The Cyber Chronicles VI - Warrior Breed (19 page)

"It's too
complicated for me."

Sabre cupped
her chin and raised her face to study it. "He upset you. I'll shove
his head down the toilet."

"No, leave him
alone. It's not his fault."

“
He’s full of shit. What did he say?”

"He said I
shouldn't tell you." Tassin shook her head, disconsolate.

"He should
have been drowned at birth."

She giggled.
"That's mean."

"He said I’ll
never be normal, didn’t he?"

"He's
wrong."

"He's a cyber
tech. He should be right."

Tassin looked
up at him. "What does he know about free cybers?"

"He knows how
I was designed."

"It has
nothing to do with your design."

His eyes
roamed over her face, and his brows drew together. "The cyber
damaged my mind. That's the problem, isn't it?"

"That's just
what he thinks, but he's wrong."

Sabre jumped
up, his hands clenching. "No, that makes perfect sense. That's what
Myon Two did to me. I don't think like a human, do I?"

"Yes, you do.
You're completely different from the cyber. You have emotions
-"

"That I don't
understand!" He gripped the brow band, his face twisting. "I'll
kill him!"

"No! It's not
his fault!" Tassin leapt up as he headed for the door, but he was
already through it, and she raced down the corridor after him.

Tarl looked up
when Sabre strode into his room, dropped the vidbook and tried to
scramble out of the way as the cyber bore down on him.

"Whoa!
Shit!"

Sabre was on
him in a flash, and dragged him upright by his shirt front. "Tell
me what you told her."

"Okay,
okay!"

"Start
talking."

"You're
choking me."

"No I'm
not."

"Okay, calm
down, bud." Tarl made soothing motions.

"I'm not your
bud."

"Right. Okay.
What did she tell you?"

"Not enough."
Sabre thrust his face closer. "What did you bastards do to me?"

"Hey, I wasn't
a designer, okay?"

"You know what
they did."

"Yeah, I do.
And I'll tell you, just put me down."

Sabre eased
his grip, and Tarl made a futile bid to tug his shirt straight, but
it was still bunched in Sabre's fist. Tarl shot Tassin an accusing
look. "Why did you have to tell him?"

"She didn't. I
guessed," Sabre said.

"Right, no
flies on you. Look man, this will be very bad for you. Rather give
it a miss, okay?"

"No."

"Right. Okay.
Um... Here's the thing you need to understand. This is you, right."
Tarl patted Sabre's shoulder.

"Am I an idiot
now?"

"No. Okay,
you’re flesh right, and bone... with a few additions."

"Get to the
point."

“
Err… how do I explain something you were never meant to
understand?” Tarl shook his head and rubbed his brow. "Okay, let's
try this. Access active response subroutine four hundred and
ninety-two, close proximity reaction; section twelve. Got
it?"

Sabre cocked
his head. "You want me to access a subroutine?"

"Yes. Have you
got the data?"

"Yes."

Tassin stepped
forward, alarmed. "What are you doing, Tarl?"

"Trust me; I
know what I'm doing, okay?"

"This is going
to help?"

He nodded. "It
will help him to understand."

"All
right."

Tarl faced
Sabre again, looking nervous. "Tell me what the data says."

"You know what
it says."

"Read it."

Sabre looked
vague. "Section twelve: response to close approach of person not
owner or person with command privilege. Threat assessment one:
unaltered male armed with edged weapon. Look up. Section five.
Response one: maintenance of optimal distance for retaliatory
response. Sub one: hostile approach detail one: exposure of weapon.
Response to sub one: combat mode. Armed defence strategy fifteen
C…" His eyes regained their focus, and he glared at Tarl. "There
are over five hundred responses. So I’m supposed to keep possible
threats away, why is that a problem?"

Tarl sighed.
"The fact that you don’t know it’s a problem is a problem. You were
designed purely as a fighting machine. All your reactions are
geared to that."

Tassin shook
her head, confused. "But his reactions are all normal. He doesn’t
react to me like that, or you, even when we’re carrying
weapons."

