Cyborg Corps Complete Series Boxed Set

by J. N. Chaney

“I doubt it,” replied Warren. “It’s probably a warning against other cyborgs showing up.

  “You think so?” he asked, suddenly serious as he turned his visor back to the tableau. “Look at its hands.”

  Warren did, curious what the other cyborg was talking about. The hands looked like hands. Most of the skin had been removed, exposing the metal skeleton and wires underneath. He zoomed in his vision and noted some of the components looked like they’d burned, maybe in the crash, or maybe as part of the process someone had used to remove the skin. Several components were missing, and the spots they’d been looked like someone had taken a large knife and pried them from where they’d been.

  When he returned his gaze to the cyborg next to him, the man held up one hand. He had two fingers crossed like he was kidding. Then he nodded at the chassis on the tree.

  “Son of a bitch,” whispered Warren as he finally saw it. The right hand of the cyborg chassis was making the same gesture. It still meant “just kidding,” but in a situation like this, it said a lot more. It meant what they were witnessing was not as it seemed. This wasn’t a totem warning other cyborgs away. It was a signal to them. If it was true, it meant the people they heard would do them no harm.

  It was too bad comms were down. Explaining what he wanted to do next would’ve been a lot easier. Instead, he signaled he wanted all the squad leaders to gather in the center of the formation with him. He’d tell them personally.

  When he was done, the other cyborgs seemed unconvinced.

  “Since when has a naked, stripped body ever been confused with a welcome mat?” one quietly asked. “Even with the crossed fingers, how do we know this ain’t a trap? It’d be just like those dirty CoWs to use something like this against us. Get us all confident then snap, close the trap.”

  “It would be,” agreed Warren. “But we can’t leave our asses hanging out in the wind forever.”

  Rigby spoke next. “I think it’s a sign. The whole crossed-fingers thing is old. Nobody does that anymore. The Commonwealth could’ve found a reference to it in one of our records, but I don’t think that’s what we’re seeing. Mounting that chassis probably made the governor proud, so not only did it make this little town look good, now it tells other cyborgs they’re welcome here.”

  “That’s a big stretch of the imagination,” the first cyborg groaned. “We’re with you, Warren. Whatever you say, but I’d like it to be noted that if we all die, I told you so.”

  “Duly noted,” said Warren with a small laugh. “Let your people know what we’re doing. Tell them to hold their fire unless directly threatened. If this doesn’t go right, I want everyone to regroup one kilometer west of here on the other side of the river after nightfall. Got it?”

  Everyone nodded and returned to their squads. Warren hoped he was right about this. “I told you so,” wouldn’t cut it if he ended up getting all of them killed. Not even close.

  Once it looked like everyone was ready, Warren signaled for the platoon to move into the town.

  The buildings appeared to be made of concrete with metal fittings here and there—mostly drain pipes to direct water from their flat roofs out into the barely paved streets. They were all the same brown with slight variations, mostly a subtle difference between brown and tan, but some went as far as to have more or less rust from old drain pipes along their surface. Further away, the buildings got taller, some as high as eight stories—impressive for what was across the street and right next door to them.

  One building stood out from the rest. It was only a single floor taller than any of the others, but its roof was an ornate, shiny pattern of corrugated metal. It looked chromed but was probably only polished. At the top of a flagpole sticking out from the center was a large Commonwealth flag. It hung lazily, only revealing the white five-pointed star in its center every few seconds as it moved in the gentle breeze.

  It seemed unnecessary—a government flag on a planet where only a single government existed. It also seemed like the exact kind of building the Commonwealth would use as their seat of power. Put the most work and attention to detail into the structure where the head honcho takes a shit during working hours.

