18
''Full consciousness required, Pilot. The engagement is lost. Retreat: y/n. Self-destruct: y/n.''
Awareness flooded his long-dormant mind. Organic and Alternate systems lit up in less than a tick, regaining operational status before V47 finished the query. The battle-mech altered around him, flowing from fighter craft into warrior mode as its pilot awoke and took over. Able to follow multiple feeds at once, he absorbed information and plunged into hell.
12,762 sidereal days since last waking. Full spatial and temporal coordinates, ordnance and power remaining, situation report: all received and scanned in mili-ticks. Good to know. Not priority. The fight was out there, and ''our side'' was losing.
"No", he responded, to both of the battle-mech''s queries. No retreat, no suicide burst.
He found himself in open space beyond Glimmr, a cloud giant world. Behind him lay the orbital station and troop ship. Around him, all that remained of Gold Wing, and thousands of hurtling enemy fighters. Dark and protean, the alien ships seemed to tumble through space as though flung down the gravity well; changing their shape, mass and direction at random. Mostly resembling spiky grey meteors, they came from the deep-dark in waves, could bomb a planet to roiling magma in ticks. If they got through.
If.
A web of sickly green light bound the enemy vessels together. He avoided its strands reflexively. Those who had not, hung limp in its meshes; helpless and drained. There were clouds of caltrops, as well. The tiny alien weapons were night-dark and radar-invisible, able to pierce heavy armor and detonate missiles on contact.
But so much zero-point manna! Endless power, flowing from stars and planets and distant, white sun, recharging the mech and its weapons. He and V47 were topped up and ready to fight again in nano-ticks, battle scars already fading.
Then a Draug fighter altered its path. Sensing a weakness where V48 and V50 had been, it manipulated the energy field to hook itself planetward, rolling boulder-like through expanding hot gas and slagged metal.
The pilot folded space, moving hundreds of miles in no time at all, placing himself between Glimmr and Draug. New locational data blinked up, was acknowledged, then shunted aside. His organic systems pulsed with adrenaline, while his overclocked brain plunged into reality base code. With the mech linked up to his muscles and nerves, he wasn''t just flying V47. He was V47.
Faster than any purely organic pilot could manage, he fired a storm of missiles, cannons and particle beams, drawing manna in great, gulping bursts. Used part of its power to shield himself and the few living others, but mostly to fight. Three hundred miles away, at -17*27*61, another mech erupted, converting from wingman to thundering globe of fiery gas.
Closing fast, the Draug craft switched configuration, confusing regular targeting systems. Not the living mind of an elven pilot, though. He could adjust and anticipate. Did so now, guiding his quantum-phased missiles right to their quarry. The first few strikes did only light damage, but V47 had more, and better, in store.
Having slowed the thing down, he next fired a pair of seekers, which followed the trail of the earlier weapons, faster than augmented reflex. Hitting that roughened hull hard, they converted their mass directly to energy. Broke through its armor, injecting first antimatter, then void.
For a nano-tick, the Draug fighter glowed like another sun. Then it was swallowed up by a tiny black hole, crushed beyond paste into particles.
One down, but nearly a thousand remaining, and very few Goldens in shape to respond. In fact, flashed his heads-up display, only two. Well, V47 hadn''t roused him from stasis to think like a battle-mech.
''The shield,'' he decided. In mili-ticks, he''d reconfigured V47''s defense field from warding himself to seizing, engulfing, the enemy.
With manna to spare, he expanded the shield and then turned it outward, encoding lines on the fly about leaving friendlies in peace. Projected by V47, powered by space itself, the shield reversed flow, swelled wildly, then swept up the enemy swarm. Draugr, caltrops and web were enclosed in a fist of shimmering force that caught them all up, then clenched hard. Intense, searing light flared, completely silent; bright enough to cut off his optics.
Hexa-ticks later, the board was clear. All that remained of the Draug battle swarm was a sullen, infra-red proto sun; a neutronium sphere that hung in the velvet-black space beyond Glimmr. Just to be safe, he pushed the ultra-dense thing up the gravity well and away, where it could knock about among comets and misshapen rocks, forever.
Updated OVR-Lord though, in case someone back on the planet wanted a look at his catch. Then, as salvage and medical drones rushed from the station, V47 messaged, again.
