Lyle looked at the stalls. The mechs in those stalls represented most of the chassis that he remembered. He saw cannon rounds being loaded into a B-17. Laser power packs were being installed on the lighter, recon R-99. There was even an HA-75 being fitted with long-range missile racks and loaded with ammo for the rail gun.

  That's when he noticed something about them. There were being loaded with live ammunition. But why? This was supposed to be an evaluation, wasn't it? Was this how they did things in the outer rim? That didn't make sense. Every piece of hardware was said to be too crucial to waste, right? That's why they had such a bug up their ass about getting the cargo, or so he thought.

  Lyle felt nervousness creep into his thoughts. He was about to have an evaluation duel with no prep and possibly live weapons. He hadn't been in the cockpit for eight years. The psychological programming during mech driver training basically made it impossible to forget how to drive a mech, but even the most experienced drivers had some rust after a long layoff. Whether he was ready or not, this fight was going to happen under these circumstances.

  Lyle started across the bay, looking left and right, trying to find Vostro, or the Colonel or someone that would know what was really going on.

  He grabbed the arm of a Private that was walking by, pushing a cart of hydraulic fluid cylinders.

  "Point me to Captain Vostro."

  The private yanked his arm away and pointed to the far side of the bay, and the last stall on the right.

  "Thanks."

  "Fuck off, civie."

  Yup, news still travels fast.

  Lyle put the private out of mind. At the moment, he really didn't care what anyone thought of him. He just wanted to find Vostro.

  It took another minute before he could pick her out from the crowd working around a light gray B-54, with mottled black striping that would be perfect camouflage on the asteroid landscape. He could tell it had seen plenty of action, but it looked to have been maintained perfectly; a credit to her crew and her skill as a driver.

  Vostro was standing on scaffolding, five meters off the floor, examining a left leg actuator with two other techs.

  As Lyle walked up, the crew members walking around him did nothing to hide their disdain for him. There were sneers. He was bumped a couple of times by crew members walking by. One, carrying a two-meter pipe on his shoulder, stopped right behind him and turned around suddenly, swinging the pipe around a hundred and eighty degrees. Lyle ducked, then ducked again when the crewman turned back around to continue on. Lyle knew he was an outsider here. He expected this kind of reaction, but he found his patience wearing thin. He was a Captain, by order of the Colonel, after all. He could act like it like the Colonel told him to. No. That would just feed the hostility around him more.

  "Captain! I need to speak with you, please."

  Vostro didn't acknowledge his him.

  "Captain Vostro!" Lyle yelled louder.

  This time, she turned and looked down. "You need to be tending to your mech...Captain." She pointed behind him to the stall directly opposite hers.

  Lyle turned and his heart sank a little. The stall was supporting a beat up B-12 chassis in a somewhat upright position. The torso listed, noticeably, to its right and was being supported by a gantry over the stall. It had an olive drab paint color that was heavily carbon scored all over.

  Lyle turned back to Vostro. "You've got to be shitting me. Get down here, please, I need to have a word."

  "Don't like what you see…Captain?" She said, without looking at him.

  Lyle turned his right shoulder into her view. "Those stripes are back in my quarters. I'm not going to disrespect your unit like that."

  Vostro looked at him, then his shoulder and thought for a moment. She climbed down the scaffolding ladder and walked straight to Lyle, getting nose to nose with him.

  "You have thirty seconds," she said.

  "Why is everything being loaded with live ammo?"

  "That's none of your business, but you can take comfort in knowing we are being outfitted with trial weapons."

  "Is that so?"

  She turned around, looked up toward the cockpit if her mech, and spoke into her commlink. "Open the missile rack."

  In a few seconds, two covers lifted from the missile rack tubes. Lyle could see ends of eight, blunt-tipped, missiles at the edges of the tubes.

  "You do remember what training missiles look like, correct?"

  Lyle stayed fixated on the launch tubes as the missile doors closed. "Yes. Thank you."

  "Your thirty seconds are up. Go." She pointed to the other mech as if she was shooing a dog away.

  He looked back at her in the eye. His stare lingered for an extra couple of seconds as if to say: See you soon.

  Chapter 25

  Lyle didn't like the way she dismissed him away like that, but he felt better after seeing the training weapons installed on her mech.

  As he got closer, though, his mech was looking less and less adequate. The B-12 was a full generation behind her Fifty-four. Three-quarters the top speed. A little more than half the rated firepower. The electronics package was also a generation behind in the original models, but some did get refitted with an upgrade. He hoped this was one them.

  Lyle was most concerned about the list in the torso. There was a little flexibility built into the waist of the chassis, but to have the torso stuck in that slightly crooked position meant something was bent or even broke. If torso swiveling was impaired, he would be at a serious disadvantage on top of the uphill climb he already had ahead of him.

  His eyes scanned the large crew working on the Twelve, looking for a work suit with a broad yellow strip across the back. He saw it, peeking out from the crowd gathered on the platform around right torso area of the Twelve. Lyle started up the metal staircase that led to upper levels of the stall.

