by Jake Bible
Then he was before it. There it was. His mech, all alone in the desert landscape, not a single sentry posted, not a roller with a belt gun or a rifleman on a horse. It stood there, waiting for him to climb aboard.
To climb aboard…
“Dammit,” he muttered as he looked at the ladder rungs on the mech’s leg. “Crap.”
Clay didn’t hesitate. He knew if he did he’d just talk himself out of the climb. So he grabbed on and put one hand over the other. He rested when he needed to, especially when the black spots started in his vision. The sun brutalized him and he had to hold on with both hands while taking deep breaths in order to keep from succumbing to the heat.
Hand over hand, bloody foot over bloody foot, Clay made it up the leg and to the cockpit hatch.
He undid the latch and pushed up with the last of his strength. He managed to collapse over the lip and fall inside, grateful for the insulated cockpit and the cool metal. He rested his body for as long as he could without risking falling asleep. Then he pushed up, crawled to the pilot’s seat, and hauled himself up into it.
Clay undid a small recessed hole in the seat’s arm. He fished the pocket watch from his trousers, thumbed it open, and set it inside the hole. It was swallowed up by the arm and the mech came to life.
“Gibbons?” Clay called out. It was a long shot, way too soon for the AI co-pilot to have transferred back to the main decks, but worth a shot.
Clay busied himself with his start-up checklist, which took at least thirty minutes since he didn’t dare skip a step. Not when his mech had been in the hands of less than friendly folks. He also didn’t know what damage had been done when his weapons systems were removed.
Nothing major came up in his inspections, so he fired up the engines and tested the mech’s movements. It took a step easily then another before Clay brought it to a stop.
“Gibbons?” Clay called out.
“Here,” Gibbons announced.
“You made it!” Clay almost cried.
“Obviously,” Gibbons said. “And not a moment too soon. I thought I’d go insane if I had to spend another second in that joke of a sequester system they had set up for me. I could have been out of there a long, long time ago, but I knew you’d find the mech, so I waited.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Clay said. “Do me a favor and take the controls, will ya? Get us the hell out of here while I do some doctoring on my feet.”
“Hey!” Gibbons yelled. “Where the bloody hell are my belt guns and cannons and rocket launchers?”
“They stripped the mech, buddy,” Clay said. “Took my pistol too. We are both sans weapons.”
“Sons of bitches,” Gibbons growled. “Those lowdown sons of bitches.”
“I agree one hundred percent,” Clay said. “Now walk us the hell away from here.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Gibbons replied. “Did they just let you go?”
“They did,” Clay said. “The Mister must have figured I wouldn’t be able to walk all the way to the mech, climb inside, and then still have energy enough to pilot the mech and leave. Not without you. Good thing he assumed the watch worked the way they used to work back in the Bloody Conflict. The man never even considered that we may have made some adjustments over the years.”
“Stupid mistake,” Gibbons said. “But then we are a unique duo, ain’t we?”
“That we are, buddy,” Clay said. “That we are.”
The mech turned and started stomping across the desert as Clay slid to the floor, crawled over to a small panel, and fetched the first aid kit. It took him an hour to clean and dress his feet. He thought about finding his extra boots, but couldn’t bring himself to even try to yank them up around his feet, no matter what protection they would provide. Instead, he found his hidden stash of provisions and guzzled two bottles of water before tearing into the last of his salted beef reserves. Or was it salted antelope? He couldn’t remember and didn’t care. It was meat and it was salted, that was all that mattered.
“Hey, Clay?” Gibbons said.
“Yeah?” Clay replied as he pulled himself back into the pilot’s chair.
“You see what I see?” Gibbons asked. “Coming at us hard from the compound?”
Clay brought up the rear scanners and frowned. “Six rollers. Heavy buggers. Full cannons on each one.”
“We gonna just make a run for it?” Gibbons asked. “Or turn and do some stomping?”
“Run,” Clay said. “I don’t have it in me to fight.”
