by J N Chaney
“Why are we fighting the Commonwealth?” He couldn’t seem to stop asking questions, but then again, how else was he supposed to learn?
“They were us,” Lukov said. “Or maybe we were them. Either way, they decided not to be part of Republic. They left for a little while, and stayed quiet, at least until they returned and began to take planets from Republic. That’s when the fighting began.”
It was all Warren could do to stop himself from interjecting. Everything Lukov said just led to more questions.
Oblivious to Warren’s internal struggle, Lukov continued. “The Commonwealth once happy to be gone from Republic space. I don’t understand why came back. But they did. It’s recent development and has Republic worried. One of the rumors we hear is they are building more ships and developing new weapons.”
Warren blew out a breath, trying to absorb the influx of data. His eyes fell on Lukov’s plain uniform. “No rank on the uniforms?”
Lukov laughed. “We do not need ranks. Our commander is the war computer. Everyone else is drone. We’re made to follow orders. That is all.”
“Made,” Warren repeated. He turned the word over in his mind, deciding if that meant manufactured, or ordered. “Am I a man?”
The other man seemed confused by the question. He studied Warren’s face like he was searching for a sign he was joking. “I don’t understand.”
“Am I like everyone else I’ve seen so far—just a machine? Or am I human, or am I a machine?”
“You are both,” Lukov replied. “You are man and machine. A cyborg.”
A wave of revulsion washed over Warren that sent tingles through his body. It was as if he could feel the circuitry reacting to stimuli. Things shifting around. Components warming, then cooling. It was probably all his imagination, but maybe it wasn’t. “Everyone I saw out there—all the Republic troops—are we all cyborgs?”
“Yes,” he said again. “You did not remember this either?”
“No. When I was in the infirmary—or shop, whatever we call it—I saw things. The nurses were taking metal stuff out of people. I saw how quickly limbs were replaced, and how the sockets were metal and circuitry. Still—it’s not what I expected. Is this how they control us? Because we’re just machines?”
“Not just machines,” corrected Lukov. “Part machine. Part not machine. Cyborg. And, machines, they do not think. They follow program. They respond. No, we are not machine. It’s different.”
A message popped up on Warren’s HUD directing him to the nearest armory. A moment later, a klaxon began to blare and most of the lights in the ship switched to red. They were under attack.
“Ah,” Lukov said. “Maybe it’s time for revenge? It seems the CoWs have followed. Fighting time.” The big man sprinted out the door. Warren stuffed the rest of his chow into his mouth and hurried after him.
5
Warren stepped into the Armory, unsure what to expect.
Fifteen other men stood in the room, all soldiers by the looks of them. Three already wore their battle attire, the same armor he’d seen planetside. The rest had queued up and were waiting their turn to step into a device that looked like one of those full-body scanners airports used.
When the next man stepped into the apparatus, the clear door snapped shut behind him. Warren watched in fascination as robotic arms erupted from the walls and slapped dozens of pieces of armor into place while others tightened screws or closed latches.
It was a little unnerving to know that the armor was literally being built around him, but after observing five others get their armor applied, Warren relaxed. He stepped into the machine, kept his arms at his side, and let the automated process play out, keeping his features schooled into stoic lines. Reacting to a procedure that was clearly second nature would have called attention to him, something Warren didn’t want to do.
A light inside the enclosure turned green, prompting a door to open in front of him. Warren stepped forward, only pausing slightly when his HUD updated with new orders as he exited. He grabbed a rifle from the rack, noting that it felt familiar in his hands.
Before he had a chance to do anything else, the ship rocked violently around him. Warren managed to keep his balance and tightened his grip on the rifle. Orders to proceed to a new destination appeared on his HUD, and he followed directions to leave the room.
The next explosion slammed him into a nearby bulkhead. He felt a little pain where his left arm hit the wall, but the limb still worked. Collecting himself, Warren took off at a dead run where his HUD directed.
He registered the ship around him, taking note, though none of it struck him as familiar. More soldiers joined him, all heading in the same direction. No one spoke and, despite the severity of the situation going down around him, Warren found himself wondering what these other cyborgs were thinking.
Were they like Lukov, or were any of them hiding a secret like Warren’s?
His thoughts were interrupted when another explosion dented the exterior hull, the force of the impact causing a few conduits to snap. A deckhand in greasy coveralls who’d been running toward him tripped. Warren caught the man and spun him away from a spear-like piece of pipe. He wasn’t fast enough to stop the sharp edges from grazing the man’s upper shoulder and the man scrambled to his feet, glaring at Warren like the cyborg had assaulted him before noticing the pipe.
“Thanks,” he said, clutching his wounded shoulder before hurrying away, giving Warren a strange expression as he left. It was as though nobody ever watched out for each other—like he was confused why the soldier had helped him.
“Make way,” a man shouted before barreling past. The man’s uniform didn’t strike Warren as a soldier. It was red and the armor didn’t look militant in nature. A fire suit, he realized.
Warren groaned when his HUD updated again. It directed him to the port side of the ship, two decks up. He paused, unsure how to get there. As if on cue, the HUD showed him the shortest path and a dotted line appeared before his eyes, superimposed on the floor.
