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tamasin · 3 months ago

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Part 3 of 3 Link to Part 1 Link to Part 2

Chapter 3: Wrench Convict 019048: Hailey Bransen

Hailey was shoulders deep in the guts of a half scrapped MT when a sharp whistle caught her attention. She quickly stowed the bolts she had undone in her belt pouch and pulled herself out of the access panel. She glanced over and caught the pit chief, Mitchell, walking directly towards her. “What can I do for you, boss?” she asked as soon as he was within earshot.

“You can fix that damned machine you rode in on is what.” He barked.

“77, sir?” she asked, getting a curt nod in response, “I cleared that one myself, exteriors dinged up but she’s in full working order.”

“Well you need to go and re-clear it. I’ve gotten nothing but complaints all morning from the flyboys and techs over in that bay. They can’t even get the damned thing started.”

She shook her head in confusion, that didn’t make sense, but at the same time in the situation they found themselves in, anything could go wrong at any time. Figured as much that she’d be wrapped up in part of it, “I assume this takes precedent over this?” She asked, rapping at the MT with her wrench.

“Yep,” Mitchell nodded, “we need every combat unit up and running, especially the midweights. Hop to it, this’ll still be here when you’re done.” He tapped the base of the MT with his steel toed boot, eliciting a satisfying clang from the machine.

“Got it” She knelt down and stowed her tools away into the technician bag splayed open on the floor. Without so much as a huff she gathered everything up and took off without even a second glance at Mitchell. All things considered he wasn’t a bad boss, by far not the worst she’d had on Herald or Bowers Still, for that matter. She understood that there was a certain level of ‘get shit done’ past which the daily pleasantries had to fall to the wayside. With that in mind, he was easy to keep happy. Get the work done, get the machines running, and get enough rest to do it again on your next shift.

She paused at the edge of a road, little more than a set of painted yellow lines on the expansive concrete floor of the massive subterranean cistern, and let a handful of vehicles pass. Small motorized carts and a few outdated patrol vehicles being used as transports. A few seconds later she darted across. She huffed a light laugh to herself as she kept up the light pace that her leg allowed her. It was hard for her to envision this full of water. Even if all the rain she’d seen on this planet fell at once, she doubted that it would get high enough to even wet her boots.

Soon enough she found herself in eyeshot of the RD bay, their familiar squat forms hard to miss. Even they looked small next to the massive support columns that held up the wide concrete canopy above. You’d have to stack them four high before even getting close to scraping the ceiling.

She broke into a brisk jog, her knee aching a little with the exertion, cutting through another bay. This one was for a meager handful of RAs, the RD’s slightly more lithe and agile cousin. Cathedral had hit the RA and RD hangars simultaneously. The RDs had almost all their pilots in the hangar when everything kicked off. The RAs didn’t. The only machines they had from that model where the ones that had been on deployment at the time.

She waived and smiled to a few familiar faces she recognized from Castle but didn’t break her stride until she came to the edge of the RD bay. 10 of the original 15 machines sat side by side in two rows facing one another. Each area marked with the same bright yellow paint that delineated functional space at Bastille. She saw 77 sandwiched between RD-62 and RD-39. Both of them had been out on deployment when the attack occurred and seemed otherwise fine.

Compared to the two flanking it, 77 still looked like it had been through hell. It bore the intense scuffs and scrapes of its journey through the city. They’d replaced the crushed pylon from Drako, RD-47, which had only barely limped in. The piece looked borderline pristine compared to the rest of the mech. Her eyes lingered for a few seconds on the original pylon, it still bore the singular red wing, its mirror now a clawed reptilian wing. She wondered which one 77’s next pilot would replace. Maybe both of them.

A trio of people clustered at 77’s open cockpit hatch, hanging down like the maw of some beast. She recognized Rook as she got closer, to his left was a tech she’d worked with briefly at the roost, Jamison? He was a general-purpose R-class tech, He’d transferred to the RAs after a few months of being on the RD’s. To Jamison’s left was a burly man in pilot’s fatigues, the flight suit pulled down to his waist. His face was beet red and he seemed to be in the middle of an extremely animated discussion with the other two.

“-bullshit. It’s all bullshit.” The flush faced man barked.

“It’s just out of commission Paul. Stop taking it personally.” Rook sighed with exasperation.

Hailey brushed past Jamison and tossed her tool bag into 77’s open hatch, pulling herself up inside. She heard Rook exclaim warmly at her arrival. She smiled a bit to herself. Rook was a generally cheerful man. Him and CJ were part of the reason she’d stayed on the RD team instead of taking a transfer to the heavyweights.

The inside of 77 was relatively clean, unsurprising to her as she’d been the one to clean it out. She’d gotten all of the blood out of the superstructure and most of the plastics, but the foam was harder to scrub out. The original seat padding was completely replaced, once again from Drako, but some of the foam around the crash cage still had streaks and flecks of brown oxidized blood. She knew exactly where to look to see her own bloody handprints from where she’d gripped the cage to climb. She used that knowledge to not look there. Unsurprisingly the cockpit cage was open. With only a quick glance around the overall superstructure, she lowered herself in.

The pilot, Paul, stuck his head into the hatch, the bottom of it coming to about mid chest height on him. “You the princess Rook’s been going on about?”

“You know it,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral as she flipped all of the auxiliary screens to diagnostic mode. A full list of statuses, percentiles and counts cascaded over all of them. She scanned them over for anything out of the ordinary.

“Well, I’d prefer a wizard over royalty.” Paul laughed. “Jamison’s a fine technician and even he couldn’t get this hunk of junk working.” He hefted himself up and into the mech.

She didn’t even acknowledge him with a glance. Nothing on the screens looked out off place. Based on the readouts 77 was running fine, both mechanically and electronically. She hoped the issue wasn’t software. While some modifications and repairs could be attempted to the OS, the master level system install kits were all securely locked away inside Castle. Draconian hardware ID checks prevented them from flashing a copy over from another RD’s system.

“77, operating power.” She called out, keeping an eye on the screens for any changes.

With a shudder the engines rumbled and rose to a whine, then a roar. The main screens flickered to life and displayed their views of the surrounding hangar. Paul steadied himself as the suspension lifted and settled. On screen she saw Rook jump and turn to look up at the mech, he let out a healthy whoop and applauded.

“What did you do?” Paul asked. Surprisingly his voice wasn’t gruff or angry, just curious.

Huh, expected a machismo type. Maybe I pegged him wrong. She thought.

“Nothing, I didn’t change any settings.” She said, “I assume you’d tried that already. Chalk it up to 3rd times a charm?”

Paul flashed her a grin as he put his flight helmet on, “As long as I can sortie, I’ll run the startup a dozen times. Good to know it’s just a repetition.”

She pulled herself out of the seat and moved off to the side, letting Paul pass by and settle into the seat.

“Alright,” he said, slipping his feet into the stirrups. “You get clear and I’ll get this girl moving.”

“Don’t bring her back in worse condition than I did,” She joked as she turned to leave, getting an uproarious laugh out of the pilot.

There was a light shudder that cut through the rumble of the engines accompanied by a quick strobe of the interior lights. With a sudden descending whine, the engines cut out. The lights inside flickered back to standby mode and 77’s suspension slowly lowered the mass of the machine back down. Hailey steadied herself on the crash cage, her bad knee barking a little at her as she was forced to shift weight onto it.

“GOD DAMNIT!” Paul shouted, ripping his helmet off and angrily slamming it down in his lap. “77 Operating power. 77 Operating power. 77 Operating power.” There was no response from the machine. Paul continued to bark startup commands, his face seeming to turn a progressively deeper shade of red with each repetition.

