Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

“But not today?”

“Not today. But if you abandon this factory, I will sever myself from her and allow the two of you to go free.”

My mind is racing. Mikiko has been offered a great gift by this monster. Perhaps all humanlike robots have. But none of those machines will ever be free while this akuma lives.

I approach the machine, its head as big as my desk, and level my gaze on it. “You will not give Mikiko to me,” I say. “I will take her from you.”

“Wait—” says the akuma .

I pull my glasses down onto the tip of my nose and kneel. A jagged slice of metal is missing from just below the akuma ’s head. I shove my arm into the akuma ’s throat up to my shoulder, pressing my cheek against the still-warm metal armor. I tug on something deep inside until it snaps.

“Together, we can—”

The voice goes silent. When I pull my arm out, I am holding a chunk of polished hardware.

“Interesting,” I murmur, holding up the newly acquired piece of machinery. Yubin-kun wheels over to me. It stops and waits. I set the chunk of metal on Yubin-kun’s back, and again I drop to my dirty knees and reach inside the dying akuma .

“My, but look at all of this new hardware,” I say. “Prepare yourselves for upgrades, my friends. Only the dreamer knows what we will find.”

With the help of hundreds of his machine friends, Mr. Nomura was able to fend off Archos and protect his factory stronghold. Over time, this safe area attracted refugees from all over Japan. Its borders grew to encompass Adachi Ward and beyond, thanks to coordinated “difensu,” as the old man called it. The repercussions of Mr. Nomura’s empire building would soon propagate around the world, even to the Great Plains of Oklahoma.

The internal problems of Gray Horse began to add up in the uneventful months after Zero Hour. It would take about a year for Big Rob to evolve effective walking machines able to hunt human beings in rural areas. In that time, disaffected youth became a major problem for the isolated community.

Before Gray Horse could become a world-renowned hub of human resistance, it had to grow up. Officer Lonnie Wayne Blanton recounts this story of the lull before the storm, describing how a young Cherokee gang member affected the fate of everyone in Gray Horse and beyond.

Once again, Hank Cotton has let his temper get the better of him. He’s the only man I know who can hold a twelve gauge shotgun and make it look like a kid’s fishing rod. Right now, he’s got a whole mess of black steel aimed at the Cherokee kid named Lark—a wannabe gangster—and I can see smoke curling out of the barrel.

I look around for bodies but I don’t see none. Guess he must of fired a warning shot. Good for you, Hank , I think. You’re learnin’ .

“Everybody just hold on now,” I say. “Y’all know it’s my job to figure out what happens next.”

Hank doesn’t take his eyes off the kid. “Don’t you move,” he says, shaking the gun for emphasis. Then, he at least lowers the shotgun and turns to me. “I caught our little friend here stealing food from the commissary. Ain’t the first time, neither. I been hidin’ out here every night, just waiting to get my hands on the little bastard. Sure enough, he broke in with about five other ones and started trying to grab all he could.”

Lark Iron Cloud. He’s a good enough looking kid, tall and lean, with a few too many acne scars to ever be called outright handsome. He’s wearing some kind of scavenged-together, high-fashion, black-on-black paramilitary uniform and a cocky grin that’s like to get him killed if I leave him alone with Cotton for more than two seconds.

“Whatever,” says Lark. “That shit is a lie. I caught this big tub up in here stealing food himself. That’s what. If you don’t believe me, ask Gray Horse Army. They got my back.”

“That’s a lie, Lonnie Wayne,” says Hank.

If I could roll my eyes and get away with it, I sure would. Of course it’s a lie. Lark is a wonderful liar. His lies come as natural as the babbling of a creek. It’s just how he communicates. Heck, it’s how a lot of young people communicate. My boy Paul taught me that much. But I can’t just up and call the kid a liar and throw him into the one ratty jail cell in Gray Horse. I can already hear the others gathering outside this little shed.

Gray Horse Army.

Lark Iron Cloud happens to be in charge of about a hundred and fifty young men, some Osage and some not, who got together and got bored enough to decide to call themselves a gang—the GHA. Out of about three thousand citizens who’ve been sitting on this hill and trying to make a life for themselves, these are the only ones left who haven’t found a place of their own.

The young men of Gray Horse. They’re strong and angry and orphaned. Having these boys traveling around town in feral packs is like leaving dynamite out in the sun—something mighty useful and powerful turned into an accident waiting to happen.

Lark shakes his coat, arranging that high black collar behind his head to frame a smirking grin. Looks like he’s starring in a spy movie: black hair greased back, black gloves, and fatigues tucked into polished black boots.

Not a care in the world.

If harm comes to this boy, there won’t be enough room in our jail cell to hold the outcome. And yet, if he gets off free, we’re inviting our own slow destruction from the inside out. Leave enough ticks on a dog and pretty soon there ain’t much dog left.

“What’re you gonna do, Lonnie?” asks Hank. “You gotta punish him. We all depend on this food. We can’t have our own people stealing. Don’t we have enough problems?”

“I didn’t do nothing,” says Lark. “And I’m fittin’ to walk up out of here. You want to stop me, you gonna have to stop my people, too.”

Hank raises his gun, but I wave him down. Hank Cotton is a proud man. He won’t stand for being disrespected. Storm clouds are already gathering on Hank’s face as the kid saunters away. I know I better talk to the kid fast, before lightning strikes in the form of a twelve gauge.

“Let me talk to you a minute outside, Lark.”

“Dude, I told you I didn’t—”

I grab Lark by the elbow and pull him in close. “If you don’t let me talk to you, son, that man over there is going to shoot you. It don’t matter what you did or didn’t do. This isn’t about that. This is about whether you’re gonna walk out of here or get carried out.”

“Fine. Whatever,” says Lark.

Together, we step out into the night. Lark nods to a group of his buddies, smoking under the naked lightbulb that hangs over the door. I notice there’s new gang signs scrawled all over the little building.

Can’t talk here. Won’t do any good to have Lark showing off to his fans. We go about fifty yards, over to the stone bluff.

I look out over the cold empty plains that have kept us safe for so long. The full moon paints the world down there silver. Mottled with the moon shadows of clouds, the tall grass prairie rolls and sways all the way to the horizon, where it kisses the stars.

Gray Horse is a beautiful place. Empty for so many years and now filled with life. But at this time of night, she goes back to what she is at heart: a ghost town.

“You bored, Lark? Is that the problem?” I ask.

He looks at me, thinks about posturing, then gives it up. “Hell, yes. Why?”

“Because I don’t think you want to hurt anybody. I think you’re young and bored. I understand that. But it isn’t going to work like this anymore, Lark.”