Templar Header [https://i.imgur.com/xVOD5AQ.png]
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Chapter 5 - Newbies
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“The compensator just isn't keeping up.”
“Never mind that, what about the memory speed? Way too slow for combat!”
“And that's causing the vents to come on late – It'll lead to an overheat if we ain't careful.”
This was the conversation surrounding me one morning. In fact, we have similar every morning.
Chief Gros isn't really a 'democracy' kind of guy; he makes all the decisions, and his word is always final. That said, every morning, he gathers the eleven or so of us in the main mechanic team, and we all stand around discussing the work needed for the day.
Even though I'm pretty sure Gros never changes his mind on anything, letting everyone have their say before he gives out jobs for the day goes a long way to making you feel heard.
“Alright, the day is burning. We swap out the Type-C's processor for a new one. ‘Take a bit of fiddling, but it should fix all these issues,” the man himself nods.
“We have a new processor here?” I say, speaking for the first time since our little meeting started.
“Tch, of course we do, two of them. I wanted to keep a few more, but the Captain sent the other seventy away.”
I blink stupidly, “We stole Casnel processors to use on a Type-C?!”
That gets a bit of a chuckle from some of my fellow mechanics, Gros frowns, but Mr Shane is actually next to speak up; “Kris has a good point, Chief. It may have been upgraded over the years, but deep down, the Crusade is a Gen One frame, thirteen years old. There's no way you could ever get a shiny new processor like that into it without major overhauling.”
Shane usually is rather quiet and soft-spoken but he gets a little icy whenever the Crusade’s modifications and maintenance come up. All the mechanics do actually.
Chief Gros takes the title of 'Templar's personal mechanic' very seriously. None of us are allowed anywhere near the Crusade. The Chief does all the tuning himself, and at best, he'll let one of the senior mechanics hold something still or lift something up, but no more than that.
It is one of the few things that can get a bit of snark out of Shane and the others. After all, I'm already deeply interested in seeing what makes such an old mech so powerful, and I've only been here three weeks.
Gros frowns almost bashfully at the accusation, well almost, “Now look here, you lot, thanks to all the random parts we've had to use to fix the Type-C again, that fancy processor is exactly what we need and having a spare never hurts anyone.”
“Exactly what it needs? It’s twice or even four times more than it needs,” another mechanic, Johnny, jabs.
“Alright, alright, the whole lot of ya are awfully mouthy today! Let's just get it installed and then complain, got it?” Gros says, ending the lighthearted discussion.
Our morning meeting over, we split off into little duos and trios to get ready for the somewhat complicated process of swapping out, rewiring and tuning the Type-C's processor; but before any of us get far, one of the doors opens and out steps none other than Templar himself. So early in the morning, the sight of the man who saved me almost feels surreal, like I might still be asleep.
The giant pilot wanders across the vast space over to a frowning chief mechanic.
Lt Vitka isn't with him today, and instead, Templar moves his hands in a way I'd never seen before. After Gros nods at the action, I realise it must be sign language.
“Oii, Birgit, come over here,” Gros shouts.
“Wh-who me?” The young man in question says, pointing at himself. Gros just frowns at him disappointedly.
The Type-C pilot, Birgit, has an issue. When he arrived, his mech was in tatters, and a day after we repaired it, it was in tatters again – This means he can't train.
The Caravel is too tiny for a full-on simulator booth, and such a thing would never pose enough of a challenge to be of use to Templar. As such, the best it has is a somewhat generic program that can be installed on most mechs and allows the pilot to practise against computer opponents and scenarios from their cockpit. But Brigit can't because he'd be in the way of repair work, and Templar has thus far shown no sign of wanting to tutor him.
Instead, the Captain assigned him to Chief Gros, same as me, but unlike me, he has no training at all and instead spends most of his time tidying up, opening crates to restock the day-to-day supplies, sorting big bolts from the small, that sort of stuff.
At best, he watches one of us doing something to his mech and maybe learns something about it that way, but in truth, the guy has yet to gain much skill or practise since arriving here.
Brigit does as he is told and approaches the two veterans.
After a short chat, he half sprints to the changing room with a smile on his face.
