Cyborg Corps Read online

  Checking over his shoulder one more time, Warren saw that both neighbors were lifting the woman from the street. There still wouldn’t be enough time for them to get out of the way. He turned back to the car and timed his next move with all the care a hurried decision allowed. He lunged and crashed into it with his shoulder.

  The impact knocked Warren back several meters and almost caused him to lose the grip on his rifle. He landed on the flat of his back and lifted his head to see if he’d made any difference at all. The old woman and her two neighbors had nearly made it all the way across the street. They stood still, watching the hovercar as it careened off a building five houses away from theirs, smashed into a short concrete wall, and finally stopped.

  The old woman turned from the pieces of falling debris and stared at Warren. Her neighbors were pulling and pushing as gently as they could to hurry her inside. Before her face disappeared into the building, she offered her armored savior a small smile.

  A new message appeared on his HUD. It directed him to move to a new set of coordinates, but he didn’t know how to get to the location. When a dotted line appeared superimposed on the street, indicating the shortest route, he took it at a fast jog. Though he’d hit the hovercar hard, and the impact had hurt, his shoulder felt fine.

  As he neared the location, the sounds of gunfire grew louder. Either there were a lot of rifles in play, or someone had a machine gun and was making good use of it. Four other soldiers were there, taking cover behind a dumpster. Another looked like he’d managed to tip a hovercar engulfed in flames on its side so he could hide behind it. They all appeared to be pinned down.

  Warren wanted to contact them, but he didn’t know if his helmet contained any communication equipment. It wouldn’t be long before the hovercar exploded like the last one had. He had to do something, and it needed to be quick.

  Ordering himself not to panic, Warren took in the rest of his surroundings. The street was a cul-de-sac, just over 600 meters long. Most of the buildings were the same, except for one at the end. That one had a basement with a little window facing the street. Something moved inside. The sound of gunfire and the muzzle flash from the weapon within revealed what it was: a pillbox. It was a perfect location, easily defensible with clear line of sight.

  Warren squinted at the pillbox and gasped when his visor automatically zoomed-in, magnifying what he was seeing. There were three people in the basement, and there was the machine gun, all visible through the windows. He focused on the gunner. The woman had one eye closed, taking careful aim.

  The gunner spotted him, forcing Warren to seek cover around the corner of the building with a withering hail of machine gunfire.

  When the firing shifted back to the original targets, Warren stole a look around the corner again and squinted at the little window. Based on his repetitive motion, it was likely the second enemy in the basement was the assistant gunner. He’d be working hard to keep the gun loaded.

  The third had to be a commander. He was holding a pair of high-tech binoculars. His mouth moved like he was giving the gunner orders.

  The soldier taking cover behind the hovercar appeared to have had enough. He kicked the vehicle over and opened fire. It took less than a second for the enemy to take him apart.

  KENDRICKS: KIA

  RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.02.11

  The others glanced at the downed soldier’s mangled remains before they returned to what they were doing, which mostly consisted of trying to stay alive.

  “We’ve got to take out that gun!” Warren shouted. “Can anyone move?”

  None of them answered. Instead, several tried popping out from behind their cover to return fire. Two were obviously injured but kept fighting like they couldn’t feel it.

  Warren hadn’t been in such a clusterfuck in a long time. If the enemy had the troops, all they had to do was bring a couple of them around to the side to flank them. There’d be nowhere for his people to go. In fact, the best spot for the enemy to stand would be right where Warren’s feet were. Unless their enemy were all complete idiots, they would have figured out the same thing.

  Sure enough, two enemy troops were sneaking up on his position. They carried something that looked like a weird, plastic machine gun. “Just a little closer,” he whispered. “A little more.”

  When they moved within range, Warren stepped around the corner. Upon seeing him, the enemy soldiers hesitated. He took aim and shot three times, each hitting the first man center mass. Before the man hit the ground, Warren had done the same to the second. Taken back by the speed with which the scene had unfolded, he stared at the fallen enemy. Burgess hadn’t said anything about superspeed, but it was like all of his instincts had been heightened.

