I never expected my dream to sound so domestic.

  Ya know the quiet hum of a refrigerator or an old computer left on too long? The subtle shift of a clock or the flow of water through old radiator pipes? For a state-of-the-art machine, my cockpit is filled with sounds like that, a little symphony of machine noises and an oily ozone smells to match.

  I gently run my hands over the control boards, cold switches and buttons, all in their rightful place. I lick my lips absently, settling into my cushioned, if rather practical, chair. The unfamiliar feeling of my new pilot suit tight on my skin.

  The Main-Battle-Vijiack Neo Massproduction Type; the Neo-M or just Nemo for short. She's a machine with the calm buzz of a Merlon MK3 generator, a suit of olive and navy blue Lanthanides armour - weaker than Goibhnui maybe but still capable of stopping most conventional ammunition dead in its tracks - equipped with an energy rifle, an arc-staff CQC sidearm and sixty-seven minor thrusters for minute adjustments in spacial combat. This machine is my new partner; I received her just a couple of days ago, and already here I am about to enter my first sortie.

  The cockpit is a bit on the small side and packed at that. To either side of me are two massive handles that I now use to slowly move the Neo's hands massive ‘hands’ as though they were my own. A couple decades ago, a war machine like this would have had a whole crew, four or five men, but a mech is a return to a long-forgotten time, one where a single person can change the entire battlefield, and now I'm one such person. My blood is pumping; it's downright exhilarating to finally be here.

  My machine has one leg knelt magnetic clamps on its feet, allowing it to stay stationary against the topside of a warship and giving me a much better aim, but still, it is no easy machine to manipulate. A large monitor across from my chair shows what the Neo's head sees: an enemy machine racing right at me.

  "You're cutting it close, kid," one of my comrades, Kolme Nilas, says from a little speaker to my right.

  It’s exciting but also terrifying. A muddy-green machine, often called an 'Ogre' for its ugly appearance, is slowly getting bigger, flying through space with its own armour and weapons, with me at the centre of its sight. A little counter at the bottom of the screen tells me its distance, the number rapidly ticking down. Closer and closer, bearing down on me, getting more prominent with each passing second.

  Slowly, like the barrel of a tank locking onto its prey, my mech's right arm, holding its sleek rifle, stops, and I let go of the control handle.

  Turning back to the board of switches and buttons, I input the last few adjustments with the computer's aide, watching the rifle twitch slightly into position. Mechs are human-shaped for a plethora of reasons, but I think the most important is the one-person crew aspect: To fire, and move, command, reload and operate the radio - to do all those things alone, the mecha had to turn away from conventional armoured vehicles and become more like a massive, eighteen-metre tall exo-suit. Its hands are mine, its eyes are what I see, its leg go where I lead.

  "Kid? Sabban Vint?"

  I grin, "Don't sweet it, I got this."

  I'm not delaying out of fear or anxiety; the opposite in fact, I'm positively buzzing! This is what we spent the last few months training for, to be pilots for the Indepant Alliance of Free States, for IAFS, and you bet I'm going to make my first outing one to remember.

  The spikey green shape of the Ogre is bearing down on me; its rifle flashes to life, and a spray of physical ammunition hurdles through space towards me.

  However, the Ogre’s weapon is weak and moving, lowering accuracy. Explosions rain down around my stalwart machine where the rounds impact. Thin shards of metal burst into the air, and plums of smoke rise on all sides.

  It fires again; this time, a round connects with the shield held in my machine's left hand. Dinnnnnnnnnnng, that’s about the best I can describe the hollow sound that cries out around me. Had I not been trained, it would have been thoroughly disorientated.

  The impact itself is minimal; like I said, physical ammunition can barely touch the Neo, nor the warship beneath my feet. Still, I have to admit - the explosions all around, the approaching foe, the intense shuddering as the vibrations of my shield being hit echo throughout my mech - I'm equal parts excited and terrified now.

  My hand shoots forward, grabs a shaft with the firing trigger, and my finger pulls.

  Just like that, a beautiful streaking bolt of orange energy fills my screen as the rifle discharges. It soars through the vacuum almost too fast to watch before smashing into the Ogre. The squat mech reels, its back arching like a person punched in the gut as the sheer force (right to its chest armour, I might add) clashes with its forward momentum.

