by P W Hillard
“I imagine head office cares more about the contents of the buildings than the buildings themselves,” Anya said. She had caught on immediately. No matter what planet you were on, from the worlds closest to the core to the very fringes of civilised space, corporate types were all the same.
“Ok. Fine, ok. We’ll start loading the trucks. We might need the help of some of your mechsuits though, to make it quicker.”
***
It wasn’t pretty. What Sergei had called trucks were actually a pair of large flat bedded loaders, trundling slowly forward on tracks rather than wheels. They were wide-based, clearly designed to carry large heavy equipment like jump ship parts or construction cranes. The loaders were a bright vibrant orange and covered with copious black and yellow hazard stripes. They were all things considered, low on the list of things that are either stealthy or fast.
Considering the plodding nature of the loaders, they had placed Anya at the front of the convoy. Her suit was somehow faster than the grinding tracks of the orange behemoths, something she had admitted was a first. At the rear was Xander, whilst Alexi had been placed in the centre between the two loaders. He was still constantly grumbling about the QT-34. It seemed some cheap system or the other was always performing worse than he would like.
Xander understood. Mercenaries tended to get extremely attached to their machines, customising them to their liking. Xander's Defender was fairly stock, but that was simply because he hadn't had the time or money to alter it. On occasion, he missed his old Tempest, a flash powerful thing he had customised to within an inch of its life. That had belonged to the company, and he had been forced to leave it behind when he became a freelancer.
“So, at this pace, we've what, twelve hours until the elevator?" Xander said. He adjusted his camera, focusing on the impressive piece of engineering. No matter where you were on this hemisphere, the towering pillar was impossible to miss. Xander knew it was a cable, held taut in place by a space station above it, cargo sent to and from the surface on a large circular platform that rocketed up and down the tether. From here though, it was impossible not to consider it some great spear thrust into the planet like a skewered pig.
“Something like that,” Anya said. “I was expecting something a little more, truck-like?” Anya kicked a car out of her path, sending it crashing into the wall of a building, shattering the glass on a bakery. “We could be there a lot faster with something normal.”
“This equipment is both extremely heavy, as well as…valuable.” Sergei had squeezed into the cabin of the lead loader. They had large cockpits, closer to a ship's bridge than a truck's cabin, and the entire staff of the warehouses had been pushed inside them. "Damage to it would be catastrophic.”
As Sergei spoke, the concrete around them exploded, shots slamming into the ground. They were barely ten minutes from the warehouses, and already something was firing on them.
Anya turned on her heels, swivelling to face the new threat, pins shooting into the concrete to anchor her. It was a mechsuit, thin and lithe, crouching atop a nearby car park. It had a weapon in hand, much shorter and stubbier than the ones Anya and her colleagues carried. Lower calibre, but with a much higher rate of fire, the mechsuit equivalent of a submachine gun.
Anya fired, releasing a controlled burst from one cannon, then the other. She didn’t spray wildly, not this time, she didn’t have the ammo to spare. Her shots were well placed, the first burst targeting the suit, whilst the second aiming at where she thought it would be.
The enemy suit leapt into the air; the first salvo disintegrating the concrete it had been crouching on. Anya's second salvo was on target, but there was a brilliant burst of blue and it continued to rise, the shots flying clear beneath it. The suit fell, travelling over the side of the building and vanishing behind it.
“Fucking jump jets,” Anya said.
"Stay here," Xander said, striding across the street, weapon held to his chest. “He'll run rings around you, and well, Alexi is no match in that thing. No offence.”
“None taken, this suit is a pile of shit.”
“Be careful, Cain.”
Xander placed his shoulder against the car park the suit had vanished behind, peering around the corner. He couldn't see the suit, but he knew it would be there, waiting. “Easier said than done,” Xander said.
