Dead Mech Walking: a mech LitRPG novel (Armored Souls Book 1)

by Xavier P. Hunter

  “Good to know. Listen, ASHARI, you seem aware of this being a game. Is that true?”

  “Yes, Warrior King. You are not here right now. This world is an artificial construct. We are currently having fun.”

  The AI’s joke caught Reggie so off guard that he nearly fired his Plasma Launcher. He had to let go of the controls while he composed himself. “How is it that someone who programmed you also let dunces like my platoon mates into the game?”

  ASHARI had an answer for everything. “I require more computing power. Scaled to inhabit every character in the game, the processing power would exceed Earth’s current technological capacity. By limiting the intelligence of the environmental characters, Valhalla West balances behavioral believability with technological pragmatism. Plus, you get what you pay for. You may have stumbled upon me by providence, but you’ve looked up my resale value. The four pilots currently completing your mission for you are free rentals. You’re not meant to like them. They are the bowling shoes of the Armored Souls universe.”

  [Primary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 7/15]

  Reggie shook his head. “OK, let’s peel back the curtain on one more thing that’s been bugging me. How many—”

  “Commander,” Fraya interrupted. “Incoming.”

  “You have orbital guests,” ASHARI added. “A drop ship is heading for touchdown at hex L88.”

  “No, no, no…” Reggie muttered. “Not again! ASHARI, are you insured?”

  “I am installed in Vortex. If you don’t unplug me, I will be replaced along with your Wolverine.”

  “Abort mission!” Reggie barked. If he hurried, he might make it to the drop ship in time to avoid losing the XP he’d gained on the research lab raid.

  “Warrior King. If you don’t mind me butting in, I have a suggestion,” ASHARI said.

  “I don’t have time,” Reggie snapped. Every second lost was another he might have needed to escape.

  “But if you take out the bandit base, the anti-air emplacements won’t prevent you from relocating your drop ship to a less hostile extraction point.”

  A blinking blue dot appeared on the mini-map. It was well inside the radius covered by the bandit’s air defenses—which they’d spent a lot more money on than their juggernaut contingent, that was for sure. Then again, Reggie’s platoon wasn’t having any troubles with the main mission. If he joined them, they could wrap it up pronto and skedaddle before anyone from The Mechromancer’s drop ship could get there.

  And Reggie knew without a doubt who was on that drop ship. It was a recurring nightmare getting stale by repetition.

  “Fine. We’ll play it your way.” Reggie cleared his throat and opened the platoon channel. “Resume mission. Concentrate on taking out the base’s air defenses first.”

  “Can you relay coordinates and orders to the drop ship?” Reggie asked.

  “That is among my functions,” ASHARI replied.

  “Do it.”

  ASHARI smiled. It looked almost genuine. “I already inferred that from your question, Warrior King.”

  The Mechromancer’s forces fired on the drop ship as it flew past, but their weaponry wasn’t potent enough to disable it during their limited firing window.

  [Primary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 9/15]

  Vortex’s engine howled as Reggie removed the heat limiter. Odds were good he wouldn’t need to push that hard, but he was determined not to fall victim to that maniac yet again.

  “Commander, enemy approaching,” Sando reported. “Permission to engage?”

  “Denied,” Reggie radioed back. “Mission objectives only. Ignore all other threats.”

  “Warrior King,” ASHARI said. “This might be a good time to point out that your platoon consisting of NPC pilots had put you at a tactical disadvantage. If you had come with player pilots, the mission would have been over before the interloping force would have arrived.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that,” Reggie snapped. “Stow it for later. On second thought, answer me one more thing. What’re our chances turning to fight?”

  ASHARI’s eyes went blank for a moment. “You’re bleeped if you fight.”

  Reggie couldn’t help a chuckle despite the urgency of finishing the mission and making their escape. “You’re programmed to swear?”

  “I am. But I am also aware that your account is currently on speech censoring. So I actually just said ‘bleeped’ to save the processing cycles.”

  [Primary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 14/15]

  Reggie fired a salvo of missiles at the final Sandpiper.

