Callsign: Talon (Fueled By Fury #1)

Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I step off the skimmer and nearly stumble. A dull ache throbs behind my eyes after we hitched a ride from home base to Therasis through the jump gate and landed at the small facility near where we’ll meet with a local bigwig named Durand.

Therasis’ trade district invites me with a swirl of desert dust layered under a neon buzz. The city is part drenched in the grittiness of a frontier outpost and part polished to a veneer of high-stakes wealth. I’m not sure if the swirling haze in my vision is the scorching sun or the sedation’s lingering effects rattling in my skull.

Probably both.

Patch stands beside me, shifting his weight so a large duffel bag slides off his shoulder with a heavy thump. “Easy there, kid,” he mutters, though the corners of his mouth flick up. “You’re looking a shade clearer than earlier. Guess those forged mech clearance docs worked like a charm. The port’s scanners didn’t so much as twitch.”

I squint at him, blinking away dryness. “Let’s hope there’s no second wave of security sniffing around.” It’s not idle paranoia. This place is thick with corporate eyes and bored local enforcers who’d love to catch illegal mechs or unlicensed AIs. Yet we’re here anyway, because rumor has it Silas Durand wants to talk business.

Big business.

Tabitha’s voice comes through my earpiece like a warm breeze. “I’ve also disabled a sneaky AI scan on the station’s network,” she remarks in an I’m-ten-steps-ahead-of-you tone. “They tried pinging your HUD for abnormal data signatures. So yeah, sedation might be the official requirement, but these people are paranoid beyond reason. Next time, I’ll cook up a better molecular formula to flush that knockout garbage from your system.”

I bring a hand to my temple, massaging away the throbbing. “I’d appreciate that. I can’t shake this headache.” Inside, I’m quietly proud. Tabitha had to learn an entire subset of biochem on the fly to keep me from getting flagged as suspicious when I try not to take too much of the medication to knock me out. If that’s not dedication, I don’t know what is.

Patch tips his head, scanning the crowded thoroughfare. Rows of neon signs flicker overhead, and the swirl of dust underfoot hints at the desert outside that massive forcefield barrier. Brassy music drifts from some open-air lounge, mixing with the perfume of spiced liquors and sweet-smelling grills. “C’mon.” Patch nods toward our destination. “Mr. Durand’s not known for his patience.”

As we head deeper into the heart of the trade district, we pass a row of merchants hawking everything from dehydrated food packs to minor black-market mech upgrades. One of them calls, “Hey pilot, looking to lighten your load for a price?” Another, reeking of motor grease, lifts a glimmering servo coil at me, but I wave them off. We’re here on Durand’s dime, and I don’t plan on leaking credits to small-timers.

Tabitha chirps in my ear. “You sure we’re not here to sell Female Ranger cookies, noodle arms?” She uses the old nickname to nudge me. Out of reflex, I briefly flex my right arm under my jacket. It’s more developed than it used to be, a reminder that constant piloting, hauling crates, and the stress of survival eventually add muscle. Still, my arms are on the lean side.

I roll my eyes at the empty air. “I’ll show you noodles,” I whisper. “Watch me bench-press Raven One someday.” Then, I’m forced to grin at my own absurdity. Bench-pressing a mech would be insane, sedation drug stupidity or not.

Patch doesn’t hear the private chat but catches my half-smile and mutters, “At least your sense of humor’s intact.”

As we move through the crowded street, a small scavenger drone drops from an overhead vent. It’s not a standard model. It’s equipped with a small but powerful cutting laser. The drone targets my bag, attempting to slice through the strap. I react quickly to dodge the laser, then deliver a quick, precise kick to disable the drone.

“What the hell was that?” Patch asks, eyes wide.

“A local pest,” I reply, trying to sound casual. “Probably after my gear.”

Tabitha hums in curiosity. “That drone’s not standard. I’m picking up a custom power cell and a modified laser array. Someone’s been tinkering.”

We continue, but I’m more alert now. The trade district is a maze of shadows and hidden corners. I keep my hand near the small stun pistol tucked into my belt.

“You know, if you’re going to be a target, you might as well look the part,” Tabitha mutters. “I’m detecting a comms kiosk up ahead. Let’s see if we can use it to scramble any local signals.”

We approach a weathered kiosk, the screen flickering with static. I pull a small data spike from my belt, letting Tabitha do the heavy lifting while I keep watch. As she works, the kiosk’s screen displays a distorted image of a Federation patrol.

“Someone’s trying to intercept our comms,” Tabitha hisses. “Quick, David, use the spike to scramble their signal.”

I jam the data spike into the kiosk’s port, and the screen explodes in a burst of static. The image of the patrol vanishes. “That should buy us some time.”

