Robogenesis Page 3

  The thinking cube is wedged in half-melted snow at the base of a tree about ten yards away. Winking at me in cotton-candy colors that stand out in the dark woods. It’s the size of a child’s block, and as I get closer I can see that them keen colors are sort of floating away from the surface a few inches. The thing itself is pupil black, darker than coal.

  It’s a brain box that must have dropped out of a big thinker. And it’s still functioning. Even if it’s broken out here in the snow, I can’t believe my luck. We found a handful of these over the course of the whole war. A white boy soldier named Cormac Wallace even found one with a whole Rob war diary in it.

  I back-sling my rifle and drop right to my knees in the slush, snatching up the cube in both hands. The hardware twinkles at me like a handful of rubies and diamonds. But this is worth more than gemstones. Maybe a lot more.

  The woods are even darker now and the pretty colors of this thing are flashing in my eyelashes like Christmas morning. The light it makes is hot against my cheeks. It’s warming up my fingers through my gloves like a loaf of bread hot out of the oven. Up close, I can tell it’s making real quiet noises. A flow of static like the breath of wind over a creek bed full of dry leaves.

  Sssh, says the cube. Well, I’m listening.

  I can’t quite remember how it got this cold this fast. Feels like maybe the world is taking two breaths to my one. Like things are jumping forward every time I blink my eyes.

  Now the strange light is getting downright hot on my skin and my cheeks are feeling baked. All the snow has melted out of my whiskers and water is seeping down over my little double chin and dripping off. Or, hell, is that my own slobber? Either way, I don’t wipe it off. The flashes and swirls of color are growing up big and shrinking down small now. For some reason it strikes me as funny. I grin through my wet beard at the little dancing streaks.

  Spooklight.

  The word sneaks up through my brain like water through granite and I mouth the words without making a sound. A chill courses down between my shoulder blades and it hits me that I’m a man down on his knees and all alone in the black woods with a bauble in his fingers. It keeps on touching me with its light. Putting whispers into the air. The whooshing voice of the deep black ocean in a seashell, and I swear it’s saying something:

  I promise, I promise, I promise.

  I always thought the spooklight was just a story. But now I know it’s real and it’s right here in my hands.

  My mama saw the spooklight out on the Oklahoma East 50 Highway. She was dating a boy from down there—the little border town of Hornet, Missouri. Legend in Hornet was that the spooklight showed up after the Trail of Tears come through. Thousands of men, women, and children near the end of a forced march. Only the strong still alive. Little babies dying on their mama’s teat. Most of the sacred elders gone off alone in the night to pass on. For a thousand miles, day and night, it was the white man’s rifle or another step forward and both as deadly as the other.

  You do have to admire the Cherokee for surviving it.

  The legend was that this ball of light came folding out of the blood-soaked ground after it was over, like a kind of tombstone. Something from beyond this world, here to offer a reminder of how much men can suffer. Maybe this spooklight is the same. Is it here to mark our loss? God knows that men suffered in these woods.

  Mama didn’t trust it. Devil’s work, she said.

  More than once, my mama told me to run if I ever saw the spooklight. That didn’t scare me one bit because, hell, I thought her stories were just a bunch of old malarkey. Women of a certain age are full of those kinds of tall tales, and my mama told that same one plenty of times over the years.

  Never gave me pause but once.

  One time, Mama added something to the story. It was late and I’d been acting up, and she must have been feeling worried about my mortal soul. The way she said what she did that night, so earnest, put goose pimples on my ribs. It still does. What she told me was that the time she saw the spooklight, people started acting funny. Walking toward it, circling around. Saying strange things to it, she said. And some people thought it was saying strange things back.

  That night my mama took me by the arm and she told me something extra.

  Don’t pray to it, she said, and the back of my neck went cold.

  I already told you to run away if you see it, boy. But I know your mind and you’ll stay and watch. That’s fine. It’s in your nature to disobey, Hank. But in the name of the Lord, promise me that you won’t ever get down on your knees and pray to it.

