by Scott Moon
Kill Me Now
A Mech Warrior’s Tale (Shortyverse #2)
Scott Moon
Copyright © 2018 by Scott Moon
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
This story is for all the fans of Keystroke Medium. I’m incredibly grateful to have met so many fantastic writers, readers, and editors. The Live show shenanigans are the best part of my week.
Thank you, Ellen, for pushing me to make this story the best it can be.
Contents
1
2
3
4
About the Author
Also by Scott Moon
Cool Stuff from the Moon
Please leave a review!
1
Let me tell you this right now, the most beautiful girls on Doomsday live in Delta City—the mega-metropolis across the river from Delta Foundry. UNA assholes run the place. Their laws are stupid and their jackbooted cops are dicks.
The red light district is famously expensive. Probably because the police demand a lot of kickbacks from the nicer establishments. Keep the riffraff out. Toss drunks into the street.
Last call my ass. I was drinking… something. Thinking about lost opportunities.
I like the girls. And they like me. And holy shit my mech’s been impounded!
Should’ve stayed at the UCOW base where my sisters are stationed and could use their celebrity influence to get me out of jams like this.
Thoughts of family hurt my head. So do the aftereffects of two-for-one well drinks and last call tequila shots. The twins would’ve kept me away from this place.
Maybe you know them, Lieutenants Shelia and Stacy Dane, known as the Red Angels to some. They’re hotshots driving Battle Axe class forty-five tonners. Recently defeated a Goliath class mech and quashed a major uprising hidden beneath the Foxtrot Foundry.
Not to brag, but I had a part in that fight. Most people don’t know about it. The Red Angels take all the credit and that’s cool.
Sure it is.
Danielle, wherever she is now, knows what I did. She was my eyes in the sky and nearly died before I rescued her. We’ll see each other around, I think. I hope.
My head pounds as I search for whoever is responsible for disabling my mech with a boot. A few workers are heading in for the early shift at the hydroelectric dam that powers Delta Sector’s terraforming plant—one of three on Doomsday that’s reasonably effective. Other workers head into the country to farm and herd sheep or whatever the lonely assholes do with the animals all day.
The sun probably hurts their eyes as much as it does mine.
Like they never tied one on and woke up broke, hungover, and full of vague, half-remembered regrets. I’m never coming back to this shithole.
A trio of girls leave the bar dressed in regular street clothing after cleaning and closing down the place. “See you next time, Shorty.”
I smile and wave. “You bet, ladies. Thanks for the memories.”
Maybe just one more visit. Go easy on the drink specials and make better decisions.
“Remember, it doesn’t take much acetone if you decide you don’t like hooker red,” the second girl says, showing me the diamond stud in her tongue, then blowing me a come-do-me-some-time kiss.
I look at my brightly painted fingernails. “Shit!”
They laugh their way into a subway entrance. Meanwhile, my four meter tall war machine stares down at me, unmoved by my trials and travails.
“Don’t judge me,” I mutter.
No response.
“CAI, can you hear me?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
What a jerk. “I’m going to regret spending the best part of my reward on your personality software. A dude personality. I should have paid for the sexy Danielle voice.”
“No doubt, sir. I imagine you’ll regret a lot of things about last night. Shall I play the video I pulled from the establishment’s surveillance cameras while I was bored and you were… doing things?”
“No. Erase that video now.”
“Are you certain?”
I yearn for the subway where the three lovely ladies have disappeared. “Uh, yeah. Definitely. Erase all evidence of last night.”
“Done. That really cleared up some space on my hard drive.”
“Never mind that. Why are you wearing a parking boot?”
“I told you we couldn’t park here. In fact, I explained in detail why mechanized war machines aren’t allowed in the city and you bitched and moaned about—”
“Parking fees across the river. Yeah, I remember. What’s it gonna cost to get you unlocked? Or can you break that thing?”
“One hundred and forty-nine Quibbdoti. More each day you leave me here. Breaking out would be more expensive in the long term.”
“Put it on my credit card.”
“Done.”
The metal boot pops off. I swear, then climb into the cockpit. “Maybe just keep a few respectable pictures of Melanie, Heather, and Shawna.”
“You mean Michelle, Jessica, and Nina?”
“Yeah, sure. Are those their names?”
“I’ve already erased all evidence of last night.”
“Fine. Why are you such an asshole?”
“Most artificial intelligence personalities are based on the person who purchases them. I’m no exception.”
“I knew that.”
“Do you wish me to answer your question?”
“No. I get it. Let’s walk.”
CAI takes a few steps and everything, other than my pounding brain, seems right with the world.
Except that the world is Doomsday and I’m broke again.
“Which one of those fine young ladies had the diamond tongue stud?”
“That would be Jessica. My analysis suggests by now she is recovering from her time without powered gear. Common methods in Delta City are personal float tanks, automated massage, and saunas, depending on the individual’s financial solvency. Would you like her contact information?”
