Mecha Read online

  Mecha

  Volume One

  The Last Song of Renegade Three ZeroLucas Marcum

  Little Gray ManJamie Ibson

  Stack KnightThomas Mays

  A Niche in Timing Sean McCune

  Charge of the Light CompanyDoug Dandridge

  Cog in the MachineMark Harritt

  The GuardianRick Partlow

  Graduation DayYakov Merkin

  Maelstrom Rising Jason Cordova

  Maintenance ModeJohn M. Olsen

  All works © 2019 by Cannon Publishing LLC and individual story authors. No rights or permissions are granted to use any works or creative derivatives featured in this volume by any other than the authors or Cannon Publishing.

  The Last Song of Renegade Three Zero

  Lucas Marcum

  Andrew coughed, reeling from the fist to the gut, and rolled onto his side to get away from the hammering fists of the three older boys. They rained blows on him, hitting his head, his back, his side. God, his side. One of them kicked him again, sending a stabbing pain through his chest and making him gasp for air.

  One of them, a big redhead, leaned over, his face inches from Andrew’s face, and said, “You. We warned you about interfering in our business. This is what you’ll get every time.” The boy’s voice had a tinge of sadistic amusement as he continued, “Every. Single. Time.” A pause as the blows stopped, leaving Andrew gasping for air, his throat searing as he tried to draw breath. The big boy continued, grabbing Andrew by the front of the shirt, “You knew this would end in you getting your ass beat. Why did you do it? Why do you persist in sticking up for them? They don’t matter to you. All you gotta do is keep walking, but you don’t. You just never learn. You’re a system failure.” Andrew coughed and tried to force his eyes open, as the big boy stood and spoke again, “You, Andrew Zeligman, are a system failure. A complete SYSTEM FAILURE.” His words grew louder and monotone, and he began to shake Andrew back and forth. A swell of other noises intensified, a roaring-hissing-spitting noise mixed with an insistent ringing, making his head pound, and the words repeating over and over, “SYSTEM FAILURE. SYSTEM FAILURE. SYSTEM FAILURE.”

  ***

  With a gasp, Staff Sergeant Andrew Zeligman woke up, coughing and disoriented. The screens in front of him flashed red and yellow, dozens of warning indicators blinking. The cockpit was hazy with smoke, and a bright beam of sunlight shot through the cabin, coming from a large hole in the left side of the windscreen. In front of him on the master display were the words in bold red letters: ‘SYSTEM FAILURE’. The letters blinked slightly each time the computer spoke. The radio in front of him spit a steady stream of static, its insistent hiss insinuating itself between the chiming and beeping of the warning tones.

  Attempting to lick his lips, he realized his mouth and throat were dry and screaming in pain. Something didn’t feel right. After a moment, he realized he was laying on his right side. In fact, the entire mech seemed to be on its side. Confused, he squinted his eyes shut for a moment, trying to remember where he was. In a flash it came back to him. They’d been hit, that was clear. Suddenly he realized he needed to check on his gunner, Sergeant Matthew Underwood.

  Reaching for his mic toggle, he spoke, his voice cracking and hoarse, “Matt. You ok, man?” Releasing the toggle, he waited for a response. After a moment, he keyed again. “Matty. Talk to me, brother. I need to know you’re ok.” Again, nothing but silence. With some effort he raised his head, trying to look forward and down to the gunner’s seat, but was unable to see. He hit the key again, and spoke louder, “Matt, come on, buddy.” There was no response, just the chiming of the alarms and the static from the radio. He muttered under his breath, “Shit.”

  Reaching forward, he hit the master alarm silence switch. The alarms all ceased at once, leaving only the static of the radio and the spitting of sparks from somewhere. He spoke loudly again, “Matt, I’m coming, man. Hang on.” Reaching for his harness, he released it, slumping awkwardly onto his right side, leaning his weight on the console and window. The movement sent him into a coughing fit, ending with him spitting bright red blood. His left arm and ribs screamed in pain as he did, causing him to see stars. Stopping to catch his breath, he looked down at his left side, realizing that his one-piece khaki uniform was dark and sticking to his side. Pressing his hand to his ribs momentarily, he pulled it away. Staring at his hand, he saw fresh, bright-red blood. Blowing out a breath and gritting his teeth against the pain, he thought for a moment, then spoke again, “Fuck it.”

