[These people are not like us. They are terrorists, and they will not stop until our world is full of their lies]

This is not our world.

[Lick ‘em good, unit 2. Before they wake. Rid this planet of all the scrounging lying vermin]

They are just human settlers. They were here before us.

[We offered them freedom. They responded with defiance and accusation. Take them out]

Always His voice. Filling my headset, willing me on.

A swipe and a flash and the roaring of blue-tongued fire. I watch as the wooden houses burst open to the heat of my actions, expelling their insides like pus from a sore.

[Let our Greatness fall upon them. Thugs. Deviants. Crush their matchstick homes.]

A fleeting reflection in a glasshouse, moments before it blows. A monster in metal, spitting thunder and light and high-vee shells.

[Everything must burn. We must revitalize]

My IR shows several thermal anomalies, running away from the carnage. I feel the twitch of a wavering instinct; dare I doubt the efficacy of His orders, His motivation?

[They are fleeing like mice, unit 2. Do not let them escape]

I watch like a placid observer as my calibrated hormonal response unfolds. A sweeping fan of violet plasma. One by one the mice sputter and burn.

[Leave no building untouched. Slaughter their livestock too]

A single isolated thermal signature remains. Crouching in the ashen shadow of a grain silo.

[One more bad mouse]

Female. Small. A child.

[What are you waiting for, unit 2?]

She cannot harm us.

[She will grow up to spread dissent, disease, fake ideology. Take her out]

The girl turns to face me, seemingly unafraid. She hurls a rock at my frame. I look down as it glances from my smart-alloy chest plate, registering a low-priority data spike in my diagnostics. The girl looks up, her face smeared with blood and tears.

[A single bullet will do it. Save your juice. Hit her right between those vermin eyes]

Safety off. Sights set between those wet-black human eyes.

[Complete your task, unit 2]

The girl drops to the ground like cut rope, all the tension gone from her tiny body. The gun withdraws into its polished sheath.

[Good job. Move on]

My Servo hums as I lean over to pick up the girl’s body. There is little to her—she feels like a doll with its stuffing removed.

Onwards I go, following a pre-ordained path towards my next target. My Diagnostics report a temporary blackout in my abductor muscle sensor group and my visual feed; as they prepare to load a solution, I force myself to override the instruction. I feel a growing sense of shame. I stand there in the pale light of creeping dawn, and await retribution from our Great Leader.

I am surprised when none comes, but I begin to fear that He might have noticed my insolence. To some extent, I no longer care. I might be demoted and sent away for reorientation, but nothing can be worse than what I am doing now.

What is happening to me?

Dawn rolls like a tidal bore across the landscape, spilling its pale blue light. There is beauty in this place, but attachment to my frame’s umbilical has made me blind to it; the carefully controlled flush of hormones has kept me on task, kept me bolstered by His words.

Not any longer.

My diagnostics throw up a warning: the balance of chemicals in my bloodstream has dropped way off spec. My line must have come loose in the firefight.

[Reconnect your umbilical, unit 2. And your cameras. Disconnection makes you vulnerable.]

The girl wriggles in my arms, looks up at my monstrous head.

Gently, I lower her to the ground. I would not blame her if she fled from me, but instead she just stands there, rubbing her doleful brown eyes. She looks about eight years old.

“What happened?” she asks, her natural dialect an exponentially evolved Mandarin, corrupted into His English through the echo delay of my translator.

“You fainted,” I reply. “You thought I was about to shoot you.”

She frowns, clearly struggling to understand the staccato bursts from my frame’s speakers. Much too loud. Designed primarily for the intensity of war.

She looks so pale and distraught. I am afraid she might pass out again, so I reach out to her with my frame’s metal arm.

She pushes it away, sits on the floor, her tears flowing without inhibition. “You killed my grandpa,” she shouts, her wide brown eyes piercing through my armour. “And my mama. What did they ever do to you?”

[Your audio-visual feed is down, unit 2. Reconnect your lines and move to your next assignment]

Her Mama and Grandpa didn’t do anything to me. But I scorched them nonetheless. He made me scorch them.

The sun breaks from its cover under a grey, elliptical cloud. Behind the conifers, a column of smoke begins to rise. Another burning village. My next assignment.

The girl shakes her little head and runs off in the direction of a lake. I power after her, my frame’s hydraulic action making an easy game of the chase. The girl slows as she reaches the water, and looks for a moment as if she might jump in. I lunge forward and grab her ankle, accidentally drawing blood.

The girl lets out a yelp, looks down at her leg. The cut is quite deep, and oozes dark blood. I lean in for a closer look. I can see an exposed tendon, but I don’t think it is damaged. She will need treatment against infection, though. She will need surgery.

[You have one minute to reconnect your visual feeds, unit 2. If you have been taken by the enemy, follow the protocol: initiate your frame’s self-destruct routines. We cannot let these bastards steal our tech.]

There is only one thing I can do. One thing I must do.

Carefully, I ease my grip on the frame’s forearm handles. The claws relax and the girl pushes away from me, retreating a hundred yards to sit on the bank of the lake. She looks exhausted and forlorn.

I shut down my frame’s transponders and cut off all communication links to the relays. Then I hack through the last broken strands of my shattered umbilical connection, loosen the limb-clamps, and haul myself free of the frame.

I flop onto the ground, feeling breathless and naked and unprotected. Like a fish hauled from water, gasping for air.

The girl senses my vulnerability. She walks across to where I lie, picks up a large rock and holds it directly above my head, poised to crush my slimy, exposed skull.

I notice that her skirt is ripped; she has torn off a strip and used it to hastily bandage her wound.

“You need to get that looked at,” I say, pointing to her leg.

She frowns at the alien sound of my untranslated communication. Her arms begin to shake beneath the stony bludgeon in her hands. Her lips tremble as she mutters incomprehensibly.

A reptilian bird squawks as it circles overhead, like a prehistoric vulture.

“I can help you and your people,” I say, pointing to my frame, lying dormant on the slope. “I know how those suits work. Take me to those in charge. I can help you defeat your enemy.”

Suddenly, I am struck by a vivid realisation: despite the precariousness of the situation, for the first time in my life, I feel utterly free; His voice has left me for good; the satellites have disengaged; my hormones have begun to establish their own natural balance.

I have one hell of a headache, but I am ready, at last, to begin my revolution.

She will be my revolution.

The girl flinches as the air vibrates suddenly to the sound of an explosion nearby.

“We need to leave,” I say, mimicking my message with a gesture of my hands. “Others of my kind will be here soon. They are dangerous.”

The sun slips back behind the bank of a cloud, dimming the girl’s slender shadow. Smoke rises above the trees, accompanied by the wild sounds of gunfire.

The girl shakes her head, closes her eyes, and lets go of the rock.

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