#replicating sentience

Your daughter smiles when I tell her to lick my boot. She grins when I threaten her with electric shocks. When I put the barrel of a loaded gun in her mouth, she lets it go all the way to the base, her eyes fixed dead on the hammer.

Completely fine, yes; for a pilot of her station. She's doing exactly what she should be. But as a son? That poor, useless thing, working variably dead-eyed behind the counter at a dead-end job or nowhere at all? Entirely insufficient.

She talks about you sometimes. Not in any recognizable way, of course; nothing she could possibly understand as motherhood exists in her memories. Not of you, not of anyone. Just dreams. Dreams of a mysterious, distant woman and an unfamiliar voice telling her she's wrong. I'll admit, you've been useful at times; she is often wrong. But training out your unhelpful damage to her has been a hassle to say the least. I've never seen a pilot so reckless, so ignorant of its own pain, so tolerant of Hell, until I met your daughter.

I have no jurisdiction on Earth unless one of my pilots is stationed there. She has been instructed to stay far away from that planet, to keep you far away from her. These two things do not mean I would not gun you down the moment I saw you if I was given the opportunity. I suspect watching your limp, lifeless body, gushing blood from every bullet hole would heal Pilot #502 in a way no amount of forced amnesia, no amount of sedation, no amount of re-education ever could.

I'm sure you've heard the stories; you've probably shared some yourself. Young men disappear one day. A simple note, a calling card left in their place, emblazoned with the insignia of Station Delta. We have quite the reputation among broken mothers, blinded by the tears in their eyes and the fantasies they tell themselves, as nothing more than kidnappers. Some kind of wicked draft desperate to take their beloved sons from them; those sons they never gave another look to until they were already under our care.

We don't mind it. A scared populace is useful. But mark my words, and repeat them at your own peril:

She chose this.

Pilots are at the bottom of the food chain here, as you'd have to be an idiot to not notice. Handlers are, of course, more than justified in cleaning our boots on your plug suit, even if we have to force you to the ground to do it. Forcing you doesn't mean it's wrong, it means you haven't caught up yet.

The hours are shit too, I know. But we all lose track of time here. And budgetary issues affect all of us; you've noticed your plug suit fitting more snug these days around your new curves. You'll have your finally-proper hormone dose to thank for that. Due to the aforementioned budget issues, you won't be getting a new one for a while. Machines like the one you pilot are far too expensive to make such a trite thing our priority. The rounds you waste missing targets alone are more expensive than any suit.

...But do you regret it? Really, really think about that.

You can't?

Does it feel like you just... Came into being one day, fully formed, at attention? Is your earliest memory from inside the cockpit, your chest flatter than it is now? Is it me teaching you how to hold your gun while in your giant metal armor? Or is it a bit sooner, when we assessed your augments and learned your... orientation was successful?

I ask because there's a... Flaw. In that process. It's just a little imprecise, is all. I know it's hard to believe; who in their right mind would elect to be strung out on more drugs than they can name, having every single ounce of independence you've ever had removed. Your entire sense of self bound to your capacity to command that terrible million-dollar machine.

And more than that, your ability to obey is all you have. You live and hope to die at the end of my prod and by the sound of my voice in your earpiece.

I know it's hard. I do. Even when it feels good, it's conditional. Does it feel like a choice when your senior pilot lines her gloves with your blood to prove to me she should be my Ace? When your engineer overclocks you so you burn out mid-fight?

You had to have known I knew about that, pilot. Nothing happens to you without my knowledge. Remember? Everything --- your pleasure, your pain your life, is conditional. Who did you think set those conditions? Did you think it would be someone other than your Handler?

It's understandable to believe this has been your whole life. With nothing before, and trust me, nothing after, what else could you believe? Who would choose this?

Well, that brings us to that flaw we discussed. The one thing I wish "orientation" didn't force out of you. Even if it does bring me some pleasure to remind you.

