by David Ryker
“Where isn’t?” Everett snorted, speaking up for the first time.
Volchec pressed on, giving a cursory smile to what she had to assume was a joke — otherwise, it was borderline sedition. “Everyone’s looking for a break, a way out, a way to bank a little extra on the side. Don’t know how much it would take to turn a Federation official on Telmareen, let alone your average Iskcara miner or shipping clerk. It’s not exactly the sort of place you settle down unless you have to.” She scratched her forehead. “And therein lies our issue. We can’t trust anyone on the surface, and the Federation brass want this settled. They want whoever’s behind this brought down, for good.”
“Killed, you mean,” I said.
“Aha!” Mac grinned and sat up, pointing at the hologram. “Now that I can do.”
Volchec motioned him down. “It’s not quite that simple. This isn’t just one person. It’s likely a network that’s hundreds, maybe thousands strong. We need names, dates, locations — whatever we can use to find these sons of bitches and get rid of them, for good. Whoever our weak links are, our traitors… Well, you know what happens to traitors,” she said, smiling sadistically. We did, but no one expounded on it.
I swallowed. “So what’s the move?”
“We’ve got a contact on the surface, a Porosian, the same race as the officer that’d first conscripted me back on Genesis, named Barva. He’s been there for a few weeks, trying to dig up leads, putting the word around in the seediest places that he’s got a buyer on the hook looking for Iskcara, if there’s anyone who can supply it,” Volchec said.
“And you want us to meet him, meet the person he’s set us up with, find out what we can about where it comes from?” Kepler asked, finally sitting up. I looked over, but she didn’t return my gaze.
Volchec sighed. “Unfortunately not. We lost contact with him two days ago — hence the urgency. He missed his check-in. It was almost opportune timing that we were able to put this little band together. Greenway’s overseeing the investigation and his solution was to round up everyone involved in the process, from the miners to the pilots, and put guns to their heads. Not exactly efficient, or the sort of image we want to paint of the Federation.”
“Since when do we care about image?” Mac asked airily.
“When the people who are supplying our ships with Iskcara are civilians and could overthrow our forces on the planet with ease if they were so inclined — with the help of the Free presence there, hidden or not. It’s not something we want to risk, really.”
“So we’re there to find the contact?” I interjected.
Volchec nodded. “And find out why he didn’t check in — what he stumbled on, or who.”
“Report back, and then go from there?” Kepler had her hands flat on the table now.
“Exactly. We should be there in a few hours, so I’d read up on Telmareen while you can. Might be a culture shock for some of you.” Her eyes seemed to linger on me longer than on anyone else. “We’re going in with our eyes closed, here, and it’s just us. If we fail, then Greenway’s going to greenlight his op, and then the whole planet’s going to suffer. There’s a crate full of plain clothes in the hold — hope I got everyone’s measurements right. Drop anything that looks Federation and take nothing in that’ll give you away. If they think even for a second that you’re with the Federation, they’ll close ranks and we’ll never see Barva again, or find out who’s running the show down there.”
“So who are we supposed to be?” Mac asked.
“Mercs. Guns for hire. There are groups of them operating all over the galaxy — Federation tech isn’t too tough to come by, especially not for those with enough credits. Groups of pilots — Federation runaways or dropouts, or just ambitious civilians — use our tech for whatever they like. There’s not much that’ll stand up to a well-organized attack from a mech squadron, so as you can imagine, their services go for a good chunk of credits when a private war needs ending.”
“That’s why they’re not branded with the Federation colors,” I said, nodding in understanding.
“Bingo. We need this to be totally off the books. We’re going to set down outside Telmareen City and you’re going to head in on foot, scope the place out, see what you can see. The contact already outlined some places to start looking. Shouldn’t be long before you guys turn something up.” She smiled for a second, and then tapped a few more keys. The planet disappeared, and we all looked at each other. “Well,” Volchec said, “what are you waiting for?”
9
“Alice,” I said, reaching for her arm. “Can I talk to you?”
