Using a forklift, we moved the old school, rusted mech I’d originally thought was cool back to the fabrication room. It was in better shape than I thought, and measured out at a few inches shy of fifteen feet tall which was on the smallish side, given that the other, newer mechs average about twenty feet in height (give or take a few feet).
I raised a finger to one of the fabricators, a hulking brute in his late-forties named Jim Castle with long hair, full beard, and arms sleeved with ink. “How come none of the mechs are that much bigger than this one?” I asked, thinking back on the giant machines I’d seen in cartoons and movies when I was younger.
“That’s Hollywood bullshit. In reality, it all comes down to torque,” Castle replied. He could tell I didn’t understand his point and so he gestured to the battle machine. “See, the biggest hurdle with these puppies is the difficulty in creating sufficient power to move the damned things around. For instance, the torque required to power a hundred and twenty-five-foot fighting mech would amount to approximately forty-million feet of torque, give or take.”
“That’s a lot,” I said.
“No, that’s a shit ton, son,” Castle shot back. “There just isn’t any way to generate that amount of juice, at least not yet, so we keep ‘em on the smallish side.”
I nodded and flipped on a set of goggles while watching the fabricators “shotblast” the machine, using microscopic abrasives to vaporize most of the exterior rust. Then they separated the mech’s turret (the “basket” the fabricators called it), from the rest of the machine. They did this by gently lifting it from the mammoth spur gears and slip rings that allowed the turret (and cockpit) to oscillate.
They removed some of the armor plating on the outside of the turret and replaced it with lighter, more durable carbon fiber panels. A lovely lady named Kelly O’Donnell, who’d been an engineer back before the invasion, worked with three other fabricators, an electronics savant named Tom Ogden, a computer wizard named Edward Rosenfeld, and an all around ambulatory algorithm named Leo Roars (one of the great names of all time btw), to remove the internal hardware from the mech and began working on it, stripping circuit boards, rerouting fuses and electrical innards.
Kelly asked me whether I wanted state-of-the-art quantum computers, and wetware applications (technology seeded with living neurons) installed in the cockpit, but seeing that I had no idea what any of that was, I deferred. Instead, the four installed some retro hardware that would enable me to operate the mech more simplistically along with a commlink that would allow me to communicate via a scatterlink with five or more individuals within fifty yards of me. In addition, the mech was fitted with FLIR, forward looking infrared radar, and several “Fuzzbusters,” devices that Tom and Ed said detected and spoofed the enemy. I’m pretty sure Kelly, Tom, Ed, and Leo thought I was a dumb-ass, but I was the one who was going to be fighting in the thing, so I needed to be as comfortable as possible.
Another engineer pried loose the hafnium generator that powered the machine and rebuilt it along with the mech’s entire “FUUP,” its full-up power pack, which included the engine, transmission system, and cooling apparatus. The fabricator said the retooled generator was of the “plug and play” variety, meaning it could be easily swapped out in the event it burned or was disabled.
While this was occurring, other workers began refurbishing the internal fire suppression system (so I wouldn’t be turned into a briquet if a fire broke out in the cockpit), power actuators, servomotors, gyros, and various other pneumatic artificial muscles and braided actuators that replaced the older hydraulic cylinders and which would allow the operator (me!) to move and manipulate the machine more efficiently.
Electrically-charged nitrogen gas canisters were then inserted under the mech’s feet, a jump-jet like device that could be used only one time. If I ever found myself in a hairy situation, I could activate the canisters and blast the mech ten or more feet into the air. Once the canisters were secured, the fabricators turned to the calibration of the machine’s targeting sensors, what the fabricators called “zeroing the scopes.”
I began to realize that the reason the fabricators were helping me was that they didn’t care too much for Simeon and some of the others. They saw me as a kind of working-class throwback, a guy who’d been given nothing and was now challenging the aristocracy, the blue bloods. I appreciated the help but was a little worried I wouldn’t be able to live up to the hype. After all, I’d never operated a mech in real life. Sure, I’d flown a hoversurf and kicked ass in the simulation, but out in the real world? Facing off against seasoned mech operators? That was something else entirely.