  The Neo's camera automatically zooms in on the enemy, giving me a glorious view of the results. Their chest armour melts, and bubbles, intense heat bores through cheap armour, thick globules of molten metal trickle around the impact point before freezing into crystalline chunks in the vacuum of space.

  I grab my controls without delay and carefully adjust my shot. The enemy, rather shakily, turns around and begins to fly back the way it came. One more blast should finish it.

  I pull the trigger again. Fingers crossed, I watch it clip through the air, but at the last second, the retreating mech thrusts to one side, my shot only grazing one of its spiky shoulders, reducing it to molten slag in an instant but leaving the mech intact.

  "Tch," I sigh, but I'm not too mad.

  Glancing at my hands, they're shivering in excitement. I really did it! I landed two shots, nearly got my first kill, and weathered a storm of fire like it was nothing! This is the real deal; this is what I've waited so long for. Even she would have to admit I’m a soldier now.

  Calming myself, I reach for a large lever between my chair and the wall of the cockpit; pulling the sort of railway clasp-looking thing hard, I allow my machine to vent the generated heat. Outside, the vents on its chest and shoulders let free little puffs of steam. Turning the Neo's head I check up on the others. The rest of our squad, the B-group, is also lined up along the top of the warship Tradech, six almost identical Nemos in a line. I don't see any dead Ogres, but our side looks unharmed, too. A clear success, I'd wager!

  Still, the enemy's attack was rather halfhearted, which likely means our A-team did the real fighting by assaulting the enemy's ships. As if on cue, the youngest of our squad, Ennya Zwan, calls out over the radio, "There they are, guys!"

  I set my screen to get a good view. Flying up above us on their way back are the machines that make this flagship, the Tradech, a one-ship fleet: The trio of red heavy-duty Vijiaks; are bulky and strong-looking machines, as the name implies. The bronze colour of the experimental Mephus mech is in the middle of the pack. And most of all, the duo of Casnels, machines that trump all others, made with only the best armour, engines and weapons. Both machines are sleek and angular - one painted all gold, gleaming in the black of night - the other a mix of blue, red and white, IAFS's rising star, the prodigy Magi pilot, Davim.

  Well, I intend to catch up with that title someday. I reckon there ought to be room for another young ace, but for now, I let myself ogle at their incredible machines as my first battle comes to a victorious end.

  ****

  I'm still riding high as I close my locker door, having changed into plainer clothes, "That was so real."

  Ennya, at the locker next to mine, smiles nervously. He's younger and smaller than me, a bit twigy and something of a class clown, but I suppose so was I. We've gotten on great since the first day of training, "It really was, wasn't it," he says with a little laugh.

  I wrap an arm around his shoulder and smile, "Damn straight it was! Our first battle at long last!"

  There’s a grumbling from a locker near the very back of the room. Old man Nilas gives us a scrupulous look. He's the only member of Group B who isn't fresh out of the academy. We all see him as old, but it's kind of hard to tell. He's a somewhat small man and walks with something of a stoop, but it's not like he's all grey and wrinkled, well maybe a little wrinkled.

  His hair is brown and has grown out a bit, and he has a small beard; it's a look that suits his heavy accent. We first met him when we arrived a couple of days ago, and he was quite the grump but we soon realised he's actually pretty chill.

  He came to the locker rooms with us, for example. Group A gets to land and change first since their machines are more important. Apparently, Kolme has the same right since he's such a veteran pilot, but he chooses to stick with the rest of us, and I think that says something. Why he also selects the locker the furthest from the door, I presume, is just an old man thing.

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  He’s a bit of a lecturer at times, but his advice is solid. He told us about keeping your shield a certain distance from your mech, and after today's battle, I can see why; any closer and while my shield blocked the attack, the debris of the blast might well have blinded the Neo’s cameras.

  "Don't go letting it to your heads, ya hear."

  Ennya skitishly salutes, "N-no sir!"

  I just grin, which warrants me his ire next, "And you lad, we just wanted to scare them back, not take them out. That was a good shot, I'll give you that, but no need for glory huntin', you got that?"

  "Aye, aye, Sir," I offer, and he scowls in return. Despite his age and experience, he's not specifically our boss. Group B is a support force; we take orders from the bridge or the guys in Group A, but if we have a leader, it'd be a mix of Kolme and my fearless childhood friend - though she's not here in the men's changing room for good reason, heh.

