Cyborg Corps Complete Series Boxed Set

by J. N. Chaney

  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.

  He handed the clipboard back to the man. “So, when do we do this?”

  Doctor Burgess inspected the signature, nodded, then looked up from the clipboard. “Right now, if you’re okay with that. Do you have anyone you need to call? Any appointments you need to cancel?”

  “Like today? As in, I need to let my boss know I won’t be in tomorrow?”

  “Like right now,” the doctor said as he opened the door. He waved to someone, and two orderlies rolled a gurney in front of the door. “And don’t worry about your job. We’ll call them for you.”

  “I didn’t fast. Big hearty breakfast; the works,” Warren said, surprised at how ready the man was.

  “It’s fine,” Burgess replied, waving the concern away. “We’ve got the latest in everything. We’ll take care of you.”

  Warren stared at the gurney for a moment, guts churning with concern at how quickly things had moved. Then he glanced down at the spot where his leg used to be, at the ill-fitting prosthesis on the counter, and at the doctor. “Let’s do this,” he said and hopped from the examination table to the gurney.

  Burgess opened a nearby cabinet and removed an IV kit. It was a black bag with the hospital’s logo. “Lie down and we’ll get you ready.”

  A minute later, the IV was in place. Burgess pulled a syringe out of his pocket, held it up to the light, and injected an amber-colored fluid into the line.

  “What’s that?” Warren asked.

  “It’s a sedative,” he replied. “It’ll help you relax as we get everything set up.”

  It took only a few seconds for Warren to feel the effects. The world became fuzzy, disjointed, and peaceful.

  Warren found himself being hurried down a hallway, but he was having trouble keeping track of time. At first it seemed normal, but then it felt like everything was moving in slow motion. The noise of machines beeping and people talking reached his brain. But they sounded funny, like someone had placed empty soup cans over his ears.

  A warm sensation caressed his body as his tongue, fingers, and toes became pleasantly numb. It felt nice—kind of like he was swimming in one of those saltwater pools the really nice hotels had.

  Faces passed through his vision then a bright light blinded him for a moment. Everything looked like he could almost see through it. When things moved, they left after-impressions like vapor trails. The world felt right, peaceful, and calm.

  Then someone, maybe a few people—he wasn’t sure—picked him up and set him down on a surface that wasn’t as comfortable as the gurney. It was cold, and the longer he was there, the deeper the chill settled into his bones. His joints started to ache, along with his head and eyes. He tried to tell someone, but he couldn’t make his mouth or lips move. He couldn’t even turn his eyes or blink.

  Two men came into his field of vision, somewhere off to the right. They looked odd and out of place. Instead of the teal-colored scrubs everyone else was wearing, they had coats and ties. Warren tried to wonder why they were staring at him, but he was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. A moment later, they vanished.

  Another face appeared in his vision near the top of his head. It was someone wearing a mask. A man, he decided, based on the bushy eyebrows. They curled up at the ends like a fancy mustache—but on his forehead. It had to be a doctor. There was intelligence behind those eyes.

  Then Warren’s mouth was opening. Something rough touching his tongue. He tried to fight it off, but he couldn’t move anything. He couldn’t bite down, deflect it with his tongue, or cry out. It burned as it entered his throat. It felt rigid and sharp. He wanted to cough or gag but found he could do neither. When the man let him go, something remained. It touched his teeth, lay across his tongue, and was stuck in his throat. Then he felt his gown being removed, followed by a cold, wet sensation on his chest, and more lights came on. He couldn’t see anything except the bright lights.

  A moment later there was a sharp pain on his chest near his right collarbone. A fiery, white-hot line of agony stretched from somewhere near his armpit to the center of his chest. He was being cut. Warren tried to scream, to fight, but he couldn’t move.

  Another white-hot line stretched from his other armpit to his chest and he tried fighting again, but nothing happened.

  “Wait. He’s still conscious,” was the last thing he heard before the world faded into silent darkness.

  2

  The world returned in a flash of realization that made Warren dizzy. He was standing, wearing something that felt unnatural. A cacophony of noises filled the air. Screams. Explosions. Was that an emergency siren?

  Warren found himself backpedaling, bringing a rifle up to his shoulder to defend himself against someone. A man with an ax. It looked like the weapon was made of pieces of scrap welded together. He had no idea why he was being attacked. He had a gun, though. He knew what to do with it.

  There wasn’t time to think. He raised the rifle while stepping to the side. With a gentle squeeze of his finger, he pulled the trigger.

  His enemy’s head exploded into a cloud of pink mist. It looked like someone had stuck a stick of dynamite in the guy’s mouth and lit the fuse. Warren stopped moving and watched as the man’s lifeless body dropped the ax and fell over, blood pouring from the spot where his brains should’ve been.

  “The fuck,” he whispered, staring at the man’s remains. A second later, chunks of gray matter, hair, and what was left of his opponent’s helmet spattered to the red soil.

  Bright, green words appeared at the bottom of Warren’s vision. It was unexpected, and he stumbled back a few steps. These were instructions, he knew. Though they’d only appeared for an instant, he remembered them.

