Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
I jolt awake with a cramped neck and a kink in my shoulder. My makeshift bed is an office chair and a couple of mothy cushions I scavenged behind a dilapidated desk last night. Sunlight pours through a tilted window, illuminating dust motes swirling in thick, stale air.
I’m disoriented, half expecting the spartan quarters of the Wolverines Recruitment Center or maybe my old room back on Avalon Prime. Then, my eyes focus, and I remember. I’m in the battered hangar I rented from Quinn “Patch” Reyes on Valis.
My mouth feels like I’ve chewed on microfiber all night. I stand slowly, wincing at the stiffness in my lower back. The little office is no bigger than a maintenance closet. Meant for foremen or shift supervisors, if I had to guess. Paint is peeling off the walls, leaving ashy flakes reminiscent of dead moth wings.
Not exactly five-star lodging, but it’s better than sleeping out under the toxic haze this moon calls a sky. At least I have enough privacy to stash my meager belongings. This place is all I can afford, courtesy of Patch’s extortionate rent.
I step into the main hangar, blinking as my eyes adjust to the full glare of Valis’ stark daylight. The space is an absolute mess. Piles of warped metal plating lean precariously against half-collapsed walls, dusty crates tower at odd angles, and half-finished cockpit shells lie scattered like beached whales on a concrete floor.
Rust, grime, and the smell of old lubricants linger everywhere. My stomach churns with equal parts disgust and excitement. This is the battleground for my ambitions.
“You sure you aren’t allergic to heavy lifting, noodle arms?” chimes Tabitha, her voice purring through my earpiece. I’ve been tinkering with the AI since high school, an unlicensed piece of code so advanced it could land me in prison if the Federation ever discovered I built it. Or worse, they’d try to enslave her to run commercial dreadnoughts. “Because I’m detecting a ninety percent chance of you keeling over,” she adds.
I release a slow breath, settling my annoyance into a rueful grin. “Talk to me again after I bench-press your code upgrades,” I retort. My breath still tastes stale from the night spent nearly upright. I need real rest, but that’s a luxury I can’t afford right now.
Tabitha releases a mock affronted gasp. “If I had a body, I’d show you proper form. At least my OS never gets tired.”
She’s not lying. I’ve coded her to be borderline sentient. This means she can run analytics all day, keep me from missing crucial details, and even come up with witty retorts. But it also means if they catch me with a self-evolving AI companion, the Federation or the local corporate watchdogs would put me through the wringer. Everything about this operation is hush-hush.
I can’t help a half-smile. Sass from an unlicensed AI is better company than loneliness, though part of me feels the sting behind Tabitha’s words. My ex liked to joke I was physically unremarkable, too scrawny, too wide-eyed, too obsessed with building mechs to “draw any real paycheck.” I remember the day she left, the sneer on her face as she told me, “You and your toy robots, David? Get real.”
I’m not sure which memory stings worse, Staff Sergeant Korr’s dismissive snarl or that ex’s condescending pity. They both lit a fire under me, though. If they didn’t believe in me, that’s their problem. I intend to show them what I can create.
“Earth to David,” Tabitha chirps as if sensing my mental spiral. “That ex didn’t see what I see in you.”
I drag my gaze up to the huge holes in the hangar roof, where sunlight spills in through twisted sheets of metal. “Thanks,” I murmur, clearing my throat. “Let’s get to work, yeah?”
The hangar is big enough to hold a decent-sized craft or two, maybe a small cargo freighter if I ever fix it up. Right now, it’s a junkyard of possibilities. Patch must’ve used it as a dumping ground for all the scavenged mech fragments he couldn’t flip for a profit.
I spy lumps of twisted servo arms, bent cockpit frames without seats, and half-rusted thruster cones. The only good news is I get to pick through it all and find something to serve as the foundation for my mech creation.
First, I need to ensure the place doesn’t leak every time Valis’ acid drizzle or industrial runoff rains down. The roof is a metal patchwork, warped in spots as if shot up by ballistic weapons. Or maybe eaten away by decades of neglect. A portion near the rafters looks especially precarious, with a large chunk missing, so if the wind howls right, we might get a breeze scouring the interior.
