by David Ryker
“Have a nice day,” one of the pumpkin-headed droids from behind the counter said brightly as the elevator arrived. “We look forward to your next visit.”
I stepped in and scowled back at it. “Go fuck yourself.”
7
The elevator descended sickeningly quickly and bottomed out in seconds. It opened on the level of the production floor and I stepped out into a volcanic scene. Ahead of me was a cavernous room filled with huge vats of molten steel. Chains and pulleys chugged and clanked, moving slabs of metal and components around. The vats swung gently on harnesses as they sidled out a furnace the size of the entire upper training deck on the Regent Falmouth. They moved along to casting molds and then upended, spilling the white-hot liquid onto a huge tray of part shapes. It sloshed along and settled in, darkening in color with every second.
Presses twisted over and slammed down on them and great plumes of steam billowed into the air. The stench of hot metal was thick in my nose and the heat was palpable in the air, stifling and tight around my throat like a fist.
I looked up at the floating green directions above the catwalk that ran forward and then split off left and right, hanging over the smelting floor and snaking into a different part of the station. I headed left, following the path toward the end of the production line, and crossed over a series of conveyor belts transporting the hot components through cooling jets and toward a set of sorting funnels.
They dropped onto slopes and separated into tubes where they joined smaller belts. Animatronic arms reached over and arranged them perfectly for assembly and droids zoomed between them, checking and adjusting things, their rubber tires squealing on the metal floor.
I picked up the pace, conscious of the time I was spending just watching the pieces move along, and made my way to the assembly section. Power cores were being lifted off another line that joined from a different part of the station, and placed into metal frames that were being bent and welded into shape — the guts of what I assumed were going to be the mech. Hydraulic systems and electrical components came next — hinges and wires and bolts and levers that slotted together into the legs, the bones and muscles of these great machines. The middle section was all gyros and pistons, the engine block and motors that powered it. Pilots’ chairs and pre-assembled cockpits were swung in on chains and dropped into the chassis, welded in place by a dozen arms tipped with torches like some intricate dance. All the while the cooling Zephod steel plates clanked along in the background until they were ready to be placed on, and then they were picked up by suction cups and held to the frame and melted into place. The mech started to take shape under me, as the hatch was delivered and bolted into place, the camera dome slotted into its housing and then covered by a curved piece of armor. The mech paused on the conveyor belt and swayed gently. It was crazy seeing them come together. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
From above, an arm twisted down, holding what looked like a spine topped with a cylindrical housing. The spine itself was a carefully constructed set of wires that linked the entire system together, and the housing was the perfect size and shape for an AI core. I watched as the arm lined it up and slotted it into a hole that ran through the back of the mech, from the top to the base of the body. The spine slid in and everything lit up. All of the lights on the outside of the body started blinking, and the camera dome spun a full three-sixty and back. The mech being constructed was an F-Series, there was no doubt about that, but it looked a lot different than the wreck I’d pulled Greg out of.
The final stretch of the production line was all the finishing touches. Smaller plates, seam welds, paint liveries, weapon attachments. They were all applied one after another until the finished F-Series rolled through a set of hanging flaps at the end and into a room beyond. The catwalk ran along to the same wall and then ended at a door.
I realized I’d been stopped for a whole few minutes, and swore to myself, taking off again. When I reached the door it opened and revealed what could only be described as a warehouse of mech. Thousands upon thousands of F-Series stood neatly in rows.
Large automated forklifts milled around, lifting the completed mech off the production line and then ferrying them up the rows to wherever they were being dropped off.
My thigh started vibrating and I looked down, fishing for the communicator in my pocket. I pulled it out, the glass screen flashing. I ran my finger over it and Volchec’s face appeared, projected on the glass. She didn’t look happy.
“Where the hell are you, Maddox? Kepler arrived two minutes ago, and she said you were already having your chip installed when she got up to Medical. Get your ass down here, right now.” Her voice was more iron than the F-Series in front of me.
I swallowed and looked around. The room was cavernous and busy, but there was no sign of any living person, and I had no idea which way to go. “Uh…” I hedged, searching for a direction to head in, but finding nothing definitive. I sort of just expected them to be there.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. I saw her hand move over the screen as she typed something in from her end and then the same jolt of pain I’d had in Medical lanced through my eyeball and into my head.
“Fuck!” I yelled, going to a knee. The side of my head was on fire — that one had hurt more than the first time. I hoped it wasn’t something I’d have to get used to. I finally opened it and looked down at the communicator clenched in my fist. It was blank — Volchec had hung up — but next to it, starting between my feet, was the same glowing green path as I’d seen upstairs. It headed down a set of steps onto the display floor, and then snaked between the F-Series and disappeared into the distance.
The room ran on for a long way, but just how far I couldn’t tell. It was probably as long as the Mansoon was in its entirety. From my elevated position, I could just see a sea of steel with no respite. I took a deep breath and sighed, cracking my neck and taking off.
I managed to catch up with a forklift heading in the same direction and hopped onto the back bumper. It didn’t seem to mind and trundled along for well over a kilometer before it turned off the green path and headed down a partially filled row.
