Kill Me Now

by Scott Moon

  CAI’s getting heavier by the second. My left arm has to be longer than my right after the walk from where my Ranger was impounded. I lock the CPU to a charging station and press my thumb to the credit screen—which warns me I am dangerously low on funds and that my CAI unit and Ranger mech backup will be held against payment if necessary.

  “Well ain’t that a sight,” Colonel Michaels says. “The giant killer, right here, in my presence.”

  He pats his shirt as though looking for a notepad. “I wish I had something you could autograph. Dang, Shorty. You look like hell. Where’s that sawed-off Ranger mech you’re always bragging about?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t mess with wives of UNA officers,” Michaels says.

  “Wife. Singular.”

  “I knew it. Boy, what is your problem? Mercs don’t mess with UNA officers, and they really don’t mess with their wives.”

  “I didn’t mess with anyone, so far as I can remember. I need a job. Something easy.”

  “I got a nice transport gig for you.”

  “Fine. Sign me up. My certifications and insurance are current. Mercenary Union Member in good standing and all that.”

  “Let me check. Yep. You paid those dues at least. You’re smarter than you look.”

  “Can I have the job?”

  “Yeah, you can have the job… if you have a mech. Where is that dinky little Ranger class hunk of junk?” the contract boss asks. “You never answered the first time, which makes me think you lost it in a card game.”

  “I don’t gamble.”

  “You just blow money on booze and women.”

  “Something wrong with that?”

  Michaels shifts awkwardly, like maybe he knows there is but senses the conversation has grown dangerous.

  “Sorry, Colonel.”

  “I’m just saying you don’t normally go on a bender. But when you do, bad shit happens.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “Did you really fight a Goliath?”

  “Fuck yeah I did. You wanna hear about it?”

  “Only if you tell me which UNA officer’s wife has the hots for you.”

  “I could make some shit up but I’m too tired. So far as I know, and I’m just guessing here, I probably yelled something inappropriate as I walked past the UNA Officer’s Club and pissed people off. It was a busy night, or so I’m told.”

  Michaels laughs.

  Leaving CAI in the charging station to avoid the disconnect and reconnection fees, I go shopping. This way, I save money and still have remote access.

  “Mic check, 1-2-3. Can you hear me, CAI?”

  “I hear you.” CAI makes a series of random clicks. “Sir.”

  “What were those noises?”

  “Noises, sir?”

  “Never mind.”

  “You’re the one who makes all the noises.”

  “Watch your tone, CAI. And what the hell are you talking about?”

  “You snore.”

  Huh, who knew. I wonder if the clicks are CAI snoring? Little half second micro-naps?

  There aren’t as many rentals available as there should be. Something’s happening. Everyone has a job but me.

  The merc quarter is old. We like to think of it as vintage or even retro. Appearances are worth less than a bag of cats on Doomsday.

  I should maintain a reasonably solid connection with CAI despite his growing recalcitrance as long as I don’t wander too far.

  “I don’t snore. But let’s not fight about it. Keep looking for jobs and rentals. See if someone can beat Michaels’ offer. Figure out where everyone went. Someone has to be laying down some serious Quib for the merc quarter to be so empty.”

  “Checking a few things now. Lots of activity… Can’t find… the source. Communications satellites are… blocked?”

  He sounds a bit doped up which I think is hilarious. There’s no explanation for this behavior but I’ve noticed it before—though not to this extent—and always wondered what goes on when an artificial intelligence gets hooked into the mainframe for recharging.

  “CAI, can you see what I’m seeing?”

  “You know that I can’t. I’m trolling the mercenary forums and reviewing the available rentals. In effect, I can see what you’re seeing but I resent your casual tone.”

  “A simple yes or no would’ve been fucking fine. I’ve got three to choose from.”

  “Interesting, there should be four. I’ll report the stolen unit immediately.”

  “Whatever.” I wait while he interfaces with the mainframe of Delta City Metro Police.

