Alert.

  It runs and runs; that is all it can do.

  The rush to escape is all that exists now — the energy flowing, the engine at full throttle, the urgency to get away from the incomprehensible tremor that has enveloped everything, the crash that has annihilated its brothers, its home, every fruit of their labor.

  An endless present of staggering, of dust obscuring its vision, of shocks and violent convulsions that make its entire structure groan, the metal skeleton, albeit elastic, that has served well for seven decades of heavy work.

  Its small wheels are not designed for speed on the sharp, uneven rock; the shock absorbers fail even if there is no heavy load. It loses its grip, and the rear wheels skid and slide, spraying a scattering of pebbles into the abyss, stones that fall right into the heart of the world.

  The trolley runs towards the brightness of the dawn, towards the pale promise of the day, as if it could actually reach the sun. But the dawn is so faint, so far away, squeezed between the sheer walls of Faspath.

  And where is Zerafia?

  It has already passed Zerafia without realizing it. It lost its bearings and went too high, looking for a path on the steep vertical wall of the chasm, went too close to the edge, to the surface. So it didn't see it, the city of Zerafia, nestled down there, a long balcony in perpetual shadow, where the song of flowing water and the humid wind that rises from the mouth of the abyss feeds the albino inhabitants.

  But the trolley is not going to Zerafia. It has never been there; it is not supposed to go there. Why did it feel it had to? That is just the closest town to the mine. But the people there have nothing to do with the plant.

  Why does it keep thinking about this and lose momentum?

  Its databases contain detailed records of the entire area and the life forms found there, including images of Zerafia taken from some distance. But the thought of the mushroom city causes an unexplained disturbance in the functioning of its processors. It is almost painful for it to turn away...

  Clang!

  A fender has come off, torn away by the impact against an orange-red stone spike, sharp as a giant pencil point. The fragment of painted metal falls, plummeting into the void; it barely catches a glimpse of it, and it is gone. It has already lost a handle, blown off in the first minutes of its flight, when the emergency protocol kicked in, causing it to abandon work.

  The record of events coming back to its logic processors jumps to the forefront of its priorities, blinding it for a moment.

  The vibropumps whine from the unexpected effort, way beyond their capabilities, to keep the tunnels open against the increasing pressure. Their quivering voices rise to a high-pitched scream. One by one, they give way with a colossal crash. The roar of the tons of rock reclaiming their space, the earth moving to bite, to squeeze...

  It excludes the record. It is not important now; the masters will examine it. Its task is to bring this data to them.

  Alert.

  So the automaton grinds on for miles, on warped wheels, leaving layers of paint on the abrasive wall, wearing out seals and belts.

  The lights on the rig, from the runways to the platforms to the exhaust chutes, flicker with a hum, flicker until they go out in a storm of sparks...

  Irrelevant now. The masters. They need to know. One goal, no distractions.

  The danger that destroyed the mine is bearing down on them.

  Zerafia has nothing to do with it.

  The sky clears, and the vertical strip between the walls of Faspath is tinged with gold and pink; the first ray of sunlight hits it right in the lens, dazzling it in a parade of rainbows.

  It triangulates its position to be sure. It stands on the north wall of the abyss, braving a hostile terrain that forces it to move at an angle of nearly forty-five degrees.

  It took the shortest route, but that might not have been a good idea. What if it had headed for the surface instead? What if it had climbed up the wall to the edge, leaving the great Faspath fissure and its infinite void? But it is not programmed to trespass on that flat world up there, a directionless plain. The very idea paralyzes it; it should not even be able to think about it.

  Better to stay among the dangers it knows.

  There is something between its oculars and the newborn sun, something that refracts light by multiplying it into a thousand points of emission, like a sieve. A structure stretching between the shores of Faspath. Its destination.

  It extroflexes its paws to overcome a hostile spot, a convex area covered with crystals like spearheads that bristle in all directions. It rears up, deflecting before endangering its drive shafts. It almost plunges into a smooth white mineral vein that looks inviting, almost like a natural trail. It tilts with a skid, so much so that one wheel lifts off, and returns to safe ground.

