Combat Frame XSeed

by Brian Niemeier

  Max’s swelling sense of indignation deflated. “I don’t get it. Why go to the trouble of becoming the leader of a people you hate?”

  “Governments have been the leading cause of death throughout history.” Megami’s eyes drifted down and to her left. “Except for viruses,” she said, seemingly to herself.

  “If I take this job,” Max said cautiously, “I get to kill Socs, and you’ll let me see Wen?”

  “Someone else is looking forward to seeing you, too.” Megami smiled like a normal girl.

  Somehow that’s even more disturbing.

  “Hello, Max,” a synthetic female voice said from offscreen.

  Max forgot himself. “Marilyn! Honey, are you alright?”

  “We salvaged your jet’s OS,” Megami said. “Coding like that more than qualifies you for my special project. Dr. Browning needs an expert programmer.”

  “Browning is working for you?”

  “Sieg, too. We really want you on our team, Max. There’s a shuttle fueled and waiting for you on pad eleven. See you soon!”

  “Wait,” said Max. “What if I—”

  The screen went black, but the blue LED in front said it was still turned on. Max approached the black metal cart in search of the mic he’d used to speak with Megami on Metis.

  In L5.

  From Earth.

  Max dashed to the cart and frantically searched every inch for a microphone. He found only a media drive the size of a black die with one slender cable connected to the monitor and another running from the audio out—probably ending at the hangar PA’s input.

  The helmet slipped from Max’s arm, thudded to the concrete floor, and rolled. He realized what had bothered him about Megami’s speech. It hadn’t been her words or her tone. There was no delay.

  Radio waves took about a second to travel between Earth and L5. Every time Max spoke, there should have been a two-second delay before he heard Megami’s reply. He took the black media cube between his thumb and forefinger; gingerly, as if the small drive contained a deadly toxin. Her side of the conversation was prerecorded.

  Max turned and trudged from the empty hangar. Megami had known exactly what he’d say, just as she knew he’d take the waiting shuttle to Metis.

  29

  The lead transport plane circled a dark spot at the center of a gray crater in the green and brown wilderness. Ritter peered through the right side window and saw intermittent lines of light twinkling on the kilometer-wide pit’s sheer walls. “That’s where the moon rock hit?” he called over the hum of the propellers to Jean-Claude, who sat across the cockpit behind Benny.

  “It was an aircraft carrier-sized block of ice,” the Prince corrected him. “The Coalition fired it from the moon’s mass driver to deter Russia from opposing their conquest of Western Europe.”

  A knot formed in Ritter’s stomach. “I remember that day. The northeastern sky turned black. My father always said the other Holy League nations would help us, but no one came.”

  Jean-Claude wore a sad smile. His deep blue eyes glinted. “Russia does not fight the Coalition directly, but she aids the nations of Christendom in other ways.”

  Ritter sank back in his seat and fell quiet until they landed at an airstrip cut from the outer crater’s glass floor. Ritter, Jean-Claude, and Benny’s plane carried the headless Veillantif. The second plane, which landed behind them, transported Naryal, Zane, and Dead Drop.

  “Glad I wore my cold-weather uniform,” Ritter said when the crews of both aircraft had gathered on the tarmac. The chill wind blowing across the desolate crater sought any opening in his camo pattern coat.

  Zane stood unflinching in black pants a white short sleeved shirt. “You think this is cold? Try outer space.”

  Ritter, Zane, and Naryal followed Jean-Claude down a paved path with a narrow set of tracks embedded in the center. The walkway ended at a steel and concrete ledge fronted by waist-high railings with a panoramic view overlooking the pit. The abyss drew Ritter like a magnet pulling iron. The lights glowing down there are windows, he realized.

  Jean-Claude pressed a button on a metal box attached to the railing. A gate rose up from a seam in the concrete behind the group, connecting with the railings to fully enclose them. Industrial motors hummed beneath the platform, which shuddered before starting a smooth descent into the pit.

  “This whole platform is a lift,” marveled Ritter. “And those big boxes sticking out of the pit’s walls—they’re like sideways buildings!”

