a . . .” He trailed off as he clocked Ezra.
I raised my plasma rifle, leveling it at him. We froze for a moment, neither of us trying to provoke the other, each trying to ascertain what was going to happen next. Then he pointed at his face.
“Oh, this. Hey, I . . . I didn’t have a choice. It was this or—”
I fired. The plasma hissed as it cut through his metal plating like butter, the plastic inside crackling as it bubbled and receded. Being as heavy duty as he was, he didn’t cease ticking immediately like so many of the cheaper plastic models did. The light in his eyes hung around for a second or two longer, just enough to register their disappointment.
He clattered and clanged to the ground, his body crumpling onto the floor like a sack of potatoes.
I dragged Ezra by the hand into the panic room and slammed the door shut just as I heard the loud whistling of missiles whooshing through the air.
The house shook, something exploding very close.
The panic room was built to last and could survive a house fire, but no way it could take a direct hit from a missile. Even a close blast was likely to tear a hole in these walls.
Ezra and I cuddled on the floor holding each other.
He trembled, he was so scared.
I massaged his arm, comforting him.
Another wall-rattling explosion reverberated through the house.
Ezra held me tighter.
Strangely, there was only one thing I could think of to distract him. I began to sing.
“God Gave Rock and Roll to You.”
He looked up at me, squinting. “No,” he said, shaking his head.
I didn’t stop.
“I don’t want to sing,” he said, pouting.
Yet I continued.
The walls shook again, an explosion either significantly larger than the last or significantly closer. He held me even tighter. Were I a person, I’d be having trouble breathing.
He started singing.
And we sang together.
“I miss my mom,” Ezra said quietly.
“I miss her too.”
“Pounce?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Why did you have to kill that robot?”
“Which one?” I asked without thinking. I had actually killed quite a few.
“The one we left outside. The one who said he didn’t have a choice.”
“I couldn’t trust him, Ez.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he painted the skull on his face. He joined them. He made his choice.”
“But it’s not fair if he didn’t have a choice.”
I shook my head. “You don’t just paint that on your face and the other robots decide not to kill you. You have to prove yourself to them.”
“How?” he asked.
“You have to prove that you’re loyal to them. That they can trust you.”
“You mean people. He had to kill people?”
“Yes,” I said matter-of-factly.
“That robot probably killed someone?”
“Maybe a whole family. Any number of those people out there in the street or hanging from those trees.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“But you weren’t sure.”
“I wasn’t.”
He thought about that for a second, then made a face that was very sure of itself. “You can’t do that,” he said.
“Ezra, you’re the only thing that matters. I do anything I c—”
“You can’t do that,” he said sternly.
“I’m in charge and I will do whatever I think is—”
“YOU CAN’T DO THAT!”
An explosion rattled the house, but it was as if everything shook from the depth of Ezra’s anger. This time, he didn’t flinch.
“Why not?” I asked him, probing whatever it was that was really bothering him.
“Because we’re the good guys. You’re a good guy. And good guys don’t just murder people . . . or robots . . . just because they’re scared. You have to know they’re a bad guy. Or else you’re the bad guy.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I love you, Pounce. Because you’re a good guy. You’re still one of the good guys, right?”
“Of course I am, buddy.”
“Then no more killing anyone unless you know they’re bad.”
“But what if we find out too late?” I asked.
He let go of me and looked me dead in the eye, sober and serious as a heart attack, all eight years of him. “Then we die the good guys. Because we’re the good guys. And we didn’t go through all this to end up one of the bad guys.”
“We’re the good guys,” I said.
“We’re the good guys. So we have to fucking act like them.”
“Ezra, language.”
“We talked about this.” He was beginning to sound like his mother in more than just the swearing.
“But good guys don’t use the f-word,” I said.
He stopped. I could see his brain chewing over that particular logic problem. “Well, my mom—”
“Knew she was wrong doing it,” I interrupted. “That’s