Cyborg Corps Complete Series Boxed Set

by J. N. Chaney

  “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.

  The soldier turned away to watch what the two technicians were doing with the one they’d laid on the table behind him.

  Warren couldn’t shake the feeling he knew the man. They’d played cards together. Fought a couple of times. His face looked familiar, like a memory from his distant childhood. No, that wasn’t it. It was something else. Then a message appeared in his field of vision.

  LUKOV YAKOVICH, 1ST CORPS

  There was other information available, just out of reach. Struggling not to lose it, Warren tried to focus, but the message vanished. He ran his hand over his face to verify he wasn’t wearing anything that could have generated what he’d seen, but he wasn’t wearing a helmet, visor, or anything else which could have placed the words into his line of sight.

  Lukov was doing his best to stay out of the way as the technicians busied themselves with a soldier who wasn’t moving.

  “Is it bad?” Lukov asked.

  “Looks like a complete loss,” a tech replied, sounding more frustrated than sad. “The head took too many hits. After the fifth or sixth, it’s really hard to tell. It doesn’t matter anyway. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Damn,” Lukov said, then turned to me. “Craig is asshole. Always getting killed. Stormed out into the open like angry cow.” Then turning to Warren, he asked, “Did you see?”

  Warren leaned to one side to get a better look and saw a man with a ruined face. He was sure he’d seen it, so he decided to answer in the affirmative.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Craig is nuts. He stood up and tried to charge a machine gun nest.”

  “He is idiot,” Lukov replied, before turning back to the technician. “How far is retrieval date?”

  The tech glanced at his tablet. “According to our records, about two weeks.”

  “It is not too far,” said Lukov. “In fact, perhaps is not a bad thing for this. Now he will not remember I owe him money from poker. No, this is fine. Please carry on.”

  “Worst part is Craig will not learn shit,” Lukov whispered, turning back to Warren. “He will not remember this. Maybe think we are bullshitting to him. We will need to tell him, convince, or he may be deleted. Then again, he is stupid, so maybe that is best.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Warren said with a firm nod, even though he didn’t have any clue what the man was talking about.

  Deserves to be deleted? This has happened before?

  The sound of power tools caused Warren to turn around. Someone was being operated on. The soldier was awake. He looked bored and stared at the ceiling as the technician fished around in his guts. When the soldier noticed Warren staring, the man gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. Everything was fine.

  Everything was not fine, Warren decided. Even if pain management had advanced at the same rate as the prosthetics, the stuff the technician was pulling out of the man’s belly wasn’t guts. It didn’t even look like anything someone tried to pretend was guts. Where intestines should have been, there was blinking gadgetry. Where ribs should have been, there were metal bars, twisted and bent into vague, rib-like shapes the man’s skin had covered. Nothing was right. There was no way this guy was alive, but there he was, talking, looking around, and blinking like nothing was wrong.

  Warren’s mind reeled from the confusion of everything that was happening. Nothing made sense. It was too much, too fast, but one thing was for certain.

  Whatever the soldier was, he wasn’t human.

  So what did that make Warren?

  4

  Warren continued to stare, unable to tear his eyes from the confusing sight.

  The person on the table wasn’t a man at all but was a machine. Was his whole body a prosthetic? Warren had to avert his gaze when the tech turned around with a handful of mechanical guts dangling from one had.

  Eyes sliding down to take in the length of his body again, Warren studied himself. reached up with one hand and placed it on the center of his chest. No heartbeat.

  Then he remembered his heart wasn’t in the center of his chest. It was off to one side, but he was having trouble remembering which. He recalled the biology class he took in high school, although he’d slept through most of it. Then he imagined the carotid artery at his neck and placed two fingers there in as casual a motion as he could.

  Nothing.

  What. The. Hell.

  The tech returned with a part—a mechanical part. He placed the thing into the soldier’s belly, moved his hands around the man’s insides, then grabbed a tool that resembled a butane torch crossed with a crescent wrench.

  The soldier noticed him and rolled his eyes. “The fuck are you staring at, Warren?”

  Warren didn’t answer. The technician ducked as sparks flew from the man’s belly. Then he reached in, yanked out a malfunctioning component about the size of a fist, and dropped it into a metal box at the end of the exam table. A small cloud of smoke billowed from it, dissipating in seconds. The technician slammed the lid. Another nurse wearing heavy gloves picked it up and hurried away. The first left his patient, went to a shelf, returned with another part, and started putting the man back together.

  Lukov was still watching the man on the other table—or what was left of him. The techs had removed the man’s arms and legs. All that remained was a torso. While one of the techs used a scalpel to cut open the man’s chest, the other stood passively, making notes on a tablet. They acted like what they were doing was no big deal, as though they did this all the time.

  It was then that Warren realized he’d been stroking his new leg, so he stopped, hoping nobody had noticed. He couldn’t get over the feeling of it being back. It wasn’t perfect—the sensation of touch was a little off, and seemed slightly deadened, but he could tell where it was at all times.

