3 - A Coward Many Times... (pt. 2)
prinCZess
Warrior, Writer, Performer, Perv
Much of the rest of the morning passes in relative peace. I go through a short bodyweight routine a few minutes after breakfast that absolutely kills me for some reason, then get myself a bath in the largest, most luxurious tub I've ever seen. I don't even leave my room until it's almost noon.
It doesn't take long dealing with Gastocoui's shit before I grasp for any excuse I can find to leave the grounds. I find it quickly, and the drive to my dropship doesn't take long at all.
I stand at the entrance to the 'Mech-bay and stare.
She’s sexier than Gronley’s ‘Mech. Sexier than Gronley’s body! Certainly more sexy than mine! My big old beautiful Banshee is a work of art. The fact she’s a massive machine built for war and destruction only makes it better.
I'm transfixed, frozen on the dropship’s upper walkway, admiring the upper half of the bright-white, fifteen-meter tall ‘Mech that’s visible in the gantry. Just even with the railing ahead of me, extending out of the lower portion of the chest where her abs would be if she were a person, I can see the housing for the Particle Projection Cannon where it extends just out of the slabs of blocky armor. Barely-visible at the same height on the opposite side of the machine is the barrel of an autocannon. As a trade-off for how fast and well-armored she is, they’re the only notable weapons she mounts. Most of the internals are consumed by a massive engine that lets her move faster than any ‘Mech so large should, and most of her outside layered with plates of armor that are laid-on so thick she could take one hell of a pounding before she let anything come inside her.
I clear my throat to hold back an undignified giggle-snort at the thought and force my eyes further up.
The only exceptions to the ‘Mech’s white paintjob are a strip of black armor outlining the ‘jawline’ of the head and another paired across the centerline of where the cockpit sits that makes the head look vaguely like a Jolly Roger. The effect is spoiled slightly by the round focus for the small laser sitting in the middle of the ‘face’, and the lines of the armor don’t allow a perfect recreation. But with the ‘Mech is painted in a garish, almost eye-searing white across the rest of her entire body, the effect is close enough. It’s probably a good thing she isn’t in the path of the sunlight shining into the bay or else the reflection from the paint might actually be blinding.
She’s ostentatious and completely impractical. A relic of a bygone era. She doesn’t belong on a modern battlefield so much as she does in a display somewhere being cared for by a team of attendants as an example of failed designs. The engine is actually too big and the only real way she'd be able to properly crush opponents would be by closing with them and hitting them with one of its massive fists.
I love her and she’s perfect! I can’t help but grin at the mere sight. Partly from remembering how I’d won her, partly from a restrained excitement at the miracle of engineering she represents even as old as she is, and finally the once-again reminder that this shitty future isn’t so shitty. I mean, my God, it would let me punch the shit out of anyone I wanted and unlike hitting them with my own fists, hitting them with the machine's would actually do something! She’s powered by a fusion engine the same way a Mustang was powered by a gasoline one. It's so damn cool!
I’m a little tempted to change things up and repaint her so she’s some shade of light blue with burgundy hot-rod flames running down the sides. But I’ll never be able to do it. Besides being a disservice to the 'Mech itself, It would ruin another bad joke. What was that line from…Well, I think I remember it mainly from a Clint Eastwood film, but that line from the bible?
“Lo, I looked and beheld a pale horse, and its rider’s name was Death…”
“What was that, m’lady?”
Yeah. I was glad I'd told her to cut the 'mistress' business. As fun as it is, I'm just not that--
I start, and jerk my head over my shoulder. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out-loud, and now Sarah is floating her eyes between me and the ‘Mech, visibly confused. But she’s probably too uneducated to catch the reference, and I had said it pretty quietly…
“Merely admiring my own impeccable taste, Sarah. What do you think of her?”
Her answer takes a moment to come, and she keeps staring at me oddly.
“M’lady she is terrifying.”
My grin abandons me. Now what is that supposed to mean? Was she talking about the ‘Mech or me?
