New Fiction: No Crimes Committed, by Eric Fomley

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No Crimes Committed

Eric Fomley

When you return to the carrier, you’re ushered into a room that’s dull and grey, with a monitor, a chair with straps on its arms, and some sort of helmet-like device to go over a patient’s head.

“Take a seat, private,” Sarge says.

You do as you’re told, but not without reservations. “Sir? What’s this about?”

A woman with spectacles and a lab coat walks into the room as you sit. She stands at the monitor.

“I need to ask you a few questions, son, about that last mission. That’s all. Doctor Mendez is here to help facilitate.”

You want to relax, but Sarge tightens the leather straps around your arms. Doctor Mendez pulls the helmet-looking device over your head and presses small paddles to both of your temples.

You hope this is about the order from Command to slaughter those civilians. An order you didn’t raise your gun to obey. You hope it’s the opportunity to right the wrongs some of the rest of your unit committed. That this interview is about making the ones who made that call pay. You feel a stony knot in your throat. You’re queasy. You’d do anything to take back what happened.

“Where did your mission take you?” Sarge asks when the doctor is back at the monitor.

His question is confusing. He’s your commanding officer. He knows where you were.

“We went behind enemy lines, to a village deep in Conglomerate territory.”

“That’s not true,” Sarge says, looking at the doctor. “You were right here, in our own country.”

Your mind protests. You reach for the name of the village, the details of the operation, but as the doctor types, the details are hazy. An idea briefly flashes through your mind that your memories are being manipulated, but it’s gone before you can finish the thought.

“What happened out there?” he asks.

 A surge of anger spikes through you. Something isn’t right but you’re not sure what. You try to concentrate.

“We were sent into the village to extract a known POW from a Conglomerate compound. We got in and got him, but then the order came down to…to kill all the people in the village, sir. To leave no witnesses. Those people were nonmilitary targets.” There are tears streaking down your face as you grit this last part out. “I couldn’t help carry out that order, sir. It wasn’t right.”

Sarge looks down at you coolly, like what you said is wrong. “They weren’t people. They were robots. Training droids. This was a training exercise mimicking a Conglomerate outpost at a base on our own soil. No one said anything about killing civilians.”

The whole thing flashes through your mind, again, but this time it’s contorting. The rounded-up bystanders in the middle of town. They’re mechanical, but shaped like men, women, and children. Were they not flesh and blood? The command to kill, which was so clear in your mind, vanishes when you reach for it.

It was a training exercise? The question becomes more of a statement as you remember. They were droids, they had weapons, and they fought back when your bullets tore through them, splashing red all over your unit and all over the sand.

You pinch your eyes shut, trying to pin down what it is you actually remember.

“They bled,” you choke out.

You’re confident in this when you say it. But as you remember, the bullets shred metal, not flesh, and the sand is stained with black oily fluid, not crimson. You’re glancing around the room, not sure what’s real, until your gaze lands on the blood on your uniform. The Sarge gives the doctor another glance.

Your mind is a kaleidoscope. The memories jumble and shift. You suck in deep breaths and try to clear your mind, try to banish the headache that’s piercing the front of your skull.

 Sarge clears his throat.

“I’m not sure what you were so upset about when you came in here, private.” His eyes are roaming over your face for some sort of tell.

You also don’t know why you’re here or why you would have been upset. You’re not sure what he’s looking for. You obey orders and don’t recall ever getting in trouble with Sarge or any other superior officers.

“I’m not sure either, if I’m being completely honest, sir. I feel disoriented. And as much as I know you don’t want to hear this, I’m not even sure how I got in here. I’m sorry, sir, for whatever I did.”

You feel nauseous. There’s something, somewhere, in the back of your mind that’s screaming that this is all wrong. You grasp for it, but it’s gone.

What the hell is happening to you?

“That’s alright, son. Drill is first thing in the morning, at zero six-hundred. Make sure you’re cleaned up and ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

You’re sweaty. Your heart is a stampede in your chest and you don’t know why. You need to take a shower and get clean clothes on. Your uniform is a mess, maybe that was why Sarge needed to bring you in here. To reprimand you. There’s blood all over your shirt. You know it’s because you tripped during the training exercise, even though you can’t feel a cut.

Sarge unstraps you. You salute and exit the room.

Other soldiers from your unit are lined up outside. You don’t know why. They ask you, “What’s up,” when you walk by.

You don’t know what to say, or why they have blood on their uniforms too.

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Eric Fomley’s fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Flash Fiction Online and Flame Tree Press.

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