Awaken the Cyborg

By John W Partington

Racer Magellan is a four-hundred-year-old cyborg mercenary, and one of the last true-humans in the galaxy. Triness is an alien princess who keeps a secret which could bring the galaxy to its knees. When Triness hired Racer as a bodyguard he expected an easy mission, and a large pay cheque. He never expected to fall in love, lose that love, and then fight to get her back. He never expected to awaken emotions that had long lay dormant. This story contains graphic violence, language, and adult situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John W Partington
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781777024857

John W Partington

I have been writing for most of my life: as a child, as a soldier, and now as an independent author. My favourite colour is purple. I have two cats, who choose to annoy me most when I am trying to write. I'm a middle aged white dude suffering from psychosis, but with medication am perfectly stable (except for singing to my cats).

Book preview

Awaken the Cyborg

John W Partington

Published by John W Partington

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Awaken the Cyborg

ISBN: 978-1-7770248-5-7

© 2015 John W Partington – Revised © 2019

© 2020 John W Partington – 2nd Edition

© 2023 John W Partington – Improved Edition

Cover art: © https://www.123rf.com/profile_grandeduc

Acknowledgements:

I would like to thank my editing team: Amanda Ljucovic and Shneeha Sentl. They are not professional editors, but they are dedicated and caught some rather glaring errors on my part. Enjoy the story even if the grammar makes your skin crawl, but you should find the story readable thanks to Shneeha and Amanda’s efforts.

Special thanks go to Trevor Roth and the team at Roddenberry Entertainment for licensing this story.

Additional thanks go to Sara Grainger, who undertook a massive editing job in order to produce this revised product. She’s completing her education as a Professional Writer, and will one day be an author of renown. Also, thanks to Gerry Kroll, who is not an editor but owns a lot of dictionaries and is very picky.

Note from the Author:

I’m not a science guy. The protagonist is not a science guy. Neither of us really knows why the universe works the way it does, but we’re comfortable with that. If you find flaws in the science (and you will) of the story, share. It’s the only way I’ll learn and improve.

Acknowledgements

Note from the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Interlude

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Stuff about the Author

Also by John W Partington

Prologue

Forward. Backward. The galaxy spins, and we are all kept helpless victims of fate. Four centuries ago humans were the rulers of the galaxy. Now we're a trash species considered below any other race. As far as the rest of the universe is concerned, those creatures under rocks that make people feel ill, humans make those creatures feel ill. It's like the old joke: how many humans does it take to screw in a light bulb? Who cares, they're cheap. In case you're wondering, it's the humans that are cheap, not the light bulbs.

It wasn't always this way. Four hundred years ago the Grand Hegemony of Humankind ruled this galaxy, and a major portion of all adjacent ones. Even with a PDQ drive, it would take over two years to cross from one side to the other.

We, and I speak for my species not myself personally, were gods. We came across other races, of course. Those we couldn't assimilate we enslaved or eliminated. Like the flame that burns too bright, we burnt out too quickly.

It didn't start at the frontier as one would expect, but instead at the core of our power. There was a climactic uprising. Those poor races that we had trod upon took up arms, and began a slaughter that spread to the edges of the empire. The massive military forces of the Hegemony were on the frontier and fringes of the empire, pacifying the locals. It seems as if that's the way society works. The superior ignore the inferior. The inferior are acutely aware of everything the ruling majority does. We didn't notice the activities of our slaves, but they followed our every move. They knew where we were vulnerable, and struck.

As news of the revolt spread, it grew. Troops were moved to re-conquer planets. Our forces grew thinner as a result. The actual destruction of the empire took close to seventy years, but in the end, we were conquered.

It wasn't a complete genocide. About one in every million humans survived. With the size of the empire, that left several billion humans alive. I think after a thousand years of oppression those hundred other races wanted more than a blood-thirsty slaughter. They wanted a humiliating revenge. To be human meant to be a slave, but always there was the hope that we would eventually rule the galaxy once again.

