Salvage Title

by Kevin Steverson

  Wilton threw his beer across the room, and his aide moved to clean it up. “Son of a…how the hell did he just do that? You mean to tell me that he had enough rocket fuel to fly that big ass mech up one hundred and fifty feet with fuel to spare for a perfect landing? After the maneuvering he did in the town? Chinto squat! I call chinto squat! I want to know if somebody snuck him some fuel, and I want to know now!” he said, looking around for another aide to task.

  Admiral Timerton was so mad that he was calm. “He did. And no, he did not refuel. The cameras have been on all the men and women in this competition at all times. It appears as if he, and whoever he has helping him, have built a better mech. And…he is one hell of a pilot. Why does he have to be from Joth?” he asked.

  “Who has been helping him with the design?” Colonel Yato wondered out loud. “He turned to his aide, a lowly major in a room full of command officers. “Find out if there have been communications from that machine and to whom.” The major stepped over to a corner of the room and engaged her slate.

  She came back over to the table, as they watched the last of the mechs boarding the dropship. “Sir,” she said, “he has communicated. We can see where transmissions were made. But they are scrambled, and intel can’t unscramble them. It is an algorithm unlike like anything they have seen before. When they think they are getting close, it is as if the algorithm knows and changes. They have been working on it since the drop, when they first detected the scrambled signal.”

  At this, Commander Melanie Fritz raised her eyebrow. She had been silent during most of the day, as was her usual disposition. Intelligence officers seldom volunteered anything or spoke out of place. She would be looking into this. Unbreakable indeed, she thought, reaching for her comm.

  * * *

  Harmon parked the mech close to where they had unloaded it from Rinto’s heavy hauler. Clip and Zerith were there to check the machine and see how it had stood up to everything. The empty missile racks, the remainder of the rounds for the railgun, and the rifle had been turned in to the ammo point already. As he walked away, he saw Zerith’s feet and tail sticking up out of the open hatch. I hope he doesn’t drip any of that spazzel fruit in there, he thought, shaking his head. Even though he’s a vegetarian, Zerith is always eating something. You’d think they’d eat light.

  All the pilots were preparing to make the two-mile run to the obstacle course—ensuring their boots were clasped tight and drinking water or energy drinks. As soon as they crossed the finish line, they would start the course. The run and the obstacle course combined for a score based on time. Harmon drank some water. He didn’t want to feel the energy ebb once the drinks wore off.

  Unlike the road march, the pilots didn’t gather up at the starting line. Like the drop, they were at one-minute intervals. Harmon was slated to go last again. There was no sense in burning out in a sprint at the beginning of the run; he planned to run his standard six-and-a-half-minute per mile pace and hoped to make up some time on the obstacle course. He had always done well on it at the academy.

  He knew this was the one event he wouldn’t win. His average total score for the entire day would have to make up for it. He knew for a fact there were some serious runners in the group. Would they set records? No, but then again, they were running in boots and fatigues. Evelyn was one of the best runners, and he had seen her run a six-minute pace for two miles several times. She always beat him.

  He listened to the timekeeper count down, and then he was off. The course was well-marked all the way to the obstacle course. He didn’t catch the runners he could see ahead of him, but he didn’t fall back either. He looked ahead and saw the course started with a wall. Great, he thought. The wall was followed by many more obstacles.

  * * *

  Harmon swung across the pit on the rope, and sprinted across the finish line. He had passed four other competitors on the course and had almost caught another. He was drinking more water and thinking about the rifle range when the results were posted. His finishing time was tenth. He was glad to get it. It was not a bad score for not having an obstacle course to train on. He wondered if this course would be left in place after the competition; he wouldn’t mind working out on it every now and then.

  On the rifle range, all thirty-four competitors were able to compete at once. They used grenade rifles, the standard issue for a mech pilot. The grenade rifles would allow any pilot that had to eject from a mech the ability to still cause major damage, like their mech would have. The competitors only used twenty dummy rounds on the range and not the full load that would be available to a mech pilot in combat, though.

  Harmon watched as the last of his grenades sailed through the twelve-inch slot, one hundred meters away. Not bad, he thought. Every grenade had gone right where he had aimed. Not bad at all. He checked and cleared his grenade rifle, slung it on his back, and strolled off the range. The range for the laser pistol was just a formality, really. Every mech pilot there was deadly accurate with a pistol. The range had thirty targets at various ranges. They had to change battery packs after the fifteenth round, and that’s where the separation in shooters’ abilities began—how fast the competitors reloaded was crucial.

  There were four different types of pistols Harmon saw being used. The type of pistol a Marine used depended on what the unit issued for some of them, and for others, on personal preference. The recon units were pretty lenient with their Marine’s choices, if they got the job done. Harmon’s pistol was completely different from all the others. His was, what he liked to call, his Zerith special.

