The Cyborg Chronicles (The Future Chronicles)

by Peralta, Samuel

  Her body felt looser, her mind more composed. Until the ping hit her commNet with an urgent alert and a geotag.

  Another kill.

  She felt her cheeks warm in anger, then quickly cool as her implants triggered a temperature regulation control and systolic dampener. The physical stressors were muted, but they didn’t do shit for her emotional state and only made her feel that much more pissed off.

  “Has anyone heard from Gerhardt?” Command asked.

  “Negative,” she said. “What was his last status?”

  “He checked in for morning debriefing, but no updates since.”

  “Roger that, Command.”

  Another kill, and now a missing ranger. She swore softly to herself, unsettled.

  Clambering down a ladder the park rangers had installed more than half a century ago, the dual-bladed system that comprised her feet hit the soft grass below. She broke out into a run, maintaining an easy pace to the latest kill site, roughly forty-five minutes away.

  * * *

  Akagi knelt before the butchered rhino, resting her hand against its still flank and closing her eyes for a moment of quiet respect.

  The massive herbivore’s face had been brutally hacked apart, probably by an axe. The horns were missing, naturally. Dried blood stained the earth around the creature.

  She cursed the lack of resources and the bribed politicians who abetted in this gruesome horror. The reserve covered more than eight thousand square miles of land, and it was impossible for the small squad to cover all of it efficiently. In a fit of twisted logic, the politicians argued that the reduced population of near-extinct animals meant there was little need for increased funding and the hiring of more rangers. The reservation’s budget was slashed and burned, leaving little more than twenty active field rangers to patrol twenty-two sections of the park.

  Their duties had been eased slightly with the deployment of reconnaissance drones, but it hadn’t taken long for the poachers and the syndicates they worked for to grow aware of the extra surveillance. One by one, the five drones were shot out of the sky and the budget for replacements dried up.

  Poaching was ludicrously profitable, and the wealthy higher-ups in the syndicates spent good money buying South African politicians and influence within the leadership of preservation agencies. Once upon a time, the reservation had implanted the rhinos and their horns with tracking chips to make life more difficult for the syndicates. As a result, the syndicates went on a spending spree to develop a smear campaign through third-party agencies about how the tracking chips made life more difficult for the animals, and how the reservation was mutilating rhino horns, destroying the vital essence of the rhinoceros. All it took were a few dozen parliamentary members in the syndicates’ pockets to undo all the good the rangers were attempting. Even the rangers and veterinarians on staff were lulled by the big money the syndicates offered. Akagi herself had arrested one of the drone operators, who was tracking the preserve’s animals for poachers, who were being supplied high-grade tranquilizers by one of the park’s veterinarians.

  More than six thousand miles away from Syria and she still found herself on the losing side of another desperate warzone, surrounded by corruption, turncoats, and failed leadership. She couldn’t help but laugh to herself as the bitter resentment bubbled over.

  Her partner, Okey Ekwensi, stood nearby with his canine companion, Dashi. The black-and-tan German shepherd panted lightly as he watched her movements.

  Circling around the fallen rhino, she saw the mess of clumsy footprints from both animal and man. The rhino’s cloven hooves left a large, rounded mark that looked somewhat like a bubbly W. There were five distinct boot treads as well.

  Blood spatter along the ground led to the brush, where the trap had been sprung. The blood line along the ground left a clear trail, and she spotted red in the grass. Her mind’s eye pictured, too clearly, the team of poachers surrounding the rhino and hacking at its flanks with their axes. Gore flew off the blades as they tore their weapons free from the animal’s hide, raising them for another strong swing.

  The rhino had tried to run, but the men — they were almost always men — had gone for the legs, severing its Achilles tendons. The rhino then collapsed, immobilized in the trampled dirt, where its face was hacked apart and dismembered.

  “This is number eight-six for the year,” she said.

