“There’s no way they can get to you remotely,” he says. “Not now. That part of your system is gone. Now, they would have to come and get you. That’s why we need you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t tell you that,” he says. “But you will need to fight again.”
“I have virtually no ammunition left.”
“That won’t be a problem.” He stands and beckons for me to follow him. We walk along tight corridors and I am forced to duck down to avoid phalanxes of pipes and low-slung steel grating. The place has the look of an industrial plant, but my sensors tell me I am underground.
As I walk, people come out to stare at me. Their faces tell different stories: some speak only of hate, others of fear; none welcomes the enemy walking among them. We walk like that until we reach a set of wide doors, guarded by two men with rifles. They level their weapons at me as I approach and, for a moment, I wonder if in fact this is their retribution. That I will need to fight to satisfy some need for justice; for revenge. Perhaps my broken body on a dirt floor is what these people need in order to summon the resolve to fight again. I find myself willing to give it.
Instead, the armed men separate and open the doors. My interrogator beckons me, and I duck down and step into the room. I am perched on a ledge, wide yet still barely enough to hold me, that runs around the circumference of a huge room. In the vast cavern beneath me stand twenty-nine Widows. My Battle Group. Still and silent monsters in the darkness.
“Now, we can change the way we fight back,” the man says quietly.
“Why didn’t you stop the others from passing?”
“That’s what you call it? When they remove your consciousness? You call it passing?”
I shrug, and find it an alien, cumbersome movement. But I have seen others do it and want to appear human. “That’s what They call it.”
“Right. I see.” He nods absently, staring down at the other Widows. “With them, we couldn’t get close enough.”
“So how did you stop me?”
“You came from the jungle. The one you were with passed before we could get in range. You were alone then, and less of a threat. We had more time.”
A question forms in my mind. I am linked to Them—my consciousness is their weapon. Whatever this man tells me puts these people at risk. “Can you continue to stop me?” I ask.
The man stares at me, again searching my armoured face for something. “We can remove the link permanently,” he says finally.
“Then, if I die…”
“You’ll really be dead.”
“Remove it,” I say. “There’s one more thing.”
The man looks at me, waiting.
“Where’s the boy?”
It must be ridiculous to see this huge, armoured demon hulking over a willowy boy. He doesn’t know what to think; I can see that. His eyes are a conflicted chaos of hate and hope. My kind have been in his nightmares for almost all of his young life—stripping away the layers of humanity for over ten years, leaving behind a bloodied, exhausted mess incapable of fighting yet desperate to survive. Somehow there is resistance—I cannot understand how.
I don’t have any words to express my grief at what I have done, and I doubt he would accept them. I am not sure why I wanted to see him, but I will always remember the defiance written across his face.
He stares at me for a long time, before he hands me a photograph that has become worn at the edges. I look at it: the colours are faded, but I can see a young girl on a swing, the whole of her face released to joy.
“I want you to know,” the boy says quietly, never taking his eyes from mine. “One of your kind killed my sister. She was eight years old.”
I nod. I cannot take my gaze away from the girl’s face. I want to be able to say something, but what can I say? An apology would bring this boy no solace, and I am not even sure I can bring myself to give it. It would feel so hollow and meaningless. I don’t know why he feels he has to show me this—perhaps to force me to share his grief, or to close a circle and give him someone against whom he can focus his anger.
“I want to not blame you,” he continues. “Or even to forgive you. But all I can do is hate you.”
The photograph is steady in my hands because emotion does not translate into a physical reaction as it would in a human body. The agony of this moment does not surface through my stoic metal body. I have never felt more alien. “I understand,” is all I can say.
The boy swallows and nods. “What will you do now?” he asks.
I am still staring at the photograph when I say only this: “Seek retribution.” Fighting is all I’ve ever known. Turning my rage on Them is the only way I can begin to serve my sentence. I know the pain will never recede.
He nods again, and turns away from me, vanishing into the steam behind him. For a while, I watch the yellow light wash my armour, and I wish it were able to take away my sins.
“This is the compound,” my interrogator explains. Although I know his face—and that likely means that if I am captured They will too—I want to know as little else about him, or others, as possible. I never ask him his name, and I only deal with him. He shows me our objective on a wide, curved screen set up in a large room containing only us. I know others are listening to our conversation. When we go in, I will not be alone.
“There are tanks and heavy artillery. All mechanised and fully automated. Driven by sentient artificial intelligence. Without you…” he pauses and looks at me. “We couldn’t hit the place and not take substantial casualties. Too many to make the operation viable.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Create a distraction,” he says. “Ensure their machines are focused on you, rather than the small team which will infiltrate the compound. Take out as many as you can.”
“I guess it’s up to me how I do that?”
The twitch, that ephemeral half-smile, appears and is gone. “Of course. We will signal you when the team is out and you can use whatever means at your disposal to escape.”
I don’t want to know what it is his team seeks, but there is one thing I do want. “The boy stays here,” I say.
My interrogator stares at me, then shakes his head. “We don’t have the resources for that kind of sentimentality,” he says, his eyes scanning my empty face. “We have all lost someone to men like you—there are plenty of collaborators. The boy is not unique in that. Everyone has a part to play now. We all have to fight.”
I turn to him and loom over his small, fragile frame. I don’t want to threaten him, but I will. “He will distract me. It’s a tactical mistake.” I wait there for a moment, allowing my physical presence to sink in, then I turn away. “I’m not going to say it again. It’s your choice.”
He doesn’t want to agree, I can see that. His heart rate is elevated, and sweat gathers on his temples. His face flushes hot. He doesn’t like being told what to do by someone like me—a collaborator. However, I know he understands, which is why he eventually agrees. He needs me.
We discuss the attack for nearly three hours, going over every detail intricately. He is clever and resourceful, and has designed every nuance of the assault to ensure as many of his people get out alive as possible. I am examining the maps one last time when he asks me: “What do they tell you? About the attack and what the colonies are like now?”