Cyborg Corps Complete Series Boxed Set

by J. N. Chaney

  “Yup. But don’t get too excited. These are just more leftovers. Short-range combat fighters. Mostly the Commonwealth likes to load these things onto some of the bigger ships—battleships, cruisers, things like that. We’ve learned that sometimes they’re good for planetary defense. The technology is really old—over a hundred years—but they’re still badass on the battlefield.

  “We’ve got all but two of them working. Those ones are a lost cause. There just aren’t enough spare parts to go around. It’s nothing we can fabricate ourselves either, so we’re keeping them for whatever spare parts we might need to strip off them later,” Hendrose said.

  “What are they called?”

  “Stingers. They’re fast, but they don’t carry a lot of ammo. Think of them as flying tanks. They can take a lot of hits, but every single shot you make has to count. We haven’t flown them except just around the warehouse. None of us have the precision or reflexes to keep them going in a straight line. We could probably manage it if we were able to take our time and weren’t worried about getting caught. None of us wants either side to know we have these things. So, we’ve been repairing them as we can, in case you and the others can use them. We hoped this day would come.”

  Warren stared at the nearest one for a moment before approaching it. He reached out and touched the pointed nose cone of the craft, then he ran his fingers down the side of it and across the front of its wing. The metal was rough and riddled with imperfections, but serviceable, in his opinion.

  “So, what do you think?” Hendrose asked as he chewed his bottom lip and studied Warren’s face.

  “I think you’re showing me all this because you think I’m in charge. Or want me to be? Before you say anything, I feel like I need to say something first, so hear me out. Back before I was turned into... this, I wasn’t that high up in the ranks. I was a sergeant—that’s all. I’ve never commanded a whole army—just a platoon.”

  “And you’re afraid you’re not up to the task?” Hendrose asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I need to tell you something my father told me a long time ago,” Hendrose replied, stepping closer. “He said it was some poet who said it first. Some guy from our ancient history—a guy whose words will always be true. Some men are born great. Some achieve greatness. And some have greatness thrust into them, or something like that. You might not be in the first category, but that doesn’t keep you out of the last two. You were specifically picked for this operation—this mission—long before you became aware of it. Out of all the cyborgs, you were the one who inspired us.”

  “Why me?” asked Warren.

  “Because we saw how you reacted every single time you came to Reotis. You might not remember it, but you’ve been here before. Lots of times, in fact. Every single time you do pretty much the same thing. You save people. Sure, you destroy shit, and you’ve even killed a few Reotians, but that was only in self-defense. Where some other cyborgs seemed to kill for fun, you only did it when you had to. You’re smart, too. The CoWs didn’t stand a chance when you were here. Sometimes you were outnumbered and didn’t make it. Other times, even when you were at the disadvantage, you still managed to kick serious ass.”

  “Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you think I’m fit to lead a rebellion.” Warren pointed out.

  “One of our operatives passed a message to you,” Hendrose explained. “I don’t know what it said—I was serving on the Ruthless by then—but from what I gather, it was an offer. You took the message, read it, and destroyed it. The next time the First Cyborg Corps showed up, you did something—a signal of some sort—to let the operative know you were onboard. From there, the plan went into action. I don’t know all the details, but here you are, and I’m glad for it.”

  “Okay,” Warren said. “So, what’s left to be done to finish our defenses?”

  Hendrose frowned. “Everything. We’ve been in the middle of one battle or another for a long time. No time for training. No time for preparation. And nobody to take charge.”

  “Okay then,” Warren said. “How many people do we have who can operate the Stingers?”

  “Sixty,” he said.

  “Good. Do you already have firing positions figured out?”

  “Yes,” Hendrose said. “Enough for forty of the guns, anyway. The man who was in charge of our strategic planning was killed. That derailed some of our planning. We don’t know how to protect the entire planet with so few guns.”

  “We don’t need to protect the entire planet,” Warren replied. “Just enough to make our enemies think twice about attempting an invasion. Let’s get everyone busy.”

  14

  To say the civilians were disorganized would have been a generous understatement. Warren watched in dismay as people ran into each other or stood around talking about what might need to be done rather than just taking care of it. In a way, it seemed that none of them had ever prepared for an attack before. He knew that was false.

  “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Warren asked his cyborg team using a private channel.

  “Yes, I see,” Lukov replied, sounding disappointed. “It appears Reotians have spent their time segregating. They lack discipline. How did these people accomplish this by acting in such a way? Why has no one become their leader?”

  “They had a leader,” Warren returned. “He died after we lost the planet some time back. Turns out the Commonwealth doesn’t like independent thought any more than the Republic does.”

  “I see. They need strong hand. Bring them together. Show them how to work as one. If they don’t learn, this rebellion won’t last long.”

  “You there,” Warren said to a Reotian woman who looked like she might know what she was doing. “Come here, please.”

  The forty-something woman nearly tripped over her own feet in surprise when she saw who was speaking to her.

  “Sir?” she said in a voice that was both timid and shaky.

