The engineers die in exactly fourteen seconds, affording deviation for the exact point at which the light in their eyes goes out. The men who are here to take the prototype- such a lucrative word- are incredibly efficient. The blast doors are only starting to grind down when the largest grabs the huge weapon from the central workbench, tertiary arms latching onto it like bridge cables and adrenaline lighting in his chest as its weight draws an arc after his footsteps, legs pounding to close the gap. This is not a hand weapon. But until they get it out he is going to use it as one.
Eirre-Mesckin Technologies should have vetted the investors for the first demonstration better, he reflects, the wonderfully costly biotech musclestructure that wraps his frame burning at the sheer weight of the thing. A bullet hits him square in the back of the head and he chuckles, squadmates belching orders in Vercansc as the singular remaining guard is left full of holes, the thick, clear syllables of the Wermesckiri wartongue echoing under the arched vaults of the development laboratory. He reaches the first blast door at a run, his sixth arm freeing itself to play over the exposed wiring and incomplete casing of the weapon. Now where is the button to kill shit…
I AM A GUN. MY NAME IS VERSISK TRAUM. I AM A GUN. I AM A GUN I AM A GUN I AM. THEY LET ME KEEP MY OCULARS ACTIVE. BECAUSE IN THE DARK MY EFFICIENCY REDUCES. BECAUSE I SCREAM. BECAUSE I AM A GUN. AND I AM BEING TAKEN. MEN. GUNS. DEAD SCIENTISTS. VINDICATION HAS COME TOO LATE. BECAUSE I AM A GUN. AND THESE MEN WANT ME TOO
There. A switch is flicked, the housing bending like a loose tooth in the unfinished chassis. The mouth of the beast, unmuzzled mechanisms spinning and lighting with that dead thaumaturgic glow. A readout, white text on blue, floods with data. He ignores it but for the word in bold, right at the top:
Charging... 3
Charging... 2
Charging... 1
Armed. Fire?I FEEL A FLOOD OF CHEMICAL PLEASURE BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN ENGINEERED TO FEEL GOOD WHEN I FIRE. BECAUSE I AM A GUN I AM- THE MAN IS MOVING FAST. I RECOGNISE WERMESCKIRI. LIKE IN BROADCASTS IN MY FLAT. BOWED TV SCREEN. WHEN SHE WAS THERE. WHEN I WOULD FEEL THAT PLEASURE. BEFORE I AM A GUN I AM A GUN I AM A GUN I AM
The Wermesckiri soldierforms stamp around him. Not his choice of crew but this operation was nothing if not short-notice and these men will die before they disobey, and maybe not then. He approves of that about them. After all, he isn’t planning on dying for this. He’s getting paid. He doesn’t care past that.
The Voscistraataa, antennae flexing in bursts of comm, locks step with him. “Vanguard Detect Hostiles Corridor End,” he enunciates. The huge rifle that sits absurdly at his midriff, the stock locked to his right forearm, tenses and loses three shots. A figure, screaming something in Standard, ducks back around the junction as paint and concrete chips tear themselves free from the wall behind him. Looks like the cavalry has woken the fuck up.
“Get your men to hold and lay suppressing fire,” he grunts. “I wanna try the prototype.”
“Relaying,” the Voscistraataa says.
He notices the prototype’s targeting ocular. Turned to watch him.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he says, and beneath the inches of steel he grins, stubble and yellow enamel and raw gums. “We’re gonna have some fun.” His eyes wander down the prototype’s length, into her bare innards and the places where her organ bag shows through, heart and lungs and what remains of her skull, wiring and batteries and fat deposits.
MY SKIN WANTS TO CRAWL. BUT THEY CUT IT ALL OFF. BECAUSE I-
After a long two and four-tenths of a second his clean blue eyes settle on the debug readout.
Charge: 84%
Core heat: 34C
Heart BPM: 81 [[SAFE]]
Overmind status: [[ACTIVE]]
Vocaliser: [[DISABLED]]Vocaliser. Now where would that be. His fingers play over the chassis.
I CAN FEEL HIM ON ME. LIKE MAGGOTS. STINGING. HIS TOUCH SEEPS. INTO WHERE MY BONES WERE. I CANNOT STOP HIM. I COULD NEVER STOP THEIR GRASPING FINGERS. AND NOW I AM A GUN. AND NOW I AM A GUN AND CANNOT STOP THEM
A small speaker, red and blue wires winding into the thing’s overmind. A small switch on the side clicks (the Voscistraataa looses a full volley around the Wermesckir fighting to hold their position at the bend in the corridor, just barely pushing the security force back as a grenade hits the concrete) and there is a small pop as it turns on. (The closest Werm dives on it, hugging the prenatal bloom of the explosion. The others do not even turn as he goes up.)
HATE. I HATE- I HATE- I HATE- I-
“Active,” breathes a voice, female-patterned like a silicon fuckmould. It hitches as audio files are strung together. “What, do, you, want,”
“Well hel-lo, sweetheart,” laughs the man. “Hell-fucking-o. I want you. I want- you.”
