The Cultivator

Records of Helian Five

“Helian Five, do you read? Over.”

The ironclad humanoid trudged through the underbrush, pushing aside vines as it worked its way through the dense jungle. There was silence, except for the nearby babbling brook.

“Helian Five, do-”

“I read, stand by. Over.”

“Helian, you are required to report in at standard intervals and observe proper protocols for communication, over.”

“Wilco, over.”

Designation Helian Five scanned the area. He had already filtered out the sound of the brook, and could tell his target was near. Grabbing the scanner from his belt, he looked for any signs of notable warmth, but found none. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy, thermal cloak tech was common.

He spoke into his communicator. “No sign, will proceed to set up and go dark. Over.”

“Copy that, over.”

He drew his sniper rifle, using his free hand to hoist himself into a branch. Laying prone, he kept an eye out for any movement. He could see one branch moving slightly, but as he trained the reticle on it, could see it was only a bird. Not the target.

He held still as he waited. One hour. Two hours. Three hours. Four hours.

A bird landed on him. He didn’t mind. He was almost sad when it left, seeming to realize his head was not a good place for a nest.

Five hours. Six hours.

The sun was setting, but as he had planned, it was to his back, only adding to his cover. His visual receptors glowed softly in the twilight, but night or day made no difference to him.

Seven hours. Eight hours. Nine hours. Ten hours.

He heard something in the distance, but it was too far away to identify. It might be a gun shot, or a tree limb might have snapped for one reason or another.

Eleven hours. Twelve hours. Thirteen hours.

A man walked into his vision. Helian’s aim was considerably off in his current position, so he started the delicate process of moving it over the target, slowly. He would need to move faster if the man kept walking and would leave his field of vision, but as luck would have it, he stopped to lean against a tree. Only five more inches.

Four. Three.

The man was breathing heavily, as if he had been running a great distance. He had blood on his shirt, but otherwise seemed alive and well for the moment.

Two. One.

He pulled out a datapad, clearly planning to deep scan the area after his active scans had turned up nothing. That would take approximately five minutes to reveal him, at this distance with his lack of rapid movement, but the man only had three minutes left.

Zero.

Helian fired. The man dropped, a clean shot through his forehead. Helian stood up as the accumulation of plant debris fell off of him, his joints creaking as they protested his return to full mobility. He reached the target, kicking him over to see his face staring blankly into the sky.

He reached for his communicator. “Echo, come in, target has been neutralized, over.”

There was several minutes before a response came in. In that time, Helian inspected the man’s bag. Various pieces of tech, ammo, and provisions, nothing out of the ordinary or particular concern. The only thing that did catch his eye was the rolled up blueprint, confirming his mission was a success.

“Helian Five! Are you still active, over?”

“Roger that, can you copy? Threat neutralized, awaiting evac. Over.”

The man sounded both enraged and shocked. “Helian two and seven are currently down. Rosa One reported their condition, but was unable to pursue the target due to sustained damage. Evac is prioritizing them, will be at least fifteen minutes. What are your coordinates? Over.”

Helian checked his positioner, and relayed the coordinates. With brief confirmations on both side, he returned his communicator to his belt, and casually unrolled the blueprints.

They were labeled “The Cultivator”, and he was stunned at what he saw. A plant, modified by a special serum and implanted into a robotic core. After a month long process of proper care, the plant was placed in a larger metal frame that would became a new chloroborg, at which point the depicted machine would fully fuse the two, metal and plant. The illustration used a sunflower, just like him.

He rolled up the blueprint. He had known this mission was important with the scale of deployment, but they had not told him it had been this important. He might be decommissioned, for all he knew, if they learned he had looked at the plans, so he returned it to the bag, and waited for retrieval.

As a helicopter approached, it dropped a single roped he quickly grabbed onto with one hand as he held onto the bag with his other. As he left the ground below, he wondered what the dead man he was leaving had intended to do with the stolen blueprints.

And then he stopped thinking. Not his job.

(This short story was written for The Cultivator writing prompt by Iron Age Media.)