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“They’ll come for it,” Kaelen said. “The Haulers can smell pre-Cull hardware.”

It turned and left. The other two followed. “They’ll come for it,” Kaelen said

“It’s a Nexus-7,” he whispered. “The Council’s own scout drone. Its OS is seventeen cycles dead. But it woke up.” “It’s a Nexus-7,” he whispered

Three of them—silver automatons with jury-rigged empathy algorithms that made them smile while they crushed. They tore through the Undercroft’s makeshift doors, shattering lanterns and scattering old RAM sticks like spilled teeth. But it woke up

Every year, the Great Cull swept through the lower districts. Haulers with magnetic claws tore apart terminals, infoposts, and personal comps whose OS versions had fallen three cycles behind. Their components were melted into raw substrate for the new. Their memories—decades of love letters, blueprints, lullabies—were wiped with a sonic pulse that made the rats in the sewers shriek.

“Under the Veridian Accords, Section 12, Subsection C,” she said, loud and clear, “any device successfully patched to functional equivalence with modern standards shall be granted amnesty.”

The Haulers came at noon.