Art: Dave Alexander
The wind screamed in and out the remains of buildings. It tugged at his clothes, whistled through the holes punched in his helmet for the strap, rattled his ear drums. There’d be a lull in the fighting, if he’d timed this right, but he could hear cracks of missiles in the distance. And there were mines, and sizzling pools left by chemical weapons, and the iSoldiers.
He skittered down a rubbly slope and checked his scope. The signal was a blip and fading. Lock on. Point two clicks, north-north-east. His scope fritzed and he shook it, cursing. The static cleared. He looked up.
The iSoldier was standing over him, a towering figure silhouetted against the burnt-orange smog. The flickering light from a nearby fire danced in its armour, black and gold. He couldn’t tell if it was one of theirs. It was armed. Wrist gun. If he bolted it would shoot him dead.
Procedure. He rooted his feet to the ground and held up his wrist to show off his insignia. “Identify.”
Like a panther, the iSoldier leapt from the wall. Snap. Its wrist-gun retracted. Reaching out, he touched its chestplate. “Identify.”
A buzzing. “Niner-niner-triple-three-delta.”
“Right,” he said, almost relaxing. “As you were.”
Its hand shot out, grabbing his vest, knocking all the air out of his lungs. He cried out, gabbling nonsense like, “Friend!” and “On your side!” and “Reds, see? Reds!”
It tugged aside the strap of his vest to get a visual reading of his rank insignia. Private Carter, Tracey. F-Tech.
Thump. He dropped to the ground like a discarded sack. In a single leap, the iSoldier bounded over the wall.
“Wanker,” Tracey said aloud. It didn’t make him feel any better. He adjusted the straps of his vest and levered himself upright.
He checked his scope. Point two klicks. Signal still fuzzy.
He ducked between barbed wire and broken masonry into the chewed-up remains of what had been a car park. He crouched, scanning the open space.
There. A pair of metallic legs spilling out from behind the skeleton of a car. He picked his way over, staying low, and stared at what was left of the iSoldier he’d been sent to patch up.
The legs—just the legs, and a spray of still-hissing fluid. For a happy moment he thought that was all that was left, that the rest of the iSoldier was being ground to dust in the belly of a Beast.
But maybe ten metres further he saw the arms and torso, wires and nerve-enhancements spilling out like tentacles. It was like a broken toy, a rag doll torn in half and left in the dirt.
“Well,” he said, “That’s going to take some fixing.”
Crouching to inspect the legs, he saw the tail end of the spinal cord, white bones visible within the dense circuitry. The only thing left to do was call salvage.
His scope clicked. Signal online. He spat a curse. Now he had to check its neural functioning.
The torso was motionless, ragged, but procedure was procedure. He crawled to it. “Identify.”
No response. He put his hand on its chestplate.
“Identify, soldier.”
Nothing. Sometimes skin contact helped, when the sensors weren’t at optimum. He stripped off his glove, but jerked back. The armour was searing hot.
Groping at his belt, he unhooked his probe and forced the helmet open. The face beneath was pale and screwed up, the sound of its panting high and dull in the murky air.
“Identify! Hey!” He patted at the side of its skull. “Status report.”
Its eyes opened. “What?” Its voice was an echo of itself, electronics and human vocal cords.
“Identify.”
“I don’t understand.” The electronic voice was flat. The human voice was thick with pain.
Tracey should have realised, then, what had happened. “Identify yourself.” Nothing. He detached his scope and held it over the iSoldier’s eye, trying for a retinal scan. “Hold still.”
976-555- λ.
Oh, no. Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the Saints in heaven, no. He closed his eyes, swallowed, his throat clasping, dry. It didn’t matter, it couldn’t matter. The iSoldier didn’t even remember.
“I can’t feel my legs.” Tracey looked down at it hazily, thinking the status report command had kicked in at last and wondering why it wasn’t following procedure. “Why can’t I feel my legs?”
One last time. “Identify.”
“What?” The iSoldier made a noise like it was trying to clear its throat. It was confused by the crackly echo.
“Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Private McCray. Eight-oh-oh-niner-fifty.”
Tracy almost threw up. Right there, on top of the iSoldier. This couldn’t be real. His brain was helpfully scrolling through all the reasons why this shouldn’t be possible, all the safeguards in place to ensure iSoldiers never did this, ever.
