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After The Drop
LaMarc Soluyev learned forward in his harness on the recovery ship and dangled his arms and legs out into space as the pilot banked the nimble craft to navigate through a canyon. Looking back out the view port, LaMarc thought he could just make out the smoldering wreck of his Centurion. A trail of thick black smoke wound its way to the sky, twisting in the light prevailing winds. He always wondered why wrecked mechs smoked so much. Thinking back to the Reactor Physics classes he had taken at the academy, he couldn’t remember any fusion process that relied upon diesel as its fuel source. Maybe it was some sort of smoke signal to make the chassis easier to find for the salvage ships? Why not just use a pulse beacon then? LaMarc shrugged, it was above his pay grade to worry about stuff like that.
Anyway, he had done well today. He had destroyed a Cataphract and a sneaky Raven and blown the arm and AC20 of a really annoying Atlas before going down. He thought the Raven he dropped was the one that got Gavroche earlier in the battle. He would have asked him, but Gavroche was doing is best to pretend he didn’t even see LaMarc as he sat one row down and across the open central bay of the recovery ship, even though they were the only pilots in the hold at the moment.
When last he had seen him, LaMarc’s friend T.O.M. Berenger was still slugging it out with that armless Atlas near the drop ship wreck. That was before LaMarc had chased after the Raven and finished him off before he rounded the corner and his Cent went down to a Hexa-PPC Stalker. He chuckled to himself wondering if the Raven Pilot was cursing him as he flew in his recovery ship somewhere on the other side of the planet. That got him to wondering if any Mech Pilots ever died in battle. After a few seconds of concentration, he realized he couldn’t think of a single one. The Automatic Ejector System was the one piece of technology they had that seemed to work flawlessly every time. Even on a head-shotted mech, the pilot was guaranteed to get out safely. Sure, you might get a little scratched up on the way, but a couple of Derma-Pathces or Lacer-AidTMs would fix that in no time.
Of course, LaMarc remembered, there had been Old Man Jenkins. Died in his Stalker. Well, he hadn’t really died in combat, to be fair. Or even in his Stalker, actually. He was sitting in his mech in the mechbay before a drop when he choked on his sandwich. The sensor suite detected the stress in his vital signs and triggered the Automatic Ejector System which promptly ejected him directly into the roof of the mechbay. That’s mostly what killed him; being crushed. And the choking didn’t help. But short of that, LaMarc couldn’t think of a single combat pilot lost. Sure, some stopped reporting for duty when they got sick of doing the same old drops on the same old planets over and over again, but he never heard of anyone actually dying. The unusualness of this line of thinking occupied him on the flight back.
After a few hours, they arrived at the Ultimos Invalides 2, the massive jump ship that he and hundreds of other pilots called home. Every time he came back to the U.I. 2, he felt like it looked a little more polished, more complete. He realized this didn’t make much sense, it was just a feeling he had. Of course, he was sure that there were still improvements to be made to the ship. In fact, it was so new, that public information about the U.I. 2 hadn’t been released yet. He couldn’t even tell his family all the improvement s that had been made over his last ship, the Ultimos Invalides, which had, quite frankly, sucked.
After docking, he was processed through Medical and Debriefing, as was usual. He made it through Medical in a snap, just a quick DeTox shower to remove anything he had been exposed to during his brief trip through the Tourmaline atmosphere in his ejector seat and then he found himself sitting in his debriefing session. The balding Intel man opposite him pushed his glasses up on his thin nose as he squinted at LaMarc’s battlelog.
“Number and disposition of enemy forces” he asked without taking his eyes off the log.
“Disposition?” LaMarc was not sure he had heard correctly.
“Yes. Number and disposition of enemy forces” the man repeated with the same lack of tone.
“Uh, they were hostile” LaMarc said helpfully.
“What?” The Intel man raised his head until his neck craned back so he could look down his nose through his glasses at LaMarc.
“Their disposition was hostile…they were shooting at us” LaMarc continued as the man stared holes in him.
