I was so frustrated by the lack of narrative in Phantom Brigade that I wrote a short story
(originally posted May 16, 2023)
Phantom Brigade really doesn't have much narrative to speak of and I wanted to do something that was (relatively) small scale. It still took me an annoyingly long amount of time, oops.
This is basically the first piece of writing I've "finished" (I haven't bothered to give it a serious editing pass or anything though) in probably the past... decade? Maybe the ADHD pills are actually doing something. Gosh.
Holiday's voice crackled through the radio. "I've lost him!"
"He's running between the buildings, staying out of sight," Whistle said. Military frames averaged about nine meters in height. Even a single-story house could serve as passable concealment if a pilot moved properly. Any weapon that could pierce a frame's armor would hardly be slowed by a mere civilian building, but... "Bastard knows we want to keep them intact."
The Royalists didn't care about collateral damage, no matter how much of a show they made about their supposedly bloodless takeover of the Capital. In the outer provinces like this one, entire villages were wiped out by indiscriminate barrages in the first weeks of the war. If there was any silver lining, it was that the Royalists still thought they could hold these territories with only a handful of frames. A detachment as small as Spectre wouldn't be able to take on groups any bigger.
"Spread out." Sierra's voice sounded like he'd eaten gravel for breakfast with gasoline for milk. He'd been part of Spectre Squad longer than any of them, and piloted early stunt frames before some of them had even been born. "Stay calm, cool off, and get ready."
Pavement shattered underfoot as Spectre Squad's frames stomped out of the maze of apartments and offices, encircling the perimeter of the district. Breaker - the lightest and most mobile of the bunch - boosted up to a small hill nearby, her frame's verniers blasting clouds of debris over the streets. She brushed trees aside like they were tall grass as the frame planted its knee and hefted its marksman rifle.
"The second the guy steps out, I'll have a clean shot," Breaker said. "Don't push in, Hol."
The final Royalist frame signal circled through the 3D wireframe of the town on the spherical predictive monitor, leaving no room for a clear sight-line. Spectre Squad's prediction system - the only thing that gave them an edge against more advanced Royalist frames - worked a mere five seconds ahead. That information couldn't have leaked. What was the pilot thinking, pinned down by four frames who could see his next move? If he'd simply eject, the fight would be over.
One. Two. Three seconds of silence.
"Fuck this, I'm going in." Holiday tossed his pickup-sized assault rifle aside, where it crushed a sedan like a fallen tree trunk. His verniers and plasma axe ignited simultaneously, heat scorching the ground beneath.
The signal blinked on the monitor. "No! Wait!"
Holiday leapt forty meters towards the roof of an apartment complex. One half of a second - no, a quarter - was all he needed to vent enough heat to jump down for the final swing. His plasma axe would cut clean through the Royalist's armor, or else hit hard enough to concuss the pilot and take him out of the fight.
The Royalist's heavy beam fired while he was in midair, melting the building's center in an instant. Holiday landed on the roof, but it crumbled under his heavily armored frame's weight. He tumbled directly into the path of the particle beam.
The radio let out a burst of static as Holiday's cockpit was vaporized.
"NO!" Whistle dashed to an intersection, ignoring his frame's own heat levels, letting loose a torrent of bullets from his heavy vulcan with no regard for accuracy. Bullets tore into the Royalist's right arm and the beam's blood red glow subsided as the weapon tumbled to the ground, far too heavy for a single arm to support.
The Royalist turned toward Whistle and reached for his sidearm, but the wave of fire was overwhelming. The frame fell limp, arms and legs in pieces. An escape pod launched from its back the moment Whistle's vulcan wound down, the air rippling from the heat of its glowing barrels. The pod arced northward away from the settlement.
The fight was over. Escape pods weren't a threat. Just as Spectre Squad had done dozens of times over the past months, they would report its estimated landing location to the Reclamation Corps, who would in turn capture the enemy pilot as a POW in accordance with international law.
"...I have a shot," Breaker whispered over the radio. Her rifle was trained skyward.
"Don't." There was no emotion in Sierra's voice.
Whistle's breathing was heavy, ragged. "Do it, sis."
One. Two. Three seconds of silence.
Another victory for the Spectre Squad.
Lars Jacobsen - call sign Sierra - leaned against an upper railing in the mobile base's hangar, file in hand. He ran it back and forth in a slow rhythm, shaving away tiny particles of steel. It was not the first tally he'd made in secret, and it probably wouldn't be the last. He had a knack for living.
The racks that usually held their frames were empty for now, cleared out to sort through the salvage. The remains of the frames involved in the battle were scattered below, divided into three piles: parts in good enough condition to repair to working order, parts that could be salvaged or cannibalized, and the pieces that were too wrecked to waste time bothering with. Today, the third pile was twice as big as the others combined.
