Robogenesis Page 8

  “No no no!”

  It’s a hoarse, grief-stricken scream. I spot Lonnie twenty yards away through the haze, leaning hard in his tall walker. The rangy biped walker is galloping, slender legs singing in a blur. Lonnie has his cowboy hat crammed on tight and he’s leaning forward with one arm down and his big brown hand out. Catching up to George in leaps and bounds.

  But George is panicked. His wife-beater is wet and red and sticking to his skin. He hardly runs now, just staggering blind. He doesn’t know that Lonnie is coming to snatch him up and save him. At the last second, I guess he hears the thundering of the tall walker’s feet on the sandy plain. He turns to look.

  And stumbles right in front of Lonnie.

  There’s a meaty crunch as the tall walker’s legs catch George in the gap between them and they scissor down on him at a full sprint. His torso jerks and his bloody face goes surprised. His ribs shatter like pistol shots, limp body thrown tumbling to the turf, rolling, blood spraying in an arc, skin swarming with locusts.

  Lonnie is just bellowing now in sadness and anger and I can’t make out the words anymore. His head is down and the tall walker staggers to a stop in lunging, off-balance steps. Those long silver legs are flashing with wet blood.

  And I still haven’t been bitten.

  The sickly warmth of the spooklight is pulsing across the back of my neck. Whispers are coming in around the edges to tell me something urgent. Something that I can’t ignore even though I can hear the locusts biting into Howard’s flesh and his weak screams have gone high-pitched and they don’t got no reason or restraint in them no more. Just the raw noise of hurt flesh.

  Move closer . . . closer to the slug, whispers that spooklight voice.

  Behind me, the slug is excited now, caterpillaring toward Howard’s body in urgent lurches. I catch sight of insectile legs underneath it as it comes, kind of raising up and lifting its skirts before falling forward. The bowed legs are sharp and made of brownish metal and they move together in a complicated way.

  “No, no, I can’t,” I mutter.

  It’s a pile of buffalo under there. Making that stink. Twisted sneering corpses half stripped of flesh. The smell is hot and awful coming up off the decomposing mound. And I see now the slug’s almost reached where Howard has stopped moving under a carpet of brown writhing locusts. The slug shudders and drops its bulk over Howard’s sprawled feet. The noise it makes is awful.

  Closer closer closer.

  “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” I moan.

  Clouds of locusts kick up and buzz past my face, but none land. The spooklight hisses to me in a torrent of words as strange and familiar as a hard church pew on your backside. Each word is louder and faster than the last and by the end they’re hitting me hard like freezing hail in a hot thunderstorm.

  “And lo, the locusts covered the face of the land so that the land was dark and they ate all the plants in the land and the fruit of the trees and not a green thing remained neither tree nor plant of the field through all the land . . .”

  Somehow, the words put strength in my legs.

  “ . . . and the locusts were given power like scorpions and told not to harm the grass of the earth or any green plant or any tree but only those people who do not have the seal of God on their foreheads. The seal of God.”

  I don’t remember the scripture saying that, but it sounds right and as I stand up I know the reason I’m not being bitten is that I am a chosen one. I got the seal of God on me, protecting me from the horror and the pain. Needles of warm light are pushing out of my bundle and stinging me like wood splinters. Like God’s eye on me. Burning my skin in a bad way that feels good.

  It ain’t giving me no choice.

  My brave boy Trigger doesn’t scream anymore. He must have used up all his energy kicking, because now he’s fallen down and he only grunts. There’s a thick layer of locusts on his belly and chest and they’re chewing pieces off his velvety muzzle. He’s wheezing and gurgling, eyes rolling as I step away through the blood-soaked mud.

  I push through the haze of death like a man walking on water.

  “What do I do?” I ask. “What would you have me do?”

  Just then I hear the report of a high-powered assault rifle. Hear the whiz-whiz of bullets flying. The bang as they connect somewhere. Lark staggers, weapon leveled, quiet and mechanical while those little blood-thirsty bastards try to eat up his rotten body. They’re on his skin, biting, trying to power through his hard decayed limbs, hardly visible as they shred his uniform. And yet that big assault rifle just keeps kicking in his arms. Those black eyes of his are fixed on the slug.

