First Contact

Chapter 865: Those Left Behind

"Nobody cared who I was before I drove the mek." -Ullmo'ok, Atomic Redemption, Post-Atrekna War docu-drama.

"To say my nephew was different was an understatement. He cared nothing for what mattered so stridently to the rest of his people. In the end, his deeds spoke louder than any words..." - Memories of My Nephew, Free Telkan Press

The pilot waiting area was quiet in this particular room. It was quiet, the walls acoustically shielded. The lights were dim, only faint yellow pinlights giving any illumination to the room. There were no couches or chairs, no tables, no half-finished narcobrews or fizzybrews or stimfizzes sitting around. No food wrapper, no half finished sandwiches or nutribars.

On a simple mat in the middle of the room a Puntimat wearing only a speedo knelt on one knee, his hands wrapped around the hilt of an ornate but effective swords that's tip was grounded on the stone floor. The Puntimat was massive for his people, heavy vat-grown bioware and cyberware muscles beneath his fur. Both of his eyes were cybernetic replacements, as was one arm. His cyberware and bioware had the bulky unfinished look of the Confederate Armed Services combat replacements. The veinlike wires of smartlinks and other combat hardware stood out on his arms, his chest had the maintenance ports of hidden cyberware, and his back had the armored plates of someone who's shoulderblades had been replaced and their spine reinforced. Across his back was two words in ornate script - one word repeated twice, once in Confederate Standard, the other in Unified Standard. A simple word: Goodbye.

The Puntimat breathed slowly, hands on the hiltbars of the blade, which was engraved with the name of world after world. The nanite infused blade glimmered along the engravings and inlay, glowed softly with a white light.

He was lost in memories.

"Please, boss, don't send me down. I can fight," The Puntimat pleaded, looking up from the stretcher he was laying on. "It's sending everything, you need me!"

The Lanaktallan stared down at him, his eyes as emotionless as the single cybereye. He wore only a pilot's cooling vest and flank covering. In one hand he had a narcobrew, the other held a Slender James meat-stick.

"Your chest rings are broken," the Lanaktallan said, his voice remote and emotionless, sounding more like a poorly tuned answering service VI.

"I can still fight, boss," the Puntimat said, trying to sit up further.

"Your chest rings will splinter, sending shards into your vital organs by the fifth step your warmek takes," the Lanaktallan said. "Your mek will fall face down, making it easier to say goodbye, but other than that, nothing else will happen."

"Please, boss, I can fight. You need me, you need all of us," the Puntimat said. He tried to sit up more and the lancing pain drove a groan of agony from him and he sunk back down. "I just need a narcojet and a stim, boss, I swear."

The Lanaktallan shook his head. "No. Join the others below," the Lanaktallan put on his pilot's neural helmet. "Witness us."

The Puntimat cried as the workers carried him to the huge freight elevator. One of them hit him with a narcojet on the way down.

He was asleep while the battle above ended in the white light of a megaton level thermonuclear detonation.

The memory shifted.

He stomped the firing bar, the 450 ton warmek belching out a cloud of missiles that corkscrewed in on the Precursor combat machine. It exploded in a hail of shrapnel, but he was already guiding Redemption through the smoke of the missile launch, firing his heavy PPC at a hovercraft and raking the small 200 ton tanks with his 120mm autocannon.

The others of the 25th Irregulars were down or had fled.

There was only him.

A set of grasers hit his chest, armor shards exploding as the heat transfer exceeded the superconductor layer's ability to transfer the energy. His mek staggered back but he still triggered a twelve-pack of SRM Infernos back along the graser's path. Something exploded, fiery debris raining down, as he got his footing.

"Six-two-five, status report," came over his headset.

"No reinforcement, heat critical, armor critical," he said, his voice as remote and distant as the Boss's had always been. "Am holding position despite overwhelming enemy presence."

"Reinforcements are three minutes out. Hold what you've got," the answer came.

He didn't bother to shut off the link as he raised the sole remaining arm of the Nerv Class Light Warmek and triggered the heavy PPC that was sidecar to the 120mm autocannon. The man-made lightning thundered out, catching a heavy Precursor combat model in mid-step. The lightning found a gap in the armor and the battlesteel machine exploded.

More filled the gap.

He couldn't win.

He knew it as he lifted up the can of stimspray and pressed the button on the inhaler. Rather than putting it in his mouth, he merely opened his mouth, baring his teeth, and inhaling as he swiped the stimspray over his mouth, coating his teeth, his lips, his chin in sparkling chrome even as the stim swept into his lungs, passed the skin-blood barrier, and flooded his system. The whole time, he kept up the fire, stomping the override to keep his overheated mek running.

He couldn't win.

But he could not lose.

"Witness me," he whispered as more Precursor machines rushed him.

His slush was high, his heat stifling, but still he fought on.