  Nobody seemed to be watching, so he decided to do a more thorough inventory. Although the junction of his leg to the rest of his body wasn’t visible, he could feel it with the tips of his fingers. The transition from one body part to another was subtle. Whoever had designed the system had done a fantastic job. His skin felt rubbery and soft, similar to the small patch of synthetic stuff the doctor had given him to play with.

  Warren continued checking the rest of his body. The skin on his palms felt the same. It wasn’t as thick as the skin on his legs, but otherwise, neither was distinguishable from the other. He felt along the back of his right hand to his wrist. No difference. Dragging his fingers to his elbow confirmed it all felt like the artificial skin. Nothing felt different all the way to the top of his shoulder until he reached a few centimeters beyond that.

  And why was he so calm? He should, by rights, be freaking out. Instead, a strange calm had settled over Warren, allowing him to think clearly and take stock of what was going on.

  After glancing around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, Warren checked his other arm and hip. They all had seams. He was like the dead guy lying on the table in front of him. Both arms and legs were fake. He was certain if someone had used one of the lasers to cut open his belly, they’d only find mechanical components inside.

  His eyes, he realized, must be a form of advanced prosthetics as well. That’s how the messages were showing up without a helmet.

  “Warren,” Lukov whispered, casting a furtive glance towards the techs. “Are you okay?”

  “I don�
�t know, to be honest.” Warren lifted a shoulder “I’m not even sure where I am.”

  Lukov grimaced. “Do not say it too loud.”

  Hendrose walked up a second later and smiled at Warren. “We were able to repair your leg rather than replace it. You’ve still got a bunch of spares left, so there’s nothing to worry about. How are you feeling?”

  Lukov pasted on a fake smile and another message appeared in Warren’s HUD.

  TELL HIM YOU FEEL FINE

  “I feel fine, doc,” Warren replied. “I should be ready to kick Lukov’s ass if you’d like me to test my leg. Got any spare asses for him? He might need it.”

  To his relief, both the doctor and Lukov laughed.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Hendrose said. “Come back down to medical if you need anything. Any anomalies, I want to hear about them ASAP.” His penetrating stare carried a strong message, meant to amplify his words.

  It wasn’t a stretch to assume he meant whatever had caused a need for the compulsion.

  “Will do,” Warren said as he hopped off the table.

  “Now we get dressed,” Lukov said. “Then we go to get nutrition.”

  Warren noticed the clinical way the man said it. He didn’t say “eat,” “grub,” or anything else normal people would have said. Warren chalked it up to the accent.

  Lukov guided them to a hatchway off to the side—the one he’d seen another soldier exit through earlier. It led to a locker room, but not like any he’d graced before. The floor and ceiling both appeared to be constructed of sleek metal.

  There were rows and rows of lockers of various sizes. Although Warren didn’t remember being there before, he was able to walk directly to his locker without searching. Inside were several sets of black coveralls. Each had a name patch. Warren’s read “PRESCOTT.”

  “Ready to eat like kings?” Lukov asked as soon as they were both dressed.

  “Sure. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

  “Do not speak in such a way,” Lukov whispered. “It will make you sound like you are malfunctioning or falling into a depression. Everything you have learned since your last backup will be gone. Memories gone. We will talk later.”

  Warren had a million questions, but something told him now wasn’t the best time to ask. He gave a quick nod and followed him out of a door on the opposite side of the locker room. He still didn’t know where he was, why he was there, or what his place was in the big picture. Hell, was there a picture for him to be part of?

  Awards, he suddenly remembered. Military units love showing their awards. It always says the name of the unit, and usually mentions where they’re located. Sometimes there’s a letter that goes along with the certificate. It would have a name and title on the letterhead. All he had to do was look for a trophy cabinet or framed certificate. They should be everywhere. After a few minutes of walking, though, he realized they were not, in fact, everywhere.

  Another thing he found odd was the lack of windows. No matter how high a unit’s budget might be, government buildings always had windows. Always. Natural light was free—electricity was not.

  Then he noticed the doorways. They all looked like the doors slid into the nearby walls. Also, the edges were rounded—not a lot, but far more than most doorways. He wondered if a lot of people busted their pinky-toes walking through them. Why are they shaped that way? They’re kind of like hatches on a boat.

  Warren didn’t detect any motion; he’d always been prone to seasickness and would’ve felt the gentle rocking of a massive warship. Boats always moved in the water, regardless of how small the swells were. His old girlfriend had talked him into taking a cruise once, and it’d been the worst vacation ever. Even on a ship as large as that, meter-tall swells had been too much.

  “How much is forgotten?” Lukov asked from behind him.

  Warren had forgotten the man was even there and glanced up with a frown. “I’m not sure. How am I supposed to know what I forgot?”

  “Ah yes, good point.” Lukov nodded, his expression serious.

  Warren spotted his first window as they strolled through the building. At first, he thought it might be nighttime, because everything outside was dark. He turned and slowly approached the viewport. Outside were billions of stars. He wasn’t on a base. He was on a spaceship, and that wasn’t a window—it was a porthole.

