Combat Frame XSeed

by Brian Niemeier

“You lasted longer than I thought,” Sieg’s opponent crowed over the comm. “But the fun’s over!”

  The Dolph spread its arms wide. Sieg’s stomach somersaulted as he entered freefall. It can’t end like this—not when I’ve come so far!

  The Type One hit the ground like a bomb, gouging a crater in the pavement. But the tough old combat frame held together. Sieg’s side airbags saved him from all but a few bruises to his extremities, some hairline cracks in his ribs, and a deep wound to his pride.

  Megami’s assassin landed on the broken pavement. Sieg anticipated twin plasma blades piercing his cockpit. Instead the custom Dolph grabbed the Type One by its empty sword rack and dragged the wrecked CF to a shuttle on a nearby launch pad.

  “Does this mean I’m worthy?” Sieg asked himself. With a sigh, he let his sore head fall back into his canvas headrest.

  23

  The mammoth transport plane Jean-Claude had hired sailed over the hills west of Algiers like a fat thundercloud. Ritter sat in the spartan cockpit behind the Prince, who manned the seat beside their pilot: a mocha-skinned mountain of a man named Benny.

  Ritter watched the sprawling port city pass out of view below them. All three of the plane’s occupants wore headset mics, but he still felt the need to shout over the thrum of the turboprops. “How come we’re not turning toward the airport?”

  Jean-Claude’s ponytail whisked the back of his cracked leather chair as he turned his cheerful expression on Ritter. “Because we’re not landing at the airport,” said the Prince. He pointed out the right window. “We’re landing there.”

  Ritter craned his neck to follow Jean-Claude’s gesture. The plane was descending east of the city proper toward a small horn of land jutting into sparkling blue waters. A cluster of red-roofed buildings surrounded by greenery stood at the compact peninsula’s tip. A sand-colored line cut through the brown flats adjoining the compound.

  “Carlos gave men and weapons to Kazid Zarai during the Soc incursion,” Jean-Claude said, “so Zarai let him set up shop on the mainland. Naturally, his new estate has a private airstrip.”

  “Naturally,” Ritter said more jovially than he felt. Should I mention my history with Carlos? In the end, the shame of making a humiliating and potentially unnecessary admission to the prince who’d knighted him sealed Ritter’s lips.

  Within minutes, the plane touched down on a dusty airstrip ending at a low but steep coastal cliff. The only buildings were a couple of prefab shacks. A small helicopter of the kind flown by traffic reporters sat parked to one side under a camo net propped up on wooden poles.

  Jean-Claude manually entered a radio frequency. “I will contact our host.”

  Benny unstrapped himself and turned to Ritter. “Help me unload some stuff from the back,” the man-mountain said in an accent that might have been American or Canadian. To Ritter, there was hardly a hair’s breadth of difference between North American English accents.

  Ritter followed as Benny squeezed through the cockpit door and descended a flight of metal stairs. Though the plane’s cargo box stretched twenty meters long, their cargo nearly filled the whole space. Benny had to scoot sideways past the tarp-covered load. Ritter had just enough room to walk normally, but both men had to duck under the strange protrusions that stuck out in several places.

  “This is a combat frame, right?” Ritter had avoided asking earlier to avoid embarrassment for not knowing what Jean-Claude and Benny clearly took to be obvious.

  Benny surprised Ritter by asking, “Did you know the Dauphin is a sculptor?”

  “No,” said Ritter. “Is this a statue he made as a gift for Carlos?”

  “You’re a soldier,” Benny said. “His Highness is an artist. He’d never give away his tools. Grab a box.”

  Benny stooped and lifted one of six steel crates stacked by the open loading ramp. The name “Zeklov” was stenciled on each crate in black Cyrillic script. Ritter could barely budge his and only managed to unload it with the aid of a dolly. Two more trips in and out of the hot Mediterranean morning saw the whole lot transferred to the sunbaked runway.

  Ritter took a seat on one of the boxes to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his face. “What’s in these crates? It feels like canned food.”

  “Payment for the Scorpion.” Jean Claude approached from beneath the plane’s broad wing. “A professional deserves his wage. Carlos is an arms dealer, and today we deal with him for the most potent weapon of all.”

