Apocalypse Machine

by Robinson, Jeremy

  As though sensing my brazen contempt, the massive eye shifts forward, and the Machine takes a step, toward the park.

  Toward humanity’s undoing.

  I turn to the cockpit and shout, “Get us down there! Now!”

  43

  My stomach lurches when the Osprey shifts back to vertical flight. The change in momentum feels like a fast-moving elevator that travels front to back and side to side, in addition to up and down. But it’s not just the movement making me uncomfortable, it’s the knowledge that I’m about to return to a living landscape that I had hoped to never see again, let alone set foot on.

  But the visit will be short this time. The plan is simple, the way good plans are.

  Get the bomb into position.

  Lock it down.

  Run away.

  Then we will set off the bomb from a safe distance. The explosion will take place in two stages: a very specific and not even very powerful electrical charge, triggering the nanobots’ dormant state, and then a nuclear blast to eradicate them and keep the robotic cells from reforming the Machine. It’s a theoretical and completely untested weapon. It could have no more effect than all the other nuclear warheads thrown at the monster since it emerged from the volcanic depths of Iceland. But we have to try.

  Graham steps away from the cockpit, relaying a message from the pilots. His voice comes in clear through the comms built into the tactical helmets we’re all wearing. The visors can provide night vision if needed, and display tags for every member of the team. Even in complete darkness, we wouldn’t lose each other. The rest of our gear is a mix of radiation blocking armor, weapons and survival gear, should one of us be separated and be forced to abandon ship using the parachutes built into the armor’s back. We also have facemasks and an hour-long air supply, though we should only be out there for a few minutes tops. “Touch down in sixty seconds. We will have thirty to unload. They’ll pick us up when we call it in.”

  “All right,” Ike says, his voice somehow more masculine and commanding than I’ve yet heard. But I’ve never seen him in action. In his element. “Circle up!”

  Edwards, Felder and Gutshall are on their feet, unsteady as the Osprey descends, but showing no fear. They link arms around shoulders, waiting for the rest of us. Graham is the next to join the incomplete circle, perhaps recognizing what I’m guessing is some kind of pre-mission ritual. Mayer follows his lead, and I’m the last to join. I’ve never played sports. Never taken part in a huddle, or even stood on a football field. So this feels foreign. It’s somehow intimate and powerful at the same time. And then it’s something else entirely.

  “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.” Ike’s words catch me off guard. I’d always assumed he would take after his mother and me, but as the words slip from his mouth with the earnestness of a true believer, I see that I was wrong.

  Edwards, Felder and Gutshall join him at, “Thy kingdom come,” and then Graham chimes in with, “Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.” Mayer remains silent, but her eyes are closed. She might not know the words, but she understands the meaning of this moment, and the bond being forged between soldiers and with, perhaps, God.

  Memories of dinners past, seated around the kitchen table with Mina, Ishah and Ike, listening to the musical cadence of Bell’s voice reciting the prayer, return. I smile and join in, finding comfort in the words. “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

  The group separates, and Gutshall shouts out, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will kick evil straight in the fuckin’ nuts!”

  “Hooah,” Edwards and Felder shout in response.

  Graham once explained the various military shouts to me. While they all mean basically the same thing—heard, understood, and acknowledged—‘Hoorah’ was used by the Air Force, ‘Oorah’ belonged to the Marines, ‘Hooyah’ was preferred by the Navy and ‘Hooah,’ as we’ve just heard, was used by the Army, to whom the Rangers belonged. That said, the Rangers generally avoided using the term, in part because it revealed their higher standards of conduct and skills, including with language, but also because the movie Black Hawk Down so overused the term that every Ranger who saw the film stopped using it out of embarrassment. So I’m a little surprised when Graham offers a hearty, “Hooah!” as well, before pushing the button for the rear hatch. “Visors down, masks on!”

