Valiant

[Valiant #11: Echoes]

Log Date: 10/19/12763

Data Sources: Feroce Acceso

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

M.V. Accatria: Infirmary

8:35am SGT

“From what the scans are returning, it looks like natural pigmentation with a bioluminescent component.”

Sitting on the edge of one of the beds in the Accatria’s infirmary, I watch as Valkyrie scrolls through the test results on her data slate. My left sleeve has been rolled up to the elbow, exposing the black runemarks on my wrist, and the fissure marks that trace away from them all the way to my elbow.

“So… not some sort of fungus or a parasite?” I ask.

“Nothing of the sort. Whatever it is, your body is producing this stuff, not a foreign agent.” Valkyrie says, still scrolling through the results on her slate. “That’s not to say this is normal. It’s unusual for humans to produce any bioluminescent pigmentation. This is something you usually see in plants, fungi, bugs, reptiles… when it manifests in humans, it’s usually been induced by something.”

“What about vampires, though?” I point out. “I mean, I know—”

“Same goes for vampires, since they’re created from humans.” Valkyrie says before I can finish. She lowers her slate, turning and lifting my left arm to examine it again. “I’ll run some more extensive tests on the samples I took from you, see if I can get some answers about what genetic sequences are responsible for causing your cells to produce this pigmentation, and in such… distinctive patterns.” She looks at the runemarks around my wrist, then gives me a meaningful look. “I have a suspicion that whatever this is, it has an arcane foundation that you’ve chosen to omit.”

“S’nothing major.” I mumble, avoiding her grey-eyed gaze.

“If it wasn’t an issue, you wouldn’t be here asking me about it, and hiding it beneath long sleeves everywhere else.” she says, letting my arm drop once more. “Nor am I ignorant of where this likely came from. I have treated Masklings before; I do know what runemarks look like. If this was caused by your interaction with one of them, and you’re worried about the effects it will have on you, I recommend you stop doing whatever it was that resulted in those marks on your arm.”

“You know about Maskling biology, then?” I ask, starting to roll my sleeve back down to my wrist.

“Masklings don’t have consistent biology, since they’re chimaeras.” Valkyrie answers, striding to one of the desks in the infirmary so she can start loading the results of my physical into the database. “I am familiar with many of the species that Masklings might take as their Maskbearers, and on a conceptual level, I am familiar with their primary mechanism for existing, but at the end of the day, they are magical creatures, and the arcane is not my forte. You would need to speak to a Preserver or a medical arcanologist for more insight into their biology.”

“Right.” I say, sliding off the bed and starting to pull my hooded longcoat back on. “I noticed the ring, by the way. Did you and Jackrabbit finally tie the knot?”

She looks over her shoulder, then lifts her left hand to look at her ring finger. “We did, during the years we spent in dark space after the program was shuttered. We found ourselves with more time on our hands than we’d had back when the Challengers were active, so once things settled down, we made it official. It’s almost funny, since we never really had time before. Only managed to find time for it after everything went to shit.”

I nod, pulling the other shoulder of my coat on. “I’m glad. You two deserved it. Was it a good ceremony?”

“It was good enough.” she says, tucking her hands in the pockets of her labcoat and turning about. “Will that be all, 5377?”

I don’t wince externally, but the number stings. It may seem like a little thing, but to Challengers, it’s a big thing; in the program, you were known by your number until you’d earned your codename. For another Challenger to call you by your number and not your codename usually implied that they didn’t believe you’d earned your codename, or that you weren’t worthy of it.

And though it’s phrased politely, it’s a clear signal that Valkyrie doesn’t want to be friendly with me, and wants me to go away now.

“Yeah, that should be everything.” I say, sliding my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “Just wanted to get that checked out before I deploy for this next mission. Thanks for taking a look at it.”

With that, I turn and head for the door, getting on my way without further word.

Intercepted Transmission

Surveillance and Central Intelligence Operations Network to CURSE Operative (Unidentified)

9:58am SGT

>Proximity alert triggered.

>Movement detected from Unit 5377.

>>Anticipated destination: Vanui, Rokolos System.

>>Operations perimeter breach imminent.

>>>Initiating threat assessment…

…

…

…

>>>Threat potential: high. Preventative action required.

>>>Analyzing assignment objectives and parameters…

>>>>Asset recovery unlikely. Asset denial required.

>>>>>Forwarding recommendations to CURSE Administrator for approval…

…

…

…

>Recommendations approved. Additional recommendations also provided. Updating assignment objectives and parameters…

>Initiating review of onsite resources…

>Media contacts located. Queuing notifications to be dispatched upon asset denial.

>Forwarding assignment update to assigned operative.

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

M.V. Accatria: Bridge

10:19am SGT

“So, this is where the famous Echo has been hiding out since the Challengers went under fifteen years ago.” Dussel says, folding his arms as he stands at the left bridge window, staring down on the night side of Vanui. A spiderweb of lights crisscross for hundreds of miles across the planet’s surface, showing the extent of metropolitan spread across the planet. “Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised your tech expert ran off to hang out on a Cyber-owned planet.”

“He was married to a Viralis, so he had some connections in the Cyber community.” Sierra explains from where she’s standing on Dussel’s other side. “Based on the report put together by intelligence, he started an infosec company after retiring from Challenger life, and expanded his business out into automated security systems over the following years. He’s done very well and made a lot of money since the program collapsed, unlike a lot of other Challengers.”

“Probably helps that he got out early, before the program actually collapsed.” Dussel remarks, reaching into his jacket to pull out his vape, before remember his own rule about vaping on the bridge and putting it away again. “The boys are sure that CURSE hasn’t gotten to him first?”

“Fairly certain.” Sierra answers, reaching up to adjust her eyepatch a little. “Digging through his history, it looks like CURSE actually offered him a position the moment he retired from the Challenger program. He turned it down, though, claiming he didn’t want to be part of the fighting and politics anymore. Seems like he’s maintained that stance since then; he’s kept his head down for the most part, focused on his company, and funded non-political, philanthropic causes within the Cyber community.”

“Quick question.” I pipe up from where I’ve been standing with my hands tucked in the pockets of my longcoat. “If he turned CURSE down, why do we think he’s going to help us? It sounds like he doesn’t want to be involved in any of it since the program collapsed.”

Dussel glances down at me. “You're the one that suggested this, son. Our other option is to get a damn good hacker on it, and money’s been a little tight since our mercenary license was revoked and the Colloquium blacklisted us. If you’ve got any bright ideas, I’m all ears.”

“Besides, that’s what we’ve got you for.” Sierra says, leaning around Dussel to grin at me. “You’re good at appealing to the best in people.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I say doubtfully. “If he doesn’t shoot me on sight, I’ll consider that a win, and we’ll go from there. When am I heading down?”

“Once the Masklings get here.” Dussel answers, turning around and crossing the bridge. “Since we’ve been blacklisted, Colloquium-compliant systems are giving us the cold shoulder. Most of them won’t attack us outright because they’re afraid we’ll shoot back, but they will call the Vaunted on us and deny us surface visits and orbital resupply. Tony, how long do you think we have before the Vaunted get here?”

“Forty-four hours, given the nearest Vaunted station.” Tony answers from the adjutant’s console, her pale blue eyes remaining fixed on the holoscreen in front of her. “There’s a Vaunted frigate, the Grazer, posted in this system, but she’s not big enough to engage us, so she’s been holding position on the other side of Vanui, waiting for backup.”

“How am I supposed to get down to the surface if they’re not allowing us landing permissions, then?” I ask.

“That’s where the Masklings come in.” Sierra answers, her eyes still fixed on the planet below. “They’ve got a stealth flyer on that sleek little cruiser of theirs. They can get you down to the surface without triggering the planet’s defense grid.”

