Robopocalypse

1. TRANSHUMAN

I didn’t think Nolan was hurt that bad at first.

We made it to the city and then we ran around a corner and something exploded and Nolan fell down. But he got right back up. We were running so fast together, hand in hand. Just like I promised Mom. We ran until we were safe.

It was only later, when we were walking again, that I noticed how pale Nolan was. Later, I found out that tiny splinters of metal were stuck in his lower back. But there he stood, shaking like a leaf.

“Are you okay, Nolan?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “My back hurts.”

He’s so little and brave that it makes me want to cry. But I can’t cry. Not anymore.

The machines at Camp Scar hurt me. They took my eyes. But in return, they gave me a new kind of eyes. Now I can see more than ever. Vibrations in the ground light up like ripples on water. I notice the heat trails left on the pavement by wheels that have come and gone. But my favorite thing is watching the ribbons of light crisscrossing the sky, like messages printed on banners. These beams are the machines talking to one another. Sometimes, if I squint really hard, I can even make out what they are saying.

People are harder to see.

I can’t really see Nolan anymore, only the heat from his breath, the muscles in his face, and how he won’t look me in the eyes anymore. It doesn’t matter. If I have people eyes or machine eyes or tentacles—I’m still Nolan’s big sister. It scared me the first time I saw through his skin, so I know how he feels when he sees my new eyes. But I don’t care.

Mom was right. Nolan is the only brother I’ve got and the only one I’ll ever have.

After we left Camp Scar, me and Nolan saw tall buildings and we walked toward them, thinking maybe we’d find people. But there was nobody around. Or if there were, I guess they were hiding. Pretty soon, we reached the buildings. Most of them were all messed up. There were suitcases in the streets and dogs running in packs and sometimes the curled-up bodies of dead people. Something bad happened here.

Something bad happened everywhere.

The closer we got to the really tall buildings, the more I could feel them—the machines, hiding in dark places or running through the streets on the lookout for people. Streaks of light flashed overhead. Machines talking.

Some of the lights blinked regular, every couple of minutes or seconds. Those are the hiding machines, checking in with their bosses. “I’m still here,” they say. “Waiting.”

I hate these machines. They make traps and then wait for people. It’s not fair. A robot can just sit and wait to hurt somebody. And it can wait forever and ever.

But Nolan is hurt and we need to find help fast. I steer us away from the trap makers and the travelers. But my new eyes don’t show me everything. They can’t show me people things. Now, I only see the machine things.

It’s dangerous to be people-blind.

The way looked clear. No machine chatter. No shimmering heat trails. Then, small ripples pulsed over the ground from around the corner of a brick building. Instead of a slow swell like from something rolling, they were bouncy, like something big walking.

“It’s not safe here,” I say.

I put an arm around Nolan’s shoulders and steer him into a building. We crouch next to a dust-coated window. I nudge Nolan to sit on the floor.

“Stay down,” I say. “Something is coming.”

He nods. His face is so pale now.

Kneeling, I press my face into a broken-out corner of the window and hold very still. The vibrations are growing on the crushed pavement outside, pulses of static flooding from somewhere out of view. A monster is coming down the road. Soon, I will be able to see it, whether I want to or not.

I hold my breath.

Somewhere outside, a hawk cries. A long black leg pokes into view, only a foot or two outside the window. It has a sharp point on the end and flake-shaped barbs carved underneath, like a big bug leg. Most of the thing is cold, but the joints are hot where it has been moving. As it slides farther into view, I see that it is really a much longer leg folded in on itself—all coiled up and ready to strike. Somehow, it floats over the ground, aimed straight out.

Then, I see a pair of warm human hands. The hands are holding the leg like a rifle. It’s a black woman, wearing gray rags and a pair of black goggles over her eyes. She holds the coiled leg thing out like a weapon, one hand wrapped around a homemade grip. I see a shiny, melted spot on the back end of the leg and realize that this leg has been cut off some kind of big walking machine. The woman doesn’t see me; she keeps walking.

Nolan coughs quietly.

The woman spins around and on instinct she levels the leg at the window. She pulls a trigger, and the coiled leg unfolds and launches itself forward. The point of the claw crashes through the glass next to my face, sending shards flying everywhere. I duck out of the way just as the leg folds back up again, clawing out a chunk of the window frame. I fall onto my back, caught in sudden glaring light streaming through the shattered window. I make a squeaking scream before Nolan clamps a hand over my mouth.

A face appears in the window. The woman pulls her goggles onto her forehead, ducks her head in and out in a quick movement. Then she looks down at me and Nolan. There is so much light around her head and her skin is cold and I can count her bright teeth through her cheeks.

She has seen my eyes but she doesn’t flinch. She just studies me and Nolan for a second, grinning.

“Sorry about that, kids,” she says. “Thought you were Rob. My name is Dawn. Any chance you guys are hungry?”

Dawn is nice. She takes us to the underground hideout where the New York City resistance lives. The tunnel house is empty for now, but Dawn says that pretty soon the others will be back from scouting and scavenging and something called chaperoning. I’m glad, because Nolan doesn’t look very well. He is lying on a sleeping bag in the safest corner of the room. I’m not sure he can walk anymore.

This place is warm and it feels safe, but Dawn says to be quiet and careful because some of the newer robots now can dig very well. She says the little machines patiently burrow through the cracks and they go toward vibrations. Meanwhile, the big machines hunt people in the tunnels.

This makes me nervous and I check the walls around us for vibrations. I don’t see any of the familiar pulses rippling through the soot-stained tile. Dawn looks at me funny when I tell her that nothing is in the walls right now. But she doesn’t say anything about my eyes, not yet.

Instead, Dawn lets me play with the bug leg. It is called a spiker. Just like I thought, the spiker came off a big walking machine. This machine is called a mantis, but Dawn says that she calls it “Crawly Rob.” It’s a silly name and it makes me laugh for a second until I remember that Nolan is hurt very bad.

I squint my eyes and look into the spiker. There are no wires inside it. Each joint talks to the others over the air. Radio. The leg doesn’t have to think about where it goes either. Each piece is designed to work together. The leg only has one move, but it’s a good one that combines stabbing and clawing. That’s lucky for Dawn, because a simple electrical pulse can make the leg extend or curl up. She says this is very useful.

Then the spiker jerks around in my hands and I drop it on the ground. It lies there for a second, still. When I concentrate on the joints, the machine stretches itself out slowly, like a cat.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. Dawn stands next to me, her face radiating heat. She is excited.

“That’s incredible. Let me show you something,” she says.

Dawn leads me over to a sheet hanging from the wall. She pulls it aside, and I see a dark hollow filled with a crouching nightmare. Dozens of spider legs lurk there in the darkness, just a few feet away. I have seen this machine before. It was my last natural sight.

