A Volley of Shots Fired

The train barrelled along, a million ton steel worm shrieking over old railings. Walter sat on the floor by an open window. The sound of gusting wind mixed with scraping metal in his ears.

Moonlight beamed through the window directly onto his face.

He'd been awake for hours.

Squinting, he rose unsteadily to his feet. The ground seemed to shake under him. So he grabbed the windowsill for support. Shoved his head out through for fresh air.

And then he threw up. The wind splattered his vomit on the train's exterior. He didn't see this. He'd screwed up his eyes against moonlight that for some reason was punishingly bright.

"Gather yourself Walter. There is work to do." The voice was female, warm and still and deep. And he had no idea where it came from.

She'd been saying similar things for the past hour.

He staggered backwards from the window, hating the acid taste of sick in his mouth.

Another female voice, this one cold and strict. Robotic. "Detecting ten hostiles scattered aboard The Glory."

This voice had also been repeating itself for a while.

He sat back on a chair, hating both voices. It wasn't even the fact that he had no idea why there were two distinct voices in his head. As the most obvious elements of his confusion, they were simply easiest to hate.

A throbbing pain slammed his skull. He jumped off the chair and sank to his knees, squeezing his head in both hands.

All he knew was he was supposed to be dead. He'd made sure of that.

The warm familiar voice. "Quickly, Walter. I will boost your vitality."

Slowly, his vision cleared. The pain dissipated. Reluctantly he rose to his feet.

The robot had her turn. "Ten hostiles detected aboard east-bound train The Glory. It is imperative for A-213 to eliminate them. Priority level double-oh three."

". . . Me?" Walter asked dumbly, walking towards the carriage door.

The robot continued. "Requesting to draft their positions aboard train."

Walter spun in place, eyes searching the carriage. "Who are you? Where are you?"

The warm voice. "You are Walter Rainey. I am your guide to New Draegan."

New Draegan? Walter thought.

"You must do what your AI assistant says."

Suddenly dizzy, Walter swayed against a table. He pressed himself off it and stumbled to a nearby window, hoping to identify a landmark and place himself. He stuck his head through the window and stared. Grey skyscrapers with glowing windows blurred across his vantage. Night wind brushed his frowning face.

The robot spoke again. "Requesting to draft their positions aboard train."

"Wait, wait," Walter said. He stared at the wide expanse of car-spotted roads and dark glass behemoths beyond his window. His breaths quickened.

"Requesting to draft--"

"Please shut up, please!" He stumbled back away from the window, chest tightening with fear.

The warm voice. "Walter, three Blackfist gangmen are searching for you in the next carriage. They will arrive soon."

"Please, leave me alone--"

"They carry revolvers. You can use your AI to identify their makes and cylinder count."

Walter sank to the floor, clutching his head. "Please. I'm begging you. Just let me die."

"Walter, they will arrive soon. You must kill them."

"Please, I don't want to do this."

"Imperative for A-213 to eliminate--"

"I don't want to do anything!" Walter screamed. "Do you even hear me!"

He panted, clenching and unclenching his fist.

The train blew over the tracks, clanging a steady rhythm.

"I do, Walter."

Walter sighed. "Then listen to me, okay?"

"Your AI does not understand you beyond mission-relevant programming. However, your human controller may be on radio next time." The voice paused. "Act as you are supposed to be."

"Supposed to be?" Walter said. "Listen to me! I killed myself! I don't want to be anything!"

The train continued rumbling. Neon lights flashed through the window and were gone.

"You must lessen your emotional expression. When in doubt, refrain from speaking."

Walter began crawling towards the carriage door.

"If you are ever detected by your controllers at a level above Endeavor corps baseline, anything other than blank dispassion, you will be terminated."

Walter had an impulse to cry. In a second he was crying, but no tears came.

Just then, the carriage door opened. A high male voice broke the quiet that currently existed only outside Walter's head.

". . . said we shouldn't use the train--guys it's just the AI man . . ."

The Blackfist gangman walked in, dragging a girl by her wrists. Walter looked up at them. The girl seemed to be in her late teens.

