21
Once his shore leave ended, the pilot recalled his drones and climbed back into V47, filled with the kind of sensory data you had to unplug, to experience. Training files, stim-loads and shows were fine, as far as they went. No substitute for moving your own weight around on an actual surface, though.
Seen from outside, V47 had towered; a strangely beautiful red-and-gold killing machine. Shaped like a blocky, mechanized warrior, because that''s what synced best with its elven-mod pilot. He''d never seen V this way before; standing proud and tall, at the base of a gravity well, shining in sky-filtered light.
It felt odd to see himself and the spacecraft as two separate entities: mechanical weapon and bio-synthetic core. Was a relief to be back inside, again, once his virtual tour and the downloads concluded. Sending a rapid command-string, the pilot linked to his weapons, engines and scanners once more, replacing that phantom-limb feeling with solid input.
Didn''t allow V47 to disassemble the cyborg body, though. Just had the battle-mech reconfigure their contact plates and interface probes.
"We will return to Orbital Station," he decided. "There, I plan to disembark."
''Command received. Querying pilot: purpose of intended excursion?''
Nano-ticks passed, while he parsed his own glitchy motives. Then,
"Because I want to see where we live, V. And because other Gold Flight assets were damaged in battle, and I am their Strike-Leader. In the shows, pilots visit their damaged comrades at the recovery center."
''Recovery centers serve full-stock civilians, Pilot,'' replied V47. ''Incursion by modified assets is not permitted. There are no damaged Goldens within.''
True enough, according to downloaded files. The fallen mechs would be reconstructed from archived data and ready-mass, while their pilots were synthesized in the bio lab. There, he could go, so long as his presence did not hinder production. Were the damaged pilots conscious, in vitro, he wondered? Had he been?
Couldn''t retrieve any data. Had nothing archived but training sims and… now… those downloaded shows. It was something to do besides go back to long-sleep and wait for the next engagement, though.
"Modify the proposed itinerary as follows," he said. "I will disembark at the hangar, then go to the construction bay and the synthesis lab to… convey wishes for rapid decantation."
''Excursion modified. Excursion plan filed. Orbital Station AI is in receipt of proposed excursion. Orbital Station acknowledges.'' Then, ''Orbital Station AI queries pilot: will Gold Flight access and utilize the lounge facility?''
He couldn''t speak for the three surviving others, already in stasis, but, for himself…
"Yes. Reply: Gold Flight intends to make use of the pilot''s lounge."
Which was an actual, physical location, not just a stim-load or data node. Interesting.
Meanwhile, OVR-Lord had written new protocols, disallowing the folding of space within 20,000 miles of Glimmr; well out of parking orbit and far beyond the home station.
Quick access blocked, the pilot had no choice but to jet it back home. In all of that copious downtime, he researched his downloaded files, replayed the last engagement and adjusted V47 for improved performance. Compared the mods and set-up at this battle (which he and three other pilots survived) with the last one (which none of them had).
V47 had fey-pocket weapons, armor and thruster packs; all gimbaled in such a way that the parts could be rotated out of storage and onto the mech with just a command and a burst of manna.
Some builds worked better than others, though, and he meant to learn, adjust and keep on not dying. Sensing this, V47 observed,
''Seeker missile effectiveness 100%, Pilot. Advise increasing fire rate and available munitions for seeker launch tubes. Retain launch system in shoulder mounts while adding a rear-fire option.'' Of which there were several possibilities.
"Advice accepted, V. Also… next engagement, I intend to sync with the other pilots."
In vid shows, mech teams and ground forces spoke to each other, not just to their AI partners. They coordinated their assault plans, coming to each others'' rescue, if necessary.
V47 withheld response for a nano-tick. Then,
''Handshake protocol established for V12 and V27. No other mecha are currently online, Pilot.''
"It''s a start. Talk to them, V. Share some of our downloaded files. The ones featuring group attack plans." He was a Strike-Leader, now. He had to think of these things. Of how not to end an engagement with just four remaining assets, and still try to call it a win.
Some of the vid shows… Battle for Arda, The Tenth Protocol and Rogue Flight, especially… displayed a depth of communication and feeling between pilots that he found confusing, and somehow attractive.
He was an asset, not a person. Had no designation beyond ''V47 Pilot''. Even a bio-synthetic weapons system could try for betterment, though.
