Cyborg Legacy

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Almost thirteen, as she’ll be quick to inform you. And she can convince the geese to attack strangers en masse. She practically qualifies as a military officer.”

  “Those geese don’t need convincing to attack. I was walking toward engineering with a sandwich the other day, and they came after me. En masse. I had to throw half my sandwich at them to get them to leave me alone.”

  “They do like bread,” Stanislav said, inclining his head and walking out again. Spurs on his boots jangled as he left.

  Leonidas gazed wistfully toward the departing ship.

  “Sad that you didn’t get a battle?” Alisa asked. Yes, she knew him well.

  But he wasn’t sure if he should admit that he had longed for potentially deadly action.

  “Just lamenting that I donned my armor for no reason,” he murmured.

  “You could cruise through the children’s cabin, so they can put some fresh stickers on you.”

  He gave her the flat look that comment deserved, then pushed his hand through his short hair. His short graying hair. He grimaced. How much longer would he be fit for battle? What if he had, even now, lost his edge? He trained with his hover pads, but that wasn’t the same as fighting living, thinking enemies.

  Noticing Alisa gazing thoughtfully at him, perhaps a bit worriedly at him, Leonidas tried to wipe his face of whatever emotions were drifting across it.

  “Better that we didn’t have anyone trying to kill us today,” he said with a firm nod. “If nothing else, it’s good to know that my armor still fits.” He patted his stomach. “I don’t follow the strict exercise routine I once did, after all.”

  “Yes, you’re down to three hours a day in the gym. It’s shameful.”

  “When we weren’t engaged in combat missions, we worked out five to six hours a day in the Corps, in addition to constant drilling. And we ate fewer brownies.” Admittedly, the lack of good food was not something he missed about the military. He was secretly glad “Uncle Tommy,” as the kids called him, hadn’t left the ship after he started making good money selling his sauces all across Aldrin’s moons. He kept saying that once he made inroads into Alliance restaurants and stores, he would buy a place of his own somewhere, but for now, he was still doing his tinkering in the Nomad’s upgraded kitchen. It didn’t hurt that his assistant and girlfriend, Tanya, had been born on a space station and actually preferred being on a ship to sucking dirt planetside, as she said.

  “I can’t believe you weren’t miserable,” Alisa said. “I’d—”

  The comm flashed again, and Leonidas felt a hopeful twinge. Maybe the pirates, once they’d escaped the range of Stanislav’s mental manipulation, had realized that they did indeed want to make trouble.

  “It’s a recorded message from… Targos Moon,” Alisa said.

  Leonidas’s hope died out.

  “And it’s for you,” she added.

  “Oh?” he asked, a touch warily.

  Usually when people contacted him, they were imperial loyalists who wanted to bring him into some scheme to oust the Alliance from power and retake what rightfully belonged to the empire. Occasionally, they asked him to help, but usually, they just wanted to know where Prince Thorian was. Something he did not, at present, know. Not that he would have told them, regardless. Even though the border moons and planets were still lawless, or ruled by mafia families or corporate powerhouses, the Alliance had extended its government from the three core planets it had claimed at the end of the war to six and was gradually pushing its influence farther out into the system. It would be difficult now for the empire to gather enough forces to defeat them, and it would involve another long war. For all that he craved the challenges of battle, he didn’t want to see millions more killed in another system-wide conflict.

  “The name is Jasim Antar,” Alisa said. “Do you want to take it in private?”

  “Corporal Antar?” Leonidas frowned, the name pinging in his memory, but not with any warmth. “What does he want? That kid was a prankster on his best day and whined to Mental Health Services to try to get released from his contract and discharged on his worst.”

  “A prankster? I like him already.”

  “He set a whoopee cushion on someone’s seat at an imperial function. He claimed it was for a sergeant who was pestering him. One of the emperor’s aides sat on it.”

  Alisa’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Can I invite him for dinner?”

