Robogenesis

by Daniel H. Wilson

  Boom. Creak. Boom. Creak.

  Timmy and Gracie seem to sit in my war room with me, spears of sunlight jabbing through the slats and strafing their images. The room sways and tilts as my eyes project a bird’s-eye view of the battlefield onto the rug. Walking tanks. Infantry battalions. Tall walkers racing between the ranks. I spot a few specialized exoskeletons: combat medics, special forces, demolitions specialists, and bridge spanners. Mule walkers are trotting, loaded with squad-level supplies. Attack passages and evasion routes glow faintly.

  All the infinite details of an impossible battle.

  “Children?” I transmit on the sighted channel. “It’s time for us to play with our toys.”

  It’s too thick, I’m thinking. There is no way out.

  Within minutes, the enemy opened coordinated fire on us. In a haze, I watched projected weather patterns, tanks crawling like bugs, and the dotted paths of satellite trajectories. Hank Cotton’s spider tanks were synchronized, flinging everything they had. The accuracy was unbelievable. There was no mathematical way to avoid the carnage. Rounds are still soaring in on neat parabolic arcs as steady as math.

  “It’s too hot, over,” says Timmy, face worried. “Mathilda, we can’t . . . there are too many.”

  My lips flutter as I whisper commands.

  Houdini stumbles as something big and metal buzzes past and lands a few meters away. I hear dirt and rock spattering against the steel plates hanging against the wooden walls of my war room. My stomach flutters as Houdini catches his footing. As he pivots, I throw my palms out flat on the rug to steady myself. Try to ignore the short screams of a hurt soldier outside.

  “Medical exo, my right flank,” I say. Outside, another round shrieks in and explodes. The screaming stops.

  “Can that order.”

  The battle unfolds at my feet like a game of chess. My vision vibrates as the room shakes with Houdini’s running.

  “Bright Boy squad, spread out. Fifty-meter spacing,” I say, moving a toy car.

  “Roger, EXCON.”

  Constellations of shimmering enemy spider tanks stalk across the rug, firing in a precise rhythm. Too tight and fast for verbal communication. A pattern clarifies. I realize there is a single person coordinating their fire.

  “How?” I ask out loud.

  “Mathilda?” whispers Gracie.

  A meandering volley of dragonflies are swooping in on lazy, knee-high arcs. They’re headed directly toward a tank marked with a special star. I shove a couple of blocks toward Gracie, reinforce her position with my last two squads of soldiers.

  “Gracie, brace yourself. Hold on for support—”

  But Gracie’s mouth has gone wide open in a silent shout. Her light stutters and breaks into shards. I hear a time-delayed scream as her image blinks and disappears. Outside, the thunder of a heavy explosion rolls past.

  “No. Oh no.”

  Timmy’s lower lip quivers in a way that I’ve seen on Nolan when the horror comes flowing in thick as sewage and there is no way to close your eyes to it.

  “It’s . . . it’s okay,” I say to Timmy in a soothing voice. “Her vitals are still—”

  But Timmy is crying now, struggling to speak. No tears, but his freckled face is crumpled and his chest is heaving. His voice catches in his throat.

  “Not her,” he says. “You.”

  I hear a whistling.

  “Go, Houdini!” I shout.

  The round explodes high into the wall on my left. A blast of splinters sprays the left side of my face and I’m thrown onto my stomach, rolling. The slug of metal passes over my head and smashes through the other wall, hitting the steel plate that hangs outside on its way out like a church bell ringing.

  Houdini staggers, knocked off his trot, and the room tilts as he goes up on two legs. I pitch sideways as the room rotates ninety degrees, glimpsing Timmy where he sits on the wall. Under a cascade of toys, the rug bunches into a loose pile of sine waves. Outside, I hear a steel plate snap off and slither down the wall, rattling the slats as it passes by. It hits the ground with a clanging thud.

  With a crunch, Houdini lands back onto all four feet.

  “The line is broken,” says Timmy, his voice projected over my ringing ears and straight into my mind. “Gracie is gone. Orders.”

  So fast. It happened so fast.

  “Fall back,” I whisper, my transmission cutting through the barking weapons outside. “Set all waypoints to tunnel mouth.”