“Why can’t I,” said the iSoldier, “What –” It shuddered, and screamed—half staticky roar of electronics, half animal pain.
Tracey covered his ears.
He’d scrapped iSoldiers before. He ought to call salvage, the iSoldier was a tattered mess of fractured spine and chewed-up neural circuits. All he had to do was make the call.
The ever-present rumbling was growing louder. As he dithered, the iSoldier’s static-riddled cries were drowned out by the screeeeech of bladed wheels chewing through concrete.
“Oh, God!”
The Beast loomed, a misty, disjointed shadow in the fog. He could hear its jaws clashing.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.”
Was it Red or Blue? It didn’t matter. It didn’t care, he didn’t care. He was on his feet, ready to run like hell for base, when hot metal closed around his ankle. The iSoldier’s hand. It couldn’t have seen the Beast, but could hear it, feel it shaking the ground.
“Don’t leave me here, you can’t leave me here–”
“You’re scrap iron!” He didn’t know if the iSoldier heard him over the pulsing roar of oncoming blades but its brown eyes stared up at him, jerking back and forth in their sockets, alive.
It was the eyes that did it.
Tracey heaved the iSoldier across the tarmac, towards the wreck of the nearest building. It was dead weight, so hot he could feel the heat radiating through his gloves. It was screaming. He thought it was screaming at the Beast but it was screaming at itself. He’d lifted its shoulders and it was looking down at its body, looking at the mass of cables trailing from its severed abdomen, at the void where its legs had been, and its chest plate was vibrating with its screams.
The Beast was almost on them, churning a path through the city, flames and smoke belching out of its grilled mouth. It ate. It gorged itself on rubble and concrete and steel and toxic goo. Tightening his grip, Tracey staggered fast as he could for shelter.
The ground rocked, cracks opened up in the hellish force of its approach, and he fell.
He tumbled down a rubbly slope into the black emptiness that had once been the basement. Gravel and dust fell around him and he curled in on himself, covering his airways. The stink of the fumes, the agonising roar in his lungs, the heat, the dampness of the concrete, the noise. It was so loud it wasn’t even sound, it was pure, vile sensation pounding at his eardrums, incessant.
When it quieted, he found with dull surprise that he was still alive. He took deep breaths, sobbing in relief, coughing up mouthfuls of dust. He opened his eyes. The Beast hadn’t crushed the wall completely. Here and there shafts of sunlight branched through. He might be able to dig himself out.
He heard the iSoldier, still screaming at the top of its lungs. Tracey checked his scope. It was flickery, but functional. Two Red blips, Blues all around them. iSoldiers from the belly of the Beast. If they’d picked up Tracey’s signal they’d have come for him already. Sooner or later they’d hear the noise.
He dragged himself over to the iSoldier, wincing as the concrete scraping his raw knees. “Shut up,” he gritted out. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” He banged on its armour. “You need to be quiet! They’ll hear you!”
“Oh, God,” said the iSoldier. “Fuck, fuck, my legs, where are my legs?” It made choked gulping sounds, forcing air back into its failing lungs.
“Will you shut up?”
It said, “I can’t,” and, “Sorry,” and, “Hurts.” Tracey clawed at the back of its neck, holding his probe between his teeth as he tried to find the right spot to—yes—open it up, exposing the cluster of wires at the top of its spine. “What are you doing?”
The wires were half-fused, a tangled mess of still-cooling slag. There was only one thing to do.
“I’m sorry.” He jammed in his probe, right up against the first joint of its spine. “This’ll only hurt a lot.” He thumbed the button.
It screamed, a jagged wail of electronics, arms flexing madly. Somewhere in the mass of trailing cables below its waist something sparked.
And it was done, and the iSoldier was gasping, harsh mechanical sobs falling from its lips. Heat pulsed off its shell. “Oh, God. What did you do to me?”
“I’m sorry,” said Tracey lamely. “I needed you to be quiet.”
“I can’t—it doesn’t hurt any more. What did you do?” It flexed its fingers. “I can’t feel anything.”
“I fried your nervous system,” said Tracey. “Needed you to shut up. You were going to get us caught.”
The iSoldier’s eyes rolled to look at him. “You look familiar.”
