by J. N. Chaney
“What about our memories?” asked Baker, who so far had remained quiet.
“I had them backed up and loaded on the Camel,” said Warren. “They’ll be safe so long as the Camel makes it to the surface. Whoever pilots it can hide the case as soon as they get down there. Bury it or something. We’ll make do. We haven’t lost yet, and I won’t consider this a loss. It’s a detour.”
“Plus, we have the 3D printers back on Reotis,” said Rigby. “I bet we can recreate the war computer with them. Get everything back to normal, right?”
Warren wasn’t sure but doubted it. He allowed the feeling to escape into the network instead of speaking the words he knew she didn’t want to hear. A wave of despair blew like a cold breeze across their shared awareness.
“We’re going with Oplin’s idea,” transmitted Warren. “We’ll use the Ruthless as a shield. I’ll give the war computer the final instructions. It’ll drive forward as fast as we can keep up, then I’ll give it full control over the weapons and have it search for military targets—something tasty it can obliterate when it hits.
“There aren’t enough transport vessels or drop ships to get everyone down nice and tidy, though. We’ll have to use the escape pods. We can’t even bring them in the dropships with us. If they survived the drop, they’d be injured—probably with broken bodies. We’ll have to secure a beachhead and send out patrols to try to find everyone because the pods are independent. They can’t be steered. They’ll head for the nearest planet, which is Turano.”
“Have the Ruthless scan for cyborgs,” transmitted Rigby. “If you can. I don’t want it to kill any of Second Corps. They don’t have a way… damn. None of us are going to have a way to come back after this. We’re going to be just like the full humans, and not all of them are going to survive. We lost.”
On the one hand, Warren wished she’d kept that thought to herself. On the other hand, it was best to get it over with as soon as possible. The response of the other cyborgs within the network suggested most of them had already come to the same realization.
Warren tapped a few commands into the terminal built into his chair near his right hand, then verified the command with the war computer. A second later, the light, which had been red, became white again. At the same time, the general alarm sounded through the ship’s internal public address system, seven short blasts followed by one long one. Then came by a verbal message Warren had never hoped to hear.
“Attention crew,” it said in a pleasant female voice. “Abandon ship. This is not a drill.”
19
Warren split his attention between what the ship’s sensors were detecting, his nearby crew members, and where his own feet were. If anything changed, he’d have to alter his plan on the fly. He hoped nothing would change. The situation wasn’t good, but at least there was a way for everyone to escape. Or so he hoped. The crew members left their stations in an orderly fashion, but it was clear based on their expressions they were trying to conceal the fact they were scared.
Without someone at the helm, new course changes would take longer, but it didn’t matter—not for what Warren had planned. He sent the war computer instructions, providing it with the authorization it needed to complete the mission. It would slowly turn the Ruthless toward the planet and begin scanning for targets. At the same time, it would begin to increase its speed, pushing through the mines in front of it as best as it could. When it identified a target, it would send an image to Warren. If the target looked like a Commonwealth military asset, he would authorize its destruction. If it couldn’t reach Warren, it would make its own call based on some loose variables Warren assigned.
He wasn’t sure it would be enough to guarantee the ship didn’t crash itself into an orphanage or other innocent target, but it was all he could do. His final command was for the war computer to update him on its status every two minutes. It would only stop when its ability to communicate was too severely damaged, or the ship was utterly destroyed.
Warren watched the main viewscreen carefully, ensuring the ship was indeed changing course and increasing speed. He thought of Craig, and how much of a charge the cyborg would have gotten from the situation. Their slave master—the war computer—was now the slave. Where it had once sent them into an unwinnable battle, now he was doing the same to it.
One crew member was still standing in front of his station. The man was reaching for his terminal screen like his feet wanted to go one way, but his arms wanted to go the other.
“Get out!” ordered Warren. “Abandon ship!”
“I will, sir, I just need to—“
“You just need to do what you’re told, or I’ll stuff you into an escape pod myself. Now go!” Warren added a large measure of volume to his words. It seemed to do the trick, and the man practically ran into the hatch to the bridge before it had a chance to open.
When it closed behind him, Warren took a moment to consider his surroundings. The displays at the front of the bridge were reporting damage to its shields. They’d last, but not for much longer. The war computer was doing its best to destroy the mines in its path. It was doing a good job, but it missed one now and then as the number within range increased along with the vessel’s speed. It wouldn’t be long before the shields fell and the hull began taking the brunt of the damage.
According to what he could see, most of the crew had entered the escape pods, and one at a time they were launching from the vessel. He hoped they’d all make it, but there was no way to know or predict. He’d done what he could and hoped their technology was enough to save the crew.
“What do we do with the assholes who think they need to go down with the ship?” a cyborg transmitted.
“Use enough force to convince them otherwise,” replied Warren. “If your only option is to hurt them, forget about it. Do what you can, but we won’t bring them harm. Get yourself to a dropship no matter what.”
“Roger that,” the cyborg replied. His tone indicated he wasn’t comfortable with leaving anyone behind.
“What about Wraith Squadron?” asked Oplin.
