by J N Chaney
To Warren, it appeared to be the first time Lukov had considered the question. He had a faraway look, like he’d lost contact with the moment and his mind was somewhere else. His lips curled into a slight frown and he furrowed his brow. He stayed that way for several seconds before looking up again. The question had bothered him.
“Exactly.” Warren jabbed a finger at his friend. “It doesn’t feel good, does it? Not knowing whether or not you did something. Not being able to remember what happened so you can avoid it next time. We feel pain. Not like before, but it’s still not good. We suffer while these people sit up here all nice and safe in their ship like nothing important is happening on the battlefield, right? If we learn something but get wiped out before they back us up, it’s gone forever, isn’t it?”
“This is so,” replied Lukov.
“That’s gotta mess with peoples’ minds. It can’t be healthy to do that over and over again. What happens when all the cyborgs go crazy? Do they keep a really old backup of us somewhere in case it happens?”
“They do not,” said Lukov, his voice barely above a whisper. “But the madness does come for many. They are reset to memories before, but it can be too late. If so, they are deleted, no going back. No medicine can fix the mind that is broken.”
Warren clenched his fists and ground his cybernetic teeth. Although his friend was listening, he didn’t seem to be nearly angry enough. “I bet there were cyborgs who’d had enough of this. They decided their time was up, they’d seen enough, and they’d done enough. I bet some of them jumped right out into the line of fire to get themselves killed. You said if a cyborg starts doing that, it’s pretty much a guaranteed deletion, right?”
“Pretty much,” Lukov said.
“Why don’t they let us keep all the good days and just get rid of the bad?”
Lukov shrugged. “I am warrior. I know little of how these things are. Perhaps technology is limited. Maybe they choose to say no, but I do not know.”
Warren shook his head and stared at the floor. “Never mind. I guess I need to accept what I’ve learned.”
“It is for the best,” Lukov agreed. “You are not first to say the life of a cyborg does suck. You will not be last. But it is our plight. We are professional warriors. We do this because it is what we are made to do. There is no choice for our kind.”
“Attention all personnel,” a voice said from hidden speakers somewhere in the hallway outside. “The captain has called all personnel not on duty to muster in the deck-6 auditorium for a mandatory mission briefing. All personnel not on duty, muster in the deck-6 auditorium.”
Warren turned to leave but Lukov stopped him. “Where are you going?”
“Didn’t you hear the announcement?” Warren asked.
“Yes. But it was not for cyborg.”
“It said all personnel,” Warren argued.
“Cyborgs not personnel,” Lukov told him. “Cyborg is equipment. Property. That is all. There is no need for our presence at the mission briefing. We do what war computer tells us. We wait. When time to kill and destroy, we do. Then we sit and wait more. That is all.”
Warren felt his lips twist into a frown—maybe a sneer—he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that he didn’t like what Lukov was saying. He made cyborgs sound like slaves.
“Do not make that face. It is not so bad, remember. We do not clean. We do not have the trouble of the full human. We play, we fight, we watch the movies.”
“Maybe you’re a mop, but I’m not,” Warren shot back. “I have my own mind. I might not remember things, but it doesn’t change who I feel like I am. I’m still Warren Prescott, regardless of what the Republic has done to me. They’ve taken our bodies, but not our minds. I can’t believe this doesn’t piss you off—the way they’re using us. How do we make decisions?”
“We do not,” Lukov interrupted. “Cyborg is having no input on plans. It is not the cyborg job. It is job of war computer and maybe captain. They give orders, we follow. That is all. Maybe sometime take something, or plant bomb. Things such as these. It is why there are cyborg. We do not die. Not really. We die, they reset, and pow, we are returned. We die again, they reset again. Maybe forget what has done since last retrieval, but it is not so much. Maybe better to not remember, eh?”
The other cyborg looking at Warren pointedly.
