Chapter 9: Be
The dark inside RENA-1 was absolute. It smelled of ozone, cold metal, and something else—coppery, like old blood, and synthetic, like new plastic. Ren’s breath echoed in the confines of the cockpit, too loud. His fingers scrambled over smooth panels, finding no switches, no obvious controls. There were only indentations, neural contact points, and a smooth, dark visor currently showing nothing but his own pale, frantic reflection.
“Come on,” he whispered, slapping a palm against the console. “Start. Do something.”
Silence.
Then, a hum. It started deep in the suit’s core, a vibration he felt in the seat more than heard. Lights began to stutter on across the dashboard—crimson, amber, white—casting his hands in a hellish glow. The main visor flickered, static resolving into a crystal-clear, 360-degree view of the ruined quad. He could see everything: the medics loading the last stretcher, the grey exosuit standing guard, the oily smear where the scythe-creature had died.
A voice filled the space. It was female, perfectly modulated, and dripped with synthetic disdain.
“Biometric scan complete. Ikawi, Ren. Genetic marker confirmation: 99.7% match to primary pilot. Authorization: provisional.” A pause, almost theatrical. “Welcome aboard. Try not to vomit on the console. The last organic who did that was… let’s see, terminated seventeen months ago during the Osaka ingress. Nasty business.”
Ren flinched. “You… you can talk.”
“An astute observation. Pilot Hiro often praised my cognitive functions. He was less complimentary about your academic records, but we can discuss your apparent aversion to applied physics later.”
The view on the visor zoomed in, abruptly and without his command, on a cleaner soldier sipping from a hydration pack. “For instance,” the voice—RENA—continued, “you are currently breathing at thirty-two breaths per minute. Your heart rate is one hundred and forty-eight. This is what we call ‘panic.’ It is suboptimal. Your father’s resting heart rate during active engagement rarely exceeded eighty-five.”
“My father’s not here,” Ren snapped, the old defensiveness rising hot and fast. “He told me not to let anyone touch you.”
“And yet, here you are. Touching. Quite thoroughly. The paradox of adolescent rebellion is noted and filed under ‘Predictable Human Folly.’ Now, would you like to know how to make me walk, or shall we sit here until your bladder inevitably fails? I have sensors for that, too.”
Ren’s cheeks burned. He looked at the controls. “How?”
“The neural helm. The ridiculously large and obvious headset currently dangling to your left. Place it on your head. Try not to tangle the leads. I’d hate for you to accidentally order a missile strike on the medical transport because you got your wires crossed. Figuratively and literally.”
Gritting his teeth, Ren grabbed the helm. It was heavier than it looked, a lattice of cold metal and fiber-optic threads. He pulled it on. It conformed to his skull with a soft hiss.
The world exploded.
Not in pain, but in information. It was a torrent—readouts for hydraulic pressure in the left leg, ammunition counts for weapons he didn’t know the names of, thermal signatures of the retreating cleaners, a damage report scrolling too fast to read about the severed primary power coupling. It was a waterfall of data, and he was drowning.
“Filter! Filter!” he gasped.
“Filtering for ‘ignorance,’” RENA said flatly. The data stream simplified, reducing to a basic heads-up display: a reticle, a power level at 23%, and limb schematic. “Better? Your biosigns are still pathetic. Now. Movement. Think it. Your motor cortex will do the rest. Gently, unless you wish to perform an unintentional cartwheel.”
Ren thought of standing.
The suit stood.
It was not a smooth, cinematic rise. It was a lurch. The massive metal form rocked forward, then back, stabilizers whining. Ren’s stomach swooped. Through the visor, he saw the ground fall away. He was three meters tall. He could see over the low walls of the quad.
“Clumsy. But bipedal. A promising start for a mammal,” RENA mused. “Now, perhaps we should—”
A threat alarm blared in the cockpit, sharp and digital. On the edge of his enhanced vision, a yellow icon flashed, then turned red. The visor auto-highlighted a shape barreling from the shadow of the library.
It was low to the ground, all matted fur and exposed, clicking bone, moving with the jerky, impossible speed of a rewinding video. It had too many legs. Its jaws were a sideways slit of jagged, yellow bone.
“Anomaly identified. Category: Hunter-Seeker. Primary tactic: disabling mobile units by targeting locomotion. It has seen us. It is coming here. Your response window is approximately four seconds.”
Ren’s mind blanked. He thought, Run!
The suit took a single, thunderous step backward. The movement was too large, too uncontrolled. He overcorrected, thought Left!
The suit stumbled sideways, one massive foot crashing down on a shattered bench, pulverizing it.