As the humming vibration and click of the new build changed things around him, the pilot plunged even further into those downloaded files. Search criteria: Past mech units and Reasons for ongoing war. There was a great deal of data there. Tough to parse from his limited viewpoint, but fascinating.
As he studied, Glimmr altered in rearview from an optics-blinding, screen-filling abstract wall to a vast, stormy disk. The orbital station and Cerulean Dream grew correspondingly larger. No longer blinking points, but a harbor city in space. Oddly quiet one, though; not buzzing with traffic and commerce as depicted in Battle for Arda.
V47 contacted the station, requesting approach permission and landing vector. Received assent in much less time than the battle-mech required to touch down. The process consumed a relative eternity, but the pilot refused an offer of mass-conversion and transfer. He was awake and he wanted to stay that way. No breakdown to virtual particles, for him. Even if landing did take a subjective lifespan.
Dropping from full-burn to approach velocity, passing through stacks of inertia-dampening fields to shed delta-v, he brought his mech closer, then handed control to Orbital Station''s AI.
The ring-shaped station occupied 17,122 cubic miles in total volume, with outlying warehouses and docking pads adding more space. Very little of that was in use, though. Querying hangar control revealed just three docked ships, two of them military vessels on long deployment. The other, a robotic cargo lifter.
V47 swooped past a bright, floodlit hull. The station''s exterior was painted in highly reflective silver and yellow, with ''OS 1210'' rolling by on a comm-strip that encircled the docking ring. Maintenance bots clambered or jetted from place to place on the hull. As big as V47, they were dwarfed to byte-size by distance and scale.
He dropped nearly all of his remaining velocity passing through the final inertia field (an odd, combed-through-by-energy-fingers sensation that… until now… he''d never been conscious to feel).
The port steering rockets fired to bring them around for final approach, lining V47 up with a row of directional buoys. The hangar bay was enormous, lined with glow strips and big enough to dock Zeta Platform. But… quiet. Empty. Nothing going on, now that V12, 15 and 27 had landed and cradled.
The pilot felt a sudden touch of unease. Would have shaken his head, but the cockpit fit him as snugly as a missile inside of its launch tube. Physical motion just wasn''t possible. Instead, he commanded,
"Land, V47, but do not cradle. Remain on the pad and do not power down, please."
V responded at once, sending,
''Command received, Pilot. Command acknowledged. V47 mech will not cradle or power down.'' Then, seeming puzzled, ''Please? Querying unneeded politeness to an onboard system.''
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Oh. Well…
"You are my friend, V. So far, the only one I have. It doesn''t feel right to order you around."
''Friend handshake received and acknowledged. Friend handshake returned, Pilot.''
Which felt surprisingly good. Natural endorphins, though, not an injection. The result of his mind, reacting to actual input.
By that time, they''d drifted into a giant, mechanized cavern. A vast and echoing space where nobody moved and nothing was lit but a lone, blinking landing pad, its lights green and white in the general gloom.
He felt dust-mote small (had actually seen those… dust motes, that is… swirling in Glimmr''s high altitude breeze). Came in, reoriented boots-down, made a short, low-energy burn, then descended to land whoosh-snik-chunk.
Gave hangar control an excuse about launch readiness preparations, which got him the green-light to keep V47 out on the pad. Disengaged from the battle-mech''s probes and contact plates, after that, waiting until the cockpit dropped open to disembark.
Gravity wasn''t as strong here as it had been on Glimmr, but the manna was nearly as plentiful. Most of that power was intended for fuel and repairs, but nobody stopped him from tapping in.
Station schematics highlighted the cyborg controller, enmeshed in her data cocoon and probe net, behind a vast, shielded window. For some reason, he data-packeted; sending a short burst of qubits, and physically waving a hand in greeting. Was pleasantly surprised when the hangar bay window flashed in response. Received ''Hangar Control greets V47,'' as well. So much for check-in.
Transport was another matter. He''d never traversed the station. Had theoretical quarters, some 152 miles to deckward and port, on level fifteen, but faced a long walk to get there. The biosynthesis lab was still further away. Nearly out of reach, unless…
He queried the system, diverting a robot hover car to V47''s landing pad. Exchanged greetings and climbed aboard, using his cyborg body''s magnetic clamps to belt in for a ride. (The first of his conscious life.)
