Starkindler (MechaVerse Series Book 1)

by Jeremy Cunkle

He forced himself to focus on placing one step in front of the other, consciously repeating each step. The difficulty of walking again after sitting for so long coupled with the struggle of remaining awake long enough to make it to his room consumed his thoughts. Exhausted and weary, he failed to register the responses of those he passed within the narrow carved stone hallways; and the now-universal look of awe they gave him as they flattened themselves against the walls, unnecessarily making extra room for him to pass. After what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only seven minutes, he reached his room, collapsing on the bed without changing, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

  * * * * *

  Aurora woke him after twelve hours of continuous uninterrupted sleep, sounding an alarm on the communicator on his wrist. He came to slowly, head pounding and disoriented. His pillow was wet with drool, doing more to motivate him to move than anything Aurora’s attempts to annoy him as she blathered incoherently through the communicator. The dirty uniform he had been wearing for a week straight clung stickily to his body as if it were simply an extra layer of grime, permanently soiling the clean white sheets he had been laying on. During the night, someone had removed his flight suit, but left on the uniform, probably too afraid to remove it without wearing a hazmat suit.

  The overpowering aroma of his own unwashed body sickened him, providing the last motivation he needed to perform his start of the day ablations. He reveled in the clean feeling of the water running over him as he showered, taking far longer than the allotted six minutes, letting the water wash off eight days’ worth of accumulated stale sweat, stink, and grime. Then, he used an electric razor and a pair of electric sheers that had been laid out on the bathroom counter to trim his hair down to close-cropped military regulations. A clean, pure white uniform tailored to his size, had been set out on the bed. The bed itself had also been changed with fresh sheets while he was in the shower. For their sake, Mikkhael hoped they burned the sheets and his old uniform.

  The lack of total privacy was not a concern; he had never expected any while living in Mount Olympus. He would have been surprised and disappointed if the Rebels did not have him under continuous surveillance; after all, he was essentially holding everyone within the base hostage through an omnipotent proxy.

  Mikkhael’s stomach rumbled fiercely as he laced up a pair of new faux leather boots that appeared next to the bed while he was in the shower, an uncomfortable reminder of the proximity of real food when compared against the food bars and other mostly tasteless compounded semi-food like items that had been all that was available to him for the last eight days.

  Stepping into the hall, he was unsurprised to find the stoic female guard standing just outside, noting a slug pistol resting easily on her hip, business end trained in his direction. Absently, he wondered how long she had been waiting. She appeared rested enough, which raised all sorts of questions that he pushed away for the time being, for now he had only one priority. He could ask Aurora and receive every detail about the guard’s purpose and her whereabouts over the last twelve hours if he wanted, but he was rather enjoying her mystery for what it was. For now she was a reminder of his mortality, constantly seconds away from death at any time and there to keep him on his toes, a necessary anchor in life.

  Her response to his presence consisted of her silently half turning towards him. “Good morning,” Mikkhael said, only half-convincingly as he considered the proper way to deal with her.

  No reply issued forth, he had not expected one, but he still felt a bit uncertain about her lack of any response at all. She remained silent, failing to even acknowledge that he addressed her with so much as a blink or change of expression.

  He was not sure what made him want to continue attempting conversation with her. Likely, the urge formed from the same place as childish rebellion in order to test boundaries. The desire to needle her until he received a response was now as pervasive as a nose-itch after putting on a flight helmet, and just as distracting.

  He switched tactics. “What is your name?”

  Again, there was no reply. No acknowledgment that he had even spoken registered on her face. For a brief moment he wondered if his guard might be particularly dimwitted or at the least deaf and mute, sent to follow him as a twisted joke on the part of base security. The temptation to have Aurora pull up everything he wanted to know about the guard including her favorite color and what she had for dinner the night before again pushed itself to the front.

  A flash of inspiration followed. With eyebrows arched wryly, he made one last attempt at communicating with her. “You know, if you don’t tell me your name I will simply have to make one up for you, such as Steve.”

