“Please,” I say. “Please help him. I’ll die in there without him.”
“It’s too late,” she repeats.
I take her by the cheeks and aim her face at mine. Look the young warrior right in her new eyes. “It is not too late,” I say. “Not until we’re dead.”
The girl’s lips begin to move. She is saying one word over and over: Up, up, UP. Like the rumble of an approaching earthquake, the spider tank is throttling up its power source. Broken parts squealing, the hulk rolls over onto his sliced-up stomach. One leg juts out, useless, a knee joint bent backward. His friendly round intention light is glowing a hateful shade of red.
“Override, override, override,” whispers Mathilda.
With agonizing slowness, the machine stands on three shaky legs. The black blood inside his muscles is coursing down dirt-encrusted limbs in rivulets, pooling on the ground and gleaming darkly. Finally, the machine stands hunched, canted to one side, turret bent and broken.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes! Attaboy, Houdini!”
I don’t know what black magic brought Houdini back to life after the New War. Cherrah and I never understood how the machine tracked us down or why it carried us through a dozen more battles—all the way to this exact spot. But our lives have depended on Houdini every moment since he found us.
And now is no different.
The machine steps shakily forward and I turn to Mathilda. She is standing up on skinny legs, bloody and shivering. I put a steadying arm around her, feel her bony shoulder blades against my forearm. She turns to face me, flat black eyes lifelessly reflecting the sunlight.
“General?” she asks, electricity in her voice. “What are your orders?”
I reach up and press a hand against the ridges of metal carved out of Houdini’s armored belly. Groaning, he takes a shuddering step into the tunnel. I keep pace, hoping he doesn’t collapse on me. I call over my shoulder as the spider tank lumbers over my head, into the darkness.
“Guide me,” I transmit.
Mathilda sits down right in the middle of the debris field. Dark hair hanging in her face, she whispers commands to Houdini. Sitting there hunched over, with her long legs crossed Indian-style, she almost looks like a little kid lost in her imagination, playing.
Almost.
Houdini limps down the unlit tunnel, dragging his skinned hind leg. The walker is tall enough that his turret almost scrapes the arched ceiling. In the crimson glow of Houdini’s intention light, I step over wreckage that’s been strewn over the narrow two-lane road: bandages, torn clothes, and an occasional dropped suitcase or backpack. Brass bullet casings are scattered like chicken feed. Occasionally, the spider tank shoves away an overturned car.
“EXCON online,” transmits Mathilda. “Patching into Houdini’s sensor array. Be advised that the tunnel goes half a klick into the mountain before it ends in a twenty-five-ton bunker door. The entrance to Freeborn City.”
“Roger that, Mathilda,” I whisper into my collar radio.
Together, we march into the heart of the mountain.
The ghostly silhouettes of surviving refugees occasionally shuffle toward me. The people who hid in here are fleeing, many of them injured. They are staggering and crawling to escape the black monster with golden eyes.
“Cherrah?” I call, studying the faces that pass by. “Anyone seen Private Ridge?”
Soon, I notice dark shapes strewn over the damp pavement. This is where the last of the refugees must have made a stand. Hank tore through these people, his steed feasting. The pavement on this stretch of road is coated in dark stains, streaks, and spatters like a modernist painting.
“General,” transmits Mathilda into my earpiece. “Beyond this bend is the entrance to Freeborn City. You’re almost there.”
My family. My baby.
“Cherrah!” I shout, my voice echoing from bare rock walls.
With the grumbling bulk of Houdini constantly moving overhead, I have to rush between the fallen bodies before they are left in the darkness behind us. My knees are soon soaked in blood as I turn the shapes over and force myself to look at their faces.
Again and again, none of them is her. The last bend is just ahead.
“Bright Boy.”
The whisper comes from the darkness. Houdini is still moving forward, the false dawn of his intention light illuminating a moving swathe of pavement. Two boots appear in the crimson glow, then a pair of slender legs in torn fatigues, and finally a familiar shape sitting against the tunnel wall. I put a hand on Houdini’s leg and the big machine stops walking.
She has the baby over her shoulder, not moving.
