by Isaac Hooke
From the armory, Rade selected a small laser blaster that he could carry with him in the cockpit, then he hauled himself into his designated Hoplite, readily identifiable because the word “Rage” hovered overtop, courtesy of his Implant.
The hatch closed, sealing him in darkness. Inner actuators pressed into his jumpsuit, cocooning his body and suspending him in the center of the unit. The view from the mech’s external camera filled his vision, and he found himself looking down on the hangar bay from a height of three meters. Every movement he made was translated by the cocoon, which fired the associated servomotors and electrical circuits of the actual mech, mirroring him. The lag between his movements and that of the mech was in the microsecond range—essentially instantaneous. The Hoplite had an external microphone that transmitted sound to his helmet, so he was able to hear the loud clanks and whirs as the others moved around him.
“Welcome aboard, Rage,” the Hoplite’s AI addressed him by his callsign. “I’m Smith.”
Rade pursed his lips. “Smith? That’s a change. I’m used to mech names that have a bit more... I don’t know, punch. Names like Yellowjacket. Wasp. Scorpion. Insect names.”
“Yes,” Smith said. “My first choice was actually Happy Butterfly, but the provisioners made me change it.”
“Probably a good thing,” Rade replied. “Hell, if you chose Happy Butterfly, I’d make you change it.”
“That was a joke,” Smith said.
“Ah yes,” Rade commented. “I’ve noticed that trend lately. Mech AIs coming out of the box with a predilection for jokes and sarcasm. Not sure I’m okay with that. What we do here is a serious business.”
“I can dial down my respective settings,” Smith said. “If it pleases you.”
“It does. Do it.” Rade took a few tentative steps. He found himself slightly off balance at first, as the actual mech handled slightly differently from the simulator.
“Do you need assistance, Rage?” Smith asked.
“That’s a negative,” Rade answered. “I got this.”
After a few wobbly steps he quickly acclimated. He flexed one hand, and rotated the cobra mount into his palm. “Just like in the simulators.” The weapons couldn’t be armed while aboard the Rhodes, unless overridden by the chief of course, but he quickly retracted the weapon anyway.
“Confirm loaded status, please,” Facehopper said.
One by one the members of the platoon reported to Facehopper that they were aboard their respective mechs. The chief would have been able to determine as much via the status indicators his HUD—heads-up-display—overlaid onto his faceplate, but protocol demanded a manual check.
When the last of them had reported in, the chief said: “Harlequin, you strapped in?”
Rade glanced at Bender’s Hoplite. Behind the mech’s head, right above the jetpack, Harlequin sat in the seat specifically provided for a passenger.
“I’m ready,” the Artificial returned.
“All right,” Facehopper said. “Prepare to drop.”
The air vent siren sounded, and a revolving yellow light shone from one corner of the compartment.
“Warning,” came a female voice. “Depressurization commencing. Hangar atmosphere venting overboard. Warning.”
In moments the hangar had depressurized and the bay doors opened. Below the curtain of stars resided the round dome of the planet.
A metal ramp extended from the edge of the hangar doors.
“Let’s drop,” the chief ordered.
One by one the mechs walked the plank, leaping from view.
Rade’s turn came.
He steered Smith through the opening of the hangar bay, leaving behind the artificial gravity. The weightlessness of space momentarily disoriented him: Rade lost his sense of direction, and he could no longer tell which way was up or down.
The magnetized ramp prevented him from unintentionally floating away. He could feel the resistance as he lifted each mechanized foot.
He reached the edge and stared at the planet below. The surface was a motley of purple, black and white swaths.
As usual, at the last moment he found himself not wanting to make the leap. It was only natural: the body’s innate inclination to avoid discomfort.
Now or never.
“Geronimo!” He stepped off.
seven
The Rhodes appeared to literally launch upward, and in moments the destroyer was a tiny dot, simply another star among billions.
Goodbye, civilization.
