Warborg - Star Panther (3 page)

Martin hesitated. “I guess as far as I’m concerned there’s never been a doubt in my mind. Lord knows I’ve thought about it a lot, I want to be a warborg Doc. I was fighting when I landed in this friggin’ bucket and I’d just as soon keep fighting while I’m in it.”

Swain sighed and rubbed his temples for a moment. “If you’re sure that is what you want, so be it. But Martin, are you sure? Being a warborg has some nasty drawbacks. First, the container is setup entirely different from all the others making it completely incompatible. You will never be able to do anything else without a complete biological transfer. You will have to start over from scratch if you change your mind later. In fact once your container is installed in a ship it becomes so integrated that voluntary removal becomes problematic. Second, as a warborg you can never go back to Earth without being physically disarmed, an expensive, long and involved process. I know how stupid it sounds, but there are enough borgaphobes on Earth to make it stick. Lastly, the survival rate isn’t good, a life span measured in months, not years and quite frankly, many die slow ugly deaths. Are you sure Martin, really sure?”

“Yeah Doc, I know what I want. You don’t know how many times we were out there getting our butts kicked when the warborgs showed up. A lot of the guys were afraid of them, I wasn’t. They never said much, just saved our asses, gave a cursory sign off and left. As trite as it sounds it’s about honor Doc. Some of those guys didn’t make it back bailing us out, now it’s payback time. No Doc. There’s no question.”

A slow sad smile crossed Swain’s face. “Well, I figured that would be your decision the instant I read your personnel file while you were still unconscious.” His smile brightened noticeably. “And that, Captain Morgan, is why at this moment you are sitting in an insulated titanium re-enforced ceramic container rather than the usual aluminum one.” The smile turned into a true grin. “You know Captain, it is really nice to guess one exactly right once in a while.”

“Captain Morgan? Ahhh . . . Doc. What happened to Martin?”

Swain leaned back chuckling. “From the moment you made your decision Captain Martin Morgan was officially back on active duty.”

“Oh, some duty. Sitting in a brain bucket learning how to count my goddamn toes. Call me Martin, Doc. At least until I feel like I’m really doing something useful again.”

“Alright Martin, and you are doing something useful. You are going through the most intensive re-habilitation possible. Never forget that . . . never.” Swain ended the statement leaning forward in his chair, staring Martin right in the cameras.

“Yes sir,” was the only reply.

Martin’s doorbell interrupted his listening to some ancient rock and roll. ^Hello.^ The figure that appeared in his mind wasn’t Maria, it was a Commander in full uniform. It was the first strange cyborg he had encountered. Almost in a panic he shut down the music, mentally jumped to his feet and saluted, at least that’s what he hoped he did. ^Sir!^

The figure studied him in silence for a moment. ^Captain Martin Morgan.^

^Sir, yes sir.^ Martin’s mind was whirling,
What is the proper protocol?

^At ease Captain^

^Thank you sir.^ Martin was still thrashing,
Christ, I still don’t even have a form yet.

^I’m Commander Briton, ranking officer of the cyborg cadre for this battle group.^

^Yes Sir.^
THE Commander Briton! Oh great, way to make a goddamned first impression, boneass.

The Commander offered a slight smile. ^Relax Captain, I’m here in an informal capacity.^

^Very well sir. Ah, what can I do for you?^ Martin was still fumbling, but didn’t feel quite the complete idiot.

The figure shifted from uniform to civilian clothes. ^Sorry if I startled you by being in uniform. But it alleviates questions. As I said, this is an informal visit.^

^N n n, no problem Sir.^ Martin stuttered, trying to grasp the shift in the figure.

^Captain, how long have you been in a bucket?^

God, now he thinks I’m a retard.
^Eighteen days, Sir.^

^Hmmm. Doctor Swain said you were doing very well, I think I agree. Give it time, Captain.^

^Thank you, Sir.^

^The reason I’m here is to verify that you will be joining us, Captain. Have you chosen to be a Military Combat Cyborg?^

^Yes, Sir. I have.^ Martin could feel some unseen burden go away, it was now official, he had asked to be accepted as a warborg.

^Very well, Captain. I have reviewed you file, impressive.^

^Thank you, Sir.^

^Captain, I have come here to unofficially accept your application for Combat Cyborg status and inform you of the current cyborg combat craft we have available. Doctor Swain needs to know what you are going to be operational in before he can continue. At the moment we have two medium armed transports and a heavy ground attack craft.^

Martin felt his heart sink. He was always his best in hard action, close in, down and dirty space combat.

