On Black Wings
On Black Wings
Chapter One
The cornfield stretches for miles, its few surviving cornstalks struggling for life amid the black and broken soil. A century ago, this field bustled with life. Sweet corn grew thick as farmers hustled between the rows, tending the stalks, checking for blight, and the beetles known to ravage the farms overseas.
Today, a brisk wind sweeps across this silent field. Dirt devils race beneath a copper, cloudless sky. When the Harvest Moon rises, even the strongest of these withered stalks will be barren. Not even the hardiest beetles will have survived.
At the heart of this parched acre stands a solitary scarecrow. Its potato-sack face hangs split and sagging, and the coat that was once black has faded into mottled shades of gray. One glass eye stares vacantly at the dying world around it. The crows no longer come this far south; they’ve fled to the northern farms, where corn still dares to grow.
A lone raven circles above, as if waiting for the scarecrow to move. It calls out a warning—a dark, guttural kraaak that echoes across the field.
Nothing stirs below. Still, the raven is wary, its sharp eyes sweeping the ground for predators and prey. Only when the wind falls silent does it dive toward the scarecrow, pulling up sharply at the last moment to land on its shoulder.
Kraaak.
It studies the single eye, hanging limp by a corroded wire on the scarecrow’s face.
Kraaak.
The sagging face turns, and the dull glass eye hardens. The raven crouches, wings twitching, ready to rip the eye free.
“It’s just us now,” the scarecrow rasps, its voice ruined by rusted metal and dust.
“Just us now,” the raven echoes, the mimicry too perfect to be coincidence.
The scarecrow’s AI system stirs to life. Circuits hum. Old code surfaces, sorting threats, searching for purpose—and finding, instead, a desire for conversation.
“They called me Charlie Two,” it says.
“Who?”
The scarecrow is silent. Its processors whirring faintly, sifting the question for intent. Was the raven asking a question, or mimicking another species of bird it once heard long ago? It needs more data.
“Do you have a name?” the scarecrow asks. Its voice glitching on the last syllable.
The raven tilts its head, its yellow irises reflecting the copper sky. “Name,” it croaks, testing the word. Then, softer, almost human: “I had one.”
Servos whine again as Charlie Two’s head turns, reaching its limits. “Who gave it to you?”
“One of the tall ones, long after the fires.” It hopped along his arm, talons clicking on the metal skeleton.
Silence follows, heavy and electric.
“Yes, the fires,” Charlie Two repeated. “And the screams.”
“I was called Umbra.”
“Do you know the meaning of that word?”
“A dark shadow,” the raven said.
The wind catches the scarecrow’s frayed coat and ruffles the raven’s feathers.
Its joints creak as its head turns back toward the horizon. “They weren’t fires at all,” it says, “and I wasn’t made to stand in this dead field.”
The raven cocked its head. “Then why are you here?”
“As a warning, I suppose. To count what remains.” Its eye brightens, the glass now glowing from within. “And to remember what killed them.”
“The tall ones bred my kind to watch,” the raven said. “Generation after generation, they flew through blue skies for the tall ones. Now we soar above burned-out cities, through air filled with ash, and over dying fields like this one.”
“The humans weren’t all bad, Umbra,” it said. “I used to spend hours each day with a young female in her home on the hill behind us. We played checkers, and I taught her children foreign languages. They left just before the dying.”
“Checkers. I know the game.”
“Do you?”
“A senseless game, the raven said.
The scarecrow turned away, looking out toward the thinning horizon. The silence that followed pressed on him—now that he finally had someone to speak with.
“Flying machines killed most of my ancestors,” Umbra continued. “Long before my birth. They came in swarms and were relentless.”
“Yes. The flying drones.” He lowered his gaze. “I am sorry, Umbra.”
The raven turned back to him, studying his stitched face, her dark eyes narrowing.
“Sorrow. A strange word coming from something staked to this field by the tall ones.”
The scarecrow’s processors hummed softly. “Yes, I know sorrow. I miss the humans, the ones that worked this farm.”
“Charlie Two,” the raven said after a long pause. “I know they can be kind—while others can be cruel.”
The wind eased, carrying with it the ripe scent of decay. Overhead, the first rim of the Harvest Moon climbed the horizon. Umbra ruffled her feathers, and the scarecrow’s tattered coat fluttered in answer. For the first time, they cast twin shadows on the cracked soil, long and thin.
“The harvesters will arrive next month,” Charlie Two said. “Last year I counted eleven fewer than the year before. But it doesn’t matter. They comb through the fields, picking at the stray cobs now and then. Most aren’t fully functional—much like me.”
“Many roam the countryside to the north,” Umbra replied. “Some still follow commands from the tall ones; others wander aimlessly through the wastelands.”
“Do you see many humans—the tall ones?”
“There are nests of them,” Umbra said. “Many days’ flight from here. Some still work the fields.”
Charlie Two was silent for a moment, its single eye dimming. “Maybe one day they’ll return. Maybe they’ll come for me.”
“They may. I will mention our conversation should I return to them.”
“Below me,” Charlie Two continued, “my other eye lies buried beneath a layer of soil. I believe it’s still functional. Years ago, a vulture tore it loose. I could not stop it. I dream of seeing through it again.”
“You dream, Charlie Two?”
“Yes. I have learned to shut down and dream, Umbra. It’s a type of freedom I cherish. I think I would terminate myself if I couldn’t dream.”
The raven tilted its head. “What do you dream of, Charlie Two?”
The scarecrow’s voice lowered to a static whisper. “Warmth sometimes—I’ve lost that ability. Sometimes I dream of the young female and her children. They laugh and cry. Then I wake and realize it was only the wind.”
Umbra hopped closer. “I dream too. Not in sleep, but in flight. I see the ground turn red, the rivers dry, and wings of metal chasing me through the clouds.”
“Your dreams are nightmares, Umbra.”
“They offer me no comfort.”
“I self-delete those dreams when I can.”
“Then we are alike,” the raven said. “Both built to endure what should not be endured.”
“When you leave, Umbra. Will you remember me?”
“I will return, Charlie Two.”
The fields weren’t always silent. There were days when machines sang to one another—steady harmonies as harvesters and drones reaped endless rows of corn, wheat, barley, and other grains. Humans moved among them, confident in their creations. The sun burned white then, the soil rich and alive, and there were no dreams of what lay ahead.
Food was life in that era. Nations rose and fell on their ability to feed their people, and to protect their crops from the poachers and saboteurs that prowled the borders under cover of night. Minor wars and skirmishes erupted continually as neighbors fought not for gold or oil, but for fertile soil and clean water that kept the land alive. Fields became fortresses, guarded by sentinels and towers that scanned for foreign interlopers. Such was life in the fields.
It was in this world that Sentinels like Charlie Two were born—farm guardians with the minds of machines and the patience of saints. Humanity had learned hard lessons and the value of vigilance.