"The Titan platform is ubiquitous, offering utility in multiple sectors: orbital engineering, salvage retrieval, even agriculture. The applications of these walkers are many and widespread. Learning the basics of operating Titan is a common rite of passage for civilians here on the Frontier. But where there are service-industry Titans and their military-grade equivalents, so too are there corresponding differences in those who operate them.

Classification is key. Not all Pilots are equal. To become Combat-Certified is to become the highest practitioner of warfare on the modern battlefield. Strategy, tactics, direct force application.

It has been said that a Pilot sees the battlefield differently. I disagree.

The Pilot sees precisely what you see. Then they change the outcome."

- Graves, Commander of the Six-Four Pilot Company, addressing potential recruits

The Pilot's Lounge, such as it was called, was really an old Officer's Rec Room, albeit stuffed with the murderous bric-a-brac that tended to follow Pilots around. Weapons lined the walls, customised far beyond factory standard. The main table that dominated the centre of the room was no table at all, but rather than ammo box for an X0-16 Chaingun that had been flipped over and strewn with discarded polystyrene cups and mashed cigarette butts.

The stale reek of tobacco curled Arno's nostrils as he stepped inside.

A single mountain of a man sprawled in a chair that had been plucked from a discarded Titan wreck, one muddied boot planted on the makeshift table. He was no combat Pilot. He had three too many chins, and his straining belt buckle betrayed a fondness for easy living. One of his paws was currently rummaging through a greasy bag of chips, as he crunched, audibly.

Two other specimens occupied the room: a lank male and a desperately skinny woman with a purple mohawk. Both were engrossed in a game of cards and wreathed in smoke. Neither paid them the slightest bit of attention.

The fat man studied the two Pilots under lidded eyes.

"Ma'am." He purred.

Blair didn't miss a beat.

"Kenny."

A blink. Kenny simply waited for Blair to speak.

"Where is everyone?"

"Training Pods, maybe?" A tectonic shrug happened, eventually. "You know the Combat types. Awful twitchy."

Kenny caught Arno's eye. Arno was still dressed in his Pilot hard-suit, his helmet under the crook of his arm.

"No offense, Chief."

"None taken."

Arno and Blair stepped back into the comforting sterility of the corridor.

"They're your Pilots?" Arno seethed.

"Civilian Contractors. We're not M-Cor, or SRS. We're a contracted freelance outfit. That means hired hands, and not factory fresh. This isn't the IMC. We don't get the cream of the crop."

"Cream is the last thing that man needs."

"Kenneth Fairborn is A-Rated Commercial handler. His references are impeccable. His work rate too." Blair's eyes flashed. "If the shooting starts that's your job."

"And who am I going to be shooting exactly?"

"With a little luck, nobody. But this is the Frontier. Anything can happen." Blair checked her data slate. "You've been billeted a room on Deck Three. Get your gear stowed and grab some shut-eye. We've a long day tomorrow."

Arno followed the guiding lights to his quarters. The route was a winding and twisting one, and he was glad of the Nav unit buckled to his wrist. Not far now. Another two turns or so.

Questions abounded. Why were Tachyon risking the IMC's wrath to fund Militia soldiers? Why the Outlands? There was nothing here: no auto-factories, no shipyards. No meaningful infrastructure of any kind.

He was still lost in thought when he walked smack into a section of bulkhead.

No, not a bulkhead at all. A robot.

The robot looked him up and down, visibly smarting. Arno returned the favour.

It was a bipedal robot in the approximate shape and ratio of a man, but it was no Spectre. The automated auxiliaries favoured by the IMC had no business being on a Militia ship. Moreover, none of them had a head shaped quite like this one.

There were similarities, certainly: the chassis, the general aesthetic of the plating itself. But this was something more advanced. Two spindly legs terminated in forward swooping running blades. The arms and webbing were patch-worn, and placed in a style more reminiscent of something a human operator would favour. Arno's eyes quickly took in the boxy Jump Kit affixed to the robot's waist.