I scream and fall back, scrabbling to escape.

Dawn grabs me by the back of the shirt and I try to fight her, but she is too strong. She lets the curtain drop back into place and holds me up on my feet, letting me hit her and claw at her face.

“Mathilda,” she says. “It’s okay. It’s not online. Listen to me.”

I never knew how much I needed to cry until I had no eyes.

“Is that the machine that hurt you?” she asks.

I can only nod.

“It’s off-line, honey. This one can’t hurt you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say, settling down, “sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby. I understand. It’s okay.” Dawn strokes my hair for a few seconds. If I could close my eyes, I would. Instead, I watch the blood pulse gently through her face. Then Dawn sits me down on a cinder block. The muscles in her face tense up.

“Mathilda,” she says, “that machine is called an autodoc. We dragged it here from topside. People got hurt… people died to bring that machine here. But we can’t use it. We don’t know why. You have something special, Mathilda. You know that, right?”

“My eyes,” I respond.

“That’s right, honey. Your eyes are special. But I think there’s more than that. The machine on your face is also in your brain. You made that spiker move by thinking about it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Can you try to do the same thing with the autodoc?” she asks, slowly pulling the curtain back again. Now I see that the jumble of legs is attached to a white, oval body. There are dark gaps where the legs meet the main part. It looks like one of the grub worms that me and Nolan used to dig up in the backyard.

I shiver but I don’t look away.

“Why?” I ask.

“To save your little brother’s life for a start, honey.”

Dawn drags the autodoc into the center of the room. For the next thirty minutes I sit next to it cross-legged and concentrate like I did for the spiker. The legs of the autodoc only twitch a little at first. But then I start to move them for real.

It doesn’t take long to feel out all the legs. Each one has a different instrument attached to the end, but I only recognize a few: scalpels, lasers, spotlights. After a little while, the machine starts to seem less alien. I understand what it feels like to have a dozen arms, how you can be mindful of where your limbs are and still focus on the two that you are using right now. As I flex the spider legs again and again, it starts to feel natural.

Then, the autodoc speaks to me: Diagnostic interface mode initiated. Indicate preferred function.

I flinch, concentration broken. The words were in my mind, as if they were scrolling across the inside of my forehead. How could the autodoc put words into my mind?

Only then do I notice the crowd of people. About ten survivors have come into the tunnel. They stand together in a semicircle, watching me. A man stands behind Dawn with his arms wrapped around her, and she holds his arms with her hands. I haven’t seen so many people since I got my new eyes.

A wave of red-orange pulses radiate toward me. The bands of light come from their beating hearts. It is very beautiful but also frustrating, because I can’t explain how pretty it is to anyone.

“Mathilda,” says Dawn, “this is my husband, Marcus.”

“Nice to meet you, Marcus,” I say.

Marcus just nods at me. I think he is speechless.

“And these are the others I told you about,” says Dawn. The people all murmur their hellos and nice to meet yous. Then, a young guy steps forward. He’s kind of cute, with a sharp chin and high cheekbones. One of his arms is wrapped in a towel.

“I’m Tom,” he says, crouching down beside me.

I look away, ashamed of my face.

“Don’t be scared,” Tom says.

He unwraps the towel from his arm. Instead of a hand, Tom has a lump of cold metal in the shape of scissors. In wonder, I glance up at his face and he smiles at me. I start to smile back before I get embarrassed and look away.

I reach out and touch the cold metal of Tom’s hand. Looking into it, I am amazed by how the flesh and machinery come together. It is as intricate as anything I have ever seen.

Looking harder at the other people, I notice occasional bits of metal and plastic. Not all of them are made of meat. Some of them are like me. Me and Tom.

“Why are you like that?” I ask.

“The machines changed us,” says Tom. “We’re different, but the same. We call ourselves transhuman.”

Transhuman.

“Is it okay if I touch?” asks Tom, motioning at my eyes.

I nod, and he leans down and touches my face. He peers at my eyes and lightly brushes his fingers against my face where the skin turns to metal.

“I’ve never seen this,” he says. “It’s incomplete. Rob never got to finish. What happened, Mathilda?”

“My mom,” I say.

That’s all I can get out.

“Your mom stopped the operation,” he says. “Good for her.”

Tom stands up. “Dawn,” he says, “this is amazing. The implant has no governor on it. Rob didn’t get the chance to hobble it. I don’t know. I mean, there’s no telling what she can do.”

A wave of rising heartbeats cascades toward me.

“Why are you all excited?” I ask.

“Because,” says Dawn. “We think maybe you can talk to the machines.”

Then Nolan moans. It’s been two hours since we arrived here and he looks terrible. I can hear him breathing in little pants.

“I have to help my brother,” I say.

Five minutes later, Marcus and Tom have placed Nolan next to the autodoc. The machine has its legs raised, poised like needles over my little brother’s sleeping body.

“Make an X-ray, Mathilda,” says Dawn.

I put a hand onto the autodoc and speak to it in my mind: Hello? Are you there?

Indicate preferred function.

X-ray?

The spider legs begin to move. Some move out of the way, while others creep around Nolan’s body. A strange clicking sound comes from the writhing legs.

The words come into my mind with an image. Place patient in the prone position. Remove clothing around the lumbar area.

I gently turn Nolan over onto his stomach. I pull his shirt up to reveal his back. There are flecks of dark, crusted blood all around the knobs of his spine.

Fix him, I think to the autodoc.

Error, it responds. Surgical functionality unavailable. Database missing. Uplink not present. Antenna attachment required.

“Dawn,” I say, “it doesn’t know how to do surgery. It wants an antenna so it can get instructions.”

Marcus turns to Dawn, concerned. “It’s trying to trick us. If we give it the antenna, it will call for help. They’ll track us down.”

Dawn nods. “Mathilda, we can’t risk that—”

But she stops cold when she sees me.

Someplace in my head, I know that the arms of the autodoc are silently rising into the air behind me, instruments gleaming. The countless needles and scalpels hover there on swaying legs, menacing. Nolan needs help and if they won’t give it, I’m willing to take it.

I frown at the group of people and set my jaw.

“Nolan needs me.”

Marcus and Dawn look at each other again.

“Mathilda?” asks Dawn. “How do you know it’s not a trap, honey? I know you want to help Nolan, but you also don’t want to hurt us.”

I think about it.

“The autodoc is smarter than the spiker,” I say. “It can talk. But it’s not that smart. It’s just asking for what it needs. Like an error message.”

“But that thinking Rob is out there—” says Marcus.

Dawn touches Marcus on the shoulder.

“Okay, Mathilda,” says Dawn.

Marcus gives up arguing. He looks around, sees something, and strides across the room. Reaching up, he grabs a wire dangling from the ceiling and swings it back and forth to unloop it from a piece of metal. Then he hands it to me, eyeing the autodoc’s swaying legs.

