Part 0

  Old Wounds Stir the Heart

  Mission 0 - The Trailer

  TA418 - 29/10 - (Last work day of the year).

  Vanadís Secondary Off-Site Production Facility, Bhaile’s Moon.

  "Good work today, lad; you'll make a pilot of yourself yet," the rowdy and ever-cheerful voice of one Sergeant Mercy called down from the top of the stairs.

  Chas Collins grinned at his boss. Mercy was a good man, 50% muscle and 50% indulgence in the culinary arts; their jolly leader made for more of an older friend than a line manager. His uniform was getting tighter by the day, and his wavy, greying hair added to this breezy attitude to leadership. He was without doubt one of life’s ‘natural sergeants’.

  "What about me, boss-man?" Lance-Corpral Philipe called from Chas's side. His fellow junior on the project, Philipe, was the more outspoken of the two. With spiky blond hair, a ruffled shirt and oval glasses, Philipe was convinced he had a lady-killer combination going - though it just made him appear a dork to Chas - still a lovable one, to be sure.

  The sergeant descended the last step and clapped his arm over Philipe’s shoulder, "Heh, sloppy as ever, ‘dunno why I don't fire you," he chuckled. A moment later, the small screen on his wrist buzzed. The older man frowned, pressing it off.

  “You get summoned, Sir?” Chas asked.

  “Pah, it’s past time; we’re off the clock lads,” their ever ‘punctual’ leader smirked. Chas sometimes wondered if they were a little too casual, but what was there to worry about? Besides, they were more civilian than military to begin with. Vanadis was owned by the army rather than a full-fledged part.

  The trio of test pilots strolled down the centre of the large room, the roller shutter door and staircase leading up to the personnel door behind them. They crossed the metal floors under the dim yellow glow of suppressor fields, which provided gravity on the ceiling above.

  Chas liked this life and was not ashamed to admit it. His boss was a good-natured softie, and his only other co-worker doubled as his best friend. Day in and day out, they ran tests for the trio of prototype mecha under development in this base. Their greatest struggle was just keeping in top physical shape.

  There was no war between the two sister planets anymore. Almost five years ago, the States Union and the Abhailen-Revoultion-Forces had gone at it big time, true enough - but that had been the largest war in history and had ended in the Abhaile dogs rightfully put down, and their planet almost entirely occupied.

  All that remained of them was some small remnant forces hiding in a frozen wasteland once thought uninhabitable. Chas felt pretty darn confident that the mechs they were making here were nothing but show models; morale boosters for the troops. He'd admit that the new Gen-3 frame was impressive, but then again, who could even use it fully? Its main advantage was joints almost as manoeuvrable as a living beings, but were there any pilots so good that they could use, say, martial arts with the massive appendages of a twenty-metre tall gaint?

  Perhaps outside of semi-civilian test pilots like himself, there were some truly genius pilots capable of that, but he doubted it, nor the usefulness of it.

  To Chas this job was a dream. He got to pilot ‘giant robots’ every day without the actual fighting and dying part - it was perfect.

  “BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BU–” the grating sound emitted from every tannoy in the room for three seconds before stopping. The test pilots shot each other mildly amused looks;

  “They seriously break the alarm again?” Philipe snickered.

  Mercy smiled, "Let's get us some grub before they announce one of those pretend fire drills, eh? I hear there's a new Timbrce casserole--"

  Chas stared blankly at where Mercy had stood a moment ago. It all happened instantly.

  "SARGE!" Philipe screamed as blood splattered across his face. No sound even; a bullet had simply crashed into the side of their manager's head mid-sentence.

  The blood from the exit wound was profuse, spraying all over Philipe. Chas stood completely frozen, his eyes vaguely caught something back the way they'd come, atop the staircase leading into the hangar, three men in full body armour carrying rifles and one in particular with a well-aimed silenced pistol.

  "Get down now!" Philipe shouted, diving onto Chas and bringing them both to the ground. A dull metallic sound echoed where they had stood seconds ago.

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  "Sarge?" the word fell loosely from Chas’s mouth as his best friend half dragged him back to his feet. A terribly strong smell of iron filled his nose, threatening to make the young man gag if the sight before him didn’t already do the job.

  "Fire at will!" a new voice roared. On the opposite side of the room, a dozen men in black charged in, each carrying live-ammo firearms of their own, immediately unleashing a full barrage on the three men at the top of the stairs.

  From insignias across battle-armoured shoulders and chests, Chas felt a sudden pang of relief that these were friendlies - the base's guards.

  Three such troopers broke off from the main group and trotted up to the test pilots as gunfire filled the air; "You all right?"

