Iron Legion Battlebox
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When Mac sidled out of a copse of birch-like trees in his HAM, I was astonished I hadn’t seen it earlier. From a distance it looked like a huge boulder, but upon standing up towered at over twenty feet tall, and almost as wide. The shoulders were thick and long, and it squatted like an ape, armed with a bank of launch tubes for small missiles. The arms were huge and armor plated, equipped with two mini guns that hung under the hands. I’d read about them, but seeing one in person was a lot more daunting. I could see why they were such a nightmare for the opposition. It was a moving fortress, and despite not being able to see it, I knew it had a rail cannon on its back that could punch a hole in a dropship from a thousand meters. Mac had looked like a spider climbing in, accessing the cockpit via a hatch between the legs, rather than on top like the other mech. The armor was just too thick to have a hatch on it, so instead he crawled up the ass.
“Could have used that thing when the fixed-wing came in,” I sighed.
Mac’s huge rig lumbered up the slope toward me, sidling from left to right as it hauled its massive bulk. “Well, I was on my way when it turned up.”
I didn’t answer. My head was pounding and we still had a ways to go yet. I couldn’t get the images of the Free rebel being interrogated out of my head, or his execution. Fish had disappeared again, gone off to scout ahead supposedly. I still couldn’t figure him. Mac said that I’d get a chip put in my head that would translate most languages, and that I shouldn’t get too hung up on it. I wasn’t looking forward to that — having something put into my head, and being linked up to the Federation mainframe. I knew they couldn’t read my thoughts but I still didn’t like the idea of having everything I said logged, translated, and broadcast.
The rebel had told us that patrols had been out scooping up all the Federation troops and machinery they could find, and were consolidating it at an outpost for transport back to their main base of operations. With only three of us — or two and a half, if you didn’t count Fish as a part of our suicidal trio — which I didn’t because he wasn’t ever around for more than ten seconds — attacking that would be insanity. But taking down a gravilev transport en route to that base of operations — well, that was just crazy enough to work, and not crazy enough not to try. On the transport would be a crap load of munitions, mech, and of course soldiers. Maybe enough to take a run at base of operations, soften it up for the Federation’s arrival. But the first problem was that there was no telling when it was coming. That, and that it was passing through a valley about five klicks each. And, on top of that, the HAM was a slow moving target, and with only me and Fish as backup, if a fixed-wing came upon us, or worse, a tiltwing or dropship, we’d be sitting ducks. HAMs usually rolled in with a fleet of House Cats around them, Specs and Aces, the aerial mechs overhead, and Panthers as backups. All he had for protection was a beaten up F-Series without a rifle. No wonder my head was splitting.
We came down off the ridge in silence, trudging toward the main crash site in the shadow of the trees. Fish popped up and told Mac that he’d found the valley, and a good vantage point to strike from. He also told me that there were some downed House Cats on the way, should I need to salvage anything. But by the time we got there, there was nothing left to salvage. They’d been picked clean, and apart from snagging a few emergency rations, being able to swap out some armor plating that had seen better days and grab a new auxiliary camera setup so Greg could finally do some targeting, there was nothing to collect. All the weaponry and other expensive components had been ripped out.
I moved on from the carcasses, wondering whether they’d had pilots in at the time they’d gone down, and if so where they were now. The hatches had all been opened — either pried or popped, and the cockpits were empty, but I still assumed the worst.