He ducked the mek under a brace of missiles, using his rear mounted short range variable frequency pulse lasers to sweep the missiles from the sky even as he dropped to one knee, firing the 120mm autocannon.

The feed nanoforge for the autocannon was spilling slush, was running hot, overhot, and the wetprinted APDS rounds punched through Precursor armor and destroyed anything in their path.

More Precursors pushed through the wreckage, determined to reach the refugee camp behind him.

He kept fighting, his autocannon jamming, his PPC barrel cracking, his missile launcher nanoforges scorching and burning out.

He stomped, he kicked, he swung the one remaining fist. Blowthroughs exposed internal systems as armor exploded from his mek.

Still he fought.

Down on one knee, the few lasers he had snapping out to rip at armor and vital systems.

The Precursors didn't bypass him. He'd hurt them too deep, tore them up too badly, for them to think he would not get back to his feet and take them from behind.

Another coat of stimspray. A narcojet in his leg.

"Witness me," he coughed.

With thundering impacts his reinforcements arrived.

Four Pacific Rim Class Jaegermeks.

One helped him to his feet, his damaged knee showering sparks.

He hadn't won.

But he hadn't lost either.

The memory fractured.

"They'll hold?" he asked the gray market ripperdoc.

The doc, more machine than man, twisted and evil looking, cackled as he nodded.

"Flexsteel lattice reinforcement on those chest-rings? They'll still hold after your body has rotted away," the ripperdoc cackled.

"Good enough for me," he said.

The memory spun around.

He knelt in the puddle of water. His face hurt from the punches he had taken. His reinforced ribs ached from the fists that had pounded them. His kidneys hurt from the kicks.

But he still knelt in the cold water.

Around him, the Brotherhood of the Warsteel Wolf moved in a slow circle around him, their embroidered black robes whispering as they moved, their faces hidden behind warsteel masks made from chunks of shattered armor taken from their meks.

A female Terran approached, fearsome in her nudity. She had warsteel tattoos of a raging wolf taking a bite of a moon down her left side, her right side was tattooed to look like the internals of a mek. Her eyes glowed red despite behind flesh and blood.

She held a sword in her hands. Utilitarian, unadorned.

He lifted up his hands and she placed the blade in them.

"Come back with your sword in your hand or upon your chest. No other way," she intoned.

"I shall," he said, blinking one eye that still stung. He knew his teeth were smeared with blood from the punch that had split his lip, but he did not care.

The memory swirled

Fighting the Lanaktallan of the Unified Military Council. Fighting the Dwellerspawn. Fighting Precursor Autonomous War Machines. Fighting the Atrekna and their Dwellerspawn.

Battle after battle.

Injury after injury.

Each one, he replaced the defective parts with chrome or vat grown tissue.

Finally the Puntimat's eyes opened. He looked around, blinking, the lenses clicking.

He stood up slowly, lifting his sword up and sheathing it in the sheath across his back. He strode confidently out of the room to where the warmeks were waiting.

His personal tech, Krekit, waited by the foot of Redemption Seeker.

The massive 450 ton war machine seemed to vibrate with eagerness.

"She's ready, Boss," the mechanic said. He looked around. "I like this place better than the ultra-modern arena, you know?"

The Puntimat nodded. "It is more fitting," he said.

He climbed up into the cockpit, putting the sword away in a specially placed rack, and sat in the pilot's seat. The jack slammed into his back, the plugs on the end of twisting memory metal squirmed into place and locked in with a whirring sound.

The cockpit closed and the Puntimat felt the machine come alive around him. He did a fast system's check, found that all of his arena weaponry was ready, set to the arena power, and that every system was at optimum performance.

He bunched the fists and slammed them together in a shower of sparks before walking toward the huge gate made of wrought cold iron. He stood there, waiting, watching the lights beside the door. Red, amber, green, in a stack. The top one burned crimson as he waited.

It was here it all began, the Puntimat thought to himself. It is fitting I have returned here.

-----

The crowd showed no sign of exhaustion as the last match approached. The arena floor had been cleared, the armor plates of cover had been removed, the tricks and suprises that could be activated through Bashcash were disabled.

This was a straight fight.

The lights on Lo'omo'nan the MC's chest and arms flashed, rainbows cascaded from the mirrored orbs hovering around his head, and his reflective vest sparkled as he whirled in place and struck a pose with all four arms extended out at a 45 degree angle.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOTH AND NEITHER, IT'S TIME FOR TONIGHT'S MAIN EVENT!" he shouted.

The crowd roared so loudly it vibrated windows of vehicles in the parking lot.

"THEIR RIVALRY ONLY STOPPED BY SHADE NIGHT AND THE FLASHBANG, RETURNING TO THE ARENA FOR THE FIRST TIME TO COMPETE FOR THE HEAVYWEIGHT ARENA SLAMSMASH TITLE..." he paused his yelling for a moment and pointed at the door on one end.