"No, he
wouldn’t, because you owned the cyber, and now you have command
privilege, and I’m a Myon Two technician. Besides which, that
programming is for the cyber, but those responses still influence
him. His reactions only appear to be normal, up to a point. That’s
exactly how he’d respond to a man who approached him with a
knife.”

“
Isn’t that how anyone would react?” she asked.

“
Would you? Wouldn’t you be scared? Or wonder why the man had a
knife and what he intended to do with it? Wouldn’t you have some
concerns about how to deal with the situation, maybe ask the man
what he wanted?”

She frowned.
“I suppose so…”

“
Sabre doesn’t. He immediately assumes a hostile intent. He’s
been conditioned, and his brain is wired wrong.”

"So he’s
quicker to react to a threat, that’s all. His first reaction is to
stay away from the man, and there’s no harm in that."

"That’s not
the point. You still don’t get it, do you? He bases his decisions
on his programming. His brain wasn't allowed to develop normally.
It was totally controlled by a machine intelligence that has no
concept of human relationships, except how many ways there are to
beat a man's brains out."

"Only one,"
Sabre said, raising a hand as if to demonstrate on Tarl. "You just
smack the side of the skull hard enough to smash it, and the brains
spurt out like jelly."

"Thank you for
that." Tarl noticed the bandage. "What did you do to your
hand?"

"I stuck it in
a meat grinder to find out what it felt like."

"Yeah? Maybe
you should try a few more experiments; you might find the results
interesting." He grimaced and shook his head. "No, don't. I don't
think you'll like it."

"So I haven’t
learnt everything about being human yet, but I will. I just have to
figure it out. You, on the other hand, are full of shit, and you
can keep your bullshit theories to yourself. "

"I don’t think
you’re going to succeed, bud, although I really hope you do,” Tarl
said. “Under all the mental scarring and trauma the cyber
inflicted, your intellect developed, but not normally. That you
aren't a raving psychotic, or a psychopath, is amazing. Emotionally
you're pretty well shut down, and you're suffering from
post-traumatic stress. The reason it's so mild is because you don’t
have normal emotional responses. You've got a lot of problems,
which don't affect you while you’re engaged in the kinds of
activities you were trained to perform. But now you're moving into
uncharted territory, and you don't have a map. Worse, you're
wearing a blindfold and a ball and chain."

"I can get
past this."

Tarl threw up
his hands and turned away. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Chapter Thirteen

Sabre sat in the command seat on Nemesis’ bridge and stared
out of the screens, where bolts of green and blue fire strafed the
blackness of space as the Trykon battle raged on, apparently
endless and rather boring at times, with its traditional manoeuvres
and strategies with predictable outcomes. During the day that had
passed since his confrontation with Tarl, he had tried to forget
what the cyber tech had said, without success. He kept recalling
the encounter with Tisha, and his mixed reactions to it. He wanted
to be a normal human, not a semi-human or part human or even almost
human. He also wanted to silence forever the inner voice that
mocked him whenever he tried to become more human, or thought about
it; even hoped for it. The slightest wish was enough to goad it
from its dark corner to shout its vitriol at him.
Cyborg!

A violent
shudder rattled the ship, dragging him from his reverie. He glanced
around the bridge, becoming aware of the unusual level of activity
in it.

"...Knocked
out the entire port side bank of manoeuvring thrusters," a crewman
shouted, scowling at his instruments. "We're crippled, First
Lieutenant."

"Invincible is
closing with us. They intend to board," another man yelled.

"Prepare to
repel boarders," Atrel commanded. "We're going to have some fun,
boys!"

An officer
pushed a red button, and an alarm whooped as he shouted into the
intercom, "All hands to battle stations! Prepare to repel
boarders!"

Sabre frowned
at Atrel. "How were we hit?"

"A sneak
attack. Dirty tricks. A corvette came past us at high speed, and
fired a volley before we could target her."

"Is there a
clan ship close enough to help us?"

Atrel stared
at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. "We don't need
help."

Sabre glanced
at the approaching ship. "Is it my imagination, or is that ship a
couple of sizes bigger than ours?"

"It is, but we
can take her."

"If they
thought that, they wouldn't be boarding us, would they?"