  I pull my visor down, activating the display. I see small sword icons appear over the others’ helmets, each followed by a callsign. Ike’s is ‘Ehud,’ whatever that means. Graham’s says ‘Supernatural.’ Mayer’s reads ‘Mossad.’ I tap Felder’s arm, whose name is displayed as ‘Night Terror,’ and I point to my helmet. “What’s this say?”

  He chuckles. “‘Science Guy.’ Not very intimidating.”

  I catch Graham smiling before he puts his facemask on, and I have to do the same. Bastid.

  The Osprey’s rear door lowers to reveal a chaotic, hellish world. The rough terrain of the Machine’s back is nearly how I remember it, but it’s now covered in large lumps, like growths or tumors the size of mini-cars. Rain whips across the surface, propelled by swirling winds. Vast networks of puddles reflect the turbulent sky and the lighting streaking across it.

  For a brief moment, the team looks out at this otherworldly landscape, frozen by its strange violence. In the next moment, it’s falling away below us. The illusion is that we’ve just ascended several hundred feet, but we haven’t moved; the Machine has. With each step, the Machine’s body shifts from side to side and up and down. I remember the roller coaster-like feel from Graham’s and my previous visit. And I prepped the team for this possibility.

  “Get ready!” I shout, bracing myself at the end of the ramp. I cling to a rung in the ceiling as wind and rain slap against me, trying to peel me away.

  The terrain rises up below us.

  When it’s ten feet away and slowing, I shout, “Go, go, go!” Then, I leap from the ramp. By the time my feet touch down, the vast back has nearly stopped rising. The impact is still enough to buckle my knees. But I now know how to take a hit. I roll back to my feet, vaulting away to make space for the others. They each run to the side, allowing Edwards to drive the ATV onto the Machine, just as the ramp comes in contact with the surface. While the vehicle could have managed the jump, jarring a nuclear bomb isn’t a great idea. There’s no risk of it accidentally detonating, but damaging it could certainly prevent it from functioning.

  We regroup and start moving, as the Osprey lifts away from the shifting landscape.

  “Where to?” Edwards asks.

  I search the area, looking for a break in the plates. Ishah and I determined they would be the best place to secure the bomb, and a logical weak spot, making the device more effective. I spot the rise a few hundred yards away and strike out for it. “This way!” I want to run and get this over quick, but I’m still adjusting to the moving terrain.

  How fast is it walking? I wonder.

  It won’t be long before it reaches the Yellowstone caldera, and all that pressure... The explosive force released might not affect the Machine, but the sound alone will be loud enough to liquefy our brains and end our lives, long before we realize it’s happening.

  I motion to Edwards and wave him on. “We’ll be right behind you.” The ATV has no trouble handling the rising and falling landscape, and Edwards heads for the fault line ahead of us.

  “What the hell?” Felder says. I glance back and find him following us, but walking backward. He’s got his XM25 assault rifle, equipped with explosive rounds, aimed back at something.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Thought I saw something moving,” he says.

  Darkness is settling over the landscape as the now setting sun is all but blocked by the thick clouds. Lightnin
g carves across the sky, lighting the Machine’s back for miles around. At first I don’t see it, but then I catch a glimmer of movement.

  It’s the lumps.

  “Abraham,” Graham says, his voice a chilling warning. “It’s the Crawlers. They’ve grown up.”

  Flickering light blooms beneath several of the creatures, illuminating the ground around them in hues of orange and red. One by one, more of the creatures stir and blink on. Legs slide out from the rough, rounded shells, scratching across the Machine’s surface, as though irritated. They flex and stretch, popping the shells into separate plates, elongating their rounded bodies into something shaped more like a merger between a lion and a scorpion. The nearest Crawler snaps open its six-pronged mandibles at us and lets out a squeal.

  All across the landscape, behind and ahead of us, lights blink on.

  “We’ll cover you,” Graham says. “Get the bomb into position!”

  “Ike,” I say. “With me!”