  He reached the second level. There were five people huddled on the platform. Three of them, including the crew boss, had their arms reached in, grabbing a long pry bar and fighting to heave it back toward them.

  "Pull it...that's it..." A voice said.

  There was a creaking of metal and grunting of effort.

  "Keep it up!" The voice said again.

  Then there was a loud CLANG. The pry bar jumped suddenly. One man, nearly lost his balance on the edge of the platform.

  "Is it in?"

  "Yeah...yeah, it's good."

  The group began to break up and move off the platform. Lyle was able to see the boss clearly, now. And it was Chief Diego.

  As if I couldn't see that coming, geez.

  "Chief."

  Diego turned, saw Lyle, then a scowl fell on to his face. He walked over, pulling a data pad out of his pocket.

  Lyle extended his hand.

  "Captain," Diego said with a nod. There was no handshake.

  Okay, all business it is, then. "Report."

  Diego handed over the data pad. The overall checklist was already on the screen. Items checked off were ready. Items in red were still issues and they could be tapped to open individually to get details.

  Lyle started to scan the list, then pointed to where the group was just working. "What's wrong with the torso?"

  "Waist linkage was bent and the bearing ring was popped out of place." The explanation was given in monotone, disinterested fashion.

  The Chief's tone didn't sit well with Lyle. He turned to Diego directly. "Am I going to be able to rely on this mech in the field? Or am I going to have a mysterious breakage?"

  Diego immediately went from disinterested to animated and got in Lyle's face again. "What are you saying…Captain?"

  "I think you know," Lyle said.

  Some of the nearby crew noticed the heated exchange and started to gather around.

  "You will not question the integrity of this crew. Let's be clear, they don't like you. I don't like you, Captain, and I'm betting on The Banshee embarrassing you out there today. But she will do it because she's better than you, not because your mech has failed you. Every mech that leaves my crew's hands is in the best working order it can be, no matter who is driving it. Do not ever question this crew, you get me?"

  The gathered crew shouted "Ooh-rah!"

  Lyle stared Diego down for a long moment and began to nod slowly. He smiled and slapped Diego on the shoulder. "Great, then I'm in good hands."

  Diego stared blankly and blinked a few times, then turned to the crew around them. "Back to work!"

  Reluctantly, the crew did so and in another few seconds it was like nothing had ever happened.

  "Now," Lyle said, pointing to the mech. "Tell me about her?"

  Diego shook his head to clear the confusion of what just happened, then motioned Lyle to the platform.

  "She's a B-12 Shark. C-variant. I think you know the specs."

  Lyle nodded. "She's in rough shape. Where'd she come from?"

  "Rough shape? No, no. She's seasoned, sure, but she's beautiful. She was salvaged from the battlefield, during the war."

  There was almost a gleam in Diego's eye when talking about the Twelve. It was clear to Lyle that the Chief had a passion for mech mechanics. Someone like that loved what they did too much to knowingly sabotage a mech…usually. It was a good thing.

  "Salvage?"

  "Oh yeah. You didn't think they were going to let you crack up something that was field ready, did you?"

  Lyle shook his head slowly. "Geesh."

  "We pulled her out of the bone yard earlier this morning to get her ready. Let's head topside."

  Diego led the way up the stairs, to the top level.

  "Make a hole," Diego said.

  The crew parted left and right, allowing Lyle and Diego to pass through to the cockpit.

  Diego motioned a crewman out of the cockpit. When he was clear, Lyle dropped himself in.

  Sweeeeeet

  It was dark inside because the cover plates were still installed on the cockpit glass. The only light came from the brightly colored indicators that bathed him in shades of red, green and amber. He shifted himself in the seat to get comfortable. He adjusted the seat position and restraint harness to fit. Lyle looked around the control panel refreshing his memory on locations of key functions. He took the control stick in his right hand and the throttle in his left.

  It all felt natural.

  "You like it?" Diego said.

  "It's been a long time," Lyle said, with the first smile that wasn't forced in almost a full day. "One thing I don't get, though."

  "What's that?"

  There was a loud whirring of impact wrenches working on the bolts holding the canopy cover plates in place.

  "It doesn't make sense that you were able retrieve it as salvage. She's rough, but not damaged to the point where it needed to be abandoned. Standing order was to self-destruct after ejection," Lyle said.

  There were clanking noises coming from outside the forward canopy. After a few seconds, Lyle heard someone outside yell, "Take it up."

  The right cover plate began to pull up and away from the canopy. The cool darkness of the cockpit began to fill with the harsh lighting of the mech bay. Lyle had to hold his hand in front of his face, briefly, while his eyes adjusted.

  It was then, he noticed the glass. First, he saw the spider web of cracks. Then he saw the web surrounded a large hole at eye level. Lyle turned to look up at the Chief and saw the remains of a red liquid stain on the back wall of the cockpit.

  He looked at the stain, then the hole, then back at the stain, and finally up at the Chief.

  "Well, I guess that answers that question."