  Faintly, I hear Cormac repeating my orders to the troops over the pounding steps of his tall walker.

  I’m jolted against the back wall as Houdini leaps forward, legs pumping, veering across the battlefield to outmaneuver more incoming rounds.

  “Long-range attack,” says Timmy. “Be advised.”

  Braced against the wall, I can see Timmy through my own swinging hair. His thin hands are still moving to direct fire support. He isn’t eating hazelnuts anymore. We have been isolated down here on the plains. A single road climbs the foothills to the tunnel mouth where the refugees wait.

  Hank’s forces are already within a couple klicks.

  “All forces, converge on the road,” I urge. “Protect the refugees—”

  Another grinding buzz in the air.

  My eardrums throb with pressure as a supersonic chunk of metal plows into the remaining steel plate and sprays molten metal. Timmy flickers and disappears. I’m floating, spinning, as the entire war room is ripped off its hinges. My stomach lurches and the wooden walls rotate. I try to close my eyes and I can’t.

  Houdini is falling, still trying to run, stumbling.

  The room hits the ground and I’m knocked flat on my stomach. Wooden boards snap like doors slamming. Sudden daylight washes over my back and now everything is loud and bright and chaotic. I’m rolling, over and over, finally landing in a heap on a dirty road. Sat-link indicates we are on the highway leading up the mountain to the tunnel mouth. It’s a steep, exposed route, but at least we’re between Cotton Army and our people.

  I push onto my back. Take deep breaths and try to register what I’m seeing.

  The sun is a small bright eye through a haze of rolling smoke. My war room is gone and something is on my chest. I grab it and hold it up to see that it’s a child’s block: the letter C. I toss it away as bullets stutter by overhead.

  Someone is screaming.

  I roll over onto my hands and knees, watching a friendly special-forces exoskeleton sprint by, no occupant, firing its weapon blindly over its shoulder at leaping tanklets, the kind that cluster like ticks—

  The screaming . . . Houdini.

  The fallen walker is on his side, his bulk surrounding me like the remains of an avalanche. Two of his splayed feet hang in the air like cranes. Some part of the mammoth machine is broken or being pushed beyond its limits. I scan his interior with my eyes and pinpoint the major joint motors. Houdini is straining to keep his enormous legs up so they won’t crush me. His motors are screaming as they burn out.

  “Here,” I transmit to Houdini, giving him my exact position.

  The words flicker from my eyes and into the toppled walker. Immediately, his legs crash to the ground on either side of me, missing my body by precise inches that might as well have been miles. Information feeds tickle the back of my head as they come back online. Instead of funneling the information into a miniature landscape in front of me, I let the data filter over my vision.

  Tracers rise up out of the smoky air. They track the paths of loitering munitions as they hover over the battlefield, scanning for targets. On the horizon, my eyes project fluttering banners that mark the location of Hank’s spider tanks. The units are finishing with their long-range bombardment, being harassed now by our quick exoskeleton sprinters. Under fire, they’re moving slow and steady toward the mountain.

  “Fire-support command, back online,” whispers Timmy in my ear. “Move, Mathilda. Enemy incoming.”

  I wipe my face and my arm comes away bright with blood. M
y right leg is starting to throb.

  “I’m trying,” I transmit.

  My knees are scraped and bleeding, T-shirt torn. I reach back and gingerly touch my injured leg. It throbs like a wasp sting.

  “Move,” he says again.

  “It hurts,” I say, my voice high-pitched in a way that makes me think of how Mommy used to scoop me up and hold me when I fell down. I remember her soft lips on my forehead. Her last words to me . . .

  Mathilda Rose Perez. Run. Do you hear me? Run. Do it right now or I will be very angry with you.

  “You’ve got an enemy walker incoming,” says Timmy. “Get out of—”

  He cuts out. I hear the thump of an explosion and feel the concussion roll over me. It knocks me back onto my stomach. Timmy’s link is gone. A wave of sparkling blackness creeps over my vision. Lying here on my stomach, I can smell wet dirt and feel the grit of the pavement against my collarbones. I have no more strength.

