Phoenix - Part 3

  The Captain had been telling the truth when she claimed an old friend awaited Moncha in the hanger bay - 'Old friend indeed...'

  The Casnel G-Type Mk2 Prototype had been a gleaming white and silver machine - small compared with many of its fellows, standing at under eighteen metres, it was highly experimental - and these days thoroughly battered.

  Moncha had last seen it six months ago, during the final battle of what was quickly becoming known as 'The Remembrance Incident'. Of course, most felt that name was crass; the so-called 'Incident' had lasted for months and been an all-out guerrilla war, taking the lives of thousands of soldiers and an unknown number of civilians. The Curadh had found itself at the forefront of many of these small battles, with two G-Types as their spearhead.

  Moncha hadn't been this machine's original pilot, though it was now him sitting in its new cockpit. His machine and the boys… this version must have been scraped together out of the two original units.

  The lad and Moncha had butted heads at first, bickered and eventually became good comrades. But the boy had made mistakes like all boys did - and one such mistake Moncha had failed to cover for.

  On a few occasions, they had come face to face with Remembrance's ad-hoc leader, The Bane of Konpei, who'd gotten his hands on a Casnel of his own. Against Moncha's better judgement, the young man had entered into a sort of rivalry with the enemy ace; only a Casnel can properly fight another Casnel.

  And then it ended. Six months ago, in the final battle of the incident - the young man faced off against The Bane, and lost.

  The G-Type Casnel was overall inferior to the Cheavliers the Bane had used, less suited to close quarter combat. More than that, however, the boy was young. A quick learner perhaps, but not enough to overcome the wealth of experience the Grand Ace possessed.

  He sat now in the new cockpit; the original had been a complicated space age affair, but this one was similar enough to a normal Vijiak’s; clearly, the repairs were cheap.

  Moncha hadn't expected ever to see the G-Type again. After the battle, he had personally recovered what was left of it; he had personally forced the cockpit open to see what remained of his superheated comrade; and personally signed off when it was shipped away, to be studied and perhaps used as the basis for new models. Looking at it, he could only presume that's what they had spent most of the last six months doing. The repairs were lacking put lightly.

  Across the once gleaming white surfaces were patches of grey and dull silver where cheaper metals had been used. The chain gun on one arm hadn’t been replaced; instead, it was issued with no more than a regular medium-range weapon. Draped over its shoulders was a cape of all things. In effect, now all it had going for it was its speed.

  The Curadh's head engineer had tried to explain the cape was experimental, capable of turning invisible in some way - but Moncha had shaken the man off; today it would be nothing more than an old-fashioned accessory - after all, if The Phoenix really could see, even sense the future, then what good was a camouflage trick going to be?

  He still remembered the chief's face when he'd asked for all the 'spares' to be attached to the G-Type-Repair.

  Moncha collected parts, 'borrowing' weapons and ammo whenever they entered a port - Six months ago, they had pretty much drained that supply as the Curadh helped to repair many mechs during those battles, but he had been fast collecting more.

  Some disposable missile launchers were quickly affixed to the mech, a spare rifle and some extra arc staffs, too.

  Not much, but he planned to take no chances today.

  Moncha was grateful not to have too much time waiting. Thinking about the old Captain and the previous pilot of this mech was altogether too grim. Before long, the spinx-shaped Curadh came upon the destined debris fields.

  With an eagerness, G-Type-Repair stepped up to the Curadh’s launch ramp, “Major Donald Moncha, taking off!” The G-type rattled with a speed he had almost forgotten. A small grin broke onto the Cmbat Commander's face; the anticipation of battle was always a great way to clear his mind.

  He floated a little ahead of his two wingmen in their regular Vijaiks. In the rear-view camera was the form of the Curadh, having stopped just outside the debris field.

  Said graveyard loomed before Moncha now. Regardless of how far you looked left or right, the field seemed to stretch forever - an endless constellation of rusted, rotted metal shards - a sea of husked-out abandoned warships, the odd floating limb of what had once been a fellow mecha.

  A still fresh site of death, one with many a ghost for the Major. A part of him deep down wanted to stew on it, to let himself mourn in a way but that wasn’t his job.

  Once he had taken it all in he turned to his communication board, "Alright lads, you ready?"

  "Aye, Sir!" Came back the reply.

  Moncha smiled; his two wingmen were some of the best. The young man who had once piloted the G-Type had been too - His soul, Moncha supposed, could still be lingering on this very battlefield.

  Not long ago, Moncha hoped that his two wingmen and that young man might be his very last squad, that after all the fighting they had been through, they would just get guard duty for a few years. But the young man was long dead, and this mission was far from guard duty.

  He threw the machine's control forward, the mech beginning to rattle as the speed increased dramatically.

  "Come in, Major, Sir? Major, you are moving out of formation. Come in?" called out the voice of the Curadh's radio operator.

