Dead Mech Walking: a Mech LitRPG novel: Armored Souls, #1

PROLOGUE

[Primary Objective: Destroy Orbital Defenses]

[Secondary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 0/9]

A tree trunk creaked, and with a crash, an armored foot crunched it into the forest floor. Branches fell away from the pilot’s view of a mountainside fortress. The perimeter wall of chain link and barbed wire was nothing more than decorative to the juggernaut of steel that acted as a lookout keeping visual contact with the compound. The ground transports that entered through the gate as a convoy only came up to the juggernaut’s shin.

In position, the pilot said over the assault team’s encrypted radio frequency. Everyone on that channel was a mercenary. Yesterday they’d been strangers. Tomorrow they might be enemies. Today, they were raiding a House Carvelle security station.

The pilot checked the mini-map, then tapped on the defensive wall. The range to target appeared in a soft blue font.

650m

A voice came over the juggernaut’s internal speakers, gravelly and grizzled. It was Commander Voice Filter 08—one of the player filters that could make a 14-year-old sound like a hardened field general. Look sharp. We’ve got intel that there’s aerial surveillance and a sizable garrison. We could just hit the comm tower and get out of here, but I think we’ve got a team to go for broke and rake in the bonus XP for a full clear of hostile units.

Another glory-hogging idiot.

Roger that. No point rocking the boat. As confirmations came in from across the assault team, it became clear that most of the other pilots were thinking the same thing as their leader.

A blip on the mini-map. Flashing red and on an inbound vector, suddenly four more popped into scanner range to join it. Five bogeys inbound. Coming in from hex F-109. The pilot frantically tapped her console to transmit the data on the defenders’ artillery turrets to the rest of the team. There wasn’t much time.

TARGET DATA SHARED

Artemis was a Phoenix class medium juggernaut, painted in orange and red shades reminiscent of its mythical namesake. Unlike most mediums, it was equipped as a scout. True light juggernauts were a liability in engagements like this once lead started flying and lasers lit the sky. Artemis was armed to fight once they engaged hostiles.

Blue pinpricks of light coming across the mountain were the first visual signs of the House Carvelle air support. The danger wasn’t the guns or missiles equipped on the Dragonfly class light fighters. The danger was getting spotted by them and losing the element of surprise.

Any of you want to launch missiles, now would be a great time, the Phoenix pilot radioed her comrades.

Artemis, Get us a lock on those Dragonflies, the commander ordered. He must have spotted them himself but lacked the advanced tactical sensor package. Stupid, selfish noob. What was the point of detecting threats without being able to share that data with allies?

It would have been easy. A couple taps on the mini-map to mark them and her targeting computer would relay a real-time feed to the rest of the juggernauts in her team. But they only had one opening salvo, and it needed to be the gun emplacements that would rain real damage if they had targets.

Negative. Take out the artillery. Those 460mm guns will wreck our shit.

Do you know who I am? the commander thundered. I’m the one giving orders. Transmit target data or—

The mini-map panel flared red. They’ve spotted us!

There was no time for a pissing contest, no matter which of them proved right. The Dragonflies had IDed them, and it was time to move.

Artemis lurched into action. Forward was the base and their objective. Backward was the cover of the forest. A thunderous explosion just a few dozen meters away, in the hex she’d just left, justified the pilot’s decision.

The artillery barrage had begun.

[Bonus Objective: Destroy Reinforcements 0/5]

Everyone would have seen that, even if none of them had the new hostile forces on sensors. It was a system message, and this particular alert meant only one thing. The pilot radioed her mercenary team. We’ve got a hostile player platoon. No visual yet, but this has to have been a trap.

Fire at will, the commander with the chain-smoker voice ordered. No more sneaking around. Keep on the move to avoid the shelling and engage the enemy at close range.

Well, that was certainly one theory on how to avoid getting hit by artillery fire: get so close the batteries wouldn’t risk friendly fire.

But Artemis was a Phoenix class medium juggernaut and meant for finesse. She could rough up light jugs all day, but in a slugfest with most other mediums, it was a losing proposition. Plus, unless the 5-man platoon who’d joined the defenders was a bunch of try-hards, this mission had just gone from challenging to notify next of kin. The pre-mission intel had looked daunting but doable.

