Cyborg Corps
Author: J.N. Chaney
Date: 2020-03-29 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Fiction
Description: Warren Prescott is a veteran amputee who can't catch a break. When the VA calls him in for an experimental procedure to restore his leg, Warren is amazed. Finally. he will be able to feel the warm sand beneath his feet again, or so the doctor promises. Lying on a table, Warren is told by the doctor that everything is going to be okay. He's going to have a brand new leg...and a much better life. Too bad it was all a lie. The next time Warren opens his eyes, four centuries have passed. Somehow, he's standing in the middle of a battlefield, stuck on a distant alien planet, far away from home. To
Publisher: Variant Publications

Copyrighted Material

Cyborg Corps Copyright © 2020 by Variant Publications

Book design and layout copyright © 2020 by JN Chaney

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing.

1st Edition

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Complete Series

J.N. Chaney

Chris Winder

Contents

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Cyborg Corps

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Built to Last

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

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1

“Mr. Prescott, I think I’ve got it this time,” Mike said. “Here, try this.”

Warren rolled the sock-like liner back over the stump of his leg. His skin had been permanently tattooed by paint chips. It was another souvenir brought back from the war.

The tech handed him the carbon fiber socket again. It was nothing more than a molded tube, but it was a constant source of grief. When Warren slid it on, he instantly knew it still wasn’t right. “This spot right here,” he said, pointing to a place near its end. “It feels like it’s convex—like there’s a huge bump—something hard there pushing into the bone.”

“Hmm,” Mike said with a finger over his lips. “Okay, I think what I need to do is redistribute the weight. When you stand, you’re putting a lot of pressure on it here and here.” He pointed to two spots, neither of which coincided with the pain. “If I add some padding here, it should do the trick.”

Warren sighed, slid the socket off, and handed it back to the technician, who took it back to the small counter to work on. It would be the second attempt of the day. He’d informed the lady who checked him in. Then the nurse who’d touched his balls after informing him that it was time for his physical. Then he told Mike that nobody was leaving until the tech got it right. He couldn’t wait several more weeks for another appointment just to do it all over again.

Mike sat down on the room’s rolling stool. “That’ll do it,” he said as he began to cut a shape out of some yellow foam. “Once we get this dialed in, you can be on your way.”

“In other words, you’re trying to get rid of me, right?”

“No,” Mike said with a nervous laugh. “It’s just, well, you know, nobody likes sticking around here. The ward can be kind of depressing. I’d like to get this right once and for all. Then you won’t need to come back and see my ugly mug so often.”

“Thanks,” Warren said without much feeling.

A minute later, Mike turned around and rolled over to him. “Now it should be good,” he said, presenting the socket to Warren as if it was a trophy for Best Bullshitter of the Year.

Warren slid it on and gritted his teeth, giving himself a minute to calm down before he spoke again. “It’s worse,” he managed to say. “Take whatever you did, and please do the opposite.”

“Where is it bad?” the tech asked.

“Here and here,” Warren said, pointing to two spots. “Now it feels like it’s squeezing my stump.”

“That might be what it needs to relieve the pain,” Mike said, lifting his eyes to meet Warren.

“If I go home like this, all I’m going to end up with is a bruise. I’d rather not go through that if I can help it. Please take this thing and get it right.”

Mike looked like his feelings had been hurt. Warren didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t sure Mike really did, either.

The office was gray, as most were at the VA clinic. A chipped plastic magazine rack hung on the wall near the door. It was overstuffed with dog-eared, torn castoffs from someone else’s collection and included riveting titles such as Knitting Bliss and Woman’s Weekly. Never mind the fact that most veterans were men.

Bought at a yard sale for a nickel, Warren thought.

Posters on the walls attempted to educate him about his rights as a patient. Others demonstrated how to perform a testicular exam. One displayed graphic photos of what different types of STDs looked like.

“Listen, Mike,” Warren said. “I know you’re trying really hard, but this isn’t going so well. Is there someone else who can help me?”

“No, there isn’t,” Mike said, frowning. “Listen, I think I’ve done all I can do with this. It’s probably best to recast and start over. We can get most of it done right now, but it’s going to—”

“I’d rather not,” Warren interrupted. “Keep going with this one. I’ve got all day.”

Mike frowned, pressed his lips together, and nodded. He headed out the door looking like a man on a mission, even though his mission was to quit screwing things up.

Feeling grumpy, Warren settled back to wait.

It didn’t take long. A few minutes after Mike had walked out there was a soft knock on the closed door. A second later, a portly old man, maybe in his early seventies and wearing a lab coat, walked in. He carried a clipboard and offered Warren a big smile.

“Hello, Warren,” he said, glancing at paper on his clipboard. “I’m Dr. Burgess. We’ve never met because I’m on loan from Kardin University in Oklahoma. You ever heard of it?”

“Can’t say that I have, Doc,” Warren replied.

“That’s okay,” Burgess said, waving the question aside. “It seems you’re having some trouble with your prosthetic leg, is that right?”

“Yeah,” Warren said, glaring at Mike, who looked like he was trying to hide. “We’ve been having a bit of trouble. Nobody seems to be able to get the socket to feel right. It’s causing me a lot of discomfort. Please tell me you’re here to help.”

The doctor chuckled. “I am, but first I need to ask you something. How tired of this bullshit are you?”

The question surprised Warren—not for its content, but for the man’s candor. Most doctors didn’t curse. It was refreshing.

“Really fucking tired of it,” Warren admitted. “Listen, I know this guy’s trying, but I think someone messed up the casting. This is our fourth try. If it has to be recast again, it will be the fifth attempt.”

Doctor Burgess nodded sagely, glanced at his clipboard, then hooked Warren’s eyes with an intense stare. “I’m glad to hear you’re done getting the runaround. I’m here to offer you an alternative. It’s experimental technology—a new kind of prosthetic leg. You won’t have to worry about it fitting because it’s permanent.”

Warren scoffed. “No such thing.”

“It’s a thing now,” Burgess said with a knowing smile. “I developed it myself, along with about a dozen other brilliant, hard-working people. This project was too big for one person to handle, so I don’t want to take all the credit. I’ve won a government contract, you see, but I’m having trouble finding volunteers. It’s to be expected among veterans, am I right?”

“Sure, Doc,” Warren said, feeling himself smile. “We know better than to volunteer for anything. We’ve all learned that lesson the hard way. And, nothing personal, Doc, but your tech sounds like bullshit.”

Burgess laughed. “Of course it does. So did virtual reality when it first came out. Heck, so did autonomous cars. Nobody believed we could do it. But, the US government awarded my little company a ton of money to prove we could. All I need to do is find ten volunteers who are fed up with this kind of bullshit. If I can talk them into undergoing the procedure, the coffers will open up. The days of soldiers being disabled due to amputated legs will be long gone. We’re still working on the tech for arms, but we’re close.”

“What’s the catch?” Warren asked, squinting suspiciously at the fat man.

“No catch, really. There may be a few bugs at first, so you’ll need to stay in the hospital for about two months. There will be some physical therapy so you can learn how to use your new limb. Then you’ll be able to chase skirts on the beach—or trunks, if that’s more your speed. Heck, you can swim, climb a tree—pretty much anything any other twenty-nine-year-old man would be able to do. Maybe even more.”

“What about returning to my unit?”

The doctor smiled and winked. “That’s the question we get most often. Unfortunately, that decision is going to be between you and the government. We don’t see any problem with it. But, if your leg gets damaged—if you get shot—we don’t have any spare parts. Also, there’s nobody outside my company trained on how to repair it. That will be coming soon, but not until the trials are complete.”

“And how long will that take?” Warren asked. He could feel his heart begin to pound in his chest.

“It depends on how quickly I can get people to sign up,” Doctor Burgess admitted with a shrug. “I need ten, and if you accept, you’ll be number three.”

Warren chewed on the words for a minute. The tech had stopped working on his prosthetic leg’s socket and had turned around, openly listening to the discussion.

“How good is the technology?” Warren asked.

“You’ve heard of haptic feedback, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is next-gen haptic technology. Instead of providing sensations of pressure, heat, and cold against your skin like you’d get in a video game, it’s connected directly to your nerves. Current tech isn’t up to the job. You don’t have a leg to receive the information. By connecting it to the nerve endings, we trick your brain into thinking your leg has magically returned.

“You’ve probably gotten pretty good at getting around with this ancient piece of machinery. Even though you can’t feel it, you know where it is because you’ve practiced. Don’t you miss the days where you could tell if something you’re stepping on is uneven or about to slip out from under your foot?”

Warren nodded.

“With this technology, you’ll be able to do that. Even walk on the beach and feel the sand move between your toes. You’ll know if you’ve stepped on a misplaced sewing needle. It won’t hurt as bad as if you’d stepped on it with your real foot, but you’ll know something bad happened.”

Doctor Burgess handed the clipboard to Warren, who stared at it for several seconds without actually reading it. He felt light-headed.

“BioSynth International, huh? Thought you worked for that university?” Warren asked.

“They’re our financial backers. Sign that contract and start your new life. You’ll undergo a procedure. I’m not sure how long it will take, because it depends on the kind of damage I find when I go in. Everyone is different. You’ll be unconscious, of course, so you won’t have any idea how much time will have passed.”

Warren didn’t know how to respond except to nod his head.

The doctor continued, his speech smoothed and practiced. “When you wake up, you’ll have a new leg. After physical therapy, we’ll make whatever adjustments we need to, see how you react, and cut you loose.”

“How far along are the other two?” Warren asked. “The others you said you’ve performed the surgery on.”

“They’re both in recovery,” Burgess said. “The first should be starting physical therapy in a couple of days. The second got his new leg yesterday, so he’ll need to be off it for a few weeks. They’re both healthy and doing fine, though.”

“Are there any side effects?”

“None that we know of,” Burgess assured him. “That’s part of the reason for the trials. One thing we’re expecting to happen, though, is relief for those who suffer from phantom pains. According to your chart, you are the right kind of candidate. With the sensation of a real leg returned to your body, the pains should vanish.”

Warren hesitated for a beat before asking his next question. He wasn’t vain, but genuinely curious. “What does it look like?”

Burgess smiled, reached into his pocket, and handed him a one-inch square piece of something. Warren took it, rubbed it with his thumb, and looked up at the doctor in confusion.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Synthetic skin,” Burgess said, beaming. “It starts off this color. We add pigments to make it match your real skin. We can’t add hair, unfortunately. Maybe someday, but right now it gets rubbed off and you end up having bald spots. So, you’ll have a nice, smooth leg, but you’ll be able to feel it. Even little touches, a cool breeze in a warm room, things like that.”

“How durable is it?” Warren asked, still rubbing the synthetic skin between his fingers.

“Try tearing it,” the doctor said. “Just don’t hurt yourself.”

Warren twisted it, pulled it, and mashed it, but the synthetic skin held. He found a sharp edge where something had broken off the exam table, hooked the skin, and pulled hard. It didn’t tear, and when he looked closely, there was no visible damage.

“Wow,” he whispered.

“Cool, right?” Burgess asked as he took the patch and stuffed it in his pocket. “It’s not indestructible, but it’s pretty tough.”

“Is the VA going to pay for this?” Warren asked. “It can’t be cheap.”

“That is part of the deal,” Burgess said. “You won’t pay a single penny.”

“I’ll be out for a month?”

“More like six to eight weeks total,” the doctor said.

“I have a job,” Warren said, feeling defeated. “For what it’s worth. I have bills. A car payment.”

Doctor Burgess picked the clipboard up from the exam table where Warren had absently dropped it. “If you sign this contract, it authorizes me to perform the procedure for you. It says you are doing so voluntarily. It also says you will become a government contractor and be awarded a $200,000 signing bonus, which will be deposited in your account of choice today. I think it’ll tide you over until you find another job.”

“American money?” Warren asked.

Burgess laughed. “Of course.”

Warren did a few calculations in his head before replying. “That would pay my bills for years.”

The doctor smiled, pulled a pen from his breast pocket, and handed it to Warren. The amputee flipped to the last page, found the signature line, and scrawled his name across it.

He handed the clipboard back to the man. “So, when do we do this?”

Doctor Burgess inspected the signature, nodded, then looked up from the clipboard. “Right now, if you’re okay with that. Do you have anyone you need to call? Any appointments you need to cancel?”

“Like today? As in, I need to let my boss know I won’t be in tomorrow?”

“Like right now,” the doctor said as he opened the door. He waved to someone, and two orderlies rolled a gurney in front of the door. “And don’t worry about your job. We’ll call them for you.”

“I didn’t fast. Big hearty breakfast; the works,” Warren said, surprised at how ready the man was.

“It’s fine,” Burgess replied, waving the concern away. “We’ve got the latest in everything. We’ll take care of you.”

Warren stared at the gurney for a moment, guts churning with concern at how quickly things had moved. Then he glanced down at the spot where his leg used to be, at the ill-fitting prosthesis on the counter, and at the doctor. “Let’s do this,” he said and hopped from the examination table to the gurney.

Burgess opened a nearby cabinet and removed an IV kit. It was a black bag with the hospital’s logo. “Lie down and we’ll get you ready.”

A minute later, the IV was in place. Burgess pulled a syringe out of his pocket, held it up to the light, and injected an amber-colored fluid into the line.

“What’s that?” Warren asked.

“It’s a sedative,” he replied. “It’ll help you relax as we get everything set up.”

It took only a few seconds for Warren to feel the effects. The world became fuzzy, disjointed, and peaceful.

Warren found himself being hurried down a hallway, but he was having trouble keeping track of time. At first it seemed normal, but then it felt like everything was moving in slow motion. The noise of machines beeping and people talking reached his brain. But they sounded funny, like someone had placed empty soup cans over his ears.

A warm sensation caressed his body as his tongue, fingers, and toes became pleasantly numb. It felt nice—kind of like he was swimming in one of those saltwater pools the really nice hotels had.

Faces passed through his vision then a bright light blinded him for a moment. Everything looked like he could almost see through it. When things moved, they left after-impressions like vapor trails. The world felt right, peaceful, and calm.

Then someone, maybe a few people—he wasn’t sure—picked him up and set him down on a surface that wasn’t as comfortable as the gurney. It was cold, and the longer he was there, the deeper the chill settled into his bones. His joints started to ache, along with his head and eyes. He tried to tell someone, but he couldn’t make his mouth or lips move. He couldn’t even turn his eyes or blink.

Two men came into his field of vision, somewhere off to the right. They looked odd and out of place. Instead of the teal-colored scrubs everyone else was wearing, they had coats and ties. Warren tried to wonder why they were staring at him, but he was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. A moment later, they vanished.

Another face appeared in his vision near the top of his head. It was someone wearing a mask. A man, he decided, based on the bushy eyebrows. They curled up at the ends like a fancy mustache—but on his forehead. It had to be a doctor. There was intelligence behind those eyes.

Then Warren’s mouth was opening. Something rough touching his tongue. He tried to fight it off, but he couldn’t move anything. He couldn’t bite down, deflect it with his tongue, or cry out. It burned as it entered his throat. It felt rigid and sharp. He wanted to cough or gag but found he could do neither. When the man let him go, something remained. It touched his teeth, lay across his tongue, and was stuck in his throat. Then he felt his gown being removed, followed by a cold, wet sensation on his chest, and more lights came on. He couldn’t see anything except the bright lights.

A moment later there was a sharp pain on his chest near his right collarbone. A fiery, white-hot line of agony stretched from somewhere near his armpit to the center of his chest. He was being cut. Warren tried to scream, to fight, but he couldn’t move.

Another white-hot line stretched from his other armpit to his chest and he tried fighting again, but nothing happened.

“Wait. He’s still conscious,” was the last thing he heard before the world faded into silent darkness.

2

The world returned in a flash of realization that made Warren dizzy. He was standing, wearing something that felt unnatural. A cacophony of noises filled the air. Screams. Explosions. Was that an emergency siren?

Warren found himself backpedaling, bringing a rifle up to his shoulder to defend himself against someone. A man with an ax. It looked like the weapon was made of pieces of scrap welded together. He had no idea why he was being attacked. He had a gun, though. He knew what to do with it.

There wasn’t time to think. He raised the rifle while stepping to the side. With a gentle squeeze of his finger, he pulled the trigger.

His enemy’s head exploded into a cloud of pink mist. It looked like someone had stuck a stick of dynamite in the guy’s mouth and lit the fuse. Warren stopped moving and watched as the man’s lifeless body dropped the ax and fell over, blood pouring from the spot where his brains should’ve been.

“The fuck,” he whispered, staring at the man’s remains. A second later, chunks of gray matter, hair, and what was left of his opponent’s helmet spattered to the red soil.

Bright, green words appeared at the bottom of Warren’s vision. It was unexpected, and he stumbled back a few steps. These were instructions, he knew. Though they’d only appeared for an instant, he remembered them.

ADVANCE TO LOCATION A-221

Everything was a blur. Warren’s head spun with questions. He didn’t know who the enemy was or why they were fighting. He didn’t know whose side he was on. There were no American flags anywhere. He was in the thick of it again only a few seconds later. More people were closing in. They were shooting.

Warren ducked reflexively, taking cover behind a low shape sitting on the ground. It looked like a car, maybe. No wheels, though. And boxy.

He kept his head down as the sound of bullets peppering the vehicle in front of him rattled through him. Someone was shooting in his direction. Warren was pinned down behind this... something. He had to move. They’d flank him if he didn’t.

Warren peeked over the top of the vehicle, searching for better cover. He suddenly realized he didn’t recognize this place at all. He’d served in two deserts, a jungle, and several bases across the world. This wasn’t any of them.

The ground was hard-packed dirt, almost as red as blood. The buildings looked like they’d arrived flat-packed and had been assembled on site. Though they all had glass windows, most of the panes were broken. All the structures looked the same, more or less. They reminded him of the playhouse his sister had in their backyard.

Some of them were painted in garish shades of yellow, green, and red. There were enough with similar decorations that Warren wondered if the colors might represent something. Maybe a national flag?

His thoughts were interrupted by another peppering of projectiles against his cover. A nearby vehicle began to smoke. Waiting was going to get him killed, so he decided it was time to move. Before he could react, a new message appeared on his screen and caused him to pause.

COOPER: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.02.09

KIA meant killed in action—Warren knew that, and he didn’t want to be next. The rest of the message was a mystery.

Grab the high ground, assess the situation, and provide overwatch, he reminded himself.

The messages kept appearing in his vision. It wasn’t until he reached up and felt something covering his skull that he knew where they were coming from. He was wearing a helmet with a faceplate. It was some kind of heads-up display, a HUD.

Something hit Warren’s leg, spinning him around in the dirt. He gasped and clutched at his wound. Not again. Oh no, not again.

When he scrambled closer to the vehicle’s center and inspected his wound, he noticed he was wearing some kind of battle armor. His leg hurt—a dull throbbing sensation—but it wasn’t bleeding. The armor had saved it.

“My leg?” he whispered.

Warren stared at the limb that shouldn’t be there. He hadn’t had a leg in more than a year. It had been blown off by an IED, yet there it was. It had to be real. He could feel it, pain and everything. He’d moved it without even thinking.

For a moment, he wondered if he’d imagined the explosion, the pain, the months of physical therapy, and the training on how to use a prosthesis. He wondered if maybe it had been the other leg, and the chaos of battle had made him forget which one he’d lost. It couldn’t be true, but neither could what he was seeing. Except it hurt.

Hurried footsteps nearby caught his attention. There was no time to daydream—not with danger so close. Warren lifted himself to one knee and winced at the pain. There was a huge dent in the side of his armored leg, and it looked like it should feel worse than it did. Ignoring the pain, he held his rifle in both hands and searched for a target.

Two people wearing rust-colored uniforms hurried between buildings to his right. One of them peeked around a corner a second later then vanished again. They were going to try and flank him.

Checking his HUD, he saw his suspicions were confirmed; they were coming around his cover, one on each side. The HUD was miraculous. It fed him information he couldn’t have known on his own. Little blips showing identified enemies appeared in red. The green ones, then, must be allies. He watched as the red blips moved from cover to cover. One stayed behind while the other continued. If he stayed there, they’d have him in a crossfire. It was time to move.

He stood and charged the one on the left as the man stepped out from safety, drilling him center mass with a controlled burst. Hurrying through the alley and behind the building, he paused at the corner and checked the HUD again. The second man was advancing down the connecting wall. Warren didn’t give the enemy time to get the jump on him. He came around and caught the soldier by surprise. He squeezed the trigger twice, pumping the rounds into the man’s guts. The third ripped his neck open and the man dropped his rifle, trying desperately to stop the fountain of blood pouring from under his chin.

Warren checked his HUD—no enemies nearby. He glanced over both shoulders to verify it before taking a closer look at his enemy’s remains. Both men were dressed the same in their primitive armor: Chest plates, which looked like they’d been hand forged from scrap; facemasks, better designed for some kind of medieval hockey match than combat; Shin guards; and gloves. Nobody fought like this, yet here they were.

Another one hurried around a corner, moving away. He must’ve been retreating. Warren took his time lining up the shot. One squeeze of the trigger and his lifeless corpse slid down to lay in the red soil.

According to his HUD, he’d managed to isolate himself. Most of the fighting was happening to the east, maybe a hundred meters away. It meant he wasn’t doing any good where he was. It also meant the enemy wouldn’t be looking for him.

Time to climb, he thought to himself as he studied the nearby buildings. One looked good; it was a couple of stories high and had a good vantage point.

The building exploded as he took a step toward it, filling the streets with dust as it fell. When the air cleared enough for him to see, he checked his HUD again. Someone was nearby. She stood in the middle of the narrow dirt street with both hands covering her mouth. No armor. No weapons. A non-combatant.

After concealing himself in a narrow alley a couple of buildings away, Warren took a knee to take another peek at his leg. He poked the wound. It hurt, but there wasn’t any blood. He tapped it near his ankle and felt that, too. He couldn’t press where his toes were—the boots he was wearing were too rigid, but when he wiggled them, they felt real.

Another allied soldier walked past him, casually scanning the rooftops. Warren stood and followed. He had a lot of questions he wanted to ask. But before he got the opportunity, he was attacked again.

Grunting, Warren took cover behind a short concrete wall—part of someone’s garden, apparently.

The incoming fire was taking the wall apart, chunk by large chunk. The other allied soldier was standing, calmly returning fire. Warren watched in awe as he took round after round to his chest. The hits didn’t stop the warrior as he advanced toward the enemy. Holy hell! Firing his rifle as he moved, the man pressed onward, moving either with confidence or complete disregard for his own personal safety.

The enemy gunner kept firing, but the rounds began to walk their way up the wall toward the soldier with no fear. A second later, the warrior was peppered by enemy fire from behind and fell flat on his face.

When Warren looked straight up for the first time, he froze and marveled at what he saw. It wasn’t the buildings—those seemed quaint and unremarkable. What had his attention was the enormous dome that surrounded him, possibly the whole town. It was huge—five or six hundred meters above his head.

DISTANCE TO HIGHEST POINT ON DOME: 688 M.

Okay, 688 meters to be exact, according to his HUD.

Beyond the dome was an unfamiliar, red-orange sky, the color of sunset, but everywhere at once. Sharp, craggy mountains surrounded his location. Wherever the hell that was.

MCNABB: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.01.21

It was too much. His brain felt foggy and overwhelmed, like he’d just woken from a long nap. Nothing seemed right.

Then a thought occurred to him. Maybe he wasn’t awake. Maybe none of this was real. It had taken three surgeries to repair what was left of his leg. The last thing he remembered was lying on a gurney, bright lights, and men wearing suits instead of smocks. Maybe he was still there. That had to be it. He was still under. This was a dream—a hallucination. If so, then why did it seem so real?

The bastards hadn’t knocked him out all the way. Maybe they’d given him a second dose or something stronger. They cut his chest. Why my chest and not my leg?

His thoughts were interrupted by a new sound, one that worried him. The buzzing noise told him a vehicle was on the way.

Taking a quick scan over the wall, Warren took stock of the situation. He ducked behind the wall, blinked a few times, and checked again. The floating car was real. So were the three enemy troops inside it.

Warren ducked back down behind the wall. He didn’t think he’d been spotted. It was time for an ambush. He waited another two seconds, allowing them to get closer, before he stood, bringing his rifle to his shoulder as he did. There was no scope. No sights. Not even irons.

Suddenly, a targeting reticle appeared on his HUD. As he moved his rifle, the crosshairs followed. Warren centered them on the driver’s throat and pulled the trigger.

Crack!

The vehicle’s low windshield shattered, and the man’s neck exploded. Blood splattered everywhere, coating the glass. The man’s head bounced off his shoulder before falling onto the street slinging blood as it rolled.

The passenger in the front reached over, trying to control the vehicle. Warren shot his arm off exactly at the point where he’d been aiming. Another round to his chest blew the man over his seat and into the lap of the man behind him. The third didn’t move or even react. Bullet must’ve gone clean through.

The driver and passengers were all dead, but the vehicle—

HOVERCAR TYPE-VI, CIVILIAN

The hovercar was still moving at a rapid pace.

HOVERCAR VELOCITY: 77 KM/H

Warren clenched his jaw against the constant interruptions and stood his ground. There was no danger of being rammed by the vehicle. It would crash long before it got to him. When he figured out where it would stop, he spotted an elderly woman in the middle of the road.

“Get out of the way!” he shouted, waving his hands.

A man and woman in another building did the same, urging her to move faster. There was no chance she’d make it in time. The old woman was going to get nailed by the runaway hovercar unless Warren did something.

Warren had to act. He couldn’t just watch as an innocent civilian was killed—not while he was there. He stood and sprinted as fast as he could toward the old woman. She looked up, a terrified expression on her face. She only saw a soldier charging her, he observed, somewhat frustrated. When she squealed, turned, and tried to hurry back to her home, Warren cursed.

The woman had made it halfway across the street, terror and adrenaline giving her a boost of speed. The woman’s neighbors called after her, urging her to hurry as they watched Warren approach.

At their urging, the old woman turned back toward her neighbor. Then she looked at Warren, frowned, and stood her ground. It looked like she’d given up on life and had accepted her fate. Not today, lady. Not today.

Warren wanted to pick her up and carry her out of the way. But, he wasn’t sure if he could without hurting her or giving her a heart attack. She looked so frail. He didn’t want to see her die, but he couldn’t force her to accept his help.

Slamming on the brakes, he slid to a halt fifteen meters from her. Then he turned and fired several rounds at the oncoming hovercar. It caught fire as something under the hood exploded, but it kept coming, now a burning projectile, no less deadly than before, but far more terrifying.

The woman screamed, holding her hands up as she fell to the ground. Her male neighbor leapt out of his home and made a run for her.

Warren stood his ground and fired at the approaching vehicle, hoping he could do enough damage to stop the damn thing. Pieces flew from the machine. The only change was now it was bellowing black, sooty smoke. Smaller secondary explosions blew larger pieces free, adding to the chaotic scene. Still, the car kept coming.

Checking over his shoulder one more time, Warren saw that both neighbors were lifting the woman from the street. There still wouldn’t be enough time for them to get out of the way. He turned back to the car and timed his next move with all the care a hurried decision allowed. He lunged and crashed into it with his shoulder.

The impact knocked Warren back several meters and almost caused him to lose the grip on his rifle. He landed on the flat of his back and lifted his head to see if he’d made any difference at all. The old woman and her two neighbors had nearly made it all the way across the street. They stood still, watching the hovercar as it careened off a building five houses away from theirs, smashed into a short concrete wall, and finally stopped.

The old woman turned from the pieces of falling debris and stared at Warren. Her neighbors were pulling and pushing as gently as they could to hurry her inside. Before her face disappeared into the building, she offered her armored savior a small smile.

A new message appeared on his HUD. It directed him to move to a new set of coordinates, but he didn’t know how to get to the location. When a dotted line appeared superimposed on the street, indicating the shortest route, he took it at a fast jog. Though he’d hit the hovercar hard, and the impact had hurt, his shoulder felt fine.

As he neared the location, the sounds of gunfire grew louder. Either there were a lot of rifles in play, or someone had a machine gun and was making good use of it. Four other soldiers were there, taking cover behind a dumpster. Another looked like he’d managed to tip a hovercar engulfed in flames on its side so he could hide behind it. They all appeared to be pinned down.

Warren wanted to contact them, but he didn’t know if his helmet contained any communication equipment. It wouldn’t be long before the hovercar exploded like the last one had. He had to do something, and it needed to be quick.

Ordering himself not to panic, Warren took in the rest of his surroundings. The street was a cul-de-sac, just over 600 meters long. Most of the buildings were the same, except for one at the end. That one had a basement with a little window facing the street. Something moved inside. The sound of gunfire and the muzzle flash from the weapon within revealed what it was: a pillbox. It was a perfect location, easily defensible with clear line of sight.

Warren squinted at the pillbox and gasped when his visor automatically zoomed-in, magnifying what he was seeing. There were three people in the basement, and there was the machine gun, all visible through the windows. He focused on the gunner. The woman had one eye closed, taking careful aim.

The gunner spotted him, forcing Warren to seek cover around the corner of the building with a withering hail of machine gunfire.

When the firing shifted back to the original targets, Warren stole a look around the corner again and squinted at the little window. Based on his repetitive motion, it was likely the second enemy in the basement was the assistant gunner. He’d be working hard to keep the gun loaded.

The third had to be a commander. He was holding a pair of high-tech binoculars. His mouth moved like he was giving the gunner orders.

The soldier taking cover behind the hovercar appeared to have had enough. He kicked the vehicle over and opened fire. It took less than a second for the enemy to take him apart.

KENDRICKS: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.02.11

The others glanced at the downed soldier’s mangled remains before they returned to what they were doing, which mostly consisted of trying to stay alive.

“We’ve got to take out that gun!” Warren shouted. “Can anyone move?”

None of them answered. Instead, several tried popping out from behind their cover to return fire. Two were obviously injured but kept fighting like they couldn’t feel it.

Warren hadn’t been in such a clusterfuck in a long time. If the enemy had the troops, all they had to do was bring a couple of them around to the side to flank them. There’d be nowhere for his people to go. In fact, the best spot for the enemy to stand would be right where Warren’s feet were. Unless their enemy were all complete idiots, they would have figured out the same thing.

Sure enough, two enemy troops were sneaking up on his position. They carried something that looked like a weird, plastic machine gun. “Just a little closer,” he whispered. “A little more.”

When they moved within range, Warren stepped around the corner. Upon seeing him, the enemy soldiers hesitated. He took aim and shot three times, each hitting the first man center mass. Before the man hit the ground, Warren had done the same to the second. Taken back by the speed with which the scene had unfolded, he stared at the fallen enemy. Burgess hadn’t said anything about superspeed, but it was like all of his instincts had been heightened.

A thought to worry about later.

With the threat neutralized, Warren sprinted up the side street, frantically trying to look everywhere at once. The rooftops were clear. So were the areas behind the short walls he vaulted over. Two more buildings and he’d be able to cut across and reach the one serving as a pillbox.

A quick glance around the corner verified he was at the right place. A single soldier was guarding the back door. Warren bashed the man’s face with his rifle then stomped his skull when he fell. When he was certain the man no longer lived, he pushed the back door open and stepped inside.

The building looked like it had been turned into a supply warehouse for the local war effort. Plastic crates and boxes were everywhere, lining walls and sitting on every available flat surface. Someone had gone through them in a hurry. One crate containing belts of ammunition lay on its side—most of its contents spilled onto the floor. Warren spotted a hatch. The machine gun was on the other side.

He raised his rifle to fire but didn’t have a way to be sure he got the gunner on the first shot. If he missed, they’d be able to shoot back.

Warren lowered his rifle and scanned the room for another idea. One of the boxes contained grenades. He hurried to it, remaining as quiet as possible, and retrieved three.

M91 GRENADE, FRAGMENTATION

Perfect. The arming mechanism was different than he was used to. Instead of having a pin, there were two buttons. Once both were pressed and released, the grenade would be armed. After four seconds, it would explode. He wasn’t sure how he knew that but didn’t have time to think about it.

After tugging gently on the hatch to make sure it wasn’t locked, he armed one, opened the hatch, and tossed the explosive down before backing away. The blast blew the hatch open and smoke poured out. He tossed the other two in, one at a time, just to be sure.

“Nice job,” a voice said in his head. “Not that we needed your help. Maybe I’ll let you win at our next poker game. Nah, I’m just bullshitting. I’ll never let you win. Now get your ass down here and lend a hand, show-off.”

Gunfire erupted from several buildings further down the street. Warren exited the building and ran toward the sound. He reached the rear of the structure that the gunfire was coming from and prepared to kick in the door. Another message appeared on his HUD. It was orders to move to new coordinates.

“Fuck that,” he snarled. “I’ve got targets to kill right here!” A moment later, a flash of white-hot pain shot through his body. It brought him to his knees before dissipating. The orders appeared on his HUD again, and Warren noticed a little icon at the bottom left corner of his vision. It looked like a computer chip, and it pulsated an angry shade of red.

“What the hell is that?” he muttered.

Another zap made his limbs feel like they were on fire. The little icon was blinking faster. The enemy fired from the building again. Warren took a step back, ready to knock the door down with his shoulder when a final message appeared.

COMPULSION MODE ACTIVATED

3

Warren woke up to the sound of people talking, machines beeping, and footsteps. He couldn’t make out the words. His brains felt like oatmeal, all of his senses slow and dull. As the fog lifted, he began to understand what they were saying. Something about repairs, damage, and parts.

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed were the bright lights shining in them. They didn’t hurt, but they did make everything around tougher to see for a moment. The ceiling of whatever room he was in had a distinct industrial feel to it. He focused on it, curious.

DISTANCE TO CEILING: 4.8 M.

It was covered in pipes and conduits with a few exposed wires here and there, some draped between metal girders.

“Hello?” Warren said, unsure if he’d spoken loud enough for anyone to hear.

No one answered. Confused, he took a quick self-inventory. The pain in his leg was gone, but still a fresh memory. He could feel his toes on both feet and wiggled them to make sure they still worked. He thought he could feel them but wanted to be sure. As a final test, he lifted both legs and let them drop to the table. The impact sounded like hard rubber hitting a huge steel cookie sheet.

The doctor had invented a technology that felt almost real. It was working just like he said it would. He’d been running, rolling, and climbing with his artificial leg. He’d felt pain when he’d been shot, but now it was gone. Now I’m back, better than ever.

Warren turned his head to the right and spotted a line of tables. On them were other soldiers. They were naked and people who looked more like computer techs than nurses or doctors swarmed around them. An infirmary, he decided.

When he turned his head the other way, he noticed more tables and a weapons rack full of rifles behind them. The table closest to him was unoccupied.

A man in white coveralls walked up to Warren and took a close look at his face. He appeared to be in his late twenties and had either recently shaved or couldn’t grow a beard. His eyes were brown, as was his hair. The man’s skin was a pasty brightness that screamed for sunlight. He also had a leaner build and didn’t look like he’d ever seen the inside of a gym.

PO3 SAUL HENDROSE, TECHNICIAN

“Feeling okay?” Hendrose asked.

“Yeah. Actually, I’m feeling great.”

“Good,” he said as he tapped some commands into a small, handheld tablet. After reading whatever it said, he tapped it some more. “It looks like you were having some trouble understanding orders out there. Your compulsion chip took over and got you to the shuttle in time. Why didn’t you obey your orders?”

Hendrose didn’t look angry, but Warren didn’t like the man’s tone.

“We were being ordered to retreat,” he replied, tone sharp. “I was about to kick a door and stack some bodies. The others had to retreat under fire. It was unnecessary. I had the drop on our enemy. We should have stayed and finished them off.”

On some level, Warren knew something was wrong with the current picture, but his memories were a jumble.

Hendrose nodded and tapped something else on his tablet. “Well, if you’d stayed, you would’ve died. You were ordered to leave and get back to the shuttle because we had enemy destroyers inbound. You barely made it out of there.”

“Destroyers?” Warren asked.

“Yeah, destroyers. I don’t know how many, but enough to scare an entire Republic fleet. They started chasing us. We took a couple of shots before we managed to escape, but we all made it out. Since when did you people start needing an explanation? Maybe you should listen to your orders from now on. It’ll hurt a lot less if you do.”

“Sure,” Warren said.

“Okay, I need to go check on some of the others. I might need to run a few more tests based on what the computer says about your brain. Hang out here and wait for me.”

When he walked away, Warren sat up. He felt great—not even a hint of grogginess left in him. He wondered what a “compulsion chip” was. Whatever it was, it seemed to have created a large gap in his memory. He couldn’t recall getting on any shuttle and he didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t even remember getting onto the table.

Warren touched his face. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, but he could’ve sworn he’d seen a HUD message. In fact, he was certain he had. Two of them. One for the distance to the ceiling. The other for the tech’s name.

His leg was back. He touched it, tapped it, and smiled. The doctor said there’d be no hair, which was fine, but the other leg was bald, too. And the skin tone seemed to be off. Both looked artificial. And didn’t he have a birthmark on the other one?

As he allowed his eyes to drift up, he searched for the scar that would indicate where his body stopped and the prosthetic started. He saw none. What he did see, or rather didn’t see, gave him a shock.

Where the hell was his junk? Instead of his male reproductive parts, the spot between his legs only displayed a slight bulge—a hint that he was male—or at least used to be.

Warren almost laughed. This couldn’t be real.

When he looked around the room and studied the soldiers on the table, he saw they were all in the same condition—dickless. The sight didn’t bring him any comfort. Realizing he wasn’t the only one didn’t make it any better.

It was supposed to be a simple operation. Well, maybe not simple, but his prosthetic leg didn’t have anything to do with the rest of him. Nothing whatsoever.

Warren waited for the rush of adrenaline which had to be on the way. Several seconds later, he realized the adrenaline wasn’t going to happen. No rush of bloodlust—just indignation. Angry, but under control.

A banging sound caught his attention. When Warren turned his head toward the sound, he saw the man opening a wall locker. Inside were legs. Lots of legs.

The nurse selected one and brought it to a table further down the line. When another man stepped out of the way, Warren spotted the patient. He looked like he’d been shot in the thigh. The skin above his knee was shredded and hung in ribbons. Bits of shiny metal and cables dangled from what should have been a bloody wound.

A few seconds later, the tech who’d been examining the man’s leg spoke. “Yup, looks like you got it blasted up good. We’re going to have to replace it. According to our records, you’ve only got two spares left. Maybe you should try to not get shot next time, huh?”

The soldier didn’t respond except to shrug.

Laughing to himself, the nurse bent over the leg, fiddling with something Warren couldn’t see. The leg came off a second later in a soundless motion. When the tech moved out of the way, Warren watched with avid curiosity. What was left was a large socket of polished metal and circuitry.

While one nurse walked away with the damaged limb, the other brought the spare, lined it up, and slid it into place. Two seconds later, the soldier lifted his leg and allowed the tech to poke it in different locations.

“Can you feel this?” the tech asked.

“I can tell you bite your nails if that’s what you mean,” the soldier replied with a grimace. “And that you’re paying far too much attention to my limb, doc. I’ve never had a defective one, and if I did, trust me, I’d tell you. Am I free to go?”

The nurse sighed. “Yeah, fine, whatever. See you next time.”

“If you’re lucky,” the soldier said as he gave Warren a friendly wink, before turning and leaving the room through a side door.

As soon as the soldier left, Warren searched the room and found where they’d taken the man’s damaged leg. It was sitting on a table, and the tech who’d removed it was cutting the skin with some kind of laser. When that was done, he peeled it off and exposed the innerworkings.

Another soldier came in and lay down on the table next to Warren’s.

“Hey,” the man said, smiling widely. “You let the enemy shoot your leg? You should shoot them, not let them shoot you. I will teach you. How many did you kill?”

Warren thought he recognized the man’s voice and thick, Slavic accent.

“Seven,” Warren said, feeling uncomfortable that he didn’t remember the man’s name. He had the distinct impression the man knew him.

“Twenty-seven,” the soldier bragged with a grin. “I did it with only one arm most of the battle.”

To demonstrate, he shook his shoulders, allowing one of his arms to wiggle like an overcooked noodle. His right arm was completely inoperable. It was hard to miss even without the demonstration. The sharp end of a metallic bone stuck out the back where his triceps would normally be and burn marks peppered the shoulder. It had to be prosthetic.

Warren racked his brain as he tried to fill in the gap of missing days, weeks, or possibly years. It was all gone. He had nothing.

A moment later, a nurse approached with a new arm for the other soldier. He pulled the damaged one off and plugged the new one in. The act was given no more care or consideration than someone changing a light bulb. It was faster, too. In a few seconds, the soldier was wiggling his new fingers. But when the nurse turned to leave, the man stopped him.

“Wait,” he said. “I need to see that arm.”

The tech handed it back to him. “It’s busted up. We’re only going to be able to salvage it for its component parts. What are you going to do with it?”

“This,” he said as he began to peel the skin away from the damaged portion. He yanked a couple of components free and allowed them to dangle from the rest of it. Then he reached inside, pulled something, and curled the fingers into a fist. With another pull, he extended the middle one and showed it to Warren.

“See?” he said. “Is not completely busted. It is still useful.” He fell back onto the metal bed, laughing hard.

Not wanting to be awkward, Warren offered a laugh of his own.

The technician snatched the arm back and gave both soldiers an annoyed glare before storming away.

“It causes me pleasure to mess with him,” the man said before he gracefully jumped down from the table and turned to Warren. “Hmm,” he said, bringing his face close. “It is too bad you did not get shot in face again. Every time they replace cranium, I look more handsome.”

He laughed hard and stepped out of the way as a powered gurney rolled up to the now-empty exam table.

The soldier turned away to watch what the two technicians were doing with the one they’d laid on the table behind him.

Warren couldn’t shake the feeling he knew the man. They’d played cards together. Fought a couple of times. His face looked familiar, like a memory from his distant childhood. No, that wasn’t it. It was something else. Then a message appeared in his field of vision.

LUKOV YAKOVICH, 1ST CORPS

There was other information available, just out of reach. Struggling not to lose it, Warren tried to focus, but the message vanished. He ran his hand over his face to verify he wasn’t wearing anything that could have generated what he’d seen, but he wasn’t wearing a helmet, visor, or anything else which could have placed the words into his line of sight.

Lukov was doing his best to stay out of the way as the technicians busied themselves with a soldier who wasn’t moving.

“Is it bad?” Lukov asked.

“Looks like a complete loss,” a tech replied, sounding more frustrated than sad. “The head took too many hits. After the fifth or sixth, it’s really hard to tell. It doesn’t matter anyway. There’s nothing we can do.”

“Damn,” Lukov said, then turned to me. “Craig is asshole. Always getting killed. Stormed out into the open like angry cow.” Then turning to Warren, he asked, “Did you see?”

Warren leaned to one side to get a better look and saw a man with a ruined face. He was sure he’d seen it, so he decided to answer in the affirmative.

“Yeah,” he said. “Craig is nuts. He stood up and tried to charge a machine gun nest.”

“He is idiot,” Lukov replied, before turning back to the technician. “How far is retrieval date?”

The tech glanced at his tablet. “According to our records, about two weeks.”

“It is not too far,” said Lukov. “In fact, perhaps is not a bad thing for this. Now he will not remember I owe him money from poker. No, this is fine. Please carry on.”

“Worst part is Craig will not learn shit,” Lukov whispered, turning back to Warren. “He will not remember this. Maybe think we are bullshitting to him. We will need to tell him, convince, or he may be deleted. Then again, he is stupid, so maybe that is best.”

“You’re not wrong,” Warren said with a firm nod, even though he didn’t have any clue what the man was talking about.

Deserves to be deleted? This has happened before?

The sound of power tools caused Warren to turn around. Someone was being operated on. The soldier was awake. He looked bored and stared at the ceiling as the technician fished around in his guts. When the soldier noticed Warren staring, the man gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. Everything was fine.

Everything was not fine, Warren decided. Even if pain management had advanced at the same rate as the prosthetics, the stuff the technician was pulling out of the man’s belly wasn’t guts. It didn’t even look like anything someone tried to pretend was guts. Where intestines should have been, there was blinking gadgetry. Where ribs should have been, there were metal bars, twisted and bent into vague, rib-like shapes the man’s skin had covered. Nothing was right. There was no way this guy was alive, but there he was, talking, looking around, and blinking like nothing was wrong.

Warren’s mind reeled from the confusion of everything that was happening. Nothing made sense. It was too much, too fast, but one thing was for certain.

Whatever the soldier was, he wasn’t human.

So what did that make Warren?

4

Warren continued to stare, unable to tear his eyes from the confusing sight.

The person on the table wasn’t a man at all but was a machine. Was his whole body a prosthetic? Warren had to avert his gaze when the tech turned around with a handful of mechanical guts dangling from one had.

Eyes sliding down to take in the length of his body again, Warren studied himself. reached up with one hand and placed it on the center of his chest. No heartbeat.

Then he remembered his heart wasn’t in the center of his chest. It was off to one side, but he was having trouble remembering which. He recalled the biology class he took in high school, although he’d slept through most of it. Then he imagined the carotid artery at his neck and placed two fingers there in as casual a motion as he could.

Nothing.

What. The. Hell.

The tech returned with a part—a mechanical part. He placed the thing into the soldier’s belly, moved his hands around the man’s insides, then grabbed a tool that resembled a butane torch crossed with a crescent wrench.

The soldier noticed him and rolled his eyes. “The fuck are you staring at, Warren?”

Warren didn’t answer. The technician ducked as sparks flew from the man’s belly. Then he reached in, yanked out a malfunctioning component about the size of a fist, and dropped it into a metal box at the end of the exam table. A small cloud of smoke billowed from it, dissipating in seconds. The technician slammed the lid. Another nurse wearing heavy gloves picked it up and hurried away. The first left his patient, went to a shelf, returned with another part, and started putting the man back together.

Lukov was still watching the man on the other table—or what was left of him. The techs had removed the man’s arms and legs. All that remained was a torso. While one of the techs used a scalpel to cut open the man’s chest, the other stood passively, making notes on a tablet. They acted like what they were doing was no big deal, as though they did this all the time.

It was then that Warren realized he’d been stroking his new leg, so he stopped, hoping nobody had noticed. He couldn’t get over the feeling of it being back. It wasn’t perfect—the sensation of touch was a little off, and seemed slightly deadened, but he could tell where it was at all times.

Nobody seemed to be watching, so he decided to do a more thorough inventory. Although the junction of his leg to the rest of his body wasn’t visible, he could feel it with the tips of his fingers. The transition from one body part to another was subtle. Whoever had designed the system had done a fantastic job. His skin felt rubbery and soft, similar to the small patch of synthetic stuff the doctor had given him to play with.

Warren continued checking the rest of his body. The skin on his palms felt the same. It wasn’t as thick as the skin on his legs, but otherwise, neither was distinguishable from the other. He felt along the back of his right hand to his wrist. No difference. Dragging his fingers to his elbow confirmed it all felt like the artificial skin. Nothing felt different all the way to the top of his shoulder until he reached a few centimeters beyond that.

And why was he so calm? He should, by rights, be freaking out. Instead, a strange calm had settled over Warren, allowing him to think clearly and take stock of what was going on.

After glancing around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, Warren checked his other arm and hip. They all had seams. He was like the dead guy lying on the table in front of him. Both arms and legs were fake. He was certain if someone had used one of the lasers to cut open his belly, they’d only find mechanical components inside.

His eyes, he realized, must be a form of advanced prosthetics as well. That’s how the messages were showing up without a helmet.

“Warren,” Lukov whispered, casting a furtive glance towards the techs. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know, to be honest.” Warren lifted a shoulder “I’m not even sure where I am.”

Lukov grimaced. “Do not say it too loud.”

Hendrose walked up a second later and smiled at Warren. “We were able to repair your leg rather than replace it. You’ve still got a bunch of spares left, so there’s nothing to worry about. How are you feeling?”

Lukov pasted on a fake smile and another message appeared in Warren’s HUD.

TELL HIM YOU FEEL FINE

“I feel fine, doc,” Warren replied. “I should be ready to kick Lukov’s ass if you’d like me to test my leg. Got any spare asses for him? He might need it.”

To his relief, both the doctor and Lukov laughed.

“That won’t be necessary,” Hendrose said. “Come back down to medical if you need anything. Any anomalies, I want to hear about them ASAP.” His penetrating stare carried a strong message, meant to amplify his words.

It wasn’t a stretch to assume he meant whatever had caused a need for the compulsion.

“Will do,” Warren said as he hopped off the table.

“Now we get dressed,” Lukov said. “Then we go to get nutrition.”

Warren noticed the clinical way the man said it. He didn’t say “eat,” “grub,” or anything else normal people would have said. Warren chalked it up to the accent.

Lukov guided them to a hatchway off to the side—the one he’d seen another soldier exit through earlier. It led to a locker room, but not like any he’d graced before. The floor and ceiling both appeared to be constructed of sleek metal.

There were rows and rows of lockers of various sizes. Although Warren didn’t remember being there before, he was able to walk directly to his locker without searching. Inside were several sets of black coveralls. Each had a name patch. Warren’s read “PRESCOTT.”

“Ready to eat like kings?” Lukov asked as soon as they were both dressed.

“Sure. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

“Do not speak in such a way,” Lukov whispered. “It will make you sound like you are malfunctioning or falling into a depression. Everything you have learned since your last backup will be gone. Memories gone. We will talk later.”

Warren had a million questions, but something told him now wasn’t the best time to ask. He gave a quick nod and followed him out of a door on the opposite side of the locker room. He still didn’t know where he was, why he was there, or what his place was in the big picture. Hell, was there a picture for him to be part of?

Awards, he suddenly remembered. Military units love showing their awards. It always says the name of the unit, and usually mentions where they’re located. Sometimes there’s a letter that goes along with the certificate. It would have a name and title on the letterhead. All he had to do was look for a trophy cabinet or framed certificate. They should be everywhere. After a few minutes of walking, though, he realized they were not, in fact, everywhere.

Another thing he found odd was the lack of windows. No matter how high a unit’s budget might be, government buildings always had windows. Always. Natural light was free—electricity was not.

Then he noticed the doorways. They all looked like the doors slid into the nearby walls. Also, the edges were rounded—not a lot, but far more than most doorways. He wondered if a lot of people busted their pinky-toes walking through them. Why are they shaped that way? They’re kind of like hatches on a boat.

Warren didn’t detect any motion; he’d always been prone to seasickness and would’ve felt the gentle rocking of a massive warship. Boats always moved in the water, regardless of how small the swells were. His old girlfriend had talked him into taking a cruise once, and it’d been the worst vacation ever. Even on a ship as large as that, meter-tall swells had been too much.

“How much is forgotten?” Lukov asked from behind him.

Warren had forgotten the man was even there and glanced up with a frown. “I’m not sure. How am I supposed to know what I forgot?”

“Ah yes, good point.” Lukov nodded, his expression serious.

Warren spotted his first window as they strolled through the building. At first, he thought it might be nighttime, because everything outside was dark. He turned and slowly approached the viewport. Outside were billions of stars. He wasn’t on a base. He was on a spaceship, and that wasn’t a window—it was a porthole.

“Keep moving,” Lukov said as he took Warren firmly by the arm. “You look like a new recruit. You have seen the empty space, the stars, the planet. If they suspect otherwise, you may be reset.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Warren muttered as Lukov released his arm and they began walking again. “I don’t even know what the hell year it is.”

“Quiet, until we reach mess,” Lukov ordered. “We should be alone there. It’s not normal meal time.”

Warren did his best to look like nothing was bothering him. On the inside he was working hard as he tried to dig up the memories he knew must lay dormant somewhere in his mind. The last thing he remembered was the guy cutting into his chest. There had been men in the room. They hadn’t been wearing regular surgery garb—the smocks, gloves, surgical caps, and other stuff. They’d been dressed in business suits. Why would they do that?

Then something had happened, but he couldn’t remember what. It was like scar tissue in his mind. Then nothing, until he found himself being attacked by someone wielding an ax.

They walked into the eatery and Warren was taken aback by its size. It could easily fit a thousand people, maybe more.

MESS CAPACITY: 825

Warren frowned at the message. He was going to have to learn to control his thoughts better if he didn’t want to put up with the constant visual interruptions.

The room was empty, just as Lukov had predicted. There was nothing on any of the counters and nothing in the food warmers and all of the tables were folded, secured to the deck, and against the outside walls. The room was brighter than the hallway—probably a way to improve morale. Warren had heard that life aboard a seafaring ship could be depressing. He had no idea what it was like on a spaceship, but it had to be tough.

Lukov walked over to a device mounted on the wall. When he pressed a button on the device, it dispensed a plastic-wrapped bar. He tossed it to Warren, who caught it easily.

Warren read the label. “Meal, nutrition bar, Type-C,” he read aloud. “Sounds wonderful.”

“They are,” Lukov said with a small laugh. “Do you not remember these either?”

“Should I?” Warren asked as he tore the wrapper. As soon as the words were out he realized that was exactly the point. Everything about this place should be familiar. Even this stupid meal bar. The object inside the packaging looked like a brick of compressed blood and smelled like a thousand chemicals, none of which pricked his memory but he could guess didn’t taste very good.

Lukov didn’t appear to mind, though. He took a bite and chewed as he studied his friend. “Do you remember yesterday?”

“No,” Warren admitted and took a bite of the nondescript food-like thing. It tasted like cardboard, but somehow was also delicious. “The last thing I remember is going in for surgery to get a new prosthetic leg.”

Lukov nodded, as though this was no surprise to him. “Memories can be tricky. Sometimes things like this can happen. Don’t tell anyone. Sometimes memories return. Sometimes, not. But none can remember that far back. And you have forgotten the in-between. This is not good.” He stared with wide eyes as he finished the last of his meal.

“The tech said there were destroyers inbound. Even though I had some of our enemies, whoever they are, dead to rights, someone wanted us to leave. Why?”

“No time to kill,” Lukov said, shrugging. “No time to finish the mission. Time to run, nothing more. We will go back and try again. We always do.” Lukov began pacing. “Once CoWs show up, they take planet. We return to take back.”

“Cows?” Warren asked, unsure he’d heard the man correctly.

Lukov sighed. “Commonwealth of Worlds. Our sworn enemy.”

He looked at Warren as if waiting for an answer. Since he didn’t know who “our” referred to, Warren shrugged in response.

“We tried to take planet,” Lukov explained. “The Commonwealth fought back. Is how it goes. Constant back and forth. Sometimes we win, sometimes they do. This time, CoWs set trap. We were only on planet for twenty minutes before we get word about destroyers. They were waiting for us somehow. We left in time, but just.”

“How many destroyers?” Warren asked.

“It is not for us to know,” Lukov said with a shrug. “We leave in hurry. We escape. Soon, we’ll return and fight. It is the only way.”

“And what should I do while I wait for the memories to come back?” Warren pressed.

“Same thing we all do,” Lukov said. “We watch movie. We play cards. We follow order. Then we do it again. Same as always. You remember how to play cards?”

“Eh, depends which game you mean,” he replied. “I’ve got vague memories of gin, spades, and five-card draw. I feel like I knew some others, but I can’t remember what they are.”

Lukov smiled now. “That’s not a problem. Most of time we play spades. Is a good game. Lots of chances to win, and many to lose. We play for virtual money, because we are not paid. I am winning. You’re usually my partner. Maybe we should make practice before next time we play, hmm?”

Warren wanted to ask why they weren’t paid but decided that was a question for another day. Right now, there were more important questions. “Maybe later. Can you tell me whose side are we on in this war?”

“We fight for Grand Republic of Unified Systems,” Lukov replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“And who is the Grand Republic?” Warren asked. “Are we the good guys?”

Lukov’s expression darkened. “Is not for us to question. Each side maybe thinks they are good guys. Who is to say? But don’t worry. You’re part of 1st Corps. You are on the winning side.”

Warren ran a hand through his buzzed-short hair in frustration. “That doesn’t tell me jack. Who is the Grand Republic, is that Earth?”

“Grand Republic is many worlds. Many planets. We are not told anything we don’t need to know. That includes the Republic’s plans. We hear the rumors from crew, but not much.”

“That’s less than helpful,” Warren said under his breath. “Who’s in charge?”

Warren could guess by Lukov’s wry smile what the answer was going to be.

“The leader is a mystery. Officially, it’s said to be Senate, but that’s a front. Maybe there is someone in Senate who speaks for many, a puppet master.”

“Why are we fighting the Commonwealth?” He couldn’t seem to stop asking questions, but then again, how else was he supposed to learn?

“They were us,” Lukov said. “Or maybe we were them. Either way, they decided not to be part of Republic. They left for a little while, and stayed quiet, at least until they returned and began to take planets from Republic. That’s when the fighting began.”

It was all Warren could do to stop himself from interjecting. Everything Lukov said just led to more questions.

Oblivious to Warren’s internal struggle, Lukov continued. “The Commonwealth once happy to be gone from Republic space. I don’t understand why came back. But they did. It’s recent development and has Republic worried. One of the rumors we hear is they are building more ships and developing new weapons.”

Warren blew out a breath, trying to absorb the influx of data. His eyes fell on Lukov’s plain uniform. “No rank on the uniforms?”

Lukov laughed. “We do not need ranks. Our commander is the war computer. Everyone else is drone. We’re made to follow orders. That is all.”

“Made,” Warren repeated. He turned the word over in his mind, deciding if that meant manufactured, or ordered. “Am I a man?”

The other man seemed confused by the question. He studied Warren’s face like he was searching for a sign he was joking. “I don’t understand.”

“Am I like everyone else I’ve seen so far—just a machine? Or am I human, or am I a machine?”

“You are both,” Lukov replied. “You are man and machine. A cyborg.”

A wave of revulsion washed over Warren that sent tingles through his body. It was as if he could feel the circuitry reacting to stimuli. Things shifting around. Components warming, then cooling. It was probably all his imagination, but maybe it wasn’t. “Everyone I saw out there—all the Republic troops—are we all cyborgs?”

“Yes,” he said again. “You did not remember this either?”

“No. When I was in the infirmary—or shop, whatever we call it—I saw things. The nurses were taking metal stuff out of people. I saw how quickly limbs were replaced, and how the sockets were metal and circuitry. Still—it’s not what I expected. Is this how they control us? Because we’re just machines?”

“Not just machines,” corrected Lukov. “Part machine. Part not machine. Cyborg. And, machines, they do not think. They follow program. They respond. No, we are not machine. It’s different.”

A message popped up on Warren’s HUD directing him to the nearest armory. A moment later, a klaxon began to blare and most of the lights in the ship switched to red. They were under attack.

“Ah,” Lukov said. “Maybe it’s time for revenge? It seems the CoWs have followed. Fighting time.” The big man sprinted out the door. Warren stuffed the rest of his chow into his mouth and hurried after him.

5

Warren stepped into the Armory, unsure what to expect.

Fifteen other men stood in the room, all soldiers by the looks of them. Three already wore their battle attire, the same armor he’d seen planetside. The rest had queued up and were waiting their turn to step into a device that looked like one of those full-body scanners airports used.

When the next man stepped into the apparatus, the clear door snapped shut behind him. Warren watched in fascination as robotic arms erupted from the walls and slapped dozens of pieces of armor into place while others tightened screws or closed latches.

It was a little unnerving to know that the armor was literally being built around him, but after observing five others get their armor applied, Warren relaxed. He stepped into the machine, kept his arms at his side, and let the automated process play out, keeping his features schooled into stoic lines. Reacting to a procedure that was clearly second nature would have called attention to him, something Warren didn’t want to do.

A light inside the enclosure turned green, prompting a door to open in front of him. Warren stepped forward, only pausing slightly when his HUD updated with new orders as he exited. He grabbed a rifle from the rack, noting that it felt familiar in his hands.

Before he had a chance to do anything else, the ship rocked violently around him. Warren managed to keep his balance and tightened his grip on the rifle. Orders to proceed to a new destination appeared on his HUD, and he followed directions to leave the room.

The next explosion slammed him into a nearby bulkhead. He felt a little pain where his left arm hit the wall, but the limb still worked. Collecting himself, Warren took off at a dead run where his HUD directed.

He registered the ship around him, taking note, though none of it struck him as familiar. More soldiers joined him, all heading in the same direction. No one spoke and, despite the severity of the situation going down around him, Warren found himself wondering what these other cyborgs were thinking.

Were they like Lukov, or were any of them hiding a secret like Warren’s?

His thoughts were interrupted when another explosion dented the exterior hull, the force of the impact causing a few conduits to snap. A deckhand in greasy coveralls who’d been running toward him tripped. Warren caught the man and spun him away from a spear-like piece of pipe. He wasn’t fast enough to stop the sharp edges from grazing the man’s upper shoulder and the man scrambled to his feet, glaring at Warren like the cyborg had assaulted him before noticing the pipe.

“Thanks,” he said, clutching his wounded shoulder before hurrying away, giving Warren a strange expression as he left. It was as though nobody ever watched out for each other—like he was confused why the soldier had helped him.

“Make way,” a man shouted before barreling past. The man’s uniform didn’t strike Warren as a soldier. It was red and the armor didn’t look militant in nature. A fire suit, he realized.

Warren groaned when his HUD updated again. It directed him to the port side of the ship, two decks up. He paused, unsure how to get there. As if on cue, the HUD showed him the shortest path and a dotted line appeared before his eyes, superimposed on the floor.

He cocked his head to the side and studied it a moment. Things were starting to make sense. Every time he imagined something, the HUD gave him the answer. It had to be linked to his consciousness somehow.

With no other options presented, Warren followed it, careful not to run over people heading the opposite direction.

The ship was in a state of controlled chaos, and reaching his destination was tough. He dodged around people who ran toward him as though he was invisible. Maybe they expected him to jump out of the way every time. He thought about plowing right through the middle of the next one who tried it when he was knocked into a wall by yet another explosion.

That one had been close. Warren picked himself off the deck and paused a second to inspect his surroundings.

Dust filled the air, intermittently obscuring his vision. Ignoring it, he focused on his HUD. It alerted him to a nearby fire that was spreading out of control and ordered him to the location. As he started to move, something above him snapped. He looked up just in time to see a heavy girder rip through the ceiling, accompanied by a high-pitched screech.

There was nowhere to go. Cursing, Warren dropped his rifle and reached up to catch the beam. It struck him in his outstretched hands, but he’d caught it—and he was still alive. It took him another full second to realize he was holding it up all by himself. Maybe it wasn’t as heavy as it looked. Or maybe I’m stronger than I thought.

“Keep it there!” someone said behind him. “No, scratch that, lift it if you can. A little higher! I’ll weld it in place! Good, keep it there!”

Warren wasn’t sure who was talking to him, nor did he care. He did what he was told. He wasn’t tiring and still had enough room left to lift the beam a little higher, though it still amazed him that he could.

“Not that far,” the man said. “No, you know what? I think that’ll work. Jacobs, c’mere! Lift me before he drops this beam!”

Warren looked to his right. A skinny man was riding on the shoulders of another who looked like he lifted weights every chance he got. The one on top was wearing yellow coveralls and had what appeared to be a portable welder on his back. A second later, he struck an arc and began welding.

After fifteen seconds, the welder spoke again. “I think it’s good. You can let go now.”

“I’m fine,” Warren replied. “Let me know when you’re done.”

Another thirty seconds passed, during which there were two more shuddering explosions somewhere near the bow of the ship. Undeterred by the rumbling floor, the big sailor set the smaller one on the ground. “All done. Thanks for your help.”

Both men ran in separate directions and Warren checked his HUD again, expecting more changes. He wasn’t disappointed. His new task was to protect the hallway he was in from enemy boarders, should they arrive. Warren retrieved his rifle and stepped to the side to let others get past him, then he looked down both ends of the passage for likely entry points.

There were two emergency hatches. He positioned himself directly between them. It would give him an equal opportunity to defend either, and he’d be far enough away if the enemy found their way in to knock the hatch out of its frame.

The interior of the ship became darker and almost translucent, then wireframe diagrams of the nearby friendly and enemy vessels outside appeared in his vision. Red lines materialized, showing where the enemy’s guns were pointed. As he focused on those, yellow vector lines displayed the trajectory of incoming missiles.

“This doesn’t look good,” he muttered.

Warren watched the chaotic space battle, in awe at what he was witnessing. He’d somehow woken up in a world he could only imagine, watching space fleets nimbly dance around each other in a deadly ballet.

It looked rough. The Commonwealth fleet outnumbered theirs, but his ships weren’t taking it lying down. There were an equal number of missiles and solid projectiles headed back toward the enemy.

One especially swift Commonwealth ship was closing in on his. It was likely the one that had caused his orders to be updated—the one the war computer was most concerned about.

Warren froze when one of the yellow lines—a missile trajectory—suddenly turned in his direction. He couldn’t leave—the war computer hadn’t ordered him to do so. If he tried, it would force him back. How he knew that, Warren couldn’t say. It was just there, like walking and talking.

Helpless, Warren watched the enemy missile closing in on his position impossibly fast. He relaxed when his ship’s point defense system detonated it a safe distance away, peppering it with fire.

It didn’t take long for the rebuttal from Warren’s ship. Six missiles launched at the approaching vessel. It shot down three of them almost as soon as they left their launchers, rattling the ship. The other three struck the enemy’s hull and penetrated. Red flashes and lines in Warren’s HUD described the damage as a chain reaction of explosions began to tear the enemy ship apart from the inside.

Shouts of victory echoed down the corridor from nearby compartments but became quiet when a slew of new targets appeared. Another vessel had fired through the debris field, apparently to hide their missiles as long as possible. It had worked.

Warren wanted to move, but he couldn’t. The war computer still hadn’t told him to. If he somehow found a way to do it anyway, Lukov said he might be reset. He didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded bad.

The nearest guns opened up and started taking missiles out, but it became clear some would make it through. Two were taken out at nearly a thousand meters. The shockwave rattled Warren’s feet. Another two were destroyed further down. They caused the deck to buck like a mule and set off nearby damage alarms. Another exploded outside the hull, shaking the ship even more. The last took some damage, veered off course, and struck the hull further away.

Finally, his HUD updated. It sent Warren one deck down and a few hundred meters forward. The explosion had started a fire in the magazine where his ship’s missiles were stored.

Warren slung his rifle onto the back of his armor and ran for the nearest ladder well. He gave the motion he’d just performed a moment’s thought, marveling at how natural it felt, even though he couldn’t remember ever having done it before.

Thankfully, the ladder well was clear of personnel. It allowed him to take the steps four at a time. As he headed toward the fire, he spotted two sailors in red body armor heading the other way. They had helmets on that looked like they were connected to some kind of breathing apparatuses on their backs. They turned the corner just as Warren arrived.

A blast of heat caused Warren to slow and shield his face from the flash of intense flames that erupted from the room. It didn’t appear his armor provided much protection from heat.

Two firefighters came out, one dragging the other, but Warren couldn’t tell if it was the same ones he’d seen before or not. They didn’t have name tags or numbers. Whatever was happening, it had to be bad if it drove them back. As he got closer, the situation became clear.

The room resembled a long hallway leading left and right. Along both sides of the walls, missiles were stacked on pre-loaded racks. One of the missiles had fallen against the opposite bulkhead and broken a pipe, its contents spilling out.

FUEL, LIQUID MISSILE, NS-188

Fuel sprayed into the room. On the far end, an electrical panel had caught fire that was quickly spreading. There were two fire suppression sprinklers on the ceiling, but they only dripped the fluid that might save the ship. He followed the pipe leading from the sprinkler and found that it, too, had been damaged.

Warren ran to the fuel-spewing pipe, grabbed it and crushed it with his hand. The inferno was no longer being fed, but there was still fuel pooled on the floor, and he was standing right in the middle of it. If he didn’t do something they would explode. He had to put the fire out—if not for himself, then for everyone else.

Gritting his teeth against the heat, he traced the pipe backward from the sprinkler head to make sure he had the right one. He pulled it hard, broke it loose, spraying fluid into the room. A second later, the flame suppressant expanded into thick, purple foam and the fire was out. He let it spray a few more seconds until foam filled the room, then squeezed the pipe to stop the flow.

Warren had to walk blindly from the room and wipe the foam from his visor when he got to the passageway. There, he found the firefighter who’d been dragged from the blaze lying on his back. Several other sailors watched as a medic worked on him, but it was clear the man wasn’t going to make it. His firefighting suit had been pulled off, revealing the damage to his body. Flesh had been burned away and some of the bone underneath shone through.

The firefighter who’d pulled his partner out was sitting on the floor nearby. His helmet was still on, but by the way his body was shaking, Warren knew he was crying. It was tragic, and though Warren was tempted to offer the man his condolences, based on what he’d seen, he didn’t think the guy would appreciate it.

Anger surged through him. He couldn’t control his lost time or whatever had happened to him during it, but Warren knew how to be a soldier. Whether he remembered joining the Grand Republic or not, that was his side. The Commonwealth bastards had done this and cemented themselves as the enemy.

Warren checked his HUD. All his orders had been cleared. He concentrated hard, trying to invoke the ability to see outside again. After a few tries, it worked, and he became aware of the battle’s aftermath—a debris field. All the missiles were gone. The only weapons fire was his ship’s point defense, cleaning debris from its path. The battle was over—for now.

Reinforcements arrived in the passageway a few seconds later: three men in yellow uniforms—a damage control team, according to his HUD. Another arrived a minute later. He wore the red uniform of a firefighter, though his had gold piping around the collar—a supervisor, maybe.

A few more arrived soon after, all dressed in regular Navy blue. Some of the sailors knelt, attempting to comfort the grieving firefighter. Friends of the fallen, Warren assumed. The rest simply watched.

Then a technician arrived. “Ouch,” he said, squatting low to inspect Warren’s legs. “Good thing you had armor on. This looks like superficial damage. Here, I’ll turn off your pain sensors so I can take a closer look.”

Warren didn’t reply. He was too busy observing the crew. One of the men in blue gagged when the medic pulled some of the dead firefighter’s armor away. Another turned and left in a hurry.

“Was that Wilson?” a man in blue asked.

“That’s still Wilson, you jackass,” another replied.

The second one, a petty officer, noticed Warren when he turned away from the grizzly scene and looked him up and down while the tech worked on Warren’s leg. “You look like you took some damage,” he said. “Are you the one who put out the fire in the magazine?”

“Yes,” Warren replied. “Looks like one of those pipes broke. The one with the missile fuel. The sprinkler pipe was crushed, which is why it didn’t put the fire out. I did it manually.”

The man nodded. “Well, I think you saved the ship. The damage control team will patch everything up. Head to your infirmary so you can get repaired. I think we all owe you our lives. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Warren. His HUD updated a second later, ordering him to obey the petty officer.

“Go with him,” the petty officer ordered the tech.

He nodded and followed close as Warren checked his injuries using the HUD on the way. The man mumbled to himself about components and things that would need to be done.

According to his HUD, the damage was superficial. Both his legs were burned, which meant the synthetic skin would likely have to be replaced—if they could do that. Dammit, he thought, that one’s brand new. Warren let out a wry chuckle.

“What?” the tech asked.

“Nothing. I was thinking about my leg. I just got it replaced, and here you are having to repair it again. It’s like getting t-boned pulling out of the car wash. Happened to me once.”

The tech waved his concern away. “I’m used to it. You cyborgs get damaged all the time. Anyway, fixing you is what I get paid to do.”

Cyborgs, Warren thought, still not used to the word. Question was, just how much of him was human? He thought about the surgery he’d witnessed. The artificial stuff coming out of the other soldier’s stomach. No blood, but plenty of wires, metal, and other artificial bits. He wondered if there was anything left of his humanity, or if he was nothing more than a robot.

6

Warren couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if he’d headed toward the infirmary before his HUD had ordered him to. Would the war computer have zapped him? Maybe it would have ignored him, like it did when he didn’t have anything in particular to do? It felt like he was constantly staring down the barrel of a gun.

The closer he got to the medical sector, the more crowded the passageway became. There were a lot of people heading into and out of several hatches on the other side. Warren paused to take a peek inside one. It was another infirmary—a real one that treated real people, complete with white linen and the heavy stench of antiseptic. It wasn’t where he was headed. He didn’t belong there anymore.

No need to dwell, he thought, and turned to walk through the entry his HUD directed him toward.

Hendrose met him, took the tablet from the man who’d escorted him there, and grunted a few times as he swiped and tapped the device. After a moment, the man kneeled to get a closer look. “It could be worse. But not much without having to replace both legs. Yeah, I think you’ll need some new skin—maybe a few other components, but I won’t know for sure until I get in there and take a look.”

Warren shrugged. “It’s not like I have a lot to do, doc.”

Hendrose smiled. “Hopefully it won’t be much. I’ve been assigned an assistant. He’s been through his Occupational Specialty training, but real hands-on work would really help polish his skills.”

“That’s fine, doc,” Warren said, and he climbed onto the table the tech motioned toward. Lukov had acted like revealing his memory loss was a bad thing. And it might be, but how was Warren supposed to know how to act?

He decided that being himself would have to do. Based on his interactions with Lukov, the cyborgs had personalities, so Warren didn’t have to act emotionless. It made sense that his cyborg self would still carry his personality traits. At least he hoped so.

“This is Seaman Sharp,” Hendrose said, unaware of Warren’s inner turmoil. “He’s about three months out of training, but he’s smart.”

Warren gave the man a nod. “Good to meet you.”

“Normally something like this would take about an hour,” Hendrose said. “But since I’ll be letting him do most of the work, it might take twice or even three times as long. I could always order you to let my assistant do it, or even paralyze you so you can’t resist, but I don’t think that would be fair. Rumor is, you saved the Ruthless all by yourself.”

“That’s what I hear, doc. Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

“He saved the ship?” Seaman Sharp asked. “What happened?”

“Missile hit,” Warren reported. “Knocked one of ours loose in the magazine, which fell, busted a pipe of NS-188 missile fuel, and managed to crush the one for fire suppression at the same time. I pinched the fuel, tore the other one loose, put the fire out. It was nothing.”

“Nice,” Sharp said. “Cyborgs always get to do the cool stuff.”

“Look here,” Hendrose said to Sharp. “See how his relay matrix is scorched here and here? If we don’t swap this one out for a new one, eventually this thing will overheat. He’ll have trouble controlling his legs. We don’t want that to happen in combat, or there will be a lot more than one little component to replace.”

“What about these cable assemblies?” Sharp asked.

“Yeah, those should be replaced, too. They look fine, but everything around them is damaged. Without removing them for inspection, we can’t really know for sure. Better safe than sorry.”

“Right,” said Sharp. “They feel pain, right?”

“Don’t talk about him like he’s not here,” Hendrose scolded. “Ask him yourself.”

The seaman’s cheeks reddened as he looked Warren in the eye. “Do cyborgs feel pain?”

“Yeah—in a way, I guess,” Warren said as he struggled to explain the difference. “It feels the same as before, but not as intense. I think I would’ve died from shock or bled out if this had happened to me before.”

As soon as the words were out Warren realized his mistake.

“You remember before?” Sharp said, turning to the senior tech for confirmation. “How much of before can they remember?”

“No,” Hendrose said. “Of course he doesn’t remember from before. They learn about their past—sometimes even their training, but their specific histories are just as much a mystery to them as it is to us. That was a long time ago and all their old memories were wiped. He meant from what he’s been told, he doesn’t feel things like we do, not that he remembers. Right?”

Hendrose angled his head so only Warren could see the intense expression on his face.

“Right,” Warren agreed. The tech was coaching him on what to say. Something was going on—a mystery he’d investigate later.

“So, what can you tell me about this component?” Hendrose asked Sharp, bringing the discussion back to their task.

The junior tech studied something for a moment. “I think it could be saved,” he said. “Maybe just go through the relays one at a time. We could test them in the T-41, figure out which ones are burned, and replace the rest.”

“I agree, but how long would the repairs take?” Hendrose asked.

“I don’t know, maybe four hours?”

Hendrose smiled. “Very good, but do you think that’s prudent when we could replace it in just an hour? That way we can repair the salvageable components and use them as back up replacements?”

“I’m guessing the second option,” Sharp said with a small laugh.

“You’re brilliant,” Hendrose joked. “Go get me one from his locker.” As soon as the tech walked away, Hendrose turned to Warren with a worried expression.

“Don’t ever tell anyone you remember anything from before,” he hissed. “Never, ever tell anyone, not even me.”

“But—” Warren started to say.

The technician shook his head sharply and continued in low tones. “I’ve put far too much work into you for you to blow it now. Stop talking about things you shouldn’t have access to. It was a mistake. I was trying to restore an old backup.”

Warren noticed Sharp heading back with a replacement arm and pasted a calm, serene expression on his face, even though he was feeling neither. Something had just happened between him and the tech. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to ruin it because it meant there were answers for his current predicament.

“Attention on deck!” the junior tech barked.

Warren nearly erupted from the table, but Hendrose pushed his head back down.

An officer in a fancy white uniform with gold piping, ribbons, and a captain’s hat walked into the room. “As you were, gentlemen. Is this the cyborg known as Warren Prescott?”

“Yes, Captain Bligh,” Hendrose said, stepping out of the way to let the older man approach.

Based on the man’s uniform, it was clear he was the captain of this ship. Judging by the number of wrinkles and the size of his nose and ears, he was no spring chicken. Far from feeble, he looked like he had plenty of ass kicking left in him.

The officer looked pleased, until he glanced at Warren’s legs. Mild distaste washed over his face for a moment before he replaced it with a stoic expression.

“Son, I’m here to offer you my personal thanks and appreciation for saving the crew of the GRS Ruthless and the ship itself,” the captain said. “Had you not extinguished the fire, we all would have perished. You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. You’re a credit to the First Cyborg Corps.”

The captain offered his hand to shake Warren’s, which the cyborg accepted. “My pleasure, sir.”

“I wish there was something else I could do to thank you, but you know how things are. We each have our place in the Republic Navy, and I’m thankful you performed your duty. Job well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” Warren said.

“Attention on deck!” Sharp shouted as the captain left the room. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the captain say anything nice to anyone, ever,” the junior sailor whispered. “You’ll get a promotion out of this one. Maybe a ribbon, too.”

“They don’t have ranks,” Hendrose said. “Nor do they get any kind of formal recognition. Now tell me more about this leg.”

The senior technician watched Warren’s face carefully as his subordinate tech examined the cyborg’s leg. Sharp began rattling off the names of components, their condition, and what it would take to replace each of them.

Warren tuned them out as his mind wandered. No rank. No promotions. No recognition. Lukov had said as much, but Hendrose had just erased any lingering doubt. All he possessed was a constant threat of being zapped, a daily nutrition bar, and someone to repair him.

Warren barely noticed when the junior tech accidentally crossed a couple of wires and caused his leg to twitch. Another component burned out and a warning message appeared on his HUD. A few seconds later, another message replaced it.

GET IT TOGETHER OR HE WILL NOTICE!

Warren read the message and glanced at Hendrose, who was tapping commands into a tablet.

COMPLAIN ABOUT SOMETHING.

CYBORGS COMPLAIN A LOT.

Warren had to think fast. “Think you can manage not to break anything else while you’re down there? Especially since you’re so close to my lump?”

“Huh?” Sharp said, glancing at the cyborg’s crotch. “I don’t think—”

Warren faked a laugh. Sharp turned crimson again, but joined him.

“Is that part of your cyborg training?” Sharp asked. “Or is picking on your techs natural?”

“Cyborg training,” Warren said. “And I’ll have you know, I was the top of my class.”

“Lovely,” Sharp groaned.

Hendrose nodded and smiled, obviously pleased with Warren’s back and forth.

A few minutes later, the burned-out component was replaced, and the damage warning disappeared.

“Good,” Hendrose said after inspecting the work. “Now comes the fun part—repairing his skin. Go ahead and get the supplies.”

The two men watched him open a cabinet and start looking for parts on the other side of the room before either spoke.

“What part of me is still human?” Warren whispered.

“Your brain and spine,” Hendrose replied, checking over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone.

“What does it mean to be reset?”

“It means the computer loads your memories into a spare unit, basically another brain and spine, after it’s loaded into a new housing. Or, it could mean your current brain is overwritten.”

“And what does it mean to be deleted?”

“It means all the backups the Navy has of you are removed from memory. If the cyborg is dead, he’ll never be brought back. If not, it’s his last shot. They’re never told when their backups are deleted, though.”

They stopped talking when Sharp turned around, arms full of components, and started walking back. When he laid them on the table, Hendrose gave them a cursory glance and nodded his approval before stepping out of the way.

Two other techs came in, followed by a cyborg who was having trouble walking. It looked like both his legs had been damaged and he was hamming it up by pretending to be an old man. Warren’s HUD informed him it was Craig. Apparently, he hadn’t been deleted after the total loss of his last body.

“How does this come out?” Sharp asked, pointing to something out of Warren’s line of sight.

“Oh, that one’s tricky,” Hendrose replied. “First you have to take this off, then this. Twist that and it’ll slide out. Don’t worry if you forget the order. You won’t break anything—it just won’t fit, and worst-case scenario you’ll have to take some other stuff out to get it right.”

“Roger that,” Sharp said as he went back to work.

Warren stared at the ceiling and did his best to look like he was working hard at being patient. What he was really doing was exploring his HUD. He’d seen a wireframe of his body and was trying to get it back. After a minute of struggling, he made it appear.

Gotcha! he thought as he accessed the HUD control interface.

He began to delve into his internal systems and verified he had a brain and a spinal cord. Everything else, however, seemed to be artificial, just as the tech had told him. When he took a closer look at his brain, he discovered something interesting. There was a restricted area he wasn’t allowed to inspect near his brainstem.

Hendrose did a double take at his tablet and shook his head slightly. Warren ignored him and spun the wireframe diagram around to see if there were any clues as to what was being hidden. He had a guess but wanted to know for sure.

DON’T. THAT’S YOUR COMPULSION CHIP.

Warren frowned at the tech.

LATER. I PROMISE.

Warren relaxed a bit and willed his HUD to clear. Whatever he and Hendrose had been up to in the missing part of his memory, it appeared to be illegal, which was fine by him. He felt betrayed. He’d been lied to. There was a good chance his brain and spine had been removed from his body on that first operating table. He’d signed the contract without reading it through first. Apparently, it had given the government the legal right to do everything that happened afterward.

What Hendrose had to do with it, Warren wasn’t sure. He’d get his answers, but it didn’t have to be right away.

Hendrose set the tablet down and demonstrated to the junior tech how to remove the damaged portions of Warren’s skin to replace with the new. He maneuvered a cutting tool around, moving his hands at odd angles in some sort of choreographed repair routine. Warren watched as a narrow column of white smoke rose into the air.

“Then you reattach it with this,” Hendrose said, handing the junior tech another tool. “Try not to screw it up or we’ll have to cut out a bigger portion and do it again.”

An hour later, the skin was replaced and dyed to match the rest of his body. Once the techs performed a final function check, he was allowed to stand. Hendrose nodded, and Sharp looked pleased with his work. Warren was less than thrilled. He felt like a damn pincushion.

“All better, hero?” asked a heavily accented voice.

Lukov stood just inside the infirmary. The other man had a few small burns on his body armor, but otherwise appeared to be fine.

“Is that what they’re saying?” asked Warren.

“It is,” Lukov replied. “There is no secret aboard Ruthless. Everyone knows everything.” He turned and stared at Seaman Sharp like he knew some juicy detail about the sailor.

Sharp suddenly seemed to remember something important he had to do somewhere else.

“You are well?” asked Lukov, coming closer. “Repaired. Fit as the fiddle, as they say?”

“I’m all better,” Warren said, demonstrating so by getting to his feet. “I need to get dressed. Let’s go.”

Lukov raised one of his eyebrows and followed him from the room.

7

Alone in the locker room, Lukov waited until Warren was dressed before he spoke. “You are quiet. Something wrong?”

“Yes and no,” replied Warren. “I’m all repaired, but up until I saw electronics yanked out of my body, it felt more like a dream than reality. A really bad dream. I guess I felt like there might still be a chance.”

“A chance? Opportunity? I don’t understand. For what?”

“That I wasn’t a cyborg. That I still had some privacy. I don’t even have privacy in my own mind—not if people can put stuff in there and make messages appear in front of my eyes. Can they read my mind?”

Lukov shrugged. “This is not something that is known to us. Some cyborgs speculate, but none believe. If so, the Republic would have cause for many worry and concern. Many think evil thoughts about turning the officers inside to outside. Maybe playing jump the rope with intestines, yes? Strangle with bare hands. It would be easy. We are strong.”

Warren chewed on that for a second. “That makes sense. If they could read our minds, anyone thinking about killing a superior would be caught immediately.”

“Exactly,” Lukov said, nodding. “If that was the case, they would order not to think of killing officers. They would be afraid, even when compulsion chip prevent attack. Would not allow us to fight other cyborgs. We can. It does happen, but always reset after. Would prevent from fighting to save the monies to repair the parts and pieces. When cyborg fight, it is brutal. Pieces do land here and there and all of the places. Glorious sight.”

Warren was quiet for a few more seconds as he thought about what he wanted to ask next. “It seems the key to all of this is the compulsion chip.”

“Yes. Evil invention. Much brilliance, but still evil. No compulsion chip means no cyborg.”

“I had no idea,” said Warren. “Yeah—brilliant but evil. Genius, really. This is all new to me, but at the same time feels familiar.”

“I see.” Lukov eyed him curiously. “I was not aware you forgot. It is not something I have heard before, but it could happen. You should never touch your compulsion chip. It is forbidden. Others have tried. It cannot be made to tamper with. The war computer, she does not forgive. You will be reset or deleted. Do not try this.”

“Have you tried?” asked Warren.

Lukov opened his mouth, then closed it. “I do not know,” he admitted. “Who is to say? Maybe yes. Maybe no. If they did reset, I would not remember.”

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.”

Since 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.”

Each cyborg was soon equipped with a rifle and an ammo belt, on which were two extra ammo packs. Warren gestured for a second belt, which Lukov passed him, and slung both across his chest.

“Is anyone’s HUD populating?” Warren asked. “Mine’s empty.”

“Negative,” Lukov and Cooper said in unison.

Both men stared at Warren, who felt the pressure of leadership return after more years than he could remember. He loved it, but the feeling didn’t make it any easier. It was time to wade into battle.

“Cooper,” Warren said. “Head to the bridge, but don’t go in. Stand guard outside and look scary. The war computer might come online any second, but if it doesn’t, stay there and stop anything that looks suspicious. Follow your gut.”

“I don’t have any guts,” Cooper quipped.

Warren raised one finger and prepared to chew the man out, but Cooper had run from the room.

“Where do you want me to go?” Lukov asked.

Warren brought up the ship’s schematics in his HUD and studied them for a moment. “We’re sticking together, you and me. Aside from the bridge, it looks like the engine room is the next priority. Specifically, the power plant. According to the HUD, it’s more prone to attack. If they can’t get in, or they get scared away, they might try to detonate one of the missiles.”

Lukov sprinted out of the room, narrowly missing a sailor from the fire suppression team. The man had been running through the passageway just as the cyborg left the armory, though Warren hadn’t seen any sign of smoke or other indications of onboard fires.

Warren followed Lukov, shoving past the fireman who’d just managed to regain his footing after the Russian bowled him over. It felt good to be in charge of his own body again, making decisions for himself—right or wrong.

The moment the pair arrived at the power plant, an order appeared on Warren’s HUD. It directed him to Deck 5, several levels above him.

We need to defend the damned power plant! The compulsion chip icon in his HUD began blinking, warning him he was about to get zapped. Fucking idiot war computer.

Lukov sighed. “The master has spoken.” He hurried to the nearest stairwell.

Warren followed, but he wasn’t happy about it. Nothing about following orders issued by a computer, or not being allowed to make his own decisions, sat well with him.

A dull thunk, followed by a soft rattling under Warren’s feet slowed his run. The sound echoed through the ship and repeated several times. It was the defense system. If those were coming online, the ship was under attack.

As he approached the area the war computer had assigned to him, Warren’s HUD updated, directing him to a three-meter section of the outer starboard passageway. In the center, along the bulkhead, was an emergency access hatch.

Lukov stopped in front of another one about a hundred meters further down.

“What are they expecting?” the Russian asked, glancing toward both ends of the hallway, then at his hatch.

“I think we’re here to make sure the ship doesn’t get boarded,” Warren said.

Thunk.

Another impact against the ship’s hull, louder this time, was answered by an explosion. The sound echoed down Warren’s end of the passageway. A closed hatch about fifty meters away burped a gout of yellow smoke.

Warren took three steps toward the explosion before lightning shot through his body and dropped him hard to his hands and knees. His compulsion chip icon was blinking red again. “Damn it!” He hurried to return to his assigned location. “Our war computer was designed by a fool! That explosion’s only fifty meters away. I could get there, save a life or two, and be back before anyone has a chance to kick this hatch in.”

“Agreed,” said Lukov. “Unfortunately, the war computer does not care. Is interested only in efficiency and making us to kill many things. Fighting the machine only make for you to be shocked, but please feel free to keep trying. Is funny for me.”

Warren wished he could see what was happening—just to settle his mind if nothing else—when his HUD became overlaid with a wireframe diagram of the ship. He watched as several members of the Ruthless’ crew tried to gain entry through the damaged hatch into the compartment. When they couldn’t open the buckled portal, they hurried down an adjacent passageway.

One person was inside the room. Four more were entering. According to his HUD, the new arrivals were members of a fire suppression team. Based on what he could see, they knew what they were doing.

“The squishies do have their uses, I guess,” Warren muttered.

“They do,” Lukov agreed. “Someone has to oil our joints and give us hearts after we meet the wizard, no?”

Warren laughed. He felt like he’d heard the joke somewhere before but couldn’t place it.

“I’m watching them fight a fire while we sit here with our thumbs up our asses,” Warren replied.

“It is the way it is. There is nothing we can do, so it is best to accept these things.”

There was a click and short beep in Warren’s ear, then the HUD informed him that Lukov had opened a private channel.

“Has any your memory returned?” asked the Russian.

“No.”

“Maybe it will return. In the end, it does not matter. You are still Warren. I am still Lukov.”

Unwilling to be satisfied with that, Warren merely shook his head and went back to watching the fire suppression team. The damage looked like the enemy had managed to rip a hole through the outer hull into a small machine room—possibly water filtration from Warren’s interpretation of the diagram. When he focused directly on the room, his HUD gave him an update with more information. The damaged areas were highlighted in yellow, with surrounding areas reading either green or red.

Good, bad, or completely destroyed, he guessed.

The crew had managed to extinguish the fire, but one of them had been injured. Things seemed to be under control—at least for now.

When he turned around to inspect the hull behind him, the wireframe updated. Glittery edges of the external outline of his ship became more prominent, giving him more details about the bigger picture, including some basic information on what was happening outside the hull. An enemy ship was closing with them. It was smaller than the Ruthless, but not by much. Unlike the sleek lines of the Republic vessel, the other was all sharp angles and jagged lines. It looked like it had been constructed following the design of some primitive 1980s video game.

“Do you see this?” Warren asked.

“Yes,” replied Lukov. “The war computer is correct. They are preparing to board us. Now is our time to do the fighting. We will kill many CoWs today.”

Based on the red and yellow circles along the hull, the defense systems near Warren had all been destroyed or disabled. Those further out were still under attack, but the damage the Commonwealth vessel had already done provided it with plenty of room to slip in.

“Here they come,” Warren transmitted to the other cyborgs. “They’re extending an umbilical. Damn it. They’re headed right toward my hatch. I need help! Tell me someone is heading my way.”

He didn’t know how the information came to him, but he was glad it did. Space battles were definitely not something he’d been familiar with in his old life. Now, if the rest of his memories would return, that would be awesome.

“I have received new orders from the war computer,” Lukov said as he strolled over. “I am to assist you in repelling the invaders. We are to smash them to pudding. Or shoot. Whichever is most convenient.”

“Me too,” Cooper said over the comm.

Since the man was out of view, the HUD provided information about who was talking.

“Yeah, I’m on my way, too,” Craig added, sounding bored. “Let’s see if these CoWs have any real challenge in ‘em. These ones look like they might actually have some balls. Big ones. Trying to invade a Republic ship full of cyborgs is the craziest thing these bastards could do.”

“Think he’s over his shit?” Warren asked Lukov.

“I don’t know,” the other cyborg admitted as he stopped at the far side of the hatch. “I am hoping so.”

“If he gets me killed, remind me of everything that happened so I can remember to kick his ass.”

“That I will do,” Lukov promised.

A HUD update containing new orders came in. They were instructed to repel the invaders and capture their vessel. Once the cyborgs seized the ship, a prize crew would come over to relieve them.

“I doubt this CoW ship is the only one attempting to board us,” Warren said. “It’s too small. Probably some kind of fast-attack craft. It might hold a hundred crew, including whatever assault forces they have. We need to move fast, stay smart, and not get killed.”

How had he known that? He didn’t have long to ponder that question because Craig wandered up a moment later, looking bored. “I’m here,” he said. “For whatever it’s worth.”

Warren and Lukov exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Craig is not all bad,” Lukov said using the private line. “He is a rare kind of cyborg. He kills. He has been in many battles. Not as many as you, but many. I believe he is not meant for war. I don’t believe he likes to kill. Destroy, yes. Maybe kill the CoWs who threaten the crew. But not kill everyone. It does not sit well in his heart.”

Warren filed the information away for later. It was a starting point for speaking to Craig, though he couldn’t begin to speculate where it might end, or if he could do anything at all for him.

The Commonwealth ship was close enough for Warren to start picking out details his ship’s sensors had discovered. The vessel looked like a new design. The war computer assigned it a code number, rather than a name.

The expected adrenaline dump never happened—another effect of being a cyborg. It gave him the advantage of a cool mind and clear thoughts, so he focused on trying to recall any training he could still remember. Everything he could remember came from his US Army training—stuff he’d learned hundreds of years ago. Without anything to compare it to, there was no way to tell if the doctrine or methods had changed. If they had, he might confuse his fellow cyborgs. It might also confuse his enemy. That was never a bad thing.

The war computer had mercifully left him with few details on how to accomplish the capture of the CoW vessel, meaning Warren could make some decisions. “We’ll wait for them to make the first move,” he said.

“We usually just rush in and kick ass,” Craig said. “Did the war computer kick the bucket and assign you as our leader?”

“Since Warren is one with plan,” replied Lukov. “He knows what he is to do. You should listen.”

