Vaughn Heppner: Cyborg Assault

“Omi,” Marten said, gripping the Korean’s gun-arm. “We’re in their warship. They must have space marines of some kind.”

Omi glanced at him.

“We’ve come in peace from the Mars System,” Marten told Omi, although he spoke for the woman’s benefit. He wondered if she’d kept the com-line open. Even in her terror, there was something competent about her. He was also speaking for the benefit of whoever listened. “We’re nervous because you became scared. Osadar is a cyborg from the Mars System. But she broke her programming. She’s fighting against the Neptunian cyborgs now.”

The woman bobbed her head in the manner of those willing to agree to anything.

“Put away your needler,” Marten said.

Without a sigh and without saying he was sorry, Omi holstered his weapon.

“Go,” Marten gently told the woman.

With wide eyes, she watched Omi. He nodded.

Woodenly, she turned around. With a tight sob, she began to float down the corridor.

The woman floated through a hatch. Marten followed her into a narrow vacc-suit-rack chamber. It was packed with military personnel in blue uniforms, short-billed caps and stubby hammer-guns aimed at him.

Probably, he should have given the woman his needler in the damaged pod. But it was too late to change that now.

“There are three of you,” a tight-faced woman said, likely the commander of the blue-uniformed people.

Through the hatch, Marten said, “Come in slowly.”

Omi came in first. When Osadar followed, the line of military people stirred uneasily. Hammer-guns rose into firing position.

Marten expected them to discharge. It’s what any Martian would have done—at least any Martian that had met cyborgs. With cyborgs in this system, Marten tensed, expecting a fusillade of shots.

“Who—” The tight-faced ship-guardian tried to form words. Shock stole the last color from her already pale features. “What are you?” she whispered.

“Cyborg,” another ship-guardian said, a man.

“What?” the tight-faced woman asked him.

“That’s a cyborg.”

The tight-faced woman frowned with incomprehension.

“A true cyborg,” the man said, almost in awe, “like the videos from Mars.”

The tight-faced woman looked at Osadar again. The shock was beginning to wear off. Fear, repugnance and horror swept into its place. The woman swallowed uneasily.

Many of the hammer-gun bearers reacted the same way. Any one of them could start firing.

Marten realized that to these people cyborgs conjured up the memory of the horrible videos from Mars. They apparently had no idea they had lost one of their own ships to the cyborgs.

Marten raised his hands until they were over his head. “We’ve escaped from Mars, from the fighting there. Osadar—that’s the name of our cyborg—she deprogrammed herself.”

“What?” the tight-faced woman asked.

“Osadar is deprogrammed,” Marten said.

“Osadar?” the woman asked. She obviously didn’t comprehend.

“The cyborg is deprogrammed,” Marten said.

“Speak clearly.”

“The cyborg is no longer under Neptunian control. It means she has her mind back. She thinks and feels just like you and me.”

“I don’t understand that,” the woman snapped. “She’s melded with a machine.”

“We should disarm them,” the man said.

“Yes!” the tight-faced woman said. She thrust her arm out, the muzzle of her hammer-gun aimed at Osadar’s head. “Drop your weapons!” she shouted.

“Why not let your artisan come to us,” Marten suggested, with his hands in the air. “Let her draw out our needlers so you don’t get nervous. We don’t want you to accidentally shoot us.”

The tight-faced woman chewed that over for a half-second. “Good idea.” She gave the order. She had to give it a second time more harshly than the first.

Timidly, the artisan-mechanic floated to Marten and drew the needler from his holster. After all the needlers were in the hands of ship-guardians, the commander cocked her head. She had an implant in her right ear, a black mote.

“Which of you is the leader?”

“I am,” said Marten.

“You’re coming with me,” the woman said. “You and—” Her eyes narrowed. “Cyborg, do you understand me?”

“I do,” Osadar said, with a hint of weariness.

“If you resist, we will have to destroy you. Do you understand that?”

“Destroy equals death,” Osadar said. “I understand.”

“She’s still human,” Marten said.

The tight-faced woman gave no indication that she heard his words. She spoke louder at Osadar, as if that would help the cyborg understand better. “We’re taking you to a holding cell. Both you and the man will enter it. We will lock you there for now. Any resistance—”

“I will not resist,” Osadar said. “You are the authority and speak for the philosopher-governors.”

The tight-faced woman blinked in surprise.

“I was born in the Jupiter System,” Osadar said.

“Born?” asked the woman, as if Osadar spoke absurdities.

“She’s human,” Marten said. “The Web-Mind on Neptune torn down her former body and replaced it with a cyborg body. But in her heart, her brain, her soul, she’s still just as human as you or I.”

The tight-faced woman squinted, making it impossible to see her eyes. “No tricks, do you understand? We’re ship-guardians and will do what we must to secure our vessel. To the holding cell with the cyborg. And you,” she told Marten, “are going to the Arbiter. He’ll know what to do.”

Two ship-guardians with drawn hammer-guns urged Marten through the narrow companionways.

A Velcro-like fiber had been laid on the deckplates, and both the ship-guardians and Marten wore Velcro-pads under their boots. A ripping-sound accompanied their progress through the meteor-ship. Marten figured it would have been easier just floating toward wherever they were going, but he adjusted to their procedures. He hoped Omi and Osadar were okay.

The ship was a maze of narrow halls, corridors and shafts. He passed cubbyhole quarters and heard the throb of a fusion engine down the corridor as they passed by. Grilles emitted recycled air. In a larger room, mechanics clanged metallic tools against what looked like twenty-foot drums placed side-by-side. Space was a premium in there, too. Some of the floating personnel squeezed between the drums, using hand-monitors to check on something.

Marten would hate to see their recreation room, if they had one. It was likely a closet with stationary cycles parked side-by-side. Twice, he and the ship-guardians squeezed past personnel in brown smocks, artisan-mechanics. The mechanics gave off an oily, machine odor. Marten was sure he gave off a rank, sweaty odor. He badly needed a shower.

It was difficult to tell, but Marten believed he moved into the depths of the meteor-ship, into the most protected portion. Until now, the halls had been painted blue and gray. Abruptly, the corridor ahead became red and white.

“Halt,” a ship-guardian said. They were the man’s first words.

Marten noticed a red light wink above. It was on the ceiling, marking the change in colors. It seemed to be part of a recorder or a camera.

A door opened in the red and white companionway. Two tough-looking men stood there. They were different from other Jovians. There was something elemental about them, something that spoke about gene labs and modified test-tube babies. Were these the myrmidons the woman had spoken about earlier?

The two squeezed out of the opening. They were nearly identical in appearance. Each was shorter than Marten, but immensely broad of shoulder and deep of chest, with knotted, muscular arms that almost dangled to the deckplates. They had low, hunched heads, black helmets and fierce, darting eyes. They wore white trousers and jackets, with epaulettes on their shoulders. They had various devices on their belts—rods, disks and restraints.