“…single combat. Mech vs mech. No wingmates, no backup…and no nukes. Over.”
Robbie stood at attention in the FOB Command Centre as the Priestess’s parley voice boomed through the speakers. The huge wall screen showed her ?mech locked in the crosshair of a perimeter defence cannon: her thruster-legs straddled a rocky outcrop, her vantablack wings were folded into vertical shoulder fins, her glossy nosecam ‘head’ shone dark gold in the morning sun.
Base Commander Oscar Caravaggio prowled the CC’s floor, weaving between manned ops consoles in his exoskeleton. “Status update!”
“Enemy m<sup>2</sup>issile bays remain closed; proton lance accelerator powered down,” said a tactical officer in a bulky matte-white headset. “We have her surrounded to the north by two Mantamech pairs in HOVA mode, as well as the cannon, sir.”
“And she’s definitely alone? Just one?”
“Mech Lieutenants Goring and Hassan are in AFM at 15,000 metres with 20/20 visibility. Skies are clear, sir.”
“Can we execute a capture operation?”
“I believe so, sir. If we shoot out the hydraulics, I estimate a 76% chance we could take the pilot alive…”
“NO!” The word left Robbie’s lips before he could stop himself. The whole CC turned to stare at him.
“That should be ‘NO, SIR!’, mech lieutenant!” barked Walter Okafor from somewhere to Robbie’s left. The Brig Warden had brought Robbie—and a rather insistent Olivia—to the confab zone, an open floor area in the middle of the vast CC.
Caravaggio now entered this zone. Robbie stared up at the grizzled Base Commander, who towered above him in his exoskeleton. “This is my mess, sir! Let me clean it up.”
Olivia cleared her throat. “Sir, it is my view that Robert Cassidy is not in a fit mental state for court martial, let alone combat. The Mech Lieutenant is exhibiting symptoms consistent with the transference of guilt at the death of his wingmate…”
“Responsibility for one’s actions is not a mental health issue, Psyche Officer Rodrigues,” said Caravaggio.
“I agree.” A woman in a sharp civilian business suit stepped forward.
Olivia’s bionic eyes focused on the newcomer. “And you are?”
“Trudy Devon. I represent the Federation of Martian Industry.”
“I wasn’t aware the Oligopolies had a representative on EXO19.”
“Well now you are.” The rep turned her icy smile to Robbie. “My entanglement partner—my ‘wingmate’, if you will—is attending the peace talks on EXO15 as we speak. All agree that your skirmish with the Christophites was unfortunate. But the solution proposed by the enemy pilot is rather…elegant.”
“Elegant?!” said Olivia. “You’re talking about a deathmatch! We’ve already lost one pilot…” Robbie flinched at the memory of Eve, burning in her crash corset. “…and the Christophites have lost one of theirs. Isn’t that ‘elegant’ enough?”
Caravaggio’s mechanical joints whirred as spun to face Olivia. “The Christophites use clone pairs; they did not truly ‘lose’ a pilot! We did! As long as this Priestess is alive, she can repair and replace at will.” He briefly looked down at his medical exoskeleton in disgust. “To concede the situation ‘as-is’ would be a sign of weakness.”
“Permission to speak frankly, sir?” said the officer in the headset.
“Everybody else is,” grumbled the Base Commander. “What’s on your mind, Finch?”
Finch…Michael Finch. Robbie remembered the young tactical officer from Eve’s thoughts. They’d been close.
Very close.
“Our strength has always been in our numbers, sir. In a one-on-one fight, the ?mech is plainly superior to the Mantamech. Our best course would be to kill or capture her now and send a message to their base that we consider the matter concluded, pending no further hostilities.”
“I can beat her, Sir!” said Robbie. “I’ve defeated her once already, two of her in fact…”
“With respect, Mech Lieutenant,” said Michael, “‘Defeated’ is a strong word. You used a tactical nuke. The Priestess is still alive. And Eve…” His voice caught. “Eve is…”
Robbie looked into the pale faceplate of the Tactical Officer’s headset. “Michael, I’m truly sorry about what happened…”The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Without Eve, you’re just a callous flyboy.”
Robbie’s temper flared. “Watch yourself, Finch…”
“Watch yourself, Mech Lieutenant,” said Walter. “You’re still under court martial…”
“Robbie needs therapy, not court martial…,” said Olivia.
“ENOUGH!” roared Caravaggio. “Psyche Officer Rodrigues: you’re dismissed.”
“But…”
“This is a combat situation, not a therapy session. Although I will be recommending Tactical Officer Finch to your services. Brig Warden Okafor, escort the Psyche Officer back to her hut.”
When she and Walter had gone, Caravaggio looked between Robbie, Trudy, and Michael. “Finch—bring up the map.”
Michael slotted a spherifilm cartridge into his console. A rotating projection of EXO19 appeared above them, showing the mapped areas of the planet. Much of it was dark.
“The fight will have to be somewhere far away from both the FOB and the Christophites’ base,” said Caravaggio.
“Open water,” said Trudy.
“No,” said Robbie, remembering his time on the dead sea. “As Michael says, her ?mech will be superior in AFM. I want the option to force her down.”
“You want to fight her in HOVA?” said Michael.