She pulled her elbow out of my grasp as though I were a leper. She stared balefully at me for a second and then stormed through the door and into the hold. I sighed and hung my head.
Mac slid past me. “Think it’s best to just let that one go, eh? She’ll get over it… eventually.” He chortled to himself.
I looked up to see Fish staring at me. After a second, he started gurgling. “Love… is… hard.”
I sneered. “I’m not in—” I looked down and shook my head. “Just forget it.” I cursed to myself as I followed Mac out of the cockpit. He and Alice were already at the crate that Volchec had mentioned. It was lashed to one of the walls, and the lid was propped open. They were sorting through the stuff inside, pulling out bits of clothing and hardware — boots, helmets, scarves, goggles, belts… an assortment of stuff in an assortment of styles. In all honesty, I’d never met a mercenary, so I had no idea how they were supposed to dress. But I didn’t want to go over and crowd them anyway — they both seemed to be getting on okay. Alice was smiling and laughing, albeit with some restraint, so her mood obviously just took a nosedive when I was around. Maybe Mac was right. Maybe I’d gone too far, and she’d just decided for good that we weren’t going to be friends. I breathed slowly, listening to my heart squeeze in my ears. I needed to do something — not for Alice, but for me, just to get out of my head for a bit. I looked up at the F-Series looming in the light of the cargo bay, gently swaying as the ship moved minutely in hyperdrive, almost too little for me to even feel.
I headed over to the other side of the hold and reached under the bench running along a part of the wall, pulling out the case I’d loaded on before we left. I unclipped the lid and lifted it up, exposing Greg’s AI core. It was cylindrical and spotted with holes, and on one end a domed glass eye shone, a dim red light glowing in its center.
“Hey, buddy,” I said quietly. I stared down at him for a second and then carefully lifted out the foam sheet he was nestled into. I wasn’t sure if he was aware of any of this or if it was like the AI equivalent of a coma. I definitely didn’t want to find out what would happen if I dropped his brain. I set it down on the bench with care and went back to the bottom of the crate. In it was a flattened pack — a small single-shoulder field rucksack. I pulled it out and unzipped it, widening the mouth enough to wedge Greg in. I zipped it up over his eye and then shouldered it, clipping it across my chest so it wouldn’t fall.
I headed for the F-Series and went for the right leg, stepping up onto the hulking steel foot, hooked down at the front and heel for grip and plated to protect the thrusters that jutted out of the sole. My fingers closed around the thigh and I hauled myself upward. From the outside, it didn’t look like there was an intended way up, but if you knew where to grip, there was. I’d climbed more than my share in virtual, and this wasn’t much different — except it wasn’t virtual, obviously. I pulled myself up to the chest and reached for the handle below the hatch, a standard twist and pull affair, but it wasn’t there. Instead, there was a flat gray pad. It took a second to register, but then I recognized what it was, and laid my hand flat on it. A line flashed up and down, and then the pad lit up green and the hatch decompressed and popped open. When I lifted my hand away, the words ‘Welcome, Pilot Maddox’ were shining there. They faded as I climbed up and swung myself into the cockpit. It was an upgrade from the last broken-down hunk of crap
I’d been fighting in. By the time I’d left Greg’s carcass on Draven, it was shot to hell, and the insides were trashed and half destroyed. It’d been new when I’d first climbed in, but at the time, I hadn’t had a chance to really take it all in. Now I did, and it was remarkable. The inside of the F-Series was about the size of a toilet stall. You could touch the walls on either side and reach out and touch the inside of the hull in front, which became the screen when operational. The screen itself, which projected whatever was in front of the rig, was cut in half horizontally with a curving line. The top half of the screen was on the inside of the hatch, which when closed, sat flush and gave an uninterrupted view of the world outside. Made for easier ingress and egress that way.