  Warren thought about stopping everyone, but he heard a gasp—something no cyborg could do—and knew it was too late. They’d been spotted. Adjusting the grip on his rifle, he slowly turned his head left and right, trying to look at everything at once. There were people. Most were inside their homes, staring at the cyborgs with expressions ranging from scorn to disbelief. None appeared to be carrying weapons, but they could have them concealed elsewhere. Still, the fact nobody was ringing the town bell, if they had one, or was otherwise causing a commotion felt like a good sign.

  “Freeze!” someone shouted from a nearby rooftop. “Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air. You’re surrounded.”

  22

  Damn.

  Warren and the others took cover, rifles pointed up to the tops of buildings. “I don’t think so,” he shouted. “How about you drop your weapons, and we won’t turn your heads into dog food bowls?”

  His opponents were on the roofs of all the nearby buildings. They peeked over the edges every few seconds, but never long enough to get a good look at them. From what Warren could see, though, they weren’t dressed in the rust-colored uniforms typical for Commonwealth ground troops. Then again, on this planet in this area, maybe rust wasn’t the uniform of the day.

  “Identify yourselves!” the same voice shouted. Warren located its source. Two buildings down on his side of the street. He couldn’t see the person yet but had a grenade with his name on it if he got the opportunity.

  “My troops call me ‘boss,’” he returned. “But you can call me Warren.”

  “Warren?” his opponent asked like maybe he hadn’t heard him correctly. “Warren Prescott?”

  “What’s it to you?” shouted Rigby.

  “The same Warren Prescott I fought with at Danorill when we took out that whole platoon of CoWs a couple years back?” asked the man, sounding shocked.

  “If you say so,” replied Warren as he shrugged. If the man was telling the truth, Warren didn’t have any recollection of him, but that could simply be due to his selective memory loss. “I’m here because I was asked for help. You know anything about that?”

  “Yeah, sure do,” he said. “I’m having a bit of a problem with the local CoW government.”

  “Sure,” said Warren. “I’m here to help you take care of that problem.”

  “Yeah? Then you know the name of the cyborg we sent to get you.”

  “King,” Warren replied.

  Warren had to wait several seconds before the man spoke again. He listened carefully, trying to detect enemy troops movements nearby, but it sounded like everyone was staying put. There were enough townsfolk nearby, moving around and making enough noise to make him feel a bit unsure.

  “How’s about you step out into the street so I can take a good look at you?” the man asked. “If you really are who you say you are, I’ll buy you a questionable CoW ration as an apology. If not, my associates and I will fill you with lead. Right now, you’re surrounded. I can confidently say that, should you resist in any way, I won’t be the only one who goes to the great beyond today—whatever that means to you.”

  Rigby made a little “psst” noise to get Warren’s attention. When he backed a little further into the alley and looked at her, she shifted a canvas sack, one of many that appeared to be full of trash, from a pile next to her. Underneath was something which looked suspiciously like a bomb—two Commonwealth missile warheads tied together with an electronic receiver on top.

  Three other cyborgs had taken cover in the alley across the street. One was watching Warren and Rigby and looked around. When he spotted a similar-looking pile, he carefully poked through it then turned to Warren and nodded, indicating he’d found something dangerous.

  “Found my bombs, did you?” the man who appeared to be running the show asked. “Yeah, real wo
rks of art. I can’t claim full credit for them, though. You might not remember this, but you and I discovered some that were very similar, Warren. You helped me to disarm them, and in doing so, taught me how to make them. Now, sorry to rush you, but we don’t like to spend a lot of time out in the open with the way things are and all. Come on out, identify yourself. Let me get a good look at you, and we can head somewhere more secure?”

  What choice did he have? Warren stood but only got one step away before Rigby stopped him by grabbing his ankle. She shook her head vigorously and made a hand motion like she intended to cut some wires on the bomb. He shook his head and pulled his leg out of her gentle grasp, then he secured his rifle to his back and stepped out into the street. Either this was real, or he was about to be real dead.

  Nobody took a shot at him, though he could see at least six people pointing rifles at him from nearby rooftops. Further away, another three watched with interest, but they also seemed to be just as interested in the sky. They turned all the way around like radar dishes. What they were searching for, Warren wasn’t sure. He was just glad nobody had decided to kill him yet.

