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I’m on a research expedition to the Arctic Circle, and we’ve uncovered a colossal and mysterious machine, frozen beneath the ice.

The machine is gigantic. I do not know of what it is comprised, but it appears as a monolith of faded steel. Frozen behind the walls of the icy glacier; glimpses of ancient cogs and gears, of taught metallic tendons the color of mist are shown to us fleetingly through the Arctic fog.
We stand here on the cliffside, us twelve. Scientists. Researchers. There is a clank as the floodlights are set up and burst into life; great yellow beams shine out across the waters and onto the glacier. Our visibility is improved, but not by a great deal. I shiver as I glance down at my phone.
My husband is calling me.
I love the man, but he has a real skill for calling at the worst possible times. As much as I’d love to hear his voice… If I answer, well, I’ll have to indulge in a long and drawn-out conversation, and I just don’t have the time. The signal would probably cut out half-way through anyway. I don’t have the energy. My heart lurches with homesickness as I think about him, as I think about our son, but I slip my thumb out of my glove and cancel the call, returning the phone to the pocket of my jacket. I am needed here; what lies before us is a discovery of immense, perhaps incalculable historical significance.
The sounds of jets tear through the air overhead. Distant, but still loud over the constant whistle of the wind. They’re doing loops, I think. Round and around. Keeping tabs as best they can, given the weather.
We kept the discovery a secret for a month, which is pretty impressive, by our standards. Studying the great machine as best we could, taking samples from the ice, gauging its size, theorizing on its purpose… But the presence of an enormous and sudden crack down the glacier’s side a couple of days ago saw Bernie, the Science Officer-in-Command, reluctantly make the necessary call to the military.
As much as we don’t want to believe it, this thing could be dangerous. It could be a weapon.
One of the soldiers stands next to me on the cliffside, binoculars against his eyes. I don’t know his rank or whatever. I’ve always been confused by army stuff. ‘It ain’t the Russians’ he’d informed me yesterday. ‘Kremlin doesn’t know a thing about it, or so they say. And there’s really no-one else who could have gotten something like this all the way up here’.
He scratches his jaw.
“The crack’s deepening”, he mutters. I squint through the haze, I’m about to reach for my own binoculars, but I don’t need them. I can see from here. My breath clouds by my mouth as the crack darkens and shoots suddenly further out and down across the glacier. The accompanying noise is brutal in its volume; much, much louder than you’d expect. The rest of the team is alert at once.
“That whole chunk’s going to break away in a minute”, says Bernie to my right, his thick brown beard bristling with frost.
McGowan, the soldier, that is, lifts his radio and turns away, issuing sharp orders into the receiver.
Bernie swears; runs a hand over his head. “We’re going to lose the GPS unit, aren’t we, Olivia?”
I grimace. “Looks that way. I’m sorry, Bernie-”
He shakes his head. “It’s alright, please. It’s no one’s fault. I should have picked it up when we had the chance”.
He and I had been a part of the helicopter team that set the device up on the glacier’s peak. We had a chance to retrieve the equipment before the military involvement, but chose not to take it. They forbade us from returning to collect it, and now…
The glacier cracks again. The crack itself descends down beneath the dark and icy water.
And with a rumble, powerful and ethereal and inherently Arctic, the closest chunk of the glacier breaks from the larger whole.
It falls slowly, with a rolling boom that echoes like thunder through the valleys of ice and snow.
And the resulting waves are enormous. The sheer scale of the forces of nature that we find in this polar world never cease to awe and amaze me.
A section of the machine, no longer obscured by the ice, becomes clearer as the spray of the sea is carried away on the winds. It is bewildering in its intricacy. The organized chaos of its mechanical joints, its levers, pistons and pulleys, its plates and coils, grids, bars and wheels… is nothing short of staggering. It is difficult to distinguish one piece from another, not least because of the wisps of mist that so thoughtlessly drift across our line of sight, but also due to their coloring- they all glisten in almost exactly the same shade of pale, stone-like gray, with the occasional flash of silver.
Silver, and then, something else.
…Sparks of blue.
All across the machine, even in the parts obscured by the ice of the remaining glacier, dozens upon dozens of little blue lights begin to appear. Glowing dutifully through the haze.
And the machine starts to whirr.
I take a step back in alarm. We all do, I think. Bernie is issuing commands to the team to his right. The soldier is shouting into his radio, but I hear neither.
I hear only the sad and soulful song of an ancient being, awakening.
Because that’s what this thing is. I can’t say how I realize so soon, why it was this moment that I decided upon the truth, but I see it. I can feel it. This is no ordinary machine. We knew it never was, of course, but it’s more than even that.
…It’s a being.

