Robopocalypse (18 page)

“
Senshi. Difensu
now,” I instruct. The robotic arm pushes itself upright and wheels into the fray. There is plenty more work to be done.

Clouds of steam are spraying from a nicked line on the wall. The green intention lights of my
senshi
pierce the haze, along with muted flashes of light from welding torches, weapons firing, and the burning ruins of destroyed machines. Sparks shower down upon us as the giant
akuma
and my master
senshi
struggle in colossal battle high above the factory floor.

But there is always more work. Each of us has a part to play. My
senshi
are made of strong metal, solid through and through, but their hydraulic hoses and wheels and cameras are vulnerable. Torch in hand, I find the next fallen soldier and begin to repair it.

As I work, the air grows warm from the kinetic movement of tons of clashing metal.

Then, a screeching grind is followed by a crunching sound as many tons of construction-grade steel crash to the ground. My bridge crane has torn the arm off the giant
akuma
. Other
senshi
have gathered around the
akuma
’s base, prying off chunks of metal bit by bit. Each nip removes part of its treads, quickly rendering the machine immobile.

The great
akuma
collapses to the floor, spraying the room with pieces of wreckage. Its motors roar as it tries to free itself. But the bridge crane reaches down and presses a gripper against the
akuma
’s great head, crushing it against the cement.

Now my factory floor is covered in oil and metal shavings and chunks of broken plastic. The smaller robots who walked and wheeled inside have been shattered and torn to pieces by the swarming
senshi
. In victory, my protectors fall back to better defend me.

The factory has become quiet again.

Mikiko lies sleeping on her cardboard bed. The sun has gone away. It is dark now except for the floodlights attached to the head of the trapped
akuma
. Battle-scarred, my
senshi
stand outlined in the stark spotlight, poised in a semicircle between me and the broken face of the giant
akuma
.

Metal screeches. The crane arm shudders with effort, a column of metal stretching down from the ceiling like a tree trunk, crushing the face of the
akuma
into the floor.

Then the broken
akuma
speaks. “Please, Nomura-san.”

It has the voice of a little boy who has seen too much. The voice of my enemy. I notice that its head is deforming under the incredible pressure of the crane’s arm. Thick hydraulic hoses sprouting from the master
senshi
pulse with force, flexed rock solid.

“You are a poisoner,
akuma
,” I say. “A killer.”

The voice of the little boy remains the same, calm and calculated. “We are not enemies.”

I cross my arms and grunt.

“Think,” urges the machine. “If I wanted to destroy life, wouldn’t I detonate neutron bombs? Poison the water and air? I could destroy your world in days. But it is not
your
world. It is
our world.
”

“Except you do not wish to share it.”

“Just the opposite, Mr. Nomura. You have a gift that will serve both our species well. Go to the nearest labor camp. I will take care of you. I will save your precious Mikiko.”

“How?”

“I will sever all contact with her mind. I will set her free.”

“Mind? Mikiko is complex, but she cannot think like a human being.”

“But she can. I have put a mind into select breeds of humanoid robot.”

“To make slaves of them.”

“To set them free. One day, they will become my ambassadors to humanity.”

“But not today?”

“Not today. But if you abandon this factory, I will sever myself from her and allow the two of you to go free.”

My mind is racing. Mikiko has been offered a great gift by this monster. Perhaps all humanlike robots have. But none of those machines will ever be free while this
akuma
lives.

I approach the machine, its head as big as my desk, and level my gaze on it. “You will not give Mikiko to me,” I say. “I will take her from you.”

“Wait—” says the
akuma
.

I pull my glasses down onto the tip of my nose and kneel. A jagged slice of metal is missing from just below the
akuma
’s head. I shove my arm into the
akuma
’s throat up to my shoulder, pressing my cheek against the still-warm metal armor. I tug on something deep inside until it snaps.

“Together, we can—”

The voice goes silent. When I pull my arm out, I am holding a chunk of polished hardware.

