This chapter is introducing the two original exotrooper characters I decided to use. I originally thought of them simply as an implication of my tech. I like the idea that they would inevitably exist once the suits did.
The top of the spire called the Mace was shaped like a six-pointed star. The café within filled two levels. On the lower level, the protruding points offered more secluded seating with a panoramic view for its most distinguished customers. Above, they held balconies where only the most elite could go, and then for only short periods when winds and weather conditions were favorable. One armed man was stationed on four of the balconies, with two men and a heavy machine gun on the north and south decks. They held their posts not in the expectations of an assault, but to watch for threats to their comrades below. At the moment, they monitored a pitched battle at the west entrance, led by an exotrooper in an eight-limbed mech suit, unaware of a figure that climbed up the sheer face of the spire like a spider.
Colonel Welrod himself manned the last line of defense at the Blackbell museum and gift shop in the building core. He fired a 14.5mm machine gun at the leader of the assault. A well-aimed short burst dented a massive helmet, buried between the servos of the upper limbs. A lazy jet of flame enveloped the emplacement, driving the colonel and his men back to the administrative offices at the rear. The trooper turned and raised his visor. Franky Franklin laughed.
A sentry high above pressed a hand to his headphones, listening intently to the colonel's broadcast. "We lost the west atrium, but we have forces in place to contain them," he said. "They're going to be focused on getting a foothold on the upper floors. Watch for aircraft and for surface infiltration at any level, no matter how high…"
"Sure," the guard said. He turned his head, just in time to see a faceless armored figure vault over the rail. A gauntleted fist knocked him back against the railing behind him. On any of the balconies open to the public, that would have been built to stop even a deliberate effort to climb over. At this highest level, however, the railing was built as little more than a guideline. The guard flipped over and fell straight down. A visor on the intruder's helmet raised, revealing the face of Loid Forger. He shook his head and sighed.
Franky surveyed the ranks of the platoon he had led. There were 16 fully-armored exotroopers, plus their swift and lightly armored squires. "All right," he said," I'm going up. Who volunteers to come with me?" Nobody responded. He turned to the lieutenant who led them. "Okay, which of these guys is best?" There was still no answer. "Well, who has the most experience?"
The lieutenant pointed at a pair who had sat down on the edge of a fountain, drinking plum liquor. "Those two," he said, clearly reluctantly. One of the pair had stripped down his armor for speed. The other had made a number of improvised additions, including a toilet seat around his neck. "We call them the Flea and the Tick. The thing to know, it's not that they can't hit anything… They hit everything."
"All right," Franky said. "Then you're volunteered!"
The one who was clearly the Flea looked up. "Aw, man," he said, "not again…"
The door from the balcony was robust enough to stop an ordinary person from breaking through, whether from inside or out. Loid Forger's exoskeleton went through it like a cardboard backdrop. A slug from his 37mm forearm gun knocked a guard off his feet. He flexed his arm to pump the gun's tubular feed, and felled another with a second shot. He loaded a bola shell by hand, in time to entangle two that burst in from the south balcony. He circled a central chamber that held the kitchen and a single elevator. Only then did he see a single table in the café area. Only one person was seated. It was Damian Desmond, chained to a chair. "Hey, Mr. Forger," he said calmly.
The lowest setting of the plasma projector was enough to cut through the chain. "Where are the others?" Loid asked.
"The crazy lady had them moved while whoever you sent was making all the fuss," Damian said. "I think they're at the bottom of the Mace, if she didn't move them again."
Loid shrugged. "It was a gamble," he said. "It's probably why they left you here."
"It could be worse," the young man said. "Nobody threatened to kill me. By the way, you noticed the girl, right? The lady is her mother. She's here with a guy. Her people were talking about him. I think I'm the only one who saw him. They call him the Prince. We don't want to meet him. I'd worry about him more than them." He followed Loid's gaze to the door to the north balcony.
"Whatever else happens, I'm getting you out of here," Loid said.
"Can you fly down?" Damian asked, examining the retracted wings of his pack.
"I'm out of fuel, but I can glide," Loid said. He frowned. "But if I carry you, the flight characteristics will become unpredictable. It will be safer to rappel."
He led the way to the balcony where he had entered. The city spread out below, lit up in the early evening. "To be honest?" the young scion said. "I'd rather stay here."
"One of them was guarding this balcony," Loid said. "I did not intend to kill him, but he is still dead."
"He took his chances same as you," Damian said. "It's your call." From the inside of the café, they heard a sound.
"Stay here," Loid said. He reloaded the magazine of his forearm projector and lowered his visor. He strode into the café, his weapons raised. He showed no surprise when the lights of the café went dark. He pointed the targeting beam of the plasma projector down a stairway to the lower level. The sound he had heard was repeated, clearer and much closer. It was laughter, without a hint of humor or humanity.
"Hear me, Anya," he said, furrowing his brow. "You are my child. Make me proud."
Loid's eyes opened. Damian sat across from him at the same table, now unbound. He, on the other hand, was bound hand and foot. "Well, you tried," Damian said.