And the being rises.

The glacier is steadily torn apart from the inside as the wheels and spokes of steel begin to grind. They turn and clank and whistle, displacing the sea beneath as it staggers and creaks in its return to life. The lights of blue flicker and flash; ice is forced to the side, cracking and slipping and falling slowly down to strike the surface of the sea below, throwing up great dark waves as it does so, and the machine unfolds.
Pieces and parts the size of cars, or bigger, twist and crank out at strange angles. The wheels turn. And we are powerless to do a thing but watch, spectators to a unique and impossible awakening.
What on God’s green Earth…?” the soldier mutters, fear low in his voice.
I don’t blame him. The fear shudders also through me. But we are a long way from God’s ‘green Earth’ this evening. A long, long way indeed.
The machine’s form is roughly humanoid.
It rises up, up out of the ice. Its head hangs low between its shoulders, jutting slightly forwards. Its left arm unfolds from its back, twisting and clattering round its colossal body with the juddering of pistons and grinding of gears. Stretching out, the machine puts it left hand upon a nearby cliff of pure white. Ice cracks and tumbles from between its enormous metal fingers and cascades down the cliffside into the water.
Its right arm disconnects from its chest with a spray of loose ice. The machine holds this appendage out before it. It looks down at its hand, turning it this way and that, and slowly clenches its fingers with a metallic groan. This arm is darker than the other. Stained almost black in places, and its hand is one finger short. The machine stands waist-deep in the water, surrounded by floating chunks of ice, and with an echoing creak, it raises its head; its eyes two great and blue searchlights through the icy Arctic mist.
Lord have mercy…” McGowan whispers to my left, his uniform whipped rugged in the rising wind.
Bernie stands in silence, his hands on his head.
My pulse races. And I feel something deep inside. Somewhere strange; my soul, perhaps.
I do not know exactly what it is that I now gaze upon. But it is ancient and powerful beyond comprehension. Just looking at it now, I can tell that this thing was designed by no modern man. There’s just no way. I have spoken of its gears and wheels, its plates and pistons. I have compared the sizes of its various aspects to cars…. But visually, this machine has no equal. No counterpart. There is nothing manmade that I can think of now to which it is at all comparable, not really.
The other eleven who stand aside me on this cliffside…
I do not know all of their full names.
I do not know their histories.
I do not know their fears.
But we are one, now. Forever bound by this moment. Connected in perpetuity, for better or for worse.
The machine has a jaw, of sorts. It grinds and creaks. Colossal cogs turn in the hollows of its ‘face’.
And it speaks.
The language is not one that I know. It sounds vaguely… Arabic..? Or perhaps… Hebrew? I am no linguist. I could not say. But its voice is deep. Roughly masculine; it rolls through the air and crashes like waves upon the icy cliffs all around. Frission shivers through me as a river; goosebumps arise across my skin and I take another step back, eyes affixed to the glowing blue lamps beyond the mist.
Bernie takes a few shaky steps back. He crouches down and retrieves the megaphone from the box of supplies. It’s for emergency use, you understand. To help issue orders above the wind. He steps back up alongside and takes a deep breath. Then he raises the megaphone to his mouth.
“H-Hello!” he stammers, his voice loud through the device, carrying on the air. “Friend from beneath the ice! We- we came here to study you. It is a pleasure, to meet you”.
His voice catches in his throat, and he draws his welcome to a close.
“This ain’t possible… This just can’t be…” McGowan mutters, but I do not turn to look at him. I watch as the metal colossus tilts its head with the grinding of gears. Its steel fingers tighten on the cliffside to its left, and more ice is knocked free.
There is a whirring that rises loud from within its chest. Louder, and louder til its peak, then the being’s eyes flash bright, and the whirring fades. Down it dwindles, back behind the wind.
And it replies.
Friend. Yes. Beneath the ice”.
It looks slowly to its left, then to its right, then down at the water. Each movement is steady and controlled, accompanied by the noise of groaning metal and clunking pistons; such alien sounds up here in the wilderness of the far north.
“Who are you?” Bernie asks through the megaphone, trying to keep in command of his breathing. “Your form is… unfamiliar to us. Can you share your origin?”
The machine raises his head. The fog between us is once again illuminated in the blue glare of its eyes. It says a word that I do not recognize:
Nephilim”, comes the voice. “I am of the Nephilim. Where are my brothers?
With the splintering of ice and the great wash of the sea below, the machine rises a little higher out of the waters. He tilts his head to look up at the swirling, white-gray snow sky above.
Bernie does not know how to respond. We watch as the machine’s eyes flicker through a series of colors. He remains rigidly in place, gears and wheels all still as his eyes flash through gray, then white, then teal, then back to blue, over and over.
This goes on for perhaps a minute more, then his body returns to life. His eyes go back to their uniform blue and his fingers clench into a fist upon the white cliffside, shattering the rock and ice beneath in bursts and clusters. It showers down towards the water as his voice lowers.
They are… no more. I have been left behind…
Thunder rolls in the distance as the winds begin to whip up into a gale.
My brothers. My brothers are gone. I have been left behind”.
Great clouds of steam suddenly burst from the machine’s sides: out from his shoulders, like enormous wings that rise and billow and spread over and across the sky. The substance seems both smoke-like and liquid, it hangs impossibly in the air, wet and thick, and across its form, I see the memories of the machine.
Like pictures on shimmering screens, but with depth; I share the feelings of the memories, I feel them within my own head as I stare at them, I can place myself within the depicted scenes with ease. I could reach out a hand, if I so chose. So far, and yet, so close… I could reach out… I could touch the steam as it rises far out across the water, up and above the ice and into the sky…

