by Scott Moon
“Recommendation: stay with your current contract. You’d have to buy out your partners and pay a fine to the mercenary union. I took the liberty of checking with Michaels, on a hypothetical basis, of course. He says he’ll do what he can but it is what it is—which I think is a strange phrase, if you want my motherfucking opinion.”
“If I wanted it, I’d ask for it, but you’re right, CAI. Not worth the cost. But interesting. Tell me about this CCE contract?”
“Not much to tell. It’s gone, either fulfilled or canceled. Hard to tell.”
“That was fucking abrupt.”
“Language, Shorty. You’re teaching my impressionable language assimilation program bad habits, fuckity fuck. The contract was revoked and you weren’t going to take it anyway. Balls.”
“The fact they were even considering hiring people is important. Asswipe bear fucker.” Ha! Let’s see how he assimilates that!
“Please explain the syntax and etymology of that sentence.”
“Scrub it. Doesn’t mean anything. Focus, CAI. I need to make a decision on this alternate contract.”
“My recommendation is to prepare for a major action by the CCE.”
“Talk like that would have me worried if the CCE had influence in this sector, much less on Doomsday. Where exactly would they be hiding this mystery force?”
“Data unavailable.”
“You got that right.”
“Please explain, Shorty. Stop being such a dick.”
I add a half-dozen new swearwords to CAI’s vocabulary, realizing I’m going to have to upgrade his strategy software. The list is getting long; I need to get him a better voice, have his personality and sarcasm routines adjusted, and take him in for his semi-annual checkup. At this point, it might be better to just get a new CAI whenever I get a new mech.
I bet Danielle would sell me her voice filter as used. But then I’d have a woman giving me hell all the time. Who needs that aggravation.
Still…
The coastal landscape around Delta City is spectacular, tall cliffs of bleached rock with green meadows running right up to the edges. At the feet of the cliffs are beaches, most of them white sand but more than a few with gray and black pebbles that stay warm from the sun longer than you would think. Narrow country roads wind up the rugged terrain making a quick jaunt to gawk at the sunbathers more trouble than it’s worth.
I’ve only been here one time. Should’ve paid more attention.
“I’ll take point for a while. Try to keep up.”
“Makes sense for you to be out front, since you have the smallest mech,” Pat says, stomping forward like a big dummy.
“What’s your point?”
“Well,” he says, trying to control a stupid, juvenile giggle, “you’re Shorty.”
“Yeah, I’m small.”
James chimes in. “You are the recon unit. Isn’t that one of your main jobs, running point in the formation of battle mechs?”
“Sure. Try to keep up.” Maybe I’m losing my edge, or perhaps I’m still tired from the hangover from my three-day bender, or still pissed off that the mech I programmed to deliver me extra parts and loot from the Foxtrot Foundry is wandering around someplace. Sure it’s my fault. Of course I programmed something incorrectly. That doesn’t mean I’m not bitter.
“CAI, have there been any sightings of my prize from Foxtrot Foundry?”
“Not a one.”
I play with the manual controls of the 197, nearly flipping it up onto its side as I take a hard corner. The trail I’m following is steeper than it looks and the cliffs dropping off on my right are much higher than I’d imagined. I can see waves smashing against the rocks. The curve of the coastline limits my view, like that matters. This ain’t no vacation. This is serious shit.
“We’ll be heading inland after this corner. I’m going around it blind, so wish me luck. And come get me if I run into Blade Corps mercenaries.”
“Why would Blade Corps have a problem with you?” Pat asks.
“Let’s just say we’ve had financial disagreements and I may have damaged some of their equipment and personnel.” I review several data feeds CAI wants me to look at. It has to be a mistake, because according to his analysis, there are a lot of mechs very close to us.
“You’re a menace,” James says.
Ignoring him I stare at a section of my HUD and blink twice, creating what is known in merc school as a retinal double. Additional information flows from CAI.
“I can’t tell you from which direction. Be patient,” my combat artificial intelligence admonishes. “They’re using the most advanced sensor dispersion technology I’ve seen since Foxtrot Foundry.”
“Please don’t tell me it’s another Goliath.”
“If this many Goliaths were marching on Delta City, you’d feel it even with the primitive rental we’re driving now. I’m more concerned with the fleet of Excaliburs you saw beneath FF.”
“Stacy told me those were taken care of.”
“Yeah. Promises, promises,” CAI says.
“Are you almost at the top of this road?” Pat asks, his voice sounding distant because I’m spending most of my time listening to my computer friend.
“Give me a second.” Rolling green hills stretch away from the coastline. Mist flows through low places. There are no trees for kilometers. Tidy fields blanket everything inland.
Farmers from this region were the ones who keyed me in on the possible location of the mech I stole from FF. They call it the metal ghost. Tell their kids stories about it snatching misbehaving children and virgins.
I might have added the virgins part. Sorry.
“Are you still thinking about your loot, Shorty?” CAI asks.
“You nailed it.” My mistake was being overcautious. I’d been under a bit of pressure when I programmed the mech to steal itself and worried about someone else collecting what I worked so hard for. So I entered what I thought was a bit of simple escape and evasion code into the program.
