Chapter 7: Pit Crew

“Well, what do you think of her?”

Rudy gestured to the mecha towering overhead. He’d had it painted bright crimson for the tournament, but even without the singular paint job, it stood out in the crowded mecha bay. More than sixteen meters tall, sleek as a scout mecha but for its size, it sported a sextet of spike-like wing-struts for its maneuvering thrusters. Its arms ended in the usual humanoid hands, but each of its bulky ‘wrists’ accommodated a pair of missile launchers and gave it the appearance of wearing flared gloves. Its fingers were equipped with monomolecular-edged claws capable of cutting through even armor as advanced as its own, and a mecha-scale rifle hung on a rack behind it.

“This is the brand spanking new Epee-class interceptor,” Rudy said. “Pretty impressive, huh?”

Chloe mumbled an “Uh-huh.”

He glanced at her.

She didn’t exactly look like she had when he’d picked her up – which was, of course, the point. Her hair had gone from medium blonde to navy blue, but chemically straightened so it couldn’t be mistaken for aristocratic dark brown curls. Rudy called it hiding in plain sight. Because the stylist had straightened it, it looked longer than before, and it hung over her ears instead of brushing behind them. She’d lost the flight suit, of course, and picked up a lightweight mechanic’s getup in its place: shorts, toolbelt suspenders and a short blouse covered with pockets. Rudy had picked out the gear. It was practical, it fit in, and, for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom, Chloe was embarrassed to trade her skin-tight flight suit for it.

Chloe Hughes didn’t look much like Chloe Hughes anymore.

She still looked miserable.

“Hey, is your receiver off or something? You’ve at least got to learn enough to try to fake belonging in the pit.”

“Sorry.” She looked up at the mecha. “It sure is big. I doubt I’ll know anything about fixing it.”

“I’m not so worried about repairs. Concentrate on checking the fluids and you should do fine. Especially the coolant. That’s gonna be your job.”

“Why do you want me to do this?”

“I’ve got my reasons.”

Primarily, he wanted to tweak the Feds who were apparently tailing her.

Secondarily, for all he claimed she wasn't his type, well... for the type she was, she was one hell of a fine example. Besides, he liked the challenge. He could bed some fangirl any day. Romancing a spacer was a different story.

Finally, though, he wanted her in the pit for more than moral support. He wanted somebody outside the company handling the coolant for the final match. He didn’t like the way the Epee ran hot, despite the garish flames he’d had painted on it.

He liked it less because he’d lost at the Etemenos Cup a year before when the prototype overheated.

He liked it least of all because his machine's automated forfeit had left him with a new, unofficial nickname. If he heard some wise guy call him ‘Crimson Chicken’ one more damned time…

No point in thinking about it.

Allegedly, the production model wouldn’t burn through its coolant so fast.

Allegedly, the prototype had been properly refilled with the conductive fluid.

Rudy wasn’t sure he believed either assertion, or, if he did, which one to believe.

Algreil Aerospace had no reason to throw a match, but plenty of other Oligarchs had reason to sabotage one. Rudy trusted the head of his engineering crew, but the rest of the scrubs paid a pittance to keep the Epee running? Flash a megamark their way and they'd rig the thing to blow, much less to overheat in the middle of a match.

A rival oligarch could flash a terramark at a mechanic and still profit astronomically on the deal if they could steal a contract out from under Algreil Aerospace.

Rudy didn't care about profit margins and sales figures – unless they got in his way.

Chloe interrupted his brooding. “How does this help me find my parents?”

“You’ve got a real one track mind,” Rudy said. “Directly, it doesn’t. This is how you repay me for helping you out.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

She sighed.

She looked the mecha over again.

She frowned.

“That flaming bird insignia on the left, that’s not the Algreil Aerospace logo, but I’ve seen it before.” She glanced at the mecha, then at Rudy. Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute. You’re the Crimson Phoenix? Rudolf Kaine Algreil?”

Rudy blinked. “I thought you knew!”

“I had no idea,” Chloe said. “You’re famous. Heck, you must be the second… third… well, one of the top ten mechaneers in the galaxy, anyway.”

Rudy doubted he managed to hide his scowl. Second, third, top ten. Never number one. After all, something always went wrong in the Crimson Phoenix’s final matches. Five times he’d made it to the Etemenos Cup's final four, once as the youngest ever to get that far. Five times he’d lost.

At least four of those he blamed on equipment failure or plain old bad luck.