“One of those faces.”
It blinked, sucking in air noisily.
Tracey looked up at the tattered shell of the building, hoping that it would die now and let him be.
“Where are my legs?”
It was such a silly question, where are my legs, like he’d just forgotten where he’d put them, and Tracey nearly laughed. “I don’t know. They were outside, but that Beast probably crushed them.”
It digested that. “What happened to me?”
“I don’t know. You were in bits when I arrived.”
“No, before that.”
Tracey shuffled his feet in the dust and grime that coated the floor. He swallowed. His throat was dry. “How much do you remember?”
It wheezed. “I don’t know. I was in this—place, I don’t know where—they told me I’d been picked out for an experimental treatment, and then I was in a waiting room or—I don’t know. It’s all in bits. What did they do to me?”
The soft tissues went first. You scooped them out like pumpkins on Hallowe’en. Then the bones. Keep the arm bones and the ribcage and the skull and the spine, but the hip bones and the thigh bones went on the scrap pile, and then—“Oh, God. My legs.”
Tracey steeled himself. He avoided its eyes. They were the only part of it that looked alive. “If it makes you feel any better, they weren’t your original legs.”
“Was that supposed to be funny?”
“Not really.”
“What happened to my real legs?”
“They weren’t used for the procedure. Leg bones—aren’t. They don’t—I’m sorry.”
It was looking at its hands. It mouthed procedure.
“This wasn’t an experiment, was it? I saw—others. How many people did you –”
“I don’t know!” said Tracey. “A lot. Thousands. More, maybe. I’m just a field tech, alright? I don’t know. They don’t tell us anything. They barely even train us.”
“They told you more than they told me.”
“Shut up,” Tracey snapped. “I should have left you out there. I don’t know why I bothered saving you.”
The iSoldier’s eyes blazed . “Oh, you bastard,” he said, “You sick, selfish, fuck –”
“You are dead!”
It went quiet.
“In case you hadn’t noticed—you’re already dead. Your spine’s severed and your entire programming’s gotten wiped somehow which means you’re undergoing critical neural failure, so I give it maybe two or three hours before your brain disintegrates completely, except you don’t have two hours. You’re overheating. You’ve got maybe half an hour before what’s left of your internal organs cook.” He took deep breaths. “So yeah. You’re basically dead and I’m basically not and if I’d just left you there I might actually have gotten out of this.”
Staggering, he sank down on the concrete.
“You could call for help.”
“No point. They won’t come. They might’ve if there was enough left of you to save, but there’s not, so they won’t. They won’t come for me. I’m expendable.”
The iSoldier wheezed . “You said they didn’t train you.”
“What?”
“You said they didn’t train you. Didn’t sound like it just now.”
“I was a junior medtech. I got demoted. Happy now?”
There were regulations about executing non-combatants. But there were jobs that needed doing, jobs too dangerous to risk an AI. Field techs, on average, lasted 3.8 missions before their sticky end. It was tidy. It worked, on average.
This was Tracey’s fifth mission.
“I woke up on a battlefield without any legs, so no, I’m not happy.” A choking sound that was either a laugh or a sob. “What did you do to get demoted?”
“What’s it to you? Nothing. I didn’t do anything. Piss off.” Tracey didn’t want to look at it. He didn’t want it looking at him, not with those dancing, living eyes.
“You must have done something.”
“Well, I didn’t. It wasn’t something I did, it was something I was supposed to do that I didn’t. So I didn’t do anything.”
It was quiet for such a long time that he thought it might have died. The urge to look at it grew overwhelming.
“I remember—a room. It was grey. There were people. Other soldiers. We didn’t know what was going on, but something wasn’t right, and then something, something –” Its eyes flickered to Tracey’s face. “You were there.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“Yeah you were,” it said. “You were there, you said I was to come with you, and then you took me into—the other place, and then you –”
“Shut up!” Tracey snapped, even though it wasn’t saying anything. “I didn’t want to. They made me do it, they ordered me, and when you don’t do what they say—it wasn’t my fault.” He buried his face in his arm. “I didn’t know when I signed up. I swear I didn’t know.”
“You were holding me down. You bastard. You doped me. You bastard.”