  “Now, how am I supposed to know who you are if you don’t remove your helmet?” the cyborg asked. It was difficult to hide what he was with his metal skull showing where his scalp had once been.

  Warren did so, holding it in one hand while the other cyborg inspected him.

  “You say you don’t have any memories of the last time we saw each other?” he asked.

  “None,” replied Warren.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Going under the knife to get turned into this,” he said, gesturing at the whole of his body. “Then nothing until I was in the middle of a battle on Reotis. Why?”

  “Just checking,” the man said. He motioned for the others to stand down and leaped down from the building. His clothes looked like he made them himself from several brown and tan blankets. Not bad camouflage, considering the surroundings. The only part of the uniform it looked like he had remaining was his footwear: standard-issue armored combat boots, Republic.

  “It’s good to see you again,” he said, smiling broadly at Warren. “For you, it’s like meeting me for the first time. Don’t worry about it. Shit like this happens to us. Cyborg brains—just as good for holding memories as a colander is for holding beer, am I right?”

  “You’re right,” nodded Warren, who offered his hand. The other cyborg took it, and they shook.

  “Well, let’s not dally,” he said. “The name’s Myles Brinn, Sergeant, Second Cyborg Corps. Let’s talk on the way. We need to get moving, though. We’re expecting a CoW aerial patrol any time now. Don’t worry about the locals. General’s got them wrapped around his little finger. Call your troops out. Column formation if you don’t mind. It’ll help us stay together and move faster.”

  “Wait,” said Warren. “Have you heard anything about any more of First Corps? We got separated. I’m sure you saw the Ruthless come down.”

  “Is that what that was?” he asked, shifting his gaze to something in the distance. “Yeah, that was a real good shot. There were others we would’ve preferred you hit, but the local magazine was good enough for now. We’ve been stealing supplies for a while, but we probably have enough to get this war started. So… you gonna call your troops out or what?

  “Oh, and about your troops? Yeah, we found a bunch of cyborgs. Even managed to capture a few along with some squishies. The cyborgs retreated, but we know where they are. I’m sure they’ll come out to meet you, then we can link up and put a big hurting on the CoWs.”

  Warren signaled for the others to form a column. They followed his orders in a hurry, and in seconds they were ready to go.

  “We’re heading across the river,” said Brinn. “Our base is on the other side.”

  They started moving at a fast jog, Warren and Brinn at the front instead of the platoon commander’s usual position of being in the center of the formation. Rigby ran behind them—close enough to hear what was being said without being too intrusive.

  “What’s wrong with the comms?” asked Warren.

  “The short-range stuff?” asked Brinn. “That went out about a week ago. We think they’re jamming us, but we’re not sure. Been looking for the source of the signal ever since then. Haven’t found anything yet. Once we do, we’ll probably blow it up. The CoWs will build another one a day or two later. We’ll blow it up—rinse and repeat. Hey, is it true First Corps took out the Fourth Corps cruiser and some CoW ship on the same day?”

  “It’s true,” said Warren. “How’d you hear about it?”

  “Intercepted some Commonwealth comm traffic before they blocked us out,” replied Brinn. “You scared the hell out of a lot of people. Impressed a whole lot more, though. The general’s gonna want to talk to you about it. He’s all into tactics, intel—the works. Okay, here comes the bridge. You’ll want to get your people into a single-file line for this part. If the troops on the other side see anything ‘cept a single-file line, they’ll blow the bridge. That’d be bad for all of us.”

  Warren nodded to Rigby, who passed the word. The troops maintained their fifteen-meter interval but formed a single-file line as instructed. Most looked nervous, and when Warren turned back the direction they were going, understood why.

