Jesus of Mecha - a tale from the future

[Roudi]

The subway conveyed them through the black underveins of the city. The cars were empty save for them, the mechanic and his apprentice. They sat next to each other, the grime covering their arms and clothes rendering them indistinguishable from each other. The air around them cringed with words unspoken.

The subway car was old, and the proof of its age nearly camouflaged the pair. The seats were upholstered orange, black in spots where six decades of wear had finally taken its toll. It was a wonder to both the passengers that this “vehicle” did not veer off its tracks and crash into some wall. In truth, this kind of technology was foreign to the two labourers; they could repair a damaged mech (the tall suits of mobile armor used to fight battles and “keep the peace”) in no time flat, but this ancient contraption would stump them for hours.

The subway emerged from the tunnel and into the open air, following the tracks as they crossed a bridge over an artificial waterway. On their left was a direct view into the city; on their right was a landscape of devastation. The Lake, as it was called, once home to massive skyscrapers resting on stabilized flotillas, was the site of a very recent battle. The flotillas no longer supported the buildings, and they had sent their concrete towers half into watery graves. The Sunken Wasteland was a reminder to the people of Tor that they were constantly at war with their neighbours.

The people, however, were not focused on war at the moment. The apprentice gazed out of the left windows and saw the Stadium, the massive arena where the Dictat of Tor held his death tournaments. Tonight the games featured the prisoners captured from the last battle that had devastated the lakeshore. Over the squeal of metal wheels on metal tracks and the rush of wind, the apprentice thought he could hear the roaring cheer of Tor's people.

It shouldn't have to be like this, he thought. We shouldn't have to live this way.

The Stadium disappeared as the subway plunged once more underground. The silence broke, suddenly, when the master mechanic began to speak.

“Locke, son. Look at me.”

The apprentice turned to face the man he had called father for twenty-five years.

“Locke. I know what you and your boys are going to do. You know how dangerous it is. I'm not about to tell you what to do, but I want you to know that I'm afraid for you.”

Locke started. He had never once heard his father express his feelings, especially fear.

“Dad,” he began. “I... well, you know this isn't really my idea. You know I want to do things another way.”

“I know,” responded the older man. “I know you aren't one for fighting.”

“It's not just that. I've been telling them all that we could have a better life than this. We could live in peace instead of fear, community instead of conflict. We could do all that without fighting, if we just took our time. But... they're impatient. After last week, they want nothing but to take down the Dictat now. If I try to stop this, I'll lose them...”

“And then no one'll be wanting peace.” the elder finished his thought. “I understand. Locke, there's... there's something you gotta know, before all this goes down. Especially if you plan on overthrowin' the Dictat.”

“What about the Dictat?”

“Well...” began the master mechanic. The pain in his voice was obvious; he was struggling to release something he had kept buried for a long time. “Well, see, I'm... I'm not your father, son. I raised you and fed you and trained you, but you weren't my child. The Dictat's your father. I'm sorry.”

Locke stared at the mechanic for a moment. The older man expected anger, resentment, disbelief, but none came. Instead, Locke hugged him.

“Thank you. You're still my dad, as far as I'm concerned.”

The subway began to slow as it approached the station. The bodies of thousands were visible, all standing and waiting in anticipation. Locke stood up, using the poles along the ceiling to brace himself against his own changing inertia. The mechanic remained seated.

As the train stopped and opened its doors, the mechanic called out, “So you're still going through with it? Even though he's your father?”

Locke turned to face him. The gathered crowd cheered so fiercely that the plexiglass windows rattled in their frames. The cacophonous roar began to coalesce into chat of FREE-DOM! FREE-DOM! FREE-DOM! FREE-DOM! With something of a pained expression, Locke gritted his teeth.

“It doesn't look like I have any other choice.”

 

[Roudi]

* * * * *​

For twenty minutes, Locke spoke to the gathered throng in the cramped subway station. His words stretched the minutes into a single eternity.

“We are not born into this world as servants to the Dictat. We are born free men and women, and we can live as free men and women! We are not born into this world as warriors. We are born as peaceful children, and we can live as peaceful adults! The Dictat believes that we must be controlled through fear and violence. I say we do not need such things! The time has come for peace, my brothers and sisters; the time has come for peace!”