  The three of us troop out into the corridor where the rest of our squad is just exiting too.

  "Heya, ladies."

  Shasha Niju, Mili Sanju and Zori Hogei make up the other three pilots of our squad and the other three members of the ‘117th Cadet Core’ all five of us (Mr Kolme withstanding) were a part of not long ago.

  Shasha is someone I've known for as long as I can remember. We grew up on the same street and have always been at each other throats. She's the other unofficial leader of our little group, and with good reason. Tall and neat, strict and level-headed, she has a natural-born officer inside her, and she isn’t afraid to unleash it.

  She offers me a withering look, "You boys aren't going straight for food without showering, are you?"

  Ennya grins shyly, "The showers will still be there after we eat right."

  "A shame, we could all have gone together," Mili says.

  We all collectively stare up at her. Zori breaks the ice from Mili's side, "I don't think she means like that; she meant for food."

  Zori and Mili were fast friends in training. Some might be dumb enough to make a brain and the brawn joke about them, but it's a joke you'd only make the mistake of once (I should know, hah...). Mili is a mountain, the tallest person I've ever known and a bit of a gym freak to boot (another thing you must never say to her). She scored well in the practical parts of piloting but often lagged in the technical test stuff.

  Zori is almost comically opposite. She makes other short girls look tall and consistently scored highest in written tests - only Shasha could come close to rivalling her. Despite those differences, they are as good as inseparable. I don't know how they'd have handled it had they been split up after training. Zori and Mili came from the same city where the training academy was based, so we got to know their families a little, too.

  Well, I got to know one particular sibling of Zori quite well indeed… Ahem.

  At some point, Kolme has wandered off, and I can hear my stomach grumbling too, so instead of teasing Mili's words more, I bid the girls a pleasant wash and head off for the canteen with Ennya in toe.

  "Save us a seat," Mili calls after us.

  "Not like anyone other than Mister Kolme ever wants to sit at our table," Zori mutters.

  I turn back and offer them my best smile, "Nah, after today, I reckon that'll change up real fast. We're proper pilots now!"

  ****

  The space battleship Tradech's canteen is as bustling as ever. The ample space filled with tables and stools has artificial gravity and everything, a premium on a vessel this big to have that available to all crewmembers. I imagine pilots of those shitty Ogre mechs eat from an equally crap ration pack or something.

  Along the back wall are cutout windows, behind which are the kitchen staff and their workstations. On another beige wall is a row of the new vending machine fads. They can produce a burger and other similar foodstuffs with any taste and nutritional value you want. There are rumours that ships are getting rid of their kitchens in favour of such machines, but thankfully, IAFS hasn't done that yet. Imagine entrusting all your dietary needs to a machine.

  Ennya and I make our way with trays along the counters. Kolme got here first but is still at the last counter. He always waits there for the staff to get him this beaten-up old kettle that they fill with a frankly horrible brew of tea. I don't know what compels him to drink such sludge, but he's very habitual about it, usually coming to our table once ready.

  You'd think he'd sit at the table with all the aces. He's clearly been around for a long time and must know them all, but instead, he hangs out with us. Even that he does a bit, err, 'shyly', I guess you'd say? He gives us advice, and as long as we take it seriously, he seems happy enough, but I also get the impression he holds back a lot, not fully integrating with us. I guess being the old man in a group of kids must be awkward for him or something.

  "Err, Sabban, where are you going?" Ennya asks at my side.

  "Right over there," I grin, tilting my head towards a certain table.

  "Eh?! That one is for the Group A guys only."

  "For the pilots, you mean, and after today, I reckon we qualify as that, right? Come on, don't be a baby," not waiting for further protest, I stride up and take a seat at Ace’s table.

  Silence, the table goes quiet.

  The six here are a pretty big deal, to be honest. If you have any interest in mechs, then you know these guys. It's awesome just to meet them in person.

  You got Lt Apples and his two wingmen, all three big, broad men, the stereotypical picture of pilots. They crew the heavy-duty Vijaiks. Lt Apples has blond hair in a tight buzzcut and is the one I've seen the most since he sometimes says hi to Kolme.

  Across from me, though, are the real stars. Commander Ceather, one of IAFS's founding members and its head of pilots! His golden locks are longer and more styled. He wears sunglasses inside, which generally I'd think is the action of a prat, but this guy pulls it off. Next to him is a young woman. She's as young as me and not as renowned as the others, but still a core member of their group, which says a fair deal.