  He paused long enough to make sure there would be no objections. A slight flicker behind her eyes might have betrayed itself, but was quickly suppressed. Mikkhael nodded to himself in satisfaction, it was enough of a victory for now. “Yes, from now on I will call you Steve, unless you tell me otherwise.”

  Irritation lurked deep within the guard, her demeanor changed in subtle ways. Her elbow near her weapon tensed; her pointer finger resting lightly against the slug pistol’s trigger. Her eyebrows drifted farther north of her face, colliding in the center in the way storm clouds do before unleashing their collective fury. Her pupils contracted to tiny pinpricks, nearly disappearing from view.

  “No? Well, Steve, come along then. I am absolutely famished. Have you eaten yet today?” Mikkhael asked as he began walking, not checking to see if the silent guard followed or replied, knowing the answer to both.

  They passed through empty hallways towards the community-dining hall, Aurora guiding him. For his part, Mikkhael kept up a one-sided discussion with his shadow, frequently referencing her new name of Steve as they passed other rebels, reveling in their shocked expressions and the way they scurried off afterwards. He asked empty, rhetorical questions that were only somewhat directed towards her, and then answered them himself at length while meandering through the hallways, all the while reveling in the childish level of teasing and the pleasure that it brought him. Life, after all, was truly about the simple things.

  They arrived at the nearest mess hall, the pillar of hatred in tow behind Mikkhael threatening to consume anything and anyone that had the misfortune of approaching too close. The morning was young enough that there was still about an hour before the mess hall became crowded. Those few filtering in this early were the type that enjoyed starting their day by sitting around reading data slates quietly, slowly sipping a steaming cup of sour coffee that the StormCrows manufactured as much as grew along with the rest of their heavily genetically modified foodstuffs in the fertile volcanic soil in tunnels underneath the mountain.

  While traveling back to Mt. Olympus with the supply pod in tow, Aurora fed him information about the StormCrows in order to both give him something to do as well as learn about the people he was fighting for. As part of her lessons, she provided him with a virtual tour of the inside of the mountain. With a geographical formation the size of a medium country at their disposal, the Crows hallowed out enormous tunnels for precious minerals to use. Some of the tunnels were enlarged to become the hangars, while others were eventually converted to quarters and other menagerie that make up daily life. Others deeper under the mountain were now used as farms, with the added benefit of revitalizing their oxygen supply. Fresh vegetables, grain fields, and in even some areas herds were all raised and taken care under the light of overhead heat lamps to mimic the sun as best as possible.

  As Mikkhael entered the mess hall, the low buzz of indistinct conversation halted and it was if he could feel an electric current instantly charge the atmosphere. The eyes of each diner were now fixated on him. The mess hall in this wing of the mountain could seat up to three hundred people at full capacity. Eight long tables filled most of the space, with a buffet at the far end emitting smells that made his stomach growl fiercely in anticipation of engorgement. Barely forty seats were currently occupied, interspersed randomly
throughout the hall. Most of the early morning diners sat alone although a few small clumps had formed. Their faces unabashedly tracked his movement as he made his way through the breakfast buffet line, pillar of hatred in tow, and then sat at a nearly empty table in the back of the hall where he could see the entire mess hall, including the only exit

  Slowly, conversation picked up, the hushed and now fervent whispering creating a constant buzz that had not been present before. Many of the halls occupants began fiddling with their communicators. Within minutes, dozens of new faces entered the dining hall, barely disguising their interest in Mikkhael. The taste of blood and the excitement of drama distinctively filled the air of the mess hall. The socialite sharks were already circling in anticipation of what was to come. The late comers chose tables already occupied on the periphery of the hall where they could see everything unobstructed rather than sit in the center of attention and miss something important. The buzzing grew in intensity as yet more faces entered the mess hall.