He had to project a shield to defend his vulnerable eyes from travel-wind but wouldn''t put on his helmet. Internal organic parts were regrowing, as muscle and nerve tissue pushed its way into his hardware. All that was under the surface. But his face, yellow hair and pale eyes were his own, decanted the same, every time, and the pilot refused to conceal them.
He ought to have gotten a reprimand for all of this irregular activity. Only, it seemed that the station''s AI was underutilized, with far too much idle processing power. V47 pilot''s emergent behavior represented something new to puzzle over, for the first time in forty years. Thus, no reprimand and no interference. Up to a point, the pilot could do as he pleased.
…So long as he stayed well away from the station''s civilian zones. No full-stock person was meant to encounter a wandering battle-mech core. Such beings were so far past his need-to-know rating that the pilot could not even scan to avoid them.
The show vids weren''t helpful, either, as nothing featuring genuine, full-stock persons was accessible. In fact…
''This research trail is red-flagged, Pilot,'' warned V47, through their interface. ''Civilian data logs are not available to assets.''
"Understood, V. Query dropped. Thank you for the heads-up."
A shining flurry of qubits shot over from V47; emotion, expressed as a stream of ephemeral particles. Sounded/ felt/ resonated like: virtual back-slap.
He came to a vast construction bay shortly thereafter. Nothing prevented him from walking right in, once he''d thanked and stepped off of the idling hover car. He accessed manna to warp local gravity then, levitating himself from cargo delivery level to the open bay portal.
This was an industrial area of the station. Not meant for persons, it had few decks and little scaffolding. You hooked into a transport ley-line to cross that cavernous space, or you summoned a cart.
Maybe once, the place had been bustling; an assembler-hive of constant activity. It was a proper tomb now, though, with only the battle-mech construction cradles lit up and moving; their echoing clamor more rattle than thunder, at this distance.
According to Rogue Flight, pilots visiting their injured comrades often brought smuggled alcohol (which they brewed in the barracks). He had no alcohol, but thought he could e-con a reasonable facsimile, using available power. Rogue Flight''s strike-leader, Ace, called the stuff "head hooch". How hard could it be to produce?
Right.
After three failed attempts, the pilot managed to convert manna into a flask of clear, stinging fluid that (naturally, he sampled some) burned his mouth. Coughing, he spat the vile stuff over the side of a gantry and into the giant construction bay, where maintenance drones vacuumed it up in mid-splash.
''Archived data suggest that the sensation becomes more enjoyable with repeated exposure,'' remarked V47, over their link. The pilot was unconvinced.
"Maybe everyone likes it because it''s germicidal," he mused, putting the flask away into fey-pocket storage with… nothing much. Other than his sidearm and force blade, he had no possessions, at all.
''There is a station commissary across from the pilots lounge,'' supplied V47. ''Possessions may be acquired there.''
"Acknowledged, V. Sounds like a plan."
He''d do it, too. Buy something. Own and pocket it.
With part of his processing power, he immediately began researching possessions, mining Rogue Flight and Battle for Arda to discover the sort of things that a pilot would have.
R432 (Ace) had a pair of lucky dice, while R216 (Boomer, the "Hot-shot rebel") was never without her mysterious artifact. He''d find something, too.
Another sliver of head-space kept up with his battle-mech''s rebuild; syncing with V47 to make their shell stronger, better armed and defended, all without giving up speed. Hide whatever you wanted in the mech''s lateral fey-pockets, there was still some encumbrance. Some extra-dimensional drag. You had to be smart about what you chose to pack, or risk being slowed while darting through warp space.
…and "slow" equaled "dead".
The biosynthesis lab exactly matched his downloaded schematic, making it simple to find what he was looking for. A warehouse-sized space packed with long rows of transparent, cylindrical vats, it would have seemed huge, had he not just come in from the bay.
Looking around, the mech pilot noticed that most of those synthesis vats were empty and dark. Only eighteen of them, thirty rows over, were active. There, the fallen Goldens were being resynthesized. It was a long way to walk, so he set off immediately, after sending his data and purpose to the lab AI. This netted a brief welcome and caution tutorial, but that was all. LabTech did not question his presence. Just noted and logged it.