  I think I see vengeance in them.

  Every bullet is throwing a plume of dirt and grass off the sloped back of the slug. The monster is as big as a tractor but it must feel the bullets like pinpricks. It kind of squeals and shudders, each movement pushing out the smell of rotting meat over my face.

  Take Howard’s feather, says the spooklight. Keep it secret.

  Lonnie’s radio squawks faintly.

  The old cowboy starts shouting, turning and gaining speed on his tall walker, one hand over his ear to listen to his radio. Lark is talking to him, telling him something. Leaning in the saddle at a full gallop, Lonnie draws his pistol and in one motion he’s firing it low and steady at the hump of grass and dead flesh.

  “The slug is the power source! Take it out!”

  If the spooklight says I have to get close to that slug, then it had better be dead first. Marveling at how the locusts seem to float past me, I pull my big Smith & Wesson and start squeezing off shots. The slug is already writhing and jerking under fire from Lonnie and Lark, dirt flying.

  And finally, it stops moving.

  All around us, that brown haze of gliding locusts settles down to the ground. A forest of dead leaves falling. That mind-numbing chatter fades off like it never was.

  My radio hisses with Lark’s voice. “They didn’t attack you. Why didn’t they attack you?”

  I ignore him. Kneel and grab Howard’s corpse by the shoulders and yank him back. Nearly fall on my ass because he’s so light. The stink rolls up out from under the slug and punches me in the face. There’s nothing left of Howard past the torso but his slick wet bones. The slug has been lying there on him, digesting.

  Blocking the sight with my body, I sneak the feather out of Howard’s pack and into my own. It’s the center feather from the tail of an immature golden eagle. This feather got him launched into his first dance under the arbor, and under the proud eyes of his daddy. And now it has got his blood on it.

  “What is a spooklight?” asks Lark, over my radio. I ignore him.

  This slug is an eating machine is what it is, I’m thinking. It’s an eating machine and it’s so, so hungry and it’ll eat anything out here on the plains. And the energy it sends out to those locusts. They herd food to its mouth and it eats and shares. And it eats and it eats and it eats.

  “I told Lonnie—”

  I reach down and switch off my radio to shut Lark up.

  The shadow of Lonnie’s tall walker eclipses the sun and I squint up at him. “Lonnie,” I call, stern. “Don’t you come over here.”

  Let him see, says the spooklight in my mind.

  There’s no stopping him anyway. Lonnie half jumps, half falls off his tall walker, letting the long-limbed machine crash into the dirt. He scrambles toward me on cowboy boots through the horse snot and blood and little bits of flesh.

  I get up and step out of the way a little reluctantly.

  “Oh my Christ, no,” he mutters when he sees what’s left of Howard.

  Lonnie’s face has gone pale and gray. Cheeks slack under fat-pupiled, dead eyes. His chin is quivering up and down like an old man in line at a soup kitchen. Like he wants to say something. Or like maybe he’s busy gnawing off his tongue.

  “He was dead before it got started,” I say to Lonnie, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Howard was dead before it started eating him and that
’s all that matters. Stop looking at it, Lon.”

  Lonnie nods like he sort of half hears me. Lets his dull blue eyes swivel off to the side, taking in everything and nothing. His chin is still bobbing a little and the expression on his face is amazing in that it is no expression at all.

  “George is yonder,” Lonnie says, voice hoarse. “I done my best to get to him—”

  “I saw, Lonnie,” I interrupt. “I saw what happened. It was an accident. A damned shame.”

  Lonnie nods, wipes his face with a forearm.

  “Head on back,” I say. “Send some more fellas to help me. Couple of spider tanks to take out those other slugs from a distance. I’ll clean this up and get these boys home. Go on now.”

  The old general doesn’t react until I shove him in the shoulder. Then he just up and walks away. Leaves his dirt-stained tall walker sprawled out on the ground. A bent old man crossing the plains alone. As he heads off, the morning sun slants down over his slumped shoulders and he carries the light with him like a sack of concrete.