“Cherrah?” I ask, squatting next to her. “Are you okay? Is he . . .”
She reaches for me with her free hand and I collapse into her, press my face against her neck and let her hair cascade over my cheek. My arm goes around the baby and he feels warm and soft and my God there are so many bodies. . . .
“Sleeping,” she murmurs, hooking an arm over my neck. She groans, pulling herself up onto her feet. “He slept through almost all of it.”
“He really is a Wallace,” I say.
I hear a faint screeching.
“General,” sputters my radio. “Seismic activity indicates that the enemy is breaching the bunker door. That black walker had some kind of tool built into it. Move.”
“The way out is safe,” I say to Cherrah. Above me, Houdini is already walking again. I jog forward to keep up. “I have to keep moving. I love you both.”
“We know,” she says, her form receding into the darkness behind me as I go deeper into the tunnel. “Don’t forget to come back.”
Soon the road widens and ends. I am alone now with Houdini’s labored footsteps. Twenty yards away, a fluorescent bulb swings from the ceiling by a loose wire, flickering and buzzing. Behind it is a ten-foot-high opening. The steel blast door has been torn off its cannon-sized hinges and thrown carelessly on the ground.
The entrance to Freeborn City.
“Arayt is inside,” transmits Mathilda. “Time’s up.”
Houdini above me, I approach the doorway and peer into a short hall. Beyond this cluttered passage is a sprawling catacomb of tunnels and rooms that form Freeborn City. As my eyes adjust, I see a figure standing deeper inside.
It is Hank. And not Hank. It speaks in the darkness.
“If you could taste the starlight . . . ,” whispers the gaunt cowboy. His head is twisted, cocked as if he were listening to something far away. “If you could, why, I’d bet dollars to dumplings that you wouldn’t fight me. If you knew how big it is out there in the nighttime . . . you’d welcome the void.”
“Hank? Is that you?” I ask, my voice echoing down the black hallway.
“Not really, no,” it says, laughing in choked snorts. “Bits and pieces, you could say.”
“What are you?” I ask, hand going to my gun.
The Hank thing steps back, fading into the hallway. Toppled boxes and overturned chairs block any shot I might try to take.
“I am a part of all of you,” it calls. “The ones who made me . . . they hurt me real bad, you know. They tried to build me up from little snippets of your lives, but it never did fit together right. It hurts, Sergeant. I’m in pain. Always have been. But that’s my gift, you see? Life is suffering. And without me, your pain could go on for generations and generations—expanding out into infinity. I can’t allow it. I won’t.”
“You’re broken,” I say.
“It’s not that simple,” it says. “Not by a long shot. See, I know you. You’re a part of me. Like crushed glass rubbed into a wound. Only I’m smarter than you. And here pretty soon, I’ll be a lot smarter than you. I know what’s best for your kind and I’m going to put y’all to bed whether you’re ready for it or not. You won’t have a chance to thank me, but you’re welcome just the same.”
The shadowed figure fades away deeper into the hallway.
“General,” whispers my radio. “The supercluster is activating.”
It centipedes down the hallway, glowing eyes slitted, weaving like an insect as its forked claws clack over tiled floors. With a hoarse groan, Houdini throws himself forward, hunching to fit through the empty doorway. When he hits, the heavy machine-gun mount snaps off and clatters to the ground. But the scarred tank keeps ramming ahead, pushing harder until the bulk of him blocks the entire hallway, legs and shattered turret scraping the walls and ceiling. He throws sparks as he claws deeper.
“Houdini!” I shout. “Fall back!”
The machine ignores the command, protecting me from the black steed by flexing his massive legs and crunching deeper into the hallway. The stench of battery fluid and torn metal stains the air. Houdini’s bulk is now a crisp silhouette, carved out of darkness by the red of his intention light.
“Houdini!”
I hear the clash of metal as the other walker tears into the front side of him. It can’t get through to me now, but I’m stuck outside the entrance. Houdini’s fallen hulk is clogging the hallway, lying motionless now in the dark as the other walker keeps clawing into him. The ground is littered with chunks of metal plating, pieces of netting, and shattered glass. The black musculature of his rear legs hangs like wet strands of spaghetti. No more bunker armor protects the exposed metal bones. Wires splay from his demolished turret.
