Mecha Corps

by Brett Patton

  Matt stopped five meters away from the group and put down his bag. There were maybe thirty people, standing singly or clustered in groups of two or three. A broad cross-section of the Universal Union, they reflected the Mecha Corps selection motto: “From the finest, the finest.” The Union selected precandidates from school and public records. From there, if precandidates passed the initial mental and physical exams, they were put into a candidate pool and their achievements and actions monitored for up to ten years. The invitation to Mecha Corps could come at any time in that decade.

  They ranged from kids dressed in the raglike attire of the hot frontier world Hyva to young men and women wearing smartly tailored business suits, to thickset men in casual T-shirts and jeans who were seemingly ready for a construction gig, to rail-thin spacers in refugee jumpsuits. Most of them were young, but a couple were older, in their thirties or forties, like Serghey. The entire group had a tense, pumped-up feel, like a group of diggers waiting to try out for the single spacer job. Everyone was trying to look cool while at the same time sizing up the competition.

  Serghey panted up, dragging his beautiful luggage and muttering curses. Unlike Matt, he bulled his way to the front of the crowd, drawing bemused glances from the other cadet candidates.

  As they moved out of the way for Serghey, Matt noticed one woman wearing fatigues. She also stood apart from the main group, crouching at the edge of the wetlands to peer intently across the sluggish water at the low rise beyond. Her long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and shoved into the back of her fatigue jacket. Something about her exuded utter strength.

  A blond guy wearing a blue striped shirt and carrying a navy blazer over his arm came to crouch beside her. He said something that Matt couldn’t hear. The woman turned to look at him, her blue eyes like icy steel. Matt drew in his breath. Her face was like a fine art sketch, impossibly perfect and flawless. She stood, her full lips pursing as she studied the man. Even her baggy fatigues couldn’t hide an amazing figure. Matt wondered what it would be like to unbutton her fatigue jacket, then quickly pushed the thought away. He wasn’t here for that. He was here for the Mecha. To become part of the irresistible force.

  But can’t there be more than that? he wondered. For the first time since he got the invitation, the crushing loneliness of his life came down on him. He’d always been going at a dead run toward the next goal, toward the justice he needed because of that one day now so long ago. Matt shook his head. He couldn’t forget that Corsair. He couldn’t let it go.

  Without saying anything, the woman walked away from the blond man, going fifteen meters down the banks of the wetlands. There she crouched, looking again out at the low rise.

  The guy shrugged and looked back at the group, where two of his well-dressed friends laughed at his failure. Matt realized that everyone in the group was looking at the woman in fatigues. Who was she? She carried no bags, and she seemed far more intent and serious than the rest of the group. Could she be more than an invitee? Mecha Auxiliary ? Mecha Corps?

  The electric whine of engines swelled behind Matt. He turned to see an articulated High Mobility Land Vehicle and a large Land Transport drive up. Driving the HMLV was a man in a Mecha Auxiliary uniform. Next to him was a woman, also wearing Auxiliary gray. In back was a chunky, dark-skinned man in a sweat-stained T-shirt and gray uniform pants. Chiseled muscles stood out under his T-shirt. The two Auxiliaries went to the HMLV as the T-shirt guy hopped out of the HMLV and surveyed the group, hands on his hips.

  The Mecha Auxiliaries came back with tarp-covered carts. The big man nodded at them and approached the group. Matt was closest to the three, and they stopped in front of him.

  The T-shirted man took a bulky vest out of one of the carts and turned to Matt. On his T-shirt was a shiny metal name badge that read: G SOTO. Matt noticed that Soto’s T-shirt had six stripes on it. A major’s stripes.

  “Put your arms out,” Soto said.

  Matt did. Soto draped the heavy black nylon vest over Matt and pulled it tight at his waist and solar plexus.

  “Comfortable? Fit well?” Soto’s dark eyes fixed on Matt.

  Matt nodded, confused.

  Soto did something to the vest. It vibrated, expanding around his upper body and arms to embrace him like a space suit. Matt jumped. Soto gave him a thin-lipped smile and put a scratched, pockmarked duraplas face shield over Matt’s head.

  “Don’t take this off. It’s bulletproof.”

  “Bulletproof?” Matt asked.

