Waves crash against the hull of the cruiser, rocking me back and forth several stories above the sea. The gentle rumble of thunder rolling through the skies is dwarfed by gunfire and shouting. Bullets streak by me, snapping against steel and throwing sparks across the tilting floors. I steady my rifle on the railing as I know, but was never trained, to do. The horizon is black with clouds and there is no sun, but in the faintest glimmer of moonlight or the sparsest flash of lightning I see my targets illuminated.

No hesitation or confirmation, a target is seen and a shot is fired. In the milliseconds where I could process the difference between one position and another, I am able to track enemies unseen. With just enough time to account for the recoil of the gun, I fire shot after shot at something which, as far as I’m concerned, isn’t there. Still, no doubt crosses my mind. There’s no way it ever could.

More lightning, more light, more ships. I’ve seen thirty-three, and I’m only covering 180 degrees. Unsurprising. I overheard the superiors talking about our situation not an hour before I was brought topside. I was never supposed to be brought topside. We were never supposed to be here. This is a desperation move. They’re betting that the other unit and I, one artillery rifle each, are enough to stave off this ambush. I don’t know if it is, and I don’t care. I can’t.

I give them three shots each, then onto the next one that I can see. Not my call, not my decision, and no way to gauge effectiveness. Except one, which produces a vibrant cloud of flames after two shots. That’s enough, apparently, to move on to the next. The fire gives a little more light. A little more time for more accurate tracking.

They’re getting closer too. One shot splits a baluster to my left. The next is right on: a square shot to the chest. Low caliber, no piercing. It doesn’t move me, and I keep to my three-shot routine. Then they come like rain, still achieving not much more than ping-ponging off my armor. I hear every one and the sound doesn’t bother me. 

None of it makes a difference until there’s a sudden string of fire to the side of the head. Lower caliber still, but higher velocity. That means they’re nearby, which begs a response. The head turns to face my aggressor and the forehead lamp turns on to illuminate their figure.

It’s a woman clutching a shoddy automatic rifle, standing on a motorized boat just a tad bigger than a jet ski. She wears only a dress and a bandolier. Her skin is dark and leathery, and her cheeks sag a bit. Her eyes open wide with quivering pupils as she watches the sparks of each round fly from my face with no change.

The clip runs dry, but she continues to depress the trigger. My aim rises to meet her face. Her gun keeps clicking and she lets out a guttural yell: a warcry marred by futility. By her look, behavior, and the sound of her voice, I estimate she’s over 50 years of age. I pull the trigger and she grows no older.

The single round forms large holes in her boat and what was once her head. Liquid gushes forth from both. I have but a few seconds to take in the sight of her corpse stumbling into the rapidly spreading pool of her sinking craft. My last sight of them as I turn is the LED-lit contrast of blood on saltwater.

No pause, and I’ve returned to aiming at the boats in the distance. Their shots on me have become more consistent; I assume they’ve figured out I’m the primary line of defense on this side of the ship. They can fire as many as they please, it leaves nothing but scratches.

That is, until a rocket comes screeching toward me. Still no major threat, but a much more effective choice on their part. I’ve been in this scenario before, so I know what course of action that my body will take: damage control. My aim snaps straight to it, and I manage to blast it mid-air. The explosion dashes out at me from ten feet away, enough to knock my upper half backward, pointing my view to gray clouds silhouetted by the moon which they hide. 

Thanks to the magnet locks on my “feet”, I manage to keep standing. Recoiling from the blow, my chest slowly rises to parallel. My left arm waves away the cloud of smoke surrounding me, revealing another rocket flying on my right side. It’s lower this time, and I don’t have enough time to react. This one ought to be even more effective.

The rocket makes contact with the side of the ship, ripping apart a large chunk of the hull as though it were made of aluminum foil. I am launched into the air, over the railing behind me. Despite this, I’m still attached to the floor of the ship. It just happens to be flying alongside me.

A hard crash against the ocean surface. Sinking fast, the booms above become darker and more distorted. Gasses are routed to specific chambers in order to increase buoyancy, but the usefulness of this procedure is severely hampered by the crumpled mass of steel fused to my “leg”. The system tries its best to kick and free me from this obstruction, but it barely sways the wreckage. Next it tries disengaging the mag-locks. This is similarly useless: the combustible from that missile was a fine welder.