  “A nuke?” asked Ritter.

  “Information,” Jean-Claude corrected him. “Though rumor has it the Scorpion obtained a nuclear device from the FMAS Militia in exchange for combat frames.”

  Ritter swallowed to ease a sudden tightness in his throat. “Do you really think he knows where Zane is?”

  Benny looked down the airstrip, shading his eyes with his meaty hand. Ritter did likewise. Glass and metal glinted amid a distant dust cloud that grew rapidly closer.

  “Our host has sent a car,” Jean-Claude said. “What a courteous fellow.”

  The gleaming object resolved into a ghost from before the Collapse, before the Caliphate devoured Europe; before the breakup of the American Empire. The white vehicle sported a tall silver grill fronting a long engine compartment flanked by fenders like rolling waves. The boxy cab reminded Ritter of even more ancient horse-driven carriages.

  A rusting minivan emerged from the trailing dust cloud. Both vehicles pulled to a stop beside the plane. Two swarthy men in sleeveless shirts and worn jeans jumped out of the van and strode toward the stacked crates.

  “Help these men load the merchandise,” Jean-Claude told Benny. “Then wait with the plane. The Chevalier and I will deal with the Scorpion.”

  Ritter did his best to project an air of confidence as he followed Jean-Claude to the white car. The prince brushed his fingers across the hood ornament: a silver statuette of a woman leaning into the wind, her gown billowing like a pair of wings.

  A fit young woman with caramel-colored skin dressed in a black peaked cap and matching suit sat behind the wheel. Jean-Claude spoke to her in French when he and Ritter had settled into the wood-accented back seat. She said nothing in reply but put the car in gear, made a U-turn, and whisked them back down the runway. Awash in the scents of lavender and shoe leather, Ritter looked back and saw the van bouncing down a westbound gravel access road.

  The rest of the short trip passed in silence. Soon the car turned onto a private blacktop road that cut through suddenly green lawns. A brief stop at an electronically controlled wrought iron gate preceded the car’s arrival at a one-story Spanish villa roofed with red tiles. The driver passed the circular driveway and took a narrow side route between the main house and a smaller brick outbuilding to park beside a broad concrete patio.

  “Kazid Zarai sure puts his guests up in style,” said Ritter, staring through the windshield at the breathtaking sea view.

  “Their accommodations reflect their usefulness to the regime,” Jean-Claude said. He stepped from the car as the driver opened his door. Ritter was also shown out. He did a double take when he saw one of the workmen from the airfield holding his door.

  A circular table of white marble surrounded by three wooden chairs stood amid the patio. A lone man sat facing the cliff beyond the manicured yard with his back to the nearby house. His hair was a slick black cap combed back from his olive-skinned brow. His lean face had strong cheek bones and a pointed chin. He wore a khaki EGE Army jacket with long-sleeves despite the heat, though the top three buttons, and those of his shirt, were undone.

  The man at table remained seated as Jean-Claude and Ritter approached. He offered no greeting but sipped red-brown liqueur from a cordial glass. Jean-Claude sat down and smoothed his green chambray shirt. “Carlos,” he said.

  “They say it is a faux pas for one woman to come dressed the same as another.” Carlos extended the hand holding his cordial glass and wagged his index finger over Ritter’s own uniform. “It is good we are not women.�
� He partly covered his rakish grin with another swig.

  Ritter found the Scorpion’s accent even harder to place than Benny’s. Some said Carlos hailed from the South of France. Others, Northern Italy. He was said to be Castilian, Syrian, or Persian depending on who told the tale. The only constant was his reputation for swift, brutal retribution against those who crossed him.

  “Please,” said Carlos, gesturing to the chair Ritter stood behind, “take a seat, and we will talk.”

  Ritter released his white-knuckle grip on the chair’s backrest and sat down stiffly while Jean-Claude spoke. “We came to inquire about directed energy weapons.”

  The Scorpion remained still. Only his jacket stirred in the fresh sea breeze. “That means Coalition,” he said at length. “I no longer handle their leavings.”

  “Of course,” Jean-Claude said, “but if anyone does, you would know who.”

