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  Cyborg Corps Copyright © 2020 by Variant Publications

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  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Cyborg Corps

  Book 1 in the Cyborg Corps Series

  J.N. Chaney

  Chris Winder

  Book Description

  Warren Prescott is a veteran amputee who can’t catch a break.

  When the VA calls him in for an experimental procedure to restore his leg, Warren is amazed. Finally. he will be able to feel the warm sand beneath his feet again, or so the doctor promises.

  Lying on a table, Warren is told by the doctor that everything is going to be okay. He’s going to have a brand new leg…and a much better life.

  Too bad it was all a lie.

  The next time Warren opens his eyes, four centuries have passed. Somehow, he’s standing in the middle of a battlefield, stuck on a distant alien planet, far away from home.

  To make matters worse, his body appears to be entirely synthetic. He’s a cyborg, nearly indestructible and enhanced for extreme combat.

  Now, with centuries of time missing from his memory and no idea how to get home, Warren is left with no choice but to fight against those who would see him enslaved… and free as many of his brothers as possible along the way.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Stay Up To Date

  About the Authors

  1

  “Mr. Prescott, I think I’ve got it this time,” Mike said. “Here, try this.”

  Warren rolled the sock-like liner back over the stump of his leg. His skin had been permanently tattooed by paint chips. It was another souvenir brought back from the war.

  The tech handed him the carbon fiber socket again. It was nothing more than a molded tube, but it was a constant source of grief. When Warren slid it on, he instantly knew it still wasn’t right. “This spot right here,” he said, pointing to a place near its end. “It feels like it’s convex—like there’s a huge bump—something hard there pushing into the bone.”

  “Hmm,” Mike said with a finger over his lips. “Okay, I think what I need to do is redistribute the weight. When you stand, you’re putting a lot of pressure on it here and here.” He pointed to two spots, neither of which coincided with the pain. “If I add some padding here, it should do the trick.”

  Warren sighed, slid the socket off, and handed it back to the technician, who took it back to the small counter to work on. It would be the second attempt of the day. He’d informed the lady who checked him in. Then the nurse who’d touched his balls after informing him that it was time for his physical. Then he told Mike that nobody was leaving until the tech got it right. He couldn’t wait several more weeks for another appointment just to do it all over again.

  Mike sat down on the room’s rolling stool. “That’ll do it,” he said as he began to cut a shape out of some yellow foam. “Once we get this dialed in, you can be on your way.”

  “In other words, you’re trying to get rid of me, right?”

  “No,” Mike said with a nervous laugh. “It’s just, well, you know, nobody likes sticking around here. The ward can be kind of depressing. I’d like to get this right once and for all. Then you won’t need to come back and see my ugly mug so often.”

  “Thanks,” Warren said without much feeling.

  A minute later, Mike turned around and rolled over to him. “Now it should be good,” he said, presenting the socket to Warren as if it was a trophy for Best Bullshitter of the Year.

  Warren slid it on and gritted his teeth, giving himself a minute to calm down before he spoke again. “It’s worse,” he managed to say. “Take whatever you did, and please do the opposite.”

  “Where is it bad?” the tech asked.

  “Here and here,” Warren said, pointing to two spots. “Now it feels like it’s squeezing my stump.”

  “That might be what it needs to relieve the pain,” Mike said, lifting his eyes to meet Warren.

  “If I go home like this, all I’m going to end up with is a bruise. I’d rather not go through that if I can help it. Please take this thing and get it right.”

  Mike looked like his feelings had been hurt. Warren didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t sure Mike really did, either.

  The office was gray, as most were at the VA clinic. A chipped plastic magazine rack hung on the wall near the door. It was overstuffed with dog-eared, torn castoffs from someone else’s collection and included riveting titles such as Knitting Bliss and Woman’s Weekly. Never mind the fact that most veterans were men.

  Bought at a yard sale for a nickel, Warren thought.

  Posters on the walls attempted to educate him about his rights as a patient. Others demonstrated how to perform a testicular exam. One displayed graphic photos of what different types of STDs looked like.

  “Listen, Mike,” Warren said. “I know you’re trying really hard, but this isn’t going so well. Is there someone else who can help me?”