“What…was…the…composition…of…their…lances?” The man said slowly “How many mechs were there?”
“Oh,” said LaMarc, glad to help “there were eight.”
“Eight? Not twelve?” The man leaned forward, continuing to stare.
“No, eight, not twelve!” LaMarc stared back. Was this guy new? Everyone knew that forces always dropped in eights, or less if a side had to drop short.
“Mmm. We heard…rumors…of some drops with 12 enemy mechs.” The Intel man’s focus shifted back to the battlelog. After LaMarc had confirmed that he had seen an Atlas, a Cataphract, two Ravens, a Stalker and possibly a couple of Jagers, he was sent on his way. As he was leaving, he saw Gavroche a few cubicles over giving a similar report. LaMarc wondered how embellished that tale would be.
Outside of Debriefing, LaMarc caught a moving walkway, or “malkway”, that propelled him towards the front of the ship. He pondered the significance of these “12 man” rumors for a few moments until some distant and muffled screams off to his left caused him to turn in alarm. Directly across the hall from him was a giant security door. LaMarc instantly recognized it and involuntarily shuddered. Every mech jockey on the ship knew what was behind that door and all of them hoped to never have to cross its threshold. Beyond that portal was the dreaded Quarantine Quarter. Pilots who were sent their after their missions went in restraints and gagged, escorted by powerful men in white uniforms. There they would remain, isolated from their fellow pilots beyond the sealed security door.
There was only one reason pilots would be sent to the Quarantine Quarter: they suffered from Nerd Rage. LaMarc let the words roll around in his mind: Nerd Rage. He had seen it all too often. Once-great pilots hauled away, eyes glazed over, hands clutching claw-like despite the wrist restraints, trying to scream through their gagged mouths. He wasn’t even sure if it was contagious; the first rule of Nerd Rage was you do not talk about Nerd Rage. Still, he had heard stories that spoke of pilots getting bugs, lots of different bugs, so he thought maybe it was bacterial. At any rate, he always kept up on his vitamin regiment just to be safe.
As the malkway carried him past this dark portal, he could faintly make out the screams of those within:
“I fired four PPC’s AND THEY WENT RIGHT THROUGH HIM!!! THERE WAS NO DAMAGE ON HIS PAPER DOLL!!! NO. DAMAGE. TO. HIS. PAPERDOLL!!!!!”
“Elo IS FAIL!! WEIGHTMATCHING IS FAIL!!! THREE LIGHTS AND FOUR MEDIUMS AGAINS FOUR ATLASES AND TWO STALKERS!!!! ARRRRRGgghhhhhhhh!”
“P-O-P-T-A-R-D-S-P-O-P-T-A-R-D-S-P-O-P-T-A-R-D-S"
LaMarc shivered and turned away. He had nothing but sympathy for those poor pilots. He had felt down and disheartened before, but had never succumbed to Nerd Rage. He wondered if he was immune. He supposed that someday, if a Nerd Rage pandemic eclipsed the Inner Sphere, he would be one of the few survivors that would have to carry on and repopulate humanity. This cheered him up somewhat.
Arriving at the lifts that went up to the mid decks of the ship, LaMarc hopped on to one and went up to his quarters. After a quick sonic shower and a change of clothes, he headed down to The MatchmakerTM lounge for snack. As he entered the dining area, he was surprised to see T.O.M. Berenger there. T.O.M. glanced at LaMarc’s plate as he sat down.
“A salad? Again?!? How do you function eating that rabbit food all the time?” T.O.M. turned up his nose in disgust.
LaMarc bypassed their usual conversation opening. “How did you get here so fast?” he inquired.
T.O.M. shrugged “We won shortly after you punched out. That Atlas and a Stalker were their last mechs. We got back about the same time you did. I waved to you as I left debriefing but it looked like you and Intel were having some kind of staring contest.”
“Oh yeah,” LaMarc returned. “Say, that reminds me… have you heard any ‘rumors’ about 12 man drops?”
