Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

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.

Our squad lost two soldiers during the march to Alaska. By the time the ground became frozen and our enemy within striking distance, we were down to six.

Almost three years after Zero Hour, Gray Horse Army reached within striking distance of our enemy—the Ragnorak Intelligence Fields. The challenges we found there were far different from any we had ever encountered. It is safe to say that we were in no way prepared for what was to come.

The following scenes were recorded in great detail by a multitude of robotic weapons and spies deployed to protect the central AI known as Archos. Additionally, these data are bolstered with my own recollections.

Tiberius is heaving, muscles spasming, kicking up clumps of bloodstained snow. Mist pours off his sweating 250-pound frame as the East African thrashes violently, flat on his back. He’s the biggest, most fearless grunt in the squad, but none of that matters when a glinting nightmare flashes out of the swirling snow and begins eating him alive.

“My god!” he bellows. “Oh my god!”

Ten seconds ago, there was a sharp crack and Ty went down. The rest of the squad took immediate cover. Now there’s a sniper hidden somewhere in the snowstorm, leaving Tiberius in no-man’s-land. From our position behind a snowy hill, we can hear the panic in his cries.

Jack straps on his helmet.

“Sarge?” asks Carl, the engineer.

Jack doesn’t respond, just rubs his hands together, then starts climbing the hill. Before he can get out of reach, I grab my big brother by the arm.

“What are you doing, Jack?”

“Saving Tiberius,” he says.

I shake my head. “It’s a trap, man. You know it is. It’s how they work. They fuck with our emotions. There’s only one logical choice here.”

Jack says nothing. Tiberius is just over the hill, screaming like he’s going through a meat grinder feetfirst, and that’s probably not too far from the truth. Even so, we don’t have time to fuck around here, so I’m going to have to just say it.

“We have to leave him,” I whisper. “We have to move on.”

Jack shoves my hand away. He can’t believe that I just said it out loud. In a way, neither can I. War does that.

But it’s the truth and it had to be said and I’m the only one in the squad who could say it to Jack.

Tiberius abruptly stops screaming.

Jack looks up the hill, then back at me. “Fuck you, little brother,” he says. “When did you start thinking like them ? I’m going to help Tiberius. It’s the human thing to do.”

I reply without much conviction, “I understand them. It doesn’t mean I’m like them.”

But deep down, I know the truth. I have become like the robots. My reality has been reduced to a series of life-or-death decisions. Optimal decisions lead to more decisions; suboptimal decisions lead to the bad dream that’s happening just over the hill. Emotions are just cobwebs in my gears. Under my skin, I have become a war machine. My flesh may be weak, but my mind is sharp and hard and clear as ice.

Jack still behaves as if we live in a human’s world, as if his heart is more than just a blood pump. That kind of thinking leads to death. There’s no room for it. Not if we’re going to live long enough to kill Archos.

“I’m hit bad,” moans Tiberius. “Help. Oh my god. Help me.”

Each member of the squad is watching us argue, poised to run on command, ready to continue our mission.

Jack makes one last effort to explain. “It’s a risk, but leaving Tiberius to suffer will cost something. Our humanity.”