The world below seemed to remain the same size the whole time. It felt like Rade was merely floating in place. A dangerous illusion.
The gyroscopic thrusters of the Hoplite fired regularly, stabilizing his descent. Below him, the aeroshell heat shield deployed in preparation for atmospheric entry.
Flames bloomed at the edges of the heat shield, and in moments the external camera feed that fed his vision turned completely orange. Despite the cockpit cooling systems, he still sweated profusely inside his jumpsuit. The danger didn’t help matters—all it would take was one small leak in that shield, and the air cushion underneath the shell would retract, enveloping the Hoplite in the heat from the compression shockwave. His entire mech would be reduced to a molten meteor. Yes, he had good reason to perspire.
The Gs picked up as the air friction decelerated the mech. Rade instinctively squeezed his abdominal and jaw muscles.
The flames abruptly receded and he was through. The depleted aeroshell fell away, revealing a layer of clouds.
He glanced up momentarily; in the sky above he saw glowing meteorites with bright white trails marking the descent of the remaining mechs.
In moments his vision was sheathed in white as he entered the clouds. He couldn’t see a thing, so he activated the radar imagery. The outline of another mech appeared in the mist, located about fifty meters below and to his left.
The cloud cover soon lifted, revealing a purple and black land mass below. It looked like he was approaching a giant bruise.
“Did anyone try zooming in?” Bomb’s voice came over the comm. The moderate digital warping in his signal indicated he was some distance away. “That purple stuff looks like vegetation.”
“Probably because it is,” Manic answered.
“I thought the atmosphere was unbreathable?” Bomb complained.
“To humans,” Manic replied.
“Wait a second,” Tahoe said over the comm. “Plants use photosynthesis to turn carbon dioxide and water into a food source. Oxygen is generated as a byproduct. Eventually, that would result in a breathable environment. In fact, if I recall, preliminary readings pegged the oxygen content in the atmosphere at five percent.”
“Did they?” Manic said. “Well it’s too bad that the atmosphere is full of unbreathable hydrogen sulfide.”
“That would kill the plants, too,” Tahoe argued.
“Not necessarily,” Manic said. “And since when did you become a biologist? I thought you had a background in astrophysics?”
“Keep the comms clear, people,” Facehopper reminded them. “We’re in the middle of a drop, here.”
The surface came up fast.
“Uh, Smith?” Rade said to his local AI. “Are we going to activate the air brakes soon?”
“Yes,” Smith replied.
The ground devoured everything around Rade by that point.
“Smith, now would be a good time...”
The Hoplite abruptly engaged its air brakes and the aerospike thrusters in the feet fired.
Rade hit hard. His body folded on impact, with his knees slamming into his chest. A dust shockwave traveled outward from the impact site.
Rade stood up and marched from the dust cloud. He rotated the powerful cobra laser into his right hand, the grenade launcher his left. He left the launcher at its default setting: frag. The outer hull of his mech changed color to imitate the surrounding terrain.
Above, the thumbnail-sized alien sun gave the landscape a washed-out look, impart
ing tones of cool blue to everything. When Rade glanced at the sky, the photochromatic filter of his camera instantly compensated, darkening the display.
“Gather at the muster point people!” Facehopper said over the comm.
On the overhead map overlaid in the upper right of his vision, Rade saw the blue dots that represented the positions of his platoon. Near them a larger, flashing yellow dot indicated the muster point, which overlapped with the shuttle containing the commander, the chief scientist, and the Centurions—the craft had already landed, apparently. Further south, purple dots indicated the booster payloads, one per mech, that had dropped with the party. The fuel in those rockets would allow the Hoplites to achieve escape velocity and return to orbit.
“TJ,” Facehopper continued. “Deploy the Centurions in a defensive posture around the Dragonfly.”
“Aye Chief.” TJ had made his descent aboard the shuttle, while his mech had dropped on its own, operating under autopilot.