  With everything I got, I force my hands down. My joints are cracking and I figure they haven’t moved in hours. That raw light leaves my face and I take a shuddering breath like a catfish in the well of a boat because the air out here is suddenly so cold.

  “Get thee behind me, Satan,” I mutter, and I somehow will myself to drop the cube into the snow. There, Mama. God rest your soul.

  I start to paw at my rifle. It’s slung tight and the strap is stiff and frozen and I’m too fat to get it around right away. These woods are going to swallow me up if I don’t get out of here right now. Then I hear the noise. At first I don’t want to believe it, so I keep right on fidgeting, but the second time I have to stop. It ain’t like I want to but I can’t help myself and I look down at that flickering cube of light in the snow.

  “Hank,” says the spooklight. And that glow, it spreads out, you know? Like the words themselves, the light spreads out around the edges of things.

  “No,” I say and it comes out a whimper. I’ve got the rifle off my shoulder now and I’m tugging at the cold metal to try to get into a firing stance. But all the strength is out of me. I feel like my bones are empty. Like my gut is made of papier-mâché and any second I might bust open like a piñata.

  “I’ve got secrets to share with you, Hank. So much wisdom. I promise. Let me open up your eyes. All you have to do is say yes. Yes yes yes.”

  Something tickles me and I reach up to feel my cheek. My fingers come away shining with a layer of ice. No, no, no. I’m crying. I’m crying real hard and I can’t stop because I’m about to disobey my mama.

  I promised her, but this is too hard.

  Don’t you ever pray to it, Hank Cotton, she told me.

  “Please,” I’m saying to the light. “Please, please, please.”

  But the spooklight is talking to me. Around the edges. Edges I can’t see. But I can hear. It’s a little burning bush in the palm of my hand. I don’t remember picking it up.

  “You’re my chosen one, Hank. Chosen to rise above the rest. In my light you will become as a god to your fellow man.”

  “Yes,” I say, and I could swear I’m standing still and the world is moving around me. Walking now. Columns of trees marching around me. Snow kissing my boots. Moving me out of these woods and back to the campfires.

  Back to the world of men.

  I can feel the bare tree limbs arched high up above me, black as rifle barrels and creaking in the arctic wind. But I feel warm now. Warm all over with this pretty light shining on me again. My strength is back, pardner, and it’s still growing. I’m marching out of these woods strong as a bull with this spooklight in my hand. And a big old grin has found its way onto my face.

  It’s mine. The light is all mine.

  I tell you what. I feel good. Better now. Like I figured out a math problem on the chalkboard in front of the whole damned class. They thought I was stupid but the answer just came to me. Why, this light feels just about as natural as jumping into my granddaddy’s pond on a hot summer afternoon.

  Son of a gun, as the farmers say.

  “I’m going to help you,” it says.

  “Yup,” I say.

  “You deserve it.”

  “Oh, yup. That’s for sure.”

  Funny thing is, I couldn’t tell you whether I’m talking out loud or not. Doesn’t seem to matter. Me and the light have got an understanding now. A certain trust.

 
“Wipe off your mouth,” it says, and I do.

  Thoughts are just kind of percolating around in my head now. Coming together like water reaching a rolling boil. I’m thinking of the night that the New War began. How I dropped everything and ran straight to the top of Gray Horse—only to have Lonnie Wayne convince old John Tenkiller to let a white boy into our ancestral home. We lost a lot of people that day—real native folks and not those heavy-eyebrow newcomers. Now we’ve been out here losing more, and fighting for who?

  I stop shuffling ahead when I reach the camp perimeter. I’m just inside the tree line and out of sight. Lark Iron Cloud is still swaying out there in the moonlight with his dead buddies. That vile zombie is in The Hero Archive and I’m not. That unnatural freak who ought to be put down is considered a damned hero. The only mention of me is as a big dummy fighting with Lonnie.

  Heroes, huh?

  Bunch of damn heroes.

  The anger knots into my muscles, tightens my jaw and shoulders. My fist closes hard around the spooklight. The corners cut into my palm and it feels good.