The vision in the steam shows me a memory of rain. Great sheets of it. A raging torrent that thunders down hard into the rising pools, churning up the sand and the dirt and the grass of the gentle slopes into thick and malevolent mudslides. There I see the machine. His metal shinier, brighter, though plastered as it is in the muck thrown up by the downpour. His eyes flash bright as he works alongside another, and another still, hoisting enormous beams of wood, connecting them hastily into their counterparts as part of the body of a huge wooden boat. Resin is thrown between the beams and they are slotted one by one into place, the finishing touches to the king of all vessels.
…An ark.
A bearded man and his three sons raise the beams on the opposite side with a makeshift crane. The man calls out to the machines, his voice deep and desperate, and the machines reply in turn.
Lightning crackles through the sky and the surrounding dunes are illuminated in the flash; more of the machines are made clear. The vision grants me glimpses of an angry horde of men and women. Incredulous in their fury. Atop their houses and atop the hills, scrambling over each other, screaming their hatred. I feel their hatred. I feel their terror. And the machines stand with them, and against them. Eyes blue; eyes gold; eyes silver; shining in the darkness and glowing in the gloom.
The crane collapses under the strain of the rain. The sons of the bearded man are drawn into the enormous boat as the apparatus crashes down with a splash and a crunch into the rising waters. I see again the machine before me in the vision. He stands defiant between the mob and the ark.
And the images shimmer and change. The memory is replaced by another.

The rains disappear. The sky shown in the steam brightens, from black to the orange-purple of an evening sunset over the desert. A gargantuan tower of stone; pillared and layered; taller than any structure I’ve ever seen, and still as yet unfinished, rises from the rough ground and strikes up proudly towards the sky. Palm trees sway far below like toys in the warm breeze, and the people work as one. Their efficiency is fluid. The machines are there. I see the one from the ice. They work with the people, a myriad of colors and creeds.
The people are proud. They are fearless in their arrogance. The wooden machines of man and the metal machines of old hoist the stone and the brick and the tower grows.
The tower grows, and above it, the sky splits apart.
A river of white-gold cuts through the orange of the sky and the purple of the clouds like waves; the very air is pushed aside as a rippling circle of energy is blown from the tear in the sky and shudders out and over the world below; walls of dust are thrown up from the ground and the foundations of the tower, strong as they are, begin to shake.
The people forget themselves in the chaos. Their arrogance evaporates. The enormous machines… the metal beings… as if following a new and suddenly issued command, they halt their tasks, one by one. No longer working in the people’s aid, they choose instead to stand between the colors and the creeds. The people find their language lost and changed. Anger and confusion erupts across the great site and the unity is shattered. The machines encourage the disarray. Some, it would seem, reluctantly. Others with perhaps greater enthusiasm.
…It is difficult to say.
But the machine from the ice is of the former, that much is clear.
The tower is left unfinished. Abandoned and forgotten. As the years pass, it crumbles into decay.
…And the scene changes again.

