Combat Frame XSeed

by Brian Niemeier

  “Benny is highly protective of our young master,” said Fr. Cleon. “Nevertheless, he is correct that the pain of His Highness’ loss is still quire fresh. The Dauphin has joined other deposed leaders in supporting the Earth Governments in Exile. You must keep this information in strictest confidence, but Dr. Browning maintains a number of contacts within the EGE.”

  “So Seed Corp is playing both sides,” scoffed Zane.

  “Let us say rather that their chief designer prefers to remain flexible,” said the priest.

  The car slowed as it approached a square, three-story mansion. Balconies supported by wrought iron pillars clung to its white walls, and an elaborate fence of the same black metal enclosed its small green lawn. Benny turned right into a gated driveway between a high hedge and a brick wall. Two men in black suits armed with shotguns opened the iron gate, and the car rolled into a small courtyard paved with red brick.

  Benny parked the car facing a rectangular swimming pool. Fr. Cleon exited the vehicle and helped Dorothy out of the car. Zane let himself out. A honey-like floral scent hung in the air. A stone fountain babbled nearby.

  Two men stood facing each other beside the pool. One towered over the other. They both wore mesh masks and padded white vests. Each man held a spindly sword in his right hand. Zane watched as the swordsmen engaged in a formalized sparring session. Their blades blurred and clashed with rhythmic precision. The match ended with the shorter man’s sword bowed against his larger opponent’s chest.

  The shorter man removed his mask, revealing a head of long brown hair tied back with a black ribbon. His tan complexion set off his deep blue eyes. “Merci, Lucien,” he said. His opponent bowed his shaved, dark-skinned head and withdrew to the house as the victor turned to acknowledge his guests.

  “M. Dellister,” Fr. Cleon said, “Mlle Wheeler, it is my honor to present Jean-Claude du Lione, Dauphin of Nouvelle-France.”

  “I can’t believe I’m meeting actual royalty,” Dorothy said breathlessly.

  Zane studied the slender, fine-featured prince. This guy doesn’t look that important.

  Jean-Claude met Zane’s eye without wavering. “Welcome to my court in exile, such as it is. I apologize for receiving you in such a disheveled state. If you would like, we can adjourn to freshen up. Changes of clothes will, of course, be provided for both of you.”

  “Thanks,” said Zane, “but I’d rather get down to business.”

  Benny had filled a glass of water from a poolside kitchenette. Jean-Claude accepted the offered drink, took a sip, and handed the glass back with a nod. “If you wish,” said the Prince. “You have made a long journey to see me. Though not my subjects, both of you are fugitives from the Coalition, my sworn enemy. As a Christian nobleman, I am obliged to entertain your petitions. State your grievances.”

  “The Socs stole my combat frame,” said Zane. “I built it myself. It’s mine. They shipped it to Africa, and I want it back.”

  Benny approached the Dauphin’s guests with two fresh glasses of water. Zane declined. Dorothy accepted with a skittish bow.

  Jean-Claude cupped his chin. “I sympathize with your plight. The SOC has despoiled my family and threatened my person. However, I must consider my people’s welfare. Were I to confront the Coalition head-on, my subjects scattered around and above the world might face reprisals. I am prepared to offer compensation for your loss and asylum at my court for you and the mademoiselle.”

  “I don’t want compensation,” growled Zane. “I want Dead Drop. If you won’t help me get back what’s mine, I’ll take it back on my own.”

  Dorothy clutched his arm. “Zane…”

  “You’re quite determined,” Jean-Claude said. “Take care that determination does not become rashness. The Coalition cuts down the stalk that stands up.”

  Grim amusement twisted Zane’s lip. “You think you can just lay low and ride this out? The Socs will cut you all down with the new CFs they based on Dead Drop.”

  Jean-Claude’s eyes narrowed. “The Coalition is preparing to field a new generation of combat frames? Browning’s agent said nothing of this.”

  “Must’ve slipped his mind,” said Zane. “If the Socs have put Dead Drop’s energy weapons tech into mass production, the EGE’s as good as dead.”