  Mikkhael did his best to ignore them, concentrating harder than necessary on eating the tasteless pancakes, the sad vat grown excuse for meat that declaimed itself as sausage, and the dry powdered eggs; enjoying every delicious bite until the table shifted under him. He had been so wrapped up in eating his first cooked meal in a very long time, while avoiding the staring press of the growing mob; that he failed to notice anyone approach. The fact that the individual who now sat across the table had approached him head on, staying just outside of Mikkhael’s peripheral vision where movement would draw natural curiosity spoke volumes about the qualities of the person.

  The man removed a pair of real leather gloves; rare invaluable treasures this far from Earth. Mikkhael knew it was a man by the shape of his hands. They were a pale white, strong from steady use, but not calloused and worn like a mechanics or a laborer. The gloves were obviously a long time affection to maintain their wearer’s hands as best as possible on the harsh planet. He made the judgment that whoever was now in front of him, maintained their physical self incredibly meticulously, all with the intention of retaining maximum lethality at any point in time; an idea that surprised him even though he knew in his gut that he was correct.

  Mikkhael’s gaze lifted, taking in the faded brown leather pilot’s jacket, plainly adorned, half buttoned to reveal an out of regulation undershirt. As his gaze climbed still higher, it revealed more than several days’ worth of stubble on the face of the man across from him. Bright tattoos of different colored serpents intertwined as they crawled up the side of the man’s neck and then into the back of his hair. Emerald green eyes flashed in the pilots face with the piercing intelligence of a hawk having already surveyed its prey, and found the challenge of the kill distastefully wanting. All of that was the more striking against a mop of out of regulation unruly grey hair that more closely resembled a bird’s nest than a combat pilot’s hair. The clash of stereotypes that presented themselves in the man’s appearance baffled Mikkhael, leaving him temporarily speechless.

  The stranger ignored him, eating in silence with a gusto that reminded Mikkhael of his own flash of gluttonous pleasure moments before. The wonderful tastes were no longer present as the eggs disassembled and ran across the plate, the pseudo pancakes seeming to fall apart as their ruse was found out. The sausage crunched harshly in his mouth, charred by sitting too long without being turned on the grill.

  Mikkhael innately understood that his world had just changed, but at the current rate of silent waiting he would never find out if it was for good or bad. His lack of confidence in the situation unnerved him. He worked up the courage to force the issue when it was solved before it began.

  The pilot looked up from the bowl of oatmeal he had just seemingly inhaled, pushing it away from him to the center of the table with one hand while wiping his mouth with the opposite sleeve of his jacket, leaving a messy brown smear to fade in against ample evidence of similar past actions.

  An old world British accent only added to the growing mystery. “I wanted to come meet you for myself, stare into the devils eyes as it were. I have to admit, you seem unremarkable in person. You have balls kid, that’s for sure. I doubt that you can recognize when to turn and avoid a fight however; so, it’s been nice meeting you. I sincerely doubt you will have the opportunity to meet me again at this rate despite that fancy Mech armor you pilot. Shame really.”

  The stranger stood, collecting his empty food items back onto his tray, and turned to walk away when he muttered one last thing. “Still can’t believe you took on a Reaper and won though.”

  Mikkhael was stunned. No one should have been aware yet of just how intense his recent battle had been; certainly, no one should know that he had destroyed a Reaper in one on one combat. Implications of what the strange pilot said flashed through this mind.

  He stood quickly, nearly falling backwards over the seat in his desperation to halt the strange pilot. “Wait! How do you know about the Reaper?”

  The assembled mass of rebel social parasites already numbering over a hundred leaned in as one, sensing the moment they had showed up for was tantalizingly close. The strange pilot turned back, considering him, clearly calculating his reply. “That wasn’t intentional?”

  Mikkhael’s confusion spoke for him, the strange pilot clarified. “The broadcast; that wasn’t you?”

  “Damnit Aurora!” Mikkhael swore loudly.

  The venomous tone momentarily caught the strange pilot off guard, who then recovered by chuckling heartily. “I had you figured for a show boater after seeing the broadcast and what you did out there, so I came to see you for myself before you died. Things make a bit more sense now. Who is Aurora?”

