Anne T.

Mech Pilot who, wait. Where’s the Mech Pilot?

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I am not naturally so fluid as this. How am I running at such an easy gate? What commands 100 tons of metal to weave between trees? To take a knee behind buildings that barely cover my head, and to be so precise with the aim of my rifle?

It's a vile thing.

My pieces could move only through such an incredible series of physics that the odds of a single step are a million to one. Yet right now I am catching a stumbling comrade in my arms, lowering my sister to lie upon the grass while gallons of oil spill from her severed leg. A blissful non-existence was supposed to be my fate, separate and unanimated. The alloy of my body and mind is a miracle. I should be utterly impossible.

Yet, of all the stardust that boiled into the metal and fluid and electricity that comprises my body, not an atom, not a quark, was ever so unlucky.

Mech Pilot who can only keep it together when they keep the feeling of failure from crawling out of their throat with their gritted teeth.

LAST

"Mayday. Mayday. This is Sandrisco One, we have taken extensive damage and are falling out of low orbit."

"Mayday. Mayday. This is Sandrisco One, we have taken extensive damage and are falling out of low orbit. Alert any mathematicians and prepare debris routes. Mayday. Mayday."

The repeating message was so calm, in spite of its dire content. The speaker had clearly been one of the first to evacuate, was one of the lucky people who now got to sit in higher orbit and watch the destruction, rather than being in or under it. In between his calls of “Mayday” the speaker read out long strings of useless math. Orbital routes, thruster loads, anything that was supposed to help us avoid being caught in the impact zone.

They were broadcasting exclusively on our encrypted radio channels, keeping the precious data within their military ranks. The enemy could go fuck themselves, as far as command was concerned. Eat gigatonnes of molten supersonic steel, assholes.

Mech Pilot who has been authorized to upload attachments up to 10mb.

NEXT

We stopped at the base of the mountain and I checked my read-outs. Stuck into the cockpit with a wooden frame and held together with duct tape, the communications equipment that normally sat in its own tent next to the commander’s was blocking me from maneuvering my mech’s left arm. Luckily we’d stuck it in the correct position, holding the antenna ready to extend when I reached the summit. Twelve hours left until the elliptical satellite came into wide scanner range. I’d have twenty four seconds to transmit the data.

Cracking open the hatch, I swung the thick glass plates out. While I wriggled out of the cramped seat, my onboard radio squealed to life.