  “Relax,” Warren said, moving his hand in what he hoped would be a gentle motion of calming. “You don’t have to call me sir.”

  The woman stared at him, a look of fear in her eyes.

  “Who’s in charge?” he asked, trying to sound friendly.

  “Uh, I thought you were,” she stammered. “You’re Warren, right?”

  “I am,” he said. “But if I weren’t here, who would be in charge? Which of the Reotians?”

  She seemed to think about it for a moment before answering. “It would’ve been Charles, but he died during the last invasion. The CoWs murdered him once they found out he was still giving orders and people were listening to him.”

  “I heard about him,” Warren said. “Since then, has anyone taken his place?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Thank you,” he told her. “Please, carry on.”

  She hesitated for a moment before she seemed to realize what he wanted her to do—get back to work.

  “It looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Warren transmitted.

  “It is a shame,” Lukov replied. “But there is no time to waste, my friend. We must organize them—assign team leads—everything. Otherwise, none of us will survive.”

  “I have my report ready,” a man said from somewhere near where Warren’s navel used to be. The man was short with a nose about two sizes too big for his face, a pale complexion, and greasy black hair.

  “A report on what?” Warren asked.

  “Only water,” the man said, squinting up at Warren. “You see, water is in limited supply on Reotis, and therefore—”

  “Not now,” Warren said. “I want to hear your report, but right now we’ve got to get our defenses ready and organize the citizens. What’s your job?”

  “I’m the head of the water reclamation and sanitation department,” he said.

  “How many on your staff?”

  “Well, er, it’s just me.”

  “Do you need any help?” Warren asked.

  The man looked confused at th
e question. “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Then you’re set. Good job. Let’s get through the next couple of days and I’ll hear your report.”

  This seemed to satisfy the man, who nodded curtly and walked away as fast as his short legs would carry him.

  “I’m going to need some help with these civilians,” Warren said. “We’ve got to start forming teams. I think we’ll start with section leaders. But before that, we’ve got to figure out what we have.”

  Lukov grunted his assent. “The sooner the better.”

  “I know, there’s not a lot of time—not while we’re trying to get some defenses in place, but do me a favor and keep your eyes open. Sometimes leaders only need to be told they can do it. For now, see if you can get them moving. Give them a reason to take initiative.”

  “I understand,” Lukov said.

  Warren spotted Lukov on the other side of the hangar. The Russian immediately went into full Spetsnaz Drill Sergeant mode and started yelling. At least, that’s what Warren assumed Russian special forces Drill Sergeants were like. He’d seen a few YouTube videos.

  “You stand there!” Lukov bellowed, his volume and ferocity enhanced by his cybernetic parts and armor. “I said move! You! No over there! Look where I point! Good, now—stop that. Look at me, govnosos!”

  Warren had been hoping to avoid intimidating the civilians, but Lukov’s actions did have them moving. “Easy there,” he warned. “This isn’t Spetsnaz training. These are civilians. You don’t need all of that to get them to respect you. All you need to do is be the guy who knows what needs to be done.”

  Lukov stopped yelling and his shoulders slumped a little. “Too bad, I was having fun,” he said. “But you are correct. I will apologize and make it good.”

  Warren spotted a man standing off to one side. He had his hands in his pockets and looked like he was trying to disappear into his dark gray coveralls. He seemed younger—no gray in his brown hair, which looked like he trimmed himself but hadn’t learned to do it with a mirror.

  Warren walked up to him and gave him a curt nod. “What’s your name?”

  “Mason,” the man said. “Mason Curet.” His voice cracked a little and he looked like he was getting ready to run away.

  “Okay, Curet. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a power plant engineer,” he said. “I also dabble in design—weapons mostly. Is that okay? Because we weren’t told what to do.”

  “Yes, that’s better than okay,” Warren said. “Where do you usually work?”

  “Wherever I can, but I don’t really have a permanent workspace. That’s why I’m standing here. I don’t really have anything to do right now. Don’t have anywhere to be. Listen, I’m not trying to be difficult.”

  “It’s fine,” Warren said, holding up a hand. “Follow me around for a while and we’ll find you a job. You’ll need to co-locate with someone else—another team—but if you follow me nobody can accuse you of just standing around.”

  “Okay,” he said with a sigh. “Thanks for that. I swear I’m a good worker.”

  Warren liked the guy. A little meek, but earnest. “Any chance you know anything about the particle cannons we have in the warehouse?”

  “Yes,” Mason replied, nodding enthusiastically. “I’m the one who got them running. Well, better than they were, anyway. You see, they had a capacitor issue. It was an old design—like hundreds of years old. Nanotube capacitors have—”

  “Yes, science stuff, right?” Warren asked, motioning for the man to calm himself.

  He smiled and nodded. “Science stuff. In short, they work better than they did before.”

  “Good,” Warren said. “You know how to operate them, too?”

  Another head bob. “Of course.”

  “Good, you’re going to be in charge of the gun team, then. You’re my new Gun Chief. How many people does it take to effectively run one of the cannons?”