Slavery didn't last too long. With humans gone as a cosmic power, somebody had to take control. Former allies fell on each other like wolves. Each struggled to achieve ultimate power. The alliances forged one day would be destroyed the next. They ripped each other apart just as they had ruined us. Near the end, my species was used as soldiers instead of labouring slaves. At the end nobody was a victor. Instead of a galactic government, individual planets became separate states. Often there was infighting on planets that resulted in a complete lack of co-operation with anybody. In the wink of an eye, relative to the age of the universe, a single cohesive government that spanned the known universe was reduced to a heterogeneous glob of a hundred sentient species that all hated each other. Of course, humans were hated the most because we started the whole mess.

The biggest empire that ever formed after The Fall consisted of a total of six planets. Other races decided that was too dangerous, and immediately quashed it through a short, but bloody war. No human had a planet they could call their own. Instead there was only human trash left to scrape and scramble for whatever they could find.

The archetypical human trash were the True-humans from four hundred years ago. These were the people that were living during the great empire, fought in the final war, or were born immediately afterward. I was born in the first generation after The Fall. I was raised on stories of what we once were. My grandmother — my mother had died during my birth — was once a corporate chairperson. Granny would tell me stories, and make promises that one day my species would once again rule the galaxy. When I was fourteen, she had her head shot off by a mugger. I was left alone, without a home, a job, or a future. Survival was my immediate concern, not the domination of the universe. However, in the back of my mind there was always the thought that things should be different. I was truly human.

About three or four generations after The Fall, the Endo-humans emerged. These creatures were the bottom of the food chain. They were the children born to prostitutes in back alleys, the orphans discovered in trash bins, the babies born to parents so busy trying to survive that their children went unattended. The Endo-humans never questioned their fate. They never knew any better. They just accepted the fact that they were the paper every other race used to wipe their ass. They had no desire to rule the universe because it had never been taught to them. By the time True-humans discovered this lack of desire it was too late. The Endo-humans had grown up, raised families, and died. I was probably born into the last generation of True-humans.

On the day of my eightieth birthday a warning klaxon sounded across the galaxy. Humans had been discovered in the far reaches beyond known space. As civilizations spread outwards, the frontier of known space expanded. When a new species was discovered, they were accepted into the galactic community. If the new species had control over many systems, however, it was destroyed. After all, when all other races are squabbling children, anybody remotely adult is a threat. Large interplanetary governments were removed by mutual consent and war.

At the beginning of the Great Hegemony, the Galactic Human Empire, or whatever history books call it, slow-sleep ships were dispatched from the core. Slow-sleep ships were colony vessels loaded with cryogenically frozen pioneers. They usually moved at sub-light speeds to distant stars. When they arrived, sometimes after centuries, the colonists were woken, and set up shop on any habitable planets. That way the frontier of known space expanded. Faster ships would rush in to sweep up any residual planets, or fill in gaps in the frontier. Some of the larger ships could carry up to a billion people.

Occasionally a ship would malfunction, and go to the wrong destination. The ship might go farther than planned, and therefore be outside known space. The colonists would still set up, and await recovery. They knew that eventually the empire would catch up, and they would be reconnected to the Hegemony, even if it took generations. The last slow-sleep ship was launched during the height of the Great Hegemony, three hundred years before The Fall.

Something must have gone terribly wrong with the ships that carried the Meta-humans. The event that caused the Great Calamity was the discovery of a human interplanetary government that spanned two hundred planets. Sometime in the past, a slow-sleep ship must have completely malfunctioned, and carried its cargo far beyond the frontier. Maybe it was one of the first ships launched, and had been travelling for close to a thousand years before it stopped. Or maybe it was a fast sleep ship equipped with a PDQ drive. Who knows? Who cares?

The point is that sometime in the past, a colony of True-humans landed far beyond the reach of The Fall. They must have realized fairly quickly that distance put them beyond contact with the Hegemony, so they started an outpost of the Human Empire. I can imagine those brave pioneers slaving away over the centuries, waiting for the day when the Hegemony borders met theirs, and the joyous celebration that would occur as centuries of isolation were washed away.