An elevator brought Gibbous Joe, Spectre Squad's head mechanic, up onto the catwalk. The middle-aged man was heavyset, with a giant handlebar moustache and a limping gait that made him distinct from 50 meters. He approached Lars, dabbing sweat with a towel certainly dirtier than his face.
"Good news is," Gibbous Joe said, "I can get another frame in working order within six hours. Get us back up ta four."
Four frames was the limit the mobile base could keep operational simultaneously. With only three workable units, they'd have to pivot to focusing on smaller targets, slow the push into the outer provinces; but that'd just give the Royalists opportunity to manufacture and deploy more frames. Add to that they still had a cargo hold full of supplies meant for refugee camps in one of the well-defended core provinces... there just wasn't time. "Bad news?"
"Left arm only."
Lars sighed. The Royalists' backwards military standard stipulated all frame-spec weapons were right-handed, and Spectre Squad survived on salvage. Their paltry collection of ambidextrous gear was limited to shields, sidearms, and close-quarters. Making modifications was long and tedious work, the kind they often simply didn't have time or resources for. A fourth frame in that situation was riding the line of being a liability.
"Nobody to pilot it for now, anyway." He continued scraping the file against the railing, the tally mark growing imperceptibly deeper.
"You'll find someone," Gibbous Joe said. "Always do."
"Mm." Five months ago, after a disastrous battle in Vremmel, they'd been the only two surviving members of Spectre Squad. Neither was a stranger to losing a comrade in arms. The twins who signed on after that, though... young, angry. "They're out in town?"
"Ye-up. Locals plan on celebratin' the reclamation tonight. Told 'em to be back by 22, usual protocol."
Barely enough time to decompress under the best of circumstances; certainly not enough after what had happened today. And any plans for Spectre's immediate next moves were scuttled if they were down a frame. Lars turned away from the railing, counting out distances across the wall. It was... that wall panel, near the first of his tally marks from that day in Fyrland. He crouched beside it and elbowed a corner, knocking it loose.
Gibbous Joe's moustache twitched. "Ya sure, chief?"
"We're a guerrilla unit. We can relax protocol. Just for tonight."
The hidden cache contained four bottles of whiskey, looted from a wrecked distillery in Hedmark on the first day of Spectre Squad's campaign. Behind them was a loaded pistol.
The true test of a pilot was judging whether a battered and broken frame could keep fighting, or whether it was time to hit the eject button. The answer could change by the second, but you always had to be ready to make the choice. As for this time...
Lars pulled out a bottle. Sometimes, it all felt like too little for meaningful change. But even a drop in the bucket, at the right place and right time, could make all the difference. Half-empty was still halfway, after all.
He dangled the partially-consumed booze. "Care to explain, Joe?"
The mechanic grimaced, but maintained composure. "Explain what, sir?"
Lars shook his head as he replaced the wall panel. Though Joe didn't put his life directly on the line the same way the pilots did, frame maintenance was intensive and thankless. The man worked harder than any of them. Half a bottle was a small price to pay.
"Welcome to join us... after you get the new frame working," Lars said.
"Yeah, yeah... ain't even gonna bother. Y'all'll be drunk on your asses by then, it'd be a shitty time." Despite his grumbling, the mechanic was already hurrying down the catwalk towards the elevator, motioning for the other workers to begin the work. "Don't enjoy yerselves too much!"
"No promises. And get your own damn stash."
Katrin Mittermeier crouched beside an electrical box in the burnt-out town park, examining the wires. They'd been cut clean through by a sharp piece of shrapnel. Her twin brother Morten was chatting up some locals with tales of his exploits only a few meters away; close enough to dubiously claim he was involved in fixing the lights if someone asked him about it later, but far enough away that he didn't have to pay attention.
"You have a soldering iron?" she asked the teen beside her. "It'd be a bit sturdier."
Theodore looked like a deer in headlights. "Uh. Gramps probably does, dunno where, though." He motioned back towards town, away from the celebrations. "I can go check...?"
"Nah, I can do a quick fix. Just make sure to tell him later. Better for a local electrician to handle these things." She reached for a roll of electrical tape. "Make sure the power's off."
The lever beside the box was already in the off position, but Theodore held it in place. "Okay."
Katrin twisted the stripped wires into a spiral and wrapped the splice several times with the tape. Sloppy - Gibbous Joe would have scolded her - but it got the job done in a pinch. "Well, this might blow out every bulb on the block, but..." She nodded at Theodore. "Try it now."
With a kachunk, power was back. The attendees cheered as the park's surviving lampposts and the strings of lights they'd set up that afternoon flickered to life, illuminating the celebration. Festivities resumed.
"Eyyy, nice job guys! Knew you had it in ya, Sis!" Morten waved at them, bottle in hand. The problem solved, his attention snapped back to his little class of rapt followers. They were already heading back towards the refreshment tables as he started to explain the pros and cons of different assault rifle models.
"Screw you, asshole!" Katrin shouted after him, to no effect. She closed the box's panel a bit harder than she intended, shaking her head. "Well, I appreciate the help, Theodore."
