Cyborg (The Deep Wide Black Book 1)

by JCH Rigby

  We even find some women. None of the fellas have anything against Barclay or Keegan but it never occurs to us—or them, I guess—to start something within the Section. They both ended up wandering off with pilots, anyhow.

  Chapter Six

  The Other Bastards are Shooting Back

  Abruptly, Chambers hears new voices and sees different images. He’s watching someone who’s watching someone else. It feels immediate, present, now. He sees two people looking at the same data he has just seen.

  “So, when was this?” The first speaker is a man used to exercising authority. Surely this is a soldier.

  “About ten years ago, I think. Yes, that’s right—look, the dates on the top right of the screen.” This one sounds civilian, for some reason. His drawling speech is a little less formal.

  “And how fast are they really moving? That guy who got blown up was like a statue.” Said the senior soldier curiously.

  “Don’t be misled by the images. You’re seeing it from Arden’s point of view. He’s not Superman, but he is a hell of a lot faster than you and me. They all are. Most of the speed comes from how fast he’s thinking, and how fast he can react. What he sees is probably a bit misleading for him as well, and it’s clearer for us looking at these images now than it was for him actually doing it then. He probably thought that man was like a statue as well but if we look again we can see he’s actually moving, albeit very slowly by comparison to the trooper.” The civilian appears to be a corporate suit of some kind.

  They’re in a meeting room, looking at images of battle. But Chambers can’t see either of the speakers. Perhaps they’re behind whatever is being used to capture the scene.

  “Right. Can we see further over here, to the right of where the enemy position is?” A uniformed arm waves at the display.

  A short, dismissive laugh from the corporation suit. “No. You’re making a common mistake, I’m afraid. People do, when they see this kind of stuff for the first time. All we can see and hear is what Arden saw and heard, what went into his backup. He’s like a camera in that respect. If he didn’t look in that direction we won’t be able to, either. We can enhance the images, freeze them, zoom in, gain some 3-D by comparing his eyes’ separate pictures, or if there’s someone else’s viewpoint as well—all that stuff. But if it’s not there, it’s not there.”

  “Yes, of course. Got it.” Acknowledged the uniformed man gruffly.

  “What would you like to see next?”

  “Let’s go back through the actual engagement again. Take it from where they closed on the gun position and started clearing the trenches.”

  “One moment, please… uh, here?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. Now this one here—what’s his name, Arden? —he’s just now firing over his fellow soldier’s head at this laser guy, who looks like he’s going to throw a grenade. What had his marksmanship been like?”

  “Arden’s? Just a jiffy again, please.” The suit turns his head to address someone out of visual range. “Iqbal? On screen, please—the Brigadier would like—ah, thank you, ha-ha—yes, here; eighty-nine, ninety-one, eighty-eight, ninety flat in his last four combat tests. Why? Oh, I see. He missed with the first shot. Yes, I was surprised, too, when I saw that earlier.”

  Uniformed guy leaned into the display squinting for a few seconds as his combat seasoned eyes took in the whole scene before he stood back up right seemingly satisfied he had found what he had been looking for. “I’m not. I think that first round was bloody good. Put laser-man, here, right off his stroke.”

  “Well, you’re the customer and I’m the contractor, but he really should have done better. Disappointed to see it, to be honest. The first-round-kill-probability of these units is supposed to be 0.998, always.”

  Now it was the older soldiers’ time to chuckle at the naivety of civilians. “Well, there’s a key difference here, and this time you’re making a basic mistake, I’m afraid. The difference is the other bastards—sorry, units—are shooting back, and it does tend to put you off. Trust me, I know.”

