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Painful Symphony is another loose series of mech-centric fiction I originally wrote for Cohost (really it's kinda two series, separated by about ten years in-world, but I think they work well enough in publication order). The prompt for this one was 'Mech Pilot who just, who just needs a minute okay. They've never seen that happen before and just need a minute.'

The Sound of a Kiss

After a few moments, her vision started to clear. Colours danced and fuzzed across the dull, flat surfaces of her cockpit, like her eyes were screens skittered with static. Her heart was racing, her diaphragm tight, her breath loud in her ears. At her neck, her shoulders, between her legs, her flight suit felt too tight, hot and restrictive.

The cockpit displays flickered back to life, every single one marred by some popup or other announcing an overload. Fonie shook her head, blinking hard. Her headset slid against her hair and ears, the sound raspy and oversensitised. For a moment she let herself sag against her harness - just the way you weren't supposed to, especially in moments of vulnerability or fatigue or... whatever the hell this was?

It didn't feel bad exactly. She felt warm. Relaxed, in some way that had nothing to do with how her physical body felt. Her hands, still properly immersed to the wrists in the contact gel, tingled, like the thawing-out after coming into a warm house from a cold night. She let reflex take over, rippled her fingers in the most basic connection check that A WHISPER OF FEAR would respond to. WHISPER's AI recognised the pattern and responded with green readouts.

"Don't log those." The voice that cut through her ears spoke much quicker than she was used to. Fonie stopped halfway through the thought of directing her fingers to shunt all the status warnings to logs for later analysis.

Still fighting a bit to steady her breath, Fonie managed, "What... what was that?"

( Read more... )

The prompt for this one was 'Light the signal bonfires. Let the call ring out. Who will carry the torch? Who will do a “make up a magical girl” page?' (I am pleased to report that, entirely unrelated to my nonsense and shenanigans, someone did in fact carry the torch).

Some Sort Of Signal Will Definitely Be Lit

"Corporal Swan."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I've just had a call from the Information Systems team."

Silence.

"Really, Swan? Not even an innocently inquiring 'Yes, ma'am?'"

"Thought I'd shake up the formula a bit, ma'am. Keep things fresh."

"No doubt you did."

"…yes, ma'am."

"Swan, I'm speaking to you first because I suspect no-one else in the pilot corps has either the imagination or the perverse ingenuity to be responsible for this."

"Responsible for what, ma'am?"

"Swan have you been accessing civilian social media services from the ship's secure military connection? For what appears to be the purpose of soliciting short fiction from a writer who goes by the name of… SleeplessMustelid?"

"Is that a problem, ma'am?"

"Swan, I know, beyond even the faintest shadow of a doubt, that you know why InfoSys have complained about you. I also have a complaint of my own."

"Ma'am?"

"InfoSys, quite rightly, want you to register your activity with them so that they can monitor the connection for security vulnerabilities. I remind you that we are currently on deployment in an active warzone and the location of this ship is classified military information which would be invaluable to people who are actually allowed to shoot at you, much as I sometimes wish their accuracy was better in that regard."

"I'll be more careful, ma'am."

"You'll do what InfoSys tell you, Swan. My concern is that your conduct on this site, if traced back to us, would be an open-and-shut 'dragging into disrepute' case."

"Really, ma'am?"

"Swan you get into flame wars with this poor writer on a near-daily basis, when your responses to their posts are coherent at all."

"He's an excellent writer, ma'am, I simply want to express the intensity of my regard for his work."

"You appear to have chosen to do so in the style of an excitable teenager who does not get enough direct sunlight."

"Well, that would make people less likely to assume I am in fact a decorated pilot, wouldn't it, ma'am?"

(special love to my dear ~~nemesis~~friend caffeinatedotter aka CaffeinatedOtter, which is in no way a synonym for SleeplessMustelid)

I'd forgotten just how many of these I'd written. This one was in response to the prompt 'Mech Pilot who has to enter the invoices for their own repairs.'

"Corporal Swan."

"Ma'am?"

