Voss’s Counter-Move
Forty-seven hours remained before the mandatory frame re-evaluation. Director Halden Voss didn’t wait for the clock to run down; he moved to strip the chassis while the heat of Rian’s victory over Jessa Corin still radiated from the arena floor.
Rian stood in the Veyra Proving Ground’s compliance chamber, the air tasting of ozone and high-end filtration. Below, the pit roared with the start of a new bracket, but here, the silence was calibrated to crush. Voss sat at the head of the board table, a seizure packet resting before him like a death warrant.
“Unauthorized architecture,” Voss said, his voice a dry scrape of administrative finality. “Improperly logged module integration. Structural variance beyond elite bracket tolerance. By the code, the frame is subject to immediate containment and reassignment.”
Rian kept his hands braced on the witness rail, feeling the phantom ache of the neural-sync bleed behind his eyes. “My frame cleared the last inspection, Director. You’re citing a variance that was already logged and approved.”
“Approved under a probationary status that your recent performance has rendered obsolete,” Voss countered, sliding a slate across the table. It displayed a falsified report—a smear of red ink over Rian’s combat metrics. “You are operating an unstable prototype. It is a liability to this institution.”
One of the directors leaned forward, his gaze drifting to the projected telemetry of Rian’s recent win. “The data shows 100% efficiency, Voss. That isn’t a liability; that’s a breakthrough.”
“It’s a hazard,” Voss snapped. “A frame that forces its pilot to the brink of neural collapse is not a machine—it’s an executioner.”
Captain Sera Kade stepped into the light of the central display. She didn’t look at Voss; she looked at the raw, unfiltered combat telemetry from the elite match. “The frame is compliant with the current tier requirements,” she said, her voice cutting through the tension. “I was the adjudicator on the floor. The structural strain is within the margin of error for a prototype-class build. If you seize it, you aren't enforcing compliance—you're obstructing a verified performance record.”
The room went cold. Voss’s jaw tightened. He knew the board was divided; they wanted the module’s secrets, but they feared the public outcry if they robbed a winning pilot on a technicality. The board chair gestured to the record techs. “Bring up the live-streamed combat data. If the frame held during the Jessa Corin match, it stays in the pilot's hands—for now.”
As the data cascaded across the walls, Rian saw the truth of his own fight: the 12% reactor boost, the lethal sync-draw, the missing thoracic brace. He had won, but he had left his weaknesses hanging in the air for everyone to map. The board ruled in his favor, but the victory tasted like ash. The chair leaned forward, eyes hard. “You keep the frame, Vale. But until the re-evaluation, you are restricted to standard power cells. No high-output cores. No exceptions.”
Rian felt the weight of the restriction instantly. Standard cells couldn't sustain his module’s output. He left the chamber and headed straight for the supply annex. He needed a miracle, or at least a way to bypass the logistics grid.
The annex clerk didn't look up when he arrived. She slid a gray allocation strip across the counter. “Standard issue, pilot. That’s the board’s final word.”
“I need high-output,” Rian said, his voice low.
“You’re on a hold, not a promotion,” the clerk replied. “You want better fuel? Buy it on the open market.”
Before Rian could press, Milo Renn materialized from the shadows of the supply racks, a sharp, nervous grin on his face. “You’re walking into a trap, Rian. Voss has blocked all direct allotments. But there’s a high-tier salvage lot opening in ten minutes. If you’re fast, you can bid on the unclaimed surplus.”
Rian didn't wait. He moved toward the salvage lot, the forty-seven-hour timer ticking down on his wrist. The lot was a chaotic sprawl of sponsor-backed bidders and scavengers. When he reached the auction rail, he saw Voss’s logistics staff already inflating the price of a crate of high-output cells, aiming to lock him out of the market entirely.
Rian pushed to the front, his presence drawing stares from the elite pilots nearby. He didn't have the credits to outbid them, but he had the leverage of the board’s own ruling. He tapped his comms, broadcasting his compliance certificate to the auction hub. “I am a registered elite-bracket pilot,” he announced, his voice amplified across the lot. “The board has verified my frame’s compliance. Any attempt to artificially inflate the price of essential fuel for a verified competitor is a direct violation of the Proving Ground’s fair-trade mandate.”
The crowd murmured. The logistics clerk hesitated, caught between the rules and the director's orders. In that moment of doubt, Rian placed his bid—a desperate, all-in offer that cleared his account to the last credit. The clerk slammed the gavel, the cells secured, but the silence that followed was worse than the noise. He had the fuel, but he had painted a target on his back. As he turned to leave, he saw the sponsors watching him, their eyes cold and calculating. The frame was officially too interesting to ignore, and his next match in the elite bracket was already looming, with no room left for error.