I can feel it giving up. Some metric, some criteria is passed which signals to the machine that what it’s doing isn’t working. It’s times like these when it decides to finally act out. It’s happened on just a couple of occasions before: tight spots where some algorithm somewhere doesn’t hit the confidence value it needs to indicate that it can worm its way out of the current problem.

For me, it’s the sensation of instinct giving way to consciousness: similar to becoming aware of your breath and taking control of it. Automation hands the reins to the rational and, for the first time in a long while, my survival is allowed to be my problem. I wiggle the smallest finger of my left gauntlet, and I’m pleased with how its movement aligns to my command. It moves up the entire arm, then out to  the rotating joint that could be charitably referred to as a neck. I amuse myself for a moment by turning to and fro, dancing the fading lights of the world above around my limited range of visibility.

But, like the yank of a leash, fear arrives to sober my high. From past experience I’ve been expecting it would, but desperately hoping it wouldn’t. I’ve wondered before if it’s a purposeful function of the system: a rerouting of chemicals and activation of neurons to stimulate problem solving, maybe. Or perhaps it’s a consequence of overdosing on lucidity after a stretch of abstinence. As it begins to hit, I don’t have the capacity to speculate any further.

Violently cognizant of my quickly depleting oxygen supply and the strangling grip of water pressure threatening to crush my shell and drive my insides out, I thrash in vain. Harsh pounding wraps each thought; can’t concentrate. Is it pulling me faster and faster? It’s definitely getting darker. Running out of options. I let out a silent scream, and the speaker at the front of my helm spews streams of bubbles in front of my eyes.

Damn it all! I had so much time to think and prepare, and instead I gawked idly as if I was dreaming! Ah yes, I’m so thoughtful, so philosophical! As recognition for my insights, I’ll be awarded the opportunity to meditate at the bottom of the ocean for the rest of eternity! 

Panic demands action: frantic and unrestrained action. I start by shaking the foot as the machine had, presuming I could somehow do better. Pointless! Worse than pointless! The rest of me flails helplessly, wasting precious power while the makeshift anchor holds strong.

Something else. The watery void is snuffing out what little lunar luminescence is left. What support my headlight grants is scarce. Come on, try something else! Striking is natural, right? I bend at the waist like a galvanized shrimp and thrust my left fist at the pile beneath me. With fluid drag pulling back on me, the energy transferred to the ferrous ball of damnation is null. So I thrust again. Again. And again. With each jab I create little more than a stifled, pitiful whoosh. 

I reel the elbow, winding up for one last go. With deep focus and intention I piston my clenched hand with as much strength as the forearm can grant me. Released with a snap, my fist slams its target and a booming, warbled clang of metal on metal emanates out into the infinite sea. The impact places such a strain on whatever hydraulics are pushing my motions that my left shoulder shakes as if it could all come loose. Luckily, it keeps together.

Unluckily, so does the gigantic mess stuck to my ankle. Maybe I’ve managed a dent; can’t tell for sure. Fuck. 

I’m exhausted. Not just the batteries. Mentally exhausted. Anxiety has folded up neatly into dread. A purer, simpler form of fear. It builds a dense pit in my core with tendrils reaching out to paralyze every piece of me. I’m unwilling to fight for my continually railroaded existence. Rather, I do what I imagine is normal at the brink of death: I reflect upon this cruel parody of life, seeking anything worth grasping or saying goodbye to.

Visualization is hazy, but doable. I see locations I visited without planning: vast deserts, rolling hills, and other traditionally beautiful scenery swarming with ant-like hordes of military personnel and hulking doomsday vehicles. I hear steps I took without looking; daunting journeys across incredible distances with no meaningful destinations beyond that which was directly in front of me. I feel the horror of people that I never met: tears streaking out of eyes from which the twinkle of the living fades. Every tragedy that came to them was played out by my unrelenting, unrepentant, and still unconsenting hands. So, this is the “life” that I should now feel some obligation to defend.

In opposition to my brooding, the hormones (or whatever it is zapping nodes of my brain) are still eliciting their intended response. For lack of better words, I’m freaking out. With no clear path in sight, I’ve switched focus to bashing myself in the head. Not very efficient, but it feels oh so right in the present. Even if physical pain eludes me, there’s nothing quite like a good self-beating to tie together the tug-of-war between apathy and resistance to mortality. I have to admit that the rattling of the rifle against my crown is annoying, though.

