by J. F. Holmes
Meacham threw up his entire sensor array, active and passive, to see if there was anything else he had to worry about. A drone popped up from the top of his mech and whirred as it flew up. It would be taken by the heavy winds, but until it was destroyed, Meacham would use its sensors to find out if he was still being hunted. He could always replace it when he got back to the motor pool. It was a tense few moments as he monitored the local environment to see if there were any more scouts out there. The drone fought its way up against the heavy winds, burning energy to stay in place. As it climbed, it sent back telemetry, checking for electronic and other signals, using the MASINT and ELINT (electronic intelligence) sensors to look for enemy mechs. He relaxed further with each passing second, knowing the drone would have found anything actively hunting him almost immediately. The drone finally spent the last of its battery and was snatched away by the wind and dashed against the rocky ground. Two minutes had passed since he killed the last of the mech scouts, a lifetime on the battlefield.
Satisfied he didn’t have to immediately run or fight, he eyed the two fallen scouts at the top of the ridge. An idea percolated through his exhaustion, a way he might be able to top off his depleted batteries. He weighed the idea against climbing out into the cold to implement it. He knew the winds would sap his energy, but he had power bars and water, so he could replace any calories lost to the bitter wind. The pros of his idea definitely outweighed the cons.
He moved the mech toward the first of the scouts and checked the battery compartment. It looked intact, so he prepped to go out into the cold. He pulled a heavy coat and gloves out of storage and shrugged into them in the tight confines of the cockpit. He hit a button, and the mech settled down, the body coming to rest a meter off the ground. He opened the hatch and grumbled as the cold air swirled into the cockpit, blinking against the waning light of the leaden day. The winds howled outside the mech, the sound making him shiver just as much as the cold did. He took the neuro-linked helmet off but kept the comm in his ear so he could hear any warnings the AI might issue, then pulled a watch cap out of the coat pocket to cover his head.
He kept grumbling about the cold as he clambered out of the cockpit and climbed down the side. It was good that he had gloves, because the cold metal would’ve torn the skin from his hands. He walked to the front of the mech, pulled a panel open, and grabbed the lead of the cable inside, then turned toward the scout, the thick cable trailing behind him. He found the panel on the scout, opened it, and slaved it to his mech. There was no problem with the male end of his mech’s slave cable fitting into the female receptor of the scout, since they’d both been made by the same company—the only people who truly profited from war being the bankers and the arms dealers. He felt like a vampire feeding on the dead as his mech sucked out any energy left in the scout’s batteries. When he was done, he told the AI to follow, and he walked toward the other dead scout, the mech following behind like a pet on a leash.
Finished with those two, he stowed the cable, climbed back into his mech, and closed the hatch without dogging it shut. He was shivering as he settled back into the seat. His batteries were at half strength, which meant he’d have to drain more batteries before he was topped off. He took his mech into a controlled slide to get to the bottom of the canyon. He did a triage of the available mechs and dismissed the scout who had tumbled from the top of the ridge. His bullets had hit low when he’d acquired the target, tearing through the legs and the battery box. He walked past and moved to the next. He went through the same sequence again, dropping the body of the mech and climbing out to slave the dead scout to his. He stood there, miserable as the wind sliced down the canyon, the winds picking up and getting colder as the storm front moved in. He stamped his feet and crossed his arms as his mech sucked energy from the downed scout. The alert from the AI went off as soon as he heard the voice.
“Are you going to make me kill you?”
It was a woman’s voice, one of the scout pilots, probably picked because she was petite, less weight for the smaller scout to carry. He turned his head slowly to look at her, standing on the other side of the mech, pistol leveled at him just a few meters away, but far enough that he couldn’t jump her without getting shot. Smart move, hiding under the dead mech. She’d waited for him to get close enough that she was inside his mech’s automated defenses, close enough that it couldn’t kill her without harming him. Evidently the mobility kill on the scout behind him hadn’t included the pilot, an oversight that might cost him his life. He knew it was the cold sapping the life out of him, making it hard to think. He studied the pilot. She was a pretty woman, stray blond hair peeking out from under the watch cap. He could tell she was a hard case, fire in her belly, a survivor. Her steady green eyes had a hardness to them that indicated she would have no problem shooting him where he stood.