"No uh, thank you, you know, for...for your service to the country?" The teen cringed at his own statement. "I dunno, that sounds..."
"Heh. On paper, we're 'dangerous foreign elements', you know. Culling your elderly, corrupting the youth. Turning sardines into bioweapons."
"Yeah, that's what my Gramps would say. He's a hardcore Royalist."
"Then he's not out here celebrating, I imagine."
"Yeah, no way. I told him I was only going out to check all the damage you guys caused, see if I could help anybody out."
Katrin's jaw tightened at the implication. Avoiding collateral damage in something as large and dangerous as a frame was almost impossible no matter how hard they tried. She saw it every sortie; a single stray round could total a house, or worse. The battle earlier was a couple blocks away and that building was nothing but rubble and slag now, Holiday's fucking ashes mixed with vinyl office chairs. "Mmm."
"Wasn't a total lie, right? Hahaha..."
"S'pose not."
A pause. Theodore forced another chuckle. "Heh, uh, I-I've heard about you, you know. The Spectre Squad. Any time you show up, the Reclamation Corps is right behind. Kicking out the fascists, no matter what it takes. Wish I cou..."
If the Reclamation Corps actually intended to retake the capital with military frames, they'd have to contend with wrecking half the city to do it. Hell, even if every single province turned against them, the Royalists would sooner smash the capital themselves than give up peacefully. The only reason they took over the inner provinces without widespread destruction was because the Diet rolled over like a submissive puppy and let them waltz right in, and now they blamed any conflict, any damage, on the violent, incompetent, hypocritical egalitarians. There were a dozen - a hundred - ways this all could have been stopped before it began.
She glanced at her watch. Forty-five until curfew; too late to get shit-faced, and no task to occupy her mind in the meantime. Morten was right to get started early.
Theodore hadn't stopped talking even though she hadn't been listening. "...ame manufacturers are still selling to both sides, you know?"
"Mhm." If it was going to be like this, staying at the mobile base would've been preferable. Gibbous Joe always complained he needed more hands on maintenance, anyway. "Well, I need to head back."
He deflated a bit. "Oh. Uh, already?"
"There's a lot to do... huh." Katrin spied someone out of the corner of her eye as she turned to leave. Sierra never came out to these sorts of things; he usually spent nights after a liberation handling administrative or logistical tasks. But there he was, loitering at the edge of the party, keeping a lookout for something. It wasn't curfew yet, though. "My boss is already here."
"Uh, see you, then."
Theodore offered a handshake, but Katrin didn't take it. She hurried away perhaps a bit more quickly than was polite, leaving the teen standing beside the electrical box.
Sierra held a small electrical lantern up in greeting as he noticed Katrin and met her partway across the street. He was scanning the attendees of the party, brow furrowed. "Your brother?" As always, Sierra's voice sounded like stone grinding on stone, as if each word took serious effort to speak.
"Not sure. Somewhere in there, two-and-a-half sheets to the wind," Katrin said. "Need me to drag him out?"
"Hm. If you like. No need though."
"Sir? What about curfew?" Shit. She was in trouble. "Never mind."
He lifted a bottle to eye height; Hedmark whiskey, halfway full. It had been her grandmother's favorite. "Thought you could use a drink. Or you can join the party this time."
"Oh. Uh..." Not in trouble? "Sure. I was looking for an excuse to leave anyway."
Sierra nodded and motioned for her to follow him as he headed away from the park and towards the town. The floodlights set up around the celebration were bright enough to allow visibility even a few blocks away, but quickly fell off as they approached the portion of town where the battle had taken place. Street lights were either burnt out or simply snapped off. Chunks of rubble and debris still littered the streets, along with the lingering stench of scorched plastic.
The journey was long enough for the silence to become awkward. She'd never spoken to him much one on one. Sierra was just their boss, the veteran. He'd been around longer than any of them except the mechanic. When she and Morten had signed on to Spectre Squad, Sierra was the only active pilot, nearly twice as old as the average age.
Only a crumbled pile of steel and concrete remained of the building from earlier that day. Pebbles of metal liquefied by the heavy beam lay scattered about the street. The stone was unnaturally smooth, its surface melted into a single layer. Sierra sat on the ground, propping himself up with a chunk of rubble, and Katrin followed suit. He took a long swig from the half-empty bottle before passing it to her. "Holding up?"
They'd never lost a pilot before. Of course.
"Good question." Katrin took a gulp of alcohol, wincing before she handed it back. Normally, you'd sip something like this. It was good stuff; too good for whatever style of drinking this was. Her grandmother would have scolded them for wasting it. "I'm... not sure."
"Hm."
Silence. There was an empty bay in the hangar now. What else could she say?
"I don't know how I'm supposed to feel. I... I just don't really want to think about it."
"Starting tomorrow, won't have time to think about it. Best do it now. Were you friends?"