  Zerith had taken apart one of the pistols from the weapons cache they found to see how it was put together. He quickly realized he could take the grip of one of Harmon’s other pistols and fit it to the new weapon. The battery clip on the alien pistol slid into place under the barrel like the pump on an antique hunting shotgun, a weapon Clip had shown to him one evening when they were having a few beers. A normal laser pistol had a battery pack that you clipped into place in front of the trigger. Changing the alien pistol’s charge pack was a smooth motion: depress the release with a finger from the hand gripping it, hold the new pack with two fingers on the free hand, slide the used pack off and let it drop, and slide the charged one on. Just like pumping a shotgun.

  Harmon had practiced the move over and over in their apartment. Compared to a regular pistol, there was no doubt it was faster. When he performed the move during his turn on the range, it looked like he had been doing it for years. He had the best time by more than a second. Noticing the range sergeant’s look, he nodded, holstered his pistol, and stepped off the range like he owned it.

  * * *

  Major General Alturn was laughing. “Did you see that? I have never seen someone reload the pack on a pistol that fast. What kind of pistol was that, anyway? Wilton, do you know?” he chided, knowing Wilton was ready to explode, again.

  “Who the hell knows!” Lieutenant General Wilton exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “Tomeral has all kinds of squat that my Marines are not issued. It should be a disqualifier,” he said.

  Admiral Timerton said to the group in a serious voice, “No. It is not a disqualifier because he is an Inactive Reserve officer. The IR provide their own weapons. There is nothing in the regulations that says he can’t use that particular pistol. He has just outshot the best we have, right before our eyes. People, he is going to win this competition. Hell, he came in tenth on the run and obstacle course, and he is still so far ahead, it’s laughable.” He turned to Colonel Yato with anger in his eyes. “Yato, tell me. Can he fight? Is he going to embarrass us all, once again, in combatives?”

  Yato was silent for a moment, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. He finally spoke without looking at them. “Harmon Tomeral grew up in an orphanage center. It’s all there in his bio. He has had to fight his entire life. You all know what life is like in places like that. We have all seen the videos depicting them. Or, unfortunately, when they hit the system news for something awful. Ol
der kids trying to take what little you have—food, toys…whatever,” he said, and looked up at them. “Tomeral never lost a combatives match while at the academy. Ever. He beat all the academy combative instructors, starting from the first lesson. That’s the day when the instructors do a little wall-to-wall counseling to let the cadets know “what’s what.” His junior year, he was a peer instructor. His senior year, the primary instructor. Yes, sir…he will embarrass us.”

  * * *

  There were thirty-four competitors. That meant the first round would have seventeen fights. Two of the competitors, by random drawing, would have to fight two fights in the first round. The second round would be eight fights, then four, then two, and then the final pairing. Each fight was five minutes long. The fight would be won by points, knockout, or submission. There were few rules: no strikes to the groin area, no strikes to the neck, no eye gouging. There were no weight classes. All fights were by random draw. This part of the competition awarded points per win.

  The combatives, the last part of the competition, was the most watched part of the competition. It was broadcast on both planets in the system, as well as available on the net, so the members of the fleet stationed off-planet could watch. Many wagers had been made.

  The entire system had been abuzz with the story of the IR Marine dominating the competition. On Tretra, the commentators for the event discussed whether Lieutenant Harmon Tomeral should have been allowed to compete. News anchors were doing the same thing. They brought retired members of the fleet, some that had even contended in the competition in years past, in for their opinion. For the most part, the spin was not positive for Tomeral. Some stations didn’t even attempt to hide their contempt for someone from the “lesser” planet in the system.

  There were quickly-put-together hit pieces on the fact he provided his own weapons. On Tretra, citizens could not own pistols at all. Long gun licenses were extremely limited to the rural areas of the planet where the dangers of native animals were a real concern. They only briefly went over the fact that even on their planet, the IR members were required by fleet regulations to own their own weapons.

  On the planet Joth, the news was the exact opposite. The stories highlighted the fact that one of their own was far in the lead. Of course, a native of Joth was going to win the shooting parts of the competition. Weapons, weapon safety, and target shooting were taught in all the schools. The speculation was that Harmon Tomeral was going to win the combatives portion of the competition, too. Families across the planet were prepared to let their children stay up late until the awards ceremony was complete.

  By now, Harmon had no illusions on how the first round was going to go. He knew that he would be one of the ones selected to have to fight two fights in the first round. He also knew that he would be in the last match, followed immediately with the extra match if he won. He didn’t care.

  Fighting had always come naturally to Harmon. He had been raised with three older brothers that would wrestle and box each other, including their youngest brother. His family didn’t believe in “letting the little one win.” If you won or lost, it was on your own merit. The fact that someone was older or bigger was irrelevant. You either became good enough to win or you lost. Living on the edge of the wastelands, there was no room for leniency. Life was tough, so toughen up.

  He carried that with him into the orphanage after he lost his family in the storm. It was a good thing he did, too. He was able to protect himself and his best friend, Clip. It didn’t take long for the word to spread. They were a pair that you didn’t steal from, bully, or…any of the other things that happened in those places. Though, every now and then, a new someone, or a group of new someones, would move into the orphanage center and try. Often, they were moved into the center because they were uncontrollable wherever they came from. They would arrive, thinking they could run the center like they did their last one, only to painfully find out their plans would have to change.