I stepped down and kept running. It’d been almost ten minutes since Volchec had called and I didn’t think her temperament was going to get any softer with time.
The F-Series began to thin and a wall loomed. In the center of it was a huge door, large enough to accommodate the back end of a dropship, Tilt-wing, or any sort of transport. The green line ran to the side of it and through a personnel door. Above it was the first green label I’d seen in a while. It read ‘Mechanized Transport Depot.’ I didn’t waste any time trying to figure what that meant exactly. Instead, I just pushed through.
Inside was another room that made the Upper Training Deck look small, except this one was octagonal in shape. Each wall was set at an angle and had a huge door in it. Above each door was a denotation of a type of mech. I could see the words Heavy Artillery, Alpha, Aerial, Scout, Tactical, and above the one I’d just come through, Front Line. The last two doors had Loading Dock A and Loading Dock B inscribed above them, respectively.
“Maddox!” Volchec’s voice echoed around the distinctly empty room. I pulled my eyes down to the center, where I could see a cluster of mech and bodies. There seemed to be six mech, one for each type, in a loose circle, and between them, I could see Volchec, Mac, Fish, and Alice, as well as someone I couldn’t make out.
I made a beeline over, running hard. By the time I got there, they were all staring at me, arms folded. I sank down and rested my hands on my knees, panting.
“Where the hell have you been?” Volchec snapped.
I held my hand up. “I got—” I heaved “—lost.”
“For God’s sake.” She shook her head and checked her watch, tutting.
The unknown figure spoke, and I looked up, shocked that it was another droid, though I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like other droids, though — it was humanoid in both size and proportions, with sof
t patches of silicone skin placed over the upper and lower arms, upper and lower legs, and even the torso, though that was clad in a Federation uniform. A gray vest and collar, that were half there and half not — it started at the waist, emerging out of a belt type device that ran around the midriff, and rose over both shoulders in two wide straps of cloth, adorned with the Federation logo. Otherwise, it was devoid of clothing entirely. The face was spongy and androgynous, but was equipped with enough micro-motors to pull off a convincing scowl. This was an android, though I’d never seen one quite like it.
I kept my eyes trained on it, inspecting the face and body.
“You want to take a fucking picture?” it grunted without warning, in a dark and gravelly voice.
“What?” I said in shock, standing upright.
“What? Is that how you speak to a superior officer?” It arched its eyebrows, exposing almost lifelike brown eyes, stark and dark against the pale pinkish ‘skin’ that hugged the facial construction. The back of the head was a domed black case, but already I knew it must have been hiding a sophisticated AI core, or something even crazier. I’d heard rumors knocking around the bars on Genesis that a brain could be inserted into an android and survive that way. I wasn’t sure if I was looking at that right now, or just one of the most advanced AIs I’d come across.
Volchec cleared her throat. “Airman Maddox, you’re addressing Lieutenant General Enron.”
I stiffened. “Lieutenant General?” I couldn’t help but say it. I’d never met an android who was enlisted before, let alone an officer. Most of them were just merchants, Federation employees or worse — slaves — or at least good as, programmed with varying levels of AI, but never with anything that resembled true free thought and will. And yet here was one, standing like a human, looking like a human, talking like one.
“Never seen an android who outranks you before?” Enron snarled. “Pick your jaw up and let’s get on with this.” He narrowed his eyes at me and then turned back to Volchec. “Right. Where were we?”
“You were just regaling us with the updated specifications of the A-Series,” Volchec said. “Airman Kepler here will be piloting one in the coming days, and I’d like to get her up to speed on what she can expect.”
Enron nodded. “Of course. The new A-Series,” he began, gesturing to a towering mech on his left, “is equipped with some of the latest technology the Federation has to offer.”
I stared up at it. It was different from the F-Series — but of course, it had to be because it was designed to fly. Its shoulder plates were wide, and hanging off the back I could see a set of wings that were folded down flat, providing cover to the rear while grounded — but I guessed they’d swivel up when in flight. The mid-section was slimmer than an F-Series, and the legs longer. I could see more robust thrusters on them, but that was a given, considering they’d need to use them to fly.
“It comes equipped with the standard Federation minigun, capable of firing up to six thousand rounds a minute at continuous pace. Incidentally, the A-Series comes with a standard twelve thousand rounds of ammunition, so fire sparingly. It also comes stocked with thirty-two air-to-air missiles, cluster bombs, and several other types of ordnance, including smoke screens, flares, and the newest additions — seismic and bouncing bombs. Of course, though, numbers are limited.”
Alice looked pensive, staring up at the A-Series.
“Sound good?” Volchec asked her.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“We’re able to make some custom arrangements, should anything not be to your specifications.”
“No, no.” She smiled for a second. “Everything sounds great.”
Enron nodded. “Then there’s only one matter left to address.”
Volchec turned slowly to me. “Maddox?”
I stood at attention. “Yes, Major Volchec?”
“You made up your mind?”