  “Benny,” Jean-Claude said, “contact the harbor and have my ship’s crew make ready to depart.” He spoke again to Zane. “In the meantime, all of us shall repair to the house. My staff shall tend to you and Mlle Wheeler. We shall reconvene in the dining room at nine. Dress for dinner. Tomorrow, we sail for Africa.”

  11

  “There must be a bug we missed,” Max shouted as he bent over the diagnostic readout in the Yamamoto’s noisy hangar. A bundle of cables ran from the terminal on its wheeled cart, up the side of the Thor Prototype’s fuselage, and into the open cockpit. “Recheck lines 819 through 5347.”

  “Check complete,” Marilyn said through the diagnostic terminal’s speakers. “No coding errors found.”

  Max unconsciously stuck his pen in his mouth. The soft plastic was already pocked with his tooth marks. “We’d better find some kind of glitch. Otherwise I’ll have to tell Collins and Larson you were in your right mind when you fired Mjolnir across our escort cruiser’s bow.”

  “Incorrect. I fired at, and hit, a missile three meters above and 2.4 kilometers to starboard of the cruiser.”

  “I dare you to see how far that excuse flies with Griff,” said Max. “Forget handling fire control for the Thor. You’ll be lucky if he lets you run a fryer in the galley. I only avoided a court-martial because we kept Ritter alive to bring in the Mab.”

  Darving glanced at the cargo truck parked against the wall to his left. The powerful marine combat frame’s blue bulk lay supine on the flatbed since the hangar’s ceiling was too low for a CF to stand upright. Nice catch, kid.

  A mechanical whine echoed from Max’s right. One of the massive elevators was descending from the flight deck bearing a transport helicopter whose tail markings identified its home base as the EGE carrier Lloyd George. A deep metallic boom rang out as the elevator arrived on the hangar deck. A petite woman showing toned calves below the hem of her skirted service blues stepped from the helo and strode toward Max carrying a black briefcase.

  “Wen,” Max said as he stepped forward to meet her. “This is a surprise.” He smoothed his stained jumpsuit. “You should’ve told me you were coming.”

  “As it happens, Captain Darving,” the Naval Intelligence officer said as she straightened his collar, “I sent you four messages this week. Let me guess. You were too busy working on that jet to check them.”

  Max returned the favor by adjusting the skewed Roman Orthodox cross pin on her lapel. “Right again, Lieutenant Li. Marilyn’s been taking liberties with the Thor Prototype’s weapon systems. I’m still trying to figure out why.”

  Li Wen shook her head. “You’ve always been more interested in things than people.”

  “Marilyn’s kind of a person.”

  “Then perhaps you should keep her company while I deliver my findings to Larson and McCaskey.”

  Max stuffed his pen in his pocket. “I needed a change of scenery after staring at this screen all week. Glad you’re here to pretty up the place.”

  Wen failed to suppress a laugh. “It’s good to see you too, Max. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got official business.” She resumed her walk across the hangar. “Are you coming?”

  “The Mab’s transmitter is still broken,” said Max. “Almost got Ritter killed. Did Omaka send you to pull the data off its systems?”

  “You really have been out of it. Collins sent every bit of data in that CF days ago. I just finished analyzing it, and the Admiral sent me to brief McCaskey.”

  Wen proceeded to the galley deck lifts, and Max squeezed into a cramped metal car with her. She smelled of jasmine, which reminded Max of coming to in the Yamamoto’s infirmary feeling like he’d been run through a rock crusher. But beholding Wen’s c
elestial beauty upon waking had been worth the pain.

  “Sorry I missed your messages,” said Max, “but I remembered that today’s our anniversary.”

  Wen tucked a stray, raven-black hair behind her ear. “We’ve only known each other for six months.”

  “Exactly six months,” said Max.

  “Are you counting my time as your handler while you were still at Seed Corp?” The elevator door opened, and Wen merged with the foot traffic filling the narrow hall.

  Max followed her, twisting and weaving between crewmen hustling in both directions. “No, counting from the end of my coma after crash-landing on the flight deck. You were there when I woke up.”

  “Of course. I had to debrief you.”

  “And it led to something beautiful,” said Max. “Now you’re here in an official capacity again. Who knows where it’ll lead this time?”

