The Cyber Chronicles 06: Warrior Breed

by T C Southwell

  "What do you mean?"

  Tarl picked up a food bar from the bedside table and tore off the wrapper. "I'm talking about psychosis. Look, he's got some normal instincts, and then he's got a huge computer-induced brain block when it comes to human relationships. Sorry, I hate to rain on your parade." He tore off a mouthful of chewy fruit-flavoured paste and masticated noisily.

  "You could help him. You could explain this to him. If he understood it -"

  "No. He's shoved me around quite enough, thank you. He's getting a bloated head, and he's becoming a bully. You explain it to him; maybe he'll try to shove you through a wall."

  "He's never hurt you. He wouldn't. He just finds you annoying, and he hates what you are."

  "Yeah, I know all about him. That's what he really doesn't like."

  "All right, tell me how to help him."

  Tarl waved the food bar. "How the hell should I know? There haven't exactly been any cybers who've got free and become normal."

  "You must have some idea."

  "As far as I know, it can't be done. Look, he thinks like a machine. You figure it out. He's got feelings, yeah, and you've labelled them, so now he knows what they are, but he’s like a child in many ways. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy; he's great. Just leave it alone. Love him; be affectionate, fine. Don't try to take it further, or you're going to get hurt."

  "I don't believe you."

  He snorted. "Oh, yeah, what the hell do I know? I only studied cybers for seven years and spent fifteen repairing them. What do you know?"

  "I know he's human."

  "For god's sake, I don't want to see you get hurt, but at some point he's going to realise he can never be truly normal, and then he's going to leave. That's if he doesn't flip out. He's already on the road to a mental breakdown, so don't push him over the edge with foolish expectations he can never fulfil."

  "I think you're wrong."

  "Of course you do. You're living in a delusion, and I'm sorry for you." Tarl threw the wrapper in the direction of the waste chute, and it bounced off the wall beside it.

  "Isn't there anything you think might help?"

  "Look, from the sounds of it, he's trying to avoid the whole issue. Let him. He can't deal with it, and he wants it to go away."

  She sighed. "Thanks for explaining it."

  "Any time. Oh, and I advise you not to tell him what I said. He won’t like it any more than you do."

  When Tassin returned to Sabre’s cabin, he was lying on the bed, his eyes closed. He opened them when she came in and sat up, eyeing her.

  "What’s wrong?"

  "Nothing." She sat beside him, avoiding his gaze.

  "You obviously didn’t like what he said."

  "It's too complicated for me."

  Sabre cupped her chin and raised her face to study it. "He upset you. I'll shove his head down the toilet."

  "No, leave him alone. It's not his fault."

  “He’s full of shit. What did he say?”

  "He said I shouldn't tell you." Tassin shook her head, disconsolate.

  "He should have been drowned at birth."

  She giggled. "That's mean."

  "He said I’ll never be normal, didn’t he?"

  "He's wrong."

  "He's a cyber tech. He should be right."

  Tassin looked up at him. "What does he know about free cybers?"

  "He knows how I was designed."

  "It has nothing to do with your design."

  His eyes roamed over her face, and his brows drew together. "The cyber damaged my mind. That's the problem, isn't it?"

  "That's just what he thinks, but he's wrong."

  Sabre jumped up, his hands clenching. "No, that makes perfect sense. That's what Myon Two did to me. I don't think like a human, do I?"

  "Yes, you do. You're completely different from the cyber. You have emotions -"

  "That I don't understand!" He gripped the brow band, his face twisting. "I'll kill him!"

  "No! It's not his fault!" Tassin leapt up as he headed for the door, but he was already through it, and she raced down the corridor after him.

  Tarl looked up when Sabre strode into his room, dropped the vidbook and tried to scramble out of the way as the cyber bore down on him.

  "Whoa! Shit!"

  Sabre was on him in a flash, and dragged him upright by his shirt front. "Tell me what you told her."

  "Okay, okay!"

  "Start talking."

  "You're choking me."

  "No I'm not."

  "Okay, calm down, bud." Tarl made soothing motions.

  "I'm not your bud."

  "Right. Okay. What did she tell you?"

