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Chapter 6 - Definitions - Part 1
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Something that stays mostly the same between school and work is a fight. Everyone takes sides, feelings are hurt, and ultimately, everyone still must go to work again the next day.
Sure, some things are more mature. The people siding with Birgit (effectively everyone) say hi to me in passing and are still working alongside me; they just speak a little less earnestly and greet me more mechanically.
For a crew of minor oddballs, of half-drunken chief mechanics, senile janitors, jock engineers and, as I’ve learned, more than a couple who joined the military to get away from an overbearing family or excess responsibility at home of all things – everyone seems to put their eccentricities aside to be disappointed in me.
Unlike school, I doubt Gros will let me take the day off to nurse my cheek. And even if he did, I sleep in the bunk next to Birgit, eat at the same table and work on the same mech.
I've come to like the Cavarel's sense of cosy community in my time here, but now, when honestly I'd really rather like a quiet corner to, well, cry about my idol slapping me – now that cosy environment feels stifling.
But of course, the days go on. People sit at opposite ends of the table, vary their bedtimes a little, talk as briefly as possible, anything to avoid confrontation, and before you know it, three days have elapsed, and my cheek is no longer swollen.
Through all this, one person I've been able to rely on is Mr Shane, who has made a point of pairing us up more often than usual, and I'm grateful for it. Right now, we're in a small storage room off the side of the hangar, laden with crates in every direction, gathering some supplies the Chief requested.
Shane is in his thirties, tall, well-built and clean-shaven. I never fail to notice his rather young-looking face for his age, soft lines, and short-cropped black hair. He glances up at me staring, and smiles wryly.
“Kris, you've drifted off again.”
“Wha!” I splutter, blushing. I had once more been daydreaming on the job, “Jezz, I'm never gonna' shake that habit.”
Shane chuckles lightly, “Well, it's not like we don't all have our quirks. I often zone out.”
“Even you, Mr Shane? You always seem to have it together; you’re like the best mechanic after the Chief.”
“Oh? Why thank you Kris, but it's true. Have a look at this,” he perches on one of the crates and takes out his handheld; flicking through the menus, I walk over and take a look.
“Are those fights?” I ask.
Shane nods, “Yup, all different mech battles. Johnny gets me some, and I have a deal with one of the bridge’s communications operators, who I think is a little sweet on me. Between them, I've amassed quite the collection.”
I presume the operator he means is Sue, the woman I met briefly on my very first day here. He clicks into one of the videos, and it’s none other than Templar VS the Seekers from around a week ago, but unlike when I saw that battle, it's from higher up, presumably taken by a camera on the Caravel's bridge. “So you collect battles?”
“Sort of. I just really rather love mechs, you see. The way they move, the dozens of little interactions every time a single finger is lifted, the skill used in piloting them. I'm quite the expert at this point,” he adds, with a slightly embarrassed laugh. It’s interesting to see Shane act bashfully. For a guy who always carries a sword at his hip, I had imagined he was just one of those people with a lot of self-confidence or a lack of regard for what others think of him. His sharing this hobby with me feels oddly privileged.
“Ah, try this one. Aside from the ones with Templar in, this one is the most, rare, shall we say, an SSR fighter you could call it.”
I look at the screen to see four Type-Cs in a circle around a grey-coloured mech. Actually, the footage is probably being taken by a fifth Type-C, so it’s five-on-one.
The mech they have surrounded has a unique look; it even reminds me of the Crusade, except that this one looks more mediaeval rather than a religious knight. Big round pauldrons on its shoulders, a massive rectangular tower shield in its left hand, a spear of sorts in its right. A domed head with a flat face containing a single glowing gold visor.
“What is it?”
Shane grins, “Confidential is what. I must talk to my friend on the bridge; she and I could get in trouble if anyone knew she'd sent me this. Still, it is quite the sight.”
He stops talking to let the video speak. One of the Type-Cs marches forward, rifle blazing and an arc-staff in its off hand. The knightly mech blocks each rifle bolt as though it were nothing, and once the Type-C goes in for a close-range slash, the knight sidesteps it with an unbelievable amount of speed. I can barely follow the movement!
Going with its momentum, the knight spins one-hundred & eighty degrees, and its spear flares to life with a flaming point mid-manoeuvre. The tip rams into the back of the passing Type-C and a moment later out the front. A clean one-hit kill in a matter of seconds.
Shane skips the file ahead, but I can already guess what happens next. One by one, those five mechs would be taken down by an enemy infinitely out of their league.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Footage intelligence sent us yesterday once they realised we'd decided to investigate TSU’s Casnel plans. I don't have the context to go with it, but after thinking about it, I reckon the mech is a prototype of what we are searching for. As for the pilot…” Shane presses play on the video again. The mediaeval grey knight is now alone, and the camera filming is severely damaged, with score lines running through it and the footage skipping a second here and there.