  As the matches were proceeding, Harmon saw Twiggy lost his fight on points. Twiggy, at six feet four, had the reach on his shorter opponent and wouldn’t allow himself to be taken to the mat. He kept his stance wide and balanced his upper body accordingly. It didn’t make for an appealing fight, and the points awarded showed it.

  Evelyn won her match in the first minute when she caught the much larger man she was fighting with a kick to the side of the head. He folded like a sack, having become overconfident because of their size difference. He didn’t realize the speed of her kick was more than enough to compensate for it. Harmon was glad she kept some of the things he had taught her in mind: show no fear, use your opponent’s eagerness against them, and sometimes the best defense is an aggressive offense.

  Harmon’s first match was the last of the first round. He stepped into the ring and looked over at his opponent. The man he was facing was huge. At easily six feet eight and made of solid muscle, this match was not going to be something he took lightly. The fix is in, thought Harmon. The man on the other side of the ring was the biggest person in the competition. The way he is bobbing and weaving over there and warming up, the guy knows what he is doing. Harmon watched him closely and smiled to himself. He realized the man’s weakness.

  They touched gloves at the center of the ring, when the referee said, “fight.” Harmon noticed that there was no malice in his opponent’s eyes. If the fix was in, the man had nothing to do with it. He was just fighting whoever was selected by the officials. They nodded in respect and began circling and feeling each other out.

  Harmon did the last thing that the big man, as well as everyone watching the fight, had expected. He shot in low, wrapped his arms around the man’s buttocks and upper thighs, pulled hard toward himself, and lifted with all his leg strength. By pulling against himself and lifting, his own legs became the only contact with the mat for both men. His opponent reacted by instinct and attempted to push away from Harmon’s bear hug. This aided Harmon’s surprise move, and the big man went down hard.

  The man was dazed because the back of his head struck the mat with Harmon’s added weight on him, and his defense was nonexistent. Harmon half-stood and came down with a blow to his face that ended the fight. Harmon stepped over to the side, while the referee checked the man and officially stopped the match. There had been no reason for Harmon to continue to reign blows on the helpless Marine; he knew when he struck that the fight was over. It had lasted fifteen seconds.

  When Harmon stepped into the ring for the extra fight of the first round, the man across the ring had an inquisitive look on his face. He was well-rested since he had fought and won the first fight of the evening. He was about the same size as Harmon at six-two and two hundred and thirty pounds, but he was decidedly older. With his experience in the Marines and having watched Harmon fight, he knew he was going against someone that didn’t fit any type of fighting mold. Harmon could read the man’s face and guess what his thoughts were and then see when the man second-guessed what he had just thought. Harmon knew what he was going to do.

  When the ref said “fight,” Harmon touched gloves with him and went straight into boxing mode. He threw several left-hand jabs at the man’s face, causing his opponent to block the punches. Harmon threw a right to his head; it was blocked, also. Harmon threw three more jabs in a row, and when he felt the man was expecting the right, he caught his opponent with a powerful shot into the man’s lower ribs with his left hand. Harmon heard the air whoosh out of him, and as the man bent to that side in obvious pain, he stepped a little to the right, twisted, and caught the side of the man’s head with a crushing downward punch. The older Marine was unconscious before he hit the mat.

  * * *

  Inside the conference center, it was quiet. They had watched Lieutenant Harmon Tomeral knock out two of their best fighting Marines. In total, the fights had lasted twenty-five seconds. Tomeral was embarrassing them.

  No one said a word as they looked over to Admiral Timerton. Even Major General Alturn decided that now
was not the time to tease Lieutenant General Wilton. Tomeral was going to win the entire competition. It was no longer in doubt.

  “Commander Fritz, I want to know about the programming in that mech. I want to know who helped him build it. I want to know how they can scramble their communications to an extent that we can’t unscramble them. I want to know about that pistol. I want it yesterday,” Admiral Timerton said. He was going to have to explain to the system president why someone from Joth—someone that wasn’t even on active status—had embarrassed the entire fleet and the citizens of Tretra. The look in his eyes let everyone at the table know how he felt.

  “I’m already on it, sir,” she answered back.

  “Wilton, we have no choice but to have the ceremony and present Tomeral with the trophy. I want it to be a quick ceremony. It pisses me off to do it, and we must give the man 100,000 credits, too. What can we do about that?” Timerton asked the group.

  “Well, sir…” Rear Admiral Cothco said.

  * * *

  The second round of fights finished with Evelyn losing on points. Her opponent had been an even match for her, and the women were exhausted afterwards. Both were from recon, different units, and they hugged it out after the fight with no hard feelings.

  Harmon won his fight by submission. The man he fought had shot toward him but was unable to get him to the mat. Harmon allowed their momentum to carry them to the wall of the cage, and then he slipped under and to the side of the man, dropping down with the man’s arm wedged. He used his legs for extra leverage, and the defense force soldier tapped out.