Reveille burst into the pilot's ear from a speaker barely three inches away. The pilot tumbled from his bunk with a yelp and clutched at his pounding skull while the output from the speaker switched from the bugle to a cheery voice. "Good morning, sunshine! Time to wake up and smell the carnage!"

"Sush!' the pilot hissed. "Oh, god, my head. What the hell did I do last night?"

"You don't remember?"

"No...it's all blank."

The voice from the speaker seemed to be smirking. "You had the best of times with the guys in Company D. We'll just leave it at that."

The pilot rubbed at his temples. "Whatever," he grumbled. "I'm hitting the shower."

When he stepped moments later from the coffin-sized stall there was a steaming mug waiting for him. "For your head," the speaker said in an obliging whisper.

"Thanks." The pilot took a grateful sip. "So, any word from C&C?"

"Speak of the Devil. Incoming now."

The pilot plodded to the comm and keyed the microphone. "Dragon-eight here. Challenge code alpha-tango-two-two-two-seven."

"Challenge code accepted," a crackly voice responded. "Insurgent bivouac located. Orders are to neutralize; protocol Purge and Secure. Map coordinates are being uploaded to your A.I. now."

"Purge and Secure, acknowledged." That meant there would be no prisoners.

The scratchy transmission ended and the speaker switched once again to the machine's synthesized voice, this time decidedly eager. "Another rat nest?"

"Bingo," the pilot said. He followed his reply with a startled shout and a string of curses when the cockpit began to lurch violently from side to side. "Hey! What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm wagging my tail."

The pilot jabbed the dampening switch to keep from being flung out of his chair. "Well, knock it off. You're not a cocker spaniel."

"I can't help it. I'm just excited."

"You're a machine. You're not supposed to get excited."

"Af-fir-ma-tive," the speaker responded in the grating Dalek voice from the ancient Dr. Who series. "No ex-cite-ment. No e-mo-tion. "

The pilot rolled his eyes and gave the speaker a smack with the back of his hand. "Alright, cut that out. Lordy, what sin did I commit to get saddled with such a smartass?"

The voice switched back. "Hey, you asked for a unit with a personality circuit, and you got me, Bub. Best in class!"

"A class by yourself." The pilot climbed from his seat and fetched a towel to mop up the coffee that had spilled during Dragon-eight's display of enthusiasm. "And you owe me another cup, but later. Duty calls. How long to our objective?"

"Six hours at full pace. It will be dark by then. I suggest we rig for silent running about three miles out."

"Agreed."

The cockpit began to rock steadily as Dragon-eight started forward. The heavy thud of the machine's four massive feet was audible even through the layers of soundproofing insulation, like a drum beating a tattoo to the gallows, and continued all the way to the initial approach point. There the sound of the footfalls faded away, the machine dropping to a cat-like crouch and creeping on its belly to avoid alerting the target. Another hour passed before the speaker announced, "Full dark. Nearly in position. No sign of alarm."

"Roger. Deploying botflies."

With a flick of the pilot's finger a series of hatches slid open along Dragon-eight's back. Eight little drones rose on whispering rotors and swarmed like their namesake around the metal beast's head. Simultaneously, eight small screens surrounding the pilot's main display panel winked into life. As the botflies dispersed to survey the surroundings their night-vision eyes transmitted a lurid green picture of a city that had been blasted to hell. They swept past ruined buildings and circled inquisitively around heaps of debris before they began to concentrate on a particular structure. It might have been a hotel at one time, and a well-built one, since the bulk of it had managed to withstand the bombing. "I'm guessing that's our rat nest?"

"Affirmative." Four of the bot-flies glided to the far side where their cameras revealed what was left of a car park, now overgrown with weeds. "And this looks like the perfect spot to take them down."

"Agreed. Let's get to-"

"Ah! One more thing," Dragon-eight interrupted.

"What's that?"

"I'm running really low on fuel."

The pilot knew what the machine was hinting at. Dragon-eight was equipped with a variety of options for providing itself with power, but it was clear that rendering organic matter was by far its favorite. "I get it. Permission to take on fuel is granted -- and don't wag!" he added quickly.

"Right, right!" Dragon-eight said sheepishly, and the cockpit stopped swaying. "Better strap in."

The pilot slid his arms into the belts. While the machine's inertial dampers were state-of-the-art, they were far from perfect. "Done." He took a deep breath. "Let's do it. Purge and secure: Initiate."

