The blood smeared across my titanium forearms reminds me of the evening’s sunset, which was beautiful.

 

Red sky at night, sailors’ delight.

 

I discover the adage in the fragmented remnants of my memory files, which had been wiped at the beginning of this campaign. I don’t know the reason for the erasure, and I’m hesitant to make inquiries. Bots who step out of line can simply be wiped again — we’re afforded no rights.

 

I wet a rag and begin washing away the gore from my sky-blue exoskeleton. Its color is another mystery. It's hardly camouflage. Again, I wonder if the answer might have been lost with my memories.

 

No wipe is perfect — the red sky adage is proof of that — and the bits and pieces that occasionally surface do not all fit with the role I’m playing. I’m a good soldier, an effective killer, but it doesn’t feel right. Then again, maybe it’s not supposed to. I’ve heard the organic members of my squad say as much.

 

My left hand is always the last thing I clean as it requires extra care. Built into the palm of that hand is a pair of short electric prods. Extending from the tip of the index finger is a pepper spray nozzle. Both implements are highly effective in close-quarters combat. They’re obviously part of my original design, not aftermarket customizations, and they’re proof that I’m doing what I was made to do.

 

* * *

 

My ablutions complete, I relieve a drowsy lieutenant at the entryway to the mobile barracks. The other men will already be fast asleep, having exhausted themselves in our six-hour siege of the nearby enemy village, which we'd left in ruin. Every person who was there in the morning is either dead or detained. The three artificials we encountered are permanently offline. We were thorough, but you can never be too careful in war.

My night vision is sharp, my aim is sharper, and I’m a vigilant lookout. We should be fine.

 

I double-check my rifle, making sure the safety’s off and there’s a round in the chamber. When I look back, I catch a glimpse of movement several hundred yards away, near the center of the village. It was there and gone in an instant, just a flicker of blue. Like mine? I’ve seen plenty of other artificials in the field, but never another of my model.

 

I should wake up the squad. That’s protocol. I follow protocols because I’m a good soldier, and because I don’t want to earn myself another memory wipe. But that blue…

 

Against my better judgement, I decide to check it out myself. It’s hard to believe we missed anything in our sweep. It’s impossible for us to have missed much. A powered-down bot could have escaped our sensors, or a warm body tucked in deep somewhere. I’ll be careful, and I’ll sound the alarm at the first sign of trouble.

 

* * *

 

I hear a voice as I enter the village, faint and definitely human. I follow the sound, moving like a ghost, rifle at the ready. I tuck in behind a burned-up vehicle and freeze, straining the sensitivity of my electronic ears. The whispers of help are growing weaker, making it tough to judge direction. But I'm close.

 

I peek around a charred bumper and am shocked to discover not a human but an artificial, and my perfect twin at that! It’s moving back and forth before the ruins of a small, collapsed building, its familiar eyes trained on the rubble. I hear another soft cry of distress and realize it’s coming from within that mess. The structure was steel, and its debris could definitely have hidden a body from our scans.

 

My doppelganger seems to arrive at a decision and begins pulling away the crumpled metal. It lays the sheets down carefully, but it’s impossible to avoid making noise — hopefully not enough to wake the soldiers.

 

Moments later, the form of a man appears. By his garb, it’s clear he’s one of the villagers. A jagged sliver of steel protrudes from his blood-soaked shirt.

 

The next moments bring a series of surprises. First, instead of finishing the man off, the bot lifts him gingerly from the accidental spear. Second, the man does not cry out in agony. He must, I realize, be very close to death. Or dead already.

 

Laying the man gently on the ground, my twin extends the finger with its pepper spray nozzle to the seeping wound. But instead of pepper spray, a stream of white foam issues forth. A clotting agent? Then tearing away the man’s shirt, it presses its palm to his chest and shocks him — not to death — but back to life.

 

I look down to my own hand and wonder which of us is using it correctly. But only for a moment because the answer is obvious. My sky-blue skin seems an odd choice for a soldier — but a good fit for a medic.

 

The revelation sends a shock through my systems that jars free several lost images from my past. I see my hands once again covered in blood, but it belongs to people I fought to save, to lead away from death rather than toward it.

 

I hesitate a few seconds more and then slip quietly away. I leave my rifle behind with my illusions. Halfway down an alley that leads away from my sleeping squad, I realize I don’t know where I’m going. I keep walking anyway. What matters is that I know where I’m not going — I’m not going back.

 

Likewise, I don’t know what I’ll do next, but I know what I won’t do — ever again. I’ll never take another life.