  “Sssh,” it says, and I let him loose a little. Beams of light splay out from between my clenched fingers. My own sun. I grin at the rays a little bit and feel their warmth on my chest.

  Somebody is coming.

  Did I think that or hear it? The colors seep back into the cube, fading until the thing is darker than the backs of your eyelids. Just a cube now. A secret in a little box.

  With shaking fingers, I wrap the spooklight in a handkerchief. I’m making it into a bundle like the old ones used to carry. My mama would call this blasphemy. Them elders may have left this medicine behind a long time ago, but I’m starting it up again. I carefully stow the bundle in the satchel I wear around my waist. But before it goes in, I touch it a little bit with my other hand. Just to clean it off.

  “See you soon,” I say.

  That’s when the flashlights hit me from deeper inside the woods. Lonnie Wayne steps out, leading a search party. Now I’ve got a bunch of heroes strafing my broad back with their weak beams of light.

  “Hank,” Lonnie calls, and there’s a new panic under his voice. Been there since the war ended. When fear started creeping into where his anger had lived before. “Hey, Bubba, is that you?”

  I turn around slow and put on an embarrassed grin as the jouncing lights close in on me. Without thinking about it, I push my bundle around to my back with one hand. I wave the flashlights away with the other.

  “It’s me,” I say. “I’m fine. Not smart, but fine.”

  Lonnie catches up to me, followed by three young soldiers. He’s huffing and puffing. His straggling gray whiskers are coated in frost and his whole face seems to droop. The cowboy is getting old and tired and heartsick. Not like me.

  I’m a walking talking million-dollar bill.

  “Y’all are coming back in? Giving up the search already?” I say, and there’s more anger under my voice than I intended.

  “We’ve been out for hours,” Lonnie says, surprised. “Sun’s about to rise, Hank. What happened to you? Where’ve you been?”

  Went for a walk and I got lost. Where do thoughts come from? Do they always come from inside? Funny I never asked myself that before.

  “I went out for a walk and I guess I got lost,” I say. “Took me a damn while to figure out my way back. To be fair, I got kind of embarrassed. Sorry to get you all out of bed. Everybody else all right?”

  “They’re fine. Everybody is fine. We were worried about you,” says Lonnie. Again I notice that slump in his shoulders. Wormed its way in there when the war ended and the adrenaline wore off. When the horror of what happened to Lark settled in. He’s looking at me and he don’t seem powerful anymore. He just seems scared. “Be more careful, okay?”

  I nod and slide an arm around Lonnie’s shoulders. I guide the old cowboy back to camp. Lead him and his men away from my tracks. Away from the path that leads to the two divots in the snow where I knelt all night long.

  Where I prayed.

  “Why’s your face sunburned, Hank?” asks Lonnie.

  I touch my cheek and feel the heat of it through my gloves. When I put on a frown, my skin creases and buckles like the yellowed paper in an old Bible.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” I say. “This is tricky country out here, Lon. Real mysterious place.”

  I look away and sneak a little grin to myself. These people have no idea what was out there in the woods. The treasure that I found and that is mine, all mine.

  But my secret smile disappears fast when I see him.

  Lark. Standing a little ways off, quiet and still. Turning in place to face me as I pass by. Like a dark knife blade planted out here in the wastes and abandoned. The dead Cherokee kid is watching me with black eyes that glitter in the moonlight.

  Watching me damned close.

  3. MAXIM

  Post New War: 1 Month, 13 Days

  Russian civilians in Anadyr, one of the easternmost cities of Eurasia, survived the New War despite being in the immediate vicinity of Archos R-14. Their proximity to the beast eventually caught up to them, however, as even in death the machine was lethally dangerous. The following was translated from a Russian mind. Some words could not be mapped directly and are instead written in the subject’s native tongue.

  —ARAYT SHAH

  NEURONAL ID: VASILY ZAYTSEV

  “Something has got loose in the stacks,” Leonid says to me.

