Combat Frame XSeed

by Brian Niemeier

  It was Megami’s turn to give an unexpected reaction. Her wolfish expression softened, and what Sieg would have called pity in anyone else glimmered in her black eyes. “The guilt almost crushed you,” she said. “It’s still weighing you down.”

  A flash of anger burned away Sieg’s mirth. “You have no idea how I feel!” he lied.

  “What’s in your pocket?” asked Megami.

  The question caught Sieg off balance. “What? Is that some kind of sick joke?”

  “I’m serious. You’re my prisoner. Consider this a search. What’s in your left breast pocket?”

  Long habit overcame Sieg’s trepidation. His fingers drew out the pink silk ribbon as if it were a venomous snake.

  Megami produced an identical ribbon from inside her coat.

  The strength drained from Sieg’s hand. His silk strip fluttered to the rocky ground. Megami’s joined it.

  Sieg sought his last refuge in denial. “How did you get that?” he said, choking back tears. “It belonged to Liz. Did you tear it from her body after Sanzen’s butchers did their work?”

  “I am Liz, Sieg,” Megami said, barely audible over the heavy machinery gnawing at the rock.

  “Your hair,” Sieg protested. “Your eyes.”

  “I won’t deny there’ve been drastic changes since we saw each other last,” Megami said, “but it’s still me.”

  The enervating emotions that had weakened Sieg’s hand coursed through his whole body. Tears long held back flowed forth. He swept his hand across the soldiers standing behind him. “This is none of their business. Get them out of here!”

  “This is family business,” Megami said, “and the Kazoku are family.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sieg snapped.

  Megami opened her palm to reveal another object she’d pulled from her pocket: a compact syringe pen. The clear tube’s contents glowed red as a live coal in the hellish light. “The answers to all your questions are here.”

  Sieg hesitated. Another trap. But he feared never knowing the truth more than death. He snatched the syringe from the SecGen’s delicate hand and injected himself in the neck. The expected paralysis and blackout failed to manifest. One of the Kazoku took the needle from Sieg’s hand.

  Megami turned and strode toward a tunnel entrance in the far wall. “Come on. We’ll get you freshened up. Then you can go see Browning in the lab.”

  Sieg and the Kazoku followed. This army, he thought. Metis’ engines. Megami claiming to be Liz. That needle. They’re all related. The realization, or perhaps the syringe’s contents, chilled his blood. What am I doing?

  “We’re about to have the last word in human history,” Megami said as if in answer to his troubled thoughts.

  Max leaned over the railing up on vulture’s row. Another returning Shenlong screeched to a landing, but he ignored the commotion on the Yamamoto’s flight deck below and kept his eyes fixed on Jean-Claude’s yacht. A banana yellow crane fished the blue waters between the converted cargo ship and the carrier with steel cables as thick as Max’s arm. A clear sky stretched forever above him.

  I should be up there looking for her.

  “You think he’s still alive down there?”

  Ritter’s question roused Max from his brooding. He hadn’t noticed the slim, dark-haired kid sidle up next to him. “The tower’s in radio contact,” said Darving. “It’s only been a day. Zane’s alright.”

  “Gotta hand it to him,” said Ritter. “He built Dead Drop tough. Even my Mab would’ve imploded at those depths.”

  A bitter laugh escaped Max’s chest. “He’d have been smarter to ditch his CF like you did.”

  “To be fair,” said Ritter, “I wouldn’t have cleared the blast zone if I hadn’t stowed a DPV behind my seat after Kisangani.”

  “Proves my point,” said Max. “You can be reckless, but you’ve still got a sense of self-preservation. Zane’s perpetual hard on for his CF kept him from bailing out when he had the chance.”

  “You ejected,” Ritter said.

  “Not voluntarily,” muttered Max. He wondered if Larson was right about a bug deep in Marilyn’s code. He’d probably never find out since Marilyn had jettisoned him, leaving Wen and herself to be taken by Megami’s bag man.

  Orange lights strobed on the yacht’s deck as the cargo crane reeled in its cables. Dead Drop’s head and shoulders emerged from the sea. Its black armor glistened in the sun as the crane hauled it up to the yacht’s deck.

