Robopocalypse (26 page)

Why didn’t the stumper trigger?

Lark is yelling again from somewhere up ahead, hoarse this time. I can also hear Jack barking short commands. Lonnie turns his head and motions to his bodyguard. But before he can go, I wrap my hand around the smooth metal shaft of Lonnie’s stilt leg.

“Lonnie,” I say, “stay back where it’s safe, man. You’re not supposed to put your general in the front line.”

“I hear ya,” says the grizzled old man. “But, hell, kid, it’s the cowboy way. The buck’s gotta stop somewhere.” He cocks the shotgun and ejects a spent cartridge, pulls his hat down, and nods. Then, fluid in the stiltlike tall walker, he turns and leaps over the six-foot-tall grass.

“C’mon!” I shout to the squad. We rush forward over the crumpled grass, striving to keep up with Lonnie. As we go, we see corpses through the stalks and, even worse, the ones who are alive and wounded, ashen-faced and mouths murmuring in prayer.

I put my head down and keep going. Got to catch up with Jack. He’ll help us.

I’m moving fast, spitting grass out of my mouth and concentrating on keeping up with the damp spot between Cherrah’s shoulder blades, when we burst into a clearing.

Some serious shit has gone down here.

For roughly a thirty-meter circle, the grass is trampled to mud and the field gouged up in huge chunks. There is only a split second to take in the scene before I throw my arms around Cherrah and tackle her to the ground. She falls on top of me, the butt of her gun driving all the air out of my lungs. But the foot of the spider tank whizzes past her head without knocking her brains out.

Houdini
’s legs are covered in stumpers. The tank is leaping around like a bucking bronco. Lark and Jack are both on top, teeth gritted, hanging on for dear life. Hardly any of the stumpers have fallen off; dozens of them are embedded in the belly net, and others are tenaciously climbing the flanks of the armored walker.

Jack is hunched over, trying to untie Lark from something. The kid’s gotten tangled up in his guide rope. Lonnie and his two guards nimbly leap around the bucking monster on their tall walkers, but they can’t get to a good spot to shoot.

“Y’all jump off!” shouts Lonnie.

The tank careens past, and in a flash I see that Lark’s forearm is twisted under the rope. Jack can’t get him free with all the bucking and heaving. If the spider tank were to sit still though, even for a second, the stumpers would climb on top. Lark is shouting and cursing and crying a little bit, but he can’t get free.

He shouldn’t worry. We all know that Jack won’t leave him behind. The word
abandon
just isn’t in a hero’s vocabulary.

Watching the stumpers, I notice they’re clustered on the knee joints of the tank. A thought tickles the back of my head.
Why don’t the stumpers detonate?
And the answer squirms into reach.
Heat
. Those joints are warm from all the jumping around. The little bastards don’t trigger until they reach someplace hot.

They’re looking for skin temperature
.

“Lonnie!” I wave my arms to get his attention. The old man spins around and crouches his tall walker near me. He cups his ear with one hand and with the other dabs his forehead with a white hankie.

“They go for the heat, Lonnie,” I shout. “We’ve got to start a fire.”

“Start a fire and it won’t stop,” he says. “Might kill our stock.”

“It’s that or Lark dies. Maybe we all die.”

Lonnie looks down on me, deep creases in his face. His eyes are watery blue and serious. Then he sets his shotgun into the crook of his elbow and digs into the watch pocket of his jeans. I hear a metallic clink and an antique Zippo lighter drops right into my hand. A double R symbol is painted on the side, along with the words “King of the Cowboys.”

“Let old Roy Rogers help ya out,” says Lonnie Wayne, face breaking into a gap-toothed smile.

“How old is this thing?” I ask, but when I flip the thumb wheel, a strong flame spurts from the top. Lonnie has already wheeled his tall walker around and he’s corralling the rest of the squad while avoiding the out-of-control spider tank.

“Burn it, burn it, burn it all down!” shouts Lonnie Wayne. “That’s all we got left, boys! No choice.”

I toss the lighter into the grass, and within seconds a raging fire begins to grow. The squad retreats to the other side of the clearing and we watch as, one by one, the stumpers drop off the spider tank. In that same idiotic clambering motion, they jounce over the chewed-up ground toward the sheet of flames.

Finally,
Houdini
stops bucking. On groaning, overheated motors, the huge machine settles down. I see my brother’s hand silhouetted against the sky. Thumbs-up. Time to go.

Thank you, Jesus
.

Out of nowhere, Cherrah grabs my face with both hands. She pushes her forehead against mine, bopping our helmets together, and smiles wide. Her face is covered in dirt and blood and sweat, but it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. “You done good, Bright Boy,” she says, her breath tickling my lips.

Somehow, my heart is beating faster right now than it has all day.

Then Cherrah and her flashing smile are gone—darted away into the grass for our retreat back to Gray Horse.