The day ended, and the fabricators worked into the night and over the course of the next two days. I helped whenever I could, running to retrieve whatever spare parts of materials they might need. I also requested a few custom touches. For instance, I didn’t like the idea of having to climb up through the mech to enter the cockpit, so I’d had the fabricators bolt a ladder onto the back of the machine that led to a small compartment covered by a steel baffle that lay just under the cockpit. Once that was done, I climbed into the cockpit and offered some suggestions on additional modifications.
The cockpit was slightly reconfigured, for instance, in a couple of ways. First, it contained two seats which the fabricators thought was weird, since there was only one me, and second, the angle at which it sat had been altered in such a way to give the operator(s) a better view of the outside world.
I had the “Fabs” (by this time I’d started to call the fabricators that on account of their general awesomeness) bolt a pair of rocket pods onto the machine’s left arm. I always felt better keeping my right arm (my dominant one) looser, and this way, if I needed to throw a punch or grab something, I thought it might be easier with an arm that was lighter.
Next came the mech’s physical controls and engine start. Kelly gestured to what had originally powered the machine, hyper-powered processors and an intricate A.I. operating system that came complete with an annoying English A.I. accent.
“Do you feel comfortable using that equipment?” Kelly asked.
I frowned, studying the elaborate machinery. “I just need to know how to start it up.”
“It’s actually fairly simple. First you push to crank and wait for the internal turbine to achieve the requisite percentage of speed on your N1 gauge. Then you ‘come around the horn’ which means that you take the corresponding throttle out and slide it onto the throttle track for usable thrust. Once that’s done you wait for the engine indications and check fuel thrust efficiency and then you allow some compressed air into the starter manifold and—”
I held up a hand to cut her off and she smiled. “You have no idea what I just said do you, Danny?”
“You lost me after ‘it’s actually fairly simple.’”
“You need me to dumb it down even more?” she asked.
“How low can you go?”
“How about a single button that starts everything?”
I grinned. “Now you’re talking.”
Kelly tossed out all the fancy schmancy gizmos and replaced it with something that was not too dissimilar from the controls of a hoversurf (which I was very familiar with). The bottom line was, I’d be able to power up the mech with the push of one button which was just fine by me. Part of my continuing efforts to KISS … keep it simple stupid.
Besides the console that actually powered up the mech’s engine and operating systems, I had two joysticks that were mounted to a flexible pad which could be lowered down across my knees. The left one (which also had a trigger) operated the mech’s arms and weapons systems, and the joystick on the right controlled the machine’s legs (and arms if the situation called for it). The joysticks could also be separated, such that another operator (if riding along behind me), could assume control over the weapons systems while I physically maneuvered the machine.
There was also a dashboard of sorts just below the front of the cockpit canopy that contained
a viewscreen which provided 360-degree shots of the terrain in which the mech was maneuvering (there was also a viewscreen for the other seat).
I had the Fabs add a wraparound visor, perfectly fitted to the measurements of my big head, that could be lowered from the cockpit roof if I wanted to more closely examine whatever information or images were being beamed across the viewscreen.
Lastly, I had the Fabs install an ancient CD player I’d found in the Mech Recovery Room right behind my cockpit seat on a gyro pad (so hopefully it wouldn’t skip) because it brought back memories of the battered one my mother used to have in the basement of our house. I’m pretty sure my mom had been a hellraiser back in the day, because there were nights I could hear her sitting alone in her basement bedroom, rocking out to classics by AC/DC or Guns N’ Roses. I stared at the CD player and smiled, thinking, that one’s for you, mom.