''Engagement concluded, Pilot. Updating systems. Update complete. Resuming stasis in 10… 9…''
"No," he replied aloud, surprising himself.
''Stasis procedure interrupted. Querying Pilot. Is further action required?''
"I…" he hesitated less than a milli-tick before concluding, "I am going below. To the planet. To Glimmr, that is."
There were two other worlds around Oberyn; both of them rocky, and both inhabited. Civilian territory, and strictly off-limits. Wasn''t going there.
''This is irregular, Pilot. Scanning systems and files. Scanned. No error detected. Are you fatigued?''
A sudden burst of endorphins both cheered and refreshed him, (along with jaunty music and the transmitted flavor of daybrew) but no… that wasn''t it. Fumbling for an explanation, he responded,
"I just… want to stay up for a while, V47. I want to see something besides Draugr and battle."
The onboard system was quiet for nearly a deci-tick. Forever, in comp terms. Then,
''There is no command filed preventing a mech''s descent to the upper platform of Glimmr. The following advisory is offered: no contact with civilians will be permitted.''
No problem. He didn''t know any civilians. Didn''t know anyone, other than V47.
"Accepted," the pilot replied. Searching his files as he triggered descent, the cyborg discovered that he had been conscious just forty-three ship days out of 2,756 galactic years. Had fought in 132 engagements, achieving the rank of wing-second. That he was, in fact, very old… and a baby. Had copious data to call upon, yet understood almost nothing. That he was part of a twenty-one-unit battle wing but didn''t know anyone''s face.
Other assets. That''s all they were. Just bits of detritus that sizzled and tapped as their remains hammered his shielding and hull. Already being decanted anew, back on the orbital station.
V47 remained in warrior mode as a courtesy, performing light repairs as it glided past the sparkling ring that was Orbital Station and the dart-shaped form of Cerulean Dream. Home, for thousands of years, though he couldn''t recall ever physically being in either. Had schematics for both. Could build either by hand, given time and sufficient materials. But, walked their passages? Breathed their air? No.
For that matter, wasn''t sure that he''d ever stepped out of his battle-mech. Well, he''d be doing it now, the pilot decided… Once there was someplace to stand. Couldn''t explain why, not even to himself. Just some spirit of try-to-stop-me stubbornness. Some post-battle ghost, slipping into his circuits and nerves.
At orbital speed, it would have taken most of a ship-day to reach Glimmr. Not having that much patience or time, he just folded reality. Lightly, though. Not enough to stir chaos or cause many ripples in time. Once again, his actions were irregular, but no one on Glimmr had done it before, so there was no standing command to restrain him.
The pilot entertained himself on the way by simultaneously scanning his environment, conversing with V47 and accessing stream-shows. Then, when OVR-Lord queried, requesting permission to land on the uppermost platform. That evoked some confusion. Wasn''t actually forbidden, though, so…
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''Access granted, V47 Pilot. Permission to touch down on quarantine landing pad zeta.''
"And to debark my battle-mech?"
A pause of nearly a tick ensued. Clearly, he was asking for prodigies. Then,
''Egress-permission granted, Pilot. You will be met at the quarantine landing pad.''
By this time, Glimmr was no longer a sphere, banded with color and hanging in space. Swelling in size with each space-fold, the cloud giant now took up nearly the whole of his visual feed.
Great, swirling, putty-like bands of dense vapor writhed far below. Vast towers of scarlet cloud flared with lightning, changing their shape in the knife-like wind. Alternate, pale golden bands streamed by still faster, rising from much deeper inside the planet.
Glimmr was nearly a quarter the size of the sun, jetting zero-point manna and hard radiation in lethal quantities. It was big enough to occlude Oberyn''s dark star companion, Titania. Large enough to swallow up Char and Aqualia, together with all of their moons.
A ring of ice and rock encircled the cloud giant. Pretty, but too sparse to mine. He avoided it, skimming the planet to line up with its highest stone platform. Constructed of pulverized moons and a sacrificed outer world, the platforms hung in Glimmr''s dense atmosphere like a chain of vast islands, using anti-grav tech and free manna to hold their positions. The outermost, Zeta, was his goal.
A swift query put him in touch with Zeta''s system, which then took over to guide them on in. At this altitude there was weather, but it wasn''t as stormy or fierce as the soup down below, further along the chain.