  A thought to worry about later.

  With the threat neutralized, Warren sprinted up the side street, frantically trying to look everywhere at once. The rooftops were clear. So were the areas behind the short walls he vaulted over. Two more buildings and he’d be able to cut across and reach the one serving as a pillbox.

  A quick glance around the corner verified he was at the right place. A single soldier was guarding the back door. Warren bashed the man’s face with his rifle then stomped his skull when he fell. When he was certain the man no longer lived, he pushed the back door open and stepped inside.

  The building looked like it had been turned into a supply warehouse for the local war effort. Plastic crates and boxes were everywhere, lining walls and sitting on every available flat surface. Someone had gone through them in a hurry. One crate containing belts of ammunition lay on its side—most of its contents spilled onto the floor. Warren spotted a hatch. The machine gun was on the other side.

  He raised his rifle to fire but didn’t have a way to be sure he got the gunner on the first shot. If he missed, they’d be able to shoot back.

  Warren lowered his rifle and scanned the room for another idea. One of the boxes contained grenades. He hurried to it, remaining as quiet as possible, and retrieved three.

  M91 GRENADE, FRAGMENTATION

  Perfect. The arming mechanism was different than he was used to. Instead of having a pin, there were two buttons. Once both were pressed and released, the grenade would be armed. After four seconds, it would explode. He wasn’t sure how he knew that but didn’t have time to think about it.

  After tugging gently on the hatch to make sure it wasn’t locked, he armed one, opened the hatch, and tossed the explosive down before backing away. The blast blew the hatch open and smoke poured out. He tossed the other two in, one at a time, just to be sure.

  “Nice job,” a voice said in his head. “Not that we needed your help. Maybe I’ll let you win at our next poker game. Nah, I’m just bullshitting. I’ll never let you win. Now get your ass down here and lend a hand, show-off.”

  Gunfire erupted from several buildings further down the street. Warren exited the building and ran toward the sound. He reached the rear of the structure that the gunfire was coming from and prepared to kick in the door. Another message appeared on his HUD. It was orders to move to new coordinates.

  “Fuck that,” he snarled. “I’ve got targets to kill right here!” A moment later, a flash of white-hot pain shot through his body. It brought him to his knees before dissipating. The orders appeared on his HUD again, and Warren noticed a little icon at the bottom left corner of his vision. It looked like a computer chip, and it pulsated an angry shade of red.

  “What the hell is that?” he muttered.

  Another zap made his limbs feel like they were on fire. The little icon was blinking faster. The enemy fired from the building again. Warren took a step back, ready to knock the door down with his shoulder when a final message appeared.

  COMPULSION MODE ACTIVATED

  3

  Warren woke up to the sound of people talking, machines beeping, and footsteps. He couldn’t make out the words. His brains felt like oatmeal, all of his senses slow and dull. As the fog lifted, he began to understand what they were saying.
Something about repairs, damage, and parts.

  When he opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed were the bright lights shining in them. They didn’t hurt, but they did make everything around tougher to see for a moment. The ceiling of whatever room he was in had a distinct industrial feel to it. He focused on it, curious.

  DISTANCE TO CEILING: 4.8 M.

  It was covered in pipes and conduits with a few exposed wires here and there, some draped between metal girders.

  “Hello?” Warren said, unsure if he’d spoken loud enough for anyone to hear.

  No one answered. Confused, he took a quick self-inventory. The pain in his leg was gone, but still a fresh memory. He could feel his toes on both feet and wiggled them to make sure they still worked. He thought he could feel them but wanted to be sure. As a final test, he lifted both legs and let them drop to the table. The impact sounded like hard rubber hitting a huge steel cookie sheet.

