of trying to hide in the next building. I’d given specific orders about leaving empty buildings intact, but I’d been purposely vague about attacking buildings with enemy soldiers.
I heard the gunner say, “That’s right you little turds, go hide in the nice building.”
The pilot said, “You can shoot it down and say they went in.”
Under normal circumstances I might have complimented the pilot on his bloodthirsty attitude, maybe even promoted him, but civilians lived in these buildings—innocent bystanders trapped in a war zone. In theory, those civilians hadn’t taken sides. I thought they might if we started destroying their homes indiscriminately.
Ironically, the gunner was the sensible one in that cockpit. He said, “Tempting, but we have the general’s orders.”
My driver kept us moving, speeding around the yard-deep divots freshly blown into the street around us. I could barely see the two Targs that led our way through a dusty brown haze that hung low in the streets ahead of us, returning fire at occupied buildings and clearing U.A. soldiers out of our way.
Using heat vision, I spotted the signatures of people in buildings on both sides of the street. They showed as orange silhouettes, colorful shadows against dark backgrounds. I could tell if they were friendly by their posture. Civilians cowered against walls, Unifieds skulked under windows, as if preparing to return fire. I spotted smaller silhouettes, children.
A rocket struck the front grill of the Jackal, sending flames spreading across the windshield and disappearing. Lord it happened quickly. A glimpse of smoke, a flash of fire, and the car stopped so suddenly I thought maybe we had hit a wall. I had the disorienting sense of falling, of time stopping, of the world’s spinning on a different axis, then we were upside down.
“General, General, are you okay?”
I lay on my side, the butt of the 60-caliber pressing against my chest. I tasted blood in my mouth and felt a ringing in my head.
The Jackal lay on its side, asphalt visible through the driver’s side window and open sky visible through the passenger’s. I couldn’t see either; I still had the heat vision running in my visor. I looked out the top of the turret, saw an orange silhouette, recognized the posture of a man with a handheld rocket launcher, and I squeezed off twenty, maybe thirty rounds from my 60-caliber.
Someone said, “Oh, nice shot, sir.”
I didn’t know the voice.
A couple of officers came to pull me from the wreckage. I shooed them away.
Despite the ringing, my head was better than clear. I was focused. I was a Liberator-class clone, and my combat reflex had begun. Adrenaline and testosterone now flooded my veins, honing my thoughts and making me more aggressive. Fighting and happiness became synonymous in my head. Victory, like killing, became a means to an end; keeping the hormone in my bloodstream became my chief objective.
Still using heat vision, I searched the nearest building and the buildings around it for targets. I found a man with his arms crossed and his head down and knew what he was doing—he was hiding his heat signature under a cold shower. I squeezed the trigger and shot him, shot him through the walls. He had to be a Unified; civilians don’t think about cooling down their heat signatures.
“How do you know he wasn’t just jerking off?” one of the officers asked. I started to explain before noticing that the man was laughing. He’d seen what I saw.
I spotted other targets, too, people hiding, people running, people crawling. I wanted to kill them all. The combat reflex nearly drove me wild with soothing warmth.
Kill them,
I told myself.
Shoot and the hormone will continue.
I pulled my hands away from the Big Sixty, ducked under the gun, and crawled out of the turret. The driver and copilot of the Jackal were dead. The driver’s helmet pressed against the door, blood leaking out a hole. The safety harnesses held the copilot in
I heard the gunner say, “That’s right you little turds, go hide in the nice building.”
The pilot said, “You can shoot it down and say they went in.”
Under normal circumstances I might have complimented the pilot on his bloodthirsty attitude, maybe even promoted him, but civilians lived in these buildings—innocent bystanders trapped in a war zone. In theory, those civilians hadn’t taken sides. I thought they might if we started destroying their homes indiscriminately.
Ironically, the gunner was the sensible one in that cockpit. He said, “Tempting, but we have the general’s orders.”
My driver kept us moving, speeding around the yard-deep divots freshly blown into the street around us. I could barely see the two Targs that led our way through a dusty brown haze that hung low in the streets ahead of us, returning fire at occupied buildings and clearing U.A. soldiers out of our way.
Using heat vision, I spotted the signatures of people in buildings on both sides of the street. They showed as orange silhouettes, colorful shadows against dark backgrounds. I could tell if they were friendly by their posture. Civilians cowered against walls, Unifieds skulked under windows, as if preparing to return fire. I spotted smaller silhouettes, children.
A rocket struck the front grill of the Jackal, sending flames spreading across the windshield and disappearing. Lord it happened quickly. A glimpse of smoke, a flash of fire, and the car stopped so suddenly I thought maybe we had hit a wall. I had the disorienting sense of falling, of time stopping, of the world’s spinning on a different axis, then we were upside down.
“General, General, are you okay?”
I lay on my side, the butt of the 60-caliber pressing against my chest. I tasted blood in my mouth and felt a ringing in my head.
The Jackal lay on its side, asphalt visible through the driver’s side window and open sky visible through the passenger’s. I couldn’t see either; I still had the heat vision running in my visor. I looked out the top of the turret, saw an orange silhouette, recognized the posture of a man with a handheld rocket launcher, and I squeezed off twenty, maybe thirty rounds from my 60-caliber.
Someone said, “Oh, nice shot, sir.”
I didn’t know the voice.
A couple of officers came to pull me from the wreckage. I shooed them away.
Despite the ringing, my head was better than clear. I was focused. I was a Liberator-class clone, and my combat reflex had begun. Adrenaline and testosterone now flooded my veins, honing my thoughts and making me more aggressive. Fighting and happiness became synonymous in my head. Victory, like killing, became a means to an end; keeping the hormone in my bloodstream became my chief objective.
Still using heat vision, I searched the nearest building and the buildings around it for targets. I found a man with his arms crossed and his head down and knew what he was doing—he was hiding his heat signature under a cold shower. I squeezed the trigger and shot him, shot him through the walls. He had to be a Unified; civilians don’t think about cooling down their heat signatures.
“How do you know he wasn’t just jerking off?” one of the officers asked. I started to explain before noticing that the man was laughing. He’d seen what I saw.
I spotted other targets, too, people hiding, people running, people crawling. I wanted to kill them all. The combat reflex nearly drove me wild with soothing warmth.
Kill them,
I told myself.
Shoot and the hormone will continue.
I pulled my hands away from the Big Sixty, ducked under the gun, and crawled out of the turret. The driver and copilot of the Jackal were dead. The driver’s helmet pressed against the door, blood leaking out a hole. The safety harnesses held the copilot in
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