9.27.2562
Machines making machines. Fabricators crafting destroyers. Automated creators building tools of destruction. Robots of creation assembling mechanical artists of destruction—this is how it begins. The CPLT-C1 'Catapult' is the 6736th model made by Hollis Inc. in late 2562. Every weld, bolt, nut, wire, connection, heat sink, actuator, coupling, joint, armor plate, and tensile strand—all of it masterfully crafted by machines programmed by man. Used by men and women alike, these armors are death incarnate. This beast, designated as 'Catapult,' is a rear-line artillery battery.
There she is, standing tall—65 tonnes of metal and machinery. Five million credits were spent crafting this heavy-class mech, meant to be piloted by a single man. This machine, standing at eleven and a half meters tall, has no arms and two powerful legs, with minimal armor centralized at the joints of the ankles. She is fueled by a powerful engine that uses magma to power her fusion generator, designated as 'the Magna 260.' She can walk at a cruising speed of 43.4 kilometers per hour, though her top speed is 65 kilometers per hour. She is equipped with dual jump engines meant to maximize her mobility, allowing her to bypass heavy foliage and get behind an enemy's rear armor or battle line.
Her armaments are something to behold. She can be fitted with four to six small- to medium-energy weapons. Her main armaments are a pair of Long Range Missile silos, each stocked with enough ammo to level an entire town. She is often equipped with 23 tonnes of ammo per silo, each having the ability to fire a tonne and a half every ten seconds. Her lasers can melt through armor like a hot knife through butter.
She has enough firepower to crack the ground beneath fields, level cities, and decimate entire settlements. Her lasers can be used to deal with infantry, armor, VTOLs, and other battle armors with varied results.
Edward Jones was reviewing the audit of the CPLT-C1 serial #6736. "Test pilots have all commented on its performance—none of them horrible," he said to his colleague.
"What's the worst one so far?" his colleague replied coldly. After all, this was just another day of those pilots and their tiring complaints.
"Well, for starters, test pilot 04 states that the mech seems to have trouble throttling down into reverse gears, but it is very quick and easy to throttle up to full power," Edward responded excitedly. After all, this was his job—what he loved doing: finding problems and fixing them.
"Ah! Leave it. As long as the throttle works, that's all that matters," said his colleague. "Next."
Edward sighed and continued his report. "Test pilot 03 reports that he had trouble with the neurolink. Apparently, there was some serious feedback when trying to initialize the neural connection with the battle armor. He states, and I quote, 'If I kept trying to initialize, I could have ended up damaging the neurolink chip in my head.' End quote." He finished the second part of his report with a stunning question: "Do you think this build has a linking malfunction?"
"No way. Test pilot three is older than the Star League. His software is probably just outdated by a couple of decades," he replied, finishing with, "Even still, with the Catapult being a new build, that could potentially be cause for concern. Make a note for the maintenance team."
"Do you even care?" Edward asked seriously. "I mean, these issues could cost the life of mechwarriors regardless of their skill because of your careless attitude," Edward stated.
"Shut the hell up, Edward. You get paid to read and report these problems to maintenance; test pilots get paid to test and find these problems. It's not our problem after we note it down for maintenance," the colleague's attitude shifted to something cold as he sipped from his coffee cup and continued. "It's not my problem if someone gets into that battlemech and goes somewhere dangerous. Hell, it's in the name 'battle' mech; it's not meant to be a hundred percent all the time," said the colleague.
"It is our problem because if the dash cam and the mech log find an internal issue that boils down to us, well, I will not be responsible for your carelessness," said Edward sternly.
"Your wife didn't seem to care about my lack of care. I get paid to sit here, read, write, and then I get to go home to spend time with my wife, kids, and your wife," said his colleague jokingly.
"Leave my wife out of this. Yours makes the best peach cobbler, and her insides are just as warm," replied Edward with no trace of banter in his voice.
"Alright, you win this round, Edward. Want to break for lunch? I got peach cobbler," his colleague replied, full of jest.
"I guess the report isn't due for another half hour; sure, let's break for lunch." Edward resigned, finally feeling the banter his colleague was drilling for.
