Iron Empire

Forty-Seven: Luckiest Man Alive

No matter the circumstances, no matter the battle, the goal or even the enemy, I always had a habit of ending up exactly where I was now.

Boots bouncing off a metal catwalk.

Mentally preparing myself.

Staring at my goal.

Moments away from danger.

No matter what I did, I always found myself back inside a mech. It was simply what I was born to do.

I don't know what my life would've been like if that first mech hadn't murdered the President of the United States those ten years ago. Perhaps I'd have become a mechanic or an engineer. Maybe, in some far-fetched universe, I was finishing university, driving a car that didn't have a nuclear reactor under the hood and fantasizing about piloting giant mechs.

But this was no fantasy.

This was no other universe.

This was here and now.

I'd grown up thinking my father had tried to sell a weapon for his own personal gain.

I'd believed every word of the lies I'd been told.

Now I knew that my father had tried to expose a ruthless Axion plot ten years in the making.

But now I had found his mech. I had what he had never possessed—allies. Powerful men and women with the same goals that he had once possessed.

To end the war.

I was going to take down Axion, expose their greed and put an end to the Great Iron War once and for all. For my father and countless other pilots who'd fought and died for one company's paycheck. For an empty sense of honour. For a hollow parody of righteousness. I would fight to end this false war.

Assuming I didn't die in the next thirty seconds.

I was lucky enough to have spotted the scaffolding, hanging high over the Spartan's head.

I was luckier still to have found the ladder that led to the scaffolding, still intact after all these years.

I would be the luckiest man alive if I escaped from this intact.

I dropped down the scaffolding onto the top of the Spartan, being careful that I didn't slide off the smooth curve of its armour. The hatch was easy to find, located near the apex of the mech's sloped armour. I pried it open with a grunt and slid inside, feet catching on a thin metal ladder. I pulled the hatch shut over my head, climbing down into the darkness.

I felt my way around. The space I found myself in was surprisingly large. Rounded corners and cold metallic walls met my searching hands, and I wondered just how large the Spartan's command capsule was.

My fingers traced over something soft. I'd abandoned the broken headlamp in favour of having both hands free when climbing the scaffolding, so I was forced to simply assume I was touching the pilot's chair. An awkward shuffle around it confirmed this. I sat down carefully, enjoying the feel of the seat. The newer mechs had padding for safety, but never for comfort.

I made no move to touch the controls, but the darkness disappeared as if someone had shut it off, chased away by massive running lights and a hum that resonated from somewhere deep inside the mech. A light, the heads-up display, made me squint as my eyes adjusted. A message flashed onscreen, indicators that the mech was powering up, and a baritone voice spoke aloud, filling the cockpit.

"Spartan is now active."

I jumped in my seat. The voice had come from everywhere around me at once, deep and resonant in the small space.