  Taking her cue, Aurora announced her presence through the wrist communicator. “Mikkhael, meet ace pilot of the Rebel forces of Mount Olympus and leader of the infamous StormCrow Brigade’s MARS units, Captain Leon Cartwright, the White Tiger of the Red plain. Confirmed kill count of seventeen enemy Mech units as well as eight mobile armored vehicles including dozens of supporting drones. Additionally, Captain Cartwright has successfully destroyed numerous heavy infantry positions as well as led the most successful series of raids against the PDF in the last few years outside of the WinterSong faction.

  She continued, “As you so correctly deduced Captain, Mikkhael was entirely unaware that I was relaying real time satellite video feed of the battle throughout the base. Not only was the footage broadcast to the base, but throughout most of Mars on many public channels. The people of Mars need to know that a force capable of challenging the PDF directly has now entered the fray for their freedom on their behalf. As for myself, I am the fully independent AI personality of Starkindler, otherwise known as Mikkhael’s right hand.”

  The strange pilot sat back down while Aurora spoke through the wrist communicator, his curiosity winning. As she finished, he whistled slowly. “Ah, now I remember, you’re the one holding the base hostage and not allowing us to go out on unsanctioned patrols if rumors hold true. It also appears that your owner has little or no input over your judgment calls, making you more than a loose cannon, and one that controls all of our lives to boot. That is just damned gutsy kid, not sure I could handle that.”

  He tried his best to ignore the direct jibes, but Mikkhael felt his face turning red with anger. The hostile undertone used by the Captain was subtle, presenting layers of insults within each phrase as the British were known to do. Ever since they failed in their conquest to dominate Earth each of the countless times they tried, they instead resorted to sarcasm and biting one-line broadsides to mask their bitterness at only ever halfway succeeding.

  Captain Cartwright continued as if he did not notice the effects of his words. The assembled parasites stared in awe, straining to hear every syllable; this was the moment they had all been waiting for, they could feel it. “What happens if your pilot dies on you while you’re in one those fights though? I mean sure, your Mech armor seems to be the real deal, but let’s face it, shit happens.
If you get iced in the middle of a fight, you’re really going to risk that during a live broadcast? Seems you’d be doing the bastards a favor by nixing the people’s last ray of hope for them on live TV.” Sarcasm mixed with outright mockery rolled from the ace pilot like waves crashing on a beach.

  Unbidden, Aurora continued to speak for Mikkhael, beating him to the reply as if she had been expecting a hostile response all along. “Well, that’s obviously not the plan” she paused, matching the pilots earlier tone syllable for syllable “for Mikkhael to get iced.” She placed extra emphasis on the word.

  The strange pilot laughed. “Of course that isn’t the plan, it’s the other damned fool’s job to die while you go riding in on your shining white knight of yours and rescue everyone. I got it; we all grew up with that dream when we were twelve. Problem with plans is, once the first bullet gets fired, they have a tendency to get thrown out the window. And as for those other bastards, they don’t like to just lie over and die even if you ask ‘em to nicely.”

  This time, it was Aurora’s turn to laugh as she in turn mocked the Captain. “Oh is that true? We haven’t exactly noticed that to be the case.”

  The strange pilot went red in the face; the situation was a blink of an eye from exploding out of control when the Commander’s daughter Eve appeared, potentially adding fuel to the budding forest fire. She was dressed the same as in their previous encounter, khaki pants with a dozen different sized pockets, pilots flight jacket zipped most of the way up, a male issue undershirt barely showing underneath, hair cropped short just under her ears to make putting on a pilot’s helmet easier. She disdainfully ignored Captain Leon as she addressed Mikkhael.

  “You’ve been ordered to report to my dad in his office right away. And tell him I’m not your friggin’ messenger girl.” Eve turned and began to walk the other way when Aurora spoke up.

  “Actually, he requested that we meet him and the Command Staff in his office right after Mikkhael finishes eating his first decent meal in over a week. I can see and hear everything that occurs within the mountain as well as your MARS units, and you would do well to remember that fact Eve Ultor.”