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  “Don’t! Let me check it before you move it. It’s hooked up to that power cell for a reason. I want to know why.”

  Harmon shrugged. “Okay, but I don’t see any lights; it has probably been dead for years.”

  Clip took a sensor reader out of his kit, one of the many tools he had improved. He checked the cell and the device. There was a faint amount of power running to it that barely registered on his screen. There were several ports on the back along with the slot where the power cell was hooked in. He checked to make sure the connections were tight, he then carried the two devices to the hovercraft.

  Clip then called Rinto’s personal comm from the communicator in the hovercraft. When Rinto answered, Clip looked at Harmon and winked. “Hey boss, we found some stuff worth a hovercraft full of credit…probably two. Can we have it?” he asked.

  Rinto had left for the day, right after lunch. It was the last day of the week, and he liked to go to the track and watch the chinto races. He laughed at Clip. “Yeah, sure you did. Can you power up that little project you guys have been putting together with it?”

  “Well, yeah, I might be able to figure it out and use it,” said Clip. “Maybe.”

  “I tell you what, you can have whatever you found, but if you get that thing running, I want to be there when you enter it,” Rinto said.

  “Deal!” Harmon said over Clip’s shoulder.

  Harmon didn’t feel too bad about taking all the gear they found. Clip had called Rinto and told him they found some valuable stuff. It wasn’t their fault if he didn’t believe them. It was getting dark, though not noticeably cooler, as they started loading up everything they’d found. It took them two hours and three trips to get everything to their place on the other side of the city using Clip’s small personal hovercraft and the yard’s ancient hovercraft. It was a good thing they didn’t get stopped by the authorities. Not because of the weapons—on Joth, everyone had the right to own weapons—but because of the yard’s hovercraft. It wasn’t registered.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Two

  They lived in an old warehouse near the Star Port in Purlit, the largest city on the planet. The population of the city was around one million. It was located on the northern part of the planet near the pole.

  The entire planet only had thirty million sentient beings on it. Most lived near the poles, where it was the coolest. The area near the equator on Joth never dropped below one hundred and forty degrees, even at night. During the daylight hours it reached upward of two hundred.

  The city was comprised of humans and many other races, but mostly humans. They were settlers and descendants of settlers from Tretra, the next planet closer to the system’s star, Tretrayon.

  Tretrayon shone down mercilessly onto Joth. The system had fourteen planets, and Joth was the second planet from its star. The next planet was Tretra. Tretrayon was a star similar in size and rating to Sol, back in the home world system, and Tretra was the most Earth-like planet in the system. Its gravity was just ten percent more than Earth’s, and it had a twenty-five-hour day. It had been the planet originally colonized thousands of years ago.

  Both planets had atmospheres suitable for humans, but Joth had not been initially colonized because of its extreme temperatures. It also had a gravity just a little more than its sister planet, and, though its rotation was a little longer, the whole system went by the same twenty-five-hour time schedule. There were no oceans to speak of on Joth. There were several large lakes near the poles, but they were not enough to provide water for the entire planet.

  Out of necessity, the atmosphere moisture collection industry on Joth was considered one of the best in their region of the galaxy. Though it was hot, settlers had come for one reason or another. Life could be hard on the planet Joth, and its residents took pride in that fact.

  Of the dozens of different races living on Joth, the Prithmar made up the next largest population after humans, with over ten million. They had settled on Joth as refugees over eight hundred years prior, after their home world had been decimated in a multi-system war. The planet’s environment was close to their home world, with the same average temperature and atmospheric moisture content. The Prithmar were the primary reason for the moisture collection industry advancement—it had been a way of life on their home planet.

  Harmon and Clip rented the warehouse from the Farnog Corporation, one of the companies involved in the moisture collection business. It was Prithmar-owned, though it employed all races. Harmon and Clip had run across the opportunity about eight months ago, when Zerith, a friend from secondary school, let them know his parent’s business had outgrown it. It was perfect for their plan.

  Zerith’s parent had converted one end of the warehouse to a large three-bedroom apartment, which worked out well for the three friends. For Clip and Harmon, having a Prithmar as a roommate was no different than having anybody else. On Joth, very few were xenophobic; the planet had such a diverse population for so long, it was just something that didn’t exist. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of the galaxy. It couldn’t even be said about their sister planet Tretra.

  * * *

  Zerith came home from his job as a fusion plant technician at the family business shortly after they had closed the warehouse bay door. He came through the apartment and out into the bay. It was a room about the size of a warball field, with a roof fifty feet above.

  Zerith was a little shorter than Clip—only about five-foot-tall and slender—as was most of his reptilian race. His small scales were a dusty bronze color, which were a bit lighter in his face. His tail extended about two feet behind him through a slot in his clothes. The end was slowly twitching, as he watched Harmon refill the last locker. He scratched the side of his head with one of the three fingers on his hand and ate a piece of fruit while trying to figure out what the weapons and ammunition were doing in their warehouse.

  “What iss all thiss?” he asked, the slight stretching of some of his consonants barely noticeable. Over the years, his race had learned to speak Earth Common.