  "Yeah," Diego said.

  Lyle sat for a moment. The realization that one of his comrades in arms died in that very seat, probably from a shot fired by someone in this mech bay was a little unnerving. For all he knew it could have been Captain Vostro, whose mech he could now see in the stall directly across from him.

  There was probably a family somewhere with a mother or father, husband or wife, on the M.I.A list that would want to know what happened. For the moment, the most he could do was do his best to give the 501st a little payback.

  "So," Chief Diego said. "A few things to be aware of; we pieced the waist linkage back together by hammering and banging the hell out of it, but it's not a hundred percent. You could possibly have problems and get stuck if you rotate right past eighty-degrees, so keep that in mind."

  "Noted."

  "Hopper jets are at about seventy-five percent. Again, no time to fix it right."

  Lyle ran a hand through his hair. "Seems like everything about this is at seventy-five percent."

  "Not my fault. They only gave me enough time to make sure everything works."

  "Fantastic."

  "Anyway, the left shoulder assembly is a bit shaky—"

  "Let me guess...seventy-five percent?"

  Diego shrugged.

  "Alright," Lyle said. "This is the C-variant, you said?"

  "Correct?"

  "Electronics upgrade?" Lyle said, activating a diagnostic display.

  "Yes, actually. Tactical computer and targeting system have fairly current firmware and the system is fully A.I. capable."

  Lyle smiled again. "Nice."

  "No A.I.'s installed for this duel though," Diego said. "This is a total driver evaluation."

  Lyle chuckled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

  "That about covers it. Or at least as well we can without any shakedown time."

  Lyle continued bringing up diagnostics, and going through the systems checklist in his mind. "Thanks, Chief. I appreciate it."

  Then, out of the corner of his eye to his right, he saw a hand extended down to him.

  Lyle looked up at Diego, who was smiling out of the corner of his mouth. He reached up with his left hand and accepted the gesture from Diego.

  The chief leaned in and said, quietly, "On this course, she likes using misdirection. When you're watching the right, she'll be on you from the left."

  Lyle sat in a stunned silence for a long moment and said, "Why tell me that?"

  Diego pointed to the empty Velcro strip, on his uniform shoulder where the rank patches would be. Shook his hand again, and said, "I've got to finish getting this baby ready. See you in a bit."

  Lyle was a little bit stunned. What would Vostro think about that?

  The exchange reinforced the something Lyle knew deep down and hoped the men and women of the 501st also believed: While they were divided by the lines on a map and separated by an ideology of their superiors, they were all still cut from the same cloth. And maybe even Captain Vostro – The Banshee, as Lyle heard she was called – could have a brief moment of mutual respect for a fellow mech driver.

  He hoped so.

  Chapter 26

  Chief Diego gave Lyle the final run down of his evaluation of the Twelve – he was still out gunned, outpaced, and out matched in nearly every way on paper.

  The briefing held no surprises. The mechs were outfitted with training weapons that couldn't penetrate mech armor, but could knock around and hits would register as damage. The data was collected from sensors in the mech armor and sensors in the weapons themselves. An algorithm would calculate damage to affected area which was translated into points. When a mech had registered enough damage to be deemed disabled or destroyed, the duel would be over.

  Nothing had really changed from years ago.

  Lyle settled back into the cockpit after the briefing, connecting sensors to the various points on his suit that monitored health vital signs, then he slid his arms into the shoulder straps of the harness and clicked the buckles into the center buckle on the waist strap.

  He picked up the helmet from the hook on the left wall of the cramped cockpit. It was olive drab, like the Twelve, with 'Wicker-Man' hand scribed on the visor cover. He slipped the helmet over his head and connected the computer line to the port on the back of the helmet. He tested the visor interface with the targeting computer. The amber reticle appeared on the visor. He moved his eyes, left and right in the visor's field of view. The reticle moved with his eyes and settled on what he looked at. He could see the cannons on the mech arms moving in sync with his eye movements, as well. Synchronization with his left retina was completed.

  He flicked his eyes to the stall across from him and let the reticle settle long enough for a target lock, then he switched the system off.

  He could just imagine the alarms going off in Vostro's cockpit for that brief second and her cursing the ‘civie hauler’ in the mech across the bay. His way of saying 'hello'. No reason to not try to get in her head just a little bit.

  Lyle could see the crew outside racing around, retrieving gear and disconnecting the gantry from the stall. It wouldn't be long before it was time to power up.

  He took his hands off the controls, set them in his lap, and closed his eyes. Lyle took a long, deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. He wasn't nervous, per se. But there was still about a thousand things that could go wrong with this. Even with training weapons, he couldn't afford to take anything for granted.

  He believed in his mech – a mech driver had to believe in his machine no matter what. And he believed Chief Diego had done everything that could be done in the time allotted to him. But there was still some uncertainty in driving a mech that had been in mothballs for who knows how long. Metal gets fatigued. Wire connections fray with age. A single wire could simply come loose, he'd be dead in the water, and Vostro would have her way with him.

 

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