Combat Frame XSeed

by Brian Niemeier

  “Let him go,” Naryal told Sieg, “or you’ll never leave this house alive.”

  Having surveyed the mansion before attempting his botched break-in, Sieg suspected she was right. There might be one chance…

  Sieg spun to put Davis between him and the other four Socs. He backed down the hallway, pulling his hostage with him. After what seemed like forever, Sieg’s back bumped into a smooth wooden door. He pivoted so Davis could reach the lock with his good left hand.

  “Open it,” Sieg said, keeping his eyes fixed on Naryal and the three guards, who were advancing down the hall.

  The slow clacking of fingers fumbling with another keypad preceded a welcome click. Sieg backed through the double doors with Davis in tow and kicked them shut. He spared a look over his shoulder at the stylishly appointed room with its curved glass wall looking out on the harbor.

  The doors flew open, revealing Naryal standing on the threshold with a predatory half-smile. “This is my office. The doors are biometrically keyed to open for me. You’re either ignorant or desperate.”

  Sieg returned her grin. “And you’re not as smart as you think.” The crack of his pistol drowned out the shattering of glass as he shot out the window behind him. He put all his strength into a kick that sent Davis reeling toward Naryal. Her guards raised their weapons, but Sieg fell backward through the third-story window before they could fire.

  15

  The converted cargo ship that served as Jean-Claude’s royal yacht pulled into the harbor at Pointe-Noire. The rusted port-side rail creaked in Zane’s tightening grip as he stared across the African port’s haphazard red tile roofs. He could feel Dead Drop waiting somewhere in the jungle beyond the sprawling city.

  “Our voyage finds its end, M. Dellister,” Jean-Claude said from behind Zane. “How did the man from space enjoy his first time at sea?”

  The deposed prince sat on a wooden stool amid the white-painted deck with a welding torch in his hand. Before him stood a bronze lump that supposedly contained a sculpture. If Zane had learned nothing else from their time together, it was that his host had lots of weird hobbies. “I hate the sea,” said Zane.

  Jean-Claude rose and walked to the rail. He pulled the goggles down from his deep blue eyes and let their thick lenses dangle against the front of his sleeveless white shirt. The scent of a plasma fire followed him, heightening Zane’s already overpowering urge to find Dead Drop.

  “I suppose you wish to seek out your stolen combat frame,” said the Prince. “Benny has been in contact with an EGE carrier on course for Moanda. She should be passing by within forty-eight hours. If you can wait, I will ask the commanding officer for assistance with your search.”

  A flatbed truck with Coalition markings pulled up to berth behind Jean-Claude’s ship. An actual cargo vessel lay moored there, and a crane was unloading goods from its hold. The truck driver left his idling vehicle to engage in a lively discussion with a dock foreman.

  “No more waiting,” said Zane. He left the rail and hurried toward the gangplank.

  “Zane!” He paused at the sound of his name. Dorothy stood at the top of the stairs leading belowdecks. She wore a white linen sundress, and her brown hair was tucked under a frayed baseball cap.

  “What?” said Zane. “Don’t tell me you want to come along.”

  Dorothy’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. I’m staying here on His Highness’ yacht. I just figured you’d be setting out again now that we’re docked, and I wanted to say good luck.”

  “Most thoughtful of you, Mademoiselle,” Jean-Claude said with a slight bow.

  “Thanks,” said Zane. “Good luck getting His Highness to make you his queen or whatever.” He started down the ramp toward the pier.

  “Hey,” cried Dorothy. “I’m not some cynical gold digger!”

  “If you say so,” Zane replied.

  “Farewell, my friend,” Jean-Claude said. “Regardless of whether you succeed, I hope we meet again.”

  Zane dashed the rest of the way down the boarding ramp, sprinted to the Coalition truck, and jumped in the cab. He never knew if the driver saw him speed away from the dock and into Pointe-Noire’s warren of congested streets. Having a large truck and no regard for traffic laws, Zane made good time through the city. Soon he merged onto the highway that would take him to Kisangani and, finally, Dead Drop.

  Darving strode across the hectic flight deck toward the waiting Thor Prototype. The angular, white and blue jet was prepped to take off for Kisangani. General McCaskey had even authorized use of Marilyn’s full capabilities—including fire control—out of necessity.

