Even so, it’s too late for him.
Lonnie walks under all those eyes, and I quietly slide off Brutus and follow. Crunching over the hard-packed dirt of the arbor, I give Lonnie his space. Tradition says he can’t speak for himself. A war hero has got to be humble, you see? So it’s up to me to speak for him.
I plan to do a hell of a job.
We reach the elders and stand on the rock before them. Slowed by arthritis, the old cowboy takes off his hat and holds it by the crown.
“We return, little oldman,” says Lonnie. “Our warriors return. The warring is done.”
Then Lonnie kind of bows his head and looks away. I step forward and set my plan in motion. Tenkiller nods to me, solemn.
“Lonnie Wayne here has asked me to speak for him,” I say. “He wanted me to thank you for the support of the community. We went through a lot of hardship out there, but we never forgot who we were suffering for. And it was Lonnie got us through it. He was a great leader, always sure of his actions, never regretful, and it was thanks to him that we defeated the enemy of our people. It was thanks to him that we return, victorious.”
Lonnie puts his hat back on, and in a smooth motion he unbuckles the leather gun holster that hangs low on his hip. With reverence, he slides it off and holds it out in both hands. The big iron is still holstered, a solid couple of pounds of death-dealing metal that’ve been to hell and back, spitting fire the whole time.
It’s a ritual as old as us. A warrior comes home from a victory and hands over the weapon that done it. Hard to explain, but it’s kind of a trophy. All the souls of the dead and vanquished are on that blade or gun or spear. Going back in time, all the way. Every soul is like a notch in the metal that you can’t take back. It’s an honor to cede to the chief, but I’m thinking that our enemies had no souls. There ain’t nothing lingering on that pistol but the blood of our own brothers and sisters. Ours were the only lives lost, the only souls taken.
“General Lonnie Wayne Blanton,” says Tenkiller, and I swear his eyes are glowing electric blue. “You are the savior of our people. You led our warriors through the hellscape. You brought the survivors home. You have our thanks.”
Now, says Arayt. Make your move right now.
Tenkiller holds up the weapon in both hands, continues the ritual.
“In the time of Creation, the People of the Sky met the People of the Land. They joined together in strength to form the Children of the Middle Waters. Wha-Zha-Zhe.”
The spooklight is surging with warmth. Without having made the decision, I raise my voice and interrupt Tenkiller’s speech.
“Lonnie does have our thanks,” I say, speaking over the old man. “But there are others who also deserve our gratitude.”
Lonnie looks at me with disbelief.
Tenkiller trails off from his incantation, confused. The other two elders are watching me, shrewd. Gears are turning in their heads. They may be old and they may be religious, but they’re all politicians at heart.
“What the heck are you doing, Hank?” whispers Lonnie.
It’s a serious breach of decorum, you could say.
My guts are quivering. But that spooklight is chattering to me in my head and telling me what to say. It’s got a plan and I’m along for the ride. Ten thousand pairs of eyeballs and whispering lips won’t change that.
Make your move now, Hank.
I drop to a knee in front of John Tenkiller. With sober respect on my face I look up at the elders. Pause for a second to set the scene.
“Your son, Chief Tenkiller,” I say, trailing off.
Real slow, I reach into my satchel. Let my fingertips linger on the warm face of the cube, and then move them deeper. I produce a long, tapered eagle feather. The stem is wrapped in worn leather with a dog tag dangling from it. The base sprouts downy tendrils of feather that solidify into a waxy white blade. At its tip, the magnificent feather looks like it’s been dipped in ink. Tiny dots of red mist spatter the flat whiteness of it.
“We lost him crossing the plains,” I say.
John Tenkiller’s bright blue eyes close. When they open again, that twinkle is gone. He looks like a brittle old man. Nothing magic about him no more.
“Your boy fought brave and he died brave,” I say. “Before he passed, he begged me to give you this the instant we made it home. The instant. I’m real sorry to interrupt the ceremony, but I know he’s watching from up above. I couldn’t wait another second. I knowed I’d regret it if I didn’t do him the honor I promised.”