“Yeah, but it also means someone’s watching,” Tabitha replies. “Let’s keep moving.”

We finally enter a lavish lounge atop a reinforced platform, half-floating above the shifting dunes outside the city’s perimeter. The air is thick with the scents of spiced liquor and minted coin. Every surface glitters. Tall windows reveal an empty canyon beyond, the perfect place to stage a demonstration or an ambush. The setup reminds me of a particularly wealthy black-market den, polished to fool visitors into believing they’re somewhere respectable.

Durand waits across the lounge, surrounded by half a dozen bodyguards in matching suits. Each is a mountain of muscle with a sidearm strapped at the hip. Silas Durand himself is a striking mix of elegance and hidden menace, draped in embroidered silks.

He stands, catching sight of us with a quick, discerning glance. When he takes in my modest stature, skepticism flickers in his eyes. Then, Patch steps aside, and Durand’s attention moves to the datapad in my hand, likely suspecting it holds specs for Raven One.

We stare at each other across the open floor. The lounge patrons step away politely, giving us space, as if they know Durand’s business deals are best witnessed from a cautious distance. One of Durand’s bodyguards offers a curt nod, and we approach.

Durand’s voice is smooth. “David Wayne.” His gaze flickers over me in a bored fashion. “I thought you’d be…bigger.” The last word lingers, weighted with the condescension I’ve grown used to.

My skull still throbs from the sedation, so I swallow my impatience and give him a firm handshake. “Small in stature, big where it counts,” I reply. “Your folks check my credentials?”

Durand smiles thinly, gesturing for me to sit on a plush chaise near a towering window. “We’ve had a look. If the rumors are true, that you tore through Jorath’s black-market dens, perhaps we can do business.” He sits across from me, crossing one leg over the other. The upholstery of his chair is a shimmering velvet, but the man who sits upon it is more steel than silk.

Patch hangs back, arms folded, probably scanning for threats. Meanwhile, Tabitha hums in my ear. “Zeus forbid anyone compliments your track record first,” she drawls.

The lounge is quieter, the staff and guests seemingly aware that Durand’s meeting is not to be disturbed. A waitress glides by with a tray of expensive drinks. Durand waves her closer, and I accept a glass that smells faintly of minted whiskey. I’m still fuzzy enough from sedation to only take a small sip.

Durand swirls his glass. “You know, there’s a certain skepticism among those who see your mech on the data feeds. A smaller rig in a galaxy of heavy-hitting war mechs? It’s an outlier. Not that I mind. I like outliers. But is it actually functional? Or is it a patched-up showpiece that gets lucky in a firefight?”

“Functional enough to save your assets,” I reply with a faint smirk. “Care to see the highlight reel?” I hold out the datapad, toggling a quick-share connection to an adjacent wall display. “Tabitha, you’re up.”

Her voice switches to a public channel, projected from a small speaker on the datapad. “Greetings, Mr. Durand. I’m the advanced AI that keeps David from dying every time he tries one of his stunts.”

That draws a chuckle from Durand, though it’s more a polite exhale than genuine laughter. “An AI with personality,” he muses. “Dangerous territory, if you ask me.” He eyes the wall display. “Is she the one driving the mech?”

Before I can respond, the display lights up, showing ballistic test footage from some of our infiltration runs. Raven One glides through a half-collapsed corridor on Jorath, scuttling around a lumbering enemy mech. Then, the camera feed jumps to my overhead vantage, blasting tripods with a newly installed pulse cannon. The footage is crisp enough to reveal the dented metal walls and the scorch lines on Raven One’s plating.

In the final clip, I watch myself crippling a heavier mech by targeting a joint near its left servo. The other pilot tries to launch a missile barrage, only for it to backfire and slam into a wall. I forgot the moment was so clearly captured. Raven One practically climbs the bigger war machine, pulse blasts flaring at the precise points of vulnerability.

Then, merely for show, Tabitha included a bit where we roll clear right before the explosion catches the corridor. Durand’s mood changes from skepticism to intrigue.

He nods at an assistant, a curvy woman with a stylus tapping impatiently on a datapad. She lifts an eyebrow and winks brazenly at me as if to say, Good job, small fry . I ignore the flush creeping up my neck, focusing on Durand.

That wink didn’t feel like a sympathy wink. I think I have a partial fan. Or she’s buttering me up. I sigh. Yeah, I should assume the latter.

After a few more showy sequences where the feed highlights infiltration logs, demolitions, and a bit of impromptu hacking, Tabitha wraps up the demonstration. “So,” I state, my voice calmer now. “You can keep picturing me as a twig who can’t hold a gun, or you can believe these results. No matter which you pick, the mech’s deadlier than it looks.”