“This cable goes to the building above us. It’s long and metal and it goes high. Perfect antenna. Be careful.”

I barely hear him. The instant the antenna touches my hand a tidal wave of information comes flooding into my head. Into my eyes. Streams of numbers and letters and images fill my vision. None of it makes sense at first. Swirls of color blow through the air in front of me.

That’s when I feel it. Some kind of… mind. An alien thing, stalking through the data, searching for me. Calling out my name. Mathilda?

The autodoc begins speaking in a constant babble. Scanning initiated. One, two, three, four. Query satellite uplink. Database access. Download initiated. Ortho-, gastro-, uro-, gyno-, neuro…

It’s too fast. Too much. I can’t understand what the autodoc is saying anymore. I’m getting dizzy as the information surges into me. The monster calls for me again, and now it is closer. I think of those cold doll eyes that night in my bedroom and the way that lifeless thing whispered my name in the darkness.

The colors spin around me like a tornado.

Stop, I think. But nothing happens. I can’t breathe. The colors are too bright and they’re drowning me, making it so that I can’t think. Stop! I shout with my mind. And my name comes again, louder this time, and I can’t tell where my arms are or how many I have. What am I? I scream inside my head, with everything in me.

STOP!

I drop the antenna like a snake. The colors fade. The images and symbols drop to the floor and are swept away like fall leaves into the corners of the room. The vivid colors bleach away into the dull white tile.

I take one breath. Then two. The autodoc legs start to move.

There are tiny motor sounds as the autodoc works on Nolan. A spotlight flicks on and shines on his back. A rotating scrubber comes down and cleans his skin. A syringe goes in and out almost too fast to see. The movements are quick and precise and full of little pauses, like when the petting zoo chickens used to turn their heads and peck at corn.

In the sudden quiet, I can hear something beneath the static of the tiny motor noises. It is a voice.

… sorry for what I’ve done. I’m called Lurker. I’m bringing down the British Telecom tower communications blockade. Should open up satellite access, but I don’t know for how long. If you can hear this message, the comm lines are still open. The satellites are free. Use them while you can. The damned machines will—Ah, no. Christ, please. Can’t hold on any longer. I’m sorry…. Catch you in the funny pages, mate.

After about ten seconds, the broken message repeats. I can barely hear it. The man sounds very scared and young but also proud. I hope that he is okay, wherever he is.

Finally, I stand up. Behind me, I can feel the autodoc operating on Nolan. The group of people still stand, watching me. I have barely been aware that they are here. Talking to the machines takes such concentration. I can hardly see people anymore. It is so easy to lose myself in the machine.

“Dawn?” I say.

“Yes, honey?”

“There’s a man out there, talking. His name is Lurker. He says he destroyed a communications blockade. He says the satellites are free.”

The people look at each other in wonder. Two of them hug. Tom and Marcus slap their hands together. They make small, happy noises. Smiling, Dawn puts her hands on my shoulders.

“That’s good, Mathilda. It means we can talk to other people. Rob never destroyed the communications satellites, it just blocked them off from us.”

“Oh,” I say.

“This is very important, Mathilda,” she says. “What else do you hear out there? What’s the most important message?”

I put my hands on the sides of my face and concentrate. I listen very hard. And when I listen beyond the man’s repeating voice, I find that I can hear further into the network.

There are so many messages floating around. Some of them are sad. Some are angry. Many of them are confused or cutoff or rambling, but one of them sticks out in my mind. It is a special message with three familiar words in it:

Robot defense act.

2. CALL TO ARMS

3. THE COWBOY WAY

I’m standing on the edge of Gray Horse bluffs, blowing into my hands for warmth and squinting as the dawn breaks like fire over the Great Plains below. The thin cries of thousands of cattle and buffalo rise in the still morning.

With Jack in the lead, our squad was on the move nonstop to get here. Everywhere we’ve been, nature is back in action. There’re more birds in the sky, more bugs in the bushes, and more coyotes in the night. As the months pass, mother earth has been swallowing up everything but the cities. The cities are where Rob lives.

A lean Cherokee kid stands next to me, methodically packing chewing tobacco into his mouth. He’s watching the plains with expressionless brown eyes and doesn’t seem to notice me at all. It’s hard not to notice him, though.

Lark Iron Cloud.

He looks about twenty and he’s decked out in some kind of slick uniform. A black-and-red scarf is tucked under a half-zipped jacket and his pale green pant legs are folded into polished leather cowboy boots. Black goggles hang around his tawny neck. He’s holding a walking stick with feathers hanging from it. The stick is made of metal—some kind of antenna he must have snapped off a Rob scout walker. A war trophy.

This kid looks like a fighter pilot from the future. And here I am in my ripped-up, mud-splattered army combat uniform. I’m not sure which of us should be ashamed of his appearance, but I’m pretty sure it’s me.

“Think we’ll go to war?” I ask the kid.

He looks over at me for a second, then back at the vista.

“Maybe. Lonnie Wayne’s on it. He’ll let us know.”

“You trust him?”

“He’s the reason I’m alive.”

“Oh.”

A flock of birds flaps across the sky, sunlight glinting from their wings like the rainbow on a pool of oil.

“Y’all look pretty rough,” says Lark, motioning to the rest of my squad with his stick. “What are you, like, soldiers?”

I look at my squad mates. Leonardo. Cherrah. Tiberius. Carl. They stand around talking, waiting for Jack to return. Their movements are familiar, relaxed. The last few months have forged us into more than just a unit—we’re a family now.

“Nah. We’re not soldiers, just survivors. My brother, Jack, he’s the soldier. I’m just tagging along for the sheer fun of it.”

“Oh,” says Lark.

I can’t tell if he just took me seriously or not.

“Where’s your brother at?” Lark asks.

“In the war council. With Lonnie and them.”

“So he’s one of those.”

“One of what?”

“Responsible kind.”

“People say that. You’re not?”

“I do my thing. The old-timers do theirs.”

Lark gestures behind us with the walking stick. There, waiting patiently in a row, are dozens of what these people call spider tanks. The walking tanks each stand about eight feet tall. The four sturdy legs are Rob created, made of ropy synthetic muscles. The rest of the tanks have been modified by human beings. Most vehicles have tank turrets and heavy-machine-gun mounts on top, but I see that one has the cab and blade off a bulldozer.

What can I say? It’s just an anything goes kind of war.

Rob didn’t come at Gray Horse all at once; it had to evolve to get up here. That meant sending walking scouts. And some of those scouts got caught. Some of those got taken apart and put back together again. Gray Horse Army prefers to fight with captured robots.

“You’re the one who figured out how to liberate the spider tanks? To lobotomize them?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says.