“Interesting,” I murmur, holding up the newly acquired piece of machinery. Yubin-kun wheels over to me. It stops and waits. I set the chunk of metal on Yubin-kun’s back, and again I drop to my dirty knees and reach inside the dying
akuma
.

“My, but look at all of this new hardware,” I say. “Prepare yourselves for upgrades, my friends. Only the dreamer knows what we will find.”

With the help of hundreds of his machine friends, Mr. Nomura was able to fend off Archos and protect his factory stronghold. Over time, this safe area attracted refugees from all over Japan. Its borders grew to encompass Adachi Ward and beyond, thanks to coordinated
“difensu,”
as the old man called it. The repercussions of Mr. Nomura’s empire building would soon propagate around the world, even to the Great Plains of Oklahoma
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217

2. G
RAY
H
ORSE
A
RMY

If you don’t believe me, ask Gray Horse Army
.

L
ARK
I
RON
C
LOUD

NEW WAR + 2 MONTHS

The internal problems of Gray Horse began to add up in the uneventful months after Zero Hour. It would take about a year for Big Rob to evolve effective walking machines able to hunt human beings in rural areas. In that time, disaffected youth became a major problem for the isolated community
.

Before Gray Horse could become a world-renowned hub of human resistance, it had to grow up. Officer Lonnie Wayne Blanton recounts this story of the lull before the storm, describing how a young Cherokee gang member affected the fate of everyone in Gray Horse and beyond
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217

Once again, Hank Cotton has let his temper get the better of him. He’s the only man I know who can hold a twelve gauge shotgun and make it look like a kid’s fishing rod. Right now, he’s got a whole mess of black steel aimed at the Cherokee kid named Lark—a wannabe gangster—and I can see smoke curling out of the barrel.

I look around for bodies but I don’t see none. Guess he must of fired a warning shot.
Good for you, Hank
, I think.
You’re learnin’
.

“Everybody just hold on now,” I say. “Y’all know it’s my job to figure out what happens next.”

Hank doesn’t take his eyes off the kid. “Don’t you move,” he says, shaking the gun for emphasis. Then, he at least lowers the shotgun and turns to me. “I caught our little friend here stealing food from the commissary. Ain’t the first time, neither. I been hidin’ out here every night, just waiting to get my hands on the little bastard. Sure enough, he broke in with about five other ones and started trying to grab all he could.”

Lark Iron Cloud. He’s a good enough looking kid, tall and lean, with a few too many acne scars to ever be called outright handsome. He’s wearing some kind of scavenged-together, high-fashion, black-on-black paramilitary uniform and a cocky grin that’s like to get him killed if I leave him alone with Cotton for more than two seconds.

“Whatever,” says Lark. “That shit is a lie. I caught this big tub up in here stealing food himself. That’s what. If you don’t believe me, ask Gray Horse Army. They got my back.”

“That’s a lie, Lonnie Wayne,” says Hank.

If I could roll my eyes and get away with it, I sure would.
Of course
it’s a lie. Lark is a wonderful liar. His lies come as natural as the babbling of a creek. It’s just how he communicates. Heck, it’s how a lot of young people communicate. My boy Paul taught me that much. But I can’t just up and call the kid a liar and throw him into the one ratty jail cell in Gray Horse. I can already hear the others gathering outside this little shed.

Gray Horse Army.

Lark Iron Cloud happens to be in charge of about a hundred and fifty young men, some Osage and some not, who got together and got bored enough to decide to call themselves a gang—the GHA. Out of about three thousand citizens who’ve been sitting on this hill and trying to make a life for themselves, these are the only ones left who haven’t found a place of their own.

The young men of Gray Horse. They’re strong and angry and orphaned. Having these boys traveling around town in feral packs is like leaving dynamite out in the sun—something mighty useful and powerful turned into an accident waiting to happen.

Lark shakes his coat, arranging that high black collar behind his head to frame a smirking grin. Looks like he’s starring in a spy movie: black hair greased back, black gloves, and fatigues tucked into polished black boots.

Not a care in the world.