Not so much anymore.

Fall back, the pilot shouted over the radio. Hit and run, and let’s get to the drop ships.

This wasn’t a mission for the bank account anymore. Credits could repair a banged up juggernaut, but losing all her progress toward level 13 would hurt.

Musical notes chimed, soothing but insistent, breaking the game’s immersion. Shit! How had it gotten so late? There should have been time for the mission, a quick shower, and a quicker breakfast before work.

One of those was going to have to give way.

The mercenary team had taken too long getting their acts together. Too much time in the planning room aboard the transport ship, not enough on the ground. The arrival of unexpected forces was just another factor to add to the list of reasons why her emergency, last chance work alarm was going off.

She shouldn’t have cut it so close.

This game was just too addictive.

Any other day, she might have called in sick. Not today. Today would be worth missing out on the mission’s completion. It would even be worth losing half a level’s worth of XP since hitting level 12.

Shells rained down as Artemis dodged, still tracked by the Dragonflies that no one had managed to shoot down. Artemis’s pilot flicked the selector to Minigun and touched her finger to the trigger.

No time. She could skip breakfast if it came to that, but she wasn’t heading to work without showering.

Not today.

The mercenaries would have their work cut out with or without one more Phoenix along. This was a matter of priorities, and today Armored Souls took a back seat.

Artemis slowed to a halt and waited. Soon a shell from those 460mm guns would find her. That’d be the quickest way to log out.

CHAPTER ONE

The reek of bleach and antiseptic and a rhythmic electronic beeping told Reggie he was in a hospital before he opened his eyes and confirmed the fact. Remembering his name put him miles ahead of his worst hangovers, which was a good sign. If there was one thing the guys in his unit had taught Reggie about getting wounded, it was to get someone else to deliver the bad news. Don’t lift the blankets to check for yourself.

In truth, aside from an aching stiffness and a dry, gummy feeling in his mouth, Reggie felt fine. For all he knew, morphine and nerve bypasses could be hiding missing legs or a shrapnel wound the size of a baseball.

His room was tiny, cozy even. The walls were the color of mint toothpaste and lacked any decoration. The bed linens and a few pieces of unidentified medical equipment were off white. Any blandness the room possessed blew away like smoke on the wind when the nurse walked in.

I see you’re awake, Sergeant King, she said in a chipper voice accompanied by a Hollywood smile. She was blonde and green-eyed, and if it weren’t for the conservative cut of her military medical corp uniform, he might not have noticed either of those facts. Statuesque and fit, she was the sort of girl guys fought over at bars. If Reggie was just high on morphine, and she was really middle-aged and stocky, he was willing to gamble.

Better now, he replied with a grin. As she tapped on a tablet, he remembered his circumstances. How’m I doing, doc?

It’s ‘nurse,’ Nurse Mallet, but I appreciate the attempt at flattery, she said, shooting Reggie a wry smile as she glanced up from scanning his medical status. Physically, you’re doing much better. Vitals look normal. You’re a little dehydrated, but I’m upping your saline feed.

Reggie wondered how many of the wires disappearing from view beneath his blankets were hooked directly to the computer in her hand.

Licking dry lips, Reggie hoped this question wouldn’t force her to reevaluate his status. So… where am I?

Before she could answer, an older guy in a long white lab coat swept in like air support. No warning. No preamble. Payload delivered to target. Good morning, Sgt. King. How much do you remember before arriving here?

Morning to you, too, doc, Reggie replied. With a grimace, he tried to remember. Kinda drawing a blank. Heading out on a convoy? That sound about right?

If this guy wasn’t at least a senior officer in the medical corp, he’s blown his career. Late fifties, maybe early sixties by the depth of his wrinkles was Reggie’s guess. A fringe of gray around the sides was all the hair he had. The name plate sewn into his lab coat read Zimmerman.

Taking the tablet from Nurse Mallet, Dr. Zimmerman gave it a quick once-over, pressed a thumb to it near the bottom, and handed it back. Sgt. King, how are you feeling?

Nurse Mallet took the tablet and quietly excused herself. Reggie was alone with the doctor.