“That’s it?” Warren asked, feeling like someone just threw a wet blanket on the fire he was kindling. “There’s nothing else? We’re the thing the Republic throws at problems? Problems like that planet we keep fighting the Commonwealth over?”
“Yes. Planet is called Reotis. And cyborgs will fight for it until no more CoWs wish to live there. Maybe forever. But, it is the way of things. Do not worry if you die, Warren. You are not you. You are memories only, and memories of Warren are safe in war computer. Ready to be added to new body if you lose head.”
A sudden thought struck Warren. “How many times have I been reset?”
Lukov looked away. “We do not discuss this.”
“Another bullshit rule,” Warren muttered.
Lukov surprised him by shaking his head. “No. There is no rule to tell us not to discuss this. We do not because we choose to not. Maybe joke sometimes, but never serious. You remember this, yes?”
“Obviously I don’t. Please explain it to me.”
Lukov considered his answer before speaking again. “It does not make for happy thoughts. Maybe Craig considers this too much. Maybe it is why he is not wanting to live. Being reset is not so bad, if you want to forget some things.”
“How many times?” Warren asked in quiet earnestness.
Lukov sighed. “Six. Maybe more. I am reset two years ago, so maybe some before that. Maybe many more.”
Warren was stunned by the information. He’d been killed six times in the last two years, but Lukov hadn’t died once? He didn’t even know if his memories were his own, or if ‘Warren’ was his real name. Anything that existed on a computer could be altered. What if everything I remember is a lie?
“Enough,” Lukov said, swiping his hand through the air between them. “If we are seen behaving and speaking this way, they will reset for true, and we will forget everything since last reset.”
“That’s the point,” Warren whispered. “Memories are the only thing we keep with us throughout our lives, and mine seem to be gone. It’s like having my house robbed, but the robbers only take things like family photos, heirlooms, and my grandma’s ashes off the mantle. But it’s worse, because I can’t remember my grandmother.”
Lukov looked around guiltily and motioned for Warren to follow.
They walked down a long passageway. When they passed an open hatch, Warren noticed how many people were seated in it and stopped.
“That is auditorium,” Lukov said. “It is place for crew to have meeting. Sometimes presentation, promotion. We must not stay. It is not for cyborg.”
“Right now, I don’t give a shit,” Warren whispered. “I just want to hear what’s going on. Don’t you hate not knowing? Aren’t you bothered by it at all?”
His friend shrugged and posted himself as lookout while Warren listened in. The ship’s captain was speaking.
“We’ve taken too many casualties to try to capture Reotis again. Instead, we’re going to split from the rest of the fleet and—“
His words were interrupted by a cacophony of hushed comments and shifting bodies as the people noticed Warren and Lukov.
“At ease!” the captain snapped. “These are your orders. You are not required to like them, nor have I ordered you to do so. You will maintain your discipline, or I’ll treat you like a cyborg and keep you in the dark until we suddenly show up. We aren’t the only ship capable of fighting, but most of the other Corps are engaged in one battle or another. As such, we’re heading to join the Second Cyborg Corps at Lutiana. They’ve run into some trouble. Once we’ve assisted them, they’ll join us and we’ll return to Reotis to retake the planet.”
Sinc
e the captain didn’t order them away, Warren continued to listen as the man spoke.
“Your section leaders have already had their briefing. Refer all your questions to them and they’ll forward any they believe are important to me. I expect each of you to do your best and I don’t expect to return from Reotis again unless we are successful. Section chiefs, take charge of your sections. Dismissed!”
The sound of people getting up was Warren’s signal it was time to scram. He and Lukov took a ladder well one deck down and didn’t slow until they were more than a hundred meters down another passage.
Lukov stopped in front of a nondescript, closed hatch. After pressing a button next to the door, it opened, and the two stepped inside. It was a custodian’s closet, complete with mops and buckets.
“We cannot remain in here for long. It is private, so ask your questions. I will answer with honesty.”