“I hear ya there, pal,” Gibbons said. “You just kick back and relax and let me get us the hell out of this place.”
“Don’t stop running until we need to hunt for some geothermal, okay?” Clay said. “I want to be as far from this territory as possible.”
“Got ya,” Gibbons said. “Current power cell reserves will takes us as far as… Oh, crap. You’ve got a call coming in from the old man.”
“I expected he’d call soon,” Clay said. “I’m surprised he didn’t call before he sent the rollers out. Bring it up on the front screen, will ya?”
“Can do,” Gibbons said.
The face of the Mister filled the front screen of the cockpit hatch, blocking out the view of the never-ending desert.
“Mr. MacAulay,” the Mister said, smiling wide. “You have more spirit than I thought. Good on you.”
“I didn’t last this long in life by quitting and doing what others tell me to do,” Clay said.
“You can say that again,” Gibbons muttered.
“Hush,” Clay said.
“What was that, Mr. MacAulay?” the Mister asked.
“Just talking to my co-pilot,” Clay said, a smirk on his face. “The co-pilot I was able to retrieve so easily from your system.”
“Yes, about that,” the Mister said, his smile never faltering. “That was a fancy trick you pulled there, taking your AI out of a densely protected, and sequestered, security deck. My techs still aren’t sure how you did it.”
“And I have no plans to tell them how,” Clay said. “That all you called to tell me, Mister? Because I was about to take a nap. Gonna sleep my way right out of this entire territory.”
“Leaving us so soon?” the Mister asked. “What a shame. Even if you aren’t going to fight for me, I sure would love it if you joined in the tournament.”
“Gibbons? Kill the mic,” Clay said.
“Mic killed,” Gibbons announced.
“Is he full of crap?” Clay asked.
“Nope,” Gibbons responded. “Voice analysis as well as facial tell analysis says he’s being sincere. The old man wants us to fight.”
“That’s weird,” Clay said. “We’d mop up the competition in seconds. None of the other mechs have fully integrated AI co-piloting. What’s he getting at?”
“Don’t know,” Gibbons said. “Maybe ask him.”
“Mic on,” Clay said. He cleared his throat. “Why?”
“I’m sorry, are you addressing me?” the Mister asked.
“Can you hear me?” Clay responded. “Because if you can then I’m addressing you, old man. Why would you want me to compete in the tournament?”
“I have been dominating the tournament for years and it does not look like any of the challengers will be even close to ending that streak this year,” the Mister said. “The public is getting bored. I can’t afford for them to get bored. A bored public turns into an angry mob in a very, very short time, Mr. MacAulay.”
“So this is about ratings?” Clay laughed.
“That would be an appropriate analogy,” the Mister said. “Although we could hardly be compared to the major metro areas and their vid entertainments. We’re just a humble backwater of a territory.”
“I think I’ll pass,” Clay said. “I have been having so much fun since I stepped into that damn hemp field that I think I need a break. Maybe on my way back through.”
“Oh, will you be coming back through?” the Mister asked.
“Not a chance in hell,” Clay
replied. “End com.”
The screen blinked out and the brightness of the desert returned to the cockpit windshield.
“Rollers are still coming, but they are not gaining on us,” Gibbons said. “Looks like an escort.”
“The old man wants to make sure I don’t turn around and get a little vengeance,” Clay said. “Can’t blame him. If I wasn’t so beat up, I probably would go smash some of those buildings.”
“He’s got good mechs and a couple good mech pilots. One great one, from what I learned,” Gibbons said. “Wouldn’t be easy.”
“Which is why we aren’t doing it,” Clay said. He eased back in his pilot’s chair and closed his eyes. “Wake me only if you have to.”
“Roger that, good buddy,” Gibbons said.
The mech rumbled on, stomping its way through empty creek beds and around towering mesas. Gibbons didn’t bother with the roads, he never did. The advantage of being a fifty-foot-tall battle mech with legs was that you could make your own roads. The disadvantage of being a fifty-foot-tall battle mech was that you were fifty feet tall.
