NEW WORLD DISORDER: MECH COMMAND BOOK 1

by George Mahaffey

  I never lost focus though. I kept the nose of my mech up, angling the turret around. I spotted him back toward the rear of the range. I didn’t fire this time, just began maneuvering toward him.

  He dodged left, and I fired out in front of him, leading him with my cannons. He tried to double back, but I blasted the ground in front of him with rocket fire. He paused, and I realized I had him trapped!

  Richter dropped low, and I charged, moving in for the kill. That’s when he did it again. He took off on a ragged run toward me, but I’d seen this before. I knew he was going to slide under me, so I pushed my cannons down. But then he did something unexpected. He planted his spindly robotic legs in the ground and harnessed his momentum to—

  Sail directly over me!

  I looked up, catching sight of Richter who flew over my mech. By the time I’d moved my machine around he was already firing a kill shot into the back of my turret. I cursed, slamming my hands against the controls.

  Richter began barking things at me again, but I was too disgusted with myself to listen. There was no way in hell I’d ever be able to beat the other operators. I just wasn’t good enough. Pissed, I turned my mech around and trudged back toward the hangar, to the Mech Recovery Room. When I got there, Jezzy was visible, pushing a cart that was heavy with machine parts.

  I powered off the mech and climbed down the ladder.

  “Um, shouldn’t you be training?” she asked.

  “What good would it do?”

  She did a double-take. “What’s your problem, Danny?”

  “I’m not good enough to do this.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I just got my ass kicked by Richter.”

  “And?”

  “And I suck,” I said, kicking at the ground.

  “So, you’re just giving up?”

  “That’s generally what one does when they suck.”

  She shrugged. “So, go ahead and give up then. There’s nothing wrong with that. I mean, if we didn’t have cowards around, it’d be awfully difficult to tell who the heroes are.”

  “Wow. Is that your version of reverse psychology?” She stared at me. “Cause I’m not a coward, Jezzy.”

  She tapped her foot on the ground. “You know what your problem is, Danny?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re gonna say lots of things…”

  “You’re a man.”

  “That’s what they tell me,” I quipped.

  “And like all men, you can’t multitask.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Beg all you want, but you’re having issues operating the mech while trying to look for bogies. Same problem you had with the hoversurf.”

  “Yeah, at least with the ‘surf I never had to really worry about that.”

  “Cause you had me,” she said, smiling. “I bailed your ass out.”

  “Eight times—”

  “Twelve,” she said. “But who’s keeping track?”

  We traded a long look. I saw recognition in her eyes. She shook her head. “Nope – do not go there, Daniel Deus. Don’t even think about it,” she said.

  “I need you, Jezz,” I blurted out. “There’s no way I can do this without somebody else. You’re the best co-pilot I ever had.”

  “The only one. And I already told you, I’m not climbing back into that saddle.”

  She turned her back and I knew I only had one card left to play. “Hey, no problemo,” I called out. “I’ll just go back and tell Richter that it looks like he was right after all.”

  Jezzy paused and looked back. “Right about what?”

  “That women probably shouldn’t be a part of the mech program.”

  She looked at me, open-mouthed with wonder. “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me. Only I think he used the word ‘chicks’ or ‘skirts’ or maybe it was ‘broads’ instead of ‘women.’”

  “Are you lying, Danny?”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  “Constantly.”

  “Well not this time,” I said, mentally crossing my fingers.

  She muttered something under her breath and tapped her prosthetic leg on the ground.

  “Hey, I get it,” I added after she wasn’t quick to respond. “Nothing wrong with giving up and feeling sorry for yourself. It’s like you said, if people didn’t give up, if there weren’t any cowards around, it’d be awfully difficult to tell who the heroes are.”

  She glared at me, but I could see that my words were taking effect. Instead of talking, I felt the need to remain quiet and let Jezzy process everything. She was brutally silent for several seconds, tapping her prosthetic leg on the ground, then she said, “If I help, and I’m not saying I will, will you listen to me? I mean, really listen to me for once?”