Not that he''d get very far, trapped on the landing pad, but that didn''t matter. He was going to go out. Stand up. Look around with actual eyes instead of just camera lenses and drones. The thought was a prod, driving him onward, making a stupid idea seem good.
Slipping into the cloud giant''s atmosphere, he felt the intensifying heat and wind of reentry batter V47''s shielding and hull. Not dangerous, just completely unfamiliar outside of sim. The stuff of training-feed, rather than life experience.
His battle-mech''s onboard system had switched into psychological wellness mode. It gently queried the pilot''s emotions (mixed) and physical state (agitated: high pulse rate and rapid breathing, until V47 administered relaxation drugs).
"There is no trouble," he insisted. "No error. I''m just having a look around, V. It will not take long." Which turned out to be true.
Zeta System guided them past a series of floating and blinking aerial buoys, then through the shield. There was traffic, mostly official and… and a sky. An actual, gem-blue, goes-on-forever sky, just like in shows and training vids. Like… didn''t make any sense, but… like you could tear off a piece, dip it and eat it.
Right.
In through a cone of concentric landing rings flew V47 and pilot, until they reversed orientation to boots-down approach, making contact for the first time with something other than metal.
Chik.
Landed lightly, for all of their fifty-foot height and twenty-two-point-seven-one tons. Anti-grav cut off at once, allowing the planet''s own force to take hold. Had he been other than augmented elven-stock, the pilot would have been crushed.
''Orbital Station Hangar Control queries Pilot,'' announced V47. ''Purpose and length of absence required.''
Oh. Well…
"Length, standard candle-mark. Purpose… shore leave. Rest and recreation."
That was a genuine option, he''d learned, scanning two-thousand-plus years of data and mail. He was authorized, at his rank, to access the ship''s "lounge" and the "Mall". Also, to visit a world and request companionship, none of which rang any memory klaxons. Theoretical permissions only, he guessed. Abilities long unused.
''Orbital Station Hangar Control acknowledges Pilot response. Shore leave authorized.''
Querying "Shore" brought up 12,582 images of physical land meeting turbulent water. Something he saw and accepted, but couldn''t make sense of. Still, this was no doubt a shore and he would be leaving it, after a whole standard candle-mark. What to do with all of that free time?
Well, disembark, for one thing. As Zeta Platform Control sent maintenance swarms to decontaminate his hull, he accessed and downloaded Glimmr''s public database. Received much more than he currently understood, but the pilot figured he''d have time to parse it all, later. For the moment, he said, "Initiate egress procedure."
''Command received,'' replied V47, seeming almost fretful. ''Verification required, Pilot. Please re-enter command.''
Probably meant "reconsider", but he''d made it this far, and intended to finish the thing, spurred by a fresh wave of stubbornness.
"Initiate egress procedure," the pilot repeated, not letting himself or V47 back down. And so, connection by lancet by interface, his organic parts were sifted out of the battle-mech. Long probes slid out of their ports in his brainstem and spine. Nerves were detached from the robot''s sensor array. Only their comm systems… his heads-up display and the mech''s AI… remained linked.
Hurt like the worst of the training sims. Like being decanted, leaving both of them torn and disoriented. V47, now missing its organic core, used zero-point manna to build him an elf-sized body. Uplink took just over fifteen ticks, half that again to get used to his new hardware. Felt cramped. Limited. Numbed.
Then, with an alarm buzz, the battle-mech''s torso unfolded; panels retracting to free an armored, elven-form figure. Steps coalesced in midair, leading from cockpit to landing pad.
He should have waited for the maintenance swarm to complete its decontamination cycle, but he was determined to leave. Got sprayed and rayed seventeen times on his way down, no doubt becoming the cleanest pilot in all of Cerulean Dream. Smelling… data files pegged the scents as "Rainforest Musk" and "Gentle Mint", whatever that meant. Smelling germ-free. Anti-microbial.
Having spent forty-three days of waking life maneuvering twenty-two tons, he wasn''t much good with a lighter body, at first. The steps helped out, though, placing themselves where they needed to be, at each wobbly footfall.
Other than height and mass, not much had changed, though. He still received sensory data from pickups scattered all over his armor and helmet, as well as the trio of drones that launched from his shoulders and back, for the aerial view.
