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Gurne was a normal imperial ace pilot. He consistently ranked high in most simpod tests, he performed well on the battlefield, and bumped shoulders with the other aces. He lived a fairly normal life, at least normal for an imperial ace- better than average rations, all the girls he could want throwing themselves at him, the usual. He felt a little bit empty, but, with the way the warfront was looking, it was probably just the toll the war was taking on his mind. Nothing more.
One day, in between deployments, as he lay in his bed, staring at the barren ceiling lost in thought, his pager pinged. Command was calling him down to the training sim. A bit odd, but nothing out of the ordinary. Aces are often tested in the case of a shift in leadership, to justify the resources and priority mech repairs they receive.
Gurne bathed in the echoing chatter and general bustle of the hangar bay as he left the barracks and headed down to the ground level.
"Hey! Gurne! headed to the simpod?" A fellow ace, with a more slender build. Kiki, if memory served. She was notorious for being a crackshot merc who retired, but joined the Imperial Mech Corps with her custom mech 'because it wouldn't be right to let my baby sit and rust'.
"Kiki! Yeah, Command called me down. Probably just some white-collar wanting me to justify my priority repairs and munitions orders." A pang of jealousy struck Gurne, though he didn't know why. Probably just her 4-legged mech, Arachne. It was able to clamber up walls and hang there, firing potshot after potshot with it's thermite mortar.
"Good luck with whoever wants to evaluate you, Gurne!"
"Sure thing, Kiki." Gurne chuckled, letting his eyes rest on his pride, Agdistis. Unremarkable on the surface, but packed with whatever the hell Command would let him get away with. Hopefully he could keep her. He turned back to the door that led to the simpod, set his jaw, and walked forward.
The noises of the hangar bay receded as the door closed behind him, leaving Gurne with a moment to himself as he walked down the corridor towards the simpod. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the typical techs.
Nothing about the inside of the pod seemed off, so he slipped in and got ready for it to boot up. Then, the lead tech addressed Gurne. "So, we got orders from god knows where in the chain of command- high up, Gurne. They wanted to test a drug on you. It's long-term and slow-acting, but they say it's safe... and that you don't really have a choice. They want you to come down here each week or so for an injection." One of the techs approached Gurne with a syringe.
"Y'ok if I poke ya, sir? It'll be the thigh, if that's right with you."
Gurne looked uneasily at the syringe and took a breath to steady himself before saying "go ahead, stick me."
The tech inserted the syringe into his thigh and depressed the plunger. No immediate reaction. That's odd, for a combat enhancer. They did say it was slow-acting, though. No time for thinking about that, though. The simpod slowly hummed around him, screens flickering to life and closing to form the cockpit of a simulated mech as the tech who injected him stepped away.
The combat scenario ended with stats that weren't out of the ordinary. A decent margin above average for the military, and about in-line with his usual results. They noted it down in a new file, and sent him back to his room.
Gurne, whether he liked it or not, was entrenched against a group of enemy light mechs. The rebels knew their home terrain, hid behind the rocks and only opened fire when Gurne wasn't looking their direction.
"Kiki! Mind breaking them up for me? I can't do shit with these fuckers constantly taking potshots at me from all sides!"
"On it, Gurne. Stop whining like a bitch and let a real pilot take care of things." Gurne watched on the mech's IR monitor and heat radar as one of her thermite shots connected directly with the enemy, splattering a molten payload all over the rebel chassis. The flames carved a path through its armor and overheated the core until the only noise left on enemy channels were the screams of the dying rebel. Gurne muted the channel, took a breath, and started returning fire on the disrupted rebels.
Downtime between deployments again. Gurne waited in his room for the pager to ping. He counted down the days, hoping it was just a fluke-
ping
Damnit. He checked the message, and grimaced when he saw the same message as last week.
Command calling ace Gurne to simulation pod for testing.
Well, time to head down. Gurne headed out of the barracks and down to ground level, passing by Kiki on his way to the simpod. Jealousy, again. She was a enormously helpful asset, but it bothered him how jealous he got of her. Her custom mech, her special privileges. She was chatting with other aces and didn't notice him through the crowd. But enough of that, he had a mysterious injection to take at the behest of high command. He grit his teeth and hurried down the hallway to the simpod.
Same deal. The lead tech rattled off about how it was a long term drug, he needed to come back next week, and all of that business. Another tech approached with the syringe, asked permission, and injected his thigh. Combat sim ran, his numbers fractionally better than they were previously, barely notable.
Kiki intercepted him in the hall as he was headed back to his room. "Hey! Gurne! How's Agdistis doing? She all patched up? I know you took some heavy fire during the last deployment - so nice of you to become target practice for the rebels, makes em real easy to nail." Her laugh rang hollowly in Gurne's mind and he bristled at her.
"Agdistis is doing fine, and thanks for not stabbing me in the back, merc." He turned on his heel and stormed away, irritated. Why was he so irritated over this? Why were his emotions running so high? He turned to glance at her. The pained look in Kiki's eyes as she turned away cut through whatever had it's grip on him.
But, before he could walk back and apologize, she had faded into the crowd, gone and drowned in the din of the hangar. He stood there, spiraling, falling through his mind in an infinite loop, for a moment. Then, he turned and left for his room.
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Your daughter smiles when I tell her to lick my boot. She grins when I threaten her with electric shocks. When I put the barrel of a loaded gun in her mouth, she lets it go all the way to the base, her eyes fixed dead on the hammer.
Completely fine, yes; for a pilot of her station. She's doing exactly what she should be. But as a son? That poor, useless thing, working variably dead-eyed behind the counter at a dead-end job or nowhere at all? Entirely insufficient.
She talks about you sometimes. Not in any recognizable way, of course; nothing she could possibly understand as motherhood exists in her memories. Not of you, not of anyone. Just dreams. Dreams of a mysterious, distant woman and an unfamiliar voice telling her she's wrong. I'll admit, you've been useful at times; she is often wrong. But training out your unhelpful damage to her has been a hassle to say the least. I've never seen a pilot so reckless, so ignorant of its own pain, so tolerant of Hell, until I met your daughter.
I have no jurisdiction on Earth unless one of my pilots is stationed there. She has been instructed to stay far away from that planet, to keep you far away from her. These two things do not mean I would not gun you down the moment I saw you if I was given the opportunity. I suspect watching your limp, lifeless body, gushing blood from every bullet hole would heal Pilot #502 in a way no amount of forced amnesia, no amount of sedation, no amount of re-education ever could.
I'm sure you've heard the stories; you've probably shared some yourself. Young men disappear one day. A simple note, a calling card left in their place, emblazoned with the insignia of Station Delta. We have quite the reputation among broken mothers, blinded by the tears in their eyes and the fantasies they tell themselves, as nothing more than kidnappers. Some kind of wicked draft desperate to take their beloved sons from them; those sons they never gave another look to until they were already under our care.
We don't mind it. A scared populace is useful. But mark my words, and repeat them at your own peril:
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