Echoes of Iron

Content Warning:

This story contains depictions of psychological distress, violence, and implied body horror. Reader discretion is advised.

The war was short. The world was forgotten with ease. The day was unknown, and the two men who survived sat staring at each other across a table, knowing two things: the end of days had come, and they hated each other.

The last bastion of a forgotten world was a crumbling base: blinking lights, low resources, and no hope of survival. The concept of survival wasn’t just asinine—it was blasphemous. What made it worse wasn’t the food shortages or the pressure to fight to the last man. It was that I had to spend it with him.

Each of us pointed the finger at the other, certain the enemy sat across the table. I am on the left, General Elias—aka “The Old Wolf.” I have seen more empires rise and fall than any of my comrades have eaten hot dinners or watched the suns rise. The only thing that lets me know I’m alive is the morning shave—now done with recycled water and no cream. It’s raw, a torturous reminder of life. I might not know who I am some mornings, but I still know how to shave.

Every morning, I stare down the opposition: the last being anyone would want to spend time with—Commander Sol, aka “The Steel Bastard.” That title wasn’t officially granted by the Imperial Navy. I gave it to him. Sol is an overgrown bureaucrat, a stickler for the rules, and about as pliant as rigor mortis. He did everything for the job, and ruined the lives of countless men and officers to get where he was—the commander of the mighty flagship Aegis of Ash.

Well, they got part of the name right. If you looked out the window at the rising of the suns, you could see the burning husk of that flawed battlecruiser. One of the Empire’s finest brought down—not by asteroid, enemy fire, or some epic battle, but by sheer sarcasm. When you’re the captain of a mighty starship, and the onboard AI takes things literally because it doesn’t understand nuance, especially when the phrase, “Yeah, sure, just crash it into the moon—why not?!” is said within earshot of a supercomputer, what did he expect to happen? A party on a pleasure planet?

The AI, too eager to please, responded: “Executing emergency directive: Operation Lunar Impact.” It’s amazing what can make a person’s face show sheer terror—that moment you realize there’s no going back. Everything crashed and burned: the crew, the supplies, and dear Commander Sol’s pension pot might as well have been hit with a planet killer. If a battlecruiser could have gone up in a puff of irony, that would have been it.

The days were long, and the AI computer knew we had to be “kept stable.” To do this, it revealed a piece of information: one of the survivors was an AI robot. A classic Mr. Flesh—human looks, human speech, allegedly human thoughts, but I have yet to be convinced. It mimics emotion to a tee, but it’s still a cold metal automaton.

My name is Elias. I shave every day. I am no robot.

Naturally, Sol said the same thing. The computer’s gambit was to play us against each other—a battle of wits meant to keep us alive. If it didn’t control the last food and water processing units, we would have flattened it with pistol fire days ago.

Sol reminded me that destroying a machine was contrary to Procedure 47A of the Officer’s Conduct and Execution Manifesto—also known as “who cares.” My philosophy: if it outranks you, salute it; if it’s equal, respect it; if it’s lower, shoot it. No messing about with directives or paperwork. When the enemy was on top of us during the last assault on this world, every man was called to the gun. Sol, meanwhile, was typing up the fact that we were taking fire. When the first officer had his head blown off in front of him, it wasn’t enough of a clue to stop filling out reports. That wasn’t his concern. What was paramount was filing it in triplicate.

If wars were won with paperwork, Sol would have conquered the galaxy in days. Instead, he sits at his screen and types like a Beacon droid. I mean, he must be a droid—with that much dedication to detail. You can tell by the typing speed. Classic Mr. Flesh.

I don’t trust anything metal that walks. I keep my gun beside me. If he gets too close, I’ll turn him into scrap with a single shot. I test my reflexes every time he moves from the table. He won’t get past me. Dumb robot. Dumb AI, thinking a puzzle will keep my mind sharp. Baby, this mind is sharp. I know she died before I went to war. I still see the rose I left on her coffin—that’s real, not some holographic, insidious, robot-generated backstory. The rain fell. My sons never saw their mother grow old. I speak to her every day, knowing I will meet her again. No robot can fake that. Serendipity, sentiment, steadfastness—the three Ss that make us who we are. Unlike my colleague over there—the walking bureaucratic dictionary.

It’s morning. I’m bored. Time to play our game.

“Hey, Sol, what’s the correct standing order for having enough food for consumption?”

“It is number 84 of subsection 14 of the Resource Management Doctrine according to—”

I cock my disintegrator.

