Robopocalypse (24 page)

“It’s as if we’ve died,” says Arrtrad.

Finally, they reach the bottom: a cylindrical white clean room with twenty-foot ceilings. It is filled with row after row of humming racks of equipment. The stacks of gear are arrayed in concentric circles, each row getting shorter the closer it is to the center of the room. Rows of fluorescent lights shine down, starkly illuminating every detail of the room. Condensation starts to form on the black metal of the exoskeletons and Arrtrad shivers.

“Plenty of juice down here, anyway,” says Lurker.

The two men walk inside, disoriented by the millions of stuttering green and red lights that line the towers of hardware. In the center of the room is their goal: a black hole in the floor the size of a manhole, metal stairs poking out of the top—the fiber hub.

Four-legged robots made of white plastic climb up and down the racks, slipping between stacks of whirring equipment like lizards. Some of these lizard robots use their forelegs to stroke the equipment, moving wires or pressing buttons. It reminds me of those little birds that land on hippos, cleaning them of parasites.

“C’mon,” Lurker murmurs to Arrtrad. They stride together to the hole in the floor. “Down there is the answer to all our problems.”

But Arrtrad doesn’t respond. He’s already seen it.

Archos.

Silent as the grim reaper, the machine hovers over the hole. It looks like an enormous eye, made of circular rings of shimmering metal. Yellow wires snake away from the edges like a lion’s mane. A flawless glass lens is nestled in the center of the rings, smoky black. It watches without blinking.

And yet it is not Archos. Not fully. Only a part of the intelligence that is Archos has been put inside this menacing machine: a local sub-brain.

Lurker strains against his exoskeleton, but he can’t move his arms or legs. The motors in his suit have frozen up. His face goes pale as he realizes what must have happened.

The exoskeleton has an external communications port.

“Arrtrad, run!” Lurker screams.

Arrtrad. The poor bastard. He’s shaking, trying desperately to yank his arms out of the harness. But he’s got no control either. Both the exoskeletons have been hacked.

Floating above in the harsh fluorescent light, the giant eye watches without any reaction.

Motors grind in Lurker’s suit, and he grunts pitifully with the effort of resisting. But there’s no helping it: He’s a puppet caught in the strings of that hanging monster.

Before Lurker can react, his right arm jerks away and sends a wicked forearm blade singing through the air. The blade sinks through Arrtrad’s chest and into the metal spine of his exoskeleton. Arrtrad gapes at Lurker in surprise. In arterial surges, his blood wicks down the end of the blade and soaks Lurker’s sleeve.

“It’s not me, Arrtrad,” Lurker whispers, voice cracking. “It’s not me. I’m sorry, mate.”

And the blade yanks itself back out. Arrtrad takes one sucking gasp for air and then collapses with a hole in his chest. His exoskeleton protects him as he goes limp, lowering itself gently to the ground. Splayed on the floor, its motors shut down and the machine goes still and silent as a pool of dark blood spreads around it.

“Oh you bastard,” Lurker calls up to the expressionless robot watching from above. The machine noiselessly lowers itself down to where he stands, his arm blade slick with blood. The machine positions itself directly in front of Lurker’s face and a delicate-looking stick—some kind of probe—extends from under its smoky eye. Lurker strains to move away, but his rigid exoskeleton holds him in place.

Then the machine speaks in that strange, familiar child’s voice. From the flash of recognition on his face, I see that Lurker remembers this voice from the phone.

“Lurker?” it asks, an electrical glow spreading through the rings.

In small increments, Lurker begins to wriggle his left hand out of the exoskeleton harness. “Archos,” he says.

“You have changed. You’re not a coward anymore.”

“You’ve changed, too,” Lurker says, watching the concentric rings languidly revolve and counterrevolve. His left hand is almost free. “Funny the difference a year can make.”

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” says the boy voice.

“And what way is that?” Lurker asks, trying to keep the thing distracted from his squirming left hand.

Then his hand comes free. Lurker thrusts his arm out and grabs hold of the delicate feeler, trying to break it off. The shoulder joint of his right arm pops as he struggles against a sudden push from the exoskeleton. He can only watch as his right arm swings through the air and, in one sharp movement, slices his left hand off at the wrist.

A fan spray of blood spatters across the face of the floating machine.

In shock, Lurker yanks the rest of his body out of the exoskeleton. The empty left arm of the machine tries to slice at him, but the elbow is at an awkward angle and he is able to squirm away. Dodging another forearm blade, he drops to the ground and rolls through Arrtrad’s spreading blood. The exoskeleton is off balance for a split second, missing its human counterweight. It’s just enough time for Lurker to wriggle over the lip of the hole.

Ching
.

A forearm blade bites into the floor inches from Lurker’s face as he shoves himself into the hole, cradling his injured arm to his chest. Half falling, he drops down into the darkness.

The unmanned exoskeleton immediately picks up the fallen exoskeleton with Arrtrad’s corpse inside. Cradling the bleeding pile of metal, the exoskeleton walks and then sprints out the door.

Hanging over the hole, the complex piece of machinery watches patiently. Lights on the equipment racks begin to flicker intensely as a flood of data pours out of the tower. A last-minute backup.

Long moments pass before a hoarse voice echoes up from the dark hole. “Catch you in the funny pages, mate,” says Lurker.

And the world turns white and then to darkest black.

The destruction of the London fiber hub broke the Rob stranglehold on satellite communications long enough to allow humankind to regroup. Lurker never seemed like a very pleasant guy, and I can’t say I would have enjoyed meeting him, but the kid was a hero. I know this because in the moment before the British Telecom Tower exploded, Lurker recorded a fifteen-second message that saved humankind from certain destruction
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217

PART FOUR
A
WAKENING

John Henry said to his captain,
“A man, he ain’t nothing but a
   
man,
But before I’d let that steam
   
drill beat me down,
Oh, I’d die with the hammer in
   
my hand.”

“JOHN
H
ENRY,” C. 1920

1. T
RANSHUMAN

It’s dangerous to be people-blind
.

M
ATHILDA
P
EREZ

NEW WAR + 12 MONTHS

A year into the New War, Brightboy squad finally arrived at Gray Horse, Oklahoma. Across the world, billions of people had been eradicated from urban areas, and millions more were trapped in forced-labor camps. Much of the rural population we encountered were locked in isolated, personal battles to survive against the elements
.

Information is spotty, but hundreds of small pockets of resistance seemed to have formed worldwide. As our squad settled into Gray Horse, a young prisoner named Mathilda Perez was escaping from Camp Scarsdale. She fled to New York City with her little brother, Nolan, in tow. In this recollection, Mathilda (age twelve) describes her interaction with the NYC resistance group, headed by Marcus and Dawn Johnson
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217

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.