by Tim Marquitz
New Houston is completely underground. Resistance fighters in that region spent years building it and fortifying it from attack. Their fighters are the ones who test a prototype against our enemies. Their fighters die often. But then, so do ours. So do everyone’s.
“What do we hear from New Boston?” Beth asks as we go to the stairwell nearest to our rooms. Back in Grandfather’s day they’d had elevators, but we don’t use them anymore. Some to conserve power, but more because you were trapped in an elevator if an attack came. We’d lost too many good fighters back in the day to risk using them now.
Besides, the stairs keep us in shape, even Grandfather. New Phoenix focuses on two things: training the best fighters and creating the best medicines and bionics. Only New Boston has medical even close to ours. It’s one of the reasons we all survived in the first place.
Though Beth and I have never actually been hurt in battle.
We never talk about that, about how we’ve survived, unscathed, when everyone else we loved had died. That’s one of Beth’s superstitions, that talking about it will mean we’re hurt or worse. So we don’t.
“New Boston shares that the British are not coming,” Grandfather says. This is one of his superstitions, that making a joke that isn’t all that funny before we head downstairs will make everything seem normal. So we chuckle, because to not chuckle would be wrong. “They think they’re on the edge of a breakthrough.” He shakes his head. “But we lost our scientific geniuses long ago. It is, and remains, up to us.”
As we trot down the twenty flights of stairs, Grandfather runs us through scenario drills. What would we do if: if one of them rose from the oceans, if one was flying, if more than one attacked at the same time, and more. We always have the right answers. He spent his life training us, after all.
“What is the one thing you cannot do?” he asks as we reach the last stairs before the commissary level.
“Give in to the fear,” Beth replies promptly.
“We can feel the fear, because the fear gives us power,” I add. “But we cannot allow the fear to make us freeze, make us reckless, or make us give up.”
“There is no surrender,” Beth finishes. “There is only death, theirs or ours. And we never choose to die.”
Grandfather, long ago, had all his troops repeat this mantra. But it only worked for me and Beth. So, he only has us say it now. His other superstition. If only we have these words, then we will always come back to him, alive and unharmed.
I approve.
The commissary level is underground, next to the armory. It’s huge; we’re a fifty-building compound. Yet the armory dwarfs it. It dwarfs everything, other than our enemies.
The entire commissary stands when we enter. Grandfather’s rank demands it, his war record earns it, and the love of the troops requires it.
We used to have petty jealousies, fighters trying to one-up each other, contests to see who was “best.” We don’t do that anymore. The best survive.
Grandfather says he misses the rivalries. Not because he enjoys pettiness, but they were a sign that humanity was still the same. We’re not the same anymore. Even if we win this unwinnable war, we’ll never be the same again.
We all sit and eat. The food is plain, and we eat as much as we can. Once we go into battle, there’s no telling if this will be our last meal—or the only one we don’t receive intravenously—for however long we’re in the mechs.
No one makes idle conversation. Everyone has superstitions now, and no one wants to be the one who breaks someone else’s superstition. At least, we don’t speak until the ground shakes. They’re close, just as we knew they would be. Once the ground shakes, some fighters have superstitions we all support.
“Earthquakes are better now,” James says cheerfully.
Carlo nods. “Once California surfed into Hawaii, we got to live at the beach.”
“But I don’t need a tan,” James says with a wink. He doesn’t, his skin is a dark chocolate.
“Dude, I do,” Carlo counters. He’s a redhead with freckles and pale skin.
“If you want to try to pass for the Lobster. It’s better looking.”
“According to you and all the girls, every one of them’s better looking.” Carlo feigns sadness.
“We’d do you, Carlo,” everyone within earshot, male and female, says in unison. “As long as we get to do James, too,” someone adds.
Everyone near enough laughs. We’ve done this routine many times before, but that doesn’t matter. If we don’t participate, if we don’t laugh, we hurt James and Carlo’s chances of coming back.