We moved like the dead, slow and quiet. Everyone was tired and it took us hours to reach Fish’s vantage point, a rocky outcropping on the side of the valley, littered with trees big enough to hide Mac’s walking castle. He disembarked quickly, as did Fish, eager to be in the open air. I didn’t like it one bit. I’d never breathed it and it felt wrong. I liked the claustrophobia offered by the cockpit. It was like being back in my Blower, except for Greg. He was no Sally. I smiled, thinking about her for a second, wondering what had become of her. Was someone else sitting in her now, asking about previous owners? Staring at the word FUCK engraved on the seat and decoding it like I had done? Or had she just gone straight to the crusher? I guessed it was the latter, and that made me sad. Could AIs fear death? I stared at the darkening afternoon sky through the screen and almost asked Greg. I decided against it in the end. He was being quiet, and I needed it. I laid my head back against the headrest and felt the foam suck on it. It was a weird thing — when you pulled away gently, the helmet peeled away. When you jerked, it didn’t. Something about a semi-porous smart material that did something with a vacuum. I’d stopped listening after the first few words. I hadn’t even asked, but it was something that Greg thought I should know.
I’d gorged myself on the emergency rations pulled out of the downed fixed-wing and with something in my stomach, I could feel sleep coming for me with ragged claws. I didn’t resist, and the next thing I knew, Greg had fired up the interior screen and was calling my name. It was time.
I shook off the remnants of sleep and looked up.
“James, it’s time.”
I swallowed and sucked in a few deep breaths. I’d dreamed of nothing. Just a dark hole that I was in where no light and no sound could reach. It was paradise. Now, it was nothing but noise. Mac’s gears whirring as he started up. Greg’s voice explaining what was going on. My own heart hammering in my head. I didn’t think I’d ever been in a worse mood.
“Are you ready?” Greg asked.
“How about some music?” I sighed.
“Music?”
“Yeah, you know. Singing. Guitars. Drums. Heartbreak. Melancholy. Music.”
“I know what music is,” he replied.
“So play some.”
“What would you like to hear?”
“Got any Steppenwolf?”
“Searching.”
I cracked my neck and pushed my hands into the gloves, flexing. My feet planted in the cages and I flexed them, feeling Greg shiver to full height. The music kicked up and we started forward. I did all that I could to push the thoughts of what was to come out of my head, but as I stood on the ridge, staring at the glowing lights in the distance that were quickly approaching, there was no escaping it.
The gravilev transport was a series of cars that utilized electromagnetic repulsion to stay above the ground, hovering over terrain and flying across the landscape. The repulsors were powered by a core in the front car. If we could take that out, we could derail it. Then it was just a case of getting down there and fucking some shit up. Though I felt like when Mac said that, he was being hyperbolic. There was no way to tell how many Free troops were down there, or what sort of firepower they’d be packing. All I knew was that I had no grenades, no rifle, and my hull integrity was hovering dangerously close to a point where I could see the ground beneath my feet. I was hoping for one of two things: either that there was a fresh suit I could don, or that the armaments they were packing would be light enough not to tear me apart. I didn’t feel very confident about either.
The transport approached and I heard Mac square up next to me. He leaned down to the ground and planted his knuckles like a gorilla. In a smooth motion, he lowered his head and his back began to split apart, the armor plates rolling over each other.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“That lead car’s got armor thicker than most Federation Destroyers. A Gravilev Core isn’t exactly stable, so it’ll be well protected. If we fire normal ordnance, it’s just going to piss them off. We’re looking to put them down, right?” he said, not really meaning it as a question.
“I guess so,” I replied sullenly, turning back to the valley. But what about the other car
s? The equipment, the troops? What if he missed and hit a car full of munitions and vaporized the entire thing? They were all questions that I wanted to ask, but knew would be met with no more than a cursory brush-off. Instead I sighed and watched.
In my peripheral, I saw the barrel extend, two-pronged, over the back of his head, and aim into the deep gouge in the landscape. A fizzing filled the air and the hair stood up on the back of my neck.
Greg piped up. “I would recommend moving away from Pilot MacAlister. A rail pulse can be quite bright.”
I did so, turning my back on it. But, even still, when it popped, I felt my eyes sting. It sounded like metal being struck and after the whiteness faded, I stared down into the valley at the fireball below.
The transport, hurtling along like a huge black eel, had a hole punched right through the front car. The nose dove into the earth and the front car pitted, ripping itself free of the rest. It somersaulted into the air and then impacted, exploding in a huge plume of flame.
