Building Zoids in a World of Titans

The morning air carried the bite of early frost. Alex stood beside the transport vehicle — the Iron Mule, Borin had called it, and the name had stuck — checking the cargo clamps for the third time. The machine was a brute of a thing: a flatbed chassis riding on six oversized wheels, armored in riveted Titan-grade plating that had been scavenged from three different sources and didn't quite match. The cab sat high in front, boxy and utilitarian, with a reinforced windshield and a roof rack loaded with spare parts and water barrels. The entire rear section was a reinforced cradle system, hydraulic clamps and locking frames bolted to a shock-absorbing subframe.

The three Zoids sat loaded and secured on the flatbed. The Arosaurer occupied the front section, its tail curled and locked against the cab. The Lanstag filled the middle, its golden antlers tied down with cargo straps. The Liger Zero sat at the rear, its white-and-blue frame catching the early light, its amber optics dim but watchful. All three machines were powered down, their cores dormant, waiting.

Ziya emerged from the workshop carrying a satchel and a travel pack. She wore a practical field jacket over her usual work clothes, her hair tied back with a leather cord. She looked like someone who had been preparing for this departure for days.

She probably had been.

Borin followed her out, wiping his hands on his apron. He stopped at the base of the Iron Mule's cab and looked up at the loaded Zoids, then at his daughter.

"You have the supply list?" he asked.

"Checked it twice," Ziya said.

"And the component manifests?"

"Three times."

Borin nodded slowly. He reached up and took her hand. "You watch out for yourself out there. The eastern trails aren't like Veridia's outskirts."

"I know, Father."

"And eat properly. Not just nutrient paste."

Ziya's eyes glistened. She squeezed his hand. "You take care of yourself too. Don't stay up late cataloging inventory. Don't skip meals. And don't let Maren talk you into extending credit to anyone with a sob story."

Borin laughed, a deep rumble. "I raised you too well."

"You raised me just right." She let go of his hand and turned to Alex. "Ready?"

Alex was looking past her, toward the edge of the settlement. The road leading into Veridia's market district was quiet. A few early risers moved between stalls, but no small figure with frizzy braids came running.

He had expected Rhian to be here. She had been distant the past few days — not angry, just quiet in a way that sat wrong. He had told her a week ago that he was leaving. She had nodded, said "I know," and disappeared into the settlement. He had thought she would come to see him off.

But the road stayed empty.

She must be feeling very sad right now, he thought. She didn't want me to leave. And I didn't say goodbye.

The regret sat in his chest like a stone. But the schedule was set. The route to Ironwood Junction was long, and delaying would mean losing daylight on the first leg.

"It's a bit regretful," he murmured.

"What is?" Ziya asked.

"Nothing." He turned back to Borin. "Thank you. For everything."

Borin clapped him on the shoulder. "You two bring back something worth building. That's thanks enough."

Ziya climbed into the cab first. Alex gave the workshop one last look — the reinforced doors, the crane arm, the light spilling from the fabrication bay where Borin's craftsmen were already starting their day.

He pulled himself up into the driver's seat. The cab was cramped, designed for function over comfort. Ziya sat in the passenger seat, her satchel on her lap.

Alex turned the ignition. The Iron Mule's engine coughed, caught, and settled into a steady diesel rumble. The transport lurched forward, its wheels crunching over gravel.

Veridia shrank in the rearview mirror. The walls, the watchtowers, the river — all of it getting smaller.

Alex kept watching the road behind them until a bend in the trail took it out of sight.

Then he faced forward, toward the eastern plains, toward Ironwood Junction, toward whatever came next.

Ziya reached over and placed her hand on his arm. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

The Iron Mule rolled on.

The eastern plains had given way to rolling scrubland three days out from Veridia. The ochre grass thinned into patches of hardy brush and exposed rock, and the air carried a dry, mineral scent that was different from the river valley they'd left behind. The sky stretched enormous and pale, broken only by distant mesas that rose like broken teeth on the horizon. Heat shimmered off the trail in the afternoon, and the Iron Mule's engine groaned as it climbed gentle inclines that would have been invisible on a flatter road.

Inside the cab, the conversation had settled into something easy. Ziya was telling him about a supply negotiation her father had botched two years ago — a shipment of Rank C actuators that had turned out to be Rank D with filed serial numbers. Alex listened, adding a comment here and there, and found himself laughing more than he expected. The rhythm of the road and the steady drone of the engine made the cab feel like its own small world, separate from everything behind and everything ahead.

When evening came, Alex volunteered for kitchen duty. He climbed down from the cab and made his way through the narrow corridor into the Iron Mule's interior. The space was compact but well-appointed — a fold-down table, a two-burner stove, storage lockers lined with rubber gaskets, and a small refrigeration unit powered by the engine's secondary battery. Borin had outfitted it like a proper field kitchen, with spice racks and a magnetic knife strip bolted to the wall. Alex gathered dried meat, flatbread, and a pot for boiling water.

Then he heard it.

A scrape. Metal on metal, coming from the cargo area behind the bulkhead. Then a muffled thud, like something shifting weight.

Alex set down the pot. He moved to the utility locker near the stove and pulled out a compact kinetic pistol — a sidearm Borin had insisted he carry. He checked the magazine, chambered a round. From the second locker, he retrieved a short-handled pry bar that doubled as a melee weapon. It wasn't much, but it was solid steel and weighted for impact.

He approached the cargo bulkhead door. The sounds had stopped. That was worse — whatever was back there had gone quiet, which meant it knew he was listening.

Alex pressed his ear to the door. Breathing. Shallow, fast, trying to be silent.

He gripped the pry bar in his left hand, pistol in his right. He counted to three, then pulled the door open and stepped through.

The cargo bay was dim, lit only by the amber safety lights along the floor. The three Zoids loomed above him, their frames casting long shadows. Crates of spare parts and supplies were lashed to the walls between the Zoid cradles. Everything looked secure.

Then a crate near the Arosaurer's foot shifted. Just slightly.

Alex crept forward, staying low, using the Zoid's legs as cover. His heart hammered. He rounded the crate with the pry bar raised.

And found Rhian.

She was wedged between two supply crates, her flour-sack bandolier tangled with a cargo strap, her face smudged with dust and her braids half-undone. She looked up at him with wide, guilty eyes.

"Hi," she said.

The silence that followed was absolute. Alex stared at her. She stared back. The pry bar was still raised. The pistol was still aimed at the space where a threat should have been.

Advance chapters on my p@tR$0n/Najicablitz.

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