First We Take Manhattan
First We Take
Manhattan
Mina MacLeod
Gabe Dumas and Dave Cortez are officers in the Mech Enforcer Division of the NYPD. If Gabe wishes they did more than work together, well, that's his problem. He'd rather have him as a friend and partner than nothing at all, and there's no one better to have at his back when the streets get ugly.
During a raid on the Diamondbacks, a notorious and dangerous gang tearing up the city, everything goes sideways and it's Gabe who comes out the worse for it. Furious, devastated, Dave is determined to have revenge on the men who nearly killed Gabe.
Book Details
First We Take Manhattan
By Mina MacLeod
Published by Less Than Three Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Amanda Jean
Cover designed by Aisha Akeju
This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition April 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Mina MacLeod
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 9781620043349
Act I
They've just turned onto 42 when Jed Tansen's voice crackles over the comm. "Uh, guys? My dash just turned red. Says something about a heat sink warning?"
Gabe grins and pulls Archangel to a stop. "Classic rookie mistake, greenhorn." He hears Dave choke back a laugh. He's bringing up the rear in Stonewall, but Gabe can picture him grinning too. "These aren't like the Assault mechs they give the Marines. You have to go easy with Enforcers; too much too fast, and your system will overload."
He turns Archangel around. Through his transparent canopy of reinforced crystalline, Gabe watches Jed's Enforcer slow to a stop. "Just wait it out," he adds. "Once the heat sink starts working, it will cool everything off and you'll be as good as new."
The comm crackles when Jed huffs. "Is this why you two had me 'practice my shots' on the range just now? And then insisted we fly right out to the beat?"
Gabe scratches his forehead. "I'm pretty sure I have no idea what you mean."
"The same way you have no idea why you made me climb in and out of the cockpit a hundred times?" Jed asks wryly.
Gabe smirks to himself. Enforcer cockpits are located in the mech's chest. There are no footholds to help the pilot in, so as to avoid hooligans hitching rides and other potential dangers. Instead, pilots are drilled until they know all the right nooks and crannies to grab and to push off on, until they can leap into their cockpits in a few swift hops. It was the first thing they'd told Jed to do, mostly to settle his nerves, although they'd left out that pertinent detail.
Dave says, "Sometimes, in order to teach them how to walk, you have to let them fall."
"Bullshit," Jed says, but Gabe can hear the amusement in his tone. "You assholes are hazing me. Is this how the Mech Enforcer Division hazes?"
"The MEDs don't haze," Dave says matter-of-factly. "We
educate.
"
"We also don't call our superiors 'assholes,'" Gabe says.
Jed is undaunted. "Dumas, you and Cortez are sneaky bastards. Tech would've had my balls in a sling for bringing them back a downed Enforcer."
"Yep," Dave says.
"It was a test," Gabe explains. "You're not snug and cozy in training anymore. This is the field; you have to keep an eye on your dash—watch your meters and levels. Remember how much punishment your mech can take. It's no different from when you were in the mech division in the army."
"Well," Jed says, "yes and no. When I piloted Assault mechs, I didn't have to watch my dash like a hawk."
"True enough, but remember the trade-off: more precision means more care. Enforcers are smaller, they have more controlled ammunition, and they can bank like nobody's business, but all those little adjustments come with a price. Learn how to balance between pushing ahead and easing off, and you'll be a pro in no time."
"Yes, sir."
"Oh," Dave says, pleased. "Love it when he says that. Almost as beautiful as your little Parisian twang, Gabriel."
Gabe stretches in his seat, growing restless. "You can take the Private out of the Marines …"
"I hope not," Dave cracks. "I want to keep calling him Private."
"Feel free," Jed says. "Unless you want to call me Private
in
private. Pretty sure Isabel would have something to say about that."
"So would Tim," Gabe points out with a grin. "How is Isabel adjusting to life in the city?"
Jed makes a noncommittal sound. "Eh, you know … it's different. We've never lived in one of the megacities before. She's worried about raising the baby here."
Gabe looks out his canopy. 42 Street stretches out before them in all its filthy glory. It's a quiet area, mostly residential apartments lining the street with dull grey cement and brick. Tenants are used to seeing MED march up and down under their windows. Apparently people acclimated—like living near an airport or a train, someone once said.
People from the suburbs or rural areas like Jed and Isabel tend to believe that the megacities are overwhelming and untamable. The truth is, the megacities haven't changed much since they were regular old cities. Sure, they're considerably larger, having expanded to accommodate population growth. The expansion had come with some drastic changes, too; megacities are neatly and clinically divided into easily navigated sectors. Still, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. New York was still the business and fashion capital of the world, the international trendsetter, and the image that came to mind when people said "America." Very little had changed—although New Yorkers swear the pizza hasn't been the same since the Old City was razed in 2132.
Gabe's parents had moved here when they got married, coming over from Paris. Back then, it had still been the Old City. The designation had changed by the time Gabe was born, but his parents had maintained that New York was New York—the same one they'd fallen in love with all those years ago.
Still, they are currently in Sector Twelve, the twelfth precinct. Sector Twelve is right smack in the middle of the New York megacity, and it sees a lot of action. So he says, "Well, they say only the crazy ones ask for this sector. Why didn't you apply somewhere more low-key?"
There's a moment of silence before Jed answers. "It's hard to explain. I did my time in the army. I came home for Isabel, because she couldn't stand the idea of me away for so long anymore, not knowing if I was okay—you know, that kind of thing."
"Couple stuff," Dave puts in. "I get it."