^But after reading your file I had another thought. In two weeks we will be receiving two light attack fighters. One is available and because of your combat record I would like to offer you that craft if you will wait.^

^Sir.^ Martin was almost giddy. A light attack fighter, he remembered them well, fast as hell, meaner than shit and just all around nasty. He used to watch them in combat with deep rooted envy. ^Thank you Sir. I would be delighted to man one of your light attack fighters. You won’t be disappointed, Sir.^

Commander Britain smothered a smile, Martin hadn’t learned his emotional state was clearly reflected in his formless gray mass. It was a dirty trick catching the new cyborg, but he usually learned a lot about the person. Martin turned into a dull grey hanging cloud at the mention of the first three craft, no anger or resentment, just disappointment. If that was all that was available he knew Martin would serve in one and serve well. But at the mention of the attack fighter the cloud became a billowing mass of light grey streaked with white. Martin’s excitement was almost tangible. He didn’t have the heart to tell Martin the reason the craft was available because the cyborg who was to get it died in the same battle where he ran into the wreckage. ^Very well Captain, the fighter craft is yours. You will be contacted when it arrives, until then keep working with Swain. He’s a damn good man. After you get a form, report to Major Stith. He will be your Squadron Commander. Any questions Captain?^

^No Sir, Thank you Sir.^

The Commander gave a quick nod with a slight smile and faded out.

“I’ve got me a goddamned light attack fighter, Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hot damn . . .” Martin’s voice echoed around the dark, empty laboratory.

              . . .

Commander Britain relaxed, enjoying the momentary respite of nothingness.
This new Captain could be good, no as a bio he was already good, as a warborg he could be very good, very very good.

              . . .

“Good morning, Doc,” Martin tittered as Swain wandered into the lab. Martin very carefully
‘walked
’ behind Swain, causing the trundle to roll slowly after the Doctor.

Swain eyed the fresh coffee suspiciously, covertly glancing around to see if Martin had made a mess and tried to clean it up. It looked like his patient was learning how to use his appendages. He smiled at Martin as he poured himself a cup. “Thanks.”

“Thanks my ass, just pour some of that into this here brainbucket and we’ll call it even. God I miss the simple things Doc, like a good cup of coffee.”

Swain settled into a chair. “Did Commander Britain visit you last night?” He took a sip and nodded toward Martin.

“Yeah, scared the screamin’ piss outta’ me. My first real visit and it’s the man himself, thought I was gonna die for the first few minutes.”

“And what did he say?”

“He told me I had to pick a ship and ask you about getting a visual form.”

“Ok, we’ll get to the form in a little while. What type of ship are you going into?”

Martin hesitated. “A light attack fighter.”

Swain sighed. “Another cowboy, I knew it was coming. He asked me about your mental profile and I told him you would die a thousand deaths from boredom if you weren’t out getting shot at.”

“Thanks, Doc. I think. The other choices didn’t have much interest for me.”

“Well, just don’t tell Maria I had anything to do with it. She’ll be mad enough as it is. She’s seen too many of you go out and never come back.”

“Maria’s gonna be pissed huh, damn.”

Swain opened a folder on a console table. “The bad news is I need to knock you out for a little while to do some modifications. The sooner the better.”

“Well shit, no time like the present Doc.” He watched Swain salute him with his cup as he punched some buttons on his console.
I wonder what he’s going to do now,
was Martin’s last thought before he faded into oblivion.

              . . .

“Martin, are you awake? Martin, can you hear me?” Swain’s voice roused Martin from the last of his sleep.

“Yeah, Doc. I hear ya. God something tastes nasty . . .!” Martin was wide awake. “What the hell’d you do Doc, I swear I have a faint taste of really bad stale beer and it feels like I have a tongue.”

“Right on both counts Martin. Although I’ve never personally tasted the nutrient solution, that seems to be the general consensus. And yes you do have part of your tongue back. Welcome to the world of the space combat warborg. If you feel around with your tongue you will find several rows of buttons.”

“Dammit, give me a second to play with this thing Doc. Why’s it feel so weird?”

