Continued Civilization - Part 1: Scavengers

Mickey slammed his walker’s pick axe into the ground, finally dislodging the stubborn piece of subterranean cliff face free. It roared as the rocks holding in place gave way and it tumbled below shattering to thousands of pieces. The avalanche of rocky debris following it lasted for several minutes. And it began moving its way to the left, right where Mickey had anchored his walker.

He quickly manipulated the controls to break free from his anchors. He fired the aged boosters of the vehicle to the cargo lift he’d used to get himself down here. As his mech started to settle he pressed the transmit key on his radio, “Ok, pull me up! This whole place is coming loose!”

A brief delay spanned the time between his radio call and the creaky lift’s gears started struggling to raise upward in defiance of gravity. Before he was halfway up the avalanche was settling down and was well below him. He turned around and popped the cockpit hatch of walker and took in the beauty blue sky above. The light was not generous with its presence due to the fissure he’d been digging in. But eventually the sun’s warmth smiled on him as he was brought back heavenward.

As his walker’s torso cleared the lip of fissure the drill chief called out to him, “Caused a hell of a ruckus this time, didn’t you, Mickey?! Why don’t you be a little louder next time?” The late-forties man called waving around a hammer to mockingly nail down his displeasure.

“I can only give you one miracle a month, chief. So that’s it,” Mickey said as he pointed his hand downward.

“Oh yeah? Somethin’ good then?”

“Maybe. I briefly glimpsed a metal hand sticking out of the dirt down there. Might need to dig it up a bit, but it looked good,” Mickey replied.

“What color?!” Chief Durham asked excitedly as Mickey’s elevator ride came to a halt.

“Hmmmmm…” Mickey tried to remember. It was dark down there, so he’d have guessed a red one. Instead he said, “Green, I think.”

“Dawww!” Durham shouted and threw his hammer on the ground. “You’re good for nothin’ you know that?!”

Mickey nodded, “I know I am. That’s why you keep me around.” Mickey's little lie would be a surprise to the Chief who had been looking for a replacement arm on his equally ancient mech.

“I ‘keep you around’ because you’re the Queens’ cousin! I ain’t got a choice!” Durham shouted as Mickey rolled his eyes and turned his walker away from the dig site. A recovery crew was already lined up and ready to make the journey down in there.

Mickey walked his machine over to one of the parking stations. It clanked and clattered its way over yet the ride remained pretty smooth for the short walk. He dismounted the part war machine, part labor machine, as it settled; the ancient micro-fusion reactor began its cool down process. Mickey keyed in his locking passcode on the old mechanical keyboard, for which some of the keys had popped off long ago. Of those missing some were his fault, some were just the outcome of what the wear that accompanies war.

Gonna need a new one soon, the atrophy of a machine being stuck buried under the ground for a few centuries would do. Mickey mused.

He landed somewhat off balance on the packed dirt beneath his feet. Quickly recovering he went over to the tent where food was prepared and served. Getting in behind the short line and shuffling his way forward, he grabbed one of the medium-sized brown bowls. He'd been down in the fissure for over six hours trying to break free that rock face; now was definitely the time for chow.

"Hey Mickey!" someone a couple spots ahead of him shouted. It was Brandesca - a tan-skinned, black haired native to the southern continent named Eloway. "Heard you break that rock free, finally. I never doubted you!"

Mickey smiled and jerked his head upward in acknowledgement, "Yeah? How much you bet on me?" Mickey offered the gambler a knowing smile.

"Got two free meal cards for Asa's back in the Capital - figure I owe you one!" Brandesca smiled, holding one of the tickets up.

Mickey raised a triumphant fist, "Thanks a ton! Don't take liberty without me! And don't win too much, people will start to think we're running a racket."

"Never. And too late for that last part," Brandesca called over his shoulder as some of the daily soup ration was poured into his bowl.

Mickey shook his head but couldn't shake the smile. Truth be told his life was a life of hard labor but, in some respects, it was an easy life and not because he was related to the Queen. He'd not been in a battle in over two years but that was more because of the war with the Allied Nations of the Bassik Regime was starting to settle down a bit. Some were even whispering of peace being on the horizon.

