Chapter Text
There wasn’t any light to see by. I sat (laid? floated?) inside a room, arms and legs limp. The air felt breathable, but for how long I wasn’t certain. It was hard to orient myself in the space. The only sound was that of a combustion engine, though from what I couldn’t tell. There was no sense of gravity. I couldn’t feel anything other than the flight suit against my skin. I reached out toward my front and found what felt like a metal plate, textured with a couple switches and LEDs. Further up(?) there was a grating, with holes big enough to slip my fingers through. Further down there was a seam, below which there was a handle to something.
A dim light flickered on, and instinct swiveled me towards the screen.
“AUGMENTED HUMAN C4-621, VITAL SIGNS RETURNING. ENTERING STANDBY MODE.”
That’s where I am. At least I’m safer inside my AC. A new fear took over. Where are we? The interior lights flashed on, a set of LED tubes along the ceiling that cast a slightly blue light across the cockpit. I was still plugged in, wires and tubes leading off into the recesses of the beasts. I pushed off, drifting back into the seat.
“AUGMENTED HUMAN C4-621, ENTERING STANDARD MODE.”
The COM was a familiar voice, but it didn’t do anything for my nerves. The displays flicked on, tapping into the furthest parts of the AC to bring it up to my fingertips. The cameras showed nothing, just an empty void to stare into forever. A mental signal switched over to lowlight, showing my predicament in stunning detail. Below me sat Rubicon III, hundreds of kilometers below, flying past me.
Diagnostic data showed up on my left. The distribution switch was shot, cables to a couple maneuvering thrusters had been cut, hundreds of bullet holes were dotted across the frame, and a servo in the left arm was damaged. There was also a pulse shield over a breach in the lower torso, likely whatever tore out part of the switch. Weapons were another matter. The hands were empty, and the rocket pod that should have been on my right shoulder had been removed. Panning the head, I saw the shredded remains of the mount. The pulse buckler was still attached, but there were a few concerning holes in it.
I still didn’t know what had caused this. I didn’t look to be inside anything, and there was nothing but the Closure System within sight. Maybe I was deemed dead during a battle? But how did I get into orbit? I pulled up comm logs. Last communications were days ago, a mixed bag between my squad and what was likely the opposing force. The transcript mentioned a Raven. I flicked to the FCS, tried to pin down my last target. And at the top of the list sat a Raven, Piloting an AC titled NIGHTFALL.
So that’s what must have happened. I fought this Raven, and while I might have made it through with my life, something must have happened. So is Arquebus coming back to get me?
The threat alert system lit up with warnings. Radar showed something big above, no IFF signal. It must be a covert mission, especially so close to the PCA’s territory. A claw was extracted from the hull, and moved closer to my drifting wreck. Thunk. TYGEN lurched backward, being pulled toward the ship. A bay door opened, and after a few minutes it closed again with me inside. Overhead cranes moved to dock the mech, lifting it into a spare bay. There were a few other ACs on board, unpainted chassis that were built out of cheap parts. I recognized the RaD logo on one of them. A training vessel?
The PA system issued an active tone. “It’s good to meet you, C4-621.”
I tried to reply over an open comms channel. “My callsign is…” It hurt to get out even that much, my throat straining against the vocal cords. What had happened to my voice?
“I’m sure it is, but there’s no need for that name now. Until we find you a new license, you’ll be nameless in the field. I’m your new handler, Walter. You work for me, now that Arquebus has taken out the trash. Exit your AC, and come on up to the medbay for reassignment.
“Oh, and I would lay off your vocal chords. Sounds like whatever happened for the corps to cut you took a lot more than just your title.”
A burst of quiet static before the bay succumbed to the sound of heavy machinery. So much for that rescue effort. Looking around the bay, there weren’t many options to escape. Even breaking out would be difficult without ripping off an arm. Might as well obey the host.
“POWERING DOWN AC."
The generator fizzled out, the shaft doing a couple extra rotations as the cylinders expelled fumes. I unplugged from TYGEN, each connector snapping back into a holder for next time I boarded. I reached up and pushed the hatch open, the bright overhead lights sweeping in. It was a challenge to pull myself out of the comfort of the AC. It had been my home for most of my deployment. Still, orders were orders. Even if they weren’t coming from Arquebus Command.
I managed a shamble across the catwalk, bearing myself on the railings while my flimsy legs struggled across the floor. Each bay had a cargo elevator next to it, and a personnel elevator beside that. I made my way over and pressed the button. After a few seconds, the door revealed a set of armed guards. Each held a rifle, an H&K model, and wore armored vests with plates strapped to each extremity. “We’re your escort. I’d rather not kill you, so just follow directions, okay?” I nodded, and stepped in with them.
They pressed a button for the 15th floor, and the lift started climbing. The place wasn’t spotless, but I could tell this was an intentional level of wear. The paint had chipped in places, but was otherwise pristine. The doors squeaked just the right amount to feel normal but not concerning. The lights were not the harsh light of fluorescents, but were daylight LEDs diffused by a milky plexiglass. It was almost calming.
The doors opened again, and they led me out into a hall that was practically spotless. This must have been the medical wing. One door, two doors. The third door down opened for us, and I was ushered in. It closed, and the guards had left me to face a medical staff and who I could only assume was Handler Walter.
