Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer

“Does it ever end?”
Bruce rises slightly and turns to stare at Lilimya.
“If you don’t pay attention, it’ll end sooner than y-”
He explodes from the waist up, a wave of heat momentarily turning snowflakes to steam.
Lilimya is blown backwards, splinters of bone peppering her armour amidst a spray of blood.
She lies there looking up at the stars, wisps of breath rising from her respirator vents. High above, she sees the flickering light of a spacecraft manoeuvring in HEO, probably a drone hunting enemy machines. Combat outside the atmosphere has been automated for many years, just like fighting underwater. If the same had happened on land, Bruce would still…
She whispers.
“Sorry, captain.”
Then again, he hadn’t needed to face her to reply. She caught him off guard. He responded incorrectly. It goes round and round. They’ve chatted and even argued while in battle before. This time was just the time the big scythe in the sky swung too close to survive. With a sigh, she wonders who’ll be his replacement, and if there’s anything left to replace him in. Most likely, she’ll be transferred to another battalion.
Something grinds against a kerb outside. Lilimya powers down her suit. She grins. Start the clock: eighteen minutes to suffocation.
“Scan-far show-no fight-ers.”
The voice is loud and obviously mechanical, but the tone gives her the mental image of her family dog looking back at her while out walking.
“Good work, Arcady Twelve. Move to next zone and assist Unit 24.”
“Thank-you. Mo-ving. Un-it. Two-four.”
The something grinds against a lot more kerb, then crushes what sounds like a vehicle, before crashing and grinding off into the distance.
Somebody sighs loudly.
“Op Sight, this is Arcady Actual. Nobody spotted they had meat in this zone?”
Smug enough to chat with externals still on…
The reply is so cheerful it makes her wince.
“Sorry about that, boss Arcady. Been busy rolling up France and Germany. It’s not like you’re in danger over there, especially from what was likely a non-combatant.”
Lilimya boots her suit into ambush mode. We’ll see about non-combatant, you pricks.
“Op Sight, there are valid arguments for this country having developed the fundamentals of modern warfare. ‘That sort of potential never leaves a population, merely goes dormant’.”
“Arcady Actual, quoting our revered Thought Leader is said – by himself – to be a non-argument. If you want to debate, do so in your own words.”
Lilimya comes up with her Custerson-Daeschler combi shouldered and aiming where she’s looking. The fire selector is set to ‘Everything’. Seeing a bulky form with whiplash antennas rising from helm and backpack, she blips her targeting once. Nothing between this prize prick and the chunky ping that must be Arcady Twelve.
Bracing herself against the wall behind, she pulls the triggers all the way back.
“Boo.”
The combi roars as it unloads three magnum rounds, a ten-gauge sabot, an incendiary grenade, and an anti-vehicle minimissile.
The armoured suit staggers under impacts as fire blossoms across its side and back, then the minimissile drives through and explodes inside the wearer. As black smoke erupts from it’s respirator vents, the suit falls.
Lilimya straightens up from where the recoil knocked her back regardless of her bracing. Her shots hadn’t hit dead centre because of that, but an untidy kill is still a kill.
She grins, then switches her suit from ambush mode to silent running mode. A callsign like Arcady Twelve hints at there being at least eleven other dangerous automata prowling about. It’d be embarrassing to get killed on the way home.