Rade rendezvoused with the closest Hoplite, piloted by Bomb, and proceeded toward the muster point. More mechs joined them en route until there were five of them. Similarly sized groups converged on the muster point from multiple directions, so that the whole platoon arrived at nearly the same time. The black and gray digital patterns on their hulls matched the surrounding terrain so that the Hoplites blended in.
The sixteen Centurions had formed a cigar shape around the shuttle. They were all lying flat on the rocky soil, their AR-51 plasma rifles scanning the surrounding terrain. TJ resided on the ground beside them, and he surveyed the terrain through his rifle scope with the best of them. The rear ramp of the shuttle remained open, touching the rock and dirt terra firma.
“Headcount?” Facehopper said.
“Mauler is missing,” Rade said. He glanced at the overhead map and realized Mauler’s mech was still located three kilometers to the east.
“Sorry Chief,” Mauler’s slightly garbled voice came over the comm. “Stupid autopilot landed me a bit farther from the site than expected.”
“That’s right, blame the autopilot,” Bender taunted accusingly.
“That’s fine, Mauler,” Facehopper said. “But hurry it up, mate.”
“Am I authorized to use jetpacks to make the muster faster?” Mauler asked.
“Absolutely not,” Facehopper said. “Save the fuel for when you need it.” He turned toward the only one of them who had not yet mounted his mech. “TJ, load up.”
The unmanned Hoplite in the group crouched, and its cockpit hatch dropped open.
TJ approached. He placed his rifle in the weapon stowage compartment built into the leg of the mech and then clambered aboard.
“Bender, launch HS3s,” Facehopper commanded.
Eight of the circular, fist-sized scouts emerged from the shuttle’s rear ramp and sped off in different directions.
Though he couldn’t see them, Rade knew that two MQ-91 Raptors were flying overhead, ready to provide air support. It was those Raptors that had recorded the locations of the nearest lifepods, which appeared as green dots on the overhead map.
As the scouts headed for different pods, Facehopper transmitted: “Muster site is secure, Commander.”
Commander Blaine Parnell and Chief Scientist Rebecca Vicks stepped onto the down ramp and emerged from the shuttle.
“Chief,” Commander Parnell’s voice came over the comm. “Any answer to our contact requests?”
“Snakeoil,” the chief said over the MOTH private line. “Have you been sending out communication pings?”
“I have,” Snakeoil replied. “Got nothing in response so far.”
“Keep trying.” Over the general comm, Facehopper finished: “We haven’t received any replies yet, Commander.”
“All right,” Parnell said.
“Your orders, sir?” Chief Facehopper asked.
“I’m waiting on the HS3s,” the commander said.
“Yes sir.”
Upon hearing the word, Rade mentally recited don’t call me sir... Of course, as a commissioned officer, the commander wouldn’t object to that form of address, and in fact would probably prefer it.
“HS3s are reporting in,” Bender said over the general comm a few moments later. “No sign of life at any of the pods so far.”
“Have them move on to the next pods, then,” the commander said. “Meanwhile, let’s send the Centurions in to have a look. We’ll follow just behind, in traveling overwatch formation. If that works for you, Chief?”
“It does, sir,” Chief Facehopper replied. Over the MOTH line: “Let’s move out, people. Bender, have the combat robots lead the way.”
The Centurions moved forward in two separate squads, performing their own embedded traveling overwatch during the advance.
The chief scientist approached. “If you don’t mind, LPO?”
Rade knelt and she loaded into the passenger seat. Facehopper similarly allowed Parnell aboard.
“Are you buckled in?” Rade asked her.
“I am,” she replied.
When the second squad of Centurions was away, Facehopper ordered the squad forward. “Single file line, people. Zig zag pattern. I want a separation of ten meters per mech.”
“Bender, on point,” Rade said.
Bender’s Hoplite jogged forward.
“Manic, you’re next,” Rade said.
