[Summer Contest Entry 2012] Surprise!

Deckard sighed as his chronometer alarm went off, time to get to work. Taking one last glance at his favourite waifu he powered down his tablet and got out of the tent. The ground was wet from the night’s rainfall and the sun had yet to burn away the moisture. The precious hour between the night’s relentless storms and the day’s scorching heat was almost magical: a tiny oasis of calm in the eye of the maelstrom that was his ongoing mission.

He couldn’t linger and enjoy it though, dawn was almost upon him and he had to move out before the sun came up. Deckard quickly packed up his tent and ran over to his combat mech: the Analogue. Pulling out a flash-light he did quick external check to make sure it hadn’t suffered damage in the night. The Analogue was a second-generation quadruped refit, almost obsolete but adequate for the task at hand. Standing 5 meters tall the it was slightly under gunned. Several weapons had been sacrificed for spare magazines and secondary capacitors, a necessity for the month long mission into the wastelands.

Satisfied that everything was in order Deckard climbed up and jumped into the cockpit. He lingered just before closing the hatch. The summer dawn on this planet was a thing to behold. In the distance a rolling fog suffused with warm light advanced towards him as the rising sun vaporised the night’s rainfall. As the fog drew closer Deckard sealed the hatch.

A friendly computer voice chimed in as he ran the start up sequence.

[Good Morning: Main System commencing Start up Sequence.]
“Hey Brian, how’s the mech today?”
[Power Plant: Online]
[Sensors: Online]
[Booting FCS:]
[180mm Cannon-Ready]
[40mm-Cannon-Ready]
[Type 4 Assault Laser-Ready]
[All Systems Nominal]

“Alright, that’s what I like to hear.”

Deckard had started referring to his mech’s computer as Brian. A technician had once offered to install a feminine persona but he had declined, saying he didn’t want to be one of those “sad fucks” who fetishised their machines. Talking to Brian was merely an exercise in staving off loneliness.

The primary camera showed almost zero visibility, the mech now being completely consumed by the fog forcing Deckard to navigate via sensors. It would be like this for about half an hour until the summer heat forced all the vapour into the upper atmosphere, perfect conditions for hunting.

A several minutes passed without incident, the steady sweep of the sensor scope revealing nothing for several kilometres. It wasn’t everyday that Deckard found a target and when he did he either killed it or slipped away before it could kill him.

Suddenly a blip appeared on the scope forcing Deckard to sit up and take notice.
“What do we have here Brian?”

[Initiating Long Range Scan]
[Target Identified]
[MkII Endymion, unknown variant]

Deckard’s blood ran cold. An Endymion was a third generation high performance machine, easily capable of out manoeuvring the Analogue. It would be unwise to engage it unless... It didn’t appear to moving at combat speed, it probably hadn’t even detected the Analogue yet. With the element of surprise he could probably take it down and that would mean a fat bonus once he handed in his combat logs back at the base.

The Analogue turned towards its target and spread its legs into a stable firing platform. Deckard still couldn’t see shit through the fog but the targeting computer superimposed an outline of the Endymion on his HUD. Even though it didn’t matter he still exhaled as he lined up a shot and pulled the trigger.

A dull “thoom” could be heard as the 180mm cannon fired. Nothing happened for a split second then the outline of the Endymion staggered: direct hit. Deckard fired again, another hit. The Endymion had started moving towards the Analogue but it wasn’t moving nearly as fast as it could. One of the shots must have knocked out something important. The third shot put it down. The sensor contact disappeared and off in the distance a dull yellow flash could be seen through the fog. That probably was the end of it but Deckard wanted to get a visual on the wreckage. If the kill wasn’t properly confirmed they might try to weasel out of paying him for it back at the base.

The Analogue lurched forward filling the cockpit with the rhythmic thudding noise of all four legs in motion.

[Proximity Alert: Incoming Unknown Contact]

Deckard’s eyes snapped to the sensor scope. There was another blip coming at him fast, which could only mean one thing: The dead guy had a partner.

[Contact Identified]
[MkIII Pacifica, Type C]

Another third generation machine, had to be part of an obscenely rich merc outfit. Not many people piloted mechs like that on this forsaken rock.
The fog was starting to lift now and Deckard could make out the Pacifica on his primary display. It was a thin bi-ped machine, almost feminine in its design. It “skated” toward the Analogue over the open ground, thrusters on its back enabling it to hit incredible speed.

Range was Deckard’s only advantage in this fight and that was rapid dwindling. He snapped off a shot with the 180mm, the Pacifica’s thrusters flared jerking the mech out of the shell’s path. It was still coming at him and was now firing what appeared to be an ion lance. Charged particle beams slammed into the Analogue setting off warnings in the cockpit. Deckard ignored them, the Analogue handled like a tortoise but was just as durable.