Of course, the discovery of such a large mass of organized humans made every species on every planet push the panic button. One human acting on his own was a nuisance. Two humans acting together was a conspiracy. Three humans working in unison was Armageddon. The existence of such a large mass of unified humans not only defied the logic of the universe, it was considered hazardous.

Every planet formed an alliance with its neighbours regardless of previous wars, or current aggression. The largest armada since The Fall began to stalk toward Meta-human space. We didn't know it at the time, but a half eon or more of isolation let those lost colonies evolve a little differently, and every race assumed they were some lost colony that should be destroyed. Their peaceful isolation allowed for the development of new technologies previously unknown. They were not True-humans. They had evolved beyond us.

I and my brethren of remaining True-humans decided that we would fight our way to those lost colonies in order to rejoin the last bastion of the Human Empire. We encouraged the Endo-humans to join, but they didn't care. They continued to wallow in their own filth as merchants, mercenaries, or criminals. Only the True-humans would go.

Unfortunately we were unable. We were few, and far between, but that wasn't our problem. Arranging meetings and organizing as a group was relatively easy. It was picking up a rifle and running into battle that was hard. I was young for a True-human at eighty years old. Medical technology had advanced from what my predecessors could have expected, if money was available, but it couldn't stop time.

We hid in dark basements, in seedy bars, and anywhere else where there was some measure of security. We tried to devise ways of fighting. We lacked a technological advantage. We lacked the funds to hire mercenaries. Most of us possessed the skills to fight, but not the bodies. That's when we realized the truth of our needs. There's the old saying if it ain't broke don't fix it. A sideline is, if it’s broke replace it. That's when we stumbled on the idea. What we needed were new bodies!

Cybernetic technology had been around since the beginning of the Hegemony. Generally, cybernetic augmentation was avoided because replacing damaged tissue with cloned material worked better, and was more natural. We couldn't stop aging, but we could always cheat it. The idle rich could always buy new bodies, and transplant their personality into a synthetic brain. Our small group couldn't afford replacement clone bodies, but mechanical shells were cheap.

Like everything else, cheap is a relative term. We spent billions of Creds on the project. The money came from our own savings, from stealing, from computer fraud, from anywhere we could get it. Some parts we built ourselves, most we bought. Some of us were skilled surgeons capable of cybernetic augmentation, but for the most part we needed outside help. As soon as it was discovered what we were, doing prices skyrocketed: mechanics became more expensive, surgery became more expensive, and secrecy became more expensive. In any revolution there are always soldiers willing to sell out their own side if the price is right. We were hunted from outside, and from within, but a million of us managed to accomplish the transformation before the project was shut down.

I was considered one of the lucky ones. My head was severed from my body and transplanted to a robotic body. Some of the older warriors had to have complete body prostheses. What happened to my organic body? I don't know. Maybe it was sold as pet food or fertilizer. It didn't matter. That part of my life was gone.

My first body was generally human in appearance. It had a torso, two arms, and two legs. Inside the chest was a glass vial that contained my adrenal glands, testicles, and other organs that produced hormones my brain needed. My left hand was replaced with a serrated claw-like pincer. My right hand was replaced by an eight-barrel nine millimetre mini-gun. At first we considered beam weapons, but ballistic weapons were a lot cheaper, and ten explosive rounds does as much damage as a heavy laser. Plus, it only takes a minute to put on a new ammo link, while lasers take an hour to recharge. I guess in the long run we could have saved some money on ammo, but I don't think we were planning on the long run.

I was twice lucky because I survived long enough to tell our side of the story. Over the decades since the battle, I've had parts replaced and upgraded. My body looks human enough except for the metallic hardness and dull grey gleam. My pincer has been replaced by a fully articulated hand, and my head was eventually replaced by an android one. My brain, a synthetic clone tissue with engraved memory replacement, is kept in my chest cavity with the synthetic organs necessary to keep it alive. I kept the mini-gun for obvious reasons. The only thing that marks me separate from a robot or android is the word CYBORG stamped across my chest in bold red letters. However, I'm still human even if I am only four kilograms of synthetic flesh in a half ton of metal.

