The Destroids' Last Dance
Part 2: Baby Steps For The Lord Of The Underworld
Dyson McCrae was awakened by an unholy sound, a repeating screech that invaded his sleep. His hands, operating on their own, searched for the source of the noise, and found a speaker grating in the wall near his head. Touching several protruding buttons, his right hand pressed the first one it came to, and the invading noise ceased.
Nine minutes later, it returned with a vengeance. Dyson McCrae moaned as he lifted his head up to look at the source, an alarm chronometer built into the wall of his recessed bed. Cursing the inventor of alarm clocks, he killed the noise, once and for all.
Pivoting to the edge of the bed, he sat for a few minutes, as his brain caught up with the rest of him. Slowly fighting his way out of the fog, he realized that he had reason to be excited. Anubis was rebuilt, and Dyson could drive again!
After making sure his limbs would respond to commands, Dyson stood, and walked to the small set of drawers built into one of the walls of his new quarters. Looking in the mirror, he took stock of what he saw. Brown hair, grey eyes, and fairly fit, he saw no immediate reason for concern. Same old Dyson. He grabbed an old t-shirt, a pair of shorts, and dug around the closet for an old set of running shoes. He figured that if the changes he'd seen in Purgatory the day before were performed everywhere, then they should have been done in the exercise room, as well.
Dyson McCrae was always conscious of his health and fitness. He had never wanted to neglect himself, but the lack of proper exercise facilities in Purgatory left him few choices. On good days, when the wind was low, he could risk a reprimand for unauthorized exit, and jog around the exterior of the building a few times. More often, though, the wind would prohibit his jog, and he'd be faced with the prospect of running around the hangar. However, the steel floor and deteriorating structures gave Dyson a queasy feeling, and he rarely took that option.
As he opened the door to his room, McCrae was immediately greeted with a huge amount of sound emanating from the hangar. With the officers' quarters on the opposite side of the building, the activity must have been hectic, indeed. Dyson then realized that the quarters he had must have been soundproofed. So much the better. He relished the idea of getting a good night's sleep from then on.
The exercise room was closer to the hangar than the officers' quarters, so Dyson got more and more of the noise from that area. The techs got up early, it seemed, to ply their arts. It seemed odd, though, that fourteen men could make a racket that large. Dyson realized, then, that it had been over seven years since he'd last heard a fully functioning mecha crew. Try as he might, there were still things he'd have to readjust to.
He found the room he wanted, and tried the door. Opening it easily, he entered to find that the place had been redone and reequipped, as he had suspected. Filled with treadmills, weight and rowing machines, and other fitness gear, it even smelled new. As Dyson found a treadmill to his liking, he located the manual for it hanging by a plastic ring from one of the handles. Paging through it for a few seconds, he quickly learned the basics of operation, and began his first real run in ages.
The treadmill's design incorporated a running platform that elevated at one end, simulating hills, and the machine's controls allowed Dyson to select from different programs, each one a gradually more strenuous workout. McCrae didn't want to push himself too much, so he opted for a moderate setting, and a distance of three miles. Another feature of the machine was the included headphones, that played nondescript music for the runner. Dyson chose something titled `Jazz' and was immediately rewarded with a badly played saxophone, accompanied by an even worse guitar. Selecting another track, this time `Rock', he was relieved to find that it was an instrumental version of a song by the band `KISS', and it wasn't that bad. Not a huge fan, Dyson did enjoy their music from time to time, and found himself mouthing the words as he ran. Other instrumentals came along after `KISS', most of which McCrae knew, and he found himself enjoying the run even more.
As he ran, his thoughts wandered to the strange events of the day before. He was a captain, again. His former rank and decorations were restored to him, and this was just the beginning. His destroid was rebuilt, with a brand new cockpit being delivered and installed today. As he thought of these things, he barely registered the control panel's alert that his first mile was up, and he was beginning his second.
More thoughts coursed through his brain: The odd amount of respect that seemed to flow through the new staff of Purgatory station, for one thing. The atmosphere now had more of a family-type feel to it, not the officious tightness of a standard military unit. His conversation with Colonel Jeffery McKitterick the evening before seemed to confirm the fact that this was no ordinary unit. Its Class-1 directive also added a peculiar feel to the overall scheme of things. As he processed these thoughts, his second mile came to an end. Starting on his third, he thought of the base itself, and its rapid transformation. Over a thousand people swarmed over the place over the span of three days, and brought Purgatory up to a level beyond Dyson's imagination.
His third mile was the slowest. Halfway through, the machine cut the speed down, giving a half mile for Dyson to cool off. As he walked the last few feet, he pulled off the headphones, and made plans for a warm shower to wash the sweat off. His plans were cut short, however, as he heard a WHAM from the other side of the room.
Stepping off the treadmill, he grabbed a clean towel hanging on the nearby wall, and looked for the source of the noise.
What he found astounded him. Rachel Keller, Candidate Lieutenant, was hammering a heavy bag that was suspended from one of the room's overhead beams. As the bag swung, she bobbed left and right, and swung her left leg into it, hitting the bag so hard it nearly bent.
The girl was dressed in form-fitting black workout gear, capped off with black boxing boots and light, padded gloves. Her hair was tied in a loose tail that swung with her movements. As Dyson suspected, it came down well past her hips. Dyson found himself dazzled by the sight.
"You want me to hold the bag for you?" Dyson asked, trying like hell to keep his composure.
"Nope." Keller replied. "Your enemy isn't going to stay in one place, is he?"
Dyson nodded, agreeing with the logic of her statement. He found a small bench to sit on, and watched her for a moment. Her punches and jabs were lightning quick, and her kicks were devastating. For a moment, Dyson feared the bag might be ripped from its mount.
As he watched her, Dyson's thoughts slipped from the professional to the fanciful. He was becoming enchanted, watching the girl as she went through her moves. Her body was amazingly toned, showing the dedication she had as a warrior, but there was also an elegant, feminine beauty to her as well. Dyson suspected that she was one of those rare women that could wear something as basic as a burlap sack, and make it look elegant.
Dyson, lost in his musings, didn't notice that she had finished her own workout, until she said, smiling, "I think the bag`s dead."
Dyson, startled, immediately felt a shame he couldn't quite understand. Shaking his head, he stood, and started walking towards the door.
Rachel, frustrated, watching him leave, asked herself, Was this too much? Am I rushing things?
"Where are you going?" Keller asked.
Not wanting to show his face, Dyson hurried to the door, and simply replied "I need a shower."
Rachel watched as Dyson hurried out the door. Grabbing her own towel, she thought Don't you know this was meant for you, Dyson? Meant for you to notice? Waiting a few moments, she started towards her own quarters.
DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!! Dyson thought to himself. What were you thinking? Dyson admonished himself repeatedly on the way to his room. He was her superior officer, and her instructor, as well. He couldn't allow himself to think of Keller in any other way. No professional in their right mind would, and Dyson had always tried his best to be a professional.
Scrambling to his quarters, trying to outrun the confusion he felt, he fumbled with the knob to his door, even though it wasn't locked. Finally, after getting the door opened, he quickly entered, and slammed the door behind himself. Leaning against the door, he breathed deep, smelling the old sweat of his run, coupled with the new sweat of shame and fear. Yes, he had to admit it. Fear. Fear of losing his objectivity in the face of a singular beauty.
Finally, McCrae made his way to the shower, where the bad feelings washed away as well as the sweat. Clean and focused, he dressed in one of the new uniforms he now had. He had to admit, the new clothing felt good. Semi-ballistic cloth had a tendency to get a bit rough and prickly if it was worn too long.
Now, starting his day as a captain for the first time in a very long time, he was able to forget the abysmal situation with Keller, earlier. As he walked, he listened to the noise of the hangar, filtered through concrete walls. Anubis was in there, getting ready to walk again. The thought caused McCrae to smile.
Dyson's footsteps took him to the dining hall, where the noises of the hangar were replaced with the sounds of cooking. Metallic clangs, coupled with the hiss of sizzling food, made a pleasing cacophony for McCrae's ears. Soon, his nose was tantalized by the accompanying smells.
As he entered the dining hall, McCrae found Tony Brooks servicing one of the many drink servers. Tony smiled as soon as he'd seen Dyson.
"Good Morning, Captain McCrae." Tony started. "I was just asking one of my people what their idea of the perfect breakfast would be."
McCrae thought for a second, and replied "One of mine has always been a Denver omelet, with home fries, and sourdough toast."
Tony stroked his chin for a moment, then said "I do believe that's on our menu, today."
Dyson helped himself to some good, strong coffee, and savored its flavor, as Tony walked back to the kitchen. Taking a seat, he looked up at another new addition to Purgatory's dining hall. A large screen, situated on a far wall, was broadcasting news of the Robotech Defense Force. The current story was a recap of the launch ceremonies for a new heavy cruiser, the Aries, complete with fanfare, pomp, and the usual circumstance. The ship's captain, a face that Dyson didn't know, made the usual claims of `a pioneering step forward' and `an honor to be the ship's commanding officer'. Dyson shrugged, not knowing if the graceless behemoth on the screen had anything to do with his mission, and not really caring, either.
Other news followed. Stories about the RDF not making their current recruitment goals, followed by news that mecha production was down across the board. Apparently, veritech fighters were hard to come by these days, and the few plants capable of building them were severely understaffed. Destroid production, though, was slowing down due to a glut of the machines. Overproduction and a lack of qualified pilots made the destroids low in the current priority scheme, and several destroid plants were being considered for conversion to more veritech production.
Dyson had just gotten his second cup of coffee when Tony brought out another of his piled-high plates, complete with everything McCrae had asked for.
"Now, you tell me how that goes down, captain." Tony instructed. With a nod, he returned to the kitchen, leaving McCrae alone with his treasure. Dyson sat for a moment, inhaling the wonderful scents from the plate. Finally, his stomach couldn't stand it any more, so he grabbed a fork, and began eating. Again, Dyson McCrae thought he was in heaven.
Halfway through his meal, Dyson noticed Rachel Keller enter the room. As she walked in, carrying two cylindrical objects, he noticed that her uniform fit her perfectly, just like her exercise gear had before. The sight confirmed his belief that she was one of those special women that could make anything look sensuous, yet classy and graceful.
Rachel took a seat at his table, and passed one of the cylinders across the table. It was, in fact, a stainless steel `commuter' mug, a type of coffee cup that had come of age late in the twentieth century, and continued to be relevant in the twenty-first. "The colonel asked me to give you this." she said.
Dyson looked the mug over. Sure enough, the body of the vessel was stainless steel, capped at the bottom by hard, black plastic, and on the top by a removable cap of the same type of plastic. Drinking holes were also formed in the top cap.
Etched into the stainless steel body, on one side, was the unit's symbol. A ring comprised the body of the symbol, and housed lettering. On the top of the ring, the numbers and letters of `21st Combined Special Operations Group'. On the bottom, in slightly more aggressive lettering, was the other name of the unit: `DeathDealers'. Contained inside the circle was the stylized grim reaper Dyson knew so well.
On the other side of the body, another symbol was etched. An abstract drawing of a Tomahawk destroid stood, taking a step, with its torso turned slightly to the right. The drawing looked as if it were rendered at ground level, with the Tomahawk slowly approaching, and gave the mecha a majestic look. Under the drawing was one word: Anubis.
"The Colonel had these made for us." Rachel started. "We've got cup holders in the cockpits, now."