“Alright, Alright,” She said, “I’ve seen it happen this time at least, so that’s… something.”

“Need another head on this,” Jamison called from the floor of the hangar.

“Nah, give me another crack at it.” She shouted back.

“77 OPERATING POWER.” Paul shouted, his face now a concerning shade of purple.

-Critical Component. Replace. 77’s diagnostic report kicked on.

Hailey felt her stomach drop. She’d cleared out CJ’s custom component flag, triple checked that it wasn’t still in the system. This couldn’t be that… right?

“Hey! We have an error callout. Finally!” shouted Jamison, “Check what’s busted and let’s get this girl moving.”

Paul pulled himself out of the seat and stormed down the gantry. She watched him hop down to the ground and disappear past the bulk of the machine. Through the narrow gap she saw Rook shoot her a glance and a shrug as he moved to follow him.

“Offer still stands Princess.” Jamison shouted.

She waived him off, he chuckled and sauntered away, presumably to make himself busy elsewhere.

She felt a knot settle into her stomach as she looked at the cockpit seat. Maybe it was just the unsettling similarities to their exit from castle, but she could see CJ sitting there, smiling, laughing, and joking as well as hanging limp in the straps, unmoving. Both phantoms at the same time. She shook the visions out of her head. With a sigh she lowered herself back in. Manually she toggled one of the auxiliary screens to the cockpit component readout. She glanced over the diagram and sighed a breath of relief, Custom Component 001 hadn’t mysteriously reappeared. But that only lead to the question, what was damaged and why wouldn’t Jamison have gotten the notification when he was doing maintenance.

“77, confirm status.”

-No Damage Detected. Unit is Operational.

Shit. “77, Identify custom component 001”

-Custom Component. Not Found.

“77, Clear all component damage statuses.”

-No Damaged Components Detected. Unit is Operational.

She grit her teeth as the ball of anxiety continued to grow in her stomach. Had the readout only been a symptom of the problem? “77 opera-“ the rest of the activation phrase stuck in her throat. Maybe it was her head playing tricks on her but she swore she saw the screens flicker ever so slightly. Damnit, she thought. She pulled herself out of the seat once more and leaned out the front of the hatch.

“Jamison,” She shouted, “I need a hand.” She saw him off talking with another tech at the edge of the bay. She waived him over as he glanced her way. He finished the last of his conversation and headed back towards 77.

“So soon?” He laughed.

She flipped him off, which only made him laugh harder. She heard more laughter in the other direction and saw Paul and Rook walking back from RD-43, she caught Rooks eye and shook her head. He winced back and nodded.

“Sorry about that display Princess,” Paul shouted over the general din of the work bays, “It’s been a long week.”

She shot him a weary smile, “I’ll definitely agree with you on that.”

Jamison pulled himself into the hatch and strode down the gantry to the cockpit. “Pilot or jumpseat?” He asked.

“Pilot,” she replied as she turned. She felt the gantry pitch ever so slightly as Paul hoisted himself back up.

“Mind if I watch?” he asked.

“So long as you don’t interfere,” she shrugged. By the time she had reached the cockpit, Jamison had already seated himself and was glancing over the diagnostic screens.

“Got anything?” She asked as she pulled herself inside the cage, squeezing in what little space there was to the side of the seat, pressed up on the inside of the padded bars. It wasn’t comfortable but from here she could see the overview of the screens as Jamison tried to diagnose the issue. He moved through the data quickly, giving each a thorough look over. She followed along as he did. As far as maintenance skills went, they were fairly equal in ability.

He sighed, a genuinely exhausted sigh, “In the three seconds I had to look it over? No, nothing looks out of the ordinary, but there are hundreds of statuses to sift through.”

“Sure, but only about a dozen or so would prevent startup like this,” she offered.

“Assuming everything is working as intended.”

For what felt like the 20th time today, she sighed heavily. Time to test my theory. She thought. “77 operating power” she barked.

There was a promising ambient whir as the lights flipped from standby to running mode and the primary displays started to transfer from diagnostic readouts to sensor feeds. She felt the knot in her stomach start to loosen before everything shut down with a loud mechanical snap. A false start.

-Critical Component. Replace.

“Fuck,” she whispered, mostly to herself. She bumped Jamison’s shoulder with her knee, “Scoot.” She slipped herself back into the seat one more time.

Jamison settled into a low squat above her on the gantry. Paul was visible behind him; she saw the gruff pilot looking over the frame of the cockpit superstructure. She shook her head; an odd expression was plastered on his face. He glanced her way and she focused herself down at the screens before he could meet her eyes. She took a long minute to look over the displays, everything was fine. 77 was in standby and ready to go.

It’s not me. It’s not me. It’s not me. It’s not me. Please don’t let it be me.

Paul’s gruff voice broke the silence, “77, operating power.”

Her head snapped up and she caught his gaze. He was staring at her with a look of intense… was that envy? With a powerful shudder the engines rumbled to life, everything inside the cockpit powered on. Stayed on.

She closed her eyes and pressed her head into the headrest, bridging her fingers over her nose and mouth and letting out a very intense well of stress as a guttural groan.

When she opened her eyes she saw Paul’s looming form in the cage’s opening. The intensity never left his eyes. He spoke in a low whisper, a tone that fell somewhere on the border between awe and pity. “I don’t think this unit is mine, Princess.” With a nod, he turned and walked out of the cockpit. Jamison turned to watch him go before glancing back at Hailey with the same sort of look Paul had. He followed the man out.

“Like hell.” Hailey angrily put the machine into a full shutdown and tore herself out of the seat. She lowered herself down gently from the hatch and stormed over to Rook. Paul was walking off, towards the Bastille proper, Jamison in tow. They seemed to be in deep conversation.

Rook looked her up and down, he didn’t have the same look of fervor in his eyes that Paul and Jamison did, but there was definitely something weird in the air between them now.

“What the fuck is going on with them?” She asked, stealing a glance back at 77’s battered frame before shaking her head after the pair walking away.

Rook ran a hand along the back of his neck. He sighed a long heavy breath, “They think..." He paused and shook his head, "They think 77 will only work for you. They think that it’s…” he trailed off. He didn’t need to say anything else; she could put the pieces together.

“I…” she sputtered before slamming her mouth shut. She pushed a slow exhale through her nose and forced herself to relax some of the tension in her shoulders. After a few seconds she let herself inhale again. “What do you think,” she finally asked.

Rook looked up at 77 slowly, “I think that every machine has its bugs. That they’re intensely complicated, and sometimes wires and programming cross to give them a special quirkiness that we learn to work around, for better or worse.” He shook his head, “I think that people have been projecting ourselves onto machines for centuries, ascribing a personality onto behavior that stems from a worn gear somewhere in the belly of their car or a hydraulic leak.” His words made sense, but his tone almost made it sound like he was reciting a hymn out of a book. He glanced over to his own machine. “That’s what I tell myself these days, anyways.”

She tried to read his facial expression, but only got a stony weariness, “Rook, don’t bullshit me, do you believe it?”

“Considering our survival counts on these machines... I’m keeping an open mind.” He muttered, starting to walk back towards 43.

She paused and stared back up at 77’s massive form. Sitting like this, it looked like the head of a massive angular whale, the cockpit hatch a small triangular mouth hanging open loosely, ready to swallow her whole. She shook her head again; this was all ridiculous.

“So, what happens now.” She asked, turning back to look at Rook.

