Mech

by Isaac Hooke

  “Are you going to report me?” she asked. The fear was obvious in her eyes.

  Rade hesitated, then said: “Yeah. I’m going to have to.”

  She slapped him then, hard. His cheek throbbed in pain.

  She closed their connection, then stood up and stomped from the room, squeezing between the bunks before she reached the hatch.

  It opened. Tahoe and Snakeoil were at the entrance, their biceps pumped from their workout, but Cynthia squeezed past them in a huff.

  “What was that all about?” Snakeoil said.

  But Tahoe was grinning. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

  Rade shook his head. “No, that’s not it at all. She wanted help in locating the spores. And she wanted to talk to the Anarchist. I told her no on both accounts, and that I’d have to report the request.”

  “Oh,” Tahoe said, the grin dropping immediately. “And are you going to?”

  Rade shrugged. “Probably not. The ship’s main AI will do that for me. Right, Barkley?”

  “I already have,” the main AI replied in its monotonous male voice.

  “They’ll probably keep her restricted to quarters for the rest of the journey back to Earth,” Snakeoil said.

  Rade rubbed his throbbing cheek. “I would say that’s a good thing.”

  He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  The fleet reached the colony and deployed reinforcements to aid the defenders below. Rade didn’t feel or hear the usual signs of combat—the distant rumblings as the vessel took impacts from enemy weapons, the moaning of metal as the starship strained beneath the forces exerted on its hull while attempting to pull off high speed maneuvers. Because of this he had to assume that, as predicted, the Barracuda class vessel—the Radial—was staying back, fulfilling its traditional role as a support ship. There was another good reason for the Radial to stay back of course, and that was the preservation of the alien captive and its spores.

  Very likely most of the data gathered from the Anarchist’s AI core had been disseminated to other vessels in the fleet by now, but that didn’t mean there was no value in keeping the Anarchist alive. They would still need the entity to help them decode most of that data, for example. Plus, it might be necessary to use the Anarchist as a hostage at some later date.

  That first day passed uneventfully. Rade pressed the lieutenant commander for updates, but Scotts didn’t have any, other than to say the war effort was going well.

  “Either you’re telling the truth, or you’re just saying that because you want to keep moral high,” Rade said. “Which is it?”

  “Neither, and both,” the lieutenant commander told him.

  Rade finally decided he’d been sidelined from the gym long enough, and joined his companions in the workout area that evening. The place was packed, despite the late hour, with other crew members apparently seeking a temporary refuge from the stress as well, gathering here in the hopes of forgetting their troubles through physical exertion.

  Rade and Tahoe waited a good ten minutes before a bench press freed up, and then they alternated between sets, spotting each other.

  “How’s the shoulder feeling?” Tahoe asked.

  Rade rotated his shoulder back and forward, bringing the arm in front of him. “A little tight.”

  “We’ll get that loosened up before the night is done,” Tahoe said.

  The hatch to the gym opened, and Praxter stepped inside.

  “Praxter,” Bender said, swaggering up to him. “What are you doing here, Bitch? Exercise isn’t going to help your puny muscles. In fact—”

  Praxter’s arm thrust outward, and Bender was hurled against the bulkhead. He held his chest as if in pain, and blood poured from his mouth.

  Someone screamed.

  Praxter made a beeline toward Rade.

  Crew members hastily cleared out of the rogue Artificial’s path.

  “Praxter, stop,” Rade said. He pulled up the remote interface in an attempt to deactivate the Artificial. “He won’t shut down.”

  Manic came up behind Praxter, and tried to manual deactivate the robot using the switch hidden underneath the nape of its neck, but Praxter grabbed his forearm and instantly broke it.

  Fret rushed forward at the same time and tried to tackle the robot. But when his body smashed into the Artificial’s torso, it produced only a loud clang, and the robot didn’t move. Fret slumped to the floor.

  Praxter released Manic and continued toward Rade.

  “Stay back, Team!” Rade glanced at Bomb. “Get to the armory on this floor! Grab what you can, and return! Also, send for a Weaver!”