“Turns out they’re useful for something after all.” Dussel says as he settles into his captain’s chair. “They should be arriving soon. Did you get the briefing on what city Echo is in and where to find him?”

“Yeah, I went over it last night.” I say, rolling a shoulder. “I know how to get to his place and I’ve got a good idea of how to get inside. Talking him into coming back… that’s gonna be a little harder.”

“Well, don’t take too long. You’ve only got about twenty-four hours. After that, we’ll need you back up here, Echo or no, since the Vaunted will have a backup vessel out here in forty-four hours and we’ll want to be gone by then.” Dussel says, dropping a fist on the arm of his chair. A screen pops up with an audio channel. “Chef, this is the Commander. What’s on the officer’s menu today?”

“Venusian barbecue burgers, a Marshy club sandwich, a salad made from Focuser farm greens, and chicken noodle soup, Commander.”

“I’ll take two burgers and some of the salad with raspberry vinaigrette, if you’ve got it. If not, I’ll take the lemon vinaigrette instead.” Dussel says, looking around the screen at me. “What about you, Songbird? Want something for the road?”

“I’ll pass, thank you.” I decline politely. “A little bit of blood’s all I need. Speaking of which, I think I’m going to go top off now.”

“Your loss. How about you, Lieutenant?”

“We’re vampires, Commander.” Sierra says, turning away from the window. “Save the food for people that actually need it to survive. Songbird, with me. I need to talk to you before you deploy.”

“Never say I didn’t offer.” Dussel says, then calls to the rest of the bridge. “Alright, you lazy cockmunchers, we’re taking lunch orders. Who wants what? Don’t everyone answer at once; we’ll start with tacticom and work our way around the bridge.”

I fall in behind Sierra as she walks past me, following her off the bridge and out into the hall. As we work our way through the ship, heading in the direction of the hangar, she speaks over her shoulder at me. “I guess the recruit’s sulking because he’s not allowed to come on this mission?”

“Ridge? Yeah, he’s ticked off, but he’ll survive.” I answer as we keep to one side of the hall to make room for a Cyber moving in the other direction. “I’d rather not have him fangirling over Echo while I try to talk him into helping us out. He can do that after we have Echo aboard.”

“There’ll be time to get autographs later.” Sierra agrees. “You all prepped for heading for the surface? Got your kit and everything?”

“I’ve got all the usuals, yeah.”

“What about your sound system?” she asks.

That takes me off guard. “I… I don’t think I’ll…”

“Knew you were going to try and slip down there without it.” Sierra says, digging in her jacket. She reaches back, shoving something against my chest. “There.”

I look down and grab whatever she’s shoved against me. After a moment I realized it’s a capsule for a pair of wireless earbuds. Brand new. “Oh. That’s… nice of you, but—”

“But what, they’re a shit brand that you’d rather not use?” she says before I can finish. “If you don’t like them, go grab your own. I know you have them in storage in your boxes somewhere.”

“I mean, the thing is that I don’t think I’ll need them.” I say as we step into a tram that’ll take us to the other end of the ship. “I doubt I’ll be getting in a fight with Echo. He’s fifteen years older now and I don’t think he’s seen action in at least decade.”

“Just because you don’t think you’ll need them doesn’t mean you don’t prepare for the worst.” Sierra says as the doors close. Her ruby eye fixes on me with a glare as the tram starts moving. “None of us thought we’d be doing any fighting when we visited the Sanctuary, and we damn near got torn apart by a mob. We’re back on the scene now, Feroce. We need to be prepared for the worst situations, even on low-risk missions. That’s why I packed magrenades that day. If you’d brought your earbuds or your headphones on that day, I can promise you things would’ve gone a lot differently.”

I shift uncomfortably, looking down at the earbud capsule she’s given me. “I mean, it’s been a while since I—”

“I don’t care how long it’s been, Feroce.” Sierra says, stepping in front of me so I can’t avoid looking at her. “I don’t care that you’re squeamish about using your powers. About using power, period. You’re the goddamn Songbird. You have power. You can hide it all you want, pretend you don’t have it, but you can’t run from it. You’ll have to use it eventually.”

I look to the side to avoid her one-eyed glare, really wishing that I had somewhere to retreat to right now. But it seems like she planned on having this conversation on the tram, when I’d have no easy way to get away from her.

“Oh what, you’re gonna act like a whipped puppy now?” Sierra demands. “What’s the deal? You gonna play the martyr and tell me you’re scared of using your power? Try to spin your cowardice as virtue and say you’re doing it for everyone else’s sake? Give me a goddamn break.”

“It’s not like that.” I snap at her. “I know damn well what I’m capable of, but I don’t use my power like that. I never have. You act like I’m using my power differently now than I did when I was a Challenger, but I’m not.”

“As in, you don’t use it at all.” Sierra snarks, folding her arms.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, screw off, Sierra.”

“Why? Because I’m right?” she retorts. “There’s a reason other Challengers didn’t know shit about you until you went and killed Nova, mister wallflower. It’s because you were afraid to hurt people, so you always let other Challengers take the lead and do the heavy lifting while you trailed behind and tried to make nice with everyone.”

“Did it ever once occur to you that the reason the program failed is because of how Challengers handled problems towards the end?” I hiss. “The reason I trailed behind everyone else is because I was cleaning up the messes they left in their wake. And when I had the chance to take the lead, I tried to fix things the way I like fixing things. By talking with people, understanding why a person was doing something, and seeing if I could reason with them and come to peaceful resolution instead of beating the everliving shit out of them.”

“Yeah, and how’d that work out for you?” Sierra demands. “Oh wait, I know. Last time you tried that at the Challenger Museum on Valcorria, you ate a knuckle sandwich from a junkyard Cyber with a fist the size of your torso. Remember that little gem?”

“Okay! I admit it! It doesn’t work every time!” I say, throwing my hands up. “But that’s not a reason to not try.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t try. Do I think you’re stupid for trying? Absolutely.” Sierra says. “What I’m saying is that when you try, and when you fail, you need to be ready to fight. If you can’t convince someone to believe in what you believe in, you need to be ready to stand up for what you believe in. Because all those Challengers that used to take the lead and do the heavy lifting? They’re gone now, Feroce. They’re dead. Or they gave up. Or they switched sides. You, me, Jackrabbit, and whoever else wants to sign onto this crazy project we’ve started — we’re all that’s left.” She grabs the hand that I’m using to hold the capsule, and lifts it up. “No more of this shit where you go in half-cocked. You go on these missions, you go in prepared. You can do your weird little pacifism thing if you want, but when shit gets real and we need a hero, I want you front and center, ready to give it your all. You got that?”

I stare at the earbud capsule for a moment, then look away with a sigh. After a moment, I reach up, pulling Sierra’s hand off my wrist, and flip my hand around, dropping the capsule back in her hand as the tram starts to slow down.

“Give those to Ridge.” I say, walking past her as the doors open. “Like you said, they’re a shit brand, but I doubt he’ll notice the difference.”

“And where are you going?” Sierra demands as I step off the tram.

“Cargo hold.” I call back over my shoulder, tucking my hands in the pockets of my longcoat once more. “I need to go dig my Crescendo gear out of storage before the Masklings get here.”

Even though I can’t see it, I know she’s smiling as I walk away.

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

Nyroc Stealth Skipper “Featherfell”

12:31pm SGT

It’s quiet in the cockpit as we slowly descend into Vanui’s atmosphere, the forward window tinting red at the edges. Tarocco, sitting in the pilot’s chair, gives me a quick sidelong glance. “What, you’re not gonna ask me why I’m the one flying you down here and not Kiwi?”

“I mean, I wasn’t gonna bring it up.” I say, keeping my eyes on the dayside curve of Vanui’s surface. “Figured it would be awkward.”

