The Moment, by Penny Simpson

This is the moment that I hoped would never arrive. I had got used to the implant in my right arm, to the two-roomed apartment, prompt health care and the reservist premium in my pay. I thought we would see it coming; our people’s hour of greatest need. That we would all feel threatened, sense impending disaster. If I imagined being called, it would be a heroic march to war with fond farewells, vibrato drums and chords. Side by side in step with my brave hooray fellows.

But today I am here alone. And the moment is worse than any fears. Instead of the buzzing I expected: a moment of panic and alarm before deciding to respond, I found myself walking past the entrance to my underground station. My mind turned left to walk down the steps but my legs walked straight on then around countless twists and turns to this market place where they stopped and won’t move another step.

I didn’t know I’d signed over control of my body. My mind is not affected. Or perhaps I only think it isn’t. So now the question is – what am I doing here? Where are the others? There’s no sign of anyone from the brigade I trained and convalesced with. Alone and unarmed, what am I supposed to do?

A crowd of children emerge from a narrow street onto an empty corner of the market playfully chasing a dog. They are laughing and shrieking. The dog runs silently away from them but not too fast; they are all playing. My eyes focus on the dog and I feel my finger rising. It twitches, I recoil. There is a moment, still and poised, before the dog stops running, the children stop and stare at the red flower growing on her silver fur. Then someone looks at me and points their finger. I am not sure whether it is their implant or my horror that roots me here. I cannot move but suddenly a clattering crowd of people armed with makeshift weapons surges for me. Sweat makes a break to leave my threatened body but there is nowhere else for me to be.

There is wailing. Getting louder, I hear it through the rain of blows. Then the crack of rifles firing, heavy polished boots shine through and disappear the crowd. Looking up the length of twenty rifles, I try to dare to speak. While comrades cover, one bends down, grabs my wrist, examines the flesh exploded to reveal the metal rim within, “This one’s been fired.”  “Could be an IED”, this second voice implants the thought that I now know as truth. That’s what I am. Not ticking but I feel the seconds counting.