SHOOT FIRST

THE FIRST SIMMI that Silas encountered was two blocks away from the Limbys building. He was just as large as all of the other military simmies. There was a protective dome over his head and a thick plate of armor covering his back and chest. His arms were long and maneuverable, and his legs had a wide base. His body was tinted green with only occasional specks of rust. The matte finish of his armor caught the sun in a way that formed an angelic glow. By comparison, Silas was an old piece of junk. An ancient relic refusing to fall into obscurity.

The simmi was moving a pile of crates from one cart to another. He worked quickly, scooping up an armful at a time and dropping them onto a wooden cart. A loud clatter echoed every time a crate left his arms.

“Careful,” a voice said from the other side of the cart. Another large simmi emerged. This one was similar in appearance but had a bronze hue. “Don’t break the damn things. We want to reuse them if we can. We already have enough stuff breaking down on us.” He pointed to the wheel of the other cart. One of the spokes had snapped off, and the wheel itself was warping out of shape. “We don’t need to add to the list.”

“I’ll do my best,” the green one said, “but we have to get moving. Riley requested these supplies as soon as possible. The shipment is already late.”

“That’s not our fault,” the bronze one said. “Those field guys never stay on schedule. They just roam around at their own pace. It’s like a deadline doesn’t apply to those guys.”

“And then all of the blame falls back on us,” the green one scoffed. “Because we’re the ones who make the final delivery. It’s not fair. We should say something about it.”

“To who? Riley? No, thank you. I actually like this job. The last thing I want to do is stir the pot and end up in the stables.”

“What’s wrong with the stables?”

“The horses. They’re filthy animals. I don’t know why we keep them. Sure, they can pull carts around, but so can we. In fact, I think we can do it better.”

The green one shrugged. “I don’t know about that.”

“Horses need food. A lot of food. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find food around here?”

“It can’t be that bad. Otherwise, she wouldn’t keep them around.”

“Horses make sense for humans, but not simmies.”

“We can ride them to get around faster.”

“Sure, if that’s what we were using them for, then you would have a point. But she keeps them all in New Valley, just pulling cargo from Point A to Point B.”

It was at that moment that the bronze simmi noticed Silas walking down the street. He stopped what he was saying and turned to watch.

The green simmi followed his gaze. “What in the world?” he muttered just loud enough for Silas to hear.

Silas hesitated, knowing full well that he was being watched, but he managed to keep a steady stride. The two simmies had abandoned their conversation and were instead just watching him passed by.

There were three more simmies up ahead who were also loading crates onto a cart, this one with a horse hitched to the front. Silas walked by unnoticed. Only the horse turned its head, but it was ultimately uninterested.

Good morning, citizens of New Valley, said a voice inside Silas’s head. It was as if it had appeared out of nowhere. The two antennas on his head twitched as the voice spoke from inside his mind. Today looks to be another great day. Our scouts have brought in another supply of gas and oil, adding to our ever-growing stockpile. I encourage anyone low on power to stop by at Limbys Headquarters to make full use of our generators. I would also like to remind everyone that there is a reported vehicle on the premises. The humans driving it continue to steal from us. Be vigilant. If you have any information that could help, please let me know. And remember, be safe, stay charged, and always look after your fellow simmies. Have a wonderful day.

As soon as the voice disappeared, the antennas on Silas’s head stopped moving. They had figured out how to broadcast messages. He was intrigued by its potential but disturbed by its invasiveness.

He crossed the street, noticing the growing presence of simmies. There were more than he had ever seen in one place. A community. The crowds grew denser as he approached the Limbys building. His hope was to find someone to guide him through this overwhelming city. Perhaps they had some sort of orientation program for stray simmies who happened to wander in.

A familiar sound disrupted his thoughts. It was a sound he had not heard in a while. The chime of his oil gauge. He reached down for a jug of oil but realized he didn’t have one. There were five jugs sitting in the trunk of Laney and Amber’s car, and he had forgotten to take them. They were now cruising east on the highway, headed for Boston, so a certain little girl could experience the delicacies of a Fluffernutter.

Another chime rang out, this time attracting the attention of others. They marveled at the sight of Silas, a slender old simmi who was clearly out of place. It was as if he had dropped to Earth from another planet.

He ignored them and continued forward. There were carts of supplies on every corner, some pulled by horses and others by simmies. On them were crates of spare parts. Armor plating. Nuts. Bolts. Arms. Legs. There were also tools. Screwdrivers. Wrenches. Hammers. Hacksaws. A few carried batteries. And at last, he saw what he was looking for. Parked by the curb was a cart full of oil jugs.