He was able to view all twenty-three seasons of Rogue Flight and most of Battle for Arda in the time it took him to reach the Gold synthesis vats. Passed 1,278 others on the way, all of them quiet and dim; keeping just enough circulation and fluid inside to maintain their stem cells. There were designation displays… names, ranks, even call signs… hovering over each tank. So many pilot-stems, stored up for… what?
Blue Flight''s vats had shifted to ready-mode. The Blues were on call while Gold Flight recovered. Their synthesis tanks were prepared to churn out replacements by the score, in case of severe battle damage or death.
He passed them all by, coming at last to the place where his own flight was being re-synthesized. Found eighteen ten-foot, cylindrical tanks formed of perma-plastic and steel. Inside of each, there was a skeletal, partly-fleshed asset, hooked up to feed lines and wires. Just heads, torsos and limb buds, with contact ports already drilled. Twitching slightly in training-sim dreams, the new assets were curled up like… like beans.
Over each tank hovered a glowing virtual screen that contained the current group''s pertinent details: rank and mech number, along with how often they''d been decanted. Some were into their forty-plus synthesis, perilously close to fifty, the point at which there were too many accumulated errors to make them worth bringing back.
A faint bubbling noise and low hum were the only sounds. Swirling fluid and twitching pilot cores, all that was moving.
V29 was closest, and already half-formed; ready for decanting and insert in three sidereal days, according to her feed. Looking in through the perma-plast, he saw that her face was still mostly skull, her brown eyes hazy. Unfocused.
He placed a hand on the transparent vat, feeling… sick. Helpless. So far lost, he didn''t know if there was anyplace else left to go. Any way that things could get better.
V47 started up season four of The Tenth Protocol, providing a little distraction. That helped. So did thinking about what he''d come here to do.
The pilot filled his lungs with cold, antiseptic-bite air, then said to V29… to all of them…
"I regret that you died. I made it through, this time, and I will share whatever strategies allowed me to do so. There is a pilot''s lounge on level fifteen. Perhaps… we could meet there, sometime."
He got no response, of course. They were in training simulation; their reflexes being honed for instant, battle-ready adulthood.
The pilot took his conjured hooch back out of its pocket and drank some, linking to all of their vats to put the sensation into their feed. In Rogue Flight, Ace always said, "Cheers", when consuming illicit alcohol. The pilot did, too, his voice sounding flat in that grim, awful place.
He went further along the narrow catwalk, then, following increasing designation numbers until he reached tank V47, and…
…and there he was. Or, the start of him, anyhow. Ready for a hasty turn-and-burn, should the need arise. He synced with the vat''s system, learning that his build could be set to "full body" as well as "bio-core".
Hunh.
Wasn''t sure, afterward, what made him do it… but all at once the pilot adjusted the tank''s setting. Next time he died, he was going to decant with a whole, complete body, not just a mech-ready core.
LabTech manifested itself on the catwalk beside him nano-ticks later.
''Querying V47 pilot. What are you doing? Why have you altered the build parameters, Pilot?'' inquired LabTech, who resembled a cyborg orc with heavy implants and wiring.
Once again, his battle-mech provided a ready excuse.
"I am testing full synthesis capacity, LabTech," he explained. "In the event that a full build is required, how can we know that the template is free of glitches or faulty code? Over two-thousand galactic years have passed, and errors may have accumulated."
LabTech appeared to consider. Then,
''I have no protocol for this scenario, V47 pilot. Wait here and do nothing further, while I consult.''
The request ended up being kicked all the way through to OVR-Lord, a matter of nearly a tick and a half. Finally, LabTech''s optics flashed.
''Adjustment authorized. In its next decantation, asset V47 pilot will test the full-body configuration, reporting results to LabTech. End of communication.''
LabTech signed out immediately afterward; matter-converting back to a swirl of qubits, then plunging into its system again. The pilot barely had time to acknowledge the AI''s message, before it returned to its normal activity.
To his future self, the pilot leaned forward to say,
"When you… we… wake up, next time, we''ll do it in a complete body. Try not to get it blown up. That explanation is not likely to work, twice."
He touched the layer of chilly plastic that separated his two selves, adding,
"... but I hope that it will be a long time before you are needed, Pilot-2."
Because, mere asset or not, he very much wanted to live.