  I perked up and nodded.

  “Will you stop being such a jackass?” she asked.

  “I’ll do my best,” I replied.

  “I know that’s a genetic thing for you, but still...”

  I smiled. “You’re in charge. You’re running the point,” I said. “I’m just driving.”

  She took this in and nodded. “Alright. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but let’s do it, Deus. Let’s go kick Richter’s sexist butt.”

  28

  It was the first time that Jezzy had inspect the mech up close and she smiled upon seeing the word “Spence” stenciled on the bottom of the mech’s turret. Then she climbed up into it after me and plopped down on the bench that was slightly elevated, behind and above me. She checked everything out, including her own viewscreen that could be lowered down until it hung in front of her eyes like a visor. I was relieved when she said it reminded her quite a bit of the hoversurf.

  I separated the joystick controls and maneuvered the one that controlled the weapons system back so that she could operate it. I would now be able to focus solely on piloting the mech, rather than worrying about piloting and spotting and taking down targets.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked.

  “Pretty sweet,” she said, admiring the CD player.

  I powered up the mech and caught her look in a reflection on the cockpit glass. “I wanted … well, I just wanted to say that I’m happy you’re here,” I said.

  She smiled. “Somebody has to save you from yourself.”

  I leaned a hand back, and she took and squeezed it. Even though the controls were similar to a hoversurfs, I gave her a quick tutorial on how to operate the mech’s arms and weapons systems, and then we were off.

  We found Richter working on the range. He’d stepped out of his exosuit and was moving some of the targets around. He turned and snorted when he saw the two of us. “What happened, Deus? You needed a lady to help pull up your big boy pants?”

  “No, sir. I just brought back … my partner.”

  “To do what?” Richter asked.

  “Finish the training.”

  “Training’s over, kid. You had your chance. You blew it.”

  “We’ll leave if you’re scared, Mister Richter,” Jezzy said.

  Richter looked up. “What would I be scared about?”

  “Getting beaten by a girl.”

  “Well, now, that’s impossible,” Richter huffed, smirking.

  “Care to prove it?” Jezzy asked.

  Richter’s jaw locked. He marched over and climbed inside his exosuit. “Y’know, I’m actually glad she came along,” Richter said, flinging me a look. “At least now you’ve got a shoulder to cry on when I spank you.”

  I looked back at Jezzy. “Better call the cops,” she said. “Cause after what we’re about to do to Richter, we might get busted for elder abuse.”

  * * *

  Richter gave us precisely two minutes to prepare. He jogged out across the range and we lost sight of him while giving our weapons and control systems a final once over. When I turned back to my viewscreen, Richter was nowhere to be seen.

  I pushed the mech into a run, willing it forward across the range. Jezzy
was barking out what she was seeing as I kept my eyes on the terrain ahead.

  “I’ve got movement off to our left!” she shouted. “Hard right!”

  I pressed my joystick down, listening to the mech’s engine whine. Peripherally I spotted Richter running across the range, using a series of mashed cars for cover. I heard the thump of the mech’s rocket pods, felt the rattle of the cannons as Jezzy fired.

  “Wow! Score one for the old dude!” she shouted. “He’s got game!”

  “Told you!” I replied, fighting not to look in the direction in which she was firing.

  “Take cover near the fenceline!” she said.

  I pushed the mech into a combat run. The machine muscled itself over a hillock and hurtled a ditch. The fence came up fast, and I swiveled the mech to see Richter popping up from behind the hillock.

  Jezzy fired at him, but he ducked, and the rounds went wide.

  “Creep down along the fence, Danny.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, tapping my controls, orchestrating a slow stroll along the fence.

  “Stop!” Jezzy said.

  The mech screeched to a stop. We waited.

  “Remember what we did that time up in Philadelphia with that alien storage vault?” she asked.

  “Get really scared and run away?”

  “No, you idiot. The other time. We went on the offensive. We hovered over the roof and went down through a skylight.”