T.O.M. paused to consider this. “Twelve Mans? No, nary a word, mate. Could it be true? Crikey! What a mess that would cause! What with everybody crashing and bugging out as it is now! And we might see Twelve Mans?!?”
“Mmhmm” LaMarc mumbled an agreement. “Hey, how’d the new guy do today? What was his name, Kirkpatrick?”
“Kilpatrick” T.O.M. corrected, settling back into his seat. “Yeah, they hauled him off to Q.Q.”
“What!?!” LaMarc exclaimed. “But I saw him just before we dropped, he looked fine. He seemed to be doing well at the beginning of the fight. Then I lost track of him when we went after that Atlas.”
“Oh, he was game as Ned Kelley alright, but then he got taken down by that Raven and I heard he was Nerd Raging on the message boards before his ejector seat hit the ground. Stuff about ‘a Raven shouldn’t be able to solo an Awesome’ and all that. Yeah, the White Coats made a special trip to pick him up.”
“Trial Awesome” LaMarc offered, but he was saddened. Another potentially good pilot succumbed to that dreaded disease. “So young” he said softly, almost to himself. After a few moments of reflection, he looked over to see T.O.M. lost in his iPhone 1042. “What are you looking at?” he asked, craning his head as if he could read the little display from there.
“What, oh a mass message just went out from The Suits upstairs. Seems they want a one-on-one meeting with all the pilots, starting today.”
“What?” LaMarc was surprised by this. They hardly ever heard from The Suits. Well, nothing useful or particularly informative anyway. A few cryptic messages now and again, but those were often proven to be wrong. “You don’t…you don’t suppose this is about twelve mans, do you?”
“Dunno”, continued T.O.M., “but you can see for yourself, mate. Here’s the schedule. You’re the first one, in forty minutes.” He pushed the phone towards LaMarc.
LaMarc sank into his seat and didn’t look at the display. “Does it say who the meeting is with?” he asked quietly.
“Um” T.O.M. squinted at his screen. “Looks like you got Iroquois.” He grinned in spite of himself as he said it.
“D----t!” LaMarc cursed. Big Jim Iroquois was probably the last person LaMarc wanted to talk to on a good day, let alone one drenched in news of Nerd Rage and mysterious twelve mans. Iroquois wasn’t even big. He was, in fact, perfectly averaged-sized. But he had a booming voice. And he would always employ that over-sized voice in the middle of complete silence to disconcert his listeners and achieve maximum effect. “I guess I’d better get up there.” LaMarc sighed. He started to sulk off.
“Aw, she’ll be apples!” T.O.M. helpfully called after him. “I’ll see you later, mate!”
LaMarc made his way to one of the lifts that went up to the executive levels. “The Suits”, of which Jim Iroquois definitely personified, were really employees of Pan-Galactic Interplanetary, which was a name that didn’t make any sense to LaMarc, but he heard they paid the bills and so he felt some general uneasiness whenever P.G.I. was mentioned in public.
It took several minutes for the lift to reach the rarified upper levels of the U.I.2 but it seemed much longer to LaMarc as his mind poured over the numerous ways in which he could be in trouble. He still had no idea how this all related to twelve mans.
Eventually, the doors opened and he walked out into a cool, surprisingly well lit waiting room with a receptionist behind a surprisingly thick trans-durasteel partition. Two stun-prod guards stood on either end of the room. Apparently, Nerd Rage would not be tolerated here. LaMarc navigated the maze of chairs and sofas as he approached the receptionist.
“Mr. Iroquois’ office, please” he said as meekly as he could.
“Name?” The distant voice sounded like it came from a sepulcher through the thick partition.
“LaMarc Soluyev.” Even meeker.
“Down the hall to the right, last office. Mr. Iroquois is expecting you.”
LaMarc trudged down the indicated hallway as various doors presented themselves to him on either side. As he walked along, he could have sworn that he was getting smaller or the hall was getting larger. Either way, it was terribly intimidating to him. By the time he reached the end, he stood before a door he would have guessed was twenty feet tall. Off to the side was an important-looking name plate proclaiming
James Iroquois
Pan-Galactic Interplanetary
LaMarc hesitated, not knowing whether to knock or just go in. He compromised by knocking and then going right in.