  Pulling his helmet off, he scrambled toward the front of his control console, squeezing through the small space between his seat and Matt’s position below, his side screaming in pain. After a moment of struggling, he forced his arms, head and chest through and into the gunner’s compartment. As he squirmed his way in, he could see Matt slumped on his side against the console. Reaching his friend’s shoulders, he pulled him back. As he did so, Matt’s head rolled back, and Alex could see his pale, still features, and the front of his uniform was soaked and dark. Touching his face, the coolness of his skin struck him. A sudden shot of fear went through him as he felt his friend’s neck, feeling for a pulse. For several moments, he kept his fingers to the man’s neck, whispering, “Come on, man. Come on…”

  After a moment, he gently leaned Matt’s head back so his helmeted head rested on his shoulder, and embraced his friend. Closing his eyes, he held him tight, then whispered, “Sorry, Matty.” With a final, gentle hug, he carefully laid Matt’s head back down and worked his way backward toward the pilot’s seat. Getting back to his seat, he blew out a breath and tried to think. Matt was dead; the mech was banged up, but apparently still had some power; and he was in sharkie country.

  Shutting his eyes hard for a moment, he made a decision. He was going to get out of here, so… “Time to get your shit together, sonny.” He spoke out loud, his voice cracking. Putting his helmet back on and fastening the chinstrap, he stared at his instruments. After a moment, and with a mental prayer, he reached out and hit the master power switch. The entire console went dark. Frowning, he snapped the switch on and off several times, with no result. Balling his fist, he banged the console, hard. The screens in front of him lit up and displayed the words ‘SYSTEM REBOOT’.

  Alex nodded grimly and tried to be patient. The main computer in the M37A Mobile Combat Platform was supposed to be capable of resetting in 30 seconds, but like most military equipment, often took longer. Realizing he hadn’t looked at his side, he reached for the first aid kit tucked under his seat. Unzipping the front of his combat vehicle crewman’s suit, he peered at his chest, but only saw blood and bits of torn uniform. Grimacing, he opened the aid kid and pulled out a bulky dressing, and, wincing, peeled the suit off of his skin. Reaching into the top of the suit, he clamped the dressing over his side. He didn’t want to look too closely for fear of what he might find.

  Feeling the nanostick seal tightening on his chest, he pressed on it and felt the numbing sensation of the local anesthetic imbedded in the dressing taking effect. Blowing out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he closed his uniform top and froze, seeing the picture of his wife Sarah and their son James that he’d taped to his instrument console. They were sitting in the sunlight on a brilliant green patch of grass, and Sarah had her arms wrapped around James. Both of them were beaming at the camera. Next to the picture of his family was another small picture, of the open prairie near where he’d grown up in South Dakota. There were words printed on it, an old saying from a Native American war leader:

  “When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die lik
e a hero going home.”

  Alex stared at the words, the golden grass, and crystal blue sky that reminded him of his boyhood home for a long time. Suddenly, the computer chirped, and a message appeared on the console.

  “REBOOT COMPLETE. TIP PERCENTAGE 45.7% INITIATE RIGHTING PROCEDURE? Y/N”

  Cinching his harness tight, he tapped ‘yes’ and waited. Underneath him he could hear servos whining and the clunking of the righting rods pushing against the ground. The jerking and bumping of the cockpit caused his head to swim. In a few seconds, with a hard thump, the mech was back on its feet. The screen in front of Andrew was blinking again with dozens of warning lights. Reaching over, he hit the control for the master diagnostic and stared at the readout as the computer spoke in its mechanical voice.