  Carlos set down his small glass and snapped his fingers at the man in jeans and sleeveless shirts who still stood by the car. “Let us see what you have brought for me, eh?”

  The swarthy man loped from the car to the house and disappeared through the patio doors. He and his counterpart retuned a few moments later, lugging one of the steel crates between them.

  Carlos drained his glass, motioned for his men to lay the crate on the table, and handed the small piece of stemware to the nearer of the two. He rubbed his lithe hands together and opened the lid. A grid of plastic inserts divided the crate’s interior into several smaller niches. The contents were shaped like tin cans as Ritter had thought, but topped with pins and safety levers.

  Carlos plucked one of the canister grenades from the box. “Ah, Zeklov. Much better than that Seed shit.” He replaced the grenade and closed the lid. “Your gift is satisfactory.”

  “And the information we seek?” asked Jean-Claude.

  “You have offered tribute,” said Carlos. “In exchange for such knowledge, I will require payment.”

  “I may be royalty,” Jean-Claude said, “but I am crownless and stripped of my lands. You would squeeze blood from a stone.”

  The Scorpion wagged his finger again. “Do not think me so venal. I do not wish monetary compensation.”

  “What, then?” Jean-Claude asked.

  This time, Carlos did not hide his grin. “Grant me full membership in the EGE.”

  Jean-Claude laid his elbows on the table and folded his hands. “In light of your service against the Coalition, I have no objections. But the decision is not mine alone. I must consult with my fellow exiled sovereigns and the military General Staff.”

  “You bureaucrats and your formalities!” Carlos scoffed. “The EGE and SOC are not as different as they think. Give me your word that you will personally recommend me to your colleagues.”

  Jean-Claude nodded gravely. “You have my word.”

  The Scorpion held out his hand, into which his man placed a refilled cordial glass. “A Moroccan gang has forced out all the local players since the Soc offensive ended. Word is they are part of a secret supply line running advanced Coalition hardware to Kisangani.”

  “Thank you,” Jean-Claude said. “Tracking them down should not be difficult.”

  “Your wayward friend had better hope not,” said Carlos. “Someone with connections has placed a handsome price on his head.”

  He knows why we’re really here, Ritter realized. Jean-Claude was right to fear for Zane’s safety.

  “Thank you for the warning,” Jean-Claude said. He and Ritter rose to leave, but Carlos raised his free hand, palm outward.

  “Wait,” the Scorpion ordered, fixing his dark eyes on Ritter. “This delinquent does not leave until he pays what he owes.”

  Ritter’s blood froze. He fumbled for a reply.

  Jean-Claude’s brow knotted. “You two have done business before?”

  “This mendicant purchased a Grenzmark C from one of my sales agents in Kampala,” said Carlos. “His term of credit expired last month. Either he pays me the final half of the agreed upon price, with interest, or tonight he sleeps in a hole in the desert.”

  Jean-Claude stepped in front of Ritter. “Private Ritter is a chevalier of my court who enjoys my protection.”

  Carlos’ men stood on either side of their boss. Their hands moved toward their back pockets.

  “Do not think to deter me from dealing with my debtors as I see fit,” Carlos warned. “You would not be my first regicide.”

  “Understood,” Jean-Claude said. “I will pay the debt.”

  “You don’t have to—” Ritter began, but the Prince hushed him.

  Carlos cut both of them off. “Is this chevalier a boy or a man? Let him settle his own debts.”

  “I’ll pay you,” said Ritter. “In fact, I was on my way to settle up, but the EGE put me under arrest.”

  “Many others in your position have made similar claims,” Carlos said.

  “If Jean-Claude isn’t responsible for me,” said Ritter, “don’t hold me responsible for them. Give me one more day, and I’ll pay you everything.”

  The Scorpion’s eyes bored into Ritter’s for several moments more. Carlos raised his finger. “One day,” he said darkly. “Everything.”

  Ritter held the Scorpion’s gaze until Carlos turned to the man on his right and spoke quickly in a language Ritter didn’t recognize. The underling vanished into the house once more, only to return with an ancient automatic rifle.

