by J. N. Chaney
Warren signaled the attack. Second and third squad lined up with the left and right of first. At Warren’s signal, everyone got on their bellies and began crawling as quickly as they could toward their enemy.
Warren lifted his head to the top of the grass occasionally to take a look and make sure he was still headed for their target. The plan was to get close enough, so the enemy wouldn’t have time to use whatever defenses the tanks might possess. The hope was to get close enough that if they did end up deploying troops, the cyborgs would have the advantage.
The hiss of several rockets being fired and the booms of explosions added an additional level of urgency to the situation. There was no way to signal to whoever the tanks were firing at Warren’s platoon was there. If they were part of First Corps, Warren hoped they’d been watchful enough to notice him when he lifted his head, and observant enough to recognize he was wearing a cyborg helmet. Otherwise, they might try to put a bullet through it.
The fires might cause a problem, though. As they grew, they produced a lot of smoke. Combined with the darkness, it might obscure their vision enough to make it impossible to know what was happening on the other side. Also, if Warren forced the left flank of his line too far forward, they’d have to crawl through the fire to reach the tanks. They’d do it, and although their armor would provide some protection, it wouldn’t last long.
Warren checked again. The enemy was still more than 200 meters away, and the closer he got, the larger the tanks loomed. Not for the first time, Warren wished he still had the automatic HUD messages, which would correct him when he estimated something incorrectly.
They crawled for a couple more minutes, then Warren took another look. If they got too close, there’d be no way they could be missed. Not with the cab of the rocket tank right on top. A few of his troops were in the line of sight or would be soon. If the driver or anyone else in the cab was paying attention and happened to look to their left out the window, the height of the tank would allow them to be spotted. If someone stepped out or the crew had the ability to listen to their surroundings, eventually, the sound of seventeen cyborgs hurrying through the tall grass would be loud enough for them to hear.
The worst-case scenario was if the people the tank was fighting—those Warren hoped were allies—had access to artillery or a mortar. Not only could they take out the tanks, but they might take out the cyborgs, too. The anticipation was beginning to wear on Warren. It felt like eminent doom—like this could go wrong at any second. If he didn’t time it perfectly, it would blow up in his face.
It was difficult to judge when would be enough, but he lifted his head as far as he dared every five meters or so. He could see the window but didn’t see anyone peeking out. When they were only twelve meters away, Warren stood and charged, rifle in hand. It was the go signal. Everyone else charged, too.
The cyborgs covered the distance in two seconds. Some, like Warren, leapt onto the side of the tank, quickly climbing to the top, while others probed the exterior as they searched for someplace to stick a grenade. A lightly armored hatch marked “FUEL” would have been nice, but Warren didn’t see anything like that. What he did see was the rocket pod under his feet and the shocked expression of one of the crew members inside as he gawked at the cyborg. Warren let him know how important he was by showing him his favorite finger. Then he opened fire on the man. None of the bullets penetrated the glass. He hadn’t expected them to, but it was fun watching him duck and throw his arms over his head like it would’ve helped.
Before turning his wrath on the tank itself, Warren swept a glance to check on the others. This part of the plan was unscripted. He wanted people calling out when they found something, if they needed help, or if things were suddenly going bad. So far, everyone was silent, which meant nobody had found anything interesting. The plan was still intact, but they hadn’t made any progress yet. He spotted a cluster of antennas. Rather than breaking them off, he twisted and pulled, then dragged a meter of cables along with them. They finally broke when a device connected at the other end slammed against the armor, too big to fit through the little hole.
FOOSH!
The back blast from the rocket leaving the pod under his feet nearly knocked Warren over. He scrambled, finally settling himself on his belly with his right arm and leg hanging off the back.
“You okay?” asked Rigby. She was kneeling on top of the tank, pounding the top of the cockpit with her fists. Her rifle was strapped to her back, and though she didn’t appear to be doing any damage, the crew had their hands over their ears as they scrambled around the small compartment.