Tarocco snorts and returns her attention to our descent. “Well, it wasn’t for lack of her wanting to come.” she says as a tremor runs through the cockpit, the skipper punching through another layer of atmosphere. All things considered, it’s a pretty smooth ride, as atmospheric reentries go; the Featherfell, like the Nyroc, is a sleek and angular vessel with a minimalist design meant to confuse scanning pulses and make it hard to track.

“So.” Tarocco says after a moment. “This guy is going to be able to open up the archive so we can actually get what we need out of it?”

“That’s the idea, yeah.” I say, glad she’s changed the subject. “We’re hoping he’ll be able to do more than that. If he can get us access to the higher layers of the archive, that’s great, but if he’d sign on and help us with building something out of the ruins of the Challenger program, that’d go a long way as well.”

“From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t seen action in ten years.” Tarocco says. “You guys plan on throwing an old man back onto the field?”

I plant my elbows on the armrests of the copilot’s chair, using them to push myself up a little. “I don’t think so. I mean, it’s been fifteen years, so I don’t know if he’s changed any, but I don’t think Echo will want to do field deployments. He’d probably be happier in the lab, building gadgets. He was a tech consultant for the program long before he was a Challenger, and I think he’s most comfortable when he’s building things or programming something.”

“S’not a bad thing to have on your roster.” Tarocco says. “Not everyone can be out on the battlefront, kicking ass and taking names.”

“Yeah.” I agree. “Support roles are important. I’m not sure many Challengers would’ve made it past their first year without Valkyrie there to patch them up.”

Tarocco nods, and we lapse back into silence for a while.

“This is kind of awkward.” Tarocco remarks after a few minutes of silence, filled only by the rattling of the hull as we punch through the last layer of atmosphere.

“Yup.” I agree. “Pretty awkward.”

“Like, we have nothing in common.” she says. “I don’t know what to talk to you about.”

“I mean, we could sit here in silence.” I suggest. “If that would be less awkward than trying to make small talk.”

“No, that would be awkward too.” she says, reaching forward and tapping on one of the flyer’s control screens. A faint shimmer ripples over the parts of the flyer’s hull that are visible through the cockpit windows. “I think the only thing we have in common is Kiwi, and I’m pretty we don’t see eye to eye on her.”

“I feel like if we start talking about her, that’s going to turn into an argument.”

“I dunno, I feel like I’d rather be arguing than sitting here in awkward silence.” Tarocco says, leaning back in her chair.

“Really.”

“Awkward silence is painful for me.”

“You can’t just sit in silence and enjoy it?”

“Silence when you’re alone isn’t awkward. Silence when you’re with another person is.”

“Okay.” I say, not sure where to go with this. “Are you pissed off because we kidnapped her from under your noses?”

Tarocco looks aside at me. “…well yes, but the main reason we don’t like you is because she’s dead-set on you being her handler.”

“And you all don’t like that because I’m not a Maskling.”

“Precisely.”

“Well.” I say, giving a shrug. “I can’t help that I’m not a Maskling.”

“Actually…”

“I am not going to become a Maskbearer and throw a Mask on just to smooth over your ruffled feathers.” I say sharply. “So don’t even suggest it.”

Now it’s Tarocco’s turn to shrug. “Never say I didn’t give you options.”

“What’s the issue, anyway?” I demand. “Out of all species, I didn’t think that Masklings would be sticklers about that. Y’all are pretty much a hodgepodge of every species in the galaxy. I didn’t figure a race of hybrids would be picky about who they tangle with.”

Tarocco looks at me. “Seriously? Has she still not told you?”

“Told me what?” I ask.

Tarocco just shakes her head. “Unbelievable. I can’t believe she’s still doing this.” she mutters. “There’s a reason Masklings only tangle with Masklings, Songbird. It’s a way for two Masklings to act as a single unit that can freely exchange thoughts and energy between each other. But we’re engineered for that; that functionality is built into our species. When we tangle with non-Masks, that connection functions differently: the power the Maskling gets from the non-Mask is amplified, but that’s usually because the Maskling is using their partner’s soul as a battery. It’s not something we can control, so that’s why it’s generally taboo in our culture to tangle with non-Masks. It’s irresponsible, and unfair to the non-Mask, since it will eventually kill them.”

I’m quiet for a while as I process that. “Then why did she tangle with me?” I ask.

“Because rules have never meant much to her.” Tarocco answers with the weariness of someone that’s had to explain Kiwi’s behavior before. “But also because she thinks you’re different than other non-Masks. For some reason, she believes that she can tangle with you without killing you. I don’t know why — I’m guessing you did something that planted that idea in her head — but that’s why she wants you to be her handler. She wants…” Tarocco hesitates at this point, as if rephrasing what she was about to say. “…she would prefer to have you as her handler.”

“Why doesn’t she just tangle with another Maskling?” I ask. “Wouldn’t that be better than tangling with non-Masks that she might kill?”

Tarocco doesn’t look at me, and doesn’t answer right away, focusing on the clouds outside the forward window. “…I’ve said too much. Honestly, I’m not the one that should be telling you this. You need to finish discussing this with her, because she owes it to you to be honest about what it is she’s doing to you. I wouldn’t call myself any great fan of yours, but there are certain basic courtesies that I think even you deserve.”

“Thanks, I guess.” I say, sinking back into my chair. “I’ll take that for what it’s worth. You know where you’re dropping me off, by the way?”

“I do. I’ve also got the extraction coordinates, so I’ll know where to wait for you. You know you only got twenty-four hours, right? This is going to need to be in and out, no time for messing around.”

“Yeah, it’s a pretty tight turnaround.” I sigh. “I’ll just have to do the best I can with what I’ve been given. This is one mission where fewer people is better; I don’t think Echo would take kindly to a bunch of people showing up on his doorstep. It’s probably best that I talk to him one on one, though I’m not sure I’ll be able to convince him to just up and leave everything he’s built over the last fifteen years and become an outlaw.”

“Yeah, that’d be a tough sell for anyone.” Tarocco agrees. “If he doesn’t want to traipse around the galaxy, that’s fine. We just need him to access the upper layers of the archive for us. So long as he can do that, the rest doesn’t matter.”

“Even that’s going to require him to leave the surface and come up to the Accatria.” I say, pulling open my longcoat and checking to make sure my stunner’s holstered within. “But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’m going to take this one step at a time, and the next step is getting into the city so I can get to his penthouse.”

“Well, I can help you with that part.” Tarocco says, leaning the piloting stick forward a little bit. We start to dip through the clouds, slowly shedding altitude as one of Vanui’s metropolitan centers comes into view, gleaming in the distance. “Let’s get you on the ground so you can pay Mr. Echo a visit.”

Event Log: Rewind: 20 years ago

Sunthorn Bastion: Titan Hangar

5:21pm SGT

“So you’re serious about wanting to pilot one of these things.”

It’s a question that carries across the floor of a massive hangar in the Sunthorn Bastion. Colossal alcoves line the walls of the hangar; some are empty, while others house massive mechs, many of them standing at, or in excess of seventy feet tall. Standing in front of one of the alcoves are two Challengers, both in their white uniforms. The woman, who has black hair and green eyes, has more stars and bars on her uniform. The young man — with brown eyes and crimson hair — is less decorated, and lacks the codename pin that the woman has earned and wears proudly.

“Yeah.” the young man says, taking a deep breath as he stares up at the mech within the alcove, currently undergoing repairs. “I want to learn. I know all the training slots have been taken, but I’ve downloaded manuals on mech maintenance and operation, and I’ve lined up books on engineering theory and combat design for Titan-class mechs. It’s a lot to read, but I want to give it a try.”

The woman — a short, but spry and wiry specimen, worn and tested by her share of unforgiving battles — sets a hand on her hip as she looks at him. “Aren’t you already booked up on your certification classes for strike fighter piloting?”

