Free Fall

This is a short story based in the Mech World universe, something of which I know nothing about. It was written more as an exercise in working within rules set by someone else. If you are familiar with the Mech World, and see I have committed a cardinal sin, I apologize. If you are not familiar, think of Mechs as giant robots that walk around, stomping and shooting their way to glory and infamy.

This is not the right. It’s the mantra that I repeat in my mind and it works as I stand at the open door of a transport 20,000 feet over the battlefield. From this height it is beautiful. No pain. No suffering. A smear of smoke punctuated with fire. A bright flash of Orange and I wonder whose soul is lost. I see the door gunner spot the patch on my shoulder. It is a parachute and cross. He sits up a little straighter. Para-rescue. No matter my state of appearance, the patch demands respect. I stand a little straighter myself, but not out of pride. The patch is a lie.

I'm a wash out in the para-rescue program. It's not uncommon. Four out of five don't make it. Yet here I stand, at the open door and I can't let on. Just so we are clear this is not my idea. I'm a washout. I accept this and will try again next year; so long as they never find out what happens here. Again, not my idea.

On the deck there is a fury of activity; men and women unleashing my mules from their moorings. The jump window must be closing in. The mules are winged boxes, dumb drop parcels that will follow my glide path, so long as I go fast enough not to stall, and not too fast as to over shoot their landings. They carry tools and medical gear. There is usually one mule; sometimes two. I get three. Lucky me.

The first mule I am shown holds my escape bike. Just a fast ride to take me from the disabled mech. The second mule I'm shown are the telepresence bots. This isn't a rescue. The pilot is dead and the mech was disabled in one shot. Nothing disables a Thor mech in one shot, and this is why I am here. Bring those bots in, let the engineers see what happened, and get out with any evidence I can.

That third mule? I have no idea, and they won't tell me.

Less than two hours prior I was on the ground feeding guass ammo into cans when some Colonial pulls me away from my crew. I say "some” because I'm not sure he told me his real name.

"Hilcroft," he said flatly, like he had known me for years. I've never met him. "You were in para-rescue?"

"Washed out, sir," I replied, too afraid of the full bird to feel shame.

"Put this on," he says as he hands me a flight jacket. Crumpled in my hands, the patch looking up at me. I was to betray all my peers.

Within minutes of leaving my ground crew I was airborne and over the shit. That's what they call a territory currently contested . They call it this because it is a smelly, sticky mess down there. The kind of place for the stupid and the damned.

The stupid who signed up for infantry and the damned who stayed. And then there is para-rescue. Souls jumping into the mess when a pilot is down. Jump in. Rescue. Some call it brave. Looking down into where I will be falling, another word comes to mind.

I am handed my helmet as that bird Colonial is giving me instructions. I really should be paying better attention, but I think I have to pee. The mech is down, pilot is dead. One shot, one kill. Want to scare command? That'll send shivers down their spines.

Currently, a squad of Loki's and artillery are keeping the enemy at bay, but they won't hold the area long. My task: guide in the mules. Help the telepresence bots as they comb the mech, take samples, and pull out.

The third mule is opened by two sergeants and an officer performs a component check. The cargo is unfamiliar, not because I don't know, but because I don't want to know. Its name is dances in my mind.

Nuke.

It isn't a big one, but what does that matter? I am told a timer is set when the mule comes to a rest. Fifty minutes. Fifteen to help the bots, get a sample or two, then get away, upwind.

The Colonial is talking. I nod. I want to throw up.

The sergeants help me with my helmet and guide me back to the open bay door. My screen illuminates and the 3D mapping cycles through showing me where I am, my glide path, and of course, the dead mech.

I remember there is a jump checklist. Airspeed, direction, wind direction, altitude, my weight, mule weight...I don't know half these things. Is this normal? It is a punch in the gut and I look back at The Colonial who gives me a thumbs up. I realize this is a one-way ticket. He doesn't care if I make it...he just wants those mules down there.

I nod as the jump lights turn yellow. Then flashing yellow. Then flashing green. I take a breath. The light stays green. I feel the push of two hands on my shoulders and before I can protest I step into the world, my arms outstretched to catch the wind.