  “No, there isn’t,” Mike said, frowning. “Listen, I think I’ve done all I can do with this. It’s probably best to recast and start over. We can get most of it done right now, but it’s going to—“

  “I’d rather not,” Warren interrupted. “Keep going with this one. I’ve got all day.”

  Mike frowned, pressed his lips together, and nodded. He headed out the door looking like a man on a mission, even though his mission was to quit screwing things up.

  Feeling grumpy, Warren settled back to wait.

  It didn’t take long. A few minutes after Mike had walked out there was a soft knock o
n the closed door. A second later, a portly old man, maybe in his early seventies and wearing a lab coat, walked in. He carried a clipboard and offered Warren a big smile.

  “Hello, Warren,” he said, glancing at paper on his clipboard. “I’m Dr. Burgess. We’ve never met because I’m on loan from Kardin University in Oklahoma. You ever heard of it?”

  “Can’t say that I have, Doc,” Warren replied.

  “That’s okay,” Burgess said, waving the question aside. “It seems you’re having some trouble with your prosthetic leg, is that right?”

  “Yeah,” Warren said, glaring at Mike, who looked like he was trying to hide. “We’ve been having a bit of trouble. Nobody seems to be able to get the socket to feel right. It’s causing me a lot of discomfort. Please tell me you’re here to help.”

  The doctor chuckled. “I am, but first I need to ask you something. How tired of this bullshit are you?”

  The question surprised Warren—not for its content, but for the man’s candor. Most doctors didn’t curse. It was refreshing.

  “Really fucking tired of it,” Warren admitted. “Listen, I know this guy’s trying, but I think someone messed up the casting. This is our fourth try. If it has to be recast again, it will be the fifth attempt.”

  Doctor Burgess nodded sagely, glanced at his clipboard, then hooked Warren’s eyes with an intense stare. “I’m glad to hear you’re done getting the runaround. I’m here to offer you an alternative. It’s experimental technology—a new kind of prosthetic leg. You won’t have to worry about it fitting because it’s permanent.”

  Warren scoffed. “No such thing.”

  “It’s a thing now,” Burgess said with a knowing smile. “I developed it myself, along with about a dozen other brilliant, hard-working people. This project was too big for one person to handle, so I don’t want to take all the credit. I’ve won a government contract, you see, but I’m having trouble finding volunteers. It’s to be expected among veterans, am I right?”

  “Sure, Doc,” Warren said, feeling himself smile. “We know better than to volunteer for anything. We’ve all learned that lesson the hard way. And, nothing personal, Doc, but your tech sounds like bullshit.”

  Burgess laughed. “Of course it does. So did virtual reality when it first came out. Heck, so did autonomous cars. Nobody believed we could do it. But, the US government awarded my little company a ton of money to prove we could. All I need to do is find ten volunteers who are fed up with this kind of bullshit. If I can talk them into undergoing the procedure, the coffers will open up. The days of soldiers being disabled due to amputated legs will be long gone. We’re still working on the tech for arms, but we’re close.”

  “What’s the catch?” Warren asked, squinting suspiciously at the fat man.

  “No catch, really. There may be a few bugs at first, so you’ll need to stay in the hospital for about two months. There will be some physical therapy so you can learn how to use your new limb. Then you’ll be able to chase skirts on the beach—or trunks, if that’s more your speed. Heck, you can swim, climb a tree—pretty much anything any other twenty-nine-year-old man would be able to do. Maybe even more.”

  “What about returning to my unit?”

  The doctor smiled and winked. “That’s the question we get most often. Unfortunately, that decision is going to be between you and the government. We don’t see any problem with it. But, if your leg gets damaged—if you get shot—we don’t have any spare parts. Also, there’s nobody outside my company trained on how to repair it. That will be coming soon, but not until the trials are complete.”

  “And how long will that take?” Warren asked. He could feel his heart begin to pound in his chest.

  “It depends on how quickly I can get people to sign up,” Doctor Burgess admitted with a shrug. “I need ten, and if you accept, you’ll be number three.”

  Warren chewed on the words for a minute. The tech had stopped working on his prosthetic leg’s socket and had turned around, openly listening to the discussion.

  “How good is the technology?” Warren asked.