"Really?" Dyson asked, a touch of doubt in his voice. If that was the extent of MOD-5 upgrades, then why bother with a new cockpit at all?
"Oh yeah, it's really comfortable in the `roids, now." Keller said.
"Uh, `roids? Is that what they're being called now?" Dyson asked. Doubt turned to a mild revulsion.
"Well, that's what we called them in the academy." Keller said. Her name for their preferred mecha seemed to touch a foul chord in her instructor, and she was unsure how to proceed.
"You make it sound like some kind of disease." Dyson said. His respect for the machine he drove was unparalleled. It was the thing he did best, and Anubis had kept him alive for many years.
"What do you call them, then?" Keller asked, trying to get the subject on a positive note. The last thing she wanted to do was offend McCrae.
"Call them `Hawks. Call them Tommies, even. Just don't call them `roids. It seems disrespectful." Dyson replied. His own uneasiness from earlier was wearing on him, still, and he started looking at the clock, willing it to move, so he could be closer to the installation time.
Daring to broach another subject, Rachel asked another question. This time, it was something that she needed to know, and this seemed to be the most delicate way to go about it.
"When I read your file, I noticed that there was no Mrs. McCrae. Is there anyone close to it?"
Dyson nearly choked on his coffee. Damn, this girl could be direct! He thought. "Nope. There really wasn't anyone around here who would want that. Just me and the slobs that were supposed to be the station controllers. No one else around for a few hundred miles."
"That's a shame." Keller said.
"Not really." McCrae responded. "A destroid pilot's got about as much life expectancy as a World War Two bomber crewman. It wouldn't be fair to a woman to do that. Besides, there's not a lot of women who'd want to be married to a ground pounder. We're not as glamorous as a veritech pilot."
"Nope, not a lot." Keller agreed, and thought, silently. Just me.
After a short pause in the conversation, Dyson took his empty plates to the wash basin. He grabbed his new mug, and filled it with more of the wonderful smelling coffee that seemed to be in endless supply. When he returned to the table, there was something else waiting for him on it. Keller looked at him, expectantly, with a smile on her face.
Dyson inspected the objects, and found them to be a new pair of fingerless leather gloves. These made Dyson smile, and that smile meant everything to Rachel Keller.
| “I figured you’re due for a new
pair. I got those specially made for you. They’re the same type I use.
Kid leather, and padded palms.” She recited, full of pride. “Nice! Very nice!” Dyson said. They felt good on his hands, and as he flexed his fingers, there was no binding at all. “Thank you. They’re perfect!” |
As he tried them on, she saw that they fit his hands perfectly. |
Rachel glowed. She had feared an irreparable mistake was made when she asked about Dyson's love life, but the gift she gave him was enough to fix things. She decided to try something a little more safe.
"Are you excited about driving again?" Rachel asked.
"Absolutely!" Dyson said, full of energy. "I mean, it's been four days since the fall, and I'm ready to see Anubis on its feet again."
"You really love it, don't you?" Rachel asked, as she saw her hero become animated.
“Well, they’re big! Huge!” Dyson started. “They’re majestic! I mean, they aren’t pretty, like the veritechs, but they have that nasty, wicked look. I mean, you look into that red eye, and you tell me that isn’t scary.”
Continuing, Dyson spread his arms out, wide, to emphasise his next point. "We drive mecha that have the biggest, baddest guns around! We have tons of missiles, and we even have a search light! Our class of destroid was the beginning! They took the basic design and made two others! The only other real type of destroid out there is the Spartan, and it hasn't got what we have! We are the ultimate in ground attack! We are the towering monsters of the battlefield! We rule the battlefield!"
With his last statement, Dyson McCrae became aware that he was standing, giving a full blown performance. His attention was immediately drawn to Tony Brooks, who was standing near the serving counter, clapping, and his face wearing a broad smile. "If my food does that, I'll cook you anything you want, Captain. I might even sell tickets."
As he sat back down, McCrae succumbed to self-consciousness. He glanced at Keller, who was also clapping.
“I’m convinced.” she said. And privately, she thought Tonight. Definitely tonight.
Dyson glanced at the clock on the wall, and realized he had ten minutes before he had to be in the hangar. He looked towards Keller as he started to leave, and said "This might take a while, so take your time with breakfast."
"I never eat breakfast. Just a couple of muffins, and coffee." she replied. Her smile was fueled by something she had no words for, an excitement she could barely contain. There were those in the academy that thought Rachel Keller was too serious, and that she never smiled. In the presence of Dyson McCrae, her studious demeanor vanished, and the change was distinctly noticeable to those few that knew her.
As Dyson sprinted to the hangar, he felt his own excitement grow. He knew Anubis was
there, waiting to be finished. It was completed, except for the final assembly. Two of
the pieces were there the night before, when McCrae killed the last vestiges of fear left
in him, when he took his first look at the rebuilt machine. Now, he was anxious, ready to
do what he could to get the thing together.
Dyson entered the hangar bays with five minutes to spare. He saw the source of the noises he heard earlier that morning, as men worked on machines, used tools, and yelled obscenities at inanimate objects. The objects didn't respond, directly, but continued to exhibit their passive-aggressive tendencies, which only served to aggravate and compound the frustration of the technicians. It was a never ending drama, one that Dyson couldn't begin to understand.
Two shuttles squatted in the central causeway of the hangar. One, a modified Atlas, held the new command module for Anubis. Its oversized cargo hold was, apparently, split down the center, and each side now rested away from the shuttle's main body. The nearer shuttle, though, was another modified design, this time a Mercury. It had a specialized section behind its cockpit with many doors and a single ramp extending from the back. White and blue light glowed from the inside of the specialized work area.
Dyson walked to the heavy-haul Atlas. Further down the causeway, it was closer to the main hangar door. As he approached it, he could see the markings on the new module. Clear and crisp, they were identical to the markings he was used to seeing on the torso of his mecha. Next to the shuttle's rear edge, a pile of white plastic sheeting, evidently used to wrap the module for shipment, could be clearly seen. One of the sheets, laying over the pile, showed the text stenciled on it.
Under this were several serial numbers, as well as hand written markings, depicting the module's destination, and the shipping date.
Dyson was startled as Lieutenant Jimmy Hadden's voice boomed over the public address system. The hangar's cavernous nature gave an echo to his pronouncement, but it could still be clearly understood.
"Ladies and gentlemen! For a limited time only! Captain Dyson McCrae will be making a special appearance in the hangar bay! Watch as he gets fitted for a new seat! Marvel as he sees his destroid being assembled! Cheer as he takes his newly rebuilt machine for a test drive! Tickets are going fast, and there's standing room only for this once in a lifetime event!" Hadden had used his very best game-show announcers' voice, which triggered an eruption of laughter in the hangar.
As Dyson turned to listen to the PA, he noticed a young girl in coveralls approach him. She had short, brown hair and dark brown eyes, and smiled as she came towards him. "Captain McCrae, we'll be ready to measure you in a few minutes."
"Thanks." Dyson replied. He took this to be his cue to go back to the second shuttle's ramp.
When he reached the ramp, he noticed that there were several objects positioned around the shuttle's work station. Most of these objects were connected to the shuttle by a variety of cables. As he took all this in, Dyson McCrae couldn't help but feel bewildered. This was, by far, like nothing he had seen.
When the original destroids were deployed for the Robotech Defense Forces, they were fitted with a universal seat. Not entirely comfortable, they were, at least, marginally adjustable. Sitting on the top of a forty foot tall walking machine was rough on the drivers' body, and what few adjustments the seat had available made for only a slightly better ride. Dyson had parked Anubis many times, wishing for nothing more that a massage, or if that was unavailable, a hot shower, just to get his back into something resembling a human spine.
Now, though, these objects arrayed around the modified Mercury only added to the mystery. The largest of these was an eight foot tall box, with a base that was roughly two feet on a side. Printed on the top of the base were a pair of foot prints. Dyson supposed someone was supposed to stand in the box.
Other objects made more sense, though Dyson couldn't see the need for the extended level of technology he was surrounded by. A pair of computer terminals stood on stands. Another terminal, slightly larger than the first two, stood closer to the shuttle, and was linked to a separate box of indeterminate nature. Printed on all these things, as well as the side of the shuttle itself, were the words `RDF Ergonomic Engineering Systems'.
As McCrae waited and sipped his coffee, he watched as Purgatory's technicians gathered in groups, discussing various issues, and getting ready to watch Dyson's fitting procedure. He even got friendly nods from Torrey and Grey, the technical crew leaders. They weren't as clean as he'd seen them the previous day. Grease and dirt covered their blue coveralls, showing that they'd been hard at work all morning.
Finally, the brunette reappeared, stepping out of the back of the Mercury shuttle. Dyson noticed she was wearing a thin communications headset that was connected to a transmitter on her belt. Looking in McCrae's direction, she said "We can begin any time you're ready, captain."
"Okay." Dyson said. "What do I do?"
"First, we need to get a biometric measurement of your body, so that your seat will fit. So, what I need you to do is to strip out of your uniform, down to your skivvies, and step onto the platform, there." She said, indicating the tall, hollow box.
"What?!?" Dyson yelped. "Uhh… did you say `strip down'?"
"Yes, sir." The young girl replied. "We need to get accurate measurements, and a uniform gets in the way."
"Okay…" Dyson mumbled, full of apprehension. While he wasn't ashamed of his body, it was very surprising, the level of intimacy that this procedure demanded. Here he was, in front of people that might as well have been strangers, and he was expected to take everything off except the last bit of clothing protecting his modesty.
As he reached for the vertical zipper on the side of his uniform's shirt, he noticed Keller, sitting cross-legged, at the foot of her own destroid, the olive drab Black Rose. He turned, and yelled to her. "You want to turn your back, maybe?"
"Why?" she called back, her face sporting a wicked grin. "The view's fine from right here!"
McCrae shrugged. He couldn't argue the point. How many times had he piloted other people's mecha from one place to another, and found the interior of the cockpit adorned with pictures of scantily clad, or more often, completely nude, women? Who was he to say what another person enjoyed? Okay, he thought. I hope you like it.
Dyson managed to shed his outer layer in a reasonable amount of time, and took his place on the platform, as directed. He was instructed to relax, stand straight, and breathe normally. As he tried his best to relax, thin bars began descending along the vertical posts at the booth's corners. Inside each of these bars, blue light emanated in a flat plane. Lasers, Dyson guessed. After a few moments, they reached his feet, and began the process again, this time moving back up. After finishing their second trip, the bars tucked themselves away in the top of the booth, and Dyson was told he could step down and get dressed, much to his relief.
While replacing his uniform, Dyson heard chatter from the girl as she exchanged info with someone else, probably another technician inside the Mercury shuttle. Measurements were given, alterations discussed, and finally, decisions were made. The entire exchange sounded foreign to McCrae, as he dressed. Finally, after lacing up his boots, he made his way to the Black Rose, where Rachel Keller stood to greet him.
"Did you enjoy the view?" Dyson asked, irony heavy in his voice.
"Yup!" Rachel replied. And then, leaning close to McCrae, she purred "Maybe I can repay the favor, someday." She threw in a wink, for emphasis.
Dyson, feeling a jolt of confusion and surprise, simply cocked his head to the side, trying to come to terms with the Lieutenants' statement. You already did, Dyson thought to himself This morning.
