Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

“This thing is simple,” says Lark. “It’s a modified military supply carrier. Probably using it to map terrain. Nothing extra. Just legs and eyes. That lump behind the shoulder blades, that’s probably the brain. Figures out what it’s seeing. It’s there because that’s the most protected place on the machine. Take that part off and this thing’ll be lobotomized. Ooh, ouch. Look at its feet. See the retractable claws tucked under there? Good thing it can’t reach the cable with those.”

Well, I’ll be goddamned. This kid has a good eye for machines. I watch him staring at the thing, taking it all in. Then, I notice the other tracks on the ground around him, all over the clearing.

Goose bumps buzz up the backs of my thighs and over my arms. We’re not alone here. This thing did call for help. How could I have missed it?

“Wonder what it’d be like to ride one of these?” muses Lark.

“Get your bag,” I say. “We got to move. Now.”

Lark looks where I’m looking, sees the fresh marks in the ground, and realizes there’s another one of these things loose. He grabs his pack without a word. Together, we hustle away into the woods. Behind us, the walker hangs there with its camera watching us go. Never blinking.

Our little run for freedom becomes a march, and then a miles-long hike.

We make camp as the sun sets. I set up a little campfire, making sure the smoke is baffled through the leaves of a nearby tree. We sit down on our packs around the fire, feeling hungry and tired as the cold sets in.

Like it or not, it’s time to get started on the real reason I’m here.

“Why do it?” I ask. “Why try to be a gangster?”

“We’re not gangsters. We’re warriors.”

“But a warrior fights the enemy, you know? Y’all end up hurting your own people. Only a man can be a warrior. When a boy tries to act like a warrior, well, you get a gangster. A gangster has no purpose.”

“We’ve got a purpose.”

“You reckon?”

“Brotherhood. We look out for each other.”

“Against who?”

“Anybody. Everybody. You.”

“I’m not your brother? We’re both native, ain’t we?”

“I know that. And I keep that culture inside me. That’s me . That’s always gonna be me. That’s my roots. But everybody’s fighting everybody up there. Everybody’s got a gun.”

“You’ve got a point,” I say.

The fire crackles, methodically eating up a log.

“Lonnie?” asks Lark. “What’s this really about? Just come out and say it, old man.”

This is probably not going to go over well. But the kid is forcing my hand and I’m not going to lie to him.

“You seen what we’re up against out here, right?”

Lark nods.

“I need you to ally your Gray Horse Army with the Light Horse tribal police.”

“Team up with the police?”

“Y’all call yourselves an army. But we need a real army. The machines are changing. Soon enough, they’ll come to kill us. All of us. So if you’re interested in protecting your brothers, you’d better start thinking about all your brothers. And your sisters, too.”

“How do you know this for sure?”

“I don’t know it for sure. Nobody knows nothing for sure. If they say they do, they’re either a preacher or selling something. Deal is—I have a bad feeling in my gut. Too many coincidences piling up. It reminds me of before all this happened.”

“Whatever happened with the machines already happened. They’re out here, studying the woods. But if we leave them alone, they’ll leave us alone. It’s people we need to worry about.”

“The world is a mysterious place, Lark. We’re real small, here on this rock. We can build our fires, but it’s nighttime out there in the universe. A warrior’s duty is to face the night and protect his people.”

“I look out for my boys. But no matter what your gut says—don’t expect the GHA to come to your rescue.”

I snort. This ain’t working like I hoped. Of course, it is working like I predicted.

“Where’s the food?” asks Lark.

“I brought none.”

“What? Why not?”

“Hunger is good. It will make you patient.”

“Shit. This is just great. No food. And we’re being hunted by some kind of damn backcountry robot.”

I pull out a bough of sage from my backpack and toss it onto the fire. The sweet scent of the burning leaves rises into the air around us. This is the first step of the ritual of transformation. When Tenkiller and I planned this, I didn’t think I’d be so afraid for Lark.

“And you’re lost,” I mention.

“What? You don’t know the way back?”

“I do.”

“Well?”

“You’ve got to find your own way. Learn to depend on yourself. This is what it means to become a man. To provide for your people, instead of being provided for.”

“I don’t like where this is going, Lonnie.”

I stand up.

“You’re strong, Lark. I believe in you. And I know I will see you again.”

“Hold up, old man. Where you going?”

“Home, Lark. I’m going home to our people. I’ll meet you there.”

Then I turn and walk away into the darkness. Lark jumps up, but he only follows me to where the firelight ends. Beyond that is darkness, the unknown.

This is where Lark has to go, into the unknown. We all have to do it, at some point. When we grow up.

“Hey! What the fuck?” he shouts to the cast-iron trees. “You can’t leave me here!”

I keep walking until the coldness of the woods swallows me up. If I walk for most of the night, I should be home by dawn. My hope is that Lark will survive long enough to make it home, too.

The last time I did something like this, it made my son into a man. He hated me for it, but I understood. No matter how much kids beg to be treated like adults, nobody likes to let go of their childhood. You wish for it and dream of it and the second you have it, you wonder what you’ve done. You wonder what it is you’ve become.

But war is coming, and only a man can lead Gray Horse Army.

Three days later, my world is on the verge of blowing up. The gangbangers from Gray Horse Army started accusing me of murdering Lark Iron Cloud the day before. There’s no way to prove anything different. Now they’re screaming for my blood in front of the council.

Everybody is assembled at the bleachers by the clearing where we hold the drum circle. Old John Tenkiller don’t say a thing, just soaks up abuse from Lark’s boys. Hank Cotton stands next to him, big hands clenched into fists. The Light Horse tribal police stand in clumps, tense as they stare a full-on civil war straight in the eye.

I’m thinking maybe this whole gamble was a mistake.

But before we can all get busy killing each other, a bruised and bloody Lark Iron Cloud staggers up the hill and into camp. Everybody gasps to see what he brung with him: a four-legged walking machine on a steel cable leash tied to Lark’s pack. We’re all stunned speechless, but John Tenkiller just stands up and walks over like Lark had arrived right on cue.

“Lark Iron Cloud,” says the old drumkeeper. “You left Gray Horse as a boy. You return as a man. We sorrowed when you left, but we rejoice at your return, new and different. Welcome home, Lark Iron Cloud. Through you, our people will live.”

The true Gray Horse Army was born. Lark and Lonnie soon combined the tribal police and the GHA into a single force. Word of this human army spread across the United States, especially as they began a policy of capturing and domesticating as many of the Rob walker scouts as possible. The largest of these captured walkers formed the basis for a crucial human weapon of the New War, a device so startling that upon hearing about it, I assumed it to be only a wild rumor: the spider tank.