The other tank was similarly occupied, but the lack of explosions, fire, or cheers of victory made it clear nobody had made any progress yet.
FOOSH!
Another rocket launched, just as Warren tried to get to his knees. He was low enough this time to avoid being thrown off, but still got knocked around a bit. The crew was firing rockets. Whether it was on purpose or some kind of automated system, he didn’t know, but they had to be shooting at something.
Again, Warren almost fell from the tank, but this time because it was moving. They were separating. He responded by sticking his rifle into the hole he’d made when he ripped the antenna cluster from the tank. He pulled the trigger several times, peeked into the hole, then fired several more. All he could see was a four-centimeter gap and more armor underneath. If he wanted to hit anything, he’d have to find a way to shoot at an angle. Sticking his rifle’s barrel into the hole and trying to torque it seemed like a bad idea, though. Instead, he strapped it to his back and looked for something else.
FOOSH!
Suddenly, another cyborg landed next to him. “It is very make happy to see you again,” said Lukov. “I do not give the hug, but maybe after we kill tanks will make exception.”
Warren laughed, glad to see his friend, but there was still work to be done. He also wanted to see who else had made it, but he’d save more lives by ruining the tank than by catching up with his friends. Lukov leaped off the pod as Warren considered the grenades he’d brought. He only had three, and they weren’t designed specifically to take out armored targets. If he’d known he wouldn’t have any air support, he might’ve grabbed something bigger. It was too bad they didn’t have a tank of their own.
Crack!
Someone had found a target to drop a grenade into. Based on the sound, whatever the target was, it was shallow. If they’d found a pipe or large compartment, the noise would’ve had a deeper pitch. The grenade seemed to have done the trick, though. The left track stopped working. He could see the pilot jamming the controls back and forth, trying to get it to cooperate, but the damage had been done. The other tank wasn’t disabled, though. Sure enough, it was turning to face them and would likely open fire soon.
“Everyone off!” shouted Warren. “They’re about to fire on us!”
The cyborgs responded quickly, scattering from the tank. Some ran toward the other one. Most hurried to the far side to seek cover. Warren stayed in place. A new idea had suddenly occurred to him.
“What are you doing?” shouted Rigby.
Warren didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned over the edge of the pod, chose an occupied tube, and wedged his grenade between the rocket’s nose and the tube wall. Then he launched himself from the tank, closed his eyes, and hoped for the best.
The explosion sounded more like a rumble as the first rocket detonated and the others followed. Warren hit the ground hard as damage indicators illuminated in his HUD. When he opened his eyes, something large was blotting out the sky. He rolled to the side, but still caught part of it, and another alarm went off. He looked again. It was the pod, and it was tipping toward him. He wanted to get out of the way, but there was no time. He tried to lift his arms to catch or deflect the heavy pod but barely bent his elbows enough to lift his hands from the dirt and grass before everything went black.
27
Warren wasn’t unconscious, but he was good and stuck. He
passed the time by examining the damage warnings displayed on his HUD. Apparently, the Tertiary Capacitor, Type-7 located somewhere under his left eye, was destroyed. His cybernetics had rerouted whatever that part did to the Secondary Capacitor, Type-8, and everything was fine. For now, anyway.
The rest of the damage reports had nothing to do with him, but with his armor. He wasn’t sure any of it would be serviceable when he was eventually rescued, but that was the least of his worries. Right now, he just wanted someone to take the big heavy rocket pod off of him. No matter how hard he struggled, the ground was too dense for him to move more than a couple of centimeters, and the pod was too heavy to shift. It was embarrassing, but he’d be okay with it if the rest of First Corps had managed to destroy both tanks without any losses. It might be too much to hope for, but he hoped for it anyway.
The pod shifted, allowing a little light to come in from his left. It shifted a little more, and he was able to turn his head. Three sets of hands were moving it, and Sergeant Brinn’s face appeared in the gap.