Resigning himself to the confusion, McCrae threw his attention back to the ergonomics technicians, who had rolled out the new seat from the back of their shuttle. Motioning for him to join them, Dyson walked back over to where the new chair stood. After assisting the techs in removing the seat from its rolling dolly, they asked him to sit in it. As he did this, Dyson took in what he could of the new command chair. Controls for the destroid were mounted at the front of each arm rest, as well as the new leg supports. On the left arm, a throttle control, on the right, a multi-buttoned joystick. At the feet were the pedals that gave a pilot control over the destroid's torso.
Placing a cardboard mock-up of a cockpit in front of the seat, the techs asked if McCrae was comfortable in it. He squirmed left, then right, then back and forth, trying to find any flaws. When he couldn't find any, he told them he was fine with the new chair. With that, the technicians quickly withdrew the mock-up, and told Dyson that he was done with the fitting. Thanking him for his time, they began the process of installing the seat in the new cockpit.
When the brunette technician whistled, her partner, a blonde girl wearing blue coveralls, stepped out of the back of the shuttle. Both were joined by a gang of five of Purgatory's resident techs, and they all began manhandling the new seat towards the waiting command module. As they did, Dyson saw a large black box mounted to the seat back. Stenciled on the box were the letters CASS.
Dyson asked Keller if she knew what the letters meant.
"Computer Aided Suspension System." She replied. "A computer that actually helps keep the pilot stable in these new command chairs."
"You've driven them before?" Dyson asked.
"Only in the simulators." Keller responded. "Never in a real `Hawk."
Motioning to the olive drab monster directly behind them, Dyson asked "What about this one?"
With a chuckle, Keller explained "Nope. This one was brought out here by dragonfly the day before you woke up. I rode out on a shuttle, the same day. The Colonel actually parked the Rose."
"Okay, how about in the academy?" Dyson persisted.
“Nope. We had MOD-4s in the academy, with standard seats.” Keller said. “These seats haven’t been around that long. Just about three months, really.”
"Huh, the things they come up with." Dyson said. This was turning into another fast moving morning, and he desperately wanted it to slow down.
Looking over towards the new command module, Dyson saw that the gang of techs had manhandled the new chair to the top, and were getting ready to dog it down.
High pitched whines erupted as air ratchets were used to fasten the seat to its elevation platform, a task that took all of five minutes. One of the techs pushed a button on a remote he held, and the seat descended into the cockpit. Another button, and the armored hatched slid closed.
A huge overhead scaffold crane rumbled into life, moving towards the flatbed shuttle. Four sets of cables hung a short distance from the crane's main mechanism, all with flat magnetic heads. As the scaffold approached, the cables extended towards the floor. Soon, they were level with the top of the new module. The techs made fast work of positioning the flat heads on facets of the armored skin.
Soon, the techs yelled that the module was attached. Another tech that Dyson didn't notice earlier pressed buttons on a huge yellow remote he held. The cables of the scaffold crane groaned for a moment, then lifted the huge module off its cradle. As soon as it was free, the crane moved the module sideways, and set it down onto the steel-lined floor of the causeway.
The magnetic pads released their hold on the command module, and the crane was moved over to the old one, where the magnetic pads were attached on similar places. Soon, the old module was lifted into the cradle the that held the new replacement. After the swap was completed, the two halves of the shuttle's cargo cover lifted back into place, and the knocks of safety interlocks could be heard.
The girl that had measured Dyson for his seat motioned him over to the largest of the free standing terminals. Pressing a button on the attached device, a small hatch popped open. She withdrew a small, grey cartridge from this opening, and handed it to Dyson. It had the rough size and shape of a cassette tape from the last century, but it didn't have any reels, or openings. It did have a few electronic terminals on one edge, and on the face of it was printed IDENT CART - PILOT - D. MCCRAE
The girl also handed Dyson another object. The main part seemed to be a case for the cartridge, with straps on either end. "This can go on your lower arm."
"What is it?" Dyson asked.
"It's an identity cartridge. Your destroid won't activate until you insert this into its holder. It's a security device."
Dyson understood immediately. In the older systems, a pilot's destroid was activated by a numeric code entered into a dedicated keypad. With the new technology presented by MOD-5, it was only natural that a newer security protocol be established.
Dyson took the case and fitted the straps around the lower part of his right arm. With the case resting on the inside, he felt that there was less of a risk of him smashing the cartridge against a wall, or an armored bulkhead. Curiosity getting the better of him, McCrae asked the girl "How tough is this thing?"
"It'll withstand a shot from your autocannon." She replied, with a smile. "It's made to last, so the only thing you have to worry about is losing it."
"Not much chance of that." Dyson said, eyeing the carrying case. As unconventional as his uniform was, this thing just added that much more to it.
“Okay, captain. I’m done. I hope you like the new seat.” The young tech said. Her smile said more.
What is with the women around here? Dyson asked himself. Am I really that good looking?
Dyson walked back towards the feet of the Black Rose, as the tech began packing her terminals and other tools into the modified Mercury shuttle. Soon, the announcement came over the loudspeaker that the shuttles were departing, and anyone that didn't want to die had better get out of the way.
First, the Atlas began hovering, followed by the Mercury. As they reached a height of two feet, the large door at the far end of the causeway slowly thundered open. There was a blessed lack of wind outside, so no breeze invaded the hangar. One after the other, the shuttles departed.
After the door closed, the scaffold crane went back to work. Reattaching to the new module, the crane centered its cargo over the causeway, then began moving it toward the opening of bay 01.
When it was in position, the crane's overhead mechanism swiveled ninety degrees, aligning the module for insertion and mating to the rear torso section. As the crane lifted the module, Torrey, the tech lead, yelled out "Watch for swing! I don't want this thing getting out of position or falling!"
As the module was slowly moved over the free standing legs, another announcement sounded over the PA. "Captain McCrae, please report to control. Captain McCrae to control."
Dyson found the announcement mildly irritating. He wanted to see Anubis put together, but his duty was clear. Stepping down from bay 02, he sprinted past the working technicians, and trotted up the stairs to the control room.
Opening the door, he realized that he met lead officers, only, during the previous day's meeting. The room was buzzing with activity, as twenty-five or so people did what they were trained to do. One passing enlisted staffer pointed Dyson to the giant, square projection table in the center of the room. Over the table, a holographic image hovered. As he approached the table, he could see that the projection was a topographical representation of Purgatory station and the surrounding wastes for roughly fifty miles. Purgatory's building looked absolutely tiny in the center of the holo-map. Colonel Jeffery McKitterick was at the side of the table, scanning the map.
"I'm looking for a place where you can zero your guns out." McKitterick said, by way of a greeting. "Since we haven't got any real targets for you to shoot, we need something that has good, natural stuff you can hit."
Dyson moved to another side of the table, and looked for a moment. After he familiarized himself with the holographic image, he pointed out a point on the map. "I call this place `the rock garden'. It's got rocks about as tall as a destroid, with about the same mass, too."
"Sounds good to me." McKitterick replied. "You'll need to run your sensors on inert targeting. We don't have the stuff to simulate heat or energy output."
Dyson nodded. "Yeah, that figures. I've done it before. Live fire was required once a month, back before you came here. I was allowed five shots from each gun, even."
Shaking his head at the miserable conditions Dyson had to contend with, McKitterick said "Well, you're going to have full magazines, this time. I don't want them full when you get back. Understood?"
Dyson snapped to attention, a sign of respect and gratitude for the Colonel. "Yes, sir!"
KcKitterick grinned. "I'll get your nav data set up as soon as I can, once Anubis is together. We do it remotely now, through a wireless connection here in the base. We can update data through the new radio suite up to five hundred miles away. That's your new communications range, by the way."
Dyson was impressed. So the cup holder wasn't the only thing MOD-5 upgrades meant. This was getting better and better.
"Is that all, Colonel?" Dyson asked.
"It is. Get back down there. Your baby's waiting." McKitterick said, dismissing McCrae with a grin.
Dyson saluted, and dashed back down to the hangar. When he arrived, he saw that the new command module was mated with the rear torso, and a swarm of technicians were busy connecting this and attaching that. Dyson McCrae was qualified for field repairs, which meant that he could do minor work on the destroid's systems, but he was nowhere as skilled as these men and women were. Some seemed to literally dangle from parts of the completed torso, where others had their bodies so far into open hatches, only their legs could be seen.
Dyson counted forty-five minutes before the techs reappeared, calling out that their connections and attachments were completed. The techs came down off the scaffold and went about filling coffee mugs and chatting about their jobs. Dyson supposed he was impatient, but he was too entranced with the process to be annoyed. He enjoyed the slow countdown. Anubis had been in three pieces, and now it was two. Soon, it would be one, and complete. His excitement overrode the impatient longing he felt.
After their break, the techs resumed their work. While the command module was paired with the rear torso, the crane's magnetic heads still held it. Now, two of the heads were removed, and placed on angular facets of the rear torso, completing the hold on the entire upper body of the mecha. Twenty tons of armored machine were lifted from the scaffold support, and slowly positioned over the hips of the leg section. Three techs took risky positions around the hips, watching and reporting on the alignment process. Many times, precision measurements were taken, and finally, after another thirty minute move, the torso was set down onto the legs.
A giant hiss of released compressed air accompanied the final movement. Apparently, Dyson guessed, there was some pneumatic pressure applied in the effort to rebuild Anubis' shattered bones. Now, with the added weight, air was released to compensate.
Again, technicians swarmed over the giant machine, making connections and attachments, checking alignments, and finalizing the assembly of the proud Tomahawk. Dyson got his first look at the completed destroid as they did this. Standing in the center of the ramp leading to bay 02, he saw his khaki tan monster.
Anubis, veteran warrior of many battles, and savior of many people, stood, proud and menacing. Its main guns hung straight down from the shoulders, and parallel to the ground where the elbow joints began. For the first time in nearly twenty years, Anubis stood as it did on the factory floor. Dyson's eyes teared with pride.
He noticed small details as he looked at his mechanical friend. The markings on the destroid were bright and sharp. The same alphanumeric combinations it had always had, they were resplendent in red and white. On the center of the hip section, the triangular `hammer and torch' symbol glowed its golden yellow. On the left knee, the circular `kite' symbol of the Robotech Defense Forces blazed a bright red and white. Numbers and letters that Dyson could've recited by rote stood out from the matte tan paint.
He also noticed the new guns situated in the chest. Their gunmetal grey barrels had the shine of new, factory fresh armaments. On the missile covers, brand new triangular warning symbols were applied. Above the warning on the right launcher, several white silhouettes stood out.
"They put my kill count on there?" Dyson asked Keller.
"Yup!" She replied. "Remember, your service record was restored."
Dyson made a quick count of the painted markers. Fourteen battlepods, two officer's pods, and three Zentradi battle armor suits.
"They got the count wrong." Dyson exclaimed. "There shouldn't be so many pods."
"Nah." Keller said, grinning. "About three years ago, they took all the combat data from the SDF-1's return trip, and correlated that with all the data from every unit on board. They came up with four more for you."
"Wow! I know I had four probable kills, but they were never actually confirmed." Dyson said, mystified.
"Well, they've got `em confirmed, now." Keller said. "You're almost a double gunfighter!"