Inside was a small waiting area with a professional looking secretary at her desk and an uncomfortable looking chair by the wall. LaMarc started to sit in the chair.
“You can go right in,” the secretary said glancing at him briefly. “Mr. Iroquois will be with you in a moment.” LaMarc, relieved not to have to finish the act of sitting in the uncomfortable chair, headed through a leather-covered door into the next room.
The interior office was pleasantly large and well lit, with a latticed dome on the roof made of trans-durasteel opening into space. LaMarc looked up. The U.I. 2 was stationary in space on the fringes of the Mutara Nebula. Glowing jets of plasma cast beautiful tendrils of light along the walls and created a hypnotic effect that LaMarc thought reminded him of a latex mixture being poured into a salt water tank. After a few moments he blinked away the mesmeric view and scanned the rest of the office. On one wall was a dark stained bookcase full of books that no one had probably ever read. Directly opposite the door was a large cherrywood desk with a high-backed leather chair turned to face away from him. In front of the desk was a plush upholstered chair that LaMarc was quite pleased to settle into. Leaning back into the comfortable material, he felt charitable enough to wait a good, long while for Mr. Iroquois to make an appearance.
“SO, HOW IS LIFE OUT ON THE BATTLEFIELD THESE DAYS?” a voice suddenly boomed across the stillness of the room. The leather chair slowly turned around to reveal a well-tailored man seated a little lower than was absolutely necessary. Jim Iroquois faced the room with a huge smile on his face. It was his turn to be surprised, however, for his office appeared empty, except for himself. After surveying the room for several moments, and without the character of his smile changing one jot, Iroquois looked up.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE SON?” he boomed. “COME ON DOWN AND HAVE A SEAT.”
After a few seconds of waiting to make sure that he was not, in fact, having a heart attack, LaMarc gingerly let himself down from the metal framework he had found himself clinging to in his shock at Iroquois’ announcing himself. He wriggled back into his seat.
“So,” Iroquois’ voice sank to a more moderated level, “How is life out on the battlefield.” The whole time his smile had remained a frozen feature on his face.
“Um, it’s pretty good sir, I, I guess” LaMarc feebly plucked at a small pill of upholstery on the arm of his chair.
“Ahh, that’ the life” Iroquois continued, not seeming to hear LaMarc, “Fighting man to man, mech to mech, a battle of wits! You destroy him, before he destroys you! Winning battles, making money, earning prestige, eh?”
“Yessir, it’s very gratifying” LaMarc fumbled about, not sure where this was going or when 12 mans would rear its ugly head. At least, LaMarc assumed it would be ugly.
“That’s good, that’s…good. Soluyev, is it? That Russian?” Iroquois was glancing at some file or other.
“I dunno, sir, my mother’s family is Terran, I’m not sure about my dad’s”.
“I see, well, look, Mark…”
“LaMarc” LaMarc offered, unheeded.
“Look Mark, we here at Pan-Galactic Interplanetary want you to know that we value our pilots. Heck, we wouldn’t be here without you. And we feel that, sometimes, amidst all the brouhaha, that we don’t get to communicate with you as much as we should. So, we are going to meet with you pilots to sort of…pool opinions, if you will and see if we can, together, come up with ideas that will help all of our pilots to have a better experience. What do you think about that, son?”
LaMarc had been slowly sitting up in his seat as Iroquois continued. This was exactly the kind of thing he had been hoping for. Some good, open discussion with The Suits on how to make the piloting experience better. And now he was going to get it! Why, this wasn’t about twelve mans or Nerd Rage at all! This was going to be great!
“Well, sir,” he began with renewed confidence, “A bunch of us pilots have been talking about just this kind of thing. We think what would really help would be voice communications in our mechs. See, then we could talk to each other during a drop and identify any weaknesses in the enemy’s formation which would allow us to use teamwork to…” his voice trailed off. Iroquois’ smile by this point was porcelain. LaMarc wondered if his lips were stuck to his teeth.