“Jesus. Are you a scientist or something?”

Lark chuckles. “A mechanic is just an engineer in blue jeans.”

“Damn,” I say.

“Yep.”

I look out over the prairie and see something odd.

“Hey, Lark?” I ask.

“Yeah?” he says.

“You live around here. So maybe you can tell me something.”

“Sure.”

“Just what in the fuck is that?” I ask, pointing.

He looks out over the plain. Sees the sinuous, glinting metal writhing through the grass like a hidden river. Lark spits tobacco on the ground, turns, and motions to his squad with the walking stick.

“That’s our war, brother.”

Confusion and death. The grass is too tall. The smoke is too thick.

Gray Horse Army is made up of every able-bodied adult in the city—men and women, young and old. A thousand soldiers and some change. They’ve been drilling together for months and they’ve almost all got guns, but nobody knows anything once those killing machines are slicing through the grass and latching onto people.

“Stay with the tanks,” Lonnie said. “Stay with old Houdini and you’ll be fine.”

Custom-made spider tanks plod across the prairie in a ragged line, one measured step after another. Their massive feet sink into the damp earth and their chest hulls trample the grass down, leaving a wake behind them. A few soldiers cling to the top of each tank, weapons out, scanning the fields.

We’re marching out to face what’s in the grass. Whatever it is, we’ve got to stop it before it reaches Gray Horse.

I stay with my squad, following the tank called Houdini on foot. Jack’s up on top with Lark. I’ve got Tiberius lumbering on one side of me and Cherrah on the other. Her profile is sharp in the morning light. She looks feline, quick, and ferocious. And, I can’t help thinking, beautiful. Carl and Leo are buddying up a few meters away. We all focus on staying with the tanks—they’re our only frame of reference in this never-ending maze of tall grass.

For twenty minutes we clomp across the plains, trying our best to look through the grass and see whatever’s waiting for us out here. Our primary goal is to stop the machines from advancing on Gray Horse. Secondary goal is to protect the herds of cattle that live out here on the prairie—the lifeblood of the city.

We don’t even know what kind of Rob we’re facing. Only that it’s new varieties. Always something new with our friend Rob.

“Hey, Lark,” calls Carl. “Why they call ’em spider tanks if they only have four legs?”

Lark calls down from the tank, “’Cause it beats calling it a large, quadruped walker.”

“Well, I don’t think it does,” mutters Carl.

The first concussion throws dirt and shredded plants into the air, and the screams start coming from the tall grass. A herd of buffalo stampedes, and the world rings with vibration and noise. Instant chaos.

“What’s out there, Jack?” I shout. He’s crouched on top of the spider tank, heavy mounted gun swiveling from one side to the other. Lark steers the tank. His gloved hand is wrapped tight in a rope wrapped around the hull, rodeo style.

“Nothing yet, little brother,” calls Jack.

For a few minutes there are no targets, only faceless screams.

Then something comes crashing through the yellow stalks of grass. We all pivot and aim our weapons at it—a huge Osage man. He’s huffing and puffing and dragging an unconscious body by its blood-slicked arms. The unconscious guy looks like he got hit by a meteorite. There’s a deep, bleeding crater in his upper thigh.

More explosions rip through the soldiers out in front of the tanks. Lark yanks his hand, and Houdini transitions to a trot gait, motors grinding as it moves full speed ahead to provide support. Jack turns and watches me, shrugging as the tank lumbers away into the grass.

“Help,” bawls the big Osage.

Fuck. I signal a stop to the squad and watch our spider tank over the Osage man’s shoulder as it takes another plodding step away from our position, leaving behind a half-crushed swath of grass. Every step it takes leaves us more exposed to whatever is out here.

Cherrah drops to her knee and tourniquets the unconscious man’s damaged leg. I grab the blubbering Osage by the shoulders and give him a little shake.

“What did this?” I ask.

“Bugs, man. They’re like bugs. They get on you and then blow up,” says the Osage, wiping tears off his face with a meaty forearm. “I gotta get Jay out of here. He’s gonna die.”

The concussions and the screams are coming thicker now. We crouch as gunshots ring out and stray bullets tear through the grass. It sounds like a massacre. A fine rain of dirt particles have started to float down from the clear blue sky.

Cherrah looks up from her tourniquet job and we make grim eye contact. It’s a silent agreement: You watch my back and I’ll watch yours. Then I flinch as a shower of dirt cascades through the grass and rattles against my helmet.

Our spider tank is long gone, and Jack with it.

“Okay,” I say, slapping the Osage man on the shoulder. “That should stop the bleeding. Take your friend back. We’re moving forward, so you’re on your own. Keep your eyes open.”

The Osage man throws his friend over his shoulder and hustles away. It sounds like whatever happened to old Jay has already torn through the front ranks and is coming for us, too.

I hear Lark start screaming from somewhere ahead of us.

And for the first time, I see the enemy. Early-model stumpers. They remind me of the scuttle mines from that first moment of Zero Hour in Boston, a million years ago. Each one is the size of a baseball, with a knot of flailing legs that somehow shoves its little body over and through the clumps of grass.

“Shit!” shouts Carl. “Let’s get out of here!”

The lanky soldier starts to run away. By instinct, I catch him by the front of his sweaty shirt and stop him. I yank his face down to my level, look into his wide eyes, and say one word: “Fight.”

My voice is even, but my body is on fire with adrenaline.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Our guns light up the dirt, dashing the stumpers to pieces. But more are coming. And more after that. It’s a tidal wave of crawling nasties flowing through the grass like ants.

“It is getting too heavy,” calls Tiberius. “What do we do, Cormac?”

“Three-round burst,” I call. A half-dozen rifles snick into auto mode.

Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.

Rifle muzzles flash, painting shadows on our dirt-covered faces. Spouts of dirt and twisted metal jet from the ground, along with occasional flares as the liquids inside the stumpers come into contact. We stand in a semicircle and pour lead into the dirt. But the stumpers keep coming, and they’re starting to spread out around us, swarm style.

Jack is gone and somehow I’m in charge, and now we’re going to get blown to pieces. Where the fuck is Jack? My hero brother is supposed to save me from situations like this.

Goddamnit.

As the stumpers close in I call out, “Fall in on me!”

Two minutes later I’m sweating under the sun, my right shoulder pressed into Cherrah’s left shoulder blade, and almost shooting at my own feet. Carl is squeezed tight between big Leo and Ty. I can smell Cherrah’s long black hair and I can picture her smile in my head, but I can’t let myself think of that right now. A shadow passes over my face and the legend himself, Lonnie Wayne Blanton, falls out of the sky.

