Without a weapon, I’m a sitting duck. But I have a good set of wheels.
I turn and race away from the battle, knowing I can outrun pretty much anything on two feet, and head in roughly the direction the boy pointed.
About a half mile from the battle, explosions fading with distance, I hit an area with rocks poking from the dusty surface. But the one I don’t see is the one I slam into. I topple over and hear a metallic snap.
I check over my body and just as I suspected, I see I’ve thrown a track.
I’m here on BattleSat, a cyborg without a gun and legs. I can’t even kill before I die.
Then I spy it; half buried in a mound of stirred, fine sand is a shipping container. Without a second thought I jettison myself from the wheel base and crawl with my one good arm to the container.
It had splintered open on impact and guns litter the area around the box. What’s better is they’re hot swaps. I find a trusty ML-16 Tac laser, shake the dust off, and pop it on my arm.
Now I have a weapon.
Explosive blasts light the horizon.
But I see something else, and using my gun as a makeshift shovel, I scrape a hole, pulling handfuls of lunar dust away. There. Long, metallic. A pair of hot swap legs just about my size.
Without a delay, I drag them to my torso and with a firm snap, attach each one.
After two months of riding around on those wheeled tracks, I stand on legs. I feel whole again, complete. Now I need to figure out what to do. I decide to keep heading in my original direction, to see what lies on the other side of the rocks and boulders in front of me.
As I lift myself onto a rock shelf, I’m startled by a large machine cresting over a rocky crag to block my way.
The behemoth is like a giant metallic spider, except with ten legs. They rapidly tap along the uneven lunar ground like they’re intently searching for each step, stirring the dusty surface, which scatters in puffy clouds, clicking like a woodpecker hammering stone.
The spindly legs keep the huge body level and move it forward at a surprising speed.
The body itself is massive, at least twenty feet high, and at least that much across, if not wider. Its armored plates are crudely brush-stroked in red and green and yellow. A metal track bisects the top of the spider-like mass, arcing from somewhere on its backside, replacing where its head should be. And as it finishes clearing the crag I can see how the Mexicans got around the Two-Fifths Law with this massive tank-thing on legs.
Fused in the body of the mech is flesh and bone of not one, but several people. It’s a tangled mash of metal and people, neither distinct enough to be separate, but co-mingled enough to drive you insane.
The worst is, buried behind an array of wiring, I can make out the face of one of the bodies. It’s a girl, a young girl, her eyes wide with innocence, fear, and fury.
The conglomeration of people together in one monstrous entity sickens me, even though I’ve seen hundreds of cyborgs.
The tapping legs freeze, and for a second the machine stops in place, like its weighing its options or waiting to see what I’m going to do.
A grinding noise emanates from the spider as an enormous rotary cannon, much like the ones I’ve seen on outdated A-10s, appears from behind the beast, riding the track until it faces forward. With a grizzled snap and click, the cannon locks in place.
The cannon whines as the barrels start to spin.
I dart to one side as the ground explodes.
A metallic brrrr fills my head with the hum of a thousand robotic bees. The cannon pivots, following me, and I can sense the uranium-tipped bullets chewing the footing away beneath me.
Circling around the behemoth, I lower my Tac laser and unloose a barrage of energy, aiming for the girl’s face, hoping on some level she won’t have to hurt for too long, that it’ll be over for her soon.
Small plasma bursts crackle as the energy disperses, temporarily outlining an invis-shield for the span of a heartbeat, before harmlessly disappearing.
The stupid mech has an energy-absorbing shield.
With some kind of triumphant screech, the spider continues turning in place, its legs keeping up with me, keeping the cannon trained in my general direction. Before I can move, it blows away the mound I’m standing on and I fly up and backward fifteen feet.
Pain sears my legs as I land on lunar rocks and roll to get my ineffective gun from under me. While still on the ground, I fire again, but the energy is again absorbed.
Glancing around as I think of what to do, I see the area is covered with Americans and Mexicans, dying or already dead. Occasionally a body shifts, like the cyborg is giving its last breath. Cybernetic arms and legs flash LEDs, indicating their power supplies are still running. Navigation equipment squawks environmental information in a calm woman’s voice. It’s so out of place it terrifies me.
I crawl on arms and legs to a slight rise and tumble over the edge into a shallow impact crater, a good place to hide.
Inside are more dead, stacked up like others sought to escape death here, but weren’t successful.
Scanning the pile, I see most of the cyborgs are hard-wired to their cybernetics. But underneath two Mexican foot soldiers there’s an interesting one. I shove the bodies that have been ripped asunder aside.
Above me, another brrrr and an explosion, then a rain of crumbled rock and body parts fall on me. The spider is advancing on my position, and it’s looking to plow through the hole with me inside.
I force my attention back to the body. Once I clear the debris, I see it is, in fact, one of Dynamo’s hot swap cyborgs.
The girl’s face is black and puffy, eyes fixed open, eternally seeing the machine that ended her miserable existence. Her legs, first generation hot swap Dynamo Speeds, are lightweight, meant for moving fast. But now they’re twisted beyond use. Given her thin body and the lightweight legs, she was probably meant to be a scout. I don’t need her legs; mine are fine, for now.