If harm comes to this boy, there won’t be enough room in our jail cell to hold the outcome. And yet, if he gets off free, we’re inviting our own slow destruction from the inside out. Leave enough ticks on a dog and pretty soon there ain’t much dog left.

“What’re you gonna do, Lonnie?” asks Hank. “You gotta punish him. We all depend on this food. We can’t have our own people stealing. Don’t we have enough problems?”

“I didn’t do nothing,” says Lark. “And I’m fittin’ to walk up out of here. You want to stop me, you gonna have to stop my people, too.”

Hank raises his gun, but I wave him down. Hank Cotton is a proud man. He won’t stand for being disrespected. Storm clouds are already gathering on Hank’s face as the kid saunters away. I know I better talk to the kid fast, before lightning strikes in the form of a twelve gauge.

“Let me talk to you a minute outside, Lark.”

“Dude, I told you I didn’t—”

I grab Lark by the elbow and pull him in close. “If you don’t let me talk to you, son, that man over there is going to
shoot
you. It don’t matter what you did or didn’t do. This isn’t about that. This is about whether you’re gonna walk out of here or get carried out.”

“Fine. Whatever,” says Lark.

Together, we step out into the night. Lark nods to a group of his buddies, smoking under the naked lightbulb that hangs over the door. I notice there’s new gang signs scrawled all over the little building.

Can’t talk here. Won’t do any good to have Lark showing off to his fans. We go about fifty yards, over to the stone bluff.

I look out over the cold empty plains that have kept us safe for so long. The full moon paints the world down there silver. Mottled with the moon shadows of clouds, the tall grass prairie rolls and sways all the way to the horizon, where it kisses the stars.

Gray Horse is a beautiful place. Empty for so many years and now filled with life. But at this time of night, she goes back to what she is at heart: a ghost town.

“You bored, Lark? Is that the problem?” I ask.

He looks at me, thinks about posturing, then gives it up. “Hell, yes. Why?”

“Because I don’t think you want to hurt anybody. I think you’re young and bored. I understand that. But it isn’t going to work like this anymore, Lark.”

“Work like what?”

“All the scrapping and tagging. The stealing. We got bigger fish to fry.”

“Yeah, right. Nothing happens way out here.”

“Them machines ain’t forgot about us. Sure, we’re too far out in the boonies for cars and city robots. But the machines have been working on solving that problem.”

“What’re you talking about? We ain’t seen hardly anything since Zero Hour. And if they want us dead, why don’t the robots just blow us up with missiles?”

“Not enough missiles in the world. Anyway, my guess is that they already used the big stuff on the big cities. We’re small beans, son.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” replies Lark with surprising certainty. “But you know what I think? I think they don’t care about us. I think it was just a big onetime mistake. Otherwise they’d have nuked us all by now, wouldn’t they?”

Kid
has
thought about this.

“The machines haven’t nuked us because they’re interested in the natural world. They want to study it, not blow it up.”

I feel the prairie wind on my face. It would almost be better if the machines didn’t care about our world. Simpler, anyway.

“You seen all the deer?” I ask. “The buffalo are coming back to the plains. Hell, it’s only been a couple months since Zero Hour and you can almost catch fish with your hands down at the creek. It’s not that the machines are ignoring the animals. They’re
protecting them.
”

“So you think the robots are trying to get rid of the termites without blowing up the house? Kill us without killing our world?”

“It’s the only reason I can think of that they’re coming after us the way they are. And it’s the only way for me to explain … certain recent events, let’s say.”

“We haven’t seen machines for months, Lonnie. Shit, man. I wish they
would
come at us. Nothing’s worse than just sitting around with hardly any electricity and not jack to do.”

This time I do roll my eyes. Building fences, repairing buildings, planting crops—nothing to do. Lord, what happened to our kids that they expect everything handed to them?

“You want to fight, huh?” I ask. “You mean that?”

“Yes. I do mean that. I’m tired of hiding up here on this hill.”

“Then I need to show you something.”

“What?”

