Robogenesis by Daniel H. Wilson Read Free Book Online Page A

that we’re each of us aware and thinking inside. Either way, the living don’t see us. Not proper, anyhow.
    And that’s fine. The dozen of us who wear parasites try to stay out of the way. We tag along as the Gray Horse Army moves fast through deserted country. As we get to the plains of central Canada, I start pointing out trees and animals to Chen Feng in quiet radio bursts. I can’t help it. I never thought I would see the living world again—the information just shoots out of me. Chen staggers along, taking it all in.
    “Thank you,” she transmits one morning.
    “Why?”
    “For carrying my spirit back to your homeland. I have lost my ancestors. Maybe I will find a place among yours.”
    I just shake my head. The Chinese soldier has strange ideas.
    It gets a shade warmer every day that we move down the road farther south. The sharp cold northern wastes of the Yukon give way to freezing green forests, thick with strong, ancient trees. At some point, we reachthe vast plains of Alberta. The ground here is forever flat, the days longer than our shadows.
    Every few nights, Lonnie Wayne comes out to our spot with his radio on his hip for talking. He moves slower than he did when we first met. That was back when the war started and I was running with wannabe gangbangers. Lonnie stepped in and acted like a father. Told me not to mistake being a gangster for being a warrior. He showed me how to become a man instead of just an adult.
    Seems like we have the same conversation every time.
    “How are the boys in Iron Cloud squad?” I’ll ask, my voice whispering out of his radio like the ghost of static.
    “They’re all right, I reckon,” he’ll say. “Give them some time. It’ll be fine once we get home. Best you keep your distance for now. Hank’s got unofficial orders out there to shoot if y’all come closer than a football field.”
    “Would they?”
    He never answers that one, just cocks his hat and heads back to the campsite of the day. Gives me a lazy wave over his shoulder and squints into the setting sunlight.
    The general returning to his troops.
    Gray Horse Army is a sprawling parade. A thing of beauty. Patched together and rambling and shuffling down abandoned country roads. Dozens of times we pass through the remains of long-evacuated towns. It’s not often that anybody greets us. More likely they see the dust rising on the horizon and they light out. Wait until we’ve fanned out and taken everything we need and moved on.
    Probably a smart move.
    Spider tanks haul the heavy-duty supplies. High rankers get to ride up on the turret decks. The rest of the infantry marches in a loose line, staying close to their platoon vehicle but well out from under its feet. It’s a kilometer-long line of men and machines, all walking, stretching and contracting like an earthworm. Some segments stretch too thin. Other parts bunch up into vulnerable clumps. The war is over, but the sergeants still sprint up and down the column on their tall walkers, ferrying messages and barking commands down to the infantrymen.
    “Keep your spacing!”
    “Shut up!”
    “Move out!”
    Most of the troops on the ground have to ass everything they need to survive. Some squads have rigged up scavenged Rob quads, field-stripped into what the guys call “mules” or “pack dogs.” Headless, midsized walkers that trot mindlessly behind their home squad, following dutifully, curved metal backs sprouting hundred-pound canvas packs like mushrooms.
    Sometimes I get a flush of adrenaline thinking that I’ve forgotten and left my supplies behind. Then I remember I don’t need anything to survive. Not a fire, not shelter, and not food or water. Whatever Rob nightmare is buried in the base of my neck is all I need to keep moving. I just have to keep a football field between me and what used to be my people, or else my old friends will blow my head off.
    “Tell me of the prairie again,” says Chen Feng as we walk. Her soft strange voice