by M. D. Cooper
Rika knew that she was in the midst of a professional crew. If they had any reason to believe that she would be a hindrance to their mission, they would put her right back in the cryopod. Rika would do just about anything to keep that from happening again.
Strength and surety were her best allies now.
With a conscious effort, Rika pushed down her emotions, and drew upon the pre-battle calm she had worked so hard to develop during the war.
She took a deep breath. “You’re a mercenary crew,” she said, peering around at the crates of weapons, munitions, and intelligence gathering equipment.
“Yes,” Leslie replied. “We’re with the Marauders. This is Team Basilisk—we’re a spec-ops group.”
Rika had learned of the Marauders not long ago. One of their recruiters had passed through Dekar looking for Genevian veterans to join the mercenary outfit. He had called Rika more than once over the Link, but she had ignored him.
For whatever good that had done.
“So, Rika,” Leslie said. “Let’s put you back together.”
“You sure that’s wise?” Barne asked. “Mechs are psychos, every one of them. We put her together, what’s to stop her from killing us?”
“Relax, Sergeant. I have the tokens for her compliance chip,” Jerry said, stepping around Rika to look her in the eyes. “But I won’t need to use it, will I, Corporal Rika?”
Rika took a deep breath, the words flowing from her mouth by rote. “No, sir. You won’t need to.”
“See?” Jerry said with a smile. “Been out awhile, but you still remember your place.”
“If only our space force had the guts you mechs had,” Leslie said, more sympathy than admiration in her voice.
Rika snorted. “Mechs get in the fight while the spacers take flight.”
Barne barked a laugh, finally walking around to eye her from the front. “Is that what you little mechis all told yourselves?”
Rika noted that Barne looked like he sounded: a large man, dark-skinned and barrel-chested. His right arm was robotic, but skinned with a smooth metal that flowed and rippled in the light.
“Like it?” He asked holding it up. “Lost this to a K1R that the Nietzscheans captured and turned. Fucking mechs; no real soldier would turn on his own.”
Rika wanted to tell the man that a slave has no loyalty to its owner, but knew that making such an utterance here and now would not bode well for her future.
“Seriously, Sergeant,” Leslie said, casting a caustic scowl in Barne’s direction. “Stop waving around that bullet magnet you call an arm. Give me a hand with the crates.”
“Fuck no. I still say that we do this without her. You put the tin soldier together, if you think she’s so special,” Barne said as he skulked out of sight.
“Orders say we use her, so we use her,” Jerry said. “The Old Man didn’t dump millions of credits on all her hardware just to leave it—and her—in crates.”
Barne only grunted, and Jerry shook his head. Leslie opened a case, and Rika saw her legs. Leslie and Jerry carefully lifted her right leg out of the case, and aligned it with the socket on the end of her thigh.
“Turn it right,” Rika said. “Yeah, like that; then push and twist.”
The pair followed her directions, and before long, both her legs were in place.
“OK,” Leslie said as she kicked open another case. “Now for your gun-arm…or, I guess it’s called a ‘multi-function weapons mount’.”
Rika chuckled. “I rather like ‘gun-arm’. But is there any chance you can give me both my regular arms right now? I can swap over to my gun arm when we need it.”
Leslie looked up at Rika. “You don’t want it?”
“I’m left handed,” Rika replied. “That gun-arm is a left-side one…makes life miserable for me. Back in the war I had a right-mount GNR.”
Leslie glanced at Jerry, who shrugged. “Makes sense to give her regular arms—especially if we need to go out on any more recon. A meter-long rifle barrel kinda gives you away.”
“OK,” Leslie replied, “two regular arms coming right up.”
After a few false starts, they got both her arms on, and Leslie lowered the rack, allowing Rika to settle on her own feet.
“Thanks,” Rika said. “Feels good not to be hooked up on that thing.
“I’ll bet,” Leslie said. “We have something else for you.”