“Or Ground Walker Mode. Our…my dojo training will be superior for close quarters combat.”
“That’s a hell of an assumption, Flyboy.”
Robbie ignored him. “How about the Moss Zone valleys in the Southern Hemisphere?”
“That’s the only fertile belt on the planet,” said Caravaggio. “We can’t have proton lances let loose in the valleys. I’d suggest the mineral plains on the northern continent…”
“Absolutely not,” said Trudy. “Those are earmarked for mining colonies. Let them fight somewhere unimportant—the polar ice caps, perhaps…”
“EXO19 doesn’t have ice caps,” said Robbie, feeling a surge of pride as he remembered Eve’s recollection of the science briefing. “The oceans are too salty.”
“What about this?” said Michael. The spherifilm projection zoomed in on a section of ocean at the equator, exposing an aerial view of what looked like a crystal volcano. “A salt glacier.”
“A salt glacier?” Robbie scoured his memory for this part of the science briefing, but it was like searching for a missing tooth.
“A massive flow of rock salt,” said Finch. “Discovered by S&R just a few days ago, while searching for your transponder. A salt dome—that mountainous structure—has breached not only the planet’s surface, but the surface of the ocean as well, forming a slow-moving glacier over twenty kilometres in diameter.”
“An island made of salt,” mused Caravaggio.
“Wait,” said Robbie to Trudy. “You said that you didn’t want us fighting over the mineral plains on the northern continent. Don’t the Oligopolies want to mine the salt glacier?”
“I think there’s enough salt on this planet, eh, Mech Lieutenant?” The CC staff laughed at the rep’s joke, and Robbie felt his face turning √beet red.
“Of course, there could be petroleum traps,” said Michael to Trudy. “Pockets of explosive fossilised halophilic algae within the salt strata.”
“We are of course interested in any propane derivatives for Mantamech and orbital shuttle fuel. But…” The rep paused for dramatic effect beneath the projection, as if delivering the killer blow in a pitch to investors. “…any such traps would likely be small and buried under kilometres of salt. Well out of proton lance range, and not worth the cost of drilling.”
“Enough with the TED<sup>2</sup> talks, you two,” said Caravaggio. “The salt glacier it is. Cassidy—get out of those brig fatigues and into a jumpsuit. Finch—open a parley channel. Tell that Christophite bitch we accept her challenge.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth, Base Commander,” said Robbie. He turned to face the ?mech in the ?hair on the screen.
<ul>
<li>Bring it.</li>
</ul>
***
The muscular flight tech wrapped the last corset strap around Robbie’s thigh and pulled it taut, almost cutting off the circulation. “All done, Mech Lieutenant. Give us a flex?”
Robbie flexed his arms and legs, and the Mantamech groaned around them in response. “Haptics online. Give me visuals, Chad.”
Chad—the flight tech—flicked a switch on the cavity wall. The screens around the corset came to life, showing the interior of the FOB hangar bay. A telemetry readout showed a flight systems check in green text.
Hydraulics fluid pressure > Nominal
Propane pumps > Online
Left leg thruster > Check
Right leg thruster > Check
Proton lance accelerator > Ionisation ratios nominal
M<sup>2</sup>issile bay load > 400/400 (100%)
Nuclear air mine > 0/0 (0%)
Nose camera > Check
Left wing/arm camera > Check
Right wing/arm camera > Check
Dorsal camera > Check
RADAR > Online
LADAR > Online
Handshake ping for wingmate…error
Handshake ping for wingmate…error
Handshake ping…
Chad stepped back and admired his handiwork. “Good hunting, sir.”
“You know it, Chad.”
“Martian Mecha Corps, SIR! We came for…”
“SEX, DEATH AND MECHS!” Their combined voices echoed around the cavity, but the words felt hollow in Robbie’s chest. Despite the titanium colossus around him, he felt naked without Eve. And where Eve’s thoughts should be, he now had…
Chad snapped off a salute and climbed out through the belly hatch. He was just starting to close the hatch when Robbie heard a familiar voice telling him to wait.
Olivia climbed into the cavity. Her bionic eyes looked him up and down. “You look like the Vesuvian Man.”
“The what?” said Robbie.
“Never mind. Robbie I…I’ve tried to take care of you. And Eve. And all the other recruits from the refugee camps in Helles Basin. And now Eve is dead, and now you feel compelled by some transference effect to embark on this misguided revenge fantasy.” Her metal eyes glistened in the LED lights of the cavity.
“Olivia…”
“I wanted to say I’m sorry. I failed you.”
“Olivia—this is NOT your fault. It was my foolish actions that got Eve killed. It’s my duty to take the Priestess on and finish this. Finish her. It’s like the Base Commander says: personal responsibility is not a mental health issue. Vengeance is therapy.”
“No…” whispered the Psyche Officer. “Vengeance is just a void.” Then she stepped up to the crash corset and kissed him on the mouth. The Mantamech jolted in response. The kiss was over as quickly as it started, before Robbie could commit to it or break away.
The hatch door clicked shut behind her.
Robbie was still reeling from whatever that was when Micheal’s voice appeared, tinny in his earpiece. “Proceed to hanger doors and enter HOVA mode. You’re cleared to fly.”