The rifle. The rifle? The rifle! The realization hadn’t crossed my mind until now: I’m still holding the artillery rifle. Not just that, the blessed thing is loaded. For some reason, I also know that it’s designed to be waterproof, although nobody has ever told me so.

I’m feeling better already; the creeping blackness of oblivion is retreating. This is why the controls were given to me: my latent ability to recognize the tools available and make solutions with them. I hurriedly angle the end of the weapon toward the melty cluster of hull below, trying also to avoid blowing my own foot off. Hell, I’m not really concerned if I destroy my foot: I just want to break free.

One. Two. Three shots define an equilateral triangle of bullet holes centered at the point of attachment. Those cracks together with a strong swing at the knee are enough to separate my boot from its captor. With the immediate decrease in density, I’m now floating upward again, and I watch as the giant flake of ruined ship exterior descends into nothingness. Good riddance.

My mood lifts too. Sensing a drop in pressure, the hidden automaton within regains its starring role in my shared autonomy. As always, I mourn the loaned freedom, but mostly I am relieved that my fate doesn’t have to be my responsibility for now. It doesn’t take long for a subconscious swimming motion to initiate. As I climb closer to the surface, everything becomes brighter.

Nearly too late, my helmet pierces the membrane where atmosphere caresses ocean. Sweet oxygen fills some facsimile of lungs inside my gadgetry; I can almost call it pleasurable. At the very least, it’s a cessation of suffering. It’s nice that suffocation is no longer a pressing issue.

With a fragile stasis achieved, the system resumes its bespoke duties while I ride in the backseat. First on its task list is to scan the horizon for information on the lost battle. And it truly is lost: 2.5 kilometers southwest the cruiser has sunk to the point where only a single communications antenna pokes toward the sky. Farther out, my assigned opponents are waving their weapons with pride as they make their escape on their simple motorboats. Though it’s not great for my health, I can’t help but be impressed by their accomplishment.

I haven’t encountered this scenario yet: a decisive defeat with no follow-up orders. No instructions come along the radio either, I must be too far from the nearest base tower. I’m left to speculate on what the algorithm alone should expect of me. Will I be diving back down to search for survivors and recover valuable navy resources? Will I hunt down the attackers one by one to make examples of those who dare cross the powers that be?

Wrong on both counts. As is evident by a hasty front crawl away from the fallen vessel, the machine favors retreat in this instance. There’s a beach not too far behind, but that’s where the speedboats are headed. Instead, the targeting mechanisms are locked on to a peninsula that looks absolutely miniscule at 50 times magnification; just shy of 150 kilometers out. It’s going to be a lengthy swim

The silver lining is this: once again I do not have to care. I’m not permitted to. After completing my test, I’ve been neatly slotted back into the cold, unfeeling jail cell which houses my sentience. This suit is the domain of the other now, all I can do is spectate as it struggles onward with inhuman determination toward an unknown land.

When I arrive there, if I arrive there, it will choose each action for me until one of three events occur. The first is that the system once again needs the help of my conscious mind. I’m not particularly hoping for this. I may get a taste of what it means to be alive and sovereign, but it’s ultimately not worth the hassle. A bleak outlook, to be sure, but one that I’ve had more than enough time to settle into.

Second is that I’m returned to my owners. I’m not ignorant to the fact that I am property. Once I’m placed under the jurisdiction of certain officials, I’ll be shipped out on more missions. This is no different than what I’m doing now, just with tighter and more exact restraints.

The third result is that I die. A large enough projectile might drill through my plating into some critical component. I could get caught in a storm and swept out into some remote expanse where I’ll expend every last reserve of energy until there’s none left to sustain me. The AI itself could decide that I’ve become a liability to our masters, opting to self-destruct before some competitor can steal a powerful new asset. I replay fantasies like these often. As terrifying as it would be in that moment, it usually seems it’s the only way I may be let go from this ongoing imprisonment.

Realistically, even that isn’t guaranteed. For all I know, this fabricated husk might be able to shamble on in a degraded state, fulfilling its creators’ deeds without me. Or even more nightmarish: it might keep parts of me alive even after the “waking” mind is gone. What if I were reduced to only the nerves that feel pain?

This thinking isn’t fruitful. The best I can do is treat this time as the closest thing I have to rest. Approaching some new area with novel experiences, I’ll psychologically recline for now and watch the gears turn the same way they always have and always will. It’s difficult to believe that anyone can do much beyond that.