by J. N. Chaney
“It looks bad,” Warren noted.
“There’s a lot of smoke, but the damage is minimal,” Cooper said. “Check it out.”
The picture Warren was looking at became superimposed with a wireframe display. Most of what he was looking at was green, two small sections were yellow, and one tiny shape between them was red.
“Whatever blew in this place, it mostly made a lot of smoke,” Cooper said. “I’ve tested it for hazards. Other than being a mild eye and throat irritant, it’s fine. The techs say the EV system should have it cleared out in a few minutes, now that the fire is out.
“And we know who did it. In fact, the idiot is lying dead right at my feet. No, I didn’t kill him, but I would have. Looks like he did it the hard way—using his body as a grounding rod. I’m getting intel on him now and I’ve sent a cyborg—Anna DeFranc—to go check out his house.”
“Isn’t she one of the two who protested the mutiny?” Warren asked, briefly recalling the report.
“Yeah, but it was just culture shock,” Cooper said. “Now that she’s had a taste of freedom, she’s ready to kick some Republic ass.”
“Okay,” Warren said, feeling a bit of relief. “Let me know when it’s back online.”
“Will do,” Cooper replied.
A little detective work might be just what Anna needed, Warren thought. It seemed to be doing Craig some good. Warren was thinking about his team of newly freed cyborgs when two techs approached him. One was using a hand truck to wheel an enormous piece of equipment that was attached by a heavy cable to another the person in the lead was carrying.
The thing on the hand truck pulsated with light and hummed dangerously. His HUD didn’t have any information on it and Warren overcame the urge to take a step back as the two approached. The thrumming cylindrical device looked like a bomb from a cheap science fiction movie.
“Are you Warren?” the tech in the lead asked. She was carrying a box about the size of a shoebox.
He eyed it curiously but didn’t ask about it, getting the feeling she was about to explain. “I am.”
“We’ve got something you need to see... or... hear,” she explained, and handed him a tiny earpiece.
Warren removed his helmet and tried to insert it into his non-existent earhole. He fished around for a moment, before realizing what he was doing. Still not used to being something less than human, he mused. Maybe not less than human... but different.
His auditory sensors were located in about the same area, so he could hear what the woman was trying to show him. It sounded like static, but there was a kind of rhythmic pattern to it. It was like the heartbeat of a scared rabbit—rapid and distinct.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A transmission,” the woman said. “We can’t understand it, though. It’s got to be encrypted. It’s on the Commonwealth transmission spectrum—that much we know.”
“And this?” Warren said, nodding to the device on the hand truck.
“It’s a spectrum analyzer,” the woman said. “I was getting ready to bring it to the sensor array so we could run some tests after it got fixed. But when I was testing it, I heard the signal.” She leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone. “Someone is transmitting. They’re nearby.”
“How close?” Warren asked.
“Within a hundred kilometers—max. They’re transmitting on a low-frequency radio signal.”
Warren was excited but did his best to keep it in check. The woman he was speaking to could be the enemy. She could be faking the signal to send the cyborgs on a wild goose chase. If there was one downside to freedom it was not knowing who to trust.
“What’s the frequency?” Warren asked.
The woman checked the pulsating device, then the smaller component in her hands, and gave him a string of numbers.
When Warren focused on the numbers, they appeared in his HUD. A moment later, he could hear the sound.
“Sorry to interrupt you again, Lukov, but you need to hear this.” Warren sent him the frequency.
“What is this am listening to?” Lukov asked.
“It’s an encrypted transmission. Local. Within a hundred klicks, but the tech says it’s a radio signal. I don’t think it would be able to penetrate rock very well, so I’m thinking it’s a lot closer than she realizes. Could be their base of operations, two saboteurs talking to each other, or a whole network of them.”
“It will be found,” Lukov said. “I’m going to assign four other cyborgs to search the colony for suspicious things. Teams of two, staying together and watching to protect the other. I’ll take the others to hunt for these sons of the bitches.”
“Find them and seclude them,” Warren ordered. “Then let me know. I’d like to speak with them personally.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Warren said. “Every cyborg you can find who isn’t doing anything—get them doing something.”
“I will do that. I’ll let you know when I find our enemies.”
“Thank you,” Warren said to the two techs waiting patiently in front of him. “Coming to me with this information was the exact right thing to do.”
“Are you going to find out who’s transmitting?” the woman asked.
“Yes. But for now, let’s keep this to ourselves. We need them to continue to transmit so we can find them. If they know they’ve been detected, they might stop.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll head to the sensors now.”
Warren nodded and watched her go. Whoever the saboteurs were, they were good. They’d successfully run several operations against a force that had to outnumber them. A cold chill ran through Warren’s circuits as a thought occurred to him: he didn’t know how many enemies were on the planet.
19
“Sensors are back online,” Kendricks reported.
“Excellent,” Warren said. He started to issue another order when the man continued.
“Incoming! Single vessel inbound. Tech says it’s probably not a warship, but if it is, it’s some kind of boarding vessel. Maybe a transport ship. It’s in low orbit, breaking now, headed toward the surface. We don’t have a location yet.”
