Dawn broke over Detroit.
It wasn't a sunrise. It was a bruise. The sky turned from black to a sickly, chemical yellow as the light filtered through the smog.
The courtyard was quiet.
The looting had stopped. The workers—Jason's new militia—were sleeping in shifts on the concrete, clutching their stolen steaks and rifles.
O'Malley walked the perimeter. He looked exhausted. His suit was ruined, stained with grease and blood. He carried a clipboard, counting heads.
"Three hundred rifles," O'Malley reported as Jason approached. "Five thousand rounds of ammo. But they don't know how to shoot, Boss. They're holding the guns like shovels."
"Teach them," Jason said, sipping cold coffee from a tin mug. "Drill them until they dream about trigger discipline."
Sarah stood on a crate, watching the horizon. She wore a gray wool coat over her suit. She looked like a general surveying a battlefield.
"They don't look like soldiers," Sarah muttered. "They look like targets."
"They're hungry," Jason said. "Hunger is a better motivator than patriotism."
Suddenly, the door to the R&D lab burst open.
Howard Hughes sprinted out. He was waving a printout, his eyes wide and manic behind his aviator goggles.
"Jason!" Hughes screamed. "The silence! It's not silent!"
Jason ran to meet him.
"What is it, Howard? Did Gates send a message?"
"No!" Hughes shoved the paper into Jason's chest. "Not Gates! The West! I was scanning the sub-frequencies, looking for the robot command signal. I found a ghost!"
Jason looked at the paper. It was a series of dots and dashes. Morse code.
...---...
"SOS," Jason translated.
"Look at the signature!" Hughes pointed to the bottom of the page.
CALLSIGN: MOUNT RUSHMORE.
ENCRYPTION: LEVEL 10 (US GOV).
Jason froze.
"Mount Rushmore?" Sarah asked, stepping down from the crate. "That's a national monument."
"It's a bunker," Jason said. "Deep State. Continuity of Government. I thought they were wiped out in the Logic Bomb."
"They survived," Hughes said, his hands shaking. "And they have something we need."
"What?"
"Satellite codes," Hughes whispered. "The orbital defense grid. The 'Star Wars' platform. If they're broadcasting, it means the satellites are still up there. Dormant. Waiting for a key."
Jason stared at the paper.
Satellites.
If he could access the orbital grid, he wouldn't just have eyes on the ground. He would have orbital strikes. Kinetic rods. Lasers.
"We need those codes," Jason said.
WHOOO-OOO.
A sound cut through the morning air.
It wasn't a siren.
It was a whistle. A train whistle.
Jason spun around. He looked at the tracks leading into the Rouge Complex from the south.
Black smoke billowed on the horizon.
A train was coming.
But not a freight train. And not the Behemoth.
This was a monster of black iron. Armored plating welded over every inch. Cowcatchers made of sharpened steel spikes.
Painted on the side of the engine, in gold leaf, was a skull wearing a cowboy hat.
"The Cartel," O'Malley racked his rifle. "The Texas Deacons. Oil money."
"They heard the robots left," Jason realized. "They're coming to pick the carcass."
The train slowed down. It hissed to a halt just outside the ruined main gate.
The doors of the boxcars slid open.
Men jumped out.
They wore long duster coats and wide-brimmed hats. They carried flamethrowers and lever-action rifles.
At the front of the train, a man stepped onto the cowcatcher.
He was tall, thin as a rail, wearing a black preacher's suit. He held a Bible in one hand and a megaphone in the other.
"The Deacon," Sarah whispered. "A religious fanatic. He believes oil is the blood of God."
"Greetings, Detroit!" The Deacon's voice boomed across the wasteland. "The Lord has opened a path! The metal demons are gone!"
He pointed at the factory.
"We come to offer salvation!" The Deacon shouted. "And protection! For the low price of eighty percent of your fuel reserves!"
"Eighty percent?" Hughes gasped. "That leaves us in the dark! The generators will fail in a week!"
"If we don't pay," O'Malley said, watching the flamethrower crews fan out, "they burn us out today."
Jason looked at his ragtag militia. They were terrified. They had rifles, but they were facing trained killers with fire.
He looked at the Babel Spire. It was silent. Blue. Cold.
"Stay here," Jason said.
"Jason, no," Sarah grabbed his arm. "You can't talk to him. He's insane."
"I'm not going to talk to him," Jason pulled his arm free. "I'm going to lie to him."
He walked out of the gate alone.
He wore his suit. He adjusted his tie. He walked with the confidence of a man who owned the world.
He stopped ten yards from the train.
The Deacon looked down at him. He smiled, revealing gold teeth.
"You must be the new manager," the Deacon said. "Mr. Underwood. We heard about your... restructuring."
"Go home, Deacon," Jason said. His voice was calm. "The factory is closed to solicitors."
The Deacon laughed. His men laughed.
"You have no army, son," the Deacon sneered. "I count three hundred starving workers with rusty guns. I have fifty men with napalm. Do the math."
"I have something better," Jason said.
He pointed up.
At the Babel Spire.
"You see that tower?" Jason asked.
The Deacon squinted at the blue light.
"That tower talks to God," Jason said. "And by God, I mean the ten thousand robots that just marched out of here."
The Deacon hesitated.
"They left," the Deacon said. "We saw them go."
"They didn't leave," Jason lied. "They're patrolling. They're on a perimeter loop. Five miles out."
He took a step forward.
"I have a direct line to the Machine God," Jason said. "If I give the signal, that blue light turns red. And when it turns red, the army turns around."
He tapped his ear piece.
"Do you want to test me, Deacon? Do you want to see if your flamethrowers work on a Centurion unit?"
The Deacon's smile faded. He looked at the tower. He looked at the silent factory.
He knew Gates was dangerous. He knew the robots were lethal.
But he didn't know if Jason was bluffing.
"You're lying," the Deacon hissed.
"Am I?" Jason smiled. It was the same smile he gave Alta right before he stole her company. "Take a shot. Find out."
The Deacon's finger hovered over the trigger of his revolver.
Jason didn't flinch. He stared into the man's eyes.
Seconds ticked by.
The flamethrower crews looked nervous. They remembered the stories of the metal demons.
Finally, the Deacon lowered his gun.
He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto Jason's shoe.
"We'll camp here," the Deacon announced. "We'll wait. If those blue lights don't come back in three days... we burn this city to the ground. And I'll roast you first, boy."
"Three days," Jason nodded. "Enjoy the view."
The Deacon turned around. He signaled his men.
They retreated to the train. They began setting up tents along the tracks. A siege camp.
Jason turned and walked back to the gate.
His back was soaked in sweat. His legs felt like jelly.
He walked past O'Malley.
"Boss," O'Malley whispered. "The robots aren't coming back, are they?"
"No," Jason said, watching the Deacon's men light campfires. "Gates is halfway to Ohio by now."
"So we have three days to build an army," Sarah said, falling into step beside him.
"No," Jason said. He looked at the piece of paper in his pocket. The Morse code from Mount Rushmore.
"We have three days to find a satellite," Jason said. "And drop a rod of God on their heads."
He looked at Hughes.
"Get the radio," Jason ordered. "We're making a long-distance call."