“Were you in the army?” Warren asked.
Lukov seemed confused by the unexpected question. “It is old memory—wiped many time ago. But, I have part of memory. Bits and pieces. I believe used to be Russian Spetsnaz. Special force of Russian Army.”
“Holy shit, you’re a red?”
Lukov laughed softly. “Yes, probably. Do not know year I was born or became the cyborg. Probably born after Soviet Union was no more, so not Soviet. Like most cyborg, this is not a memory I possess.”
Warren tried to remember the fall of the Soviet Union. He hadn’t been alive back then, but he knew it had something to do with the Berlin Wall. Where did I hear about that? He racked his brain trying to come up with the details. Even an image or photograph he may have seen. The old Soviet flag. A date.
Something tickled the back of his mind. It teased him, calling out from some dark corner of his consciousness. It was a question—one he’d been aware of but had ignored until now. He tried to grab it, but it danced between his mental fingers like smoke. Finally, he zeroed in. It was as though he’d just caught a bee with his bare hands. Now that he had it, he wasn’t sure he wanted it.
He’d gone under the knife back in the year 2051. It had been a cold day, but not too cold. Sometime after his two-year anniversary at work. He wasn’t sure, but it had to have been some time in the fall. When he wondered about the current date, it appeared in his field of vision.
2486,02,14
Holy shit. Warren was certain that if he’d still been a flesh-and-blood creature, the shock would have killed him. Or at least made him faint. It would have been a relief compared to the flood of thoughts that attacked him from all azimuths.
“The year is twenty-four-eighty-six?” Warren asked.
“Yes,” Lukov said, sounding confused.
“I have over four hundred years of missing memories.”
The men stood in silence for a while. Lukov made a motion like he was going to lay a hand on Warren’s shoulder to comfort him but decided not to at the last moment. Each man stared at their feet, lost in his own thoughts.
“Maybe this is not so bad,” Lukov said softly. “Sometimes we are made to do things. Unpleasant things. Forgetting can sometimes be not so bad.”
“Can they alter our memories?” Warren asked, noticing how insane it sounded coming from his mouth. “What I mean is, can they implant false memories into our brains?”
Lukov nodded. “You are not first to ask this, and you will not be last. This is not known. If it could be done, we think they would not reset us. We would be happy to do the things. It would not bother or cause grief. There are many who think of what they have done many times. They sit in it like chicken in pot. They place themselves over the fire. They simmer. They make mess in their mind.”
Warren struggled to make sense of his friend’s analogy.
“I do not believe it,” Lukov continued. “If Republic could change memory, they would make everyone happy. They probably would clone one who already does accept this—then change the name of cyborg. Make us think we are different, but not. If they could do this thing, they would. It would save money, and governments save money. It is what they do.”
“Last question,” Warren said, pausing to make sure he had his friend’s undivided attention. “What do you know about the compulsion chip?”
That had Lukov’s eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You are planning to make problem with your chip?”
“Yes. Reset or not, I feel like a slave. Do you know how I ended up a cyborg?”
Lukov shook his head.
“I got my leg blown off in Iran by an IED—improvised explosive device. I never found out what kind, but most of the ones over there were home-made fertilizer bombs. Everyone else in my vehicle died. I managed to get away with about a hundred pieces of shrapnel, and a leg that looked like I’d accidentally stepped into a blender. It took four surgeries to remove it all and another three to build the stump so I could wear a prosthesis. Then, the tech couldn’t get the prosthetic’s socket to fit right, so I had to keep going back to have it adjusted. Now that I’m talking about it, I’m thinking that shit-bird did it on purpose. He couldn’t have been that incompetent.”
Lukov nodded as though he understood.
“Anyway, during my last visit, some doctor named Burgess came in and—“
“Doctor Burgess?” Lukov interrupted as his gaze snapped back to Warren. “Fat man? Old? Happy for all things?”
“Yeah, you heard of him?”