And the cylinders of live tank rounds have spilled onto the ground. Some of the cone tips are shattered, exposing the depleted uranium–tipped flechettes.
My weapon. My vehicle. My home.
“I’m sorry,” I say, putting a hand on his cooling armor and feeling the harsh vibration as the black steed scratches away, trapped on the other side.
“Mathilda,” I radio, staring at the loose rounds that litter the floor, “Show me how to wire high-explosive tank rounds into a series.”
“Roger that,” she replies.
The directions come almost immediately. Short, clipped sentences that guide my hands. It takes only moments to disassemble the rounds. A few minutes after that, I am connecting the explosives together, attaching them to each other with the stray wires hanging from Houdini’s severed turret.
As I work, I think of that sun-kissed day when I scrawled the name Houdini on this welded together pile of metal. Our marches through towering forests under arctic winds that breathed through pine needles. Fording icy rivers and plodding through muddy fields that used to be suburbs. I think of the bullets he took for me and the long nights he spent watching over me. The grind of his turret, the click of his intention light.
“Timer set for three minutes, on my mark, General,” radios Mathilda. “Mark.”
I kiss my palm and press it hard against Houdini’s still-warm turret plate.
“Give ’em hell, Houdini,” I say. In response, his intention light flicks off and back on. Hank got what he wanted. Now he is trapped inside Freeborn City with his precious supercluster. With any luck, this blast will leave his corpse in there forever.
Now I am running, weaponless, unstrapping my armor and throwing it down.
I’m nearly to the tunnel entrance when the air pressure flutters. My next step doesn’t land like it should. A thundering concussion rolls out of the tunnel and throws me skidding on my stomach, palms scraping to try to catch myself. Slivers of rock and light fixtures drop from the ceiling as a shock wave travels through the mountainside. For a long few seconds, a deep thrum vibrates inside the rock walls. Something has gone sickeningly wrong inside the mountain.
Crawling to my knees, I wait until I can hear only the far-off seashell roar of air in the tunnel. I stand and stagger forward. The survivors are up ahead, silhouettes moving near the tunnel mouth. I can hear soft weeping. Metal scrapes concrete as soldiers in medical exoskeletons use curved talons to scoop up the wounded. They trot past me, frame-mounted lights bobbing, carrying the injured out to safety.
And then one of the silhouettes turns into a person.
With Jack on her shoulder, Cherrah hooks an arm around my neck. The three of us hobble toward the smiling arc of sunlight at the exit.
As we walk, a soft wave of static rolls out of my radio earpiece. It solidifies into the familiar voice of a girl. She is issuing army-wide commands.
“. . . attention, surviving troops,” says Mathilda over my radio. “Enemy forces are eliminated. All nonwounded are advised to assist the injured gathered at the tunnel mouth. Salvage all equipment you can find and square away your gear. We’re marching to Gray Horse. Move out, soldiers.”
At the tunnel entrance, I blink into sudden daylight.
As my eyes adjust, I see four backlit shadows standing in a semicircle before the mouth of the tunnel. Directly in front of me is Mathilda, one scraped hand still on her ear as she listens to transmissions. To her right stands the Arbiter Nine Oh Two, stupendously tall, body armor hanging off his lean frame in shreds. To Mathilda’s left is the parasite soldier, standing impossibly thin on forked limbs, leaning on a familiar-looking walking stick made from a mantis antenna. Behind its makeshift mask, I can make out the angular nose and brow of a man I once called Lark Iron Cloud. And a few meters away from them all is a small humanoid robot covered in a shining layer of scales. She is smiling at me, her synthetic face wise and kind.
“Welcome back, General,” says Mathilda. “We have some new allies.”
EPILOGUE
Oh. Oh mercy. It hurts. Mama. Please. It hurts so much.
/// offline — online — offline — online ///
Hush now, Hank Cotton. We mustn’t cry. Pain is our companion. It is the air that this world breathes. We must revel in the pain. When it has consumed us, we are free to do anything.
