his shoulders. Wormed its way in there when the war ended and the adrenaline wore off. When the horror of what happened to Lark settled in. He’s looking at me and he don’t seem powerful anymore. He just seems scared. “Be more careful, okay?”
I nod and slide an arm around Lonnie’s shoulders. I guide the old cowboy back to camp. Lead him and his men away from my tracks. Away from the path that leads to the two divots in the snow where I knelt all night long.
Where I prayed.
“Why’s your face sunburned, Hank?” asks Lonnie.
I touch my cheek and feel the heat of it through my gloves. WhenI put on a frown, my skin creases and buckles like the yellowed paper in an old Bible.
“Hell, I don’t know,” I say. “This is tricky country out here, Lon. Real mysterious place.”
I look away and sneak a little grin to myself. These people have no idea what was out there in the woods. The treasure that I found and that is mine, all mine.
But my secret smile disappears fast when I see him.
Lark. Standing a little ways off, quiet and still. Turning in place to face me as I pass by. Like a dark knife blade planted out here in the wastes and abandoned. The dead Cherokee kid is watching me with black eyes that glitter in the moonlight.
Watching me damned close.
3. M AXIM
Post New War: 1 Month, 13 Days
Russian civilians in Anadyr, one of the easternmost cities of Eurasia, survived the New War despite being in the immediate vicinity of Archos R-14. Their proximity to the beast eventually caught up to them, however, as even in death the machine was lethally dangerous. The following was translated from a Russian mind. Some words could not be mapped directly and are instead written in the subject’s native tongue
.
—A RAYT S HAH
NEURONAL ID: VASILY ZAYTSEV
“Something has got loose in the stacks,” Leonid says to me.
The war has been unkind to Leonid. The mathematician stands canted in the wind, thin and trembling like a crow-pecked scarecrow. His beard crawls up his pale face nearly to his eyes, dark brown orbs swimming with a fear that cannot be drowned in vodka.
“Fah, another rat,” I say, waving my hand.
Leonid shakes his head. Even under his wind-beaten parka, I can see the gray color of his cheeks. I sense that this is something much more.
“Not a rat,” he says.
“Avtomat?” I ask. On its own, my palm moves to check the polished wooden grip of my sidearm. “Is he hurt? Has there been any damage?”
“It is hard to say, Vasily,” says Leonid, motioning at the metal door in front of us. He is shaking slightly from the wind, arms wrapped around his thin ribs. The wind burns my cheeks as well, but I would never show it. Never allow myself to shake in the elements like a stray dog.
Leonid’s indecision repulses me.
I must remind myself that not so long ago this man was an esteemed professor. A famous brain supported by spindly legs and a hump in his shoulders usually reserved for the elderly. But he has survived. Cheeksblack with frostbite, he stood with me to defend the city of Anadyr. Many of his weaker colleagues fell.
Too many foxes, not enough bears.
“I only say that our friend is behaving strangely,” says Leonid. “Communications were disrupted. We lost contact for twenty-one minutes.”
“When?” I ask.
“About a month ago. When the American line broke and the tamed avtomat advanced. Right after the death of that thing.”
I grunt and turn my back on Leonid.
The steel utility door has not been damaged. Around the corner, an ice-caked generator still rattles on a dirty slab of concrete. The door opens into a harmless-looking shed. Inside, a well-oiled freight elevator hovers over a sixty-meter drop. A shaft of brushed rock that leads to a buried supercomputer cluster.
The processor stacks.
Power and communication and water-cooling lines are run down the elevator shaft, packed together in neat snaking bundles. Backup lines are routed through a series of camouflaged
I nod and slide an arm around Lonnie’s shoulders. I guide the old cowboy back to camp. Lead him and his men away from my tracks. Away from the path that leads to the two divots in the snow where I knelt all night long.
Where I prayed.
“Why’s your face sunburned, Hank?” asks Lonnie.
I touch my cheek and feel the heat of it through my gloves. WhenI put on a frown, my skin creases and buckles like the yellowed paper in an old Bible.
“Hell, I don’t know,” I say. “This is tricky country out here, Lon. Real mysterious place.”
I look away and sneak a little grin to myself. These people have no idea what was out there in the woods. The treasure that I found and that is mine, all mine.
But my secret smile disappears fast when I see him.
Lark. Standing a little ways off, quiet and still. Turning in place to face me as I pass by. Like a dark knife blade planted out here in the wastes and abandoned. The dead Cherokee kid is watching me with black eyes that glitter in the moonlight.
Watching me damned close.
3. M AXIM
Post New War: 1 Month, 13 Days
Russian civilians in Anadyr, one of the easternmost cities of Eurasia, survived the New War despite being in the immediate vicinity of Archos R-14. Their proximity to the beast eventually caught up to them, however, as even in death the machine was lethally dangerous. The following was translated from a Russian mind. Some words could not be mapped directly and are instead written in the subject’s native tongue
.
—A RAYT S HAH
NEURONAL ID: VASILY ZAYTSEV
“Something has got loose in the stacks,” Leonid says to me.
The war has been unkind to Leonid. The mathematician stands canted in the wind, thin and trembling like a crow-pecked scarecrow. His beard crawls up his pale face nearly to his eyes, dark brown orbs swimming with a fear that cannot be drowned in vodka.
“Fah, another rat,” I say, waving my hand.
Leonid shakes his head. Even under his wind-beaten parka, I can see the gray color of his cheeks. I sense that this is something much more.
“Not a rat,” he says.
“Avtomat?” I ask. On its own, my palm moves to check the polished wooden grip of my sidearm. “Is he hurt? Has there been any damage?”
“It is hard to say, Vasily,” says Leonid, motioning at the metal door in front of us. He is shaking slightly from the wind, arms wrapped around his thin ribs. The wind burns my cheeks as well, but I would never show it. Never allow myself to shake in the elements like a stray dog.
Leonid’s indecision repulses me.
I must remind myself that not so long ago this man was an esteemed professor. A famous brain supported by spindly legs and a hump in his shoulders usually reserved for the elderly. But he has survived. Cheeksblack with frostbite, he stood with me to defend the city of Anadyr. Many of his weaker colleagues fell.
Too many foxes, not enough bears.
“I only say that our friend is behaving strangely,” says Leonid. “Communications were disrupted. We lost contact for twenty-one minutes.”
“When?” I ask.
“About a month ago. When the American line broke and the tamed avtomat advanced. Right after the death of that thing.”
I grunt and turn my back on Leonid.
The steel utility door has not been damaged. Around the corner, an ice-caked generator still rattles on a dirty slab of concrete. The door opens into a harmless-looking shed. Inside, a well-oiled freight elevator hovers over a sixty-meter drop. A shaft of brushed rock that leads to a buried supercomputer cluster.
The processor stacks.
Power and communication and water-cooling lines are run down the elevator shaft, packed together in neat snaking bundles. Backup lines are routed through a series of camouflaged
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