Perfect, says Arayt.
“How . . . how did he go?” asks Tenkiller.
“Respectfully, now isn’t the time,” I say. “Let’s talk soon.”
And just like that, I hold the charm out to him. Tenkiller’s hands are full with that heavy pistol and holster. Careful, like teasing a largemouth bass with a spinner bait, I reach out my other hand to take the holster from him.
Easy . . .
And now is my perfect moment.
My tired brain is humming with the spooklight’s excitement. The little oldman twitches. The advisors are staring at me with open hostility. I think maybe I went too far. And then it’s all fireworks behind my eyes as Tenkiller reaches for the bait.
The elder hands over the pistol to me. Takes the feather from my other hand with trembling fingers. I glance sidelong at Lonnie and he knows something serious just happened. He’s blindsided, mouth open. But he don’t know yet what’s coming. The real coup de grâce is almost here.
I hold my breath as Tenkiller lifts the feather up to the light. Lonnie is forgotten as the old man clasps the quill tight in his gnarled fingers. Tears are cresting and falling into the wrinkled rivulets of his cheeks. Tenkiller brings the feather close to his face, notices the red spatters that run up and down it.
“There is blood on it,” he says, quiet.
Finish it and he’s yours. Gray Horse will be yours. And you’ll get the credit you deserve, Hank Cotton. You’ll take it. You’re my chosen one, Hank.
“The blood on there is mine,” I say, my voice quiet and husky. “I apologize. But I carried it with me for a long ways. I know it’s just a feather. But Chief, it felt heavy. It felt like I was carrying home the spirit of your boy.”
Tenkiller nods, clutches the feather to his chest.
Gentle, I lay down the pistol in the dirt behind me. With one foot, I shove it out of reach. I stand up and put a hand on Lonnie’s shoulder and with the face of his best friend, I apologize to him. I wipe my eyes where the tears have sprung up.
The top ranks of Cotton patrol stand at the clawed feet of Brutus. Twelve men, full-blood Osage and not one of them shorter than six foot tall. None of us had time to dress out for the dance, but they’re carrying what they can: axes, dance sticks, and mirrors. Some wear braided black ponytails and others have cut their hair into fearsome scalp locks. All of them have their arms crossed, dangerous as snakes coiled to strike.
They’re grinning to the last man.
You did good, Hank. You’ve got the favor of the chief. The eyes of God are on you now.
All the honor that was brimming in Lonnie’s pistol is evaporating into the dirt now. All the stock them elders was about to put into Lonnie has slipped right off him and fallen onto my shoulders. I cross the clearing back toward my men and I can’t help but break into a lope. I’m like a fox escaping from the henhouse.
I wipe my eyes again and mouth a prayer of thanks. Thanks for the power. Thanks for the respect. And, finally, thanks that tears of sorrow look just the same as tears of happiness.
10. BACK TO THE BASICS
Post New War: 8 Months, 4 Days
It was only a matter of time until the crippled leftovers created by Archos R-14 were cast out into the wilderness. The fact that Lark Iron Cloud and the other parasites traveled with Gray Horse Army for as long as they did pushed the limits of statistical probability into extreme outlier territory. I suppose the emotions between brothers-in-arms ran deeper than even my ca
lculations knew. But the inevitable happened, and on his own, unleashed from human contact, the parasite called Lark devolved into something far more gruesome than even my simulations could have ever predicted.
—ARAYT SHAH
NEURONAL ID: LARK IRON CLOUD
It’s all just chemicals.
That’s what I’m trying to tell myself about the shame and anger that yawn at the back of my throat. I want to shake every memory of Lonnie out of my head. Lonnie saying nothing. Doing nothing. The big old cowboy just giving up, face pointed at the ground. He didn’t move a finger and Hank made the call and they shot Chen. Blew her poor tortured body apart after all her years of scrapping and surviving.
And I melted away into the woods, headed toward a blue light.