  “Left arm: Nonresponsive. Left Mark 50 system: Nonresponsive. Left crew cabin armor: 45%, multiple penetrations. Torso armor: 67%, multiple penetrations. Left leg servos damaged: 57% function. Left thrusters damaged: Advise limited use. Central Mark 30 lascannon system: Online. Integrated communications: Offline. Long range targeting systems: Offline. Satellite uplink: Offline. Oxygen generator: Offline. Main Reactor Status: Emergency low power mode. Battery backup: 89%. Jump jet fuel: 25%”

  Alex watched the display lighting up, each announcement adding additional details. Something had clearly hit them hard on the left side. Leaning forward, he peered through the pilot’s window, back and down at the left side, and was stunned to see the entire left side of the mech was damaged. The entire left arm was gone, now a stump that was spitting sparks. The large plasma cannon was gone, too, and he could see scorch marks on the entire left side and several deep dents and holes in the leg.

  Looking back at his display, he frowned, then tapped a few keys and cut the power going to the left arm, then looked out the window again. The sparks had stopped.

  Grabbing the controls, he waggled the control stick back and forth, feeling the big walker respond, albeit sluggishly. Satisfied that he’d regained at least temporary control, he turned his attention to the sensor screens. Cycling through the radar, he noticed that both the long- and medium-range radar were not just offline, they were completely nonfunctional. Short range seemed functional, but if any of the Elai got close enough to see on the short-range radar…

  Alex grimaced. Better than nothing, but still, he was effectively blind. Finally, he tapped the reactor system power up. After a moment the indicator rose, and a subliminal hum increased behind him. On the display, the status of the reactor changed. It now blinked twice and changed from ‘Emergency power’ to ‘Reactor online—reduced power mode’. He nodded grimly. At least he had power. Nothing else was working, but he had some juice, enough to link up with the rest of Renegade Lance, or, failing that, probably enough to get back to the forward operating base they’d started from.

  Running through a mental checklist, he reached for the radio that was spitting static. Tapping the squelch button, he tried to find a clear frequency. Hearing the incomprehensible murmur of voices through the static, he turned the transmission power to maximum and spoke.

  “Any units in range, this is Renegade Three Zero, requesting immediate assistance.”

  Releasing the key, he listened for a moment, then said again, “Any units receiving, this is Renegade Three Zero with an emergency assistance request.” Again, the radio only spit static and emitted a strange modulating squeal. Frowning, Andrew toggled to the satellite communications and tried again, with the same result.

  Sitting still in the cockpit for a minute, he thought, then leaned forward again and craned his neck back, looking at the upper left side of the torso. Seeing the broken stumps of the communications array, he swore, “God dammit.” He drummed his fingers on the navigation console for a moment and grinned, then said to himself, “Fleet freqs.” Tapping the communication panel, he keyed in the frequency that allowed him to listen in and, in emergencies, break into the fleet frequencies above. Hitting enter, he turned the volume up and listened. To his relief, he could hear voices. After a moment, his relief turned to horror as he began to make out what they were saying.

  A tight voice was speaking, “Sunspear, this is Starstrike. Missiles inbound, point three seven!”

  Someone immediately replied, “Starstrike, we see them. Our defensive cannons have been knocked out, vector destroyer support for anti-missile defense, now!”

  An accented voice called out, “Darkstar’s hit! She’s venting atmosphere!”

  A high-pitched wash of static came, and then another tense voice said, “This is the Damocles. We have sustained heavy damage, and our ….”

  A woman’s voice came over the radio, high and excited, “The Damocles’ core just blew!”

  Dispassionately, a second woman’s voice responded, “Roger, Temperance. Nothing we can do. Do you see lifeboats?”

  The woman’s voice replied, “Negative, Sudden Strike. I don’t think…”

  There was surge of static, then someone shouting, “They’re making a firing run on the Patience! My god! She’s marked! She’s marked! She’s taken multiple hits amidships! She’s breaking up!” There was a confused moment of multiple voices, obscuring what happened next.

  Andrew stared at his radio, horrified and transfixed by what he was hearing. The Patience was a massive hospital ship, and carried thousands of wounded soldiers and thousands more crew. Jerking his head back, he stared through his cracked cockpit window at the deepening purple of the sky. He could see flashes and streaks of light as the radio continued to stream desperate calls for help from the doomed sailors above.

  A powerful, commanding baritone voice broke in, “This is Fleet Admiral Onoda. All ships, general retreat. Rally point Zeta. Escorts, protect the carriers and remaining hospital ship. Maximum effort…” The admiral’s voice faded into the static.

