“Your C.O. knows you’re here,” Dr. Zimmerman stated firmly. “The United States Army has not lost, misplaced, or forgotten you. You’re here because you suffered an especially tragic loss in battle, and your psych profile indicates that you’ll need some help adapting to that loss. That’s why you’re here.”
Reggie clenched his jaw. “That psych profile mumbo jumbo is bullshit. I don’t believe in any of it.”
Rather than argue against him, Dr. Zimmerman merely shrugged. “That’s your prerogative. It doesn’t matter whether you believe in the therapy or not, you’ve got orders to remain here until medically cleared for duty, and that includes convincing me that you’re fit to return to combat.”
“So?” Reggie demanded. “Send me back. I’ll be out of your—”
He was about to say hair when he realized that might be a sore spot for the bald psychiatrist.
“My hair?” Dr. Zimmerman finished for him. “You’re implying that you’re some sort of burden or baggage. You’re not. Sgt. King, your Purple Heart is just a matter of paperwork churning through the system. It is my honor and privilege to help our brave men and women piece their lives back together when the battlefield takes its toll.”
“Pretty speech, doc, but there’s nothing wrong with me,” Reggie replied. He thumped a fist against his chest. “Sound body.” He knocked on the side of his skull. “Sound mind. I lost my tank and my crew, but I owe it to those boys not to sit here and feel sorry for myself. I don’t need a video game to teach me to command a tank again—if that’s what this is all about.”
“It’s not,” Dr. Zimmerman replied.
“Then what is this about?” Reggie demanded. He knew he was raising his voice to an officer. The white lab coat hid his bars, but somewhere under that doctor getup there was a captain or a major more than likely. Still, he’d rather take the mark on his record for disrespecting an officer than be cooped up in the goldbricking loony bin.
The affable half-smile that Dr. Zimmerman wore faded. He crossed his arms. “I’ve treated a lot of soldiers in my career—more than you can count. If there’s one thing I’ve learned is that a good soldier would rather hear it straight, without the bullshit coating. Well, here’s something that’s not bullshit: I’ve got orders to evaluate you for post-traumatic stress. Your HDMRIs came back showing strong indicators that you’ll develop symptoms. I could get you into group sessions where everyone sits around on folding chairs and shares their experiences. Often times, there’s even crying. Works best for some people. Everything I read in your profile suggested that Armored Souls was more your style. But, if you’d rather, I can enroll you in—”
Reggie shot out a hand as Dr. Zimmerman made for the door. “No! Wait! Don’t shove me into one of those sad-sack support groups. If it’s that or play with giant walking tanks, I’ll take the tanks any day.”
“They’re called juggernauts. The developers at Valhalla West were quite insistent we keep the terminology straight. Their charitable donation of the systems wouldn’t be worth the cost of shipping if they didn’t get proper credit.” A wry, cynical smile came back to signal that Dr. Zimmerman didn’t take the game any more seriously than Reggie.
Reggie took a deep breath. If it was going to be a long road back to active duty, he’d rather spend it on his ass playing shoot-em-up VR games than talking about his feelings in front of a bunch of other soldiers who were effed up in the head from coming out the far end of the meat grinder.
He shuddered. “So… what now?”
Dr. Zimmerman headed for a Staff Only door at the far end of the room. “You’re still convalescing. Rest. Light exercise. You’ve probably got a schedule somewhere. That’s really not my department. I’m only worried about that head of yours.”
Reggie nodded as the door closed behind the doctor.
Nurse Mallet came over and put a hand on Reggie’s back, guiding him over to a wheelchair. He could damn well walk just fine—maybe he was a little wobbly, but nothing worse than a walk back from the bar after last call. Still, he didn’t want to give the nurse a hard time.
As she wheeled Reggie to his room, all he could think about was getting back behind the controls of that colossal war machine.
Reggie hadn’t played a lot of video games since enlisting. Some guys did, but he’d taken his career seriously and done everything to advance. Back in the day, though, he’d wasted hours on anything with a controller. The army had gotten a doughy kid with borderline ADD and turned him into a lean, mean, tanking machine.