“About?” I had a feeling she was asking if I’d chosen the mech I wanted to pilot for the mission — but considering I’d missed most of the conversation and possibly even a briefing — brief as it might have been — I didn’t want to make any assumptions. It was tough to keep my excitement on a leash but I had to in case I didn’t have my facts straight — which I seemed to have a habit of doing.
“Which model you’d like to pilot.” She pressed her lips into a tight slit. Mac was checking his nails. Fish was standing with his eyes closed and Alice was staring into space. Enron, on the other hand, was looking straight at me with that same mechanical scowl.
I swallowed, looking over them quickly. The Heavy Artillery Mechs were cool, but that was Mac’s rig of choice — and they were slow and cumbersome, and I liked a little bit of mobility. On that front, the Tactical Series were the most mobile, but they lacked the firepower of the bigger mechs, and to be effective they had to get up close and personal. I didn’t know if I had the stones for that sort of thing. The Aerial Mechs would be a good choice, but then again, I’d never piloted one before, so I didn’t know whether I’d like it or hate it. The Scout series was basically an Aerial series except smaller, with less firepower. It’d be useless in a fight, and though I didn’t know what to expect from our first mission, a fight was likely on the cards. The only ones left were the Front Line Series and the Alpha Series, though I’d not seen one of the latter up close before.
It was taller than the F-Series, but a little slimmer. It had bulky shoulder plates and pointed epaulets which both denoted its rank as an officer’s Mech, and made for a super effective battering ram. It was equipped with a mixture of ordnance, too, from what I’d read up on — micro missiles, grenades, remotely detonatable sticky-mines, a shoulder-mounted miniature rail rifle, and a pair of high caliber plasma pistols. It was also outfitted with a thrust system capable of short periods of sustained flight, as well as a super-advanced targeting system. It wasn’t as heavy as the F-Series, so lacked some of that raw strength and bulky defense, but packed a helluva punch, and was by far the most dangerous thing in the room. I swallowed and looked up at it. “I’ll take the Alpha Series,” I said quietly.
There was silence for a second, and then Volchec and Enron burst out laughing together.
“The Alpha Series,” Volchec squeezed out. “Oh, will you now?” She kept laughing. “That Alpha Series is worth more than all the others combined — and you think I’m just going to put it in the hands of a rookie pilot?” She pulled her mouth into a smirk. “Fat chance.”
I sighed. “Alright then, I guess it’ll be the F-Series.”
She huffed. “You guess right. Enron — anything different about this year’s F-Series?”
He stroked his chin as though he had a beard and thought about it. It was odd to see, considering that AI had perfect recall. I could only assume he was doing it because he was deciding if he should tell me to go fuck myself or not. After an age, he spoke. “Not really. They’ve still got the same Samson Full-Auto Rifle, the wrist-mounted grenade launchers, smoke screen capabilities. The Federation standard targeting and telemetry systems, of course, and dash-boosters.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “The recipe’s been the same for almost a century. The perfect balance of value and variety.”
I gritted my teeth. Value and variety were hardly the sorts of words I wanted describing the piece of equipment that was supposed to be keeping me alive. “What about custom requests?” I asked, remembering what Volchec had asked Alice.
Enron raised the portion of his face where an eyebrow might have been. “Oh, and what custom requests were you thinking?” he asked emphatically.
“I dropped my rifle last time I was piloting one of these. Be a lifesaver to have something to fall back on — a pistol maybe, or a blade?” I raised my shoulders as sincerely as I could.
He stared at me. “You dropped your rifle?” He made a sort of scoffing noise. It was difficult for him without a throat, probably. “And how exactly did you manage that?” He laughed derisively and looked at Volchec, shaking his head.
“It was during orbital entry,” I said flatly, trying not to snap at the android that was for all intents and purposes a superior officer.
Volchec cleared her throat. “Maddox was attempting to save the life of Airman Kepler. They were both falling toward the surface of Draven following the attack on the Falmouth. I think that not holding onto his rifle in that situation is understandable.”
Enron fell silent and looked at her, weighing his options. “I think we can accommodate that request,” he said, voice emotionless at a moment where a human might have displayed some ignominy. “A pistol, and a blade. Anything else?”
I thought about it for a second. This was probably the only opportunity I was going to get. “Can we swap the grenades for the sticky-mines that the Alpha Series carries?”
“As projectiles?” Enron asked, a little surprised. “Hmm, I don’t know that it’ll be possible.” He sighed. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
“And what about —” I began before getting cut off.
Volchec spoke loud enough to silence me. “I think that will be all, Lieutenant General. Thank you.” She nodded to him and he returned it.
“Your order will be ready and delivered to your ship within the hour.”
“It’s much appreciated.”
He held a fist to his chest. “One Federation.”
Volchec repeated the movement. “All people.”
There wasn’t anything quite like a bit of Federation pride to suck all the excitement out of a moment.
He turned on his heel and walked briskly away, motors whining. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief when he’d gone. He definitely added a layer of tension to things with his presence.
I, for what it was worth, was pretty excited to get my own rig. It was definitely the little things — you had to take your breaks where you could get them. I clapped my hands together, hoping that my tardiness had already been forgotten. “So, what’s next?”