“Why do you even care what happens to me?” said Tracey. “I did this to you. I thought you hated me. You should hate me.”
“Don’t want to die hating you,” said the iSoldier. “Don’t want to die hating anyone.”
It was looking at him. Maybe there were tears in its eyes, or maybe that was the way the light was reflecting. “Private McCray. That was your name?”
“Joseph McCray.”
“I outrank you.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes, up through his sticky hair. “Alright. Fine.” He gave his scope a shake and groped through the functions. “I’m pinging the base. Happy now?”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Joseph McCray. His metal hand touched Tracey’s knee, trying to comfort. Tracey didn’t move, because he didn’t know what else to do, and because he kind of wanted comforting, even if was from a broken iSoldier.
The light was dimming. He wasn’t sure if night was falling or if it was the thickening smoke. His scope flickered and died for good. He drank half the water he had left and ate his compacted nutrient bars.
He tried to climb out, dragging himself up the slope. He put his weight on a loose clump of brick and skittered all the way down, scraping open his hands and knees. He picked the grit out of his palms and began again.
“You won’t make it.”
“Oh yeah?” He scrabbled to find footing, staring up at the rays of musty light. Freedom was so close he could taste it.
“It’s like—I grew up near this old quarry. There was one side that was too steep to climb. We always tried but we never made it, it was like walking on ice—and one time my mate tried it and he fell and broke—my mate, he –” His growling voice cut out. Tracey lost his tenuous footing, slithering down to the concrete. “My mate, his name was—he was my best mate since forever, I should know his name—why don’t I remember his name?”
“I dunno.” Tracey dusted off his hands. He gave his scope a shake. Still nothing. He steeled himself. “Your memory centres might be starting to break down.”
“No.” Joseph waved a metal hand at him. “No, you said that wouldn’t happen. You said I’d be dead first.”
“Said you’d be dead before your neural circuits went kaput. Never said you’d be dead before you started to—you know. Go.”
“Go where?” Joseph clutched at the ground, trying to lever himself upright. His fingers gouged tracks through the concrete. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know! You’ve still got most of your brain. I don’t know anything about brains. I’m a tech, not a neuroscientist.” He climbed. Hand, foot. Hand, foot.
“If you get out –” Joseph’s voice was tinged with panic. Perhaps it always had been. The electronic voice box was fading, the iSoldier’s voice falling to an unintelligible hum. “If you get out, are you just going to leave me here?”
Hand, foot. Hand, foot.
“I don’t want to die like this. Not alone. Don’t leave me to die like this alone, please.”
His hand met something jagged under the dirt. He dragged himself upwards even as blood smeared on the dust, fuelling his screaming muscles with mind-numbing desperation. He hadn’t known he wanted to live this badly.
He fell, tumbling like Jack down the hill. Something jarred in his arm. He cradled it to his chest. “You said yourself. I’m not going to make it.”
“Did I?” There was a clicking sound. Tracey almost didn’t recognise it as a gulp. “I don’t remember.”
Tracey rubbed at his face, trying to scrub away the dirt. The palm of his hand stung. His arm throbbed. He wiped his oozing nose on his wrist. He could smell something over the dank, dusty stench of the basement. It smelled like meat cooking. “Do you smell that?”
“Smell what?” said Joseph. “Can’t smell anything.”
“Yeah.” Tracey kept his hand over his nose. “Probably for the best.”
“Why? What is it?”
“Nothing.” He tested his arm. It bent, but when he reached out a shock of pain jolted up to his shoulder. “I think I’m stuck here.”
“You could call for help.”
“I already did.” He worked his arm, hoping it would get better if he stretched it, but it hurt more and more the more he moved it.
“Right.”
Joseph brought a hand up in front of his face, flexing each finger-joint in turn. “Is that my hand?”
“Yeah.” Tracey flexed his own fingers. It hurt.
“What happened to me?” said Joseph. “Why am I a robot? I don’t—I don’t remember what happened to me.”
Tracey could hear a hissing, crackling sound coming from somewhere within Joseph’s armour. The last of his cooling system giving way. He pressed a hand to his mouth and tried not to retch.
If he could get out—which was unlikely, with a busted arm—maybe, just maybe, he’d get back to base before the Blues got him. And then what? He’d live to die another day, blown into chunks or fried by a nerve-shell.
Or he could die here, cold and alone in what was left of a basement with what was left of an iSoldier.
The sizzling was getting louder.
Joseph let out a yelp. “What?” He was panting, in-out-in-out, rough gasps of air. “What—why can’t I –” He was staring at his hand—but he wasn’t. His eyes were roaming about in their sockets, unfocused. His optic nerve had severed.
Staggering over, Tracey knelt beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t see,” Private McCray choked. “Oh God, I can’t see.”