"I have just endured a lengthy and rather unpleasant call from the quartermaster's office."

"Is there any other kind, ma'am?"

"Generally I find them very reasonable and efficient, Swan, even when the requests they deal with are unreasonable. However,"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Hm."

"Ma'am."

"Swan, please spare me your usual bullshit."

"I don't know what you-"

"Swan, did you crash the Quartermaster's main database in a fit of pique because – and I only have their verbal report to go on for this part – they denied your request for an eight-metre-high bouquet of ferralumin roses with which to proposition Corporal du Tenti?"

"It was all accounted for, ma'am. From my personal allowance."

"Be that as it may, the Quartermastery is empowered to veto orders it would not be reasonable to deliver."

"My plan was very reasonable, ma'am, I included instructional diagrams with-"

"Yes, Swan, I'm aware. Major Fletcher seemed particularly infuriated at the level of detail you provided."

"I-"

"No, Swan. I will not hear any more of it. You are delegated to the charge of the Quartermastery until their system is restored to full functionality. I hear they intend to have you fill out and process all paperwork relating to the repairs in hardcopy. And Swan?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"If you cause any further damage, know that I will personally intercede with the Admiral to expedite Fletcher's request for an upgrade to biocomp hardware for the express pleasure of sending him your guts to use as computational substrate."

"Wouldn't work, ma'am. Biocomputation requires a living substrate-"

"While they are still attached to you, Swan."

Originally I wrote this one to celebrate Cohost getting audio posts, and voice-acted it, but idthink there's a way to host audio on dw, so here's the transcript instead. The prompt for this one was 'Mech pilot doing kick flips off of expended flechettes.'

"Corporal Swan."

"Ma'am."

"About this proposal you've filed for a… recreational activity?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I am aware that your recent, ah, improvised deployment method was… how shall I put this? Disturbingly successful?"

"Thank you, ma'am. And thank you for considering my suggestion."

"'Consideration'. Well, I read it. Proposal rejected."

"That's disappointing to hear, ma'am. Is there anything I can say to lead you to reconsider?"

"Swan I am not going to squander literal tonnes of solid ammunition on a recreational activity. Those AP-FC-1s cost enough to fuel your mech for a week."

"But the combat applications are proven! And consider the potential for use in marketing and-"

"-recruitment, yes, Swan, I read your horrible little letter in full. I am not moved by your promises of 'sick flip tricks' and 'going viral on Instar'."

"But ma'am-"

"No, Swan. Also I don't think even real skateboarders have used the word 'radical' since the twenty-five-nineties."

More of the Shenanigans of Corporal Swan, this time in response to the prompt 'Mech Pilot who’s fuckin outta here hosers.'

"Corporal Swan."

"Ma'am?"

"Need I remind you that until you officially report to Lieutenant Vava in sector four you are still under my command?"

"I- No, ma'am."

"No?"

"I think that it could not constitute 'reminding', ma'am. You would be telling me for the first time."

"Really, now."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you were unaware of this fact from your doubtless diligent and careful study of the papers authorising your transfer to spec ops, which I remind you you signed before the Admiral himself?"

"Yes. Ma'am."

"Well, now you know. And I am sure that, given this new knowledge, you will rethink your decision to bring this... vehicle... into the crew quarters."

"Yes, ma'am."

"How did you even get it in here, Swan? It must weigh three hundred kilos!"

"Um, the grav engine did most of the work."

"Corporal Swan."

"Ma'am?"

"Have you brought a full-size gravbike, with a charged power cell, into CREW QUARTERS under my jurisdiction."

"The cell only has a trickle charge, ma'am."

"What were you planning to do with it?"

"Transport my effects, ma'am."

"I believe the phrase I heard you muttering to yourself was 'a sick wheelie'?"

"...yes ma'am."

"Swan, you would have wrecked yourself on the doorframe, and if you didn't do that you'd have had a rookie's chance in the messhall of making the turn into the corridor. Need I outline for you how much one of those bikes is worth, in multiples of your salary?"