  The war has been unkind to Leonid. The mathematician stands canted in the wind, thin and trembling like a crow-pecked scarecrow. His beard crawls up his pale face nearly to his eyes, dark brown orbs swimming with a fear that cannot be drowned in vodka.

  “Fah, another rat,” I say, waving my hand.

  Leonid shakes his head. Even under his wind-beaten parka, I can see the gray color of his cheeks. I sense that this is something much more.

  “Not a rat,” he says.

  “Avtomat?” I ask. On its own, my palm moves to check the polished wooden grip of my sidearm. “Is he hurt? Has there been any damage?”

  “It is hard to say, Vasily,” says Leonid, motioning at the metal door in front of us. He is shaking slightly from the wind, arms wrapped around his thin ribs. The wind burns my cheeks as well, but I would never show it. Never allow myself to shake in the elements like a stray dog.

  Leonid’s indecision repulses me.

  I must remind myself that not so long ago this man was an esteemed professor. A famous brain supported by spindly legs and a hump in his shoulders usually reserved for the elderly. But he has survived. Cheeks black with frostbite, he stood with me to defend the city of Anadyr. Many of his weaker colleagues fell.

  Too many foxes, not enough bears.

  “I only say that our friend is behaving strangely,” says Leonid. “Communications were disrupted. We lost contact for twenty-one minutes.”

  “When?” I ask.

  “About a month ago. When the American line broke and the tamed avtomat advanced. Right after the death of that thing.”

  I grunt and turn my back on Leonid.

  The steel utility door has not been damaged. Around the corner, an ice-caked generator still rattles on a dirty slab of concrete. The door opens into a harmless-looking shed. Inside, a well-oiled freight elevator hovers over a sixty-meter drop. A shaft of brushed rock that leads to a buried supercomputer cluster.

  The processor stacks.

  Power and communication and water-cooling lines are run down the elevator shaft, packed together in neat snaking bundles. Backup lines are routed through a series of camouflaged boreholes spread out over the acreage of the compound. Each is too small to produce a heat signature detectable from the air. They are carefully hidden in the visible spectrum by natural vegetation and terrain.

  I know these things, these practical things, because it was once my job to perform maintenance on this place. Oiling the wheels of the freight elevator. Tending the foliage around the borehole exits. Checking their heat outp
ut with an IR laser thermometer. Visual inspections of plumbing lines, emergency batteries, and fire-suppression systems. I was a maintenance man—I maintained.

  As the glorified janitor for the Novichok project, I have kept this research facility running for four years. My finger is always on the pulse of this place, monitoring the inputs and the outputs. The end of the world came and my job did not change.

  You see, our friend who lives down below is useless if we cannot talk to him. Yet he must be kept very carefully. Our deep friend must be watched over always.

  And that is our weakness. The stacks were built to be safe from men. Not from machines. Even a vent borehole could be large enough for the avtomat. The crawling types, the ones that wriggle through flesh. They could have the potential to move through the wiring itself. Perhaps a patient one could make its own tunnel through solid rock.

  Some of them are very patient.

  If the avtomat discovered our friend in his deep place, then we have failed. I cannot even contemplate the consequences of losing him. But I know it is better to fall into action than to run around in lost circles, head bobbing like these pigeon men with their advanced degrees.

  “Open the door,” I say to Leonid. “We will go down together. See what we can find.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  I do not bother to respond. I just wait.

  Leonid reluctantly removes his glove and places his shivering hand in a cavity next to the door. A flash of red as the laser scanner examines his fingerprints. And, of course, it checks to make sure there is warm blood in his veins.

  We step inside and I close the metal door behind. The wind calls to us through the hidden cracks in this structure. A faint pale light pushes geometrically through the edges of a single mesh window, painted black. The sliding steel door of the freight elevator is shut tight like an angry mouth.

  “Our friend is talking. Whispering to himself down there in the darkness. My lab mates are growing afraid for him. Afraid that he is losing his mind. If he goes, then what will we do? What hope is left for us?”

  Leonid shrugs, takes a gulp of air. His voice has taken on a high-pitched quality that I recognize as being a hairbreadth from panic.