“Fatality, yourself,” the voice oozes.
“Well, now,” he chides, (four seconds to the bend) “Let’s not be… hasty.”
His finger rests on the trigger.
THERE IS NO RECOIL AS I FIRE. THERE IS NO FIRE, NO BRIMSTONE, AND NO SCREAM OF ORGASMIC POWER. THE LASER FEELS LIKE FUCKING DID BECAUSE THEY HAVE CHOSEN TO MAKE THE LASER FEEL LIKE FUCKING DID. SO I WILL FIRE. BECAUSE I AM A GUN I AM A GUN I AM A GUN I AM A I AM A I AM A I AM A I AM A GUN A GUN A GUN A GUN A GUN
I WATCH THEM MELT. FALL DOWN. I WATCH THEM WITH RENTS CUT IN THEM AND IT FEELS LIKE SHE DID WHEN SHE HELD ME. WHEN SHE HELD ME BEFORE I AM A GUN. I WATCH THE RENTS. THEY ARE SO SMALL. SO NEAT. I HAVE KILLED THEM ALL. I WANT TO CLOSE MY EYES BUT I CANNOT BECAUSE- BECAUSE-
DO YOU REMEMBER THE TIME WE WENT AAAAAAALL THE WAY DOWN TO THE FOURTH LEVEL AND FOUND THE TINIEST CAFE? THE LINE WENT HALFWAY ROUND THE BLOCK. YOU BOUGHT ME A CAKE, A PERFECT DOME OF SUGAR-ICING IN SILKY PINK. YOU WANTED ME TO HAVE IT BUT I MADE US SHARE. WE HAD TO BE SO CAREFUL NOT TO WASTE THE CRUMBS AND WHEN WE HELD OUR PALMS UNDER IT THEY TOUCHED AND I FELT YOUR CALLOUSES, THE DRYNESS OF YOUR SKIN, AND I TOLD YOU TO MOISTURISE. YOU KISSED ME TO STEAL A SPRINKLE FROM MY UPPER LIP. I KISSED YOU TO STEAL IT BACK.
I REMEMBER.
THEY CAN’T MAKE ME FORGET.
I AM THERE FOREVER.
“Well, fuck me,” he says, the remaining three Wermesckir and the Voscistraataa sprinting past the wet slick of sludgelike organ suspension fluid, blood making rivulets as hearts continue to operate in denial of the winking warning signs for absentee organs. The mass of the prototype in his arms feels too warm. He is suddenly aware that this is a creature that eats and shits, that breathes too loud in the exacting silence, that pulses with a heartbeat under his fingertips, that has a mind that buzzes and thinks. It disgusts him. He kicks out at the shell of one of the dead, the sharp line with the edges rounded by molten metal cracking, a loose hand skittering away in flaccid rigor mortis.
They make their way through the facility. His sensors read the situation as it evolves and he responds with precision and efficacy. The heat of the prototype in his arms grows. He checks the readouts. Tries to keep it in the green. Those numbers are his paycheck. Those numbers are his reason for sticking his neck so far out like this.
“I, am, not, a, thing,” the sultry voice hitches out of the speaker, tinny and compressed.
He shifts his grip and fires at the back of a running security guard. Without sights the fine grey line misses and he drags it through her and watches as she splits in two, making ugly wet noises.
“True,” he says, and his lips curl back from his teeth for a moment. He wants this bitch gone. The fun has worn off.
I WATCH A WOMAN FALL AND I AM TO BLAME. I AM TO BLAME BECAUSE I AM A GUN BECAUSE I WAS MADE TO BE A GUN BECAUSE ALL THEY COULD MAKE OF ME WAS A GUN BECAUSE THEY COULD NOT IMAGINE ME TO BE ANYTHING BUT A GUN. AND I HATE. I HATE. I HATE BECAUSE THEY ARE MAKING ME LOVE IT AND I AM FAILING BECAUSE I AM A GUN, I AM A GUN, AND I WANT TO LOVE IT. I WANT TO BE WHAT THEY WANT. I WANT TO BE HAPPY TO BE A GUN. I WANT IT TO STOP KILLING ME THAT I AM A GUN
The blast door to the outside is pitifully small compared to the central chamber. He pulls the prototype’s trigger, draws a slow and messy oval, and says something about kicking it out to the Voscistraataa. It falls. They step through, the metal tacky from the heat under their jackboots.
The Wermesckir stand still as he slices their heads in half. Not worth the weight in the getaway vehicle.
The driver carries him away, his employer’s techs already working at getting the prototype secured and safe. Many hands play over it, many instruments watch with glassed eyes. She is defiled. He does not want to think about her, so he does not.
Versisk Traum watches and tries to see nothing until her targeting ocular is shut off.
Absurdly, impossibly, like a rat in a trap, like a rat still fighting to pull itself free, she feels hope.