  Wen arrived at McCaskey’s door and knocked.

  “Come,” the General’s muffled voice called from the other side.

  Max followed Wen into the General’s spartan office but hung back as she officially greeted McCaskey. Larson and Collins stood to one side conversing with a sharp-looking private first class in a service uniform with a German flag on the sleeve. Max didn’t recognize the enlisted man until he turned to face the newcomers. “Ritter?”

  The PFC faced Max and saluted. “Captain. Glad you’re here. I wanted to say thanks for saving my skin.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Max, returning the gesture. “You clean up nice. I hardly recognized you.”

  Ritter pointed to his still relatively long but much neater brown hair. “It’s probably the haircut. Plus, I finally got my clothing bag. The Major said this meeting’s important, so I thought I’d dress for the occasion.”

  “Mission accomplished,” said Max. “You make me look like a bum.”

  “That’s a pretty low bar,” said Larson. “You just get off shift moonlighting as a janitor, Darving?”

  Wen defused the tension by exchanging greetings with Ritter. “You must be the pilot who captured the Coalition CF. I’m Lieutenant Li Wen, EGE Naval Intelligence. Outstanding work, Private.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Ritter. “Honestly, I was just trying to survive.”

  “Let’s not overlook the fact that he lost a Grenzmark C in the process,” Collins said.

  Ritter grimaced. “Don’t remind me. I feel like somebody shot my dog.”

  “A fair price to pay for a superior combat frame and wealth of intel,” said McCaskey, “which the Lieutenant is here to brief us on.”

  “Shouldn’t Private Ritter be dismissed first, Sir?” asked Collins.

  “Admiral Omaka gave him a security clearance,” McCaskey said.

  Wen laid her briefcase on the side of the desk, unlocked it, and produced a matte gray tablet emblazoned with a winged Eye of Providence superimposed over an anchor: the EGE Naval Intelligence logo. “Ritter was the first to discover that the Mab was carrying encrypted files. Besides, the information they contained has direct ramifications for the EGE’s first CF team, which includes all of you.”

  “‘Direct ramifications’ sounds bad,” said Larson. “I’m even more convinced that forming this team was a mistake.”

  “Believe me, Colonel,” Wen said, “if my analysis pans out, the whole earth is headed for a historic crisis. Your team will simply bear the brunt of it.”

  Max exchanged uneasy looks with Ritter, Collins, and Larson. “The brunt of what?” asked Darving.

  Wen read from her handheld screen. “Comm and sensor log analysis confirmed the captured Mablung as part of a Coalition CF team stationed at Tenes. All three Mabs were in communication with an SOC listening post near Tipasa 130 klicks to the east. They were deployed to shadow you when Tipasa’s radar picked you up. When you ignored their warning to withdraw, the SOC commander at Tenes ordered you shot down.”

  “What were the Socs doing in Algeria to begin with?” asked Collins.

  “Based on transmissions recovered from Ritter’s Mablung,” Wen said slowly, “there’s a high likelihood the Coalition Security Corps is establishing advance bases for an invasion of North Africa.”

  The ensuing silence was broken by the creaking of the General’s chair as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “The Coalition’s Ministry of Terrestrial Affairs just sent diplomatic missions to every warlord along the southern Mediterranean coast. Why would Secretary-General Mitsu give the local leaders a chance to go straight if the CSC’s just going to invade anyway?”

  Wen bit her lip, which Max recognized as a sign she was deep in thought. “If I were planning to occupy the region,” she said at last, “I’d send envoys to the local leaders with a list of onerous demands made under threat of invasion. Their real objectives would be to put the warlords off balance and gather intel on potential targets.”

  “You’re talking psych warfare and espionage,” said Max. He caught himself chewing on his pen and jammed it back in his breast pocket. “Since when have the Socs used anything but linear command and control tactics to beat grounders into submission?”

  “Director Sanzen is a military history buff,” McCaskey said. “He may have gained the upper hand on Mitsu.”

  “If Sanzen’s calling the shots,” said Griff, “you can bet he’ll invade. The question is, do we warn the locals?”

  “Of course we do,” said Max. “What other option is there?”

