The Mech Touch - Chapter 1

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The Mech Touch - Chapter 1

THE MECH TOUCH

They called this era the Age of Mechs.
It was not as if the introduction of mechs replaced other weapons of war. In
the galactic war against the alien races that sought to wipe out humanity,
warships and weapons of mass destruction still played an essential role.
Yet a nuclear bomb was too dest ructive if used against humans. Alien races
could easily pick up a bargain if humanity constantly weakened themselves to
settle internal grudges.
These pointless wars would only end when humanity united all of its separate
fiefs. Many visionaries have atte mpted to do so, and succeeded, up to a point.
Peace never lasted.
The human race had an inborn tendency to fall apart. The grand enterprise of
unity failed time and time again.
So people separated, still loosely allied by their common ancestral heritage,
b ut with nothing else in common. Wars continued, but a complex web of
treaties limited the destruction of essential war materiel. The human race
stood a better chance of resisting alien incursions once it stopped destroying
their own settlements and warship s.
"It’s all fine and dandy to conquer your neighbor’s planet. At the very least,
don’t bring out the big guns and please lease the expensive stuff in space
intact."
Not the best solution, but somehow humanity muddled through.
With the stagnation of naval battles, ground warfare took on new significance.
Infantry, tanks and artillery enjoyed a resurgence of popularity as the fractious
human race fought over their own territory.
Naturally, any invaders didn’t have it easy. Forced to operate on enemy soil,
th e conflicts often devolved into wars of attrition.

Even if the invaders painstakingly triumphed over their enemies, was it worth
the effort? They would find out in dismay that they lost more money from their
army than what they gained in territory.
Most of the warmongers realized that waging war was a money - losing
business.
"Just as planned." The pacifists thought as they patted their backs. The
treaties had been extensively drafted for just such an outcome. Without the
tools to threaten a planet into a qui ck surrender, the warmongers had to rely
on old and inefficient technology in order to conquer territories.
It turned out the peace lovers celebrated too early.
Ever since the legendary Mack Liu first stepped on the battlefield with a giant
humanoid machin e called a ’mech’, war had changed forever. It advanced into
a whole new paradigm.
Able to perform ably in even the most inhospitable planets, the first mechs
made a mockery of the slow - paced and static way of war of traditional armies.
"The human body is the best weapon of humans." One of the lead inventors of
the modern war mech remarked after the first models blitzed half a massive
nation’s territory. "Everyone knows that infantry is flexible but fragile while
tanks are tough but clumsy. So one day we th ought, why not make a new
weapon that takes the human form and simply scale it up?"
It resulted in a revolutionary weapon that charmed humans across the galaxy
for its evocative look and inspiring capabilities.
Faster than infantry, more flexible than tank s and able to carry a variety of
weapons, they nonetheless required much less supplies to keep them
running. Their logistical footprint was a fraction of what a conventional army
gobbled up. This alone ensured that mechs dethroned all other service
branche s.
The Age of Mechs unfolded into splendor. Broadcasts surrounding mechs
earned record views. Online and offline games brought the masses closer the
glamorized new machines. Major arms manufacturers invested in the rapidly
growing mech industry. Countless startups offering their own unique takes on
the mechs popped up like mushrooms.

The Age of Mechs seemed to herald humanity into a new golden age.
Unfortunately, only a small number of elites could step into the true world of
mechs. The most basic mech mode ls involved hundreds of patents and other
proprietary knowledge that would cost a fortune to license.
Those interested in piloting an authentic war mech also needed the right
genes. The highly arcane neural interface that allowed pilots to control their
me chs as natural as moving their own bodies could only be piloted by a gifted
handful. Those who ignored the warnings fried their brains.
It took a long time for researchers to establish a clear view of how many
people possessed the right potential. From the latest statistics, only a mere
3.5 percent of all of humanity possessed the right genetics to successfully
connect to a neural interface. These privileged elites, tested for compatibility
from their tenth birthday, enjoyed admiration and worship from the 96.5
percent who were doomed to never step into a cockpit.
Not all of the 3.5% would actually go on to pilot a mech, but even the poorest
potentate from the most backwater planet had to undergo training. Once they
gained a basic proficiency in piloting, th ey were added to the reserves. Just in
case.
Ves Larkinson was born with the conviction that he belonged in the cockpit.
His father was a mech pilot. His grandfather also piloted mechs. He could
name at least nine direct ancestors who all served honorably in the Bright
Republic’s renowned Mech Corps. Most of his aunts, uncles and the rest of
the extended Larkinson family had a long history of piloting mechs.
"Dad, what’s it like to be a pilot?"
"It’s dangerous, but it’s also the only time I feel alive."
His tenth birthday changed his life. His entire world crashed down on him
once the doctor from the Republic announced the results. His genetics
marked him as one of the 96.5 percent. In other words, he was a plebeian, a
norm. No matter which word was in vo gue, Ves became a commoner doomed
to never to enter a cockpit in his life.
"There’s nothing dishonorable about having different genes." The doctor
reassured the young Ves. He had already crushed the dreams of countless
kids. One more hardly fazed him at al l. "No one is good at everything. The rest