  "Our Sergeant is dead, sir," Chas said shakily, his eyes automatically drifting to where the man's corpse had fallen, a growing pool of blood spreading outwards over the pristine metal floors. Mercy's eyes were blank as a fish, his mouth slightly agape, his– Chas forced himself not to look any longer, bile threatening to rise up his throat.

  The lead Trooper nodded. "Understood. Two is better than none. We have to get you to the hangar now. Asset denial is top priority. The others will stay and clear things in from this side. We need those mechs off the ground. Can you run?"

  Chas and Philipe both nodded shakily. Chas saw more of the attackers flooding through the raised door to join the fight - caught a glimpse of one dressed apart from the others, a flowing greatcoat sticking out in his mind - a moment later he was out of sight. With one last hesitant look at their fallen boss and the firefight ongoing behind them, the two young pilots numbly followed the three troopers out the door.

  "We'll circle around, leave the shooting to us and stay out of sight. ‘Name’s Corporal Dunlop," their escort said brusquely, not even slowing or making eye contact as he surveyed each turn of the metal corridors they now advanced down.

  "Who are they?" Philipe asked, the running returning a little colour to his face.

  "Those rifles were the Ar-8 type at a glance, best in the business, but they stopped making them after the war. The only group likely to still have them in any great number are Abhialen remnants."

  "Abhailen's? Here, why?" Philipe replied but didn't get an answer. Chas guessed his friend was as shaken as he was. It was all happening so fast. Were they even at war with anyone? Terrorism?

  The three-metre-wide corridor had reached a T-junction. In the far distance, there was a left-hand turn, and more of the armed invaders were coming around it.

  "Nelson, the door," Dunlop ordered as he and the third trooper raised their rifles and opened fire. The sound was utterly deafening to Chas, the rat-tat-tat of the three burst life-taking rounds exiting the guns a second.

  Trooper Nelson reached for a door control on the wall, and a large metal partition began lowering to block the path straight ahead.

  One last bullet scraped millimetres below the rapidly descending gate.

  Nelson collapsed as blood erupted from his throat.

  "Damn it all!" Dunlop cried, catching his subordinate mid-fall. The bullet was instant death.

  "Sir," the third trooper said softly, in a deep voice laced with sorrow.

  "I know, I know. Let's get ‘em where they need to go."

  Laying the fresh corpse down gently, the two remaining guards checked their ammo, then, with a tilt of Dunlop’s chin, rounded the corner on their right, Philipe close behind.

  Chas took a hesitant moment to stare at the cadaver. The dead man, ‘Nelson’, had been tall, with tanned skin and blue eyes - handsome beneath all that body armour. It was all Chas could think to stave off the overwhelming urge to scream, to bemoan what the hell was happening, to question how anyone could breach their defences and gun them down in their own base.

  Shaking his head, Chas quickly turned and followed the others, only a step behind. There was simply no time; no time to think about Sarge or this trooper or why they were being invaded, to begin with.

  Dunlop turned, his palm shot out and pressed against Chas's chest, shoving him backwards. Three paces and Chas tripped onto his backside.

  "Oww," the young man muttered, rubbing his rear. As he looked up questioningly, an almighty explosion drowned out anything he might have said.

  Chas's young eyes went dim at the sight.

  Some sort of RPG, that was all Chas could guess. The blast didn’t just kill the three in front of Chas; it pulverised them. Body parts lay strewn about, blood coating the once sterile white walls. Chas's eyes fixated on three pairs of charred legs, two pointing forward and the third towards him. He couldn't even hope to tell which parts were Dunlop's, Philipe’s or the trooper whose name he didn't know. He’d just barely been out of the impact’s range thanks to the corner of the junction dividing him from the others, yet he was no less coated, blood all over him, his face dripping, his hair absorbing oozing sticky viscera. The smell was indescribable.

  This time, Chas couldn't hold it back; bile flooded his mouth, vomit ejected all over the floor. The ringing in his ears was all-encompassing, the noise causing everything to spin and blur; were he not so drenched in the blood of others, he was sure he’d feel blood sliding down a burst earlobe.

  A faint hiss accented to his side as a second door lowered. The explosion had damaged the base enough to warrant sealing off that corridor. Was everyone trying to save him today? First Philipe, then Dunlop, now the building itself shielded him - then again, where could he go now? Forward blocked off, the gunfight behind him, he was trapped.

  Slowly, he crawled to one wall and leaned his back against it. He touched his cheek; a piece of bone had grazed across it, a scar quickly forming as his blood leaked out and mixed with that of others. His head dizzy, his gut empty, he caught one last sight of the carnage - of three men torn apart - before the door slammed shut. Chas vomited once more.