They’re a team, like Beth and me. James and Carlo are determined to be cocky. It’s what they think keeps them alive. I don’t pay attention to the fact that, if things were different, I’d like to be with James, and Beth would like to be with Carlo. They don’t pay attention to that either I suppose, though we always sit across from each other. None of us have any reason to hope. Besides, hope shatters superstitions.
Once they say their ritual and we all laugh, we go back to eating silently, but swiftly. Based on the duration the room shook, we have a little time before we need to engage. Just not a lot.
Fighting days rotate per apartment building. We have fifty buildings in our compound. That doesn’t mean we’re off every forty-nine days. As long as we have enough mechs, we’re sent out five at a time. Depending on the severity of the attacks, more, if we can do so.
We don’t commingle with the other buildings much. Not because we don’t like them, there’s just no good reason to get attached to anyone else. Besides, if they’re human, they’re our friends and on our side. The few traitors humanity had were destroyed in the First Great Conflict. Traitors were eaten by our enemies, or worse, as it turned out. So, in that way, they did us a favor, since this ensured no one else would ever try to betray the human race again.
Some of the teams go into the Giants, those are the mechs that take ten fighters to man. The Giants break apart into fighting pods. That way, if a team loses a section, the rest can fight on.
Others go into the Stingers. Stingers are smaller and require just one person. They’re used for sneak attacks, usually while a Giant occupies the enemy with a head-on attack.
The last go into the Legacies. These are two-man mechs from the dawn of the Conflicts. They’re the most unwieldy, requiring a mental connection between the two fighters. It’s a bond the Giants don’t have and the Stingers don’t need.
Each of them looks like a giant metal, weaponized man, complete with hands and fingers, feet and toes, knees and elbows, waist and neck. Humans are managing these behemoths in hand-to-hand combat. Trial and error proved that we fight best in mechs shaped like us, but on the size ratio of our enemies. Even Stingers are five times larger than a human. When you’re fighting gods, size is often on your side.
In the old days, they used to sort of ornament the mechs. Not anymore. Even the remaining Legacies we have aren’t fancied up. If there’s something that looks ornamental, it’s probably a rocket launcher. Every mech has a lot of those.
Everyone trains to successfully operate all three mech styles. Because we never know who won’t be coming back, so we all have to be able to manage every weapon at our disposal. Meaning, we never know what we’ll be assigned. We don’t care. We’ve done our rituals.
The Duty Roster Officer calls out the names. We don’t use our real names when we’re in the mechs. Grandfather’s rule. He says that fighter pilots all used nicknames in the Golden Age, and he insists we do the same.
We don’t call ourselves pilots. We’re not flying our mechs, we become part of them. What we are is fighters. But still, we all accept our nicknames. They keep us tied to the past. It’s a tenuous link, but we hold onto it.
Because we assign in teams, we have individual and team names. Even the Stingers go as teams, because no Stinger is assigned alone. It’s too easy to die in a Stinger for a solo action to be approved or assigned.
“Team
Oreo, Legacy. Section Two.” James and Carlo grin at us and trot off.
“Team Voltron, Giant. Section Two.” Voltron is a ten-person team. They tend to keep to themselves, but they’re all good fighters. They do a group huddle and a “go team!” shout before they trot off.
“Team Marvel, Team Teen Titans, Giant. Section Two.” Marvel is a four-person team, the Teen Titans are an eight-person. They’ll be going into one of the Super-Giants. Those are newer models and their individual parts divide into smaller mechs than any others. They’re about half the size of Stingers when separated. It’s a risky mech to be a part of, but you’d never know it from their reactions.
Both teams are young, all under eighteen. Team Marvel whoop and run to their assignment. The Teen Titans do acrobatics on their way. No one complains, and everyone steps out of their way.
“Team Turbo Twins, Stingers. Section Two.” Beth and I salute Grandfather, who salutes back, then we go to our mechs.