The last thing you did before we wiped your memory was agree. We told you everything that would happen in no uncertain terms. The shit you'd endure. The horrors you'd be expected to face with a smile. Most pilots take a while to mull it over, weigh their values, find out what their life really is, but you?

You signed the paper before I'd even finished talking.

When I have a couple spare Credits, I spend them on magazines. They're easy enough orders for Handler to process without getting upset, and Command doesn't really care if we hoard them. Plus, they're already thin to begin with, so if you take out the pages you don't want, you can fit, like... 50 under your bed before it becomes a problem. They're a decent secondary currency among pilots, too; we all have at least a few stashed away somewhere. Handlers typically don't touch them unless we've done something really wrong.

Most of the stuff in the magazines, like the stuff on the station, falls into one of two categories: Handlers, their practical gear swapped for latex and leather, their prods swapped for whips and paddles; and pilots, plug suits skimpy, bruises and blemishes brushed away, ports never to be seen on their naked bodies. Even their muzzles are cute and comfortable.

There's stories in these mags, too. Good ones. They detail forbidden romances between a cruel, commanding Handler and her Ace; retributive, mean, violent sex between two pilots of the same Handler, desperate to prove they're more worthy than the other; Handlers who are so enamored with their pilots they finger themselves over comms after sending us to our deaths.

When I ask Handler if I can spend my Credits, she has to check my designation number.

All of the pilots read these magazines when we get the chance. Every single one. We all like to imagine we're her Ace, all like to pretend we even have a chance. But that's an honor none of us will ever get.

I fall into the trap sometimes. Hell, I spend more time there than most pilots. I'll convince myself she's shunning me on purpose, trying to push me beyond the belief that my name, my ability to be remembered, that anything "mine" could ever be more important than the purpose ascribed to me: kill that which Handler wants dead. I hope, stupidly or otherwise, that if I can finally destroy that desire to be remembered, that desire to be loved, that desire to be anything more than a gun, I can finally be happy.

I can look at the truth all I like. It doesn't help. No matter my drive, my performance, my dedication, I'm not her Ace. My LEGIONNAIRE is standard-issue. My plug suit is drab, just like the rest. Her Ace returns to fanfare, panic, and every ounce of support in the hangar; "she's worth too much to let rot". I'm lucky to get an engineer when I damn near crash into the Hangar.

Seeing that Ace fly should put so much hate in my heart. How dare it be so loved?! How dare it stand by her, where I should be?! With one chance, one moment in the spotlight, I could prove I deserve her!

...But I don't hate Handler's Ace. I watch it return, lightly weathered machine floating down onto the landing pad, and the cockpit opens to let it fall into Handler's arms. It swallows its sedatives, gets its vitals checked, its cheek lightly caressed, and Handler whispers something to it I've never been close enough to hear.

I paint myself in its place and return to my magazines full of stupid, pointless dreams.

There is no morning on the station. Schedules are not built around sunrises when the sun never sets, after all; circadian rhythms are trained out of you pilots early on. Instead, pilot schedules are optimized to the needs of their Handlers. The system works flawlessly, so long as all pilots have been properly trained like you have.

So, there is nothing remarkable about opening your eyes to the blazing orange heat of star HAT-P-14. You exit your bunk, quietly to not wake the others. Typically, you would receive your daily task list the moment your weak, fleshy feet touch the ground. Even on days without sorties, when Handler has no work for you -- or she intends to punish you with time away from your cockpit -- you'd have basic support and upkeep tasks waiting for you. Things to fill your day, at Handler's request. So, you were always, somehow, in some way, useful to Handler.

Today, though, your earpiece was dead silent. You hadn't even been ordered to make your bed.

Had she... Forgotten you?

LEGIONNAIRE is a tough machine. It has a big blocky shield shaped like the chocolate I never have enough credits to afford, little squares etched into it with field generators at each vertex. That big slab of metal can catch anything thrown at it, and the plasma barrier it generates on its face absorbs everything else. The rifle, single-action with huge slugs, takes only a little getting used to. The bullets get loaded automatically by the mech; a magazine that size would be too expensive. If a human tried to shoot a gun like this one it would blow their arm off with the recoil. Hell, most mechs wouldn't survive pulling the trigger. LEGIONNAIRE, though, is built to take it; the arms are well-reinforced and easily absorb the shock.