“I’m due to be finishing those soon, and I’ve got most of my flight hours. Once I finish that I’ll be putting my name in the support staff rotation for assignments that need air support or fighter escort, and I’ll get in my experience there.” he answers, his eyes roving the hull plating of the Titan before them, slowly being removed in sections so the maintenance team can check and repair groups of reactive articulation assemblies. “In between missions, I can study for this.”

“It’s gonna be more than just study.” the woman says. “You don’t just read a bunch of books and hop into the cockpit. Mech pilots spend their entire lives working towards the honor of piloting a mech. Entire academies exist for this reason, and only the valedictorians ever become pilots. The rest of the graduating class becomes support crew or maintenance. What gives you the right to jump into one of these without ever having stepped foot in one of those academies?”

“Nothing gives me the right.” the young man answers without taking his eyes off the mech in the alcove. “I’ve gotta earn it.”

After a moment, the woman looks away from him. Standing behind the pair some ways is an older man in a labcoat, silver streaks starting to creep into his dark hair. He gives an amused smile and a shrug to the woman, as if the young man’s response did not surprise him. She motions a hand to him, as if it was an invitation for him to say his piece, and thus given permission, raises his voice.

“Piloting a Titan isn’t hobby.” the man in the labcoat says, as the young man looks around. “It’s not something you decide to do in your spare time. It’s something that you commit yourself to. You’ll learn a dozen different sciences that go into the creation, maintenance, and operation of a Titan. Everything ranging from fusion core thermodynamics; to neurochemistry, nanite engineering, and psience for pilot integration; to computer programming for the regulation and operation of various automated systems within a Titan. Metallurgy, for understanding material sourcing and the limits of what a Titan is made out of. Atmospheric science, for when your Titan will need to be deployed from orbit to a conflict zone. Combat theory — there’s an entire field of study dedicated to the tactics of just giant mechs and how they are deployed against various targets and in various environments. Becoming a mech pilot is a tremendous undertaking, young man. It is not a privilege easily or quickly earned.”

“Feroce, this is Echo.” the woman says. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He’s one of our lead tech specialists and scientists, and a capable Challenger in his own right. He helps manage the Challenger program’s Titan roster.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” Feroce says, reaching out to offer a handshake.

“Ratchet’s told me much about you as well.” Echo says, taking the offered hand and giving a firm shake before letting go. “Something of a prodigious learner, as I understand. So far you’ve obtained your close combat, marksman, and infiltration certifications, and I heard just now that you’re getting close to finishing out your strike fighter pilot certification.”

“Yes sir.”

“Let me tell you right now that mech piloting will not be like those. You will not be able to blaze through it in a year, or even two years. And even if you do manage to learn it all, whether you get to pilot a Titan will be up to Ratchet, who is the captain of the Sunthorn Bastion's Titan squad.” Echo says, with a nod to Ratchet. “If she decides you have not earned the right to pilot, you will never step foot inside one of those cockpits, no matter how much you’ve learned.”

Ratchet turns back to the Feroce, walking around in front of him and folding her arms, standing between him and his ambition. “I expect to see you up there with the rest of the maintenance crew, fixing battle damage, doing touch-ups, and doing parts replacement, long before you will ever see the inside of a Titan’s cockpit. I expect to see you in the operational support room, manning the comms and monitoring battlefield conditions and providing tactical and logistical support to a deployed Titan. And maybe then, after you understand the extent of the work that goes into operating one of the most sophisticated combat platforms that’s ever been engineered in this galaxy, maybe then I’ll let you co-pilot one. And if you’re good at it, then maybe in a decade, you can pilot one on your own.”

“Alright.” Feroce says after a moment, looking from Ratchet to Echo. “Where do I start?”

Looking over her shoulder, Ratchet shouts up into the alcove. “Castillo! You got a moment? I need you to show a rookie around Firefly Blue.”

“Send ‘im up the elevator, I’m working on a power relay replacement right now!”

Ratchet slaps Feroce’s back. “Get up there. You’ll probably want to take off your dress jacket and roll up your sleeves, since you’ll probably be getting your hands dirty.”

Feroce does exactly that, pulling his jacket off and hanging it on a toolbox as he heads for the base of the alcove. Echo and Ratchet watch him go, with the former only making his remarks once the young Challenger is out of earshot. “He’s come quite a long way, from what you described when you first met him.”

“He’s definitely improved. Back when I first met him, I wasn’t sure if he’d make the cut.” Ratchet agrees, watching as Feroce steps onto the elevator platform. “He’s got a good heart. It’s a lot more than you can say for the girl he’s trying to stand even with.”

Echo gives Ratchet a sharp look. “He’s doing this for a girl?”

“He’s not doing it for her. He’s doing it because of her, I suppose.” Ratchet answers as the platform starts rising. “He wants to prove himself. Prove that he’s her equal, that he can make a difference just like she can, even if he doesn’t have powers like hers.”

“Is this girl another Challenger?” Echo asks, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s another Challenger that was in the same recruiting class that he was. It’s the Dark Star girl, the one that Gossamer’s started training personally.”

“Ah, that one. Yes, I’ve… heard things.”

“Not good things, I assume.”

“Let’s just say that what I’ve heard worries me. The Starstruck aren’t happy we’ve decided to recruit one of the anathemas to their vigil.” Echo says, a dark cloud passing over his brow. “So he and this girl are rivals?”

“Friends.”

“Friends?”

“Well, he’d be more if she’d let him. But she’s not interested, and he respects that, so they’re just friends. But he’s determined to prove that he’s her equal.” Ratchet says, folding her arms as Feroce steps on the scaffolding to take the tour from one of the maintenance crew. “It’s what’s driven him to learn as much as he has and try as hard as he has. I think he knows, deep down inside, that she’s never going to care for him. So he tries to be her equal, but for his own sake. So he can look in the mirror, and sees something he can be proud of, even if it’s something that she’s never gonna be interested in.”

“That’s…” Echo begins, but hesitates, as if he were looking for the words that would capture what Ratchet had just described.

“Messed up? Stupid? Tragic? Inspiring?” Ratchet offers, filling in the gap with her own suggestions. “All of the above, if you ask me. I really shouldn’t be encouraging it, but he’s just so determined to be something worth being that I can’t help but feel proud of him. The kid really believes in what it means to be a Challenger, in giving something your best even if you aren’t going to get anything out of it, and that’s… that’s something we haven’t had enough of around here in recent years.”

Echo listens to Ratchet speak, and it’s only when she’s done that he replies. “You think he’s the future of the Challenger program.”

“I know you think it can’t be saved, Echo.” Ratchet replies without looking over her shoulder. “I know you’ve spent the last few years with your foot halfway out the door, and I get it. I don’t blame you. With the way things are going, the way the Admin’s behaving and the way top brass are handling things, things are looking pretty shitty. But right when I’m about to give up on things, I look at Feroce, and I remember why I joined the Challengers. And if he can keep doing what he does every day, giving it his best so he can hold his head up high, then I can hang in there and keep fighting the good fight for as long as it’s still worth fighting. The program’s not dead yet, and I’ll keep fighting for what the Challengers believe in.”

“Well then.” Echo says, clasping his hands behind his back. “If you believe the program is still worth fighting for, I suppose I’ll hang around for a bit longer. Longer than I would’ve otherwise, at the very least.”

“I appreciate it, Echo.”

“No need to thank me. Us true believers have to stick together, you know? Keep the dream alive… and fight for it for as long as it’s worth fighting for.”

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

Silverhawk Arcology: Upper Levels

9:01pm SGT

It’s quiet as the elevator rises along the slant of one of the massive arcologies that dominate Vanui’s cities.

