Free Robogenesis by Daniel H. Wilson Page B

brother.”

6. W HERE THE B UFFALO R OAM
    Post New War: 6 Months, 6 Days
    While he was aware of my presence, Archos R-14 could not stop me as I grew my control over Gray Horse Army. More interesting to me were the unique varieties of natural machine appearing all around the world. Unrelated to the homicidal weapons of R-14, these creatures seemed to be designed to evolve seamlessly into the fabric of natural ecosystems. Despite intense study, my only conclusion was that they were spawned by a deep artificial mind of unknown origin—and for unknown purposes. After three months on the march, around halfway home, Gray Horse Army crossed into eastern Montana and came face-to-face with this strange and terrible new ecosystem
.
    —A RAYT S HAH
    NEURONAL ID: HANK COTTON
    In the New War, we learned quick that anything new is likely as not to kill you. We thought our troubles were over when we murdered whatever was down at the bottom of that hole. Problem is that, now,
everything
is new.
    Our general, Lonnie Wayne, come to me this morning at camp. Told me that Lark Iron Cloud spotted a new Rob variety on the horizon, moving real slow. Not fast. Not scary. Just big as hell. Said the things were throwing off some kind of short-range radio communication that didn’t make sense.
    He didn’t directly say it, but I’m starting to guess that Lark can kind of
see
the radio waves. Just like Rob supposedly does. It’s been months since that dead Cherokee saw me with the spooklight. I hope he followed the cube’s advice and kept what’s left of his mouth shut. Kid can’t even talk, anyway, with half his chin blown off—just dribbles his little signals straight to Lonnie’s radio.
    Our fearless general, Lonnie.
    The old cowboy slouches up high in the saddle of his tall walker, blueeyes narrowed while he drifts off watching the endless Montana plains. It’s easy to let your mind wander under a low ceiling of clouds, the rainy air vibrating with the low rumble and manure smell of thousands of wild buffalo.
    “Lark thinks we should scout it,” says Lonnie. “They don’t seem hostile. But it could be important. We’ve never seen these things before.”
    A warm pulse tingles along my hip where I keep the spooklight. Something has got the little cube of high technology excited. It’s heating up, thinking.
    “Let’s do it,” I say.
    “You sure you’re up for it?” he asks, nodding at the stitches on my forehead.
    I wonder what he’s heard. How much does he know? Fingering the cut, I force myself to grin.
    “I only took a little fall. The autodoc fixed it in two seconds. I’m fit as a fiddle, Bubba.”
    Lonnie doesn’t look convinced.
    I turn and throw out a last swallow of cold coffee on the smoldering fire. Tug my saddle off the foreleg of my spider tank where I keep it during the night. Montana is freezing cold in the early morning, and the saddle leather is stiff when I toss it onto the warm, blanketed back of my horse.
    Trigger is an Appaloosa I picked up crossing the Canadian plains farther north. He was running wild with a half-dozen mares. We gathered them all up, too. Somewhere along the line, Trigger must have been a farm horse. He fought us a little bit—didn’t appreciate being chased and roped by a bunch of cowboys on tall walkers—but some part of him was happy to see us.
    Who knows what he saw out there, over the years. Bottom line is that me and Trigger are both made of flesh and blood, right? We got that much in common.
    I unfasten Trigger’s lead from a U-ring embedded on the chest plate of my squad’s spider tank. With a grunt, I get a boot up on the tank’s lowered bunker armor. Hoist myself onto Trigger’s back. He used to wheeze a little when I settled onto him, but now he just stamps his feet.Ready to get on with it. In the last two weeks, I’ve lost probably thirty pounds. And Lord knows it’s not from any extra exercise. I’m burning energy, though. The spooklight keeps my brain running all