The Versk Suit hangar appeared large as they approached the Versk complex, but it feels properly cavernous from the inside: the hangar’s ceiling, tapered into a ribbed arch with massive lights hanging down from the rafters, must be fifty meters tall, and it’s long enough to dock a modestly sized Fleet destroyer.

  All around them is the low murmur of concentrated work, groups of white-coated engineers conversing at various stations while other workers in Versk livery poke and prod at various Suits and their composite parts. Mechanized gantry cranes shift slowly through the hangar, rolling the larger pieces from one station to another: engines, arms, rifles, all in various constructions. Lanis even spots a missile, as large as herself, being disassembled by some Versk corpsman with reverent care.

  Her main attention, however, is drawn instantly to the Armored Suits.

  “What class is this? Twenty-five tons?” Lanis asks, stopping to gape at the nearest one. It’s a biped, about five meters tall, surrounded and supported by silver scaffolding. The cockpit, an uncomfortable looking perch at the center of the Suit, is currently disgorging wires and terminal racks as a small technician with a HUD helmet rummages through it, softly muttering to himself.

  “Actually it’s a ten. I know, it looks big,” Mirem says. “It’s one that Murkata-Heisen sent over, from a few generations back. It only cost our VP about ten thousand credits worth of wine, and, from the sound of it, about five years off his liver’s lifespan. Anyway, the techs are doing a tear-down, seeing if there are some things they can salvage for our own designs. It’s not like Murkata would just send over the schematics—I think it’s their idea of a joke.” Lanis watches as another blue-jacketed technician takes a whirring laser drill to one of the mech’s arm joints, peeling off a small piece of the carapace.

  Lanis’ open-mouthed reverie is interrupted by a warm shout. “Mirem!”

  Lanis turns to see a thick-set, middle-aged man striding up to Mirem, his face flushed. He’s shorter than Mirem, about equal to Lanis’ underwhelming height, with a thick black beard and large hands, one of which he holds out. His Versk technician jacket is covered in stains. Clearly the hands-on type, Lanis thinks.

  “Mirem! Renfol mentioned that you were visiting today. Glad you could grace us mortals with your presence,” the man says, shaking Mirem’s hand solemnly and then stepping back to give a half bow.

  “Oh, come off it, Sander!” Mirem says, rolling her eyes but grinning. “Lanis, this is Sander, one of the technical leads. Sander, Lanis: a guest, and, perhaps a prospect.”

  Sander gives a quick half bow to Lanis before extending a calloused hand. She takes it with relief, taking a liking to him immediately.

  “Ah, the integration specialist I’ve heard rumors about. Mirem’s been coy about you," Sander says, his overlarge hand enveloping her own as he squints at her, clearly appraising the strange tech that graces her temples. “You ever pilot before?”

  “Uh, well, not exactly,” Lanis answers, hesitantly.

  Sander steps back and claps his hands together. “Perfect! You’ll fit right in around here. Can’t be more than two dozen of us who have actually worked in a Suit hangar before. That’s the Versk way though,” he continues, waving for them to follow as he strides away, short legs pumping, dodging around metal detritus and roving groups of technicians. “Throw together a bunch of PhDs and recent top university grads, bring in the poor bastards who actually have to build the thing, pump in money, and hope for the best. Of course the Fabs help—” he gestures absently to the far end of the hangar where a set of giant metal cages rest “—but they still can’t do it all. You’ll be wanting to see what we can offer?”

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  “Sure?” Lanis says, glancing at Mirem, who nods.

  Her response seems somewhat irrelevant, and Sander launches back into his monologue. “Mirem told me to give it to you straight, so I will. It’s a mixed bag. Versk’s metallurgy is cutting edge. Fleet has even commissioned some of the designs, so we must be near parity with any other corp there. What I’m saying is, even beyond the Adamite core, our Suits will take a punch.” He stops in front of another mech. This one is nearly the same height as the Murkata Suit, but there the similarity ends: Instead of a thick-set biped, this one is angular, with six legs and two spindly arms. From its back sprout two metallic fans that look like stumpy, angelic wings.

  “Energy output also isn’t an issue. Versk Energy isn’t called that for nothing, and they have some of the best on the market, though contorting them to the needs of a Suit is no lark. No,” he says, walking around the Suit, examining it disapprovingly as he speaks, “it’s in armament where we’re getting second best. And in navigation, optics, fire control,” he continues, counting them off on his thick fingers— “and drones. I told the brain kids not to try to reinvent the wheel, and they listen to me sometimes. We’ve gotten some reliable old gunnery tech from Murkata, for instance. But they’ve really gone and fucked some of it,” he mutters, shaking his head sadly. “Like with the AI.”

  He looks meaningfully at Mirem, then back at Lanis. “You’d think Versk would have cutting edge AI. And you’d be right, except it’s all for deep bore autonomous mining. Thing is, the type of AI system that loves pulping ore twenty miles under the Martian crust doesn’t seem to get along so well with the pilots. We could try to outsource, but the brass upstairs think that would make us look weak. Plus, even though it would cost a fortune, we’d still probably get second-best; not exactly a place where you’d want to skimp. Murkata sent over a system, but that thing is another one of their bloody jokes,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “So, that’s where we’re at. The VPs want us ready in three months. Three months! Hah! We’ll see.” He crosses his arms over his burly chest and gazes over the organized chaos of the hangar with a hateful affection.

  “Well, that sounds like… a lot,” Lanis responds, unsure of what else to say. “Thanks for the overview.” She looks down at the double yellow hazard lines surrounding the angular, six legged Suit that they stopped in front of. “Mirem told me not to touch anything, but… can I?”

  “Oh, well that’s because Mirem’s smart. But for you, I’ll make an exception. Here, just a quick formality.” He taps his right temple, activating an implant. His eyes scan as he reads. “Do you, Lanis Osgell, absolve Versk Energy Corporation of all liability of death, dismemberment, or any and all other injuries that may arise within the confines of restricted Suit access zones, with verbal authorization and subtext available on request?”

  Lanis glances at Mirem. She looks slightly exasperated, but gives a shrugging nod, sending the decision back into Lanis’ hands.

  “I do.”

  Sander grabs a hardhat from a bucket outside of the exclusion zone and hands it to Lanis.

  “Have a blast.”

  Mirem puts on a hardhat too, and they circle the Suit together. Lanis runs her hand over one of the Suit’s six metal legs. They’re cold, and smoother than she thought it would be. She walks underneath the Suit, and sees the faint outlines of the closed pilot pod, perfectly flush to the rest of the suit. She notices that there are gaps in the metal too, perfect black holes that seem to be awaiting a use.

  “Weapon and drone modules,” Sander says, as if reading her mind.

  Lanis finishes her circuit, steps outside the exclusion zone, and sets her hardhat back in its place.

  “Wow,” she breathes, staring at the Suit, feeling Mirem watching her. Lanis tries to suppress a certain degree of giddiness from tugging at the corner of her face, but she knows she’s failing. It’s not piloting a starship, but you could do a lot worse, she thinks.

  “Yeah,” Sander says approvingly. “She’s a killer. But you should see the other corps. Beastly bastards, to be honest. They have models that are as big as Fleet Insertion Units, I hear. But those aren’t for the Arena, of course. Anyway, anything else here you want to touch?”

  Lanis meets Mirem’s eyes. She sees something there, and Mirem opens her mouth as if to interject, but then closes it sharply. Lanis looks back at Sander, feeling her pulse quicken.

  “Can I see the AIs?”