It is instantly silent and I glance back at the transport where I have already fallen far beneath and behind the gaping maw that spit me out; the three mules quickly unfolding their wings and catching up to me. If I'm not careful they will over take and all will be lost. I'm sure some officer on that transport has his finger on a red button waiting for me to fail so he can destroy that nuke. And me with it.

I focus on my hud and see my angle of attack is too severe. I'm going too fast, which is a problem. If I bleed off too quickly my posse of mules will overshoot, or worse, slam into me. I start a slow bank and turn in harder watching the mules. They are heavy and sluggish, but they comply. I bank back and begin the path to reduce my speed. I am at 15,000 feet which is rather quick but I trust my altimeter. Still too fast, but I'm comfortable now.

I see on my map where the dead mech sits, and a green line painted in my hud shows my projected path. The two are nowhere close. Now I start to panic. If I bleed off too much speed, I'll stall, but turn straight for the mech I'll come in to fast.

This. This is what should have been worked out on the transport. I curse the Colonial and start turning back around in a circle to realign. My wingsuit can keep me up here for hours but that land below is contested and someone somewhere is dying so I can do my job. At 12,000 feet I glance around and see the territory. To the north smoke. To the west the sun begins to set behind thinner, drifting active fires. I wonder if it will be dark when I leave. I wonder when that nuke goes off how close will it be. Will I know when to look away from the flash?

Strong winds buffet my wings and I glance back to see my posse. I forget how heavy they really are as the wind barely moves them. Wherever I set down they will set on top of me and it is not a comforting thought. I adjust for the wind and think of my father on his boat, the time spent with him alone on the water as he trimmed the sheets while I sat near the bow aching for the land.

I never saw much of my father, and when I did it was on his boat. I hated that boat.

I bank back to the right, the redline of my flight path turning orange then yellow, closer to the approach line of green. I look back to see my mules banking with me. They are elegant in their turn, and in seeing them I feel the wind against me and for a moment it feels good; comfortable. Achievable. I don't know if that is the right word, but in that moment I feel connected to the wind. I am catching it just so, as my father used to say. Fill the sheets with the breath of the gods, he would whisper. Feel it pull, let it take you.

This. Here now, as I fall into hell, this is what he meant. This feeling I have washing through me. I know it will end, and I know I will want more. I dip for a jump in speed then barrel roll. Looking back the mules are keeping up, and I imagine they are as happy as I.

My approach line is turning from yellow to green as my stall speed indicator starts to flash. I dip to bring up my air speed and see the mech ahead of me, the iron giant standing near a cluster of pines, the ground rocky and flat. If I come in too fast, it'll hurt. Come in too slow, I drop. Come to close, I may hit the iron side. Come in too far, and I'll have to carry all the gear. This won't be a perfect landing, but I'll be close. I glance back at the mules and find they are all closer to my than I want. This is a problem. When I hit the ground their heavier mass will take them farther, slamming into me from behind. This is a common problem, and the answer is devilishly simple; let them pass.

Twenty feet from ground I flare, full wing catching like a jib. I lift straight up and the mules pass under, just missing my feet. I hear their bellies scratching on the hard ground, sliding to the legs of the dead mech. I hang in the air a brief moment, enough to see the mech before me, the one blast hole in her chest. The cockpit is dark, and I am relieved for not having to see the dead pilot. I start to fall and I turn to catch bank and spin to the ground.

I hit hard. As I lay looking down onto the broken ground I smile. It's a landing. I'll take it.

My ear piece has fallen out and as I sit up and remove the helmet, it falls to the ground. I replace it in my ear to hear the familiar static. No radio signal, at least not until I setup the repeater and antenna. Normally this isn't a problem from what I was told on the transport, but since this is a hot area, and monitored for enemy transmissions, long range contact needs to be through a micro-burst encryption thing. Yes, a thing. That's what the tech on the transport called it. Did not inspire confidence. I stand and approach the mules who have slid into the legs of the mech. I feel sore, and move slowly, remembering I am still in the flight suite.