  "Not enough." Sabre thrust his face closer. "What did you bastards do to me?"

  "Hey, I wasn't a designer, okay?"

  "You know what they did."

  "Yeah, I do. And I'll tell you, just put me down."

  Sabre eased his grip, and Tarl made a futile bid to tug his shirt straight, but it was still bunched in Sabre's fist. Tarl shot Tassin an accusing look. "Why did you have to tell him?"

  "She didn't. I guessed," Sabre said.

  "Right, no flies on you. Look man, this will be very bad for you. Rather give it a miss, okay?"

  "No."

  "Right. Okay. Um... Here's the thing you need to understand. This is you, right." Tarl patted Sabre's shoulder.

  "Am I an idiot now?"

  "No. Okay, you’re flesh right, and bone... with a few additions."

  "Get to the point."

  “Err… how do I explain something you were never meant to understand?” Tarl shook his head and rubbed his brow. "Okay, let's try this. Access active response subroutine four hundred and ninety-two, close proximity reaction; section twelve. Got it?"

  Sabre cocked his head. "You want me to access a subroutine?"

  "Yes. Have you got the data?"

  "Yes."

  Tassin stepped forward, alarmed. "What are you doing, Tarl?"

  "Trust me; I know what I'm doing, okay?"

  "This is going to help?"

  He nodded. "It will help him to understand."

  "All right."

  Tarl faced Sabre again, looking nervous. "Tell me what the data says."

  "You know what it says."

  "Read it."

  Sabre looked vague. "Section twelve: response to close approach of person not owner or person with command privilege. Threat assessment one: unaltered male armed with edged weapon. Look up. Section five. Response one: maintenance of optimal distance for retaliatory response. Sub one: hostile approach detail one: exposure of weapon. Response to sub one: combat mode. Armed defence strategy fifteen C…" His eyes regained their focus, and he glared at Tarl. "There are over five hundred responses. So I’m supposed to keep possible threats away, why is that a problem?"

  Tarl sighed. "The fact that you don’t know it’s a problem is a problem. You were designed purely as a fighting machine. All your reactions are geared to that."

  Tassin shook her head, confused. "But his reactions are all normal. He doesn’t react to me like that, or you, even when we’re carrying weapons."

  "No, he wouldn’t, because you owned the cyber, and now you have command privilege, and I’m a Myon Two technician. Besides which, that programming is for the cyber, but those responses still influence him. His reactions only appear to be normal, up to a point. That’s exactly how he’d respond to a man who approached him with a knife.”

  “Isn’t that how anyone would react?” she asked.

  “Would you? Wouldn’t you be scared? Or wonder why the man had a knife and what he intended to do with it? Wouldn’t you have some concerns about how to deal with the situation, maybe ask the man what he wanted?”

  She frowned. “I suppose so…”

  “Sabre doesn’t. He immediately assumes a hostile intent. He’s been conditioned, and his brain is wired wrong.”

  "So he’s quicker to react to a threat, that’s all. His first reaction is to stay away
from the man, and there’s no harm in that."

  "That’s not the point. You still don’t get it, do you? He bases his decisions on his programming. His brain wasn't allowed to develop normally. It was totally controlled by a machine intelligence that has no concept of human relationships, except how many ways there are to beat a man's brains out."

  "Only one," Sabre said, raising a hand as if to demonstrate on Tarl. "You just smack the side of the skull hard enough to smash it, and the brains spurt out like jelly."

  "Thank you for that." Tarl noticed the bandage. "What did you do to your hand?"

  "I stuck it in a meat grinder to find out what it felt like."

  "Yeah? Maybe you should try a few more experiments; you might find the results interesting." He grimaced and shook his head. "No, don't. I don't think you'll like it."

  "So I haven’t learnt everything about being human yet, but I will. I just have to figure it out. You, on the other hand, are full of shit, and you can keep your bullshit theories to yourself. "

  "I don’t think you’re going to succeed, bud, although I really hope you do,” Tarl said. “Under all the mental scarring and trauma the cyber inflicted, your intellect developed, but not normally. That you aren't a raving psychotic, or a psychopath, is amazing. Emotionally you're pretty well shut down, and you're suffering from post-traumatic stress. The reason it's so mild is because you don’t have normal emotional responses. You've got a lot of problems, which don't affect you while you’re engaged in the kinds of activities you were trained to perform. But now you're moving into uncharted territory, and you don't have a map. Worse, you're wearing a blindfold and a ball and chain."