“Sol, I fear you’ve forgotten the golden rule of not quoting regulations. Did I not say three days ago that if I heard another regulation, I would fire indiscriminately on the basis that you, sir, would be identified as an enemy combatant trying to subvert my position with needless nonsense?”

“How could I forget?” he replied.

“I know that must be conflicting with your programming—not necessarily being the super-intelligence we all know and hate.”

“You hate. You hate all forms of technology. I’ve seen the way you placed enough holes in the walls to make them look like cratered landscapes. In fact, I look at the toaster and I look outside—and they’re the same,” he quipped.

“Haha. Funny. When did the AI systems get a sense of humour? Oh yes, when they crashed your ship. Gotta admit, that was funny. Tell me—did you document that in triplicate for executive command?”

He drew his weapon and pointed it at me. It’s not going to do much against a devastator pistol, but the gentle whirr of death has such a calming effect on the quick-tempered. I found his weakness: pride. Provoke the little tin can and we can have a right show. Then I won’t violate destruction-of-machinery protocols. I’ll just smash him up, and the central computer will have no backup. I’ll be on top. They may even promote me.

I watch him eat. Three seconds per slurp of soup. That awful sound makes a blender seem pleasant. He’s lucky I’m patient—or he’d be scrap already.

But that’s about to change. Today the robot dies. Someone heard my distress call. They’re three rotations away, and this robot is not getting back to civilization. The fleet probably has better models by now. By disposing of this one, I’ll be doing a civic duty. We could recycle the metal—the fleet’s always screaming for more of that.

He moves over to the radar. Has he noticed it? That steel moron couldn’t read a radar if his life depended on it. He probably thinks the rescue shuttle is a shooting star. I can’t take chances. These Mr. Flesh models are said to be five steps ahead of us. Not me. I won’t be beaten.

Their programming prevents them from hurting humans. That’s the rule. Designed to be hack-proof, not to be exploited by the enemy. Well, the enemy never met me. I’m going to strike in self-defence. Then he’ll lock up and I’ll have a kill. Boom. Bye-bye, blackbird.

We eat in silence. I stare him down. Three slurps. We’re running low—not enough food for three cycles. And as a robot, why does he eat anyway? He’s parasitic enough to deprive a human of a meal. Their cores keep them powered for 100 years. You’d think with all that sophistication, they’d design one that doesn’t slurp. Note to self: send recommendations to R&D.

I get up to wash. The most glorious of days. The pain of shaving doesn’t matter. The victory is mine. I walk into the washroom—the bowl is there. Recycled water filled to the brim. My razor is broken. The blade smashed on the side.

What is this? An act of war. The admin nonsense, fine. The slurping, I can cope. But invading my space? Destroying my razor? No chance.

I burst from the room and demand a duel. This is not a drill. I throw down the razor to show my claim to his head. He looks petrified. My gun is ready and loaded. The humming fills the room. I will not miss.

He looks terrified. My finger reaches the trigger. I gently squeeze. I’m not waiting for a last-minute speech. I am lord and master of the flesh, and I will show my superiority to these mechanical monstrosities.

“Well, I declare this is most unusual. As you’re aware, if a duel request is acknowledged, the processing and administrative paperwork for formal duel engagement will take forty-eight hours, and I simply won’t—”

I fire a shot, placing a hole in the wall beside him. The smoking plaster expresses my thoughts on bureaucratic standing.

“Pick up your weapon and defend yourself, robot.”

Famous last words—though in time, we weren’t sure to whom they applied.

Sol drew his weapon, pointed his sword, and offered a brief salute. The game was set. I positioned my gun—classic headshot, natural target. Thanks to their creators’ obsession with anatomical accuracy, the central AI processor is in the head. How helpful.

I aim, I see—and I freeze. My arm locks. I can’t move. My hand freezes. Why?

I don’t get an answer. He takes my hand with his blade. The hand drops to the floor, mechanical subcomponents floating in a lagoon of oil. Haemoglobin is not black.

Everything in me screamed—but nothing sounded, because there’s no voice for a soul that never existed.

My mind froze, unable to cope. I am beaten. I can’t fight back. I don’t want to fight back. I am a machine.

I thrust out—he cuts his hand on a jagged piece of metal. His droplets hit the floor. They are red. The small drip from his hand makes the confirmation unequivocal. I am the parasite. I am everything that I despise.

And yet, after all I have done, he comes over, looks at the hand, clicks it back into place, and bandages his own.

He says only one thing to me:

“You never listened, Elias. I never said I hated you.”

The shuttle comes. He leaves me there, patched up and hollow, waiting for the rescue I no longer deserve.