"With Holiday? Or, uh..." She paused. God, she couldn't even remember his real name. How many times had they spoken outside of their frames? What did his face look like? "...I don't know about friends. We watched each others' back. Just like you, or Morten. Comrades in arms. He deserved better, I guess. We could have had it handled if he hadn't charged in."
Katrin accepted the bottle and took another drink, swirling it in her mouth until she couldn't taste it anymore. Her hands were sore from gripping the controls so tightly earlier, she realized. She had been furious, but it hadn't been about getting even for Holiday. She'd just wanted to make them hurt. Punish someone for messing it all up, for making everything so much harder on them for no good reason.
"No... to be perfectly honest, boss, all I can think about is how because he charged in, we're down a skirmisher. My rifle's no good at close ranges, and Morten's frame is too heavy to move around like that. We'll have to adjust our tactics, take fewer risks. We might have to focus on convoys and patrols for a while, or maybe we can call in some favors with the Reclamation Corps. I don't know.
"It just feels wrong. I wish I was more upset that he was dead, rather than being upset about how him being dead screws us over." Another swig. "Instead, I'm a heartless bitch just crunching numbers."
Sierra's mirthless chuckle sounded like a wheezing old dog. "Make a good commander."
"I don't know if I can operate that way, boss. People don't like to listen to me."
"Nobody likes taking orders. Better if you don't like giving 'em either."
They passed the bottle back and forth a few times, shadows crossing the lantern's light. The din from the celebration in the park was barely a whisper out here.
"Ever tell you about the others?" Sierra asked. "Before you two signed on to Spectre."
All Katrin knew was that they were killed in action. "I never asked."
"Mountain range in Vremmel. Not much different from today. We were winning, down to one hostile, but our frames were nearly shot. Told 'em both to eject. Couldn't afford any more damage, figured the Royals'd ignore inactive targets. Took out the hostile, then checked the pods' signals."
Katrin recalled the Royalist escape pod that morning, trained in the center of her scope. "Ah."
"Not what you're thinking. That'd be easier." He took another drink, not passing the bottle. "Sven landed on a cliffside. Collapsed, fell a hundred fifty meters. Em's pod hit a river, flooded from snowmelt. Drowned in minutes.
"Traded two pilots for one and a half frames that day."
"I..." Katrin couldn't stop herself from running the calculations in her head. She knew how much a fully-equipped frame was worth, and conversely, how quickly even a fresh-faced pilot could learn the ins and outs. How ramshackle Spectre was when she and Morten signed on, less than half a year ago. She might have made the same trade, looking at charts and tables in a war room. "Fuck."
For a long time, neither spoke. It wasn't that she or Morten didn't have value to the team; they'd been through enough close calls where if either one was gone, they'd all be dead. But piloting a frame... it was barely any more difficult than driving any other vehicle. In some ways, it was even easier. And if they died, there were probably plenty of people lined up to join the already legendary Spectre Squad.
"So why are you telling me this?" Katrin asked, letting the anger seep into her voice. "Are you trying to scare me straight or something, say I can be replaced? That Holiday can be replaced?"
"Don't misunderstand." The older man's voice was quieter than she'd ever heard it, but firm. "Royalists don't care who they're fighting, as long as they're in control. From their perspective, we're vague, replaceable. But for soldiers like you, like Kjell... there's a difference. A difference between being expendable and being willing to give your life for the cause."
That was Holiday's name. Katrin let out a long breath, felt her energy leave with it. She was so tired. "Right now, it really doesn't feel like it."
"No. It doesn't."
She took one last sip of booze and passed him the nearly-drained bottle. "...Got any more?"
Lars regarded her with bemusement, considering the question, as he stood up to leave. He poured the final mouthful of whiskey onto the pavement - a libation for their fallen comrade - then hurled the bottle into the rubble, where it shattered among the building's scorched ruins.
"Be back by morning," he said.
"Yes, sir."
Theo stood at a dimly-lit workbench in his grandpa's mostly empty garage, rearranging the tools for a dozenth time and trying not to think about how badly he'd screwed up the conversation earlier. He was simply too mortified to go to bed even though it was nearly 4am.
He ran it back in his head for the thousandth time. He'd come on too strong, tried to butter up the lady pilot too much; no wonder she'd walked away at first opportunity. Obviously wouldn't just let any random civilian into the Reclamation Corps - let alone the Spectre Squad - but Theo didn't have any other choice. There was no way he'd be able to travel to their headquarters in Hedmark to enlist, not on his own. He'd lost his only chance.
I should have just asked her boss, Theo thought. Or sneaked onto their mobile base. It was too late now. According to the stories he'd heard, Spectre always left town within twelve hours. His window of opportunity was long gone.
The garage's florescent lights came on, blindingly bright. Theo winced as he covered his eyes. Squinting, he craned his neck to check the entrance, but immediately looked back at the table after seeing his grandfather.