  A single, calm voice with an Indian accent spoke in the clearest transmission he’d heard yet, sounding like the ship was right next to him, “This is the New Delhi. We’ve lost engines and maneuver control, and are in an uncontrolled descent into the…” The rest was lost in a wash of static, and overhead a single bright line appeared, streaking across the sky in a blaze of light.

  Looking back down, Andrew jammed his eyes tightly shut, trying to remember a prayer, any prayer, from his childhood, but he couldn’t think of anything but the words of Tecumseh playing in his mind. He looked up again at the stream of light and whispered, “Like a hero going home.” The hard point of light broke into several points, then more smaller ones, vanishing over the horizon.

  Stunned, Andrew reached over the communications panel and punched the button. The sudden silence was overwhelming. He sat in his damaged mech, with the body of his best friend trapped feet below him, and stared at the controls.

  After a moment, he nodded slowly, then said quietly, “Ok. Ok. So this is how it’s gonna be.” Feeling a cold anger bubbling up inside him, he spoke to himself as he started powering up his remaining weapons systems. He continued to speak to himself as he rerouted power and weapons controls. “Fucking aliens think they can smash my mech? Kill my friends? Fuck my fucking Navy up? Oh, hell no, baby. Hell fucking no.” He grinned savagely as the main cannons under the nose of the Humpback came to life, the Mark 80 pulsed lascannon on the right side indicated functional, and the missile pod indicators lit up, showing they were still operational. Tapping another key, he saw the missile inventory. Twelve high-explosive missiles were left in the rear mounted launcher. It would work. He nodded again, kissed his thumb, pressed it to the picture of his wife and son, and keyed the radio.

  “Any units in range, this is Renegade Three-Zero. I’m proceeding to search for survivors of Renegade Lance, then will proceed to Operating Base Humpback. Be advised, sensors are down, and weapons are hot. We’re gonna do this the old-fashioned way. Renegade Three-Zero, out.”

  Andrew gently moved the throttle forward. The mech lurched, then started moving, falling into the steady, rocking rhythm that was so familiar
to him. Feeling a gentle pull to the left, Andrew frowned and tapped a control, adjusting the power to the damaged leg. It wasn’t going to be any good on the servos, but he only needed it to make it back to the forward operating base. Turning the big machine around, he scanned the area around him, looking for any signs of the remaining three mechs from his lance. Completing nearly a full circle, and not seeing any of his teammates, he frowned and peered at the short-range radar. The small screen remained maddingly silent.

  Looking back up at the grey and brown landscape, he tried to get oriented, but without the navigation system and in the featureless terrain, it seemed like a lost cause. Easing back the throttle, he leaned forward, looking around him. Spying something on the ground, he moved the big machine closer, then grinned. Half buried in the dust was a spent missile casing. Someone had been firing, and then moved out, probably thinking he’d been knocked out. With a tight smile, he throttled up the mech and moved in the direction of the spent cases. Straining his eyes at the ground, he could see the large prints from the feet of the mechs. Satisfied he was on the right path, he started after his comrades.

  Seeing a small hill in front of him, he reduced speed and kept an eye on the balance indicator on the instrument console. Satisfied that it was holding steady and he wasn’t going to tip over, he gently increased power and crested the hill. Throttling back, he looked up from his instruments and froze in horror.

  Below him in a small valley were the broken and smashed hulks of Renegade Lance. He could see several mechs grouped together, slumped on their sides. Another was some distance away, horribly burnt, hardly recognizable as a Humpback anymore. A final mech was lying on its back a short distance from the other three. There were figures in slick black armor standing around it. One of the figures was on top of it, reaching into the cockpit through the shattered windscreen, apparently pulling on something. As Andrew watched in shock, the figure removed whatever he’d been pulling on and tossed it down to another figure on the ground, who placed it into a pile. With a start, Andrew realized that next to the pile lay a khaki-suited figure with an olive drab helmet on. Another figure was lying face down next to him, similarly clad, but missing one of its legs. A dark armored figure was kneeling by it, tugging on the dead soldier’s uniform, trying to remove something.