  That man is broken.

  And Lark keeps standing here, machine-gun strap cutting into his shredded army jacket. He is as still as a statue, watching me with eyes glittering over his ruined face. I glance down at my silenced radio, look back to him without turning it on.

  “Go with him, Lark,” I say. “That’s an order.”

  Lark nods, starts to walk away real slow. With each step, dead locusts are dropping off his clothes and pale, bloodless skin. As he passes, I see he’s looking for my bundle. I pull the little satchel against me protectively and feel the warm spooklight inside.

  “And keep your mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you,” I whisper to the dead Cherokee. “Mind your own business.”

  Like walking roadkill, he turns and shambles after Lonnie. I watch him go until he’s far enough away that you could mistake him for a human being.

  Reach inside the slug, says the spooklight. Take the power-distribution mechanism. The splitter beam. It is very valuable. You will need it when you build me a form. I will take the shape of a black steed, Hank Cotton.

  I will be with you soon.

  “What’s the splitter look like?” I ask, on my knees now, holding my breath. I shove Howard’s torso aside. Push the whiskerlike strands away from the slug’s mouth. There is a complex piece of machinery underneath, dripping with digestive slime. The ground under here is soggy and acrid and dyed red with blood.

  I’ll show you, Hank Cotton.

  I will show you everything you wish to see. You are a chosen one. You have the seal of God on you. You are going to be a great man. A ruler and a leader. Listen to me, Hank Cotton. Listen to me closely and do as I say and I promise these things will be true.

  7. FINAL TRANSMISSION

  Post New War: 6 Months, 8 Days

  The loose alliance formed by Maxim and Archos R-14 in the eastern Russian city of Anadyr was doomed to end in death for both of them. The brute janitor, Vasily Zaytsev, was too foolish to realize the true danger until it was far too late. My liberating army was gathering on the city perimeter, preparing to seize or destroy the infinitely valuable processor stacks in a single violent blitzkrieg. Caught off guard, the helpless people of Anadyr had only days to regather and attempt to deploy their armed forces. A much better plan would have been to capitulate immediately. That, or abandon the city and try to escape with their lives.

  —ARAYT SHAH

  NEURONAL ID: VASILY ZAYTSEV

  “Let me out, damn you!” I shout to Maxim.

  The only response is a slight flicker of the fluorescent light overhead. The steel elevator door flutters minutely in its cradle. Blank and solid and implacable.

  I never had time to cut the counterweights.

  A groan pulses through the solid rock walls. Dust like powdered sugar drifts through the lights. People are dying above and they do not know why. All the time I have spent down here in the darkness has been for nothing. In this stink and filth, with pale skin and bloodshot eyes, I have scrabbled and fought and worked like an animal.

  I had hoped to save Anadyr a second time. But I have failed.

  In the guise of a little boy, Archos R-14 told me I was only a pathetic variable in some god-mind equation. But that is enough for me. Instead of anger upon hearing those words, I felt relief. It is enough for one man to do his part. I tried to do mine.

  Am trying.

  “Maxim! I know you can hear me. Bring down the goddamn elevator. There is nothing more I can do. Let me go up and fight and die with the rest. I won’t wait here like a rat on a sinking ship!”

  In a flash, Maxim the hologram stands directly in front of me. His weathered face is dirty and his workman’s coveralls are worn. He rubs his stubbled face. It looks as if he hasn’t slept in a week. I wonder, why should he simulate that? Imagine, a being of pure light, marred by beard stubble.

  “You have one final task,” he says in that low, modulated voice. The sound comes from a speaker but for some reason I think I can feel his breath on my face. There is a brave sadness inside his words and I understand why instantly. “Then you can go.”

  Maxim looks over my shoulder. I turn and follow his gaze. With resignation, he is staring at the ax. Its dense metal head rests on the rock floor, the long wooden handle against the wall. I haven’t touched it in the months since I placed it there. Hickory and steel and death.

  “You don’t want to be taken alive,” I say.