I approach a rusted chain pulley system anchored to a cracked support beam. The chain is stiff, squeaking in protest when I test it, but it seems functional. The plan is to salvage some of the less mangled steel sheets and hoist them onto the roof, bridging the worst gaps. Crude, but I don’t have the credits for premium roofing yet.
“Tabitha,” I murmur. “Start scanning my immediate resources. I remember seeing some leftover rust immobilizer in one of the crates last night. The brand name was something like LovaShield. Let’s see if we can neutralize some of this decay before we bolt anything into place.”
Her voice hums with satisfaction. “Already on it, boss. I’m detecting a crate labeled ‘Chem Supplies’ about five meters to your left. Might have the good stuff. Reading a product code that matches the rust immobilizer brand you’re looking for.”
I turn my head and spot a leaning stack of chemical crates. Most are weathered, the markings half-faded. I rummage through them, stirring up dust motes. My throat prickles from the swirling grit, but I persist. “Got it.” I yank out a dented canister with a peeling label that reads LovaShield Corrosion Binder. “I’ll have to pray it’s not expired.”
Tabitha snickers. “If your arms start dissolving, I’ll know we have bad inventory.”
“Comforting,” I retort. I swirl the canister experimentally. The thick, sloshing sound inside suggests it’s still liquid. Good sign. “Let’s see. LovaShield is a multi-bond polymer. We apply it to rusted surfaces, it’ll seal them in an inert layer and block further oxidation. Should hold up for a few months. Long enough until we get proper parts.”
“Geek talk. I adore it,” Tabitha teases. “Maybe this is your real love language.”
I snort. “You’re not wrong.”
Dragging a metal sheet across the floor is an ordeal. My arms burn by the time I wedge the heavy plate under the chain pulley’s hook. Overhead, the beam creaks ominously as if it’s not used to actual labor. I grit my teeth. The last thing I need now is a collapsed beam.
With a few hearty pulls on the chain, the sheet lifts in flustered increments, squealing its protest through pulleys rubbed raw from time. My shoulders ache, but the plate inches up until it’s level with the hole in the roof.
Panting, I clamber up a shaky scaffold I erected from leftover crates. My legs tremble from balancing on splintered wood, but I manage to guide the sheet into place. Outside, the cityscape of Valis looms in dull browns and sickly yellows, everything tinted by industrial smog. A portion of the overhead sunlight is blocked when I shift the plate, leaving the hangar dimmer, closer to workable gloom.
I wedge the sheet carefully, align it with the edges of the gap, then clamp it with scraps of old bracket rods. They barely match, but they’ll do for a temporary hold. I reach for the rust immobilizer and drizzle a line along the overlapping metal.
The polymer seeps into the pocked grooves, sealing the worst of it. Within minutes, the faint chemical stench hits my nostrils, like overripe bananas and burnt plastic. I cough.
Tabitha’s voice rings in my earpiece. “Don’t forget to rotate your respirator filter,” she remarks, all maternal concern.
“Yeah, yeah.” I flip the filter’s dial on my collar. A brand-new hiss of fresh air floods in, and I exhale relief. “Better,” I mutter.
After I climb down, the roof is significantly less holey. Not perfect, but if it rains or the air gets especially toxic, I won’t be inundated with debris. I stand on the cracked concrete, arms trembling from the labor. I smell of sweat and chemical residue. My gaze flicks across the hangar. So many disembodied servo arms, half a cockpit shell, rusted support beams. The place is a graveyard, yet it feels like home in a weird, masochistic way.
I rummage for some scrap plating, planning to patch a smaller hole near the west wall. My shirt sticks to my back in the oppressive heat. Valis’ climate control is partial at best, and this district is so far from the main regulation that no one bothers adjusting temperature or humidity. Puddles of old coolant and who-knows-what shimmer under steel frames, stinking faintly of ammonia.
“Any chance there’s an easy fix for that leak in the side wall?” I ask Tabitha, dragging a smaller metal panel. Each step grinds the leftover debris beneath my boots.