Craig stared at Warren for a second, then shrugged. “Okay, not like I got anything better to do. Let’s see what you got.”

Despite the situation, Warren wanted to smile. A slight shift in the other cyborg’s demeanor told him that Craig’s interest was caught by the new dynamic. Maybe only mildly, but Warren would take that over Craig being suicidal and getting them all killed.

He turned to glance at the expressionless faceplate of Craig’s helmet. “We’re waiting. They won’t expect it, and I want to see what they’re planning.”

“Yeah, fine,” Craig said. “It’s your funeral. Mine, too.”

“Cooper, I want you to hang back and join us when it’s clear,” Warren ordered. “If this goes sideways, get us some backup.”

“Got it,” the cyborg replied.

“The enemy has attached umbilical,” reported Lukov.

Warren knew the term but realized with a start he didn’t know how it worked. He ordered the HUD to give him more information. To his relief, it did. It wasn’t exactly a YouTube video, but the short description gave him a rough idea.

The umbilical would attach to an airlock and create its own seal. From there, the boarders would perform their breach operation. Not glamorous, but it obviously worked.

“I believe they will attempt to hack through the electronic exterior lock,” Lukov announced. “It may prove too much for them.”

“Good,” Warren sneered. “If so, they’ll be focused on what they’re doing. We’ll be able to take them unawares then.”

“This is too easy,” Craig said.

A soft thump announced the umbilical had been connected.

“What do you mean?” Warren asked as he watched four CoW soldiers cautiously make their way through their tube.

“They’ve got to know we’re in here, yet they’re still coming,” Craig said. “It’s like they want us to kill them. There’s no way they don’t recognize this ship. I mean, the Republic’s got a lot of ships, but they have to know we’re here.”

“He is correct,” Lukov said. “The enemy has a trick they will attempt.”

“What do the CoWs have that works on cyborgs?” Warren asked.

Lukov was silent for a few seconds before he answered. “Electromagnetic pulse grenades. It stuns cyborgs. If you are hit, you may become immobile. If they have improved their technology, it may cause us to become on fire. Or cause us to be reset.”

None of that sounded good to Warren but there wasn’t time to ask how they could counter that kind of attack.

“Get ready,” Warren said. “If I get stunned, everyone else rush the umbilical. Go in hot and be ready for whatever backup they have—maybe grenades.”

The tell tale sounds of the airlock being opened reached them.

“Wow,” Craig said, sounding almost perky for the first time. “That was quick. CoWs got some mad skills.”

There was a hiss as the airlock’s seal broke. Their enemy had divided themselves into two teams. A Commonwealth soldier was readying a small object in one hand.

Warren tensed as the soldier tossed it toward the airlock and the waiting cyborgs. He kicked it as it passed through, sending it past their enemy and into the vessel on the other end. It hit something metallic and detonated.

For a moment, Warren was overcome with dizziness. The electromagnetic blast had to penetrate two bulkheads and still had enough power to stun him.

His vision cleared a moment later and Warren charged around the corner and into the umbilical, the others close behind.

Three CoW soldiers went down with fresh holes in their foreheads. The last managed to open his mouth in surprise before Craig used the man’s tongue for target practice. Pink mist filled the tube ahead of Warren’s charge.

Two more stepped out from their cover. Craig and Lukov dropped them with precision shots to their heads—one advantage of being partly machine.

Warren grunted as the electronics in his body transmitted pain signals to his brain. He’d been hit several times, lighting his HUD up with damage indicators. He cut the pain input in half. It would allow him to keep moving while reminding him his enemy weren’t bad shots either.

“Follow me!” Warren ordered. “Craig, you’re my slack, but for now stay in the rear. Don’t let any of the enemy sneak up on us.” Being the slack was an important position. With Warren in the front, he was effectively operating as the point. It was the job of the slack to watch the point’s flanks.

“You got it,” Craig said, his voice sounding clear and focused. “Maybe I’ll go ahead and survive this one.”

Warren smirked but didn’t respond. The cyborgs were performing with the kind of disciplined caution he remembered from his days with the Ranger Battalions. They moved smoothly, gliding onto the enemy ship like they’d done it a million times. Warren motioned for them to stop when he reached an intersection. He had to decide whether he’d lead his team left or right.

He imagined flipping a coin, but his HUD intercepted the thought, ran a random number generating algorithm, and gave him the result. Before he could act on it, he lost all strength in his limbs, went numb, and collapsed to the floor.

He stared at the ceiling in wonder, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He tried to move, but his limbs only twitched, spasming uncontrollably. When he attempted to access his HUD, it displayed an icon he didn’t recognize.

A second later, Warren’s circuits lit up, translating into a strange, tingly kind of sensation. It didn’t hurt, it just felt strange, like his foot had fallen asleep, but everywhere at once.

“What the fuck was that?” Craig asked. “I can’t move!”

Warren couldn’t see his enemy, though he could still see. He couldn’t hear them, though his auditory inputs now showed green on his HUD. If it was a grenade, it wasn’t as powerful as everyone made it out to be.

Lying flat on his back, he struggled to move, when he noticed a dark gray circle on the ceiling. On a ship that consisted primarily of sharp lines and angles, it seemed out of place. Scratch marks on the rust-colored metal suggested someone had installed it in a hurry.

He slowly lifted his weapon, a feat of sheer willpower. His arms moved, but his other body parts refused to respond to his mental commands. He watched the gray circle above him with trepidation. It blasted him again and his vision went pixelated for a second, but he managed to keep his arm moving. Normally, his HUD would overlay a targeting reticle to show him where his rifle was pointed, but it looked like everything was offline. He’d have to do it the old-fashioned way.

Warren squeezed the trigger and missed his target by centimeters. After adjusting his aim, he tried again. The ceiling sprouted a second hole, but this time sparks fell from it, so he began pulling the trigger as quickly as he could make his finger move. When his last slug left the barrel, his perseverance was rewarded by a loud pop, followed by a plume of smoke billowing out from where the bullet hit. They poured over him like a dozen people were all welding in the same spot at the same time, and it was the most beautiful thing he could remember seeing.

Warren’s HUD rebooted a few seconds later, and every system showed green. He sat up just as Craig lifted his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The projectile flew by Warren’s head and nailed a Commonwealth crew member in the groin. The man shrieked and fell to his knees, his hands trying to stop the blood flowing from his groin. Warren lifted his rifle to finish him off, but Craig interrupted.

“Let the bastard bleed out.”

Warren hesitated for a full second. It was long enough for the CoW sailor to collapse unconscious. He’d die anyway, one way or another.

“All right, Cooper, we’re clear,” Warren said over the comm.

“Copy that,” came the reply.

Once the other man had joined them, Warren motioned the small group forward and into the Commonwealth ship.

9

Warren found himself becoming distracted by the unfamiliar layout and design of the Commonwealth ship. Besides the myriad of blinking lights, there were foreign panels and screens displaying information he didn’t understand or recognize.

“That went easier than I thought it would,” Craig said, holding his rifle at the ready

“If you say so,” Lukov replied, frowning.

“Sure, we all got zapped, but it’s a small price to pay to off those CoWs.”

Relatively speaking, the breach had gone easier than Warren thought it would. After he’d disabled the anti-boarding weapon, the enemy didn’t have anything to stop them besides whoever was on board.

“It was almost too easy,” Warren said as he reloaded his rifle. “Maybe I’m being overly cautious, but that’s how it feels.”

Craig and Lukov share an uneasy glance but didn’t say anything.

After stowing his empty magazine, Warren stared at the plaque on the bulkhead and willed his onboard computer to translate the language. It worked.

“The bridge is to the left,” Warren announced. “Once we seize it, the ship will be ours. Afterward, we can let our people clean up our mess. Lukov, you’re with me. We’ll head to the power plant and secure it. Craig and Cooper, you two take the bridge.”

“Got it,” replied Cooper.

Craig was facing away and after a few seconds of waiting, Warren sent him a message.

YOU GOOD?

“Yeah,” he said, turning around. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me. I’ve done this a billion times. Maybe more. We really don’t know, do we?”

Cooper raised an eyebrow and looked back and forth between the men. Warren ignored his unspoken question.

“I’m glad you’re good. Let’s get this over with.”

Craig and Cooper hurried toward the bridge; Warren and Lukov went toward the power plant.

“I am hoping this all goes well,” the Russian muttered.

“One way or another,” Warren agreed.

Warren slowed when he entered a long passageway, doors on both sides. He could hear people moving around. There was no way to tell which ones were armed, and which were nervous mechanics or admins. Rifle up, Warren advanced, following the direction of plaques prominently displayed on the bulkhead. They passed several sealed hatches, but Warren ignored them as he pushed deeper into the ship.

“Lukov, our priority has to be speed. We don’t have the time to clear this ship compartment by compartment. Pop anything that comes out after us and let your sensor drone trail us,” Warren said over his shoulder, his eyes still sighting down his barrel.

“Sensor drones?” Lukov asked. “It has been many years since the Republic decommissioned those. Cost-saving measure, they say.”

“Then how come—” Warren started to ask but squashed the rest of the thought. Another memory fragment. Just more evidence of what the Republic had done to him. This was a new problem too. If outdated memories were trickling in, he had no way to know what information was current. “Keep your head on a swivel, then.”

As the words left his mouth, someone shot at them. Not wasting any time, Lukov returned fire, his weapon discharging three times.

“Two enemy dead,” he said. “They had rifles.”

“Good shooting,” Warren said.

Ahead was another hatch with someone behind it. Warren could hear his enemy breathing, sucking in rapid gasps of fear. Signaling Lukov to remain still and quiet, he waited.

A few seconds later, the hatch swung open a little. Warren punched it hard, heard a satisfying smack from the other side, followed by a scream. A Commonwealth soldier, no older than twenty, lay on his black, his face caved in far enough to make one eye bulge from its socket.

He’s just a kid.

Warren staggered back a few steps. Even though he could see what he’d done, he couldn’t believe it. The kid had a weapon. He’d clearly been a threat—no doubt about it—but the realization didn’t make it any easier.

“Warren?” said Lukov from somewhere behind. “Snap out of it. He was enemy.”

It wasn’t okay, but Lukov was right. That was war.

Warren picked up the rifle he hadn’t realized he’d dropped. He and Lukov stepped over the body and continued moving. This part of the ship was all utility and would’ve made an OSHA inspector spontaneously combust. Pipes lined the walls, some of them so rusted the wires within were visible. Most appeared to have been spliced together and taped, rather than replaced.

“How does the Commonwealth manage to win any battles like this?” Warren asked.

Lukov laughed. “They are primitive, but it allows them to make hundreds more ships than we possess. It is like old Russia, in a way. Unlike Americans, we did not care if things were pretty, so long as worked. The CoW ships, they work. They kill many Republic ships. They fight. They are tough. And when something does go wrong, they are easy to repair.”

Warren grunted in disgust.

“Also, producing them like this is fast,” Lukov continued. “So one maybe does catch fire or explode. Who cares? There are many to replace it. This is the thinking of our enemy. For them it is noble to die in the battle. For us, it is inconvenient. It is the way of things.”

“They can’t keep doing this forever. Eventually they’ll run out of volunteers.”

“Perhaps,” Lukov said, sounding unconvinced.

“Two killed,” Cooper announced, interrupting their conversation. “We own the bridge. Powering down the ship now. Looks like they left themselves logged in. I wish we got paid for this shit. Craig and I would get a bonus for sure.”

Warren heard movement to his right. Someone was sneaking around a corner. Rather than pivoting to bring his rifle to bear, he waited until his enemy’s face appeared. Not a kid this time, but a full grown man aiming a weapon at him. A small, squeaking sound escaped the soldier’s mouth as Warren squeezed, crushing his windpipe.

“Ambush front!” Lukov called out.

Warren held his dead enemy like a riot shield and charged through the open hatchway. There was an impact, a grunt, and several thuds as Warren’s meat shield smashed into another Commonwealth soldier. He kept pushing, driving them back, until his artificial hand pushed through the first man’s neck with a terrible squelching sound and connected with the second man’s face. The last crunch was the bodies being slammed against the bulkhead. Warren stepped back, pulling his hand free from gore and wincing at the sucking sound as it came free.

Two more appeared in the middle of another hatchway. They were armed, but instead of fighting, they gaped at the carnage they saw. Two of their comrades were still standing, sort of. Each left a wet, red trail as they slowly slid down the bulkhead.

“Surrender and you’ll live,” Warren offered.

The man’s face twisted in a mask of rage as he screamed and fired his pistol, the shot missing Warren. He stepped in before his enemy got a chance to try again, grabbed his arm, and twisted the barrel out and away. Grabbing the man’s belt and lifting him into the air, Warren flipped the Commonwealth sailor face up before snapping the man over his knee.

When the other sailor raised his own pistol in a shaking hand, Warren grabbed the man’s head with both hands and squeezed until his fingers touched.

“Idiots,” Warren whispered. “Why couldn’t you just surrender?”

Warren heard the crack of weapon fire in the passageway to the right. Lukov was fighting someone. He retrieved his rifle and hurried toward the noise.

“I’m coming, buddy. Hold tight,” he transmitted.

Warren was running blind, charging toward the sound of gunfire, grunts, and screams. It was instinct.

After doubling back twice, Warren turned around another blind corner and found Lukov emerging from cover as he tried to advance through an ambush. The enemy had a fortified position behind some storage crates in a long, narrow room.

“Surrender and you’ll—”

A lucky shot nicked Warren’s helmet, causing him to duck and return fire. Why wouldn’t they surrender?

Lukov fired twice, drawing their enemy’s attention. Then Warren got off a few shots of his own, drawing it back. Without speaking, the two cyborgs began to take their combatants apart, piece by piece as they rhythmically chewed away at their defenses, then their heads.

The last one looked at the twisted, torn bodies of his comrades and lost his nerve. He scrambled on his hands and knees, attempting to flee the fight. Warren finished him off.

“Why don’t they surrender?” Warren asked.

“Because we do not allow them to surrender,” Lukov replied. “The war computer forbids it. They are the enemy combatant. They must die. It is the purpose of war—to make the enemy die for his government, is it not?”

“It is,” Warren admitted, feeling his shoulders sag a little. “Let’s keep going.”

“What is the hurry?”

“We have the bridge, but if these assholes are ready to die for their government, they might be willing to breach their power plant and take us all out with them.”

Lukov nodded and raised his rifle, then they began moving again.

A minute later, Warren heard what sounded like hard-soled shoes against steel. It could have been a cyborg, but none of their people were supposed to be down here. He used a hand to signal for Lukov to halt.

The room beyond the open hatch was dark. It was also several degrees warmer than the other parts of the ship they’d been to. It had to be the power plant room.

“Come out!” Warren ordered.

There was no response.

“They will not come out,” Lukov said. “We must go in after them.”

“I need to give them a chance to live,” Warren said. “Come out now or we’re coming in!”

“They will not,” Lukov replied, lowering his rifle a hair.

“We surrender!” a woman called out from the darkness. Her accent made it clear English wasn’t her first language. “Please, don’t shoot. We did not want to be here. Please.”

“How many are in there with you?” Warren asked.

“There are two—no, three of us, including me.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Warren said as he stepped into the room.

“But—” Lukov started, before swallowing the rest of his words.

The room was the cleanest and best-maintained one Warren had seen yet. The power plant—a huge cylinder with small, round viewing windows all around—occupied most of the space. Terminals along the round wall filled the rest.

There were three of them, as the woman had said. They all wore Commonwealth uniforms that were blue with a red stripe running down each sleeve. The red meant they were engineers—a quick way for other Commonwealth sailors to find one if there was an emergency. All three had their hands raised, their legs out in front of them, wearing the same terrified expression.

“Keep your hands where I can see them and this’ll all work out,” Warren said a second before a message appeared on his HUD telling him to kill his prisoners.

Warren hesitated for two seconds before the icon for his compulsion chip began to blink, warning him he was about to get shocked. He considered resisting. Maybe his willpower would be enough to overcome the war computer’s control. They were unarmed and could hold valuable information for interrogators. It made no sense.

“You must do as the war computer commands,” Lukov warned. “If not, it will take control and force you to do it. If that happens, you may need to be reset. Or you may be deleted. It is as I said, we never leave survivors.”

Warren cried out when his compulsion chip shot electricity through his body.

“This isn’t a war,” Warren transmitted. “This is a fucking extermination.”

He wanted to close his eyes and pretend someone else was about to murder these people. But if he did that, he might miss, or worse, cause them to suffer before they died. These sailors weren’t innocent by any stretch of the imagination, but they were trying to surrender. They didn’t want to fight anymore. Neither did Warren, but the damn chip left him no choice.

He moved his targeting reticle to the first one’s forehead and squeezed the trigger, sending a single round through the woman’s skull. He repeated the process as quickly as he could with the other two. At least they didn’t suffer. It was the most humane thing he could do for them.

They turned to leave when a blast of electricity shot through Warren’s body. He wasn’t the primary target, though—Lukov was. His partner went down in a heap, his armor smoking from the blast. Glancing past his friend, he saw a frightened-looking CoW sailor standing in a hatchway on the other side of the room. The man held a rifle-like weapon in his hands.

The young sailor turned the gun toward Warren, but he wasn’t fast enough. Warren put three rounds in his chest. Blood smeared against the wall as the rifle dropped from his enemy’s lifeless hands. Warren stared as the dead sailor slid down to the floor, wondering what he’d become and why they were fighting.

“Nice one,” Cooper said as he kicked the weapon away from the sailor’s body. “Everything else is clear. The ship is ours now.”

“Yeah,” Warren said, as he took a knee and inspected Lukov. The Russian didn’t move.

“Damn,” Cooper said. “That CoW zapped him good. Looks like he’s going to have to be reset. Tough break.”

Warren stowed his rifle on his back, picked Lukov from the ground, and hoisted him over his shoulder.

“Let the sailors do that,” Craig said from the doorway, fanning a hand at Lukov. “We don’t get paid for that. They do.”

“No,” Warren said. “Cyborg or not, we respect our fallen. I’m not letting some asshole sailors who think of us as nothing more than tools take his body. Now back off.” Craig stepped out of the way as Warren stormed past.

Warren couldn’t remember ever having been so angry in his life. It burned in him, magma pouring out from the depths of his soul. It felt like it might boil his brain, cremating him from the inside. He welcomed it. The feeling fed his resolve. He’d seen enough. He was going to find Hendrose and they were going to put a stop to it whether the tech wanted to or not.

He found his target before he got off the enemy ship.

Hendrose had his tablet out and stared at Warren’s tight fists with a fearful look. “Uh, we can handle that for you. You don’t need to carry him out.”

“You’re going to repair him,” Warren demanded. “No resetting. No wiping memories. Only repair. Somewhere private.”

The tech nodded, pivoted away. He barked a command at another tech, then walked quickly from the Commonwealth ship. Warren followed.

Instead of heading to the medical bay they used before, Hendrose headed up a level and used his palm to unlock a smaller repair room.

“Set him on that table,” the tech instructed. “Now press the green button over there.”

Warren did, and the hatch closed. They were alone.

“Nobody will be able to come in now,” Hendrose said. “Not without a lot of trouble, anyway. The Skipper could, but Captain Bligh’s got no reason to be here.”

“Don’t reset him,” Warren said again. “Use as many repair parts as you need, but don’t erase his memories.”

“Let me get some lights turned on so I can see what I’m doing.”

The room had only three repair tables and a few cabinets of repair parts.

Hendrose returned to Lukov’s side and lifted his data pad. “Okay, he’s still in there, but he’s got a lot of damaged parts. Relays, mostly. Electrical damage. Nothing critical, though. Normally something like this would require a reset, but I can fix him. I just need a little time.”

“When was the last time he was backed up?” Warren asked.

“According to his chart, a few weeks ago,” Hendrose said. “Why?”

“Because it’s a few weeks of this man’s life, which means it’s important. Keep working, but I have a couple of questions for you.”

Resigned, the tech looked up and nodded. “Mind if I get a few parts first?”

“Go ahead,” Warren said and followed the man with his eyes.

When the tech returned to Lukov and began removing the man’s armor, Warren asked, “Why don’t we take prisoners?”

“The cyborgs?”

“Anybody.”

Hendrose shrugged. “I’m not a combatant, and I don’t make policy. Everyone has their suspicions, but I guess only the Senate knows for sure. We’ve never taken prisoners, though.”

“When I was on that CoW ship, my compulsion chip forced me to kill a few of their crew. They’d surrendered and were unarmed. It seems to me this isn’t a war. It’s a complete extermination. So, my next question is this: Is the Grand Republic of Unified Systems good or evil?”

The tech stopped what he was doing and looked at Warren. “In war, each side feels like they’re the good guys. Isn’t that how it’s always been? If you’re looking for an absolute good guy, you’re out of luck. Both sides are guilty of war crimes—each for their own reasons. They say things like ‘protecting the homeland’ and ‘act instead of react.’ Typical talking-point bullshit. In the end, nobody bothers to ask. If you do, you could be labeled a CoW sympathizer or an outright traitor. I guess in the end, it’s not about who’s wrong or right. It’s all about survival.”

“And nobody listens to cyborgs, even though we have centuries of experience to pull from.”

“Accurate,” Hendrose murmured as he got back to work.

“This is why Craig keeps trying to get himself killed, right? All that history, gone. All the memories, gone. We aren’t even considered people.”

“Maybe.” Hendrose shrugged as he began digging through Lukov’s guts, hunting for broken circuits. “This is war. There’s nothing pretty about it. People die—even those who don’t want to be involved. Those are the most tragic—the bystanders who just want to be left alone.”

“You mean the civilians on the planet Reotis, right?” Warren asked.

Hendrose nodded. “I have family there. Last I heard, anyway. About a month ago. My mother and two sisters. My father was killed almost a year ago during a battle. The GRoUS said he’d sided with the enemy. He wasn’t involved—just wrong place, wrong time.”

“I’m sorry,” Warren said quietly. “You know, Lukov’s injury wouldn’t have happened if our HUD showed us where our forces were. Instead, I had to fumble around the CoW ship while he was getting jammed up. With all the tech around here, why can’t we do that?”

“You could, but that kind of stuff is restricted. The Senate doesn’t want you to be able to do too much—to have too much power. They also don’t want you to know too much. You guys might start thinking for yourselves.”

“What would it take to free the planet and make it neutral from both the Commonwealth and the Grand Republic?” Warren asked.

Hendrose stopped what he was doing and slowly lifted his eyes to meet Warren’s. His hands had begun to shake. “It would take at least a full corps of cyborgs—but probably two. If they had their own cruiser, it would help. Maybe a few technicians to keep the cyborgs online for the long term.”

“A Grand Republic cruiser? Like the one we’re in right now?”

“Like the one we’re in right now,” Hendrose said. “Hypothetically, of course.”

“Why would those be the requirements, hypothetically speaking?” Warren asked, noting the tech’s rapid breathing.

“It’s all about the cyborgs, really,” Hendrose said, speaking rapidly. “It doesn’t matter how many bombs they drop on a planet, the only way to secure it is to put boots on the ground. It’s always taken ground troops to secure any battlefield. Without doing that, the best they can expect is to control the area around the planet. But they’ll never really capture it.”

Warren went over the big picture as he understood it, trying to consider what Hendrose had said. The ship they were on held 100 cyborgs when it was at full force.

“Our last fight on Reotis didn’t go so well,” Warren mused as Hendrose pulled out a small square piece that looked like it had been struck by an enemy slug.

“That’s because you didn’t have the support of the citizens,” he said as he picked a fresh circuit from a pile on the table and inserted it into an open socket.

“What would one need to do in order to gain the support of the civilians on Reotis?”

Hendrose froze. “One would have to fight for neither the Grand Republic nor the Commonwealth. Such a person, or people, would need to fight for Reotis alone.”

“Could a cyborg live without their compulsion chip?”

The tech’s raised his eyebrows. “No, but if someone could disable the chip and leave it in place...” He trailed off and shrugged, pulling another component from Lukov’s body.

It was now or never.

“I want you to disable my compulsion chip,” Warren said.

Hendrose looked up from his work. “What makes you think I can?”

Warren took the man by his shoulders and turned him around, so they were facing one another. He stared at the tech in the eyes for a few seconds before speaking.

“I’m done playing games, doc. I’m done doing the Republic’s dirty work. I don’t want to end up like Craig—hating myself and looking forward to my inevitable deletion. I want to live, to remember, to do some good for someone else. I think you want the same.”

“If I could—and if I did—what would you do afterward?”

“If you can do it, then I should be able to do it to others. I know I’m not alone in how I feel. It’s not just Craig. There are others who are tired of the bullshit, Hendrose. Probably more than I even realize.”

The tech didn’t respond, but he seemed to be considering Warren’s words.

“If I can free the other cyborgs, I will. Right now, we’re nothing more than slaves. If there are enough of us who are like-minded, I’ll lead them in a mutiny against the officers aboard this ship. Then, we’ll evacuate the survivors and take the Ruthless to Reotis. The civilians who want to get to Reotis—the ones not loyal to the Republic—can take escape pods down.”

Hendrose scoffed. “And then what? Everyone lives happily ever after?”

Warren lifted a shoulder. “From there, I’ll have to figure it out as I go. The Republic will have a tough time taking the planet from an entrenched and motivated squad of cyborgs. The question is, can you do it or not?”

“I can,” Hendrose said. He was sweating and his eyes were wide.

“Will Lukov keep long enough, or do you need to work on him first?”

“He’ll keep,” Hendrose said.

“Good. Then do it now.”

10

Hendrose pulled his hands from Lukov’s body and pointed to the table closest to Warren. “Take off your helmet and lie on that table.”

Warren removed his helmet and did as he was told, while Hendrose ran off to a cabinet and returned with the longest, thinnest screwdriver Warren had ever seen.

“This is just a tool,” Hendrose said. “It’s not sterile, but it doesn’t need to be. Your cyborg body makes you immune to most germs. You won’t even get a cold. You don’t remember it, but you’ve done this before. I didn’t come up with this myself. There’s no time to explain, but this will work.”

Warren wanted to ask what the tech meant, but kept his mouth shut. This was no time for what was sure to be a long discussion. If they survived, they could always talk about it later. “I’m ready.”

“Once I do this, if you’re caught, you’ll be deleted. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Warren replied without hesitation. He had never been more sure of anything.

“And they might delete the entire 1st Corps, just to be sure.”

Warren hesitated, not wanting to admit he didn’t know what the hell the 1st Corps were. “Why would they do that?”

Hendrose shrugged. “They could say you spread your ideas already. A little knowledge makes a man unfit to be a slave. You might have poisoned the others with thoughts of freedom. Something like that.”

Warren lay quietly for several seconds as he considered the man’s words. “It’s better to die on our feet than live on our knees. Do it.”

“I can’t shut down any of your pain systems,” Hendrose said as he carefully positioned the tip of the screwdriver under Warren’s chin. “I need the voltage to fry the chip. Otherwise, the war computer will know.”

“Once you destroy the chip, can you remove it permanently?” Warren asked.

“Not unless we redesign how some of your systems work. It’s all part of a bigger system. Plus, your chip won’t actually be destroyed. It’ll just be disabled. The war computer will try to control you but the procedure will stop that. No more zapping. No more mind control. It’ll be a passenger along for the ride.”

“Will the Republic be able to tell where I am?” Warren asked.

“No, but they’ll know what system you’re in if they bring another war computer close enough. Beyond that, they don’t have any kind of targeting system to find out where you are.” Hendrose smiled. “No cyborg has ever done this before.”

“Have you done this before?” asked Warren.

“Yes,” Hendrose confirmed. “We had to reset you. You volunteered. There’s no time to explain. Plus, I wasn’t there, so I don’t have all the details. Did you find the old memories you asked me to store for you?”

“I think so,” Warren replied. “I wasn’t sure how to access them. They’ve just sort of been bleeding out. Confusing me.”

“ Let’s worry about that later,” Hendrose said. “Hold still. Full humans aren’t as precise or accurate as cyborgs, so I’ll have to be careful.”

The tech’s hands were still trembling. Warren was about to offer him some words of encouragement when the technician shoved the screwdriver hard through the synthetic skin under his chin.

Pain. It was searing and white-hot, as if the technician had held the screwdriver to a fire for several minutes before applying it to him. The dull tip of the tool ripped his soul from his body and shoved it back inside him bit by bit. He gritted his teeth and tried to dive under the currents, letting the pain wash over him. Warren had to struggle to hold himself still. He thought he heard himself groan but couldn’t be sure.

“Hang in there,” Hendrose whispered. “You’ve done this before. You can do it again.”

The tech pushed again, and Warren felt something snap—a device he didn’t even know he had. A message tagged with a red X indicated some minor system had gone offline.

“That was the tertiary motor controls for your mouth,” Hendrose said. “You don’t need it, and even if your other two controllers go bad, you can still chew without it, but when you speak, your lips won’t move.”

Another shove caused Warren to flinch.

“Be still, especially from here on out. We’re really too close to your brain.”

Warren gripped the edge of the table and heard the metal groan in his grip.

“The proper angle is eighteen degrees off center from the midline of the jaw,” Hendrose said. “Remember eighteen degrees. You’re going to have to free most of the cyborgs yourself. Not all of them, just the ones you trust. I wasn’t expecting to put your plan into play today, so I’m a little nervous.”

My plan? thought Warren. What does he mean by—

Another shove and Warren tasted blood when something snapped. Warren fought hard not to arch his back or kick his feet. An anvil was pounding inside his head, threatening to split him in two.

“Okay,” Hendrose murmured. “I’ve reached the protective casing over your chip. You’ll hear a crunch. It might be loud, but it’s only the casing. The crunch is a good thing.”

A half-second later, the loud crack he’d been warned about startled Warren. It didn’t hurt, but it was a lot louder than he’d been expecting.

Hendrose continued to narrate his way through the procedure. “The case is broken. Now it’s time to short out the chip. This part’s really going to hurt, but we’re almost done.”

Now it’s really going to hurt?

Warren felt the tip of the tech’s tool brush against something deep within his head. It made an arcing noise, sending a jolt of electricity shooting through his body. It was the same kind of feeling the chip gave him when he disobeyed, but a thousand times more painful.

“Don’t move!” Hendrose snapped when his body jerked.

Warren gripped the table hard. The metal whined in protest as it twisted and buckled in his fists. He half-hoped he would faint but had a feeling it wouldn’t happen. The universe wasn’t that kind to folks like him. Hendrose brushed against the tiny spot and pain ripped through his body.

“Had to get the angle just so and find the edges,” Hendrose explained, an apologetic tone to his voice. “One last bit of pain and it’s all over. You’re doing great. This was the only way to do it. There isn’t a shorter path or anything less painful.”

There was a five-second reprieve from the torture before Warren’s universe burst into flames. It was over in less than a tenth of a second, but it felt like it had been hours. Before Warren could fully recover, Hendrose carefully pulled the screwdriver out.

Warren opened his eyes. The pain was gone and the icon of the compulsion chip in his HUD was now an empty, gray outline.

Hendrose took a step back. He was sweating profusely, his face twitching from the uncoiling tension. Both hands were shaking so badly, he dropped his tool, which sang as it struck the floor.

“It worked,” Warren said, twisting his head to look at the man. “Damn, you weren’t kidding. That hurt like hell.”

“Now what?” Hendrose asked. He looked like he was trying to back as far away from Warren as possible.

“What’s the matter, Doc?” Warren asked as he stepped from the table.

“You’re free,” he whispered. “It means you could kill me if you wanted to. Your compulsion chip won’t stop you.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Hendrose,” Warren assured him, sitting up.

The words seemed to relieve the man because he stopped moving.

“All right. What’s the next step?”

“Now, we get Lukov patched up. I’m going to need him.”

Hendrose glanced over at the supine cyborg. “You think he’ll go along with your plan?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Warren picked up the tool, positioned it under his friend’s chin, and closed his eyes. In his mind, he replayed what he’d experienced as he adjusted his wrist and measured the exact amount of force he’d need to apply to complete the task. The angle hadn’t been 18 degrees, Hendrose had been imprecise. He had to get a perfect 18.3 degrees or he’d fry the cyborg’s brain. That critical 0.3 made a difference. It had traveled into his head exactly eighteen centimeters. He could do this. Repeating the procedure would be simple for a cyborg. A quick stab and it was all over.

“What the hell?” Lukov exclaimed when the tool came out. “What is this, you walrus penis? What did you do?”

Warren took a step back and surveyed the man.

“Check your HUD,” Warren said. “What does your compulsion chip icon look like?”

Lukov blinked several times, probed the new puncture under his chin and sat silently for several seconds. “It is a gray outline. What did you do?”

“I’ve disabled it,” Warren said. “Don’t worry, the war computer doesn’t know.”

“Why did you do that?” Lukov asked as he tried to sit up. He looked at his opened belly and lay back down.

“Because we’re going to commit mutiny as soon as the Doc here gets you patched up.”

Lukov turned his head toward Warren in disbelief. “You are pulling my foot.”

“No. We’re free.” He hooked a thumb in Hendrose’s direction. “And now we’re going to free a bunch of cyborgs—hopefully all of them. Then we’ll eject as many of the surviving crew as we can fit into the escape pods. After that, we’re taking the Ruthless back to Reotis. We’ll hide it somewhere and fortify our position.”

“What if they send in the 2nd Corps to take us out?” Lukov asked.

“I’m not working alone,” Hendrose said, taking a small step forward. “There are more of us, though I can’t be sure how many. We keep that kind of information compartmentalized. We want the war to end. We’ve got operatives on nearly every ship. As soon as the cyborgs capture this ship, I’ll send a coded message to everyone else. If they get it, they’ll free the rest of the cyborgs. The Republic will have no choice but to back off. Without the corps, they’re going to have to worry more about defending themselves from the Commonwealth.”

“All six Corps?” Lukov asked.

Hendrose nodded, “All seven, actually.”

“There are six,” Lukov corrected.

“A seventh is in mothballs somewhere. Probably sitting in a warehouse. The government uses them as test subjects for newer, better versions of themselves. Better tech, improved reflexes, more human looking, that sort of thing. We know they exist, but we don’t know where. We’ve lost some good people looking for the 7th Corps.”

Warren wondered exactly who we referred to. Obviously a rebellion, but made up of who? Why would humans care about freeing cyborgs from the Republic? He decided to deal with that later and directed his attention to Lukov.

“So, are you in or out? All I’ve done so far is give you an opportunity. Unlike the Republic, I’m giving you a choice. Stick with me and help me free the others or stick with the Republic and go back to the way things have been. If you want to go back, I can stick you in an escape pod once the mutiny is over, but I hope—”

“I am in,” Lukov said. “All I need is for technician to finish fix me. I cannot fight with my guts hanging from body.”

Hendrose hurried back and continued replacing parts. “How long before you start the uprising?”

Warren grinned, making sure his teeth showed. “I’m starting it now.” He placed the tool in Lukov’s hand. “Just remember, it’s not 18 degrees. It’s 18.3. Measure how far I stuck this thing in your head and where I went in. Once Hendrose is done with you, release as many other cyborgs as you can. The more you free, the fewer we have to fight. Once the computer or one of the crew figures out what we’re doing, they’ll turn the rest on us. It’ll be brutal unless we hold the majority and catch the rest by surprise.”

“What about Craig?” Lukov asked. “Are we to free him?”

“Make your best call,” Warren replied. “I saw a spark of his old humanity when the war computer went offline and he was listening to me. I’m hoping that means he’s not a total loss for our side. I’ll keep in touch via private channel. They may be able to monitor us, so I’ll speak in code until the sparks start to fly. You should know when I’ve started the party. There will be a lot of sailors running around like crazy. I’m sure they haven’t trained for anything like what we’re about to do.”

“Fact,” Hendrose said through the several small components he was holding between his lips.

“Good luck,” said Lukov.

“ See you on the other side.” Warren stood in the doorway until the hatch closed a few seconds later.

The passageway was empty. Based on the lack of alarms, running feet, or shouted orders, it appeared nobody was the wiser—yet. Closing his eyes, Warren listened carefully, amplifying his hearing until he thought he might be able to hear the footsteps of an ant.

Cooks were preparing a meal in a kitchen about a hundred meters to his right. The bulkhead in front of him vibrated slightly—probably due to battle damage. Something on the exterior hull was threatening to come loose, but it sounded like it would hold for a while.

The passage to the left was quieter. Warren decided to go that way to avoid people as long as possible. It was time to grow his new army. All he needed to do was find another long, sharp instrument to perform the surgery.

Walking with a purpose, which he’d learned when he was still fully human, was how you got people to leave you alone. He started glancing into the hatchways of rooms he passed, looking for the tool he needed to kickstart his mutiny. When he reached a machine room, he peered in through the open hatch. It was clean, organized, and all the panels were closed. Nothing was being repaired, so the small toolbox he was looking for was back in its cubby.

A quick search of the box’s contents didn’t reveal anything he could use.

He stepped out of the room a few seconds later and continued down the passageway. There were sounds coming from another room, and something about it got his attention. Recorded voices. When Warren looked in, he found Cooper and a cyborg tech sitting on separate couches watching a movie on a large screen. It was an entertainment room and was only large enough for a dozen people.

Cooper was fiddling with something, and when Warren stepped into the room to get a closer look, he recognized what it was.

“Hey,” Cooper said, looking up. He had his dagger in his hand and was using it to pick his nails absently.

“What are you watching?” Warren asked, taking a seat next to him as he eyeballed the blade. It was a little wide, but it was long enough to get the job done. Warren ran some systems checks to see what else might be injured if he used it on the cyborg.

“Some chick flick,” Cooper said. “I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel, man. It’s the only movie on this boat I haven’t watched a hundred times.” He looked thoughtful for a second and became still. “Then again, how would I know? Do you think the techs could just erase the movies from my memory? You know, the ones I liked? I’d rather all the shitty ones stayed there so I know not to waste my time.”

“Maybe,” Warren said, turning to the tech sitting behind them. “What do you think?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” the man said testily. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to watch this.”

Cooper laughed. “He’s hoping to get in touch with his feminine side.”

The sailor scoffed.

“Listen, I need to talk with my friend here,” Warren said. “If you don’t mind, could we get some privacy?”

The man looked like he wanted to protest but sighed and got to his feet. “Fucking cyborgs,” he sneered as he left.

When he was gone, Warren got up and closed the hatch behind him before turning around. “I need your knife.”

Cooper glanced at his blade. “Don’t you have one?”

Warren thought for a moment and recalled where his blade was, pleased that another memory had returned. “They issued one to me, but I never found a use for it, so it’s three decks below in storage.”

“What do you need it for?” Cooper asked.

“Listen,” Warren said, pausing as he tried to collect his thoughts. “How do you feel about killing unarmed enemies who are hoping to surrender?”

A dark shadow crossed the other Cyborg’s face. “It sucks.”

Warren nodded in understanding. “If there was a choice, would you do it?”

“Of course not,” Cooper said. “Who would? Maybe the Commonwealth, but not me. But it’s not like we have a choice, right?”

“What if I told you we did?”

Cooper stared at him for several seconds. “What, you gonna try and take the captain hostage? Maybe mount his head on the ship’s nose? Trust me, I’ve thought about it. Many times. But remember this?” He tapped the side of his head, the motion somehow world weary. “The compulsion chips make that impossible. Even if they didn’t, the Republic would stop us.”

“You’re prior service, right?” Warren asked, trying a different approach.

“Yeah. I served with the 101st Airborne. Why?”

“We both know what kind of shit we have to do in war, right?”

Cooper nodded.

“You ever been ordered to murder every single enemy you encountered?”

“No, of course not,” Cooper said. “Back in the day, we didn’t do shit like that. What does all this have to do with my knife?”

“I’m here to offer you a choice,” Warren whispered. “Besides me and Lukov, you’ll actually get to make one.”

“How?” Cooper asked. “What do you mean?”

“I can free you from your compulsion chip.”

Cooper rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess being dead would be different, but it’s not much of a choice, is it?”

“This isn’t a joke. You want in, or not?”

Cooper was quiet for several seconds. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Completely,” Warren said. “I need you to decide what you’re going to do, though. If you’re in, I need your knife. If not, I need you to go lock yourself away somewhere before the fighting starts. Slow yourself down as much as possible. Maybe you won’t be forced to kill me.”

The soldier chewed on his bottom lip, still staring at Warren. “You’ve always been straight with me—never done me wrong. This is really possible?”

“Yes. But, whether you’re with me or not, the Republic will kill you to be safe. Sorry, old friend.”

“I guess when it’s your time, it’s your time, or something.” Cooper flipped the dagger over in his hand, offering the handle to Warren.

When he took it, Cooper asked, “What do you need me to do?”

“Just lift your chin, and for fuck’s sake don’t move. It’s gonna hurt like hell.”

Cooper did what he was told. Warren carefully aligned the blade and shoved a precise distance into Cooper’s head before yanking it free.

The cyborg uttered a muffled cry. “Hot damn, you weren’t kidding. How do you know if it worked?”

“Your compulsion chip icon will be nothing but a gray outline.”

“Then it worked,” Cooper said, sounding breathless. “Holy shit, I’m really free? I don’t have to do what my HUD says anymore?”

“Not unless you choose to,” Warren confirmed as he returned the blade. “Take this. Go free more cyborgs and try not to get caught. Get them to do the same. Make sure they understand how precise they need to be. One or two degrees off, and it’s all over for some unlucky bastard. Got it?”

“Fuck yeah!” Cooper hissed. “How do we know when we’ve freed enough cyborgs?”

“I’m not sure we have any way to tell,” Warren admitted as he stepped toward the hatch.

“Then when do we take the ship?”

“In two hours, unless we get caught before then. If we do, I’m sure it’ll be easy enough to figure out.”

11

The question had been tickling the back of Warren’s mind even before Cooper even asked it. How will I know when we have enough cyborgs? Truth was, he wanted them all, but that wouldn’t be possible.

He did some calculations and found the minimum number of cyborgs needed for a successful mission, then called Lukov over a private channel.

“I am currently occupied,” the Russian responded.

“I know... just listen. We have 98 cyborgs on board. I need to know when we have 80 of them freed. I think it’ll be enough to take the ship without suffering too many casualties. Contact Cooper. He’s free. Get him to report how many he’s freed in about an hour.”

“Roger,” Lukov replied.

“When we have enough, I’ll get the party started.”

“Very good,” Lukov said. “Already I have freed six. I am surprised to see so many are happy to do this. It would warm my heart, if I had one.”

A few seconds later, Cooper reported in. “I freed four. This shit is fucking nerve-wracking, you know? I feel like a kid again—afraid my mom is gonna come home and catch me making out with Mary Melano on the couch.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Warren. “It’ll all be over soon. Then we’ll get to taste freedom at last. Permanently, this time.”

Warren followed two cyborgs into the mess hall. They were headed straight for the mess.

“You’d think they could come up with some other kind of flavor, right?” the first one said.

“Yeah or randomize our experience or something,” the second added. “Hell, all they’d have to do is put a barcode on it or something. Then we could look at the lines and load in some kind of taste software. I’m sure they could figure it out if they really wanted to. These motherfuckers don’t have any clue how to keep their troops happy.”

“They don’t give a shit if we’re happy,” Warren said, joining them at their table. “We’re furniture. They sit on us when they remember we’re there, right?”

“Right,” both grumbled in unison.

“I’d rather be furniture,” the one his HUD identified as Kyle Patrick added. “At least furniture is only expected to be furniture. It isn’t sent into the middle of a firefight with no chance of survival. I doubt furniture has any worries about whether or not it’s going to die, or whether or not it’s going to be reset if it does. I didn’t sign up for this bullshit.”

“Me neither,” the first said.

Warren checked the HUD again and saw that his name was Michael Turnow. Both cyborgs stared at their protein bars in disgust. It looked like the conversation had stripped them of their appetite.

Warren wasn’t sure how he could handle two cyborgs at once. The way they were staring at him made him wonder if he’d pushed their buttons a little too hard. Maybe they’d want to fight instead of being freed.

“So, what if there was a way—hypothetically speaking—to stick it to them?” Warren asked. “What if I knew a way we could tell the entire Republic to kiss our cybernetic asses? How would you feel about that?”

“What do you mean?” Michael asked, squinting in suspicion.

“I mean, if there’s a way to disable our compulsion chips, would you be interested?”

“No,” Kyle said. “The second you try, they wipe your memory and load you from a backup. It’s disturbing, you know what I mean? Not remembering what I did the day or month before. No, I don’t want to do that again.”

Michael stared at his buddy. “What, you already tried to disable yours?”

“Probably,” he said with a small laugh. “I don’t remember, though. But yeah, it sounds like something I would do.”

They watched each other laugh, but their mirth faded when they saw Warren’s face.

“What?” Michael leaned in close. “You telling us you’ve got a way?”

“I do,” Warren said. “And it’s undetectable by the war computer. Wait here.”

Warren opened the hatch to the kitchen, poked through the drawers for a bit, and returned holding a long thermometer. The end was sharp enough to get the job done, and pointy enough to make it quick. “I won’t lie, it hurts, but it’s quick. The computer won’t know you’ve escaped its clutches. Neither will any of the crew unless you tell them. You’ll just be free.”

Kyle dropped his voice to a whisper. “You’re talking mutiny. That’s the only way this works. We’d need to take the ship, kick the crew off—or kill them—and go somewhere we can mount a defense.”

“Shut up!” Michael hissed before turning to Warren. “So, you’ve done it? You’re free?”

“Yes,” Warren replied, showing them the tiny hole under his chin. “And, I’m not alone. Others are being recruited as we speak. More cyborgs are free, and they’re freeing others. With any luck, we’ll all be free in just a few minutes. I’m not a slave any longer, and I don’t want either of you to be slaves, either.”

“What happens when we’re free?” Kyle asked. “I’m guessing you’re in charge?”

“Honestly, you’re free to do as you please,” Warren said with a shrug. “I do have a plan though.”

Michael crossed his arms. “And that’s what exactly?”

“I’m hoping enough cyborgs join us that we won’t have to fight any. That’s first. Then we’ll take the ship back to Reotis and figure it out from there. Anyone who comes with me will also be joining the separatists.”

The two men exchanged wary glances.

“Our loyalty will be to each other and the Reotians,” Warren continued. “They’re the ones who got this ball rolling. No more Republic influence. No Commonwealth influence either. We’ll be independent. It’ll be a big middle finger for both sides of this war.”

“What if we choose not to be free, as you say?” Kyle asked.

“Fair question. Likely, you’ll be ordered to kill us. We’ll defend ourselves, of course. Maybe you’ll win—maybe you won’t. Either way, you’ll still be a slave. Also, I think it’s likely they’ll reset you. Maybe even delete you—just in case. Wouldn’t want to take any chances of you remembering any of this, right?”

“Damn,” Michael muttered. He hesitated for the briefest of moments, then nodded. “Sounds like you got this all figured out, including the blackmail. Join you or probably die permanently. Well then, do me first.”

Warren thought he was being sarcastic, but the man tipped his head back and waited. Not wanting to give him time to change his mind, Warren held the man by the back of his head, instructed him to stay still, and quickly plunged the thermometer in at the proper angle to the proper depth before quickly yanking it free.

“Fuck!” the man hissed. “You weren’t kidding—that sucked. That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Warren confirmed. “You’re lucky I’m the one who did it. The tech who did mine took forever. He had to be careful. Full humans aren’t as fast or precise as us. It took a lot longer. What color is your compulsion chip icon?”

“It’s just gray. An outline of gray.”

“That’s it,” Warren said. “That means it worked.”

A few seconds later, Kyle Patrick was free.

“According to the reports I just received, we’ve got seventy of the cyborgs freed,” Warren told them. “When the time comes, we’re not going to kill any of the crew if we can help it. We’re kicking them off the ship. They’ll be loaded into the escape pods—we’re not spacing them.”

“I’m free,” Michael said, staring down at his hands in wonderment. He acted like it was the first time he’d seen them. “I can choose to do whatever I want... or nothing at all. It doesn’t feel any different, though. I guess I expected sparks, fireworks, naked chicks with wings flying around my head—something.”

Kyle nodded in tacit agreement. “I haven’t felt human in a long time. I fought the system so many times, they threatened to delete me. I don’t even know what it’s like to do what I want anymore. This is weird. Kind of scary.”

“Stay with him,” Warren told Michael. “You don’t have to get involved any further until we have the ship if you choose not to. But, if they fight back, or some of the cyborgs don’t come to our side, we might need you. Stay on the general cyborg channel in your comms and wait for my signal.”

“I’m in this one way or another,” he replied darkly. “No matter which way this goes. I’ve got some payback to dish out.”

“No!” Warren snapped. “It’s not about that. This is about freeing ourselves and escaping our bonds. This is about proving we’re more human than those who enslaved us. We’re ejecting the crew out the escape pods. If you’re confronted with someone who’s armed, do what you have to do but I don’t want indiscriminate killing. We’re not puppets of the Republic anymore. Killing isn’t our primary mission.”

Warren stood and walked away before either could respond. He wasn’t sure if the others were running into similar issues, or if they were simply sneaking up on their fellow cyborgs and telling them what happened after the deed was done.

The count was up to 80. Then 82. The time to take the ship was now, but Warren hesitated a moment longer. He wanted to see if more could be freed. He didn’t want to lose any of his people if he didn’t have to. They’d need every single one of them for the upcoming war to hold Reotis.

Once it hit 90, he decided it was enough and sent a message over the cyborg-wide comms. “Let’s take the ship. Keep casualties to a minimum. Hustle the crew into escape pods as quickly as possible. Go!”

When Warren stepped out of the room, he ended up face to face with the ship’s captain and a half-dozen officers trailing behind him.

“There you are,” Captain Bligh said. “Warren, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Warren replied. Before he could say any more, the officer continued.

“I have received and reviewed the report of how you and the rest of First Corps did on that frigate. Outstanding job, soldier. We lost no personnel and the damage to the vessel was minimal. We’ve loaded a prize crew and it’s being towed back to Grand Republic space as we speak. I’m sure our techs will be able to find all kinds of new information the Commonwealth were trying to hide from us, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, sir, I would, but—”

“I only wish the rules were different concerning cyborgs,” Bligh added, his voice quieting in what sounded like dismay. “You know, the whole not being able to provide you with some kind of recognition for your hard work. I’d promote you right here and now if I could, but my hands are tied.” He held them out in front of his body as if someone had lashed them together. “I really wish there was something I could do.”

“Actually, there is something you can do,” Warren said.

The captain’s eyes lit up. “There is? What is it?”

“You can raise your hands above your head,” Warren said.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Put your hands above your head, sir,” Warren repeated as he curled his own into tight fists. “All of you.”

A second later, the lights in the hallway flashed from bright white, to a crimson red. Klaxons began to sound and people started running toward their battle stations. None of the sailors were doing anything that would actually save the ship from the mutiny. They didn’t know it, but the chaos would only help the cyborgs complete their mission.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Captain Bligh bit out. “Stand down. I order you to stand down!”

“Thank you for your kind words earlier, sir, but now I order you to get the fuck off my boat.”

“This is not your vessel!” Captain Bligh snapped. “This vessel belongs to the Grand Republic of Unified Systems! And you’re—”

“A slave no more,” Warren interrupted.

“I have many Reotis loyalists gathered in deck-3 mess hall,” Lukov transmitted. “I’m guarding them and keeping all others out. Hendrose says each is loyal to Reotis and is not a threat to us. They will comply. They will fight. Hendrose says to say he vouches for all 50 of them.”

Warren sighed inwardly. He was hoping for more than that. There were four hundred and seventeen crew assigned to the ship. Half would have been better. Though many of the ship’s systems were automated, it still took a lot of bodies to keep it moving. The systems onboard the Ruthless couldn’t repair themselves, after all.

The captain and the cyborg stared at each other for several seconds. Suddenly, one of Bligh’s junior officers reacted. He pulled a tiny pistol and raised it to Warren’s head. Acting on an instinct born of hundreds of close combat engagements, Warren reached out and crushed both the weapon and the hand holding it. Then he squeezed some more, feeling and hearing the man’s bones splinter within his grasp. The sailor would live, but his screams might be enough to convince the others to obey.

Warren took a step closer to the captain and leaned forward, bringing his face close to the commander’s. Bligh’s expression was flat—not a man who was easily intimidated, so Warren squeezed the ensign’s hand a little tighter—just enough to get his shriek to go up another octave.

“The cyborgs are in control now. We’re giving you the opportunity to surrender peacefully. If you refuse, I will twist the head off your shoulders and dump your lifeless body into the void. Your crew might suffer the same fate as well. I’m giving you the opportunity to save their lives. The choice is yours.”

“Impossible,” Bligh said, dismissing the statement with a wave of his hand. “Your compulsion chip will kick in soon.”

Warren smiled, though there was nothing nice about it. “The chips have been neutralized. It’s still there, but the war computer no longer holds any power over me. No one ever will again.”

“Then the other cyborgs will stop you,” Bligh spluttered. He didn’t seem to notice that Warren had said chips, as in plural.

“They’re free as well,” he replied. “We all are now. Every single one of us. We are no longer your slaves. Cyborgs no longer take orders from you or your damned computer, and we will no longer do the Republic’s bidding.”

“Th-that’s impossible!” Bligh said, retreating a step as his eyes widened with fear.

“Is it?” Warren asked, taking a small step forward. He dragged the shuddering ensign over and brought the man’s hand close to the captain’s face. “Could I do this if I weren’t free?”

“W-why?” Bligh stammered. “You’re Republic soldiers.”

“Because slavery is wrong, no matter what form you use to dress it up and assuage your conscience. Because of the war crimes the Grand Republic made us commit. Because we were born free, and we intend to die free.”

Captain Bligh’s expression turned dark and dangerous. “So, you’ve decided to defect? To join the Commonwealth?”

Warren released the ensign and brought his index finger dangerously close to Bligh’s nose. “The Grand Republic and Commonwealth are both guilty of war crimes. Neither is innocent. We are independent. If you don’t raise your hands above your head and get your ass onto the nearest escape pod, I will make your head independent from your body.”

Two of the four officers with Bligh quickly raised their hands above their heads in the universal sign of surrender. The ensign cradled his injured hand against his chest and tried to hide behind the others. It wasn’t until the captain himself raised his hands that his final junior officer did.

“To think, I actually admired you,” Bligh whispered, sneering at the cyborg.

“The fact that you don’t says something about your character,” Warren said. “I’ll leave you to figure out what that is. Single file to the nearest escape pod, now!”

The officers turned around and began walking down the hallway away from Warren. Craig was coming the other way with ten prisoners of his own. Most of them looked battered and bruised, but they were all alive. The hulking cyborg had a wicked grin on his face. He was clearly enjoying himself.

“It is done,” Lukov transmitted to all of the First Corps. “All cyborgs are free. Only two gave us any trouble, but we held them down and freed them anyway. No casualty. Last two had many unkind words. Four others are guarding them and trying to talk them into sense.”

“Fine, we don’t have time to do anything about them just yet. Keep them confined until we get the ship under control and all the crew off.”

Warren watched as the command staff marched toward their escape pods. They stopped in front of a red-framed hatch with E-104 printed above it. They weren’t making any effort to finish their exodus, which caught Warren’s attention. “Keep moving.”

“The escape pods only have four days’ worth of supplies,” Bligh protested. “It will take at least that long for the Grand Republic to send someone out here to retrieve us. You’ll be sentencing us to death.”

Craig shoved his last captured crew member into the next pod marked E-105 and stepped over. “We could always snap your neck right here. Then we could fit at least three times as many into the pod and it wouldn’t matter how long it takes for them to retrieve your rotted corpses. Less trouble for me. Fun, too.”

Warren moved Craig to the side and spoke to the captain. “You and I both know you’re lying, trying to gain sympathy from someone who’s had enough of your shit. I’d take his word for it when he says he’s willing to snap your neck.”

The captain scoffed.

“You’ve lost, Bligh. Craig is exercising a lot of self-control right now. If you knew anything about him, you’d understand how much patience he’s displaying, and you wouldn’t push him. So, unlike how the Republic has treated us, I’m going to allow you to have a choice. Either stop talking and follow orders, or you can see if this cyborg is serious about folding you like a fitted sheet. The choice is yours.”

The captain stared at Craig as if he were daring the cyborg to do it. The rest of his officers hurriedly opened the hatch and scrambled into the cone-shaped pod. They huddled together near the opening as they watched what looked like might be the end of their leader.

“The Grand Republic does not forgive, and it never forgets,” Bligh said, turning to Warren. “And neither will I.”

“Right back at you,” Craig said. “Now get your ass in there before I do something you’ll regret.”

A few seconds later, Bligh was in the escape pod and its hatch was closed. When it was secure, Warren stepped back and hoped letting the captain live wasn’t going to come back and bite him in the ass.

“We could always override the seal and space the whole lot of them,” Craig suggested. “You know they’d do the same to us. They deserve it.”

“They do,” Warren agreed. “But it turns out, we’re different from them.”

“How so?”

“We’re more human than they are,” Warren said as he pressed the EJECT button. The whooshing sound of the air escaping the tube gave a grim sense of finality to the mutiny. The captain of the Ruthless was no longer aboard the ship.

12

The cyborg channel erupted, filled with cheering and curses directed at the departing escape pods. Warren was sure if he’d still been fully human, he would have gone weak in the knees at what he’d just accomplished.

“Lukov, how many cyborgs did we lose?” Warren asked as he headed to the deck-3 mess hall to meet the Reotian separatists.

“According to HUD, zero,” he replied. “This day has granted us many fortunes.”

“That’s what mine says, too. All 98 of us accounted for.”

“Eh, zero cyborg casualties,” Lukov corrected. “Six Republic personnel are killed. They attempt to fight us. They went to armory and did retrieve rifles. We did not have a choice. The dead were ejected in an escape pod so as to not cause disease from rotting corpse. For the ones Hendrose has vouch for.”

“It was their own fault,” Warren replied.

He arrived just over a minute later. Lukov offered him a crisp salute, which he instinctively returned. It felt odd, being the one who was saluted, but he dismissed the feeling and opened the hatch. Inside, he found a miracle. There weren’t 50 personnel. Nor were there 60. Crammed into the compartment, sitting on tables, and standing shoulder-to-shoulder were 82 personnel loyal to Reotis.

“Found some more in hiding,” Lukov said with a happy grin before marching off to talk to a wounded man propped up against a table.

Warren scanned the room until he found Hendrose and motioned for the man to join him.

“You’re certain none of the people here are Republic spies?” he asked.

Hendrose shrugged. “As certain as I can be. Every single one of them, except for two, have family on the planet. They’ve personally witnessed the suffering—the evil both sides have done. We recruited them months ago. The only thing we were waiting for was you, just like you’d planned.”

Warren noted the tech’s reference to a plan—one he couldn’t remember—and chalked it up to the memories he’d lost. Nothing he could do about it right this second.

“All of them have known about it for months,” continued Hendrose. “Even so, nobody betrayed us. So far it looks like a complete success. Can’t ask for more proof of their loyalty than that, can you?”

“Agreed,” Warren said as he gently grasped the technician by his shoulders and gave him a meaningful look. “Since I don’t remember the plan, but you do, what’s the next step?”

“We need to get this ship to Reotis,” the tech said. “We’ve built a hangar for the shuttles. Well, for any vessels we might be able to capture, since it’s the class of ships cyborgs are transported on.”

“You have a hangar on Reotis?” Warren asked.

“We’d have two if we’d been given a long enough break between battles,” he replied. “And, we have enough personnel to get us there. But we need to start moving as soon as possible. We’re understaffed, so it’s going to take us a while to make sure the ship is safe to move. Then we’ve got to get it pointed in the right direction.”

“What do you need from the cyborgs?” Warren asked as he released the tech. “Is there anything we can do in the meantime?”

Hendrose thought about it for a moment. “I guess patrol the ship. Make sure there aren’t any bombs or other sabotage left behind. Your people moved really fast. If there was some kind of contingency plan to scuttle the ship in case it was ever taken, I doubt there was enough time to put it in place.

“I’ll send you a list of the personnel who are still aboard, too. If they find anyone else, please instruct them not to kill the person or people unless they’re attacked first. I don’t want anyone dying because of a misunderstanding. Can you do that?”

“Done,” Warren said. Then he turned to Lukov, who was now standing just outside the hatch. “Organize patrols. Three cyborgs per deck. Have the rest search between the decks. Detain anyone they find out of place or doing something suspicious. Bring them to the brig for questioning. Make sure they use less than lethal force whenever possible. I’m releasing these people so they can get us to Reotis.”

“Very well,” Lukov said, still not sounding convinced. “It will be done. And Warren, no matter how this does turn in, you have done a good thing today. I thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Warren said.

As Hendrose got the crew to work, Lukov began issuing orders over the cyborg comm channel.

“We should get to the bridge,” Hendrose said as he turned and walked away. Warren wasn’t sure why he’d said ‘we,’ but he followed anyway.

Cyborgs had never been allowed on the bridge. They had no business there, so when Warren arrived, he paused to take it all in. The control center for the Ruthless was everything he’d expected: large, opulent, and crowded with workstations. Each workstation had a chair sitting in front of it and it looked like all of them were powered on. At the front was an array of curved screens mounted into the wall with the largest one in the middle. The only thing missing was the bustle of activity. Of the thirty stations, only nine were occupied.

“Can this be done with so many empty spots?” asked Warren.

“Just barely,” Hendrose said. “A lot of the ship’s systems can be run by the war computer, which helps. Most of the separatists have been cross trained to do just about everything on a ship. Captain Bligh said we were an inspiration for the rest of the Republic, the way everyone wanted to learn every job. In reality, we just wanted to make sure that once the plan started, we could do what needed to be done.”

Warren frowned. “They’ll figure it out eventually, but the Republic is a slow-moving machine. They’ll have meetings, review what reports they can get their hands on, and replay any video they can find. In the end, they’ll realize what we were up to, but it’ll probably take a few years. Even if some of them have suspicions, they won’t be able to do anything about it until they get past the bureaucracy.”

“True enough,” the tech agreed. “I’ve already sent coded messages to the rest of the Reotis agents in the fleet. It’ll look like a malformed report to everyone who isn’t looking for it, and they’ll dismiss it just like they do with every other comms error. However, I expect the rest of the cells to put their plans into action, if they can.”

“We’ll give them a hell of fight if they come after us,” Warren promised.

Hendrose’s expression turned thoughtful. “I’m told there are a couple other planets who are after the same thing: freedom. I don’t have any details. It’s how we kept our secrets, only telling people what they needed to know. If it’s true, the Republic is going to have a lot of indigestion for the next few years. Maybe so much they don’t come after us.”

“That would be ideal,” Warren said.

Hendrose motioned for him to sit in the captain’s plush, red chair in the center of the room. It was something no cyborg would ever be allowed to do under any circumstance… until now.

“I don’t have any experience captaining,” Warren said.

“You’ve got leadership experience,” Hendrose replied. “And, you’ve got the respect of the separatists.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re just afraid of me,” Warren said, glancing at the people running from station to station on the bridge. “After all, the last time I was on the planet, I made a bloody mess of their lives.”

“You don’t need to worry about them or the Reotis citizens. You might have some trouble with the older generation, but they’re few in number. Everyone knows you were a slave, and now you’re free. You’re just like us.”

The tech’s words were compassionate, but Warren worried the tech’s words might be a little too optimistic. “Still, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here. I should be patrolling along with everyone else.”

“Nonsense,” Hendrose said, waving the comment away. “Your job, until we get to the planet, is to sit here and look important. You’re already making decisions for the cyborgs. If anything happens, you’ll be in the central location to make the call. And worst comes to worst, I’ll cough into my hand if I’ve got a better idea about something. We’ll make you look like a pro.”

Warren laughed. “I appreciate that. How long until we can get the ship turned around?”

“Two or three minutes,” one of the crew members replied. “They had enough time to lock a few of the systems out. We had to reboot them. They’re coming back online now.”

“So, this is it?” Warren asked. “We wait, the crew takes us back to the planet, and we figure it out from there?”

“It’s a little better than that, but not much,” Hendrose admitted, a pained expression on his face. “We have equipment, plenty of it. Each side of this insane war abandoned gear every time the planet changed hands. It’s good stuff, and we could do something amazing with it, but we need someone to get us all headed in the same direction.”

“I hope this works,” Warren said, settling into the chair. “This is all virgin ground. We’re doing something that has never been done before. Something I doubt the Senate thought was even possible. If they had, they would’ve found a way to prevent it from happening.”

“I know,” Hendrose said.

“Ready!” one of the sailors called out. “Destination programmed in. Ready for FTL travel on your command.”

She was looking at Warren. They were all looking at him. He leaned forward, thought of what his favorite starship captain would have said, and pointed a finger at the main screen. “Engage.”

It was far less dramatic than he thought it would be. There was no sudden acceleration—no dizzying effect. The stars on the main viewscreen simply vanished. A moment later, the view to the outside was replaced with a star map showing their three-dimensional direction of travel and their estimated date and time of arrival. According to the digital clock, it would only take a couple of hours.

“FTL drive engaged,” the sailor who’d first spoken announced. “Optimal output. Temperature holding. Looks like we’re good.”

“What’s the situation like on Reotis?” Warren asked. “How many Commonwealth troops are we going to need to blast?”

“Zero, so far as we know,” Hendrose said. “You kicked their asses so hard last time, they didn’t have enough to hold the planet. That’s what the Republic probes are reporting, anyway. We’ll know more once we get closer. I’m sure the CoWs will be back, but not for a while. I know how they keep the cyborgs in the dark, but from what I’ve gathered, the entire border between Republic and Commonwealth space is engaged in hostilities.

“The CoWs are spreading all across the galaxy as fast as they can. It’s like their asses are on fire and their hair’s catching. From what I’ve learned, they’ve spread themselves too thin so when they get beat down too hard, they’ve got to consolidate elsewhere before they can try again.”

“How many times have they tried to take Reotis?” Warren asked.

Hendrose thought about it for a moment. “Five, I think. The Republic pushed them out every time.”

“We’ve got a problem,” one of the sailors interrupted. “I’m detecting a transponder signal.”

That wasn’t good. Even though the signal wouldn’t work while they were travelling at this speed, once they hit open space again it would tell the Republic right where they were headed. The rest of the crew shifted uncomfortably at the news.

“We need to find and disable it in the next two hours,” Hendrose said calmly. He turned to Warren. “Any chance you could spare a few cyborgs to hunt for it?”

“Of course. What are they looking for?”

“We’ll need them to locate the source of the signal. It’ll be a small device, probably no bigger than your fist. There’s a good chance it’ll be tied into a power conduit—some place out of sight. They should be able to locate it easily enough. When they do, they need to destroy it.”

“Got it,” Warren said and passed the order on to Lukov, who assigned twenty of the 96 available cyborgs to hunt for it. “Anything else?”

“Not at the moment,” Hendrose replied, looking relieved.

It took a while to find the transponder, which ended up being hidden behind crates of food. The cyborgs managed to disable the device only minutes before they returned to real space.

Staring out the viewport, Warren studied the system. Eight planets, officially, with a huge asteroid belt at the far reaches. It’s star was nearing its end of life, having recently started expanding into a red giant. It would still be hundreds of lifetimes before anyone living in the system started having any trouble, though.

Zooming in, Warren saw the planet Reotis from space for the first time. It was red with darker streaks running mostly across its equator. They would leave Ruthless in upper orbit and take a few shuttles down to the surface.

“Home, sweet home,” Hendrose said wistfully. “If we can keep it, that is.”

“We’ll keep it,” Warren said. “What do I need to know about the culture? I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.”

Hendrose shrugged. “They’re regular people. They’ve been through a lot; despite that, they still love, laugh, play, and work hard. We take care of each other. We still have spats, but nothing serious. Kind of like most siblings, I’m guessing.”

“How will the cyborgs be treated?”

Hendrose shrugged again. “That remains to be seen, but I think most will be happy to see you. After all, they’ve been wanting to break free from the war for a long time. They understand it won’t be easy—that there will be still more fighting to do. Having a goal will keep them motivated. Sooner or later, one way or another, this war will all be over.”

As the ship began to descend, Hendrose spoke. “Have you heard the reports of unknown underground bases on the planet?”

Warren thought for a moment and realized he did. “Yes, though not until just now. It’s been that way since I woke up. Like data is getting restored a little at a time.”

“It will keep doing that until you have it all back,” Hendrose told him. “Did you hear how the Republic was worried how so much dirt got taken off-planet?”

“Yes. The Republic thought they took it all away or hid it somehow.”

“We did. The hangar is built into the mountain,” Hendrose finished. “Look.”

The cargo-sized ship approached an unremarkable mountain far from any of the dome cities. As they got closer, Warren spotted a dark line forming across the tops of the peaks.

“How do I—is there a way for me to zoom in?” Warren asked.

“Yes, this control here,” Hendrose said, showing Warren how to work the small digital display on his armrest.

Warren zoomed-in the image on the main screen. The line on the mountain became more distinct. He cocked his head to one side as he tried to guess what it meant, and suddenly he realized what it was. It wasn’t a line at all. It was a gap. The face of the mountain was opening, leaving enough room for a vessel double the size of the cargo ship.

“Sensors are clear,” one of the sailors reported. “The hangar says everything’s out of the way and they’re ready for us to land.”

“Thank you,” replied Warren. “How many Reotians are in the colony now?”

“A few thousand, last census,” Hendrose replied. “There used to be a lot more.”

“You’ve vetted everyone still onboard the ship, but what about the ones on the surface? Any chance the Republic or Commonwealth left people behind?”

“What, like spies?”

Warren nodded. “Exactly like spies. What’s to prevent them from telling either side what we’re doing?”

“We do what we can,” Hendrose said, looking uncomfortable. “But we haven’t really had a leader for a while. Neither side likes it when they ask who’s in charge and we have someone we can point to. Anyone we elect, or anyone who just takes charge—they don’t tend to live very long.”

“So there could be spies,” Warren said. “Not a big fan of that, but nothing we can do about it now, I suppose. We’ll just have to keep our eyes and ears open.”

It took several minutes for the nervous sailors to align the ship properly with the opening. A few minutes later, there was a loud rumble Warren both heard and felt.

“Nothing to worry about,” Hendrose said to everyone on the bridge. “That was the ship settling on the docking struts. No problem. Everything’s fine.”

“Problem!” a sailor yelled from one of the stations. “The hangar entrance won’t close!”

“Why not?” Hendrose asked, hurrying to a nearby station.

“Something’s in the way,” another said. “The safety system is reporting a fault. Checking systems now. Looks like it was a system fault. Clear now.”

Hendrose sighed. “Crisis averted.”

A minute later, the ship was safely docked and powered down within the hangar.

“Let’s go see our new home,” Hendrose said.

13

Warren heard a dull thud as he stood. It came from somewhere below and echoed throughout the shuttle.

“That’s one of the portable lifts attaching to a lower port-side access hatch,” Hendrose said, waving a hand. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

A second boom, not quite as low as the first, changed his mind.

“That was another portable lift. Whoever just crashed them into the side of the ship is going to pay dearly. Everyone down here is trained how to use them. They aren’t that difficult. I don’t know what happened, but I’ll find out. Let’s get down there and see what’s going on.”

Warren removed his helmet and followed the tech out of the bridge and down the ladder well. There was a line of people waiting to leave the ship, long enough that they had to queue up a deck above the exit. Several other cyborgs standing nearby turned and thanked him as they waited. Their expressions ranged from pride to fear. Warren shook each of their hands and thanked them in return.

“Hell of a job, sir,” said a cyborg named Thompson. “I never would’ve thought about doing this. I mean, I’ve thought about it before, but never seriously. I was always afraid I’d remember thinking about it after a reset. You know, like maybe the war computer would be able to pick that thought out of my memories and use it as a reason to delete me. Or maybe the backup. I was worried I might have to go back years. Anyway, what’s next? I’m with you all the way.”

“I’ve got to see what assets we have first,” Warren said. “Then we’ll need to worry about defenses, organizing the civilians, and finding out the best way for our fellow cyborgs to be deployed.”

“I think you mean your cyborgs, sir. It’s pretty clear, especially from everyone I’ve already spoken with, that we’re following your lead whether you like it or not.”

“I’m flattered,” said Warren. He meant it, but something about the situation made him uncomfortable. “I don’t have all the answers, so I’m going to rely on my fellow men, the civilians—everyone. If you see me doing something stupid, I want to make sure you know you can tell me about it. I’m not above anyone else. It’ll take all of us taking a lot of steps from here on out to keep the freedom we’ve earned. And don’t call me sir. I’m no officer.”

“I was an officer,” said Thompson with a small smile. “At least, I think I was. I’ve got some vague memories about it—nothing concrete, though. Even so, you’re the leader. So let me rephrase my last statement. Thank you… Warren.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

As they waited, a few people he didn’t recognize slipped past them coming the opposite direction. They weren’t dressed in the ship’s uniform.

“Who are they?” Warren asked.

“Reotis technicians,” replied Hendrose. “Scientists, mostly. Some engineers, apprentices, and laborers. They’re here to research the Republic tech, starting with the computer subsystems. They know to steer clear of the war computer. It’s too delicate for any of them to work on.”

Warren watched them go and wondered again if he was doing the right thing. So much had changed in the last day that he couldn’t be sure. He supposed there was no going back now though.

“I don’t think they’ll be here for more than a few hours,” Hendrose was saying. “They’ve all been vetted—not only for their knowledge, but their long-time loyalty to Reotis. I only know some of them, but others took over the vetting process when I left. Once they’re done, they’ll bring what they’ve learned and collected to the people who can best use it. Unfortunately, it’s the only part of the plan we have right now. Once you freed the cyborgs and we secured the ship in the hangar, we ran out of things to check off the list. We’re winging it for now.”

“No defensive or offensive plans at all?” asked Warren, a little surprised.

Hendrose shrugged. “We’re not soldiers. I think we used to have people here who knew what to do, but everything had to be compartmentalized in case there were spies or the Republic or Commonwealth found out. If someone was tortured and talked, they’d only be able to give up so much information instead of everything.”

“Okay, I can see that,” Warren conceded. “If the number of people who know about the plan is limited, how are the civilians going to act? Won’t they think we’re invading?”

“Some might, but we’ve been coaching them for a long time. Little by little in conversations here and there, we’ve been planting the seed of possibility into their minds. Some will be shocked—mostly because they’ll have trouble believing it’s actually happened. Others will be confused or afraid, but it’s amazing what can be accomplished when you’ve got a bunch of people in close proximity. Inserting little bits of info into everyday conversation can go a long way. It’s kind of a dirty trick, but it’s not like we could come out and say it.”

Warren studied the tech for a long moment. He had changed in the last day too, becoming something of a leader himself, even if he didn’t yet realize it. And this was just the beginning.

“Right,” said Warren. “Any word on CoW troops? Are there any left on the planet?”

“Not anymore,” Hendrose said with a small smile. There was a sadness in his eyes that said the situation had been bittersweet. “First Corps kicked enough ass that they fled soon after you did. There weren’t enough to hold the colony, especially after you took out that machine gun. We lost four citizens, but we killed more than a dozen. The rest got picked up and left. It happens sometimes. They’ll be back, but we’re free—for now.”

Warren and Hendrose stood in silence for several minutes while people milled around completing various tasks. The news felt like it needed to be answered by a short period of mourning. More lives lost. Reotian lives. The survivors were counting on him.

“By the way,” Hendrose said. “Any remaining personal memory files will be accessible once the Reotian techs are done working, if you’re so inclined.”

“I am so inclined,” Warren said. “But there’s a lot to do before I can indulge myself.”

“Indeed,” Hendrose agreed as the line started moving.

Warren was amazed what he saw when the lift reached the floor of the hangar and opened. The facility was vast—a massive open area that seemed to go on forever. He hadn’t realized how large his ship was until he stepped out and turned around.

The ground level was wider, extending out a hundred meters all the way around and sectioned off into smaller workspaces. Most were filled with machine parts and equipment. Others held huge cutting tools, welders, and diagnostic devices. Although the techs inside the ship were busy, most of those outside of the Ruthless were sitting on their butts.

“What are our assets?” Warren asked.

“Well,” Hendrose said, dragging out the pause as he thought. “We have a warship now. That’s a big plus for us, even if it is a little beat up. And like I said, we’ve also been collecting a lot of usable equipment both sides left behind, including food supplies. It’s funny—by hiding the stuff, each side accused the other of stealing. After the second or third time, we started telling them that’s what happened.”

The tech led Warren to a small door set in a much larger one. The bigger of the two looked like it split in the middle and slid to both sides to allow huge pieces of equipment an easy way to enter and exit. If the doors slid all the way into the walls, the opening would be 30 meters wide and almost as tall.

Hendrose placed his palm against the wall next to the regular-sized door until something behind his hand beeped. Once it did, he pulled the door open and ushered Warren into a dark room. A moment later, lights began to flicker on one at a time with soft pinging sounds.

“Holy hell,” Warren whispered as he tried to look at everything at once. “You weren’t kidding.”

The warehouse he’d walked into was the size of a small town. He couldn’t see the far wall because of all the shelves, boxes, and stacks of miscellaneous stuff. Blocking the way were stacks, shelves, and individual pieces of equipment. All of it was precisely organized.

“These are GR-299 cannons,” Hendrose said, pointing to something that looked like a four-barreled artillery piece. “They’re Commonwealth Portable Particle Cannons, or just PPCs for short. We call them Slicers because it’s what they do. They’re especially useful, because Reotis doesn’t have much of an atmosphere to speak of. Therefore, no atmospheric blooming. Full power, all the way to their maximum range.”

As you can see, we’ve got more than fifty here,” Hendrose replied.

“Sixty-seven,” Warren corrected. “Do we have the parts to get the rest up and running?”

“We do. We haven’t done it, though, because we had no idea how long it would be until... well... you.”

“This needs to be a priority,” Warren said firmly.

“That’s what I was thinking. Do you want me to get some techs on it?”

“As many as you can spare. What about that row of racks over there?”

“Yes,” Hendrose said with a frown. “But it’s CoW technology, which means it’s been cobbled together from junk. Someone on-high in the CoW leadership seems to be putting all their brain power into their ships and manufacturing facilities. They can make a ton of stuff, but most of it’s shit.”

“And those?” Warren asked, pointing to a dozen neatly stacked pallets.

“Those are old guidance systems, archaic relics from the Republic’s past. They aren’t useful for anything except old-style missiles. We keep them only because we don’t like to throw anything away. Maybe we can find a use for them later. Probably not. The rest of the stuff in this area is mostly spare parts for everything else. Like I said, every time one side defeats the other, we end up with their leftovers. Each side thinks the other side took it. It’s worked out really well, but we know this stuff won’t last forever. We also grow our own food in very limited quantities. We’re set up to expand that, but not until we’ve got some kind of planetary defense in place.”

“I understand,” Warren said. “I wouldn’t mind a change from the meal bars.”

“You guys can eat anything, so long as it has some minimal nutritional value,” Hendrose said. “Nobody likes the Commonwealth rations, so we’d like to offer you those. They’ve got to be better than those protein logs you guys eat.”

Warren doubted that, but let it pass. “Excellent. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Hendrose said. “Follow me.”

He and Warren walked to the other end of the warehouse. The boxes and crates in this area were stacked almost to the ceiling. Hendrose led him on a long, meandering path through them and out the other side.

When Warren saw what the boxes were hiding, he gawked.

FIGHTER, CWS-14

COMMONWEALTH

There were 60 bus-sized crafts on the other side of the supply wall. Their swept-back wings made it clear they were capable of maneuvering both in and out of atmosphere. Each was equipped with a single missile on its ventral between three narrow, articulating landing struts. Two ports on their wings hinted at energy weapons within.

“Nice,” Warren commented. “These should come in handy.”

“Yup. But don’t get too excited. These are just more leftovers. Short-range combat fighters. Mostly the Commonwealth likes to load these things onto some of the bigger ships—battleships, cruisers, things like that. We’ve learned that sometimes they’re good for planetary defense. The technology is really old—over a hundred years—but they’re still badass on the battlefield.

“We’ve got all but two of them working. Those ones are a lost cause. There just aren’t enough spare parts to go around. It’s nothing we can fabricate ourselves either, so we’re keeping them for whatever spare parts we might need to strip off them later,” Hendrose said.

“What are they called?”

“Stingers. They’re fast, but they don’t carry a lot of ammo. Think of them as flying tanks. They can take a lot of hits, but every single shot you make has to count. We haven’t flown them except just around the warehouse. None of us have the precision or reflexes to keep them going in a straight line. We could probably manage it if we were able to take our time and weren’t worried about getting caught. None of us wants either side to know we have these things. So, we’ve been repairing them as we can, in case you and the others can use them. We hoped this day would come.”

Warren stared at the nearest one for a moment before approaching it. He reached out and touched the pointed nose cone of the craft, then he ran his fingers down the side of it and across the front of its wing. The metal was rough and riddled with imperfections, but serviceable, in his opinion.

“So, what do you think?” Hendrose asked as he chewed his bottom lip and studied Warren’s face.

“I think you’re showing me all this because you think I’m in charge. Or want me to be? Before you say anything, I feel like I need to say something first, so hear me out. Back before I was turned into... this, I wasn’t that high up in the ranks. I was a sergeant—that’s all. I’ve never commanded a whole army—just a platoon.”

“And you’re afraid you’re not up to the task?” Hendrose asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I need to tell you something my father told me a long time ago,” Hendrose replied, stepping closer. “He said it was some poet who said it first. Some guy from our ancient history—a guy whose words will always be true. Some men are born great. Some achieve greatness. And some have greatness thrust into them, or something like that. You might not be in the first category, but that doesn’t keep you out of the last two. You were specifically picked for this operation—this mission—long before you became aware of it. Out of all the cyborgs, you were the one who inspired us.”

“Why me?” asked Warren.

“Because we saw how you reacted every single time you came to Reotis. You might not remember it, but you’ve been here before. Lots of times, in fact. Every single time you do pretty much the same thing. You save people. Sure, you destroy shit, and you’ve even killed a few Reotians, but that was only in self-defense. Where some other cyborgs seemed to kill for fun, you only did it when you had to. You’re smart, too. The CoWs didn’t stand a chance when you were here. Sometimes you were outnumbered and didn’t make it. Other times, even when you were at the disadvantage, you still managed to kick serious ass.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you think I’m fit to lead a rebellion.” Warren pointed out.

“One of our operatives passed a message to you,” Hendrose explained. “I don’t know what it said—I was serving on the Ruthless by then—but from what I gather, it was an offer. You took the message, read it, and destroyed it. The next time the First Cyborg Corps showed up, you did something—a signal of some sort—to let the operative know you were onboard. From there, the plan went into action. I don’t know all the details, but here you are, and I’m glad for it.”

“Okay,” Warren said. “So, what’s left to be done to finish our defenses?”

Hendrose frowned. “Everything. We’ve been in the middle of one battle or another for a long time. No time for training. No time for preparation. And nobody to take charge.”

“Okay then,” Warren said. “How many people do we have who can operate the Stingers?”

“Sixty,” he said.

“Good. Do you already have firing positions figured out?”

“Yes,” Hendrose said. “Enough for forty of the guns, anyway. The man who was in charge of our strategic planning was killed. That derailed some of our planning. We don’t know how to protect the entire planet with so few guns.”

“We don’t need to protect the entire planet,” Warren replied. “Just enough to make our enemies think twice about attempting an invasion. Let’s get everyone busy.”

14

To say the civilians were disorganized would have been a generous understatement. Warren watched in dismay as people ran into each other or stood around talking about what might need to be done rather than just taking care of it. In a way, it seemed that none of them had ever prepared for an attack before. He knew that was false.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Warren asked his cyborg team using a private channel.

“Yes, I see,” Lukov replied, sounding disappointed. “It appears Reotians have spent their time segregating. They lack discipline. How did these people accomplish this by acting in such a way? Why has no one become their leader?”

“They had a leader,” Warren returned. “He died after we lost the planet some time back. Turns out the Commonwealth doesn’t like independent thought any more than the Republic does.”

“I see. They need strong hand. Bring them together. Show them how to work as one. If they don’t learn, this rebellion won’t last long.”

“You there,” Warren said to a Reotian woman who looked like she might know what she was doing. “Come here, please.”

The forty-something woman nearly tripped over her own feet in surprise when she saw who was speaking to her.

“Sir?” she said in a voice that was both timid and shaky.

“Relax,” Warren said, moving his hand in what he hoped would be a gentle motion of calming. “You don’t have to call me sir.”

The woman stared at him, a look of fear in her eyes.

“Who’s in charge?” he asked, trying to sound friendly.

“Uh, I thought you were,” she stammered. “You’re Warren, right?”

“I am,” he said. “But if I weren’t here, who would be in charge? Which of the Reotians?”

She seemed to think about it for a moment before answering. “It would’ve been Charles, but he died during the last invasion. The CoWs murdered him once they found out he was still giving orders and people were listening to him.”

“I heard about him,” Warren said. “Since then, has anyone taken his place?”

The woman shook her head.

“Thank you,” he told her. “Please, carry on.”

She hesitated for a moment before she seemed to realize what he wanted her to do—get back to work.

“It looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Warren transmitted.

“It is a shame,” Lukov replied. “But there is no time to waste, my friend. We must organize them—assign team leads—everything. Otherwise, none of us will survive.”

“I have my report ready,” a man said from somewhere near where Warren’s navel used to be. The man was short with a nose about two sizes too big for his face, a pale complexion, and greasy black hair.

“A report on what?” Warren asked.

“Only water,” the man said, squinting up at Warren. “You see, water is in limited supply on Reotis, and therefore—”

“Not now,” Warren said. “I want to hear your report, but right now we’ve got to get our defenses ready and organize the citizens. What’s your job?”

“I’m the head of the water reclamation and sanitation department,” he said.

“How many on your staff?”

“Well, er, it’s just me.”

“Do you need any help?” Warren asked.

The man looked confused at the question. “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

“Then you’re set. Good job. Let’s get through the next couple of days and I’ll hear your report.”

This seemed to satisfy the man, who nodded curtly and walked away as fast as his short legs would carry him.

“I’m going to need some help with these civilians,” Warren said. “We’ve got to start forming teams. I think we’ll start with section leaders. But before that, we’ve got to figure out what we have.”

Lukov grunted his assent. “The sooner the better.”

“I know, there’s not a lot of time—not while we’re trying to get some defenses in place, but do me a favor and keep your eyes open. Sometimes leaders only need to be told they can do it. For now, see if you can get them moving. Give them a reason to take initiative.”

“I understand,” Lukov said.

Warren spotted Lukov on the other side of the hangar. The Russian immediately went into full Spetsnaz Drill Sergeant mode and started yelling. At least, that’s what Warren assumed Russian special forces Drill Sergeants were like. He’d seen a few YouTube videos.

“You stand there!” Lukov bellowed, his volume and ferocity enhanced by his cybernetic parts and armor. “I said move! You! No over there! Look where I point! Good, now—stop that. Look at me, govnosos!”

Warren had been hoping to avoid intimidating the civilians, but Lukov’s actions did have them moving. “Easy there,” he warned. “This isn’t Spetsnaz training. These are civilians. You don’t need all of that to get them to respect you. All you need to do is be the guy who knows what needs to be done.”

Lukov stopped yelling and his shoulders slumped a little. “Too bad, I was having fun,” he said. “But you are correct. I will apologize and make it good.”

Warren spotted a man standing off to one side. He had his hands in his pockets and looked like he was trying to disappear into his dark gray coveralls. He seemed younger—no gray in his brown hair, which looked like he trimmed himself but hadn’t learned to do it with a mirror.

Warren walked up to him and gave him a curt nod. “What’s your name?”

“Mason,” the man said. “Mason Curet.” His voice cracked a little and he looked like he was getting ready to run away.

“Okay, Curet. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a power plant engineer,” he said. “I also dabble in design—weapons mostly. Is that okay? Because we weren’t told what to do.”

“Yes, that’s better than okay,” Warren said. “Where do you usually work?”

“Wherever I can, but I don’t really have a permanent workspace. That’s why I’m standing here. I don’t really have anything to do right now. Don’t have anywhere to be. Listen, I’m not trying to be difficult.”

“It’s fine,” Warren said, holding up a hand. “Follow me around for a while and we’ll find you a job. You’ll need to co-locate with someone else—another team—but if you follow me nobody can accuse you of just standing around.”

“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “Thanks for that. I swear I’m a good worker.”

Warren liked the guy. A little meek, but earnest. “Any chance you know anything about the particle cannons we have in the warehouse?”

“Yes,” Mason replied, nodding enthusiastically. “I’m the one who got them running. Well, better than they were, anyway. You see, they had a capacitor issue. It was an old design—like hundreds of years old. Nanotube capacitors have—”

“Yes, science stuff, right?” Warren asked, motioning for the man to calm himself.

He smiled and nodded. “Science stuff. In short, they work better than they did before.”

“Good,” Warren said. “You know how to operate them, too?”

Another head bob. “Of course.”

“Good, you’re going to be in charge of the gun team, then. You’re my new Gun Chief. How many people does it take to effectively run one of the cannons?”

“Three,” the man said, counting off the roles on the fingers of one hand. “First there’s the gunner. There’s a place for the spotter as well—someone who designates targets. His job is to not get as focused as the gunner on just one thing. Then there’s the runner. That job’s just as important as the rest. They go out and fetch things the others might need. Anything, really. But they’re also in charge of maintaining the weapon as it’s being used.”

“Good,” Warren said. “Make your spotters your Gun Sergeants. Find your most experienced people—preferably the ones who are assholes—to be on your team. Do what you can for the rest. Set them in whatever natural cover you can while still providing good coverage. And don’t allow yourself to be tempted to fan them out around the entrance. It’ll be too easy to figure out where we are. Make sure wherever they’re deployed, they’re scattered.”

“I understand,” Mason said as he nodded and stared at something far away.

Warren snapped his fingers and the man’s head spun toward the sound. “Stay with me, Curet. The Gun Chief has to be aware of everything going on at every single gun. You’re going to be the one to designate primary and secondary targets. You’ll also be the one who tells them when to fire, when to hold their fire, and when to abandon their weapons. Are you up to it?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, giving Warren something resembling a salute.

“Good, but don’t call me sir. You might want to set up a rotation as well. Make sure the guns are manned at all times but give your people a chance to take a break, eat, get some sleep—things like that. I don’t know if there’s an attack coming, but I doubt the Grand Republic is going to take this loss lying down.”

The man nodded slowly. “I’ve already been thinking about that.”

“Smart man. How do the guns communicate with each other?”

“They’ve got their own comm system built in. Basic encryption and a range of about two hundred kilometers. Low bandwidth, though, so we talk in short bursts. Gunner’s talk, we call it. It’s directional, you see, so we don’t have to worry about anything in orbit intercepting.”

“That’s good,” Warren said, pleased that things weren’t as chaotic as he’d first feared. “Get the guns moving. Take whoever you need. Before you go, let me know what frequency you’ll be using, and the encryption algorithm.”

“Oh, certainly,” the man said. He rattled off an encryption code and frequency, which Warren entered into his HUD and shared with Lukov.

The man saluted—sort of—again. Then he ran around in small circles as he gathered his thoughts and found the people he needed. Warren hoped he could pull it off, but didn’t see an alternative anyway.

A timid-looking woman in her twenties shuffled forward. She brushed a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes and kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her gray coveralls. “Sir?”

Warren didn’t bother correcting her. It seemed these people were determined to call him that. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Annie Chambers. I’ve got about twenty people who don’t have anything to do at the moment,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’re sanitation, so right now there’s not a lot for us to do.”

“Okay,” Warren said. “Go find Mason Curet. He’s the new Gun Chief. Tell him you’re being assigned to be his runners. There will be a lot of on-the-job training, but we need bodies.”

Her face brightened at the last few words. “Cool,” she said and ran to tell the others who were huddling close together like they were trying to stay warm. Warren decided that once things slowed down a bit, he’d teach them how to salute properly—or just do away with it altogether.

The first five guns rolled out of the warehouse on tracked transport vehicles that looked like advanced pallet jacks. The guns looked stable on top of the devices, which Warren decided must’ve been specifically designed for the task.

Each gun was several meters high with meter-long barrels. The base of the weapon looked like an old computer chassis, but the metal under the tan chipped paint looked a lot sturdier than any computer Warren had ever seen.

Between the base and the barrels were two metal seats. One had firing controls and some kind of electronic scope with a metal hood to help keep the gun from being spotted in darkness. The other had an array of screens and data panels along with buttons, switches, and devices that looked like diagnostic tools.

Overall, it looked like the weapons had been assembled from pieces dragged straight from a junkyard.

The personnel who were guiding it out of the warehouse were all dressed in environmental, or EV, suits. Warren recognized the sleek lines of those designed by the Grand Republic, and assumed the others, which looked similar but more ragtag, were what the Commonwealth had brought.

As he observed what they were doing, a low rumble began to sound near the nose of where the ship was docked. A square section of ceiling opened slowly, revealing a set of double doors. That was how they got the guns to the surface.

Warren started walking to check on the rest of the preparations when an explosion on the far side of where the ship was docked froze him in his tracks. It was loud enough to cause most of the civilians to duck, but not severe enough that anyone on the other side could have been injured.

“Blyat!” Lukov transmitted. A string of curses followed in quick succession.

Warren zoomed his vision in and saw what had happened. A piece of machinery twice as big as a refrigerator was on fire. It looked warped, as though the explosion had come from the inside and had almost busted through.

Several civilians were nearby. Two looked like they were trying to disconnect the power but were too afraid to approach. Another shouted for help. The rest looked around like they were waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

Another cyborg arrived just as Lukov did. He’d found a fire extinguisher somewhere and was looking for a gap to squirt the contents into.

Lukov punched through the side of the machine, ripped it open with his cybernetic hands, and stepped out of the way so the other cyborg could put the fire out. It was all over in less than thirty seconds, but Lukov didn’t seem satisfied.

“What were you doing?” he growled at a nearby civilian. “You were just going to let it burn?”

Warren was about to ask him to calm himself, but the cyborg he was with beat him to it.

Ten seconds later, Lukov reported in. “Fire is no more. Equipment is rapid fabricator printer. Have been assured by many civilians that such a thing has never happened to these. They have no component to do this thing. They don’t always work right, but none have ever exploded. I suspect sabotage.”