  “Darving!” Griff Larson’s harsh voice rose above the scream of an inbound jet. “Figures you’d be up here eye-banging the aircraft.”

  Ritter snapped to attention and saluted. Max kept enjoying the view. “What do you want, Griff?” asked Darving.

  “I want to hear from your own pouty lips that the rumors of you going AWOL are bullshit,” said Larson. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  Max turned. The Colonel’s digital camo ACUs bore soot stains, his wavy white hair looked downright frazzled, and the bags under his eyes said he hadn’t slept in at least twenty-four hours.

  “I should probably go help out on the Lloyd George,” Ritter said sheepishly. A black pillar of smoke still rose across the water off the Yamamoto’s stern, where her sister ship sat adrift and burning.

  “Good idea,” Griff said with all the warmth of a November gale. Ritter hurried along the balcony toward the stairs.

  “It is bullshit,” said Max. “I’m not going AWOL.”

  “Good,” said Griff. “We lost 237 men yesterday, along with two flights of Shenlongs, three destroyers, and a cruiser—probably that treacherous bitch Omaka’s flagship too, before this shit show’s over. We’ve still got fifty-six MIA. Report to Major Collins for search and rescue duty.”

  “You misunderstood me,” Max said, trying to keep his voice level. “I’m not going AWOL, because I’m not coming back.”

  Griff’s mouth compressed into a thin line framed by his silver beard. “I’m gonna say this once, so listen hard. Because you’ve served with honor, I’ll overlook what a huge pain in the ass you are and give you a choice. Option one: You go back to your quarters, you hit the sack, and as of tomorrow this conversation never happened.

  “Option two: You keep driving with your dick and go looking for your sweetheart. I don’t know whether that means Li or your digital pillow princess, and I don’t care. But get this through your egg-shaped skull. If you go, you stay gone. Because I shoot deserters on sight. Do you read me, Captain?”

  “Five by five,” said Max. “Now I’ve got a question for you. We got our asses beat like a second string JV squad. When does the EGE punch back?”

  “When we’re ready,” said Griff.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “For ZoDiaC to supply us with our own combat frames.”

  “That means never,” Max scoffed. “I watched those bug men turn my hometown into a joyless gray hive. I knew they’d remake the planet as one big cube farm with a monogrammed concrete box for everyone. Wen gave me a glimmer of hope that someone could stop the Socs. But the EGE hasn’t even slowed them down. Now I know the truth. You can’t stop them, and you never could.”

  Griff’s nostrils flared. “Think you can do better?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes I do. That psycho in the Dolph didn’t just come for Omaka. He came to extract me. Naryal says the Socs’ new SecGen has greenlit all kinds of Bond villain weapons projects. She wants me for one of them. If I go along, I can find Wen and fuck up their plans from the inside.”

  “If the Socs want you building weapons for them,” said Griff, “that’s the best reason to keep your ass parked here.”

  Max brushed past his former superior. “That’s why you always lose.”

  “Darving,” Griff called after him. “She was just a spook working an asset. Or do you think she’d throw away her career to oversee your eternal blueballing?”

  Max paused, forced down the torrent of invective he knew Griff wanted him to let
fly, and stalked off down vulture’s row.

  28

  “General,” Naryal greeted McCaskey when he stepped into the spacious salon aboard Jean-Claude’s yacht. “Good of you to join us.”

  McCaskey hung the peaked cap that matched his khaki uniform on a sandalwood rack near the door. “Governor,” he replied before acknowledging Jean-Claude, who stood at Naryal’s side. “Your Highness.” The General paused when his gaze fell on the room’s final occupant.

  Carlos the Scorpion lounged on a white leather bench built into the curved wall to McCaskey’s left. The arms dealer wore a uniform identical to the General’s own, but with the top three buttons undone, exposing a toned chest similar in color to the bronze sculptures displayed throughout the room.

  “The correct style is General,” Carlos said with an unctuous grin.

  McCaskey smoothed his iron gray hair with a sharp motion of his hand. “I’ll address you by that rank because you’ve joined your private army to the EGE, not because you earned that uniform.”

  Carlos cocked an eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

  “Please, my friends,” Jean-Claude said. “The enemy has sown enough division without our help.”