But now that he’d had a taste of that forgotten fruit, Reggie felt the addiction sneaking back.
CHAPTER FOUR
Reggie had spent a boring, stir-crazy day walking stark white hallways and eating bland, nutritious hospital food. Sleep had come as a welcome escape from the tedium, drawing him closer to the morning and another try at Armored Souls.
Dr. Zimmerman had prepped Reggie on what to expect. Completing the tutorial earned him the right to create a real character and get his starter juggernaut. He’d get assigned to one of the in-game factions and start receiving missions.
Game world aside, it sounded a lot like the army. First, they take you through boot camp, then you get parceled out to the next division that needs manpower.
After his first login threw Reggie directly into the controls of a futuristic war machine, character creation came as a letdown. Reggie appeared in Armored Souls standing upright, which took him by surprise and almost made him topple over. The pod had a reclining seat not so different from the juggernaut’s cockpit. His second surprise was being stripped down to his skivvies.
The army had run him through enough physical exams that Reggie knew the drill, but here he was in a darkened room, standing under a spotlight that left his surroundings indistinguishable in the inky blackness all around. A mirror was his only companion, staring back with a familiar, 32-year-old carcass that had more scars and general wear than a man his age ought to.
This mirror was different.
Though it cast Reggie’s reflection, it also showed sliders that allowed him to adjust his appearance. Widen the jaw, lengthen the hair, bulk up the pecs, and Reggie turned into a comic book superhero. Slide the bar the other direction, and Reggie’s torso shriveled to a sack of bones, making him look like a rock star whose diet consisted of whiskey and cocaine.
Then Reggie discovered the button to reset to his regular appearance, and he approved his in-game self as a copy of the Reggie King who was in the hospital’s game pod.
After that, it prompted for a character name. Without a second thought, Reggie tapped in, “King.”
Next there were Reggie’s stats. He’d known his height and weight most of his adult life. The former had hit its limit when he was about fifteen; the latter barely fluctuated thanks to an active lifestyle and peer pressure. 5’10” and 170 pounds. The army still clung to the old units even as the weapons systems increasingly measured in metric.
Armored Souls, on the other hand, listed stats in arcane acronyms. Superimposed over Reggie’s head were the letters PER. His arms were labeled GUN and SHO. By his legs, the letters AGI, and down by his feet, PIL. His chest was tagged TGH. Floating over his shoulder was the label CMD.
Reggie turned to see if the letters were actually hanging in midair beside him, but it was just a display in the mirror.
He had guesses at what most of it meant, but with a listed 35 points to allocate, Reggie knew he’d just be guessing. In the corner of the mirror was a small button that read “Standard Array.” He’d never been interested in being unique or special. Standard issue stats sounded good to him.
[PER: 5]
[GUN: 9]
[SHO: 3]
[AGI: 3]
[PIL: 9]
[TGH: 5]
[CMD: 1]
One of these days, Reggie would convince Dr. Zimmerman to give him a tablet to look up some of this gobbledygook online. Until then, he just wanted to get on to the fun part: picking a machine.
<
br /> As soon as Reggie approved his stat array, he got his wish. The mirror vanished, replaced by a person-sized image of a juggernaut. Like it did in the in-game targeting system, the juggernaut rotated slowly for Reggie to view it from all sides.
The first one was listed as Sparrow. It looked suspiciously like the Sandpipers he’d fought in the simulator but maybe a hair bigger, with a pair of head-mounted lasers instead of machine guns. To the side, car-dealership style information described as a 25-ton machine produced by Sandusky Armor. It had a top speed of 95 kph, two Beam Cannon-S, a 5 heat rating, and jack shit for armor.
Shadowed in the gloom to either side of the Sparrow were two other juggernauts. By swiping to the side, Reggie rotated his selection on a carousel. The Sparrow faded to the shadows, and a fourth juggernaut became visible.
The machine in front of him now was a Ha-Go built by Juki-sen Heavy Industry. Also a 25-ton juggernaut, it had a top speed of 92 kph along with similar weaponry and marginally more armor than the Sparrow.