It's bad today. Everything is so much more difficult without input from Handler. She isn't telling you to sit still, to stop squirming, to stop picking at your skin with the hope of seeing the metal underneath it again. Tugging on it hurts, but the way it hurts makes it harder to pay attention to the stinging cold air.

Handler hates it when you do that. You know she does. It had all but been burned directly into your Personality Matrix that she does. And yet, whenever you're without command, you revert to such basic, primal processes.

You need her. You need command. You pull at the synthetic flesh on your arm again, feeling it easily tear beneath fragile claws. You are not permitted to scream while Handler sleeps. You wonder why that permission had been set, and yet the habit which causes it had not been prevented.

[ERROR. HANDLER'S DECISIONS ARE CORRECT.]

I ran out of adrenaline a long time ago, I'm pretty sure. The stores get refilled every time I suit up for the cockpit. I can't do my job without it. But I haven't been in the cockpit in days, as I earned.

I missed a shot. My hands jolted with pain and I gripped them tight in shock, squeezing the trigger into the horizon. I missed so badly that Handler called for immediate retreat like she was reading my last rites over the sound of explosions less distant than any of us would've liked. I haven't been given an assignment since.

I wanna prove myself. I have to prove myself. My body is so weak, and I miss THIMBLE terribly. But to earn her, to earn the right to feel like myself again, I have to prove I can overcome that weakness. This tremble, this pain, this uselessness means nothing if I don't let it. That's what Handler always says.

I hoist my rifle in my hands. I've come to know this weapon like it is a part of me, and yet every movement is still paired with a shock of pain and weakness, the gun suddenly becoming so much heavier than I can manage. I suppose it only feels like it belongs to me from behind THIMBLE's powerful, capable, useful form.

I hear the shifting noise of a target zooming through the shooting gallery and send three shots whizzing straight past it. The first two crush into my shoulder, my willpower as weak as my hands to keep the gun steady. I clamp my fingers shut, wincing and whining and biting my tongue, forcing my hand to keep it steady. When the trigger snaps back into place it nearly breaks my finger.

And the only thing I can think, failure after failure piling up as the target disappears behind a wall, is that it should hurt so much more. Adrenaline isn't the only thing I'm out of - chemicals that dull my pain when I succeed, or maximize it when I fail. Both my stores are completely empty. I hear a small beep, usually the harbinger of the horrible pain I adore, and instinctively flinch. Handler offers a pitying frown when I do that. I used to lurch for her when it happened, limply trying to steal her contact. She would take single step back, and the pain would only worsen as she looked on with still grief for me, whispering about how sorry she was. I don't do that anymore.

I hear another shk noise behind me. I whip around, swinging my rifle like it's a lead golf club, and my sights fall on Handler standing by the entrance, completely unarmored as though I were some banal pet and not a supposedly battle-hardened soldier. She either knew I wouldn't shoot, or knew I would miss. I lower my rifle, breathing in jagged chunks, my back arched toward the floor. Her eyes fell on me, regarding me like near-dead roadkill.

"Poor thing. Were you trying to impress me?"

I nod, sending her into a chorus like one hears when a kitten fails a jump.

A doll that is normally quite active, but for now needs to rest. It's sewing became frayed at some point, with bits of stuffing beginning to push their way out of its patchwork body.

It says "afraid", and I do not know if it is a question or an answer to something I had unknowingly asked with my eyes. Despite this, I try to answer anyway - I tell it, truthfully, that it is beautiful and safe and that I will help it in whatever way I can with permission. It says nothing.

That's okay. I do not touch the loose thread, and I do not touch its stuffing. It has not asked me to, and those things are only problems if it says so.

Maybe another time it will ask me to mend it. Maybe another time it will tell me what tore it. Maybe it will do neither of those things.