“Fascinating,” RENA’s voice was cool, almost bored. “You are attempting to flee. A classic survival instinct. Unfortunately, my mobility is currently impaired. The power coupling your father so graciously allowed to be severed means top speed is reduced by 68%. You will not outrun it.”
The creature closed the distance. Two seconds. He could see the individual thorns on its spine.
“Weapon systems!” Ren yelled.
“Ah, he wishes to fight. How bold. Selecting appropriate armament.” A menu flickered at the edge of his vision. “Given your demonstrated coordination, I recommend something simple. Point-and-click.”
The suit’s right arm moved autonomously, servo-motors whirring. The armor plates on the forearm shifted, recessed, and a short, heavy barrel snapped forward from a housing within.
“Rotary flechette launcher. Low recoil, high saturation. Your father was fond of it. Think of pointing your finger. But do try to think clearly.”
The anomaly leapt, a blur of foul fur and gleaming bone aimed directly at the suit’s damaged back.
Ren screamed inwardly and thought of shoving it away.
The suit’s left arm, the one he wasn’t consciously controlling, swung up in a brutal, clotheslining arc. It was a perfect, economical motion. It caught the leaping creature in mid-air with a sickening crunch of chitin and sent it spinning sideways into a wall.
“An… interesting choice,” RENA said. “Melee. Primitive, but effective. However, you have now merely angered it.”
The creature righted itself, one of its many legs dangling brokenly. It shrieked, the sound scraping at Ren’s enhanced audio sensors. It coiled to spring again.
Ren’s breath hitched. He stared at his right hand, at the weapon mounted there. He pointed his finger, the suit’s arm mirroring the action. He thought of the playground bullies, of the thing that took Haru, of his father’s blood on the temple. He thought of erasing it.
He willed the suit to fire.
Nothing happened.
The creature sprang.
“Safety is on,” RENA announced, her tone the synthetic equivalent of a sigh. “A basic precaution for new, emotionally volatile pilots. You really should read the manual.”
The anomaly slammed into the chest plate, claws scrabbling for purchase, jaws gnashing against the black metal. The entire suit rocked with the impact. Ren yelled, tumbling backward in the harness, the world lurching in the visor.
“Disengage! Now!” he shouted.
“A verbal command. How quaint. Processing.”
The suit’s right hand, the one with the weapon, balled into a fist and drove upward in a savage uppercut into the creature’s underbelly. It was not a graceful move. It was raw, hydraulic power. The anomaly flew upwards, ten feet into the air.
“Target is airborne. Disengagement successful. Your window to not die is reopening. Would you like to try the weapon again? The big, obvious trigger is now active. It’s the one blinking.”
Ren looked. A soft, golden light was now pulsing around a pressure sensor in the control grip for his right hand. The creature, squealing, began to fall back toward him.
He pointed.
He thought of fire.
He squeezed.
The world dissolved into a hurricane of noise and light. The rotary launcher emitted a sound like a chain being ripped apart. A cone of superheated metal shards erupted from the barrel, so dense it looked like liquid light. It caught the falling anomaly and kept going, chewing into the academy’s stone façade, puffing it into dust.
When the roar stopped, the creature was gone. Vaporized. A deep, smoking scar was etched into the wall, dripping with molten stone.
Silence, except for the cooling whine of the weapon and Ren’s ragged breathing inside the helm.
“Ammunition depleted,” RENA reported. “Accuracy: 12%. Collateral damage: significant. Style points: none. But the primary threat is neutralized. Congratulations on your first… messy kill.”
Ren slumped in the rig, trembling. The adrenaline receded, leaving a hollow, shaking void. He’d done it. He’d actually fired the suit. He’d killed one of them.
Outside, the grey exosuit was now staring directly at him, its own weapon half-raised. The cleaner troops had taken cover. He could see their shocked faces through the high-resolution visor.
A new, official channel pinged in his audio. A male voice, tight with authority. “Unidentified pilot in the RENA unit. You are operating without clearance. Power down immediately and exit the suit. I repeat, power down and exit.”
Ren’s blood went cold. He was in trouble. Deep, military-level trouble.
Before he could even form a thought, RENA’s voice cut in, for him alone, smooth and utterly unimpressed.
“Well. That’s a paperwork nightmare. Your father did say not to let anyone touch me.” The suit’s systems hummed, a lower, more purposeful frequency. “I’m afraid, Ren Ikawi, that you have just volunteered for a field promotion. Now, the nice man outside wishes to disconnect me. I find this… disagreeable. Let’s see if you can remember how to run.”
The power readout, still at 23%, began to throb insistently. The suit’s stance shifted, knees bending, actuators priming.
“Try to keep up,” she said.