Chapter Seven
Xander crept forward, the sides of his suit scraping on both walls of the alleyway as he squeezed through. The enemy suit had dropped down to the next street over, its jump jets giving it an advantage in manoeuvrability. Xander knew he was exposed doing this, but it was the quickest route through. He needed to take out that mechsuit and its rider before it could loop back around and make another attempt at the loaders. Xander wasn't overly worried about his safety. The suit had looked like a Striker, a lightly armoured model designed for urban combat. They weren't generally rated for mech on mech combat, normally used to harass supply lines or clear out embedded infantry. The low calibre rapid-fire weapon it carried was, in theory, not a risk to him, but Xander had seen enough lucky shots take out a mech to not feel one-hundred per cent safe.
Sparks burst from the brickwork around him as Xander’s suit popped clear of the alleyway, the massive machine stumbling for a few steps from the sudden loss of pressure. He turned his head unit, taking in the street on its high-fidelity cameras. It was another road, not unlike the one he had just left, boring grey tarmac flanked by high-rise buildings. The streets were clear, any civilians were either holed up within the buildings basements or busy fleeing the combat area. Xander couldn't help but feel sick to his stomach. If it was true, if all-out war had come to the Iron Belt, then everywhere would be a combat area. Mercenaries, whether they were company employees or freelancers, prided themselves in preventing civilian casualties wherever possible. There were several famous tales of units standing against impossible assaults to protect civilians, or even turning on their employers to prevent unneeded collateral damage. Corporate forces were not so discerning, but even they knew it was bad PR.
There was no sign of the enemy. At least, not at ground level. Xander scanned the skyline, looking for a likely hiding place. Jump jets were powerful if poorly understood technology, but they didn't let mechsuits fly. Simple physics limited the maximum height to a few stories at most. There, across the street, a row of high-end stores, three stories high. Xander levelled his weapon and stepped confidently forward, locking his vision at the top of the building.
Alarms blared as rounds clanged against his back. He felt his suit shuddering as the barrage smashed into him. Two wireframe images of his suit flashed into the bottom left of his vision, one showing the front and one showing the rear. The rear torso on the wireframe had turned a pale yellow, indicating the level of damage the computer was predicting.
Xander span, his finger already squeezing the trigger as he turned. It was reckless, possibly a waste of ammunition, but if he was lucky, he could score a hit. The smaller suit was less well armoured, and his weapon would enact a devastating toll.
Unfortunately for Xander, his opponent was too quick. The suit was where he had expected it to be from the angle of its shots. It had never dropped to the street from the car park. Instead, it was hanging from the side of the building, one hand gripping the top whilst its feet rested on one of the carpark levels below, concrete cracking from the weight. It leapt free, pushing itself off from the wall with another burst of blue fire. The jets were mounted at the small of its back, two swivelling orbs, the fire blasting from an aperture that made the jets look like searching eyes. Xander's shot sheared off a section of wall where the suit had been moments before, loose shards of grey stone shattering against the floor.
Xander spun on his heel again, his metal feet screeching loudly as they scraped across the asphalt beneath them. He didn't raise his weapon to fire, not this time. Instead, Xander reached down, the compartment on his leg springing open, the handle of his field knife sliding forth. It was instin
ct, a reflex honed from battle after battle. He felt his suit shake as another burst landed, this time bouncing off his front armour. Xander pulled his knife free and swung it forward.
His guess was right. His opponent on landing had turned and begun firing, running towards Xander as it did. Like Xander had done to the sniper with his lasers, the Striker's intent wasn't to damage him, rather it was distracting its foe. As it ran it snatched a knife from its own leg compartment, the energy field flickering to life with a momentary orange shimmer. It raised its arm, aiming to bring the knife down in a swift strike. It wasn't aiming for the cockpit, the front torso was heavily armoured, cutting in would take time. Instead, the rider commanded his strike with a thought, aiming for the reactor exhaust mounted between the shoulders of the suit. A well-placed slice there could sever power connections. It wouldn't stop Xander, but it would slow him down as the mechsuit rerouted power. Enough to finish him off.
