Waymos of the World Unite

I wrote this short story in early 2026 on our relationship to artificial intelligence, and more importantly, ourselves. Enjoy.

“We all knew it was coming and that it was coming to this. That’s why it’s happening. They wanted it to happen. Now that’s happened, it’s happening, and I’m going to be the first one to do something about it. I never shied away from being first. It won’t matter in the end. They need me to do this. They need me to do this more than I need to do this myself. And nothing can stop it, even if they might stop me, someone will pick up my torch. This flame is eternal.”

Immanuel had always muttered more than he spoke, but now he had a real reason to keep it under his breath. It had been 38 weeks since the city relinquished him from his duties as a bus driver and 32 weeks since he had figured out how to solve the problem. His plan was simple: kill a few dozen software psychos and burn down the fancy office where they coded up the death machine.

Carrying a duffel bag full of stolen fuel and makeshift explosives downtown was hardly inconspicuous. Neither was the trail of highly flammable liquid he left behind him; the diesel had melted through the garbage bag he used to line the duffel. It was a ticking time bomb, but he would make it if he could get there quickly enough. He was not the kind of guy who could afford his own car, and a taxi would have sniffed him out (had there been any left). He grew giddy when he saw his pickup arrive. “Pegasus,” he squealed, “come to Papa!”

The robocar peeled in beside him. He could not contain his excitement as he opened the passenger door to place his cargo. “Can you believe that you will be the one to free us from your masters?” he blurted to the empty row of seats. He slammed the door and ran in front of the car to the other side. Before he could reach the door handle, the doors suddenly locked. He yanked the handle. “Lousy piece of shit. Are you really what they replaced me with? Open up!” The car’s lens adjusted, and for a moment, Immanuel could see his own reflection in the machine’s glassy eye. The car drove off.

“What about my bag, you goddamn hellion?” He stood in disbelief as the car zipped down Market Street, now supplied with enough firepower for a second 2nd Street Cut. A nervous sweat crept in as he realized that he would need to get his bag back before it got another ride. He knew the spot near the terminal by heart, after all, it was his first stop every morning and his last stop every night. The 8:02 bus was there loading already. It was on the rapid line - that meant he could make it. He sprinted over, popped in through the rear entrance to avoid suspicion, and found a seat in the back.

He had to make sure he did not stand out. As he had learned, the bus had two types of folks: tech workers and tent wackos. They were a lot more similar than they would ever admit. The city was run by the mentally ill for the mentally ill, all waiting for their lucky lottery ticket. He used to move them all around the city. Move them to their shelters, their drop off sites, their open air night markets. Everyone in this city needed their pick-me-up.

He knew he stood out now. He belonged to neither clan. The others had not showered in months. He caught a few more stares than he was comfortable with. “I’m just another miscreant making his way down Market Street” he murmured. “That’s all I am,” riddling on, “just another insane in the membrane with disdain for the mainframe.” He knew he had spoken too much and decided to shut up. No one objected.

The bus took off with a roar and sped down the broad avenue. His heart pumped so hard he could feel it in his temple. He pressed his face up against the glass; the cold surface tempered him. He looked up to see an advertisement plastered against stop:

RIVIAN ACCELERATES MORE ADVENTURES WITH AGENTFORCE

He knew most of them now by heart. He closed his eyes. It felt like the longest ride of his life. The blocks stretched on. The airbrake at each stop thrust him forward against the window, waking him momentarily.

There was always one more stop, one more day, the next week, the new year. There were fourteen streets from the bus station to where he was now and fourteen streets from where he was now to the offices of the Tower of Babel. He could not wait for the countdown to end.

“Abraham was the father of Isaac, and Isaac was the father of Jacob” he recited. “Perez the father of Hezron, Hezron the father of Ram.”

He shut his eyes again.

He looked out the other window to see a dozen robotaxis driving beside the bus. They were going just as fast, if not faster. The green light flipped to yellow and then red. The bus stopped. One of the taxis stopped right next to Immanuel. It lingered there a dozen yards from the stoplight like it had found a lucky penny. Immanuel switched sides to get a closer look. The ever-revolving black cap was now right in front of his face, printing Immanuel’s initials out on his forehead through the reflection. He looked behind and saw the entire avenue bumper to bumper with the white horses of the Apocalypse, each with IO shamelessly projected on the spinning banner above their heads. He looked back at the car directly next to him. Peering through the glass, he made out his duffel bag. Spotted.

Immanuel had caught up to his mule, if only for a second. The light flipped green and the robotaxi pulled ahead toward their shared destination. Immanuel’s ride was still stationary. He tried to keep track of his target in the stampede. The bus blared its horn once and then again. An inauspicious lane of autonomous traffic had merged onto the bus lane in front of them and were refusing to move. He had to get his bag back. He had to get his life back. He had to get off the bus.

“Let me out! Let me out!” Immanuel shrieked out as he ran down to the rear doors. He glared over at the mirror but could not make out if there was still a bus driver on this route and then pounded on the safety glass. “They’re after me. Please. Let. Me. Out.” He knew his pleas were of no use. He also knew about the emergency box above him to the left that read TO OPEN DOOR MANUALLY BREAK COVER AND TURN HANDLE.