  “Three,” the man said, counting off the roles on the fingers of one hand. “First there’s the gunner. There’s a place for the spotter as well—someone who designates targets. His job is to not get as focused as the gunner on just one thing. Then there’s the runner. That job’s just as important as the rest. They go out and fetch things the others might need. Anything, really. But they’re also in charge of maintaining the weapon as it’s being used.”

  “Good,” Warren said. “Make your spotters your Gun Sergeants. Find your most experienced people—preferably the ones who are assholes—to be on your team. Do what you can for the rest. Set them in whatever natural cover you can while still providing good coverage. And don’t allow yourself to be tempted to fan them out around the entrance. It’ll be too easy to figure out where we are. Make sure wherever they’re deployed, they’re scattered.”

  “I understand,” Mason said as he nodded and stared at something far away.

  Warren snapped his fingers and the man’s head spun toward the sound. “Stay with me, Curet. The Gun Chief has to be aware of everything going on at every single gun. You’re going to be the one to designate primary and secondary targets. You’ll also be the one who tells them when to fire, when to hold their fire, and when to abandon their weapons. Are you up to it?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, giving Warren something resembling a salute.

  “Good, but don’t call me sir. You might want to set up a rotation as well. Make sure the guns are manned at all times but give your people a chance to take a break, eat, get some sleep—things like that. I don’t know if there’s an attack coming, but I doubt the Grand Republic is going to take this loss lying down.”

  The man nodded slowly. “I’ve already been thinking about that.”

  “Smart man. How do the guns communicate with each other?”

  “They’ve got their own comm system built in. Basic encryption and a range of about two hundred kilometers. Low bandwidth, though, so we talk in short bursts. Gunner’s talk, we call it. It’s directional, you see, so we don’t have to worry about anything in orbit intercepting.”

  “That’s good,” Warren said, pleased that things weren’t as chaotic as he’d first feared. “Get the guns moving. Take whoever you need. Before you go, let me know what frequency you’ll be using, and the encryption algorithm.”

  “Oh, certainly,” the man said. He rattled off an encryption code and frequency, which Warren entered into his HUD and shared with Lukov.

  The man saluted—sort of—again. Then he ran around in small circles as he gathered his thoughts and found the people he needed. Warren hoped he could pull it off, but didn’t see an alternative anyway.

  A timid-looking woman in her twenties shuffled forward. She brushed a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes and kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her gray coveralls. “Sir?”

  Warren didn’t bother correcting her. It seemed these people were determined to call him that. “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Annie Chambers. I’ve got about twenty people who don’t have anything to do at the moment,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’re sanitation, so right now there’s not a lot for us to do.”

  “Okay,” Warren said. “Go find Mason Curet. He’s the new Gun Chief. Tell him you’re being assigned to be his runners. There will be a lot of on-the-job training, but we need bodies.”

  Her face brightened at the last few words. “Cool,” she said and ran to tell the others who were huddling close together like they were trying to stay warm. Warren decided that once things slowed down a bit, he’d teach them how to salute properly—or just do away with it altogether.

  The first five guns rolled out of the warehouse on tracked transport vehicles that looked like advanced pallet jacks. The guns looked stable on top of the devices, which Warren decided must’ve been specifically designed for the task.

  Each gun was several meters high with meter-long barrels. The base of the weapon looked like an old computer chassis, but the metal under the tan chipped paint l
ooked a lot sturdier than any computer Warren had ever seen.

  Between the base and the barrels were two metal seats. One had firing controls and some kind of electronic scope with a metal hood to help keep the gun from being spotted in darkness. The other had an array of screens and data panels along with buttons, switches, and devices that looked like diagnostic tools.

  Overall, it looked like the weapons had been assembled from pieces dragged straight from a junkyard.

  The personnel who were guiding it out of the warehouse were all dressed in environmental, or EV, suits. Warren recognized the sleek lines of those designed by the Grand Republic, and assumed the others, which looked similar but more ragtag, were what the Commonwealth had brought.

  As he observed what they were doing, a low rumble began to sound near the nose of where the ship was docked. A square section of ceiling opened slowly, revealing a set of double doors. That was how they got the guns to the surface.

  Warren started walking to check on the rest of the preparations when an explosion on the far side of where the ship was docked froze him in his tracks. It was loud enough to cause most of the civilians to duck, but not severe enough that anyone on the other side could have been injured.

  “Blyat!” Lukov transmitted. A string of curses followed in quick succession.

  Warren zoomed his vision in and saw what had happened. A piece of machinery twice as big as a refrigerator was on fire. It looked warped, as though the explosion had come from the inside and had almost busted through.

  Several civilians were nearby. Two looked like they were trying to disconnect the power but were too afraid to approach. Another shouted for help. The rest looked around like they were waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

  Another cyborg arrived just as Lukov did. He’d found a fire extinguisher somewhere and was looking for a gap to squirt the contents into.

  Lukov punched through the side of the machine, ripped it open with his cybernetic hands, and stepped out of the way so the other cyborg could put the fire out. It was all over in less than thirty seconds, but Lukov didn’t seem satisfied.