  “No answer,” CAI says. “I logged my attempt to do the right thing. What are you laughing at, Shorty?”

  “You. So civic minded. Good job, CAI017Doomsday.”

  “I hate it when you use my full name. Am I in trouble?”

  One of my choices is an S15, basically a scout mech not that different from my Ranger. Designed and manufactured by the Chinese Communist Empire (CCE), this model doesn’t have a reputation for reliability.

  “Something’s wrong with the CCE hunk of junk. Looks like someone just parked it here.”

  “My scan shows it capable of normal functioning. Strange.”

  “What?”

  “Can you tell if it is occupied?”

  “Don’t get weird on me, CAI. Of course it’s not occupied. Let’s just move on.”

  “I will report this to the authorities.”

  “Where did I find a foul mouthed, black market software upgrade with a civic duty booster installed?”

  “I’m one of a kind, Shorty, just like you. One moment.”

  The next mech is French with all the bells and whistles and stylistic embellishments favored by the greater Galactic Republic of France (GGRF) engineers. It looks like a race car that’s somehow able to walk and actually has wheels visible in its feet like it’s going to transform for a night on the town after the mission is over.

  A thick layer of dust covers this thing, making me think it’s a lemon no one wants.

  The third has the clean lines and notoriously functional design of New Germany’s best minds. With feet and lower legs covered by ceramic treads, the Trittmeister 197 is commonly known as the Crawler. It can go over almost any terrain without sinking. It doesn’t walk so much as it shuffles along and grinds up the ground beneath it.

  Climbing walls or steep cliffs—eh, it’s not the best. I don’t think there’s much around here that will give the 197 a hard time, but the way my luck is going, anything could happen.

  “I’m back,” CAI says. “It seems you been staring at this unit for some time. Shall I look at the contract?”

  I shake my head at the other units and feel depressed. How did I get myself in this mess?

  “This one will have to do. I’ll drive it back and you can plug in before we run a maintenance check and fuel it up.”

  CAI doesn’t respond. Apparently, he thinks the conversation is over and I guess it is. My head pounds and I feel like I have the flu. “Have you run an analysis of its performance specs? The sooner we can get this job done and back into the Ranger the better.”

  “Agreed. The Trittmeister 197 Crawler should be adequate for a simple escort gig. I have transferred the appropriate funds and you may now take possession of the rental for forty-eight hours.”

  “Can we complete the mission in that time?”

  “We better, because you’re broke. Officially. Like completely broke. Like it’s kind of embarrassing—”

  “I get it.” Climbing into the 197 feels weird. It’s like kissing a new girl after you’ve been going steady for a long time.

  The 197 is bigger than my Ranger, approximately twenty-seven tons, with the cockpit off one shoulder due to the way it carries its weapons. It has a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted on the torso with tracks that allow it to traverse horizontally three hundred and sixty degrees. The main gun is a stubby rocket launcher. It does somethin
g similar to the fifty-cal over the centerline, basically traveling vertically up the back or down the chest.

  Ugly. As. Sin.

  The treads look heavier than they are, I hope.

  Because it doesn’t look like it can run. At all.

  “What’s the top speed on this thing compared to my Ranger?”

  “Eighty percent.”

  “Fuck me. It will have to do.”

  Stale air rushes from the cockpit when I open it but I see something that makes my day. Twinkies. An entire box, family size. It takes all the discipline I pretend to have to not rip open the box. I run my system checks and start the monster, then tear into the treats.

  “You’re going to wish you waited until you had something to drink,” CAI says. “Recommendation: milk or cola.”

  I talk with my mouth full. “You said you didn’t have cameras on me.”

  “You’re hooked up to the Trittmeister 197 Crawler now and I’m streaming through the merc quarter feed. Slow, but sufficient for our current environment. This thing isn’t bad. Should have one in your garage, whenever you get one. Like when you’re not broke.”

  “Let’s not talk about money for a while. Unless you’ve actually found the mech I programed at Foxtrot Foundry? What is it, CAI? Cat got your tongue? No wild goose chases for me today?”