She had both arms replaced with biomechanics, but one had been ripped from her. Attached to her remaining arm is a Romero nail gun, and it still appears to be in working order.
It easily slides off her shoulder mount, and is heavier than I imagined. Her other arm must have been some kind of brace or mount bracket. I drop my useless Tac and fit the nail gun to my arm mount.
A throwback to prior wars, the nail gun is a simplistic device by today’s weapon standards. But the beauty—and effectiveness—may be in its simplicity. It’s not an energy-based weapon; it’s purely mechanical. The gas-powered mass driver fires carbon-tipped barbed slivers, which is perfect for eviscerating.
Supporting the nail gun with my human arm, I take a deep, shuddering breath and look up.
The non-atmosphere of BattleSat doesn’t hinder the sky, and for the first time since landing I see the stars. They’re bright, clean, like they have just come to life. I’ve watched these same stars before with someone special. I just can’t remember who. One last breath and I leap from the hole, my mechanical legs propelling me.
I aim the two-foot-long barrels in the direction of the spider and fire. The nail gun’s recoil is like a jackhammer rattling my bones, and I stagger, almost tripping from the unanticipated slam against my torso. The hammer blow sound of the dual pistons drowns out the spider’s shriek.
Fighting to keep the gun under control, I rake it across its body. Sparks fly as nails glance off its anodized shell plates, but many penetrate, sinking into the black of its body, into the humans powering the spider.
It screams in anger as its weapon tracks me.
Regaining my footing, I cut loose another barrage as I close the distance between us, at least thirty yards.
Another shriek comes over my ambient amplifier as two legs appear to falter and fold in upon themselves.
The beast staggers to its left as black oil squirts from severed hydraulic lines.
Close enough now, I leap forward, but not quick enough to escape the cannon. It fires, catching my right
leg and blowing it away.
But I’m already on top and grab the edge of an armor plate to keep myself from getting knocked off.
The cannon turret spins, and I need to make my move or it’ll knock me off.
I jam the nail gun downward, wedging it into the spider’s framework, and I unload.
The recoil wants to push the gun out, but I drop all my weight, keeping it in place, pushing it deeper into the hole it’s digging in the spider. Digging in, like a knife cutting into soft flesh.
The cry is horrible, washing out the jackhammer sound. The cry isn’t of a machine, though, but of people, many people, dying, giving their last breath at this very moment.
By the time the nail gun runs out of nails, the spider has collapsed onto its legs, still.
I detach from the spent gun then fall to my knees, shaking.
I catch a glimmer of starlight deep inside the spider’s chest. It’s not like the other metal, the polished titanium with rough paint. I reach into the body with my hand, probing for the twinkling thing. And I pull it from the spider’s carcass.
There, woven between my cut and bleeding fingers, is a dirtied charm bracelet of a violin, rose, and car.
Why would a Mexican wear a trinket like this into battle?
* * *
The sale of my Infiniti paid for our no-frills wedding and the first six months of rent for our one-bedroom loft on the west side of town, close to the industrial park.
I’d managed to carve time out of my hectic days of freelancing and took the opportunity to shop for a Christmas present for Mercedes.
A strip mall of dollar stores, froyo shops, and other small businesses were only a couple of blocks away. Since we had no car and I didn’t feel like hopping a metro because the sleet storm the night before probably turned downtown into an icy mess, I decided to hit the local shops. I was sure to find something she’d like.
At one store called “Memories are Forever,” among the plastic flowers and teddy bears, I found the most beautiful charm bracelet.
I picked out a detailed violin, a red rose, and a tiny car charm.
I always joked with her that I sold my Infiniti for a Mercedes, but I don’t think she ever got the joke.
The saleswoman attached the charms to the bracelet, and I was elated I’d pieced this together for my wife. It cost more than I planned to spend, but I didn’t care. Who can put a price on love, or life?
So I bought it.
And I thought it would be fun to wrap her bracelet in a large box, so I bought the biggest one they had and headed home.
As I walked the couple of blocks to the stores, I noticed the day hadn’t warmed and patches of black ice remained. Who thinks they’re going to slip and fall? Especially at twenty-two years old. Only old people think of falling and breaking hips. Still, you never know.
With the box gripped in my cold arms, I stumbled for home, trying to avoid anything I thought looked slippery.
Not many cars were out. Occasionally one passed by, stirring the chill air, making me shiver in the wake.
A Dynamo ambulance passed by, on its way to the Dynamo factory blocks away.
In a moment of morbid fascination, I leaned into the street to see if they had anyone inside, and then I slipped and stumbled in front of a blue GoGo electric car.
I heard the Mickey Mouse horn, felt a jackhammer slam into me, and the roadway blurred.
When I opened my eyes I was on the cold street, charms scattered in front of me. Someone screamed. I couldn’t feel my body.
The brake lights on the passing Dynamo ambulance lit.
A crowd had gathered, like they’d all stopped by to watch me die. I could hear the metro pull up to the bus stop across the street. I heard Mercedes scream, but she shouldn’t have been home yet. School must’ve let out early because of the weather or something.