"Oh, now you're here." The old man's voice was slightly slurred. Drunk again. "I thought I told you to stay home."
Grandpa always reminded Theo of a rusted-out muscle car; the kind people swore up and down was once the epitome of cool and classic, but had deteriorated to the point of merely being a grim reminder of yesteryear's excesses. He carried a bottle of cheap vodka in one hand and a crowded key ring in the other, and a pair of small binoculars hung around his neck.
"I... I told you I just wanted to see what kind of damage there was," Theo said. His eyes watered from the bright lights; he could barely maintain a squint. "I took a look around, helped fix some lights, then came straight home." He wasn't lying. Wasn't lying.
"You might have 'told' me, but that doesn't mean I gave you permission. You'd best remember that."
"Yes, Gra- sir."
The old man snorted dismissively. "Never mind. What matters is that you're here now. Help me start it up."
Theo blinked. His eyes were finally starting to adjust. "Start what up?"
"Bah, don't play dumb," Gramps said. He singled a key off the ring and retrieved a second lone one from his pocket. "I know you know about the basement."
"I... you told me to never go in there." All Theo knew about the faded, orange door in the corner was that it led down to a second level of the garage that Gramps used it for storage. It wasn't just a bomb shelter?
"So you obviously have. I'm old, but I'm not stupid, Theodore."
"I swear I haven't, grandpa."
The old man glared at him for a moment, key ring hovering beside the lock, then took a hefty swig from his bottle. "Can't believe my grandchild has no damn balls." He swung the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. "Get down here."
Dust particles floated across the scant beams of light from upstairs, disturbed by their descent. The stairwell went down nearly two stories by Theo's estimation, leading to a second door. It was spotted with corrosion and looked decades older than the ground level structure. Gramps fumbled with his secret key one-handed, grumbling swears to himself, before shoving the rest of the keys and his vodka into Theo's arms. "Hold this."
The old man finally yanked the door open with a grunt of effort. He nearly stumbled entering the unlit room beyond, but managed to make his way to a power switch. The lights glowed to life.
Theo's eyes widened. "Wha..."
It was practically an entire second garage, not just a storage area, with a giant ramp taking up the half the room. The entire ceiling - the ground of the above floor - was attached to rails where it could slide open. They only had a single shop crane upstairs, but there were three here to cover every possible angle. And folded up at the bottom of the ramp... the silhouette was unmistakable, even draped in tarps.
It was a frame. Gramps had a frame.
It looked like an old Elbrus model made for civilian use. Even for a clunker like this, it would take the entire combined garage for it to stand up. How long had this been here?
After snatching his bottle back and taking a swig, Gramps began pulling the tarps off, struggling with their sheer size. "Stop gawking and start opening the hatches." He gestured towards a control panel on the far side of the room. "I want this up and running in fifteen minutes."
Theo kept his eyes on the humanoid machine as he crossed the garage. Older frames tended bigger, before the tech started to become miniaturized. An Elbrus like this probably stood at around ten, maybe pushing eleven meters, and were mostly used for industrial purposes or large-scale agricultural clearing. It had only basic defensive modifications: a light composite shield on the left arm and a combat knife. At a frame scale, the blade was as large as an adult human.
"I never knew you owned a frame! What year is it from?"
"Didn't want any stupid kids taking it for a joyride. Hurry up."
With the press of a button and a horrific grinding sound, the ceiling rolled down onto a pair of tracks, allowing the ramp access to the ground level door. A second button opened that one as well.
The ramp had a freight platform in the center that could move back and forth to lift the frame up to the garage's entrance. It was a crude setup, probably retrofitted from the early days of civilian frame technology. Theo had seen pictures and videos of military hangars; those all had bays where the frames could dock upright for maintenance and immediately walk out when it was time to deploy. Here, it would have to stand from laying on its back, which was supposed to be a lot more difficult than it sounded.
Over the next quarter-hour, Gramps barked more orders and Theo obeyed, checking various hinges and pistons, making sure the elevator was in working order, safely disconnecting cables. The old man eventually settled himself in the cockpit, flipping switches and testing handles. Theo stood balanced on a maintenance rung beside it, taking in all of the controls and taking an opportunity to catch his breath. It was certainly more work than he thought he'd be doing in the early hours.
"Gramps, uh..." Deep breath. He'd probably never get another chance. "Is it okay if I try and pilot it for a little bit tomorrow? If it's just clearing away rubble, it shouldn't be too hard, right?"
"What?" The old man's expression was incredulous. "Obviously not. I don't care about any damn rubble, this happens tonight."
"Wha, then... why are w-"
His voice grew louder, erratic. "I know you went out! You saw the terrorists practically at our doorstep!" He waved the binoculars hanging from his neck, nearly snapping the cord. "I kept watch myself! They're all asleep now. They think they've won the day, but they aren't welcome here. This is the only way to teach them a real lesson, Theodore."