Reggie shrugged, jostling IV tubes and electronic monitoring wires. You tell me. I can’t even say whether I’m drugged up or not. If I am, the shit’s working—sorry, sir—the drugs are working fine. It was one thing cursing in front of an officer you knew, but every once in a while there was a hardass who took decorum seriously. Doctors were probably used to a little distress in their patients and probably cut some leeway, but Reggie didn’t want to risk it.

Dr. Zimmerman pulled a stool up to the bed and sat by Reggie’s elbow. You’re cleared physically. Aside from a little physical therapy to counteract weeks of lying in bed, you could play basketball right now.

Reggie chuckled. More of a baseball guy, personally. But… weeks?

My point is that I’m not here because you’re sick or injured, Dr. Zimmerman explained in a measured, almost hypnotic voice. I’m here to determine how you’re handling this emotionally.

You’re a shrink. Reggie winced since the word came out sounding like an accusation when he hadn’t meant it that way.

Of course, no good shrink would lose his cool over a professional slur. I prefer psychotherapist. Great. That meant straight answers would be in short supply.

Reggie glanced at the display monitor on the far side of the bed and watched his heart rate rise. What happened to me? How’d I end up here? They didn’t send the psych team out for every guy who took a little shrapnel or a stray round in the leg.

What’s the last thing you remember? Dr. Zimmerman asked.

Reggie squeezed shut his eyes and tried to remember. It was as if someone had taken a pillow and smothered his memories in his sleep. Routine patrol. Dusty street. Can’t remember the name of the city. They all sound alike anyway. Reggie could hear the echo of his Abram’s engine rumbling, the growl of the tracks digging into the dirt, the crack of small arms fire. Every muscle in his body tensed, from his jaw right down to his gut. We were ambushed. Infantry support took cover and returned fire. I manned the .50 cal and…

And? Dr. Zimmerman prompted.

Where’s my crew? Chaz? Murray? Davis? His mouth was dry. The words barely came out.

Dr. Zimmerman laid a hand on Reggie’s arm. One of the insurgents fired an anti-tank rocket. Your Abrams was hit. You were the only survivor.

Reggie looked all around, searching for signs of anything familiar. Where am I? What is this place? Where are—?

The fewer questions right now, the better, Dr. Zimmerman said with a flash of smile that was gone before it finished forming. You’re just getting yourself worked up. For now, you’re alive. Focus on that.

Grief and dread warred inside Reggie. Chaz, Murray, and Davis were like brothers to him. Reggie was their commander, in charge of their safety. He pushed himself to be the best man he could be to set a good example for them. They were his responsibility, his duty… his friends.

But if the three of them had died, it was impossible that Reggie had come out unscathed. Without waiting any longer, he tore off the blankets, ignoring the discomfort of IV tubes tugging at his veins. He didn’t know what he would find. He could have been nothing but prosthetics from the waist down, and it still wouldn’t have been fair to Chaz, Murray, and Davis that he had made it out as the lone survivor.

All Reggie found were a few angry scars and pasty white flab from being inactive and indoors for too long.

Reggie’s breath came in shudders. He blinked to keep back the tears that were trying to form in his eyes. Why…?

Dr. Zimmerman patted Reggie’s arm. We’re going to work through this together. I won’t promise you it will be easy. It won’t. Emotional scars fade but never go away. But I’ve got something new that will help you navigate through what you’re feeling.

Reggie sniffed back tears and used a burst of indignation to regain a little self-control. I don’t go in for that touchy-feely stuff, doc.

A hint of a smile didn’t quite mock Reggie’s pain, but Dr. Zimmerman clearly found something amusing in that statement. Well, what I’ve got in mind is about as far from touchy-feely as you can get.

CHAPTER TWO

When he got into the pod, Reggie hadn’t known what to expect. It was as if someone had built an egg-shaped spaceship in one of the hospital’s spare rooms. It was a one-man craft, and the seat was remarkably comfortable.

Then Nurse Mallet plunked a helmet of wires and electrodes down onto Reggie’s head. As she wiggled it into alignment, the headgear snugged against his skin, latching on firmly but not painfully.

What’s this? Reggie asked Dr. Zimmerman, who stood with his arms crossed as he oversaw the process. Biofeedback? Electroshock? I haven’t signed any waivers. Reggie knew that in certain circumstances, the army wouldn’t give him a say in the matter. Getting him back onto the battlefield was a military decision, not a personal one.