Well, one passive-aggressive snipe deserved another. I offer a glare, “Yes. She is.”
That comment gains me a silence I’m both guilty and grateful for. Since I’ve dragged the other woman here with me without explaining why, it wouldn’t surprise me to find she was scared. Before I was…Me…Slaves that ended up on my dropship were there for punishment duty. They never left. But what I have in mind for her is far from punishment duty. Attitude is not very becoming in someone who works for me, either, even if it is hidden.
I growl and move on, crossing the walkway and then taking the ladder up until I’m standing at the precipice of the Banshee’s cockpit. Inside, a half-dozen screens flank the piloting couch, and the fragrant smell of dried sweat floats out over me. A cooling-vest is balanced over the top of the seat. On a small rack behind the couch, the neurohelmet sits and waits for me.
Like me, it’s a rather ugly thing. Like some kind of mutant love-child of one of those goofy-looking bicycling-helmets and a sombrero, with a half-dozen bundles of wires connected in series across it. I know some of the older, Star League models don’t look quite so ridiculous, but hundreds of years of technological regression has made them all but extinct. This one works. For now, that’s all that matters. After I make my fortune, I can probably find a better one that’s slimmer and more flattering to my head’s figure.
Still, I’m worried over more than its age and appearance. I’m not the same person I was the last time I’d piloted the ‘Mech. Worse, neurohelmets were designed to be keyed-in to specific brainwave patterns. I don’t actually know what might happen when I try to run through the startup-sequence. But that’s what Sarah is here for. If I pass out or…something…she’s about the most trustworthy person there is to bring me back around. Most of my other subordinates might take it as a chance to move up in the world, and even if I'm not his preferred demographic Arthur might take it as a chance to get himself up.
A slave is more trustworthy than my subordinates. Ain’t that just a perfect summary for this shithole?
I strip off the jacket I’d worn over my sports-bra and boxers to fend off the cold, toss it onto the walkway below, and go through a light series of stretches. The scabbard at my side gets in the way or bounces awkwardly against the edge of my leg a few times, and my holster on the other side rubs through the relatively thin fabric of my shorts. But it’s a small price to pay for enjoying the cooler air of the bay. It’s the last chance I might have for a while to actually be cold, because even when they were ‘idling’, ‘Mechs are exceptionally hot.
I am reminded once again, however, that I am not. A few techs working on Arthur’s Shadow Hawk one ‘Mech-bay over take a renewed interest in it so they don’t even have to look at me. It’s discouraging—knowing you can’t even draw looks in underwear—but I can’t really blame them. I’m too tall and lanky, and my skin’s almost as bright and reflective as the ‘Mech’s. It’s too bad it doesn’t have any of the UV-absorbing properties the paint provides. I’ve already come close to burning because of it just out-and-about in the Tortuga sun, and more damage is the last thing my skin needs.
“Sarah? Won’t you join me up here?” I call down as I finish stretching.
She is clearly not enthused by the idea. It takes her longer than it should have to climb the ladder. But she climbs it. She might be a slave, but she’s quite the trooper as well.
“Is there something you require before piloting? Some water, perhaps?” Sarah asks when she reaches the top of the ladder, her eyes fixed in front of her and hands curled around the sides with a white-knuckled grip.
“Yes. I need a guide to point me the way to my mines and show them to me.” I say, reaching into the cockpit and sliding down the tiny jumpseat in the rear corner. “And you’re it.”
She doesn’t visibly react for a surprisingly long amount of time. She just keeps straight ahead at the armor of the Banshee’s head and flexing her wrists. The delay is honestly a little aggravating.
“I’m sure that Gastocoui would be a more suitable—“
“Sarah? Get in the giant robot. Gastocoui is an idiot and the idea of spending any amount of time confined into a small space with him in any degree of less than full-dress makes me nauseous.” I interrupt. “The only thing the man might be good for, if I could contain my revulsion at him doing it, is kissing my feet…Though I suppose he might make for a decent fertilizer.”