One week later, Gray Horse Army heeded Paul Blanton’s call to arms and mustered a force to march on Alaska. Their fearless response likely occurred because none of the soldiers truly understood how close they had come to utter destruction on the Great Plains. Postwar records indicate that the entire battle was recorded in great detail by two squads of military-grade humanoid robots camping two miles outside Gray Horse. Mysteriously, these machines chose to defy Archos’s orders and did not join the battle
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217

4. A
WAKENING

The great
akuma
will not rest until I am gone
.

T
AKEO
N
OMURA

NEW WAR + 1 YEAR,
4 MONTHS

Relying on incredible engineering skills and rather odd viewpoints regarding human-robot relations, Takeo Nomura managed to build Adachi Castle in the year after Zero Hour. Nomura carved this human safe zone into the heart of Tokyo with no outside help. From here he saved thousands of lives and made his final, vital contribution to the New War
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217

At long last, my queen opens her eyes.

“Anata,”
she says, lying on her back and looking up into my face. You.

“You,” I whisper.

I imagined this moment many times as I marched across the dark factory floor, fighting against the endless attacks that came from outside my castle walls. Always I wondered whether I would be afraid of her, after what happened before. But there is no doubt in my voice now. I am not afraid. I smile and then smile wider to see my happiness reflected in her features.

Her face was still for so long. Her voice silenced.

A tear tickles my cheek and drops from my face. She feels it and wipes it away, eyes focusing on mine. I notice again that the lens of her right eye is spiderwebbed with thin cracks. A melted patch of skin mars the right side of her head. There is nothing I can do to fix it. Not until I find the right part.

“I missed you,” I say.

Mikiko is silent for a moment. She looks past me, at the curved metal ceiling that soars thirty meters above. Perhaps she is confused. The factory has changed so much since the New War began.

It is an architecture of necessity. Over the years, my factory
senshi
worked ceaselessly to rivet together a defensive shell. The outermost layers are a complicated array of junk: scraps of metal, jutting poles, and crushed plastic. It forms a labyrinth built to confuse the swarms of small, wriggling
akuma
that constantly try to creep inside.

Monstrous steel beams line the ceiling like the rib cage of a whale. These were built to stop the greater
akuma
—like the talking one that died here at the beginning of the war. It gave me the secret to awakening Mikiko, but it also nearly destroyed my castle.

The scrap metal throne was not my idea. After a few months, people began to arrive. Many millions of my countrymen were led out into the country and slaughtered. They trusted too much in the machines and went willingly to their destruction. But others came to me. The people without so much trust, those with an instinct for survival, found me naturally.

And I could not turn the survivors away. They crouched on my factory floor as
akuma
beat down the walls again and again. My loyal
senshi
wheeled across the broken concrete to protect us. After each attack, we all worked together to defend ourselves from the next.

Broken concrete became metal-riveted floors, polished and gleaming. My old workbench became a throne set atop a dais with twenty-two steps leading to the top. An old man became an emperor.

Mikiko focuses on me.

“I am alive,” she says.

“Yes.”

“Why am I alive?”

“Because the great
akuma
gave you the breath of life. The
akuma
thought that this meant you belonged to him. But he was wrong. You belong to no one. I set you free.”

“Takeo. There are others like me. Tens of thousands.”

“Yes, humanoid machines are everywhere. But I do not care for them. I care for you.”

“I … remember you. So many years. Why?”

“Everything has a mind. You have a good mind. You always did.”

Mikiko hugs me, tight. Her smooth plastic lips brush against my throat. Her arms are weak but I can feel that she puts her full strength into this embrace.

Then she stiffens.

“Takeo,” she says. “We are in danger.”

“Always.”

“No. The
akuma
. It will fear what you’ve done. It will be afraid that more of us will awaken. It will attack at once.”

And indeed, I hear the first hollow thud against the outer battlements. I let go of Mikiko and look down the stairs of the dais. The factory floor—what my people call the throne room—has filled with concerned citizens. They stand in groups of two or three, whispering to each other and politely not looking up the steps to Mikiko and me.

My rolling arms—the
senshi
—have already gathered in a defensive formation around the vulnerable humans. Overhead, the master
senshi
, a massive bridge crane, has silently rolled into position over the throne. Its two mighty arms hang in the air, poised to defend the battle floor.

Once again, we are under attack.

I rush to the bank of video monitors that ring the throne and see only static. The
akuma
have blinded me to the attack outside. They have never been able to do this before.

This time I feel the attack will not end. I have finally gone too far. Living here is one thing. But to compromise the entire humanoid portion of the
akuma
army? The great
akuma
will not rest until I am gone—until my secret is crushed where it lies inside my fragile skull.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The rhythmic beating seems to come from everywhere. The
akuma
are relentlessly battering through our meters-thick defensive fortifications. Each soft thud we hear is the equivalent of a bomb exploding outside. I think back on my moat and chuckle to myself. How much has changed since those early times.

