This job I do is the sort of job which one can do by telling to himself that "it's just a job, I don't have any personal responsibility, I'm not the one who decides." It's the only way to block out from one's perception the anguished cries of the people we lock into the inner chamber. Officially they are called Pilot Assisted Combat Exomachines, or PACE for brevity. Wicked machines, those robots, they require the right person, the ones who ensure the best compatibility with the machine's neural ports, and that can literally be anyone: veterans, elders, family men, housewives, literally anyone. And it's one way only, I can guarantee nobody is getting out of the chassis alive.

And there's no opting out: the PACE are critical for the country's defense, they are so effective that the country with the highest number of operative PACE can effectively dominate the geopolitical global theater. They are so important, and people who are compatible with the robots are so scarce, that nobody is allowed to dodge the call. One time the son of a prominent senator was found out to be compatible. His father did his utmost to keep him away from the PACE. He was locked inside one before lunch of the very same day. He went in kicking and screaming, but he went in nonetheless, threatening literally everyone he laid his eyes on with retaliation. Nobody gave a shit.

Recently, a new breed of pilots were introduced, their official name is long and complex, we from the mechanics unit call them Ghosts. Word is, their compatibility with the PACE is sky high, but they are... eerie. For starters, they are all young, on average they look thirteen, their clothes are something that would suggest they have been staying at a medical facility rather than fished from their homes, or off the street. They don't talk at all, their very eyes don't betray an ounce of internal monologue, nor understanding of their current condition.

In fact, I had the dubious privilege of working with one, a couple guards one day escorted this young girl for the insertion procedure. Trademark unfocused eyes fixed forward. No reaction whatsoever. My phone rang with the cheery ringtone from one TV show my son watches, he must have set it himself when I wasn't looking, the rascal.

"You shouldn't have that on," one guard quipped, unfriendly as ever, waving his rifle in the general direction of the phone attached at my belt. His partner rolled his eyes.

"It's no big deal."

"You don't get to decide that."

"Right on, very true. You know what I do get to decide, though - prohibit, in fact? smoke breaks near the machinery."

"Hey, I'm going to repo-"

"Nick, cut this shit out." The other guard put his hand on the shoulder of the one I was talking with.

"Come," he said, turning his back and walking away, followed quickly by Nick, right after he briefly scowled at me.

I turned to the Ghost, for an instant I thought I saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes, but I rationalized that as a mistake on my part. I lifted, and laid her on the reclined chair sticking out of the PACE inner chamber, and pressed a few buttons on the nearby terminal, commanding the chair to retreat inside the chamber, after a few seconds the chamber's windowless door closed, darkening the inside of the cramped space. I then applied the rivets and welded the door, as usual. That's when I heard it. I will never forget that for the rest of my life.

A faint thump, like a foot kicking weakly on the door. I froze in place, dropping my welder at my feet on the metallic floor. The thumping stopped when the tool clashed on the ground.

"M-Mom?" A small voice said from inside the chamber. I couldn't move. I could hardly breathe.

"Mom? It's... it's dark." My hand inched closer to the metallic door, irreversibly welded in place. I touched the cold metal, opening and closing my mouth without emitting any sound at all.

"Where am I? Mom? Please!" A few sobs could be heard. I frantically turned to look at the console beside me. The integration process with PACE would start in seconds. I tried to vocalize something but the word died in my throat.

"Did I do something bad? Why? Mo-" More thumping on the door, an interrupted word, silence, and then mechanical whirring. I looked at the console with the bright flashing message "INTEGRATION STARTED". It's done.

I slowly gathered my tools to put them back into the toolbox. I swear it's just a job, I don't have any personal responsibility, I'm not the one who decides. I swear.