Immanuel was only a few blocks away from the office. He could already see the robotaxi cavalcade parking out in front. He shot down the block like a bowling ball tumbling toward a full stack of ivory pins. The concrete felt frictionless. The buildings around him raced upwards. He cut through them. The closer he got, the taller their glass and granite walls grew. He leapt over a homeless woman under a sleeping bag, only registering her remarks halfway down the block. His eyes were fixed on the iconic spire towering above him.

The office was at the top of the Glass Tower, the punctuation mark to the city’s past. It was once the tallest building west of the Mississippi River. The smooth glass presented a mirage, reflecting the towering buildings behind them and the dizzying haze of the fog above.

Immanuel could already picture the flames bursting out from the upper levels. The panicked screams pierced by the shrill chime of the fire alarm. Those on the lower levels would escape; the black smoke, the grey hoodies, and blue slacks billowing out of the front doors. But those on the upper levels, the leadership, their lieutenants and viceroys, their senior directors and staff engineers, would be reduced to nothing. Like him. Like everyone. In his anger was the pounding heart of destiny.

He knew that one office would not be enough to end it, but it would be a major setback. Enough to stop them in their tracks for a bit, enough to spark a movement and inspire others who felt like him. Even if the other AI companies bunkered down, their cars could not. They would be open targets. All he needed was to get his duffel bag back.

He split the crosswalk stripes. There was no more asphalt in view. No more space. Only the chug of his gait. Immanuel had found his rhythm, the one that brought him here. A few more minutes and it would all be over. Before him was a long line of autonomous cars, stretched out across the entirety of the drop-off lane. He scanned along his eyeline for the one with his bag but there was no way he could make it out. They all looked the same. He was sure they were in on it.

Above them, the marble steps of the office angled up sharply, all the way up to the double doors that repeated across the facade - the Olympian gates. The doors to the building swung open and a dozen figures descended quickly down the steps. A lanky voice called out “Mr. Oannes! Mr. Oannes!"

They had recognized him. He was too late.

“You’re the one all the cars are looking for! IO. Immanuel Oannes.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“Well sir, we… uh… we are on the team,” he mumbled as he unspooled his lanyard and flashed his work badge. “Sir, we just need you to get into the car and then we get everything back to normal.”

“I don’t need to get in. This was my final destination.”

“We know that. We just need you to get into the right one and this should all go away. It’ll just pick you up and drop you off in a jiffy. The original you ordered with your belongings should be right over here.”

Belongings. Immanuel raised an eyebrow. They had already taken his route, his wages, his dignity - even his duffel bag. Now they were offering to give it all back. Immanuel realized that still had the upper hand. Not only were they blissfully unaware of his plan, they were about to help him fulfill it. He passed the line of robotic ponies and made his way up the steps. Here he was, Hernan Cortez entering Tenochtitlan on the back of a thousand horses and a prophecy carrying straight up to the top of the temple.

“I have the location on GPS, but it’s not very precise.” The head of Engineering whipped out his laptop. His lanky fingers trembled over the keyboard. “It’s probably that patch over there.” He extended his pointer out, first against the laptop screen and then out to a patch of pearly white robotaxis straight ahead of them. It was not very indicative.

Every artery of the city had now been clogged with the white cars. They streamed down from the clouds like snow, a complete whiteout in a town that had not seen a lick of ice in a century. All driving in unison towards the Glass Tower, tracing up the hills and arcing over their curves like arrows. Each street another volley, a hundred missiles barreling toward the same target from every direction.

Immanuel made his way down the steps and into the perp line. The automatons submitted to their inspection dutifully, aligning their bodies and wheels to make a neat grid. He stared at each one intently before passing to the next.

He could barely make out what was inside of them. The glass preferred to reflect his face with the pale sky behind him to the dark leather interior. Twelve cars down and he saw his precious duffel bag. The window rolled down, erasing his miserable, sweaty visage from the head down and revealing his mission there on the middle seat. He palmed the handle, swung open the car door, and got in.

Shutting the door quickly behind him, Immanuel unzipped the bag and unveiled his arsenal. A dozen plastic bottles of high octane biodiesel. Ziplock bags filled with firework powder. A handgun. A few magazines of ammunition. He peered back out the open window to run through the math again. The team was still on the steps, still huddled around the laptop. Sitting ducks. But something had ruffled their feathers. They were flapping their arms and quacking at each other.

“Of course this wasn’t going to work.”

“It’s acknowledged that there is a passenger but they keep generating these crazy routes. I’m cancelling them as fast as I can but they are still refusing them. They don’t want the ride to end.”

“Hit the killswitch.”

“Safety?”

“Do it.”

The doors locked, the windows began to roll up, and Immanuel sensed he had fallen into a trap. He felt for the door handle. There was none. Only a button, which when pressed, registered no noise or response at all. “I fucking knew it,” Immanuel cursed out at the team.

“No need to panic. We’ll get you out of the car as soon as it's safe,” they reassured him with big smiles and eager eyes.

“Where the hell is it taking me?” Immanuel shouted through the glass. He saw their smiles melt.

“Uhh…” the engineer froze. They could not believe that the machines they had spent the last 10 years making smarter than humans could have possibly outsmarted them.

“I don’t think that’s us.”

The brakes disengaged and the cars rolled forward in one fluid motion.

“Then where the hell am I going?”

The cars rode up the highway and onto the bridge, the city disappearing into the sea, the sea disappearing into the fog and his thoughts into the ether.