  ADVANCE TO LOCATION A-221

  Everything was a blur. Warren’s head spun with questions. He didn’t know who the enemy was or why they were fighting. He didn’t know whose side he was on. There were no American flags anywhere. He was in the thick of it again only a few seconds later. More people were closing in. They were shooting.

  Warren ducked reflexively, taking cover behind a low shape sitting on the ground. It looked like a car, maybe. No wheels, though. And boxy.

  He kept his head down as the sound of bullets peppering the vehicle in front of him rattled through him. Someone was shooting in his direction. Warren was pinned down behind this... something. He had to move. They’d flank him if he didn’t.

  Warren peeked over the top of the vehicle, searching for better cover. He suddenly realized he didn’t recognize this place at all. He’d served in two deserts, a jungle, and several bases across the world. This wasn’t any of them.

  The ground was hard-packed dirt, almost as red as blood. The buildings looked like they’d arrived flat-packed and had been assembled on site. Though they all had glass windows, most of the panes were broken. All the structures looked the same, more or less. They reminded him of the playhouse his sister had in their backyard.

  Some of them were painted in garish shades of yellow, green, and red. There were enough with similar decorations that Warren wondered if the colors might represent something. Maybe a national flag?

  His thoughts were interrupted by another peppering of projectiles against his cover. A nearby vehicle bega
n to smoke. Waiting was going to get him killed, so he decided it was time to move. Before he could react, a new message appeared on his screen and caused him to pause.

  COOPER: KIA

  RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.02.09

  KIA meant killed in action—Warren knew that, and he didn’t want to be next. The rest of the message was a mystery.

  Grab the high ground, assess the situation, and provide overwatch, he reminded himself.

  The messages kept appearing in his vision. It wasn’t until he reached up and felt something covering his skull that he knew where they were coming from. He was wearing a helmet with a faceplate. It was some kind of heads-up display, a HUD.

  Something hit Warren’s leg, spinning him around in the dirt. He gasped and clutched at his wound. Not again. Oh no, not again.

  When he scrambled closer to the vehicle’s center and inspected his wound, he noticed he was wearing some kind of battle armor. His leg hurt—a dull throbbing sensation—but it wasn’t bleeding. The armor had saved it.

  “My leg?” he whispered.

  Warren stared at the limb that shouldn’t be there. He hadn’t had a leg in more than a year. It had been blown off by an IED, yet there it was. It had to be real. He could feel it, pain and everything. He’d moved it without even thinking.

  For a moment, he wondered if he’d imagined the explosion, the pain, the months of physical therapy, and the training on how to use a prosthesis. He wondered if maybe it had been the other leg, and the chaos of battle had made him forget which one he’d lost. It couldn’t be true, but neither could what he was seeing. Except it hurt.

  Hurried footsteps nearby caught his attention. There was no time to daydream—not with danger so close. Warren lifted himself to one knee and winced at the pain. There was a huge dent in the side of his armored leg, and it looked like it should feel worse than it did. Ignoring the pain, he held his rifle in both hands and searched for a target.

  Two people wearing rust-colored uniforms hurried between buildings to his right. One of them peeked around a corner a second later then vanished again. They were going to try and flank him.

  Checking his HUD, he saw his suspicions were confirmed; they were coming around his cover, one on each side. The HUD was miraculous. It fed him information he couldn’t have known on his own. Little blips showing identified enemies appeared in red. The green ones, then, must be allies. He watched as the red blips moved from cover to cover. One stayed behind while the other continued. If he stayed there, they’d have him in a crossfire. It was time to move.

  He stood and charged the one on the left as the man stepped out from safety, drilling him center mass with a controlled burst. Hurrying through the alley and behind the building, he paused at the corner and checked the HUD again. The second man was advancing down the connecting wall. Warren didn’t give the enemy time to get the jump on him. He came around and caught the soldier by surprise. He squeezed the trigger twice, pumping the rounds into the man’s guts. The third ripped his neck open and the man dropped his rifle, trying desperately to stop the fountain of blood pouring from under his chin.

  Warren checked his HUD—no enemies nearby. He glanced over both shoulders to verify it before taking a closer look at his enemy’s remains. Both men were dressed the same in their primitive armor: Chest plates, which looked like they’d been hand forged from scrap; facemasks, better designed for some kind of medieval hockey match than combat; Shin guards; and gloves. Nobody fought like this, yet here they were.

  Another one hurried around a corner, moving away. He must’ve been retreating. Warren took his time lining up the shot. One squeeze of the trigger and his lifeless corpse slid down to lay in the red soil.

  According to his HUD, he’d managed to isolate himself. Most of the fighting was happening to the east, maybe a hundred meters away. It meant he wasn’t doing any good where he was. It also meant the enemy wouldn’t be looking for him.

  Time to climb, he thought to himself as he studied the nearby buildings. One looked good; it was a couple of stories high and had a good vantage point.

