Hardsteel felt the enormous kick of his ‘37 Sethen revolver through the neural pads on his hands and arms. The man he shot crashed through a termite-erroded wall opposite him, sending a shower of dust and wood splinters into the cramped room beyond. Light punched through the hole made by the man’s body, stunning Hardsteel’s iris sensors. He blinked.
The man wasn’t getting back up; Hardsteel’s programming was good enough to know a gunshot to the neck didn’t leave a man standing. With a flick of his wrist and a hiss of air from the pistons maneuvering to his elbows, Hardsteel holstered the revolver in his belt. He kicked through the debris—boxes filled with rotting food, a dirty blanket, a bundle of wool woven to look like a sheep—and stepped into the next room to inspect the man’s corpse.
Red liquid dripped from the man’s neck, saturating the sheets he had fallen onto and collecting in a puddle on the packed dirt floor. Two black swords were criss-crossed on the man’s wrist, a sign of his allegiance to the Thieves of Verholt. Another dead, the commanding initiative within Hardsteel marched on.
A child whimpered from beneath the bandit’s broken body.
Hardsteel’s first and primary initiative—to uphold justice, end the Thieves of Verholt, and return what was stolen—raised his arm, revolver in hand, and pointed it at the cowering child. With one cast-iron finger he cocked the gun, knowing there were still three more bullets in its cylinder . An aiming retina flipped out from the side of his head, and his programming lined the child up with the sights on his revolver.
Hardsteel’s second initiative—programmed with a simple phrase, “Do what is right”—caused his trigger finger to hesitate. His eyes flicked to the boy’s wrist, and sure enough, there was the Verholt’s insignia tattooed on his arm. No doubt the boy had been indoctrinated to them at an early age. And yet…wasn’t he still young?
The boy had matted brown hair, a dirty, round face that had yet to harden from puberty, and short feeble arms that clutched a tattered yellow blanket. He had none of the Thieves’ characteristic survival instinct, no gun, and was hurling no insults. The Enforcer Law dictated that any and all of the Verholt Thieves stolen goods must be returned to their rightful owners. It also dictated that they must be shot on sight.
The primary initiative grasped control of Hardsteel’s processors—this was the way, switching between primary and secondary—and Hardsteel took a step forward. The boy let out a quiet whimper. No, a growl. A sign of aggression, told the primary initiative. He will put up a fight.
Then the secondary initiative kicked in. Look at him. Was that truly a growl? Can’t you see he needs food, water? His voice is gravely. Is that not what happens to human’s voices without proper lubricant?
Hardsteel could not move his limbs with the initiatives disagreeing like this. He narrowed his eyes at the child, studying, waiting for the initiatives to decide what he would do. The boy whimpered again, pulled away, and tried with shaking eyes not to look at the dead bandit collapsed atop him. He peered up at Hardsteel with large green eyes.
“Are you…going to take me away? Am I going to fall asleep, like my Da? Is that what you did to him?”
Hardsteel looked at the man again. The Thief’s blood had soaked through his shirt and was starting to drip onto the boy’s legs. The law dictated that the man should die, that all Thieves should die. The first initiative reminded Hardsteel of his purpose. He twisted back to the child and applied pressure on the trigger.
“Yes,” he whispered. A loud bang shook the room.
The boy opened his eyes to see a bullet hole that tore clean through the wall behind him. Hardsteel holstered his revolver with a flourish, shoved the bandit’s corpse aside, and held out his hand. The little boy reached up with a feeble hand to grasp one of Hardsteel’s cold iron fingers.
“Cover that,” Hardsteel said, pointing to the mark on the boy’s wrist. “I will show you what it means to do good, and you will be a Thief no longer.”
The boy nodded and stood, and Hardsteel took him away. The food would be returned, and the Enforcers would have their corpse. But they did not need to know about the victim of a harsh parent who chose a harsh lifestyle. Hardsteel would take care of him and teach him the second initiative. There were plenty around to do the first.
After all, Hardsteel was learning what it meant to do good himself.
This was the first-ever story I wrote for my writing group, all the way back in February of 2023! The prompts were, “Western setting; The legally correct thing to do will drastically hurt someone else; Part cyborg”. I wrote a sequel to it as well which you can read here! Hope you enjoyed!
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