I know not where I fight and I care not why. Drawn from death's sweet embrace once again, I awaken on a war torn world. My new masters tell me of their war, their enemies, their cause. Its all the same. I've heard it a thousand times before and I know I'll hear it a thousand more.
I'm given a name, a rank, and a uniform. All meaningless. I had a name once, but that was long ago. Now all I am is a weapon, a tool, brought out to be used and then put away again when no longer needed.
I'm given my orders and sent to the front. This time, I am to use my abilities to direct artillery and mask our presence from the enemy. My commander calls himself a veteran, believes he knows more than me. Once, I would've been insulted. Now, I just listen and obey, allowing him to convince himself his battle scars and cybernetics are proof enough of his seniority.
My fellow soldiers are all children. Their minds still dwell on naive thoughts of home, families, and hopes for peace. All of them so blissfully unaware that they will never see those things again. Though, that last wish they may be granted. When death does take them, I doubt they'll be valuable enough to warrant resurrection.
The time for battle inevitably comes and I sense the enemy. Their imitation souls still reek of the cloning vats. Their lobotomized minds bleat like a flock of ignorant sheep. They make easy prey.
I touch the minds of the gun crew and guide their shots to the target. Dozens of saccharine lives are snuffed out in an instant. Again and again they die in droves. Yet, like lemmings, they continue marching to their doom.
Eventually, after hours of constant bombardment, the onslaught halts. The battlefield is at peace for a while. Though this peace, as all peace does, invariably comes to a sudden end.
The silence was shattered when shells began to strike ahead of the trenches. Soon these shells were followed by machine gun fire as the enemy came into view. Pain and terror rolled across the trenches like a thick smog. Yet it was all from my side. From the enemy, nothing. They had sent machines, soulless automata. Which thought not with sensation and emotion, but with algorithm and arithmetic.
Massive tracked assault guns were followed closely by wheeled machine gun carriers. All the while low flying drones provided air support. Behind them, hulking android terminators marched, ready to take the trench.
The heavy machine guns and auto-cannons poured fire into the mass of metal advancing towards us. Meanwhile my gun crew switched to radar targeting. Laser turrets and missile systems lit up the sky as they established air defense. In all this awesome display, I did nothing. I was of little use against the machines.
Slowly, the machines made gains. Advancing over their fallen brethren and inching ever closer to our lines. Meanwhile, we were worn down. Occasionally a shell would strike a laser turret or a drone would get through. Each hit accelerated our loss. It finally collapsed when the terminators reached our trenches.
Screams echoed across the battlefield as they cut through our men. The terrified thoughts of men interrupted as they were blown apart by machine gun fire. The commander led a charge of his elite troops to stop the advance. He made gains and scored many kills but there simply too many. His veterans were burned, crushed and blown apart. The commander died wrestling a terminator. An exchange which he may have won, had he not been shot in the back by a second terminator.
Eventually the machines reached my dugout. The crew had depressed the gun to act as an impromptu anti tank gun and rigged the approaching trenches with bombs made from shells. These traps worked. Scores of terminators were felled while tanks were held at bay. It wouldn't last though.
Soon enough, the terminators got through the traps and reached our dugout. The crew got the first shots off, but they merely bounced off the terminators' armored hulls. They were quickly cut down when the machines returned fire. I survived the barrage by forming a shield around myself. I split one of machines in half and sent pieces of it flying into the others. Another I twisted into an unrecognizable pile of scrap. Three more I destroyed by detonating their internal ammunition magazines. When a tank rolled over the dugout I pushed it away, sending it flying out into the field and flipping it onto its back. This was my last act in battle.
Flipping the tank had taken all of my focus, causing my shield to break. Almost instantly I was struck with a hail of machine gun fire. I collapsed to ground and my life faded quickly. I waited calmly as the cool hand of death took me to rest.
Then, drawn from death's sweet embrace once again, I awaken on a war torn world. My new masters tell me of their war, their enemies, their cause. Its all the same. I've heard it a thousand times before and I know I'll hear it a thousand more.
I got the idea for this story while listening to Veteran of The Psychic Wars by Blue Oyster Cult. If you haven't heard it, I'd highly recommend you give it a listen. The song is basically about a man who's fought so many wars that his body and mind are destroyed. I thought that would be an excellent plot for a short story, so I wrote one. I was also influenced a bit by by Warhammer 40k, but that was really only minor aesthetic stuff like trench warfare being present alongside cyborgs in the far future.