"But you don't—you don't come home from a footlocker life and just adjust to soft beds and heavy meals. I want to be here for Isabel and the baby, but I need to be doing
something
. She wanted me to get a desk job. That would drive me insane. I have to be out in the field."
Gabe finds himself nodding, even though Jed can't see him. "Well, Private, you learn how to handle your mech properly and Isabel won't have to worry about a thing."
Jed laughs. "Yeah, my dash has been okay for a good long while now."
"And you didn't tell us," Dave says disapprovingly. "I think that warrants buying the first round. What do you say, Gabe?"
He pretends to think about it. "That sounds about right. Pretty sure it's in the SOP."
"Where, under
bullshit?
" Jed asks over his chuckling. "You guys are totally hazing, don't even front."
Gabe grins. "Fine, then consider it a thank-you to your mentors for showing you how
not
to ask Tech to break your balls."
"Now that I am thankful for. All right, first round is on me."
Gabe settles more comfortably in his seat, lifting Archangel's gun arm to gesture down the street. "Then let's go. You take point for this block; I want to see how you move. Mind the heat sink."
"Yes, sir."
After the Old City had been razed by gang wars, reconstruction had begun at a record pace. One of the great improvements had been wider streets. Pedestrians, cyclists, cruisers, and mechs could all share the road without impeding each other. MEDs walked their Enforcers down sidewalks, not wasting jet fuel unless it was necessary. Pedestrians still had some room to go around them, however. Traffic jams had truly become a thing of the past, although the amount of traffic on the roads at any given time was staggering.
Gabe watches Jed walk his Enforcer past Archangel. Jed's Enforcer has the standard blue paint job with white accents and trim. "MED" is embossed on the upper-right of its chest, just under the canopy. He hasn't personalized it yet, like the white wings emblazoned on Archangel's back or the black inverted cross on Stonewall's. Gabe and Dave's mechs have the names "Archangel" and "Stonewall" painted along their Gatling gun-arm, but Jed's is currently bare. Like all Enforcers, Jed's stands about twenty feet tall without an inch of wasted space. Unlike Assault mechs or other military-grade weapons, Enforcers are composed of all the necessaries and nothing more. What they sacrificed in defense against heavy artillery they gained in sleek flexibility. They don't have the extra mass to withstand a missile strike to a shoulder joint, but they can brake and skid around a corner without sailing into a brick wall. Their cockpits are still comprised of mechanical dashboards, because good old metal and circuitry remains more reliable than holographic interfaces.
They're good mechs, and they need good pilots. A mech is an extension of its pilot: taller, stronger, faster—but still one with him. It isn't like driving a car or piloting a cruiser. A mech moves how a person moves, and the pilots have to account for its assets as well as its limitations. MED is its own division for a reason.
"You think of a name for your mech yet?" Dave asks. The question startles Gabe out of his contemplation. He listens more closely to the comm.
"I've been trying." Jed is moving much easier now that he's being mindful. "Nothing comes to mind, though."
"Maybe after your first arrest. That's how I named Stonewall."
"Why do I sense a story, there?"
"Don't encourage him," Gabe pleads. "It's the kind he has to
show
and tell, if you catch my drift."
Dave laughs. "Over drinks, then."
They move along 42 Street, Jed leading the way with Gabe and Dave close behind. They march their Enforcers single-file, even though nobody is around. Gabe keeps an eye on his own dash out of reflex, but all signs are normal.
They round a corner onto a busier street, drawing some curious glances from the onlookers. Jed asks, "So how come they say this sector is middle of it all?"
"Because it is," Dave says. "We're right smack in the center of the megacity. By extension, we're sandwiched between a lot of other things, too. Like the Diamondbacks."
The comm crackles when Jed exhales too heavily. "So it's true? That gang is still one of the big players?"
"Always has been. They may be disorganized, but they didn't come out on top of the Gang Wars by looking pretty."
Gabe makes a face. "We're positive they're part of the drug trafficking ring we've got. No proof, though; the thing about being scattered about means you're harder to track down. The detectives have people on it, but, well …" Gabe trails off with a shrug.
"The detectives have people on everything," Dave goes on. "That's something else that hasn't changed, Private. The NYPD is bogged down with too much crime to handle. Blue-collar, white-collar, organized, juvenile—you name it, we've got our fair share. We're a twenty-four/seven operation, and we can barely manage to make a dent in it. But we try. It's all we can do."
Gabe clears his throat, feeling the serious tone in the air. "Regretting your decision yet, rookie?" he asks in an attempt at levity.
Jed tries to joke back, but his heart clearly isn't in it. "If anything, hearing that just makes me think this was the right career move." The jovial mood is lost.
Fortunately, that's when Dispatch chooses to interrupt. Their comms chime with the incoming signal before opening a channel for their squad.
"Archangel, do you copy?"
"Go ahead, Lisa." Gabe is already sweeping his dash, flicking switches and readying Archangel to deploy.
"We received a call concerning a robbery in progress on 53. GPS shows you're the closest."
"We're on it." Through his canopy and his monitors, Gabe can see Stonewall and Jed's Enforcer copying his motions. "Suspects armed?"
"1724 53 Street, Winston's Jewelers. Suspects armed and operating rogue mechs."
"What?" Jed sounds flabbergasted.
"Proceed with caution. We're sending back-up."
"Let's move," Gabe orders, hitting Archangel's thrusters. He sails past Jed, taking the lead. He flicks the switch for his siren. It starts blaring, a classic wailing sound that causes people to move aside to this day. There are no flashing red and blue lights, but an Enforcer ripping down the streets tends to get noticed.