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"BATTLE ARMOR, ONLINE." Drake's recorded voice fills the helmet, a particularly hateful sniveling I'd hoped to never, ever hear again.
"Come on, say it with feeling," I reply.
A little joking around couldn't hurt. Might even be able to take my mind off the shiatsu head massage courtesy of the calibrating neural cage. Countless runs through the simulations, and I still can't get used to this part. Maybe because I once used the same tech to shunt my psyche into Charlotte's realm.
"Command not recognized," he, it, replies.
Tough crowd. But I've got one more person in the audience. As the indirect spawn of the same inferiority complex which built this miraculous machine, Xamse may not understand my humor, but maybe he'll provide a little back and forth beyond reciting mission parameters. We'll work together to improve his ability to laugh at my terrible jokes.
"What, Xamse? Not even a little chuckle?"
Nothing.
System power hums on, and the exterior view materializes, wrapping the inner helmet in the three hundred and sixty-degree view. With the launch alcove rotated, Xamse's office fills the space beyond instead of the lab. He's dressed in his corporate finery, the jacket slung over that baby-poo colored desk chair. Those diamond cufflinks dangle from pushed up sleeves.
And of course, Ayana is lurking nearby. I never expect or want to hear a laugh from her, so she doesn't count. If her assault rifle is any indication, right now she's in extra hardcore serious mode.
"Good morning," I say to her. I try to arm the weapons and Drake rattles off an immediate Request Denied. "You should've joined us last night for loading the live rounds. You could've actually helped instead of being all pouty and jealous."
"As head of security, I performed my own inspection," she replies coldly. "Your rudimentary knowledge of tactics requires it."
Rudimentary? I've been ace with this gear since my first tender moments eviscerating a drone inside an Arctic bunker. Always lurking, hovering over my shoulder, she hasn't bothered to lift a finger except when Xamse asked her to assist with the remote override install. Still, she did let a little knowledge slip while she was making fun of my...ummm...purity. I wonder if I can get more out of her.
"Next time, you can calibrate the tracking algorithms." Weapons still refuse to come online. Fucking Xamse. Trying to keep our little spat all civil.
"I prefer to watch you struggle."
"Please, my friends," Xamse says. Everybody, his friend. "We should not argue. We should celebrate! Spencer, I have explained once, your gift is natural instinct, quite extraordinary. Ayana has the proper training and degrees. Ph.D., is this right? Robotics, Mechatronics." He feints toward her, and she stays ramrod straight, the gun-toting revolutionary stance not fitting the picture of a degreed academic. "And a hard-fought education at that." He says the last with what even I can read as a smile inappropriate to the situation.
Finally, a little 411 on Lieutenant Worf. All it took was me about to launch to my untimely death. At first, I think Ayana is pissed the information slipped. Then I can see what's really got her pissed is that now I know—not only did I take her job, but she sounds more than qualified.
Fuck, this explains a lot. More than an escort, she's been observing, watching every move. From my firewall code and schematics to the armor prep work, I've always been a step ahead of where she'd gotten. Technological nuances her education might have missed have been provided to me by crazy run-ins with Drake's tech and front-line experience fighting beside Chroma.
But as head of security, she can load the tapes whenever she pleases. For her, this has been research on whatever advantages I might have. I'm unwittingly training a hostile replacement.
"Ever thought of outsourcing your security to India?" I ask.
"No more of the jokes. I am uploading mission parameters we discussed," Xamse says. He sweeps long fingers over a tablet, and his gold watch joins the cufflinks' dance. Got to admit, he wears the bling with confidence. Cutthroat CEO has always been his calling. I suppose today, I'll figure out if I've found mine. "Follow them very closely, my friend."
"Jetting off to a deserted island is the primary objective, right? I'll ride out the fall of civilization someplace I can build a treehouse and start over."
"The fall of Western civilization," he says with a smile as his accent thickens. Good for him. He's making his own jokes. "Do remember, I have controls should you decide to go over the wall as they say."
"Over a wall. Pretty sure it's a wall." See? I can be a helpful little minion.
"Please, let me kill him and fly this mission," Ayana says through gritted teeth. She takes aim, and the HUD tracks the threat but still won't paint her with a target lock. "Just open the armor."
Ayana's death threat meets an unconcerned hand wave from Xamse. "Let us not speak so freely of death. Perhaps there is a chance we can capture him, much as the original Black Beetle."
"Captured so he could be mind-controlled and put back on the battlefield," I remind him.
A tilt of his chin in impatient recognition, Xamse continues. "Our target, Tomahawk, has suffered more than most under an oppressive regime. Most regrettable. Yet he has been one of their deadliest weapons." Genuine sadness furrows his brow. "Mrs. Cantor has made it clear she prefers him to be apprehended despite the wishes of her counterparts in the Department of Defense. For now, we will try to accommodate her." He casually approaches his glossy wooden desk and slides the tablet across the surface. Hip resting on the desk corner, he folds his arms. "Weapon systems will remain offline until you have left the neutral perimeter around Nanomech."
"Right. You're afraid I'll pull a Xamse."
Even I'm not stupid enough to let a bomb like that drop. But I did. Gonna chalk that one up to adrenaline.
