Shorty

  Shorty

  A Mech Warrior’s Tale

  Scott Moon

  Copyright © 2018 by Scott Moon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  This story is for all the fans of Keystroke Medium. I’m thankful to have met so many great writers, readers, and editors. The live show shenanigans are the best part of my week.

  Thank you, Ellen, for pushing me to make this story the best it can be.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  About the Author

  Also by Scott Moon

  1

  The first thing you need to know is that seventeen tons makes you a lightweight.

  That’s the world I live in.

  The largest battle mech on the Doomsday planet is five hundred short tons. Each of its three gauss cannons can level a building with a single shot or punch a hole through a mountain. The heatsink for its energy weapons has never been pushed to its limit, which is to say it can fire almost continuously.

  Scariest enemy imaginable. If you’re the type to stand there and punch it. Spoiler alert, I’m not and I fear nothing. The Goliath—what a waste of resources. Too big not to fail. Asshole.

  The monster has everything from slug-throwing machine guns to mortars to long-range plasma cannons. It can scoop up rocks and launch them like hell’s own catapult. I bet it even has a pilot’s lounge like a starship.

  I saw it from a distance once. Went the other way, snuck through some shadows and raided the harbor it was defending. (Did I mention the big G can wade through most harbors?)

  Fifty to a hundred tons is more standard. All the elite mech warriors drive machines in this weight class. If you know me, you’re probably about to ask if that includes my twin sisters Sheila and Stacy.

  Of course it does. The best weapons for the best fighters. That’s the way it works here. They’re UCOW hotshots, for sure. Battle Axe Class forty-five tonners.

  Do they help a brother out?

  No. They call me Shorty. Because I’m small. Just seventeen tons.

  Today I’m gonna get respect.

  The field before me is littered with five hundred years of destroyed machines. There are paths through the wreckage. I know them, like any good ambush artist should. Hit and run. That’s the ticket.

  I suspect nature buried more of our legacy than we will ever know.

  The reason we fight hasn’t changed. Doomsday has an enormous supply of natural resources, especially metals and exotic elements. It’s also a big, dense planet. The gravity is miserable without mechanization.

  Mechanics, engineers, and other critical support staff wear bodysuits that would make them pretty tough a thousand years ago on another planet but are just sufficient for them to do their jobs here. I try to stay away from the civilian softies because I draw fire.

  Why? Because I’m small. I’m Shorty.

  There isn’t a mech warrior so big or so elite that he or she won’t stop to pick some low hanging fruit. But what I lack in mass, I make up for in knowledge of the terrain—all of which is stored in my computers—and some of the best technology on the planet.

  I’m fast and I don’t miss. How else would I stay alive?

  “I have the foundry in sight,” I say. “Five kilometers, 260 degrees true. Low visibility and high local activity. Advise.”

  Danielle answers, her voice so sexy I want to ask her if she’s got a filter on it and what she paid to sound like paradise. Not like I’m lonely or anything, not at all obsessed with seeing her in person even if it is just for a second. Before then, I’m likely to get stomped on or pulverized by an orbital bombardment. She flies a space-capable jet fighter that can live in the stratosphere.

  Must be nice to get resupplied from space and charge your ship’s powerplant with sunbathing solar panels.

  “I’m picking up a lot of heat signatures on the defense grid. Very organized. Some kind of major operation going on down there. You’re taking care of yourself, right? Staying low? Managing your heatsinks? Looking for targets before they look for you?” she asks.

  “You’re my overwatch. Most of that’s your job.”

  “I can’t duck for you.”

  “Come down sometime and I’ll show you how.”

  “Don’t tempt me. I know Doomsday is a hellish mess but watching it from on high makes me more curious every day. I fantasize about putting my boots on the ground.”

  Several lurid thoughts involving her lack of boots race through my head, but what surprises me are more domestic images—hanging out with her on the beach, learning what she actually looks like, handing her a cup of coffee.

  “Are we talking about fantasies now? Cause I have a couple.”

  “Don’t gross me out.”

  “You’re the one with the sexy voice filter.”

  “It’s nice, isn’t it. We have a son-of-a-bitch of a dust storm moving in. I’m above it—no need to worry about my safety, because I know you are—but I can’t see diddly squat unless I go low enough to brush the mountaintops. Not terribly interested in dying.” I scan the broken terrain with infrared, sonar, and laser rangefinders. Sensors in the feet of my mech pick up a lot of information when I’m not moving. “Dying sucks. Do what you gotta do.”

  I squat so low I look like a banged-up metal ball instead of a two-legged war machine. “A lot of vibration down here. Can’t see what’s causing it yet. Some of that dust is blowing in. Also got pollution from the foundry and something from the salvage maze around it.”

  Three lava flows run between me and my destination. I’m pretty sure I can jump them. My jets can push me higher than they would a bigger mech and I retrofitted some expandable wings that give me a hundred-meter glide in a pinch.