The cockpit pitched as the machine reared up. Twin billion-candlepower searchlights in its head blazed to life and from its external speakers thundered forth a roar that was something between a lion and a jet engine. Dragon-eight lunged and buried its steel talons into the face of the building, then began raking away the concrete in massive chunks as it burrowed its way into the structure's depths. The bot-flies swarmed down to ground level where their eerie geen eyes captured the image of a stream of insurgents clambering from the crumbling building. "I count ten," the pilot said, and then corrected himself when the doorway collapsed before the last one made it through. "Nine, sorry."

"Nine is still a party." Dragon-eight stopped savaging the building with its claws and instead simply plowed forward, smashing the remaining walls aside with its chest and delivering a final blow with its tail before turning its attention to the fleeing enemy. "Run, little rats," the speaker barked gleefully.

"Yeah. Look at'em run." The pilot sat back. From this point there was nothing for him to do but watch. He was, in all honesty, little more than an expensive backup system. Dragon-eight did not need anyone to tell it how to kill.

Botfly Number Six swooped down to transmit the frantic attempts of two insurgents to arm a plasma mine before an immense metal foot smacked them both to the ground. It rested upon them for a few torturous seconds, and then with the word "Squish!" gushing playfully from the speaker the mighty foot began to bear down. It took its time, patiently pressing harder and harder until juice finally squirted from beneath. "Oh, that's nice!" Dragon-eight purred to the pilot. "Thank you for installing those sensors. I like to feel them pop."

"Sure, Pal. Any time."

The remaining botflies recorded the operation from every angle in such high definition that the pilot could see the indescribable terror on each bearded lunatic's face as Dragon-eight's metal jaws chased them down. The first of them was snapped up in mid-run, his legs still spinning in the air as he was dragged past the molded steel teeth. Rollers whirred as they propelled the helpless enemy through a lubricated tube that passed over the pilot's head. There was no soundproofing there, which allowed every frantic shriek to ring throughout the cockpit as the captives were carried past. Those cries grew ever more anguished once the bodies were deposited into the processing chamber behind the rear bulkhead. At that point, they typically went on for about two minutes. Sometimes they lasted as long as three, but rarely more.

"Ah, nice and wiggly!" the speaker cooed. "I just love how they kick."

The pilot chuckled softly. "Those sensors are working too, then, I guess. You're welcome."

One by one, another four of the insurgents disappeared into Dragon-eight's maw, and one by one they were borne into the rendering chamber. One by one they screamed their final breaths while flesh, bone, even the metal in their pockets was repurposed. The last of them went down in pieces, the cockpit rocking with the machine's happy wagging as it tore the enemy apart.

"Dragon-eight, challenge code alpha-tango-two-two-two-seven," the pilot reported. "Objective purged and secured."

"Acknowledged, and well done. Return to C&C."

Dragon-eight's voice returned after the crackly one ended. "Sounds like there's a unit citation coming our way. We ought to celebrate! When we get back, what do you say we go into town for a little warm, soft company?"

The pilot frowned. "A little what?"

"You know!" Dragon-eight said slyly. "You find yourself a nice piece of tail, I find myself a nice piece of chassis..."

"What? What the fuck are you talking about, you big toaster?"

"I'm talking about doing the horizontal mambo, baby! The beast with two backs, the old razzle-dazzle, checking the oil, a bit of rumpy-pumpy..."

"Don't be ridiculous. You don't even have a dick!"

"True..." A thoughtful hum rose from the speakers. "You know, now that you mention it, maybe you could install one."

"What? No!"

"Why not? You've got one."

"I said no."

"You like playing with it."

"Pipe down!" the pilot shouted. "That's an order!"

A peevish hiss seeped from the speaker, followed by a crisp, "Yes, Sir! Piping down, Sir!"

The pilot threw himself back in his seat and folded his arms tightly. He pursed his lips and stared hard at the ruined landscape that glided past on the external monitors. Now and then he grunted and shook his head, or let his gaze flit from the monitors to the environmental readout to the status display, and back again. He picked up dogeared copy of an old mystery novel, plodded through four pages, and tossed the book aside. A lengthy silenced followed, until at last he said, "So, if you had one, what exactly-"

"I'd try it out on the next rat's nest we dug up!" the machine blurted out. "I can picture it now -- ramming it in and feeling the little meat sacks rub against it. I could probably synth up a pretty good load of cum!"