“Eh, you lot behind the line. Shane, lower the screen and open the door, would ya,” Gros bellows to all of us before also heading to the changing room. We do as we’re told; clearly work is at a stop for the moment. About two-thirds of the way back from the hangar's massive main door, a transparent screen begins to lower. Once it reaches the ground, our side becomes airtight and safe for the other sixty-odd percent to be depressurised.
We watch Gros and Birgit enter the depressurised zone with thin space suits on. For the next few minutes, it seems the Chief is explaining the controls to Brigit before leaving the area and joining us back in the still pressurised zone – The controls for the Crusade.
There are some questioning looks in Gros and Templar’s direction and even some jealous looks at the legendary mech. After everything is in place, Gros turns on a communicator at his wrist and begins speaking to Birgit inside the Crusade, “Alright, lad. Just turn it towards the door now; it's nothing fancy. If you can handle it, then Templar wants you to start practising in it more often, but be slow and steady.
That old girl is tricky; her’ controls are sensitive.”
“Roger, boss!” Birgit replies over the communicator's speaker, his voice clearly filled with excitement. We all hold our collective breath and watch as the Crusade, ever the white and silver-grey giant of gleaming knightly armour. Takes comically tiny steps as it turns at a ninety-degree angle to face the door.
“Ok, good, I think... Now very, Very gently activate your rear thrusters by the smallest amount.”
Birgit does as instructed, and slowly the little slits in the Crusade's layered rectangular armour begin to glow a very faint blue. The mech edges forward and finally across the threshold.
And then the glow stops dead.
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“Errr... guys…. I think I stalled it.....” Birgit says over the loudspeaker.
Gros smacks a palm to his forehead, “Shit.”
****
For the next twenty minutes, a rather awkward display occurs before those watching. Multiple times, Birgit is told to quit and bring the Crusade back aboard, but the young man refuses, continually trying again and again to get the mech to do what he asked of it. Again and again, it simply stalls.
Most of us have half-heartedly gone back to our respective jobs, occasionally stealing fleeting glances at Birgit's sad attempts. Only Templar and Gros remain standing at the screen's edge, observing the pitiful proceedings with their full attention.
Eventually, I hear Gros give Birgit a final order; “Look kid, that's time. The ship has to get back underway with no delays. You understand that right? Come back in now, or you're gon’na be in real trouble with the Cap'ain.”
There is a long moment of silence before Birgit's voice squeaks back out over the communicator, “Ummm boss, that last stall... I think the battery just died.”
The Crusade deep down is a rather old mech. It's honestly impressive that it can still be so powerful at its age, it definitely adds a layer of character to what is effectively a tank on legs. But being old comes with its downsides, one of the Crusade’s apparently being a somewhat strenuous battery system, one which, repeated stalling, had just drained.
In the end, I drew the short straw, ordered to throw on a space suit and then handed these two massive jump leads, each the width of a basketball at least. I'm pretty sure if there was gravity, I wouldn't even be able to lift them.
The ship has been delayed. It took ten minutes to make sure everyone had evacuated the hangar fully and then to depressurise it. Now I'm the only one in here, one small person in an empty stadium as it were, a massive cable under each arm, my orders simply, “Go get that idiot in.”
The leads go all the way back to the Caravel’s generator, and along with a regular cable attached to my belt, I effectively have three safeguards. Still, you get somewhat limited training for spacewalking as a cadet, and I'm feeling quite nervous.
Slowly, I step up to the threshold and stare out. It's just empty.
There is nothing before me – one step will take me off solid metal, to pure absence, to blackness in every direction – there is nothing to stand on, grab, or air to hear me call out. Utter nothing.
Living in space is weird like that, knowing your home is beyond insignificant, that one little ship doesn't even compare to a planet's mass, never mind the endless vacuum. Knowing just outside the walls is void. We walk on the 'floors' of the Caravel but that's purely for regulation's sake: No one wants to headbutt someone else simply because two people decided to walk on opposite surfaces. But there is no direction, no up or down, no sides. No forwards or backwards.
I gently kick off and start floating towards the one bright spot on the matt-painting of empty space.
It's eerie. All I can hear is my own breath against the helmet visor. All I can see is black, no smell, touch stifled by the space suit, taste stale. And there at the centre of it all is this almost ridiculous sight. Long rectangular armour, broad shoulders, bucket head with unlit red eye. The Crusade looks almost like an ancient sentinel, frozen forever in place.