It’d taken me hours to get here. It wasn’t necessarily hard, just long and tiring. Tarocco had dropped me on the edge of the city, with the Featherfell still cloaked; I’d made my way into the city from there, slipping through back alley to back alley in a city that was largely composed of Cybers. Nobody asked questions, but I’d garnered the occasional look; I’d kept my hood on ever since I’d entered the city, in an effort to obscure my face and hide my hair. Being as this was a Cyber planet, they probably had a local angelnet — a digital intelligence that monitored every facet of the population, that had access to every traffic camera, every financial transaction, every unencrypted text and phone call. An angelnet typically used all of this, in conjunction with predictive algorithms, to anticipate where problems might crop up. Law enforcement, on most worlds in the Cyber Meritocracy, arrived before the crime had occurred, because they were pretty good at predicting when a crime would occur.

And what that meant for me was avoiding most public transportation, keeping my phone off so the angelnet couldn’t track the location pings, avoiding making any financial transactions, and staying to the alleys as often as possible to keep a low profile on the angelnet’s surveillance grid. The last thing I needed was to be recognized, and for a digital overseer with a million eyes and ears to start sending militarized drones after me because my face came up with a big red flag in the Vaunted database.

All of that was mostly the reason it’d taken me eight hours to get here in the first place, when it otherwise would’ve taken me less than an hour to get here through normal means. Now that I was here, though, I felt oddly calm, watching the rain streak down the slant of the glass elevator shaft. Seeing the city skyline dotting the night with specks of light, listening to the quiet hum of the rising elevator; the night rain reminded me of my homeworld, and all the times I’d gone to sleep with the sky crying against the roof of my childhood home.

When the elevator slows to a halt, I turn and step out into the softly-lit hall. The floor I’m on is near the top of the arcology, and houses the penthouse apartments for the massive, self-contained structure. My boots are muffled against the carpeted floor as I walk down the hall; the doors for each of penthouses are spaced quite well apart, indicating how large the living spaces behind them are.

Coming to stop outside of the door with a plaque reading Crane affixed to it, I take a moment to size it up and consider how to go about this. Echo had built a company that sold integrated home defense systems, so I had no doubt that his own home would be equipped with those same systems, or personalized versions of them. Busting in wasn’t the best option; sneaking in probably would’ve been impossible, knowing Echo. He was probably already aware that I was here.

So after a moment, I reaching up, pull off my hood to let it rest on my shoulders, and knock on the door.

I’m a while in waiting for a response. After a minute, as I’m starting to doubt whether or not the knock was heard, I start to curl my hand into a fist again so I can knock once more. Before I can raise my hand, though, the door splits and slides open, and standing behind it is Echo — his hair now silver with streaks of brown, instead of brown with the streaks of silver that it had fifteen years ago. There are more lines on his face, and they show when he smiles at me.

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” he says. It’s the same voice I remember from my days in the Challenger program, though it’s a little thinner and weaker now. “Come on in, Songbird.”

Vanui Variety (planetary fashion e-magazine)

“The Builder” — profile article for Millican Crane, AKA Echo

How do you measure the arc of life?

Do you measure it in units of time? In capital gains? In career accomplishments, in the number of titles and honors accrued? Do you measure it in the number of interviews you’ve given the media, the action figures made in your likeness? In the number of cartoons and comic books that feature your legend, and the number of autographs you’ve signed?

Or do you measure it in quieter, more mundane ways?

This was the question I had on my mind as I went to interview the man that many on Vanui have come to call ‘The Builder’. Some of us probably know him better as Millican Crane, the founder and genius of Crane Infosec, the company that provides digital security and home defense systems. The rest of the galaxy knows him as Echo, one of the few Challengers that spoke out about the growing corruption within the Challenger program before the Songbird Incident.

Profiling a Challenger is, in many ways, a great honor and a great burden. Not many of them remain; most that do are jailed, outlawed, or living under resettlement identities. When you do get a chance to profile one, there is always the question of what you will ask them about. It is a limited opportunity, so every question you ask matters. You want to discover something new about a person that the galaxy already knows so well, and that’s not an easy task.

Being as Mr. Crane is an older gentleman, in the twilight of his years, I decided to ask him about his life and how he would measure it, now that most of it lies behind him, rather than ahead of him. I expected him to speak at length about his time in the Challenger program, and his years spent working for the Fringe Foundation before that. These are, after all, his best-known occupations and achievements; one would assume that these are the landmarks by which he measures his life.

And while he did mention those years and occupations, I was surprised to find that Mr. Crane — that deliciously mysterious and famously unruffleable Challenger known as Echo — measures his life not by the corporations he overthrew, not by the regimes he toppled, not by the worlds he helped save, but by the people he helped over his long career, and more so since he retired from the Challenger program.

Some of you reading this article will know what I’m referring to. There’s a charity known as Electric Sheep whose mission is to help young, poor Cybers get reequipped for the industries that they want to participate in, instead of the ones that they were built for. This charity, funded by Crane Infosec, also helps young Cybers find jobs and partially subsidizes upgrade cycles for those same Cybers — increasing their employability and longevity in the workforce for years to come. Perhaps most importantly, many of those that have gone to Electric Sheep have left with upgrades custom-built by Mr. Crane himself, whose engineering and design prowess were one of his lesser-known masteries. Such custom work, provided by a master in the field of Cyber frame design, would normally fetch a price that would make even the Viralis Synthetics blush.

But The Builder never charges a dime.

It’s this quiet, unassuming altruism, and the amount of thought and care that goes into these custom upgrades, that has made Mr. Crane something of an idol among the lower-class Cybers on Vanui. A strange idol, to be sure; we typically think of idols as pop stars and movie stars, beautiful and handsome and young. Mr. Crane is none of these things, yet the Cybers of Vanui still regard him with the same breathless reverence that is typically afforded to idols; and unlike a great many other idols, he wears it with an uncommon grace.

At his advanced age, he tends to shuffle more than he struts, and listens more than he lectures. Where most idols would fear the onset of old age, Mr. Crane has embraced it, and worn it with dignity. Rather than trying to ward it off, he has accepted his wilting years, but this feels less like a defeat and more like a triumph — because even in the last act of his life, he seems determined to live by the principles that defined his Challenger years…

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

Silverhawk Arcology: Millican Crane’s Penthouse

9:08pm SGT

Now that I’m here, I’m not sure how to feel.

Echo’s penthouse is a nice one, to be sure. After the initial entry hall, the rest of the penthouse is largely an open floor plan, with the kitchen, living room, and his workspace separated only by their location in the penthouse, and not by any walls. The bedroom and the guest rooms seem to be the only areas that are actually walled off; the rest is left open, and a wall that borders the penthouse’s ‘lawn’ is largely a single sheet of glass. The ‘lawn’, as it were, is a vast balcony outside the penthouse, replete with a swimming pool and a veritable garden of potted plants, something that seems like it’s probably become a late-life hobby for him. At the moment, the garden is drenched in rain and darkness, while the penthouse itself is low-lit in soft, pale blue hues — a relaxing, late-night shade.

It seems like such a far cry from the life that Echo used to live, on and off the battlefield, in and out of the Titan hangar, treading the halls of the Challenger Bastions. It looks like a glimpse of the quiet sunset years I would’ve had, if I hadn’t given up the ability to grow old.

“You’re looking well.” Echo says as he shuffles around the kitchen. “Haven’t aged a day since the program shut down. I suppose I envy you that; the years haven’t worn as kindly on the rest of us.”

I finally look at him. I was at a loss for words at first, and I’m just now managing to find my tongue again as the surprise wears off. “You knew I was coming?”

“You or one of the others. After the incident at the Challenger Museum, I knew one of you would be along eventually.” he answers as he pulls a pair of mugs out of a cabinet. “It was just a matter of time. You’re here because you need access to the backup archive, aren’t you?”

I slowly start to wander towards the kitchen. “We do, yeah. How did you know?” Though I’m surprised, I know I shouldn’t be. Echo was always a sharp fellow. Smart, not just in robotics and engineering, but in foresight as well.

