Robogenesis: A Novel

9. HEADRIGHTS


Post New War: 8 Months, 4 Days

In postwar peacetime, the residents of Gray Horse streamed down off the defensive plateau by the thousands to settle the surrounding countryside. In three years of war, the settlement had grown from a refugee camp into a full-blown city. All these people had come to depend on the sovereign tribal government of the Osage Nation for their only tenuous grasp on prewar life. John Tenkiller, the elderly chief of the Osage Nation, had unintentionally become the gatekeeper to human civilization.

—ARAYT SHAH


NEURONAL ID: HANK COTTON

Home again, home again. Jiggety jog. Gray Horse, Oklahoma.

It ain’t exactly a hero’s welcome. Not for me, anyway. Instead, everybody and their sister comes out kowtowing to the big man. Lonnie Wayne Blanton, hips rolling in the saddle of his tall walker, waving slow to the crowds with his cowboy hat. Just a regular everyday hero and a gentleman.

They don’t know yet who the real man in charge is. But they will. God bless ’em, they’re about to find out. Lonnie sold his soul to me down by the water and I’m not about to let him take it back. Especially not with some Russian squawking on the radio about a True War shaping up on the horizon.

I’m mounted on our lead spider tank—the big old bastard we call Brutus—wearing my full uniform, boots polished and goggles hanging around my neck. In a belly net below me, the half-built frame of a black steed is clanking. The light that lives in my bundle has a name: Arayt. We’ve been talking more and more. He’s told me how to build this new walker out of scavenged parts. When I’m finished, I’ll put that spooklight inside and there’ll be no stopping the two of us. In the meantime, Arayt told me to get dressed up extra nice this morning. Said it was important.

And still not a pair of eyes on me. Everybody watches the old cowboy. That’s okay for now. A smile spreads across my face. With my Cotton patrol at my back and those parasites gone, I’m feeling almost optimistic about what I have to do.

Our military column winds across the tallgrass prairie for the final half mile. I raise my eyes up to the heavens and see the elders have come out to greet us. Three bent silhouettes standing up on the overlook bluffs. All the political control of Gray Horse is inside them. Those little old-men lead every family with headrights. Through ancient, honored family lines—the Red Eagles, Big Horses, Tallchiefs—these fellas happen to run Gray Horse.

I’m licking my lips just thinking about all that power and respect.

Settlers have been busy laying roots out here at the base of the plateau. Reclaimed houses are leaning in what used to be overgrown fields. Mustangs mill around in herds near weedy, rusted oil pumps, along with scattered goats and bison. The grass is short—it’s been burned lately, like they’ve been doing since the old days. People have truly come down off the safety of the hill. Gotten bold. These are battlefields, the way I remember. They’re farms now, crowded with crops and tattooed with repaired barbed-wire fences.

While we were away, Gray Horse went and became a city.

Our spider tanks march by the outer structures and start up the incline toward Gray Horse proper. Holding their children up on rock posts, men and women I’ve never seen stare up at us. People point, oohing and aahing as the gleaming special forces exoskeletons tramp by, heavy Gatling gun kits hanging off their backs and retractable trench knives winking in the sun. And still I don’t see any of my Big Hill people yet.

A gaggle of scampering boys shouts encouragement. With sticks for guns, they’re play-fighting near clusters of young soldiers who hang lanky and tough from the sides of battered spider tanks. I see a lot of swaying assault rifles slung over swelled chests.

Eyes bright and proud.

A lot of these folks look relieved to see us, and more than once I see a young woman scanning the faces of my soldiers with a certain eagerness. Looking for the one. There are plenty of mothers and fathers, too, searching for their kin. But most of the watchers’ faces are glazed over with a deer-in-headlights kind of look. An undercurrent of fear that I can taste. Not just because we’re armed with exotic scavenged Rob hardware. They’re scared of what we’re gonna do now that we’re back.


And they should be.

Looking out over these people, I feel my anger growing. I’m seeing new wells, new gardens, and a whole lot of new faces. And a lot of those faces ain’t native. Even up here on the sacred hill, these ain’t a hundred percent real Indians. Shit, I guess we didn’t know who we were out there fighting for.

Just a matter of time, is what I’m thinking.

Why, if we don’t nip this in the bud, I get the feeling that pretty soon everything that’s old will be new again. Does anybody remember how the Osage ended up kicked out of Missouri in the first place? These Great Plains are ours, right about now, and damned if I don’t intend to keep it that way.

Of course Lonnie don’t bat an eye at these peckerwoods.