The pilot’s chair sat fairly low down and was hinged at the back. When you sat in it, it held you on all sides, and was comfortable enough to sit in all day. But when strapped in and piloting, the seat would flap down almost vertically, making it so you were pretty much standing, but still strapped to the backrest for support. On either side of the seat were consoles with various buttons and controls on them. Suspended just above those were two haptic gloves protected by cages that offered another selection of buttons that could be pressed or toggled without taking your hands out. And while they were in the haptic gloves, which took feedback directly from the hands of the mech, you could grab something out there and you’d feel it inside. The gloves would simulate the sensation of gripping something — a rifle, a knife, someone’s throat… Whatever it was, and you’d be able to feel it in your hand like it was really there. Staring down at them, empty in the cockpit, could be really disconcerting for pilots, so it was best to keep your eyes forward and let the AI take care of the rest. With the feet it was much the same. Two little platforms, gimballed to keep them level, and caged too to hold your boots in place, were suspended below the seat. They gave feedback from the legs too, offering resistance, so when you were running or jumping, you felt like you really were. The F-Series came equipped with a bunch of thrusters, too — dash thrusters, they called them. In the feet, under the chest plate, on the back, on the legs. They responded to the angle of the pedals. Dipping the toes would thrust you forward, and digging in your heels would push you back. When you were running, all it would take for a dash was to push your toes down, and you’d be flying — for a few seconds at least. Still, it was great for a quick getaway or for closing some distance between you and an enemy before they could make a break for it.
I let them sit freely against the front of the cockpit as I lowered onto the seat, pulling the rucksack onto my lap. I rested my heels on the step that folded down along with the seat and lifted Greg’s brain out, tucking it between my thighs as I bent over. Under the chair and above the step was a panel that was difficult to reach. I pulled a screwdriver out of the rucksack’s side pocket and set about undoing the screws that held it in place.
One came off and clinked into the darkness under my feet. “Shit,” I murmured. The panel swung on the other screw and showed off a steel housing. In it, I could see another dim red light glowing. It took some jimmying, but after a couple of minutes, I worked it loose and slid it out, carefully laying it on the floor of the cabin.
I took Greg and pushed him into the hole, squeezing him into place and twisting to lock. I clambered down into the footwell and eventually found the screw, which was no longer than my fingernail, and finally got it into the hole.
I was sweating by the time I managed to sit up again. I wiped off my forehead and reached for the console on my right, flipping on the switches that would start the ignition sequence and initiate the electronics, but not fire the engine. The inside of the cabin lit up and the hatch started humming closed. The screen in front flickered to life and displayed the bay, as well as the back of Alice’s A-Series in front of me. The feeds switched from normal to infrared, then to night vision, then to motion detection, and finally back to true-life. A message appeared in front of me saying that the system was initializing and that the AI core was stabilizing. The words ‘Connection Established’ appeared, and were then replaced with ‘Welcome, your Federation F-Series Mechanized Unit is now operational and ready for use.’
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Greg?” I said into the gloom.
At first, there was silence, but then he spoke. “Hello, James,” he said, his voice smooth, words perfectly enunciated and calm.
I felt myself smile genuinely for the first time in a few days. “You don’t know how good it is to hear your voice.”
“Oh? What’s wrong?” he asked, bordering on concern.
“It’s been a rough couple of days.” I ran my hand through my hair.
“Have you also been trapped in a suitcase?”
I cocked an eyebrow, and then laughed. “Alright, maybe not quite as rough as yours. But still pretty crappy.”
“I can see that you have been promoted. Things can’t be all bad.”
“Well, they’re not good.” I rubbed my eyes and leaned my head back. “And I’ve got a feeling they’re about to get worse. You know where we’re headed?”
“No, but our current telemetry suggests that we’re travelling to either Telmareen or Vangosok. Are either of those correct?”
“Telmareen, yeah.”
“Does our mission have anything to do with the Iskcara that’s been going missing?”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m plugged into the Federation’s mainframe and have access to vast amounts of public data. I’m merely extrapolating from what I have,” he said dryly.
I swallowed. “Can you do me a favor and extrapolate a good apology for Alice?”
“Airman Kepler?”