After bodies, getting ships was also a problem. A few of us had been traders or deep space miners, but not nearly enough of us. For the most part we stole fast merchant ships. The armada was already on its way, so we had to play catch-up. Trader ships were lightly armed, but fast with big holds easily converted to crew quarters. And most traders didn't have a large enough crew to stop a few thousand heavily armed cyborgs from raiding their ships while at space dock. As soon as we were ready, our cyborg fleet set sail. That was one fight we were not going to miss.

We raided planets as we travelled to our destination. We had to, in order to capture supplies, repair parts, and occasionally recruit new soldiers. We had to move in a cryptic pattern to avoid fall back patrols from the armada, but even so, we were still ambushed on occasion. We ended up losing more soldiers than we gained getting to our new home.

When we arrived, the battle was already under way. We revelled as the enemy ships exploded in balls of fire. Anybody that says explosions don't happen in space is an idiot. As soon as the oxygen aboard burns up the fire goes out, but for a few seconds the damaged ship turns into a funeral pyre. It was only after our ships started exploding that we realized that something was wrong.

Then we noticed that our brethren, down on those temperate new worlds, were not with us. Ships were being destroyed, but nobody was within firing range. Somebody on the bridge said they had recorded tachyon beams coming from the planets, but there was so much confusion it was impossible to confirm.

The message came next. It was received on all frequencies and circuits. It was pronounced in Terran Common, the language that had been used in the Hegemony since it began. There was an unusual accent, but it was from our people. The message also flashed on all display screens and holo-imagers. It was a simple phrase, and one I'll never forget: You are unwelcome here, proceed and be destroyed.

We had crossed thousands of light years, fighting and fleeing, crying and dying, only to be told that the inn was full. We threw ourselves at those planets in a desperate attempt to claim a new home. The enemy armada had stopped fighting our fleet, and instead launched a full-scale assault on the closest planet. After that attack failed, both fleets spread out to try to find a way in. Eventually we determined that their entire empire was surrounded by a barrier. It could have been a tachyon shield, as my unknown crewmate had suggested. Hell, it could have been a layer of two-ply tin foil and it would still have knocked our ships out of the sky. Whatever the barrier was, it was real.

I may be misleading you into thinking that this was a fast operation. We tried to get past the barrier for twenty years before we decided there was no hope. The enemy armada had exhausted all its ships in trying. Only a few of us True-humans survived.

Occasionally a Meta-human ship would be spotted leaving the barrier. We pursued, but they made a jump into PDQ speed so quickly we couldn't catch up. Whatever kind of engine they had was better than ours. Once we caught a ship that was returning with engine difficulty. A boarding crew landed and was slaughtered. All that the patrol cameras showed were some tall, attractive humans before they stopped transmitting a second later. We learned not to fuck with the Meta-humans. We split up, and went our separate ways after that.

What had started as an army of a million death encumbered cyborgs was reduced by eighty percent. Somewhere between where we had been and where we were going, some eight hundred thousand of us died. That would have been okay if we were allowed to land, but we were not. I'll never forgive them for that.

A few of us purchased clone bodies, and had our personalities transplanted back into organic systems. Most of us couldn't afford it, though. We had exhausted all our Creds starting the project. At the end there was nothing left. Most of us became mercenaries. After all, our bodies were designed for war. We joined the mercenary league with the intent of eventually purchasing a clone shell so we could be fully human again. After three hundred years I had more than enough Creds, but not the desire. Three centuries is a long time to live and reflect upon life. I'd already outlived all the bio-transplants and most of my fellow cyborgs.

