Two Mighty Claws

[ElectricPaladin]

This is a first draft. Comments welcome.

 

Two Mighty Claws

 

I am a hand, and an eye, and two mighty claws.

 

I have been thus ever since I went to the citadel of my masters and was found wanting. Perhaps, had I been stronger, wiser, more blessed, I would have become one of the masters, one of the Emperor’s angels. But that was not my fate. Instead, what remained of me was stripped back further, and I found my new form: a hand, an eye, and the two mighty talons with which I rend the sky.

 

<<UNIT 96951 AWAKEN>> The sensation is not at all like hearing speech - something I have not done in more years than I can recall - but that is the closest analogue I can form.The words are introduced directly into my brain, almost like my own thoughts, but for their weird buzzing cadence. These are the thoughts of the masters, sent to me through the wires that penetrate my skull.

 

My eye snaps open, and for a single disorienting moment I am assaulted by a vision of my surroundings: green liquid that sustains and cushions me, a forest of tubes and cables trailing up and down away from my body, and distorted by the curved glass that separates me from the world outside, my own truncated reflection.

 

But then the many neurological links comes online at once. My senses expand and contract amid a single moment of blinding pain. Now I am vaguely aware of the metal frame that contains me, the status of my fuel and ammunition reserves, the integrity of my treads and ceramite armor. Most importantly, I become aware my claws: the twin canons above the roof of the stalker-class anti-air tank whose wired-in servitor I am.

 

You might think that my masters are cruel, but this could not be further from the truth. I have been given the chance to be a part of a puissant war machine, from within which I can help protect mankind. I was judged unworthy of becoming one of the masters, but still I can serve. It is an honor that I do not deserve, and I strive every day to be the best and most potent tool I can. How many mortals are lucky enough to enjoy that degree of purpose? When I am not in use or engaged in practice maneuvers to keep my skills sharp, my masters permit me time to rest and contemplate, in communion with the others of my kind. My end, when it comes, will be swift and merciful. What could be kinder?

 

The voice - I will call it a voice - continues while I swivel my guns back and forth, checking their speed and responsiveness. 

 

<<ENEMY CONTACTS - SECTION 0963>>

 

My right gun is still a little sluggish, but it is not so much thatI cannot compensate. It will serve for now. I make a mental note to relay this information to my masters when the battle is done.

 

<<ANTI-AIR AND GROUND FORCES SCRAMBLE TO DEFENSIVE POSITIONS>>

 

My sensors, on the other hand, are in excellent condition. All around me, I can “see” the dim interior of the staging ground. My fellows are parked elsewhere. Between the tanks, the masters prepare for battle, topping off fuel reserves or climbing into open hatches. The excitement in the air is palpable, even to me.

 

<<TASK FORCE DESIGNATION: INDOMITABLE>>

 

The master who will be piloting me enters and straps himself in. He checks the interface, notes my report on the incomplete repair of my right cannon, grunts, and fires up my engine. A fierce joy floods through me as I feel the sheer power of the metal heart that powers me. My treads roar and we surge up the ramp and out into the cold morning air. Everywhere around me are my fellows, weaving an intricate pattern as we swerve left and right, a careful dance that will deliver each of us to our appointed place.

 

<<GO FORTH IN THE EMPEROR’S NAME>>

 

My field of battle is to the east of the citadel. Already, I can see the dark spots in the sky that will soon resolve themselves into the shapes of alien raider craft. My mind floods with information, the auto-briefing, downloaded directly from the citadel’s data core. I know the kinds of enemy vessels I am likely to encounter and in what proportions, their specifications and capabilities. Idly, I cycle through the ammo drums, selecting the right shells for the job. These alien craft are fast-moving and lightly armored, built for hit-and-run attacks, not extended engagements. I chose armor piercing bullets with small explosive yields, powerful enough to crack my opponents’ thin hulls and damage their delicate internal workings, but light enough that I can push my rate of fire to its maximum.

 

I wait.

 

<<TODAY MY KILL COUNT WILL EXCEED YOURS, BROTHER>> It is Unit 7763. We have been friendly rivals for years, competing to outdo each other. It is a base imitation of the games our masters play, but it does not seem disrespectful to us. In any case, these conversations take place over our secured channels, and our masters have never learned of them, as far as I know.

 

I do not honor Unit 7763 with a response. That will irritate him the most.

 

And then, suddenly, the enemy is upon us. My pilot directs us through battle, avoiding enemy fire and seeking cover where he can find it. I focus my attention on my claws, swinging them through the sky with grace and precision, striking hard and knocking my opponents to the ground in flames.

 

It is at this moment that I imagine myself most fully human once more. In my mind, I am immobile and the battlefield swirls around me. My arms - in my mind I have both of them - are long and dextrous and tipped with a pair of mighty claws.I swing them this way and that, swatting my targets out of the air. In reality, my guns track the movement of my imaginary hands, and when my claws unfurl to rip a puny foe to pieces, my guns fire, unleashing a stream of explosive bolts to pierce their shells and kill their hearts.

 

I will never be a master. I was judged and found wanting. In this moment, though, I am more than a broken shell of a man imprisoned inside a machine. I am more, even, than a whole man, a soldier. I am a god of battle.

 

Warning signals scream at me a half a second before our movement is altered by the shredded tread. It is an experience not altogether unlike pain. We have been struck by one of the massless, inertialess projectiles that our opponents of the day favor, and the damage is significant. We will not be able to move again in this battle - I doubt that we will even make it back to the citadel under our own power.