  "IN CONCLUSION, BRIGADIER TAKES us through the current enhancements and capabilities of the units within the program. There have been other modifications in a few cases, but it’s these that have proven to be the most useful and successful,” mm-hmm

  “Now, I’d like to suggest a bit of lunch in the boardroom—perhaps the majors would like to join Iqbal in the canteen? —and then I’d really like to show you some of our proposals for the future. Now I know the, uh, the budget isn’t quite settled yet—”

  The Brigadier cut the corporation man’s sales pitch off mid-flow. “Thank you; very generous, but I’m afraid we don’t have the time. There are several things I need to know quite urgently. My own interest is primarily in the operational and deployment particulars.” The Brigadier gestured toward a small cluster of lesser uniforms behind him. “Major Garner has the details, and she’ll share them with your Mr. Iqbal shortly.

  “In essence, I wish to know how many of the units have been made, including any test sets. How many survive to this day, what happened to the remainder, the whereabouts of any not deployed with ourselves, the ratio of time on standby to time on operations, the time spent on route between missions as compared to time deployed, and so forth—”

  Remotely, Chambers found himself hoping for the same data.

  A bead of sweat formed on the corporate man’s forehead, the Brigadiers request had thrown his carefully orchestrated pitch into disarray. “But I don’t think—”

  “Be so good as to let me finish, please. Then Major Garner has some questions of her own which she’d like answered, concerning, shall we say, the engineering aspects. Design and actual capabilities. Mean time between failures of various artificial components. Cost and availability of spare parts. Refurbishment and upgrades—that kind of thing.” The muscles at the edges of the Brigadiers mouth twitched as if it wanted to form a smile at the corporate man’s squirming under the unexpected interrogation.

  “And, finally, Major Sondberg wishes to look at the human resources minutiae: initial selection of personnel, reaction to surgery, including psychological failure, endurance, adaptability, and so on.” The smile now formed fully on the Brigadiers face. “You may wish to call on additional personnel.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I have that kind of information.” Blustered the suit. “We’d need to talk to Engineering, or possibly even Accounting, if they have it. Um, some of it would be company confidential, I fear. I would require quite unprecedented authority from the Board. In any event, it will, uh, take some considerable time—possibly as much as a year—to obtain all that detail.”

  “You have seven standard days to deliver the whole lot, without exception. The Anglo-Russian Trading and Operations Conglomerate has been living very comfortably off this contract for many years now, and, for some inexplicable reason, the Directorate has allowed this to go on.” The military voice—this brigadier—is stern.

  “Now I’m in post, I’m giving you notice the days of the open book contract are over. Another war is certainly coming, and I’m required to ensure our weapons are at maximum effectiveness, and the Directorate receives value for its money. Doubtless, our respective lawyers will love thrashing out the details underpinning my statement.

  “You may wish to consider the precise meaning of ‘company confidential’ in the context of a company which has been requisitioned by the Directorate, in its entirety and without recompense, which is my alternate suggestion. We may, of course, choose to bypass the legal process entirely if it looks likely to take too long. It would then be necessary for me to draft the majority, or all the company’s employees, who would consequently be subject to full military discipline of the most rigorous nature. Any drafted employees considered to be surplus to the requirements of a slimmed-down program might be more profitably employed in a remote and classified location, or in deep space, or perhaps in a combat zone as their skill sets sugges
t. You are a company employee yourself, I believe?”

  Suit’s face paled as all the blood leached from it as he struggled to process the full implications of the Brigadiers statement. Time the older soldier did not intend to give him.

  “From this moment forward, the ARTOK company’s famed Human Enhancement Contract is working to a set of key performance indicators. The cost and performance of these clever but ridiculously expensive supermen will now be scrutinized most carefully.

  “Your company is about to leave its comfort zone.”

  THE TINY SPECK OF LIGHT became a patch, then a circle, then an ellipse, and finally resolved itself into the lounge window of his apartment. Chambers shook his head, trying to throw off the mental confusion the scenes left. After hearing what others had heard, seeing what other eyes had seen, almost thinking the thoughts of strangers, he barely knew who he was any more.

  “So that was Arden? Who were the other ones?” Chambers asked of the stoic Richter avatar.