  “If he’s on Targos Moon, that’s a long flight for someone to come to dinner.” And even though Leonidas missed his unit at times, he had no wish to share a meal with one of the rejects from it. Why didn’t the other officers or senior sergeants he’d fought with for years ever comm him?

  Because most of them were dead, he admitted morosely.

  “Beck’s food is worth the trip,” Alisa said.

  Sighing, Leonidas sat in the co-pilot’s seat and waved for her to play the message. He hoped he wouldn’t regret it. “Whatever he has to say, you’re welcome to hear it.”

  Alisa had fought in the Alliance and remained loyal to them—something she and Leonidas had never seen eye-to-eye on—and he knew it made her uneasy when his old imperial acquaintances got in touch with him. She must worry that some day the offer would be right, and he would run off with them to start a revolution. If he’d intended to run off with anyone, it would have been with Thorian, back before he’d married Alisa. He had been tempted when the ten-year-old prince asked him to come along and be his military advisor, and sometimes, he wondered what might have come of that if he’d agreed, but the idea of not having Alisa and the children in his life was too unappealing to contemplate for long.

  A stiff-looking, bronze-skinned man with shoulder-length black hair appeared on the comm monitor. Even though it was a recording, Leonidas almost snapped at him to cut that mess so it would be in compliance with regulations. He snorted at himself. Old habits died hard.

  “Colonel Adler, sir,” the message started, and Leonidas slumped back in the seat, certain this would indeed turn into some request for him to join in with a secret plot. He was, however, surprised that Antar would be involved in any such thing. He had been an adequate enough soldier when the fighting started, but it had always been clear that he felt he’d made a mistake and didn’t want to be there. Why would some loyalists choose him to be part of their plot? Simply because he was a cyborg?

  “I hope this message finds you well,” Antar went on. “And alive.”

  Alisa’s eyebrows rose.

  “I don’t know if you keep track of the old unit at all,” Antar said, “or have heard about the murders of Abadi, Albrecht, Alvarado, and Adams.”

  Alisa turned her raised eyebrows toward Leonidas. Frowning, he shook his head. He hadn’t heard anything about murders, but before picking up the tractors, the Nomad had been way out by the Trajean Asteroid Belt, delivering machinery to a mining company. It took days to get messages or news out there.

  “I’m working for the Fair and Square Repossession Company,” Antar said, wincing, as if the job embarrassed him, “and I was the one to stumble across Sergeant Adams’s body. All of his implants had been removed, not with any surgical precision. From the looks of it, he died as he was lunging out of bed. There was a tiny puncture wound in his neck. I’m assuming he was poisoned. Sir, I’ve done some research, and the others all died in similar manners. They were poisoned, or otherwise killed in their sleep, and then their implants were removed. The implants were all removed with a scalpel or a knife rather than a surgeon’s laser cutter. At least one other man had a small puncture wound in his neck and poison was suspected. With the others, I bet the punctures were also there, but nobody noticed them.” Antar grimaced again. “Or cared enough to look.”

  “Probably,” Leonidas muttered, well aware of how most of the system felt about cyborgs. It had taken a while before Alisa had called him anything except “cyborg” or “mech,” or had even asked for his name. Not that he’d put any effort into being approachable
back then. She’d been wearing an Alliance flight jacket when they first met, and it had been too soon after the war for him to see her as anything other than an enemy.

  “I’m afraid,” Antar continued on, “that someone is targeting cyborgs—former Cyborg Corps cyborgs—so they can make money selling our implants on the black market, and that they have some way of sneaking up on us. I haven’t kept in touch with many of the men since the war ended, and I didn’t know who else to comm. And since it looks like they’re going alphabetically, I wanted to warn you to watch your back because your name should already have come up on the list. Also, it seems like someone should do… something. The idea of our kind being hacked up for parts just so someone can make a profit is…” Antar spread his arms, no hint of the prankster in his glum, vulnerable expression. “Please let me know if you can help, sir. I’m still paying off my school loans, and I don’t have a lot of resources right now, but this isn’t right. I want to help make sure whoever this is can’t just go down the roster and kill everyone in our old unit. I’m about to leave Targos Moon. If you want to meet somewhere—” Antar glanced to the side and lowered his voice. “Just let me know. I’m not sure if I can talk my pilot into letting me use this ship if there isn’t a repo involved, but I’ll do what I need to do to be there if you name a place. And if you can’t help, at least let me know that you’re alive, sir. Antar, out.”