  Calling it a bridge was only technically correct. The construction looked like it had been created from whatever happened to be lying around, including rope, steel cable, and wires all braided together to create a walkway with wooden planks, each a little less than a meter wide. The span was more than a hundred meters. The river was there like the map said it would be, and there was water in it.

  “Yeah, you don’t want to fall down there,” said Brinn, leaning a little off the cliff. “The general had us build some nasty traps for anyone who does. They’ll probably kill the local river population, but it should prevent ground troops from coming out here and screwing with us if they ever discover where we are, am I right?”

  “Sure,” replied Warren.

  “Alright then, let’s get across before the patrol finds us. The enemy still doesn’t know our exact coordinates, but they know we’re here—both our groups. And after that first impression you made, I think it’s likely they’ll be angrier than a nest of hornets.”

  Brinn hurried fast enough that Warren worried about falling off the side of the wobbly construction. It seemed to be holding under his feet, but he had fifteen other cyborgs with him, and none besides Rigby were under ninety kilograms. If there was anything to worry about, Brinn wasn’t showing it. Instead, he kept talking like this was something he did every day.

  “Yeah, we’ve done a lot of work here,” said Brinn. “You’ll see once we get to the other side. Stole a bunch of shit from the Commonwealth. No ships or anything like that, but still some good stuff. Bomb-making material mostly. The general’s big into bombs. Says you can stick those things just about anywhere if you know what you’re doing.”

  “That’s true,” said Warren, happy to let the man talk so he could glean as much information as possible.

  “We got some houses on the surface, some underground. Boss is big into digging tunnels and shit. Says that’s the way his enemies did it when he was young. Messed his people up real good. I’ll tell ya, it works when we’re sneaky enough. Sometimes the tunnels get found, though. They used to go in there and steal their supplies back or leave traps for us. That was until we started trapping them ourselves. Yup, dig a hole, make it look all nice and professional. But you see, it only goes in a couple of meters. When someone goes down there to take a peek, boom!”

  He made a sighing noise like it was a fond memory. Maybe it was.

  “How many of Second Corps is left?” asked Warren, attempting to steer the conversation back to the task at hand.

  “Don’t know for sure,” he said. “But this morning there were forty-one effective. We got another twelve that are injured too badly to fight. So, total fifty-three
. But that was this morning, and with comms down, I won’t know for sure until tomorrow morning when I get everyone’s report.”

  As they made their way to the end of the bridge, Warren began to notice structures within the forest. The longer he looked, the more he saw. There were at least a hundred of them climbing the hill and disappearing behind the trees. People were outside, tending to small plots of what looked like vegetables, though Warren didn’t recognize any. He glanced over his shoulder and counted all the heads he’d started with. They looked just as curious as he felt.

  “So, you guys got ranks?” asked Brinn as he took a path leading into the woods between a couple of houses. Everyone followed.

  “No, we don’t run like that,” replied Warren. He kept a close eye on the civilians. They studied him with open curiosity. A couple of children, both dark-skinned with straight black hair, stopped playing and stared open-mouthed as the cyborgs walked by.

  “Well, you’re gonna need to pick some ranks for your people,” said Brinn. “The general’s a hard-ass for that kind of thing. Says it’s the only way to maintain discipline now that our chains are broken. Thanks for that, by the way. He said you were instrumental in making it happen.”

  “I was,” admitted Warren. “Though a lot of Reotians were, too.”

  “That’s what the general said, too. Here we are.”

  The house the cyborg had stopped in front of was constructed of a combination of wood planks and sheets of metal. Curiously, its roof looked like it might’ve once been the serving line from a Republic cruiser’s chow hall. In fact, he was sure of it. Probably from the Conquest—the ship the Second Corps had been in when it all went down.

  If this survived, it meant other parts survived as well. As they entered, an old woman in the back of the room got out of the way, the wall she had been standing in front of swung away like a door. Beyond was a pitch-black tunnel, tall enough for a single cyborg to walk down, so long as he didn’t mind not being able to stand straight up.