I wait here in this quiet place. It’s not cold so much as stagnant, an anxious stasis. I consider that perhaps I should have learned the names of [Handler]’s assistants. C has been joined now by G, a new hire. The similarity in sound and visual signature of the letters feel unpleasant to me. Perhaps if they’d given me a name I would have cared to learn theirs.
They both step away from me, neither notice that my cameras are running. These are finer models, higher resolution and spread around the body I have been given. I wish I could stretch my limbs and perhaps jump in excitement, but they still believe me asleep.
“So, you think it’s actually going to sell?” G has never been fond of me, but then again, G has only ever seen me in storage. “Guess [Handler]’s finally done trying to limp it along.”
“S-1-7 used to be one of our star pilots! It’s a still functioning sec-gen. There aren’t many of them left!” C brushes her hand along my arm, resting her fingers within the crook of the elbow. It would take little effort to crush those digits.
Assistant C has been kind to me, I stay motionless.
“So it’s a relic. Should be sold to a museum then.” G stabs in the command to rouse me from the slumber I am not in. I reach out and finally connect properly with my limbs. Bipedal and dual-armed. An Infantry frame, a newer model than was available when last I was in such a small body. It will do. I consider the new component that my systems tell me is an auto-loader and tentatively cycle magazines within it. All of them read as dummy rounds for a rifle, which I have not been provided.
I consider voicing a complaint for this lack of gear, or question why the frame I have is so small. For a brief moment I even consider resting my free hand atop Assistant C’s. Instead, I settle for a routine actuator test, shrugging her touch away from me.
“Ah, right S-1-7! Good to see you’re connected!” She chimes in, something about it feels rushed. “We’re going to run you through a simple demo for [Miss].”
I have already taken to flagging her name like [Handler]’s. The CAO redaction order tastes like a stale sensor lock. I would rather not deal with it.
“Do you copy, S-1-7?”
I give an affirmative beep. I do not remember my voice and Assistant G is not looking at their tablet to see the written confirmation I had given. The pair visibly settle after I respond, busying themselves with tidying away tools as I finish properly connecting with the body. It is disappointing to find the already limited sensor array neutered further, I only have access to slightly broader bands than human sight, and no thermal or proper seismic detection. The target acquisition system is visual confirmation only, too.
“Creepy.” G mutters, both C and my closest camera turn towards them. “The lack of movement. It’s awake but just still a statue.”
“What do you expect? Breathing? They didn’t figure out keeping lungs in pilots until tri-gens.”
“Like I said: creepy.”
I chose to ignore the following argument. Being still means being ignored. Camouflage comes in many forms, after all. My attention only returns as C steps up next to the mech bay’s door. I am filled with the desire to claw it upwards, to crawl under it to run freely in the field beyond. What could have once been my heart swells with anticipation and Assistant C stands by, a small smile on her face. Does she know?
“You’re clear, Pilot.” Her tone is rehearsed as the shutters roll upwards, like a pet owner knowing the reaction she’s about to receive. “Engage.”
So what if I am a dog released from its leash? I can move of my own direction now! Perfectly efficient strides carry me through a course of waypoints, void take [Handler]’s combat logs. I am the perfect pilot, I always have been!
Assistant C is still watching me from the hangar, ignoring safety protocols again. I would reprimand her myself if [Hander] had not set all Assistants as my superior. The final path marker arrives sooner than expected and sparks fly from my feet as I skid to a halt. I focus a camera on the observation deck above me, but I can only see the silhouettes of the two inside. I cannot tell if [Miss] has noticed my mistake or thinks I am showing off.
“S-1-7, there is a rifle in one of the crates before you-” [Handler] speaks and I do not listen to anything after that point. I recognize the target markers before the inferior targeting system acquires them. I know what the order will be.
I examine the crates, five, identically marked and without further sensors I resort to an old answer. A flash of a combat zone and- I reach down, tapping each bunker unit lightly. Regularly boobytrapped, D-3-2 was destroyed by one the night before. The first is hollow, the second is similar. The third tap sounds different and a weight rolls ever so slightly within. Without flinching my pilebunker slams forward and fires, the steel spike piercing armour to dismantle the explosive before it can properly arm.
My hand is within the crate, wrapped around the rifle. I pull it free and hear a gasp in the register of [Miss]’s voice. Have I failed my test, or is she simply surprised by my solution? The question lingers as I integrate with the rifle. I do not wait for the sighting to pair with my targeting systems. The safety clicks off a millisecond before the first burst of rounds are fired downrange. They mostly graze the target dummy, but the second salvo is a clean kill shot. Firing control is now synced and there is no challenge in it any more, I simply think the bullets to where they need to be and they are delivered.
I can focus elsewhere now and I see Assistant C has mostly lowered the shutters now, smart of her. Above [Miss]’s outline seems to be leaning in to watch, rounds nearing empty. [Handler] appears unphased as the magazine empties and I flick it free of the rifle.
There is no drum swapper. My body is too small to handle one, so in a fluid motion I pull a magazine from the storage rigging. I try to, at least. Grabbing at nothing before hazard signals scream from my wrist. The auto-loader has slammed a fresh magazine into my arm instead of the weapon. I dismiss the damage report, it is only minor scratching, and correct my hold on the rifle so the magazine is loaded properly. I cannot deny it’s an efficient design, but I was not given any instruction on its use. Has it been so long since I was this small that these are the norm?
The thought breaks my focus, the following cover-and-move drills have worse shot groupings now. The second reload is clean but far too slow for my liking. I know I have failed and simply perform as ordered, to the best of my ability.
—
I am imprisoned again in my quiet place. Alone, but I do not rest. It’s not cold so much as filled with defeat. An incurable tension, without limbs to thrash out my frustration.
I consider erasing all memory of the last 48 hours, to resume a more idle rest.
The sharp click of her steps bring my attention outward. [Miss] is approaching, followed by the stride of Assistant G.
Their voices become clear when the door opens. My camera is already running before the lights spring to life.
“-...and you have no authority to tell a member of the CAO board what to do with their funds.”
“Yes Ma’am. I simply-” G stammered, a state of affairs I approve of.
“Simply will stop thinking you know my goals? I am taking this one.” [Miss] carries herself like a mech deflecting small arms fire off hardened plating.
“Yes. Ma’am.” They deflate, trying to melt back into cover before her anti-infantry weapons are deployed.
“Good.” She stays in my cell as they leave, watching my case. I do not understand why, she knows I was ordered to sleep. “You are going to be so very useful to me, S-1-7. Such a shame, [Handler] should have treated you better.”