“Maybe,” the Russian replied. “Maybe no, but the name is to me familiar. Like memory but not. I am feeling much hatred towards that name.”
Warren had a feeling that Lukov was thinking of the same doctor, and wasn’t that interesting?
He pressed on. “So, this guy promises me a new leg—one I don’t have to worry about fitting anymore. Of course, I say yes. And here I am. Here we are, probably. It sounds like the same thing happened to you.”
Lukov was still rubbing his chin. “It does sound familiar, yes.”
Warren felt he was on to something and ran a hand over his chin. “So, tell me what you know about the compulsion chip. Is there a way to disable it? What might happen if someone is successful? All I want is to be free. Maybe free others as well. We can leave this place, make our own decisions.”
Lukov checked over his shoulders even though it was obvious they were alone. “It is located deep within the head. Not in the brain, but next to it. It has the supervisory control over our bodies and is like the brain itself. The chip can command the cyborg, make him sleep—do anything brain can do. Many things. Whatever the war computer orders.”
Outside the brain sounded better than inside, at least to Warren’s ears. He’d suspected as much anyway, that it would be in his head. It did pose a problem though. Could such a device even come out safely? He doubted it. More likely he would have to find a way to override it.
“In battle it reports status to war computer. When away, it reports to techs. If relay is close, it reports to relay, who reports to tech or war computer. The chip receives command, does command, responds. Always awake. If it sees you are trying to dig into override, it tells war computer. You are forced to return and war computer resets you.”
“How many times have I been shut down for messing with my compulsion chip?” Warren asked.
Lukov looked shocked. “Zero, probably.”
“Good,” Warren said as he tapped his chin in thought. He had someone else he wanted to talk to about this. Someone who’d already given away the fact he was up to no good—at least in the eyes of the Republic.
His thoughts were interrupted when the ship shifted, sending both men violently to the ground and the lights changed from white to red.
8
Warren raised himself from the deck a second later. Lukov had already opened the door and was peering into the hallway. Every light he could see had turned from white to red—a clear indication something had gone terribly wrong. Missing, though, were the klaxons or any kind of announcement.
“What happened?” asked Warren.
“Could be another attack,” Lukov answered, his voice uncertain. “But I am not to hearing alarms. This is many ways wrong.”
“Agreed. Anything on your HUD?”
“No,” Lukov said. “No message from war computer. Something bad is happened.”
Warren only needed a second to think. “Then we do what we were trained to do before we became technological slaves. We gear up and find an ass to kick.”
“But war computer,” Lukov said. “It did not order for us to—“
Warren held up a hand, stopping the other man’s explanation in its tracks. “In the absence of orders, I think it’s right to make our own decisions. If we don’t, people could die. I’m not sure I like anyone but you, but I can’t stand here and watch it happen. Get to the armory and grab your kit.”
Lukov turned on his heel and sprinted down the hallway. Warren followed him, surprised the soldier had obeyed him so easily. None of the cyborgs had any official rank, but the man had followed his order, nonetheless. In a crisis, it’s best to obey the person who seems like they know what they’re doing.
Warren entered the armory just after Lukov, who was already stepping into the stall and having his armor applied. As soon as the man was out, Warren took his turn next. When he stepped out of the device, a third cyborg stepped in.
“Cooper,” said Lukov with a nod.
Cooper… Warren recalled the name flashing on his HUD when he’d woken up planetside. The other soldier had been KIA. From the recognition in the cyborg’s eye, they were supposed to know each other.
“We didn’t get orders, but we’re fighting anyway,” Warren informed him.
Cooper shot him a curious glance. “You sure about this, Warren?”
“Yes,” Warren said. “If the enemy tries to board us, or if we’ve got a saboteur in our midst, our shipmates will be counting on us. In the absence of orders, you’ve got to go with your gut. Mine says something bad is going down. When in doubt, follow your instincts.”