Three centuries after The Fall, a relative peace had spread through the galaxy. There was interstellar law, but it was very shaky. The law was more of an agreement between various planetary governments like the Cordoon Alliance of Thirty Forty-one. The bright red 'CYBORG' on my chest was one of those laws. Somewhere there was always a war. It could be a border war, a skirmish, or even an all-out confrontation. There was always work for a mercenary.

As for the Meta-humans, they're still out there at the fringe of known space. They are slowly expanding; over the last thirty decades they've added a total of six planets to their empire, as far as I can tell. As they expand, so does their barrier shield. Very rarely they'll allow a ship into their fiefdom for trade purposes. The reports that come back are obscure at best. I don't take assignments anywhere near Meta-human space if I can avoid it.

Even fighting becomes boring. I mostly spend my days wandering the galaxy doing odd jobs, kind of like a cosmic boy scout: intergalactic trader, merchant guard, high-price mercenary, interstellar assassin, planetary explorer. I've done it all. Each assignment is a temporary diversion from the ever-oppressive boredom that eventually overtakes me. The problem with being immortal is finding something to do that I've never done before.

Lately I'd been spending my time in the backwater bars in the sleazier sections of the galaxy. I couldn't get drunk, but I could taste the alcohol with artificial sensation processors, and I could remember. If only memories were not so boring.

Chapter One

Are you Racer Magellan? the woman asked. She spoke Terran Common, a language that was dead to the universe for close to three centuries. That should have tipped me off right away, but it didn't. It was the first time in almost a hundred years that anybody had pronounced my name correctly. A lot of True-humans had assumed new names when they got their cyborg bodies; names like Vengeance, or Salvation. I always figured if I was going to die on a hostile world, the least they could do is put the right name on my grave marker. Not that I expected anyone to bury me.

Yeah, what of it? I replied. I was happily sipping some hot apple cider while relaxing in front of the bar's Thrill-Kill screen. Thrill-Kill was the latest craze sweeping the galaxy. It was a combination of gladiator fighting with random shots taken by the studio audience. Most of the gladiators were convicted criminals sentenced to death, but I knew a few traders that made their living snatching people off the street. I had even worked for a few of those traders.

I want to have your baby, she said.

Sell it to somebody that wants it.

You don't understand...

No, you don't understand, I interrupted her. If I want a cheap trick I'll get one, but I don't, so push off. The guy at the end of the bar is looking for a hooker, try him. Not that getting laid was totally out of the question. It was possible because my body was fully functional, but sex wasn't the great joy it had been in my youth. Instead, processors stimulated my brain, so it felt like sex, but there wasn't any gooey climax. The entire process was internal. Nothing ever came into or left my body; I could be a man for any woman, but she would have to have a kinky lusting for a half ton of metal underneath her. If I really wanted to I could trigger an orgasm by executing a program; a partner wasn’t necessary.

No, you don't understand, she said in a loud, irritated voice. I don't want to fuck you. I just want a sample of your sperm. It's possible isn't it? Somewhere in there you've got the capacity to pump out some jizz. I want to get pregnant, not give you a night to remember.

I'll get you pregnant, some drunkard shouted.

And I'll just fuck you, another added. I suppose I could understand the way the lushes acted. She appeared human, but couldn't be. She was just slightly below average height, thin yet muscular with dark hair, and a fair complexion. Beneath her bangs she had green eyes, and a slightly crinkling nose. I think the latter was due to the scent of dried urine and stale vomit that pervaded the bar.

She wasn't an Endo-human. Centuries of inbreeding had left them a mottled-skinned breed with sloped foreheads, and lower intelligence quotients. Endos were good for manual labour, mercenary work, and anything that didn't require too much imagination. It was only in the last half century that the Endo-humans had started to make a comeback. She wasn't a True-human because the only ones left lived in mechanical bodies like me. The Meta-humans never left their Sphere. However, there were more than two dozen races that looked human, and were sexually compatible with humans. She could have been one of those Demi-humans.

It's possible, isn't it? she asked.