The impossibly crowded station erupted once more with cheers. Dozens of hands reached out to help him down from the benches that had served as Locke's podium. The familiar press of the mob was no longer uncomfortable to Locke; he had gotten used to it after all the months of fame his preaching had brought him. They were not a group of strangers, desperate for words of hope; they were good friends, people who believed in his words, eager to work for a better future.

If only they'd have a little patience, Locke thought to himself.

He moved through the crowd to Junin and the band of men assembled around him. These dozen men had been right there with him since the beginning; there were only two people in the world Locke trusted more. Junin was holding a palm computer so that he and the others around him could see. His gestures and grim expression meant that he was planning tonight's action. No worries; Junin would brief Locke later. In reality, Locke wanted to have as little to do with tonight's details. If it were all up to him, this wouldn't be happening as it was going to.

There was going to be blood tonight. Locke just knew it.

Someone grabbed him suddenly and dragged him out of the crowd. Before Locke realized what was happening, he was beyond the mass of people and among an alcove of rusted lockers.

The person who had grabbed Locke suddenly turned and embraced him.

"Maggie!" he cried, recognizing the familiar grasp and scents of his embracer. The woman strengthened her hug at the mention of her name and crushed the breath out of Locke.

Maggie released him with an apologetic smile on her face. Locke wheezed his lungs full between chuckles; this was a familiar greeting between the two.

"Nice speech," Maggie began when she saw that Locke had regained his breath. He shrugged and blushed in response. "Seriously," she continued. "I really wish half the people here listened to what you said. If they did, then maybe... you know..."

"Then maybe what's going to happen tonight won't happen," Locke finished.

"But cheer up, Messy!" Maggie exclaimed, using the name she gave Locke for his ever-tousled brown hair. "You and I are gonna be right in the thick of it together; side by side, mech to mech, damn the Dictat for whatever happens!”

“Maggie,” began Locke, suddenly taking a serious tone. “I have to ask you to do something for me.”

She paused. She knew exactly what he was going to say; nonetheless she asked, “What is it?”

“I want you to stay out of this.”

Maggie sighed. It was exactly what she expected. The frown across her face gave Locke the impression she was moments away from chewing him out and insisting that she go along. To his great surprise and relief, Maggie nodded her head in agreement.

“I'm still going to be watching everything,” she stated, her tone devoid of the excitement it once contained. “First sign of trouble and I'll do everything I can to get you boys outta there.”

“Please, Maggie,” Locke said as he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Something is going to go wrong tonight. I just know it. No matter what happens, I want to make sure that you make it through tonight.”

“I will make it through tonight,” she responded, “and so will you. Just have a little faith, Locke. Faith will get us through this.”

Faith better have one hell of an army, Lock thought to himself. He didn't say it out loud; instead, he hugged Maggie for the last time.

 

[Roudi]

* * * * *​

The controls came to life in Locke's hands. He was seated (more correctly, standing) in the cockpit of a UCM model 2A1 “Everyman” mech, one of thirteen stowed in this decommission facility. Finding the mechs here was part of Junin's plan; for the past three weeks, Locke and his father had been conducting major repairs on the Dictat's mecha force. They had “scrapped” as many operational units as they could, and those units were sent here before being salvaged. The facility's guards were all followers of Locke, so gaining access to the mechs was no problem.

The front hatch closed with a hydraulic hiss. Locke's body was suspended upright by the waist in a body rig that covered him from neck to toe. He controlled this twelve-foot-tall walking war machine with his own body movement; making a walking motion with his legs would propel it forward, and he could bring the Everyman's weapons to bear by moving his arms. Controls for communication and sensors were literally at his fingertips. This mech even had a graphical user interface he could operate simply by looking at the icons and blinking. Everyman mechs were so easy to use they practically piloted themselves.

That was perfect; Locke had never piloted a mech before. Repaired plenty of them, sure... but he had never actually been inside a mecha cockpit except to check a faulty body rig.

