Occam’s display glittered like a fractured kaleidoscope, shards of light scattering across his vision while two Hitoris blinked in and out of sync, their mouths moving against the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

  “Huh?” His own voice sounded dull, like it came from underwater. He shook his head hard.

  The lights shivered and snapped back together. The two Hitoris became one, and the ringing collapsed into mumbling—then into a yell.

  “Roll!”

  A trajectory alarm flared red, blinking too fast to follow. Arthur’s eyes went wide. He threw his hands up as though to shield himself.

  Hitori growled, his voice glitching. Occam lurched sideways, slow and heavy, like a man rolling out of bed. The projectile slammed into the street where they had been, the shockwave blasting Occam even further away.

  “Up!” Hitori barked.

  Arthur twisted wildly in his seat, hands clawing at his harness as the cockpit rattled like a jar of nails.

  “My buckle,” Arthur gasped. “My buckle, my buckle, my buckle!” Spit sprayed with each word, tears stinging his eyes.

  “I’m not letting you out.”

  Arthur yanked at the restraints, barely aware Occam had staggered upright on legs that felt supported by loose marionette wires. The support cut out, and the meck pitched forward just as another shell detonated behind them.

  The cockpit lights strobed white. Arthur screamed, fists locked on the straps, pulling until his arms shook.

  “Let me out!”

  Hitori swelled until he filled every inch of the cockpit, towering over Arthur like a storm.

  “Calm. Down.”

  “What’s happening—we can’t—what’s happening?” The words tumbled out of him in broken gasps, his mind clawing at everything at once.

  “You’re in a firefight,” Hitori said, voice even now, “you’re panicking. Calm. Down.”

  Arthur latched onto Hitori’s gaze, the only thing that didn’t flicker with the shockwaves.

  “You’re fine. Control your breathing.”

  Arthur’s chest hitched. For the first time he noticed his own body—lungs rasping, pulse hammering at his eyes. The cockpit displays came into focus: Occam’s frame lit mostly in blue, with small patches of yellow—shoulder, right forearm.

  “We’re damaged,” Arthur whispered.

  “Hardly,” Hitori steadied Occam, though it still trembled like it stood on toothpicks, “scram shells. Made to scare and corral, not destroy. Now take the controls.”

  “Scram shells?” The words seemed familiar.

  “Sticks, now!”

  Arthur leaned back, letting the clamps absorb his shoulders and arms. He seized the sticks like the lip of a liferaft—felt them twitch toward his hands, as if reaching for him back. Occam’s momentum steadied under his touch, its stumble cut short.

  “Good. Now stay low,” Hitori said, “make for that alleyway.”

  A map appeared on the HUD, a route blinking ahead of him. Arthur didn’t question it, he obeyed.

  Just before slipping into cover, he caught a glimpse of the convoy rolling in, trailed by a roiling dust cloud. A dozen cycles led the pack, but three shadowed forms lumbered at the rear.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  On the display, a captured image was solidifying as the system processed the shapes.

  “Move!”

  Arthur flinched and nearly crawled Occam off the road.

  “Good. Around the corner.”

  Questions pressed against his teeth—who was firing, why, how—but his jaw only quivered.

  “Behind that building.”

  He rolled, keeping low until Occam’s back was pressed against a wall, hiding him from view. The ringing in his ears became louder as the silence settled, but then the HUD chimed, and the convoy image finished rendering—three silhouettes snapping into sharper view.

  “Are those…mecks?” Arthur whispered.

  “Frames,” Hitori corrected, “chop-shop knockoffs. The warden mentioned these—thought Occam was one of them.”

  The first image sharpened. Shortest of the three—half Occam’s size. Its body was a pyramid perched on a sphere the size of its base. Two appendages jutted out at angles, and when the holo rendering flickered to life, Arthur realized they weren’t arms at all but blades. The thing rolled forward on its sphere, machetes twitching in anticipation.

  The second image resolved into little more than a cannon with legs, knees bolted to tank treads. No arms, and just the suggestion of a mouth where the barrel began.

  He inspected the third Frame next. As tall as Occam, shoulders narrower but bulkier in the chest. Instead of arms, it bore a closed fisted gauntlet fused to one shoulder, and a hook swung from a chain on the other.

  Arthur’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t help scanning the schematics hovering above the rendering, part of him hungering for the why—why build these machines that way?

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a reflective strip across each joint.

  “Likely a welding method,” Hitori said. His voice turned sharp. “Doesn’t matter. Keep them separated, take them out one at a time. We’ll start by—”

  “Take them out?” Arthur’s voice cracked. He tried to thumb his buckle open again, disguising it as scratching his chest. The clasp stayed locked—and Hitori’s gaze made it clear he’d noticed.

  “You’re nearly past the shock phase,” Hitori said. “Stay with me. You can do this.”

  Arthur shook his head. “I can’t fight them. Remember those cycles? I barely made it out—you said it yourself.” The triumph from earlier shriveled in his chest. “And you—you just moved Occam a minute ago. You don’t need me.”

  He glanced back at the schematics, at the crude but menacing threat they posed.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” Hitori muttered. “If I could rewrite trillions of lines of code, and cut you out of the loop. But I can’t. That’s not how or why I was made. It’s not what Daiko Hitori intended.”

  Arthur frowned, the grooves of his buckle digging into his fingers painfully.

  “I need you to do the right thing, Arthur. And fear nothing.”

  The words pinned him to the chair, shutting his mouth mid-argument.

  “Remember charging in to save your friends? It was reckless, but it was right.” Hitori leaned in, tone sharpening. “Those things aren’t warriors. They’re scrap iron and gasoline, held together by glue. You’re piloting the most advanced meck the world has yet to see. If you fell on top of them by accident, it would still be enough. Do you hear me?”

  Arthur stared at the images of the frames, internalizing Hitori’s words and his pulse slowed—just a little—as the thought took hold: what if he’s right?

  “Hitori, I’m still learning to jump,” Arthur said, “I got lucky out there—”

  “It’s true,” Hitori replied, almost amused, “you’re not the most talented pilot I’ve trained. But I’ve had worse—”

  “I’m the only pilot you’ve trained!” Arthur snapped, surprising himself with the force of it. “With all due respect, sir—you’ve never trained anyone.”

  For a second Hitori’s face twisted, ready to argue. Then it softened, though softened for Hitori meant it didn’t cut Arthur to make eye contact.

  “This is the crux of it, isn’t it?” Hitori said, calmer than before. “You’re right and wrong. Just as Occam is more than a meck, I am more than you think. I am a part of the ultimente. Daiko Hitori taught me everything he knew—spent more time with him than any of you did. In a way…I’m his last living memory.”

  Arthur wanted to throw the words back. None of it changed the insanity of their situation. None of it meant he could win.

  But Hitori’s expression shifted again, gentler now.

  “Daiko entrusted me to lead you. And now I’m asking you to let me carry out his last wish.”

  Arthur’s chest tightened. The absurdity of their circumstances crashed into him—a century gone, a war still raging, and here he was: Arthur Percival En, sitting in a cockpit on a satellite moonlet around Jupiter, staring down a fight he had no business in.

  The sticks vibrated in his hands, pushing into his palms. He glanced at them to see his knuckles whitening.

  Hitori straightened, his voice low but steady. “Arthur, are you ready?”

  Arthur closed his eyes. For a heartbeat, he let the silence wash over him—the chaos outside muted, the cockpit humming with his pulse. He nearly shook his head, but then he nodded.

  “Fear nothing,” he whispered, breathing heavy.

  “That’s right,” Hitori’s tone carried no triumph, only calm. “Now listen close.”