“I’m sorry, this is a little graphic, but in reality what you have is just the outside edges of your tongue. Like two little fingers. With a little practice you will be able to use them independently. Oh bye the way, I installed an experimental cranial support harness that should allow for increased G loading. It’s the newest thing from the Med Techs.”

“Dang it Doc, I notice you didn’t bother to tell me you were giving me a forked tongue and putting in a bunch of experimental shit when you said you needed to do a few modifications.”

Swain cocked an eyebrow at Martin. “Would it have made any difference?”

“Well no, but that’s beside the point. It’s just not polite . . . or what ever.”

“I’m sorry Martin, I just didn’t want you to worry about what I was going to do. I won’t let it happen again. That should be the last time I have to open your container anyway, unless there’s some sort of emergency.” Swain gave a slight shrug of apology. “Have you found the buttons?”

“Yeah, I think so. What do they do?”

Swain straddled a lab chair backwards and leaned on the backrest. “All sorts of things. A space combat warborg has the unique requirement of being able to control certain aspects of the container’s operation manually. No electrical signals or external operations. It’s mainly to enhance your survival in the event you have to jettison your ship and run super quiet in a hostile environment. We’ll get into it more as we go a long.”

“Hey, now what’s this?”

Swain seemed to sag slightly. “What’s what?”

“Way down low, feels like a little box or something.” Martin watched a look of pained sorrow pass through Swain’s eyes followed by an almost inaudible sigh.

“The warborg call it their ‘Good night sweet prince option’. The box has a recessed button on each side. If you push them simultaneously it releases a drug into the container that puts you to sleep until an antidote is administered.” Swain sagged noticeably. “If you jettison you ship and you don’t think anyone can get to you before your life support expires . . .” Swain seemed to be in physical pain. “Or you think you’re starting to lose your mind it gives you an option.” The voice was little more than a whisper.

Martin was silent for a moment as he thought about the little box and studied Swain.
He looks really tired.
“Hey Doc, how long was I out?”

“Twenty eight hours.”

“And you were there the whole damn time weren’t you?”

“Yes, you’re my patient Martin. Where else would I be?”

“Man, go get some sleep, you look beat. I’ve got plenty to do and a brand new tongue with a bunch of buttons to play with. Go on, get outta’ here. I’ll shut it down.”

Swain levered himself out of the chair. “I’m sorry Martin. I should have told you.” He walked tiredly toward the door.

“No Doc,” Martin said just loud enough for Swain to hear. “It’s my turn to apologize, thank you and good night.” He watched his friend give a tired wave as he disappeared down the corridor.

“Pick a form, any form?” Martin mentally shook his head. “I guess I just don’t get it Doc.”

“It’s simple, my dear Watson. Your form is just a holographic, or virtual, image that is presented as your communications front end.” Swain leaned back in his chair with a self satisfied grin. “You can be anyone, or anything for that matter, you like.”

“So I don’t have to look like me?” Martin sputtered, wondering if he should be indignant over the idea somebody might like to make him look different, but fascinated all the same. “Don’t cyborg try to look like they did?”

“Well, to be honest, most do. But there are the exceptions. I personally recommend to those setting up their first form that they stay with their biological image.”

“Their first form?” Martin hesitated, was still trying to digest the concept of picking out a form, let alone the idea of multiple forms. “So I could have more than one form?”

“Sure, why not, they’re nothing but a collection of computer animated images.” Swain smiled at his patient’s confusion.

“Aww geez Doc, lets just keep it simple. Ok.” Martin wheezed. “I kind’a liked the old me anyway . . . but could we shave a few pounds off?” Martin stopped to think for a minute. “You know Doc, I never realized it but, I have my original voice, don’t I.”
If he smiles any wider, he’s going to bust his face.
“Ok Doc, what gives?”

Swain shook his head and laughed. “It always takes you guys so long to realize that; when we get it right. But if it is even slightly different you notice immediately. You have no idea of how many hours of comm tape have to be analyzed to program that synthesizer.”

Martin mulled over his discovery for a few seconds. “Well, I don’t know about that. All I can say is thank you, a different voice probably would have driven me crazy.”

Swain slumped back with a very satisfied lazy grin. “Your slow realization and gratitude make it worth the effort, my friend.” He ended loosely waggling a finger at Martin. “And if you want it we have already generated a form based on your biological body. And, if I might add, it came out very well.”

