HALF BREED
The top gunner opened up, a hot shell casing bounced off the back of Margaret's neck, and the command channel squawked into life.
"Red Dog Six to Red Dog One. Over".
"Go, Six. Over".
"We have visual contact with ten, repeat ten, enemy borgs. Over".
Margaret heard herself say "Roger", wished she had cyborgs of her own, and damned the command structure to hell. There were plenty of borgs, or would have been, if the Usmos' hadn't assigned most of them to the increasingly restless cities.
Traditional armor against cyborgs? How would the contest end? The winner could write a thesis, if there was anyone left to read it. The message came one on top of the next.
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