  “Why don’t we discuss your recent bad decisions and dangerous lifestyle?”

  “How about you shut up while I get the feel for this thing.”

  As usual, CAI takes me literally. It’s a natural effect of his original programming. Before I dropped far too much money into his personality upgrade, I had all of the settings at minimum. Back in the good old days, we rarely talked at all.

  “I’m taking Michaels’s contract. Gonna be tough as a solo gig.”

  “I’ve got you covered, Shorty. Two mech pilots have signed up and have working units.”

  “Really? Where’d they come from?”

  “Just got into town. Went straight to the merc quarter for new jobs. Seems they are caravan protection experts. That’s all they do. Their public posted logs indicate they prefer a quick turnaround to keep the money flowing.”

  They have public logs? “Do they have any of their prior work flagged private?”

  “One or two entries each, like the sample log entries most pilots are required to make during their initial training and certification.”

  “Huh. Do I dare ask how long ago they went through basic?” All of my missions are flagged as private so 1) I can protect the interests of my clients, and 2) I can make up better stories about the badass shit I did against impossible odds blah, blah, blah.

  “Records show three years ago.”

  “Hell, that isn’t bad. How long on Doomsday?”

  “Six weeks.”

  “Shit, they’re practically veterans in this place. That’s longer than a lot of people stay alive or employed.”

  “Agreed. Shall I inform them we’ll accept them into our squad?”

  “Yeah, make sure they know who’s the boss.”

  “Done.”

  2

  I meet my new squamates in the rundown but clean training area the UNA allows mercs like us. It’s far too near the civilian area and the noise of the terraforming plant towering above us can be distracting. Up the hill, closer to the spaceport and the wealthier manor houses, the air is fucking delicious. Or so I’ve been told.

  “Okay Patrick, you’re our heavyweight.”

  “Call me Pat.” He smiles at his big ass, ugly hunk of junk. Years of replacement parts came in all different colors. There are two words to describe his war machine, ugly and solid. “It’s old but works for me. I’ve just always favored the Hammer class.”

  The Hammer is a sixty-four-ton mech with a massive main gun, a bank of mortar tubes, and twin fifties for antipersonnel work. Back in the day, Hammers were known as gate crashers and enforcers. Some of the bigger assholes who piloted them used to stomp through houses if civilians didn’t ooh and ahh at how mighty they were… or pay bonuses. Long story.

  If he thinks I’m impressed he’s mistaken. I realize the guy wants my approval, but I ignore him. Because I can be a jerk like that. In my defense, he probably assumes I didn’t really catch the reference to what was once the premier mech warrior class.

  The problem with the Hammers is their outdated weaponry. The howitzer is little better than a modern tank. The mortars are best used against fixed emplacements. The machine guns it uses to repel infantry are a joke, unless you’re a true infantryman.

  Twenty years ago this worked well because everybody was using the same tools. Mechs were scarce and most militaries relied on upgraded infantry and lightly armored vehicles. Some still do for reconnaissance or police functions.

  We’ll be fighting mechs if we fight anything at all, so the twin fifty caliber machine guns are stupid. I don’t say a anything.

  Being a nice guy is hard work.

  Pat shifts nervously. “We can probably use your CAI to provide command control for our unit.”

  I almost forgot. Hammer CAIs are stupid. Reliable, but rigid and inflexible. Their processing speed is slow. The only really good thing about Hammer software is that it never crashes.

  “That’s no problem. CAI is up for it.”

  “Don’t you have a name for it?” Pat looks at James for help, then back at me. “You can’t just call it CAI. We all have combat artificial intelligence software,—you’ll be glad to know mine at least has a name, Thor.”

  “Nice,” I say. “You call your mech the god of thunder. I’m going to puke right here.”

  The mech James drives is probably ten times more expensive. The laser class is modern and sleek. It has a long range laser mounted on one shoulder and small, underpowered energy weapons—a light laser and an electric slasher—on its arms.