The robot's head – a vaguely sloping wedge of metal – was defined by a single blue sensor unit that ran along the front and top of its crown. A single crooked antenna rose from the back of its manner of field radios, pouches and combat knives rattled as it folded its arms. Dozens of brand logos stencilled its forearms, like tattoos on a cartoon sailor.

The robot cocked its head in an avian fashion. Studied him.

Then it spoke, and Arno realised it was no robot at all.

"IMC scum." It growled in a digitised male voice. Then it laughed. "Just fuckin' with you Gibs. Long time no see."

Gibson blinked.

"Renner?"

"In the flesh." The robot replied, then looked down and chuckled. "Well, kinda."

"Heard you'd retired."

"Got out about the same time you did. Freelance work kept me going. Right until I stepped on a supposedly decommissioned landmine on Persephone. Six months and one neural upload later voila! Renner 2.0. Same can-do attitude, new simulacrum prothesis."

Renner added a flex for effect.

Arno shook his head. Aidan Renner had crossed paths with Arno a number of times in the Frontier. A recon specialist with an addiction to high risk operations, it seemed only fitting for Renner to favour a comprehensive digital restoration over traditional medical procedures. One of the Strykers in the hangar bay was undoubtedly his.

"Always looking for that next adventure, eh?"

"Damn straight. It's the Frontier! Still getting used to chassis, and when a milk run like this was suggested I said why not?"

"And what kind of milk run is this, exactly?"

Servos whined as Renner shrugged.

"Beyond a promise of time and a certain degree of moral flexibility in exchange for credits and glory, who knows? Who cares. Work is work. We're not IMC anymore, Gibs. Gotta take each job as it comes."

"And the rest of the crew?"

Another shrug.

"Freelancers. Pod warriors for the most part, looking to get some dirt under their nails before the inevitable SRS application, but they've the basics down."

Renner glanced over his shoulder, the gesture rendered all the more human precisely because he was anything but. His voice now a conspiratorial whisper:

"Truth be told, I'm more worried about the Grunts Blair has us paired with. Wasn't a whole while ago we were slaughterin' 'em wholesale for an annual bonus. Watch your back."

"No argument there."

Renner nodded, then clapped him on the shoulder. Arno winced slightly.

"General briefing is at 06:00 – we'll be making the Jump shortly thereafter. Get some shut-eye."

Renner was already halfway up the corridor when he paused. "And Gibs? Welcome aboard. Good to see a familiar face."

Arno managed a bemused smile back at the slender android.

"Yeah, you too."

Tom Kelly joined the rest of his fireteam in the mess hall.

The first to spot him was Garcia, known for his bulky muscularity and sailor mouth: two qualities cherished in any automatic rifleman.

"Yo Irish." Garcia bellowed. "Get that deck clean yet? Industrious fucks like you got the MRVNs worried about job security."

"Go fuck yourself, Garce." Tom grinned as he sat down. Garcia cackled and they bumped knuckles.

"Hear the news?" Noam asked. A solemn faced man with a wiry frame and olive skin. Noam was furiously stabbing at the slab of protein on his tray, mashing it but never quite committing to a bite. "We're up."

"Really?" Tom asked.

"Amber status confirmed. General make-ready order." The food stabbing intensified. "That means line duty. Real action."

"Great. Might not have to scrub any more decks."

"Gotta give the MRVN's a break, TK." Garcia still wore a toothy grin.

"Once again: go fuck yourself, Garce."

Tom looked further along the bench and saw the junior NCO's clumped together at the top of the long table, heads bowed as they murmured amongst themselves. The same conversation was repeating all over the ship, whispered in quiet huddles on every deck.

A long awaited deployment. Danger. Adventure. Action.

"Looks pretty serious, huh?" Garcia furled his lip as he picked at his tray.

"Looks that way." Tom nodded.

"Suits me man." Garcia took a drink. "Been all dressed up with nowhere to go. 'Bout time we earned our pay."

"Why is it we're always the last to find out?" Tom asked.

"Because we're infantry." Noam scowled, finally taking a bite. "But I'll tell you this much for free: you don't send ten Titans and an entire company of riflemen halfway across the Frontier for a goddamn milk run."