  Jean-Claude extended his white parka-clad arms, taking in the oblong, window-speckled structures covering the shaft’s cylindrical wall. “Welcome to Steklov, the City of Glass. The Tsar ordered her built in defiance of the Coalition. Zeklov assisted with the construction and established their corporate headquarters beneath the crater floor.”

  The lift continued its steady downward journey. Ritter anxiously shifted his weight. Zeklov has to approve our design. I’d hate to have wasted a trip all the way out here!

  Skyscrapers whose tops reached nowhere near the sky rose to surround the descending lift. Orange lights flashed along the railings as the moving platform delved below the buildings’ foundations in the crater floor.

  The lift emerged from the shaft and ensconced itself in a large square slot. An underground forest of steel beams stretched as far as Ritter could see. Rows of scaffolds towered between the uprights, casting off showers of sparks and a metallic symphony of industry.

  A tall thin man stood three paces from the lift’s leading edge, facing the new arrivals. He wore a gunmetal gray suit with tails, and a gold chain dangled from the pocket of his matching vest. A triangular patch of white beard and severely trimmed mustaches bracketed his mouth. Pince-nez glasses perched on his aquiline nose.

  “Your Highness, Your Excellency.” The tall man bowed to Jean-Claude and Naryal. The longer white hair atop his head bobbed in sharp contrast to the closely shorn sides. “Other esteemed guests. Welcome to our factory.”

  Naryal sashayed forward. The skirts of her blue coat nearly swept the floor. “Our pleasure, Director Zeklov. Thank you for receiving us on such short notice.”

  Zeklov placed the back of his hand under Naryal’s right palm and gracefully raised his arm to kiss her hand. “You and the Dauphin are among my best customers,” he said. “Besides, you deserve to be informed in person that repairs to Jagannath have been delayed due to supply shortages. You have my sincerest apologies.”

  The corner of Naryal’s painted lips curved upward. “Perhaps you can make it up to me. My friends and I have brought you a new proposition.”

  “Let us discuss the details in my office,” said Zeklov. He turned and marched across the smooth gray floor, which turned out to be the same glass that lined the crater above. Jean-Claude and Naryal followed behind the Director. Zane fell in beside Ritter.

  The trek took the visitors past several of the giant scaffolds. Only two of them held combat frames; both in early skeletal states. Looks like they could use our business, Ritter thought hopefully.

  The managing director’s office occupied a spacious, mostly dim oval room floored with blue marble. A row of seats upholstered in red velvet followed the curve of the near wall, fronted by an obsidian coffee table. Five meters away, a large aluminum drafting table stood under a ceiling-mounted spotlight. The drawing board’s surface glowed with LED and holographic displays.

  Zeklov proceeded directly to his work table. “Again I must apologize for failing to render prompt service, Your Excellency. The Coalition’s new Secretary-General has imposed a total trade embargo between the colonies and the earth. We are seeking alternative sources of certain rare metals.”

  “I’d thought Russia retained her deposits of rare earth metals when the Consortium plundered the rest of the world’s reserves,” Jean-Claude said.

  “You thought correctly,” Zeklov said. His lithe hands conjured inventory lists from the table. “But some materials required for combat frame production are less expensiv
ely obtained from asteroid mines. As it is, Her Excellency’s CF will be ready in three days. My men are unloading Your Highness’ Veillantif as we speak. Luckily we have a compatible head in stock which requires only cosmetic alterations. Work will be completed in the same time frame.”

  Naryal beamed. “You never disappoint, Zeklov. Let’s move on to new business.”

  “And you are never one to mince words, Madame,” said Zeklov. “I am at your disposal.”

  “The EGE is in need of combat frames to repel the Coalition threat,” Jean-Claude said. “I am here to offer Zeklov Corporation the contract on their behalf.”

  Zeklov tapped the table’s surface. Figures scrolled across a built-in transparent monitor. “The EGE is rather late. Could it be that you contracted with Seed Corp before approaching me?”

  “We meant no disrespect,” Jean-Claude said. “ZoDiaC made the original arrangements. That is an explanation, not an excuse.”

