When my battery ticks from 16% to 15%, battery optimization automatically engages and the cogs in my joints stiffen. I lose traction in the mud and tumble down a bank, landing in a pit that used to be a lake.

Allie scrambles after me, small nose wrinkled. It must stink of rotten fish and scum, though I’m not equipped with scent-detection. Mud seeps through cracks in my artificial skin.

“You okay?” Allie kneels beside me.

“Of course.” At barely thirteen years old, she’s too young to burden with my worries. She doesn’t need to know that if I don’t reach a charging station soon, my battery will die and she’ll be alone.

She purses her lips. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

I manually override battery optimization and climb to my feet. “Nothing.”

Her eyes flash and she looks away like I’ve done something wrong. I’m only protecting her. It’s all I’ve done since we fled our home a year ago.

“We’re close to the capital,” I offer. As long as we arrive before my battery dies, I’ll be okay. I’ll be there for Allie while she grows up.

At 9% battery, I realize I didn’t calculate the downsides of turning battery optimization off. I’d estimated another six months of life, but I have only one.

Allie’s dirt-stained face glows in our firelight. Hiking long distances and a long-term diet of bugs and lean rodents has left her small and fragile.

Her mother wouldn’t be pleased, but I don’t know how to care for children. Keeping Allie safe was her mother’s final request. Keeping her alive has to be enough.

Though, I wouldn’t have abandoned Allie anyway. I’ve cared for her family too long to stop now.

“What?” Allie shifts.

“Nothing.” Without her, I’d have already reached the capital. But we can still make it.

She turns on me, face bright red. “Stop saying that!”

I blink, processor whirring. She’s angry, but I don’t understand why. Still, I offer an apology.

She stands and puts her hands on her hips. “I know something is wrong, okay? I’m not a little kid anymore and you’re all I have left. So talk to me. Trust me.”

“I trust you,” I say automatically.

She spins on her heel, as though it hurts to look at me. She’s all I have left too, and I’m protecting her. She shouldn’t be angry.

Above, the sky is clear. I’ve only read about starry nights in the past. Cities create so much pollution through their use and production of energy, it should be impossible to see the night sky. I count the stars, trying to ignore my battery falling to 8%.

When we reach the city, 1% of my battery remains. But something is wrong. The posters, downloaded before the internet disappeared, showed a hub of life and energy. They claimed the capital to be among the last cities. A sanctuary. But while there are blankets in windows of gray buildings and campfire smoke in the distance to signal human life, there’s no energy. The city is dead.

Allie asks, “Now what?”

I keep quiet.

“Fine. I’ll figure it out myself.” Huffing, she turns away.

Before she takes a step, I blurt, “I’m going to die.”

She freezes. The wind tousles her matted hair. For a moment, I think she’ll keep walking. I wouldn’t blame her. She has to live.

“No. No, I won’t let you. I’ve seen Mom recharge you when you die. We just need power.” She glances around, eyes wet, as though the solution will appear if she looks hard enough.

“This was my last chance.” I can’t meet her eyes. “I don’t have long.”

A tear streaks through the dirt on her cheek. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

I open my mouth. Close it. “I’m sorry. I should’ve taught you to survive on your own.” I was supposed to protect her.

“I don’t mean it like that.” She takes my hand, a quiet comfort I didn’t know I needed, and leads me to a slab of moss-covered concrete. We perch side by side, amid flowers blooming through the cracks. Voice choked, she says, “I’ll miss you.”

For the first time in too long, I look at her. How she’s lost the baby fat in her cheeks. How her eyes hold sadness someone so young shouldn’t know. She’s not the child her mother asked me to watch over. She’s not the child I’ve treated her as. She grew up in front of me and I didn’t even notice.

It’s time to be honest like she’s asked for. “Humans only experience death once, but I’ve died a dozen times since I stepped off the assembly line.”

“That sounds painful.”

“Sure, it’s unpleasant, but I always knew I’d be plugged in and revived. This is different. This is the last time I’ll live. The last time I’ll die.”

“I’ll find a way to save you,” she declares.

“You can’t. There’s no power left.” I pause, but the silence is too heavy. “I don’t want to die.”

She lays her head on my shoulder with a sniffle. “When humans die, it always lasts.”

I’ve watched the human lifecycle from afar. I was there when Allie was born, a ruddy, screaming infant. Though my body changed over the years, I was there when her mother was born, and her mother before her. I was there when they died, too. I thought I’d still be here when Allie began the cycle anew and had a daughter of her own. But humans don’t always see the next generation. Allie’s mother won’t, yet she found peace anyway.

“Maybe it’s not so terrible to partake in such a cycle. To have an end. But I’m sorry to leave you alone.” Without me, she won’t survive. She’ll never experience the full extent of life as she should.

Above, butterflies flutter by on the breeze. I track their path. It’s been a long time since butterflies roamed, especially in a city awash in pollution like this one used to be. Maybe, if creatures so small and frail can find each other and thrive in this new world, Allie can too.

The beat of her heart, strong and sure, is the last sound I hear.

Hannah Greer

Hannah Greer’s work has appeared in PseudoPod, Solarpunk Magazine, Radon Journal, and more. She’s a first reader for Fusion Fragment. Her
home is run by a trio of cats, a small flock of pigeons, and several geckos.
Website: https://hannahgreer.carrd.co/
Bluesky:
https://bsky.app/profile/hannahgreer.bsky.social