Interstellar Fighter

Chapter 3: The Stars and Stripes over Europa

Europa's underground mines became David's new world. There were no windows, only the eternal glare of artificial daylight lamps. The air thrummed with the piercing shriek of drill bits chewing through bedrock, the acidic smell of lubricants, and a fine, pervasive metallic dust. It was a vast, bustling ant colony, but the 'ants' were roaring machines and men covered in grease.

His first week, Uncle Perry started him at the very bottom. "To pilot a mech, you first need to know what we're digging for, and how," he said, leading David through the cacophonous work platforms, pointing out the behemoths.

"See that? We call it the 'Iron Mole'." Perry pointed to a tracked machine with a massive rotating drill head, controlled by an operator in a narrow cockpit bristling with levers. "Antiquated design, but simple and tough as nails. AI gets stupid in complex geology like this. Still gotta rely on human experience and instinct." The operator, a burly man of Slavic descent, nodded at David through the thick protective glass, his face etched with the wrinkles of long-term concentration.

Nearby, several car-sized, spider-like automated machines glided silently along preset magnetic tracks, using laser cutters to precisely strip specific mineral veins from the rock walls. "Those are 'Scavengers'," Jack's voice came from behind him. He was checking a Scavenger's power readings on a datapad. "Low-grade AI. Just follow their programming. Advantage: saves manpower. Disadvantage: dumb as a rock. A slightly large falling stone can fry their circuits, and yours truly has to fix 'em."

Looking at these cumbersome or simple-minded machines, David couldn't help but think of Old Bear in the hangar. At least Old Bear felt like a giant that could extend his own limbs, not a delicate instrument to be carefully manipulated or a puppet repeating commands.

During a break, David couldn't resist telling Perry, "Old Bear is way… cooler than these things."

Perry snorted dismissively and took a large gulp of synthetic coffee. "Cool? Don't be fooled by the iron skin, kid." His expression turned serious. "Old Bear is a civilian-grade pack mule at its core. Hydraulics are slow, armor's thin as a tin can. Weapons? Ha! That popgun's only good for scaring space gophers. Mark my words, and carve them into your brain: out here in this sector, if you ever see a mech painted in military camouflage with official unit markings on its shoulder—doesn't matter if it's American, Chinese, or EU—don't hesitate, don't be curious. Immediately, right then and there, run as far as you f*****g can!"

"Why?" David asked, confused.

"Why?" Perry stared at him, a veteran's glint of witnessed brutality in his eyes. "Because those things are born and bred for killing. Their reactors output five times our power. Their weapons can tear Old Bear to shreds from ten klicks out. Their pilots are monsters—genetically enhanced and neural-linked. We're here scratching for a living. They? They're here to harvest."

David fell silent. Perry's words were a bucket of cold water, dousing some of the fire ignited by his first piloting experience, but they also gave him a clearer understanding of true power.

A week later, just as David was settling into the rhythm of a miner's life, Perry found him. "Get your stuff together, kid. Taking you to see the 'big picture'. Also the reason we can dig here in relative peace."

They took the elevator up to the surface observation tower. In the distance, over the gray-white ice plains, a ship painted in sharp, digital gray-and-black camouflage, its lines as severe as a battle-axe, was descending slowly. The roar of its engines vibrated even through the thick reinforced glass. It was a couple of sizes larger than the Pilgrim. A menacing electromagnetic railgun sat under its prow, missile launch bay doors were visible along its flanks, and point-defense laser turrets swiveled like wary eyes. Most striking were the large, slightly faded white Stars and Stripes and the "USA" stenciled on its hull.

"U.S. Army, 4th Extraterrestrial Patrol Fleet," Perry said, his tone complex. "Our 'protection' has arrived."