Nurse Mallet eased Reggie’s head back against the headrest. Just relax. It’ll be fun.

Reggie would have felt more reassured if it weren’t for her mischievous smirk.

Yeah, but what does it—

The world vanished.

After an instant of black, formless void, Reggie appeared seated in some sort of futuristic cockpit. A console with more readouts, gauges, and switches than a commercial airliner spread out before him. The electrode hat was gone, as was the hospital gown he’d worn. Instead, he was clothed in fatigues similar in style to an air force flight suit.

—do? he finished.

A computerized voice answered. Greetings, Staff Sergeant Reginald Jackson King. It pronounced his name stiffly, as if it had been crowbarred into a pre-recorded script. As a new recruit to House Virgo, your duty is to defend the clan from all threats and to carry out the will of Overlord Stanos. I will now instruct you on the operation of your juggernaut.

Sounds good, Reggie replied, but the voice continued talking without pause.

You will guide your juggernaut with a combination of foot pedals and control sticks, the computer said. The screen then displayed a visual guide, which Reggie took the hint and mimicked.

Whoa! he shouted as the cockpit lurched. Behind the heads-up display that continued to go over the control scheme, sunlight shone through the cockpit windows, giving Reggie a panoramic view of a field of wild grasses that blew in the wind. The juggernaut rocked back and forth with a ponderous gait as it moved forward under Reggie’s command.

He had served every role on a tank crew, including more than a year driving one. While an Abrams had a palpable power, a grumbling engine, and a sense of commanding a steel bunker through a narrow window, this was the closest Reggie had ever come to feeling like a giant. At his command, a building-sized robot was stalking the world. From three stories up, he could see for kilometers.

After guiding him through some basic maneuvering, the voice led Reggie into a barren stretch of dirt made to resemble an abandoned farm. Around the perimeter, there were barns, a farmhouse, and a silo.

Now you will practice fire control, the voice said. By your right hand you will find a series of switches. All your weapons systems are currently offline to conserve energy. Find the two switches labeled ‘Beam Cannon-M,’ and activate them.

Reggie complied. The switches had a firm, satisfying feel and made a soft thunk when flipped.

A targeting reticule appeared. When holding his thumbs down on a switch built into the hand controls, their function switched from mobility to aiming.

Target the barns, and watch your aim indicator.

Reggie swung his crosshairs over to the first barn and watched as the hit chance quickly rose from 80 percent to 100 percent over a second or so.

Fire.

Reggie pulled the trigger and twin laser beams lanced out, converging on the barn like blue needles. Instantly the barn burst into flame.

Reggie chuckled. Broad side of a barn, huh? Can’t make this lesson much easier.

Now target the windmill, the voice ordered.

Windmill? Reggie asked. He hadn’t seen a windmill.

Now target the windmill, the voice repeated several seconds later while Reggie searched in vain.

Then he noticed a top-down area map on his console. There was a red target indicator marked somewhere behind him. Reggie swung the juggernaut around and scanned visually until he caught sight of it. Up on a low hill, there was a wind pump. Whoever had programmed this tutorial had obviously never lived near a farm to know the difference. Perched atop a tower made from a lattice of thin steel rods, the fan blade spun briskly.

The targeting reticule listed the range at 450m. The hit chance wavered between 11 and 16 percent as Reggie struggled to keep a bead on the fan. He fired anyway, missing by a few meters. Since the computer didn’t tell him otherwise, he kept on firing.

Alarms blared. Indicators on the console flashed an urgent red.

Heat warning, the computer told him calmly. Heat warning. Discontinue firing until temperature levels fall to safe levels.

Well, why didn’t you bleeping warn me about that? Reggie snapped.

Momentarily, finding the juggernaut’s temperature gauge took a backseat to wondering what he’d just said. Bleep this bleeping bleep. What the bleep is going on? Why can’t I bleeping swear?

The computer voice didn’t answer. Instead, it directed Reggie on targeting, missile locks, and how to lead a target with ballistic fire and rockets.

I know all that bleep, Reggie complained. Can I like… test out on basic military concepts? As a gunner, he’d picked off moving targets at over a kilometer. Why this juggernaut didn’t have computer-assisted fire control was a mystery.