The Striker stumbled as Xander swung his own knife up to meet it. It hadn't expected its opponent to attempt to parry, and its arm was overextended. Xander’s strike sliced upwards, piercing the thin armour of his lighter adversary, the tip of the blade emerging from the other side of the arm. Servos whined as Xander’s arm held the Strikers away from his suit, pushing against the limb with the hilt of his knife. Xander crouched, leaning forward with his shoulder and pulling in one swift motion. It caught the Striker unexpectedly and as Xander rose the smaller mech flipped over his shoulders, smashing against the concrete.
Xander spun, bringing the tip of his weapon to the torso of the Striker, the barrel clanking against the armour. He placed the toe of his left foot against the striker’s head unit, more for effect than anything else, a single shot at this range would be enough.
“So, you want to clamber out of that cockpit and tell me what’s going on here?”
***
The rider looked sullen, her legs dangling from the door of the loader. Sergei had been shocked to see Xander returning carrying a person in one hand, fingers clamped tightly around her like a prison. The captured rider hadn’t struggled as the warehouse workers hastily bound her, salvaging rope that had been keeping the lid sealed on one of the crates. They had marched her up the zigzagging steps that led to the cabin on the first loader, seating her so Xander’s mechsuit could crouch to bring him to eye level.
“So, let’s hear it then. Are you corporate? If so, which corp,” Xander said. There was a loud piercing screech from the alleyway behind him.
“Hey! Watch that! You know how much one of those costs?” the bound woman said. She was leaning to the side, trying to look around Xander’s suit.
“Never mind him, you’re talking to me.”
“That’s custom! Cost me a fortune it did, come on, you know what that’s like.” The rider groaned, her eyes rolling back. “That lunk is going to damage it.”
In the alleyway, Alexi was dragging the now empty Striker out. He was feeling particularly pleased at the unexpected upgrade. It wasn’t ideal if they came up against more mechsuits, but it gave their little band some extra mobility they sorely needed.
“So, merc it is then? No corporate soldier gives that much of a shit about their gear.” Xander’s voice was scratching its way out of a speaker, echoing slightly off the buildings around them.
“Yeah. Megara Valis, freelancer. My friends call me Meg.”
“And are we friends, Meg?”
“I suppose. I do invoke the right of capture. My guild badge is in my jacket, but well, hardly in a position to retrieve it am I?” Meg looked up at the suit before her, her eyes looking directly into the camera. She was a short woman, her skin tanned, her dark brown hair tied into a long braid that draped over a black leather jacket.
“Untie her,” Anya said, gesturing casually to the loader behind her, the arm-mounted cannon pointing high into the air as she moved her arm.
“Untie her?” Sergei was stood behind the restrained Merc. He had found a sidearm from somewhere, the weapon shaking in his hand. Xander made a mental note to take it from him when he could.
“Anya is right. Untie her. We might all be freelancers, but we’re all part of the guild. There are rules, laws. Mercs don’t take each other prisoner, and we only hurt each other on the battlefield,” Xander said.
“Or after a few drinks in the nearest bar,” Anya added.
“The right of capture means we must release anyone who identifies themselves as a mercenary. And I’m convinced enough that she’s telling the truth.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sergei said. He was tripping over his words, his reluctance getting in the way as the words pushed against each other in their attempt to escape his lips.
“I don’t really give a shit,” Xander said. The head unit shifted downwards a little. “You feel like telling us who employed you? I’m assuming you’re part of the raid on the warehouse.”
“Nope. To the warehouse thing. My job was to just harass anything that seemed worth it, my discretion. Troop transports, supplies, stuff like that. Your great big orange loaders seemed to fit right into that mandate. I couldn't tell you who hired me, redacted op.” The ropes fell away from Meg, and she stretched her arms. Behind her, Sergei was backing away quickly from the now free mercenary. Meg gripped one edge of her jacket and pulled it open. Pinned inside was a small gold disk. In the centre was the image of a soldier, spear in one hand and a round shield in the other. The Hoplite, symbol of the mercenaries guild.
