The machines swarmed around the outsides of the TPs. Some were bipedal, humanoid, but they had advanced beyond that primitive, limited archetype. Many now roamed the perimeters on wheels, tracks or multiple, insect-like legs. The irony of decades of self-obsessed human research reverting to its original forms was completely lost on the humourless machines.

In the TP, Runs With Scissors watched the machines circle the domes, looking for an entrance point. At the centre of the TP, the elders of the tribe were working at a large machine. Some were cranking a handle on the side, others were monitoring gauges. The machine looked ancient, but in fact it was brand new. Not much high technology had survived the first bombing raids. The machines knew what the best targets were, after all, they’d been programmed to.

In other TPs, other elders were working at similar machines. Together they formed the shield. Runs With Scissors had never seen the shield in action, but he knew what it did. It dropped them like flies.