“He’s under there,” shouted Brinn. “Keep lifting!” When he reached under the pod, Warren took his hand and allowed himself to be dragged free.
“It is good you did not get dead,” said Lukov, offering him a hand.
Warren reached for it but found it difficult. “Armor’s toast,” he told the Russian. “Help me remove it so I can get around.”
A minute later, the armor lay in pieces around his feet. The battlefield was quiet, except for the soft hissing and popping of the grassfire. Warren wasn’t naked, but his coveralls would need to be replaced with something else if he was going to maintain any semblance of modesty.
“We got the other tank, as you can see,” said Rigby. She gestured to a second smoking war machine but never took her eyes off Warren. “We just did what you did without the letting it fall on top of us part.”
“That’s good,” said Warren, looking around at the others. The rest of First Corps still had their armor and his HUD was still refusing to identify them. “Who made it?”
Lukov rattled off a list of names. Among the names were Cooper, McNabb and Willy.
“What happened to your Stinger?” Warren asked the pilot.
“Damn thing got shot out from under me,” replied Willy as he kicked a dry clod of dirt. “But I made sure it didn’t go out without doing some decent damage. I armed the missile and ejected just before it hit some government building. Blew the damned thing to kingdom come.”
“I am glad you are well,” said Lukov. “But there is another business for my attending.” Before Warren could move, Lukov had his fingers wrapped around Sergeant Brinn’s neck and was squeezing.
“Lukov!” shouted Warren. “Back off!”
The Russian loosened his grip a little and slowly turned his faceplate toward Warren. “This cyborg is Second Corps. They did ambush and attempt to make dead. He is deserving.”
“I wasn’t with them!” Brinn shouted as he attempted to claw Lukov’s fingers away.
When he reached for his dropped rifle, Cooper stepped on his wrist. “I’m pretty sure you were,” he growled. “If not, this will be a good message for your buddies back home. I’m gonna bring your head to your place and show them what they can expect.”
“Stop!” shouted Warren. He kept his rifle on his back but prepared himself to draw it if he needed to. He hoped it wouldn’t have to go that far. “Tell me what happened.” Lukov loosed his grip but didn’t let go.
Cooper spoke first. “So, we’re out there looking for you or whoever else we can find from the First, when out of nowhere this guy’s buddies—maybe him personally—pop out of the bushes and trees. Naturally, we all take cover and point our weapons at them. Nobody fires a shot, because we’re responsible like that. So as soon as we recognize they’re cyborgs, Lukov puts his gun away and steps out to show them we don’t mean any harm. He identifies himself and has to stand there for a couple of minutes as they whisper about something. I guess comms are down for everyone.
“So then they ask us who our leader is. At that moment, it was Lukov, which is why he stepped out to talk to them. They told us Lukov wasn’t in charge anymore. We told them to pound sand—that we were there to work with them, not for them. It went back and forth, so we decided we’d move on and try to find you and the others when they told us we had to come back with them.”
“They are not to ordering us what we are to do,” growled Lukov, still glaring at the sergeant.
“Right,” said Cooper, nodding. “So we said no, and maybe we’d catch up with them later. Then they made the mistake of trying to arrest us. We resisted, everyone’s pointing weapons, they fired first, and we split. They got Liebman, boss. We dragged him away and provided cover, but they hit him too many times. It didn’t take long before he was gone. We buried him so the CoWs wouldn’t find him and capture the tech.”
Warren approached Sergeant Brinn and glared down at the cyborg. Lukov made no indication he wanted to let go. “What do you have to say for yourself?” asked Warren.
“I wasn’t there,” he said, still trying to work his fingers under the cyborg’s grip. “I got a report—that’s all.”
“Who ordered them to arrest First Corps if they didn’t join?”
Brinn hesitated for a second. Lukov gave his neck a little squeeze, audibly stretching the components of the cyborg’s neck, and he started talking again.
“All right, all right! General Kaplan did.”