Now the Ranger II was a ghost. I’ll probably never find it. Never upgrade from the unit I have in impound.
“We better get on task. I don’t want Pat and James falling into the ocean or something.”
CAI makes a sound that I recognize as a snort. I wonder if some of the clicks I’ve been hearing are his attempt at laughter or other subvocalizations. They sound like a glitch, but who am I to say? Not exactly a computer genius, as I proved at FF.
“What are you laughing at?”
CAI answers, “You’re the one who keeps wandering off. I’m a combat artificial intelligence, much more focused than you could be even if you wanted to. One moment, we’re about to have company. Non-hostile, so keep your finger off the trigger.”
I relay the warning to the rest of my squad.
Around the corner I encounter a convoy of epic proportions. It looks benign but there are a lot of mercenaries driving upper tier mechs to protect it.
“Why didn’t I take this job?”
“Those seem to be the mercs who took the CCE contract,” CAI says.
“The upgrade really did slow your processing speed. There isn’t a single CCE unit in that convoy. That looks like simple stuff, food and basic supplies. If it were parts and ammunition, I’d be concerned. And how would the CCE get clearance to operate this close to a UNA controlled city and foundry?”
“They’re heading the way we came, toward the ocean and on to Delta City.”
“Wow, you’re good. I picked that up with my primitive human brain.”
“Dick.”
This time, I laugh. CAI is all right. His sarcasm routine is catching on, unless he’s seriously calling me a dick. A computer might make that mistake, and once it latches onto an identification code, it is unlikely to unlatch from it. Could be weird.
“Remind me to have your new software synced when we get done with this mission.”
“Looking forward to it,” CAI says.
Once we put the tediously long convoy wi
th the overpriced security element behind us, I pick up the pace. Surprisingly, Pat is able to keep up, though his Hammer mech smashes the crap out of the road and sounds like bombs going off—boom, boom, freaking boom.
James glides ahead of him like a cross country runner, his Laser class unit shining in the sun. Whenever he keys up his mic, I hear classical music in his cockpit.
“Hold up. Let’s slow roll it from here. Don’t want to scare our employers. You know how delicate softies are.”
“Roger that, Shorty. I’ll wait here with James while you make introductions.”
The manor house on the hill has white ceramic walls and stainless-steel support beams. Rotating solar panels gleam like they’re brand new. Balconies wrap around the middle levels. The grounds resemble a small town surrounded by a wall that should keep most intruders out. “CAI, I’m getting a sinking feeling. Did we bite off more than we can chew?”
“Running analysis.”
“File it. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.”
“Consider it filed, Shorty. You have an incoming message.”
“Put it through.”
Moments later—time I spend daydreaming about the clouds drifting out to sea and mermaids—I’m assaulted by my client’s security officer.
“Welcome to Silver Cloud, Shorty. I’m David Crash, Security Chief here at SC. Your reputation precedes you. We didn’t expect you to have a new mech. Is there a problem?”
“No problem. I pulled this one out of the garage.”
My earpiece beeps. “Dishonestly detected,” CAI says.
“I don’t need you to tell me when I’m lying.”
“Updating my personality profile,” CAI says. “Allow Shorty to be full of shit and make things up.”
“Thank you.” Driving a mech is like raising kids. Almost more work than they’re worth.
Chief David Crash doesn’t hear any of this. He studies my mech unit like it’s a person. Softies do this a lot, even soldiers like this guy. They treat mechs like big humans and ignore the pilot inside.
He signals his team. They bring forward several vehicles. I’m familiar with the type, they’re armored limousines. Buses—more or less. Sturdy enough for off-road safari work but classy enough to be driven in the city without all of their rich friends pointing fingers and snickering.
“How many vehicles are we escorting?” I ask.
Crash puts one hand to his ear and listens. Swears. Glares at me. “Your presence is requested inside. Without your machine, of course. Can’t have it tearing up the courtyard.”
“Recommendation: go inside for the meeting. They may have food and I suspect you are hungry.”
“How can you detect whether or not I’m hungry?”
“You’ve been complaining about starving all morning. By my calculations, you already died three times from starvation.”
I climb out of the 197 and follow the security chief up a wide marble staircase to a balcony that’s big enough to host a concert. I’m told to wait. I spend some more time looking out over the ocean. Not a mermaid in sight. Lot of mist at the bottom of the coastal cliffs.
The view is so spectacular I’m not sure I’m still on Doomsday. The sky, less red than usual today, is pristine blue except on the horizon where the red glow of the desert lingers. I’m reminded that the reason for the dramatic colors of the sky are often the fires of war and not the atmosphere.
And then the mistress of this manor house seduces me with her walk—lips so red and moist, eyes so alive and intent on me. I’m pretty sure she’s not dressed for trouble, unless semi sheer robes are more functional than I assume.
The security chief steps back. The woman struts closer.
“So you’re Shorty.”
I fumble my reply because I can’t get my eyes off her nipples. Or her hips for that matter. It’s kind of a tossup to which I spend the most time on. “Yeah, I’m Shorty. You’ve heard of me?”