of the 96.5% get by just fine. Find some passion in your capabilities. Not
everyone is destined to follow their father’s footsteps."
His father, Ryncol Larkinson, half - hearted patted the young Ves’ back as he
gave him an ice cream. What else could he do? His frequent tours of duty left
Ves to wallow in his depression alone.
And so Ves turned from a precocious boy who dreamed about mechs into a
sullen teenager drowning himself in games and partying. With a deceased
mother and a father absent from frequent tours of service, no one could rein
Ves in. He graduated from high school with less - than - stellar grades.
"What now?"
Ves finally pieced himself together once he considered his future. He couldn’t
waste away his life forever.
"I’m not a pilot. I’m never going to be a pilot. All I really know is mechs. If I am
never fated to pilot a mech, then I can still do something else. I’m still a
Larkinson. Mechs are in my blood."
Ves narrowed his goals. If he couldn’t pilot a me ch, then he’d be the one to
make them.
In the Age of Mechs, a mech designer led the development of mechs. Just as
crucial as mech pilots, they came up with innovative designs of mechs and
shaped them into reality. Some of these designers were just as famou s as the
aces who achieved incredible feats with their mechs.
Some of the most prestigious designers worked for the major arms
manufacturers. They were able to deftly spit out a casual new design that
would be sold a million times.
These were the star desi gners, the superstars who had CEOs and head of
states at their beck and call. Even a casual sneeze could impact the stock
prices of the companies they worked at, for they were just too influential.
Many of the larger human states relied on their exclusive designs to give them
an edge in conflicts involving mechs.
Then came the middle class of the mech designers, the entrepreneurs with at
least a complete series of mech designs. Adept in all facets of what
constituted a mech, these seasoned engineers could t ake a pile of random

parts and come up with unique designs that filled most of the conventional
roles any decent client demanded. Some designers focused on churning out
loads of mechs at the most affordable cost, while others might spend their
whole lives on a single model.
What was left was the bottom heap. About ninety percent of all designers fell
into this category. This included the fresh graduates, the failed entrepreneurs
and the washed - out old timers with outdated knowledge. They couldn’t design
any thing other than ripoffs or blatant copies of more successful models. Most
of these dregs were doomed to served as faceless cogs, working behind the
scenes to repair or maintain other people’s mechs.
The lucky ones still get to be involved in mech design b y fulfilling a niche in
customization. They took existing mechs and changed them in little ways, or
licensed an old, existing design and added their own flair to it. The cutthroat
competition in the saturated market didn’t allow many to stay afloat for lon g.
Only some got by with this business model.
Ves hoped to be one of them. With his so - so grades, he could forget about
attending a prestigious university. He only managed to scrape enough merits
to attend a program offered by the Rittersberg University of Technology, an
average institution from the Bright Republic’s capital.
All he got five years later was a bland degree from a bland institution. In other
words, he was worthless in the eyes of employers.
That was okay. His father Ryncol supported him all t he way through. He even
spent much of his time gathering the capital to kick start his son’s business.
They both had a plan. They would start a one - man mech boutique with
enough automation to print its own parts and allow Ves to assemble a mech
from scratc h. Ryncol would refer him to his buddies in the service for cheap
jobs and let Ves dip into the world of customization step by step. Once Ves
built up his reputation, he might be able to move on to designing his own
variants.
All those plans came crashing down when Ves returned to an empty home
back in Cloudy Curtain, their home planet. Ryncol enjoyed a good salary as a
mech pilot, so he could afford a grand townhouse in the suburbs. He recently
sold it in order to scrape enough cash to acquire a workshop j ust outside of
town. It only offered enough space for a small living area.