I laugh at the idea as I angle my way into the cockpit. Shrugging into the cooling-vest, I drop onto the couch and automatically position it so both my sword and pistol are readily-accessible to me but not my passenger. She’s been searched and I doubt she’d try anything, but there’s no reason I should take any risks. I suppose if she was really enterprising she could try to strangle me, unlikely as it might be. But that's why I'm keeping both weapons within reach.
I hear a very slow clammer as Sarah crawls in, but don’t hear her join in on my laughter. It is another point in her favor since a real suck-up would have. But it makes me see her as a little more severe than I had. There’s no accounting for different senses of humor I suppose? Because that was a funny joke.
Sarah’s eventually forced-in entirely when I pull the lever to cycle the cockpit closed. She seems oddly reluctant about the whole affair and I can’t figure why. She’s getting the chance to ride around in one of the biggest ground machines mankind has ever created. Where’s the excitement? The wonder? The gratitude? I try not to let it bug me, but a ‘thank you’, m’lady’ would have been appreciated! Even if I am doing it just so there’s someone immediately available to help me if something goes wrong.
I work my way through a quick checklist of the ‘Mech’s systems before anything else. A good number of more minor systems flash red or have yellow cautionary tags on them when I pull them up on the screens, but we don’t have the spare parts to fix most of them. Most of the important stuff works. The PPC reads as drawing the appropriate amount of power, and whatever shitty ammunition-feed caused the autocannon to jam when I’d last used the thing has been cleared by the techs. A cautionary code flashes over a screen dedicated to the engine, but it’s a service-life warning instead of anything important. It had been a good number of decades since a certified tech had looked-over the thing and had the necessary codes to clear the warning. Since it doesn’t affect performance, I don’t really care.
“Help me get this thing on.” I command, reaching back for the neurohelmet.
Sarah obliges. In a few seconds I have the bulky thing down over my head. A few experimental twists and turns make sure the pads with the neural sensors are settled on the small shaved patches in my hair where they can form a solid connection, and a few more untangle some of the kinks in my hair it produced. I could be more comfortable and might even see a modest increase in performance if I shaved my head entirely, the neurohelmet doesn’t like even the slightest bit of interference. But if I do that I’ll look even more like some kind of budget, post-apocalypse bitch. The hair stays, even if it makes piloting the ‘Mech a little more uncomfortable.
I run through the remainder of the pre-start sequence. It’s strange again, to feel simultaneously bored from something you’ve done dozens of times before and childish excitement at something brand new. When I get off this stupid planet, I’m definitely keeping the Banshee. Its hands might be useful for grasping things at dig sites and I could probably come up with a few other excuses with time to think about it so I can keep it around. But it’s the first thing I earned from my own work, I’m not going to get rid of it. Not even for something as useful as money.
After plugging in the security code, I flip the switches that will allow power through to the sensors and disengage the limiter on the reactor. With a deep breath, I finally turn the final master-key that takes the fusion engine below me from idle to full-power.
Screens around me flicker to life and numbers and coding I don’t understand the slightest bit of run over them for a few moments before they cycle into more readable displays of information. The panels beyond buzz to life and present me with a 360’ view of my surroundings that has been abbreviated into a smaller view. Waiting a beat to be sure none of the safeties are going to engage, I gradually test first the arms and then the torso movement of the machine. As I do, the ‘Mech shudders around me. Power flowing from the fusion engine at its center and into the myomer joints and junctions throughout that allow it to move.
I shudder along with it. My vision goes starry for a moment as a whole new wave of sensations push their way into my mind and then force their way out. My stomach drops, twists, and then tries to make its way out my throat and the other end at the same time. All total, it’s not really much worse than it has been every other time I’ve interfaced with her. So my brainwaves haven’t changed. I can still pilot my baby! I’m still me!
It belatedly occurs to me that such a thing might not say good things about me, but I force that burble aside. I am not a psychopathic woman-child that kills people for fun, dammit.
I’m not!
“Reactor online. Sensors online. Weapons online—locked. All systems nominal.”