She doesn’t answer.
“You have quite a few vehicles in your convoy and the timeline I was presented with is fairly tight. We should really be going.”
“My name is Katrina and I would like you to have a glass of wine with me.”
“Well, if you’re gonna twist my arm, I suppose we can make it work. What do you think, Chief Crash?”
Katrina waves him back. “Never mind, David. I wish to have a drink with Shorty and show him the view from my home.”
I look at one of the many servants and smile winningly. “You heard her, drinks on the house. Whiskey for me and beer for my horses.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“We’re having wine,” Katrina says airily.
“Whiskey,” I say.
She stares me down, wrinkling her nose. What comes next is an expression of high society manners and what my sisters used to do when calling their little brother a sweaty barbarian.
“Fine. Bring us the oak barrel malt whiskey. And beer for his mech crews, which is what I think he means by horses.”
The view from her private balcony faces the ocean and a beach like none I’ve ever seen. Whenever a breeze clears the mist, it’s wider and longer than I thought possible for such pristine sand.
The only problem is the half-dozen mechs creeping forward with the setting sun obscuring their progress.
Katrina is drinking wine and talking softly. Moving closer. Touching my chest with delicate fingers.
I grab her wrist. “Hold on. I see something.”
“Gentle, Shorty. No need to get rough.”
Things happen fast. I’m sympathetic of Katrina’s situation despite the rich girl princess thing she’s got going on. For an overconfident seductress, she’s terrified of what’s about to happen. I see it in her eyes.
She probably knows what the CCE do to prisoners.
“Chief, can you get the lady packed up and ready for travel? Looks like an invasion is cutting through your backyard.”
He runs to the railing and looks down, seeing what I see. “I knew it would be bad. But the CCE? Balls.”
“They’re a bunch of assholes,” I say, already shitting-and-getting back to my squad. That’s about the time I remember I don’t have my Ranger. “Fuck.”
Stealing one last look at Katrina—who I haven’t even gotten to know yet—I sprint through the courtyard and out the front gate where my 197 is parked. Pat and James are standing in front of their units—guiltily holding beers and looking alarmed.
“Why the hell would you get out of your mechs?”
“You’re out of yours,” Pat accuses.
I’m in the cockpit and preparing to lower my canopy before either of them starts to mount up. They’re couple of nice guys, but not battle veterans. I get a sinking feeling in my gut.
“CAI, can you update me on the current situation?”
“There has been a call for assistance from the UNA perimeter defense. Standard rates. I was just speaking with Thor and William 00-7-A33-Z. They are of the opinion we should render what assistance we can to the cause and worry about compensation later.”
James enters the conversation first, having prepped his mech unit fraction quicker than I thought possible. This surprises me because I thought Pat was more on the ball.
“Are we going to help them?”
“Yeah, we’re going to help. Which sucks,” I say, not really caring what my companions think.
“Why would you say that?” Pat asks.
“Two reasons. We’re going to get fucked long before we reach DC, and the UNA has my mech impounded. They deserve whatever they get.”
“Really? That one you fought the Goliath in?”
“You heard about that?”
“Everyone’s heard about Shorty and the Goliath.”
“You’re all right, Pat.”
James joins the discussion, speaking like a pretentiously formal jackass. “We took a contract and are honor bound to complete it. It is a happy coincidence that we can also help save the UNA interests in Delta City.
”
“Screw their interests. My Ranger is in there. Let’s keep our priorities straight.”
Cash forms up the armored limo-busses and support vehicles, five of the former and eleven-teen of the others—hard to count the off-road bikes, buggies, and experimental hover cars. Half of them head straight inland as soon as we start the journey. I’m guessing they were from neighborhood farms or nearby towns.
The five limousine busses are all I’m worried about. The mission seems easy, even with the CCE invasion force hitting the beaches. As long as we don’t run into delays, we’ll be safe at Delta City in plenty of time.
The white house is twenty kilometers behind us when we come up on a new caravan that ruins everything. The vehicles are shot to hell and the security team—a bunch of softies with high tech weapons and communications gear, were the best money could buy—before they ran into a mech and got tore up.
3
“CCE airborne forces have blocked seven of the arterial highways to Delta City,” CAI advises.
I can’t believe we’re even thinking about helping these people.
“Mr. Redmore is the trade minister for half of Doomsday!” Peter Figman, Redmore’s chief aide says.
“Good for him.” I give the upper left corner in my HUD a retinal double tap, putting myself in a private conversation with CAI. “Can we ditch this loser?”
“Recommendation: maintain a positive relationship with trade minister Redmore. His animosity will negatively affect your ability to sell battlefield salvage.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.”
The problem is the trade minister is the most pretentious human alive, and that’s not just my opinion, but scientific fact. I mean it has to be, right? Do I look like a scientist? But he is, trust me.
“We can’t just abandon them,” Pat says on our squad channel. James remained silent.
“I don’t see what’s in it for us,” I say, my attention on the horizon where I expect the CCE vanguard.
“We’ll pay you each a million Quibdotti,” Redmore says.
“He speaks!”