He continued to call out names until everyone was jogging in their mechs. The chief was at position five, while Rade was at tenth place in the line. Tahoe took the drag position.
Because of their spread out, zig-zag formation, all of them were able to keep both squads of Centurions in their sights. Rade pointed his right arm at the trailing squad and switched to autopilot before activating the point of view of the cobra. He zoomed in and scanned the terrain beyond the robots. The auto-stabilizing gyroscope of the scope ensured he had a steady shot. In the distance, a few kilometers beyond the mostly black terrain, a wall of purple blotted out the horizon. Rade increased the zoom, reaching the limits of the optics. He switched to digital zoom, and as the display pixelated, he realized that purple wall was some kind of alien jungle: white tree trunks with purple leaves; purple ferns; orange bushes.
“Psychedelic jungle,” Manic commented.
“Look sharp people,” Facehopper said. “Those trees are the perfect spot for an ambush.”
Rade continued to survey the distant foliage, but saw nothing. “Looks dead out there.” He returned his aim to the plains, and slid the scope westward across the landscape. He spotted towering rock formations, and searched them for signs of any attackers waiting in ambush.
“The first squad has reached a lifepod,” Bender announced.
Rade momentarily tapped into the video feed of the Praetor unit in charge of that squad, and watched as it examined the inside. One of the seats had broken away, but everything else was otherwise intact. Deflated air bags covered the deck.
“The pod is empty,” the Praetor reported over the comm.
“HS3s have found nothing else in the remaining pods so far,” Bender continued. “No signs of life. Nor any bodies.”
“Have the Centurions move on to the next pod,” Commander Parnell said. “Meanwhile, let’s continue forward until we reach the pod.”
“How you doing back there, ma’am?” Rade asked his charge over a private line.
“Other than a splitting headache?” Vicks replied. “Just fine.”
“Not used to traveling by mech, I take it?”
“That’s not it at all,” she said. After a moment’s hesitation, she finished: “Our landing was a little rough in the shuttle.”
“Ah.” Rade had returned his point of view to that of the cobra’s scope, and he continued to scan the rocks. “G forces will do that too you.”
“Well, let’s just say, the reentry qualifications during school were never my favorite.”
“I didn’t know officers from your rating school did reentry qualifications,” Rade said. In place of rating s
chool, he had almost said ‘Big Navy,’ but he had caught himself in time. It wouldn’t do to start insulting the officer he was assigned to protect, as minor as the insult was. “Seems like something reserved for the infantry. And MOTHs, of course.”
“You’d be surprised at what they make us do,” Vicks said. “Just because I’m a scientist, doesn’t mean I haven’t endured the same bootcamp as everyone else.”
“That’s true.” Rade aimed his targeting reticle over a particularly large rock outcropping. “Though some of us have to endure an even harder bootcamp when they start their rating schools. Not that I’m trying to brag, ma’am.” When he was satisfied that the outcropping was innocuous, he moved his aim on to the next suspicious-looking formation.
“I think I could pass MOTH training,” Vicks said.
It wasn’t the words that irked Rade, but rather the way she had said it. Like it was the easiest training in the world. He decided it wasn’t worth an answer, because if he spoke to her in that moment, he would definitely insult her, just as she had inadvertently done to him.
“Then again, maybe not,” Vicks continued. “I’ve watched Trial Week videos on the InterGalNet. Some brutal stuff. And then when they spray you with OC-40—most concentrated pepper spray around—and shoot you in the arm, and still expect you to fight your instructors? Crazy.”
“Actually,” Rade said. “They shoot you in the arm first. Then spray you. As luck would have it, during that particular qualification, I was shot by a member of my own platoon here. Trace. I didn’t know it at the time, but he’s one of the best snipers on the Teams. A corpsman marked a small X on my forearm, and Trace hit it right in the center. The bullet passed clean through without hitting any bone.”
“So they shoot you, then they OC you, and then you fight?” Vicks asked.