  The doctor had invented a technology that felt almost real. It was working just like he said it would. He’d been running, rolling, and climbing with his artificial leg. He’d felt pain when he’d been shot, but now it was gone. Now I’m back, better than ever.

  Warren turned his head to the right and spotted a line of tables. On them were other soldiers. They were naked and people who looked more like computer techs than nurses or doctors swarmed around them. An infirmary, he decided.

  When he turned his head the other way, he noticed more tables and a weapons rack full of rifles behind them. The table closest to him was unoccupied.

  A man in white coveralls walked up to Warren and took a close look at his face. He appeared to be in his late twenties and had either recently shaved or couldn’t grow a beard. His eyes were brown, as was his hair. The man’s skin was a pasty brightness that screamed for sunlight. He also had a leaner build and didn’t look like he’d ever seen the inside of a gym.

  PO3 SAUL HENDROSE, TECHNICIAN

  “Feeling okay?” Hendrose asked.

  “Yeah. Actually, I’m feeling great.”

  “Good,” he said as he tapped some commands into a small, handheld tablet. After reading whatever it said, he tapped it some more. “It looks like you were having some trouble understanding orders out there. Your compulsion chip took over and got you to the shuttle in time. Why didn’t you obey your orders?”

  Hendrose didn’t look angry, but Warren didn’t like the man’s tone.

  “We were being ordered to retreat,” he replied, tone sharp. “I was about to kick a door and stack some bodies. The others had to retreat under fire. It was unnecessary. I had the drop on our enemy. We should have stayed and finished them off.”

  On some level, Warren knew something was wrong with the current picture, but his memories were a jumble.

  Hendrose nodded and tapped something else on his tablet. “Well, if you’d stayed, you would’ve died. You were ordered to leave and get back to the shuttle because we had enemy destroyers inbound. You barely made it out of there.”

  “Destroyers?” Warren asked.

  “Yeah, destroyers. I don’t know how many, but enough to scare an entire Republic fleet. They started chasing us. We took a couple of shots before we managed to escape, but we all made it out. Since when did you people start needing an explanation? Maybe you should listen to your orders from now on. It’ll hurt a lot less if you do.”

  “Sure,” Warren said.

  “Okay, I need to go check on some of the others. I might need to run a few more tests based on what the computer says about your brain. Hang out here and wait for me.”

  When he walked away, Warren sat up. He felt great—not even a hint of grogginess left in him. He wondered what a “compulsion chip” was. Whatever it was, it seemed to have created a large gap in his memory. He couldn’t recall getting on any shuttle and he didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t even remember getting onto the table.

  Warren touched his face. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, but he could’ve sworn he’d seen a HUD message. In fact, he was certain he had. Two of them. One for the distance to the ceiling. The other for the tech’s name.

  His leg was back. He touched it, tapped it, and smiled. The doctor said there’d be no hair, which was fine, but the other leg was bald, too. And the skin tone seemed to be off. Both looked artificial. And didn’t he have a birthmark on the other one?

  As he allowed his eyes to drift up, he searched for the scar that would indicate where his body stopped and the prosthetic started. He saw none. What he did see, or rather didn’t see, gave him a shock.

  Where the hell was his junk? Instead of his male reproductive parts, the spot between his legs only displayed a slight bulge—a hint that he was male—or at least used to be.

  Warren almost laughed. This couldn’t be real.

  When he looked around the room and studied the soldiers on the table, he saw they were all in the same condition—dickless. The sight didn’t bring him any comfort. Realizing he wasn’t the only one didn’t make it any better.

  It was supposed to be a simple operation. Well, maybe not simple, but his prosthetic leg didn’t have anything to do with the rest of him. Nothing whatsoever.

  Warren waited for the rush of adrenaline which had to be on the way. Several seconds later, he realized the adrenaline wasn’t going to happen. No rush of bloodlust—just indignation. Angry, but under control.

  A banging sound caught his attention. When Warren turned his head toward the sound, he saw the man opening a wall locker. Inside were legs. Lots of legs.