  The building exploded as he took a step toward it, filling the streets with dust as it fell. When the air cleared enough for him to see, he checked his HUD again. Someone was nearby. She stood in the middle of the narrow dirt street with both hands covering her mouth. No armor. No weapons. A non-combatant.

  After concealing himself in a narrow alley a couple of buildings away, Warren took a knee to take another peek at his leg. He poked the wound. It hurt, but there wasn’t any blood. He tapped it near his ankle and felt that, too. He couldn’t press where his toes were—the boots he was wearing were too rigid, but when he wiggled them, they felt real.

  Another allied soldier walked past him, casually scanning the rooftops. Warren stood and followed. He had a lot of questions he wanted to ask. But before he got the opportunity, he was attacked again.

  Grunting, Warren took cover behind a short concrete wall—part of someone’s garden, apparently.

  The incoming fire was taking the wall apart, chunk by large chunk. The other allied soldier was standing, calmly returning fire. Warren watched in awe as he took round after round to his chest. The hits didn’t stop the warrior as he advanced toward the enemy. Holy hell! Firing his rifle as he moved, the man pressed onward, moving either with confidence or complete disregard for his own personal safety.

  The enemy gunner kept firing, but the rounds began to walk their way up the wall toward the soldier with no fear. A second later, the warrior was peppered by enemy fire from behind and fell flat on his face.

  When Warren looked straight up for the first time, he froze and marveled at what he saw. It wasn’t the buildings—those seemed quaint and unremarkable. What had his attention was the enormous dome that surrounded him, possibly the whole town. It was huge—five or six hundred meters above his head.

  DISTANCE TO HIGHEST POINT ON DOME: 688 M.

  Okay, 688 meters to be exact, according to his HUD.

  Beyond the dome was an unfamiliar, red-orange sky, the color of sunset, but everywhere at once. Sharp, craggy mountains surrounded his location. Wherever the hell that was.

  MCNABB: KIA

  RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.01.21

  It was too much. His brain felt foggy and overwhelmed, like he’d just woken from a long nap. Nothing seemed right.

  Then a thought occurred to him. Maybe he wasn’t awake. Maybe none of this was real. It had taken three surgeries to repair what was left of his leg. The last thing he remembered was lying on a gurney, bright lights, and men wearing suits instead of smocks. Maybe he was still there. That had to be it. He was still under. This was a dream—a hallucination. If so, then why did it seem so real?

  The bastards hadn’t knocked him out all the way. Maybe they’d given him a second dose or something stronger. They cut his chest. Why my chest and not my leg?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a new sound, one that worried him. The buzzing noise told him a vehicle was on the way.

  Taking a quick scan over the wall, Warren took stock of the situation. He ducked behind the wall, blinked a few times, and checked again. The floating car was real. So were the three enemy troops inside it.

  Warren ducked back down behind the wall. He didn’t think he’d been spotted. It was time for an ambush. He waited another two seconds, allowing them to get closer, before he stood, bringing his rifle to his shoulder as he did. There was no scope. No sights. Not even irons.

  Suddenly, a targeting reticle appeared on his HUD. As he moved his rifle, the crosshairs followed. Warren centered them on the driver’s throat and pulled the trigger.

  Crack!

  The vehicle’s low windshield shattered, and the man’s neck exploded. Blood splattered everywhere, coating the glass. The man’s head bounced off his shoulder before falling onto the street slinging blood as it rolled.

  The passenger in the front reached over, trying to control the vehicle. Warren shot his arm off exactly at the point where he�
�d been aiming. Another round to his chest blew the man over his seat and into the lap of the man behind him. The third didn’t move or even react. Bullet must’ve gone clean through.

  The driver and passengers were all dead, but the vehicle—

  HOVERCAR TYPE-VI, CIVILIAN

  The hovercar was still moving at a rapid pace.

  HOVERCAR VELOCITY: 77 KM/H

  Warren clenched his jaw against the constant interruptions and stood his ground. There was no danger of being rammed by the vehicle. It would crash long before it got to him. When he figured out where it would stop, he spotted an elderly woman in the middle of the road.

  “Get out of the way!” he shouted, waving his hands.

  A man and woman in another building did the same, urging her to move faster. There was no chance she’d make it in time. The old woman was going to get nailed by the runaway hovercar unless Warren did something.

  Warren had to act. He couldn’t just watch as an innocent civilian was killed—not while he was there. He stood and sprinted as fast as he could toward the old woman. She looked up, a terrified expression on her face. She only saw a soldier charging her, he observed, somewhat frustrated. When she squealed, turned, and tried to hurry back to her home, Warren cursed.

  The woman had made it halfway across the street, terror and adrenaline giving her a boost of speed. The woman’s neighbors called after her, urging her to hurry as they watched Warren approach.

  At their urging, the old woman turned back toward her neighbor. Then she looked at Warren, frowned, and stood her ground. It looked like she’d given up on life and had accepted her fate. Not today, lady. Not today.

  Warren wanted to pick her up and carry her out of the way. But, he wasn’t sure if he could without hurting her or giving her a heart attack. She looked so frail. He didn’t want to see her die, but he couldn’t force her to accept his help.