He sucks in his cheeks, and his jaw flexes. From deep inside the evil-lair basement where Drake hid his Black Beetle work, far below the Nanomech campus, nobody's likely to hear my screams. Being stuffed inside the second most high-tech weapon on the planet, I shouldn't be afraid, but as of yet, I have zero control over said weapon.
Annoyance evident in his stone features, Xamse extends one arm and pushes up the sleeve. A single finger glides toward the tablet. Ayana levels her rifle. Her hopes obvious that he takes her up on the offer and pops open the armor.
Maybe an apology is in order. We had such a touching moment only yesterday. "You know, I—"
One tap and I'm gone.
The office disappears. I'm soaring up the launch chute at what Drake's voice reports to be "excessive" speeds. Somewhere below, my stomach, esophagus, tongue, continues to rattle off a half-ass apology. I must've cleared the roof. Last I'd checked, it'd been a sunny day, but the horizon is a red and black haze. About the point where I think my eyeballs are going to be rolling uselessly inside my mouth, everything goes black.
That's not a feeling you can bottle into a simulator. Disorientation, sure. Complete loss of consciousness due to "excessive" g-forces? Thanks for the warning. Dick.
Xamse's voice fades in. "...appreciate professionalism. It will be best for you to stick to your scripted responses when engaging the target and the public. For them and for your own safety."
No idea how long he's been talking. I mumble an affirmative and do my best to cling to a fleeting consciousness, a task which takes much longer than I imagine. I wiggle around and get a feel for the space.
"Battle Armor in transit." Drake again, or his voice from beyond the grave. "Extremities locked. Motion will disrupt aerodynamic profile."
"Fine, I'll sit still. Are we there yet?"
"Command not recognized."
Goddamn. If there's one thing I'd change about the armor, it's Drake. He couldn't even record voice activation responses without sounding like a douche.
"I'll just stop trying to familiarize myself with the actual suit prior to a battle."
Must have overloaded his conversational subroutines because he doesn't provide a pre-recorded response. I settle into the cramped space and wait as the scenic valleys of California zip past. All the way to, ummm...South Dakota, so says the briefing. This is going to be a long flight.
Cramped spaces National Champion here. My room at Nanomech has been the most spacious I've had in the claustrophobic line of bunker, college dorm, militarized retirement home, and solitary cell. I got this.
Nights though, those were tough in jail. Aurora's display provided a constant reminder of loss. I couldn't help but relive the fire or worry about Mom. She still hasn't tried to contact me. Alone, on the run, struggling to control psychic powers, I shouldn't be surprised I haven't heard from her. I suppose I should try to take this as good news. Maybe she's safe somewhere.
Both she and Dad's body seem to have vanished.
"Battle Armor, can you display the photo of Connie Harrington, prisoner 39885, Detroit police department?"
"Network access restricted."
Great. Another conversation with Xamse. Who knows what I'll need to research on these missions. FreedomNet is garbage, but it has its uses. Although keeping the battle armor's ports closed to the wild with Xamse's remote pilot functions activated is necessary to avoid a hijacking. Plus, I realize one thing this older suit doesn't have.
"Xamse," I call out. He's slow to answer.
"Yes?"
"My anti-Chroma firewall. Maybe we should install one in the newer model, just in case."
"Much farther ahead of you, friend. This has been done."
Good. Doubtful his consideration was for my safety, more for his hardware. One of these days, I'll fly that sexy beast.
"And Spencer?"
"Yes?
"Controls are yours."
Speaking about flying—I'm freaking flying. On my own if I don't count Drake's ghostly rantings. The country is coast to coast people, but at thirty thousand feet during the day, humanity's impact is muted. We're approaching the Rockies where there's even less evidence of civilization. Untamed spaces still exist. Places for Mom to hide.
We're hundreds of miles away from Nanomech. Supersonic speeds aren't conducive to maneuverability, so says the training manual. Shear off an arm and the flight compression suit can keep you from dying of blood loss. Grim. Terrifying. But I want to fly.
"Battle Armor, manual controls."
"Affirmative."
A smile tugs at my cheek. I pull back on the throttle and pitch downward. Green floes of forest separate into individual trees. A once-flat world rises. Shadows lose their harsh edges to become dim, feathered spills. Geological processes become ridges and valleys swallowing the expansive view of the helmet, replacing an empty sky.
I streak across a meadow, startling a herd of...deer? Elk? I dip closer, focusing the external microphones on their thrumming hooves. The sound fills the Battle Armor.
Hound would approve. There's a feral heartbeat here, independent of anything people have ever done. Could be this disaster is what we needed all along. A taste of freedom. I can't keep from remembering the other times I've felt this way. At the controls of Martin's plane. Flying bareback on Cuddles. In Dad's arms.
"Spencer, not too far off course or I will need to intervene." Xamse's voice spoils the Call of the Wild.
Fuck off. Fuck off. I say it mentally a couple more times, so it stays trapped inside my head.
"Copy, base. Just testing out the systems."
"Your test lies ahead."
I let the Battle Armor resume autopilot and Drake complies with a ferocious roar. The herd scatters. Their trail of dust transforms from a streak to a stagnant cloud, and then all detail is lost. Back to the detached view, I'm a missile on a pre-programmed heading.
"Battle Armor, display mission briefing."
Right, my test. Tomahawk.