Free Big Boys Don't Cry by Tom Kratman Page A

it.
    The voice rarely bothers to tell me the reason for my mission anymore, though I am still told to access certain programs from my core in order to use the weapons I possess. I do not need to know the reason anymore. I have learned not to ask. In a chariot or on foot, with weapons of bronze or of steel, with weapons that cut or chop or shoot or burn, I know my purpose. My purpose is to fight… and to kill… and to suffer… and to die.
    I hear the shriek that my programming tells me signifies incoming artillery fire. I crouch low in the hatch of the Tiger and pull the cover part-way down to protect my head. I scan forward and can see nothing through the smoke.
    The artillery lands all around me. I start to pull the hatch completely closed when I feel the tingle of impending pain. I stop my hand just in time. Now I know the rules. I understand immediately that I am not permitted to sacrifice visibility for safety. The tingle goes away. I sigh with relief. We pass through the artillery.
    There are flashes ahead of me. Small ones I know instinctively not to fear, larger ones tell of heavy shells that will land close by. I issue orders. My Tiger’s turret turns. More orders come and its cannon barks. A bunker explodes in my field of view. Another bark and yet another bunker flies apart. With each blast there is a burst of sensation in my pleasure center… pleasure center? I have a pleasure center? Ah, yes, I remember that I do. This intensity, though, is something new.
    In any case, I have one and with each fallen foe it vibrates most pleasurably. Happily I search for targets. I wish this sensation to continue.
    My Tiger advances. I am its central processing unit and its crew responds as if they were my own appendages. A slight jolt of pleasure attends every movement successfully carried out, every command properly given, every decision that is timely and well made.
    From folds in the ground and trenches spring the enemy infantry. Directly to my front, my bow machine gunner cuts one down. This enemy must have been carrying something inflammable for he bursts into flame as he falls. My gunner traverses and the enemy falls by squads. My whole being thrums with pleasure.
    Supported by my gunfire, my gray-clad infantry comrades rush the trenches ahead. I see some fall, but the others press on. Then they are in the trench. I see rifle butts and bayonets rise and fall. Soon I am given the hand signal: ‘Advance, the way is clear’. I move forward, the remaining friendly infantry falling in behind me.
    In my headphones I hear the command that my programming says fills all panzer crews with fear: “T-34s ahead. Closing.” I pass the word to my men. To my left the loader uncovers the anti-armor rounds for our gun and covers up the high explosive we had been using. He loads one long-tapered round of discarding sabot tungsten ammunition. We carry few such shells, I know. It is made of material both rare and expensive. I must get my money’s worth for every armor-piercing round.
    In the distance, through the fog and smoke, I dimly sense the faint silhouettes of the enemy vehicles. At my command my gunner traverses the turret. Traverse is slow, very slow, with the hand crank we are forced to use. The driver assists, while at the same time presenting our thickest armor to the foe by turning directly into the impending action. Behind me, on the ground, I sense the infantry scurrying for cover. Ahead of me, the number of T-34s perceivable has grown to dozens, scores, no longer difficult to perceive, and there are many, many more behind the ones I can now see.
    My gunner announces, “Target.”
    I command, “Halt,” then, “Fire,” and my Tiger’s cannon blooms in flame and smoke. Half-stunned by my own vehicle’s concussion, I see a T-34 come to a stop, its turret askew and the first licks of flame sprouting from its violated hull.
    My pleasure center tingles very strongly. I shiver in the command hatch. Again our gun belches