The other cars sank and ground to a halt, buckling and kinking. The noise echoed in the cool evening air, ringing against the exposed rock of the valley sides.
“I believe that’s our cue,” Greg said quietly.
I clenched my fists to stop them shaking, and let the music sweep me up. We pushed down off the side, stomping toward the carnage with a heavy gait, watching as Free troops poured out of the transport like ants.
I got my heels down and broke into a run on the flat. Something flashed to my right and Fish blinked into existence on my flank, already firing off shots from his wrist-mounted rifles. Free ground troops sagged and sank with every flash from the muzzle. He made it look so easy.
All around us, missiles ripped through the air, plunging into the ground in dark eruptions of earth and blood. Ground troops fired on the move, trying to outrun the missiles. They couldn’t.
Bullets pinged off my hull, but I kept moving. I couldn’t stop. Greg wouldn’t let me. My legs pumped on their own, my arms held up to protect the camera dome — the most important thing.
The targeting system was in overdrive. Infrared was spliced with normal vision and enemy troops, clad in a mish-mash of military gear, flashed in white against the dark rocks, crosshairs locked on them, following as they streaked across the screen.
“Would you like me to provide enhanced combat assist?” Greg asked dryly. “You’re not utilizing our full capabilities.”
I gritted my teeth. I knew I wasn’t, and I wasn’t keen to. Killing in virtual was basically like playing a glorified videogame. But without any guns, my first real kill would have to be by hand. And I knew that, helmet or not, mech suit or not, doing that wouldn’t feel removed. It was going to feel real, and there was no shying away from it. I had no idea who these guys were, but they were out here fighting for something they believed in, just like we were. Only I wasn’t sure if I believed as hard as they did.
My heart was pumping, mind racing, but this was it. I was running hard and in seconds I was going to be on them. If we lost, then everyone would die. They wouldn’t let this stand. We had to win, and that meant killing them. Every last one.
“Yes,” I said sourly.
“Combat assist engaged,” Greg said, almost a little pleased. It made me feel sick. But I didn’t have any time to dwell on it before he blasted the thrusters and sent us flying.
We skipped into the air and soared toward the incoming troops, their small-caliber weapons pinging off the hull like hail. We landed with a crash, took two steps, and then lashed out. A Free rebel with a scarf covering his face flashed on the screen for an instant before our right arm lashed out. I couldn’t tell if it was Greg, or me, or a combination, but either way, I watched in slow motion as the steel fist shot forward, connected with the face and chest of the soldier, and sent him flying backward in a crushed heap. He flipped through the air and bounced twenty-five feet away, tumbling backward like a ragdoll. The reticle disappeared from around him and honed in on another.
Greg turned me away so I couldn’t look anymore, but I didn’t need to see. He was dead, and that was all there was to it. A life snuffed out in an instant. My first. It felt weird. It felt empty, and cold. It felt like it was going to stay with me forever, but it didn’t, because it got mixed in with a wave of them. A wave of crunching bones, flashing fists, broken screams and fountains of blood. Fish twirled like a dancer, blades flashing, limbs arcing through the darkening sky.
It was all a blur of bodies and punches, and kicks, and spines snapping under my feet as we tore through them. I felt like closing my eyes, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t shy away. It was in me now. The feeling. The dread. The weight of them all, and I knew that it would mount, and keep mounting, that this was who I was now. This was my life and there was no turning away from it, not anymore.
Something flashed on my screen and Greg whipped us round so fast that the seal on my helmet pulled like splitting velcro, holding me in place. A flash of gladness filled me and then dissipated as we made the full rotation to face the F-Series that had crawled out of the woodwork. The grenade it’d fired on me landed behind me and exploded. I didn’t look back. Greg kept me honed in on the advancing House Cat, giving me all the information I could want — and more, including the heart rate of the pilot. It was fast. Adrenaline surging. Fear riding high. I knew the feeling.