  “Max!” Darving barely heard the cry over the cacophony of aircraft engines, crew vehicles, and the hot tropical wind. Delicate hands gripped the arm of his flight suit.

  “Wen,” Max shouted when he saw the slight young woman in her blue camo jumpsuit. For reasons his heart kept secret, her ethereal beauty struck him like a blow to the head. “Did Browning send ironclad proof of the Socs’ dastardly plans while I was suiting up?”

  “No.” Wen’s heart-shaped face turned to the forward port elevator, where the Mablung’s blue-armored bulk was descending below the flight deck. “We’re still counting on you and Ritter to get firsthand confirmation of the Coalition’s new CFs. It’ll be dangerous, but…”

  Max cupped her chin in his hand and turned her face to meet his gaze. Her eyes glistened from more than gusting wind. “I understand,” he said. “Operation N could be a mercy mission, or it could be the showdown the Socs have been spoiling for.”

  Wen closed her eyes. “I know the Coalition is ready for a fight. I’m just not sure we are.”

  “I’m ready to fight for the important people in my life,” said Max. He gathered both of her hands in his. “You top the list.”

  A bittersweet smile half-lit Wen’s face like the stray shafts of sunlight piercing the ragged clouds above. “Thank you, Max. I know what I mean to you. I’ve always known.”

  Max found himself overcome by a sudden wild impulse. “Marry me.”

  Wen’s rosebud mouth fell open. “I need time to think,” she said.

  A piercing tone blared over the loudspeakers, warning Max that the mission was about to commence. Fighting to hide the pain her words had evoked, he winked. “Don’t think too long. I’ll be right back.”

  Wen removed the small gold cross from her lapel and pinned it to Max’s flight suit. “Good luck!” she shouted. The wind swallowed her benediction.

  Max climbed into the Thor Prototype’s cockpit and strapped himself in. Marilyn’s GUI already glowed with cool blues and greens. “Your heart rate and respiration are elevated,” the A.I. said when Max had donned his helmet with its built-in comm.

  “I’m just eager to crack some Soc skulls, honey,” he lied. “What’s the time to launch?”

  “The operation will commence in two minutes,” Marilyn answered in her sweet yet tinny voice.

  Max keyed in Ritter’s comm. “What’s your status, kid?”

  “Ready,” said Ritter, “but I’d still rather fight the Socs head-on.”

  “Griff and Wen planned that water route to get you inside the spaceport unnoticed,” said Max. “If you do get spotted, just holler. I’ll strike down the Socs like fire from heaven.”

  “One minute to takeoff,” said Marilyn.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Max said at length. “Our unit needs a nickname.”

  “Got something in mind?” Ritter asked.

  “Considering the kinds of missions we get, I’m partial to ‘The Suicide Kings’.”

  “I hate it,” Ritter said.

  “We are go for launch,” said Marilyn.

  Max eased the throttle open as he angled the Thor Prototype’s vectored thrust nozzles and hinged afterburners toward the deck. The fluttering in his stomach as the aircraft ascended almost made him forget the aching in his heart.

  Below, the Mab dove off the lowered elevator and into the deep green seas off the coast of Moanda, sending
water spraying ten meters into the air. The aquatic CF’s souped-up hydrojets sent it speeding toward the Congo River’s broad mouth as it dived. Soon the Mab was lost to sight in the murky depths.

  “The kid’s going strong out of the gate,” Max said to Marilyn. “The river will take him all the way to Kisangani. Plot me a course that brings us in under their radar within two minutes of the launch facility’s airspace.”

  The route appeared on Max’s HUD as a bright teal line stretching toward the forested horizon. “Good girl. Let’s not keep the Socs waiting.” He angled his thrusters full aft and shot out over the gulf.

  Naryal centered Davis’ convoy on her screen and eased her control stick forward. The sand-colored CSC vehicles fell behind as Jagannath, her personal combat frame, soared over the road to Jeddah’s airport, stirring up a miniature sandstorm in its wake.

  The four transports in the convoy sequentially skidded to a halt as Naryal brought the Jagannath down in front of the lead vehicle. Built unusually large to accommodate its high-output generator, the twenty-one meter tall combat frame’s stance spanned three lanes.