  The nurse selected one and brought it to a table further down the line. When another man stepped out of the way, Warren spotted the patient. He looked like he’d been shot in the thigh. The skin above his knee was shredded and hung in ribbons. Bits of shiny metal and cables dangled from what should have been a bloody wound.

  A few seconds later, the tech who’d been examining the man’s leg spoke. “Yup, looks like you got it blasted up good. We’re going to have to replace it. According to our records, you’ve only got two spares left. Maybe you should try to not get shot next time, huh?”

  The soldier didn’t respond except to shrug.

  Laughing to himself, the nurse bent over the leg, fiddling with something Warren couldn’t see. The leg came off a second later in a soundless motion. When the tech moved out of the way, Warren watched with avid curiosity. What was left was a large socket of polished metal and circuitry.

  While one nurse walked away with the damaged limb, the other brought the spare, lined it up, and slid it into place. Two seconds later, the soldier lifted his leg and allowed the tech to poke it in different locations.

  “Can you feel this?” the tech asked.

  “I can tell you bite your nails if that’s what you mean,” the soldier replied with a grimace. “And that you’re paying far too much attention to my limb, doc. I’ve never had a defective one, and if I did, trust me, I’d tell you. Am I free to go?”

  The nurse sighed. “Yeah, fine, whatever. See you next time.”

  “If you’re lucky,” the soldier said as he gave Warren a friendly wink, before turning and leaving the room through a side door.

  As soon as the soldier left, Warren searched the room and found where they’d taken the man’s damaged leg. It was sitting on a table, and the tech who’d removed it was cutting the skin with some kind of laser. When that was done, he peeled it off and exposed the innerworkings.

  Another soldier came in and lay down on the table next to Warren’s.

  “Hey,” the man said, smiling widely. “You let the enemy shoot your leg? You should shoot them, not let them shoot you. I will teach you. How many did you kill?”

  Warren thought he recognized the man’s voice and thick, Slavic accent.

  “Seven,” Warren said, feeling uncomfortable that he didn’t remember the man’s name. He had the distinct impression the man knew him.

  “Twenty-seven,” the soldier bragged with a grin. “I did it with only one arm most of the battle.�
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  To demonstrate, he shook his shoulders, allowing one of his arms to wiggle like an overcooked noodle. His right arm was completely inoperable. It was hard to miss even without the demonstration. The sharp end of a metallic bone stuck out the back where his triceps would normally be and burn marks peppered the shoulder. It had to be prosthetic.

  Warren racked his brain as he tried to fill in the gap of missing days, weeks, or possibly years. It was all gone. He had nothing.

  A moment later, a nurse approached with a new arm for the other soldier. He pulled the damaged one off and plugged the new one in. The act was given no more care or consideration than someone changing a light bulb. It was faster, too. In a few seconds, the soldier was wiggling his new fingers. But when the nurse turned to leave, the man stopped him.

  “Wait,” he said. “I need to see that arm.”

  The tech handed it back to him. “It’s busted up. We’re only going to be able to salvage it for its component parts. What are you going to do with it?”

  “This,” he said as he began to peel the skin away from the damaged portion. He yanked a couple of components free and allowed them to dangle from the rest of it. Then he reached inside, pulled something, and curled the fingers into a fist. With another pull, he extended the middle one and showed it to Warren.

  “See?” he said. “Is not completely busted. It is still useful.” He fell back onto the metal bed, laughing hard.

  Not wanting to be awkward, Warren offered a laugh of his own.

  The technician snatched the arm back and gave both soldiers an annoyed glare before storming away.

  “It causes me pleasure to mess with him,” the man said before he gracefully jumped down from the table and turned to Warren. “Hmm,” he said, bringing his face close. “It is too bad you did not get shot in face again. Every time they replace cranium, I look more handsome.”

  He laughed hard and stepped out of the way as a powered gurney rolled up to the now-empty exam table.