  For the most part, a translator wasn’t needed. They each had one, but it was for speaking to some of the other races in their city. Most beings had one programmed into their personal comps and linked in to an earpiece. The ones used on Joth had all the languages in the system programmed into them as well as a few from nearby systems. If one could afford it, there were translation programs that had all the known languages. The three of them couldn’t afford one. Zerith’s family had credits, but it was tradition for a Prithmar to earn their own way through life. There were no handouts, and any type of inheritance went right back into the family businesses.

  “This is the mother lode, that’s what it is,” said Harmon.

  “Can you usse thesse weaponss in the mech?” Zerith asked, looking over toward the corner of the room at a huge war machine that was partially assembled.

  “Well, we can’t use any of the weapons, but the power cells were just what we needed to put it together and test it,” Clip said, clearly excited.

  “Then, we can usse them in the ssecond phasse of the plan, for protecting what we claim,” Zerith stated, as if the first part were going to go as planned.

  “Exactly! I’m going to win this thing,” Harmon said.

  Harmon walked over and looked at the mech. It was…well, it was a sight to see. Clip and Zerith had built it from parts of damaged war machines that had come through the scrapyard. Harmon had helped with labor. Some pieces were of human design, and others were from machines other races used. Most of it was old. There were parts from outdated mechs and parts that Clip had made work, though they clearly did not belong.

  The legs were from a mech that had first come off an assembly line two hundred years ago.

  The main part of the body was of a design they still couldn’t identify. It had been brought in by Yarkle, a Wend that came into the system a couple times a year to sell to Rinto. He mostly brought ship parts, but occasionally he had war machi
nes, or what was left of them. The last load Harmon had been working through had been brought in by Yarkle.

  The arms were Clip’s design. They resembled a modern mech’s arms. But the way they were manipulated by the pilot was almost human-like. Well, it would be, Clip had said. They had yet to power the machine up. They would find out that weekend. All three of them knew they wouldn’t get much sleep. There was too much to do, too much at stake.

  Forty-eight hours later, they sat on a table drinking the last of their celebratory beer. Zerith drank a much stronger Prithmar brand; his digestive system could handle the extra alcohol. They all had slept a few hours the night before, but not too many.

  The mech was ready to be tested. They had connected all of the parts and put two power cells into the machine. One would have worked and powered the mech for more than a day’s use.

  Over the last few months, Clip and Zerith had completely rewired the entire war machine and pieced together an operating system. Instead of one small computer to run the machine, it had several. It was as ugly as anything Harmon had ever seen, but he trusted Clip. If Clip said it was going to work, then it would work. It may need adjusting, but it would work. He needed it to work.

  Their plan was for Harmon to enter the Top Fleet Marine competition next month. The Tretrayon Defense Fleet held the competition every year. This year it was scheduled to be on Joth.

  The type of competition changed every year. The scenario this year was based on planet operations. Dropping in from high altitude, movement to a target, and other various tasks that had to be performed at the target. After the mech operations, there were several tasks that each Marine had to perform. It was open to the entire fleet. A Marine would use their assigned mech in it, receiving scores on a point system, for all the tasks.

  The prize was one hundred thousand credits. Every year, Marines went through unit level competitions to become the top Marine in their unit so they could compete for the annual prize and prestige. Winning the competition meant that they were guaranteed fast track promotions, and, with shrewd investments, a comfortable life after their fleet time was up.

  For Harmon and the guys, the prize money was more than enough to put a down payment on a used ship and book a ride on a merchant ship leaving their system through the gate—smaller ships could piggy back onto larger ships for a fee, and they planned to become salvagers. That’s where the real credits were—selling pieces of ships from past wars.

  “I’m ready, let’s do this.” Harmon said.

  “OK, just remember, I may have to make some programming adjustments,” Clip said.

  “Thiss iss exciting,” Zerith said, his tail waving at the tip. He crunched and chewed the seed of the fruit he had been eating.

  Harmon climbed up the right leg and eased backward into the mech. He plugged in the leads on his helmet and slid his arms into their slots in the upper chest. He initiated start-up and closed the canopy. Before the canopy closed and sealed, the screens came on.

  Inside the mech, he could see what was around him through the cameras mounted in the body of the mech. He had three screens enabling him to look in three different directions: forward, left, and right. As he turned his head, the screens panned, giving him the illusion the mech had a head, and it turned. There was also a camera behind him that he could see behind him, if he chose.

  Harmon tested the communications first. “How does it sound?” he asked.

  “Sounds good out here, man,” Clip answered back from his personal comm.

  “Sounds good in here, too, though I should probably have put in earpieces. Or get a better helmet. It’s pretty loud in here when it’s running,” he said.

  “Gotcha. Zee says he can get that set up for you. His company has some for workers in the plant. There’s going to be several things we need to work on in the next few weeks,” Clip responded.

  “Visuals are good. All the lights are in the green. I am going to step forward. Stay back,” Harmon said. He picked his left foot up and began walking forward. It felt right. Clip had used the same movement designs that were in modern mechs. Harmon had spent plenty of time in a mech while at the academy, as he had been aiming for a commissioned slot in the Tretrayon Defense Fleet’s Marine Corps. Four years of training, including his summer breaks, had been for nothing. Until now, that is.

