Mech Pilot who is trying to get their friend off of recreational neuro-data interfaces.
There was a banging at Karina Miller's door. An emergency sortie would have come through the PA system, so this was undoubtedly a personal matter and could be safely ignored until a more reasonable time than 2:15 AM. The soft click of her lock (long since replaced with a third-party model) told her that even if it was a personal matter, it wasn't going to wait.
A blinding taclight was all she could see. A voice, one she recognized as her CO's, called out. "Let's have a chat, Spins. Outside in two." The taclight stayed on her as she threw on pants, slippers, and a jacket. In the hall was her CO, Hilda Greene, and two empty suits she didn't recognize. "Our friends here are with Internal Affairs. We're going on a little trip." Miller's blood ran cold. In an outfit like UMS, you didn't get a trial of your peers. If you stepped too far out of line or pissed off a C-level, your death was a write-off.
It was too cold outside. Waiting outside the barracks was a limousine, with the door open. One of the IA goons motioned her inside. It was, in fact, a little too cold in the car - both Greene and the goons were dressed for outdoor weather. Greene's network of scars made her look scary in even in soft light, but the ever-shifting chiaroscuro of moving streetlights gave her an otherworldly presence.
Greene fixed Miller with a look of curiosity, like a child's curiosity at how a bug survives with one of its wings torn off. "How long have you been with us, Spins?"
Miller was going to die. She was sure of it, and this whole conversation was just to calm her down before one of the IA goons brought out the needle, or knife, or subsonic execution pistol. "Uh, I, I've been with UMS for a good three years now. I'm in for the long haul, Sergeant!" She tried to smile. She'd laugh a little, like she usually did when she got nervous, but that sound died in her throat.
"Three years. Three years, two months, and twenty-eight days, to be precise. How many sorties do you have under your belt?"
"Twelve, if you count the Luxhang thing as a sortie, Sergeant."
Greene laughed, a loud, harsh barking like a hyena scaring off a vulture. "Yeah, Whaleteeth took care of most of that for you, didn't he? Now, you came armed for bear, didn't you? Drone and Picky, they knew what was coming, they figured there wouldn't be much left - but you expected the worst, or at least thought Whale would miss, is that right?"
"Well, Sergeant, I hadn't sortied with Whale before then. I figured, especially since the rest of the crew was either under-armed or in orbit, that I should pack enough gun for four of us, or near as tonnage would allow, Sergeant."
"You get all that, Clive?"
The IA goon to her right nodded.
"Good man, that Clive. Loyal. Consistent. Knows his priorities. What are your priorities these days, Spins?"
Miller blinked at the question. "Sergeant?"
"Simple question, Spins. When you wake up, why is it you decide to get out of bed?"
"I...I have a job to do. I -"
Greene cut her off. "A job! That's your first priority, is getting your job done? Is that right?"
Miller glanced out the window. They were at least a mile out from the base now, into the sand dunes. "Yes, Sergeant. I get my job done, Sergeant."
Greene nodded with theatrical emphasis. "You get your job done, I like that. In fact, I like that so much, I'll let you in on a little secret. You know that business in Luxhang? We checked over the mechs -" Greene looked meaningfully at the IA goons. "- Sorry, Solutions Appliances, and found something very interesting. A good forty percent of your ammo was spent! On nothing, as far as we can tell. Whaleteeth flattened that whole neighborhood with ACS-20s, nothing left but a few tons of salvage. Now we get it, we're both veterans - you don't land every shot. Hell, you don't land most of the shots you take in a warzone. That's why UMS doesn't bill for ammunition or armor - we trust our pilots to use them responsibly! And we trust you, don't we, boys?"
The IA goons did not speak. It did not seem to Miller that they even breathed.
"Of course we trust you. That's why you're here, in this car, and not out in the dunes with Pluto."
She let that name hang in the air. Miller decided to bite. "Why is Pluto out in the dunes, Sergeant?"
Greene laughed. The sound made Miller sick. "Pluto is out in the dunes because he made some bad, bad decisions."