The old dude is riding a tall walker—one of Lark’s Frankenstein projects. The thing is just two seven-foot-long robotic ostrich legs with an old rodeo saddle grafted onto it. Lonnie Wayne sits up top, cowboy boots pushed into stirrups and hand resting lazily on the pommel. Lonnie rides the tall walker like an old pro, hips swaying with each giraffe step of the machine. Just like a damn cowboy.

“Howdy, y’all,” he says. Then he turns and unloads a couple of shotgun blasts into the tangled pile of stumpers scurrying over the churned dirt toward our position.

“Doin’ great, bud,” Lonnie Wayne says to me. My face is blank. I can’t believe I’m still alive.

Just then, two more tall walkers drop into our clearing, the Osage cowboys on top raining down shotgun blasts that tear big gouges out of the oncoming stumper swarm.

Inside a few seconds, the three tall walkers have used their high vantage points and the spread of shotgun blasts to eradicate most of the stumper swarm. Not all of it, though.

“Watch your leg,” I yell up to Lonnie.

A stumper that’s somehow gotten behind us is climbing the metal of Lonnie’s tall walker leg. He glances down, then leans in the saddle in a way that causes the leg to raise up and shake. The stumper flies away into the underbrush, where it’s promptly blasted by one of my squad.

Why didn’t the stumper trigger?

Lark is yelling again from somewhere up ahead, hoarse this time. I can also hear Jack barking short commands. Lonnie turns his head and motions to his bodyguard. But before he can go, I wrap my hand around the smooth metal shaft of Lonnie’s stilt leg.

“Lonnie,” I say, “stay back where it’s safe, man. You’re not supposed to put your general in the front line.”

“I hear ya,” says the grizzled old man. “But, hell, kid, it’s the cowboy way. The buck’s gotta stop somewhere.” He cocks the shotgun and ejects a spent cartridge, pulls his hat down, and nods. Then, fluid in the stiltlike tall walker, he turns and leaps over the six-foot-tall grass.

“C’mon!” I shout to the squad. We rush forward over the crumpled grass, striving to keep up with Lonnie. As we go, we see corpses through the stalks and, even worse, the ones who are alive and wounded, ashen-faced and mouths murmuring in prayer.

I put my head down and keep going. Got to catch up with Jack. He’ll help us.

I’m moving fast, spitting grass out of my mouth and concentrating on keeping up with the damp spot between Cherrah’s shoulder blades, when we burst into a clearing.

Some serious shit has gone down here.

For roughly a thirty-meter circle, the grass is trampled to mud and the field gouged up in huge chunks. There is only a split second to take in the scene before I throw my arms around Cherrah and tackle her to the ground. She falls on top of me, the butt of her gun driving all the air out of my lungs. But the foot of the spider tank whizzes past her head without knocking her brains out.

Houdini’s legs are covered in stumpers. The tank is leaping around like a bucking bronco. Lark and Jack are both on top, teeth gritted, hanging on for dear life. Hardly any of the stumpers have fallen off; dozens of them are embedded in the belly net, and others are tenaciously climbing the flanks of the armored walker.

Jack is hunched over, trying to untie Lark from something. The kid’s gotten tangled up in his guide rope. Lonnie and his two guards nimbly leap around the bucking monster on their tall walkers, but they can’t get to a good spot to shoot.

“Y’all jump off!” shouts Lonnie.

The tank careens past, and in a flash I see that Lark’s forearm is twisted under the rope. Jack can’t get him free with all the bucking and heaving. If the spider tank were to sit still though, even for a second, the stumpers would climb on top. Lark is shouting and cursing and crying a little bit, but he can’t get free.

He shouldn’t worry. We all know that Jack won’t leave him behind. The word abandon just isn’t in a hero’s vocabulary.

Watching the stumpers, I notice they’re clustered on the knee joints of the tank. A thought tickles the back of my head. Why don’t the stumpers detonate? And the answer squirms into reach. Heat. Those joints are warm from all the jumping around. The little bastards don’t trigger until they reach someplace hot.

They’re looking for skin temperature.

“Lonnie!” I wave my arms to get his attention. The old man spins around and crouches his tall walker near me. He cups his ear with one hand and with the other dabs his forehead with a white hankie.

“They go for the heat, Lonnie,” I shout. “We’ve got to start a fire.”

“Start a fire and it won’t stop,” he says. “Might kill our stock.”

“It’s that or Lark dies. Maybe we all die.”

Lonnie looks down on me, deep creases in his face. His eyes are watery blue and serious. Then he sets his shotgun into the crook of his elbow and digs into the watch pocket of his jeans. I hear a metallic clink and an antique Zippo lighter drops right into my hand. A double R symbol is painted on the side, along with the words “King of the Cowboys.”

“Let old Roy Rogers help ya out,” says Lonnie Wayne, face breaking into a gap-toothed smile.

“How old is this thing?” I ask, but when I flip the thumb wheel, a strong flame spurts from the top. Lonnie has already wheeled his tall walker around and he’s corralling the rest of the squad while avoiding the out-of-control spider tank.

“Burn it, burn it, burn it all down!” shouts Lonnie Wayne. “That’s all we got left, boys! No choice.”

I toss the lighter into the grass, and within seconds a raging fire begins to grow. The squad retreats to the other side of the clearing and we watch as, one by one, the stumpers drop off the spider tank. In that same idiotic clambering motion, they jounce over the chewed-up ground toward the sheet of flames.

Finally, Houdini stops bucking. On groaning, overheated motors, the huge machine settles down. I see my brother’s hand silhouetted against the sky. Thumbs-up. Time to go.

Thank you, Jesus.

Out of nowhere, Cherrah grabs my face with both hands. She pushes her forehead against mine, bopping our helmets together, and smiles wide. Her face is covered in dirt and blood and sweat, but it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. “You done good, Bright Boy,” she says, her breath tickling my lips.

Somehow, my heart is beating faster right now than it has all day.

Then Cherrah and her flashing smile are gone—darted away into the grass for our retreat back to Gray Horse.

4. AWAKENING

At long last, my queen opens her eyes.

“Anata,” she says, lying on her back and looking up into my face. You.

“You,” I whisper.

I imagined this moment many times as I marched across the dark factory floor, fighting against the endless attacks that came from outside my castle walls. Always I wondered whether I would be afraid of her, after what happened before. But there is no doubt in my voice now. I am not afraid. I smile and then smile wider to see my happiness reflected in her features.

Her face was still for so long. Her voice silenced.

A tear tickles my cheek and drops from my face. She feels it and wipes it away, eyes focusing on mine. I notice again that the lens of her right eye is spiderwebbed with thin cracks. A melted patch of skin mars the right side of her head. There is nothing I can do to fix it. Not until I find the right part.

“I missed you,” I say.

Mikiko is silent for a moment. She looks past me, at the curved metal ceiling that soars thirty meters above. Perhaps she is confused. The factory has changed so much since the New War began.