  Bomb nodded hastily and fled, as did Snakeoil, Skullcrusher and several other crew members closer to the door.

  “Praxter, stand down bro,” Rade said. “It’s me. Chief.”

  But the Artificial gave him a blank look.

  As Praxter approached, Rade picked up a smaller, unweighted barbell meant for biceps curls, and smashed it over the Artificial’s temple.

  Praxter cocked his head and flung up an arm, ripping the barbell from Rade’s hands and throwing it aside like so much paper.

  Then the Artificial’s arm jutted forward, its fingers shaped into a vise that tried to wrap around Rade’s throat.

  Rade dove to the ground, rolling under the bench press. Praxter tore the bench in half and followed him.

  Rade lifted a forty-five-pound weight from the squat rack beside him, and threw it at Praxter. It bounced harmless from the Artificial’s chest.

  “Chief,” Tahoe said.

  Rade glanced at his friend. Tahoe tossed him a pair of magnetic dumbbells. Rade grabbed them out of the air, unsure at first what Tahoe intended. But then he understood.

  Rade flicked the thumb switches to full magnetization and tossed the dumbbells at Praxter’s feet. Ordinarily, special gloves were worn so that the magnets had something to attach to. They were designed to allow the wearer to keep working out past grip failure, allowing one to fully train the target muscle group regardless of grip strength. Rade frowned upon using the device—he figured you shouldn’t be lifting more weight than you could manage with your existing grip. Even so, he did use them occasionally, as did the others. They were designed for big boys like himself, and as such the magnetization was industrial grade: with the weights Rade and his men usually handled in the gym, you better have strong magnets.

  The dumbbells hit Praxter in either ankle so that the weights connected to the bar touched the deck. At full strength, the magnetization was high enough to glue the bar not just to the Artificial’s feet, but to the metal deck itself.

  Praxter tried to lift his legs, but couldn’t budge them, not while the magnetization was active. He knelt, bending over to hit the thumb switches.

  Tahoe slammed a long barbell onto Praxter’s back. Rade grabbed onto the other end, and together they shoved downward, trying to fold up the Artificial.

  Lui and Kicker joined in so that there were two big men applying pressure on either side.

  The Artificial’s strength was contained mostly in the arms and legs, not the lower back, and his internal electroactuators were unable to counter. His upper body crumpled toward its legs.

  But then Praxter reached up with his hands, and crawled his fingers along the bar, toward where Kicker and Lui were holding it next to Tahoe and Rade on either side.

  “Watch those hands!” Rade said. “Don’t let them touch you!”

  Kicker and Lui were forced to release the bar. As were Rade and Tahoe.

  Praxter stood up, and sloughed the bar from his back.

  Then a laser burn hole appeared in his head. And another in his chest, above the battery pack region. The Artificial collapsed.

  Rade glanced at the entrance to the gym, expecting to find Skullcracker, Snakeoil, or Bomb, or maybe a member of the ship’s security forces, but instead, another Praxter stood there, laser rifle in hand.

  “What the hell is going on?” Rade asked.

  “The Anarchi
st has taken control of the ship,” Praxter said, sliding the rifle over his shoulder by the strap. “And the captain has shut down the engine core in order to deactivate it. We’re locked in a decaying orbit now, because of it. MAs are rushing from deck to deck, telling people to evacuate.”

  “If you’re Praxter, then who was this?” Rade asked. He checked the embedded IDs of the two Artificials and understood immediately what had happened. This was indeed Praxter, and the imposter was merely the same model.

  Should have checked the IDs earlier.

  “In the cargo bay, a storage closet contained four Artificials of the same model as me,” Praxter said. “They were never patched, apparently, and the Anarchist was able to use the main AI to activate them. He sent them to different decks, with instructions to cause havoc. I’m sorry if you thought it was me.”

  Bomb, Snakeoil and Skullcrusher appeared behind Praxter. They seemed about ready to shoot him.

  “Stand down!” Rade told them. “It wasn’t Praxter.”