Suddenly, a voice transmits in the camera’s direction. Considering the five Type-C’s can be seen in ruin all around the grey knight, the voice must be coming from it; “People of Remembrance, your reckoning has arrived at last. Your forces are run ragged. The moral you gained through opportunistically venturing into the TSU-s - IAFS conflict has run dry, and it is time you were put down for the good of all mankind. If you have any decency left in you, lay down your arms so that our species might finally have a lasting peace and begin to rebuild both our suffering planets. If you will not, then I, the Lightning Bolt of TSU, will put you down like the curs you are.”
I’m left gaping both at the ludicrous, nonsense speech this enemy gives and also at the power of their machine, “That’s one of the Casnels? They could have ten of those where we're going? All for Templar to face alone.”
“Alone? You mean alongside Birgit, right? Alongside all of us,” Shane says, and the penny drops for me.
It must show on my face as he continues talking, “Ya know Kris, none of those mechs makes it out of that fight, the Type-C doesn't have the gear to win against a state-of-the-art Casnel, and those were ordinary rank-and-file pilots, no different than you or I are ordinary mechanics. But I've watched it in full, and they never stop fighting, to the bitter end they stand firm, and in doing so bought just enough time for the ship they were guarding to escape. What do you think of that?”
“I... I'll try to talk to Birgit soon, I will,” I say. After all, I know I was wrong; Templar's slap hammered that home already…
But Shane shakes his head, laying a hand on my shoulder, “I'm sure you will. If you hadn't realised you were in the wrong for what you said, I don't think we could be friends. No, there is something else I want to show you as your friend.”
I frown, “Ummm, ok?”
“Sometimes I get the impression you think this ship is all a bit too weird. You see, you have to be a bit strange to work on a vessel like this, a place where everything hinges on one man’s success for our very survival. It’s a sword belt here or a flask of alcohol there. Poorly dyed hair, runaways from home, and others simply doing their best to survive, even if they weren’t born with some innate talent. Sometimes, it seems like you’d rather everyone was more proper, wore the uniform better, and saluted to each other spiffily. Like you have expectations of your comrades, instead of trust in us.”
I find myself wincing. It may have seemingly come from nowhere, but Shane’s words don’t hit far from home, and I get the feeling he has very clear intentions in saying them…
“Do you want to know why I became so invested in mechs? It might surprise you, but I was born into a two hundred year-old family of royal knights,” Shane adds, a hand absently tapping the sword on his belt.
“Eh!!?” I gasp stupidly, immediately realising how rude that is – man I really am on a roll lately – fortunately for me, Shane seems unfazed.
“Yup, for years, men and women of my family became knights to the reigning monarch of Abhaile. However, things had changed when it came to my turn. The new generation of knights would pilot mechs, and thus, I trained as a pilot cadet. I wasn't terrible; my childhood tutoring with swords and spears led to me being an above-average close-quarters fighter, but the early Vijiaks didn't move all that well with delicate blades, and in all other areas I scored below average. Nowhere near good enough to be one of the almighty Vijiak-Knights.
But it was while piloting that I found my love of mechanical components and mechs, along with a latent talent for that sort of work. So I disgraced two hundred years of tradition and transferred.”
I look at Shane in a new light, imagining him in full-plate armour. “So you can pilot? And sword fight and stuff? That’s amazing!”
He sighs and shakes his head; “Kris, people don't have to be born into what they will become, right? Those Type-C pilots must have known they'd die, but they kept going for the sake of just maybe saving their comrades: Doesn't that make them brave, heroic even? Don't their actions, or the actions of anyone supporting them, deserve respect and praise just the same as an ace like our master?”
I think for a moment before answering, my gaze uncomfortably falls towards the floor. I’m gradually liking this conversation less and less, “I suppose. It is definitely a courageous thing to do...but...”
“But?” Shane replies, looking genuinely surprised I hadn’t agreed with him. It’s not that I disagree with him entirely; I really want to see what he’s saying, and of course, I understand that it takes all sorts of people to win a war and that everyone involved has their own merit and value, but…
“But what about those pilot's families? How many people do they leave behind by doing that? If they could never win, then… Then is it really what a hero would do, to throw it all away like that? Shouldn't a hero always pull through at the eleventh hour? Shouldn't a hero always be just strong enough to win against all the odds? I think maybe, you just have to be born with that kind of amazing strength; otherwise, you just end up leaving people behind without ever thinking about what it is they wanted from you...”
I say more than I mean to, and by the look on Shane's face, I think he's realised that, too.
He pats my shoulder and stands up; “Sorry, Kris, it seems I put my foot in it. My bad for going where I shouldn’t so carelessly. Worry about making up with Birgit for now. You can handle daydreaming later, eh? Ahem, grab that box for me, will you? Even I'm not immune to a scolding from Gros if we take much longer, ha-ha…”
I do as asked, and we soon leave the small room, supplies in hand. We indeed get scolded for slacking off, though Shane claims most of the blame unto himself.
Am I wrong, just selfish or naive? Just a big child who never grew up properly?
I really should apologise to Birgit, shouldn't I.
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