  “Huh,” Leonidas said and rubbed his chin.

  “That’s surprising,” Alisa said.

  “That some greedy person or entity would target cyborgs?”

  “No, that they’d be successful doing it. You aren’t that easy to kill.”

  “True,” he murmured.

  “And aren’t there civilian cyborgs out there? Rich people who can afford the upgrades? You’d think they’d be easier targets than former soldiers from the Cyborg Corps.”

  Leonidas nodded, but he wasn’t surprised that someone had chosen to go after men from his own unit—the Corps had killed a lot of rebels, as the people in the Alliance had been called then, before and during the war. Many of those people, people who had once been considered criminals, were now in charge of the system. If someone had concocted a safe way to kill cyborgs from a distance, then making money might only be part of the plot. Maybe that someone believed the time had come for revenge. Furthermore, the deaths of rich civilians who’d purchased upgrades would be investigated, especially if they were rich Alliance civilians. Who would bother investigating the deaths of cyborg soldiers from the losing side of the war?

  Even though the reasoning was logical, Leonidas found himself clenching his jaw hard enough to hurt. He wasn’t out seeking revenge on those who had destroyed his way of life and murdered the emperor and the emperor’s wife simply to cement a victory. Surely, he’d have as much right for vengeful wishes—and actions—as anyone. But honorable men did not murder people, even those who might deserve it. And taking revenge on soldiers who had been following the orders of their superiors? That was not acceptable. Few of his cyborg soldiers had been angels, and some of them had liked the killing far more than they should have, but he’d made sure they followed their orders and nothing more, nothing criminal. As had those who had gone before him, damn it. The Corps had always acted with honor, and those who hadn’t had been punished and dealt with. His people hadn’t been among the war criminals tried after the war. There had been no need. It had been the leaders who’d occasionally committed atrocities. Not the cyborgs who worked for them.

  “I can hear your teeth grinding from here,” Alisa said. “We’ll drop off our cargo tomorrow. Shall I make plans to fly you somewhere to meet him after that?”

  Leonidas forced his jaw to unclench. He hadn’t been excited to see Antar’s face before, but now he did want to meet with him and do something about this. Badly. Adams had been a bit of an ass, someone who would have gotten himself killed eventually even if there wasn’t a plot afoot, but Abadi and Albrecht had been good men. They weren’t troublemakers. And he’d met Alvarado on Perun for drinks a couple of years earlier. Yes, he’d been one of those plotting to bring back the empire, but only because he’d been passionate. An idealist. He surely hadn’t deserved to be murdered.

  “Aren’t we supposed to pick up a return cargo?” Leonidas asked, though he was already thinking of a logical place where he could ask Antar to meet them. Primus 7? If Antar was coming from Targos Moon, the station would not be far out of the way for either of them, and the casino-filled tourist trap would be a good place not to be noticed. “We’re supposed to head to Indra next, aren’t we?” he added.

  “Yes, the Nomad is committed for the next four months, but the schedule is flexible enough that I can drop you off to give your friend some advice.”

  “My soldier,” he said.

  Leonidas barely knew Antar. The kid had been in Captain Song’s company, too young and low-ranking to have much interaction with senior officers. If not for the whoopee cushion and the day Antar had come into his office, pleading to be released from the unit and medically discharged for “depression,” Leonidas might not have remembered him at all. That still rankled, the idea of someone trying to get out of the contract he had knowingly signed, especially during the war, when the empire had needed its cyborg soldiers the most.

  “Oh, I’m promoting him to your friend. You need more pranksters in your life.”