  Soto nodded and handed him something else: a rifle.

  What the hell? His fingers felt numb as he took the gun from Soto. It was amazingly heavy, and he had to grab it hard to keep from dropping it.

  “This is an MK-1. Standard Union Army issue, deformable depleted-uranium rifle, 5-mm ultra-high-velocity rounds, clip of five hundred rounds. Used one before?”

  “Nuh-uh. No,” Matt said.

  “That’s okay. Safety’s here. Trigger’s here. Point at target, pull trigger. Easy.”

  “Uh—,” Matt began, but Soto had already moved on to the next cadet. He repeated the same flak-jacket, face-shield, gun drill with the other guy, then moved on to the next.

  A low murmur grew among the cadets. Groups of two and three formed, muttering about what was happening. One of them—the same blond man who’d approached the girl in fatigues—went over to Soto and the Auxiliaries.

  “Sir, what are you preparing us for?”

  Soto looked up. “Oh, you want to be next?” He took a flak jacket and pulled it over the man’s head.

  “Sir, is this a drill? We’re only cadet candidates.”

  “Face shield,” Soto said. “Don’t take it off.”

  “Sir!”

  “Gun. You know how to use it?” Soto’s expression didn’t waver.

  The blue-suited man sighed and nodded. Soto moved on to the next cadet. Matt tried to hide a grin. Seemed like the blue-suited guy wasn’t going to get any satisfaction from Soto either.

  The woman in fatigues was last. She stood at attention and snapped off a salute. “Major Soto, sir!”

  Soto gave her a grin. “Union Army?”

  “Yes, sir! Private Michelle Kind, sir!”

  “Regular army or reserve?”

  “Reserve, sir! Earth has few regular positions, sir!”

  “Hoo-rah, Earth girl?” Soto seemed amused.

  Michelle’s expression twisted angrily, but she still shouted, “Yes, sir!”

  Soto nodded. “Then you know the drill, Earth girl.” He handed her the flak jacket, face shield, and gun. Michelle shrugged them on. When the flak jacket molded itself to her hourglass figure, every man in the group drew in his breath.

  Soto turned to address the group. “All right. Here’s how we start. Live-fire combat.”

  The murmur in the group swelled to sharp mutterings and angry words. Soto spoke over them.

  “Your goal is to make it across the stream, over the hill and through the swamp beyond. You will see the medical tents on the other side. Gunners will be stationed throughout your course, defending the position.”

  Matt was dumbstruck. Live fire? Combat? With real weapons? He hefted the rifle. Could he even shoot it? Could he point it at someone and pull the trigger? He’d never even held a gun before. He’d come here for the Mecha, not to be a grunt.

  Muttering became cries of protest, echoing Matt’s chaotic thoughts. Someone yelled, “What the hell is this?”

  Soto raised his hands for silence. “If you talk, you’ll miss critical info.”

  Choruses of “Shut up!” echoed through the group.

  “In the medical tents are ten doctors. There are thirty-two of you. The first ten to make it through will have the most options.”

  The group went dead silent as Soto let this soak in.

  “There are no rules beyond that. You may take your bags with you, if you wish to risk slowing yourself down.”

  Serghey groaned audibly.

  “We could get
killed out there?” asked a loud, clear voice from the group. It belonged to a deeply tanned woman in her thirties, wearing a sand-colored jumpsuit.

  Soto looked at her but addressed the group. “You fought long and hard to be invited. Did you think it would be any less of a fight once you got here?” Soto looked at his watch. “We’ll begin in thirty seconds.”

  One man took off his face shield and threw it down. “This is fucking crazy! I didn’t come here for this!”

  “You may quit at any time,” Soto said. “The rest of you will begin in twenty seconds.”

  Matt’s heart thumped triple time to the countdown in his head. His entire field of vision shook with the intensity of his fear, but at the same time, he’d never felt so alive.

  Some cadets frantically dug through their luggage in a last effort to grab some prized memento. Matt glanced down at his Aurora University duffel bag. It contained his clothes, his diploma and a single reminder of his childhood: a toy Imp Mecha, battered and worn by his passage through a dozen refugee ships. He’d miss the Imp, but he was now at Mecha Training Camp. There wasn’t a single thing in the bag that mattered anymore.