Theo's blood ran cold, his balance wobbled. Spectre Squad was still here? But... they always left town immediately. That's what the stories said. "Wait, wait... you're serious?"
"No waiting!" The old man drained the final drops from his bottle and hurled it out of the cockpit, only just missing Theo's head. "I won't lose our only chance. Get down, I'm starting the lift." Gramps pressed a button and the frame's hatch swung closed. A moment later, the lift rumbled to life, sliding up the ramp with the horrific grinding noise of unmaintained machinery.
Theo hopped off the rail and stumbled to the garage floor. His shoulder slammed into the concrete, a bruise immediately blossoming across his upper arm. Any higher up and he might have broken something. His vision blurred, half from the pain and half from realizing that his grandfather was going to kill someone.
The lift reached ground level with a heavy kachunk, the sound echoing through the now-empty garage. And slowly, deliberately, the frame began to move, like a person stepping off a low bed.
Theo ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time, pushing away the pain coursing through his left arm. By the time he reached the top and made it outside, the frame was standing to its full height.
He'd seen frames before. One-to-one cockpit combat simulators at city conventions. Videos, footage taken from person height. He'd seen patrols a kilometer or two out, or seen them loaded onto a semi truck. Even the battle from earlier he'd been able to glimpse from afar. This was different. The ground trembled as it moved, each step an earthquake. Theo felt like a mouse standing beside a man. What was a mere human worth compared to something like this?
Another quaking step caused him to nearly lose his balance. Theo's heart pounded as if it was trying to tear itself apart. Bitter, salty bile rose in his mouth. It felt like he was breathing through a soaked cloth. Gramps was going to kill someone and then they were going to kill him. That was that.
Time slowed. There had to be something. Something he could do.
Their old pickup truck was parked on the street, like always. Theo still had the keys. If... if Spectre Squad really was still here, their mobile base in the same spot... he could off-road through the outside of town. It'd be faster, if he didn't crash headlong into a tree. It was the only way.
Please, please, please, Theo thought as he slammed his foot on the gas, barreling into the woods. Please help.
Driving at truly unsafe speeds through the backwoods, Theodore reached Spectre Squad's mobile base in a few minutes, but it felt like hours had passed. Gramps' Elbrus could be anywhere from several minutes to mere seconds away, depending on how powerful its reactor and thrusters were. That was information he simply didn't have.
Miraculously, the hangar was open, a shallow ramp folding out for the frames to deploy. It was big enough to allow them to stand at full height; the garage seemed pitiful in comparison. A group of five or six people stood in a semicircle surrounding another, like he was giving some kind of speech. They scattered as the truck approached, shouting and pointing.
Theo slammed on the brakes, barely managing to avoid splattering someone on the windshield, and scrambled out of the truck without bothering to turn off the engine. A man came towards him to investigate. "Please," he said, barely able to form words. "There's... there's a frame..."
"Yeah there is, man!" The man looked like he was in his late 20s. His hair was buzzed into a fade, and both hands were in the pockets of his pilot's jacket. "Holy shit, you almost ran me over." The man's face broke into a wide grin and he stomped the ground in exuberance. "If you're that desperate, you can go first, it's fine. Holy shit, dude."
"Wha? No, I... what are you talking about?" Theo gestured vaguely towards town. There wasn't time. "There's a-"
"Look it's okay, it's cool, we're cool..." The man grabbed Theo's wrist and dragged him towards the hangar, craning his neck to address the gathering. "HEY BUT IS EVERYBODY OKAY THOUGH?" Several voices answered over each other, some in affirmative and others in protest, but the pilot was already halfway up the ramp with Theo along for the ride.
There were four frames inside the base's hangar, each surrounded by various scaffolds and elevators for maintenance and repair. One of them looked stripped down; much of its internal wiring and components were exposed, and it was missing a right arm entirely. The pilot waved to a heavy man in the hangar who was doing some kind of work at a diagnostics console at the foot of a blue frame. "Let's do it, Gibbous Joe!"
"Morten," - was that the pilot's name? - "I ain't about to let you pilot a frame while drunk off your ass. I've got enough work as it is."
"I told ya man, I won't do any driving, swear on my life, I'm not that stupid man, and even if I was and I ain't saying I am, it wouldn't be the first time necess...necessessarily," Morten said, his hand waving dismissively back and forth. "Jus' supervisin'. Guy here'll just take a peek around the cockpit, weapons n' everything turned off, done this like a hundred times, you know, showing off for the locals, it's fine it's fine..."
The mechanic let out a deep, exhausted sigh, glanced at his clipboard, looked Theo up and down. "You ain't drunk, right?"
"What? I mean, no, but liste-"
"Good. Just hurry it up, alright?"
"Awesome, thanks Joe!" Morten yanked Theo onto a miniature elevator platform that promptly rose up to chest height on the frame. The word Whistle was painted on the left-hand side with a stylized logo of one hanging on a chain.