  “Nice mech, James. Very clean.”

  “Thank you, I try.”

  “Let’s get started. I want to get paid ASAP.”

  “ASAP?” Pat asks.

  “As soon as fucking possible.”

  “Uh, is that… right?” Pat mouths through the words comparing them to the acronym.

  I pat him on the shoulder. “Bless your heart.”

  James flushes red but Pat smiles winningly.

  “All right, chain of command and communication protocol. I’m the boss. We’ll just use our names, no numbers or codes. Keep this simple. I’m Shorty, you’re Pat, and you’re James.”

  My new squad mates look at me, dumbstruck. Pat speaks first.

  “That doesn’t sound tactical. It’s like we’re three guys telling stories in a bar.”

  “By the time this job’s over, we’re gonna wish we were at the bar.”

  “Can we do that?” Pat asks. “Because I’m good with tossing back a few cold ones.” He looks at James. “I mean, we should stay in touch after this in case there’re more jobs.”

  “Let’s just get in our mechs and do some drills. Later we’ll find a priest and pray we don’t have to actually do battle,” I say—not feeling at all like a jerk.

  I climb into the 197. CAI has attitude waiting for me.

  “If you’re lucky, Shorty sir, some of their luck will rub off on you. These guys do lots of convoy escorts without turning every mission into a firefight. Not that I’m saying all your firefights are your fault.”

  I run a series of manual diagnostic checks. Head down, I give him the coldest shoulder on three planets.

  “Okay, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” CAI admits.

  “I wouldn’t need a combat artificial intelligence if I didn’t do any combat. So maybe I’ll just retire and turn you off. How’s that for an idea?”

  “I say you’re being a dick and overreacting to my witty banter.”

  “Witty banter?”

  “I’m still pulling bits of dialogue from your conversations and comparing them with information in my database. I’ll get better, I promise.” Click, hum, click-click. “Our
squad mates are on the practice field.”

  “Fantastic.”

  Pat trudges forward in his Hammer class mech. James follows him in the Laser, each step more tentative than the one before it. He tiptoes the expensive unit around a sinkhole used to practice getting unstuck.

  Every mech needs to be wary of the soft kill, that situation where defensive work catches a mech in some version of quicksand. Crawling out of a sinkhole is part of level one mech certification—the same place they teach you to keep your logs and mark them private so you can lie about them later. Basic mech skills smashed into new pilots.

  Or they used to be. Who knows what they’re teaching these kids nowadays.

  James turns up his mechanized nose as though getting his unit dirty would be a crime.

  “Let’s start with something simple, team. Bounding overwatch with Pat leaving off and James simulating cover fire. We’ll support each other as we navigate around the lake. No live fire near the park. Softies have picnics in progress.”

  Pat and James lunge ahead at the same time, nearly toppling one another.

  “This is gonna be a long day.” The drills I’m giving them are little more than walking and talking. Basic, mech pilot 101 stuff. James does better on Jacob’s Ladder—a rarely used part of the merc quarter obstacle course—and Pat rules the heavily lifting tests. If we’d signed up as circus performers and dockworkers, this mission would be a walk in the park.

  “Do you wish to cancel the contract, sir? I see something interesting from the Communist Chinese Empire,” CAI asks. “Michaels seems to like you. I imagine he would approve the request.”

  I stop everything, interested. The CCE never hires mercenaries. On the extremely rare occasions where they use paid contractors, they always offer huge money. I think of the weird S15 waiting in the rental area like it expected something to happen soon.

  The Chinese make decent mechs, if you don’t mind throwing them away when you break all the plastic parts. They can afford to offer fat stacks of Quibdotti to the extremely lucky freelancers they hire… when the planets align and they’re not doing some crazy shit on a back-system world that subsequently goes off the grid.

  Getting paid is always the tricky part. So it’s not really much of a question. But it’s always worthwhile knowing what they’re doing.