Edward, the young quality inspector, and his older colleague, who was in charge of the audit, finally broke away from their stations. Edward left his report on the table at his station, with one final note from test pilot 006. This note would never be read by the auditing crew.
Minutes later, a maintenance team member entered the station. Finding it empty and assuming the report was complete, they took it for finalization and submission.
The final note read:
"All online systems were fully functional. Targeting systems were calibrated flawlessly, and communication systems were online and operational.
My only two real complaints with this build concern the ammo rack and the neurolink.
First, I don't know if the magazines were over-oiled or if the design was altered for maximum efficiency, but other builds took ten seconds per magazine to reload fifteen missiles per silo. Strangely, this build only took 4.5 seconds per magazine. This is dangerous for the following reasons:
Jams are likely to occur in humid battlefield conditions.
The rapid reload speed increases the risk of accidental warhead detonation, which could trigger a chain reaction and destroy the entire magazine—potentially killing the pilot.
Second, I was able to finalize and successfully initialize the neurolink with the battle armor. However, upon disconnecting, I experienced a splitting headache due to feedback. Notably, when I ended the neurolink session, the instrument panel displayed: 'Neural handshake disconnected successfully.'
Thank you for your time and patience. Please ensure that the 'neural handshake' is factory reset to prevent any harmful neural feedback for the next pilot."
End note.
..... ...…..
Jey, a maintenance woman who was working on some of the issues the auditors found, was in the cockpit checking the instrument panel throttle. After connecting her tablet to the instrument panel underneath the throttle, she began a diagnostic program and throttle response program. Once, twice, a third time—still she found no issue; the throttle was fine. The throttle was responsive; there was zero resistance. "So then why did the test pilots complain about the throttle?" she thought. "Could have just been neurolink feedback," she conceded. After finding no issue with the throttle, she ran a system diagnostic on the neurolink software. "Looks like a lot of the problems could be attributed to the neurolink software. It's not strange, but it's very unlikely," she told herself.
It was then that the diagnostic finished: the lines of code showed no clear errors with the neurolink software; on the contrary, it presented pristine factory-new status. "What the hell is that?" she said out loud. She spotted it; the problem was a cluster of code hidden behind millions of lines of binary code speeding up, down, and side to side across the screen. It seemed to almost pulsate.
"A virus? A tumor maybe? Lemme just…" She began to type and swipe away at her tablet, moving her way through the code. Doing her best not to erase or damage any of the existing code, she began to chip away at the tumor of code until it moved. "Wait, what?" The blood drained from her face, eyes narrowing when she noticed the tumor of code start to pulsate faster. "Oh my god," she said, her eyes widening, noticing the pattern of the pulse. "It's a heartbeat?" She shut off her tablet and pondered for a moment. "Maybe this is a new feature—a new feature for the new builds going forth, y'know, to help with maximizing pilot and machinery efficiency," Jey told herself. "Of course, that has to be it," she concluded. After finalizing her checks on the instrument panel, she exited the cockpit and locked the entrance hatch.
"There's no way; I am seeing shit. There is no way that a battlemech has a heartbeat; it's impossible. All it is—it's just metal and computer and tensile fibers..." Jey yawned and massaged the back of her neck. "I need more sleep. No more overtime for me," she thought.
"HEY BOSS!" she yelled to the man on the floor using the terminal to control the tool arms to stock the ammo racks and install the heat sinks. The quiet, bulky elderly man with gray slicked-back hair and a beard braided into a point on his chin looked up from the console.
"WHAT!" he yelled back at Jey.
"THIS ONE IS READY FOR COLD STORAGE!" she replied bluntly.
"ALRIGHT! I'LL GET IT PREPPED FOR COLD STORAGE!" he responded happily; this build has proven to be a waste of maintenance resources; there is nothing wrong with this build.
"MAKE SURE YOU GET ALL THE TRANSPORT PAPERWORK READY FOR THIS BRAT!" he finished his thought.