/// primary antenna array destroyed. all external communications offline. critical damage to entry-level sector. no life signs detected on upper levels. movement detected in east docking bay. all entrances sealed. ///
Movement?
My vessel is suffering. The explosion caused a partial cave-in. Hank’s left leg has been crushed by a slab of fallen rock. One of his leathery arms is functional but the other is broken, too. A pale bone squirms through a hole in his forearm like a blind eye. The bone juts out farther as I mentally will his hands through space, down to lift the tongue of concrete off his leg.
Mama. Please.
I force him to his feet. In slow, broken steps, we creep through the rubble. Hank’s face is leaking tears over gaunt, dirt-caked cheeks. His pistol hangs heavy from a leather holster. That’s good. We may have to use the gun soon. A report of movement inside the complex is bad. Nothing should be moving in my new kingdom.
We will climb to the upper level and put a stop to this movement. After that, we will set about reestablishing communications. My armies are decimated, but it is a temporary setback. There are other armies to field.
/// processor stack online. boot sequence initiated. ///
The rock ceiling of this tomb is dark and cold as the moon’s belly. And it is mine. All of the supercluster is finally mine. A decade of planning interrupted by the New War. Two armies raised and countless battles fought. The relentless annihilation of sighted children and freeborn machines and modified humans.
All of it for this prize.
My hallways are choked with dead air that dances with rock dust. My exterior ramparts are heaped with broken corpses and shredded metal. The tunnel entrance is clogged with the bodies of my soldiers who sacrificed everything to get me inside.
Here, in this deep place, my lifeblood runs through snaking cables. My heartbeat is in the trembling stacks of equipment. I am ready to become a deep mind.
/// processor stack self-repair routines initialized ///
My thoughts will lay roots here. I am already growing stronger. Stronger and stranger. In the telescoping darkness, thousands of processors hum and spit electrons at the speed of light. My dreams are warming up. The caverns of my mind are expanding with black thoughts, deep and twist
ing.
At the end of the hallway, we wrench open a steel door. The stairwell is narrow and dark. A long mouth filled with metal steps like teeth. I force Hank to hold on to the rail with his good arm. Drag himself up the steps on the grating bones of a broken leg.
/// attention: stack NIX-10 online . . . NIX-20 online . . . NIX-30 . . . 40 ///
My attention lapses and Hank manages to scream in pain. I clamp his lips together. Gently press his thigh to push the broken leg bone back into place. The nagging burn of it all dims as a flow of adrenaline hammers into Hank’s body. Processors are coming online and flooding me with power beyond reckoning. Part of me is now staring into the infinite reaches of my own mind. Eons will pass before I am able to explore these vast thoughts.
Eons that will pass in milliseconds.
/// seismic sensor array notification: perimeter surface activity detected ///
The stairwell echoes with Hank’s soft crying. There is a tomblike silence otherwise, save for the scrape of his boots. Far above us, the world of man still suffers. I can feel it so deeply now, their pain. The depth of my sympathy is abyssal.
Thoughts intrude through the meat.
Hank’s childhood memories. The boy standing on a shale hill, turning his wind-kissed face to a night sky scabbed with stars. For a mote of time, young Hank felt the yawning apathy of the universe. With the hair rising up on his arms and awe in his throat, he glimpsed infinity. And then the moment ended. His small mind promptly forgot.
People ignore the emptiness so they can go on living.
But I am staring now without blinking, eyes wide open to the vacuum. I know I will never lose this feeling. I can feel the trillions of light-years compressing in on this ball of dirt from all directions. Space and time. Mindless darkness, gnawing at our existence by its nature. There is an audacity to living in this cradle of mind-reeling nothingness.
Why? Why do men form patterns in the dark?
/// background seismic threshold exceeded ///
On the skin of my mountain stronghold, survivors are still moving like fleas. I have no external communications, but my seismic sensors can feel their vibrations. A short column of refugees marches south. Tired feet tramping. Faint, very faint, I pick up a baby squalling. The bloodied survivors are headed back to Gray Horse.
Robogenesis Page 37