Murmurs pass through Durand’s entourage. One of them, presumably a lieutenant, looks at Durand and nods in silent approval. Another, the flirtatious assistant, raps her stylus on her thigh. Durand steeples his fingers, gazing at me with renewed interest.

“I’ll admit, that’s impressive. Hard to argue with successful infiltration records.” He sets the minted whiskey aside. “All right, kid, if your mech is half as good as you claim, we’re going to make a hell of a lot of money.”

I resist the reflex to bristle at being called “kid.” Instead, I nod sharply. “If you’ve got a job worth my time, I’m listening.”

Durand gestures to the lounge’s tinted windows and the deserted canyon beyond. “I’ve been running caravans for years between scattered settlements on Therasis. Easy commerce, but lately, we’ve run into issues with the local gangs. They’ve started blockading passes, demanding tribute, blasting convoys that don’t pay. My usual mercenaries are… Let’s say they scare easily when faced with savage tactics.”

He flips open his personal data slate, the gilded edges catching the lounge’s neon light. “I’ve got reason to believe one of these gangs is fielding old but functional mechs in the hidden canyons. The last convoy lost half its cargo to an ambush.” Tension creeps into his jawline, suggesting these raids sting his pride as much as his profit.

Tabitha’s voice flickers in my ear. “Gangs with mechs. Perfect. That’s what we do best, right?”

Out loud, I ask, “And you want Raven One to escort your next shipment? Or intercept these gang mechs before they pounce?”

A faint nod. “Precisely. I’ll be handling the cargo, but I need someone who can protect the caravan and chase off any would- be raiders.” Durand eyes me. “You strike me as the infiltration type, but the open desert’s a different game.”

“Raven’s not only for infiltration,” I assure him. “We’ve thoroughly tested thruster mods and durability upgrades. Might not be a brutish behemoth, but a few well-placed hits do more than raw muscle.” I think of the fresh servo updates Sparks helped me install. “And I’m no stranger to desert terrain after a few jobs near Jorath’s outskirts.”

Durand glances at his assistant, who flicks through some notes. She leans in and whispers something only he can hear. Then, he addresses me again. “Here’s the broad pitch. It’s a standard transport route from the trade district here to an outpost two hundred kilometers south. We pass through the dune valleys, which are prime ambush territory. The last time, we lost four trucks. Equipment. Soldiers. Credits. I can’t afford to lose another run.”

I catch the faint tapping of Durand’s ring against his glass. His eyes hold a calculating gleam as they meet mine. “Of course, you’ll be paid handsomely if you succeed. If you fail, well…you won’t see a second contract, assuming you survive.”

I inhale deeply, letting the hush coil around me. He’s basically threatening me with professional ruin if I blow this job, but that’s normal in the merc world. More important is the payoff.

Durand’s finances are rumored to be immense. One successful contract could outfit Talon with better sensors and heavier armor plates, maybe even expand the hangar back on Valis. Subconsciously, I rub my palms on my worn flight jacket. The sedation headache is fading, and I’m thinking clearer.

“Your terms?” I ask. “What price are you offering?”

An indulgent smile slides across Durand’s face. “We’ll discuss the final figure after I see your official pitch.” He tilts his head as though he’s letting me see his cunning. “Rest assured, if it’s your usual infiltration rate, I’ll double it. Maybe triple if I see results that meet expectations. Is that enough to keep you motivated?”

Tabitha murmurs, “Triple? Sounds like we can finally buy that quantum-laced coolant Sparks is always muttering about.”

“Sounds workable,” I comment, ignoring Tabitha’s excited hiss in my earpiece like she’s having a personal moment. “I’ll need some time to prepare or gather supplies locally. Unless you can provide them from stock?”

“Maybe.”

“When’s the convoy rolling out?” I ask.

“Tomorrow at dawn. If you’re in, be at the southwestern cargo platform by first light.” Durand polishes off his minted whiskey in a swift gulp, then hands his glass to a hovering attendant. “I’ll have my men coordinate the route details with your team. You do have a team, I assume?”

“Nope,” I tell him. “I’m enough.”

“Ballsy.” Durand purses his lips. “But more money for you if you don’t have to split it.”

I exhale, forcing a smile. “I don’t. I’ll be there.”

For the record, I plan to keep Tabitha’s presence with me during the job away from Durand’s permanent staff. No sense in letting them know exactly how our AI connection works.

Durand stands, smoothing embroidered silk across his broad torso. “A pleasure doing business,” he remarks, more ominous than friendly. “I trust you won’t disappoint.”