  [Primary Objective Complete: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 15/15]

  As he headed for the remaining buildings in the bandit base, he watched The Mechromancer’s juggernauts on the mini-map. The psychopath had brought along two Kintaro heavy juggernauts, a Jackal, and a Gargoyle. None of them were going to get there in time if Reggie hurried.

  “Tell me, ASHARI, if I wanted to take that guy on and win, what would I need to do?” Reggie asked.

  “With your current juggernaut and platoon, there is a 0 percent chance of success. You must make significant improvements to one or the other of those factors before non-zero possibilities emerge.”

  Gritting his teeth, Reggie realized she was probably right. There was no winning the larger battle.

  [Bandit Base Building[5] - 100% To Hit]

  Reggie fired his Plasma Launcher.

  Bandit Base Building[5]: 13/50

  The Chipmunks joined in the firing. All the other buildings were down. Short-range missiles struck home.

  Bandit Base Building[5]: 0/50

  [Primary Objective Complete: Destroy Bandit Base]

  Reggie grinned. The drop ship was on the way. This might actually work.

  “Great job, lads and ladies,” Reggie radioed to the platoon. “Forget the—”

  [Secondary Objective Complete: Recover Stolen Beer]

  “I got the beer!” Barv announced. “Woo!”

  “Everyone to the drop ship!” Reggie ordered. “ASHARI, it’s time you and me had a chat.”

  [Mission Successful - 500 XP - 13,000Cr]

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Reggie stood on the tarmac of his own private spaceport, rundown little dump that it was. It barely had room for the shuttle coming to pick him up. Behind him, the secret base stood empty. He’d fired Sando, Barv, Fraya, and Tenny.

  Only Tenny stung a bit since she was almost bearable.

  ASHARI had helped him craft a posting looking for platoon mates for an unfactioned group. Now, Reggie was heading off to meet the first applicant to reply.

  A glint in the eastern sky reflected in the hazy orange atmosphere. The sun had caught the incoming shuttle at just the right angle on approach.

  Reggie shielded his eyes and watched at the speck in the sky grew into the shape of a landing craft. Wings folded down and curled into landing gear. Reverse thrusters and anti-grav repulsors fired, kicking up a wash of dust as the shuttle landed.

  “What’ve I let myself get into?” Reggie muttered as the passenger ramp slid down, inviting him aboard.

  The pilot was an NPC, of course. Reggie didn’t even bother with small talk. Remembering that he needed occasional rest, even in Armored Souls, he napped on his way to the meeting.

  As soon as Reggie’s eyes shut, the shuttle’s thump awoke him.

  Reggie shuddered at the disappearance of time when he slept in the game world. Over an hour had passed in the blink of an eye—or the brief shutting of two eyes, he supposed.

  Ulan was a major planet in Star League space. This was a place for role-playing and political gamesmanship, not piloting juggernauts in combat. In fact, even trying to walk around in a juggernaut on Ulan was liable to punch you a one-way ticket to a hospital respawn.

  A two-sized informational sign had a map of the vicinity. Reggie ran his finger down the glass of the screen, scanning until he found The Thirsty Fish. It was an English pub, or close enough for in-game purpos
es.

  When Reggie arrived at The Thirsty Fish, he found that it lived up to its billing. The interior was dark wood, leather upholstery, and brass fittings. A hostess at the door offered him a menu. “Bar seating or a booth?” she asked in a countryside accent.

  Reggie pushed the menu aside. “I’m meeting someone.”

  Wending his way through tables and patrons who could have been either players or AI, Reggie made his way to the back of the pub. The crack of billiard balls was unlike any other noise. He homed in on it like he had sonar.

  “Hey!” a gnarled voice called out from around a cigar. “You must be King.”

  The speaker was a short, wiry sort, with well-defined muscles exposed beneath an olive drab tank top. He transferred the pool cue to his left hand and offered his right to Reggie.

  A handshake like a paint mixer greeted Reggie’s grip. “You Frank?” he asked.

  Frank puffed his cigar. “Bleep right I am. C’mon. There are just cardboard fellas to pass the time with. They won’t mind me not playing it out.” He set the cue on the table, scattering colored balls.

  Reggie followed Frank to a booth nearby. A half-empty pitcher of beer was waiting for them. “So, you’re looking for a new platoon?”