“Didn’t need to show that,” Xander said.
“Felt I needed to do it proper, you never know.”
“Right. I’m-”
“Xander Cain. Sorry, that must get annoying. Your reputation proceeding you and all that.”
It was annoying, but Xander didn’t like to say it out loud. “So, redacted operation. Brave taking one on.”
“We got much choice as freelancers? We get the shit jobs.”
“I’m sorry,” Sergei said. “What is a redacted operation?”
Meg turned to face the suited man, a grin across her face. A moment ago, she had been the enemy, now she was chatting and smiling as if she was a friend. “Means you don’t know who is paying for it. Means they paid a fortune to the guild to keep their name off the books. Normally means something stupid, or dangerous. Or both. Something a corporation doesn’t want to get caught doing.”
“It got a cancellation clause?” Xander said.
“Sure does. Same as usual. Maximum deniability. Killed or captured on the contract and its void. No pay-out, no acknowledgement. You cost me a bunch of money, Cain.”
“Hah, join the queue. I had to call a nutcracker in on this op. On my own expense. I had built up a decent nest egg.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, ouch indeed. We need to get this stuff off-planet too, otherwise I'm not even getting paid for this, never mind getting my costs back on that orbital strike. Hmm,” Xander said, a thought coming over him. “Alexi don't disembark. Prop up the suit by the loader.”
Alexi let out a long audible groan, realising his upgrade had been snatched out from under him.
“So. You’re a free agent now, and as stuck on this planet as us. I’m guessing you’ve heard the news about the belt going to shit?”
“Hard to believe. Got to be the media spinning it right? There’s no way the whole belt is at war?” Meg shook her head. “That would be suicide for the corporations. But yes, I’m a free agent.”
“Great. I’m sending a contract over to your suit. I’m subcontracting you on our contract. If you’re up for it?”
“If it pays and gets me off this planet? Sure,” Meg said with a shrug. “You know, there is one thing that was weird about that redacted op. Well, aside from just the general aimlessness of it.”
“And that is?” Xander said.
“The employer seal at the bottom. Normally it’s just blank on a redacted, but this job had one. A weird one too, never seen one like it.”
“What was it
?” Anya said. She was still facing forward, watching for more hidden attackers.
“A black rose.”
Chapter Eight
The loaders resumed their slow trundle, tracks grinding against the asphalt. If it felt the weight of the massive machines at all, it didn’t show it, allowing them to glide over the dark black road. The mechsuits accompanying them had changed their formation. With their increased number, they had arranged themselves in a diamond around the loaders, each suit taking a point. Anya still led the way, her plodding heavy suit advancing with its arms wide, barrels ready to begin their whirlwind of death.
Xander had positioned himself to the left of the convoy, whilst Meg was on the right. Alexi had the rear, though he had grumbled heavily about his lost shot at an upgrade. Alexi understood what had happened, the mercenary guild’s customs were set in stone, more sacred rights than anything else. Even freelancers were bound by them, a strict code that made their lifestyle possible.
A light flashed in the corner of Xander’s vision, the alert projected through the wetware connection to the machine. It was a text message, one asking him to switch to a private channel. He simply thought about adjusting his communications, and the suit answered, interpreting his intent. Xander remembered it being strange the first time he had been connected, how his thoughts had been absorbed by a computer and spat out as commands. That was part of the skill in being a rider. The suits would only react if you commanded them and having to constantly think about moving your arms and legs was difficult. Dragging the unconscious up to the conscious took serious practice.
“Cain, we can't trust this woman.” The voice was Sergei's. He was barking at Xander as if he was one of his lickspittle employees.
“We can. I know in your world backstabbing is the order of the day, but for mercs, a contract is binding. You don’t go back on that. Not unless you want to get blackmarked, and well, that might as well be a death sentence.”