  "I can get past this."

  Tarl threw up his hands and turned away. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sabre sat in the command seat on Nemesis’ bridge and stared out of the screens, where bolts of green and blue fire strafed the blackness of space as the Trykon battle raged on, apparently endless and rather boring at times, with its traditional manoeuvres and strategies with predictable outcomes. During the day that had passed since his confrontation with Tarl, he had tried to forget what the cyber tech had said, without success. He kept recalling the encounter with Tisha, and his mixed reactions to it. He wanted to be a normal human, not a semi-human or part human or even almost human. He also wanted to silence forever the inner voice that mocked him whenever he tried to become more human, or thought about it; even hoped for it. The slightest wish was enough to goad it from its dark corner to shout its vitriol at him. Cyborg!

  A violent shudder rattled the ship, dragging him from his reverie. He glanced around the bridge, becoming aware of the unusual level of activity in it.

  "...Knocked out the entire port side bank of manoeuvring thrusters," a crewman shouted, scowling at his instruments. "We're crippled, First Lieutenant."

  "Invincible is closing with us. They intend to board," another man yelled.

  "Prepare to repel boarders," Atrel commanded. "We're going to have some fun, boys!"

  An officer pushed a red button, and an alarm whooped as he shouted into the intercom, "All hands to battle stations! Prepare to repel boarders!"

  Sabre frowned at Atrel. "How were we hit?"

  "A sneak attack. Dirty tricks. A corvette came past us at high speed, and fired a volley before we could target her."

  "Is there a clan ship close enough to help us?"

  Atrel stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. "We don't need help."

  Sabre glanced at the approaching ship. "Is it my imagination, or is that ship a couple of sizes bigger than ours?"

  "It is, but we can take her."

  "If they thought that, they wouldn't be boarding us, would they?"

  "They're fools."

  Sabre inclined his head. "I see. Isn't it possible that they have a few more men than we do?"

  "They do."

  "But we're better warriors than they are, I assume."

  Atrel nodded. "Do you doubt it?"

  "I just wonder what the odds are. I don't want to lose this battle. It's important."

  "We won't."

  "Right."

  Sabre gazed at the approaching warship and the web of bright fire that spanned the gap between them. Nemesis' lasers left glowing spots on the enemy's hull, which vanished rapidly in the icy cold of space. Nemesis shuddered almost constantly under the barrage, and sparks flew from consoles, making the officers who manned them curse.

  Atrel turned away to give orders. "Target their manoeuvring thrusters as they come alongside, and the grappling arms."

  "Don't forget the boarding tubes," Sabre said.

  "They're out of range of our lasers."

  The enemy ship loomed in the forward screens, then moved off them as she came alongside, the fierce barrage intensifying. Atrel adjusted his armour, tightening a couple of straps, and then turned to Sabre.

  "Time to do battle."

  "Wonderful."

  "You might consider putting on some armour."

  "I doubt you have any that fits me."

  Atrel smiled. "That was true five days ago, but not anymore. I had some made for you."

  Sabre glanced up at the huge man who stood beside him. "Right. Of course you did."

  "It's my duty to ensure that you're protected in battle."

  "Does that mean you intend to fight at my side?"

  "All the officers will be beside you. It's their duty."

  Sabre nodded. "Naturally."

  Atrel headed for the exit, and Sabre followed, aware of several grim-faced officers at his heels. Loud clangs reverberated through the ship as the enemy vessel fired magnetic grapples onto Nemesis' hull, anchoring the ships together. Atrel led them along the corridors to the port side, where a crowd of warriors waited to do battle, hefting their weapons. Now Sabre understood why the outer corridors of Trykon warships were so wide in the area in front of the hull doors. It was designed to be a battleground, giving Trykons the opportunity to indulge in their favourite sport: hand-to-hand combat.

