Dead Mech Walking: a mech LitRPG novel (Armored Souls Book 1) Read online

  DEAD MECH WALKING

  A MECH LITRPG NOVEL

  XAVIER P. HUNTER

  MAGICAL SCRIVENER PRESS

  Copyright © 2017 Xavier P. Hunter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Magical Scrivener Press, 22 Hawkstead Hollow Nashua, NH 03063

  www.magicalscrivener.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Ordering Information: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

  Xavier P. Hunter— First Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-942642-41-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Tech References

  Sign up

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  [Primary Objective: Destroy Orbital Defenses]

  [Secondary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 0/9]

  A tree trunk creaked, and with a crash, an armored foot crunched it into the forest floor. Branches fell away from the pilot’s view of a mountainside fortress. The perimeter wall of chain link and barbed wire was nothing more than decorative to the juggernaut of steel that acted as a lookout keeping visual contact with the compound. The ground transports that entered through the gate as a convoy only came up to the juggernaut’s shin.

  “In position,” the pilot said over the assault team’s encrypted radio frequency. Everyone on that channel was a mercenary. Yesterday they’d been strangers. Tomorrow they might be enemies. Today, they were raiding a House Carvelle security station.

  The pilot checked the mini-map, then tapped on the defensive wall. The range to target appeared in a soft blue font.

  650m

  A voice came over the juggernaut’s internal speakers, gravelly and grizzled. It was Commander Voice Filter 08—one of the player filters that could make a 14-year-old sound like a hardened field general. “Look sharp. We’ve got intel that there’s aerial surveillance and a sizable garrison. We could just hit the comm tower and get out of here, but I think we’ve got a team to go for broke and rake in the bonus XP for a full clear of hostile units.”

  Another glory-hogging idiot.

  “Roger that.” No point rocking the boat. As confirmations came in from across the assault team, it became clear that most of the other pilots were thinking the same thing as their leader.

  A blip on the mini-map. Flashing red and on an inbound vector, suddenly four more popped into scanner range to join it. “Five bogeys inbound. Coming in from hex F-109.” The pilot frantically tapped her console to transmit the data on the defenders’ artillery turrets to the rest of the team. There wasn’t much time.

  TARGET DATA SHARED

  Artemis was a Phoenix class medium juggernaut, painted in orange and red shades reminiscent of its mythical namesake. Unlike most mediums, it was equipped as a scout. True light juggernauts were a liability in engagements like this once lead started flying and lasers lit the sky. Artemis was armed to fight once they engaged hostiles.

  Blue pinpricks of light coming across the mountain were the first visual signs of the House Carvelle air support. The danger wasn’t the guns or missiles equipped on the Dragonfly class light fighters. The danger was getting spotted by them and losing the element of surprise.

  “Any of you want to launch missiles, now would be a great time,” the Phoenix pilot radioed her comrades.

  “Artemis, Get us a lock on those Dragonflies,” the commander ordered. He must have spotted them himself but lacked the advanced tactical sensor package. Stupid, selfish noob. What was the point of detecting threats without being able to share that data with allies?

  It would have been easy. A couple taps on the mini-map to mark them and her targeting computer would relay a real-time feed to the rest of the juggernauts in her team. But they only had one opening salvo, and it needed to be the gun emplacements that would rain real damage if they had targets.

  “Negative. Take out the artillery. Those 460mm guns will wreck our shit.”

  “Do you know who I am?” the commander thundered. “I’m the one giving orders. Transmit target data or—“

  The mini-map panel flared red. “They’ve spotted us!”

  There was no time for a pissing contest, no matter which of them proved right. The Dragonflies had IDed them, and it was time to move.

  Artemis lurched into action. Forward was the base and their objective. Backward was the cover of the forest. A thunderous explosion just a few dozen meters away, in the hex she’d just left, justified the pilot’s decision.

  The artillery barrage had begun.

  [Bonus Objective: Destroy Reinforcements 0/5]

  Everyone would have seen that, even if none of them had the new hostile forces on sensors. It was a system message, and this particular alert meant only one thing. The pilot radioed her mercenary team. “We’ve got a hostile player platoon. No visual yet, but this has to have been a trap
.”

  “Fire at will,” the commander with the chain-smoker voice ordered. “No more sneaking around. Keep on the move to avoid the shelling and engage the enemy at close range.”

  Well, that was certainly one theory on how to avoid getting hit by artillery fire: get so close the batteries wouldn’t risk friendly fire.

  But Artemis was a Phoenix class medium juggernaut and meant for finesse. She could rough up light jugs all day, but in a slugfest with most other mediums, it was a losing proposition. Plus, unless the 5-man platoon who’d joined the defenders was a bunch of try-hards, this mission had just gone from challenging to notify next of kin. The pre-mission intel had looked daunting but doable.

  Not so much anymore.

  “Fall back,” the pilot shouted over the radio. “Hit and run, and let’s get to the drop ships.”

  This wasn’t a mission for the bank account anymore. Credits could repair a banged up juggernaut, but losing all her progress toward level 13 would hurt.

  Musical notes chimed, soothing but insistent, breaking the game’s immersion. “Shit!” How had it gotten so late? There should have been time for the mission, a quick shower, and a quicker breakfast before work.

  One of those was going to have to give way.

  The mercenary team had taken too long getting their acts together. Too much time in the planning room aboard the transport ship, not enough on the ground. The arrival of unexpected forces was just another factor to add to the list of reasons why her emergency, last chance work alarm was going off.

  She shouldn’t have cut it so close.

  This game was just too addictive.

  Any other day, she might have called in sick. Not today. Today would be worth missing out on the mission’s completion. It would even be worth losing half a level’s worth of XP since hitting level 12.