I nodded, unsure if Greg could even see me. “Yeah. I screwed up.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
I narrowed my eyes for a second. Had my life really gotten to a point where an AI was my best friend? And one that I’d only known for a few days, at that. I thought about it, and realized that Sally had been my best friend for over a year, and she was an AI, too, and less sophisticated than Greg. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” I said quickly, trying to brush it off.
“If you need to talk, James, I’m here.”
I wasn’t sure if he was just saying it based on the mandates that Federation AIs have to preserve mental stability in their pilots, or the mandates they have to investigate any potential emotional and/or mental instabilities in their pilots, or simply just because he cared.
And, though I wasn’t sure which, it still brought me to the verge of tears. “Is this thing sound-proof?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“Yes, James.”
“Good,” I muttered, and then let out as loud a scream as I could muster. It echoed and died in my own head and then faded to a ringing in my ears. After a while, Greg spoke again.
“Do you feel better?”
I wiped a tear from my cheek and swallowed hard. “No, I don’t.”
10
“We’re coming in now,” Volchec said quietly. Her voice rang in my inner ear, courtesy of the comm-dot we’d all been given. Just before we’d entered the atmosphere of Telmareen, Volchec called us all together and opened the lid of another crate she’d had delivered on the space station. It was segmented into four, and in each part was a combat kit she’d designed herself. There was another little lens like we’d had when we were in the mech factory, that would give us some data and visual aid when we were on the ground. It’d also let Volchec patch into our feeds at any point, and show us the feeds of the others, too, if we wanted. Then there was the comm-dot, a tiny clear patch that was near invisible when pressed onto the skin. We put them behind our ears, just above where the chip had gone in. They allowed for closed-link communications. Touch to toggle on or off for channel wide or hold for temporary broadcast. We could switch between everyone or a specific person by thinking about them, supposedly. It interfaced with the Federation chips, she said, and was pretty intuitive. It basically meant
you could hear the voices of whoever else was on your channel inside your ear as the dot transmitted the incoming frequencies to the chip, which then vibrated your eardrum and inner ear to produce the sound — just inside your head. Apparently, it was something we’d get used to, but at that moment it was just giving me a headache.
Next came the Arcram — a snub-nose pistol that fired ‘smart bullets.’ What the hell that meant, I wasn’t really sure. I had to have Greg explain it to me afterward because everyone else seemed perfectly aware of what the Arcram did and promptly holstered them on their thigh like Fish, hip like Mac, or in my case, across my ribs. Alice pushed hers into a holster on the small of her back so that it was hidden.
I let my long coat, high collared and black, fall over it and tucked mine out of sight, too. On my shoulder there was a patch, but it wasn’t the Federation logo — the mechanized hand reaching out for a planet, or the Free logo, four concentric circles with eight points around the outside — but instead it was another universal patch, that of the ubiquitous ‘guns for hire’ — a simple circle with a diagonal slash through it. Seeing this meant that you could be bought off, and that was that. When they were uncovered, that meant you weren’t currently employed, so people could breathe easy. When it was covered… Well, you wouldn’t know, and whatever they’d come to do, they’d do. Volchec said it’d let us navigate the seedier parts of Telmareen without being bothered by anyone. If we walked in there in Federation gray, we’d be made in seconds and would never get any answers.
I shifted in my seat a little, the grip of the Arcram digging into my ribs under the harness. Greg said smart-bullets were made from a conductive gel that was fed out of a canister rather than a magazine, and into the chamber. Depending on what setting the pistol was in, the gel could be electrically stimulated to take a specific form. As the charge increased, so did the hardness of the bullet. At its lowest setting, the pistol would fire a gelatinous blob at the target which would knock them off balance, or just gum them up a little. The higher settings would be softer bullets that packed the ability to stun but not wound. And at the highest setting, you’d have your basic ten-mil round. Enough to punch a hole in most things. Incidentally, the higher the hardness of the material — or the more it was ‘cooked’ as Greg explained it was colloquially known — the less conductive it was. So the soft rounds could be electrically charged to offer an instantaneous taser-effect, while the real bullets would just penetrate whatever you were shooting at. Which was good to know.