Two of his bodyguards flank him, and they move as a unit toward a private corridor. Patch and I are left standing in front of the lounge window, viewing the desert canyon where we’ll soon risk everything for a shot at triple pay.

Patch clears his throat. “Not too shabby, David. We get a chunk of change from this job, you’ll be able to fund half those upgrades we keep talking about back home.”

I stare at the rocky spires in the distance. The desert haze is tinted pink by the setting sun as I turn toward him. “We’ll need those upgrades,” I murmur. “Desert convoys near Therasis are exactly the sort of job that can get you killed if your thrusters jam or your plating’s got weak seams.”

Patch nods. “Agreed. Let’s not skimp on prep. If this job’s half as tough as Durand implied, you’ll want to be damn sure Raven One is stable in that swirling sand.”

Tabitha returns to our private channel and sighs. “Let’s not forget our sedation issues. The next gate jump might require forging new logs if anyone tries to follow us, and your bloodstream can’t handle another sloppy dose. I want you lucid, not drooling, next time you pilot in a pinch.”

I press a palm to the window, feeling the heat radiate through the glass. My reflection looks more tired than I remember but also more surefooted. “No drooling,” I promise. “Full alert, ready to show these desert punks what a smaller rig can do.”

A hush descends as I watch a cargo hauler ascend in the distance, thrusters throwing up a swirl of dust but no sound from behind the glass. This planet brims with raw, scorching energy. I can practically feel the dryness in my lungs. Desert fights are tricky. Visibility is crap, the environment’s punishing, and old mechs can hide behind dunes. I suppose that’s good for me, though. If Raven One excels anywhere, it’s in adapting to weird conditions.

I suppose it will be like a paid R&D effort.

Patch claps my shoulder. “I’ll get started on the supply haul. You promise me you’ll get some rest. Hard to fight if you’re still half-doped.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “We’ll head back to the dock district, find a corner to crash. Then I’ll do final checks on the servo calibrations.”

“Right.” He heads for the exit, glancing warily at the swirling pink sky. “Try not to piss off Durand’s men before dawn, all right? They look like a bunch that’d plant a bullet just for fun.”

I nod to Patch, then pivot my gaze to the gleaming lounge interior. The flirtatious assistant is conferring with a bodyguard, and for an instant, our eyes meet. She offers a lingering glance, then returns to her business. The tension remains thick with possibility, like the hush before a storm.

Tabitha’s voice breaks my reverie. “We’re in the big leagues now, soldier boy. Think you’re ready?”

I shrug, adrenaline pushing away the sedation headache. “I’m not sure, Tabi,” I admit, keeping my voice steady. “Let’s see if Durand’s gang of desert wolves is as bad as they say.”

I leave the lounge behind and pass through the gilded corridor. Neon glitters to my right and a swirl of bright red dust drifts across the walkway to my left. This place is a crossroads of savage frontier and slick corporate showmanship, exactly the kind of environment where a smaller mech could either shine or be swallowed by the dunes. In less than twelve hours, I’ll be out there, proving that a rig named Raven One, guided by an AI with a sarcastic streak, can stand up to anything.

“I’m not the one piloting.”

“I thought you couldn’t read my mind,” I argue.

“I can’t, but with as many years as we have been together, my heuristics have a high probability of knowing what you are thinking.”

One last rattle hits my head, the sedation pulling at my nerves. I grit my teeth. Gotta shake it. “Great. You might be worse than a wife.”

“I’d have to be Girlfriend 1.0 before I hit wife,” she tells me with a snicker.

Tomorrow, no sedation, no half-lidded haze. Simply me, Tabitha, and Raven One in a desert caravan that might either kill us or make us rich. My steps pick up speed, Patch trailing behind me. We’ve locked in the job. There’s no turning back. The next sunrise on Therasis will decide a whole lot about whether the merc call-signed Talon climbs to bigger, bolder heights or collapses under an onslaught of storms and raiders.

I pause under the lounge’s exit arch, letting the evening wind assault my senses. “Tomorrow at dawn,” I repeat. The words hold a faint, electric thrill as the dryness tears at my throat. I grin at the madness of it all. Part of me thrives on the challenge, and if Durand wants a demonstration of Raven One’s power, I’ll give him more than that. I’ll show him, and the rest of this desert, why smaller machines guided by relentless passion can topple giants.

Twenty minutes later, Patch and I have a cheap hole to rest our heads and hold the suit in a safe place, and I bed down.

Tabitha hums a triumphant note. “Get some sleep, partner. Big day.”

“Right.” I cut off the feed, feeling the hush settle in. My headache is nearly gone now, replaced by an undercurrent of excitement.

Dawn can’t come fast enough.