Still, why not just go with fully autonomous fighting machines? We could; our AI systems are good enough, and even an older model like Griffon here is smart enough to do basic maneuvers on its own. The reason is simple—if men no longer fight for their freedom, they’re controlled by the men who control the fighting machines. Our ancestors left Earth to get away from that nightmare, and Saturn’s gone a far way down that route now.
Saturn’s cybernetic killers have a lot of names—“Assault Battleoids,” “Bioroids,” “Chimera”—but whatever you call them, they’re monsters. I understand that they were men once, but they’ve been re-engineered into drones to serve the state of Saturn now. They’re a composite of human and engineered nervous tissue and organs, welded inside a cybernetic battle shell. Unlike our exo-frames, they don’t even try to look human anymore. They’re usually a collection of red eyes, tentacles, and weapons systems. So that’s the other reason for exo-frames—to fight monsters like that more effectively than a tank or fighter could—because if any of those monsters get inside one of our ships or cities, it’ll be up to men like me in an Angel to stop them.
Too bad the Guardian-class is nearly obsolete. Sure, it was an amazing weapons platform back in the days of the Battle of Titan, but those days are long gone (and we lost that one anyway.) The newer models are tougher, faster, and deadlier, and loaded up with the latest smart AI and nanotech. I guess the reason we still keep the Guardians around is there were so many made, and we’ve got spare parts and a logistics system for them to keep them running for decades, even though they aren’t made anymore. It’s good that they’ve been around long enough that all the bugs have long been worked out, and they’re one of the most reliable frames ever made. Still, if I have to go up against a current model Saturnine Assault Battleoid, I’ll be in trouble.
Finally, the atmospheric mix is OK in the hanger, and the emergency crew has determined there are no spark or fire hazards. You’ve got to take fire safety seriously when you breathe oxygen but live in a hydrogen environment.
I take off my helmet and go through the airlock to see how Larry’s doing.
* * *
Larry was the best of us—a natural pilot, with reflexes faster than a cat, and perfect spatial awareness. Fearless and loyal to a fault, it’s like he was made to be the perfect War Angel pilot. I knew he’d rise fast and eventually command a team of his own, and I’d have had the honor of helping him get to it. A guy like that belongs in a frame, fighting in the sky. Now that might never happen.
They take me next to the room where Larry’s being prepped for nano-surgery. Inside, the paramedics are moving around urgently in their scrubs, and I have to stay well back and out of their way. In the middle of the room is the medical pod. The pod will maintain atmosphere and, if necessary, life support, while monitoring the patient, dispensing needed drugs, and isolating him from further hazards. All the nano-surgery remotes will be inserted through that thing later on, as well. I know they’re lifesavers, but I can’t help thinking how much they look like coffins.
Unlike a coffin, the upper surface is transparent, and I can see Larry’s alive. He smiles and gives me a thumbs-up, even though I can see he’s in real trouble. Dark purple bruises show through the blue anti-radiation tint of his skin. One of his eyes is bloodshot and unfocused, and there’s already a tube going in through his nose.
“Hey, Larry, how are you?” I ask.
“I’m OK,” he says. Of course. “I’ll be back in a frame as soon as the docs are done poking at me…”
I nod and look at the med techs.
One of them shakes her head and sends the medical file to my cybernetic augments. It’s not good. Serious bleeding in the brain and other vital organs, as well as a lot of shock damage. His suit had been punctured, and he’d been hurt badly even after it auto sealed. He’ll need surgery for sure.
“I know it,” I reply. “Still, you do what the docs say, so we can get you back into fighting shape, OK?”
“Yes, sir,” he replies with a grin.
“Sir, we’re approaching the base.” one of the med techs interrupts. “We’ll have to finish prepping him for surgery.” Without you here is left unsaid but understood.
“OK. Larry, let me know if you need anything.”
He gives me a smile and gives another thumbs-up as the paramedics put him out, then they firmly but politely all but shove me out of the room.
Not good. Oh, Larry should be fine—those kinds of injuries are certainly something the hospital back at base will be able to handle. Still, hemorrhaging under high-G is never a joke, and it’s going to be a long time until he returns to flight status…assuming he can be returned to service. Injuries like he’s got…you just never know. What if part of his brain was out of oxygen too long? What if the wires of his augments broke loose and damaged something vital? Even if they can repair everything, will he still be the same afterwards?
I just don’t know.
I’m staring at the blank wall looking for answers that just won’t come. The wall interprets that as a query and turns into a screen showing our approach to the base.
Base Halley is a gigantic sphere, kilometers across,