Darkness engulfed the cramped cockpit space as the hatch sealed tight. Seconds later, the cockpit around him illuminated with the glow of the decommission facility warehouse. Mecha cockpits were almost always equipped with a 360° liquid crystal display over the entire interior surface. Tiny cameras on the mech's outer hull relayed images to the interior LCD, making the surface of the cockpit seem to disappear; it looked to the pilot like he was floating six feet off the ground.

Locke walked his mech forward and out of the warehouse, testing the arms' range of motion as he went. He had been the last one to suit up; Junin, Phil, Solmin, and the rest were already gathered outside, waiting patiently for Juma to arrive with the weapons. Naturally, these Everymans had been stripped of their armaments once they were decommissioned. Juma worked at the local UCM production plant, and he had assured Junin he could smuggle out enough weapons to arm tonight's raiding party.

Their target was the Dictat's headquarters. Security around the headquarters was sparse at this hour; most of the Dictat's personal guard were at the Stadium as the Dictat himself presided over the death games. The plan was to storm the headquarters and overpower the few left to guard it. Then, they would wait to ambush the Dictat when he returned, and hold him hostage while they dismantled his entire tyrannical infrastructure.

It was a risky plan at best. There were so many unknown factors, so much room for something to go wrong...

Locke wished Junin and the others had listened to his plan instead. Locke and his father serviced nearly all the Dictat's mechs at one time or another. A simple remote shutoff device could be installed in each of them whenever they came in for repairs. In eight months, maybe a year, they could have one installed in every mech in Tor; then they could neutralize the Dictat's forces without firing a shot.

It would take too long, they had told him. They didn't have that kind of time. Any number of factions could assault Tor tomorrow, and they might have a new Dictat to deal with.
Time. They wouldn't have any time at all if they all died tonight.

A bright red exclamation mark appeared on Locke's screen, just up and to the right from his center of vision. A message underneath the warning symbol told Locke that an object was targetting his Everyman with an infrared designator beam. The screen even highlighted the object: a truck, rushing towards them.

Locke sighed in relief. It was Juma with the weapons. Junin had told them to use IR beams as a way to tell friends from foes; Juma was just letting them know he was on their side.

The truck pulled three trailers, each as long as an Everyman was tall. Juma slowed as he approached the gathered mechs; the rest of the group lined up on either side of Locke, eager to arm themselves.

The men emerged from out of nowhere. By the time the warning sensors went off in Locke's Everyman, hundreds of soldiers were surrounding the group of mechs. They each fired rifle weapons that tossed electrical arcs; four or five of them opened up on Locke simultaneously. There was a burst and crackle as all the Everyman's electronics shorted out. The LCD screen went black. Locke was bathed in darkness once more.

The young mechanic's assistant was still in shock. What in the hell just happened? He screamed internally. There was a sudden groan, and a sliver of light illuminated the mech's interior. Hopeful that Junin or Juma was trying to rescue him, Locke called out. He was answered by a pistol muzzle, shoved into his face from the crack in the Everyman's hatch.

“Shut the hell up, kid,” shouted an unfamiliar voice, “'les you want yer brains paintin' the insides o' this cockpit. Y'understand?”

Words had abandoned Locke. She nodded his head, the only gesture fear would allow him, even though he wasn't certain the other person could see his response.

Something exploded near his head and the hatch sprung wide open; the force blew apart the hatch hydraulics and showered Locke with fluid. Peering through the grime, he could see a masked soldier bearing the Dictat's colours leveling a pistol at him. Beyond that Locke could see the trucks, and Juma, who was conversing with another one of the masked soldiers.

Clairity returned to Locke with sudden force as the realization struck him. They had been betrayed. They had been betrayed by Juma.

The soldier in front of Locke was grinning; Locke could tell even though the man's face was covered. “Can't believe yer jus' a bleedin' kid,” he began. “Think maybe yer pal down there marked up the wrong one o' ya's on the infrared. But orders'r orders...”

With that, the soldier brought the butt of his pistol down onto Locke's skull. There was a brief moment of pain, and then Locke felt nothing at all.