He was caught flat-footed, his pistol in the holster on his belt, his rifle back in the cockpit. He had no way out except to talk to her. A taciturn man, he didn’t have the gift of gab the way some of the mercenaries did, but he did have an important point to make, pertinent to their survival. “You do that, we’re both dead. Me from blood loss and trauma, and you from the cold.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder to emphasize his next words. “Slaved to me, won’t move for you. If I die, it shuts down until the mechanics come for it, and you freeze.”
She stared at him, the muzzle of the pistol not moving an inch, steady on his chest. She saw a medium-sized man, heavy with muscle through the chest and arms, the craggy features and prominent cheekbones of a Slav with dark, penetrating eyes and black hair cropped close under the watch cap. His features gave nothing away, and she wasn’t sure if he really cared what her decision might be, his expression neither hostile nor friendly.
She nodded. “How about an accord then? I don’t shoot you, and you take me back with you, your prisoner from the battlefield.”
He couldn’t really argue, since she had the drop on him. “What’s your name?”
“Zivka.”
The name was familiar. He looked at her closely. “I know you. You were in the Skulls.”
She nodded. “Yeah, seven years ago. Larsen’s losers. I got out of that unit quick. He couldn’t lead a fat man to a pirozhki shop. I’m amazed you remember me.”
Meacham’s thin lips curved into a sardonic grin, remembering Captain Larsen, his constant failures and attempts to win the respect of mercenaries who only respected coin in their pockets. Larsen was the third child in a noble family, and since the title went to the oldest, he’d formed his own mercenary company with what little inheritance he had. Some of those noble sons, like the general and the baron, went on to fortune and fame. Others, like Larsen, faded into obscurity.
She studied him in turn. “You were with Anna then, Anna Zumwalt.”
It was Meacham’s turn to nod. “And you were with Bleach.”
She laughed. “Oh God, I haven’t thought about him in a long time.” She paused for a moment, then continued with her original proposition, “So, what’s it going to be? An accord, or do we stand out here freezing to death?”
Meacham stared at her for a moment. They weren’t on the same side, but even so, she was a comrade, a fellow merc who’d walked some of the same roads he had. He’d probably fought against her and with her in other campaigns. His grin broadened into a genuine smile as he tilted his head toward the mech. “Yeah, we can do an accord. Go ahead, climb in. Gonna be tight, though.”
She lowered the pistol, and with that single motion, the hardness around her eyes disappeared and she started shivering. “I don’t mind, I’m freezing. At least we can share some body heat.” She looked down at her pistol, then back up at him. “You don’t mind if I hold onto my pistol, do you?”
He chuckled. “No, not at all. Just remember, you try to mess with the biometrics, the mech locks you out, it shuts down, and we both freeze to death.”
She pointed at the mech. “Do you mind?”
He shook his head. �
�No, go ahead.”
Her shoulders dropped. “Sorry. I hate the cold, otherwise I’d stay out here and help you.”
Meacham shrugged. “One-man job anyway. Just keep the cockpit warm.”
“Done!” She held out her hand for a high five as she walked by. They slapped palms, and he watched her walk past and climb up the side of the mech, appreciating the view from behind as she bent over to climb into the cockpit.
He turned and walked toward the next scout, his mech following like an oversized mechanical puppy, shivering as he walked. He plugged in the cable, trying to shield himself from the wind as the dead mech’s batteries drained. That one finished, he moved to the last, and when he was done with that, he was more than ready to get the hell out of here and head south. He stowed the cable, shut the access panel, and climbed up the side of the mech. He looked into the cockpit.
“I’m going to have to slide underneath you, otherwise I’m going to crush you.”