  I rarely use this last option because they’re not durable. The first time I get hit with a plasma round or land wrong I’m out the investment and probably stranded someplace where I’ll be killed immediately. Better to leave flying to real pilots like Sexy Danielle.

  I really need to get a look at her some day; meet her face to face.

  On the other side of this junkyard valley is the foundry. It’s one of the four largest on the planet. Not the best, but that’s part of its appeal. Most of the elite mechs are fighting over the Alpha and Bravo Foundries. UCOW, UNA, The Greater Galactic Republic of France (GGRF), and The Chinese Communist Empire (CCE) are gnawing on the Alpha and Bravo region like jackals on a downed zebra.

  So what’s the difference between the old world, space-capable nations and the United Coalition of Worlds? Not all of them have land on the homeworld. That’s the difference. Some risked everything during the great expansion, started completely over.

  “Why are you doing this, Chandler?” she asked.

  “That’s not my name.”

  “Is.”

  “Someone is going to pay for letting that slip.” Chandler Michael Dane III is my full name. Don’t tell anyone. Pretty sure I have warrants on Red Sun.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  A thought hits me with the force of epiphany. “You’ve been talking to Shelia and Stacy.”

  “I’ve flown for them a few times.”

  “Huh. They doing all right?”

  “What do you think?”

  My sisters have skills I can barely believe. They’re ruthless as fuck and have the full support of the UCOW. Anything they want, they get. Which used to make me pissed off they never showed up to help a mercenary, like me.

  “I bet they
’re getting by on their good looks and cutting wit. Kind of like me. You wanna know why I’m attacking a foundry by myself? Well, it’s about respect. And reputation. Reputation is everything.”

  Danielle sounds tired when she responds. “I thought you were planning to get off this rock. Apply for a real outfit someplace. Become part of a team.”

  “I’m a lone wolf. Don’t need help.”

  Foxtrot Foundry specializes in industrial machinery—only occasionally do they roll out military-grade gear.

  But I don’t need much. Foxtrot will fix me up nicely. All I have to do is take it, hold it long enough for some retrofitting and get out before anyone realizes the defenses are breached. Maybe I’ll earn enough to go off planet with all my gear. I’ve worked hard for this crap. Leaving it on Doomsday would break my heart.

  The foundries, even Foxtrot, are nearly impregnable. If they weren’t, the warrior mechs would loot them. Each of these city-like fortresses has super-secret quick reaction forces nobody wants to mess with. Not even UCOW or the UNA.

  Most of them are city-states unaffiliated with galactic superpowers. During the good times, they make a lot of money selling weapons.

  Charlie Foundry, set apart from the others on Brendon’s Continent, is and always has been UCOW. Great mechs get manufactured there. The kind they ship off world to fight battles for the United Coalition of Words rather than contest this shithole.

  Delta belongs to the UNA for now, but they didn’t build it; they stole it from the CCE after the CCE ran afoul of Void Trolls on Centro XXIII. The Chinese almost held onto the mech production foundry, but in the end, they had more than they could handle on Centro. The UNA shamelessly stole the facility while their attention was elsewhere.

  Since then, foundry security has become state of the art. The ability to manufacture war machines is important to every galactic power and Doomsday is the best place for it.

  Perfectly equipped, perfectly trained, the best of the best are paid a fortune to keep the riffraff—me and my friends, for lack of a better term—out. If one superpower took the entire planet, they’d be unstoppable during planetary engagements.

  Void fleet battle is another story, one I know nothing about and never will. Because what kind of crazy asshole fights in space? Come on!

  Every couple of years, one of the foundries changes hands and the balance of power shifts all across Doomsday. A short period of stability follows while everyone consolidates their winnings. Interstellar trade routes reopen. Money rains from the sky and people who want out get out, and dumbasses who want in foolishly drop into the atmosphere expecting to get rich quick or die trying.

  Not that I ever did that. I came here because of duty.

  Sure I did.

  “This wasn’t a great idea,” I say as I watch shapes move in the dusty gloom between my position and the foundry. I’ve advanced a kilometer since I last spoke with Danielle.

  Hidden, but vulnerable—I’m in a low spot.

  The fortress like walls of the foundry resemble a medieval castle on a pile of metal skulls—except these skulls are mech cockpits, armored car bodies, and helicopter fuselages.

  A helicopter was a metal bug people piloted during the early days, back when rotating blades seemed more efficient than gravity bumpers and rocket turbines. No one has ever seen one fly here or has video of one flying, but a lot of us have weapons made from the blades. They’re badass, like all things the long-extinct mech samurai invented.

  The gates of hell are opening from Foxtrot Foundry, FF, or maybe all the stims I’ve been taking are causing me to hallucinate.

  “You hear me, Danielle?”

  “Wasn’t listening, sorry. Trying not to die! Torrential winds up here, thank you.”

  “Cry me a river. You’re worried about air and I’m worried about a gauss round hitting me in the face, traveling so fast the alloy projectile is turning to plasma about the time it strikes.”

  “Didn’t catch that last part,” Danielle says. “But I’m good now. What were we talking about?”