“Stop it,” said Tracey. “Please—just leave me alone. I saved your life, didn’t I?”
“Fuck you.” It made a ghastly, wretched sound.
It was staring at its hands, at the smooth metal joints, and it was crying, or trying to cry. “How much of me is left?”
“I don’t know.” He scrubbed at his face. “Nervous system. Some of your skeleton. Heart and lungs, some muscle tissue. Not much soft matter. It’s an extensive procedure.” Human nervous system, mechanical body. Who could ask for a better soldier?
“This wasn’t an experiment, was it? You knew what you were doing. This is—we were supposed to be the good guys. Aren’t we the good guys?”
“I don’t know any more. I don’t know if we developed this or if we sneaked the technology from them. I’m not sure anyone even remembers.”
“How long has it been? Is this the same war?”
Tracey choked out a grim laugh. “Oh, yeah. It’s the same war alright. It never ends. It’s been three years since—almost four. I remember ’cause...”
“ ’cause what?”
“Because you were the first one I worked on.” He breathed in, out. “I remember you. You were blond. Your teeth were crooked. I liked you.”
“Did you?”
“You were—charming.” Charming, a strange word to be using on a battlefield, it felt all wrong in his mouth. “Bit flirty. I thought you were fit.” He almost smiled—but the memory triggered a wave of nausea.
The blood coating his latex gloves, the low whine of the equipment, the wet sounds it made as—
“I remember,” it said. “You were shy. I like shy.”
“I wasn’t shy, I was piss-terrified,” Tracey said, staring at his knees. “I didn’t realise how much it was going to suck. Till I spoke to you.” The air tasted of metal and spilt fuel. He could hear the iSoldier sobbing, a rough, grating sound.
It said, “What’s your name?”
“Tracey Carter.”
“Tracey’s a girl’s name.”
“Fuck you, I saved your life.”
“Tracey,” it breathed. “Do me a favour, yeah? Don’t tell anyone I cried over this.”
He snorted out a laugh. “I don’t think I’m going to be telling anyone anything.”
“You could call for help.” The electronics in its voice were warping.
“I already told you, they won’t come for me.”
“They might. You should try.”
“Why do you even care what happens to me?” said Tracey. “I did this to you. I thought you hated me. You should hate me.”
“Don’t want to die hating you,” said the iSoldier. “Don’t want to die hating anyone.”
It was looking at him. Maybe there were tears in its eyes, or maybe that was the way the light was reflecting. “Private McCray. That was your name?”
“Joseph McCray.”
“I outrank you.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes, up through his sticky hair. “Alright. Fine.” He gave his scope a shake and groped through the functions. “I’m pinging the base. Happy now?”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Joseph McCray. His metal hand touched Tracey’s knee, trying to comfort. Tracey didn’t move, because he didn’t know what else to do, and because he kind of wanted comforting, even if was from a broken iSoldier.
The light was dimming. He wasn’t sure if night was falling or if it was the thickening smoke. His scope flickered and died for good. He drank half the water he had left and ate his compacted nutrient bars.
He tried to climb out, dragging himself up the slope. He put his weight on a loose clump of brick and skittered all the way down, scraping open his hands and knees. He picked the grit out of his palms and began again.
“You won’t make it.”
“Oh yeah?” He scrabbled to find footing, staring up at the rays of musty light. Freedom was so close he could taste it.
“It’s like—I grew up near this old quarry. There was one side that was too steep to climb. We always tried but we never made it, it was like walking on ice—and one time my mate tried it and he fell and broke—my mate, he –” His growling voice cut out. Tracey lost his tenuous footing, slithering down to the concrete. “My mate, his name was—he was my best mate since forever, I should know his name—why don’t I remember his name?”
“I dunno.” Tracey dusted off his hands. He gave his scope a shake. Still nothing. He steeled himself. “Your memory centres might be starting to break down.”
“No.” Joseph waved a metal hand at him. “No, you said that wouldn’t happen. You said I’d be dead first.”
“Said you’d be dead before your neural circuits went kaput. Never said you’d be dead before you started to—you know. Go.”
“Go where?” Joseph clutched at the ground, trying to lever himself upright. His fingers gouged tracks through the concrete. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know! You’ve still got most of your brain. I don’t know anything about brains. I’m a tech, not a neuroscientist.” He climbed. Hand, foot. Hand, foot.