Chloe's frown looked as deep as his. “Is it really safe for me to be seen with you? If someone were to identify me…”

“Remember, hiding in plain sight,” Rudy said. In his mind he added, even if I’ve half a mind to dump you here and now. Only top ten? Bah. “All the recorders will see is the Crimson Phoenix and a mechanic or a girlfriend. She’s just background noise.”

“But, will you really help me find my parents?”

“Sure. Anything to tweak the Feds, you know?”

Of course she knew. If she knew his tournament name, she probably knew most of the sordid details of his relationship with the Federal Navy Mechaneer Corps. He’d confessed to getting kicked out of six military academies. He hadn’t elaborated on why.

Nor did he plan to.

The rumors were bad enough. The truth, probably worse.

“Your motives don’t exactly fill me with confidence,” Chloe said.

Rudy shrugged. “Neither does your experience as a mechanic.”

“Then –”

“The mutual absence of value also serves to produce equivalent exchange,” Rudy said. He wasn't sure if the phrase was something he'd picked up from his brother or if he'd read it in one of the economics textbooks forced on him in those six academies he'd attended.

Chloe looked unconvinced of their present equivalence.

All the same, she climbed onto one of the Epee's access ladders. She scaled the ladder and crosswalk with the dexterity of a veteran mechanic.

Of course, Rudy thought. Like any nob, she was born to work with mecha.

Whatever he might tell Chloe, Rudy was completely confident in her mechanical aptitude. She might claim to be clueless about military mecha, might actually be clueless, but the care and feeding of humanoid battle machines was in her blood. She’d know if something went wrong in the pit.

Even if she didn’t, she wouldn’t be a party to causing something to go wrong.

He called, “You see the coolant intake?”

“Here by the left chest plate, right?”

He nodded. “Open her up.”

“I’ll try.” Chloe vanished behind the plate. A moment later, her face appeared, covered with sweat and grease. “It seems stuck. I can’t work it loose.”

“You used a vibrating release on the bolts?”

“Erm,” said Chloe.

She disappeared again.

Rudy chuckled. She really didn’t know anything about military mecha. However decorative the toolbelt suspenders he'd bought her might look setting off her slim midriff, they weren't just for show.

Still, she got it right on the second try.

“Now bring the coolant nozzle over,” Rudy said. “The remote should already be attuned. See it on your shoulder there? Remember, you’ve got to do this fast, while the other guy’s team is trying to get the dents hammered out and the cracks filled.” He, of course, didn’t expect to suffer either in a rube tournament like Wellach’s.

Chloe hauled out a remote control for the fluid delivery tubes. She got them going in the right direction with her first try, and even remembered to duck out of their way.

Rudy watched, nodded, as she grabbed the coolant tube and guided its nozzle to the open intake valve. It clicked on with a hydraulic hiss.

“It’s attached,” she called. She probably didn’t mean for him to hear the “I think” she tacked on the end, so he ignored it. It looked fine from where he stood, and anyway, how bad could it get? She'd spill coolant on herself and he'd have to slather some of the medical nanopaste from the hangar's first aid kit on her exposed skin?

“Fill ‘er up,” he said.

Chloe studied her remote control for a moment. She replaced it on the tool belt and felt for the switch on the coolant tube itself. It jerked as gallons of thick, only mildly toxic superconductive fluid pumped through it.

Not bad, Rudy thought. Not nearly good enough for a major tournament bout, but not bad.

She shut the coolant off almost a full minute too soon for his tastes. He called, “Give it a little extra. It’s a big machine and it runs hot.”

“This should be just right,” Chloe said. “If you fill the tank too high with a hot-running machine, it expands the coolant and puts pressure on the internal tubing. You can even spring a leak, especially around the intake valve. It’s called overextending the fluids. I almost lost Gosling Two that way the first time Mom let me do the maintenance.”

“And if it burns out because it doesn’t have enough coolant, the whole reactor has to be shut down. You know what we call that?”

“Disqualification,” Chloe said. “I saw a recording of the last Etemenos Cup. You were doing really good, too. Actually, if you had this tank filled up and had been running the Epee all day long, maybe your coolant did overextend. It kinda looked like it.”

“You really think that’s what happened at the last Cup?” Rudy didn’t buy it for a second, of course – especially since it meant abandoning his pet conspiracy theories.

“I…” Chloe looked away. “Let’s just call it a hunch.”