  I can tell he wants to stay and fight, but activating the weapon is his job. Once the bomb is locked down, he needs to turn it on.

  I turn for Edwards, still a hundred yards ahead of us, when the Machine reaches the bottom of its stride and starts rising back up. The added pressure beneath my twisting boot makes it catch. I stumble back, fall and catch myself. The initial fall probably looked clumsy, but my recovery was graceful.

  “You okay?” I hear Ike ask, but I don’t reply.

  My fingers feel cold.

  Not just cold, wet.

  I look at the digits, the white tips exposed at the ends of my fingerless black gloves. My hands are submerged in a puddle, making direct contact with the Machine’s shell.

  “Aww, shit,” I say, before losing consciousness.

  44

  Barren brown stone stretches out around me. It looks like Arches National Park, sans the arches. There’s no life here. I can feel it. I can taste it. This is how I’ve pictured Mars, devoid of even a hint of life. On Earth, organic material litters everything, adding flavor, even in the remotest locations, whether still living or long decayed.

  My mind has been kidnapped once again, thrust into a vision. Communion with the Devil himself. I should feel afraid, but I feel nothing, as empty as the landscape.

  “Your future denied.”

  I spin around toward the deep voice and find more rocky terrain.

  My future? I wonder, looking at the emptiness. But that doesn’t feel right. It’s not talking about me. This is Earth’s future. Or was.

  “This is what you were preventing? This is why you had to wipe out the human race?” I turn in circles, addressing the emptiness.

  When I receive no reply, I try to control the vision, to reform it. But this is still not a lucid dream. I’m not in control here.

  “You are not in control, anywhere.”

  The voice is right behind me. I turn with a gasp.

  Nothing.

  A light twinkles in the distance, flickering in the light of a sun that does not exist here. And yet there is daylight. And blue sky.

  Because this isn’t real, I think, eyes still on the blinking light, beckoning me forward.

  I’m halfway there when I realize I’m walking. When did I start walking? I don’t remember deciding to start.

  Control, I think. I’m not in control. I’m just along for the ride.

  “Your will is free,” the voice says, and this time I don’t bother looking for its source. “There are choices to make.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To walk with you.”

  “I don’t see you.” I look back and forth, wondering if the black figure from my previous visions is going to make an appearance. “You’re not here.”

  “I am.”

  “Then show yourself, Machine,” I shout. “Speak to me plainly. Tell me what you need. Tell me how to save my people. My family.”

  I scuffle to a stop, somehow crossing the great distance to the flickering light in just a few steps. A lump of stone juts from the ground. Beneath its shadow is a cave entrance, blocked by a door. A key, looped around a twine cord, dangles from the knob, glinting light with no source. It’s shiny, gold and new. Completely out of place in this primal, lifeless place.

  “Life is not yours to give or take,” the voice says.

  This statement riles something inside me. I scoff and say, “And it’s yours?”

  “YES.” The reply booms across the land, shaking the solid stone beneath my feet.

  I wait for more, but an all-consuming silence follows. Minutes pass, and my impatience grows. The key taunts me.

  “Fine,” I grumble, taking the key and unlocking the door, making a show of my reluctance. “Let’s walk.”

  The door opens to reveal a long, dimly lit tunnel carved into the stone. A smooth, stone staircase leads down. I look for the light source, but see none. It’s like looking at a movie. The scene is lit, but you can’t see the source.

  It’s not real, I remind myself, and I start down the stairs. “You usually don’t make me do this much work when we talk.” The echo of my voice is the only reply.

  The staircase appears to stretch on forever, but I find myself at the bottom three steps later. The cave opens up into a tall cavern. The walls look like vertical waves frozen in time, like a photograph of a curvaceous woman dancing, intercut by horizontal lines of strata. Beams of light stab down through holes in the ceiling, illuminating airborne dust and a single figure seated at the center of the cave.