I know the last line is a lie. But it’s easier to trick the computer into thinking that a bunch of systems being offline or improperly-repaired is ‘normal’ than it is to actually fix everything. If I sat and listened to the voice list out everything malfunctioning or improperly repaired on the Banshee, I might just go insane.
I take a moment to make sure none of the techs or anyone else is close enough to be caught by any movement I make. Seeing none, I gradually push the Banshee into motion and begin a careful walk down the dropship’s ramp. At first it takes a single-minded focus the likes of which I’m usually really bad at, but as I keep moving I slowly work my way into a rhythm that’s almost natural.
It’s kind of like dancing, actually? A steady procession of footwork paired with careful attention to my center-of-balance. Instead of balancing myself with my arms or tummy, though, I use my arms to control speed and direction with the controls at my side, and all the effort of keeping the ‘Mech upright and properly-positioned is sent through the neurohelmet and translated into action by bundles of myomer fibers and titanium joints.
Heh. It might have taken me all kinds of bullshit, but I’m finally using my head for something besides my hairdo!
I consult with Sarah briefly to make sure I set myself on the right road that leads away from the spaceport. That done, I briefly call Arthur to inform him I’d started moving. After the appropriate delay, he’d release Timothy from the mansion to come rendezvous with me in the Quickdraw I’d passed-on to him. The younger Mechwarrior was moving-up from a much smaller Spider I owned, and needed as much time familiarizing himself with the new ‘Mech as he could get.
Not that it’d matter since I’d be selling him out as quickly as I could. But there were appearances to keep up.
“So.” I say after the silence in the cockpit begins to wear on me, “What do you actually think of my machine?”
“I don’t like heights and I don’t like ‘Mechs.” She says. I can actually hear her squeezing her eyes shut and clutching onto the jumpseat with her hands in her voice. I can also hear the words she’d left off. ‘Today I’ve combined both’.
The comment couldn’t be any better-designed to make me feel like an asshole for enjoying myself if it’d been come up with in a laboratory. Instead of letting myself feel that way I increase speed to focus on just how relaxing it is to pilot the machine.
Running away from your issues becomes easier when it’s done inside 95 tons of military-grade ‘Fuck off’.
It doesn't take long dealing with Gastocoui's shit before I grasp for any excuse I can find to leave the grounds. I find it quickly, and the drive to my dropship doesn't take long at all.
I stand at the entrance to the 'Mech-bay and stare.
She’s sexier than Gronley’s ‘Mech. Sexier than Gronley’s body! Certainly more sexy than mine! My big old beautiful Banshee is a work of art. The fact she’s a massive machine built for war and destruction only makes it better.
I'm transfixed, frozen on the dropship’s upper walkway, admiring the upper half of the bright-white, fifteen-meter tall ‘Mech that’s visible in the gantry. Just even with the railing ahead of me, extending out of the lower portion of the chest where her abs would be if she were a person, I can see the housing for the Particle Projection Cannon where it extends just out of the slabs of blocky armor. Barely-visible at the same height on the opposite side of the machine is the barrel of an autocannon. As a trade-off for how fast and well-armored she is, they’re the only notable weapons she mounts. Most of the internals are consumed by a massive engine that lets her move faster than any ‘Mech so large should, and most of her outside layered with plates of armor that are laid-on so thick she could take one hell of a pounding before she let anything come inside her.
I clear my throat to hold back an undignified giggle-snort at the thought and force my eyes further up.
The only exceptions to the ‘Mech’s white paintjob are a strip of black armor outlining the ‘jawline’ of the head and another paired across the centerline of where the cockpit sits that makes the head look vaguely like a Jolly Roger. The effect is spoiled slightly by the round focus for the small laser sitting in the middle of the ‘face’, and the lines of the armor don’t allow a perfect recreation. But with the ‘Mech is painted in a garish, almost eye-searing white across the rest of her entire body, the effect is close enough. It’s probably a good thing she isn’t in the path of the sunlight shining into the bay or else the reflection from the paint might actually be blinding.