If a destroid pilot survived long enough to claim ten kills, he was called a `gunfighter`. It was similar to the title of `Ace' for fighter pilots who'd achieved five kills. If a destroid driver managed twenty, he was awarded the title of `double gunfighter', or `gunslinger'. The terms originated with the driver of a Guardian destroid, aptly fitted with the nickname `Doc Holliday'. `Holliday' was the first destroid to rack up ten kills on the outer decks of the SDF-1. Also the first to attain twenty, the pilot was awarded his twenty-first kill posthumously. His funeral had been a sad, somber event.
Dyson shrugged, thinking that the RDF must be bored, indeed, to start correlating old combat data. Either way, he was happy about the updated kill count. Even though it was a source of irritation to some members of the public who called for peace and disarmament, a pilot's collection of silhouettes was always a source of pride, and cause for respect from other pilots.
Finally, after another long interval, the techs descended from the completed Anubis. Torrey and Grey approached the destroid's feet, opened hatches on the outer sides of each shin, and plugged cables from mobile terminals into the openings. After a few more moments, they withdrew the cables, closed the hatches, and took the terminals to data ports situated on a nearby wall. Looking at a larger display, they reviewed the collected data, and nodded. Smiling, they turned towards the area where McCrae stood.
| “Captian,” Torrey said “Your
destroid’s waiting.” With a sweeping motion of his arm, Grey invited
McCrae to approach his rebuilt machine. |
||
| Dyson took several slow steps forward. As he did, he looked at Anubis again. There was nothing but the giant war machine, standing on its own. | Dyson was beyond words. | There were none that could describe what he felt. |
As he walked up to the gantry stairs leading to the cockpit, Dyson removed his beret. Looking around, he couldn't find his helmet.
"Where's my helmet?" McCrae asked Torrey.
By way of an answer, Torrey trotted to one of the work benches, and grabbed a fairly large cardboard box. He sprinted back, and presented the box to McCrae. "Your old helmet was shattered in the fall, and MOD-5 requires a new one, anyway."
Dyson set his beret on the small table by the stairs. The table was meant for this. Upon dismounting a destroid, the pilot would place his head protection on the table, and retrieve whatever hat or beret he left waiting there when he started out.
Before he opened the box, he noticed a crowd had formed around him. The group was mostly comprised of technicians, but Colonel McKitterick and Lieutenant Keller were also there, watching him.
He opened the box and looked inside. What he found was beyond his expectation. He pulled the new helmet out, examining it. Comprised of lightweight carbon fiber, it was painted in a gunmetal grey that matched his uniform. The brow of the helmet extended forward from the face of the wearer by two inches, and contained two slots for extendible visors. Dyson could also see other apertures in the brow. Too small to be lights, he assumed they were there for a reason. Extending from the right ear guard was a wire mesh housing for a microphone. On the rear face stood a small, square block, one inch by three inches. This was, presumably, the wireless transmitter link for the communications systems aboard the mecha. It was definitely an improvement. Before, destroid drivers had to plug a cord from the helmet into a socket in the bulkhead, which could develop into a hazard during a rough firefight.
Looking at the top of the helmet, Dyson noticed the final touch. Painted on either side of the helmet was a side view of Lord Anubis, this time in his full jackal form. The gold headdress highlighted with blue, the eyes were a glowing red, and text underneath the body matched what he saw on the mecha's shin the previous day, spelling out `Anubis'.
As Dyson looked up from the new helmet, he spied the grinning crowd gathered around him. They began clapping lightly, and a couple of the techs even whistled. Grey spoke first. "We all chipped in to get that custom icon for you. We figured you'd like it."
Dyson felt his throat close with the gratitude he felt. Fighting for the ability to speak, he managed a weak `Thank you all, very much."
More light applause followed, until Torrey said "Let's get you up there, so we can set your preferences and get the initialization started."
After taking several deep breaths, McCrae started up the stairs. As he climbed, he became aware that the odors of new paint, lubricants, and metal caressed his nose. The scents fueled his happiness to the point that he was taking two stairs at a time when he reached the top platform. There, waiting, was the closed cockpit hatch.
Torrey followed closely and pushed a button on a remote, the same one Dyson saw earlier during the seat installation, causing the hatch to slide forward and down. Soon after, the new seat lifted itself up, ready to accept Dyson McCrae.
"Now, when you insert your cartridge, the initialization program will start up. I'll be just outside, here, and I'll talk you through the whole thing." Torrey explained.
Dyson nodded, and sat in the seat. He was surprised to see the controls for the destroid still situated on the chair itself. Previous versions of the Tomahawk cockpit had the controls built into the bulkheads and floor of the machine, where the pilot would have to adjust to use them. Dyson figured that this was the case with the new chair, as well, and thought that the controls were only on the seat to facilitate the fitting. He was very happy to see the new controls where they were.
Dyson sat in his new command chair, and placed the new helmet on his head. He was immediately greeted with Torrey's voice in his ears, courtesy of the built-in headphones. "Ok, Anubis, you copy?"
Dyson nodded, and replied "Loud and clear, sir."
"Ok, your descent trigger is right there, mounted just to the side of the joystick. Get down there, and see what we brought you." Torrey instructed, through a hand held radio.
Dyson pressed the button, and the command chair descended into the cockpit. Another button, next to the first, triggered the armored hatch, which slipped up silently, and sealed Dyson inside.
Dyson sat for a moment, listening to the muted hum of the reactor's coolant pumps, a sound that may as well have been a heartbeat for the machine. Not the rhythmic thump of a real, living heart, it did signify that the destroid had a life of its own. Dyson reveled in the new sound of a healthy reactor.
When the hatch slipped shut, muted red light flooded the cockpit from unseen sources. McCrae looked around at his new surroundings, and found that most of the bulkheads were padded. Where he expected to find the usual clusters of instruments, McCrae only found glossy, black panels. The biggest change of all, though, was the view screen. Before, the cockpit had four thin-panel monitors set up around the pilot's head. One above, one on either side, and one directly in front. If a pilot were claustrophobic, they'd have a hard time in the old Tomahawk cockpit. Now, however, there was simply a black crescent, identical to the shape of the red crescent-shaped eye on the exterior of the machine. Another wide, black strip ran above his head, apparently to give him a view of above.
Dyson found the receiver for the identity cartridge immediately to the right of the overhead viewer, mounted on the inner wall of the hatch. "Ready to insert cartridge." Dyson reported over the radio.
"Go right ahead. We're ready." Torrey replied.
Reaching up to the receiver, Dyson found that carved ridges on the edged of the cartridge ensured that it could only be inserted one way. After he placed it in the slot, he closed the receiver, and saw several things happening in rapid succession.
First, the red light in the cockpit was dropped down to a low level. Next, simulated static danced across the main view screen, then formed into a three-dimensional image of the great Lord Anubis, standing on his pedestal. Throwing his head back in a howl, Anubis took his staff in both hands, lunging forward. At the final point of his thrust, a blue-white comet of lightning shot from the end of his staff, and the image was frozen in place. The image shifted from three dimensions to two, shrinking, until it was superimposed onto the shin of a Tomahawk destroid. The `Hawks image also shrunk, moving to the side of the viewer, and sparkling bits of light began dancing along the rest of the screen, moving to form letters out of nothingness. As the letters were formed, they took on the appearance of the lettering on his destroid's shin, spelling out the name. When the name was finally formed, a chorus of deep voices said, once, "Anubis!"
Dyson laughed, very pleased with the presentation. "Will the screen do this every time I
start up?" He asked, over the radio.
"If you want it to." Torrey replied. "If not, we can remove it. We just thought you'd like to have a bit of fun on your first trip."
"Let me think about that." Dyson said, as he watched the screen clear.
The view screen quickly faded to black, then became active again. A fuzzy, opaque view of the outside world appeared. Dyson could just make out the distorted image of the Black Rose in the opposite bay.
After a split second, computer data began scrolling across the screen, followed by automated system checks.
REACTOR COOLANT TEMP: OPTIMAL
ENVIRONMENTAL SETTINGS: OPTIMAL
HYDRAULIC FUNCTION: GOOD
PNEUMATIC FUNCTION: GOOD
ELECTRO-SERVO FUNCTION/RESPONSE: GOOD
WEAPONS SYSTEMS: LOCKED
SYNAPTIC INDUCTION: LOCKED
Then, after the checks had been completed, another line of text appeared.
This line was accompanied by a computer generated voice. A deep, male voice with a clipped English accent greeted him, along with the message on the screen.
"Your new C3 has a voice prompting system, as well as voice recognition." Torrey said, over the radio. "That's Anubis talking to you."
"Good morning, Anubis." Dyson said. MOD-5 was full of surprises, Dyson realized, as destroids didn't talk before, and they sure didn't listen.
As text scrolled onto the screen, the new voice of Anubis recited it.
MY NAME IS CAPTAIN DYSON MCCRAE.
Dyson did as he was told, reciting the sentence. After he did this, a bell chimed, once, signaling completion.
PLEASE ISSUE AN ERRONEOUS COMMAND.
"Torrey, what does this mean?" Dyson asked.
"The new MOD-5 system allows you to issue commands to the destroid via voice. Now, you can't tell it to walk from point A to B, but you can tell it to arm weapons, set up missile volleys, and engage sensors." Torrey explained. "It's asking for a bad command, so that it can check if your voice print is adequate."
Dyson nodded, understanding. He thought, quickly, and said "Anubis, set up two quads on the mains, and ripple fire `em!"
This time, a moderately loud claxon sounded, and the screen showed new text.
Anubis voiced its question, along with the text.
"Correct, Anubis." Dyson replied, getting a little creeped out by the idea of talking to his machine. Sure, he had spoken to the thing many times, usually in the heat of a battle, or when he was wrestling the controls to get Anubis backed into a bay, but he never expected to have Anubis answer back, or ask him questions.
"Anubis, set up the mains for ripple fire." Dyson commanded.
And, again, the voice asked the question, echoing the text on the screen.
"Yes." Dyson replied. The computer-generated bell chimed, again, and more text scrolled onto the screen.
READY TO BEGIN OCCULAR INITIALIZATION (STEP-2). LOWER PRIMARY VISOR, AND ADVISE WHEN READY.
"What's this?" Dyson asked Torrey.
"You saw those laser apertures in the front of your helmet, right?" Torrey began. "There's two sets. One projects a targeting marker on your face plate, and the other set tracks your eyes. They follow each eye, and measure their position and focus."
"Okay, how do I get the face plate down?" Dyson asked.
"On the right side of the helmet, just above the microphone housing, there are two buttons. You can feel them. One's got a single raised stud, the other has two studs. The single-stud button lowers the clear visor, and the two-stud lowers the shaded visor, in case you're in a bright area. Integral sunglasses, I guess you'd call it." Torrey explained.
McCrae felt for the buttons, and found them immediately. Pressing the one with the single stud, he was rewarded with a soft electric hum, as a motor lowered a clear plastic face plate. When it finished, Dyson saw that the visor covered his eyes, and came down just above his nose.
"Ready, Anubis." Dyson announced.
Again, text scrolled onto the view screen.
DO NOT MOVE YOUR HEAD.
And, with that, a small, white square appeared on the visor. Lines extended from each corner of the square, forming an `X' inside it. Keeping his head still, he followed the cursor around with eye movement. First up, then down, then diagonally across his field of vision, and the a complete circle. After these movements, the cursor disappeared, and more text appeared on the viewer.
COMPUTER TARGET DESIGNATION AND VISUAL TARGET DESIGNATION AVAILABLE ON COMMAND.
