We are sending this message to urge you to use whatever influence you have as a member of a surviving North American human stronghold to convince your leadership of the terrible consequences which will be suffered by all humankind if you do not immediately organize and deploy an offensive force to march against the robots.
Recently, we have discovered the location of a superintelligent machine that calls itself Archos—the central artificial intelligence backing the robot uprising. This machine is hiding in an isolated location in western Alaska. We call this area the Ragnorak Intelligence Fields. Coordinates are integrated in electronic format at the end of this message.
Before the New War began, there is evidence that Archos quashed the robot defense act before it could pass Congress. Since Zero Hour, Archos has been using our existing robotic infrastructure—both civilian and military—to viciously attack humankind. It is clear that the enemy is willing to pay an enormous cost in effort and resources to continue decimating our population centers.
Worse yet, the machines are evolving.
Within the space of three weeks, we have encountered three new varieties of specialized robotic hunter- killers designed to locomote in rough terrain, penetrate our cave bunkers, and destroy our personnel. The design of these machines has been informed by newly constructed biological research stations that are allowing the machines to study the natural world.
The machines are now designing and building themselves. More varieties are coming. We believe that these new robots will have greatly increased agility, survivability, and lethality. They will be tailored to fight your people, in your geographic environment, and in your weather conditions.
Let there be no doubt in your mind that the combined onslaught of these new machines, working twenty- four hours a day, will soon be unleashed by Archos on your native land.
We implore you to confirm these facts to your leaders, and to do your utmost to urge them to gather an offensive force which can march to the attached coordinates in Alaska to put a stop to the evolution of these killing machines and prevent the total annihilation of humankind.
March cautiously, as Archos will surely sense our approach. But rest assured that your soldiers will not march alone. Similar militias will be mustered from across human-occupied territory to do battle with our enemy in its own domain.
Heed this call to arms.
We can guarantee you that unless every human stronghold in range of Alaska retaliates, this rain of autonomous killing machines will increase manyfold in complexity and fury.
To my fellow humans
With best regards from
It is widely believed that these words, translated into dozens of human languages, are responsible for the organized human retaliation that began roughly two years after Zero Hour. In addition, there is deeply dismaying evidence that this call to arms was received abroad—resulting in a largely undocumented and ultimately doomed attack on Archos mounted by Eastern European and Asian forces.
3. THE COWBOY WAY
The buck’s gotta stop somewhere.
Four months after we arrived at the fabled defensive stronghold of Gray Horse, the city fell into disarray. The call to arms had paralyzed the tribal council with indecision. Lonnie Wayne Blanton trusted his son implicitly and argued to muster the army and march; however, John Tenkiller insisted on staying to defend. As I describe in these pages, Rob ultimately made the choice for us.
I’m standing on the edge of Gray Horse bluffs, blowing into my hands for warmth and squinting as the dawn breaks like fire over the Great Plains below. The thin cries of thousands of cattle and buffalo rise in the still morning.
With Jack in the lead, our squad was on the move nonstop to get here. Everywhere we’ve been, nature is back in action. There’re more birds in the sky, more bugs in the bushes, and more coyotes in the night. As the months pass, mother earth has been swallowing up everything but the cities. The cities are where Rob lives.
A lean Cherokee kid stands next to me, methodically packing chewing tobacco into his mouth. He’s watching the plains with expressionless brown eyes and doesn’t seem to notice me at all. It’s hard not to notice
Lark Iron Cloud.
He looks about twenty and he’s decked out in some kind of slick uniform. A black-and-red scarf is tucked under a half-zipped jacket and his pale green pant legs are folded into polished leather cowboy boots. Black goggles hang around his tawny neck. He’s holding a walking stick with feathers hanging from it. The stick is made of metal —some kind of antenna he must have snapped off a Rob scout walker. A war trophy.
This kid looks like a fighter pilot from the future. And here I am in my ripped-up, mud-splattered army combat uniform. I’m not sure which of us should be ashamed of his appearance, but I’m pretty sure it’s me.
“Think we’ll go to war?” I ask the kid.
He looks over at me for a second, then back at the vista.
“Maybe. Lonnie Wayne’s on it. He’ll let us know.”
“You trust him?”
“He’s the reason I’m alive.”
“Oh.”
A flock of birds flaps across the sky, sunlight glinting from their wings like the rainbow on a pool of oil.
“Y’all look pretty rough,” says Lark, motioning to the rest of my squad with his stick. “What are you, like, soldiers?”
I look at my squad mates. Leonardo. Cherrah. Tiberius. Carl. They stand around talking, waiting for Jack to return. Their movements are familiar, relaxed. The last few months have forged us into more than just a unit— we’re a family now.
“Nah. We’re not soldiers, just survivors. My brother, Jack, he’s the soldier. I’m just tagging along for the sheer fun of it.”
“Oh,” says Lark.
I can’t tell if he just took me seriously or not.
“Where’s your brother at?” Lark asks.
“In the war council. With Lonnie and them.”
“So he’s one of those.”
“One of what?”
“Responsible kind.”
“People say that. You’re not?”
“I do my thing. The old-timers do theirs.”
Lark gestures behind us with the walking stick. There, waiting patiently in a row, are dozens of what these