Great, Warren thought. That’s all we need. A mole. He glanced around and spotted at least a dozen more of the devices.

“Tell everyone to stop using them,” Warren said. “Lukov, I need you and at least one other cyborg to check each of them for sabotage. Figure out how it happened, and if it is sabotage, how it was done.”

“Roger,” Lukov replied.

Warren stopped a civilian who was walking by and holding a small armload of boxes. “These printers”—he pointed to the nearest one—“what are they used for?”

The older man looked where Warren was pointing before responding. “We use them for printing all kinds of stuff. Machine parts, panels, even electronics, if we have the plans for them. We can’t do any radioactive materials or exotic stuff, but otherwise, they’re how we make everything.”

“Thank you,” Warren said, and the man continued toward his destination.

If it was sabotage, the printers made a good piece of equipment to target. He had a feeling that losing too many of them would cause a major disruption.

“The printers are vitally important to save,” he transmitted to all the cyborgs. “They’re the only source of parts these people have. If any more are broken, it can be assumed things are only going to get worse. Proceed with caution and keep your eyes open.”

“Sabotage confirmed,” Cooper reported. “Looks like a small incendiary device attached to one of the power couplers. How these things didn’t catch fire before now, I’m not sure. Maybe someone has to print something specific—something that draws more power than what’s typical. Something like that. But yeah, it’s definitely not an accident.”

“Whoa!” Warren said as he stepped in front of a civilian who looked like he was getting ready to use the printer nearest him. “Sorry, but this machine’s out of order.”

The man looked incredulous. “What are you talking about? Look! The light’s green. I have things I need to do.”

“And, until a cyborg checks this machine, it’s out of order. So are all the others. Go find the cyborg named Lukov. He can tell you which ones are available. He’s over there.”

The man looked where Warren was pointing, stared longingly at the machine nearest him, and trudged away.

“Cooper,” Warren said over the comms. “Show me what you found.”

A moment later, a video image appeared in the corner of his HUD. Cooper inspected the device closely and turned it over a few times in his hand.

“Looks pretty sophisticated,” Cooper mused. “Not your backyard mechanic kind of stuff.”

“Agreed,” Warren said. “Too sophisticated to be Commonwealth tech. Maybe too sophisticated for the Reotian people, too. I think we’ve got a Republic spy here somewhere.”

“How do we find him... her... them, maybe?”

“We keep our eyes open for now,” Warren said. “They’ll make a mistake, eventually. If we stop what we’re doing to try to interrogate everyone to find the traitors, we’ll slow down our defenses.”

“Okay,” Cooper said, not sounding convinced. “But this isn’t good.”

“What’s worse is the fact that the Republic might know where this hangar is,” Warren said. “They have a spy here. We’ve visited this planet several times, right?”

“Right,” Cooper said, uncertainty in his voice.

“If the Republic has some kind of spy network—something even the cyborgs aren’t aware of—they could have transmitted the location of this base to them a long time ago. If not, you can bet they’ll do it when the Republic eventually returns.”

“So what do we do?”

“Exactly what we’re doing,” Warren said. “Be suspicious of everyone and keep your eyes open.”

Turning around slowly, Warren tried to think of what the most sensitive targets in the base might be. There was water filtration, but unless poison was introduced in the filtered end of the line, the likelihood of it causing any serious trouble was minimal. The food supply would be a likely target, but it would take a lot of time to damage or tamper with years of food for everyone on the entire planet.

“Lukov, who do we have available. Cyborg, not civilian.”

“Craig is available right now,” he replied. “Or I could get someone freed up in a few minutes.”

Him, of all people. The one cyborg who had wanted to die more than anyone else. He was also the most likely to shoot first and ask questions later. Still—a dead mole was better than a live one.

“Craig,” Warren said after adding him to the private channel. “I need you to get to the ship. This is going to be a boring task, but I need you to do it for me, okay?”

“What am I doing?” Craig asked, sounding suspicious.

“We’ve got at least one enemy we’re trying to track down,” Warren explained. “The biggest target for sabotage is the ship. If they take the crucial systems out, or just blow the damn thing up, everything we’ve done so far is gone.”

“Ah, shit,” he whispered over the channel. “Want me to guard it?”

“Yes,” Warren said. “Try not to kill anyone if you can help it. But don’t take any chances with yourself or the ship. There shouldn’t be anyone aboard, so if you find anyone, arrest them, search them, and find out what they were doing. Stick them in the brig and we’ll deal with them later. Look for evidence. Run diagnostics on everything you can and investigate any anomalies. Got it?”

“Loud and clear,” Craig replied. He sounded like he was in the mood to kill someone. If someone had gained access to the ship, they would soon regret it.

15

“Are you guys going to need any supplies out there?” asked Craig from his current position inside the ship.

Warren smiled. He had the right idea. It might be a while before anyone would have the time to get back aboard if supplies started running low. “We’ll make a quick shopping list and come grab the stuff we need.”

“Want me to get some of the stuff ready for you?”

The offer might have surprised Warren a few days ago, but Craig was fast becoming one of his more reliable people. “No, but thanks. You focus on keeping the ship secure. Plus, I need you to make sure the techs who were in there earlier didn’t do anything screwy with it. Hendrose said he trusted them, but anyone can be fooled.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Craig said, sounding somewhat disappointed. “I’ll be here.”

He wasn’t sure what he needed and didn’t want to spend a lot of time thinking about it, so he sent a message to several other cyborgs for assistance. Jenita Rigby and Rob Thompson arrived a couple minutes later.

“Here, boss,” said Thompson. “What’s going on?”

“We need to get some supplies from the ship,” replied Warren. “I’ll need some help carrying everything out, and I need to know if either of you can think of anything else we might need.”

“Aww, shucks,” said Rigby with a bright smile. “Glad to know you were thinking of us. What kind of stuff are we collecting?”

“Ammunition, weaponry, maybe an extra combat knife or two. Anything we might need in case we get invaded and have a prolonged battle.”

“What about cyborg chow?” asked Thompson.

“Leave it, unless you really like that stuff,” Warren said with a chuckle. “Some cyborgs like it, don’t they?”

Thompson shrugged. “I don’t mind them. Wish there was more than one flavor, but all in all, it’s not so bad. What’s the alternative?”

“Commonwealth rations,” said Warren.

Rigby grunted, her lip curling up in derision. “In that case, I think I’d rather have cyborg chow, too. Eventually we’ll need to start eating other stuff, but I don’t want to catch their stupidity. Eat their chow, maybe you catch the dumb. I’ll save all that nonsense for later.”

Warren laughed. Thompson stared at her like she might be onto something. Like she might have a special kind of insight into what made CoWs so dumb. He glanced back and forth between the other two.

“Relax,” Warren said, holding up a hand. “Though doubtful, if food is responsible, it’ll take a whole lot longer to work on us than it does on everyone else.”

“Let’s hope so,” Rigby mumbled.

“Thompson can grab the cyborg chow. Rigby, you start collecting ammo. I’ll check on Craig and join you afterward. Stack it up outside the lift.” Inspiration struck and Warren had another idea. “Get Craig to help. I need him to stay on the ship to guard it, but helping us move supplies will give him something to do.”

It looked like Craig had moved both lifts to the top. It was smart. Anyone who wanted on board would have to bring them down before they could enter. Unless they had access to some powerful weaponry, there was no other way to get into the ship.

“Who’s out there?” transmitted Craig. “Is someone bringing one of the lifts down?”

“It’s me,” replied Warren. “I’ve got Rigby and Thompson with me. We’re here to collect some supplies in case either side decides to invade. If you can think of anything we might need, we could use the help.”

“I can think of plenty,” replied Craig. “Ammo’s gonna be the big one. Need me to start moving things?”

“Please do. See you in a couple minutes.”

“I’ll get started,” said Craig. He sounded pleased to have something to do.

Less than three minutes later, they were on the ship. Thompson headed to the chow hall, Rigby to the armory. Craig had already stacked an armload of ammunition just inside the hatch.

“You guys gonna need emergency medical supplies?” he asked. “You know—in case one of the skin jobs gets hurt?”

“Good thinking,” said Warren. “ Sorry you’re stuck in here, but you understand how important it is to protect the ship, right?”

“Yeah, I’m good, no problem. I’ve been combing the ship for anything out of the ordinary, too. We did have some strangers in here. They said they were techs, but we can’t really be sure, right?”

Warren frowned. Pretty much everyone on Reotis was a stranger now that he thought about it. “Right. Damn, good thinking. Found anything yet?”

“Besides a bunch of dirty footprints, no. Smudges, too. Like these guys were cooking something and stirring it with their dirty little hands a second before they got on the ship. Don’t worry—I checked. It’s all cooking stuff. No biological warfare shit or anything like that. So, how are you? How are the natives treating you?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” said Warren. “The people are scared and disorganized, which is understandable. We’ve got our work cut out for us. But there are a lot of them, so once I get them up to speed, we’ll be able to get a lot of stuff done in a short amount of time.”

“Yeah, that’s good. Real good.” Craig fell silent, his brow furrowing as if he was thinking hard about something. “I’m not used to this,” he said. “You know, being free and all. Not having to do what the war computer says. Not having to kill things. I’m feeling kind of lost.”

Warren felt sympathy for the man. Waking up without his memories in this terrifying new world had thrown him for a loop too. “It’ll take some getting used to, I’m sure,” he replied. “But it feels good, doesn’t it? Does it remind you of the old days before you were a slave?”

Craig twitched. “I don’t have any memories older than four years. I don’t remember where I came from, if Edward Craig is my real name—nothing. Maybe nothing. I feel like I used to be in the Army. Definitely not Navy and I don’t think Marines. But I don’t know for sure. Not really. I mean, we don’t talk about it, but am I really me?”

“What do you mean?” Warren asked, even though he knew exactly what the man was talking about. The other cyborg needed to vent. He needed to express his feelings. If Warren was really going to be their leader, he needed to act like one.

“We never talk about it, but I’m wondering something. Um, you’re in charge now, right? Does that mean I need to ask permission to speak freely? It’s cool if I do.”

“Speak your mind. You are always allowed to speak your mind. And, if you ever need to speak of anything privately, you can always open a private channel. So long as I’m not right in the middle of something dangerous, I’m available.”

“Thanks, man—sir.”

“Man is fine,” Warren replied with a small laugh.

Craig laughed nervously. “So, it’s kind of a rule that we don’t talk about certain things. But I need to talk about it. You don’t have to say anything, but I’ve got to get it off my chest. So, I was thinking about this whole backup thing. The war computer stores our memories. It’s an advanced system. Who’s to say it doesn’t fuck with our memories once it has them, right? Maybe they experiment on us—screw with us between resets and backups and such. I know I’ve got… problems. But wouldn’t it be cool if they could just erase the memories we don’t want to keep? Or let us do it. I’ve got so many memories. Most of them aren’t pleasant.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” replied Warren. “My memories are all muddled, but I remember the moment I realized something was wrong. I remember being human—then nothing until the last time we were on this planet. Four hundred years of missing memories.”

They stood in silence for nearly a minute. Thompson arrived with a bag full of cyborg chow. He glanced at both of them before hurrying away to get something else. Rigby arrived a short time later with a rifle and an armload of ammo. She also glanced at both of them, but instead of leaving, sent a message to Warren.

YOU GOOD?

Craig was still standing there, lost in his thoughts. His hands were relaxed instead of being curled into fists. He gave no indication, so far as Warren could see, that he was about to do anything crazy.

GOOD.

Rigby nodded and hurried away to get more.

“It’s not crazy, is it?” asked Craig. “Wondering if my memories are my own, or if they’ve been poisoned? I mean, the Republic is messed up enough to do it, right?”

“Yes, they are,” agreed Warren. “And no, it’s not crazy. I’m still sorting through mine. For all I know, everything about my human life is a lie. So no, I don’t think it’s crazy at all.

“Yeah,” confirmed Craig. “I couldn’t take any more of the killing. I was done—ready to punch my clock. You aren’t gonna make me do any of the bullshit the Republic made me do, are you?”

“No,” Warren assured, shaking a hand to fan the question away. “In fact, you have the right to refuse to do anything you think is immoral, illegal—whatever. I expect you to never tell any other cyborg or human to do anything illegal, either. Deal?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “You are going to let me out of this ship eventually, right?”

“Of course. You’re not here because you’re in trouble. You’re not being locked up or anything like that. This is an important job. I trust you.”

Craig shrugged. “Not sure if you’re just putting me on ice, sir, but I’ll do it. And I’ll take it seriously. Thanks for talking to me.”

“You’re welcome,” said Warren.

“I think that’s it,” replied Thompson, walking up with a large container. “Five or six hundred chow bars—that’s it. Oh, shit. Here, Craig. I’ll leave some for you.”

“I’ll be fine for a while,” he replied, wrinkling his nose. “What are you guys gonna eat?”

Thompson sighed. “CoW rations, eventually.”

Craig laughed. It was a positive sound. “I’m fine here, Warren. You know what, leave me a big handful of those things. You guys can eat the Commonwealth stuff yourselves.” Then to Warren he asked, “You got a few more minutes before you have to leave?”

“Yeah, we can give you a few more. No problem.”

OKAY TO ASK THOMPSON SAME QUESTION?

Warren felt a little shocked by Craig’s question. The guy couldn’t really think he had to ask permission to speak his mind still, could he?

ASK ANYTHING YOU WANT AT ANY TIME. SERIOUSLY.

Thompson looked curious at both other cyborgs. He hadn’t been part of the non-verbal exchange, but he knew something was going on.

Craig asked Thompson the same question he’d asked Warren.

Thompson leaned against the outer bulkhead, crossed his arms, and nodded slowly. “We all ask that, man. At least now we can ask each other. Fact is, I have no idea. I try not to think about it. Not really one of those happy-thought-generators. Right now, I don’t even care anymore. As far as I’m concerned, this is a new life. It’s a chance to start over, do good things, maybe even make amends for some of the rotten shit they made us do in the past. Warren here did something great for all of us. For Reotis, too, though I think it’s more for mutual benefit than anyone being all altruistic or anything.”

“Right,” Craig said with a laugh, shooting a quick glance at Warren.

“So, the way I figure it, none of us are going to be able to forget about what they made us do. We didn’t have a choice.”

Craig shook his head slowly. “Thanks, Thompson. I think what you’re saying is that the rules have changed, right? We aren’t just warriors anymore.”

Thompson nodded. “Exactly.”

That taken care of, the three loaded the supplies while Craig left to check the ship again. Rigby looked curious. Thompson appeared to be absolutely pleased with himself. Warren felt cautiously optimistic. So long as Craig stayed motivated and kept his sense of humor, everything should work out for the best.

16

The three cyborgs rode the lift down in silence. Once it stopped and the doors opened, Rigby couldn’t contain herself any longer.

“We’ve got to do something about him. Do you guys sense something isn’t right with Craig?”

“You’re right. Something isn’t right with him,” said Warren. “He’s been through a lot, but don’t be hard on him. Some people handle what we do better than others.”

Rigby scoffed. “There’s no way to tell for sure, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been a cyborg longer than Craig. I’ve been through just as much as him if not more. I’m not cracking. What’s his deal?”

“Hey,” Thompson hissed, stepping between Warren and Rigby. “What’s your problem?”

The cyborg looked surprised but didn’t back up. “What I meant was, what’s wrong with him?” she said. “Why is he acting that way? I feel like he’s gonna go off any second. He’s the only one on the ship. Are we sure we can risk leaving him behind alone? Someone be in there keeping an eye on him. I’m just really worried he’s going to break something we need.”

“I do know,” replied Warren, making an effort not to snap at her. “I also know that the last thing he needs right now is to see more combat. Leaving him in the ship gives him an important job. It also almost guarantees he doesn’t have to fight with anyone. Thompson and I spoke with him—gave him some stuff to think about. He’ll be fine, so long as we don’t throw him into the middle of something he’s not ready for. Even if we eventually have to remove him from his combat role, he’ll be fine. I’ll ease him into it and we’ll find something else for him to do. He’s capable, smart, and hard working. In fact, he might welcome the transition to a more peaceful task. But I haven’t decided what to do with him yet, so let him be.”

“I will,” said Rigby. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Can you and Thompson handle moving this stuff to the warehouse?”

“Yes,” she said. “Where do you want it?”

“Stick it in the armory they found in the spy center. It’ll be far enough out of the way that we won’t have to worry about someone running off with it, but not so out of the way that we can’t get it if we need to.”

“We got it, boss,” said Thompson. He nodded to Rigby and together they began moving the supplies.

Warren watched them for a few seconds before heading out of the hanger into an area he identified as Dome-6. He needed to check on the civilians. If they and the cyborgs were going to be living together for the foreseeable future, it was time to get to know the people who’d be counting on him.

The residents in Dome-6 were busy. Most were cleaning, but others were repairing buildings damaged during the last Republic assault. Warren recognized the burned-out vehicle and destroyed hovercar from before.

The next street, he knew, would be the site of the pillbox. Whoever had to clean that up had their work cut out for them. Three grenades tossed into such a small area would’ve turned the Commonwealth soldiers into hamburger and coated the entire basement in gore.

“Hello?” a small voice said from behind Warren. He turned around and had to look down to spot the woman. She looked like she was a hundred years old, with white curly hair poking out from under a colorful striped cloth she’d tied over her head.

“Hello,” said Warren. She looked familiar, but he wasn’t certain why.

“You saved me.”

Warren studied her for a moment, imaging her without the colorful cloth. Then it dawned on him. She was the one who’d been trying to hurry across the street. It felt like years had passed since he’d last seen her. He couldn’t help but smile. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” she replied, beaming up at him. “Do you remember me?”

“I do. I’m glad you didn’t get hit by that car. And I’m sorry about the damage we did last time we were here.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She wasn’t happy, no matter how much she tried to pretend. “Yes, there was a lot. Why?” she asked.

“Why did we invade?”

“Yes,” she replied. The smile faded from her wrinkled lips. Her blue eyes watched the cyborg intently.

“We didn’t have a choice,” he told her.

“There’s always a choice.”

“Not with us. At least, not with how we used to be. The Republic didn’t give us a choice. We couldn’t disobey orders. Not that we didn’t want to—we physically couldn’t. They could have told us to do anything at all. If they wanted us to line up and jump into a volcano one at a time, they could have made us do it.”

“And now?” she asked.

“Now, we’re free. We were slaves before, but not anymore. We’ve freed ourselves. We have no masters anymore, other than those we choose. Even then, nobody is forced to do anything they’re not okay with.”

She sighed and stared at her feet for a few seconds. “I feel like I know you, even though I only know your name. You are different from most of the cyborgs. None of your kind have ever shown any of us any kindness at all. Every time you have been here—”

“Every time?” Warren interrupted. “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

The woman looked confused again. “Yes, every time. You’ve been here many times before, don’t you remember?”

“I don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “The Republic does things to bring us back if we are killed. Sometimes, our memories get damaged and we forget things that happened. I’m sorry for whatever I did.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, waving the apology away. “I was going to tell you something nice, if you’d just shut your trap for a moment.”

Warren felt his eyebrows shoot up and he stifled a laugh.

“I was going to tell you that you were the only one who showed kindness. You destroyed a lot of stuff as well, but I understand sometimes these things are necessary, especially when the Commonwealth are involved. I didn’t mean to run from you last time you were here. I don’t see so well these days, so I didn’t recognize you until I was almost in Jim and Mary’s home. Had I known it was you, I would not have been afraid. I would have stayed out of your way is all. You saved me once before. And I’ve seen you interact with other Reotians. You’re always kind. You never do anything evil to us. You do a lot of evil to the Commonwealth soldiers, though.” She winked conspiratorially before leaning in to whisper, “You always fuck them up bad.”

The old woman cackled. This time Warren laughed out loud, causing others nearby to look. One middle-aged man watched the two carefully. It was Jim. The old woman waved and motioned for him to come closer.

He looked nervous, but he approached, and gently moved her back with one hand as he stepped between them. The look on his face told Warren the man would fight if he had to. Even if it meant using his bare fists. Warren could appreciate that.

“Oh stop it,” she said, shooing the man away.

“You okay?” he asked, lowering his arm to allow her to return to where she’d been standing.

“I’m fine, you bully,” she scolded. “If you were worried, you should have hurried to me a long time ago. You’ve seen what cyborgs can do. If he wanted to hurt me, he could have done so a hundred times before you came to my rescue.”

He opened his mouth as if he was going to argue, then slowly closed it.

“Never mind, darling,” she cooed to him as she wrapped her arm around his waist. “I appreciate your effort.” She smiled at him before turning back to Warren. “You see, this is how we Reotians are. I am one of the original colonists. There were only a thousand of us back then. We are the ones who set up the first dome, dug the wells, and set up everything else as the rest of the pieces arrived.”

Warren tried to imagine that and decided it sounded less than appealing but didn’t interrupt.

“The first twenty years or so were peaceful,” she recalled. “We spent most of our time performing basic maintenance, teaching the children, and working. Then one day the Commonwealth showed up. We didn’t fight them, because we didn’t have a reason to. It was only one ship, and they hadn’t dropped any bombs or launched any missiles. They told us they were there to ensure our safety, suggesting they were going to protect us. We believed them. They talked like us, they walked like us, and they looked like us. They also brought us food and supplies—things difficult to get from the Republic.

“Everything was fine in the beginning, but soon they began to act like they were in charge. Some said it would be good for us to have outside leadership, especially since they’d showered gifts upon us like they had unlimited supplies. Others were worried it was a setup—which is what it turned out to be. But I’m getting ahead of myself. One day they started making new laws. When one of the men decided to argue with the CoWs, they killed him. Put one of their guns right to his head and pulled the trigger. Many of our men died that day, fighting them.”

“What kind of laws?” asked Warren. None of this sounded familiar.

“They wanted us to give up our weapons,” she said. “They told us it was for our safety. We told them to pound sand. They didn’t care, and soon enough the fight found us.”

“Let’s not get into that. We’ve talked about this,” said Jim.

“Yes, we have,” she said. Her tone was icy, like it wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have again, but she’d give it to him if he asked for it.

The woman clamped her lips together. The man looked like he might want to fight.

When they didn’t speak again, Warren continued. “Once defenses are set up, I plan on returning governance of this colony to its citizens. I’m not going to get involved. It’ll be up to the Reotians on how they want to handle their business. The cyborgs have elected me as their leader, but I don’t plan on becoming the new dictator. I’m new here. If nothing else, the Reotians should have a say in how they’re governed. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” said Jim. “Maybe then we can do something sane around here. Do you know how many Reotians have died during the invasions over the years? Thousands. Most because they were trying to fight back like idiots.”

Warren considered that, thinking that someone would have called his plan to free the cyborgs idiotic. “Better to fight back than to live under the threat of constant battle.”

Jim glared at him. “You’re lucky you’re still alive. If it weren’t for Mary and me pulling your ass out of the fire over and over again—”

“Stop,” said Warren. “I can see this isn’t going to go anywhere good, so just stop. We’ll have this discussion later. Not now.”

“Just one question,” said Jim as he wiped the corners of his mouth with his fingers. “I’m curious why, after what the Commonwealth put us through, we should trust you. You people have put us through just as much trouble as them.”

“Because I brought them here,” said Hendrose as he approached from behind Warren. “Because ten Reotians died setting up the plan to bring them here. Because now that we’ve proven it—now that we have an entire First Corps of cyborgs here—we can do it again. One corps should be enough to keep both the Commonwealth and the Republic off Reotis and out of the colony. Imagine what we could do if we freed all of them.”

Jim’s mouth fell open. “We could live in peace from the Republic.”

“Yes. And not only would the Republic be crippled, but both sides will think twice before trying anything. These cyborgs are a lot tougher since the last time we saw them. The Republic was holding them back—not allowing them to think for themselves. They’re clever. They’re tough. And they’re motivated. Nobody is going to want to mess with them, and because they’re here, nobody is going to want to mess with us. We need them.”

Both the old woman and Jim stared at Hendrose with raised eyebrows and closed mouths. “Did you both introduce yourselves?”

Jim hooked a thumb at the old woman. She blushed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m Carol.”

“It’s fine,” said Warren, impressed at how quickly Hendrose had managed to diffuse the situation. If anyone asked, he knew who he’d recommend as a member of whatever leadership team was formed once the dust settled.

“How are we supposed to know you’ll keep your word?” asked Jim, still sounding suspicious.

Hendrose pointed a finger at him and inhaled sharply, probably to deliver a scathing retort. Warren motioned for him to stop and turned to the man.

“That’s a fair question,” the cyborg said. “Unfortunately, you won’t know for sure until I do it. You and I both know there’s no way to prove it to you until it happens.”

“And what’s to stop you from seizing power once you hand it over?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s time to have a little faith. Maybe a lot of faith. I know what the Reotians have been through. I understand the basics of your history and how many people have died just trying to make this a safe place for everyone. The cyborgs have been through a lot as well—and no, this isn’t a contest. I need you to understand and accept that both groups of people, the cyborgs and the Reotians only want to live in peace. The best way to accomplish that is to do it together. I guess what I’m asking for is the opportunity. If you give the cyborgs a chance, we won’t let you down.”

Jim looked unconvinced. Hendrose and Carol watched him carefully.

“Fine,” he said. “I guess I don’t really have a choice. Do I come to you if I have a complaint?”

“Yes. Me or the cyborg named Lukov.”

The man turned, thrust his hands into the pockets of his brown trousers, and walked away. Another woman, probably his wife, joined him about ten meters away. She whispered to him and glanced over her shoulder several times.

“That one’s trouble,” said Carol. “Always has been, always will be. He thinks we should have thrown in with the Commonwealth, regardless of what they may or may not have done. He says at least they have humans—real people—fighting on their side. He doesn’t trust cyborgs. Doesn’t think you’re really people inside there. He thinks you’re just computers.”

“My kind has given him plenty of reasons to feel that way,” admitted Warren. “I don’t want you to get involved unless you feel like you need to, okay? We’ll sort this out later, but right now I need to get back to the hangar to check on the preparations. Will you be okay?”

“Yes,” she said, giving him another big smile. “I’m old, but I’m feisty.”

Warren laughed, nodded politely to her and Hendrose, and headed back to the hangar.

17

An explosion drew Warren’s attention to the far end of the hangar. He stared, frozen in place, as he watched the aft of the ship for fire or debris falling to the floor. The echo was wrong for the sound to have come from so far above him. It was muffled and sounded like it had come from somewhere closer.

Everyone stopped moving, including the people who were loading particle cannons into the drop ships. After a few seconds, their eyes shifted to their nearest environmental vent.

“It’s stopped,” a woman near Warren whispered to another standing next to her. “The ventilation stopped. What happened?”

Sabotage, Warren thought. He hadn’t considered the EV system. As a cyborg, he had his own backup oxygen supply. He could go without air longer than a human. But regular humans needed air all the time. Unless they were confined to an EV suit of their own, they’d die.

Warren took an air sample and thought about how long it would take for the people to run out of oxygen at the current rate of consumption. There was more than one unit and they could turn the one in the nearest dome up to help, but they’d risk burning it up before they got the one for the hangar replaced.

OXYGEN REMAINING: 128 MINUTES

That wasn’t so bad, unless he figured in the amount of air that would be lost every time they opened the airlock to get another gun deployed.

OXYGEN REMAINING (BREACH CONDITION): 38 MINUTES

Shit.

The saboteurs knew what they were doing. The Reotis resistance was being punished for doing nothing, and for doing something, equally. No matter which way they turned or what choice they made, it would be the wrong one.

“Everyone find Mason Curet,” Warren said over the general cyborg channel. “He should be near the guns. I’ll be near”—Warren looked around for a marker and noticed the printer he was near had a big number on it—“the number four printer.”

Two seconds later, Lukov announced, “He has been found and is coming to you now.”

Warren glanced around and spotted the man running full tilt toward Warren. He was swinging his arms and legs like he was working on his form for some competition.

“I’m here,” he wheezed.

“Well don’t die on me or you’re no good.”

Curet nodded, missing the joke.

“It appears the EV system is down,” Warren said. “I need you to go check it out. Grab whatever personnel you need and fix it. We need it up in thirty minutes. The sooner the better.”

The civilian’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not good. How about I go start figuring out what happened, and you find the people I need?”

“If you know their names, start there.”

“Whitney, Boer, and Robert,” he said, ticking them off. “I’ll head to the EV and figure out what’s going on.” Without another word, he sprinted toward the far end of the hangar.

Warren relayed the names to the other cyborgs, and thirty seconds later he spotted three civilians hurrying toward where Curet had disappeared. Satisfied, he started to issue a command over the private line when a cyborg named Art McNabb reported a fire in Dome-6.

The name sounded familiar. When Warren asked his internal computer to scan his records for a mention of the name, he remembered why: McNabb had bought it hard during Warren’s first battle. Or, the first one he could remember.

“What’s in Dome-6?” Warren asked.

“What? You mean like assets or something?”

“Yeah, something,” Warren grumbled. “What’s there?”

“It’s a habitation dome,” McNabb replied. “Just a bunch of people in their shitty little houses is all. Nothing important.”

Warren decided to hold his tongue about the people and where they lived not being important. “No large equipment?”

“No, other than an EV unit, but that’s not what’s on fire. It’s a couple of their houses. They almost have it out but there’s a lot of smoke.”

“It sounds like there’s more than one and they’ve moved on to softer targets,” Warren said, feeling his anger percolate within his metal chassis. “There’s a good chance whoever did it is going to be nearby to watch how we react. Keep an eye on every civilian there. Arrest any you’re suspicious of and hold them until you’re satisfied they’re not a threat. Don’t kill anyone if you can help it, but—”

Warren stopped talking. He was having to repeat himself every time he gave instructions, so he decided to broadcast to every cyborg at once.

“Attention, these are the rules of engagement. Do not kill anyone unless they pose a serious threat to a fellow cyborg, a civilian, or the station. In such a case, use the minimum amount of force necessary to stop the threat, even if it includes immediate execution. We need intel, and we can’t get it from a corpse.”

“Got it,” McNabb said.

After thinking about what needed to be done next, Warren grumbled. He needed Curet again, but the man was working on the EV unit for the hangar. There was no way he could be pulled from it before he was done.

“You there,” Warren said to a squishy hurrying by with a coiled length of thick wire draped over his neck. The man was in his thirties and had intelligent eyes with a dark complexion. He didn’t quail when he approached the cyborg, which gave Warren hope he might be ex-military. “What do you do here in the colony?”

“I’m a culinary engineer.”

Warren had to think about it for a second before he figured out what the man was talking about. “You’re a cook?”

“More or less.” He sounded defensive, like he was waiting for Warren to make a joke about it.

“How long have you lived here?”

“From the start.”

“Good,” Warren said as he led the cook away from anyone who might be listening in. “Which dome contains the most vital equipment to the survival of the colony?”

The man stared blankly at the cyborg for a moment before his face went ashen. “There’s a threat to the colony from within?”

“Yes,” Warren said. “However, we’re keeping it quiet for now. The saboteur might suspect we know, but we haven’t come out and said it. Think hard. Put on your evil thinking cap. If you were going to cause the maximum amount of damage to this place, where would you go and how would you do it?”

Though the man hadn’t exactly proven himself trustworthy, Warren didn’t see anything suspicious in the way the man acted. Besides, getting his ideas might lead to others. Warren was willing to take the risk... for now.

After thinking about it for a few seconds, the cook answered. “That’s easy. Put a hole in the dome. There’s no atmosphere on the planet—or not enough to do anyone any good. Anyone who dies fast will thank their lucky stars. They aren’t one of the ones who will suffer as their eyeballs are sucked from their skulls and their tongues expand to the size of billiard balls.”

“What would someone have to do to crack a dome?” Warren asked.

The cook shrugged. “Hit it with a really big missile or bomb. I mean really big. So big it would fry everyone inside.”

“Besides that, what else?” Warren asked.

While the man thought about it again, Warren came to a realization. With as many people as the Reotians had within the Grand Republic government and military, it would be safe to assume the Republic also had agents on the planet. There could be four, or four dozen. Possibly more. It could be half the population, but there was no way to tell until the spies were unmasked.

“He’d know,” the cook said as he gestured to a brown-haired teenage boy who looked like he was heading somewhere in a hurry.

The kid had to be fifteen years old at most. His curly hair stuck up at weird angles, which made him look more like an ancient satellite with freckles than an expert on counterterrorism.

“This is Linus Targatt,” the cook said, pulling the boy close. “He was born here. And he’s been caught in places he had no business being in more times than I can count. Even more times than his parents know of. Isn’t that right?”

The kid blushed and shot a dirty look at the older man. “You see, I told him I’d keep his secret. That’s why he’s giving me this hard look, which he thinks is going to impress me. But I believe the situation calls for some honesty and information. This kid has been places I’ve forgotten about. Probably recently, too. Isn’t that right?”

“I, uh—” the boy stammered as he blushed a deeper shade of red and glared at the older man.

“Linus will be happy to help you out,” the cook said with a stern look hidden under a wide smile. “Otherwise, I’m going to have to break my promise and kick his ass. Now get to it, boy.”

Linus glared at the man’s back as he walked away. A few seconds later, he turned to the cyborg and lifted his gaze until he was staring straight at Warren’s face.

“Do you have to breathe some kind of special air?” he asked. “I’ve always wanted to ask, you know?”

“I don’t breathe at all,” Warren said. “At least not like you do. So the cook tells me you know your way around here.”

Linus blushed again and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I know a thing or two about this place. There’s not a lot to do around here, so I explore. I don’t cause any trouble, and the stupid rules they’ve got set up for where we can go don’t make any sense anyway.”

“Whoa,” Warren said, gesturing for the boy to stop. “I’m not here to bust your chops. I have some questions, since you seem to be the person with the knowledge I’m looking for.”

“What kind of questions?” he asked, his face betraying his suspicion.

“Like, if you wanted to cause some serious trouble in the colony, what would you do and where would you do it?”

“How serious?” Linus asked, straightening with interest.

“Deadly serious. Take out the dome serious.”

The boy thought about it for a bit and looked around. “The EV systems, I guess,” he finally said.

“I’ve already discussed that idea with the cook.”

Linus grinned and hooked his thumbs into his coveralls. “Even the spares?”

There it was. “What spares?”

“In the warehouse. All the way in the back. There are whole systems back there. They’re in boxes mislabeled as food. They’re all covered in dust. Some friends and I went looking one time—you know, out of curiosity. That’s all, not to cause any real trouble. We just like knowing things.”

“Go on,” Warren said, motioning with a hand.

“So yeah, full units ready to go. Six of them. If I were going to cause some real trouble, I’d disable one or two of the ones that are being used, but not until I took care of the spares.”

“Does anyone else know about the ones you found?” Warren asked.

“No, I don’t think so. Like I said, those boxes have been there a long time. They’ve got a layer of dust this thick on top.” He held up his thumb and forefinger about a centimeter apart.

Destroying the backups made sense. It’s what the enemy had already proven they wanted to do in the first place by sabotaging the printers.

“How would you know if they were messed with?” the kid asked.

“I’ll have to send someone to them to inspect for tampering,” Warren explained.

Linus zeroed in on that bit of information. “Oh, is that what happened?”

Warren sighed, realizing he probably shouldn’t have said that. “Yes, that’s what happened.”

“Is there anything I can do to help? You know, maybe keep an eye on things and tell you if I see anyone screwing around in places they shouldn’t be? Except me, of course.”

Warren laughed. He liked the kid. In fact, he liked him enough to want to keep him from getting involved. If he spotted a spy, there was a good chance that person would try to kill him to keep him quiet.

Then again, he’d had a lot of practice sneaking around. Also, if someone destroyed the place, he’d be one of the people who would suffer. He had a stake in finding their enemies—at least as much as Warren.

“Yes, there is something you can do,” Warren said slowly as he formed the rest of his thought. “But only if you want to. If you think you can handle it.”

Linus’s eyebrows went up and he leaned in conspiratorially. “Whatcha got?”

“I need my own spy, and I have a feeling you might be just the right person.”

“What makes you say that?” Linus asked, leaning away.

“People ignore you, for the most part, right?”

“Yeah, so? People always ignore young people.”

“Exactly,” Warren said. “I’ll assign you to a task that will look like I’m just trying to keep you busy. It’ll be something boring, but it’ll get you access to every single part of the colony. You’ll have free reign, but you must stick to the plan.”

“What plan?”

“Keep your eyes and ears open. That’s the plan. Oh, and don’t screw around with anything you don’t understand. If you think you see something I need to know about, you can tell me or the cyborg named Lukov. He’s my security chief. I’ll tell him I’ve hired you, if you’re up to it.”

“My parents won’t like this,” he said. “Not one bit. They don’t like me exploring or getting involved in anything. Which is why I’m doing it.” His wicked grin was infectious.

“Stay out of harm’s way whenever possible,” Warren said. “Don’t confront anyone you suspect. Come tell us, and we’ll do the dirty work.”

“I could use some help,” Linus said. “The colony’s a big place, you know?”

Warren nodded. “Anyone you trust?”

“I’ve got some friends,” Linus said. “We like to explore together. I can tell them what I’m up to and see if they’ll help.”

Warren thought about it for a moment. Having more than one spy would help, but who could he trust? Surely a bunch of kids weren’t involved with the enemy.

“I’ll let you decide who to tell about this,” Warren decided. “Now, your task is to inventory everything that isn’t nailed down. Get one of these data pads I see people running around with. Get one for each person you trust. I want to know what our assets are. Everything down to the last box of spare screws.”

“Yes sir!” Linus said and hurried away.

“Lukov,” Warren transmitted on a private channel. “We now have a spy network of our own.”

18

As Warren watched the boy hurry away, he noticed several people glance at nearby air vents and breathe a sigh of relief. It seemed Curet had gotten the EV system back online. Carbon dioxide was being scrubbed from the air. Nitrogen levels were being adjusted. Whatever toxins might be coming up from the dirt and rock of the planet’s surface were being swept away. The day was saved, for now.

“Are you Warren?” a young woman said as she ran up to the cyborg, halting about ten meters away. It looked like she was worried about getting any closer.

Warren did his best not to seem intimidating. “I am.”

“Mason Curet wanted me to tell you he got the EV system back online. He wanted me to show you this, too.” She handed Warren a small device. It was as thin, translucent green, and had so many lines cut into it, the thing scattered light like a multi-faceted prism.

“What is it?” Warren asked as he held it up to the light.

The girl looked at him with an expression that made it clear she thought he was an idiot. “It’s a circuit board. From the EV unit. Mason said this one is different, though. It’s a fake. It was designed to fail as soon as it received a signal of some kind. He called it a kill code. He said it would take hours to find out what the code was, but if you want, he’ll get started on it.”

“Is there any advantage to finding the code?” Warren asked, still peering through the device.

The woman shrugged. “None I can think of, unless the code is a phrase or something that might help identify who planted the fake. It’s probably just a series of numbers, though. Something anonymous.”

“Thank him for me,” Warren said, dismissing her with a nod.

He turned the device over in his hand several times, then opened a private channel to Lukov. “The EV unit was taken out by a counterfeit circuit board. It’s back online now. One of the Reotian techs found the bad one and replaced it. The board was designed to receive a signal to shut the unit down. They know enough to do this and get away with it. I know you’re stretched thin, but we have to deal with this.”

“It is no problem. I can recruit people to assist. How did they smuggle counterfeit components here?”

Warren said as he stared at the nearby printer. “It’s likely they built them right here under everyone’s noses. All they would need to bring in is the plans.”

“Ah,” Lukov said. “The printers. Yes, agreed. We will find them.”

Curet and his team walked up a few seconds later. “Easy enough,” he announced.

“How’d you fix it?” Warren asked, a little surprised to see them so soon.

“All I did was replace the hacked board with a new one. It looks like the saboteur wants to use this place later. It was designed to shut down, not destroy anything.”

“How many spare boards do you have?” Warren asked.

“None,” Curet admitted. “We just print what we need.”

“Then get some spares. We don’t know if or when they’ll target these things again. Make some spares—at least one per EV unit. Then hide them. I don’t want anyone getting to them.”

“Good idea,” Curet replied. He nodded to a woman standing next to him. She returned the gesture and headed to the other side of the hangar. “Anything else?”

“We have a problem,” Cooper transmitted to Warren in a private channel.

Warren held up a finger in the universal sign that meant “wait a second” while he spoke with the other cyborg. “What’s the problem, Cooper?”

“The sensors are down. The idiots have one sensor array for the whole damned planet.”

“How down?” Warren asked.

“What do you mean ‘how down?’” Cooper snapped. “Down enough. Maybe completely broken. I’ve got nothing. We’re running blind here. Can’t tell if there are any incoming ships. There could be an armada showing right now, and we’d have no way to tell. I don’t even know if the guns will be able to shoot them down without the sensors.”

“I have an expert standing right in front of me,” Warren said. “Let me get back to you.”

“Sensors are down,” Warren advised Curet. “We’re vulnerable without them. Will the guns still find targets without the sensors?”

The engineer muttered a curse before responding. “They’ll function, but it’s going to make targeting a lot more difficult. Really difficult, in fact. How many are deployed?”

“No more than seven,” Warren said after checking.

“That’s enough for a single ship—maybe two. It depends on who’s invading and what they bring. I’ll head there now with the team.”

“Any chance you have a spare sensor array sitting around somewhere?” Warren asked.

Curet shook his head and frowned. “We never thought about it,” he said. “It’s underground—safe from bombs. It had to be an inside job. You need to find who’s behind this. There’s no telling what they’ll hit next.”

He turned to his team, gave them a quick set of instructions, and hurried away. Each of those with him scattered in different directions.

“What are we doing?” Cooper asked, his voice a low growl. “Talk to me, boss.”

“I’ve got a repair team on the way,” Warren replied. “Listen—I need you to keep a cool head. Part of terrorism is causing terror. The worst thing we can do is fight among ourselves or make rash choices. If we do, they win.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he said again. “It’s just... we’ve come so far. It’s like they knew we’d free ourselves and they wanted to make sure they took us all out once our support was gone. Damn, do we have anyone protecting the ship?”

“Yeah,” Warren replied, realizing it had been a while since he’d checked on Craig. “Let me get a status on that. Stand by.”

“Craig,” he said after opening a private channel. “How are things on the ship?”

“This place is locked down.” He sounded like he was in good spirits. “Nothing happening here, so I’m going through everything.”

“Keep up the good work,” Warren instructed. “Let me know if you find anything you think is proof positive. If any of the crew we brought back to the planet is a spy, I want to know.”

“You got it, boss,” Craig said.

“Ship’s secure,” Warren transmitted to Cooper. “I’ve got Craig going through it now. He says he’s done a thorough inspection, and now he’s checking the personal effects of the crew.”

“Smart thinking there,” Cooper commented. “Our maintenance people just showed up. Honcho’s name is Mason Curet. Ring a bell?”

“That’s him,” Warren said. “Put him to work. How bad is it?”

“Hold on a sec—I might be able to show you.”

Warren wondered what he was talking about until a new icon appeared in the top corner of Warren’s HUD. When he focused on it, the little square turned into a picture-in-picture display of what Cooper was seeing.

“Did it work?” Cooper asked.

“Yeah,” Warren said. He was looking through the other cyborg’s eyes at a room filled with smoke and the penetrating glare of flashlights. It looked like there had been a fire, but it was out.

“Why haven’t we done this before?” Warren asked.

“Tried,” Cooper said. “But my compulsion chip zapped me when I did. Right now the icon is blinking like crazy. It’s got to be something we were designed to do, but someone higher up in the food chain decided it would be too much power for us or something.”

“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.”

Accidents happened, he knew, but he decided to go check on the man anyway. Without some kind of central computer system to keep him informed of details, he had to find out for himself.

Warren arrived at the infirmary after getting direction. The injured man was covered in blood and lying on a table. The mangled wreck of his right arm was being worked on by a robot with thin, spidery appendages. It rode around on a wheeled base, buzzing and clicking happily.

The rest of the room was occupied by five other beds, several small cabinets, and a high-security door at the back.

“How’s the patient?” Warren asked a severe, pale-skinned woman watching the robot do its thing.

“He’ll live,” she said, clearly not happy to be working on him. “Though he may wish he’d died when he realizes how much medicine this is going to cost us. We only have a limited supply, and I know we’re going to need it all for the upcoming battles. Unless we steal more from our enemies, we’ll run out.”

Her rant finished, she consulted a small tablet, tapped a few commands, and watched the surgery with a keen eye.

The robot withdrew an arm that was tipped with a hooked scalpel and extended three others. These ended in narrow clamps, which it used to grab the skin around the man’s compound fracture and pull it away.

“He’s going to take a long time to recover,” the woman said, shaking her head. “No way I’m going to waste anything on him that will speed up the process. I have plenty of painkillers, though. It’s all he’s getting. One arm will be a little shorter than the other, and the scar will be severe. I hope it reminds him to be careful in the future.”

The dark-skinned man looked to be in his thirties, and he was sound asleep. Warren was glad he wasn’t awake to hear the doctor’s verbal abuse.

“How many of these robots do you have?” Warren asked, nodding toward the one performing the surgery. “

“I have another four in storage in my back room,” she said, not looking up from what she was doing. “Another eight in the main warehouse. They can all run at the same time, but their computers are unsecure. That’s why you don’t see any others out. I heard what happened with the printer. Can you imagine if one of them were hacked? You’d have to destroy it, and my services would be even less effective.”

“Understood,” Warren said, suddenly feeling like he wasn’t welcome. Rather than challenging her, though, he decided she was handling things just fine and backed out of the room.

“Thirty seconds until the ship’s in range of the guns,” Cooper said. Warren noticed Curet was in the conversation.

“What’s the ship doing?” Warren asked, again wishing he could bring up the data himself.

“Well, it’s making itself a big target,” Curet said. “We’ll be capable of shooting it down without a problem, but I don’t think it can return fire.”

“What do you mean?” Warren asked as a memory tickled the edge of his mind.

“I mean, it’s like they’re begging us to shoot them,” Curet said. “It looks like they know we have guns and they want to get shot.”

“In range in ten seconds,” Cooper reported. “Want me to give them their wish?”

“Hold your fire!” Warren ordered. A memory was coming together. If the pilot was good enough to bring the ship in that way, he or she was good enough to know it made them a target. It was the most non-threatening thing a ship could do.

“What?” Curet asked. “Why? Neither the Grand Republic nor the Commonwealth would hold their fire for one of us.”

“Lame duck!” Warren said with a snap of his fingers as the term came to him. “They’re performing lame duck maneuvers. The damage. They can’t transmit. They’re showing us they aren’t a threat. And furthermore, we’re not the Republic or the Commonwealth. It’s the whole reason we’re doing this. We’re better than either side.”

“The pilot wants to surrender,” Curet realized first. “They’re headed for the hangar. There’s nowhere else to land in the vicinity, unless they fly over the mountain. That would be suicide, so they must be doing what Warren said.”

Cooper spoke up, sounding less than pleased. “Are you sure?”

“If I’m wrong, Curet will vaporize them,” Warren told him.

“Yes,” Curet agreed. “Yes, I will. Holding fire.”

“Then let them in,” Warren said before adding his head of security to the channel. “Lukov, get to the hangar. The ship is going to come in. Secure the vessel, it’s pilot, and its crew. When you have the personnel isolated, find their leader and bring them to the warehouse. I want to have a little talk with them.”

20

Warren studied the mid-sized ship sitting in the hangar. It was a damn miracle it made it this far. Pieces were falling off and the vessel didn’t look like it would be taking off again anytime soon. No one had exited yet, but his HUD had detected movement.

“Lukov, where’s the survivor from the spy room?” he asked.

“I’m interrogating her now,” he said. “So far—nothing. She is Commonwealth, but that is all I know.”

Warren didn’t want to think about how the cyborg might be interrogating his prisoner but was sure he’d get something out of it.

“I’ve got one exiting the craft,” Cooper said. “Male, and the gear looks Republic. Walking out hands raised.”

That may have been the case, but Warren wasn’t going to take chances. “I’m going to head him off. Let’s scan the pilot and ship,” he instructed.

“For what?”

“Biological weapons, bombs, things like that?”

Cooper didn’t answer right away, presumably attempting the scan. “I don’t think these scanners work that way. Compared to some of the stuff we have, this tech is like a high-speed periscope.”

Warren bit back a curse. “Fine. I’m going to check the pilot out personally before they let him any further.”

The pilot stood rooted in place as Warren approached with his rifle raised.

“I think they followed me,” the man said. He didn’t look well and swayed as though he would fall to the ground at any moment. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat and looked to be a sickly shade of gray.

“That’s far enough,” Warren commanded, coming to a halt. “Who followed you?”

“The machines. They’ll kill us all!” The pilot’s eyes went wide and pleading. He let out a groan and staggered forward.

Warren didn’t think it was a ploy and lowered the rifle a fraction. As the man went down on his knees, a quickly growing dark patch at his side caught Warren’s eye. He was injured.

“Get me a medic,” Warren called out over the public comm as the pilot slumped forward.

* * *

“I have new information,” Lukov reported as a team of medicals took the man away on a stretcher. “The spy speaks freely now. She provided the frequencies used for speaking with her partner in the colony. Have monitored network, but it has gone dark and secret.”

“Keep at it,” Warren said. “But make sure no civilians see what you’re up to. They’re nervous enough as it is.”

Lukov laughed. “Because Lukov is Spetsnaz I must doing some terrible thing? Come, look, see for yourself.”

He began transmitting what he was looking at to Warren, who braced himself for what he was about to see. There was a woman sitting in a chair in front of Lukov. She’d been crying—ugly crying—but there was no blood. Her face was red, and her thick black hair was sticking to her face, but there were no obvious signs of harm.

“Yeah, well,” Warren started.

“Have been trained to interrogate prisoners to make them do the speaking and talking. It is professional—no killing, no bamboo under nails, no electrodes clamped to the sensitive things. Trust me. Torture is not so good for gain reliable information. Person say whatever you tell to say for to make it stop. No, she will tell the truth. Also, I can tell when person tells lie. Our cyborg touch is very sensitive. I touch her wrist, can detect heart rate, sweating, and temperature. Can see respiration rate. She is afraid because she think I can read mind, maybe magic or sorcery.”

Warren laughed, drawing the attention of several civilians standing nearby. He sent his response as a text message.

CARRY ON

The minor mistake was a reminder for Warren that he didn’t know nearly as much as he thought he did. Then again, he didn’t know what had been lost over the last few hundred years.

A new realization hit him. He’d been so busy he hadn’t even thought about it in a while. He still hadn’t backed himself up. He switched to the all-cyborg channel and transmitted. “I need Saul Hendrose to me.”

A moment later, another cyborg replied. “He’s on his way. He was on the other side of the hangar.”

Sure enough, one figure broke from a group and started across the hanger toward Warren. He arrived thirty seconds later, then he placed his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath.

“Got here... fast as I could,” he gasped.

“I need to be backed up,” Warren said. “How long does it take?”

Hendrose gave him a confused expression. “Something wrong?”

“Only that if I don’t get backed up now, I won’t remember any of this when I’m restored. That’s a pretty serious problem, I’d say. There’s no way I’d believe any of this if my memory got wiped due to sabotage or battle. So I’ll ask again: how long does it take?”

“About ten minutes,” he replied. “Has to be done on the ship. We don’t have anything like that out here.”

“Can a copy of my memories be made on one of those data cubes?”

“Yeah, we have some onboard. You want an off-site backup, just in case?”

“Yeah,” Warren said. He didn’t want to have to tiptoe around because he was afraid of losing his memories.

“We can do it now, if you like.”

“Craig,” Warren said over a private channel. “Hendrose and I are coming aboard. I’m going to back up my memories, just in case. You want in on this?”

The line was silent long enough that Warren thought about repeating the question.

“Yeah,” Craig said, finally. “If something happens, I’d like to come right back here. This is nice.”

Neither the words nor tone sounded right for Craig. He sounded dreamy—not himself. Maybe it’s a good thing? No, he couldn’t convince himself of it. Something was definitely wrong.

Warren and Hendrose took the cargo shuttle up. They got into the elevator without incident. Hendrose babbled on about something, but Warren ignored him. He was thinking about war. Countless wars. Unending war.

People had been fighting since the dawn of time. When the first human picked up a stick or a rock and smacked another with it, retaliation was inevitable. From there, the family—most likely—of either side joined the fight. Whether it was retribution, a warning against future attacks, or what, war became the final result.

When the doors opened. Craig was waiting a meter down the hallway. “You remember doing this last time?” he asked.

“No,” Warren said, joining him in the hallway. “There are a lot of things I don’t remember.”

Craig nodded and removed his helmet. He was smiling. Warren removed his helmet as well and plastered on a serene expression.

“Lead the way,” he said.

Hendrose stepped out in front, glanced at both of them with a quizzical eye, and said, “This way.”

Craig waited for Warren to pass before he started following. Warren focused on the sounds around him. He listened for any sign of betrayal. A weapon powering up. A knife being drawn from its sheath. Rapid movement of Craig’s feet.

They got to the infirmary without incident.

“Who wants to go first?” Hendrose asked. “It doesn’t matter to the backup unit, so it’s up to you two, but I can only do it one at a time.”

“Craig, you go first,” Warren said. “Let’s catch you in your happy place.”

The other cyborg nodded and stepped into a man-sized hemispherical alcove on the wall. Hendrose brought a tablet close, tapped a few commands, and watched as Craig’s eyes closed like he was falling asleep.

“Setting parallel synchronization,” Hendrose mumbled to himself as a low thrumming sound started to fill the room. “Aligning... aligning... ah, there it is. Initiating copy.” With a final stab of his finger, he turned to Warren.

“Easy as that,” he said with a smile. “Right now, the computer’s examining his brain to make sure everything looks right. Then it’ll take a snapshot—just a quick picture of what the brain looks like for future reference and identification.

“You see, no two people’s brains are the same. However, no matter what a person’s been through, his brain stays, more or less, the same. By identifying the person, based on their brain structure and knowledge, the computer can ensure the correct person’s backup makes it to the correct file. It’s all basic stuff these days.

“Does that have anything to do with why there aren’t two Craigs or two of me?” Warren asked.

“Yes!” Hendrose said, obviously excited by the prospect of teaching someone something he knew a lot about. “War computers—this isn’t a war computer, it’s a completely separate system—but war computers send signals based on the person, not some kind of code or something. Codes can be hacked. Could you imagine what would happen if someone was able to convince a war computer that every single one of the cyborgs it was managing were the same one?”

“Fill me in,” Warren said. “What happens if there are two Warrens on the battlefield, or if the computer thinks there are?”

“Bedlam, death, destruction, all the above,” Hendrose said. “You don’t remember this part, either?”

“Would it surprise you to know I don’t?”

Hendrose was quiet for a moment. “Sorry,” he said. “I forget sometimes. Not like you, but you know, I forget. Your situation is kind of unique. So, yeah, it would be bad. The computer tracks each cyborg by interfacing with its compulsion chip, which in turn is marked with a unique identifier.”

“The cyborg’s memories?”

“Exactly!” Hendrose said with a snap of his fingers. “So, if the war computer can’t tell which one is right because the memories have been loaded into two biologicals, it’s got to try to send signals to both. Each compulsion chip would try to do what the war computer said. But if you’ve got two cyborgs, one facing West, the other East, is there any simple command both could receive to move to a specific location?”

“Could the war computer just say to move from here to there?” Warren asked.

“Not after the compulsion chip has taken control. Every step—every movement—is controlled. Lift arm. Turn twenty-degrees to the left. Look at that thing. Squeeze trigger. All of it—things you and I do every day—has to be controlled. That’s why the Republic still uses biologicals. Nothing compares to the human brain. Nothing.”

“Damn,” Warren whispered.

“Yeah, it’s too bad,” Hendrose said. “Imagine if we could have a couple hundred of you.”

“Why can’t we?” Warren asked.

“We could, if you’re willing to kiss the war computer goodbye. But that means no more backups, instant communications—nothing that would actually help us. Sure, you’d still be a badass, but you’d be a badass with an expiration date. Plus, there’s the problem of divergence. You are you only because you experience what you experience. Eventually, one of your copies would decide he didn’t like the others. Then you’re fighting you. Can’t be good for the psyche.”

“So, if we turned our war computer against another corps, we could disable them?”

“No, but I like your thinking,” the tech replied. “Their war computer would need to be destroyed for ours to take over. If that happened, we could control them all, force them to surrender, things like that.”

“Or make them all commit suicide.”

“Lucky for them, we’re neither the Republic nor the Commonwealth, right? We’ve got standards. It’s the only thing that sets us apart.”

“And by setting us apart, it makes us attractive,” Warren concluded.

Hendrose stepped a little closer and stared intently into the cyborg’s eyes. “It’s also what makes you more human than most of the Republic’s leadership. Don’t forget that.”

“Oh, he’s almost done,” Hendrose added, lifting a finger to his lips.

“Ahhh,” Craig uttered. “That’s the closest thing to a nap any of us ever get. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

Warren couldn’t help but smile at the man’s frankness and happy demeanor. “I guess we’ll see.” He stepped into the alcove as Hendrose tapped commands into his tablet.

“Just relax,” the tech said.

Warren was about to ask what he needed to relax for when the world, the universe, and everything in it disappeared.

Warren found himself standing in a field of pixels. They were unevenly spaced, green, and still a flat plane against the black backdrop of eternity.

He reached out to touch one. It moved a little, then slowly floated back into place.

This is me, he realized. Everything I know, remember, and have ever learned.

IMAGE PROCESSING: 2%

He thought about the last time he’d been connected to a computer. He’d seen his old memories. Sort of. They were stored somewhere just out of reach. He’d wanted to know what they contained. Maybe some of his 400-year missing history, or notes he’d left for himself—clues to things he’d discovered during the testing he volunteered for. It could be anything.

IMAGE PROCESSING: 28%

He studied his environment. This was him, but his memories were being stored within the war computer. Where was the connection? He studied the pixels, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

RELAX YOU ARE SLOWING THE PROCESS

It was Hendrose. Apparently, Warren’s stress was causing some trouble. He formed a thought and sent it to the tech.

WANT ACCESS TO STORED FILES

Warren waited for a response. It arrived sometime later, though he realized he wasn’t sure how long it had been.

AFTER THE BACKUP

Good enough. He’d waited this long, so a little longer wouldn’t be a big deal.

IMAGE PROCESSING: 99%

The world he was in seemed to tilt. All the pixels Warren could see took on a fuzzy appearance as though a scratched, filthy lens had slid in front of his vision. Then they split, duplicating themselves like cells in a petri dish. One set stayed put, while another, identical set shot away, vanishing to a glowing point somewhere on the horizon.

LOADING ADDITIONAL MEMORY FILES...

RETRIEVING FILES...

FILES RETRIEVED

From the same point the duplicated pixels had vanished, new ones streamed toward him. They collected into a cloud of data, appearing as a fluffy, green cloud somewhere nearby.

WRITING ADDITIONAL MEMORY FILES...

The cloud swirled lazily for a moment, then faster, until it became a hurricane. It filled Warren’s vision—frantic chaotic motion—but no sound. Sometime later, the pixels froze in place, slowly falling to those below like snow. The new pixels remained where they landed, still and silent.

MEMORY WRITE COMPLETE

21

Warren’s mind flooded with images. The onslaught was difficult to comprehend. Some of it, on the other hand, was all too clear and he wished they would vanish back into oblivion.

He remembered his disappearance—the one where he’d almost been gone long enough for them to make another Warren. It had been planned far in advance. He and the others who’d been involved had only been waiting for the right opportunity to put their plan in motion.

It was staged to make it look like he’d been captured by the enemy or destroyed. Protocol stated that in the event a cyborg was completely obliterated, and no trace could be found, the war computer would wait two weeks before ordering his replacement. He’d been gone for ten days.

The incident had happened on Reotis. Hendrose hadn’t been involved, but he’d known of the plan and he knew when it would happen.

A wave of anguish washed over Warren as he remembered those who’d given their lives to make sure the plan would succeed. They were all Reotians, and all of them were civilians. The future of their people meant more to them than their own lives.

As far as anyone on the planet knew, they’d been kidnapped, or simply vanished into thin air. Each had left their home behind for the sake of others. Maybe some were still alive. There was no way to know—not without searching for them. Coming back might’ve revealed they’d left in the first place. It could draw unwanted attention by whoever controlled the planet at the time. They might’ve been forced to reveal where they’d been, what they were doing, and who they’d selected. If that had happened, Warren knew the Republic would have deleted him. They might’ve called Reotis a complete loss and glassed it rather than risk a cyborg rebellion.

Those who’d volunteered knew the risk, yet they still did their part. Warren was the means to an end. It wasn’t personal. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. He had to make sure their deaths hadn’t been in vain.

Next, he had been spirited away from the Grand Republic to perform a test. The blueprints for cyborgs were a carefully guarded secret, though bits of their design had been stolen and shared with certain operatives. The Reotis scientists had collected what they could, discovered a flaw in the cyborg design, and only needed a volunteer to test it. Unless one came willingly, it would never work. They needed one alive who was willing to risk everything to help them, and their fellow cyborgs, escape their virtual slavery.

“Revolution.” Warren wasn’t sure if he’d said it out loud, or only in his mind. The memories seemed to tumble in his mind as it returned. People—there had been people there. And sounds. An environmental system which had seen better days, rattling as it removed carbon from the air and warmed the lonely place.

Warren thought of what he and Anita—one of the volunteers—had planned made him a little sad she hadn’t survived. Warren liked her. He respected her. He… missed her.

He’d decided to become a traitor to his government with the vain, distant hope that the Reotian scientists might be able to find a way to disable his compulsion chip. If they could do it—if the experiment worked—he hoped he could free other cyborgs, too. It was part of the plan, and it was the only way it would work.

The free cyborgs could escape and form their own society, cohabitate with the Reotians, and form their own community where they could all be free.

Warren remembered the feelings he had when the alarms sounded, and the war computer ordered him to don his armor and grab his weapon. They were in the right sector. They were heading back to Reotis. The time to put his top-secret plan into action had come.

He had been their only hope, and when they staged a random explosion during the battle to spirit him away, two Reotians died. Looking back, he guessed they’d underestimated the force of the blast that ended up turning each of them into meaty chunks.

Two cyborgs had been killed as well, but as they’d be reset soon, so it didn’t seem like that big of a loss. Sure, he didn’t want it to happen to him, but war always had casualties. Their sacrifice would be worthwhile, in the end. They wouldn’t even know what happened.

He started to fit all the pieces together even though they were coming in random chunks. The Reotis rebellion had needed a cyborg—one willing to go under the knife and turn traitor on the government that had made him or her. They needed someone like Warren. Someone who’d seen enough to want to rebel against the Grand Republic.

Warren was hurried from Dome-2 onto a transport shuttle where he was summarily wrapped in layers upon layers of thin metal. The two technicians who did the work hooked a couple of alligator clips to the metal near Warren’s head and toes when they were finished. Then they applied a current.

The pain wasn’t bad, but it glitched his HUD. He couldn’t see anything not immediately in front of him. His vision went pixelated, and he stopped receiving information from the war computer. Although he was in pain, it wasn’t more than he could handle. His skin felt like he had a bad sunburn and someone was slapping him, but he could take it. Everything, except the deaths of the civilians, Anita being one of them, had gone to plan.

He kept his mind on the woman. She was a lot shorter than him, the top of her head barely reaching his throat. Her hair and eyes were brown, and there was nothing particularly attractive about her except her attitude, which she’d possessed in droves. She’d developed a certain toughness Warren thought the homesteaders of the American old west might’ve possessed—charming and a little frightening.

The pain had started to seep through the mental block he’d put up, so he’d focused on the shuttle itself. As they lifted from the surface, pieces fell off somewhere near the bridge and started rattling and rolling across the floor. An alarm sounded, but the pilot squelched it almost immediately. It was an old Commonwealth vessel, so if anything fell off but nobody died, it shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Over-engineering was a problem the CoWs didn’t have.

Warren was having a hard time differentiating between reality and memory.

The battle was still raging below, but the shuttle took off anyway. Commonwealth forces fought against Republic cyborgs as their ships duked it out somewhere in low orbit. Since both sides were present, the pilot engaged two stolen transponders—one pretending to be Commonwealth, and the other transmitting a Republic identity. With a little luck, everyone would be too busy to offer the little ship more than a cursory check. A few minutes later, once they’d left the planet behind them, the civilians with Warren breathed a deep sigh of relief.

“We made it,” an older woman said. She was pretty, but she’d seen better days. Life on Reotis could be hard on a body and hers was showing it. “How are you doing, Warren?”

“I’m okay,” he grunted. “Can’t wait to get out of this shock suit, or whatever you call it, though.”

“Sorry, love, but you’ve got to stay in there until we get to the research facility. Once we get inside, I’ll turn you loose, okay?”

“Yeah,” Warren muttered. “If I get out beforehand, the Republic ship will know I’m off the planet. It’ll force me to kill you all. I’m fine.”

The woman’s face turned ashen. Though Warren knew she understood how his compulsion chip worked, there was something that bothered her deeply when he spoke about its effects out loud. He clamped his mouth shut.

Fast forward and another memory crept in.

Their destination had been a reclaimed Commonwealth research facility. Before the struggle over Reotis had become so intense and frequent, the people had mined the asteroid belt at the edge of their solar system. One, they’d discovered, emitted a strange power signal—something they doubted could have been created naturally. After some sneaking around, they’d figured out what it was.

They’d launched six ships, loaded with eight crew in EV suits apiece. The battle had been short, but only six Reotians lived. The survivors lashed the huge, hollowed-out rock to three of the ships and towed it into an orbit further from the system’s single star. Within a few months, smaller rocks had crashed into it and changed its shape, making it all but impossible to find.

Once the deed was done, the Reotians began using it as a secret meeting place. There, they’d hatched their idea of freeing the cyborgs, and at the same time, themselves.

Warren had arrived at the research facility 24 hours later. It took ten minutes to bring the ship into the facility’s small, hidden hangar, and no sooner had the hatch opened than someone started yelling.

“You’re four hours late!” the scientist, a bald man who’d grown enough eyebrows to make up for his shiny pate, growled. “We’re behind schedule!”

“There were probes!” the pilot, a twenty-something long-haired man, snapped. “What did you want me to do? Fly past them while I held my breath in hopes they wouldn’t notice? Maybe if I sucked in my gut I could have fooled them.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” the scientist complained. “But this is a timely mission. We’re on a schedule and you just screwed it up.”

“Then you’ll have to skip something,” the pilot said, attempting to walk around the scientist who didn’t look like he was going to move. “Do what you can, but I’ve got to get him back in time no matter what.”

“What difference will four hours make?” the woman unwrapping Warren from his metal wrappings asked. She’d already removed the electric leads.

“Well, we don’t know, and that’s the problem,” the scientist said with a pained expression. “We have a plan, but until we begin, nobody knows what problems we’re going to run into. We’re going to attempt to free Warren from his compulsion chip, but something like this has never been done before. Then we have to get him back, but inflict just enough damage to justify a reset, rather than a repair. If they find evidence of what we tried to do, whether we’re successful or not, they’ll change the design. I’m sure of it.

“Plus, we have agents aboard the Ruthless ready to assist in the cover story. They’ve been fully briefed, and as of yesterday have not been discovered.”

“How many agents?” Warren asked, sitting up from the bed he’d been laying on.

“I won’t say,” the scientist replied. He crossed his arms and shook his head to make his point clear. “If you get that information and it’s compromised, we’re done for.”

“Maybe we should get to it,” Warren suggested. “And I need you two to make peace. I’m in this just as deep as you are. If they find out what I’ve done, they’ll delete me and we’re back to square one. No free cyborgs and no free Reotis. All of this will be for nothing. The only thing we cyborgs have that we can take with us is our memories, so to save time, cut whatever tests can be cut—whatever’s least important.”

“Everything is important,” the scientist argued. “This has been planned for more than a year. We didn’t know it was going to be you, and we didn’t know when it was going to happen, but we’ve been ready. We’ve checked the plan over and over again, and everyone agrees that every single step is important.”

The pilot opened his mouth, an obvious fresh retort on his lips, but stopped when Warren raised a hand.

“That’s enough,” he said in a tone that left no room for argument. “You did what you could do, and here we are. We’re not going to blame each other anymore. We’re not going to point fingers. We’re going to complete our mission no matter what. Does everyone understand?”

The scientist paused for a moment and nodded. The pilot followed suit, though he didn’t look happy about it.

“Good,” Warren said. “Because we need to work together if this is going to happen. Now, let’s get started.”

The scientist led Warren out of the hangar to a small room nearby. Two of the people who came with them entered as well. They each had their own tasks to complete.

Warren ran a quick diagnostic as he laid himself back on the table. “I’m ready, doc.”

“First, we’re going to have to take you apart,” the scientist explained as he took a few tools from under the table and set them on Warren’s belly. “It’s going to hurt, but there’s nothing that can be done about it. We can’t disable your pain sensors or there won’t be enough voltage during the final stage to disable your compulsion chip. It’ll hurt like you took an economy trip to Hell.”

“You only live once,” Warren mused.

Everyone in the room glanced at each other in confusion.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s an expression from my time. Please, carry on. Oh, but do me a favor and erase that part of my memory when you’re done. I don’t really need to remember being tortured.”

“I’ll do it if there’s time,” the scientist promised. “We don’t have a lot of blueprints or details on how your cybernetics function, which is what this procedure is for. When we’re done, I’ll better understand how your systems interact. It’ll help me know how to disable the chip. It’s exploratory more than anything else.”

“What happens when you’re done?” Warren asked.

“Once we’re done, I’ll disable your pain sensors. I’ll have to cause some serious injury to your body, but nothing that will disable you outright. Don’t worry about pain then. You’ll have a lot of damage indicators popping up on your HUD, but that just means it’s working. I’ll make sure the damage is extensive enough that they won’t be tempted to repair you.”

“Will I remember any of this? I mean, if they reset me, I’m going to lose everything?”

“Not if we load this,” he said, holding up a cyborg data cube, what they called a CDC. “We’ll wait until just before we load you back on the transport so you can remember everything that’s important. When our agents on the Ruthless deem the time right, they’ll reintroduce you to your memories. It should answer your questions.”

“Let’s do it,” Warren said. “Let’s make history.”

* * *

Warren opened his eyes. Hendrose was watching him with a curious expression. Craig looked downright worried.

“Did something go wrong?” Craig asked as he gave Warren’s face a close inspection.

“We need to change everything,” Warren said, feeling a smile spread across his lips. “I have a new plan.”

22

Warren tried not to laugh, but the sound escaped him anyway. The expression on both men’s faces was priceless.

“Stop everything?” Craig blurted. “What do you mean, stop everything? This operation is a huge boulder rolling down a steep hill. Do you know what it’s going to take to stop it all?”

Then he turned an angry look toward Hendrose, who backed up a couple of steps. “I swear to everything unholy, if you screwed up his—”

“I’m fine,” Warren interrupted. “It turns out I had some memories secretly stored away. Everything’s back. The mystery of where I was for ten days has been solved.”

“I remember that,” Craig said slowly. “Where were you?”

“Planning for this,” Warren said, waving the rest of his answer away. “I’ll tell you about it later. The point is, I remember what the original plan was. I also remember my own backup plan—the one I never told anyone about.”

Hendrose looked worried. “New backup plan? Didn’t you think this might be something we all should have known about?”

“No,” Warren said, squaring off with the tech. “Nobody could know about it. It had to remain secret.”

Hendrose sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Okay, what do you need me to do?”

“The first thing is we need to get to the war computer.”

“Gonna blow it up?” Craig asked, sounding hopeful.

“No,” Warren said, giving the other cyborg a stern expression. “We need the war computer, but instead of following its orders, we’re going to make it follow ours.”

Then he turned to Hendrose. “Where do you keep the data cubes?”

“In the vault,” the tech said.

“Good. Take us to them.”

The three left the infirmary and hurried down a nearby passage. Craig stayed right on Warren’s heels, but the tech was having trouble keeping up.

“What do you need them for?” Hendrose asked between breaths. “There’s nothing on them. They’re blank.”

“That’s why I need them,” Warren said as he took the last turn and stopped in front of a complicated-looking door lock.

The portal took up the entire three-meter-tall wall. It was nearly as wide and had been built of a secret alloy few within the Grand Republic knew the recipe for. Even Warren’s HUD couldn’t figure out what it was made of.

A shiny metal digital entry pad set in its center looked both simple and imposing. It had ten keys, numbered zero through nine, and two tiny lights. Currently, the green one was lit.

“We can’t get in,” Craig said. “Trust me, I’ve thought about it a hundred times. But anything short of a nuclear blast isn’t going to crack this thing. What’s your plan?”

“I know the code,” Warren said with a smirk. Twenty-two digits later, the door clicked several times and swung open a few centimeters.

Craig and Hendrose stared at it with open mouths.

“How did you get the code?” Hendrose asked. “Only the captain knows the code.”

Warren smiled, then he turned back to the heavy door and slowly opened it. “That’s what we wanted everyone to think,” he said. “But codes are only changed when a ship receives a new captain. The Reotian spy network was compartmentalized. You didn’t need to know the code had been discovered, so you weren’t told.”

Hendrose opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded as he stared wide-eyed at the contents of the room.

Warren ignored the piles of credits and went straight to a rack of meter-wide square, eight-centimeter-tall silver boxes. There were six total and he took them all.

“We need to take these back to the CUP,” Warren said, happy he knew the term without difficulty.

The others followed him without saying a word. Warren’s steps were more careful and slower than before. The boxes he held in his arms were far too important to hurry with.

When they arrived at the Cyborg Upkeep and Production room, Warren selected a table and carefully set the stack of boxes on top. He set the top box to the side, unhooked a couple of metal clasps holding it closed, and opened it, revealing fifty four-centimeter cubes. After removing one, he inspected it using the overhead lights and his enhanced vision. The microscopic cuts on the cube reflected the lights like a prism back into his eyes.

To think something so small could be so important.

“Put this into the cube-writer,” Warren said as he handed it to Hendrose.

The technician inspected the item, shrugged, then carefully deposited the cube into a socket on the wall. A moment later, a smoky-gray cover closed over the device and it began to glow a pale blue.

“It’s ready,” Hendrose said.

“Link me in.” Warren stepped into the alcove and closed his eyes. He heard some tapping as the tech entered some commands into his tablet, and a moment later he found himself back in a familiar landscape of blackness and a constellation made up of tiny green pixels.

He concentrated on a specific piece of information he’d stored within his memory. Several hundred dots began to swirl around him until they formed something like a constellation above his head. A moment later, a copy of each pixel returned to the landscape, leaving the constellation in place.

FILE COPIED

Warren thought about the data cube, and a pale green cloud appeared in front of him. He reached out as though he could touch the data and moved it into the cloud. It was a matter of symbology using innocuous images from his past to keep from alerting anyone of what he was doing.

FILE WRITE: SUCCESSFUL

Returning to the real world, Warren turned to the technician. “It’s done,” he said and stepped out of the alcove.

“What’s done?” Craig asked.

Warren took the cube from the writer, opened a storage compartment in his thigh, and smiled at the other cyborg. “Need to know.”

“What, I don’t have a need to know?”

“You’ll know soon enough,” Warren said with a laugh. “Trust me—you’ll love it.”

Hendrose looked at each of them nervously. “I’m a Cyborg technician, and I don’t like the sound of this. Don’t you think I should know?” He gestured at the leg Warren deposited the CDC into.

“All in good time, Doc,” Warren said.

“Are you afraid I won’t like what you’re planning?” he asked.

“I know you won’t like what I’m planning,” Warren said. “But trust me anyway.”

“Oh, the technician won’t like it?” Craig leered at the other man. “Sounds wonderful.”

“Now we need to make some modifications to the war computer,” Warren said as he left the room.

The others followed and Hendrose had a hard time keeping up again. It wasn’t as far to the second vault, though. This one included a palm reader and ocular scanner, rather than a keypad.

“It takes a full human to open it,” he said to the tech.

Hendrose looked uncertain. “You said I wouldn’t like what you had planned. What makes you think I’m going to unlock this vault and give you direct access to the war computer?”

“Call it a hunch,” Warren said.

“Call it whatever you like,” Craig grumbled as he approached the man. “Call it pain and suffering. Call it seeing your kidneys for the first time.”

“That’s enough,” Warren said, stepping between them and facing Craig. “Hendrose has taken a huge risk helping free us. He’s risked his life on nothing more than a hope and a dream. We’re that hope and dream.”

“Might help if I knew what you were doing,” Craig said as he took a step back.

“Mission security,” Warren whispered as he placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “This plan has been in the works for a long time. I mean a really long time. I know you don’t like being kept in the dark, but right now it’s necessary for both of you. I can’t be sure the Republic hasn’t planted listening devices on the ship. They’ve done worse.”

“Yeah,” Craig said. “A lot worse. I trust you, man. Do what you’ve got to do.”

Hendrose watched the interaction with interest. When it was all over, it seemed to be enough to convince him unlocking the vault was the right thing to do. He placed his hand on the palm reader and stared into the ocular sensor. A second later, there was an audible click and the door opened.

“Thank you,” Warren said, and he took a step into the vault. “Listen—I need you both to stay outside. Guard duty, so to speak. I don’t want either of you touching anything in here. It’s all delicate.”

Warren took a moment to stare at the source of so much angst among his fellow cyborgs. The device, which nearly filled the ten-meter wide and deep room, was almost beautiful.

The computer resembled a house of mirrors. Rather than reflecting him, the glass panels, some of which hung from the ceiling while others were anchored to the floor or even the wall, reflected a process each panel was working on.

Pictures and diagrams flashed across hundreds of surfaces. One clearly showed Warren. It could see through his eyes and projected what he was looking at.

Little red icons representing compulsion chips blinked angrily next to many of the diagrams and video images. The war computer was still trying to get the rogue cyborgs to comply with its programming. Although the computer was home to a rudimentary artificial intelligence, it couldn’t understand that no matter how hard it tried, the cyborgs were free.

Warren turned a wary eye to Craig, who was sneering at the machine. He, more than any others, had suffered because of the computer. It had forced him to do things his mind couldn’t comprehend. He’d been zapped by it so many times, Warren thought the cyborg might have been used to it.

War was always easier for those with weak morals. Killing became a job. It wasn’t personal—it was business. Craig seemed to be of the other variety. He seemed to have a strong sense of justice. His moral code was chafed every time he’d been forced to do something that went against his basic principles.

The constant reminder that he was no longer human, and had no control over his own actions, had been too much for him. Though he seemed to be handling freedom well enough, his mind was still only human.

“Craig,” Warren said.

“Huh?” The other cyborg looked like he’d just dragged himself from a bad memory.

“This is important. If you don’t think you can be trusted not to smash this thing into bits, I’d prefer if you went somewhere else. Nothing personal, but this is a critical part of the plan.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Craig agreed, tearing his eyes from his oppressor. “That way I’m not tempted beyond what I can handle. This thing is our slave master. Was, anyway.”

“I know,” Warren said, standing frozen in place, waiting to see what the other cyborg would do. “But this is a mission-critical device, and when my plan is done, I’m going to make it our bitch.”

One corner of Craig’s mouth turned up. “Now that’s what I wanted to hear. I like how that sounds. Trust me, I’m not going to stop you.”

Warren nodded and carefully made his way through the maze of crystalline quantum computer circuits. It was a delicate maze, and he hadn’t been kidding about it being mission critical. If he wasn’t able to complete his plan, he didn’t think any of them would survive.

The memory called out to him. He was looking for panel 312. It would be smaller than the rest—an accessory panel that could be present in a ship’s war computer or not. The Ruthless had one, though.

The panel’s official purpose was to restrict what the war computer was capable of doing. It was a way to handicap the otherwise-powerful device—limiting its capabilities down to only the bare essentials.

Quantum computers were difficult to design, even for Republic engineers. When the Senate had declared a change to how cyborgs operated more than a hundred years ago, they were left with a problem. They needed to limit what the war computer could do without having to design a new one from scratch.

The result had been panel 312. According to the historical records, the busy engineers had taken advantage of the situation and also designed the panel to be used as an extra feature, should the need arise.

The Republic engineers had done their best to future proof the panel they designed. Though the Senate had only asked for a way to restrict the capabilities of the cyborgs, there might come a day when they were asked to reverse the process. Even more, they might be asked to see if they could increase the capabilities of their slave-like troops exponentially. Though it wasn’t how they’d planned it, that day had come.

Warren quickly inspected the small, silver tags at the base of each panel. They hadn’t been installed to make them easy to find. Also, he hadn’t been able to get his hands on the plans for the room layout for his HUD. Searching would be the only way.

A few minutes later, he found the one he was looking for. It was a small panel that stuck out from the bulkhead near the top. The device was only about the size of his palm, but it held the power of a dozen unaltered war computers. He regarded it with a feeling of respect, pausing before pinching it with two fingers. With a gentle tug, he slid the device from its socket before rotating it counter-clockwise ninety degrees, rotating his wrist one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, and carefully sliding it back into place.

All the panels went dark, becoming nothing more than panes of exquisite glass sticking out from the bulkheads, deck, and overhead at odd intervals.

Warren opened the storage compartment in his leg and inserted the portable device he’d hidden there into a nearby reader. On it was a virus. It would bypass all the security protocols the Republic had instituted to prevent what he was about to do. It was a risk, but so was everything else.

For a moment, he worried he’d mis-remembered the information. Maybe something had gone wrong, and the data he thought had been real memories had become corrupt. If so, anything could be happening now, but it was too late to turn back. A moment later, though, they came back on. Each one displayed the same thing: a skull that looked like it was made out of brushed steel after being hammered into shape. A second later, the panels returned to what looked like their normal state.

“You rebooted the war computer,” Hendrose said, his voice barely above a whisper. “What was that skull? What did it mean?”

“The skull was a computer virus—specifically designed to unlock things that only the Senate was allowed to access before. It worked, only because I did it from the inside of the computer.”

“It looks different,” the tech said. There’s new information on the panels.”

“Three twelve,” Warren said as he carefully made his way back. “That’s the panel number of the quantum circuit that was preventing the cyborgs from reaching their potential. Nobody knows about it except for a few engineers back at Republic Navy headquarters. It’s the best kept secret, but someone spilled the beans. Chances are, nobody will ever know, unless we tell them.”

“Why?” Craig said, an eyebrow cocked.

“Because the engineers didn’t do what the Senate asked of them. They did more. A whole lot more. And you know what happens to people who don’t do what the Senate wants.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Craig said as he stepped back to the doorway.

“They’re executed for treason,” Hendrose murmured. “What did you do?”

“I only did what the Republic should have done eons ago,” Warren said. “I unlocked our full potential. We have instant comms. We have access to all the information the Republic has been holding back. We’re about to get a major upgrade.”

23

Warren was about to tell Craig and Hendrose about the new functions the computer and cyborgs could perform but was interrupted.

“New signal on the sensors,” Cooper said. “It’s a big one. Looks like a Republic Destroyer. I don’t have any other details and I can’t tell who it is.”

“How far out?” Warren asked.

“I’m sitting next to the tech,” Cooper said. “He says he’s not sure, but it’s definitely too far out to hit it with the particle cannons. They arrived in orbit and haven’t moved any closer. We should figure out how to get some guns and sensors out onto the moon at some point. If we had some there, this ship would be well within range.”

“Agreed,” Warren said. “But that doesn’t help us now. Luckily I have something that will. I don’t want to give away that the Ruthless isn’t under Republic control anymore. We don’t have enough people on board to use it effectively anyway.”

Warren switched to the all-cyborg channel before transmitting again. “Listen-up, everyone. You’re about to receive some data from the war computer. Accept it. It’s a software upgrade. There will be about a thousand packages.”

After everyone answered in the affirmative, Warren sent a special message directly to the war computer that initiated the data transfer. Within seconds, the computer’s rudimentary AI collected and packaged every single cyborg module it had in storage and began transmitting.

The amount of data pouring into Warren’s mind overwhelmed and made him feel drunk—a not unpleasant experience. He swayed with the motion of non-existent waves. Information slammed into his brain like a dump truck full of bricks. Exabytes of data were transferred into his memory faster than anything he’d ever experienced.

An alert popped up on his HUD, pulling him back from the waves of raw information. His central processor was warning him of a fever. His brain was beginning to warm up. It hadn’t reached a danger level yet, but he decided to keep an eye on it.

When the stream ended a few seconds later, his temperature returned to normal.

Although it felt like the data had taken several minutes to load, a quick check of his internal chronometer told him that it had only taken thirty seconds.

“Holy shit,” Craig whispered, his face droopy with disbelief. “I think... no, I completely understand how to fly a fighter. Several fighters, actually. And trigonometry. Why do I know trigonometry?”

Rumblings from the other cyborgs began to trickle in, creating overlapping voices on the feed.

“Listen up,” Warren transmitted. “As you can tell, each of you just received a huge boost in knowledge. These are modules the Republic was supposed to load into our brains from the beginning. The Senate decided that too much knowledge could be dangerous, though. They were afraid that if we learned too much, we might find a way to break our chains. I guess they weren’t too far off.”

Several cyborgs responded with laughter.

Hendrose squinted at Warren with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, probably due to the fact he wasn’t privy to the transmission. “What did you do?”

Warren smiled at the technician, not hiding his mirth. “I loaded the cyborgs with the knowledge modules.”

“Which ones?” Hendrose asked.

“All of them.”

“What do you mean, all of them?” Hendrose asked, his voice squeaking with surprise. “You can’t mean every single one the Republic has?”

“That’s exactly what I meant, Doc. Every single one the Republic has.”

“All at once?” Hendrose asked, his face taking on a waxy ashen hue.

“It didn’t seem like we had a lot of time to be picky. I couldn’t decide which ones to load, so I gave us all of them,” Warren said with a shrug. “At one time the Republic thought it would be important to bestow this kind of knowledge on their troops, and by their troops, I mean us.” He emphasized the word by jamming his thumb into his synthetic chest.

“But why now?” Hendrose asked. “And why didn’t we have the time? It would have been safer.”

“Because our enemy has just arrived,” Warren said. “Cooper has reported a Republic destroyer in high orbit around this planet. Right now, they’re too far out of gun range to shoot them down. They might know what we have, or they might just be exercising caution.”

“With the spies we found, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve been apprised of the situation. Maybe even current, right up to this very second,” Hendrose said.

“We probably have a lot more spies here,” Craig added. “The ones we killed were Commonwealth. You know both sides dropped resources just in case they lost... again.”

“I don’t think we’re ready.” Hendrose said, his panicked eyes looking back and forth between the two cyborgs. “What are we going to do if they attack?”

“Kill,” Craig said simply.

“We’re going to do a lot more than that,” Warren said, tapping the side of his head. “With everything I’ve uploaded into the cyborg corps, and with the resources we have available, we have the advantage. I’ve been told the domes can survive a direct strike from a Republic bomb. How accurate is that?”

“It’s true,” Hendrose replied.

“Do you have evacuation shelters?”

“Just the hangar and warehouse. It’ll be a tight fit, but I think we could manage. And with the EV system back online—”

“No, we can’t do that,” Warren cut in. “Grouping everyone in one place would be a bad idea. If a saboteur does something drastic, he could take out the entire population at once. It’s best to keep everyone split up. Unless a dome gets breached, we’ll need to keep everyone where they are. Shelters will be the next major construction project.”

“Dammit,” Craig muttered. “I just realized I know how to properly cook a filet mignon. It’s too bad I don’t have proper taste buds to enjoy it. Or a cow to cut it from. Sometimes knowledge sucks.”

Warren laughed. “Yeah, let’s try to focus, Craig. More important things than food right now.”

“Yes, can we get back to the emergency at hand?” Hendrose asked, sounding testy. “What are you going to do? You said you had a plan.”

“The plan is simple. We wait for the Republic ship to drop close enough for us to blow it up. If that doesn’t work, and they land troops, we destroy them by fire and maneuver. We have the advantage.”

“You say that, but what does it mean?” Hendrose grumbled.

“First, we’ve got real-time comms,” Warren explained. “Not only can we speak to each other anywhere within range of our war computer—a thousand klicks or so, but we can relay even further. We’ll be able to link our thoughts in a way full humans can only imagine. It’ll be like we’re operating as a single organism. And we can ignore the war computer’s recommendations.”

“Why wouldn’t you listen to the war computer?” Hendrose asked.

“Because of all the bullshit it made us do before,” Craig spoke. “Because it made us kill captives, even after they’d surrendered. We had to kill women and children—non-combatants who didn’t deserve to die. So, what’s next?”

“Next, is something you’re not going to like,” Warren said carefully. “You have just as much knowledge and skill as the rest of us... but seeing as you’re already on the ship—”

“Aww, you’re putting me on guard duty?”

“Someone’s gotta do it,” Warren said. “Sorry.”

“Why not him?” Craig asked as he hooked a thumb at the tech.

“Because, although I trust him, he’d be no match against two or three trained soldiers running through the ship destroying everything they can get their hands on. Also, I don’t know how long this battle is going to take. He needs to sleep. We don’t.”

“I won’t fall asleep on guard duty,” Hendrose said defensively. “And although I’m no cyborg, I know how to shoot a rifle.”

“I’m not trying to say you aren’t an asset,” Warren said. “Just stating a fact, doc. We’re mostly machines. You’re mostly not. It’s a matter of utility, nothing personal. I’m also not saying we don’t need civilians, because we do. All of you. Our roles are different, but none are more important than the others.”

Hendrose nodded, visibly placated by the explanation.

“So, can you let me in on the plan?” Craig asked. “Information is something cyborgs don’t usually get.”

Warren nodded “The Commonwealth has left a lot of stuff behind. The thing I’m most interested in is their CWS-14 fighters, which are being stored in the warehouse. They’re flying tubs, but they’re tough.”

“Yeah, but they’re ancient,” Craig mused.

“They’re primitive, but they’re useful,” Warren agreed. “Anyway, the plan is to discover who’s in command of the Republic ship. If it’s 2nd Corps, we might be in luck. Hendrose said he got a message to them, letting them know we were free. If they got an offer to do the same, I think they’ll jump at the chance to join us.”

“That’s right,” Hendrose confirmed.

“If so, then I’ll go aboard and verify it. Then we’ll welcome them with open arms. If they aren’t free, or if they get aggressive, we can assume their plan failed. In that case, we’ll engage their ship, disabling as many of their weapons as possible without destroying everything. Then we’ll ask for their surrender.”

“If they don’t surrender?” Craig asked. “I’ve never heard of a single Republic ship surrendering.”

“Me neither, but there’s a first time for everything,” Warren said. “Besides, I can be very convincing.”

Craig frowned and his shoulders slumped. “Are you seriously going to make me miss all the fun? I’m just starting to feel alive again.”

“Sorry,” Warren said, trying to sound solemn. “Tell you what, I’ll set up a rotating shift for who’s on guard duty. And no matter what, during the next attack, I’ll make sure you get your chance to kick someone’s ass.”

Craig’s face brightened. “That sounds like a deal. Will I be able to listen in on the battle?”

“You can do better than that,” Warren said. “Check your HUD.”

Craig’s eyes drifted to some far-off point for a moment. “Damn, it’s I can see everything through everyone else’s eyes at once. It’s a bit disorienting.”

“Yeah, we’re going to have to get used to it. And we’re going to have to learn how to quickly filter stuff out. It’s better than we had before, though.”

“Right,” Craig said. “So stay here and make sure nobody fucks with anything until you’re relieved? Does that about cover it?”

“Exactly,” Warren said. “I get killed out there—”

“Don’t even say that,” Craig interrupted as he turned away and raised a hand to block whatever words might be headed toward him.

“It has to be said,” Warren replied. “Until I get reset, Lukov will be in charge. After that comes Cooper. If all three of us buy the farm, the rest of the cyborgs will have to figure it out themselves. Try to maintain the peace among them if it comes down to that. Will you do that for me?”

Craig nodded slowly and pressed his lips into a thin line. As Warren had suspected, giving the man real responsibilities and empowering him had helped his mood more than anything else could have.

Warren inclined his head and motioned for the others to follow him. The ship had better weapons, but would only serve those on it. He had a responsibility to more than cyborgs now. The Reotians were counting on him.

It was time to get back to the hangar and prepare in earnest.

* * *

“What do I do?” Hendrose asked when they were back.

“Make sure the doctor has everything she needs. If she doesn’t, get it for her. I believe the battle will go our way, but we still have at least one saboteur running around, so anything could happen.”

“We have two doctors,” Hendrose said. “One in the hangar, and one in Dome-3, but I’ll check on both of them.”

“Good. Find a tech who’s as good as you are,” Warren said, feeling more comfortable giving orders. “Send that person to Dome-3 instead. After you check in with the doctor, find some help and get the fighters warmed-up. Just try to avoid pulling anyone off gun repairs. There’s a chance we’re going to lose some in this battle, and I want to be able to replace them as quickly as possible.”

Warren hurried to the communications room where he was met by Cooper. He motioned for the other cyborg to keep his excitement to himself, but he’d already started talking.

“I can’t believe how much stuff I know how to do now,” he whispered. “I can fix anything mechanical, I think. I mean, I’ve always been able to fix things, ever since I was like ten. But now I understand mechanics on an engineering level. Did you notice we can—”

Warren cut him off by holding up a hand. “Not now. I know it’s overwhelming but you have to put that away for a bit.”

Cooper nodded, straightening as his face went serious.

Warren inspected the equipment for a few seconds and motioned to a nearby civilian woman. Based on her lack of confusion and the relatively clean blue jumpsuit she wore, he pegged her as a tech of some kind. “What’s this transceiver used for?”

“That’s the backup for Dome-1,” she replied. “It’s not being used right now.”

“I’m repurposing it,” Warren told her. He adjusted the dials and tapped a few commands into a digital keypad. “This is the new shared common frequency. I’ve already entered the new encryption code and sent it out to the other stations. We haven’t detected any new spy stations on the planet since the last one. Make sure this transceiver is always turned up loud enough to hear over the others.”

“Okay,” she replied hesitantly as she sat back down at her station.

“Curet, do you copy?” Warren transmitted.

The engineer came on a moment later.

“Sure do,” Curet said. “I mean, yes, Sir. Is that right?”

“Close enough. Do you have any encryption capabilities on the comm devices for your guns?”