The mechanic below activated something on the console, prompting the chest armor hatch to fold open to reveal the cockpit. It was more modern than the Elbrus; the monitors were much bigger, and there were more of them to cover all angles. The seat looked like it had actual padding. Several pieces looked like they were new additions, including an odd spherical display in front of the seat that Theo had never seen before.
A smaller, detachable chair was also attached to the main seat, and Morten promptly sat in it, finally letting go of Theo's arm while he strapped in. "Let's get to it man, got a lot of people lining up out there, you know?"
Theo's mouth hung open. He recognized the other man now; he'd been grandstanding at the party earlier that night. "I... you... are you seriously a pilot?"
Morten blinked, as if he didn't understand the intent of the question, then looked around at the cockpit's interior. "Yeah, you know, s'usually not me in the love seat here," he said. "Kinda weird."
"No, that's not-" Theo sputtered, barely grasping the situation. He'd barely been here a few minutes. Spectre Squad just let random people in their frames? There was no way they knew what was happening, right? "I mean, I need your help!"
"Oh uhhhhh God I'm too drunk for this... well compared to your average sim, this trigger here is for the weapon" -he made finger guns at Theo- "and this button is for the boost- ogghhhhhh..." Morten leaned back, exhaling deeply. "My head, just a sec..."
The entire cockpit smelled like booze now. Theo immediately made two decisions: first, that if this was how all drunk people acted, he was never going to drink alcohol again in his life; second, there was only one way he could deal with the situation. He gripped the sticks even tighter in a futile attempt to stop his hands from trembling.
"How do you start it up?" Theo asked.
"Uh, there, it's that leve- wait, WAIT-"
Theo yanked the lever back. The cockpit's hatch automatically closed. The frame rumbled to life, electronics activating in a wave forward through the machine. Monitors ran through lines of basic diagnostic data before flickering to life. It wasn't a true 360 degree view, but Theo was struck by how much vision he had. It was like he was in a glass canopy rather than a giant armored torso.
"Hey what the fuck dude, shut it off!" Morten started to reach for the lever, but paused. A bright red light blinked on the far edge of the strange spherical display. There was only one thing that could be. "Oh shit."
"That's what I've been trying to say the whole time!"
"Okay, okay, uh..." Morten's face contorted in what passed for deep concentration in someone who could barely speak a complete sentence. The light moved closer. The monitor was building out some kind of three-dimensional wire-frame form of the environment, including the humanoid shape of the approaching blip.
"Dammit!" Morten shoved his arm behind the seat and pulled out a headset. He flipped it on and practically shouted into the mic, "Enemy spotted, I ain't fucking kidding, release the restraints!" The scaffolds around the frame swung open, metal grinding on metal, and Morten grasped Theo's shoulder tight enough that it hurt. "You're gonna do exactly what I say an' nothin' else."
"O-okay."
"You got maybe thirty seconds, walk us out."
"I-I've never-"
"Twenty-five! Ain't different from a sim, hurry the fuck up!"
Theo held his breath and pressed on the pedals, turned the handles. The frame stepped forward with unsettling ease. The algorithmic code and arrays of articulation that allowed humanoid frames were truly incredible; piloting one was far easier than operating a jet or a tank. Another few twists and presses, and he was already stepping out of the base's hangar.
"Take cover behind that building at two-o'-clo- uhh, the right. M'unit's slow as shit, use the boosters."
That was... this button? Theo started the frame in that direction and pressed it. He grunted as the momentum crushed him backward into the chair, punching the air out of his lungs. The frame crashed into the corner of the building. His head whipped forward, and he accidentally stepped on the pedals; the frame took an awkward half-step shuffle forward, scattering debris over the street.
"Caref-" Morten began, but he vomited. Bile splashed onto the right-side monitors, the stench filling the cockpit in an instant. "Fuc-" Again.
The red blip on the monitor was getting closer, moving faster. Eyes stinging from the fumes, Theo flicked between the sphere and the forward monitors. They weren't quite in sync; the monitor was several seconds ahead somehow. It showed the frame as exposed in firing range, but there was nothing on the cameras. "What now?!"
Morten croaked out the words between heavy breaths. "Open fire!"
"With what?!"
The pilot craned to look at the status panel and let out a defeated, sickened groan. "You didn't take the vulcan, are you fucking stupi- hurrrk." He turned away, heaving. Theo skimmed the panel; the only weapon was a basic sidearm, still holstered.
He glanced up. There was no mistaking it. His grandfather's Elbrus was dashing down the road towards them, shield ready. The crosshair was already focused on it. On the sphere, it was already two-thirds of the way there. There were at most ten seconds before the two frames would be in melee range.
Yelling, Theo pulled the left-hand trigger. In a single smooth motion, the frame automatically drew the pistol and opened fire. Half a dozen bullets the size of his fist slammed into the Elbrus' shield. It barely slowed down.