"FIFTY-TWO AND OH! NEVER SUFFERED A BLOWTHROUGH! NEVER KNOCKED DOWN! UNDEFEATABLE, UNSTOPPABLE, THE LORD OF THE ARENA! FIVE TIME ARENA CHAMPION! EIGHT TIME WINNER DEFENDING HIS CHAMPIONSHIP! FOUR YEAR VETERAN OF THE ATREKNA WAR AND FIRST LIEUTENANT OF THE WARSTEEL HOOVES MEK CORPS!" Lo'omo'nan called out. "THE REIGNING CHAMPION OF MECHBASH! YOU KNOW HIM! YOU LOVE HIM! SQUIDBASHER! AS ALWAYS, PILOTED BY PHY'TUR'MO'O!"

Rigellian speed metal roared and the gates opened. A huge 500 ton war machine stomped out. The huge war machine was painted in garish colors, cartoon Atrekna with crossed eyes on the forearms. The machine stomped to the middle, pointing at the crowd, waving one hand to encourage them, stopping to flex or quickly box the air. Twice the mek stopped, flexed, opening and closing the missile launcher covers. It stopped, raising its arms as the fountains of sparks went off.

"TWO HUNDRED WINS AND THIRTY-EIGHT LOSSES WITH TWO DRAWS! FROM THE BEGINNING OF BASHMEK! FORMER BASHCRASH FORKLIFT DRIVER! PIT OF FISTS SWINGING WEEKEND PASS WINNER AND CHAMPION! MAJOR IN THE CONFEDERATE ARMED SERVICES WITH TWENTY YEARS IN THE COCKPIT! YOU KNOW HIM! YOU LADIES WANT TO LOVE HIM AND YOU MEN WANT TO BE HIM! BOTH AND NEITHER SWOON TO HIS SKILL AND PRAY FOR HIS ATTENTION! PILOTING THE MASSIVE FOUR HUNDRED FIFTY METRIC LONG TON NERV CLASS WARMEK REDEMPTION SEEKER - RASK-TALIK!"

Silence descended on the arena as the gates creaked open. A single light came on, shining on the battered mek. Its armor was pitted and patched, blackened and scorched.

Its feet thudded as it advanced.

When it came to a stop a pair of words whispered from the speakers.

"Witness us."

The crowd went wild as the firework fountains shot sparks up the waists of the massive machines. Squidbasher raised its massive armored arms and clenched its hands over its head.

Redemption just stood there, silently.

The com signal chimed and auto-accepted. Rask-talik saw Phy'tur'mo'o appear on one of the rippled and distorted 2D low-rez LED screens.

"Gonna send you to the old being's rest home, old man," the Lanaktallan said.

Rask-talik merely stared.

"Pfft, whatever, old man," the Lanaktallan sneered, cutting the communication.

The two warmeks thudded over to opposite sides of the arena.

The crowd held their breath.

The lights went green.

Phy'tur'mo'o opened up with his missile launchers, looking to soften up his opponent. None of them were smart missiles, they were all fire and forget with degraded pineads. Still, the huge mech put out over ninety over them.

Grinning to himself, knowing he'd be able to put the Puntimat down quickly, Phy'tur'mo'o waded out of the smoke cloud of the missile exhaust.

His eyes opened wide as he realized that Rask-talik was sprinting across the arena. He leveled his arms and triggered his two quad-barrel heavy autocannons.

Somehow Rask-talik spun out of the way without losing speed or momentum.

Phy'tur'mo'o tried to back up, needing distance for his heavier weapons to be fully effective.

His back his the arena wall.

His eye opened wide in shock.

The crowd gasped as the massive 450 ton mek leaped into the air, grav-systems screaming, one fist cocked back.

The punch slammed straight into the armor over the cockpit, caving it in.

Rask-talik pulled his fist from the face of the giant mek, sparks showering and metal squealing. He stepped back and let his arms hang down.

The massive 450 ton Squidbasher slowly leaned forward.

And fell on its face.

"Easier to say goodbye," the crowd heard Rask-talik say in a cold and dead voice.

The crowd went wild cheering.

SLAMSMASH SLAMSMASH SLAMSMASH SLAM! SMASH!

-----

Lo'omo'nan trotted into his office where his wife and children were waiting. His nephew and niece-in-law were waiting, looking anxious.

"Are you sure this is the proper way to honor our son?" his niece-in-law said.

Lo'omo'nan smiled. "My beloved nephew and niece, let me tell you what I learned about your son, my grand-nephew, in the little time I knew him."

The two Lanaktallan nodded, his niece-in-law reaching out and taking his nephew's hands.

"Ullmo'ok was a bad Lanaktallan."