She hesitates. “From the overhead scans, it’s more structural rust than a single leak. You might patch it, but if you want that area stable for heavy lifts, you’ll need to replace the entire crossbeam system. Right now? That’s beyond your budget.”
I grunt. “Right. So, I go with patch repairs.”
“Unless you want the building collapsing on you mid-salvage.” Her voice is half joke, half genuine caution. “You’re scrawny, but you’re definitely heavier than air.”
I roll my eyes. “Good to know my AI is a stand-up comedian.”
She snickers, but as I move across the hangar, my mind wanders. I can’t stop recalling how my ex scoffed at me when I told her I’d build something revolutionary, her laughter at the notion that I, a twig, could handle massive war machines.
At the time, it cut me deep. Now, the memory fuels me. She’s the one who told me to get real. I scowl, hooking my gloved fingers under a battered support piece. I will get real, all right. Real enough to break records when I put this mech together.
As I set the next piece of metal in place, Tabitha suggests applying another coat of LovaShield around the rivets. “It’ll help maintain a half-decent seal,” she explains.
“Sure.” I follow her advice. The canister’s nozzle sputters, splattering droplets. They hiss on contact with the rust, binding it into a dark, tar-like finish. The chemical reaction leaves a faint sheen. “Looks ugly,” I mutter. “But if it keeps us safe from acid storms, I’ll take it.”
By midday, I’ve patched three major gaps in the roof, plus a few suspicious crevices in the walls. My arms are on fire, my undershirt clinging to me in gritty patches. Even the faint breeze from outside feels heavy with pollution. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I’m not a machine. The stale protein bars in my bag are no longer appealing.
“Tabitha, I’m about to collapse,” I admit, panting. “Is there somewhere around here I can get a meal that won’t kill or bankrupt me?”
Her digital hum indicates she’s scanning local pings, probably tapping into half-dead directories. “Closest listing is a food cart claiming to sell authentic pho about four blocks south, near an underpass. Goes by the name Saeng’s Rolling Noodle Cart. The user reviews are non-existent, but it’s cheap. Possibly, you’ll survive.”
I laugh, watery from exhaustion. “Then that’s my new oasis. Let’s head out.”
The walk takes me past rust-caked fences and patched sidewalks that dip unpredictably. Smoke belches from rooftop vents, stinging my eyes. A handful of local workers lounge outside small machine shops, eyeing me warily as I pass. My frame aches, but I keep my chin up. The clang of hover-haulers above merges with the background hum of far-off factories.
True to Tabitha’s intel, I spot a rickety food cart wedged between two collapsed awnings. The sign overhead, “Saeng’s Rolling Noodle Cart,” is scrawled in faded paint. A single overhead lamp flickers, half burned out. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was abandoned.
The owner, presumably Saeng, is a petite older woman with silver-streaked hair standing behind a rusted cooking station. Steam wafts from a dented pot. The aroma of ginger, onions, and simmering bone broth hits me like a revelation. My mouth waters instantly.
Saeng glances up. “You want pho?” She pronounces it “fuh,” her tone clipped. She’s wearing a face mask smudged with sauce, and her eyes look weary but kind enough.
I nod. “Yeah, please. Give me whatever you’ve got.”
She ladles fresh broth into a disposable bowl printed with a half-faded corporate logo, then drops in noodles and fragrant herbs. The steam billows up, carrying an herbal, spicy scent that makes my stomach twist in anticipation. She hands it over, barely meeting my gaze.
I fumble in my pocket for credits. “How much?”
Saeng shrugs. “Two credits.” Her voice is raspy but not unkind.
Two credits? That’s practically a gift, even for a rough, unregulated district. I fish out a ratty chip with at least a handful of credits left. “Here,” I tell her, transferring the meager sum. The transaction LED flickers green, indicating success.
She hands me a spoon. No frills, no napkins, only a single wooden utensil. I take my first sip, and my eyes flutter closed as the hot broth floods my senses. It’s unreal. The balanced flavors—savory, tangy, a little sweet from the onions—chase away the dryness in my mouth. Suddenly, the exhaustion in my bones feels a fraction lighter.