  “You’ve heard of haptic feedback, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this is next-gen haptic technology. Instead of providing sensations of pressure, heat, and cold against your skin like you’d get in a video game, it’s connected directly to your nerves. Current tech isn’t up to the job. You don’t have a leg to receive the information. By connecting it to the nerve endings, we trick your brain into thinking your leg has magically returned.

  “You’ve probably gotten pretty good at getting around with this ancient piece of machinery. Even though you can’t feel it, you know where it is because you’ve practiced. Don’t you miss the days where you could tell if something you’re stepping on is uneven or about to slip out from under your foot?”

  Warren nodded.

  “With this technology, you’ll be able to do that. Even walk on the beach and feel the sand move between your toes. You’ll know if you’ve stepped on a misplaced sewing needle. It won’t hurt as bad as if you’d stepped on it with your real foot, but you’ll know something bad happened.”

  Doctor Burgess handed the clipboard to Warren, who stared at it for several seconds without actually reading it. He felt light-headed.

  “BioSynth International, huh? Thought you worked for that university?” Warren asked.

  “They’re our financial backers. Sign that contract and start your new life. You’ll undergo a procedure. I’m not sure how long it will take, because it depends on the kind of damage I find when I go in. Everyone is different. You’ll be unconscious, of course, so you won’t have any idea how much time will have passed.”

  Warren didn’t know how to respond except to nod his head.

  The doctor continued, his speech smoothed and practiced. “When you wake up, you’ll have a new leg. After physical therapy, we’ll make whatever adjustments we need to, see how you react, and cut you loose.”

  “How far along are the other two?” Warren asked. “The others you said you’ve performed the surgery on.”

  “They’re both in recovery,” Burgess said. “The first should be starting physical therapy in a couple of days. The second got his new leg yesterday, so he’ll need to be off it for a few weeks. They’re both healthy and doing fine, though.”

  “Are there any side effects?”

  “None that we know of,” Burgess assured him. “That’s part of the reason for the trials. One thing we’re expecting to happen, though, is relief for those who suffer from phantom pains. According to your chart, you are the right kind of candidate. With the sensation of a real leg returned to your body, the pains should vanish.”

  Warren hesitated for a beat before asking his next question. He wasn’t vain, but genuinely curious. “What does it look like?”

  Burgess smiled, reached into his pocket, and handed him a one-inch square piece of something. Warren took it, rubbed it with his thumb, and looked up at the doctor in confusion.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “Synthetic skin,” Burgess said, beaming. “It starts off this color. We add pigments to make it match your real skin. We can’t add hair, unfortunately. Maybe someday, but right now it gets rubbed off and you end up having bald spots. So, you’ll have a nice, smooth leg, but you’ll be able to feel it. Even little touches, a cool breeze in a warm room, things like that.”

  “How durable is it?” Warren asked, still rubbing the synthetic skin between his fingers.

  “Try tearing it,” the doctor said. “Just don’t hurt yourself.”

  Warren twisted it, pulled it, and mashed it, but the synthetic skin held. He found a sharp edge where something had broken off the exam table, hooked the skin, and pulled hard. It didn’t tear, and when he looked closely, there was no visible damage.

  “Wow,” he whispered.

  “Cool, right?” Burgess asked as he took the patch and stuffed it in his pocket. “It’s not indestructible, but it’s pretty tough.
”

  “Is the VA going to pay for this?” Warren asked. “It can’t be cheap.”

  “That is part of the deal,” Burgess said. “You won’t pay a single penny.”

  “I’ll be out for a month?”

  “More like six to eight weeks total,” the doctor said.

  “I have a job,” Warren said, feeling defeated. “For what it’s worth. I have bills. A car payment.”

  Doctor Burgess picked the clipboard up from the exam table where Warren had absently dropped it. “If you sign this contract, it authorizes me to perform the procedure for you. It says you are doing so voluntarily. It also says you will become a government contractor and be awarded a $200,000 signing bonus, which will be deposited in your account of choice today. I think it’ll tide you over until you find another job.”

  “American money?” Warren asked.

  Burgess laughed. “Of course.”

  Warren did a few calculations in his head before replying. “That would pay my bills for years.”

  The doctor smiled, pulled a pen from his breast pocket, and handed it to Warren. The amputee flipped to the last page, found the signature line, and scrawled his name across it.