I think about it. “Yes. No. Not right now. Just don’t erase it.”
“Filing Jessica’s contact information with a note to hook up later.”
“You’re all right, CAI.”
“Glad you approve, Shorty.”
Civilians in gravity assist gear and breather masks crowd the streets. Makes me think of Jessica and her friends. They don’t wear much—nothing powered or protective for sure—but they seem to get by. Party girls are tougher than they look. I should tip better. Maybe be less of a drunken asshole next time.
“Delta City is busy as fuck.”
“Drink some water,” CAI says.
“Whoa. I bought a combat artificial intelligence personality, not my mom. I know how to handle a hangover. And you totally ignored my observation.”
No response. This unit needs some attitude adjustments. Being the smallest, most hunted mech on Doomsday for the last five years (when most don’t last six months, I’ll have you know) has made me quick on my feet. I do things on the move. Multitask. Get shit done.
Like belt into my pilot frame with one hand while I pull my drink tube from its wall mount with the other. Threading it through the loops of my hooded jumpsuit, I’m sipping recycled water like it actually tastes good.
A little hair of the dog would do me better but my mech won’t start if there’s alcohol on my breath. I fumble through nonnarcotic pain meds and tubes of nutrient gel.
“Did we stock up before hitting the red light district?”
“I advised that course of action and you responded with profanity.”
“Sounds right. You were being a nag. Let’s swing through the market, then on to the merc quarter to check the job boards.”
“Problem,” CAI said.
“Don’t bother me with little stuff.”
My Ranger class mech, four meters tall and seventeen tons, grants me a certain feeling of invulnerability. On battlefield, I’m small. But not in Delta City. I’m the biggest thing moving on this street.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the problem?”
“Unknown. However, UNA Military Police units are approaching in an armored flatty.”
Flatties are massive flatbed equipment movers used to relocate industrial machinery or mechs too damaged to be repaired in the field. Combined with the presence of MPs, this doesn’t seem like great news.
“Balls.” I’m the biggest thing.
“Please explain that reference,” CAI says.
“Later.”
“This is Major Henshaw, Delta Sector Military Police,” a man announces on a loudspeaker. “Power down the Ranger and dismount. We know it’s you, Shorty. Comply and there won’t be problems.”
“Love to stop and chat but I already paid the fine and I have work to do.”
A Ranger mech has certain automatic features that don’t rely on the combat artificial intelligence. Basic stuff, including the breathalyzer.
Beeping fills the cockpit, momentarily confusing me. The Ranger stops in the middle of the street.
“CAI, what the hell is happening?”
“My best guess is that the odor of alcohol has been detected on your breath. Perhaps if you stop talking, we might start up again,” CAI says. “How long can you hold your breath?”
Henshaw orders his driver to park, then approaches on foot.
“Recommendation: dismount and talk to him like a man. Try not to breathe on him. He looks like he goes to church.”
“That’s your best advice? Are you gonna bail me out when I get thrown in the brig for punching him in the mouth?”
CAI hesitates. “I didn’t suggest violence. Exporting that particular commodity is my job. Please explain.”
“Later.” I climb down from the cockpit, still arguing with my digital best friend and assistant. “I’m guessing this isn’t about parking tickets.”
Henshaw frowns at my conversation with CAI. “I need your full attention, merc. If I can’t get it, I’ll have your link to your unit blocked.”
“Not without a warrant.”
“Do you imagine I’ll have trouble getting a warrant? Your actions in Delta City should give me card blanche to do whatever I want in the realm of your civil rights. Nice fingernail polish by the way.”
Crossing my arms, I stare up at the man who is annoyingly tall—and I’m not short—outside my mech. Dude’s got thick, perfect hair, an athletic build, and a uniform that fits like he had it tailored. A small, dim light pulses under his MP badge, indicating he’s wearing a powered underlayer to boost his strength and improve his endurance.
Douche.
“Problem?” he asks.
Other than you breathing valuable air I might need later? No problem. And what the hell are you doing looking at my nail polish? “It’s hooker red.”
“That isn’t information I require.”
“Your wife picked it out.”
He nearly explodes, which is way more than I expected from this rather lame, predictable taunt. The temptation to ask CAI more about what I did last night is strong.
Henshaw gets control of himself. This means he’s really pro or afraid of me. I want to think it’s the later.
“Your account has been assessed additional fines and restitution. I’m beaming the statement to your CAI. It does conduct all AI functions for your unit, I assume? Your account balance…” he smirks, “…doesn’t suggest you can afford additional computer software.”
“Get to the point.”
Major Henshaw DSMP levels his icy gaze at me. “You put two MPs in the hospital. A court tried you in absentia and sentenced you to pay their medical bills, other miscellaneous restitution, fines, and legal fees.”