"No, ma'am. I could have-"

"While I have learned to never underestimate your ingenuity, Swan, I do not foresee any scenario in which I could fudge the numbers enough to conceal you making a gravbike-sized hole in the bulkhead. Or for that matter a bulkhead-shaped dent in the gravbike."

"Ma'am."

"You'd better get over to Vava as fast as you can, before I can file one final report on you. Do not try to use the bike to get there faster."

Corporal Swan's adventures take a turn for the somber in this response to the prompt 'Mech Pilot Who Doesn't Know If They Can Save You'

Swansong

"-second squad? Anyone? Please respond?"

"…whu… whozat?"

"Hello? Repeating: This is Spec Ops One to any surviving FSF units in low Zubruech orbit. Please respond."

"'m here. I'm here. Spec Ops One. Spec Ops One this is VLG-M2, Lieutenant Du Tenti."

"Du Tenti? Oh thank fuck. What's your status?"

"Bad. Uh. Red. Therm- wait, is this channel secure?"

"We have a few minutes, keep talking, we're scrambling for asset recovery."

"Might be too late for me, One. Bandits got us good, I'm pretty beat up."

"Hang in there, we're coming to get you, what's the status of your unit?"

"They're gone, One. First squad's dead, I think I see part of Isan's mech drifting nearby but she's gone, I've got no short-range comms, serious thermal damage, PL-1 damage-"

"PL-1-! You're hurt?"

"Affirm, One. Lotta… lotta blood in here. Not a lotta feeling in my legs."

"Fuck. We're coming, we'll get you out of there, I promise."

"I don't know how much time I've got, One, and there might be more traps. You should… This sortie was a bust."

"No, we're coming, dammit. Hang in there, if there are traps we'll find them. I promise."

"One-"

"Save your strength, we're almost out of secure call time."

"This is-"

"Shut up. I gotta say something."

"You don't-"

"I do, I should have said it long ago."

"This isn't… fuck…"

"Hang in there. Listen, Du Tenti, I'm in love with you. I have been since we first met. I'm sorry about all the… about all the shit I put you through."

"I know, Swan. I know."

"Hold on, okay? I'm going to get you out of there. I'll make it up to you."

"Go to hell, Swan."

This misadventure of the reprehensible Corporal Swan was originally written on Cohost in response to a prompt from Andrea @CERESUltra, 'Mech Pilot who teaches their mech's simplistic remote control AI to do tricks like it's a pet'

"Yes. Ma'am."

"That seems a rather complex and specific malfunction. I am reasonably confident that the engineers' analysis will show that auto-balancing was involved. If your AI was malfunctioning, your mech should have faceplanted."

"The load gyros were unaffected by the malfunction, ma'am."

"Then would you please explain what, exactly, caused your mech to misbehave?"

"It was... a hack, ma'am."

"A hack? You claim someone hacked you, in the middle of a secure training exercise in Sub-4?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Who the hell could have hacked you?! It was only your squad and Lieutenant Verres's down there!"

"Corporal du Tenti, ma'am."

"Swan, du Tenti is many things but he's not an infowar technician. Are you suggesting he made some sort of undetectable malicious transmission? According to the logs, all he did was tell you over the radio to 'beg'."

"That was the hack, ma'am."

"Corporal Swan."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I'm aware that you like to play with your systems."

"I prefer to describe it as 'experimenting', ma'am."

"I'm aware. Nevertheless. Are you telling me that you have induced, in your mech's AI, an exploitable vulnerability to voice instructions over open radio channels?"

"Only from fleet personnel with registered voiceprints, ma'am."

"I'm denying your request for a review. The result will stand, and I'm telling your squad why."

"Ma'am-"

"I think I'll give du Tenti a commendation for exposing a critical vulnerability, too."

Chronic Swanicles is a series of dialogue-only flash fictions I originally wrote on Cohost in response to a prompt from the Making Up Mech Pilots prompt account.

This first installment was for the prompt 'Mech pilot who swears that if you ever describe what they do as "antics" they're going to program a rapid gravity cycle for your room's unit next time you bring a guest.'

