Warbot!

A teaser from the current WIP, working title 'Maroli Winter'.

The sensation of operating the breaching waldoe was an order of magnitude more intimate than the same experience within a simulation, and Myra Fowlkes knew why — the Anodyne virtual tutorial authored by the manufacturer was pathetic.

The machine’s vision was intensely sharp and focused, with more depth of field than delivered by organic optics. While waiting to deploy, she smelled silicone grease with sufficient precision to locate the source without taking a single step — it was on a flexible seal dovetailed into the spaceboat’s hatch opening.

The warbot felt like a neoprene wetsuit. Its hands were her hands, clad in half-finger diving gloves. Its feet wore hiking boots like ones she’d taken back to the store because they were too stiff, except these had so much traction she had to take weight off one ankle if she wanted to rotate.

Myra navigated around the front of Brandon’s FastVan expecting to move like Frankenstein’s monster, but it was more of a glide, a gravlift force indicator on the heads-up display indicating the machine was automatically compensating for its mass.

Standing behind a yellow line on the deck, waiting for hatches to open, Myra wondered if she should get her son on the line in case something went terribly wrong. But then, Mason would gloat, and she was in no mood for it.

A half-dozen maroli lined up behind her. Hatches opened to blue skies above craggy mountaintops. She stepped off the edge.

Flight systems did not engage as expected. The warbot fell like a rock until she pumped her legs as if treading water, and then it hovered.

The sky rained maroli on their way toward rocky terrain, seeking cover from enemy fire, an activity she was supposed to be emulating.

A blossom of light in the near distance drew her eyes to a smoke trail. The warbot said, “Incoming missile. Evading.”

Advaita Vedanta fired a laser at the missile. The missile disintegrated. The warbot dodged shrapnel. Myra looked down at her legs; she was still treading water.

Roy Keller spoke in her ear. “Having trouble?”

“Just getting oriented.” Myra straightened her legs, pointing toes. The warbot went into free fall. Her stomach lurched. “Oh, crap. No inertial damping.”

“Myra. You’re not there. Tell the Oma what you want, and it’ll fake it if it has to.”

She reacted without thinking. “Gundam. Turn on inertial damping.”

The ground rushed up. The warbot braked. Myra felt just enough deceleration to know which end was up. “That did it. Thanks, Roy.”

He said, “You don’t have to take cover if you don’t want to. Fly away, keep your distance from the action, have a little fun. I’ll call when I need you.”

Myra ran down a rocky hill, launching herself off the rim of a canyon, arms tight at her sides, fists clenched — Supergirl, flying at enough of an angle she didn’t have to look up to look forward.

Indicators on the heads-up display mirrored wrist, foot and finger movements associated with flight control. Coasting at three thousand meters altitude, she recited a line of verse.

“I soar by means given unto me by the grace of God, while my fellow men, who do not know God, fall to Earth never to stir again.”

Roy said, “Who wrote that?”

“Carmen Benequista, when she was flying for the army.”

“Poignant.” There was a pause. “Make sure you don’t come back until we’re done.”

“I won’t.” She sighed into the channel. “I don’t want to see it.”

Featured image by press 👍 and ⭐ from Pixabay