  The hooded man’s back is to me, all features hidden by a black cloak.

  “Here you are,” I say, and I realize my mistake without being told. The black figure from my previous visions was impossible to look at directly. And its body seemed almost immaterial. Flowing. Like smoke. This person looks very solid and present. I rephrase the sentence. “Who are you?”

  “The first born.” It’s the formless voice still speaking to me, not the figure.

  “What are you?” I ask.

  “An offering.”

  I point at the cloaked figure. “I wasn’t speaking to him.”

  “Expiation.”

  The word throws me for a moment. It was uncommon in the world before, and one I’ve certainly not heard in the past fifteen years. It takes me a moment to delve into my former life as a writer and recall the word’s meaning. “Atonement. For what?”

  But there is no answer. None is needed. I get it. “Because this is what we would have made of the world. Lifeless nothing.”

  “And yet you still expect to inherit it. To claim it. To take it.”

  Oh, shit, I think. It knows why we’re here. Why I’ve returned. Of course it does. It can probably see all my thoughts. What we’re doing. What the plan is. Is it offering expiation because it fears the plan will work? Or is it genuinely giving us—giving me—a chance to show we’ve changed our destructive ways? Could triggering the bomb doom us, or set us free? Is my response, here and now, the litmus test for the human race?

  “Make your choice,” the voice says.

  I consider the options, weighing the odds of our mission’s success against the odds that its offer is an honest one. Would a creature as ancient and powerful as this resort to lying or trickery? And what about our previous encounters? It showed me a future with my family, and I have seen the first generation of them with my own eyes. But how did it know I would survive? That they would survive? Coincidence or grand scheme? Why bother communicating at all? If its purpose truly is the complete eradication of mankind, the only reason to speak to me would be if it derived some kind of sadistic pleasure from my confusion. But again, that doesn’t make sense.

  “I’ll do it,” I say, choosing what I think is the right path. Deep down, beyond my concerns for the people I adore, there is a scientist who knows that the world was dying, that humanity was responsible for the sixth great extinction, and who understands how the Machine’s actions have already spared the planet from the fate I’ve been shown.


  “I’ll do it,” I say again. “Sacrifice.”

  “Look upon the offering.”

  I step around the seated figure, giving it a wide berth, not fully trusting the Machine, despite it providing a chance for redemption. Could it really be that benevolent? After destroying nearly all of humanity and replacing us with new life, could the Machine be willing to give us another shot, based on my actions? Granted, I’m pretty sure I’m the only human being it’s come into direct contact with on multiple occasions. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised it’s deemed me the sole representative of homo sapiens. What other choices does it have?

  Standing in front of the hooded figure, I still can’t see his face.

  “If you’re screwing with me...” I don’t complete the threat. It’s hollow, and the Machine surely knows that, even more than I do.

  I reach out, pinching the loose hood between my index finger and thumb. The fabric is rough, and cold. With a flick of my wrist, I flip the hood up and over the shaved head.

  “No,” I say, stumbling back and falling onto my ass. “No, God damnit.”

  The man staring back to me, with striking Asian features and dark brown eyes, is my son, Ike. The wound on his cheek is a scar, like it was in the first vision, matching the wound now on his cheek.

  How did it know?

  “How did you know!”

  Darkness flows down from the ceiling, flowing behind Ike. I divert my eyes as though staring into the sun itself, watching the flowing darkness spread out behind my son, dark tendrils wrapping around him, claiming him.

  “Expiation,” the Machine’s spirit says. “Make your choice.”

  The darkness surges at me. A black hand wraps around my face, shoving me down onto my back. It shouts again, in time with impact. “Eligo!”

  I jolt upright and am accosted by peals of thunder, stinging rain, the pounding of firing weapons and screaming voices. In the distance, I see Ike, hunched over the bomb, setting it to explode. Edwards is already running back toward me, and the others are now fully engaged with grown-up Crawlers.