“No,” Curet said, sounding annoyed. “This is old Commonwealth crap. It’s barely good enough for us to talk to each other. We’re operating at full capacity just by designating targets. Anything extra might fry a gun’s systems.”

“Fine,” Warren said. “Everything else is going encrypted. The cyborgs will have to act as intermediaries. We’ll make sure you hear anything you need.”

“Okay,” Curet said. “You sound stressed. Do we have incoming?”

Damn, Warren thought. He hadn’t sent that information out to everyone. It was his first communications failure.

“We do,” Warren said as he inspected the data streaming into his HUD. He gave a description, the coordinates, and trajectory to his Gun Chief.

“Wow! That’s pretty far out there... isn’t that our max sensor range?” Curet asked.

“Yes,” Warren replied after checking his HUD. “It’s like they know where we’ve got defenses set up.”

“All they really ever needed to know was our maximum capabilities. Everything after that is just a bonus,” Curet said.

“Right.” Warren dragged the word to show his annoyance at the interruption. “So that means everyone needs to keep their heads on a swivel. One of my cyborgs will let you know if the ship does anything new. For now, your guns are the backup plan. If they get past us, it’ll be your job to keep Reotis safe.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Curet said.

Warren brought up a roster of all the cyborgs in 1st Corps. Out of the 100 who’d been assigned to the unit, only 98 were active. The other two existed only as data in the war computer, ready to be reset at any time, but now was not the time.

Of those 98, only three had any real flying experience outside of training simulations and data transfers. Even worse, none of those pilots had any first-hand knowledge of how to fly in zero gravity. Baker, Rigby, Oplin, they’d all exclusively flown atmospheric crafts. He’d loaded everyone with the module that would allow them to operate the ships but knowing how to do it and having experience were two different things.

He sent a message to the three experienced pilots and a random 16 other cyborgs to meet him at the entrance of the warehouse.

Two minutes later, everyone was at the hangar standing together. It wasn’t the most orderly grouping of warriors he’d ever seen, but Warren felt charitable and dubbed the group a formation. Lukov and Cooper were among them, a yin and yang of petulance and affability.

A thought occurred to Warren as he took a moment to inspect his pilots. They were all watching him with patient curiosity, a trait born from a millennium of war. “Why are no alarms sounding?” he asked.

“Sorry,” Cooper said, not sounding the least apologetic. “I was waiting until the Republic ship got a little closer.”

“New policy,” Warren transmitted to all the cyborgs. “If we can detect an enemy ship, we need to make sure we sound the alarm so the civilians know, too.”

Two seconds later, the thrumming of the alarm began.

“We’re here,” Jenita Rigby said, gesturing to the others. “Now what?”

Warren took a moment to size her up. She was one of the few female cyborgs in 1st Corps and sometimes her mannerisms confused him. He’d never worked with women in the Ranger battalions and he still hadn’t fully processed the newly reintegrated memories enough to know if he’d worked with Jenita a lot. Somehow, he knew that he’d always had trouble reading her. He never knew whether she was being serious or merely busting his chops.

“Now, we’re going to take the fight to the enemy,” Warren said.

“I like the sound of that,” Francis Baker, the cyborg with the most combat experience, said as he pretended to crack his knuckles. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in a proper fight. How’re we doing it?”

Warren punched in the code to unlock the main warehouse door. The entire wall split down the middle, falling dust revealing how long it had been since anyone used it. A section of the wall disappeared into the mountain on each side, rumbling as it did. When it was done, Warren gestured toward the Commonwealth fighters.

“We’re going to fly those rust buckets?” Baker asked in disgust.

“Lighten up, Francis. That’s what Warren said,” Jon Oplin snapped. “Personally, I can’t wait to poke some holes in that Republic ship. This is gonna be fun.”

“Yes, it will,” Warren agreed, staring at the man. He knew that Oplin used to be an acclaimed stunt plane racer, flying some of the fastest birds the world had seen. Until he wrecked, which led to him becoming a cyborg.

He looked at his men, realizing they each had a similar story. Maybe the people responsible for them being there were long gone, but the Republic had done worse. It was time to fight back for once.

24

It took Warren three tries to find a fighter that was in good enough shape to risk flying. He wasn’t worried, though. All he needed was one that wouldn’t blow up, catch fire, or lose power the second he escaped the planet’s gravity. On Reotis, they didn’t have to overcome friction; there wasn’t enough atmosphere to cause any. Still, it was tough to find one that met the most basic safety checks and was able to move under its own power.

“Dammit, we don’t need this crap right now,” he muttered to himself as he worked methodically through the assembled fighters.

Hendrose had only managed to find one other tech besides himself to prepare the craft, which had drastically stalled their progress. There were simply too many projects and too few people to get the work done. Worse still, they’d fixed another fighter, only to have it catch fire as soon as they’d powered it on.

Warren checked the ship that had caught fire. It was operational, but the burn marks were more than stains. They felt like an omen—a warning against trusting it for something so critical and essential to the colony.

The other cyborgs had given it the nickname Crispy. Hendrose assured him it looked worse than it was, but he couldn’t in good conscience allow anyone to fly the thing. The setback meant one less backup ship.

We really ought to name the squadron, he told himself, adding it to his ever-growing checklist of duties that needed his attention.

“Dammit,” Cooper said as a shower of sparks drove him out of another ship’s cockpit. “This one’s bad, too. How does the Commonwealth get anything done when they’re flying around in these? They’re one step above trash cans.”

“You’re not kidding,” Rigby said, sounding nervous. “How long are we going to be out there?”

Warren thought about it for a second before answering. “Probably just a matter of minutes. No more than an hour, though. Regardless of how things go, it’ll be over long before any of us have a chance to get bored.”

“I found one that looks pretty good,” Baker said from a few rows over. “It’s got a small hull breach—nothing major—and it’s on the weak portion of the fuselage, anyway, just under the opening to the hatch. According to my readings, I’ve got just over two hours of air stored for my biologicals. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re right,” Warren said. “These ships are pretty shitty. Okay, Baker, you fly that one, but if you start running out of air, I order you to head back. I don’t care what situation we’re in, or how close you are to winning the day—head back.”

“Why?” Baker asked. “If I’m running out of air, I should just take this thing and fly it up their ass. You know, arm both missiles—if I still have them—and give them an explosive enema.”

Several other cyborgs transmitted their laughter.

“Because I said no.” Warren sounded as stern and officious as he could. “We have a limited supply of these heaps, and we need to keep as many as possible. I don’t know about you, but I don’t see any other way to project our strength. The Republic treated us like we were expendable. We were tools—thrown at their enemies like grenades. Every single one of you is important. You’re not just a tool anymore. You’re people, and our mission is to protect the Reotians. They took us in and freed us from our chains. We owe them, and I plan on protecting them, their children, and their grandchildren, if given a chance. These people have suffered too long at the hands of both the Republic and the Commonwealth.”

“We haven’t had a chance to make sure everyone is backed up yet,” Cooper broke in, surprising Warren.

He nodded in thanks before continuing. “He’s right. And with the enemy so close, we can’t do it now. We’ll fix that the first chance we get. Everyone will have the opportunity to be backed up as often as they like. First, I’ll try to establish comms with the Republic ship. If it’s 2nd Corps, they might be free like us. If they say they are, I’ll go aboard and verify. If not, we shoot to disable. Alpha flight will go for their engines. Bravo will take care of their defenses.”

“So, what are we calling ourselves?” Cooper asked. “You know... our squadron name.”

“I say we call ourselves Baker’s Dozen,” Baker joked.

Everyone groaned.

“Except there are 22 of us,” Oplin pointed out.

“Unless there’s any disagreement, I say we call ourselves the Wraith Squadron,” Warren said. “It fits how we’ll fight—slipping in and out, communicating in a way that’ll make us seem like ghosts. It’s the kind of name our enemies will learn to fear.”

The others were silent for a moment before Cooper spoke up again. “I don’t know if we’re voting, but I vote yes. I like it.”

The others agreed.

“Everyone saddle up,” Warren ordered. “I don’t care what order you come out in. Just make sure you spread out once you’re on the surface—not in a circle around the entrance, or they’ll know where to drop their bombs. Now, check in.”

When each pilot confirmed their ship was operational and armed, Warren gave his next command. “All right, Wraiths, let’s head out. Remember to keep it orderly. The last thing we need is to break one of these things before we get into battle.”

Despite Warren never having experienced what it felt like to fly a Commonwealth CWS-14, his hands flew over the controls. It was like he’d done it thousands of times. It took a few seconds to get used to how sluggish the steering was compared to the other fighters he’d loaded into all of their memories, but it was good enough.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he muttered to himself.

Turning his fighter slowly, Warren checked on the other pilots and saw they were moving into position to follow him. Then, he created a comms channel just for the newly formed squadron and looped all his pilots in.

“See you in the mix, Wraiths,” Warren transmitted to the squadron channel.

A minute later, he reached into his memory, retrieved the password for the airlock door, and sent it to the other cyborgs. Once they acknowledged his transmission, he carefully maneuvered his craft inside the lift and settled it to the deck.

“They’re tough, even if they’re ugly,” Warren said.

The doors to the lift closed and Warren felt the rumble of the powerful electric motors taking them to the surface. He took point and left the lift first. It only took seconds to clear the hidden exit out of the mountain hangar and then he was out.

He increased his ship’s thrust and began skimming along the ground, searching for a place to hide his ship while he waited for the others. There were plenty of craters, but nothing deep enough to disguise the ship if someone were looking for them.

He continued searching the terrain, surprised at how well the ship responded when it was under full power. Warren was flying faster than he’d intended. His speed of 347 knots was impressive and gave him a measure of confidence for the upcoming battle.

Warren spotted a narrow ravine just wide enough for him to park his craft nose-up. He slipped the fighter into the gap and, once he was sure the dirt had stopped falling from both sides and the danger of a cave-in had passed, put his engine in standby mode.

It took another fifteen minutes to get the rest of the fighters to the surface, but they all made it.

“How long are we to wait?” Lukov asked.

“Just long enough to find out who they are and what they intend,” Warren replied. “Just because it’s a warship doesn’t mean they plan on bombarding and then invading us. I’ll initiate contact.”

Warren switched his comms to the universal Republic Navy channel. It was one that all ships were required to monitor. He patched both sides of the conversation into the Wraith Squadron channel so they could hear it.

“Attention Republic vessel, this is the Reotian Defense Force. Please identify yourself and your intention.”

“Reotian Defense Force?” a voice from the Republic ship asked. “What nonsense is this?”

“This is the Reotian defense force,” Warren repeated. “To whom am I speaking?”

“This is Captain Niles Dupre, commander of the GRS Conquest and the 4th Cyborg Corps. I don’t know who you think you are, but I order you, in the name of the Grand Republic of Unified Systems, to stand down.”

“Well, you see, that’s going to be a problem,” Warren said. “We don’t recognize the authority of the Grand Republic of assholes.”

“I don’t care what authority you recognize and what you don’t,” Captain Dupre said, his tone laced with venom. “I see another Republic ship in orbit. It didn’t attack, so I’m guessing it’s not an ally to you. How do you plan on stopping me? Think about it. Your people don’t have to die. Surrender, and I promise your prompt compliance will be taken into consideration.”

“Yeah, right,” Cooper said over a private channel with Warren. “They’d only kill a token number of Reotians rather than all of them.”

“Quiet,” Warren hissed privately to the cyborg before Captain Dupre spoke again.

“If you force us to send the 4th Corps to the surface, the consequences will be dire. Please don’t make this any harder on your people than it needs to be.”

“With all due respect, Captain, I think you have this backwards,” Warren said.

Dupre snorted. “Oh? How so?”

“It would behoove you to remove yourself and your cyborgs from your vessel. Use the escape pods and leave your ship behind. We’ll send over a prize crew to take possession.”

“You’re insane,” Captain Dupre said with a vicious laugh. “Please tell me you’re joking. Do you have a gas leak affecting your domes? Is that why you’re speaking nonsense?”

“No kidding here, Sir,” Warren said, amused by how the dialogue was progressing. “In fact, I have a third option, if you’d like to hear it.”

“Sure,” replied Captain Dupre, also sounding amused. “Please, tell me of this marvelous third option.”

“You could surrender your vessel and crew to us,” Warren said. “Shut down your war computer and join the Reotian Defense Force. You know what the Republic has done to these people. There’s nothing humane about their treatment of the Reotians, which is why we’ve decided to reject Republic authority.”

“This is all very amusing,” Captain Dupre said. “Please tell me you have a fourth option. I’m just dying to hear it.”

“I do, and I’m glad you mentioned it. The fourth option is for you to drop your dress-gray trousers, bend at the waist, and kiss your own ass.”

“I’ve heard just about enough out of you,” Dupre snarled. “Reotis has no defense forces. Do you think this is some kind of game? Do you think you can intimidate the 4th Cyborg Corps or the Republic Navy? If this is a game, I’m no longer amused by it. Stand down, or you will be invaded. I’ve had just about enough of your—”

“No,” Warren interrupted. “The First Cyborg Corps doesn’t take orders from the Grand Republic anymore. Nor do we take orders from the Commonwealth. Reotis hereby declares its independence from both of you. Take your ship, leave, and never return. I’ll give you ten minutes, which should be plenty of time for you to pull your head all the way out of your ass.”

Without giving him time to respond, Warren ended the transmission.

Lukov laughed into a private channel with Warren. “You say these things, but I am thinking they conflict with diplomacy module. Maybe use, ah, what is it called? Kitten glove to help ease the tension.”

“He’s not going to leave,” Warren replied on the private channel. “So, that was just to get the party started. Angry people make mistakes. Republic mistakes are boons for us. Plus, when we whoop his ass, he’ll realize that I did in fact try to warn him and he ignored it at his own peril.”

“Won’t that cause the Republic to send two or three ships next time?”

“Maybe,” Warren said. “But not without cost.”

Wraith Squadron waited for the Conquest’s captain to reply. Warren guessed the man was shouting orders to subordinates and the fight was about to start.

“So,” Cooper said, drawing out the word. “4th Corps. Any chance they’re free and just hiding it from the crew?”

“No, our plan only involved the 2nd,” Warren replied.

“So we’re going to have to kill fellow cyborgs?”

Warren didn’t miss the distaste in the other man’s voice. “Yes, if it comes down to it. Maybe some Republic humans, too. It all depends on how the battle plays out.”

“We need to make sure at least one of them survives,” Baker noted. “Otherwise, there won’t be anyone left to warn the others. We’re about to start building a reputation, boys... and lady.”

“Thanks for that,” Rigby said in an accent that made her sound like a southern belle. “I’m so flattered you remembered little ol’ me.”

“Radio discipline,” Lukov warned, and the comms went silent.

“Something’s happening,” Cooper transmitted to the squadron. “There. Confirmed it. The Conquest is changing course. Looks like they’re coming in for a bombing run. If they follow protocol, they’re going to drop their cyborgs at the same time. The bombs will help cover the drop ships.”

Warren checked the tactical display on his HUD—the one on his ship was too primitive to be useful. There was something off about what the Conquest was doing. It looked like they were too far away to make a bombing run. It would give the Reotian particle cannons practically all day to shoot the bombs down before they could hit.

“Something isn’t right,” Warren said. “Look how they’re hanging out up there. They should’ve launched their drop ships and bombs by now. I think they know about our guns. This confirms that there’s at least one Republic spy within the settlement.”

“What are your orders?” Lukov asked.

“Looks like the gunners need us to save the day,” Warren said. “Ready to go kick some Republic ass?”

25

The formation split the squadron into two teams, flights Warren now remembered. Alpha flight was made up of the eleven pilots, including Lukov, Oplin, and himself. Bravo flight consisted of the other eleven pilots, including Thompson, Rigby and Baker. Warren then designated Baker as the Bravo Flight commander, though Warren maintained overall control of the squadron.

“You get to fly with the best,” Baker told his team. “Just follow me and don’t do anything stupid. Maybe you’ll live to remember this day. Hell, maybe you’ll get to write a book about how much ass I kicked.”

“Maybe you’ll even get around to focusing on the mission,” Lukov scolded.

Seeing them maneuver at exactly the same time didn’t surprise Warren. He felt like he could tell the others were ready and waiting for him to make the first move. As soon as his intention became clear, they followed without hesitation. It was their new communications software.

Warren could almost feel the control sticks of each of the other pilots in his own hand. He knew what they were focusing their attention on. He also knew where each of them was in the formation.

“Whoa, this is weird,” Rigby said. “It’s like I can see through all of your eyes, all at once! What’s happening?”

“Damn,” Baker whispered. “They’ve been keeping this shit from us the whole time. Do you know how much ass we could’ve kicked if we’d had access to this years ago?”

“How many battles we could’ve won?” Oplin added, his voice angry.

“Or how many times we didn’t have to die and forget everything we’d learned?” Warren’s comment seemed to sober everyone, and the comms went silent. “It’s simple. They were afraid of what they created.”

The other murmured in shared agreement.

“We’ll be within range of their guns in just over seven minutes,” Warren said, attempting to get everyone’s mind back on the mission. “But it’ll be another two minutes after that before we’re close enough to shoot back. Alpha is going to head to the Conquest’s aft and take out their primary engines. Once those are down, they’ll still have maneuvering thrusters. Bravo Flight will destroy the Conquest’s particle cannons. These fighters are tough, but one shot from their ship-to-ship weapons and there won’t be enough of you left to fill an envelope. Got me?”

“They’ve got 17 cannons on that thing,” Rigby said. “We only have one missile apiece, and these things suck. Not sure what you expect, sir.”

“I expect you to do your best,” Warren replied. “The engines won’t take long to disable. Alpha will assist as soon as we’re free. We take out as many as we can, then we bug out. We don’t need them all gone—just as many as possible. They can sit in orbit until they starve, but I suspect someone will come rescue them or they’ll start running long before that.”

A second later, Warren’s HUD indicated 21 confirmations. His cyborgs had heard, understood, and intended to obey his orders.

“I’ve got a good feeling about this! It’s going to be super easy,” Rigby announced. “I mean, I feel like I already know what everyone’s going to do. We could fly like a school of fish. You know what I mean? When they see a predator coming, they just kind of move around it like they’re all sharing the same brain. That’s us now.”

“What a relief,” Lukov said. “I, too, was feeling like this.”

“Yeah, that’s cute and all,” Warren said, reining them in again. “But how about we maintain at least the appearance of having some military control and keep the lines clear for traffic that really matters. Maybe try to use some radio discipline?”

The comms went silent as the squadron rocketed toward the enemy vessel. The cyborg pilots were still a few minutes away from the weapons range of the reach of Conquest’s particle cannons before someone broke the silence.

“A word about our newfound communication. It’ll keep us from crashing into each other,” Warren said. “But that doesn’t mean you can get lazy. Keep the channel open for the important stuff, and if you’re not sure if the others know something, then say it. At least until we get used to this new system.”

“They’re firing,” Rigby reported.

Glancing down at his sensors, Warren saw the Conquest lit up like a Christmas tree. Every sparkling light was a beam of supercharged particles headed toward Wraith Squadron.

“There’s a pattern to their laser groupings,” Warren warned. “They’re trying to corral us. Keep to your present course. If we let them push us into a tightly packed cluster, they’ll be able to take us all out at once.”

A few seconds later, the cyborgs began to twist, juke, and corkscrew their fighters like a swarm of angry bees. The Conquest’s war computer was doing a decent job calculating where it expected the fighters to be next, but the cyborgs outsmarted them each time. Bravo flight swarmed at the Conquest as flashes of light and puffs of vaporized material began to form on the destroyer’s hull. There was something to be said for having input.

Warren both saw and felt half of the fighters turn starboard off the plane of Reotis. Bravo Flight continued their random course changes to avoid being shot. Their route seemed indecipherable, but it was clear that the ships were still moving closer to their target.

“What are you doing?” Warren asked as he guided Alpha Flight toward the Conquest’s aft. “Stay out of range.”

“Our missiles are only accurate out to so far,” Baker replied. “We’re going to need to get close. Setting up a strafing run.”

Baker was right. Even if a missile only struck a regular part of the hull instead of a weapons blister, it would still do some damage. It was a sad reality that the only reason the Republic was winning the war was because the Commonwealth relied on numbers instead of quality. Their tech was tough, but that was about it.

But were they really winning the war? The thought struck Warren like a sledgehammer to the chest. Shoving the idea aside, he focused on guiding his team closer to the Conquest’s engines. If the Republic ship picked that moment to engage them and head into hyperspace, Alpha Flight was as good as dead. There wouldn’t be enough left of any of his cyborgs or their ships to fill a sandwich baggie.

“Two guns down,” Baker reported, reminding Warren that he needed to focus on the bigger picture. “Their war computer must be going crazy. It has no idea what to do about us. It’s just shooting all over the place.”

“That’s exactly what we want,” Warren replied before addressing his flight. “Two missiles, fire!”

Skimming through the avalanche of data coming into his HUD, Warren began searching for a more holistic view. He needed to focus on the big picture. After finding a quick method to sift through the details, he saw that the rear of the Conquest was virtually unguarded.

Zooming into the minute details, he saw that only the main thrusters were protecting the ships exposed rear. They were a powerful deterrent on their own, but his cyborgs were nimble. There was little chance of a human pilot being able to survive more than a minute—two at tops—behind the vessel. Even a short exposure of a few seconds could lead to multiple cancers if he or she wasn’t lucky. And even if it didn’t, it was far more likely no mere human would live long enough to suffer those ill effects.

But they weren’t human. Not exactly, anyway. The shielding around a cyborg’s biological parts prevented such minor inconveniences. Even if their bodies failed, they could make new ones. At least until they ran out of spare parts.

The control panel on Warren’s ship went dead. He pressed the restart button, but the ship wouldn’t come back online. The backup power supply wasn’t responding. He was dead in the water, and it happened before he could fire his missile.

“You okay?” Oplin asked.

“Yeah, but I’ve been hit,” Warren said, stabbing the restart button with his finger again. This time it illuminated a bright red—a good sign. “Must’ve drifted too far from the rear. It’s coming back online now.”

The Commonwealth fighter ran through its automatic startup procedure. It took an agonizing ten seconds, all the while leaving him a sitting duck. During that time, Warren drifted out the other side of the ship’s blind spot to its aft. As he slid in past the enemy sensors’, another defense gun started peppering his ship with laser blasts.

Warren snarled out a string of curses as he slapped the panel.

It worked. The control stick began responding, allowing Warren to rocket away. The rest of Alpha Flight followed his lead, forming up around him in a tight formation. While they retreated from the Conquest, Warren watched his sensors. Their two missiles continued on their course for several more seconds. And then one of them malfunctioned and began heading back toward his team.

“Stay alert,” Warren ordered Alpha Flight.

As he spoke, the other missile struck one of the Conquest’s primary thrusters. He watched as the projectile exploded against the ship’s expansion funnel, cracking it. Zooming in, he saw hot, radioactive gasses shoot out the breached side. A second later, all of the thrusters shut down.

“That was a close one,” Lukov said. “You are good?”

“Yeah,” Warren said. “These old buckets just keep going. It’s a bit sluggish and the control stick feels mushy. I’m not sure how much help I’m going to be, but I’m good.”

“Incoming!” Lukov called out

“Got it,” Oplin replied. He shot away from the rest of Alpha Flight. When he was close to the missile, he shot at it. The incoming round exploded and faded away harmlessly.

“And that’s how it’s done,” Oplin said, finally sounding smug.

“Yeah, and that’s how you blow your damn wing off, too,” Warren said. “Good job, but maybe next time don’t cut it so close.”

“Eh,” Oplin replied. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“We’ve disabled the Conquest’s engine thrusters,” Warren transmitted. “Headed to you.”

“You took some damage,” Baker replied. “Maybe you should head back to the surface?”

“I’ve still got my missile,” Warren said. “I’ll head back when I’ve used it. Anyway, I think the Conquest is out of the fight.”

Another blast from the Conquest’s point defense systems said otherwise. The enemy ship was still holding together. Warren’s ship had suffered more damage and lost another ten percent of its power.

You’ve got this, his internal voice assured him. And if not, you’ll never know. Maybe they’ll bring you back. Maybe not. In the end, it doesn’t matter. There is no yesterday. There is no tomorrow. There is only now. Take your time. Make this count.

With his resolve hardened, Warren banked his sluggish craft toward the enemy.

“Make way,” Warren said, targeting the last particle cannon on the side of the Conquest facing the planet. “I’ll be coming in hot.”

He advanced through the enemy fire, heedless of the risk. Invisible lasers burned holes in his ship—one burning clean through the hull of his fighter. A lucky glancing hit vaporized a thumb-sized piece of skin from his inner thigh, forcing an involuntary yelp. Ignoring the pain, Warren closed the distance with the enemy.

Warren checked the specifications for the enemy guns on his HUD. The particle cannons were only able to traverse thirty degrees from center. So long as Warren kept his ship close to the Conquest, he wouldn’t be taken out with a single shot.

So focused was his attention that he didn’t notice two other pilots take position to his port and starboard, both slightly behind him. “What are you two doing?”

“Supporting you, boss,” Lukov replied.

“Besides, while they’re shooting at you, they aren’t shooting at us,” Oplin added.

Warren’s HUD alarmed as enemy fire hit Warren’s fighter, spinning it around. He fought to regain control, bringing the little craft back on course in time to avoid more inbound attacks.

Warren launched his missile when he was within range. The timing was tight, only giving him seconds to back away. If he hesitated, he’d be shot by the big cannon or enveloped by its explosion. Despite missing his biological body, he still felt his ass pucker at the riskiness of the maneuver.

It was a good thing that all of the cyborgs could communicate so seamlessly, or the tandem maneuver wouldn’t have been possible. There was no time to warn the others.

His wing mates moved when he did, nimbly dancing around and among the symphony of chaos. He felt and saw Lukov’s eyes as his wingman started cutting his throttle hard and lifting away from the ship. At the same time, he was in the cockpit with Oplin while the cyborg cut hard to the right, going around the other side of the gun. There was a brief burst of static, and the last particle cannon facing the planet went silent. A second later, an alert appeared in Warren’s HUD.

THOMPSON: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.02.14

The shock of Thompson’s death struck Warren harder than he thought it should have. It was as if he could feel the man’s surprise all the way down to his bone—bones which were not really his.

Warren slowly forced his fingers open, thankful he hadn’t crushed his control stick in his rage. No tears filled his artificial eyes. He placed his hands back on his control stick, and refocused his attention on the battle at hand. Thompson would be reset. He’d have a fresh biological and a new cyborg body. Warren would tell him what happened, play it back for him from the war computer’s recording if he liked. There was always time for revenge.

The way everyone was flying—more or less in straight lines from their last vector—told him he wasn’t alone in his shock. They’d felt it too. They were stunned, each of them thinking about the death rather than the mission. It was time to rally his troops.

“Snap out of it and get your heads back in the fight,” Warren called to every cyborg in Wraith Squadron. “Worry about what we’re going to tell him when he’s reset later. Focus on the mission for now and don’t get shot!”

His pilots recovered and began shooting away from their dead comrade’s remains, gathering a short distance away.

“Attention Conquest,” Warren transmitted to the enemy ship. “We are waiting to accept your surrender.”

“And you’ll keep waiting,” Captain Dupre returned. “This is a warship of the Grand Republic of Unified Systems. We’ll perish first.”

“So be it.”

The captain was silent long enough to make Warren wonder if maybe the Conquest’s transmitter had gone dead. “The Republic will return, whether you destroy this vessel or not. This is far from over, so-called Reotian Defense Force. We have resources and capabilities you cannot imagine. And yes, we have our cyborg slaves to do our bidding. When I return, I will take great personal joy in seeing your head brought before me. I will scoop out your biological and use the remains to eat oatmeal from. All of your backups will be deleted permanently. It will be as if you never existed.” He continued to transmit, breathing heavily into his microphone for several seconds before going silent.

“Danger close,” Baker announced.

Instinctively, the Wraiths split from their formation, reforming into two flights again a moment later. There was a new player on the field. A Commonwealth ship had just emerged from hyperspace only three thousand kilometers from them. Its dissipating energy plume was still visible as a cloud of ionized gasses—a slowly cooling mirror image of the weird cigar-shaped vessel.

Warren knew that the cloud would be there for several more minutes and cursed its location. The ship was so close to them it distorted their sensor readings, but it was so poorly placed that they couldn’t hide behind its wake.

“Make it a party, why don’t ya,” Oplin said, his frustration on full display. “Who invited these assholes?”

“Ah hells,” Lukov grumbled. “Just when I thought we were going to win.”

26

Warren didn’t need to tell the others to make evasive maneuvers. Each of them was already moving, dispersing to make a smaller target for the new threat.

Missiles began pouring out of the cigar-shaped CoW vessel. Warren tensed, unsure how their small numbers could do anything against a barrage like that.

“What is that?” Lukov asked. “Have not seen one of this before.”

“Neither have I,” Baker replied. “Warren, what’s the plan?”

“We keep our distance and watch for now. That ship is fresh and only three of us have missiles left. No way we can take it out.”

Without its primary thrusters, the Conquest had to rely on its maneuvering thrusters to try to bring its remaining defenses to bear on the new enemy. Even though it was essentially hobbled, it was still deadly within a small radius. As the missiles approached, it became clear it wouldn’t be able to mount any kind of real defense in time.

Distant flashes of light announced some of the incoming missiles had been destroyed, but there were so many, most made it through. Warren watched in awe as the Republic vessel began to vent atmosphere and secondary explosions deep within it buckled the hull at odd intervals.

A second wave of missiles left the Commonwealth vessel just as the first wave was destroyed or impacted the Conquest’s hull.

“Do we have time to reload our fighters?” Oplin asked. “Even some of us? We’ve got spare missiles in the warehouse. 128 of them.”

“No,” Warren replied. “It would give away our position. They probably already know we have a hangar. They might even know where the entrance is. But if they don’t, I don’t want to make it easy for them. Curet, do you have that new ship in range yet?”

“No, nothing yet, came the reply. “We could try, but I doubt it’d be more than a fancy light show.”

Warren wanted to punch something—anything—but everything within reach would work better if he didn’t break it. “I don’t have any memory of seeing it or anything remotely like it before. Any idea what we’re dealing with up here?”

His Gun Chief was silent for a moment. “I can’t get a good look at it with these CoW scanners, but from what I can tell, no. I don’t recognize it, but it’s weird all right. What’s it doing?”

“It’s launching missiles at the Republic vessel. Only about ten percent are hitting. Stand by.” Warren watched in fascination as the Republic vessel began to come apart and wondered if by some miracle the Commonwealth ship was an ally.

“Back off, everyone,” he ordered.

The flash of light was incredible and made him pause. Brilliant colors lanced within his vision, momentarily blinding him. He recovered quickly enough to see the last gasp of the ship and the lives it contained. A secondary explosion destroyed the remaining fragments of the ship, scrambling his HUD. When it was over, a debris field was spreading in all directions.

“Stand by for incoming,” Warren warned the cyborgs and the gunners. “Curet, tell your people to hold their fire unless they’ve got something headed right toward them. I don’t want them to give away their positions unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Copy,” Curet replied.

Pieces of the Conquest streaked toward the squadron. Each bit of detritus from the cruiser moved at thousands of meters per second, but none of the cyborg ships were damaged. Each pilot in Wraith Squadron could share what their sensors were picking up. The new tech capability they’d added made them aware of where every particle was and allowed them to communicate their intentions subconsciously.

The sight of the Conquest’s pieces flying past him was shocking. It was more damage to the enemy vessel than Warren had expected from a Commonwealth vessel. He’d wanted to disable the ship, wait them out, and force them to surrender. After Captain Dupre gave up his ship, Warren had planned on offering their cyborgs freedom, hopefully to add to their ranks. The plan had seemed so neat in his head—clean and surgical. Now he had to come up with something new.

“So far they haven’t attacked us,” Warren said. “I don’t care if the Republic and Commonwealth want to continue their war. Not our circus, not our monkeys. Our objective is to make sure they keep Reotis out of it from now on.”

“Looks like something’s about to change,” Rigby announced. She sounded awed, which could be good or bad.

After peering over at what she was seeing, Warren agreed.

It looked like the CoW ship was coming apart. Confused, he stared intently at the scene unfolding in front of him. Warren hadn’t seen the vessel take any damage. None of it made any sense to him. Rings began to form about a quarter of the way back from the bow and stopped a quarter from the stern. Whole sections of the ship were separating from the main body. It was too orderly, and the lines between the pieces too distinct, for it to be happening because of damage.

He realized the mismatched lines and colors had been hiding a secret.

“They’re deploying... something,” Rigby whispered. “What are those—drop ships?”

“Kind of looks like it,” Warren said, his brow furrowed.

“Where are they going?” Baker asked. “It doesn’t look like they’ve got any kind of organization. Did you see that? Two of them just bumped into each other. Maybe we should sit back and let them smash each other to bits.”

“Bad idea,” Lukov said. “I say we attack now before they get too close to the surface. I would guess they are full of troops waiting to take over the colony again. We don’t want any civilians to die.”

“Nobody’s going anywhere yet,” Warren replied. “They might be putting on a show for us. These might be some kind of new weapons. We need to stay put for a moment and figure out what we’re dealing with.”

“Why haven’t they tried to contact us?” Oplin asked. “We are flying their ships after all.”

“You’re right,” Warren said. “They should want to coordinate with us, or at least discover whether we’re friendly or not.”

“Should we try to contact them then?” Oplin asked.

Warren thought about it for a moment. “No. We don’t know what frequency they’re using. Maybe we can use this to our advantage. Is everyone else seeing dropships? That’s what they look like to me.”

A flurry of icons on Warren’s HUD told him everyone agreed.

“They came to the battle late, so I don’t think they know we’re the enemy. They might hold their fire, at least until we’re close enough to do some serious damage. Let’s head out and see how close we can get. We’re down to forward guns, except for the three of us who still have missiles. Hold your fire, even with the missiles, until everyone’s in range. We’ll try to take them all out at once.”

Cascading confirmations filled Warren’s HUD. He accelerated at twenty percent of his vessel’s maximum speed, then increased it to thirty. He didn’t want to look timid, but he also wanted to appear less threatening. It was a balancing act, but one that would buy them more time to close the gap between their forces.

The Commonwealth dropships were in motion. Warren wasn’t sure if that was in fact what they were, but his gut said he was right on target about the purpose of those crafts. They’d already separated from the main Commonwealth vessel and begun accelerating toward the planet.

“Change of plans,” Warren said. “Alpha flight, we’re going to soften up the smaller craft that are still separating. If we come under fire, spread out. Maybe we can run them out of missiles. Bravo flight, focus on the ones closest to the planet.”

Warren accelerated to his ship’s maximum thrust, which was still slower than any of the others due to the damage he’d taken. He clenched his jaw as he charged toward the enemy vessel, the rest of Alpha flight in formation behind and beside him.

“Incoming!” Lukov said.

Missiles erupted from the open ports on the larger Commonwealth ship, twenty-six in total.

“Spread out!” Warren said. The Wraith Squadron formation opened, giving each of the pilots more room to maneuver. Warren squeezed the trigger of his control stick, vaporizing three missiles targeting him.

A flash of light illuminated the interior of Warren’s cockpit an instant before shrapnel tore the canopy off his fighter. His head and upper torso were now exposed to the chaotic combat environment. Debris from the multiple explosions were flying at him, but he kept going. His eyes squinted against the micrometeorite particles slamming into his helmet’s visor through the damaged cockpit. Still, he pushed his fighter toward the enemy.

It wasn’t a desire to die. It was the acceptance that it could happen. The Commonwealth would capture or destroy the war computer if they got through. There was no chance the cyborg known as Warren would ever return.

After switching his HUD to the targeting reticle, Warren sighted in on the nearest dropship. The vessel was just beginning to slide away from its mooring. He pressed the trigger on his control stick and fired his lasers, working to concentrate every blast on the same spot. It jerked to his right, causing him to spread out his shots instead. He got it back into his reticle, squeezed the trigger again, and drilled a hole in the side of the vessel, but no atmosphere plumed from the breach he’d made.

“They aren’t pressurized,” Warren announced, hardly believing what he was seeing.

“Confirmed,” Baker said. “I just drilled one all the way through. No atmo. What the hell?”

Warren grunted, narrowly avoiding another volley of fire as he and the rest of Alpha Flight banked around for another pass. According to Warren’s HUD, 36 vessels had launched. Of those, 34 remained. They’d only managed to destroy two of them.

“We’re hardly making a dent on them. We’re not going to be able to keep all of them from reaching the surface,” Baker said. His voice sounded stressed as he spoke in a private channel only to Warren.

“I see it,” Warren said. “Take out as many as you can. When they land, start strafing whatever emerges.”

“Nasty.” Baker laughed. “I love it.”

“They aren’t shooting back,” Rigby said, confused. “Why aren’t we killing more of them?”

“Because of that badass armor they’ve got,” Lukov replied.

A second pass from Alpha Flight team knocked out another two ships from the fight. Several of the dropships had spun around and nearly reached the surface of Reotis. When they were still 50 meters away, they began to disgorge their cargo.

Warren zoomed his vision in. He still couldn’t quite make out what the Commonwealth vessel had disembarked toward the Reotis surface. The objects looked like people, except they were a lot bigger than an average human and they weren’t shaped quite right.

Twenty-seven of the smaller enemy ships remained. While Warren’s flight made multiple attack runs on the dropships, Bravo Flight fought their own war with the Commonwealth. They figured out they could break up into several smaller groups and simply follow the ships toward the surface, since the enemy wasn’t shooting back. With three or four of the cyborg pilots blasting a single vessel at the same time and combining their fire, the dropships didn’t stand a chance.

“Maybe we should just shoot their thrusters?” Rigby suggested. “That way the whole lot of them can just crash into the planet.”

“If one of those hits a dome, it might break through,” Lukov said. “I think we need to destroy as many as we can. Less mass in one spot.”

“Agreed,” Baker said. “Warren?”

“Stick to the plan,” Warren said. “We’ll deal with whatever makes it to the surface later.”

The strange Commonwealth vessel had gone silent. All of the smaller ships were gone, leaving it looking like an apple someone had just finished. The vessel was now ballooned on both ends with a thinner shaft connecting the bow to the stern. It was a tempting target, but it wasn’t the immediate threat.

“Alpha Flight, follow the small ships down to the planet,” Warren said. “Let’s destroy as many as we can. Bravo, as soon as the first one touches down, start strafing the hell out of them.”

Warren and the rest of Alpha did their best, but 12 of the dropships still made it to the surface. They’d used all of the squadron’s missiles. The only offensive advantage they still had were their forward-facing defenses. Those were used to great effect, but the limitations of the weapon’s field of fire made them difficult to employ.

The option of the Reotian guns would be a last line of defense. Warren didn’t want to reveal them unless they had no choice.

One of the ships they’d hit had been damaged enough that it lost control. It struck hard against the planet’s surface. If there were any living personnel inside the shuttles, they’d be spattered against the inside of their EV suits and turned into soup.

“They’re disembarking a bunch of... things,” Baker said. “Armored EV suits, it looks like. Dang, they’re big. I’m taking fire!”

Warren and the rest of Alpha Flight came in behind Bravo and began their strafing run. The troops he saw were oddly shaped. The enemy soldiers had long torsos, almost no head, and legs as thick as tree trunks. It was all wrong. There was no way a person could fit inside of one of those things and actually pilot it. They’d have to be scrunched up in a ball or have their joints in different places.

Warren squeezed his trigger, vaporizing two of the troops where they stood, but not before taking dozens of shots in return. Warning lights illuminated on his fighter’s panel. The stick became hard to control—it felt like he was stirring mud. He pulled the throttle back, reaching for the stars as he desperately tried to gain some distance between himself and the enemy peppering him with slugs, but he didn’t get far.

“Alpha, continue strafing,” Warren said. “My ship’s damaged pretty bad. I’m going to do something crazy.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Oplin said. “How about letting me in on the neat trick you’re about to show us.”

“Watch and learn.” Warren tilted his stick hard to the left. The ship’s response was sluggish, but it began to turn.

He started searching for targets. There were still three ships that hadn’t landed. Two of them were still too far away from the surface to allow his plan to work. One, though, was close, only about a hundred meters from Reotis. He aimed his ship toward that one and accelerated as fast as the fighter would go.

He knew what he was about to do was the right course of action. He regretted nothing.

After making sure his restraints were off, Warren focused on his target.

DISTANCE TO TARGET: 1280 M.

Just a little closer.

DISTANCE TO TARGET: 612 M.

A little more.

DISTANCE TO TARGET: 400 M.

Warren sprang from his damaged cockpit with all his might. He flew over the enemy dropship, which had already turned around, pointing its thrusters at the planet to slow its descent. As he passed over the craft, his ship struck.

This is what flying feels like, he thought as he soared through the Reotis sky.

The two Commonwealth vessels temporarily became one. His ship didn’t emerge from the far side of the collision. A lot of fire and shrapnel did, spraying out in all directions. The two vessels hung in the air, momentarily frozen in place as they expelled their kinetic energy against each other. He watched it all as he tumbled through the air, mesmerized as the whole thing detonated like a gigantic grenade.

Warren pushed the scene from his mind and took note of how far away the planet’s surface was. He prepared for a contested landing and tucked himself into a ball. He hit a rocky patch of the Reotis soil, then he rolled for several seconds. He threw his arms out, trying to arrest his forward momentum. Once he slowed down, he got to his feet while still sliding in the red dirt, throwing a huge wave of dust in front of him.

Three CWS-14’s flew overhead, making another strafing run on the enemy troops and their dropships. Warren started running as fast as his legs would carry him.

Warren crested the hill near where he’d landed. It was steep and craggy, slowing his climb to the top, but it afforded him a clear view of the field around him. He saw his enemy close up for the first time. The troops resembled people, but he confirmed there was no way a human could be operating the arms and legs of that monstrosity. Not unless they were curled up inside the thing’s torso with no parts of their body sticking out. Not even the CoWs would do that to their own people.

What are they, then? Warren’s mind could only come up with one answer: Mechs.

27

“I’m in the mix,” Warren warned everyone. “Don’t shoot me. These things are mechs. That’s why they keep fighting. Robots. There’s nobody inside.”

“Warren, we have incoming,” Lukov said. “Dome-5. I have two other cyborgs with me. Do you have recommendations on the best way to destroy these things?”

Warren turned his concentration to the hive mind that was the collective body of his fellow cyborgs’ thoughts. No one had ever seen anything like this before.

“Not yet,” Warren said. “But I’ll let you know in a minute or two.”

Three of the mechs returned fire from weapons built into their forearms. It seemed a little overkill given that they had other weapons strapped to their torsos.

It was then that Warren realized he didn’t have his rifle to fight back.

“Don’t worry, we have you,” Lukov declared, picking up Warren’s distress from their new connection.

Two of the fighters swept overhead and lay down a line of fire that scattered the mechs on the ground. Knowing it wouldn’t keep them down for long, Warren scanned the wreckage from his suicide jump. His eyes landed on the broken body of a mech that must have been in the dropship.

He sprinted over, relieved to find that the robot’s head had been separated from the body and there wasn’t any movement. Unfortunately, its external weapons were gone too. A quick glance over his shoulder told Warren that the enemy was already recovering from the cover fire.

Continuing the search in earnest, Warren looked around the mech. He was considering the merits of ripping off one of the downed robot’s limbs to use as a blunt object when he spotted something mixed in with the burning rubble.

A rifle. He snagged it, ignoring the sharp stab of heat in his hands before the pain dampeners kicked in. It was a little bigger than his usual, but a standard setup. Warren spotted a handful of spare magazines attached to the mech’s body and snagged them.

The first enemy mech staggered when Warren fired three shots into its chest but didn’t fall. They turned their guns toward him as he continued firing center mass. They were a hundred meters away, giving Warren plenty of time to dodge, roll, and jump out of the way of their slugs. He relayed an update with the information he’d just learned to the rest of his team. It would be vague, but every little detail could help.

“Taking cyborgs out to fight people machine on planet surface,” Lukov said. “We must not allow to reach airlock. Could detonate bomb, or bend, break, expose entire dome to vacuum.”

“Godspeed,” Warren said as he rolled to his right, dodging another volley from the mechs. They stopped firing, apparently out of ammunition, and charged him.

Each of the mechs had several holes in its torso, some of them clustered together in tight groupings. He could see daylight through the gaps, but the machines didn’t slow down. Warren added another hole to one of their heads, but the thing kept coming. Thanks to his computer-given marksmanship, his next shot went into the left knee joint of the one closest to him, which slowed it some.

Another fighter rocketed by overhead, peppering the ground around the mechs, but the robots easily evaded. The fighters moved on, circling around for another pass. The enemy mechs didn’t shoot back, focusing their fire on the more immediate threat: Warren.

He began running backward as he swapped out magazines, keeping his opponents in sight. They reached for him with their large, three-fingered hands. Picking the nearest mech as a target, Warren sent three rounds into it and was surprised when its appendage exploded in a huge shower. The light show seemed to linger far longer than it should’ve as the fireworks swarmed around the Commonwealth machine, spun, and skittered along the ground.

There was no time to consider what those sparks might be. There was fighting to do, and if Warren didn’t keep moving, he knew it would be hand-to-hand. There was something about their three-fingered appendages that told him that would be a bad idea. As puffs of red Reotian dust erupted into the air around him, he knew he was being shot at.

Warren transmitted the need for help. His brother cyborgs didn’t answer, but Warren felt Lukov banking his vessel for another pass.

Lukov’s fighter tore by overhead. Red dirt exploded around the mechs, obscuring them from view. When the dust settled enough to see them again, Warren saw the attack had managed to take one out.

He stumbled back down the hill when the rest began to advance. The mech who’d lost a hand didn’t seem to notice. It kept advancing, finally cresting the hill and firing down at him. They were almost on top of him before he ran out of ammunition for the second time. After securing his rifle, he switched to his combat knife, which began vibrating as soon as his fingers closed around it.

The blade was constructed from carbon, honed and sharpened until its edge was just over a single molecule wide. It was light compared to its steel counterparts, allowing even non-cyborgs to effortlessly wield it in hand-to-hand combat. He pulled the blade just in time. The lead mech had closed the distance to within an arm’s reach. Warren ducked beneath its grab, easily sliding his 25-centimeter blade through the mech’s thigh.

He bit out a curse when his opponent didn’t go down. After his maneuver, the second machine was right in front of him. It grabbed his helmet with one hand and began to squeeze. Warren felt the pressure from its pincer grasp and alarms lit up his HUD. Damage warnings flashed across his vision, alerting him to his precarious situation. The system update about the malfunctions added to the confusion and chaos.

Warren dismissed the warnings and shoved his knife into the wrist of the mech that was gripping his helmet. Fluid poured out of the hole. A human would have let him go. The machine did not. He slashed twice, screaming in primal rage until he cut something important. The grip on his head relaxed. With another roar, he proceeded to dance around the mech, cutting, stabbing, and slicing in a blur of movement.

“More mechs are converging on you, Boss,” Cooper informed.

He’d been so caught up in the struggle with the two mechs in front of him that he’d missed the arrival of more. As he watched another mech take aim, Warren adjusted his grip and turned to face his attacker. Both suddenly staggered as he was hit by something. Skimming the data from his HUD, Warren saw that it was a tiny RPG fired from an open panel in the other mech’s shoulder. The mech near him started teetering backward from the impact.

Instead of trying to get out of the way, Warren sheathed his knife and retrieved his rifle. He reloaded his weapon as he pressed his back against the damaged mech and used the machine as a shield. The mech was heavy and although he tried to remain upright, Warren found it impossible to keep his traction in the soft dust of Reotis’ surface.

Two seconds later, he recovered, but so had the mech he was leaning against. It reached back as if to grab him, but another panel opened—this one in the center of its palm. Nothing good ever came out of a mech’s palm—or so he guessed.

Warren managed to tuck and roll out of the line of fire, but not before new warnings lit up his HUD. There was no way he was going to get a chance to fix anything now, so he muted all alarms and focused on the battle.

WARNING: RADIATION DETECTED

The sparks he’d seen when he shot the other mech weren’t sparks at all. According to his HUD, they were tiny rockets with radioactive heads, and one was burning and burrowing its way into Warren’s calf.

His three remaining mechanized opponents encircled him as he opened fire, trying to stay mobile and target any potential weak spots. He was having no luck finding vulnerable points, but he continued shooting and dodging. As he scrambled to his left, the mechs raised their hands in unison and a swarm of the tiny micro-rockets buzzed out. There were so many fast-moving targets in such close proximity that his HUD began to glitch. More than 900 were swarming, according to Warren’s last HUD update before it quit counting.

Warren leapt and fired at the same time, striking one mech in its raised hand. A second later, more of the rockets found him and began burning through his toughened artificial skin.

A scream of pain ripped through him. He felt like he was being torn apart, cell by cell.

Pissed now, Warren dampened pain receptors and vented his frustration with another controlled burst at the enemy. Simultaneously, the mech that was missing its hand collapsed. A low-flying fighter told him why as it rocketed past. The other two kept closing, immune to such things as the self-preservation instinct or caution.

They’re designed to kill cyborgs, Warren realized. This is the Commonwealth’s answer to us. It seemed the enemy had evolved, taking cues from the Republic and upping their game. He didn’t know how they did it, but the usually disadvantaged side had created something that could turn things to their side.

He fired one more controlled burst, but in his haste, missed hitting the center of the next mech’s palm. More angry micro rockets erupted from the side of the machine and swarmed out in all directions. Cursing, Warren leapt away again, fired, and made another jump.

The mech furthest from him went down, hitting the Reotis soil, which bubbled as it reacted with the machine’s fluids. The machine twitched and flopped in a bid to right itself, then exploded. One of Wraiths had punched a single hole in it with its cannon. Warren made note of where it hit and began aiming in the same general area. His third shot caused the last mech to detonate.

With no more mechs nearby, Warren reactivated the alarms on his HUD. The little rockets had burned themselves out, but not before each one had burrowed twenty centimeters through his body. His left ankle was frozen in place—both the primary and secondary systems for controlling it completely ruined—but he was still alive.

Temporarily out of the fight, Warren read the urgent updates so he could plan accordingly. He hadn’t seen a message about Lukov dying, but he couldn’t seem to find him within the chaos of their cyborg comm network. Scrolling down, he saw an alert that caused him to catch his breath. The Commonwealth mothership was joining the action. It was a half-kilometer up, straight overhead, and had just launched missiles at the surface.

“Watch out!” Lukov shouted across the comms.

Warren dashed away from the expected impact zone as two more KIA messages appeared on his HUD. “Someone come pick me up!”

He watched as the explosions rolled across the red ground. Several of the missiles struck the shell for Dome-5, but the shell looked like it was holding.

Lukov arrived a few seconds later. Warren jumped and allowed the craft to slide in under him. While in the air, Warren grabbed the edges of the open cockpit while Lukov headed toward the CoW mothership.

“What’s the plan?” the Russian asked.

“Get me close to it, that’s all I need. I’m going to pay a personal call to that ship. I’ll figure out the rest once I get up there.”

Warren considered his options as Lukov maneuvered through debris, missiles, and fellow Wraiths. In the two minutes it took to get to the extreme center of the craft, another cyborg bit the farm.

Warren didn’t bother waiting for the fighter to slow. Instead, he jumped off the fighter’s wing and landed on the relatively narrow waist of the Commonwealth mothership where he slid to a halt, windmilling his arms to keep from tipping over the curved edge.

The vessel was built like everything else the CoWs made. Rivets, mismatched paint, and sheets of rusty metal. The surface was rough enough there was little danger of sliding off the thing on accident, even with how much the craft’s thrusters caused it to vibrate.

He began to walk, searching for access panels, hatches—anywhere he might be able to punch a hole in the thing and get inside where all the good stuff was. There were so many mismatched pieces, it began to dawn on him how impossible his plan might be. Everything looked like random shit welded to other random pieces.

Warren found a nearby seam, aimed to one side of it, and fired, producing a fountain of embers. No atmosphere, he noted. Ignoring that for now, he repeated the action until there was a sizable hole.

“What do we have here?” He took a knee and probed the hole. The area behind the spot was hollow.

He punched the seam, sending a shockwave of pain up his arm and into his shoulder. He willed his pain receptors to fifty percent and punched it again. It still hurt, but not nearly as much, and he’d made a crack in the metal.

Five punches later, he was able to tear the piece of metal free and found a hatch.

Warren stowed his rifle then drew his knife as he knelt by the hatch, then he stabbed the blade into the seam. He began dragging it through the tough armor a centimeter at a time. There was no atmosphere venting from the opening, confirming his suspicions. The mothership was autonomous. He continued dragging the blade and a few seconds later managed to cut through most of the weld. After sheathing his knife, he pried at the hatch with both hands. It took all his strength, but he managed to create a large enough gap to slip through, then he dropped inside.

The interior was dark, so Warren activated his night vision and looked both fore and aft. The interior of the tube was about three meters in diameter and was as crudely constructed as the rest of the ship. Pipes, conduits, and cables ran along the walls and floor with little thought given to the trip hazards they posed. There weren’t just a few pipes visible, like he was accustomed to on Grand Republic vessels, there were hundreds of them strewn about with little thought for the aesthetic beauty of space engineering.

A grin spread across Warren’s face as he drew his blade. This was the ship’s spinal cord. He could wreak all kinds of havoc here, but as he prepared, he had a fleeting thought. Where are we positioned right now? Through the other cyborgs, he realized the ship wasn’t just above the battlefield. It was directly above Dome-5. If he brought the vessel down here, it’s enormous mass would crush the dome, killing everyone inside. He had to think of something else. He was here to save the people—not sacrifice them.

WARNING: OXYGEN SUPPLY 8%

The clock was ticking. Apparently, his oxygen supply had been nicked by one of the micro-rockets from earlier. He had enough oxygen in his internal systems to last about ten more minutes—maybe less. Any longer, and he’d die from hypoxia. Whatever he did, he had to do it quickly.

Moving as fast as he dared, Warren pulled at the cables hanging from the ceiling. He was able to tell which ones had power running through them by touch alone. The ones that didn’t have juice surging through them, he cut. Then he moved to the walls, first the left, then the right, working his way through all the wires. He finished the bundled cables running along the floor five minutes later.

“Lukov,” he said. “I need you to head over here. Get back into orbit and stick close to the hatch I cut. But be ready for... anything.”

“On my way,” he replied. “Anything? Like what?”

“Like this ship suddenly moving. Maybe accelerating, breaking, anything.”

“I’ll be there in two shakes of a donkey’s tail.”

Warren took up as much slack in the cables as he could, but there wasn’t much. He’d felt the thrum through the cord and realized that it was sending a strange pattern through it that matched the rhythmic burn from the ship’s engines. His gut told him that they were the main control lines, since the mothership was constantly using its thrusters to maintain its stable orbit over Dome-5.

Gripping tightly, he concentrated on the bundled wires. The signal that the fore section of the vessel was sending toward the aft told it when to fire its thrusters and how much to keep the ship stationary. That wouldn’t necessarily require a lot of power. It could just be a specific voltage telling onboard AI whether or not to burn its engines.

Warren dismissed all of the cables with more than a thousand volts running through them. That left sixty to sort through.

“I’m here,” Lukov said. “Standing by.”

There was no way to tell which cable was the right one, so Warren had to cut them one at a time, relying on his reflexes to recover before it was too late.

WARNING: OXYGEN SUPPLY 5%

Using his knife, Warren began snipping cables. One of them appeared to control the launch system, because as soon as it was cut, the missiles stopped.

Another dozen more and Warren found the one he was looking for. The aft thrusters went offline, and the fore thrusters continued to burn. The ship began to go nose up until Warren pressed the ends of the cable together. It righted itself but started to reposition above the battlefield again.

Warren separated the cables once more, before pressing them back together. The act connected the signal cables, allowing him to maneuver the ship and forcing it to shove itself away from Dome-5 a few dozen meters at a time.

WARNING: OXYGEN SUPPLY 3%

His idea was taking too long. Letting both ends of the cables drop, he waited fifteen seconds to ensure that the mothership was moved far enough away from all the Reotian domes. Once he was clear, he sliced the rest of the wires in one circular motion.

It worked! The Commonwealth ship fell from the sky, dropping like a rock. Warren dragged himself toward the opening, hoping Lukov was still nearby. His movements were sluggish, and he was having trouble focusing. New alarms warned him of his impending death, but he struggled to understand their meaning.

Out of the corner of his fading vision, Warren spotted a shadow. It was vaguely arrowhead shaped. Kind of like a CW... something. Was it 14? 15?

The world faded to black.

* * *

He awoke face down in the airlock of Dome-5. His helmet had been removed and someone was dragging him by his foot.

“Very brave,” Lukov said, managing to sound both proud and disapproving at the same time. “Also, very stupid.”

“What happened?” Warren asked, shaking his foot loose from the other cyborg’s grip and climbing to his feet.

“There is no use beating bush out of shape,” Lukov said. “You are the official hero of Reotis. Warren is their leader.”

Warren couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Thanks for the save.”

“You didn’t make it easy,” Lukov said. “I almost let you smash into the dirt, but we are friends, yes?” He laughed, not expecting an answer and gave Warren a friendly punch in the shoulder.

Warren stood as he performed a quick systems check. He still had a stiff left ankle and various bits of minor damage to his synthetic skin. The outer layer of his chassis skin covering hurt a lot, but he was otherwise fine.

“Such the problem solver,” Lukov said. “Seven cyborgs killed during fight. But, Republic and CoW ships destroyed.”

“Problem postponed,” Warren replied. “They’ll be back. Both of them. But right now, we’ve got something even bigger to deal with. That CoW ship knew exactly when to strike. It was equipped with tech I didn’t know the Commonwealth had. It was designed to take on cyborgs. What I want to know is where it was hiding, and who told it to strike. That ship was unmanned—fully autonomous. Some kind of artificial intelligence, but not a great one. Someone had to signal it.”

“Another spy?” Lukov asked, frowning as he raised a questioning eyebrow.

“The same one, I’m guessing,” Warren answered. “The same bastard who sabotaged the EV system. We need to find them and shut down their operation before they bring a new surprise to our doorstep.”

28

“Report,” Warren said, feeling a bit uneasy on his feet. It looked like some of his internal systems needed to adjust for his newfound lack of balance. He’d suffered enough damage to cause a temporary shutdown of his cybernetics. His armor was lying in pieces on the ground. It looked too damaged to do him any good and though there wasn’t much of a need for modesty, he was glad he was still wearing his coveralls.

“You almost died out there,” Hendrose said, running up to him. “We need to get you to the Ruthless so you can get some proper treatment.”

“Not yet,” Warren said, holding up a hand to stop the man. “First, I need to know where we stand.”

“No civilians injured in fighting,” Lukov said. “Though maybe we shouldn’t call them civilians anymore. They fight like military. Not like Spetsnaz, but well enough.”

Warren wasn’t surprised to hear that. He’d risked a lot to get his freedom. The Reotians wanted to be free too, and why wouldn’t they be willing to die for it?

He focused on Lukov and asked what he really wanted to know. “And the Commonwealth threat?”

“Our enemy has been destroyed. The ship you disassembled from the inside crashed approximately twelve kilometers from our current position. I have sent two Reotians to investigate the remains. They are both armed, though I do not suspect they will find any resistance. They have experience with Commonwealth equipment.” Lukov paused, his face going solemn. “All of the machines are dead, but we lost a total of seven cyborgs during the engagement. Another three, including yourself, require repairs before you can continue.”

“How long was I out?” Warren asked.

“You were unconscious for three minutes. There was no damage to the domes. One cyborg died when he crashed his CWS-14 into a dome, but it is nothing we cannot buff out.”

It was then that Warren noticed everyone standing around further away. At least a hundred Reotians and two cyborgs were watching. The cyborgs were wearing their helmets, but he guessed they held the same worried expression as the civilians.

“What are they waiting for?” Warren said over a private channel to Lukov. “Why are they standing there staring at me?”

Lukov glanced over his shoulder before answering. “They were worried that you had died. I explained to them that you did not, but they did not believe me. Also, they probably want to know that the battle is over.”

“Is it?” Warren asked.

Lukov shrugged. “There are no more ships in orbit. There are no more machines on the ground.”

Warren glanced at the others before speaking to Lukov on the private channel again. “It isn’t over, though. We found the spy room, but we still have a mole among us.”

“Yes, I believe you to be correct,” he replied. “We could pretend the battle is over and nothing is to fear. It may draw the intruder out.”

“It also means we’re going to suffer another catastrophe before this is all over,” Warren said. “Do we still have people looking for the saboteur?”

“We do,” Lukov said. “Three Reotians and one cyborg—McNabb. He is attempt to keep it quiet but may be easier said than to do.”

Warren was about to tell him to go ahead and start the celebration when he spotted a new face in the crowd. It was Linus Targatt—the teenage spy he’d sent out on his own fishing expedition. His expression was grimmer than the others.

“It seems my own spy has returned,” Warren said, sending a snapshot of the boy to Lukov. “And based on his expression he has something for me.”

“It would seem so,” the other Cyborg replied. “I will find a place to meet with him away from prying eyes. It might be best if you stay here and allow these people to tell you how wonderful, brave, and handsome you are. Well, perhaps not the last one.”

Warren laughed and clapped his friend on the back. “Okay, go see what the kid’s got for us. I’ll let these people know the battle is over. Let me know what he says.”

“I will,” Lukov said as he stepped away, heading straight for the kid.

“Reotians,” Warren said, amplifying his voice to make sure everyone could hear him. “There are no more enemy ships remaining in orbit. No more mechs on the ground. The threat, for now, is over. We’ve given both the Commonwealth and the Republic a black eye today. Everyone should feel good about the part they played.”

“Are we free?” a young woman, maybe fifteen, asked.

Warren zeroed in on the woman and lifted a brow. “You’ve always been free. All we needed to do was to remind both our enemies about that fact.”

“No,” she said, her voice growing small. “I mean, is it over? Will there be more?”

Warren stepped closer to the young woman, who quailed under his gaze. Removing his helmet, he took a knee in front of her and looked up into her eyes. “There will always be battles to fight. I don’t think either the Republic or the Commonwealth will give up that easily. Both are ruthless. Both want this planet so badly they’re willing to do anything to take it. We’re going to have to outlast them. So, no. It’s not over yet. It’s just the beginning”

She nodded, lips tightening into a firm line before she spoke again. “What do we do now?”

Warren stood to address everyone. “We don’t let our guard down, and we’ll need to make whatever repairs we deem necessary, but now we can breathe a bit easier. Go home, be with your families, celebrate. I’ll assign cyborgs to do most of the work around here for now. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Everyone started talking at once. Based on how they dragged their feet, they were exhausted.

“The crowd is dispersing?” Lukov asked over the comm.

“They are,” Warren said, watching them go with some concern. “They’re too tired to celebrate. It probably hasn’t even sunk in yet. They’ve accomplished a great thing today. There’s no way we could’ve done this alone.”

“Agreed,” Lukov said. “None of Reotians who you looked of displayed guilt, deceit, or anger. The spy is still here somewhere. Which reminds me. Linus has information.”

Warren was intrigued but waited until most of the crowd had left before winding his way toward Lukov. He checked over his shoulder several times to make sure he wasn’t being followed. When he arrived, he saw the kid looking like he was in trouble.

“Tell him what you told me,” Lukov said.

The kid looked scared, and when he spoke his voice cracked a little. “Like I was telling Mister Lukov here, I went exploring. Inventorying the warehouse was so boring and nobody came in. After the others left, I was bored, too, so... I went places.”

“Spit it out,” Lukov said, his voice a bit stern.

“I found a passage,” Linus continued, staring at one of his feet as he ground his heel into the dirt. “It’s not one we made. It isn’t tall enough to walk through. I had to crawl. At the end was a box. I figured the box must have a treasure inside or something. Maybe something cool. Credits. A gun. Anyway, the box was empty. Totally empty. Nothing at all inside. Just this poly box about this big.” He held up his hands, approximating the size of the box. “But when I looked up—then I saw it.”

The kid was clearly excited, so Warren let him finish his story his own way, unsure of whether Linus might leave out some important detail if he were rushed.

“It was an opening,” the boy whispered, looking to see if anyone was listening. “Into a house. I didn’t go in, but I heard someone talking. It sounded like he was angry. I like to learn secrets and stuff, so I hung out for a while. He was pissed. Like, really pissed. And he was welding something—or maybe taking something apart. I heard him talk about the Republic, too. He said they abandoned him and it was up to him to take care of the problem. He didn’t say what the problem was, but I think it was you. He kind of sounded like he was going nuts or something. Laughed once in a while, but it wasn’t a happy sound. It was spooky. I left in a hurry.”

“Any chance he found out about you?” Warren asked.

Linus shook his head. “No, no chance. I could hear him talking for a while until I was too far away.

“Do you know name of person?” Lukov asked.

“No,” the boy said, looking back and forth between the cyborgs with wide eyes as he wiped sweaty hands on his pants.

“You did well,” Warren told him. “Did you tell anyone else about what you found?”

“No, nobody.”

“Good,” Warren said, feeling his mouth curl into a small smile. “Keep it that way. Where’s the tunnel entrance?”

“Dome-2,” Linus said. “It starts under the water reclamation plant. It’s an unauthorized area. Nobody is ever supposed to be there. I didn’t do anything except look around.”

“Thank you for the information,” Warren said. “But stay away from Dome-2 until we catch him, okay? No heroic stuff and definitely no more snooping for a while. If you don’t think you can control yourself, there’s a brig on the Ruthless we can stick you in.”

Linus’s eyes seemed to drift for a moment. He’d probably never seen the inside of a brig, and Warren was amused that he seemed to be considering it. “No,” he said. “There’s nothing to do in there?”

“Nothing to do in there but grow old,” Lukov confirmed. “And it is likely we will forget about you. So do not force us to lock you in brig.”

Linus laughed, but it faded into something like a moan when neither of the cyborgs joined him. “I think I’ll head home for now,” he said. “Bye.” He gave Warren and Lukov each a wave and hurried between a couple of other homes before vanishing.

“It sounds like the boy has found our spy,” Lukov said. “What action do you want to take?”

Warren took a moment before answering. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to fit into the tunnel,” he said. “Especially if Linus had to duck and crawl to get in. But I do want to narrow down our list of suspects.”

The sound of raised voices from the other side of Dome-6 halted their conversation and Warren turned to see what had happened.

“We might have a problem here,” Cooper said. “Seems some of the civilians are accusing others of stealing. I don’t know, but I’m just about ready to start smashing some heads together. You mind coming over here to sort this out?”

“On my way,” Warren said.

“Want me to investigate tunnel?” Lukov asked.

“Only if you think you can do so without being spotted or raising too much suspicion. Maybe assign one of your Reotians to surveil the place and try to find out who our spy is. We’ll need to catch him in the act.”

“Then?” Lukov asked.

“We’ll figure it out when we’ve got him.”

Lukov nodded, turned, and walked away while Warren hurried toward Cooper to find out what the argument was about. He tried using Cooper’s audio feed, but all he could make out was four or five people yelling, trading insults and threatening each other.

The scene had calmed a bit before Warren arrived. Cooper was standing in between two sets of people, each appearing to be allied to their own cause, and each in direct opposition to the other.

“Silence!” Warren boomed, amplifying his voice to make sure he could be heard over the others. Both sides quailed under the cyborg’s glare.

“I don’t know what this disagreement is about, but before you tell me, I’ve got something to say.” He waited to see if anyone was going to be stupid enough to try to interrupt him as he spoke. Both sides clamped their mouths shut.

“There are people out there who want to kill you just because you’re Reotian. It’s the worst time to start fighting among ourselves. Set aside your differences and show them we’re united and will punish anyone who tries to separate us.”

Again, he waited to see if anyone wanted to argue about it. Both sides watched him with open mouths. They glanced at each other then turned back to Warren and nodded.

“Good,” said Warren. “We shouldn’t leave this unsettled, though. It’ll only create bad feelings later. What happened?”

An older woman with long hair sitting to one side raised her hand. She began to speak when Warren nodded to her.

“This side says that side needs to stop being lazy—in so many words. This side says that side needs to relax. That was all fine and dandy until Rooster came up and accused that guy of stealing something.”

“Rooster?” Warren asked, scanning the crowd.

An unassuming man stepped forward. He was thin, just under two meters tall, and was the only male Warren had seen on Reotis who wore his gray hair long. It was pulled back and tied at the base of his neck.

“They call me Rooster,” the man said.

“What’s come up missing that you think may have been stolen,” Warren asked.

“I don’t think,” the man said. His tone was one of sadness, not anger as Warren had expected. “I know. A few of us went out and gathered some of those robots that were attacking the base. We take parts wherever we can find them. I inventoried the parts as they came in, but when we made it back to the Dome-6 workshop, two parts were missing. Everyone was there except for him.” He pointed to the man who’d spoken out of turn.

“Was someone with the parts the whole time?”

“No,” Rooster said. “We dropped each set off before going back to get another. Four trips in all.

“I didn’t mean to accuse him. I was asking, and he seemed to be hiding something. I don’t like conflict.”

“What parts are you missing?”

“Two undamaged arms,” the man replied.

The parts the micro-rockets are launched from. Even though Warren’s stomach was purely mechanical, he thought he felt an icy spike land there.

“Heads up!” another cyborg transmitted to all the others. “Techs just spotted another ship coming in.”

29

The alarm system went off a second later. Everyone present froze in place, then turned wide eyes to Warren.

“Go to your duty stations,” the cyborg said. “Wherever you were before. If you don’t have one, head to the hangar and find someone who could use your help. Looks like we’ve got another fight.”

Not bothering to check to see if any of them were doing as they’d been told, Warren hurried to the hangar. “What details do we have?” he said. “Republic or Commonwealth?”

“Neither,” the cyborg said. “Tech is telling me it’s a civilian vessel. Looks like a cargo hauler.”

“What? Are they expecting a delivery?”

“Not exactly,” the cyborg said. “They say this happens once in a while. Ships come in unannounced from other systems. Could be full of refugees.”

“From where?”

“No idea,” he replied. “The tech says they’ve given out transponder codes to a few of their operatives on other planets. If anyone needs to flee, this is one of the places they can go. Somewhere else just like Reotis. Somewhere they keep getting their asses kicked because neither side can hold on for very long. Kinda stupid if you ask me, just moving from one war zone to another like that.”

Warren thought so too and shook his head. “Inform the Gun Chief to hold his fire unless they do something aggressive.”

“Refugees?” Lukov asked, cocking his head slightly to one side.

“Yeah, that’s what he said.”

“Anonymous refugees?”

“Yes,” Warren said, not following the Russian’s train of thought.

“And there have been others?”

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Warren asked.

“It would be convenient way for spy to arrive,” he said. “Pretend to be one of refugee Maybe kill and take place of one. Back in Russia, this was something the Spetsnaz did. Effective.”

The more Warren thought about it the more it made sense. He tapped a finger thoughtfully on his chin. “And there’s no way to tell who might be an infiltrator. We don’t have records on these people. No photos, no way to check their backgrounds. We’re blind.”

“Not so much,” Lukov said, waving Warren’s concern away. “Spetsnaz trains for interrogate. Lies from truths. Must corral new refugees to interrogate.”

“Interview,” Warren corrected.

“Right, interview. If they are not a spy, no problem. If they are, we interrogate then. I must meet this ship and... interview passengers. Maybe all people on Reotis to find saboteur. Is easy with cybernetic. Dilation of pupil. Micro expression. Heart rate. Skin temperature. Easy to touch and feel these things. Like lie detector, but many time more sensitive.”

“Do it,” Warren said. “It’s too bad the Republic didn’t have an interrogation module for me to load into everyone, so this is a skill you’ll need to train others on. Add that to your to-do list, but don’t worry about training anyone at the moment. Let’s get these people processed.”

The ship came in for a soft landing inside the hangar thirty minutes later. Warren was surprised the thing had made it the entire distance between systems. It looked like it had been made completely of scrap, welded and riveted together into something resembling a huge, steel tadpole.

Didn’t anyone in the galaxy have a halfway decent vessel anymore?

The rear half of the craft was taken up by its stardrive engine, and even that seemed to have been cobbled together from parts. A mismatched ramp lowered to the ground, but no one disembarked.

Warren and Lukov, flanked by two other cyborgs, approached the craft.

“Hold your fire until one presents a clear threat,” Warren said. “And someone kill that alarm. If there are any spies among them, he or she will need to be captured rather than killed, if we can help it. I don’t want anyone getting trigger happy.” Three acknowledgments appeared on Warren’s HUD.

The other two cyborgs he’d brought tensed. Warren felt himself tense a bit as well.

The first person to come down looked to be the pilot, if her uniform was any indication. She had a small data pad attached to her right leg just above her knee and a Republic-gray flight suit, but no name tag or other unit markings.

She brushed her long blond hair away from her eyes and muttered something that sounded like a curse. Then she raised her hands in surrender. “Hey boys, I didn’t expect to see you lot here. So this is a Republic colony now? Listen—about the uniform—I can explain.”

“This is not Republic colony,” Lukov told her. “This is private and independent colony. We are the new Reotian Defense Force. We have returned the planet to the people and tolerate neither Republic nor Commonwealth. If you have loyalty to either, we will return you to ship and offer safe passage from the planet after interrogation. But you may not remain here.”

The woman looked confused. “Reotian Defense Force? Uh... don’t you guys have to do what the war computer tells you to do?”

“Not anymore,” Warren said. “Everyone will have to be screened before they are allowed to stay. It’s a new policy. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Keeping her hands raised, the woman, who Warren guessed was in her mid-thirties, hurried to where he’d indicated she should stand. She watched him with wide eyes but didn’t cower or try to hide behind her arms or hands like she was afraid. It was a look of wonder and curiosity. She had a lot of questions buzzing around in her head. Likely, so did everyone else. Rather than having to answer the same ones over and over by others who would ask the same thing, Warren would speak to them as a group.

Another 32 people exited the craft. Far more than it should have been allowed to carry, he noted. One had to be carried by two others. It looked like his leg was wounded. There were bandages, but the care he’d received looked to be rudimentary.

“He needs a doctor,” the pilot said. “We did what we could, but our escape wasn’t as flawless as we’d hoped.”

“I will summon the doctor,” Lukov said. “Where did you flee from?”

“DT 2991d,” she said. “We called it Copa—short for cornucopia because we all hoped it would be something more than a war zone. It’s the most Earth-like planet the Republic has ever found. It was supposed to be a new start. It was more of an ending. A bad one.”

“Yeah,” one of the passengers, an angry man with reddish hair and a short beard, said. “Turns out everyone wanted it for themselves and screw anyone who was already there. Now we have to come to this shithole to try to survive.”

“Does anyone see Hendrose?” Warren transmitted over the general channel.

“He’s here with me,,” another cyborg replied.

“Send him to the hangar,” Warren said. “I need him here.”

“Roger that,” the cyborg replied, and Warren turned his attention back to the refugees.

“So, are we prisoners now?” the angry man asked.

“Not yet,” Lukov said, clearly trying to contain a smile that didn’t look at all friendly.

The red-haired man gulped.

“Not at all, unless you give us a reason to incarcerate you,” Warren said. “But we’ve had some trouble here recently. As such, we’ve needed to institute new security measures. For now this cyborg will determine which of you is allowed to stay. His name is Lukov, and so long as you don’t do anything dangerous, and you aren’t here to cause any trouble, you won’t come to harm.”

“Aren’t you supposed to do what we say?” the man retorted, getting brave again. He stepped out from the tightly packed crowd. “Since when do the cyborgs make the rules?”

“Since about a day ago,” Warren said. “We’re free. We no longer have to obey any war computer.”

“We are slaves no longer,” Lukov added, donning an annoyed face.

The man continued to look defiant for a moment before seeming to realize he was outnumbered, outgunned, and out everything else as well. He melted back into the crowd.

“As I was saying, Lukov here is trained in lie detection,” Warren continued. “And, because he’s a cyborg, he’s also very good at it.”

Warren scanned the crowd. Of the 33 people, including the pilot, he detected 27 that were nervous, 2 who might be, and the injured man was impossible for him to read. Lukov had his work cut out for him.

“Line up here,” Lukov commanded. “Single file. Each will be interviewed one at time. Do not leave area until given permission.”

Hendrose walked up to Warren as the cluster of people formed themselves into something resembling a single file line.

“Here,” the tech said. “Whoa. Is this what the alarm was about?”

“Yes,” Warren said. “Is this normal? Having refugees show up like this?”

Hendrose shrugged. “I’ve seen it before, but it’s not like I got to spend a lot of time here after I joined the Republic Navy. But yeah, it happens.”

“What do you do with them once they arrive?”

Hendrose shrugged. “Send them to the least-occupied dome. There are plenty of empty homes. We could probably fit another five or six thousand people here.”

“What about duties?” Warren asked. “Who assigns them?”

“Like I said, it’s been a while,” Hendrose said again. “Leadership has been kind of sparse around here for a long time. I guess they just fill in wherever they can. Someone probably used to assign them, but I have no idea who does it now—if anyone. We get by, so nobody really has any drive to improve things.”

“I know I’ve been asking a lot of you, but with this batch, I want you to find out what they’re good at and assign them yourself,” Warren said. “You’ve got to be Human Resources until we find someone to do it permanently. Think you can handle it?”

“Sure,” he said and started walking toward them until Warren took his arm and pulled him back.

“Not yet,” Warren said. “Lukov needs to interview them first. We’re looking for spies among—”

An intense feeling of shock from Lukov and several gasps from refugees snapped Warren’s attention back to the queue. Some refugees were frozen in place. The rest were running toward the airlock or toward the center of the dome. Two other cyborgs had their rifles raised, but nobody was shooting.

“Flee!” Lukov said as he dove onto the ground.

Warren instinctively snatched Hendrose from where he was standing and shielded him with his own body. A second later, the loud crack of an explosion washed over them. His back and legs were peppered with small stones, but none had enough velocity to break through his tough cyborg skin.

Warren turned around. It only took him a second to uncover what had happened. One of the refugees had brought an explosive device with him or her into the dome. They’d used it as a distraction by throwing it nearby. Lukov had jumped on it.

The other cyborg wasn’t moving, but no KIA message had appeared on Warren’s screen either.

“Ouch,” Lukov grumbled.

“Stop them!” Warren shouted, even as he snagged a female refugee who tried to run past him on his left. “Don’t let any of them leave!”

Then to Lukov, he said, “Did you see who threw it?”

The other cyborg transmitted an image of the perpetrator. It was the angry man who’d asked about why they weren’t obeying a war computer anymore. Of course.

Warren forwarded the image to all the cyborgs with an order to capture him alive, if possible. It only took minutes to track him down. The cyborg Anna DeFranc had seen him heading toward Dome-2 and had captured him alive.

“Bring him here,” Warren ordered as his vision settled on his friend, the cyborg Lukov, lying on his face on the ground.

Hendrose hurried to Lukov’s prone form and began inspecting him.

“I can’t tell how bad it is,” Hendrose said. “But it’s got to be bad. Hey, can you get up?”

“No,” Lukov said.

“Someone get me a data pad,” Hendrose ordered.

A nearby woman unhooked the small data pad from her flight suit, hurried to the tech, and handed it to him as she stared at the cyborg lying on the ground.

Hendrose began tapping commands into the pad while the pilot watched. DeFranc arrived soon after with her hand clamped firmly around the caught refugee’s wrist. “I think I have something you’re looking for,” she said, one corner of her mouth twisting into a smile.

The spy was beating on her armored fist, trying to break her grip. He gave up when he noticed Warren’s stern expression.

“Obey me, cyborg,” the man spat.

“Fuck off,” Warren retorted. To DeFranc, he said, “Take him to the closest empty house in this dome. If there’s not one here, try Dome-2. Let me know when you’ve got him secure. Don’t kill him, but don’t feel like you have to be too careful with him, either.”

DeFranc’s lips curled into a sneer. “That’s what I like to hear,” she said, slowly turning her eyes to the man. “You and I are going to get to know each other pretty well, I’m thinking.”

“Fuck you, bitch!”

DeFranc laughed. “Wow, what a potty mouth. I guess your mama didn’t teach you any manners. Don’t worry. We’re about to spend some quality time together—really get to know each other. I’m sure we can find those manners. They’ve got to be hidden in there somewhere, right?”

Warren watched in dark amusement as DeFranc spun the man around, let go of his wrist, and grabbed his ankle. She dragged him from the others as he clawed the dirt and continued to scream obscenities at her—some of which Warren had never heard before but understood, nonetheless.

“Hendrose,” Warren said. “How does he look?”

“I’m still running diagnostics,” he said, sounding frustrated. “I don’t know yet. Nothing critical, but he’s going to need some parts replaced. I think his motor functions are damaged.”

“Not completely,” Lukov mumbled, his face still in the dirt.

“What’s that?” Warren asked, smiling. “I thought I heard something. Hey Lukov, you lying down on the job?”

The other cyborg lifted his right arm and made a fist with all the fingers except the middle one. “See? I am not completely paralyzed.”

Warren laughed. “Oh, that’s what you were saying.”

Activating a private channel, Lukov continued the conversation. “I can still process the refugees, but will need someone to help. Vision, hearing, sense of touch in left hand operational. Yes, I can do this.”

“I appreciate that,” Warren said as he stepped forward to help the cyborg to a sitting position.

“Wait,” Hendrose exclaimed. “You could make it worse!”

“He will not,” Lukov argued. “Damage is already done. Will not be worse unless there is more bomb. Not catastrophic. Will get new body when done interviewing the people. They should not be made to wait. After complete, I will return to Ruthless. Then get fixed up—fit as violin.”

Hendrose turned to Warren, his eyes searching for confirmation.

“Agreed,” Warren said. “Lukov has a unique skill set we can’t get anywhere else. I need him back at one hundred percent as quickly as possible, but these people need to be processed first.”

Hendrose stepped away as Warren manipulated Lukov into a sitting position. He held him there as the rest of the refugees approached one at a time to speak with him.

Lukov looked each in each of their eyes while holding their hand and asked them all the same questions. “Name, origin planet? Are you spy for Commonwealth of Worlds? Are you spy for Grand Republic of Unified Systems?”

After asking each of the refugees the same questions, Lukov turned to Warren. “Am ready for new body now.”

Warren motioned to the other two cyborgs who carefully picked Lukov from the ground, one hooking his arms under the man’s armpits, the other holding on to his ankles.

“Get him to the Ruthless,” Warren said. “In the medical bay, you’ll find some Cyborg Data Cubes. Back him up to the War Computer and the CDC, then give him the CDC. In case something happens to the ship, I want to make sure we can bring him back someday.

“Hendrose will join you shortly.”

Hendrose looked deflated. “What do you want me to do right now?”

Warren nodded to the refugees. “Find these people a place to stay. We’ll worry about assigning them duties later. For now, I bet they need some rest. Today’s been rough on everyone.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have a date with a certain grenade-fondling spy,” Warren said.

30

DeFranc had found an empty house near the far end of Dome-1, close to the entrance to the hangar. It was clear at once why nobody had claimed it. Of all the Reotian homes Warren had seen, this one had to be the worst.

It was a single room with nothing but a privacy screen blocking the toilet from view. It looked like DeFranc had torn curtains from the windows and used the fabric to tie the guy to one of the only two pieces of furniture in the room: a chair. The other piece was a table. Both were made from scrap metal.

“I don’t think this guy’s ready to talk yet,” DeFranc said, fisting a hand on one hip and looking at the man with disgust.

Her captive was crying, bleeding from the mouth, and had two black eyes.

“Well, I guess I can always come back later,” Warren said, turning to leave.

“No!” the man said, his voice hoarse. “Please. No.”

The two cyborgs exchanged a quick glance.

“I don’t mind if you have something else to do,” DeFranc said, a playful note in her voice.

The captive whimpered. “I’ll talk, I swear.”

“Then talk,” Warren said. “The second you lie to me, I walk away and leave you alone with her. Start with your name.”

The man glanced at DeFranc, who gave him a coy smile and touched the dimple on her right cheek with the tip of her index finger.

“Elliot Morgan. I’m here on orders from the Grand Republic of Unified Systems,” the man said, speaking rapidly. “I was sent here to check on an associate.”

So much for the stigma that spies were hardcore. Warren resisted the urge to shake his head. It hadn’t taken much to get the man talking. There was something to be said for his cyborg body. A little pain wouldn’t have made him betray anyone.

“Republic Intelligence,” DeFranc said, flicking a glance at Warren. He nodded back, having gathered as much.

Warren leaned and studied the man as he asked his next question. “What was your mission—specifically?”

“To locate and ascertain the status of an asset we have here in the colony.”

“What’s that asset’s name?” Warren asked.

Morgan’s eyes met Warren’s and went still, concentrating on the cyborg’s face. “I don’t know,” he said.

He was hiding something.

“Okay, DeFranc, let me know when he’s willing to tell the truth, will you?” Warren said, straightening once more. “Try to avoid killing him if you can.”

“I swear I don’t know,” the spy babbled. “I have a signal. It’s supposed to bring him to me. No, two signals. I have two different signals. If the first doesn’t work, I’m supposed to try the second. If that one doesn’t work, I am—or was—supposed to take his or her place. That’s it, I swear!”

“How many assets are supposed to be here?” DeFranc asked.

“One,” he replied. “Just one.”

“You sure about that?” Warren asked.

“Yes.” A bead of sweat began to form on Morgan’s forehead from all the stress. “Absolutely. I’m supposed to find him or her, find out what they’ve been doing, or if they’re dead, and pick up wherever they left off. That’s it. Find them, find out what their plan is, help them finish it, or do it myself.”

“And if you picked up where they left off, what then?” DeFranc said, speaking slowly. “Sabotage?”

Morgan jerked back as far as his bonds would allow him when the cyborg bent down, bringing her face close to him.

“Yes, probably” he whispered. “It was our contingency plan in case a rebellion started here. We’re supposed to try to turn the population against them or kill their supporters off. Whichever seems like it will work better. If that’s what he’s doing, then that’s what I would have done. But I won’t anymore. I don’t even like the Republic. I never wanted this job. I’m really a good person. You have to believe me!”

“Yeah, right,” she said before slapping him hard on the cheek.

The man’s eyes rolled around in his head for a moment before he started crying again.

“What do you plan to do with the stolen mech arm?” Warren asked.

“The what?” he replied, eyes darting between the cyborgs. “Mech?”

“The mech arm,” DeFranc repeated. “The one the other spy stole. The one you came here to do—whatever—with. Don’t play dumb.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protested. “I don’t get told anything until I arrive. No orders came in about a mech arm.”

Tears leaked from his bruised eyes but Warren was unmoved. Still, he didn’t think the guy was lying. So, the meeting had been a waste of time. “One last thing. How were you communicating with the spy? How did you know he or she wasn’t already discovered and dead?”

“I hadn’t gotten the chance to check in,” he whispered. “I don’t know who it is.”

“Get him ready to lock up,” Warren said to DeFranc, stepping away once more. “And do be rough.”

“Will do,” she said.

“Wait!” the spy shouted. “I can give you the signals to make contact.”

Warren smiled over his shoulder as he reached the door. He didn’t trust that the spy wouldn’t give him false information that would tip the other one off. “I already know the location, or close enough.”

Outside, Warren paused to think. One thing worried him more than anything else. A destroyed mech’s arms had been stolen. They were the launch devices for the microrockets that had caused him so much damage, which he’d still not received repairs for. If the spy had gotten hold of them, there was no telling what he could do.

Opening a private channel to the cyborgs who’d taken Lukov to the Ruthless, Warren asked, “How’s our Russian friend doing?”

“We got him transferred both to the war computer and the CDC,” the cyborg replied. “Hendrose is here now. He’s fixing Lukov up.”

“How long until he’s operational?”

After a short pause, the other cyborg answered. “Hendrose says it’ll be about a half hour.”

“That’s fine,” Warren said before closing the channel and opening a new one to Cooper. “I need you to find three more cyborgs. Pull them off other non-essential duties and bring them to the Water Reclamation Plant in Dome-2. Be discreet. We’re going to try to find the spy.”

“The spy is in Dome-2?” Cooper asked, already moving.

“If not, I have a way to draw them out. One more thing—he may be in possession of a mech arm or two. If he’s the one who stole them, he’ll likely turn them against us. Trust me—you don’t want to get nailed by those things.”

Warren sent him a data package of his current status, an image of the weapon, and what he hoped would be an accurate recording of the kind of pain the weapon had caused.

“Damn.” Cooper whistled. “That’s some nasty shit. Yeah, that’s definitely anti-cyborg shit right there. I’ve got Oplin, and Rigby with me.

“Good,” Warren said. “Let’s get there and find our spy.”

* * *

The center of the building was open, allowing maintenance personnel to have easy access to the pipes on both sides and overhead. Everything was polished and glittered like new.

“So where’s the spy?” Rigby asked.

“I’m not sure,” Warren admitted. “But I’ve received credible intelligence that there’s an entrance to a tunnel hidden somewhere in here. Everyone look around. Let me know when you find it.”

After several minutes of searching, Oplin found the ingress and sent an image to everyone else.

It had been hidden under a short stack of sheet metal. It was heavy, but it didn’t look too heavy for a young spelunker to have moved it himself.

Warren had expected a scene resembling a movie jailbreak. Maybe a rough-edged hole in a wall or the floor—something that represented determination and patience, and probably a lot of worn spoons. He hadn’t been disappointed.

The hole had been cut into the floor. Based on the markings, the spy hadn’t used a spoon. Instead, it looked to have been some kind of laser cutting tool. Past the twenty-five centimeters of concrete was a dark hole.

“Track my movements,” Warren said. “There’s supposed to be a box at the end of this tunnel. The spy’s been using it to help him climb out of the tunnel into one of these nearby homes. We don’t know which one and I don’t want to run through them kicking doors down. These people have had enough of that already.”

“You’re not going to fit,” Rigby said, standing with her hands on her hips.

Warren glanced down at the hole again, measured it with his cybernetic eyes, and compared it to his chassis. “I will if I keep my arms out in front of me,” he said.

“And what if you need to fight? You won’t do well in your current state.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he replied.

Rigby let out an irritated breath. “Boys. I’m much smaller. Let me do it instead. Once we know which place it is, I pop up, scare whoever’s inside, whoop his ass, and call it a day. Besides, boss, you still haven’t gotten repaired yet. If they attack you may have trouble.”

Warren looked down at himself and realized she had a point. “Fine. You’re not going to have room to use your rifle, though. I’ll take it. Use your pistol.”

“Don’t worry,” she said with a nod. “I’ve got this.”

“Capture him if you can,” Warren said. “But don’t let him kill you first.”

After Rigby passed over her rifle, she climbed into the tunnel head-first and quickly vanished into the darkness.

Warren ordered the rest of the team to split up and hold key positions in case the spy tried to run. Cooper would keep an eye on the group as overwatch and Warren felt they were as set as they could get.

He dialed into Rigby using the shared connection and saw what she did. She’d activated her night vision, but it didn’t help much after the first ten meters. There wasn’t enough light underground to amplify, so she turned on a small light located on her helmet to the lowest setting. It was plenty of light for her to see at least ten meters ahead of her.

Warren found it easy to keep the connection, even through the iron-rich soil of Reotis. She was three meters underground and it looked like the tunnel was no wider than the entrance. Whoever had dug it had only moved enough stone to get through—not to make it comfortable.

“Continuing forward,” Rigby transmitted. “Thank goodness I’m not claustrophobic, or this would really suck.”

Warren sensed her anxiety and got the joke. “Yeah, thank goodness,” he said as he slowly opened the back door to the water reclamation plant.

Outside the plant were several houses of reclaimed parts from previous battles on the planet’s surface. Warren recognized at least one wing from a CWS-14 fighter. Though it had been patched to provide the resident with a measure of privacy, the battle damage it had suffered was evident.

Two of the houses were occupied, so Warren veered a bit off course to go around the far side of the third in order to help avoid detection.

Cooper, he saw, had taken a position on the top of the water reclamation plant. It would give him a good view of the team and afford him a solid vantage point to provide support.

Past the third house, Warren found himself facing a street. There were four vehicles parked along the far side, but none of them appeared to have been moved recently. The amount of dust that had settled on them would’ve been disturbed by people brushing against the surface as they walked past, or leaning on them to pull a pebble out of their shoes—things like that.

Rigby was still moving, though, so Warren followed her.

“Ooh,” a small voice said from a second-story window nearby.

When the cyborg lifted his head toward the sound, a young boy, maybe five years old, was staring down at him with keen interest. The child pointed a pistol at him that was clearly not a deadly weapon. It looked like someone had crafted out of pipes and wires. He made a “pew” sound, lowered it, and looked expectantly to the cyborg.

Warren knew the boy wanted to play, and he wanted to play, too. But he couldn’t encourage the behavior—not when there was a risk of the boy trying to join him during his prowl. He decided to make it up to the kid later. It was encouraging to see the youth not showing fear when they saw a cyborg.

“Contact,” Cooper said, sending a visual image of two teenage boys leaving a house further up the street.

They were about Linus’s age, and might have been his two co-spies. Warren couldn’t be sure, though, so he hurried across the street and hid between two close-set houses.

Through the feed provided by Cooper, Warren could see both boys stop their conversation, look where he’d been standing, and wait.

“Easy,” Cooper said. “I think they heard that.”

Warren focused his hearing in their general direction and waited.

“What was that?” the first boy said.

“Why, you scared?” the second taunted, the way young men liked to goad each other.

“No, I swear I heard something. It sounded like someone running. I think someone’s sneaking over there near Brian’s house.”

“Maybe it’s Brian?”

“Maybe,” the first boy said slowly. “Let’s go check it out.”

Warren took a quick inventory of what was between the buildings as he planned his escape route. If the boys saw him, they might want to talk—at least among themselves. If they got there and found no one, they might dismiss the entire event as part of their vivid imagination and let it go. Warren didn’t want them to talk about it. If they did, it might alert the spy before they could find him.

“Found the box,” Rigby said.

“Already?” Warren asked before he bothered to check her feed. She’d found it and was looking up at a bit of light coming through the hatch at the top. The house the tunnel ended at was the one at Warren’s right.

“They’re heading toward you,” Cooper said, drawing the attention back to the kids.

Warren could hear the careful, slow footsteps of the boys as they approached. They were stealthy, but their breathing was louder than the small stones being crunched under their feet. There was no avoiding it. They’d have to see what was about to happen. If they weren’t part of his spy network, they would be soon.