Greg put three paths up on the screen, all arcing white lines leading to the F-Series. One high, one low, one wide. I narrowed my eyes, seeing it reach for its Samson Auto, and kicked my feet down. We crouched, and then took off, low, dashing forward. By the time the Samson came over, we were on him. I wound up a punch and slung it low into its guts. It staggered backwards, steel scraping on steel, and stumbled. I went at it again, this time with a left. It countered and threw its elbow down, knocking my hand to the ground. I had my shoulder to it and lurched sideways in the seat, throwing my arms around like a hammer. It caught him in the hip and he twisted away. Greg boosted us into the air and we twisted, landing on its back. The hydraulics whined and groaned under the added weight and it went to a knee. Greg’s feed deconstructed the hull in front of me, showing me the weak spots — where to strike. I reached down and sank my fingers into the gap between two plates. I levered one up and it popped — they were designed like that — cheaper, easier to fix — easier to fuck up. Wires swam beneath in a tangled mess. It didn’t matter which I pulled; Greg’s flashing head-up display told me they were all vital. I took a fist full and ripped them out in a shower of sparks.
It stopped struggling beneath me and folded down to the ground, the motors buzzing to a halt.
“It appears you have shorted the electrical system,” Greg announced. “I would recommend finishing him off as quickly as you can. Pilots MacAlister and Sesstis still need assistance.”
“Who?” I asked, sidling around the downed House Cat and reaching for its Samson.
“Pilot Inglock Sesstis. I believe you called him ‘Fish.’”
I pulled it up to my shoulder and cocked it, tearing the belt from the shell of the F-Series. “What the hell kind of name is that?”
“It’s not an uncommon name on the Eshellite homeworld,” he announced. “Would you like me to show you the hull’s weak spots?”
“Huh?” As I asked, he scanned the House Cat keeled over in front of me and showed off the pilot inside, trying desperately to open the hatch. I could hear the muffled audio coming through, too. Grunts and yells of anger and terror. Greg put a red crosshairs just below the hatch seal for me. “Firing repeatedly at this spot will penetrate the hull and eliminate the target.”
“You’re serious?” I was happy with putting it out of commission. The pilot wasn’t going anywhere. And they obviously weren’t very skilled at the hands of a mech, that was for sure. Though I doubted anyone had as rigorous a process as the Federation did when it came to pilot training.
“Yes. Any persons discovered to be in open support of the Free cause must be condemned to death.”
“You have killed eight people today already,” Greg retorted, trying to raise my arm.
“Who were shooting at me.” I forced it back down. Fire was speckling my hull, but it didn’t matter. It was small arms, not enough to do any damage.
“This pilot was shooting at you.”
“Was. He was shooting at me, but I don’t see him shooting anymore.” My teeth were gritted now as I fought the arm.
“It is our duty. Our mandate. If we do not comply, we are in direct violation of orders. This is not something I can allow, Pilot Maddox.” Greg had reverted to full Federation bitch all of a sudden.
“I’m not just going to shoot someone in cold blood!”
But even as I said it, he rode the arm higher. I could tell I wasn’t going to win the fight. If anything I thought he was just being polite. The pilots had control only because the AI allowed it. What AIs couldn’t do was make judgment calls. They couldn’t decide based on how things looked or felt. It was all cold hard numbers. Ones and zeroes. And this was why their default setting was to give pilots full control, except when it violated a direct mandate, apparently.
There was no use fighting it, so I went with it. I moved my hand quickly and rifle shot upward. Greg pulled the trigger, aiming for the weak spot, but instead rounds glanced off the hull and then into the air as my arm pointed skyward.
“That was not following protocol, Pilot Maddox.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not really a pilot, so screw your protocol,” I snarled. In front of me, the pulsing white figure of the pilot had frozen, hands pressed against the hatch, heart hammering like a drum. I kept our arm up but Greg didn’t seem to care. He walked us forward and reached out for the hatch with our other hand. I watched uselessly as his hand closed around it and yanked upwards.