  Wen’s face fell. “There’s a high probability of a warlord striking the SOC first if we share this intelligence.”

  “Warning the Socs’ targets means starting a war,” said Collins.

  “But on the locals’ terms,” added Larson, “not the Socs’.”

  “I concur with Colonel Larson and Captain Darving,” McCaskey said. “The local leaders deserve to know they’ve got targets on their backs.”

  “But Sir,” argued Wen, “The EGE’s mission is to ensure world peace; not to start wars!”

  “Your objection is noted, Lieutenant,” said McCaskey, “but the General Staff has already discussed this scenario. The Socs intend to make war regardless of our actions. We currently lack the strength to confront them directly, so it’s best to leak the intel with plausible deniability. That way we can maintain our objectivity and adopt a supervisory role.”

  “We’re gonna let the locals take a swing at the Socs so we can referee the fight,” Max thought aloud. “When do we break news of the invasion to Zarai and the Scorpion?”

  McCaskey folded his hands as if in prayer but glanced at Wen. “Knowing Admiral Omaka, we already have.”

  As the Coalition’s Mideast Region governor, Prem Naryal could have let her sizable staff prepare her administration’s financial reports. But the penchant for ruthless diligence she’d learned under Commerce Secretary Satsu compelled her to sift the raw data personally.

  Naryal sat at a terminal in the cool darkness of her Jeddah mansion’s server room, reviewing her administration’s books line by line. No sound intruded on her meditation except the humming of fans and the clacking of keys.

  The numbers add up, she thought—and not without frustration, because a small voice in the back of her mind told her they shouldn’t. With a sigh, she expanded the first of 365 spreadsheets and started again from line one. She was contemplating an audit of all the transactions between Jeddah, other SOC protectorates on Earth, and Coalition facilities in the colonies, when someone knocked on the mahogany door.

  Naryal ignored the knocking, but it came again, and more urgently. “What do you want?” she called out.

  The electronic lock clicked open, and a blue-uniformed Coalition Security Corpsman threw open the door. “Governor Naryal,” the young man said breathlessly. “You should see this, ma’am.”

  Being interrupted galled her, but Naryal’s security detail had learned better than to bother her with trivialities. She logged off, swept her long black hair back over her shoulders, and stood to face the guard. “What
do I need to see?”

  “It’s Kazid Zarai, ma’am. He’s delivering an address on live global television.”

  Naryal rushed past the guard and down the blue-carpeted hallway, her yellow silk gown swishing with each rapid step. She burst through a set of double oak doors and into her spacious office. Floor-to-ceiling windows curved along the left wall, giving the Governor a commanding view of the inlet whose blue waters lapped against the palace’s foundation below.

  A line of monitors hung above the windows. Each screen showed a man standing at a podium in a wood paneled room in front of a green, white, and red flag. The weathered face below his bald pate was engraved with a sneer. He wore a dark green jacket adorned with military ribbons. His nameplate read, “COL Kazid Zarai” in Arabic script. The unsteady camerawork betrayed a hasty, amateur production, and the picture looked pixelated and grainy.

  Zarai’s people must have hacked into one of the old satellite nets.

  “Greetings to all the people of the world,” Zarai said in a bastardized mixture of Arabic and French. “For those who do not know me, I am the legitimate president of Algeria. It has come to my attention that the Systems Overterrestrial Coalition is scheming to usurp my people’s sovereignty.”

  The floor under Naryal’s feet seemed to become shifting sand. What has Sanzen done?

  “On behalf of the people of Algeria,” Zarai continued, “I declare war on the Coalition. Let them—”

  The transmission cut out. A clap of thunder in the clear desert sky rattled Naryal’s windows.

  “Look!” The Security Corpsman stood in the doorway, pointing across the harbor to a black pillar of smoke rising into the sky. “That blast came from the desalination plant.”

  We’re under attack! Naryal considered ordering her personal combat frame prepped for battle, but she thought better of it. “Get me Security Chief Davis.”

  Megami knew when an emergency broadcast interrupted Zarai’s pirate feed that the Jeddah operation was a total success. She curled up on the white plush sofa in her private quarters within Byzantium colony and savored breaking reports of the carnage.