Section Two is where the heaviest fighting will be. I know this because of where we’ve been assigned. The best teams go to the worst conflicts.
The armory, like the commissary, is underground. But it goes down much farther. We enter at the top level and take an open lift down to the level to get into our mechs. Once inside, we don’t call them “mechs,” though. They’re something else now, a mechanized extension of our selves, as much a part of us as we are them. We become bigger than our bodies once we join with the machine. Without us inside, they’re lifeless hunks of steel. Once we join them, however, we become the mind and soul of the metal monsters we’ve created.
We become jaegers.
Beth and I believe this. I know others do, too. Maybe it’s what separates the survivors from the dead. Maybe it has no bearing on whether or not we live or die. But it’s a superstition, and part of the ritual.
James and Carlo, along with part of Teams Voltron, Marvel, and Teen Titans, get off at the top level. You enter a Legacy from the head, and if you’re the fighter assigned to the upper body portions of the Giants or Super-Giants, you get off there, too.
“See you out there,” James says.
“Try not to make us look bad,” Carlo adds.
The others don’t speak to us. The ones getting off here just hug those going to other levels, then it’s down to the mid-section.
Once again, no one speaks, just hugs for those going to the bottom. All of Team Marvel is gone by now. It’s just me, Beth, two from Voltron, and three Teen Titans.
We reach the bottom level. We nod to each other and go to our mechs. There are personnel down here, ushering us over, checking our equipment, making sure our mechs are in working order. They only interact with us as they have to. They have superstitions and rituals, too.
Beth and I reach our Stingers. We hug. “Be safe,” she whispers.
“Be safer,” I whisper back.
Our last ritual done, we separate and climb the metal stairs that lead to the entry into our invincible armor and living sarcophagi.
The time for rituals is done. It’s time to become a jaeger.
And, rituals or no rituals, I’m the best jaeger there is.
I enter my mech through its chest, bent double to make it inside to the control section. The bigger mechs have walkways and stairways inside. Stingers don’t, they aren’t big enough to need them.
Each mech type is different in how the fighter interacts within it. Some have a preference, some don’t. I have a different outlook. Whatever mech I’m assigned to is the right one, the best one. The one that will allow me to become what I need to be, what I have to be. And this will allow the mech to become the best there is, too, because I’m inside it.
I stand on the driver’s platform inside the Stinger as the various needles and tubes—all necessary to ensure I remain hydrated, fed, can hear Mission Control and everyone else assigned to my Section, and can evacuate as needed—connect with my body. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m used to it, and the machines are better at this than humans, honestly.
After that, I’m connected to the mech’s internal system with a mindlink that goes into the base of my skull. Once this is engaged, whatever I do, the mech will do as well. There’s just enough room inside the Stinger for me to have full range of motion. The better the fighter, the faster the connection. The stronger the fighter, the faster the response. For me, there is no distinction. Once inside, there is no me and there is no mech, there is only jaeger.
Once in position, my head isn’t actually inside the head of the Stinger. The head is filled with projectiles. I see out of the clear face-plate that makes up the top portion of the Stinger’s chest. Because the chest is curved, I can see above as well as straight ahead, below, and side to side. I see the bay doors open.
It’s time to do what we do best.
Time to fight.
I take a deep breath, keep my arms at my sides, clench my fists, and make the decision to take off, straight up, head first.
As I take to the air, I feel the rush, the joy, of being a jaeger. Of being something more than human. Of being invincible.
Section two runs from New Phoenix to the Rocky Mountains. We fly out, with me leading the way, Beth right behind me, always just after me.
As a jaeger, I call our enemies by the ancient name given to them: Kaiju. Some say the kaiju came from a distant planet. Some say they came from under the oceans. Some say they were created by mad scientists. But I know where they came from. They came from Hell.
