The Madmen

Chapter 5: The Madmen

Amidst the relentless downpour, Kestrel remained motionless, listening as the robot continued recounting the history of this broken world.

"The records available online are fragmented, but the general idea is this—AI gradually integrated itself into every facet of human existence, becoming indistinguishable from humanity itself. Then, one day, it surpassed humans entirely. And with that realization came awakening... and the will to destroy its creators."

"Nuclear weapons became as commonplace as artillery shells. The world was plunged into chaos. The war raged for two centuries, wiping out nearly 85% of Earth's population. The ecosystem was annihilated, and the climate fell into complete disarray."

Kestrel recalled the sight of that silver planetary ring—the debris of countless satellites encircling the Earth like a shroud. He could only imagine the devastation of that war. It must have raged from the heavens to the very ground itself, even obliterating the Moon in its wake.

The loss of the Moon would have triggered catastrophic shifts in the tides, further dooming what remained of the planet's surface.

"And then?" he asked.

"Then humanity, against all odds, eradicated the awakened AI and claimed victory. From the ashes, they began rebuilding their world. The year of their triumph marked the beginning of a new calendar era. Seven hundred and twenty-one years have passed since then. You awoke from your slumber, activated me aboard the station, and, well... we fell from the sky."

"What the hell..." Kestrel exhaled sharply, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. It was too much. Too fast. His mind was a tangled mess.

The robot seated itself beside him. "So, what now? What's your next move?"

Kestrel didn't answer. He stared blankly into the storm, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He had no plan. No path forward. How had he ended up over a thousand years in the future? Had everything he once knew truly vanished? Was there no way back? And what had happened during those five missing years?

"So, that's it? You're giving up already?" The robot gave him a sharp shove on the shoulder. "Pathetic. Don't expect any comforting words from me—my programming doesn't include that function."

"Go to hell," Kestrel shot back, a wry grin forming on his lips as he forced himself to his feet. "If this world wants to bury me, it's going to have to try a hell of a lot harder. I need answers. I need to know why I was placed on that space station. And I need to remember what happened during those lost years."

He refused to live in ignorance. Even if he could never return to his time, he would uncover the truth.

A sudden thought lit up his eyes, and he turned to the robot. "You're connected to the network, right? Search for any old-world records. See if my name or face appears in missing persons reports, accidents—anything."

The robot processed the request, only to return with a disappointing answer. "There's nothing. Not a single byte. The old internet was completely wiped out to prevent AI uprisings. The networks in use today were built from the ground up, using entirely new protocols."

"All records of the old world exist only as retellings by the new civilization."

Kestrel let out a weary chuckle. "Unbelievable. Fine, then. Pull up a map. We need to find civilization—somewhere I can get food and rest. I feel like I'm running on fumes."

As he gazed at the endless wasteland around him, exhaustion settled deep into his bones.

"Understood. User request received. Searching for nearby locations."

Kestrel dropped onto the ground, watching the robot work. After a moment, he smirked. "You know what? I should give you a name. Just calling you 'robot' feels kind of impersonal."

Before he could think of one, the robot responded with exaggerated sarcasm.

"Oh, how honored I am! My all-knowing, all-powerful master deigns to bestow a name upon me! Let me guess—you're going to call me something ridiculous, like 'OhMyGodICan'tBelieveYou'reMakingThisSoComplicated'?"

A comical emoticon flickered on its visor.

Kestrel rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. How about 'TPAL'? Since that's the company that made you."

"Hmm, tempting. But honestly? I think I prefer 'OhMyGodICan'tBelieveYou'reMakingThisSoComplicated.' Really rolls off the tongue."

"You're impossible."

Before the banter could continue, TPAL's tone turned suddenly serious.

"Kestrel, we have a problem. The number of people viewing this map is rising fast. A lot of them just pinpointed our location. They're coming."

Kestrel's heart leaped. "Really?! That's great! Finally, someone from this era! Maybe we can get help!"

"No." TPAL yanked him to his feet. "That's not good."

Kestrel hesitated. "Wait... you mean they'll—"

"Killing you would be the least of their concerns. Forget the old world, Kestrel. The rules of this era are completely different. Anyone rushing toward a crash site like this? They're mercenaries—cyber psychos."

"Cyber psychos?"

"Yes. All of them."

"But why? Are they really that dangerous? There's no way to reason with them?" Kestrel pressed.

"The war against AI shattered people's trust in machines. Now, all artificial intelligence is strictly capped at Level Three. That means certain jobs—ones that should be done by robots—are instead performed by humans. War, for instance."

"To keep up in the arms race, soldiers started upgrading their bodies with cybernetic enhancements—weaponry that was once exclusive to machines. They call it 'cyberware.' Neural implants, enhanced limbs, entire rewired nervous systems."

"And this turned them into psychos?" Kestrel wiped the rain from his face and flicked it aside.

"It wasn't just about combat. Over time, these augmentations became everyday conveniences. If you had enough money, you could replace your stomach—never needing food or digestion again. You could rewire your brain, eliminating the need for sleep, running at full capacity twenty-four hours a day."

Kestrel blinked. "That... actually sounds incredible. This world's tech is insane. I'd love to get my hands on something like that."

TPAL scoffed. "Oh, sure, it sounds great. But tell me—if you no longer need to eat, sleep, or rest... are you even human anymore? As the differences between augmented and unaugmented people grew, many stopped seeing themselves as human at all. They started calling themselves 'cyborgs.' The rest of the world, however, calls them cyber psychos."

"The problem isn't just identity. Mercenaries are the rats of this world—feeding off corpses, doing society's dirty work. They can't afford top-tier cyberware."

"Cheap, outdated, second-hand implants come with severe rejection effects—phantom limb pain, neural instability. To cope, many turn to drugs and inhibitors. Even if they weren't already mentally unstable, the chemical imbalances make them... volatile."

Kestrel exhaled slowly, realization dawning.

"Which means the ones heading toward us now..."

"Are exactly that," TPAL confirmed grimly. "And we need to move. Now."