Soldier
by Poppi Fella-Pellegrino
“Brain type?”
“Stainless steel, curly.”
“Size?”
“Tall.”
“Weight?”
The Nurse stares down at the partially-defrosted machine in front of Her. Its features closely resemble those of a thirteen-year-old boy: a round face, innocent features, and short brown hair cropped for war. Its slight figure will help it move quickly across the field. Along its arm there is a model number: 4257, the newest batch.
“Weight?” she repeats.
Finally, it responds, “What do you think?”
The Nurse sighs. She’s not accustomed to getting lip from such a thing. She gives the machine a once-over. “I’d say you’re light.”
“We have a winner!”
“Parentage?”
“Don’t you want to know what the prize is?”
“Parentage!”
“5%.”
The Nurse is a bit surprised; this is the first 5% She’s seen in a long time, and usually it takes many more Human cells to create a competent fighter.
“Life expectancy?”
The machine lifts up its stiff, cold uniform (green, adorned by the nation’s proud flag), revealing the expiration date along the upper back.
“Three years,” says the Nurse. “Right then. Let’s get you into battle.”
Nurse and robot groan as the oil-thirsty wheelchair begins to move. The Nurse doesn’t usually speak to the machines. Although unpleasant, She reminds Herself, they are good for killing, and certainly good for dying.
Of course, She isn’t really a Nurse, not for people anyway. She watches over the machines sent here from HQ and trains them to fight. She teaches them what they should know and protects them from what they shouldn’t.
Despite never having had the nerve to talk with a Nurse, the machine begins to speak. To the Nurse, it feels strangely chatty. That is, if machines could feel chatty.
“Good luck today.”
The Nurse doesn’t answer. The machine is thawing slowly and making a mess on the floor that the Nurse will have to clean up later. Slightly irritated, She continues walking. She doesn’t care for this breed. Not at all.
“I said, ‘Good luck today’. I heard you were up for a promotion with the big man.”
The Nurse stops the wheelchair and bends to meet the machine’s eyes.
“How did you hear about that?”
“Robots talk,” it replies. Smiling. “Or rather Nurses talk and robots listen carefully before repeating it.”
“Dirty Artificials.”
She wonders whether robots can be insulted. She straightens Her uniform.
“You might be in the first draft, if you’re only 5% human. The lower the better.”
Yes, the lower the better,”the robot thinks. Better to send us to fight for land and power. Better to let us, the test tube scum, die for what will never matter to us.
For the first time, it wishes it were more human. So it didn’t have to fight.
When it looks up, it notices that the Nurse is smiling, as if this were a good day.
“It’s funny, I’ve never seen you here before,” it says.
“I was just transferred,” She replies, rolling Her eyes.
“It’s magic what They can do, isn’t it? A month of training and a machine is ready to fight.”
“Six months,” the Nurse corrects it. “We’re working to improve that time, though. It really is a hassle.”
“I was only trained for a month,” says the machine.
“You’re a special case,” She replies. “You gave us trouble. We all know not to get attached to artificials, but I guess some People can’t help themselves.”
The machine stays silent; despite having met thousands of People, only one had ever treated it with respect.
“Tell me, is it the New Year tomorrow?” it asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you going out?”
“Yes.”
“And what will you do?”
The Nurse sighs. “My friend Lila is having a party.”
“How exciting.” It doesn’t sound excited. The machine continues, “I’ll be fighting, during the new year.”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t like fighting.”
This machine ought to be junk then, the Nurse thinks, if it can’t do its job.
“It says here you passed all your examinations with very high scores,” says the Nurse.
“Well, if it says,” the machine replies.
“You know you’re pretty rude, kid.”
The machine smiles: “Kid,” She’d said.
“I don’t like rude.”
How ironic, thinks the machine.
“Why not?” it says.
“Oh I don’t know. Gives me the prickles, you know?”
“Prickles?”
“Prickles, goosebumps. Like your skin is moving to throw a punch before you’ve realized you’re angry.”
It knew the feeling.
“Are You angry?”
The Nurse continues to push the wheelchair.
They turn a corner, and the machine shrieks as they almost collide with a suit-clad Executive and His latte.
The machine suppresses laughter. It hates the Executives with every fiber of its being, but staring face-to-face with one now, it finds Their presence quite alluring. In a split second, it imagines itself as an Executive: 97% human and draped in a tailor-made suit. At His feet, there would be many servants: lowly creatures to comb His hair, wash His clothes, and cook His meals. Every day, it...no He would hold hearings for those under 25% to decide which ones would go to war with the other colonies. He’d junk the undesirables. In these inhumane times of war, carnage and chaos, He would oversee artificial life. He would play God.