Zivka raised up into a semi crouch, and with some difficulty, the two of them adjusting, moving, shifting, they finally settled into a semi comfortable position for both of them.
“Damn, you’re cold! I can feel the chill coming off you. You’re shivering, too.”
Meacham nodded. “C-c-cold out there. At least you’re warm. And you warmed up the cockpit for me.”
Meacham pulled off his gloves, coat, and watch cap as Zivka helped him stow his cold-weather gear. He put his arms around her, and she held his hands between hers, trying to warm them so he could drive the mech.
“Question for you,” Meacham asked after he was able to stop shivering. He flipped switches, his arms still on either side of her, trying to maneuver around her. “Were you able to get off a signal to your command?”
Zivka shook her head. “No, we weren’t able to send a signal before you took out the entire squad.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “You’re good, took most of us out before we even knew you were there.”
“How come you didn’t use missiles against me?”
Zivka shrugged, and Meacham had to admit the movement was intriguing.
Zivka answered, “We were low on missiles. Only two of us had any left, and you killed them with your initial attack.”
Meacham smiled. He was going to be a legend after this. Not only was he the only one to survive the counterattack, but he’d avoided the hunters sent after him. Plus he had a lovely prisoner to take back with him. He could already hear the catcalls as the mechanics opened the cowl to the cockpit to find Zivka sitting in his lap. Of course, he might have some explaining to do to Beulah, or not, depending on her mood. Hell, she might have already moved on, though if she was still around, she might even be intrigued by Zivka.
“Are you set?” Meacham asked.
Zivka nodded, settling back into his chest. “As ready as I’m going to be.”
Meacham hit a switch and turned the mech toward the ridge. He’d head to the top and see if there was a straighter path to allied lines, not wanting to follow the shifting canyons, since he knew a message hadn’t gone out marking his position. The mech took off at a medium pace that would conserve batteries but get them there as quickly as possible, the rhythmic thud flowing through the cockpit. A few days and they’d be back inside allied lines, and Meacham could collect his money. He’d spend time celebrating his survival, toasting his fallen comrades, and telling outrageous lies to anyone who would listen.
“What’s that?” Zivka asked.
“Well, it’s not a gear shift,” Meacham answered. “It’s getting rather warm in here.” He wasn’t just talking about the temperature, either.
“Oh.”
“I told you it would be tight in here.”
Zivka shifted, the constant pounding of the mech compounding her action.
“You did that on purpose,” Meacham accused.
“Maybe,” Zivka said in an innocent voice.
Meacham smiled.
*****
Mark Harritt grew up in Kentucky, son of two Army Master Sergeants. He joined the Army in 1982, spending time in the Infantry, Airborne, and Military Intelligence, working in conventional and special operations. He’s spent numerous years traveling around the world, with a lot of time in the Middle East, in uniform and out. He loves nothing more than writing stories for his readers to enjoy. His work can be found on Amazon.
The Guardian
Rick Partlow
The Sentinel stood guard against the looming night, fifteen meters and forty tons of unyielding metal, ready for battle. Jaimie Brannigan wanted to climb inside the mech, wanted to clothe himself in the machine’s invulnerability and stride through a city suddenly turned hostile and malevolent as if he feared nothing.
Because he was afraid, and he was vulnerable.
“You could still make it out of the city,” he insisted, feeling like a sullen teenager, the way he always felt when he argued with his wife. “I could get all three of you on a chopper out to the farm.”
“We’ve been through this, Jaimie,” she said with maddening calm, the warmth of her hand on his taking away some of the sting of her words. “It’s not safe.”
Standing one step up from him on the stairs to the palace gate, Maggie was nearly as tall as he was, though still only half as wide. Her auburn hair kicked up in the chill wind of the autumn night, and little Terrin clung to her side, shivering and pulling her arm around him. He looked so much like her, his long, narrow face so serious for a four-year-old, dark curls falling across his brow. Logan stood proudly on his own on the step beside her, arms folded across his chest, wearing the replica Spartan Armored Corps leather jacket Jaimie had bought him for his sixth birthday. He wouldn’t give in to the wind or the cold or the fear, and just looking into those fierce, blue eyes, Jaimie Brannigan knew the child would be a warrior someday.
