Professor Angstrom ran simulations on the mecha design the young technician had sent him. He was interrupted by a knock on his door. “Huhm, yes, come in,” he called. The door opened. “Sir, I reviewed the analysis you sent over on the Wildcat. I must say it was very in-depth and, quite frankly, more than what I would have done myself,” the assistant dean of Design and fabrication said in a mellow tone as he stepped into the older man's office.
“Yes, it was more work than I had planned to do myself. He said, looking away from the simulation he was running. “What if I told you that wasn’t my work?”
Thomas Powell laughed at his boss's assertion. “That I would find hard to believe.”
“It's true.” The professor stated. “Last evening, when I entered the bay, I found a student technician running a diagnostic on the unit. When I asked him why, he stated it was for money…” The professor temporized. “He did not say who had paid him for the analysis, but I have a fair guess. Anyway, I digress. The young man had researched the previous pilots, pulled the telemetry, ran simulations, and isolated the fault.”
“And you say he was a student technician?” Powell mused. “An upperclassman? or here for the advanced certifications?”
“Neither, a second year.”
“Unusual, definitely a thorough person. But I sense there is more.” Powell stated.
“There is… here. Sit down and give me your opinion. I’ve been running simulations, " Angstrom said as he stood up from his desk and motioned the other man to sit.
“What is it I’m to look at?”
“This is from the game Iron Reaper.”
Thomas scoffed. “The mech piloting game?”
“That is what I thought. The young man may have hit on something. He stated he buys scrapped virtual mechs and rebuilds them. After he showed me his latest project, I spent the morning verifying his claims. The game has a way for people to design and sell mechs, but what the youth has done is genius…”
“How do they keep unqualified people from publishing poor designs?” Professor Powell asked.
“Each design has to be run through an AI to verify it, but even more importantly, the designer has to buy virtual licenses to use the equipment. Each license is a few hundred credits; the most I’ve been able to verify is around a thousand.”
Powell whistled at that. “Indeed, but by purchasing mechs that the owners don’t intend to repair, this young man is circumventing that process. I can only assume he then sells the mech as a one-off.” He said with a Gaelic shrug. “I had him send over the planned design. Please tell me what you think.
The professor sat, paused the simulations, and then brought up a wire frame diagram to the holographic display. Pursing his lips, he began to view the design. “Mustang Striker?” he said as he enlarged areas and brought up notes and specifications, all the time muttering to himself as he perused the work. Interesting heavier armor, more shock resistant.” Then, commenting on the actual design elements, “the coverage on the joints…”
After nearly twenty minutes, the man looked up at his colleague. “I’m impressed; it seems a solid rework for any of our students, but you say he is a second-year technician?” There was a note of puzzlement in his voice.“ I noticed you were running simulations... " he said, clearly asking for further information.
“I was, this is the twenty-first simulation, his design overall is an improvement on the original; you notice he switches out the reactor for a lighter model, the main weapon he replaces with a laser, and secondaries he sticks with the original backup machine, guns. With the weight savings, he adds armor and jump capability.”
“Interesting. What about performance?”
“I was running simulations when you came. Overall, I’m impressed the design seems to have been optimized for longevity. The cost increase for the unit is five percent with an increase in survivability of twelve percent and combat effectiveness of nine percent.”
“And this is from a technician?” The younger man asked.
“Here's his records.” The dean said, pulling up the information on Kowal Zeidis Kovacs.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“That poor boy,” Powell said, shaking his head.
“What do you mean?”
“His name, well names, they all mean smith.” He said, shaking his head as he read his official record. Then he paged over to the unofficial record that listed the faculty's reports on the student and went so far as to include the unofficial studies and books borrowed from the library. “He’s been studying design philosophies, construction, repair, and electronics systems…” He mused. Once he finished. “I assume you are thinking of sponsoring him for the program.”
“I would, however, if you notice under his health recommendation.”
“I missed that.” He said, examining the record. “Ah, a minor heart condition? Why wasn’t that taken care of in Eutero?” He asked reasonably.
“Ward of the state.” The older man said.
Powell raised an eyebrow in question at his colleague. “I know perhaps not the most ideal of the candidates.”
“You would waste it on him?” Powell asked as he eyed his superior.
“I admit he's less than ideal. But there is one factor in his favor to test it out…”
“He’s disposable. Unlike any of the other candidates we have considered.” The dark-haired professor Powell stated.
“And we are within weeks of their stated deadline,” Angstrom stated. “I can run it by Gavin, but you and I are all that is needed from the panel. Powell’s dark eyes clouded at the mention of the Gavin Nichols name. They were two men perpetually locked in a feud over ideas and ideals. One man was conservative to a fault, and another a profligate wastrel who had never met a coed he didn’t like.
With a grunt, he replied. “When, where, and how do we monitor the young man?” He asked reasonably.