  “And it’s only March,” Okey said, nodding. He spoke softly, his black skin shiny from the layer of sweat covering him and plastering his fatigue shirt to his chest.

  “They’re not going to last the year.”

  Okey said nothing. The solemn look on his face said enough. He knew the score as well as she did. What else was left to say? They were standing there quietly in the middle of an extinction event.

  “Let the dog loose,” she said.

  They followed Dashi into the tall grass fields as he tracked the poachers’ scent, Okey keeping close. Akagi surveyed the terrain, seeking out the trail, looking for footprints, scanning the horizon with a variety of ocular magnifications.

  Odds were, the poachers were long gone. They spent the better part of an hour following the trail before it went cold. The bent grass and boot treads gave way to flattened earth and the deep impression of tire tracks.

  Dashi grew agitated, his panting becoming heavier as he sniffed at the air, straining on the leash. The sudden movements caught Okey by surprise and he nearly lost his grip on the leather strap. He recovered quickly and the two were off and running in a westerly direction.

  Akagi followed close on their tails but came to a swift stop, her bladed feet sliding through the dust and briefly losing traction as the stabilizers fought to maintain her vertical equilibrium. The stench was enough to gag her, and she pulled her checkered shemagh over her mouth.

  She recognized the soiled green fatigues as that of a ranger, but it was impossible to tell who it was. The man had been gutted, his innards spilled across the ground. His face was a pulpy mess, hacked apart by the poachers. He’d likely stumbled upon them or heard the sound of their vehicle and went to warn them off. Sorry fucker had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  As she drew closer, she realized she knew the man. Not because of any physical features, but rather because of the lack of them.

  “They took his arm,” Okey said. “His leg too.”

  “Gerhardt,” she said, refusing to look away from his splayed form.

  Like Akagi, Gerhardt had been fitted with similar prosthetics following war injuries. He’d been caught on the wrong side of friendly fire when his troop had come under attack in Iran. They’d been forced to withdraw into a meat-packing facility and radioed for backup. Drones had been dispatched, and if the operators had bothered to discern the differences between hostiles and friendlies, the payload sure as hell didn’t. A rain of hellfire missiles pounded the surrounding area, eliminating the Iranian Army and laying waste to the surrounding commercial zone. Gerhardt had been too close to an exterior wall and it had cost him.

  Always in the wrong place at the wrong time, she thought.

  The poachers had had a good day, it seemed. Black market bionics had a nice resale value. Not as much as rhino horns or elephant ivory, both of which had become more valuable than gold and oil combined in certain Asian markets, but still, they fetched a hefty price tag.

  Another rhino lost. Another ranger killed, their seventh of the year.

  We’re all going extinct,she thought.We’re the last of a dying breed.

  She scratched at the scars along the side of her neck, shooing away a mosquito.

  “Call it in,” she said. “Get some trucks out here.”

  She thought, not for the first time, that this was less of a preserve and more of a graveyard.

  * * *

  Whoever had hacked apart Gerhardt’s face hadn’t bothered to chip him. After the support staff arrived to load his remains into the bed of a truck and hauled him back to base, the reservation’s medical o
fficer gave him a quick once-over and checked the man’s data ports.

  As with most servicemen hailing from Europe or the fractured American territories, Gerhardt had received cerebral modifications. The Databiologic Receiver of Mnemonic Response, or DRMR, was a standard utility that basically turned ground soldiers into drone equivalents, allowing command centers to monitor, supervise, and record battle conditions directly through otherwise independent operators.

  “Why wouldn’t they chip him?” Okey asked.

  Akagi shrugged, absorbing the data packet that base had distributed through the commNet.

  Gerhardt’s final memories had been gruesome, but she had seen worse. The data was crucial, though, and forensics would be poring over every detail in the days to come. Still, she couldn’t help but feel frustrated.

  The poachers had been smart. They’d worn masks, goggles, gloves, long sleeve shirts, and pants. There were no visible markings other than their dark skin flashing in between the breaks of clothing.