  Davis’ deep voice boomed over Naryal’s comm. “Sorry, Your Excellency. No time for combat exercises. I’m on urgent CSC business.”

  “This is no exercise.” Four Grenzmark IIs landed behind Jagannath, flanking the road with their machine guns ready. Her wingmen’s modified mass-production units, distinguished by their gold left pauldrons, had taken a moment to catch up with her custom CF. But Naryal appreciated their timing. “You’re under arrest, Commander.”

  To his credit, Davis remained unfazed. “Under arrest?” he laughed. “On what charge?”

  Naryal let a wolfish grin twist her lip. “All files accessed during a network breach are automatically forwarded to me. That should say it all. If you’d rather cling to formality, let’s start with treason and espionage.”

  Jagannath’s sensors screamed as a high voltage magnet aboard the rear transport powered up. Naryal barely raised the CF’s reinforced shield in time to block the steel dart the truck-mounted coilgun fired at her cockpit. The hypersonic impact sent a shock up the giant CF’s arm and left an ugly black splotch on its golden shield but inflicted no real damage. 115mm rounds thundered from the two forward Grenzmarks, reducing the armored truck to burning scrap.

  The second vehicle in line made a break for the desert. Naryal almost missed it in the confusion, but she reached out at the last second and snatched up the fleeing car in Jagannath’s gleaming gold hand.

  “I know you’re in there, Davis,” Naryal radioed to the car in her CF’s grip while the Grenzmarks secured the other two vehicles. “You taught me everything, remember?”

  “Friedlander set me up,” Davis growled.

  “That’s why you were fleeing me?”

  “I was on my way to a meeting with Director Sanzen when you and your personal guard detained me—with combat frames, no less. Of course I tried to run. They fired on my men!”

  “Only after yours fired on me!”

  “I take full responsibility for their actions,” Davis said. “I warned them to expect an ambush, and they jumped the gun.”

  “Interesting,” said Naryal. “Why would they consider me a threat?”

  “Because I suspected you’d buy Friedlander’s false intel. That’s why I was going to Sanzen—to straighten the whole mess out.”

  “And if I call the Director?”

  “He’ll only confirm our scheduled meeting,” said Davis. “It’s no mystery why I didn’t tell him I’ve been framed for espionage on the diplomatic net.”

  Naryal gingerly set Davis’ armored car back on the road.

  “I’m glad you’ve seen reason,” the Commander said.

  Jagannath’s foot pressed down on Davis’ car, blowing out the bulletproof windows with a series of sharp pops. “This isn’t reason,” said Naryal. “It’s anger. In fact, I’m getting angrier and less reasonable every second.”

  “I’m telling the truth,” Davis cried.

  Naryal drew an immense metal tube from the rack built into the Jagannath’s skirt armor. The giant combat frame’s right hand could barely encompass the cylinder. Thick braided cables connected the tube’s pommel to the CF’s oversized powerplant. “If a spy as clever as Sieg Friedlander wanted to implicate someone, he would have implicated me.” She held the tube’s open end to the trapped car’s side. “Now tell me: Who executed the bombing?”

  “Alright,” barked Davis. “My men arranged for an Algerian national to drive a van filled with crude explosives to the desalination plant. They acted under my direction. Satisfied?”

  “No,” said Naryal. “Why did Sanzen put you up to it?”

  Davis laughed like a man mounting the gallows with a secret he’d take to his grave. “It’s not Sanzen you should be worried about.”

  Naryal sighed in frustration. “If you’d stoop to covering for a snake that bombed his own people, we should skip your trial and cut straight to your execution.”

  “Do it,” Davis said. “I know you will. You’ve an accountant’s brain and a killer’s heart. But there’s someone even smarter and more ruthless than you, Prem. Do me a favor and kill me now.”

  “You’re bluffing,” said Naryal. But a note of uncertainty tinged her voice.

  “You know I’m not, and I know you’re not. Act accordingly.”

  Naryal racked her weapon. Whoever was pulling Davis’ strings scared him more than any physical threat she could make. Luckily, Naryal had a habit of acquiring leverage over potentially difficult people. “If this mastermind is as terrible as you say, I’ll leave you to him. Now, would you rather your pension go to your partner in L1 or to your son in Riyadh?”