  How many convoys in the past have fallen prey to these glistening pools of milky glass, ready to shatter into billions of razor-sharp fragments capable of shredding even the hard rubber that lines the wheels of the vehicles?

  Twenty-two, according to his database.

  A common accident before the road to the mine was completed, when people only cared about finding the shortest route. Not such a bad accident when you have spare tires, a maintenance crew on standby, and plenty of time.

  Not so for it. It has so little time that it can't even spend a millisecond looking for the road, assuming it's passable. Because the road goes up and down, follows hairpin bends, is made for large convoys driven by people, not automata, live people who need rest stops and a certain level of comfort.

  There is another pressing question. How much more will its autonomy allow it? How far can it go?

  It is not sure. It has not considered that it may be impossible to reach its destination.

  A quick check of the batteries, a rough calculation...

  With a delay of three-tenths of a second, it sees the gaping mouth of the creature, inside as rosy as a silk lining, a mute scream raised to the sky. How could it have failed to notice the spherical shapes sprouting from the ground like large, half-buried eggs? It had just landed right among the nests!

  Too late.

  The bejeweled snake sprints to escape, but the automaton runs over it, the right front wheel crushing its tail, and a moment later the beast's head, bristling with emerald protuberances, slams into its side. With a crash of shattered glass, the metal bends inward, the snake's fangs digging deep into the steel and latching onto it.

  It accelerates, swerving purposefully. The gravel crackles under the wheels.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  But it won't be enough to shake off the snake; it knows. Better to prepare for the inevitable and finally allow itself to slow down. It leans into the ground, trying to anchor itself with its paws, digging for a firm foothold as the now-dead creature explodes.

  The deflagration is so powerful that it breaks three fingers on one leg and bends the joint of the other. The right side of the automaton is a ruin of twisted metal. Electrostatic discharges draw gray lines in his vision, and the directional sensors are more confused than ever.

  But it has not fallen; it has not toppled over. It sees the goal ahead, and no longer needs its compass. The wheels are intact. It can still travel.

  It pulls itself back into alignment. It starts moving again.

  It can now get a good look at the perforated shape of Nelatte, the web city that spreads across the full width of the Rift, vertically, for a radius of 3.5 miles, made of a material so reflective and translucent that it is almost invisible from a distance.

  Organic material, it repeats to itself as it accelerates again, whizzing by as if the snake incident had never happened. Of animal origin, called gommite.

  It must resist the temptation to drain its energy reserves for one last burst. No, it won't be enough to reach the city; it has to find the right place to deliver the message.

  And now it gets confused. The physical damage it has suffered, the abnormality of this emergency, strains its ability to reason.

  The home of the oldest inhabitant.

  This deliberation comes from somewhere inside it, and the trolley accepts that. This task is easy; just check the database.

  It has arrived at one of the pylons, the connection between Nelatte and the rock; dense, rubbery, elastic material sticks to the wall of the crack, spreading out at the base like a blob of melted wax. It is just one of thousands of constantly regenerating tendons that keep the city suspended in the middle of the chasm, perhaps one of the smallest. It is 14 yards in diameter at the base, gradually shrinking to 9 yards.

  It prepares for the jolt in the transition between the texture of the rock face and that of the pylon, but the bluish material is really soft and elastic, so much so that in the first few moments the wheels sink, can't find a grip, and get stuck, causing it to recoil. It has to push with its paws to get out of the hole its weight is digging in the rubbery material.

  A thin, muffled sound draws atonal squiggles somewhere above him: the timbre resembles that of a flute, but capable of sudden, muffled trills and rapid swoops on low notes. Music without sense or rhythm, punctuated by the ringing calls of a reed.

  Animal noises. Ignore. Forward.

  The gommite pylon is now a smooth road that welcomes it without pitfalls. It turns to change direction, no longer parallel to the bank of the ravine, but flattened against the illuminated face of the city. It enters the three-dimensional grid of Nelatte, whose thickness increases toward the center. Sure of its destination, it climbs up, goes out through tubes with windows in which it sees people walking, pointing, and murmuring to each other. It descends to cross horizontal streets and deserted squares, sees an empty fountain. The city is still asleep; the only sounds are those of traffic on the main bridges.

