Mecha Corps (13 page)

“About time!” Michelle called up from below.

Matt leaned over, expecting to see her on her balcony. Instead, she stood in the middle of the little park that fronted Cadet Housing, her face a white oval in the chill city light. “Can you let me in?” Michelle asked.

“Let you in?”

“I didn’t take that—what was it?—access card.”

“How could you miss that?” Matt asked, without thinking.

Michelle put her hands on her hips. “You gonna help or not?”

“Yeah, hold on!”

Matt went down to the lobby, wondering,
Where has she been? In Interface Training this whole time, or somewhere else?

When he opened the door, Michelle darted in and headed for the elevator. “Thanks!”

“How are you going to get in your room?” Matt called after her.

Michelle’s face went slack. “Shit.”

They went up in the elevator together and tried her door. Of course, it didn’t budge. Matt scanned through the help menu on his access card. There wasn’t any info about lost cards or live services.

“I guess I get to sleep in the hall,” Michelle said.

Matt grinned. “Not necessarily.”

Michelle shook her head. “Don’t even think about inviting me into your bed—”

“What are you, sixteen?” Matt asked. “I just figured you could swing down to your balcony from mine.”

Michelle started, then looked at him incredulously. “What are you, twelve? Hang off the side of the building?”

“Beats sleeping in the hall.”

Michelle looked at Matt for a long time, as if trying to see if his offer was a trick. Finally, she nodded.

Matt took her up to his room and carded them in. She stepped into the cramped space gingerly, as if expecting to step into a disgusting bachelor pad.

On the balcony, Matt looked down. It seemed like she could just drop down on the one directly below his room, then swing around the privacy wall to reach her own.

“Yeah. Let’s do it.” Michelle climbed up on the slick chrome railing and turned around. She took one step down onto the lower rail, then turned and looked down. Her arms quivered.

“Are you sure—,” Matt began.

Michelle lost her grip.

Without thinking, Matt reached out and grabbed her arm. Wiry muscle worked under the coarse gray fabric of her jumpsuit. Michelle’s hand grabbed his upper arm and her fingers dug in.

“Just hold on.” Matt drew her up, thankful for the years he spent in high-G centrifuges. If he were a typical refugee, he wouldn’t have been able to lift her.

Michelle got her feet under her and climbed back over the rail, backing away quickly on shaky legs.

“I’m sorry,” she said, hugging herself and pacing. She wouldn’t look at him.

“No reason to be sorry,” Matt told her. “You’re tired. It was just a slip. Everyone slips.”

“You don’t!” Sharp, angry.

Yeah,
Matt thought.
I’m chased by every terrible, perfect memory, I’m hell-bent on revenge that won’t bring my father back, and I’m gonna screw up my chance with you before it ever gets started. I slip all the time.

“You didn’t go to Interface Training because of Kyle.” Michelle’s words were a statement, not a question.

Matt tried not to react.

Michelle sighed. “I don’t know why you two are so oil and water.”

Kyle. That cocky face. That expression that said,
I’ve never been hungry a day in my life. I’ve never had to work for an instant. I’ve always been able to pick and choose my ROTC and classes and tutors so they are all perfectly balanced, the same way I’ll pick my women and the same way I’ll choose my job.
Kyle had never woke up smelling the sewer stench of a Displacement Drive garden. He’d never spent sixteen hours a day digging tunnels for months on end. He’d never had to sit behind a half-broken Taikong depleted-uranium slug gun when they came close to a frontier world with an interesting slant on negotiation.

“You guys are both good,” Michelle told him. “If you worked together—”

“We’re nothing alike!” Matt snapped.

Michelle drew back and crossed her arms, saying nothing. The silence stretched out, a terrible vacuum. Matt had to fill it.

“I watched my dad die,” Matt said, each word wrenched from his heart. It was something he’d never told anyone. “A Corsair killed him.”

A HuMax,
he thought. But he bit down to stop the words. HuMax didn’t exist anymore. Everyone knew that.

Michelle opened her mouth, then closed it. “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I am.” The memory of that day cascaded behind his eyes, the curse of his Perfect Record. He wanted to tell her more, tell her everything. Maybe that would salve the pain.

