Joanna stared at the remains of the Summoner and saw that it was now scrap, parts of it usable for other ’Mechs. She remembered the last sight she had of Lyonor’s falling Summoner, as her own ’Mech crashed. Pieces of the Summoner’s aligned crystal steel armor had fallen all around as if part of the storm.
Next to the Summoner now, she noticed that slivers and chunks of the armor were strewn around the fallen ’Mech. Walking a few steps, she noticed a flash of light, a sparkle, coming from one of the armor pieces. The piece’s radiance made no sense. There was scarcely any light in the dark sky to cause the flash.
She leaned down and picked up the armor fragment. It was still warm from the battle. There was nothing interesting in its shape or in the battle scars on its surface, but it was from Lyonor’s ’Mech, so she put it in her jacket pocket and trudged on through the mud.
• • •
Now she stared at the armor piece and considered tossing it. There seemed no reason to keep it. She really did not want to remember Lyonor anymore, not now or in the future. She held it up, as if measuring it for destruction. She held it for a long while, then shook her head, and placed it instead in the lock-box. She flipped the lock-box cover down and shoved the box under the cot. It clattered on the uneven floor.
She considered taking a nap, but knew she could not get to sleep.
Glancing around the decrepit room, her home for who knew how long, she pulled on her gloves, strode through the doorway and slammed the door shut behind her. Outside the air was fresh and a strong breeze hit her. She felt it rumple her long dark hair. Strands of hair brushed against her neck and sent a pleasant shudder through her.
In the distance she saw what she had hoped for, a group of trainees to kick around. Breaking into a run, breathing in the welcome fresh air, closing her hands into fists, watching rays of light rising off her gloves’ metal studs, she zeroed in on them.
FOR WANT OF A NAIL
by Dan C. Duval
Ramora
Outworlds Alliance
March 3067
Defoe eased the truck to a stop and set the brake. An early spring storm filled the sky with black clouds and thunder rumbled back and forth between the hills and mountains surrounding the site.
The roadway ran straight up the side of the hill, from the Regimental Base at Danforth, and straight down the other, toward the next stop of his circuit. The Pegasus Scout Hover Tank was grounded into a cut made into the side of the hill, just below the crest where he had parked the truck.
He jumped down, walked to the back of the truck, and pulled his handcart from behind the cover that shrouded the bed of the truck. He loaded the two big containers of spare components onto the cart and rolled it down the paved path to where the Pegasus sat.
The old scout tank had survived several battles, as evidenced by the streaks of rust that ran down from the weapon scorings on its armored side. Its engines had not been replaced at the last refit. To fund military expansion, President Avellar exported everything that would generate hard cash or needed goods, such as replacement engines. So now the old hover tank had become a picket outpost, its engine compartment converted to hold tiny living quarters for its crew, and for the additional cabinets of electronics and optics that controlled the sensors scattered across the valley hilltops.
Active hover tanks smelled of lubricants, half-burnt fuel, and the stale air from under the skirts; this unit smelled of grass, old earth, and maybe a malfunctioning sewage collection unit.
Defoe placed his access key on the pad next to the scout’s hatch and typed in his clearance code. The hatch sank back into the hull with a hiss and swung inwards. He stepped through the opening and dragged his heavy cart into the darkness within.
As he turned, a voice said, “Jump, rook.”
Defoe automatically caught the object tossed at him and it took him a moment to notice that it was a grenade.
He flung it way from him and it rattled around on the floor of the scout’s cabin, banged unseen into one component cabinet after another.
Benny, the senior sergeant assigned this week, said, “Don’t be such an ass, Hutchins.”
“It was just a dummy. Not about to toss a live one to this rook. He might camp on it and try to hatch it.” Neither of the two crewmen could be seen through the backs of their command chairs, but Defoe knew them both, had seen them every other day, every other week, for months now. Benny big, graying, and going to fat; Hutchins tiny, skinny, and seemingly putting more and more of his mass into the long, hooked nose that gave him a rat-face.
Nothing Defoe could do about it. It was bad enough that, despite the desires that sent him to enlist in the Alliance Borderers Regiment, he had ended up in the Third Battalion, the sole infantry unit in the armored regiment. Even worse, his performance in his early training had relegated him to support functions, rather than the line units.
The first time he had handled a live grenade, he had activated the grenade and then fumbled the live round onto the ground. When the Drill Instructor shouted at him, he bent over, picked up the arming lever, and threw it over the safety wall.
If it had ended there, it might have been alright, but then Defoe had ducked, squatting right over the hissing, smoking grenade, and the DI practically had to throw him out of the way to flip the weapon over
