Losenko could only imagine what life had been like in the immediate wake of the war. How many friends and loved ones had these people lost? The fallout alone would have inflicted heavy casualties—never mind starvation, violence, and disease. But that dreadful scenario, no matter how heart-breaking, wasn’t what most concerned him now.
“And the machines?” he prompted her.
Grushka spat onto the floor. Traces of crimson streaked the saliva. For the first time, Losenko noticed that the old woman’s gums were bleeding. Radiation sickness or just malnutrition? He snuck a closer look at Josef. How long had the man been bald?
And where were his eyebrows?
“The big army planes started arriving just days after the world went to hell,” Grushka recalled. Her gaze turned inward. “I could hear them flying over what was left of my cottage. At first I thought maybe it was the disaster relief people, but nobody came looking for me. Later, when the lights and noises started up at the factory, everybody hurried to see what was going on. There were a few more of us left back then, you see. Guess we all wanted to think that somebody was still in charge, that things were starting up again.”
So did I, Losenko thought. And Zamyatin and his party.
“That’s when we saw those machines for the first time.” Another shiver betrayed how much the memory cost her. She drew a half-empty packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her jacket. “There were just a couple of them at first, plus a bunch of armed storm troopers. Americans mostly, although there were some other nationalities mixed in. Even a few Russian quislings and translators. I thought the soldiers were controlling the robots. Took me a while to figure out that the machines were babysitting the soldiers.”
Machines in charge of humans? Losenko had trouble grasping the concept.
“What did they do to you?” he asked.
“Put us all to work, that’s what. Turned us into slave labor, refurbishing the factory to build more of those damn machines. Executed anyone who resisted, just to set an example. Herded up the kids and old people to use as hostages.” Another flicker of grief cracked her stoic pose. “What was really nauseating, though, is that there were those who didn’t even complain, who were grateful just to be taken care of and know where their next meal was coming from.” Her lips twisted in disgust. “Stinking metal lovers.”
Losenko envisioned a throng of hopeful survivors, desperate for assistance, being pressed into slavery by an occupying force. He couldn’t help being perversely impressed by the speed and efficiency with which the lawn mower factory had apparently been converted into an incubator for killer robots. That bespoke meticulous planning and premeditation, in anticipation of Armageddon. Someone had been looking ahead beyond the initial attack.
But who? What kind of “computer malfunction” was capable of that?
“How did you get away?” he asked.
“Smuggled my wrinkled carcass out of the place along with a load of fresh corpses.” Her casual tone defied the horror she must have endured. “People were being worked to death all the time. What was one more wornout piece of meat?”
“I’m sorry—for everything,” Losenko offered. The words rang hollow even to his own ears. A vision of Alaska, equally devastated by his own missiles, flayed off a fresh strip of his soul. “Are there others like you?”
“A few, hiding here and there.” Grushka lit up a cigarette to steady her nerves, using the same lighter she’d employed to ignite the fuse of her Molotov cocktail. Losenko glanced nervously at the gas-filled bottles boxed over by Josef. “The machines mostly leave us alone as long as we stay away from the factory. At least Who knows what they’ll do once they’ve built more of ‘em.”
“Kill us all, that’s what.” Josef glared at them like they were stupid. He fondled the shotgun in his lap. “Any fool can see that.”
“Probably.” Grushka scratched her head thoughtfully. A loose strand of hair slipped free of her kerchief. Embarrassed, she grabbed the strands and tucked them into her pocket, out of sight. Rough hands made sure the kerchief was secure. She gave Losenko a searching look. “You really got a submarine?”
He nodded. “The Gorshkov.” He felt a sudden urge to report back in to the sub; Ivanov and the surviving officers needed to be informed of the debacle. “Excuse me.” He unhooked a compact walkie-talkie from his belt. Pushkin would be waiting in the radio shack, listening for his signal. “Captain to radio. Do you read me?”
“I don’t like this,” Josef grumbled. “What if the machines are listening?”
“Quiet!” Grushka shushed him. “This is military business!”
Pushkin promptly answered Losenko’s hail, but the captain’s relief at getting back in touch with his boat was leavened by the dreadful news he had to impart. “Get me First Officer Ivanov at once.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Pushkin answered. There was a moment of silence, after which he spoke again, his voice eager. “Good to hear from you, skipper. Is Ostrovosky there?”
The captain winced. The radio operator’s blood was still smeared across his face.
“Just get me Ivanov.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Pushkin replied, his voice flat now. He didn’t say anything more.
The XO was on the other end of the line within minutes.
“Radio to captain. What is it, sir?”
Losenko decided he could give Ivanov a full report later, once they were safely at sea.
“We’ve taken heavy casualties,” he said tersely. “Rig the boat for an immediate departure.” He consulted his wristwatch, which was still set to Moscow time. It would be dark soon. “If we’re not back by dawn, leave without us. The boat is not safe here. This is occupied territory.”
“Casualties?” Ivanov said, and there was new anger in his voice. “Did you engage the enemy?” The hatred was audible even from dozens of kilometers away. “Was it the Americans?”
Losenko allowed himself a bitter smile.
“Not unless they bleed oil now.”
A computer malfunction....
“What?” Ivanov was understandably perplexed by the cryptic remark. “I don’t take your meaning, sir. Can you elaborate?”
Losenko wished there had been time to take a snapshot of one of the robots. How else was he to fully convey the horror they had faced? No longer pumped full of adrenalin, he suddenly found himself unbearably tired.
All those men, shot to ribbons... for what?
Gunfire jolted him from his lethargy. Bullets slammed into the rear door of the armored truck.
“Crap!” Grushka explained. “Guess they really want you Navy boys!”
“I told you we should have left well enough alone,” Josef snarled. He pumped his shotgun. “Stupid old hag! You had to go looking for trouble!”
“Captain!” Ivanov blurted over the radio. “What is it? What’s happening?”
Losenko barked into the device. “Just get my boat ready to sail, Alexei! Captain out!”
More bullets hit the back door. It sounded like a machinegun. Losenko guessed that their attackers were trying to shoot out the truck’s tires. A plausible strategy, despite the tires’ protective casings. But how had the robots managed to catch up with a speeding truck? Surely their caterpillar treads weren’t capable of such speed?
“Who...?” he began.
Josef must have been wondering the same thing. He pounded the butt of his shotgun against the partition behind him and yelled at the driver. “Speak up, idiot! Who’s shooting at us now?”
“A Jeep,” Mitka shouted back from the cab. Glass shattered as a bullet took out his side-view mirror. Angry voices hollered at the truck in Russian. “Two metal lovers. A driver and a gunman. Machinegun mounted in the back.”