But Michelle spoke first. “I’m sorry. I thought . . . I thought I had it worse than anyone.”

She told him about life on Earth. About the devil’s choice: work for Earth First, the monolithic preservation society that made its real money through scams like Bordeaux wine and Blue Mountain coffee, neither of which existed anymore. Or ship out in a hospitality job on a Displacement Drive ship.

Matt knew all about hospitality jobs. The young, dead eyes. It wasn’t a way out. It was just another trap.

She told him about Earth First. That’s what had consumed her parents. Her mother could recite the timeline of middle-American wallpaper from 1950 to 2050; not just major trends but specifics and technologies, both passive and active. Her dad was one of the top coffeehouse scholars on the planet, having written several thousand-page tomes on the business practices and rise and fall of the American coffeehouse during the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. So utterly focused, so completely consumed that they hadn’t even noticed when she left for Mecha Corps.

Matt pushed himself up on the lowest railing. His foot slipped and he came down hard. He stumbled forward, into Michelle. She caught his arms. She smelled of something tropical and exotic. Close, so close. Inches away. Her eyes, wide, on his.

“See?” he said. “Everyone slips.”

She didn’t push him away. Matt looked at her for what seemed like an eternity. She looked back at him, her wide eyes softening. It was as if she wanted to be kissed.

Matt leaned down.

Michelle suddenly pushed him away, hard. “No.”

Matt stepped back. “I’m . . .” He started.
I’m sorry.
No. He wasn’t sorry. Given the chance, he’d do it again. “New plan. I’ll open your door. Meet me down there.”

Without waiting for an answer, he dropped down onto the balcony below and swung across to her room. Thankfully, the sliding door wasn’t locked. He opened it and went to the front, where her access card still glowed. He plucked it out and opened her door.

Revealing Kyle. The man stood outside in the hall, mid-pace. For a moment, he didn’t realize who he was looking at. Then Kyle’s expression compressed in anger. “What the hell?”

“He’s just helping me get in my room,” Michelle said, coming down the hall, fast.

Kyle’s eyes darted from Matt to Michelle and back again. He grabbed Matt’s collar and dragged him out into the hall. “Helping how?”

“Helping, like you’re helping by going back to your room,” Michelle said.

Kyle blinked and let go of Matt. “What?”

“This is over. Thank you, Matt.” Michelle plucked her access card from Matt’s hand, eyes flashing. She pushed past him and slammed her door, rattling its frame.

Kyle looked at Matt, his rage slowly being replaced by amusement. He laughed.

“Game, set, match. We both lose.”

The next five days were an endless slog ripped straight from Matt’s worst visions of the military: hours of dexterity exercises and simple weapons drills in the Hellions, dry firing at targets set up on the far side of the blacktop. MK-15 targeting. MK-15 firing. MK-15 reloading. Firefly targeting. Seeker targeting.

Matt mastered every exercise and drill in minutes, then spent the rest of the time mindlessly pulling the trigger and enjoying the rush of Mesh.

That was one thing he’d never get tired of. Mesh. He couldn’t get down to the field fast enough every morning. Forget breakfast, forget working out, forget wondering if Michelle and Kyle were out to dinner last night, spending the first of their thin Mecha cadet paychecks.

It was all about getting in the Mecha, plugging in, and getting that first giant rush. That I-can-do-anything feeling. The others wanted it too, staring intently at the Hellions until Soto came out and opened them up.

Like addicts,
Matt thought, remembering Peal’s words.

But Matt didn’t care. Not really. Every time he got in the Mecha, all his doubts washed away. He was perfect, all-powerful. He could do anything.

It got more interesting when Soto ordered them out to the simulated city. All around rose towering concrete blocks, pockmarked with bullet spall and carbon burns from previous battles. Between the simulated “buildings,” sheet-metal outlines of ground cars and an occasional battered Aliancia tank shell provided surreal cover.

Above the concrete city hung a glass-and-steel control room. Matt’s sensory enhancement brought details into sharp relief. Major Soto, in full Mecha Corps uniform, stood on an elevated stage, pacing and glaring down at the Mecha as he spoke. Below him, five Auxiliaries sat at consoles in front of ranked screens. Matt recognized only one of them: Sergeant Stoll.