Jerry walked over to where Barne was preparing a meal, while Leslie led Rika over to another case, and flipped it open. There, with its various components set in shipping foam, was a set of SMI-2A9 armor in what appeared to be pristine condition.
The emotions that Rika felt flow within her were far different than she expected. Rather than revulsion, she suddenly wanted to be wrapped in the armor—to feel its protective shell around her, keeping her safe, making her invincible.
“You look pleased,” Leslie said quietly, her yellow eyes serious. “I wasn’t sure you would be. I—I knew a few mechs back in the war. They weren’t really happy people.”
“Not a lot of happy people in the war, if I recall,” Rika said. “Still…I know this is crazy…but I’m looking forward to putting it on.”
Leslie reached up and touched Rika’s shoulder. “We understand how…how it is to miss the war. Things were simpler then. We had our orders, we had our missions; we did what we had to. Afterward…the rules didn’t make sense anymore. It’s why we signed up for the Marauders.”
Rika nodded. She knew that all too well. As she stared down at the armor, she wondered if perhaps finding herself with this mercenary team was a good thing. Even so, a few questions burned in her mind.
“Do the Marauders often employ slaves?” she asked without equivocation.
Leslie shook her head. “No. You’re the only one…in your situation, that I know of—but you’re not the only mech. There are a few others.”
Rika’s head snapped up. “Silva?”
Leslie frowned. “No. No one by that name. The ones I know the names of are Herman, Grace, Liv, and Freddie. Herman is a K1R, and the others are AM-2s and 3s. Know them?”
Rika shook her head. “No, the names don’t ring any bells.”
Leslie shrugged. “Didn’t think so. Want any help with the armor?”
“No, I got it.”
“Alright, then. We’re going to go over the mission brief with you after we eat. Based on the speed at which Jerry is burning the food, that’ll be in about fifteen minutes.
“Hey!” Jerry called out from the hot plate he was standing over.
Leslie met Rika’s eyes and smiled. “It’s going to be OK. The Old Man is a good guy. I bet that if you do a few missions, we’ll sort you out properly.”
Rika wasn’t so sure. The sort of person that bought other people wasn’t usually the type to ‘sort things out properly’.”
Leslie walked away, and Rika looked down at the armor. It was a newer model than what she had been equipped with back in the war; though the helmet was an older model.
First, she set the two pieces of armor that wrapped around her waist in place—what the women of Team Hammerfall had always referred to as the ‘corset’—and sucked in.
She had gained a bit of weight since the war, and the armor was made for someone a size or two smaller than her—but once the two sides met, they hooked onto her mount points and ratcheted into place.
Rika pulled out the chest plate and set it into place, carefully ensuring that each of her breasts were seated properly before pushing the armor down into the mounts set in her sternum and shoulders.
That was one advantage of being an SMI-2 mech; every meat the GAF had put into her model was a thin, lithe woman. It was the whole point: small women with lots of hardware, who could still function as highly mobile scouts.
The rest of the armor only took five minutes to put in place, and Rika smiled as she examined her arms—no longer seeing the raw understructure, but something that looked a bit more like a real arm, with layered plating givin
g it form.
She stretched up, and then side to side, lifting one knee to her chest, then the other, ensuring the fit was good. She reached down and touched her toes, and then pivoted, pushing one leg straight up into the air while grasping both her calves.
“Nice view,” Barne said, and Rika glanced over at the mercenaries, realizing that they were all staring at her.
“Fuck you,” Rika replied, as she lowered her leg and stood up straight.
Just as she was now cocooned in physical armor, Rika wrapped herself in the mental armor of quick comebacks and coarse language. She was in a pack of wolves, and there was no way she was going to reveal weakness and be torn apart.
“Food’s ready,” Leslie said, gesturing to a plate of reheated MRE’s sided with a few slices of buttered bread that sat on a crate.
“You eat food?” Barne asked, as he pulled himself onto another crate and rested his plate on his lap. “I thought you mechs all took that nutricrap.”