"Visual designation? What does that mean?" Dyson asked.
Torrey answered. "You've got two targeting modes now. First, you can choose a target from what the computer has set up, based on data from the on-board sensors, or you can use the visor's cursor to select one yourself. Basically, it's a bore-sight option."
"How does it know when I'm talking to you? I'm using the same microphone, right?" Dyson asked.
"That computer's really intuitive." Torrey replied. "The vocal recognition software analyzes anything you say, and decides how to handle it. Since it knows you're talking to me, it sends your speech out on the appropriate frequency."
Amazing! Dyson thought. This thing's absolutely amazing!
PLEASE ADVISE WHEN READY FOR WEAPON CALIBRATION (STEP-3).
"Ok, Anubis, you're ready to rock and roll!" Torrey called, over the radio. "Reach up and hit that red button on your right."
McCrae looked to his right. On one of the black panels, a red square pulsed, with the words `Master Enable' over it. He reached for it, touching it with the tip of his finger. The pulsing square changed from red to green.
Immediately, he heard the crescendo of electric motors, pumps, compressors, and servos, as they began their start-up. Blending into one, they slowly faded to an almost imperceptible sound, as the great machine awoke. Dyson gasped, feeling an exhilaration he had no words for.
McCrae also felt the cockpit being lifted. As the hydraulic and pneumatic systems reached full pressure, the destroid actually grew by a couple of feet. Unless Anubis suffered another catastrophic accident, it wouldn't do this again.
Soon, the opaque view on the main screen was gone, replaced by a view clearer than Dyson had seen before. It was as if he could reach through the viewer, and touch whatever was outside. McCrae guessed that the optics fitted into the red crescent-eye on the outside of the cockpit must have been radically upgraded, just like everything else.
As the power-up sequence continued, the black panels on either side of the cockpit's interior became active. Systems, weapon status, and armor integrity displays all lit up, giving McCrae an amazing amount of information about his machine, and doing it in a way that wasn't confusing or cryptic.
As the displays came on, and Anubis finished his final growth-spurt, one more line of text scrolled across the main screen: UNIT READY TO MANEUVER.
"Ok, Anubis, it looks like you're ready to go! I'll hand you over to control, and get ready to guide you out." Torrey called, over the radio.
"Anubis copies." Dyson replied, shifting to the mode of the professional pilot.
"Anubis, this is Purgatory Control. We show you powered up and ready to move. Hold position while we get Black Rose out of the way." Hadden said.
McCrae watched as Rachel Keller put on her own helmet, and mounted the Black Rose's command chair. She descended below the armored hatch, which closed above her. As the olive-drab destroid powered up, Dyson's own screen placed a blue outline around it. A small wire flag extended from the outline, with abbreviated text. Above the flag, text spelled `BLK RSE', and below it, `TMHK MK.6'
The PA sounded off with Hadden's voice, which was picked up by Anubis' external audio pickups. "Okay, folks. We have two destroids walking. Clear the causeway, and let `em through!"
As McCrae strapped himself in with the integral four-point restraints built into the new chair, he watched as the Black Rose left its own bay. Precise, controlled movements were made, and it turned towards the huge door at the far end of the causeway. Dyson could hear the thuds as the Black Rose's feet impacted the steel-lined floor. Dyson noted the precision Keller exhibited. He was supposed to be her final instructor, after all.
Dyson did one last check of his systems, ending with the practiced move of reaching up and patting the black-and-yellow handles he was so familiar with. Finding everything to his liking, he called into control. "Control, Anubis. I show green across the board, except weapons and Alpha Wave, which are locked. Request departure clearance."
“Anubis, Control. You are cleared to proceed. Follow the ground guide’s instructions, and have a good day. Wind is fractional, from the northeast. Nav data will update when you clear the hangar.” Hadden said.
"Anubis copies." And with that, Dyson looked towards the floor in front of his bay. He saw Torrey, wearing a reflective yellow vest and a plastic helmet. In his hands were two lighted wands, similar to those used at airports. Torrey was waving the wands in a vertical direction, beckoning the giant machine forward.
Torrey`s voice came over the radio, speaking through the built-in headset in his helmet. "Okay, Anubis. One click forward on the throttle. These controls are newer than you were used to, so we're going to take some baby steps. Once you get outside, you'll be able to play around with them."
Dyson situated his feet on the pedals, and grasped the new controls. In his left hand, the throttle control resembled a t-shifter for an automatic transmission. On the right end of the `T' was a red button. Dyson pushed the button in, feeling the throttle handle release from some unseen locking mechanism. He slid it slightly forward, until he felt the `click' of the lowest speed setting. Releasing the button, the handle settled into place. At that instant, the reactor's pumps began operating at a slightly higher pitch, and Dyson McCrae felt his destroid take its first step.
With a muted thud, Anubis stepped forward towards the opening of bay 01. McCrae was immediately gratified to hear none of the metallic screeching and groaning he'd become accustomed to during the last year. Anubis walked as freely as ever.
As he reached the center of the causeway, Torrey started issuing other directions. Dyson pulled the throttle back to the stops, and moved the joystick towards the left, slightly at first, then with a little more pressure. Anubis reacted smartly, shifting on its feet until it faced the giant door.
“Okay, Anubis. That’s it for me. We’ll open the door, and advise when you’ve cleared the building. Once clear, hold there for more info.” Torrey said. He’d moved away from his position in front of Anubis, and could no longer be seen.
"Anubis copies. Thanks for the assist." McCrae responded.
Dyson moved the throttle three clicks forward, and Anubis started walking towards the door. As he checked his sides for clearance, Dyson could see the front of his main guns bobbing with each step. When Anubis reached the halfway point, the doors slid open, with the sounds of screeching metal and giant electric motors accompanying the process.
As he exited, McCrae sighted the Black Rose waiting patiently to one side, as he exited the hangar. Again, the blue outline surrounded the olive drab machine. As he passed it, he noticed that Keller was slowly turning the Rose's torso left and right, a standard procedure for destroids in a waiting position. The controlled movement was meant to give the operator a better field of vision, and faster target acquisition time. Dyson recalled the words of his own instructor, a gruff fireplug of a man who stood just over five feet, and weighed in at a staggering one hundred seventy five pounds, all muscle. Keep yer eyes peeled, and yer torso movin', McCrae!
"Anubis, you've cleared the hangar. Hold station, and prepare for nav data uplink." Hadden's voice said. Dyson pulled the throttle back to dead stop, and turned to the right display panel. He remembered that a switch used to be there, to allow data transfers between the destroid and whatever base he was stationed. Now, there was a large antenna icon, green in color, with pulsing waves emanating from the round tip. Dyson was also surprised to see the blue outline of the Black Rose superimposed on the right wall. Tweaking his eyes momentarily, he discovered that the blue target outline was projected onto his helmet's visor. Damn! This thing is beyond amazing! Dyson thought.
After a few short seconds, Anubis' computerized bell chimed, followed by the new voice. "Navigational data received." A light blue line was now superimposed onto the landscape of Purgatory, leading away from the base building.
"Anubis, Control." Hadden called. "Okay, your navs are set up, so you're cleared to proceed. To nav point Alpha, we want you to use half speed. This'll give you some time to get used to the controls. If you want, you can take some turns and other maneuvers. Go ahead and play around. Nav Beta is the point that you'll zero out your guns, and finalize the initialization. How does that sound?"
"Control, Anubis." Dyson responded. "Sounds good to me."
"Black Rose, Control. You're escort for Anubis, until his weapons are online. Follow at the proper distance, and assist as necessary." Hadden instructed.
Dyson heard Keller's response on the tactical network. "Black Rose copies, control."
With everything situated, orders issued, and acknowledgements made, Dyson made the best announcement he could, that day. "Anubis is heading out." His smile was a mile wide.
Something watched. Not entirely human, it watched through things that weren't quite eyes. It saw a view of Purgatory station, from the vantage point of a reconnaissance satellite. It watched, and saw the rebuilt destroid called Anubis walk away from its hangar. So, McCrae lives, eh? It thought. Well, I'll let him have his fun. As for the girl, she dies as well. No one will care about collateral damage.
As Anubis progressed along its assigned route, Dyson McCrae was enjoying his gigantic new toy, swiveling its torso from left to right, tilting it back, and leaning it forward. Taking a few turns, Dyson got a feel for the joystick's tension and response time. It was better than anything he expected. The new controls straddled a very fine line between being too slow, and being so ramped up they were too reactionary. He decided to find out just how smart this new computer complex was, next.
"Anubis, can you give me a rear-view camera, and lock it on Black Rose?" McCrae asked.
"Target tracking enabled." Was the terse, concise reply from the destroid. A small frame was superimposed on the main view screen, showing the olive drab Tomahawk, again with its blue outline.
"Anubis, explain that blue highlight around Black Rose, please." McCrae ordered.
"Target designation, per IFF recognition protocols. Blue denotes friendly target assigned to common unit." Anubis' voice reported. McCrae was impressed. Apparently, the computer was smart enough to understand common speech, analyze it, and respond with the appropriate answer.
"Okay, then, what if a target's not friendly?" He asked.
"Per IFF recognition protocols, hostile targets are denoted with red." Anubis replied.
"And, if there's no IFF signature?" McCrae asked, quizzing the machine.
"Per IFF recognition protocols, non-coded targets, inert targets, and unidentified targets are denoted with green. Status of IFF coded recognition is constantly updated, per protocol parameters." Anubis responded, again.
Dyson nodded, impressed. At least he had IFF now, as opposed to the last year, when he was lucky if he could get a solid target on his radar.
He watched the Black Rose, initially looking to see what quality the rear-view cameras offered. His musings were interrupted, though, by a bad move committed by his escort. He pulled the throttle back, and wheeled the destroid around, to face the Rose.
"Hold it! Stop!" he called out.
On the Black Rose, Rachel Keller saw Anubis' radical move, and became concerned. Fearing a possible breakdown, she called on the tac net. "Anubis, Black Rose. What's going on?"
"You're doing it wrong, Rose." Dyson replied. "Come to a stop, and get ready for your first lesson."
Confused, Rachel pulled her own throttle back, stopping the destroid. Certain she was performing the escort duty in the correct manner, she was baffled by McCrae's sudden exclamation, and her confusion gave way to self-consciousness and the leading edge of shame.
"You're turning your torso way too fast, Rose." McCrae said, beginning his lesson. "You want to turn it a bit slower. Now, turn your torso completely to the left, and hold there."
Keller hit the left pedal, swiveling the Black Rose's upper body to the left a full ninety degrees.
"Now, swing it all the way to the right at the speed you were doing it before, and hold." McCrae instructed.
Keller applied full pressure to the right pedal, and swung the destroid's upper body one hundred eighty degrees around, to face completely to the right.
“Now, do you hear that groaning sound?” Dyson asked. Keller listened. Just as her swivel ended, she could hear the groan of stressed metal throughout the cockpit. “I hear it.” She replied.
"That's your main guns, trying to catch up to the torso. If you keep turning too fast, you'll end up stripping your shoulder joints." McCrae cautioned. As he said this, he watched as the Rose's body centered with its legs.
"In the Academy," Rachel began "We were told to do a fast swivel, so that we could maximize our field of view."
Dyson McCrae chuckled as he responded. "Kiddo, there's a world of difference between what you learn in school, and what we do out here. I'll show you."