  Her hair is long and quite pretty. Her expression at my arrival is a little less pretty, but still, she’s quite the beauty. Finally, the boy-wonder, younger than me and quite a bit smaller, Davrim. Blocky shoulders but otherwise slim, scruffy hair and an almost girlish face but with angry eyes - he stands out in a crowd both for his appearance and insane skills at such a young age; it'd be fair to call him an icon within IAFS.

  He also stands out in how he's staring-- no glaring at me?

  "Nemo twenty-six through thirty-one, right?" he finally says.

  I blink, "Err ya, my machine’s number is twenty-seven."

  He nods, "What do you know about Magi? Or the enemy fleet's recent tactics? Or how about the progress our IAFS political wing is making down on Bhaile? Well, you keeping up with these questions even?"

  "I, ah, I mean, not much?"

  He smiles, this smug, smarmy little sneer, "Then perhaps this isn't the table for you, alright?"

  "You what?" I splutter altogether too weakly.

  A hand suddenly falls on my shoulder, "Come on kid, there won't be enough room at this table for everyone," Kolme Nilas says behind me.

  I'm so taken aback I don't get his hint at all, "What do you mean? There are loads of seats free."

  The girl snickers, and the two blockheaded heavy-duty pilots chuckle, too. Lt Apples just sits quietly, seemingly avoiding eye contact with everyone - while the supposed leader of all pilots in this organisation, Ceather, just keeps eating - as if he's heard nothing, hasn't even noticed me sitting down, blind behind those sunglasses.

  "You ought to listen to number three over there," Davrim adds, something like loathing in his voice; aren't we supposed to be fellow pilots? Comrades?

  Alright, so maybe I was over-eager, still a bit excited after my first real battle. Maybe I should have flown a few more times before trying to ingratiate myself with these people - but this? There being so cold. Aren't we the only twelve people on this ship who know what it's like to go out and brave the cold of space all alone? Doesn't that at least warrant some basic politeness from your fellow soldier?

  "Number three’s penchant for cowardice is a valuable trait. 'Last Nemo Standing', ha, follow him, and I just might learn to remember your number," Davrim finishes, and the same ones laugh openly and loudly at me this time.

  My face flushes, and I'm reeling from the clear, I don't know, hostility? that they're showing me, but more than that, my blood boils.

  This kid, this punk, younger and smaller than me; maybe I could accept some hazing from the older men, but from this guy, little more than a child? Give me a super Casnel machine like his, and I bet I'd be just as much a prodigy!

  I'm nearly twice his size; I could easily reach across and hoist him up by the collar. I want to! Deep in the pit of my stomach, I get this sickening urge to beat the little shit. Of course, I don't. I shouldn't have been so eager to sit here; it's just a table. If I throw a punch at this guy now, they won't just punish me, but at least Ennya and Kolem, too, maybe the whole squad.

  This is the military now, and even if these people are acting like schoolyard punks, that doesn’t mean I can. I can't settle things with my fists anymore - even if that's what every impulse in my body wants.

  Instead, I give the little bully exactly what he wants, standing up without a word and leaving my food behind. As I turn, Kolme tries to pat my shoulder again. He probably means it as a kind gesture; he almost definitely does, but I snap, swinging my arm to knock his away.

  There is an awful clattering as his stupid metal kettle smashes into a stool, no doubt denting, detestable tea spilling everywhere - but I don't look back or say sorry. I just charge out of the canteen. The sound of laughter follows my back, that whole table and quite a few others.

  "A Nemo that doesn't know its place. How pitiful," I hear someone sneer.

  I pass the girls on my way out but can't find anything to say and storm right past them, too.

  Before I know it, I'm in bed, embarrassed, angry and hungry.

  'The Nonpareil of Resh', now on its fifth volume, was on its first when I was posting the original version of this short story online, so what better a place for a shout out then here!

  Transported to another world—and caught in events over his head—Gwyn Black is given the title of a hero. Armed with the power to liquefy solids, he faces colorful, deadly opponents as well as his inner struggles. Should he succumb to darkness or become fit to bear the title of Nonpareil is something only time will tell.

  Volume 1 [updated and professionally edited] is available on Amazon and other platforms.