Sure it is, I said, But what's in it for me? Deep in the core of my body was a synthetic human brain, and other synthetic organs that produced the hormones the brain needed. My brain required testosterone, which required testicles, so if I had the need for it I could produce sperm cells. All the synthetic tissue in my body was cloned off my DNA, so essentially it was still as True-human as me, as I had been before conversion. Periodically, every fifty years to a century, I had to re-clone an organ; being organic, the parts also aged, and wore out.

A thousand Units, she answered. I almost choked on my drink, if I had been able to choke, which I wasn't. Unlike Creds, Units were physical currency which could be exchanged for goods and services. Creds were credits that some computer database held. Because Creds were purely artificial, they had less value. Additionally, the computer holding the accounts could break down. Breakdowns were rare, but they did happen. As a result, Units were more valuable because they were independent of some galactic agreement. One Unit was worth ten to fifteen Creds depending on the market. However, most transactions used Creds for convenience.

One thousand Units for a spermcicle? What's the catch?

No strings. I want to have a baby. I want a True-human sperm donor. You're the only human cyborg in this sector of the galaxy. I know, I've checked.

When do I get paid? I asked. She pulled a leather pouch from inside her coat, and dropped it on my table. I wedged my fingers between the draw strings and then opened my hand. The purse snapped open which caused dozens of plastic disks to spill out. Each disk was a centimetre in diameter, and a millimetre thin. I dropped the pouch inside my long coat.

Fair enough, I said. You've got a deal. Give me half an hour, and I'll give you some frozen fun stuff.

Where can I pick it up? she asked.

Unless something remarkable happens I don't intend on leaving this seat for the next three months, I answered. I was on a job. This contract was something I had never done before, so I was eager to take it. Turns out I got paid one hundred and fifty Creds a day to sit on my ass, and do nothing. So far in the performance of my duties I had only thrown a couple of drunks out of town.

Sheriff Magellan, a small boy cried as he ran into the bar, the Post is being robbed. Come quick!

You'll have to wait, I told the woman. I've been sitting around for two weeks waiting for something like this to happen.

The Post was the closest thing to a bank that the planet had. The Post was a place you could take goods, and sell for Creds. Traders then came to buy the goods from the Post and then resell to the rest of the galaxy. The indigenous population could also purchase materials there. The Post was a combination of grocery market, department store, pharmacy, and rental agency. As a result, they had a lot of free-floating Creds that had not been assigned to an owner. All a criminal had to do was stick a Counter into the computer. The Counter, a data storage device, would collect all the free floaters, and then the robber could deposit them into his own account. The Post also had a lot of Units and valuable merchandise.

I grabbed my backpack, which had been resting against my chair. I threw the pack on, and connected the ammo feed link to the mini-gun that was my left arm. I strode confidently onto the street with the shiny silver star on my lapel.

It never ceases to amaze me how much frontier planets seem like the Wild West towns of old human legends. All the buildings are prefabricated plastic and sheet metal. The roads hadn’t been paved for years, and there's just one main road with side streets. Instead of having a large town on a planet, it's better to have smaller towns dispersed over the planets' surface. A dispersion pattern allowed for quicker production of planetary resources, and expansion to farther reaches. But it was still like playing cow handlers and indigenous populations.

I got to the Post just as three suspects were running out. The first was a Carpathian, a Demi-human with bone ridges, and spurs all over his body. The second was a Raspian, a large bipedal lizard. The third was an Endo-human. All were large, muscular, heavily armed, and wearing body armour.

Arm warheads, I whispered. The ammunition I used was an armour piercing fragmentary bullet with an on-command explosive charge. The shell head would explode on contact if armed to do so. If not, the bullet would just rip through whatever it hit. These three were wearing armour, so I went for the heavier punch. I fired a few rounds into the air to attract their attention.

Drop your weapons; put your hands up! I ordered. You're under arrest. The Carpathian turned toward me. There was a weapon in his hand. I opened fire. The explosive heads ripped holes in their armour, allowing the fragments and other bullets to grind through their flesh. When the unexploded bullet reached the centre of the body it detonated. The criminals' bodies were ripped to shreds from the inside. The three husks fell over to bleed in the street.