Through all of the modifications, however, I told them not to mess too much with the exterior of the mech because that’s what had drawn me to it. The remaining rust, the square edges, a few remaining exposed welds, and bolts, all of that was going to stay. In short, everything that gave the mech its retro look. The fabricators agreed and two mornings later, we were all standing in a circle, utterly spent after all the work, peering up at the mech that stood before us in all its glory.
Jim Castle, the steroidal fabricator, shot me a look. “You ever heard that you can’t get nothin’ to work for you, ‘less you give it a name?”
I smiled. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
“So, what’s its name?” Castle asked.
“Spence,” I said. “Its name is Spence.”
“Righteous,” Castle said. Then he fired up a small, portable rotary cutter and handed it to me.
I moved over to the mech and climbed up a ladder. Then I used the cutter to carve the words “Spence” in the bottom of the mech’s turret as the fabricators cheered.
23
Like I said before, it’s one thing to operate a mech in a simulated situation, quite another to do so in real life. The fabricators lifted the mech up on a forklift and carried it out a rear door. They deposited the mech onto a broad curtain of cement on the eastern side of the hangar. One of the Fabs worked with me to “chair drive” the mech, essentially going through every detail of operations, especially the stuff that could trip me up. Pre-operation planning was the key to a successful mission, the Fab said.
Once that was done, I shrugged on my operating suit which was made of black Nomex material and lined with a series of rubber bladders that would be hooked to a hose and a valve and which would theoretically protect me from injury and prevent the blood in my body from pooling in the lower extremities. The bladders were woven into the suit which covered my torso and legs and zipped up with large-tooth sturdy plastic zippers. A small hose connected the suit to the mech through a valve on the dashboard that could open and close as necessary.
I climbed up the ladder and into the cockpit and sat down on the mech’s ejection seat, which could be activated by a small red D-ring on the side of the seat. If the machine was in serious trouble, I could pull the D-ring and blast myself through the cockpit to safety. I sat down on the seat and secured myself in place with the five-point harness that attached to the seat. I flipped several switches on the dashboard and felt the mech’s refurbished engine cough, sputter, and then grumble to life.
I closed my eyes and said a prayer, and then I gripped and angled my right joystick. A pulse of energy swept over me as the mech thrummed and took a halting step forward. I could see in my viewfinder that the other Fabs had gathered behind me and were raising their fists triumphantly. Another step was taken, then another, my mech plodding around the grass that lay beyond the section of cement.
I thumbed my left joystick, and my arms spun and rose. This went on and on for several minutes as I fought to get my bearings, realizing for the first time, that I didn’t really have a plan. I felt like an idiot because I’d failed to discuss with Jennings exactly what I should be training for. Vowing that I’d discuss the matter with him and Vidmark soon, I continued to stroll around the grass, dropping into crouches, jumping into the air, trying to get a feel for the machine. As I was nearing the end of this, I did catch sight of one interesting thing in my viewfinder: a shot of Jezzy and Richter, clearly visible, watching me through a window on the hangar.
Swiveling my mech around, I fumbled with the controls, and my machine pitched to the left, slamming to the ground. My suit instantly inflated, the bladders cushioning me from the blow, but I was totally embarrassed. Managing to right the machine, I looked up to see Simeon and the other operators staring at me from the other end of the hangar. They’d seen the entire thing and were pointing and laughing their asses off. Dru and Billy had their hands on their own throats, making choking gestures. I thought back on something my dad had told me, about how successful people are like relief pitchers in baseball. “Winners are like closers,” my old man used to say. “They’re senile, they’ve got super short memories.” I did my best to block out Simeon and the others and focused on learning how to operate my machine.
Twenty minutes later, my mech test drive was over. I walked the machine back into the hangar and secured it in the Mech Recovery Room. Neither Richter nor Jezzy was around, so I searched for Jennings, but he was nowhere to be found.