“Cover the dropships,” replied Warren. “Help the Ruthless stay intact if you can do so without putting yourself in immediate danger, but the drop ships must make it to the surface, or this is all for nothing.”
The nineteen remaining pilots all sent a quick message to Warren’s HUD, which caused their names to momentarily illuminate in his field of vision. They’d heard the order and intended to obey.
Other cyborgs weren’t so quick to acknowledge the order to abandon ship. Warren read some of the messages they were sending to each other and felt their anxiety and anger growing. Everyone wanted to be a hero, it seemed—both human and cyborg alike. Unfortunately, if everyone was a hero and wanted to stay with the ship, it would be a complete loss for Reotis. One by one, Warren focused his attention on individual cyborgs, figured out what they were up against, and gave them a solution before ordering them to a dropship.
According to the war computer, the ship was barely thirty minutes away from entering the atmosphere. As its velocity increased, that time was rapidly diminishing, and the shields were down to less than ten percent. They were running out of time to get out of the vessel before it began taking damage. There would be hull breaches, atmospheric venting, and possible secondary explosions as fuel storage tanks burst and missiles detonated in their magazines.
The passageways were empty, except for a bit of debris and items accidentally dropped by the crew. There was nothing essential, but it looked like some thought it might be a good idea to run back to their berths to retrieve personal items. Hopefully, the delay wouldn’t cost any of their lives. When Warren walked through another hatchway, he encountered a tech frantically tapping and swiping the screen at his terminal.
“What are you doing?” asked Warren.
“Trying to make sure this all gets deleted,” the tech said rapidly. “It’s the protocol, sir. Can’t let it fall into enemy hands. I have to wipe it!”
> Warren curled his fingers into a fist and punched a hole in the terminal, causing the crewman to flinch. “Get to an escape pod. This ship is about to become the largest crater on the Turanian surface. There won’t be anything left for the Commonwealth or anyone else to recover. I assure you, any data that might be left on this ship will be completely and utterly destroyed. Now, move!”
The man tripped over his own feet in his attempt to flee. A second later, he picked himself up, cradling one of his arms against his chest as he hurried through the opposite hatchway.
Shaking his head in amazement, Warren followed and queried the war computer as to how many of the crew still remained aboard. According to its internal scans, there were still seventeen people who hadn’t entered an escape pod yet. What were they thinking? Every member of the Republic Navy was drilled over and over again on how to properly abandon a ship. There was nothing in any protocol or procedure directing anyone to stick around to take care of some last-minute business. They were supposed to secure their stations, which only took seconds, then get the hell out. There wouldn’t be time to save them all, no matter how hard he tried. The shield had already fallen, and the ship was taking damage. From here, the destruction would accelerate. Lives would be lost because people didn’t follow orders.
This time, Warren didn’t hold himself back from punching the nearest wall. Nothing was damaged, though his armored gauntlets did register the impact. His pain sensors indicated he’d strained his elbow and shoulder a bit. He hit the wall again, leaving a fist-sized dent in the bulkhead. Something on the other side came loose and clattered to the deck. The pain felt good, so he hit it again, and again. The only thing that might feel better would be doing the same thing to a certain Commonwealth governor’s face.
As he pulled himself together, he suddenly realized something new. He was angry, but there was something else, too. Something he was sure he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was fear. Soon, there would be no war computer. No replacement parts. No Cyborg Upkeep and Production alcoves. No biologicals. Once he died, it was all over, unless he could find another war computer, which wasn’t likely here. Essentially, he was just like the crew: mortal.
A report came in. One of the escape pods had collided with a mine. A quick query of the war computer confirmed his suspicion. Although the mines were slow, the ones too far away to be an immediate threat to the Ruthless had been redirected. They were targeting escape pods. Back in his day, Warren would have called it a war crime.
Another report indicated the war computer had identified a potential target. It looked like an airfield. Warren could see a couple of Commonwealth fighters parked in the landing field. Good enough. He authorized the target.
Another check revealed there were still seventeen crewmembers doing something besides trying to save their own lives. Warren instructed the war computer to identify the closest pods to those seventeen and to launch the rest. He hoped it would be enough of a distraction to lure the mines away from the occupied ones. Maybe some of the crew would make it to the surface.
“Why aren’t you in a dropship yet?” Rigby barked at him across the comms.
“I’m trying to save lives and make sure the others make it off the ship,” replied Warren.
“You can’t save them all, okay? Get your ass to the launch bay. Fifteen other cyborgs are sitting on their asses making sure you’ve got a ride to the surface. They won’t leave until you do.”
It was blackmail, pure and simple. It also sounded exactly like what Warren was doing. He shook his head. Rigby was right. He’d done everything he could do. Lives would be lost today, there was no way to prevent that, but with any luck, more CoWs would die than Reotians. It was time to go.
Warren hurried through the hatch on the other side. For a moment, he felt his body pitch to the right. There’d been a hull breach, but hatches had automatically closed, sealing it off. Likely there weren’t any point defense cannons left at the bow of the Ruthless, which meant every mine in its path would find a home.