She’s ostentatious and completely impractical. A relic of a bygone era. She doesn’t belong on a modern battlefield so much as she does in a display somewhere being cared for by a team of attendants as an example of failed designs. The engine is actually too big and the only real way she'd be able to properly crush opponents would be by closing with them and hitting them with one of its massive fists.
I love her and she’s perfect! I can’t help but grin at the mere sight. Partly from remembering how I’d won her, partly from a restrained excitement at the miracle of engineering she represents even as old as she is, and finally the once-again reminder that this shitty future isn’t so shitty. I mean, my God, it would let me punch the shit out of anyone I wanted and unlike hitting them with my own fists, hitting them with the machine's would actually do something! She’s powered by a fusion engine the same way a Mustang was powered by a gasoline one. It's so damn cool!
I’m a little tempted to change things up and repaint her so she’s some shade of light blue with burgundy hot-rod flames running down the sides. But I’ll never be able to do it. Besides being a disservice to the 'Mech itself, It would ruin another bad joke. What was that line from…Well, I think I remember it mainly from a Clint Eastwood film, but that line from the bible?
“Lo, I looked and beheld a pale horse, and its rider’s name was Death…”
“What was that, m’lady?”
Yeah. I was glad I'd told her to cut the 'mistress' business. As fun as it is, I'm just not that--
I start, and jerk my head over my shoulder. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out-loud, and now Sarah is floating her eyes between me and the ‘Mech, visibly confused. But she’s probably too uneducated to catch the reference, and I had said it pretty quietly…
“Merely admiring my own impeccable taste, Sarah. What do you think of her?”
Her answer takes a moment to come, and she keeps staring at me oddly.
“M’lady she is terrifying.”
My grin abandons me. Now what is that supposed to mean? Was she talking about the ‘Mech or me?
Well, one passive-aggressive snipe deserved another. I offer a glare, “Yes. She is.”
That comment gains me a silence I’m both guilty and grateful for. Since I’ve dragged the other woman here with me without explaining why, it wouldn’t surprise me to find she was scared. Before I was…Me…Slaves that ended up on my dropship were there for punishment duty. They never left. But what I have in mind for her is far from punishment duty. Attitude is not very becoming in someone who works for me, either, even if it is hidden.
I growl and move on, crossing the walkway and then taking the ladder up until I’m standing at the precipice of the Banshee’s cockpit. Inside, a half-dozen screens flank the piloting couch, and the fragrant smell of dried sweat floats out over me. A cooling-vest is balanced over the top of the seat. On a small rack behind the couch, the neurohelmet sits and waits for me.
Like me, it’s a rather ugly thing. Like some kind of mutant love-child of one of those goofy-looking bicycling-helmets and a sombrero, with a half-dozen bundles of wires connected in series across it. I know some of the older, Star League models don’t look quite so ridiculous, but hundreds of years of technological regression has made them all but extinct. This one works. For now, that’s all that matters. After I make my fortune, I can probably find a better one that’s slimmer and more flattering to my head’s figure.
Still, I’m worried over more than its age and appearance. I’m not the same person I was the last time I’d piloted the ‘Mech. Worse, neurohelmets were designed to be keyed-in to specific brainwave patterns. I don’t actually know what might happen when I try to run through the startup-sequence. But that’s what Sarah is here for. If I pass out or…something…she’s about the most trustworthy person there is to bring me back around. Most of my other subordinates might take it as a chance to move up in the world, and even if I'm not his preferred demographic Arthur might take it as a chance to get himself up.
A slave is more trustworthy than my subordinates. Ain’t that just a perfect summary for this shithole?
I strip off the jacket I’d worn over my sports-bra and boxers to fend off the cold, toss it onto the walkway below, and go through a light series of stretches. The scabbard at my side gets in the way or bounces awkwardly against the edge of my leg a few times, and my holster on the other side rubs through the relatively thin fabric of my shorts. But it’s a small price to pay for enjoying the cooler air of the bay. It’s the last chance I might have for a while to actually be cold, because even when they were ‘idling’, ‘Mechs are exceptionally hot.