“Son,” While the smile never wavered, the voice was through clenched teeth. “We want to have your input, we really want this to be a two way street, that’s what we feel is best for all of us. You provide us with the input and we make your lives easier and your experience better. I mean, in a way, it’s almost like we work for you, not the other way around…”
“Yes sir, that’s what the pilots think too, which is why…”
“See Mark, we figured that we could, I dunno, have Meat Mondays in the mess hall, or maybe throw a ball for the pilots to get better acquainted with each other, you know, boost morale, cut down on the incidence of…well, Q.Q. only holds so many pilots. So what do you think?
Silence hung in the air as the weird nebula lights played across the faces of the two men seated opposite each other.
“Um sir, I don’t really see how Meat Monday would help morale…I mean, we could really use some help working as a team… It seems like having voice coms would really be the best way to addres…”
“Son, you don’t seem to understand me. We value your input. We really want to hear what you think and address any issues that have come up. Just tell us what’s on your mind. Meat Mondays or a pilot’s ball?” Iroquois’ eyes were like medium lasers chipping away at LaMarc’s flesh. He even thought he heard the same lame recharge sound they used to make.
“I’m sorry, sir, I just don’t see how either of those two choices will help. I know that many of the other pilots have serious issues that I’m sure they will bring up when…”
Suddenly there was a flurry of activity in the office. Iroquois was on his feet pumping LaMarc’s hand as the secretary was ushering him out of the room. “GREAT DISCUSSION, MARK! WE SURE DO APPRECIATE YOUR CANDID AND VALUABLE INPUT!”
***
LaMarc woke up the next morning with a splitting headache. He had tossed and turned all night trying to puzzle through his meeting with Iroquois. At one point, he dreamed that Iroquois towered over him in an Atlas, while he tried to pilot his flea out of the way. As the giant foot came down with death from above, LaMarc had awoken in a cold sweat, glad that that couldn’t really happen…yet.
After getting up and getting dressed, he headed down to The MatchmakerTM for breakfast. He wasn’t surprised to find T.O.M. already there. As he sat down, he waited for the inevitable ribbing about his salad, but instead there was a strange gleam in T.O.M.’s eye.
“What did you say to Iroquios yesterday?” T.O.M. inquired.
“Nothing…why?” LaMarc hadn’t thought he could feel any more dread then yesterday. He realized he was wrong.
“As soon as you came out of there, he cancelled all further pilot meetings and this morning this message was on the boards!” T.O.M. handed LaMarc his iPhone. LaMarc looked at the heading titled “ANNOUNCEMENT TO ALL PILOTS” (Iroquois even wrote loud)
He glanced at the thread trail. The message was under Topical Headings in the Legacy Issues subforum of the Off-Duty Pilot section of the Proprietary Employees section of Pan-Galactic Interplanetary’s message boards.
“How did you ever find this?” LaMarc asked. He could never get to a single useful topic on the company boards.
“Aw, I know this bloke who does nothing all day but scour the boards. He doesn’t even drop anymore, just finds interesting topics and sells the links to other pilots. Doesn’t charge me, of course. It’ the only way to find anything, lately… Did you read it yet?”
LaMarc’s eyes skimmed the text:
Attention all pilots! We at Pan-Galactic Interplanetary value each and every one of you! And after meeting with so many of you it is our pleasure to announce that you overwhelmingly told us that you wanted to celebrate! So we are pleased to announce the first ever BattleDress Ball taking place next Friday night on the Recreation Deck at 7PM Local Ship Time. We look forward to seeing you all there as attendance is mandatory!
“What!” LaMarc blurted out “Are you sure I’m the only pilot they talked to?”
“Yup” T.O.M. replied.
“And based on that one interview, they said that the mech pilots overwhelmingly wanted a ball?!?!”
“Uh-huh” T.O.M. gave a sly, knowing wink.
“Son of a B…”
The End