“Watch it, Nurse.” The Executive is furious.
“I’m so sorry, Sir, I– ”
“Save it.”
What a prick, thinks the machine. That is, If machines could think.
It observes with fascination as the Nurse grovels before a higher Human.
“I’m sorry, Sir, very sorry...I’m 81% Human, just an artificial liver and kidney, so almost pure.”
The Executive scoffs.
“– and it’s 5! A real good match.”
It almost feels sorry for Her. That is, if machines could feel sorry.
“What’s your name?” the Executive asks.
“Artills, Sir”
“What about that?”
“Me?” the machine replies.
“What about that?” the Executive repeats, still looking to the Nurse.
“She already said, I’m a 5, ‘a real good match’.”
The Executive continues to look to the Nurse; Her face shines red.
“I’m taking it to the transport trucks now, Sir.”
“Alright. Go ahead. Be careful next time.”
Robot and Nurse respond in unison: “Of course, Sir.”
The machine and the Nurse sigh as one.
“He’s an asshole, isn’t he?” the machine says.
“Hush!”
“They can’t hear us.”
“They’ll fire Me!”… “It doesn’t mean it!” She hollers into the empty hallway.
“Who are You talking to?” the machine asks, laughing. That is, if machines could laugh.
“Hush now. You’ve caused enough trouble,” She says, urgently looking back as if Someone were coming to get them.
Perhaps it’s starting to like this Nurse.
The machine continues to smile and the Nurse, feeling mocked, tries to defend Herself.
“I’m not crazy, you know.”
“I doubt that,” says the machine.
The Nurse scoffs. “You’re too young to be so cynical.”
“I don’t feel young.”
“I don’t feel old.”
The machine turns towards Her, its face framed by the dim hallway light, its youthful features illuminated. Of course, machines don’t really age physically, but this one quite closely resembles a thirteen-year-old boy.
“How many years have we been fighting?” it asks.
“I don’t know,” She replies, pausing for a moment.
“Are we fighting other robots?”
“Yes.”
“Then, when will it end? When one side has gone bankrupt?” it asks.
The nurse adjusts Her uniform and tucks a strand of hair behind Her ear.
“I don’t want to fight,” the machine whispers.
The Nurse keeps walking.
“I don’t want to fight—don’t make me!” It cries out like a child.
The Nurse keeps walking.
It grabs onto her arm and pleads, “Don’t make me!”
“Stop!” She yells.
It lets go.
“You don’t have a choice. We will…” the Nurse stutters, “We will win… Maybe not today … but someday, and you will help Us get there.”
“What makes You so sure?”
“We’re stronger, better, more skilled.”
They walk in silence for a minute and the machine fidgets. It’s sad. That is, if machines could feel sad.
“Do you ever feel ashamed, Nurse?”
“Why should I?” She replies, clearing her throat.
“You’re killing me.”
“You haven’t got anything to lose.”
“Because I’m not Human.”
“Precisely. You were built for one reason only.”
“To fight.”
“To die. So that We don’t have to waste a life like in the old days.”
“I’m alive.”
“You’re artificially alive; it’s different.”
It takes a deep breath.
The Nurse tilts Her head up and sighs. There’s mould on the ceiling.
“Nurse?” the machine asks, “what’ll happen to me?”
The Nurse studies the mouldering paint.
“After, I mean.”
She counts to three before answering. “You’ll be sent to the recycling unit.”
The machine slumps down in its chair and begins to cry. That is, if machines could cry.
“I don’t like crying,” it tells the Nurse, large droplets forming rivers on its cheeks.
The Nurse has never seen a machine cry. She didn’t know they could.
“We all have to hide our pain. Tears break the illusion,” She says.
“We?”
The machine’s words resound in the Nurse’s head. She remembers all the times She has pushed wheelchairs with robots along all kinds of halls. How many reluctant machines She has dutifully delivered to another world.
“We have arrived.”
The Nurse leads Him, no, it to the transport truck and uses Her SolarTaser 500 to unfreeze its legs.
“Thank-you for your service,” She says, the standard send-off. But this time Her voice trembles.
The machine nods to Her and stumbles into the truck. As the doors close, He turns to meet Her eyes for the first time.
“Don’t worry, I’m only one more.”