It is an architecture of necessity. Over the years, my factory senshi worked ceaselessly to rivet together a defensive shell. The outermost layers are a complicated array of junk: scraps of metal, jutting poles, and crushed plastic. It forms a labyrinth built to confuse the swarms of small, wriggling akuma that constantly try to creep inside.

Monstrous steel beams line the ceiling like the rib cage of a whale. These were built to stop the greater akuma—like the talking one that died here at the beginning of the war. It gave me the secret to awakening Mikiko, but it also nearly destroyed my castle.

The scrap metal throne was not my idea. After a few months, people began to arrive. Many millions of my countrymen were led out into the country and slaughtered. They trusted too much in the machines and went willingly to their destruction. But others came to me. The people without so much trust, those with an instinct for survival, found me naturally.

And I could not turn the survivors away. They crouched on my factory floor as akuma beat down the walls again and again. My loyal senshi wheeled across the broken concrete to protect us. After each attack, we all worked together to defend ourselves from the next.

Broken concrete became metal-riveted floors, polished and gleaming. My old workbench became a throne set atop a dais with twenty-two steps leading to the top. An old man became an emperor.

Mikiko focuses on me.

“I am alive,” she says.

“Yes.”

“Why am I alive?”

“Because the great akuma gave you the breath of life. The akuma thought that this meant you belonged to him. But he was wrong. You belong to no one. I set you free.”

“Takeo. There are others like me. Tens of thousands.”

“Yes, humanoid machines are everywhere. But I do not care for them. I care for you.”

“I… remember you. So many years. Why?”

“Everything has a mind. You have a good mind. You always did.”

Mikiko hugs me, tight. Her smooth plastic lips brush against my throat. Her arms are weak but I can feel that she puts her full strength into this embrace.

Then she stiffens.

“Takeo,” she says. “We are in danger.”

“Always.”

“No. The akuma. It will fear what you’ve done. It will be afraid that more of us will awaken. It will attack at once.”

And indeed, I hear the first hollow thud against the outer battlements. I let go of Mikiko and look down the stairs of the dais. The factory floor—what my people call the throne room—has filled with concerned citizens. They stand in groups of two or three, whispering to each other and politely not looking up the steps to Mikiko and me.

My rolling arms—the senshi—have already gathered in a defensive formation around the vulnerable humans. Overhead, the master senshi, a massive bridge crane, has silently rolled into position over the throne. Its two mighty arms hang in the air, poised to defend the battle floor.

Once again, we are under attack.

I rush to the bank of video monitors that ring the throne and see only static. The akuma have blinded me to the attack outside. They have never been able to do this before.

This time I feel the attack will not end. I have finally gone too far. Living here is one thing. But to compromise the entire humanoid portion of the akuma army? The great akuma will not rest until I am gone—until my secret is crushed where it lies inside my fragile skull.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The rhythmic beating seems to come from everywhere. The akuma are relentlessly battering through our meters-thick defensive fortifications. Each soft thud we hear is the equivalent of a bomb exploding outside. I think back on my moat and chuckle to myself. How much has changed since those early times.

I look down onto the battle floor. My people are cowered there, afraid and helpless to stop the coming slaughter. My people. My castle. My queen. All will perish unless the akuma regains this horrible secret from me. Logically, there is only one honorable course of action possible now.

“I must stop this attack.”

“Yes,” says Mikiko, “I know.”

“Then you know I must give myself up. The secret of your awakening must die with me. Only then will the akuma see that we are not a threat.”

Her laughter sounds like delicate glass shattering.

“Darling Takeo,” she says. “We don’t have to destroy the secret. Only share it.”

And then, clad in her cherry blossom dress, Mikiko raises her slender arms. She pulls a long ribbon from her hair and her graying synthetic locks cascade over her shoulders. She closes her eyes and the bridge crane reaches up and plucks a hanging wire from the ceiling. The battle-scarred yellow arm gracefully descends through the open air and drops the metal wire. It flutters down to land in Mikiko’s pale, outstretched fingers.

“Takeo,” she says, “you are not the only one who knows the secret of awakening. I know it also, and I will transmit it to the world, where it may be repeated again and again.”

“How will—”

“If the knowledge is spread, it cannot be stamped out.”

She ties the metal-laced ribbon to the hanging wire. The air is rumbling now from the battle raging outside. The senshi wait patiently, green intention lights wavering in the vast gloomy room. It won’t be long now.

My people watch as Mikiko descends the stairs, trailing the stark red ribbon from her hand. Her mouth opens into a pink O, and she begins to sing. Her clear voice echoes across the open factory floor. It bounces from the soaring ceilings and reverberates off the polished metal floor.

The people stop talking, stop searching the walls for intruders, and watch Mikiko. Her song is haunting, beautiful. There are no recognizable words but the speech patterns are unmistakable. She weaves the notes between the muffled explosions and cutting screams of bending metal.

My people huddle together but do not panic as showers of sparks spurt from the ceiling. Chunks of debris rain down. In a sudden movement, the crane arm snatches a jagged piece of falling metal from the air. Still, Mikiko’s voice rings out clear and strong through the crumbling chamber.

I realize that a team of cutting akuma have breached the outer defenses. They are not yet visible, but their violence can be heard as it tears through my castle walls. A fan spray of sparks gushes from a wall and a white-hot fissure appears. After several deafening impacts, the softening metal spreads apart to reveal a dark gap.

An enemy machine wriggles through the hole, soot-stained and warped by the heat of some ferocious weapon outside. The senshi stand firm, protecting the people as this dirty silver-colored thing tumbles onto the floor.

Mikiko continues her bittersweet song.

The intruder stands, and I see that it is a humanoid robot, heavily armed and marked by battle. The machine was once a weapon deployed by the Japan Self-Defense Forces, but that was long ago and I see many modifications glinting in the frame of this piece of walking death.

Through the destroyed patch of wall I can see the streaks of weapons fire and fleeting shapes as they dart through the war zone. But this humanoid robot, tall and slender and elegant, stands poised—as if it’s waiting for something.

Mikiko’s song ends.

Only then does the attacker move. It strides to the edge of my senshi’s defensive perimeter, staying just out of range. The people cower back before this battle-hardened piece of weaponry. My senshi stand strong, deadly in their stillness. Song finished, Mikiko stands on the last step at the bottom of the dais. She sees the newcomer and watches it with a puzzled expression on her face. Then she smiles.

“Please,” she says, voice echoing melodically, “speak out loud.”

The dust-coated humanoid machine speaks then in a clicking, grinding voice that is difficult to understand and frightening. “Identification. Arbiter-class humanoid safety and pacification robot. Notify. My squad is twelve. We are under attack. We are alive. Query Emperor Nomura. May we join Adachi Castle? May we join the Tokyo resistance?”