“The traitor Lambert has anti-aircraft batteries emplaced outside the city,” Blake reminded him, earning an annoyed glare for his interruption. “He’s set up to knock down any attempt at reinforcement coming in from the training ranges, and there’s no reason he’d hesitate to destroy an outgoing aircraft.”
Technically he and Colonel Andrew Blake shared a rank, but the Executive Protection officer was outside his chain of command, fortunately for both of them.
“Blake,” he barked at the man, “given how spectacularly you failed at your job this day, perhaps it would be better if you stayed out of our conversation.”
“Darling,” Maggie chided him softly, squeezing his hand. “This took all of us by surprise.”
And yet, perhaps it shouldn’t have. Duncan Lambert had played at the loyal opposition for years in the Council, incessantly criticizing the guardian’s policies toward Sparta’s enemies in the Starkad Supremacy and playing up the possibility for peaceful cooperation in public, while making overtures to their diplomats in private. Jaimie had heard the rumors of Duncan’s people recruiting disaffected military officers, but he’d chosen not to believe them, since the man was still family, if distant.
“I apologize, Colonel Blake,” he said, nodding to the former head of his grandfather’s bodyguard. “If anyone’s to blame for us being caught so unaware, it’s myself and the rest of the guardian’s military advisors.”
“No, you’re correct,” Blake told him, his face frozen in a tortured grimace. “It was men I vetted, agents under my command who assassinated the guardian, and I am responsible. I can only assure you, Colonel Brannigan, I will not let any harm befall your wife and children under my care.” He clutched at the grip of the service pistol holstered at his right hip as if it were a totem to hold off invading rebel forces.
Jaimie grunted noncommittally, unconvinced, and turned back to his wife.
“I feel wrong, leaving you and the boys alone.”
“We won’t be alone,” she insisted. “We’ll have the colonel and the other soldiers in the bunker with us.”
“Clerks and computer techs,” he scoffed. “They’ve probably had less tim
e behind a trigger than you.”
“They won’t be able to reach us in the bunker. It’s impenetrable, as long as you win this fight.” She put a palm on his chest. “The boys and I will be fine. Tonight, all of Sparta is your family. If you allow Duncan to seize power, he will sell this world and all the others in the Guardianship to the Starkad Supremacy, and they will strip us bare to line their coffers with our resources. When this day is over, you must be our new guardian.”
His jaw dropped and he forced his mouth closed before something flew into it.
“I am a mere soldier,” he protested. “Mithra’s teeth, you’re more qualified to rule this government than I!”
“Possibly,” she admitted, grinning impishly, “but I’m an academic and a civilian, and the Council wouldn’t elect me. They’ll choose you if you win this fight.” She grabbed him by the unruly red hair at the scruff of his neck and pulled him into a kiss, as fiery as their first, fifteen years ago, when she’d been a graduate student on vacation in the mountains and he’d been a young lieutenant on leave after officer’s training. “I love you, Brannigan. Now, go.”
He wanted to say something reassuring, something comforting, something she could remember him by if he didn’t come back, but the words choked in his throat. He cleared them away and knelt down to give his sons a hug.
“Do as your mother says, boys.” He stood, and his eyes went upward to the open cockpit of the Sentinel. “Daddy has to go to work.”
***
Pavement cracked under oval footpads two meters across, like the crunch of snow beneath hiking boots back on their farm outside the city. Street lights gleamed off armor polished bright for a parade ground, the gaudy red flash of the Guardian’s Own streaked across the chest plastrons of each of the hunchbacked, heavily-armored anthropomorphic tanks. They marched jauntily through the streets outside the palace like the show troops they were, yet for all their color and style, the weapons were real, the ammunition live…and he needed all the armor he could muster.