  When Harmon slid into the cockpit, he had inserted his feet into the “boots.” These were fitted slots for his feet in the upper thighs of the machine. As he lifted his feet to walk normally inside the machine, its limbs mimicked his movements. He could pivot on his feet and the machine would do the same. He could jump, and, depending on how much effort he put in to it, the mech would perform the same action with small jumps or large jumps. Harmon moved around in the warehouse, getting used to being in a mech again. The grappler at work was similar, and he had spent thousands of hours in it. It was on tracks, though, and not quite the same.

  He couldn’t test the weapons on the mech because they didn’t have the ammunition. There was a magnetic rail gun on the right arm and a slot on both shoulders for a missile rack. There was also a compartment on the left thigh for one of the grenade rifles that were issued to mech pilots in the Corps, but they had no rifle.

  Zerith knew someone that worked in the rail gun plant, and she had provided the parts to the railgun over a month ago. It had been easy for her to get the parts out. There was no over-the-top security in the plant. After all, why would someone need parts to a railgun that only worked on a mech? Who had mechs but the military? The manufacturing plant belonged to her family, and she was happy to gift them to Zerith.

  They had been working on the machine for the last six months. Harmon didn’t want to know where Clip got the arming and aiming program for the weapons, but the aiming reticle popped into view when he initiated it, so it worked. He suspected Clip wrote the programming himself. As for the parts, you never knew with Zerith around; he knew beings everywhere. Zerith could get his little hands on all kinds of parts and pieces they couldn’t find in the scrapyard.

  Harmon hit the foot thrusters with just a tap. They fired off and lifted the mech to about twenty feet up. When he came back down and landed, he bent his knees, absorbing the shock. It didn’t cause any damage to the machine; no warning lights came on. Harmon did, however, feel it in his own knees and hips, and it jarred him. Should have used the thrusters to slow myself down, he thought. He was a little rusty, like the outside of the mech.

  Zerith turned the lights out in the warehouse. Harmon switched over to infra-red and saw darkness—and nothing else. He couldn’t see a thing. Zerith turned the lights back on. He popped the cockpit, and Zerith and Clip climbed up a leg to see if they could figure it out. Zerith finally traced it. A relay had come loose due to his hard landing. Zerith killed the lights again, and this time it worked.

  Over the next two weeks, they tinkered with the mech every night and on the weekends, tightening loose wiring and relays. When Clip was working on programming and Zerith was tinkering with the legs, Harmon would work out in the far corner of the bay with weights and the hanging bag. He also ran every night through the neighborhood.

  Zerith secured some paint. It was the same dark grey paint used on the Corps’ mechs. He even painted “Lieutenant Tomeral” on a nameplate on the upper body of the mech.

  Harmon was a Lieutenant in the Inactive Reserves of the Tretrayon Defense Fleet Marine Corps. He had not been selected to go into the fleet, but since he didn’t resign his commission, he was in the Inactive Reserves. It was the only thing he got out of the academy besides training. They hadn’t wanted to give him the active slot that he had earned, and he refused to enlist as a Private, so he had no choice other than an officer commission in the Inactive Reserves. It was how he was going to enter the competition; he had found a loophole. The competition was open to the whole fleet.

  The top mech pilot from each major unit could enter. As a member of the Inactive Reserve, he was their top mech pilot. Especially sin
ce he was the only one with a mech. As a member of the Inactive Reserves, you were responsible for providing and maintaining your own weapons. His mech, as pieced together and mismatched as it appeared, was a weapon. It was a war machine.

  If called to duty, by regulation, the fleet would provide ammunition or battery clips for Reservists’ weapons. They would have to provide the grenade launcher, railgun ammo, and missile racks for his mech. It had been two hundred years since Inactive Reservists had been called to duty, but the regulations still stood. He was an Inactive Reservist, and this was one of his weapons.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Three

  On the morning of the competition, Rinto let Harmon, Clip, and Zerith use his heavy hauler to get the mech to the Star Port, where the competition was scheduled to begin. They were going up in a dropship to drop onto the first part of the competition from ten thousand feet.

  When they arrived and unloaded the mech, a major in the Marines came over to them.

  “What are you doing? What is this?” Major Audell asked, looking at his roster and back up to the ugliest mech he had ever seen.

  Harmon saluted and said, “Lieutenant Tomeral of the Inactive Reserves, sir. Reporting for the competition.” Harmon had a good haircut, a shave, and was in his combat fatigues, a light grey mottled pattern.

  The major took out his slate and brought up the Inactive Reserves, and, sure enough, there was Lieutenant Tomeral. He also went over the competition regulations several times with a deepening frown.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  He walked over to where other mechs and their pilots were waiting to receive their battle load and ammunition. He spoke to an older officer, who looked over toward them. He was probably a marine colonel. It appeared as if they were arguing, the major pointing again and again at his slate. After several minutes, the colonel threw his hands up and walked away, reaching for his personal comm.