“Now?” Rook stopped, he turned to watch Paul and Jamison, now significantly smaller in the distance. She saw alarm wash over his face. His head snapped back to her, then back up to 77. “Shit,” he hissed, “They’re going to try and get you transferred. Out of maintenance and onto the line.”

The knot of anxiety became a solid brick of ice in her stomach. “You can’t be serious. I'm not a pilot, Rook!”

Rook didn’t answer, he broke into a quick jog after them leaving Hailey to stand in the middle of the RD bay with her mouth agape. Half a second later she was running after him, hobbling slightly as her knee continued to cry at the intensity of the day.

A day that was far from over.

#Scifi #creative writing #Heralds Call #mechs #Mecha

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tamasin · 3 months ago

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Part 2 of 2 Link to Part 1

Forewarning, a bit darker than the first part. I'll be putting trigger warnings in the tags, hopefully it works right. Blood and Death.

Chapter 2: Components Convict 019048: Hailey Bransen

-ponent Damage. Repair. Critical Component Damage. Repair. Critical Component Damage. Repair. Critical Component Damage. Repair.

Hailey woke with her head pounding and ears ringing. She looked around the cockpit in a daze, the running lights and screens seemed to smear in her vision as her eyes scanned over them. The ringing in her ears slowly faded and was replaced with the pounding rhythm of her pulse.

-itical Component Damage. Repair. Critical Component Damage. Repair. Critical Compo-

77’s automated damage report continued unimpeded.

No shit. Hailey thought to herself as she blinked rapidly to try and clear her vision so she could diagnose the issue.

“CJ, can we move or are we dead in the water here.” She shouted over her own pounding head and the ever-present damage report.

-Critical Component Damage. Repair. Critical Component Damage. Repair.

“77!” Hailey shouted, “Clear damage notification.”

-Repair. Critical Comp-. The report cut off mid word. A relative silence fell over the space.

“CJ, whats the status on that KV12.”

There was a moment before the speakers flared back to life with a warbling Klaxon alarm.

-Contact. Contact. Contact.

She felt her stomach sink, she squinted at the front sensor display. She still couldn’t make out the details, but she saw the blurry form of something moving in front of them.

“Shit,” she swore under her breath, “CJ, talk to me. How fucked are we.”

-Critical Component Damage. Repair.

This time the report came once. She heard nothing from CJ.

Fuck, he’s unconscious. Ok, what’s broken.

“77?” she called out, “Damage report, jumpseat screen”

The feed of the sensor display flickered out and a component layout of the RD-77 appeared in its place. The display still swam in her vision a bit, but it was definitely improving. On screen she could make out a smattering of green markers in a field mostly composed of yellow. Damaged but functional... Not great, but 77 could still run. However, one red light shone at the unit’s center of mass.

“Cockpit display,” Hailey barked as she gave her head a tentative shake to try and clear the last of the fuzziness. All she got in return was an immediate and intense flair of pain behind her eyes.

The display flickered again. The external view was replaced by a simplified view of the command column from above. All the lights in the cockpit were shining green, save two. Centered in the middle of the view were two bounding boxes. One box was filled with a searing red, the other a bright yellow.

She shook her head again, this time in confusion. She’d serviced these mechs before, hundreds of times, including this one specifically. In a more advanced mech those lights might have been an ejection system, but the RD class didn’t have those.

There wasn’t supposed to be a component in that area.

She reached over and tapped on the red light.

Custom component 001, read the display.

She tapped on the yellow.

Custom component 001-1.

“Fucking CJ installed hardware in one of my machines?” she muttered under her breath.

She manually cycled the display back to the primary sensor array. The hulking form of a KV12 filled the screen. She inhaled sharply; this was it.

“Shit, Shit, SHIT,” she whispered, even though there was no possible way for anyone to hear her though the mechanicals and armor plating.

On screen the mech loomed. She could see it’s primary, a heavy Vesper chaingun, the wide mouthed barrel pointed lazily towards 77’s hulking form.

Slowly the mass of the mech pulled back and turned away.

They think we’re scrap? She thought to herself in disbelief. She reached over to her auxiliary screen and cycled that one to running status. A list of functions and components pulled up with their operational status in a column to the right. She quickly scanned the list.

All exterior facing systems are off? Engine is switched into standby. All internal systems are running in low power off of battery. So we’re running dark. She thought.

Still, it didn’t make much sense. Any member of the 44th would double tap a downed mech no matter how dead it seemed.

New meat? She wondered. Even then that was sloppy standards for Cathedral. Hell, she wasn’t even a combatant, and she’d know better than to ignore a machine that wasn’t confirmed to be out of the fight.

Even so, she saw it start to turn away, she could faintly feel the corresponding tremors through 77’s frame. Painfully slowly the unit lumbered off, disappearing off the display, the reverberating footsteps gradually fading to nothing. A few seconds later she let loose a breath she didn’t even remember taking in the tense silence.

“Ok,” She said as she unclipped herself from the jumpseat, “Time to check on CJ and see what’s setting off that alarm.” As soon as the belts slid free she felt herself keel forward. Her midsection caught on the display console with a huff of expelled air.

The entire cockpit was tipped steeply. It wasn’t completely vertical, but damn close.

77 must be on it’s back.

She took a labored breath and righted herself. Now that she was free of the cradling foam and springs of the seat she could start to feel the extent of her own damage.

Her left knee screamed at her as she moved it. There was nowhere good to stand yet to test its ability to hold weight, but at the very least she was still able to move it. She felt down her lower chest for any obviously broken ribs. Thankfully, nothing barked out in pain at her. Overall, her entire right side was sore, the side of her head and arm stung where the rough exposed foam padding had caught her on impact.

Gingerly she pulled herself completely out of the seat. A net of mesh and dense foam wrapped the jumpseat just past the displays. She reached down and unfastened the clasps that held it in place and lowered herself through. Sharp pain shot through her knee as she felt her feet hit bulkhead, but it held.

She ducked down of the jump seat and netting. She was in the cockpit’s inertial space, a meter wide gap that surrounded the control column, allowing it to shift to mitigate some of the more intense motions the machine made as it moved. It was a space she was intimately familiar with. Plenty of hatches in this space accessed internal components and circuits.

Gently she slid down the back bulkhead, to where it joined the bottom in a wide bevel. The grated gantry that ran both sides of the control column was tucked away in its stowed position on the floor. Gingerly she moved off to the side of the space and stood. Now properly aligned with gravity she could confirm that 77 was indeed on it’s back.

She did her best to stretch in the cramped space. Most of the sting and ache was settling into simple background pain. She could ignore it for the most part.

The length of the cockpit rose up above her. She looked up at it.

Gotta check on CJ, get him up, if need be we can swap and I can pilot 77. Castle isn’t safe, see if we can regroup with the 44th, maybe see if the 35th are still up and running.

Climbing was easy enough, even with the pain in her knee, there was just enough space around the cage and the cockpit walls to wedge herself comfortably and it was simple finding handholds and footholds in the bracing and netting. All in all, the command column was only about ten feet from tip to tip. She was used to basically free climbing up three story tall machines with smooth plating and tight seams. This was nothing.

“Alright CJ, let’s get you up,” she grunted.

With a heave and a huff she pulled herself up to the edge of the crash cage around the primary controls. She peered past the netting and flack foam. She could see him, just barely. He wasn’t moving, but she expected that much.

She pulled herself up further, doing her best to keep to the foam covered parts that were easier to grip. With a final grunt of effort, she sat perched on the crash cage above CJ, looking down at her friend.

