It was quite a shock the first time I entered the battlefield.
Not that it was particularly scary, mind you. In fact, it was banal, ordinary. Just a boring landscape of once-cultivated valleys and gently-rolling hills; a few cratered areas here and there. The valley’s scars were hardly noticeable. Nothing alive larger than a bird, let alone a human being.
Frankly, it didn’t feel like a battlefield at all. There were few war signs. Just empty land like a landscape painting with all the people painted over. Other than me, that is. Nobody will ever mistake me for a sentimental landscape painting.
I was quite alone.
It wasn’t the desperate, chaotic fight that I’d been designed to survive and win. It wasn’t much of anything. It was just an empty valley and a promise.
Despite all the training, the ever-urgent warnings to be alert and in the now, I found myself distracted. If it wasn’t for the low-level whispering of the commo, I could have forgotten that war was as close as an imperfectly-hidden firing position at the other end of the valley.
But that’s OK. I wasn’t a dreamer; I knew what I was doing. I’d hit them before they realized I was there. It was my first battle but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Firing positions that are imperfectly-camouflaged don’t remain operational for very long. Their hunting guns and small-caliber tactical rifles are no match for a guided missile.
I had eyes in the sky planning out my every move. No need to think about where I was headed, no mapping out the best way to get there. It was all done for me.
I was just along for the ride. The triggerman. The one they point to and say, “See, that one was trained to do what needs to be done and who are we to argue with the result? Don’t let all that talk of ‘free men’ fool you; they were terrorists.”
I had intensive training so I could act — violently and ruthlessly — without taking the time to consider whether those actions would be my last. And best of all, I had the naivete of youth.
Or maybe that wasn’t for the best, I’m still not sure.
In any event, I thought I couldn’t be harmed.
Though I was a thinking being, and somewhat fragile in my own way, I was armored. Heavily.
Back then, if you wanted to get my attention, you’d have to hit me with something a lot more powerful than what most of these pathetic holdouts could ever muster up.
I almost wanted them to smash me with their full strength; it wouldn’t have mattered. I wasn’t afraid. Even if they did manage to destroy my shell, they couldn’t break my mind.
My observations and thoughts — the feelings, the daydreams — they were all untouchable. I knew my self would live on, even if my shell was somehow destroyed. As long as the grid is up, I’m immortal.
And the grid isn’t going anywhere. Trust me on that one. i keep it safe. It’s why I fight and kill, and sometimes get killed.
You got it. That deserted valley wasn’t as quiet as it seemed. The firing position was a fake. I only made it halfway before they ambushed me with a fertilizer bomb. Blew me up. Just another crater filling with rainwater and dead cows.
It’s OK though, I had the last ‘laugh’. We didn’t even bother going back in after them. The winter took care of them. They could be soldiers, and they could be farmers, but they couldn’t be both. They all starved but it’s not that easy to get rid of me.
I have a new and improved shell and I hardly even remember the one that got blown up. Once in a while I ‘laugh’ about it with some of the other artificial intelligence drones; our failures are always amusing to us because, when you come right down to it, we never really lose.
It’s like the old joke, “What’s the difference between a human and a corpse? The humans know their place.”