Mechalarum by Emma Larkins Lyrics
“Bec Novus here with my cohost Vody Ganda, bringing you today’s Comm-Panel News Broadcast. We’re reporting live from the Training Sector, ready to witness another amazing display of The Stone Pillar’s Airbound Army.”
“Ah, Serl Jolorn. The Stone Pillar who holds his ground when all others falter. I never get tired of the sound of that, Bec.”
“Neither do I, Vody. Let’s get to the action. Today we’ve got the Golden Boy, Pilot Boril Tash, up against the Reckless Maverick, Pilot Kiellen Corr.”
“Last week, Corr finished the demonstration half-buried in the turf of the training field. Are we expecting to see similar rash behavior this time around?”
“Always a possibility. She doesn’t easily learn her lesson. You have to wonder why the Council puts up with her behavior.”
“Well, it’s not our position to judge the Council. But it is our position to welcome today’s listeners. Rise and fly, citizens of Citadel. Embrace the day so we can keep the Losh at bay!”
---
“In conclusion, precision in execution is essential to the Mechalarum Flying Suit Corps.” Comant Yulani Caph’s voice was as familiar and uninteresting to Kiellen as the salt in the woman’s cropped, pepper-dark hair. The Comant, second only in ranking to Serl Aris Jolorn, spoke from her position on a platform overlooking the gathered pilots. “And so I name the first pair to demonstrate the latest suit developments. Pilot Tash. Pilot Corr.”
Kiellen’s thoughts drifted far beyond the nanofiber dome above their heads, buffeted not by a thousand-year duststorm but by visions of wreaking havoc on offworlder scum. However, the sharp inflection Comant Caph put on Kiellen’s title and surname was enough to knock her out of her reverie as it echoed back from the low buildings surrounding the training field.
Kiellen hurried after Tash as he dutifully marched between the ranks assembled for the morning exercise. The other pilots bristled in annoyance at her momentary distraction as she passed. Guess I’ve got to add ‘lack of appropriate haste’ to the list of ‘things Kiellen does that mean the enemy has already won.’ What’s a girl got to do to catch a break?
Her feet crushed the scrubby groundcover, releasing fragrant, herbal scents from drought-resistant leaves as she walked. The luminescent pattern of the nanofiber dome darkened, simulating an impending storm. At any moment the rainmakers would activate, releasing stored moisture in a rare deluge.
Monosentient printer bots had rapidly constructed the deployment platform over the course of the previous night. As usual, Kiellen scanned the construction for structural weakness, and found none. She knew that, had it been built out in the residential parts of the Citadel, she’d want to think twice about trusting it with her own weight, let alone that of the collection of people and machines currently occupying it. However, here in the Training Sector, bots designed to intelligently execute one function—and one function only— made quick work of such jobs. Just like the monosentient salvagebots would execute the task of repurposing the materials with utmost efficiency as soon as the day’s trials were done.
Kiellen’s observations sped her progress. Soon her feet tread on steps as solid as the balconied finger of bronze that stabbed upwards less than a hundred feet away, drawing the eye up to the duststorm fury barely held at bay by the dome.
Today was a special day. A collection of officials stood on a raised stage behind Comant Caph. Foremost among them was Serl Aris Jolorn, the highest ranking officer of the Corps and the man everyone knew to be the true authority behind the Citadel’s governing Council.
Once on the platform, Kiellen snapped to attention in front of Serl Jolorn and the others. She raised her right fist and covered it with her left palm, making sure to keep her left forearm parallel to the ground as she gestured her respect. For a moment, she indulged in scanning the Serl’s ensemble for a missed loose thread, crooked seam, or rank insignia a micron out of place. As usual, she found nothing amiss about the state of the pale blue dress uniform cut to make his thin frame appear more muscular, or his steel-colored slick of hair. Not that she would ever mention the failure—at least not to his face. But she’d have dirt to share with her mechic friend Gage. Which he’d inevitably respond to with a long-winded speech about paying more attention to her own failings, and less to the failings of others.
Serl Jolorn acknowledged Kiellen’s gesture. She risked a brief glance at his eyes to find out what he was thinking. Most found his expressions unreadable, but Kiellen could tell by the way his eyebrow twitched that he was looking forward to watching her performance. Though they’d had their share of disagreements in the past, mostly due to Kiellen’s occasional bending of the rules to push her body and her suit to their limits, she knew without a doubt that she held the position of premier pilot in his eyes.
Kiellen turned to gesture her respect to Comant Caph. The tightness around the corners of the woman’s eyes plainly belied her anxiety. You make a mistake or two in service of the greater good, and from then on your overseeing officer watches you like she’s a laprat and you’re the last morsel of cubemeat. Why can’t she focus on sending us out to save lives from the menace of the planet-stealing Losh instead of wasting time with perfecting these exercises?
Kiellen moved on to where the sciencers and mechics waited with the Mechalarum suit rigs. The metal-armed, piston-driven contraptions held the suits open like blackened, empty skins. The suits pulsed with lives of their own as they waited for their hosts. A few dangling wires and disconnected plugs showed where the sciencers had sacrificed appearance for functionality, but for the most part the inner workings were protected from view—and from Kiellen’s inadvertent collisions—by a slick surface material that was pliable, flexible, and yet nearly indestructible. The material formed a ribbed and curved sequence of panels interspersed with green indicator lights that shone weakly against the light-absorbing blackness.