Shedding the suit, I open the first mule I come across. The nuke. Opening the second I find my escape motorbike, a small electric off-road ride that, in another world would be a lot of fun to ride. I open the last mule and several small bots fall out, their spider legs tucked underneath themselves, like they are sleeping. Or dead.

In the last mule is also the black box and rubber whip antenna. A yellow sticker tells me to place the box on top of the mech for best reception. I look up the iron beast and curse. I don't like heights.

From the mule with the bike I pull a harness that I will wear when climbing. It is a simple affair with two small, snake like tentacles that reach from the belt. As I climb these arms find placeholders to secure myself. They are made to hold a para-rescue in place while working extrication gear to free a pinned pilot. I don't need it, but put it on out of habit. And that fear of heights.

The robots are busy, their motors whirring in the evening air. I pay no attention as I set myself to the task of climbing this iron beast. I start at an ankle and begin the journey, up the leg past the hip, the metal cold under my hands. I have the best handholds around the front so I find my route, the tethers off my belt small snakes that grab and release as I climb, like two squid arms from my lower gut. It's disgusting.

I stop at the gapping hole in the center of the chest and peer through to the other side to see the small bots have already started scanning and collecting carbon. I'm not sure what they will find, it is a gapping, black hole gone cold from time. Another bot has come around from the front and I relinquish my gaze into the maw to continue up. The bots are collecting data they will need to send off to the mother flying above several thousands of feet. They won't fit with me on that motorbike.

I realize they could have just told me it was a bike. I wouldn't have known until I landed that it was a one-way ticket with my little friends.

But not today, for me at least. I get that radio up and I'm outta here.

I climb past the cockpit and glance in, hoping to see nothing. The pilot is sitting, watching me. I see her smile.

I am hanging off the side of the mech, the tethers holding me as I swing down, slamming my shoulder into the side. Pain radiates out as I sprawl to grab hold. Did I just see what I thought I saw?

I climb back up to peer over the edge where the pilot is watching me, nodding.

"You're supposed to be dead," I say into the window. She shrugs and puts a finger to her ear. Of course she can't hear me. I climb to the top and set the transmitter, the little lights flashing then staying on letting me know it has a signal block. Now how to tell them about the pilot. I open the top hatch to a rush of warm, moist air that smells of sweat and mint.

"You OK?" the pilot asks. I look down to see the woman looking up. From here, in the light, she looks so small.

"You're supposed to be dead,” I say.

"The mech is. One hit, took it all out. My leg, it's pinned."

That's why. No eject, no escape or marker smoke. I glance down the mech to see the bots moving about, and at the base, near a heel of the iron beast, the mule holding the nuke. I don't have much time.

I set myself into the cabin to see her leg is pressed against a control panel. "You injured?" I ask as I notice the chewed gum pressed into a weapons console. I'm sure it's mint flavored.

"It just shifted, pinning my foot. I'm not hurt, just can't get it out."

Behind her are struts a meter in length that attach to back panels. They are stabilizers and one is always set in at a slight angle that can be pulled out by the pilot to use as a pry tool. When in a can of sausage meat, it is best to have an opener on the inside.

I pull the bar and attempt to pry the panel. It does not move. I glance at my watch. I don't have time for this.

"Get a lower purchase," she says. "I felt it shift."

Bullshit, you felt nothing, but I squeeze by her, my back against the wall plate, my legs splayed around her. I guide the bar in and push with my arms and back. It moves.

"More!" she yells in my ear. I look at her to see her pulling away, her one arm pulling her leg, the other on my shoulder pushing away. She swears, spit splashing my cheek. I can smell the mint.

She flies back in the cockpit, her leg free. I am exhausted as a let go, my back strained. She stands and I realize that bike won't hold us both for long.

She starts climbing out and I move after, my leg pulled to a stop. I look down to see the console has shifted, my leg is pinned against the wall. I look up into the hole of the cockpit door, the pilot and a bot both looking in. I look at my watch. Time is up.