Exiting the hangar, I made my way down the gravel path and grabbed a bite to eat at the mess hall. Some of the other workers who’d read about me winning the tryout waved or gave me appreciative looks. I snagged some grub and found Dexter, plopping down next to him. “All hail Daniel Deus, the conquering hero,” Dexter said with a smile.
“Wannabe conquering hero,” I replied, correcting him.
“You get your ride up and running at least?”
“I nodded. It’s looking pretty sweet.”
“Good, cause you’re gonna need it,” he said. I looked up to see Simeon and the other operators casting looks in my direction. “I’ve been doing a little spying for you, m’man. Sim and his peoples have been practicing extra hard.”
“What the hell’s wrong with that guy?” I asked. “Why’s he got a problem with me?”
“It’s probably what you represent,” Dexter said.
“What’s that?”
“Definitely not what’s left of the one-percent.”
Dexter could obviously tell by the look on my face that I wasn’t following. “Don’t you know who he is?” he asked. “Simeon, I mean.”
“A real asshole.”
“He’s definitely that,” Dexter replied, “but he’s also the son of Fabrice Mezzanati.”
“Who’s that?”
“You mean who was he. Fabrice helped start up Scienta with Vidmark. He was one of ‘The Trinity,’ one of the original three founders. Baila’s mother was a tech guru too, so was the father of Dru and Billy.”
“What about Sato and Ren?”
“They’re just straight up killers, man,” Dexter answered with a smile. “Those chicks are crazy.”
“What does any of that have to do with me?” I asked.
“You’re not like them, Danny. You may not know it, but since the occupation has ended, folks have started looking around, doing some soul searching. They’re wondering how it all happened, the invasion, the occupation. Lots of people feel the politicians and military let us down. They started looking to what’s left of the tech community for salvation and guidance.”
“That where you came from? The tech community?”
Dexter nodded. “I was a programmer in the days before. I worked in a Scienta office in downtown D.C. over on Pennsylvania Avenue doing grunt work. One of Vidmark’s people spotted my name on the survivor logs and brought me in. The bottom line is, you don’t fit the mold or the story they’re trying to create. You’re not a tech guy.”
“I was a thief.”
Dexter burst out into laughter. “A thief who came in and stole the goddamn tryouts!”
We
shared a smile and bumped fists and ate the rest of our food in silence.
* * *
I finally caught up to Jennings later that day but was shocked to find out that because I’d decided to use my own mech, I wouldn’t be allowed to utilize the formal training protocol, a computer-based system that would work only with the other mechs. That meant I had to find a way to train on my own over the next three days. Jennings mentioned that there was a target range at the back of The Hermitage’s property, along with some non-lethal ammunition, and a kind of obstacle course that I was free to use. In other words, I’d screwed the pooch when I’d decided to build my own mech and would be on my own when it came to training. I kicked myself again for making yet another crappy decision.
That night I spent some time alone with Spence mech, rearranging things in the cockpit, getting myself better acclimated to the controls, and studying how to load the cannons and rocket pods. I thought about Simeon and the other operators. I wondered whether they were somewhere in the hangar or out beyond the fence planning and preparing to kick the crap out of me. I probably wouldn’t have a chance against them, but I wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
I also thought about Vidmark, wondering why he would’ve brought me to The Hermitage if I didn’t stand a chance of becoming an operator. But then I realized I still didn’t really have a clue as to what role he played in the whole thing. I’d been too worried to ask him any specific questions, particularly since he had a habit of never answering them. And what about The Mech Command itself? Was Vidmark in charge of the whole thing? Where was it located and what did it precisely do? I dismissed these questions, realizing I didn’t have answers to any of them. Besides, unless I passed the final test, none of it would matter. If I lost, I’d be kicked out of the place and then where would I be? Back in prison? Back out on the streets, looking for a job in a world that didn’t have any? I’d be Danny Deus, a former crook with a reconstructed spine and a very shitty resume.
NEW WORLD DISORDER: MECH COMMAND BOOK 1 Page 14