We get up to the top of the plateau and reach the arbor at the center of Gray Horse. People are gathered there by the thousands. From a distance, it’s a flat, round space, a dancing circle wrapped up by the old family benches and then by bigger bleachers for the rest of the spectators. It used to have a roof over it, but that must have blown off. That’s fine—there’s no shame in dancing under the sun.

This is where the Wah-Zha-Zhe begins and ends.

The old cowboy signals our column to a halt. Orders us into dress parade formation on the far side of the arbor. Soldiers and tanks and exoskeleton forces form up. I get myself out in front, next to Lonnie, facing across the arbor to the stone bluffs and the blue empty sky beyond.

A dance is already going on.

Strangers fill the new bleachers that circle the outside of the dance arbor, and I see more familiar faces down on the family benches. The dance area is swept, watched over by the whipmen and a smattering of water boys. In the middle, the drum host is set up and playing. Four barrel-chested, portly fellas, probably brothers or cousins, wearing button-down shirts with pearl buttons and cowboy boots are sitting there with their rawhide drums. As we arrive, they end their song and roll the drums to applaud us and signal a water break.

We finish setting up our formation in front of the huge crowd, all of us piled together on top of Gray Horse. They’re standing, squeezing in tight, with kids popping up on shoulders. Thousands of quiet conversations creating a gentle kind of murmur that washes out over the clearing. It’s a kind of happiness, the wanaxe of all of us being here at home together—alive and breathing, for now.

Straight across the dance arbor, facing my Gray Horse Army, the three elders still stand on that rocky ledge. The oldmen are all done up in their ceremonial regalia. They stand in a line with brown, wrinkled faces and dim eyes. Porcupine-quill headdresses quivering in the breeze and buckskin leggings decorated with beadwork so complicated it’ll make you dizzy to look at. Two of the men stand to the side a scooch, giving respect to the man on their right.

Chief John Tenkiller.

John’s eyes sit in his dark face like sapphires. He’s been sitting on a folded buffalo skin, fresh made. The old ways are coming back along with the trout and the deer and the bison. This city has grown and become a bastion to thousands of people. The spiritual and government leader positions have combined. All of it ends at the feet of this man. The revered leader of Gray Horse. My target.

The field around the arbor gets real quiet.

In the hush, Lonnie Wayne hops off his tall walker. The long-legged sprinting machine falls and he catches it neat as you please. Sets it down gentle, showing respect for his steed even if it ain’t living. Then he turns and strides toward the elders in confident steps. He nods at the drummers and goes left around the fire, moving counterclockwise according to tradition. He’s got a tight grin and I think he’s even enjoying the attention, a reminder of what we fought for.

Even so, it’s too late for him.

Lonnie walks under all those eyes, and I quietly slide off Brutus and follow. Crunching over the hard-packed dirt of the arbor, I give Lonnie his space. Tradition says he can’t speak for himself. A war hero has got to be humble, you see? So it’s up to me to speak for him.

I plan to do a hell of a job.

We reach the elders and stand on the rock before them. Slowed by arthritis, the old cowboy takes off his hat and holds it by the crown.

“We return, little oldman,” says Lonnie. “Our warriors return. The warring is done.”

Then Lonnie kind of bows his head and looks away. I step forward and set my plan in motion. Tenkiller nods to me, solemn.

“Lonnie Wayne here has asked me to speak for him,” I say. “He wanted me to thank you for the support of the community. We went through a lot of hardship out there, but we never forgot who we were suffering for. And it was Lonnie got us through it. He was a great leader, always sure of his actions, never regretful, and it was thanks to him that we defeated the enemy of our people. It was thanks to him that we return, victorious.”

Lonnie puts his hat back on, and in a smooth motion he unbuckles the leather gun holster that hangs low on his hip. With reverence, he slides it off and holds it out in both hands. The big iron is still holstered, a solid couple of pounds of death-dealing metal that’ve been to hell and back, spitting fire the whole time.

It’s a ritual as old as us. A warrior comes home from a victory and hands over the weapon that done it. Hard to explain, but it’s kind of a trophy. All the souls of the dead and vanquished are on that blade or gun or spear. Going back in time, all the way. Every soul is like a notch in the metal that you can’t take back. It’s an honor to cede to the chief, but I’m thinking that our enemies had no souls. There ain’t nothing lingering on that pistol but the blood of our own brothers and sisters. Ours were the only lives lost, the only souls taken.

“General Lonnie Wayne Blanton,” says Tenkiller, and I swear his eyes are glowing electric blue. “You are the savior of our people. You led our warriors through the hellscape. You brought the survivors home. You have our thanks.”

Now, says Arayt. Make your move right now.

Tenkiller holds up the weapon in both hands, continues the ritual.

“In the time of Creation, the People of the Sky met the People of the Land. They joined together in strength to form the Children of the Middle Waters. Wha-Zha-Zhe.”