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"You awake now?" the gangman said to Walter. "Piece of junk. If you're gonna be useless at least tell us so we can get a different junk robot-man."

The girl struggled against the Blackfist's grasp, groaning. He responded by punching her jaw with one beefy fist. Hard.

She seemed to black out for a second. Then she was wide-eyed awake and the tears flowed freely.

The gangann grabbed both of her slender wrists in one hand.

"You're gonna wanna stop doing that," he said to her, squeezing her cheeks between thick fingers.

The warm voice broke into Walter's reverie. "Walter, settle your mind. I might be able to tap into your programming."

"Well, get up, ya junk," the gangman said to Walter. "We've got actual work for you."

"My parents were gonna come back for me . . ." The girl sobbed.

"And I've told you, if they didn't want you with us, they'd have taken you with them. Now shut the fuck up." The gangman felt the need to punctuate this statement with a booming slap. The girl cried out.

"Stand up, Walter," the warm voice said.

Slowly, Walter rose. He got a good look at the girl's face. The pleading blue eyes.

He didn't know what did it.

Maybe it was the objective fact that an innocent needed his help. Maybe it was the look of pure helplessness, of not wanting to be there, on the girl's face. Maybe it was because Walter felt the same.

Suddenly he just didn't care anymore. Not about the ridiculousness of his situation, not about his own confusion in it.

Even for a few seconds, he might as well see what happened.

"Walter, stay calm," the warm voice said. "Maintain resolve."

"You're gonna move, circuit brain?" the gangman asked.

Walter took a deep breath.

"Get close to him, Walter."

Walter walked over. In two strides they were face to face. Walter could smell the man's sweat. Could also see the big revolver holstered at the man's belt.

The man seemed to notice Walter staring at the gun. His free hand went down to his holster.

"Distract him," the warm voice said.

Walter said, "You'll have to arrest me."

Walter noticed the gangman's hand drift away from his belt. "What you say, Tin Can? Is this a joke?"

"I'm not going to work for you," Walter said. "So you'd better arrest me."

The gangman chuckled. Walter prayed that the voice in his head could do more than just talk.

The next few moments went by blazing fast.

Walter's fist shot out. A right cross to the gangman's jaw. The gangman stumbled, letting go of the girl. Against Walter's hope he whipped out the revolver. Walter grabbed it.

Grunting, they struggled for control of the weapon. Then Walter struck the hook of the gangman's elbow, at the same time hinging the gangman's forearm back. The gangman pulled the trigger and blew a hole through his own nostril.

Walter heard the man's companions shout in alarm, draw their revolvers and aim through the open carriage door at him. He was still clutching their dead friend to his body.

He heard a volley of shots fired. The gangman jerked in Walter's grasp, squelching with every bullet that embedded in him. Using the man as a shield, Walter brought his revolver up with a one-handed grip. He trained his gun on the furthest gangman, sighting through the doorway for a head-shot.

It only took two rounds.

Two quick pulls of the heavy double-action trigger. And then both men lay dead in the next carriage.

The spent casings clunked to the floor. For a long moment their echoes were the prominent sound in his mind.

Walter stared wide-eyed at what he'd done.

He had brought the gun up, acquired and head-shot two targets with cold, computer-like precision.

It had taken all of twenty seconds to kill three men.

But he hadn't done it himself. He knew that.

Already the fear, rushing to fill his mind. The confusion, the fog. Those were his alone.

That sudden clearness of mind, the tremendous reaction speed and strength, the killer instinct . . . They did not belong to him, and he could not guess where they came from.

But they were gone.

He was weak again.

"Stay with me, please," he whispered. It was a futile plea. But he meant it. If only to take the fear away.

He felt something on his gun hand. It was the girl, gripping his arm. She was surprisingly tall, standing all the way up to his brow.

"You're gonna help us, mister?" she asked.

Walter was disgusted at the look of hope in her eyes. Disgusted at himself for being the cause of it.

After what he'd done, how could he tell her he'd never intended to save her?

She was still holding his arm when he let the revolver clatter to the floor.

A beeping in his ears. The AI voice was back.