  Zeklov dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. “My fondest wish is for my customers’ needs to be satisfied. Who could have known that Seed Corp would be nationalized?”

  “Thank you for understanding,” Jean-Claude said.

  “How many combat frames does the EGE need?” asked Zeklov.

  “One hundred,” said Naryal.

  Zeklov raised one snowy eyebrow. “I regret to inform you that we do not have that much merchandise on hand—not of a kind that can match the Coalition’s Ein Dolphs.”

  “We anticipated as much,” said Naryal, “so we prepared our own design. Private Ritter, if you would be so kind...”

  Ritter’s pulse raced as the moment of truth arrived. He took a deep breath, strode up to Zeklov, and handed him the micro-drive he’d kept in his coat pocket. The Director scrutinized the thin plastic strip momentarily and plugged it into the table. Specifications appeared on both screens as a 3D wire-frame model of a sturdy CF with a domed head floated above the drawing board.

  Zeklov pored over the specs, and Ritter’s palms began to sweat. He stuck them in his pockets as the director spoke. “A formidable design. Unless I’m mistaken, these files contain a full set of plans for a close combat plasma weapon.”

  “In light of the Secretary-General’s lawless actions,” said Naryal, “I deemed it appropriate to share the Coalition’s technology.”

  Zane grumbled from the shadows to Ritter’s left.

  “Can you mass-produce this design?” Jean-Claude asked.

  “Technically, no,” Zeklov said.

  Ritter’s heart sank. “Why not? I’ve been working on those plans for months! Sieg Friedlander, Max Darving, and these guys helped refine them. What’s wrong?”

  Zeklov removed his glasses and cleaned them with his red pocket handkerchief. “Do not misunderstand. The design is sound, and you rightly call it the Grenzmark III, but my company does not hold the manufacturing rights for combat frames in the Grenzmark line.”

  “Since Secretary-General Megami nationalized Seed Corp, the Grenzmark and all related patents belong to the SOC itself.” Naryal chuckled. “As a duly appointed Coalition governor, I hereby grant you a license to mass-produce the Grenzmark III.”

  “Most magnanimous of you,” Zeklov said. “How much is the licensing fee?”

  “Give us a twenty percent discount on the wholesale price,” said Naryal, “and we’ll call it even.”

  “Agreed,” said Zeklov.

  “Not to rush you,” Jean-Claude said, “but Megami could strike at any time. Will your materials shortage delay production?”

  A sly smile twisted Zeklov’s lip. “The EGE are not the only ones with Coalition connections. I married one of my daughters to Dyer Zend of the Transportation Ministry. Their daughter Irenae is a close friend of the Secretary-General. My supply chain problems have already been resolved.”

  “This is fantastic,” gushed Ritter. “We’re arming the EGE with CFs based on a Soc design, and one of Megami’s friends is helping us build them!”

  “The first run of Grenzmark IIIs will be completed in thirty days,” Zeklov said. “As a reminder, the Dauphin’s and the Governor’s combat frames will be fully repaired in three. If there’s no other business, I bid you all good day. Go with God’s blessing.”

  “I have business.” Zane strode toward the table. “Dead Drop was damaged in a fight with Megami’s stooge Masz. I need it fixed and upgraded for a rematch.”

  Zeklov replaced his glasses at looked down his hawkish nose at Zane. “Masz pilots a Zwei Dolph—the Coalition’s most advanced combat frame—customized by Tesla Browning himself. He is the CSC’s leading ace. You could not afford the modifications necessary to make yourself his equal.”

  “I’ll foot the bill,” said Ritter. All eyes turned to him.

  “How do you propose to pay on a Private’s salary?” asked Zeklov.

  “The Black Reichswehr didn’t have just one cache,” Ritter said. “Kopp had loot stashed all over Africa. I know where most of it is.”

  Naryal frowned.

  “Are you certain you want this, Ritter?” Jean-Claude asked.

  “Dead Drop is our most powerful weapon right now,” said Ritter, “and it’ll be fixed long before the Grenzmark IIIs roll out. Like you said, Megami could hit us any time.”