---

It is a Lovely Day Aboard the SS Vivian La Gay, And...

"Corporal Swan."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Second Lieutenant Verres and Corporal du Tenti are in medical."

"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am."

"The Second Lieutenant has a serious concussion and probable shoulder fracture."

"Ma'am."

"The Corporal is being evaluated for multiple possible fractures and torn neck ligaments."

"Ma'am."

"Do you have anything to say?"

"No, ma'am. I wish them a speedy recovery."

"This leaves my two best squads at three-quarters strength, likely for at least a month."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Swan if you can’t say something more than this I swear I will put you in the brig and disconnect the power to the whole unit with a thermal cutter."

"Ma'am?"

"The gravity cell under Verres' floor is proprietary technology, the fleet is subject to a fifty thousand dollar liability charge automatically if anyone so much as touches its housing, its operation is a commercial secret covered by legal agreements worth more than this ship and the training and background checks to qualify as an apprentice to the technicians who maintain them take the better part of a decade. It will cost us millions to determine whether the device was tampered with, millions that we have to spend because otherwise our foremost ace cannot use his quarters for the remainder of this deployment."

"Sounds troubling, ma'am."

"How did you do it, Swan?"

"Do what, ma'am?"

"Swan I will tolerate your antics only so far, and yes, I know that is the petty little detail you decided to decimate our fighting strength over."

"I don't know wha-"

"Corporal Swan, do not fuck with me. Those two are lucky to be alive. On mere suspicion, and simply for the cost that your action has already incurred, I could sell you to Ferrocorp and wash my hands of you. It is a tantalising prospect. I am asking how you did it so that I can evaluate whether your ability to do so is worth more to me than that would bring in."

"Ah."

"I want to be clear about something, Swan. The best outcome you can hope for now is that I transfer you to special ops as a technician-saboteur. Unfortunately it is a significant pay rise, so your wages will be held as surety against the costs of your shenanigans, but at least your skills will be better utilised. The alternatives are Ferrocorp or, if the grav cell technician can prove that it was you who tampered with the cell, death. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'd be honoured to serve."

"Your mother should have named you goose."

[I originally submitted this to a competition, then posted it on cohost, and now it's here. Enjoy)

Staggering, stumbling, clawing thorns of pathless forest. Breath a pumice in her throat. Shoes lost, stockings shredded, dress soaked cold, she flees the men of the Light until at last gravity overcomes adrenaline and she plunges headlong into the undergrowth.

Whatever hits her on the way down is almost familiar. She knows that kind of bruise on her face, the hot weals around split lips and cheeks.

As she fell she screamed, but now she whimpers, her voice buried by the wind. "Please… help…" She sees nothing, the canopy above her shutting out the moon. Feels only the slimy, prickly ground and the pain.

The sound around her softens. She feels the approach of… something… as a shiver caressing her spine. For a moment she glances behind her, but there is no hint of the castle just fled. She has finally run far enough.

"Could you be the one to love me at last?" It is the most beautiful voice she has ever heard, haughty and fluid. With it comes a face, seen by darkness alone, a queen's cold, imperious cheekbones and piercing eyes.

Lifting her torso from the muck on trembling shoulders, she looks up, up weavings of darkness finer than any silk, past a mathematical curvature of hip and waist and bosom, into an abyssal river of hair around that domineering face. Flooding with relief and a night-cold desire she has never dared feel before, she reaches forward, finding the smooth leather of gleaming boot-toes, stretching to kiss them in supplication, but thin fingers with sharp nails catch her chin.

The Night says, "Stand, beloved. When I wish you to kneel I will tell you. But first, let me taste your lips. Then we shall see about overthrowing yonder light."

I'm basically only making this post so the start of my... page? feed? blog? post-chost? isn't a big ol' pile of old fic from way back, idthink anyone is going to see this who doesn't already know me from elsewhere but I hate a blank feed page >.>''

anyway uh hi dreamwidth