  “They wanted us to know,” she said eventually. “They were bragging to us. Showing us how smart they are.”

  Gerhardt had been alive when they ripped his arm off, a sight that sent a shiver of revulsion deep through her core. His screams would haunt her dreams for a long while, she knew. The limb, like her own legs, was hardwired into the body’s nervous system, allowing for electrical transmission of movement commands, a fusion of metal and flesh and bone.

  When those monsters tore Gerhardt apart, he had felt every fucking inch of himself getting ripped apart.

  Not until after they’d ripped his belly open and crippled him did they finally take their axes to his face.

  “We’ll set up camp here,” she said. She dropped her rucksack, glad to be free of its weight.

  They had been walking for hours, patrolling their quadrant of the reservation on foot. The circuitous path would bring them back to base in three days if they kept a steady pace and ran into no trouble.

  Okey put his thumb and forefinger between his lips and fired off a shrill, piercing whistle to call Dashi back. The dog had run ahead of them, picking up some kind of scent but making no fuss about it. Tracking spoor, probably.

  She built her tent quickly, then set up Okey’s while he went about building a small fire. He needed to eat real food, unlike Akagi, who had little interest in canned goods and MREs.

  Sitting on the ground, her legs stretched out before her, she decided to have one of the nutrient-rich candies. The vitals app on her retinal display showed a spike in burned calories, and her empty stomach was starting to whine.

  She chewed slowly, scoping the horizon and keeping an eye out for approaching animals. She doubted any of the big cats would get close, but it was still worth keeping a good lookout for them.

  Okey ate a can of beans, and each of them enjoyed the quiet. They were comfortable enough with one another to not need small talk and, not for the first time, she found herself intensely grateful for that.

  Digging around in her backpack again, she found a small peanut butter cup and opened the recycled paper packaging. The corners of her jaw tingled in anticipation as she brought the treat to her lips and bit down, the spike in endorphins making her head spin. She didn’t need the snack, but savored it nonetheless. What was better than chocolate and peanut butter? Sex, maybe, she thought ruefully, digging a small depression into the soil with her heel.

  Laughing felt wrong, but she couldn’t help herself. Eyes shut, she saw Gerhardt dying, and that only made her laughing feel more horrendous, spurring it into a near uproar. Tears ran down her face, but she couldn’t tell if they were from joy or sorrow anymore. Eventually the laughter slowed to a stop and Okey was staring at her like she was a mad woman possessed. And maybe she was.

  “I’m turning in,” she told him, crawling into her tent and curling up beside her smart rifle.

  The marketing gurus in the public sector had hailed DRMR for being an incredible breakthrough in memory retention. Never forget. Always remember. But remembering was a brutal, double-edged sword. Sometimes the brain forgot things to protect itself, but not hers, and as a result Akagi remembered far more than she wanted.

  When she closed her eyes, all she could see were muscles and wires and nerves stretching and snapping, metal snagging on skin and ripping it apart, staining the earth dark. She clenched her eyes shut, willing the images to disappear, but they refused to leave. Instead, they merely changed.

  She saw her legs lying in the sand, the stumps of her thighs bleeding profusely, rich black smoke swirling around her and carrying the screams of the wounded and dying. She tried to look away, but couldn’t. Those legs weren’t hers. They couldn’t be. She felt oddly detached from all of it, as if it were happening to somebody else, even as her blood pumped out of her, draining onto Syrian soil.

  She saw the ruined and blackened remains of Syrian children lying in rubble from drones she had interfaced with and piloted over civilian centers, dropping payload after payload after payload to pay the debts of war with the lives of too many innocents. Marketplaces, infrastructure, warehouses, homes, palaces, whatever the latest target-rich environment Command & Control deemed hostile. Emotionless and efficient, letting the machines do the dirty work until she and her squadron hit the ground hard for clean-up duty, killing whoever resisted or looked threatening.