  “You’re right,” said McCaskey. “Indulging petty rivalries won’t help morale.”

  Carlos waved his hand. “I take no offense, and I meant none.”

  “Good,” said Naryal. She led McCaskey to a set of white easy chairs near the center of the room. He and Jean-Claude took seats while Naryal remained standing. “Because the situation is deteriorating as we speak.”

  “That’s an understatement,” McCaskey said. “We’ve taken heavy losses, including a General Staff member who turned out to be a spy. She left us with a carrier that’s salvageable but might not make it to dry dock in Algiers.”

  “Governor Troy has retaken all the land Mitsu relinquished in North Africa,” said Naryal. “The EGE has no safe port of call in the Mediterranean.”

  “It’s those damned Dolphs,” Carlos spat. “No one can compete with their plasma weapons.”

  “An arms race never stands still.” Naryal gathered up her pale green dress, strode to the lavish bar, and poured herself a glass of Cognac. “Carlos’ people smuggled that experimental plasma rifle out of Algiers before Troy’s forces overran the city. My analysts determined it to be a full generation more advanced than the Ein Dolphs’ standard weapon. It even outclasses the twin plasma cannon carried by the custom Zwei Dolph that decimated the fleet.”

  “I’d like to know what a prototype plasma weapon was doing in an Algerian warehouse,” McCaskey said.

  Naryal swallowed a smooth, vanilla and caramel-flavored sip of her drink and said, “Someone was using the mob to transport military hardware to Kisangani under the SOC governors’ noses. I don’t have solid proof, but the only Coalition official capable of setting up a secret supply chain to outer space is the Secretary-General herself.”

  “Is that why you’ve decided to help us?” McCaskey asked.

  “I underestimated Megami once, General,” said Naryal. “Her coup against the Secretariat dispelled my illusions. Now trustworthy sources report a massive military buildup in the colonies. I believe Megami plans to launch the invasion for which Operation N was just a feint. I do not believe she will discriminate between friend and foe.”

  “That could be a problem if she is building more weapons like the rifle Zane and Ritter found,” said Jean-Claude.

  “I have no doubt she’s building far worse.” Naryal drained her glass. The warming draft chased the chill from her blood.

  “What can the EGE field to oppose such overwhelming force?” asked Carlos.

  “Our fighters have proven ineffective against the Dolphs,” McCaskey said. “Regardless, Captain Darving didn’t improve matters by going AWOL with a Shenlong. Our attack helicopters might fare better.”

  “How many combat frames do you have in your inventory?” Carlos asked.

  “Veillantif is severely damaged,” Jean-Claude said. “Dead Drop even more so. The Mablung and the Thor Prototype have been destroyed. Colonel Larson’s Grenzmark II is the only combat-capable CF remaining.”

  The Scorpion pursed his lips as if whistling. “You will need an equipment upgrade.”

  “ZoDiaC had agreed to buy us our own combat frames from Seed Corp,” said McCaskey. “Omaka and Friedlander were our main links to the dissident colonists. Now she’s dead and he’s disappeared.”

  “Megami nationalized Seed Corp and moved all their assets to outer space,” said Naryal. “Don’t expect any help from them. As for Friedlander, he’s reportedly turned traitor as well.”

  “Zeklov,” Jean-Claude said.

  “Yes,” said Carlos with a twinkle in his eye.

  McCaskey’s brow furrowed. “The luxury weapons manufacturer?”

  “They also produce combat frames.” Jean-Claude rose, straightened his white blazer, and motioned to the winged form outside the window that towered over the deck like a headless colossus. “Including mine.”

  “Zeklov installed the armor on my combat frame’s Seed Corporation chassis,” said Naryal. “Jagannath is currently undergoing repairs at their Russian facility.”

  “If you’re suggesting the EGE contract with Zeklov to supply us with combat frames, I’m afraid we’re not budgeted for it.”

  “I cannot afford to outfit the entire EGE,” Jean-Claude said, “but I am prepared to fund a dozen.”

  “That’s generous of you,” said McCaskey. “It’s just not enough.”

  “I’ll cover the rest,” Naryal said.

  McCaskey regarded her with narrowed eyes. “And in return?”

