January 30, 2069
Southern California
Militech Training Camp
Sitting in the cockpit of the Basilisk, Bob couldn't suppress a grin. The contract with Militech had been a necessary evil, but he couldn't deny the raw thrill of being jacked into a hover-tank. The sensation of floating — almost like zero-g — was new to him, and strangely satisfying. Especially for someone who'd spent most of his life driving groundcars. Not even the dozens of braindances he'd slotted could compare to the intensity of this, hard-linked directly to the machine.
This was just their first training run, but Bob was already getting attached — to the tank, the feeling, the danger. It didn't take him long to get a handle on the controls, cruising through the obstacle course while his partner, Mitch, practiced picking off mock targets scattered across the range. When the test run wrapped, the newly-minted tankers regrouped at the far end of the facility, waiting for the other crews to finish their routes.
They didn't have to wait long. A minute later, the Basilisk's onboard AI pinged with a new directive.
"Crews of vehicles eight and nine. Your objective is to intercept an enemy convoy. Eliminate all escort vehicles and destroy the transport carrying the cargo. Enemy force composition will mirror your own. Convoy route has been uploaded. Repeating…"
The dispatcher's voice came through the comms — calm, mechanical, like he'd read the same script a hundred times today.
"Understood. Ready to move out?" Bob answered for both of them, pleased they'd been teamed up with Teddy and Driss.
"Proceed," the dispatcher replied, and the comm clicked off.
Since arriving, the Aldecaldos contingent had kept to themselves, avoiding contact unless necessary. The only exceptions were the instructors and a couple of techs who actually spoke to them like they were human. Bob, as the unofficial leader of the group, had managed to have a word with the officer assigning newcomers. Somehow, he'd convinced the brass not to split up his people, getting them all assigned to the same strike team.
Bob switched to his crew's private comm. "Alright, you gonks, listen up. We've got our orders. Hit the convoy hard and leave nothing standing. Just the way we like it." He was already sketching out a plan. "Here's the play. Teddy, you follow right behind us. When we engage, swing out and flank the opposite side of their rear escort."
"And how the hell do you plan to do that without being spotted?" Simos cut in before Bob could finish. "This whole area is wide open. They'll see us from a klick out. You think the crew in that convoy are a bunch of morons?"
"Yeah, but that's only if they actually see us," Bob said, laying out the plan. "Remember how the Stilettos kick up dust storms when they hit clan outposts?" He took a noncommittal grunt from the comms as his cue to continue. "The Basilisks can pull the same trick. We'll just have to skim the deck while we do it."
"Teddy, that might work," Driss chimed in, his voice thoughtful. "The onboard systems will flag movement, sure — especially in a column — but the AI won't have our vector when we break from the dust cloud. It'll kill their visual tracking." He paused. "That gives us five seconds, tops, before their escort can react. In a real firefight, this would be suicide… but for this op, it's the best we've got. It's doable."
With the plan set, Bob led the squad toward the convoy's projected route. It took them less than five minutes to reach the ambush point. The Aldecaldos tucked their Basilisks between the rocky outcrops and went quiet.
It didn't take long. A faint plume of dust on the horizon marked the enemy's approach. The lead tank came into view first, followed by a pair of trucks. The second Basilisk was still out of sight, holding the rear just as the intel suggested.
The moment the lead tank crossed the one-klick mark, the nomads moved.
"Showtime," Bob muttered, eyes locked on the tactical overlay of his HUD. He dropped into a full neural link with the Basilisk, willing the machine to life. "Let's move, people — they've definitely seen us now."
Instantly, the convoy slammed to a halt and began to scramble. The trucks peeled off, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the inevitable firefight.
"Mitch, light 'em up!" Bob ordered, just as all hell broke loose.
The two lead tanks exchanged fire. The Basilisk shuddered violently from a direct hit, enough to make Bob grimace. That wasn't right. Training rounds weren't supposed to impact like that. Sim-munitions carried data beacons, not payloads; they logged hits and simulated damage, from a harmless ricochet to a full system kill. They weren't supposed to shake the whole damn chassis.
Bob's eyes flicked to the diagnostics display. He swore under his breath. He'd let the Basilisk dip too low on the left side, slamming the hull against a rocky outcrop during his last maneuver.
He corrected the hover-stabilizers and shoved the thought aside. No time for distractions.