He cocked his head to the side and studied it a moment. Things were starting to make sense. Every time he imagined something, the HUD gave him the answer. It had to be linked to his consciousness somehow.
With no other options presented, Warren followed it, careful not to run over people heading the opposite direction.
The ship was in a state of controlled chaos, and reaching his destination was tough. He dodged around people who ran toward him as though he was invisible. Maybe they expected him to jump out of the way every time. He thought about plowing right through the middle of the next one who tried it when he was knocked into a wall by yet another explosion.
That one had been close. Warren picked himself off the deck and paused a second to inspect his surroundings.
Dust filled the air, intermittently obscuring his vision. Ignoring it, he focused on his HUD. It alerted him to a nearby fire that was spreading out of control and ordered him to the location. As he started to move, something above him snapped. He looked up just in time to see a heavy girder rip through the ceiling, accompanied by a high-pitched screech.
There was nowhere to go. Cursing, Warren dropped his rifle and reached up to catch the beam. It struck him in his outstretched hands, but he’d caught it—and he was still alive. It took him another full second to realize he was holding it up all by himself. Maybe it wasn’t as heavy as it looked. Or maybe I’m stronger than I thought.
“Keep it there!” someone said behind him. “No, scratch that, lift it if you can. A little higher! I’ll weld it in place! Good, keep it there!”
Warren wasn’t sure who was talking to him, nor did he care. He did what he was told. He wasn’t tiring and still had enough room left to lift the beam a little higher, though it still amazed him that he could.
“Not that far,” the man said. “No, you know what? I think that’ll work. Jacobs, c’mere! Lift me before he drops this beam!”
Warren looked to his right. A skinny man was riding
on the shoulders of another who looked like he lifted weights every chance he got. The one on top was wearing yellow coveralls and had what appeared to be a portable welder on his back. A second later, he struck an arc and began welding.
After fifteen seconds, the welder spoke again. “I think it’s good. You can let go now.”
“I’m fine,” Warren replied. “Let me know when you’re done.”
Another thirty seconds passed, during which there were two more shuddering explosions somewhere near the bow of the ship. Undeterred by the rumbling floor, the big sailor set the smaller one on the ground. “All done. Thanks for your help.”
Both men ran in separate directions and Warren checked his HUD again, expecting more changes. He wasn’t disappointed. His new task was to protect the hallway he was in from enemy boarders, should they arrive. Warren retrieved his rifle and stepped to the side to let others get past him, then he looked down both ends of the passage for likely entry points.
There were two emergency hatches. He positioned himself directly between them. It would give him an equal opportunity to defend either, and he’d be far enough away if the enemy found their way in to knock the hatch out of its frame.
The interior of the ship became darker and almost translucent, then wireframe diagrams of the nearby friendly and enemy vessels outside appeared in his vision. Red lines materialized, showing where the enemy’s guns were pointed. As he focused on those, yellow vector lines displayed the trajectory of incoming missiles.
“This doesn’t look good,” he muttered.
Warren watched the chaotic space battle, in awe at what he was witnessing. He’d somehow woken up in a world he could only imagine, watching space fleets nimbly dance around each other in a deadly ballet.
It looked rough. The Commonwealth fleet outnumbered theirs, but his ships weren’t taking it lying down. There were an equal number of missiles and solid projectiles headed back toward the enemy.
One especially swift Commonwealth ship was closing in on his. It was likely the one that had caused his orders to be updated—the one the war computer was most concerned about.
Warren froze when one of the yellow lines—a missile trajectory—suddenly turned in his direction. He couldn’t leave—the war computer hadn’t ordered him to do so. If he tried, it would force him back. How he knew that, Warren couldn’t say. It was just there, like walking and talking.
Helpless, Warren watched the enemy missile closing in on his position impossibly fast. He relaxed when his ship’s point defense system detonated it a safe distance away, peppering it with fire.
It didn’t take long for the rebuttal from Warren’s ship. Six missiles launched at the approaching vessel. It shot down three of them almost as soon as they left their launchers, rattling the ship. The other three struck the enemy’s hull and penetrated. Red flashes and lines in Warren’s HUD described the damage as a chain reaction of explosions began to tear the enemy ship apart from the inside.
Shouts of victory echoed down the corridor from nearby compartments but became quiet when a slew of new targets appeared. Another vessel had fired through the debris field, apparently to hide their missiles as long as possible. It had worked.
Warren wanted to move, but he couldn’t. The war computer still hadn’t told him to. If he somehow found a way to do it anyway, Lukov said he might be reset. He didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded bad.
The nearest guns opened up and started taking missiles out, but it became clear some would make it through. Two were taken out at nearly a thousand meters. The shockwave rattled Warren’s feet. Another two were destroyed further down. They caused the deck to buck like a mule and set off nearby damage alarms. Another exploded outside the hull, shaking the ship even more. The last took some damage, veered off course, and struck the hull further away.
Finally, his HUD updated. It sent Warren one deck down and a few hundred meters forward. The explosion had started a fire in the magazine where his ship’s missiles were stored.
