The First Optimization
The first warning screamed 0.3 seconds into the neural sync.
STRUCTURAL LOAD EXCEEDS TRIAL SAFE LIMIT. The console flashed a hard white band across the lower edge. The prototype module had accepted the handshake, but it was biting down on the frame’s bones, shaking them loose. Rian stood in Maintenance Bay Nine, chest plate open, clamped to the test rig while the reactor note climbed from a low purr into a fevered, metallic whine.
Forty-eight hours. That was all the clearance he had left before the audit team returned to strip the frame for reassignment.
Rian shoved deeper into the access well, fingers numb inside his maintenance gloves, and forced the module to open a second channel. The bay lights dimmed, as if the proving ground itself had flinched. Heat bled up the link and into his arms. His teeth ached.
The console flickered, then stabilized:
REACTOR EFFICIENCY: +12% REACTION LATENCY: -15% THERMAL LOAD: CRITICAL
For one clean second, the numbers looked impossible. The core draw smoothed. The test rig’s power curve flattened like a knife laid against glass. Rian felt it in his own nerves: the delay between thought and motion had tightened. Fifteen percent. Measurable.
Then the frame shuddered. A crack snapped through a left-side load rib—a sound like a rifle shot underwater. MICROFRACTURE SPREAD. JOINT SEAL DEGRADATION.
Rian slammed the manual vent, but the spike kept riding high. The module wanted more; the frame couldn't pay for it.
The bay door hissed open. Milo Renn slipped in, carrying a coolant canister like it was contraband. “You look like hell,” he said. “I found something to keep that heap from cooking itself. But I’m not doing charity.”
“I’m listening.”
“Phase-coolant. Illegal in this bay. Expensive. It’s yours if you promise me ten percent of any prize money before the frame gets confiscated.”
“Ten is high.”
“Then die warmer.”
Rian threaded the canister into the auxiliary line. The coolant hissed, shaving the temperature down just enough to stop the alarms from stacking. It wasn't safe, but it was enough to keep going.
At the observation rail, Captain Sera Kade stood watching. She didn’t waste words. “You forced a full sync with a corrupted prototype. That was either brave or stupid.”
“Those are usually adjacent here.”
She tapped her slate, and the bay scoreboard projected across the wall, visible to the entire corridor.
Rian Vale. Temporary Clearance. Rank: Low. Reactor Efficiency: Up. Structural Integrity: Down.
“You gained speed and lost durability,” Kade said, her eyes tracking the fracture line pulsing along the rib cage. “If this goes into a live bracket, it may win once. Then it will come apart on the second exchange.”
Rian didn't answer. He was already in the sim lane, loading a speed-drone pattern. The mech moved before the warning finished printing. The frame answered before the joint alignment caught up. He barely caught the shoulder before it hit the support barrier. The sim killed itself with a shriek of overload.
VANGUARD SERIES SIGNATURE: PARTIAL MATCH. SECONDARY STABILIZER REQUIRED. LOCATION: HIGH-TIER SALVAGE LOT.
Rian stared at the screen. High-tier meant sponsored brackets—people who knew exactly how to close a ladder before someone like him reached it.
DIRECTOR VOSS REQUESTS IMMEDIATE ACCESS TO ALL TEST DATA.
The scoreboard refreshed. His rank moved. Not high enough to matter, but high enough to be noticed.
He reached the salvage concourse with forty-seven hours remaining. He held up his sim log—the proof of the 12% efficiency spike—at the gate where the floor changed to polished black composite.
“He’s trying to climb a shelf he can’t afford,” a voice cut in. Jessa Corin stepped into view, her sponsor-marked cadets at her back. “Still running that scrapyard miracle?”
Director Voss arrived with two clerks, holding a sealed docket. “Rian Vale. Your frame is under re-evaluation for unauthorized architecture. The unit will be held for seizure.”
The word seizure moved through the crowd. Rian felt it like a clamp on his throat.
“Make it public,” Rian said, his voice carrying through the concourse. “Bracket review. Right here. If the efficiency spike holds under public stress, you can’t bury it behind paperwork.”
Kade looked at Voss. “He’s right. If the data’s clean, the ground should say so.”
Voss smiled thinly. “Fine. One public verification. You fail, I seize the frame immediately.”
They moved him to the trial ring. Rian linked in. The module woke like a knife sliding free. He hit the barrier gaps, the response time hitting exactly 15%.
RESPONSE +15%. EFFICIENCY +12%. PUBLIC VERIFICATION: PASS.
A low murmur rolled through the concourse. Then the frame shuddered. STRUCTURAL STRAIN—EMERGENCY. The gain was eating the frame from the inside.
The scoreboard chimed. RANK UPDATE: PROVISIONAL ASCENT.
Above his current line, a higher bracket lit up—locked in silver, not cleared for his license, and not meant for someone like him to survive.