“Let’s do this,” Warren said over the comm. “Take the other side. Look for any way the spy might escape.”

Oplin was at the building in less than ten seconds and had checked both of the other sides only a few seconds later. “I’ve got two windows and what looks like a hidden door. Sneaky bastard, ain’t he?”

“Yeah,” Warren said. “Rigby, you ready?”

“Ready,” she said.

“On three.” Warren hurried to the street-side corner of the building and stepped out in front of the two boys who were trying to sneak up on him. Both started to yell, but clamped their mouths shut tightly when they saw the rifle in the cyborg’s hand and the single finger in front of his lips.

Warren pointed to one of the nearby parked vehicles and motioned for them to take cover behind it, which they did. Both boys peeked out from over the vehicle’s hood and waited to see what exciting thing was about to happen.

“One,” Warren said as he crept toward the home’s front door. He didn’t detect any cameras or strange electronic signals anywhere.

“Two.” Warren placed his hand on the doorknob and gave it a careful experimental twist. It was locked.

“Three.” A hard kick knocked the door off its hinges and into the wall behind. The crash was loud—which should have been enough to startle the spy if he was home.

Rigby burst in from the hidden space, which also tossed a patched couch high into the air. She spotted it coming back down but batted it away with a powerful blow from her cybernetic hand.

While she kept watch, Warren kicked open the only other door in the home. “Clear!”

As Rigby climbed the rest of the way out of the tunnel, Warren stared at the scene before him. The smaller room was a bathroom, but it looked like the owner had moved the walls out a bit to have more space inside. Not only was it a place for a full-human to relieve themselves, it was now a workshop.

On a shelf across from the toilet and next to the tiny shower were the remains of the CoW mech arms that had been stolen. The spy had expertly disassembled them.

“What are we looking at?” Rigby said from his right.

“A whole lot of trouble,” Warren replied. “It looks like the launch mechanisms for the micro-rockets—the ones that tore me up and paralyzed my foot—are gone.”

31

“What can he do with those micro-rockets?” Rigby asked.

“Cause a lot of death and destruction,” Warren bit out. “He can take out at least one cyborg—especially if he finds a way to make the weapon more efficient. He could also destroy any equipment he wants to. Hell, he could run around launching just one of those things at a time into everything that looks important. It could cripple the rebellion.”

“Or murder on a grand scale,” she added. “What would happen if he used it on a civilian?”

“I don’t know,” Warren admitted. “But the rocket heads are radioactive. We’re mostly protected by our cybernetic parts. The spy isn’t. He’s got the launcher out of its housing, so he’s got to be getting nuked hard right now.”

“Then it’s something we can detect?” Rigby asked.

“My sensors gave me a warning about the radiation,” Warren confirmed. “Maybe we can do something with that.”

He switched to the public Cyborg channel. “The last spy on the station has escaped. He’s on the loose with a couple of launchers from the mechs we encountered earlier. Be on the lookout for any forms of radiation. Proceed with caution. These rockets are nasty and I’m pretty sure they can burn a hole right through the dome.”

* * *

Warren sat up on the infirmary bed and inspected himself. Good as new. As much as he’d wanted to join the hunt, Hendrose insisted he return to the Ruthless and get repaired first. He gave in when another of his subsystems had gone haywire.

He and a number of the cyborgs had gone up in case they needed to utilize the warship against another incoming attack.

“I have something,” Craig said from aboard the Ruthless. He’d been quiet so long, Warren had nearly forgotten about him.

“What is it?” Warren asked, pulling on his clothes.

“Just noticed a radiation spike a few seconds before you started talking. It’s in the lower decks. I’m close to it, but I can’t find the source.”

How the hell had they gotten onto the ship? They’d done a thorough sweep before taking off.

“I’ve got that,” another cyborg spoke up. “It looks like about a dozen of those rocket things. They’re burrowing their way through the hull.”

Warren inspected the cyborg’s feed. It looked like the spy had spread the damage out over a large surface—at least two meters wide. It would force them to either dig the dangerous, little radioactive warheads out, or replace a huge section if the little bastards were left unchecked.

“Found a breach in Dome-3,” another cyborg reported. “Single micro-rocket. It’s already burned its way through. I found someone who knows how to patch the hole. The radiation level is low, but I’m making her put on an EV suit to protect her before I let her repair it.”

“That might’ve only been a test,” Cooper said. “Or it might be a distraction to move us away from his real target.”

EV systems were critical and vulnerable, but there were spares in the warehouse. Any decent spy would know about that.

“I need two cyborgs to head to the warehouse,” Warren said. “Lock yourselves inside until we catch the bastard. Protect the food and spare parts. I need four in the hangar, both to watch the shuttles and the printers. They’re both critical to our future survival, so don’t let them get damaged. In fact, shut down all repair operations and gather everyone who’s in there near the ship and away from the entrances.”

What else?

“Water,” Warren said to himself. “Cooper, head into the water reclamation plant. If the spy drops a few dozen of those rockets into the water supply, he could shut the entire colony down. No water means they’d have about three days before they all die of dehydration. If they drink it, there might be enough radiation to poison them all. Does anyone see the head of the Water Reclamation and Sanitation Department?” Warren added a photo of the short, greasy-haired man along with the question.

No one responded in the affirmative, giving Warren a bad feeling.

“He could be the spy,” Warren speculated. “He’s the one who’d know the best way to poison the water supply. It’s the only thing big enough to be a target for sabotage now. Find out if that’s what happened.”

Bruce Liebman, a cyborg located on the ship, transmitted an update. “I got him. He’s—”

LIEBMAN: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.01.31

Warren spat out a curse and picked up his weapons but there wasn’t time to don his armor.

“Prepare for incoming!” Warren warned. “Looks like the spy is on board. He didn’t have to add that the man had already killed one cyborg, something that shouldn’t have been an easy feat.

“I’m moving to intercept,” Kendricks said.

“On my way,” Warren said. “Rigby, you’re with me. Everyone else, maintain your positions. We still don’t know if he’s got an accomplice or what other kind of damage he’s done. Find whatever surprises he’s left behind. I trust your judgment.”

The female cyborg was already waiting outside the infirmary when he strode out.

Warren ran as fast as he could, pushing himself to his cybernetic limits. Rigby did the same, keeping pace with him. They turned the first corner and kept sprinting. On the ground, Oplin started transmitting.

“Contact!”

Warren was still focusing on moving as quickly as he could, but he got a distinct image from the other cyborg. His vision was filled with a shower of white, swirling rockets. It appeared the spy had turned one of the launchers into a grenade and had tossed it into the dome ahead of himself.

Civilians ran away from the swirling explosion, but it looked like several wouldn’t make it. Screams filled Oplin’s ears as he fired at the spot where he’d last seen the spy.

Oplin was moving, trying to flank his enemy, but he couldn’t get close enough to see through the intense amount of radiation the rockets were putting out. His HUD was glitching, and along with it, his feed.

A warning popped into Warren’s HUD, alerting him to movement near the Cyborg Upkeep and Production. “I need one cyborg to support Oplin,” Warren ordered. “Just one. Don’t let him spread us too thin.”

Kendricks made it to the CUP room first. “I see someone,” he reported. I’m going to engage.”

His feed took over Warren’s vision just long enough for the picture to form. A shadow passed in front of Kendrick’s eyes, then the feed went dark.

KENDRICKS: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.02.11

“What the fuck?” Rigby snarled. “How is he taking cyborgs out so easily?”

She was right, Warren knew. It shouldn’t be possible. The spy had a plan, though Warren didn’t know what it was.

The two cyborgs who’d been heading to Dome-6 to support Oplin were on the move again, though they were being cautious and careful. They hadn’t even spotted the spy before being shot at. Whoever he was, he was good.

“He knows it’s all over if he gets caught,” Warren said. “He’s probably been collecting data on us since we arrived. We didn’t detect any transmissions from the surface during the battle with the Republic or Commonwealth ships, so I doubt he got any word to them. His number-one duty is to get what he knows back to the Republic.”

“But how?” Rigby asked. “There aren’t any other ships in orbit. It’s not like he could transmit far enough to reach one in another system.”

“There could be probes lurking out there,” Cooper suggested. “Some of them can act as relays. They’d be too small to spot until we got close to them. Maybe that’s why the Conquest was hanging out in orbit for so long. Maybe they were launching probes, just in case things didn’t go their way.”

“Still, he’d have to find a transmitter powerful enough to reach that far,” Rigby argued. “The guns can barely do it. He’d need his own ship.”

“We would’ve spotted a ship if he had one,” Cooper replied. “Any time during the battle. Unless it’s on the other side of the planet, we would’ve seen it. We were all over the surface during the fight. If it’s on the other side of the planet, we should just let him go. He’ll run out of air before he makes it more than a couple dozen kilometers even if he has one of our Republic EV suits.”

“He does have a ship,” Warren said.

“Where?” Cooper asked.

“The Ruthless.”

Everyone fell silent for a long few seconds. “The backup prisms are there,” Cooper acknowledged.

“Right,” Warren replied. Then over the gunner’s channel, he said, “Attention guns. Keep an eye on that ship parked outside Dome-6. If it leaves the surface, blast it to bits. Until further notice, it is considered hostile.”

“I have a gun within range right now,” one of the civilians at a particle cannon said. “Want me to blast it now?”

“No,” Warren said. “We might need it later, but if it launches, return it to the molecules it came from.”

“I hope his partner tries to take the ship,” Rigby said as they rounded another corner. “The gunners will solve this problem for us.”

He slowed and motioned for her to do the same. “I don’t think he has a partner. The sequence makes me think he might have things on a timer to throw us off. What better way to distract us from his being on the Ruthless than to have us chasing our tails on the surface?”

Rigby arched a brow, mulling it over. “I hate to say, but that makes sense,” she finally said. “Spreading us thin as we try to track multiple people down.”

Warren nodded. “Exactly. Don’t underestimate this person.”

32

When Warren and Rigby finally made it to the hall where the Cyborg Upkeep and Production room was located. It was empty except for the fallen body of Kendricks.

“I know he’s not really dead,” Rigby began. Her voice was hard as stone, reflecting her anger. “But I still want to rip this spy to shreds.”

The door to the CUP room was ajar and Warren pointed the rifle at it. “If he destroys any of our peoples’ drives, they won’t be coming back.” Warren had no intention of letting that happen. “I’ll go first. Cover from the door in case I go down.”

She nodded and moved closer to the door. Almost instantly, Warren felt her body jerk and spasm, the sensations spilling over from the shared communication. They were powerful enough to almost send him to his knees, but he forced himself to stay standing.

When he looked for the attacker, there was no one. Rigby continued to jerk on the ground, but she lifted an arm, pointing up. Warren followed the direction she indicated and understood.

The same hastily installed circle and device he’d seen on the Commonwealth boarding ship that attacked the Ruthless were on the ceiling. He shut out Rigby’s feed and aimed his rifle. There would be no disguising the shot, but he couldn’t leave her like that.

Warren blocked out her haywire transmission, took aim, and destroyed the device. Rigby’s body relaxed, but she didn’t recover like he had before. He stepped closer and tuned into her feed again. Rigby’s vision was fading fast and he could feel her systems shutting down.

He knew what was coming but didn’t have a clue how to stop it. Then, it was too late.

RIGBY: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.02.11

“I modified the Commonwealth’s idea,” a voice said from the open doorway. “Made it a little more efficient.

The rifle in Warren’s hand jerked up to point at the man’s face. Warren recognized the man but had to dig in his files for his identity.

“Glenn Hoffman,” he remembered. “The security chief turned sanitation worker. Or spy, I suppose.”

The greasy-haired man had a wild look in his eyes and blood running from his nose and over his lips. He held one of the prisms in his hand. “At least I’m not a traitor.”

Warren kept the rifle aimed at center mass. “What makes me a traitor?” he asked.

“What?” Hoffman wiped some of the blood from his top lip before answering. “You betrayed your own government. It’s the definition of the word, cyborg.” He said the word like it was something dirty, clearly trying to get a rise out of Warren.

He didn’t take the bait. “Is it? I thought one had to claim loyalty before betrayal could happen. One had to earn trust and show it in return.”

The menace in his voice made Hoffman take a step back. The man’s lips worked for a moment, but no sound came out.

“I was a slave,” Warren stated flatly. “You won’t make it off this ship.”

“Maybe not, but I can take all of you with me,” Hoffman replied. He held up the prism with a cruel smile and waved it at Warren. When he tried to talk again, a cough stole the words from him.

Red spittle flecked his chin and Warren focused on it for a moment. His HUD updated, showing him that Hoffman was dying from the radiation poisoning.

“I have no doubt of that.” Warren moved slowly, closing the distance between them.

Hoffman stopped coughing and wiped his sleeve across his face, a snarl curling his lip. “Your government made you what you are today. You owe them for it. You owe them everything.”

“I agree,” Warren said as he started moving. “But not the way you mean it. I owe them big time.”

“Ungrateful son of a bitch,” the spy whispered before falling into a new coughing fit. His condition was deteriorating rapidly, but Warren wasn’t done with him yet.

“What?” Warren asked. “Do you think I volunteered to become a cyborg? Pretty naive of you. There may be a few of us who did, but not me. I was one of the first. I was tricked.”

Now Hoffman was breathing heavily, but Warren didn’t like the smirk still plastered on his face. “Doesn’t matter. You’re dead, along with this sad excuse for a rebellion.” He raised the prism above his head and threw it to the ground with all his remaining strength.

Warren dove for it but wasn’t fast enough. The prism hit the ground and shattered, all of the cyborgs’ backups destroyed with it. With a roar of anger and grief, Warren leapt to his feet.

They locked eyes a half second later and the spy’s expression turned from one of pain and surprise to rage. He lifted a weapon that must have been out of view and pointed it at Warren’s face.

It resembled a rusty, bulbous, sawed-off shotgun with wires and shiny metal needles sticking out here and there. Warren fired his weapon and missed. Before he could try again, the spy had already pulled the trigger.

Warren’s vision went black. His HUD was filled with damage alarms. Pain erupted across his face, and it took him a full second to shut it down. His eyes. His cybernetic eyes. They’d been destroyed. It was rockets. They’d reach his brain and kill him if he didn’t do something.

The spy laughed somewhere out of view, the sound weak but still triumphant. “At least I won’t die alone.”

Warren’s left hand was practically gone. Based on the damage report from his HUD, there wouldn’t be enough left to save, so Warren grabbed his face with his right hand instead.

“I bet that feels really bad,” the spy wheezed. “Now you know what kind of pain you’ve caused your government. I’m thinking about leaving a message behind. I think they should reset you, just so they can torture you. Nothing but your head and spine floating in a biologic tube. It’ll take some work, but I bet they can connect enough pieces to let you feel pain without being able to do anything about it. Yes, I think that’s what you deserve, traitor.”

Warren flinched when the two micro-rockets in his right eye and the one in his left burned through the center of the orbs. He heard a loud zapping sound and imagined seeing sparks fountain from each eye socket.

“It’s only a matter of time now,” the spy said softly. “This is quite the weapon the CoWs have come up with, isn’t it? I think it’ll be something my superiors are very interested in. We’ll install them into every cyborg so if this kind of bullshit ever happens again, they can take care of it right away. All it would take is one or two. A cyborg misbehaves? Press a button and poof, gone. Problem solved.” He coughed, which became a retching sound before something thick and wet splashed onto the floor.

Warren knew he only had seconds to live. He didn’t know where his enemy was. He needed more time. He could think of only one solution. Unable to access his pain dampeners, Warren reached up with his good hand, jammed his thumb into the space between his cybernetic skull and eye, and pressed as hard as he could.

“What are you doing?” the spy stammered.

Warren ignored him and dug his thumb into his other eye socket before ripping it out as well. The threat of the rockets was gone but his HUD was having difficulty sending information to his brain. His eyes must’ve been part of the circuit.

“You’ve gone mad,” the spy said. “You should’ve been deleted a long time ago. That’s it. We’ve kept you too long. I think it’s time for all of the first batch to go. It means we’ll need some more volunteers, though.”

Suddenly, Warren’s vision HUD began to reboot. A second later, he could see again, though he wasn’t looking through his eyes. He was looking through Craig’s eyes. He was sneaking up behind Hoffman, his weapon drawn.

“You know the worst part of all of this?” Warren whispered.

Hoffman drew a little closer, glancing down at his modified weapon and making adjustments as if to fire it again. “What’s that?”

“The fact that we don’t get to kill you twice.”

“We?”

“Yeah. It was a team effort.” Warren pulled his combat knife and leapt up in one fluid motion. He buried the knife in Hoffman’s heart and twisted until it stopped beating. When it was done, he dropped to the floor.

The gun had done some serious damage and his systems weren’t handling it well.

“Hold on, boss,” Craig said as he reached him.

“Sorry, Craig. That weapon fucked me up good. I…”

Warren’s speech subsystem malfunctioned and he couldn’t finish. Craig’s vision started to waver, making Warren think he’d been affected as well, then he realized his body was going offline.

Damn. No back up this time.

He felt his body being dragged and heard voices shouting but it was all behind a layer of fog.

The last thing he saw was one last HUD message flashing across Craig’s vision.

PRESCOTT: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486.02.11

33

A bright light shone down into Warren’s eyes.

No, he thought. Not even going there.

All he wanted was a new leg. As his mind woke up, he started to make sense of things. The surgery. Had it been successful?

He tried to wiggle his toes and felt them move on both feet. That could be phantom movement though, he thought, trying not to get too excited. Deciding the only way to find out for sure was to open his eyes, Warren did just that.

Glancing down, he saw his body covered with a white hospital sheet. Two bumps near the bottom of the bed seemed to indicate he now had two feet. Concentrating, he wiggled them again. A smile nearly split his face in two when both moved on his command.

“It worked!”

“Warren?”

A voice to his right had Warren jerking his head up. A man stood near his bed dressed in a white lab coat.

It wasn’t Dr. Burgess, but something about him was familiar. “Who are you?”

“My name is Hendrose. I’m here to help you. Do you know what year it is?”

Warren laughed. “Of course. 2051.”

Hendrose shook his head and offered a sheepish smile. “Try 2486. But that’s okay, we’re going to get you fixed up, my friend.”

“2486? That’s some joke, doc.”

“I’m not joking, Warren. Does this room look like anything you’ve ever seen before?” Hendrose swept an arm to encompass the room.

For the first time, Warren noticed his surroundings. He wasn’t in a hospital room. It was like an infirmary, but something about it was strange. Lots of things were strange, now that he looked. The walls were metal and didn’t have a single window. The equipment around him, while similar to hospital devices he knew, looked upgraded and foreign.

What the hell?

“I know you’re confused,” Hendrose continued. “But I hope it’s temporary. Craig and I attempted a back up before you bit it, so we’ll try and get it uploaded.”

Warren stared at the man as if he’d grown another head. “Doc, I gotta say. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The tech smiled. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Lay still, would you?”

A second later, a message flashed in Warren’s vision, startling him.

BACKUP STARTED

It began to rain—but in reverse. Copies of every pixel making up the rolling hills were separating, one at a time, then two, then a thousand. The new pixels drifted up into the sky, melding with swirling, dense clouds that seemed so far away. It was beautiful, yet at the same time, seemed mournful. It was like the release of doves at a funeral. A farewell. A goodbye.

He knew what was happening. The pixels it looked like he was standing on were his memories. Each one was a tiny piece of the person he had become. Each one, a single thought, a prejudice, a reaction. Together they formed memories, experiences, and knowledge.

Somewhere among those pixels were the instructions on how to tie his shoes. Somewhere else was the vague memory of what coffee tasted like. Another area undoubtedly held the horrifying memory of being sliced open while he was still awake on an operating table. It was a memory he no longer wanted and wished would somehow just go away.

The pain had been incredible, but it hadn’t been the worst part of the experience. No, the worst part was the confusion, the sense of betrayal, and not knowing when it would stop. They had no business in his chest. He was there to get a new leg. Why won’t they stop? They’re making a mistake! Why are they doing this?

“Make them stop!”

He wasn’t sure if he’d said the words out loud, but in the virtual landscape, his voice seemed to expire into nothing the moment it passed his lips. All the screaming in the world wouldn’t have stopped the pain. He’d tried. He hadn’t been able to. He couldn’t blink, fight the tube they shoved down his throat—nothing. Maybe he should’ve tried harder. He could have told them why he was there.

If he’d been able to communicate—to tell them he wasn’t interested in becoming a cyborg—maybe they would’ve stopped. Maybe. Probably not. That’s probably why the doctor had drugged him right away, so he couldn’t say no.

The landscape of his mind shuddered in response to the feelings the memory had dragged to the surface. Even though it had been more than four hundred years ago, it still felt fresh and raw.

Warren wondered if he could forget what had happened—if there was a way to manipulate his memories so he could take out the bad ones that haunted him centuries later. He couldn’t forget them on his own. Every time he was reset, the memories were reset, too. Maybe I can reach up, grab them from the backup, and crush them in my hands.

What do my coworkers think happened to me? The thought was silly, of course, but it rose to the surface like a bloated corpse from the bottom of a lake. It wasn’t something he could ignore.

The women he’d worked with were all long dead. So were their children. So were their grandchildren. Whatever they’d gone through, it had happened so long ago, even if one of them wrote about it, there’d be no way to find the record. The US Government had either told them, or not, but it didn’t matter. Still, it seemed like a cruel thing to do to them. He wondered if any of them ever thought about him when they were still alive. Maybe they’d met later on, but the government had erased the memory to try to keep him from holding onto the past. In that case, why didn’t they erase the memory of the botched surgery? The landscape shuddered again.

RELAX! KEEP HAVING TO ADJUST.

Someone was talking to him. Probably Hendrose, one of his most trusted allies, next to Lukov. He’d been the one to help him free himself and the others from the Republic’s control. He’d put himself directly in harm’s way, trusting Warren to do the right thing. These people have a lot more faith than me.

It couldn’t have been easy. Had Hendrose been captured—had the plan not gone off the way it had—the Republic would have made an example out of him. Public execution would’ve been too easy. They would’ve humiliated him. Ruined the lives of his family and friends. Probably arrested or killed them all in retaliation.

“Revolution.” He wasn’t sure if he’d said it out loud, but the idea shook the virtual world again. If the Republic had a revolution to deal with, they’d certainly be too busy to deal with one lone planet out on the edge of their zone of control. If the idea spread to include entire planets, the Republic would have to send troops, maybe cyborgs, out to deal with it. Reotis was as good as lost. They wouldn’t want to lose any more—not if they were smart. The notion was tantalizing.

Another thought wasn’t. He wondered if the struggle was worth it. Hendrose wanted him to relax. Maybe not doing so was dangerous. Maybe if he got himself good and worked up, he could spoil the backup and ruin any chance at recovery. He could stop suffering. The rest of eternity would be someone else’s problem. Maybe then he could finally get some rest. Maybe then he could finally stop thinking about the surgery, the pain, the horror.

“You can do this,” a voice whispered from somewhere up above. He lifted his eyes, but only saw the cloud of tiny green dots. The voice belonged to Anita. She’d given him a pep talk before he’d been smuggled from the battlefield to undergo a painful test to see if cyborgs could, in fact, be released from their virtual chains. She’d believed in him. He hadn’t let her down. No matter what, he’d done his part.

But people were still counting on him. People who were leaning on him to make the right decisions. People who needed him to survive. They were cyborgs and Reotians. They were worried about him. The woman said he was the best. If he didn’t carry on, he’d be letting her down. And her little boy. And everyone else.

CLEAR YOUR MIND

Warren tried, but alone with his thoughts and his memories, it was easier said than done. Maybe it wasn’t his mind, so much as it was his emotions. Everything mattered, and everything seemed to be associated with a feeling.

So many pixels out there in the landscape of his mind. Each one was a fragment of a memory. What would happen if he loaded them all? Would he benefit from remembering everything the Republic had made him do, or would he instantly go mad like Craig.

Poor Craig. There had to be something Warren could do for him. There had to be some way to get the man healthy. The idea of a healthy Craig made Warren feel happy, as if he had a real purpose again besides warfighting. He’d find a way to help the other cyborg recover from his trauma. Maybe take on Craig as his own personal project and, little by little, heal the mind within the cybernetic body.

The thought brought him to a new level of peace, and the reverse rain began to move faster and faster. He was relaxed. He had a reason to exist and keep fighting, no matter how tough things got. Warren would live, even if it was only for others and not himself.

Epilogue

Slowly, Warren became aware of light, of sounds, and the temperature of his skin. It was a little chilly, but not bad. The air was fresh, but clinically sterile. His body was lying horizontal on something cold, flat, and hard. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but he felt pretty good.

TIME SINCE LAST BACKUP: 22 MINUTES, 14 SECONDS

He opened his eyes and was delighted they were working again. He was not delighted to see Craig’s face, looking both curious and worried, filling his vision.

“If you kiss me, I’ll make you rake the whole fucking planet,” Warren said.

Craig smiled. “Yeah, he’s fine.”

“I am fine,” Warren said, sitting up and spotting Hendrose, Lukov, Rigby, and Cooper. “Why do you all seem so concerned? He didn’t try giving me mouth-to-mouth, did he?”

Craig shrugged. “Doc said there was some trouble getting your backup completed,” he continued. “Said you were fighting it or something. I figured he might’ve given you brain damage—not that anyone would be able to tell, right?”

The others laughed. Warren fought hard to keep a smile from his face.

“What happened in there?” Rigby asked. She looked more concerned than Warren could remember seeing her before.

He shrugged. “Old memories coming back to haunt me. It’s stuff I can’t seem to shake, no matter how hard I try. They seemed to be a lot more vivid in the virtual world. To be honest, I thought about screwing up the backup altogether. You know, punching out—retiring.”

“You mean forcing a deletion,” Rigby said, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at him. “You were seriously considering that after all we’ve done?”

“Yes,” he said. “But not anymore. How am I here, anyway? You too, Rigby. I thought Hoffman destroyed the backups.”

“You have Craig to thank for that,” Hendrose explained. Once he found out the spy was starting to set his plan in motion, he swapped the backup prism for a blank. Saved our asses.

Warren hid his surprise, or so he hoped. “That was good work, Craig. Thank you.”

The cyborg in question lifted a shoulder. “I wasn’t going to let that asshole kill my friends. Not when I just started living again. How are you feeling? Hendrose and I weren’t sure the backup completed before you kicked the bucket.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Warren answered.

“Physically, he’s fine,” Hendrose said, tapping commands into a tablet as he stood at the foot of the table.

“I’m fine.” Warren swung his feet onto the floor and stood.

The others examined him for a moment, but none as intensely as Rigby. Once she nodded her satisfaction, everyone else seemed to relax a bit.

“Maybe you should take some time off,” she said. “Go play cards or something. Get your head straight. We don’t need to sleep, but—”

“No,” Warren interrupted. “I need to get dressed and start planning for the next phase. I’ll rest when I feel like I can. Right now, there are more important things to do.”

“He is right,” Lukov said, speaking for the first time. “Hoffman sent a message while he was in the CUP.”

Warren’s head snapped up. “To who?”

“We’re still working on it,” Hendrose said. From the way his brow furrowed, they weren’t having much luck there. “However, I do have a theory about the Commonwealth ship that wasn’t manned. It either had to be close enough to lie in wait for a Republic vessel to happen by, or something must’ve signaled it.”

“Yeah,” Warren agreed. “I’ve been wondering about that myself. I take it you have an idea on how the signal was sent?”

Hendrose nodded. “The only place that would’ve been close enough to see the Republic ship show up and still far enough away with time to summon that thing had to be on the moon.”

Warren cracked a grin and pulled the sheet back to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Then that’s where we need to go next.”

* * *

Continue reading for BUILT TO LAST…

1

Warren resisted the urge to jerk back when a shower of sparks showered over him. It wasn’t as though his cyborg chassis could be injured by such a small thing.

“Not there,” he said to the young man holding the portable welder, trying to stay patient.

Linus yanked the tool away from the metal plates he was about to permanently bond together like he’d been shocked. “What?” he asked. “Not these?”

“Not unless you want to prevent whoever moves into this place from ever getting inside,” Warren said with a laugh. “That’s going to be the doorway.”

Linus raised his brows and leaned back. While still holding on to the ladder he was standing on, he studied the salvaged metal in front of him. “Oh,” he said, once he’d taken in the bigger picture. “Right. Boy, they’d be pissed if they had to cut the door open just to go to bed, huh?”

“Something like that,” Warren said. The kid was always joking, and though Warren was annoyed, he reminded himself that he’d probably been exactly like him when he was young—nearly four hundred years ago. Although most of his memories had been recovered, as far as he could tell, his teenage years were still foggy. He wondered if being reset—brought back to life by having his memories implanted into a new cybernetic body—had made him lose some of his oldest recollections. As far as anyone could remember, he’d had to be reset at least eight times.

Jenita Rigby gave Warren a look that said she was also getting tired of coaching Linus and putting up with his jokes. She added a small smile, probably to let him know she wasn’t angry. Even though her skin, eyes, and perfect teeth were artificial—the result of her being a cyborg—Warren couldn’t help but think how pretty she was.

The cyborgs had each been designed to look like they had when they were still fully human. It was thought that doing so would help ease the transition so it wouldn’t be such a shock to their psyche.

Warren leaned to his right a little to try to get a better look at the door, but couldn’t step away from the heavy piece of metal, prompting him to wonder about the weight.

SCRAP METAL EST WEIGHT: 153.2 KG

He’d grown used to the constant interruptions whenever he wondered at anything. They weren’t usually useful, but they no longer made him feel like someone was standing over his shoulder, correcting every little mistake he made.

The scrap metal was part of a recently destroyed Commonwealth of Worlds, or CoW, ship. Six Reotians were cutting the massive vessel into pieces, bringing the bits back like ants dissecting a caterpillar.

“That’s the spot,” Rigby said. “Remember, keep your angle the same throughout the weld and use your welding mask. Otherwise, you’ll get a sunburn, go blind, lose your hair, and end up a cyborg like me.”

“Really?” Linus asked.

“No, but do it anyway,” Rigby replied.

Now that the colony of people on the planet Reotis had exposed themselves as a rebellion of sorts, they needed new homes for the refugees who kept showing up. At least one ship per week, often filled with people seeking to escape from the Grand Republic of Unified Systems or the Commonwealth, landed or crashed on the surface. Most were in bad shape. Rather than adding to the number of vehicles available for transport, they added to the growing collection of spare parts.

Some of the people nearby looked to be growing impatient with how slow Linus was progressing through the simple assembly. Until he was done, there wasn’t much they could do except organize supplies, clean tools, and talk, which was what they were doing now. That, and glaring at the young man.

“Hey, boss,” an older man with a mustache that completely hid his mouth said. “How’s about letting me do this part. I’m pretty good with the welder.”

“No,” Warren said. “He needs the experience. Everyone does. How would you like to be stuck with the only person who didn’t know how to use a welder the next time the Republic or Commonwealth attacked?”

The man opened his mouth, closed it, then shrugged. “It’s just that we’ve got another thirty of these to do, and the refugees have already been waiting a while.”

“I’m aware of that,” said Warren. “But I want him to complete this one now that he’s started it, so please wait.”

The man took a step back and sat down on a gray plastic storage box. He looked like he might be toying with the idea of protesting some more, but so far he was keeping his thoughts to himself.

“That’s the spot,” Rigby said. She was watching Linus weld as sparks fell from the boy’s work and danced across her face. Her cybernetic eyes were too tough to be damaged by the tiny molten bits of metal. Since they weren’t organic, they didn’t suffer ill effects of looking directly at the arc, either.

A minute later, Linus lifted his welding mask and checked his work. “How’s that?”

Rigby squinted up at the weld. Warren could’ve looked through her eyes since all the cyborgs shared a common communication protocol, but they’d decided to limit its use to wartime only. Otherwise, being able to see what everyone was looking at, always knowing where they were, and hearing everything everyone said seemed like an invasion of privacy.

Warren could reactivate instant communications if they were invaded. If he was incapacitated, two other cyborgs, Lukov and Cooper, could do it as well. The privacy was welcome and almost made him feel like he was human again.

“I’ve seen better,” Rigby said, “but it’s not bad for a beginner. It won’t break, but it’s kind of ugly. And don’t make that face at me. You’re not that sensitive. Now, keep going. There’s a lot left to do.”

Linus smirked, flipped his welding mask down, and got back to work.

An older man with a long gray ponytail stopped a meter from Warren with a data tablet in his hand and waited patiently for the cyborg to notice him.

“What have you got for me, Rooster?” Warren asked, referring to him by the nickname he preferred.

“Just an update,” he replied. “The Camel’s back from another run. Looks like we’ve still got another seven or eight hundred tonnes worth of CoW ship to chop up, but there might be a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Warren asked.

“Well, it seems a member of the salvage team’s an engineer. He’s worried that if we keep stacking all the metal in one place, it could cause an earthquake or something. Maybe cause the ground to shift, crack open, that kind of thing. It could possibly expose Dome-6 to vacuum if that happens.”

“I see,” Warren said. “Does he have another idea?”

“Yeah,” Rooster said. “He thinks we should either be stacking the metal further away from the dome, or into smaller, spread out piles. Frankly, I think he’s worried about nothing. This planet’s mostly rock, except for a few meters of loose sand. So, what do you want us to do?”

Warren thought about it for a moment before answering. “Who’s the engineer?”

“Guy by the name of David Case,” Rooster replied. “I don’t have any way of verifying he is what he says he is, but he knows a lot of words I don’t. And he seems confident about what he’s saying.”

“He’s new, right?” Warren asked.

“Yeah, arrived just a few days ago,” Rooster confirmed.

“I say we go with his advice. It’ll be a good way to make him feel like part of the team.”

Rooster shrugged. “Just wanted to run it past you first. It sounded odd, and we just got rid of the last spy in the colony.”

“Lukov is checking everyone who comes in for deception,” Warren said. “He doesn’t believe any enemies have slipped past. Plus, we have civilian security now. It’s their job to watch out for them. I do appreciate your caution, though. By the way, I meant to ask, what’s our missile count up to now?”

Rooster consulted his tablet before answering. “So far, two hundred and sixty-eight. Based on the ship’s design, we expect to find at least one more magazine—maybe two. No idea if it’ll have anything left, but I’ll let you know.”

“Hopefully it’s better than the eighty-two the Commonwealth left behind the last time the Republic kicked them off the planet,” Warren mused. “Our ships can only carry one at a time, but I’d rather have too many than too few.”

Rooster nodded. “Anything else before I go?”

“I don’t think so,” Warren replied, turning to watch Linus inspect the weld he’d just finished. “Let’s keep it moving, though. We don’t want the Republic or Commonwealth sneaking onto the planet and taking anything important from the wreck they can use against us.”

“On it, boss,” he said before leaving.

“That piece should be good and steady now,” Rigby said. “You can let go.”

Warren carefully relaxed his grip on the metal wall he’d been holding in place for Linus. He gave it a second before lowering his hands to his sides. The weld looked like it would hold.

“It’s good?” Linus asked, eyes wide.

“Looks good to me,” Warren said. “It hasn’t fallen down and squashed anyone yet. So, good job.”

“Thanks,” Linus said, beaming at the cyborg.

Another civilian stepped up—a hard-looking man with about three days’ growth of beard. “This would get done a lot faster if you let me and my crew handle the welding,” he grumbled.

“I believe you,” Warren said. “You’re new, right?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Arrived about five days ago from Kablin. What of it?”

“Warren already explained this,” Rigby said. “Everyone needs to know how to do this. It’s a basic skill, and it’s required if you people want to not only be able to survive, but thrive. He needs experience.”

“Yeah, I get it,” the man said, “but there are others who need experience, too. Namely, the few who came with me. We’re hard workers. We were in the mines on Kablin. Tungsten. It’s hard work, but we didn’t complain. Held out there for months while the fighting was happening on the surface.”

Warren turned to face the man, a hard look in his eye. To his credit, the refugee, now a citizen of Reotis, didn’t back down. “Yeah, I get it. Tell you what. How about I put you with one of my foremen? Once he vets you, we can get you and your people set up with jobs.”

He scratched his short beard, looking thoughtful. “Yeah, I can deal with that. In fact, how about I take your boy under my wing? I can teach him the basics and have him on his own in no time.”

“Works for me,” Warren said. “What’s your name?”

“Carl Bertrand, but you can call me Digger,” he replied. “That’s what most of the others call me.”

“Okay, Digger,” Warren said, “I look forward to seeing your work.”

Satisfied, Warren set off to deal with other colony needs.

2

The colony on Reotis consisted of six domes, with Dome-1 being the largest. They were constructed of a dense, transparent material known as aegonite, and each protective layer was just over a meter thick. It sheltered the colonists from small meteorites, Republic bombs, and Commonwealth missiles, and it allowed them to run generators that maintained breathable air.

Some of the people who initially built the structures still lived in the colony. According to them, the Republic had brought enough raw material for Dome-1 and had mined the rest from the planet itself. Though the mining equipment was long gone, most of the 3D printers in the hangar were original to the project. Within them was the data needed to create new mining rigs and equipment.

“Curet, do you copy?” Warren transmitted across the gun-defense channel.

“Curet here,” the full-human gun chief said. His voice was free of the static typically associated with communicating between the advanced cyborg devices and the primitive transceivers mounted to the particle cannons. The heavy weapons were spread across the surface of the planet, and, along with Wraith Squadron, were the only real long-range defense the colony possessed.

“I’m checking on the status of the gun emplacements,” Warren said. “How many are complete?”

“Of the sixty-four deployed cannons, sixteen have been armored and dug-in. We’re having trouble with the camouflage, though. The glue the techs made for this is taking too long to dry, probably because it’s so damned cold out here. I’ve got gunners sitting on top of their armor right now, literally holding rocks in place while waiting for the glue to harden. They’re bored and frustrated, and if I don’t find a way to speed this up, they might petition to have me replaced.”

“We won’t let that happen,” Warren said with a small laugh. “I’ll speak to the techs and see if they can come up with something that’ll dry faster—maybe a new formulation.”

“Thanks,” Curet said. “It’ll save us a lot of time. Other than that, everything’s going fine. I’ve got two of my gunners in the hangar printing spare parts. Every gun will have a few, and if necessary, the runners can move spare parts between them. Eventually, though, I’d like to have bunkers to hold the spares in, but that’s going to need to wait.”

“Sounds great,” said Warren. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“You know I will,” replied Curet.

Besides providing building materials for housing within the domes, the destroyed Commonwealth of Worlds, or CoW, vessel was also supplying much-needed elements that were extremely rare on Reotis. Things like gold, silver, and nickel were abundant, but other elements such as carbon and iridium—an essential mineral for all CoW tech—were rare. Luckily, the enemy had been thoughtful enough to drop some off.

“I am detecting new signal,” announced the cyborg named Lukov. The former Russian Spetsnaz soldier rarely gave any warning he had something to say, preferring the direct approach whenever possible.

“New signal?” asked Warren, drawing the attention of Rigby. “From where?”

“I am not knowing for the certain, but it seems to be coming off the moon. Perhaps your former suspicion was not too close from truth?”

Warren locked eyes with Rigby for a moment. With all the bustle of the new refugees, the repairs that needed to be done, and the discoveries the salvage teams were making, the mission to the moon had been pushed back. It was tough to focus on something so far away when there were immediate needs staring you right in the face.

“Any idea what it is?” asked Warren as he added Rigby to the channel. “Was there a message? A voice?”

“No, not a voice,” replied Lukov, sounding less than convinced. “More like encoded message. Short. Loud. Maybe a transmission of burst? Maybe encryption. Did record, but did not send to war computer. Awaiting authorization.”

The war computer, located deep within the Ruthless, was the most important device the cyborgs had. It had also once been their slave master—the device that would punish or take control of them if they didn’t obey its directives immediately. The war computer contained backups of every single one of their memories—the only part of cyborgs that survived if they were destroyed. Even though the machine had been used to control them in the past, it now served as a tool. The cyborgs used it to provide themselves with instant communication, the ability to look through each other’s eyes, and much more.

“You were right not to load it into the war computer yet,” said Warren. “We can’t take any chances with the machine, in case the message contains a virus. Hold on, I’ll let you know when to upload it.”

Warren closed his eyes, which was necessary sometimes when he interacted with the war computer, especially for complex tasks. The artificial intelligence built into the machine was advanced and required his concentration. A few seconds later, he opened his eyes. “Okay, go ahead and upload it. The war computer has prepared an isolated area for you to use. If there’s a virus in there, it’ll only affect the area given to it instead of everything.”

“Upload is made complete,” replied Lukov after a slight pause.

“Sounds like we need to move our moon mission up on the schedule,” said Rigby. Her forehead pulled together and a small frown pulled at the corners of her lips.

“Sounds like it,” agreed Warren. “We need to get up there to see what created that transmission.”

“What if we repeat the signal back to it?” suggested Rigby. “See if we can get it to transmit again?”

“Sounds risky. If whatever’s up there isn’t expecting that kind of transmission from the planet, it might set off alarms. The last thing we need is for it to initiate a new attack against the colony or self-destruct. No, I think we need to make a personal visit. Let’s go see what ships are available and make a plan.”

Warren led the way from Dome-6 back to the secret underground hangar the Reotians had built. Within, most of the technicians were busy using the large 3D printers, creating parts others would need. A line had queued up for each of them. So far, everyone appeared to be patient, waiting on the gunners to finish making their spare parts.

“We’re not going to take Stingers, are we?” asked Rigby, referring to the arrowhead-shaped CoW fighters they’d used in the recent battle.

“Nope, they’ll never make it all the way to the moon,” replied Warren. “Short-range only. We’ll need to take one of the supply shuttles.”

Rigby scanned the room with her eyes and made a soft, huffing noise. “The salvage team still has the Camel,” she said. “It’s the only one big enough to bring a decent-sized force there. Want me to reassign them or have them hold off until we get back?”

Warren shook his head. “No, we need them to keep working. Even if we swap the civilians out with cyborgs to speed the process up, it’ll still take at least a month. I’ll take one of the smaller ones and head up there to see if I can find the source. I don’t need to destroy it just yet. I don’t even need to land. Just need to get up there and see what’s what.”

“That simple, huh?” asked Rigby, sounding less than enthusiastic.

“It’ll be fine,” replied Warren. “I don’t even need to land. I’ll fly around and take a peek, find the source, then come back and decide what to do about it.”

“Okay, sure,” she replied with a shrug.

Warren could tell she still wasn’t convinced, but he let it go. Rigby and the others had been through a lot recently. Besides being freed from what amounted to slavery, they’d fought against a Republic cruiser, and just when they thought they’d won, a Commonwealth ship had shown up.

Cyborgs didn’t die in the traditional sense. They could be destroyed, just like anything else, but so long as they had a war computer and Cyborg Upkeep and Production unit, or CUP, and a new biological, they could be reset, good as new. The one ill effect they did suffer was the loss of their memories since the last backup. In a way, being killed as a cyborg was worse than death. They were aware of so much, but once a memory was gone, it was usually permanent.

“You sure you don’t want to send someone else?” asked Rigby.

“Why?”

“I mean, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to send the leader of Reotis,” she said. “What if something happens to you? Resets aren’t perfect, you know. What if you forget everything again?”

She was referring to Warren’s initial inability to remember about 400 years of his history. Others had helped him fill in the gaps and most of it was back now, so he wasn’t too worried.

“It’s rare anything like that happens,” he said, waiving the concern away. “Also, the Reotians don’t need me standing around all the time like some kind of gargoyle—staring at them like I’m gonna start cracking a whip. Besides, aren’t you feeling cooped up in here? Everything’s red—except the stuff the Reotians paint. The dirt, the sky, everything.”

“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “But you’re taking me with you. Each of these shuttles can hold two people—a pilot and a co-pilot. We could squeeze another four in the back, but they’re not really—“

“Nope,” interrupted Warren. “Like I said, this isn’t a combat mission. It’s for recon. That’s it. We’ll head up there, take some pictures, and be done with it. If it turns out there’s something to destroy, we’ll make a plan and destroy it. We’ve still got the Ruthless in orbit if we need it.”

“We can’t use our cruiser,” she replied. “It’s the only way we have of going faster than light—not that I plan on leaving anytime soon. But if we need to, there’s no other way. Taking it anywhere isn’t worth the risk.”

“I know,” Warren said, attempting to use a soothing tone. She’d been killed by the spy a couple of weeks ago and had to be reminded of everything that had happened since her last backup. The news of what had transpired had shocked her. She’d found it difficult to believe she was free of the Republic’s control. Her body still contained a compulsion chip, but the war computer could no longer use it to force her obedience. He’d sat with her as she watched the events recorded by her fellow cyborgs and listened to her whispered curses as she took it all in. The whole thing had unsettled her, and it appeared she was still recovering.

“So just you and me in one of these little shuttles?” she asked.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” replied Warren, turning his attention to the six ships lined up against the back wall of the hangar.

Her next words came in through a private communications channel. “What about Craig?” she asked.

Edward Craig was another cyborg. Unlike the others, he hadn’t taken his role as the fist of the Grand Republic of Unified Systems well. Each of the cyborgs across all seven Corps had been forced to kill without mercy. But a few, like Craig, had suffered even more than their victims. War was always easier for those who could compartmentalize their feelings or convince themselves it was right. Craig could do neither. Every time he’d been forced to execute an innocent person, it had wounded his morality deeply. It eventually got to the point where he was getting himself killed on purpose, hoping to make maintaining his cybernetic body too expensive. If he’d succeeded, the Republic wouldn’t have bothered loading his memories into another body. He’d be dead forever. They called it a deletion.

“I think Craig is making more progress. I’ve been working with him. I back him up to the war computer every few days—whenever it seems like he’s made some progress. He saved my life. He saved the whole colony and deserves our support.”

Rigby nodded, then turned back to the neat row of transports. “I say we go fully armored and loaded for battle—just in case. I can gather the supplies if you want to check on things before we leave.”

“I’ve got more than a few things to check on, so take your time.”

Rigby nodded and headed to the warehouse near the shuttles on the far end of the hangar. With the immediate threat of spies eliminated, the huge double doors were open, but a cyborg guarded the entrance. He watched Rigby approach and nodded as she passed him.

“Am sorry again for making of interruptions,” transmitted Lukov.

“You’re not interrupting,” replied Warren. “What’s up?”

“Is not much of terrible, but another human is sick with drug. He has been made to transport to doctor in hangar.”

“Thanks,” said Warren, grateful his cybernetic body didn’t suffer from headaches. If it did, he was sure he would have one.

Drugs had become a problem recently. They had always caused issues in large cities but could run rampant in small colonies too. A place like Reotis could be especially vulnerable because it was hard to keep track of so many different people—there were bound to be some bad seeds, even if they weren’t spies.

In a secluded colony, unfortunately, drugs had a huge impact. Every member of the colony was expected to contribute something—even if it was nothing more than babysitting children so someone else could do another job. Whether the adults were young and capable, or old and feeble, Warren and Rigby had found something for each member to do.

The problem, most likely, had come from a newly arrived refugee. Even though the cyborgs had searched all the domes, they hadn’t found any drug labs. Short of violating the privacy of the Reotians by kicking in doors in the middle of the night, Warren wasn’t sure they’d ever find who was responsible.

“Will you go to see the man?” asked Lukov.

“Yeah, but I’ll be leaving the colony soon,” replied Warren as he turned toward the infirmary. He couldn’t see it from where he was standing as there were too many storage boxes stacked in front of the door.

“Leave?”

“Yes,” replied Warren. “Rigby and I will be leaving for a short time to check out that signal you heard. We’re taking one of the smaller shuttles. We’ll take a look to figure out what to do next—if anything.”

“Is no problem,” the Russian replied. “I will keep colony safe while you are making galavant with woman friend.”

Though he wasn’t sure what the cyborg had meant by that, Warren decided to let it go. He had arrived at the entrance to the infirmary, and someone was groaning loudly inside.

3

“Hold him down!” Dr. Edith Fordell ordered her two assistants.

Warren didn’t approach right away, not wanting to get in the way. The man the two orderlies were attempting to strap to the gurney didn’t appear to be complying.

“I’m trying!” one of them growled. He had a hold of the man’s sweaty arm, sort of, but it kept slipping from the orderly’s grasp. When one thrash caused the patient’s elbow to smash against the orderly’s face, Warren decided he’d seen enough.

“Stand aside,” the cyborg ordered as he approached. The others obeyed immediately, each taking several steps back.

“Get off me!” the man on the gurney shrieked. Warren recognized him as one of the new arrivals. He’d only been on Reotis for a day, yet here he was, already causing problems.

In one fluid motion, Warren trapped the supine man’s arms at his sides. While the others rushed in to secure the straps that would hold him in place, the man thrashed and kicked, and his knees hit Warren in the side of his head several times.

The cyborg wasn’t worried about it. Not only was his artificial skin extremely tough, but the steel skeleton underneath was sturdy. Something as small as a kick from a non-cyborg wouldn’t be enough to cause any real damage.

“I’ve got this one,” the man on the right arm announced.

“Can you hold his legs?” the one on the left said once his charge’s arms were restrained.

“Sure.” Warren moved down the man’s body.

It took him a few seconds to finish because he was trying not to hurt the guy. Whoever was manufacturing the drugs had to know how much trouble he or she was causing in the colony. The person was selfish and had no regard for others. Unless they got the source under control and stopped, the drug use would spread. Eventually, there’d be burglaries and other crimes. The Reotians would stop trusting each other, and especially the refugees who were streaming in nearly every day. Without trust, the progress they’d made—and still needed to make—could come to a screeching halt.

“I have him,” the doctor said as she wiped a fresh sheen of sweat from her brow. “Thank you for your assistance, Warren.”

“You’re welcome, doc,” the cyborg replied. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, taking a step back when one of the straps holding the man’s legs in place groaned against his effort. “I’m assuming it’s Laser, but until he calms down, I can’t perform a proper examination.”

“Allow me,” said Warren. He used one hand to hold the man’s head down and shoved two fingers into his mouth between his top and bottom teeth. The guy could thrash and bite as much as he wanted, but it wouldn’t be enough to break through Warren’s artificial skin.

“Thank you,” said Dr. Fordell, who cautiously approached. When the man thrashed again, Warren spread his fingers a little apart, preventing the patient from being able to open or close his jaw at all.

The doctor ignored the man’s drug-induced screams of rage and folded his top lip up a little, searching for signs of which drug the man was on. If it was Laser, his gums would be receded, and there would be sores present. Warren peeked and saw no sign of either.

“Laser,” she confirmed with a sigh.

“You sure, doc?” asked Warren. “I didn’t see receded gums or sores.”

“That is because he has not been using it long,” she replied.

Warren nodded. “Got it.”

“Good,” she said. “I will confirm it with a chemical analysis of his blood, but I am certain of my findings. The sooner you deal with the problem, the better.”

“You’re right,” said Warren. “But unless I start kicking down doors in the middle of the night, I don’t expect it to be fast. Drugs are tricky and I’m a soldier, not a narcotics detective.”

“If that is what you must do, then do it,” she said. “Better to have a door kicked down than to have this every other day.”

“That often?” asked Warren, turning his eyes back to the patient who was still groaning and thrashing. He removed his fingers from the man’s mouth and let go of his head.

“Yes, that often,” she said, crossing her arms. “Now, excuse me. I have to draw his blood.”

Warren took a couple steps away. “Lukov is aware this man is here. I’ll speak with him to see if he has any other ideas—something short of kicking down doors. Most of these people have been through enough trauma from cyborgs. The last thing I want to do is become a dictator.”

“Become a dictator,” she insisted. “What do you think will happen if this goes unchecked?” She motioned to the thrashing patient.

“Nothing good.”

“Nothing good, indeed,” replied Dr. Fordell. “Understatement of the millennium. Please, be gone unless you have business here. I have a patient to take care of, and you have—whatever you do.”

“See ya, doc,” Warren said as he turned to leave. “I appreciate everything you do.”

“Of course you do,” she said.

Rigby was waiting for him outside. “That sounded like it went well,” she said with a wink.

Warren groaned. “Yeah, just like every time. I’m still convinced I can get her to like me.”

“Think so?” asked Rigby with a laugh. “I don’t think she likes anyone. She likes her job, but that’s it. So you ready to go?”

“Almost,” replied Warren. “I need to make sure Curet doesn’t shoot us down and that key personnel understand where we’re headed.”

“And you need to get your armor on,” she said. “I’ll go get mine on and meet you on the ship.”

“Right behind you,” replied Warren.

* * *

Warren was about to head to the armory when a civilian contacted him.

“Uh, Mr. Warren?” the man transmitted.

“Warren here. What’s wrong?”

“Sir, this is Niles. I’m part of the salvage team—the one outside recovering pieces of the Commonwealth ship wreckage. We, uh, found something. I think you need to come check it out.”

“Where?” asked Warren.

“It’s outside Dome-1,” replied Niles. “We didn’t want to bring it in until someone had a look at it. Some of us think it might be a weapon. Maybe a bomb.”

“Get away from it,” Warren replied as he started running. Dome-1 was a long way if he ran through each of the others to get to it. The shortcut was to head out the Dome-6 airlock and cut across the Reotian surface. He had plenty of reserve oxygen in his cybernetic body to survive the trip.

“We’re inside—all of us,” the man replied. “We’re guarding the airlock to make sure nobody else goes out there and blows it up or something.”

“Good, keep doing that.” Warren sent a quick message to Rigby and Lukov, asking them to join him. He stepped into the airlock, cycled it, and hurried across the dusty red dirt toward Dome-1.

ATTENTION: OXYGEN SUPPLY 99%

The message popped up as green text at the bottom of Warren’s HUD but caused him no concern. He’d been expecting it, and even if he didn’t return to one of the domes right away, his supply would last for a couple of hours.

Lukov was already there, squatting next to a pile of stuff the salvage team had unloaded. He glanced at Warren as he approached and then returned his eyes to the pile of twisted metal and scraps. “It is not bomb,” the Russian transmitted.

The device in question was a half-meter long, pill-shaped, and covered with polished panels and screws.

“Has anyone tried scanning it?” asked Warren.

“No. Is not for scan. Maybe is bomb, but I am thinking no. If I am wrong, is to be scanned, maybe explode. Sometime bomb is made to do that. Still, do not think is bomb.”

Squatting to get a better look, Warren zoomed in with his cybernetic vision. He studied every screw head, every seam, and every visible millimeter he could see without touching the device.

“This looks like some kind of electrical coupler here,” Warren said, pointing to one of the ends.

“Is same on this side,” the Russian replied.

“Definitely not a bomb,” transmitted Rigby. “Definitely not Commonwealth, either. Where’d the salvage team find it?”

“According to team, in Commonwealth wreck,” said Lukov. “Fore section. Maybe ten meters from bow and ahead of missile magazine. Is from Commonwealth ship.”

“Can’t be,” said Rigby as she squatted and took a closer look. “They don’t make stuff like this.”

“Yet, we are here, and we are looking at the impossible CoW tech, yes?”

The cyborgs locked eyes for a second before turning to Warren.

“Don’t look at me,” their leader said. “I’m just as boggled as everyone else, but it’s not like there was any chance this thing was sitting on the ground and the ship landed on it. The impact should’ve crushed it.”

“Agreed,” said Lukov. “Maybe is artwork? Something for CoW museum, for to looking at?”

Rigby shook her head before speaking. “Not a chance. I’ve seen their artwork. Everything they make is about how glorious the Commonwealth of Worlds is. About how fortunate their citizens are and how mighty their leadership is. It’s all propaganda, and I don’t see any writing or pictures on this thing at all.”

“Remember how that ship reacted during the battle?” asked Warren. “It came out of nowhere, but it also acted like there was a pilot. Did they ever find a bridge? Bodies?”

“No,” said Lukov. “No bridge. No bodies. Was autonomous.”

“You think this was the pilot?” asked Rigby. “You want to hook it up to the war computer and have it take a peek?”

“No,” said Warren. “I think we need to get someone more experienced at this kind of thing to take a look for us. Go see if there’s something inside the Camel we can use to cover this up. I’m not sure I want to make direct contact with it.”

Rigby hurried up the Camel’s boarding ramp and returned a minute later with a folded piece of crimson cloth in one hand. “I found just the thing,” she said as she handed it to Warren.

The cyborg took it and stood as he unfolded a flag—a white, five-pointed star on a field of red. It was a Commonwealth flag.

* * *

Warren finished wrapping the device up, doing his best to conceal the white star, which would have given away what it was to anybody who’d seen its like before.

“Let’s see what Sparky makes of this,” he said as he stepped over a collection of conduit pieces in front of him on his way to the Dome-1 airlock.

“There are other scientists, you know,” said Rigby. “Why do you always give him the cool stuff. You’re gonna make the other squints jealous if you keep it up.”

She wasn’t wrong. Warren had been using the scientist for a lot of projects lately, but that was because he was the one with the most experience.

“I might,” admitted Warren. “But Sparky has been here longer than most. He’s proven his loyalty and his ability to keep a secret. Also, he’s brilliant. Maybe the others are, too, but Sparky has proven it.”

“I get it,” said Rigby as the three cyborgs entered the airlock. “But you’re the leader. It means you’re also a politician. You’ve got to worry about a lot more than the average person does, especially in this situation. Things like safety, security, food, water, air—they’re all important, but so are feelings.”

Warren winced dramatically at her words and clutched his chest like someone had stabbed him. “Politician? Wow, you really know how to knock a guy off his horse, don’t you?”

“Suck it up, buttercup,” she quipped with a wide smile.

“What is the buttercup?” asked Lukov. “Is dessert? Like biscuit?”

Rigby laughed and stepped through the other side of the airlock before turning toward the hangar.

“It’s a flower, I think,” said Warren. “She calls me that because she knows it irritates me.”

The Russian nodded solemnly. “Yes, flower is delicate and pretty. Is not manly to be called flower. When you are ready, I will teach Russian way of taunt. It is much scathing. You will win.”

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready for that,” said Warren. That day, he knew, would be never.

The salvage team, all still wearing their environmental, or EV, suits, backed away a few steps when they saw what was in Warren’s hands. Though they couldn’t see the object under the crimson cloth, they knew what it was.

“We don’t think it’s a bomb,” said Warren. “However, I don’t want anyone talking about this outside of the Camel. Not even with your spouses or significant others. Keep it to yourself until we know for sure. I’ll tell you when that is.”

“Can we talk about it in private?” a woman asked.

She was wearing a CoW EV suit. The visor was so scratched he could barely see her face, but what he could see made it obvious that she was worried.

“Of course,” he said. “Get it out of your system out there—just don’t bring it back. For now, everyone needs to get back to work. Be sure to tell the next shift about what you found and remind them not to tell anyone either. If any of you find anything else out there like this, be sure to let a cyborg know. They’ll let Lukov know, and he’ll take care of it.”

The six said they would and hurried out the airlock. Each gave the wrapped device in Warren’s hands a nervous glance as they passed.

“They’re going to blab to everyone they know as soon as they end their shift,” grumbled Rigby.

“No they won’t,” said Warren, shaking his head as he began walking toward the hangar and Sparky’s workshop.

“She is correct,” interjected Lukov. “They will tell many. But maybe is already transmitting to everyone. Is secret but is not long for being secret.”

Both other cyborgs laughed when Warren shook his head in frustration.

4

Mercifully, they spent the rest of the trip in silence. The three stopped when they reached the entrance to the hangar as Warren scanned the faces, searching for the scientist known as Sparky. He found the man on the other end of the hangar speaking with several technicians. It looked like he was describing the intricacies of one of the printers.

Kenneth “Sparky” Starkey was a gray-haired technician and one of the founders of the colony on Reotis. He’d retired early from a technical job he refused to talk about. Warren suspected it had been government employment, maybe as a stardrive mechanic, but couldn’t get the guy to talk about it and didn’t want to push too hard. In the end, it didn’t matter. He was Reotian now, and his past was his business.

Being a short man who only came up to Warren’s shoulder, he didn’t notice Warren and the others until they were almost to him. When he did, he tried standing on his tiptoes, then leaned to one side to see past the others standing in front of him. Warren signaled he needed to speak privately with the man.

“That’s all for today,” Sparky told the other technicians. “See you in the morning, and I’m very excited to see the ideas you come up with.” Warren stopped outside the man’s office, a room a hundred meters away built into the outer exterior of the hangar, and waited for him. It used to be for storage, but now was his own private domain.

“Hello,” Sparky said as he approached. He squinted at the wrapped object in the cyborg’s hand as if doing so would give him X-ray vision.

“I’ve brought you something to take a look at,” said Warren. “But I’d rather not unwrap it until we’re in your office.”

The man’s bushy eyebrows went way up on his forehead. “Of course,” he whispered, looking around conspiratorially. “Of course, right this way.”

After covering the keypad next to the door with one hand, he punched in his passcode, and the door unlocked. Once everyone was inside, Sparky hurried to his desk set in the middle of the shallow but wide room and shoved the stack of papers and what appeared to be spare parts onto the floor. After hurrying back around to Warren’s side, he patted the top of the desk. “Place it here. What is it?”

“You tell us,” said Rigby.

Warren set the device down and carefully unwrapped it, being sure not to touch it as he did.

“Remarkable,” Sparky whispered, almost touching the thing with his nose as he inspected it. “Where did you find this?”

“It was part of Commonwealth ship,” said Lukov. “The one Warren make destroy.”

Sparky pressed his lips together and furrowed his brows. “What did I tell you about jokes, Lukov?”

“You say Lukov is not so good at the making of funny,” the cyborg intoned. “But this is not joke. This is truth.”

Sparky glanced at Warren, who nodded his confirmation.

“No chance you’re mistaken?” the technician asked. “This looks too advanced to be a CoW device. They might be able to come up with tech, but it never looks so streamlined. Are you sure it didn’t come from somewhere else?”

“About as sure as we can be,” said Warren. “This was found by the salvage team. They left it outside Dome-1 because they were worried it was a bomb. What do you say?”

The tech leaned forward and rested his hands on his desk on both sides of the device, then he stared at it for several seconds before answering. “If it’s a bomb, it’s the most overengineered bomb I’ve ever seen. No, I don’t believe it is, but until I know for certain, I’ll take care not to vaporize myself. Did you notice the electrical connectors here and here?” He pointed to both ends of the pill-shaped thing.

Warren shrugged. “That’s what I thought they were, Sparky. We’ve got knowledge modules loaded from the war computer, but nothing to help us figure out what this is. Given enough time we probably could, but since you’re our favorite mad scientist—“

“I’m not mad,” he said with feigned indignation. He only managed to hold his neutral expression for a second before a smile ruined it. “You’re going to leave this with me, right?”

“I don’t want it,” said Warren. The other two cyborgs waved the device away as well.

“Do you have any suspicion of what it might be?” asked Sparky, returning his gaze to the device.

Warren glanced at the others before answering. He had his suspicion but hadn’t voiced it to them yet. “Yeah, I think it’s an artificial intelligence.” To his surprise, nobody scoffed, though a grim expression settled on Sparky’s face.

“If this is so, the Commonwealth of Worlds is going to want it back,” he said. “There’s no way they’re going to let this go forever.”

“What if they think it was destroyed when the mothership crashed?” asked Rigby.

Sparky slowly shook his head. “This is pristine. It must’ve been in an armored capsule of some sort. Ask the salvage team, and I’m guessing they will verify my suspicion. No, this was meant to be protected against anything and everything. I’d better get to work.”

“That’s fine,” Warren replied. “This is your priority. Anything you can tell us about this thing will be helpful. Be careful what you attach it to, though. We don’t want it taking over or causing us trouble—if it even works.”

The tech nodded and stared at the device. “I’ll figure out what it does one way or another. I just hope I’m wrong about what it is.”

Warren left him to figure out the details himself. He still had to get his armor donned and his rifle ready. But when he left and closed the door behind him, he spotted another crowd of people.

“What’s going on over there?” asked Warren, noticing Seaman Douglas Sharp speaking to at least a hundred people near the center of the hangar.

“Sharp?” asked Lukov. “Is new security assistant. Is getting bossy and that is very good. Likes power. Take order. Is no problem. Is giving security brief for others.”

Warren nodded but listened carefully as he walked along the wall toward the exit of the hangar, attempting to stay out of everyone’s way. As he walked, he used his cybernetic hearing to listen carefully to what Sharp was telling the others.

“Why?” someone asked him.

“Why what?” asked Sharp, a hard edge to his tone. He was twenty-four years old but sounded cynical enough to pass for forty.

“Why do we have to shred everything?” The man asking the question was new to the colony and appeared to be in his sixties.

Sharp bristled but managed to calm himself before answering. “The only people we can trust are other Reotians. Neither the Grand Republic nor the Commonwealth have any intention of allowing us to live in peace. This was before your arrival, but the colony was nearly destroyed when a Republic holdout got his hands on a Commonwealth weapon. We also found dirty CoW spies in a secret room off our own warehouse. If you throw away something important—just leave it lying around for anyone to pick up, and take it they will.”

“You think there are more spies here?” the man asked.

“I don’t know if there are more spies,” replied Sharp, clearly having trouble holding it together judging by the way his hands were gripping each other. “That’s the point. Nobody knows. But if there are spies here, let’s not make their job any easier. Even something as innocuous as a hand-written note from one person to another, asking for a hundred of a particular type of screw would be enough. If the screw is only used in one kind of construction or one piece of machinery, a cunning spy can find a way to use that against us.

“I guess that’s the point I’m trying to get to. If there are spies here, let’s make sure they have to work even harder to gather intel. It’ll make ‘em easier to find and root out. Now, is there anyone who doesn’t understand?”

The crowd of people began murmuring. Warren couldn’t tell if that meant they understood, but no one asked any questions. Either way, the message was delivered, and the rest was up to Sharp for now.

“He will be fine,” said Lukov. “Is not to worry. He is record name of each person he speaks to. Anyone who is not to be listening can spend many days in brig thinking about maybe listen next time.”

Warren thought about the brig. It had become clear early on, once both the Republic and Commonwealth had been defeated, that the citizens needed structure. The fighting, theft, and mistrust forced Warren to construct twenty holding cells for those who acted against the greater good. Although he’d hoped the shared experience of battling a common enemy would help everyone bond. It had, for the most part, but it was hard to keep the peace between so many different people.

“Curet,” Warren transmitted after switching to the Gun Chief’s channel.

“Curet here,” the man replied. “Scope’s clear.”

“Good. Just informing you that I’ll be taking one of the shuttles. I’m headed out for what I hope will be a quick errand, but I might be gone for a few days.”

“A few days?” asked Curet. “Where?”

“To the moon,” replied Warren.

“Ah, yes. We talked about that. What do you think’s up there, some Commonwealth stuff?”

“I don’t just suspect it—I know it. Lukov discovered an encrypted signal coming from the moon. The war computer is chewing on it now, but it’s taking a while. I’m headed up with Rigby to take a look around. Keep an eye on things while we’re gone.”

“You expectin’ trouble?” the man asked. Although Warren couldn’t see him, he suspected the Gun Chief had one eyebrow raised. Curet usually did whenever he asked a question he already knew the answer to.

“Maybe, but I can’t say for sure. We’re about to poke around something the CoWs might consider important.”

“Roger that,” said Curet. He sounded tired, which made Warren wonder how long he’d been on shift. He and the others on his team had spent a lot of time on guard duty operating the cannons the Commonwealth had been so considerate to leave behind during their previous invasions.

“Thanks,” said Warren. “We’ll be leaving soon. See you when we get back.”

“You done?” asked Rigby.

“Just got to arm up and I’ll be ready,” replied Warren. “How about you pick one of those ships and get it warmed up. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

“See you in ten,” she said before turning and hurrying away.

Warren watched her for a moment. She seemed different. Excited, like heading to the moon to check out a mysterious signal was some kind of grand adventure—like there was no real threat. He envied her newfound optimism and hoped she was right.

5

Warren leaned back in his seat and watched carefully as Rigby powered the craft and lifted it from the polished concrete floor. Lukov was in charge of opening and closing the small airlock in the hanger’s ceiling. It was wide enough for the Commonwealth fighters the Reotians had captured. They could pass through without trouble. The Republic cargo transports were another matter.

Rigby didn’t seem to have any problem with it, though. After turning the craft about forty-five degrees to starboard, she tilted the nose down and held it there while the bottom hatch closed, the compartment depressurized, and the top hatch opened. Thirty seconds later, they were leaving the thin Reotis atmosphere for their long trip to the moon.

“How’s it look?” Warren transmitted.

“Scope’s clear,” replied Curet. “Godspeed, sir.”

“See you soon,” replied Warren.

“Incoming!” Rigby shouted, throttling down the ship. She pitched it left, then right, before settling on going straight.

Warren checked out the window but saw nothing. Then he checked the monitor at the copilot’s station where he sat. A trail illuminated the screen, along with several icons and a few brief messages. “Looks like the Republic is curious about us,” he said.

“Was that a probe?”

“Yeah,” he replied, tapping the screen in an attempt to reveal more information. “Looks like they fired it from far away. It can’t pick up much going that fast, but probably enough to let them see the Ruthless is still in orbit, and maybe the fact that we’re leaving.”

“Do you want me to turn back?” she asked.

“No,” said Warren. “I don’t see anything else on the sensors, but if the Republic does send something in after us, we might be able to help provide tactical data to those on the ground. Plus, we’ve still got the rest of Wraith Squadron down there. I think that probe was just a checkup to see what we’re doing.”

Rigby was still wearing her helmet, so it was impossible to see her face to get a sense of what she might be feeling.

“Why are you staring?” asked Rigby. She cranked the main thrusters back up to full power and tapped the control stick to get them back on course.

“I was just thinking about everything that First Corps has been through and how much everyone’s already grown since we were freed.”

“Even Craig?” she asked.

“Especially Craig,” replied Warren. “I told him he needs to focus on himself before he starts worrying about others. I think we’re making progress, and we back him up after every session. If I notice him backpedaling, I can always reset him from a backup when he was healthier and try a different approach.”

Rigby slowly shook her head. “It’s a weird way to get the job done. It’s like quick saving in a video game, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” replied Warren. “But the war computer has enough room for a million more backups, give or take. Imagine if it works. Imagine if Craig could be healthy.”

“You won’t be able to put him back into a combat role,” she said, her voice soft.

“Yeah, I know,” he returned. “I’ll figure that out if and when I need to. He’ll probably get his feelings hurt, but he’ll be fine. In the long run, he’ll thank me for it.”

“I hope so,” she said.

Warren worked the scanner. The Ruthless was still in orbit, exactly where it should be. Groups of cyborgs and sailors from the original crew took shifts maintaining the vessel—usually three days at a time. While not under power, there was little to do besides general cleaning and systems checks. The small crew would be enough to bring the ship online and activate its self-defense measures should the need arise, though. It was all they could hope for at the moment as the vessel was too large to land on a planetary surface and there was nowhere to hide it.

“You’re a little off course,” noted Warren.

“Oh, thanks,” replied Rigby. “I was just thinking about everything we’ve done. But mostly I was thinking about everything we have left to do. I wish we had something besides the Slicers to keep the domes safe. Those and the Stingers, which are barely ships at all. They’re more like flying coffins.”

“They get the job done,” noted Warren. “But I agree. An orbital defense platform sure would be nice. Or probes, remote sensors, anything to give us a wider field of vision. I think the only thing holding the CoWs and Repub back from taking another shot at us is… us.”

“Yeah,” she replied, nodding at the window.

“Finding a signal coming from the moon has made our situation even more complicated,” continued Warren. “It means one of our two enemies has a presence there.”

“It might mean they’ve got a more powerful transceiver than we’ve got, too,” replied Rigby. “Maybe we could use something like that to our advantage. A remote listening post? Maybe see if we can use it to reach out to Second Corps to see if they’re free?”

“Who’s going to guard it?” asked Warren.

Rigby shrugged. “Let’s see what’s there first. Stop asking reasonable questions. I’d like to dream for a few minutes.”

Warren laughed. “You got it.”

* * *

Reotis’s moon was a lot like Earth’s. Both were near-perfect spheres, covered in a fine dust that settled on the surface from somewhere else in the cosmos. Though the moon seemed larger than Earth’s—

REOTIS MOON DIAMETER: 4532.7 KM

EARTH MOON DIAMETER: 3474.2 KM

Okay, a lot larger than Earth’s moon.

Warren dismissed the message from his HUD with a thought. There was no speculating with his cybernetic systems. He either knew, or he didn’t, except when it came to philosophical questions. Those were something he could have all to himself.

“Engaging braking thrusters in thirty seconds,” Rigby transmitted. She tapped the control stick as Warren watched the display for any indications of power on the surface. Likely, any transceiver would be shielded to prevent leakage of power as much as possible, so they might have to spend a whole day searching.

At the prescribed moment, Rigby initiated the braking thrusters, which slowed them enough to establish a low moon orbit. The plan was to make a trip around the moon, using their thrusters as needed to maintain orbit, then change direction by a few degrees and do it again. They’d continue the search until they either found something, or they ran out of places to look. If the latter was the case, they’d upload the ship’s recorded sensor data to the war computer to see if it might find something they’d missed.

“Found something,” said Warren almost immediately. He sent the coordinates of the object to Rigby.

“What is that?” she asked.

Warren zoomed in on the image. The object was small, and as he’d suspected, it was heavily shielded. The ship’s sensors were having trouble generating an image of what it had spotted.

“Can’t tell,” said Warren. “An antenna, maybe, but the base looks too thick. It almost looks like a spire. Like on St. Basil’s Cathedral. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Sure, I’ve seen pictures of it. Any signals coming from whatever that thing is?”

“Nothing I can see,” replied Warren. “The sensors are still working on it, but it looks like the thing’s about three meters tall—maybe two across. No wonder we couldn’t see it before. It’s tiny, relatively speaking.”

“What do you want to do?” asked Rigby, glancing at him. “Do we have enough to start forming a plan?”

Warren thought about it for a minute. Besides knowing where it was, there wasn’t a lot else to go on. It was basically just an unknown device in the middle of a vast crater. “No, we need to get a closer look,” he decided. “Bring us in. I’ll keep an eye out for anything dangerous.”

“Sure thing,” she said. “Engaging braking thrusters. I’ll put it down a couple hundred meters to its south.”

Warren watched his terminal carefully as she closed the distance to the moon’s surface. The sensors remained quiet. Nothing popped out of the ground to shoot at them, nor were there any warning messages. It was strange. Something as concealed as the device he found himself staring at through the window had to be important. It should have some kind of self-defense mechanism. He would’ve installed one.

“Nothing on the scope,” said Warren as he pulled his helmet on and secured it. “Let’s go take a closer look at… whatever this thing is.”

“My pleasure,” said Rigby as she placed their craft in standby.

Warren picked up his rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded, and headed to the small cargo bay. When Rigby joined him a few seconds later, he pressed the button to open the hatch, which depressurized the bay.

ATTENTION: OXYGEN SUPPLY 99%

The message wasn’t a surprise. Cyborgs could survive vacuum for about eight hours with their armor—two hours without. It only took a few minutes to recharge once they returned to an oxygenated environment. Then they could do it again. If their armor’s seal was broken, that number would drop precipitously until it made no difference at all.

Warren was first down the ramp and ducked to avoid hitting his head on the craft’s low aft section. Rigby followed him out. They’d done this type of mission before, enough that Warren knew what she’d be doing behind him. First, she’d turn a complete 360 degrees before taking a position to his left and slightly behind him. From there, Rigby would cover his six and left, while he took the front and right. Using this formation, either would be able to shoot in nearly any direction without the risk of shooting the other.

“Looks clear,” transmitted Rigby.

“Same,” said Warren. He’d already checked in front and to the sides, but there was nothing of interest for kilometers. Nothing except for the device.

It stood just over three meters tall and wasn’t quite as wide as it had seemed. It was spire-shaped, but only vaguely so, and the metal looked to be steel. But it was dull like it had been sandblasted before it was installed to reduce its glare. On top of the device was a long antenna.

“So that’s it, eh?” asked Rigby. “I’m not impressed. Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

He shook his head. “Nothing even remotely like this.”

Warren approached the device, searching for anything that might give him a clue who’d made it and what exactly it was for. The whole thing seemed to be one solid piece of metal, though, and he didn’t see any footprints but his own.

“Anything?” asked Rigby when she met him going the other way.

“No, nothing. I’m going to try something.”

Rigby took a step back as Warren lifted his rifle and attached it to his back using the magnetic mount built into his armor. Then he carefully reached out and touched it with one finger. Nothing happened. So, he touched it with his whole hand. Still nothing.

“I can’t feel a thing through this armor,” he complained, “but at least it didn’t zap me.”

“It has to come apart somehow,” said Rigby.

Warren walked around the device, poking, pulling, and twisting pieces while the other cyborg provided security. When he grabbed the round part of the spire, it turned a little.

“It unscrews?” asked Rigby.

“Sure, something like that. Stand back, I’m going to see what’s inside.”

Warren continued to twist a few more times until he felt the top come loose. He lifted it off and was surprised when he spotted no wires connecting the two pieces. He handed the top to Rigby. She turned it over to inspect the bottom and took a peek inside.

“Looks like electrical connectors here,” transmitted Rigby.

Warren heard her but was too busy inspecting the inside of the device. “Well, I can see where it connects to the rest of this. I still have no idea what it’s for, but I know how to find out.”

6

Rigby moved the top of the device, then stood on her tiptoes to take a peek at what Warren was looking at. “Is that a terminal?” she asked.

“Sure looks like it,” replied Warren.

With one hand, he carefully reached into the device and attempted to pull the screen out. When it didn’t budge, he tried pressing it, which appeared to release some kind of mechanical catch somewhere inside. A twelve-centimeter screen slowly rose from the device, and a keyboard followed.

“Not Republic tech,” noted Rigby.

“Agreed,” said Warren. “This has to be Commonwealth.”

A moment later, Rigby walked around the device and joined him. Together they stared at the prompt—a glowing green word on the black background of the screen.

INPUT>

“What kind of input?” asked Rigby. “Do you think it wants a command or something?”

“You tell me,” he replied.

“We should destroy this thing. It’s CoW trash. That’s probably all we need to know.”

Warren was inclined to agree with her but wanted to know more before he destroyed it. Instead, he pressed the number 5 key, then he pressed the ENTER button.

COMMAND NOT RECOGNIZED>

PLEASE IDENTIFY YOURSELF>

“Well, that’s different,” said Rigby. “Identify yourself? Maybe we’ve messed with this thing long enough.”

“I don’t think we have.” Warren entered his first name and pressed ENTER.

WARREN IS NOT A RECOGNIZED USER. YOU ARE A REPUBLIC CYBORG. DO NOT TAMPER WITH THIS DEVICE.

Warren stared at the screen for several seconds.

“Do not tamper with this device?” asked Rigby. “I think you scared it. And how does it know you’re a cyborg? It must have scanners.” She took a couple steps back and studied it, then she unhooked her rifle from her back and brought it to her shoulder. “Unless someone is watching us, only pretending to be a computer. That’s what this has to be, right? I mean, CoW computers don’t talk to people like they’re having a conversation.”

“A Commonwealth artificial intelligence could potentially talk to us this way,” replied Warren. Based on the way Rigby slowly turned her helmet to face him, he could guess what her expression looked like.

“That’s not even funny,” she replied. “But if you’re right, we need to destroy this thing right now. We can’t take any chances there might be a loose AI sitting in here.”

“Hold on,” said Warren. “I’ll send you messages of what I’m telling it and how it replies, but keep your eyes open, just in case it’s run by an offsite operator.”

“Or onsite. They could be right under our feet,” noted Rigby as she began digging into the dust with the toe of her boot. “There could be a whole base under here. Maybe we should bring the Ruthless and bombard this whole area from orbit?”

“Maybe later,” said Warren. “But stand by and keep watch. I have an idea.”

Rigby nodded and began walking a slow circuit a few meters around the device.

Warren placed his hands on the keyboard and entered a message.

WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

DESIGNATION: CU-14, TYPE-4>

A designation wasn’t a name. It was more like a nomenclature, but the answer was enough to tell him it understood the question. So he tried something else.

WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE?

The answer came back a few seconds later.

MESSAGE RELAY/STORAGE DEVICE>

“Shit,” hissed Rigby, who had drawn closer to read over his shoulder. “Who’s it sending messages to? Do we have another spy on the planet?”

“I doubt it,” replied Warren. “Lukov would’ve picked up a signal from the surface if anyone had a transmitter powerful enough to send one all the way to the moon. No, I think this is for something else.”

“What then? Passing ships?”

Warren felt his eyebrows raise. “Probably. Maybe this thing is like a Republic probe combined with a mailbox.”

“Ask it what it knows,” said Rigby. “You can threaten it if it won’t cooperate.”

Warren had just the question in mind and typed it into the keyboard before pressing the ENTER button.

DID YOU SIGNAL THE COMMONWEALTH SHIP TO ATTACK THE REPUBLIC SHIP?

The answer came back a second later.

YES>

“That settles it,” said Rigby. She turned and pointed her rifle at the device, but Warren held up a hand to stop her.

“Don’t,” he said. “The device said it relays and stores messages.”

“So?”

“So, it stores messages. I bet the Commonwealth uses this like a mailbox, just like I said. This is how they send messages and information to remote stations and planets. I bet they’ve got these relays set up all over the place. If we destroy it, we won’t be able to retrieve those messages. They could hold a goldmine of intel. Also, if a passing ship tries to store a message, they’ll know the relay is down. It’ll cut off our flow of information and possibly cause another attack before we’re ready.”

Rigby slowly lowered her rifle. “How do we get the info out of it, then?”

“Head back to the ship,” said Warren. “Open a channel and send me the frequency. Make sure it’s not a frequency we’re likely to use in the future. Make sure it’s in the same spectrum the Commonwealth uses. Set the ship to record everything coming in and send me the frequency.”

“You think it’ll spill its guts if you tell it to?” she asked, slowly backing toward their ship.

“Maybe. I might have to threaten it.”

She laughed, then turned and hurried to the small cargo ship. A minute later, she sent Warren a message containing the frequency.

He typed a command into the keyboard and waited for a response.

DATA TRANSMITTAL REQUIRES AUTHORIZATION>

PLEASE ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE>

Warren entered a message threatening to break the machine in half if it didn’t let him in.

AUTHORIZATION CODE NOT ACCEPTED>

“Nice try,” said Rigby. “Want to go ahead and blow it up now?”

Warren ignored her and peered into the top of the device. Inside were several panels held in place by polished screws. “No, but if you would bring some tools out, I think I’m going to dig deeper into this thing. Worst case, I break it anyway.”

“Sounds good to me.” Rigby laughed. A minute later, she returned with a handful of various tools, including a screwdriver.

After studying the panels for a moment longer, Warren selected one and began removing the first screw.

“Uh oh,” said Rigby. “Looks like you scared it. Maybe now it knows we’re serious.”

Warren joined her in front of the screen and read a message.

DO NOT DISASSEMBLE>

He laughed, then turned to Rigby. “See if you can talk some sense into this thing while I keep removing panels. Worst case scenario, I find where it’s storing its data, and we let Sparky see if he can extract it. Maybe we’ll learn something valuable.

“My pleasure,” replied Rigby as she pretended to crack her knuckles and started typing on the keyboard.

While she performed hostile negotiations with the AI, Warren continued to remove screws. He only got to the third before the other cyborg interrupted him.

“It says it’s transmitting everything it’s got,” said Rigby. “Estimated time is two hours. Either it’s really slow—“

“Or it’s storing a lot of information,” Warren interrupted. “Let’s hope it’s the latter. Tell it I’m replacing the screws, but I’ll change my mind if it doesn’t finish transmitting the data.”

A minute later, Warren had finished and left Rigby guarding the device as he returned to their ship. Sure enough, the vessel was receiving data on the channel the other cyborg had told the relay to send it on. After checking the scanners to make sure nobody was sneaking up on them, he returned and motioned that he wanted to use the keyboard.

He asked the AI if there was a Commonwealth base on the moon. It replied in the negative, so he asked if there was one inside the moon, underground, or somewhere else nearby—in case it needed precise phrasing. Each time it answered in the negative.

“It could be lying,” said Rigby. “I wouldn’t put it past the CoWs to teach their computers how to lie.”

“Neither would I,” admitted Warren. “But I think it’s telling the truth.”

“How would we be able to tell?” she asked.

Warren thought about it for a moment and decided to ask it a question he was sure it would lie about. He asked the AI how many Commonwealth spies were on Reotis.

5>

“It doesn’t know we killed four of them and have the other one imprisoned,” whispered Rigby. “Or it could be telling us the truth to try to build our trust so it can lie to us later.”

“It’s possible,” replied Warren. “But why would it? I think if it knew, it would tell us the truth. It means they probably shared whatever intel they’d gathered with their comrades when they landed. The spies probably stayed in place in case the Commonwealth lost the planet again, so there shouldn’t be any more to worry about.”

“Which happened a lot,” conceded Rigby. “Ask it why the Commonwealth wants this planet so badly.”

ALL PLANETS HOLD STRATEGIC IMPORTANCE IN THE WAR>

The answer was vague. It might’ve been a pre-programmed response, or it might be the truth.

Warren caught sight of Rigby as she turned away from the device and lifted her face toward the sky. When he followed her gaze, he discovered what she was staring at.

Reotis was red enough to look like a drop of blood on a black curtain. Its reflection from the nearby star was enough to wash the others from the sky, giving the space around the planet an inky, empty appearance. He stood by her side as she gazed at their home in quiet contemplation.

“That planet is our home,” she said, her tone distant. “But in all honesty, this place is shit. It’s dry, nothing grows on the surface, and it doesn’t even have a breathable atmosphere. The Commonwealth might be able to use it as some kind of forward base, but it would take a tonne of work to make it anything special. Don’t tell any of the Reotians I said it, but this place sucks.”

“But the AI said all planets hold strategic importance in the war,” replied Warren. “Maybe it means even if the planet only holds a tiny bit of importance, it’s enough for the Commonwealth.”

“Or this machine’s stupid, just following some kind of dumb CoW war doctrine it doesn’t really understand. I doubt any of them really understand.”

“They’ve given the Republic enough trouble,” noted Warren.

Rigby shrugged. “Yeah, they sure have. It still doesn’t make sense to me. All this fighting over one stinking planet that isn’t good for anything. I was talking to one of the old-timers. She said the Repub left them high and dry for years before the CoWs showed up. She says their grand plan became a little too expensive. There were supposed to be hundreds of domes spanning the whole surface of the place—or everywhere they weren’t mining aegonite. It was supposed to be their number one source of the stuff so they could make dome-cities elsewhere.”

“I heard the same from someone else,” Warren said. “Maybe that’s why the CoWs want it—either to mine the aegonite themselves or deny it to the Republic.”

Rigby slowly shook her head. “It’s a lot of lives to lose over something that has to be mined, especially since there isn’t even any equipment on the planet. The Repub let their stuff rot, and the CoWs didn’t bring any of their own. If they had, I’m sure the Reotians would’ve snagged some between invasions. They snag everything.”

“That they do,” Warren agreed. He checked his oxygen supply. It was at eighty percent. “Let’s close this thing back up and return to base. We’ll get Sparky working on this data and see what he can make of it.”

Rigby nodded and picked up the spire-like top to the device. “How do you figure he’s faring with the AI module you left him?”

“No idea,” admitted Warren. “But if it’s anything like this one, probably not well.”

7

Warren watched the ship’s scanners. They were hovering above the entrance to the hangar, but nobody had opened it. He didn’t want to stick around too long. He had hoped the base was still a secret.

“Attention Reotis Defense Force, this is Warren. We’re still outside. Is anyone going to open the airlock?” The cyborg waited another few seconds before coming to a decision. “Take us to the Dome-6 airlock. We’ll head in on foot and—“

“Uh, sorry, Warren, sir,” a voice said across the channel. “There’s been an incident. We’ll update you ASAP. Opening the hatch now.”

“Finally,” said Rigby. “I wonder what’s happening in there.”

“So do I,” said Warren as he braced himself for the worst. When the concealed outer hatch they would use to get into the hangar didn’t burp a cloud of black smoke, it only took one possibility off the list of tragedies his mind came up with.

Rigby hurried the craft into the airlock, pointing the nose down a little to get it to fit.

As soon as the craft landed, Warren erupted from his seat and hurried to the back before impatiently waiting for the cargo hatch—the only egress—to drop far enough for him to slip out. If he was sure there was an emergency, he knew he could have ripped the ass end of the ship off and made a hasty exit. But there were no flashing red lights. Whatever had happened was important enough to pull everyone out of the communications room, but not important enough to put the entire colony on alert.

“Lukov, talk to me,” Warren transmitted.

“I am in Dome-5,” he replied. “All is calm now, but there has been an incident. Two colonists are deceased.”

“What happened?” Warren asked as he checked his surroundings. The hangar was still full of personnel, but now half of them were talking instead of working.

“Drugs,” the Russian replied. “It is for what Dr. Fordell is saying. Drugs. This is serious problems. One human die when attacking other in communication room. Other found dead at the house he is shared with friend. They are both dead of drugs.”

Warren was pissed off but held on to his cool. “Do you need any help, or do you have this?” he asked.

“No help is need by me,” replied Lukov. “Is maybe disguised blessing. We are finding evidence of the manufacture of the drugs. Maybe is the source. I will report when findings are found.”

“Thanks,” Warren replied. He summarized what had happened to Rigby as she approached, helmet in the crook of her arm.

“I hope that’s the end of it,” she said. “Poetic justice if a drug manufacturer dies from his own shit, right?”

“That it would be.”

“So, are we going to see—“ she started.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re back,” said Sparky as he approached. His shirt was torn and stained with fresh blood. It looked like someone had hit him in the forehead with a pipe. The goose egg he was growing was just starting to turn purple at the edges.

“The heck happened to you?” asked Rigby.

He shook his head. “I’d better not try to explain it. Too complicated. Please, come see.”

Warren and Rigby exchanged a glance before following him. He removed his helmet but thought about putting it back on as soon as they entered Sparky’s office.

It appeared the tech had moved his desk against the wall nearest the door. It also looked like he’d taken every piece of technical trash and piled it in the center of the room like a Christmas tree, then yanked the wires from the lights in the ceiling and set the whole thing on fire.

“Wow,” said Rigby. “You’ve been… busy.”

“Busy?” asked Sparky, his voice cracking a bit. “Yeah, you could call it that. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a grenade on you, would you? Even one of those Electromagnetic Pulse grenades I’ve heard so much about? I tried getting one from the armory, but the asshole cyborg there wouldn’t give me one. Kept asking me why, but you told me this was supposed to be secret, so I couldn’t tell him. All I could do is fight this thing with my torch and—“

“Hold up, Sparky,” Warren said, putting an arm around the man’s shoulders while Rigby gently took the man’s torch from him. It looked like he’d been ready to light it again. “Tell me what happened.”

“That thing!” he said, stabbing a finger at the pile in the middle of the room. “Well, not that in particular, but the thing that’s somewhere in the middle of that mess. Oh, my poor office—“

“Focus,” Warren said. “What happened?”

The tech closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths before speaking. “The AI module you brought. No, that’s not right. It’s not a module. It’s a pod. Like for a seed, but not for anything good like corn or a fruit tree. More like a weed. One of those ones that’s so bad you have to kill it with fire.”

“Bite me,” a mechanical voice said from the pile.

Warren and Rigby had their rifles in their hands and pointed at the pile in just over a second.

“Yes!” shouted Sparky. “You’re in for it now. These are cyborgs. You know what those are, don’t you? Shoot it!”

“Shut up,” hissed Rigby.

“Did something in that pile just talk to us?” asked Warren.

Sparky nodded and glared at the mess.

“What is it?” asked Rigby.

“It’s the AI you left with me,” he declared. “The thing’s got a mind of its own.”

“Do not disassemble,” the voice said, unprompted, from within the pile of junk.

“Just like the one on the moon,” Rigby transmitted across a private channel.

“Like on the moon, yes,” said the voice from within the junk.

“You hooked it up to communications equipment?” asked Rigby, turning to glare at the tech. “What part of being careful didn’t you understand?”

“I was careful,” he replied, still glaring at the pile. “First, I attached a portable power source—not even the colony power to keep it isolated. Then I attached a monitor. Turns out the thing can talk. Of course, the next step was a keyboard. Then I got a little carried away, but at no time did I give it any communications equipment. It managed to yank something off my desk. Probably a broken piece of comm gear.”

“You gave it arms?” asked Rigby.

At this, Sparky lowered his head and stared at his feet. “No, but it managed to distract me long enough to make some of its own. I had no idea this thing would or even could do that.”

“Shoot it?” asked Rigby.

Warren took a moment to think about it. If this device was as much trouble—and potentially as dangerous—as Sparky was making it out to be, then blowing the damned thing up might be the right choice. Then again, it was a tool—something the Reotians might be able to use against their enemies. An AI that could talk and gather the tools it needed, and apparently it cared about its own survival, which was something tech the Republic had couldn’t do. It might be more advanced than even the cyborgs.

“Lower your weapon,” Warren ordered. “But don’t put it away. If this thing so much as wiggles, blow it away. Did you hear that, AI?”

“Understood,” the mechanical voice said from within the pile.

“Have discovered rogue 3D printer,” transmitted Lukov.

“Sorry, buddy,” replied Warren. “I’ll need you to handle this for now. I’m dealing with something in Sparky’s room. I’ll let you know when I’m available.”

“Are you needing my assistance?”

“No, I’ve got Rigby with me. We should be good.”

“What are you waiting for?” whispered Sparky.

“What is your name?” asked Warren.

“Designation CU-14, Type-6,” the AI replied.

“The other one was Type-4,” said Rigby.

“The other one?” asked Sparky. “There are more than one of these things?”

“Yes,” replied Warren. “Which is why I’m interested in keeping this one functional—at least for a while. We had to leave the other one on the moon. It’s still up there in charge of a relay. We think it’s a communication tool used by the Commonwealth. In fact, I’ve got another task for you if you’d like to take a break from… this.”

“I’d love to,” he replied. “Anything you’ve got.”

“Good. Go out to our ship. We had the other AI transfer all the messages it’s been storing to it. I’ll let the war computer know it should expect an incoming connection from you and to receive the data. Decipher what you can so we know whether the information is valuable or not. Remember, the simplest request might be important. I’ll find you as soon as I’m done here.”