  The gym cleared out, and the Weaver arrived shortly thereafter, as did one of the MAs Praxter had spoken of.

  While the Weaver worked on Bender, the master-at-arms announced: “Get to the closest escape pod. The captain had to shut off the main AI, and we’re drifting toward the planet on a decaying orbit. We’re also headed toward the enemy fleet. So, either we’re going to burn up in the atmosphere, or we’re going to be shot down. We don’t get to pick our poison. But we do have to get the hell off.”

  “Can’t another ship tow us?” Tahoe asked.

  “Evidently not,” the MA said. “As far as I know, all the United Systems ships are occupied in orbit, and won’t reach us in time.”

  “What about the backup subsystems?” TJ asked from where he was kneeling on the floor beside Bender as the Weaver worked on him.

  “All compromised,” the MA said. “This ship is going down, mates. So I suggest you do as I say, and get to the escape pods.”

  Rade received a tap in request from his lieutenant commander. Scotts had stayed aboard, commanding Bravo remotely, because it was cheaper to do that than take a shuttle over to the Harbinger. “I’m taking an escape pod! If you’re able, I want you and your team to salvage whatever mechs you can. They’re jump ready—fully fueled, with fresh aeroshell heat shields installed.”

  “I’ll see what we can do,” Rade said.

  “Otherwise, if you can’t make it, head to the closest escape pods,” Scotts said.

  “Aye, sir,” Rade said.

  “I’ll see you planetside!” the lieutenant commander finished before disconnecting.

  The Weaver finished working on Bender and injected a stimulant. The black man promptly sat up. “Wow. I feel wired.” He glanced at Praxter. “Why the hell did you attack me?”

  “You called him bitch one too many times,” Manic said as the Weaver worked on his broken arm. “You just knew something had to give at some point.”

  “Damn,” Bender said. “Guess I’m going to have to watch my tongue around the bi— er, the dude.”

  “He’s teasing,” Praxter said. “It wasn’t me, just another of the same make and model.” He pointed at the collapsed Artificial on the floor behind him. “In case you haven’t heard, the Anarchist tried to seize control of the ship.”

  “Oh,” Bender said. “Well then.” He looked away, and mumbled: “Sorry for calling you bitch so many times, either way. You’re not a bitch. You never were. You’re a cool dude. I just, I’m… an asshole sometimes. I… well I don’t like AIs much in the first place. But I was particularly upset because, well, there was another AI we used to have in the platoon, and I always treated him like shit. He treated me, and everyone else, like gold. Gave his life for us in the end. I’ll never be able to forgive myself for how I behaved toward him. And see, with you, I thought, why should I treat you any better? Why should I treat you like a part of the team, when I never did that for Harlequin? I’m… I’m dirt.”

  “You’re not dirt,” Praxter said. “You’re my brother.”

  Bender looked up, smiling strangely. His chin was doing this quivering thing. “Come here.”

  He wrapped his arms around Praxter in a tight hug. Bender held it for several moments, and when he released him, he turned away, wiping tears from his eyes. He cast a glare Manic’s way. “And don’t you say nothing!”

  Manic shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  The Weaver had moved on to treating Fret next. He’d bruised a rib when he jumped at the imitation Praxter, but otherwise had received no further injuries, so the Weaver injected a quick healing accelerant, along with a painkiller, and sent Fret on his way.

  A klaxon kicked in.

  “Looks like someone in engineering finally found a way to activate the alarm,” Lui quipped.

  “Let’s go!” Rade said, rushing toward the entrance.

  He glanced at his overhead map, and realized Cynthia was still in her quarters.

  “I’ll meet you in the hangar bay,” Rade said. “Prep the mechs for launch!”

  “Where are you going?” Tahoe asked.

  “To get Cynthia,” Rade replied. “Seems the security forces decided to clear out without bothering to set her free.”

  24

  Rade hurried through the tight corridors, occasionally passing crew members heading in the opposite direction, toward the evacuation pods.

