door.
“Is there more C4?” I ask.
“Crates.”
“We have to blow this whole place up.”
“Cormac, this building has been here since the seventeen hundreds.”
“Who gives a shit about history? We have to worry about
“You never had any respect for tradition.”
“Jack. I’m sorry I pawned the bayonet. Okay? It was the wrong thing to do. But blasting these things is the
“To save people.”
“Let’s save some people, Jack. Let’s blow the armory.”
“Think, Cormac. People live around here. We’ll kill somebody.”
“If those mines get loose, who knows how many people they’re gonna kill. We don’t have a choice. We’re going to have to do something bad to do something good. In an emergency, you do what you have to do. Okay?”
Jack considers for a second, watching the scuttle mines creep toward us down the hallway. Red circles of light glint off the polished floors. “Okay,” he says. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to get to the nearest army base. Make sure you’ve got everything you need, because we’ll be walking all night. It’s cold as shit out there.”
“What about the armory, Jack?”
Jack grins at me. He has this crazy look in his blue eyes that I’d almost forgotten about.
“The armory?” he asks. “What armory? We’re blowing the fucking armory straight to hell, little brother.”
That night, Jack and I trek through frigid mist, trotting down dark alleys and crouching behind whatever cover we can find. The city is dead quiet now. Survivors are barricaded inside their homes, leaving the desolate streets to be hunted by frostbite and lunatic machines. The growing snowstorm has put out some of the fire we started, but not all of it.
Boston is burning.
We hear the occasional thump of a detonation out in the dark. Or the tire squeal of empty cars sliding over the ice, hunting. The rifle Jack gave me is surprisingly heavy and metal and cold. My hands are curled around it like two frozen claws.
The instant I see them, I hiss at Jack to make him stop. I nod to the alley on our right, not making another sound.
At the end of the narrow alleyway, through the swirling smoke and snow, three silhouettes walk past, single file. They step under the bluish LED glow of a streetlight, and at first I assume they’re soldiers in tight gray fatigues. But that isn’t right. One of them stops on the corner and scans the street, head cocked funny. The thing must be seven feet tall. The other two are smaller, bronze-colored. They wait behind the leader, perfectly still. It’s three humanoid military robots. They stand metallic and naked and unflinching in the cutting wind. I’ve only ever seen these things on television.
“Safety and pacification units,” whispers Jack. “One Arbiter and two Hoplites. A squad.”
“Shh.”
The leader turns and looks in our direction. I hold my breath, sweat trickling down my temples. Jack’s hand tightens painfully on my shoulder. The robots don’t visibly communicate. After a few seconds the leader just turns away and, as if on cue, the three figures lope off into the night. Only a few footprints in the snow remain as evidence that they were ever there.
It’s like a dream. I’m not sure whether what I saw was real. But even so, I have a gut feeling that I’ll be seeing those robots again.
We did see those robots again.
PART THREE
Survival
Within thirty years, we will have the technological means to create superhuman intelligence. Shortly after, the human era will be ended…. Can events be guided so that we may survive?
1.
All things are born from the mind of God.
At Zero Hour, the majority of the world’s population lived in cities. Highly industrialized areas worldwide were struck hardest in the immediate aftermath. In one rare instance, however, an enterprising Japanese survivor turned a weakness into strength.
A multitude of industrial robots, surveillance cameras, and Rob bugs corroborate the following story, which was told in great detail by Mr. Takeo Nomura to members of the Adachi Self-Defense Force. From the beginning of the New War up until its last moments, Mr. Nomura seems to have been surrounded by friendly robots. All Japanese has been translated into English for this document.
I am looking at a security camera image on my monitor. In the corner of the screen a label reads: Tokyo, Adachi Ward.
The image is from someplace high, looking down on a deserted street. The road below is narrow, paved, and clean. Small, neat houses line it. All the houses have fences, made of bamboo or concrete or wrought iron. There are no front yards to speak of, no curbs on the street, and most important, there is no room for cars to be parked.
A beige box trundles down the middle of this narrow corridor. It vibrates a bit on the pavement, rolling on flimsy plastic wheels that were built for indoor use only. Streaks of black soot coat the surface of the machine. Attached to the top of the box is a simple arm I built of aluminum tubing, folded down like a wing. On the front face of the robot, just below a cracked camera lens, a button of light glows a healthy green.
I call this machine Yubin-kun.
This little box is my most loyal ally. It has faithfully executed many missions for the cause. Thanks to me, Yubin-kun has a clear mind, unlike the evil machines that plague the city—the
Yubin-kun reaches an intersection painted with a faded white cross. It purposefully turns ninety degrees to the right. Then it keeps going down the block. As it is about to leave the camera frame, I push my glasses up onto my forehead and squint at the screen. Something is resting on top of this busy machine. I make out the object: a