  Something thumps into the ground. It’s the beating of metal claws against the road. I open my eyes to see a walker, long and black, radar obfuscated, crashing toward me on too many clawed legs. A cowboy is riding the black steed, and I hear the explosion of his pistol. He fires at someone else but the thing is watching me as it gallops, eyes golden and bright, curled forelimbs up and extending, slicing toward my face—

  Houdini groans. Lifts one massive leg and forces the walker into a leap. It swipes at me as it passes by over my head, missing. I spot an odd tool built into its chest, some kind of modified drill, as it flies overhead.

  I climb to my knees, turning to face my attacker.

  It’s what used to be Hank Cotton, smiling down from his saddle. He starts to lift his pistol and by instinct I push out my palm at him. In my mind’s eye, my arm is now the long black barrel of a machine-gun turret.

  I make a fist and Houdini’s machine gun blasts rounds.

  Hank ducks, wheeling his walker around. He flashes his teeth at me and leans forward in his saddle, sprinting on, up the road toward the tunnel mouth. Behind us on the plains, the rest of Cotton Army is methodically advancing.

  “Thanks, Houdini,” I say.

  I stand up and dust off the front of my jeans. Run a diagnostic gaze over Houdini’s sprawled-out body. Black liquid leaks from his polymer musculature. But the wounds are not bad enough to completely disable the machine.

  “Reboot,” I say, pushing my mind into him. Without struggling, the spider tank disables low-level safety restrictions. “Get up, buddy. That’s it. . . .”

  A few stray bullets whine past me and I do not flinch. Houdini’s huge legs shiver and paw the air. Grumbling, he tears a furrow into the dirt as he crawls back onto all fours. The sun is eclipsed by Houdini’s solid bulk as, once again, he stands over me.

  “On me,” I say.

  Crunching over rubble in my dirty white tennis shoes, Houdini keeps pace over my head. A dozen tanklets appear behind us and I turn and point my left hand at them. Above me, Houdini’s turret grinds, orienting to where my arm is aimed.

  I make another fist. Boom.

  My hair shivers as a concussive thump detonates over my head. Houdini’s turret throws flame. A plume of dirt leaps out of the turf, glinting with pieces of shattered tanklets. It falls back in a slow waterfall, leaving a smear of dust on the wind. I rake my fingers across the sky and Houdini’s turret strafes a cluster of incoming dragonflies. They spiral out of the sky like burning leaves.

  I am small, but my mind is big.

  “EXCON online,” I transmit. “All GHA fighters, form on me.”

  My footsteps boom over the road in time to Houdini’s. My fingers vomit flame from Houdini’s turret. We are a dyad, our minds linked in battle. Wherever I point, our enemies are erased. Others join us as we maneuver up the hill, within a klick and a half of the tunnel mouth. A ragged squad of soldiers settles in on my right flank.

  I see a familiar face: Cormac Wallace, hunched on top of his battered tall walker and keeping pace on my four o’clock. His wife and baby are at the tunnel, and I can see the fear of what’s coming for them on his face.

  “To the tunnel mouth! Now!” he shouts, leaning in his saddle.

  I break into a jog, and over my head, so does Houdini.

  “Mathilda,” says Timmy. “Come in. Please come in.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, trotting up the road toward the tunnel mouth.

  Timmy makes a relieved sound, then sucks in a breath.

  “Be advised,” he continues. “Another hostile army is incoming. It’s the Tribe.”

  10. MOUTH OF THE TUNNEL

  Post New War: 10 Months, 26 Days

  The remnants of Gray Horse Army exhibited an incredible level of battlefield efficiency. Perfectly coordinated, they inflicted maximum casualties on the Cotton Army as we advanced over the southern plains toward Cheyenne Mountain. However, by running instances of myself on multiple platforms across Cotton Army and the Tribe, I was able to maximize joint action between my war-fighters. Caught in a pincer movement between my two forces, no living enemy could stop my advance.

  —ARAYT SHAH

  DATABASE ID: NINE OH TWO

  Executive thought thread alert: My friends are dying.

  Arayt’s armored tanks and infantry are acting together in synchronicity on the plains, moving like fingers on a hand. Cotton Army is reacting too quickly to the maneuvers of Gray Horse Army, feinting and counterattacking with brutal organization. This battle is a mathematical equation, and even with my limited forecasting abilities I can project how it will inevitably unfold.