  With the help of his overhead map and the augmented reality overlays that labeled each turn and crossing, he finally made it to her quarters.

  When he reached the door, it didn’t open. He tried accessing the remote interface, but was locked out.

  “Great,” he said.

  He kicked open the access panel, pried free the necessary tool, and began turning the ratchet.

  The door slowly opened.

  An eye peered through the crack.

  “What’s going on?” Cynthia said.

  “You heard the klaxon?” Rade asked. It had stopped for the moment, but he knew it was going to start up again soon.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “We’re evacuating the ship,” Rade told her. “Your good friend, the Anarchist, decided to take control of the main AI. Captain Mercedes didn’t like that very much, so he shut down the engine core, deactivating the AI. We’re in a decaying orbit.”

  “That’s not good,” Cynthia said.

  “No,” he agreed.

  “No wonder Barkley stopped answering my queries,” Cynthia said. “Strange name to call the AI of a starship, by the way.”

  “I’ve heard worse.” When he’d widened the door enough for her to squeeze through, she emerged, and Rade grabbed her by the hand and led her through the corridors to the hangar bay. The klaxon had started sounding again in the background.

  When he reached the bay, he saw that the panels next to the airlock hatches had been removed so that the doors could be manually jacked open.

  Within, the MOTHs had loaded into their respective Brigand mechs, and waited in the center of the bay. Taya stood at the rear of the line, her cockpit hatch open, inviting him inside. The booster rockets necessary for the jump had already been attached to the mechs, courtesy of Alpha Platoon and the assistive robots that still operated on their own power supply in the hangar bay. Rade noted that no serpents were installed in the shoulder launchers, but that was expected: the team wouldn’t have had had time to fetch missiles from the ship’s stock.

  Rade hurried to the locker alcove and suited up—he removed his T-shirt and cargo pants so that he could don the “cool vents” undergarments instead; Cynthia meanwhile stripped off her blouse and slacks. When he saw that trim, athletic figure, he was almost beginning to regret not taking her up on her offer. Almost. But sleeping with a woman was never worth the price of a court-martial in his books.

  He picked out a suitably sized jumpsuit and began attaching the various assemblies. Meanwhile, she donned an environmental suit.

  “Going to ride in a cockpit this time?” he
asked her.

  “I’d rather take your passenger seat,” she said.

  “Probably a good idea,” he said. That way he could keep an eye on her.

  At the airlock, Tahoe’s mech was using the ratchet tool to seal the inner hatch of the airlock. Probably a good idea—if they opened the hangar bay doors, the breach seals in the corridor beyond would still activate, but that would reroute power away from the escape pods. If someone happened to be launching just as power cut out, the pod could end up jammed indefinitely, the occupant trapped.

  Rade finished dressing, and approached Taya. He clambered smoothly up the rungs leading to the cockpit, and loaded inside. The inner cocoon wrapped around him and Taya piped her camera feeds into his vision.

  He took control and glanced at the other mechs lining the far side of the hangar: the Hoplites and Titans formerly under the Anarchist’s command, standing at the ready.

  “Have you assigned a commanding officer?” Rade asked them.

  “Hackles is our CO,” one of the AIs said.

  Rade had two choices: either lump them together under his platoon, or allow them to operate as their own independent platoon, led by the CO. He chose the latter.

  “Hackles, you report directly to me,” Rade said.

  “Understood, Chief,” a deep male voice replied. On his HUD, the speaker was labeled as Hackles.

  Cynthia approached, and Rade knelt to allow her access to his passenger seat.

  “Taya, keep an eye on her with the rear cameras,” Rade said. “Make sure she doesn’t get up to anything.”

  “Sure,” Taya said.

  Tahoe had finished closing the airlock hatch then. He stood up in his mech and gave Rade a thumbs up.

  Rade approached the hangar bay door. Lui and Snakeoil stood next to a panel they had removed in the bulkhead.

  “Ready?” Lui asked.

  “Bender, TJ, I don’t suppose it’s possible to reroute some of the emergency power to these doors?” Rade asked.