Before coming out here, Perry had crammed the new U.S. military structure into David's head. After the Third World War, to meet the challenges of the space age, America consolidated its most powerful assets. The Air Force and Navy merged to form the 'Star Fleet'. They controlled the most powerful ships and jump points, were the 'top tier', and were still as arrogant as ever. The old Army was reorganized into the 'Star Army', responsible for planetary surface occupation and defense, becoming the 'middle tier', but their resources were always tight. The Marine Corps became the 'Star Marines', still doing the dirtiest, toughest assault landing jobs, rose to become the 'third tier', but remained at the bottom of the pecking order, their temper as fiery as ever.

Europa was a delicate place. Based on the outcomes of several military clashes, orbital control belonged to China. The Chinese had the biggest say here, their "Celestial Court" space station looming in orbit, watching everything. But the U.S., the EU, and most other major powers also maintained garrisons and corporate mines here, creating a precarious balance. The connections Uncle Perry had made during his own service in the Star Army were what let him secure this meager mining permit from the officer in charge of local "resource coordination," Lieutenant Colonel Williams.

The ship settled smoothly on the landing pad outside the base. The hatch opened, and a squad of soldiers fanned out first, establishing a secure perimeter. Their gear was pristine, their eyes alert, a stark contrast to the miners' casual demeanor. Then, a middle-aged man in Star Army combat gear, a Lieutenant Colonel's insignia on his shoulder, emerged. He was tall, his demeanor cold, a faint scar on his face, his gaze sweeping over Perry and David like a hawk's.

"Perry," the Lieutenant Colonel's voice was as chilly as his appearance.

"Lieutenant Colonel Williams," Perry stepped forward, respectful but not obsequious. "The shipment is ready. High-grade tungsten ingots, up to spec. This is my nephew, David Cole."

When the Lieutenant Colonel heard the name "Cole," his sharp eyes fixed on David's face, scrutinizing him. "Cole… James Cole's son?"

David's chest tightened. He stood straighter. "Yes, sir."

Lieutenant Colonel Williams's eyes seemed to soften by a minuscule degree. "I knew your father. We served together… in Poland." He didn't elaborate, but the weight of that brief silence conveyed more than any words could have—he had witnessed James Cole's sacrifice. He clapped David on the shoulder, the impact firm. "You stick with your uncle, son. Out here in this shithole, survival is victory."

Just then, the patrol ship's main cargo bay door opened fully, and a crane began loading the crated tungsten ingots. Simultaneously, a side hatch slid open, and three mechs, piloted by their operators, emerged to oversee the loading from outside.

David's breath caught in his throat.

They were three medium multipurpose mechs, NATO designation "Gladiator." Their armor was a uniform military dark gray, their lines sleek and lethal. Their joints were fully enclosed, none of Old Bear's exposed, rugged hydraulics in sight. Their head sensor arrays resembled the heads of hunting falcons, every angle of their bodies screaming peak industrial artistry. The clear US Army markings and bald eagle insignias on their shoulders proclaimed their pure military pedigree. As they moved, their electric drive systems were nearly silent, only the heavy, precise thump… thump… of metal feet meeting the ground echoing, full of power and discipline.

They carried standard-issue railguns on their back mounts, with integrated mini-missile launchers and small shield projectors on their arms. Compared to the slightly clumsy, workman-like Old Bear standing nearby, these Gladiators were fully armored, deadly warriors ready for the arena.

Holy crap… David marveled inwardly. These were real mechs. Uncle Perry's warning echoed in his mind, but what filled him now was an awe mixed equally with fear and a desperate, primal craving. He imagined himself in that Gladiator's cockpit, wielding that kind of power…

Lieutenant Colonel Williams noticed David's stare. He said nothing, but the corner of his mouth might have twitched almost imperceptibly, the expression of a man who had seen that same look on too many young faces.

The loading complete, the Gladiators retreated smoothly into the ship. The Lieutenant Colonel gave Perry a curt nod, offered no further pleasantries, turned, and boarded. The patrol ship's engines let out a low growl, kicking up a cloud of ice dust as it lifted off, eventually shrinking to a dot and vanishing into Europa's pale sky.

David remained standing there, staring at the sky, his mind a turbulent sea. This starry ocean was far more complex, and far more… compelling, than he had ever imagined.