“Maybe I should let him finish you,” Warren said coldly. “You work for the same general, which means you’re under the same orders, aren’t you?”
“I am, but this isn’t what I want. None of this is what I want.”
“Fine,” said Warren, standing. “Lukov, take his weapons. He’ll serve as a guide only until he proves he’s willing and able to look out for all cyborgs, not just General Kaplan. If he can prove it to me, he can live. Otherwise, it’s time for him to learn some appreciation. From now on, his life is in our hands. You got that, Brinn?”
“Yes, sir,” he said and remained still as Lukov took his rifle and checked him for any other weapons.
“I would rather to make you dead,” the Russian told him as they stood. “But I am trusting Warren. He says is better for you to live, so you live. Do not make mistake of thinking I am not to be killing you. I will if you give reason.”
“Understood,” replied Brinn.
“Lukov and Rigby with me,” said Warren. “Let’s head into this building and see if we can figure out how the jamming works. Everyone else, defensive perimeter. If any more tanks show up, we’re bugging out.”
The three cyborgs stacked up on the door. Warren hurried to the far side closest to the handle and tested it, but it was locked. He nodded to the others, who motioned they were ready. Warren punched through the steel door, then he grabbed it and ripped it from its hinge. Lukov and Rigby were inside before the door landed ten meters away.
Warren had suspected he’d find computer equipment inside. Maybe a few data terminals or a power source. Something to generate what must be a complicated signal to affect the internal comms of cyborgs. Instead, the only thing in the building was a meter tall metal box attached to the far wall. It was about a half-meter wide and a little more than ten centimeters thick. The steel looked new but showed signs of rust and looked to be welded shut. It had a single green light that pulsed rapidly. Two thick cables ran from it to the concrete floor. Otherwise, there was nothing, not even a lonely, bare incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling.
“This is all?” asked Lukov as he began to inspect the walls and floor closely.
“This has to be some kind of joke, right?” asked Rigby. “I mean, unless this is some kind of decoy.”
Remaining silent, Warren began to follow Lukov’s lead, checking the walls, floor, and ceiling for hidden doorways or anything else that might give him a clue as to how the thing worked. Besides the box, there was nothing.
“Maybe whatever’
s doing this is inside the box?” asked Rigby as she probed the thing with her fingers. “I think I could rip it open if I started here. What do you think?”
“Do it,” replied Warren. “Try not to get shocked. Those are probably the power cables coming out of the bottom.”
Rigby nodded, then she hooked her rifle to the back of her armor and carefully ripped the box open a few centimeters. She peeked inside and saw the cables continued up through a simple circuit light on top, then ran back down.
“This can’t be it,” said Rigby. “There’s nothing here. No sophisticated components. No repurposed cyborg parts. Nothing. This has to be a decoy. Maybe one designed to keep us busy long enough for reinforcements to arrive.”
The idea was plausible, Warren thought, but not probable. According to the map he’d been provided, there were at least fifty of the things spread throughout the local area. The map was probably accurate, even though he didn’t trust the general. The Commonwealth would have to be supremely dumb to build all these structures just to be a distraction.
Warren knelt down near the box and hovered his hand over the cable while watching the light. Without the additional capabilities of his HUD he couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like the power running through the cables matched the pulsing of the light precisely. He continued to crouch as he waved his hand across the floor like a metal detector, following the line as it headed east.
“What are you thinking?” asked Rigby.
Warren consulted his map. The closest thing that direction was an icon he didn’t recognize. There was no label indicating what it might be, just the logo of the Cyborg Corps with a pair of crossed bones sticking out from behind the shield. A warning it seemed.
“I think we need to speak to Sergeant Brinn about this,” replied Warren.
28
The sergeant watched the three approach and looked like he was going to be sick. It wasn’t something he was physically capable of doing, but it reflected how the cyborg must’ve felt. He kept his eyes on Lukov, even as Warren spoke.