“Yeah, I eat food,” Rika replied. “NutriPaste tastes a lot like I imagine your balls do, except it actually has substance. But I spent a decent amount of credit to get a face again, and I didn’t go through that so I can pump crap into my stomach—not like the hookers that suck you off.”
“Whatever,” Barne grunted, flushing as Jerry and Leslie laughed.
“Oh, you’re in for it,” Leslie said. “She seemed meek at first, but it looks like our Rika’s got some teeth, after all.”
“We’ll see about that when we hit the shit,” Barne said. “Anyone can talk a good game. How many kills you have, Rika?”
“Beats me,” Rika said. “I never counted.”
“You may not have, but the GAF did,” Jerry said around a mouthful of the meat-substance from the MRE. “What was your confirmed count?”
“Just over seventy thousand,” Rika shrugged. “But there were a lot more unconfirmed. Like I said, I never really kept track.”
Leslie made a choking sound and Rika glanced at her to see a look of awe on the woman’s face.
“How…how did you…”
“Kill so many people?” Rika asked. “Simple. We never got days off, never got any leave. I was in for four and a half years; most days, I killed thirty Nietzscheans. You do the math.”
“Thirty a day…” Even Barne sounded impressed.
“Doesn’t work out to seventy thousand,” Jerry said. “You’re still short twenty thousand.”
Rika nodded as she took a bite of bread and chewed it slowly, savoring the fresh taste. She swallowed and said, “There were a few above average days in there. I nuked a regiment, once. That upped the count a lot.”
“Shit,” Barne whispered.
“Think she can do the job, now?” Jerry asked.
“Now I think she’s too much for the job,” Barne laughed, his deep bass voice resonating in the crates around them.
“So, what is the job?” Rika asked Jerry. “And does it get me my freedom at some point?”
“The orders didn’t say anything about your freedom, but there was a note about some sort of packet with your enlistment details. The packet wasn’t in the crates, though—could have something about working off your debt. After this job, we’ll hook back up with the regiment, and you’ll get to meet the Old Man and we’ll see.”
Rika nodded slowly. That would have to do for now. So long as Jerry had the codes to her compliance chip, it was in her best interests to take him at his word and be agreeable.
“The mission,” Jerry said, “is simple. We’re here to kill the Theban President, and as many Theban top brass and politicians as we can.
Rika almost spat out her mouthful of bread. “What?!” she asked.
“Septhians hired us—or so we think. They want to shake things up, and this job will give them their in,” Barne said.
“The four of us are effectively going to topple a government?” Rika asked.
“No,” Jerry smiled. “There are thirty Marauder teams in the city now. We all have specific targets, and we’re to strike simultaneously four days from now.”
“And who’s our target?” Rika asked, dreading the answer.
Barne gave her a predatory smile and leaned in close. “Like he said, the Theban president.”
THE CHASE
STELLAR DATE: 10.25.8948 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Starview Lounge, Noon’s Glory
REGION: Approaching Maui, Ontario System, Septhian Alliance
It hadn’t been easy, but Chase eventually learned the name of the hooded figure that had purchased Rika at Pierce’s auction—Gregor. He worked for the Marauders, a mercenary outfit comprised mostly of Genevian veterans from the war with the Nietzschean Empire.
By the time Chase had been able to track him down, the man was long gone from Dekar. Not that Chase had any idea what he would have done had he caught up with Gregor.
The more he looked into the Marauders, the more dead ends he found. With the Genevian systems now a part of the Nietzschean Empire, the Marauders didn’t operate openly within their borders. From what Chase could tell, their headquarters was somewhere in Septhia; at least that’s where most of their public recruitment centers were.
Septhia—one of the many interstellar nations within the Praesepe Cluster. Once an ally of Genevia, they had not gone so far as to openly join the war with the Nietzscheans, or offer them any real assistance.
