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Chapter 7 - Beau Idéal - Part 1
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It took just two weeks for the Caravel to get from home turf above our beloved Abhaile, all the way to the far side of our sister planet Bhaile, a testament to the old ship's speed and our luck in not bumping into any more enemy encounters.
Over the last couple of days, there have been near-constant meetings between different groups on the ship, and I have just returned to the hangar after an all-hands meeting. The Captain went over every scenario one last time. Our goal is to gather intel and maybe do a little sabotage. Escape strategies, and yes, even the possibility of fighting ten enemy Casnels at once, were all discussed.
Only a few steps into the ship's largest room, I see none other than Birgit. He is walking with his head held high and a sort of false bravado.
For the last week since stalling the Crusade, he has been busy. Apparently, Templar organised someone to set the simulator program up on one of the bridge's computers, of course, that only has a keyboard and screen; using it to practise might as well be playing a video game, but Birgit relentlessly grabbed at the chance to finally start training. Every day, he heads there as early as possible and then refuses to stop practising until the Captain herself orders him to leave.
Ten days isn't a long time, nor is the simulator quality particularly good, but the guy has worked his socks off. He's earned the right to fake a little confidence.
“Birgit!” I call out and start walking over to meet him. I still haven't managed to apologise. I knew what I said went too far when Templar slapped me. I knew I should say sorry based on the cold shoulder half the crew has given me and the words of Shane, the Captain and Vitka – And yet here we are, just an hour or two away from the coordinates stolen off the supply ship and I still haven't done it.
I have to clear the air now. It isn't right to leave things unsaid in our line of work.
Birgit turns to the sound of my voice, then scowls, “What do you want?”
I flinch a little, stopping about two metres away from him. However, I press my attack, “I, I want to apologise. For everything I said, it was wrong of me.”
“Pah, so who put you up to this then?” He replies bitterly.
“Huh?”
“Won't have been the boss. He'd rather we had a fistfight or some shit to sort our differences. Lt Vitka is too quiet, and Master Templar doesn't exactly speak, so the Captain then? Jee, Kris, making friends in high places,” he goes on, his narrow eyes sharp with disdain. I freeze up. Had my words hit him this badly? Is he just done with me as a person?
“You do your job, I'll do mine: That's all there is to it,” he finishes and turns to leave.
He's heading toward the Type-C – repairs, well, really upgrades, which were finished just yesterday – in places, the paint (courtesy of myself) is still fresh. It is a little asymmetrical now; parts of its stick-insect limbs don't quite match each other.
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We used a whole array of spares from the Caravel and stuff we loot-- acquired from the enemy supply ship to put it back together.
What stands out most is the cannon we’ve given it. The length is huge. The only weapon around larger is the Crusade's lance. The base of the gun barrel is wide too, with this massive drum attached to the bottom, cables running out of it straight into the Type-C's generator. The whole rig is mounted to the mech's waist, looking like a minigun of sorts, although that is far from its purpose. In reality, it has the output of a powerful sniper rifle, with the distance of a regular short-range weapon.
This is strange as your average medium-grade energy weapon can already burn through all types of armour, except for that of say, a Casnel... We soon realised that was why this strange prototype weapon was travelling with the processors, to be used to test the new Casnel's armour against even the most ridiculous of firearms.
It has precedence as a high-powered rifle was apparently used by an IAFS Neo to do crazy damage to its enemies last year. Now, I suppose we'd get the honour of testing it.
All told, this more rugged version of the Type-C looks stronger, as does Birgit. It's only been a few weeks since we joined the crew of the Caravel, and I know I've learned a lot.
I've even been facing my discomfort around generators – I think it would be fair to say Birgit has been improving, too.
Just like us mechanics have dozens of proverbs and sayings, the same can definitely be said about pilots, and one amongst them is as follows; 'A pilot’s first battle decides their whole career'.
The validity of this statement can be debated, but it is true that an overwhelming number of pilots either die in their first battle or come back broken, afraid of the battlefield. Injured physically, mentally or both. Sometimes, they are just terrified of returning to the vacuum of space surrounded on all sides by nothing but their lonely battle armour.
Those that do make it back in one piece have a vastly superior chance of surviving going forward. Birgit has survived two battles now. In both, he ran away, got beat up and was rescued by the presence of Templar. And both times, he has gotten back into that pilot's seat.
The man has never successfully landed a single shot on an enemy unit, never done anything worthy of his machine. He has nearly died twice, and yet he is about to charge out there yet again.
He is walking away from me as I stand downcast, thinking about all this, trying to think about what it is I'm not getting, about Templar and heroes, and people like Birgit. I can't see it, though I feel I'll kick myself for its simplicity when I finally do.
Birgit doesn't want an apology, however genuine, and anyway, he isn't wrong. I was told to apologise by a number of people; it’d be a lie to suggest otherwise – so instead – I stare upwards and shout loud enough for the whole hangar to hear, “G-Good luck out there Birgit! I know you've got this!!” I blush out of embarrassment, bowing my head sincerely.
When I look up, the man himself seems both taken aback and embarrassed. With a hand on the back of his head, he sighs; “Man, you really are a weirdo, know that? And I don't need you to tell me that. I was already gonna go kick some ass, got it? ...But, well, save me a seat in the canteen. This time, I'm coming back with something to really celebrate!”
His proclamation made, he grins and begins making his way to the Type-C once more. As I watch him leave, staring after his back as he strides forward with youthful pride, Birgit suddenly looks rather heroic to me.
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