  A crewman approached him, laden with an armload of gleaming armour. He dumped it at Sabre's feet and proceeded to pick up the pieces and strap them on, starting with a polished silver breastplate picked out with gold designs. It fitted perfectly, and Atrel helped the crewman to attach it to the armour they placed on Sabre's back. They added shoulder pieces and arm guards, and Atrel buckled a small square shield to Sabre's left forearm. The armour was not as heavy as it looked, and more comfortable than Sabre expected. When the Trykons were satisfied, the crewman pulled a sword from his back and held it out to Sabre hilt first.

  Atrel cocked his head. "I trust you know how to use that?"

  Sabre took the weapon. "With this, I'll kill people."

  "We try to take as many prisoners as possible, and wound more than we kill."

  "I'll bear that in mind." Sabre glanced at the warriors. "That's why so many of the men are maimed, isn't it?"

  Atrel nodded. "We don't think of it as maiming. All warriors are returned to combat status within a few months of losing a limb."

  "What about those who are taken prisoner?"

  "They're traded. So are the ships that fall into enemy hands."

  Sabre glanced at Atrel's metal hand. "You were taken prisoner?"

  "No, our clan won the battle in which I was wounded."

  Sabre consulted the scanners, assuring himself that Tassin was in the cabin with Tarl and Kernan. A dull thud drew his attention back to the doors as the boarding tube locked into place, filling with air. Atrel cast him an expectant glance, and he became aware that everyone seemed to be waiting for him. He raised his brows at Atrel, who indicated the doors with a gesture.

  Realising what he had to do, he ordered, "Open the doors."

  A warrior pressed a button, and the doors' locking mechanisms rotated. They slid upwards in unison, disgorging a torrent of shouting, sword-waving men. The Eagle Clan warriors met them in the middle of the c
orridor, and sparks flew as blades glanced off armour with sharp clangs. Sabre wondered if he was supposed to rush into the fray or hang back, and decided upon the latter. Atrel glanced at him again, looking a little surprised.

  For several minutes, the battle raged without either side giving a centimetre, until the sheer numbers that poured from the boarding tube forced the Eagle Clan warriors back. Atrel stepped forward, looking concerned, then returned to Sabre's side, frowning. Sabre hefted the sword to test its balance and found it good. The only way of distinguishing between the two clans was the fact that the Eagle Clan all wore feathers somewhere about their person, while the enemy, the Wolf Clan, all wore a bit of grey fur. The warriors fought as individuals, and the result was a chaotic melee. Sabre lowered his sword and rested the tip on the floor, leaning on it. Pre-combat adrenalin made his hands shake, and warmth coursed through him in a soft tide, filling him with energy. He found himself profoundly reluctant to enter yet another battle, however. He was weary of it.

  "I'm so sick of this," he muttered.

  Atrel glanced at him. "Do you intend to fight?"

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "The men need to see you fight, Commander. It’s expected."

  Sabre sighed. "Why do I always get into these situations?"

  "If we lose, non-coms become slaves, and sometimes they’re put to death, but they're never traded."

  "Right." Sabre raised his sword. "Time to unleash the killing machine. Take some advice, and stay the hell out of my way."

  Atrel nodded, looking bemused as Sabre strode forward. The first Wolf Clan warrior he encountered lost his head in a single sword slash, and the next he almost cut in half. The third lost an arm at the shoulder, the blade slicing clean through his armour. The cyber unit was in full combat mode, its strategies adjusted for sharp-edged weaponry. Sabre allowed it to guide him with the perfect timing and fluid efficiency of a machine. His mind was cold and dispassionate, unmoved by spraying blood, the stench of gore, the red pools that made the footing treacherous or the screams of dying men.

  A sword glanced off his armour while his weapon was wedged in a man's ribcage, preventing him from deflecting it, and the enemy warrior died with Atrel's sword in his throat. Sabre jerked his blade free and used it to hack into a man's leg, severed the artery and released a little fountain of blood. Bodies impeded him, and he moved forward, hacking down any man who confronted him. Warriors rushed at him, slashing and hacking, attracted by the golden torc around his neck, Sabre surmised. A skilful blade evaded his guard and found a chink in his armour. It sliced into his flank, but the barrinium mesh deflected it.