Andrew eventually found his Introduction to Mechanized Combat Class. It turned out Wolfram Hall was a collection of extra-large workshops and labs rather than a lecture hall. Which kind of explained why it was on the other end of the campus, sitting amidst the academy’s more industrial facilities.
When Andrew finally entered the class, the class had only just started. All the students sat at work benches next to empty racks. The professor stood in the center of the room. He was an orc with an explosively robust physique despite his wrinkled and weathered green-brown skin and gray-white beard.
This was Professor Delmar Ramos. According to the web browser that floated in Andrew’s view the man was formerly one of the Novem Empire’s top researchers in mech design before he ended up retiring to life as an Academy Professor. He was one of the handful of teachers whose careers outside of the school was high profile enough for them put his name on the school’s brochure.
Professor Ramos wore an oil-stained apron. His gray, dreadlocked, hair was tied back in a style that seemed to either be a bunched up ponytail or a half-assed topknot.
The man had a look about him that gave Andrew the sense that this workshop, and perhaps a handful of other workshops in the entirety of Wolfram hall itself, were “his” actual work area and allowing students to periodically invade and ask him questions, was part of some deal the old man had going with the school.
This feeling was reinforced by the number of personal effects and non-standard equipment that was present within the workshop.
“Gnh...Alright, alright, get yourselves settled, students.” said the Professor. His voice a mixture of deep bass and gargled gravel. All blended into a Scottish accent. His words followed by grumble something that sounded remarkably like, “you wee little shits.”
The class quickly quieted down, and the professor pressed a button on his table that opened three large holes in the ground. There was a dull hum and as unseen machines raised a set of platforms up from underground.
A minute later three canvas covered figures stood at the professor’s back. The professor raised his hands and the bundle of wires that tied the canvas in place came undone slithering to the ground. He dropped his hands, and the canvas covered on the figures all fell to the ground.
Andrew couldn’t help noting that despite his reluctance the old orc was definitely putting his showmanship to work here.
Now, the three figures were revealed. All three of them gleaming, their metal bodies a glorious blue-silver.
“Now, can any of you tell me what these are?” said Professor Ramos.
Andrew recognized them and he expected that most of the other students in the class recognized them as well. These were machines that had been considered iconic imperial tech fifty years ago, were mocked and memed to death twenty-five years ago, and were now just viewed as borderline-antiques. Only still in use because, for all that the science behind mech design had advanced a lot in the last fifty years or so, the principles of mech operation hadn’t evolved all that much in the last half-millenia.
From somewhere in the back of the workshop, came a faint, soft, slightly reedy voice.
“Bell End!”
Everyone in the entire class immediately froze locking down the nervous laughter that nearly escaped them. The Professor’s heavy aura making it hard to breathe.
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For a moment it was dead silent inside the workshop, till finally the professor said,
“What was that? Mind coming forward and saying that again?”
The students all shifted. Some folk moving to allow their unfortunate classmate move forward. Some folk simply turning in place because they wanted to see who’d been so suicidally gutsy to give that kind of answer on the first day.
The speaker finally made it to the front of the class and the reveal was shocking. The person who’d given the coarse and audacious answer was a mousy, little, gnome. A pink haired young woman, who stood at just a hair over four feet. Wearing a pair of what looked like fashion goggles, but was probably her sprite, atop her head.
“Now, Miss, do you mind telling me your name?” said the Professor. Bending over with a look of geniality that was almost more intimidating than his earlier gruffness.
“Uh...Y-, Yes, sir. I’m Emilia Karan.”
“Karan, huh...Karan...Karan. I think I once worked with a Karan once. Does your family have anyone by the name of Sherman?” said Professor Ramos.
“Yes, sir. My...My Granduncle. Sherman Karan was once of the lead engineers for planet Cornelia’s Imperial Fleet.” said the young gnome.
“Ah...I knew that name sounded familiar. Now do you mind repeating what you said before?” said the Professor. The hard edge returning to his voice.
The gnome began to tremble as the Professor loomed over her, cupping his ear with his hand as if to listen better. The gnome made a scared animal noise before finally answering.
“B-, Bell End, sir.”
Silence fell once again, and Andrew felt all of the more scornful or apathetic lines of thought floating through the room get replaced with shock and anticipation. Everyone waited with bated breath, completely prepared to see the brutish old engineer punt the gnome out of the workshop like a rugby ball.
No one expected the old man to tilt his head back and roar with laughter. Laughing for a solid thirty seconds like some kind of green-skinned, tusked, heavy metal, Santa Claus.
“That’s bloody right, lass. Well, almost… The real name for these old rust buckets is Bernat. From smallest to largest, the machines you see before you, are the Bernat 0129, the Bernat 0230, and Bernat 0341. Known to those of us in the imperial navy as little Bell End, Big Bell End, and Bell End Destroyer of Worlds...Respectively.”
This got a nervous chuckle from the class, that was less about the rough military humor, and more about the fact the man hadn’t exploded with rage like everyone had expected.
Andrew could understand where the name came from. The source of the unfortunate nickname was from the literal shape of the humanoid machines’ heads. Each one a round, semi-cylinder, like an old town hall bell. The name made even more prominent by the fact that the Bernat models all came with the same dull-witted expression carved onto their faces.
The machines were stereotypical robots. With boxy, clunky, inelegant bodies that might have seemed very space-age and futuristic once upon a time but now were a bit like looking at your grand-dads sedan. Thus it was no surprise when the professor followed his statement up by saying,
“Our fair, Blackvale academy, has managed to procure a shipment of these ugly bastards that were slated for decommissioning. We've brought them here for you kiddies to play in, and it is my burden, duty, and contractual obligation to make sure most of you lot are able to at least make it a few steps in Little Bell End, without falling over, or blowing yourselves...” said the Professor.
“I know what your schedules and curriculums might have called this class, but honestly I can’t be arsed to teach you anything that fancy. This is ‘NOT’.... and I cannot emphasize this enough, this is ‘NOT’ an introduction to mechanized combat. Those of you who think you might be ahead of the game because you’ve had people at home let you climb into family owned ‘consumer’ mechs and have walked ‘em about a bit, can stop patting yourselves on the backs right bloody now, because you’re still far too green to go through ‘that’ course.”
“No, the class I shall be teaching you kids for the rest of the semester, is a much simpler, much more fundamental class… A class I like to call, Intro to Robot Punching. You’ll learn how to get inside a mech...Properly. You learn how to operate one without killing yourselves. And finally, maybe...just maybe, if you can impress me, I’ll teach you how to knock an enemy robot on its arse.” said the Professor.
“Ah, there it is… I can see the sea of discontented faces and can imagine the dean calling me to tell me about you and your parents' complaints already. Lass, do me a favor and tell these fools the biggest cause of death for mechanized troops?” said Professor Ramos.
“O...Operator error, sir.” said Emilia.
“Do you hear that? Do you think I’m lying? I know half of you younguns are here with those little fairy-computers either pinned to your ears, nose, and who knows what else. So you can look it up if you don’t believe me.” said the Professor
“For most of you, before the enemy drops their bombs, or fires their death-rays, or unleashes their own mechanized forces, you’ll be offed because you forgot to cross a T, or dot an I, in the basic operation of your machines. We, engineers, try to make these machines idiot proof but damn if they don’t keep making better idiots each passing year, and honestly to be fair to you kids, there’s a steep limit to how simple we can make a machine that’s meant to synchronize itself with your body, psyche, and soul amidst combat conditions.” said the old Orc. Glaring at the crowd of somber young faces, his dark-green eyes ablaze.