Her lungs drew another hissing inhale involuntarily, her eyes slammed shut. Her grip tightened on her handholds. She shook her head in the self-imposed darkness.

“No. No. No.” She whispered, “I’m going to open my eyes and you’re going to be ok. You’re going to get this mech back up on its feet and we’re going to regroup with the 44th. I’m just concussed and you’re ok and we’re going to laugh about this later.”

She opened her eyes again, knowing exactly what she’d see. She pulled a hand back from it’s hold on the foam-covered crash cage. A smear of blood stained her palm.

Dark stained gauze spilled from his gut and blood stains spread across his stomach and legs. His head was rolled back in the headrest, a neutral expression painted on his face. He wasn’t breathing.

There was no way he wasn’t dead.

In this position she could hear the hiss of static as the audio system flipped back on.

-Critical Component Damage. Repair.

Her heart sunk, “77, Identify Custom Component 001.”

-Custom Component 001. “Pilot. Chandler James Hampton.”

The last part of the audio was CJ’s voice. She felt tears start to break at the corners of her eyes and tried her best to blink them away.

-Critical Component Damage. Repair.

She shook her head. A useless gesture, the system could identify faces for security purposes but that’s where it ended. It couldn’t understand gestures.

-Critical Component Damage. Repair.

“77,” She said slowly, feeling the wavering in her voice, “Clear Custom Component 001 damage status.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I can’t fix this.”

She almost swore there was a longer pause than normal before the speakers came to life again.

-Confirmed.

She sat on her perch in silence. The tears came unimpeded, falling gently onto the foam and netting, a few of them likely making their way though the mess onto CJ’s lifeless form below.

She hadn’t really though of him as a friend until recently. He’d been just another pilot like all the others. Loud, Egotistical, Dirty, Temporary. In the end it wasn’t his piloting skills, goofy brand of humor or machismo that had gotten her to drop her guard.

It was his sentimentality. It was the care he so obviously took with 77. It was him listening to her when she did her repairs and criticized him for running his machine too hard.

CJ was a sentimental man. A kind man. He would be missed.

She wiped the tears from her face with the cuff of her sleeve. Grief would have to wait, it was time to get to work.

“77, confirm operational status.”

-Minor damage. Unit is operational.

She sighed and unlatched the crash cage, swinging the framework out and over to fully expose the pilot’s seat.

-Custom Component 001. Replace.

She paused a second and turned to consider the bulkhead of the cockpit. Maybe it was the damage to the mech or maybe it was the probable concussion and its headache accomplice, but she could have sworn that last syllable was lilted slightly, like a question.

She reached back down into the seat and undid CJ’s harness.

“Yea,” she said to nobody in particular, “Replace.” She paused, “If I can.”

She reached under the seat and pulled out the survival pack, retrieving the wrap of nylon rope from within. It was about 30 feet long, more than enough for what she needed. She looped it around his body, just under the arms and tightened it down. She removed her own belt and cinched his arms to his sides, locking the rope in place.

This wasn’t the first body she’d extracted from a cockpit and if lady luck wanted to start paying her back for the tremendously shitty hand she’d been dealt, it wouldn’t be her last.

She climbed back out of the cage and found a structurally sound beam in the superstructure to loop the rope over. She fastened the rope through the heavy straps of her jumpsuits integrated harness and gave it a tug. Everything felt secure.

With deep breaths she pulled, slowly hoisting CJ up. He was heavy, far larger and heavier than she was. It felt like she was going to be pulled up and into the bulkhead with the slightest slip.

Finally, just as the ache started settling into her biceps, he finally came clear of the cage. With a swift kick she swung the cage’s door closed and using him as a counterweight to lift herself to her feet, she let him come to rest on top of it.

She wiped a heavy sweat from her brow with her sleeve. The internal space was a little chilly, biting at the sweat soaking through her jumpsuit, but the air was feeling humid.

No time for rest quite yet.

Loosening the tension on the rope she slid the loop down the beam until it was over the space between the cage and the bulkhead.

Gently she pulled CJ into position, getting him out hadn’t been easy, this next part was going to be agonizing.

She climbed down the cage, releasing more slack into the rope as she went. At the bottom she pulled the rest free of her harness and slipped it under a bar that braced around the jumpseat. She reran the end through her harness once more, slipped it back over the bar and braced herself between the superstructure and the cage with her good leg. A rudimentary pulley, with her as a critical piece. With a deep breath and a grimace, she pulled hard, fist over fist, hoisting CJ up into the air above her.

Drops of blood started to patter on the bulkhead around her like the first drops of rain on a sheet metal roof, the muscles in her arms screamed as she did her best to gently let out the tension, lowering him foot by foot. She pressed her lower back into the steel bulkhead behind her, trying to put tension on the rope like a brake. It worked, slightly, it couldn’t stop the descent, but it did smooth things out as she gently started to feed slack into the system.

She forced herself to breathe slowly, looking up at the swaying form of her friend lowering towards her. It didn’t feel real, any of this. She wasn’t made for this. Elbow deep in an engine bay, tuning servo arrays, those were her home. This? This far off the line? She dealt with this one degree removed from it all. She dealt with the aftermath, cleaned out the blood, she fixed the machine, she got things running again so it could all repeat...

With a soft clank, his boots touched down on the metal floor. She gently lowered him the rest of the way, propping him against the cage. She collapsed to the floor and just stared at him. Like this, in the dark, backlit by the jumpseat’s screens, she couldn’t make out the damage. It honestly looked like he was just taking a rest.

She felt like crying again, but the tears wouldn’t come, so she just breathed. Deep and slow. She leaned her head back against the bulkhead and stared up at gap between the command column and bulkhead, the rope hanging loosely, barely lit by the ambient light from the consoles.

What the hell was she going to do.

She felt a burning ember light in her gut and force its way up into her throat. She let out a guttural scream and started kicking her boot into the cage.

FUCK. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck Olssen. Fuck Cathedral. Fuck Herald. Fuck everything that put us here. Fuck the whole damn system.

The scream tapered off as she let loose one final kick into the crash cage.

Slowly she drew a long, ragged, breath that fell into a rasping dry sob. She pulled herself close and small.

Nothing’s going to change. I can’t move on from here. I can’t get out of here. I can’t get of this planet. I can’t go home. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…

A low rumble shook the mech. The dull pinging sounds of something, several somethings, hitting the armor emanated from all around her. She pulled herself even tighter into a ball and waited for it all to end. 77 would make a fine tomb for the two of them.

But there was no flash, no searing heat, no generous release. After a few seconds the last of the sounds faded. She was still here. Still sitting in the bottom of the cockpit with the corpse of her friend.

I can’t do any of that if I don’t survive this first.

Slowly she pulled herself up. Her knee barked less intensely at her now.

She looked down at CJ and up at the jumpseat. The way the command column had come to rest, the jumpseat was stuck at a steep angle, but not directly overhead.

Thank you for small favors. She prayed to whoever was listening.

She pulled the rope free of it’s overhead wrapping. It fell with a thud in CJ’s lap. She slipped herself into the jumpseat cage and ran the rope behind the chair. She braced herself against the frame again and pulled CJ into place under it all.

Doing her best to shake out the aches in such a cramped space she firmly gripped the rope and gave it a yank. Agonizingly slowly and gracelessly she hoisted CJ up into at least the physical proximity of the chair. She tied of the end of the rope onto the cage to hold him up.

With a final effort she manhandled him properly into the chair, pressing her shoulder into his midsection and fastening each belt of the crash harness one at a time. Finally, he was secure. She undid the belt around his arms and untied the rope from around his chest. He hung there limply in the seat. Somehow this was the ghastliest he’d looked though this whole ordeal. She refastened the netting around the jump seat and closed up the cage.