Feeling the shame descend on her, Rachel Keller said "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
| “Don’t worry about it, Lieutenant.” Dyson said. “See, I had to go through the same thing. You’re lucky, though. “You’re not mad?” Rachel asked, feeling like an idiot for asking it, but not able to stop herself. |
I didn’t have a veteran pilot to learn from. I had to learn it the hard way.” |
| “Hell no! That’s what I’m here for!” McCrae replied. Over the visual link, Rachel could see his expansive smile. | It did her good to see it. |
She tried a couple of slower torso turns, and was happy to hear the positive response from her instructor. "That's it! Now you won't get the techs mad at you!" McCrae cheered.
Soon, they were underway again, and quickly approached the first navigation marker. Dyson wanted to see how Keller handled the stop, so he turned his destroid to the right. He was happy to see that she knew the proper procedure. As he turned, she brought her own destroid close, and assumed a back-to-back stance with Anubis, a position known as `mutual protection'. Each destroid covered the other's back, both machines turning their bodies in unison to give a total, three hundred sixty degree area of sight and awareness. Keller learned quickly, McCrae noted, as her torso turns were at a more relaxed speed, and kept at a slow, constant pace that Anubis dictated. This young woman, indeed, knew what she was doing.
During the mutual protection drill, Dyson scanned his data displays, and looked over the remaining navigational data conveniently provided by Anubis. Getting a bright idea into his head, he called over to the Keller. "Black Rose, are you ready to receive your first order on this run?"
Keller responded at once. "Ready, sir!"
Throwing his throttle to fully forward, he simply said "Keep up."
As Anubis sprinted away, Keller was taken by surprise. "What the…" she muttered, before slamming her own throttle forward. She whipped her destroid around as it picked up speed, and followed McCrae.
As the two destroids ran along the surface of Purgatory, Dyson McCrae became instantly aware of just how effective the new CASS system was. Normally, running a Tomahawk at full speed was a dicey proposition for any pilot. Sitting on top of a giant, walking war machine was precarious at slow to moderate speeds, but at high speeds, especially, a pilot could get jostled like nothing else. Severe head trauma was reported in several cases, and for that reason, most pilots dreaded the idea of going all out.
Dyson, though, marveled at the new system. At the slow speed he used in the hangar, and the moderate speed he used to move to the first marker, he didn't feel the destroid's movements at all. Now, in a flat-out run, he hardly felt the side-to-side movement that was normal at this speed. What little lateral movement there was only served to remind McCrae that he was, in fact, driving a destroid, and not an armored Ferrari.
Soon, both machines arrived at the edge of the area called `The Rock Garden'. As far as the eye could see, giant stones of all shapes and sizes dotted the landscape. While some other parts of Purgatory were clear, and devoid of features, this particular section seemed to have more than its fair share of obstacles.
"Well, here's where we see if the guns work." Dyson said. "When I go in there, you hang back here. You remember the rule about particle guns, right?"
Dyson could see Keller nod through the video link, as she said "Yes, sir. On the first firing of particle guns, there needs to be a three meter radius around the destroid, in case they decide to explode."
"Good job, LT." Dyson said. Her smile, full of pride, was a ray of sunshine.
McCrae called into control, to start the final process. "Control, Anubis. Arrived at final nav point, and ready to finish this up."
"Anubis, Command." Colonel McKitterick's voice came over the headset. "I spotted a cliff face to your right, about half a kilometer from your present position. You'll be able to zero out on that, then test your mains."
"Command, you're telling me that the mains aren't going to be used for the adjustments?" Dyson asked.
"Affirmative, Anubis. You just use the chest-mount autocannon. All the alignment data is taken from them." McKitterick replied.
"Okay, command. Moving to targeting point." McCrae reported, and moved his throttle forward.
Anubis proceeded into the rock garden at a slow pace, for reasons both obvious and obscure. The obstacles in the garden could get quite dense, and an unwary pilot could end up denting his machine on a rock. Technicians like Torrey and Grey loved working on battle damaged mecha, but would never forgive a pilot who'd simply impaled his machine out of clumsiness.
The less obvious reason for the slow speed was the issue weighing on McCrae's mind. Try as he might, he couldn't figure some things out about Rachel Keller. When he cautioned her about rapid torso functions, she sounded crushed. The caution was more of a pointer, really. Many times, a young pilot would get dressed down for wrecking a destroid's shoulders with unnecessary wear, and McCrae's own experience was enough to warrant a rule of thumb. However, when he quizzed her about the particle gun rule, she seemed absolutely ecstatic about getting the answer right. She seemed so eager to please, it was unsettling to McCrae.
Lost in his musings, he piloted the mecha to the face of the cliff on something like autopilot, and was so lost in his thoughts that he was startled by a proximity warning from Anubis. Catching it in time, he pulled back on the throttle, and moved the giant destroid in reverse, getting some distance between it and the cliff.
As he stopped, he looked at the face of the cliff. Huge chunks of stone could be seen, appearing at random through the layers of strata. Some of these were small, while others appeared to be a few meters across. Another unexciting feature of Purgatory.
"Okay, Anubis. Let's finish this." Dyson said.
Starting with the warning claxon, Anubis replied "Unable to complete initialization procedures. Weapons are locked."
"Well, unlock them." Dyson said.
"Unable. Weapons unable to unlock through voice control." Anubis responded.
"Control, Anubis. Do you have one of the technicians around there?" Dyson called out. "I have a question."
"Anubis, Control. We have Torrey and Grey here. What's your question?" Hadden replied.
"How do I unlock the guns?" Dyson asked, feeling a bit frustrated.
Torrey was the one who responded. "Okay, Anubis. Look at the left bulkhead, around the level of your face. You'll see two clear plastic studs, one red, and the other blue. The red one's for your guns, and the blue one is for Alpha Wave. Pull the red one first, and initialize your guns, then we'll let you unlock the Alpha Wave stuff."
Dyson looked at the left wall, and found the two plastic protrusions, each of which was square, and about a quarter inch per side. Placing his fingertips on the red stud, he pulled gently. Encountering resistance, he pulled harder, until the red stud moved, followed by a sliver of plastic about an inch in length.
Immediately, Dyson heard the clatter of loading and firing mechanisms, and the thrum of power that signified that energy was being fed to the big guns on the arms.
"Weapons unlocked, and ready to arm. Ready to initialize targeting system, at your discretion." Anubis announced.
"Let's do it." Dyson said.
Anubis' screen lit up with data streams, followed by analysis results and status displays for each gun. As the data flashed by, Dyson had to turn his eyes away, as the speed of the flashing data threatened to give him a headache. Finally, after all the internal number crunching had been completed, Anubis said that it was ready.
"Please select target for initial firing. Autocannon set for single-select firing sequence." With that, a targeting reticle appeared on Dyson's visor, and followed the movements of his eyes. Dyson looked at the control joystick in his right hand, and quickly scanned the buttons.
While some aspects of the new MOD-5 cockpit had evolved from what McCrae knew, the basic shape and structure of the joystick control remained the same. Formed to fit the pilot's hand, there was the obligatory pistol-grip trigger in position for the index finger of the right hand. Above this, the top of the joystick looked like the back of a cobra's swelled head, and housed a few more buttons. Along the side of the vertical shaft of the stick, a thumb-button was used to select a target. Once the reticle was over the intended object, the pilot need only hit the thumb-button, and the target was selected.
"Anubis, set sensors for null-active selection." Dyson said, telling the computer to look for inert objects, instead of the usual, energy-displacing targets the computer was meant to look for.
"Set." was Anubis' simple reply.
McCrae moved his eyes over the cliff face until he found a suitably large chunk of rock. He then hit the selector, and a green outline was superimposed around it. Along with the green outline, another flag was shown, with a simple distance measurement.
"Selected target inside optimal firing range. Please correct." Anubis said.
Looking into his rear-view display, McCrae checked for obstacles behind him. Moving the throttle back slightly, Anubis started to walk backwards, taking small, deliberate steps. Shortly, the pleasant chime sounded off, accompanied by Anubis' announcement. "Target now within optimal range. Arm weapons and prepare to fire."
McCrae reached up to touch the master status display for the weapons the mecha carried. As he touched it, the display changed from `SAFE' to `ACTIVE'.
"Ready to fire, at your discretion." Anubis announced.
Dyson gripped the control stick, and took a deep breath. Exhaling slowly, he squeezed the trigger, and heard the POW of the single autocannon shot. The cliff face exploded with the impact, and a cloud of dust and dirt floated into the air. Two seconds later, McCrae could see the point of impact, which was slightly lower and to the left of the target rock.
"You're off, Anubis." McCrae said. "Low and left of the target."
"Please indicate point of impact. Standard target selection." Anubis replied.
Again, the white reticle appeared on McCrae's visor. He directed it to the impact hole in the face of the cliff, and pressed the selector.
A split-second later, Anubis announced "Corrections completed. Ready for test firing."
Dyson selected a new rock, and hit the selector again. Another green outline, and another range declaration appeared. Dyson squeezed the trigger, and was rewarded with another loud POW from the chest-mounted gun. This time, after the dirt and smoke cleared, Dyson could see that the shot was dead-on-target. The rock was shattered by the autocannon round.
"Good hit, Anubis." McCrae said.
“Targeting initialization complete. Preferences set. Unit ready.” Anubis said, with clinical dullness. In stark contrast, Dyson’s heart raced with anticipation and joy.
"Control, Anubis. I'm done setting up. Request permission to engage alpha wave." Dyson called over the radio.
| “Anubis, Control.” Hadden called
back. “You are cleared to engage. Pull the other plastic stud, and
alpha wave should be available.” |
|
| “Anubis copies.” McCrae replied. He reached up and pulled the blue stud out of the bulkhead. Another chime sounded, followed by the onboard computer’s announcement. | “Cerebral induction system active.” |
Cerebral induction, also known as alpha wave induction, was another of the wonderful gifts the SDF-1 presented to the Earth. Bringing the science of synaptic mapping to new levels, this technology allowed human technicians to develop computerized interpretation of synaptic activity. Sensors in a destroid pilot's helmet continually read brain activity, and interpreted it to coincide with recorded responses. When a pilot wanted to lift a mecha's left arm, all he had to do was think about it, and the machine read his mind, after a fashion. Operating on a number of levels, synaptic induction could do anything from simple assistance in targeting, all the way to human-like movements.
The premise was amazingly simple to understand: A pilot would envision what he wanted the machine to do, and the computer would respond, giving the pilot the necessary feedback to accentuate the computer's own activities. If a Spartan driver wanted to get into a boxing match with a battlepod, the alpha wave computer would raise the arms, and tell the pilot which way to twist the body, so that a punch could be landed. Some pilots, Dyson McCrae included, have even reported `feeling' their destroid. If a pilot immersed themselves deeply enough into the alpha wave process, they could feel the gravel under the destroid's feet, or the damage their mecha may have sustained in a battle, or even the tingle of lightning in the palms of their hands as they made ready to fire the big guns of a Tomahawk. While it was accepted that this phenomena happened in only the most extreme circumstances, it was known to be true, even though there was no scientific evidence to support it. Destroid drivers came to know the feeling as a melding of pilot and machine.
Dyson McCrae prepared himself for the mind-machine link, rolling his eyes up, then closing them. In a split second, he became instantly and fully aware of the machine he drove, as if it were an extension of himself. Opening his eyes again, he smiled. Time to test the mains. He thought.