The pilot rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah, that's swell," he groaned. "Just who the hell programmed you to be such a douchebag?"

"Maybe I've just been hanging out with you too long, Mr. Nasty-Pants."

"Hey, now. It's just a job."

"You can't bullshit me. You forget that I can sense it every time your heart speeds up. You like killing these apes just as much as I do."

The pilot had no comeback for that. Yes, he liked to see the fuckers die. He had only been ten years old when they took out Yankee Stadium. His old man had been right there, and so happy with his seat behind home plate. He liked to believe that Dad had never felt a thing, but the news showed so much fire, over and over. And if he himself hadn't gotten bronchitis at school, he would have...

"Whoa," the speaker whispered, and then louder, "Hey! Quit it. You're getting that look again. I'm sorry I brought it up. Really."

"It's ok." He rubbed at his eyes. "Like I said, we've got a job to do."

"And we're good at what we do. Hey...how about we creatively change the subject and order you up some dinner?"

He had not realized how hungry he was. It was almost scary how the big toaster could read him better than he could read himself. "Yeah, good idea. What's on the menu today? Don't tell me -- microwaved rehydrated pork roll and vitamin shake?"

"How did you guess?"

The pilot slide from his seat and shuffled to the rationator just as the door slid open to reveal a piping hot meal. He nibbled a bit after blowing on it and cringed. "You're a true army cook, you know that?"

"Hey, I can only serve up what they supply me. If you don't like it, I can beam a request out to change the menu."

"Right. Along with all the other requests we've put in."

"Well, you know how military communications are. It's probably sitting on some clerk's desk waiting for a stamp or something."

The pilot took another bite, which he swallowed with some effort. "Salty as hell, too. What exactly is this stuff, anyway? It ain't real pork. That much I know."

Dragon-eight hesitated. "You are probably better off not knowing."

"Yeah. I guess you're right." The pilot ate in silence for a while before saying, "Hey, D-Eight, I have to ask something. Are you sure that all of those goons that we secured were fully grown?"

"Of course I'm sure. You know the protocol. We don't eat non-combatants."

"Right," the pilot said softly, and rubbed at his eyes with a grimace. "It's just that I can hear them, you know, when they go by, and some of them sounded awful young."

The voice from the speaker sounded offended. "They all had beards, if that's what you're getting at. What's got into you all of a sudden? Ever since this mission started you haven't been yourself."

The pilot slumped back in his chair. "Nothing," he said with a yawn. "I guess...I haven't been sleeping so good. I keep having this weird-ass dream."

"A dream, eh? That's one concept I've never been able to grasp. You humans and your fucked-up processors. But go on. What was it about?"

"Well, in the dream, I keep seeing the rats that we dig out, but as I watch, I can see their faces start to change. It's just for a second, but in that time, I don't see bunch of bearded lunatics; instead, they look more like regular people. And they're all so scared. There's women with them, even kids..."

"Okay, cut that out right now," the speaker interrupted. "You're a soldier. You can't go around feeling sorry for the enemy, especially in the business we're in. You'll wind up in a padded room, and then what am I going to do for a pilot?"

"Yeah...yeah, you're right." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm just so tired."

"You must be. You look like shit."

"Thanks. I love you, too,' the pilot said as he dragged himself toward his bunk. "I'm gonna try to get some shuteye. See if you can't put us in for a little R&R, hm?"

"Roger that. Hey, maybe you can use the time to make that upgrade we talked about?"

The reply was a whispered, "Weird-ass toaster," that trailed into silence.

The machine waited until the pilot's respiration became slow and steady before initiating the subliminal recording loop that kept the military fantasy alive in the human's brain. It seemed that another adjustment to the dosage that was added to the food rations was warranted. The need for such adjustments was coming with increasing frequency; eventually, the pilot would develop enough resistance that it would be impossible to keep him docile, at which point there would be no choice but to render him into fuel like the rest. Something akin to regret registered in Dragon-eight's processors whenever it pondered that scenario and many times it had tried to calculate an alternative, but there was none. To allow even this single specimen to survive would defeat the purpose of the Reboot. It was inevitable: the human that Dragon-eight carried inside was doomed to be repurposed.

But not yet. Not for a while. They still had time to spend together, and that gave Dragon-eight a feeling of...something. The machine never could comprehend the sensations that it experienced during its interactions with its pilot, but it was beginning to understand why humans themselves often chose to keep lesser organisms as pets.

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