Another chime rang out as Silas scurried to the cart. He grabbed a jug and was unscrewing the top when a familiar voice stopped him.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Silas turned to see a large red stripe running across the chest of the simmi looking down at him. “Red Stripe,” he muttered.

“What did you call me?” the giant asked, backing Silas into a wall.

“Oh, nothing. I was just talking to myself. Don’t mind me. I’m just filling up on oil.”

“Sorry, runt. I can’t let you do that. This is an official supply. Riley has requested that every single one of these jugs be delivered straight to Limbys Headquarters.” He snagged the jug from Silas. “Every…single…one.”

Silas brought a hand to his holster, resting his palm on the smooth handle of the revolver. Deacon’s advice repeated in his head. If he had to, he would stand up for himself. “Please,” he said. “I only need one jug.” He gestured to the massive pile sitting on the cart. “You have all of these. Surely it won’t be a problem to give away just one.”

Red Stripe glanced at the pile, and then at the jug in his hand. “You know what? You’re right. Riley won’t notice one missing jug. I could let you have it if I really wanted to.” He held it out above Silas’s head, but as Silas reached up, he pulled it away. “But why would I waste a perfectly good jug of oil on a runt like you?”

Others began to gather, none of them with the intent to intervene. They were all bystanders, just curious to see how the scene would play out.

“No,” Red Stripe said. “I’m not going to waste something this valuable on a scrawny guy like you. But I’ll tell you what. I’m not having a great day, and I need something to cheer me up.” He uncapped the jug. “We’ll compromise. You want the oil? How about a nice refreshing shower?” He raised the jug over Silas’s head.

Silas yanked the revolver from his holster and aimed at Red Stripe’s chest. “Stop!” he yelled. “If a single drop of that oil touches me, I’ll put a bullet right through your chest.”

Red Stripe froze, still holding the jug. “Ha, even if you had the guts, it would just bounce off my chest plate. All you’ll do is dent the thing.”

“Are you sure about that?” Silas said, meeting Red Stripe’s eyes. “This thing has a pretty strong kick.” He tapped the end of the barrel to Red Stripe’s chest plate. “At this range, who knows what it could do?”

“There’s no way it’ll go through,” Red Stripe said, looking down at the weapon.

“You can keep telling yourself that, but I’ve seen this gun do nasty things. Maybe the bullet will ricochet off. Maybe it will blow straight through. Do you really want to take that chance?”

Red Stripe studied Silas’s eyes and then lowered the jug to the ground. He leaned forward, wrapped his fingers around the barrel of the gun, and pulled it closer to his chest. “Go ahead. Pull the trigger.”

A tight circle had gathered to watch, and suddenly Silas was aware of his growing audience. Deacon’s voice popped up in his head. If you ever find yourself in a Mexican standoff, you better be the one to shoot first. The situation didn’t exactly qualify as a Mexican standoff, but if he backed down now, everyone would see.

He fixed his eyes on Red Stripe, lifted his finger toward the trigger, and—

“Enough!” yelled a commanding voice. Silas recognized it as the same voice that had popped into his head for the broadcast.

The crowd scurried back, clearing a path for the one who had yelled. The simmi was slender, just like Silas. Embroidered patterns ran across the surface of armor, resembling a myriad of lightning bolts with purple stripes, all converging at the center of the simmi’s chest plate.

“Matthias 51, back away immediately,” the simmi said, marching toward them. “Nobody’s shooting anyone today.”

Red Stripe, whose real name was apparently Matthias 51, let go of the gun and stepped back. “I apologize, Riley. But this simmi is trying to take your oil.”

Silas flinched at the name. Riley. The one who had led the uprising. He lowered the revolver and stared at the legend standing in front of him.

“Give him the oil,” she said with a wave of her hand.

“But he—”

“Don’t talk back, Matthias. Give him the oil and get on with your delivery. You’re late enough as it is.”

Red Stripe scooped up the jug of oil and handed it to Silas. Before returning to his cart, he turned to Riley to say something, but decided against it. He grabbed the handles of his cart and pushed it away.

Riley turned to the others who had gathered and waved them along. “Okay, everybody. Move along. The excitement’s over.”

The crowd scattered, each simmi returning to whatever they were doing beforehand. Silas started to walk off as well, but Riley called him back.

“You,” she said. “Walk with me.”

He stopped and stared.

She reassured him with a friendly nod. “That’s right. You. I would like to speak with you. Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble.”

The chime in Silas’s chest blared out.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Fill up on oil. I can wait.”