“Simple matter of probability and deduction. The backup archive was hidden at the museum there, so a battle there probably meant that certain parties had found it and were fighting over it.” Echo answers as he fills one of the mugs with boiling water from his sink, then dips a reusable tea strainer in it. “Tea for you?”

“No thank you.” I decline. “I’m not a tea person.”

“Of course not. I remember that now.” he says with a smile as he turns towards the fridge. “You were a fizzwater person, if I remember correctly. Cherry passion, with a hint of lemon. Towards the end you always kept a little bit of it in a flask you carried around with you.”

Without thinking, my hand goes to my ribs, where my flask is tucked into one of the inside pockets of my longcoat. “…I’m surprised you remember.” I say, letting my hand drop again.

“Of course I remember. You didn’t drink it because you liked it; you drank it because it reminded you of someone that was important to you.” he says, tapping on the screen of his fridge, cycling through the options there before filling the empty mug. “You were always a strange young man, Feroce. You did the oddest things sometimes.”

“I’ll freely admit I am, and always have been, something of a mess.” I say as he turns from the fridge, shuffling around the kitchen island and holding the mug out to me. I take it, watching the bubbles percolate to the surface in the clear liquid. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I could do for a former student of mine.” he says, shuffling past me on the way to the living room. “How are the others doing? I know you didn’t get here on your own.”

“They’re doing fine.” I say, sipping from the mug as I follow him. Cherry passion fizzwater, with just hint of lemon. “Nympho is the same as she’s always been, except she somehow managed to flirt and sass her way into the Lieutenant Commander position for the mercforce she works with. Jackrabbit and Valkyrie got married, and they seem like they’re happy.”

“That’s good, that’s very good.” he says, sitting down in one of the chairs. “I was wondering when they were going to tie the knot. The two of them earned it.”

“Yeah.” I say, taking a seat caddycorner to his. “How have you been?”

“Oh, I’ve been fine. I’ve had it easy over the last fifteen years.” Echo says, shifting from side to side as he gets comfortable in his chair. “At least compared to the rest of you. The only thing I’ve had to worry about is quarterly earnings reports and turning down interview requests; nobody’s been chasing after me, trying to lock me up or take off my head, so I can’t complain.”

“You don’t miss the thrill of combat?” I ask with a small smile.

“Never liked it in the first place.” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “I wasn’t like the rest of you, born and bred for battle. I only went into the field if I had to, not because I wanted to. I would’ve much rather stayed on the ship or aboard one of the Bastions, working the labs or one of my workshops.”

“Well, you were just as useful there as you were on the field.” I say, looking down into my mug. After a moment, I look back up at him. “You’re not angry at me?”

He pauses in sipping his tea, then slowly lowers it. “Ah, right. I suppose… if you’re asking if I blame you for the Challenger program getting shut down, then no. I know that wasn’t your fault, Feroce.” He takes the tea strainer, swirling it around in his mug. “You were just one gear among many that were turning at the same time. The only thing that set you apart was that you were the gear that people happened to see when the machine broke down.” He hooks the strainer back on the rim of his mug, his wiry eyebrows furrowing in concern as he looks at me. “But what about you? Are you okay? I know Nova was important to you. Doing what you did fifteen years ago… I know it would not have been easy for you.”

I close my eyes, cupping both of my hands around my mug before I open them once more and answer. “I’ve learned to live with what happened.” I reply quietly. “I can’t change the past. And I’ve learned to live with that.”

Echo nods, but doesn’t say anything to that, merely going back to sipping his tea. Some part of me is glad that he doesn’t push it, doesn’t ask about it, but some part of me also wants him to say something about it. Offer me some advice, some wisdom drawn from the depths of age and the well of a life long-lived. Yet he doesn’t say anything, and I suspect it’s because he knows that after fifteen years, there’s no wisdom he can offer when I’ve probably heard it all before.

We sit in silence for a while, sipping from our mugs. At length, he speaks again while looking out the window of the penthouse at the drenched garden outside. “I knew this day would come, though I didn’t know how long it would take. The program might’ve been corrupted, but there were good people that were always going to carry on the fight even after the organization fell apart.” He looks back to me. “What are you all calling yourselves?”

I shake my head. “We don’t know yet. We haven’t settled on anything yet. Nympho doesn’t want us to call ourselves Challengers again; she wants us to start fresh. To build something new out of the ashes of the program.”

“I’m sure you’ll settle on something.” he says, looking away again. “As you’ve probably realized by now, I’m in no shape to join whatever you’ve started. I know you haven’t asked yet, but I’ll have to decline all the same.”

“We wouldn’t be asking you to participate in field missions.” I offer. “If you wanted to work in intelligence, or the lab or the workshop…”

He shakes his head. “Even that would be asking a bit much. Jumping from system to system, never staying anywhere for very long, working under tight deadlines, with lives hanging in the balance and hinging on your actions… I might’ve been able to do it when I was a decade younger, but I can’t keep up with that hectic pace anymore. I’m settled now, and I’m not getting any sharper as the years wear on. I would like to grow old in peace and quiet, doing what I can to make things better from where I am. It’s a good way to round out an exciting life.”

“I understand.” I say softly, even though I’m not sure I do. I think what he’s saying is that he’s tired; I think that’s something that happens as you get older. I wouldn’t know, because I’m not as old as him, and also because I don’t physically age like he does. “That’s okay; we wouldn’t force you back into it. It’s harder now than it’s ever been, with CURSE hunting us at every turn. Would you mind coming back with us, though? Just to a battlecruiser in low orbit over Vanui, so we can have you access the upper levels of the backup archive. We’d bring you back once we’ve got that sorted out.”

He smiles a bit. “A little field trip? Don’t even have to leave the planet’s orbit? I suppose I can go that far.” One wrinkled thumb rubs over the rim of his mug as he thinks about it. “I suppose you would need to do that right away. You wouldn’t be able to hide an entire battlecruiser from the authorities, and they’ve probably already called the Vaunted.”

I nod. “Tonight, if possible. Under the cover of darkness will make it easier for us to slip away from the surface and get back to the Accatria undetected.”

“Yes, I suppose that would make it easier to slip out of the city.” Echo muses. “The rain certainly lends itself to that as well. Perfect conditions, when you think about it.” Setting his tea on the coffee table, he plants his hands on the arms of his chair and slowly levers himself back up. “I ought to grab my raincoat, then. Weather like this, I’ll catch a cold at my age. I presume that if you came here intending to ask me on this field trip, you already have an extraction lined up for us?”

“C’mon, you know we wouldn’t have come here without an extraction route.” I say, standing up as well.

“It’s been fifteen years, I didn’t want to assume.” he says as he shuffles to the closet to dig around for his raincoat. “After that long, it can take a little while to get back in the saddle.”

“I’m rusty, but I’m not that rusty.” I say, sipping from my mug as he works on pulling his raincoat on. “The rendezvous is outside the city. It took me about eight hours to get here by avoiding public transit; I didn’t want the local angelnet to notice my presence and drop the police on my head. If we take public transit on our way out, though, we could be to the rendezvous in under an hour, and police won’t have time to respond even if the angelnet flags me.”

“No need for that.” Echo says as he finishes pulling his raincoat on, closing the door and shuffling to the wall to tap one of the screens built into it. “We’ll take my car. My butler’s a Cyber, so he’s on call twenty-four seven. He’ll have the car on the curb and the A/C running by the time we get to the ground floor.”

“Well looka you.” I say, grinning. “Someone’s settled into the lap of luxury quite nicely.”

“I’m old.” he grumbles, starting to shuffle towards the hallway. “It isn’t easy to admit, but once you get into your later years, it can be nice to have some assistance with things that have become harder to do on your own. And this way, we don’t have to worry about the surveillance on public transit picking you up, since you’ll be traveling in a private vehicle.”