Next came the Gottpanzer Chipmunk. It was also 25 tons—Reggie was seeing a trend in these starter models—with a top speed of 105 and the least armor he’d seen yet. Only the cockpit area appeared protected, and even then, not by a lot. But with a pair of missile launchers as its only weaponry, Reggie could see the tactical use for traveling light.
Last came the Pixie, by Berstein Manufacturing. Despite the wimpy-sounding name, the little juggernaut spoke Reggie’s language. Slower and better armored than the rest, it still boasted a top speed of 85 kph. But it was the weaponry that caught Reggie’s attention. It was asymmetrically armed with a Minigun on one arm and a DF Ballistic Cannon-150 on the other. 150mm was 30mm larger than the bore on his Abrams, but the weapon was a familiar battlefield companion for him.
Also, the Pixie weighed 25 tons.
Decision made, Reggie selected the Pixie. He was surprised when the game asked him to name the juggernaut.
Reggie was at a loss. He hadn’t been prepared to give the thing a name. It wasn’t a dog or a horse. It wasn’t even an old car. Hell, for now it wasn’t even life-sized, just a scaled-down image of a giant pile of pixels he hoped to see soon on a virtual battlefield.
What would someone even name a Pixie? Should he just ignore the “Pixie” model name and give it a tank nickname? Reggie wracked his brains for pixies and remembered Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Mrs. Andrews would be proud of him for remembering her Shakespeare lessons from 11th grade English. But “Puck” sounded too hockey-centric, and the taunting potential for when Reggie eventually screwed up was too low hanging for his liking.
He’d heard of the old band Pixies but had never been a fan. There was a pixie haircut, too. Reggie wasn’t big on knowing names for women’s hairstyles, but his ex-wife had been fond of that one.
Reggie smirked as he tapped the on-screen keyboard: D-A-I-S-Y.
Maybe naming a 25-ton walking tank after his ex wasn’t the most mature thing Reggie had ever done. It might even come up in sessions with Dr. Zimmerman down the road. But once he got the idea in his head of Daisy as an unstoppable machine intent on ruining everything in her path, he couldn’t get rid of it.
Might as well have her on his side, for once.
He picked out a white and blonde paint job that matched both the flower version of daisy and his ex’s bleached locks and completed the selection process. The shadowy creation room faded amid a bass rumble of intro theme music.
CHAPTER FIVE
Reggie’s first real mission thrust him directly into the prelude to an assault. Even before the unit commander came over the radio, he glanced down at the mission status display in the corner of Daisy’s control console.
[Primary Objective: Destroy Satellite Relay]
[Secondary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 0/30]
[Secondary Objective: Destroy Targets of Opportunity 0/4]
If not for the looming prospect of thirty enemy juggernauts out there waiting for him, the idea that there were a predetermined number of “opportunity targets” out there might have drawn a chuckle.
Instead, Reggie found himself nervously piloting Daisy through a tangle of jungle underbrush. The Pixie’s gait was more pronounced than that of the Jackal in the tutorial. Daisy bobbed along like a walking bird with the cockpit taking a slight slalom path as he strode forward.
With every footstep, a gentle thud reverberated through the seat. All around him, more distant thuds marked the presence of allied juggernauts. The game wasn’t cruel enough to pit a player against thirty opponents by himself.
Swiveling Daisy’s torso, Reggie took stock of his unit. Many were obscured in the thick undergrowth, visible more by the shaking and tearing of local plant life than by glint of metal. Not fifty meters from him was one, however, that was nothing if not conspicuous.
Towering above the treetops, a godlike juggernaut plowed down trees in its path without a second thought. It bristled with armaments that looked fit to vaporize Daisy in a single shot. The little Pixie might have ridden in the crook of the massive juggernaut’s arm.
“Three kilometers to target,” a grizzled voice came over the radio. A readout on Daisy’s console identified the speaker as Specker, House Virgo. “Scouts, fan out and acquire targets.”
Reggie kept his pace steady. No one had told him his role in this fight. Obviously, he was in one of the lighter, smaller juggernauts, but that didn’t mean he was on scouting duty for this mission.
“Do you need a personalized email, King?” Specker barked. “Move out!”