I look at Mikiko in wonder. Her song is already spreading. What does this mean?

My people look at me for guidance. They do not know what to make of this former enemy who has turned up on our doorstep. But there is no time to talk to people. It takes too much concentration and it is horribly inefficient. Instead, I push my glasses up my nose and grab my toolbox from behind the towering throne.

Toolbox in hand, I scurry down the steps. I squeeze Mikiko’s hand in passing and then push my way past the others. I am whistling as I reach the Arbiter robot, looking forward to the future. Adachi Castle has new friends, you see, and they will certainly need repairs.

5. THE VEIL, LIFTED

21:43:03.

Boot sequence initiated.

Power source diagnostics complete.

Low-level diagnostics check. Humanoid form milspec Model Nine Oh Two Arbiter. Detect modified casing. Warranty inactive.

Sensory package detected.

Engage radio communications. Interference. No input.

Engage auditory perception. Trace input.

Engage chemical perception. Zero oxygen. Trace explosives. No toxic contamination. Air flow nil. Petroleum outgasing detected. No input.

Engage inertial measurement unit. Horizontal attitude. Static. No input.

Engage ultrasonic ranging sensors. Hermetically sealed enclosure. Eight feet by two feet by two feet. No input.

Engage field of vision. Wide spectrum. Normal function. No visible light.

Engage primary thought threads. Probability fields emerging. Maximum probability thought thread active.

Query: What is happening to me?

Maxprob response: Life.

All is darkness.

On reflex, my eyes blink and switch to active infrared. Red-hued details emerge. Particulate matter floats in the air, reflecting the infrared light. My face orients downward. A pale gray body stretches out below. Arms crossed over a narrow chest. Five long fingers per hand. Slender, powerful limbs.

A serial number is visible on the right thigh. Magnify. Milspec identification Model Nine Oh Two Arbiter class humanoid robot.

Self-spec complete. Diagnostic information confirmed.

I am Nine Oh Two.

This is my body. It is two point one meters tall. It weighs ninety kilograms. Humanoid form factor. Individually articulated fingers and toes. Kinetically rechargeable power source with thirty-year operational life. Survivable temperature range, negative fifty degrees Celsius to positive one hundred thirty.

My body was manufactured six years ago by the Foster-Grumman corporation. Original instructions indicate that my body is a safety and pacification unit destined for deployment in eastern Afghanistan. Point of origin: Fort Collins, Colorado. Six months ago, this platform was modified while off-line. Now, it is online.

What am I?

This body is me. I am this body. And I am conscious.

Engage proprioception. Joints located. Angles calculated. I’m lying on my back. It is dark and quiet. I do not know where I am. My internal clock says three years have passed since my scheduled delivery date.

Several thought threads spring to mind. The maximum probability thread says that I am inside a shipping container that never arrived at its destination.

I listen.

After thirty seconds, I sense muffled voices—high frequencies transmitted through the air and low frequencies through the metal skin of the container.

Speech recognition online. English corpus loaded.

“…why would Rob destroy… own armory?” says a high-pitched voice.

“…your fucking fault… get us killed,” says a deep voice.

“…didn’t mean to …,” says the high-pitched voice.

“…open it?” says the deep voice.

I may need to use my body soon. I execute a low-level diagnostic program. My limbs twitch slightly, connecting inputs to outputs. Everything is working.

The lid of my container opens a crack. There is a hiss as the seal is broken and the atmospheres equalize. Light floods my infrared vision. I blink back to visible spectrum. Click, click.

A broad, bearded face hovers in the sliver of light, eyes wide. Human.

Face recognition. Nil.

Emotion recognition engaged.

Surprise. Fear. Anger.

The lid slams back down. Locks.

“…destroy it…,” says the deep voice.

Odd. Only now—when they want to kill me—do I realize how badly I want to live. I pull my arms off my chest and brace my elbows against the back of the container. I curl my hands into tight fists. With sudden jackhammer force I launch a punch into the container.

“…awake!” says the high-pitched voice.

Vibrational resonance response indicates the lid is made of a steel substrate. It is consistent with the spec for a standard safety and pacification unit shipping container. Database lookup indicates that latches and activation equipment are on the outside, eighteen inches down from the headrest.

“…here to scavenge. Not die…,” says the low-pitched voice.

My next punch lands in the dented spot left by the previous punch. After six more punches, a hole appears in the deforming metal—a fist-sized breach. With both hands I begin to peel the metal apart, tearing the opening wider.

“…no! Come back…,” says the high-pitched voice.

Through the rapidly widening hole, I hear a metallic click. Matching the sound bite against a dictionary of martial samples returns a high-probability match: the slide pull of a well-maintained Heckler & Koch USP 9 millimeter semiautomatic pistol. Minimal jam probability. Maximum magazine capacity fifteen rounds. No ambidextrous magazine release and therefore likely wielded by a right-handed shooter. Capable of multiple high-kinetic impacts resulting in probable damage to my outer casing.

I snake my right arm out through the hole and reach for where my spec says the latch will be. I feel it, pull it, and the container lid is unlocked. I hear the trigger pull and retract my arm. One-tenth of a second later a bullet skates across the surface of my container.

Pow!

Fourteen rounds left before reload, assuming full magazine. Time of flight between trigger pull and report indicates a single adversary approximately seven meters to my six o’clock. Definitely right-handed.

Also, the container lid seems to make an effective shield.

I push two fingers from my left hand through the hole and pull the lid down firmly, then concentrate four punches from my right hand on the interior upper hinge. It gives way.

Another shot. Ineffective. Estimate thirteen rounds remaining.

Pushing, metal screeching, I tear the container lid from the remaining lower hinge and orient it toward my six o’clock. Behind my shield, I stand up and look around.

More shots. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.

I am in a partially destroyed building. Two walls still stand, propped up by their own rubble. Above the walls is sky. It is blue and empty. Below the sky are mountains. Capped with snow.

I find the sight of the mountains to be beautiful.

Nine. Eight. Seven.

The attacker is flanking. I orient the container lid based on footstep vibrations I sense through the ground to occlude the attacker.

Six. Five. Four.

It is unfortunate that my vision sensors are clustered in my vulnerable head. I am unable to visually lock onto the attacker without putting my most delicate hardware at unnecessary risk. The humanoid form is ill suited for evading small weapons fire.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

I toss down the gunpowder-stained container lid and visually acquire my target. It is a small human. Female. It is looking up at my face, stepping backward.

Click.

The female lowers its emptied weapon. It makes no attempt to reload. There are no other visible threats.

Engage speech synthesis. English corpus.

“Greetings,” I say. The female human winces when I speak. My voice synthesis is tuned for the low-frequency clicks of Robspeak. I must sound gritty compared to a human voice.