“Why wasn’t I advised of my court date?”
“You were. Would you like to see the body camera footage of the men you battered and the process server you assaulted? My recommendation to you, Mr. Dane, is to avoid alcohol and women. They don’t mix well for you. Specifically, don’t get drunk and hit on an officer’s wife.”
Ouch. “I did that?”
“Yes.”
“Was she hot?”
“Your Ranger will be impounded.” He hooked one thumb at the flatty. “Once you’ve paid what you owe, it will be released. Due to your recent service—not to the UNA but to the UCOW, whom we currently value as allies—you’re being allowed to take your CAI in a mobile device. Do you have a mobile?”
“Yeah. I do. Fucking thanks.”
“Are you still drunk, Mr. Dane?”
“Maybe a little bit.”
He stares at me, thinking hard, studying me from head to toe. “Did you really take on a Goliath class in that thing?”
“Hell yeah, I did.”
We end the conversation and I leave with a suitcase sized computer housing my CAI. “That guy’s all right. Just doing his job.”
“You’re only saying that because he asked about your encounter with the Goliath, sir.”
“Whatever.”
“Several of your fights last night were with people claiming you’d never even seen a Goliath, much less fought one. I had video of these incidents, but you told me to erase it.”
“How convenient. Did I buy the upgrade that allows you to lie to me?”
“No, sir.”
“Truthfully?”
“Dude, this conversation has the potential to lock up my system. Can we end it?”
“Sure, CAI. We better find a job.” I stretch my spine, twist at the waist, and realize there might be fingernail grooves down my back. “And you can’t call me dude, dude. That’s crossing the line. You’re my combat artificial intelligence unit. Call me sir.”
CAI responds after a very long pause. “Yes… sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Dick.”
“Where the fuck did I buy your software upgrade?”
“Black market. Sir.”
“Right. So you can do shit, illegal shit you’re not supposed to. Fight dirty. Talk smack. Hack into other CAIs?”
“Yep.”
“Good to know. Now tell me where I can get some money.”
Carrying the suitcase sized computer that runs CAI’s software and stores all of my Ranger mech’s crucial data wears me out. I feel like CAI’s the king and I’m just the sucker who has to carry him. The money search is taking forever.
“Well?”
“Well what, sir?”
“Where can I get credits to pay these fines and fees and what the hell ever?”
“Recommendation: get a job.”
“Did the personality upgrades slow your processing speed?” I ask.
“Negative, dude… sir.”
“Watch it.” I put down my load and shake out my numb hand.
“How shall I address Shorty?”
I swear for about thirty seconds. “Where can I get paid?”
“Recommendation: get a—”
“Your personality is slowing your processing speed.”
“Are you calling me dumb?” CAI responds. “Seriously? I’m an advanced computer, a combat artificial intelligence that you trust with your life. And all you do is insult me.”
“Calm down. I was just hoping you had a better suggestion.”
“The Red Angels seem to be doing well. My analysis suggests they still have their bounty on the Goliath—ten percent into savings, forty percent into tax sheltered mutual funds, and the rest on expenses. Should I message them?”
“Hell no. Find me a contract. Something I can do in a re
ntal or as a softy.”
“I’ve given you all the information I have. We need to interface with mercenary forum for updates. You know that, even in your condition.”
He’s right, of course. There’s a lot of activity in Delta City— and that gets on my nerves. Makes me think something big is happening, maybe an operation large enough to require mercenary contractors in addition to regular forces. And if that’s the case, I should’ve heard about it.
It’s like my friends in the mercenary corporations aren’t sharing information with me. Sure, I’ve pissed most of them off, but business is business. They know I get things done.
I lug CAI into an old parade ground where mercs recharge their mechs between jobs.
The place feels like home. Mechs, large and small, stand in surprisingly good order. There are colored lines painted on the reinforced asphalt that describe parking stalls. I’m not the only pilot who flaunts rules and military style procedures. But in this case, everyone follows traffic regulations.
No need to step on each other or knock down refueling stations.
Men and women walk between food carts and open air bars. There are equipment stations and diagnostic specialists everywhere. The sky is filled with the contrails of ships coming to Delta City Spaceport and beyond it, Delta Foundry with its maze of destroyed mechs needing to be recycled.
It’s a busy place and I love it.
At the north end of the parade ground is the command center for all mercenary companies and individual contractors in the area. Colonel David Michaels (UNA, retired) sits behind his raised desk with his prosthetic left leg kicked out to one side. His famously shaggy sideburns are turning gray, I notice. A cybernetic monocle replaced his left eye years ago. His powered jumpsuit is an older model he never zips up all the way because he likes to show off a patch of gray hair on his muscular chest.
But the main reason I notice him from a distance is the way he smokes his cigars, head tipped back, mouth blowing smokie rings at the sky whenever he can.