“Holy crap, this is amazing,” I manage, blowing on a spoonful of noodles.
Saeng’s eyes crinkle slightly above her mask, though she says nothing. Behind me, Tabitha’s voice purrs into my earpiece. “Better than your usual cardboard protein bars, right, hotshot?”
I stifle a snort. Damn right it is. Another spoonful and I can’t help moaning in pleasure. The subtle basil and bright chili spark life into my tired body. This might genuinely be the best bowl of pho I’ve ever had.
The rickety bench near the cart isn’t exactly glamorous seating, but it’s a relief to rest my feet. I slurp away and glance at the battered modules overhead. A few passing workers give me suspicious looks, but nobody interferes. My concentration is on the noodles, anyway. Each mouthful soothes me, a small comfort in an otherwise daunting day. Tabitha stays silent for once as if she respects the sanctity of a good meal.
At last, the bowl is empty. Warmth pools in my stomach, fueling me. My muscles still hurt, but the exhaustion is easier to bear. I toss the disposable bowl into a nearby bin overflowing with trash, then stand. “Thank you,” I tell Saeng, offering her a sincere nod. She merely waves me off, turning to stir the pot for the next customer.
I head back to the hangar, letting the midday gloom sink around me. The pho buzz is real. My mind is sharper now, focusing on my next steps. I need to find at least the skeleton of a mech frame, maybe from those cockpit shells stacked in the far corner. If I can fuse the best sections, rewire the servo couplings, and integrate Tabitha’s AI interface properly, I might manage to build a platform worth testing.
The city’s overhead spires loom in the distance like a silent audience judging my every move. The memory of Staff Sergeant Korr’s sneer gnaws at my pride.
You want to drive a mech, kid? Grow some muscle, and maybe I’ll talk to you.
My lips press tight. I’ll grow something else. A full-blown mech empire, one that puts your precious Wolverines to shame. The idea sends a little thrill through my veins.
“Still thinking about those assholes?” Tabitha muses as if reading my mind.
I sigh. “Yeah,” I admit. “They’re part of why I’m so driven. I hate feeling worthless. I want them to eat their words. Choke on their words, actually. Maybe die a horrible, asphyxiated death, tasting the bile from their stomachs.”
Tabitha doesn’t respond immediately. When she does, sincerity replaces her playful tone. “Then let’s keep going, David. We’ll build something so spectacular that every naysayer, ex, Wolverines, or entire corporations, will know they messed with the wrong genius.”
I crack a grin. “You’ve got it, Tabi.”
As I near the hangar, my improvised roofing glints in the sunlight. The metal plates I installed cast weird shadows across the interior. I push open the squeaky door, bracing myself for the stale chemical air.
The repairs look shoddy, but hey, no new leaks yet. The place is gradually becoming safe enough to hold a real workshop. If I can patch the rest, rig a better lighting array, and salvage an operating power grid, I’ll have a functional base for building the mech of my dreams.
I set my shoulders and start clearing a wide spot on the floor, tossing aside shattered crate pieces and leftover rust flakes. The clank of debris echoes through the towering space, reminding me of how empty it is. Empty, but full of possibility.
I wipe sweat from my brow, inhaling the last trace of pho scent on my breath. It’s a small pleasure in a wasteland of salvage. My arms ache, but life has never felt more purposeful. Step by step, I’m shaping this junkyard into something legendary. If I succeed, the ones who doubted me, my ex in particular, will have to acknowledge what I accomplished. The thought sends a current of adrenaline through me.
“Time to stop daydreaming,” I mutter, cracking my knuckles. “We’ve got a mech to build.”
Tabitha’s voice is all mischief again. “Don’t let the cardboard biceps stop you now. We’ve still got half the day to rummage through salvage for the perfect cockpit frame.”
My smile widens. “Lead the way, partner.”
This is real. This is happening. And I can’t wait to see the look on certain faces when they find out what I’ve built.
I reach for a crowbar, scanning the piles. Let’s begin.