“If you get out –” Joseph’s voice was tinged with panic. Perhaps it always had been. The electronic voice box was fading, the iSoldier’s voice falling to an unintelligible hum. “If you get out, are you just going to leave me here?”
Hand, foot. Hand, foot.
“I don’t want to die like this. Not alone. Don’t leave me to die like this alone, please.”
His hand met something jagged under the dirt. He dragged himself upwards even as blood smeared on the dust, fuelling his screaming muscles with mind-numbing desperation. He hadn’t known he wanted to live this badly.
He fell, tumbling like Jack down the hill. Something jarred in his arm. He cradled it to his chest. “You said yourself. I’m not going to make it.”
“Did I?” There was a clicking sound. Tracey almost didn’t recognise it as a gulp. “I don’t remember.”
Tracey rubbed at his face, trying to scrub away the dirt. The palm of his hand stung. His arm throbbed. He wiped his oozing nose on his wrist. He could smell something over the dank, dusty stench of the basement. It smelled like meat cooking. “Do you smell that?”
“Smell what?” said Joseph. “Can’t smell anything.”
“Yeah.” Tracey kept his hand over his nose. “Probably for the best.”
“Why? What is it?”
“Nothing.” He tested his arm. It bent, but when he reached out a shock of pain jolted up to his shoulder. “I think I’m stuck here.”
“You could call for help.”
“I already did.” He worked his arm, hoping it would get better if he stretched it, but it hurt more and more the more he moved it.
“Right.”
Joseph brought a hand up in front of his face, flexing each finger-joint in turn. “Is that my hand?”
“Yeah.” Tracey flexed his own fingers. It hurt.
“What happened to me?” said Joseph. “Why am I a robot? I don’t—I don’t remember what happened to me.”
Tracey could hear a hissing, crackling sound coming from somewhere within Joseph’s armour. The last of his cooling system giving way. He pressed a hand to his mouth and tried not to retch.
If he could get out—which was unlikely, with a busted arm—maybe, just maybe, he’d get back to base before the Blues got him. And then what? He’d live to die another day, blown into chunks or fried by a nerve-shell.
Or he could die here, cold and alone in what was left of a basement with what was left of an iSoldier.
The sizzling was getting louder.
Joseph let out a yelp. “What?” He was panting, in-out-in-out, rough gasps of air. “What—why can’t I –” He was staring at his hand—but he wasn’t. His eyes were roaming about in their sockets, unfocused. His optic nerve had severed.
Staggering over, Tracey knelt beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t see,” Private McCray choked. “Oh God, I can’t see.”
Tracey took a deep breath. He tried to sound calm. “It’s alright, Private. You’re fine.”
“Why can’t I see? I remember—fighting. There was a blast. What happened to my eyes?”
“You got hit,” said Tracey. “You’ll be okay. I promise. I’m a medtech.”
Maybe Joseph believed him, maybe he didn’t.“What was it? Nerve shell?”
“Yeah. One of those bastards.”
“I can’t feel my legs, are they –”
“You’re going to be fine. Just need some fixing, that’s all.” His voice was getting rough. God, he was thirsty. “I called for help, remember? There’ll be more medics here any minute now.”
“Yeah.” Dark fluid seeped out of the corner of Joseph’s mouth. “Listen, do me a favour and don’t tell Sergeant Reid I cracked up over this.”
“Don’t worry. I can keep a secret.” Tracey clutched his injured arm to his chest. The air around them shimmered. “I’ll tell him you were stoic and manly throughout.”
Private McCray laughed. He choked. The crackling was getting louder. “What’s that noise. Feels like—air bubbles inside my skin.”
“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” Tracey could feel the heat coming off the armour on his face.
“Sounds like—sounds like steak cooking. Steak cooking. My Dad used to make it on Sundays. Days. Every and chips. Always—well done.” He rasped. “Smells good.”
“Yeah, yeah I know.” Tracey hoped he sounded soothing. “You just relax now, Private. Help’s coming.”
“Not supposed to relax too much. When you’re concussed, you’re supposed to stay awake. Awake.” A rumbling was building on the edge of Tracey’s hearing. “You have to count.”