Those were the security guards, the boy yelled as he came running down the street. The bad guys already got out!

Oops, I muttered as I turned to where the child pointed. A glide car was starting to take off from the side of the street. Its hover engines were kicking up dust as the driver started to accelerate. My bullets ripped through the vehicle’s trunk, splattering everything inside the cab. The car wavered in the air for a moment before crashing to the ground. Flames burst from the fuel tank as the car caught fire. I walked over to inspect the wreckage.

One of the criminals was alive, and trying to climb out. I whacked the back of his head until he fell unconscious, and then left him to burn. The others were already dead, or dying. I seized the Counter, along with a metal briefcase. The Counter had the free floats, and the case was full of Units. I considered grabbing a handfull of Units, but the boy was watching. I was the sheriff for the next three months, so I had to set a good example. I'm not sure why, but it was the type of thing I was expected to do.

Sorry about the guards, I told the merchant as I dropped off the money. I also handed her a bill for the ammunition I had used. I was paid one hundred and fifty Creds a day, plus expenses.

Back at the bar nobody batted an eye as I walked in covered in blood, and with a smoking gun barrel. The bartender refreshed my drink. I sat down, and continued watching the Thrill-Kill screen.

What's the score? I asked.

Zero all, a bar-fly answered.

Mr. Magellan... the woman started.

You're going to have my baby, I interrupted. You can call me Racer.

Racer, how long is it going to take?

I'm done now, I answered. From my leg I unwrapped a small valise held on by cling straps. Inside the satchel I kept my first aid kit. I removed a pair of long needle nose pliers. Some would call the bag a tool kit, but for a cyborg it was a first aid kit.

Opening an access panel in my abdomen, I stuck the pliers inside. I fished around until I had snagged what I wanted, then pulled the pliers out. Between the pliers’ jaws was what looked like frozen yogurt wrapped around a metal filament.

There you go, I laughed as I handed her the stick.

Thank you, she said as she grabbed the filament, and hurried toward the bathroom.

I think we all have a good idea what the chick was doing in the bathroom. It's comforting to know that in a world where the cheapest thing you can buy is somebody else, there is always the possibility that a complete stranger will artificially inseminate herself in the ladies’ room of a sleazy bar. It's not much of a moral, but if you think about it long enough it might take on some mystic sense. Of course, if all she wanted was to get pregnant she could have scraped some residue out of the men’s room. Sleazy bars aren't particularly known for their hygiene.

Thank you very much, she said as she passed my table on the way out of the bar.

Doesn't he even get to know your name? the bartender shouted.

Triness, she shouted back, and then was gone. I made a huge profit for no work.

Being sheriff was a real shitty job. Occasionally somebody would try to rob the Post, but for the most part the job consisted of throwing drunks out of bars then picking them up off the street. As soon as my contract was up I booked working passage on the first freight off the planet. Never let it be said Racer Magellan didn't do an honest day of work. I had never resorted to thievery, except for that one unfortunate instance, and I had never quit a job. I'd been fired by lots of employers, but I had never quit.

Chapter Two

After a few misadventures, I found myself on Carlos Four. Carlos was a semi-frontier planet. It was still undergoing colonization, but had a few major cities instead of just border towns. It was a messed-up world, as almost all worlds were. The Galactic Cartography Institute has rules about how planets are formed and what makes them tick. I have yet to see a planet that didn’t violate those rules to one extent or another. In the case of Carlos Four, the atmospheric pressure would cause a person to implode the deeper into the planetary crust they went. The deeper one goes, the greater the weight from the mass of the world above. Pressure is simply weight divided by area. As Carlos Four had an extremely dense crust, the internal pressure of the planet was not supposed to be able to sustain itself without fracturing in half. This was according to the planetary rules; however, it didn’t fracture.