She stood on the back wall of the cockpit and leaned against the sidewall, panting. She could feel the blood and sweat soaking though her jumpsuit and hated the fact that she could tell the difference between them. She unzipped it to her midsection and pulled it down, tying the sleeves around her hips like a low impromptu belt.

With shaking arms and an aching knee, she pulled herself back up to the top of the cockpit. She’d inspected every nut and bolt that kept this thing together, scrubbed it clean time and time again, but something about this time felt different.

She lowered herself into the primary seat with a minor squelching from the soaked padding. She grimaced as she pulled the crash cage shut above her and fastened the harness.

“Ok then 77,” she said to the empty darkness around her, “Operational power, on.”

The displays flared to life as a light rumble shook the cockpit. The displays flickered as they switched to full power mode. There was no sign of the KV12, though the heavy prints were visible leading away, North, if 77’s compass was still accurate after that impact.

Sounds of the city began to crackle over the seat’s dedicated speakers. The cracks of cannons and the thumping of rockets filtered though. Castle wasn’t going down without a fight. She wouldn’t expect them to.

She reached over to auxiliary screen 5 and navigated through the options until she found the pilot adjustments. She pushed the floorboard up to meet her feet and slipped her boots into the controls. She lowered the overhead auxiliary screens until they were in arms length. Something about it felt sacrilegious. As a mechanic, you never messed with the pilots’ configurations.

With a deep breath she righted 77, feeling the machine lurch under her. As far as getting the thing up and moving she wasn’t worried. She’d moved the units around Castle before.

Combat… Combat was going to be another thing entirely. She navigated Aux. 5 back through the options. Adjustments. Climate. Controls. There.

She pulled up a basic depiction of the control stick and throttle. Some things seemed simple. Big trigger in the front for the primary, button on the side for secondary, for 77 that would be a railgun. A dozen other buttons on the column were tied to a dizzying number of adjustments and advanced functions.

Better off ignoring for now. The 35th is stationed to the west, lets head that way and see if we can hail anyone.

She swung the bulk of the machine that direction and got it moving. The first few steps were full of anxiety and anticipation, but true to its self diagnosis, 77 was in working order. She pushed the mech forward in a slow plodding walk for a minute or two before ramping up the speed. Soon she had it moving at a steady jog. It was a surprisingly smooth ride for a bipedal gait. She had never pushed a mech this fast but was cautiously aware that the throttle was sitting shy of halfway though its full range of motion.

With the sounds of distant battles being fought all around her, she pushed 77 deeper into the city.

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tamasin · 3 months ago

Text

Part 1 of 2 Link to Part 2

Chapter 1: Check Convict 157833: Chandler Hampton

The RD hangar was far busier than usual. The dark blue suits of Cathedral’s support staff clashed with the familiar grays of Castle’s.

The clashing was more than just visual in some cases, he quickly discovered as he stepped past the offices and into the hangar proper.

“What does this mean?” He heard the distinct sound of Haiely’s voice pierce the noise. He turned and saw her in a heated conversation with one of the new technicians.

“Condemned? Condemned!” She was all but shouting at the man, “Condemned is for the burnt-out husks that the reclaimers bring in. Condemned is for a mech with a faulty OS that tries to fire an auxiliary when you turn on the compressors. Like hell if any of these machines are condemned.”

“There a problem here?” He asked as he pulled alongside her, giving her shoulder a light squeeze. She turned and glanced up at him.

“This new tech has written off half the mechs in this bay as condemned. Unfit for operation, recommended for immediate decommission.” She huffed in exasperation as the man looked her over, seeming annoyed, but ultimately disinterested in the conversation.

“This is bullshit,” Hailey muttered as she turned away, pressing her tablet into his chest.

He glanced down at it. It displayed the RD bay’s full list of machines with their ready status. Of the 15 they had, 9 of them were marked off as condemned.

He let out a held breath as he saw Eta wasn’t among them.

He looked it up and down again, something was wrong. Several of the machines marked off for decommission weren’t even present, they were out on patrol…

He gave the man a once over, the name on his jumpsuit said R. Hawken. He was older, face scarred, definitely been on Herald for more than a few years. Got a cushy job doing supplemental inspections after a few hard tours, that would normally be his guess, but there was something with his eyes, something hard.

Something calculating.

He felt the hairs on his arm stand up. He turned and handed the tablet back to Hailey, who had busied herself with papers laid out on a crate nearby.

Put up a fight, let him win, get away from him.

“Sir, our techs here are damned good. We’ve been holding to all the standard maintenance procedures. I have full confidence there has been some mistake,” he kept his tone friendly. He made wide sweeping gestures with his hands. Did his best to look like a passionate pilot.

R. Hawken looked him over, “You a pilot for one of the affected machines?”

“No sir, mine passed,” he said.

“Then you shouldn’t have any complaints, mind your own machine and do your best to keep the others in line when the decommission teams get here. No need for rowdiness today. You’ll have replacements soon enough.”

CJ let his face contort with frustration, easy enough, not like it all had to be an act.

He turned away, shaking his head. He caught Hailey’s eyes and jerked his head over towards Eta. She gathered up all of the papers and started moving that direction.

“Complete bullshit,” she started, keeping her voice low, “Sloppy bullshit too. Ian’s machine is condemned and they’re still out on patrol?”

“Same with Rook’s, they’ve been out since before Cathedral arrived.” He added as they walked into Eta’s bay. He glanced back in Hawken’s direction. The man's eyes were on them until the moment CJ met his gaze.

Hailey threw her papers down on the maintenance bench and poured over the tablet again, “No commonality with age, OS version, maintenance history. Did they just choose at random?”

CJ tapped his foot absentmindedly. Something was wrong, obviously wrong.

Finally, he let his nerves take over, “Was it just me or did that man make it sound like the decommission teams are here already.” He mumbled just loud enough for Hailey to hear.

“Fucking hell,” Hailey whispered, her eyes growing wide, “they’re going to gut our entire fighting force today? If there are any delays in getting the new machines in, we’re toast. Do they want us dead.”

A trill of anxiety shot up his spine. He let his hand brush against his sidearm, secured in its pocket holster. Was he being paranoid?

He pulled out his personal data pad, no notifications from command on this.

Actually, no notifications at all.

He glanced up at the ticker. Readouts for weather conditions, but none of the usual deployment and readiness codes.

“Hailey,” He asked, keeping his tone calm and level, “Is there any chatter on the maintenance network?”

She swiped her tablet over to the communications board, “Last message… No… last thread entirely was posted… 15 minutes ago?”

She looked up at him, concern in her eyes, but not fear, “What the fuck is happening.”

“Anyone new come into the bay,” He asked, glancing deeper into the hangar. From their body language, the pilots were agitated, technicians too. Most of them were watching the entrance, a few were busying themselves with maintenance.

“Eight techs, Cathedral’s colors.” She reported, “Decommission team here already?”

He felt a fire in his stomach. If this was what he was afraid it was, orders or no, they weren’t staying here.

He stepped back further into Eta’s bay, breaking line of sight with the entrance. He glanced across the hangar and saw Candice watching him intensely. He drew his sidearm. She nodded and stepped into her bay.

“CJ,” Hailey warned, her tone was low and measured.

“Get 77 in standby, strap in, we’re leaving” he said calmly as he pressed his back up against the wall.

She didn’t move, her eyes were tracking something else, halfway up the wall, “What, the fuck, is going on.”