"Go," I say. She starts climbing down and I scream. I don't know why. I hear my voice, but it is not from me. "There is a nuke below us set to go. You have enough time to get away on the bike below."

"I can't leave you." I don't know if it was her I heard, or what I wanted her to say.

I scream as she climbs towards me, my head whipping away. Go! I want to scream. But I can't. I'm falling. I'm stuck in this cockpit, and falling into darkness.

I wake up. I am alone and my head is wet. I touch my hair and pull it away to see blood. I turn to see the bulkhead I slammed my head on.

It is quiet. Below I hear a bot moving about. There is no sound of the electric bike, or even the wind. Outside the window there is evening, distant smoke blending with the night sky.

I work the pry bar and free myself; was it that easy? Did I just commit suicide because I couldn’t wait two minutes? I climb out the cockpit to sit on top of the mech, and await the end.

There is a breeze. It smells fresh, like from when I was on the boat. Father would tell me we can not control the wind or water, but rather negotiate how it will carry us. He would say we were never in complete control, only bargaining for a smooth ride.

How is this ride, father?

"Steven." It is my name, coming from behind. I turn to see a bot at the edge, watching me. "It's your father, Steven."

"Dad?" I ask the bot. I must have really hit my head. Is the nuke a dream as well? Can I please wake up now?

"Command has patched me in," the bot says crawling a step closer. "We all saw what you did."

It is my father. They turned off the nuke! "Where's the pilot?" I ask.

There is a pause. "Nearly in the safety zone." Implying I am not.

"Can you tell them to turn it off?"

There is another pause. "I'm sorry, son."

Sorry? I have never heard my father utter that word. "Order them to turn it off. Or at least stay it so I can get clear, right?" There is another pause. Who is he talking to? I lean towards the bot. "What's the sense in being an Admiral if you can't order your son to safety?"

"Son." His voice is hard now, like when I would not listen as a child. "You have four Loki's moving in on your position, and there are no resources to stop them. Once they arrive they will disarm that nuke and we will have lost any information gathered from this."

I look out across the land, the trees to the west moving, some falling. The mechs are in there, and moving my way. "You are telling me you can’t stop this?" I know he can. He can let me be captured, and once they find out who my father is, negotiate for a return. Just don't set off the nuke. It's that simple. "Father," I plead. "Why?"

"They have a weapon called a Mercury missile. It has been in troubled testing for quite a while. We've been watching for it. It has always failed." He stops for a moment. “Until today. We can not let them know how successful it was. Not now. Not until we understand it better."

It makes sense. All of it; save the part where I have to die.

Closing in across a field of rock and shrub the Loki's vector towards me, their guns all primed at me, and it dawns on me they could detonate at any time. They are just waiting for those four to get close enough.

"Dad," I say, watching the approaching mechs.

"Yes?"

"I always hated that boat."

“You know it wasn't supposed to be about the boat."

“I know.” At least I know it now. It was always supposed to be about just us.

"I am sorry I wasn't a better father to you."

"You tried," I say, regretting it immediately. "Of course I could have been a better son." I know there is something he could say that he would regret as well, but he is a better man than I, and I hear no reply.

The Loki’s are close. They have split to surround the mech and I stand to greet my guests.

I can imagine that Colonials thumb on the button, knowing he is going to kill the son of an Admiral. I can smell the spark inside the mule, the charge that sends some pellet into a grey mass of enriched uranium. There is a flash. It is white and pure, and a pressure that lifts up and away, carrying the mech, the Loki's, and me, into the stratosphere. I wonder which parts of it I will feel.

The first Loki stops in front of me and I look down into the cockpit to see the pilot watching me. I don't look right. My mech has a gaping hole in its center and I'm not dressed as a pilot. Plus all the blood matted hair. I see him talking into his mic. I can see he is worried.

"Dad," I say while keeping an eye on my pilot friend. "If you're going to light this thing, best do it fast."

"Son" I hear my father say. There is a static break, and the line is dead.

I smile. That Loki pilot must think I'm mad, so I salute him with my middle finger. Seemed the right thing to do.