Reggie responded before his brain finished processing the order. He revved Daisy’s engine, and his cruising speed of 35 kph zoomed up to 70 in seconds.
An exhilarating thrill ran through Reggie as he drew apart from the rest of the unit. He was point man—one of many, perhaps, but in this sector, he was all alone. The role was one he knew well. He’d be spotting and lighting up targets for tanks—or in this case, juggernauts—with longer range and less maneuverability than him.
His targeting system helpfully provided range to anything he put in the crosshairs. As he approached the target facility, Reggie kept tabs on the strange, hex-grid map on the console.
Who makes a map based on hexes?
Still, the map was easy enough to read. When Reggie broke the tree line and spotted a steel-walled compound, he fumbled through the radio controls and sent a status report to Specker. “This is King. We have visual on target in hex… Charlie-Foxtrot one-four-six. Two defensive structures in place. No sign of—correction, I’ve got two bogeys incoming. Gargoyle class. Advancing on my position.”
Specker’s voice was calm and professional with an innate growl to give it authority. “Relay targeting data and fall back.”
“Roger that,” Reggie replied, searching his targeting system controls for the command to share his targeting information. After all, what good was a scout who couldn’t provide coordinates to artillery? That’s what this was about, after all, when he boiled it down to its real-world roots.
1200m…
1150m…
The two Gargoyles closed steadily. Reggie wished he knew the stats of all the weapons and what these Gargoyles were even packing for armament. For all he knew, Daisy was on the verge of being in range of weaponry that would vaporize him in an instant.
TARGET DATA SHARED
As soon as the message popped up in his HUD, Reggie threw Daisy into reverse and backed toward the concealment of the trees. There was a soft jolt and a crunch as he backed into a tree and knocked it over.
Just in case he needed to dissuade the Gargoyles from thinking he was a free lunch, Reggie trained his DF Ballistic Cannon-150 on the rightmost of the pair. His hit chance wobbled in the area of 20 percent, with a warning message that the target was beyond optimal range. Apparently, this game considered a smoothbore gun accurate out to about 800m.
Shitty futuristic technology…
But Reggie didn’t have to wait to find out who hit th
eir optimal weapons range first—Daisy or the Gargoyles. Missiles rained from the sky, arcing down like the far end of an angry rainbow. Trails of smoke continued entering the ensuing cloud even after Reggie lost sight of the targets. The tactical readouts of the Gargoyles cycled rapidly from blue to yellow to red as missile impacts tore chunks from their armor before taking out vital systems.
[Secondary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 2/30]
Focused fire. Reggie didn’t even know how many juggernauts had been in on that volley, but he saw the results.
As Reggie skirted the jungle’s edge, looking for additional targets, he spotted an aerial drone. Like its real-world counterparts, this was a quad-copter design, but this one had jets of blue flaming engines in place of fan blades.
Switching from DF Ballistic Cannon-150 to Minigun, Reggie opened fire.
The drone was well beyond optimal range, but a 7 percent chance to hit was worth the wasted ammo. Reggie missed and missed, but eventually the drone dodged the wrong way and caught a few 20mm rounds. Even the 1 point of damage the Minigun “boasted” was enough to send the thing spinning to crash in the jungle.
[Secondary Objective: Destroy Targets of Opportunity 1/4]
“Neat,” Reggie said with a smile. He’d assumed that targets of opportunity would be munitions supplies and barracks—places more than things.
His amusement at how well the mission was going was short-lived. The ground shook, sending the Pixie toppling sideways to crash on the jungle floor. Strapped securely into the pilot’s seat, Reggie was able to cling to the controls. Luckily, for all this game world’s garbage fire control systems, it had some excellent kinematic controls for the juggernauts. Simply ordering Daisy to move prompted the juggernaut to lever itself to its feet.
There was a crater at least 20m across next to where Daisy had been positioned. While the realism fell just on the cartoonish side of what a high-explosive shell should do, it was a sure sign of artillery fire. Someone had been watching the feed from that drone Reggie had shot down.
Dead Mech Walking: a mech LitRPG novel (Armored Souls Book 1) Page 3