  “I was saying I’m not sure this is a good idea.” Speaking without thinking is a problem for me because I spend most of my time solo.

  Danielle sounds so good I’ll run out of funds long before I get tired of her voice.

  “I’d argue with you,” she says, “but I’m about one hundred and ten percent certain you’re correct. I’m coming down to get a better view. I’m hoping to slip under this random-ass jet stream.”

  Her close air support has been better. She’s not doing much for me and the static in our communications channel is horrific. It takes half my attention to figure out what she’s saying when I really only have one or two percent of my attention available.

  “Okay,” she mutters, “that was bumpy. Trying to get some readings. If I drop any lower, I’m gonna take rocket fire.”

  “Well, spill it. What’s it look like?”

  Static hisses and pops in my ear. Her voice comes through weakly, then so loud it nearly bursts my eardrums. I adjust the radio receiver volume in my cockpit.

  “Well, there’s some good news. Most of the movement down there is industrial. They’re scooping up debris and hauling it inside Foxtrot like it’s Unobtainium. If you continue on your current heading half a kilometer and drift about ten degrees south, you should have a good view of the operation. You go the other way, and you’ll run into one of their patrols and be killed.”

  “See, that’s why I like having you around,” I say, already moving to the observation post.

  Cranes and jackhammers rip apart broken mechs, lost freight haulers, and crashed ships. Tons of debris are being loaded into massive trucks with wheels ten meters high and driven to FF. Dust blows over the mountains of parts. Metal shavings from laser saws and hydraulic cutting tools fountain into the air.

  The engineers from FF are finishing a road that will be destroyed as soon as the salvage operation is completed. Otherwise it would allow an easy approach—if there were a force large enough to make a frontal assault.

  But there isn’t. There’s just me. Whoever is running Foxtrot Foundry must be monitoring the three major battles happening on distant corners of the continent.

  I know about the major offensive against Alpha and Bravo foundries because I applied to be part of the operation and was denied. Probably for the best. I would’ve been little more than cannon fodder.

  Seventeen tons is a lightweight mech. Nobody respects a one-seven.

  “What else can you tell me, Danielle? I have an idea.”

  The static clears momentarily. She whispers in my ear, “Does it involve pretending you’re a destroyed husk and getting shipped inside on one of those resource trucks? Because that’s a dumb idea. I mean, it’s cool, but dumb—because it won’t work. I’m running out of block leave. I’ll need to get back to the UCOW for regular duty.”

  I stall, faking radio problems.

  “What was that?” she asks. “Don’t you like my voice filter? Paid 49.99 Quibbdoti for it.”

  “Love it.”

  “You’re totally going to stow away on one of those monsters.”

  I keep stalling. “Must be nice to take your ship on block leave.”

  “Everyone does it.”

  “Like I said, very convenient. And lucrative.”

  Her suggestion was exactly what I had in mind although I’d envisioned myself hijacking one of the trucks and driving it remotely while I rode in back. Probably too complicated to work well. Especially since I’d have to fight and drive and manage remote links when the atmosphere is full of dust and ionization.

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  She laughs. I should be mad, but the sound of her voice helps me relax.

  “You’re small. It could work, I guess. But probably not. Can I have your all-access tokens to Vlagdar IV if you die? I had to pull back above the dust storm. Smooth sailing up here. You reading my signals?”

  “I hear you about eighty percent, but I’m read
ing your texts perfectly.”

  “Good. So now that I’m not fighting for my life, I have some free bandwidth. Pulling up the specs on those mining trucks and Foxtrot’s standard operating procedures.”

  I crouch as low as I can and creep around a pile of bullet-pocked wheels. It looks like someone’s caravan got raided. The vehicles have been broken into component parts and piled in a valley of dead machines.

  “Looks like an operation for a bunch of hundred-ton lorries and an armed escort. I didn’t see the escort, but they’ve got to be there someplace. Probably their patrol is doing double duty. I think you could dig into one of these trucks, but the tricky part is not being seen. The second you start throwing stuff out to manage your mass displacement, someone’s gonna get suspicious.”

  “Agreed. Can you drive one of the trucks remotely if I kill the crew?”

  “They don’t have drivers. They’re handled remotely from Foxtrot. That’s why they don’t range out very far.”

  Up close, my plan looks unimaginative and unnecessarily dangerous. Half-baked ideas like this combined with overconfidence gets mech pilots killed.

  Hesitation really isn’t my thing. I’m not sure where the gut purging fear is coming from. Something isn’t right.

  “Are you going to do this, Shorty?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m doing it. You gonna give me a few extra hours on credit? I’m good for it.”

  Silence.

  Then…

  “I’ll be your eyes unless… or until… I get called away.”

  “Thanks, Danielle. I’ll be sure to give you a bonus when I loot this place.”

  “Uh, sure. We’ll see about that.”

  2

  Moving closer to my target, I assume the quiet bug position—squatting down until I look like a squarish metal ball that’s seen better days. They don’t teach the quiet bug in mech school. Invented the tactic myself.