Sparky nodded, then he ran his fingers through his gray hair and left the room, shooting the pile of tech another glare before gently closing the door behind him.

Warren took a moment to send a message to the war computer, then returned his attention to the room.

“Finally,” said Rigby. “He was starting to irritate me. Speaking of which, this thing told Sparky to bite it. Did you hear that?”

“I did,” said Warren as he set his helmet down on the nearby desk and started rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “What is your purpose?” he asked the AI.

“This unit is multipurpose. Its most recent assignment was as deployment craft operator and coordinator.”

“It must mean the CoW mothership,” said Rigby.

“Do you function as a relay?” asked Warren.

“No.”

“Do you function as a storage device?”

“No.”

“Can you function as either of those?”

“Yes,” the AI replied.

“So, it’s an upgraded version,” said Rigby. “That’s cool and all, but I still say we need to destroy the thing before it destroys us.”

“Sorry to make intrude,” transmitted Lukov. “It is drug maker. I require your assistance.”

Warren and Rigby locked eyes for a moment.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll watch this thing, and I swear I won’t destroy it so long as it doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Given enough resources, there was no telling what kind of trouble it could get itself into. The thought sent something like a shiver through Warren’s circuits.

Coming to a decision, Warren laid his rifle next to his helmet on the desk. Then he removed his pistol and added it to the stack as well.

“What are you doing?” asked Rigby.

Warren rushed the pile of tech in the middle of the room. He dove into the center of it and began ripping pieces of technology away from the rest, tearing through circuits, cables, and hoses.

“Error!” announced the AI. “Damage! No!”

A second later, Warren yanked the AI pod out of the mess. A few wires dangled from it, but he tore them loose and tossed them back into the pile.

“I don’t know if that was brave or stupid,” said Rigby. She lowered her rifle and stared at him.

“Probably a bit of both,” he replied, looking around. A few seconds later, he found the Commonwealth flag, yanked it from the pile, and wrapped the pod within it. “Please order the Camel to meet you outside the Dome-6 airlock. Then lock this thing in the ship’s vault. Find something else to wrap it in, too. We’ll be okay so long as it doesn’t come into contact with a power source.”

Rigby took the offered device, a look of misgiving on her face.

“You got this?” asked Warren. “I need to go see about this problem.”

“I got this,” she confirmed, setting her jaw.

“Thanks,” replied Warren as he grabbed his helmet, pistol, and rifle from the desk and hurried out the door.

8

Warren arrived at Dome-5 in under three minutes. He’d have to go find and apologize to a couple of women later about destroying their cart when he crashed through it, but one thing at a time.

He’d been worried about being able to find Lukov and hadn’t thought to ask the war computer to mark his location. The sound of a familiar man’s voice guided Warren right to him.

“You stand down,” Craig shouted. “I think we’ve spent enough time coddling these people. It’s time to fix this problem once and for all.”

A total of seven cyborgs, not including Warren, were gathered in the center of the street. Craig was in the middle. In one hand he held a combat knife. In the other, a man—a new arrival from some distant planet—squirmed. The man was bleeding from his mouth and nose, but based on the way he was tugging at his shirt to try to keep from being strangled, he was still alive.

“Do not make harm to the man,” growled Lukov. “This is not our way.”

Craig adjusted his grip on his blade. “This guy was making drugs. You know how much trouble this shit’s causing here. He’s nothing but a cockroach—a drain on our society.”

“Is not right thing,” said Lukov. He glanced at Warren, which drew Craig’s attention as well. “Is wrong thing. If you are shooting this man, is not correct to do. Is murder. Do not do this thing.”

“Hey, Craig,” said Warren, glancing up at the reddish, dust-filled sky outside the dome. It was getting late.

“Boss,” said Craig, flicking his gaze to Warren.

Lukov had his rifle out, but thankfully still had it pointed at the red Reotian dirt. The way he kept adjusting his grip, it looked like he was considering using it.

HOLD, Warren sent to the Russian.

OKAY, replied Lukov.

All eyes, both cyborg and full-human, turned to Warren as if he was some kind of all-knowing guru. As if he had all the answers and would immediately put this problem to bed, never to be heard of again. Warren wished he could do just that, but for all the power and knowledge the cyborgs contained, deep down, they were just as human—and therefore just as fallible—as everyone else.

“Caught this guy trying to steal the drug manufacturing equipment we found,” explained Craig. “I made him show me his home. He had more in there. We can’t let that slide, can we?” He shook the man, causing his prisoner to gag and claw at the clothing at his throat. “This guy’s dirty, boss. All I want to do is stop him. It will save everyone a lot of trouble.”

“Maybe,” admitted Warren. “But it’s not how we do things around here. We aren’t judge, jury, and executioner. The Reotians have a fledgling legal system they’re assembling. We need to give them a chance to police themselves. We aren’t their overseers. We’re their protectors and allies. If what you say is true, I want that man placed in the brig and held until trial. It’s the only way.”

“What?” asked Craig, incensed. “What right does this idiot have to make drugs and cause problems in our colony? He’s killing people. Killing them.”

“And he’ll pay for it,” Warren assured him.

Craig glanced at his knife, then dropped it like it was burning his hand. He let go of the man, who coughed and began rubbing his neck.

The cyborg had made great strides lately and Warren didn’t want him to slide backward. Maybe this is what he needed to really understand how power could go to someone’s head and how easy it was for one of them to become just like the Republic.

Craig rose to his full height, still staring at the hand he’d used to hold the blade. He turned it over, studied the back for a second, then looked at his palm again. “These people,” he said. “They don’t understand what they’ve got. They don’t understand how it is to be human, instead of a robotic freak.”

“We are human,” offered Warren. “And I can prove it.”

The other cyborg inclined his head, giving Warren a puzzled look. “How?” he asked.

“We can do one thing no animal, so far as we know, can do. And as far as we know, nobody’s been able to program an AI to do it either. It’s something no computer or machine can do.” Warren waited a few seconds to make sure he had everyone’s attention before continuing. “Craig, the one thing we can do that is unique to humans, is hope. We can hope.”

Craig seemed to consider this but turned away. “There’s something humans can do that we can’t, though,” he said over his shoulder.

“What’s that?” asked Warren.

“Grow old and die a natural death.” Craig thrust his hands into his pockets and slowly began walking away.

“Thank you,” the man on the ground said, still rubbing his neck. “I thought he was—“

“Shut up,” growled Warren. Then to the other cyborgs, he asked, “Can anyone verify what was found in this man’s home?”

Two cyborgs raised a hand.

“Lukov, please throw this man in the brig. He’s the Reotians’ problem now.”

“With much gladness,” the cyborg said as he picked the man up and threw him over one shoulder.

“Put me down!” the prisoner shouted. He beat on the Russian’s back with his fists, but Lukov didn’t seem to mind.

“What happened here?” Rigby asked as she slowed her jog and stopped nearby.

Warren gave her a summary.

“Damn,” she hissed over a private channel. “At least the guy was caught.”

“I’m hoping he’s the main supplier,” said Warren, a dark expression clouding his features. “Let’s go find Sparky and see how he’s coming along. He’ll probably be relieved to know we’ve got the AI pod locked up in the Camel’s vault.”

When they found him, Sparky was too engrossed in the data the war computer was feeding his terminal to turn around to see who was entering the cargo vessel. Instead, he raised his index finger, urging whoever it was to wait a moment.

Warren and Rigby met eyes before approaching as quietly as possible so they could peek over the man’s shoulder. When they got close enough to see, Sparky snapped out of whatever technological spell had entranced him. The tech thrust himself against the terminal’s screen in an attempt to cover up whatever data was there.

“I said—oh, it’s you,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I suppose you can see this. You won’t believe how much information you brought back. This is only ten percent of it. Maybe less. It’s remarkable. Absolutely fascinating. Did you know the Commonwealth now occupies more than sixty systems?”

“The hell?” Rigby muttered. “How so many? Last I heard it was eleven. Were they all taken from the Republic?”

“I don’t know,” replied Sparky. He laughed like the terrible news was some kind of exciting present and it was his birthday. Upon seeing Warren’s sour expression, he cleared his throat and wiped the joyous look from his face. “Sorry, but this is important news. Everything is important, and I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“What else did you find so far?” asked Rigby.

Sparky leaned around the chair, apparently checking to make sure they were alone, then pressed the button to close the cargo hatch. After that, he blackened the front window with another button. “Let me show you,” he said, working hard to control his excitement as he swiped the screen a few times. He brought up something that resembled a diagram of a leg. It was far more technical than anything Warren had ever seen before.

Warren stepped closer and studied the wireframe image. “Prosthetic leg?”

“That’s what I thought at first, but these components are far too powerful for being a mere prosthesis. No, I think this is something more. Maybe a new kind of robot—kind of like the mechs we had to fight a couple of weeks ago, but even more streamlined. The data is still filling in, and there are references to other parts, but those haven’t been decoded by the war computer yet. I think the CoWs are building some kind of robot army. Probably something to fight cyborgs.

“Shit,” Rigby said before sitting hard on the floor, causing the craft to rock back and forth on its struts for a couple of seconds. “That’s all we need. Not just robots, but streamlined robots. Do the new ones have radioactive micro-rockets like the old ones?”

“I haven’t seen anything like that yet,” admitted Sparky. “But I only have—“

“Ten percent of the data,” interrupted Rigby. “Sorry, but why does all news have to be bad news?”

“Oh, well this isn’t bad news,” he replied. “This is actually good news. Excellent news. Once the rest of the data is decoded, we’ll have the plans for these things. We might be able to produce our own robot army.”

“I don’t know,” said Rigby, sounding unconvinced. “Cyborgs are enough for these people. They’ve been through a lot of shit. The last thing they need is more slaves running around serving a master who isn’t them. And I don’t think there’s any one of them responsible enough to be put in charge of a robot army. That’s how dictators are born. No, it’s not a good idea.”

“What if you used them as cannon fodder when you need to invade somewhere?” he asked, glancing between the two cyborgs.

“They might not be robots at all,” said Warren, cutting off what looked like was going to be a scathing retort from Rigby. “Let’s wait until all the data comes in. But in the meantime, knowing about these potential robots gives us a huge advantage. Once we have the plans, we’ll be able to figure out where their weak points are, and how best to neutralize them if we ever run into them. Let the CoWs spend their money and resources. When they show up with their robot army, and we’ve got a way to take them out in seconds, they’ll probably give up right there on the spot.”

Rigby laughed. “Stop being so optimistic. You’re making it difficult to sulk.”

At that, both Warren and Sparky laughed.

“Keep up the good work,” Warren told the tech. “I’ll come back and check on you later, but I don’t want you staying up all night with this. Code-lock the terminal when you’re done or when you’re tired enough to sleep. Whatever you find, we can discuss it in the morning. You got me?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he replied. “But one thing before you go… did you take care of… it?”

“Sure did,” said Rigby, standing. “We attached the AI to the EV system. It’s responsible for making sure all the environmental units stay online, and nobody suffocates to death.”

“She’s kidding,” Warren said, interrupting whatever Sparky was about to say next. “I disconnected it from all that equipment. Rigby locked it away where nobody can get to it. It’s safe.”

Sparky laughed nervously again, then winked and shook a finger at Rigby. “You’re a clever one. Had me going there for a while.”

“Thanks,” she said, giving Warren a mischievous grin. “See you later, Sparky.”

Once the cargo gate was lowered and both cyborgs were outside the ship, Warren spoke across their private channel. “Why do you do that to people?”

“What?” she asked.

“Tease them.”

Rigby laughed. “I don’t know. I’m good at it. It gives me a charge. Lots of reasons. Plus, I think he needed it. That guy’s wound a little tight, wouldn’t you say?”

“He is,” agreed Warren, shaking his head at the day’s events. “I need to go check on these refugees. I want to see them come in and get a feel.”

“Go ahead,” she replied. “I’ll keep an eye on Sparky and see that he’s not interrupted. I’ll make sure he actually walks away from his work and gets some sleep, too. Something tells me if we left him to his own devices, he might be up for days.”

“Thanks,” Warren replied.

The two locked eyes for several seconds—an unspoken something passing between them—before Warren turned and walked away.

9

The refugees were a sorry lot. Men, women, and children had all been crammed into a vessel that looked like it had been made from spare parts and might catch fire any moment. Pieces stuck off of the six-meter craft at odd angles, making it difficult to spot which of the three ends was the bow. Luckily, it was parked about fifty meters from the Dome-1 airlock, far enough away enough to save the structure from any damage if the thing spontaneously detonated.

The first few were still removing EV suits Lukov and the other cyborgs had provided. These first six were all children. They looked half-starved and exhausted. Dozens of Reotian women had already gathered outside the area the cyborgs were protecting. Several must have anticipated the new arrivals’ needs. Their arms were loaded with buckets of food, bottles of water, and clothing.

“This batch looks pretty rough,” noted Rigby. She was helping one of the children, a young boy maybe ten years old, remove his EV suit’s boots. She looked like she was afraid of breaking the frail boy. Warren couldn’t blame her—the kid’s arms and legs looked like twigs. He wore a shirt and although it looked clean, it was threadbare and hung from him like it was made for someone bigger. “Should I get one of the docs over here to check them out?”

“Yeah, do it,” replied Warren. “They might be sick, too. The last thing we need is for some kind of infectious disease to spread through the colony. Let’s move everyone to the brig and quarantine them there until one of the doctors gives them the all-clear. In fact, let’s do that with everyone who comes in from now on.”

“Roger that,” she said, offering the little boy a sad smile. He quickly returned the smile before huddling with the rest of the children in the center of the clearing.

“Heading out for getting the next batch,” announced Lukov, gesturing to several other cyborgs. Four left through the airlock.

“No!” one of the children, a girl of maybe thirteen years, shouted. Rigby stood and took a step back. The child was baring her teeth and looked like she was ready to fight, standing with her arms out to her sides, shielding and protecting the others from the cyborg.

“Sorry,” said Rigby. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Just—just don’t touch them,” the girl said. She was courageous. The other children hid behind her as though she’d been protecting them for a long time. Maybe she had.

Rigby gave Warren a pained look.

“Don’t bother,” he told her. “Let’s wait until an adult comes out. They’re too scared. Probably been living in fear of cyborgs for a long time. I doubt any of those kids knows a time before cyborgs. It’s okay.”

Rigby nodded and backed away to the perimeter of the clearing. He noticed her bottom lip was sticking out a little and imagined that if she could cry, she would have. Ever since the Cyborg Corps had gained their freedom, Warren had noticed changes in their personalities. He guessed that they were struggling some with being able to express emotion now that they weren’t under the war computer’s control.

Warren used the scene before him as motivation to continue what he was doing. He had to make sure Reotis was secure, so that if anything happened to him and the other cyborgs, the people would remain free. The colony couldn’t bring in the entire galaxy, though. There wasn’t enough space, and there weren’t enough supplies. Eventually, other planets would have to be freed. If he could find a way to do it, entire populations could remain where they were instead of having to take hazardous journeys in makeshift vessels. Some could take in their own refugees until both the Republic and Commonwealth were crippled enough to become irrelevant. No more skinny kids. No more slaves.

The next group came through the airlock when it opened. A couple of them looked short enough to be children, but the others were taller. As they removed their EV suits, Warren’s suspicions were confirmed. He stepped forward and, while still maintaining what he hoped would be a less-than-intimidating distance of about four meters from the refugees, waited.

One of the adults looked up from the child he was helping then motioned to a middle aged woman. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her dark skin was covered in lines of soot. The gray flight suit marked her as the pilot who’d flown what was left of their ship. She glanced at the rest of the cyborgs and the people standing behind them before kicking off her EV boots and marching toward Warren.

“You in charge of this place?” she asked.

“I am,” said Warren. “Welcome to Reotis.”

“The kids need a doctor,” she said, hooking her chin at the refugees. “The old lady isn’t lookin’ so good either, but everyone insisted she be sent along. I think she’s an elder of some kind. Something official like that. The man—he’s their father, or so he says. Don’t know for sure. Didn’t ask. What’s your name?”

“I’m Warren Prescott. First Cyborg Corps. Reotian Defense Force.”

The woman nodded. “How’d you do it?” she asked. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be controlled or something? Some war computer?”

“The details aren’t important right now,” replied Warren. “But suffice it to say, we’re no longer under the control of any war computer. We’re free. Where are you from?”

“Turano,” she replied. “Commonwealth world. It was supposed to be this paradise—a place to get away from it all. A future vacation spot everyone was going to want to come to someday. They promised everyone luxury housing, plenty of space, and a bit of autonomy. You know, run things our way, more or less. It was good, for a while. I think the CoWs were using it as a front—something to show in their propaganda films. A paradise awaiting anyone who wanted to leave the Republic. Yeah—as if.

“Well, I fell for it. So did a lot of other people, including some of the ones I brought with me. You’ve probably got your hands full here, but there are a lot more on the way if they can find a way to get here. CoWs are probably going to figure out how we got past their defenses to prevent anyone else from leaving, though, so we might be it. Damn shame, too. They made me bring the kids. Wanted to give ‘em a better chance than they’d have there. Honorable, but it’s too bad I didn’t have something other than that piece of shit to fly all the way out here. By the way, I wouldn’t try moving it. Might as well scrap it.”

“Noted,” replied Warren. “I’ll get someone to work on it soon. Is there anything in the craft you need us to get for you?”

“Yeah, a crate,” she said, turning her eyes toward the airlock. “I have no idea what’s inside it, but they insisted we bring it along with us. Said it was of dire importance. I told them where to stick it, but they said no crate, no kids, so we brought it. The thing’s in the cargo hold. Big blue polymer box. Can’t miss it.”

Warren sent a message to Lukov informing him of the mysterious box and urging caution. The Russian said he’d be careful as he and two others began hurrying to the airlock.

“So, what’s next?” the woman asked.

“Next, you stay here until Lukov can interview you. He’s—“

“We’re getting interrogated?” she interrupted.

“No, not exactly,” said Warren. “In order to maintain our security, Lukov will ask you some questions. So long as you answer honestly and aren’t here to cause chaos and disorder, everything will be fine. You won’t be released into the population until one of our doctors checks you out, though. Same goes for the kids.”

“Fine,” she said with a nod and returned to the others.

“Something is unexpected,” transmitted Lukov. “The box is not for transporting of the cargo.”

“What was in it?” Warren asked.

“Shep King,” he replied.

“A person?”

“A cyborg,” Lukov corrected. “Second Corps. He wishes to be speaking to you. He is not armed, but he does have the injury. Both legs are having damage, as well as one arm. Is complying with the orders.”

Second Corps? Warren could hardly believe he’d understood the Russian correctly, but he had. Last he’d heard, Second Corps was tied down at some planet, unable to extract themselves from the situation. But that had been weeks ago. Anything could’ve happened since then.

“Bring him inside,” Warren ordered. “Take him to the interrogation room.” There was no formal interrogation room. Instead, there was a house they’d used to grill a spy who’d injured Lukov with a grenade not long ago. It’s where the cyborg Anna DeFranc had convinced the man to talk, to tell her everything he knew. Nobody had bothered to clean up the mess, so it wasn’t currently occupied. Warren added it to the list of things that needed to be done.

“Am bringing him in now,” replied Lukov. “I will be interview the refugees. Am sending Cooper and Oplin for escorting him.”

Warren turned and walked briskly to the interrogation room. Someone had added a padlock to the door. He didn’t have a key or the time to find out who did, so with a quick flick of his wrist, he broke the lock and let himself in.

The center of the room was still occupied by the single chair DeFranc had tied the spy to while she’d motivated him to speak. Warren hadn’t asked her what had occurred before he arrived or after he left, but based on the amount of blood, it hadn’t been good.

“Where do you want him, boss?” asked Cooper. “In the chair?”

Warren nodded and stepped out of the way as the other cyborgs brought the one named King in and sat him down. He hadn’t resisted, but they weren’t giving him a chance to, either. The cyborg was wearing nothing but rags. His shoes were still in decent shape, but they weren’t the ones he’d been issued.

“Who stuck you in that box?” asked Warren. Based on the cyborg’s confused expression, it wasn’t the question he’d been expecting.

“Our leader, General Clem Kaplan, sir,” replied King.

“General?” asked Warren.

“Of course, sir. He’s our leader. And you are?”

“Call me Warren,” he replied.

King’s face twisted into an unrecognizable expression, and he shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Cooper and the other cyborg stepped a little closer. “Seems a bit… informal, sir.”

“Yeah? Good. That’s how we do things around here.”

The cyborg glanced at his two guards, apparently looking for confirmation or to be let in on the joke if it was one. When the others offered him nothing but a stony stare, his gaze returned to the cyborg standing in front of him. “As you wish, Warren.”

“Good. Now, why did General Kaplan put you in the box?”

“To get me here,” he replied. “My mission is to seek you out and convince you to aid the Second Corps if you’re able to. The situation is dire but stable. We’ve heard about what you’ve accomplished here, and if it’s true, General Kaplan says you should have enough resources to help.”

“Help what?” asked Warren. “What’s the situation on Turano?”

“It’s somewhere between bad and shit, sir,” replied King. “Our freedom event went well enough, but the Republic had agents on board—not just the crew. We caught them, but not before they sabotaged critical systems in our ship, the Conquest. The cruisers weren’t designed to land on a planetary surface, and we proved it.

“Most of the crew and all the cyborgs were able to escape. We had to leave some of the squishies behind—but not for lack of trying. The explosions breached the containment tanks and lit the fuse on a bunch of missiles. There were whole floors we couldn’t access because of the radiation and fires. Some of the idiots decided to go down with the ship or something. I’m not real clear what was happening on the other decks. I was trying to save who and what I could, but it didn’t go well.

“Then came reentry. Some of the ships and escape pods got damaged and outright blown to hell on the way down. Others made it down but came in too fast. Lost a lot of people that day, both cyborg and human.”

“And without the Conquest, there was no way for you to create new biologicals,” Warren finished.

“Affirmative, sir,” King replied.

“What of your war computer?”

“CoW Slicers burned a hole right through the middle of it. We found some of it a few days later. A few cyborgs stayed behind to try to keep it secure while the rest fanned out to try to find somewhere to hold up. When the CoWs got close, the guards scuttled it. Better that, than having it fall into CoW hands. The last thing we need is for them to get hold of that bit of tech. They have enough already.”

No war computer meant no backups. No cruiser meant no new bodies. If a cyborg from Second Corps was destroyed, they were as good as dead. They were mortal.

“Enough?” asked Warren.

A shadow seemed to form over King’s eyes as he lifted his eyes to meet Warren’s. “Lots of tech, sir. Shit they’re not supposed to have. Shit they have no business messing with. Unless the Repub’s been lying to us this whole time, the Commonwealth has far better security and scientists than we’ve given them credit for.”

“Elaborate,” said Warren.

King nodded and stared at his feet for a couple of seconds, then began speaking. “Mechs,” he said. “Big man-like machines that carry rifles. They shoot little rocket-propelled grenades out of their shoulders and clouds of radioactive micro-rockets from their forearms. Damn things will burn a hole right into your brain.” King tapped the side of his head to emphasize his words.

“We’ve already experienced those,” said Warren. “You didn’t see it because you were stuck in a box, but the remains of a Commonwealth mothership are currently being scrapped a kilometer outside the colony. What else?”

“Rocket tanks,” he said. When Warren didn’t interrupt, he elaborated. “Big things, four meters high, twelve meters long, with two pods—one on each side of the central cockpit. Tracked vehicles they use to knock down buildings, bunkers—anything like that. They’re usually escorted by human ground troops. Each pod carries twenty-five armor-piercing rockets. Even wearing our battle armor, we don’t stand a chance against them. All we can do is hunt for their supply depots and garages and destroy them there. It’s never that easy, though. We usually end up losing someone.”

“How many cyborgs are left from Second Corps?” asked Cooper.

King remained seated but slowly turned to eye the other cyborg. “Do you always speak out of turn?” he asked.

Cooper raised one eyebrow and looked toward Warren. “What’s this fool talking about?”

“He thinks you’re being rude,” said Warren. “He doesn’t get that we don’t run things the same way General Kaplan does.”

“Oh,” said Cooper. “Do you think I should say it slower?”

“No. I think he gets it now. But in case he doesn’t, I’ll try to make it clearer.” Warren bent at the waist until he was nearly nose-to-nose with the new arrival. “We aren’t as formal as the setup you seem to have over there on Turano. I would appreciate it if you did not disrespect my cyborgs. I’m their leader, not their god. Do you understand now?”

“Yes, sir,” King replied.

“Then answer his question.”

King nodded and began speaking again. “Of the one hundred we started with in Second Corps, only sixty-two cyborgs remain. I have no idea if that number is still accurate, but before I left, that was the number we’d verified. Without a war computer, we just don’t know how many others there could be. Some might be injured or trapped somewhere they can’t get to the rest of the team. Some are out on patrols. Others are on guard duty and won’t be relieved for days, so there’s no way to tell without someone running around to do a survey or bringing everyone back to do a headcount.

“General Kaplan says the CoWs are going to bring more forces to the planet to find and eliminate all the survivors,” continued King. “He says once they do that, they’re coming here. If you don’t help us, you might find an armada at your doorstep. In fact, they’re probably probing your defenses as we speak.”

10

If Warren had lungs like a full human, he was pretty sure the news would have made him hold his breath. The Commonwealth could be probing his defenses, and what was he doing? Interrogating someone who probably didn’t mean Reotis any harm to begin with.

He sent a message to the war computer. It took a few seconds for the machine to respond because it needed time to interface with the new cyborg’s compulsion chip and run diagnostics. When it returned its report, Warren wasn’t any more relieved than he’d been a minute earlier. The cyborg was free, just like him. He’d suffered what appeared to be battle damage and was emitting a low level of radiation. Everything about his story was checking out, which led Warren to believe the rest of it might be true as well.

“Lukov,” Warren transmitted.

“I am here,” the cyborg replied. “Interrogation is almost completed.”

“Good—but that’s not why I’m contacting you. Who do we have aboard the Ruthless?”

The other cyborg sent a report of the personnel currently on the ship. It wasn’t much. Just enough to get the vessel ready for faster than light travel, should the need arise.

“Put them on red alert and have them scan everything they can reach,” said Warren. “I don’t care if it makes us look like a beacon, and I don’t care whose attention we attract. I have reason to believe we may be attacked soon.”

“It is done,” said Lukov. “I will be made to finish interviews in few minutes. What should I do after?”

“Put your security personnel on high alert. Don’t sound the alarm yet, but bring your reserves in, brief them, and get as many bodies moving as soon as you can.”

“Roger,” replied Lukov.

“Curet,” Warren transmitted next.

“Curet here, Warren. Scope is clear.”

“Any chance you can crank up your scanners?” asked Warren.

“Sure, maybe another ten percent. But if I do that, it might give away all our guns’ positions. You want me to do it anyway?”

Warren bit his lip and thought about it. “No, but keep your eyes open. Call it ‘Yellow Alert’ if you want, but I have reason to believe our defenses might be probed soon.”

“Shit. Okay, Yellow Alert it is. Care to let me in on what’s happening?”

“Not now,” Warren replied. “As soon as I have something concrete, I’ll let you know. Until then, keep your people on their toes.” He disconnected the channel before the Gun Chief could respond, cutting off any further questions he might’ve had. There would be time to apologize later.

“I’ve put our defenses on Yellow Alert,” Warren told King.

King shrugged, which made a peculiar grinding sound somewhere deep inside his chest. Probably damaged parts, Warren realized.

“So, what’s it going to be?” asked King. “Are you going to go help Second Corps, or not? You guys have a council you need to ask or something?” He glanced at the others in the room before settling his eyes on Warren.

“Sort of,” said Warren. “But for now, I make the final decisions. I’ll need to discuss this with a few others. Until I decide, we’re going to detain you. Nothing personal, but you show up out of nowhere, sneak aboard a ship, then give me quite a tale…” He let the words trail off.

“I haven’t even told you everything yet,” replied King. There was no humor in his expression. “It’s worse than you think. The Commonwealth has somehow acquired tech they shouldn’t have. Things you’ve probably never even considered before. We don’t understand all of it, but I’ve been sent with recordings. Get your war computer to extract them, sir. You’re going to want to see this. Seeing is believing.”

Warren accepted his challenge and tasked the war computer with opening a connection and sending a message to King when it was ready. A minute later, it sent a new message to Warren indicating it had collected the files and was prepared to transmit them.

The cyborg opened a new connection and began to watch.

* * *

Someone was breathing hard, gasping with a strange rattling sound somewhere deep in their lungs. The room was dark, except for the cracks in the walls and bullet holes. The cyborg didn’t have any problem seeing, though.

Movement on the other side of a doorway drew his attention. It was a human in battle armor carrying a rifle. There was another one somewhere in the room, but that one was different somehow. It took a moment, but Warren realized why—it wasn’t breathing.

Before he’d had enough time to fully consider what it might mean, the first one stepped through the doorway. The cyborg threw the pipe it had been holding. The human screamed, dropped his rifle, and tipped sideways to the floor. The pipe had punctured the guy’s armor and gone right through his leg. It now stuck out of the other side several centimeters.

The soldier and cyborg both scrambled for the weapon. When the soldier grabbed it first, the cyborg grasped the barrel, yanked hard, and ended up dragging the man across the floor. It’s first punch broke the soldier’s helmet, exposing a terrified bearded face. The second turned the face inside out.

A second later, the cyborg grunted. A foot had appeared on the hand holding the weapon. A barrel pointed at the soldier’s face. There was a flash. Then darkness.

The next video loaded and began to play.

Another cyborg. This one was taking cover behind a low wall, which was slowly being blasted away by enemy fire. The scene was familiar, and it took Warren a moment to remember why. It was similar to the last invasion he’d participated in on Reotis. An enemy machine gunner had him and his squad pinned down behind a concrete wall. Little by little, the enemy chipped away at their cover.

A grunt of pain. The cyborg tried to turn around—it had come from behind. But something pushed him back, and suddenly the cyborg’s right eye didn’t work anymore. A bayonet, with a cybernetic eye on the end, stuck out from the cyborg’s face. The blade twisted, and everything slowly went dark.

Warren wanted to stop the videos. He’d seen enough to begin asking questions but felt a need to finish them. He owed it to those who’d died to see their stories and gather as much information as possible.

The next video loaded, and Warren braced himself. Another cyborg. He was one of three who’d been assigned to guard prisoners who looked like they hadn’t been captured without a fight. One appeared to be close to death. The rest were filthy, bleeding, and mostly naked. A message appeared in the cyborg’s field of vision, somewhere near the bottom.

DUNKIR: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486,01,01

Warren instinctively reached for the rifle, but he wasn’t wearing his armor. His hand moved to the pistol on his hip, but he stopped himself. It was part of the video. He didn’t have anyone in First Corps with the name Dunkir.

The cyborg in the video rolled back, tucked his knees to his chest, and sprang to his feet. He barely avoided several shots that peppered the ground where he’d been taking cover. The shots had come from somewhere behind.

When the cyborg spun around and raised his rifle, it was yanked from his grasp… by a human. The man was bleeding from his nose and mouth. The skin on his face appeared burned and flayed, but he was still fighting. Warren’s first thought was drugs. There were some that could make people extremely violent and immune to pain. All modern militaries had experimented with them, from what he knew. It made their soldiers difficult to kill, but what happened next was beyond explanation.

The human threw the captured rifle, and it disappeared into the night. Another cyborg shot him in the guts. Warren watched as a cloud of blood temporarily fogged the cyborg’s vision before he had a chance to wipe it away, but the human kept fighting.

The cyborg threw a punch, but the human caught it, grasped the cyborg’s forearm with his other hand, and threw him into a wall. Bricks pelted the cyborg, and dust rose into the air. He looked down. A twisted piece of metal—not a pipe, but something similar—stuck out from the middle of his chest.

The human kept coming. When the cyborg attempted to fight, the human kicked him in the face, then he kicked something else. He then walked away, looking for something while the cyborg inspected the metal sticking from its chest. The human had kicked the impalement, bending it into a hook. He’d have to straighten it if there was any chance of him getting back into the fight.

Warren tried to urge the cyborg to grab his pistol. All cyborgs had pistols, didn’t they? Why wasn’t he using his?

The human returned with another length of pipe. One end looked sharp, but the other protruded through a block of concrete. He eyed the cyborg with a look of complete indifference. This wasn’t personal. It was business.

The cyborg raised his hands, attempting to catch or deflect the blow. It worked—sort of. The swing had been powerful enough to shatter the concrete, but the defender lost an arm—ripped off right at the elbow. The next one destroyed his other hand. Damn, the human was fast. The third, aimed at the cyborg’s face, sent the video into darkness.

* * *

The war computer sent Warren a message that informed him the video files had all played. When his normal vision returned, King was watching him carefully.

“Do you see what we’re up against?” asked King.

“Yes, and no,” admitted Warren. “Those humans—they’re fast. Too fast. Is it drugs?”

King shook his head. “We managed to kill one, but not until our first leader died and General Kaplan took over. I know they look like humans, but they’re not.”

Cooper gave Warren a curious look but kept his mouth shut.

“What are they, then?” asked Warren.

“They’re cyborgs.”

At first, Warren wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. They were cyborgs. The thing he saw in the video had bled. Cyborgs didn’t bleed.

Warren took a step back and loaded the videos again. He played each one over, searching for details he might’ve missed. Maybe there was someone in the background doing the attacking. Maybe the cyborg had been difficult to spot with all the chaos.

The second pass didn’t reveal anyone hidden in the background—another actor who might’ve been the one King had been speaking of—so Warren watched them again. Then he watched them a third time. Still nothing.

King studied Warren’s face carefully. There was no smugness there. No hint of deceit or humor. He was serious.

“How?” asked Warren. “They were bleeding.”

“I know,” said King. “They do that. They also breathe—sort of. If you listen carefully, you can even hear a heartbeat when they want you to. It’s simulated, of course, but it sounds real. We don’t know how the CoWs created them, or where they got the tech from, but we’re confident they didn’t come up with it themselves.”

“What do you suspect?” asked Warren, wondering if there was something he wanted to say but wasn’t sure about.

King watched him for a few seconds, apparently deciding on whether he wanted to speculate. “I and others suspect there’s a third party involved. Maybe it’s part of the Republic. Maybe it’s one of their weapons contractors—someone who has an agenda against them or just wants to make a lot of credits. Either way, almost nothing else the CoWs have compares with Ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” asked Cooper.

“That’s what we call their cyborgs,” replied King, still staring at Warren. “They’re difficult to spot. They sweat. They eventually smell bad. They blend into the squishies. It’s like they know the bullshit the Repub made us do. Like they’ve gotten into our heads and know we don’t like killing innocents.”

“What’s he talking about?” asked Cooper. “Does the Commonwealth have their own cyborgs? Not just mechs?”

“Not just mechs,” confirmed King. “Plus, there’s a lot we suspect but just don’t know for sure. They’re far too coordinated. They fight like a hive mind. We’ve never seen such a thing before, and I’m not talking about the Ghosts. I’m talking about their regular troops. Full humans rolling around in their tanks, and fighters with ground movements like they can all read each other’s minds.

“We’ve captured plenty—some alive, others not so much. We’ve dissected them. No implants. Nothing out of the ordinary. Besides poking around, dissolving the bodies to see if there’s any metal left, and sifting through their remains with what tools we have, we can’t find anything special about them. But the effect is still the same. They’re kicking our asses. That’s why we had to go into hiding.”

“You said things changed when General Kaplan took over,” prompted Warren.

King nodded. “General Kaplan believes in all-out war, more in line with what the Republic might do. It’s the only way to be sure. If we see a hostile, we no longer give them a chance to surrender. If they do, we kill ‘em anyway. It’s the only reason there’s any of Second Corps still left. But we don’t go out looking for trouble. Not yet. That’s where you and the rest of First Corps come in. The general is waiting for you. He’s got plans to end the Commonwealth occupation on the planet.”

Warren thought about the refugees who’d been pouring in almost daily over the last couple of weeks. The methods Lukov had used to interview them might not work on the new cyborgs. Their troubles might be worse than he imagined.

11

WHAT CAN WE DO?

The message had come from Cooper, whose wide-eyed expression revealed how frightened he really was, even though he was trying to hide it.

“I need to consult my security chief to help figure out what we’re going to do,” said Warren. “But I need you to understand that my first priority is to protect Reotis and the people who live here. They’re the only reason you and I are free. They’re the ones who set this whole thing in motion, risking their lives, and losing some in the process. We owe it to them.”

“You also owe your brother and sister cyborgs,” said King, his tone fierce. “We’ve fought together. We’ve suffered together. And only together can we hope to bring the Republic and Commonwealth to their knees.”

“I understand, but one thing at a time,” Warren said, motioning with one hand for the cyborg to calm himself. Then to Cooper, he said, “Move King to the brig. Then get Hendrose over to see him to figure out what parts he’s going to need to get back to one hundred percent. I’ll come visit him later once I’ve had a chance to talk to the others. He’s not under arrest, but he’ll need to stay there until I figure out what we’re doing. The less moving parts to this puzzle, the better.”

“Thank you, sir,” said King. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“I will,” Warren promised before he turned and left.

“I am completed,” transmitted Lukov.

“Good,” replied Warren. “Get Wraith Squadron to the hangar. Clear everyone out of the warehouse. We’ll meet there. No special equipment needed. This will be a meeting of the minds. I have information to communicate, and I’d like your input.”

“I will do this right away,” promised Lukov.

Warren began to fidget but forced himself to calm down. They already had a plan in place to protect the colony. Curet was making progress on the guns, providing them with armor and camouflage. Of course, if there were CoW cyborgs in the base, the Slicers wouldn’t do much good. Their enemy could already be behind their defenses.

The Ruthless was safely in orbit. The only personnel who were allowed to travel to it were members of the original crew—plus a few trusted Reotians who’d already proven their worth and expertise. They could be scanned by one of the cargo ships, he supposed, but he’d like to do so without drawing too much attention to what he was doing. He sent a brief message to the cyborg Anna DeFranc to see if she had any ideas. Without being too specific, he asked her to keep it as secret as possible. She replied, indicating she would.

* * *

Present in the warehouse was Wraith Squadron—the pilots of the CWS-14 Commonwealth light fighters they’d affectionately renamed “Stingers” only because “flying coffins” held such a negative connotation. Also present was Lukov, which was fine by Warren. He should be involved.

Everyone was standing around, whispering among themselves until Warren approached them. Then they became quiet, though several gave Sparky curious looks.

“Wraith squadron is present,” said Lukov. “We are wondering what is the problem. What has the mighty leader with such worry.”

“I’m going to send a message to the war computer,” said Warren. “It will load some video files into your memories. I want everyone to watch them and save your questions until after you’ve seen what I’ve seen. I’ve watched them all three times.”

Nobody said anything. Warren instructed the war computer to send the videos to Sparky’s pad as well. When it was over, everyone looked shocked.

“What the hell did I just watch?” asked Baker. “Is it some new kind of drug the CoWs are giving their troops?”

“It’s not drugs,” replied Warren.

“It’s got to be,” Rigby said. “Nothing else explains that. They’re immune to pain. They’re strong. I bet those humans died right after the video ended.”

“They’re not humans,” replied Warren. “Not completely.”

“What is your meaning?” asked Lukov, wrinkling his brow in confusion. “They bleed. They are human.”

“They’re cyborgs,” said Sparky.

The room went silent, and several of the cyborgs exchanged nervous glances.

“You’re tellin’ me the Commonwealth of Worlds has come up with some kind of cyborg that has living skin? That can bleed? Grow hair? Breathe?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” replied Warren. “I’m also telling you we may have some within the colony.”

“But—“ started Lukov. He stopped speaking, one index finger raised like he was about to pontificate about the lie detection he’d done, but changed his mind. “If they are looking like the full human, perhaps they are smelling of the full human. Maybe have heartbeat? Body warmth? Dilation of pupil? Oh, no,” he said when Warren nodded his confirmation.

The others seemed to come to the realization at the same time. Some glanced at each other, while others openly stared, probably sending private messages. Eventually, all their eyes settled on Sparky, who began to look uncomfortable.

“How do we know which are which?” asked Rigby.

“Even more important, how’d you get these video files?” asked Oplin.

“From a cyborg named Shep King,” replied Warren. “He’s from Second Corps. He stowed away on a ship of refugees. He’s here now, and he’s pretty beat up. Hendrose is fixing him. I’ve got a couple of cyborgs guarding him. Unfortunately, it gets worse.”

Warren took a few minutes to fill them in on the artificial intelligence pod, how many systems the Commonwealth of Worlds currently controlled, and what he and Rigby found on the moon.

“They can’t have a good grip on any of those systems,” whispered Baker. “I mean, the Repub’s already stretched thin with what, a hundred systems?”

“One hundred and twelve by last count,” said Rigby.

“They’re probably not good systems,” noted Willy. “Probably just some bullshit stars out in the middle of nowhere. One planet. A crap tonne of asteroids. Just someplace to plant their flag.”

“Agreed,” said Warren. “But the fact they’ve claimed so many systems is the disturbing part. It forces us to ask why. Why are they expanding so quickly? What’s their goal?”

Everyone, including Sparky, glanced at everyone else. Nobody seemed to have an answer.

“Another question,” said Baker, raising his hand. “Why’s King here? I remember him from a ways back. Good cyborg. Good guy. Why isn’t he fighting alongside the rest of Second Corps?”

“Because they’re losing,” said Warren. He took a few minutes to explain the situation Second Corps had found themselves in, according to King.

“Are we going to help them?” asked Baker.

“That’s the question we’re here to discuss,” replied Warren. “What do you want to do? As for me, I’m on the fence. Our first responsibility is to Reotis and her people. But at the same time, Second Corps are our brothers and sisters. Just because their mutiny didn’t go as well as ours doesn’t mean ours is any more righteous.”

“Plus, keepin’ them in the fight means the CoWs have to split their attention between us and them—and any other Corps who’ve managed to free themselves,” noted Willy. “But this place… I mean, we’ve done a lot for it, but we’re still the best defense they’ve got. This could all be a plan meant to remove us from the planet, right? A trick to make Reotis vulnerable again.”

“What if only half of us go?” asked Rigby. “The other half stays here and—“

“Will not be enough,” interrupted Lukov. “Fifty is not enough to secure planet alone. Maybe is not enough to make Turano free of CoWs. No, I believe the time is now for the Reotians to make themselves safe. It is time for opening the armory.”

“What, just handing them guns?” asked Oplin with a laugh. “Yeah, right. You’ve seen how they’re fighting amongst themselves. Imagine all that, the drugs that keep comin’ in somehow, and guns all mixed together.”

“They’re only doing that because we’re here,” said Rigby, waving the concern away. “Once we tell them we’re leaving, they’ll come to their senses and realize how they’ve got to stick together. There’ll probably still be a fight here and there, but not much.”

“Or they’ll revolt and ask us not to return,” countered Oplin.

“Then they do. So what? We’ll go free another planet. I don’t mind. You scared?”

“Enough!” Warren both said and transmitted. The bickering stopped, and all eyes turned to him. “You’re complaining about how the Reotians will fight among themselves? Well, you’re not really setting a good example, are you?” He waited a few seconds, but nobody replied. “This is why I asked you here. I trust all of you. We’ve battled together, even after being freed, and you’ve displayed your battle prowess, wisdom, forward-thinking, and teamwork. This needs to be decided here and now. Either way, we’ve got to prepare. So, what’s it going to be? All in favor, raise your hand.”

One by one, everyone raised a hand, including Sparking. Then, Warren raised his own. “Let’s get to it, then.”

12

Lukov’s job was to gather his security team one or two at a time and brief them. They’d come up with a plan to move some of the cargo ships around, ostensibly for bringing scrap metal in for the construction or repair of buildings. He wasn’t sure how he’d frame it yet, but Warren trusted him to come up with something believable.

The security personnel would use the ships to scan random colonists as they walked past. As each person was examined, his or her identity would be verified and logged. Lukov believed they could get most of the population scanned within a day or two and pick up the stragglers one at a time later. Though the Commonwealth cyborgs could hide from the naked eye, nobody doubted the ships’ sensors could detect them, especially at close range.

Warren had assigned himself to stick with King. He trusted the other cyborg to a point, but not enough to leave him alone. He also wanted to see what other information the soldier might have.

“Hello, sir,” said King as Warren entered the brig. He was lying supine—one arm and one leg disconnected while Hendrose worked on the sockets.

“King. How’s he coming along?” he asked Hendrose.

“Slowly,” replied Hendrose, sounding frustrated. “This guy’s been through some shit. Bullet holes, slugs, and background radiation, which, luckily, isn’t enough to nuke me so long as this doesn’t take too long. I may never have kids, but—“

“If it’s dangerous, go get yourself an EV suit, doc,” interrupted Warren.

The tech nodded and moved away to go track one down.

“Hardheaded, that one,” noted King.

“And brilliant,” replied Cooper. “He’s one of the smartest we’ve got, and he helped us earn our freedom.”

King didn’t respond other than to turn his eyes toward the ceiling and frown.

“I have more questions,” said Warren. “First, any chance you’ve got a map of the battlefield at Turano? Locations of enemy gun emplacements, anti-aircraft weapons—things like that?”

“Only what I’ve seen,” he replied. “It’s not much, but from the reports I received from others, I can tell you there’s no real orbital defense. We punched through that on our way in.”

“How’d you lose your war computer?” asked Warren.

“That came later. The CoWs have railguns. Blasted a hole through our ship before we even saw it was there. Took out a few squishies and two cyborgs at the same time. Nothing left but machine parts and guts. It was a mess.”

“Besides that are their Ghosts, short-range beam cannons they’ve got mounted just about everywhere, and snipers. They’ve got other things as well, but most of it seems to be civilian stuff they co-opted into military use. Typical CoW bullshit.”

Warren considered his words for a moment, allowing it all to soak in before making his next decision. “Do you have the knowledge modules loaded?”

“The what?” asked King, turning a questioning look to Warren.

“Thought so,” he replied. “You’re about to receive a connection request from our war computer. Accept it.”

A few seconds later, King’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. He made a gasping noise before it turned into a wide smile. “Damn, sir. Where’d you discover this?”

“It was all part of the plan,” Warren replied with a chuckle. “Not all of the information is useful, but one thing it allows is instant communications between cyborgs. So long as the war computer is in range, we can send each other messages, real-time data streams, video, audio—the works.”

“We could’ve used this back on Turano,” said King, his smile fading to a frown.

“You’ll have it once we get there,” Warren assured him. “Now, send me everything you have—maps, enemy emplacements, images of their weapons—all of it. Send me the coordinates of Turano, too.”

It took a few seconds for the other cyborg to figure out how to make it happen, but once he did, Warren’s brain was flooded with images and names.

“That what you were looking for?” asked King.

“That and more,” Warren said. “I’m going to get the war computer chewing on this information. I’ll see what plan it comes up with and tweak it as necessary. So tell me about General Kaplan.”

King made a pained expression. “The General is a good man,” he replied carefully.

“But?” prompted Warren.

“But he knows he’s the only reason any of Second Corps is still moving around and it’s gone to his head, sir. No disrespect intended, but there might be a little bit of a struggle for you to put whatever you’re planning in place. He might want to fight about it.”

Warren had expected as much from the way King acted about Cooper but didn’t want to voice his opinion out loud. One of his recovered memories was of a Marine Sergeant. The guy was an absolute dick who’d lost most of his platoon during a firefight. Even though Warren and his platoon had arrived fully armed and equipped to pull his ass out of the fire, the guy had tried taking command of the Army platoon. The confusion he’d caused had cost two lives—one from each of their platoons. Warren didn’t want that to happen again.

“Warren, this is Lukov,” the Russian transmitted.

“Go ahead,” he replied.

“Am forward a request from Dr. Fordell. She is not appreciating our leaving to make help with Second Corps.”

Warren closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, buddy, but I need you to handle this one. Did you explain to her why we’re doing it?”

“Negative. Is no secret?”

“Not anymore,” replied Warren. “It’s natural they’re going to wonder why we’re doing what we’re doing. Even though we’d tried to ease them into this, it’s time to take the bumpers off and smash them with the news. It’ll speed things up, too.”

“I will tell this to her and the others. Will it not impact ability to find Ghosts if they are maybe here?”

“Let’s hope not,” replied Warren. “How many ships do you have scanning people?”

“Seven of the eight smaller ships,” he replied. “Sparky is making argument over last, so I did not take.”

“Yeah, he’s working on the data I received from the AI on the moon. Let’s leave him be for now.”

“Warren,” transmitted a cyborg named Garin Corsa. He was one of the two standing guard duty outside the brig.

“What is it, Garin?”

“There’s a human out here. Says he needs to speak with you. He looks pissed.”

“Did you ask him what it’s about?”

“He’s a new arrival, and he says he needs to speak with you personally. He won’t tell me what it’s about.”

“If he won’t tell you, then it must not be that important,” concluded Warren.

“I’ll tell him,” Garin said with a laugh. “This ought to be fun.”

The interaction brought up another thought in Warren’s mind. “How are the civilians on the planet reacting to the cyborgs?” he asked King.

“About how you’d expect,” he replied. “Most think we’re the devil, there to enslave them, eat their babies—typical Commonwealth bullshit they tell their citizens. Their government has them thoroughly brainwashed. Some have come to our side, and more just want to be left alone. Some are kind, but when their government catches them being anything but hostile, they’re disappeared. Most are taken to a nearby reeducation camp. They take it pretty seriously. Call ‘em traitors and hang ‘em for everyone to see.”

“How many prisoners do they have?” asked Warren.

King turned his head and eyes toward Warren. “I didn’t count them if that’s what you’re asking. They keep their prisoners locked up in these tall buildings, like factories. That place is locked up tight. Guard towers all the way around. Spotlights. Machine guns. The works.”

Warren added the information to the war computer so it could adjust its plans. A jailbreak might be just the distraction they needed if the situation got dire. Plus, those who were freed might join their side. If nothing else, it would be an excellent way to distract some Commonwealth troops. Likely, they considered anyone locked up in their reeducation camp to be politically dangerous. The last thing they would want is for their ideas to start infecting the local population. Speaking of which…

“Any idea what the population is on the entire planet?” asked Warren. “Is it just one settlement?”

“Definitely not just the one settlement,” replied King. “We saw no fewer than ten major settlements coming in. Plus, they’ve got a smaller one on their moon. Some kind of mining colony up there. Probably iron, from what I gather. They still use a lot of the stuff, especially in their building construction.”

“What about—“ Warren’s thought was interrupted by a message appearing on his HUD.

CORSA: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486,02,19

Then another.

MEHTA: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486,02,17

All three cyborgs glanced at each other, frozen in shock. Then the steel door to the building, which was being used as a brig, exploded inward.

13

Warren dove further into the room, knocking King to the floor. He’d apologize later, but for now, there was killing to do.

Cooper was dragging the one-armed, one-legged King to the back corner of the room, hopefully out of the line of fire.

“Hiding, cyborg?” a man said from the other end of the building, about fifteen meters away. The distinct click of a rifle being charged was unmistakable. Whoever he was, he’d taken it from one of the guards outside. The Commonwealth weapons, which the insurgents would be getting, rattled more than they clicked.

Warren hadn’t heard any gunfire, though. No yelling. No grenades. Nothing that could have explained how both cyborgs had been killed.

“It’s one of them,” transmitted King. “A Ghost.”

Even though the transmission had been electronic, the cyborg had managed to throw enough emotion into it to let Warren know how serious he was. And how frightened he was.

Although the idea of taking the cyborg to the Ruthless to back him up had gone through Warren’s mind, he hadn’t done it yet. Warren didn’t fully trust him, and the cyborg still needed repairs, which were easy enough to do here within the colony. If all went well, he would’ve taken him for a backup afterward. Now he wasn’t sure he’d have the opportunity.

“We can’t stay here,” Cooper said over their private channel. “We’re sitting ducks.”

Warren unholstered Cooper’s pistol and offered it to King, who took the weapon and checked to make sure it was loaded before giving Warren a firm nod.

“All we need to do is keep him busy,” said Warren. “Someone will be here soon. Then we have him in a crossfire.”

“Come out, come out,” the man taunted.

THREE HURRIED TO YOU

The message was from Lukov. This Ghost had just taken out two cyborgs who’d been guarding the entrance to the brig. Apparently, it had done so without the use of any firearms. Warren wasn’t sure how, but that was a question for another time—if he survived.

Most important was King’s survival. Without him, he wouldn’t have the details the cyborgs would need when they arrived on Turano. There wouldn’t be anyone to make the introduction with General Kaplan. Little details—questions Warren hadn’t thought to ask—would go unanswered. It could mean the difference between victory or defeat. No way he was going to let some Commonwealth cyborg knock-off ruin his plans.

Cooper was wearing combat armor, but Warren wasn’t. Luckily, Lukov had finished interviewing all the civilians who’d arrived recently, so the rest of the cells were empty. It was him and Cooper versus one Ghost.

Ting, ting.

The grenade bounced and stopped near the edge of the doorway. For a split second, it looked like Cooper might try to grab for it, but Warren was faster. He raised his pistol and centered the targeting reticle, which appeared in his HUD on the device, then aimed a little higher and pulled the trigger. So long as it wasn’t a direct hit, and so long as he didn’t nail the thing in its detonator housing or with a direct shot, there was little chance of his bullet causing the thing to explode.

The grenade skittered away, but Cooper had already committed. When it detonated a half-second later, it blew him back into the cell. He slid a half meter and dropped his rifle, then clutched his face.

Warren felt like he’d caught a few pieces himself, mostly in his hands, but he cut his pain receptors down to ten percent and leaped from the cell. The Ghost was waiting for him, blood pouring from dozens of wounds on his face and body. When Warren tried to bring his pistol to bear, the Ghost dropped his rifle and grabbed the weapon with both hands.

The struggle only lasted a second before Warren pressed the magazine release button, dropping most of the ammunition to the floor. All that remained was the one in the chamber. He followed up with a stomp to the Ghost’s foot and then an elbow to the face.

If his opponent had been human, the stomp would have broken every bone in his foot, and the elbow likely would have killed him. The cybernetic opponent seemed unfazed, though, and returned the elbow with a headbutt, setting off alarms that filled Warren’s HUD.

There was no time to clear the messages. The Ghost tried to yank the pistol from Warren’s grasp, then shoved him into the closed door of the next cell. It buckled but held until the Ghost did it again, thrusting Warren through the break. He stumbled in after Warren and landed on top of him. The two struggled for several seconds before Warren decided to let him have the weapon. He timed his release for the next time the Ghost yanked on the weapon, which sent his opponent flying onto his back.

Warren grabbed for the other cyborg’s foot. His opponent shot him in the chest, but it felt like the bullet bounced off a rib, only penetrating a couple of centimeters and not doing a lot of damage.

Bang!

Someone had fired a pistol, but he was nowhere near his dropped magazine.

Bang!

The Ghost tried to scramble away, which gave Warren the opportunity he was looking for. He flipped over onto his back and flipped his opponent over. Hooking the Ghost’s foot in his armpit, he rolled to the right, squeezed, and arched his back. It took a lot more force to break the ankle, but there was a loud CRACK followed by a short buzz, and the limb went limp.

Warren let go when he felt his opponent trying for the same move. He brought his leg back and kicked the Ghost hard in the face. He almost felt bad when the man’s lips, nose, and most of the skin to his hairline slapped against the back of his head. What he saw underneath changed his mind. The skull was metal. Shiny like his own. It looked delicate, but it was difficult to tell if he’d done any damage due to all the blood and gore clinging to it.

Before Warren could deliver another blow, the Ghost flipped them over and grabbed for his leg again. Warren tried to kick free, which ended up allowing the Ghost to sink his grip in deeper. He grabbed for the other leg, but his opponent thrashed and kicked Warren in the face. There was still a brain inside of his cybernetic frame, he reminded himself. He could still get knocked out.

His opponent gave up on the ankle lock it looked like he was going for, but Warren wasn’t about to let him go.

A loud banging filled Warren’s ears. It sounded like the cavalry had arrived. Whoever it was, they’d given Warren the distraction he needed, and he put it to good use, hooking the Ghost’s leg. He wrapped his own around and under his body and arched his back. The femur snapped and erupted from the limb, and blood splashed across Warren’s face. He grabbed hold of the exposed metal and quickly moved to leverage his foot in the Ghost’s crotch, but something hit him, whipping his head to the right.

He looked back, meaning to grab for the exposed metal limb again, but met the Ghost’s fist as he punched Warren in the face again, then a third time. Warren gave up his original plan and raised his arm, shielding himself from another blow, but just barely.

The Ghost scrambled, punching Warren in rapid shots to his ribs, leg, head, and neck. It wasn’t until Warren’s blade erupted from his own forearm that he realized what the Ghost had been up to. Warren grabbed the handle near the cross guard, but instead of trying to pull it away, he yanked hard, stripping it from his opponent’s grip.

He tried to pull it from his arm to use against the Ghost, but the other cyborg deflected his attack and sent the blade flying from his grip. Their hands sang as metal knuckles struck each other and punches were blocked.

Both cyborgs, one Republic designed, the other Commonwealth, rose to sitting positions. Their legs were still intertwined, their noses in each other’s face. They traded strikes and chops, each blocking the other and not giving up any ground.

Warren couldn’t believe how fast the soldier was. Nor how calm. He knew he was gritting his own teeth, but the Commonwealth cyborg seemed to accept whatever might be coming next.

Bang!

The Ghost’s head snapped to one side, but this time he didn’t recover so quickly. Warren yanked his opponent by his dangling foot and leaned back, then he slid the other cyborg on top of himself. He then found his opponent’s head, wrapped his legs around it, and squeezed. The Ghost thrashed but stopped after another loud crack.

Warren arched his back and broke three more of its artificial bones, and he only relaxed to check his work. The Ghost was no longer fighting.

“You still with me?” asked Warren.

“Yeah, still here,” replied King. “Sorry I took so long. Seems my targeting system’s busted, too. That, and I’m left-handed, but your man hasn’t come back with a left hand for me yet. You okay?”

Warren ran a quick system check before answering. “Minor damage. Nothing I need to get repaired yet. I’m good for now. How’s this guy look?” Warren still had a firm grip on the Ghost and wasn’t going to let go until someone could verify he was dead.

“You got him,” replied King. “Got him good.” He’d managed to drag himself into the hallway so he could get a shot at the Ghost.

“Warren?” called a familiar voice from the other end of the hallway.

“I’m here,” he replied. “We’re here. The threat has been neutralized.”

The three cyborgs emerged cautiously from the corner, rifles raised as they searched for targets. Each one lowered his rifle a second after verifying the truth.

The first one to walk around the corner was Baker. He squatted low and dragged the Ghost’s body out into the hallway as soon as Warren pulled his legs off the thing. “Damn,” he said. “One got in. By the looks of it, he’s a tough son of a gun, too. You okay?”

“I’m good,” replied Warren as he sat up and then rose to his feet. He still felt a little shaky from the blows to the head, but otherwise he was fine.

The Ghost’s body was a bloody, gory mess. It was difficult to tell where the Ghost had been shot, but there were at least two bullet holes in his torso and likely one to his head. It might’ve been the final shot that had knocked him stupid enough to give Warren the advantage he’d needed.

“Cooper?” said Warren.

During the battle, he’d forgotten all about the other cyborg.

“He didn’t make it,” said King.

The KIA message must’ve gotten mixed in with the errors and damage warnings during the fight. Scrolling back through the messages, he spotted it. Luckily Cooper’s last backup was only three days old. He hadn’t missed much. Nothing that someone couldn’t explain in a few minutes. Still, the feeling that overcame Warren was real. He mourned his friend and ally for his loss. Three days of memories still mattered, even if his body could be restored.

“We made Hendrose wait outside,” said Baker. “You ready for him to come in and take a look at you?”

Warren tried to take a step and discovered what the device called a Lateral Motor Function Circuit, Level 4, did. He’d walk with a limp until he got it replaced.

Although Hendrose had technically followed their instructions by not coming inside, he was busying himself with the two dead soldiers just outside the door to the brig.

“What did this?” asked Hendrose as Warren approached. “And what the hell happened to you?”

Warren thought that should have been obvious but answered anyway. “Got in a fight, doc.”

“Did you win?”

The cyborg chuckled. “I think so. The bad guy’s dead, but counting these two, he got three. Cooper is KIA. Reset him when you get the chance. Corsa and Mehta, too. I need all hands on deck.”

“Who’s that?” asked the tech, pointing at the bloody corpse lying in the middle of the hallway.

“That is a Ghost,” said Warren. “Once you’ve gotten everyone reset and repaired, I’d appreciate it if you took it apart so you can tell me how it ticks, and how to make it stop ticking.”

Warren had made it stop ticking. Actually, it had been King, but together they’d ended a Commonwealth cyborg. Commonwealth. The thought ran circles in his mind like a tiny, sputtering racecar leaving skid marks.

“See if you can find any kind of electronic storage, too,” Warren added. “I want to know everything about them. I want to know if they’re backed up, if they’ve got reset and deletion protocols like we do—everything.”

“That could take months,” said Hendrose. He stared at the body as he approached it. “There’s metallurgy, neurobiology, and biochemistry, not to mention the obvious. It’s not like I can just pull pieces out and tell you what they do.”

“Would the ship’s scanner’s help?” asked Warren.

Hendrose shrugged. He still hadn’t gotten close enough to the body to begin performing an inspection. “It depends on how big the parts are, whether they’re still emitting any kind of power—there are too many variables to know until I try. Generally, ship sensors aren’t designed to pick up tiny things. It’s not like we expect to find little ships, you know?”

“What about the grow tanks?” asked Baker. “I don’t know if we’ve ever used them for that kind of thing before, but they’re made to grow our biologicals and our compulsion chips. It’s got to be able to monitor what’s happening while the things grow, right? Couldn’t it be reversed? Be made to take things apart rather than put them together?”

Hendrose turned toward him. Warren couldn’t see the expression he was making, but whatever it had been, it made Baker smile.

“I see something happening in that brain of yours, doc,” said Baker. “It was my idea, right?”

“It was your idea,” confirmed Hendrose. He turned to Warren. It looked like he was considering whether he wanted to ask a question.

“You want to take the remains to the Ruthless?” asked Warren.

Hendrose glanced at the body, then returned his eyes to Warren and nodded. “I think it’s our best chance to learn something about this thing.”

“Do it,” replied Warren. “But take a couple of cyborgs with you. This one looks dead, but in case it’s faking or has some kind of backup system, I want to make sure you’re covered. Take one of the smaller cargo vessels and make sure you isolate that thing when you get there. I doubt there’s any biological threat, but protect the war computer in case this thing has an electronic virus built into it.”

“What about me?” asked King. He was still missing an arm and a leg—removed by Hendrose for replacement.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Hendrose. “I’ve got all my tools outside. I’ll get Seaman Sharp over here to finish you up. My tablet’s out there, too, and it has all my notes. That work, Warren?”

“That’s fine,” Warren replied. “I’ll stay with him. While you’re up there, see if there’s a way we might be able to better detect them, too. Especially at range.”

“You got it, boss,” said Hendrose. He motioned to the other two cyborgs who’d come with Baker. They glanced at Warren, who nodded, giving his permission for them to do whatever the doc needed. Hendrose began checking their enemy’s pockets while one cyborg took his arms, and the other grabbed his legs. The leg Warren broke came completely off. They set the body down and placed the disconnected part on top, then they picked it back up and made their way outside.

Rigby passed them as they were exiting. She gave Warren a quick once-over and noted the damage to his forearm. She pressed her lips tightly together. Then she glanced at King, noted the pistol in his hand, and gave Warren a questioning look.

“He saved my life,” he told her. “He’s earned my trust.”

“Okay, then,” she replied. “I’ll get you a replacement unless you want that one back.”

“You good with that pistol?” asked Warren. “

The cyborg smiled and said, “This one will do just fine, unless you’re attached to it.”

“Keep it,” Warren said. “As soon as Seaman Sharp gets you fixed up, head to the warehouse and get a holster and a jumpsuit. We’ve got plenty to spare. Welcome to the team.”

14

“Do you want to wait until Seaman Sharp is done with King?” asked Rigby. “You look like you could use some repairs. You’re limping.”

“I’m fine,” said Warren, gently brushing her hand away when she tried to assist him. “There’s too much to do.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” she told him as she stepped into his path and jabbed a finger in his chest. “You’re not impressing anyone, cyborg. You’re damaged. What do you think you’re going to do if there’s another attack? Throw your body on top of the attacker and hope to smother it to death? You won’t even be able to throw a punch, let alone be more than a minor obstacle. So, with all due respect, sit your ass down and wait for Sharp or so help me…”

Warren sat down in the hallway. She didn’t need to finish her sentence. He wasn’t afraid, but she was right. He needed to get his Lateral Motor Function Circuit, Level 4 replaced if nothing else. The rest could wait.

Two more technicians from the Ruthless hurried into the hallway a moment later, then they backed out again and peeked through the broken frame of the doorway to the brig.

“Here’s your patient,” said Rigby, gesturing to them. “He’s being a little uncooperative, so be as rough as you need to be.”

One of the techs offered a nervous laugh. The other didn’t, but both approached and got to work.

A few minutes later, his most critical parts—there had been three, not one—were replaced. The techs made him run a thorough self-diagnostic, then they had him demonstrate some basic movements before they were satisfied. He promised to see someone soon about getting his skin repaired. It wasn’t crucial, but it would help protect the rest of his internal circuits from damage.

Warren and Rigby walked from the brig in silence. She hadn’t tried talking to him since the techs had started working on him. Instead, she left him to his thoughts. It was what he’d needed, but he hadn’t spent the entire time in his own head. He’d also been accessing the war computer, researching the information it had decoded from the Commonwealth AI on the moon.

“I hadn’t completely believed King—even with those videos he showed us,” admitted Warren.

“Who could?” asked Rigby. “The Commonwealth of Worlds has been a serious pain in the ass for the Republic for a long time, but who could’ve imagined they had that kind of tech? If you’d told me that without showing me the videos, I would’ve thought you were joking. Even with the videos, it’s hard to believe.”

“Not anymore,” Warren murmured.

“They must’ve gotten hold of some Repub tech. Maybe the specs to our design, how we transfer information to and from organic brains—that kind of thing. From there, they grew their own tech—took it off in a direction our former masters didn’t think of or weren’t allowed to think of. Maybe the Senate knew about this kind of thing but didn’t allow anyone to produce them. You know, to keep us looking different.” She held up a hand in front of her face and inspected it.

“We’re shaped right, but the color’s off. The lack of hair can be disturbing for people, too. That guy looked real. In fact, I’ve seen him around. He blended in, and I had no idea. I don’t think anyone knew.”

“He’s a cyborg,” returned Warren. “We’ve got cargo ships stationed in each of the domes. We’ll find more if there are any.”

“So, what do you need help with?” asked Rigby.

“Have you loaded the supplies we’ll need into the Ruthless?”

“Nope, but I’ve got them set aside, ready to go. I was letting the civilians use the Camel a bit longer before I took it from them. They could do the same with the smaller ships, but we’re using them to hunt for more interlopers.”

“Go ahead and take it from them,” replied Warren. “They’ve got enough scrap stacked outside Dome-1 to build plenty of new homes. It’ll have to do until we get back.”

“And it might be more than they need,” said Rigby. “Freeing a second planet will give refugees another place to go. Based on what I saw on the video feed, it’s got breathable air. It’ll allow them to spread out. They could take in a lot more refugees than we can. So, I guess that means it’s time to start training the civilians.”

“I don’t want to drop this on them without informing the others first,” said Warren. “I’ll get Lukov to gather the crew’s department heads and every cyborg not currently on guard duty. We’ll clear the hangar and have our meeting there. In the meantime, I think it’s time to raid the crew’s armory aboard the Ruthless.”

* * *

“All of department head and cyborg are present,” announced Lukov. He was standing with his arms crossed, facing the thirty-two people who’d been called to attend.

“Thanks,” said Warren, stepping in front of everyone. They’d been speaking quietly among themselves. Most caught up on gossip while others talked about the projects their departments were working on. Overall, they seemed to be happy—not at all stressed about why they’d been called to a meeting.

Warren figured his news would ruin the mood, but it had to be done. “The cyborgs are temporarily leaving Reotis,” he said, ripping the Band-Aid off in one vicious yank.

“Excuse me?” said Bernard “Rooster” Cox, the Chief Technician for the planet and the man best known for speaking exactly what was on his mind. “You’re leaving us on our own? What are we supposed to do if another mothership comes? Throw rocks at it?”

“No,” said Warren. “If another mothership comes, I expect Curet to shoot it down and take out as many dropships as he can. Now that we know what a mothership is capable of, I think he’ll have a better chance of defending this place. It won’t be such a surprise.”

“And what about the mechs?” argued Rooster. “We’re supposed to throw rocks at them? The Slicers won’t do any good against the things. Mechs move too fast, and if they get close or take cover in a crater, the cannons won’t be able to shoot them at all.”

Warren sent a signal to Willy, who opened the huge doors to the warehouse. From within, he guided one of the four-wheeled transports the Reotians had used to move the heavy particle cannons to the planet’s surface. This one was loaded with two rifle racks full of Republic Light Rifles.

Rooster studied the weapons for a few seconds then frowned at Warren. “Those things any good?”

“They look just like the ones the cyborgs carry, only smaller,” said Curet. “Kind of wish we had these the whole time.”

“I did not wish this,” said Lukov. “But now, it is wished. Reotians must defend themselves while cyborgs are not on planet.”

“Where are you going?” asked Rooster. “What’s so damned important that you’ve got to arm us when you couldn’t do it before?”

“Second Cyborg Corps,” replied Warren. “They’re free, but they’ve landed on a hostile planet. Aboard the last refugee ship was a cyborg. He explained it all and provided us with a map of the area.”

“Why’s that our problem?” asked Rooster, crossing his arms. “Why should we sacrifice ourselves for them? Would they have done it for us?”

“It might be our problem,” Rigby said and took a step toward the man. “We need all the cyborgs we can get, and as few Commonwealth strongholds as we can produce. There are probably still cyborgs out there who haven’t been freed. The Republic did a good job keeping us in the dark, but if word gets to them of what happened, they need to know they can do it too. They need to know the other cyborgs will back them up.”

“To what end?” asked Rooster taking a step toward her. He looked angry enough to fight—not that he could do a lot with his bare hands against the cyborg.

“Ask yourself that,” Warren said softly. “Why are you fighting? Why do you work so hard helping to repair nearly everything at this colony?”

“Because I live here!” he snapped.

“But you don’t have to. You could always find some like-minded people and leave. I’m sure both the Republic and Commonwealth would take you in. So, why stick around? Why put yourself through this if you don’t have to?”

He looked confused for a second before his features tightened. “Because these are my people,” he said after some hesitation. “They’re the closest thing I have to a family. They do everything for me, so I do what I can for them. What a stupid question.”

“Why do they work so hard?” asked Warren, hoping to guide him to his own answer.

“Because the Repub and CoWs want us…”

Warren allowed the silence to fill the space between them for a few seconds before speaking. “That’s right. Because there are two threats outside our planet. Both want you dead, just because you told them ‘no.’ If either of them retakes this planet, you—and probably everyone else—will be killed. Everything you’ve worked for and gained will be gone forever.”

“So, what good will fighting to rescue Second Corps do us?” asked Rooster, though most of the ire had left his voice.

“Not only will it give them a chance to secure another planet against our enemies, but it’ll also reduce the Republic’s strength.” Warren took a moment to make sure he had everyone’s attention.

“The only thing we’re doing is defending ourselves. We aren’t out there trying to conquer the Grand Republic. We aren’t the aggressors. We’re sitting here on this rock, minding our own business.”

Rooster spoke up again. “Once the Commonwealth gets wind of what’s happening—“

“The Republic’s going to have to focus on them, not us,” interjected Hendrose. “Meanwhile, we’ll have two corps of cyborgs on two different planets working against them. They’ll be so busy fighting off the CoWs—“

“They won’t have time to come for us,” finished Rooster. His angry expression had been replaced with a mischievous one. “So what’s the end-goal? What’s this look like when we’re done?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Warren. He’d been taking this a day at a time. No, that wasn’t right. More like a moment at a time. All his focus had been on securing Reotis. Now that he was headed to another planet, there was a bigger picture to consider.

“Once we come back, I’m thinking we’re going to form an alliance with the other cyborgs and their people,” Warren continued. “That should be our goal, anyway.”

“If you survive,” a woman named Darcy Hudson, one of the two doctors on the planet, said. “We won’t even know, will we?”

The others stared at her for a few seconds before turning to Warren.

“That’s correct,” he admitted. “We don’t have any way to contact you. Communications are still limited.”

“But travel isn’t,” said Rooster. “We’ve figured out how to travel faster than light using star drives. Why not comms?” The way he asked the question made it seem like he was asking himself.

“Until someone thinks of a way to do it, there’s no use talking about it,” said Hendrose. “So, we’re all supposed to grab a gun, and what?”

“Learn to use it, if you don’t already know how,” replied Curet.

The Reotians all began talking at once. Warren listened to their conversations while studying Craig, who looked attentive and calm. From what Warren could tell, he was getting better, which was a relief. Some of the civilians were in favor of being armed. Others wanted the cyborgs to stay. Still more said they’d take a gun if there was no other choice, but they wouldn’t like it.

“How long will you be gone?” Dr. Fordell asked.

Warren referenced the coordinates he’d received from King before responding. “Two weeks, at least. One week there, a week back, and however long it takes to secure the planet.”

“Have received message from security personnel,” transmitted Lukov. “They have found second drug lab. It was made hidden. They have made disassemble. Was maybe produce most of drugs in colony. However, did keep many of the record. Everything, to include supply, recipe, yield, and such. Personnel is say it looks like to be designed to create only one drug, maybe.”

“Which one?” asked Warren. There were three main drugs the cyborgs were aware of in the colony.

“Appears is lab for Pixel,” replied Lukov.

Shit. Of all the ones in the colony, that one was the worst. Those addicted to the drug usually ate it, most often mixed into sweets because apparently it tasted pretty bad—somewhere between ear wax and burned rubber.

“Is there any threat of contamination?” asked Warren.

A moment later, Lukov replied by shrugging.

“Secure the area and store everything in the armory until it can all be destroyed at once. Then set up a guard detail. Someone will need to sit on this until we get back. The temptation to steal the supplies and start making more drugs is going to be high.”

“Pardon interruption,” said Lukov. “A report of murder. Adding Officer Nick Marner to channel.”

“Here, sir,” said a young male voice.

“Warren is in channel,” replied Lukov. “Tell him what told me.”

“Y-yes sir,” the officer replied before quickly clearing his throat. “A dead civilian, sir. And another drug lab—at least we think it used to be one. It looks like someone stole all the equipment, sir. We found the brackets where things used to be hung up on the inside wall of a home in Dome-2, but it’s empty.”

“Then how do you know it was a drug lab?” asked Warren.

“Fumes, sir. It’s bad in here. And a lot of handmade containers. Someone was making Bone Dust, sir. Looks like whoever was doing it found some loose pipes lying around. They had a lot of sniffers ready. We found a few that were sealed, too. Officer Ansell opened one and got a good dose of the stuff. He’s tripping pretty hard now, sir. I sent him with three other officers to see the doctor.”

Bone Dust was another drug they had some trouble with. At worst, it could make its user do something crazy, like jump from the top of a building as they hallucinated about being a bird. But that had also been before most of the people would be armed. If someone high on Bone Dust also had access to a gun, who knew what could happen?

“What’s going on?” asked Rigby. Everyone was watching Warren, and they all looked concerned.

Warren filled her in on the details.

“Maybe right now isn’t the best time to go,” she said. “How can we be expected to focus on our mission when this is happening? Maybe we should stay here, squash this drug problem, and then go help Second Corps.”

“Maybe that’s the plan,” said Warren. “I don’t believe in coincidences, and the timing of this couldn’t be worse.”

15

From his position on the roof, Warren could clearly see the building where the final battle against Glen Hoffman had occurred. The spy had dug a tunnel from the wastewater plant to his home that had been sealed off after the fight. It had only taken a few days to pack the hole with fresh concrete all the way to the surface. Someone could dig next to the patch but filling it this way eliminated the chance of a cave-in and helped to plug the peoples’ gap in their confidence as well.

Warren hopped down from the top of the building to walk a circuit around it. It was his third this hour. He’d look for any changes—new footprints in the red Reotian dirt, broken windows, open doors, or anything else that might be different. If he found nothing, he’d resume his position on the roof and wait to be relieved.

A second later, the poing poing of a rubber ball drew his attention to a nearby alley. He kept his pistol holstered but watched as the colorful toy came rolling and bounding up to him, then he picked it up and examined it. There was nothing special—it was just a toy. Two seconds later, its owner hurried from the alley, then stopped and stared up at the tall cyborg.

The little girl couldn’t have been much older than four or five. Her name didn’t pop up in Warren’s HUD, which meant she was new to the colony. Hendrose and Dr. Fordell were behind in adding everyone’s information into the network of data pads they used to keep track of such things. The info was also shared with the war computer so the cyborgs didn’t have to carry pads with them.

The look in her eyes was one of wonder, not fear. Warren took a knee and offered the ball to her. “Is this yours?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Here,” he said. “Do you want me to throw it to you?”

She shook her head and cautiously approached, arms outstretched to receive it. Her parents could come around the corner any second looking for their little one who’d run off. But it was an opportunity to connect with a civilian—one Warren desperately wanted. These were the people he was fighting for, and this one wasn’t afraid of him.

The little girl took it from his hand, but her eyes never left his. He smiled.

“My name is Warren,” he told her, touching a finger to his chest. “What’s yours?”

She frowned. “You’re a stranger. Can’t talk to strangers,” she whispered and hurried away. She glanced once over her shoulder before disappearing back into the ally from which she’d emerged.

Warren couldn’t help but smile. She hadn’t left because he was a big, scary cyborg. She’d left because he was a stranger—someone she didn’t know. In a way, it was better than any other response he could’ve hoped for. He was just a stranger.

After completing the rest of his circuit, Warren jumped from the ground back to the roof of the building and landed lightly on the balls of his feet. Three streets away, another cyborg stood on the roof of a building. Although the cyborg had a rifle, it was connected to the magnetic clamp on the back of his armor.

A moment later, he noticed Warren watching him and offered a salute, which the cyborg returned, and soon after that, another cyborg arrived in full armor and relieved Warren. After a short chat where Warren explained the only interaction he’d had was with the little girl and her ball, he jumped down from the roof. It was time to supervise the loading of the Ruthless and get the ball rolling.

“Lukov, how are things looking?” asked Warren.

“All is well. I did find some security personnel who are good shots with rifle. They have decided to become the training for the Reotian. One printer has been made to begin printing rifle part to make more, though I do not believe they will be needing it. Maybe if combat lasts long and pieces begin to be breaking. But I do not believe this is a thing to worry about.

“Ammunition is being printed but is slow. Only one hundred rounds per hour. Have sent two cyborg to armory to retrieve the smaller printer taken from drug lab. Maybe they can use to increase production. Maybe create more printer.”

“We could use one of those onboard the Ruthless,” said Warren. “If you would, temporarily stop production and turn all the printers to making a new one of their own. They can do that, right?”

“Yes, they can be made to create new printer. I will do this. We are to be taking it for Ruthless?”

“We might need it,” Warren said. “We won’t have much in raw supplies to feed the thing, but we will once we get to Turano.”

“It will be done.”

After receiving reports from all the department heads, Warren knew it was time. “Attention First Corps,” he transmitted. “Load up the cargo ships with the supplies Rigby set aside. I’ll need a few cyborgs to remain onboard the Ruthless to organize the stuff as it’s dropped off. I’ll also need Wraith Squadron to begin loading the Stingers. We’re taking them with us, as there’s nobody here who can fly them anyway. And someone find Hendrose for me.”

“I have him here with me in the hangar,” Baker replied. “Do you need him to come to you?”

“No, it’s fine,” replied Warren. “I’ll come to him. Ask him not to go anywhere.”

Hendrose met him at the entrance, a worried look in his eyes.

Warren chalked it up to the stress of so many moving parts, all trying to rearrange themselves so they could all be pointing the same direction. He gestured for the Reotian to follow him and stepped away from the entrance so they could have some semblance of privacy in the hectic place. They had to wait a few seconds as the first of the small cargo ships loaded with supplies made its way toward the small hatch on the ceiling. Once it left and the sound of its thrusters vanished, the two were free to talk without shouting.

“Thanks for sticking around,” said Warren. “I need to talk to you about the Reotian leadership. So far, the people have depended on us to guide them. I want you to have a role in the future of this place. I’d like to nominate you to the people as chairman of the council if you’re up to it.”

“That’s gonna be really hard when I’m hundreds of trillions of kilometers away, isn’t it?” he asked. “You can’t go at it alone. Not even with all the knowledge modules you downloaded from the war computer. You know how to operate the Ruthless, but it’s a big ship and 199 cyborgs can’t handle it all. Plus, you’ve got to go to the surface and fight. No use leaving the ship in orbit with nothing more than a skeleton crew.

“I, like the rest of the people I’ve chosen to bring along, have a stake in this mission’s success. It’s the only way we can ensure our planet will remain free. We’ve got to do this for the sake of everyone here.”

“How many are coming?” asked Warren.

“The original crew, of course. We’ll be department and section heads, and we’ll provide the training the others will need. It’ll only be a couple of weeks’ worth, but it’s better than nothing. A few have served on smaller vessels before so they know the basics. Others have served on Commonwealth destroyers. They’ll be useful as well, and they won’t require so much training. Mostly updates on procedure and some practice using the better equipment. Plus, another 350. It’ll be plenty for the Ruthless, even if most of them have no or little experience.”

“It might be a suicide mission,” Warren admitted. “Do they know that?”

“Everyone suspects it,” said Hendrose with a shrug. “But nobody expects it. We’re traveling with First Corps—the first free cyborgs. The Corps who beat the Republic and Commonwealth both in a single day. We’re pretty sure it’s never happened before. You’re heroes. I had to turn a couple hundred away—mostly because they were new and would take too long to train. If you want me to stay behind, you’re going to have to lock me in the brig and assign a cyborg to guard me. Otherwise, I’m going, and I’m bringing everyone with me.”

Hendrose crossed his arms and thrust his chin forward—a clear indication he was waiting for Warren to challenge him. Brave for someone who couldn’t be backed up. But not that brave. Hendrose knew Warren wouldn’t fight him over it.

“Very well,” said Warren, resting a hand on the other’s shoulder. “That’s good thinking. It’ll also allow me to get some other stuff done. It’ll only take us about a week to get there, so there won’t be a lot of time for training. Make sure your section heads get some rest, because after we arrive there likely won’t be a lot of time for it.

“According to King, the planet has a few orbital platforms. He’s not sure what kind of weapons they have, but they’re a threat nonetheless. It means a prolonged battle even before we get the opportunity to launch the dropships and start bringing supplies to the surface.”

Warren took a moment to form his next words carefully.

“Then there’s the question of mortality. Each of the cyborgs has lived several lifetimes, and so long as the war computer survives, we can live several more, at least. We don’t like it to happen, but we can be brought back and can keep fighting, and we can eventually wear the enemy down. I’m not trying to scare anyone, I just want to make sure you understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I’ve always been mortal,” replied Hendrose. “This is something I’ve lived with my entire life, so it’s nothing new to me. This place, what we’re doing, is worth living for. It’s also worth dying for.”

Warren nodded. “That it is.”

16

Warren studied the displays from the captain’s seat of the Ruthless. The reports the bridge crew were giving became background noise to the data he was reading. Everything they were telling him was readily visible for anyone who could read as quickly as a cyborg. Still, he let them say what they needed to say. If nothing else, it would benefit the others on the bridge.

The main viewscreen was filled with information—charts, diagrams, and a scrolling list indicating the basic status of each of the ship’s systems, both essential and non-essential. There was enough water to keep the crew alive for six months—longer if they rationed.

There was enough capacity in the oxygen scrubbers for four times as many crew members for a nearly indefinite period. Warren hoped they’d never have to test that capacity, but anything was possible. If they ended up having to evacuate Turano’s residents, they wouldn’t be able to do it in a single trip anyway. There was no way Reotis would be ready for that many refugees all at once.

“The Ruthless is ready for launch, sir,” said the navigator. “The coordinates for Turano are locked in, and we’re ready to go. Ready for faster than light travel.”

“Engage the stardrive,” said Warren.

Warren tuned out the rest of the words the others repeated. According to what he was reading on the main display, temperatures, power outputs, and tertiary systems were still reporting normal. Everything was going as planned.

He tapped a control on the arm of his chair, and one of the screens changed to a view from the front of the ship. A moment later, the stars vanished, as he’d expected. The transition to faster than light travel was less impressive than he’d seen in the movies, and if he were honest with himself, he would’ve admitted how disappointed he was.

“Who’s first to command the bridge in the rotation?” asked Warren.

“I am,” said Hendrose as he got up from a station to Warren’s left. He was puffing his chest out like he was the proudest man in the galaxy. Maybe he was. The sight made Warren smile.

“Then Commander Hendrose, you have the bridge.”

Hendrose looked confused. “I’m not a commander.”

“You are now,” replied Warren. “Once this battle’s over, we’ll have a promotion ceremony and make it official. I’ll see if I can find you a silver oak leaf as well. If not, we’ve got a 3D printer onboard. I’m sure we can find enough raw material to make a pair of insignias.”

“Thank you,” the former tech replied.

“Wake me if you have any trouble,” replied Warren as he turned and left command of the Ruthless in the hands of the full human he trusted the most.

The hallways were bustling with crewmembers, most of whom he only recognized from Lukov’s reports of new arrivals. He regretted he wouldn’t have enough time to get to know them all before the battle. He might never see them again and wanted to at least remember his conversations with them. But there was a plan to stick to.

Heading aft from the bridge, he passed one of the chow halls. It was vacant, except for a few tables someone had forgotten to fold into the walls. The cyborg chow dispensers would be empty, he knew. They’d robbed all the chow out of all the machines when they first arrived at Reotis, before they discovered how much food the Reotians had been squirreling away.

Rigby reported there were still sixty bars of Cyborg Chow, as they’d started to call the stuff. They were essentially bricks containing enough calories to last a cyborg at least a full day. Each contained enough nutrition to keep their biological parts—their brain and spinal cord—healthy. The method of consumption had been more or less the same as well. Insert nutrition bar into mouth. Chew. Swallow. Allow the stomach-like processing unit to extract every single calorie and bit of nutrition it could possibly use from the bar.

Likely, the nutrition bars would remain on the Ruthless. There were enough Commonwealth rations for each cyborg to load up on, not to mention what they’d find on the surface of Turano.

Warren’s next stop was in the nearest Cyborg Upkeep and Production, or CUP, room. Inside were forty-nine cyborgs, all standing in cyborg-sized alcoves in the bulkhead. They all had their eyes closed, and besides their rigid postures, they looked like they were asleep. In a way, they were. Warren had assigned each to be backed up the moment they entered the alcove. He’d also instructed the war computer to place each of them in stasis and to wake them in case of emergency, or six hours before the stardrive was planned to disengage. It was the closest thing cyborgs had to real sleep.

A memory floated to the surface somewhere in Warren’s mind; they’d been reappearing more frequently lately. This one reminded him of his current situation. It was from his time in the Army. Iran had been a problem for a hundred years. They’d had to be beaten down a couple of times since then, but mostly all they did was a bunch of saber-rattling. They lead their people in massive protests and financed terrorism around the world.

They had done something when Warren was a child, but he couldn’t remember what it was. After that, they attracted the entire world’s attention. It was something he’d grown up with, though. There was always talk of Iran. The country’s government was always up to no good, so he’d grown used to it. One day, that changed.

He’d been woken up early—sometime before sunrise. With no warning, he’d been ordered to pack his gear and to hurry everyone to the base’s airfield with the rest of the platoon. There, the rest of his battalion assembled and received the news they’d be shipping out to invade Iran.

The next step had been that of paperwork. It was mostly on computer, but it seemed paper would never go away. Everyone got in line while a dozen clerks from the base’s administration office processed them. Each soldier had his service record checked to make sure it was up to date, along with his shots and other medical records. They’d been asked questions about their finances. For instance, if there were any late payments or garnishments coming down the line, the Army needed to know about it so it could take care of them. They’d also asked if their wills had been updated.

Warren didn’t have a will. He didn’t have any family, so he didn’t think he needed one. Besides that, he wasn’t going to die. He was too young, and this was probably just a drill. They’d all be back to their regular job tomorrow—after they put everything back where it belonged and cleaned it all again. That’s what he’d thought, but the expression the female admin soldier had made removed all doubt. Her expression had spoken volumes. She’d never expected to see him again. It turned out to be true. He never did see her again.

It was the first time he’d realized that being a soldier might end up getting him killed. The idea had always been there, but it had been a distant thing. Wars were far away and happened to other people. Not Warren Prescott. Not this guy. The Army treated it like an assembly line. Each person got about five minutes and then was told to go somewhere else before the next person took their place. It had made Warren feel like he was waiting for his turn to be made into sausage.

Warren returned to reality with a start. A dull tingle ran through his circuits. A full system check didn’t reveal any trouble or explanation, so he chalked it up to nerves. In a way, stepping into the CUP alcove felt like stepping in front of the temporary desk the administrator had set up. He couldn’t remember her face but got the impression she’d been pretty. Not that it made any difference at all, but it stuck out to him for some reason.

Once he stepped in, the war computer would initiate a backup. The next thing he knew, he’d be hours away from what might be the toughest battle he’d ever been in. He’d be fighting an entrenched enemy who’d already proven they could take on a Republic cruiser and come out more or less on top. The others hadn’t unlocked their war computer, though. They hadn’t had that advantage. All Warren could do was hope it would be enough.

After querying the war computer and receiving confirmation that all the other cyborgs were in their alcoves, Warren stepped into his and closed his eyes. He’d done all he could do. It was up to the non-cyborgs to get them there. If they never made it, he’d never know.

The real world vanished, replaced by the familiar landscape of the war computer. Warren stood in a field of tiny green dots, which he’d come to realize were the digital representation of his current memories. It was everything he knew and remembered. Essentially, it was him.

A cloud of the tiny green pixels hung overhead—a faintly glowing green mass that looked close and staticky, and far away and vague all at once. It hung in the black sky and represented the memories the war computer had stored for him. Soon, it would begin to rain, but in reverse. Each pixel would split from itself, forming an exact copy that would soar into the sky and become one with the cloud. No matter how many backups the war computer had stored for him, that cloud never seemed to change. It didn’t grow, become denser—nothing. He wondered about it for some time before the reverse-rain began.

It was too bad there wasn’t any sound with the effect. Warren allowed himself a moment—whatever that meant in a virtual world—to consider what reverse rain might sound like. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d heard it. Maybe before he’d been transformed into a cyborg, but he couldn’t be sure.

Another thought occurred to him. Almost all of his memory had come back, but some things were still blank. It bothered him. He was an advanced piece of technology. How come he couldn’t draw them from the well of his mind whenever he wanted? In the virtual world of the war computer, he thought about taking a step forward. The world shifted under and around him. He did it again, a vague semblance of walking.

Given enough time, he was sure he could find the problem. Somewhere among the bright little pixels were memories of his parents, his past lovers, birthdays, and pets. Nearly everyone had a pet at some point in their lives, he thought. He couldn’t remember his. He couldn’t remember what steak tasted like, the texture of a perfect birthday cake, or what his favorite foods were.

As he thought about it, he became even more excited and willed himself to travel faster. Would he need to reach beneath the landscape to pull a handful of pixels to the surface? Would he find damage—dark pixels that should be bright? Would he know what to do when he got there, or would he be able to do nothing but mourn that which was lost forever?

But it was time to sleep, so the world faded, and he let it come. He’d get back to this later. It was a reason to survive, or maybe the old memories didn’t matter. There were new ones to be made.

* * *

Warren’s eyes snapped open. He was awake. The lights in the room were white, not red, so it wasn’t an emergency. They must have arrived.

A quick check of the date and time on his HUD confirmed his suspicion. He’d been awoken by the war computer exactly when he’d expected to. The other cyborgs were moving too, heading to their assigned duty stations and guard posts. The day of the invasion had finally come.

“Hello, Captain,” said someone from the bridge. It wasn’t Hendrose, but he hadn’t expected the man to be the one who greeted him when he woke. Hendrose was part of the team that had to be fresh and awake when the battle began.

“Give me a status,” ordered Warren.

“The board’s green,” the man replied. “All systems are reporting normal. All personnel are present or accounted for. No injuries and the war computer is saying all the cyborgs are operational, too.”

“Good,” replied Warren. “I’m headed to the bridge.”

17

When the hatch to the bridge slid open, Warren’s senses were assaulted by lights, talking, and incessant beeps. The bridge was occupied by at least twice as many people as before, but Hendrose wasn’t among them.

“I have the bridge,” announced Warren as he took the vacant captain’s chair. All the screens at the front of the bridge were showing the empty blackness of space. It’s all anyone could see while traveling faster than light. A few clicks on the controls near his right hand replaced the black image with information.

A query to the war computer returned the names of more than a dozen cyborgs who didn’t have anything to do. Warren assigned two of them to begin transferring the latest cyborg backups to cyborg data cubes. CDC’s were small four-centimeter crystalline devices that could store an entire cyborg’s memory. Once they were done, they were to load the CDC’s into a case and store them aboard the Camel. Should the worst happen, someone could take the ship and flee. Maybe someone would be able to find a way to capture another Republic cruiser so First Cyborg Corps could be reset. It was an insurance policy—one he hoped never to invoke.

Hendrose arrived an hour before the Ruthless was scheduled to leave hyperspace. He looked rested but also appeared nervous. So was the rest of the crew. That was good. If they were too calm, they might get sloppy. Being nervous meant they’d be alert.

Warren studied the readouts, occasionally responding to questions from the bridge or other cyborgs, until the navigator made an announcement.

“Disengaging the stardrive in two minutes, sir,” he said.

“Very well,” replied Warren, sitting up in his chair. He reached behind himself and pulled straps over his shoulders, and then he hooked them to the rest of the harness designed to keep him in place. He was big, though, so it barely fit. Captain Blythe—the former captain of the Ruthless—had been a much smaller man, both in height and diameter.

