Camdus Gault watched his world come apart from nine thousand miles away. Wave after wave of electronic interference struck his machine and his mind reeled under the barrage. He fought with an amount of internal fortitude reserved for life or death situations and every nerve in his body was alive with a desperate fire. No threat of defeat or even death could have motivated him to this kind of desperation and no currency of medals could save him if the worse happened. A life changing Armageddon was staring him in the face and all the hours belittling those of his profession who had succumbed to this injury now stood sentinel to his own imminent disenfranchisement. If he did not do something soon he would be among the Walking Dead; a RCP dead to his profession and awash in the great world.
“Gault! Shit where the hell are you?” It was one voice among a dozen that was screaming into his ear. His squadmates and sergeant were alternately chiding, berating, pleasing, and ordering him to get his shit under control. They would not have voiced concern for him as Meaters would one another in a similar combat situation. Life among the Remote Combat Pilots was one of competition and the ability to put a disenfranchised companion out of your mind was a highly prized ability. Gault had managed to do it a number of times himself and now he beat down the hideous voice that was mocking him that he would very soon join those growing ranks of pilots whose machines had “Gone Native”.
Another wave of electromagnetic surge washed over his electronics and signal strength dipped down to 45%. The machine was in control now and Gault was now as useful as those old cowboys who rode wild bulls for the amusement of tobacco chewing crowds. Gault had heard that some of them had found work riding mechanical bulls in the Orbitals and planetary colonies. That was good for them, but Gault seriously doubted he would find such work among people who blamed him and his ilk for the latest wave of emigration.
At 30% signal strength, an impossible figure for anyone who did not understand the intricate workings of a Quantum-level connection to understand, the only possible remedy would be a hard wipe of the unit’s memory. Even under these dire circumstances such a remedy was a last resort. A hard wipe would almost certainly cause residual damage to the CPU and possibly even a mechanical seizure. Even with insurance it would be easily a million euro repair job and that is if the insurance company did not find some reason to double the deductible due to pilot error. He could survive the million but two million was way behind him. Still, Gault knew he had no choice at this point and as signal strength continued to erode he opened his emergency panel with his meat hand and manually punched in the code. Two seconds later the system was ready and he pushed the round anacronshronistic red button that would destroy three years worth of combat experience.
Nothing happened.
“Shit fuckers!” He screamed across the squad channel as he watched his signal strength drop the final percent down to zero. His screens went blank, his consciousness was dropped from battle computers, and his sweat soaked body sagged against the ergonomic pilot seat. In silence he breathed and heard only the sound of his own heart. It was a loud artillery barrage in his ears that was painful physically to listen to. His chest felt so tight Gault thought that he might be having a heart attack or even a stroke. In some ways he hoped he was: death would be far preferable to disenfranchisement.
As he sat there trying to breathe a notice showed on his screen. It showed that his squad had won the battle and that each pilot would be getting a full share. Gault’s share would only be one quarter of a share because he had “Quit The Battle”. Another terse messages asked him to remove himself from the pilot chamber or seek assistance if he was unable. Gault felt a surge of panic in his stomach and looked around, wiping sweat out of his eyes. Three stone-faced employees in white shirts waited for him to exit the chamber. Gault felt the urge to punch them in their fucking mouths but he resisted even a sneer; the company would enjoy lowering his share of the spoils even more. Instead Gault slowly removed his head gear and unbuckled himself. Pushing at the clear canopy he opened it to the fresh recycled air of the Squadron Bay. The three stone-faced employees helped him out, handed him his bag of gear and his final pay-chit. Politely they escorted him down to medical.
An hour later he was debriefed and medically cleared to leave. No one met his eyes and no one stopped to wish him well. It was not the way things were done here. Camdus Gault stepped out into dreary streets of Portland, Oregon USA and felt the sting of wind-blown rain against his face. He did not mind too terribly much on this April day, after all it would help to hide his tears.
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