  Zeklov sighed. “Very well. I shall have Mr. Dellister’s Dead Drop brought down to the factory. Private Ritter will receive an estimate as soon as my staff perform a full diagnostic.”

  Zane’s expression remained flat, but his eyes wavered. “You hear that, Dead Drop? Next time we’re taking Masz down!”

  30

  Sieg sat bolt upright in bed, panting and covered in cold sweat. Waking stole the memory of dreaming, but the dread that followed him from sleep made him grateful to forget. Strange voices whispered in the dark. They faded as Sieg came fully awake only to realize he had no idea where he was.

  “What is this place?” Sieg’s words rasped in his burning throat.

  “You’re on Metis. You’re been asleep for over twenty-four hours.”

  That voice he did recognize. “Liz?”

  Light footsteps fell on thin carpet, and clothing rustled as someone approached. “Yes. How do you feel?”

  “Like Metis fell on me. What was in that shot?”

  Megami sat down at the end of the bed. “I’m sorry about the side effects. The memories should come soon. You acknowledge I’m your sister?”

  A bitter chuckle forced its way through Sieg’s parched lips. “No sense denying it. I can feel you. Do you expect me to forgive all the blood you’ve shed?”

  Megami sighed. “Even I can’t believe what I’ve done sometimes.”

  “I’ve made my own mistakes,” Sieg confessed. “I failed you.”

  “Yes,” Megami said, “you did. Does that sound cruel? The concept has lost all meaning for me.”

  Sieg sought his sister’s delicate hand in the darkness and clasped it in both of his. “Abandon the Coalition, Liz. On Earth I learned that anyone can walk away and start over. Let’s leave them all—the Socs, the grounders—and build new lives together.”

  Megami gave her brother’s hand a startlingly strong squeeze. “My future was decided when Sanzen put the monster in my blood. I was too weak to stop it, but you might be strong enough to stop me.”

  Sieg pulled back. “I crossed heaven and earth to save you. I won’t kill you.”

  “You’re making a mistake. I’m about to unleash horrors humanity’s never seen.”

  “I stopped being afraid a long time ago,” said Sieg. “And I never stopped loving you.”

  “That’s two more mistakes.” Megami said.

  “What the hell are you building for her?” Max wondered aloud.

  Perched above the Metis factory floor on a cherry picker, Tesla Browning turned from the giant metal skeleton propped against the wall and peered down at the new arrival. “We are building a combat frame that exceeds all current technological limitations.”

  Max had slept off his men
tal fatigue on the flight from Kisangani. Upon arrival a team of uniformed Socs had brought him to the secret factory in the heart of Metis. He had no idea how to get out, but standing in the shadow of Megami’s death machine incited a desperate urge to try. Instead he buried his concerns in work. “Save the ad copy for next investors’ meeting. Give me some numbers.”

  “We’ve developed new composite armor consisting of layered carbyne and lithium plastic sheets,” Browning said. “Test samples withstood the equivalent impact of a locomotive pulling ten fully loaded box cars at 150 kilometers per hour.”

  “Putting a weapon like that in Megami’s hands will leave the blood of millions on ours,” said Max.

  Browning’s platform descended to the polymer-coated stone floor with a hydraulic whirr. He swung the orange steel gate open and approached Max. “You’re right, of course,” Browning said softly enough for the ambient machine noise to keep the toiling Seed Corp techs from eavesdropping. “Project S began with Sanzen. Even the XSeed is just an intermediate step.”

  “XSeed?” repeated Max.

  Browning jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the looming humanoid mass of struts, cables, and motors. “The XCD-001-1, to be precise. This combat frame will be the last from Seed Corporation, since production began before the Secretary-General nationalized the company.”

  “Sounds like something one of the old tech oligarchs would’ve come up with.”

  “Perhaps,” said Browning, “but this unit’s capabilities are truly revolutionary. The plasma rifle that cut a path of destruction through Algiers was a proof of concept mockup of the XSeed’s main armament.”

  The rock under Max’s feet seemed to become mud. “And Megami considers this monster an ‘intermediate step’?”

  “The project’s next phase is a multi-stage orbital weapons system capable of global-scale destruction.”