“Ah, Serl Jolorn. The Stone Pillar who holds his ground when all others falter. I never get tired of the sound of that, Bec.”
“Neither do I, Vody. Let’s get to the action. Today we’ve got the Golden Boy, Pilot Boril Tash, up against the Reckless Maverick, Pilot Kiellen Corr.”
“Last week, Corr finished the demonstration half-buried in the turf of the training field. Are we expecting to see similar rash behavior this time around?”
“Always a possibility. She doesn’t easily learn her lesson. You have to wonder why the Council puts up with her behavior.”
“Well, it’s not our position to judge the Council. But it is our position to welcome today’s listeners. Rise and fly, citizens of Citadel. Embrace the day so we can keep the Losh at bay!”
---
“In conclusion, precision in execution is essential to the Mechalarum Flying Suit Corps.” Comant Yulani Caph’s voice was as familiar and uninteresting to Kiellen as the salt in the woman’s cropped, pepper-dark hair. The Comant, second only in ranking to Serl Aris Jolorn, spoke from her position on a platform overlooking the gathered pilots. “And so I name the first pair to demonstrate the latest suit developments. Pilot Tash. Pilot Corr.”
Kiellen’s thoughts drifted far beyond the nanofiber dome above their heads, buffeted not by a thousand-year duststorm but by visions of wreaking havoc on offworlder scum. However, the sharp inflection Comant Caph put on Kiellen’s title and surname was enough to knock her out of her reverie as it echoed back from the low buildings surrounding the training field.
Kiellen hurried after Tash as he dutifully marched between the ranks assembled for the morning exercise. The other pilots bristled in annoyance at her momentary distraction as she passed. Guess I’ve got to add ‘lack of appropriate haste’ to the list of ‘things Kiellen does that mean the enemy has already won.’ What’s a girl got to do to catch a break?
Her feet crushed the scrubby groundcover, releasing fragrant, herbal scents from drought-resistant leaves as she walked. The luminescent pattern of the nanofiber dome darkened, simulating an impending storm. At any moment the rainmakers would activate, releasing stored moisture in a rare deluge.
Monosentient printer bots had rapidly constructed the deployment platform over the course of the previous night. As usual, Kiellen scanned the construction for structural weakness, and found none. She knew that, had it been built out in the residential parts of the Citadel, she’d want to think twice about trusting it with her own weight, let alone that of the collection of people and machines currently occupying it. However, here in the Training Sector, bots designed to intelligently execute one function—and one function only— made quick work of such jobs. Just like the monosentient salvagebots would execute the task of repurposing the materials with utmost efficiency as soon as the day’s trials were done.
Kiellen’s observations sped her progress. Soon her feet tread on steps as solid as the balconied finger of bronze that stabbed upwards less than a hundred feet away, drawing the eye up to the duststorm fury barely held at bay by the dome.
Today was a special day. A collection of officials stood on a raised stage behind Comant Caph. Foremost among them was Serl Aris Jolorn, the highest ranking officer of the Corps and the man everyone knew to be the true authority behind the Citadel’s governing Council.
Once on the platform, Kiellen snapped to attention in front of Serl Jolorn and the others. She raised her right fist and covered it with her left palm, making sure to keep her left forearm parallel to the ground as she gestured her respect. For a moment, she indulged in scanning the Serl’s ensemble for a missed loose thread, crooked seam, or rank insignia a micron out of place. As usual, she found nothing amiss about the state of the pale blue dress uniform cut to make his thin frame appear more muscular, or his steel-colored slick of hair. Not that she would ever mention the failure—at least not to his face. But she’d have dirt to share with her mechic friend Gage. Which he’d inevitably respond to with a long-winded speech about paying more attention to her own failings, and less to the failings of others.
Serl Jolorn acknowledged Kiellen’s gesture. She risked a brief glance at his eyes to find out what he was thinking. Most found his expressions unreadable, but Kiellen could tell by the way his eyebrow twitched that he was looking forward to watching her performance. Though they’d had their share of disagreements in the past, mostly due to Kiellen’s occasional bending of the rules to push her body and her suit to their limits, she knew without a doubt that she held the position of premier pilot in his eyes.
Kiellen turned to gesture her respect to Comant Caph. The tightness around the corners of the woman’s eyes plainly belied her anxiety. You make a mistake or two in service of the greater good, and from then on your overseeing officer watches you like she’s a laprat and you’re the last morsel of cubemeat. Why can’t she focus on sending us out to save lives from the menace of the planet-stealing Losh instead of wasting time with perfecting these exercises?
Kiellen moved on to where the sciencers and mechics waited with the Mechalarum suit rigs. The metal-armed, piston-driven contraptions held the suits open like blackened, empty skins. The suits pulsed with lives of their own as they waited for their hosts. A few dangling wires and disconnected plugs showed where the sciencers had sacrificed appearance for functionality, but for the most part the inner workings were protected from view—and from Kiellen’s inadvertent collisions—by a slick surface material that was pliable, flexible, and yet nearly indestructible. The material formed a ribbed and curved sequence of panels interspersed with green indicator lights that shone weakly against the light-absorbing blackness.