Warren slung his rifle onto the back of his armor and ran for the nearest ladder well. He gave the motion he’d just performed a moment’s thought, marveling at how natural it felt, even though he couldn’t remember ever having done it before.
Thankfully, the ladder well was clear of personnel. It allowed him to take the steps four at a time. As he headed toward the fire, he spotted two sailors in red body armor heading the other way. They had helmets on that looked like they were connected to some kind of breathing apparatuses on their backs. They turned the corner just as Warren arrived.
A blast of heat caused Warren to slow and shield his face from the flash of intense flames that erupted from the room. It didn’t appear his armor provided much protection from heat.
Two firefighters came out, one dragging the other, but Warren couldn’t tell if it was the same ones he’d seen before or not. They didn’t have name tags or numbers. Whatever was happening, it had to be bad if it drove them back. As he got closer, the situation became clear.
The room resembled a long hallway leading left and right. Along both sides of the walls, missiles were stacked on pre-loaded racks. One of the missiles had fallen against the opposite bulkhead and broken a pipe, its contents spilling out.
FUEL, LIQUID MISSILE, NS-188
Fuel sprayed into the room. On the far end, an electrical panel had caught fire that was quickly spreading. There were two fire suppression sprinklers on the ceiling, but they only dripped the fluid that might save the ship. He followed the pipe leading from the sprinkler and found that it, too, had been damaged.
Warren ran to the fuel-spewing pipe, grabbed it and crushed it with his hand. The inferno was no longer being fed, but there was still fuel pooled on the floor, and he was standing right in the middle of it. If he didn’t do something they would explode. He had to put the fire out—if not for himself, then for everyone else.
Gritting his teeth against the heat, he traced the pipe backward from the sprinkler head to make sure he had the right one. He pulled it hard, broke it loose, spraying fluid into the room. A second later, the flame suppressant expanded into thick, purple foam and the fire was out. He let it spray a few more seconds until foam filled the room, then squeezed the pipe to stop the flow.
Warren had to walk blindly from the room and wipe the foam from his visor when he got to the passageway. There, he found the firefighter who’d been dragged from the blaze lying on his back. Several other sailors watched as a medic worked on him, but it was clear the man wasn’t going to make it. His firefighting suit had been pulled off, revealing the damage to his body. Flesh had been burned away and some of the bone underneath shone through.
The firefighter who’d pulled his partner out was sitting on the floor nearby. His helmet was still on, but by the way his body was shaking, Warren knew he was crying. It was tragic, and though Warren was tempted to offer the man his condolences, based on what he’d seen, he didn’t think the guy would appreciate it.
Anger surged through him. He couldn’t control his lost time or whatever had happened to him during it, but Warren knew how to be a soldier. Whether he remembered joining the Grand Republic or not, that was his side. The Commonwealth bastards had done this and cemented themselves as the enemy.
Warren checked his HUD. All his orders had been cleared. He concentrated hard, trying to invoke the ability to see outside again. After a few tries, it worked, and he became aware of the battle’s aftermath—a debris field. All the missiles were gone. The only weapons fire was his ship’s point defense, cleaning debris from its path. The battle was over—for now.
Reinforcements arrived in the passageway a few seconds later: three men in yellow uniforms—a damage control team, according to his HUD. Another arrived a minute later. He wore the red uniform of a firefighter, though his had gold piping around the collar—a supervisor, maybe.
A few more arrived soon after, all dressed in regular Navy blue. Some of the sailors knelt, attempting to comfort the grieving firefi
ghter. Friends of the fallen, Warren assumed. The rest simply watched.
Then a technician arrived. “Ouch,” he said, squatting low to inspect Warren’s legs. “Good thing you had armor on. This looks like superficial damage. Here, I’ll turn off your pain sensors so I can take a closer look.”
Warren didn’t reply. He was too busy observing the crew. One of the men in blue gagged when the medic pulled some of the dead firefighter’s armor away. Another turned and left in a hurry.
“Was that Wilson?” a man in blue asked.
“That’s still Wilson, you jackass,” another replied.
The second one, a petty officer, noticed Warren when he turned away from the grizzly scene and looked him up and down while the tech worked on Warren’s leg. “You look like you took some damage,” he said. “Are you the one who put out the fire in the magazine?”
“Yes,” Warren replied. “Looks like one of those pipes broke. The one with the missile fuel. The sprinkler pipe was crushed, which is why it didn’t put the fire out. I did it manually.”
The man nodded. “Well, I think you saved the ship. The damage control team will patch everything up. Head to your infirmary so you can get repaired. I think we all owe you our lives. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” said Warren. His HUD updated a second later, ordering him to obey the petty officer.
“Go with him,” the petty officer ordered the tech.
He nodded and followed close as Warren checked his injuries using the HUD on the way. The man mumbled to himself about components and things that would need to be done.
According to his HUD, the damage was superficial. Both his legs were burned, which meant the synthetic skin would likely have to be replaced—if they could do that. Dammit, he thought, that one’s brand new. Warren let out a wry chuckle.
“What?” the tech asked.
“Nothing. I was thinking about my leg. I just got it replaced, and here you are having to repair it again. It’s like getting t-boned pulling out of the car wash. Happened to me once.”