  Two, one, zero, he thought. Better become a hero.

  “Go,” Major Soto said.

  Cadets rushed into the water, splashing bright droplets into the gray sky. The loudest sounds were the slosh of feet and the panting of ragged breaths. One cadet slipped and went face-first into the murky water, his cry echoing in Matt’s wraparound face shield.

  Matt forced himself to push forward. What mattered was in front of him. The scratched duraplas of his face shield fogged in time with his exhales. The low hill ahead swam, as if in a fever dream.

  Private Michelle Kind led the way. She ran fast, low to the water, as if she’d done this a thousand times before. The blond man in the blue shirt followed close behind her, grinning at her ass.

  Matt pushed down a flash of anger. Following an Army reservist was smart. She knew what she was doing. She’d been ready. In fatigues. No luggage.

  Matt ran harder to catch up with Michelle and the blond man. The water was up to their knees now, and Matt slipped and stuck in the soft mud beneath. Suddenly, one of his shoes was sucked right off his foot. He didn’t look back. The only thing that mattered was getting to those tents.

  Water sheeted his visor as Matt passed several laboring cadets. One of them was the deeply tanned woman who’d complained to Soto. Through the muck on her visor, Matt recognized the look on her face: stark, primal fear. Her mouth hung open, eyes wide and fixed forward. Matt wondered if she even knew where she was anymore.

  Halfway to the low rise, Matt closed on Michelle and the blond guy. Michelle waded through the thigh-deep, thick water, but larger cadets now had the advantage. A tall, rail-thin kid passed Michelle, followed by a pale and muscular man. They pushed forward toward the gentlest part of the rise, where bushes gave way to short grass.

  Michelle didn’t follow. She veered toward a thicket of heavy brush, some of it taller than a man. That made sense. Better to come over the hill under cover than in the open. Matt and the blond guy both zagged behind Michelle.

  Blondie looked back at Matt. His expression alternated between annoyance and a quick grin, as if acknowledging Matt’s wise choice.

  Michelle leapt from the water like a cheetah and disappeared into the brush. The blond man followed, but got hung up on the dense brambles. He cursed and beat at the bush. Matt ducked low as he emerged from the water. Thorns scraped painfully along his exposed foot, but he kept moving. He couldn’t lose Michelle. She’d get him through this safely. He passed the blond guy and ran over the top of the rise.

  Suddenly, Michelle was right in front of him. She’d stopped to look through the branches at the scene ahead.

  Matt couldn’t stop in time. He ran face-first into her strong shoulders. Michelle went sprawling on the thin carpet of leaves and grass. She rolled fast and came up on her back, pointing her MK-1 at him.

  His hands came up in reflexive defense, his heart racing. His thoughts ping-ponged between gut-wrenching fear and intense excitement. She was beautiful. And she was pointing a gun at him.

  “Idiot,” she hissed. Michelle lowered her weapon and got back on her feet.

  The blond man came over the rise at that moment. Michelle shook her head. “Two idiots.”

  “I’m sorry,” Matt said.

  Michelle’s face twisted in anger. “No time.” She pointed at Matt. “You. Go forward.” She jerked her chin at the base of the hill, where the dirt disappeared into swamp muck.

  Matt nodded and charged down the hill.

  A sledgehammer hit him in the chest. Matt blew out the entire contents of his lungs in a single, bellowing whoop. He flew backward and landed on his butt in sticky mud, his MK-1 falling out of his hands.

  I’ve been shot, he thought. The idea was oddly disconnected. Almost funny.

  But Matt couldn’t laugh. His chest heaved, but he couldn’t draw in any air. He strained as hard as he could and got only a thimbleful of oxygen down his windpipe. Matt’s vision went purple as he felt a rising sense of panic. Had he been shot through the lung? He scrabbled at his flak jacket. Nothing had broken through, but there was a big divot on the left side of his chest where he’d been hit.

  Live fire. Soto wasn’t kidding. This wasn’t a game. He could die.

  Matt became aware of the crack of gunfire around him. To his left, where the brush petered out and the rise was its gentlest, he heard the cries of cadet candidates. Most of the fire seemed concentrated there. Only the odd bullet whizzed through the brush over to his position.