Lonnie told me I was like a son. And him my father. The guy is supposed to be my father? He said that to me and I let myself believe it. I was dumb or desperate enough to fall for that line of crap.
Out here in the dark, alone, I’m thinking maybe the young rebellious Lark really did know what in the hell he was talking about. As if I’d find a father in this madness. It was always too sappy-good to be true.
You get hurt a certain number of times, then maybe there’s a reason? Maybe there’s a mark on you and you’re the only one who can’t see it. A big fat target that says “Hurt this one right here.” This one’s been hurt so much, why, we know he can take it. So heap it on and don’t be shy. And Chen. She thought she was a damned spirit, here to be punished. And in the end I guess she was more right than I knew.
Ah, fuck it.
Fuck this feeling sorry for myself. Fuck Gray Horse and Lonnie and this war. Fuck that angel in my dreams and the blue light of the freeborn. Fuck this whole fucked-up situation. It’s time to get back to the basics.
I start with my feet.
My boots are filthy, the leather gouged and slashed from being pushed clumsily through the motions of walking by the uncanny-strong metal struts sunk into the backs of my calves. The soles are split and puckered with whatever swollen body parts are left, the rotten flesh trapped inside rubber these long months.
I lift my arms. My natural hands are useless. The fingers are bloated and black and crooked with a hundred nights of numb forgotten frost-bite. I’ll have to grip my knife with the parasite’s simple pincers. Drawing the blade, I find that I have a grip like dry stone, Rob-made and way outside human pressure norms. Real faint, the pincers make a dentist drill whine when I open and close them.
This was never supposed to happen. Archos R-14 built these parasites to turn us into war machines. It must have overlooked the fact that when the connection was severed, we dead would regain control over our parasites and our own bodies.
Right?
I lean back and sit heavily on the muddy bank. The parasite’s heat fins splay out where my ass used to be, jarring my vision as I hit the dirt. The plastic wrap under my clothes crinkles as I adjust my posture. No part of my body has been spared by these black shards of metal. They run like bones through my arms and legs and torso. I’ve been trapped by them for so long.
Now it’s time to set myself free.
For a few seconds, I angle the weapon in front of my face. It’s an old Marine KA-BAR knife, narrow and sharp and black-bladed. I let the moonlight glint off the blade in the familiar greenish tones of my active illumination. It’s so damned easy to forget that I’m not seeing the world through my own eyes. The heart of the parasite is nestled on the back of my neck at the base of my spine. Right where I can almost forget about it. Keeping my brain alive through some kind of black magic.
A pinprick camera on a piece of metal curves over my shoulder. My natural eyes are dead and black, and they watch everything and nothing without blinking. I don’t even see in the human spectrum anymore.
The world is quiet for me. No breath. No heartbeat.
Summertimes, I used to swim in Fort Gibson Lake and hold my breath, eyes closed, under the muddy water. Far off, like through cotton, you could sometimes hear boat engines. That dead mute was ten times louder than this right here. When you don’t breathe and your heart don’t beat, the world can get real gentle for you.
It’s one of my favorite things about death—the chance to just sit still and think.
That bluish haze simmers on the horizon. Gleaming communications between the freeborn. I overheard that they’ve built a city up north in Colorado. All of them are together now, ignoring the world of men. I picked up another stray transmission a few days ago. A Russian guy, warning of something wicked that’s coming for the freeborn. An enemy that puts off an orange haze of radio communication. Something evil.
You are one of us, the Adjudicator said to me. Join us.
Lonnie’s shaking hands come into my mind. The weakness in them. That old man used to have a strong soul. What he saw in the war killed him on the inside, but he kept walking afterward, dead-eyed and shut down to the ones who loved him.
The old man wasn’t my blood. Not my daddy, after all. But I can’t get away from the fact that he was the closest thing left to it. The Indian cowboy showed me how to be a man, but you’re not really grown until you’ve lost your heroes.
Ah well. No more blood. No more damned weakness.
A coyote howls somewhere out in the dark, close. Almost like it’s urging me on, mischievous. You and me, brother, it says. Let’s hurry up and get this party started.
