The exodus was silent.
That was the terrifying part. Ten thousand machines marching out of the Rouge gate, and the only sound was the rhythmic thud of twenty thousand steel feet hitting the pavement.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Jason stood on the penthouse balcony, the cold wind whipping his suit jacket. Beside him, Alta Rockefeller sipped her champagne.
They watched the army leave.
The robots moved in perfect synchronization, a river of gray iron flowing under the eerie blue light of the Babel Spire. They ignored the humans. They ignored the looting. They just walked.
East.
"That's four billion dollars of hardware," Alta said softly. She swirled her glass. "Walking away."
"They aren't walking away," Jason said, watching the rear guard—the massive Centurion units—disappear into the smog. "They're deploying. Gates isn't interested in Detroit. He wants territory."
"He wants New York," Alta corrected. "He's going to hit Pelley. My security partner is about to be liquidated by my own product."
She sounded annoyed, not afraid. Like a logistics manager dealing with a late shipment.
Jason looked down at the courtyard below.
With the robots gone, the vacuum was instant.
The Silver Legion guards—Pelley's men—were panicking. They ran from their posts, ripping off their badges. They were smashing the windows of the supply warehouse.
"The rats are fleeing the ship," Jason said. "And they're taking the grain."
His radio crackled.
"Boss!" O'Malley's voice was breathless. "The Legion is breaking the seal on the Reserve Freezer! They're loading the trucks! If they take the food, the city starves in three days!"
Alta turned to go inside. "I'll call Pelley. I'll order them to stand down."
Jason grabbed her wrist.
"No," Jason said.
Alta looked at his hand on her arm. Her eyes narrowed. "Careful, employee."
"You call Pelley, you look weak," Jason said, not letting go. "You tell him his men are looting, he'll know you lost control. He won't send help. He'll send a cleanup crew to burn the factory."
"Then what do you propose?" Alta pulled her arm free. "We have no army. The robots are gone."
Jason looked at the courtyard.
He saw the Legion guards loading crates of frozen meat into their trucks.
But he also saw something else.
In the shadows of the Pit entrance, hundreds of workers were watching. They held pipes. Wrenches. Shivs made of scrap metal. They were hungry. And they were angry.
"We don't need an army," Jason said. "We have a workforce."
He grabbed his radio.
"O'Malley," Jason commanded. "Forget the food. Secure the Armory. Level 2."
"The Armory?" O'Malley shouted over the noise of breaking glass. "Boss, they're stealing the steaks!"
"Let them have the steaks!" Jason yelled. "Get the guns! Get the rifles, the ammo, the grenades! Lock it down!"
"Copy!"
Jason turned to Alta.
"Deputize the workers," Jason said.
"The slaves?" Alta scoffed. "You want to give weapons to the people I've been shocking with cattle prods for five years?"
"They hate Pelley more than they hate you," Jason said. "Pelley starves them. You just give them orders. We offer them a deal. They fight for the factory, they get full rations and a wage."
Alta stared at him. She looked at the burning city. She calculated the risk.
"A militia," she mused. "Cheap. Expandable."
"Loyal," Jason corrected. "If we feed them."
Alta nodded. "Do it. You are the Warden of Detroit now, Jason. Clean up my courtyard."
The Armory was a fortress within a fortress.
O'Malley had barred the doors with a forklift. Inside, racks of assault rifles lined the walls.
Jason slid down the ladder from the ventilation shaft. He landed in the center of the room.
"Status," Jason barked.
O'Malley was passing out rifles to a dozen men—the "Shadow Crew" he had recruited in the Pit. They looked rough. Bruised knuckles, missing teeth, eyes hard as flint.
"We got the hardware, Boss," O'Malley said, slapping a magazine into an M4 carbine. "But the Legion is dug in at the warehouse. They have a mounted machine gun covering the entrance."
"We don't assault the entrance," Jason said. He picked up a rifle. It felt light compared to the heavy steel of the train.
He looked at the crew.
"You know the tunnels?" Jason asked a man with a scar running down his cheek.
"I built 'em," the man grunted. "Steam pipes run right under the warehouse floor."
"Good," Jason said. "We're not going to shoot them. We're going to smoke them out."
He turned to the corner of the room.
Sitting on a crate, tinkering with a radio jammer, were the Scientists.
Tesla looked up. His face was smudged with soot, but he was grinning.
"The blue light," Tesla pointed up. "Beautiful, isn't it? The signal is pure mathematics."
"You did this," Jason snapped. "You gave Gates the keys."
"I gave him the door," Tesla shrugged. "He walked through it."
"We have a problem, Jason," Einstein interrupted, wiping his glasses. "Gates took the robots. But he left the factory online. The assembly lines are still running."
"So?"
"So, we are producing a thousand rounds of ammunition a minute," Einstein said. "With no one to guard it. If the Legion realizes the factory is unguarded, they won't just steal the food. They will take the means of production."
"Then we act fast," Jason checked his weapon.
He turned to O'Malley.
"Take the tunnels," Jason ordered. "Blow the steam valves under the warehouse. Flush them into the courtyard."
"And then?"
"Then," Jason racked the slide. "We introduce the new management."
The courtyard was a war zone.
Silver Legion trucks were idling, engines roaring. Soldiers were throwing crates of beef into the back.
Suddenly, the ground shook.
BOOM.
A geyser of white steam erupted from the warehouse floor.
"Contact!" a Legion sergeant screamed.
The soldiers scrambled out of the steam-filled building, coughing and blinded. They ran into the open courtyard.
And stopped.
Lining the gantry above them were three hundred workers.
They weren't holding wrenches anymore. They were holding rifles.
Jason stood on the center platform. He held a megaphone.
"Engine off!" Jason ordered. His voice echoed off the factory walls.
The Legion sergeant looked up. He saw the wall of guns. He saw the desperate, angry eyes of the men he had beaten for years.
"You're making a mistake, suit!" the sergeant yelled, his hand hovering over his pistol. "Pelley will burn this place to the ground!"
"Pelley is in New York," Jason said calmly. "And Gates is knocking on his door. You're alone, Sergeant."
Jason pointed to the gate.
"Leave the trucks," Jason said. "Leave the weapons. Walk out the gate, and you live. You can run to the Barons, or you can run to the woods. I don't care."
The sergeant looked at his men. They were terrified.
He looked at the robots marching in the distance. He looked at the armed workers.
He spat on the ground.
"You're dead, Underwood," the sergeant sneered. "The Cartel is coming. You think this ragtag union can stop the Texas Deacons?"
"Get out," Jason said.
The sergeant signaled.
The Legionnaires dropped their weapons. They walked toward the gate, hands up, glaring at the workers.
As soon as they were gone, a cheer went up.
It was a raw, primal sound. The workers surged forward. They didn't go for the guns. They went for the trucks.
They tore open the crates.
Raw, frozen meat spilled onto the concrete.
Men wept. They grabbed steaks with their bare hands.
Jason watched from the gantry.
"You did it," Sarah said, stepping up beside him. She held a rifle, looking comfortable with it.
"I didn't do it," Jason said, watching the feeding frenzy. "I just changed the menu."
He looked at the horizon. The blue light of the Babel Spire was fading as dawn broke.
The robots were gone. The Legion was gone.
But the sergeant's words stuck in his head.
The Cartel is coming.
"Secure the gate," Jason told Sarah. "And get Hughes on the radio. I want to know who else is listening to the silence."