Teddy and Driss had already swung wide, putting them on the opposite flank of the second enemy tank. With the lead Basilisk now isolated, Bob wasted no time.
"Target locked. Fire," he commanded, and immediately gunned the engines, veering hard to the side.
"Target neutralized," the Basilisk's onboard AI intoned, its robotic voice flat.
Bob glanced at the enemy tank, now frozen mid-maneuver, its systems locked by the simulation. He gave a satisfied nod, then immediately started scanning for the second Basilisk.
"Bob, swing us around! We've lost the turret!" Mitch yelled, adrenaline cutting through the comms. "What the hell?" the gunner muttered, his eyes darting across a sea of red error messages on his console.
The second enemy tank had timed its counter-attack perfectly, slipping out from behind the convoy trucks to land a clean shot on a critical junction. The simulation had already tagged their Basilisk as combat-ineffective. They were out of the fight. Lucky for them, comms and sensor feeds were still online. Bob wasn't about to question a bug that worked in their favor.
"Don't sweat it, choom, I'll avenge you!" Driss chimed in, his tone playfully heroic as he lined up the shot. His first round disabled the enemy's main cannon. The follow-up sealed the deal, forcing the tank into a simulated shutdown. "Did you see that, Bob? One and done, baby!"
"Crews Eight and Nine, mission failed," the dispatcher's voice cut in, cold and sudden. "The cargo transport has escaped. Pursuit is no longer viable."
Bob's face darkened. His eyes stayed locked on the disabled enemy tank, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.
"Enemy fire compromised Crew Nine's weapon systems," the dispatcher added, as if reading his mind. "Pursuit was not possible. Return to the staging area for your next assignment."
Bob let out a long, frustrated sigh. A few seconds later, the simulation protocols disengaged, and the tank's systems blinked back to life. He didn't waste any time turning the Basilisk for home.
"Hell of a ride," he muttered with a grin as he climbed out of the cockpit later. "No braindance can ever top that." He gave the tank's armor a solid pat, his hand lingering on the warm plating.
"Gotta admit, not a bad piece of kit," Mitch said, pulling himself out of the neighboring hatch. "But what worries me is the timeline. How long do you figure they'll give us to actually learn these things? Wouldn't put it past Myers to throw us into a meat grinder by next week."
"Doubt it. Even she's not that stupid," Driss replied, shaking his head as he joined the others. "Besides, I don't think Myers handles deployments personally. Militech has a whole department of paper-pushers for that."
"Agreed. Corps care too much about their eddies to waste expensive gear on half-trained rookies," Simos added with a shrug. "You can bet the suits aren't signing off on that kind of risk."
"Look, one thing I know for sure," Bob cut in, his voice low. "They're not sending us to the frontlines for at least two weeks. Word is, no live-fire ops for new blood inside the first month. We'll be on milk runs — escorting convoys, getting our hours in. Then they'll toss us into the fire."
That last part was clearly a relief. Shoulders relaxed and the tension bled out of the group. Bob felt a small bit of pride at easing their nerves. The reason for his insight was simple: he'd hit it off with a couple of instructors early on, and they'd let slip more than they should have. The corps might play their cards close, but Bob had a knack for reading people.
"Alright, heart-to-heart's over," a deep voice barked from behind them.
A broad-shouldered man in a crisp Militech uniform strode into view, all business.
"You've wrapped your maneuver drills, now it's time for post-op maintenance. Your crew, your responsibility. You've already got the datasheets." The instructor's eyes landed on Teddy and Driss's tank. "Crew Eight — watch your port-side anti-gravs. They were sagging on the approach. Get the techs to run diagnostics."
Without waiting for a reply, he marched off toward another squad, his voice already barking out the same orders.
The nomads shared a look, then got to work without a word. The Basilisk was a world away from the rigs they were used to, but the instructional chips Militech had slotted them made the repairs surprisingly straightforward.
Simos and Merian finished up on their tank and started to head over to help, but a sharp look from Mitch stopped them cold. The message was clear: We've got this.
"Finally done," Bob exhaled, stepping back from the Basilisk's maintenance panel. "Never thought anti-grav tuning would be this finicky. Mitch, you good?"
"Been waiting on you," Mitch called back as he hopped off the Basilisk's hull. "I'm starving."
He gave his stomach a theatrical pat, earning a round of laughter from the others as they all headed for the mess hall.