The workshop could use a makeover. The modular, prefabricated structure
looked second hand, as if it was salvaged off a battlefield or scrap yard. With
the amount of rust and scratc hes its exterior sported, it was a miracle it hadn’t
fallen apart.
When Ves stepped inside, he sighed in relief. The essentials were still in one
shape. The insides looked fairly clean. All of the valuable machines needed to
run his enterprise were present , if second hand. His dad might not know his
stuff, be he knew plenty of people who did.
"Where are you, dad?"
After weeks of silence, Ves had to face the fact that his dad was missing. That
shouldn’t be a cause for alarm. His dad had been assigned to a re giment
stationed at the border between the Bright Republic and the belligerent Vesia
Kingdom. Any incidents that might flare up could cause his father to be
recalled.
When Ves called his father’s friends, he found out he never returned to duty!
After conta cting the police, it seemed that Ryncol had never shown his face
elsewhere. All the galactic calls and electronic messages sent to his father fell
off a cliff. No one could find any trace of his presence.
The Cloudy Curtain Planetary Bank quickly came knoc king. It turned out the
workshop components such as the spiffy 3D printer had been bought with a
loan. A 3D printer was an essential machine that turned raw materials into
factory quality mech parts.
His father had to borrow over 330 million bright credits in order to finance the
acquisition of assets. With this much money, anyone could buy half - a - dozen
advanced mechs!
Ves could spend his lifetime working for an average mech manufacturer and
still not earn enough to pay back the huge debt. He instantly fell into a cycle of
distress and panic when he read through the bank’s polite but impersonal
note.
"What kind of mess d id my father drag me into?"
The bank took three pages to state that all of the debt was in his name. He
would have to hand over the workshop and all of its valuable machinery in
case he missed a single annual interest payment.

In short, Ves had to scrounge up about five million credits in the next three
months in order to meet the next payment. He lifted up his armband - shaped
communicator and activated its miniature projector. A screen came into view
that displayed a menu. He hopelessly switched to the cred it account linked to
the device.
His account only held a measly twelve - hundred credits. That was his spending
money for the month.
Ves had little means of earning the required amount of money. With his dad
gone missing, it was questionable whether Ves was entitled to the life
insurance and other benefits his father arranged. Ves followed up his father’s
insurance policy because he needed every penny he could squeeze out of the
system.
Nothing came out of the meetings. The insurance company was as obstinate
as a dog chewing a bone.
Ves swiped away the latest messages from the bank. "I’m broke. I can’t even
scrounge up the credits to buy the raw materials I need to fabricate new parts.
How am I suppose to do business?"
Within a day, he called the bank, the ins urance company and the government.
What he got back wasn’t good.
The bank had already written Ves off. They wanted to get their claws on the
workshop before Ves screwed something up and depreciated its value. The
only useful thing he received from the bank was a package that Ryncol
stashed at the bank in case he got out of touch.
The insurance company claimed that Ryncol was merely missing in action at
worst. As an active serviceman, he might return months or years later, so Ves
was not entitled to a single penny until the company received solid proof that
he had died. If not, the money would only be released after a period of five
years.
The government was its usual bureaucratic self. Ves only heard lots of
incomprehensible jargon before he plainly hung up. He’d get nothing useful
there.
Ves was alone.

His dad had gone off to the deep end, leaving Ves to pick up the pieces. His
father only left him with a lousy package with a casual note pasted in front.
"To my son Ves, in case I’m not home."
Opening it up, Ves was mildly surprised to pick up a secure data chip. Most
data transfers today occurred entirely wirelessly. People only used data chips
when they absolutely had to keep their contents secure.
Ves turned off his comm’s connection to the galactic net bef ore accessing the
old data chip.
It took three seconds to load its contents, which was unusually long for a chip
this size. An unknown program suddenly took over the holographic projection.
"Initializing the Mech Designer System. New user detected. Initiat ing deep
scan in 2400 minicycles. Please prepare properly."
"Wait, what?" Ves asked the program, just before the comm released a huge
shock. Ves passed out in an instant. 𝒇 𝚛 e 𝘦 w ℯ 𝑏 𝓃 𝑜 ν ℯ 𝒍 .co 𝗺
And so began his journey as a mech designer.