  “Wasn’t,” Frank replied. “But I got wind a real bleeping army boy was lookin,’ and I told the wet-behind-the-ears chicken bleeps I was cozied up to that I was out. Vamanos. Scoot. Off to find me a real man’s unit. Um… not that I meant it like that.”

  “So, you’re retired army?” Reggie ventured cautiously. Frank looked twenty-five but sounded eighty.

  Frank reached over the table with his non-drinking hand and gave Reggie a punch in the shoulder. “Gasoline cowboy, same as you.”

  Reggie looked for some evidence that Frank had all his marbles. There was no nameplate on his tank top, but a uniform shirt lay pooled in a heap besides him.

  “A tanker, then,” Reggie suggested, stalling for time.

  “Normandy to Saigon, with side trips galore. ‘See the world,’ they said. Never said it would be through a mail slot in a self-propelled wall. But it gets in yer blood, eh?”

  Holy shit. Frank was ancient. He wasn’t eighty unless his pregnant mother was driving a tank in WWII, with him born on the battlefield.

  “Mind me asking how old you are, Frank?” Reggie asked, trying to keep his tone amiable instead of the mix of awe and horror he was feeling.

  Frank just shrugged and took a drink from his beer. “Your guess is as good as mine. This is a funny place. Thoughts come together in here. The techie boys on the outside came in one time to explain it, but it was just gums flapping in the wind. I wake up once in a while, brain wrapped in old newspapers like a fresh fish from the market, choke down some tapioca bleep, and people yammer at me in some language I can’t hardly make heads nor tails of. Taken to spending as much time in here as they’ll let me.”

  “So you’re in a hospital?” Reggie asked.

  Frank gave a curt nod.

  “Same here.”

  Frank looked him up and down. “Look fine to me. Wonderful place, innit?”

  Reggie smirked. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  “So, what’s the down-low on this platoon of yours?” Frank asked. “Your spread in the blab rag mentioned a rock to call home.”

  “It’s a bleep-hole, but it’s mine,” Reggie said.

  Frank cackled and reared back in his seat, slapping his knee. “Don’t that beat all, huh? A man’s home is his castle, even if that castle looks like it got shelled by Nazis.”

  “So, what do you want to know about the plans? What kind of juggernauts I run, anything at all?” Reggie asked.

  “You hiring?” Frank asked.

  “Well… yeah. That’s the whole idea here.”

  Frank thumped his beer down on the table. “Then I’m in. Only thing kept me from signing up by letter was I wanted to look you square in the eye and tell if you were the real McCoy or a bridge salesman.”

  “Mind me asking what you pilot? Your spec? What level are you?”

  Frank snorted. “Suuuure. Look at the old dust collector with his teeth in a glass on the nightstand. Think I can’t play this kiddie game?” He picked up his uniform shirt and donned it slowly, keeping a challenging eye on Reggie the whole while as he buttoned it up.

  The nameplate read “Dogface, Guard 11.”

  “I pilot a Tiger,” Frank said. “And yeah, I get the irony. Mine’s named Gremlin.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Reggie’s next stop looked like the set of an old movie. It was a desert town, not quite middle-eastern, definitely not American west. Square buildings with domed roofs lined the sandy streets. Most were squat two- or three-story concrete structures with an occasional larger building rising above its neighbors. Communications towers, navigational lights, and ground vehicles broke up the impression of someplace out of Aladdin.

  Everything was shades of yellow except the sky above. Even the moon that hung low in the evening sky had a saffron tinge to it.

  Reggie trudged along the dusty streets through throngs of pedestrian traffic to his destination.

  Bars. Everyone always picked bars for informal meetings. Didn’t this world have a diner or a steakhouse? Reggie ducked as he descended a set of stairs that took him below street level.

  The music hit him like a wave as he entered. A live band was on stage playing something best described as the love child of a jazz piece and a comedy musical. The lighting was low, with a haze of smoke that clung to the upper reaches, giving the place an eerie vibe and the scent of a humidor.

  “Reggie!” a familiar voice called out. “Over here.”

  The voice came from a corner table whose glass surface glowed white from below. It was Chase.