He was younger than I imagined, maybe in his early forties. His hair was beginning to silver, but he didn’t have many wrinkles. His suit was unbuttoned, the dark grey silk drifting around him in the breeze of the ventilation, and a white undershirt was tucked into slacks with a black belt. A cane was under his left hand, though he wasn’t leaning on it at all.
“About what I’d expect from battlefield wreckage.” He turned to one of the doctors. “Get it ready for drop in twenty-four hours. Replace anything that needs to be, and wipe its bindings. I’ll be back in eight hours for imprint.”
“Yes, sir. Let’s get her on the table and under.” The staff moved quickly, three coming to me while the others broke up to get prepped. Two of them came up beside me and lifted from each of my shoulders. The third one stopped to interface with one of my ports, what I knew to be a medical record terminal. I was brought to a table and stood in front of it. They stripped off my pilot suit, then helped me up. The third nurse came back with another, and they hooked up an IV. After a quick programming, an orange liquid flowed to meet the tube and travel into me. It was quick acting, and I passed out shortly after they all left to attack other tasks.
--
“Prop her up, she’s coming to.” The lights were blinding, I had to squint to see anything. I was being moved into a more angled position, the sound of motors audible behind the haze of the anesthetics. People surrounded me, some looking at terminals and others checking my vitals. I had been plugged in while I was out, though I could only feel them and not see them. As my eyes adapted, I could make out the Handler in front of me.
“Are we ready?” He was looking off toward one of the monitor nurses.
“We’re ready, sir. Just give the word.”
“Start the imprint.”
“Aye captain, starting imprint.” They pressed a button, and a window popped up in front of me. It said ‘Initializing display’. A set of displays appeared: a 24 hour clock, a heartrate and blood pressure readout, a compass, and a GPS readout. The text updated, now reading ‘Imprint Ready’. “She’s ready, sir”
He now addressed me directly. “Walter Eddison.” My muscles stiffened. I couldn’t move, not even my eyes to look around at people. I started to panic. Let me out of here!
“Also known as, Handler Walter. Finalize voice imprint.” The display updated again. ‘Speak lock phrase’ He hummed to himself. My heartrate was spiking. “Six-two-one, V3, pattern E”
‘Imprint complete, C4-621 ready for service.’
“Realign suppressor levels.”
The nurse pressed another button. “Realigning to base levels.”
The pain flew through me, from head to toe. It burned, as dispensers released neurotoxins to counteract any sense of humanity I might have had. I remembered this part. If only I could piece together what feelings had been here. If only…
“Come with me, 621. We have a job to do.” He turned to leave, and it stood up from the medical bed. The hall was still baren, though there were more people. None of them were a threat while it was with Walter. The elevator ride was quick, and when they arrived at the hangar, it saw that TYGEN was surrounded by construction equipment, currently being torn apart. It signaled Walter to stop. “Hm?”
It pointed at the demolished AC. “It was scrap anyways. We’ll deconstruct it and use the parts elsewhere.”
It started walking over. “Ah-ah, heel.” The command overrode any previous thought. The only consideration was to go back to Walter’s side. It turned around, moving as fast as it could. “Like a good hound should. We’ll set you up in LOADER 4, one of our standard frames. As you earn credits, we can talk about upgrading it. Let’s get you settled in.” They walked over to the mech, one of the RaD frames. It was bipedal, looked to be medium weight, and on the racks behind sat a Turner, pulse blade, and missile rack.
They moved over to the loading bridge. A tech opened the hatch, and it dropped down into the cockpit. There wasn’t much different from TYGEN. It grabbed the sticks and gave them a couple flicks. Too stiff. It waved up to Walter. “Need something adjusted?” He tossed it a data pad. “Give the techs a list to work on. After we’ve done what we can, you can walk it around to nail the rest of the kinks.”
He walked off, leaving the Hound in its kennel. It hooked in and went through startup.
“AUGMENTED HUMAN C4-621, ENTERING STANDARD MODE”
It was the same COM voice, but something felt different. Not important, though. It went through the rest of the systems, checking diagnostic panels for both it and the AC.
The list was pretty long. Both sticks were stiff, the half step on the pedals was too far into the action, certain lights in the top array were fried, some of the pilot cables had loose connectors, the generator had space to push production a little further, the thrust choke was too loose at the tightest point, the head unit was sluggish, among other things. It put down pointers on how to tune the generator, and by the time they’d finished, the circulating current unit was pumping out nearly 10% extra energy compared to how they’d tuned it.
Once they’d disconnected the harnesses, it pulled the LOADER out into the main space. Running through some basic acrobatic techniques, there were even more things to adjust. Many of the servos weren’t precise enough, and the hydraulics in the legs were slow to pressure. The noise floor was too high for auditory sensors to hear below 80 dB, the cameras and thermals were misaligned from each other, the radar was skipping in the 5:00-5:30 position, the FCS was struggling to lock on to simple targets like the other stationary ACs, the distributor wasn’t devoting enough power to the arms, and each finger didn’t actuate far enough to clench small objects.
This would take them a few hours to go through. While doing the initial diagnostic, it also noticed some problems with its implants. This took it back to the med bay, where a doctor went through the list and tweaked each part back into its specifications. By the time all of this was done, it was only eight hours to “drop”. The clock read 22:00. Walter sent a text message through an implant. “Go to your AC and rest, 621. Busy day tomorrow.” It went back down, shooed off the techs, and settled in for sleep.