“I will have him brought in today. I will tell him he is being rewarded with a special opportunity. Then, once the unit is on him, we will monitor him for testing,” the dean said. I have already readied the paperwork for him to enter the program.”
“So we may monitor him further?”
“That's to provide him and the item the best opportunity. I’m still skeptical that this system can provide any benefits.” The older man stated. “Much less that it can help one of our designers improve their craft.”
“I would have gladly tested it, Miles.” Professor Powell stated.
“Hah, if it can do half the wonders they claim, I would have strapped it on in a minute. But there is the age limit, which I don’t understand.”
“Lack of neuroplasticity,” The dark-haired man quoted. “We should have found a candidate earlier; the combat arms have already had their candidates for over a year. We are far behind.”
“Yes, yes, I know, but they can get away with losing a candidate. We must explain how a student might have sat down at a book carol and suddenly stopped breathing.”
“Heh, I remember that. The parents were so angry when we told them he had overdosed.” He sighed. “I hated that little snot, too.”
Angstrom's eyebrow went up at his friend's admission. “You hid it so well, did we ever determine…”
“No, we did not. So when?” he said, bringing the conversation back on track to the present.
“I will call him up here from his classes, issue him the item, and state that if he is willing to test it, he will be admitted to the Design and fabrication program.” The dean stated smugly. “And just like that, we have our guinea pig.”
“Workable,” Powell said. “I agree.”
“Oh do you have the test data for the mech, I still need to prepare for my class.”
The dean sighed. “I knew I forgot something last night.” With a sigh, the big man turned and left. He had to plan for a contentious class, but it gave him an idea of how to help his students.
***
The next time there was a knock on his door, Dean Angstrom was prepared and had been expecting it. “Come in,” he commanded. The door swung open, letting the professor see into the hallway and, more importantly, letting him see the young man who was waiting anxiously on the other side of the doorway.
“S, s, sir.” The voice of the student technician said with trepidation. “You sent for me?”
“I did.” He stated that a simulation began to play as he hit a button on his keypad. “I’ve been reviewing the design for your rework of the Mustang.” He indicated the display and the sleek form of the aggressive mech as it went into simulated combat once more. “I’m quite impressed, and so is Professor Powell. We are two of the three members of the admission committee.” He stated in the preamble.
“Sir?” Kovacs asked.
“Come in, Kovacs. Take a seat,” Miles noted as the student took a first hobbled step, then recovered and walked a little more smoothly.
“I believe that you offer a unique opportunity for us. Nearly a year ago, a foreign entity came to our government and made us an offer: a transfer of knowledge in various fields, including mech design. Unfortunately, most of our professors and designers on Nerona were too old for the infusion technology that the aliens used.”
“Aliens?” Kovacs asked, confused. Why would aliens want to help us?” The youth had grown up with stories of the warlike aliens mankind had encountered as it reached into the stars.
“That is one of the questions.” The dean sighed as he eyed the student. “One you may be able to help me with.” He said as he brought out a small but heavy box.
“And the opportunity?” The young man asked as he considered the background information.
“Originally, we dubbed it Operation Mecha Smith.” He said as he opened the box. “Strangely, it seems something you may be uniquely suited for,” Miles noted, the youths blushing. “Why the embarrassment?”
“It took me too many years to realize why people called me Smith, and now I’d be the mech, Smith.”
“Ah, yes; your names. I had wondered.”
“Three men found me, and to honor me, I was given each of their last names.” He said flatly. “Just tell me about the opportunity.” His tone cut off all further inquiries.
“Yes, well. The Eh’Liop offered us this band,” he said, pulling out a strange gunmetal bracelet from the box. This contains what they call a system interface. This one is for a design program. They did not elaborate; suffice to say that it can aid one in the design and construction of weapons. There is, however, a limit.”
“What is the limit?” Kovacs asked suspiciously. “I can’t see the government letting this out if they could help it.” The Dean chuckled at the young man's astute observation.
“You are correct. There is an age limit on the device. We have been told it is about eighteen to nineteen to accommodate the brain's neuroplasticity. The committee feels you are the best candidate we have, and we have been told the device will be nonfunctional in a few weeks.” The professor elaborated.
Kovacs eyed the older man warily. “What do I get out of this?”
“You will be admitted to my Design program as a special student. We will evaluate you and this system and hopefully determine why we have been gifted with this opportunity.”
The youth stared at the gunmetal object, observing it, then sighed, reaching out for it. “One shining coin for my future.” He said, looking the dean in the eyes. “I’ll take it; just tell me what I have to do.” Kowal placed the band around his left wrist, which sealed with an audible click. “That was easy enough,” he said just as the band began to tingle, and then the nerve endings around his wrist and hand felt like they were burning beads of sweat suffused his face. “Professor?” he said, a strangled cry before he blacked out.
The dean stood up and looked over his impressive desk to the body lying unconscious on his floor. “Well, isn’t that a pisser…” he said to no one.