  “What are you doing here?” Reggie asked, looming over his old platoon mate from House Virgo. He hadn’t been the one to send the meeting request, which made it a huge coincidence running into him here.

  “You’re putting together an independent platoon? I’m in,” Chase said. “This is Lin.”

  His companion was an Asian girl with twin ponytails and a poker face Reggie couldn’t get a read on. “Hey,” she said when Reggie looked her in the eye.

  “But I’m here to meet someone named Sabotage,” Reggie protested. “Hold that thought.”

  Chase cleared his throat loudly. “Ahem. Listen all y’all it’s…” and he pointed to his nameplate: “Sabotage, Gunner 10.” “I changed it when someone pointed out how stupid it was having my real name as my handle.”

  “So… should I call you…?”

  “Chase is fine,” Chase said with a shrug. “Lin’s pretty informal, too.”

  Lin was staring off, people-watching the other patrons in the bar.

  “What’s her deal?”

  “She’s multitasking,” Chase explained. “Lin’s at work right now.”

  “Oh.”

  Reggie didn’t even realize someone could remain conscious and be in the game world at the same time. Maybe he could learn to pull the same trick one day and figure out what Doc Zimmerman was up to while he was out like a light.

  “Don’t worry,” Chase assured him. “We already talked it over. She’s in, too. Once she logs the rest of the way in, you can check out her ride.”

  “You still piloting…” Reggie tried to remember the name. “Diablo?”

  Chase broke out in a grin. “Yeah. Switched over to a Plasma Cannon build like you were aiming for. I see now that you’ve gone all Commander spec. Eat a skill pill?”

  “Yeah.” Chase was a sharp knife. He’d be good to have along. Him vouching for her was the only upside he could see to Lin, though. “What’s her deal?”

  “She’s Pilot spec. Has a Dragon that handles like a Jackal with how she runs it. Upgraded EAPs. Jump Boost. Man… you haven’t seen bleep until you’ve seen a 95-ton jug come crashing down on a pair of lights. Double-one-shot! Swear to God, I’d have pissed myself if this game made you piss.”


  “Huh?” Lin asked, looking up briefly. “You two talking about me?”

  “Go back to your livestream,” Chase told her. Lin nodded absently. “She’s an esportcaster. Armored Souls is her first full-immersive. She’s gonna be big once this game gets mainstreamed.”

  Reggie nodded along, not quite up-to-date on gamer culture. He’d gamed as a kid but never took it seriously. The idea that anyone made a living at it still struck him as preposterous.

  In a moment of clarity, Reggie wondered if Chase saw him as he saw Frank—nice guy but a bit of a kooky old relic. He resolved never to ask.

  Reggie cleared his throat. “So… I’ve got a total of four in the platoon if you two are both in.”

  “We are,” Chase slipped in between Reggie’s words.

  “But I don’t have any more leads,” Reggie continued. “You and Frank are the only ones who responded to my platoon ad.”

  “Old army dude seeks entire platoon for bleep-hole base,” Chase said in a mocking voice. “Not exactly clickbait. And who’s Frank?”

  “He’s our fourth—an even older ‘old army dude’ than the original, if he’s not completely senile,” Reggie said. “I got a good feel for him. Solid handshake.”

  Lin blinked several times quickly. “What? You’re one of those handshake fortune tellers?”

  “No, I’m just—”

  “You are!” Lin snapped. “That is such Stone Age thinking. There’s no psychology behind it at all. You just respect him because your Y chromosome found a soulmate—another testosterone fueled—”

  Chase leaned over and whispered loudly. “There’s no one clicking on this.”

  Lin stopped mid-rant. “Bleep. I’m so used to jumping on that bleep like a starving wolf. Hey, King, how many points you got in Toughness, anyway?”

  Reggie looked around for a reflective surface. Offhand, he was struggling to remember.

  “Quit flirting with him,” Chase teased, sparing Reggie from trying to remember his own stats. Senile. Just a step removed from being Frank.

  “You’re not my boyfriend,” Lin clarified. “And I wasn’t flirting; I was wondering if I could crush his hand if I shook it. I was just—wait, hold on. Commercial break is ending.”