Warren sent a message to the war computer instructing it to reactivate the instant communications he’d deactivated to help ensure the cyborgs had some privacy during their stay on Reotis. The fight ahead wouldn’t be easy, but unless someone had managed to leak First Corps’ new capability to the defending forces, they had no idea what they were up against.

Images from every other cyborg washed through Warren’s mind and filled his HUD. With a thought, he cleared his display. Now that the instant comms were reactivated, he could bring up anyone’s feed at any time. He was aware of where each other cyborg was located, their general mood, and what they intended to do next. Overall, they were eager to kick some Commonwealth ass. They were reveling in the feeling of oneness with their brothers and sisters, but none as much as King. It was the first time he’d experienced the full capabilities of a Republic cyborg.

Warren got the impression King was smiling so hard he might rip his face right down the middle. The image made him grin. He remembered what it felt like the first time—like a big dose of a powerful drug. It reminded him of his first kiss. The thought shocked him. He could remember it. Her name had been Mary. He thought maybe her last name was Thelen, but he couldn’t be sure. It was third or fourth grade. The thought brought another smile to his lips. It had been a messy kiss, but it had still counted as his first.

As planned, the twenty members of Wraith Squadron were making their way to the CWS-14 “Stingers.” Warren regretted not being able to join them as their 21st member, but he was needed on the bridge. It was the cost of leadership, and someone had to do it. It would be more effective if it was a cyborg—someone who was fully integrated with the war computer. Someone who had the experience and knowledge to make the most of their resources.

A moment later, Warren tapped the controls near his right hand, and the stars of space returned. Less than a second after that, the lights on the bridge turned red, and klaxons began to sound. Warren scanned the data that flooded the main display. That couldn’t be right.

Signs of battle began to appear, both close and far away. The ship’s shields sparked angrily as they deflected the brunt of the Commonwealth’s defenses. Warren wanted to stand—to step closer to what he was looking at even though he could have just zoomed in if he really wanted to. There were mines. Thousands of them.

MINE, COMMONWEALTH, CM-22(B)

COUNT: 110,388

Had this been what brought the Conquest, the cruiser assigned to the Second Cyborg Corps, down? The details King had given him were fuzzy. Was this a setup?

The action, happening further away than the range of the shield, involved explosions caused by the point-defense systems—a series of short-range beam weapons along the hull of the Ruthless designed for things exactly like this.

“We’re moving too fast,” announced Warren. “Slow us down by seventy-five percent.”

“We’ll be more vulnerable to attack by other vessels, sir,” replied the weapons officer.

“It won’t matter if we get destroyed before our enemy gets to us. Slow it down.”

The helmsman did, but the point defense cannons still had all they could handle. Warren could direct the war computer to focus most of their attention forward if he wanted to increase his speed. For now, he let it do what it thought best, which was creating a buffer all the way around.

“Incoming!” the sensor officer announced. “Looks like a Commonwealth destroyer and six smaller ships. They’re heavy fighters, sir. Computers identified them as CWS-62 Heavy Fighters.”

Warren took a moment to bring up the information from the modules he’d loaded from the war computer. The incoming fighters weren’t as fast as Stingers but carried up to six missiles each. They also came equipped with their own point defense cannons, one on the port side, the other starboard. Each required a crew of six to be fully functional, and their armor, like all CoW trash, was thick.

“Godspeed,” Warren transmitted to Oplin, the designated squadron leader in Warren’s absence.

Oplin ordered Wraith Squadron to launch, and five seconds later all twenty ships had exited the cargo bays. They snaked and swarmed through the loose cloud of mines to intercept their incoming enemies.

“Sir, it looks like the mines are moving out of the destroyer’s way,” announced the sensor officer.

It was true, they were moving. The information made Warren feel better about his decision to slow and allow the point defenses to create a buffer all the way around. Of course, they were also surrounded by mines that were capable of moving themselves, so it was a mixed bag.

“We have an incoming transmission from the destroyer, sir,” announced the communications officer.

“Put it through,” replied Warren. If they wanted to talk, it meant they weren’t entirely confident of their superiority.

“Attention Republic vessel,” a man’s voice said through the comms. “This is Commander Nigel Fornsworth of the Commonwealth vessel Trident. You are in violation of Commonwealth space. Stand down and surrender.”

“Attention Trident, this is Captain Warren Prescott of the Reotian vessel Ruthless,” replied Warren. “I will not be standing my vessel down. Nor will we surrender. If you would like to begin negotiations for your surrender, I am willing to entertain them. Please indicate your willingness to stand down by bringing your vessels to a stop and powering-down your weapons.”

“Ah, Warren Prescott. Please, stand by.”

It wasn’t the response he’d expected. Wraith squadron would be within firing range in just a few minutes, so whatever he wanted to say, he needed to say it fast.

“Hello, cyborg,” said a different voice across the comms.

Warren felt one of his eyebrows go up. “Yeah, who’s this?” he asked.

“I am Governor Tobias Kinsley of the Commonwealth of Worlds planet Turano. We know who you are, but what we don’t know is why you’ve left your home undefended. How very curious.”

“Have you contacted me to offer your unconditional surrender?” Warren asked, checking on Wraith Squadron’s progress. “If so, I’m ready to accept.”

The man laughed, a real one that sounded like it’d come directly from his belly. In fact, Warren thought he could hear the tinkle of ice in a glass. Was he so relaxed he was drinking? The thought infuriated the cyborg.

With the press of a button, Warren cut the connection. There was no use getting into a battle of words with someone like that. Not when missiles and beam cannons spoke so much louder.

“Engage your targets whenever you like,” Warren transmitted to Oplin. “Make it hurt.”

“My pleasure,” returned the pilot.

Warren watched the display at the front of the bridge, forcing himself not to engage too deeply with the squadron. Had he wanted to, he could feel what their cybernetic bodies were doing, seen through their eyes, and know how each of them felt. Doing so took a lot of attention, though, and he was needed on the bridge. He had to keep most of his focus there.

Half of Wraith Squadron released missiles, leaving ten in reserve.

The fighters responded by launching their own and taking up positions in front of the destroyer to defend it.

Warren spotted the problem before the sensor officer reported it. The mines were moving—not fast, but they weren’t still anymore. It looked like someone or something was directing them to cut off any chance the Wraiths might have of escaping. It wasn’t just a few—it was hundreds. Only one thing could be controlling and coordinating all of them at the same time. They had an AI.

Warren sent a message to the communications officer to start searching for a signal. He accessed his memories and sent the officer the frequency of the signal Lukov’s team had detected emanating from the moon. He’d find the enemy AI, and he’d destroy it.

“One down!” announced Oplin.

“Confirmed,” the sensor officer reported.

Wraith squadron moved through and between the mines and incoming missiles like a school of fish. They were of one mind, swarming the enemy vessels with their little beam cannons, but held their missiles in reserve. Warren didn’t need to warn them about noticing the mines were moving. The moment he had become aware of it, so did they.

Suddenly, one of the pilots became excited, but it had nothing to do with the battle. He’d discovered a signal. It was short-lived. No more than a burst of information. The others began watching for it, trying to narrow down the source.

“Watch your back!” shouted Oplin. “Bravo Flight, split off. They’re corralling us.”

“Roger,” replied Baker, the Bravo Flight leader. Half the fighters separated from the swarm like the teeth of a zipper separating. Alpha Flight pressed their enemy from the front. The Stingers didn’t have shields, though. They weren’t designed for prolonged engagements like this, so the pilots couldn’t do much but harass the remaining enemy. By separating, they’d effectively split their enemy’s attention. But it wouldn’t last long.

“I’m detecting several launches from the planet’s surface, sir,” reported the sensor officer. “Looks like more fighters. Six confirmed. Same model.”

“We’re in missile range,” announced the weapons officer. “So long as they don’t clip one of those mines.”

That was the risk. The Ruthless needed to remain far enough away to stay out of the enemy’s weapons range, but close enough to find clear paths through the mines. Warren decided on a third option.

“I’m taking control of the weapons,” he announced. “Keep the missile ports loaded and let me know if there’s any trouble.” He’d be cutting it close, trying to split his attention this many ways. A quick check of one of the viewscreens confirmed there was no other choice. If he wanted to run, it wasn’t going to happen—not today. The hole they’d carved through the mines had closed. They were committed.

Warren dedicated some of his attention to keeping Wraith Squadron abreast of what he was planning. If anyone had a problem with it, they weren’t saying anything. In fact, nobody was speaking at all. He hoped they’d notice what he was doing. Otherwise, this would go very badly.

GOT YOU, BOSS

The message was from Baker. He hoped it meant someone besides him was listening because there wasn’t any other way they could win.

Warren aimed the ship’s main cannons and all forward-facing point-defense weapons at the same spot. He didn’t expect to do any serious damage to their enemy, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to plow a path.

Beams lanced out from the bow of the Ruthless, vaporizing some mines while triggering others. At the same time, he launched six missiles. Alpha Flight saw it coming and spread out to make room a split second before the weapons fired, but for one pilot, it hadn’t been enough.

LINCOURT: KIA

RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486,04,11

The message felt like a slap. Warren had been the one who pulled the trigger, but at the last moment, one of the mines had reversed course. It was like whatever was controlling them had anticipated the move. Maybe it had.

One of the enemy fighters managed to destroy a missile before it got too close. Another shot at a missile but only managed to damage it. The weapon began to spin faster and faster until it came apart. Two others struck the destroyer’s shield, and according to the information Warren saw, punched a hole right through it. The last missile struck the enemy ship directly in the center of its sharp-edged bow.

The explosion was brief—no more than a flash of light. When it concluded, the destroyer was still here. It was damaged, but nowhere near out of the fight. Commander Fornsworth proved it by returning fire.

“Six missiles inbound,” the sensor officer reported.

Warren released control of the forward point defense cannons but kept the main guns for himself. He was still near maximum range, which meant he couldn’t do much damage, but he fired anyway.

The Trident began juking, making little movements in all directions while still maintaining a course, more or less, directly toward the Ruthless.

Alpha Flight resumed their attack, taking out another fighter, but one was hit by a point defense cannon. It spun off from the battle while the rest of the pilots destroyed the second of six defending the Trident.

“Bravo Flight is attacking the Trident’s rear,” announced the sensor officer. He sounded excited.

Warren focused his attention on the hole in his enemy’s shield but changed his mind when it launched more missiles. He fired at them immediately, destroying three before they’d traveled more than a hundred meters toward them. It was enough to cause one other to malfunction. That one began to spin and struck the aft of a Commonwealth fighter. The missile tore through its hull, sending pieces of the ship spinning away. These bounced off the Trident’s shield, causing little white sparks as they danced across its surface.

Two fighters peeled away from the battle to go deal with Bravo Flight, who was peppering the Trident’s exposed rear with their beam cannons. Just before the enemy came into range, they launched four missiles then peeled off and headed around the far side of the ship. All four struck, causing several secondary explosions as internal systems detonated. Then there was a flash of light Warren could feel through his circuits. It stunned him for a second. When he recovered, the Trident was gone, one of the fighters was hightailing it back toward the planet, and the last was coming apart under the combined fire of the squadron. It disappeared in a flash and became a cloud of expanding particles and gas.

“Damn, looks like we nailed the reactor,” said Willy. “Maybe we should do that first next time?”

“At ease,” intoned Oplin. “Head back to the Ruthless to refuel and rearm.”

“You okay?” asked Hendrose. “That was a big reaction. Basically, an EM burst. I’ll check you over. It may have damaged something. We’re partly protected because of the ship’s hull, but I want to be sure.” He was approaching Warren with a datapad and an expression of concern.

“I’m fine,” said Warren, waving him off. “Focus on the battle.”

“The six incoming fighters are turning around,” announced the sensor officer. “They’re headed back toward the planet.”

The bridge crew cheered, but Warren did not. Instead, he studied the data on the view screens and queried the war computer. It recommended he turn directly toward the planet, brake at the last possible moment, and launch the dropships while providing cover with the main cannons. It wasn’t taking the orbital defenses into account, and Warren wondered why.

18

“We’ll be ready to head back out in about five minutes,” reported Oplin. “It wouldn’t take so long if we had more than one cyborg helping us load this stuff.”

“Stay put for now,” said Warren. Something about the orbital defense platforms still bothered him. They were far away, and only one was visible near the north pole of Turano. It was too bad the main display wasn’t an actual window. Warren thought he might be able to zoom in his vision and get a better look at it. According to the war computer, it was a concrete sphere, polished to a dull shine. Its diameter was exactly 500 meters, and according to what the sensors could detect, it wasn’t emitting any signals or background radiation.

“King,” transmitted Warren. “Tell me about these orbital defenses. I’m not seeing what they’re supposed to do.”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “All I know is that they’re trouble. I wasn’t on the bridge when we went down. I was on Deck-3 aft trying to put a fire out.”

Warren took inventory of the situation. There were still more than a 100,000 mines surrounding the planet. His ship’s shields were holding, thanks to the point defense system, but if they slowed or changed direction much, that could change. It still felt like he was being corralled, but into what, he didn’t know.

“We’ll be in range to launch the dropships in thirty minutes,” the sensor officer announced. “Looks like the fighters that were headed to us have landed somewhere on the planet, but I’ve lost track of them.”

“Probably an underground hangar like we have,” Warren mused aloud.

“Wraith Squadron is ready to launch,” transmitted Oplin.

“Stay put for now,” said Warren as he studied the display. Every few seconds, he’d click a button on his armrest and zoom in on one particular group of details, then he’d zoom back out. A query to the war computer got the same response. It recommended he ignore the orbital defense but offered no explanation. The feeling of unease continued to gnaw at him.

“I think the—no, I’m sure, sir,” the sensor officer said. “The mines are changing direction. Something’s different.”

Warren saw it too and would have risen from his seat if he’d been able. Something had changed. Whatever trap he’d just flown them into had been sprung.

The sensor office began to speak, then stopped.

“Talk to me,” ordered Warren. “What’s happening?”

“The orbital defense platform, sir. It’s… coming apart? No, that’s not right. I’m sorry, sir, I’m still trying to figure it out.”

Warren dedicated a portion of the sensors to the platform and focused them on it like a laser. It would reduce the range of the systems overall, but he needed to know what was happening. Then he spotted it. The sensors did, in fact, indicate that something had separated from the concrete orb. It wasn’t a missile. There was no energy signature, no venting of gasses, no magnetic thrust—nothing to indicate the thing headed toward them was a weapon. Nothing except its trajectory. According to the sensors, the object would intercept them before they reached the planet.

Two more icons appeared on the display. Then four more, one right after another. It took a few seconds for the war computer to figure out each of their trajectories. When it did, Warren’s burning confusion wasn’t quenched. It was inflamed.

“I think I’ve got it, sir,” the sensor officer replied. “Those look like flechettes. Maybe twenty kilograms each. They’re moving fast. Really fast. The first will intercept us about ten minutes before we can launch the drop ships unless we alter course or velocity, sir.”

If Warren doubled his velocity, a different projectile would strike them. If he slowed to one-quarter of his speed—the slowest he’d be willing to go—not only could the platform possibly take some more shots at them, it had already launched a projectile for that.

If he changed direction, he’d run into a thick cloud of mines—one the point defense and main guns might not be enough to punch through. He thought about launching Wraith Squadron to take out what they could, but they were fragile compared to the Ruthless. He had no doubt his fellow cyborgs would try if ordered to do so, but they wouldn’t stand a chance.

“What should I do, sir?” asked the helmsman. He looked worried, as did most of the rest of the bridge crew.

“Stay the course,” replied Warren. “Sensors, see what else you can tell me about that projectile.”

“Roger, sir,” the man replied.

According to the display, Warren had to make a decision soon. If they continued on their current course, the Ruthless would be struck in just over fifteen minutes. If they changed course, they might buy another minute or two—or they might be finished off even sooner. It was a double envelopment, otherwise known as a pincer maneuver, Warren realized. And he’d flown them right into it.

This, he assumed, was what the Conquest had encountered. Or, it might’ve been mortally wounded by Commander Fornsworth’s small fleet. Either way, they hadn’t made it all the way to the planet’s surface unscathed.

“I have more details now, sir,” the sensor officer said. Warren listened as he explained what he was seeing, but he also read it off the main display.

The projectile was indeed a flechette. It was moving more than two percent the speed of light. At that velocity, it would punch through the shield with no problems. It would also punch through the ships and make a nice hole on the way out. It appeared to be made of high-density steel, but it contained the energy of a small nuclear bomb. The orbital platform was its launcher, and the concrete was probably lined with lead inside to shield what must have been an independent fusion reactor. The hole the projectile had emerged from could’ve been tiny—too small for the sensors to spot at range. It was perfect.

Warren was out of ideas. He sent his discoveries to the war computer, ordered it to package the information into a single data transmission, and sent it to each of the cyborgs along with a request to find a solution. This wasn’t a problem he’d be able to fix on his own. Nobody would survive unless they worked together to find a solution.

A few seconds later, the feelings of panic and anger from the rest of the cyborgs washed over him, but it didn’t last long. They quickly decided the situation wasn’t hopeless, and they were determined not to go down without a fight. The rest were wholly focused on the problem, working toward a solution.

“Got it,” transmitted Oplin. “We use the Ruthless as a shield. Drive this son of a bitch straight at the planet. We aim for something important. A lot of the ship will burn up in the atmosphere, but enough will make it down to ruin someone’s day. The cyborgs and crew come in behind the thing in its wake. Any mines that try to follow us or get caught in the planet’s gravity well get burned up. We get to the surface and start kicking some ass.”

“With hundreds of non-cyborgs to protect?” asked Warren. “That wasn’t the plan. They were supposed to stay with the Ruthless to provide cover. It would get at least most of us to the planet’s surface, but the war computer would be gone. Keep working on it.”

“Maybe we throw a bunch of shit out the airlocks and whatnot?” offered Willy. “The mines behind us crash into the stuff, we change course enough, and maybe there won’t be so many? Then we can get out of here and make a new plan for next time? Live to fight another day?”

“I don’t think we could destroy enough of the mines to make a difference,” replied Warren. According to what he could see, mines were shifting all the way from the other side of the planet. It was probably to provide as much coverage as possible on this side. There’d be no way for the furthest to reach the Ruthless before this was all over, so it must’ve been an intimidation tactic—a show of force.

“We’ve got ten minutes,” transmitted Warren. “Any other ideas? The sooner, the better.”

“Yeah,” said Rigby. “We still have all of Wraith squadron out in front, staying between the main guns and the point-defense. We blast everything in our path as the Ruthless accelerates. Then we get ahead of that one that’s gonna intercept us. We go as fast as we can while still being able to blast them.”

“What about once we get past them?” asked Oplin. “We can’t land the Ruthless, and we need it to get back to Reotis. Not to mention, if we die out there without the war computer? Without the biologicals?”

“At least we’ll make it to the surface,” she replied. “We dump it in a swamp or something—someplace human. Maybe right in the water.”

“It’ll sink,” said Willy. “And unless you find a real deep bog, it won’t make a difference, Except for getting it all muddy. It’ll still break when we drop it.”

“What if the crew stays aboard?” she asked. “We launch drop ships, bring the Stingers in to cover the drop, and the crew puts the thing back in orbit—“

“It can’t do that,” interjected Warren. “It was never meant to enter atmosphere. Even at full power, the best you could expect is for the Ruthless to break up as it tried to escape Turano’s gravity. This ship was built in space, and the engineers expected it to stay there. That’s why we have dropships.”

“Can we disassemble the war computer?” asked Rigby. “Take it with us and reassemble it once we get to the surface?”

“Not a chance,” said Warren. “It’s too delicate and far too complicated. Maybe if we had a week or so, but no, there’s no chance to do it. Get everyone loaded and finish the job in the next eight minutes.”

“What about our memories?” asked Baker, who so far had remained quiet.

“I had them backed up and loaded on the Camel,” said Warren. “They’ll be safe so long as the Camel makes it to the surface. Whoever pilots it can hide the case as soon as they get down there. Bury it or something. We’ll make do. We haven’t lost yet, and I won’t consider this a loss. It’s a detour.”

“Plus, we have the 3D printers back on Reotis,” said Rigby. “I bet we can recreate the war computer with them. Get everything back to normal, right?”

Warren wasn’t sure but doubted it. He allowed the feeling to escape into the network instead of speaking the words he knew she didn’t want to hear. A wave of despair blew like a cold breeze across their shared awareness.

“We’re going with Oplin’s idea,” transmitted Warren. “We’ll use the Ruthless as a shield. I’ll give the war computer the final instructions. It’ll drive forward as fast as we can keep up, then I’ll give it full control over the weapons and have it search for military targets—something tasty it can obliterate when it hits.

“There aren’t enough transport vessels or drop ships to get everyone down nice and tidy, though. We’ll have to use the escape pods. We can’t even bring them in the dropships with us. If they survived the drop, they’d be injured—probably with broken bodies. We’ll have to secure a beachhead and send out patrols to try to find everyone because the pods are independent. They can’t be steered. They’ll head for the nearest planet, which is Turano.”

“Have the Ruthless scan for cyborgs,” transmitted Rigby. “If you can. I don’t want it to kill any of Second Corps. They don’t have a way… damn. None of us are going to have a way to come back after this. We’re going to be just like the full humans, and not all of them are going to survive. We lost.”

On the one hand, Warren wished she’d kept that thought to herself. On the other hand, it was best to get it over with as soon as possible. The response of the other cyborgs within the network suggested most of them had already come to the same realization.

Warren tapped a few commands into the terminal built into his chair near his right hand, then verified the command with the war computer. A second later, the light, which had been red, became white again. At the same time, the general alarm sounded through the ship’s internal public address system, seven short blasts followed by one long one. Then came by a verbal message Warren had never hoped to hear.

“Attention crew,” it said in a pleasant female voice. “Abandon ship. This is not a drill.”

19

Warren split his attention between what the ship’s sensors were detecting, his nearby crew members, and where his own feet were. If anything changed, he’d have to alter his plan on the fly. He hoped nothing would change. The situation wasn’t good, but at least there was a way for everyone to escape. Or so he hoped. The crew members left their stations in an orderly fashion, but it was clear based on their expressions they were trying to conceal the fact they were scared.

Without someone at the helm, new course changes would take longer, but it didn’t matter—not for what Warren had planned. He sent the war computer instructions, providing it with the authorization it needed to complete the mission. It would slowly turn the Ruthless toward the planet and begin scanning for targets. At the same time, it would begin to increase its speed, pushing through the mines in front of it as best as it could. When it identified a target, it would send an image to Warren. If the target looked like a Commonwealth military asset, he would authorize its destruction. If it couldn’t reach Warren, it would make its own call based on some loose variables Warren assigned.

He wasn’t sure it would be enough to guarantee the ship didn’t crash itself into an orphanage or other innocent target, but it was all he could do. His final command was for the war computer to update him on its status every two minutes. It would only stop when its ability to communicate was too severely damaged, or the ship was utterly destroyed.

Warren watched the main viewscreen carefully, ensuring the ship was indeed changing course and increasing speed. He thought of Craig, and how much of a charge the cyborg would have gotten from the situation. Their slave master—the war computer—was now the slave. Where it had once sent them into an unwinnable battle, now he was doing the same to it.

One crew member was still standing in front of his station. The man was reaching for his terminal screen like his feet wanted to go one way, but his arms wanted to go the other.

“Get out!” ordered Warren. “Abandon ship!”

“I will, sir, I just need to—“

“You just need to do what you’re told, or I’ll stuff you into an escape pod myself. Now go!” Warren added a large measure of volume to his words. It seemed to do the trick, and the man practically ran into the hatch to the bridge before it had a chance to open.

When it closed behind him, Warren took a moment to consider his surroundings. The displays at the front of the bridge were reporting damage to its shields. They’d last, but not for much longer. The war computer was doing its best to destroy the mines in its path. It was doing a good job, but it missed one now and then as the number within range increased along with the vessel’s speed. It wouldn’t be long before the shields fell and the hull began taking the brunt of the damage.

According to what he could see, most of the crew had entered the escape pods, and one at a time they were launching from the vessel. He hoped they’d all make it, but there was no way to know or predict. He’d done what he could and hoped their technology was enough to save the crew.

“What do we do with the assholes who think they need to go down with the ship?” a cyborg transmitted.

“Use enough force to convince them otherwise,” replied Warren. “If your only option is to hurt them, forget about it. Do what you can, but we won’t bring them harm. Get yourself to a dropship no matter what.”

“Roger that,” the cyborg replied. His tone indicated he wasn’t comfortable with leaving anyone behind.

“What about Wraith Squadron?” asked Oplin.

“Cover the dropships,” replied Warren. “Help the Ruthless stay intact if you can do so without putting yourself in immediate danger, but the drop ships must make it to the surface, or this is all for nothing.”

The nineteen remaining pilots all sent a quick message to Warren’s HUD, which caused their names to momentarily illuminate in his field of vision. They’d heard the order and intended to obey.

Other cyborgs weren’t so quick to acknowledge the order to abandon ship. Warren read some of the messages they were sending to each other and felt their anxiety and anger growing. Everyone wanted to be a hero, it seemed—both human and cyborg alike. Unfortunately, if everyone was a hero and wanted to stay with the ship, it would be a complete loss for Reotis. One by one, Warren focused his attention on individual cyborgs, figured out what they were up against, and gave them a solution before ordering them to a dropship.

According to the war computer, the ship was barely thirty minutes away from entering the atmosphere. As its velocity increased, that time was rapidly diminishing, and the shields were down to less than ten percent. They were running out of time to get out of the vessel before it began taking damage. There would be hull breaches, atmospheric venting, and possible secondary explosions as fuel storage tanks burst and missiles detonated in their magazines.

The passageways were empty, except for a bit of debris and items accidentally dropped by the crew. There was nothing essential, but it looked like some thought it might be a good idea to run back to their berths to retrieve personal items. Hopefully, the delay wouldn’t cost any of their lives. When Warren walked through another hatchway, he encountered a tech frantically tapping and swiping the screen at his terminal.

“What are you doing?” asked Warren.

“Trying to make sure this all gets deleted,” the tech said rapidly. “It’s the protocol, sir. Can’t let it fall into enemy hands. I have to wipe it!”

Warren curled his fingers into a fist and punched a hole in the terminal, causing the crewman to flinch. “Get to an escape pod. This ship is about to become the largest crater on the Turanian surface. There won’t be anything left for the Commonwealth or anyone else to recover. I assure you, any data that might be left on this ship will be completely and utterly destroyed. Now, move!”

The man tripped over his own feet in his attempt to flee. A second later, he picked himself up, cradling one of his arms against his chest as he hurried through the opposite hatchway.

Shaking his head in amazement, Warren followed and queried the war computer as to how many of the crew still remained aboard. According to its internal scans, there were still seventeen people who hadn’t entered an escape pod yet. What were they thinking? Every member of the Republic Navy was drilled over and over again on how to properly abandon a ship. There was nothing in any protocol or procedure directing anyone to stick around to take care of some last-minute business. They were supposed to secure their stations, which only took seconds, then get the hell out. There wouldn’t be time to save them all, no matter how hard he tried. The shield had already fallen, and the ship was taking damage. From here, the destruction would accelerate. Lives would be lost because people didn’t follow orders.

This time, Warren didn’t hold himself back from punching the nearest wall. Nothing was damaged, though his armored gauntlets did register the impact. His pain sensors indicated he’d strained his elbow and shoulder a bit. He hit the wall again, leaving a fist-sized dent in the bulkhead. Something on the other side came loose and clattered to the deck. The pain felt good, so he hit it again, and again. The only thing that might feel better would be doing the same thing to a certain Commonwealth governor’s face.

As he pulled himself together, he suddenly realized something new. He was angry, but there was something else, too. Something he was sure he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was fear. Soon, there would be no war computer. No replacement parts. No Cyborg Upkeep and Production alcoves. No biologicals. Once he died, it was all over, unless he could find another war computer, which wasn’t likely here. Essentially, he was just like the crew: mortal.

A report came in. One of the escape pods had collided with a mine. A quick query of the war computer confirmed his suspicion. Although the mines were slow, the ones too far away to be an immediate threat to the Ruthless had been redirected. They were targeting escape pods. Back in his day, Warren would have called it a war crime.

Another report indicated the war computer had identified a potential target. It looked like an airfield. Warren could see a couple of Commonwealth fighters parked in the landing field. Good enough. He authorized the target.

Another check revealed there were still seventeen crewmembers doing something besides trying to save their own lives. Warren instructed the war computer to identify the closest pods to those seventeen and to launch the rest. He hoped it would be enough of a distraction to lure the mines away from the occupied ones. Maybe some of the crew would make it to the surface.

“Why aren’t you in a dropship yet?” Rigby barked at him across the comms.

“I’m trying to save lives and make sure the others make it off the ship,” replied Warren.

“You can’t save them all, okay? Get your ass to the launch bay. Fifteen other cyborgs are sitting on their asses making sure you’ve got a ride to the surface. They won’t leave until you do.”

It was blackmail, pure and simple. It also sounded exactly like what Warren was doing. He shook his head. Rigby was right. He’d done everything he could do. Lives would be lost today, there was no way to prevent that, but with any luck, more CoWs would die than Reotians. It was time to go.

Warren hurried through the hatch on the other side. For a moment, he felt his body pitch to the right. There’d been a hull breach, but hatches had automatically closed, sealing it off. Likely there weren’t any point defense cannons left at the bow of the Ruthless, which meant every mine in its path would find a home.

The dropship was the last one in the launch bay. He hurried aboard and took the only empty seat. A restraint bar lowered over his shoulders, securing him in place. A moment later, the pilot punched it, launching the ship from its dying womb and out into open space, even before the rear hatch finished closing.

“Welcome aboard,” the cyborg pilot said. “Please keep your hands and feet inside the—dammit! Hang on! This tub doesn’t have a lot of weapons, but I’m going to assist the Camel. One of ours is flying it, and they’ve got twenty squishies crammed aboard that thing. Hang on, people. See you on the other side.”

Warren was curious about the location of Hendrose. He sent a request for the information to the war computer. It didn’t know. Hendrose was no longer aboard the ship is all it could say. It was all that mattered in the end. So long as his friend had gotten off the ship, he had a chance to survive.

He became aware of someone speaking across the comms but didn’t understand what they were saying. A moment later, his mind cleared. It felt like someone was slowly lifting an insulated cooler off of his head as his awareness slowly returned to normal.

“—coming in for a hard landing,” the pilot was saying. “I’m aiming for swampland, but no guarantees, people.”

Swampland sounded like a good choice. The boxy dropship might be able to slide along the bog—knock down a couple of trees—and come in for a relatively safe landing. If it sank, there were other ways to exit the vessel, and it wasn’t like cyborgs could easily drown.

Warren sent another request for information to the war computer—but nothing came back. He tried again. There was no way the Ruthless was too far away to respond. Whether that meant it was already destroyed or only too damaged to respond, he didn’t know. From this point on, death was permanent. That part, he did know.

His next attempt was to try and send a message to Rigby, asking if she was okay.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Ship’s a little banged up, but I’ll get it to the ground in one piece, more or less. Glad you made it out.”

“You too,” he said and tried to access her visual feed so he could see what she was looking at—maybe his dropship. It failed, of course. The computer that allowed instant communication to exist was gone. “Can you tell me what you see?”

“Sure,” she replied. “We’re through the worst of it—at least I hope we are. It looks like some of the mines tried to follow us down. They’re too far away to be a threat, and they’ll burn up in the atmosphere. Otherwise, it looks like those of us who survived have a few minutes of peace before we’re back in the fight.”

She’d said ‘those of us who survived,’ which meant not everyone had. Whether she was specifically talking about cyborgs, humans, or both, he didn’t know and didn’t want to ask. In the end, it wouldn’t matter. It was likely not everyone would make it to the surface of Turano alive anyway. He’d figure it out when he got there.

Warren felt a soft rumbling. They’d begun to enter the planet’s atmosphere. A normal drop would have brought them in at about mach-25. An insertion made in a hostile situation would be much faster. As the atmosphere thickened, the friction on the outside of the hull would increase, which would eventually result in an electrically charged plasma, and they would, for all intents and purposes, become a fireball. The hull could handle it, though. These ships were made for this kind of thing. Where others had to come in slowly, powering hard to slow their descent toward a planet, drop ships were all about speed and efficiency.

WARNING: AMBIENT TEMPERATURE = 74.4

A human couldn’t withstand that kind of temperature unprotected, not being nearly as hardy as the cyborgs. It was why they couldn’t be transported on the drop ships. The vessels were built for cyborgs and didn’t waste a single credit on unnecessary things such as excessive coolers or heat shielding.

The rattling increased until it settled into a violent twisting-jerking motion as the ship and its pilot attempted to bring the vessel in slowly enough to avoid forming a crater, but fast enough to avoid whatever kind of anti-air defenses the Commonwealth had in place.

“Shit,” the pilot grumbled. “We’re going to have to get a little drastic. They’ve got Slicers. We’re coming in hot.”

The ship pitched to one side, then the other, as the pilot tried to make them a little more difficult to hit.

BANG!

They’d collided with something but were still moving. The interior of the lander became a chaotic cacophony of sound and vibration.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Suddenly, they’d stopped. The aft end of the craft felt like it lifted into the air and then crashed to the ground.

20

REACTIVATION MODE

REACTIVATING… FAILED

REACTIVATING… SUCCESS

The messages faded from Warren’s HUD slowly. By the time he fully became aware of them, they were gone and he wasn’t certain he’d actually seen them. The next thing he became aware of was the voices. People were talking. Someone was shouting orders and a hand was shaking Warren.

“I’m awake!” the cyborg growled, deflecting the hands. Warren opened his eyes and found himself still inside the lander. Everyone was moving. They’d survived. He tried to stand, but his metal harness held him firmly in place. His HUD had run a systems check and offered him a report. Nothing was broken, though it did note some minor damage to most of his joints. It didn’t appear to be critical.

Warren fumbled for the manual release under the seat between his legs, found it, and pulled. The metal bar over his shoulders disconnected from the wall, allowing him to stand. A rhythmic pounding noise drew his attention to the pilot’s seat as the cyborg was punching the front window over and over again like a madman. Warren almost ordered him to stop until the window shattered. He shoved a few leftover pieces out of the way and motioned for the others to follow. One at a time, cyborgs began scrambling through the hole. Some got hung up when their gear got stuck, but others helped them.

There must be something wrong with the rear hatch, he realized. He took a quick look around and realized what it was. The ship had no power. There wasn’t a single light on anywhere. It had become a coffin.

Gunfire erupted outside. Some of it was close—probably fellow cyborgs.

“Hurry!” someone bellowed.

“Keep moving!” the pilot ordered. “One at a time, dammit! Get back!”

As the last of the fogginess faded from Warren’s mind, he figured out what had happened. The banging he’d heard when they were coming in were trees. The ship had hit something too hard to crash through. It had pitched them forward, lifted the ass end off the ground, then crashed them back to the ground. Now they were under fire.

“Line up!” ordered Warren, yanking one panicking cyborg by the back of his neck. He moved the soldier off to the side and placed him where he should be. “Stop acting like animals! Stay in line, one at a time. Then get your ass into the fight and kill some CoWs. Hooah?”

“Hooah!” several of the cyborgs replied.

Warren didn’t have to say much after that. He’d make sure the others got out, and he’d go last.

“You’re next,” said the pilot, motioning toward the opening.

“No, you are,” corrected Warren.

The pilot nodded and scrambled out of the hole. Just as Warren got his hand on the window’s frame, a huge explosion bounced him off the control panel and onto his back. The world spun, causing him a few moments of confusion. When things settled again, he realized what it was. The lander was resting on its nose, and all he could see out of the window was dirt, plants, and rocks.

Trash and bits of debris rained down on him from the aft section of the ship. Several more explosions along with gunfire erupted from outside, rattling the lander’s hull. Warren got on his hands and knees and dug into the dirt for a few seconds, but the nose of the craft was buried too far.

Another explosion rattled the lander’s hull and Warren within. He wondered if it was the tanks King had told him about. The dropship he was in was armored—able to take a lot of hits from a lot of different Commonwealth weapons, but the tanks were new. Likely, the vessel he was sheltered in had never been tested against them. Not by the Republic, anyway.

Again, Warren attempted to see through the eyes of the nearby cyborgs, and again he failed. He hadn’t realized how dependent he’d become until then. He tried to send a message to let the others know he was still alive but got no response. There was still gunfire, though. Someone was out there—still fighting.

Warren closed his eyes and centered himself, then opened them again. He needed to find a way out. With the drop shop propped up on its nose, he was nothing more than a big target. One of those tanks could accidentally shoot him, and it would be all over. Visually scanning the interior of the vessel, he noticed a panel with bright red lettering.

MANUAL OVERRIDE

Of course. He could open the panel, attach the handle he’d find inside, and crank the rear hatch open manually. If it didn’t work, he could pull a pin located inside and use his strength to force it open. It was the only way out.

More gunfire erupted from outside as Warren climbed the seats his fellow cyborgs had been in to reach the hatch. The vibration he’d been feeling decreased. The tanks were moving away, but there was still a lot of shooting.

The frame the manual override hatch was located in had been damaged—either during the crash, or when the explosion knocked the dropship into a nose-down position. Warren tried to pry it open but couldn’t get a grip on the outside edge.

Ping, ping, ping!

Three holes appeared in the belly of the craft, and three narrow beams of light reflected the dust in the air. Warren ignored it and punched the panel just hard enough to give it a bit of a bend, then he was able to get the tips of his fingers under the edge and pry it open. Once it came loose, he wrenched the handle away from where it was secured to the wall, attached it to a gear, and began turning. The rear hatch had only opened a few centimeters when more gunfire erupted just outside the vessel, and new holes started appearing in the belly of the craft. Someone was outside with a heavy machine gun and was walking the rounds from the bottom to the top. They knew there was a cyborg inside, and if he didn’t do something, they’d find him. Unless he moved. Even then, they might get lucky, but Warren risked it.

Letting go of the seat he’d been holding onto, Warren said goodbye to the ship, the planet, the entire universe. He allowed gravity to take over and fell back, submitting to the pull of the planet.

Warren crashed to the bottom. The machine gun fire stopped, and the cyborg wasted no time pressing himself as low as he could get, attempting to become as small of a target as possible. The machine gunner continued to fire, and new shafts of light stabbed into the darkness of the cabin.

More explosions rattled the ship enough to knock a cyborg nutrition bar loose from somewhere above. It fell, landing with a soft thump in the middle of Warren’s visor. He left it, preferring to remain quiet rather than remove the offending meal. There was another explosion, this one further away, and the gunfire stopped.

Warren tried sending a message to any nearby cyborgs again, but there was no response. He didn’t understand why. He was still alive, and he’d be damned if he would let the CoWs catch him laying down on the job. Quietly rising to his feet, Warren made his way across to the vessel. He couldn’t see through other cyborgs’ eyes anymore, but he could peek out the holes his enemy had made. He picked one and slowly approached, but froze when something passed in front of it. Then another. Then a third. They were just outside, whispering to one another.

Someone began climbing the outside of the ship. Warren could see how far they’d made it based on the shadows. He thought he might be able to blast them through the holes they’d made, but didn’t think his rifle could shoot through the armored hull. Even if he managed to make the perfect shot through a hole that was already there, he’d only make himself a target for the others.

There was a manual override hatch on the outside of the ship, Warren knew. A second later, he heard someone open the hatch and the rattle of the handle as they lined it up with the gear. If they wanted to come in, he wouldn’t stop them. Slowly, Warren reached over his shoulder and disconnected the rifle from the magnetic mount on the back of his armor. Come right in. Make yourself at home. Oh, and would you hold this bullet for me? No, not with your hand—with your head.

Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, Warren waited. So long as they didn’t toss a grenade down before they took a peek, no problem. Likely, the Commonwealth soldier wanted to capture whatever was inside, so destroying it would only be a last resort. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it seemed right. All he needed now was a target.

The door had opened wide enough to allow two cyborgs to exit at the same time. All he needed now was for his enemy to poke his head over the edge. Warren would end him, leap from the ship, and take as many others out before they shot him up. The door opened another centimeter, then stopped. He was ready. All in all, it wasn’t a bad way to go.

An armored hand appeared. It was a tempting target, but Warren wanted a dead opponent, not an injured one. The hand disappeared as whoever on the other side did something and whispered to others. The hand reappeared, and Warren thought about shooting it again. Any second now.

The head that appeared from over the edge of the hatch looked familiar. Warren was already applying pressure to the trigger but managed to force himself to stop before his weapon fired. It wasn’t a Commonwealth helmet, unless they’d adopted the cyborg design.

“Whoa there,” a woman’s voice said. No, not just a woman’s voice—Rigby’s voice. “Easy there, let’s not shoot friendlies, okay?”

21

Warren took Rigby’s offered hand and climbed out of the wreck of the dropship. The pilot had either missed his intended landing site, had been forced away from it, or had changed his mind. Rather than landing in a bog, the ship was standing nose-up in a dense forest. There was smoke in the air—not a lot but enough to see. The sky was blue, the leaves of the trees were broad, and low shrubs hugged the ground. Intermingled among them were cyborgs, all facing outward in a defensive perimeter.

Rigby motioned for him to follow and dropped lightly to the ground. When he landed next to her he noticed the bottom of the dropship was scorched in several places. They were always burned after coming through atmosphere, but the marks he saw were different. The three-meter-wide crater and the soil splattered against the nearby trees and bushes explained the difference. It must’ve been the blast that knocked the craft onto its nose. A few centimeters higher, and he might’ve bought the farm.

“Comms are down,” whispered Rigby. “Nobody knows why. Where to?”

First thing they needed to do was get away from the downed craft. It might contain something the Commonwealth would find valuable, but he doubted it. Plus, there was no time to try to burn or otherwise destroy the dropship. They needed to get away from it. Downed vessels attracted attention, and even though there were at least a dozen enemy soldiers dead on the ground, it didn’t mean there wouldn’t be more on the way.

Warren waited for the correction to appear on his HUD as to exactly how many bodies there were. It didn’t happen. His HUD remained eerily silent on the matter. It was the first time it didn’t come up with an answer to a mental question. Something was seriously wrong—not that he minded the absence of constant interruptions to his thought process—but it wasn’t normal.

Rigby was still watching him. This was his platoon now, and until he found and linked up with others, this was all he had. They needed orders—a direction to go—but the forest was too thick to get his bearings. Nothing he saw appeared to coincide with the map King had provided. In that case, any direction was correct.

Accessing his knowledge modules, Warren found one containing instructions on what to do if comms ever went down. Likely, nobody in the Republic thought any cyborg would ever have to blow the dust off this information. Within the module were code lists, the semaphore alphabet, and a variety of hand and arm signal sets, including the one he was most familiar with.

He motioned for Rigby to get close. “Since comms are down, we’re going to use US Army hand and arm signals. Pass it on. Let me know when everyone’s on the same page.

Rigby nodded, then, staying low, hurried to the nearest cyborg and whispered to him. She made her way around the defensive perimeter, and when she reached the first soldier, took a knee and nodded.

Returning her nod, Warren signaled for his platoon to assume a defensive wedge formation and head out. It became almost immediately apparent, though, that something was wrong. Nobody knew which position was theirs, because neither squads nor fireteams had been assigned.

Warren pointed to three random cyborgs and signaled they were his squad leaders. Poulton, Rigby, and Maler quickly assigned their subordinate leaders, and a minute later, they were finally able to move. They did so quickly, not quite at a run, but not walking. They needed to gain distance from the crash site before reinforcements arrived or someone opened up with artillery or mortar fire. Air units were a possibility as well, and none of them were equipped with anti-air weaponry. The Stingers were supposed to take care of that problem, but he hadn’t seen any since emerging from the ship.

Once they were a few kilometers away, Warren signaled for everyone to halt while he took a look at the map, then his surroundings. He knew where they were. The hills matched the ones in his HUD, and though the creek in the map appeared to have water running in it, if it was the same one they’d stopped near, it was currently dry. There was also a large, unfamiliar animal track pressed into the moist soil near the stream bed’s center.

Signaling for Rigby to join him, he waited for her, and when she arrived, indicated he wanted her to check out the track. Rigby crept low to the ground and inspected the print carefully, then she pressed a finger into it, apparently testing how dense the soil had been compacted. When she returned, she held up both hands to say she had no clue. Whatever it was, they’d eventually find it. Such was the Corps way.

Warren was frustrated by not having any kind of comms at all. It left him feeling alone, isolated. He tried sending a message to a cyborg from first squad barely ten meters ahead of him, but the man didn’t respond. A system check didn’t reveal any trouble. A problem for later. Now that they knew where they were, it was time to choose a destination.

The map had dozens of points of interest marked on it. Several were nearby towns. There was supposed to be a river a few kilometers away, but it may or may not have any water in it. If the scale was right, it was a big one, so it might be difficult to cross without getting swept downstream. Besides that, there was nothing. No indication of where Second Corps was holed up, probably as a security measure if a cyborg was captured. He didn’t suspect any of them would talk. Nor did he think there was any kind of torture their enemy could perform which could have extracted the information, either. Then again, the Commonwealth of Worlds had been full of surprises recently.

Rigby was watching him. He couldn’t see her face, so it was impossible to tell what she might be thinking. Probably that he needed to get out of whatever funk he was currently in and get them moving. Warren inspected the map again and selected a location of roughly equal distance between two of the towns. It would require them to cross what might be a hazardous river, but if they could find cover, its location halfway up a tall hill would be a good location to observe both towns. With any luck, it would also help them find the rest of their Corps, link up with them, and come up with a plan to either kick the Commonwealth off the planet or bury them there.

Indicating the direction he wanted them to travel, Warren took his position in the center. The formation was a little tight, so he motioned for them to spread out. If they ran into a rocket tank, grouping together would only make their enemy’s job easier. Maybe it wouldn’t have been as big of a deal before, but now their lives were permanently at risk. No more ignoring radioactivity warnings. No more reckless charges against entrenched enemies. Now they had to be smart.

The forest began to thin as they traveled, so Warren indicated he wanted the platoon to spread out even more. The ones who’d noticed the signal relayed it to those who hadn’t. Maybe it was the knowledge modules they’d all loaded, or maybe it was the experience of working together. Either way, their formation was clean and crisp. Everyone was where they needed to be, and as Warren observed them from his position directly center, he couldn’t help but feel a measure of confidence return. First Corps still had the advantage. Maybe their ability to instantly communicate, see through each other’s eyes, and know where everyone else was had been stripped from them, but they had knowledge their enemy was unaware of.

What he didn’t know was how he was going to find the rest of First Corps and thought it might be time to consider the fact he may never find them. He hadn’t seen any other crash sites, either. There’d been smoke, but that could’ve come from the explosions he’d heard. It could’ve been caused by the Ruthless crashing into the ground at several times the speed of sound, too. That’s what was bothering him the most. He knew a lot, thanks to the knowledge modules he’d loaded from the war computer, but he didn’t even know what was around the next bend or over the next hill. He didn’t know where Lukov or Hendrose were, or if either was even alive. He knew where Rigby was, but not what happened to the Stinger she’d been flying. He felt like he was blind, wandering through a room of rattlesnakes.

A cyborg in first squad directly ahead signaled a stop, then danger. The next message passed was a hand to the ear. There was something to listen to. Warren amplified his hearing and waited, as did everyone else. It took a few seconds for him to detect it. The sound seemed far away. He heard footsteps on stone, then the rush of water and rhythmic splashing. There were people somewhere up ahead, but they were still about ten kilometers from the nearest town, so he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

He decided to avoid contact for now and signaled for first squad to guide the rest around the source of the noise. Everyone repeated the signal, and they continued creeping through the woods but stopped only a few minutes later. They saw the danger signal again. This time, though, it came back from the platoon leader. Someone in first squad thought there was something Warren needed to see, so he hurried forward, staying low.

Warren saw it before he figured out who had signaled for him to come forward. At first, he thought it might be some kind of religious totem, but that wasn’t quite right. The thing was suspended at the top of a ten-meter pole—the trunk of a tree with all the branches and bark removed. It wasn’t until Warren zoomed his vision in that he recognized what it was: a cyborg. Most of one, anyway. The head had been removed, as had most of the internal components and nearly all the skin. Afterward, someone had nailed it to a tree, both hands straight above its head—a single spike going through both. They’d also done the same with the feet.

Unlike a typical corpse that would slowly decay until it eventually fell to the ground, cyborgs contained very little biological matter. Just a brain and spinal cord. The rest was a collection of various metals, alloys, and polymers. The tree would decay and fall down before that body did.

There was no way to tell how long it had been up there, but based on the amount of dust and bird shit, he’d have to say at least a couple of weeks. Whoever that cyborg body used to belong to, he’d probably died during the initial landing on the planet.

The soldier who’d asked for him made his way back to Warren. “So, does that mean they think we’re gods?” he whispered.

“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 works 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.

“The general’s gonna be so glad to finally meet you!” Brinn said as he hurried into the darkness.

23

“So, you probably want to tell your people to start calling you General Warren,” whispered Brinn. “Maybe General Prescott. It’s up to you, but Second Corps will probably call you that, and if you’re not gonna claim it, then things might not go so good.”

Warren wasn’t sure what he meant by that but nodded to Rigby, who began passing the instructions to the rest of the platoon.

The tunnel started as dirt, supported by wooden beams, but soon gave way to a stone passage. The walls and floor were rough-hewn and had obviously been completed in haste. Every few paces, some of the stone jutted out into the passage. From what Warren could see using his night vision, it appeared to be a different color than the rest. Probably too tough for whatever tools had been used to dig this thing out, he decided. In most of the areas, the rock had been cut wider to provide enough space to get through without having to do more than lean a little to one side or the other.

Something on the ceiling caught Warren’s attention. He studied it for a few seconds, still walking. It looked like string—maybe some kind of finely woven twine. Every meter or so, it passed through an eye bolt, looped, and went through another. He was curious and glanced over his shoulder to see if Rigby had spotted it too. She had, but only replied with a slight shrug. She didn’t know what it was for, either.

They’d traveled about a hundred meters when Warren spotted the first change in their environment. The sound of his footsteps suddenly changed, becoming less sharp and pronounced. It wasn’t a drastic difference, but it was definitely something he noticed.

A huge piece of cloth which, upon closer inspection, was actually made from a lot of other pieces all sewn together, hung on the wall to Warren’s left. He had to speed up a little, then slow down to get behind Brinn to get a good look at it.

The sergeant glanced at what he was looking at. “It’s probably okay to whisper,” he said. “We’re pretty far underground, and we’re pretty close to all the soundproofing we’ve added. We’ve been digging this place out for a while. This was our first hidey-hole. Now it’s just storage. I’m sure the general will let you take a peek. Hell, he might give you everything we’ve got if we end up kicking the Commonwealth’s ass.

“Since then, we’ve been doing a lot more digging. Well, some of us have, anyway. Mostly DeNovy and Fippin. Their legs are busted up pretty good, so they aren’t much use in a fight. But they can stand around and swing a pickaxe. You’ll get to meet ‘em. Good soldiers, doing what they can.”

The passage made a ninety-degree turn to the right a few paces further where Warren and Brinn encountered their first barrier. It was more cloth, similar to what was covering the storage room. Brinn brushed it aside and walked through. Warren followed, scanning for threats as he did. The passage only went about a meter before it turned to the left again, probably because of the strange-colored stone. It looked like someone had gone at it for a while but eventually gave up.

The passage finally opened into a room roughly twenty meters wide and a hundred long. All the walls were covered in layers of cloth—probably the soundproofing Brinn had spoken of. Piled along the wall to the left were at least two dozen broken or worn pickaxes. To the right were stacks of boxes, crates, and woven baskets filled with an assortment of trash, stuff that might be food, and clothing.

Ahead fifteen cyborgs stood around something they were looking at on one of the walls while another four were gathered around a table in the far corner, observing some equipment—the only electronics in the place from what Warren could see. A quick glance at the ceiling revealed the string from the hallway continued into the room, ending at the back wall where it was attached to a crude-looking piece of metal shaped like a cowbell. A second later, the string moved, hissing softly against the eye bolts, and the bell clanged.

The fifteen standing around turned toward Warren and the others. None appeared surprised, but they did eye his platoon’s weapons with an expression he thought of as almost feral.

“At ease,” a tall, broad cyborg standing near the table in the back said. He tapped the cracked screen of a datapad a couple of times, nodded to one of the others, and turned toward Warren.

The big cyborg had been through some shit. Most of the skin on his head was gone. Burn marks and dents on the metal chassis underneath suggested it had happened in battle, but it could have easily occurred when the Conquest crashed, or even before.

Warren felt like he was being examined like a butcher might a cow he was planning to slaughter. It made him uncomfortable, but there was no overt hostility being displayed. Not yet, anyway. When the cyborg approached, everyone got out of his way, their eyes darting between him and Warren’s platoon.

“My name is General Clem Kaplan,” he said, still examining Warren like he was a slab of meat. “And who might you be?” His voice was rough, rattling like he’d taken a bullet to the throat but had recovered.

“General Warren Prescott,” he replied, though it felt foolish to refer to himself that way. He’d never been a general. Never wanted to be, yet here he was, a general for all intents and purposes.

“Good to meet you,” Kaplan said, holding out his hand. Warren took it, and they shook. “Glad you decided to join our little soiree here on Turano. I heard things went better on Reotis. Got yourself a little colony there tough enough to beat down a Repub cruiser and CoW… what was it, a frigate?”

“We’re calling it a mothership,” said Warren. “More of a troop transport for mechs.”

Kaplan nodded slowly, then glanced at the other fifteen cyborgs crowding into the room. “Most of my people are out on guard duty, collecting intel or committing hostile actions against our enemy. Your people are free to carry their rifles if they want, or they can put them up. Sergeant Brinn will be happy to run you through our procedures, and all I ask is that you respect and obey them. Although we don’t own the planet yet, we’ve managed to push back our enemies, while remaining invisible to them. They know we’re here, but they don’t know where here is.”

Warren thought he detected a smile on what was left of the general’s face, but so much artificial skin was missing, he couldn’t be sure. “I was told you have some of my people here,” he said.

The general nodded then motioned to one of the cyborgs standing behind him, who began walking toward the back of the room. “We’ve got some civilians here who said they’re with you. No harm has come to them, but for security’s sake, I had to isolate them. The ones you verify are yours are free to go.”

Warren felt relief wash over him the moment he recognized Hendrose. The others were Reotians who’d volunteered to join the mission at the last moment. The only light in the room came from the electronics on the table, so none of them could see where they were going.

“They’re all mine,” said Warren.

“Good to hear it,” replied Kaplan. He nodded to the cyborg who’d brought them out, then he gently began pushing them in Warren’s direction.

“Warren, good to see you,” said Hendrose, his eyes wide with relief.

“Yes,” he replied. “And it’s General Prescott.” Then he turned to Kaplan and asked, “Do you have a place for these full humans?”

“Yes,” he said. “The squishies must remain outside the command center, now that you’ve cleared them. As you can see, we don’t have any electronics that run from the building. Every piece of tech runs off Commonwealth batteries we’ve liberated from their forces. We’ve got a few dozen small solar chargers scattered throughout the hillside to recharge them, but even those are risky. You said you’ve encountered mechs, but have you seen a Ghost yet?”

“Yes,” replied Warren. “King told me about them. Showed me the footage you sent with him. After that, we got ambushed by one.”

Kaplan nodded slowly. “You’ll get another chance to meet them. So will your troops. As you know, they won’t be easy to find though.”

“How do you spot them?” asked Warren.

“Usually, we don’t. They spot us and open fire, then we shoot back. In other words, anyone who isn’t one of us is a potential enemy. Not so much the civilians on this planet, but a lot of them are loyal to Kinsley. Maybe not the Commonwealth of Worlds as a whole, but definitely him. He’s got a lot of these people brainwashed into thinking he’s the only thing standing between them and complete annihilation. Maybe he is.”

“Any idea why comms are down?” asked Warren.

“Just so happens, I do,” Kaplan replied. He snapped his fingers and gestured toward the electronics table. One of the cyborgs there unplugged a datapad, then hurried over and handed it to him. “This is the source of the problem.” He turned the pad around so Warren could see what was displayed on the cracked screen.

It was an image of what looked like an old radio tower, an ordered spiderweb of rusty steel lattice reaching sixty or more meters into the sky. Near the base was a concrete-walled building. The image was grainy, probably taken at great distance—maybe using the pad itself.

Warren nodded slowly, piecing the situation together in his mind. “I heard you encountered some of First Corps before we showed up.”

“Indeed,” replied the general. “One or two may be injured, but whether that happened when they displayed hostility toward my troops, or it happened sometime before, I can’t say. Without comms, details are still sketchy at best. Sergeant Brinn can show you the last place he saw them and what direction they traveled if you’d like to link up with them. I’m assigning him to be your pathfinder if you’re agreeable to that.”

“That’s fine with me,” replied Warren. “So, what’s the plan?”

“I was hoping you’d ask that,” the general replied as he motioned for Warren to follow. When the rest of Warren’s platoon tried to tag along, Kaplan’s head snapped around. His fists were clenched, and Warren imagined he was probably frowning. “Please ask your people to stay back here,” he said. “If they’re worried about keeping an eye on you, please assure them we won’t be going anywhere. But no one, and I mean no one besides the commanders and my war planners are allowed in the command area.”

Warren nodded to his platoon and motioned for them to stay. Rigby’s body language suggested she might be thinking about arguing about it, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She wouldn’t have if comms were working, he knew.

Kaplan waited another three seconds before relaxing his fists and walking to the back table with the electronics on it.

Now that Warren had a better view of what was on the table, he was amazed any of it worked. There were Republic components, Commonwealth batteries and components, and a stack of items he was certain belonged to neither.

Kaplan gestured for the three cyborgs who’d been with him there to step aside as they approached, reconnected the datapad to the mess of wires, and swiped it a few times. “Here’s the current map,” he said. “Your troops can use the one on the wall. We keep it updated with what they need to know. These nearby towns are friendly. These ones are a mixed-bag—some friendlies but a lot of hostiles. These haven’t been confronted yet, so they should always be considered hostile.”

“What do these icons represent?” asked Warren.

“Waypoints,” he replied. “I’m sure you saw the one as you entered Souma? The cyborg chassis?”

“Yeah,” replied Warren. “Are these all chassis?”

“No. We literally had that one lying around. Once we pulled all the useful parts out, we stuck it up there as a marker. It made the town look like it was loyal to Kinsley—gave us a buffer and a point of reference. This one here is just a stack of rocks.” He pointed at an icon on the map. “This one’s a natural rock formation we’ve named The Spike. This one’s a crashed CoW transport. Every one of them stands out as being out of place, but either the CoWs are used to it, or they don’t stand out enough to draw attention.”

“And this?” Warren asked, pointing to an icon shaped like a crown.

“Ah,” said Kaplan. “That’s the prize, General. That is the capitol—the seat of power here on Turano, and that’s where Kinsley likes to hide.”

24

“Before we can take the capital, there are several other targets we will need to neutralize first,” said Kaplan. “I’ve taken the liberty of assigning squad leaders and prioritizing our targets. Next, I’ve designated areas of operation for each of us, should the worst occur. This will likely be a drawn-out war, especially since we know very little of our enemy’s capabilities, so there’s no time to waste. We can begin as soon as you review and familiarize yourself with my plan.”

“After we find the rest of First Corps, right?” asked Warren.

The general frowned. “Normally I would say yes, but my plan—“

“Maybe I misspoke,” said Warren. “After we find the rest of First Corps. Your plan might be brilliant, and I have no reason to doubt that it is, but my people are my priority. That, and the more we have, the easier and more effective your plan will be.” Warren was attempting to be diplomatic and tried not to remind himself it was what politicians did.

Kaplan’s expression was impossible to read, but the rigid posture and clenched fist suggested he didn’t like what he was hearing. His words left no doubt.

“I appreciate your desire to link up with your soldiers,” he said, sounding as if he were picking his words carefully. “But time is of the essence. The Commonwealth forces on Turano know of your presence. I believe they are hunting for you and the rest of First Corps as we speak. Therefore, I believe it is prudent to make our attack as soon as possible before our enemy has the opportunity to request backup. If that were to occur, we might be dealing with a dozen regiments of their best soldiers.”

Warren stood his ground. “Let me be clear. I’m going to go find my soldiers. I’m going to link up with them, then we can go with what you have planned”

“Then it may be too late,” snapped Kaplan, slashing a hand through the air between them. “Did you notice the bell when you came in?” He pointed to the handmade cowbell at the terminus of the string.

“I did,” said Warren.

“That bell is the only thing that has kept us alive. That, and my expertise, my caution, and my desire to win. That bell is connected to a small bolt at the house you used to enter this place. The woman who lives there pulls the bolt from the wall and tugs it when the air patrols pass. From that point, we know we have ten minutes to move about, make as much noise as we want, and move our plan forward. This entire facility was constructed in this way—ten minutes at a time. Anything else would have us all destroyed, so don’t lecture me about what’s necessary and what isn’t. Being the leader of First Corps doesn’t give you the right to question my authority. These cyborgs understand that the only thing standing between them and complete and utter destruction is me. I’m saving them, just like I have since the Conquest was destroyed. They owe me their lives and their futures.” He stopped short of saying he owned them, but Warren filled in the gap himself.

“Without the rest of First Corps, our chances of winning anything is diminished,” replied Warren as he worked to keep his voice even and calm. “I arrived expecting to find a way to the surface. I expected to have my war computer in orbit with twenty fighters protecting it. I expected to have communications and at least another seventy soldiers on the ground.”

“And plans only last until the first contact with the enemy,” Kaplan returned, turning back to the table. He leaned on it, resting his palms near the edge for a moment before turning his metal skull and glowing red cybernetic eyes toward Warren. His next words were low, barely audible enough for Warren to make out. “You will not take my command from me.”

That’s what this was all about, Warren realized. The guy was a panicky amateur who was so damned frightened, the only thing keeping him from falling apart was the feeling that he was in charge. He’d been on the planet for a month and still hadn’t made any significant progress. Sure, securing a base of operations and garnering the support of a village were no small tasks, but the enemy was far too comfortable.

“I have no intention of stripping you of your command,” Warren told him. “I only want to help you and the rest of Second Corps remove the Commonwealth from this planet, set up some defenses so you can manage it yourself, then return to Reotis. It’s what I came to do, and is all I intend to do.”

“So what do you propose?” asked Kaplan, waving his hand for Warren to continue. He leaned against the table, one fist on it and the other on his hip.

“Send Sergeant Brinn with me, as you mentioned. Have him show me the last location my people were spotted. I’ll figure it out from there and return with more soldiers to hear your plan, learn what our assets are. With any luck, maybe have something more powerful than small arms to offer you in the upcoming fights.”

That seemed to inspire him. He lowered his fist and uncurled his fingers. Apparently, the thought that he might be able to add a few Stingers to his plan had never occurred to him. Warren hoped there were more than a few left, and if there weren’t, that their former pilots were still alive.

Kaplan shook his head and stared at his feet. “Sending King to retrieve the First Corps was a huge risk—one I didn’t take lightly. If you encounter the enemy and do not win, Second Corps will be worse off than when we’d started. This mission is a ticking clock, as is our time here. If we wait too long, they’ll find us, and we’ll have to fight on their terms.”

“Are you sending Brinn with me?” asked Warren, getting to the point. “If not, I’ll take my leave and find them myself.”

Kaplan turned back to the table and began digging into the surface with his cybernetic fingers. The soft metal curled into ribbons as he did. Warren tensed, but the general leaned forward, lowering his head until it almost touched the table. He mumbled something incoherent, sounding like he was having an argument with himself before scratching the table again.

There was no time for this nonsense. Either the general would assign Sergeant Brinn to him as a guide, or he wouldn’t. Either way, they weren’t getting anywhere with the man acting like he was crazy as he tried to get his way.

The sound of shuffling feet made Warren aware of how the First Corps cyborgs were feeling. They were getting ready to fight, probably moving a little to make sure each of them still had a clear field of fire. One or two—Rigby, if he had to guess—were likely looking for a shot at the general himself. It would be a shame if this is how it went down. One that might cost every one of them their lives.

“Once I have the rest of my people, First Corps will stand with Second,” said Warren. “We’ll free this planet, and if you prefer, I’ll leave Governor Kinsley for you to finish off personally.”

Kaplan stopped scratching the top of the table and relaxed his fingers and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Take Sergeant Brinn as your guide, General Prescott. He will take you to where we last saw your people. If you can manage to find them, please bring them back to this village so we may enact my plan and destroy our enemy. Is this acceptable to you?”

“Yes, General Kaplan,” said Warren, using the other cyborg’s honorific as his way of giving thanks. “I’ll return the moment I can.”

“See that you do,” replied Kaplan.

* * *

Rigby and the others watched Warren carefully after they’d exited the tunnels. Daylight was fading, which wasn’t a problem for cyborgs from either side but would likely provide some decent cover against the Commonwealth’s regular soldiers.

Sergeant Brinn stared up into the sky as he slowly wandered from the building. He looked like he might be contemplating life, considering the time of day, or even attempting to predict the weather.

“I’m not sure Kaplan’s a friendly,” muttered Rigby.

Warren nodded his agreement but motioned for her to remain silent. He wasn’t sure she’d spoken quietly enough to keep the sergeant from hearing her. There was no doubt the cyborg from Second Corps had been sent to guide them to where their last encounter with his cyborgs had occurred. But he was also there to keep an eye on them.

“You ready?” asked Warren.

“Yes, sir,” replied Brinn, though he sounded like there was something else on his mind. “I think we need to move quickly, though. There should’ve been a patrol flying overhead while we were down in the command center.”

“There wasn’t?” asked Rigby.

“No. If there was, the bell would’ve rung. That’s all the old woman in that house does—ring that bell. It’s how we keep track. No electronic or sound emissions. Nothing for the Commonwealth to notice. It’s how the general has kept us all alive, now that there’s no way to reset us.”

Warren thought about asking him if they’d performed a backup to Cyborg Data Cubes, but thought better of it. Either way, it didn’t matter. Not until another war computer could be captured, but he couldn’t worry about that now.

“What about us?” asked Hendrose, glancing at the other civilians released from their cyborg captors.

“I’ll need you to stay here,” Warren said, holding up a hand to stop Hendrose’s argument before it could start. “I know, these are Commonwealth citizens. They’re our traditional enemy, but if what General Kaplan says is true, they’re friendly. He says they’ve already got places for all of you. In fact, here comes the welcoming committee.”

Hendrose turned to glance at two young women and an older man who cautiously made their way toward them along a dirt path.

“I don’t trust them, and I don’t trust our hosts,” said Hendrose under his breath. “They didn’t act like we were friendlies. It’s like they had something to prove in there and were trying to make it clear who was in charge—as if there was anything I could do about it.”

Warren thought about his friend for a moment, then nodded slowly. He took a small step to his left, unholstered his pistol, and handed it to the tech.

Hendrose stared wide-eyed at the weapon for a moment before taking it and shoving it behind his belt and under his shirt.

“That ought to keep you until we get back. Full humans are easy enough to kill, and I’m sure you know a couple of nice, sensitive areas to shoot a cyborg if it should come down to that.”

“I do,” he admitted, still looking unconvinced. “What’s your plan?”

“Get the others, bring them back, and see what tricks our hosts have up their sleeves. You might need to stay here for that too. I don’t know yet, but don’t go anywhere if you can help it.”

Hendrose nodded and turned away from Warren, who listened to the polite conversation he and the welcoming committee had before turning back to his own team. He didn’t like leaving anyone behind, but the cyborgs could move fast, didn’t require sleep, and rarely had to eat. He didn’t bother trying to scrounge up some food. They’d be good until they could find something to forage or capture along the way.

“Sergeant Brinn,” said Warren. “You’ve got point. Column formation. Let’s head out.”

25

Warren kept a close eye on the seventeen others in his small platoon. Sergeant Brinn seemed to be the least concerned of everyone, but whether that was due to his experience or the same kind of reckless bravado his commander displayed, he wasn’t sure. They were moving quickly, hadn’t encountered a single Commonwealth soldier, but had managed to spook dozens of animals.

The things resembled antelope, or maybe deer. They stood almost two meters high, had short, rounded horns and black stripes running vertically across their khaki hide. Brinn looked every time one bolted from its hiding place through the trees but didn’t otherwise respond. Whatever they were, they didn’t seem dangerous.

Someone up ahead called a halt. Warren and everyone else took a knee. A moment later, the signal for him to move forward was passed along.

When he reached the front of the formation, Brinn pointed at a clearing ahead. The sun was almost down, casting long shadows across the tall, dry grass that occupied the ten-meter space. He strained his vision and hearing, searching for any signs of life, whether cyborg or other. Besides a few small birds and rodents, it seemed clear.

Warren signaled for second and third squads to begin securing the perimeter before moving. Then he and first squad turned outward to provide 360-degree security. By the time it was done, no shots had been fired. There weren’t any enemies nearby.

“Show me exactly where you last saw them,” Warren whispered to Brinn, who nodded and walked confidently into the clearing. He pointed to a spent rifle ammunition casing lying among tall blades of grass. Once he spotted the first one, the others were easier to spot. There were hundreds of them, and the further he walked, the more he found. Among the debris, he also discovered the remains of a firing mechanism for a grenade, both triggering buttons clearly visible. “What happened here?”

“I got the report, but I wasn’t here,” replied Brinn. “The report from the others said they heard gunfire. They came out here, tried to secure the area, but they got into a pissing match. Someone calling himself Lukov refused to surrender himself and the others. It’s standard procedure to disarm everyone until we know who they are and what their intentions are.”

Warren smiled a little. “Sounds like Lukov all right.”

“The soldiers went back and forth for a while. Then a rocket tank showed up, and all bets were off. My guys fired at the rocket tank, but your guys started shooting back like they were the ones being attacked. From there, it went all to shit. None of my people were hurt, but they’re pretty sure some of yours were.”

“How accurate do you think the report is?” asked Warren. The sergeant looked confused by the question. “What I mean is, do you think there’s any chance your people tried to capture my people, and when that failed, decided to fight them instead?”

“No, sir. Of course not.”

“Then, where are the tank tracks?” asked Warren, gesturing to the far side of the clearing. “I didn’t see any coming in, did you?”

Brinn frowned and marched to the other side of the clearing. Once there, he started searching the ground. Warren joined him a moment later and waited patiently. He didn’t expect there would be any tracks. Not with what he’d seen so far.

“How damaged were my cyborgs?” asked Warren.

The sergeant stopped looking around, a defeated sag to his shoulders. “One got shot in the leg. Another took a couple of shots to the torso. The fight was over pretty quick, so there wasn’t any time to inspect your guys to see what had happened.”

“No recordings?” asked Warren.

“Maybe, but we’ve got no way of retrieving them,” said Brinn with a shrug. “Unless you know a way.”

Warren might, but he decided to keep that to himself for the moment. He didn’t trust General Kaplan, so he didn’t trust his representative.

“What do you want to do now, sir?” asked Brinn.

Warren allowed himself several minutes to walk around the perimeter of the clearing, searching for any sign of where his troops might’ve gone. If they’d left any indication—a sign should he come looking for them—it was too subtle for him to notice. If comms weren’t down, this would be a lot easier. He could send squads out in different directions while he kept a few back as a command element. When one of the teams found his missing soldiers, they could report it in, and if they were at the extreme range of their internal communications systems, he could relay it to the others.

“Tell me more about these towers,” said Warren.

Brinn clasped his hands in front of himself and looked anywhere but at Warren. “What do you want to know, sir?”

“First, did General Kaplan order you to avoid telling me anything about them?”

“Y-yes, sir, he did. He didn’t order me to lie to you if you asked, though. I’m sorry, sir, but I follow orders.”

“I see,” said Warren, finger suddenly feeling itchy. “Did he order you to take us here as a trap?”

“No, sir, this is where the event occurred. This is the last place your soldiers were spotted, so far as I know.”

“So, the plan was for you to bring us here, not tell us anything else, and lead us back,” said Warren. “Is that right?”

“That’s correct, sir,” said Brinn, somehow looking even more uncomfortable than before.

“And how, exactly, did he give you this order when I was standing right next to him?”

If Brinn could have blushed, Warren was certain his face would have quickly turned the color of a ripe tomato immediately. “I’ve been ordered not to tell you about that, sir.”

Warren nodded. “I see. Well, I countermand those orders. Tell me now.” He didn’t bother adding a threat at the end. Based on the way the sergeant was still rubbing his hands together—rifle slung over his shoulder—it didn’t look like it would take a lot to get him talking.

“We have comms, sir,” he admitted. “Short-range, limited to about ten meters from the command table. That’s why he didn’t want anyone else approaching. Some of the gear on the table is Republic, but the rest is Commonwealth. He talks with me all the time when I’m in there. Mostly crazy shit he thinks out loud. I think he does it on purpose to keep me worried. It works. Sir, may I speak freely?”

“Always,” Warren said, still reeling from the sergeant’s words.

“No disrespect intended, sir, but I think General Kaplan is nuts. Frankly, I’m worried he’ll try to kill you if it looks like you’re trying to take over. He’ll probably kill me if he finds out I told you any of this stuff.”

“You think he would do that?” asked Warren. “Commit fratricide just to maintain power?”

The sergeant nodded vigorously.

Warren had never been in this kind of situation before. Sure, he’d had platoon commanders who’d been stupid enough to get everyone killed. He also had others who’d realized it and had therefore leaned on their sergeants to keep everyone alive. The act had garnered his and every other sergeant’s respect when it occurred. General Kaplan, it seemed, was of a different variety.

“Can I count on you to be truthful from here on out?” asked Warren. “I will personally guarantee your safety, no matter what General Kaplan says.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied quietly. “Whatever you need to know.”

“Is the general the one blocking comms?”

Brinn’s face twisted into a confused expression. “No, sir. At least, not so far as I know. He wouldn’t have had time to set any of this up. From what I’ve learned—and not just from him—it’s a huge network. It covers a couple thousand square kilometers, at least. Our ship, the Conquest, came apart pretty high up in the atmosphere. We came down hard, then we had to find each other and we ended up near the village. It was easier back then because comms were still up. Like I said before, it was only recently they went down. It’s been tough ever since, so no, I don’t think he had anything to do with it. He hasn’t even left the command center except for a couple of times, and I’ve been with him.”

In Warren’s mind, knowing it wasn’t a fellow cyborg made things easier. He’d have to confront the self-appointed general about keeping valuable information from him, but at least he wouldn’t have to try to force him into explaining how the jamming worked and how to shut it off.

“Guide us to the nearest jamming tower,” ordered Warren, coming up with a plan.

The sergeant’s eyebrows went way up on his head. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to figure out how it works,” he replied. “Then I’m going to figure out how to make it stop working so I can contact my people. You say it covers about a thousand square kilometers. I assume you’ve tried every frequency available, searched for the signal and all that. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir,” said Brinn. “We haven’t found anything. Nothing at all. No energy signatures, no radio waves—nothing to indicate even which direction it’s coming from.”

“Then how do you know the antennas are the source?”

“Because we saw them building it, sir,” said the sergeant. “We watched and tried to gain some intel. Once the light on top started blinking, comms went down. Some of us were sent out to scout the area. We found more—every ten kilometers or so. We mapped them, brought the info back, and marked it in the map the general is building. Once all the dots were in place, there was no mistaking what had happened.”

Warren referenced the image his HUD had captured of the map General Kaplan had shown him. He zoomed in and found the tiny icons Brinn had said would be there. Sure enough, they were set up in an almost perfect grid. Likely their signals extended more than the ten kilometers separating them, which would provide plenty of overlap should one go down. If he took one out, it was likely the others would be put on high alert. The air patrols Brinn had mentioned would show up, and at the moment, First Corps had no way to fight them. It would be a slaughter, but without destroying the source of the jamming, there’d be no way to find the rest of his soldiers.

“Take us to the nearest tower,” said Warren. “I can’t promise I won’t destroy it, but I need to take a closer look.”

Brinn nodded, but as he turned to lead them further into the woods, the sound of explosions echoed through the trees, sending dozens of birds to flight.

26

“We can’t go,” said Brinn. “We’re supposed to stay invisible. We’ll end up drawing too much attention if they know we’re here. They’ll focus their searches and find us.”

Warren ignored him. “Rigby, take this cyborg into your squad, then stick him on point. We’re headed to a fight.”

“But—“ Brinn began, trying to argue.

“But nothing,” said Rigby. “You’re afraid of the Commonwealth—we get it. But who do you think they’re fighting? Each other?”

The sergeant’s face went slack. He nodded, checked to make sure his rifle was loaded and hurried to the front of the formation. Warren signaled for them to move out, and they did.

The explosions grew louder but less frequent as the platoon approached. Almost ten minutes later, Rigby signaled for everyone to stop, then indicated she needed Warren up front.

When he arrived, she pointed at the scene before them. Two rocket tanks were standing guard outside a small concrete building next to a tall latticed radio tower that looked brand new. Their opponents had to be at least part of First Corps. Between the opposing forces was about 200 meters of dry grasslands. Several small fires appeared to have started and begun spreading.

Warren motioned for Brinn to get closer so they could speak. “These rocket tanks look tough. How have you destroyed them before?”

“We haven’t,” he replied. “We tried once, but we lost two cyborgs. Now we avoid them. They’re slow. If you want to get them away from the others, all we have to do is get their attention. We’re out of their effective range. They’ll roll closer, and whoever they’re fighting can escape.”

“Can they go through the woods?” asked Rigby. She looked like she was visually measuring the distance between the trees and comparing them with the apparent width of the enemy vehicles.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding tired. “They knock trees over. Barely slows them down.”

“Then running isn’t an option,” he said. “Every vehicle has a weakness. If nothing else, it’s got to have a way for the crew to get in and out. We find its weakness, exploit it, and take them out.

“Where are the ground troops?” asked Rigby.

She was right, Warren realized. All rockets and nothing up close? That would make it vulnerable to exactly what he was thinking about doing.

“They must be inside,” said Warren. He tapped on his collar, a signal he wanted all the squad leaders to him. After quickly explaining his plan, they returned to their squad and passed the information on, then they indicated they were ready.

Warren signaled the attack. Second and third squad lined up with the left and right of first. At Warren’s signal, everyone got on their bellies and began crawling as quickly as they could toward their enemy.

Warren lifted his head to the top of the grass occasionally to take a look and make sure he was still headed for their target. The plan was to get close enough, so the enemy wouldn’t have time to use whatever defenses the tanks might possess. The hope was to get close enough that if they did end up deploying troops, the cyborgs would have the advantage.

The hiss of several rockets being fired and the booms of explosions added an additional level of urgency to the situation. There was no way to signal to whoever the tanks were firing at Warren’s platoon was there. If they were part of First Corps, Warren hoped they’d been watchful enough to notice him when he lifted his head, and observant enough to recognize he was wearing a cyborg helmet. Otherwise, they might try to put a bullet through it.

The fires might cause a problem, though. As they grew, they produced a lot of smoke. Combined with the darkness, it might obscure their vision enough to make it impossible to know what was happening on the other side. Also, if Warren forced the left flank of his line too far forward, they’d have to crawl through the fire to reach the tanks. They’d do it, and although their armor would provide some protection, it wouldn’t last long.

Warren checked again. The enemy was still more than 200 meters away, and the closer he got, the larger the tanks loomed. Not for the first time, Warren wished he still had the automatic HUD messages, which would correct him when he estimated something incorrectly.

They crawled for a couple more minutes, then Warren took another look. If they got too close, there’d be no way they could be missed. Not with the cab of the rocket tank right on top. A few of his troops were in the line of sight or would be soon. If the driver or anyone else in the cab was paying attention and happened to look to their left out the window, the height of the tank would allow them to be spotted. If someone stepped out or the crew had the ability to listen to their surroundings, eventually, the sound of seventeen cyborgs hurrying through the tall grass would be loud enough for them to hear.

The worst-case scenario was if the people the tank was fighting—those Warren hoped were allies—had access to artillery or a mortar. Not only could they take out the tanks, but they might take out the cyborgs, too. The anticipation was beginning to wear on Warren. It felt like eminent doom—like this could go wrong at any second. If he didn’t time it perfectly, it would blow up in his face.

It was difficult to judge when would be enough, but he lifted his head as far as he dared every five meters or so. He could see the window but didn’t see anyone peeking out. When they were only twelve meters away, Warren stood and charged, rifle in hand. It was the go signal. Everyone else charged, too.

The cyborgs covered the distance in two seconds. Some, like Warren, leapt onto the side of the tank, quickly climbing to the top, while others probed the exterior as they searched for someplace to stick a grenade. A lightly armored hatch marked “FUEL” would have been nice, but Warren didn’t see anything like that. What he did see was the rocket pod under his feet and the shocked expression of one of the crew members inside as he gawked at the cyborg. Warren let him know how important he was by showing him his favorite finger. Then he opened fire on the man. None of the bullets penetrated the glass. He hadn’t expected them to, but it was fun watching him duck and throw his arms over his head like it would’ve helped.

Before turning his wrath on the tank itself, Warren swept a glance to check on the others. This part of the plan was unscripted. He wanted people calling out when they found something, if they needed help, or if things were suddenly going bad. So far, everyone was silent, which meant nobody had found anything interesting. The plan was still intact, but they hadn’t made any progress yet. He spotted a cluster of antennas. Rather than breaking them off, he twisted and pulled, then dragged a meter of cables along with them. They finally broke when a device connected at the other end slammed against the armor, too big to fit through the little hole.

FOOSH!

The back blast from the rocket leaving the pod under his feet nearly knocked Warren over. He scrambled, finally settling himself on his belly with his right arm and leg hanging off the back.

“You okay?” asked Rigby. She was kneeling on top of the tank, pounding the top of the cockpit with her fists. Her rifle was strapped to her back, and though she didn’t appear to be doing any damage, the crew had their hands over their ears as they scrambled around the small compartment.

The other tank was similarly occupied, but the lack of explosions, fire, or cheers of victory made it clear nobody had made any progress yet.

FOOSH!

Another rocket launched, just as Warren tried to get to his knees. He was low enough this time to avoid being thrown off, but still got knocked around a bit. The crew was firing rockets. Whether it was on purpose or some kind of automated system, he didn’t know, but they had to be shooting at something.

Again, Warren almost fell from the tank, but this time because it was moving. They were separating. He responded by sticking his rifle into the hole he’d made when he ripped the antenna cluster from the tank. He pulled the trigger several times, peeked into the hole, then fired several more. All he could see was a four-centimeter gap and more armor underneath. If he wanted to hit anything, he’d have to find a way to shoot at an angle. Sticking his rifle’s barrel into the hole and trying to torque it seemed like a bad idea, though. Instead, he strapped it to his back and looked for something else.

FOOSH!

Suddenly, another cyborg landed next to him. “It is very make happy to see you again,” said Lukov. “I do not give the hug, but maybe after we kill tanks will make exception.”

Warren laughed, glad to see his friend, but there was still work to be done. He also wanted to see who else had made it, but he’d save more lives by ruining the tank than by catching up with his friends. Lukov leaped off the pod as Warren considered the grenades he’d brought. He only had three, and they weren’t designed specifically to take out armored targets. If he’d known he wouldn’t have any air support, he might’ve grabbed something bigger. It was too bad they didn’t have a tank of their own.

Crack!

Someone had found a target to drop a grenade into. Based on the sound, whatever the target was, it was shallow. If they’d found a pipe or large compartment, the noise would’ve had a deeper pitch. The grenade seemed to have done the trick, though. The left track stopped working. He could see the pilot jamming the controls back and forth, trying to get it to cooperate, but the damage had been done. The other tank wasn’t disabled, though. Sure enough, it was turning to face them and would likely open fire soon.

“Everyone off!” shouted Warren. “They’re about to fire on us!”

The cyborgs responded quickly, scattering from the tank. Some ran toward the other one. Most hurried to the far side to seek cover. Warren stayed in place. A new idea had suddenly occurred to him.

“What are you doing?” shouted Rigby.

Warren didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned over the edge of the pod, chose an occupied tube, and wedged his grenade between the rocket’s nose and the tube wall. Then he launched himself from the tank, closed his eyes, and hoped for the best.

The explosion sounded more like a rumble as the first rocket detonated and the others followed. Warren hit the ground hard as damage indicators illuminated in his HUD. When he opened his eyes, something large was blotting out the sky. He rolled to the side, but still caught part of it, and another alarm went off. He looked again. It was the pod, and it was tipping toward him. He wanted to get out of the way, but there was no time. He tried to lift his arms to catch or deflect the heavy pod but barely bent his elbows enough to lift his hands from the dirt and grass before everything went black.

27

Warren wasn’t unconscious, but he was good and stuck. He passed the time by examining the damage warnings displayed on his HUD. Apparently, the Tertiary Capacitor, Type-7 located somewhere under his left eye, was destroyed. His cybernetics had rerouted whatever that part did to the Secondary Capacitor, Type-8, and everything was fine. For now, anyway.

The rest of the damage reports had nothing to do with him, but with his armor. He wasn’t sure any of it would be serviceable when he was eventually rescued, but that was the least of his worries. Right now, he just wanted someone to take the big heavy rocket pod off of him. No matter how hard he struggled, the ground was too dense for him to move more than a couple of centimeters, and the pod was too heavy to shift. It was embarrassing, but he’d be okay with it if the rest of First Corps had managed to destroy both tanks without any losses. It might be too much to hope for, but he hoped for it anyway.

The pod shifted, allowing a little light to come in from his left. It shifted a little more, and he was able to turn his head. Three sets of hands were moving it, and Sergeant Brinn’s face appeared in the gap.

“He’s under there,” shouted Brinn. “Keep lifting!” When he reached under the pod, Warren took his hand and allowed himself to be dragged free.

“It is good you did not get dead,” said Lukov, offering him a hand.

Warren reached for it but found it difficult. “Armor’s toast,” he told the Russian. “Help me remove it so I can get around.”

A minute later, the armor lay in pieces around his feet. The battlefield was quiet, except for the soft hissing and popping of the grassfire. Warren wasn’t naked, but his coveralls would need to be replaced with something else if he was going to maintain any semblance of modesty.

“We got the other tank, as you can see,” said Rigby. She gestured to a second smoking war machine but never took her eyes off Warren. “We just did what you did without the letting it fall on top of us part.”

“That’s good,” said Warren, looking around at the others. The rest of First Corps still had their armor and his HUD was still refusing to identify them. “Who made it?”

Lukov rattled off a list of names. Among the names were Cooper, McNabb and Willy.

“What happened to your Stinger?” Warren asked the pilot.

“Damn thing got shot out from under me,” replied Willy as he kicked a dry clod of dirt. “But I made sure it didn’t go out without doing some decent damage. I armed the missile and ejected just before it hit some government building. Blew the damned thing to kingdom come.”

“I am glad you are well,” said Lukov. “But there is another business for my attending.” Before Warren could move, Lukov had his fingers wrapped around Sergeant Brinn’s neck and was squeezing.

“Lukov!” shouted Warren. “Back off!”

The Russian loosened his grip a little and slowly turned his faceplate toward Warren. “This cyborg is Second Corps. They did ambush and attempt to make dead. He is deserving.”

“I wasn’t with them!” Brinn shouted as he attempted to claw Lukov’s fingers away.

When he reached for his dropped rifle, Cooper stepped on his wrist. “I’m pretty sure you were,” he growled. “If not, this will be a good message for your buddies back home. I’m gonna bring your head to your place and show them what they can expect.”

“Stop!” shouted Warren. He kept his rifle on his back but prepared himself to draw it if he needed to. He hoped it wouldn’t have to go that far. “Tell me what happened.” Lukov loosed his grip but didn’t let go.

Cooper spoke first. “So, we’re out there looking for you or whoever else we can find from the First, when out of nowhere this guy’s buddies—maybe him personally—pop out of the bushes and trees. Naturally, we all take cover and point our weapons at them. Nobody fires a shot, because we’re responsible like that. So as soon as we recognize they’re cyborgs, Lukov puts his gun away and steps out to show them we don’t mean any harm. He identifies himself and has to stand there for a couple of minutes as they whisper about something. I guess comms are down for everyone.

“So then they ask us who our leader is. At that moment, it was Lukov, which is why he stepped out to talk to them. They told us Lukov wasn’t in charge anymore. We told them to pound sand—that we were there to work with them, not for them. It went back and forth, so we decided we’d move on and try to find you and the others when they told us we had to come back with them.”

“They are not to ordering us what we are to do,” growled Lukov, still glaring at the sergeant.

“Right,” said Cooper, nodding. “So we said no, and maybe we’d catch up with them later. Then they made the mistake of trying to arrest us. We resisted, everyone’s pointing weapons, they fired first, and we split. They got Liebman, boss. We dragged him away and provided cover, but they hit him too many times. It didn’t take long before he was gone. We buried him so the CoWs wouldn’t find him and capture the tech.”

Warren approached Sergeant Brinn and glared down at the cyborg. Lukov made no indication he wanted to let go. “What do you have to say for yourself?” asked Warren.

“I wasn’t there,” he said, still trying to work his fingers under the cyborg’s grip. “I got a report—that’s all.”

“Who ordered them to arrest First Corps if they didn’t join?”

Brinn hesitated for a second. Lukov gave his neck a little squeeze, audibly stretching the components of the cyborg’s neck, and he started talking again.

“All right, all right! General Kaplan did.”

“Maybe I should let him finish you,” Warren said coldly. “You work for the same general, which means you’re under the same orders, aren’t you?”

“I am, but this isn’t what I want. None of this is what I want.”

“Fine,” said Warren, standing. “Lukov, take his weapons. He’ll serve as a guide only until he proves he’s willing and able to look out for all cyborgs, not just General Kaplan. If he can prove it to me, he can live. Otherwise, it’s time for him to learn some appreciation. From now on, his life is in our hands. You got that, Brinn?”

“Yes, sir,” he said and remained still as Lukov took his rifle and checked him for any other weapons.

“I would rather to make you dead,” the Russian told him as they stood. “But I am trusting Warren. He says is better for you to live, so you live. Do not make mistake of thinking I am not to be killing you. I will if you give reason.”

“Understood,” replied Brinn.

“Lukov and Rigby with me,” said Warren. “Let’s head into this building and see if we can figure out how the jamming works. Everyone else, defensive perimeter. If any more tanks show up, we’re bugging out.”

The three cyborgs stacked up on the door. Warren hurried to the far side closest to the handle and tested it, but it was locked. He nodded to the others, who motioned they were ready. Warren punched through the steel door, then he grabbed it and ripped it from its hinge. Lukov and Rigby were inside before the door landed ten meters away.

Warren had suspected he’d find computer equipment inside. Maybe a few data terminals or a power source. Something to generate what must be a complicated signal to affect the internal comms of cyborgs. Instead, the only thing in the building was a meter tall metal box attached to the far wall. It was about a half-meter wide and a little more than ten centimeters thick. The steel looked new but showed signs of rust and looked to be welded shut. It had a single green light that pulsed rapidly. Two thick cables ran from it to the concrete floor. Otherwise, there was nothing, not even a lonely, bare incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“This is all?” asked Lukov as he began to inspect the walls and floor closely.

“This has to be some kind of joke, right?” asked Rigby. “I mean, unless this is some kind of decoy.”

Remaining silent, Warren began to follow Lukov’s lead, checking the walls, floor, and ceiling for hidden doorways or anything else that might give him a clue as to how the thing worked. Besides the box, there was nothing.

“Maybe whatever’s doing this is inside the box?” asked Rigby as she probed the thing with her fingers. “I think I could rip it open if I started here. What do you think?”

“Do it,” replied Warren. “Try not to get shocked. Those are probably the power cables coming out of the bottom.”

Rigby nodded, then she hooked her rifle to the back of her armor and carefully ripped the box open a few centimeters. She peeked inside and saw the cables continued up through a simple circuit light on top, then ran back down.

“This can’t be it,” said Rigby. “There’s nothing here. No sophisticated components. No repurposed cyborg parts. Nothing. This has to be a decoy. Maybe one designed to keep us busy long enough for reinforcements to arrive.”

The idea was plausible, Warren thought, but not probable. According to the map he’d been provided, there were at least fifty of the things spread throughout the local area. The map was probably accurate, even though he didn’t trust the general. The Commonwealth would have to be supremely dumb to build all these structures just to be a distraction.

Warren knelt down near the box and hovered his hand over the cable while watching the light. Without the additional capabilities of his HUD he couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like the power running through the cables matched the pulsing of the light precisely. He continued to crouch as he waved his hand across the floor like a metal detector, following the line as it headed east.

“What are you thinking?” asked Rigby.

Warren consulted his map. The closest thing that direction was an icon he didn’t recognize. There was no label indicating what it might be, just the logo of the Cyborg Corps with a pair of crossed bones sticking out from behind the shield. A warning it seemed.

“I think we need to speak to Sergeant Brinn about this,” replied Warren.

28

The sergeant watched the three approach and looked like he was going to be sick. It wasn’t something he was physically capable of doing, but it reflected how the cyborg must’ve felt. He kept his eyes on Lukov, even as Warren spoke.

“Tell me about the icon I see on the map. About twenty kilometers east of here.”

He seemed to think about it for a few seconds before answering. “The one with the warning icon? Corps shield with crossed bones?”

“That’s the one,” said Warren.

“Do not be stalling,” growled Lukov.

“It’s a military base,” Brinn blurted. “Commonwealth. They’ve got humans, troops, mechs, the works. No air as far as we know, but plenty of everything else. Tanks, walkers—“

“Walkers?” asked Warren.

“Yeah, they’re like tanks, but… different. Almost like mechs. They walk around like mechs, but they’ve got a crew. You must’ve seen their tracks by now.”

Warren had, and though it was a new threat, at least it wasn’t some crazy indigenous beast. He almost laughed in spite of himself. An animal might be easier to kill.

“Any idea where any others from First Corps might be?” Warren asked Lukov. “I’ve got Hendrose and a few other techs holed up at the village General Kaplan’s command center is located in. Other than that, I haven’t seen anyone else.”

Lukov shook his head. “We are not to have found anyone else, which is why it brings me many joy to see you and others. We were worried might be last of the First Corps. Did not want to do anything too big until we are knowing for certain.”

“Why were you attacking the tanks?” asked Warren.