I am reminded once again, however, that I am not. A few techs working on Arthur’s Shadow Hawk one ‘Mech-bay over take a renewed interest in it so they don’t even have to look at me. It’s discouraging—knowing you can’t even draw looks in underwear—but I can’t really blame them. I’m too tall and lanky, and my skin’s almost as bright and reflective as the ‘Mech’s. It’s too bad it doesn’t have any of the UV-absorbing properties the paint provides. I’ve already come close to burning because of it just out-and-about in the Tortuga sun, and more damage is the last thing my skin needs.
“Sarah? Won’t you join me up here?” I call down as I finish stretching.
She is clearly not enthused by the idea. It takes her longer than it should have to climb the ladder. But she climbs it. She might be a slave, but she’s quite the trooper as well.
“Is there something you require before piloting? Some water, perhaps?” Sarah asks when she reaches the top of the ladder, her eyes fixed in front of her and hands curled around the sides with a white-knuckled grip.
“Yes. I need a guide to point me the way to my mines and show them to me.” I say, reaching into the cockpit and sliding down the tiny jumpseat in the rear corner. “And you’re it.”
She doesn’t visibly react for a surprisingly long amount of time. She just keeps straight ahead at the armor of the Banshee’s head and flexing her wrists. The delay is honestly a little aggravating.
“I’m sure that Gastocoui would be a more suitable—“
“Sarah? Get in the giant robot. Gastocoui is an idiot and the idea of spending any amount of time confined into a small space with him in any degree of less than full-dress makes me nauseous.” I interrupt. “The only thing the man might be good for, if I could contain my revulsion at him doing it, is kissing my feet…Though I suppose he might make for a decent fertilizer.”
I laugh at the idea as I angle my way into the cockpit. Shrugging into the cooling-vest, I drop onto the couch and automatically position it so both my sword and pistol are readily-accessible to me but not my passenger. She’s been searched and I doubt she’d try anything, but there’s no reason I should take any risks. I suppose if she was really enterprising she could try to strangle me, unlikely as it might be. But that's why I'm keeping both weapons within reach.
I hear a very slow clammer as Sarah crawls in, but don’t hear her join in on my laughter. It is another point in her favor since a real suck-up would have. But it makes me see her as a little more severe than I had. There’s no accounting for different senses of humor I suppose? Because that was a funny joke.
Sarah’s eventually forced-in entirely when I pull the lever to cycle the cockpit closed. She seems oddly reluctant about the whole affair and I can’t figure why. She’s getting the chance to ride around in one of the biggest ground machines mankind has ever created. Where’s the excitement? The wonder? The gratitude? I try not to let it bug me, but a ‘thank you’, m’lady’ would have been appreciated! Even if I am doing it just so there’s someone immediately available to help me if something goes wrong.
I work my way through a quick checklist of the ‘Mech’s systems before anything else. A good number of more minor systems flash red or have yellow cautionary tags on them when I pull them up on the screens, but we don’t have the spare parts to fix most of them. Most of the important stuff works. The PPC reads as drawing the appropriate amount of power, and whatever shitty ammunition-feed caused the autocannon to jam when I’d last used the thing has been cleared by the techs. A cautionary code flashes over a screen dedicated to the engine, but it’s a service-life warning instead of anything important. It had been a good number of decades since a certified tech had looked-over the thing and had the necessary codes to clear the warning. Since it doesn’t affect performance, I don’t really care.
“Help me get this thing on.” I command, reaching back for the neurohelmet.
Sarah obliges. In a few seconds I have the bulky thing down over my head. A few experimental twists and turns make sure the pads with the neural sensors are settled on the small shaved patches in my hair where they can form a solid connection, and a few more untangle some of the kinks in my hair it produced. I could be more comfortable and might even see a modest increase in performance if I shaved my head entirely, the neurohelmet doesn’t like even the slightest bit of interference. But if I do that I’ll look even more like some kind of budget, post-apocalypse bitch. The hair stays, even if it makes piloting the ‘Mech a little more uncomfortable.