He turned the great machine around to face the standing rocks in the garden, the closest of which was at least five hundred meters away. Moving his eyes, he thumbed the target selector, and chose two of the tall stones in his field of view. "Anubis, set the mains for tandem fire."
"Set." Anubis replied, again.
Dyson pulled the trigger, and heard the organic screech of tearing metal, as the large-bore particle guns fired. At the same time, two immense blue-white comets of lightning erupted from tips of the guns' barrels. A millisecond later, one of the standing stones shattered, and the other was cut neatly in two.
"YES!!!" Dyson McCrae yelled.
Rachel Keller had observed everything Anubis had done, and had heard McCrae's exclamation. What surprised her, though, was what his destroid did to accompany Dyson's cheerful shout, as it leaned back and raised its gun-arms into the air. It had appeared, for a moment, as if the Tomahawk itself was cheering.
"How did you do that?!?" Keller asked, as she moved her throttle forward to rejoin Anubis.
"Do what?" McCrae asked back, slightly confused.
Enlarging the vid-link image she sent, Keller demonstrated the movement of her instructor's mecha, raising her arms above her head. "Anubis did that, when you cheered." She explained. "How did that happen?"
Dyson laughed, before answering. "You ever use alpha wave in the academy?"
"Of course we did. But, we only got up to thirty-five percent induction rate. Enough to get targeting assisance." Keller said.
"So… you've never seen a destroid dance?" McCrae asked, as he brought Anubis around to face the Black Rose.
Before Keller could answer, she saw Anubis begin a strange set of movements. Swiveling its feet from side to side, it began to move in a slow, lateral motion. Combined with this, the large guns that made up the machine's forearms began swinging from left to right, as well. Anubis was, for all intents and purpose, dancing.
"How are you doing that, Captain?' Keller demanded. It was something she never thought she'd see. Now she wanted to know how to do it.
"Alpha wave." Dyson replied. "If you get it up above seventy percent, you can do a lot of things with a destroid. I don't do it very often, though."
"Why not? You're damn good at it." Keller asked, intrigued.
"An old war injury, LT. I'll tell you about it later." McCrae replied. "Now, let's see how you use those guns, huh?"
McCrae guided Keller back towards the cliff face for her first evaluation. Guiding her stance, she faced the cliff at an angle.
"Okay, Black Rose. Show me a Fuller tracking swivel. Execute!" McCrae instructed.
Keller swiveled her mecha's torso completely to the left, and immediately started a counter-swivel towards the right. As she did this, her chest-mounted autocannon opened up, peppering the cliff-face with fire. As she neared the point of being centered with her legs, she fired her own mains, capping a well executed maneuver.
“Not bad. Let’s try it again, with a faster turn rate.” McCrae said. He waited for a moment, halfway expecting a question from Keller, but all she did was turn her torso to the left again, and waited for the final command. “Execute!” he barked.
Again, the Black Rose hammered the cliff face with autocannon fire, throwing shots from her particle guns as a finisher. As she was instructed, she pulled the move off faster. The last sounds from the simulated attack were the clatter of brass casing hitting the ground.
| Excellent. McCrae thought. She’s good. Listens to commands, and does what’s needed. |
|
| “All
right, LT. Enough of this standing stuff. Let’s try a moving attack.”
Dyson started out. “First, I’ll show you what I want, and then you |
go, got it?” |
| “Roger.” Keller replied, simply. Although her outward appearance was calm and collected, her inner self was exhilarated, and jumping with joy. | I’m living my dream! She thought. Finally! |
Dyson moved Anubis to a wide spot in the garden. Swiveling Anubis' foot, he created a scuff mark, intending to designate a starting point. Scanning the surrounding area, he found a large, squat rock about twenty feet tall. Selecting the rock, he moved Anubis out at a run, heading towards it. Altering his course slightly, he passed the rock and swiveled his torso towards the obstacle, firing his mains. Both shots slammed into the target, tearing the top off.
"Ok, you'll find the starting point back over there." Dyson said, pointing with Anubis' gun arm. "Target this rock, and hit it as you pass. Signal when ready."
The Black Rose moved to the scuffed section of Purgatory's floor, and turned towards the intended target. Keller, feeling full of confidence, signaled her readiness.
"Execute!" Dyson barked, again.
The Black Rose broke into its own run, thudding up the intended path. As she approached the large rock, Keller altered her course, just as her mentor had, and swiveled her torso, blasting the rock with her own particle guns. The face of the rock was instantly shattered into rubble.
"How's that, boss?" Keller asked.
“Very good, Rose. Very good.” Dyson replied, chuckling. He’d have to find some way of challenging this girl. She was no ordinary pilot.
Back at Purgatory's control room, Colonel Jeffery McKitterick watched the action on several screens, as well as a simulation presented over the holographic projection table. He was also impressed with Keller's actions. He knew, from the time that he taught at the academy, that she was good, but working with McCrae had seemed to energize the girl. He continued to watch, as McCrae improvised more tests.
Which was proving difficult for McCrae. Anything he threw at the young woman, she complied with ease. This was either a case of McCrae getting rusty, or Keller actually being that good. McCrae was inclined to believe the latter, but in his deepest heart, he feared the former.
Dyson McCrae did improvise tasks for the young Rachel Keller, though. Over the next five hours, he threw every major contingency at her that he could think of, and for the vast majority of them, she came through. There were only a couple of times where she asked questions of him, and these were valid enough. Dyson had composed one last scenario for her, the last of the drills for the chest-mounted direct-fire mortars. Meant to be an anti-infantry weapon, they were really oversized grenade launchers.
“Okay, Rose. This is meant to simulate a stand-off anti-infantry engagement. Start firing at one mile range, and bring it down to a quarter mile. Short bursts, and tight clusters, alright?” Dyson instructed.
"Ready, Anubis." Came Keller's cool response.
"I'll be firing with you, so you have a marker to work with. Ready? Execute!" McCrae commanded.
Both destroids opened up with their mortars. The distinctive FUMF-FUMF reports blasted through the area, echoing off nearby rocks. As they fired, the explosive impacts of the one-hundred eighty millimeter rounds advanced closer and closer to the firing mecha. Shortly, both machines stopped, and their pilots admired the string of smoke plumes and dust clouds.
Colonel McKitterick's voice came through the radio net. "Deathdealers, this is command."
As the ranking officer, McCrae answered for both destroids. "Anubis copies, Command."
"Give me a sit-rep, Anubis." McKitterick ordered.
"All direct-fire drills completed, just now, and we're getting ready for missile exercises." McCrae replied.
"Anubis, missiles are a no-go. We've got a wind storm heading in your direction, and we're looking at forty-plus mile-per-hour winds. Let's bring `em in, folks." McKitterick said.
"Copy return-to-base order, command. Weapons hot or safe?" McCrae asked, as per the usual procedure.
"Anubis, you two are the only contacts we have on radar, so I think we can safe `em." McKitterick replied.
"Anubis copies." McCrae said, and then, to the Black Rose. "You heard the man. Safe your weapons and let's head back."
"Roger." Keller replied. "Weapons safe, and you have the lead, captain."
"Okay, Rose. Seeing as we both have live guns, now, I think we can go back in line-abreast." Dyson ordered as he started out. As his destroid started walking, he reached up and hit the `Master Enable' panel, and watched as it shifted to `SAFE'.
Side by side, the tomahawks walked back towards Purgatory station. On the way, Keller broached the subject of alpha wave.
"You said you didn't go above thirty-five percent. Why not?" She asked.
McCrae thought for a moment, formulating his answer. "That's another long story, from a long time ago." He started out. "It was on the Mars landing."
The SDF-1 landed on Mars, near the end of its return journey from Pluto's orbit. Looking to replenish its depleted stock of supplies, the great warship set down near the abandoned structure known as Sara Base. Little did the command staff know, but there was a trap laid there, as well. A trap laid by the Zentradi warlord called Khyron.
As trucks left the open bow of the Daedelus, destroids from the SDF-1 were assigned to guard the path that the trucks took to and from the abandoned base. Dyson McCrae's unit, the 43rd Heavy Assault, was in a position near the open maw of the amphibious carrier.
Shortly, Khyron sprung his trap, a snare in two parts. First, gravity mines buried deep into the face of Mars activated, preventing the SDF-1 from taking off. Second, battlepods from his Seventh Mechanised Battalion, the `Botoru', launched from hidden positions. All the veritech fighters on combat air patrol were immediately engaged in a deadly fight.
During the battle, a recall order was issued for the supply trucks. Every destroid on guard duty was immediately ordered to ensure the safety of the trucks, at all costs. Loosely translated, this meant that the destroids became expendable. Most of the inbound supplies were meant for the civilian population contained inside the SDF-1, and that meant the highest possible priority. For the members of the 43rd Assault, it meant one of two things: glory or death.
As the battle raged overhead, destroid units engaged attacking battlepods intent on destroying the convoy. However, most of the trucks returned intact. Someone in the SDF-1's command structure concocted a crackpot plan to detonate the main power source inside the Mars base, thereby destroying the hold that the gravity mines held on the fortress. It was just a matter of time, seconds really, before combat units were recalled, and the SDF-1 left the surface of the red planet.
By way of an unspoken agreement, several mecha from different units assumed the duty of guarding Daedelus' open bow. Two guardian destroids, one VF-1J veritech fighter in battloid mode, and McCrae's own Tomahawk. Soon, the final recall order was issued, and the last units made their way to the safety of the giant ship.
McCrae watched at the guardians made their way inside, as he stood back-to-back with the veritech. Fighting off the last waves of Khyron's forces, McCrae urged the fighter pilot into the Daedelus, but the pilot wasn't complying. He, instead, tried to pull rank, and force Anubis into the ship first. A battle of wills ensued, each pilot acting on their concern for the other.
A salvo of missiles ended the battle, though. Fired from a modified battlepod, the majority of the missiles slammed into the torso of the veritech fighter, disabling it, and nearly killing the pilot. Three of the missiles, though, found their way to Anubis, impacting the right side in close succession. For the destroid, the impacting missiles tore away the right side main gun, and a large amount of armor. For McCrae, the three rapid impacts had another effect entirely. AS the missiles hit, McCrae's head was smashed, repeatedly, into the right side bulkhead. With a shattered helmet, and a bloodied scalp, McCrae regained his senses, and hooked his remaining gun under the shoulder of the wounded battloid. Using every ounce of will he could muster, Dyson McCrae dragged the damaged veritech into the hull of the Daedelus, as the bow doors closed.
With the SDF-1 safely aloft, Dyson McCrae was examined by several doctors. The obvious effects of the battle were a concussion, coupled with several cuts and scrapes. What was worse, though, was the not-so-obvious injury.
On the right side of his brain, Dyson McCrae suffered a bruise, measuring only a fraction of a millimeter. While there was no known permanent damage to McCrae, the bruise had scarred over. Soon, McCrae discovered that he was susceptible to a side effect of using alpha wave induction. If he engaged the system at anything above thirty-five percent, the side effect took hold. As long as he used the alpha wave system, he was fine. Afterwards, though, was another story. When he disengaged the induction system, he would then feel an intense fatigue, the likes of which he never knew before. And it wasn't a predictable thing, either. Sometimes, the fatigue would come on suddenly, and other times it would wait, sometimes as long as a few hours.
"So, I'll be paying for my fun today." McCrae said in closing. "It'll hit me. I don't know when, but it will."