Peace? In our time? It'd be a miracle. Mickey thought silently. To say such things aloud was tantamount to treason - there would be no peace, or talks of peace, unless made by an official representative of the Queen in an official capacity. Any other utterances were a good way to get tossed in a jail. And, in Mickey's case, have his hard-won and well-tuned walker taken away from him, regardless of his familial ties.

Under salvage laws if you unearthed one of the ancient vehicles - be it a tank, or walker, or one of the rare but highly prized mobile artillery platforms - you got to keep it if you laid claim to it. The problem was that you had to offer a minimum of a six-month contract to use it in service to the Queen and Land. This could be anything from civil construction to front-line combat duty or, as in Mickey's present case, salvage work. The clause in this contract was that the all two-hundred personnel of the whole salvage team could be rotated into combat duty. In exchange for the possibility of additional danger the contract was only needed for four months.

That meant, with the three months he'd already put in for his service this year, he'd be able to take liberty for the rest of the year. He'd take Brandesca up on his offer to visit Asa's then probably head east to go back home. Truth be told Mickey was a homebody. He liked his walker and the freedom it gave him, but he truly liked being out and about in the countryside on his own. He hated the public attention being the Queen's cousin brought him so he down-played it as much as he could. He took no favors. His father had always told him to be his own man and that meant not leaning on the crown.

It was also one of the reasons the salvager's life was so appealing: he go to see new places in, relatively, small groups. A crew of 200 was small compared to a full order battle army of 3,000+ personnel. With the added benefit that no one from the other side was shooting at you and no one from your side was threatening you with infantry drills in the hot desert sun.

Mickey sat down at one of the benches set up outside the food tent across from Brandesca. "So whatcha thinkin'?"

"What abouts?"

"About the Bassik. Think they're going to make another big push?" This was Mickey's way of getting around asking if the Bassik would surrender, which could be construed as indirectly suggesting peace. Using this wording he could always defend himsely by saying he was waiting to find out when he could next look forward to some combat time.

Brandesca shrugged, "Dunno. They've been quiet for a long time now. Getting past four months now - makes you think that they're up to something."

Mickey nodded. The unspoken comment was that the Queen's government hadn't made any official overtures of discussing a cease fire or formal truce to end the war; hence, that meant that another offensive by one side or the other would be soon.

"You think those Larries up in the Angel Pass are scheming? Last I hear there was an awful lot of them up there," Mickey posed.

"And what do you know about the Larries?" spoke the voice of the woman beside Mickey: Mirshella. Her great grandparents had been Larenthal immigrants to the Monarchy of Queensland. Being a partially descendant Larry she was the defacto authority on them.

"Not much. Just the scuttle that goes around," Mickey said taking a slurp of his soup.

"Mhm," she eyed him. "They're up to something, I'd bet. The Larries are too aggressive. They'll be chomping at the bit for a fight."

"Yeah but ain't nothin' up there," Brandesca objected.

"Nothing we know about," Mirshella replied.

"You think they've found another cache of the Ancients' weapons?"

Mirshella shrugged, "More likely they're gathering to draw off our attention, I think. Larry doesn't like to come at you head-on you see, he likes to trick you. I would guess they're meant to be our distraction while the Bassik come rolling in from elsewhere."

Mirshella had a keen understanding of the Queen's enemies simply because she'd studied her ancestors' history. No one, however, dared to think she wasn't absolutely dedicated to her home of Queensland. She'd been honored as a Queen's Patriot twice - even saw action in saving the Queen's entourage a few years back when a Bassik ambush tried to assassinate Her Majesty. No one had the grounds to question Mirshella, regardless of her ancestor's birth place.

Mickey slurped up another spoonful of his soup as Brandesca responded, "I hope our contract is over by then."

Mickey nodded and Mirshella gave a slight nod too, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one else could hear her as she whispered conspiratorially, "I just hope this shit ends soon. Ten years for a war is far too long."

Mickey growled a "Mhmm" around his hot soup while Brandesca gave a discreet thumbs up. They'd all known war their teenage to adult lives. They'd all hoped for peace. They just couldn't say anything to openly express that desire.