  Shells rained down as Artemis dodged, still tracked by the Dragonflies that no one had managed to shoot down. Artemis’s pilot flicked the selector to Minigun and touched her finger to the trigger.

  No time. She could skip breakfast if it came to that, but she wasn’t heading to work without showering.

  Not today.

  The mercenaries would have their work cut out with or without one more Phoenix along. This was a matter of priorities, and today Armored Souls took a back seat.

  Artemis slowed to a halt and waited. Soon a shell from those 460mm guns would find her. That’d be the quickest way to log out.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The reek of bleach and antiseptic and a rhythmic electronic beeping told Reggie he was in a hospital before he opened his eyes and confirmed the fact. Remembering his name put him miles ahead of his worst hangovers, which was a good sign. If there was one thing the guys in his unit had taught Reggie about getting wounded, it was to get someone else to deliver the bad news. Don’t lift the blankets to check for yourself.

  In truth, aside from an aching stiffness and a dry, gummy feeling in his mouth, Reggie felt fine. For all he knew, morphine and nerve bypasses could be hiding missing legs or a shrapnel wound the size of a baseball.

  His room was tiny, cozy even. The walls were the color of mint toothpaste and lacked any decoration. The bed linens and a few pieces of unidentified medical equipment were off white. Any blandness the room possessed blew away like smoke on the wind when the nurse walked in.

  “I see you’re awake, Sergeant King,” she said in a chipper voice accompanied by a Hollywood smile. She was blonde and green-eyed, and if it weren’t for the conservative cut of her military medical corp uniform, he might not have noticed either of those facts. Statuesque and fit, she was the sort of girl guys fought over at bars. If Reggie was just high on morphine, and she was really middle-aged and stocky, he was willing to gamble.

  “Better now,” he replied with a grin. As she tapped on a tablet, he remembered his circumstances. “How’m I doing, doc?”

  “It’s ‘nurse,’ Nurse Mallet, but I appreciate the attempt at flattery,” she said, shooting Reggie a wry smile as she glanced up from scanning his medical status. “Physically, you’re doing much better. Vitals look normal. You’re a little dehydrated, but I’m upping your saline feed.”

  Reggie wondered how many of the wires disappearing from view beneath his blankets were hooked directly to the computer in her hand.

  Licking dry lips, Reggie hoped this question wouldn’t force her to reevaluate his status. “So… where am I?”

  Before she could answer, an older guy in a long white lab coat swept in like air support. No warning. No preamble. Payload delivered to target. “Good morning, Sgt. King. How much do you remember before arriving here?”

  “Morning to you, too, doc,” Reggie replied. With a grimace, he tried to remember. “Kinda drawing a blank. Heading out on a convoy? That sound about right?”

  If this guy wasn’t at least a senior officer in the medical corp, he’s blown his career. Late fifties, maybe early sixties by the depth of his wrinkles was Reggie’s guess. A fringe of gray around the sides was all the hair he had. The name plate sewn into his lab coat read “Zimmerman.”

  Taking the tablet from Nurse Mallet, Dr. Zimmerman gave it a quick once-over, pressed a thumb to it near the bottom, and handed it back. “Sgt. King, how are you feeling?”

  Nurse Mallet took the tablet and quietly excused herself. Reggie was alone with the doctor.

  Reggie shrugged, jostling IV tubes and electronic monitoring wires. “You tell me. I can’t even say whether I’m drugged up or not. If I am, the shit’s working—sorry, sir—the drugs are working fine.” It was one thing cursing in front of an officer you knew, but every once in a while there was a hardass who took decorum seriously. Doctors were probably used to a little distress in their patients and probably cut some leeway, but Reggie didn’t want to risk it.

  Dr. Zimmerman pulled a stool up to the bed and sat by Reggie’s elbow. “You’re cleared physically. Aside from a little physical therapy to counteract weeks of lying in bed, you could play basketball right now.”

  Reggie chuckled. “More of a baseball guy, personally. But… weeks?”

  “My point is that I’m not here because you’re sick or injured,” Dr. Zimmerman explained in a measured, almost hypnotic voice. “I’m here to determine how you’re handling this emotionally.”

  “You’re a shrink.” Reggie winced since the word came out sounding like an accusation when he hadn’t meant it that way.

  Of course, no good shrink would lose his cool over a professional slur. “I prefer psychotherapist.” Great. That meant straight answers would be in short supply.

  Reggie glanced at the display monitor on the far side of the bed and watched his heart rate rise. “What happened to me? How’d I end up here?” They didn’t send the psych team out for every guy who took a little shrapnel or a stray round in the leg.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Dr. Zimmerman asked.

  Reggie squeezed shut his eyes and tried to remember. It was as if someone had taken a pillow and smothered his memories in his sleep. “Routine patrol. Dusty street. Can’t remember the name of the city. They all sound alike anyway.” Reggie could hear the echo of his Abram’s engine rumbling, the growl of the tracks digging into the dirt, the crack of small arms fire. Every muscle in his body tensed, from his jaw right down to his gut. “We were ambushed. Infantry support took cover and returned fire. I manned the .50 cal and…”

  “And?” Dr. Zimmerman prompted.

  “Where’s my crew? Chaz? Murray? Davis?” His mouth was dry. The words barely came out.

  Dr. Zimmerman laid a hand on Reggie’s arm. “One of the insurgents fired an anti-tank rocket. Your Abrams was hit. You were the only survivor.”

  Reggie looked all around, searching for signs of anything familiar. “Where am I? What is this place? Where are—?”

  “The fewer questions right now, the better,” Dr. Zimmerman said with a flash of smile that was gone before it finished forming. “You’re just getting yourself worked up. Fo
r now, you’re alive. Focus on that.”