He glanced up at the ticker. A code had appeared, repeated up and down the bay at regular intervals. Cast.-516 --- Bast.-618 --- B/B.

Deploy from Castle. Return at Bastille.

Blue on Blue.

“Hailey, now,” He hissed as he leaned out from the bay, keeping as much of his body behind the concrete structure as possible. He saw the techs; Hawken was addressing them.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flurry of motion as Hailey scrambled, heard the sounds of her clambering up the hatch.

With a sudden roar one of the machines in the bay activated.

Hawken and the technicians all spun. He watched a few of the techs pull firearms out of their satchels. Sub-machine guns.

The feeling that washed over him was more a dull thud of confirmation than a sharp pang of realization.

He raised his pistol, drawing a line on Hawken. Hawken’s eyes met his again. There wasn’t any fear in his face. No surprise, no hate. Just a moment of poignant frustration.

CJ fired.

The gunshot barely had time to echo before the bay was engulfed with the roar a firefight. He saw his shot go wide, missing Hawken by inches. The man ducked behind a concrete barrier at the entrance to the bay alongside the Cathedral technicians.

Not techs, it’s an inquisition squad.

We’re being decommissioned.

From several of the other bays a field of small arms fire flew towards the back of the hangar. Every pilot and tech had armed with pieces they’d scavenged over the past few months. Bosses orders.

What the hell did you know, Trina?

He watched one of the inquisitors take a few rounds to the torso, they fell to the ground but dragged themselves back to cover, it didn’t look like they were bleeding.

Body armor? He thought, Fuckers.

He saw a flurry of motion as Hawken popped up from the barrier with one of the SMGs, sending a healthy burst straight at him.

CJ ducked behind the wall as bullets blew out concrete inches above his head, the rest of them fragmenting against Eta’s skin.

He grimaced as he leaned back out, sending a handful of rounds back towards Hawken, forcing the man to duck down behind his cover again. The meager advantage was short lived as he was pushed back by another inquisitor pumping suppressive fire into Eta’s bay.

The Castle crew was armed with mostly handguns, a handful of machine pistols. Cathedral definitely had the upper hand in firepower.

For now.

Three more machines rumbled to life, He watched Snowbird and Redwing deploy, head for the front of the hangar, away from the immediate fight.

They probably have machines and aircraft ready for anyone fleeing.

There was no way Zach and Candice didn’t realize that.

They always did like being first to the fight.

Canary and Heron swung towards the back of the bay. He watched the Cathedral squad leap from their cover for the harder concrete pylons. The spot they were just moments before detonated into a cloud of shrapnel as Canary pumped a burst of 20 mm into the opening from her chaingun.

“You picked the wrong hangar motherfuckers,” he heard Bev shout over Canary’s loudspeaker.

From immediately behind him there was the telltale roar of Eta’s engines firing up. It had been a while since he had heard her come online from ground level. Eta’s loudspeaker cracked to life.

“CJ, Let’s move.” Hailey barked.

He peeked out from his position. Cathedral was playing smart. A few smoke grenades had landed just shy of the two units pinning them down. They were fanning out under the cover they’d gained. Heron pulled back from overwatch and out into the open as the cracks and thuds of heavy weapons fire filtered in from outside.

It was last call for Castle.

CJ broke for Eta’s hatch, jumping up and pulling himself inside, up onto the internal gantry. Behind him he heard another salvo of gunfire. He stumbled a second as he felt some concrete or other shrapnel punch him in his lower back and knock the wind out of him.

He pulled himself back up and swung down into the pilot’s seat. He punched in the final startup commands and watched as the hatch closed. He swung the cage shut and strapped himself in.

Getting his feet into the control stirrups took some doing, he was shaking with the adrenaline of it all.

In front of him he saw the screens light up and the sensor displays flickered on. The form of Canary continuing to fire even as more smoke filled the space, some of it dark and thick.

His chest burned with the winding he had taken. He coughed as he tried to get air back into his lungs, he saw a mist of something dark and wet hit the screens.

He wiped at his mouth.

Blood.

Shit.

He took a few cautious breaths. Something was definitely wrong. Every breath burned and he felt something warm on his stomach.

He glanced down, A dark red stain had started to spread across the side of his flight suit from his lower abdomen, just below his ribs.

That hadn’t been shrapnel.

Shit!

He reached up past his left shoulder and pulled the trauma kit from behind the seat. He started blindly packing the wound on his back with gauze. For the first time since he got hit pain ripped through his back and stomach, radiating up his chest .

The screens washed him in a harsh light as Canary took a hit from behind. Something detonated. A gout of fire shot from it’s back. The machine started to fall.

“Are we moving yet?” Hailey called from the rear facing jumpseat

“Affirmative, he barked, trying to keep his voice from wavering. He let the trauma kit fall to the bottom of the cage.

He grit his teeth and pressed himself back into the seat, hoping that the packing and the seat’s padding would be enough, maybe for a few extra minutes.

“Fuck,” He wheezed aloud. He pushed Eta forward and swung her around towards the front of the hangar. He squeezed down on the trigger well before he saw the target.

The waiting KV12 took Eta’s 20 mm across it’s angular face. It reeled back from the assault. He traced the fire in a few short bursts to where he knew the cockpit was.

Castle had been running infantry suppression for weeks, almost all of the loadout they had was high explosive. Even with the KV’s lighter armor it wasn’t likely to penetrate, but it would be disorientating as hell for anyone inside.

However, there was one exception in the loadout.

-Target Locked.

Eta’s audio notification called from his seat’s speakers. He punched the secondary trigger with his thumb.

A line of shock vapor and an immediate shower of sparks appeared as her pylon mounted railgun landed a clean hit just above the cockpit. The enemy mech fell backwards, if not dead, heavily out of commission.

-Charging. Estimated 60 seconds. 4 Rounds remaining.

He coughed again, a mess of blood and spit landed on his pants.

-Component Repair.

He shook his head

Only place to fix this now is Bastille.

It was over an hour journey to the emergency fallback in an RD unit at a decent pace. At full tilt, maybe 45 to 50.

He felt his stomach drop, it wasn’t going to be enough time.

Maybe they’d run across staff fleeing Castle or friendly forces from the 35th, but either way pushing hard was his best bet at survival.

He threw the throttle to full as Eta cleared the hangar doors. Smoldering Castle mechs and Cathedral units scattered the pavilion, a handful still engaged in heated fights.

-Charge. 40 seconds.

Another Cathedral unit, this one a fellow RD mech with a stark white paint job, wheeled around one of the outbuildings. He didn’t even give them time to react. He slammed Eta’s bulk into it, the force and angle of impact overcoming the enemy unit’s balance and flipping it flat on its back.

He used the force of the impact to shunt Eta onto another course, pushing her towards the wall. He heard Hailey shout in alarm from the back of the cockpit.

“The hell are you doing.” She barked.

Escaping, surviving.

-Charge. 20 seconds.

The main gate was demolished, open, free.

He caught sight a vehicle column of Humvees and trucks barreling through it. Lines of fire flashed past on the other side. Through the smoke and debris, the dark forms of Castle’s units were visible holding the gate. Castle was evacuating.

-Charge Complete.

He couldn’t just barrel through with the convoy in the way.

He grimaced as he spun Eta around, her forward charge turning into a series of awkward skidding backsteps. The forces weren’t the worst he’d felt but he still saw his vision tighten to a narrow circle, mostly from the pain.

Behind them a battle group of Cathedral units was forming. He manually lined up the railgun’s reticle with the closest unit, center of mass.