"They're
fools."

Sabre inclined
his head. "I see. Isn't it possible that they have a few more men
than we do?"

"They do."

"But we're
better warriors than they are, I assume."

Atrel nodded.
"Do you doubt it?"

"I just wonder
what the odds are. I don't want to lose this battle. It's
important."

"We
won't."

"Right."

Sabre gazed at
the approaching warship and the web of bright fire that spanned the
gap between them. Nemesis' lasers left glowing spots on the enemy's
hull, which vanished rapidly in the icy cold of space. Nemesis
shuddered almost constantly under the barrage, and sparks flew from
consoles, making the officers who manned them curse.

Atrel turned
away to give orders. "Target their manoeuvring thrusters as they
come alongside, and the grappling arms."

"Don't forget
the boarding tubes," Sabre said.

"They're out
of range of our lasers."

The enemy ship
loomed in the forward screens, then moved off them as she came
alongside, the fierce barrage intensifying. Atrel adjusted his
armour, tightening a couple of straps, and then turned to
Sabre.

"Time to do
battle."

"Wonderful."

"You might
consider putting on some armour."

"I doubt you
have any that fits me."

Atrel smiled.
"That was true five days ago, but not anymore. I had some made for
you."

Sabre glanced
up at the huge man who stood beside him. "Right. Of course you
did."

"It's my duty
to ensure that you're protected in battle."

"Does that
mean you intend to fight at my side?"

"All the
officers will be beside you. It's their duty."

Sabre nodded.
"Naturally."

Atrel headed
for the exit, and Sabre followed, aware of several grim-faced
officers at his heels. Loud clangs reverberated through the ship as
the enemy vessel fired magnetic grapples onto Nemesis' hull,
anchoring the ships together. Atrel led them along the corridors to
the port side, where a crowd of warriors waited to do battle,
hefting their weapons. Now Sabre understood why the outer corridors
of Trykon warships were so wide in the area in front of the hull
doors. It was designed to be a battleground, giving Trykons the
opportunity to indulge in their favourite sport: hand-to-hand
combat.

A crewman
approached him, laden with an armload of gleaming armour. He dumped
it at Sabre's feet and proceeded to pick up the pieces and strap
them on, starting with a polished silver breastplate picked out
with gold designs. It fitted perfectly, and Atrel helped the
crewman to attach it to the armour they placed on Sabre's back.
They added shoulder pieces and arm guards, and Atrel buckled a
small square shield to Sabre's left forearm. The armour was not as
heavy as it looked, and more comfortable than Sabre expected. When
the Trykons were satisfied, the crewman pulled a sword from his
back and held it out to Sabre hilt first.

Atrel cocked
his head. "I trust you know how to use that?"

Sabre took the
weapon. "With this, I'll kill people."

"We try to
take as many prisoners as possible, and wound more than we
kill."

"I'll bear
that in mind." Sabre glanced at the warriors. "That's why so many
of the men are maimed, isn't it?"

Atrel nodded.
"We don't think of it as maiming. All warriors are returned to
combat status within a few months of losing a limb."

"What about
those who are taken prisoner?"

"They're
traded. So are the ships that fall into enemy hands."

Sabre glanced
at Atrel's metal hand. "You were taken prisoner?"

"No, our clan
won the battle in which I was wounded."

Sabre
consulted the scanners, assuring himself that Tassin was in the
cabin with Tarl and Kernan. A dull thud drew his attention back to
the doors as the boarding tube locked into place, filling with air.
Atrel cast him an expectant glance, and he became aware that
everyone seemed to be waiting for him. He raised his brows at
Atrel, who indicated the doors with a gesture.

Realising what
he had to do, he ordered, "Open the doors."

A warrior
pressed a button, and the doors' locking mechanisms rotated. They
slid upwards in unison, disgorging a torrent of shouting,
sword-waving men. The Eagle Clan warriors met them in the middle of
the corridor, and sparks flew as blades glanced off armour with
sharp clangs. Sabre wondered if he was supposed to rush into the
fray or hang back, and decided upon the latter. Atrel glanced at
him again, looking a little surprised.