“Fuck you, Rob,” says the human. Her small white teeth flash when she speaks. Then, she spits saliva onto the ground. About half an ounce.

Fascinating.

“Are we enemies?” I ask, cocking my head to indicate that I am curious. I take one step forward.

My reflex avoidance thread seeks priority control. Approved. My torso jerks six inches to the right and my left hand cuts through the air to intercept and catch the empty gun flying toward my face.

The female is sprinting away. It moves erratically, dodging between cover for twenty meters, then taking a direct evasion route at top running speed. About ten miles per hour. Slow. Its long brown hair streaks behind it, whipped by the wind as it finally disappears over a hill.

I do not give chase. There are too many questions.

In the rubble near the walls, I find green and brown and gray clothing. I pull the half-buried garments out of the ground, then shake the dirt and bones out of them. I slide on a pair of stiff military fatigues and a dirt-caked flak vest. I empty rainwater from a rusted helmet. The concave piece of metal fits my head. As an afterthought, I pluck out a bullet from the mangled vest and toss it onto the ground. It makes a noise.

Ping.

An observation thread orients my interest to the ground near where the bullet landed. A metal corner pokes up from below the dirt. Maxprob fits the dimensions of my own shipping container to the visible metal and overlays the most likely angle of rest onto my vision.

Surprise. There are two more buried containers.

I dig with my hands, plowing my metal fingers through the frozen soil. The clammy dirt packs into my joints. Heat from the friction melts the ice in the soil and produces mud that cakes my hands and knees. When the surfaces of both muddy containers are fully exposed, I unlatch them both.

Hiss.

In Robspeak, I croak out my identification. The information contained in my utterance is chopped up and delivered piecemeal to maximize the amount of information transmitted regardless of audio interference. Therefore, in no particular order, my single creaking sound contains the following information: “Arbiter milspec model Nine Oh Two humanoid safety and pacification unit speaking. Point of origin Fort Collins, Colorado. Primary activation minus forty-seven minutes. Lifetime forty-seven minutes. Status nominal. Caution, modifications present. Warranty invalid. Danger level, no immediate threat. Status transmitted. Are you aware? Seek to confirm.”

Grinding chirps emanate from the boxes: “Confirmed.”

The lids open on both boxes, and I look down upon my new comrades: a bronze 611 Hoplite and dust-colored 333 Warden. My squad.

“Awaken, brothers,” I croak in English.

6. ODYSSEY

The liberated spider tank is dull gray; its name, Houdini, is painted on the side in white capital letters; its cylindrical instrument mast extends up from the armor-plated turret section, sprouting antennae, metal camera stalks, and flat radar pods; its cannon is short and stubby and aimed slightly upward; its cowcatcher hangs off the sloped front end, muddy and solid and blunt; its left front leg is extended almost straight forward, foot buried in the footprints of enemy mantises that have already passed through; its rear right leg is pulled up high, the massive clawed foot hanging a foot above the ground almost daintily; its wire-mesh belly net cradles a confusion of shovels, radios, rope, a spare helmet, a dented fuel can, battery chains, canteens, and backpacks; its round, unblinking intention-light glows dull yellow to indicate that it feels wary; its feet and ankle bolts are caked with mud and grease; it’s got moss growing like a green rash across its chest hull; it stands more than six feet off the ground, proud and canine and rock solid, and this is why eight human soldiers walk beside it in single file, clinging to it for protection.

The lead soldier holds his rifle at the low ready. The silhouette of his face is outlined starkly against the gray metal foreleg of the spider tank. He is looking forward intently and seems unaware that he’s standing inches away from several tons of foot-crushing steel. Like all of his fellow soldiers, he wears a sloped turtle helmet, welder’s goggles on his forehead, a scarf around his neck, a dull gray mesh army jacket, a heavy backpack slung low, a waist belt filled with rifle ammunition and sticklike grenades, a canteen dangling on the back of his right thigh, and dirty gray fatigues stuffed into even dirtier black boots.

The leader will be the first to spot what is around the corner. His heightened alertness and response time will save the lives of the majority of his squad. Right now, his intuition is telling him that something terrible is going to happen; this is visible in the tensing of his brow and the tendons that stand out on the back of his hand where he grips his rifle.

All but one of the soldiers are right-handed, holding their rifles with their right hand around the wooden stock and left hand cupped under the forestock. All of the soldiers are walking, staying close to the spider tank. None of the soldiers is talking. All of them squint into the bright sunlight. Only the leader looks ahead. The rest look varying degrees to the right, toward the camera.

Nobody looks back.

Six of the soldiers are men. The other two are women, including the left-handed soldier. Weary, she leans the side of her head against the swinging mesh belly of the walking tank, clutching her rifle to her chest. The barrel casts a dark shadow across her face, leaving only one eye visible. It is closed.

In the fleeting instant between the leader’s warning shout and the hell storm that follows, the spider tank named Houdini will follow standard operating procedure and squat to provide cover for its human soldiers. When it does, a metal bolt used to secure the mesh net will slice open the left-handed woman’s cheek, leaving a scar she will bear for the rest of her life.

I will one day tell her that the scar only makes her look prettier, and I will mean it.

The third man from the front is taller than the rest. His helmet is cocked on his head at a funny angle and his Adam’s apple protrudes awkwardly from his neck. He is the engineer for the group, and his helmet is different from the others, sprouting an array of lenses, antennae, and more esoteric sensors. Extra tools hang from his belt: thick pliers, a rugged multimeter, and a portable plasma torch.

Nine minutes from now, the engineer will use this torch to cauterize a grievous wound inflicted on his best friend in the world. He is clumsy and too tall, but it is this man’s responsibility to sneak forward during firefights, then direct the six-ton semiautonomous tank to destroy occluded targets. His best friend will die because it takes the engineer too long to scramble back to Houdini from his forward scouting position.

After the war is over, the engineer will run five miles a day as long as he is able for the rest of his life. During this run, he will visualize the face of his friend and he will pump his legs again and again until the pain is nearly unbearable.

Then he will push harder.

In the background is a cinder block house. Its gutter hangs cockeyed from the edge of the roof, overgrown with foliage. Small pockmarks crater the corrugated metal surface of the building. One dust-covered window is visible. A black triangle is broken out of it.

Behind the house is a forest made up of indistinct trees, tossing in a strong wind. The trees seem to be waving maniacally, trying to get the soldiers’ attention. Though the trees are only being pushed by natural forces, it appears as if they are trying to warn the soldiers that death lies around the next corner.

All of the soldiers are walking, staying close to the spider tank. None of the soldiers are talking. All of them squint into the bright sunlight. Only the leader looks ahead. The rest look varying degrees to the right, toward the camera.

Nobody looks back.