The dropship was the last one in the launch bay. He hurried aboard and took the only empty seat. A restraint bar lowered over his shoulders, securing him in place. A moment later, the pilot punched it, launching the ship from its dying womb and out into open space, even before the rear hatch finished closing.
“Welcome aboard,” the cyborg pilot said. “Please keep your hands and feet inside the—dammit! Hang on! This tub doesn’t have a lot of weapons, but I’m going to assist the Camel. One of ours is flying it, and they’ve got twenty squishies crammed aboard that thing. Hang on, people. See you on the other side.”
Warren was curious about the location of Hendrose. He sent a request for the information to the war computer. It didn’t know. Hendrose was no longer aboard the ship is all it could say. It was all that mattered in the end. So long as his friend had gotten off the ship, he had a chance to survive.
He became aware of someone speaking across the comms but didn’t understand what they were saying. A moment later, his mind cleared. It felt like someone was slowly lifting an insulated cooler off of his head as his awareness slowly returned to normal.
“—coming in for a hard landing,” the pilot was saying. “I’m aiming for swampland, but no guarantees, people.”
Swampland sounded like a good choice. The boxy dropship might be able to slide along the bog—knock down a couple of trees—and come in for a relatively safe landing. If it sank, there were other ways to exit the vessel, and it wasn’t like cyborgs could easily drown.
Warren sent another request for information to the war computer—but nothing came back. He tried again. There was no way the Ruthless was too far away to respond. Whether that meant it was already destroyed or only too damaged to respond, he didn’t know. From this point on, death was permanent. That part, he did know.
His next attempt was to try and send a message to Rigby, asking if she was okay.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Ship’s a little banged up, but I’ll get it to the ground in one piece, more or less. Glad you made it out.”
“You too,” he said and tried to access her visual feed so he could see what she was looking at—maybe his dropship. It failed, of course. The computer that allowed instant communication to exist was gone. “Can you tell me what you see?”
“Sure,” she replied. “We’re through the worst of it—at least I hope we are. It looks like some of the mines tried to follow us down. They’re too far away to be a threat, and they’ll burn up in the atmosphere. Otherwise, it looks like those of us who survived have a few minutes of peace before we’re back in the fight.”
She’d said ‘those of us who survived,’ which meant not everyone had. Whether she was specifically talking about cyborgs, humans, or both, he didn’t know and didn’t want to ask. In the end, it wouldn’t matter. It was likely not everyone would make it to the surface of Turano alive anyway. He’d figure it out when he got there.
Warren felt a soft rumbling. They’d begun to enter the planet’s atmosphere. A normal drop would have brought them in at about mach-25. An insertion made in a hostile situation would be much faster. As the atmosphere thickened, the friction on the outside of the hull would increase, which would eventually result in an electrically charged plasma, and they would, for all intents and purposes, become a fireball. The hull could handle it, though. These ships were made for this kind of thing. Where others had to come in slowly, powering hard to slow their descent toward a planet, drop ships were all about speed and efficiency.
WARNING: AMBIENT TEMPERATURE = 74.4
A human couldn’t withstand that kind of temperature unprotected, not being nearly as hardy as the cyborgs. It was why they couldn’t be transported on the drop ships. The vessels were built for cyborgs and didn’t waste a single credit on unnecessary things such as excessive coolers or heat shielding.
The rattling increased until it settled into a violent twisting-jerking motion as the ship and its pilot attempted to bring the vessel in slowl
y enough to avoid forming a crater, but fast enough to avoid whatever kind of anti-air defenses the Commonwealth had in place.
“Shit,” the pilot grumbled. “We’re going to have to get a little drastic. They’ve got Slicers. We’re coming in hot.”
The ship pitched to one side, then the other, as the pilot tried to make them a little more difficult to hit.
BANG!
They’d collided with something but were still moving. The interior of the lander became a chaotic cacophony of sound and vibration.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Suddenly, they’d stopped. The aft end of the craft felt like it lifted into the air and then crashed to the ground.
20
REACTIVATION MODE
REACTIVATING… FAILED
REACTIVATING… SUCCESS
The messages faded from Warren’s HUD slowly. By the time he fully became aware of them, they were gone and he wasn’t certain he’d actually seen them. The next thing he became aware of was the voices. People were talking. Someone was shouting orders and a hand was shaking Warren.
“I’m awake!” the cyborg growled, deflecting the hands. Warren opened his eyes and found himself still inside the lander. Everyone was moving. They’d survived. He tried to stand, but his metal harness held him firmly in place. His HUD had run a systems check and offered him a report. Nothing was broken, though it did note some minor damage to most of his joints. It didn’t appear to be critical.
Warren fumbled for the manual release under the seat between his legs, found it, and pulled. The metal bar over his shoulders disconnected from the wall, allowing him to stand. A rhythmic pounding noise drew his attention to the pilot’s seat as the cyborg was punching the front window over and over again like a madman. Warren almost ordered him to stop until the window shattered. He shoved a few leftover pieces out of the way and motioned for the others to follow. One at a time, cyborgs began scrambling through the hole. Some got hung up when their gear got stuck, but others helped them.