  Matt sucked air with all his might and managed a shallow breath. It cooled his burning chest. His panic subsided. He was still alive.

  Michelle ran past him, into the swamp. “Thanks,” she said through a grin.

  “Yeah, great move,” the blond guy said, following her.

  Matt pushed himself up. At the far edge of the wetland, maybe three hundred meters away, a small group of dirty gray tents stood. Between Matt and the tents were a couple of low rises, little islands in the muck. The remains of an old concrete road ran at an angle across the swamp, raised by sturdy pylons. Near the road, rusted carcasses of old cars dotted the swamp. They wouldn’t provide much cover.

  Michelle and the blond guy ran, doubled over, through tall grass. Bullets splashed in the water around them. Matt saw no muzzle flashes. Where the hell were the rounds coming from? The bushes by the tents? One of the mini islands ? Michelle and Blondie ended up behind the stub of a rusted steel tube poking out of the ground like a vent, with gunfire ringing off the other side.

  No time to think. Matt ran toward them. For an eternity, there were no shots. Then bullets dotted in the water ahead of him. Rainbows flashed in the air. Matt ran through them.

  He joined the two others at the rusty tube. Michelle flashed angry eyes at Matt. “Quit following me!” She turned to the blond guy. “Both of you!”

  “Why?” Matt asked.

  “Together we’re more of a target,” the blond guy said. “Anyone with combat training knows that.”

  “Then why are you following me?” Michelle snarled.

  Blond guy grinned. “I like the view.”

  Michelle reddened, her jaw tightening.

  The blond guy grinned wider and stuck out a hand. “Kyle Peterov, Eridani ROTC.”

  Michelle ignored his hand. “We should go around the edge, come in at the side of the tents. It’ll be harder for them to target us if they’re concentrating on the main mass of cadets.”

  Matt glanced back. Some cadets still hadn’t crested the first hill. They looked over the rise with fear-glazed eyes as bullets sprayed mud. A few were fanning out through the swamp, heading for the cover of the road.

  Michelle pushed Kyle. “You hear me? Go! Around the edge!”

  Kyle nodded and went. Matt followed him. For long moments there was nothing more than the splash of the water and the thundering of his heart.
A bullet hit the ground ahead of him. Kyle dove into a tangle of tall reeds for cover. He looked back in the direction they came.

  “Fuck,” Kyle said. “We’ve been played.”

  Michelle hadn’t followed them. She was running full speed for one of the pylons.

  Embarrassment burned Matt’s face. He sprang from the reeds and ran toward one of the islands in the swamp for cover. A bullet splashed in front of him. Another whizzed past his leg so close he felt its warmth.

  The gunner was hidden up on the island, and Matt was going to die out here before he ever got in a Mecha.

  Matt yelled and raised his MK-1. He squeezed the trigger. The gun was like a jackhammer in his hands. Its explosive din drowned out all other sound. It drowned his thoughts. In that instant, it didn’t matter if he lived or died.

  Matt crashed into the brush of the island. Brambles tore his pants. He was almost on the other side before he realized the firing had stopped.

  He looked back up at the smoking remains of an automated sentry station. Its sensor array was fractured, and its gun barrel twitched impotently.

  Ahead of him was part of the old road. Huge blocks of concrete had tumbled into the swamp. Atop this ramshackle ramp, behind the remains of a rusted Humvee, Michelle crouched. She glanced at Matt. Bullets stitched orange dust from her Humvee cover.

  Matt cut a zigzag path through the debris toward Michelle, his legs like pistons. He slammed into the Humvee as more rounds spanged its top. Michelle looked up at him. This time, though, her expression cycled between determination and grudging respect.

  “There’s a gun emplacement ahead,” Michelle told him.

  “Shoot it.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing,” she hissed. “I think this one is armored.”

  “Let’s both hit it together.”

  Michelle ground her jaw, as if looking for a reason to disagree.

  “Go!” Matt said, and shot from behind the Humvee. Incoming fire erupted from the bushes right next to the tents. Taking careful aim back at it, Matt squeezed the trigger and didn’t let go. His ears rang so hard there was nothing else but the din. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Michelle join him. Her weapon thundered next to his.