“Count?” The light was going away, as if the sun was setting—or a shadow was looming.
“Between the thunder. Ever been struck by lightning?”
And he was gone. A light went out behind his eyes. Nothing left but the hissing and popping of his innards gently cooking themselves. Tracey prodded at his face, trying to get his eyes to close. He could only get one shut. The other hung open, like he was winking. He used the last of the charge in his probe to force the helmet.
It was just half an iSoldier, leaking steam and fluids onto the filthy concrete.
Tracey backed away. He found his canteen. His fingers shook as he unhooked it from his belt and slowly drank.
He could hear a distant roaring. There was no sense conserving water. He finished it off, guzzling what little was left. It spilled tepid down the front of his vest.
A minute passed in the building haze, fingers slipping on the damp plastic of his canteen, watching motes of brick dust dancing in the last rays of light till they were blotted out for good.
The roar of the Beast was almost upon him. Clawed feet tearing through steel and concrete, churning up the city to feed itself. It had to be just outside, it was so loud, but the noise kept on building, building till it hurt, till the whole world narrowed down to just the roar and the hurt.
He screamed into it till his throat was raw. He couldn’t hear himself screaming, couldn’t hear a thing until it stopped.
It quieted so suddenly he staggered, almost fell. He opened his eyes, squinting in the sudden light, in the dust-cloud than enveloped him. It had cracked open the building. It loomed over him, bigger than anything he’d ever seen. The low thrumming of the engines was distorted, as if he was under water. He unclasped his hands from his ears and found smears of blood in his palms. He hadn’t even noticed.
A figure, stark against the light. Another, and another. iSoldiers. On the march.
He heard faint underwater sounds of metal dragging on concrete. They were dragging away what was left of Private McCray to be recycled. Something like hope fluttered in his chest. Maybe they’d come for him after all.
The nearest iSoldier was staring at him through the dusty, warped gloom the world had become. “Identify.” His throat was raw, he could barely get the word out. He swallowed, coughed, tried again. “Identify!”
It raised an arm. In its wrist, a blue glow.
The shot was pure, searing agony, every nerve-ending in his body screaming at once, until he was gone, blank, empty –
He came to with cold concrete at his back, and noted with dull surprise that he was still alive. For a split second there was elation, elation at somehow clinging to consciousness despite everything –
The second blast coursed through him like a bucket of cold water. There was pain. There was nothing, a wave of numbness. There was enough time to think, to register that his nervous system was giving out under the strain, the nerve-shell was shutting it down, leaving him numb, and he thought, he thought –
– A snap of power. A spasm. A breath.
Tracey opened his eyes and saw white light. He couldn’t move. There were wires in him, tiny hooks all over his body, holding him in place. There were people pacing around him.
He was still alive. Or—not still alive. Rolling his eyes upwards, chest heaving, he saw the RESC unit still sparking. Of course, he thought.
“Help me.”
The figures in the room kept moving, kept circling him, like sharks. They were wearing masks over their faces.
Silence.
“Who are you?” There was an insignia on the RESC unit, but though he rolled his eyes up and squinted, he couldn’t make out the colour. It looked a sickly purple.
A high-pitched whine. He knew that sound.
“What—no.”
Apparatus glided into view, a squat box with blades and serrated wheels and needles, its arms swinging over him, and he knew that apparatus, it was nauseatingly familiar.
“No,” he said. “No, you—you don’t want me—I’m a medtech, not a soldier.” He gulped down air, the sound of the apparatus powering up filling his ears. “Look at me—you don’t want me—no, no no no no –”
The glistening point of a needle angled towards him and in the moment before it stabbed down, he saw that the people around him weren’t wearing masks. Those were their faces, metallic, expressionless visors, and when he twisted, trying to escape the needle, he saw another helmet, set aside for him.
A pinprick of pain as the needle went in and as the world swam around him, he had time to think right, of course. Because there was no sense in fighting this, no sense in worrying about Blues and Reds. They’d already lost. All of them.
Katie Gray is an author of science fiction, fantasy and science-fantasy living and working in Edinburgh. She has a master’s in creative writing from the University of Edinburgh and transcribes bank statements to pay the bills. Her work has appeared in Orbis and Freak Circus and she’s currently putting the finishing touches on a fantasy novel.