“Take it easy,” Warren said, attempting to calm the other cyborg. “Ask the tech if it could be a ghost ship—a false positive. Maybe even something the saboteur could have done? Something to get us to run around chasing something that doesn’t actually exist?”
A minute later, Kendricks came back with an answer. “Nope. Tech says it’s real. He checked the systems and says the ship’s pretty heavily damaged. He’s kind of surprised the thing was able to make it here.”
“Does this place have an alert system?” Warren said to a Reotian man and woman trying to pick up a crate that had fallen off a wheeled transport nearby.
“We do,” the woman said as she watched Warren turn the crate right side up and easily lift it onto the transport.
“There’s a ship incoming,” Warren told her, keeping his voice calm, even though the thought of an upcoming battle excited him. “Sound the alarm and make sure everyone who isn’t fighting is sheltering.”
She dashed off, nearly tripping over her feet, as he contacted the cyborgs. “Everyone—we have a ship incoming. Scanners say it’s small and heavily damaged. The alarm will sound soon. Keep doing what you’re doing but keep an eye on the civilians. It’ll be a perfect opportunity for an attack.”
The woman Warren had asked about the alarm reached a nondescript panel on the wall that had a silvery conduit running from its top. She opened it and pushed a button.
Though used to audible alarms, Warren understood the purpose of the one she’d activated. Rather than making loud noises, which would be sure to alert everyone to the trouble, lights began to flash red in a steady pattern.
After a second or two of confusion, people started running from their posts. Most looked like they knew what to do, but a few froze, panicked. Warren was surprised to see a small number ignored the alarm and went back to
work. One old, grizzled man began barking orders, directing people. He had an air of authority that looked natural, catching Warren’s attention.
Warren motioned him over. “What’s your name?”
“Glen Hoffman,” he said, standing at attention.
“What’s your job, Glen?” Warren asked, expecting to hear he was in charge of something important.
His shoulders slumped and Warren watched embarrassment creep over his face. “Sanitation.”
Interesting. “What about before that?”
The man looked confused, like he couldn’t figure out why Warren would be asking. “I used to be the security chief a long time ago, before I was fired by the Commonwealth. Tried my luck with the Republic but they didn’t keep me either.”
“Why’d they fire you?”
Glen’s cracked a wry grin, revealing a missing tooth. “Because I have a problem with both of them. I’d been suspected of tampering with their weapons, water filtration—things like that. I tried rallying the people against them.”
“Why didn’t they just execute you?”
“Because I’m good at sanitation.” He shrugged and grinned. “And I’m older than dirt. Maybe they didn’t think they’d have to deal with me for long. Maybe they didn’t want to deal with me after I was dead—a martyr.”
“Are you willing to kick that man’s ass if necessary?” Warren said, pointing to an innocent twenty-one-year-old civilian hurrying past. The young man’s eyes widened in alarm as he caught their conversation and he vanished into a crowd of people moving storage containers.
Glen shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You’re my new assistant security chief,” Warren said. “The people seem to listen to you. I wish I had a sheriff’s badge or something. Go find the cyborg named Lukov. He’ll figure out where to use you best.”
To Warren, he looked pleased. Maybe he wasn’t used to people taking him seriously. “Any general orders?”
“Keep the peace and watch everyone’s back. It’d be nice if the people liked you, but it isn’t a job requirement. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
After sending a short text message to the other cyborgs letting them know about Lukov’s new assistant, Warren watched Glen work.
“Are you stupid?” the old man growled at three young women he’d stopped. “Don’t you know what a terminal storage device is?”
They all shook their heads.
“That man right there is Steward Mills. That’s the man you need to talk to. It’s time to start learning people’s names, ladies. Now get!”
The three women scrambled away. Though Warren would have preferred to find out what their talents were so he could put them to use, he let the man lead in his own way. If nothing else, they wouldn’t be in the way when something needed to be moved.
Warren connected a private channel to Kendricks. “Give me a report.”
“Still the one ship,” Kendricks informed. “Nothing’s changed. It’s still on the way. ETA is now twenty minutes.”
“How long until it’s in gun range?” Warren asked.
After a few seconds, Kendricks said, “Eight minutes. Maybe a little less, depending on the gunners’ skill.”
“Curet, do you copy?” Warren said, switching frequencies to the Gun Chief’s channel.
“Uh, he’s not here,” a young-sounding male voice said. “He has me watching the radio.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s, uh, out at one of the guns. He said he’d be back in twenty minutes. That was about ten minutes ago, maybe.”
Dammit. “Fine. Tell him Warren said to stand by with the guns. Tell him to hold his fire until I figure out what’s going on with the incoming ship. But if we’re fired upon, I want him to blow that thing out of the sky. Got it?”
“Uh, yeah,” the young man said, sounding nervous.
Warren made him repeat everything back before he closed the channel. There just weren’t enough qualified people on the planet. And, with the cyborgs all but blind to the tactical situation, he had plenty of reason to be concerned. He turned to the gun frequency to listen in on their conversations.