Actually, it wasn’t a mystery at all—it was a game. What fun would it have been if the computer did all the hard work? Reggie was used to life-and-death stakes, where competitive balance was the last thing a soldier wanted. Anyone who got into a fair fight was 50 percent likely to lose.

As Reggie’s juggernaut lumbered to the next tutorial battlefield, he split his attention between navigating and checking out his weapons systems. Sub-menus included a lot of juicy details that would probably be crucial outside of the tame tutorial environment.

The SRM-2 missile launcher had an optimal range of 200-400m and each missile did 2 damage. Until he saw more weapons systems, Reggie couldn’t be sure whether the ‘-2" in the weapon’s designation was for the damage rating or because the launcher fired missiles in pairs.

The Beam Cannon-M had the same optimal range, but unlike the missiles, it had no minimum arming range. Probably just a tutorial thing since setting up a weapons platform with overlapping coverage in weapons systems was a rookie design choice.

While his attention had been diverted, Reggie found himself on the banks of a river, maybe 100m across. On the far side were two smaller juggernauts. They looked like rejects from Return of the Jedi, just torsos mounted atop a pair of spindly backward legs like a bird’s.

Destroy two enemy targets, the tutorial computer ordered.

There were no follow-up orders.

The HUD showed 3-D images of Reggie’s two adversaries. They were blue wire frames that rotated in unison. Each was labeled as Sandpiper[1] and Sandpiper[2].

As Reggie was considering his options, the two Sandpipers opened fire. Sparks flashed across the windows as bullets ricocheted off the transparent surface. What appeared to have been glass must have been some kind of clear metal for the rounds to spark.

Quickly scanning his console, Reggie found a wire frame of his own vehicle. It was labeled as damage, and the light arms fire from the two Sandpipers wasn’t so much as registering. Apparently, his juggernaut was a Jackal class, and just comparing the two models by the wireframes showed the mismatch.

The two Sandpipers looked like Humvees parked beside a main battle tank. They could fire their .50 cal gun all day and just scuff the paint. And Reggie knew what a main battle tank could do to a Humvee.

Lining up Sandpiper[1] in his crosshairs, Reggie took aim.

He frowned at the controls. What?

There was only a 3 percent chance to hit with the Beam Cannon-M. The reason why became apparent the instant he lined up his shot.

Those little bleepers can move, he muttered to himself as the Sandpipers split up, fleeing like squirrels in search of the nearest tree. Except there weren’t any trees, just an expanse of rolling hills bisected by a stretch of river.

Trying to keep a bead on Sandpiper[1], Reggie squeezed off salvo after salvo until the overheating warnings went off.

From behind, he heard the staccato plinking of low-caliber automated fire bouncing off his juggernaut’s armor. To a tanker like Reggie, it was as soothing as listening to rain on a metal roof.

You little buggers don’t learn, do you? Reggie said, throwing ‘buggers’ out there in lieu of something that would have turned into a bleep.

But Reggie realized he was guilty of the same thing. He’d overheated his lasers again. Ignoring the bursts of ineffective mini-gun fire, Reggie looked up his juggernaut’s heat dissipation rate, cross-checking it against the temperature monitors as the Jackal cooled.

Designed by imbeciles… he muttered. The units were a bit fuzzy, but whatever they meant, the Beam Cannon-M used 5 and the Jackal dissipated 8. Who the hell knew what time period they were talking about, but it was clear that constant firing of two of the beam cannons at once was going to build up heat over time.

Wonder if this game uses real physics.

Once the Jackal had cooled enough to move, he marched straight for the river.

And into it.

It was only at the last second that he paused to wonder whether the juggernaut was waterproof. The engine was probably somewhere in the chassis, along with its exhaust pipes—assuming it needed those. If the river was more than chest deep, he could easily flood it.

But the Jackal seemed to be perfectly waterproof. As a test, Reggie just aimed at a hillside and fired as fast as the lasers recharged. However much it helped, the river was worth at least 2 points of cooling—continual fire of two Beam Cannon-Ms wasn’t raising the core temperature of the vehicle.

Taking his hands from the controls, Reggie cracked his knuckles. All right, punks. You still feeling lucky? It was stretching his vocabulary to avoid getting bleeped, but Reggie could always fall back on a little Dirty Harry.