He fired.

Between the sudden about face and the recoil, Eta threatened to keel back. He felt the haptics rumble along his thighs as Eta lowered her stance and kept herself upright.

On screen the railgun round slammed into the target, another KV12. The machine stalled and the impact hole belched fire, but it was still up and moving.

-Charging. Estimated 50 seconds. 3 Rounds remaining.

“Good girl,” he whispered, giving his control stick a weak shake before slamming it to the right and spinning Eta back towards the gate. Incoming fire whizzed past, a few rounds slammed into Eta’s bulk. For a moment the cockpit sounded like being under a tin roof in a hailstorm back home.

No alerts flashed, no alarms blared, it was all superficial damage.

The last of the trucks had cleared the gate by the time they made it though. Now free and clear past the wall everyone was scattering. He ran Eta parallel with Castle’s perimeter for a block or two before pushing away from the stronghold. These streets were far less likely to be congested. Hopefully less likely to be patrolled as well.

He did his best to keep Eta at full throttle, only cutting her speed for a few twists and turns. In the back of his head, he kept track of the bearing towards Bastille and tried to push that general direction where he could.

Sounds of cannon fire and the thumps of rockets echoed through the tangle. The fight was all around them now. Cathedral was pursuing.

Don’t want us linking up with the Rats? He thought.

Another fit of coughs escaped his lips. The blood wasn’t coming quite as thick anymore, but his breaths weren’t any easier or less painful. He was acutely aware of the outer edges of his vision starting to darken. He was having to focus to keep the lightheadedness at bay.

I’m still losing blood, he realized.

He gave the control stick another light shake as he pushed Eta hard again. They thundered out of the narrow street and into a massive loading zone. Two CJ units and an RA mech were ablaze here. No time to identify them, past the thick black smoke two stark white KV12s wheeled to face him.

He fired the railgun at the one on the left, catching it just above it’s left weapon mount. Its autocannon smashed to the ground.

2 railgun rounds remaining and 60 seconds back on the clock.

He slipped his hand around the ancillary stick and broke the link on the firing controls. He unleashed both of Eta’s rotaries, one on each unit. He focused on where he knew the machine’s primary sensors were.

Rattle the cage. Keep them blind.

Using the stirrup controls he slowly pushed her to the side of the open space, towards a narrow street just barley wide enough to accept the RD’s bulk.

He let up the fire and turned Eta down the street. Incoming fire alarms blared loudly as they pushed down the passage. KV12s were big, but not as broad as the RD units, they were going to be followed.

With a sickening metallic screech, he pushed Eta through a factory wall and out of the straightaway.

The factory floor was empty of people, evacuation orders would have gone out immediately once fighting began, probably even before, all things considered. The entire district was likely in the shelters.

Eta stomped across the floor, trampling machines and conveyors as she moved. With another screech she punched a hole through large roll up door, tearing it to shreds as she passed. The street here was wider, but not by much.

He had half a thought to turn and fire on the KV’s chasing them as they entered the factory but chased it out of his mind. The goal was escape, not adding notches to his belt.

A shadow passed overhead, a bicopter thundered past. He could hear the thuds of rockets impacting a few streets over.

Stay to the tangle, break fast through the openings.

Quickly, they picked through the tight streets. Pushing through buildings where they could.

The nice part about all this, he thought, somewhat loopily, is that I don’t have to worry about collateral damage. Not like we’re the enforcers anymore.

A weak laugh escaped his mouth as they crashed through the other side of a ramshackle warehouse complex. Light washed out the cameras for a moment. When they adjusted he saw open space. They were at the edge of the highway, the only thing the tangle ever broke for. He confirmed their bearing. They had to cross.

He threw the throttle to full and pointed Eta at a gap between the buildings on the other side. He could faintly hear the sound of the bicoper in the distance. No way it hadn’t spotted them.

The distance closed quickly. The low whir on the speakers steadily grew to a roar.

A series of thumping rocket impacts shook the ground, rattling even Eta’s bulk. He threw the throttle into reverse, pulling her to a shuddering stop. He felt himself keel forward, his vision nearly blacking out completely. His abdomen screamed in pain.

As his vision returned a trail of fiery detonations traced the road a few dozen yards ahead. The bicopter soared past, already pivoting to stay on them. He swung Eta around to track it.

He opened up with both rotaries and her chaingun. The aircraft juked and dropped altitude to avoid the trails of lead, lighting them up with its own guns. A handful of shots pinged off of Eta’s hide.

Out of rockets? You’re not going to penetrate this with your pissy guns.

He thumbed a dial on the stick and loosened Eta’s fire control. The streams of fire became a cloud as the gimbaled weapon mounts ceased their automatic recoil corrections.

He watched as a smattering of cannon shots smashed home against the side of the bicopter and detonated. Shrapnel tore through its rotors and the machine dropped altitude fast, trailing a line of smoke down with it.

He breathed a sigh of relief before he realized Eta was yelling at him.

-ntact Left Contact Left Contact Left.

Her voice was faint, tinny.

He swung Eta left just in time to see the bulk of another KV12 slam into them. He felt the machine reel at the impact.

How didn’t I see it? He thought as his vision greyed out again.

Eta stayed on her feet; she was too good at self-stabilization at this point to go down

Oh. He realized as the narrow tunnel of vision returned.

The peripheral screens were all but impossible to see now.

The KV12 was centered in his sights now. His fingers went to squeeze the triggers instinctively, but he stopped them. He pushed the stick right, shrugging off the KV unit, and moved for the other side of the tangle.

Within seconds they were clear of the highway. Eta was at full speed again; he wasn’t slowing down for corners anymore. He trusted Eta to carry them through.

His vision seemed to narrow and gray with every exhale now but oddly enough the pain was gone.

…Shit.

Incoming fire warnings blared as the KV12 pursued. Shots flashed past; their impacts visible in the front viewscreen. He couldn’t see any of the other displays anymore. A few shots found purchase hopefully nowhere critical.

Eta was saying something again, he could hear her repeating it over and over again. But he couldn’t make it out.

He pushed her into another turn. An incredibly tight left, hopefully enough to juke the KV off their tail.

He felt her shift her weight into the corner to take it faster. Felt the skidding of her legs rumble through her chassis as they started to slide.

His vision completely blacked out from the forces. He could still feel himself in the space, though everything was a little numb.

He kept the pressure on the stick, pressing her hard into the blind left turn.

With a sickening jolt, he felt the bulk of the mech yield to inertia and pitch heavily to the right. For half a second, he felt the sensation of weightlessness. His vision returned ever so slightly, a small grey postcard of Eta’s interior structure. Faintly he heard the faint whines of Eta’s alarm mix with the screams of both Hailey and the steel around him.

Then everything went black.

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tamasin · 4 months ago

Text

Yet to be named escapist writing project that's the only think keeping my mental health from unraveling like a cut piece of twine.

Part 1 of ?

“So, I have to ask, why humans?” The woman asked.

Nathan looked her up and down. She was a mousy type, her hair pulled up in a messy looped ponytail. She’d introduced herself as Jane at her orientation. Kind enough and presentably normal, with no real tell on what type of applicant she was going to be.

A few dark blonde strands fell across her face as she met his gaze.

“Why?” Nathan leaned back and considered the question, “I mean the pipeline already existed. Genome sequencing, editing, and overwriting has been solved. Sure we could have set the novel program to run entirely off of gamete editing and surrogacy.” He paused for a second, “But mostly, it’s because—”

“—Because we’re the overpopulated species here.” Ash finished as she pushed open the door, holding a thick binder in one hand and a coffee and donut precariously in her other. She put the binder onto the tabletop in front of Jane and gently pushed it forward. “We have too many people and not enough species that can survive the climate after the clathrate shift. So we’re taking out two birds with one stone.” He saw her wince at Jane, “Metaphorically, of course.”