“Ya know, that really sounds fine to me. And of course it came out good, just look at what you had to work with.” Martin was secretly delighted at the prospect of having his old body back, even if it was just a hologram.

Swain rolled his eyes to the ceiling and shuddered. “What I have to deal with,” he laughed. “I’m going to load the form into your container’s memory. You may have a couple weird sensations or some momentary blackouts. Ready?”

“Do it, to it, Doc.” Martin braced himself for the worst as he watched Swain peck at a keyboard. There was nothing, no tinges, visual problems, nothing. Swain turned back to him. “Was that it?”

Swain raised his eyebrows. “Yes, any problems?”

“No Doc, nothing. Are you sure it worked?”

“I think it did, let’s check.” Swain turned to a station vidphone and tapped in a number.

Something buzzed in Martin’s mind. “Is that you Doc? I have a vidphone number?”

Swain nodded.

Martin thought about it for a moment then concentrated on the buzz. ^Hello.^ Nothing happened. Martin thought for a second. “Hello.” A typical vidphone image of Swain popped into his mind. ^Hi Doc.^ Nothing came out of the Doctor’s vidphone. “Hi Doc. . . . that’s better.”

Swain nodded and turned the video screen toward Martin.

Martin saw himself smile. “That is too cool, thanks Doc.”

Martin’s tone of voice relayed more gratitude than Swain knew he could ever make words for.
Sometimes this job has its upside
, he though as he watched Martin make faces into the vidphone. “The only time you can just think conversation is in a hard link, Martin. The rest of the time you have to speak, remember that because you ship’s communications work the same way. He watched Martin’s happy face nod in the vidphone.

              . . .

The doorbell interrupted Martin as he voraciously studied the file on the Light Space Fighter. As Doc had said; “You can upload this stuff all you want, but you still have to learn it.” ^Hello^

Maria’s form visualized in his mind. Her eyes opened wide and she seemed to take a step back. ^Martin?^

^Hi Maria, how ya doin’?^ Martin smiled and felt elation knowing she could see it.

^Martin, is that you. I mean, is that really you?^

Martin could see she was really agitated. ^Yeah, it’s me. Oh wait a minute, do you mean, is this what my biological body looked like?^

Maria was a little sheepish and blushed as she nodded. ^I know you’re never supposed to ask that, but dammit . . .^

^Yeah, this is, was, oh whatever, what I looked like.^ Martin was a little concerned. ^Why, is there a problem?^

^No Martin, there’s no problem . . . no problem at all.^ She blushed even more.

^Maria, I had to choose my ship.^ Martin, hesitated remembering Swain’s comment.

^And?^

^I’m going into a Light Fighter.^

^A fighter!^ Her whole demeanor changed. ^Dammit Martin. Why?^

^Maria, I’ve been flying fighters for five years.^

^Yeah, and just look what it got you.^ She glared at Martin. ^A God damned brain bucket. Damn you Martin, I thought you were smarter than that.^

^Smarter than what.^ Martin felt his own temper starting to rise. ^I
like
flying fighters.^

^I like flying fighters.^ She mimicked him, dripping with sarcasm. ^So what, cyborg fighters are cannon fodder, they send ‘em in when it gets too hot for the manned ships.^

^That’s right, they do. Do you have any idea how many times the tinmen saved my ass out there. I lost count a long time ago.^ Martin fought his temper. ^And do you know why they send ‘em in, ‘cause they get the job done.^

^Yeah they get the job done alright. Do you know the life expectancy of a cyborg fighter jock, six months, Martin. Six stinking months before you slip and BANG, you’re dead; for real this time.^

^Well guess what, I don’t care what the average life expectancy of a cyborg fighter jock is, it’s one hell of a lot longer than a biological pilot. If I can help them live a while longer then I’ll take that trade.^

^Maybe you can accept that, but I can’t.^ Maria was almost hysterical. ^I refuse to cry over another smashed up brain bucket because some idiot had a cowboy complex or felt he had to save the whole God damned universe all by himself. No Martin, not again.^

Martin realized there was more here than he thought. ^Take it easy Maria . . .^

^Forget it Martin, I’m not going through it again, goodbye and have a wonderful life in your little fighter, for however long it lasts.^ She popped out.

Martin stared at where she had been for a long time as an emptiness slowly filled his gut. “Bye Maria. I’m sorry.” He whispered into the grayness around him.