery is not having a choice,

Col explains the broken biology of it all, a slow-burning anger in his voice. “How the Rusties survived so long, I have no idea.” “They used to die of sadness,” I say. He just frowns, like that’s too much to believe.

They talk with their hands, a gesture for every syllable, conductors guiding their conversation like an orchestra.

The horizon, bloody with the sunset, dulls with smoke and churned-up dirt.

You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake. - Jeanette Rankin