  “Treat me as an equal partner in our alliance,” said Naryal. “A bargain price, since I’m fronting an unequal share of the funds.”

  Carlos chuckled. “You are out of excuses, General.”

  McCaskey raised his hands. “This is one time I’m glad to lose.”

  “The Zeklovs are old family friends,” Jean-Claude said. “I will accompany Her Excellency to conduct negotiations with their managing director.”

  “Your assistance is appreciated,” said Naryal. “I’d like Ritter and Dellister to join us. They’ve both proven knowledgeable—and quite resourceful.”

  “I have no objections.” McCaskey stood, walked to the door, and donned his hat. “Just make sure you bring my men CFs that can fight.”

  Somebody rained hell down on this place. From the air, Max surveyed the swaths of burned-out buildings and rubble-filled craters on Kisangani Spaceport’s perimeter. “Maybe Zimmer and his boys left the Socs a parting gift,” Max thought aloud. He paused out of habit to let Marilyn deliver her analysis and fell into brooding silence in her absence.

  Shenlongs like the one Max was flying hadn’t caused the devastation below. The pattern of destruction didn’t match aerial bombardment, and he doubted a whole squadron of fighter-bombers could have wreaked so much havoc.

  Good thing they’re not firing triple-A guns or scrambling CFs. Max hadn’t thought twice about invading Soc airspace in the Thor Prototype. Making a second incursion in a less powerful, mass-produced aircraft set his teeth on edge.

  A crackle of static drew Max’s attention to his radio. “EGE aircraft,” a slightly distorted male voice hailed him, “you are cleared for landing on pad zero five nine, over.”

  What if it’s a trick? Max pondered. The answer immediately presented itself. Of course it’s a trick. But the Socs are holding all the cards. I’ll have to play along if I want to save Wen.

  Max set the VTOL aircraft down on a hockey rink-sized concrete pad in front of an oblong gray hangar. The Shenlong’s bubble canopy gave him a clear view of the wide circular spaceport with its skeletal launch towers. He expected a company’s worth of light trucks and personnel transports to close in on him, but the port remained empty to every horizon.

  A moment passed before Max felt secure enough to power down the Shenlong. With the engine’s whine silenced,
he could hear the wind tearing across the paved plain. He raised the canopy and climbed down to stand under the overcast sky.

  Still, no hostiles appeared. Max removed his helmet, tucked the carbon fiber shell stenciled with the king of hearts in the crook of his flight suited arm, and strode toward the hangar’s open rectangular door.

  Max’s eyes adjusted to the building’s relative gloom. Not that there was much too see. The cavernous space’s only furnishing was a wheeled cart of black metal that rose to chest height with a flat monitor perched on top.

  A face appeared on the screen as Max approached. He recognized the narrow female visage framed by long blue-black hair with precisely trimmed bangs. The teenage girl’s dark eyes studied him like an insect she’d stuck on a pin.

  “Megami,” Max cursed.

  “Hi, Max,” Megami’s greeting boomed over the hangar’s PA. “I hope you had a nice flight.”

  The Secretary-General’s voice raised his hackles like a straight razor down the nape of his neck. Something in her tone uncorked the building frustration Max had kept bottled up. “Shove the pleasantries up your ass! You wanna talk? Try a phone call before sending your psycho lapdog on a murder spree.”

  Megami shrugged. “We’re talking now, aren’t we?”

  “Keep acting smug. I’ll get right back in my aircraft, and you can eat my jet wash.”

  “I doubt it,” Megami said. “If you walk away now, you’ll never know what happens to Li Wen, and I know you couldn’t live with the uncertainty.”

  Max balled his fists so hard his nails bit into his gloved palms. When he’d calmed himself enough to speak, he asked, “Where is she?”

  “Here on Metis. If you’re ready to listen, I have a job for you.”

  A chuckle escaped Max’s throat. “You don’t know shit about me if you think I’d help a Soc hive-queen build a weapon to conquer the earth.”

  Megami adopted the expression of a teacher explaining a simple concept to a slow child. “You still think that little of me? I’ve killed more Socs than you, Max. In fact, I gave you an assist on most of your confirmed kills. I’m approaching you now because you’re the only one who might hate Socs as much as me.”