  The sketch-man floated in the air, legs crossed, still transparent. Face strained. “The ARTOK people. That’s one of the best bits Feroz found, and it led him to so much more. It’s from some time after the first Chinese War, when the Enhanced Human Program was still fairly young and not so well known.” Richter’s voice became faint and scratchy. “Once Feroz found that I guess he dug harder and found more of the commercial stuff, and that took him to some of the classified stuff from the Directorate. At first, it’s just Top Secret, but then it all goes very black indeed.”

  In that moment Chambers felt that if the avatar had had eyes they would have been firmly fixed on him. “You want to know why anyone even wants to be one of us? Work your way through this, and then you’ll understand a bit more. Listen to Steve Arden, from way back before he became Enhanced. When he was a Slow, like you.”

  Chambers felt the world around him becoming distant as mental confusion returned and he became someone else.

  PART II

  STEVE ARDEN

  2260

  “I feel like a fugitive from the law of averages.” —Willie and Joe, under effective enemy fire, Italy, 1943-44. From Up Front by Bill Mauldin.

  Chapter Seven

  The Hoplites Arrive

  APRIL

  "Arden. Door security!” Came the command over my headset. I did what I was told and slithered across to the starboard hatch of the Gallowglass. The aircraft lifted slightly as the engine note rose. Pulling up high among the towers, civilian aircars giving way as our command systems overrode their guidance controls. Next to me, Dave Hart sat swearing in the observer’s seat as the vehicles maneuver threw him about, bouncing his helmet against the screen of his drone controller.

  “Bollocks. Lost it. Look at that, not a trace left. Can’t you keep this bloody thing steady, Jonesy?” Hardly fair, really; the cross-winds between buildings this huge were always going to be unpredictable, but the Gallowglass driver had to expect to be verbally abused. Jonesy could always surrender some control and trust the stabilization programs, but I guess no pilot really likes to do that.

  We climbed for a few moments and leveled off. Through the half-open door, I saw terraces as we closed in on the upper level shopping areas. Down there, it was all a bit more basic: people living in squalid hovels, rotting mountains of rubbish, beggars everywhere. Up here, people had a bit of money to spend. ’Café tables, crowds, and street performers cluttered these walkways. Hart’s little drones zipped through the crowds, squirting back crazy glimpses; one moment a forest of legs and shopping bags, then a foreshortened high view of heads and shoulders. The devices weren’t quite brainless, but Davy had to be on the ball with them all the time. Given half a chance, they’d fixate on the store window displays.

  The section commanders voice boomed again in my headset. “Prepare to land! Normal drills—Arden out right and front. Me, second and left. Hold the area and spot-search. Remember who we’re looking for: dark- haired guy in a yellow jacket.”

  Jonesy flared the ’glass as we closed in on the terrace. The section commander hung over my shoulder, watching the approach he was taking. “Landing, landing. Sharpen up, people. Prepare to move!”

  We were looking for Earth First fighters. Terrorists. Fundamentalists. Call them what you will: loonies with weapons and an agenda. All day long we stopped the traffic, searched houses and people, taking some of the dodgy ones in for the police to shove around, and generally disrupted daily life. The locals seemed to take it in their stride. War? No, use the politically correct title: “aiding the civil authorities.” Couldn’t have been war. People were still going shopping.

  The resident battalion had had a bad contact already today. One of their surveillance flitters had taken a hit from two terrorists armed with lasers leaving behind a couple of bodies smoldering in the wreckage. So, here we were following the spy-eye drones through the central area of the city, picking up on traces of fear-pheromones left behind by a running laser guy.

  All we had on the runners was a brief drone-glimpse of one man: black hair and a yellow jacket, and a few algorithm speculations about height and weight which fit half the population of the city. By now he’d probably be chanting mantras to himself in a capsule somewhere, trying to slow his pulse and calm down enough to pass scrutiny. Brigade Operations reckoned he’d try to lose himself in a crowd, and the scent-trail we were following seem to back that up. For once, the local police had done something useful, and found the laser where the shooter had dumped it a few streets away.