  A second, further away voice cut across; "Put the major directly through to my terminal Ensign."

  The stern voice quickly became a lot closer - "Explain yourself, Major. Why are you increasing speed while your subordinates have slowed to a crawl?"

  Moncha cocked a grin, "Just a little change in plans, Ma'am, nothing to worry about."

  "Major, this is a direct order; come back now. This reckless course of action--"

  "Eh, that hurts my feelings, Ma'am. There is nothing reckless about it. Right the wrongs of the past, that's what you wanted, right?"

  Still cool and composed, just a minuscule hint of frustration crept into the Captain's voice, "Major, this impulsiveness is not the way to handle things."

  "Heh, impulsiveness is my best trait! Cya later Cap'ain."

  And then the radio cut out, Moncha now out of signal range.

  ****

  It was beautiful; it shouldn't have been, but it was.

  It passed by instantly, a golden streak across all his monitors for a second and then gone. Weapons of war are never beautiful; Moncha knew that better than most. Sure he'd known men who named their machines, referred to ships as 'she' - but that was different.

  Spend enough time on the battlefield, and you came to know all weapons as simply the tools trying to take the lives of all your comrades. Maybe you came to know your own weapon as a partner of sorts, but that was it.

  Yet, each glimpse he caught of Phoenix as he progressed deeper into the debris field filled him with a horrific sense of beauty: This howling, gigantic golden bird soaring through the skyline.

  In his long career, he could only think of one other time he had felt that way. Back in the First War, when he had been a regular fighter jet pilot, he had seen it once on the horizon, the so-called 'First Casnel' - In a way, the older sister of the Phoenix.

  Although it had been regular-sized and silver, not gold - the first Casnel had glowed like a God, invincible in battle, a guardian angel to pilots like Moncha, a sign that perhaps the Union really could win what would become the first of many conflicts with the Abhailiens.

  That glimpse, that feeling had stuck with him for a long time, but never had he ever dared fear that he might one day find himself standing against that beauty. Moncha’s hands, for the first time in years, trembled not from sadness or anger - but fear.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  It almost felt like he should bow, prostrate himself to the being of such immensity flashing before him.

  Breaking him out of his trance came a laser signal, contacting over the open channels he had left on; a gruff, grizzled voice shattering his trance, "Oi, who the bloody hell are you meant to be then?"

  Moncha raised an eyebrow and then laughed, the tension dropping immensely; "States-Union special branch, Major Moncha, Combat Commander extraordinaire. I can keep going, but that's probably too much-classified info as is. And you are, Miss?"

  There was a somewhat surprised scoff across the line - "Pah, who says I'm a woman?"

  Moncha grinned slightly, 'So that's how this is gonna’ be?' he thought to himself. The connection being what it was, he had simply guessed the gender, the voice was deep and patchy enough to be either or neither.

  After Moncha failed to respond for a few seconds, the hidden voice continued, "Fine, whatever, you can just call me... 'Red' got it? Now, what I want to know is what you're here for. Are you backup for 'it', or me? And answer carefully; I've got a mega-particle launcher trained on you as we speak!"

  Moncha stroked his chin thoughtfully - "Actually, it's your lucky day. Though it may be a beauty, today is clean-up duty."

  "What's beautiful about that monster?! And why should I believe that? Prove it!"

  'Red' barked back.

  'I suppose that makes sense; this person has been fighting 'beings' like The Phoenix for years. The novelty of fighting artificial demi-gods likely wears off after a while...'

  Moncha chuckled, "I don't need proof because you already believe me. My side’s Intelligence operators say you've been out here for half a week; that means you've seen The Phoenix destroy TSU machines, too, right? So you know I can only be here to either retrieve or destroy it."

  "....Fine then, say I believe you - what's the deal, you an elite Casnel strike team? Or you got a few regular squads spread out all around here getting ready to pounce?"

  "Neither. I've got two Vijaiks and one ship, but I'd rather keep them in reserve," Moncha said back jovially.

  "Yo- You What!? Who did you have to piss off to get this job!?"

  The Major smiled at that remark, "She's nice once you get to know her. Anyway, speaking of squads, how's yours doing?"

  Red's tone lowered slightly, though she replied without hesitation, "Four dead within five minutes of meeting that thing. All newbies recruited in the last few months; they never stood a chance. We were only here to scavenge materials, not fight.

  Me 'an one other guy've spent the last few days evading that thing, but his machine finally gave up the ghost about a quarter-hour ago. He abandoned it and is floating around somewhere, waiting for his oxygen to run out..."

  Moncha internally cursed his luck, "So, just you and me? What you got?"

  Drawn-out dry laughter, cackling really, filled the air-waves; "Ha-ha, bugger all! I'm in a regular old Vijaik Heavy - I ran out of ammo days ago, running on fumes - I got two Calabar blades and maybe half an hour of fuel left. The particle cannon thing was just bluff, though you probably figured that much."

