“You don’t help with my sanity,” Amye says.
“I’m your sanity. But if you want I can leave and never come back.”
Amye tears up. “NO. I can’t deal without your help. I’ll cut back on the drinking, but I won’t make it if you were to leave me…again.”
THE MECHANIZED WALKING combat tanks line the battlefield like ancient knights before a joust. Long-barreled cannons replace lances.
Reynard activates the Battle Analyst Computer. The red outline of enemy tanks highlight as targets. He locks missiles on three targets directly in front of him, sending the most missiles at the center target. If the pilots on either side of him do the same enough ordinance should expend to eliminate the enemy.
The battle call sounds releasing the warriors into combat. Reynard finds it strange a medieval practice continues. Allowing the enemy to line up, get ready, and then charge went out with the American Civil War, but it hasn’t here. In fact, it seems to be a common preparation to prevent the destruction of many cities.
It reminds him of video games as he unleashes racks of missiles and counter measures to distract enemy missiles screaming toward his vehicle. He turns the Mecat. The brunt of the impacts dent the armored hide.
Klaxons.
Plasma bolts shear at the armor plating. More rockets impact.
The explosions tear through his cockpit. The white-hot sting of death fills the cockpit with choking black smoke. All goes black.
Mark lifts the hatch of the simulator. Smoke wafts out.
“You lasted a full thirty-seven seconds.”
Reynard coughs, “Great. You’re supposed to log five-hundred hours in this thing before piloting a real Mecat. I’ll be using training wheels forever.”
“The average life span of a green Mecat pilot is less than two minutes,” reminds Mark.
“Guess I’m dragging the average down.”
“You’re a black ops team for Admiral Maxtin. You don’t have to be Mecat lancers. Osirian mercenaries aren’t the most popular on planets anyway. You’re a good starship pilot. Stick with it.”
“Not as good as I would like. Athena still compensates for a lot. In a shuttle without computer assistance I fly wonky.” Reynard crawls from the simulator.
Mark examines the control setting of the machine. “You’ve this set on extreme difficulty.”
“I beat level easy.”
“Commander, with all due respect, I don’t think you’re ready for the experienced level in the simulator.”
“I defeated the other levels. What exactly makes you an expert?” Reynard asks.
“I hold the record top score in the simulator.”
Reynard balks at pointing out a simulator re-creates reality. Not the same as being on an actual battlefield. No matter how realistic a simulation feels, the brain will always know death can be reset.
“During simulated Mecat war games, I’ve never been defeated. Admiral Maxtin felt it was time I was placed in actual combat situations to hone my skill.”
“You’ve pointed out we’re not a Lance.”
“You’ve experienced combat situations,” Mark says.
“There’re different levels to being shot at,” Reynard scoffs. “But nothing gives you the shakes like the first time.”
“You shook at that casino?”
“I certainly did.”
“The conflagration with the Mokarran’s inevitable. All our combat-hardened soldiers have been off the field for thirty years commanding a green fleet. The Admiral wants me to gain battle experience through my time with you, and train you.”
“I understand the purpose of the program and why he assigns senior cadets to my crew. You need to be immersed in combat so you’ll lead your troops into battle and not be as untested as they are. What I want is to become a better Mecat pilot.”
“Keep practicing. But turn off the smoke effects. You restart the simulator over immediately and not have to wait for it to air out,” Mark suggests. “You aren’t untrainable, Commander.”
“I don’t have the aptitude for Mecat controls,” Reynard admits.
“A thousand years ago the Iphigenians invaded your planet, conscripting millions into their army to operate the combat vehicles highly similar to Mecats.”
“Maxtin shared all this with you?”
“The Admiral filled me in on a few facts.”
“I was placed in cryostatus over being trained to fight.”
“Doesn’t mean you couldn’t be trained for combat. Others were completely rejected and released. You were selected for another reason,” Mark says.
“None of which has much to do with making me a better pilot now. I need criticism on my piloting since the alternative is death.”
“Pilots who make it past their first battle have an increased ratio of future survival,” Mark says.
“Experience does help.”
“And mercenaries add a lot of hardware, improving their chances with the credits they earn. UCP pilots are forbidden to modify their Mecats, and Mokarran Cats are factory—no custom modifications. Behooves you to learn the weaknesses in each model Mecat. Take the ZN3-11s. They have a defect in the right leg joint. Focus your rocks there, and the intense heat will wield the joint tight or blow the leg off.”
“If the leg freezes, it’s still capable of firing,” Reynard says.
“Accurate. But it leaves them as a stationary target.”
“In the simulation, Mokarran Mecats—all Mecats—look the same.”
“They aren’t. There are different models. Learn them. Learn each type’s weakness. Target those areas. You’ll eliminate more of the enemy using less missiles. Leave cleanup to the smaller Cats who come in and finish those you damaged.”
“Military training, but I’ve studied merc lance footage. They aren’t cohesive in battle,” Reynard remarks.
“Mercs are collecting Confirmed Kill Notches. CKNs get you paid. They won’t disable an enemy Mecat because someone else will get their score. Some merc consignments even offer bonuses based on number of kills acquired.”
“If we’re going to form a Lance we need to fight that way.”
“Commander, I recommend you hone your skill and survive before you worry about pay. If Admiral Maxtin funds your group, you needn’t worry about credits at first. An advantage you’ll have over every other mercenary.”
“But CKNs build my reputation. Gives me street cred.”
“Street cred?” Mark seems confused.
“Terran term relating to your credibility