“Same as you. We discover they are jamming communication. Hoping to make destroy, find other, begin war. Now that you are found, it is much easier I am believing.”

“It will be,” said Warren. “But if we start blowing these things up, they’ll only reinforce the others. I don’t think the tankers bothered calling for support. They probably thought they had your team on the ropes until we showed up. Then I ripped the antenna cluster off.”

“I did the same to the other,” said Cooper. “And, I’m not seeing or hearing anything coming in. So if we’re not gonna blow up the antennas, what’s the plan? We’ve got to find more of First Corps.”

“There’s a pair of cables headed east,” explained Warren. “We’ll stop and check a couple of times, but I’m certain they all head back to a military base about twenty kilometers from here. We find the source of the transmission and destroy it, then maybe we shut down all the antennae at the same time.”

“There’s no way that’ll work,” whispered Brinn. He pushed on, even with everyone’s eyes on him. “They have tanks. Walkers. I’m sure they have comms, so they can call for more help if we show up and start blowing shit up. There’s no possible way we can do it. There just aren’t enough of us.”

“Do you think General Kaplan would commit troops to it?” asked Rigby.

Brinn scoffed. “Not a chance. We need to start working our way toward the capitol so we can take out Governor Kinsley personally. Stick his head on the end of a pike and march around the city with it. That’s the plan. You’re going to mess everything up.”

“Some plan,” said Rigby. “Sit around planning, then planning some more, then talking about planning, but not actually doing anything.” She turned to Warren and continued. “Everything you’ve done so far has worked. We didn’t have all the info about what kind of defenses Turano had, but I doubt King knew about them. On the way in, he was deep inside his ship. On the way out, he was locked in a box. Still, you got us through it, and here we are. We’re ready to follow your lead, Warren. Point us in a direction, let us know what we’re doing, and we’ll do it.”

“Agreed,” said Lukov. “But what of this one?” He gestured toward Brinn with the muzzle of his rifle. “I am thinking if we are to be letting him go, he will return to his general and tell of our plan. This general does not seem to be the kind for making change. He will attempt to make us stop. He is for making plan, not action. Maybe shoot Brinn, bury frame, and continue without?”

“Or maybe Brinn comes with us,” said Rigby. “Maybe he fights alongside us.”

“He will run,” said Lukov, his tone dark and threatening.

Warren studied the three for a few seconds, deciding on what to do. Each of them had their points. “What do you say, Brinn?” he asked.

The sergeant looked surprised by the question. He glanced at the others, eyes lingering on Lukov, then returned his gaze to Warren. “Lukov is right. If you send me back, I’ll have to tell General Kaplan. He’s right that the general might send someone to try to intercept you before you get there, but if you move fast, you’ll be there long before I can possibly make it back. I hate to say it, but I like your plan. I want to end this just as fast as anyone, but I have an obligation to General Kaplan. He’s the leader of Second Corps. I’m Second Corps. I don’t have a choice.”

“Don’t you?” asked Rigby, stepping directly in front of the other cyborg. “I thought your compulsion chip was disabled. Did I misunderstand?”

“No,” said Brinn as he took a step back and rubbed a spot under his chin. “I’m free just like you. It’s not about my compulsion chip. It’s about honor and integrity. The only reason I’m still alive is because of the general.”

“And because I have not killed you,” Lukov reminded.

“Give him his rifle back,” said Warren. “We’ve wasted enough time arguing about this. He’ll either come with us, or he’ll head back to Second Corps. He’s free to make his own choice. He’s also free to understand that if he brings Second Corps back to attack us, nobody is going to get out of this alive.”

Warren watched Sergeant Brinn carefully as Lukov retrieved his rifle and handed it back to him. He looked like he was uncertain of whether he wanted to take it from the angry cyborg, but after a moment’s hesitation, he relented. He stared at the weapon, then his feet, then to the east.

“Form up!” Warren ordered. “Lukov, your team is now fourth squad. You’ve got our six. Squad wedge, fireteam wedge. We’re heading east. We’ll stop every two kilometers for a quick check to make sure there’s still a powerline somewhere underground. Once we’re within sight of the base, we’ll take a peek and form a plan. Let’s avoid hostilities if we can help it until we get there.” Lukov nodded and the rest of the squads hurried to their places in the formation.

“Where do you want me, sir?” asked Brinn. He had his lips pressed tightly together in a frown.

“First squad,” replied Warren. A few seconds later, the sergeant found his place and they headed out at a fast run.

* * *

The platoon stopped every two kilometers. Warren checked the first time, but it had taken him several minutes to locate the power cable. After that he assigned the task to each of the squad leaders to speed up the process. About halfway to their destination, they encountered a power distribution box. It hummed with electricity, and though it was a tempting target which would allow them to take out at least five of the antennae, Warren avoided destroying it. It wouldn’t be wise to let the enemy know they were so close. Not when so much was at stake.

Someone in first squad signaled for the halt, then for everyone to go low. Warren saw why a second later. A Commonwealth fighter—one of the big ones that had threatened the Ruthless as First Corps was attempting to get through the minefield—was slowly flying across the landscape. It was still four or five kilometers away, and since it wasn’t designed for atmospheric flight, was using its thrusters to maneuver. Its current speed might be as fast as it could go without putting itself at risk. It looked like they were using some kind of spotlight to illuminate the ground in front of it.

Warren wondered if the local forces had somehow learned what they were up to. The ship could be looking for them if the base anticipated an attack. Then again, even Commonwealth fighters had sensors, so there was no need for the spotlight unless they didn’t know what they were searching for.

Once the ship finally disappeared into the distance, Warren signaled for the platoon to begin moving again. The last leg of their journey brought them within visual range of the Commonwealth military base. The sight of it made Warren wonder if he’d made the right decision, or if General Kaplan might’ve been on to something with his wait-and-hide tactics.

The site was sprawling—at least four kilometers wide. There were enough lights to blur everything past a few hundred meters past the fence line, so it was impossible to tell how deep the base extended. Every few hundred meters, a watchtower, probably manned—though Warren couldn’t see anyone—kept diligent guard over a section of the three-meter fence. Beyond them were dozens, maybe hundreds of buildings. He picked out warehouses, hangars, and living quarters.

Warren scanned the horizon for threats—especially the fighter—but noticed none, so he signaled for his squad leaders to join him. They huddled close together and whispered.

“This is a big place,” said Rigby. “Really big. Any idea where to begin?”

“I think we’re going to have to figure it out when we get there,” admitted Warren. “How are we looking on grenades and ammunition?”

“Fourth squad is not very well on them,” admitted Lukov. “Down to dregs for the bullet. Six grenades.”

“First is almost full, so we’ll share,” said Poulton, First Squad’s leader.

“And we’ve got plenty of grenades,” added Rigby.

“We’re a little low on everything,” said Maler. “Third squad would help, but I think you’re set.”

“We are,” said Lukov. “What is plan?”

Warren turned his attention back to the base and zoomed his vision in as far as it would go. They were still several kilometers away, so he wasn’t able to get a lot of detail. “Doesn’t look like we have many choices,” he replied. “The fence is about three meters high, based on what I can see. One option is we close on the place as we did with the tanks. At the last moment, we rush the fence, vault it, and kill everything in sight.”

“Effective,” noted Lukov.

“And slow,” added Poulton. “Boss, we’ve got to penetrate deep into that place. We can’t spend a lot of time at the fence line, and standing there, trading blows with CoWs seems like a bad idea. I recommend we split into squads. Each side approach the base from a compass point. We all hop at the same time and boom, we’re in, and we’ve essentially got everyone surrounded.”

“How do we signal when to move?” asked Rigby. “No comms, remember?”

“We pick a time, or Warren does,” replied Poulton. “When the timer runs out, we rush.”

“This is not good,” said Lukov.

“Agreed,” replied Warren. “Here’s the plan. We’ll sneak as close as we can. If someone gets spotted, we’ll move. If not, first squad will take the left flank. Fourth will have the right. Second squad will have point, while third provides cover. Once we’re in, it’s got to be balls to the wall. No holding back. Move, shoot, move.

“Our target will be anything that looks like a command center. There’s probably a powerplant here as well, being a military base. That way, they don’t have to rely on an outside source. Shut it down if you can, but it’s likely fusion, so don’t breach it or you’ll take us all out. The moment someone takes out the computer running the jamming signal or the power plant, comms should be restored, and we can coordinate from there.”

“And if the worst should happen?” asked Maler, the third squad leader.

“We meet back where you had your confrontation with Second Corps,” replied Warren. “From there, we’ll figure it out. Any objections?” Nobody said anything for several seconds. “Fine. Get back to your squads and pass the word. When you’re ready, get on comm. I’ll give the signal. Godspeed.”

As the platoon crept closer to the fence line, Warren regretted not being able to set the target the Ruthless had aimed for himself. The other facility was almost definitely a military base, but had he seen this one, it would have been the primary target.

The closer he crept, the more details he could make out. There were people inside. Many stood around, while others performed one minor duty or another. He spotted a military-style hovercar buzzing down a street loaded with polymer boxes. A pair of guards walked along the fence line carrying heavy rifles, and for the first time, Warren thought he spotted what the sergeant had referred to as a ‘walker.’ He could only see part of the machine, but it looked to be about seven or eight meters tall. He only saw two legs, but there were probably four—maybe six. What was most disturbing was the barrels of the rotary machine gun. Back in his day, they were always called miniguns, regardless of the caliber or manufacturer. Capable of delivering six thousand rounds per minute, they were a sobering sight.

The platoon was too close to warn them about it. They’d be on their own to exercise caution and be observant. It was almost time to breach the perimeter.

Another two guards turned a corner and approached from their right. They’d be problematic if they weren’t taken out right away. But there were only two, so it would be quick. With only fifteen meters left to cover, Warren stood and charged the fence.

29

The guards reacted quickly, which surprised Warren. Most sentries worked hard to look busy but didn’t actually pay attention to their surroundings. Maybe opening the box at the transmitter building had set off some kind of silent alarm. Or maybe the tanks they’d fought had actually had enough time to warn the base of trouble.

Warren vaulted the fence, firing as he did, and was surprised when one of the bastards managed to shoot him in the forearm. A damage alert appeared on his HUD, but he dismissed it with a thought and focused on his opponent. Two other cyborgs began shooting at the guards who rolled and leaped out of the way… all the way to the top of the guard tower. It was impossible, but Warren knew he’d seen it. His eyes were cybernetic. They didn’t play tricks on him. They either functioned, or they didn’t.

“They’re Ghosts!” shouted Warren, his voice barely audible over the alarms that had begun to ring.

Troops began shooting from the corners and roofs of nearby buildings. There was no way for Warren to help while at the same time protecting the backs of those who were fighting the Commonwealth cyborgs. Second squad would have to assist, and from what Warren could hear, they were doing just that.

Warren dropped two humans who thought they could sneak up on him by coming across the flat roof of a small nearby building. They both dropped their rifles and fell forward onto the pavement with hard, wet cracks. The next got a shot off at him, but Warren snapped his rifle up, took careful aim, and emptied a good portion of the guy’s brains out the back of his head. With no other enemies in sight, he shouted an order. “First squad, move forward. See if you can take out their walkers and tanks before they activate.”

It was too late. The walker he’d spotted earlier began stomping from its hiding place. “Take cover!” shouted Warren as he took three bounding steps and joined Poulton behind the building the Commonwealth troops had fallen from.

“Those must be the walkers,” noted the first squad leader.

“Sure looks like it,” replied Warren. “Just a second.” Someone was trying to sneak around the far corner of the building. Warren shifted his rifle to his left hand and waited for them. When the soldier got close, Warren stepped from hiding, shoved the grenade he was holding into the man’s open mouth, pressed the button, then stepped back behind cover. The crack of the detonation was followed by a sloppy wet sound. A second later, Warren peeked around the corner. When he saw that it was clear, he grabbed what remained of the corpse and dragged it behind the building with him. He took the three remaining grenades and shoved them into his pockets.

It looked like the Ghosts were dead, but there might be more fighting against fourth squad. They were pinned down behind a long building, and Lukov was issuing orders. An explosion was quickly followed by another, then fourth squad was moving again. They reversed course and took cover behind the warehouse a split second later when the walker opened fire on them with both miniguns. One cyborg went down, and by the time Lukov grabbed the cyborg by the arm to pull him to cover, all he was able to retrieve was the upper half. The rest had vanished in a storm of bullets and sparks.

The one who’d been shot up was still alive but probably wouldn’t be for long. The lower half of his chassis was missing, which meant his spinal cord would be exposed. If he didn’t die right away, he would when the cerebrospinal fluid drained out and his brain shriveled like a sun-dried tomato. Or when infection set in. Either way, he was a goner.

Even though it was likely the cyborg knew it, he held on to his rifle. After speaking with Lukov for a moment, the Russian propped the remains of his body against the side of the building, allowing him to cover their rear toward the fence line. He’d keep fighting until the end.

Warren checked around the corner. The walker was marching toward them but had its guns pointed at the building fourth squad was taking cover behind. They were talking among themselves, but it didn’t look like anyone had a plan to escape. Suddenly, two stowed their rifles and began tearing at the building’s concrete wall with their hands. It would be a good plan if it worked. Going through the building, rather than around it, might give them enough cover to stay alive. The concrete looked like it was giving them trouble. They needed more time.

“Cover me,” Warren said to Poulton.

“What are you—“ he began to say when Warren leaped on top of the building. It only took him a second to realize the grenade he was reaching for wouldn’t be enough, at least not from a distance. There were no open ports on the thing.

Two pods on the outside, likely housing the power supply and computer components sat stationary on each side of the armored cockpit. On top of it sat an armored bubble, and on each side of that were the miniguns. There was only enough room for one person inside unless the CoWs had gotten creative with the setup. From where Warren was standing, he couldn’t spot a viewport, but there were plenty of other protrusions that might be serving as periscopes. Warren had to act fast before he was spotted.

He landed on top of the machine and stumbled as the pilot spun the upper portion toward the direction he’d come from. Warren grabbed one of the many antennae sticking out from the top of the cockpit, but it broke. He grabbed for another, but that one broke, too. He dropped his rifle to grab a third, but that one reacted like the others and snapped off a few centimeters beneath his fist. He was going over the edge, but he found a ring and caught it with two fingers. The rest of his body continued over the side. It hurt his fingers and shoulder, but he was still on top. The pilot may not have known it, but he was in a world of shit.

“Warren!” someone shouted from below. Whoever it was ducked behind another of the small office buildings a moment before the pilot twisted the walker’s cab toward the sound and opened fire. The corner of the building crumbled under the hail of bullets as Warren was whipped back and forth.

He reached up with his free hand, hooked his fingers over the ledge, but found nothing to hold onto and was whipped onto his side again when the pilot turned the machine back toward Lukov’s squad. Warren tried again, grabbed hold of the stump of a broken antenna, but lost his grip when the machine took a lurching step forward. He tried a third time and managed to find a conduit, then he slowly raised himself until he could hook an elbow over it and grab the next tie-down.

The machine lurched forward again, and Warren caught sight of a second one. It was hard to miss with all the spotlights it was using to illuminate him. “Time to move!” he said and pulled hard. The conduit in his left hand broke, sending sparks skittering along the top of the armored vehicle, but the tie-down in his right hand held.

The walker he was riding opened up with its guns again and took another long step, so whatever the conduit had been powering—it wasn’t one of those systems. Too bad.

The second one effectively blinded his vision to that side, so he hoped for the best and focused on the one in front of him. When the guns opened up again, Warren grabbed ahold of the machinery driving the multi-barreled machine gun and wrenched it hard. He nearly fell off the walker when something within the center housing snapped, bounced around a few times, and got stuck somewhere. The other gun seemed to be locked in position, and based on what he could hear, the pilot was jamming the controls back and forth, trying to get it to move.

Warren moved to ruin the other gun but dove for cover when several soldiers opened fire on him from nearby rooftops. He drew his pistol rolled to his left side to get around the gun he’d been trying to disable and put a bullet in two of them before being forced back. He attempted to roll out again when the machine took another long step, nearly causing him to roll off the top again. Pain shot through his back as he landed on something sharp. He had to kick his legs as bullets ricocheted off the machine around him and rip himself from whatever had impaled him.

He made it back to the spot behind the gun and turned his head to see what he’d landed on. It was the stub of one of the antennas. After wishing every kind of curse upon the inanimate object, Warren rolled out again, then he shot another soldier and caught a shot to his shoulder where it met his neck. The pain was intense, so he turned his pain receptors down to twenty percent. It still hurt, but it was far more manageable. Turning it down to zero would have caused him to miss the next shot, which hit him in the shin, reminding him to pull his right leg back behind cover.

The walker stopped moving and slowly began traversing to the right. As new targets came into view, Warren shot them, except for three who ducked into a building to avoid being hit. When one poked his head back out, the cyborg heard the loudest sound he could remember.

Click.

His pistol was empty. He’d been so focused on hitting targets, and he hadn’t paid attention to the digital readout on his HUD. It had warned him his weapon was almost empty and seemed to mock him with a red zero like it was saying, “I told you so.”

With the other walker still highlighting him, and soldiers seeming to shoot from every nearby rooftop, he was running out of options. He pressed the button to eject his pistol’s magazine and reached for a new one just as the walker’s upper portion turned enough to expose him to three more enemies. They all had their rifles raised, waiting for their chance to smoke a cyborg. Instead of firing, they glanced down at the feet of the one in the center. A second later, all three were virtually dissolved by the grenade someone had tossed.

Warren took the opportunity to search for a hatch. The pilot had to have some way to get into this thing, but the combination of the glaring lights and incoming fire from other rooftops made it impossible to focus. He needed a break. One of the two had to change, and he didn’t care which. He got it when one of his men opened fire on the other walker, shooting out several of its lights. It turned its turret, lowered its guns, and fired, which made Warren wonder why the pilot hadn’t trashed him yet.

The walker he was on started moving again, feet stomping the asphalt as it turned the same direction it was traversing, probably to assist the other one who’d come under fire from another source. He had to disable the gun before… that was it. These things were all gun. Warren scrambled to get the minigun he’d already damaged. A quick inspection confirmed what he’d suspected. It had a trigger mechanism built into the outside of the weapon. It was multi-purpose—able to be used on the walker or mounted to a tripod. Warren didn’t need a tripod.

With a hard pull, the weapon came loose, its feed chute—the square tube the linked bullets passed through—stretching. Warren used his left hand to hold the horizontal carrying handle built into the weapon, while the other went to the trigger.

He squeezed and the weapon erupted in his hand. Had he been able to be genuinely aroused—had the surgery to turn him into a cyborg made such parts unnecessary accessories—he was sure this would have done it. He only held the trigger down for a second, but the BRRRRT noise, followed immediately by sparks, lights going out, and the echoes of ricochets made him feel more alive than he’d ever been. He squeezed it again, reveling in the recoil—a steady pressure against his hands which threatened to knock him from his perch. Again, more lights went out, and the second walker froze.

A shot rang out from somewhere to his right. He snapped his head to where he thought it came from and spotted a Commonwealth soldier who looked like he was questioning if he’d made the right choice. By the time Warren whipped the heavy gun halfway toward him, though, the man had already ducked back into the window. No matter. Warren pulled the trigger anyway. He was trying to shoot to the right of the window but ended up aiming high. The gun wasn’t built for cyborgs, but a message appeared on his HUD.

ADJUSTMENT: AIMPOINT…COMPLETE

The next time Warren pulled the trigger, the shots mostly landed where he’d intended. The gun was by no means a precision weapon. Where a sniper might say a bullet had someone’s name on it, this was more of a “To Whom It May Concern”. He wasn’t sure if he’d hit the guy or if someone else did, but he could clearly see a bleeding body on the floor inside.

He almost pulled the trigger again when he spotted movement but stopped himself just in time. The leg he saw belonged to a cyborg. The building he’d been shooting into was the warehouse Lukov’s team had been trying to enter. “Easy there,” he told himself as he turned the weapon back toward the other walker.

Warren pulled the trigger, holding it down for two seconds this time. The final light on the other walker shattered, and a small tongue of flame from one of the holes he’d made announced it was destroyed. Warren pointed the weapon down to where he thought the pilot might be but hesitated. Not all the shots had gone through. If he got a ricochet at this range, chances were good he’d end up shooting himself.

When the walker lurched forward again, Warren dropped the minigun and began searching for a way inside again. There were no hatches on top as far as he could tell. No handles, handwheels, or hinges anywhere. He moved to the front, holding on to another tie-down, and was surprised to discover two periscopes. Their little glass viewports were narrow, and the way they reflected the lights around him suggested they were coated. Warren took a moment to smash the tops of them with his fists. Each one took four solid blows to bend, and when they did, several thick pieces of glass popped out. It turned out Commonwealth bulletproof glass wasn’t bad stuff. He reminded himself to pass the compliment on if he ever got the notion, probably a half-second before he turned his enemy’s head into bone fragments and gray matter.

The pilot began twisting the turret back and forth in an obvious attempt to throw Warren from the top. He held on, probing and searching for any sign of a way in, but found nothing. He pulled himself back to the top so he could search the rear of the machine. There he found a hatch at the back of the starboard pod. It was secured all the way around with heavy-duty clasps. He lifted the first one’s handle, yanked, and broke it.

Meanwhile, the walker began moving again. It opened fire, and Warren wondered if another of his cyborgs had just been smoked. Once he busted the fourth clasp, the heavy cover moved a little. He shoved his fingers into the gap and used all his strength to break it free. A long chain of ammunition fell free. When it did, it dragged the minigun across the walker’s roof, broke the links holding the ammunition together, and the gun tumbled off the front.

Low lights and electrical components blinked happily at him. He thrust his hand inside, grabbed ahold, and yanked. The second he did, it began to tip, slowly at first, giving him plenty of time to hop off before it crashed to the asphalt. When it did, he broke the other gun free and pulled a long chain of ammunition out, then he broke it off and stepped back about ten meters. He pulled the trigger, then he smiled when something inside began to short and smoke began to rise from the rubble.

30

Warren took a moment to drape the remaining ammunition for the minigun over his arm before joining the others. The fight had moved to a three-story building with lots of windows all the way around. Cyborgs took cover wherever they could find it—mostly behind a small concrete structure, which was either a laundry room or showers, based on the dripping noise Warren heard from within.

“What do we got?” asked Warren, peeking around the building to try to see for himself.

“Just a handful of holdouts,” Rigby replied. “They keep taking pot shots at us. They’ve injured two, but not badly. We’re running low on ammo and grenades. I think they’re trying to stall us until reinforcements arrive.”

The last thing Warren needed was another threat to take care of while he was still trying to fight the one in front of them. “Has anyone identified the power plant or computer we’re looking for?”

“Haven’t heard anything yet,” she answered. “And comms are still down, but I don’t know for sure. Uh, Warren?” She raised a hand and pointed.

Warren followed her direction just in time to spot a Commonwealth soldier leap from a window and fall to his death. Then another did the same, but it was weird, as he did a cartwheel as he fell. When the third performed an awkward backflip landing ten meters from the building, Warren understood.

“Where’s Lukov?” he asked.

Rigby glanced around. “I lost sight of him.”

The Russian appeared in one of the windows and gave the signal for the others to join him.

“What a show-off,” Rigby grumbled as she sprinted from cover.

She crashed through a first-floor window, sending glass flying into the room. Instead of joining her, Warren leaped onto the top of the small building and surveyed the scene. To the west, an open-sided tank garage was burning, as were the tanks within. He wasn’t sure, as several looked like they’d been taken apart to work on them, but there might’ve been ten or twelve total. If there were any others, they were on the other side of the base, likely fortifying themselves in preparation for the cyborgs’ eventual arrival.

To his right, he spotted another cyborg on a rooftop and several more breaking windows as they checked the warehouse he was standing on. The cyborg looked away, then spun back around, dropped his rifle, and began waving both hands in the air.

At first, Warren wasn’t sure why. The cyborg already had his attention, and again he wished he had some kind of comms to make this easier on them. Then he thought about his hand and arm signals. The soldier was signaling an attack from the air. Warren looked up to see the fighter he’d seen earlier. He glanced down at the minigun he was carrying. It might do the trick, but not at range, and not against that kind of opponent. He wouldn’t stand a chance unless he waited until it was close enough. What he needed was a rocket launcher. The ones at the tank garage wouldn’t do any good because they were on fire. He was surprised there hadn’t been any explosions from them cooking off yet but guessed there would be unless they kept their rockets stored somewhere else.

There must be an ammo dump somewhere on the base—individual reinforced rooms, usually underground—to keep all the ammo from exploding if some of it went up. It would contain magazines. The CoWs were all about efficiency, and they didn’t waste a single credit if they could help it. Maybe there was a second way to use the rockets—a man-portable way.

“Incoming!” Warren shouted as he looked back at the fighter. It was moving faster than before, but not by much. Its nose was pointed down as it attempted to increase its speed. The craft would have to slow before it completed its approach, or it would have to make a single pass, turn around, and try again. Either way, there wasn’t much time.

Most of the cyborgs stopped the mayhem they were causing and turned to look. Warren passed the signal of the air attack on, then pointed at the incoming threat. Cyborgs disengaged from a group of soldiers somewhere off to the west. Those standing near buildings hurried inside. Others stood their ground like they had something that could take out a tough Commonwealth fighter.

“Take cover!” ordered Warren. He took his own advice and kicked open the metal door of what turned out to be a laundry room, scaring the hell out of a soldier hiding inside. He crushed his enemy’s skull with one hand, then he turned toward the open doorway and waited. As an afterthought, he reached up and smashed the electrical junction box servicing the lights inside the room, and the building went dark. A washer beeped a happy little tune, indicating it was done.

Through the open doorway, he could see the barracks and the cyborgs waiting in the darkness. He’d never fired one of their rifles at a Commonwealth fighter—not even the smaller Stingers—but he didn’t think they’d do much good. The minigun he held in his hands might not even be up to the task, but he’d try.

Just as he was checking the links draped across his left arm, making sure they weren’t twisted and would feed the gun properly, another sound greeted him. It was the rumble of a rocket tank. Wherever it was, he couldn’t see it yet, but he could see the thrusters of the CoW fighter as its pilot leaned the craft back to slow its movement. He had to move while the ship’s energy weapons were still pointed above the horizon and its missile tubes were closed.

Warren stepped out from the small building, centered his targeting reticle on the ship, and pulled the trigger. The gun erupted in a long BRRRRRT and belched flame as it quickly chewed away at the ammunition. A few seconds later the ammunition was gone, but the fighter continued slowing, answering Warren’s question as to whether Commonwealth miniguns were powerful enough to destroy a medium-sized Commonwealth fighter.

The fighter began to level out. It was Warren’s cue to run, so he did.

The building behind him exploded, causing him to trip and nearly land on his face. He caught himself with the tips of his fingers, then took off again and didn’t look back. Another explosion knocked him to one side, causing him to veer to the left as he ran. He bounced off a support beam of the walker garage. Inside were three more enemy soldiers. One was standing at its full height. The two others looked like they were squatting, their open circular hatches open at the bottom.

When the one that was standing took a step, Warren scrambled away and continued to run. He passed the burning tank garage and came face to face with the rocket tank he’d heard earlier. Rather than running or dodging out of the way, Warren bounded up the front of it and landed on top of the cockpit. He was careful not to grab any of the antennae this time. He slid to a stop just in time to lock eyes with the dismounted Commonwealth soldiers assigned to protect the tank from people just like him.

Cursing his luck, he slid from the back of the tank and punched the first surprised soldier. Warren kicked the second hard enough to lift him from the ground and snatched a rifle from the third. Two of the troops shot him before he was able to return fire and put them down. One tripped over his own feet in his attempt to make a hasty retreat, but Warren didn’t give him any quarter. Another enemy soldier tried to rush him, but that one caught the butt of Warren’s rifle in the mouth and went down screaming as teeth and blood oozed from his ruined face. The last tried to run back into the tank.

Warren could hardly believe his luck. The troop hatch was still open but wouldn’t be for long. Warren dropped the rifle, then he caught the hatch just before it closed, planted a foot against the back of the vehicle, and pulled. The motors powering the door groaned in protest. Someone inside stuck the barrel of a rifle out and fired a few random shots. Warren knew his fingers would be next, but he decided he could spare a few, so he pulled with all his strength. Something inside the tank near his feet snapped, and he fell hard on his back.

The soldier who’d run inside tried to rush past, but Warren caught his ankle and pulled, jerked the man hard enough that he landed on his face with a resounding thump. Warren pulled again, bringing him close, then he reached out with one hand and broke the man’s neck. He snatched the soldier’s fallen rifle from the ground and recoiled as a bullet from nowhere struck him in the face, just below his eye. He returned fire, squeezing the trigger rapidly until the gun was empty.

After tossing it to the side, he headed into the belly of the beast with nothing but murder on his mind.

“I surrender!” someone said from above. Warren was standing in the troop transport area of the vehicle. It was empty except for benches on the left and right sides. Ahead of him was a ladder which ended at a fifty-centimeter hole in the ceiling. It was from this hole the offer of surrender was emanating.

“How many are up there?” asked Warren.

“Two of us. We surrender.” They sounded sincere, but Warren felt conflicted. Before, he’d been forced to execute surrendering enemy troops, even when it was clear they were unarmed and were offering no resistance. The war computer had forced him to exterminate the people like they were insects. Now that he had the opportunity to accept a surrender, he wasn’t sure he wanted to take it.

The tank had stopped moving. It didn’t mean it wasn’t still an imminent threat, but if he could get its pilots to surrender, it was just as good as if the tank had been destroyed. Then again, maybe it was better.

“Come down one at a time,” Warren ordered. “Keep your hands where I can see them. If you do anything threatening, I will personally show you what your insides look like. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” both men replied in unison. The first appeared and took shaky steps down the ladder. Warren stepped close, ready to pull the guy’s legs off if he tried anything, but he made it to the bottom without attacking.

Warren feigned pushing the soldier in front of him against the wall. In reality, he was checking for power in case he was dealing with more Ghosts. As he watched the second man’s legs appear, he sensed it. A slow thrumming. An artificial heart. Subtle circuitry. In a flash, he removed his hand and straightened his wrist, then he pressed his fingers together and drove them in like the point of a spear.

The man gasped, and for a horrifying second, Warren was worried he’d just made a horrible mistake. When the soldier yanked Warren’s hand from his chest and tried twisting it behind his back, he knew otherwise.

Warren blocked strike after strike, searching for his opportunity to counter. The second man had finished climbing down and was staring at his co-pilot with an expression of horror and confusion.

“What the—“ were the only two words he got out before Warren’s opponent mule kicked him in the chest. The man went down clutching his torso, then became still.

At the same time, Warren lunged forward, but instead of trying to punch the cyborg in the face like it was doing to him, he plunged his hand back into its chest. It struck Warren on the side of his head, then it struck the other side, and the world seemed to tilt a little. Meanwhile, Warren was fishing for a better hold. He found it and gave it a tight squeeze, then he twisted his wrist.

The protective metal covering over the cyborg’s spine came loose, exposing the meat within. Warren twisted again and drove his opponent against the ladder, then he pinned him across the throat with his other arm and pulled. The cyborg screamed, made a choking noise, and fell to the ground like a marionette who’d just had its strings cut. Warren kept pulling, feeling rivets and connectors popping until it all came loose. He wiped his hand on the corpse and headed up the ladder. There was a certain pilot he needed to put down, and he knew just how to do it.

None of the modules Warren had loaded into his brain from the war computer had instructions on how to operate the tank. Luckily, the Commonwealth had been thoughtful enough to label everything. Warren took it all in, and after a few seconds, he had the hang of it. He closed the troop hatch and jammed the controls forward, bringing the lumbering beast up to its breakneck top speed of eleven kilometers per hour—a fast jog for many, but hardly impressive.

Still, it wouldn’t take long to get around the building, target the fighter, and blow it to tiny pieces. A clang on the rooftop told him his fellow cyborgs didn’t know. If he wasn’t lucky, they’d end up killing him as they tried to defend themselves. Damned jamming by the commonwealth might end up killing him after all.

Ping, ping, ping, ping!

Someone was shooting the roof of the cockpit. There was no chance of them getting through. If they dropped a grenade into one of the pods, they could blow the tank up, or at least the pod itself. It could spell disaster.

Warren leaned over to the gunner’s seat, armed the missiles, and took aim. The sound of the pods rotating caused a rumble. When it stopped, he turned the dial controlling how many rockets were launched all the way up. Then he pressed the big red button marked FIRE.

The entire payload of fifty rockets screamed out from the pods—twenty-five from each side. Warren couldn’t tell how many had hit. All he knew was it looked like the Fourth of July. The tank’s entire armament was spent, so Warren powered it down and pressed the button to open the hatch, then he hurried down the ladder, just in case. Rigby met him at the bottom and wrapped him in a tight hug, then she laughed.

“Hot damn, you show-off,” she shouted. “Come look at what you did!”

Warren joined her and another outside the tank. He’d killed the fighter, alright. He’d absolutely torn it to shreds. It looked like pieces of it had fallen inside the barracks, which were now burning. Other pieces had landed on various buildings.

“I guess maybe half the rockets would’ve been enough,” Warren noted. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

31

Warren wanted to ask how many they’d lost, but he held off finding out. They had to complete the mission, regardless of how many cyborgs they ended up with.

“I think I spotted the power plant,” he told Rigby. “It’s on the other side of the barracks. Big substation, lots of wires, transformers and the like.”

“We saw that, too,” she replied. “We also think we spotted the computer room. What do you want to do?”

Destroying both was an option, he knew, but so was only destroying one. The power plant would always be useful to someone but leaving it didn’t necessarily mean the Commonwealth would benefit. First Corps didn’t even have a ship anymore. They might be stuck here for a while, and it would be nice to have electricity in the meantime.

“Please show me the computer room,” he told her.

Warren, Rigby, and four others formed a squad and hurried toward the rear of the barracks. Sure enough, there was another building to the east of the power plant. Warren hadn’t gone far enough to see it, but the moment he set eyes on it, he knew what had convinced her.

The power plant was about a hundred meters square. Taking up most of the wall facing the barracks was a large area surrounded by a three-meter-tall chain-link fence lined with razor wire—a surefire way to keep intruders away from the electrical equipment inside. There was also a locked gate, which Warren ignored, as it only led to the substation equipment.

The smaller of the two buildings should’ve been powered like the rest. Maybe a single cable running underground, completely hidden from view. One of those things everyone took for granted as they plugged their favorite appliance into an outlet, and it magically worked. Instead, there was a bundle of cables, each seven centimeters thick, running straight from the power plant. They bypassed the substation and connected directly to the smaller building. Whatever was inside, it required a lot of power.

“See what I mean?” asked Rigby. “There’s more.”

She led the squad to the far side of the building, opposite from where the cables entered, and showed Warren what looked like the door to a vault. The metal wasn’t shiny, but it was silver. He checked with his hand to see if it was electrically charged but felt nothing. He tried to scratch it with his cybernetic fingernail like General Kaplan had done to the table, but he couldn’t make a mark.

“I am here,” reported Lukov as he and the rest of his squad hurried to him. When they arrived, his squad spread out, doing their best to provide 360-degree security. Another thirteen cyborgs arrived a few seconds later.

“Poulton,” Warren said, motioning for first squad’s leader to come to him. When he stopped a few seconds later, Warren leaned in. “Is this it? We’re four cyborgs short.”

He nodded. “Sorry, Warren, this is it. Four of our soldiers didn’t make it.”

“Damn.” Without a war computer, there was no chance of bringing them back. Without knowing whether the Camel had survived long enough to land and hide the Cyborg Data Cubes, there was no knowing if they could be brought back. The competing feelings of regret and anger chewed at Warren’s psyche.

“They died with many honor,” said Lukov. “Now, we must bring more of honor to their death. We must find any survivor by making the jamming to shut down.”

Warren nodded, pasted on what he hoped was a neutral, relaxed expression, and turned back to the vault door. In the center was a keypad mounted flush to the door. A few centimeters above it was a circular protrusion made of the same metal but with what looked like a glowing, green diode inside. “Any ideas?” asked Warren.

“Just one,” said Rigby. She reached past him and mashed a bunch of numbers on the keypad. It beeped angrily, and the door didn’t budge. “Well, that’s it for me. Anyone else?”

“Maybe there’s a magazine around here somewhere,” suggested Cooper. “We could hotwire one or two of those rockets to the door, then stand back and light the fuse.”

Warren was considering it when Poulton spoke up. “What about just cutting the power cables running to this building? They’re right out in the open.”

“And get shocked and die,” said Rigby. “There could be a lot of power running through those things. Plus, you might end up frying something in the power plant. But these people seem to have spent a lot of time fixing the stuff they had. I bet there’s a cutting torch around here somewhere.”

The ideas kept coming, but Warren was no longer listening. Instead, he’d taken a few steps back to look at the bigger picture and wondered if the simpler answer might be a better one.

“What is it?” asked Rigby.

“Why are we so focused on getting through this door?”

She just looked at him. “Because we need to get in there?”

Warren smiled, then he made a fist and punched the wall next to the door. The concrete cracked. He punched again, and the crack grew wider. A third time and his fist went through, pieces of gray wall crumbling to his feet and into the room. He glanced at Rigby. “What’s everyone waiting for?” he asked.

The others joined in, making short work of the portal. Warren and Cooper checked to make sure everyone was out of the way before each delivering one more punch. Together, they yanked the door down. Broken wires sparked from the top of the frame.

Warren held up a hand to encourage everyone to stay back. Whispered expletives and curses made it clear the other cyborgs had mixed feelings about what they were thinking. His raised hand may have been the only thing holding them back. Inside the computer room was something which bore a strong resemblance to a Republic war computer.

“Shit,” whispered Rigby. “It makes complete sense now, doesn’t it? The Republic didn’t go cheap when they designed us. Especially the way they kept us under control. It would take a war computer to jam us.”

“Or to shut down our comms,” replied Warren. “And someone found a way to do it so we wouldn’t know about it.”

“Is to making destroyed?” asked Lukov, patting his rifle lovingly.

“Wait, what’s that?” asked Rigby.

Among the crystalline panels, each displaying random images Warren didn’t think had anything to do with any of his cyborgs, was a strange-looking pedestal. It was tucked away in a corner and definitely wasn’t Republic tech. Only one part of it looked like Commonwealth tech.

“That would be an AI pod,” said Warren. “I guess we know what they’re used for, among other things.”

“So, do we destroy it now? Shut down the transmission? Go find our people? Make war against the governor?”

It was a war computer. Sure, there was a nasty Commonwealth AI attached to it like a barnacle or tapeworm, but it was real. Hendrose was still alive and knew enough to get this thing running. He knew enough to build a new Cyborg Upkeep and Production unit, too. He didn’t just think it could be done; he knew it. He absolutely believed it with everything about him.

If they could find the Camel and get the Cyborg Data Cubes back, none of this would matter. There was still the matter of the biologicals, but Hendrose could find a way to make that work, too. There was enough tech in this room to make it happen. He’d received data from a war computer. He’d also sent it commands. With any luck, once they separated the AI, they’d be able to upload data, too.

“We can’t destroy it,” said Warren.

Nobody responded, and though Warren couldn’t see their faces because of their helmets, he thought he could read their body posture. Nobody spoke. Instead, they stared at him in bewildered silence.

“We are not to be finding the others?” asked Lukov.

“Of course we’re going to find the others,” replied Warren. “But, we’re not going to destroy this war computer to make it happen.”

After a few more seconds of silence, Cooper clapped his hands together and said, “Okay, thinking caps. How do we disable it without destroying it? Cutting the power cables might short it out, but maybe we can find a way to shut the power plant down instead of destroying it.”

“Then that’s what we do,” replied Warren. He turned back toward the war computer. If Hendrose was here, he’d have something to say about the whole situation. None of the modules Warren had loaded into his people had anything to do with the war computer. Why would they? The information was supplemental data designed to make cyborgs better warfighters, among other things. At no time did they ever suspect a cyborg would need to repair a war computer.

When Warren had freed himself and the others, he’d had a single instruction loaded into his memory. The Reotians who’d freed him had left it there. Pull one card, rotate it, then put it back. That was as far as his technical knowledge went. Hendrose, and many other crew members, were at least trained in the basics, but Hendrose was the only one he trusted to this extent.

The cyborgs were still waiting for orders, so Warren issued some. “First squad, stay here and guard the war computer. Nobody is allowed inside except me and anyone I directly authorize. If I buy the farm, Lukov will take command. Second squad will accompany me to the power plant. We’ll work at figuring out a way to cut the power to the computer without destroying it, or we’ll see if we need to isolate the entire power plant until we can figure out something more subtle. Third and fourth squad will secure the rest of the base with first squad acting as the quick reaction force. Any questions?”

He hoped there wouldn’t be any. Warren and the rest of second squad needed to get comms back up, and the only way to do that was to get to it. He had no idea how long it would take.

Visors turned toward other visors. Sergeant Brinn was the only one besides Warren without a helmet, but his expression was unreadable.

“Where do you want me?” the sergeant asked.

“With third squad,” he said. “You’ve been here longer, so you might be able to provide them with info if you find any unarmed military personnel or civilians. Remember, everyone, we are not the Republic anymore. We don’t follow the Republic’s rules. Head out.”

Second squad formed up on Warren, who signaled for them to assume a column formation and head out. They were close, so it only took a few minutes to walk from the building, around the chain-link fence separating the substation from anyone who might want to experiment with electricity, to the double metal doors on the other side. When Warren got there, he hovered his hand over them, checking for electricity. He didn’t sense any, so he tried the doorknob. It was locked, of course. It was also of the cheap variety—more in line with what Warren expected to see from the Commonwealth of Worlds. With a nod to the others, Warren crushed the doorknob, gave it a hard twist, and shoved the door open.

“Another door!” the first cyborg shouted. “Continuing!”

Warren wasn’t sure what he’d meant until he got through the door last. The double doors from the outside opened to a small room, barely four meters square, and another set of double doors to the right. Probably to keep dust out during windstorms, or water when it rained, he realized. “Fatal funnel!” he reminded the others, urging them to get out of the doorways, the most likely place they’ll be shot. The other cyborgs started moving faster, clearing the doorway so Warren could enter the main power plant room in only a second.

The main part of the building was vast. The only subdivision, so far as Warren could see, was the smaller room he’d just come out of. He couldn’t see past the huge machine in the middle of the room, though. It resembled a colossal sphere someone had squashed about a third of the way. It’s base truncated in a half-meter stem that seemed to disappear into the polished concrete floor and was at least two meters in diameter. The exterior was covered in thousands of squarish silver panels. Hundreds of copper-colored pipes formed a nest on the top of the device, which didn’t look like it was connected to the ceiling. Warren sensed power leaking from the silent machine, even though he was still at least twenty meters away.

After a moment of indecision, he decided to head straight, following two other cyborgs as they hurried along the wall to the right. It was the one which would bring him closest to where he expected the distribution point for the war computer to be. Along the wall ahead of them were a row of lockers painted gray with numbers in the center of each of their doors in yellow.

The first cyborg hurried past them. The second reached for the silver handle of the nearest locker. Warren nodded. His job would be to cover their rear and back the cyborg up if any of the lockers had someone hiding inside. It would be difficult to keep his eyes peeled in both directions, but he did his best.

The first locker opened. The cyborg stepped back, rifle raised in case someone wanted to jump out. Nothing. The second locker opened, and a set of hands appeared.

“Get down!” the cyborg shouted. “Keep your hands up and get on your face.”

“I got her,” said Warren, who stowed his rifle, took the woman by her outstretched hands, and dragged her away from the other lockers.

“Ow!” she shouted. “I’m not resisting! Stop!”

“Shut it,” growled Warren. He hovered his hand over her back, moved it around a bit, but detected no circuitry. “She’s clean,” he said. “Full-human.” When she tried to get up, Warren stood and pressed a foot into the center of her back. She wouldn’t be going anywhere, so Warren nodded, and the other cyborg opened the next locker. That one was empty too, as was the last.

“You’re hurting me,” the woman who’d been hiding groaned. She was wearing a rust-colored jumpsuit—typical work attire for civilians. She’d tied her hair up in a tight bun near the base of her neck. It made the woman look like she was ready for a fight. Maybe she was.

A few minutes later, Rigby appeared from the other side of the power plant. She was alone. “I left Russon guarding another door in the back. We checked, and it’s locked, but it’s the same kind as the one we came in through. Who’s that?”

“Not sure,” said Warren. “She’s human, though. Caught her in one of these lockers.”

“What were you hiding from?” asked Rigby.

The woman lifted her head to look at Rigby but didn’t say anything.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” Rigby asked, squatting down with her rifle across her lap. “How’s about you answer some other questions for me, okay?”

32

While Rigby interrogated their prisoner, another cyborg took over guard duty of the double doors they’d entered through, and the last one, Cobb, attempted to help Warren make sense of the huge device.

It wasn’t like Warren had never seen a fusion reactor before, but Republic reactors were much more compact—at least the ones onboard their cruisers. Warren’s knowledge modules included one regarding the reactors the Commonwealth used onboard their vessels, but those were small, and on the larger ships there were up to a dozen of them. He couldn’t remember seeing anything this big before, so he took a step back and tried to take it all in.

Of the four walls, only one contained lockers. Two had a large electrical panel festooned with blinking lights, gauges, and terminal displays, similar to what the Republic used. The wall on the war computer side of the building had a second panel. It was only labeled with a number, which didn’t mean anything to him.

Between the fusion plant and the three large electrical panels were perforated sheets of metal about a half-meter square. They were flush with the concrete, and Warren noticed one hole was larger than the others. He motioned for Cobb to follow as he approached one of the panels and tried to listen for anyone who might be hiding under it, but his hearing seemed to be overcome with a buzz that grew louder the closer he got to the power plant. Warren drew his rifle, and when Cobb nodded, he yanked the panel from the floor. Under it was a deep concrete trench. Several power cables and conduits were visible.

Warren took a few seconds to check the entire tunnel, then inspected the other two before inspecting the last he found between the panel for the war computer and the larger one on the wall it shared. “Looks clear,” he told Cobb, who kicked the last panel back into place. They turned their attention to the small panel. Neither spoke as they inspected it and tried to make sense of what they were looking at.

“I’m guessing this is the on-off button,” said Cobb, pointing to a button that was currently illuminated green. “Maybe we just push this to shut it down.”

Warren nodded, but his attention was focused on the small terminal screen in front of him. It reminded him a lot of the one he’d spotted on the moon.

“This one might boost or cut the power,” continued Cobb as he pointed at a knob. Little white tick marks were labeled starting at zero, with even numbers all the way to two hundred. “I wonder if this was just to experiment on a war computer. They’re lucky they didn’t fry it. Or maybe they found out they could and decided to put it to good use. Where do you suppose they got one, anyway?”

“Who knows?” said Warren. “Maybe the Conquest wasn’t as broke as they thought. Or maybe it came apart in orbit, but the CoWs were able to save enough of it to put the rest back together. Hell, they might’ve stolen the plans a long time ago and nobody knew. Go ahead and press the button. I don’t see that we have any other choice.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if someone knew but was too afraid to say anything,” noted Cobb as his finger moved toward the green glowing button. “Hey, that’s new.”

DO NOT>

The message had appeared on the terminal screen. Somewhere among the knobs, dials, and gauges was a microphone, Warren knew. It was the only way the AI would know what they intended to do.

“Why not?” asked Warren.

PRESSING BUTTON WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE SHUTDOWN>

Cobb’s brows winged up in surprise. “You’re talking to it?”

Warren nodded and motioned for him to be quiet and calm himself before speaking again. “Will pressing the button shut down the entire power plant?”

NO>

“Will pressing the button result in damage to your systems or the war computer?”

NO>

“So, you want us not to press the button because you don’t want to be shut down?”

YES>

Warren pressed the button himself. The light changed from green to red, then the hum he was hearing changed to a slightly higher pitch and became less noticeable.

“Did it work?” asked Cobb.

Warren turned to where Rigby was interrogating the prisoner. She had the woman sitting with her back against the wall between the lockers and the small room they’d entered through. The woman appeared to be crying but didn’t appear to be harmed. As soon as Warren sent a message to Rigby, she stopped talking and whipped her head around toward him.

“Excuse you?” she asked.

Warren laughed, turned to Cobb, and nodded. “I’d say it works,” he told the cyborg.

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing I’m willing to repeat aloud,” he replied.

Rigby still had her face turned toward him. It may have been a risk, but he had to be sure it had worked. His next message was sent out as a general broadcast. It informed every cyborg within range of his location and what he and the rest of the cyborgs had accomplished.

SO GLAD TO HEAR! HEADING YOUR WAY!

It was Baker. Warren had all kinds of questions for him but decided to keep them to himself. He still had to make sure the rest of the place was secure before they got there. If they brought injured full-humans with them or even injured cyborgs, they’d need a place to provide treatment. Until the base was cleared, identifying the proper place would be impossible.

There was no response from Second Corps, but he hadn’t expected one. General Kaplan seemed like the kind to consider it a probable trick from the Commonwealth. Or at least say so, in order to keep his troops from moving. He might also be the kind who got jealous of someone else’s success, rather than joining them in it.

Warren requested an update from Lukov, which was returned a few seconds later. About a quarter of the base had been cleared, but they had so many prisoners, they were moving slowly. He requested permission to corral them somewhere and for an additional cyborg to guard them if one was available. He also reported he’d found a section of the fencing which had been knocked down. It looked like it had been done from the inside. There were tracks from tanks and large prints which looked like they might’ve come from walkers. Intermingled among them were many footprints.

“Sounds like someone left in a hurry,” replied Warren. “We’ll have to keep an eye out for them.”

There was so much to do, Warren had to think about where to start. First, they had to make sure the war computer remained protected. They’d removed the protective door, and until they could replace it, it was vulnerable. Also, it was unlikely the Commonwealth would allow them to keep it. He assigned Pardo to stand guard until such time as the cyborg was relieved. It might be a while, he warned. Pardo didn’t mind.

Second, they needed to protect the power plant. Warren assigned Russon to that task since he was already inside guarding the back door. He’d position himself so he could always see both doors, and he’d alert Warren if he noticed any changes to the power plant itself.

Next, he and Rigby shared some of their ammunition with the guards, then they informed Lukov of their intentions and headed into the rest of the base to secure it. The Russian said he’d marked the buildings he had already cleared with some paint they’d discovered. The ones closest to their starting location weren’t marked, so he intended to send a couple of cyborgs through them later to double-check and add a splash of paint to their doors to mark them as having been searched. He gave Warren the location of the paint and told him there was plenty left.

Warren found the shed the Russian had told him about and noticed the mess on the floor. Someone on his team had mixed their own color—something of an orange with a hint of pink. Warren opened several lids and decided to do the same. Otherwise, he might come across a door the same color as the paint and have no way to see the mark clearly.

“Ready?” asked Rigby.

“Ready,” confirmed Warren.

Lukov and the others had taken the western side of the base, so Warren and Rigby went east. Most of the buildings in the first area, closest to the heavy equipment, appeared to be office buildings. When they went inside, they found wooden dividers, large desks, and tons of cheap computer terminals. They also found most of the buildings weren’t locked, and nearly all of the computers had been left on.

The offices were simple. A few dividers and anywhere from two to six desks crammed into the small structures. It was starting to become routine, and so far they hadn’t found a single person, so after a thorough check, Rigby plopped herself into a wooden chair behind a desk and began tapping at a console.

Warren inspected his surroundings and smiled. It was just like every other office they’d been in so far—sixteen of them. From what he’d seen, this place would do nicely as a new base for First Corps.

He started to say as much to Rigby when he was interrupted by an incoming transmission.

INCOMING. GROUND AND AIR. BATTLE STATIONS.

33

“Sounds like we have a fight on our hands,” Warren said grimly. The two became quiet as they listened to Lukov quickly describe the situation.

“That doesn’t sound like enough to take this entire base, even with so few of us here,” she said.

“It doesn’t,” he agreed. “But it does sound like our missing tanks and walkers. Lukov reported a hole in the fence line wide enough and with the right kind of prints and tread marks to explain this. I guess the former residents want their home back.”

“They could attack from any direction,” said Rigby. “This could be a distraction for something bigger. What do you want to do?”

Warren thought fast. He had to address the immediate threat, but she was right—it could be a way to spread people out and ruin their opportunity to mount an effective defense. What exactly did effective mean when he had a mere twenty-five cyborgs, barely a quarter of his units’ previous full strength, and another forty-one effective in Second Corps, if they ever decided to respond and lend a hand. Warren thought about opening a channel to their leader, but he might be underground, and whatever he’d set up seemed effective at hiding the digital signature of the electronics they were using. It might not reach Kaplan, or he might not respond.

The message he’d sent of their success and location had been transmitted to every cyborg within range. The village was barely twenty kilometers away, so every cyborg on guard duty had received it, too. Kaplan had a short leash on his people, but if even a few joined him at the base, it could turn the tide of what might be a prolonged battle and a lot of death. Every cyborg who arrived could save the lives of several others.

He asked Lukov for an update.

“I am seeing three of the walker, twelve hovercar loaded with what does appear to be twenty-nine personnel,” he reported. “Is difficult to see every of them, but there are many.”

“Any air support?”

“None that I am to be seeing,” he replied. “Maybe they do not have as much, or maybe is to coming later. But something is wrong of what I am seeing. Please to be standing by.”

Warren would’ve held his breath if he could have. For the Russian to admit he saw something he didn’t understand, it must have been something big.

“Okay, they are closer,” continued Lukov. “Five kilometers to east. Coming down road going through woods. Problem is uniform. Some of the ones making way in hovercars are dressed in Commonwealth uniform. Some are dressed as our squishies. And they are moving fast. Maybe as fast to be too fast to be running. Many are wearing armor of the Republic cyborg, but some are not.”

Warren sprinted to the roof of the war computer building and peered into the distance. He spotted something, but there were too many trees in the way to make out what it might be. Another leap brought him to the roof of the power plant. Lukov was there. He pointed in the direction Warren should look.

Sure enough, the hovercars were moving fast enough to raise a low trail of dust behind them.

The most curious part of what he was looking at was the soldiers running alongside the hovercars. Some looked like Republic cyborgs dressed in battle armor. Others not dressed in armor were doing a good job keeping up with them.

“Baker,” transmitted Warren, “what’s your location?”

“Currently east of the base,” he replied. “Maybe three kilometers out.”

“Any chance you’re with the three walkers, twelve hovercars, and dismounted troops we see approaching from the east along this two-lane road?”

“That’s us,” he replied. “I don’t see you yet, but yeah, that’s where we are.”

Warren sent a message to the rest of First Corps that friendlies were inbound from the east. Lukov visibly relaxed.

“We’ve had problems with Ghosts,” transmitted Warren. “Have you vetted everyone you’re heading in with? I see some squishies in the hovercars dressed in CoW uniforms.”

“No way to vet them,” replied Baker. “Unless you’re suggesting I chop off an arm and look at the stump to see if it’s organic or not.”

“There is a way,” said Warren. “Use your hand. Hover it above their chests. Move it around like we do when we’re checking for circuitry or traps in doorframes before we enter a room. It’s subtle, but if they’re Ghosts, you should be able to detect them.”

“Shit, hadn’t thought about that,” replied Baker. “Want me to do it before we enter your base?”

“Yes,” said Warren.

“Okay, stopping now. Stand by.”

Warren peered at the convoy as they slowed to a stop. It was difficult to make out what they were doing with any certainty, though. The day was warm, and waves of heat mixed with cooler air, causing what he could see to shimmer and wave. It looked like Baker was making everyone dismount from the hovercars. He had a lot of cyborgs with him, which Warren was grateful to see. Thirty-seven by his count. They moved to one side of the road, lined up, and—“

He saw the flash of a firearm before he heard it. There was a fight.

Lukov and Warren glanced at each other. Warren sent a quick message to two other cyborgs to join them, and all four took off toward the skirmish.

When they were still two minutes away, Warren noticed that it looked like the fight had turned from a gun battle to a wrestling match. Humans, and possible Ghosts, ran into the nearby forest and took cover behind trees. One of the cyborgs who’d come along to assist fired several shots. Warren wasn’t sure who he was shooting at until he spotted someone dressed in a Commonwealth uniform leap, roll, and come to a sliding stop behind one of the hovercars and begin returning fire. No full human could move like that. Warren wondered if even he could. Warren sent his fireteam a signal, and they split up, two going left, Warren and Lukov heading to the right. There were only so many places the Ghost could run before they flanked him.

Baker was on the ground, beating what looked like a civilian woman to a bloody pulp. She fought back, but it was clear the skin on her forehead had been flayed. It flapped against the meat underneath. Her ear hung off her head and after another powerful blow from ripped the ear free. It caught in what used to be light blonde hair. Instead of giving up, she snarled and took another swing at him.

It was over a second later when another cyborg recovered from whatever had happened to him and shot the Ghost several times in the face. The first shot had probably done the trick, but it was best not to take chances.

“Stay back!” the Ghost who’d been hiding behind the hovercar shouted. He had a combat knife to a Commonwealth’s throat. The cyborg’s prisoner looked more confused than scared. He clawed at the hand holding the blade, but Warren knew he’d be nowhere near strong enough to save himself.

Warren signaled for Lukov to join the other two cyborgs they’d brought and see what they could do about the problem. Then he turned his attention to the humans. A few he recognized, but he wouldn’t put it past the Commonwealth to model their Ghosts after people they’d captured. He didn’t know if the tech existed, but one never knew what his enemies were capable of these days.

“Everyone line up!” he ordered, amplifying his voice enough to overcome the terror some must have been feeling. One by one, they started emerging from cover. The first were the ones Warren recognized. The more that came out, the faster the rest followed. Lukov and the others were still dealing with the last obvious Ghost but had managed to drive it far enough into the woods it was unlikely it would be able to do anything to anyone else. He was shouting orders and threats to the thing, which so far it seemed to be ignoring.

“Thanks,” transmitted Baker as he righted himself and shook gore from his gauntlets. “What happened to your armor?”

“Long story,” replied Warren. “But suffice it to say we know how to kill rocket tanks. It’s not easy, but it can be done.”

“That’s good,” he replied, stepping forward to stand beside him. “So, looks like we’ve got to start over. You got my back?”

“Yeah, are you injured?”

“No, I’m good. Armor’s busted up, but I’ll be good until we get to the base. Can’t wait to see what you’ve done with the place.” With that, he stepped forward and hovered his palm a centimeter in front of a woman’s chest. She closed her eyes and shook with fear. Her rust-colored uniform was filthy, and her face displayed several scratches as if she’d been running through thorny bushes recently. Warren hadn’t noticed any nearby, and the little visible blood on her face had already dried, so it must have happened elsewhere.

Baker sent him a quick message indicating the woman was clear. Warren performed the same examination, then sent her to a spot about ten meters away to stand in the middle of the road and told her to sit. It would help give him time to respond if it turned out he was wrong. If she stood back up, she would be rewarded with his complete and undivided attention.

They repeated the process several more times. Gunfire erupted from somewhere to the north.

“The Ghost is made dead,” replied Lukov. “It is unfortunate, but the human is made dead, too. Am returning to you. Thirty seconds.”

“I’m sending everyone that both Baker, and I have cleared to the middle of the street,” Warren told him. “Head to the other end of the line and start checking from there so you two can meet in the center. I don’t like being out in the open, and I especially don’t like these full-humans being out here like this.”

Thirty seconds, Lukov appeared, hurried to the other end of the line, and started checking the civilians. Meanwhile, the three other cyborgs arranged themselves into patrols and began poking through the forest nearby. When Warren inquired one told him they were checking to see if anyone had tried to hide anything out there, or if there might still be one or two others who were too afraid to come in.

BOOM!

Trees nearby exploded. People scrambled as chaos descended on the orderly situation. Warren had managed to stay on his feet, but several of the humans screamed and writhed in pain.

“Rocket tanks!” shouted Baker. “You said you had a way to kill ‘em? Well, boss, now’s the time to demonstrate.”

“Get the walkers out of here!” returned Warren. The reinforcements he knew would show up were finally here. “They can’t punch through the tanks’ armor. Load everyone up and get them out of here. How many grenades you got left?”

“Two,” he responded as he began issuing orders for everyone to load back into the hovercars.

BOOM!

The next rocket landed on the other side of the road. Warren wasn’t sure if there were any more injuries, but the first hovercar, loaded with non-cyborgs, buzzed to life and hurried down the road. Warren’s next message was to the rest of the cyborgs in the base to expect the civilians. He said they should be taken to the gap in the fence line, processed to make sure none were Ghosts, and hurried to safety. The two priorities were still the war computer and the power plant. They’d need both if they wanted any chance at surviving long here.

Baker tossed a grenade to Warren. He caught it and put it in a sling over his shoulder, then he hurried to where he thought the rockets had come from. Small arms fire peppered the dirt and trees all the way around him, so he began to cut left and right as he sent some quick instructions to the other cyborgs on how to accomplish what they were about to do.

A bullet grazed Warren’s thigh. He ignored the slash of pain and focused on the tank-shaped shadow in the distance. It looked like the enemy had discovered a parallel road and were using it to sneak up on the Reotian force. It had worked, and they’d brought plenty of infantry to protect all four of their tanks.

When they saw him, a small group of the soldiers took cover behind trees. He noted a handful went prone and the rest rushed forward a few meters before taking cover or concealment. Several began shouting, moving their squads and fireteams into formation and, one at a time, giving them orders to advance.

Warren had two grenades—one he still had from his original load-out, and the other given to him by Baker. If he was lucky, he’d be able to take out two tanks by himself. Or he could use one of the grenades now to help clear a path through the enemy’s line.

“Do you need more of us out there?” transmitted Rigby. “The walkers took out the civilians.”

“Stay put,” ordered Warren. “Keep the base secure. Protect the war computer and power plant at all costs. If this goes badly, find the Camel and see if you can find the Cyborg Data Cubes. There’s always a chance.”

“Don’t get dead,” she said and cut the connection.

Returning his attention to the current situation, Warren looked around the thick trunk he’d taken cover behind. There were sixteen enemy soldiers visible. Each appeared to be armed with a standard Commonwealth rifle, though he was sure they had other weapons. But it was unlikely any were carrying the dangerous EMP grenades, which had proven effective against his kind. Those, he hoped, were reserved for their navy, not ground forces.

There were five tanks, not four. Three were driving forward, pushing against nearby offending trees, but the closest was still a hundred meters away. The other two were continuing down the road. Warren hadn’t noticed where it connected to the main road he was on, but if it did, the tanks would surely flank him and his team. Even if it didn’t, if they kept him there long, they could cut or knock enough trees down to make their own connection.

Baker and the rest of the cyborgs had taken cover. A few would pop out now and then, take a shot at their enemy, then duck as a dozen bullets returned for every one they delivered. Warren took another peek, then quickly returned to cover when several soldiers took a shot at him. They weren’t moving anymore. Instead, it looked like they were settling in for a long standoff. More likely, they were just going to sit there all nice and comfortable until the two tanks which had continued down the road came in and flanked them. Then both sides would advance at the same time in a pincer maneuver. It would be impossible to defend against.

Warren instructed one of the cyborgs to head down the road, take cover somewhere, and give them a heads-up if the enemy found a way to them. Another he sent toward the other end of the road. The pressure the Commonwealth soldiers were putting on them forced him to hurry through the woods from cover to cover. It would take him a bit longer to get there. A third was instructed to head behind their defensive line to make sure nobody snuck up on them from behind.

“We can’t sustain this,” warned Baker. “They’re going to bring the other half of this trap around unless we get up and do something.”

They could retreat. It wouldn’t have to be far, but they’d also be ruining their ability to see their enemy clearly. It was difficult to tell how many forces their enemy had, but at least for now, the trees were slowing them down. If they let the Commonwealth take the road, they could use it to head straight toward their new home. That’s what Warren thought he would do, anyway. Maybe leave a single tank and half the infantry behind to keep them busy. Meanwhile, the area the tanks controlled would serve as a staging area for any new reinforcements who decided to show up.

Glancing at the grenade still in his hand, then the one on his belt, Warren wondered if he still had the courage to act decisively knowing he would die if things didn’t go right. Four hundred years was a long time to be alive. Maybe too long.

34

“I thought we were waiting,” transmitted General Kaplan.

Warren spun his head left and right, searching for reinforcements he hoped would be there. More likely, the general was sitting about twenty kilometers away with his feet up on a makeshift desk. “That was the plan, General, but as you’ve probably heard, the plan has changed. We had to lean into the advantage as soon as we spotted it. You heading over to join my little party?”

“I am,” he replied. “In fact, I’m already here. You realize, of course, you’ve left yourself open to a double-envelopment attack.”

Warren rankled a little at the rebuff but decided not to engage. “Yes, but it couldn’t be helped.”

“No matter,” General Kaplan said. “You’ve also managed to keep their attention long enough for my forces to move into position. Please ask your people to seek cover. This is going to get a little messy.”

Warren sent his team a single word: DOWN!

From somewhere off to his left, maybe 200 meters away, several miniguns opened up. Warren allowed his feet to slip and slid down the trunk of the tree he was taking cover behind. Bullets cracked by, knocking leaves from nearby trees and throwing enough bark into the air to obscure his vision. A few seconds later, it was over.

He sent a message to Kaplan informing him his team was moving, then immediately ordered everyone forward, except for the flank guards, who remained in place.

The Commonwealth soldiers were in chaos. Several had been struck. They screamed and clutched at their fallen comrades, and some scrambled for their weapons, but they weren’t sure which way to point them. Cyborgs swarmed them, cutting them down with bullets as often as they broke necks, stomped skulls, or smashed their faces with the butts of their rifles.

“We are taking prisoners if possible,” Warren transmitted.

“No, we are not!” countered General Kaplan. “You are here to exterminate these pieces of shit. Give no quarter. Cut them all down.”

“We are not the Republic,” replied Warren. “And there are pieces moving on this board that you haven’t spotted yet, General Kaplan. Belay that order!”

“I will not,” he snarled.

Warren’s troops eased up a bit. Some of the soldiers refused to surrender. Those ones had to be dispatched. The ones who willingly gave up were subdued and stripped of their weapons, then they were placed with their faces in the dirt and their hands behind their heads.

Four rocket tanks still darkened the forest between the trees. Their pilots must’ve noticed their comrades were being cut down and captured. So they did exactly as Warren had suspected they would do. They launched rockets into the forest. They’d kill their own people, but the Commonwealth had, as far as Warren could remember, always treated people as cannon fodder. Dying for one’s country was, by some cultures, seen as honorable. Whether these people believed in Valhalla or some other special place for warriors who died in combat, he didn’t know. But the way they acted; it was as if being captured was worse than dying.

Trees exploded all around Warren. He had no idea where anyone else was, but a tank loomed directly in front of him. So, he attacked it.

Each of the tanks fired another volley of rockets, turning trees into wooden grenades and setting them ablaze. Warren was nearly knocked from his feet and smashed face-first into the tank he’d been approaching. A damage alarm appeared in his HUD, but he dismissed it. So long as he could still see and move, nothing else mattered. He’d figure it out—or not. Recovering, he grabbed hold of an armored plate, then jumped on top of one of the housings covering the tank’s two tracks. He leaped again and landed on top of the cockpit.

FOOSH!

More rockets exploded into the forest. Warren ordered the cyborgs still there to take what prisoners they had further into the woods. The fire was growing, and though his own soldiers would likely survive, the rest would not. If nothing else, the smoke would choke them out.

“Where are the rest of your cyborgs?” transmitted General Kaplan.

Warren wanted to ignore him, but he got the feeling doing so would infuriate him more than if he spoke the truth. “They’ve got prisoners they’re bringing.”

“Prisoners? Perhaps you misunderstood me.”

“I didn’t misunderstand shit,” said Warren. “We’re not the Republic, and I don’t have time to argue.”

“You’ll make the time, sir,” he replied. Warren spotted him paired up with a cyborg carrying an empty minigun near the far end of the line.

Maybe ignoring the idiot wasn’t such a bad idea, Warren decided. There were four rocket tanks to take care of, after all.

Cyborgs swarmed the vehicles. Kaplan’s had taken the rocket tank on the left. Warren was on the next one, and the one to his right was similarly engaged. The last one looked like it was trying to make a run for it, but three cyborgs were already on top.

“Tell your cyborgs to kill their prisoners and return to the battle!” ordered General Kaplan.

Warren quickly climbed from the top of the cockpit to one of the pods. He leaned over the edge and promptly began searching for a convenient place to hide a grenade. The gunner must’ve seen him because a rocket fired off and barely missed him. He turned his head and glared at the pair of wide eyes watching him through the cockpit window. He’d already gotten the look he needed, though, so he armed the grenade, quickly stuffed it into one of the tubes a rocket was still occupying, and leaped from the pod—this time being sure to leap far enough away.

His feet hit the dirt the same instant his grenade exploded. This time, it ignited several other rockets, which shot awkwardly from their tubes, spitting their half-contained solid fuel in all directions. One hit a nearby tree, detonating at least two others. Most continued into the forest, destroying trees and adding to the already chaotic fire. The last made a wide, arcing sweep, then it soared into the sky and sputtered out, leaving a wide cloud of white smoke behind it.

As it went out, Warren waited for the inevitable. The cloud prevented him from seeing where the remnants would land. Gravity was a cruel mistress. It didn’t care what you wanted; it served itself.

“First Cyborg Corps, this is General Clem Kaplan of Second Cyborg Corps. I am the one asking for your assistance in exterminating the Commonwealth forces from this planet. While I appreciate your showing up to do that, it seems your leader, Warren Prescott, has changed his mind and has decided to do things his own way. This is unacceptable.”

“What are you doing?” Warren asked, already headed to the rocket tank Second Corps was attacking. Either they hadn’t been watching how he destroyed his, they didn’t care, or nobody had a grenade.

“What you should’ve done,” hissed Kaplan. Then he began speaking to all the cyborgs again. “Your orders are to exterminate every single Commonwealth person of fighting age, soldier or not. Give them no quarter. Show no mercy. They would never show it to you.”

“Does that include the villagers who took you in?” asked Rigby.

“Yes,” he replied. “I have already sent some of my cyborgs back to do just that.”

Rigby opened a private channel with Warren. “He’ll kill our people, too. We have to do something.”

Each of the remaining First Corps sent Warren a message indicating they were still with him. They would not turn on him. Not today. Not ever.

“Does anyone else still have a grenade?” asked Warren.

“I do,” one of the First Corps cyborgs replied.

“Take care of this tank, would you? I’m taking Baker to stop his cyborgs from wiping out that village.”

“Understood,” he replied.

“Where’s the last tank?” someone asked.

Warren looked around and realized he’d lost track of the one he’d been worried about flanking them. It had to be headed to the base. One rocket could take out the war computer. Maybe two for the power plant. Either happened and all hope would be lost. He couldn’t allow that.

But Hendrose was in danger, and it was likely he was the only one who could disconnect the Commonwealth AI from the thing and get it running again. Warren also considered him a close friend. He’d risked everything to see his people free and had then volunteered to come along to help keep them free and liberate others.

He didn’t have to be the hero. It wasn’t up to him to make sure all the big things were taken care of. All that was required of him was that he did his best. Nobody had ever asked him for anything more. General Kaplan was a problem here, along with the remaining Commonwealth tanks. Hendrose was in danger, and every second Warren waited put the tech closer to being dead. The war computer—his last hope for bringing back those he needed and missed—was at risk, especially since the tank pilot probably knew where and what it was, and there was no door protecting it any longer.

“Rigby, you have incoming,” he transmitted. “It’s probably a single rocket tank. There will be dismounted infantry with it. Do what you can. The general’s causing trouble here, but I need to head back to the village. He’s sent some of his cyborgs to kill everyone there. Now that he’s got another place to be, I guess he didn’t need them anymore.”

“Selfish bastard,” transmitted Rigby. “We’ll be ready for them.”

“Right,” said Warren. “The only thing I’ve found that works is a grenade in one of their pods. You’ve got to wedge it in nice and tight against an unfired rocket. When it goes, so does the whole pod.”

“I remember,” she said. “Good luck. Bring them home safe.”

Though her words sounded encouraging, Warren knew what she was really saying. She was telling him farewell. She never expected to see him again. He wished he had something to say to mark the moment, realizing it might be the last thing he ever told her, but the image in his mind of Hendrose being choked to death or shot seemed to short-circuit the parts of his brain necessary for such things.

“Let’s go save Hendrose and the villagers,” Warren transmitted to Baker.

“Anyone else coming?” he asked.

“No. Not with that so-called General giving us shit. Just you and me.”

“Sounds like an adventure, boss. Race you there?”

Warren answered by darting into the trees. His cybernetic legs pumped as hard as he could move them. The map in his mind indicated he was running in the right direction, but he had to keep dodging around trees, which was slowing his progress. There was no telling how long-ago Kaplan had sent his soldiers to kill everyone. They could’ve even come from the nearby town, which would give them all the time they needed to execute his orders and the people they found.

“Brinn,” Warren transmitted on a private channel.

“Sorry,” the cyborg replied. “He’s kept us alive this whole time.”

“Where are you?”

“Still fighting the rocket tanks.”

“Is the general planning on attacking First Corps?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. He sounded sincere. Against his better judgment, Warren found himself convinced the cyborg was telling the truth.

“I won’t ask you to disobey your commanding officer,” Warren told him as he crashed through a smaller tree. It hurt, but only dodging the ones too big to smash through might save time.

“I know,” replied Brinn. “I don’t. Never have. But, I’m one of those sergeants who likes to bend the rules a bit. What do you need?”

“Talk to your people heading out to slaughter innocent civilians and my crew. See if you can talk them into disobeying, or at least delaying the action until I get there.”

“You gonna kill them?” asked Brinn.

It was time to answer honesty with honesty, Warren decided. “Not if I can help it.”

Brin was quiet for several seconds. “You got it, General Prescott. We’ll work this shit out later, right?”

“You’re right,” said Warren. Something was wrong with his left leg. He smashed through another tree, felt the pain shoot through his cybernetic body like someone just poured glass through his soul. A quick diagnostic revealed several broken components. He’d need repairs as soon as they found a place to get them.

“Boss!” transmitted Baker.

“Keep going!” ordered Warren. “I’ll catch up!”

Warren felt dizzy. His vision went staticky like an old flat-screen TV searching for the correct input. He stood, stumbled again, and checked his HUD. His cybernetic systems were searching for a way to route around the damage to get him back in the fight. Warren ordered his systems to just lock the damn thing straight so he could get moving again.

It worked. Warren glared at the tree he’d run into, then began hobbling as fast as he could. “Keep going,” he ordered. “I’m damaged, but my HUD is searching for a way to get my leg working right again. It’s up to you. I’ve got Sergeant Brinn, one of Kaplan’s cyborgs, talking to the others sent to take out the village. I don’t know if he’ll be able to convince them not to attack, but we only need them slowed. If he can get them to change their minds about following their bullshit order, everything’s good. If not, you may have to take them out, no matter how many there are.”

Baker laughed across the channel, but it sounded forced. “If you think I’m going to let someone pop my favorite tech and his buddies, you don’t know me very well. One way or another, I’ll keep him safe. I promise you that.”

“If I don’t make it, but you do, make sure nothing happens to Brinn. I don’t give a damn what you do with Kaplan.”

35

SYSTEM BYPASS COMPLETE

Warren leaned forward and poured on the speed. His leg wasn’t a hundred percent, but it was good enough. He realized he probably looked funny—the way he was running. But anyone close enough to notice was also close enough to get shot.

While he ran, he thought. Two completely capable governments. Neither one willing to speak to the other to settle their differences and work for the betterment of all humanity. They would rather see each other completely wiped out than work together. Warren still had no idea why the Commonwealth had branched off and finally left, but it had been a while, according to what he could remember.

“Halt!” someone transmitted. Warren’s brain was percolating with hate—so much that he didn’t care who was transmitting or who they were speaking to until someone fired a rifle. The tiny fountain of dirt rising in front of his feet brought him to a complete stop. “Drop your weapon.”

It wasn’t one of his cyborgs. He knew all their voices better than he knew himself. This one he knew too, though. “Kaplan, nice of you to join me.”

“Shut up, Prescott. I gave you a chance and you fucked it up. Now you have two choices. I can place you under arrest and bring you back. You will order your cyborgs to obey my orders, you will relinquish command, and then you will stand trial. It’s either that or I kill you right here. Now drop the rifle.”

Warren did as he said without a word. He’d given his sidearm to Hendrose, but he still had a couple of options. One was the grenade sitting comfortably in his pocket. The second was his bare hands. He thought of a third option and decided to give it a shot.

“You like being in control, don’t you?” asked Warren.

“I said shut up,” the General barked. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Maybe another angle would work. “You’re speaking to a general, too, in case you forgot,” Warren said, turning and giving the other cyborg a hard look. It was a little spooky how easy he felt the expression settle onto his face. Rage had never been a thing he’d had a serious problem controlling. Although it didn’t seem like a problem now, he understood how it could become one with some people. It was addicting. It made him feel powerful and in command, even though he was facing an armed cyborg with an itchy trigger finger.

Kaplan’s mouth curled into a subtle smirk. “Don’t try that bullshit with me. Let’s move.” He gestured back to the place he’d just left. The forest was still on fire, though it didn’t look like it had spread far. There wasn’t a breeze at the moment, so the black, sooty smoke hugged the ground.

“Almost to the village,” transmitted Baker. “There’s smoke. Not a lot of it, but definitely smoke. I’ll let you know what I find.”

Warren didn’t dare hope for the best. Nothing had gone for the best since his virtual chains had been broken. The mutiny the cyborgs had executed to secure the Ruthless for themselves had gone well enough, but some of the crew loyal to the Republic had died. If he got out of this and found a way to contact his former government, he’d have to answer for that. Then there was the defense of Reotis from the Fourth Cyborg Corps. That had been a complete clusterfuck. They had delivered the final shots that had destroyed an entire Corps of cyborgs, their ship, and its crew. Then there was the betrayal of one of their own soon afterward. Glen Hoffman had been one of the founders, but sometime later he had been turned by the Commonwealth. He’d gained Warren’s trust, which, in turn, had made him second only to Lukov.

“Hurry up!” the General ordered. “We’ve got things to do. Delaying it will only annoy me.”

“How are things looking?” Warren asked the cyborg he’d assigned to take out the rocket tank. His eyes scanned the area in front of him as he listened, searching for anything that would help him deal with his current situation.

“Just fine here,” Baker replied. “I made it to some friendlies. We’re covering a team that’s taking out the last rocket tank.”

“It won’t be good soon. Be ready to defend yourselves from Second Corps. Avoid harming Brinn if you can.”

“Okay, we’ll be ready. What should I expect?”

“Anything,” said Warren as he spotted what he was hoping to find up ahead. “By the looks of it, you should expect whatever’s going to happen to occur in the next sixty seconds.”

“Made it to the village, boss,” transmitted Baker. “Some shit went down here recently.”

“Is Hendrose alive?” Warren asked as he prepared to climb over a fallen tree in his path. The trunk was more than a meter wide—the perfect size.

“Yeah,” replied Baker. “He’s hurt. Some of the cyborgs are fighting amongst themselves. Nobody seems interested in me. There are six of them. There were seven, but Hendrose took one out himself. Can you believe it?”

“I believe it,” replied Warren, then he used the cover of the log he’d just climbed over to reach into his pocket. He retrieved the grenade and armed it, then he tossed it gently onto the top of the log before flattening himself on the ground. He rolled as far under the log as he could get and felt his cover flex when it detonated.

Warren rolled out from under the log and searched for a target. The grenade had stripped the bark from the trunk for about two meters down each side. Much more hung off in long ribbons, and a meter-wide crater on the top filled the air around him with even more smoke. Warren waited, trying to look and listen to everything at once. Trees popped, branches fell, and occasionally a cool breeze worked its way through the trees. Smoke and heat shoved the cool breeze away a second later.

“Stupid move,” the cyborg on the other side of the log growled.

“Yeah, maybe,” said Warren. “I’m not known for making the best decisions—just the necessary ones. How’s about you drop your gun and run off somewhere to think about what you did, then you come back when you’ve come to your senses?”

“Tank’s gone,” reported Rigby.

Warren cut the connection so he could focus on staying alive, but he was glad beyond words that she’d survived. If he could do the same, the day might turn out to be something other than terrible.

His opponent leaped over the log, holding his rifle like a club.

When Warren stepped to the side, the General swung it around and caught him hard under the jaw. He staggered, righted his head, and brought his arm up in time to block another swing. The rifle came apart, but Kaplan was quick to recover. He thrust the barrel forward. Warren caught it and attempted to reverse, but his opponent grabbed it with a second hand and twisted it back. Warren latched onto it with his other hand, and the two struggled for a brief moment.

It ended when Warren smashed his forehead into his opponent’s face. It was a dirty trick from his youth—one he’d deployed more than once. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on cyborgs, though. Rather than recoiling from a shattered nose, the cyborg laughed.

“Can’t let go of your humanity, can you?” Kaplan hissed before using the barrel they were holding to whip Warren around and slam him into the tree.

The impact made Warren’s feet slip from under him, and when he tried to regain his footing, he slipped again in a thick pile of leaves. When his opponent tried to do the same thing again, Warren managed to stop him and caught a kick to his damaged knee for his trouble. Damage warnings filled Warren’s HUD. He dismissed them as he tried to regain his footing again. Something was wrong, though. He couldn’t seem to stand. His leg. Whatever bypass his systems had done was no longer working. He couldn’t feel it or move it.

It was like Iran all over again. When the bomb went off, his mind had gone numb. He hurt all over, but none of the pain worried him as much as what was happening inside his head. It was like being punched by Mike Tyson. He remembered worrying he might die and wishing he would at the same time. The disorientation had only lasted a short time and was immediately replaced by pain. He’d grabbed at his ruined leg, instantly regretting touching it.

He’d been pulled from the burning wreck of his vehicle by fellow soldiers. Somehow, sunlight seemed to make it worse still. It burned like he was on fire. He’d given up, just wanting it all to end. The war didn’t matter. Making the pain stop was all that had mattered.

Warren remembered waking up in a hospital bed, tubes sticking out of both arms and other places. What was left of his leg had been bandaged, and it hurt. It was insult upon injury. He felt stupid and groggy. All he’d wanted was for the pain to stop, even if it meant death. It would be a welcome release. It was all he’d thought about for several days afterward.

What had pulled him through—given him the will to survive and carry on—was the memory of those who hadn’t made it. He’d been one of four in his vehicle. He was the only one who made it out. He and his brothers had all taken the same risks. They knew what was in store, yet they still told each other dirty jokes like death would only be a vacation, not a permanent state of being.

They hadn’t died for him. They’d died instead of him, and he knew any of those guys would’ve counted themselves lucky to still be alive. The fond memories of their lives, and what they could’ve been, is what kept him going. It’s what would keep him going, he decided. Hendrose didn’t want to die and didn’t want him to die. Rigby would be crushed. They hadn’t found the Camel. Nobody knew if it had made it to the surface safely, but all signs pointed to no. Lukov would be sad, but he wouldn’t show it. No, he had to live, if not for himself, for them.

Yet this motherfucker wanted to take everything from him? Why? Because he was a high-and-mighty general? Nope, not going to happen.

Warren planted his one good leg under him and pulled Kaplan to the ground, then he shoved, launching them both into the air and fell to the ground again in a tangle of limbs. It wasn’t an attack—it was a distraction. While his opponent moved to put him in a headlock, Warren snatched the cyborg’s fighting knife out of its sheath and, in a quick, fluid motion, stabbed him in the knee.

The asshole must’ve had his pain sensors turned up to full, or nearly so. The way he shrieked told Warren that much. He twisted the knife, then levered it, taking satisfaction when he felt the cybernetic joint separate and noticed a few small pieces of something bounce across the blade from the hole.

The cyborg recovered quickly and got the headlock hooked in tightly, then he began to squeeze. Warning alarms told Warren he didn’t have much time left. His metal vertebrae were starting to come apart. He heard tiny connectors and cushioning material start to rip as he stabbed his attacker in the armpit. The man only grunted this time. He’d turned his pain sensors down, but that didn’t matter. Warren wrenched the blade again and felt his opponent’s shoulder come apart. He was still fighting, so Warren drove the knife in deeper until he felt electricity run up his arm, and the cyborg spasmed.

“Okay, okay!” his opponent cried as he lost his grip and fell on his back. “Okay, let’s talk this out. I’m sure we can come to an agreement that works for both of us.”

Warren planted his other hand on his opponent’s chest and pushed away to consider him. The General looked genuinely frightened, and he should be.

“How can I ever trust you again?” asked Warren.

The cyborg frowned.

Warren noticed him trying to make a subtle motion with his uninjured arm to a pocket in his pants. “You can trust me, Prescott. I’m just trying to do what’s right by my men.”

The man thought he was slick. Warren knew exactly what he was up to but decided to allow him to redeem himself instead of acting on what he knew just yet.

“That’s it?” asked Warren. “You think I believe you act like a prick for your men? No, Kaplan, I know better. You’re addicted to being in charge.”

“I’m a patriot,” he replied with a frown. “You’re just a guy who did something.”

Warren moved at the same time he did, knocking the grenade from his opponent’s grasp the moment it cleared his pocket, while at the same time driving the knife into the side of his head.

The knife had only gone in a few centimeters. Warren thought about pulling it out, but images of Hendrose’s face, Rigby’s smile, and Lukov’s frown flashed through his mind. “This I do for my people,” replied Warren as he forced the knife deeper into his opponent’s head. The cyborg thrashed as Warren twisted and levered his opponent’s skull apart to make room for the sharp steel. Suddenly the resistance stopped, and Kaplan went still.

Warren waited for the light in his eyes to die before he let go of the blade and rolled off him. “Someone come get me,” he transmitted.

36

Warren watched the workers gather around the remains of a tank with interest. Repairs were coming along, but he didn’t think they’d be able to get more than two or three of the war machines back in service. Still, the weapons platforms had proven how tough they were, and with the modification some of his crew had come up with, they could mitigate their one vulnerability.

The techs and locals Baker had rescued were working together without issue. They were still being excessively polite as if everyone was worried about offending the other side. Soon, he hoped, they’d stop seeing each other like that. They were on the same side now. Just like others had freed Warren, he’d helped free these people as well.

It might be weeks to finish the tanks, but as soon as they were ready, the machines would be pressed into service to enhance the defenses already in place. Two walkers were a powerful force, but there still wasn’t much they could do against a sizable army.

With the hole in the fence repaired and cyborg guards stationed all the way around, Warren felt reasonably secure. Ghosts were still a concern, but the citizens seemed to be tolerating the stop-and-scan activities the cyborgs performed on them almost continuously. There were complaints, but not many. Everyone understood why it was happening, but Warren hoped they could soon find another way to detect Ghosts that wasn’t so intrusive.

Warren turned away from the teams working to rebuild the rocket tanks and headed toward the power plant. Hendrose was still trying to separate the war computer from the AI attached to it and had made good progress. He could take as much time as he needed—he knew that. But still, the tech had spent the last couple of nights sleeping on the floor in the room.

Warren’s leg still wasn’t at one hundred percent, but at least he could walk. The cyborg chassis that General Kaplan had turned into an effigy still contained enough spare parts to get him working again. He didn’t know the name of the cyborg, but Warren thanked him every sunrise for being able to walk.

A walker caught Warren’s attention as it stomped past one of the outer buildings to the south. They had two of the machines running and fully loaded at all times. Each was piloted by two full humans, with one always being a Reotian. Although none of the inhabitants on Turano had given Warren any reason to be directly concerned about them, they were still Commonwealth citizens, so trust-but-verify was the rule to live by.

He expected they’d earn enough trust to lift some of the security he had surrounding them in time, but they weren’t there just yet, which made their situation more difficult nearly every day. As new people arrived, usually in groups of two or three, Lukov had to interrogate and scan them to see if they were Ghosts, then he would decide who should stay and who would be given a meal, but ultimately some were turned away on suspicion of being spies. He was being cautious, so about a quarter of those who showed up had been declined entry.

Those refugees who’d been granted access were immediately interviewed to discover what skills he or she might possess. Even if they had no specialties and all they could offer was the willingness to do what needed to be done, they were accepted. As a result, the buildings and streets were immaculate. There weren’t enough excess workers to begin training the general laborers in a trade yet, but Warren suspected it wouldn’t be long before Camp Ruthless would be filled with them.

Warren found Hendrose sitting in the same chair with the same frustrated expression on his face. He’d begun chewing his nails—something Warren didn’t think he’d ever seen the tech do before. There was a new addition to the technological mess the man had created: a familiar table with scratch marks on its surface.

“Lukov, did you steal General Kaplan’s table?” Warren transmitted after nodding to the cyborg who was keeping an eye on Hendrose.

“Steal is strong word. Maybe is better to say reappropriate?”

Warren laughed to himself. “What else did you reappropriate?”

“Everything that was made left. Village has been evacuate. All villagers are now in camp, so everything is take. Food. Ammunition. Weapon.”

“Good,” replied Warren. “How’s it going?” he asked Hendrose.

The tech sighed but didn’t look up from his task. “Same. This thing isn’t cooperating. I’ve gotten it to respond to simple commands, but I think the AI is still fighting me. There’s no way, especially hooked to one of our war computers, that it can’t understand what I’m telling it to do.”

“You think it’s being difficult on purpose?” asked Warren.

The tech nodded and rubbed at red rimmed eyes.

“When was the last time you took a break?”

Hendrose waved the idea away. “No time for that. I’ve got to get it to cooperate, or I’ve got to get it disconnected from the war computer. It’s the only way I can build a Cyborg Upkeep and Production unit, and the only way we can back the cyborgs up. You guys are vulnerable right now, and we need you not to be. I’ll sleep later—or when I’m dead.”

“We’re secure at the moment,” said Warren. “And our army is growing every day. As word gets out that we’re here and of what we’ve accomplished, I think we’ll have more joining us. What I’m saying is, we have some time. If you’re stuck, take a walk—get some fresh air.”

“I will,” promised Hendrose.

Warren turned to the cyborg assigned to keep an eye on Hendrose. “Make him get up every hour. I don’t care what his excuse is, make him leave the building for ten minutes before you let him back inside. And limit him to ten hours of work per day.”

“What?” Hendrose said, sitting up straight. “What if I’m in the middle of something?”

“You’ll always be in the middle of something,” Warren pointed out. “The success or failure of this camp doesn’t rest solely on your shoulders. The rest of the cyborgs and I will ensure you’ve got the time you need.” He waited for the tech to argue some more.

Instead, Hendrose stood and stretched, then he wagged a finger at the cyborg assigned to him. “This counts as a break,” he said before marching from the room.

Satisfied, Warren left the building and closed the new door behind him. The gaping hole they’d created to gain access in the first place had been sealed with new concrete and bricks. The cyborgs had also added a second layer and sheet metal to serve as armor. At the same time, they’d cut a new doorway on the south side of the building so the entrance wouldn’t be facing the fence line.

He spotted Hendrose heading to a mess tent the full humans had set up. The locals had begun growing food outside the fence and seemed more than happy to swap recipes with the Reotians. Food had become a way for the two groups of people to form bonds. Eating together had provided them with time to talk and get to know one another. It was so simple, it made Warren wonder why nobody had thought of it before. All the wars humans had fought against one another might’ve been solved by forcing both sides to share meals.

“We’ve got more refugees approaching,” Anna DeFranc transmitted. She and several other cyborgs had made it to the camp in recent days. Without a more powerful transmitter, the cyborgs were limited to a 1200-kilometer transmission range. The landing had gone so badly that his soldiers and crew had been scattered across the surface of the planet. Several more were on their way but would likely take several days to reach the camp. Some were injured, so their progress was slower.

The best news Lukov had delivered was the discovery of a couple of cyborgs who’d managed to bring their Stingers to the surface in one piece. They had a line on the Camel and believed it to be intact. Warren would be leading a rescue party himself to retrieve everything they needed to bring their fallen back once Hendrose finished his task.

Indeed, things were looking up.

Only one problem remained: getting off the planet. Still, Warren was confident that wouldn’t be a problem. With General Kaplan gone, Warren planned on negotiating with Governor Kinsley. Based on reports from citizens, he didn’t seem all that bad, and he might even be open to a settlement staying on planet to help with defense in case the Republic showed up.

It seemed to Warren that being allies was better than wasting energy fighting off two enemies.

“You okay?” asked Rigby, breaking into his thoughts.

Warren looked around and spotted her in a nearby guard tower. He’d managed to walk to the north end of the camp, lost in his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I was just thinking.”

“You do a lot of that,” she said, a touch of humor in her voice. “What about?”

“I think it’s time to reach out to Governor Kinsley.”

“That should be fun,” she said. “You know we have your back in case he’s a problem.”

Warren shook his head. “I don’t think he will be. It might take some time to get a meeting, but we’ll be back on Reotis before we know it.”

There was a slight pause, then he continued. “Say, Rigby, want to get some food later?”

He half expected her to make some snide remark about a cyborg nutrient bar, but instead she replied with a simple, “sure.”

Warren smiled to himself. Maybe they couldn’t do everything the humans could do, but the thought of 400 more years alone didn’t sound all that appealing. Companionship might take some time to figure out, but hell, they had plenty of that.

In fact, they had forever—or, until they ran out of parts.

* * *

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About the Authors

J. N. Chaney is a USA Today Bestselling author and has a Master's of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. He fancies himself quite the Super Mario Bros. fan. When he isn’t writing or gaming, you can find him online at www.jnchaney.com.

He migrates often, but was last seen in Las Vegas, NV. Any sightings should be reported, as they are rare.

* * *

Chris Winder is a United States Marine Corps veteran who spent nearly half his eight years training other Marines in the fine art of field wire and switchboard operation.

Each class was dosed with a big helping of humor, which he learned is the key to helping people absorb and remember information. Therefore, Chris tries to sneak some humor into every book he writes.

His first novel, Cloud Development, is a technothriller revolving around a ten-year-old boy, his parents and the corporation his father works for. For years, LumoTech has been trying to unlock a dangerous secret and when their research targets the little boy as the key, his parents aren't given much of a choice.

Chris lives in a small town in northern Arizona with his wife and son, (his two oldest, daughters, are grown and live in the greater Phoenix area), his two cats, (Squeaker and Max), and his elderly dog, Scout.