The Sandpipers, however, weren’t content to let Reggie rain constant fire down on them. The two AI opponents fled from the vicinity of the river. Though reluctant to give up his free heat bath, Reggie climbed out of the river on the far bank.

Wish this thing had an external camera.

If the graphics were anything like the rest of the game, the water cascading off his juggernaut would have looked incredible.

Though they stopped to take pot shots at him, the Sandpipers kept retreating until they reached a walled compound. It wasn’t much of a facility, but the walls were taller than Reggie’s juggernaut, and there were turrets flanking the gate.

Reggie’s tactical readout on the turrets didn’t spin when he brought them up. Maybe it was meant to indicate that his target was stationary. Either way, it showed that the turrets were armed with flame cannons. The idea of getting fried in his juggernaut didn’t sit well with Reggie, even though the damage numbers didn’t look that threatening.

What Reggie didn’t know about this game might get him killed in the tutorial.

Can I start this over? Reggie asked, hoping that some sort of in-game help file might be available. He regretted not firing missiles at the Sandpipers while they were in range. It seemed like cheating when he was supposed to be learning how to play this game, but now it was looking like the smart call. A little help?

A new voice came over the cockpit speakers, booming and imperious. Warrior, I am Overlord Stanos. How dare you show cowardice in the face of the enemy! You are piloting a 45-ton war machine. That is a 100mm-thick wall and a pair of birthday candles. Move out!

Reggie scowled. Forty-five tons was a lot less than the 68.5 of his Abrams tank. Then again, 100mm was only about 4 inches, not much of a barrier to a tank.

There was nothing to do but give it a try. You only live… but Reggie wasn’t sure that once was the right answer anymore. This was a game, after all. He probably had a bunch of lives—if there was even a limit.

Jamming the controls forward, Reggie’s juggernaut lurched out from behind the cover of a low rise. The flame turrets swiveled to track his approach, but they were short range.

The speedometer raced upward.

15 kph…

20…

35…

50…

The readout pegged at 54 kph, which was still city driving back home in a car. On the broken, uneven terrain, his Abrams probably could have matched the pace.

As Reggie closed in, the flame cannons on the towers blasted him. The front window was awash in burning gel in an instant. The temperature gauge rose, but the external heat was on the safe side of the chassis’s insulation this time, unlike the reactor and the power feed to the beam cannons. His heat sinks would keep up if he wasn’t also firing.

Just before impact, Reggie found the controls for the arms and pulled back one fist to lead with a punch. The juggernaut leaned into the blow and nearly overbalanced.

The wall shredded like a football team’s paper logo as the team charged through onto the field.

On the far side was a small compound obviously set up just for the tutorial. There was an ammo dump and a small hangar that was probably a repair bay—too small for Reggie’s Jackal to even fit inside. There was nothing practical about the setup at all. The lone gate was just beside the hole Reggie had punched. The flame turrets couldn’t rotate to fire inward. There was no place for the two Sandpipers to run.

Reggie took aim and watched as the cowering juggernauts froze in place. The hit indicator rose to 75 percent as Reggie took aim.

For bleep’s sake, Reggie grumbled. He hoped there was a more accurate weapons system somewhere in this game, or he was going to go bonkers.

Switching targets, Reggie focused on the ammo dump—stacks and stacks of missiles and shells of unidentifiable manufacture. The hit indicator shot to 100 percent, and Reggie fired.

The screen flashed brilliant white, and the Jackal shook. Reggie held tight to the controls as he was jostled in his seat. Red indicators on the console showed the wire frame of the Jackal with damage to the armor in all forward-facing sections. It appeared that even at 200m range, the ammo dump detonation had caused 20 points of damage to the juggernaut’s armor plating.

The Jackal had enough armor to weather the blast.

As the smoke dissipated, it became clear that the Sandpipers didn’t.

[Primary Objective - Destroy Enemy Juggernauts: 2/2]

The objective displayed on the HUD in green. Reggie had completed his primary—and for this mission only—objective.

The juggernaut and the rest of the game world faded away as Reggie was auto-logged out of the system.

CHAPTER THREE

Reggie snapped back into his body with a shocked gasp. He tried to stand up in the pod but slumped back to his seat in a wave of dizziness. It felt as if he’d ridden a roller coaster with too many loops.