Iron Empire

Fifty-One: Messages

I approached the lift in better spirits than I had been an hour ago. Our plan for tomorrow was set—Martin, Sojwa and I had convened with Mallet and were sure of our strategy.

Curiously enough, Laura had been oddly absent from the meeting. I hadn't seen her slip away, so I was unsure what had transpired.

Martin, for his part, had done his best to seem unaffected by whatever discussion he and Laura had had during the briefing. However, it hadn't been hard to catch his focus drifting from time to time.

Sojwa was as ready as any of us. Her squadron of nine was a welcome addition to our Alliance's struggling ranks, and their Xiezhi would be powerful assets in the battle to come. Interestingly enough, Mallet and Sojwa had been on very good terms during the meeting; considering Sojwa's surprise arrival at our supposedly hidden base, I was beginning to suspect that Mallet had long since known Taewi's past.

Strategy set and plans prepared, all that was left to do was wait. Although time was of the essence, the Firmament's remaining pilots were nowhere near as prepared for combat as our new Korean allies. Only the pilots would even be attempting to sleep tonight—the rest of the Firmament's crew would spend the next few hours loading mechs and fueling dropships.

The doors to the lift slid open with a hiss, and I was greeted by the bespectacled face of Doctor Dan Stonewood. His brown hair was dishevelled and he seemed out of breath.

"We need to talk," he declared.

I stepped onto the lift with a nervous chuckle and Dan leaned on his crutch, shuffling aside to allow room for me.

"Mech hangar one," he spoke aloud. The doors hissed closed and I felt the elevator begin to descend.

We stood in silence for as long as I could tolerate it, Dan adjusting his crutch and staring at the LED lights overhead.

"Okay," I blurted, "is this about you and my father? I know you had your reasons not to tell me, so I hope you know I'm not mad or—"

"No," Dan replied. After a moment's pause, he chuckled. "Well, it's about your father, yes, but I'm glad you understand why I kept my past private as well."

"Alright," I frowned, "I'm confused."

The door to the lift hissed open, leading us out onto a catwalk lined with metal rails.

Lifted out of deep storage from the levels below, an endless stream of mechs of all nationalities glided along the tracks above our heads.

This was the level on which moderately damaged mechs were repaired. Most cosmetic damage was repaired a few storeys up, just beneath the dropships, while heavily damaged mechs were disassembled for parts. For that reason, I didn't often visit this level—either the mechs I used came back in reasonable working order, or they didn't come back at all.

The platform was nearly completely cast in shadow, illuminated only by LED lights embedded in the Firmament's circular wall. The floor was a patchwork of wires and pieces of metal framework designed to support damaged mechs. A nine-by-nine square of these frames dominated the center of the level, each one easily the width of a basketball court.

Most of these frames were occupied by familiar mechs—a mangled Regiment and a shieldless Crusader, to name a few—but one particular mech caught my eye.

The Spartan stood in the centre of the room, stripped almost entirely of its blue armour. The mech's frame was gaunt, and even from a distance I could see that its unprotected chassis was a tangle of wires. Bits of bullet-ridden armour littered the ground around it, in the process of being carried away by a four-man team.