I run through the remainder of the pre-start sequence. It’s strange again, to feel simultaneously bored from something you’ve done dozens of times before and childish excitement at something brand new. When I get off this stupid planet, I’m definitely keeping the Banshee. Its hands might be useful for grasping things at dig sites and I could probably come up with a few other excuses with time to think about it so I can keep it around. But it’s the first thing I earned from my own work, I’m not going to get rid of it. Not even for something as useful as money.
After plugging in the security code, I flip the switches that will allow power through to the sensors and disengage the limiter on the reactor. With a deep breath, I finally turn the final master-key that takes the fusion engine below me from idle to full-power.
Screens around me flicker to life and numbers and coding I don’t understand the slightest bit of run over them for a few moments before they cycle into more readable displays of information. The panels beyond buzz to life and present me with a 360’ view of my surroundings that has been abbreviated into a smaller view. Waiting a beat to be sure none of the safeties are going to engage, I gradually test first the arms and then the torso movement of the machine. As I do, the ‘Mech shudders around me. Power flowing from the fusion engine at its center and into the myomer joints and junctions throughout that allow it to move.
I shudder along with it. My vision goes starry for a moment as a whole new wave of sensations push their way into my mind and then force their way out. My stomach drops, twists, and then tries to make its way out my throat and the other end at the same time. All total, it’s not really much worse than it has been every other time I’ve interfaced with her. So my brainwaves haven’t changed. I can still pilot my baby! I’m still me!
It belatedly occurs to me that such a thing might not say good things about me, but I force that burble aside. I am not a psychopathic woman-child that kills people for fun, dammit.
I’m not!
“Reactor online. Sensors online. Weapons online—locked. All systems nominal.”
I know the last line is a lie. But it’s easier to trick the computer into thinking that a bunch of systems being offline or improperly-repaired is ‘normal’ than it is to actually fix everything. If I sat and listened to the voice list out everything malfunctioning or improperly repaired on the Banshee, I might just go insane.
I take a moment to make sure none of the techs or anyone else is close enough to be caught by any movement I make. Seeing none, I gradually push the Banshee into motion and begin a careful walk down the dropship’s ramp. At first it takes a single-minded focus the likes of which I’m usually really bad at, but as I keep moving I slowly work my way into a rhythm that’s almost natural.
It’s kind of like dancing, actually? A steady procession of footwork paired with careful attention to my center-of-balance. Instead of balancing myself with my arms or tummy, though, I use my arms to control speed and direction with the controls at my side, and all the effort of keeping the ‘Mech upright and properly-positioned is sent through the neurohelmet and translated into action by bundles of myomer fibers and titanium joints.
Heh. It might have taken me all kinds of bullshit, but I’m finally using my head for something besides my hairdo!
I consult with Sarah briefly to make sure I set myself on the right road that leads away from the spaceport. That done, I briefly call Arthur to inform him I’d started moving. After the appropriate delay, he’d release Timothy from the mansion to come rendezvous with me in the Quickdraw I’d passed-on to him. The younger Mechwarrior was moving-up from a much smaller Spider I owned, and needed as much time familiarizing himself with the new ‘Mech as he could get.
Not that it’d matter since I’d be selling him out as quickly as I could. But there were appearances to keep up.
“So.” I say after the silence in the cockpit begins to wear on me, “What do you actually think of my machine?”
“I don’t like heights and I don’t like ‘Mechs.” She says. I can actually hear her squeezing her eyes shut and clutching onto the jumpseat with her hands in her voice. I can also hear the words she’d left off. ‘Today I’ve combined both’.
The comment couldn’t be any better-designed to make me feel like an asshole for enjoying myself if it’d been come up with in a laboratory. Instead of letting myself feel that way I increase speed to focus on just how relaxing it is to pilot the machine.
Running away from your issues becomes easier when it’s done inside 95 tons of military-grade ‘Fuck off’.