Took a deep breath and felt himself doing it, as he stood on the surface of Platform Zeta. Reached up, then, unlocked his helmet and tugged it off of his head. There was a moment of blank confusion as his visual cortex tapped into his actual eyes, for the very first time. The view was initially blurry and oddly flat but improved with each passing milli-tick.
He looked around and, through the circling drones, watched himself looking. Saw that his hair was yellow and strangely short. That his organic eyes were pale (Because they''d never been used before? Maybe they''d darken with sunlight?) Didn''t know how to interpret his own expression, though. Hadn''t spent enough time among faces.
Through the drone feed, he spotted a flashing government air car speeding its way to the quarantine pad. Followed that thread with a shred of awareness, turning most of his processing power onto the sunlight, the wind and his mech''s long shadow, stretching out like a dagger blade, reaching the edge of the platform.
The air had a scent, and a temperature lower than ship-normal seventy-one degrees. It moved, fanning his yellow hair and drying the contact gel on his skin. Dried his eyes, too, which had to be constantly blinked.
In the distance, the cloud banks of Glimmr twisted and writhed like slow flames. A long chain of huge platforms arced down and away from Zeta, each a thousand miles lower than the one to its east. The last was barely visible, even with magnified optics. He had to access roving security cams in order to look at the mining settlement.
Didn''t have to ask if V47 perceived all of this, any more than V47 questioned his pick-up of powerplant and stability data. Their systems were linked.
…and the aircar touched down, disgorging a muscular, uniformed orc and her augmented guards. They were dwarves, visibly armed and shiny with chrome. As for the dark-haired orc, her augments were subtler. Mostly internal, he guessed, though the text block that hovered beside her face was heavily redacted. Private citizen, high level government type, and very far over his need-to-know rating. What he could see was name, rank and duty status.
The orc was vice-governor Margo Thaard. On duty, away from her post. Scanning public data at juiced-lightning speed began to give him a feel for facial expressions. His own was slack. Empty. Hers… irritated? The cyborg dwarves looked tense and eager, he thought… probably not to shake hands.
In most of the shows and news vids, folk smiled upon greeting; stretching their mouths at the corners and compressing their eyes. (There were helpful tutorial videos buried back in the officer''s manual, too.) As Margo approached, he ''smiled'', inclining his upper body a few degrees forward.
"Good day, Vice-Governor," he greeted the orc, speaking aloud in a raspy voice. (Throats dried, too, it seemed.) "Thank you for permitting a landing."
She lowered her eyebrows, which were heavy and dark over hard-seeming, yellow-red eyes.
"This shore leave request is irregular, V47 pilot," she replied, using a clipped, growling tone. He had to adjust his interface-time for organic communication speed, which felt impossibly slow. Could have composed millions of conflict reports in the time it took her to say, "Why have you chosen to leave your battle wing and come to this platform?"
V47 shot a suggestion across. Seemed good, so he took it, acting before the orc could take her next breath. Aloud, he said,
"My systems were attacked by Draug malware, a virus deemed likely to enter the wider gestalt. In transit, the virus was isolated, contained and neutralized. I did not release the information, to avoid spreading alarm."
Margo''s expression altered, the muscles of her forehead and jaw smoothing out.
"Your actions display commendable concern for the ship, station and crew, V47 pilot. Moreover, data feed shows you to have acted with great initiative and courage in facing a recent Draugr assault. You are hereby promoted, Pilot. Also, your shore leave is extended a further standard half-candle mark."
The symbol beside him on his heads-up display changed all at once, gaining a second line of gold braid and another virtual gem. He was a strike-leader, now; second to V32, who wouldn''t be out of the vat for three ship days.
Surprised, he inclined himself forward again, saluting the vice-governor. Her eyebrows relaxed even more in response. She waved off his thanks, though, turning to stride back to the waiting aircar. The cyborg guards snapped into position around her, looking (he thought) disappointed. Hexa-ticks later, Margo was gone.
The pilot had only intended a virtual tour of Platform Zeta, but with high officer''s privileges, he could now access the city museum and Fey-space, as well. Turned out to be a most enlightening shore leave, fanning something new sparked in the pilot''s heart and his mind. How long, he started to wonder, was this war going to last?