  I edged forward to the door, ready for landing. Super-cautious. It always felt bloody vulnerable at these moments when you were the doorman, the only visible member of the section, not protected by the armor of the ‘glass, wondering if someone had you in their sights. I had 1,000 strangers to my front, at least a fifty-story drop below me, no safety strap, and both hands locked tight onto the door lip. Standard operating procedures said you unslung your rifle and let go of the door, ready to leap out. Your number two was supposed to hold on to the back of your belt. Screw that—no chance. Both my hands and my ass had a death grip on the Gallowglass floor plates.

  The other two section Gallowglasses orbited a few hundred meters away as we closed in, giving us over-watch cover with their chin guns, while the platoon commander’s Lancer climbed up above the terraces. Here we go again; must be the twentieth time today. For all the discomfort of hanging out of the door I was thoroughly bored, till a girl at one of the tables caught my eye. Blonde waist-length hair fell in a curtain around her as she leaned forward. She was reading from her slate to a pretty toddler, probably her daughter, judging by the mini-me blonde locks.

  Hearing the engines she looked up, catching my eye as I sat with my legs dangling over the door lip, and smiled at me. I was captivated by the startling contrast of Asiatic face, tanned skin, and fantastic golden blonde hair. Where did you come from? Evidently, however, I wasn’t that charming—she was already starting to turn away again to play with the child. Private Joe Cool is descending out of the sky while you’re shopping with your daughter, and you don’t even keep looking—what more do I have to do?

  I grinned optimistically at the back of her head, let go with one hand, and concentrated a bit more on looking the part while Jonesy brought us in alongside one of the terraces, easing the aircar over the suicide netting at the edge. Moving gingerly so he could close in without giving the citizens unexpectedly serious haircuts. People surged back as we closed in; downwash flinging papers and small items wildly about the terrace. Five meters, four, two, nearly, go!

  I was out in a tumbling rush, landing clumsily in the midst of some ornamental bushes and feeling stupid. Andy Norris, our corporal, came out as number two and just about ran up my spine while I sprawled on the ground. I heard laughter from somewhere—the girl? —and I felt my ears starting to burn. The remainder of the section spilled out the door and Jonesy increased power lifting the ‘glass clear.

  “On your feet, Arde
n, you idiot!” Sassy Bradley gave me a boot up the ass as she trotted past, grinning; she knew I’d been showing off for the blonde-haired woman.

  The others spread out to start the search, Davy talking us through the spy-eye traces from his seat in the ‘glass. I pulled myself up and looked at the crowds, envying Davy the comfortable simplicity of his screens. 20,000 people were within a couple of square kilometers of us—how the hell were we going to pick out one man amongst that lot? Andy watched the guys organize pissed-off shoppers into lines; the spy-eyes scanned their faces and slates as they did so. I decided to begin with the blonde mom and kid. Well, why not? Have to start somewhere.

  Straightening my comms headset, I turned toward where I’d last seen her. I should have been keeping an eye on the others, but I was so bored, I was slacking, and I knew it. Sassy was supposed to be my partner, but I’d lost sight of her when I did the pratfall into the bushes. Someone impatient in the line of civilians started a shoving match, voices started to rise, and the line began to break up a bit. It could easily turn ugly now.

  My headset showed one of the Hoplites arriving to give us over watch from the edge of the terrace. Its sights would be spinning around, looking for targets. I wasn’t reassured—I don’t trust the aggressive little buggers. Their software didn’t have enough discrimination for my taste. I dismissed the thought as I caught a glimpse of two figures amid the melee. A waterfall of blonde hair, and a tinier version close to her. I headed across the mall clearing my throat as I got ready to use my best serious-but-cool voice. With my luck, she’d spit in my face.

  “ID, please?”

  She turned around with a bright smile already in place. Suddenly the day was looking up. God, she was cute. The little one tugging at her hand, trying to drag her across the mall after something she’d seen, so she had to distract the little girl for a second before fishing a slate out of her bag. Thumbing the keypad, she held it up for me to look at.