CHINA, PRESENT
High up on his throne, the automaton called Huangdi remains perfectly still, eyes closed for a long moment as the thunder of an explosion rolls through the massive cave, dying in angry echoes. As quiet returns to the tomb, the emperor lifts his ancient ruyi, the scepter hooked and knobby on one end where the dark iron is carved into the shape of a blossoming flower.
The necropolis is silent for a few heartbeats.
I trot in a wide arc around the throne, headlamp off, hidden in the dark among looming figures of clay. With a running start, I vault over a placid stream of mercury. Faintly, I hear the grating of rock. High-pitched chipping sounds, metal on stone. Reaching the wall, I can see the throne in profile. I move closer and slide behind one of the tall stone pillars that circle the dais, each sprouting dozens of long-extinguished, rusted lanterns.
The sun disk is mounted behind Huangdi’s two-story throne, just across the empty space ahead of me. From this side, I don’t think he can see me down here.
But how am I supposed to reach it?
From my hiding spot, I notice the front row of statues. Staring at them, I convince myself of a horrible truth—they aren’t made of terra-cotta. Unlike the other figures in the room, these are lying in poses of agony. Around them, the floor is sprinkled with colored dust in the outline of fallen robes, a thick powder littered with fans, shells, and the leather remnants of hats.
These avtomat have been killed, left here to rot for eternity.
“Leizu!” shouts the emperor, long and low.
I can see the emperor in profile as he scans the statues, scepter in his hand.
Reverberations of his shout sweep down from the throne and out over the low room beyond. Without the headlamp, my eyes have readjusted to blue-tinged darkness. Streams of silver thread through ranks of warriors, still and sinister under the dots of bioluminescent light embedded in the black rock ceiling.
From the breach, the hunched silhouettes of armed men are flickering through, their flashlight beams raking the walls. Dozens of men are entering, running single file through the new hole in the wall. Wearing balaclavas and complicated helmets with insectile optics hanging off, they carry stubby rifles with flashlights mounted on them. The commandos are nearly silent as they spread out along the edges of the room, stopping every few meters and kneeling.
All of them save one.
“Huangdi!” calls a voice, high and sweet.
Whip thin, Leizu strides down an aisle of terra-cotta warriors. She wears a dark cloak and carries a long sword with a copper blade, glowing blue-gold in the twilight. Her eyes are leveled on Huangdi, teeth bared in a predatory smile as she marches right into the semicircle of empty space before the throne.
Peter has faded away into the rows of still soldiers.
Crouched, I’m scanning the throne, eyes running over carved ridges of talons and teeth, looking for a dark circle the size of my fist. I keep one hand pressed against the gritty stone of the pillar, hiding from Huangdi and Leizu as they reunite.
“Leizu,” says Huangdi. “Do not fear. We are equals—”
“Once we were equals,” she interrupts, moving to the foot of the throne. “While you slumbered, I made a new world in my own image. You brought the peace of the first dynasty, but it was war men needed. With whispers and violence, I set their minds to the task of killing, and never have the short-lived progressed with such ferocity.
“Not since the days of the First Men have we seen such an age of wonder.”
Huangdi considers her for a moment. In sheaths of hard ceramic, the emperor looks so primitive compared to the tigress standing before him. Finally, he speaks, his inhuman voice tinged with disbelief: “Our fathers were gods. And you, Daughter of Darkness…you dare insult them?”
Throwing her arms out, Leizu drops her cloak to the floor. The ceiling of false stars sends blue sparkles of light chasing one another over her armor. Each plate on the flexing mesh is made of the telltale crescent shape of a relic. I can make out the faint glow of each relic’s symbol, smoldering orange licks of a forgotten language.
“While you slept, Son of Light, I feasted on the weak,” says Leizu. “With their souls, I forged a mantle of the gods. I do not fear you.”
Huangdi is silent, then a low laugh builds in the automaton’s chest. The laugh grows, mechanical and grating, until it echoes from the ceiling.
“You are alone,” says Leizu, gesturing to her mercenaries. Even so, her voice is not as sure. “You are helpless against modern training and weaponry.”
“Ah,” says Huangdi, and now the old man seems sad. Some of the fire has gone out of his speech, and his shoulders are hunched. “You have army. I have army.”
The old automaton gestures at the row upon row of terra-cotta warriors, his long sleeve wavering. The dusty statues look pathetic. Leizu cocks a hand on her hip and laughs once.
In response, Huangdi’s eyes narrow over a sneer.
“Your skin is soft. Your voice is music. But once, Wife, we were hard. Our hearts were hard. Our skin.”
Huangdi spreads his arms, the scepter in his outstretched hand.
“I will remind you,” he says.
A trickling sound fills the cavern, like a waterfall of dropped dishes. I startle as something glances off my cheek. A chunk of terra-cotta shatters at my feet. The statues around me are crumbling, surfaces fracturing. Like baby birds pecking out of their shells, clay shards are falling away and crashing against the rock floor.
Leizu turns, her hair flying as she surveys the room, fear twisting her features.
“Shoot them!” she shouts to the commandos that have taken position around the room. “Shoot them before they emerge!”
I drop to the floor as the cavern erupts into controlled bursts of gunfire. Bullets tear into the ranks of terra-cotta warriors, life-size artifacts of pottery: swordsmen, pikemen, cavalry, and archers. In strobing muzzle flashes and deafening snaps of sound, the clay warriors are falling, bodies fracturing into mounds of reddish dust.
Now. Shit. Now, now, now.
Broken pottery shells litter the floor, already knee-deep in places. I push through them, crawling out from behind the pillar and heading straight for the side of the throne. Head down, I quickly reach the dark stone.
I hear the first hoarse shout of fear.
Clinging to the base of the throne, I peer out into the confusion of light and dust. As each shell collapses, it reveals a crawling thing, something dark and damp. Leizu’s men are firing frantically on the writhing mass of broken pottery, and the mounds of it are swarming now with insect-like movement.
Newborn warriors are climbing to their feet, hefting ancient weapons. Each man-shaped machine wears glistening black armor, pristine after ages locked inside an earthen shell. The faces of the awakened monsters are carved obsidian masks, long sculpted mustaches curling over eternally smiling lips.
And on each forehead, the symbol on Huangdi’s relic.
These things aren’t avtomat, not exactly. They seem mindless, more like the golems I’ve read about in Jewish fairy tales.
I run my fingers over the carved throne, finding a grip. Pulling myself up a step, I watch Leizu dive into the front ranks of the warriors, hacking with her sword.
Ancient weapons bristle out of the darkness, scimitars and pikes tipped with bronze. There are so many varieties. A row of archers pivots in unison, drawing arrows from quivers on their backs and nocking them. Lines of pikemen advance in lockstep, wooden spears quivering before them. Swordsmen move in formation, hacking.
Between gunfire, I hear real screaming from Leizu’s human soldiers.
The birth of the terra-cotta army is like an eruption of locusts after decades of hibernation. Leizu’s trained men are panicking at the sight of them, spreading out to the walls, looking for better firing positions. I watch one man step into a pool of mercury and vanish silently into the heavy liquid.
I climb higher.
Face pressed into the cool folds of carved rock, I hear Leizu scream a challenge at the throne. I feel the vibration as the ancient automaton bellows his response: “I am made for you, Leizu. You are made for me. And our war is destiny.”