Glory Main by Henry V. O'Neil

he’d be able to do it. The helmeted figure came into view, looking broad shouldered and enormous, and Mortas hunkered down lower in the grass. Cranther had sounded so matter-­of-­fact in his coaching that Mortas now questioned if this was something the scout had actually done before, or merely something he’d been taught. That idea reminded him of the others, waiting up on the hill for him to act, and his face reddened with shame.
    If you’re not going to do it, what are you going to do? And what are the others supposed to do when they see the guard keeps reappearing?
    The Sim reached the end of the bridge and stepped out onto the road. He was making a frustrated chirping noise under his breath, and Mortas was taken aback by the humanity of it: the Sim was so angry with his partner that he was talking to himself. The guard kicked a stone out of his path, still coming on, and Mortas slowly became certain that he’d been seen.
    But that was nonsense. The Sim’s stubby weapon was slung across his chest and, even though he had one hand on it, he clearly wasn’t planning to use it. He kept moving closer, and Mortas was able to make out the straps of his combat harness just before he turned and started back.
    Go. Go. Go. They’re counting on you.
    Amazed by his own motion, Mortas came to his feet and took an uncertain step forward. The guard was already walking away, and the sight of his retreating back aroused an animal response in the human sneaking up on him.
    Attack reflex. Just like they warned us when they talked about retreating. The sight of another animal’s back, in flight or not, caused predators to immediately give chase. Sign of weakness. Vulnerability. Bloodlust. Hunger. Rage.
    Eyes. Eyes. EYES. No no no no EYES!
    He couldn’t believe that the Sim had turned around. Looking absurdly human, the guard’s mouth opened wide in consternation. There were barely two strides between them, but to Mortas he seemed impossibly distant. They both looked down at the weapon in the Sim’s hands, and then they both moved.
    The Sim reached across, dragging some kind of lever back, maybe loading the weapon, maybe taking the safety off. Mortas, fueled by that most primal terror, the fear of death, lunged forward with the knife held straight out.
    It felt like he’d stabbed a tree. The blade stopped with a jolt, and pain shot through his elbow and into his shoulder. Mortas’s mouth opened in an O shape, and his eyes followed suit just after that. The knife had gone straight through the Sim’s throat, lodging in bone on the other side, and the enemy soldier merely stood there, a revolting vibration starting to pass through his entire body. His arms left the gun, sagging to his sides, but his body kept trembling. His feet began an angry stamping on the ground, and despite his horror Mortas tackled him to make it stop.
    It was only after he’d taken the dead enemy to the ground, and after the ugly convulsions had finally ended, that he saw that his shirt front was covered in a warm, wet liquid that had to be blood.
    H e dragged the body across the road and into the grass, feeling like a child trying to hide the evidence of having broken a major rule. His hands were shaking when he went through the pouches on the guard’s combat harness, residual adrenaline pounding through him. His mouth had dried completely, and so he took the dead enemy’s canteen and sniffed at its contents. Sims drank water the same way humans did, but that was no guarantee that this was water. It had no odor, and so he drank from it hungrily.
    After that he moved like a robot. He cleaned Cranther’s knife on the Sim’s uniform and returned it to its scabbard. Then he scrubbed at the already-­drying blood on his blouse with handfuls of dirt, repelled by the cloying substance. With that done, he took the guard’s weapon and moved away from the corpse, telling himself he needed to be