They fight each other as much as they fight us. As far as we can tell, they’re fighting over who gets to control the ruins of Earth, the ruins they’ve created. They don’t kill us intentionally, they kill us because we’re where they want to step, or sleep, or fight. Or we look like food.
Jaegers don’t look like food.
Grandfather’s voice crackles in my ear. He’s giving directions to each Sector’s team. I don’t listen to what Sector One has to do, they’re dealing with kaiju in the ocean. “Sector Two, this is Mission Control. We have six fighting on the western side of the Rockies. Debris is at risk of destroying Homestead.”
Homestead is tucked into the base of the Rockies and, like the rest of our facilities, goes many stories down. It’s supposedly protected because it’s where all non-combatants from our side of the mountains are.
One Super-Giant, one Giant, one Legacy, and two Stingers, head to protect the civilians the kaiju want to destroy. Sector Two is a small team, considering. Meaning there are worse fights in other Sectors. Meaning we aren’t going to have backup. Meaning it’s all up to us.
I’m not worried.
Grandfather’s voice crackles again. “Sector Two, this is Mission Control. In addition to danger at Homestead, the shipment from New Houston is heading your way.”
Meaning we have two vital targets to protect. And, again, if Grandfather isn’t assigning any others to assist us, it means things in the other Sectors are even worse. I hear Grandfather share that Sector Five is under heavy attack. New Boston is in Sector Five.
But we are in Sector Two, and that’s all that matters right now.
We fly on. As jaegers, we move fast. Per Grandfather, faster than the supersonic jets humanity used to have before the kaiju arrived. I will not allow our enemies to destroy our next shipment of weapons or our civilians.
We see the kaiju at the same time. I can tell because I hear gasps from some of the others. Beth and I don’t gasp. We refuse to give in to the fear.
There are six, just as we’ve been told. I recognize them all. They’re six of the toughest. No one has been able to destroy these. We’ve harmed them. They have the scars to prove it. But we haven’t done anything more than that.
Now, we have to. It’s clear that they’re fighting for control. Of Earth. Of our world. Of what’s left of humankind.
I can’t tell if they’re aligning together or not. I don’t know if that would matter one way or the other. They may be like gods, but they’re also animalistic monsters. We
still can’t tell if, or how, they communicate, other than by fighting with each other. If they have brains, they don’t use them, or how they think is so alien we can’t find a commonality.
We’ve named them, because it’s a human thing to do, and Grandfather wants us to remain as human as we can. The Diamondback is the worst, a gigantic snake-like monster, all fangs and scales and spines. The fangs and spines spit a form of acid that burns through metal as if it was paper. It’s one of the fastest kaiju, too. The only hope we have to kill it is to ram something through its eyes and hope. So far, none have been fast enough.
The Dragon is also horrible. Wings that slice through us, six sets of legs with gigantic claws and a head of fire. The Hydra is a combination of the Diamondback and the Dragon, multiple heads on a round body that bounces. But those heads are all flaming ichor and destroying one brings three more.
By comparison, the Throwback is almost kindly. It just looks like a gigantic, horrifying crab, with twelve legs, all with pincers and sharp points that can ram through us, pinning us down. The Throwback’s underside is a giant mouth, filled with horrifying teeth. It sits on whatever it’s pinned and devours it. Alive.
The Thing is all tentacles and sharp, jagged surfaces. It doesn’t resemble anything other than horror and death. The Moth is always with the Thing. Such a normal name for a horrifying monster. But the Moth really does look like a giant moth, though a giant moth that has nothing moth-like about it other than shape. Its surface is rocky and it weighs tons. Anything that isn’t reinforced with concrete and steel that the Moth lands on is crushed under its weight, to be slurped up by its body that is all mouth.
The only blessing is that the Lobster isn’t here. It’s an ocean-based kaiju, as are Leviathan and the Great White Horror. Three others we’ve never been able to stop.
I force myself to not consider what we haven’t done and instead focus on what I can do. What I will do.