  The pause that followed told Naryal she’d hit the mark.

  “I don’t have a son,” Davis said, his voice trembling.

  “You do,” said Naryal, “with a grounder woman you met six years ago. She’s ineligible to receive your CSC death benefits, but young Daisuke qualifies. Unless you didn’t register him with the Commerce Ministry. But why would you make such an omission? It’s almost as if you were trying to hide him.”

  “Please,” Davis begged between rapid breaths. “You can’t imagine what she’ll do.”

  “She? Mitsu Kasei could never inspire such fear. Who ordered the bombing, Davis? Tell me, and I’ll protect your son.”

  “No one’s safe from her. There’s nothing you can do to change that.”

  “Fine,” said Naryal. “Give me your principal’s name, or I’ll leak your son’s.”

  “You really are a vile bitch,” spat Davis. “I hope I live to see Megami slap that smug look off your whorish face.”

  An exclamation halfway between a laugh and a gasp caught in Naryal’s throat. “Megami?” she choked. “Sanzen’s…what is she, exactly? His intern? I’ll have to pull her tax returns. Whatever her title, I can’t believe you’re terrified of a little girl!”

  “She’s not a little girl,” Davis warned. “She’s a monster Sanzen made from the combined knowledge of humanity’s most bloodthirsty conquerors.”

  Naryal finally did laugh. “That’s quite a monumental achievement, even for such an avid scholar of military history as Sanzen.” She removed Jagannath’s foot from Davis’ car. “Take the Commander and his men into custody,” Naryal ordered her guards.

  “We should execute the traitorous pigs right here,” said Raskin, the head of Naryal’s personal guard.

  “Why do them the honor?” asked Naryal. “Secretary-General Mitsu will arrange fitting punishments for all who’ve betrayed us—including Sanzen Kaimora.”

  The disgraced Jeddah security chief crawled from his ruined vehicle at the point of a Grento machine gun, and Naryal took off into the dust-tinted sky. Davis must be lying, she thought. Interrogating him further would only waste time. Her efforts were better spent elsewhere. Friedlander’s inside information had almost certainly come from Davis, but not directly. Time to smoke out his source.
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  16

  Ritter followed the Congo River as it curved northeast from Africa’s west coast, delved into ancient jungles, and cut through the heart of Kisangani. Never thought I’d thank the Consortium, he thought.

  The old tech cartel had bribed the People’s Republic of the Congo to make the equatorial city a spaceport. Chinese engineers and African workers had enlarged the riverbed to aid the transport of building materials to the site. Almost two hundred years later, those improvements let Ritter navigate the river at top speed.

  With his Mablung’s hydrojets running at peak efficiency, the trip lasted a little more than a day. Ritter took comfort knowing that Max and two of the EGE’s Shenlong pilots were taking turns shadowing him between pit stops on the Yamamoto.

  And a whole squad of them are coming after me to bomb the Soc base. Of course, bombing Kisangani wasn’t the mission’s main objective. The EGE lacked the hardware to take out the spaceport. Instead, the airstrike would serve as a smokescreen to cover Ritter’s exit.

  The river’s murkiness forced Ritter to rely on sensors, especially thermal imaging and sonar. Using the Mab’s spotlight would risk giving him away. Besides, the dense clouds of particulates in the water would just scatter the high-powered beam.

  Ritter’s GPS said he was coming up on the spaceport. He rotated the Mab’s grilled face through 360 degrees, but his screen showed the same green-brown wall of water in all directions.

  The Mab’s sonar gave a plaintive ping. Proximity alarms wailed, and Ritter hastily reversed his hydrojets’ flow. An imposing concrete wall loomed out of the turbid water, and Ritter extended the CF’s left arm to keep from colliding with the barrier.

  “Ritter to Max,” the Mablung’s pilot radioed to the jet soaring somewhere in the sky above. “I’m right outside the base, but there’s some kind of dam in my way. Sonar shows it spans the whole river. Please advise, over.”

  “Stand by, kid,” said Max. “This looks like a job for our resident strategists.”