 

The shock brings me back to myself, and I am once more merely a hand and an eye attached to a knot of flesh inside a complex machine. However, I am still connected to the complex network of sensors that help me to track and predict the motions of craft that move faster than sound. I bend my sensors to survey the battlefield, and what I discover is shocking and alarming.

 

We are losing. The alien raiders are flitting around the battlefield, picking off the survivors one by one.

 

A sharp tapping - slightly muffled by the fluids that surround and cushion my crippled body - draws me down into my body. I open my eye and see the master, my pilot, crouched inside the tank. He has removed his helmet. When he sees the pupil of my eye contract to focus on him, he knows that he has my attention. He begins to speak.

 

I cannot hear him, of course, but I can read his lips.

 

“The enemy must not be permitted to reach the Citadel,” he says.

 

I contract long-unused muscles, causing my head to nod slightly.

 

“The enemy believes that we can be discounted, but they are wrong. Our air support will channel them into a path that takes them overhead. You will ambush them. If we can delay them long enough, the Citadel will be able to scramble their anti-air defenses. Do you understand?”

I nod again.

 

My master returns the nod. He places one gauntleted hand on the curved wall of the cylinder that contains me - a gesture that is almost fond, I think - then turns to climb to one of the upper hatches, unholstering his sidearm as he goes. His chances of actually hitting any of the fast-moving alien crafts are slim, but the message is clear - we will both give all that we have.

 

I rise again into the cybernetic senses that are so much clearer than those senses that remain with my useless body. I see the enemy approach with eyes of glass and ceremite. I flex my claws, giving each barrel a single rotation to check their function. I wait - if I act too soon, they will have the time they need to bomb our position, but if I act to late they might escape me. The moment approaches, and then…

 

I strike! My claws lash out, spewing armor piercing bullets into the sky. My enemies fall, trailing smoke from shattered engines and cockpits. One by one, I empty my ammunition bins until I am using the most unsuitable projectiles I am stocked with. I am dimly aware of automatic alarms from the systems of my claws, warning me of overheating barrels, of impending disaster, but I ignore them. None of the enemy must be allowed to survive.

 

The pain when my left-side claw explodes is excruciating. Were it not for the systems managing my body, I would have lost consciousness. Instead I remain aware, aware enough to see a final flight of bombers at the edge of my effective range and headed for the Citadel.

 

I can feel my body convulsing, whipping the life-sustaining fluids around me into froth, but I pay it no mind.

 

I raise my remaining claw. I fire. One of the bombers becomes a ball of flame.

 

Alarms continue to press against my skull. I fire. Another bomber down.

 

The final bomber moves to just beyond my effective range. He is at the furthest distance my claws can reach.

 

I scream, the muscles that once held a lower jaw to the bottom of my skull twitching feebly. I fire again and again, ignoring the alarms, the blinding pain, the sense of dread. I fire every bullet that remains to me, praying that one will find its target, that the tip of one claw will touch my foe and steal the sky from him.

 

My opponent and my second barrel explode at almost the same time. This time, my entire turret is sufficiently damaged that my senses go blank. I am alone in the darkness of my cylinder. Now I can feel that something is terribly wrong with me, with my body. There is a buzzing in the back of my head. Although most of my body is gone, I can feel a cool numbness on my entire left side. My breath has been managed by machines for a long time, and yet I don’t feel as though I am getting enough oxygen.

 

My master is there again. He speaks, and I read his lips with my dying sight.

 

“We have succeeded. The Citadel is safe.”

 

So many systems are damaged. I cannot respond as I usually would, through the cybernetic vox link. My master’s face is hard to read - he, too, has been altered from his original shape, and those alterations have stretched and hardened his features - but I see sympathy in his eyes. He knows what is about to become of me - and in his knowledge, I realize it as well. This has been my final battle.

 

I seize control of my remaining arm. The effort is enormous, but I bend the elbow, flex the fingers, and bring the withered hand to my chest in half of the sign of the aquila. My master nods and crosses both his hands over his chest, returning the gesture.

 

I was once a man. Later, I was a failed aspirant, one not chosen. Then for years, I was a mighty machine of war.

 

I was a hand and an eye. I was two mighty claws.

[Erasus]

I think this is an incredibly well written piece of work!

 

An interesting take on servitors, personally I've always viewed them as lobotomised flesh-machines but reading your take on them was thoroughly enjoyable.

I'm no master of the written word but I can't find a problem with your sentence structuring or the overall pacing of the piece. There are a few typos, such as ceremite than ceramite but these are relatively minor. The choice to write it in first person definitely helped, I doubt there would have been as much connection and insight had it been read in a third person view, and the little thoughts and emotions that accompany that really added to the character.

 

Well done, a really good short piece

[Carrack]

I think this is an incredibly well written piece of work!

 

An interesting take on servitors, personally I've always viewed them as lobotomised flesh-machines but reading your take on them was thoroughly enjoyable.

I'm no master of the written word but I can't find a problem with your sentence structuring or the overall pacing of the piece. There are a few typos, such as ceremite than ceramite but these are relatively minor. The choice to write it in first person definitely helped, I doubt there would have been as much connection and insight had it been read in a third person view, and the little thoughts and emotions that accompany that really added to the character.

 

Well done, a really good short piece

I agree with everything above. I also want to commend you on how you made the protagonist condition not seem like it was a punishment, but an honor to be able to keep serving. It's still grim and dark, like his fate, but it also shows a side of his character that makes it believable for him to keep fighting, when, at least me and I assume most readers would otherwise not understand his continued devotion to a chapter made him a servitor. Excellent story.