I gently land on its back, the underside of my boots magnetising to prevent me from bouncing away. I don't waste time, I'd like to be back inside right about now. I flip open a proportionally tiny panel on the armour's surface – inside is a little T-shaped stick – using both hands, I hoist it up as far as possible. There is no sound of course, not out here.
The panel of armour I'm on responds to me pulling the lever. It starts to shift to one side with a smooth motion. Beneath me is revealed an inner part of the mech, all black and unassuming compared to the outside. I carefully clip the two cables to it, then step back.
“Birgit, can you hear me?”
“Oh hey, Kris, I guessed it was you, what with ya being so short compared to the others,” the young pilot in question replies.
I frown, “Bit rude.”
“Ah ya, sorry 'bout that. I really appreciate you coming out here for me. I've made a bit of a fool of myself, huh.”
“I'm just following orders. Ummm, can you try to turn over the generator again now?”
“Oh right, ‘course.”
There is a slightly concerning flash in front of me at the contact points, but more appropriately, the Crusade’s arms and legs start to move slightly.
“Success! Wanna lift back?” Birgit says, a bit bashfully but clearly trying to sound jovial. I'm not sure if that will actually be faster than floating back on my own, but it will probably be safer, so I consent, and to everyone's surprise, Birgit slowly but surely, gets the Crusade back inside the Caravel.
****
We don’t return to work after all that. Instead, an early lunch is called, and about twenty of us file into the kitchen. There is an odd tension in the room; everyone probably wants to gossip about what has happened, but since Birgit is here with us, any gossip has to be relegated to hushed whispers.
Picking up on it himself, Birgit shoots me a shy smile from across the table. We'd been the last to arrive, so we end up sitting together for the first time since our little spat a while back.
“I really messed up, didn't I?” He says altogether shyly, his hook nose drooping. He's not wrong. All told, the ship was stationary for twenty minutes longer than planned. That might not sound like much but in space, every calculation counts. Every little delay cuts into your backup supplies and can lead to rationing of food and water.
No one wants to run out of fuel and be left stranded hundreds of kilometres from the nearest anything. This is all even more pressing for a small ship like the Caravel with its limited storage.
Birgit goes on when he realises I don't have anything much to say back to him; “But this is just another reason for me to keep trying, right! If I keep it up I'll get the hang of it eventually, everyone starts at the bottom.”
I shoot him a disparaging look, “I mean, why bother?”
“Huh?” He says back stupidly.
I pause a moment, remembering our confrontation from two weeks ago, but I don’t stop. Something about Birgit has always annoyed me and his display today was not only shameful in Templar's presence but an offence to the Crusade itself.
Birgit isn’t like Mr Richard or Chief Gros; he can’t use the excuse of age for the odd disgrace in attitude or judgement like today. He should know better.
“Look man, there's no reason to feel bad or try so hard, right? Some people are good pilots, and some are not. Honestly, if I managed to come back alive twice with your abilities, I’d probably consider myself the luckiest person ever and quit.”
“K-Kris, ‘the heck are you trying to say?” Brigit reels back, red-faced.
I shrug, “Some people are born heroes. Some people are born good pilots. No shame in being neither, but loads of shame in making your crewmates look bad trying to be what you aren’t. Better to quit while you're ahead rather than wasting everyone else's time--”
SLAP
The impact echoes across the canteen, all eyes turn to it and the perpetrator. I too, slowly, with a terrible throbbing pain in my cheek, turn to look up at the man standing at the end of the table who's hit me.
Broad shoulders, silver hair, red eyes and an expression of anger I've never seen before. I can’t think of a time anyone had slapped me like that. My parents certainly never did. My idol, the hero who rescued me, the one I want nothing more than to support. Templar has just struck me hard upon the face.
The weirdest part of all is I can swear, as his hand makes contact with my face, that I hear a voice as it happens. Not one of the onlookers in the room, and surely not Templar’s, right? It is like words said without the use of vocal cords, and what they say is a single angered phrase, mixing with the pain in my cheek.
[“Never demean the efforts of the hopeful.”]
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