“Sixteen is locked and loaded.”
“Roger sixteen. Fifteen, hot? Fifteen? Five?”
“Five. Fifteen is stuck. Standby.”
“Fifteen here. Deploying aces.”
To Warren’s ears, they sounded efficient, and he felt a twinge of jealousy. The gunners appeared to have been practicing their “gunner’s talk” for a long time. They knew what they were doing, and Warren knew it was likely the only thing they could do when they were occupied. Four or five would be able to gather together in someone’s home and role play their conversations.
“Lukov,” Warren said after opening a private channel to him. “What’s your status?”
“Two transceivers found,” Lukov said. “It’s lower power—quieter—than last. They’re difficult to locate. One discovered in trash receptacle. Another was wired into power for a home in Dome-4. Occupant of the home is in custody but appears to know nothing about the transceiver.”
Alarm bells went off in Warren’s head. The problem was worse than he thought. “What did you do with the devices?”
“We didn’t destroy them. That would have disrupted the signal and gave us away. We’re still looking for any others.”
“Perfect,” Warren said. “Keep going.”
The spies were using transceivers as repeaters to hide their location. The devices would receive messages on one frequency and transmit them on another. By leapfrogging throughout the colony, it would take time to find them. It was clever and damn effective.
Warren wished he could go with Lukov. He ached to get into the battle with those who were causing so much trouble. Instead, he’d become the conductor of an orchestra. He didn’t know who played which instruments, and he was writing the music as he went, but little by little, things were coming together. At the moment, though, it was like trying to herd cats.
The sound of gunfire drew his attention and Warren reached for his rifle as he turned toward the sound. It was coming from the warehouse. He jogged to the door, peeked inside, then entered, scanning for targets.
“Spy center neutralized,” Lukov transmitted.
“Spy what?” Warren asked, advancing further into the warehouse as he scanned for targets. “In the warehouse?”
“Spy center,” the Russian repeated. “Not in the warehouse, but close. Along a shared wall. Do not shoot. Opening door now.”
Warren trained his gun on a new noise and marveled as a well-concealed section of the warehouse’s concrete wall sunk in on itself. Lukov stepped out and waved.
“They were this close the whole time?” Warren said.
“Yes and no. Is doubt this is the only spy center. You should come and see.”
Warren stepped into the room and studied its contents. Six dead bodies. One person wearing typical Reotian garb kneeling with her hands on her head. She didn’t look injured, but she was scared.
The equipment looked old. Rather than having holographic readouts, or even data terminal screens, there were knobs, dials, and switches. Where high-speed circuitry would have been warranted, Warren saw what appeared to be advanced versions of vacuum tubes. They looked more complicated, and some of them appeared to be designs Warren hadn’t even heard of before, but the little glowing, bulb-like things had to be what he thought they were. A box of them were spilled onto the ground and several had been broken.
“It is like visit a museum,” Lukov said as he stood at Warren’s side. “But there is more. Through that door is an armory of sorts. They have much.”
Warren pushed the artificial wood door open and peeked inside. Activating his night vision, he got a good look at what the Commonwealth had left behind. His HUD lit up with information.
FIREARM, COMMONWEALTH, RAPID FIRE, MAGNETIC
CW-32 RIFLE.
GRENADE, FRAGMENTATION
CW-22(B)
This particular model was lethal. The only use for them was causing mass casualties. They weren’t powerful enough to do any serious damage to a cyborg. Not even if it landed in their lap. Flesh and blood, though? Humans didn’t stand a chance. This was a terror weapon.
“This is bad,” Lukov said, his tone dark. “Fifty rifles. Three spare magazines for each. Three hundred twelve grenades. This is enough for invasion, but not so many CoWs were here.”
“It means they were either expecting reinforcements, or this is nothing but a supply dump,” Warren said. “They’ve been fighting over this planet for a long time. I think they knew they would lose it again, and when they gained it back, it might be helpful to have weapons they’d left behind last time. Those racks are empty.” Warren pointed to the disassembled racks stacked against one wall.
“Da,” Lukov said, stepping further into the room. “Am not seeing evidence of the weapons having been used before. No, they seem new. Dusty. There is enough empty space for maybe a thousand more.”
“What do you make of it? Were they preparing to receive more weapons?”
Lukov nodded. “It seems yes. Maybe the CoWs add to inventory with every invasion. Little here, little there, until have enough to capture entire colony. Or kill all civilians and take the place. Next time Republic arrive, pretend to be passive. Then kill everyone and claim colony for Commonwealth.”
“It would explain things,” Warren said. “They could’ve already started the process. We need to secure this room and set a guard on it. Choose a cyborg to do it. We’ll keep their weapons. We’ll have to arm those we’re protecting in the future.”
“Roger that,” Lukov said and motioned to one of the cyborgs on his team.
“Problem,” Cooper reported. “One of the civilians has been hurt moving stuff around. Smashed his arm pretty good. He’s headed to the infirmary. Just thought you might want to know.”
“Dammit,” Warren muttered. “I’ll check it out.”