Not exactly inconspicuous.
An hour and a half later, Gibbons stopped walking. Scanners showed the roller, and the people, directly in their path to be less than a legitimate threat. A few grenades and a rocket launcher in the back of the roller, but it would take the people too long to get to them before Gibbons brought a giant foot down on them all.
The only reason he had stopped was because they were holding a huge hand painted sign that read, “MacAulay! You owe us!”
“Clay,” Gibbons said loud enough to roust Clay from his sleep. “You are going to want to see this.”
“What is it?” Clay asked as he opened his eyes and gave his head a little shake to knock the sleep loose.
“You know these yahoos?” Gibbons asked.
Clay brought up a view of the people and the roller that waited far below. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes for a couple seconds, looked again, sighed some more, then stood up.
“Open the hatch,” Clay said. “I’ll talk to them directly.”
“You’re going down there?” Gibbons asked.
“No way,” Clay said. “I’ll just shout down at them.”
“Not exactly the high road,” Gibbons said. “Kind of rude.”
“Don’t care,” Clay said. “I am so over all of these people.”
Clay limped to the hatch and leaned out over the lip as he stared down at the roller. And the comunistas that stood around the roller, their sombreros shading their faces. Clay could see the red bandanas clearly and grumbled.
“What do you want, Willow?” Clay yelled down.
Willow stepped forward, handing the sign she had been holding back to Dandelion.
“You owe us a fight in the tournament, Clay MacAulay!” Willow shouted up at him.
She had to crane her neck at an awkward angle, making the wide brim of the sombrero useless against the sun. She shielded her eyes with her hands, but then she couldn’t see Clay.
Clay smirked at the discomfort it was causing her.
“I don’t owe you a damn thing,” Clay said. “My deal was with the underground. And Nasta is gone. Returned to her people. You guys need to work out your issues amongst yourselves. I want nothing to do with any of it. See ya.”
“Wait!” Willow yelled. “We have already entered you in the tournament! Did that as soon as we stepped into Del Rado the other day.”
“Well, that was stupid as hell,” Clay said. “I hadn’t agreed to fight for you yet. Guess you learned a lesson there.”
“It was hasty of me, but I had been told you were a man of honor, as all mech pilots are,” Willow responded. “But I see you are nothing but a dirty drifter playing with a big toy that’s too much for him to handle. Pitiful, is what you are.”
“Damn,” Gibbons chuckled. “She does not like you.”
“Feeling is mutual,” Clay said. “I can’t stand comunistas.”
“Oh, is that what they are?” Gibbons asked. “I should have known from the outfits.”
“Can you move, please?” Clay asked. “We really need to get going.”
“We? Who is this we?” Willow asked. “Who do you have up there?”
“None of your damn business,” Clay said. “Just move.”
“I think we will stay right where we are,” Willow said and crossed her arms over her chest. “You owe us an entry into the tournament. I will not leave until you agree to fight for our cause. Look into your heart, comrade! You know our way is the true way for all the peoples of the land!”
“Gibbons?” Clay asked.
“On it,” Gibbons said.
The mech started walking again. It easily stepped right over the roller and the comunistas.
“Bye!” Clay called as he waved to the tiny people below.
He heard Willow cursing his name just before closing the hatch. Blessed silence greeted him and he limped back to the pilot’s seat, collapsed into it, and took a deep, cleansing breath before closing his eyes once again.
Another hour and half passed before Gibbons pulled up short once again.
“Clay,” Gibbons called.
“What now?” Clay asked.
“More company,” Gibbons said.
“Of course,” Clay said without opening his eyes. “What are we looking at now?”
“Uh, two women and a roller,” Gibbons said. “One looks really pissed off and one looks, I don’t know, hopeful? I think that’s the face she’s making. Or maybe worried. I don’t know. Humans have a lot of facial expressions and I can never get them straight without running an analysis protocol. Which I’m not going to do since you can clean up your own shit for a change.”