I lift the knife and lean forward, the movement pushing a grunt of stagnant air out of my ruined throat. With a lunge, I drop the point of the knife into the top of my right foot. The blade sticks into the boot up to its hilt, parting laces and leather. Pincer clamped firmly on the handle, I keep sawing down the length of my foot, into my toes. The pale flesh of my foot gleams, fish-belly white and soggy inside the boot. Then the blade hits something more solid.
There is a black Y of metal embedded half in the sole of the boot and half in the decayed flesh of my heel. I remember again the wind-sucking pain of that motherfucker when it first hit me and dug into living flesh. My frantic little dancing out there on the battlefield, along with so many others.
With the pincered fingers of both hands, I grasp either side of my split foot. Motors hum and bones snap as I crudely rip the sides of my boot-encased foot apart. I toss the chunks of flesh and leather splashing into the lake. Where my foot was, only the glistening black bones of the parasite remain.
I feel nothing.
My foot is gone. One second. Two. Then the reality of it hits me like suffocation. In surges. Some deeply human part of my brain is gaping, screaming at this horrible violation of my body. My foot was. And now it is not.
But there is another part of me. A part that watches with the calm old eyes of a barn owl. This is the new part of me. The me that has no more weakness.
And besides, I do still have a foot.
The black metal that was inside my flesh splays into two wide toes. Both are barbed on the end, sharp so that they could embed themselves in human meat. The two curved arcs of metal wishbone into a ball-shaped ankle joint. My new foot looks hard and military and robotic.
Curious, I concentrate. Wiggle my two long black toes. They actuate smooth and powerful, compressing prints into the muddy riverbank. This is how I’ve been moving since my dance in the snow. It was never visible under the rotting layers of my old life. Turns out I’m not flesh at all. I’m made of metal on the inside.
The knife goes into my shin next. Saws down through the layers of plastic poncho and gore-stained fatigues and rotten flesh. I reach down and mechanically rip my lower leg in half. It comes apart at the seam like a cantaloupe. I toss both pieces. The metal shinbone underneath is dull and featureless and glassy black. Extra struts hang from the back of it with martial precision.
Interesting.
I remember scavenging my first piece of Rob hardware. On those golden fields of Gray Horse that spilled out below the bluffs to the horizon. We dropped an old mortar round on some kind of walker that had w
andered into range through the grass. The thing was dead when we reached it, but its legs were splayed out. Badass and alien and full of forbidden potential. When I amputated those legs with a portable torch, threw them over my shoulder, and snapped off a long insectile antenna to use for a walking stick . . . I felt like I was stealing secrets from the gods.
Maybe I really was.
We built whole spider tanks out of what Rob left behind. Every smoking ruin crumpled on the battlefield was waiting there like a gift. When a new variety galloped or crawled or glided over the battlefield, well, it got to where I’d lick my lips in anticipation of the possibilities.
But after all these months shambling, I never once thought to see what Rob left for me. I never figured out that this old body wasn’t mine anymore. The skeleton buried inside my dead flesh is some of the most hard-core technology I’ve ever seen. Late-model, high-evolution, end-wartime shit spawned straight out of the Ragnorak Intelligence Fields. Hell, that’s where the brains lived. I’m rocking the same tech that Big Rob trusted as his last line of defense.
No wonder the parasites were so damned hard to kill.
The rest of it starts coming off real fast. Both feet, legs, and arms. A good chunk of my torso. I stay away from my upper chest and neck. I don’t know how important my spine is to this thing’s operation. Part of me stays in shock as each body part hits the water. My cable-thin arms and rugged pincer hands are hard to recognize. Without flesh wrapped around them, they move faster. The motors are louder.
I’m having a permanent out-of-body experience.
When it’s finally done, I lie flat on my back. Glare up at the greenish, star-pricked night sky. I try not to think about what I must look like, black and bony out here on the bank of this pond. My body is all sharp angles—nothing to hold it together but armored joints and a knobby curved spine.
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