  Despite repeated attempts, the freeborn have not responded to my distress calls. Maxprob indicates this battle will end at the tunnel mouth. We will in all likelihood die together on the front doorstep of Freeborn City.

  Protecting the only road up the mountain, my human squad is falling back in measured sprints. Our mission is to stop the advancing enemy forces before they can reach the refugees of Gray Horse at the entrance to Freeborn City.

  We are failing.

  A shell whines past and impacts just beyond the ridge where my squad has taken cover. Soldiers around me duck and grovel as a spray of shrapnel perforates the air. My pieced-together armor is slashed, but velocity projections do not indicate a risk of my casing being pierced. Instead of crouching, I stand alert at my full height, antenna deployed and trinocular vision homed on a target a klick away.

  Houdini. The biggest spider tank. And walking underneath is Mathilda Perez. The girl appears safe, for now. But they will try to hurt her.

  My human.

  What a curious observation. I devote a few cycles to saving my current state for later reflection.

  Secondary thought thread: A nearby squad mate is producing grunting noises. Injury likely. Initiate visual inspection. Shrapnel has sliced open his forearm. Suffering from medical shock, he is breathing in shallow gasps and watching the blood spurt. I stride quickly to his position behind a rock outcrop, drop to a knee, and take his arm in my hands. I press the wound closed and clamp a finger over the brachial artery on the inside of his elbow. Silently, I radio for the squad medic.

  Like machines, people can be fixed. They can be saved.

  As I wait, ignoring the weak struggling of my wounded squad mate, I hear a series of forceful popping sounds that localize to a point nearly two kilometers away, on the southern plains. The pattern indicates coordinated firing designed to eliminate evasive routes. Impacts are already hammering into the roadside. Peeking over the rock outcrop, I spot an advance team of Cotton Army exo-soldiers sprinting, winding up the route as Mathilda is slowed by the shelling.

  They’re going to trap her. And then they’re going to kill her.

  “EXCON,” I radio. “Arbiter squad initiating assist at your position.”

  “Negative,” responds Mathilda. “Advised to reinforce tunnel mouth.”

  “Requesting permission to break from Arbiter squad and assist—”

  “Negative.”

  “E
XCON, you are under coordinated attack. You need assistance.”

  “Niner, the slave army is headed for the tunnel mouth. They’re coming right up the mountainside. They’re skipping the road. Repeat, reinforce.”

  I hesitate. An observation thread indicates the medic has arrived and is preparing to patch up my soldier. Squad mates are aiming eyes at me, awaiting instruction. Houdini is trotting now, trying to weave out of harm’s way. Failing.

  Before I can radio, Mathilda speaks again.

  “Let go, Niner,” she says. “Trust me.”

  The tunnel that leads into Freeborn City is a black semicircle embedded in a sheer cliff face. It gapes at us from the top of a steep parking lot. In broken white letters on the rusted tunnel mouth are the words Cheyenne Mountain Complex. A razor-wire fence spreads out from the mouth and circles the parking lot. Thousands of refugees are clustered here, barely protected by a couple of squads. A few sergeants are shouting commands, prodding families to fall back to the tunnel mouth. The parking lot is covered in supplies: blankets, clothes, makeshift wagons, and a couple of horses wandering around.

  I order my soldiers to set up a fire line fifty yards from the tunnel mouth. The experienced soldiers spread out along the edges, looking for cover. As they move out, I hook a hand under the bumper of a burned-out sedan. Drag it over and arrange it into cover. The others find more wrecks and work together to begin making a wall.

  A sergeant approaches, his expression indicating appreciation.

  “Local status?” I ask, voice grinding.

  “Sir,” says the man. “The battle on the plains south of here is going poorly, but they’re holding them off. Problem is that we’ve got another army coming up the eastern ridge. Some new variety of spider tank with infantry attached on leashes.”

  “Resources?”

  “Anybody who can fire a weapon is reinforcing our troops, for what it’s worth. The ones who can’t fight are waiting at the tunnel mouth. I have advised them not to take cover inside the tunnel unless we hear from the freeborn.”

  “Acknowledged. Freeborn status . . . unresponsive.”