"HEY BOSS, GET THE TECHIES DOWN HERE TO FACTORY RESTORE THIS BEAUTY!" Jey said to the man after acknowledging her new orders. Taking one last look at it, Jey wished she knew where this brat was going to end—probably scrap on some far-off system somewhere, she concluded before setting off to complete her new orders.
...…. ...….
At the end of the assembly line, there she stands mechbay #6736. Being placed in a steel crate, the top corners , and the lining of the crate is lined by pipes. The pipes run cold as they spray the battle armor in nitrogen. After the mech is completely frozen and the power is drained she stands there. Isolated… Weightless… Cold … Dark … Quiet … Alone …
Till the 'Catapult' is needed to do her duty
As a battlemech.
8.15.2578
Time:1247 Ship time
In the mess hall of the R.F. Enchantress—a Riga I-class frigate—Tony Gutierrez sat stiffly amidst a throng of infantry, airmen, and engineers. To him, they were all leagues beneath him. A MechWarrior, a pilot, he thought of himself as something far above the grunts who slogged through infantry drills or the techs who spent months training for maintenance duty. He didn't endure nearly a year of endless classes, psych-conditioning, and relentless physical trials to sit among these jarheads and coffin flyers.
"What a mess," Tony thought, staring down at the unappetizing gray slop on his plate. The indignity of eating this repurposed, recycled waste churned his stomach. The real food—steaks, chicken, real rice—was reserved for the upper-deck crew: officers, navigators, and MechWarriors. His kind.
"This is infuriating," he muttered, his thoughts spiraling. "I should've been assigned my 'Mech by now." With a scowl, he stood, the tray in his hands trembling slightly from the intensity of his frustration. Crossing the room, Tony dumped the vile meal into the waste bin and placed the tray on the return rack.
Surveying the mess hall, he felt his lip curl in disgust. His father would have been ashamed to see him here, rubbing shoulders with the common rabble. "I should be on the upper deck, where I belong," he grumbled. Even the recycled air felt oppressive down here.
Unable to stand it any longer, Tony made for the exit, his stride brisk and determined. The captain would have answers. There had to be a reason he was stuck here.
Navigating the frigate's corridors was straightforward yet agonizingly dull. The monotony of the gray walls, the dim lighting, and the absence of windows grated on him. Every step felt like a reminder of how far he was from the life he deserved.
The captain's earlier justification rang in his ears: "It's important for MechWarriors to understand the trials and tribulations of the Federation's workhorses—the men and women who keep this machine moving." Tony scoffed at the memory. "Ridiculous," he muttered. The real reason was obvious: incompetence. She hadn't prepared their quarters in time.
"If I were in her position," he mused, "I'd have cleared an entire section for us. Grunts don't need half the space they take up. They could be crammed into hangar bays or storage areas without complaint."
His grip tightened as he approached the elevator. After what felt like an eternity of weaving through winding corridors and past cramped barracks, he finally reached his destination. He shuddered at the memory of the communal bunks. He'd had to sleep there once—once. The thought was revolting.
The elevator's directory displayed four options:
1.Command Center and Bridge
2.Upper Decks
3.Mid-Decks
4-5. Hangar Bays and Engineering
Tony pressed the button for the first floor. Nothing happened. The display flickered and replaced the options with a keypad and a keycard scanner. A sinking feeling settled in his chest.
"You've got to be joking," he muttered, jabbing at the keypad. The screen blinked red, resetting to its original menu. His jaw clenched. Being denied access only fueled his resolve.
Fine. He'd settle for the second floor and work his way up. Selecting the option, the elevator shuddered to life. The ride dragged on, each second amplifying his frustration.
His thoughts drifted to New Avalon, the heart of the Federated Suns, and the academy where he had trained. The sprawling complex was the largest in the Inner Sphere, producing MechWarriors of unparalleled skill. Its 98% dropout rate was a point of pride—a testament to the rigor of its program.
Tony smirked at the memory of his final exam, a grueling mock battle that had pushed him to his limits. Many cadets didn't survive the trial, whether from accidents or the sheer psychological strain. But he had excelled. His performance had been flawless—a clear indicator of his superiority. He remembered the events of the final exam like it was yesterday.