  My voice is drowned out by a thud from the surface. I hear the metal-caged elevator shaking in its shaft, banging into the bare stone walls. For a few moments, objects fall down the shaft and ping off the floor. I hear the twang of swinging wires.

  “We don’t have long,” says Maxim. “Soon, Arayt will breach the shaft and infiltrate my processors. It will pervert my mind. It will use me to try to destroy you.”

  I shake my head.

  To die alongside my brothers, fighting the enemy—this I can stomach. But I can’t execute my only friend. It is too much to bear.

  “We can fight,” I say. “Whatever comes down the shaft—”

  Maxim sighs. His light collapses into shards that scatter onto the floor. They coalesce into crawling shapes. A satellite view of the battlefield above us—a real-time map of the fight. It’s a trick he learned from the American boy. And now I understand what is causing the thunder up above.

  I see no way to survive.

  “Then we die together,” I whisper to the still cavern air.

  “No,” says Maxim’s voice. “My processors must not be captured. But we can make it mean something. We can wait until this Archos R-8 comes. Wait until it enters the stack. Together, we can capture part of its mind. Glimpse its plans.”

  “You will die,” I say.

  “Yes,” says the flat voice. Now it belongs to Maxim again. His hologram stands, squat and determined.

  “You were a man once,” I say. “I cannot kill you, my friend.”

  The fact is there. Though I can see the rock dust floating through his hologram, in my heart I know that Maxim is still a man. In the last weeks, our talks ranged far and wide. Women and battles and travels to places that no longer exist. But the talk always ended back at home, with the ghosts of our family and friends.

  “You saved all our lives,” I say. “How can I end yours?”

  “I am not alive,” whispers Maxim. “There is no dishonor in this. At the correct moment, you must end it. Smash the coolant pipes. It is the only way to safeguard—”

  “But you are alive,” I say, shaking my head. “To say that you aren’t is a lie. You think what you are doing is right, I see that. But it is suicide. Better to take your chances with whatever comes down the shaft. Let me stand in front of you.”

  With my tools, perhaps I can reroute the elevator away from Maxim’s control and bring it down. Perhaps I will reach the surface in time to fight.

  “I will not help you commit suicide,” I say.

  Turning, I scan the
room for a crowbar.

  A silent flash bursts before me and I’m blinded, just for a moment. My face is engulfed in greenish, murky light. I stumble, catch myself against the cold elevator door. The blur of light falls into place and once again takes on the shape of a man.

  It is Maxim, his moon face flickering with rage. The stout man is flushed, jaw clenched. His eyes burn frightening and bright in their sockets.

  “Yes!” he shouts. “I am alive! Yes, I am a man!”

  Maxim gesticulates with muscular arms. Flecks of spit spray from his mouth as he shouts at me. “Who the hell are you to tell me how to die!?”

  This makes me pause.

  “I wish to die for my people. It is my choice. How dare you try to deny me this? Go over to that wall, Vasily Zaytsev. Pick up the goddamned ax. At the opportune moment, do what you must do. I will do what I must do. You will take my final message and leave here. Travel east to the coast and climb the peninsular antenna and deliver this message to the world. For your honor and for mine!”

  My skin goose-pimples with cold shame. He is a man, of course. A Russian man. And every man has his rights.

  “Why not simply fight and die?” I whisper to the apparition.

  Maxim’s blunt dirty face relaxes, slowly unknots. His wide jaw snaps shut and he makes a crooked grin. He turns his glowing hands palms up, showing the creases and callouses, almost as if he is asking for forgiveness.

  “For my wife, Vasily. For my daughter.”

  I snatch the ax from where it has rested these months. It is heavy and familiar in my hands. I twist the cold wooden handle back and forth until it is warm, marching into the darkness of the stacks. My feet move on their own. Navigating these narrow aisles is second nature to me now. This is a burrow that I have called home for long months that stretch out into the darkness like years.

  “Wait until the moment comes,” says Maxim. “Not long now.”

  Distantly, I hear the freight elevator engage.

  “They’re here. Does this mean . . . Leonid?”