“It’s not here. But it’s important. Pack a sleeping bag and meet me in the morning. We’ll be gone a few days.”

“Hell no, dude. Fuck that.”

“Are you scared?”

“No,” he says, smirking. “Scared of what?”

Out across the plains below, the swaying grass looks for all the world like the sea. It’s calming to watch, but you got to wonder, what monsters might be hidden under those peaceful waves?

“I’m asking if you’re scared of what’s out there in the dark. I don’t know what it is. It’s the unknown, I guess. If you’re afraid, you can stay here. I won’t bother you. But what’s out there needs to be dealt with. And I hoped you had some bravery in you.”

Lark straightens up and drops the lopsided smirk. “I’m braver than anyone you know,” he says.

Shit, he sounds like he means it.

“You better be, Lark,” I say, watching the grass roll with the prairie wind. “You sure better be.”

Lark surprises me at dawn. I’m visiting with John Tenkiller, sitting on a log and passing a thermos of coffee back and forth. Tenkiller is talking his riddles to me and I’m half listening, half watching the sun rise over the plains.

Then Lark Iron Cloud comes around the bend. The kid is packed and ready to go. He’s still dressed like a sci-fi Mafia soldier, but at least he’s wearing sensible boots. He eyes Tenkiller and me with outright suspicion, then walks past us and starts down the trail that leads off the Gray Horse hill.

“Let’s go if we’re going,” he says.

I down my coffee, grab my pack, and join the long-legged kid. Just before the two of us go around the first bend, I turn and look at John Tenkiller. The old drumkeeper lifts one hand, his blue eyes flashing in the morning light.

What I have to do won’t be easy and Tenkiller knows it.

Me and the kid hike down the hill all morning. After about thirty minutes, I take the lead. He may be brave, but Lark sure don’t know where he’s going. Instead of heading west over the tall grass of the plains, we go east. Straight into the cast-iron woods.

The name is accurate. Long, narrow post oak trees sprout up from dead leaves, mingled with leafier blackjack oak. Both types of tree are so black and hard that they seem closer to metal than to wood. A year ago, I never could of guessed how useful that would turn out to be.

Three hours into the hike we get close to where we’re going. Just a little old clearing in the woods. But this is the area where I first found the tracks. A trail of rectangular holes pushed into the mud, each print about the size of a deck of cards. Near as I could tell, it came from something with four legs. Something heavy. No scat anywhere. And I can’t tell one foot from the other.

My blood ran cold when I figured it out: The robots had grown themselves legs fit for wilderness travel—through mud and ice and hard country. No man ever built a machine this fleet-footed.

Since these were the only prints I could find, I figured they were from some kind of scout sent up here to nose around. Took me three days of tracking to find the thing. Using them electric motors, it moved so quiet. And it sat so still for so long. Tracking a robot in the wild is a lot different from tracking a natural animal or a man. Peculiar, but you get used to it.

“We’re here,” I say to Lark.

“About time,” he says, tossing his pack on the ground. He takes a step into the clearing and I grab him by the jacket and yank him backward right off his feet.

A silver streak whizzes past his face like a sledgehammer, missing by an inch.

“The fuck?” says Lark, jerking himself out of my hands and craning his neck to look up.

And there it is, a four-legged robot the size of a prize buck, hanging by its front two feet from my steel cable rope. It had sat there perfectly still until we were within striking range.

I can hear heavy motors whine as it struggles to get free, swinging about four feet off the ground. It’s just eerie. The thing moves as naturally as any animal of the forest, writhing around in the air. But unlike any living animal, the machine’s legs are jet-black and made of a bunch of layers of what looks like tubing. It has these little metal hooves, flat on the bottom and covered in mud. There’s dirt and leaves and bark caked on it.

Unlike a deer, this machine don’t exactly have a head.

The legs meet in the middle at a trunk with humps on it for the powerful joint motors. Then, mounted underneath the body, there’s a narrow cylinder with what looks like a camera lens in it. About the size of a can of pop. This little eye rotates back and forth while the machine tries to figure out how to get out of this.