  How much of her life could be measured in blood — hers, or others — spilled by her own hands?

  There were too many thoughts, too many memories that she wished she could blot out. Forget them, erase them, purge them. Instead, they haunted her and drained her, slowly bleeding out into a discomfited sleep.

  * * *

  The bellowing of a lion’s roar woke Akagi in the early morning hours.

  The beast carried on for a solid minute, if not longer, but it was a noise she had grown to love. The sound was one of vibrant life, loud and proud, and for a brief time she forgot about her pain. It helped to refresh and reorient her. To remind her why she fought, and to remind her that there was a larger world outside of her own problems.

  Shoving herself out of her sleeping bag, she stabbed her toes into the ground and planted her palms on the earth. Every morning she started with a routine of planks, pushups, crunches, and squats. Hitting the gym was impossible in the wilds of the reservation, so she relied on body-weight resistance training to keep her muscles active. By the time she was finished, her sweat stained the soil and her thick arms bulged nicely from the increased blood flow. Her short hair was wet from the exertion, and she used her fingers to spike it.

  Another candy rehydrated her and replenished the spent calories.

  After dressing, she broke down her rifle for cleaning, then reassembled it and went about breaking down the camp while Okey ate a strange looking white goop from a can. Synth protein, she knew, fiber rich, loaded with vitamins and minerals. Like her candies, but far less appetizing.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  Okey held her eyes for a moment, studying her, then shrugged. “Just checking. Long walk ahead of us today.”

  He set the can down for Dashi, but the dog wasn’t quite that desperate for food.

  “Did I wake you?” she asked.

  “No,” Okey said, but the lie was plain.

  Once, he had asked her if she knew she screamed in her sleep. She said she didn’t, and that had been the end of it. He’d never brought it up again, but often asked how she had slept the night before. Eventually it had become a bit of a game in which both lied to the other. If her nocturnal distress had made him any the worse for wear, he was at least good at hiding it.

  Before setting out on the trail, both rangers checked in with Central Command. Six hours had elapsed between Gerhardt’s last check-in and the discovery of his body and the mauled rhinoceros. Although long stretches of radio silence were often the norm, in hindsight it felt inexcusable. Now all field rangers were checking in hourly, just to let Command know th
ey were still alive out there.

  “Let’s a get move on,” Okey said, whistling for Dashi to follow.

  Akagi wished she knew how to whistle like that. She could whistle well enough with only her lips, but adding fingers to the mix was a clumsy affair that usually ended with nothing but wet digits.

  With the dog following closely beside his master, they walked in silence. Akagi was once again glad for the lack of small talk and spent her time reviewing the daily stats. The info was nothing more than a depressing countdown toward extinction, the bold red header at the top a crystallizing reminder of their preservation mission.

  It read simply: BLACK RHINO - EXTINCT.

  Beneath that was a list of the remaining animals in Kruger National Park and the remaining figures, along with a plus or minus difference in historical trends. Scrolling down the list, she saw that the tiger population was down by one, which, statistically, was not all that surprising. For every tiger cub that was born, three adults were murdered by poachers.

  In the white rhinos column there was a red −2 from yesterday’s known losses. There were more kills than births, and the two rangers were attempting to pick up the trail of a local herd.

  White rhinos were gentle giants. Their unaggressive nature made them particularly vulnerable to poachers, and while they had learned to be wary of humans, it did them little good.

  During her time at the park, Akagi had noticed that the animals were keen observers of the human condition. They knew which humans, like the rangers, were there to protect and guard them, and which ones were there to hurt them. On more than one occasion, leopards had strolled through her campsite, completely at ease and utterly nonthreatening. If not for the night vision apps on her optics, she never would have seen them. The leopards crisscrossed the rangers’ own tracks to a remarkable extent, very often routinely circling their camps. To a degree, she even felt like she was one of their pack. Her and the animals, they were simpatico.