Quiet again. "What decisions did Pluto make, Sergeant?"
"Well, I'll tell you -" Two sharp raps from the driver interrupted Greene. "Ah, we're here! I'll fill you in while we wait for the show to start. Come on, Spins!"
The limo was pulled into an unmarked sand dune a few miles out from base. The spotlights were barely visible at this distance. The IA goons frog-marched Miller out of the car, following Greene up a sandy hill. At the top, there were two lawn chairs, looking for all the world like improvised seating for a fireworks display. Taking her seat, she could make out a flare burning in the flat land beyond the hill. There were three people lit by the flare holding SMGs, and a big hole in the ground.
Greene pulled out a box of theatre candy and poured a few bits into her mouth. She began to speak around the candy: "Pluto's down there. You can't see him, on account of he's in the hole. But he's digging, I assure you."
Greene stared at Miller until she spoke. "Why's Pluto digging a hole in the dunes, Sergeant?"
Greene nodded and swallowed her candy. "Pluto is digging a hole in the dunes because he had a problem with sims."
"I...thought sims were okay, Sergeant."
Another barking laugh. "Okay? Of course they're okay, Spins! Have you seen the world we live in? Hell, I take in sims now and then - a nice warm bath in a perfumed palace, tended to hand and foot, not a care in the world! I'd say I sim for a good couple of hours a month! Naw, sims aren't Pluto's problem, not as such."
Greene took out a pair of binoculars and stared at the hole. "Naw, Pluto's sim habits weren't the problem. His problems started with wetting his beak in the company's water. See, he had this idea - since the firm doesn't track ammo very close, he figured he'd offload some of his munitions to a third party for a tidy sum! A little bonus, he figured - a reward for his efficiency. He'd then use that extra money for sims. All kinds of sims, we would find out - fantasies of every stripe! Endless wealth, adulation, feasting, and so much sex."
"So...he's down there because he stole ammunition, Sergeant?"
"Naw, Spins, we wouldn't go that far. We aren't psychos, like the Soldiers of Solus. Hell, Solus'd kill you for holding a sim. The real problem was what he didn't do. You remember reports about the Andes raid a few days ago?"
Miller shuddered, and not just from the cold. "Yes, Sergeant. We got our asses kicked, Sergeant."
"That's right, Spins, we sure did. We sent a full squad down there to peel Grineer's FOB off the mountainside, and not a one of them made it back. What you didn't know was that Pluto down there was supposed to be there, with another seventy tons of steel, piloting a machine that could have won the day, or at least saved his comrades' lives. You know where he was instead, Spins?"
"I sure don't, Sergeant."
"He was in dreamland, Spins. He was in sim, playing with his favorite ghosts, sat immobile in his machine with his radio off. We later learned he bypassed the DULLAHAN feed on his mech so Command wouldn't catch him simming on the job. His job, by the way, was to bring in the heavy guns once the squad drew fire, but his priority wasn't his job, it was his sims. You remember priorities, right, Spins?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"That's good. That's why you're up here, and Pluto is down there - because I don't want what's about to happen to Pluto to happen to you. I care about you, Spins. That's why you have to watch this." Greene offered her binoculars. Miller took them and looked at the hole.
She heard Greene speak through a radio: "Bring him up."
Watching through the glass, Miller could make out two of the goons at the valley floor pull Pluto out of the hole. They spun him around and made him kneel at the edge, hands behind his head. An instant later, a short burst of rounds went straight through his torso, and he fell silently into the hole. Without a word, the goons picked up shovels and began to bury Pluto.
"You aren't dying tonight, Spins. And I give thanks to whatever passes for God that we caught your little habit when we did. Losing a few hundred rounds is spare change compared to losing good machines and better pilots. Now, I want a pledge from you, Spins."
Setting the binoculars on her lap, shaking badly, Miller turned to Greene. "What's that, Sergeant?"
Greene laid a hand on hers. "No more sims, Spins. Not for a while. I don't want to put you in a hole."
"Yes, Sergeant. No more sims, Sergeant."
"Glad to hear it. Let's go home."