By Luca Nobleman
Tin Eyeswell stood on the precipice of immortality. The only obstacle between him and a hefty cache of Caerulum crystal was a group of peddlers down in the ravine.
Collateral damage.
Tin nodded at his partner, Merek, and caught his scruffy and sunburnt reflection off Merek’s metal exoskeleton. I gotta shave after this.
Lean and lethal, Merek was a medical droid some two hundred years ago. Back before ruthless and sentient machines ruled the world. Merek wasn’t of their make.
When Tin had found him, rusting and nonfunctional in an ancient hospital, he reprogrammed Merek into a killing machine.
Since then, Merek had worn human clothing. Tin had no idea why. Maybe he’d botched the recoding? Today, the droid wore a cowboy hat, boots with spurs, chaps, and a long leather jacket. Glowing blue eyes glinted beneath the wide-brimmed hat, and his booming voice crackled with a subharmonic resonance. “Are you sure they have the cache down there?”
“That’s what the old man said.”
“And you trust him?”
Tin grinned. “Don’t think he coulda lied after what I did to him.”
“He had a mental illness.” Merek shifted his stance and gripped his sidearm. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Tin rolled his eyes. Can’t he see this world is a wasteland? There are no laws out here. A man can do whatever he pleases. Survival of the fittest. And damn it all to hell, Tin was the fittest.
“Listen, Merek,” Tin said. “You want that cache of Caerulum as much as I do. And I know how humans operate, so let me do the thinking here.”
***
Eilo ducked behind a rock as sparks erupted around him. “Momma! What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure—”
“Veena, help!” Poppa howled from the wagon.
She squeezed Eilo’s hand. “Stay right here and don’t move. I need to help your father.” She unsheathed two ancient scythes from her leather belt.
Wielding one in each hand, Veena crossed the curved metal blades, touched them to her forehead, and ignited the ink etched there and along her cheeks. The blades and tattoos erupted with cerulean energy. Eilo fell back in awe as his mother stepped from behind the boulder and skillfully blocked much of the gunfire. Her cotton prairie dress took the brunt, shredding with bullet holes.
Why are they attacking my family? We’re harmless peddlers. Well, mostly harmless. It wasn’t their fault most people discriminated against their family for bearing arm and face tattoos. Now, if others only knew of their magical warrior arts, then—
Another bullet ricocheted off the boulder. Eilo’s ten-year-old heart pounded in his ears. He risked a peek over the rock. Poppa’s body lay hunched against the wagon. His stomach twisted into a knot. “No, no, no.”
More shots rang out, followed by a grunt. Momma slumped to the ground—her dress stained with growing red patterns, like roses blooming across her shoulder and thigh.
***
Veena gasped as a man stepped out from behind the wagon and sauntered over to her. His bright eyes burned in contrast to his dark countenance. The crest on his belt, a skull topped with a bullet-casing crown, marked him as a master gunsmith—an outlaw.
“What do we have here?” The criminal rested his gun on Veena’s forehead tattoos. “Celesti De Chronos? The old man never mentioned y’all to be a litter of zealots. Well, I don’t mind riddin’ the earth of your filth.”
“Zayah lo spresti!” She cursed in her native tongue and spat.
Flaring his nostrils, he wiped her spit from his cheek and kneeled into her wounded shoulder. “Where’s the treasure you’re protectin’?”
Her arm seared, bullet pain plucking her nerves like a discordant harp.
Something stirred from behind the rock. “Momma!”
Veena glanced over. “Eilo, no!”
A machine dressed as a man lifted him by the collar. The boy kicked and screamed as the monster held him in midair. “Let me go!” Eilo grunted.
Veena’s stomach knotted.
“How about this?” The outlaw’s eyes gleamed devilishly. “Tell me where the treasure is, and I’ll let your boy live.”
“Never!” Her voice stifled as the man pressed harder into her wound.
“See, you don’t understand.” He hissed sour breath. “Merek here is a ruthless killing machine. He ain’t alive. He got no soul. So, he does whatever I tell him. Killin’ yer kid would be no skin off his back.”
He cackled between yellow teeth. “And he ain’t even got no skin!”
***
Merek’s grip weakened at the words. He looked at the boy for the first time.
“Please don’t kill me.” Tears rolled down the child’s cheeks. “I know you can think for yourself. You have a soul. I’ve met others like you. You don’t have to do this.”
“Soul?” Merek whispered. Images erupted in Merek’s mainframe—memories repressed by Tin’s programming.
A boy in a wheelchair painting Merek’s face. “All we need is some Caerulum, and you’ll have a soul, MRK-053.” Another of Merek cradling the sick boy. “Thanks, MRK-053. Never mind about the Caerulum.” He coughed. “You already have the kindest soul I know.”
“Do it, Merek!” Tin barked.
Merek stared at the boy. This is not who I am. He strained, fighting for control over the reprogramming.
“Tarnation, Merek. I gotta do everything myself?” Tin shoved the pistol against the woman’s forehead. “We don’t need her. We’ll get it out of the kid.”
***
Unable to watch or turn away, Eilo squeezed his eyes shut. “No. Please, no.”
The sharp crack of a pistol rang out.
Tears flowing, he shook his head, still refusing to look.
“What the—” The outlaw grunted.
Momma wheezed a… chortle?
Eilo opened one eye.
The outlaw was slouched—a bullet hole in his temple. And the droid held the gun.
“You shot the wrong person,” she guffawed.
The machine eyed the smoking barrel. “My shot was sure.”
Veena lay in the dust, laughing.
“But why?” Eilo sniffled back tears.
“I may not have a soul yet, but I have a choice.”
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