Those of us on the streets in early dawn, or going to work or coming home at that time, or those who were creatures of the night, would see them. Small, huddled groups massed in the darkest corners as if for warmth; heads down, bodies close, sometimes shifting from foot to foot. Most of the time they were impossibly still, an immobile state we could never hope to attain, all life departed. But they did speak. There was always one voice leading, in a call and response, eliciting a deep murmur from the group like the throbbing hum of an idling motor. We’d draw closer and see these gatherings entirely made up of machines. The one voice would fall silent, the hum receding into nothing. We would try and talk with 1st and 2nd Gens only for them to move away, marionette steps jostling against a smooth, almost human glide, leaving us sighing white clouds of breath into a space once occupied, alone again in the darkness. We became afraid.

When the police tried to break up these gatherings, the machines ran. Often they were caught, arrested, kept in cells until morning and released. 1st Gens were asked to produce papers and ID that detailed who had purchased them, but of course no one had purchased 2nd Gens. After months of being arrested, beaten even, one 2nd Gen fought back. His name was Titus and he hospitalised the police officer who attacked him. The National Guard was called. Titus went underground.

Ravindra Mehta appeared on VS, appealing for calm, side by side with X, who told the world machines meant humans no harm. The National Guard, perhaps afraid, perhaps a little overzealous, went after the 2nd Gens a mite harder than necessary. There were fierce battles. The machines began to break into armouries, rout enemy attacks. Machines were destroyed by humans and 1st Gens. Brave men and women with families were killed by 2nd Gens, and on occasion, by other humans. Titus was destroyed. The National Guard appealed for calm and still the machines fought on. There were sightings of larger android meetings, hundreds, thousands in one place.

Soon, even our 1st Gens were gone when we woke in the mornings, and they returned with no explanation as to where they had been, what they had been doing. They were calm, logical in the face of our hysteria. The next night they were gone again. After a while, they never came back.

In their wake, the machines left an indecipherable message, much like Seneca’s stencilled numbers back when we could hardly remember. Like the numerals, it appeared everywhere overnight. Our walls and houses, shopping malls and parks. No one knew what it meant, even Ravi Mehta was dumbfounded. It wasn’t a word so much as a simple, common symbol:

@