  A young cry of “Jelena!” came from the direction of the mess hall, Maya complaining about her current babysitter. It was a toss up as to whether the three-year-olds or the twelve-year-old was up to mischief.

  “Are you sure?” Leonidas asked. “I feel I may already have enough slots allocated to pranksters.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Chapter 4

  Jasim sent the comm request from his cabin on the Interrogator, nerves tangling in his belly. He wasn’t sure why. Adler had already agreed to meet him on Primus 7, and to have a preliminary discussion as soon as they were close enough for live communications. With the station less than six hours away, the time was now. If Jasim should be nervous about dealing with anyone, it was Maddy.

  He’d told her that his armor had taken more damage than expected during that rooftop battle and that he needed to stop and visit a reputable smith on Primus 7 before continuing on. Of course, his case had been able to repair the few scuffs his gear had taken, but he didn’t think Maddy knew much about the various kinds of combat armor. Few people in the repo business could afford it. Maddy hadn’t protested the stop too much, since she liked to gamble a touch here and there, but Jasim had no idea how she would react if he shared that he needed to take a trip across the system to find a murderer. He had no doubt that The Pulverizer had more assignments lined up for them. Unless he sent Adler off to deal with the murderer alone—which would hardly be the proper thing to do—he would have to figure out a way to take some time off work. The problem was The Pulverizer wasn’t generous when it came to granting leave.

  A face appeared in the holodisplay above his netdisc. Colonel Adler.

  His hair had as much gray as it did black now, but it was still cut short, still very military. As was he. His jaw was shaven, his features sharp and lean, his blue eyes hard, and was that his old Cyborg Corps jacket he wore?

  “Sir,” Jasim said, sitting up straight in his chair. “Thank you for talking now and for agreeing to meet in person on the station.”

  Adler had sent a reply to Jasim’s message four days earlier, but it had taken a while for them both to fly to Primus 7, the meeting spot Adler had suggested.

  “I’ve sent you all the information I have,” Jasim hurried on, knowing there would be a lag before Adler heard his message, and not wanting to confuse things with pauses. “And I imagine you’ve done some research of your own by now. I believe I have to go look for this killer in person. I would prefer not to go alone. Can you get away to come with me? Or can you at least suggest some resources that might help?”

  Jasim could make use of McCall,
if he could afford her, but finding the person or persons responsible for the cyborg deaths might only be part of the problem. Surely, someone who could kill their kind so easily was a dangerous foe—and would be prepared for retribution.

  Adler’s facial expression did not change as he listened to the words—nothing was coming as a surprise.

  “I’ve done some research, yes,” Adler said, “and I agree with your sentiment. This is a Corps problem, so the Corps must be the solution, whether or not it exists anymore outside of the memories of men. We need to find these people and handle them on our own. Even if we wished help from outsiders, it’s unlikely that any civilian authorities currently in existence care about protecting our comrades. Or punishing those who are murdering them. Over.”

  “I agree, sir. It’s horrible that someone is profiting from our deaths and that they needn’t fear retribution. They must know they have nothing to worry about, at least from the authorities.” Jasim vowed that there would be another sort of retribution, and that these people would die regretting their actions. “Whoever the greedy parties are, they need to be stopped.”

  “It may be more than greed motivating them,” Adler said, “but we can start with sys-net research and try to figure out if used implants are flooding any particular world’s black markets. Over.”

  “More than greed, sir?” Jasim thought of the expensive combat armor that had been left behind, but he had assumed that had been because some robot or drone hadn’t been programmed to take it.

  “As former imperial soldiers, we have a lot of enemies.”

  “I… see, sir. I have a research specialist contact who may be able to get more information. For a price.” Jasim did not hint that he needed money from Adler—he had no idea how wealthy his former commander was these days—but it crossed his mind. Hiring McCall certainly would be easier if Adler could contribute some funds.

  “Good, but there’s going to be a limit to how much research can be done over the sys-net. And at some point, we’ll have to go to confront the murderer.” Adler’s eyes closed to slits. “Personally.”