“First, ground rules,” he said. “Even though we’re using only fluff rounds and popcorn Fireflies, there will be no shooting at any targets other than those in the mock cityscape. No shooting at the control tower. No shooting at Training Camp City. Not even as a joke. I repeat: do not test it.

“Second, structure. If you’ve been reading up on Corps command structure like I suggested, this shouldn’t be a surprise. Sergeant Stoll is your acting controller for this exercise. You will follow her instructions precisely, to the letter, and without hesitation. If she says stop, you stop. Understood ?”

“Understood, sir.” Michelle’s voice quivered in anticipation.

“Yes, sir,” Kyle snapped off.

“The rest of you, sound off! Understood?”

Everyone did.

“Okay. Here’s what you’re going to do. Go through the city, shoot the unfriendlies. It should be pretty clear who they are. If you’re good at that, we’ll step it up.”

Matt’s screen changed to show a new flag:

Matt’s screen also showed a grid layout of the mock city. His position was highlighted with a Mecha icon and a tag: CADET M. LOWELL. The other Mecha didn’t appear on the grid display.

A new comms icon flashed: SGT. L. STOLL ➙ CADET M. LOWELL.

“Cadet Lowell, you will deploy to the location indicated and clear it of the enemy.” On his screen, a dotted line appeared, connecting him to a spot deep in the cement jungle.

“What about the others?” Matt said. “Ma’am?”

“They will receive separate instruction, cadet.”

“Mecha versus Mecha, then?” Matt asked.

“You will address Sergeant Stoll as ‘ma’am’ or ‘Sergeant,’ ” Major Soto’s voice boomed, his comms icon lighting.

“Sorry, sir. Sorry, Sergeant Stoll.”

Major Soto’s comms icon remained on. “To answer your question, ask yourself: Why would we fight Mecha versus Mecha? No other IGO has Mecha.”

“What happens when they do, sir?”

“Then we will beat them as well. Until then, Mecha fight tanks, not other Mecha.”

Matt headed toward the position indicated on the grid map. Through the Mecha, he felt the rush of the chill underground air and the brush of tall grass on his feet. His trot turned into a run. He punched a concrete block as he passed. Shockwaves vibrated up his arm, and a car-sized piece of the block shattered.

Lena’s comms icon flared. “Cadet Lowell, please refrain from any unnecessary destruction of simulated property.”

Matt reached his designated position at the end of a long corridor formed by towering cement slabs. Alleys between the blocks gave plenty of cover for approaching enemies. Behind him was a large open area, punctuated only by low dirt berms and concrete bunkers.

Matt ducked behind the edge of the simulated building at the end of the avenue. Were they going to funnel his enemies down the street, hit him from behind, or both? And what would they look like? Tanks?

A flicker of movement down the long road caught his eye. He jerked his MK-15 to ready and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked like a jackhammer. Rock dust flew from the edge of the simulated building nearest the movement.

“One civilian death,” Sergeant Stoll intoned, sounding disappointed.

“Civilian?” Matt looked again. The street was now populated with casually dressed people. Some strolled near the cement-block buildings, stopping to peer into nonexistent shop windows. Some sat on benches in the middle of the broad avenue. Some wore suits and hurried purposefully down the street.

And one lay, crumpled but bloodless, where Matt had fired.

“Holographic projections?” Matt asked.

“Of course,” Sergeant Stoll said.

Matt turned to look behind him. The broad, open area had become a park. Parents and their kids played among the ditches and bunkers.

“Why?”

“We sharpen the knife edge between life and death,” Sergeant Stoll said.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s an old Mecha Corps motto. Pre-biomech. It means, among other things, ‘Don’t kill civilians. There’s no excuse for that.’ ”

Matt nodded. “Unlike the Corsairs.”

“Unlike the Corsairs,” she echoed.

Matt opened his mouth to speak as slugs slammed into his Mecha’s head. Matt yelled in surprise, echoes of the sudden pain reverberating in his body. He whirled. Nothing in front of him. Nothing behind him. Where had the rounds come from?