Nathan shook his head, “It’s not nearly that simple. There are a few different methods that are being used now, Novel species and Progenitor’s are just one of them. An active reduction in social pressure to have kids has been doing a lot of heavy lifting but these methods are going to help carve a little more out of our active population problem.” He smiled warmly, “Things like the Novel Speciation Progenitor Program are meant to be voluntary alternatives to population control that also boost the ecological diversity.”

Jane nodded, “So you turn people into animals… weird animals, but still.”

Ash laughed a little, “The original idea was to have it be a lottery, all ‘sorry but you got selected, pick your new species here,’ and all that jazz, but Tanner floated the idea of running an open enrollment campaign first.” She laughed again, “—now we’re basically running at capacity with a waiting list. Lots of people are just done being, well, people.”

Jane flipped though the pages lightly, Nathan saw her lightly consider each entry. “You have predator and prey species?” She asked.

“Course,” Ash said, “Need both for a thriving ecology.”

“I’m sure a lot of people have been booking predators,” Jane said, her eyes lingering on an entry for a mid sized quadrupedal raptor like creature. There were a few paragraphs of details as well as a basic anatomical layout.

“We have a number of ratios running for the ecological niches. Primary, secondary, and tertiary consumers. Herbivores, omnivores, and carnivores.” Nathan explained, “But really I don’t think we’ve hit any of the caps as of yet. It’s been more herbivore and light omnivore species that get chosen over carnivores. The people this kind of program attracts are the kind of people who are just tired of it all. Herbivores might not be flashy, but realistically they want for very little, especially here.” He shrugged as she flipped the page again.

“I’m sure it’s also the thought that if they choose predator they’ll likely be hunting and killing fellows.” Ash said with a wry smile, “Program isn’t set up to run that way, by the way.” She said, catching Jane’s concerned glance, “We’ve got the obligate carnivores feeding on standard farm stock. Pigs, chicken, cattle, the like. We won’t be introducing novel species into their diets until the third or fourth generation, and we don't intend to pit the progenitors against each other at all.”

With a nod, the woman flitted through the rest of the carnivore section and started on the wide omnivore segment. She glanced up, “A lot of these species seem geared reptilian and avian? Not much in the way of mammals.”

“Gonna get hotter in the next century,” Nathan said, “The designers focused more on species that handle the heat.” He smiled, “In a way they took inspiration from the species that were here last time the earth was that hot.”

“Dinosaurs?” Jane muttered.

Nathan caught Ash rolling her eyes as he opened his mouth, “Dinosaurs, Archosaurs, Therapsids. You’ll recognize bit of everything in there.” Nathan said, “Though I try and not use those terms too much, genetically they couldn’t be more dissimilar to the pre-Cenozoic species. All the novels are achieved with heavy tweaking of the human genome at the end of the day. We’re also not looking to make megafauna or anything. Biggest option as of right now is roughly bison sized.”

Jane nodded as she followed his explanation. “And these flags?” she asked as she ran her fingers along the colored tabs that stuck out of what seemed to be every page.

“Priorities,” Nathan said, “Anything red is something with a niche that’s been filled for this area. Yellow and green are low and high requirements respectively. Blue is a priority.”

He smiled to himself as he watched Jane flit a little towards the green and blue entries.

Ash laughed a little, “Not one to follow the trends?”

Jane sighed, “Well if I’m doing this to help out, I might as well actually help.”

“Just don’t force yourself,” Nathan said, “We take a lot of care to make sure that as few people regret this as possible.”

He saw Jane glance up and blink a few times, “I’m... I really don’t have anything in mind, I’m just looking to... I don’t know how to best describe it.” He heard her grumble a little as her brow furrowed, “I don’t hate humanity, I just don’t want to have to participate in it anymore.” She shook her head.

Ash leaned forwards, “I mean if that’s the case I have a recommendation, Though I’ll be honest, I’m biased.” She pulled the notebook back as Jane nodded.

Nathan watched Ash flip through the pages, a few dozen at a time before landing on one in particular. Even though he knew what it was going to be, he still smiled as he saw her recommendation.

“Loraptor.” Ash said, “Most people skip past this one.” She paused and to finished off the last of her doughnut before taking a deep a swig of coffee to wash it down. “A bit of a more domestic choice, not meant to be wild, but it’s capable of it. In ecology it's classified as an omnivore, but it's more opportunistic, effectively a scavenger. As far as it's domestic role? Think of something something like a reptilian horse or oxen. Most of the ones in the program are used for transport” She nodded out the window and into the fields that made up the reserve, “Riding stock.”

Jane looked down on it, “Looks interesting. Tagged blue? How many are there?”

Ash tapped on her tablet, “As of right now, globally? About two dozen but only seven are progenitors, so the program is really going to be hurting for genetic stock in a year or two. We have one male Progenitor here alongside three first-gen juveniles sent over from the other reserves.”

There was a moments pause before Jane’s face flushed lightly. She hadn’t missed the implications in Ash’s explanation. With a light tap on the page Jane changed the subject, “Brain capacity is seven? What’s similar to that?”

Nathan nodded, “Humans are in the nine to ten range, particularly smart dogs are around six. Seven to nine is in the range of apes, dolphins, elephants, and the like.”

Ash nodded, “Worth noting that based on preliminary testing, you’re more liable to retain your sense of self the higher the capacity score.”

“It’s likely they recognize people they knew” Nathan interjected, grabbing the explanation back from Ash, “and probably remember who they were before it all—”

Ash jumped back in, “They absolutely remember.”

“— but most people coming here don’t like that part, so it tends to be skipped.” Nathan continued, “But if that doesn’t bother you it’s a solid choice. They are social, clever, capable of making advanced decisions.” He smiled, seeing Jane’s eyes rest a little more on the entry in the binder. “Based on testing and our own observations here, progenitors lose some long term planning and critical thinking skills, but not much else. They follow conversations without much issue.”

Ash nodded, “and Chucky can communicate back pretty well with his buttons, the ones some people get for their dogs.”

Jane’s head popped up, “Chucky?”

Ash smiled, “Yea, he’s mine... well not mine in like a pet way...” her face twisted as she clearly started to backtrack and panic. ‘What I mean is more—"

“For progenitors it’s considered guardianship, not ownership,” Nathan interrupted, “For high intelligence species like them it’s more along the line of a cooperative partnership. Chucky helps Ash get around the reserve and Ash vouches for him when he needs it.” He saw Ash nodding along at his explanation. The rest of it could come from her.

Slowly Jane nodded and flipped a little through the rest of the pages but it was clear that she wasn’t really looking for anything specific. He let her search for a few minutes before he glanced up at Ash, who shot back a small smile before resting a hand on the table lightly.

“Would you like to meet him?” She asked.

“... h-him?” Jane stuttered back.

“Chucky?” Ash said with a smile, straightening back up, “It’s maybe a ten minute walk out to the Loraptor barn. Assuming he stayed there, he likes to wander a bit, but rarely far.”

Nathan slid the binder towards himself and closed it, “Remember, you signed up for a trial run. Nothing’s set in stone and you’re here for a little over a week. You don’t need to choose now, if at all. Let’s take a look around, you can see how the staff handles the reserve and we’ll point out a few other novels you might find interesting. We’ll move forward from there.”

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