The Pacifica was now within 500 meters, Deckard opened up with the 40mm and Assault laser. The Pacifica abruptly changed course dashing sideways to escape the stream of fire coming from the Analogue. The cannon missed completely while the assault laser burned off some armour but failed to do any real damage. In retaliation the Pacifica unleashed a swarm of micro missiles. The Analogue shuddered under the impact of ten simultaneous hits. Damage reports started scrolling across the HUD. The primary display actually failed for a few seconds before a grainy image appeared on the monitor once more. Deckard’s eyes widened in shock, the Pacifica was a hundred metres away, and its thrusters were on a full burn propelling it forward in a mad charge. In its hands was a huge plasma blade. No time to hit the eject button. The blade’s tip carved into the Analogue’s torso, punching straight through into the cockpit. Deckard watched in horror as thick line of superheated metal appeared to the side of his console and erupted in a shower of sparks as the massive blade breached the re-enforced cockpit and thrust towards him.

He could have only been out for a few seconds. Deckard knew this because there was a massive energised blade inches from his left cheek. What was left of his mech’s control interface was displaying catastrophic damage across the board. Gingerly reaching forward he initiated an emergency shutdown.

The Analogue slumped against the Pacifica, its gun barrels slowly drooped downwards and its legs went slack. With a squeal of tortured metal the Pacifica withdrew the blade allowing a thin line of glaring sunlight to enter the cockpit. Deckard shrank from the light, it wouldn’t do to let the it hit him until he could get a proper environment suit on. Outside he could hear the dwindling “thud” of the Pacifica's footsteps as it walked away, clearly thinking him dead.

There was nothing to do now but wait for the sun to set. Once it was safe to go outside it would be possible to effect temporary repairs. If Deckard could restore motive power the Analogue would be able to move again and maybe, just maybe he might get back to base. In the mean time he still had his tablet computer and a terabyte's worth of FAKKU to keep him entertained.

Compton stifled a yawn as he began his shift at the operator’s terminal. Several miles below him on the surface of the planet his partner would be getting ready ∨ the day’s sortie.

Bringing up the sensor feeds Compton scanned the wasteland until he found the metallic blob that was Deckard’s combat walker, a few meters to the left was a tiny thermal signature that was probably Deckard himself. Zooming in he noticed that the signature was twitching in an odd fashion. A cursory glance at the data feeds confirmed his suspicions.

“For fucks sake Deckard quit streaming porn over the tactical network. I don’t want our systems to get compromised because you were surfing Fakku!”
The thermal signature stopped twitching for a moment then a tinny voice barked back over the radio.

“Screw you Compton, if I’m gonna die it’s gonna be with a big fucking smile on my face. Besides the bozos on this rock don’t have the knowhow to hack us.”

“Just get in the walker. The sun will be up in soon and I don’t want you getting fried because you were too busy fapping.”

Deckard scowled as he turned off his portable computer and packed up his tent. The night’s rainfall had made everything damp and he almost slipped as he climbed up the side of his walker and into the cockpit.

The cockpit was cramped making it a lousy place to sleep, it was why Deckard chose to sleep outside despite the rain, that and his need to satisfy himself.
The planet he was on had an elliptical orbit. During the summer when the planet was closest to its star all the surface liquids evaporated during the day only to condense and rain back down again during the night. Getting caught in the open without a shielded hard suit would mean a slow agonising death. The only reason anyone bothered with it were the rich mineral deposits beneath the surface. Mining corporations often hired mercenaries like Deckard to secure their claims. The work paid well, but it often meant patrolling the wastelands for weeks before getting a chance to resupply.

A friendly computer voice chimed in as Deckard powered up the walker.
[Good Morning: Main System commencing Startup Sequence.]
“Hey Brian, how’s the mech today?”
[Power Plant: Online]
[Sensors: Online]
J[FCS: Online]
[Weapons: Online]
[All Systems Nominal, Resuming Mission]

“Alright, that’s what I like to hear.”

Deckard had started referring to his mech’s computer Brian. A technician had once offered to install a feminine persona but he had declined, saying he didn’t want to be one of those “sad fucks” who fetishised their machines. Talking to Brian was merely an exercise in staving off loneliness.

Through his primary camera Deckard could see a barren wasteland stretching out in front of him. Several hundred meters away a bank of fog suffused with a soft light rolled towards him. The sun was coming up, vaporising all the moisture in its wake. Before long visual range had been reduced to less than a hundred metres leaving Deckard e&fectively blind.
A blinking light on his console indicated a comm channel being opened.