  I nodded. “I think we need to sit tight and let Richter flush himself out,” I said.

  “Is that what your gut tells you?”

  I nodded.

  “Then we’re gonna do the opposite of that,” she said.

  We waited and then Richter was on the move again. My instinct was to chase after him, but Jezzy grabbed my shoulder. “Hold tight,” she whispered. “Do you know what a ‘Z Move’ is?”

  I shook my head.

  “Head left, then stick a landing and immediately run up and to the right. Can you do that on my signal?”

  I nodded again while watching Richter vanish from sight.

  “On three,” Jezzy said. “One … two … three!”

  We swung to the left and then violently came to a stop. I sucked in a breath and powered the mech forward, and then we veered to the right as Richter appeared again. It looked like we’d caught him off guard. He hesitated, and then he moved in for the kill.

  He ran directly toward us, and I froze.

  I’d seen him go between the mech’s legs and directly over it, and both times he’d beaten me.

  “He’s coming!” I shouted.

  “I see him!” she shouted back.

  A dozen or so feet separated Richter from us, but I caught a glimpse of his eyes for a moment. I immediately thought about what Dexter had told me about jumping a route. Instinctively, I knew where Richter was going to go next, but I still didn’t fully trust my gut and froze. Jezzy didn’t, raising the mech’s arms, firing a volley of rockets into the air.

  “DROP IT!” she screamed.

  I jammed the controls down.

  The mech lurched to the ground. Richter was unable to go airborne because of the rockets and was surprised that we were blocking the way forward like a catcher might do with home plate when confronted by an advancing runner. Richter couldn’t stop though; he was moving too fast.

  I watched him try to veer off, but Jezzy was all over him.

  The mech’s arms shot out, and Jezzy unloaded on Richter, the non-lethal rounds from the mech’s cannons pounding his exosuit and then Jezzy grabbed the controls and threw a punch with the mech’s right hand that—

  WHAM!

  —hammered Richter, sending him flapping through the air like a wounded bird. He fell to the ground in a gut-twisting spin and rolled over. Jezzy let loose with a wild cheer, but I gulped, praying that we hadn’t done Richter any serious harm.

  The mech rose and rumbled forward until we were peering down at Richter who was lying on his back like a beetle that’s been flipped over. I was grateful to see that he was breathing.

  I lowered the mech’s hand and grabbed the edge of his suit and hoisted Richter up to his feet. There was a somber expression on his face, and then his mouth pulled wide in a smile.

  “You got a mean right cross there, young lady,” he said, slapping our mech on the leg.

  “Is that an apology?” Jezzy asked.

  “Nope, that’s just cold, unvarnished truth.”

  And with that, Richter set off on a walk, moving back toward the campus.

  29

  It was dusk by the time we got back to the hangar. I powered off the mech, and then Jezzy and I climbed down from the cockpit and took the time to inspect and clean it. She was exhausted, so I waved goodbye to her and headed back to the Mech Recovery Room. I wanted to see if any new scrap or other parts had been brought or collected by the Fabs that might be useful for any last minute mech modifications.

  The hangar corridor was darkened as I moved through, processing the day’s events. I was worried that I still wasn’t good enough to compete with the operators, even though I was relieved and grateful that Jezzy had signed up to help me. Without her, I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance, even with all the sparring we’d done with Richter.

  I stopped halfway down the corridor and closed my eyes. I heard the echo of musical notes coming from somewhere overhead. Following the sound of the music, I discovered a rear stairwell, partially concealed by a pushcart, that I hadn’t noticed before. Mounting the steps, I pushed up until I was on a landing that led to a catwalk that was connected to a semi-darkened room with a black door that was partially ajar. The music was coming from inside that room.

  Tiptoeing down over the catwalk, I was soon just outside of the black door. I stood there, listening to the same kind of music, jazz, that I remembered a neighbor enjoyed back when I was just a kid in Maryland. Nervous, I turned to exit when a man’s voice called out: “Don’t turn your back on Billy Cobham.”