  “Keep moving,” Lukov said as he took Warren firmly by the arm. “You look like a new recruit. You have seen the empty space, the stars, the planet. If they suspect otherwise, you may be reset.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Warren muttered as Lukov released his arm and they began walking again. “I don’t even know what the hell year it is.”

  “Quiet, until we reach mess,” Lukov ordered. “We should be alone there. It’s not normal meal time.”

  Warren did his best to look like nothing was bothering him. On the inside he was working hard as he tried to dig up the memories he knew must lay dormant somewhere in his mind. The last thing he remembered was the guy cutting into his chest. There had been men in the room. They hadn’t been wearing regular surgery garb—the smocks, gloves, surgical caps, and other stuff. They’d been dressed in business suits. Why would they do that?

  Then something had happened, but he couldn’t remember what. It was like scar tissue in his mind. Then nothing, until he found himself being attacked by someone wielding an ax.

  They walked into the eatery and Warren was taken aback by its size. It could easily fit a thousand people, maybe more.

  MESS CAPACITY: 825

  Warren frowned at the message. He was going to have to learn to control his thoughts better if he didn’t want to put up with the constant visual interruptions.

  The room was empty, just as Lukov had predicted. There was nothing on any of the counters and nothing in the food warmers and all of the tables were folded, secured to the deck, and against the outside walls. The room was brighter than the hallway—probably a way to improve morale. Warren had heard that life aboard a seafaring ship could be depressing. He had no idea what it was like on a spaceship, but it had to be tough.

  Lukov walked over to a device mounted on the wall. When he pressed a button on the device, it dispensed a plastic-wrapped bar. He tossed it to Warren, who caught it easily.

  Warren read the label. “Meal, nutrition bar, Type-C,” he read aloud. “Sounds wonderful.”

  “They are,” Lukov said with a small laugh. “Do you not remember these either?”

  “Should I?” Warren asked as he tore the wrapper. As soon as the words were out he realized that was exactly the point. Everything about this place should be familiar. Even this stupid meal bar. The object inside the packaging looked like a brick of compressed blood and smelled like a thousand chemicals, none of which pricked his memory but he could guess didn’t taste very good.

  Lukov didn’t appear to mind, though. He took a bite and chewed as he studied his friend. “Do you remember yesterday?”

  “No,” Warren admitted and took a bite of the nondescript food-like thing. It tasted like cardboard, but somehow was also delicious. “The last thing I remember is going in for surgery to get a new prosthetic leg.”

  Lukov nodded, as though this was no surprise to him. “Memories can be tricky. Sometimes things like this can happen. Don’t tell anyone. Sometimes memories return. Sometimes, not. But none can remember that far back. And you have forgotten the in-between. This is not good.” He stared with wide eyes as he finished the last of his meal.

  “The tech said there were destroyers inbound. Even though I had some of our enemies, whoever they are, dead to rights, someone wanted us to leave. Why?”

  “No time to kill,” Lukov said, shrugging. “No time to finish the mission. Time to run, nothing more. We will go back and try again. We always do.” Lukov began pacing. “Once CoWs show up, they take planet. We return to take back.”

  “Cows?” Warren asked, unsure he’d heard the man correctly.

  Luk
ov sighed. “Commonwealth of Worlds. Our sworn enemy.”

  He looked at Warren as if waiting for an answer. Since he didn’t know who “our” referred to, Warren shrugged in response.

  “We tried to take planet,” Lukov explained. “The Commonwealth fought back. Is how it goes. Constant back and forth. Sometimes we win, sometimes they do. This time, CoWs set trap. We were only on planet for twenty minutes before we get word about destroyers. They were waiting for us somehow. We left in time, but just.”

  “How many destroyers?” Warren asked.

  “It is not for us to know,” Lukov said with a shrug. “We leave in hurry. We escape. Soon, we’ll return and fight. It is the only way.”

  “And what should I do while I wait for the memories to come back?” Warren pressed.

  “Same thing we all do,” Lukov said. “We watch movie. We play cards. We follow order. Then we do it again. Same as always. You remember how to play cards?”

  “Eh, depends which game you mean,” he replied. “I’ve got vague memories of gin, spades, and five-card draw. I feel like I knew some others, but I can’t remember what they are.”

  Lukov smiled now. “That’s not a problem. Most of time we play spades. Is a good game. Lots of chances to win, and many to lose. We play for virtual money, because we are not paid. I am winning. You’re usually my partner. Maybe we should make practice before next time we play, hmm?”

  Warren wanted to ask why they weren’t paid but decided that was a question for another day. Right now, there were more important questions. “Maybe later. Can you tell me whose side are we on in this war?”

  “We fight for Grand Republic of Unified Systems,” Lukov replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

  “And who is the Grand Republic?” Warren asked. “Are we the good guys?”

  Lukov’s expression darkened. “Is not for us to question. Each side maybe thinks they are good guys. Who is to say? But don’t worry. You’re part of 1st Corps. You are on the winning side.”