"You might try the new steam room." Keller offered. "It's built onto the pilot's locker room."
New steam room? Dyson asked himself. That might help.
"Thanks." McCrae answered. "I'll give it a try."
Soon, both Tomahawks were outside the giant door of the hangar. With a radio call, clearances for docking were granted, and the door slid open.
Dyson made a sweeping motion with Anubis' right gun-arm. "Ladies first, LT."
Following the Black Rose inside, McCrae watched as Keller stopped in front of her bay, turned, and backed in. As soon as Dyson got the signal from the ground guide, he did the same, deftly backing his newly reassembled friend into bay 01. Shortly, the gantry stairs moved their way to the side of the cockpit, as Dyson opened the hatch. Hitting the master standby switch, Anubis' reactor pumps slowed down to a low hum, and all the indicators showed a safe and locked machine. After all his checks, Dyson flipped the switch to elevate his command chair.
Pulling his new helmet off, he was greeted by the grinning face of Torrey. As McCrae dismounted, Torrey began grilling him about Anubis' performance, to which Dyson had nothing but positive things to say. Finally, after he'd made it to ground level, Torrey left him, and shouted to his team that it was time to recheck everything on the newly rebuilt machine.
As the techs swarmed over Anubis, McCrae leaned against one of the steel pillars at the end of the bay. Setting his helmet on the table near the stairs, he wiped sweat from his brow, and replaced his beret. After this, he stepped down from the bay's elevated floor, and met up with Rachel Keller, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"Well," she started "How did I do?"
"Not bad for a kid." McCrae replied. In truth, she did amazingly well, but he wasn't about to tell her, lest her success went to her head. He'd seen, already, the effects of cockiness and complacency.
She took it in stride, though. Still grinning, Keller said "I'm starving! What about you?"
"Wait!" Dyson snapped. "I've just spent all day driving a new destroid, and shooting the crap out of big rocks! What makes you think I'd want some excellent food from the chef?"
The irony was not lost on Keller. First, she erupted in another of her full-blown belly laughs, and then she said "You know, you're right. Maybe I can dig up one of those food packs for you."
"No no no!" McCrae snarled. "There's no need to get nasty, here!"
Keller laughed again, and McCrae found himself joining in. Together, they walked towards the dining hall. When they entered, though, there was a strange feel to the place. No smells of food, no drinks, not even coffee. Keller looked around, and finally yelled "Tony!"
Tony Brooks appeared a short time later, still dressed in his chef's attire, and a foul look in his eye.
“Hell no, Femme Petit.” Brooks started out. “We aren’t serving y’all in here, tonight. You take this man and go next door to the lounge.” His tone brooked no argument.
Sharing a confused look, Keller and McCrae both shrugged, and made their way to the officer's lounge next to the dining hall. McCrae knew there was supposed to be an officer's lounge, separated from the dining hall by the common kitchen facilities. He had no knowledge of it, though, since his assignment at Purgatory was as a sergeant, and the lounge was probably as bad off as the rest of the dilapidated building. Since he and Keller were ordered into the lounge, he expected some improvement, but his expectations were far short of what they found.
Situated over the door of the lounge, a hand-carved wooden sign proclaimed it to be "THE GROUND POUNDER'S LOUNGE". And, in smaller print "A Place For Destroid Drivers".
When they entered, McCrae and Keller were completely taken by surprise. Inside, the place resembled a bar, in the very best sense of the word. Neon beer signs were hung on the walls, along with dramatic paintings of destroids, and mirrors painted with the emblems of RDF units. Wooden tables were flanked by leather chairs, and the bar was situated with its own collection of leather-topped wooden stools. With his own experience in destroid bars, the only thing he could see that was missing was a large collection of ladies lingerie hanging from the ceiling. Behind the bar, Tony Brooks stood, grinning.
"Now, I hear tell that the best thing after a drive is a cold brew and a steak." Brooks said. "How about you two?"
"I'm not old enough…" Keller said, meekly.
"Now, I don't know `bout that." Brooks replied. "Seems to me, if you're old enough to drive a destroid, you sure are old enough to have a beer or two."
Holding up his hand, Dyson looked at Keller. "How old are you?" He asked.
"I'll be twenty-one next week." She replied.
"I don't know `bout you, cap'n, but that works for me." Brooks said, as he grabbed a pair of chilled pint glasses.
Dyson nodded. He was lost in his own world, really. Just like coffee, he couldn't remember when the last time was that he had a cold glass of beer. He motioned Keller to one of the tables.
Soon, Tony appeared, carrying two full glasses of dark amber liquid. "This is a little micro-brew I found near home a few years ago. It's pretty good." he explained.
Dyson took a small sip of the beer, and found it had just the right amount of bitterness, along with a light flavor. His next drink was long, and wonderful.
"Steaks'll be up in a moment." Tony said, before disappearing into the kitchen.
A few moments passed as McCrae and Keller took in the surroundings. Dominating the wall opposite the bar was a huge painting of a Tomahawk. Firing its mains into the ether, it stood in a dramatic pose that looked majestic and proud. Dyson got up to look at the markings on the machine, and began to recognize several things at once. First, the markings on the painted Tomahawk were of an actual unit. This particular one was legendary, even more so than Anubis. It belonged to 73rd Armored Cavalry, another unit associated with Third Armor. As his memory recovered, he began to realize just who this `Hawk belonged to. Soon, the name materialized in his mind: Major Jeffery McKitterick, one of the most decorated pilots in the RDF, and a man known for giving everything for the people in his command. Never meeting him personally, Dyson only knew of the Major by reputation. Now, he was commanding the 21st CSOG.
Walking back to their table, Dyson said to Keller "Well, now I know about the colonel. He was one hell of a driver."
"He still is." Keller replied. "He took the Rose out for an hour after she arrived, and tested the guns himself. He said that he'd rather it was him that gets blown up, instead of a person under his command."
Dyson nodded, chuckling. The rule about particle gun first-firings baffled him. AS McCrae understood it, a Tomahawk's main guns were fed a continuous stream of subatomic particles from the main reactor. The rule was simple: The first time a particle gun is fired, there had to be a minimum safe distance around the firing platform, so as to prevent as many deaths as possible. The issue was, in the more than twenty years since the particle guns have been in service, not one has ever exploded in the catastrophic way people anticipated when this rule was drafted.
"Well, now I know about the Colonel." Dyson said, changing the subject. "I don't know very much about you."
"What do you want to know?" Keller said, the purr creeping back into her voice.
"Well, for one thing, how did you ever get into destroids?" Dyson asked.
"I was on the SDF-1, during the return trip. I saw one, in action, up close and personal." The finality of her statement left little doubt: That was all she would say.
"So, you were inspired, huh?" McCrae asked. He had hoped to prod the conversation along, but all he got was a nod, and a smile.
Tony showed up at that time, with two more of his patented massive plates. On each were a large steak, complete with a baked potato, and steamed vegetables. As the two pilots dove into their meals, Tony left, and returned with full glasses.
During the meal, the two pilots talked a lot of shop. Mainly, the discussion was about Keller's performance, and any improvement that needed to be made. Dyson was literally at a loss to find deficiencies in the assigned tasks. The girl was so good that she seemed to be one of those very special people with a natural talent.
At the end, Tony showed up to take the plates away, and Keller lingered with McCrae, to finish her second glass. McCrae, though, felt the start of the fatigue he knew was coming. Standing to leave, McCrae made his apology to Rachel, and turned towards the door.
For Rachel, the timing was regrettably perfect. As soon as McCrae had exited, she scrambled for the inhaler in her pocket, and took another blast. As she exhaled, she noticed Tony Brooks standing behind the bar, a look of concern on his face.
"He has to know." Tony said. "Sooner or later, Little Girl, he has to know."
"I'll tell him, when the time is right." Rachel replied, looking with utter disgust at the pistol-grip device in her hand.
Dyson McCrae felt the old, heavy hands of exhaustion settle on him as he lurched his way to the locker room. Originally, there were two of them, one designated for the men, another for the women. Now, however, it was different. Signs on the adjacent doors proclaimed on to be for pilots, and the other for techs.
Entering the pilot's room, he walked down a short hallway, plucking his beret and shoulder caps off. As he unzipped the side of his uniform shirt, he entered the large main room, the walls of which were lined with lockers. Small counters were situated along one wall, with stacks of clean towels.
Finally, freed of his uniform, McCrae grabbed a towel and followed signs to the showers. Another large room, each shower head was separated from the others by large partitions. He entered the first one, and cranked the hot water. This was how he usually dealt with the fatigue. As he let the heat caress his spine, shoulders, and neck, he felt the aches slowly melt away. He leaned against the wall, thoroughly enjoying the cascade of heat.
After a long while, Dyson managed to feel marginally better. Remnants of the soreness still haunted his bones and muscles, but he was able to walk straight. Gathering his towel, he swabbed off as much water as he could. He grabbed another towel and wrapped it around his waist.
Following more signs, he found the steam room, and was amazed. Dark red wood dominated the room, where the floor, walls, and graduated bench seats were made of it. Steam poured in from unseen vents, and a trickling waterfall dominated the center of the floor.
Dyson sat on one of the lower benches, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Allowing the steam to take the aches away, he thought about his day. Soon, his thoughts were directed, once again, to the strange turn of events his life had taken. In four days, he had gone from being a forgotten nobody to regaining the rank of captain, and having his long-time friend rebuilt. In addition, he was under the command of one of the legends of the RDF. And, he was an instructor again.
"Can it get any better than this?" Dyson asked himself. Or so he thought.
"Yup." Keller's voice, from across the room.
Dyson's eyes snapped open, and he shot up, ramrod straight, to peer through the steam. Rachel Keller was laying on her back, along the bench on the opposite wall, wrapped in her own white towel.
"What are you doing here?" McCrae asked quickly.
"The door said `Pilot's Locker Room', outside." Keller replied. "I'm a pilot."
"Yeah, but lieutenant, I'm in here!" McCrae hissed.
Propping herself up on her elbows, she gave Dyson a charmingly quizzical look. Taking a peek under her own towel, she said "I'm not wearing a uniform, and I don't think you are, either."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Dyson asked. "We're both pilots!"
Now sitting up, fully, Rachel looked around the room. “I don’t see any destroids in here.” After a pause, she continued. “No destroids, no uniforms, no rank.” Another pause, and then “No worries.”
Completely flabbergasted, Dyson tried to reason with the girl. "But this is not right! You're my subordinate!"
Keller stood, and advanced towards McCrae. Her long black hair was unencumbered, and fell freely from her head. With the white towel wrapped around her, and the steam adding to the effect, she seemed to glow. Finally, she stopped in front of McCrae, leaned down, and kissed him.
For McCrae, his battle for composure was a losing one. The unwelcome thought had returned, and knocked down the door with a sledge hammer. Here was this lovely girl, tall, toned, and graceful, and he could no longer deny the attraction he felt for her.
Taking his hand, Keller guided Dyson to his feet. Placing her arms around him, she kissed him again, softly. At the conclusion, she looked into his eyes and smiled.
Trying for one last time to avoid these events, McCrae felt his heart race, and his breath quicken as he whispered "This is not right."
Rachel Keller reached for Dyson's hand and guided it to the small flap of towel that held the whole thing together and wrapped around her. As she took his fingers, and encouraged them to pull, she whispered back to him. "This is an invitation."