“What do they look like?” Clay asked, ignoring the slight.
Gibbons described Firoa and Nasta to a tee.
“They’re cool,” Clay said. “Go ahead and stop. I’m going down there.”
“Really?” Gibbons asked. “The pissed off one really, really looks pissed off. And she’s got a scatter gun in each hand.”
“It’s good,” Clay said. “Bring up your hand and lower me down.”
Clay limped back to the hatch and waited for Gibbons to bring a hand up. He crawled out onto the palm and let the AI lower him to the desert floor where Nasta and Firoa were waiting.
“You’re alive,” Nasta said and rushed to him. She grabbed him up in a big hug then used her hands to carefully pat him all over. “Did the Mister torture you? You look alright. New bandages on your head. What did you do to yourself this time?”
“I’m fine,” Clay said. “Just glad you got away unhurt.”
“The Mister isn’t as psycho as General Hansen,” Nasta said. “He keeps his word most times.”
“Still, you’re underground and he knows it,” Clay said. “He’s not a fan.”
“He sees us as a nuisance, not as a threat,” Nasta said and shrugged. “Which is true for the most part. But now you’re here and can fight for us in the tournament.”
“Yeah, about that…” Clay said and scrunched up his face in a lame look of apology. “I’m going to pass on the tournament. I stopped only to make sure you were okay and to say goodbye. Thank you for saving me and nursing me back to health.”
“Goodbye?” Firoa snapped. “You lousy bastard.”
“Fi. Hush,” Nasta said. The look in her eyes told Clay she was thinking the same thing.
“I am sorry, but I have a chance to leave now, so I am going to take it,” Clay said. “I have a long, long journey ahead of me and I can’t afford distractions.”
“Distractions? Is that what I am?” Nasta asked.
“We,” Firoa said. “You mean we.”
“We,” Nasta said and gave Clay a weak smile. “That’s what I meant.”
“I…uh…” Clay stuttered and rubbed at his head. “Yeah, listen, Nasta, like I said, I appreciate what you all did for me, but as far as I’m concerned, we are even.”
“The co
munistas have already entered you,” Nasta said. “If you don’t fight for them then they’ll hold us accountable. We can’t afford a rift with the comunistas, Clay. You have to understand that you are our only hope.”
“Please, stop saying that. You are capable people all on your own,” Clay said and nodded at Firoa. “I think Firoa here could win the tournament with her bad attitude alone.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Nasta snapped.
“I know,” Clay replied. “And it isn’t my problem, either. I already ran into the comunistas. I told them the same thing I’m going to tell you. I am out of here. I have my own life and my own agenda, Nasta. I barely know you people. I barely know you.”
Nasta grabbed his face and gave him a huge kiss. Clay resisted at first then eased into it. Firoa sighed and grumbled behind them as their mouths worked against each other.
“Get a cave,” Firoa muttered.
When they finally pulled away from each other, Nasta looked up at Clay expectantly.
“That was nice,” Clay said. “And you make a good argument. Your lips are very persuasive. But they are just lips. There are lots of lips out in the world, but I only have one life. I can’t fight for you. I’m sorry.”
The slap was hard, fast, and not unexpected. Clay would have been lying to himself if he said he hadn’t been in that exact same position before. It was a major reason he was getting out of there as fast as possible.
“You are an honorless bastard,” Nasta said, backing up to Firoa’s side.
“Want me to blow his ass way?” Firoa asked, raising one of the scatter guns.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Gibbons called over the loudspeakers. “You pull that trigger and I stomp your ass, lady.”
Firoa looked up in alarm and then shook her head. “Whatever.”
“Is that Gibbons?” Nasta asked. “Maybe he’d fight for us.”
“No can do, chica,” Gibbons said. “Clay is the bossman of this operation. I’m just the hired help.”
“I’m sorry,” Clay said as he backed up to the mech’s open palm. “I truly am. Believe me, I wish things could be different.”