  The twisted shape of its destination appears in the agglomeration of buildings glued together, like those fungal growths that have managed to find nourishment in the non-existent layer of soil on the steep walls of the mine tunnels. The spiral twisted end, resembling a shell, is unmistakable. On it, the early morning light draws a lattice of iridescent meshes, confusing the perception of the dome's true color.

  Here are some people at last!

  It has to slow down: Masters are often so clumsy, with long reaction times. In fact, one of them, although he saw it coming, did not move an inch, but took a step to the side, as if he thought he could step over it. His leg, long and thin like a spider's, stretches like a pink rubber band.

  The man greets the trolley like an old friend, waving an outstretched arm. A convulsive, loud sob shakes him all over. The man puts a hand to his mouth, pulls his limbs back, wraps himself in his cloak, and ducks into a doorway.

  Masterat, it catalogs him. Cold-blooded pseudoumanoid. Extensible limbs. Short life expectancy.

  It lingers to better examine the sparse urban fauna around it. It doesn't want any trouble right now. But it sees sleep-swollen faces, vacant smiles, unsteady legs. A couple trudges across the square, holding hands — one hand and one claw — and improvising dance steps on the cobblestones.

  These are not the first early risers, but the last night owls.

  Some have come straight from there, from the building where it must bring the news. The lanterns at the entrance are still burning, but their light is barely visible in the sun-drenched square; sparks in the center of the two frosted-glass globes sway lazily up and down, sending shafts of green and pink.

  The Coneshell, says the sign in slanted letters, mounted a foot above the door on burnished metal supports shaped like human hands.

  It sprints towards the entrance, channeling the energy left at the wheels, aiming straight at the double door of opaque blue glass, as at the ultimate goal of a race where the survival of life on the entire planet is at stake.

  And there it is, almost there. The battery drains in that last sprint, and the doors open to reveal two people coming out.

  A small creature, wrapped in a short tunic of an almost black blue, pockmarked greenish skin, the huge mouth, bent down, taking up more than half of the large bulbous head. A clipboard of papers under his arm, his webbed hand holding the door open for whoever comes behind him.

  Batracid. Oviparous hermaphrodite. Remarkable math and memory skills, limited field of vision.

  In fact, he did not see what was coming at him.

  The second person is a thin man, also small in stature, around 5.2 feet at best, barely taller than the Batracid. He comes out bouncy and smiling, turning to greet those he has left in the restaurant, about to drop an imposing top hat on the gray hair that stands erect like a candle flame from the draft that has caught him on the threshold.

  Human.

  That can only be determined by the immediately perceptible characteristics of the individual, and this is the most reasonable classification. Humans are the dominant and most common species everywhere, even in cosmopolitan Nelatte.

  However, something glows in this man's left earlobe. And as he turns to face the automaton, something else glows in his eyes. A flame.

  Just for a moment.

  Human, it forcefully repeats to itself, because it has to give a definition, even though this life form has no relevance for it at this moment. It has the choice to ignore data, but only after it has been processed.

  There is no time to think; the urgency of his desperate mission overrides any other imperative ever etched into the flesh of its pink heart, which now beats wildly in the recesses of the mechanical superstructure that protects it.

  “ALERT!” it shouts in its synthetic voice. Can they understand it? It's not sure.

  But their confused, indignant, and finally horrified faces cannot stop it.

  At the last moment, the inhabitants shrug their shoulders and dive in opposite directions. They must have made it; the trolley does not feel the impact against their bodies. Instead, it hears wood smashing against its front bumper. But now it is inside.

  Voices argue over strange tinkling music; the humid air inside clouds the lenses of its eyes with a thick layer of fog.

  A chair takes flight in front of it, the lopsided backrest a ridiculous barrier that promptly shatters; a moment later, the entire right side of the trolley crumbles against the unyielding stone of a small table cemented to the floor.

  And this time it really flips over, wheels in the air spinning in vain with the hum of misplaced gears, thick, overheated lubricating oil splashing and sizzling and dulling its directional sensors. Its vision is now a kaleidoscope of cracked crystals.

  The table has won at last.