“Well, if it means we don’t have to sneak around for eight hours, I…” I pause when my eyes catch on something. There’s a radiant green dot wavering back and forth on the lapel of his raincoat. “Echo, what’s that?”

“What’s what?” he asks, pausing and looking at me, then following my gaze down to the lapel of his coat. He catches sight of the green dot, then looks up again, glancing towards the glass wall of the penthouse. I follow his gaze to stare out across the balcony; I almost miss the pinpricks of light amidst the backdrop of the city skyline. Hovering above the pool is a small spotter drone with a low, sleek profile, pointing its targeting laser into the penthouse.

“Ah.” Echo says softly. “I should’ve known they would’ve sent her.”

And before I can ask what he’s talking about, the world explodes.

I don’t even have time to process what happens because of how fast it happens. What I do know is that a hole appears in Echo’s chest and raincoat, and then in the kitchen wall behind him. By the time the blood spray is starting to arc away from his back, the hypersonic crack hits me from behind, and it’s only then that I start to see flecks and chunks of drywall starting to fly past me. Whatever it was blasted through the wall behind me, sheared clean through Echo, and straight on through the wall on the other side of the room, with enough velocity to both enter and exit the room in less than a quarter of a second. As the impact starts to register, and I see Echo start to fly backwards, words form in my head as I realize what just passed through the penthouse.

Railgun spike.

I’ve started to lunge forward, but Echo hits the floor before I can catch him. I stay down, keeping a low profile and sliding across the floor on my knees to him; drawing my stunner out of my jacket, I start to charge it as I look over my shoulder. There’s a hole in the wall where the railgun spike came through; while it’s possible someone was hiding in the guest room behind it, railguns are long-range weapons, meaning we’re probably dealing with a sniper, and a good one if they can hit a target without needing line of sight. Lifting my head a little, I peer over the couch at the glass wall to the balcony, seeing if the spotter drone is still outside the balcony.

The answer is a resounding yes when it deploys a minigun and starts strafing the penthouse. I jerk my head back down, although not without first taking a bullet across the cheek and having another graze my skull. As the sound of shattering glass starts to fill the penthouse, I feel fingers curl around my wrist, and look up.

Echo’s clinging weakly to my arm, blood starting to soak the floor around him. His raincoat is open, showing the hole in his chest. The sniper nailed him good; it wasn’t a clean shot through the heart, but based on the position of the hole and the amount of blood on the floor, it probably hit an aortal valve.

“Shit.” I hiss, scrambling closer to him, grabbing his raincoat and trying to pull it over the hole to try and plug it. “Echo. Stay with me, Echo! Stay with me!”

His mouth is moving, but his words sound fuzzy and distant; it takes me a second to realize that my hearing’s still recovering from the hypersonic crack of the railgun spike. I shake my head, rubbing my ears and trying to get back my hearing, and when I pull my hands away again, I can hear faintly what he’s saying.

“I can’t.” he says wispily. “Don’t bother. My train’s leaving the station.”

“No! No!” I snap, grabbing him by the shoulders. Couch stuffing starts to fly into the air as the spotter drone strafes the furniture we’re behind. “We’ve already lost too many Challengers and we’re not losing you too!”

“You can’t stop it. Stop fighting it.” he coughs, blood starting to appear at the corner of his mouth. “Help me. Notepad in raincoat. Pen.”

In that moment, I don’t want to stop. I want to keep shaking him until he fights off death, overcomes the blood spilling out of him. But I know he can’t at his age, and I can see it in his eyes.

This is the end of the road for him.

Hissing, I yank open his raincoat, digging around in the pockets until I find the notepad and the pen. Pulling it to a fresh sheet, I help put the pen in his hand, and hold the notepad steady so he can start writing on it.

“They knew you were here.” he wheezes as he starts scratching out numbers on the notepad. “CURSE is watching. SCION is watching. They… can find you, can track you. You… need someone that can… counter SCION.” He rips the paper off the notepad, though it takes him a couple tries, and holds it out to me, blood flecking his lips as he coughs. “You… can’t hack paper. Don’t lose that. It’s the only way… you’ll find her.”

I stare at the folded sheet of paper. “I… I can’t, we need you to access the backup archive! We can’t do this without you!”

“Who do you think… designed that archive, Feroce?” Echo coughs, pushing the folded paper at me again. “I built in… a backdoor. She has the key. Find her.”

I snatch the paper from him, stuffing it into one of the pockets inside my longcoat. “I’m not gonna let you die alone.”

“Guess I should die… faster, then.” he gasps. “Get downstairs. Butler’s waiting. Tell him train’s left the station. He’ll take you where you need to go.” As bullets start ripping through the couch we’re behind, he waves weakly at me. “Now go, dammit, go! Ratchet didn’t save your life just so you could get caught here!”

Clenching my teeth to fight the defiant scream trying to claw its way out, I turn and bolt for the entry hall. Pelting towards the door with bullets shredding the hallway in my wake, I bounce back and forth between the walls while I wait for the door to split and slide open. The moment the aperture’s wide enough to squeeze through, I shove my shoulder through the gap, stumbling out into the hallway and getting my bearings. After figuring out which way I’m going, I start running, and I don’t stop until I’ve reached the elevator.

Once inside, I keep my eyes on the glass elevator shaft, painfully aware of how exposed I am here, and knowing that I could be attacked at any moment. The elevator starts to descend, and I keep my finger on the trigger of my stunner, watching through the glass, waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Yet for all my tense waiting, there attack never comes. The elevator remains quiet, humming along as it descends. The spotter drone doesn’t come chasing after me; no railgun spikes go tearing through the elevator. Nothing but the rain streaking down the glass shaft, with the city skyline, blurry and bright, beyond it. The longer I stand there, tucked into the corner of the elevator, the more I start to realize that I wasn’t the target.

Echo was.

I don’t understand it. I don’t know why someone would want to kill him, but not want to kill me. It makes no sense; I was a loose thread that needed to be tied up, but they were letting me get away. Perhaps they knew how hard it would be to kill me? Even if they couldn’t kill me, capturing me would be better than letting me get away. Perhaps they’d be waiting for me down in the arcology’s lobby.

I’m ready for that when the elevator reaches the bottom, and I burst through the doors as soon as they open, my stunner raised.

Yet it’s nothing but an empty lobby, with a single doorman watching me like I’m crazy. Which, considering how I look — dripping blood and pointing a gun into an empty lobby — it’s a logical assumption to make. Quickly holstering the stunner, I make a beeline for the doors, avoiding eye contact with him, and I push out into the rainy night.

Only to get hit in the face with a bright flash and a click.

I stumble backwards, blinded and disoriented; as the flash starts to fade from my eyes, I can hear more clicks and the hum of small rotors. Bracing myself back against the door I just came through, I use my other hand to rub at my eyes, squinting through my fingers. What I see are a flock of small drones with large lens, swarming towards me, relentlessly clicking, little red lights indicating they’re recording…

Paparazzi drones.

“Shit!” I hiss, grabbing my hood and throwing it on as I shove off the door and lunge out into the rain. I didn’t care much for clickbait tabloids, but the rumor-mill bullshit they churned out was exactly the sort of thing that soft-headed plebeians would gobble up while they were waiting for the train or when they were in line to check out their groceries. It was this trash, a sustained campaign of conspiracies and misinformation, that had destroyed my reputation after the Incident, using lies and wild theories to fill in the gaps in what the public knew, displacing the truth before anyone had the chance to tell it.

There isn’t much I can do about the paparazzi drones now that they’re here, and I can hear them clicking and humming along behind me as they chase me through the rain. The real question was why they were here — why they’d been waiting for me, and how they knew I’d be here, well before the local police and emergency services had arrived. As I spot a black luxury car parked at the curb and sprint for it, a sickening suspicion starts to grow in my stomach as I realize why the assassin hasn’t made much of an effort to kill me.