The spooklight is surging with warmth. Without having made the decision, I raise my voice and interrupt Tenkiller’s speech.

“Lonnie does have our thanks,” I say, speaking over the old man. “But there are others who also deserve our gratitude.”

Lonnie looks at me with disbelief.

Tenkiller trails off from his incantation, confused. The other two elders are watching me, shrewd. Gears are turning in their heads. They may be old and they may be religious, but they’re all politicians at heart.

“What the heck are you doing, Hank?” whispers Lonnie.

It’s a serious breach of decorum, you could say.

My guts are quivering. But that spooklight is chattering to me in my head and telling me what to say. It’s got a plan and I’m along for the ride. Ten thousand pairs of eyeballs and whispering lips won’t change that.

Make your move now, Hank.

I drop to a knee in front of John Tenkiller. With sober respect on my face I look up at the elders. Pause for a second to set the scene.

“Your son, Chief Tenkiller,” I say, trailing off.

Real slow, I reach into my satchel. Let my fingertips linger on the warm face of the cube, and then move them deeper. I produce a long, tapered eagle feather. The stem is wrapped in worn leather with a dog tag dangling from it. The base sprouts downy tendrils of feather that solidify into a waxy white blade. At its tip, the magnificent feather looks like it’s been dipped in ink. Tiny dots of red mist spatter the flat whiteness of it.


“We lost him crossing the plains,” I say.

John Tenkiller’s bright blue eyes close. When they open again, that twinkle is gone. He looks like a brittle old man. Nothing magic about him no more.

“Your boy fought brave and he died brave,” I say. “Before he passed, he begged me to give you this the instant we made it home. The instant. I’m real sorry to interrupt the ceremony, but I know he’s watching from up above. I couldn’t wait another second. I knowed I’d regret it if I didn’t do him the honor I promised.”

Perfect, says Arayt.

“How . . . how did he go?” asks Tenkiller.

“Respectfully, now isn’t the time,” I say. “Let’s talk soon.”

And just like that, I hold the charm out to him. Tenkiller’s hands are full with that heavy pistol and holster. Careful, like teasing a largemouth bass with a spinner bait, I reach out my other hand to take the holster from him.

Easy . . .

And now is my perfect moment.

My tired brain is humming with the spooklight’s excitement. The little oldman twitches. The advisors are staring at me with open hostility. I think maybe I went too far. And then it’s all fireworks behind my eyes as Tenkiller reaches for the bait.

The elder hands over the pistol to me. Takes the feather from my other hand with trembling fingers. I glance sidelong at Lonnie and he knows something serious just happened. He’s blindsided, mouth open. But he don’t know yet what’s coming. The real coup de grace is almost here.

I hold my breath as Tenkiller lifts the feather up to the light. Lonnie is forgotten as the old man clasps the quill tight in his gnarled fingers. Tears are cresting and falling into the wrinkled rivulets of his cheeks. Tenkiller brings the feather close to his face, notices the red spatters that run up and down it.

“There is blood on it,” he says, quiet.

Finish it and he’s yours. Gray Horse will be yours. And you’ll get the credit you deserve, Hank Cotton. You’ll take it. You’re my chosen one, Hank.

“The blood on there is mine,” I say, my voice quiet and husky. “I apologize. But I carried it with me for a long ways. I know it’s just a feather. But Chief, it felt heavy. It felt like I was carrying home the spirit of your boy.”

Tenkiller nods, clutches the feather to his chest.

Gentle, I lay down the pistol in the dirt behind me. With one foot, I shove it out of reach. I stand up and put a hand on Lonnie’s shoulder and with the face of his best friend, I apologize to him. I wipe my eyes where the tears have sprung up.

The top ranks of Cotton patrol stand at the clawed feet of Brutus. Twelve men, full-blood Osage and not one of them shorter than six foot tall. None of us had time to dress out for the dance, but they’re carrying what they can: axes, dance sticks, and mirrors. Some wear braided black ponytails and others have cut their hair into fearsome scalp locks. All of them have their arms crossed, dangerous as snakes coiled to strike.

They’re grinning to the last man.

You did good, Hank. You’ve got the favor of the chief. The eyes of God are on you now.

All the honor that was brimming in Lonnie’s pistol is evaporating into the dirt now. All the stock them elders was about to put into Lonnie has slipped right off him and fallen onto my shoulders. I cross the clearing back toward my men and I can’t help but break into a lope. I’m like a fox escaping from the henhouse.

I wipe my eyes again and mouth a prayer of thanks. Thanks for the power. Thanks for the respect. And, finally, thanks that tears of sorrow look just the same as tears of happiness.