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Mission’s armory was a vast complex in one of the city’s inner rings. Equal parts construction facility, weapons storage, and training grounds, it was comprised of several huge wings housing personnel and machinery pertinent to the task of fabricating and maintaining the military’s firepower. In a long warehouse attached to the east wing, seventy-five of the new modified reaper mechanicals stood lustrous in the bright overhead lights of the twenty-meter tall structure. In front of each of the newly-birthed weapons was a soldier specifically trained in the new link-piloting methodology incorporated into this potent mech design. The majority of the soldiers were privates: three groups of twenty, in fact, with four sergeants and a captain assigned to each group to form a complete lance. These would be versatile units; each sergeant had extensive combat experience and could lead his or her group of five as a sub-lance according to the needs and dictates of the lance captain. The falcis beside each man or woman was marked with a diagonal slash—red, black, or white—to distinguish each of the three lances. Each individual’s uniform bore an identical slash; they had become badges of honor among the wedge, those chosen proud to be given such an opportunity to serve. Silently, respectfully, all stood at crisp attention as General Uspa entered the warehouse accompanied by one of his majors.
Rhys Barisor had been commissioned as an ordinary private as opposed to having been created as an officer. Through hard work and an uncanny accuracy with weapons, Rhys had risen to his current rank during his brief sixty-year life. Wearing a distinctive grey scarf in addition to his pilot’s uniform, he was known by sight to nearly every soldier in Mission, perhaps even in the greater region. Lean but not gaunt, Rhys gave the impression of a spring coiled and ready for action. His movements were whip-like and precise, his sharp eyes grey and potent below platinum-blond eyebrows. Like most senior officers his head was shaved, giving him a stark inhuman appearance that some said he cultivated with an effort that seemed zealous. A sort scar at one corner of his mouth pulled his face into the mimesis of a sneer, but in fact his countenance was devoid of visible emotion. His presence raked across the assembly like the far-seeing gaze of a raptor, searching for a kitten hidden among lions from a vantage behind a thin, hard mouth and a long, blade-straight nose.
General Uspa and Major Barisor strode purposefully towards the exact center of the hall, stopping beside a shining mech distinguished from this in an orderly line more by its black insignia of rank than by its solitary location. Uspa pitched his voice to carry along the cavernous warehouse as he addressed the assembly.
“Soldiers, I welcome you. Each of you has performed exceptionally in your individual training. Though intensive, this training was necessary to hasten the dawning of this day.”
On cue, great vertical windows around the chamber polarized to admit the first rays of sunlight into the gathering. The choreographed dimming of the overhead lights accentuated the new dawn highlighting the assembled company. Uspa was pleased at the effect; he could see the backs and necks of the men and women under his command stiffen with a pride that bespoke their faith in his commands. Rhys permitted himself no change in expression, though a brightening of his eyes was as plain as a paean to those who were familiar with his dour nature.
The General played on the silence, watching the gathered soldiers, staring back at them confidently. The bands of light allowed him to focus on several of the faces in the crowd. All were the very best at their assigned profession: obedient, loyal. They were smiling back at him, eyes full of respect and trust. He expected great things from them, and in turn, they expected the same from their leaders—from himself, the Major, and even the Chancellor. Especially the Chancellor; there was nothing more important.
Still, the burden of responsibility rested on Uspa’s shoulders. It was a burden he was created to carry, of course, but even he was still learning, striving to improve. He embraced his leadership role, sometimes awkwardly, and demanded a lot from himself in that role.
General Uspa’s focus returned to the purpose of the gathering; he nodded briefly to Rhys. The major stepped forward and saluted his troops, who returned the gesture crisply in precise unison. When all had returned to attention, Rhys returned Uspa’s nod and stood at attention himself. All eyes were now on the general.
“As you know, we have formed this division in response to the new rogue threat. An android has been killed, and we have reason to believe many more are at risk. We need to find this rogue before it is too late.”
His eyes slid over the sleek mech beside him. A frictionless skin gleamed brightly in the sunlight, almost blinding if the light hit in the right direction. It was designed for speed, designed to hunt—designed to kill. He had consulted Rhys when he was planning for its construction, which had motivated a number of changes in the original spec. Rhys was proud of this, and it spoke volumes for his relationship with the General; not many were given the opportunity to give recommendations to Arak Uspa, let alone have those recommendations accepted. Their relationship was different, however. Uspa understood that Rhys was an exceptionally talented machine and respected him deeply. Rhys understood this, and had never hesitated to play it to his advantage during his young life.
“These new mechanicals, based upon the reaper design, are henceforth designated falcis class. They are part of the new elite force of which you are all now an integral part. They are worthy of you. I have no doubt that, in them, you will find success.”
At the end of Uspa’s brief speech, Rhys stepped forward and barked a single command. Seventy five soldiers keyed in access codes on the front of their falcis; shining torsos split lengthways and unfolded, revealing a vertical harness inside the streamlined chassis. All three lances mounted, belting themselves into their formidable weapons in preparation for the link. Uspa watched utterly fascinated as imbedded geostat links melded with the android pilots. The falcis mechs shivered to wakefulness; some flexed limbs slightly as if preparing for movement. Slowly the chests of the armoured giants folded around their guests protectively, sealing them inside as if they had become the hearts of these synthetic warriors.
“Attention!”
At Rhys’ command, seventy five falcis rumbled into silence, blades fully folded and at rest. Major Barisor smiled at Uspa, the puckered scar near his mouth turning the expression into a fierce snarl. All was going exactly as the General had planned.
Copyright © 2004-2005 Jay and David Steele. All rights reserved.
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