She pushed through the crowd just as two men in red and blue Dynamo EMT uniforms made their way to me.
At the back of my mind I thought of the Monty Python skit. I wanted to scream, “I’m not dead yet!” but couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything. All I could do was stare and wait.
One of the techs stepped in Mercedes’ path, grabbing hold of her arms.
The other tech crouched down over me.
I remembered him from the restaurant. The Mexican who didn’t want me dating “his women.”
His name tag said Reynaldo.
From someplace in his uniform he pulled a tiny auto-injector and held it before my eyes.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream.
“Maybe you should’ve listened to me,” he hissed. “I might’ve let you live.”
He gave me a wink and a smile as he injected a burning solution into my chest. My heartbeat skipped as he gently ran his beefy fingers over my eyelids, closing them.
My life, my love, Mercedes, our first apartment, the life we’d just begun, all of it flooded me at that moment.
Then I forgot.
A Word from A.K. Meek
“Charm Bracelet” is a short story that takes place in the expansive American Robot universe. In AR, androids are the top 1% of American society. They’re the rock stars, the actors, and the CEOs. And everyone wants to be like them.
But no one wants to be a cyborg.
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And now for something completely different…
I thought it would be fun to give some behind-the-scenes info on the short story. But read this after you finish “Charm Bracelet”, as it contains…
SPOILERS
I got the idea for Eli’s hot-swappable arm cannon from the Mega Man Mega Buster. If you don’t know, Mega Man is a video game series. It’s probably my son’s favorite, and I’ve spent countless hours watching him fight digital baddies.
The term “rocket fields” is a nod to Ray Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles. He refers to the rocket fields in several of his stories, and to me, that simple term is so elegant in meaning. Classic Bradbury.
I thought of the name “BattleSat” before I knew what it was. Once I thought of the name, I wanted to figure out a way to incorporate it into the story. When I realized it’s an abbreviation for “battle satellite,” I tied that to the moon, and then all the rest fell into place as it became the future battleground of the world.
The nail gun is an idea from an old id Software game I’d play, Quake. I always thought of it as a terrifying weapon. Even in this story it still scares me.
When I think of the Mexican Spider, I think of the spider from Toy Story. That’s my basic inspiration, with its erector-set legs and the way it would scuttle across the floor. Creepy.
I really do like Starbuck’s Caramel Frappuccino.
Booger-Eater Barry Parsons received his name because Elijah caught him behind the playground oak tree one day during recess. It wasn’t Barry’s finest moment. Unfortunately, the history didn’t fit into the narrative, but I couldn’t cut Barry completely, so I made a passing mention. I’m most proud of the paragraph that didn’t make it into the story.
Dr. Mills liked Eli, but was torn with feelings for a cyborg.
Some of the other titles I considered for the story and why I rejected each: Five Times a Charm (lame), A Winter’s Discontent (good until I changed story direction), Memories are Forever (sounds like a Hallmark channel movie), Life and Death of a Cyborg (very lame).
Ghosts in the Mist
by Annie Bellet
I’D TAKEN THE JOB as a ranger on the planet Varuna because the Interplanetary Exploration Corps gave me no other choice if I wanted to remain employed. They’d dumped me at the station in the Chalice and somehow even with my hot temper and dislike for authority, I’d managed to stay on for half a decade.
Part of it
was the Chalice itself. The valley was unique to anything anyone had found anywhere. Surrounded by an almost perfect bowl of craggy mountains, the deep crater had its own ecosystem fueled by the chemical mists that shrouded it. The Mist was produced by the fern trees but a whole world of strange creatures lived within, some, like Gaval’s lemurs, were harmless. Others, like the almost mythological ghost lions, were not.
When I close my eyes, I can still see Ajax, the man who saved my life and helped make Ranger Station Northwest a home for me. His grinning face, the laugh lines deep in skin only a shade lighter brown than my own. He’d shown me how to use my Tracker Lenses, how to trust my instincts in the Mist, how to respect it without being too afraid to go into the pearlescent, alien world inside the boundaries of the Chalice.
Ajax had spent nearly fifty years as a ranger guiding scientists and researchers inside the Chalice and keeping poachers out of it. He was the only one I knew who’d seen a ghost lion and lived to talk about it. Not that he did talk about. When I’d asked him what it was like, he’d just shaken his head.
“Like flying,” he’d murmured with a secretive smile. “Like facing God.”
When IPEC had given him notice of mandatory retirement, he refused to leave.
When they insisted, Ajax had walked into the Mist, without tracker lenses, without a filter mask. I’d searched for days, until the new station leader, a hard-ass named Leon, had grounded me pending psychiatric evaluation.
I’d found no trace of Ajax at all.
* * *
I was sulking in my bunk when Oscar, our monitor tech, pinged me on the intercom. I’d given him an order not to disturb me unless he was on fire, but we were the only two people left in Northwest, so I tried not to bite his head off and instead made my way down the narrow corridors from quarters to com.
The Cyborg Chronicles (The Future Chronicles) Page 36