  The Vijaik Heavy had been a great machine... five years ago. A hulking, dome-headed, bulky mech specialising in ground-based combat.

  Moncha sighed and shrugged his shoulders before responding, "Well, still better than nothing, here have this. Best of luck; I doubt either of us could follow the other's orders."

  As he spoke, his Vijaik released and tossed across its spare rifle. Out of a clump of metal in front of him at last appeared the hand of his conversing partner, grabbing the passing gun.

  "What's to stop me just buggering off while you act as my decoy?" came the reply.

  "You think you can grab that subordinate of yours and make it far enough away to be safe, then be my guest," Moncha said back earnestly.

  There was a brief pause before, finally, the entirety of the crimson-coloured Vijaik-Heavy emerged out of its metal camouflage and onto Moncha's monitor; "Alright then TSU-Flyboy, show me whatcha got!"

  ****

  As a scalding golden blast of energy seared away paint and armour plating alike as it glanced off Moncha's mech - the realisation suddenly came to him that after so many pilot's recent deaths in the Remembrance Incident, it was entirely plausible that he and this 'Red' person were currently the two best pilots alive in the whole solar system - however this was not the impression one would have gotten looking at the battle thus far.

  It had been ten minutes since he had met the lone Remembrance pilot, and as planned, they had simply entered battle the next time The Phoenix had soared by. A few stray energy blasts, and they had its attention.

  It was only up close that Moncha saw how abnormally large it was. It was easy to see 'thirty-six-metre height' on a piece of paper, but that meant a wholly different thing up close. A single one of the machine's long, lanky, clawed arms was as lengthy as his entire mech. It had a mass for sure but was also sleek and angular. Its head was a sheer block with two glowing red slit eyes. On its backs were no wings but instead two long twisting tails, each fitted with a small cannon.

  It appeared avian despite its massive size; there was a majesty to its elegant, perfectly calculated movements.

  He dodged another three-round burst from its main cannon, each a golden bolt of incredible heat. Unlike Moncha's Casnel, The Phoenix carried no armaments; rather, they were all fixed directly to it. On its right arm, between massive wrist and elbow, was a gigantic barrel cannon - A cannon that, being wired directly to The Phoenix, would never run out of ammo for as long as its generators functioned. It reminded Moncha of G-Type’s old chaingun, except this one had the capacity of a full-bore rifle.

  On its left arm forearm was a folding vambrace, acting as a small shield. Ordinarily, this would be useless for defending a mech, being too small and easily destroyed, but The Phoenix was different. Every shot fired at it either missed or was blocked by this vambrace, which was left without a scratch, as though Phoenix knew precisely where and when every shot would come from.

  Combine that with its two tails, which could shoot at you in directions it wasn't even looking in, and it left no openings.

  Moncha had planned for close-quarter combat, his speciality, but that was proving impossible. He would fire a barrage of rifle fire and charge close with weapons drawn, only for the enemy to block his shots and force him back with its own barrage, all while ‘looking’ in the opposite direction.

  Red, on the other hand, was baffling to Moncha, managing much better. The woman was weaving in and out of debris, then popping up as close as possible, dodging anything The Phoenix's cannons threw her way and then attacking head-on with a giant Calabar great-sword. All of this was an incredible feat of Vijaik-mastery that even Moncha found himself in awe of, a tiny crimson blur rallying against the golden giant.

  Of course, The Phoenix somehow always blocked this sword with its vambrace and held the position momentarily before flinging her machine away with a swing of its massive golden arms, like a giant of a man backhanding mere children.

  Even if Moncha and Red attacked simultaneously, in perfect sync, The Phoenix would wiggle its way free or simply blast its way back to an advantageous vantage point within the debris.

  Nearly fifteen minutes, half the time Red had told him her machine had left, and neither of them had managed a single scratch on the enemy, not even a dent against its gleaming surfaces.

  But what worried Moncha more wasn't his friend-of-opportunity's energy levels - or their inability to break this stalemate - it was the simple fact that they couldn't keep going like this even if they had all the energy and weapons in the world.

  His head was pounding from the concentration it took to keep up, to dodge the golden silhouettes of fire, any one of which could probably take him down in one shot. His Casnel's cape was littered with holes where it had been burned through. His body ached from the physical exertion of simply piloting the machine this hard, pushing its specs to go just a little bit faster, to dodge the tiniest bit quicker. He had encountered four of the solar system's best aces in the previous war, and while they’d had experience and skills honed in a way only humans could achieve, they had also had limits - human flaws, weakness and exhaustion over time.

  The Phoenix would never tire, never weaken from exhaustion, never need to sleep or eat, and as long as it could stop to gather supplies from time to time, it would never break at this rate.

  'Alright, Captain, you wanted us to right the wrongs of the past - Well, you got a Union Ace and a Remembrance Ace here, fighting the fight of our lives against the ghost of said past - Now what the hell do we do to win?!'