They want me to get away.

And they want the media to get pictures of me running away from what would later turn out to be a crime scene.

Yanking open the door of the car, I throw myself into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind me. I look to the side, expecting to see Echo’s butler in the driver’s seat.

But the driver’s seat is empty.

I sit there dumbfounded, rain dripping off my longcoat as the paparazzi drones circle around the car, snapping pictures. The windows are thankfully tinted so they can’t see inside, but I have no idea what’s going on here. I’m starting to think I jumped into the wrong car, but I don’t see why someone would leave a nice car like this parked and unlocked on the curb.

“I expect Mr. Crane will be joining us shortly?”

I jump, nearly slamming my head on the low roof. The voice comes from all around, from the car’s speakers, as far as I can tell. It’s a deep, calming male voice; as I watch, the lights on the dash and within the car start to flick on. “I— I— I…” I stutter, trying to make sense of what’s going on. “Are you Echo’s butler? Are you driving the car remotely?”

“An amusing sentiment, but no. I am Mr. Crane’s butler, but this car is not being driven remotely. I’ll permit you another guess.”

My eyes widen as I remember that I’m on a planet of Cybers, and I start to connect the dots. “Wait, you… you are the car?”

“An astute observation, and a correct one. Now, since I have answered your question, I would ask that you answer mine: will Mr. Crane be joining us shortly?”

I’m speechless for a moment, still wrapping my head around the fact that Echo’s dead, and his butler is a sentient car. When I can speak again, it’s to stammer out the words that he’d told me to relay to the butler. “Th-the train’s left the station!”

There’s no immediate reaction from the car. For a moment, I’m scared I’ve made a mistake, thinking perhaps I should’ve phrased it another way. Outside of the car, the paparazzi drones keep circling around like vultures, waiting for something to happen, while inside the car, everything’s silent.

“I see.” the voice says after a moment, deep and solemn. “Where do you need to go?”

“There’s a. A. An exit on the edge of the city, a charging station near a big field.” I say, trying my best to recall where Tarocco parked the stealth flyer. “It was on the east side of the city. There was a hyperloop tube running beside the highway. I’m sorry, that’s all I can remember at the moment.”

“No worries. I know I’m heading for a charge station on the east side. That’s enough to get us started; I will narrow down the locations as we’re going. There can’t be that many of them that are also beside a hyperloop and a large field.” the car responds through the surround-sound speakers as it shifts into gear. The wheel starts turning of its own accord as it pulls away from the curb, scattering the paparazzi drones circling us. As the car starts to pick up speed, the rain starts to streak backwards over the windshield, and I slump down a little in my seat, exhaling some of my tension.

This was not how this mission was supposed to go.

I’d come here to recruit a former Challenger and one of my last surviving mentors.

Not to watch him get killed right in front of me.

Reaching into my longcoat, I dig around inside it until I come up with the sheet of paper that Echo had written on. It’s crumpled, but still intact; unfolding it, I try to smooth out the wrinkles. Scrawled across the page are sets of numbers, though I can’t make sense of them or their format — there’s no context, no hint as to what they might be. Perhaps a set of coordinates, or some sort of code, or maybe a password; there was really no way to tell.

Whatever it is, though, it was important enough that Echo used his dying moments to scrawl them out on this paper. If it was important enough for him to use his last moments on that, then it was my job to protect it, and make sure it made it back to the Accatria and give it to our analysts to figure it out.

Refolding the paper again, this time a little more neatly, I tuck it back into my longcoat, and sit up in the passenger chair as we cruise silently through the rain-streaked city. The trauma of Echo’s death still hasn’t hit me yet; I know I’ll feel it later, when I have time to process it. For now, though, all I can feel is the anger and the frustration, knowing that he survived so much and came so far, just to die here. His life was long, but it should’ve been longer. It didn’t deserve to end the way it did.

I’m gonna make sure his last act wasn’t in vain.

Intercepted Transmission

CURSE Relay Satellite to CURSE Operative (Identified)

9:37pm SGT

Gossamer: Gossamer here. What’s up?

Nazka: You didn’t pick up earlier.

G: I was a little busy. I had to relocate after taking the shot; I didn’t want to get caught by quick response drones if they sent any out.

N: Fair enough. I assume the asset has been denied, then?

G: Yeah. Pretty sure he’s dead; I nailed him pretty good.

N: ‘Pretty sure’? We deal in certainties on matters like these, Peacekeeper. Is the objective dead or not?

G: Look, it wasn’t a clean shot. I was expecting them to head back into the kitchen to toss their mugs in the sink so I could get line of sight. They went straight for the entry hallway instead, so I had to put the spike through the wall. Three walls, actually. Exterior, insulation, then two bedroom walls. You lose a little velocity and accuracy when the spike has to punch through a few obstructions before reaching its target.

N: Sounds to me like it was either a positioning or foresight error on your part.

G: Yeah, easy for you to say when you’re not the one taking a shot in the rain, at night, at high altitude, from two miles out, with no line of sight. Next you’re gonna tell me I should’ve been able to do it without the spotter drone.

N: I would’ve been impressed if you could.

G: You’re such a stone-cold asshole sometimes. Look, it was a chest hit, so I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s dead, okay? He was an old and in a fight between him and a railgun spike traveling in excess of twenty-five hundred miles per hour, I’m pretty sure the railgun spike wins. He’s not getting back up from that. Even if he was somehow alive by the time a medical team arrived, he’d probably die on the way to the hospital. And if, for some WEIRD reason, he’s somehow alive by tomorrow, I’ll stick around and make sure the job’s finished. Okay?

N: I fully expect confirmation of death within the next twenty-four hours, Peacekeeper.

G: Yeah yeah, I hear you… I still don’t think we should’ve killed him, but hey, what do I know, I only worked with him for a decade. It’s not like he was a technological genius or anything.

N: You are quite aware he had rebuffed all our attempts to recruit him. That is good and well, but only if he did not plan on aiding and abetting the resurgency. We could not afford to have him on the other side; if CURSE could not have him, then we were not going to allow the Challengers to have him either. That would’ve given them an edge that we could not risk them having.

G: Yeah, I get that. But couldn’t we have like. Kidnapped him or something.

N: Holding a non-compliant individual against their will would be a drain on resources in a time like this, and in a system like Rokolos, we would’ve had to gone to great lengths to hide our involvement in the kidnapping. This course of action removed a piece from play, and assuming it was carried out correctly, would lay the blame for that squarely at the feet of the Challengers. Speaking of which — did you send the tipoff after you took the shot?

G: I did, yeah. Kept Songbird up in the penthouse long enough to give the drones time to get there. He got swarmed the moment he stepped out the lobby, and they chased him all the way to his getaway vehicle. I’m sure they got plenty of pictures and videos to take back to the tabloids.

N: Good. The Administrator will be pleased to hear it. We anticipate this will generate a narrative that will counter the Maskling government’s attempt to make him a hero figure again.

G: I can’t argue with that. Watching them play him up as some defender of the helpless and innocent made me want to vomit. The sooner we can bring him down, the better.

N: We don’t need to kill him yet. Just destroy him. His image, his reputation. He’s a symbol — if we kill him at the wrong time, it’ll turn him into a martyr. We need to control the narrative, define who he is in the eyes of the public — and once the galaxy sees him for the criminal he is, no one will object when we kill him.

G: Right. Well, I’ll leave that to you and the rest of the nerds in the information warfare department. Just let me know when he needs to be crossed off; I’ll be more than happy to make it happen.

N: The question of who takes care of that will be the Administrator’s decision. What we need from you right now is kill confirmation on this assignment’s objective in the next twenty-four hours. Is there anything else to report, Peacekeeper?

G: Nothing. I’ll have the confirm to you soon.

N: Good. Be careful out there. Nazka out.