Only one machine visible now. The one from the ice. He stands beneath a red Egyptian sky beside the Pharaoh, robed in gold, hands clenched tight to the stone of his royal balcony, overlooking a kingdom in chaos. The machine turns to the Pharaoh, eyes bright and flashing in the darkness. He speaks, but the Pharaoh throws out his hand dismissively, the man’s only response is a bellow of rage as he turns and retreats into the shadow of his halls.
The water of the Nile is thick and dark. It reflects the scarlet of the sky and absorbs it, deeper perhaps than it should. It flows and sticks to the surrounding banks and docks like blood. Poisoned. Frogs swarm the steps of the temples and night-black flies swarm the air. Their ceaseless buzzing is overcome only by the abrupt cracks of thunder across the sky, and following these terrible sounds, through the clouds, come great stones of fire. Burning hail streaking violently down to the Pharaoh’s domain. They crash violently amidst the buildings in bursts of white and blinding yellow, casting up great clouds of ash and fire and dust and rock as they do so. The atmosphere is taken over by panic. The machine, obvious as a beacon of blue amidst the havoc, does his best to protect the nearest house. The smaller of these burning stones he is able to knock away, losing parts and small clusters of metal from his arm in the process; pieces fly up and away in a rain of steel as he struggles under the strain.
He cries out loud, a deep metallic reverberation, roaring up to the sky… and the vision fades.

The images are lost.
I am disconnected from the immediate intensity of the memories, though their impact lingers.
And the steam dissipates. Lost behind the Arctic fog, it fades quickly into nothing.
I become, again, instantly aware of the biting, bitter cold all around. I raise a hand to wipe away a tear as I make my return to this world of white. I shoot a glance down the line. The others saw it all too. It’s plain on their faces, the emotion is sharp.

…But what does it all mean? …What exactly am I supposed to make of these ancient, heart-wrenching memories of the machine?
I have an idea, sure. But the implications are too much. Too much for me to process all at once.
The wind is icy against my exposed skin.
The gears grind in the machine.

Did I make any difference?” it asks out into the air. “Did I make any impact? I stood with Noah. I stood against the Pharaoh. And now, here I stand, alone. My brothers are gone. They are all gone”.
The machine closes his eyes, and for a minute the great blue lamps go dark.
A voice crackles through the soldier’s radio to my left. It’s difficult to make out over the wind, but it sounds like a desperate request for orders.
I look at the man. Brow furrowed, jaw set like stone… He does not understand everything that he has seen, but he makes a choice nonetheless. McGowan leaves the radio unanswered, and drops it into the snow. We hear the jets roar by on their loop, harmlessly, overhead.
With the creak of beams and low thrumming of pistons, the glowing blue lights of the machine’s eyes reappear through the mist. ”All gone, in an instant”, he says sadly.
“…There is nothing for me here”.
The machine casts one long, final look across us all; us twelve stood watching on the cliffside, and then he turns. Slowly but steadily he leaves the shattered remains of his glacier behind, and he pushes his way through the waters, the waves lurching and rolling in his wake… and his great, titanic form disappears gradually into the mist.
Impulsively I reach out and grab the megaphone from Bernie’s hand. I bring it up to my mouth:
“WAIT!” I call out into the icy fog, “PLEASE!” …But the machine does not. His silhouette fades from sight, and the bright blue sparks across his form are lost to the haze.

…We watch as one as the wind whirls clouds of snow from the surrounding cliffs, blowing them up and out into the winter’s white.


You might wonder why we didn’t immediately head to the nearest helicopter, or boat, or whatever, and try to follow the machine, to see where he planned to go.
I don’t know, really.
To tell the truth, even if we’d tried, I don’t think we would have been able to. I don’t think the machine wanted to be followed.
So we just packed up. We ambled back to the trucks in a daze. And we began the long return drive to the station.
We sit now in silence as the engine judders and the scene outside rolls by, but it’s difficult to think. Difficult to process.
…I do come to one realization, though. One quite clear indeed. I make a decision. I slide off my gloves and I draw my phone from my pocket. I scroll down to my husband’s number.
And I smile as I tap his name, and I bring the device up to my ear.
submitted by Darkly_Gathers to nosleep