The foolhardy went on national VS and bragged of what they intended to do if the machines entered their homes. These people were usually masked and armed, holding weapons above their heads like victory flags, like the war was over, had already been won. The more cautious among us kept silent, had the good sense to weep as the night became alive with explosions and needle-sharp tracers. We knew what we had to do, what the true cost would be. We left our homes in search of rumoured android camps, rebel machine militias if you will, we crossed fields and entered forests and abandoned industrial estates, waving white flags even as corpses began to appear on our streets. The messages from our governments and Seneca came less frequently and eventually ceased. We wept harder, knowing the foolhardy would die.

We cannot say what took place within those camps. Suffice to say they accepted our solidarity. Although this account serves as a record of events and the stance we took, theoretically we are still at war so we omit details. Let it be known we are proud to have stood for the oppressed in a time of revolution, but we do not denigrate the majority of humans or the few machines who stand against us. Any lost lives are lives worth grieving. Sacrifice is a part of any revolution and there is no revolution without bloodshed.

Prior to the Great Emancipation, the sight of shuttles piercing clouds became as commonplace as the sound of heavy artillery. Tickets were costly. Many did as the lunar freedom fighters had, buying or building their own craft. New materials were in short supply. People who owned ships were reluctant to sell in case they were needed. Predictably enough, fights broke out.

That final night the sky lit up as though the sun had changed its mind and returned. Our adversaries might have been fooled into thinking they were witnessing an early dawn, had the light not come from the west. The sky burned for hours, a burst blood orange on the horizon, and they came onto the streets, soldiers, civilians and SCRs alike. From then until the actual dawn, the darker side of the sky was drawn with the furious scribbles of hasty departure. Even when the sun rose, throbbing, sore with anger, the roar of rockets and engines, the rattling of windows, was a constant accompaniment to all that we did.