  “Algiers is a dangerous place,” Carlos said. He tossed the weapon to Ritter, who caught it by the rough wooden stock. “Don’t forget: You have till noon tomorrow. After that, no one—no prince or even the EGE army—can protect you from me.”

  Zane hurried down the dingy alley between ramshackle warehouses, ignoring the throbbing in his feet. He’d walked all the way from the outlying hills where he’d hidden Dead Drop, and according to the manifest stored in its systems, a secret Coalition supply chain ran through a warehouse on the next street. There he’d find the parts to make his damaged CF whole.

  The alley funneled a hot wind from the nearby docks, concentrating the smells of saltwater, dead fish, and diesel exhaust. Rows of long steel buildings mottled with rust lined the empty streets. Zane crossed to a warehouse that looked identical to the others except for the number 436 painted above the front door in white. The aluminum shutter, large enough to drive a tractor-trailer through, wouldn’t budge.

  Zane proceeded around the side of the building to a normal-sized wooden door about five meters from the alley’s opening. He tried the knob and found it unlocked. Corroded hinges creaked as he opened the door and barged inside.

  The room beyond proved to be a small office furnished with dented red filing cabinets, a portable radio tuned to some kind of sports match, and a fake mahogany table that looked like it belonged in a bachelor’s apartment. Four men with dark skin and shabby clothes lay slumped over it or splayed upon the floor. All clutched guns in their hands, and all lay in fresh pools of blood. The scent of cordite still lingered.

  A gray and blue tote bag lay on its side amid the table with multicolored polymer slips spilling out. Zane picked up a crinkled note bearing the image of a baby-faced man with short wiry hair and a wide mouth. Coalition Commerce Ministry bills. Zane threw the money back on the table and approached a door on his left with a window covered by dusty plastic blinds. There was no lock, so he stepped right through.

  Zane found himself inside a cavernous room under a peaked, ten meter-high ceiling. A yellow industrial work mount bolted to a diamond plate riser stood in the middle of the floor. Attached to the end of the articulated mount was a combat frame’s arm. The CF arm resembled Dead Drop’s, but painted white and blue. Its hand held a charcoal-colored gun the size of a tow truck.

  It’s a plasma rifle, Zane realized with growing excitement, more advanced than a Dolph’s. His luck couldn’t have been better. He’d go get Dead Drop, return for the rifle, and cannibalize it to repair his damaged plasma cannon.

  Zane rush
ed back into the front office and came face-to-face with three scowling men standing just inside the door. One wore a yellow, red, and green jersey. Another sported a tan canvas jacket, and the third was clad in a red wool sweater. All three wore dust-stained jeans. The man in the jacket nodded to the radio on the shelf, and the man on his right switched it off.

  The jacketed man spoke to Zane in a guttural language he didn’t understand. His two cronies pulled handguns from their waistbands.

  “Get out of my way,” said Zane, “or get ready for trouble.”

  Zane heard a footstep behind him. He spun to see a tall man in a brown track suit jabbing the butt of a shotgun at his head. The room went black in a burst of pain.

  24

  Ritter dug into the hot sand. He took his time, turning each shovelful into a meditation that kept his mind off the scorching desert air and the burning in his muscles.

  He still didn’t regret his deal with the Scorpion. Since CSC forces under Governor Troy had seized Ritter’s hometown three years before, he’d been seeking a way to take back what the Socs had stolen from him.

  But they can’t give back my family.

  Ritter buried the thought under another spade full of sand dug from his growing roadside hole. He remembered his escape to Central Africa, where the Chinese colonies still hosted large Europeans populations whose ancestors had fled the Caliphate. His search for retribution had led him to Kopp, whose bold claims of liberating the Fatherland had mesmerized Ritter.

  There’d been a final hurdle to overcome. Kopp had refused to enlist any man without his own combat frame. The self-styled general hadn’t expected Ritter to spend the last of his family’s reduced fortune as a down payment on a Grenzie. For his part, Ritter had been childishly naïve about the sort of men he’d been dealing with, Kopp and Carlos both.

  Ritter paused to drink warm bitter water from his canteen. He lifted his legionnaire cap’s neck cover and dabbed his sweat-soaked skin with a rag. Good thing my old comrades couldn’t keep a secret.