I look down onto the battle floor. My people are cowered there, afraid and helpless to stop the coming slaughter. My people. My castle. My queen. All will perish unless the
akuma
regains this horrible secret from me. Logically, there is only one honorable course of action possible now.

“I must stop this attack.”

“Yes,” says Mikiko, “I know.”

“Then you know I must give myself up. The secret of your awakening must die with me. Only then will the
akuma
see that we are not a threat.”

Her laughter sounds like delicate glass shattering.

“Darling Takeo,” she says. “We don’t have to
destroy
the secret. Only share it.”

And then, clad in her cherry blossom dress, Mikiko raises her slender arms. She pulls a long ribbon from her hair and her graying synthetic locks cascade over her shoulders. She closes her eyes and the bridge crane reaches up and plucks a hanging wire from the ceiling. The battle-scarred yellow arm gracefully descends through the open air and drops the metal wire. It flutters down to land in Mikiko’s pale, outstretched fingers.

“Takeo,” she says, “you are not the only one who knows the secret of awakening. I know it also, and I will transmit it to the world, where it may be repeated again and again.”

“How will—”

“If the knowledge is spread, it cannot be stamped out.”

She ties the metal-laced ribbon to the hanging wire. The air is rumbling now from the battle raging outside. The
senshi
wait patiently, green intention lights wavering in the vast gloomy room. It won’t be long now.

My people watch as Mikiko descends the stairs, trailing the stark red ribbon from her hand. Her mouth opens into a pink O, and she begins to sing. Her clear voice echoes across the open factory floor. It bounces from the soaring ceilings and reverberates off the polished metal floor.

The people stop talking, stop searching the walls for intruders, and watch Mikiko. Her song is haunting, beautiful. There are no recognizable words but the speech patterns are unmistakable. She weaves the notes between the muffled explosions and cutting screams of bending metal.

My people huddle together but do not panic as showers of sparks spurt from the ceiling. Chunks of debris rain down. In a sudden movement, the crane arm snatches a jagged piece of falling metal from the air. Still, Mikiko’s voice rings out clear and strong through the crumbling chamber.

I realize that a team of cutting
akuma
have breached the outer defenses. They are not yet visible, but their violence can be heard as it tears through my castle walls. A fan spray of sparks gushes from a wall and a white-hot fissure appears. After several deafening impacts, the softening metal spreads apart to reveal a dark gap.

An enemy machine wriggles through the hole, soot-stained and warped by the heat of some ferocious weapon outside. The
senshi
stand firm, protecting the people as this dirty silver-colored thing tumbles onto the floor.

Mikiko continues her bittersweet song.

The intruder stands, and I see that it is a humanoid robot, heavily armed and marked by battle. The machine was once a weapon deployed by the Japan Self-Defense Forces, but that was long ago and I see many modifications glinting in the frame of this piece of walking death.

Through the destroyed patch of wall I can see the streaks of weapons fire and fleeting shapes as they dart through the war zone. But this humanoid robot, tall and slender and elegant, stands poised—as if it’s waiting for something.

Mikiko’s song ends.

Only then does the attacker move. It strides to the edge of my
senshi
’s defensive perimeter, staying just out of range. The people cower back before this battle-hardened piece of weaponry. My
senshi
stand strong, deadly in their stillness. Song finished, Mikiko stands on the last step at the bottom of the dais. She sees the newcomer and watches it with a puzzled expression on her face. Then she smiles.

“Please,” she says, voice echoing melodically, “speak out loud.”

The dust-coated humanoid machine speaks then in a clicking, grinding voice that is difficult to understand and frightening. “Identification. Arbiter-class humanoid safety and pacification robot. Notify. My squad is twelve. We are under attack. We are alive. Query Emperor Nomura. May we join Adachi Castle? May we join the Tokyo resistance?”

I look at Mikiko in wonder. Her song is already spreading.
What does this mean?

My people look at me for guidance. They do not know what to make of this former enemy who has turned up on our doorstep. But there is no time to talk to people. It takes too much concentration and it is horribly inefficient. Instead, I push my glasses up my nose and grab my toolbox from behind the towering throne.

Toolbox in hand, I scurry down the steps. I squeeze Mikiko’s hand in passing and then push my way past the others. I am whistling as I reach the Arbiter robot, looking forward to the future. Adachi Castle has new friends, you see, and they will certainly need repairs.

Within twenty-four hours, the Awakening spread from Adachi Ward in Tokyo across the world. Mikiko’s song was picked up and retransmitted from humanoid robots of all varieties across every major continent. The Awakening affected only human-shaped robots, such as domestics, safety and pacification units, and related models—a tiny percentage of Archos’s overall force. But with Mikiko’s song began the age of freeborn robots
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217