"Mind running that by me again, Jimbo?" I leaned in close to the BRD-01 Spectre J-1187. I had named the robot after one of my buddies, James Canelo. He was an excellent pilot until a Militia sniper plugged his left eye socket with a Longbow round. I am sure if I had said these same words to James, he would have wet his pants in fear. But this robot didn't even have trousers to speak of. J-1187 twitched its head, it must have thought it automated the words clear enough and loud enough for human ear drums to comprehend the phonic utterance.

"It is recommended by IMC Pilot Protocols that Pilots who have suffered the loss of a Close Friend/Spouse/Parental Guardian, are to avoid combat action for at least one week to recuperate avid emotions that may endanger the mission."

"Jimbo," I whispered close to its auditory receptors, good thing it didn't have nasal receptors or else it could smell the whiskey on my breath, a much bigger no-no in IMC Pilot Protocols. "You beep one more sound about Alice, I'm going to put my dataknife clear through operational cerebrum."

The Spectre shifted uneasily on its metal legs. "Understood, sir."

I slid the grey IMC jacket over my shoulders and patted the 40th Squadron patch for good luck. I was going to need it. I put on my gloves and cinched down utility belt armed with two arc grenades, a satchel charge, and a Hammond P2011 pistol. I flipped it out of the holster with a flamboyant spin and checked the bullet in the chamber. IMC Pilot Protocol dictated that Pilots were to never enter ships or drop-pods with live ammunition in the chamber. Jimbo may have twitched when it saw this but it made no comment.

Captain Blisk spoke into the comm on my ear. "Lieutenant Autto, get your unit topside. Scans are showing unknown jump signatures nearby and I want boots on the ground now. We are deploying two racks of Spectres and an infantry squad. I want you there in case the terrorists decide to show up."

"Roger that, sir. Show up, get lit up."

"Aye! I like the way you think Autto. Blisk out."

I picked up my helmet and my G2A4 Rifle. I opened the door out to the hall and motioned for Jimbo to go, "ladies first." It stepped through to be with Gracie and H-0020 Harris. They were also Spectres with C.A.R. SMGs. I came out and Gracie and Harris followed me down the hall. Gracie was actually G-8834. We passed Gracie's old room where she practiced throwing knives at the door behind her back. I pulled her body with severe burn wounds from the wreckage of her Atlas Titan. I got her back to the dropship but she died on the jump from Outpost 207. We then passed Harris' room. He may have been more interested in me than any of the women but he was the finest Stryder pilot I had ever met. He and I were good partners in the field. One time, we danced and jived through five Militia Ogres that looked like blind moles with bullet holes by the time we got done with them. But on the last mission, when Alice-well, you see Harris got caught in the open and I was on the other side of the building but by the time I got to the dirt street his body was shredded in half beneath a 40 mm cannon crater. I learned later it was friendly fire from an Automated Titan.

I tried to shake the image from my head when I and three Spectres stood in the elevator. As they stood close to me and I could smell their slick oil and hear the gentle whirs their joints made. These weren't IMC Pilots I used stand with on the brink of destruction. I missed their shaking hands and stuttered breaths, the cocky jokes from being the best of the best in a losing war. Demeter had fallen, the IMC were back-peddling against the Militia and our own Vice Admiral Graves had joined them. Thus the reason for the constant Spectre detail was to make sure Pilots did not defect.

But these metal ghosts standing next to me in the elevator could never suffice for everything lost. Pilots never really got close to anyone, we knew the odds and preferred to stay distant from grunts commanding officers, and even other pilots. But where were all the people I fought and bled with? I could no longer look into their eyes to see if they were as frightened as I was.

I then suddenly realized that I was the only human pilot left in my unit. Everyone else was dead.

Once the ramp dropped, my armor felt a million times heavier. I switched on the helmet and the HUD began making movement sweeps. I pulled the action back on the G2A4 Rifle and was the first to step into the snow. Snowflakes blustered against the lights of my suit and helmet. Once all the grunts were off the ship I signaled for the pilot to take off. Inf the flurry of takeoff, Sergeant Debois was yelling at his squad to maintain discipline and scan for hostiles. Not long after the drop ship left us in the freezer did the two promised racks of Spectres plopped into snow. They unfolded from the racks and stood up and simultaneously cocked their SMGs in an unnerving manner. It reminded me of the card men from a really old book I read once.

"Ready when you are, Lietenant."

"Let's move then, Sergeant." I hoisted the rifle onto my shoulder and the three Spectres followed me even into the coldest depths of hell. Once the storm abated, the veil parted to a beautiful planet. Unon II was a tiny, cold moon but IMC intelligence suspected this is where the Militia was doing weapons testing. Somewhere in the mountains and trees that moved even when there was no wind, the Militia could be lying in wait. A couple of grunts saw a furry creature on the ridge and almost made some pot shots at the beast but luckily Sergeant Dubois got them first and sent them up on point.

"I cannot believe all the training we did and the minute we get out into the real frontier, they act like imbeciles." Sergeant Dubois confided to me as our column of men and machines marched through the gentle snow. I pulled the scarf tighter to my neck.

"You need to stay on top of them. We really have no idea what in these hills." I muttered.

"Of course, sir. We got your back, sir." Dubois' breath puffed out bouts of steam. I liked Dubois. He was one of the last IMC men to reach the frontier from the core systems before the loss of Demeter. Like Captain Blisk, he had a strong accent from his home country. Where Blisk was from South Africa, Dubois was from Francia.

"If you don't mind me asking sir, I notice that you have etched marks on your rifle. How many are there?"

"Nine."

"Are they kills, sir?"

"No, I only count head shots on Pilots on this rifle." Dubois eyes grew twice their size. That told me that he did not have a hardened sense of warfare.

"I am sorry about all the questions, sir," Dubois continued as we both jumped over a small running creek. "In case we run into trouble, do you have a Titan on call?"

"That's actually an excellent question." I pressed the com on my helmet's earpiece. "Sid, tell me how those repairs are coming along."

Sid's gruff voice immediately boomed back into my skull like an elbow to the jaw. Slowly, sir. Malfunctions in the trigger hand have delayed my full combat capacity. Aggression level: simmering. Permission to crush incompetent mechanic and request new one, sir?

"Permission denied Sid."

Acknowledged. This Titan is ready for deployment in approximately ten minutes or sooner if current mechanic loses limb.

"Be nice Sid. Be right over the drop hatch when you are ready. I love you buddy."

I love you too sir. I want to crush your torso.

I had let the comm be open for Dubois and he stared with his jaw open. Some of the other grunts had the same expressions on their faces. I smiled behind my helmet, "a friend of mine was able to program some extra attitudes into the Sid OS. Can't say that I'm not attached to his disgust at human life."

A grunt in the forward column mumbled about how weird pilots were. I didn't say anything. I figured it wouldn't be long until the IMC was fresh out of pilots. But this is when they will need me most. I work for paycheck and I do a damn good job. I'm not going to give up my honor for some whiny, righteous cause the Militia keeps blathering about. The IMC and me and Sid are strong and the strong dictates how this Frontier is going to have peace. Not idealists who will don't want to accept their place in life.

When we first entered IMC Pilot school, Alice and I grew closer. We competed and almost killed each other multiple times. But like they taught us, where the fire burned the others, it only made us stronger, made us better. Being the best is not easy. Everyone, the Militia and their hordes of stinking mercenaries and pirates want to depose the best. These were the times that made the best human pilots in this wild Frontier. It was not during the summer when we obliterated pockets of terrorists. It was now, in the dark, savage heart of winter that made humans their best.