Ashes of Empires by Steve P. Vincent

Author:Steve P. Vincent [Vincent, Steve P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Steve P. Vincent

16

“Shit!” Stiler’s shout filled the cavernous hanger as he broke into a run for the cockpit of the unoccupied exosuit. Across the gantry, the minigun of the other exosuit rose to aim at him. “Shit!”

He felt like he was running in slow motion as the gun barrel tracked him, then spat hundreds of rounds of depleted uranium at him. Miraculously, none hit him, and he dove into the cockpit, mashing the button to close the canopy before he’d even landed. As the thick, armoured glass closed him in, he righted himself in the pilot’s seat, and took a moment to breathe.

After basking in his survival for just a split-second, he got to work on staying alive. He pressed the most important button inside the cockpit, firing up the reactor at the heart of the exosuit, and then flicked switches, pushed buttons and turned dials in a flurry of activity. Although he hadn’t been in this exosuit before, he’d logged more hours in exosuits than any soldier in the Union – the process was as simple to him as walking.

“Identify.”

Stiler smiled at the familiar female voice of the exosuit artificial intelligence. It was like meeting an old friend. “Identity: Sergeant Talon Stiler, Union Marines.”

There was a long pause for a process that was usually completed instantly. Seconds ticked by, minigun rounds sparking along the torso of his ride, and Stiler started to worry his authorisation had been rescinded after his actions on Baker V. This was the first real test to see if he had been dishonourably discharged; if he had been, he’d be shit out of luck with this exosuit.

The onboard artificial intelligence units were notoriously prickly with anyone unauthorised to pilot the machines. First, the AI would shut down all systems and order the occupant out of the cockpit. If the wannabe pilot refused, the AI would ask again. After another refusal, the cockpit would lock, the onboard climate control system would spike the internal temperature, and the intruder would bake alive in a metal coffin.

Given the reception he’d get outside the cockpit, Stiler was hard pressed to choose what was worse.

“Authorisation confirmed,” the AI said at last. “Welcome Sergeant Stiler. Control of the exosuit is yours.”

“Change AI designation to Helga,” Stiler said, then paused while the AI confirmed the name change. “Commence emergency start-up.”

Helga powered up the weapons and systems, while Stiler focused on the threat. The pilot of the other suit had given up on the pitter-patter shots of the minigun; effective against most targets – human or Dioscuri – they were less than useless against the hardened, heavy armour of the exosuits. Now, he was bringing the exosuit’s right arm up…

…leaving Stiler staring down the barrel of a railgun.

“Helga!” Stiler screamed as the target lock squealed in his ear. “Time estimate to exosuit start-u—”

The railgun round struck like hammer smashing into a nail. Instantly, the exosuit was knocked off its feet, plunging to the ground, pulling down the gantry to which it was tethered.

Stiler tasted blood, realising he’d bitten his tongue even as he worked the sticks to get his ride upright.

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