Voltage and Volatility
The air in Sub-Level 9 tasted of ozone and scorched copper, a sharp, biting contrast to the sterile, pressurized atmosphere of the upper Academy decks. Kaelen dumped the Type-IV core onto Ryla’s workbench. It clattered against the grease-stained steel with a heavy, metallic finality that made the surrounding stacks of rusted salvage vibrate.
“That’s not a standard battery, Kaelen,” Ryla said, not looking up from her soldering rig. Then she paused, her goggles sliding up to reveal eyes that tracked the rhythmic, sickly-green pulse of the core’s stabilization field. She froze. “Ghost-Class. Where did you pull that from? That’s not just a salvage-lottery mistake; that’s a death sentence.”
“It’s my only chance,” Kaelen said, his voice raw. He gripped the edge of the workbench, his knuckles white. “Director Vane flagged my frame for the Executioner’s Trial. Twenty-four hours, Ryla. If I show up in that rusted bucket, I’m scrap metal by the first wave.”
Ryla stepped back, shaking her head. “If I touch that, Vane’s security sweep won’t just decommission the frame. They’ll pull my license and bury me in the vents. This core is unstable—look at the thermal leakage. It’s bleeding heat like a dying star.”
Kaelen slammed his hand onto the desk, leaning into her space. “Vane already knows. He’s counting on me to fail, to prove the lower ranks are nothing but fodder. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.”
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the hum of the core. Then, Ryla exhaled a jagged breath and reached for her impact wrench. “Fine. But we’re doing this fast, and we’re doing it dirty.”
They worked in a frantic blur. As they forced the core into the frame's mounting, the energy output surged past safe limits. Kaelen braced his shoulder against the Rust-Bucket, watching as Ryla jammed the final hydraulic coupling into place. The core hummed—a rhythmic, predatory pulse that seemed too heavy for the junk-frame’s rails to support.
“The containment field is hemorrhaging,” Ryla snapped, her fingers dancing over a holographic diagnostic panel. “If you push the output past sixty percent, the frame won't just fail—it’ll liquify from the inside out. You’re trying to mount a jet engine on a tricycle.”
Kaelen ignored her, his eyes locked on the internal pressure gauge. The needle was vibrating against the red zone, trembling with a hunger that felt almost sentient. He reached into the command console, bypassing the secondary limiters with a jagged metal shunt. The frame groaned, the sound of metal screaming under impossible torque.
“If I don't give it the power, the Executioner’s drones will tear me apart,” Kaelen muttered, sweat stinging his eyes. He felt the prototype pulse, a rhythmic, hungry thrum vibrating through the pilot’s seat. It wasn't just drawing power; it was pulling from his own stamina, a parasitic feedback loop that made his vision swim.
They locked the core, but the frame was now visually scarred, smoking with the heat of the integration. There was no time to celebrate. The training bay of the Iron Spire was waiting.
Kaelen gripped the control levers. Above, the monolithic observation deck remained dark, but he could feel Director Vane’s presence in the cold, unblinking glare of the overhead sensor arrays.
“Diagnostic cycle initiated,” a sterile voice echoed. “Pilot Vance, complete the turret gauntlet. Maintain output within Class-D parameters.”
Kaelen pushed the throttle. The frame lurched, its joints protesting. Ahead, the first bank of automated turrets swiveled, their targeting lasers locking onto his center mass. A hail of kinetic rounds hammered against his plating. The force of the impact rattled his teeth, the HUD flashing red as the frame’s aging integrity subroutines buckled.
Too slow.
He pushed the prototype to a micro-burst of speed, a desperate, forbidden surge of kinetic energy. The frame blurred, dodging the next volley, but the effort was catastrophic. The surge was so intense it nearly incinerated the hangar floor, leaving a glowing, molten footprint where the frame had stood a second before.
The sensor grid logged the anomaly. Kaelen pulled his hands back, his fingers trembling as the terminal scrolled through a cascade of performance metrics.
“System flag,” Kaelen muttered.
Above them, the hangar’s overhead array swiveled, the harsh LED beams locking onto his frame with clinical precision. “They’re tracking the power draw,” Ryla whispered, her face pale.
Kaelen stared at the screen. The numbers weren't just red; they were climbing into ranges usually reserved for Tier-1 academy machines. A notification blinked, cold and inevitable: Elite Review Initiated. He was no longer just a scrap-pilot; he was a target, and the ladder had just become a vertical climb into the mouth of the enemy.