Nevertheless, Chase knew that’s where his best chance of finding Rika lay.
The memory of that night with Rika was still crystal clear in his mind. The soft skin of her face, and where it met the coarse grey skin at her neck; the soft hints of her breasts. She was a beautiful woman, but he found her striking blue eyes to be her most captivating feature; they could convey so much, and held so much strength.
Chase knew that those eyes had seen things he could only imagine—yet they were still kind, and had shown him that there was a gentleness inside Rika. One she kept buried, deep below the hard shell that she presented to the outside world.
He let out a long breath and signaled the bartender for another round, then turned on his stool to gaze out the window on the far side of the bar. It wasn’t a real window. The bar was somewhere in the middle of the Noon’s Glory, but the holodisplay perfectly rendered the external view with a three-dimensional effect that made it appear as though open space began just after the last table.
Ahead, slowly resolving into more than just an indistinct blob, was Maui—a massive orbital habitat on the outskirts of the Ontario System. Ontario was one of the systems near the rimward edge of the Septhian Alliance, close to its border with Thebes.
“What’s your business on Maui?” a woman asked as she settled onto the stool next to him. Chase glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, seeing enough to note that she had dark hair, and wore a loose grey suit.
“Looking for someone,” he replied, not really interested in having a conversation—though still glad for a little human contact at the end of the three-month journey. Septhia wasn’t far from the Parsons System as the photon flew, but the Noon’s Glory had made several stops along the way. Enough that Chase was starting to feel like he should have tried to book private passage—though that would have completely depleted his savings.
“Aren’t we all?” the woman said with a laugh. “Anyone in particular?”
“A friend,” Chase replied. “We got separated by… unfortunate circumstances.”
“A lot of that going around lately,” The woman responded. “I hear that the Parisians just attacked the Roman Republic.”
Chase shook his head in dismay. “Galaxy is going to shit lately. It’s like the FTL wars all over again.”
The woman nodded. “All thanks to that stupid old colony ship showing up—no one’s even seen it since it left Bollam’s World, yet they’re all still fighting out of fear and distrust.”
“I think people just needed an excuse. Mind you, not everywhere is a mess,” Chase said. “Praesepe still seems unscathed
; no wars to speak of in the cluster.”
The woman nodded. “Yeah, we need places like this. Have to have somewhere safe to build new ships and weapons. Good business in that.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Chase replied.
“I know, but that’s my business, so it’s how I look at it.”
“Oh?” Chase asked. “I didn’t get your name, by the way. I’m Chase.”
The woman offered her hand. “I’m Sally. Nice to meet someone willing to chat; been a long, dull trip.”
Chase chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve caught up on all the sims, vids and even did some reading on the trip.”
“I have to ask, this person you’re trying to find…is he or she a romantic interest?”
“She,” Chase confirmed.
“How do you know she’s on Maui?” Sally asked.
Chase gave a long sigh and reached for his drink. He took a sip before answering.
“She’s probably not, but I’m just chasing leads right now. Mind you, I might have to take work for a bit on Maui. I can’t afford to go chasing her all across the stars on my savings.”
“What’s the lead that brought you here?” Sally asked.
“Well, she got pi—she joined the Marauders; they’re a merc outfit. They have a recruitment place on Maui. I have no idea what I’ll do once I get there—I’m not sure if I can convince them to tell me where she is.”
Sally laughed, and then took a sip of her drink, her eyes twinkling above the glass. “You’re probably right. You could enlist, though.”
“That crossed my mind—which is nuts. I’ve had my fill of fighting.”
“Have you?” Sally asked. “Chase, formerly of Hal’s Hell on Dekar Station in the Parsons System. Before that, squad sergeant in the second platoon of Charlie Company, 4326th Regiment, 23rd Battalion, 19th Division, Genevian Armed Forces. Have you had your fill?”
“What the hell is this?” Chase scowled. “That information isn’t in any shipboard database.”