  I recognized the voice as Richter’s and peered through the door to see him slumped on a couch, bare-chested, longneck bottle of beer between his legs, expertly air-drumming along to the beat that was echoing from an old boombox.

  Stepping over the threshold, I entered a space that was the size of a shipping container. There was a cot at the back of the room along with a series of metal footlockers, refrigerator, and wet bar, over which hung an old plasma TV. The room was lit by a series of small lights that dangled from a copper cable that had been fixed at the edges of the ceiling. The walls were shingled with newspaper clippings, what looked like military insignias above the words MURICA (hand painted in red, white, and blue), and a tattered poster of some guy wailing away on a drum kit.

  I waved at Richter and smiled sheepishly. “So, who’s Billy Cobham?” I asked.

  Richter pointed to a boombox, continuing to air drum along to the tunes. “He’s the cat on that record hitting the skins … the drums.”

  “You like drumming?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Know why?”

  I shook my head.

  “Drummers are in the background and most of the time you don’t notice them, but they’re always the ones striking the right notes and staying behind the beat.”

  “They sorta sneak up on you, huh?” I said.

  Richter smiled and nodded and I noticed for the first time that he had a gold key on a chain around his neck. Then he eased his head back, as if deep in contemplation. “Ever heard of Sun Tzu?” he asked.

  “Is that the Chinese restaurant?”

  “The philosopher. He said that all warfare is based on deception. The key is to attack an enemy’s strategy. Does that make any sense at all?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You need to be like that tomorrow,” Richter said, taking a long pull from his beer. “You need to be like a drummer. Keep cool and wait for the right moment to strike.”

  Richter stood, the gold key swinging wildly from his neck. My eyes fixed on the flesh between his
shoulder blades which was welted and horribly scarred. It looked as if his back had been set on fire and then put out with a meat cleaver. He moved to one of the lockers that was secured with a massive padlock. I assumed the golden key probably unlocked the locker.

  “What’s in the vault?” I asked.

  “My past,” he cryptically replied.

  He reached to a shelf near the locker and grabbed a T-shirt that he shrugged on. Then he lifted another beer, twisted off the cap and tossed it to me.

  “You did good out there today,” he said. “And Jezzy? I’ll never admit it, but I was wrong about her. She’s got some bandwidth. She’s a killer. You guys make a good team.”

  “We always did,” I replied.

  “Every minute you’re in that mech you’re gonna get better.”

  “I wish I had more minutes.”

  Richter smirked. “That’s what Jack Harkins said once upon a time.”

  I looked up. The name was somehow familiar. “Harkins was … I remember him from the days before.”

  Richter nodded. “You should. He was Secretary of the Air Force once upon a time. After the aliens took out the White House and Capitol Hill he was the last one calling the shots.”

  “I remember seeing him on TV.”

  “He was the one who gave the order to attack,” Richter replied. “Seven hours after the first contact, we were in the air. Largest aerial strike force the world has ever seen. Eight-thousand planes from around the world, including what was left of America’s Air Combat Command.”

  I caught sight of a patch on the far wall, an emblem of a sword plunging through a pair of golden wings. My eyes hopped back to Richter. “You knew him? You knew Harkins?”

  “Knew him? Hell, I served with him.”

  “But … he’s dead.”

  Richter’s face fell. “We started with what was left of the Eightieth and Twentieth Air Forces out of Barksdale, an air base down in Louisiana. I was on CAP, combat air patrol, when we attacked at a little over fifteen-hundred hours with four-hundred and seventy F-35s. Forty minutes later there were only nine of us left.”

  Gulping at my beer, I looked up and noticed that the walls contained dozens, maybe hundreds of sequences of letters and numbers that appeared to have been scrawled in white paint. Richter read my look at gestured at the sequences. “Those are the numbers of every plane we lost,” he said. “All of my tribe. Everyone I served with.”