"Violation: Unauthorized Kills."

The carriage door to the other side of him opened. A small group of men stood beyond it. Each one held an old wooden carbine.

"Violation: Unauthorized Kills."

The one in front stepped into the carriage. "Did you kill these men?" he asked Walter.

Walter prayed the man would shoot him.

"Violation: Unauthorized Kills."

"Hey, come here, we're here to help," another man spoke softly, beckoning the girl Walter had rescued.

She took a long look at Walter's catatonic stare and stumbled towards them.

The lead man turned back to his fellows. "Malcolm, everyone. Head forward and free the rest of the girls."

He turned to Walter. "Don't give us any trouble, mister."

Walter stood still while they trailed past him. Despite himself, or perhaps because of what he now was, he counted them.

Nine men, excluding their leader, who was the last to walk past Walter and into the next carriage.

Ten hostiles.

"Violation: Unauthorized Kills."

These were the men he was meant to kill.

The men had closed the carriage door when the third voice spoke up.

"A-213, return to HQ." The voice was small. Male. African American. And infused with radio static.

His human controller. Yet another voice in his head.

"You've done nothing but malfunction today," his controller continued. "Leave the train at Grove Terminal. Rent a Drexler and drive to Medium Square."

No, Walter thought. I'll do none of those things.

He bent and picked up the revolver. Without his programming active, the big gun felt awkward in his grip. But he at least remembered knowing how to use one.

For one tenth of a second he considered putting the gun to his head and pulling the trigger and blowing a tunnel right through his brain to the other side of his skull.

But no.

Even now, he wasn't strong enough for that.

He located the carriage side-door between two windows. The nightscape blew across its glass screen. He gripped the revolver with both hands, not trusting himself to use a one-handed grip. He sighted on the door's lock and fired.

Immediately he knew his mistake. He winced as metal shrapnel flew up and cut his face.

His controller sounded exasperated. "The video field's all bugged. What the hell are you doing A2?"

He transferred the gun to his right hand. Tried pushing the door with what was left of the doorknob. Then tried pulling it. No good.

The hinges.

Shielding his face with his left hand, he fired at the door's hinges. Two shots for each one.

"A2 what the hell--"

The door creaked. Compared to the reinforced lock, its weaker hinges gave way easily.

Walter raised one leg. Muscles bunching, the limb felt like a bionic piston.

He slammed the leg into the door. Metal shrieked as the top hinge pulled off its frame. Cold wind rushed into the carriage.

He didn't have time to be surprised at his strength.

He raised the gun and shot the bottom hinge. He missed, making a bullet-hole in the door.

He thought he could hear water. But the wind was louder.

He pulled the trigger again.

Click. Empty gun.

"A2, I'm going to override and shut you down."

He slammed his leg into the door again. The door swung out on its bottom hinge. Walter pushed it out fully, so it hung lopsided outside the train.

And then he looked down.

And gasped.

Hundreds of feet below him, grey water rushed rapidly. Dark waves rippled the surface.

It took some moments for his heart to settle. Only then did he notice that the train was speeding along a suspension bridge.

"A2, shut down has commenced. Get to a location where no one can find you."

After both of Walter's legs gave out under him, he didn't have to wonder what 'shut down' meant.

He crumpled to the ground like a dead man.

He still had function of his arms. But that would be gone soon.

For a second he just lay there.

Then a wonderful idea came to him. One so wonderful he could have laughed. If laughter hadn't left his life years ago.

Using the last of his strength, he dragged himself over the entrance. His arms gave out partway, so the top half of his body hung suspended in midair.

Gravity did its work, combining with the force of the moving train to slowly but inexorably draw the rest of his body out of the train.

Shivering, he watched the water roil below him.

If a head-on impact didn't kill him, he would surely drown.

He waited a minute. Thought about many things, none of them meaningful.

His inert body finally fell out of the train, as if pushed out.

Walter spun endlessly.

He fell for so long that he lost all sense of up or down. Heard nothing but wind in his ears.

The world was a dark blue cocoon, and gust was the only sound.

He was still praying for death when he hit the water.