He kept futilely shooting. The gun's sound and recoil were suppressed internally, but even the weakened vibrations made Theo's bruised arm throb in pain. On the sphere monitor, the Elbrus rammed into them and thrust its knife through their cockpit.
"BACK UP!"
Theo shifted his weight on the pedals. The blade on the monitor, held horizontally to maximize the chance of striking the pilot, rushed towards them. He felt the cockpit lurch backwards, but no it was too slow, the knife shattered through the glass, he shut his eyes involuntarily, screaming-
He pressed the booster. The frame shot thirty meters backwards in a quarter of a second, nearly tossing Theo out of the seat. This time, he vomited, half from the smell and half from the burst of momentum. His entire body seized, physically unable to keep hands on the controls. That was it. They were dead.
One. Two. Three seconds of silence.
Whimpering, Theo opened his eyes. The front outer monitor was blank, showing only a flat block of gray with an error message; the camera had been destroyed. Bile coated the panels in front of him - including the odd prediction sphere - but even through that he could see the red blip, unmoving from where they'd nearly collided. Whatever had happened, they were no longer in danger.
It took a moment to crouch the frame lower to the ground and find the lever that worked the cockpit hatch. It craned open, letting in a welcome blast of fresh, cold air. He hadn't realized how sweltering it was inside, partly due to the overwhelming emetic odor; he was soaked with sweat. Morten shoved past him and fell to his knees for another bout of heaving, though at least this time it was going outside. Theo stepped around him on shaking, unsteady legs and nearly stumbled as he lowered himself to solid ground from the lower hatch.
The Elbrus lay slumped face-down, mostly obscured by its shield. The low rumble of its reactor was still audible, and it didn't look very damaged. It was almost like it had simply fallen over. Theo circled around to get a better look, maintaining his distance, until he saw it. His legs gave out, a sort of high-pitched whine involuntarily leaving his throat. His grandfather's frame did fall over, onto its weapon. The knife had gone straight into the cockpit. Streaks of blood leaked out of the thin gap between the weapon and the frame, drawing a dozen thin lines along its blade.
Theo turned away, closing his eyes. He didn't open them again until the truck rolled up behind him.
It was mid-morning by the time they got the whole story and finished cleaning up the aftermath of the second battle. Lars poured himself a fourth cup of tepid coffee and sat back down across the table from Theodore in the mobile base's paltry mess hall. The kid's debriefing was almost over, but that just meant they'd reached the difficult part.
"We're taking the frame. No 'buts'." Elbrus parts were outdated, but reliable.and sturdy. Properly assembled, Gibbous Joe could get a fourth unit up and running at nearly full capacity.
"...okay." He looked completely drained, like a puppet with cut strings. But Lars had seen that look before. Seen people bounce back, too.
Lars held up a pair of fingers. "Got two choices. Not leaving this room until you pick. Understand?"
Theodore nodded.
"First: we leave, you stay. Like usual. Second..." He hesitated. Sometimes the worst possible timing was also the only possible timing. "Second: you're with us. Pilot in Spectre Squad."
The kid's jaw dropped. "...What? Why?"
"Real snafu this morning, but you handled yourself well."
"Like hell I did! I screwed up every shot, puked in the cockpit, and got my grandpa killed!" He slammed both fists on the table. "And now you're telling me to do it all again? You can't be serious!"
Lars took a sip of coffee. Terrible. "Also saved my pilot's life."
Theodore paused, but scoffed. "He would've done fine without me."
"He'd be dead plus half my crew." And it would have been Lars' responsibility, giving the pilots free rein to get plastered last night; simple as. Another short-sighted blunder from the senile old man.
"...Whatever." Theodore slouched back into his chair, sulking.
Damn children. The fact that Theodore hadn't just walked out already was proof enough that deep down he was at least considering it. Lars didn't have the time nor inclination to convince the kid one way or another. He folded his fingers on the tabletop, squeezing them white. "Fine. Want a 'real' reason? Lost one yesterday. No time for a funeral and not enough left of him anyway." Theodore's eyes flicked up, widening as Lars continued. "Now we're short staffed on deadline. Take anyone I can get. Right now, that's you. Think you can't, or won't, then go. No shame in it. 'S hard living. No guarantees, no stability. But... that or the Royalists? Know my choice."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Lars drinking his coffee and Theodore staring at the table, brow furrowed in thought. He only spoke up as Lars finished off the last mouthful. "I-I'll do it. I'll join."
"Mm." Lars stretched his shoulders as he stood and turned to leave. One problem solved, then. "Get your things. We leave at noon."
"Yes, sir!"
One problem solved, but there were always dozens more, a hundred things to worry about, new and old. They didn't have enough weapons, their frames were barely holding together, the neighboring prefecture was too big for a team this small to cover. The Reclamation Corps was exhausted, while it felt like the Royalists had unlimited resources.
Whatever happened today wasn't a victory, not by a long shot. But for now, it was enough.
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